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Eighteen days, sixteen hours, and twenty-five minutes. That's how long she's been here, Natasha knows, time ticking away on an internal clock in the back of her mind. It's been too damned long, and it doesn't help that she's stuck in this tin can with a handful of others constantly too close for comfort. She doesn't know any of them. Doesn't particularly feel the desire, at this juncture, but it's starting to look like necessity. For survival, if nothing else.
She's been exploring the ship, roaming its halls, fighting the impulse to hit something every time the implant provides some new helpful bit of knowledge and recognition. It's too much like the early days for her to be comfortable with it. Too much like having someone inside her head. So she wanders, and looks for any opportunity she can. But of course every panel is locked down tight, and even when she manages to pry some sheet of metal from its moorings, all she finds is completely alien hardware, which the thing buried in her skull doesn't seem too keen on helping her decipher. She's pretty sure she can learn it, eventually, but it's going to take time, and she doesn't particularly feel the urge to accidentally finesse away life support while she's trying to find the exit button. So she looks and memorizes. And then puts the panels back, eventually, and goes on until her circuit of the ship brings her back.
Natasha's on the bridge today, on her back with half her torso buried under the console as she works at the base of it with a length of flattened pipe as a pry bar. Seems like they've built this one a little sturdier than the rest, though, and with a little something extra besides--
"Chort vozmi!"
Navy-clad legs twitch, her boots slamming back against the floor as she slides from under the console with a curse, dropping her pry bar. Damn thing shocked her, and Natasha eyes her fingers, clenching and unclenching her fist until the tingle goes away. There's a chime from the personal communicator she's left lying face-up on the empty pilot's seat, a polite little noise that reminds her of Stark tower in a not-entirely-pleasant way. The voice that follows is cheery and hollow, artificial. "Atroma appreciates your efforts to give our viewers a little excitement, but electrocution seems like a painful way to get your ratings up! To prevent any unfortunate accidents, operation and maintenance of the navigation console should only be handled by those with Piloting or Engineering augments. If you'd like to upgrade your augment, save those credits and apply during the monthly upgrade cycle! Thanks for your continuing participation. Remember, the Galaxy's eyes are on you!"
The voice is like nails on a chalkboard, to the parts of her that remember others like it. She's known her share of politicians and salesmen. She's worked for them before. This can't be any different. Climbing to her feet, Natasha takes the comm in hand, running her hand through messy auburn curls as she eyes the thing, almost expecting it to bite, too. Never thought I'd miss JARVIS' voice, she finds herself thinking. For a computer, he'd almost sounded alive. Hard to remember sometimes, especially with all the automation around Stark's mansion, the tower, that he wasn't alive, in fact. She could never say the same for any of the characters on the Atroma broadcasts. For all that they had faces, they were only hollow shells. She should know, better than anyone, what that looks like. Leaving her pry bar where its fallen and slipping the comm into her pocket, Natasha heads back to the relative comfort of the one bit of privacy she's still allowed. Ship's counselor, with an office and everything. Seems like the whole universe might be in on this joke.
She's been exploring the ship, roaming its halls, fighting the impulse to hit something every time the implant provides some new helpful bit of knowledge and recognition. It's too much like the early days for her to be comfortable with it. Too much like having someone inside her head. So she wanders, and looks for any opportunity she can. But of course every panel is locked down tight, and even when she manages to pry some sheet of metal from its moorings, all she finds is completely alien hardware, which the thing buried in her skull doesn't seem too keen on helping her decipher. She's pretty sure she can learn it, eventually, but it's going to take time, and she doesn't particularly feel the urge to accidentally finesse away life support while she's trying to find the exit button. So she looks and memorizes. And then puts the panels back, eventually, and goes on until her circuit of the ship brings her back.
Natasha's on the bridge today, on her back with half her torso buried under the console as she works at the base of it with a length of flattened pipe as a pry bar. Seems like they've built this one a little sturdier than the rest, though, and with a little something extra besides--
"Chort vozmi!"
Navy-clad legs twitch, her boots slamming back against the floor as she slides from under the console with a curse, dropping her pry bar. Damn thing shocked her, and Natasha eyes her fingers, clenching and unclenching her fist until the tingle goes away. There's a chime from the personal communicator she's left lying face-up on the empty pilot's seat, a polite little noise that reminds her of Stark tower in a not-entirely-pleasant way. The voice that follows is cheery and hollow, artificial. "Atroma appreciates your efforts to give our viewers a little excitement, but electrocution seems like a painful way to get your ratings up! To prevent any unfortunate accidents, operation and maintenance of the navigation console should only be handled by those with Piloting or Engineering augments. If you'd like to upgrade your augment, save those credits and apply during the monthly upgrade cycle! Thanks for your continuing participation. Remember, the Galaxy's eyes are on you!"
The voice is like nails on a chalkboard, to the parts of her that remember others like it. She's known her share of politicians and salesmen. She's worked for them before. This can't be any different. Climbing to her feet, Natasha takes the comm in hand, running her hand through messy auburn curls as she eyes the thing, almost expecting it to bite, too. Never thought I'd miss JARVIS' voice, she finds herself thinking. For a computer, he'd almost sounded alive. Hard to remember sometimes, especially with all the automation around Stark's mansion, the tower, that he wasn't alive, in fact. She could never say the same for any of the characters on the Atroma broadcasts. For all that they had faces, they were only hollow shells. She should know, better than anyone, what that looks like. Leaving her pry bar where its fallen and slipping the comm into her pocket, Natasha heads back to the relative comfort of the one bit of privacy she's still allowed. Ship's counselor, with an office and everything. Seems like the whole universe might be in on this joke.
