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[Because she's unsure of herself or just because she doesn't know what else to do, she's using this thing like one of those Real World confession booths at the moment. Good as anything, right?]

Somehow I don’t think I can ever let myself think any variation on “I thought I’d seen it all” ever again. I mean, zombies seem like “it all,” right? Decapitated heads seem like “it all.” Giant, canyon-wide… secret electrical forcefields or something seem like “it all.” And showing up out of nowhere in a giant tube is definitely “it all.” Or it should be.

Okay, so this is not the kind of stuff your parents or teachers prepare you for. But since there’s no other option, I’m – I don’t know. I’m resigned.

Dana Polk, Fearless Adventurer.

Dana Polk, Apparent Survivor of Highly Improbable Death.

Dana Polk, Just Trying To Keep On Surviving. If it’s worth it.

[And it's about now that she registers that someone else might be listening.]

I'm Dana, by the way.

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_{[ pinged at adventurer. holy shit. Nothing else matters! ]}
Fearless adventurer, eh????

You... survived a decapitation.

Edited (redundancies!! ) 2013-05-21 01:55 (UTC)

Words to live by, right there. You learned it young, I'm impressed.

[Holyyyy shit.

Alright, so — minding his own business, doing his usual routine (there's a reason he still smells like pot after all this time aboard), when a familiar face crops up. And of course, he spends the next minute and a half staring at it his network device like it just told him it was a living entity; for a moment, he almost kinda believes that theory. Dana Polk, alive, in the flesh; it was too good to be true. Because who the fuck brings Martin Mikalski back from the dead when the fetching Polkster deserved it more?

Then again, he started to realize maybe death would have been the better choice. Maybe so far it's been easy — it's always that way — but he's read a lot. He knows exactly what dust storm'll be blowing their way in no time at all. Shouldn't he be overwhelmed with joy right now? Like snot and tears and think god to see your face? He licks his lips, considers how to introduce one dead person to another.

Hey, how's it going?

Say something doofy and nonchalant, act like a Big Damn Hero who escaped death with a cheeky reply at hand.

Instead:]

Dana—?

[It's low and hopeful and kinda pathetic. So he just disconnects, closes off a conversation before it can even so much as breathe a breath. No, he can't do this shit like this. He can't just — y'know. Pop in over a little screen to someone who, for reasons hard to put on paper, deserves better than that.

Also he's really high and already put his mind to finding her anyway.

So.

He goes off to find her.]

[And by find her, he means tracking back the number linked to her comm (which isn't that hard; even stoned, he kinda knows that she'd be the top-er floor. Probably even just a little above his own floor. How many floors were there now, again? And once he finds her door, he almost knocks. But then he thinks maybe he shouldn't. But then, he should definitely.

So he takes a deep, deep breath and raps his knuckles on the door.

In a tune; shave and a hair-cut?

Dun dun dun-dun dun, dun dun.

(this is honestly as far as he's planned ahead)]

That's kind of an awesome resume you've got there.

Welcome to the SS Hell Ship, Dana Polk, Lady of Too Many Titles.

Have you considered documenting your experiences?

Well, it sounds good, anyway.

...beg your pardon?

[That hesitation is 50% "well, just about everything that could happen nearly happened, so" (oh, what she doesn't know) and 50% "ohgodohgodJulesohgod" (is posttraumatic stress a thing that happens from horror movie monster attacks? If so, that, probably).]

[A shrug.]

I don't think I really had a choice.

[...

...

...huh.]

Consider those too many titles more of a self-directed pep talk, person I... [am a little confused by the existence of at the moment] ...recognize but don't know.

What, like as a... therapeutic exercise?

[Topher squints.

Give him a minute.]

Gonna take a guess here. You know Marty, right?

I -- yeah. That would be... the case.

[After that non-conversation, she's... pretty much expecting him. Even though she has no idea how he'd find her (she hasn't really had time to figure this place out, even just based on simple logic) she expects it.

And the knocking pretty much seals the deal. Who else could that possibly be?

As far as she's concerned, he's dead. (She doesn't know the part where they're both dead (and the rest of the world too.) Sure, she never saw proof like she did with the others, but -- well. That logic thing had honestly stopped working before she got here and is only just starting to come back and hasn't quite applied to what happened before yet. So this... well, it's tentatively answering a few of the questions she had about this place. Sort of.

Not to mention it's really overwhelming. She has definitely never been the daring lone wolf type, ever, so familiar faces are a thing she's generally fond of. Especially in, y'know, weird inexplicable alternate... dimension places.

All this in mind, she opens up the door. She's probably got enough of an idiotically emotional mess of a face for the both of them, and he's definitely gonna have to do the talking because words aren't quite working for her right now.]

[And there stands Marty, in all of his sad, dirt and blood-stained glory. He's washed these clothes a lot, but... y'know. Never quite got that nice blue color back — especially since he got himself bled on by an immortal dude, but eeeh, details. Other than exponentially altered color in clothing, he looks just about the same. Without a scratch, hair shaggy and left to its own devices, stubbled and smelling like his favorite kind of plant.

Yup. Not much different here.

He purses his lips, pretty positive that his brain just froze over. Stuck on pause. Or whatever. So instead he lifts up a hand and waves.]

Hey.

[She's got her red hair and her worried little expression and she's okay, and just considering this makes his throat tighten up. The last two, redux. Selfishly, even knowing the bad stuff lurking in the shadows, he wishes the others were here. And he resists the urge to spring over and hug her, tell her everything's totally okay, they'll be totally okay — it's the joint, making him all sappy and emotional. Sure it is.]

Found you.

[He sputters a bit, motioning down the hall.]

I mean, I uh — sort of knocked on a few other doors and then realized I went a floor too high, but. I found you.

[leave him alone, his sense of direction is completely jacked right now]

Isn't that what you said?

[Usually he's got more tact than this. An apology will probably come in a moment (probably), but for now he's very interested in surviving decapitation himself, though... the rules are probably different.]

_{[ oh boy does it. that's how he introduces himself. ]}

Scars and battle wounds and all of those good things, eh?
Ive got a few myself.

_{[ stop boasting. ]}

If you've seen "it all," then I suppaws my appurrance should come as no surpurrise!

[ She laughs. Whatever Dana's been through, at least she has a sense of humor about it. That she can appreciate. ]

A pleasure to meet you Dana the Fearless Adventurer! I'm Nepeta, the Rogue of Heart. Of all the places to keep on surviving, the Tranquility isn't the worst of them. At least there's stuff to do and people to meet and the food isn't too bad.

It's nice to meet you, Dana. My name is Effie. [A beat.] And I do believe it's worth it, to survive. It sounds like you've been through too much to give up now.

I wouldn't exactly call them good.

[Pardon, her sense of humor is... selective at the moment.]

It wasn't my head in question.

[Flat. On one hand, it seems obvious; on the other, she's instantly regretting saying anything about it in the first place.]

Or a survival manual.

[Blink. Blink.

Yeah, okay, she's probably seen weirder. She can deal.]

Pleasure, Nepeta. [She sounds listless about this, but -- niceties and all that.] Exactly what kind of stuff do you get up to?

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