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[personal profile] concierge
Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.
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[personal profile] nebaritralk
July 2 | The Kitchen

Chiana gets to the hotel, and proceeds on freaking the frell out when her life disc to her brother stops functioning. Andras (...Hannibal) comes in before she can actually slice herself open to get it out of her.

In Progress | Warning for near self-harm

Apr. 12th, 2014 08:23 pm
morethanhuman: oh, i can assure you of that (you wouldn't want to be me)
[personal profile] morethanhuman
Saturday night had been the one night of the week that everyone in the mansion had taken off from training, some (Raven) because they insisted on a few hours dedicated to nothing but enjoying themselves, others (Charles) because with no one else around, there was nothing else to do but relax.

He wasn't surprised to find that most of the hotel's residents shared Raven's view of how a weekend ought to be spent. There was rarely one that passed without some sort of party cropping up in the Smoking Room, people crowding the billiards tables or setting up a film in the basement movie theater. It was nearly impossible to leave his room on a Saturday night without walking through a poker game or Mario Kart tournament.

Things on the Proserpina had been different. There, Erik had never lacked for solitude— a virtue of the enormous space they'd occupied, no doubt— and he couldn't decide whether he liked this better or not.

Tonight he'd found himself restless, spurred to wander by some impulse he had no interest in analyzing. He was in a rare mood, to be actively seeking company, but he'd spent too much time alone these past few weeks, and he was tired of it. There was music coming from the Smoking Room, but he headed instead for the library, where he could hear the sounds of laughter and people talking over one another.

The scene that greeted Erik there made his eyebrows shoot up, a dry little laugh surprised out of his throat. On the floor was a white square of plastic, blanket-sized, covered in rows of colored dots. Several people were contorted on top of it— and truthfully he couldn't be certain how many people there were, their bodies were so tangled together.

Everyone still seemed to be clothed, he noted in relief, otherwise this might have been incredibly awkward.

"Right foot, red!" someone called, and the confusing tangle of limbs shifted in tandem as everyone struggled to do as they were told.

Leaning against the doorjamb, he crossed his arms over his chest, smirking. "So this is what people do for fun around here?" he asked of no one in particular.

That, of course, was when someone laughed, someone else's foot slipped, and the whole mess of bodies came crashing to the ground. Erik's grin widened; he looked smugger than ever, but simply shrugged and said, "Oops."

[Twister was invented in 1966, so Erik's never seen it before! Be part of the unfortunate people trying to play, or join him in enjoying a little schadenfreude.]
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[personal profile] burdenofproof
The carpet of the halls was plush like a cloud beneath his feet and even the air seemed sweetly scented compared to that place he'd found on the other side of a perfectly harmless looking door upon his arrival. The smell of all that wriggling, oozing dead was burned into his nostrils and baked into his skin, or at least it'd seemed that way to him, which was why after he'd figured out where his room was he'd blown half the money in his wallet on some toiletries and a fresh change of clothes. He'd stayed in the shower until long after the hot water had thrown up a white flag and emerged reddened and shivering, but at least free of any invisible flecks of gore that might've accumulated while watching Joan Watson bust open zombie skulls like rotted fruit. It was going to take him a good, long while to get over that, even he could admit.

Not knowing what else to do, he made his way back down to the lobby with a wary eye on every door he passed, wearing his new, clean clothes and smelling a damn sight better to himself. The bar was an obvious attraction and his first choice, so he made his way inside, finding it casual enough to suit his tastes and taking a seat at one of the empty tables. He wasn't going to be hungry any time soon, so when the waitress made her way over he ordered a whiskey and at least three more after the first one was finished. After the waitress had left him, he found himself looking around at the people in the bar with him. There was no one in his immediate line of sight that would've got a second look on the street for being obviously, physically different than him, but from what he'd gathered there could be people in here that came from a whole other universe entirely different than his own.

It was frightening, but when the waitress returned with his first glass of whiskey, he was pleased to know that at least alcohol was universal. He would have to do thinking, so much thinking, and exploring too, but that could come later. Just then, all John Luther wanted to do was get quietly, thoroughly drunk.
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[personal profile] amusebouche
Some people (mostly those gruff military types this space ship seemed to be full off) called this place the 'mess hall'. Andras Grauza much preferred calling it the kitchen. There were tables there, yes, and enough chairs for most of the crew to eat at once, but that didn’t mean this place ought to be degraded to ‘mess hall’.

The term gave off the impression that Andras was nothing more than a plain, soup-kitchen cook. That he was some canteen employee in charge of serving dollops of food from large spoons onto wet plates. That he could be spotted wearing a dirty apron and smelling of onions and old grease.

Andras was not and could not. No, this place was much more than what a mess hall implied. It was his domain, his pride, his life, his joy.
He loved his kitchen and he took great pride in his work. The stranger the meat supplies he had to work with, the better. The more exotic the herbs and vegetables, the more joy it brought him to turn them into something delicious.

Whenever he had time, Andras adorned the tables with flowers and other arrangements. He knew this lead to great hilarity amongst some of the crew, but he was convinced that a nicely decorated room added to the joy of dining. If, of course, there was time for joy of dining. All too often people just came in, ate and left just as they swallowed the last spoonful of food from their plate. A waste of well-prepared food, certainly, but unavoidable on a ship such as this.

Chiana – an alien crew member and one of the few friends he had here – had taken seat on her favourite spot on his counter, eating a bowl of left-over salad with her bare hands. Had she been human, Andras would have considered her manners to be very rude. She wasn't, though. She was reptilian, in a manner of speaking, and he respected her species’... etiquette. Just as he wouldn't demand a Japanese to eat with knife and fork instead of chop-sticks, he wouldn’t demand Chiana to change her table – or rather counter – manners.

She was talking to him, flirting a little, in a crude but enjoyable manner, and Andras' found his thoughts were straying.

Life, he decided, was good on the ship. If he were to think very deeply about his past, and about his life on this ship, he knew he would find it it as if clouded by a haze. There were gaps, he knew, but he found he wasn't too keen on filling them.

If he were to analyse himself (as psychotherapists had a tendency to do) he would likely suspect that he suffered a traumatic event, causing him to repress certain memories. But he didn't analyse himself. He liked his life as it was. No use dwelling on the past.

He smiled to his companion and she grinned. Likely he had just consented to something wicked. “I’ll be right back,” he assured her. He took a pair of scissors and walked into the refrigerated storage room

The first thing he noted was the smell. Even before his eyes settled on the decorated walls, even before his skin noted the warmth of the hall, he could smell there was something wrong. The expected smell of meat, plastic, and cooled air was absent, replaced instead with the smell of dry wallpaper, and old carpet. He didn’t recognize it and he didn’t much trust it.

He wasn’t shocked. There was no particular reason for that, other than the lack of an elevated heart-rate to be able to term his state as such. Surprised, yes, certainly. He was standing in a hall that didn’t look like any hallway on the space ship, after all. It was hardly something one would expect to happen.

His first reaction was to open the door again, but he found it locked. Not too strange, perhaps. It was an entirely different door. 

He turned again, rolled down his sleeves and removed his apron, folding it neatly over his arm, and tugged at his waistcoat to straighten it.

Best see what this was all about.


[Hannibal Lecter currently believes himself to be Andras Grauza. See profile and OOC info for details.]

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