Archer Avery (arcarius) wrote in horror_story, @ 2013-07-30 16:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | archer, cycle003, incomplete, o'brien |
Mechanical Error
WHO: Archer and O’Brien
WHEN: Wednesday, June 5th, night
WHERE: captain’s quarters
WHAT: Archer masks concern and confusion with anger. It’s up to O’Brien to either talk him down or to commiserate. Either way, the captain needs his best friend to help him make sense of what’s going on.
WARNING: bad language, scene in progress
To say Capt. Archer Avery was in a dark mood was putting it lightly. He stood in his quarters in his shirtsleeves, shoulders squared off to a point beyond tense and looking more like a dog with his hackles raised. His uniform jacket was slung over the back of his armchair, further proof of his disquiet: Archer tended to behave as though he was still in the Navy, with everything in its place.
Of course, what the fuck did it matter if his jacket was in its place if the fucking ship wasn’t in its fucking place?
He paced, restless, shooting his first mate an occasional glance whenever he stalked past the couch O’Brien was hanging out on. The silence coming from Archer was heavy and foreboding, not at all his usual more easygoing quietness. Between the two of them, Brannon O’Brien was the chatterbox and he balanced Archer’s natural reserve and stoicism well. Right now, he was busy seeing a side of Archer that the captain rarely let others see. Maybe Max, maybe Hunter, but only in small doses.
They should’ve been seeing land, but they weren’t. Every time that Archer went into the bridge, it was to find something wrong: instrument malfunction, course correction errors, the works. He manually reset everything, adjusted their trajectory, plotted their location. And every single time he got the ship back on track, it went right back to FUBAR’d. The calm announcement that there were minor technical issues was something Archer loathed, particularly with VIPs aboard. Well, fuck the actors, really... with Rob Fucking York aboard.
The emotionless exterior he’d presented as he went about apologizing and reassuring guests and instructing the crew was disintegrating in private. When he spoke, it was low and on the edge of a growl: “We keep veering southeast. When we should be going southwest. No matter what I do. Don’t know what the fuck’s up. Barbados didn’t just fucking disappear, Bran.”
Archer looked toward his doorway, then quickly away. He’d been out there once earlier, trying to chart their course by the stars. Celestial navigation. Archer had a good sense of direction, didn’t need the fucking machinery to tell them where to go. But not even that was helping them now. Fuck.
Massaging a hand over the back of his neck, Archer looked over at O’Brien. “Thoughts?”