Questionable Answers

like its not even a thing that gets me off i just seem to have a way with words these folks like.

when i first plugged it in i could hear it spin up and FEEL it too. it was a gentle vibration no stronger then the haptics on a cell phone. it took a second to get up to full speed but when it did it was a constant hum in the palm of my hand. i had to be gentle with it because too much movement would disturb the heads and cause bad reads and corrupt the data on the way out.

once it reached full speed it did a little self test. when the read-head swung out to do a test read and then swung back into the dock. i could feel each time the read head moved. it would make a sharp but tiny thump. almost like feeling its heartbeat. whenever i opened a folder i could feel the head swing out to the sector and take a read. i wasnt moving lots of disjointed files so the tiny thumps were not frequent. im sure if i was moving a large number of pictures it would be like its heart was racing, but since i was moving large movie files it was much more calm. It made a thump each time it went to the next file since these were long continuous reads that didnt need a lot of seeking.

when i was done, i ejected it from the system trey and the final thump was felt as it docked the read head and slowed the drives down. it didnt turn them all the way off but i could feel though the vibrations that it was much slower. it did spin down all the way when i pulled the plug out and went back to its dormant state

It started with them finding Sisyphus poking about in the galley.

Unlike Minos, the king had little ties to Greed, and he was happy to travel wherever they took him. He slept everywhere but the guest rooms, vanished for days at a time, and spent hours gazing at the layers they went through. They would never admit it out loud, but having a passenger aboard settled them. Even if said passenger had a penchant for skulking and a bleak sense of humor.

“Morning. Have you a knife that isn't rusted to shit in here?” Sisyphus asked, half way inside a floor cabinet, several such knives laid out on the counter above him.

“Unlikely, I'm afraid.” This place had gone unused for decades, and they could not justify the effort of maintaining something with so much specialized equipment. “I have some carving knives in the studio?”

“That'll work.” For doing what, they wanted to ask. But it seemed…rude, somehow. The entire time he had been here, Sisyphus had not questioned or criticized anything, from the smashed bottles to the images of Gabriel to the obsessively clean and critically underused passenger spaces. They hope it's grace; it's probably just apathy. Regardless, they wanted to return the favor.

The Ferryman collected the rusty knives (they looked salvageable) and bid Sisyphus to follow them to the studio. There they procured one of their mid-sized knives, which Sisyphus accepted with a perfunctory-sounding thank you, and found himself a seat on the tarp covered side of the floor.

He then flipped the knife into a slicing grip, index on the spine of the blade. And brought it towards his upturned wrist.

“Um.” They were not sure what else to say. Surely he’s not…?

“Relax, captain. Exsanguination is a miserable death. Ask me how I know.” He said it with the tone of a joke. They were still deciding on how to respond when he continued. “This is for my calluses. They have to be filed down as they build up or the entire thing will rip or crack.”

As if to demonstrate, he held his hand out to them and shaved careful slices of skin off of the heel of his palm. Right, how did they forget this? Gnawing bits of skin off the pads of their fingers, picking at the edges of calluses until it hurt to touch. Cold, windy mornings with that persistent ache in their soles from the fissures…

“That’s very inconvenient.”

“It is. Alas, the flesh does what it wants.” This he said with a mock Minos affectation. They mimed kicking him, amused. He really was nice to be around.

A thought came. Well, this was possibly the only audience who might be receptive to it…

“You know,” the Ferryman made a show of presenting their skeletal hand. “If you go a little deeper, you won't have to deal with calluses ever again.”

It had the intended effect—Sisyphus grinned up at them, something startled and pleased in his eyes. What wasn't intended was the cold jolt of guilt washing over them at his warm expression. They shouldn't want that. It shouldn't be making them so happy, they were supposed to be good—

“Ah, I...” They abruptly turned away, desperately searching for something to change the topic. There. They dug through their toolbox and emerged with a pumice stone. Tapped out the marble dust before handing it to Sisyphus.

“Keep the knife. A-and this too.” They couldn't quite look him in the face, unsure if they're afraid or ashamed.

As such, they did not catch the calculating look Sisyphus gave them and their sudden awkwardness. As such, they did not withdraw in time before he planted a kiss on their knuckles.

They look out at the vast ocean beneath them. Today's weather conditions have brought a dense but low fog over the Styx, giving the impression that the Deliverance is sailing over clouds. It looks almost heavenly, if they ignore the starless sky and the sound of thousands of ghostly hands scratching at the hull.

"I think I should jump," they say.

Sisyphus looks to the burning sky beyond the porthole, in the universal way people do when there's changes in the weather.

"Sandstorm coming. We better leave," he calls out, a little louder than necessary. Their fine-tuned sense of distress prickles—that slip-up is noteworthy somehow? Alright.

"I brought us here for that sandstorm, actually,” they reply. At his visible alarm, they elaborate.

Weeks of anchoring their ferry in the hot, acidic, and wet climate of Gluttony have done a number on the Deliverance, swathes of rust forming on her hull. They will have to derust her and patch the coating, if not redo it altogether. The storm makes for a convenient sandblaster, and the desiccating climate of Greed would keep the fresh steel surface from rusting again while they reapply the coating. Additionally, getting more or less oven-baked would hopefully mitigate the ferry’s mold problem.

“I see. And you are certain your little toyboat can withstand it?”

They bristle in their ferry’s stead. “I’ve done this hundreds of times. She can take it.”

The moment the words leave their teeth, they immediately remember just who they're talking to, and as if on cue, the King of Horrible Dirty Jokes raises his eyebrows at their phrasing. They turn around and stomp away with a huff.

They do not see him eye the porthole like it's going to bite him.

(Months later, he will casually speak of a storm bunker that collapsed with fifteen of his men in it. He would not mention that he was also in there.)

As far as weather preparations go, Greed’s sandstorm is easy to deal with. Don't land too close to a dune so as not to get buried, and shut all windows and hatches. With five hundred and twenty three staterooms spread over three layers of deck, it takes about two hours. The interior would still sparkle with gold dust afterwards, but it's nothing compared to the mess of a Leviathan encounter (they hold the smallest bit of gratitude towards Gabriel’s machine for getting rid of that thing).

Outside, the wind has started to pick up. The Deliverance is heavy and stout enough that they don't have to worry about her tipping over, but the sound of sand against the hull, amplified by the fact that they're in a giant steel tube, would only get worse. They should notify Sisyphus of this.

They have not seen Sisyphus at all during their preparations.

Despite his tendency to joke about death, it's unlikely he would have left the ferry and brave the storm, given that they're quite a way out from any notable structure. Which means he’s somewhere aboard, still. They park their cleaning cart, note where they left it, and start a sweep search.

Are they worried? Not really. He vanishes and reappears so often that they have lost the fear over his wellbeing. But maybe it's their sense for passenger problems telling them he’s up to something, or maybe this is the first time they've had someone on board during one of these sandblasting sessions and they want to share it, or, fucking hell, maybe he’s their longest-staying passenger so far and they might have grown a little obsessed.

Or, as they take the ladder down to the bottom platform holding the water tanks, noting the ball of light crammed between the pipes, there might be a genuine problem.

Sisyphus, despite his defensive position, does not flinch when they approach, but he only gives them a grimace in greeting instead of his usual nonchalance. So, not scared out of his mind, but not happy about the situation either. They know how to work with that.

With the cacophony going on, there's no chance he can hear them, so they sign a hopefully intelligible “You okay?”

He signs back a long sentence that they only maybe catch a word out of five. Was that Arabic? There is what seems to be a No in there, at least.

“Don't know that. Alphabet?”

You know what? This ones like a lootbox, you gotta open it to find out... :)

Transcript:

Your mind isn't all from you I'll take.

Give in to me.