#ryder 01

When he found himself unarmed, all but naked, lying in a strange room on a mattress so soft he didn’t even recognize it as a bed at first, he progressed from total shock into tactical reconnaissance within about sixty seconds. (Not that he accepted this, of course, or decided it made any damn sense-- but shock and disbelief is a quick route to an early grave. Not that they have graves in his business.)

Nothing in the room suggested a threat, except his mounting sense of surreality. (Has he ever been in something he could classify as a bedroom before? He’s not even sure he’s seen one. Recognizing it is more a matter of deduction-- room with bed equals bedroom?-- than any familiarity.)

What was more concerning (is more concerning) was his total lack of arms. Whatever purpose, whatever person had brought him here had left him bare-- armor, guns, ammunition, knives, all gone.

The first theory he started turning over in his mind goes like this: he had suffered some kind of trauma, bad enough to knock him out of commission, plus a healthy dose of retrograde amnesia. This isn’t so far off from how he’d wake up in a medbay-- stripped down to the minimal layers of clothing or less, all his kit stored away for him-- except that nothing his eyes see tells him this is anything like a medbay. The hazy idea of a dollhouse comes to mind, he’s not sure from where.

It would be nice to think he’s safe. Hope isn’t biting.

He’s not sure what other options that leaves him. Kidnapping? Afterlife? Delusion or coma? None are very appealing.

He can’t put together any of the information available into anything coherent. Typical intel, he thinks, wryly. The room has windows, which seem like regular glass, nothing reinforced or plastoid-- and outside those windows are trees he doesn’t recognize. Further down, through the branches, there are glimpses of paths and occasional movement. He can’t find any bugs or tricks to the items left in the room: there’s an array of clothing, shoes in what he thinks must be his size, soap, about a quarter of his gear. The architecture of the room is bizarre. Like something out of a Wookiee fairytale. The furniture, the little datapad left for him here, is anachronistic. He doesn’t get it.

Hope’s been sitting on the floor, leaning against the mattress so he’s out of line of sight of the windows, just thinking for about an hour and a half now. Thinking isn’t quite the right word: he’s somewhere between critical analysis and reaching out, like he’s in the dark without his night-vision, trying to sense the shape of what’s around him.

He doesn’t sense any danger-- no barrel of a gun that he doesn’t realize he’s staring down. That makes him nervous.

You don’t just black out and wake up in some bizarre diorama of a real person’s life, on some planet you don’t recognize, and have it be a good thing.

(To be fair, he felt a lot more nervous before he barricaded the door with a dresser. Just to be sure.)

The phone is still where he found it when he woke up, discarded after he checked the display and found it-- to put it charitably-- outdated. The functions are straightforward. He digs through them all, absorbing all the information he can, looking for any glimmer of what the fuck is going on. There’s maps-- confusing ones-- and a pre-filled contact list of names he doesn’t recognize. Basic video/audio capabilities, and a hologram setting. There’s a dating app. He files that away for later, category ‘misc’. (There’s actually quite a few apps, but he isn’t ready to go through all of them just yet.)

There are a couple of 'protocols’ whose feeds seem to autopopulate in his datapad, full of questions from other residents(?) and responses from some kind of AI. Some regulations (the term ‘illegal murder’ holds his attention for nearly two full minutes). The questions are weird, and for a minute he wonders whether they’re automatically generated, random filler text to make it seem active. Discussion of different worlds. Names he doesn’t recognize -- Eorzea, Concordance of Angels, TranStar, Earth -- although that doesn’t count for that much. He knows what he needs to know. Seems like he could stand to know a few more things now, though.

There are a couple of details that catch his interest in the records, glittering like pretty glass buried in the sand. First, according to the yellow protocol, they are on another plane of existence. That would be plenty to chew on, in its own right. He lets the thought sit as he contemplates it. Second, they are on some kind of space station. Third, it was built some time ago-- he isn’t sure what the conversion is of one Earth year to the standard units he’s familiar with, but common sense about how fast a habitable planet can orbit a sun suggests it can’t be too recent.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Hope weighs this information piece by piece, turning each around in his mind. He would not go so far as to call them facts-- after all, the Codex also said ghosts were real, and all this information has been conveniently left right in front of his nose like meat on a hook -- but he can’t discount anything at this point.

He is formulating a plan. Although it is less of a plan than a series of objectives, with the first objective being ‘stay alive’, and the second being ‘gather intel'.

He’ll have to go outside for that, which is what he’s cleverly avoided up until this point, balancing reconnaissance against cowardice. Seems like the balance has finally tilted.

He puts together a depressing assortment of so-called gear: surprisingly solid pair of boots (they are in his size), black cargo pants, gray tee. His rations, canteen, and first aid equipment are wrapped up in a sweater and tied up with some of the rope, then slung over his shoulder. The datapad goes, begrudgingly, into his pocket. If they can track him with it, they already know exactly where he is anyway.

When he steps outside, he doesn’t know what he’s expecting: not the immediate shock of finding his name above the door, spelled out like he’s seldom seen it, HOPE RC-8018. That takes him aback enough to leave him standing agape for two whole seconds. Good thing no one is around to witness the slip.

A quick sweep later and he’s found there’s three rooms like his, also labeled, and an array of common areas. There’s nothing remarkable except the fact that there are common areas, like this is some kind of-- dorm or something. Not sure what to make of it.

He intends to descend immediately to the first floor, but stops short when the stairs lead him into an open-air garden between the levels.

It’s beautiful. The air is sweet and crisp on the wind, alien in a way he can’t qualify but that smells of minerals and growth and new atmosphere. He wishes he had his suit-- not that he begrudges the softness of the breeze on his skin, but it’s like he’s missing a second pair of eyes, staring right at readouts and analysis results that he’s too blind to see. He’d sell an organ for some more explicit information right now.

The ledge of the garden spreads in front of him, a promise and a threat: wide view, no cover. His movements are slow and methodical as he approaches the little wall around the edge to gaze out at the scene below, studying the little streets and trying to identify the furry shapes he sees occasionally between the tree branches.