MOIRA [ He can't believe he is in space. The thought of is bewildering. Illya has spent hours in the Observation Deck and he has plans to spend even more of his time here stationed there, and in the navigation room, and in the engine room when he is more prepared. This is the future. Or a future. He cannot possibly have imagined this would be something the human species would achieve. Sputnik was only a mere six years ago.
Roaming through the Main Hall, his feet lifts off the ground momentarily in mid-step and lands back heavily. He thinks nothing of it until he experiences the same thing again in the Mess Hall. This time, he is floating. A rush of panic over takes him and his limbs flail, struggling to reach and catch on to something. He grits his teeth and sets his jaw but no shout for help or anything comes from him. It's fine. He'll just sweat and spin around unnecessarily. If an arm smacks into a person, he'll apologize appropriately and maintain that he's got this.
Alternatively: when the gravity settles down, he slams back to the floor with a loud thud, both feet lands flat on the ground. His legs nearly buckles when he tries to move forward again. How embarrassing. Illya quickly shakes it off, though the experience has left him stumbling and off-kilter. He casually slides his hand over the top of chairs and tables to steady himself while continuing his pre-incident trajectory. He will insist he is fine but there's a noticeable shake in his hands. But he's fine, ok. ]
ERIS — 6578 [ It is nice here. Everything is very nice. He tries not to look too impressed by very literally everything he sees around him. For a man that comes with eyes from the Cold War era, the technology here is so shiny and new and unattainable that it blisters his eyes when he inevitably stares too long. If he had this or that back, then oh so many things would have come to fruition. But what ifs are spent on day dreamers and he is a practical man. There's a part of him that recoils at all this for its overly extravagant nature; from his formal wear to the excessive theatre he's standing in front of. But the curiosity and awe gets the better of him.
Illya clasps his hands behind his back and observes the spacious, luxurious theatre entrance. While he understands that this is not Earth anymore, there's a hint of familiarity that makes him pause. He releases his hands and moves forward. A sudden jolt of excitement runs through him. He can't even remember the last time he did anything for fun. He has certainly never seen a film for fun, anyway.
That is what makes him stop dead. Like everything else here, even the selection of films are exceeding expectations. He looks at them and feels lost. What kind of film does he even want to watch?
More importantly, how does he even ...get a ticket. He steps in to find the nearest person that is in the same or similar uniform as him and as politely, albeit stiffly: ]
illya kuryakin | the man from u.n.c.l.e.
[ He can't believe he is in space. The thought of is bewildering. Illya has spent hours in the Observation Deck and he has plans to spend even more of his time here stationed there, and in the navigation room, and in the engine room when he is more prepared. This is the future. Or a future. He cannot possibly have imagined this would be something the human species would achieve. Sputnik was only a mere six years ago.
Roaming through the Main Hall, his feet lifts off the ground momentarily in mid-step and lands back heavily. He thinks nothing of it until he experiences the same thing again in the Mess Hall. This time, he is floating. A rush of panic over takes him and his limbs flail, struggling to reach and catch on to something. He grits his teeth and sets his jaw but no shout for help or anything comes from him. It's fine. He'll just sweat and spin around unnecessarily. If an arm smacks into a person, he'll apologize appropriately and maintain that he's got this.
Alternatively: when the gravity settles down, he slams back to the floor with a loud thud, both feet lands flat on the ground. His legs nearly buckles when he tries to move forward again. How embarrassing. Illya quickly shakes it off, though the experience has left him stumbling and off-kilter. He casually slides his hand over the top of chairs and tables to steady himself while continuing his pre-incident trajectory. He will insist he is fine but there's a noticeable shake in his hands. But he's fine, ok. ]
ERIS — 6578
[ It is nice here. Everything is very nice. He tries not to look too impressed by very literally everything he sees around him. For a man that comes with eyes from the Cold War era, the technology here is so shiny and new and unattainable that it blisters his eyes when he inevitably stares too long. If he had this or that back, then oh so many things would have come to fruition. But what ifs are spent on day dreamers and he is a practical man. There's a part of him that recoils at all this for its overly extravagant nature; from his formal wear to the excessive theatre he's standing in front of. But the curiosity and awe gets the better of him.
Illya clasps his hands behind his back and observes the spacious, luxurious theatre entrance. While he understands that this is not Earth anymore, there's a hint of familiarity that makes him pause. He releases his hands and moves forward. A sudden jolt of excitement runs through him. He can't even remember the last time he did anything for fun. He has certainly never seen a film for fun, anyway.
That is what makes him stop dead. Like everything else here, even the selection of films are exceeding expectations. He looks at them and feels lost. What kind of film does he even want to watch?
More importantly, how does he even ...get a ticket. He steps in to find the nearest person that is in the same or similar uniform as him and as politely, albeit stiffly: ]
Excuse me, can you show me how this works?