[ Murphy can't remember falling asleep. He'd been screaming, pleading, swearing vengeance while fighting to free himself from the restraints that kept him from making good on that promise. And then, just like that, there was the voice in his head offering him the chance to change this moment, to erase his regret. With so many to choose from β the reckless arson that had gotten him sentenced to death, the bullet he'd fired into the wrong person, the countless terrible decisions he'd made in his eighteen years β in the end, it was easy to decide.
Now he's awake. This could easily be one of the rooms in the underground lab, impossibly pristine in spite of its age, but he doesn't think it is. He's pretty sure. He's just not sure why, not until he sits up and he realizes the answer's in the air. That low hum circulating through the walls and the floor as well as the ceiling, the distant buzz of oxygen generators. This isn't a bunker. It's a craft.
His wrists are no longer bound. Someone has taken the effort to bandage them, which is a lot more care than most people have to spare for him. Just as he's examining the work, he realizes he's not alone in the room. Swiftly, by instinct, he tugs down the sleeves of his sweater to cover the bandages. Always better to avoid explaining the recent presence of handcuffs. ]
Let me guess...
[ This, he directs to his roommate with a grim little smile. ]
I'm not in Kansas anymore.
3.0 // HOTEL SPACEFORNIA
[ The first rule of the post-apocalypse is: find water. But the second rule of the post-apocalypse is: find weapons. And that's exactly what Murphy intends to do, once he's got his bearings and a convenient map of the space station. Just because no one's tried to kill him yet doesn't mean they won't get around to it eventually. He doesn't have a great track record in these situations.
The armory is right where it's supposed to be, and weirdly, there's nothing at all that prevents him from accessing it. He just walks right in through the door. That seems too easy, so he backtracks to make sure the door will open again to let him out before he turns his attention to the equipment at his disposal.
Again, nothing stops him. He has no idea what he's doing, but no one steps in to prevent the ex-convict from playing with the deadly toys. And although it's almost definitely a trap, it seems worth the gamble to get a gun in his hands. Murphy's not as stupid as he looks, so he figures out the basics pretty quick. Quick enough to acquire the old familiar, versatile, tactical RONI.
He disassembles the kit in mere seconds, checks the Glock, checks the ammo, then reassembles it. It's got the good scary look of a submachine gun without being as unwieldy as a sniper rifle, and look is the most important thing, because he'd rather talk his way out of a situation without having to spray bullets.
Of course, doing all this with his back to the door maybe wasn't the smartest idea. When it opens, the sound startles him so much that he wheels around and points the gun right at the poor bastard who just walked in, before the thinking part of his brain has time to remind him that no one here is actually out to get him. ]
9.0 // TRICK OR TREAT
[ Graveyards. There's an ancient concept. Obviously no one buries their dead in space, but even on the Ground, carved stone gravemarkers are a thing of the past. Waste of resources. Waste of time. People on the Ground die in numbers so big they usually end up all piled together in a pit or on a pyre.
Murphy kicks one of the gravestones as he passes. He's not trying to knock it over β although it looks like it would be really easy to knock over. He's just not sure how solid it'll be. Part of him doesn't fully believe in the reality of what's around him. Naturally. It's a simulation. But it feels real, anyway, and the gravestone doesn't budge, and he moves on to the next one, then the next.
He finds what he's looking for and comes to a stop. There it is. It says: JOHN MURPHY (2131-2149). What it doesn't say is: NO ONE GAVE A SHIT. Even Murphy doesn't think he'll give a shit until he's standing right in front of it.
It's the day that never happened. It's the final gallows march on his eighteenth birthday, only it ends at an airlock instead of a noose this time. No one utters the Travelerβs Blessing for John Murphy because John Murphy has never been anything other than a waste of air, like his father before him, and floating him will mean someone more deserving gets to live just a little bit longer.
It happens fast. Murphy can't believe how fast it happens. One second he's breathing and the next second his lungs are crystalized with ice. The airlock shuts as quick as it opened and the guards head to lunch. The Murphy of this memory is a frozen and forgotten corpse drifting toward the stars. The Murphy in front of the grave is rapidly blinking back tears, shivering violently.
John Murphy | The 100
Now he's awake. This could easily be one of the rooms in the underground lab, impossibly pristine in spite of its age, but he doesn't think it is. He's pretty sure. He's just not sure why, not until he sits up and he realizes the answer's in the air. That low hum circulating through the walls and the floor as well as the ceiling, the distant buzz of oxygen generators. This isn't a bunker. It's a craft.
His wrists are no longer bound. Someone has taken the effort to bandage them, which is a lot more care than most people have to spare for him. Just as he's examining the work, he realizes he's not alone in the room. Swiftly, by instinct, he tugs down the sleeves of his sweater to cover the bandages. Always better to avoid explaining the recent presence of handcuffs. ]
Let me guess...
[ This, he directs to his roommate with a grim little smile. ]
I'm not in Kansas anymore.
The armory is right where it's supposed to be, and weirdly, there's nothing at all that prevents him from accessing it. He just walks right in through the door. That seems too easy, so he backtracks to make sure the door will open again to let him out before he turns his attention to the equipment at his disposal.
Again, nothing stops him. He has no idea what he's doing, but no one steps in to prevent the ex-convict from playing with the deadly toys. And although it's almost definitely a trap, it seems worth the gamble to get a gun in his hands. Murphy's not as stupid as he looks, so he figures out the basics pretty quick. Quick enough to acquire the old familiar, versatile, tactical RONI.
He disassembles the kit in mere seconds, checks the Glock, checks the ammo, then reassembles it. It's got the good scary look of a submachine gun without being as unwieldy as a sniper rifle, and look is the most important thing, because he'd rather talk his way out of a situation without having to spray bullets.
Of course, doing all this with his back to the door maybe wasn't the smartest idea. When it opens, the sound startles him so much that he wheels around and points the gun right at the poor bastard who just walked in, before the thinking part of his brain has time to remind him that no one here is actually out to get him. ]
Murphy kicks one of the gravestones as he passes. He's not trying to knock it over β although it looks like it would be really easy to knock over. He's just not sure how solid it'll be. Part of him doesn't fully believe in the reality of what's around him. Naturally. It's a simulation. But it feels real, anyway, and the gravestone doesn't budge, and he moves on to the next one, then the next.
He finds what he's looking for and comes to a stop. There it is. It says: JOHN MURPHY (2131-2149). What it doesn't say is: NO ONE GAVE A SHIT. Even Murphy doesn't think he'll give a shit until he's standing right in front of it.
It's the day that never happened. It's the final gallows march on his eighteenth birthday, only it ends at an airlock instead of a noose this time. No one utters the Travelerβs Blessing for John Murphy because John Murphy has never been anything other than a waste of air, like his father before him, and floating him will mean someone more deserving gets to live just a little bit longer.
It happens fast. Murphy can't believe how fast it happens. One second he's breathing and the next second his lungs are crystalized with ice. The airlock shuts as quick as it opened and the guards head to lunch. The Murphy of this memory is a frozen and forgotten corpse drifting toward the stars. The Murphy in front of the grave is rapidly blinking back tears, shivering violently.
And no one gives a shit. ]