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thearena2014-12-23 01:37 am
cowcatcher) wrote in thearena2014-12-23 01:37 am
Entry tags:
sweatin', sweatin', no wind whippin' behind me [ open ]
Who | Jane and you! Jane and Luke. Jane and Nick.
What | Catchall post. Jane arrives in the arena. Subsequent attempts to avoid attention and scavenge supplies are made while flying solo. A close shave with an 'alien killing' device happens, and the surviving zombros are reunited.
When | Backdated to the end of Week 1/the beginning of Week 2.
Where | In the upper levels of the spaceport.
Warnings/Notes | Violence, and spoilers for the second season of The Walking Dead Game. Very up for threading any of Week 1 or Week 2's events. Here is Jane's plotting post. Feel free to PM or plurk me with questions/corrections!
( scavenging near the science labs, open. )
By her judgment, it's been two hours since she was funneled up into this nightmare. Since then, Jane has stuck to what's served her best in the past: stay alone, stay alive -- even though that's more of a joke than it's ever been now.
Actually, pretty much everything about this is hilarious in a fucked up way: the way she'd vomited in her space suit after stumbling off her pedestal and it had drifted up into her hair, the way this place reminded her of a shitty laser tag arcade she'd been to as a kid, the way she still hasn't found a weapon better than the helmet they'd sent her in with. The most laughable thing by far though has to be the fact that she's supposed to be dead. Jane still hasn't had time to chew on that yet. Shock's not something she's been able to afford for years, but it's there in her mind, a cloud among many, as much as she tells herself she has to focus. Only one person is getting out of here alive, and Jane's not holding her breath that it'll be her, not when being late to the game has already screwed her over in so many respects.
It's nerve-wracking to be on the move when she doesn't even know where she's going, but even worse to stay in one place too long without giving the adrenaline inside her an outlet. Restlessness and desperation drive her further into the space station. It's a small comfort to be away from the windows to the outside, which had only made her feel like they could shatter and suck her out at any second.
Jane searches as she goes, eyes peeled for both supplies and any threats, though to call the pickings slim would be very generous. No food, no water, and nothing to defend herself with. Every second lost brings her a second closer to a confrontation she knows is inevitable. She (gouging eyes comes to mind, she won't need a weapon for that) but the inevitable is going to catch up with her all the faster if she doesn't find a weapon soon.
She isn't hoping for much after everything she's seen so far has been picked clean, but her luck changes as she turns a corner to find the mangled remains of some machine. Jagged and charred pieces of metal are strewn across the ravaged walkway, cluttering the floor. Some shards had even lodged in a nearby vent. It whistles lowly with escaping air where it has been pierced. Carefully, Jane crouches to sift through the wreckage, selecting a sizable piece of shrapnel with a particularly sharp-looking edge. It's something.
Backtracking occurs to her for a second, but with no food or water to be found where she's already been, she lets the idea drop, considering that maybe she won't find anything to eat or drink at all. Jane's no stranger to starving. It'll suck, but she knows she can last a while without eating. She'll be shit out of luck before long without water, though, and it's not like she can just melt some snow. Maybe further ahead...?
Jane casts a glance the way she came before turning forward, shrapnel and helmet clenched in either hand as she begins walking. No point in being afraid of something she can say 'been there, done that' about.
At least that's what she'll tell herself.
What | Catchall post. Jane arrives in the arena. Subsequent attempts to avoid attention and scavenge supplies are made while flying solo. A close shave with an 'alien killing' device happens, and the surviving zombros are reunited.
When | Backdated to the end of Week 1/the beginning of Week 2.
Where | In the upper levels of the spaceport.
Warnings/Notes | Violence, and spoilers for the second season of The Walking Dead Game. Very up for threading any of Week 1 or Week 2's events. Here is Jane's plotting post. Feel free to PM or plurk me with questions/corrections!
( scavenging near the science labs, open. )
By her judgment, it's been two hours since she was funneled up into this nightmare. Since then, Jane has stuck to what's served her best in the past: stay alone, stay alive -- even though that's more of a joke than it's ever been now.
Actually, pretty much everything about this is hilarious in a fucked up way: the way she'd vomited in her space suit after stumbling off her pedestal and it had drifted up into her hair, the way this place reminded her of a shitty laser tag arcade she'd been to as a kid, the way she still hasn't found a weapon better than the helmet they'd sent her in with. The most laughable thing by far though has to be the fact that she's supposed to be dead. Jane still hasn't had time to chew on that yet. Shock's not something she's been able to afford for years, but it's there in her mind, a cloud among many, as much as she tells herself she has to focus. Only one person is getting out of here alive, and Jane's not holding her breath that it'll be her, not when being late to the game has already screwed her over in so many respects.
It's nerve-wracking to be on the move when she doesn't even know where she's going, but even worse to stay in one place too long without giving the adrenaline inside her an outlet. Restlessness and desperation drive her further into the space station. It's a small comfort to be away from the windows to the outside, which had only made her feel like they could shatter and suck her out at any second.
Jane searches as she goes, eyes peeled for both supplies and any threats, though to call the pickings slim would be very generous. No food, no water, and nothing to defend herself with. Every second lost brings her a second closer to a confrontation she knows is inevitable. She (gouging eyes comes to mind, she won't need a weapon for that) but the inevitable is going to catch up with her all the faster if she doesn't find a weapon soon.
She isn't hoping for much after everything she's seen so far has been picked clean, but her luck changes as she turns a corner to find the mangled remains of some machine. Jagged and charred pieces of metal are strewn across the ravaged walkway, cluttering the floor. Some shards had even lodged in a nearby vent. It whistles lowly with escaping air where it has been pierced. Carefully, Jane crouches to sift through the wreckage, selecting a sizable piece of shrapnel with a particularly sharp-looking edge. It's something.
Backtracking occurs to her for a second, but with no food or water to be found where she's already been, she lets the idea drop, considering that maybe she won't find anything to eat or drink at all. Jane's no stranger to starving. It'll suck, but she knows she can last a while without eating. She'll be shit out of luck before long without water, though, and it's not like she can just melt some snow. Maybe further ahead...?
Jane casts a glance the way she came before turning forward, shrapnel and helmet clenched in either hand as she begins walking. No point in being afraid of something she can say 'been there, done that' about.
At least that's what she'll tell herself.
no subject
He imagined some sort of cage match that lasted a few hours at most, not a huge open world where he'd be expected to somehow feed himself and keep clean enough to be good looking for the audience over a period of weeks. Outright killing everyone he came across might not be the best strategy after all, now that he had to play the long game.
All he had for a weapon was a loose metal bar, only around half the size of an average crowbar. Not ideal, but he'd killed with a candlestick before, he could make it work when the time came.
"Who's there?" he said, hearing footsteps in the distance. He gave his location away by talking, but he was ready to strike if the need arose.
no subject
At the sound of a man's voice, Jane whips around in the direction it came from, helmet and shrapnel clutched tightly enough to hurt in both hands. He's near, whoever he is, but frustratingly out of sight.
"That's close enough." Her own voice is low, controlled, carrying well over the relative silence of the spaceport. The machine's wreckage is mostly at her back, though some pieces that were flung further still lie ahead. Not good. This suit she's wearing won't protect her from much at all. Risking a fight in here would be a bad idea, especially when she doesn't know if this other tribute is better-armed than she is (which she judges almost impossible not to be the case). Retreating could buy her time, but in an area completely stripped of resources.
Moving forward is her only real option, she knows that. Every nerve on edge, she stalks to the end of the walkway, where metal steps descend further into the abandoned station. Suddenly the lights gutter back to life with a thrum, illuminating the stairwell, and she spots him, dressed in a suit identical to hers except in color. Practiced eyes scan him immediately. He's big enough to be a threat, and not unarmed. Hopefully, he realizes that she is too.
"You'll wanna keep walking." She indicates away from me with a jut of her chin.
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"Why would I want to do that?" he says, "Keep walking, I mean. I was just dumped here. I'm quite confused."
He wasn't really that confused, but appearing non-threatening had been working out well enough for him so far. Jane was already more hostile towards him than anyone else here had been - for a fight to the death, most of them had actually been quite calm.
eeeek i'm over my tag funk slump so i swear i'll be faster from now on
"Oh, boo hoo. I'm not here to hold your hand, alright? Get moving, or I will."
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What does get her expression to scrunch slightly is his response. He gives his retort with the same hot-headed gust a child would. The hand she uses to clutch her shrapnel comes down on her hip, which cocks out slightly.
"'Bout as far as you're getting, probably." Is Jane's reply, spoken flat as can be. Running alone is kind of her M.O.; it's been a long time since it scared her. If anything, that's when she feels the most capable. You're not anyone's problem then, and no one is yours.
"Look, I'm about as thrilled as you are t--" She cuts herself off at the sound of staccato rattling suddenly coming from the ventilation shaft arching above them, eyes trained to spot any accompanying movement. Her lips twist into a frown. That's too many footfalls to belong to just one animal.
Her eyes shoot to Dandy again, a hand raised to urge him to be quiet.
no subject
When she raised her hand he looked around, listening closely for any sign of the noise. Unfortunately for Jane, Dandy was no survivalist. A killer, certainly, but he'd never had to rough it in his entire life and thus was a bit lacking in the common sense department there.
"What was that?" he says, "And don't you shush me."
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The skittering above resumes, moving faster than it had before, retracing its steps. She follows its path, eyes wide in the poor lighting. That's when she sees the perfect opening one of many vents provides.
"If you want to stick around to find out, be my fucking guest." She's already moving in Dandy's direction, clearing the stair steps separating them with the lightest footfalls she can manage.
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Lone aliens are becoming easy to pick off in their predictability, it's the roaming packs of them that pose a challenge. Daryl has been circling through the area for the last hour or so, trying to figure out any patterns to the little green aliens' patrolling routes. They may be tiny, but they're nasty buggers — he's already witnessed what they're capable of, the way they swarm their chosen victims like piranhas, their razor teeth just as deadly. Not the sort of guests he really wants to have camping on Nick and Luke's doorstep if he can help it.
But something in his plan has clearly gone a bit awry when his rapid footsteps begin to echo down the corridor. He's in full sprint, a blood and guts-covered streak of yellow that whips by the woman without slowing, sparing only a brief glance as he passes. Then he's calling back over his shoulder, "Might wanna run!"
Not far behind him is an exceedingly pissed off mob of aliens.
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That's when a man bolts around the corner and past her in a blur. She wasn't sure what to expect, but he's no one she knows. Their eyes meet in the split-second he turns her way, her own bright and wide with apprehension. He steers as clear of her as the tubelike passageway will allow, seemingly as eager for an encounter with another tribute as she is. Alright. That only leaves his pursuers, of which she knows there are more than one now, and--
Jesus fucking Christ.
He doesn't need to tell Jane twice. She gets just a glance at the ravenous creatures on his (and now her) heels as they come into view before whipping around after him. Years of running for her life have taught her better than to stick around to gawk, despite how fear, adrenaline, and disbelief are threatening to combine deliriously inside her head. Groping for it wildly as she runs past, Jane slams the body of the exploded machine down behind her, hoping it will deter... whatever those are, though they don't sound any fainter.
"You got somewhere in mind, or are you just hoping you don't turn a wrong corner here?" The stars and a distant Cornucopia are now visible through thick-plated windows running along one wall. They're headed into the outer rungs of the space station, where she had been picking around before. There are rooms there where they can hide, if they make it.
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"I know a place," he informs her, keeping his eyes ahead now and silently counting to himself. There are landmarks he's memorised to help him better navigate these hallways that all look identical at a glance. The first two rooms they'll be coming up on soon have sporadically functional doors, he remembers, and so it's the third he's aiming for. That's the safe zone, if such a thing really exists in this place.
A long distance runner he is not, but thankfully unencumbered as he is by the usual weight of his crossbow and heavy supply-laden pack, he has little difficulty outpacing their pursuers for the moment, and it seems his new friend is likewise able to keep up with ease. Which is good, because he has no interest in listening to someone getting eaten alive by those little bastards, and they most certainly will do if they manage to catch either of them. Not so different from walkers. But marginally smarter.
He passes the first two doorways without slowing, and narrowly avoids breaking his face on the closed door of the third by catching himself with his hands braced against it. Shit shit shit. They can be locked from within, so if someone's already camped out in there—
There's some frantic fist-slamming against the door control panel, and luck is apparently on their side because the door begins to open. Daryl proves that chivalry is dead by diving in first, though he does wait for the woman to follow suit before he shuts the door behind her and initiates the locking sequence. Carefully not giving her his back, he withdraws further into the room, until he can feel himself backing up against a counter that he knows is there. He grips the edge and hoists himself up onto it, leaving his legs to hang over the side.
Now comes the uncomfortably familiar waiting process. The aliens will eventually lose interest and move on, but not for a while, and occasionally a few stay behind lying in wait...
i swear on everything i own that my next tag will be speedier
She considers running off without much remorse. It's risky, probably too risky, but if he turns out to be all talk about knowing a place, she may be better off-- hell, both of them got the chance that the other will be the one pursued, so it's nothing personal. But even though these guys seem to have less of the walker's hive mentality, they're more alive, and smarter, and better armed to top it off. She still hasn't gotten a look at how many are on their tail, but in her state, with only a scrap of metal to defend herself, just more than a couple could be deadly.
It really is saying something that this sprint is taking a bit out of her. Walkers don't exactly demand cardio from their prey, and she's starting to feel it. He's braking fast by a door that she noticed is shut fast, and he gets an exasperated look for his efforts.
"Any minute now would be nice!" Her words come in a harsh burst, head whipping around to figure how much time they have before those things are on them, how much time she'll give this stranger and his hideaway before she makes a break for it on her own.
By some miracle, the door budges open, and Jane's right behind him, practically shoving him through the doorway as soon as there's enough room to squeeze through. She gets out of his way when he moves to seal the door, and she makes no secret of her own distrust as he backs away, matching his stare with one of her own.
He can have that side of the room, she decides, settling into a metal stool furnishing the opposite corner. She focuses on catching her breath, never taking her eyes off of Daryl for very long. Hopefully he's not waiting for a thank you.
"What the hell were those back there?"
no worries! if you wanna escape backtag hell i'm 100% fine handwaving anything
He likes to think it's been for the better, but isn't entirely sure sometimes.
For his part he's not terribly winded, long accustomed to sprints like that and usually carrying more than half his weight in gear while doing them. But he's nonetheless glad for the chance to catch his breath too.
"Aliens," he says simply as though it should be obvious. Her scrutiny is steadily returned each time her eyes are on him. And it's good that she doesn't trust him, means she's not a total rube. "Kinda like little asshole piranhas. There's some spiky dog aliens, too. Tend to drop down from above, so mind the ceilings."
If she genuinely hadn't known about the aliens, it's probably safe to assume she hasn't been too deep into the spaceport yet. He shifts slightly to lean back into a more comfortable position before continuing.
"Everything's out for blood here. Deeper in, there's robots. All kinds'a freakish critters. Been tryin' to snare one and see if it's edible, 'cause the food here's shit. And of course you gotta watch out for other Tributes," he says with a pointed look. He has no interest in killing other people unless his hand is forced, so as far as Tribute run-ins go, she kind of got lucky here.
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She hears something moving machinery around gently, causing that quiet scrape-scrape-kish of metal being slid delicately across the floor. As she, back pressed to the door frame, peeks around, she wonders if it's a mutt at first, one of the xenomorphs the Gamemakers put in here to 'liven things up'. Venus pulls away, hiding again in the doorway, before again popping her head out. The darkness of the hallway made the form look inhuman, but not it's walking on two legs with that familiar guarded gait.
Venus decides to take a chance. She presses her lips together, feels the massive scar tissue splashed over her face go taut as her eyes narrow. She steps out of the doorway.
"Who's there?" She doesn't have the quaking voice of a scared young woman; there's something extremely competent in her tone and the way she carries herself, feet placed solidly on the ground and muscle in her stomach tense.
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Someone with a pathetic excuse for a weapon. Someone who can't remember the last time she had a decent meal or night's sleep. Someone up shit creek without a paddle.
"Someone who doesn't want any trouble." Though everything about Jane, from her voice to the way she stands with her salvaged tools clenched bruisingly in each hand, says she'll bring it given half a reason to. It had been a rule of hers, all those times she ran alone and encountering other survivors was unavoidable: always try to look like more trouble than you're worth.
Of course, she'd had a gun then, which put you somewhere in the top end of the food chain. Here though, considering she was just tumbling weightlessly in goddamn space (her hair is caked with drying bile to prove it) she just can't know where she figures in. Bluffing has worked for her before, but it'll only get her so far. For all she knows, this chick is packing laser grenades in the helmet slung around her waist. It's funny, given the situation, but Jane can't overlook how smart that is.
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And she stops, realizing that an approach could, by itself, be seen as a threat. Even if Jane has a piece of sharp metal, the purple spacesuit wrapped around Venus' body shows an athletic frame, muscles strong enough not just to run but to punch, kick, kill.
"I'm looking for a kid with grey skin, maybe five-foot-two, fifteen years old, little horns on his head." She doesn't recognize Jane, and she's been here long enough that she recognizes near everyone. "I've done enough killing in all these Arenas. I'm looking for a change of pace."
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On top of the explosion of color each of them were, one had had feathers for eyelashes. Another sported what had looked like plates of titanium on unnaturally protruding cheeks. If body mods were the name of the game here, why the hell wouldn't someone have grey skin or horns?
"... Can't say that I've seen him. Sorry." Jane pauses a bit, opting to cross her arms, which isn't the simplest shift to make considering what she's holding. Venus had said arenas. The word doesn't sit well with her for more reasons than her brain can generate. Was this some long-term shit, then? They had brought her back to life to trap her in here, after all. Or could it be she's making small talk with someone who'd won these death matches?
It occurs to her that she's being too quiet. Her expression screws up a bit helplessly. "He a friend of yours?"
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There's that Georgia twang in her voice, the bit she tried to cover and mutate into pure Hollywood for years after leaving the state. It speaks to how many of these she's done - how little she cares - that she no longer makes the effort to paper it over for the audience back home. If someone mentioned it, she could say that the audience is already well aware that she isn't some backwoods hick, but the truth is that she just cares so much less about what the people of the Capitol think of her.
And it speaks to how tired she is of playing within the Capitol's parameters that since Jane hasn't outright attacked her, she decides to try and make an ally, instead.
"What's your name? I'm Venus. I've been here a few years, if you need a rundown of..." She waves her hand a bit, the chipped French manicure glinting in the silhouetting light, "all this, around here."
Luke
After pausing a moment, Jane presses on with one of the labs she had visited earlier in mind, expression battened down into a grimace. She tells herself she’ll be fine if she can just get there. Shit hasn't hit the fan just yet. This isn't the first time she’s been this hungry, or thirsty, or sleep deprived.
But harsh realism is right on the heels of her bark of encouragement. It’s undeniable now that she is nearing her limit. A few bites of raw potato (of all the goddamn things) can only keep her going for so long, and she had finished the last of her meager supply the night before. Scraping by is one thing, and going entirely without is another. She thinks back on her last meal before arriving here: a shared can of beans (again, of all the goddamn things) and her mouth waters. It’s a nauseating sensation with her head still pounding away and that ringing still driving skewers between her ears into her head. At least it isn't far.
But when she rounds the latest corner she nearly goes spilling, barely catching herself against the nearest wall as the sound and pain suddenly ratchet upwards in intensity. She holds for a moment, seems to regain her footing, when a shudder travels the entire length of her body and she crumbles to the floor. The ringing, the pain— it’s all one thing, and it's unbearable now.
Jane strains to roll onto her side, eyes rolling in her head to scan for danger even as her limbs begin to seize and twitch terribly. They give her glimpses of the walkway dappled in shadows that aren't there, the airlock doors that were so reachable seconds ago. Then the pinpricks of black swarming her vision burst and blot it out completely. She's vaguely aware of a warm wetness beginning to pool on her face.
Unable to get away, she can't help it; she screams. It feels like someone wrapped her brain in barbed wire. Her jaw has locked, garbling her cry as she chokes on the blood trickling from her sinuses into the back of her throat. It bubbles from the corners of her lips, from her nostrils, smears her eyes shut as she continues to writhe on the ground. The killer ringing drones on, but she can't hear it anymore, can't hear anything.
The pain doesn't leave much room to be afraid, but amid the agony, she has space enough to know that she's dying.
no subject
Oh God.
A delayed realization punches the air out of his lungs. It’s Jane.
Jane, so fiercely independent, so capable.
Jane snatching fistfuls of his filthy sweater and pushing her mouth to his, shushing soft little moans of pain and need, a leg sliding up between his.
Jane now sprawled like a broken doll, bleeding out.
His mind snaps back to Nick seizing and dropping to the floor, unnervingly still, and emotions swell painfully in his throat. It’s fear that rises above, by far the sharpest and most well-defined of them all.
He doesn’t think. He can’t, as his ears begin to ring. And he can feel his nose somehow unclog and ooze again as he lunges for her before he realizes he shouldn’t. Nerves scream through his side and it stops him cold, a sound somewhere between moan and an anguished, shuddering whine escaping him.
Bad idea.
Pain clamps down on his brain, eyes wide and glassy as he grips the arm on his weaker side. No sudden movements – not with a cracked collarbone and rib. Can’t lift her. Can’t pull her – not with both hands. He looks around uselessly for rope, for anything that can make this easier, panting, blinking against the stinging threat of tears.
But there’s just him and her and droning machinery he can’t do anything with. Better that, at least, than sharing the room with a xenomutt or a mob of cutthroat tributes. They can’t stay here long enough to let that happen, her least of all.
Luke sets his jaw and gathers his resolve, leaning against the nearest wall for support as he crouches and reaches to take her hand in his. He pushes onto his feet with a grunt and tugs her along, doggedly, desperately, with all he has. She’s much lighter than Nick, thank god, making it easier to drag her back the way he came. But he doesn’t stop in the airlock to rest, not for fear of being trapped inside a second time. Only when they’re out into the hall does he finally let go and sink to her side, doing his best to ignore the nerve-clench throbbing of his body as he feels for her breath, her pulse with hot, faintly trembling fingers. Turning her head carefully to one side to keep the blood from flooding her throat and choking her.
Please let her be alive --
He flicks a wary glance left and right.
Please let someone not be beyond saving --
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She remembers her own terror as if she had read it in a book, the experience displaced among the short-circuiting of her nervous system. Had that been her anyway? It's hard to be sure. Her veins feel like they're curdling into razor wire. Something hot is pouring from her nose, her mouth, her ears, her eyes, like it was boiling right out of her.
Maybe she'd never been anywhere but this rat maze. Running in circles and dying. Scavenging food and dying. Fighting and killing and dying.
Dying. That's what she is. Soon she'll be dead. The dead walk, she recalls. They walk unless the brain is destroyed. It's a small relief to remember the exception to the rule – she won't walk after she dies because her brain is being destroyed. It has to be. What else could possibly be trickling out every orifice in her head?
Faintly, Jane feels that something has grabbed hold of her hand, the sensation muffled amidst the pain. She was alone when she fell. No one should be touching her now. Snapping open, her eyes bulge with the effort to see what's happening, a strangled and panicked howl bubbling from her throat. Her body jerks in the wake of the pull, convulsing like a puppet whose strings are being yanked in opposite directions.
Beyond the airlock, the effects of the sonic device truly begin to ebb, though her body is still a live wire of agony. It's enough to give her body back some function and control. Jane begins to gag, heaving mouthfuls of blood topped with pink foam.
The grip around her hand disappears, only to return on her face, her throat. She doesn't fight it, can't fight it with the way her limbs still spasm, though she seems to try anyway.
Her breathing is shallow, each inhale reedy and bloodsoaked and too close to the next. It's her pulse he'll have trouble feeling, so light and disorientingly fast, like the beating wings of a moth. Even under a coat of fresh blood, her face and neck are hardly warmer than her hand had been. Her eyes still strain to see, though they're nearly black from how dilated her pupils have become. She's barely conscious, and it isn't clear yet if she'll fade or stabilize.
Christmas Weenies with Saint Nick
Unlivable, more like, considering they're still trapped in fucking space.
But the fire is so delightful...
The "fire" in question is a single flame spouting from the top of a Bunsen burner. They can't even feel its warmth.
And since we've no place to go...
"Is there seriously no way to shut that off?" Jane finally snaps, sparing Nick a glance of pure annoyance before leaning further onto the counter she stands behind. She turns the metal shard clutched in her hand. A small cocktail sausage is skewered on its opposite end, just barely gathering color where the flame lapped at it. It's slow going, but it's not like either of them have anywhere else to be. Luke is sleeping further inside the lab, taking his turn to rest after keeping watch. The boxes their Christmas gifts came in sit without their lids, waiting to serve as makeshift bowls.
At the most, there are twenty sausages left in the package she had received, each the length of her pinky finger. This shouldn't even count as a snack, especially divided between three adults, but with the last of the potatoes they had gathered, this is practically a feast, and definitely a step up from the dehydrated food they've been eating.
Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!
"I'm starting to wish I'd gone completely deaf. Heads up." She warns before removing the sausage from the flame, attempting to flick it off the shrapnel and into Nick's gift box.
no subject
But now it's not only back to being annoying again, it's outright irritating. He shares Jane's irritation by responding with a grunt, but unfortunately there isn't anything they can do about it now.
"Well, I'm glad one of us can sleep through it." He says, glancing over towards where Luke's sleeping. He's been peeking at the windows every now for anyone or anything that could come their way. He sets his pipe down against the counter and mumbles thanks as he picks up the piece - it's not even hot to the touch - and bites it in half.
It doesn't show signs of stopping
He chews slowly before swallowing, eyes glaring at what's probably a camera on the ceiling.
And I've bought some corn for popping
"Ugh, eat a bag of dicks." You assholes. He's late to catch the irony as he eats the other half of the sausage.
no subject
If only. The harsh fluorescent lights illuminating the space port have been hard to adjust to. Every flicker they give off feels like it goes right to her brain, though she's considered that it may be lasting damage from her run-in with the sonic weapon. Since her hands still tremble uncontrollably now and then, it's not that much of a long shot.
Jane twists in place as she settles the next cocktail sausage over the flickering flame, craning her neck to get a look at their teammate slumped in a corner. She waits to see his chest rise and fall before turning back around, a smirk playing on her lips.
"You can practically see the visions of sugar-plums dancing in his head.” Though if he’s dreaming about can-canning fruit, it’s probably due to delirium, or all the dehydrated apple slices she’s practically had to force-feed him lately. He hasn't been doing well these past few days, with flagging energy that keeps dipping lower, and wounds that just seem to get worse instead of mend. His appetite could be much better too, though they haven’t had much to offer him until tonight.
And the fire is slowly dying...
It’s really a damn shame they don’t have anything to burn. The smell of the gas being emitted by the Bunsen burner is starting to gross her out.
Speaking of gross, though. Jane's crumbling over onto the counter with a snicker, shaking with laughter that she muffles poorly behind one hand. According to her, she's still cooking the second sausage, but it's missing the flame by at least a foot now.
Please, please let the cameras have gotten that. She doesn't ask for much.
don't ride me too hard for this one /phrasing
"...god dammit."
Yep, yep. Nick caught that one too late. He nearly chokes
phrasingthe second he hears Jane's laughter but manages to properly swallow everything.PHRASINGHe rolls his eyes as some last ditch attempt at holding onto his dignity, but the little twitch at the corner of his lips isn't letting him. Sometimes he can feel like being sixteen again...although dick jokes still went on strong throughout college.He notices the dwindling flame and worries that it could die out. "Damn. We should save most of these for Luke when he wakes up. He'd appreciate havin' some actual meat for once."
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!
"Ah, shit..." Nick drops his head onto his arm that's resting on the counter, thoroughly embarrassed for that one. He's just going to stop talking until the pink goes away, all right?