Ricki Tarr (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rickitikitarr) wrote2015-03-22 10:38 am
rickitikitarr) wrote2015-03-22 10:38 am
Entry tags:
2. and the breaking point
[Video]
[He'd woken up this morning to a terrible new alteration to his body, and to Zane's (rather terrifying) network announcement. So, subdued, short;]
I don't know what the hell is wrong with you people, but this place is fucking dreadful. Someone let us know when the rampage killing lunatic has-
[Fuck. He stops himself, because he hadn't intended to let his temper get away with him. This isn't helping anyone. He, quite visibly, draws a breath in through his nose, lets it out through his mouth.]
I'm sorry. I hope there can be an announcement when the halls are safe again.
[Spam]
[The flood really hasn't been good to him. He gives up on staying holed into his cabin, and makes the trek to go get breakfast. He looks rather unusual, in a low slung pair of jeans and a sheet wrapped around his head and shoulders, held together over his chest with one hand, like a grandmother with a massive shawl.
It's better than going shirtless, which is his only other option. By the way his bedsheet tents up the centre of his back, something is clearly wrong with his spine. When he gets his tray, one handed, and the hood of sheet over his head spills back to reveal a dip at the top of his shoulders, a keen observer will catch sight of a ridge of uncomfortable protruding plates. They're interspersed enough that the movements of his spine are only a little restricted, though twisting side to side more than a bare inch is impossible.
So, he learns quickly, is sitting back comfortably against anything. He perches up gingerly on the edge of his chair, flings one end of the sheet over his shoulder like a scarf to free up his hands a little better, and starts to stab at his meal. He is in a mildly better mood than he was earlier.
Very mildly.]
[He'd woken up this morning to a terrible new alteration to his body, and to Zane's (rather terrifying) network announcement. So, subdued, short;]
I don't know what the hell is wrong with you people, but this place is fucking dreadful. Someone let us know when the rampage killing lunatic has-
[Fuck. He stops himself, because he hadn't intended to let his temper get away with him. This isn't helping anyone. He, quite visibly, draws a breath in through his nose, lets it out through his mouth.]
I'm sorry. I hope there can be an announcement when the halls are safe again.
[Spam]
[The flood really hasn't been good to him. He gives up on staying holed into his cabin, and makes the trek to go get breakfast. He looks rather unusual, in a low slung pair of jeans and a sheet wrapped around his head and shoulders, held together over his chest with one hand, like a grandmother with a massive shawl.
It's better than going shirtless, which is his only other option. By the way his bedsheet tents up the centre of his back, something is clearly wrong with his spine. When he gets his tray, one handed, and the hood of sheet over his head spills back to reveal a dip at the top of his shoulders, a keen observer will catch sight of a ridge of uncomfortable protruding plates. They're interspersed enough that the movements of his spine are only a little restricted, though twisting side to side more than a bare inch is impossible.
So, he learns quickly, is sitting back comfortably against anything. He perches up gingerly on the edge of his chair, flings one end of the sheet over his shoulder like a scarf to free up his hands a little better, and starts to stab at his meal. He is in a mildly better mood than he was earlier.
Very mildly.]
no subject
[She would take the advantage, if it mattered. Iris generally places pragmatism way over pride; but when nothing's at stake but pride, well, that's different.
Besides, she suspects Ricki of harbouring chivalry.]
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[He says, and is surprised to mean it. He normally would never fight her... but suspects she has some tricks up her sleeve.]
Sounds like a plan.
no subject
[Iris habitually has more tricks than sleeve: but all she wants today is to ease Ricki's cabin fever.
She holds up her six tentacles in a mock-theatrical pose around her head, careful not to spill the drink still clutched in one of them.]
I should probably be goalie, eh?
no subject
Do the dogs really play?
no subject
[The game is, in fact, for one human(oid) to throw the soccer ball to the other while the two dogs try and snag it midflight, with occasional changes of pace when a successful dog races around holding the ball triumphantly in his mouth until something makes him drop it.
Elvis is exceptionally good at tripping people.]
no subject
no subject
Iris herself is fearless, quick and agile; either one of the dogs probably outweighs her, but she doesn't shy away from the odd shoulderbarge or complain when Solace uses her as a springboard to catch a high rebound. Nor does she balk at throwing the ball directly at Ricki's head: she's observed enough to trust his reflexes as much as her own.
She is, of course, observing and gauging him every moment, not particularly covertly; but mostly Iris is just having a blast.]