donttouchthefur | third escape

Entry tags:

[game]: just another space prison

third escape

[SPAMish/PUBLIC -- Video]

[Rocket is pissed.

Maybe it's not the most accurate assessment, but anger has always been easier than hurt. Safer. The deaths of others don't bother him much, because as far as he's concerned he's already experienced the worst kind imaginable. His rage comes from having that particular he'll broadcasted. Shared. Slipped out from under lock and key for the inspection of others, and he's never wanted sympathy. Life suck, then you die, sometimes over and over until you're halfway to insane but that's his burden and his alone.

He's starting to think maybe he should stop trying to straighten his cabin out.

This time he takes to a common room instead, vents everything on the upholstery until he's mostly worn out and then goes for the comm.]

Okay. I'll make this simple and easy. Don't ask me about mine and I won't ask you about yours. Got it?

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[There's a raccoon tearing up the furniture in the common room and Stiles stops in his tracks. He's only left Scott's room long enough to grab a cup of coffee with the intent of going right back. But there's a raccoon tearing up furniture. He glances warily down the hall but doesn't see anyone else around.]

Guess we're gonna need new furniture. [His words are a mumble and he turns his head to go because he's not going to get bitten by a wild animal. With his luck he'd turn into a wereraccoon.]

[The raccoon stills when he sees the kid pass by, glowers at him pointedly. He can hear you. Well, more or less.]

What'd you say to me?

[He jumps, startled, and some of his coffee sloshes out of the mug and onto his pants. His eyes are wide and he turns quickly. The raccoon talked. There's a talking raccoon on the ship. And for a moment he wonders if he's so sleep-deprived that he's begun hallucinating. He just stares for a moment, then shakes his head.]

I said I guess we're gonna...need new furniture?

Yeah, that's what I thought. You got a problem, humie?

[He's too ramped up to try to play nice, not when the kid's going to pass judgment. Like he's better than him. And maybe he isn't, maybe it's just an idle observation, but Rocket's just looking for an excuse to pick a fight right now anyway.]

Besides your giant, clumsy fingers.

[He's being mocked by a talking raccoon. Good God his life is weird.]

Nope. No problem here. Just an observation. I'm not attached to the common room furniture. [He waves a hand in Rocket's general direction.] By all means, carry on.

Okay. Good. I will.

[GRUMBLE GRUMBLE.]

Okay then.

[He turns to go, then pauses and glances back.]

I'm Stiles by the way. What's your name?

[Begrudgingly, after a moment, he doesn't ignore him like he kind of wants to.]

Rocket.

Cool name. Nice to meet you.

[He smiles a little and turns to go.]

Picked it myself.

[That catches his attention and he faces Rocket again.]

Me too, actually.

My real one's a buncha numbers and letters. What's your excuse.

It's Polish, nearly impossible to pronounce and embarrassing.

[He shrugs.]

Polish. What's that, some Terran thing?

[Probably.]

[It takes him a second to figure out what he means by Terran.]

Oh. Yeah, it's an Earth thing. It's like -- people come from all different countries. My great grandpa was from a place called Poland. Home of funny names and famous scientists and music composers.

Sounds like a blast. The land of Pos.

[Whatever those are.]

[He smirks.]

Something like that. Anyway, nice to meet you, Rocket.

Yeah. Sure.

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third escape

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