[PUBLIC -- video]

[Something new happened, and Rocket's not happy about it. Must be a day that ends in Y.

The morning after the breach ended, Rocket found himself back in his own cabin, like nothing happened. Draped in the comfortable hammock that hangs there, not a hair out of place, not a carbon fiber displaced, not a strut out of joint.

But he woke, and for some reason he was expecting something else. Something bigger, something more sprawled out. Longer limbs, more clothes, and less hair. NOT THAT HE'S COMPLAINING ABOUT HIS CURRENT SITUATION RIGHT NOW per se, but there was a huge cluster as Rick, and next thing he knows he's back to Rocket and what the flark just happened.

He's expecting larger limbs, so he falls out of bed. The ceiling's too high. The hallway and mess are too big. For the first half of the day he has to keep reminding himself walking around on his back legs isn't the only way to get around, and far from the most efficient, and by the time the first day "back" is over he's about done with everybody and everything all over again.

So the next morning, of course, he addresses the network after propping up his comm.]

What the flark kind of business is this guy running? Okay, fine, so he changes things

[And here he waves his hands around aimlessly.]

But what if they were just fine to begin with? Huh? I don't need you assholes messing with stuff! Just leave it alone! It works, okay?


[PRIVATE to Steve]

Hey, cannon fodder. You free?

[PUBLIC -- video]

Anybody else hate this whole...waitin' for the alarms to sound part? I mean, I ain't exactly hoping somebody else gets leveled or anything, but there's only so much tweakin' you can do before you need to see how it works in action, yanno?

Also, for the record, if these flares do work I'm takin' all the credit and the rest of you assholes all gotta pay me fifty bucks if you want the specs.

[Imagine that, Rocket designed BOMBS to put on his Jaeger. Will wonders never cease. Never mind that they did more damage than good last time he tried.]


[PRIVATE to Duke]

you up for a friendly wager?


[SPAM]

[Rick Marshall, AKA "Rocket" (so dubbed after a rather...unfortunate and embarrassing incident involving the explosives he's so crazy about), for all his impulsiveness and general erratic nature, is nothing if not predictable, in his routine anyway. Mess hall early, then a few hours in the gym, then tinkering at a workbench set up in the quarters he shares with Duke. He may or may not skip lunch, largely depending on whether or not anybody stops by to remind him, then whatever training they've got scheduled for the day right up until dinner. Evenings are usually spent trying to bilk the other pilots out of whatever money they've got to gamble with, or the valuables they offer in place of it; he's a criminal through and through, after all, no matter what he's doing now, wouldn't be right if he didn't try to lie, cheat, and steal his way to a good time.

Of course, trying to cheat at cards or stack the deck in a "friendly wager" does tend to get him into a fight now and then, especially when the alcohol's flowing, but hey. He's never been opposed to a little violence, and if they let themselves get cheated that's hardly his fault.]


[NOTE: all responses will come from morethanvermin.]

Okay so...let me get this straight. I gotta be here, but all these idiots can just call in? How's THAT fair? This ain't a radio show!

[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?

[Rocket's had enough.

Enough roaming the place, enough staring up at things that don't make any sense. Enough of a room that looks familiar but can't possibly be, enough of a room that's just a reminder. He's wrecked everything in it he could, clawed up and shredded and knocked over and threw; anybody on his floor's probably heard his ongoing efforts. Sure, he acts like he doesn't care, when he's out in front of people, but not being able to leave is about killing him.

He's taken up petty theft, since he's got nothing better to do. Small things, nothing too expensive just yet, but if it shines decent he swipes it, or makes his best effort at it. Tries to walk off with silverware from the caf, tries to steal another communicator or two. Jewelry, watches, it doesn't matter.

He's taken to sleeping weird places, because at least that feels normal for a prison. Curled up on the couches and chairs in various common rooms, tucked away in the higher stacks in the library. Maybe you've even caught him at it.

But today, he's on the network, the scowl that seems a permanent fixture firmly in place.

...he's also got a more-than-healthy dose of pink paint splashed across his fur and jumpsuit. It may contribute to some of the mood, although he....evidently seems bound and determined to pretend he's always covered in pink paint.]

Okay, I give up. You took my stuff, so how else am I supposed to amuse myself? I mean sure, I could just laugh at your stupid faces, but that's only good for like. ...okay, it's got some longevity, who are we kidding here. But that still doesn't change the fact that without my toys I'm climbing the walls here. It's one thing if it's an actual prison, you know? Mess with the guards, swipe some good stuff, escape while making everybody look like an idiot... But too much longer of this giant...space opera, and I swear somebody's gonna get their kneecaps bit off.

Alternately, get me my gear back and you all go back to being nobodies. Wardens, I'm talkin' to you. Come on, I ain't even got hooked up with one of you losers yet, what is this, gym class?

[VIDEO - public]

[When the feed clicks on, there's what appears to be a raccoon staring at the screen, teeth bared and lips pulled back into what might be a vicious smile, if smiling was a thing raccoons were capable of. He's dressed in what can only be called a jumpsuit, made of red fabric and dark leather, and if the utter chaos that can be seen behind him is any indication, he's not exactly thrilled to be there.

When he speaks, however, there's no trace of that, only sharp humor and the kind of arrogance that says this is only a setback. Temporary.]

Two joints in two days? I'm flattered, really, wasting all that time and money on little ol' me. Sorry about that last one, but if you look in the depths of your measly breeder hearts it was a cakewalk and you know it.

So who are you, Nova or Kree? Not that it matters. We're all screwed either way, right?


[SPAM]

[They'd given him a communicator, and honestly that was all he needed to know about the place. They were soft, they were stupid. He'd be out of here in no time, and never mind Ronnan and his stupid giant hammer. If the Galaxy was doomed he didn't want to be anywhere near the center of it, and okay, so what was the point, he knew that, but survival instinct was strong.

First order of business after seeing what bit on the network was seeing what he had to work with, including the comm. Depending on how it worked, what kind it was, he could use it to hack or blow something up or at least zap something, but when he pulled it apart it exploded, showering him in confetti and multicolored string and Styrofoam pellets. What the hell...?

So much for that plan. Whatever, he'd figure out something else. Had to be plenty of patsies to work, every place had at least one.

He ventured outside the cell after that, roamed the halls he found on the other side, and it was way nicer than anyplace he'd been before, way too cushy for a real prison, but he could work that too.

He worked his way into the ductwork, easy enough with his size and claws, peeked a head out wherever he found a grate; other cells, communal bathrooms, a gym, a library... A few wouldn't open, so he scratched and clawed and pulled and cursed at them, eventually moving on when they didn't give. Had to find a tool for it, he'd come up with something. Come back to it.

He found the deck, climbed the railing to stare at the stars, try to pick out where in the universe they were. If he could figure out where he could maybe figure out a way off, somebody to contact, something to take advantage of. He found the mess eventually, ventured in when he finally got hungry enough, walked across the floor like he owned the place, like he wasn't two feet tall (and he knew that was being generous). Like he was somebody not to be messed with.]