driftfleet | three ☀ video / optional action

Who: Mal
Broadcast: Fleetwide!
Action: On the Caprine if anyone desires it! I'm flexible.
When: 6/20.

[As in her first broadcast, Mal can be found tinkering around in the engine room, elbows-deep in something interesting and greasy. This time, though, she seems pensive, deep in thought, perhaps about Deep Subjects and Philosophies.]

[She is, in fact, thinking about something entirely different.]

[When she speaks, it's in tones of airy contemplation, meant to disguise the fact that part of her thinks this is a terrible idea.]

Here is an interesting thing: vampires, for all their reputation for seduction, really aren't that good at it, at least where I come from. When you're always hungry, you mostly rely on people leaving windows open at the right time and then being a bit woozy from blood loss. For the really old ones, the ones who can barely stand without crumbling to dust and really hate sunshine, that's the only way they can eat, and if they tried to seduce anyone their arm would probably fall off.

[She twists at a mysterious innard of the ship with a wrench, tongue in her cheek.]

We've had enough excitement for a while, I think, so why not something boring instead: tell me about romance in your world. Describe the sorts of flowers you like to kill for love. Rate yourself on a scale of one to ten, complete dunce to Casanunda, if you like.

Actually, everyone should have to do that. That's compulsory. I will genteelly admit that I am a nine. [Liar.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

My timing is terrible. Then again, last waystation I was busy getting punched.

No kidding.

You shouldn't have spent the whole month doing that, then.

The punch didn't last the entire month.

Almost, though. It was a very good punch.

Edited (how spell) 2015-07-07 19:31 (UTC)

That's startin' to sound like more than just a punch to me.

Is it, now?

Sure. I been in good fights, and I ain't never said anything like 'that was such a good punch I wish it woulda lasted a whole month'.

[Tell him, Mal. Tell himmm.]

[THERE'S NOTHING TO TELL HONESTLY well there's a couple things but]

You clearly haven't been getting into the right kinds of fights, then.

[So sly with the metaphors.]

Wrong, I get in the kinds of fights that land you on a submarine heading for the Canadian border. [Long story, bad metaphor.] But they still didn't make me say that.

It seems like you're asking me to tell stories, Ray.

[Finger guns!] Bingo-bango, Vampyra.

What do I get if I do?

You tell a story, I tell a story?

I suppose that's fair enough.

Alright, so shoot.

What, right here?

[This is basically public bro. Cassandra will Murder Her.]

[Hey, he doesn't know.]

Alright, Jesus, come to the Windrose and do it there or I'll come over to your place.

. . . Right. Minute.

[She'll just be grabbing a shuttle, brb.]

[He's gonna be waiting for her in the cargo bay, playing with the toothpick in his mouth and tapping his feet like it took so long.]

[When she slips into the cargo bay, ruffling her hair back into some kind of order, she catches sight of Ray and rolls her eyes as she jogs towards him.]

It's been five minutes. Are you that desperate for gossip?

I get really bored, alright? [He rolls his eyes, but he jerks his head, leading them to what passes for a kitchen.]

Obviously.

[She's got a small nest of nerves in her stomach, but she follows him anyway, tucking her thumbs into her belt loops.]

Got any coffee?

Uh... [He ducks into what passes for a kitchen, looks underneath the sink, climbs up on the counter, and finally comes up with some instant stuff. He holds it up for her, shrugs.]

It tastes like shit, but it's coffee.

[She takes it from his hands, turns it over, sniffs it. Deems it acceptable and hands it back.]

Good enough. I don't really need it anymore, but. Habits.

[Folding herself into a chair by the small table, she rests her chin on her hand, watching him.]

I usually put some smarties in, back home, but the girls don't let me waste chocolate on my coffee. [Which means his coffee tastes even shittier, but he'll still take it. He goes about making the coffee, humming under his breath, moving around the kitchen.

When he's done he puts a cup in front of her, then plops down himself.]

Alright. What's the story, morning glory?

[She wrinkles her nose at that. She's a coffee purist; she drinks it black and absolutely refuses to consider it any other way. But he's making her coffee, so she keeps her mouth shut, curling her fingers around the mug when he places it in front of her with a nod of thanks.]

[For a moment she just fiddles with the handle. Then:]

I really did get punched, but it was mostly my fault, I think. Some people don't take to unexpected kisses.

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