driftfleet | (no subject)

Who: Zhas and whoever wants in on this grumpy trainwreck.
Broadcast: None probably.
Action: All day every day.
When: Forward dated to the dust moon because SOMEONE (me) can't be patient.

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[gunning for the prestigious "first asshole to get irresponsibly drunk as soon as they land" award, there's this guy. he doesn't normally do this kind of thing, but it's been a spectacularly harrowing six months or so. he landed, took one look at this tiny town, and thought, "Nope. Not going to participate."

he has since been working hard to remove himself from the responsibility of being a functioning human being. is this a good idea? of course not. but he has reasons and he has a gnawing evil in his chest, and he'd love for one of them to just shut up for a while.

so, acquaintances will be surprised to find him out in the late evening, dressed up like a normal person and not covered in face paint. his eyes still have kind of a dim orange glow to them, but genetics can't be helped. anyone, friend or stranger, is welcome to find him either:

a. in the process of getting drunk (at the bar, hunched grumpily over his glass of bourbon)
b. getting into a fight (because the other guy... something... doesn't really matter anyway)
c. wandering the town streets (uncoordinated, content, and oblivious to a bad nosebleed)

on the bright side, the ratings he'll get from this will probably pay for his bar tab.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Furiosa can't help but see a different correlation with his gestures; the people at the bottom - the 'normal people' - scrounging in the dirt and dry heat for any scrap of water or food, relying on those at the top to provide and the scant little that actually came down. She watches hgim, keeping a carefully passive expression, and then goes back to her drink.]

Hopefully your Red Queen is worth protecting. [She takes a drink,] What position were you?

[he makes a short noise at the first comment--almost a scoff, before he gets momentarily distracted by the bartender showing up to get him another drink.

a short nod later, and the wheels are in motion. he turns back with attention.]

Lancer... [at least, that's what Nux keeps calling him.] But we're more on-foot than in... cars. [or whatever.]

[That scoff doesn't go unnoticed. She files it away; that's a talk for some other day.]

[She looks back at him curiously.] How can you be a Lancer without a rig?

[he's glad to not talk about the scoff--he'll put his Queen up on a pedestal in seconds, just like any other fanatic, but he's in no state to miss her any more than he already does. his next drink shows up.]

Figured it's more... function. I fight monsters, I shoot things. [not a stellar description, but he shrugs.] We're called hunters at home.