fuckthemission | 01 | Action/Voice | I am trapped in a storybook I just know it.

[Action]

[Doyle doesn't wake up slowly; his eyes are open in an instant, and he's staring at a normal sky edged with canopy. It's a little awkward by the fact that he's on a bench in the middle of town. When he looks around and sees wings, and then sees some of you in medieval armor, clothes from the 1800's, or non-human creatures altogether? He lays there for a long while, not bothering to inspect why he's here. Because obviously, none of it's real.

Nope.

He laughs dryly at the air, shaking his head, because wow. Clearly the fire didn't kill him. He's just lying somewhere trapped in a horrifying fever dream before the gas gets to him.

Nope, nope, nope. Cannot deal with this right now. Too tired to budge, anyway. He takes the discarded magazine on the backrest and drapes it over his face, sighing as he folds his arms over his chest. For being a horrible hallucination, he sure feels half-naked and cold.]

I'm not here. Not here.

[He'll sit up after a while and eventually just... watch everyone. Especially those who don't look like they're from 21st century earth. No offense to you guys, he's just confused and trying to figure out how sane he is. And he'll either be set straight by someone who knows this place or he'll come to by himself, but he finally gets off his ass and goes to the clothing store. They were nice enough to let him wear his dogtags right when he woke up, at least. Hits up the bar, too, because.... because. When he speaks up to the weird ass journal he's got, he's only very slightly tipsy. Which is good, because you'll get less overwhelmed responses.]

[Voice]

So. It's really true, is it? The whole... 'other world' thing?

[A pause. He sloshes around the beer in his bottle, as his gaze flicks from the bar to the journal.]

I like it. This whole set-up, it's damn fine with me, good and bad points combined; a lot better than being stuck in my world where your own family and friends could turn around and gnaw your nose off. The longer I'm away from viruses and possible crazy apocalyptic bullshit, the better.

Just wish there was some way of checking in on the people who're still left behind. [Yep, 'left behind'. That's what it feels like, okay? Even if America was alright last he checked, there was a Code Red. Who knows what European countries were fucked. Hopefully the spread was contained well enough. Hopefully.]

Right. Anyway, I'm Sergeant Doyle; Rick Doyle. [Wait.] I guess the 'sergeant' part doesn't really matter anymore... But hey. Cheers, anyway.

[Now he's just got to settle mentally. He'll work on it. Until then, he's staying at the bar to get his head on straight and read through the journals.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Does that, uh... go for the 'malnosso', too?

They haven't stolen my stuff. [He sounds almost insulted by this fact, actually.]

Not yet, anyway? Maybe they have a waiting list on people who's shit they're going to snatch. [He's not sure if this is comforting to you, but you seem sort of sad about that fact. Poor inventor-hero-dude.]

[He shrugs.] Hopefully we'll be outta here by then. Just gotta keep--doing the hero thing.

[He snorts at that, smiling under his hand.]

You're a great fuckin' strategist.

Edited 2012-04-06 09:13 (UTC)

Not about to tell you everything I've got planned, cupcake. I'm not drunk enough for that.

It better be a damn good plot. I mean, the five-star script-writing of plans. Otherwise I'll give you two thumbs down and you'll be known as 'that guy with the shitty ass plans'.

Please. I built my first superpowered suit in a cave with a box of scraps. I think I can beat the odds in Luceti, too.

Y'know, I keep forgetting you're a smarty-pants inventor. Wonder why that is. [perhaps it was around the time you climbed tables that he forgot.]

Please, you can't even remember my real name. I'd be extremely impressed if you remember anything I've said to you tonight by tomorrow, to be honest.

Frankly, it's a miracle you manage to remember your own name, Bobby. No offense.

What? I'm well practiced at holding my liquor. I think we proved that with the whole table challenge.

That's my point exactly. Should I question the State of Affairs your liver addresses on a weekly basis?

[Weekly, he says. Ha. Like he goes to the bar only once a week!]

You don't need to--it's a Stark liver. Dad's greatest gift after the whole inventing ingenuity thing.

A gifted liver? I can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Oh, it's a good thing. Trust me. In fact--can't really complain about the Stark genes at all. We're well bred. Obviously.

[Just look at his beard. Look at it.]

Right, riiight. I'll just picture that your family is all composed've horses from now on. Unless Stark Industries have superpowered horses already?

Damn--we don't, but just wait until I get back. You've given me my next greatest idea.

Don't you fuckin' forget, either. F'anyone asks, some drunk asshole named Rick threw you the idea.

That's where all the best ideas come from, my friend. Drunk people.

[haaaa] Explains you, doesn't it.

Between that at the genes, it's no wonder I'm as great as I am, is it.

A regular Einstein.

[old and a ladies' man.]

01 | Action/Voice | I am trapped in a storybook I just know it.

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