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

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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.]

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That's the spirit. The only question is, when'll be the moment they royally screw themselves over?

Edited 2012-03-17 00:44 (UTC)

That remains to be seen. But... the time is coming.

[Less than two weeks here, and he speaks as if he has been a prisoner for months.]

And when it does... [His smile, cruel and savage, returns.] The Malnosso shall rue the day.

['Rue'. God, he's talking to someone from oooold schoooool places.]

As long as you let us all know when that day is. You're not the only one around here you wants to do some ass-kicking.

[At this, he snorts softly, his smirk simply broadening. Kicking donkeys - what a strange expression, he muses. If only he was familiar with more modern slang; perhaps then he would have half-jokingly suggested in his bold, shameless way, 'why stop at kicking?']

...

[He indulges himself with another sip of wine.]

I'll take it by that look that you're a fighter of some kind. You don't look the gun type, though. [:| you look more the scary leather and whips type, HOW ABOUT THAT.]

[He has gotten a glimpse of a firearm less than a handful of times in his life.]

I prefer something a little less... impersonal.

[With his eyes on piercingly fixed Doyle's face, he resumes:] Anyone... can fire at a man from a distance. But to plunge a dagger through his breast and watch as his eyes glaze over... ahaha. Well~. 'tis something else entirely.

[>mental image
>blood involved
>insta-scrunch-face]

Gross.

There are far more... gruesome ends one can meet.

As long as you leave out the ones that involve copious amounts of blood, I'm fine with them.

Are you really~?

... Fine with them as long as they're not done to me. Or cute woodland creatures. [Or the good guys in general, but that just seems like it'd be common sense.] That more precise for you?

Edited 2012-03-19 06:53 (UTC)

[He brushes off the question, answering thusly in an almost pleasant tone:.] You need not concern yourself with the well-being of animals.

[Sigh. He can't even win for losin'.]

I know many a-Disney princess who would disagree with you.

[While he hasn't a clue what a "Disney princess" is, in particular, he huffs a laugh, pressing a hand gently to his chest.]

God forbid my words should have a wench gasping her disapproval or swooning with shock. How ever would I sleep at night?

Oh. See, now you understand.

[|D]

[Isaac tilts his head with an air of cunning, chuckling through his nose before having a generous swallow of his wine. He thinks he might like conversing with you, Doyle, human as you are; perhaps this seems obvious, although he has flirted and snarked with enemies and those of whom he hasn't truly enjoyed the company.]

[...

He's going to have a hard time figuring out if that's a good thing or a bad thing, isn't he?]

[Most likely, yes. Perhaps he should help himself to another drink.]

[... yes, more drinks

work your dark magic, booze]

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