Bodhi Rook (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onlyeverdoubted) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2017-02-14 06:07 pm
onlyeverdoubted) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-02-14 06:07 pm
001- As you're standing at the edge of your life
WHO: Bodhi Rook
WHERE: The fountain, around town, and the inn
WHEN: February 14th, throughout the day
OPEN TO: All!
WARNINGS: None, will edit if necessary
STATUS: Open
Arrival-For Finnick
The grenade lands. He has a split second to understand, to anticipate if not actually feel impact and heat and an end to every last, desperate plan to turn it around and save the few--very few--that might still be saved. Then there should be nothing.
Instead there's water.
Indefatigably analytic in all things, Bodhi tries to make sense of being submerged. He was awfully disoriented, probably some inner ear damage from the explosions, toxic smoke inhalation. Maybe he wasn't facing the way he'd thought, and the explosion had thrown him back. Not that the water should be deep and ice-cold and empty, but--
Even he can't put that much energy into trying to puzzle something out while he's also drowning a little. There's some momentum upward, but Bodhi has never tried to swim. Water didn't come in volumes larger than "enough to stay alive" back home, and there aren't a lot of pool parties cargo pilots are invited to. He's not getting to the surface on his own.
Sightseeing
He's not really taking very much in, but motion is soothing, and it's not like the scenery is that captivating. He'll appreciate the fine points later. For now, he's alive and deeply confused about it. He moves quick and guarded, stiff with the memory of pain. (Every little wound and ache, every souvenir of Saw's holding cells and Scarif has faded to nothing but a few scars, indistinct from a lifetime of little burns and slices from ship repairs. Even the bone-deep weariness, the never-quite-treated dehydration and malnutrition have faded.) Missing his goggles and poncho more for what they represent than any practical purpose, he fidgets with his unfamiliar clothes and blinks owlishly into the middle distance as he paces. Nothing feels quite real, least of all him.
And he's still a bit damp. Less than comfortable in this weather, even with his Jedha-bred cold tolerance.
Roosting
Eventually, as the light lengthens and dims, he finds his way to the inn. Closest thing to a cantina. He's still a pilot, no matter how dazed and lost. He's visited dozens of worlds, most of them experienced mainly through whatever bit of the spaceport was friendliest to clusters of Imperials talking too loud, gambling "secretly," and trying to forget. It's an extra sense, maybe some very small sliver of the Force dedicated to guiding worn out vacuum jockeys to drinks, forgettable music, and forgiving lighting. He slips in as unobtrusively as he can, not sure what he'll find.
WHERE: The fountain, around town, and the inn
WHEN: February 14th, throughout the day
OPEN TO: All!
WARNINGS: None, will edit if necessary
STATUS: Open
Arrival-For Finnick
The grenade lands. He has a split second to understand, to anticipate if not actually feel impact and heat and an end to every last, desperate plan to turn it around and save the few--very few--that might still be saved. Then there should be nothing.
Instead there's water.
Indefatigably analytic in all things, Bodhi tries to make sense of being submerged. He was awfully disoriented, probably some inner ear damage from the explosions, toxic smoke inhalation. Maybe he wasn't facing the way he'd thought, and the explosion had thrown him back. Not that the water should be deep and ice-cold and empty, but--
Even he can't put that much energy into trying to puzzle something out while he's also drowning a little. There's some momentum upward, but Bodhi has never tried to swim. Water didn't come in volumes larger than "enough to stay alive" back home, and there aren't a lot of pool parties cargo pilots are invited to. He's not getting to the surface on his own.
Sightseeing
He's not really taking very much in, but motion is soothing, and it's not like the scenery is that captivating. He'll appreciate the fine points later. For now, he's alive and deeply confused about it. He moves quick and guarded, stiff with the memory of pain. (Every little wound and ache, every souvenir of Saw's holding cells and Scarif has faded to nothing but a few scars, indistinct from a lifetime of little burns and slices from ship repairs. Even the bone-deep weariness, the never-quite-treated dehydration and malnutrition have faded.) Missing his goggles and poncho more for what they represent than any practical purpose, he fidgets with his unfamiliar clothes and blinks owlishly into the middle distance as he paces. Nothing feels quite real, least of all him.
And he's still a bit damp. Less than comfortable in this weather, even with his Jedha-bred cold tolerance.
Roosting
Eventually, as the light lengthens and dims, he finds his way to the inn. Closest thing to a cantina. He's still a pilot, no matter how dazed and lost. He's visited dozens of worlds, most of them experienced mainly through whatever bit of the spaceport was friendliest to clusters of Imperials talking too loud, gambling "secretly," and trying to forget. It's an extra sense, maybe some very small sliver of the Force dedicated to guiding worn out vacuum jockeys to drinks, forgettable music, and forgiving lighting. He slips in as unobtrusively as he can, not sure what he'll find.