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.
no subject
"Not a lot to do at night." He gestures to the sky, moving to lead Bodhi back into the inn and watching him over his shoulder as he did. "Stopping chores saves the light sources. I can show you the room and a bathroom, and you can figure it out from there." And maybe Kira would be up there, if he wasn't occupying a bathroom already for another bath. He was better with people and yet there was a twinge of something like guilt at inflicting more of them on Kira after their recent discussions.
Still. This was what the other man would have done, and Casey was following his path, for lack of a road beneath his feet to guide him.
"Don't hurt the cat and you'll be welcome enough."
no subject
He has to hurry a few steps to catch up to his guide after the quick little reverie. "Cats, I've heard of," he says as cheerfully as he can. Some kind of animal, so he's sure there's no danger of him hurting it. Being a little confused at its existence, maybe, but that's all. The rabbits were certainly inoffensive.
no subject
It's open, and Casey's nearly empty bag was still in the hammock he rarely slept in but had claimed. The bed has been fixed up since Jyn left it, sheets neatly back in place, and Casey gestures to it when they arrive.
"You can sleep there. There's other places, but no one will bother you here and if you don't take your stuff with you it's usually still here when you get back." At least so far no one had taken his, not that he had much to take. He was wearing every single piece of clothing he had, other than a few pairs of underwear and socks.
"There'll be more food tomorrow, and people who can give you things to do. Or you can help me." It occurs to him that this is the most he's spoken to someone of his own volition, other than Kira, since he arrived. He sets it to being his attempts at filling in Kira's role. And he's pretty sure his 'roommate', as Jyn had called him, needed the break.
no subject
"You... Thanks. I'll--this looks good. I guess, um, wake me up when there's light again?" That's still really strange, but it's just curious-strange, not worldview-shattering-strange. He's inclined to think he should offer to take the hammock, but maybe asking would be ruder than not asking? He has no idea.