[Adam would agree: water sucks. That just makes two of them.
The Vltava had been one thing – and even if it hadn't, it's not as if he could've afforded to feel squeamish about the Prague river he had to cross every day – but the open sea's something else entirely. Of the vague, fragmented recollections he has of the events three years ago, it's the memories of his icy, second brush with death that come through the clearest, and he can't look at the roiling surface of the water now without hearing his heartbeat thundering in his ears like it had before – as if trying to convince its owner that, this time, it's not going to leave him.
All in all that's a load of shit he doesn't feel like dealing with at the moment, and so instead he steals away below deck for most of the trip, busying himself with his usual pre-mission ritual: an almost obsessive inspection of his augs, methodically activating and deactivating mechanisms, searching for even the slightest hint of a catch in the moving parts. It's a little quirk of his that'd earned him nothing but scorn from his previous CO, but his new partner seems content leaving him to do what he needs to do. Waiting to see how he performs in the field before she draws her conclusions, perhaps. More discreet than he's used to dealing with, this one – or maybe she's just less of an asshole. Sometimes the simplest explanations are the best ones.
Eventually – mercifully – they make landfall, and the two of them practically leap off the boat, but a couple minutes pass before he catches up to Jill's position. By now he's ditched his long coat, leaving the BSAA standard issue tac gear – and his arm prostheses, black, sleek and smooth – on full display. He meets her glance, the green-gold metal of his artificial eyes catching what little light there is in the dim of the cave in a way that organic tissue simply doesn't, slight raised brow indicating surprise at the sudden familiarity. But surprise aside, the carved-stone face of his seemingly isn't made for much more than that; her smile isn't returned.]
More than ready to be off that tin can.
[No smiles, maybe, but he can certainly commiserate with her over putting up with a shitty boat (and there's the faintest hint of humor there in his tone if she really searches for it.) His reply's low, quiet – more like a rasp than a whisper – but somehow it's still the most emphatic he's sounded in all of the few hours they've known each other.
(There's already enough he has to fabricate about his reasons for being here – no point in lying about everything.)]
Jill, then. [He indicates her with a nod.] But if I'd known this was a social call, I might've worn something nicer.
[That, and maybe picked a less hostile choice of scenery. But if there's one thing that can really get people on a first name basis, it's probably shared risk of death.]
got a one-frame gif for you fam
The Vltava had been one thing – and even if it hadn't, it's not as if he could've afforded to feel squeamish about the Prague river he had to cross every day – but the open sea's something else entirely. Of the vague, fragmented recollections he has of the events three years ago, it's the memories of his icy, second brush with death that come through the clearest, and he can't look at the roiling surface of the water now without hearing his heartbeat thundering in his ears like it had before – as if trying to convince its owner that, this time, it's not going to leave him.
All in all that's a load of shit he doesn't feel like dealing with at the moment, and so instead he steals away below deck for most of the trip, busying himself with his usual pre-mission ritual: an almost obsessive inspection of his augs, methodically activating and deactivating mechanisms, searching for even the slightest hint of a catch in the moving parts. It's a little quirk of his that'd earned him nothing but scorn from his previous CO, but his new partner seems content leaving him to do what he needs to do. Waiting to see how he performs in the field before she draws her conclusions, perhaps. More discreet than he's used to dealing with, this one – or maybe she's just less of an asshole. Sometimes the simplest explanations are the best ones.
Eventually – mercifully – they make landfall, and the two of them practically leap off the boat, but a couple minutes pass before he catches up to Jill's position. By now he's ditched his long coat, leaving the BSAA standard issue tac gear – and his arm prostheses, black, sleek and smooth – on full display. He meets her glance, the green-gold metal of his artificial eyes catching what little light there is in the dim of the cave in a way that organic tissue simply doesn't, slight raised brow indicating surprise at the sudden familiarity. But surprise aside, the carved-stone face of his seemingly isn't made for much more than that; her smile isn't returned.]
More than ready to be off that tin can.
[No smiles, maybe, but he can certainly commiserate with her over putting up with a shitty boat (and there's the faintest hint of humor there in his tone if she really searches for it.) His reply's low, quiet – more like a rasp than a whisper – but somehow it's still the most emphatic he's sounded in all of the few hours they've known each other.
(There's already enough he has to fabricate about his reasons for being here – no point in lying about everything.)]
Jill, then. [He indicates her with a nod.] But if I'd known this was a social call, I might've worn something nicer.
[That, and maybe picked a less hostile choice of scenery. But if there's one thing that can really get people on a first name basis, it's probably shared risk of death.]