(no subject)

[thatsagainstprotocol]

[ Connie and York are still asleep when he crawls out of bed at nearly two in the morning. He's sore and exhausted and shaky most of all, which means that sleep isn't going to happen any time soon. He takes his jacket off of the back of a chair and slides it on, and realizes he can't go with armor without being too loud. Well. The garden zones are safe enough, he figures, arming himself, slipping out the door with a note scrawled for the girls.

He makes it there shortly, and finds the nearest hill, flopping back onto his back, enjoying the press of grass. The desert hasn't been awful, but that and a ship-- god, he's just grateful for grass. ]

Comments

[dragonlancer]

[ Like most of the older handlers, Tex doesn't need to sleep as much as a normal person anymore-- a natural result of the genetic augmentation. It doesn't bother her nearly as much as some of the other side effects, and has been especially useful aboard this damn ship without a regular maintenance crew to keep up with Omega's equipment. Now it's all on her to patch harness straps and hammer dents out of his plating and weld seams back together.

The ship keeps an artificial day cycle, so there's a holographic 'moon' floating high overhead, its soft pale light turning everything silver. It's more than enough light to see by, at least for her, although she's got a field lantern lit while she tinkers with some bit of electronics. Omega is coiled up a little distance away, keeping a jealous eye on Excidium and especially Crimson as he gnaws on dinner, though both seem to be fast asleep and hardly about to interrupt him. His snide comments about infants along their wireless link have finally slowed down, however, typical post-meal lethargy settling in, and after a few more moments she gets up herself to stretch her legs, trying to shake off the borrowed feeling of tiredness. She's in fatigue pants and a tanktop, feeling safe enough at this hour to go without something covering every inch of her skin, and the small patches of dragonscale along her spine and joints are visible, cormorant feather black and faintly iridescent at her elbows and spreading down one shoulder.

She cracks her neck as she walks, vertebrae popping loudly, and at first takes the man in the grass for Roland, tired enough to not pay attention and only getting a glimpse of a human silhouette rather than a Varier. She halts, running a hand wearily through short hair and wishing now for a jacket to hide her skin, even though Roland is hardly going to blink at any strangeness when she's already surrounded by so much, and more occupied with the health of her dragon anyway. ]

Excidium's asleep, finally. I think his cough has gotten better over the past couple days.