one_man_army | (no subject)

When he steps through the door from Milliways, he's expecting to find the interior of his tent, which is why his head is ducked. His rucksack is over his shoulder - he'd thought it might be a good idea to bring some certain items from the Bar through in case things went wrong with his room - but when he suddenly runs his face smack into a rack of metal shelving, he yelps with surprise and confusion.

(Also? That is going to leave a bruise.)

Carl glances around at the room he's found himself in, realizes he's not in his tent (and therefore probably not in Africa, either) and immediately steps back with one hand poised to grab the doorknob back to the Bar.

Except the doorknob isn't there either.

Just where the hell is he, and why is he in what appears to be a storage closet?

+++

He spends two minutes quickly mapping out the room, while digging out his sidearm and stashing it at the small of his back where it'll be hidden safely in his concealed-carry holster. He's glanced at some labels on shipping crates and all it tells him is the department the items (whatever may be in the crates - he doesn't check) are intended for.

Science. R&D. Technical.

So he's...in a lab. Maybe.

Wherever he is, he can't stay in this storage closet forever. He tries his cell phone - no service, but it figures.

He hears footsteps outside of the door (hallway? offices?) and freezes, but relaxes once they pass.

Obviously he is going to need to get out of here and figure out where the hell he is. Carl shifts his bag on his shoulder and walks towards the door, waiting until there is relative quiet before he opens it and walks out like he's belonged here this entire time.

It's a hallway. Slick walls and smooth floors, signs posted near the doors. All right, he can manage this. He starts off in the direction he hears voices - lots of voices - figuring that at least then, he can try to blend into a crowd (hopefully) and figure out what the heck the Bar has gotten himself into.

He rounds the corner and finds himself staring at a huge open room, full of hundreds of people that appear to be packing (and unpacking) various boxes, bags, and crates. The tech is definitely nothing he's ever seen before, and a lot of them seem to be carrying what looks like gas masks at their sides.

One of the larger crates is lazer-stamped with three letters on the side: RDA

And then it clicks.

He's on Pandora. (Probably, anyway.)

"...shit."

He has got to find Trudy.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I'd have to kill it then, to get your arm back."

He runs his fingers down her forearms, tracing idle patterns on her skin.

"Because I'd hate to see how pissed off you'd be at the prospect of not drawing again."

"Hah, or never fly." She shudders at that. "Okay, you may kill dragons under those circumstances."

"Oh, we'd get you some sort of prosthetic to allow you to fly," he says. "I wouldn't even consider you not able, Marine."

Or she'd come up with some crazy way to fly one handed.

"Sure, we have them. All computerized and linking with your nervous system. I don't quite trust 'em."

"It wouldn't be the same as having your hands."

He links one hand with hers, intertwining their fingers.

"You'd have made a good Night Stalker, you know. If you could have gotten past the whole 'Army' thing."

Edited 2012-02-14 22:37 (UTC)

Trudy grins at him.

"Almost flattering. 'cept that I spent some time bein' the Marine version."

"Flattering, because I would only trust the Marine version with my life if you were the one piloting it."

(It's made in jest, really.)

She smirks.

"Farzan didn't fill you with confidence at all, did he?"

She loves the man. She'd die for him, kill for him, haul his drunk ass back from the pub and drag him to the shrink if need be.

But she's aware that where she comes off as cocky but calm, he comes off as bright-eyed and manic.

"Oh, I'm sure he's a hell of a pilot," he says. "The swagger told me all I needed to know about that."

But being a hell of a pilot doesn't mean that Carl trusts you.

Edited 2012-02-14 23:00 (UTC)

"But you trust me," she finishes, and no, she can't help that smile.

"With my life, and the lives of my boys."

And he means it.

Her smile is less goofy, more sad and wry now.

"It's 'kids' in this time," is what she says. "I mean, if we have to...have you here. It's kids, not boys."

"Kids," he says, somewhat more sober than before.

(Half of the Rangers he lost in Beirut were just that - kids.)

"Got it."

"Yeah," she says, quietly.

"If your door doesn't appear the in morning...how long do you want to wait for it, before we try and slip you into the system?"

He rakes a hand through his hair, considering.

"I...I don't know, exactly. We can't wait too long, with how bad the Bar had already gotten before I got kicked out. Part of me wonders if it was trying to activate some sort of failsafe and get me out before it...imploded."

"Great. A few days, then? I mean, assuming you won't got crazy stuck in here."

"A few days," he agrees. "As for going crazy...eh. I've done more time in worse places. I'll be fine."

And he'd rather not fuck anything up on her end, as much as possible.

"I've, uh. Got books. A lot of books," she adds, with a rueful glance towards the clear curved screen.

"And they'll be books I've never read," he points out. "Given that this is the future."

"Exactly," she says, her smile rueful. "We'll make it work."

Hopefully, though, not for that much longer.