reverielogs | action

» WHO? Lance and YOU!
» WHEN? First week(end) of September.
» WHERE? Around the station.
» WHAT? He's exploring, trying to get his bearings, and meeting people.
» WARNINGS? Nothing so far. Not even language.

ARRIVAL DAY;

[ Starting on the observation deck, Lance walks at a brisk pace around the station, sometimes breaking into a jog as he goes. He periodically checks his bracelet, and he's clearly searching for... something. He'll go floor by floor, often stopping to look around. Anyone he sees in the hallway, he'll call out to. ] Hey! Uh, hi, I'm looking for someone, can you help me?

OTHER DAYS; 1

[ Now that he's found who he was looking for, Lance has moderately more chill. He's still wandering, but this time starting at the hangar, and working his way up the decks. He's curiously poking his head into practically every door that isn't quarters, looking for people and for what they're doing. If you're up to something, there's a decent chance there's a curious teenage pilot looking on. ]

OTHER DAYS; 2

[ You can also spot him in the mess hall, poking at the replicators, and, eventually, sighing dejectedly at his food. ] ... I miss the food goo...

OTHER DAYS; 3

[ You can also spot him sitting on the floor near a fire extinguisher with a toolkit in his lap, picking out item after item and frowning at it before setting it aside, sighing in exasperation. ]

Threaded | Flat

Nothing?

[He approaches, leaning against the wall where the fire extinguisher is, arms crossed over his chest.

There's gotta be a way to pry those damn ships open. They just haven't found it yet. Obvious 'it needs a code' aside.]

[When he sits down, Lance will find himself sitting across from another ostensible teenager, currently poking warily at their own meal of replicated fish. They look up at the sound of a stranger’s voice, golden eyes narrowing in confusion.]

“Food goo?”

[At this point, if it doesn't make this stupidly delicate body sick, they'd take it.]

[ frank and max come here often enough, though maybe even more so since a friend of theirs left. apollo could always be found here and he had found a steadiness in the other man's presence. he and his partner both will be sorely missed, but new people are showing up all the time. he knows his focus has to be on them in the end.

he's about six foot with his magboots on, wearing a curious variation on the jumpsuit lance too is wearing: his is black and seems to fit him like it was made for him. and it should because there's a name over his breast where the younger man's is blank. it reads CASTIGLIONE. there are booties on the brown pitbull with flat metal soles that clank against the grating in the floor as they approach lance as a unit, catching the tail end of his question. ]

If they're here, yeah. Sure. Shoot.

[ he'd rather focus on this than his depressing shit anyway. ]

Edited 2018-09-08 03:55 (UTC)

Sure.

[Says Ricki, pausing at the question.]

What's up, who're you hunting?

[He has a pretty good mental map of who's who around the place.]

[ By now, Kanan is likely a fixture on the observation deck - he spends hours here every day (or day-cycle, given that they're in space), just meditating. Just sitting, legs tucked under him, a weird bearded guy with a mask over his eyes, seemingly doing nothing in particular except... breathing.

He does this for quite a while, until finally speaking. ]

You can just ask your question, you're not bothering me.

Miss it? You don't have any?

[Tyl Regor has not had a good day. A terrible one, actually. But at least someone's having different problems he doesn't have to deal with. His metal fingers are tapping against a container of a very goo-like substance.]

Maybe the station just doesn't like you.

[He has no fucking clue what food goo is, but he can take a guess, considering he's eating something that the replicator had spit out. Yeah, definitely not... what anyone wants to actually eat.

But it's an unfamiliar face, and he's pretty sure that he's met most of the people on board. Or at least know what they look like. You can only run into the same 75 odd or so people so many times in 5 months and not get a sense of memory towards it.

Sitting down next to Lance, he offers a small token of suggestion-]

Toast, man. If you can't handle this shit, eat the toast. It's bland and you get what you're lookin' for without getting your hopes up. You can't go wrong with bread.

[Terezi wanders over to the replicator next to him, punching in an order for a bowl of grubflakes while she suppresses a toothy yawn.]

You like to eat goo? That's not something I hear people say very often. Usually it's the opposite!

OTHER DAYS; 3

2!

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