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[rebelsamurai]

[ Amidst the impressive technological marvels and distractions present on the ship, Johnny found it impossible to resist the allure of commandeering the network for a brief moment. While he's no deckhead or with a fancy BD strapped to his head, Johnny at least knows how to work a camera. This is why everyone is getting a good view of the scowling rockerboy as he puffs smoke directly into the camera.

Yeah, he's smoking again already. Don't ask how he got his hands on another e-cigarette. It probably involved a five-finger discount and a lot of schmoozing. Despite being such a complete asshole, Johnny is at least charming.

He's a charming little parasite. ]

Okay, chucklefucks. [ He mutters before taking another drag on his cigarette. Smoke billows from his nose as he exhales, resembling an angry demon/oni graphic on his tank top. ] Let's have a little talk.

Where the fuck are all of you from? Half of y'all look like your average Joe, while others look like wannabe supermodels who just walked off a Jinguji photoshoot.

[ Johnny lets out a chuckle as he brushes some ash off his cigarette. ]

So, who wants to go first? State your name and where the hell you're from.

Comments

[rebelsamurai]

Then let me carry the load for a while. [ He whispers while wrapping his arms around Vincent's waist. Vincent looks like he could keel over at any second. It's a little scary, especially from this angle. Now that Johnny can see and touch him, he doesn't plan on letting Vincent die a dog's death halfway across the gallery. ]

You don't have to fight anymore, Chente. I'm here.

[ By "here," he means being alive and whole again. Vincent has no reason to fight with him around, which is how Johnny rationalizes things. However, he must find a way to keep the man he saved alive, and that’s the real challenge. ]

You're not dying on me, not if I can do anything about it. I saved you once; I can save you again.

CW: Body Horror

[mikoshi]

[ Skin too tight over a frame too heavy, the disturbing sensation of burrowing beneath his muscles and tendons — is this how cyberpsychosis starts? What have you done to yourself asks an atrophied sense of self-preservation, vaguely familiar and all the scarier and louder for it, ready to pull him under as soon as Vincent lets down his guard. It'd be so easy to sink into that bubbling tar pit of despair and loathing, let the chips fall where they may.

But Vincent can't. There's another voice, formerly-disembodied-but-now-blessedly-solid, anchoring him to this plane of existence as readily as his arms around his waist.

You did this to yourself! For him!

... y-yeah, you fuckin' idiot, that was the idea.

Anythin' to keep him safe. ] O-okay. [ That nickname brings Vincent back from the brink, forces back his focus. His mother only used it when the stakes were high, when she had something important to say. The opposite of over-enunciating every single legal entry — Vicente Alejandro Tanaka Fernández — whenever he was in trouble. ] Can we go take a siesta? I'm fuckin' beat.