Crash Test Dummy (Literally) >> Audio ;

[justamobster]

[ The post goes up on the network a few minutes after touchdown planetside. The speaker is quite obviously trying to catch his breath, and there’s an undercurrent of laughter in his voice— sharp with both disbelieving amusement and a bit of panic. ]

The er, emergency landin’ system on the ships, yeah? That?

S’workin’. Just thought folks’d wanna know.

[ GUESS WHO ALMOST JUST DIED? This guy!

For context and any in-person concerns, see Prompt #1 here! ]

Comments

[mikoshi]

[ Yeah, there's no way in hell Vincent can right that ship with his chrome soft-locked. Couldn't move it even if it wasn't — fucker's too heavy and sand has an insane weight and grip of its own.

Not like it matters. Ships can be rebuilt. People? Not so much.

(Well, unless...) ] Can't let you cook out here. [ Luckily, Vincent can still pick people up, and Ladon isn't too heavy. Being carried like a bride might look silly to others, but fuck it, better to look the fool and avoid heat stroke. Solving that will be worse for their supplies than digging a ship out of the sand.

Better take him into the shade. Might be five minutes, might be five hours before he wakes up. G-force is no joke. ]

[justamobster]

[ It takes him about 20 minutes. Mostly because his frigging furnace decides to wake him by kicking on, and he comes to coughing up smoke and not knowing where the hell he is.

His hat has fallen in his lap, and his first instinct is to reach up to his head-- Oh thank God, he filed the damn horns down soon as they had a date to head planet-side. He's glad the multitool had a nail file built in.

But, well, the plume of smoke coming out of his mouth is a little more concerning, and he has no idea where that stupid vapor cigarette got to and he has none of his normal smokes on him so he just does his best to wave it away and hope no one noticed.

He stuffs his hat back on his head and rubs at his face. ]

Great way to fuckin' kick things off, Ceto.

[mikoshi]

[ Vincent isn't puffing away just yet, because it'll be a cold day in hell before he picks up those disgusting e-cigarettes — strawberry-flavored nicotine? Fuck outta here. Instead, he worries a toothpick, keeping an eye on an analog clock. ] Good mornin', Sleeping Beauty. [ Light tease, no malice behind it. There's a sense in the air that this is old hat to him. ] Anyways, as I was sayin', g-LOC ain't no joke. 4 to 6 g is 'round the ballpark where the untrained go lights out. You're lucky half your ship in the sand and an impromptu nap is all you're dealing with.

[justamobster]

Ishkabibble t'you too.

[ He looks up, searching the other man's face for any sign that he noticed the cough full of smoke. Who knows, maybe that's normal where he's from. Like a damn cartoon character from the shorts they show before the flickers. ]

Not sure what "g" is, but if it ain't in miles-per-hour or comparable t'horses, it don't mean nothin' to this noggin. [ He points to his forehead. ] Whole "space travelin'" particulars're new t'me.