(( ooc: Information and references on John's Home can be found here. This thread is open to those previously spoken with; however, please contact me about walk-ins! ))
[ The barracks are as bright under the florescent lights as they should be. It's cold and little sterile, but obvious people have tried to make it a little more homey. In a very testosterone-laden sort of way. But nothing's out of place as is expected from a Marine barracks. Beds are made, personal affects placed up high and off the floor. The only thing unnatural is the lone man sprawled out on one of the several identical beds lined up.
John looks just the same as when he was last seen before recon began. He's in his RRTS uniform like always. He even has his shoes on in his bed, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. A ball in his hand is tossed against that plain wall. It ricochets with a loud pop, and comes back to him with perfect precision each and every time. His hazel eyes never leave the ball--Hell, they never blink as they remain possessed on the slow, repetitive action. But there's nothing fervent in his eyes that suggests possession. There's really nothing at all, no light, as if he's in some kind of trance or royally spaced out.
It's just him and a ball pilfered from the sports equipment on the shelves, hitting the same spot over and over. ]
DOOM: RRTS Barracks | Semi-open
[ The barracks are as bright under the florescent lights as they should be. It's cold and little sterile, but obvious people have tried to make it a little more homey. In a very testosterone-laden sort of way. But nothing's out of place as is expected from a Marine barracks. Beds are made, personal affects placed up high and off the floor. The only thing unnatural is the lone man sprawled out on one of the several identical beds lined up.
John looks just the same as when he was last seen before recon began. He's in his RRTS uniform like always. He even has his shoes on in his bed, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. A ball in his hand is tossed against that plain wall. It ricochets with a loud pop, and comes back to him with perfect precision each and every time. His hazel eyes never leave the ball--Hell, they never blink as they remain possessed on the slow, repetitive action. But there's nothing fervent in his eyes that suggests possession. There's really nothing at all, no light, as if he's in some kind of trance or royally spaced out.
It's just him and a ball pilfered from the sports equipment on the shelves, hitting the same spot over and over. ]