Marty envisions the jumps as an old hick sitting on his porch, spitting tobacco into a can. That is, the people on board are the tobacco and the ship is the old hick. Pi-too! Right into the thick of it again, in the dark and naked and praying to god nobody's about to swing their willies in his face again. He already had to endure that once before from a nude country chasing chickens. He doesn't need the added trauma. But this is what he's learned, wandering around the medical bay: he's been gone a hell of a time, nothing in his brain feels much different, and he's still dead as a door nail back home.
He remembers it in pieces: the burning, horrible feeling between his shoulder blades (he touches his hand to the spot; it's still just scar tissue, thank jesus, fuck); then, there was the rumble in his ears, the intensity in which the world fell to shit around him and Dana — fuck. Dana. He's got to go make sure she's okay; if it's been a long time... shit, how did he not think of that immediately? She's gonna be pissed. She's gonna kick his ass. Maybe punch him right in the nose. Lord knows everyone does that to him as it is; sure, he's got a pretty intense nose, but does everyone really have to punch it? And dammit — why isn't she answering her network calls?
... Ah. Because they're falling through.
Fuck.
"Looks like it's just you this time, Marty," he whispers, and if his throat is tight and his eyes burn, it's not like anyone's around to see it in his little dark neck of the hallways. He scrubs his face, letting his head catch up with the ship, and starts figuring out which way he's supposed to be going on his internal compass.
And then he just
sighs
and says
fuck it
— and low and behold, in his own personal corner of the locker rooms, hidden from plain sight, he lights up a joint as if it's just one cigarette out of a full pack and gets to puffing while he scrolls through the network to try and see any familiar faces. He's not high enough for this shit... but damn is he more than willing to live up to his stereotype right now if it means getting him baked and floating. Besides, it's like pouring one out for Dana, except it just makes him wanna cry and he can't let her legacy be him crying because she'd be hella pissed at him. Goddammit. How much did he miss? How long was he out? This blows.
Marty Mikalski | that corner of the lockers that smells like weed
He remembers it in pieces: the burning, horrible feeling between his shoulder blades (he touches his hand to the spot; it's still just scar tissue, thank jesus, fuck); then, there was the rumble in his ears, the intensity in which the world fell to shit around him and Dana — fuck. Dana. He's got to go make sure she's okay; if it's been a long time... shit, how did he not think of that immediately? She's gonna be pissed. She's gonna kick his ass. Maybe punch him right in the nose. Lord knows everyone does that to him as it is; sure, he's got a pretty intense nose, but does everyone really have to punch it?
And dammit — why isn't she answering her network calls?
... Ah. Because they're falling through.
Fuck.
"Looks like it's just you this time, Marty," he whispers, and if his throat is tight and his eyes burn, it's not like anyone's around to see it in his little dark neck of the hallways. He scrubs his face, letting his head catch up with the ship, and starts figuring out which way he's supposed to be going on his internal compass.
And then he just
sighs
and says
fuck it
— and low and behold, in his own personal corner of the locker rooms, hidden from plain sight, he lights up a joint as if it's just one cigarette out of a full pack and gets to puffing while he scrolls through the network to try and see any familiar faces. He's not high enough for this shit... but damn is he more than willing to live up to his stereotype right now if it means getting him baked and floating. Besides, it's like pouring one out for Dana, except it just makes him wanna cry and he can't let her legacy be him crying because she'd be hella pissed at him. Goddammit. How much did he miss? How long was he out? This blows.