[the boy is lying with his face smashed into the cushions; he's been there for hours already, his body having finally exhausted itself of that cockroach at the Apocalypse energy it'd been exerting for weeks on end (couples with reminders from Nill to take it easy on the bod, of all fucking things)]
[a tired green eye rolls up to look at -- no, not carol, the baggy]
[and he reaches his unbroken arm out, falling tragically short of it]
[that's just pathetic enough to cross into pathetically adorable territory. carol takes pity on him, leaning forward to unpack the food, nudging him a little as she does.]
[he grumbles without really vocalising any real resistance, taking some time to sort out coltish limbs and agitated aches and wounds alike]
[eventually he's sitting slumped up, and something's starkly missing from his face -- the two black bands that have been bisecting it, since eyepatch replaced initial bandages]
[however, as he leans forward, a chunk of orange hair instantly obscures whatever the fuck the eyepatch was hiding; the boy doesn't seem to notice he's been laid a bit bare, put in a bit of a precarious position, too mentally burnt out to keep every guard up]
[she notices, but she doesn't comment, doesn't react outside of a tiny twist in her gut -- at that, and at the still-too-broken state of his face as a whole. passes a box over, chopsticks and a plastic fork on top -- carol didn't know which would be easier, with the broken arm and the clumsy, scarred hand.
her own food sorted, she sits back, hesitates a second before gently dropping a hand on top of his head. it's not ruffling, or brushing the hair back, or anything she might usually (rarely, sparingly) try to do, it's just. that.]
You feeling okay, butthead?
[the last part is because she feels a little awkward, now, wants to try and change tack back to casual. smooth moves, danvers.]
[the box is grabbed, wedged into his lap while he settles his cast across his crotch; the thin fingers poking out of it have a few bandaids wrapped around them, stupid ones, with stars and hearts on]
[that clumsy scarred hand knocks the chopsticks to the side (he was actually really good at them, before -- before his dominant hand became a little less useful)]
[the fork is already scooping a giant wad of noodles into a busted mouth when plonk goes Carol's hand, and he shoots her a Look, instantly picking up on that awkward tone -- something's amiss, but he's not sure what (dogs and street kids were both good at picking up on vibes, and Carol is smelling Uncomfortable and Seeking)]
[around too many noodles]
Fou're kiffin' 'ight?
[snap, teeth sever the long train, and plop the rest goes back into the box, splattering his shirt mildly with sauce]
[reassured, she wrinkles her nose at the mess he's (already!) starting to make, and now she really does ruffle that haystack of hair, lightly.
for god's sake, she's become such a worrier.
carol takes her hand back and opens her own container -- one of about five, plus sides, because whatever they don't eat now can be breakfast tomorrow. settles in with her own fork -- those still-splinted fingers make chopsticks a pain for her, too.]
So where's this game you've been bitching about? It better still be intact.
[an eager stabbing of chicken -- despite getting enough beatings to signify him as prey, he's a carnivore at heart -- and the boy lulls into silence. talking and eating, for most 14 year old boys, were mutually exclusive activities]
[however the paused game on the screen is, in fact, the one he'd been bitching about]
[a nudge with her elbow -- it'd better not be -- and carol snarfs down a forkful of mushu pork, at least a little more gracefully than badou's eating.]
Mph.
[chewing, leaning forward, she puts her food on the coffee table and reaches for the controller.
[crunch, chew, swallow; the word graceful has no place here]
Like I care. It's a shitty game full'a dumb glitches an' the main guy is really dumb. Ya can't even choose options, what kinda survival game don't give ya options?
[his food's already half gone; even with limited mobility, he's still a growing boy (how he's going to grow still remaining to be seen)]
[carol maneuvers the dumb main guy around a little, tries all the buttons to figure out what everything does -- this one's aim, that one's fire, and a shotgun blast goes off, followed by some ominous sounds of movement from somewhere offscreen.]
Oops.
[but she seems incredibly cheerful, as she heads right toward the zombie noises, reloading on the way. carol danvers does not do subtlety. not even in video games.]
So what am I aiming for here? Kill everything? Or is there some kinda goal?
Both. Ya gotta break inta the hospital, go up 4 floors'a zombies ta get the inventory key, an' then ya gotta go back to level 2 with it. Pick up all the medicine in there an' shit. But ya get bumrushed right after ya pick all the shit up, it's like this really narrow hallway kinda thing...
[he reaches for another box -- is that sweet and sour chicken? that should be safe, right]
[pops the lid on the sauce, sniffing it a bit doggishly]
Like fifty percent of that was gibberish to me, just let me know if I'm going the wrong way.
[and with the boundless enthusiasm of the inexperienced gamer, she arrives (at a noisy sprint) at the source of the undead groans -- and, yes, the building clearly marked "hospital" -- and starts blasting zombies in the face.
until they start to swarm in on her, and her character has to stop and auto-reload, and he's not going fast enough. her food is totally forgotten as she backs him frantically away, leaning forward in her seat.]
Fuck! Reload faster you little bastard!
[BLAM! finally. wow this is escalating. she is getting really intense about this. uh.]
[the way she gets into it is funny, and so are her mistakes in the game itself; Badou sniggers over some sticky chicken at her exclamations]
Ya wouldn't hafta reload so much if ya didn't stampede-ass through the level. They're on tracks, idiot, if ya don't just walk inta every room shootin' ya can actually time it right an' get around some of 'em. They're sound zombies, not smell zombies, you can walk right behind 'em if you're being quiet.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Hey you want food?
Chinese?
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Doesn't really matter
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chinese i guess
thorfinn gets pissed now
when we get pizza n he aint here
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[you are one to talk, carol]
I take it I should get you the whole menu
As usual?
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u can learn shit
who knew
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actually
no spicy shit this time
i had orange juice
this morning
it was bad
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Ok gimme like 20 mins
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action
plonk goes the bag of chinese food onto the coffee table, plonk goes carol's butt onto the couch. hey sup.]
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[a tired green eye rolls up to look at -- no, not carol, the baggy]
[and he reaches his unbroken arm out, falling tragically short of it]
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Sit up, you're gonna spill shit.
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[eventually he's sitting slumped up, and something's starkly missing from his face -- the two black bands that have been bisecting it, since eyepatch replaced initial bandages]
[however, as he leans forward, a chunk of orange hair instantly obscures whatever the fuck the eyepatch was hiding; the boy doesn't seem to notice he's been laid a bit bare, put in a bit of a precarious position, too mentally burnt out to keep every guard up]
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her own food sorted, she sits back, hesitates a second before gently dropping a hand on top of his head. it's not ruffling, or brushing the hair back, or anything she might usually (rarely, sparingly) try to do, it's just. that.]
You feeling okay, butthead?
[the last part is because she feels a little awkward, now, wants to try and change tack back to casual. smooth moves, danvers.]
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[that clumsy scarred hand knocks the chopsticks to the side (he was actually really good at them, before -- before his dominant hand became a little less useful)]
[the fork is already scooping a giant wad of noodles into a busted mouth when plonk goes Carol's hand, and he shoots her a Look, instantly picking up on that awkward tone -- something's amiss, but he's not sure what (dogs and street kids were both good at picking up on vibes, and Carol is smelling Uncomfortable and Seeking)]
[around too many noodles]
Fou're kiffin' 'ight?
[snap, teeth sever the long train, and plop the rest goes back into the box, splattering his shirt mildly with sauce]
Get offa me, m'tryin' ta eat.
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[reassured, she wrinkles her nose at the mess he's (already!) starting to make, and now she really does ruffle that haystack of hair, lightly.
for god's sake, she's become such a worrier.
carol takes her hand back and opens her own container -- one of about five, plus sides, because whatever they don't eat now can be breakfast tomorrow. settles in with her own fork -- those still-splinted fingers make chopsticks a pain for her, too.]
So where's this game you've been bitching about? It better still be intact.
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[an eager stabbing of chicken -- despite getting enough beatings to signify him as prey, he's a carnivore at heart -- and the boy lulls into silence. talking and eating, for most 14 year old boys, were mutually exclusive activities]
[however the paused game on the screen is, in fact, the one he'd been bitching about]
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Mph.
[chewing, leaning forward, she puts her food on the coffee table and reaches for the controller.
swallow. unpause.]
You're gonna get so schooled. By your mom, too.
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[crunch, chew, swallow; the word graceful has no place here]
Like I care. It's a shitty game full'a dumb glitches an' the main guy is really dumb. Ya can't even choose options, what kinda survival game don't give ya options?
[his food's already half gone; even with limited mobility, he's still a growing boy (how he's going to grow still remaining to be seen)]
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[carol maneuvers the dumb main guy around a little, tries all the buttons to figure out what everything does -- this one's aim, that one's fire, and a shotgun blast goes off, followed by some ominous sounds of movement from somewhere offscreen.]
Oops.
[but she seems incredibly cheerful, as she heads right toward the zombie noises, reloading on the way. carol danvers does not do subtlety. not even in video games.]
So what am I aiming for here? Kill everything? Or is there some kinda goal?
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[he reaches for another box -- is that sweet and sour chicken? that should be safe, right]
[pops the lid on the sauce, sniffing it a bit doggishly]
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[and with the boundless enthusiasm of the inexperienced gamer, she arrives (at a noisy sprint) at the source of the undead groans -- and, yes, the building clearly marked "hospital" -- and starts blasting zombies in the face.
until they start to swarm in on her, and her character has to stop and auto-reload, and he's not going fast enough. her food is totally forgotten as she backs him frantically away, leaning forward in her seat.]
Fuck! Reload faster you little bastard!
[BLAM! finally. wow this is escalating. she is getting really intense about this. uh.]
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Ya wouldn't hafta reload so much if ya didn't stampede-ass through the level. They're on tracks, idiot, if ya don't just walk inta every room shootin' ya can actually time it right an' get around some of 'em. They're sound zombies, not smell zombies, you can walk right behind 'em if you're being quiet.
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[and she very defiantly does not do so, opting instead to blast another zombie in the kidneys, attracting another group of them.]
You know what this game really needs? A flamethrower.
action
You're gonna die before ya get to the third floor.
[chompchompchomp]
Flamethrowers are cool but they ain't shit compared to a ax. No fuel or reloads. I can only do the first couple levels with the ax, though.
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