Dirk Strider (Ultimate) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
uber_marionettist) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
silph_co2019-10-09 02:05 pm
uber_marionettist) wrote in silph_co2019-10-09 02:05 pm
Open Log
Who: Dirk Strider and you(?)
Where: Goldenrod Rocket Base
When: Early October
Summary: Dirk joined Team Rocket voluntarily, now he haunts the kitchen at weird hours.
Rating: PG13 because Dirk
300 hours and change.
The light is on in the kitchen.
Living ('living') in this world has been taxing, actually. If he's travelling, he's free of people, of noise, of the rising paranoia and fraying nerves that come with noise and crowding, the vertigo between the unreal and too-real. If he's in town, he can take a goddamn shower--a much, much more vital part of Dirk Strider's lifestyle than he can stand to be without.
Joining Team Rocket is almost the perfect solution.
Almost, because he's still sharing a space with other people, and almost, because he still has to get the hell out.
But sitting here at 3 am, his merry muppet of a Carnivine wrapped around his torso and limbs like the strings to an unruly marionette (and stealing 2 out of 3 mouthfuls of kimchi, the fucker), it's pretty close to tolerable. He's not even obligated to wear that travesty of a 'uniform' inside the base.Pretty much the only thing that getup has going for it is that it's black. Whatever oil or blood or whatever he wipes off doesn't have to be seen or cared about until he's done. Done with what? Done with figuring out how to build a fucking robot in a place where the laws of physics are no longer his merry playground, mostly.
Currently he is nowhere near done. He is near going on 40 hours awake, though. And he's not sure how hungry he actually is (or what time it was when last he ate), so his idea of a compromise is tinned sardines, jarred kimchi, and a protein shake.
Breakfast(?) of Champions(?!)
Where: Goldenrod Rocket Base
When: Early October
Summary: Dirk joined Team Rocket voluntarily, now he haunts the kitchen at weird hours.
Rating: PG13 because Dirk
300 hours and change.
The light is on in the kitchen.
Living ('living') in this world has been taxing, actually. If he's travelling, he's free of people, of noise, of the rising paranoia and fraying nerves that come with noise and crowding, the vertigo between the unreal and too-real. If he's in town, he can take a goddamn shower--a much, much more vital part of Dirk Strider's lifestyle than he can stand to be without.
Joining Team Rocket is almost the perfect solution.
Almost, because he's still sharing a space with other people, and almost, because he still has to get the hell out.
But sitting here at 3 am, his merry muppet of a Carnivine wrapped around his torso and limbs like the strings to an unruly marionette (and stealing 2 out of 3 mouthfuls of kimchi, the fucker), it's pretty close to tolerable. He's not even obligated to wear that travesty of a 'uniform' inside the base.Pretty much the only thing that getup has going for it is that it's black. Whatever oil or blood or whatever he wipes off doesn't have to be seen or cared about until he's done. Done with what? Done with figuring out how to build a fucking robot in a place where the laws of physics are no longer his merry playground, mostly.
Currently he is nowhere near done. He is near going on 40 hours awake, though. And he's not sure how hungry he actually is (or what time it was when last he ate), so his idea of a compromise is tinned sardines, jarred kimchi, and a protein shake.
Breakfast(?) of Champions(?!)
no subject
Dirk was all set to find this entertaining, or at least interesting, but now he really just wants it to stop.
Easier said than done, though, because getting to his feet that fast knocks over his chair, and his first attempt to grab Fermat is a bust because the Carnivine is so witlessly titillated by this outcome that his battle-scared hands are not match for its senselessly flailing leaves and tentacles. His sunglasses are definitely no match for them, and he loses them in the process while Steve screams on the cold, desolate expanse of tile that's offering him exactly zero protection from a cackling puppet plant.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up--"
The first time he smacks the Pokeball against the back of Fermat's head, it only barely disappears into it before re-emerging, wide mouth opening and closing rapidly in a way that implies there should be some kind of sound effect, but the only sound it's making is a high pitched cackling noise that is accompanied by the bizarre choice to spin around and starting retangling its vines with Dirk's arms.
By the time he manages to hit it with its ball a second time he's literally inches from Steve's pleading face, and Dirk continues right through where Fermat was hovering an instant ago, shoving Steve up against the fridge with his hat pressed over Steve's face.
"Shut up."
His voice is hoarse, brows creased over his orange eyes with what could be anger or could be any other really intense emotion. It's fine, though. Steve probably can't see through the hat anyway.