[ rounded bones are canvassed under the plain brown (jailhouse) t-shirt that clings to his body, and his legs are too long for the elastic-rim grey sweatpants that give something short of a deathgrip a few inches above the angular jut of his ankles. ]
[ stuck into black sneakers without socks, his feet tap-tap uncomfortably at the hallways of the S.S. Thor, and now that the curfew is lifted, so is his sentencing. ]
[ with a simplistic bag tossed over shoulder (the arm angled to carry it like a runaway with a napsack and the other hand firm just beneath his ribs in a careless grip) containing little more than a Guide, a normal Credits Card he has with his Legal Funds, and his single change of clothing provided by the penitentiary, he tilts his jaw sideways to survey the thin crowd and the faces in them, exhaling a low; ]
[the goddamn lockdown had really put a fucking kink in his week. he'd been jittery to start with, and having to scramble up jobs better suited to a pimple-popping intern (ferrying pizza? buying crickets for a pet? for real?) has only made his restlessness grow
( ... )
Re: [ACTION]prayforpreyAugust 12 2010, 05:15:17 UTC
[ it's not the rear of the orange head he spots first, but the bow splattered brownred with old blood, and it makes his vision snap up, away, and back in a fierce double-take. ]
[ he had been expecting a longer wait, a rummaging snap of armbands on his wrists, an anticipation of trying not to look at hollowed-out eyes and the faces that aren't his (like everything else is in monochrome and the color Badou has brought with him fibrillates reality back into technicolor). ]
[ the grin that splits at the sign is hesitant (their texts are still typetypetyping across his psyche), but he knows the subtleties are more important with Badou than the larger picture. for a moment, he's completely ignoring the man, half-reaching half-climbing to snatch the bow up and smack it down on top of the fox's head with too much force (-- and that's for the muumuu comments, you fucker). ]
[ ignoring all protest, he rips the sign down and wraps it around his waist, "--O GET CAU--" and, ironically, "come" spelled out across his groin. the "skirt" is a
( ... )
[ stuck into black sneakers without socks, his feet tap-tap uncomfortably at the hallways of the S.S. Thor, and now that the curfew is lifted, so is his sentencing. ]
[ with a simplistic bag tossed over shoulder (the arm angled to carry it like a runaway with a napsack and the other hand firm just beneath his ribs in a careless grip) containing little more than a Guide, a normal Credits Card he has with his Legal Funds, and his single change of clothing provided by the penitentiary, he tilts his jaw sideways to survey the thin crowd and the faces in them, exhaling a low; ]
Nnnhhhh...
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[ he had been expecting a longer wait, a rummaging snap of armbands on his wrists, an anticipation of trying not to look at hollowed-out eyes and the faces that aren't his (like everything else is in monochrome and the color Badou has brought with him fibrillates reality back into technicolor). ]
[ the grin that splits at the sign is hesitant (their texts are still typetypetyping across his psyche), but he knows the subtleties are more important with Badou than the larger picture. for a moment, he's completely ignoring the man, half-reaching half-climbing to snatch the bow up and smack it down on top of the fox's head with too much force (-- and that's for the muumuu comments, you fucker). ]
[ ignoring all protest, he rips the sign down and wraps it around his waist, "--O GET CAU--" and, ironically, "come" spelled out across his groin. the "skirt" is a ( ... )
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