[ For lack of a better idea, Sharkface is drawing. A pen and notebook were provided when he asked, which might have been kind except that his armor is nowhere to be seen and they’ve taken his guns too. Now there’s nothing but him, his borrowed clothes, and his goddamn scars to glare out at anyone who comes too close. He thought about making a fuss before he realized there wasn’t much point in it and he’s come to something like a reckoning.
This is happening. This will be endured. He’s patient. He’s survived worse.
In the meantime, he’s sitting at a card table and sketching. Faces, mostly. The Displaced. What a name. ]
Heard they banned cigarettes in these parts. ‘
[ He glances from his work briefly. ]
You fucking believe that?
[ God, he could use a cigarette. ]
Food Carts
[ Even under the circumstances, Sharkface isn’t one to turn down real food. All around him are people digging into fried or battered monstrosities, powdered sugar all over their hands and clothes. It’s loud and messy and full of life. And even though he’s out of armor and far from home - or at least recognizable terrain - he likes the noise of it all. A little bit of chaos.
Anything’s better than prison, at this point. Or the humiliation of failing yet again to fulfill his promises.
He’s chewing on something sweet, getting sugar all over his hands. It’s probably rotting his teeth and he loves it. Likes that he can walk around in a crowd - not entirely unnoticed, with a face like his - but without people stopping him. There’s no need for violence to get where he’s going, which is novel and almost pleasant. ]
This happen often?
[ He’s leaning against a wall, watching the crowd. He’s got a hood up, covering the worst of his scars, but there’s no hiding the plasma burns or his bad eye. ]
It’s nice.
Fight Club
[ It’s nice, knowing that brutal, bareknuckle violence is a constant across the galaxy. A sort of mediating force. Look, we really are all the same deep down. Let’s put money on this guy beating the shit out of that guy.
Makes things easy.
He fights a few rounds. Hits, gets hits, laughs when he bleeds, and finally staggers out to enjoy the adrenaline rush of the aftermath. He’s been hit hard more than once, but nothing’s broken and the bruises will fade when they’re ready.
His grin is wide and jagged. But friendly, despite the severity of it. The scars conspire to make him look intense even when he’s laughing, as he is now. ]
Terrence Ephemera/Sharkface | Red vs. Blue
[ For lack of a better idea, Sharkface is drawing. A pen and notebook were provided when he asked, which might have been kind except that his armor is nowhere to be seen and they’ve taken his guns too. Now there’s nothing but him, his borrowed clothes, and his goddamn scars to glare out at anyone who comes too close. He thought about making a fuss before he realized there wasn’t much point in it and he’s come to something like a reckoning.
This is happening. This will be endured. He’s patient. He’s survived worse.
In the meantime, he’s sitting at a card table and sketching. Faces, mostly. The Displaced. What a name. ]
Heard they banned cigarettes in these parts. ‘
[ He glances from his work briefly. ]
You fucking believe that?
[ God, he could use a cigarette. ]
Food Carts
[ Even under the circumstances, Sharkface isn’t one to turn down real food. All around him are people digging into fried or battered monstrosities, powdered sugar all over their hands and clothes. It’s loud and messy and full of life. And even though he’s out of armor and far from home - or at least recognizable terrain - he likes the noise of it all. A little bit of chaos.
Anything’s better than prison, at this point. Or the humiliation of failing yet again to fulfill his promises.
He’s chewing on something sweet, getting sugar all over his hands. It’s probably rotting his teeth and he loves it. Likes that he can walk around in a crowd - not entirely unnoticed, with a face like his - but without people stopping him. There’s no need for violence to get where he’s going, which is novel and almost pleasant. ]
This happen often?
[ He’s leaning against a wall, watching the crowd. He’s got a hood up, covering the worst of his scars, but there’s no hiding the plasma burns or his bad eye. ]
It’s nice.
Fight Club
[ It’s nice, knowing that brutal, bareknuckle violence is a constant across the galaxy. A sort of mediating force. Look, we really are all the same deep down. Let’s put money on this guy beating the shit out of that guy.
Makes things easy.
He fights a few rounds. Hits, gets hits, laughs when he bleeds, and finally staggers out to enjoy the adrenaline rush of the aftermath. He’s been hit hard more than once, but nothing’s broken and the bruises will fade when they’re ready.
His grin is wide and jagged. But friendly, despite the severity of it. The scars conspire to make him look intense even when he’s laughing, as he is now. ]
That was fucking awesome. You gonna fight too?
Wildcard
[ Hit me! ]