[Mitchell stops the skittering case with the side of his boot. It's more instinct than any real attempt to help, or at least, that's what initially moves him. He'd have been more coordinated last month, maybe he'd have trapped the case under the sole of the boot instead, like a cool guy, and then picked it up, or at least kicked it gently back toward this kid--
Or maybe he'd have crushed the case, because he was a lot closer to typical vampire arsehole last jump. Not that he's exactly over that condition right now. It's still in him, lurking, the way it arguably always is--but close to the surface, threatening to wrench out of him. He needs to go and find Annie and George, now, or at least go back to the room to wait for them--he should have arranged some escort or something, someone to conduct him between grav couch and the chair that awaits him--he should never have given himself the chance to move among the human population of the ship, smelling their blood, listening to the steady beating of their hearts--]
Here.
[He mumbles the word, as he makes to kick the case back toward this panicked kid--but just as he's about to complete the movement, Mitchell looks up. The slack and tired expression on his face ripples, growing sharper and narrower. No heartbeat. No pulse. No blood. No real smell, no more than a flat registration on his senses--like the way a taxidermy museum might smell, with just a hint of old blood.
And white eyes. He's staring, he knows he is, but he's too numb from the stress of his own fucking problems to curb that rudeness.
Dead. This kid is dead, but he's not a vampire, and he's not a ghost. It's not the first time Mitchell's come face-to-face with something he didn't know about, aboard the Tranquility, but he can't work himself around to do more than stare and, after a second, murmur, dazedly--]
j/k lockers!!!! one dead guy to another for now
Or maybe he'd have crushed the case, because he was a lot closer to typical vampire arsehole last jump. Not that he's exactly over that condition right now. It's still in him, lurking, the way it arguably always is--but close to the surface, threatening to wrench out of him. He needs to go and find Annie and George, now, or at least go back to the room to wait for them--he should have arranged some escort or something, someone to conduct him between grav couch and the chair that awaits him--he should never have given himself the chance to move among the human population of the ship, smelling their blood, listening to the steady beating of their hearts--]
Here.
[He mumbles the word, as he makes to kick the case back toward this panicked kid--but just as he's about to complete the movement, Mitchell looks up. The slack and tired expression on his face ripples, growing sharper and narrower. No heartbeat. No pulse. No blood. No real smell, no more than a flat registration on his senses--like the way a taxidermy museum might smell, with just a hint of old blood.
And white eyes. He's staring, he knows he is, but he's too numb from the stress of his own fucking problems to curb that rudeness.
Dead. This kid is dead, but he's not a vampire, and he's not a ghost. It's not the first time Mitchell's come face-to-face with something he didn't know about, aboard the Tranquility, but he can't work himself around to do more than stare and, after a second, murmur, dazedly--]
Jesus.