![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
- animorphs: aximili-esgarrouth-isthill,
- archie comics: jughead jones,
- far cry: jason brody,
- far cry: vaas montenegro,
- homestuck: dave strider,
- osomatsu-san: ichimatsu matsuno,
- osomatsu-san: karamatsu matsuno,
- overwatch: reaper,
- saiyuki: son goku,
- shadowhunters: clary fray,
- voltron: allura,
- yuri!!! on ice: victor nikiforov
Already choking on my pride [OPEN]
WHO: Reaper ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hellshot and OPEN
WHERE: Within the Fleet, some automated cafeteria
WHEN: Various times within the month, whenever he needs to eat.
WHAT: Reaper needs nutrients, touchscreens aren't his friend.
WARNINGS: Possible mention of how horridly deformed he is under his mask. It's bad.
[Dark fingernails tap against the metal counter he's currently standing in front of. If he wasn't wearing a mask, it would be easy to see the look of frustration on Reaper's face with his current predicament, so for now, the only way of knowing that the ghost of a man is pissed off is the wisps of black fog escaping from under aforementioned mask.
He hadn't gone on the previous mission with Sombra, and he had no interest in rescue missions, either. Which meant he hadn't seen the field of battle in little over a month--which meant he hadn't been taking in new nutrients from his surroundings to keep his body from decaying to a point of discomfort. Which meant he had to partake in his least favourite of activities: Eating.
Eating was difficult enough when your face was barely suited for it--but when the cafeteria closest to his living quarters was a fully automated one? It was like a really bad joke. Touchscreens worked when pressure was applied with an electrical charge--human skin was a great conductor for said electrical charge. Dead flesh didn't hold any sort of charge. So this was his predicament. He couldn't eat if he couldn't get the damn screen to work.
Frustrated, Reaper finally turns his head to glare at the individual waiting for their turn after him. He hated asking for help, so instead:]
Work this damn thing for me and I'll pay for your food, too.
[He's too tired for this bullshit today.]
hellshot and OPENWHERE: Within the Fleet, some automated cafeteria
WHEN: Various times within the month, whenever he needs to eat.
WHAT: Reaper needs nutrients, touchscreens aren't his friend.
WARNINGS: Possible mention of how horridly deformed he is under his mask. It's bad.
[Dark fingernails tap against the metal counter he's currently standing in front of. If he wasn't wearing a mask, it would be easy to see the look of frustration on Reaper's face with his current predicament, so for now, the only way of knowing that the ghost of a man is pissed off is the wisps of black fog escaping from under aforementioned mask.
He hadn't gone on the previous mission with Sombra, and he had no interest in rescue missions, either. Which meant he hadn't seen the field of battle in little over a month--which meant he hadn't been taking in new nutrients from his surroundings to keep his body from decaying to a point of discomfort. Which meant he had to partake in his least favourite of activities: Eating.
Eating was difficult enough when your face was barely suited for it--but when the cafeteria closest to his living quarters was a fully automated one? It was like a really bad joke. Touchscreens worked when pressure was applied with an electrical charge--human skin was a great conductor for said electrical charge. Dead flesh didn't hold any sort of charge. So this was his predicament. He couldn't eat if he couldn't get the damn screen to work.
Frustrated, Reaper finally turns his head to glare at the individual waiting for their turn after him. He hated asking for help, so instead:]
Work this damn thing for me and I'll pay for your food, too.
[He's too tired for this bullshit today.]
no subject
[A disgraced CIA plant.]
Must have done something to get under the CIA's skin. [He's almost impressed, but he keeps from giving Jughead a compliment this time. Because he's more interested in that second bit.]
...You've got my attention. Whatever you suggest can't be worse than what I'm already bagged with. [Trust him.
A pause.]
It's Reaper. [Not 'scary tall man'.]
no subject
Well, the place has plenty of openings. Delivery man, guy who stands around and hands out fliers with the hot new burger of the day, assistant manager of standing behind the counter and growling at terrible low-level employees.
[He says all this with .0001% expectation that Reaper would actually be interested. Jughead loves burgers and even Jughead thinks working at a burger joint is mostly garbage.]
no subject
['Jughead.'
He won't be able to see Reaper's change in expression but, boy howdy is it there. You're the one from the network who called him a human knot. He doesn't forget.]
I think I'd rather be unemployed than work as a delivery man or a flier-hander. [Just. Turns his head to give the guy a LOOK, just. Look at him. Can you see this guy handing out burger fliers or deliveries? Noone would take him seriously. Ever.] At least with my current shit job, I don't have to deal with anyone.
no subject
Fair! And an advantage not often found in this job market. Treasure that solitude while you can.
[He says, fully aware that this guy has probably been Unhappy with every moment he's spent having to interact with Jughead. Which honestly makes this whole thing way better.]