Dexter Grif (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
demotivation) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tosbox2014-11-19 12:25 am
demotivation) wrote in tosbox2014-11-19 12:25 am
Entry tags:
just need to try.
["We're really all that made it?"
The question echoes through Grif's head, bouncing around the walls of his skull. No matter how much food he stuffs into his body, the ringing of those words continues, filling him up with something much worse than plaque in his arteries. Even if the others are alive, he's not sure how long that will last, or how long they will last. The uncertainty of their fate - of everyone's fate - has never sat particularly well with Grif-- it rolls around in his stomach like cold leftovers. But not seeing them, losing all contact, is a severed link he's not prepared for.
Top that off the the responsibility of leading and Grif feels like he's going to be sick.
Their quarters are small and hardly private, but at least they're separated by team color, and that adds some familiarity to this whole mess. They're supposed to meet the new recruits tomorrow; Kimball let them off for the rest of the day so they can recover. Not that Grif can see that happening any time soon.
He barely makes it to his cot before he rubs a hand over the front of his helmet.]
Simmons, I swear to christ, this better be a dream. Make that a nightmare, goddammit, so wake me up already!
The question echoes through Grif's head, bouncing around the walls of his skull. No matter how much food he stuffs into his body, the ringing of those words continues, filling him up with something much worse than plaque in his arteries. Even if the others are alive, he's not sure how long that will last, or how long they will last. The uncertainty of their fate - of everyone's fate - has never sat particularly well with Grif-- it rolls around in his stomach like cold leftovers. But not seeing them, losing all contact, is a severed link he's not prepared for.
Top that off the the responsibility of leading and Grif feels like he's going to be sick.
Their quarters are small and hardly private, but at least they're separated by team color, and that adds some familiarity to this whole mess. They're supposed to meet the new recruits tomorrow; Kimball let them off for the rest of the day so they can recover. Not that Grif can see that happening any time soon.
He barely makes it to his cot before he rubs a hand over the front of his helmet.]
Simmons, I swear to christ, this better be a dream. Make that a nightmare, goddammit, so wake me up already!
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Regardless, Simmons shoots him one last suspicious look before stretching his arms and then holding out his hands in a similar manner. ]
Not even going to ask why you thought of this. [ Though he can't go look for silly road signs now, and the terrible super powers one is something he'd easily win. (So he thinks). ] Ready?
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[The ridiculousness of his game suggestion is just plain genius at this point. A stupid, pointless, mindless competition is just what they need to get their minds off the more taxing stuff. Of course.
Grif's reflexes are pretty good, though his ability to concentrate is not quite up to par. He can maintain speed, but keeping count of how many claps he needs to give is kind of up in the air.
When he messes up, he swats at Simmons's hands.]
Hey, that was definitely five, not four!
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[ He can excel at keeping track of which one they're on... but the next time is his fault, completely missing Grif's hand and freezing. ]
You were supposed to be over here!
[ Not admitting to his own bullshit... what a good player. ]
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[He slaps at Simmons' hovering hand for good measure.
It's... calming, maybe, sort of, to maintain some sort of consistent physical contact with someone. Maybe Simmons especially. To make sure he's still there, that bad circumstances and luck that's finally run out hasn't gone and stolen him too.
Another slap aimed at Simmons' palm. Then he goes for Simmons' wrist, aiming to pull up his hand and pretend to examine it closely.]
How am I supposed to trust you to aim a gun if you can't even hit my hand? Christ.
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[ Ughhhh okay, he'll drop it because right now of all times is not a time he wants to spend rebutting all of Grif's (obviously wrong) comments, opting to glare at Grif as he inspects his hand. He's still, except for the eyebrow he's raising. ]
My shooting is fine. Didn't you see me with that rocket launcher?
[ Not the one with heat seeking that one didn't do any good. And maybe not the one the Meta cut in half. ]
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[Grif isn't really one to talk, either, but he'll keep going because that's all he really knows how to do at this point.
Frowning, he squeezes the middle of Simmons' palm with his thumb. Both their hands are rough, worn despite the layers of armour they so often wear. Just as he starts to trace the lines of Simmons' skin, Grif sighs and lets go.]
What about Red Hands? Kinda fitting, huh?
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When he gets his hand back, he squeezes it before rubbing it over his thigh; the sensation doesn't wear off like he figures it should. ]
Hm? Red hands... [ Sarge would like that, just for the name. ] Oh, thaaaaaaat one. Yeah, I guess.
[ He doesn't know how to play. ]
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[In a game of petty endurance, Grif isn't sure which of them would be more stubborn, if he's honest.]
If you can't even get Slide right, you'd definitely lose Red Hands.
[Hasn't picked up the fact that Simmons doesn't know. He figures his teammate is reluctant because he's a bitch who doesn't want to have his knuckles slapped around.]
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[ He's giving him an indignant huff, and then holding out his hands.
The wrong way. ]
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Dude, what the hell are you doing?
[He's about to nudge Simmons' hands into the proper position before he smirks.]
Oh my god, you don't know how to play, do you?
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dklfnmk omg
[The fist pretty much does it. He reaches out to slap the top of Simmons' hand just because.]
Red Hands is a game where you slap the top of the other player's hands until you miss. Then you switch and play until someone pussies out. There aren't any fists involved. Unless you're really itching to punch me in the face, in which case I gotta say, I didn't think you had the balls to do.
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[ As if he fucking knew them to begin with. Master bullshitter, Richard "Dick" Simmons. He almost believes it himself. ]
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[He leans back, weight resting on one leg.] Don't strain your brain too much. Maybe we oughta call it a night.
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