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Who: Jesse Pinkman & Ronan Lynch; Jesse Pinkman & Joseph Kavinsky; Jesse Pinkman & Noah Czerny; Jesse Pinkman & Andyr Prince. (Will set up more starters if anyone wants one!)
When: Post-Moira crash into the Midway Hub
Where: Around the camp set up
What: #justpostwhatthefuckthings
Note: Warnings for swearing and other stuff I'll edit in if necessary. If anyone wants to do post-crash things with Jesse, shoot me a PM and I'll toss up a starter for you!

☲ closed to ronan

[ One of the things Jesse managed to salvage of his own belongings from the Moira was the tent he'd received upon being promoted to Tiruncula rank a month or so ago. It's pitched shoddily among other crew members' tents pitched nearby, a slipshod effort on Jesse's part with how little he really knows about camping. Not that it matters, not that Jesse even cares. Hours have blurred on by since the ship went down, and Jesse has steadily descended from blind adrenalised terror into a state of shock-induced apathy; all the horrific things he's seen has anesthesised him into an eerily indifferent calmness.

Sitting crosslegged just outside his tent, there's a cigarette dangling between his lips, smoke drifting up from the lit end, while he's washing his hands in a dented camping saucepan of water that he'd managed to acquire. Barefoot and dressed in just his filthy jeans, his equally filthy blood-caked t-shirt is lying in a heap beside him. The water is cold, shocking against his skin; goosebumps rise across his arms and chest as he scrubs water up along his forearm, washing away dirt and dried blood as best he can with what little water he has available to him. He focuses on the task like he hasn't got a care in the world, like nothing horrific or traumatising has taken place.

Realising someone is approaching him, slowing down in front of him, Jesse glances up with a puff on his cigarette. It's Ronan. Smoke billows from around the cigarette pursed between his lips as Jesse peers up at Ronan with a look that's full of acknowledgement, yet unreactive; that same eerily indifferent calmness. Turning his attention back down to what he's doing, he remarks around his cigarette with a curt casualness that's entirely out of place with the whole situation: ]

'Sup?

☲ closed to kavinsky

[ On the very outskirts of the makeshift camp set up by all the crew, away from the bustle of crew members and the grim reminders of everything that led up to the ship crashing, Jesse loiters in near darkness, smoking one of his last cigarettes. The only light thrown on him comes from the camp itself, dim and indistinct; the tip of his cigarette glows red and bright in the murky shadows with each drag.

That shock-induced apathy hasn't really lifted. As he stands on the edge of the camp, he watches the camp from this safe distance with an impassive casualness. Disconnected from it all, like a spectator to a situation that he's watching on a screen rather than a part of. That's not to say there isn't an endless hum of trembling anxiety trapped beneath the surface, waiting to tear through his bubble of indifference; that's not to say that his hands aren't constantly sweaty, or that his heart isn't constantly racing. But he seems disconnected even from that.

He stands slouched on the spot, hand shoved in his pocket, other hand bringing his cigarette up for a drag and then dropping away to his side with a flick of ash. It's like he's standing on a street corner and not on the edge of a camp that's stranded on a planet on the edge of the universe. However, a noise nearby has Jesse snapping his head towards it, eyes suddenly alert and sharp. He exhales a plume of smoke, shoulders tensing up while he peers into the darkness. Another noise, like a twig snapping under someone's shoe. ]

...Hey, who the fuck's there, yo?

☲ closed to andyr

[ A few days have passed since the crash, in whatever way that "days" can be defined on this alien planet. Where Jesse, during the first couple of days, had been eerily apathetic in the face of so much trauma and terror, that shock has been slowly subsiding, giving way to a benumbed yet anxious helplessness rotting away inside of him. The only thing for it has been to keep busy, and god knows there's plenty to do. Not that Jesse is skilled in any of the areas needed most, but if Mr. White taught him anything outside of manufacturing meth and applying himself, it's taking inventory.

So, that's what he's been doing: throwing himself into the task when and where he's needed. Taking stock of the supplies salvaged by noting each item down on a clipboard, and moving said supplies to designated inventory areas. He's an exhausted wreck, having barely slept, barely eaten, but keeping busy keeps the churning storm of helpless panic all knotted up inside him contained.

It's when the stocktaking hits a lull in productivity, while those in charge work out how to inventory new supplies recovered from the Moira, that Jesse, bitten with a desperate nicotine craving, heads through the makeshift camp to find a secluded spot. He hovers near the edge of a cluster of tents, cigarette pursed between his lips and lighter igniting the tip, and it's when he draws in a deep, grateful hit of cigarette smoke that his eyes land on a familiar face. Andyr, sitting alone. A face Jesse hasn't been able to forget. Unspeakable horrors he hasn't been able to forget. Jesse hangs back, loitering in the dim shadows, wondering if he ought to approach the guy at all. And then, eventually, he hesitantly starts towards Andyr. ]

Hey, man.

[ An equally hesitant greeting as he comes to a stop at a respectful distance from Andyr. ]

☲ closed to j

[ It's late, dark. Half the camp is asleep, or at least trying to sleep, in their cramped little tents and makeshift shelter fashioned out of salvageable materials from the Moira. Jesse isn't asleep, though. Sitting outside his tent, he's chewing on his fingernails anxiously in between taking drags of his cigarette, looking this way and that. Seeming to be looking out for someone. That someone being Daisy. He hasn't seen her and he doesn't know where she is, and he can't seem to contact her over the MID. He's worried. She knows where his tent is, though, having camped with him in it the first night of the crash. It's why he's sitting here waiting for her, looking out for her: maybe she'll show up.

As he takes another edgy drag of his almost-finished smoke, everything about him seeming restless and fidgety even though he's sitting still, he throws a glance the other way and spots J up ahead. Heading towards him, it would seem. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Only the best for K.

[Not that it's particularly difficult for a dreamer with any amount of control to create a substance that suits his exact needs. Ronan, if he weren't infected and if he felt so inclined, might be able to create an even better drug. Maybe he will, once Kavinsky's finished working on him.

For now, he'll make do with stolen goods. Drawing a knife out of his jacket pocket, Ronan scoops a decent pile of coke onto its sharp tip and brings it to his nostril, inhaling with perfectly dangerous grace. His eyelashes flutter pleasurably as he lowers the knife, his body coming to life after heavy sedation.]

[ Meanwhile, the rush is well and surely kicking in. There's a ceaselessly trembling anxiety trapped underneath it all, but the rush of dopamine firing through his synapses is overriding that. Jesse feels amped. It feels good, so fucking good; it feels amazing to feel good for once in his whole miserable existence since the Ingress pulled him in. So, while Ronan is taking a bump, Jesse is punching his fists into the air as if in victory, in a burst of energy that just has to be expelled, and declaring in a shout at nobody and nothing in particular: ]

Yeah, bitch!

Edited 2016-11-30 00:07 (UTC)

[Ronan's high is subtler than Jesse's. He remains perched on that rock, a devious smile playing on his lips as electricity surges through his nerves. The knife returns to his nose for a second hit before Ronan sets the bag down beside him. He's been holding onto a lot of things very tightly for several weeks now, and all of those concerns dissolve in an instant. This is how it is to be Kavinsky, only Kavinsky's permanently in this state, and Ronan's only visiting.

Knife blade resting with the broad side against his thigh, Ronan turns his eyes skyward. There is a part of him that feels like he could leap up and take flight like Chainsaw. This is very unlike the part of him that feels as if it's been seeping into the soil since he left his world.]

[ Both Jesse's hands come up to push through his hair, head falling back with his eyes shut like he's basking in the high. ]

Ah, shit, man. This shit is the bomb, yo. Feels like I'm just gonna... Take off or something. Shoot out into space. Become a space pirate. Fight some space ninjas or something. Forget about all this shit. Fuck this place, man. Fuck the ship. Fuck everything.

[ He doesn't need to say what "everything" is. The timeslip. The monsters that are now congealed in his nightmares probably for months to come. How scared he is. Fuck all of it. He's still riding the initial rush of those first two bumps; everything that babbles out of his mouth is stated with conviction. Relieved, elated conviction even despite everything, because the coke has made him feel like the weight of it all has lifted off his shoulders. Maybe he could just keep getting high, and higher, and higher, and never return. He wants to hold onto this feeling forever.

Jesse drops his hands from his hair and faces Ronan, hungry for another bump. Just one more, he tells himself, and then maybe just one more after that. That's the thing with cocaine: you feel like a new guy when you snort a line of blow. Except that new guy wants to snort a line, too. ]

[Jesse is free to enjoy all the cocaine he wants. He's an experienced user, Ronan assumes. And anyway, Ronan can't be bothered to worry about him right now. He's caught up in his own godliness, vibrating internally with what feels like the energy of the stars above. His heartbeat feels like a pulsar. He is a living piece of the universe. He wants to set something on fire.]

Macte nova virtute, puer: sic itur ad astra, dis genite et geniture deos.

[He brings the knife blade to his mouth, licking off what's left of the cocaine powder.]

[ Jesse drops his hands from his hair and lowers his head to look straight at Ronan. ]

...Yeah. [ An utterly sarcastic, mock agreeing "yeah" as Jesse starts towards the baggy of coke. He may sound utterly sarcastic, but it's in complete jest. Ronan probably said something deep and meaningful, and here's Jesse, completely clueless as to what it was. So, what's he gonna do, especially while giddily high on blow? And only going to get higher? Be a smartass. In jest, of course. ] Totally. Yeah, that's totally what I was thinking. It's like you read my mind.

[ A hand coming up to stab at his temple with two fingers, then shooting back out in the gesture of an explosion, making an explosion noise with his mouth along with it: mind blown, yo. Except he didn't fucking understand a word you said, bro. He picks up the 8 ball and pries the bag open, adding mock conversationally: ] Carpe Ronan dickius suckius maximus Caesar salad something-something. [ He turns an equally mock heartfelt look up at Ronan. ] It's like you're on my level, yo.

[The blade grazes Ronan's lip as he pulls it from his mouth, drawing blood, but he doesn't notice. He turns his eyes to Jesse, staring up at him from his comfortable perch. The flat side of the blade comes to rest against Ronan's cheek, cradling it as he considers Jesse.]

Don't pretend you're stupid.

[ Jesse has looked back down to level out another generous bump onto the crook of his hand, so he doesn't see Ronan cut himself at first. Too focused on getting another hit in. He does, however, glance at Ronan at what he says. Which... Jesse isn't sure how to respond to because he is stupid. He's told all the time he's stupid. And so he plays it off with a "whatever, bro" shrug as he looks back down to his prepped bump. ]

Well, it ain't like I speak Latin. Pig Latin, maybe. From, like, when I was a dumbass kid and thought Pig Latin made you super cool and made you sound super smart. And I'd, like, piss the teachers off in class by only answering them in Pig Latin and shit.

[ The coke has got him all talkative. Lifting his hand up to his nose and closing off one nostril. A big, sharp snort that's instantly followed up with another big snort to get the backdrip down his throat, and then an almost orgasmic noise as the blissful rush slams into him. ]

You could learn Latin if you wanted to. You just don't want to. It's different from being stupid.

[Ronan finally notices the blood beading on his cut, and he runs his tongue over his lower lip to lick it away. Deftly, he pockets the knife then he hops off his perch and onto his feet. The sudden movement gives his a rush, and he stretches his arms toward the sky like wings.]

It's from the Aeneid. It's about achieving greatness through confidence, manifesting triumph not just because it's your destiny but because you fucking believed you could do it. No one can kick ass until they believe they can kick ass.

So. [ A pause to sniff again as Jesse wipes his nose. ] You're sayin' I just gotta believe I can take off and get the fuck outta here and become a space pirate. And then it'll happen.

[ A skeptical look thrown at Ronan that's verging on comical. Okay, but he's just being an obnoxious smartass because coke has a way of bringing that side out in Jesse.

Fine, he'll bite, though. He looks down, sealing up the coke bag for now, even though he'll probably have it open again in ten minutes. He sets it down next to Ronan, then he's reaching into his pocket for his smokes. He turns and leans back against the rock behind them. ]

Look, I'm only kick ass at one thing, okay? And it ain't books, and it ain't Latin. It ain't anything to do with book smarts or any of that stuff. [ Ticking all three of those things off on one hand to make his point. ] But I know I'm good at what I'm good at because someone else believed in me. I didn't believe in me. I mean... [ Pausing a second to think back on his Cap'n Cook days. ] Okay, yeah, I mean, at first I did, but then Mr. White came along and he...

[ He trails off. God, fuck. Rambling. Fucking rambling. He can talk so fucking much on coke without thinking, especially when he's wound up and brimming with nervous energy. He pushes a hand through his hair. Then he's throwing that hand out at Ronan as he changes tack: ]

Look, I don't know why it matters, yo. Why does it matter? Who cares if I'm a dumbass?

[Ronan's expression darkens at the mention of this Mr. White person, and he slowly lowers his arms. He remembers what Jesse said a thousand years ago - or was that a few days ago? - and the injuries that bloomed and disappeared across his face.]

I fucking hate lies.

[Ronan kicks at the boulder to emphasize that point.]

Especially the ones people tell themselves.

[He leans closer to Jesse, his long body giving the distinct impression of looming. His hand comes to rest on Jesse's shoulder in aggressive assurance.]

No one else can build you up. Only you can do that. And when you've done it, no one else can tear you down. They won't know how.

[ Jesse should have known by the dark look that had descended onto Ronan's face that something was about to happen. The sudden kick to the rock startles Jesse. Lies? What lies? If anything, Jesse has to been too honest.

The bump in confidence the cocaine has given Jesse has him standing his ground rather than shrinking away from Ronan for once as he looms in, even if he tenses up at the unexpected clamp of Ronan's hand on his shoulder. ]

Jesus, Tony Robbins, take a chill pill. Nobody's lying about anything, yo, alright?

[Considering the fact that Ronan just inhaled the literal opposite of a chill pill, Jesse may be expecting too much. But Ronan does realize, upon catching the tension in Jesse's body, that he might be coming on a bit strong right now. He lifts his hand and pats Jesse's shoulder more gently, then backs off and takes to kicking at the dirt out of boredom.]

Is there anything left to wreck around here, or was everything destroyed already? I wanna end something on a Pompeii level. Fire, brimstone, ashes. Do you think I could make a volcano?

[ Jesse watches Ronan as he's patted on the shoulder. What the hell had that been all that about? Ronan had looked like he was about to go postal on Jesse's ass, while giving him some a pep talk at the same time? It was almost like he cared. Or something.

Amped up, fidgety, brimming with energy, Jesse pushes away from the rock while pinching his cigarette between his lips and fishing his lighter out of his pocket with his other hand. He snaps it alight and lights the tip while Ronan goes on to say about wanting to set fire to something. ]

Pompeii? Can you be any more of a drama queen?

[ Said dryly, but not nastily. Jesse takes a drag of his smoke and studies Ronan. Whatever it is that got Ronan pissed, Jesse knows it goes deeper than just him being pissed at whatever it was Jesse said. How deep, he doesn't have a clue, but all the shit that went down on the ship is undoubtedly part of it.

Stooping down to grab up the flashlight and the 8 ball, he motions at Ronan with a jerk of his head for them to head off. ]

C'mon. Bound to be somewhere we can fuck shit up. [ We. Because Jesse wouldn't mind wrecking something, too. Just for the hell of it. The thrill of it. The release of it. Flicking the flashlight on, Jesse starts off.

Ronan's 'fire and brimstone' talk makes Jesse think of something, though. With a pull of his cigarette, Jesse glances at him. ]

Thought wrecking shit was a sin, though. Y'know, with you being Catholic and all.

So's being gay and doing drugs, yet here I am.

[Ronan doesn't seem particularly bothered by Jesse's criticism, more amused than anything else. He is a sinful creature, there's no denying that. Actually, his sins are too numerous to count, and there are probably a great many he'll die without confessing. But that's his own business.

Plucking up his beer bottle in one hand and the sack in the other, Ronan follows after Jesse.]

[ Beat Jesse to the punch. That was going to be his next remark. Waiting for Ronan to catch up with him, he falls into step alongside him, flashlight lighting the ground ahead of them. Jesse is silent for a moment, thinking it over. Picking up on Ronan's amusement, though, Jesse goes with it. ]

Yeah, well, you know what they say. Catholics are usually always the wildest buncha bitches under all that repression and guilt.

Especially the Irish ones.

[And to prove his point, Ronan tips his head back and guzzles down the rest of his beer in a single gulp, then chucks the bottle at the nearest rock. It shatters in an explosion of glass.]

[ Jesse glances up at Ronan as he chugs the beer down, and the corner of his mouth quirks in thoughtful amusement as Ronan throws the bottle. Jesse takes another drag, then gestures to Ronan and the rock with his cigarette. ]

So, how many Hail Marys is that?

[With a careless shrug:]

That's up to the priest.

How does he decide that, yo? Like, does it depend on if he's had a shitty day? Or if he just thinks you're a jerkwad? Be all like, "I'm gonna give this punk ass a hundred Hail Marys 'cause I don't like the sound of his face," while listening to you behind the screen thing.

Edited 2016-12-01 12:18 (UTC)

I'll be honest: They usually just ask me to donate money to the church. It's a hell of a lot more useful than Hail Marys.

So, you... pay for forgiveness?

[ There's a whole bunch of hooker-related smartass questions that could be asked about this, but Jesse hasn't forgotten how important faith mattered to Ronan when the timeslip was making him experience death. Not that it's faith itself that Jesse is respecting here so much as he's not about to make too much of a joke of something raw like that.

And actually, he's got a more curious question, anyway. ]

Kinda hypocritical, isn't it? Beating off to guys and putting shit in your body, yet believing in something that says you're gonna go to hell for that.

[ Asked with genuine curiosity, not with smartass attitude. ]

I don't beat off.

[Just to be clear.]

And it's not paying for forgiveness. Contrition is a two-step process. You have to feel guilt, and then you have to do something about it. In my case, money's the best thing I can offer the church as an apology for my sins.

I don't see how any of that makes me a hypocrite, though. I never said I wasn't a sinner.

[ There's only one thing Jesse has heard in that whole response.

(Actually, no, he did hear all of it. But.) ]

...You don't beat off?

[Ronan smirks at Jesse's reaction.]

That can't possibly be the weirdest thing you've learned about me.

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