Jesse Pinkman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heisenbitch) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2016-11-28 02:21 am
heisenbitch) wrote in thisavrou_log2016-11-28 02:21 am
closed
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!
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?
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?
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. ]
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. ]
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. ]
no subject
there's that weird feeling you get, when you save somebody's life a couple of times, and then encounter the possibility that they're still willing to fuck literally anybody in the entire multiverse than you.
ah well. he doesn't even bother with the question actually posed.]
Come into my parlor, said the, [he shrugs, and waves his flashlight, temporarily blinding jesse again.] You know the rest. [he then turns, infinitely unconcerned, and starts to lope back into camp, one of the larger tents posted there.]
no subject
Maybe. Possibly. Only one way to find out.
Slowly, he starts after Kavinsky, guarded and careful to keep a few paces behind. He doesn't want to get too close, doesn't want to seem to eager. He wonders, with a sick little twist of guilt, what Ronan would say right now if he knew he was doing this. Ronan had, after all, warned him about staying away from Kavinsky.
Without a word, he follows Kavinsky back to camp. ]
no subject
[it's a casual question. kavinsky doesn't even turn around or look back to ask it, still tromping ahead over the terrain, his flashlight beam weaving over the ground and the walls of other tents as he goes. as it least it leaves jesse's vision an opportunity to heal over the crazy neon lime green spots that had happened after being initially nearly half-blinded.]
Capitalistic minds wanna know.
[they come up on a big rectangular tent. or the rectangular tent, if jesse's seen ronan sneaking out before.]
no subject
I didn't suck anyone's dick, if that's what you're thinking. [ But then, after a beat: ] Mail drop. Ingress pulled in a decent haul a couple months back, left a care package outside my dorm door. Made it last best I could, but... y'know how it is.
[ The lie slips out so easily. It's not that he'd already had that lie ready to deliver; it just flashes into his mind right then and there. It's not technically a lie, either. On both counts. He most definitely received a batch of meth in the mail drop, and he most certainly didn't suck Ronan's dick for coke. The truth behind his lie is what makes it sound so convincing.
He eyes the big tent as they near it. It's a big, impressive thing next to the cramped one-man tent Jesse has pitched up further away. He hasn't seen Ronan sneaking in or out, but he knows Ronan has been lifting coke from Kavinsky. From this very tent, no doubt. ]
Kingpin palace, huh?
no subject
the wrong addict, by kavinsky's estimation, but still.
he flips the tent flap open. there's a bed inside, a monstrosity of dense padding, firm springs. it's nothing you would find at a six-star hotel in dubai, but out here, the luxury is disproportionate and ridiculous. there's even a sprawling forty-something-inch flatscreen tv somehow hitched to the fabric wall, without caving it in. perhaps better: a bottle of vodka, half-empty, sitting on the sheets.]
Lie down on the bed, [the kid says, casual about his bossiness.] Lift up your shirt. You want just coke?
no subject
What the actual fuck.
Jesse has stopped a few paces inside the entrance. He's sweeping an incredulous look at his surroundings. The luxurious mattress. The TV, which works... how? Magic dream powers or whatever? Holy shit. Hardly the Ritz, no, but still entirely over-the-top; shamelessly and obnoxiously extravagant, without any thought or regard to anyone else having to rough it in the camp. Exactly the kind of thing Jesse would have done in his Cap'n Cook days, if he'd had the power to conjure whatever his dreams desired.
He turns a quick look over at Kavinsky's command. ]
...What?
[ What's really implied in that response is, What the fuck, asshole? Why? ]
no subject
[he doesn't spell it out. he doesn't think he has to. television in his time, in jesse's time, is rife with images of people doing lines of the stomachs of hot girls. if you watch the right kind of television, anyway. and why not jesse, who's passably good-looking, has a belly that's flat enough to suffice, obviously (!!!) did some shit with ronan, and appears motivated in the interest of acquiring drugs.]
Or not blow you. I mean whatever.
[but then kavinsky pulls an eight-ball out from behind the television, where it had fit snugly in the unlikely space. safekeeping, in case ronan got too many funny ideas. safe, at least, until j decides to clean him out in a couple weeks time. beautifully white inside the plastic.]