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thisavrou_log2016-07-27 02:40 am
neveroutwrenched) wrote in thisavrou_log2016-07-27 02:40 am
Entry tags:
JULY OTA
Who: Ratchet and OPEN
When: Backdated Early and mid-July
Where: Ex-Bar and Medical
What: Ratchet has a sad (in every sense) funeral for Sans, later ends up in medical, probably for something stupid
Warnings: None atm
07.04. JUST EAT THE SAND.
Where the Bar Used to Be
Ratchet was sick of people dying.
He was sick of people dying, or disappearing, or just...well, it didn’t matter why or how. They were gone.
Maybe that was selfish. He’s not the one who had died, after all. He still had his life, and the chance to live and make things better. To do something with that. But it just made him feel guilty. He kept surviving these stupid, pointless disasters. Shitty, preventable, unnecessary events that killed people - innocent people - and either sent them away for good, or cycled them back around to die again. And again.
Ratchet’s kneeling in the place that used to be the bar. He’s pretty sure anyway. The maps on the MID were all out of alignment, the universe shift had distorted the ship, changed it, moved rooms, created others. As far as Ratchet could tell, this was where the bar had been. And it’s where Sans had spent a lot of time.
Kneeling on the ground in this alien room with it’s colored glass, looking nothing like the place it used to be, Ratchet’s not sure this is the right way to do this. He was worried about this, when Sans had taught him. Scared he wouldn’t be able to do it right.
He looks down at the bucket. A plastic sand pail left over from a few pit stops prior. It’s bright orange, and shaped so that if you flipped it upside down you could make a castle from it, complete with turrets. It’s probably not the best thing you could put someone’s earthly remains in, but it’s what he could find in such short notice. Sans probably would have gotten a kick out of it.
He brought some things of Sans’. It was supposed to be things Sans loved but...that was a pretty short list. There was a bottle of ketchup, a book of jokes he’d taken from the library - not really Sans’ but representative of something Sans cared about, right? - a pillow, the only part of Ratchet’s bed he could find after the dimension shift had ripped his room apart. It was probably kind of weird, but Sans probably loved that bed more than Ratchet did. Always telling him how perfectly broken in for naps he’d made it.
Part of Papyrus’ uniform, taken from the last same place Ratchet had learned how to do this in the first place.
There’s a bottle of bourbon next to him. Another scavenged remnant from Ratchet’s room, and an ironic one. The same half-drunk bottle Sans had originally brought him to apologize with, saved up for a rainy day. But that’s for him. Mostly.
“Sorry if I’m doing this wrong, buddy. Told you I was never real good at this kind of thing.”
He pours out a shot’s worth of the bourbon, directly onto some of the dust that’s already on the ground, before taking a drink from the bottle himself. He’s not really paying any attention to whether anyone is coming in or not, seeming absorbed in the process.
[Alternatively, Ratchet will probably wander with his bucket of skeleton dirt elsewhere on the ship, so feel free to run into somewhere else you think might be prime for a weird funeral dusting! Or a terrible place, your call.]
07.10. BUT NO, REALLY. DON'T EAT THE SAND.
Medbay
Ratchet never went to the medbay willingly.
Which is why it’s so surprising when he wakes up there. It’s disorienting; having never spent any actual time there, the bed feels strange and unfamiliar, the smells strange, the harsh lights even stranger.
Ratchet sits up abruptly, startled by his own inability to remember what had happened. The last thing he could remember the ship was still swarming with Caducans, and he was...he was, what? He wasn’t fighting them. He didn’t want to fight them.
“Crap- “ He winces, hand at his side, his ribs aching from some injury he didn’t remember getting. Not completely anyway.
When: Backdated Early and mid-July
Where: Ex-Bar and Medical
What: Ratchet has a sad (in every sense) funeral for Sans, later ends up in medical, probably for something stupid
Warnings: None atm
07.04. JUST EAT THE SAND.
Where the Bar Used to Be
Ratchet was sick of people dying.
He was sick of people dying, or disappearing, or just...well, it didn’t matter why or how. They were gone.
Maybe that was selfish. He’s not the one who had died, after all. He still had his life, and the chance to live and make things better. To do something with that. But it just made him feel guilty. He kept surviving these stupid, pointless disasters. Shitty, preventable, unnecessary events that killed people - innocent people - and either sent them away for good, or cycled them back around to die again. And again.
Ratchet’s kneeling in the place that used to be the bar. He’s pretty sure anyway. The maps on the MID were all out of alignment, the universe shift had distorted the ship, changed it, moved rooms, created others. As far as Ratchet could tell, this was where the bar had been. And it’s where Sans had spent a lot of time.
Kneeling on the ground in this alien room with it’s colored glass, looking nothing like the place it used to be, Ratchet’s not sure this is the right way to do this. He was worried about this, when Sans had taught him. Scared he wouldn’t be able to do it right.
He looks down at the bucket. A plastic sand pail left over from a few pit stops prior. It’s bright orange, and shaped so that if you flipped it upside down you could make a castle from it, complete with turrets. It’s probably not the best thing you could put someone’s earthly remains in, but it’s what he could find in such short notice. Sans probably would have gotten a kick out of it.
He brought some things of Sans’. It was supposed to be things Sans loved but...that was a pretty short list. There was a bottle of ketchup, a book of jokes he’d taken from the library - not really Sans’ but representative of something Sans cared about, right? - a pillow, the only part of Ratchet’s bed he could find after the dimension shift had ripped his room apart. It was probably kind of weird, but Sans probably loved that bed more than Ratchet did. Always telling him how perfectly broken in for naps he’d made it.
Part of Papyrus’ uniform, taken from the last same place Ratchet had learned how to do this in the first place.
There’s a bottle of bourbon next to him. Another scavenged remnant from Ratchet’s room, and an ironic one. The same half-drunk bottle Sans had originally brought him to apologize with, saved up for a rainy day. But that’s for him. Mostly.
“Sorry if I’m doing this wrong, buddy. Told you I was never real good at this kind of thing.”
He pours out a shot’s worth of the bourbon, directly onto some of the dust that’s already on the ground, before taking a drink from the bottle himself. He’s not really paying any attention to whether anyone is coming in or not, seeming absorbed in the process.
[Alternatively, Ratchet will probably wander with his bucket of skeleton dirt elsewhere on the ship, so feel free to run into somewhere else you think might be prime for a weird funeral dusting! Or a terrible place, your call.]
07.10. BUT NO, REALLY. DON'T EAT THE SAND.
Medbay
Ratchet never went to the medbay willingly.
Which is why it’s so surprising when he wakes up there. It’s disorienting; having never spent any actual time there, the bed feels strange and unfamiliar, the smells strange, the harsh lights even stranger.
Ratchet sits up abruptly, startled by his own inability to remember what had happened. The last thing he could remember the ship was still swarming with Caducans, and he was...he was, what? He wasn’t fighting them. He didn’t want to fight them.
“Crap- “ He winces, hand at his side, his ribs aching from some injury he didn’t remember getting. Not completely anyway.