piper90npcs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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goneawayworld2020-05-05 07:05 pm
piper90npcs) wrote in goneawayworld2020-05-05 07:05 pm
Entry tags:
"Training" [open]
Who: Lubitsch and anyone
What: NPC question-asking
Where: The Training Gym
When: A few days into their captivity, after the sheetcake meetup.
Warnings/Notes: cw: suicide/war violence in the thread with Saturday, forgot to put the cw: in the comment subject. Also, feel free to go with action or prose and I'll match.
[It is days before they can get Lubitsch to actually do his damn job. After one excuse after another and a faked ass injury "however can I train when I've pulled a glute?" he's finally hit the impenatrable wall of "or else," and so here he is, finally in to start picking up his schedule rotation.]
[He looks at them all, milling about the training area like a lot of superpowered arseholes and the fact that they're one thin shock collar away from tearing the walls down like tissue paper is not lost on him. It inspires the same feelings you have when seeing some majestic beast of the savanna, night-stalking terror of all that prances, in a small cage in a road-side zoo. ("And over here we have the Unfraggable Crunk, the strongest there is...and for $450 you can get a picture of him being patted on the head by your small, sticky child.")]
[Some terrible, unfunny cosmic joke, this whole thing. They should all be off in other universes fighting zombies or charming small creatures or starring in crashing, loud, summer popcorn flicks, what a fucking waste.]
[After being deposited at the door by two guards, the British soldier stomps in. He has a soldier's bearing, shoulders up, body liquid and stiff all at once. He looks like he's in his mid to late twenties, but the sour expression makes him look older. He takes on a drill sergeant's voice, in mimicry of a highly respected drill sergeant he once knew, as he yells loudly:]
Alright, you bumholes, listen up! As of this moment, the time to knit doilies and play with dollies is officially over! You thought Planker was bad? Well you're dead fucking wrong, you puke-faced, snot-nosed -
[And he goes back to the door, still shouting.]
- gurgling infants, and today is the day you maggots learn to stop dribbling all over yourselves -
[He peeps his head outside.]
- because I will beat the weakness out of - oh thank fuck, the guards are gone. [His tone immediately changes to be far more genial. Quiet. Even a little gentle, despite the salty language that follows. His shoulders relax.] And here I was worried that when I did this Jorgmund would have their hand so far up my arse it'd make a Muppet blush.
[Far calmer, far more reasonable he says:]
Seeing as they're a bunch of arseholes in a trenchcoat standing on each other's shoulders and pretending to be human, you can expect them to try to stop up every meat grinder they see with your bloody corpses, so if any of you need actual training you can't get from each other, I'm willing to do it. Black ops, firearms, melee weapons, hand to hand blah blah and fucking blah, I've done it -- during the apocalypse, I might add - and I can maybe teach it. Maybe.
Don't actually know, haven't tried, but unlike some small-dicked gorillas I don't need to name I can probably teach it with actual instructions and without screaming my head off, which is automatically a step up.
But if not, I'm going to fuck off on company time and do absolutely nothing.
[He gives them a big enthusiastic thumbs up at that, then pulls out a comic book hidden in a pocket of his black cargo pants, climbs up on some stacked gym mats, kicks up his legs, and starts reading. If any of them ask questions, he won't stop reading, but he will at least answer. And if they ask for help with training, he might actually give it. And he won't suck as bad as Planker.]
What: NPC question-asking
Where: The Training Gym
When: A few days into their captivity, after the sheetcake meetup.
Warnings/Notes: cw: suicide/war violence in the thread with Saturday, forgot to put the cw: in the comment subject. Also, feel free to go with action or prose and I'll match.
[It is days before they can get Lubitsch to actually do his damn job. After one excuse after another and a faked ass injury "however can I train when I've pulled a glute?" he's finally hit the impenatrable wall of "or else," and so here he is, finally in to start picking up his schedule rotation.]
[He looks at them all, milling about the training area like a lot of superpowered arseholes and the fact that they're one thin shock collar away from tearing the walls down like tissue paper is not lost on him. It inspires the same feelings you have when seeing some majestic beast of the savanna, night-stalking terror of all that prances, in a small cage in a road-side zoo. ("And over here we have the Unfraggable Crunk, the strongest there is...and for $450 you can get a picture of him being patted on the head by your small, sticky child.")]
[Some terrible, unfunny cosmic joke, this whole thing. They should all be off in other universes fighting zombies or charming small creatures or starring in crashing, loud, summer popcorn flicks, what a fucking waste.]
[After being deposited at the door by two guards, the British soldier stomps in. He has a soldier's bearing, shoulders up, body liquid and stiff all at once. He looks like he's in his mid to late twenties, but the sour expression makes him look older. He takes on a drill sergeant's voice, in mimicry of a highly respected drill sergeant he once knew, as he yells loudly:]
Alright, you bumholes, listen up! As of this moment, the time to knit doilies and play with dollies is officially over! You thought Planker was bad? Well you're dead fucking wrong, you puke-faced, snot-nosed -
[And he goes back to the door, still shouting.]
- gurgling infants, and today is the day you maggots learn to stop dribbling all over yourselves -
[He peeps his head outside.]
- because I will beat the weakness out of - oh thank fuck, the guards are gone. [His tone immediately changes to be far more genial. Quiet. Even a little gentle, despite the salty language that follows. His shoulders relax.] And here I was worried that when I did this Jorgmund would have their hand so far up my arse it'd make a Muppet blush.
[Far calmer, far more reasonable he says:]
Seeing as they're a bunch of arseholes in a trenchcoat standing on each other's shoulders and pretending to be human, you can expect them to try to stop up every meat grinder they see with your bloody corpses, so if any of you need actual training you can't get from each other, I'm willing to do it. Black ops, firearms, melee weapons, hand to hand blah blah and fucking blah, I've done it -- during the apocalypse, I might add - and I can maybe teach it. Maybe.
Don't actually know, haven't tried, but unlike some small-dicked gorillas I don't need to name I can probably teach it with actual instructions and without screaming my head off, which is automatically a step up.
But if not, I'm going to fuck off on company time and do absolutely nothing.
[He gives them a big enthusiastic thumbs up at that, then pulls out a comic book hidden in a pocket of his black cargo pants, climbs up on some stacked gym mats, kicks up his legs, and starts reading. If any of them ask questions, he won't stop reading, but he will at least answer. And if they ask for help with training, he might actually give it. And he won't suck as bad as Planker.]
no subject
And finding people like you, with powers and all that, all unconscious and easy to capture? They lucked out that a big Stuff storm swept you in. Ones that big don't happen often and while it's known that people get swept in from other worlds, it's usually a trickle. One person here and there and not all of them are powerful.
You're an asset. An expendable one, but they don't want to want to lose any of you unless the have to.
[As for mention of the rig in the past, his nostrils flare.]
It used to be...hope. Every leftover government, every surviving town, every business that owned heavy equipment, heaps of refugees looking for purpose...
Everyone sent every scrap, every extra bit of supplies, every piece of large machinery, joined in to help work the rig...
Jorgmund hadn't consolidated yet. The rig wasn't owned by anyone. The pencilnecks were helping run the rig but only because they were good at organizing, ordering supplies, running numbers. There used to be a different captain - a good captain, responsible, salt of the earth bloke.
He got let go when Jorgmund became Jorgmund and took over. And then things started to change. Got real corporate. Got real cold-hearted. It started off humanity's rig. Then it became Jorgmund's.
no subject
[Esplin had to worry about Yeerks becoming dissatisfied, and that had come back on him very badly, but hosts? It was easier when hosts accepted their fates, but the others were handled simply enough with restraints and drugs and food, in the case of the Taxxons. Though the Taxxons, too, had come as a surprise. Maybe it's more that Alloran has forgotten that he is able to keep secrets and act without someone knowing.]
<And I take it we don't have handlers or better monitoring because overconfidence and incompetence are old shorms, rarely seen apart.>
[He listens with great interest.]
<How long ago was that? It seems there are a lot of remnants of the old regime still here.>