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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
So this guy basically giving them a free period is suddenly his favorite person.
He lingers awkwardly for a moment, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Is this a joke or a trick or what, etc. But the dude just takes a seat and chills and eventually everyone drifts off to do their own things. Cool. He briefly considers doing the same, just sitting in a corner somewhere and maybe fucking around on the network or something until they're allowed to leave.
What he actually ends up doing is appoaching the stack of mats, looking up to eye their amazing training curiously, and then casually floating up to hover at eye level.]
Not that I'm gonna fault anyone for not giving a shit about any of this, but like...for real?
[It still feels like a trick somehow. Like he's gonna ease up a little and then immediately get a kick in the ass for being stupid enough to let his guard down.]
no subject
I don't know about you but my patience when it comes to firmly planting my lips on someone's arse for my bread and butter, well, it fucks off juuuust shy of being tolerant of de facto slavery.
[He settles in back to read again.]
There are a lot of people on the rig hacked off about it, but due to certain involuntary contingencies, I've just got a bit more leeway in expressing my respectful displeasure.
no subject
Caution overrides, though.]
Aren't there cameras in here or something? We're just supposed to buy that a disinterested trainer means we're all totally off the hook? There isn't some other staffer somewhere peepin' this scene about to bust in and put us all right back on said hook with a few motivational zaps?
no subject
One of the people with a little more...insight on the IT situation likes to complain very loudly where many others can hear. They're real bad about forgetting the low-level wage slaves have ears.
And that they exist.
[He turns a page.]
And if someone comes in, I'll pop up and start yelling about laps and act like I'm gathering you back up from floor exercises for more useless screaming. If this group can't be fast on their feet and pretend to be busy when some security prick comes in, they'd better learn how to be faster right quick.
[He briefly raises his eyebrows.]
I've been out there. Was out there when the bombs hit.
[He doesn't elaborate any farther or look away from his comic.]
You're going to have to be fast on your feet in the field. Best learn now by dodging the wag man.
no subject
[Dave's eyebrows raise as well, arching just up above the shades. If true, that's good news. He seems to consider it for a moment before shrugging, drifting to the side a bit, and alighting on the mat stack to sit a few feet away.]
You don't gotta tell me this shit. I'm already the fastest fucker this side of the goddamn void. Don't need motivation in the form of Sargeant Spittle yelling in my face or some tool with a shock button.
no subject
[He nods at Dave where he sits.]
What's your name? I'm Lubitsch.
[He leans over and holds out his hand to shake Dave's.]
no subject
[He mirrors the nod, chill as can be, and shakes the offered hand like a normal human who has definitely greeted people via handshakes plenty of times.]
I'm Dave.
no subject
Yeah, I know, it's perfect, isn't it?
[He says it with the brightness of someone almost finding names to be a novelty.]
[He looks back at the group, brows knitting.]
You lot might actually have a chance out there, you know. But it's in here that it's a little more difficult to navigate.
no subject
[Does that German-sounding shit mean something he doesn't know of, or is the guy agreeing with the bitch part? Who knows. Dave makes like Elsa and just lets that one go.
He follows the gaze, his own stare safely hidden by tinted plastic. Honestly? He does like a lot of these random people quite a bit. And even the ones he's not especially fond of, well, he still wouldn't wish this situation on anyone. He nods again almost absently.]
Yeah, 'm picking up on that. Any idea how long until we can get out there? I'm kind of dying for an apocalyptic wasteland at this point. Just fuckin' slam dunk my corpse into a pit out there somewhere and call it a funeral, we'll have a whole goddamn corpse pasty to celebrate our escape from corporate hell.
no subject
Could be years. Maybe not decades, with how little civilization is left, but "years" is in the cards.
[His brows furrow even more.]
And all that time you'll have to survive whatever the fuck they throw you at.
Which isn't easy out there, trust me. You might live, but getting through all alive and unchanged...
[He adds brightly:]
Or they could be lying about everything and plan to do terrible things to you when it's over in the name of societal progress. ET in the ice cream cooler, to see if something about you can be used.
They do love their double-speak - and bald-faced lies.
[He's not going to sugar coat it. They deserve better than that.]
no subject
That's bleak. And also not exactly what I was asking. I meant more immediately, like "hey so when exactly can we expect a break from this shit in the form of a deadly jaunt into the mindfuck wilderness to pick up milk or whatever for some pencilneck." But hey, good to know the longterm future also looks terrible.
[It's potentially kind of amazing how flippant he can manage to sound about all this.]
no subject
But if you mean missions, back when I was in more of a field capacity, so to speak, the average was every few weeks when the rig hit a rough patch. But back then, the weird dimension-ey thing hadn't started to happen. No idea how that'll effect things. I'm what you might call a rehire.
Attacks by your garden variety monstrosity happened more often, anywhere from every few days to every few weeks. But it could be as frequent as every other day during a particularly hellish week.