((ooc: also one of the prompts involves him having trouble eating, mostly because of withdrawal symptoms, partly because goo. I wasn't sure what to call that but it gets a content warning too.))
Intro, if something here strikes you feel free to hit this up but it's mostly to set the scene.
[The only thing that gets him out of the bedroom is the pink shit. Sumo slips out of his little cot to come over to him and gets sidetracked by it, and stopping his dog from eating what could be some freaky space poison is about the only thing that could have gotten Hank up and into this brave new world they're supposed to rescue. And once he's up, he might as well wander around. That's what drives him right now; Sumo's going to need food, so he might as well hang out in the kitchen. Once he finds out Connor's looking for the ship's electricity they might as well look in the one room that's still got any. When a day passes and they still haven't found anything, Hank might as well keep at it. It's easier. He doesn't even have to decide anything. Connor's determined enough to do this that Hank can just float along in his wake, and going over the same patch of wall for the twentieth time doesn't even bother him. He might as well be doing it. It's pretty much the same thing as sitting back in his room at the temple, spending all day drinking and carving trite optimism into the walls.
Well. Not exactly the same thing. 'Good things never happen,' that was the latest one, and it actually kind of bothers him that they all got yanked here into this shit before he finished it. Now it just says 'good things never' right there on the wall next to his bed and it's going to stay like that, too real, until he gets back and finishes it. He keeps thinking about it today, staring at the same spot he's already checked and thinking of himself sitting there, getting all zen with it, taking a drink for every line he manages to carve deep enough into the stone. This is like that, mostly, minus the one thing.]
closed to Connor
[The longer the day gets the more he thinks about it, and by the time he heads off to try and get some sleep he's too keyed up to make it happen, coming back less than an hour later with a couple more goo stains, a frown, and an urge to move that won't leave him alone. His searching's a little less thorough, a little more urgent, until he falls asleep sitting against the wall for a fitful hour and a half and wakes up, mutters 'motherfucker' in a pained, cracking voice, curling over and pressing the heel of a hand to his head.]
1. goo
[The day goes on. Or maybe it's a different day; it's hard to tell, and it's honestly hard to care. When he gets sick of looking for nothing he tries to fix the leak of all the goo into those bedrooms. It's not like the bedroom goo's not edible, if they get desperate, but it's gross enough without having to scrape it off the floor.
His shaking hands pull at a wall panel in exactly the wrong way that makes some of the goo squirt out at his face and Hank jerks back, cursing and pressing a hand to one eye. Then he feels himself starting to laugh. It's a surprise, that noise, and it doesn't last long, but he means it, because-]
Well shit, that's not the worst thing I ever got shot in my eye.
2. dinner
[It'd be nice if the good mood lasted. It doesn't. Around the time Connor finds the door and starts working on the lock Hank tries to make some of that pink bullshit for Sumo. His hands won't stay still and spill the fucking powder all over the counter and he takes a deep breath, scrapes it back together, and feeds his fucking dog. Then he makes some for him - not much, but some - and goes into the room outside so Connor won't be around for whatever the fuck happens when he tries to eat it.
So. He tries to put something in his fucking stomach. Then he turns away from the tray and its tiny spot of pink bullshit, leaning over the corner of the table with his head bowed, hair hanging sweat soaked and limp over his face. He presses a hand against his stomach, swallowing as many times as he needs to.]
Motherfucker...
[He's been saying that one a lot. It doesn't sound like a real satisfying motherfucker should; it's weak, wavering, but it's better than anything else that could of come out of his mouth.]
3. sleep is for the weak
[He doesn't come back to the kitchen after that. He ends up outside one of those bedrooms where the sprinklers are going off, sitting against the wall with a folding chair next to him. After dragging it from outside the kitchen and he'd had to stop and sit down, and yeah he knows that shouldn't of tired him out, he knows that, and now he jerks awake with a sharp breath, and digging his fingers into his eyes doesn't make them any less bloodshot, doesn't make them burn any less and doesn't make the bags under them go away. But it's okay for a second.]
4. Hank no
[He stops just inside the bedroom and presses a hand against his head - that doesn't help either, but he does it anyway - and after a few tries he manages to set the chair under the part of the ceiling where the water's coming from. Getting soaked like this doesn't make him smell any less sour but at least he doesn't look sweaty anymore. He just looks like a big wet moron, grimacing with pain, making repeated shaky attempts at standing on the chair so he can try to do something other than sit here and think about throwing up again. Can he make it up without falling? Is he going to slip and fall and crack his head open once he does get up on the chair? Does Hank give a single solitary shit? All important questions. Maybe. Probably not.
Sumo whimpers outside the door; Hank ignores him.]
5. network, whenever The Big Hole is discovered, I'm assuming Hank would have heard people talking about wanting to go down it
[The watch is unstrapped and sitting on Hank's leg, so the video looks up at a deeply unflattering angle, catching mostly sweat stains and the corner of the hand Hank's got cupping his forehead. He mutters, voice flat, without looking at the screen.]
At least get a goddamn team together before you go jump down into the fucking murder hole. Do you assholes even have weapons? If you want to get eaten by the horror movie bullshit that's living down there, be my- shit.
[Well. His jittering leg knocked the watch to the floor, and Hank seems to decide that's all he wants to say. The view twists as the watch falls, and then cuts off.]
6. wildcard ((I know Hank will be looking at the room with all the bones and clawmarks like what the fuck, so if you want to do something there go for it, and if someone gets sick of his lovely normal-BO-plus-withdrawal-sweat aroma the scented bath stuff plus one of the sprinkler rooms would take care of that, since he's not going to take advantage of the showers while they're still rationing water. Want to talk over anything else? Message me and we can figure stuff out.))
content warning: alcoholism, withdrawal
Intro, if something here strikes you feel free to hit this up but it's mostly to set the scene.
[The only thing that gets him out of the bedroom is the pink shit. Sumo slips out of his little cot to come over to him and gets sidetracked by it, and stopping his dog from eating what could be some freaky space poison is about the only thing that could have gotten Hank up and into this brave new world they're supposed to rescue. And once he's up, he might as well wander around. That's what drives him right now; Sumo's going to need food, so he might as well hang out in the kitchen. Once he finds out Connor's looking for the ship's electricity they might as well look in the one room that's still got any. When a day passes and they still haven't found anything, Hank might as well keep at it. It's easier. He doesn't even have to decide anything. Connor's determined enough to do this that Hank can just float along in his wake, and going over the same patch of wall for the twentieth time doesn't even bother him. He might as well be doing it. It's pretty much the same thing as sitting back in his room at the temple, spending all day drinking and carving trite optimism into the walls.
Well. Not exactly the same thing. 'Good things
neverhappen,' that was the latest one, and it actually kind of bothers him that they all got yanked here into this shit before he finished it. Now it just says 'good things never' right there on the wall next to his bed and it's going to stay like that, too real, until he gets back and finishes it. He keeps thinking about it today, staring at the same spot he's already checked and thinking of himself sitting there, getting all zen with it, taking a drink for every line he manages to carve deep enough into the stone. This is like that, mostly, minus the one thing.]closed to Connor
[The longer the day gets the more he thinks about it, and by the time he heads off to try and get some sleep he's too keyed up to make it happen, coming back less than an hour later with a couple more goo stains, a frown, and an urge to move that won't leave him alone. His searching's a little less thorough, a little more urgent, until he falls asleep sitting against the wall for a fitful hour and a half and wakes up, mutters 'motherfucker' in a pained, cracking voice, curling over and pressing the heel of a hand to his head.]
1. goo
[The day goes on. Or maybe it's a different day; it's hard to tell, and it's honestly hard to care. When he gets sick of looking for nothing he tries to fix the leak of all the goo into those bedrooms. It's not like the bedroom goo's not edible, if they get desperate, but it's gross enough without having to scrape it off the floor.
His shaking hands pull at a wall panel in exactly the wrong way that makes some of the goo squirt out at his face and Hank jerks back, cursing and pressing a hand to one eye. Then he feels himself starting to laugh. It's a surprise, that noise, and it doesn't last long, but he means it, because-]
Well shit, that's not the worst thing I ever got shot in my eye.
2. dinner
[It'd be nice if the good mood lasted. It doesn't. Around the time Connor finds the door and starts working on the lock Hank tries to make some of that pink bullshit for Sumo. His hands won't stay still and spill the fucking powder all over the counter and he takes a deep breath, scrapes it back together, and feeds his fucking dog. Then he makes some for him - not much, but some - and goes into the room outside so Connor won't be around for whatever the fuck happens when he tries to eat it.
So. He tries to put something in his fucking stomach. Then he turns away from the tray and its tiny spot of pink bullshit, leaning over the corner of the table with his head bowed, hair hanging sweat soaked and limp over his face. He presses a hand against his stomach, swallowing as many times as he needs to.]
Motherfucker...
[He's been saying that one a lot. It doesn't sound like a real satisfying motherfucker should; it's weak, wavering, but it's better than anything else that could of come out of his mouth.]
3. sleep is for the weak
[He doesn't come back to the kitchen after that. He ends up outside one of those bedrooms where the sprinklers are going off, sitting against the wall with a folding chair next to him. After dragging it from outside the kitchen and he'd had to stop and sit down, and yeah he knows that shouldn't of tired him out, he knows that, and now he jerks awake with a sharp breath, and digging his fingers into his eyes doesn't make them any less bloodshot, doesn't make them burn any less and doesn't make the bags under them go away. But it's okay for a second.]
4. Hank no
[He stops just inside the bedroom and presses a hand against his head - that doesn't help either, but he does it anyway - and after a few tries he manages to set the chair under the part of the ceiling where the water's coming from. Getting soaked like this doesn't make him smell any less sour but at least he doesn't look sweaty anymore. He just looks like a big wet moron, grimacing with pain, making repeated shaky attempts at standing on the chair so he can try to do something other than sit here and think about throwing up again. Can he make it up without falling? Is he going to slip and fall and crack his head open once he does get up on the chair? Does Hank give a single solitary shit? All important questions. Maybe. Probably not.
Sumo whimpers outside the door; Hank ignores him.]
5. network, whenever The Big Hole is discovered, I'm assuming Hank would have heard people talking about wanting to go down it
[The watch is unstrapped and sitting on Hank's leg, so the video looks up at a deeply unflattering angle, catching mostly sweat stains and the corner of the hand Hank's got cupping his forehead. He mutters, voice flat, without looking at the screen.]
At least get a goddamn team together before you go jump down into the fucking murder hole. Do you assholes even have weapons? If you want to get eaten by the horror movie bullshit that's living down there, be my- shit.
[Well. His jittering leg knocked the watch to the floor, and Hank seems to decide that's all he wants to say. The view twists as the watch falls, and then cuts off.]
6. wildcard
((I know Hank will be looking at the room with all the bones and clawmarks like what the fuck, so if you want to do something there go for it, and if someone gets sick of his lovely normal-BO-plus-withdrawal-sweat aroma the scented bath stuff plus one of the sprinkler rooms would take care of that, since he's not going to take advantage of the showers while they're still rationing water. Want to talk over anything else? Message me and we can figure stuff out.))