tushanshu_logs | moves like jagger [open]

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moves like jagger [open]

Characters: Jim Kirk and open!
Date: May 4th, watch as I refuse to crack jokes about rival sci-fi franchises.
Location: A couple different scenarios, thread starters for each. If you'd like to set up another scenario, PM me and we can hash out something else!
Situation: Jim's acquainting himself with the concept of being, you know, on a giant turtle.
Warnings/Rating: Shouldn't go past PG-13.
Notes: Starting in prose, feel free to hop in with prose or actionspam.

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Waking up in unfamiliar places wasn't in any way unusual for Jim. It probably should have been, but at this point? He'd grown long used to the idea that sometimes, people just wanted to kidnap him, maroon him on alien planets, et cetera. You know. The usual.

Spock would probably have something to say about all this, but then, Mister Spock wasn't here. Or anywhere within communicator range. The same could be said for the rest of his crew, the ship, and anything else he might have otherwise been interested in hailing. So it happened that he crammed himself into the nearest alley after his ride from the palace (they should really do something about those roads) and set his tricorder to send out a weak SOS. If he was any kind of tech genius (he wasn't) he could probably jury-rig the power source from his phaser to boost the signal, but in lieu of Scotty or Chekov, he was stuck simply making the best of a bad situation.

Not that it was so bad, really. The food (he sweet-talked a pretty kedan out of a spare shiskabob as she was closing up shop for the day) was decent, edible. The turtle itself was phenomenal. There was no record of any life sign like this anywhere in the Federation handbook. Exploration, wasn't that one of the Fleet's oldest tenets? Even being (kidnapped) (stranded) out of his depths didn't remove that obligation. He spent a considerable amount of time talking to the locals, learning what he could. There was plenty of 'I come in peace/take me to your leader' rhetoric. He couldn't quite bring himself to give the standard Federation spiel.

He updated his logbook with a sardonic sort of resignation. Rules and regulations were made to be broken, sure, but this wasn't the time or the place for rebellion. He was in hostile territory – or semi-hostile, anyways, and he wasn't going to take any chances. The kedan didn't have the technology to be a universal threat, but after that whole mess with the Gorn he wasn't really interested in taking chances.

Still. There were a plethora of science officers who would probably skin him alive if he didn't take adequate readings and research of the local flora, fauna and atmospheric— you know, pressures and things while he was here, so he could be seen from the morning until well after noon taking tricorder readings and otherwise investigating nearly everything he could get his hands on. He was wearing his Starfleet uniform, the customary gold and black, and he'd be more than happy to strike up a conversation with any stranger who ventured too close.

The day had dwindled into nothing, and he'd come no closer to figuring out anything about this place (besides the obvious) or why he was here (apparently they needed 'heroes'. Well that was flattering and all, but kind of vague) or... anything, really. Oh, he had a great barometric reading on his tricorder, and he'd identified all the local branches of dialect as being something never encountered before (his kingdom (but not his ship, thanks) for Uhura's presence) in Federation history, but beyond that? Nada. Zilch. Zip.

So he'd found his way into one of the bars that was still serving some form of alcohol. He'd gotten the Emperor's little care package all right, and he'd slapped down most (all) of the coinage down on the countertop.

"Hey, what's a guy gotta do to get a drink around here?"

He was out of his captain's uniform by this point. No sense disgracing the uniform if it turned out his constitution couldn't handle the booze. He'd kept the pants, but his shirt was simple and black. Still, he wore his phaser in plain sight and had his tricorder on his hip.

In the meantime, ladies beware. He had plans to hit on anything that moved, breathed, or otherwise caught his attention.

[The night is young -- to a vampire of one-hundred-and-eighteen years, anything limited to a twelve hour max is "young" and Mavis is sitting on a roof, watching Foreigners and kedan filter out of the bars with a detached interest. They go in walking straight and stumble out hours later, making a bee-line in the way that a bee actually zips in and about with little discernible purpose at the human scale.

Alcohol is no strange concept to her, as Quasimodo will often flambé beetles in a light sherry for her father, but this is the first time she's watched people marinating themselves in it. Weird. It's almost like they expect her to eat them, but she's so not that kind of vampire.

Mavis sniffs the air -- it's a haughty gesture, but one which quickly repeats itself as she catches wind of something delicious nearby. She's on her feet in an instant, following the aromatic smell of blood as it wafts towards her.

A blood bar maybe? Somewhere for monsters to go where they won't be looked at weird for having a Bloody Mary? The idea triggers a small squeal and she takes to bat form, swooping up in the air, turning over once, then diving down into the alleyway it comes from. Her eyes are peeled for a door or a sign to prove her hope, but all she sees is--]

Oh.

[Her wings beat quickly to draw her to a stop and she lands on the ground in full human -- well, vampire -- form. The inkling of a pout lines her lips as she looks him over. Whoever he is, he smells delicious. There's blood on his lip and a trail from his swollen nose, plus some drops on his shirt that may not be his by the scent of things, but--]

Ew. [Seriously. It's like smelling something delicious and then finding out it's the McDonald's around the corner.] It's you.

[Disappointment? Maybe. Then it registers that he's been beaten up or something and a Good Samaripire ought to give him a hand.] Holy rabies, are you okay? [Genuine concern this time, promise!]

[Bryn's out running errands, all three of her. With one copy off to Grantaire's to deliver a small bottle of alcohol, another to pick up an outfit she was having made in the Earth sector, and a third in her home Fire sector, she was covering three times as much ground. Hopefully saving time this way would give her more opportunities to relax in the afternoon in her suite.

Still, in no hurry to complete her tasks, she wandered down the streets, seemingly at ease. She was dressed as many of the kedan in a fitted top and looser pants, but for the belt that held her sword and gun, and the boots she'd brought with her from home.]

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