052 [text | location: around the island] on the shore just long enough to leave our clothes there

[aintnoconvict]

Glitch is so very happy to be back on land where he's 100% less useless. Sure it's not the city (or home) but it's better than being on that miserable boat.

In the jungle (the mighty jungle) there is a large hamster idol carved from limestone. It sits up on its haunches and smiles a benevolent hamster smile, and atop its head is a floral headdress. More interestingly: its right paw is definitely a hatch touchpad, and it holds in its left paw the traditional hatch replicator box thing.

Glitch stares at it dubiously, then slaps his hand down and thinks desperately of toothpaste. The box produces a bottle of rum, which gets tucked into the satchel he's fashioned from the sleeves of his giant white pirate shirt. He tries again, this time thinking of ball-peen (...wait, who even came up with that name?) hammer and some nails. The hatch responds with directions for making a shelter with palm fronds and vines.

After some trial and error (and another bottle of rum and some paper umbrellas), the hatch does produce useful things like a length of insulated copper wire, a Hawaiian print shirt and some Bermuda shorts, a pair of pliers, and sunscreen.

"...well, it's a start," Glitch mutters, then hauls everything back to the shady spot he's claimed a little ways from the beach. There he lays the pliers and wire down beside the metal-containing ship debris that had washed up, and set about composing a text to everyone.

NOTES:
- Found a hatch, marked approx. location on map. Temperamental but will give useful stuff (!SUNSCREEN!) plus random items.
- The temple: have not explored, not sure if safe, be careful if you check it out. Do not go alone.
- Swear I heard drumming last night. Might be delusional.
TO DO:
- Work w/tablets. Have more tools & materials now. Power boost? Antenna? Help appreciated.
- Go back to ship for supplies: sailcloth, rope, anything useful. Build raft for this? Volunteers? (Not it!)
- Build hammock.

That done, he heads back into the jungle for his daily swim. The island is fortunately riddled with cenotes to provide drinking water and places to cool off without getting saltwater sticky. Glitch has found a favorite with a good mix of shade and sun, water crystal clear and deep enough for diving, and just secluded enough that he can get away with skinny dipping.

That last bit is likely inaccurate.


OOC: Oh hey it's another huge note! WELCOME TO THE ISLAND enjoy your naked headcase. He will be out there every day, so go bug him or join in and fret not about continuity. Or bump into him anywhere, godmoding of that nature is go. TABLET FOLKS: there is going to be so much handwaving with this plot I can't even tell you. To the point of "let's congratulate ourselves on how awesome our geniuses and electric lady are" and moving on with end results.

This post can also be used as a log post for non-Glitch related hijinks like setting up shelters, building rafts, and other mingling.
DETAILS ON THE TEMPLE: Think Temple of Doom meets Legends of the Hidden Temple meets The Mummy. There are 100% godmodey deathtraps, the nature and degree of dangerousness is totally up to you. There are also treasures...also godmodey, but a chest stuffed with toiletries is definitely in there somewhere.

DID GLITCH HEAR DRUMMING: Yes. Yes he did, and your folks may have too. ~Details to come~.

Comments

look at your vamp, now back to me

[imperial_long]

It's Long's turn to make a non-committal noise. He is not, by Western standards, a picky eater-- the man eats and enjoys balut, for goodness' sake-- but... snakes. Beetles. Bah.

He follows Mick's gesture, and nods slightly, folding his long hands into his sleeves again.

"I haven't acquired a taste for rum. Whiskey is acceptable, or baijiu, or various sakes, but..." Long shrugs.

"I do not require anything to drink, but thank you for the offer. Shall we? The sooner done..."

diamonds!

[ownlittleprison]

"Yeah. I feel the same way about bugs." He smiles, a touch more lopsided than normal.

It's surprisingly good to have Long here, with his dry observations and crisp politeness. He doesn't feel as awkward as he thought he would at the prospect of having blood donated directly from the source.

"I'll get the gear, you find somewhere comfortable to take a seat."

long is pretty shiny it's true

[imperial_long]

"I would offer to hatch you proper honey baijiu on our return to the city, but I take it you could not enjoy such things anyway," Long murmurs.

He nods at Mick's words and glances around, finally settling on a rock that looks less damp than the others. Long descends into a cross-legged lotus position on it, then rolls up one sleeve of the robe. Which is work, when it's silk; the fabric wants to slide right back down.

Still, by the time Mick returns, Long has the sleeve carefully up, revealing a wiry dark forearm, smooth-skinned, flesh tight to the bone.

"I am at your disposal, Mr. St. John," Long says calmly, eyes like amber tracking the vampire's movements.

In Mick St. John, he can see the predator desperate to appear as other. Like a rangy tiger, slinking around the outskirts of the village. Trying to show he is not a threat, and yet, there is no changing the tiger's stripes.

Or his teeth.

Long himself remembers what it was to hunt, although the memories themselves become more worn, more shabby, with every day spent in this cramped, stretched little skin. He sighs to himself, softly, and offers his arm.

Re: long is pretty shiny it's true

[ownlittleprison]

Mick comes back with a small fabric wrapped parcel, sitting down beside the other guy and feeling grateful in a way he hasn't in a long while. Acceptance will never go out of style, in his book.

While he knows why Long's offered to volunteer for this in the first place is the same reason he downplays the monster inside. He imagines their reasoning runs along similar tracks, if not the same exact ones.

Play nice, and avoid the consequences of not playing nice.

It's good enough for him.

Unwrapping the parcel, he sets out a small wooden bowl and a long, thin needle alongside a one inch belt punched right long its length. Some plain, softer fabric strips for after, in place of bandaids.

It's not optimal, but it'll do the work. He glances at the already rolled up sleeve with a small, relieved smile. "Are you left or right handed? Just checking."

[imperial_long]

Long has never been to a doctor in his entire existence; at least, not for his own injuries. He studies the needle with a clinical, morbid curiosity. That is going to go inside his skin. How strange.

"Hmmmm..? Oh," he says with a slight blink for the question, brows knitting. Long lifts both hands, flexes his elongated fingers while peering at them.

"Ah. Hm. The question has never arisen before. My... right, I suppose."

The right is where he's rolled up the sleeve, anyway.

[ownlittleprison]

Mick blinks, clearly not expecting that response.

What kind of guy are you that you've never figured out your dominant hand? And barring having one, that you're ambidextrous.

God.

"Oh-kay." It feels like a hassle to ask him to roll up his other sleeve, but he doesn't seem too bothered by the notion of fine tuned eye-hand coordination and dexterity.

"But you could use either/or?" He pops the cork on one of the bottles of rum - this one only half full, so he's apparently been using it for something, if not drinking.

Right here and now, it'll have to do as far as sterilizing equipment goes.

[imperial_long]

Long is oblivious to Mick's thoughts on him, and merely shrugs one thin shoulder at the question.

"I suppose so, yes. Or rather, I do use both. So it is perhaps a moot point in any case."

He studies the bottle with the same curiosity he does the other tools of the trade. Mick St. John does not drink, he had thought, but clearly he is getting some benefit from the rum.

".....mouthwash?" Long hazards the guess, a possible non sequitur all things considered.

(But snakes. Really.)

[ownlittleprison]

The first gets a nod, and Mick's shoulders sink a bit as that bit of tension goes away. It's bad enough he has to be in this position to begin with, and Mick'd rather ask as little of him to add to it.

The other thing, though, now that gets a warm chuckle. "Oh, you bet it is."

One of the strips of fabric's bunched into an approximation of a cotton ball and soaked in some of the rum, which is then swiped over the bend in Long's arm. "I don't know how susceptible you are to infection, but I'd rather take every precaution," he says by way of explaining why the Hell he's getting rum all over the place.

...and his professional eye says they don't need the belt. "Ready?"

[imperial_long]

Long tilts his head in interest, watching, the liquor dabbed over his arm. Cool against the slightly-above-average heat of his skin. He's about to ask if that's for antiseptic purposes but Mick beats him to the punch, as it were. He nods; it's sensible, and he'd just as soon not test this body's immune system.

"Yes," he answers. "Ought I make a fist?"

He's probably read something about that somewhere.

[ownlittleprison]

Mick's hands are next, liberally doused with the stuff. There's some discussion as to whether a bite wouldn't be easier and more hygienic, but personally he's lately become very aware of just how like death he really is, and if he gets to choose between the risk of a regular infection and getting goddamned zombie cooties into Long's system, he'll take the former.

It's easier to treat.

"It won't hurt as much if you don't. Okay. Try to relax," he says, setting the bowl at a measured distance, angling the needle - which isn't hollow, but has a groove running down the middle - just so, his own left hand keeping Long's skin taut. Not that it needs much help.

Lining the needle up with a blood vessel close to the surface, piercing the skin in one smooth go. No hesitation. Purely professional.

[imperial_long]

Mayland is still fascinated by all the little preparations. What a good deal of work just to draw blood, he thinks. He also can't help but wonder if the bite mightn't be easier, not that he has any real intention of agreeing to such. It offends his dignity.

"Existence is suffering," he says dryly to Mick's quasi-warning. But he duly and obediently relaxes, hand and arm going limp. The needle slides right on in with a focused pinprick of pain.

Long draws a slow breath but doesn't noticeably react, otherwise. He turns the sensation over in his head. It's not, of course, the first time he's felt physical pain-- even he has not somehow managed to be that sheltered-- but usually he has not been in a position to analyse it.

[ownlittleprison]

"Fate is nothing but the deeds committed in a prior state of existence," Mick quips back, trying very hard not to let his very literal fangs out.

The first smell of blood as the dark copper skin breaks is enough to send his nostrils flaring. He swallows, turning his eyes instead on the cave like surroundings.

"Ralph Waldo Emerson."

[imperial_long]

Long glances up quickly, from his arm and the sight of the needle to Mick's face-- not to see any fangs, but merely because the quote catches him off guard. He smiles, a very white smile in his dark face, pleased as a child to be told a secret.

"You've read Emerson?" he asks, delight shading his tone. And then realization kicks in-- the sight of Mick looking away, the convulsive swallow-- that perhaps right this second is not the best time to try and discuss literature and comparative religion.

"....perhaps later."

Long looks back down to his arm, pensive. "One does wonder what karma we acquired in our past lives to be here in this position now, though..."

[ownlittleprison]

Mick looks back, white eyed and looking rather surprised to be met with such obvious approval and interest.

"Sure," he says with a smile that's only slightly strained. "I don't look it, but I read a lot."

One quick glance at the blood - just a little bit more. Don't get greedy, but just a little bit more and he'll be fine.

He turns away again, listening to the steady beat of Long's heart and using it as an aural measuring cup.

"I don't know. It's one of the most accepting places I've ever been. I must've done something right to get to experience that."

[imperial_long]

If the change to Mick's eyes bothers Long he does not show it. Like he could talk anyway.

Long's heartbeat is steady, steady and strong. As far as people who can take some blood loss and be fine, Mayland Long seems to be a good choice so far.

"What, Taxon? No, Taxon is not... it is a mixed blessing and a curse, but I was thinking more of our respective.... identities. What you have done in a past life to be... what you are, and I what I am. It begs the question."

Long's eyes wander back to the blood leaving his body, intrigued again. It looks black rather than red in the moonlight.

"What does blood taste like to you, if this is not too tactless a question for me to ask?"

[ownlittleprison]

"Right." Mick looks down, a slightly pointier smile curving over his teeth. Maybe just ten more heartbeats - another glance confirms that yes, ten more beats'll be enough.

Dark, fragrant, spicy...

"It's okay. Inquisitive minds, and so on."

He gets the same little wad of already soaked fabric, counts down the last few beats before pressing it to the entry wound, carefully pulling the needle out.

Can't take too much, never too much, already too much to ask. "It's difficult to describe. It's like..." He breathes deep, eyes transfixed on the dark blood - one hand keeping the needle steady so as not to lose a drop, the other pressing the cloth to the wound.

"Bend your arm, let that stay in place until you stop bleeding."

It's a bit difficult to focus on conversation right now.

[imperial_long]

Long's free hand lifts to hold the wad of fabric down, and he bends his arm as well per instruction.

"That is all?" he says in faint surprise. Not that he's complaining, exactly, but he expected, he supposes, a more horrifying experience. Or more blood taken. Ah well.

He flexes the fingers of the donating arm; makes an experimental fist with that hand. His grip still feels strong and sure to himself. Long shrugs, and gets to his feet, probably before any well-meant warnings on dizziness can be given.

But he isn't dizzy, so.

"I suppose you would probably prefer to be left in peace with your. Ah. Breakfast?" Long asks politely, watching the way St. John's eyes are fixated on the blood.

[ownlittleprison]

For a little longer than is perhaps polite, silence stretches out between them. Then Mick's head jerks, eyes fixing instead on Long - then his arm, then his face and back again - lips slightly open in an involuntary edging towards a snarl.

Protip: Don't go near a starving vampire's food.

Then he blinks, lungs moving in a mimicry of stuttered breath. "Yeah. Please. Please?"

[imperial_long]

Long's eyes widen just a fraction as St. John's lips start to curl up, prelude to a snarl more animal than human. Not alarm on Long's part, exactly-- wariness, readiness should an attack come--

--but St. John masters himself, a shuddering exhale, short words.

Long nods. This is not the time for speech; even he can tell that much.

He takes several steps back from St. John, not turning his back to him until there is a more comfortable lead between them. It seems merely prudent.

"I am sure I will see you about, Mr. St. John," he murmurs, and pads off barefoot into the jungle, not waiting for an answer under the circumstances.

[ownlittleprison]

The pale white eyes and minute pupil stay focused on Long even as he retreats, Mick's fingers bent and curved like twitching claws over the bowl of dark, almost black blood.

As far as humiliating experiences go, this is pretty high up there, but he isn't in a frame of mind to care.

He sits there twitching, like some gargoylean creature warding off evil spirits, lips curled back to reveal fangs.

Later.

He'll find Long. Later.

Won't be difficult. He won't be able to get the smell of him out of his nose for days.