Croach the Tracker (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bagropa) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2014-07-28 08:40 pm
bagropa) wrote in bigapplesauce2014-07-28 08:40 pm
this week's thrilling adventure: "make mine a double jeopardy" [open to multiple]
Croach is wrenched from his dream by an explosion. It is followed by a hissing noise not unlike the sound of a laser pistol cutting through and cauterizing flesh. He is alert immediately, abandoning his nest to seek out the danger in the park. Danger that... he does not sense. Instead, he hears the sound of human laughter, and he remembers the significance of the current date. It is some sort of human holiday, celebrated (increasingly, of late) by the baffling tradition of colorful explosions, perhaps as some sort of attempt to recreate a successful battle in their history. Regardless, it is unsafe, and Croach tracks the source of the explosions and warns the younglings away from using explosive devices. (It does not require much to convince them; they are eager to leave once he arrives, surely guilty upon being caught.)
He has been on this planet for fifty-seven days, he tabulates, as he dismantles the explosive to harvest the primitive chemicals within for use in new techno arrows. He has run out, unable to repair the damage done to the few he arrived with during the course of his travels and rescues. He has explored the length and breadth of the island and come no closer to discovering the purpose of his presence. He has learned that the denizens of the city are not always receptive to his assistance - in half of the assaults in which he has intervened, the victim has attacked him, often due to his appearance or 'nerve' or something called the 'patriarchy'.
It is... frustrating, he decides, emptying the black powder into a pouch and cinching it shut. He cannot identify the emotions this lack of progress causes him to experience and he is uncomfortable confiding in any of the - friends - he has made so far. He knows they are negative emotions - he recognizes the unpleasant feeling in his lower intestines - but they are either too foreign or too complicated to name in detail. Not that he has thought hard about that, really. He has actually put significant effort into not identifying the emotions. They make him agitated, and though he would deny it if anyone asked, he knows it has been showing. The way he treated the younglings he chased away was not kind, he will admit. They left abruptly because they were frightened, not apologetic. But he does not wish to acknowledge his emotions, because he fears - yes, he fears - that if he does, he might realize that there is no reason for his presence and, as several have insisted, no way to return to his home.
Croach returns to his nest with his find, hiding it safely in the cover of the roots of a tree. He has not ventured far from the area for the past Earth week, deciding instead to provide himself with a more comfortable and perma-- a more suitable place to live. In his explorations, he found a abandoned cave full of animal skins. He praised Nah Nohtek for the gift and took them to the copse he calls his own, intending to build a tent. He finds himself inexplicably reluctant to do so, though - to do anything, short of helping those within proximity who require urgent assistance. He has not visited Sunshine four Earth days. He wonders if she has noticed his absence.
That is not an entirely unfamiliar emotion, he realizes. He wondered that often about Sparks Nevada after he declared his onus complete and left, leaving Sparks Nevada with the author Rebecca Rose Rushmore. The Red Plains Rider had, concurrently, wedded Cactoid Jim. Croach had felt… superfluous. He had lied openly to Sparks Nevada in order to disguise his reaction, declaring that he would return to his tribe indefinitely. He did not feel successful when Sparks Nevada believed him. He had experienced - sadness.
Putting names to his emotions - frustration, sadness, loneliness - does not make them easier to bear. But something had, he recalls, and his feet carry him south out of the park with purpose that he has thus far lacked.
“I wish to begin a tabulation,” he declares with more confidence than he has felt since he arrived in the city, sitting heavily on a stool at the bar in Wilmot’s End. He has heard it is open to - that they would not be averse to his appearance. “One of your wheat-based beverages. You may entrust me with the bottle.”
((WHO WANTS TO GET SUPER DRUNK WITH CROACH because he is going to get pretty drunk. He will eventually be leaving with someone - not like that, gosh - but in the meantime he will be... an inappropriate drunk.))
He has been on this planet for fifty-seven days, he tabulates, as he dismantles the explosive to harvest the primitive chemicals within for use in new techno arrows. He has run out, unable to repair the damage done to the few he arrived with during the course of his travels and rescues. He has explored the length and breadth of the island and come no closer to discovering the purpose of his presence. He has learned that the denizens of the city are not always receptive to his assistance - in half of the assaults in which he has intervened, the victim has attacked him, often due to his appearance or 'nerve' or something called the 'patriarchy'.
It is... frustrating, he decides, emptying the black powder into a pouch and cinching it shut. He cannot identify the emotions this lack of progress causes him to experience and he is uncomfortable confiding in any of the - friends - he has made so far. He knows they are negative emotions - he recognizes the unpleasant feeling in his lower intestines - but they are either too foreign or too complicated to name in detail. Not that he has thought hard about that, really. He has actually put significant effort into not identifying the emotions. They make him agitated, and though he would deny it if anyone asked, he knows it has been showing. The way he treated the younglings he chased away was not kind, he will admit. They left abruptly because they were frightened, not apologetic. But he does not wish to acknowledge his emotions, because he fears - yes, he fears - that if he does, he might realize that there is no reason for his presence and, as several have insisted, no way to return to his home.
Croach returns to his nest with his find, hiding it safely in the cover of the roots of a tree. He has not ventured far from the area for the past Earth week, deciding instead to provide himself with a more comfortable and perma-- a more suitable place to live. In his explorations, he found a abandoned cave full of animal skins. He praised Nah Nohtek for the gift and took them to the copse he calls his own, intending to build a tent. He finds himself inexplicably reluctant to do so, though - to do anything, short of helping those within proximity who require urgent assistance. He has not visited Sunshine four Earth days. He wonders if she has noticed his absence.
That is not an entirely unfamiliar emotion, he realizes. He wondered that often about Sparks Nevada after he declared his onus complete and left, leaving Sparks Nevada with the author Rebecca Rose Rushmore. The Red Plains Rider had, concurrently, wedded Cactoid Jim. Croach had felt… superfluous. He had lied openly to Sparks Nevada in order to disguise his reaction, declaring that he would return to his tribe indefinitely. He did not feel successful when Sparks Nevada believed him. He had experienced - sadness.
Putting names to his emotions - frustration, sadness, loneliness - does not make them easier to bear. But something had, he recalls, and his feet carry him south out of the park with purpose that he has thus far lacked.
“I wish to begin a tabulation,” he declares with more confidence than he has felt since he arrived in the city, sitting heavily on a stool at the bar in Wilmot’s End. He has heard it is open to - that they would not be averse to his appearance. “One of your wheat-based beverages. You may entrust me with the bottle.”
((WHO WANTS TO GET SUPER DRUNK WITH CROACH because he is going to get pretty drunk. He will eventually be leaving with someone - not like that, gosh - but in the meantime he will be... an inappropriate drunk.))
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"How are you doing?" she cautiously asks, peering over at him. Then, because she can't help it, "I thought you didn't… prefer… this kind of thing." She tips a pointed look in the vodka's general direction.
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"Vodka is a bold choice for someone who doesn't normally drink," she agrees, propping her head in her hand so she's closer to Croach's level.
So, Croach is completely plastered. No one else seems to be keeping much of an eye on him except for the bartender, who just looks kind of resigned, so this wasn't anyone else's doing. Either Croach just decided, apropos of nothing, that he was going to tackle an entire bottle of vodka all by himself… or something triggered this.
What could drive a clinically unflappable Martian to total inebriation? Well, whatever the answer, she doesn't want to try and wheedle it out of him here while he continues to drink straight vodka like it's his job.
"Hey," she says, giving him a light nudge with her foot, "why don't we go back to my place? I'll make you something delicious."
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dumbhuman ritual has he overlooked now? He sets down his glass (since when are there two?) and puzzles over this at length, going so far as to mime his way through taking a sip of his drink to check for errors."Being desin-- Sunshine," he begins gently, attempting tact, which apparently humans desire in these situations. "My bioglogic... my... I am not c--" He shakes his head, antennae flopping. "I do not wish to populate with you." He laughs once. "Populate! That is... akin to the word I - copulate." Then, "Is what I do not... wish to do." Then, "With you."
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And she's made enough questionable sexual choices for one week."I just…" she flounders a little, because how do you respectfully suggest to a goddamn Martian that you think he's had enough? "I mean, how often do you… do this?" She makes a little hand gesture that neatly encapsulates him and his beverage. "When was the last time you got drunk?"
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He concentrates hard for a moment. "One moon - moon? One mil... lenium." He snorts, but the humor passes quickly. "Two Earth - bagropa, what do you - years? Was the last."
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"Okay," she says. "All I'm… suggesting… is that maybe you should stop drinking alcohol and eat something. And that it might be helpful to have a sober person," and here she places an indicative palm to her chest, "keep an eye on you to make sure you don't pass out and die. That's why I invited you to my place." Not drunk Martian sex, and she lets out a quiet huff of amusement before pulling a wry smile. "I'm just trying to look out for you, Croach. That's what friends do." There might be a very slight but pointed emphasis on 'friends.'