This is our Get Along Shirt: Jet strode through the lobby, hands tucked into his Air-Force-issued bomber jacket, gaze lost in the middle-distance of whatever was ahead of him. His mind was elsewhere, purposefully avoiding his overly-fancy surroundings and the little read-outs on his HUD that told him there was a disconnect in his systems. The disconnect from his family. His mind was in Venice, wondering what the others would do when the realized he was gone. Would they think he'd been kidnapped by his old government, the NSA finally catching up to him? Or would they think he'd fucked off again, deciding he didn't actually want to reconcile? Joe wouldn't. Maybe not Francoise, either. But GB? Geronimo? Would Albert think that?
He was so lost in this slow downward spiral of thoughts, he really didn't notice when he was about to shoulder-check some poor person.
"Jesus! Watch where you're going!" The Bronx-native in him flared up and he instantly regretted it; he was the one lost in dreamland. "Sorry. You ok?"
Honorary Staff It wasn't like he had much else to do, and while he wasn't thrilled to be here, that didn't mean he was about to sulk around or do nothing, so help seemed like a decent enough way to pass the time.
At least, it seemed decent.
As soon as they lead him to the buffet, Jet could feel his stomach drop. They supposedly knew him, right? They knew this would be a bad idea, Right?
Any hope they were maybe bringing him back to help wash dishes or something died as they stopped him in front of the food itself. He glanced around at the prep table, eyes catching on both familiar and unfamiliar foods. And spices...oh god, there were so many spices, what the hell even were those?
"Maybe I could...microwave something?" The person abandoning him here stopped to helpfully inform him that wasn't an option and not how things were done.
"Cold cuts, then. Sandwiches?" Someone else had that covered, thanks for offering! And his 'helpful' staff member vanished, leaving Jet floundering and helpless and staring at the table like it was an alien.
"Maybe if I pour enough ketchup on it, they won't notice how much it sucks."
Welcome Home This was all...much. First kidnapped, then told his emotions were going to be harnessed or whatever, not a single sign of his family anywhere and nothing but static through the mental connection. The last thing he wanted was to sleep in some unfamiliar room, but they swore it was 'tailored to him' whatever the hell that meant, he certainly didn't trust his kidnappers to actually do anything kind.
Visions of the small Air Force barracks in mind, Jet went to the room that was meant to be his and opened the door. And froze.
Inside, a low-set bed was featured in the center, a little larger than one person would need. The decor was reminiscent of traditional Japanese style, including that dumb bonsai-tree looking pattern Jet had scoffed at so many years ago. Now he could kiss it.
And yet he found himself frozen in the doorway, staring. This room had been destroyed, set aflame by the cyborg assassins that destroyed Kozomi's house. Even the little touches he'd initially put in there were before him, a small plane model. The miniature motorcycle that had sparked the long-held debate between himself and Joe over Japanese or American-style bike. It shouldn't be there, but it was.
Jet Link | Cyborg 009/009 RE: Cyborg
Jet strode through the lobby, hands tucked into his Air-Force-issued bomber jacket, gaze lost in the middle-distance of whatever was ahead of him. His mind was elsewhere, purposefully avoiding his overly-fancy surroundings and the little read-outs on his HUD that told him there was a disconnect in his systems. The disconnect from his family. His mind was in Venice, wondering what the others would do when the realized he was gone. Would they think he'd been kidnapped by his old government, the NSA finally catching up to him? Or would they think he'd fucked off again, deciding he didn't actually want to reconcile? Joe wouldn't. Maybe not Francoise, either. But GB? Geronimo? Would Albert think that?
He was so lost in this slow downward spiral of thoughts, he really didn't notice when he was about to shoulder-check some poor person.
"Jesus! Watch where you're going!" The Bronx-native in him flared up and he instantly regretted it; he was the one lost in dreamland. "Sorry. You ok?"
Honorary Staff
It wasn't like he had much else to do, and while he wasn't thrilled to be here, that didn't mean he was about to sulk around or do nothing, so help seemed like a decent enough way to pass the time.
At least, it seemed decent.
As soon as they lead him to the buffet, Jet could feel his stomach drop. They supposedly knew him, right? They knew this would be a bad idea, Right?
Any hope they were maybe bringing him back to help wash dishes or something died as they stopped him in front of the food itself. He glanced around at the prep table, eyes catching on both familiar and unfamiliar foods. And spices...oh god, there were so many spices, what the hell even were those?
"Maybe I could...microwave something?" The person abandoning him here stopped to helpfully inform him that wasn't an option and not how things were done.
"Cold cuts, then. Sandwiches?" Someone else had that covered, thanks for offering! And his 'helpful' staff member vanished, leaving Jet floundering and helpless and staring at the table like it was an alien.
"Maybe if I pour enough ketchup on it, they won't notice how much it sucks."
Welcome Home
This was all...much. First kidnapped, then told his emotions were going to be harnessed or whatever, not a single sign of his family anywhere and nothing but static through the mental connection. The last thing he wanted was to sleep in some unfamiliar room, but they swore it was 'tailored to him' whatever the hell that meant, he certainly didn't trust his kidnappers to actually do anything kind.
Visions of the small Air Force barracks in mind, Jet went to the room that was meant to be his and opened the door. And froze.
Inside, a low-set bed was featured in the center, a little larger than one person would need. The decor was reminiscent of traditional Japanese style, including that dumb bonsai-tree looking pattern Jet had scoffed at so many years ago. Now he could kiss it.
And yet he found himself frozen in the doorway, staring. This room had been destroyed, set aflame by the cyborg assassins that destroyed Kozomi's house. Even the little touches he'd initially put in there were before him, a small plane model. The miniature motorcycle that had sparked the long-held debate between himself and Joe over Japanese or American-style bike. It shouldn't be there, but it was.
"What the ever-loving fuck."