Dillon Cole || Scorpion Shard

[Open spam in the chapel, since the kid flood, whenever.]

[When he isn't on shift at the infirmary, or trailing after Abigail like a concerned ginger puppy, Dillon is spending a lot of time in the chapel. Just - sitting, in the very front pew or the very back, wishing for saints and stained glass and stone, for something gaudy and familiar, the smell of sand and wood polish. But the chapel resists his homesickness, neat white plaster, well kept, effusively inoffensive. He tries kneeling, a couple times. But it doesn't feel right, and neither does prayer. So he sits, quiet, eyes forward on the Unitarian nondenominational emptiness, for an hour or two, watches the shadows from the little candles, tries to think about his mistakes, about his options, about nothing at all.]


[Private to Arthas]

I want to see you. Anywhere you'd rather meet?


[Spam for Jerry, backdated to after Allison's post, early the next morning on the tenth.]

[He's just sitting in the hallway, across from Jerry's door. He's not impatient. He's not even angry, really, just calm and steady. He was sloppy, he was absorbed with his own messes. But he made a promise. Allison's rambling plea for understanding as revenge didn't change that. Jerry made his choice, and now he has to face the consequences.]


[Private to Arkin, backdated to after the above]

I've turned Jerry human. I promised him he would, if he hurt anyone else outside self-defense, before you were assigned to him.


[Filtered to Abigail, Scott, Chris, Bucky, Gene, Helena, and Iris, backdated to after the above]

I turned Jerry human, and now he's threatening to leave my friends' corpses at my door like the worst cat in the world.

[He doesn't sound scared. He doesn't even sound mad. He is irritated, and a little disgusted. It was one thing with Okoya and Carter - there were actual stakes there. This is just Jerry being petulant.]

All of you could probably take him in a fair fight, but he's sneaky and mean, so keep an eye out, and kick him in the balls for me if he tries anything.


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[Open, Voice only, because his face is a little bit famous at home.]

...Winston, Lourdes, if you're out there. I'm not dead. I'm working on getting things fixed.

[He almost says I love you, which is dumb, because they don't even like each other.]

Take care, please.


[Private to Bruce Banner]

You're in charge of the infirmary, right?


[Spam, pool room.]

[He needs to clear his head. He goes down to the seventh deck and chalks his hands. He isn't shooting pool in the traditional sense. He just sets up the table, then sinks all fifteen balls, in numerical order, in one perfect ricocheting shot.

As always.

He retrieves the balls, racks them up, breaks. Then again, and again. It's so pointless, it feels as though he can draw a little emptiness from it, let himself become a more like the order around him as long as he succumbs to the rote repeated motion of it, like a ritual, like moving meditation, billiard balls clacking like rosary beads. Hail Mary, full of grace. Rack, break, sink. He doesn't finish the prayer, even in his head, and he doesn't really feel any less alone. But he feels more - settled, and maybe that's enough.]