Dillon Cole || Scorpion Shard

[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.]