09-29-2015, 08:27 PM
Miranda's line of questioning was definitely unique. Of course, most of it still applied to Primes and their ability to summon things, but Drake did have an answer about the whole summoning business. As a secondary, he had actually sort of been able to feel himself being formed, as if his consciousness had been pulled into the Omniverse before his body. Of course, this might have just been Jeltz's way of summoning stuff, but Drake had found the entire experience to be much akin to waking up after a night of heavy drinking. Not that he was going to share any of this stuff. Not because he had any specific reason, either. Drake just didn't feel like it. The smuggler guzzled down the remainder of his water and briefly took his hat off to scratch at his sweaty scalp.
When Miranda took off her eyepatch, Drake glanced at the uh...really fucking intense optical prosthetic she had in her left eye. Good god. What even was up with that thing. It kind of made it hard to look her in the face. This sentiment changed when she casually mentioned being able to 'fix' Drake's right arm. His mouth drew into a thin line. He knew that Miranda only meant well. People only ever did when they offered to 'fix' Drake's lack of a right torso appendage. They couldn't possibly know the kind of world that Drake came from; where people casually murdered in the streets, resurrected the next day, leveled an entire block of housing and then went on a drinking binge. Drake refused to be a part of that zero-consequence society. Whatever. Drake just offered Miranda a wave of gratitude and a dismissive grin.
"Nahh, 'salright. Food was pretty good." he said in a mutter that, perhaps, betrayed more discomfort than he normally liked to display. The situation was just becoming a little too awkward for Drake, so he excused himself wordlessly and followed Zack back into the bedding area. There, he shed his outer layer of clothing, as he went about grooming himself as best one could in the waterless Ashen Plains. He spritzed some aerosol deodorant under his pits and combed his hair out before lifting his shirt over his head and slinking between the sheets of some random bed. If one was staring, they would be rewarded with an unhindered view of the extent of Drake's gruesome burn scars; they covered nearly the entirety of the right side of his upper body, and a significant portion of skin. In the middle of this field of mottled skin hung the stump of Drake's right shoulder, which apparently still had the capacity for some motion as it twitched and nudged itself on occasion as the Smuggler went about his business.
Hopefully he'd be able to speak to Bowser soon and get out of here. Hanging out with a fellow amputee was proving less enjoyable than he'd anticipated...though he wasn't entirely sure why.
When Miranda took off her eyepatch, Drake glanced at the uh...really fucking intense optical prosthetic she had in her left eye. Good god. What even was up with that thing. It kind of made it hard to look her in the face. This sentiment changed when she casually mentioned being able to 'fix' Drake's right arm. His mouth drew into a thin line. He knew that Miranda only meant well. People only ever did when they offered to 'fix' Drake's lack of a right torso appendage. They couldn't possibly know the kind of world that Drake came from; where people casually murdered in the streets, resurrected the next day, leveled an entire block of housing and then went on a drinking binge. Drake refused to be a part of that zero-consequence society. Whatever. Drake just offered Miranda a wave of gratitude and a dismissive grin.
"Nahh, 'salright. Food was pretty good." he said in a mutter that, perhaps, betrayed more discomfort than he normally liked to display. The situation was just becoming a little too awkward for Drake, so he excused himself wordlessly and followed Zack back into the bedding area. There, he shed his outer layer of clothing, as he went about grooming himself as best one could in the waterless Ashen Plains. He spritzed some aerosol deodorant under his pits and combed his hair out before lifting his shirt over his head and slinking between the sheets of some random bed. If one was staring, they would be rewarded with an unhindered view of the extent of Drake's gruesome burn scars; they covered nearly the entirety of the right side of his upper body, and a significant portion of skin. In the middle of this field of mottled skin hung the stump of Drake's right shoulder, which apparently still had the capacity for some motion as it twitched and nudged itself on occasion as the Smuggler went about his business.
Hopefully he'd be able to speak to Bowser soon and get out of here. Hanging out with a fellow amputee was proving less enjoyable than he'd anticipated...though he wasn't entirely sure why.
And, we dream of home I dream of life out of here Their dreams are small My dreams don't know fear I got my heart full of hope I will change everything No matter what I'm told How impossible it seems We did it before And we'll do it again We're indestructible Even when we're tired And we've been here before Just you and I
Don't try to rescue me I don't need to be rescued
Don't try to rescue me I don't need to be rescued