10-23-2015, 11:58 AM
Just everyone else was in the truck and ready to roll by the time Drake came sauntering out of the rear exit of the fortress. He was dimly aware that someone had tried to wake him up earlier, but he was notorious for benefiting from the sleep of the dead. His minor cybernetic implants tended to get him on his feet in a jiffy, when he decided to actually turn on the rousting system, but usually there was no point. The smuggler blinked blearily into the ash laden wind of the steppes and held a pleather sleeved arm up to his face, keeping the worst of it out of his sullen eyes. He watched dully as Zack made a sword holster on the side of the truck's bed, pulling a thin cigarette out of his satchel and lighting it up.
The wind was actually pretty harsh today, and the human secondary was glad he had a hood and hat to keep the soot out of his eyes. Drake also took the liberty of wrapping a damp handkerchief around his nose and mouth. No use dying of black lung before the job was done. Yes, he was aware of the irony with the cigarette and stuff. Whatever. Drake was more melancholy about the fact that he wasn't going to be the one driving. After all, he was really quite good at piloting just about every conceivable vehicle ever devised, so in a just world he would have been behind the wheel. Prime privilege, apparently. Drake rose the cigarette to his lips, only for it to be blocked by the handkerchief. Hmm.
"Tch."
Consigned to the smokey fate of the truck bed without nicotine, Drake climbed up onto the bare metal and gripped the truck's driver's side rail with his right hand, with his back up against the cab. Never in a million years would he be doing this, but unfortunately, there was that whole brainwashing thing going on, so he couldn't help it. Impulse control was never his strong suit.
The wind was actually pretty harsh today, and the human secondary was glad he had a hood and hat to keep the soot out of his eyes. Drake also took the liberty of wrapping a damp handkerchief around his nose and mouth. No use dying of black lung before the job was done. Yes, he was aware of the irony with the cigarette and stuff. Whatever. Drake was more melancholy about the fact that he wasn't going to be the one driving. After all, he was really quite good at piloting just about every conceivable vehicle ever devised, so in a just world he would have been behind the wheel. Prime privilege, apparently. Drake rose the cigarette to his lips, only for it to be blocked by the handkerchief. Hmm.
"Tch."
Consigned to the smokey fate of the truck bed without nicotine, Drake climbed up onto the bare metal and gripped the truck's driver's side rail with his right hand, with his back up against the cab. Never in a million years would he be doing this, but unfortunately, there was that whole brainwashing thing going on, so he couldn't help it. Impulse control was never his strong suit.
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