Isaac Decklan Stark (biostark) wrote in lost_world, @ 2013-09-20 15:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | !status: complete, isaac stark, rob winchester |
Self Repairs and Preparation. (Open)
Just when he'd almost worked out how to brew something that would knock his socks off, Isaac woke up in a new place. Not that this was upsetting, after all, as he sat up he found... well, everything.
He quickly went through his equipment lockers, the gear on his table, and found to his delight that his pot plants and alcohol cabinet, disguised to look the same as any other locker in his lab, were all there. Everything. His hand crafted tools, even some of the projects he'd been working on before he was here.
He immediately sent a text to his twin, but he had to utilize the time given to him. The technology in his chest was acting up too much for this whole trip, and maybe that was why the aliens finally gave him everything he needed to fix it.
Using his own, slightly more focused version of Jarvis as a lab assistant, he scanned himself and pinpoint a few problems that had developed in the period of time that he'd gone without maintenance and working on it. The project had still been in progress when he'd been kidnapped, after all, he hadn't been in a place to go weeks on end without more work.
Self surgery was something nobody really got used to. Of course he'd developed a device that prevented most of the pain from registering, confusing the nerves into making everything just feel fuzzy. The tech allowed him to open up his chest and acces the implants he'd left over and through his rib cage.
The process took a good chunk of the day, and by the time he stitched himself up and turned off the pain nullifier, he was exhausted. He barely managed to bandage himself before passing out on the bed.
The next day he woke up, as usual a much deeper hangover slowing his movements. The readouts were positive, though, and he got up and dressed, smoking a joint to help his recovery and packing a belt with a few of his best and most multi-functioning tools. The dark button up shirt wasn't his usual fashion, but it hid the bandages around his torso well enough, and pocketing a small screen device that relayed the information from the chip in his head he moved to the door and let himself out of the room.
The rolled joint was hanging off his lip as he exited, a small metallic container of them on his person, a large bottle of his favorite whiskey in one hand. He didn't trust these aliens not to whisk him off in the next second, and although they generally liked to redress them anyway, he wasn't about to not make an effort to bring what supplies he could while adventuring.
He noted that his chip stopped broadcasting as soon as he left his room, but he ignored that in favor of exploring, finally making his way to the common area. That was when his post-surgery haze caught up with him and he took a seat, leaning back with his feet up on a table, unscrewing the lid of his bottle and taking a sip.
His eyes didn't leave the aliens around him, but he didn't move to approach them or to speak to them. They weren't the only ones good at silently studying, after all.