Re: Borderlands: Kara & Rhys
He'd hit his head—hard—on the cabinet his spine was now kinked over like... something excruciatingly painful and not at all straight, whatever, and the stars Rhys saw had nothing to do with the sun spotting the sky he only saw blue-bright slices of from the caravan's windshield. No. It was his literal brain, sloshing forward in cerebrospinal fluid, to smash into the back of his skull like someone had hit the boost button on it, crushing visual cortex in violence. Not so poetic when you think about it like that. But, still, he saw stars pricking the air in front of his face, gauzed with defocus, and he laughed giddily, dizzily, stupidly, even while he managed to groan. His left... lung felt like it... had... --like it had a tear in it or something, a sharp shear stabbing at him, doubling him over into the fetal position, asking the world why this had happened. Rhys even had to wriggle his toes in (skag skin) boots to make sure he was, you know, actually feeling anything down there. (Man, if he couldn't--that'd be so sad. A paraplegic virgin. I mean, can you even imagine? Though... there might be pity fucks... Hm. Let me re-think this.) The tin can caravan complained under the lambasting yolk-sun, metal moaning from the strain of the roll. Loose bits of this and that pooled in gravity's insistence, debris, a 20-sided die that had gone missing, a bottle of nail polish in turquoise, &c., scattered around Rhys, who, um, had finally managed to sit up.
He was gasping for air, talking to what appeared to be no one with pain pulling the corners of his mouth down.
"Took a little tumble, eh, princess? 'Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill came tumbling after.' Heh. Guess that makes you Jill. You definitely have the f—"
"Not now," Rhys snapped, peevish, glaring at the hologram that floated above him, as if perched on an invisible seat, legs crossed. He waved his metal hand irritably, myoelectricity not shorted out by the fall, thankfully. Though his shoulder hurt like a --ah, ah! "Jill is—Jill is a stupid name anyway."
"Oh, okay, Rhys."
He glared. But, there wasn't time for anything wittier (nice save, cupcake), because that was when Kara reappeared. Blonde hair, freckles, and a grin like a con artist with a briefcase of ten million dollars she'd cheated a semi-honest man out of. She smiled and waved, and Rhys stared at her, his bruised brain trying to put together what was going to happen next, like that might help him here. But, it wasn't fast enough. And by the time the girl put her hand on rounded metal to push, it was too late. His eyes widened and he tried--he really, really tried to find something to hold onto, fingers flexing, grasping—But, it happened too fast. And just as quickly as he'd found himself snapping his spine in two on the cabinets, Rhys found himself splayed on recently redone wood flooring, a cast iron frying pan landing hard between his legs, too close to sensitive areas for comfort, and he squeaked in pain and surprise, shuffling back on hands and heels.
The bottle of nail polish had shattered in the righting of the caravan, and that turquoise leeched into teal-and-stripe elbow. Rhys closed his eyes as Jack laughed uproariously, and he stood, shakily, using the table to help him. The stars he still saw offered him no ridiculous powers and he had to stumble on long legs to the door.
"Next time, just blow me up. Just--just blow me to pieces." He held his head in his hands as he shouldered out of the vehicle. Jack tittered, whispering blow to himself, but Rhys looked at Kara. His voice was complaint. "You know, your whole--your whole look is incongruous with this."