#synthsation

          a lot of people have come to his island. a lot. many, many, many fucking people. but this? this is bizarre. UNEXPECTED... and vaas appreciates that. in fact, he downright cherishes it. ❝ who are you, huh? what is all, ❞ a sharp whistle follows his appraising finger, ❝ of this? ❞ that same finger swirls in the air before landing on the helmet’s visor. one becomes another, and another until he’s palming plastic and kevlar. a dubious sound bubbles behind his teeth.

               inner peace is something he’s fashioned out of time, moonshine, and tobacco. frail foundations are only good for topping graves in these parts. it wouldn’t do no one a lick of good if he were the hot headed, squeamish son-of-a-bitch he was in his youth. no sir. funny thing about foundations, though — you can pour as much concrete as you like but that can’t stop the ground from shifting. and diego is developing quite the bad habit of rocking doc’s world.

the appendage is spotted the moment it’s shadowy tip peeks from diego’s visor. it dances and wriggles in his peripherals, but it takes a backseat to the evening horizon doc scans. the kid may be CREEPY, but he don’t mean no harm; therefore no harm will come to him from doc’s hand, could it be helped. with that said, in a land with no law boundaries must be upheld.

eye, cheek, and nose scrunch in defense of the suddenly wet TWAP across his cheek. excess slime flings free from the limb’s underbelly and catches on the tip of his cigarette. the fluid is too viscid to see the undeniably soaked ( i.e. useless ) cherry. cramped teeth grip the filter between them. his jaw grinds left and then right, sawing lower bridgework into the butt.

a calloused hand raised, snatching the slick limb. thick wetness squelches free from his grip as he twists his wrist. the corner of his upper lip jumps.

DOC KNOWS IT’S TIME TO FEED DIEGO WHEN DROOLY SLIME IS IN THE HOUSE

          he scrubs at his face. stubble catches in the cracked callouses armoring his fingertips and the heel of his hand. only when proper consciousness is palmed into his cheeks and eyes does he release a peeved grunt. his hand lifts away only to drop to his bare chest. instead of a soft, hollow sound, a wet SLAP follows diego’s words.

doc’s eyes finally crack open. looking down the slope his flat pillow grants him, he spies the sound’s source oozing between his fingers, squelching beneath his palm. raising his hand reveals a black, shining gossamer clinging to both parts of his body. disgusting.

several thoughts sort themselves with a rapid blink for each. with them in order, he tosses his head back against his pillow, eyes stubbornly squeezed shut. it’s the ASSCRACK of dawn, there’s space gunk on his person, and diego’s being a pest. that can only mean one thing — it’s time for breakfast.

❝ diego… ❞ fingers flex to their full potential. the tacky substance is smeared from his skin to the exposed sheet beside him ( not exactly an improvement to the already stained fabric, but not a stark contrast either ).

               lips part to argue to purpose of the mug but a sudden gag corks his throat. septum tingling with his a threat from his gut, he rubs beneath his nose. oh that is foul. despite a physical repulsion at the sight, doc can’t bring himself to look from the... tongue? he’s lived here longer than he care’s to remember, but in all those years he’s never seen anyone --- anything --- like this. how blessed he was.

               the sudden exhale nearly frees the dying cigarette from between his teeth. his titter visibly mingles with the thin trail of smoke twisting near it. a mental montage of broken bone and glass briefly entertains him. gravel embeds into the dirt as doc swiftly twists back around. what polite reservation he may hold is tossed into the bed of the truck along with his cigarette’s butt. he’s gotta be fuckin’ kidding.