whitby allen

Is this the room you wanted to show me?

"Hey, did I say anything?"

He picks up an orange from the cooler and inspects it. A bit soft, a bit past its best, but then again, after a few weeks here, very little fresh food remains. He takes up a knife and peels off a curl of rind.

"I never said they don't. In fact, I look forward to receiving your findings. You are a fine scientist, I am certain they will be revolutionary," he deadpans.

He jolts into action as the orange goes flying. With the over-ripe fruit trapped -- somewhat squished -- between his hands, Whitby stares at Missouri with wide, buggish eyes. ❛ ..They will be. You'll see. ❜ He's had plenty of people cast their doubt upon his work before. This is hardly anything new.

He swiftly begins peeling the rest of the orange, all too aware of the way bits of its skin get trapped, sticky and sweet, under his nails. He consoles himself with the knowledge that at least this way the scent might linger a little longer, even if it feels unpleasant. Whitby splits the orange in half and steps forward to offer Missouri his portion.

"What, are you telling me something like that would be beyond your capabilities?"

❛ ...oh, i see what you're doing. that's very funny. ❜

It isn't so much that he is a sore loser in general, as it is that he is sore to lose so quickly, and to Whitby of all people. To make matters worse, Whitby's expression is bright and smug, and perhaps even a little mocking.

Missouri must be losing his mind. He takes a sip of his whiskey and sighs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"You cheated," he grunts, and swirls the last sip of his drink around in his glass. A plan is forming in his mind. Impulsive, perhaps, but all but guaranteed to wipe the grin off of Whitby's mouth.

He scans the board, as though searching for signs of Whitby's obvious deception, but it is not the glowing outlines of the chess pieces that he is looking at. His breath leaves him in a resigned puff of air, his mouth pressed tight in a serious line.

With a quick movement and deft fingers, Missouri reaches forward and pries the plastic off of the control panel, then dumps the remaining contents of his glass into the exposed machinery. It flickers and sparks, and the light of the board blinks out.

❛ you're drunk, ❜ he accuses missouri, entirely disregarding his own half - empty glass. swiftly, whitby pulls himself to his feet to stalk after him. there's something about the way missouri has physically withdrawn himself that makes it feel as though he's trying to run away. whitby won't have it. the whiskey, of course, has made him more daring. he wouldn't typically be bold enough to chase after someone like missouri.

@whywhitby said : you don't get to die yet.