It takes Deacon somewhere between ten seconds and three minutes (who can say) to realize that's because he is upside down. And only because he watches his own hair float away from him and bump off of a stranger before twirling back in his direction, unmarred and still perfectly swept into a pompadour. He scrunches his nose and reaches for it, fitting it back onto his bald head and then attempts to push himself off of the ceiling gracefully.
It's not a bad attempt, but gravity also isn't really working with him right now, so he won't be taking any critiques. He lands on his feet, but a floating shard of glass slices at his arm and he hisses, grabbing at it with his hand immediately. "Every time I wear white." he mutters in frustration, immediately looking for something to use to dress the wound.
[Make yourself at home.]
"I feel very welcome, here." Deacon says blandly at the flashing images suggesting that he's infected, side-stepping what seems to be a malfunctioning restraint system. His eyebrows rise as he watches it reach for nothing and tangle in itself, then he nods a bit and wanders out to the hall from the medical room he'd just been scavenging.
An unknown creature shambles in his direction, and without hesitation he's aiming a wasteland-patented pipe gun in it's direction, firing a few shots as an appendage attempts sink its poison fangs into him. It coils back and he rushes down the hall, putting some distance between them while he reloads.
"Has that cozy 'feels like home' charm and everything."
Deacon can't explain why it's so important that he right-sides the old girl, but something tells him that she'll start right up for him when he does, and with the way this place is falling apart? He's going to need some serious wheels to get the hell out of here.
"I think we can get her back on her wheels with a chain if we hook it to the frame, I just need someone with a vehicle strong enough to pull it." he yells behind him to any fellow drifters within earshot. And if they're not, psychic echoes might carry the thought futher enough to get their attention.
"Trust me, I've done this before, it'll be fine." he continues, although his mind is distinctly projecting that he has not.
Deacon | Fallout 4
Everything feels a bit upside-down.
It takes Deacon somewhere between ten seconds and three minutes (who can say) to realize that's because he is upside down. And only because he watches his own hair float away from him and bump off of a stranger before twirling back in his direction, unmarred and still perfectly swept into a pompadour. He scrunches his nose and reaches for it, fitting it back onto his bald head and then attempts to push himself off of the ceiling gracefully.
It's not a bad attempt, but gravity also isn't really working with him right now, so he won't be taking any critiques. He lands on his feet, but a floating shard of glass slices at his arm and he hisses, grabbing at it with his hand immediately.
"Every time I wear white." he mutters in frustration, immediately looking for something to use to dress the wound.
[Make yourself at home.]
"I feel very welcome, here." Deacon says blandly at the flashing images suggesting that he's infected, side-stepping what seems to be a malfunctioning restraint system. His eyebrows rise as he watches it reach for nothing and tangle in itself, then he nods a bit and wanders out to the hall from the medical room he'd just been scavenging.
An unknown creature shambles in his direction, and without hesitation he's aiming a wasteland-patented pipe gun in it's direction, firing a few shots as an appendage attempts sink its poison fangs into him. It coils back and he rushes down the hall, putting some distance between them while he reloads.
"Has that cozy 'feels like home' charm and everything."
[What could go wrong?]
She's seen better days.
Deacon can't explain why it's so important that he right-sides the old girl, but something tells him that she'll start right up for him when he does, and with the way this place is falling apart? He's going to need some serious wheels to get the hell out of here.
"I think we can get her back on her wheels with a chain if we hook it to the frame, I just need someone with a vehicle strong enough to pull it." he yells behind him to any fellow drifters within earshot. And if they're not, psychic echoes might carry the thought futher enough to get their attention.
"Trust me, I've done this before, it'll be fine." he continues, although his mind is distinctly projecting that he has not.