[Majima has spent half of his time outside his pod evading the more enthusiastic healers. He's had worse, he repeats to himself. It thrums in his skull any moment the pain in his shins from the landing flares up, or when his hands sting from shoveling aside earth and wrenching open the newest pods to fall.
It hurts like a bitch, but goddammit, he's had worse, and some alien invasion bullshit isn't going to stop him from finding out if the space station made it. As long as the people he knows hang in the balance, he'll do whatever the Orbiters say-- as much as it might grate him.
Not that he could have brought himself to stand by in the middle of all this. He can't patch people up, he sure as hell can't snatch a pod out of the sky, but if he could keep some people from dying for no reason, he might be able to sleep once this is all over. Not likely, but worth a shot.
A shot is all he needs to dart around the plain like a gazelle in a tuxedo, ready to help, whether the new refugees are or not.]
II. - RESPITE
[Thankful as he is to be able to hear himself think again once the pods stop falling, Majima can't sit still for long. Without more news from the orbiters, his mind isn't much quieter than a minefield. He wanders away from the campfires that have popped up in cleaned out craters, and finds a higher hill on the plain. The rabble from camps carries up and echoes out past him, and it strikes an odd chord with him. Majima can't think of the last time he had this much space to move around, if ever. Tokyo and Osaka didn't even have parks with this much of an expanse.
In the distance, some lights dotted the night horizon. Towns? Even farther cities? He had no idea, and the lack of familiarity finally hits home and jars him. Majima pats down his dirty suit and digs out one of the few remaining cigarettes he'd been hoarding that survived the fall. He can only hope his lighter doesn't violate the prime directive, or whatever the hell act they were supposed to put on for the natives. He lights up and takes a deep drag that feels like the first in years.]
Majima Goro | third wave
[Majima has spent half of his time outside his pod evading the more enthusiastic healers. He's had worse, he repeats to himself. It thrums in his skull any moment the pain in his shins from the landing flares up, or when his hands sting from shoveling aside earth and wrenching open the newest pods to fall.
It hurts like a bitch, but goddammit, he's had worse, and some alien invasion bullshit isn't going to stop him from finding out if the space station made it. As long as the people he knows hang in the balance, he'll do whatever the Orbiters say-- as much as it might grate him.
Not that he could have brought himself to stand by in the middle of all this. He can't patch people up, he sure as hell can't snatch a pod out of the sky, but if he could keep some people from dying for no reason, he might be able to sleep once this is all over. Not likely, but worth a shot.
A shot is all he needs to dart around the plain like a gazelle in a tuxedo, ready to help, whether the new refugees are or not.]
II. - RESPITE
[Thankful as he is to be able to hear himself think again once the pods stop falling, Majima can't sit still for long. Without more news from the orbiters, his mind isn't much quieter than a minefield. He wanders away from the campfires that have popped up in cleaned out craters, and finds a higher hill on the plain. The rabble from camps carries up and echoes out past him, and it strikes an odd chord with him. Majima can't think of the last time he had this much space to move around, if ever. Tokyo and Osaka didn't even have parks with this much of an expanse.
In the distance, some lights dotted the night horizon. Towns? Even farther cities? He had no idea, and the lack of familiarity finally hits home and jars him. Majima pats down his dirty suit and digs out one of the few remaining cigarettes he'd been hoarding that survived the fall. He can only hope his lighter doesn't violate the prime directive, or whatever the hell act they were supposed to put on for the natives. He lights up and takes a deep drag that feels like the first in years.]
This is so fucked.
III. WILDCARD