There are probably worse ways to wake up. It's a rather large, weighty probably, and one Dirk is having difficulty getting his arms around while also trying to swallow down his heart as it tries to beat its way out of his chest – a task itself rendered only more difficult by the fact that his mouth has gone entirely dry.
It felt, for a few incoherent moments after he'd first awakened, like Black Wing. The instant before freefall is spent trying to assess whether or not the reality is worse. Everything after that seems to compartmentalise itself with a wonderful lack of effort on his part, burning itself into an independent and freshly-discovered part of his brain which he wraps up and refuses to address the instant he's on the ground, thrumming and trembling with adrenaline, throat inexplicably raw.
Or maybe not so inexplicably. He hopes it wasn't too unbecoming a scream.
His hands are numb as he grapples with the door of the pod, breathing still coming far too fast, the already tight space seeming to shrink about him. His brain feels fuzzy, fried, a bit like he's just come out of an encounter with the Rowdies – like, therefore, someone has been digging about in his synapses, picking through his neurotransmitters, tasting them, and putting them back in entirely the wrong order.
When the door of the pod flies open – whether through the intervention of merciful fate or an interloper he can't at the moment determine – Dirk flounders out of it, falling with a sad, limp flop to the ground. Maybe... maybe he'll just lay here a moment with the smell of the dirt and the alarming taste of bile in the back of his throat. None of that, thank you. Whatever's in his stomach can stay right where it is – he's having a bit of trouble remembering at the moment, but presumably he put it there for a reason.
“Oh, thank you,” he breathes weakly to nobody and nothing in particular, patting the ground with a clammy hand.
B – Gathering Bearings, Bearing Gatherings
i. He's still shaking. All over, full-body trembling, teeth chattering. It's probably, he recognises, shock, and that's probably something nobody can afford to entertain at the moment. After all, there are bound to be people here who are actually hurt, actually in trouble, and the very possibility terrifies him deeply. It's a lot of responsibility to be setting on his shoulders, for one, even if he does seem to be one of the last arrivals.
Stumbling his way through the aftermath, the debris and the abandoned pods, feels strangely familiar, tickles at some memory stored in his animal brain: it has the unreality of the escape, his first few days on the other side of the cell door, of the razorwire. That, presumably, is why he feels pursued. Not the thought of what's going on elsewhere. Not the fact that he might be.
He needs to be... well, useful might be too much to ask, and he knows it, but knowing it doesn't stop him from approaching the first person who looks as though they know where they're going and what they're going to do when they get there.
“How can I help?” His voice shakes as much as his hands are, but his eyes are wide, as earnest as the worried furrow of his brow.
ii. Dirk has slept in a lot of strange places. That's a vaguely reassuring bit of knowledge he rolls around in his mouth as he looks over the supplies he was dropped with, but it's not exactly helpful knowledge. He's slept in a skip. On park benches. In Marriott hotels. One thing he's never done is assemble a tent.
He is, moreover, not particularly adept at assembling anything. His old flat in London had been populated with flatpack furniture which had had a notable tendency to revert to simply being flat (unpacked), largely due to his own difficulties with interpreting the frankly inscrutable assembly instructions. This time he's not even blessed with that much. That is, primarily, why he's sat with various tent-related accoutrements spread on the ground before him, reaching out occasionally to pick up an item – tent peg, stake – and turn it over in his hands before setting it back down, gingerly but with a thoughtful hum, as though he knows precisely what to do with everything here but is simply deliberating over whether or not he can't improve upon the usual method. This is, of course, inaccurate. If anything, he feels rather as though he's trying to reinvent the wheel.
Dirk spies on similarly-occupied neighbours and passers-by askance, rubbing thoughtfully at his cheek – leaving behind a smear of dirt – and looking not entirely unlike a student trying to cheat on an exam and failing utterly to be subtle about it. Also not entirely unlike a student trying to cheat on an exam and failing utterly to be subtle about it, he looks faintly as though he might cry.
((ooc note: If you prefer actionspam, feel free to use it! I'll happily switch.))
Dirk Gently | Final Wave
There are probably worse ways to wake up. It's a rather large, weighty probably, and one Dirk is having difficulty getting his arms around while also trying to swallow down his heart as it tries to beat its way out of his chest – a task itself rendered only more difficult by the fact that his mouth has gone entirely dry.
It felt, for a few incoherent moments after he'd first awakened, like Black Wing. The instant before freefall is spent trying to assess whether or not the reality is worse. Everything after that seems to compartmentalise itself with a wonderful lack of effort on his part, burning itself into an independent and freshly-discovered part of his brain which he wraps up and refuses to address the instant he's on the ground, thrumming and trembling with adrenaline, throat inexplicably raw.
Or maybe not so inexplicably. He hopes it wasn't too unbecoming a scream.
His hands are numb as he grapples with the door of the pod, breathing still coming far too fast, the already tight space seeming to shrink about him. His brain feels fuzzy, fried, a bit like he's just come out of an encounter with the Rowdies – like, therefore, someone has been digging about in his synapses, picking through his neurotransmitters, tasting them, and putting them back in entirely the wrong order.
When the door of the pod flies open – whether through the intervention of merciful fate or an interloper he can't at the moment determine – Dirk flounders out of it, falling with a sad, limp flop to the ground. Maybe... maybe he'll just lay here a moment with the smell of the dirt and the alarming taste of bile in the back of his throat. None of that, thank you. Whatever's in his stomach can stay right where it is – he's having a bit of trouble remembering at the moment, but presumably he put it there for a reason.
“Oh, thank you,” he breathes weakly to nobody and nothing in particular, patting the ground with a clammy hand.
B – Gathering Bearings, Bearing Gatherings
i.
He's still shaking. All over, full-body trembling, teeth chattering. It's probably, he recognises, shock, and that's probably something nobody can afford to entertain at the moment. After all, there are bound to be people here who are actually hurt, actually in trouble, and the very possibility terrifies him deeply. It's a lot of responsibility to be setting on his shoulders, for one, even if he does seem to be one of the last arrivals.
Stumbling his way through the aftermath, the debris and the abandoned pods, feels strangely familiar, tickles at some memory stored in his animal brain: it has the unreality of the escape, his first few days on the other side of the cell door, of the razorwire. That, presumably, is why he feels pursued. Not the thought of what's going on elsewhere. Not the fact that he might be.
He needs to be... well, useful might be too much to ask, and he knows it, but knowing it doesn't stop him from approaching the first person who looks as though they know where they're going and what they're going to do when they get there.
“How can I help?” His voice shakes as much as his hands are, but his eyes are wide, as earnest as the worried furrow of his brow.
ii.
Dirk has slept in a lot of strange places. That's a vaguely reassuring bit of knowledge he rolls around in his mouth as he looks over the supplies he was dropped with, but it's not exactly helpful knowledge. He's slept in a skip. On park benches. In Marriott hotels. One thing he's never done is assemble a tent.
He is, moreover, not particularly adept at assembling anything. His old flat in London had been populated with flatpack furniture which had had a notable tendency to revert to simply being flat (unpacked), largely due to his own difficulties with interpreting the frankly inscrutable assembly instructions. This time he's not even blessed with that much. That is, primarily, why he's sat with various tent-related accoutrements spread on the ground before him, reaching out occasionally to pick up an item – tent peg, stake – and turn it over in his hands before setting it back down, gingerly but with a thoughtful hum, as though he knows precisely what to do with everything here but is simply deliberating over whether or not he can't improve upon the usual method. This is, of course, inaccurate. If anything, he feels rather as though he's trying to reinvent the wheel.
Dirk spies on similarly-occupied neighbours and passers-by askance, rubbing thoughtfully at his cheek – leaving behind a smear of dirt – and looking not entirely unlike a student trying to cheat on an exam and failing utterly to be subtle about it. Also not entirely unlike a student trying to cheat on an exam and failing utterly to be subtle about it, he looks faintly as though he might cry.
((ooc note: If you prefer actionspam, feel free to use it! I'll happily switch.))