FOR: @prcmethevs WHERE: SURROUNDING ISLANDS; BEACH WHEN: 2130.02; NIGHTFALL
If anyone had told him that in two weeks time he’d be sitting by the water’s edge, sharing a bottle of scotch pilfered from the open-bar with Prometheus of all people, he’d have checked them into the nearest hospital for taking leave of their senses. Yet here he is, doing exactly that, and wonder of all wonders, they are actually playing civil—no bloodshed so far, barbs and knife edges tucked away behind backs for the night. The Fates do have a strange sense of humor.
The quiet lasts for only a minute though, a blink in the eternity that has been the drag of the days since arriving on Pontius, before both of their phones go off with the familiar ping of a new notification. Another fire to be put out, another crisis that needs diverting—it seems to be all he, all either of them, has been occupied with lately.
Not without good reason, to be sure, but he’s taking an unofficial night off. Short of someone actually dying, there’s nothing that will be pulling him away from here and now. He doesn’t bother even checking what the update is, lying back against the sand and closing his eyes. Prom can get this one. “What’s the damage?”