Anyone else might have been discouraged by all the heavily armed men and droids distributed throughout their path. A Krotazi, as a general rule, was discouraged by little. Attempts at discouraging em tended to backfire, making eir goal yet more tempting than it might have been. Grilka was worse than Kreska when it came to not wanting to walk along the floor. It was easier this way, really, wrapping eirself around pipes and cables and other such things, more comfortable than 'walking' along a flat surface. And there was something so wonderfully fun about descending on prey from above.
Kreska, meanwhile, was squinting up at the droid now in the ceiling. "Didja hijack a dude, or a dummy droid?" she wondered, the faintest hint of disapproval. She'd always had a soft spot for droids, and a particular empathy for how horrifying it seemed like it would be to get hacked into.
She looked down at the tray with a faint wrinkle to her nose. "Ick. Keep th' meat. Totes gonna steal a fry, tho. Izzat really beer soup?" She frowned down at her tablet. "On my–? Th' fuck?" She squinted at her tablet, but it looked like a solid glass screen; the camera was not obvious in its build, so she couldn't just cover it unless she wanted to set her foot on it. "What th' fuck, dude. Don' be all spyin' on me an' shit, that's creepy." It occurred to her to be self-conscious about the amount of skin she was baring only then, wrapping her injured arm around her bared midriff and crossing her ankles with a frown. A foot nudged the tablet further away from her. She recoiled a little from the bag of dropped clothes, blinking at it.
She snorted, because her own discomfort was much less amusing than anyone else's. "Anything anybody ain't s'posed t'know's fine. Th' less they want folk t'know an' th'more important th' person, th' happier'll ey'll be. 'magine ya've got somethin' lyin' around." She might have complained about the nickname, if she knew what it meant. She didn't want to admit to not knowing what he was saying, in case it was something obvious. She crouched down to set aside her cigarette and grab a brown glass bottle, squinting at it. Fonts on labels were always such bullshit. It was definitely some kind of beer. She was pretty sure it was root beer. She cracked it open and took a sip.
"Literal like tentacles," she clarified for Sascha, wiggling a few fingers demonstrably against the bottle. "Scaly an' in awkward places. Loves em a ginge. Specially dudes, ey don' get dudes much I guess."
Then she frowned, because she thought she heard a noise outside.
She shouldn't have been able to hear a noise outside.
She had a sinking feeling she knew what it was.
"Shit," she said, setting down her drink and getting up to return to her abandoned clothes. "Shit fuck cock ass damn fuck shit dicks." She picked up her jeans, looking back to Sascha and the bag of clothes. "If ya wanna change, do it fast," she advised, shoving her own legs into her jeans and nearly tipping over in her haste. "No skirts," she added, though she doubted it was a risk.
She wasn't going to take the risk, with a possible time crunch, of digging through and trying to find something she'd like that would fit. She wasn't the one stuck in a catsuit, anyway.
Something tapped on the door, a ringing sound throughout the room originated from a precise point on the door. Tap tap-tap-tap tap.
Shave and a haircut.
"Fuck off," she yelled at the door, rather than the traditional 'two bits'. Ey wouldn't be able to hear her anyway, but it was the thought that counted.
Kreska, meanwhile, was squinting up at the droid now in the ceiling. "Didja hijack a dude, or a dummy droid?" she wondered, the faintest hint of disapproval. She'd always had a soft spot for droids, and a particular empathy for how horrifying it seemed like it would be to get hacked into.
She looked down at the tray with a faint wrinkle to her nose. "Ick. Keep th' meat. Totes gonna steal a fry, tho. Izzat really beer soup?" She frowned down at her tablet. "On my–? Th' fuck?" She squinted at her tablet, but it looked like a solid glass screen; the camera was not obvious in its build, so she couldn't just cover it unless she wanted to set her foot on it. "What th' fuck, dude. Don' be all spyin' on me an' shit, that's creepy." It occurred to her to be self-conscious about the amount of skin she was baring only then, wrapping her injured arm around her bared midriff and crossing her ankles with a frown. A foot nudged the tablet further away from her. She recoiled a little from the bag of dropped clothes, blinking at it.
She snorted, because her own discomfort was much less amusing than anyone else's. "Anything anybody ain't s'posed t'know's fine. Th' less they want folk t'know an' th'more important th' person, th' happier'll ey'll be. 'magine ya've got somethin' lyin' around." She might have complained about the nickname, if she knew what it meant. She didn't want to admit to not knowing what he was saying, in case it was something obvious. She crouched down to set aside her cigarette and grab a brown glass bottle, squinting at it. Fonts on labels were always such bullshit. It was definitely some kind of beer. She was pretty sure it was root beer. She cracked it open and took a sip.
"Literal like tentacles," she clarified for Sascha, wiggling a few fingers demonstrably against the bottle. "Scaly an' in awkward places. Loves em a ginge. Specially dudes, ey don' get dudes much I guess."
Then she frowned, because she thought she heard a noise outside.
She shouldn't have been able to hear a noise outside.
She had a sinking feeling she knew what it was.
"Shit," she said, setting down her drink and getting up to return to her abandoned clothes. "Shit fuck cock ass damn fuck shit dicks." She picked up her jeans, looking back to Sascha and the bag of clothes. "If ya wanna change, do it fast," she advised, shoving her own legs into her jeans and nearly tipping over in her haste. "No skirts," she added, though she doubted it was a risk.
She wasn't going to take the risk, with a possible time crunch, of digging through and trying to find something she'd like that would fit. She wasn't the one stuck in a catsuit, anyway.
Something tapped on the door, a ringing sound throughout the room originated from a precise point on the door. Tap tap-tap-tap tap.
Shave and a haircut.
"Fuck off," she yelled at the door, rather than the traditional 'two bits'. Ey wouldn't be able to hear her anyway, but it was the thought that counted.
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