trans_9 | Sooo...Meet-y

He could see. This was always a good thing, the seeing. This was a bit much. At least his hair was restored to its usual-- green Jewfro-type business. And he'd suited up, the great glorious bastard, back to being comfortable and NOT naked. And NOT slimed. And it didn't take long, did it, to get a roach hanging out of his mouth, smoke sifting slowly towards the ceiling. He had his hands in his pockets. Spike was confused.

'Chosen,' that was the vocabulary word for the day. 'Chosen' for. Aliens, or. He hadn't soaked it all in just yet, he had to mull, and there was a numb kind of look on his face as he stood just off to the side, peering about the other people in the room and not recognizing a damn one. "Greater purpose my-- ass," he was muttering under his breath, not even really SMOKING the cigarette, per se, just felt more comfortable with one hanging from his mouth, for the time being.

The ship was alive, and as such had an omnipresent background odor all of its own, but there was no mistaking the smell of cigarette smoke wafting through the air. Its source was easy enough to identify, too - the tall, lanky man off to the side, leaning up against the wall.

"I didn't know Stacy had that sort of thing in her storage," Nanoha chuckled as she approached him. "I think she seems like more of the environmental type."

Jesus, there were a lot of people here. Were that all in that goo crap too? What the hell was going on? Spike was puffing idly at his cigarette, mulling away, no clue what was happening, he didn't much want someone to start asking him questions he didn't know the answer to, there was a person. Talking to him.

Spike's eyes flickered downward - some girl? Who the hell put some girl into goo? Who WERE these people? - as he shifted from foot to foot. "The lady?" Or whoever. Computer. Something. He'd heard voices. He was going steadily more insane. "Had 'em on me." He plucked the cigarette from his mouth, smoke streaming from his nostrils. "Kind of a general rule. Don't know Stacy too well but she seems like more of a 'Save the Planet' kinda gal, yeah. I like my lung cancer."

"'Save the Omniverse' is more her thing, but there are probably a lot of planets included in that."

"I'm Nanoha, by the way. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Mars, Earth, Neptune, they all look the same from far enough away," Spike replied, passively, scratching at his head - with the cigarette hand, consequentially probably tapping a bit of ash into his hair but oh well - and peering up at Nanoha, curiously. Introductions to this strange-ass place.

"Spike," he offered in return. "I have too many questions. Let's start with the most important, because I need a drink. Something hard."

"That's true, they do." At his next unspoken question, Nanoha paused for a moment. "I think there are some people on the ship who've brewed their own alcohol, but you could always create a bar in the Sensoriums. A lot of people do that if they want a good meal or something to drink. I don't think Stacy has much liquor just lying around, though."

Not too much liquor laying around. That was all right. It wasn't like he made a regular habit of drinking. He did often, but it didn't make it a vice. Still, he nodded his affirmation, a slow and sardonic kind of smile working its way up his expression. Or maybe an ironic one, that was a little wary and afraid to hear the next answer. "And you did mention that she doesn't seem so big a cigarette fan."

"Yours are the first I've seen anywhere outside of the Sensoriums. They aren't exactly the sort of thing she'd usually keep in storage, as far as I know."

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starlightace - 2009-12-03 02:00 (UTC) - Expand

Sorry for the delay ;-;

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That was a look Kazuya was very familiar with. And, considering his distanced stance, this was a man that actually looked like he would like. As such, he found himself leaning on a wall near Spike with a similar look on his face.

"My sentiments exactly."

--And people said Spike had weird hair. At least his just floofed around all by itself and was green in general, it wasn't some-- weird. Point. Thing. Not that he wasn't used to weird hair. He was just sayin'.

He gave Kazuya a nod of greeting, as was generally kosher, but not without eying him warily. Spike wasn't a jumpy person by nature, but a situation like this, maybe he was just a wee bit confused. "That how all the newbies are greeted?" he asked, after a pause, a bit mumbled around the cigarette, possibly referring to things involving weird space goo. "Or are we just a special bunch?"

Kazuya will have Spike know that his hair was natural. At least his hair didn't have two points like a Wolverine wannabe gone wrong, framing an otherwise bald head, like his father's, or a three foot long mustache that looked like a Wolverine wannabe gone stupid. Part of the curse of his family apparently.

"Hard to say," Kazuya said, still rather confused about the place as well. "I was brought in last time. We didn't get any kind of explanation. Just thrust into a mob of cannibalistic undead mutants."

Well, that's what you got, Kazuya. That's what you got from being in Tekken. Still, there you had it. The two could have started up some kind of weird-ass natural hair club. It might have worked out in their favor.

It was that statement that had caught his attention, though, maybe something about 'cannibalistic undead MUTANTS' that just seemed a little OFF to him, he couldn't say way. The cigarette automatically drooped in his lips, eyebrows carefully furrowing back at the other man. "Wow, really is a special occasion. So might I be reminded again: What the HELL?"

Kazuya chuckled slightly. Yea, this guy reminded him a lot of himself. The green jew-fro aside (though you have to admit, the weird-ass natural hair did score them some hot chicas), this guy looked to be rather swift on his feet, and limber to boot. Something told Kazuya that Spike had been in his fair share of scraps in the past.

This would be interesting indeed.

"Your guess is as good as mine." Kazuya extended a gloved hand toward the other man. "Kazuya Mishima. You?"

"I've been tryin' to think of it as a sightseein' trip," says a girl with a very US-southern accent, wearing a—

Well, to someone with Spike's experience it would probably seem like a spacesuit, but certainly a strange one. Form-fitting, slightly iridescent blue-green material, fitted with paneled sections here and there with compartments on top, and a slim-fitted 'backpack' in segments down her back. The faceplate's open—split in two, in fact, retracted to either side, revealing where the helmet is fitted tight to around her face.

And there's a transparent membrane covering that face, too, possible to miss at first glance, but it gives her only exposed skin a certain plasticine quality. It even stretches harmlessly over her eyes and nose and mouth.

Yeah, no, that was definitely a first. Not that Spike hadn't worn spacesuits before. His own was-- rather worse for wear - candy apple red, to match his ship - and maybe a little similar, insofar as form-fitting, paneled sections, the helmet. But it definitely wasn't shiny like hers. He was kind of jealous of the shiny.

"Awful well-adjusted of you," Spike shot back in turn, eyebrows raised. He was leaning in a bit curiously, maybe just seeing the-- whatsit around her face too, another thing his suit didn't have. He puffed distractedly at his cigarette, nodding back at her. "Looks like someone got the memo, brought the suit and everything."

If Spike's gaze verges down (and can navigate past the girl's rather well-sculpted assets feminine), he might even spot that the suit seems to have high heels as part of the boot sections. (Right now, anyway.)

"I always have this, actually. I'm a grasshopper." She watches for some hint of recognition in Spike's face, and almost immediately (she's getting better at this) continues on. "Kinda like a tourist, 'cept we help out some if we run into any real backwater places."

He was distracted. Right? That smoking business and his hair HAD to have obscured his vision to an extent. And, if he had a cigarette, thing. Then he had to have matches.

Gavroche refused to believe he wasn't returning to France, and when he did. He was going to want matches.

So... just. A few. More. Inches.

You can do this Gamin. You know you can...

As if Spike didn't spend 90% of his time with a cigarette jutting from his mouth. Including some times when he was sleeping. Anybody else, it might have worked, but Spike had a bit of a disposition for the pickpocketing business. Kids, as a whole, were pretty dumb with it. Terrible poker faces. They relied way too much on bumping into the person they intended to pick from, and it was just allover very obvious.

He didn't have matches, but he DID have his lighter. His only lighter. His only source of FLAME. So it was a bit important. Gavroche's hand got itself in and nearly out before Spikes was wrapping around his wrist, without even looking down just yet. A few sprinkles of ash fell from his cigarette, a smirk at the corners of his lips as he peered down. "Not half-bad. Little more slick with the approach and you might've gotten me."

And just like that Gavroche put on the best 'innocent' face he could muster, after all, it wasn't like this was Javert, who knew his faces, this was a new person. Someone who had 'popped' in. So. Maybe? Just maybe.

"I don't know what you mean sir?" As if he just didn't have anything in his hand.
He's innocent. See?

Look at that face.

Only Spike wasn't born yesterday, so though he was still smirking, there was a kind of warning look he got in his eyes, rather amused, regardless. "I wasn't born yesterday. Look, you gotta be more nonchalant. A little less watching your guy, so he can't catch you looking out of the corner of your eye. You have to watch him WITHOUT watching him. Light on your fingers, though, nice. AND you've got the young thing going for you." He let go of Gavroche's hand, and gave him an a-okay symbol. "Good try."

He took a step back. This gamin was not trusting the green afro man. Not even a little. Not even if he didn't actually know what an afro was.

"Is that all you have to say sir?" He was waiting for the landing blow.

"Sort of." Spike dug around in his own jacket, extracting a piece of... rather stale bread and peering at it intently. "Why do you have bread in your pocket?"

Gavroche jumped forward to snatch it back. "That is MINE!" His bread! His last little bit of Paris! He remembered getting it even. Enjonras gave it to him just before the canons fired. He kept it in his pocket to be safe and now...

It was his.

"You're going to ruin it!"

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Big, dark eyes watched the lost, the crazed, those wondering, in short, what the hell was up.

The little girl with the odd hat was going to each of them that looked approachable, offering what information, comfort and crackerbowl slop she could.

"Mister is th-" Cue coughing fit as she caught a mouthful of smoke.

Hmm? Spike heard the coughing, and even comprehended the coughing, and what was CAUSING the coughing, but he wasn't exactly one to consider other people too much. Especially when it came to his smoking. Smoking was a necessity. Hence his not even making an effort to point anything any other way, just kept puffing away.

"Uhh, 'mister', kinda formal, ain't it? I'm good with Spike."