[ at this hour, the only light to be had is dirk’s and the telltale gleam of cyberoptics behind dave’s shades. it’s a familiar thing, darkness; in shadows they move and whatever, and he finds the greatest comfort in their embrace, but fate and the universe have conspired as of late to keep pitching his untimely ass into the brightest, most well-lit dystopian nightmares possible. at 3:22 am, there is no errant beam to glare and expose to the world all his myriad crimes; only a lamp stands witness as dave oozes up onto the desk, or what clear space can be found on it. ]
Sleep’s for guys who barely got half the number of irons in the fire a Strider has on any given day.
You know what else is for guys who are Striders, though?
[ HIS snack appearifies immediately overhead to plop onto the waiting table of dave's palm, and all of the sudden the entire room is awash in the delectable aroma of pizza. that turtle's pizza map has been put to only the greatest use. ]
Funny you should ask. Just so happens I got a feast on my hands, and I'm feeling a mite magnanimous. Get that maw unhinged, bro.
[ of course he didn’t flashes through his mind like quicksilver, but it’s followed, as ever, by the guilt; sharp barbs wearing down with time, their bite sinking just a little less deep each time he remembers those once-in-a-blue-moon occasions that bro fucking strider actually tried.
(turntables under tiny hands, a feast of chinese take-out arrayed around the tv like a shrine so they may pick at it while they played the xbox to its inevitable heat death) ]
What can I say? I hate owing time anything, anyway. Here, look, it comes with dipping sauces and shit.
[ he hops off his desk perch so the pizza box can take his seat instead. ]
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It's my greatest pleasure to inform you that through the powers once vested in me, it is now snack-time. Nourishment hour.
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You should know by now I don't really sleep.
[ much like the robot that he inevitably is, but he snatches the can and opens it. ]
More like just resting my eyes.
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Sleep’s for guys who barely got half the number of irons in the fire a Strider has on any given day.
You know what else is for guys who are Striders, though?
Snack.
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[ He takes a swig. It is refreshing. Despite being sick of this stuff, he still loves it. It's a strange relationship. ]
Where is YOUR snack, man?
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Funny you should ask. Just so happens I got a feast on my hands, and I'm feeling a mite magnanimous. Get that maw unhinged, bro.
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You're making up for lost pizza slumber party time, huh? Can't imagine my other self did anything like this with you.
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(turntables under tiny hands, a feast of chinese take-out arrayed around the tv like a shrine so they may pick at it while they played the xbox to its inevitable heat death) ]
What can I say? I hate owing time anything, anyway. Here, look, it comes with dipping sauces and shit.
[ he hops off his desk perch so the pizza box can take his seat instead. ]