concord_dawned (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
concord_dawned) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
annexedlogs2022-12-09 10:30 am
concord_dawned) wrote in annexedlogs2022-12-09 10:30 am
[open] ain't no rest for the wicked
Who: Boba Fett and you!
What: Boba learns the hard way that his new powers come with a cost.
When: Early December
Where: A pub near Central Command in the Witches Camp
Content Warnings: None yet
It’s been an eventful past couple of weeks, to say the least.
Between showing up in this world to throwing himself into the missions, Boba hasn’t given himself much room to breathe at all. He’s always been the relentless type, always the sort to push past any sort of physical or mental limitation to achieve his goals. He allows himself no excuses and certainly no breaks. And, usually, he can take it: exhaustion, fear, pain—it seems to him that he’s been gifted with the rare ability to simply turn such things off, to ignore them to the point that they might as well not exist. It’s saved his life on more than one occasion.
Yet, as he makes his way through the Witches Camp after his latest mission, the fatigue that clings to him feels different somehow. Bone-deep and solid as stone, it drags at him with every step. He feels… sick? Hurt? No, neither of those, but it’s certainly more than just tired. His armor, usually an extension of himself, now feels like a heavy weight pulling him down.
He grits his teeth and tries to ignore it as he usually does. His living quarters in Central Command are only a few blocks away. If he needs rest, he’ll find it there. But as he puts one foot in front of the next, each step only deepens the exhaustion. He makes it another block before what started as a feeling turns into an unignorable need. Sit down, it seems to say, Or I’ll make you sit down.
Finally, Boba relents. There’s a small, mostly empty pub a few doors down. Boba makes a beeline for it, ignoring the curious expressions of the staff at seeing a fully-armored figure enter their establishment. Once inside, he tucks himself into a corner booth, doing his best to radiate his absolute lack of desire for any sort of service. He won’t stay long. He’ll just sit for a few minutes and catch his breath, maybe try to think through why he feels so damn tired—
He’s barely strung the thought together when he’s yanked unceremoniously into unconsciousness. Anyone nearby might catch sight of the odd transformation that occurs next: Boba’s distinct Mandalorian armor seems to fold away into itself, plates and fabric alike neatly vanishing. Left behind is the smaller form of a teenager dressed in plainclothes, head tucked against his chest and eyes closed—clearly asleep.
What: Boba learns the hard way that his new powers come with a cost.
When: Early December
Where: A pub near Central Command in the Witches Camp
Content Warnings: None yet
It’s been an eventful past couple of weeks, to say the least.
Between showing up in this world to throwing himself into the missions, Boba hasn’t given himself much room to breathe at all. He’s always been the relentless type, always the sort to push past any sort of physical or mental limitation to achieve his goals. He allows himself no excuses and certainly no breaks. And, usually, he can take it: exhaustion, fear, pain—it seems to him that he’s been gifted with the rare ability to simply turn such things off, to ignore them to the point that they might as well not exist. It’s saved his life on more than one occasion.
Yet, as he makes his way through the Witches Camp after his latest mission, the fatigue that clings to him feels different somehow. Bone-deep and solid as stone, it drags at him with every step. He feels… sick? Hurt? No, neither of those, but it’s certainly more than just tired. His armor, usually an extension of himself, now feels like a heavy weight pulling him down.
He grits his teeth and tries to ignore it as he usually does. His living quarters in Central Command are only a few blocks away. If he needs rest, he’ll find it there. But as he puts one foot in front of the next, each step only deepens the exhaustion. He makes it another block before what started as a feeling turns into an unignorable need. Sit down, it seems to say, Or I’ll make you sit down.
Finally, Boba relents. There’s a small, mostly empty pub a few doors down. Boba makes a beeline for it, ignoring the curious expressions of the staff at seeing a fully-armored figure enter their establishment. Once inside, he tucks himself into a corner booth, doing his best to radiate his absolute lack of desire for any sort of service. He won’t stay long. He’ll just sit for a few minutes and catch his breath, maybe try to think through why he feels so damn tired—
He’s barely strung the thought together when he’s yanked unceremoniously into unconsciousness. Anyone nearby might catch sight of the odd transformation that occurs next: Boba’s distinct Mandalorian armor seems to fold away into itself, plates and fabric alike neatly vanishing. Left behind is the smaller form of a teenager dressed in plainclothes, head tucked against his chest and eyes closed—clearly asleep.
no subject
"Nothing you couldn't figure out yourself, I expect," Elma says, lifting one shoulder and one hand slightly to communicate a shrug. "An estimate of energy expenditure based on vital signs and impact to concentration, perhaps determine if actual impact to your armor causes greater expenditure. It's all just a matter of experimenting and seeing what the results teach us, in this case."
no subject
Of course, even as fatigued as he is, his thoughts still eventually run up against the solid barrier of his own mistrust. He is the only one who should be learning of his weaknesses and limitations. That is not knowledge for a stranger—nor anyone else, for that matter.
"You're right," he says after a moment, tone neutral. "I can figure such things out for myself."
Starting with: the actual duration of the recovery period. He looks around, searching for a clock and finding none. He sighs under his breath.
"Do you have the time?"
no subject
Actually, Elma remains surprised how easily everyone adjusts to the passing of time here. Is that another effect of being here? A lingering effect from the chips, or perhaps a spell? She makes a mental note to research that.