[ JAILHOUSE ROCK | OPEN ]

[WANDERER]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;"][ it's almost 1am and this sucks asldf i just forgot about him for a bit and needed to write]

It was nicotine. He'd been missing nicotine.

Smoke drifts up and up — it was hard to light and hard to control, but somehow it felt kind of natural. He's on his third, which was not natural (and some part of him knows that he's risking some pretty life-threatening issues; it's sad that he doesn't care). Eventually it winds down, hot ash on white paws, and he drops it with the others and a promise to clean them up once he's relaxed a bit. That's already in the works, the German Shepherd's expression relaxing, golden eyes half-lidded. He knows that his brain should be buzzing right now, sorting through thousands of emotions and memories. It's just an instinct, some leftover... programming. There's nothing to sort now, aside from things he's already sorted a million times on their own. He woke up in a sandy grave. He owns almost nothing. A few pictures he'd found in the jacket, the same stupid radio. A half-smoked pack of cigarettes. That was dwindling fast. He's considering a fourth.

He doesn't take it, and instead twists almost painfully to put the pack back into the pocket he'd found them in. It just felt right for them to be there. Then he sits. It'd taken a few days to get adjusted to the territory, and adjust he had. Maybe too well. There's something restless in the Courier's chest, some kind of bird wanting to be set free. He's supposed to walk, that's something else he knows about himself. This town doesn't feel like home. Nothing does. With a deep, shaking sigh, the canine shifts back to stand, staring at the ground underneath his feet. It's an impulse, really, but he carves it out nonetheless. Once he takes a step back, headache building — maybe the nicotine, maybe the memories — it's SIX that's carved out in the ground. Just that.

The letters are wrong, but he doesn't have it in him to scratch it out.

[madster]

malphas had one vice, and it was alcohol. any kind, really. he wouldn't define himself as an alcoholic, really- he just enjoyed it a little too much. when he smelled the cigarettes in the air it reminded him of the fact he had some rum waiting for him back in his room, but he decided to approach the german shepherd dog. he'd never say it out loud, but dogs scared him.

"smoking, huh?" he asked, tilting his head. "what are you doing up so late? i'm the fuckin' clan nurse and i have to tell people to go sleep, it's my job," he joked, walking by him now. "hey, you should bum me one. i've never smoked before," he said, a grin appearing on his face.

[IVAN Z. BRAGINSKY]

IVAN ZIMAVICH BRAGINSKY ✧ russian bear dog — regent — tags[/color]

A strange, unwelcome dog smell came to his nose. Zimavich rustled out of his cabin, wearing his mask as a precaution. The top half was modeled after a skull and a small fin went down his back. The bottom half was like a second jaw, giving him three inch incisors. He stepped out, following after the scent.

”Viktor, give me a smoke.”  He shook his head and rubbed it- since Anakin had given him a copy of his memories, he supposed that would happen more often now. ”What are we doing?” he asked, approaching the crew.

© madi

[calliope]

Cigarettes were horrible unhealthy. They led to addiction, and many, many harmful effects to the body. There was also the risk of second-hand smoking. Really, the lesson to learn was that smoking hurt both the smoker and the people around them. It wasn't a surprise that Mira hated the things. She never wanted people to get hurt by them, or by any other harmful habits. In a perfect world, people wouldn't be hurt by these things.

Both the smell of smoke and the voices of strangers drew her over. Mira's nose scrunched up, ears drawing back slightly in annoyance when she heard Malphas asking for one. "And you shouldn't start smoking either," she jumped into the conversation, voice surprisingly snappy for someone of her nature. Mira wasn't afraid of speaking out in a situation like this, since otherwise, people may never listen to her. "You all know smoking's bad for you, right? Why are you even taking the risks?" She wasn't afraid to lecture them if she had to. Although, a slight feeling of anxiety started creeping up on her. What if she was being a burden right now? She shook off the feeling for the time being.

♡♡♡
tags

[ABATHUR .]

Cigarettes.

When he was a young thing, small as he was now, filled with the cold fire that quenched most of his emotions back then and made him almost robotic both from an outside perspective and mentally, he used to hate them. Absolutely despise them, really, which was odd for someone who didn't really feel anything but a ridiculous passion for his work in mutations and medicine. He supposed his love for the latter was the reason, really, that he wanted to heal people so much that them potentially throwing away their lives just for a quick drag was almost a personal insult.

The years and years had mellowed him, though, making him immune to such a furious hatred of a pretty normal thing to most animals. He usually just pulled the whole "unable to cure permanent damage to body" card and moved on with his day. If people wanted to throw away their lives on an addiction then he couldn't fix them. He'd resuscitate them, maybe stitch up any other injuries, but fixing lung damage, curing cancer? He couldn't do it, not with his current tools. As long as he accepted his limitations, he would be fine. Probably.

The spider crept over, swinging down on a string from a purposefully vague object and landing near Malphas, looking at everyone with his beady green eyes. "Greetings," the spider muttered, holding his breath so as to not inhale any of the smoke. Speaking of which, miss Mirabella here seemed to represent a more anxious version of his old old ideals. "Subject Mira, correct, but attempts to persuade smokers to cease addiction, unsuccessful." Let them kill themselves slowly, he thought, pulling his limbs inwards a little bit. "Would not recommend alcoholic subject begins smoking. Lung damage, unhelpful to liver failure."

He didn't really care if he was being too blunt for most people. Tempering his words just wasn't something he really did - he focused on getting his point across as effectively as possible, and hopefully the mentions of the consequences would deter such unhealthy behavior, at least for a little bit.

tags - "speech"

[arrow]

★ [color=black]"Maybe death is the end goal here. Imagine this: Death but faster." Arrow joked, well aware that maybe this was not something to joke around about, especially when the shepherd dog looked so forlorn and Mira was surprisingly snappy about the subject. Okay, maybe not as surprising as she made it sound, after all, she was all about healing and health and cigarettes were so far from that. She'd crack stupid jokes but wouldn't take one herself. Granted, she was no angel, she'd accept getting drunk or stoned until she was a little shit that found everything entertaining, but never would she put cigarette smoke in her body. Just felt wrong. However, second hand smoke was less of a conscious choice, if you ended up around someone smoking, it was getting in there, deep in your ol' lungs.

She shrugged at the bear dog in response to his question, rubbing one of her eyes when it began to burn a little bit. [color=black]"No idea. Somehow a bit of smoke attracted a crowd." She said, realizing bluntly that she was now part of that crowd. "God damn it." She would have said something about how Malphas shouldn't have been smoking with his drinking problem, but something told her "hey, he's already dreaming of death, just shut it", so she did, and said nothing. At least nothing about that particular subject.