[From what Adam can gather, this ship seems like a powder keg of a situation. What is uniting these people besides a (presumably) common goal to reach their destination and get home? No one's saying that they need a tyrant of a ruler (or a captain, as the case may be) but without proper authority…
They're at the room now; he uses it as an excuse to glance around, arms folded, opinions carefully kept to himself for the time being. This isn't something he can fix on his own – and if Dorian hasn't been here long enough to make any judgment calls, then Adam certainly hasn't – so he's not going to gain anything by spitballing ideas just yet. He'll need to see how things operate, in person, before really deciding how he feels. His slowly deepening frown is all that gives away any of his thoughts.
The rooms are clean, sterile, white – like a LIMB clinic operating room. Not singles, he notes, fixating on the three beds while Dorian continues to speak. Shared spaces. Great – just like summer camp, he thinks wryly. Motion in the corner of his eye prompts him to look back around at Dorian in time to see the collar come down and…
A sharp intake of breath.] Jesus…
[Stupidly, he almost asks, "Can't you just heal it with magic?" Clearly not, otherwise Dorian would've done it already. Even as he stares, eyes tracing lines back and forth across the smooth sheen of glass several times just to be sure, his retinal implant continues to offer its expert analysis: weak points just below the jawline, ideal targets in the event of attack and also the number one reason that the person he's looking at should already be dead. Adam manages not to groan aloud – at the rate he's running into unexplainable phenomena, his threat analysis module is going to be in dire need of an update, and soon.]
More magic? [It's the best he's got. Adam takes a step forward, unfolding his arms – but seeming unsure of what to do with them (in stark contrast to the casually confident way he carried himself before.) He's not a doctor by any means, what could his hands possibly do to help?] What the hell kind of enemies were you dealing with, that could do something like that?
no subject
They're at the room now; he uses it as an excuse to glance around, arms folded, opinions carefully kept to himself for the time being. This isn't something he can fix on his own – and if Dorian hasn't been here long enough to make any judgment calls, then Adam certainly hasn't – so he's not going to gain anything by spitballing ideas just yet. He'll need to see how things operate, in person, before really deciding how he feels. His slowly deepening frown is all that gives away any of his thoughts.
The rooms are clean, sterile, white – like a LIMB clinic operating room. Not singles, he notes, fixating on the three beds while Dorian continues to speak. Shared spaces. Great – just like summer camp, he thinks wryly. Motion in the corner of his eye prompts him to look back around at Dorian in time to see the collar come down and…
A sharp intake of breath.] Jesus…
[Stupidly, he almost asks, "Can't you just heal it with magic?" Clearly not, otherwise Dorian would've done it already. Even as he stares, eyes tracing lines back and forth across the smooth sheen of glass several times just to be sure, his retinal implant continues to offer its expert analysis: weak points just below the jawline, ideal targets in the event of attack and also the number one reason that the person he's looking at should already be dead. Adam manages not to groan aloud – at the rate he's running into unexplainable phenomena, his threat analysis module is going to be in dire need of an update, and soon.]
More magic? [It's the best he's got. Adam takes a step forward, unfolding his arms – but seeming unsure of what to do with them (in stark contrast to the casually confident way he carried himself before.) He's not a doctor by any means, what could his hands possibly do to help?] What the hell kind of enemies were you dealing with, that could do something like that?