04-25-2018, 02:58 PM
[font=trebuchet ms]/new hit single: "my first reply in over a week" feat. Paper's internal monologue snarking about the lateness
That morning, Papercutter had woken up surprisingly lucid. His paw hadn't wavered in and out of his vision when he held it in front of his face, he could remember who the Typhoon's leader was (his previous guesses each morning varied from "Blankslate" to "the Kraken," but today he immediately recalled "Pincher"), and most importantly, his head wasn't screaming at him to get down every time he stood up. Sure, it had taken far longer to recover than he would've expected for someone of his physical constitution, but going to the infirmary one day and returning a week later was better than dropping dead.
At Pincher's call, however, the jackal had to feel his forehead with one paw to make sure he wasn't feverish again. He could've sworn it was Wednesday, not Saturday. "Whatever, the medic can wait," he muttered to himself, emerging from the jungle and jogging over to the Deep Sea Dome. He'd get checked later, most likely.
Arriving in front of Pincher, Paper listened intently to the announcements. First were the new members- of course, it was always important to make new squadmates feel like they belonged. Then came the matter of alliances; Tanglewood and the Ascendants he'd known about, but Snowbound being a trial ally... so they were locking Tanglewood out of the political framework. "Not a half-bad strategy," he noted under his breath, flicking his good ear. Ambassadorship, whatever that meant, probably wasn't for him, but more power to whoever wanted to do it. Nor were medical tryouts, but weekly tasks were probably important, so he'd take one of those, too.
Promotions were next, then. Paper glanced towards the entrance, a soft sigh escaping his maw. Working his way back up to Striker would probably take some time, but if he'd been able to pull it off the first time, he could do it again. There was no shame in temporarily relinquishing power (especially not when the alternative was making a fool of yourself stumbling around in a haze and spouting gibberish), as long as you were ready to earn it back.
That morning, Papercutter had woken up surprisingly lucid. His paw hadn't wavered in and out of his vision when he held it in front of his face, he could remember who the Typhoon's leader was (his previous guesses each morning varied from "Blankslate" to "the Kraken," but today he immediately recalled "Pincher"), and most importantly, his head wasn't screaming at him to get down every time he stood up. Sure, it had taken far longer to recover than he would've expected for someone of his physical constitution, but going to the infirmary one day and returning a week later was better than dropping dead.
At Pincher's call, however, the jackal had to feel his forehead with one paw to make sure he wasn't feverish again. He could've sworn it was Wednesday, not Saturday. "Whatever, the medic can wait," he muttered to himself, emerging from the jungle and jogging over to the Deep Sea Dome. He'd get checked later, most likely.
Arriving in front of Pincher, Paper listened intently to the announcements. First were the new members- of course, it was always important to make new squadmates feel like they belonged. Then came the matter of alliances; Tanglewood and the Ascendants he'd known about, but Snowbound being a trial ally... so they were locking Tanglewood out of the political framework. "Not a half-bad strategy," he noted under his breath, flicking his good ear. Ambassadorship, whatever that meant, probably wasn't for him, but more power to whoever wanted to do it. Nor were medical tryouts, but weekly tasks were probably important, so he'd take one of those, too.
Promotions were next, then. Paper glanced towards the entrance, a soft sigh escaping his maw. Working his way back up to Striker would probably take some time, but if he'd been able to pull it off the first time, he could do it again. There was no shame in temporarily relinquishing power (especially not when the alternative was making a fool of yourself stumbling around in a haze and spouting gibberish), as long as you were ready to earn it back.