[ TEXT ] in which cambridge suffers more disorientation than previously expected

[sexting]

[ welcome back to reality, gentle crewmembers. Here's Cambridge, fighting off her disorientation as she attempts her usual brain-text-interfacing hideousness; except, being a little worse for wear thanks to That Blue Liquid, she's having a some trouble. ]

uhhhgfhdgfdh
grav pouch hangover s
are SSSSSSimply horrendawful

did we move?
where are we
now?










oh shoes oxford i have my shoess

Comments

( action )

[wiretap]

[ She listens (she always listens), but when he reaches the phrase what else might be going on, Aberdeen abruptly stops typing (a rarity). Unceremoniously her laptop is shut and set to one side before she's sliding off the bed and onto her bare feet, still very much clothed in her leather jacket and nothing else though this last point of notice doesn't seem to bother her one bit. Without her usual black boots to give her a few inches, she appears to Oxford much smaller than perhaps he remembers her as. There's also much more skin exposed than normal, so tattoos that otherwise would have remained anonymous and hidden reveal themselves now on her abdomen and beneath her breast and the inside of her arm — all mathematically.

Stepping forward, she moves to meet Oxford in his approach, coming to stand just a foot or so away from him, threatening to bow forward into his personal space. ]

Try now, [ she says and it's offer. If Oxford didn't know to what extend his powers had been dampened, they would all be working at a gross disadvantage until the new limitations were defined and tested. ]

( action )

[romanticism]

[ Personal space? Hardly a concept that Oxford himself understands at the best of times, so Aberdeen's movements do very little to bother him, though he raises a brow at her with a faint amount of uncertainty touching his features. He does not pay overt attention to the fact that Aberdeen is wearing rather little in terms of clothing, though it's not something that escapes his notice. Digging his hands into the pockets of his jacket (worn now more for comfort rather than style, a much appreciated piece of home that tells him much more about himself than he previously cared to notice), he simply watches Aberdeen for a long, searching moment.

I'd prefer not to attempt the headache, my dear, lest it actually works, he says, a little frown furrowing his brow, but let's see what else I can manage.

He stares squarely at Aberdeen, not leaving her eyes, though his mind wanders to the regions of Aberdeen's mind that control her movement; all he wants to do is to make her briefly raise her arm, something that under normal circumstances would just seem like an ungainly little flap. In this case, however, Aberdeen is unlikely to experience anything but a little twinge in her muscle, not uncomfortable or painful, just a little odd. ]