ataraxion | 005

[ John's dressed down for once, shirt missing and all. The Grim Reaper tattoo on his inner arm is visible, scythe and all, where most people's nanites are -- his are visible on the other arm. One hand is beneath his head and the other is holding the camera at a bit of an odd angle; he's laying down, apparently in bed. Despite that, he doesn't look like he's gotten a lot of sleep. ]

So. [ He starts, stops; clears his throat to make himself sound a little more awake. ] This place is hell, but we manage to relax sometimes. How do you all do it? [ There's a pause, considering, and he adds: ] Other than getting drunk.

[ That's not going to help him, considering he can't anymore. At the end of the day, what John needs is for nightmares of dead teammates and monsters in the dark to stop haunting him, of the dead on the ship that he could have (should have) been able to help. But for now... he'll take what he can get. Not that he necessarily wants everyone knowing he can't relax. ]

Call me curious, I guess. I would've bet on more nervous breakdowns.