realityshifted | (no subject)

[A scrawny Isaiah strolls casually into existence on the plane, a huge Taco Bell cup in one hand from which he is sipping pensively and a bag in the other hand to match. He’s nicely dressed, fashionable, and he’s wearing a rasta hat. He’s so put together, it looks a little ridiculous, but he also manages to pull it off somehow.

A split second after he appears on the plane, he stops dead in his tracks. He stops sipping. His eyes, though they look wide already, get wider. He makes a weird noise in his throat, his posture slips. Then the guy is retching, his food dropped, his drink rolling and sloshing out, and he’s on his knees, retching something fierce on to the starry ground, shaking, white, and finally he just throws up.

The act seems to pull him together a little. He continues shaking, but he wipes his mouth with the back of a hand, staring around. He stands unsteadily, looking around and looking frightened out of his wits.]

Fuck.

[Even though he’s obviously distressed, his voice is still personable, and he smiles weakly, looking around as if trying to find something to talk to before he settles on looking up.]

Uhh, so. Nice... Nice weather today. Rainy.

[His expression cracks a little; softly]

Shit.

[normal volume]

Hey, man this is, it’s nothing personal, right. But I get it. [he raises his hands in a "don’t worry" way.] I completely get it. You’re a scary fu—you’re real impressive. Really. I’m just wondering, you know, maybe, maybe if I talk, I can get out of here.

[Another weak smile, a hopeful expression.]
Please?