[ Dolph echoes cooly, already opting out of thinking any further about the esoteric ecosystem of Eden's newsroom. Instead, he simply looks forward to getting a little drunk; that's more entertaining than TV: watching each of those premium ingredients, which he'd have to be a serious boor not to notice were procured just for him, get taken up into the curious anti-gravity of Ramon's hands and turned into finest distillation of his tastes money can buy.
The old margarita mix was fine—hiding out with Alex in the underbelly, most of what they ate, drank, and inhaled was some kind of artificial—but this is better, obviously. Dolph just barely remembers to say thanks. That's something he does now. Then his grip is on the glass. It tastes like a daydream going down. His one organic eye falls shut in order to appreciate the first sip fully. Only once it reaches his stomach does it settle into bittersweetness, but that's a feeling he has to ignore if he's going to keep on living.
He also needs to eat to keep on living. So, dinner — His turn to decide again, huh?
Some nights Dolph is absolutely no help, a brick wall of non-decision deferring to whatever it is Ramon's in the mood for, as the big wig with all the connections. This evening he does have it in him to make a request, though it's an abstract one. ]
Something that'll make us feel like we're far away from here.
[ At this point, Dolph has readjusted his lean to face Ramon, slim fit pants-clad knees crossed in what would be the leg room of the invisible person separating them. His expression is actually pretty pensive. This isn't Dolph just being difficult. ]
no subject
[ Dolph echoes cooly, already opting out of thinking any further about the esoteric ecosystem of Eden's newsroom. Instead, he simply looks forward to getting a little drunk; that's more entertaining than TV: watching each of those premium ingredients, which he'd have to be a serious boor not to notice were procured just for him, get taken up into the curious anti-gravity of Ramon's hands and turned into finest distillation of his tastes money can buy.
The old margarita mix was fine—hiding out with Alex in the underbelly, most of what they ate, drank, and inhaled was some kind of artificial—but this is better, obviously. Dolph just barely remembers to say thanks. That's something he does now. Then his grip is on the glass. It tastes like a daydream going down. His one organic eye falls shut in order to appreciate the first sip fully. Only once it reaches his stomach does it settle into bittersweetness, but that's a feeling he has to ignore if he's going to keep on living.
He also needs to eat to keep on living. So, dinner — His turn to decide again, huh?
Some nights Dolph is absolutely no help, a brick wall of non-decision deferring to whatever it is Ramon's in the mood for, as the big wig with all the connections. This evening he does have it in him to make a request, though it's an abstract one. ]
Something that'll make us feel like we're far away from here.
[ At this point, Dolph has readjusted his lean to face Ramon, slim fit pants-clad knees crossed in what would be the leg room of the invisible person separating them. His expression is actually pretty pensive. This isn't Dolph just being difficult. ]