glub glub glub
CHARACTERS: Oxford and anyone who fancies popping up!
LOCATION: One of the swimming pools located near the passengers' quarters.
WARNINGS: None at the moment, since Oxford is being a reasonable human being and has decided not to skinny dip.
SUMMARY: Much to his endless pleasure, Oxford has found a swimming pool and is taking a leisurely swim to cool himself down and possibly aid his (gradually easing) headache. Also, I'm starting in prose, but feel free to respond with action tags if you want!
The discovery had been quite a blessing, he thinks to himself, the sort of thing you never know you want until it's right before your eyes. Water that's somewhere between pleasantly tepid and refreshingly chilly has never seemed like such an inviting prospect before, and gently lowering himself over the side had been a veritable godsend. Rather begrudgingly, Oxford is starting to think he is finding far too many likeable things about this hunk of metal, even if the good is still quite heavily outweighed by bad. He doesn't think it a stretch or exaggeration to call it "the bad". He did not generally think his life so dull that it suddenly needed a spaceship in it to make it that bit more acceptable and exciting.
Despite the fact that he can feel the tips of his fingers starting to prune and wrinkle, he feels no real desire to stop. Having long since started up a slow but steady breaststroke, Oxford is keen to maintain the pace and the motion; it's incredibly soothing, and counting his strokes has been a more than acceptable distraction from the gentle pounding in his head. Though a social creature by all definitions, Oxford is faintly glad he hasn't really been given the chance to meet many other passengers in person, so far. He isn't entirely sure how his power is going to react, and whether he'll even be able to control it. You can think and grieve about how uncontrollable telepathy is on a plane or on the tube, but a spaceship is an entirely different level of transport, and not one that he would give much thought to on a daily basis. On any basis at all, in fact. The idea of travelling extensively in space had always been, to Oxford, a charming, far-off prospect for other people, and certainly not himself. Still, if his discomfort is easing, then he supposes that it is a good sign - promising, even.
Of course, space is hardly the only problem he has with this situation. It may be the most obvious, but the second is an issue that cuts a little closer and reaches a little deeper inside him. He hadn't exactly woken here expecting to be surrounded by fellow operatives - to be quite honest, he didn't expect to meet any whatsoever, given how absurd the circumstances are - but to come into contact with Imogen Moore instead of Isaac Moore is still a point he's finding difficult to process. Upon being made aware of her identity, it seemed so obvious. She has those little mannerisms, those qualities that he has learned to attribute as intrinsic to his Cambridge, but- well, the main difference is obvious. He can see, simultaneously, so much and so little of his dear friend in here, and it baffles him entirely.
Obviously not a swim without its pensive little burdens.
After his seventeenth length (he has been keeping a very strict count), Oxford's hands touch the side of the pool and he stops. He isn't tired. The pace he has been keeping is hardly Olympian, more measured and precise than any mad dash for a medal. Turning around to face the expanse of water before him, he simply pushes himself down, below the surface, until his feet touch the very bottom of the pool, where he hopes for just a few seconds of perfect clarity before natural buoyancy bounces him him back up to fresh air. Sadly, he is left disappointed.
Rising once again to the surface, Oxford pushes away from the wall to start length eighteen with a faintly moody cloud drifting over his head, slow and careful.
( ooc: will probably respond in the morning, am a tad on the sleepy side now asouaasodf )
LOCATION: One of the swimming pools located near the passengers' quarters.
WARNINGS: None at the moment, since Oxford is being a reasonable human being and has decided not to skinny dip.
SUMMARY: Much to his endless pleasure, Oxford has found a swimming pool and is taking a leisurely swim to cool himself down and possibly aid his (gradually easing) headache. Also, I'm starting in prose, but feel free to respond with action tags if you want!
The discovery had been quite a blessing, he thinks to himself, the sort of thing you never know you want until it's right before your eyes. Water that's somewhere between pleasantly tepid and refreshingly chilly has never seemed like such an inviting prospect before, and gently lowering himself over the side had been a veritable godsend. Rather begrudgingly, Oxford is starting to think he is finding far too many likeable things about this hunk of metal, even if the good is still quite heavily outweighed by bad. He doesn't think it a stretch or exaggeration to call it "the bad". He did not generally think his life so dull that it suddenly needed a spaceship in it to make it that bit more acceptable and exciting.
Despite the fact that he can feel the tips of his fingers starting to prune and wrinkle, he feels no real desire to stop. Having long since started up a slow but steady breaststroke, Oxford is keen to maintain the pace and the motion; it's incredibly soothing, and counting his strokes has been a more than acceptable distraction from the gentle pounding in his head. Though a social creature by all definitions, Oxford is faintly glad he hasn't really been given the chance to meet many other passengers in person, so far. He isn't entirely sure how his power is going to react, and whether he'll even be able to control it. You can think and grieve about how uncontrollable telepathy is on a plane or on the tube, but a spaceship is an entirely different level of transport, and not one that he would give much thought to on a daily basis. On any basis at all, in fact. The idea of travelling extensively in space had always been, to Oxford, a charming, far-off prospect for other people, and certainly not himself. Still, if his discomfort is easing, then he supposes that it is a good sign - promising, even.
Of course, space is hardly the only problem he has with this situation. It may be the most obvious, but the second is an issue that cuts a little closer and reaches a little deeper inside him. He hadn't exactly woken here expecting to be surrounded by fellow operatives - to be quite honest, he didn't expect to meet any whatsoever, given how absurd the circumstances are - but to come into contact with Imogen Moore instead of Isaac Moore is still a point he's finding difficult to process. Upon being made aware of her identity, it seemed so obvious. She has those little mannerisms, those qualities that he has learned to attribute as intrinsic to his Cambridge, but- well, the main difference is obvious. He can see, simultaneously, so much and so little of his dear friend in here, and it baffles him entirely.
Obviously not a swim without its pensive little burdens.
After his seventeenth length (he has been keeping a very strict count), Oxford's hands touch the side of the pool and he stops. He isn't tired. The pace he has been keeping is hardly Olympian, more measured and precise than any mad dash for a medal. Turning around to face the expanse of water before him, he simply pushes himself down, below the surface, until his feet touch the very bottom of the pool, where he hopes for just a few seconds of perfect clarity before natural buoyancy bounces him him back up to fresh air. Sadly, he is left disappointed.
Rising once again to the surface, Oxford pushes away from the wall to start length eighteen with a faintly moody cloud drifting over his head, slow and careful.
( ooc: will probably respond in the morning, am a tad on the sleepy side now asouaasodf )