None of the instructions Rodney was given came in any form of 'don't panic' or 'stay calm.' He did have 'have fun' and 'have a good time,' but Rodney is an excellent multitasker in the face of existential crises and senses of overwhelming doom. He can both seek out this mythical fun/good time after being kidnapped and operated upon while also having a full systematic meltdown.
Well, slightly less of a meltdown than he otherwise might be having just at the moment because he's not the only one in this metaphorical boat, and he's going to remain within screaming-like-he's-dying range of John, but...
Have fun? For fuck's sake. He resents everything about this situation, of course, but the sheer inanity of that particular instruction to which he's compelled to adhere rankles most of all.
So. Fine. Fun.
He can do that.
.001—Comfort(?) Food The string of samples (try one!)(here, you look like you could use it!)(if you like farm fresh, you should definitely have one of these!) that Rodney has had shoved in his face while praying that he's not horribly allergic to anything inside of them has led him to a buffet where at least the 'eat as much as you want!' is nonspecific enough that he can be a bit more careful about his culinary choices, pace himself, and maybe get himself back to some sort of equilibrium through evening out his blood sugar. And, honestly, nibbling on an array of this and that is familiar enough that it counts toward enjoying the festival.
He plants himself at a table and eyes the nearest individual with suspicion. His paranoia has ratcheted up pretty high and, food or no, he's feeling tetchy. He can't quite help but demand, "Can I help you?"
.002—Demanding Answers Trying not to get arrested covers a very broad swath of behavior, as Rodney is well aware, and this festival is full of people who are also full of information. Average, everyday citizens of whereverthehell he is. It's a simple matter of accosting them and blurting out whatever question seems most pressing once he's gotten their attention. So far he's garnered several startled looks, the name of the festival, a handful of new swearwords, and a label of 'high on something' by the surrounding festival-goers. When demanding the name of the planet gets him a 'get the hell away from me' and enough commotion that security might be an issue if he's not careful, Rodney complies and skulks into the crowd toward a new sector of the festival flush with new victims for his interrogatory rampage.
Newly armed with a dick-popsicle and hopefully slightly less crazy-eyed, Rodney approaches a new prospective font of information.
(Those wearing no scrubs get a demand and waggled popsicle:) "What city is this?" (Those wearing scrubs get a contemplative slurp and a speculative look:)"You have any better luck than I have figuring out what's going on?"
.003—Cricked Back Beggers might not be able to be choosers, but they sure as hell can be complainers. The cots are atrocious for Rodney's back, and he is not reluctant to let everyone in his general vicinity know that he is uncomfortable and displeased. He grumbles his way through the beginning of his day, irritated and half-on-edge, letting the minor discomfort of what is clearly the best these people can do under the circumstances be something to focus on besides the much larger 'discomfort' of having been sliced open and deposited, drugged, into some baffling here and now. There are too many people and not enough things to do and now that Rodney's done with showering and feeding himself he's flopped back down on his cot with an annoyed, "Ugh, I've slept in tents more comfortable than this cot."
Pushing himself back up, he eyes the nearest person and asks, "If yours was any better, I'll trade you."
.004—Wildcard!
—
I'll match brackets or prose! Let me know if you want a custom starter.
Rodney McKay | Stargate: Atlantis | OTA
Well, slightly less of a meltdown than he otherwise might be having just at the moment because he's not the only one in this metaphorical boat, and he's going to remain within screaming-like-he's-dying range of John, but...
Have fun? For fuck's sake. He resents everything about this situation, of course, but the sheer inanity of that particular instruction to which he's compelled to adhere rankles most of all.
So. Fine. Fun.
He can do that.
.001—Comfort(?) Food
The string of samples (try one!)(here, you look like you could use it!)(if you like farm fresh, you should definitely have one of these!) that Rodney has had shoved in his face while praying that he's not horribly allergic to anything inside of them has led him to a buffet where at least the 'eat as much as you want!' is nonspecific enough that he can be a bit more careful about his culinary choices, pace himself, and maybe get himself back to some sort of equilibrium through evening out his blood sugar. And, honestly, nibbling on an array of this and that is familiar enough that it counts toward enjoying the festival.
He plants himself at a table and eyes the nearest individual with suspicion. His paranoia has ratcheted up pretty high and, food or no, he's feeling tetchy. He can't quite help but demand, "Can I help you?"
.002—Demanding Answers
Trying not to get arrested covers a very broad swath of behavior, as Rodney is well aware, and this festival is full of people who are also full of information. Average, everyday citizens of whereverthehell he is. It's a simple matter of accosting them and blurting out whatever question seems most pressing once he's gotten their attention. So far he's garnered several startled looks, the name of the festival, a handful of new swearwords, and a label of 'high on something' by the surrounding festival-goers. When demanding the name of the planet gets him a 'get the hell away from me' and enough commotion that security might be an issue if he's not careful, Rodney complies and skulks into the crowd toward a new sector of the festival flush with new victims for his interrogatory rampage.
Newly armed with a dick-popsicle and hopefully slightly less crazy-eyed, Rodney approaches a new prospective font of information.
(Those wearing no scrubs get a demand and waggled popsicle:) "What city is this?"
(Those wearing scrubs get a contemplative slurp and a speculative look:)"You have any better luck than I have figuring out what's going on?"
.003—Cricked Back
Beggers might not be able to be choosers, but they sure as hell can be complainers. The cots are atrocious for Rodney's back, and he is not reluctant to let everyone in his general vicinity know that he is uncomfortable and displeased. He grumbles his way through the beginning of his day, irritated and half-on-edge, letting the minor discomfort of what is clearly the best these people can do under the circumstances be something to focus on besides the much larger 'discomfort' of having been sliced open and deposited, drugged, into some baffling here and now. There are too many people and not enough things to do and now that Rodney's done with showering and feeding himself he's flopped back down on his cot with an annoyed, "Ugh, I've slept in tents more comfortable than this cot."
Pushing himself back up, he eyes the nearest person and asks, "If yours was any better, I'll trade you."
.004—Wildcard!
—
I'll match brackets or prose! Let me know if you want a custom starter.