Mech Pilot who clicks the barbecue tongs together immediately after picking them up.
"Look, we don't need to do this, it's perfectly normal and human for someone to clack the tongs together when they pick them up! That's ordinary, perfectly ordinary. Lots of people do it! It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean that I'm having y'know, crabby thoughts. It doesn't mean that I'm doing anything out of the ordinary..."
The glow from the coals illuminated Jerome Jameson's face, and all the while Jameson waved the tongs before him, clacking them together like some sort of warding talisman that would keep the approaching MP's back and away from himself.
"It doesn't mean that I'm thinking like a crab, that I just need to clack loud enough and you'll all back away! It doesn't mean that I'd like to just have a claw, to clack at your ugly faces because you're not clacking back! It... doesn't..."
His eyes started to go distant, and black as the tongs slipped from his fingers. Dropping to the ground as he stood nigh motionless.
"Crab... Crab... Crab... Crab..." His last human thought was that perhaps the budget environmental filter hadn't kept him safe from the Gamma Centri forces gas assault after all. The MP's led his almost zombie like-self to the waiting vehicle for escort to the lab. Someday they would understand how that biologic gas put crabby thoughts in pilots.
Excerpt from the historical entries of the Gamma Centri Conflict.
'The last human moments of Jerome "Jerry-Can" Jameson.'
The glow from the coals illuminated Jerome Jameson's face, and all the while Jameson waved the tongs before him, clacking them together like some sort of warding talisman that would keep the approaching MP's back and away from himself.
"It doesn't mean that I'm thinking like a crab, that I just need to clack loud enough and you'll all back away! It doesn't mean that I'd like to just have a claw, to clack at your ugly faces because you're not clacking back! It... doesn't..."
His eyes started to go distant, and black as the tongs slipped from his fingers. Dropping to the ground as he stood nigh motionless.
"Crab... Crab... Crab... Crab..." His last human thought was that perhaps the budget environmental filter hadn't kept him safe from the Gamma Centri forces gas assault after all. The MP's led his almost zombie like-self to the waiting vehicle for escort to the lab. Someday they would understand how that biologic gas put crabby thoughts in pilots.
Excerpt from the historical entries of the Gamma Centri Conflict.
'The last human moments of Jerome "Jerry-Can" Jameson.'