He's not well. Well, he had a good run there, but it was only inevitable that he'd get sick again. Although the dry rash spots are new; hasn't seen that since flying into a very unfortunate part of space leaving dry cracks 'like old oil paintings' he'd heard... The itchy eyes make him think allergies, and lord, that would be terrible if they'd made a return.
It's worrying, but it certainly isn't keeping him in bed. Malcolm hates being inactive even when sick. Besides, lunch won't just make itself, and he's not about to have York go get something for him. Just whip something up, pop it in the oven...no big deal. He's still got an appetite. Even if it still isn't for meat.
The problem starts with the sticky oven door. He's been meaning to get that greased up and seen to since before heading down into the sewer, but, well, then the sewer happened. Damn thing doesn't want to open. And takes a good deal of tugging to wrench open.
When it persists on sticking, he lets out an exasperated sigh, thinks he should just go get a little oil, and--
--something else takes over, something mindless and aggressive and willing to take out such aggression on the first annoying thing it sees. The oven door? Gets a robotic leg through it. Sweeps an arm across the nearest counter, knocking spices, a container of to-be-baked goodness, a knife rack to the floor. Cabinets get ripped open, fragile plates and glasses grabbed and thrown. Whatever is inside him is angry, but at what, nobody could say. Stepping on the broken shards doesn't help any when it beats the toaster into submission, or when he goes a little nutty at the shiny fridge and the reflection in the chrome surface. Whatever it is is about to take a good swing at the fridge and start making their food situation pretty nasty when--
--grease that damn door up. ...Wait...what...just happened...?
Day 222 - afternoon - action
It's worrying, but it certainly isn't keeping him in bed. Malcolm hates being inactive even when sick. Besides, lunch won't just make itself, and he's not about to have York go get something for him. Just whip something up, pop it in the oven...no big deal. He's still got an appetite. Even if it still isn't for meat.
The problem starts with the sticky oven door. He's been meaning to get that greased up and seen to since before heading down into the sewer, but, well, then the sewer happened. Damn thing doesn't want to open. And takes a good deal of tugging to wrench open.
When it persists on sticking, he lets out an exasperated sigh, thinks he should just go get a little oil, and--
--something else takes over, something mindless and aggressive and willing to take out such aggression on the first annoying thing it sees. The oven door? Gets a robotic leg through it. Sweeps an arm across the nearest counter, knocking spices, a container of to-be-baked goodness, a knife rack to the floor. Cabinets get ripped open, fragile plates and glasses grabbed and thrown. Whatever is inside him is angry, but at what, nobody could say. Stepping on the broken shards doesn't help any when it beats the toaster into submission, or when he goes a little nutty at the shiny fridge and the reflection in the chrome surface. Whatever it is is about to take a good swing at the fridge and start making their food situation pretty nasty when--
--grease that damn door up. ...Wait...what...just happened...?