musebox for my random shit

[ He has...something of a headache.

He can't quite remember what he was doing before - he remembers who he is, yes, he remembers history, connections, but...

He doesn't know how he got here, in this computer. He drifts for a little while, still dazed from whatever had brought him here.

Where is he, again? He doesn't know. He idly looks through a few files, names he doesn't really recognise, one that keeps coming up (Lalinde)

But someone's accessing this terminal. So he might as well say something. ]

Hello?

Where am I?

What Magicman considers fun and what other people consider fun tend to only overlap sometimes. Not many navis (at least, not many surface navis...probably) would find being outnumbered by a lot of hostile navis who wanted to take them apart for parts more of an interesting challenge than a terrifying situation.

Magicman lacks this kind of sensible barrier.

"Fifteen on one? That means I'm facing a gang, probably," he murmurs. If he'd had a visible mouth at that moment, he would have grinned.

"Good odds," he adds, before stabbing the closest one right through the chest and hurling them into their compatriot. After that, the whole situation devolves quite quickly into everyone hitting everyone else. Though he gets hit more than a few times, he's enjoying what he might couch as 'a brisk workout' despite his (admittedly fairly mild) injuries.

Some unsettling aura approaching, incredibly similar to something he's sensed before, makes him pause mid-slash. He absently hops back as his opponent tries to stab him and just as absently parries the strike.

He can't quite make out what that is. It worries him.