Travis Touchdown (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rank1) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
returnjourneylogs2022-02-13 08:17 pm
rank1) wrote in returnjourneylogs2022-02-13 08:17 pm
#3
Passengers: Travis, Claire, Lucifer
Location: Solitary
Date: Feb 13
Summary: Lucifer and Claire talk to Travis after this whole fuckin heist thing.
Warnings: None yet.
At this point, Travis is getting real used to being restrained. And fuck it, what's a room compared to being cuffed to anything, even if it's turning out to be a much longer affair? He's not slamming his wrists against metal every time he tries to move. He has a bed, which is more than he could say about the cafeteria. It's technically a private room, which means he's out of the dorms.
All of that feels like shitty bargaining. It makes his guts roil.
The place feels cold and sterile, and it's still an eight foot box no matter how he slices it. He runs out of shit to look at after pacing it a few times. He tries running the sink to see if he can overflow the cell, and the water just flows out through the grated floor. Nothing is removable; any screw he can reach is impossibly tight against his stubby fingernails. He doesn't have his communicator. His stomach is gurgling.
But he might as well keep busy. He shucks off his jacket, draping it over the bed, and gets down on the floor to do push-ups. The grate is miserable under his palms but whatever: more incentive to get through a hundred and be done with it. He takes up most of the floor space.
He's counting off eighty, eighty-one when he hears the buzz of the door being unlocked.
Location: Solitary
Date: Feb 13
Summary: Lucifer and Claire talk to Travis after this whole fuckin heist thing.
Warnings: None yet.
At this point, Travis is getting real used to being restrained. And fuck it, what's a room compared to being cuffed to anything, even if it's turning out to be a much longer affair? He's not slamming his wrists against metal every time he tries to move. He has a bed, which is more than he could say about the cafeteria. It's technically a private room, which means he's out of the dorms.
All of that feels like shitty bargaining. It makes his guts roil.
The place feels cold and sterile, and it's still an eight foot box no matter how he slices it. He runs out of shit to look at after pacing it a few times. He tries running the sink to see if he can overflow the cell, and the water just flows out through the grated floor. Nothing is removable; any screw he can reach is impossibly tight against his stubby fingernails. He doesn't have his communicator. His stomach is gurgling.
But he might as well keep busy. He shucks off his jacket, draping it over the bed, and gets down on the floor to do push-ups. The grate is miserable under his palms but whatever: more incentive to get through a hundred and be done with it. He takes up most of the floor space.
He's counting off eighty, eighty-one when he hears the buzz of the door being unlocked.