Yeah, they was dancin' and singin' and movin' to the groove
This is bad, this is...this is exactly the sort of situation where in the confusion the Doctor or Anji would haul him away, direct him to either stop this or confront those who are encouraging it to happen. But now Fitz is mostly on his own, with his own choices and foibles and a tacky garden centre mask, and a spirit is shoving a bowl into his hands with a nervous, questioning coo and Christ. He's eaten weirder, more alien things, yeah? No, this is worse, this is grotesque, this is...
...exactly what the gnawing in his gut has been craving, apparently, as he shovels some of the contents from the bowl to his mouth before passing it back to the spirit. Cultural immersion, Sam had been on about that, and when in Rome has long been his philosophy so this is fine, this is good. He'll laugh off any odd looks from his fellow Beaconites, give a twirl, and pick his guitar up.
"C'mon!" he calls as he strums, the notes a little discordant. "We've all needed a party, yeah? Get on with it!"
Lay down the boogie and play that funky music til... (cw: some reckless self-harm)
Eventually even Fitz's long-maintained callouses can't hold up to the constant beating and there's blood on the makeshift guitar strings. One snaps, and he curses.
"Stupid fucking piece of-" It's a snarl, and he nearly takes his sudden fury out on the instrument but somehow saves himself from smashing it to bits. No, no, a craftsman never blames his tools so he improvises, finds a stick to beat on the hubcap to create a metallic clang.
Fitz Kreiner | OTA
This is bad, this is...this is exactly the sort of situation where in the confusion the Doctor or Anji would haul him away, direct him to either stop this or confront those who are encouraging it to happen. But now Fitz is mostly on his own, with his own choices and foibles and a tacky garden centre mask, and a spirit is shoving a bowl into his hands with a nervous, questioning coo and Christ. He's eaten weirder, more alien things, yeah? No, this is worse, this is grotesque, this is...
...exactly what the gnawing in his gut has been craving, apparently, as he shovels some of the contents from the bowl to his mouth before passing it back to the spirit. Cultural immersion, Sam had been on about that, and when in Rome has long been his philosophy so this is fine, this is good. He'll laugh off any odd looks from his fellow Beaconites, give a twirl, and pick his guitar up.
"C'mon!" he calls as he strums, the notes a little discordant. "We've all needed a party, yeah? Get on with it!"
Lay down the boogie and play that funky music til... (cw: some reckless self-harm)
Eventually even Fitz's long-maintained callouses can't hold up to the constant beating and there's blood on the makeshift guitar strings. One snaps, and he curses.
"Stupid fucking piece of-" It's a snarl, and he nearly takes his sudden fury out on the instrument but somehow saves himself from smashing it to bits. No, no, a craftsman never blames his tools so he improvises, finds a stick to beat on the hubcap to create a metallic clang.
Maybe it's not musical, but it is loud.