After the usual platform situation, this one with its own unique emotionally barbed circumstances, Yondu's sitting in the standard car with his assortment of training handcuffs, made from clear materials so he can teach with them, all from worlds he's familiar with but varying in complexity enough that they're good practice for what they might end up coming across. He's at one of the booths using a self-made lockpick he's working away at one with a magnetic connection the circuitry inside visible as the clamps loosen and fall open. It's the only way he can feel in control of his situation, with tiny little motions like picking a lock or collecting information to dump at the feet of potential allies or picking fights he knows he's outclassed for just to pick a pocket or plant an item.
New people might notice that he's one of the people who doesn't wear a train uniform, but rather personalized leather gear. He usually wears his coat even if he is in the train uniform (and it's for everyone's benefit 'cause as a Centaurian and a Blue Team member that'd just be too much blue).
He stops what he's doing, setting down the current set of cuffs he's working on and reaches for his cup of coffee. His persistent distant look is shaken into an offended startled sneer as he lifts it to his mouth and discovers it disgustingly cold, muttering a quiet, "Shit," under his breath, and shoving the still full cup off to the side. He doesn't feel like going and getting a new one. To hell with it.
General - Around the Train
It's a mood that he has for much of the day, just little random motions to keep up on his practice. He spends time in the greenhouse, plucking altered peppers from a tree and warns anyone that comes near them, "Careful around those, get 'em raw in your mouth you ain't gonna taste nothin' for a good while." That willfully weaponized thing is hyped up to the strength of a ghost pepper.
Later he's hanging around the training car, mundanely trying to throw objects up high into the air and whistle his arrow in loops around it when its in the air, doing his best to stay out of anyone's way with it. But he's distracted, and when he atomizes a stolen tennisball with his vicious murderstick he mutters a little, "Welp.... woops."
Or even later he's sitting in the library, trying to read his new book on void metals and then just slowly melting down the seat in a magnificent failure of posture as his overstressed cynetically strangled brain refuses to retain information unless he reads it a minimum of nine goddamn times. He's frustrated (a commonality for a bunch of people right now) and tired and bitchy and all the things that are generally normal for him. But hell, at least he's been sleeping full nights again, so he's gotten that back. Woohoo.
He tries to remind himself that nothing is truly certain yet. That they know what should or could be happening to them, not what is happening to them, and he's proof that some of those things can't be happening to them. That there are deviations from the rules and options for all of them and he's tried to say as much in his clumsy way. There has to be fixes. And even with the worst-case scenario, people on the train have the means for a correction even if they have to go through a life-renewing crewmate to get there. The old Ravager continues to come up with every other possibility 'cause he can't keep losing people, and he's going to violently fight against that sense of helplessness that he let eat him for far too damn long.
Yondu Udonta | OTA
New people might notice that he's one of the people who doesn't wear a train uniform, but rather personalized leather gear. He usually wears his coat even if he is in the train uniform (and it's for everyone's benefit 'cause as a Centaurian and a Blue Team member that'd just be too much blue).
He stops what he's doing, setting down the current set of cuffs he's working on and reaches for his cup of coffee. His persistent distant look is shaken into an offended startled sneer as he lifts it to his mouth and discovers it disgustingly cold, muttering a quiet, "Shit," under his breath, and shoving the still full cup off to the side. He doesn't feel like going and getting a new one. To hell with it.
Later he's hanging around the training car, mundanely trying to throw objects up high into the air and whistle his arrow in loops around it when its in the air, doing his best to stay out of anyone's way with it. But he's distracted, and when he atomizes a stolen tennisball with his vicious murderstick he mutters a little, "Welp.... woops."
Or even later he's sitting in the library, trying to read his new book on void metals and then just slowly melting down the seat in a magnificent failure of posture as his overstressed cynetically strangled brain refuses to retain information unless he reads it a minimum of nine goddamn times. He's frustrated (a commonality for a bunch of people right now) and tired and bitchy and all the things that are generally normal for him. But hell, at least he's been sleeping full nights again, so he's gotten that back. Woohoo.
He tries to remind himself that nothing is truly certain yet. That they know what should or could be happening to them, not what is happening to them, and he's proof that some of those things can't be happening to them. That there are deviations from the rules and options for all of them and he's tried to say as much in his clumsy way. There has to be fixes. And even with the worst-case scenario, people on the train have the means for a correction even if they have to go through a life-renewing crewmate to get there. The old Ravager continues to come up with every other possibility 'cause he can't keep losing people, and he's going to violently fight against that sense of helplessness that he let eat him for far too damn long.