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Ray had a fairly disquieting thought earlier today and wound up spending most of the afternoon in his room. He comes downstairs in search of food and actual conversation, since let's face it, it's a mess up there.

[Summary: Martin Miggs comes around and talks to Ray about food. Because, well- FOOD. But not pixy sticks.

Scribble the baby raptor comes by with her toy! There is tug-of-war and then the rope is torn to bits, so Ray deploys one of his flashyballs and gets himself some protection against pointy bits, and then there is feeding time for the ickle Mesozoic deathbringer.

Lysistrata also pops up, and there is some discussion of things like rings and faked deaths and Spartan idiocy, and on the idiocy theme Ray reveals that he's currently having an envy/jealousy problem, and can't quite seem to get over it. Even though he knows it's stupid.

Scary scary Tim Hunter comes by to ask about borrowing a PKE meter. Ray is somewhat reluctant at first, but when he hears what happened to Ace, he hands the meter over without a quibble.

Hurley comes around to ask Ray what he knows about freakydeaky numbers and good / bad fortune combinations. Ray adds another item to his research queue as a result.

And finally, Akito turns up, and there is discussion of ID cards and communications gaps before Ray boggles a little at the name of Nergal Heavy Industries. Give the man a break, he's been studying Sumerian for the past week...]

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Ray tosses another, smaller strip in the baby raptor's direction and uses the opportunity to pick up one end of what's left of the toy. She's really been doing a number on it- but then again, that's a good thing. Scribble's going to need to be a big, strong dinosaur someday, and you don't get that way by treating your toys nicely.

She pounces on it, gulping it down without a second thought. This, she's decided, is her favorite fuzzy tickbird-not that she's met many of them. But he's the one that feeds her. "Yeep! Screeeyeeep!"

Of course he feeds her. Man didn't domesticate wolves by just walking up to them and petting them. "Wanna play now?" he offers, wiggling the free end of the rope invitingly.

"Squeep!" The chick crouches for a moment before pouncing at the wiggling end, landing on it and seizing it in her teeth. She shakes it, growling to herself. While the sounds will be frightening when she's an adult, right now they just sound absurdly high-pitched.

When she's an adult the game is going to have to be played with the kinds of hawsers used to moor ships in the harbor, frankly. If it's still played at all. For now Ray just smiles and tugs at the rope steadily, giving what he judges is just enough resistance to keep things interesting.

Scribble digs her claws as best she can into the floor, pulling back with all her might. "Rrrr..." She shakes her head again, but a particularly violent shake throws her off balance for a moment, and she stumbles, landing with a "Squeep!"

Aww. Poor little stumbly raptor. Ray lowers the rope for a moment, letting the end rest on the floor. "Nice try, kiddo," he says. "Care to give it another shot? I'll go easy on you this time."

"Yeep!" Scribble is undettered by her stumble. She pounces on the rope again, attacking with just as much fercoity as before. "Rrrr! Rrrryeeep!"

"Good girl!" Ray says brightly, holding the rope steady this time instead of actively tugging. "Aren't you just the cutest little death machine! Yes you are..."

Scribble lets go of the rope for a moment and darts away. She comes back a moment later, charging at it and leaping before snagging it with her teeth. "Screee!"

Eeeee! Death from slightly above! Ray laughs and pulls at the rope, which, it must be said, is starting to shred in earnest. "You really do know how to do a number on these things, don't you. Man. Bet they never took this kind of abuse into account at the factory."

"Yeep! Yeep!" Scribble tugs back, looking as if she's enjoying herself immensely. She attempts to kick at it with one foot, her small-but still razor-sharp-rear claws flexing.

It definitely goes shred some more at that. "Oh-kay," Ray murmurs to himself. "Next time, I'm wearing the big leather gloves..."

She keeps kicking, those sharp little claws flashing in the light. Even when they're small, they're still capable of quite a bit of damage. The rope continues to shred at her kicks and bites, although she apparently doesn't care.

Ray continues to watch the shredding; can you really blame him? You just don't get claws like that in his day and age. And it's only a rope, after all. He can always get another.

Nevertheless, he's making a mental note to get a pair of proper gloves from the bar when the rope gets replaced.

The kicking continues until the rope is finally shredded completely through, leaving Scribble with one chunk and Ray with another. "Yeep?" Scribble drops her chunk and noses as it, then hops closer to Ray and starts to dance around his ankles, hopping up and down. "Yeep! Squeep squeep!"

Ray smiles and drops his chunk. "Okay," he says. "I think that merits a little something extra." He offers Scribble another strip of beef jerky, though his other hand is fumbling through his pockets. Somewhere in there- ah, yes. There it is.

The flashyball.

Scribble gulps the offered strip down, then returns to hopping around Ray's feet, "Yeep!"ing all the way. She sniffs and noses at his pants leg for a moment, looking as if she's debating jumping up. Ray might want to invest in some sort of protective pants as well.

Yeah, he's starting to get that impression. Kevlar, maybe, although Kevlar's not much proof against a knife, so... he'll have to look into flak protection.

Anyway. He drops the flashyball. It's a sphere about two inches across, and it's made of clear yellow acrylic, though there's something metallic in the middle. When the ball hits the floor it immediately starts flashing brightly on and off, and continues to do so for the next ten seconds.

Assuming this temporarily distracts Scribble, Ray's going to head for the Bar and get those gloves. His work gloves are only made of heat-resistant rubber. They won't do at all.

And, um, something for the legs.

"Squeep! Eep! Eep! Eep!" The flashing does distract her, and Scribble darts over to investigate the flashyball. "Snrrr?" She pokes at it with her snout and tries to bite it, apparently unafraid of the flashing.

It's only acrylic. She'll be able to get teeth into it, almost certainly.

Which is good, because when Ray returns he's wearing the sort of leather gloves one is supposed to wear for handling adult macaws. You know- the birds that can bite off fingers when they're agitated. As for the pants, the Bar couldn't give him new ones, but it did give him what would appear to be some kind of sports-related armor for the thighs and shins, and in-line skate armor for his knees. Short notice, one supposes. Ah well.

After a few more experimental rolls of the ball, Scribble eventually does sink her teeth into it-as well as the back claws of one foot. However, she isn't prepared to balance on the ball, so instead she tumbles over. The chick lets out a squeak as she lands, but keeps her teeth latched on.

"Hey, Scribble?" Ray calls, clumsily fishing out another piece of jerky. C'mon, it's hard to get hold of them with gloves this thick on. "Why don't you come over here and leave that poor silly thing alone? This tastes a lot better, I'm sure."

She sniffs the air and drops the ball, getting back to her feet. The chick hops over, squeaking at the sight of the jerky. Scribble snaps her jaws, eager to get at the food.

Eventually Ray's going to start carrying vitamin pills or something, to smoosh up and sneak in with the food, but for now he just drops the strip and waits to see if the little raptor catches it or waits for it to land before pouncing.