MCA #4, Saturday Morning

So Atton was not actually used to having a roommate, unless you counted the military or the few month span of time he'd spent hiding out in the cockpit of the Ebon Hawk because Meetra kept filling the rest of the ship with angry malcontents with no sense of humor. There had been some adjusting involved, most notably in having to remind himself constantly not to leave the bedroom without his pants on, and also that there was now less pizza in his diet.

But he'd survived the situation thusfar. Things could only go up.

Of course, the moment that thought had crossed his mind immediately prefaced the all-hell-on-deck nightmare he'd had on Friday night, which had, as such things usually did, ended with him sitting on the floor of the living room with his legs crossed underneath him, furiously trying to meditate through the occasional fit of hyperventilating.

He was still there when the sun came up (wearing pants, thankfully), blinking blearily as the sun filtered through his eyelids. "Murgl."

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