[Face punching is so far in the past now it's more like: face punching, what face punching. As the saying goes, in all friendships, a little rain must fall, a few litres of blood must be shed, a nose might get broken, et cetera, et cetera. All is forgiven, doubly forgiven now that there's arm gloves and cart races.
Sirius' Apparition is immediate, not even a second after Remus': straight to hovercart storage, don't try and keep a wizard out, Support nanites, he's here, he's inspecting with a critical eye worthy of any elected inspectawizard on the inspection committee before a Quidditch World Cup final. By the time Remus and the container pop into existence, he's narrowed it down to two fine looking carts, without a single scuff mark or dent on them.]
You, experience? Enough to beat me at a race? Please, Lupin.
[The real answer is yes, probably, lest he make a fool of himself, but false bravado wins out. But--too eager to even properly play at bravado--Sirius jumps up to his feet, abandoning all carts.]
Anyway, the carts aren't going to be the thing. I can do driving. It's arms that'll take some getting used to--is that them? Hairy armgloves? Take them out, then, let us have a look. I can't believe you've actually done this--you're a genius, Support. Or manipulative. Or brilliant. All of the above. My favourite weirdo sex man. Let me see, come on-n--
Edited (scoops up extra < >, throws it out) 2015-02-16 04:41 (UTC)
[ But, like so many long-suffering looks Remus has aimed at his friends, this one is ruined by how obviously he's trying not to smile. Missed deadlines aside, he is a Space Christmas CHAMPION. And since he's already made Sirius wait this long, he doesn't make too much of a show (even by his not-very-showy standards) out of setting the container down on the floor and lifting one of the gloves out. ]
They're not hairy today.
[ They are, also, not as gross as you'd think. They're as much metal or plastic as they are skin, with some tubes opaque enough to hide the fact they contain blood. They have straps. No squishing anyone's arms into the raw fleshy inside of anyone else's.
He holds it out with both hands, dangling between two of its straps, and wiggles it. A little dance. ]
You'll have to wait and do hovercarts without me for that. It'll only hurt my feelings a little.
[They're a little gross. Flesh tubes, how are they not going to be a little gross. But it's like being handed the latest model of racing broom, for the reaction that they get. Sirius grins, hugely, an grabs for the dancing arm.]
I'm not doing anything without you. We're racing, and you're going to show me how these carts-- ohhh, mental--
[His nose wrinkles, as his hand closes over the flesh of the arm.]
Why is this bit a little warm? This is great. It's like-- row-bot man-thing. You pick your cart and let me work out how to put these on. Where do the straps go?
[ Helpfully. Remus is half-distracted by peering at the row of carts, but whatever claims he's made to the contrary, they are all pretty much exactly alike. He decides on one at random and returns his full attention to Sirius, where it belongs. ]
They're warm because the little robot bits are trying to keep the arm bits alive longer, so the nanites don't give up and leave.
[ That's how Remus understands it, anyway. As long as the blood is moving and the flesh isn't necrotising, the hoards of tiny benevolent (for today) creatures living inside it will keep clinging to hope that they can save the arm. Such optimists, nanites. ]
Here, [ he adds, ducking to pick up the second glove. He holds it flat to invite Sirius' forearm. ]
[That's to warm roboty bits, but he sounds so pleased. Further proof comes when, obligingly and without pause or hesitation, Sirius shoves his arm into said second armglove, with enthusiasm.]
Eurgh!
[Even more pleased. He wriggles his fingers, his expression a mix of thrill and disgust.]
Is this how it feels, being you? Very warm. But I knew that already. I can't believe this actually worked.
[ The first time he's ever approved. He even let someone stick him with needles for this, and take his blood, obviously, which is the sort of thing that would make him nervous if it were magic. No one who asks for blood for magic is ever up to anything pleasant. ]
I'd tell you to thank William, but... [ With the straps fastened well enough around Sirius' arm that he won't be dropping the glove, he lets go to make a circular gesture, indicating Sirius's person. ] All four limbs and both eyes is such a good look for you.
[ He's joking. Sirius could totally take him. And William probably wouldn't attack him again.
[Sirius agrees with gusto. He also agrees with the general scepticism toward sciencey things otherwise, and God bless you, Remus Lupin, for agreeing to needles, which still remain a point of medical contention with Sirius. (People are not shirts that need mending with needle and thread. Nor do they need to be pricked continually with needles in order to be healthy. Muggles.)
And he could totally take William, by the way, which is why he pulls a face at Remus.]
Git.
[Obligingly, he wriggles his fingers. Fingers of armglove follow suit. Sirius grins.]
Yep. Moving fingers. Fleshy bits. Warm skin. This is mental.
[Somewhat stiffly, he holds up the arm wearing the armglove and waves at Remus, scrunching his fingers.]
Hull-llllloooo. Agck.
[Or that's the approximate noise, anyways, and it's a noise of disgusted happiness. Sirius beams down at the armglove--and then grabs, still somewhat clumsy, for the other armglove.]
All right, let's have 'em both. Let's get this race started.
[ Git earns a proud sort of smile, yes thank you, as does everything after it: the finger-wriggling, the disgust, Sirius' obvious delight. This is the best thing Remus has ever done. It is possibly the best thing ever done by any werewolf anywhere, in all of space and time. He deserves the Order of Merlin, Third Class, at least. The needles were worth it.
Satisfied that Sirius can finish dressing himself without help, Remus climbs into his randomly-selected hovercart and brings it humming to life. He's improved enough that he only nudges one other hovercart on his way out of storage. Meanwhile: ]
If you crash it, you lose. [ Just to be clear. Mr Pendleton is not quite as intimidating as Mr Jones, but Remus would still not like to have to tell him that someone smashed a hovercart he wasn't even supposed to be able to drive into a wall because he was too competitive to slow down. ] You can have an honorable mention for style, but you lose the race.
[--Sirius says, again, as the second armglove makes it into place. He holds both hands in front of himself and experimentally wriggles all ten fingers. All ten fingers wriggle accordingly. He barks a laugh, pleased.]
Merrrlin. Yes, yes, yes, I hear you, points for style, no overall win-- honestly, who made up these rules. Anyway, if anyone's crashing, it's you. You seem to have forgotten that I've actually seen you try to drive hovercarts.
[He keeps his arms out in front of him a bit stiffly as he goes for his chosen cart, fingers splayed, grin still in place. The hovercart itself hums to life as it reads the Support nanites, and Sirius laughs again.]
Hullo, nanos. Hullo, Support. Ha ha ha.
[A second of study and he grabs hold of the controls. His own maneuver out is almost smooth--one bump against an adjacent cart, but not a crash. Easily, he pulls up beside Remus, with a grin. Sorry you're friends with a bloke who is good at everything, Lupin.]
[ Being friends with a bloke who is good at everything has been on the whole more blessing than curse—for example, when said bloke pulled that stunt with the underage and unregistered Animagus transformation—but the look Remus slants toward Sirius' direction when he pulls adroitly into view is 50 percent genuinely aggrieved. He might have at least hit two carts.
The remaining 50 percent of the irritation is for show. The race is part of the gift, and a race isn't much fun if your opponent doesn't care about the outcome. ]
The end and back. Turning them around takes some skill, you know. [ Not much, but some. More than pointing and zooming. ] Unless you'd like to ease into it.
[An incredible lie, but the only admission Sirius makes to that end is his grin--which is, honestly, pretty telling. Still. He squints down the corridor toward the end, doing a few swift mental calculations.]
Down and back. Ready, then? [He wiggles his fingers in his armgloves, which obediently follow suit. Disgusting.] On three? Thre-eeee-- two-oooo--
[ Remus answers that grin with more fake frustration, mouthing back I do love to ease into things with a mocking head wobble. Also a poorly-hidden smile. He doesn't really mind. Sirius has earned all that cockiness. But Remus isn't going to roll over and make it easy for him, so— ]
One, [ he cuts in, a little too quickly, and slams his hovercart forward. If there were tires they would screech. It's a decision Remus quickly regrets—because he's a Gryffindor, yes, of course, but if he is the one to wreck a hovercart then he will never hear the end of it. He will become Weirdo Sex Hovercart Crasher Man, and it will be unbearable.
But he can't take it back now. He can only say, ] Aahhh, [ with relative calm, an after-the-fact recognition of his own alarm and indignation, as if something or someone else had done this to him against his will. And he eases up off the space equivalent of gas, too, but only a little, looking sideways to check how badly Sirius is probably already beating him. ]
[--Sirius yells, first. But because he is, obviously, also a Gryffindor, and not a whiner, he recovers from his indignation and jams his armgloved hands against the controls. His hovercart leaps forward, inasmuch as a hovercart can actually leap. It's more of a lurch, really. Not so lurchy that he even comes close to slamming into anything, unlike some people.
So, when Remus looks around, it's to find that Sirius hasn't actually ovetaken him or beaten him yet, but is hovercarting along more or less beside him, at a hovercart's sedate pace. And yet the grin that Sirius gives him implies a breakneck speed, like they're zooming along much faster than they actually are.]
D'you know what happens to cheaters, Moony? They lose! Just like you're going to!
[And sure enough, his hovercart pulls into the lead, by a nose. A very small nose.]
[ Eighteen miles per hour is really nothing, not even for Remus, who has survived broomsticks and motorbikes and can, actually, run almost twice as fast as the hovercart, when he's on all fours. But broomsticks don't have buttons, and he didn't have to drive motorbike. It's different. But he's trying very hard to sound more collected in the aftermath of his aahhh. ]
It's a handicap, to make up for your bloody effortless—everything.
[ Case in point: the nose-length lead. Remus rolls his eyes as obviously as he possibly can, then leans forward over the controls, like maybe that will make his cart more aerodynamic. ]
Ooh, yes, bloody effortless-- it's such a pity that you love me so much--
[And love, obviously, overcomes even the outcome of hovercart races. Remus' cart does not improve aerodynamically, but the shift of his weight does sort of lean his cart forward a little, with a creak. Sirius darts a glance down, toward where their hovercarts are now quite neck and neck, still at that sedate pace.]
I'll show you a handicap--
[The offer is both cheerful and a little crazed. Show, give--it's clearly the latter that he means, and as they draw closer to the end of the corridor, he leans his weight to the right of his hovercart, which pushes it against Remus' cart. This is a little like Ben-Hur, if the chariots in Ben-Hur had been drawn by teams of sleepy mooncalves.]
[ That's purely instinctive outrage, since nothing outrageous actually happens: his cart has nothing to grip at the floor with except air, and it slides accommodatingly sideways when bumped. Someday they should put bumpers on them and have at it. But given the present absence of padding— ]
Don't scratch them. [ It's a lame follow-up. He knows it. His voice isn't even raised. And here's the end of the corridor, or at least near enough for Remus to begin slowing down—unnecessarily, probably fatally, since swinging the carts around at the wall like a swimmer doing a flip-turn is perfectly feasible for someone less concerned about making Murphy Pendleton look disappointed in him. ]
[Sirius--who could care less about the disappointed face of Murphy Pendleton--who could, generally, care less about the disappointed face of anyone, with very few and rare exceptions--has no hangups about swinging carts around--which he happily proves by swinging his cart around at the end of the corridor, completing the turn at a less-than-breakneck-but-still-inadvisable speed. Devilish and daring even at a pace barely above a brisk jog.]
I'll scratch you--
[Which doesn't exactly make sense and is, in fact, a little juvenile of a response--but so what, the cart's not been scratched and Sirius is already heading back in the other direction, his risk paying off splendidly in that he is now in the lead.]
[ Since they're being juvenile to begin with, Remus lifts a hand from the controls long enough to gesture as rudely as he can at Sirius while their paths cross, before he starts the process of turning his cart around at a more responsible speed and chasing after him.
Cheating—real cheating, the kind that goes unnoticed and makes a difference in the outcome—is for Slytherins, but being a pain is the arse is a more global trait, and the way back is a long ways to be staring at the back of Sirius' hair, so. Remus gets his wand out, once he's turned around, and says, quietly, ]
Aguamenti.
[ He aims the charm at said back of head, a quick and not particularly forceful jet of water. Wizarding squirt gun. This is all very mature and appropriate for 22-year-old war veterans, what are you talking about. ]
[As he's hit with the water, Sirius jerks forward, with a very unGryffindor yelp. His hand slaps at the back of his head, indignant--]
What the hell, Lupin--
[--And of course, because he's slapped at the back of his head with his hand, and his hand is covered in armglove, it's sort of a less-than-graceful move, made clumsy by skin that sort of isn't his.
Hands off the controls of the cart means, by the way, that the cart veers to one side, with a suddenness that is uncanny for the speed that it's been going all this time. A sedate pace does not apply to veering, apparently, or really more of a nosedive gone sideways, directing Sirius straight toward a wall, and straight off-course.]
Shit--
[He's laughing, but he tries to grasp the controls again, toggle the cart back onto track--a little too late--]
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Sirius' Apparition is immediate, not even a second after Remus': straight to hovercart storage, don't try and keep a wizard out, Support nanites, he's here, he's inspecting with a critical eye worthy of any elected inspectawizard on the inspection committee before a Quidditch World Cup final. By the time Remus and the container pop into existence, he's narrowed it down to two fine looking carts, without a single scuff mark or dent on them.]
You, experience? Enough to beat me at a race? Please, Lupin.
[The real answer is yes, probably, lest he make a fool of himself, but false bravado wins out. But--too eager to even properly play at bravado--Sirius jumps up to his feet, abandoning all carts.]
Anyway, the carts aren't going to be the thing. I can do driving. It's arms that'll take some getting used to--is that them? Hairy armgloves? Take them out, then, let us have a look. I can't believe you've actually done this--you're a genius, Support. Or manipulative. Or brilliant. All of the above. My favourite weirdo sex man. Let me see, come on-n--
waiting outside window to collect < > for dinner
[ But, like so many long-suffering looks Remus has aimed at his friends, this one is ruined by how obviously he's trying not to smile. Missed deadlines aside, he is a Space Christmas CHAMPION. And since he's already made Sirius wait this long, he doesn't make too much of a show (even by his not-very-showy standards) out of setting the container down on the floor and lifting one of the gloves out. ]
They're not hairy today.
[ They are, also, not as gross as you'd think. They're as much metal or plastic as they are skin, with some tubes opaque enough to hide the fact they contain blood. They have straps. No squishing anyone's arms into the raw fleshy inside of anyone else's.
He holds it out with both hands, dangling between two of its straps, and wiggles it. A little dance. ]
You'll have to wait and do hovercarts without me for that. It'll only hurt my feelings a little.
aww I'd make you a plate of fresh < >
I'm not doing anything without you. We're racing, and you're going to show me how these carts-- ohhh, mental--
[His nose wrinkles, as his hand closes over the flesh of the arm.]
Why is this bit a little warm? This is great. It's like-- row-bot man-thing. You pick your cart and let me work out how to put these on. Where do the straps go?
what a darling
[ Helpfully. Remus is half-distracted by peering at the row of carts, but whatever claims he's made to the contrary, they are all pretty much exactly alike. He decides on one at random and returns his full attention to Sirius, where it belongs. ]
They're warm because the little robot bits are trying to keep the arm bits alive longer, so the nanites don't give up and leave.
[ That's how Remus understands it, anyway. As long as the blood is moving and the flesh isn't necrotising, the hoards of tiny benevolent (for today) creatures living inside it will keep clinging to hope that they can save the arm. Such optimists, nanites. ]
Here, [ he adds, ducking to pick up the second glove. He holds it flat to invite Sirius' forearm. ]
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[That's to warm roboty bits, but he sounds so pleased. Further proof comes when, obligingly and without pause or hesitation, Sirius shoves his arm into said second armglove, with enthusiasm.]
Eurgh!
[Even more pleased. He wriggles his fingers, his expression a mix of thrill and disgust.]
Is this how it feels, being you? Very warm. But I knew that already. I can't believe this actually worked.
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[ The first time he's ever approved. He even let someone stick him with needles for this, and take his blood, obviously, which is the sort of thing that would make him nervous if it were magic. No one who asks for blood for magic is ever up to anything pleasant. ]
I'd tell you to thank William, but... [ With the straps fastened well enough around Sirius' arm that he won't be dropping the glove, he lets go to make a circular gesture, indicating Sirius's person. ] All four limbs and both eyes is such a good look for you.
[ He's joking. Sirius could totally take him. And William probably wouldn't attack him again.
Probably.
Remus wouldn't bet anything important on it. ]
Can you move your fingers well enough?
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[Sirius agrees with gusto. He also agrees with the general scepticism toward sciencey things otherwise, and God bless you, Remus Lupin, for agreeing to needles, which still remain a point of medical contention with Sirius. (People are not shirts that need mending with needle and thread. Nor do they need to be pricked continually with needles in order to be healthy. Muggles.)
And he could totally take William, by the way, which is why he pulls a face at Remus.]
Git.
[Obligingly, he wriggles his fingers. Fingers of armglove follow suit. Sirius grins.]
Yep. Moving fingers. Fleshy bits. Warm skin. This is mental.
[Somewhat stiffly, he holds up the arm wearing the armglove and waves at Remus, scrunching his fingers.]
Hull-llllloooo. Agck.
[Or that's the approximate noise, anyways, and it's a noise of disgusted happiness. Sirius beams down at the armglove--and then grabs, still somewhat clumsy, for the other armglove.]
All right, let's have 'em both. Let's get this race started.
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Satisfied that Sirius can finish dressing himself without help, Remus climbs into his randomly-selected hovercart and brings it humming to life. He's improved enough that he only nudges one other hovercart on his way out of storage. Meanwhile: ]
If you crash it, you lose. [ Just to be clear. Mr Pendleton is not quite as intimidating as Mr Jones, but Remus would still not like to have to tell him that someone smashed a hovercart he wasn't even supposed to be able to drive into a wall because he was too competitive to slow down. ] You can have an honorable mention for style, but you lose the race.
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[--Sirius says, again, as the second armglove makes it into place. He holds both hands in front of himself and experimentally wriggles all ten fingers. All ten fingers wriggle accordingly. He barks a laugh, pleased.]
Merrrlin. Yes, yes, yes, I hear you, points for style, no overall win-- honestly, who made up these rules. Anyway, if anyone's crashing, it's you. You seem to have forgotten that I've actually seen you try to drive hovercarts.
[He keeps his arms out in front of him a bit stiffly as he goes for his chosen cart, fingers splayed, grin still in place. The hovercart itself hums to life as it reads the Support nanites, and Sirius laughs again.]
Hullo, nanos. Hullo, Support. Ha ha ha.
[A second of study and he grabs hold of the controls. His own maneuver out is almost smooth--one bump against an adjacent cart, but not a crash. Easily, he pulls up beside Remus, with a grin. Sorry you're friends with a bloke who is good at everything, Lupin.]
To the end of the corridor?
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The remaining 50 percent of the irritation is for show. The race is part of the gift, and a race isn't much fun if your opponent doesn't care about the outcome. ]
The end and back. Turning them around takes some skill, you know. [ Not much, but some. More than pointing and zooming. ] Unless you'd like to ease into it.
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[An incredible lie, but the only admission Sirius makes to that end is his grin--which is, honestly, pretty telling. Still. He squints down the corridor toward the end, doing a few swift mental calculations.]
Down and back. Ready, then? [He wiggles his fingers in his armgloves, which obediently follow suit. Disgusting.] On three? Thre-eeee-- two-oooo--
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One, [ he cuts in, a little too quickly, and slams his hovercart forward. If there were tires they would screech. It's a decision Remus quickly regrets—because he's a Gryffindor, yes, of course, but if he is the one to wreck a hovercart then he will never hear the end of it. He will become Weirdo Sex Hovercart Crasher Man, and it will be unbearable.
But he can't take it back now. He can only say, ] Aahhh, [ with relative calm, an after-the-fact recognition of his own alarm and indignation, as if something or someone else had done this to him against his will. And he eases up off the space equivalent of gas, too, but only a little, looking sideways to check how badly Sirius is probably already beating him. ]
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[--Sirius yells, first. But because he is, obviously, also a Gryffindor, and not a whiner, he recovers from his indignation and jams his armgloved hands against the controls. His hovercart leaps forward, inasmuch as a hovercart can actually leap. It's more of a lurch, really. Not so lurchy that he even comes close to slamming into anything, unlike some people.
So, when Remus looks around, it's to find that Sirius hasn't actually ovetaken him or beaten him yet, but is hovercarting along more or less beside him, at a hovercart's sedate pace. And yet the grin that Sirius gives him implies a breakneck speed, like they're zooming along much faster than they actually are.]
D'you know what happens to cheaters, Moony? They lose! Just like you're going to!
[And sure enough, his hovercart pulls into the lead, by a nose. A very small nose.]
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[ Eighteen miles per hour is really nothing, not even for Remus, who has survived broomsticks and motorbikes and can, actually, run almost twice as fast as the hovercart, when he's on all fours. But broomsticks don't have buttons, and he didn't have to drive motorbike. It's different. But he's trying very hard to sound more collected in the aftermath of his aahhh. ]
It's a handicap, to make up for your bloody effortless—everything.
[ Case in point: the nose-length lead. Remus rolls his eyes as obviously as he possibly can, then leans forward over the controls, like maybe that will make his cart more aerodynamic. ]
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[And love, obviously, overcomes even the outcome of hovercart races. Remus' cart does not improve aerodynamically, but the shift of his weight does sort of lean his cart forward a little, with a creak. Sirius darts a glance down, toward where their hovercarts are now quite neck and neck, still at that sedate pace.]
I'll show you a handicap--
[The offer is both cheerful and a little crazed. Show, give--it's clearly the latter that he means, and as they draw closer to the end of the corridor, he leans his weight to the right of his hovercart, which pushes it against Remus' cart. This is a little like Ben-Hur, if the chariots in Ben-Hur had been drawn by teams of sleepy mooncalves.]
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[ That's purely instinctive outrage, since nothing outrageous actually happens: his cart has nothing to grip at the floor with except air, and it slides accommodatingly sideways when bumped. Someday they should put bumpers on them and have at it. But given the present absence of padding— ]
Don't scratch them. [ It's a lame follow-up. He knows it. His voice isn't even raised. And here's the end of the corridor, or at least near enough for Remus to begin slowing down—unnecessarily, probably fatally, since swinging the carts around at the wall like a swimmer doing a flip-turn is perfectly feasible for someone less concerned about making Murphy Pendleton look disappointed in him. ]
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I'll scratch you--
[Which doesn't exactly make sense and is, in fact, a little juvenile of a response--but so what, the cart's not been scratched and Sirius is already heading back in the other direction, his risk paying off splendidly in that he is now in the lead.]
Eat cart, Lupin!
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Cheating—real cheating, the kind that goes unnoticed and makes a difference in the outcome—is for Slytherins, but being a pain is the arse is a more global trait, and the way back is a long ways to be staring at the back of Sirius' hair, so. Remus gets his wand out, once he's turned around, and says, quietly, ]
Aguamenti.
[ He aims the charm at said back of head, a quick and not particularly forceful jet of water. Wizarding squirt gun. This is all very mature and appropriate for 22-year-old war veterans, what are you talking about. ]
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What the hell, Lupin--
[--And of course, because he's slapped at the back of his head with his hand, and his hand is covered in armglove, it's sort of a less-than-graceful move, made clumsy by skin that sort of isn't his.
Hands off the controls of the cart means, by the way, that the cart veers to one side, with a suddenness that is uncanny for the speed that it's been going all this time. A sedate pace does not apply to veering, apparently, or really more of a nosedive gone sideways, directing Sirius straight toward a wall, and straight off-course.]
Shit--
[He's laughing, but he tries to grasp the controls again, toggle the cart back onto track--a little too late--]
Shit, look what you've-- aaah--