A Life Together
shipping meme
how to play;
- Comment with your character and preferences.
- Respond to others.
- THERE WILL BE QUESTIONABLE CONTENT. Just because it's a shipping meme doesn't means everything's fluffy; in fact, more options than not have some unfortunate implications.
prompts;
- Open Secret: You two have never specifically said who you are in this new place, though you've never denied it.
- Witness Protection: To protect your lives, you must live under assumed identities.
- Your Real Life: What you knew before was false. This is the actuality.
- After a Tragedy: All your friends are dead. Your group is shaken. You saw someone you love murdered. The only other person you have left is the one you're with.
- Second Chance at Life: After a brush with death, you've decided to do things right and actually live.
- I Don't Want this Life, Dean: You don't want to continue in the family business - er, in your old ways set up by someone else, so you cling to someone who can give you a normal life.
- Criminal: You did a bad thing and are wanted. For your protection and the safety of the one you lo...that person, you have to hide.
- Turning Over a New Leaf: You're genuinely trying to become a better person and you can't do that with the reminders of your old home and old life.
- Rehabilitation: Your lover is helping you get over your wounds, your traumas, or your flaws.
- Blank Slate: You have to have a new life because you don't know your old one! All you know is the person you're with and the things they can tell you.
- Partners in Crime: You two are rough around the edges, but you're reformed. Really, you just want a peaceful life!
- Old Habits Die Hard: No matter what your life is now, you can't shake the need to double check the locks or hold your magic wand tight.
- Guilt: You're guilty about your relationship, so you have to reside in hiding.
- Through Elicit Means: You got with your partner through cheating and you want to keep that fact on the low.
- Stolen Away: You stole your partner - from a bad situation or from someone cruel - so you have to keep your heads down
- Taboo:
- Incest: It's better for you to live where no one know's you're related.
- Age Difference: You can always fake IDs and birth certificates.
- Interspecies: There has to be somewhere that doesn't have the prejudices of your home.
- Tyrannical Government: You're political enemies drawn together. Perhaps you're working to undermine the government, or maybe you've escaped from that place and are living in peace.
- Pulled from the Darkness: Your previous life was so terrible, you don't want to even ponder it any more. End of story, it doesn't matter.
- Dependent: You don't know anyone else in this new world of yours, or you don't know how to navigate it, making you dependent on your partner.
- Protecting Them: You're with them and hiding them for their own benefit.
- They Don't About Your Past:
- Secret Monster: If they knew about who you used to be, they'd be disgusted and want nothing to do with you.
- For Them: You're dangerous to be around, so you can't clue them in lest an old enemy or your own abilities come back and harm them.
- Florence Nightingale: They found you and took you in to help you, no questions asked. You couldn't help but fall for them.
- Using Them: This new life is just a sham. You want them to be your camouflage, maybe even getting others to believe you've changed.
- Faked Turned Real:
Both of you were using each other for cover, but now...you're not sure.- Brainwashing:
- One-Sided: You love them and want them to believe that things have always been like this. Can you be blamed for going about it this way?
- Mutual: Both of you think you've always lived this life, thanks to outside forces.
- Who Am I, Really?: You love your partner, but you feel like you're losing yourself.
- WILDCARD
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bakerstreet2016-07-31 06:59 pm
James Cole | 12 Monkeys | OTA
Nico di Angelo | Heroes of Olympus | m/m
BARRY ALLEN | FLASH: SEASON 1 |. OTA
Cassandra Railly | 12 Monkeys | f/m
Albus Severus Potter | Harry Potter: Next Gen | m/m
Sarah Williams | Return to Labyrinth | F/M
asano keigo | bleach | ota
Greed | Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood | OTA
a twist on 26-1. also, suddenly sci-fi au (lmk if this isn't cool!)
[Stocke drops into the pilot's seat. There's a moment where he glances over his shoulder - but no, his new partner won't be back for a few minutes more - and then he's slumping back with a silent sigh, one arm draped over his eyes. In the dark of the cockpit lights blink like stars, a cold, phosphorescent ocean.]
[It's been three weeks, and Stocke still can't help but think: this isn't right.]
[It's not the person he objects to - his new partner's taken some getting used to, Stocke can't lie about that, but he's skilled enough. And it's not Heiss's strategies, as such - the man wouldn't have stayed head of Intelligence for this long if he didn't know what he was doing. Stocke's worked for him long enough to know that his plans always pan out. It's just...]
[Stocke's good at acting, when need be. But this is an act that'll never let up, a stab in the back that's drawn out instead of quick. Having to pretend that nothing is wrong wears on him, when every time he looks at his new partner there's a feeling like nails on chalkboard down his spine.]
[If they have to resort to mind-wipes for recruitment, perhaps they shouldn't be in control.]
[The thought's treason. He'd do well to put it aside.]
[Noise behind him - in the blink of an eye Stocke's straightened up again, all business and no worries but the next mission.] Ready? [he calls back.]
WORKS FOR ME AND INCOMING ...
[The crash and subsequent systems failure all those years ago, the circumstances leading up to it. All he knows is The Station; the methane-haze dream of sterile floors and white-chrome walls. There had been a light there, he's sure. Something so bright, so immediately painful, that the rest of his subconscious shut down. Like a kill switch engaged or, more aptly, a power surge to an electrical socket. The blinding white had been cut. Everything else is just the day to day rotations:]
["Do you remember your name?" No. "Do you know what you are?" Again, no. Only on rare occasions does he get much else: pieces of the memory puzzle that are broken, smeared, but otherwise unstable. They drift like the after-fog of a chemical high and now, even now, the voices are so far away that it's questionable if they're even real, or something from a buried dream.]
["...he actually did it - " "-more of them?" "-at least two hundred years, if our calculations are right." "The original body sustained - "]
[Greed shakes his head. The electronic nodes on the side of his throat beep softly in his ear. He has two of them; both vertically placed where his jawline ends and his jugular begins. They flick in a timed rhythm - green to red and back again. A mimicry of the very console he's heading towards. The creature gives them a momentary tap, but the action is involuntary. Like that of a persistent bug-bite needing a scratch.]
[The mission. Right.]
[The bulk-head door leading to the cockpit is as firm as the rest of the place. Steel glints a crystal-clean and as he lowers his hand to the side panel, Greed's nails hover over the keys. The buttons are blank. No symbols, no numbers. Just a collection of nine pieces of bloated rubber and it's the only thing he can remember by heart.]
[1, 4, 7, 8, 2, 2, 5. Ding.]
[With the code in place, the door erupts to the ceiling. He's been on more than a handful of outings with his would-be partner, but the relationship is merely that: a mission, then he's gone again. Greeted by the same white suits with the same, familiar faces. Greed shoves his hands into his pockets and the tips of his black-steel claws click together.]
Eh-? Already here, huh? [The drawl of his voice doesn't fit his current body. The pitch is too deep, the roll too practiced. He lifts his arm once, showing off curled fingers as long and sharp as an eagle's talons. Black skin disappears up his sleeve. The color seems almost too dark and even with all the instruments prepped, the glowing wash in the inner hull is all but swallowed up. Giving a look like stars on the edge of a black hole. Greed peels open his index to map out the panel opposite of Stocke.] You want me on this one?
[However, he doesn't wait for an answer. He instead moves towards the back seat. The creature's movements are strung-out and lazy: a walk of a prowling predator. Whether he notices it or not is anyone's guess, but bets are? It's simply second-nature. Not everything can be erased under the knife after all, and it's just one more tell-tale sign.]
[Whatever they did, whatever they found, it had never been human to begin with.]
no subject
[Stocke reaches up, twists an earpiece free from the ceiling and hooks it in - a twist of wire stretches back up.] Yes - here.
[He doesn't look back, doesn't even look down, eyes skimming over lights to his side - green, greed, yellow, green, red. That still waiting on them to finish up outside? But his hand swipes blind over the panel in front of him. Rote gestures, pulling up a menu, tapping the second option, flinging the resulting screen to the side so it'll show up on Greed's panel.] Search and retrieval. The usual; dead if we can't do alive, but Heiss wants some words. [Planet, target, old intelligence; all of it flickers in analog letters.]
[The red light Stocke was watching pings off, lights again green. He brushes over it with one finger, satisfied, and starts to thumb switches over - listens as the engine rumbles slowly into motion beneath their feet. Lets out a near-silent breath as more lights blink awake and he sees he has to make adjustments - whenever he's grounded and it's anyone but Sonja who works on his ship, they always mess with it. Base plays it too safe, too slow, and sometimes he needs the little extra he can wring out of it.]
[Stocke punches in coordinates once he's satisfied. As the ship crunches numbers to plot their route, he swivels in his seat - bracing his head on hand and elbow and watching Greed.]
no subject
[Stocke isn't most.]
[Blue electric flips to his station like a dealer fanning out a hand of cards. The sector in question is one he's seen before. Briefly: somewhere between his personal Stage Zero and the present. Greed releases a soft 'tsk', his arm rising above his head with the same, redundant motion.]
[Plug in, lock down, and begin one more mission in a long, endless list.] Some words, huh. Sounds like the old man's found something interesting. [Vague, of course: he has to be. He knows better. Heiss might be the hand on the shoulder, but one false move? And that hand is a'pushing. Right off the proverbial cliff and if anyone thinks otherwise?]
[They're more stupid than they look.]
[Lights flip over, signalling the all clear. By now, the beeps, clicks, and whistles are merely second nature. And as they beat on, as the monotony becomes just that, the world falls away to one, simple pulse-beat. It starts out so sharp, so distinct at first. A machine in its prime going about the motions like clockwork. But eventually, the sound changes. It dwindles. Leaving nothing more than a dulled, drowning thud.]
[Thud, thud ... thud thud ... thud thud .. ]
["-sorry, but that won't work - "]
[Greed's eyes flare open. The bones in his knuckles are tense and wild; as if they had suddenly come under pressure and for one split second, he's a million miles away. That is, until he recalls the familiar twist of Stocke's chair. The movement is simple: the usual day to day. However, it does the trick and with a shake of his head, he's ejected right back into the present.] Ehhh- [The elongated groan comes with the company of a waved hand. Greed shoves the earpiece into the shell of his ear. He laces his fingers together, effectively punching the com(s) from "off" to "on".] - looks like it's the same as always then.
[A soft groan rattles the hull. Ah, there go the breakers. Greed shoves his feet forward and with a sprawl, he peers back at Stocke.] Hmn?
no subject
[In the end all he does is shake his head and turn back. Wordlessly - it's nothing.]
[Reaching up to hold the button on the side of his com throws his voice into the broadcast, a current in the river instead of someone listening to the rapids.] Deadbird 4478H to Station Control, port 37, requesting permission for takeoff.
[The response is nearly instant:] Station Control to 4478H, acknowledged. Hold. [Then there's a wait, perhaps a minute long - until there's a gap in the airspace above, until Control runs the ship and pilots through security one last time to make sure they're allowed off-base. Stocke ropes himself in as they wait, glances back again to make sure Greed's set.]
Station Control to 4478H, you're cleared, [comes almost in time with the neon map of route-to-orbit that flashes onto all the ship's screens. Stocke gives a short affirmative, twists down the stick, and the engine roars to full life - a scream that flings them free into thin air.]
[Stocke's all business until they're free of Station's airspace, saying nothing but confirmations of position with Control, the odd question or request for Greed. It's not until they're twenty minutes out that the faster-than-light drive kicks in; the stars outside blur. Stocke's strung taut for five heartbeats longer - then he relaxes all at once. His arms raise above his head, hands locked together in a stretch.]
[Station-map's gone from the ship's screens now that they've jumped, leaving their mission file behind. Stocke hesitates a moment, then jerks his head toward it, purposefully casual.] Our target familiar to you?
[An entirely innocent question. He'd plead nothing more than curiosity if asked, say Greed's been around Station more than he has recently, and maybe Heiss dropped a hint or two. But that's not what Stocke's really asking.]
no subject
[But - ]
[Under the bake of a thousand stars and absolute nothingness, he zones out. He can't help it. Even now, the monotony gets under his skin. Like a itch he can't scratch, like a blister he can't get rid of. Where it comes from, Greed's not sure. The feeling is just a constant throb and as the days go by, as the months pass, the spring's beginning to tighten. Until it's nothing but a vice just begging, always begging, for more.]
[Something has to give.] Ah-? [With a violent toss of the head, he tunes back in. Really, he hadn't bothered looking over much of what Stocke sent him; just the cliff-note run over. Greed sprawls on his side of the cockpit, his arms oozing off the sides of his chair like time-still sludge.] Familiar? Not really. [Though, from his look, it seems Stocke's Morse code has found its intended target. The Sin's mouth peels open with a wet smack.] Not much to go on, friend.
[A brightness flashes in his eyes. A warning signal to some, an alarm for the rest. Greed's nails touch the leather of his seat. He leans forward, his eyes softly pressing shut. A purposeful dip of his chin follows and it's just the right tempo, the right calculation - ]
[Oh, whoops. Looks like gravity enjoys the Com-Link's company much more than his ear. The plastic piece tumbles out - the heavy-set connection dangling as bait on a string.]
[Greed peels his fingers from the chair.] Might have something to do with those rebels we've been hearing about. [He spins his wrist once. Small, leather bands domino down his bones only to break when they reach the thicker part of his hand.] You know how the old man feels about his rules - [Finished, his gaze flicks to Stocke. The game has always been about subtly and Stocke? Stocke's the best of them all. The nod is simple to recognize. A translation without words:]
["And I'm about to do just that. You in?"]
no subject
[Stocke pulls his earpiece free far more deliberately than the Sin, setting it down with a faint clack on his console - the cable linking it stretches out in a spiraling curve. He keys in the standard before anything else - let the ship alert him if there's anything on the emergency channel, the urgent channel, on any channel but directed specifically at them. Then it's back to Greed, expression guarded.]
[Treasonous thoughts or no, Stocke won't go turncoat on Station. It birthed him and raised him, and there are far too many people there he wants to stay safe. He'd fight for their behalf if not the entirety. Greed should know that.]
[But if Station has his loyalty, Heiss doesn't inspire nearly so much. Here's Stocke's impression of the man: an uncomfortable familiarity with his agents (or maybe that's just Stocke?) slathered on top of cold disdain and condescension for everyone else; a man spending lives like credits to get the job done. Always hiding a laugh behind his eyes, as if he knows more than most, but it's nowhere near a friendly one - it's jagged and sharp, schadenfreude. Heiss feels fake, and even Stocke can't guess what's beneath the slick top layers.]
[He follows Heiss because the man's strategies always seem to go well. He's the best thing for Station - and Stocke's beginning to doubt even that. But he has few compunctions breaking any of Heiss's rules as it suits, out of sight and out of mind.]
What are you thinking? [Stocke's under no illusions that his ship's not bugged, coms out or no. But as long as Greed's careful with his words, this much shouldn't matter. They're just making plans for their assignment.]
no subject
[Except for one thing. And as the creature's lips thin, as his smile stretches from one side of his face to the other, it's all too clear:]
[They forgot the Wildcard.] Didn't really think I had to spell it out for you. [Greed curls his fingers back, leaving two to pat softly along the side of his chair. The rebels are slim, now; their numbers dwindling after each and every success the Station makes. To send them all the way out here just to clean up what remains is a waste of time. No, there's something else. Something more.]
[And Lord have mercy, he can't help himself. No, no, no. He can't help himself.]
[He forgets, though. That need getting the better of him. The fabric of the chair releases a single scrrch; as his claws meet its surface, drawing up two lines like cuts into fresh, bleeding skin. Greed releases his hold.] The rebels have something he wants. I'm not sure what it is, but it sounded pretty important. [A whistle, as light and charming as a rattlesnake, touches on his tongue. He doesn't know the details, but he can fill in the gaps. Whatever's there, it's something important. Something worth going out all this way to investigate.]
[And if Heiss thinks he's getting it: well, he couldn't be more wrong.]
[Greed slumps forward. The bolts in his neck blink erratically for a moment. Green to yellow: quickening, quickening, quickening, before relaxing back to normal again. A close call, a brush with subordinate infidelity.] Ah, well. Guess we'll see, won't we. [He lifts his head just a hitch. The debriefing is just as vague as it should be. Leave out the real intentions, play the parlor tricks. The Sin throws one leg over the opposite knee, affirming himself to the usual half-slumped sprawl.]
Anything you've got for me before we land? [Because yes, it's true that Stocke has a sense of devotion. But he also isn't stupid. This is the game they have to play; the self-safe tango between them and the powers-that-be. Greed lifts his shoulders.]
[It'll be a long way back to Station once they finish, though. Anything could happen.]
no subject
[The faster-than-light drive kicks off, sublight engines roaring back aloud. Stocke's head jerks up, away - quick as his ship is, it's still far too soon. Something's jolted them back into normal space.]
[Stocke spins back toward his console. Hold that thought. And speak of the devil - red light blinking, insistant as a message on an answering machine. Ship's picking up an emergency signal nearby. Coordinates, time - a few days ago - and... a real message attached.]
[Spacefaring rules: you answer any calls for help, because space is far too wide to hope someone else will happen in range. And you never know when you'll be the one calling.]
[Not that Stocke was ever planning to ignore it - he queues up the sound without a word.]
[It starts off broken static, sliding from quiet to loud back to quiet in the span of a heartbeat. Then a high-pitched, mechanical whine filling the cockpit - Stocke hisses through his teeth, eyes flinching momentarily shut - and trails off into someone breathing into the microphone, holding it too close. A rough whisper, in a voice trying to stay calm through panic - ship name, origin, then problem.] Our drive is out. We've been boarded - they look like they're made of dust, they just chew straight through anything organic they touch. This is a merchant ship, we don't have real weapons - we've locked ourselves into the front half of the ship, but we won't be able to hold out for long even if they can't get past the doors. If you're hearing this, please - [And coordinates again, unnecessarily.]
[Stocke doesn't say anything for what feels, to him, like a long while. (It's barely seconds.) Then he unfolds and leans out over the console.]
Looks like we're making a pit stop.
no subject
[Mayday, mayday. I have a fear we've lost control."]
[What was that about wildcards, again?]
[The creature takes a moment. Whether intentional or just plain instinct, that second skin of his has shown its colors. It shivers at the lip of his collar - its pattern like dark matter set to an amplifier's design. Irregular rectangles undulate back and forth, up and down. As if testing the air, licking it for a taste of danger or merely a passing threat. Once satisfied though, they retreat back down. His own, metaphorical defenses, though that's not quite either. It is a defense: another part of him ingrained in despite the Station's trying attempts.]
[Trying, but entirely in vain.]
[Greed flashes a smile. His look is deadlier now. Wanton. They just shouldn't have, it seems to say. Insinuation flits between each cut of his razors - intention thins across his lips. He lowers his skull and as his hands sink deep into the roomy bellies of his pockets, his ankles unwind. Thunk. Thunk] Looks like things are about to get interesting - [He says. An air of absence plays on his words and if anyone is looking right, if Stocke's as keen as he claims to be, then there's no doubt.]
[Bad things, terrible things, are just waiting around the corner.]
[The Sin pats the flat of his boot across the cockpit's floor. It echoes back hollowly: a ship that's just as dead and unforgiving as its surroundings. One of his eyes peels open and beneath the emergency red, it returns the favor. The color burning, burning, burning until it finally goes dim again.]
[Yes, things are about to get much more interesting.]
well i only took forever (i swear i'll get it to the point of this meme eventually)
[There's something strange about that message, he thinks. Something he can't parse, but that's nagging at the edge of his thoughts - maybe even just a bad feeling with nothing attached. He's tossing it back and forth in his thoughts, mulling it over pensively, when Greed's voice cuts back through. Half-hollow. Stocke's eyes trail up - Greed's expression...]
[Yeah. Interesting's one word for it.]
[Stocke pauses, still, under the light of a red eye. Waits as if frozen; an unseen shudder down his spine as the chilling feeling intensifies. Then - he lets out a soft huff of breath, brushing past the Sin to the back of the ship. As he goes by, he nudges Greed lightly with one elbow.] Gear up. Seven minutes.
[And seven minutes it is before they latch on, ships linking bridge to bridge. The lock to their ship slides open easy enough, but the other one's steadfast and shut, and the door lights flicker weakly - Stocke presses one hand to it, considering.]
[In the end he doesn't knock - if the noise alerts something hostile, he doesn't want it ready and waiting to come down on their heads. He spins a metal orb free from his belt, twists it into two halves, and slaps it flat part down onto the door; there's a quiet buzz. The lock disengages, sides of the door sliding open.]
[Stocke retrieves his lockpick - illegal, technically, but if you're from Station you get more than a little bit of leeway - and glances back at Greed once. He doesn't bother to tell the Sin to take caution: would that even make a difference? He just moves forward, flipping goggles down to switch to night vision and keeping one hand on the gun at his side.]
[The hallway from the gutted ship's bridge is empty, dark as pitch with the lights all out. Despite Stocke's best efforts, his footsteps can't help but echo.]
PFFFT NO WORRIES i mean
.
Yeah, no problem - [Half of his lip curls upward in response: a sarcastic note. Stocke's technically the man in charge here - the list detail would at least say so, his name bold(ed), printed, and stamped all the way down the ship's manifest with a flare of importance. And while the Sin himself does, begrudgingly, take the order, nothing about his actions are standard protocol. No "Yes-sir"(s), no hurried movements one may see in either a greenhorn or veteran. Instead, he takes his sweet time - as pieces of steel, plastic and the in-between are clipped on and suctioned shut. All of which pronounced by the distinct shrill of his claws.]
[He respects Stocke to some degree, but a piece of paper is powerless against the Sin's covetous nature.]
[He finishes as the ships meet hand in hand; a pair of lovers linked and frozen in time. Greed's head tilts just a hair as he hears the bulkheads drum together. The only noise in a place where there is none and as they begin to cross, he catches the glint off the lockpick. Metallic, sterile, and just as removed as everything else this far away from any life-supporting planet.]
Oh-? Didn't think you had it in you. [The Sin's voice fogs along his jaw - the slur tracing the half-cock of his smile without a hint of caution. The encroaching darkness causes the points of his eyes to thicken in an instant. They tick wide, showing a hint of red-glow like that of an animal caught in the line of a high-beam. Whatever's happened here, whatever's transpired since the recording, it's obvious that it's gone terribly, horribly, wrong.]
[And as Greed steps behind Stocke, the sensation is just that: they're on a dead craft. A silent coffin bound for the forever(ing) drift.]
no subject
[Not that Stocke needed more evidence. Nothing about Greed's by-the-book.]
[One last comment about the lockpick - Stocke throws the Sin a faint, wry smirk, distracted and half-hearted.] ...did you think I'd only ever need to go where I was welcome? [Lockpick's cleaner than breaking the door down.]
[Behind them, their own ship's door snicks shut, a final-sounding herald: it's forward or nothing.]
[Stocke pauses to crouch, run his fingers through the dust on the floor, gray and sooty. He lifts his fingers up in front of his face, eyes narrowed, then stands and brushes dirt and moon-dust off on his pants.]
[There's footprints on the floors, undisturbed. Not their own. Maybe one day old, maybe several on an abandoned ship, stuck in space with no breeze to toss it about - the second would make sense, with what they heard. And yet... something here doesn't sit right with Stocke.]
[He scans metal shelves on the wall as they pass, puckered with regular pinprick holes. Their contents are ransacked, as if grabbed in a rush by people on the run - a loop of plastic-wrapped wire left behind, a tipped cardboard box of batteries, a pile of nuts and bolts with some spilled onto the floor. Metal-sealed containers up on the other wall, undisturbed. Stocke hesitates, fingers curling tighter at the grip of his gun; he raises his free arm, palm spread helplessly. It's no official signal, but it's easy enough to read: 'Is it just me, or...']
[Or is there something very wrong here? Everything looks like what the cry for help hinted they'd find, adds up properly. But how it feels...]
[A noise from deeper in the ship, low and deep like a tortured man's groan or the scream of bending metal. Stocke stills.]
ONE MONTH LATER ..
[Hindsight has never been his twenty-twenty. Or maybe, he just never bothered to care. The thought of a roaming threat lost in his insatiable urge for something more, something bigger. And as he flits along the other's side, one of the footprints sighs beneath his heel. A flit of moon dust drifting away, like that of a shallow breeze along a well-versed dune. Erasing, hiding, any trace of a trail.] Oh-?
[Everything about the state of the ship points to an obvious conclusion; the litter of bolts and nuts, the crinkled-back surfaces of cardboard boxes thrown about in sporadic disarray. It's as if the crew, whoever they may have been, had kicked off in a hurry. The state of the ship similar to that of a four hour eviction notice. But looks can certainly be deceiving and while the Sin listens, as he hears the other give his unofficial heads-up, his mouth unconsciously whirls to the side. His instinct, his making, breaking to the surface in a line of too-sharp teeth.]
[No, there's something very wrong here and for some reason, that's part of the thrill. Yet - ]
[Greed pauses. The groan from deep below rattles under feet. A terrible echo; as if the ship's letting out its final warning. Begging, just begging, to be put to rest. The emergency light closest to him blinks emptily. It flutters in a heartbeat - leaving him lingering in its shade like a soft, blue-green specter.] Hey, hey -
[The chip along the side of his neck suddenly buzzes. It chirps violently in the quiet; the two, small dots of light frantically flickering in the aftermath. Red to green, green to red. The Sin's mouth dips to a low frown. Whatever the sound it, whatever it could be, an odd sort of recollection teases between his eyes. A ping-pong expression turning the slits of them a thin, unsteady trill.]
["-you really got bad taste-".]
[The chip beeps once. The disturbance now gone, what remains between the two switches is a simple yellow. It pulses along the Sin's skin; the implication of something out of place. Of a program finding a snag and as the Sin suddenly takes up a brisk pace, all the remains is the silence. It's pulse ringing in a vain, wordless attempt:]
["Error, error, error."]
s. same. ;;
[Greed takes off at a speed-walk, nearly a run, and Stocke curses, very faintly. He speeds his pace to chase after.]
[Some suspicion's niggling in the corner of his mind - something about cardboard, and organic materials...]
[The hall's scuffed worse further along, deeper into the ship's guts - it opens into a round centerpoint, a semi-circle of doors. Drag lines on the floor, bootprints in stumbling patterns; the dust's long started to fall on them too, but the shapes are there anyway. Signs of habitation gone bad.]
[Stocke ducks around Greed's side, eyes flitting over the floor. He might be mistaken, but it looks like two groups of bipeds fought here. The drag marks are the stranger part, almost artificial in appearance: those dust creatures? Or -]
[One of the doors whirs open with a thin squeal.]
[There's a gleam of two pistols inside from the dark, reflecting yellow and red and blue off the lights from Greed's chip, Stocke's armour, and the stranger's own.] Hands up! [a voice demands, female, forbidding. Somehow full of hate, or at least disdain. But Stocke spun as soon as he heard - he's pointing his gun at her just as she has two aimed at him. For a moment it seems like stalemate.]
[Then the rest of the doors start sliding ajar. Ten figures minimum, maybe more behind them, and all armed.]
Back! [Stocke snaps at Greed, 'Back the way we came,' but before either of them can make a move - whether the Sin plans to listen or no - he's interrupted again. The same voice.]
Either of you move, we really will shoot.
Konoka Konoe | Mahou Sensei Negima | OTA
Ninon | Original (Monster Girl Encyclopedia) | OTA
Aerith Gainsborough | FF7
Joan Watson | Elementary | m/f
Frank Zhang | Heroes of Olympus
Shimizu Kiyoko || Haikyu!! || F/M
Miguel O'Hara » Marvel Comics » OTA