h
YOU ARE THE REASON
No title available
$LAYYYTER
⁂
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Keni
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
blake kathryn
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
if i look back, i am lost
art blog(derogatory)
Misplaced Lens Cap
Origami Around
JBB: An Artblog!
No title available
Xuebing Du
Sade Olutola
Peter Solarz
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Bahrain
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from United States
seen from T1
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from Türkiye
seen from Singapore
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Montenegro
seen from T1
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
@disentomb
DISENTOMB. featuring, CANON and ORIGINAL CHARACTERS.
themes & franchises: horror. macabre comedy. science fiction.
metalocalypse, pitch black (the chronicles of riddick), resident evil, hunter x hunter, final fantasy vii, the legend of zelda
roster of characters & rules under the cut.
klokateer sketch compilation
a little love for my klokateer oc, #547 / DIA
∗ 29﹕ sender writes a note on receiver’s skin : [ weapon behind you ] with riddick & gaea.
𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 . | accepting.
Theirs is a silent conversation. Her glances are met with the frigid darkness of welder's goggles, knowing that he was being watched by the lingering face in his peripheral. Hidden eyes are emphasized by coyly tilting his head, his stare was undeniable and oppressively calm as she weaved through people.
They were walled in by a quadrangle of tailgated vehicles all vying for the business of the gathered crowd. Fragrant smoke billows skyward, a competition of aromatics ( some spice blends invoked the familiar, while others were from foreign planets too distant and cultured for a professional criminal suchas himself ). Didn't matter, a hot meal was a hot meal, and that's why he took this detour: in the hopes that he could score lunch without having to concern himself with his infamy for half an hour.
She is allowed closer. He's curious, he could admit it. And if she's a bounty hunter she'll meet her end like all the rest, in the meanwhile, while her intentions were dubious, he could appreciate the view.
Her grip is soft, squeezing the striations of his forearm all gentle-like, while his rested on the hilt of a shiv. Hard between his hip and belt, tucked out of sight. The nib of the marker nearly makes contact with his upturned arm until it is her that is gripped. Seized as precise as a cobra strike in a blur of agility, resulting in her wrist cuffed round by his middle finger and thumb.
His head tips, letting this unspoken thing of warning be said by a hard, dour look. The same expression tilts down to where she was allowed to write, then returns to her as impassive as ever. Weapon behind you. Legibile, small. Would have preferred the frequency of her communicator to be staining his skin right about now. But this, the danger and the risk, is his lot in life. He acquiesced, neither disappointed nor surprised.
The curve of the handhewn blade is a wicked sight. Organic in its imperfections, yet crafted perfectly to fit the hand which wields it, hiding it from plain view. The barrel of a small gauge prods the back of his shaved head, and that's when a squeaky-voiced man issues a shove and a threat. "Don't move. You wouldn't wanna cause a scene, would-?"
The gun hits the ground. That wrist is twisted in such an angle that it was difficult to look at without feeling a sympathetic ache. Whatever clever gotchas were moments from being uttered are jarred. A teeth-rattling impact from the shiv spears up through the soft underside of his jaw, and his squeaky voice ushers a nonsensical noise. If there was blood to be spilled, it was dammed up by the makeshift hilt sheathed inside his skull. Red spread through one eye as his disarmed hands dumbly groped at the blade, and altogether at once, he tipped over onto his back.
The begoggled man watched the end of his squirming life, placing the toe of one of his boots over the fallen gun and dragging it leisurely out of reach. The general public parted around them, inconvenienced by what was assumed to be a drunk who'd overindulged. But that wouldn't last forever.
𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 . ( a collection of 100 nonverbal action prompts . mature and potentially triggering themes are present . add “ + reverse ” to swap assigned roles .)
∗ o1﹕ sender tucks hair out of receiver’s face . ∗ o2﹕ sender offers receiver a bite from their fork . ∗ o3﹕ sender places their feet / legs in receiver's lap . ∗ o4﹕ sender offers receiver an earbud to share their music . ∗ o5﹕ sender comforts receiver in the aftermath of a nightmare . ∗ o6﹕ sender gives receiver company in the hospital . ∗ o7﹕ sender wraps their arms around a hysterical receiver to calm them . ∗ o8﹕ sender shows up at receiver’s home late at night . ∗ o9﹕ sender falls asleep leaning against receiver . ∗ 1o﹕ sender wields a [ gun / knife ] at receiver . ∗ 11﹕ sender runs their fingers through receiver’s hair . ∗ 12﹕ sender invites receiver to dance . ∗ 13﹕ sender takes a [ picture / video ] of receiver . ∗ 14﹕ sender places their head in receiver’s lap . ∗ 15﹕ sender and receiver make eye contact across a busy room . ∗ 16﹕ sender pushes receiver against a wall to kiss them . ∗ 17﹕ sender and receiver cook together . ∗ 18﹕ sender comes to receiver after being injured . ∗ 19﹕ sender sits in receiver’s lap . ∗ 2o﹕ sender lifts receiver's chin , invoking eye contact . ∗ 21﹕ sender overtakes receiver in combat . ∗ 22﹕ sender finds receiver [ injured / bloodied ] . ∗ 23﹕ sender straightens an article of receiver’s clothes . ∗ 24﹕ sender crawls into bed with receiver . ∗ 25﹕ sender rolls their eyes at receiver . ∗ 26﹕ sender lights receiver’s [ cigarette / joint ] . ∗ 27﹕ sender is caught wearing receiver's clothes . ∗ 28﹕ sender strikes receiver with a pillow . ∗ 29﹕ sender writes a note on receiver’s skin : [ note ] . ∗ 3o﹕ sender wraps a blanket around receiver’s shoulders . ∗ 31﹕ sender runs and jumps into receiver’s arms . ∗ 32﹕ sender shoves receiver out of anger . ∗ 33﹕ sender hovers over receiver’s shoulder as they complete a task . ∗ 34﹕ sender is found by receiver somewhere they shouldn’t be . ∗ 35﹕ sender curls up against receiver in their sleep . ∗ 36﹕ sender is found drunk by receiver . ∗ 37﹕ sender throws an item of sentiment bitterly at receiver . ∗ 38﹕ sender joins receiver in the shower . ∗ 39﹕ sender is caught following receiver . ∗ 4o﹕ sender traces one of receiver’s [ scars / bruises ] . ∗ 41﹕ sender twines their fingers with receiver’s . ∗ 42﹕ sender barges into receiver’s home unannounced . ∗ 43﹕ sender kicks receiver’s shin beneath a table . ∗ 44﹕ sender aggressively shoves past receiver . ∗ 45﹕ sender kisses receiver’s [ forehead / cheek ] . ∗ 46﹕ sender pulls receiver out of harm’s way . ∗ 47﹕ sender is found sobbing by receiver . ∗ 48﹕ sender locks receiver out of their room . ∗ 49﹕ sender brings receiver [ coffee / tea ] in the morning . ∗ 5o﹕ sender rests their forehead against receiver’s . ∗ 51﹕ sender plays a song for receiver that reminds them of them : [ song ] . ∗ 52﹕ sender takes a [ punch / stab / bullet ] meant for receiver . ∗ 53﹕ sender buys receiver a drink at a bar . ∗ 54﹕ sender needs receiver’s help getting in the bath . ∗ 55﹕ sender and receiver cross paths in the kitchen late at night . ∗ 56﹕ sender twists receiver’s arm behind their back . ∗ 57﹕ sender winks at receiver . ∗ 58﹕ sender is found collapsed by receiver . ∗ 59﹕ sender prevents an injured receiver from getting up . ∗ 6o﹕ sender claps a hand over receiver’s mouth to silence them . ∗ 61﹕ sender cages receiver against a [ wall / the floor ] with their arms . ∗ 62﹕ sender storms away from receiver during an argument . ∗ 63﹕ sender is found by receiver sleeping in receiver’s bed . ∗ 64﹕ sender [ applies / touches up ] receiver’s makeup . ∗ 65﹕ sender throws receiver into a wall during combat . ∗ 66﹕ sender dances sensually with receiver . ∗ 67﹕ sender strikes receiver across the face . ∗ 68﹕ sender places their hand on receiver’s leg while driving . ∗ 69﹕ sender pulls a chair out from under receiver . ∗ 7o﹕ sender catches receiver’s wrist when they turn to leave . ∗ 71﹕ sender leaves an intimate mark on receiver . ∗ 72﹕ sender beats receiver in a video game . ∗ 73﹕ sender and receiver stand in stunned silence after a fight . ∗ 74﹕ sender cares for receiver while they’re sick . ∗ 75﹕ sender and receiver go on a hike . ∗ 76﹕ sender is caught snooping in receiver’s things . ∗ 77﹕ sender and receiver cuddle while watching television . ∗ 78﹕ sender throws something aggressively at receiver . ∗ 79﹕ sender creeps up behind receiver to scare them . ∗ 8o﹕ sender and receiver go shopping together . ∗ 81﹕ sender helps receiver [ dye / style ] their hair . ∗ 82﹕ sender draws receiver into a kiss by the back of their neck . ∗ 83﹕ sender is discovered having a panic attack by receiver . ∗ 84﹕ sender accidentally injures receiver during sparring . ∗ 85﹕ sender grabs receiver roughly by the hair . ∗ 86﹕ sender brings receiver to their knees during combat . ∗ 87﹕ sender shows receiver evidence of a lie they told . ∗ 88﹕ sender winks [ seductively / mockingly ] at receiver . ∗ 89﹕ sender yells at receiver to put their hands in the air . ∗ 9o﹕ sender helps receiver patch up a wound . ∗ 91﹕ sender holds receiver as they cry . ∗ 92﹕ sender silently and angrily points receiver towards the door . ∗ 93﹕ sender gestures for receiver to sit down . ∗ 94﹕ sender pulls receiver into their lap . ∗ 95﹕ sender cradles receiver’s face . ∗ 96﹕ sender tackles receiver out of the way of danger . ∗ 97﹕ sender has hidden an injury from receiver , and receiver finds out . ∗ 98﹕ sender confronts receiver about their unhealthy behavior . ∗ 99﹕ sender proposes to receiver . ∗ 1oo﹕ sender has just died , receiver finds out .
lost in thought, the florida native nodded along absentmindedly to whatever dia was saying and began to tune him out. maybe pickles was right, he needed to cut ties with tequila. he was starting to see things. things that sparked a feeling of anxiety through his systems. the palms of his hands began to sweat, remembering the demise of the silver faced man. how they refused to let toki slip from their fingers. the vision felt so real. causing him to doubt if the band had successfully defeated the man with the silver face. until recently, the band was blissfully unaware of their impact to their world.
toki being kidnapped along with abigail was a wakeup call the boys had coming for years. being high enough in the air, the dethkopter shook as it experienced some turbulence. gripping tightly onto his seat, the skin around his knuckles turning white. color from his face drained and his stomach churned. right after the gear asked him if he felt ill, nathan sprung to his feet to go to the opening of the 'copter. projectile vomiting blood down onto the ground below him. which was going to be fun for whoever that lands on below. screaming as the liquid gushed out of him, hand balancing himself onto the shell of the vehicle. some blood lingering on his lips, nathan heaved. feeling relief after releasing the built up stress and toxic liquid consumed the night before.
hearing plastic unraveling, his head turned to dia who offered what he thought to be candy. he took it from him, feeling lightheaded from after puking his brains out. throwing it into his mouth without any questions asked.
he definitely tasted the honey, the ginger settling nicely in his upset stomach. feeling better he sulked back to his seat. head leaning back on the material. being handed a black clean cloth from another gear to wipe the blood off his lips.
"where'd you get those? klokazon?" he inquired, gently rubbing the blood off of his lips. "not bad."
There were hands instantaneously on Nathan, shirt fabric wrinkled in gloves. A klokwork precaution to prevent him from toppling out of the aircraft. Gloves remained tangled up in him until he appeared steady on his own.
The two gears exchanged a glance as they eased back. Unused bags are awkwardly held by the one that clears his throat. Since they were no longer of use the bags were tossed, littering them over the side to be whisked away by the wind.
"What the hell did I just see go over the side?" the pilot's voice buzzes through the intercom.
"Disregard," says the other klokateer into the wall receiver.
And if there were any other intense reactions to the bloodpuke, it was hidden neatly in the reticent expressions of black hoods. The conversation continued at Nathan's behest. "Mordhaus. Small batch," a nonspecific answer - or else run the risk of saying something humanizing.
This might tempt thoughts of concern for the baker still out there, boots on the ground, beating back protestors with bludgeoning weapons. Cheap ones, to save on outfitting an order as large as theirs; the CFO had explained all the cost-effective measures down to the most minuscule fraction to Dia. Charles' gift, among many, was that he could craft the most impressive formulas to predict the consumption of life; predict the how and the when to replace falling klokateer numbers to keep things flush, always moving.
Not bad. That was as glowing a review as one could ever expect from Nathan, and with it came a sense of pride, bears it subtly in the chesty tones of a: "let me know if you'd care for another."
Dia returned to the previous seat, setting a booted ankle atop the opposite knee, positioning the tablet in the crooked corners. Plenty to do now in the never ending queue.
IT and PR are put on alert to suppress the media, a special focus on the escalated violence at the hotel; in addition, instructed to search for any sensational stories about blood raining down from the sky.
Then there was the matter of the frontman's health. Added to the schedule were surgical consolations and proactive organ retrieval. ( The CFO wasn't going to be happy when he received that notification... ) To think they had managed to escape the hotel without any noteworthy incidents, yet the end result was still so worrisome. A sigh rumbled out from beneath the hood, sneaking past the usual unaffected manner of 547.
A guitar riff indicates a new message. Dia relays it, paraphrasing no doubt, "Master Wartooth would like to know if you two are still on tonight for your ... oh, I see, I think is supposed to say "gaming session". Do you think you'll be feeling well enough to accept?" And in a quick aside, tempered deceptively neutral, "have you been sick for very long?"
@disentomb
continued from (x)
“Don’t mention it,” he responds flippantly.
Rather quickly, Balto had come to understand Rude’s oppressive silence not as a means to intimidate nor insult the other party but merely the method in which Rude chose to carefully, carefully curate and calculate his responses in due time. In his time, his own perception of it, regardless of how long it looked to literally any normal human being on the Planet.
Sometimes… Sometimes Rude actually does mean to intimidate and insult. Balto guesstimates he has a success rate of identifying which Rude-brand silence he is dealing with about eighty percent of the time. Those odds change dramatically if Rude has recently emerged from some sort of harebrained discussion or argument with his redheaded buffoon of a partner.
Nothing wrong with the occasional gamble.
Balto looks down as the pamphlet slides across the frosted glass. His expression does not change right away, settled into the usual, grim line of a vague smile ready to go full stretch for anyone willing to test his patience. Like silence, pleasant smiles are capable of variance. What he sees, drinking in crude photomanipulations with a practiced eye, earns an outright frown.
“This a joke? Their skills are terrible.” Balto picks up the appalling artwork and rotates it clockwise in his hands one way, then counterclockwise the next. He pushes up his glasses and examines the print more closely, as if unsatisfied with his own disbelief. “Hideous,” he mutters, pushing the pamphlet back across the table with a wrinkle of distaste on his nose. “Then again, I suppose that might be the whole point.”
Not everyone could be a master of their craft, after all. Biases tend stronger when personal or professional vocations are called into play.
Balto glances around the empty conference room. Complaints should be aired carefully. Eavesdroppers are not uncommon. The Turks are not even safe from themselves. Balto leans back his chair while bouncing the one foot up in the air from where he has crossed his legs. “You really think Tseng wants us to waste our time busting these guys?” Might be a bunch of stupid teenagers. Might not be.
The palm of his glove matches the curve of the mug, leeching its warmth to kickstart its effects, tracing topmost edge with thumb pad. Watching Balto transition from each stage of review in the typical provocative way. A non-expression settling in for likely the next long stint. An air of icy professionalism, maintained by black lenses that faintly echoed the scene of the pamphlet being turned this way and that.
Analyzing, in that indirect way, overtop the piping hot brew. It lingered, not yet touching his lips, the impression of his stare growing stronger.
If this were Reno, Rude would be more confident speculating the reaction to the images. The two could not appear any more contradictory, yet the same could be said of a fork and a knife. A set of cutlery was incomplete without both.
The two, somehow, complimented each other. Deadlier when paired. Mission success was undeniable proof of their effectiveness. It was clear in the separation of their partnership that this task was not considered highrisk.
Right now, Rude was undecided what would come of all this. The unknown element intrigued him. Saying nothing until the exam was completed in its entirety; grunted for the sixth time. Plucked, barely-there.
Then he sipped. Turks are not even safe from themselves, a shared sentiment among those conscripted. Consumption of anything offered was a sign of trust. The hesitance before a mere obligation to sniff out foul play, no more than personal protocol.
"No," he supplies, pressing his lips together to rescue the coffee taste that wets them. If there were rats in the shadows subsisting on words from loose-lipped Turks, Rude would surely see that they starve.
The pamphlet is drawn close and flipped over. He wonders exactly what Balto is brave enough to dare ask: what was the motivation for sending out operatives of this caliber to address ... this?
Tseng's plans are precisely his own. Unknown and complicated, he is no better equipped to question them than he is to take a stab at the why. They could debate it, participate in speculation and come up with something reasonable. Balto's observational skills had his total confidence in that regard, but it wouldn't matter in the end anyway. Orders were orders.
A subtle shift of the light across his sunglasses indicates his wandering focus. Moved onto the restless behavior from Balto, or else anxiousness. The topic of questioning superiors in any capacity was a touchy one.
He elaborates, just a touch, after an appropriate measure of contemplation ( for Rude, that is ). "Could be what the printing press represents." Decommissioning the mystery naysayer's setup could be quite a blow to their morale.
"…" Taking another look at the disparaging imagery by tipping his chin down, one last theory does cross his mind. "Or it was ordered from higher up." He might feel the same if he were depicted this way, and he was hardly as thin-skinned as some of the executives. Tseng wouldn't have many options to deny the request no matter how overreaching if it was uttered by the right nepotist.
Movies watched in 2022: Pitch Black
George Seferis, tr. by Edmund Keeley & Philip Sherrard from, “In the Kyrenia District.”
Avalanche- A name he had heard only through the scrawlings upon the headlines of newspapers, splashed across the news glanced at upon television screens between orders and working. Another attack? Granted, Vaux could perhaps sympathise with their apparent reasoning, in its rawest form, but putting innocent lives at risk? Surely there had to be better ways about it all— there had to be.
Still, he was scarce in much of a state to be thinking much of anything, not when his ears were ringing and making him feel absolutely nauseous. Attempting to regain himself, his composure, was utterly difficult and it was with great effort that he lifts his head from his unknown hero’s shoulder and attempts to reorient himself.
“Barely-” He nigh whimpers, for the moment keeping his eyes closed lest his terrible disorientation trigger a seizure. “Vaux, darling - - my name is Vaux–”
Thickly does he swallow, raise a hand to press a finger to his temple and, rather daringly given his current state, does he pry open his eyes.
“And do I get to know the name of my hero in term-?”
Darling? Was he just called darling? Tonguing the back of his teeth, his jaw worked subtly, at least he had gotten his answer. Eardrums are confirmed to be intact, but for giving him such a nonchalant pet name Rude had to wonder if Vaux's other senses were completely rattled out of sorts in the explosion.
"Eyes closed." Succinct, pointed; impressing his point comes his glove, sliding through all that hair with an amount of care not to tangle or snag. Warm leather, hotblooded from the mission, squeezing Vaux's nape steadily, supporting his head from bobbling and causing any further imbalance. It wasn't a kind voice and these actions were simply clinical, but no nefarious reasons for providing aid made an appearance.
The other hand slips inside the suit jacket, retrieving a thin tube of silver. "Rude," he provided, then encouraged flatly: "Now open slowly."
Light was summoned by a satisfying click of a button, the penlight illuminating a halo of white that passes slowly from one pupil to the next. The next question was an offer in disguise: "Do you have anywhere else that you can go?" Anywhere, it was implied, that wasn't where a mass exodus was still fresh, anywhere away from the breathless conversations of families heightened in states of uncertainty, loved ones still missing in the chaos. Somewhere away from all that. He wasn't keen on listening to the aftermath himself, truth be told.
NO, I’M NOT BAD. BUT LIKE IT OR NOT... I SOMETIMES HAVE TO DO BAD THINGS.
∗ 49﹕ sender brings receiver [ coffee / tea ] in the morning . || ∗ 43﹕ sender kicks receiver’s shin beneath a table
whichever is easier for zack or balto! @villagerain
𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 . | accepting.
"Mm," he grunted for the fifth time now, a pamphlet shielding his face from view. Propaganda against the company always made for an interesting read at the start of the day, especially the hastily reproduced kind. The rudimentary drawings, the crude language, calls to action that would certainly only end in bloodshed. A mug joins the table, the rich smell of hot coffee exciting the senses, leatherclad fingers blindly reach for the handle without so much as looking away. Grasping nothing but air. A sudden thud sends a splinter of ache through his shin. The paper manifesto crinkles subtly between his gloved fingerpads, the hand extended to the cup twitched.
A plain-faced look slowly unveils from behind the pamphlet, suggesting nothing of what was going through the mind of Rude as he finally, finally addresses his fellow Turk, seated across from him. Attempts to break his focus had gone unsuccessful, it was hardly a wonder that it resorted to kicking underneath the table to grab attention. Rude took the coffee, and assessed its contents with a single, neat little line dimpled between his exceptionally groomed eyebrows, a jingle of earrings as he bent closer. It appeared, from the outside, like an intense analysis. It isn't what's inside the mug that has turned him inward, just a bid for time to find the right words to expunge himself for the crime of being so ungrateful and uncommunicative. ( Unaware, perhaps, that by continuing this quiet consideration it was only prolonging the illusion of silent treatment. )
"Sorry," he says, having chosen to start there, giving a negligible gesture the usual morning libation. "And, thanks." As if in explanation, the pamphlet is slid over across the table. The front cover was scandalizing at even a glance, depicting the most public faces of the company in hyperbolic proportions, features exaggerated and their tongues atwist together. In private, when Rude had first seen it, it got a good chuckle out of him.
the sound of bullets flying, the blades of the dethkopter turning and explosions made the frontman cover his ears as he stepped into the chopper. being handed a pair of noise canceling headphones, he quickly put it on. feeling the relief of muffled noise. grumbling obscenities as the crew took off. open palm extended outwards to the nearest gear who handed him pulls and a white can with a skull on it. who was he to complain being handed a beer to cure a hangover? although, this method felt more of a pickles thing.
popping the pills onto his tongue and cracking open the can, nathan took a sip to wash the pills down. only to find out whatever he was drinking felt flat and wasn't beer at all. it was water. face turning sour.
"ungh. thought this was beer . . ." he complained lowly to himself, fully aware that nobody could hear him at the volume and altitude they were at.
what an awful start to his day. leaning over to peek at the ground below them, he watched as the threat was contained. some gear were loss in th explosions but there appeared to be more casualties amongst the revengencers. a man stood out amongst the crowd, a familiar one that the frontman could've sworn was dead. the man with a silver face who hung people from hooks. staring for more than in a few seconds in disbelief, he reached up to rub his sleep crusted eyes with the back of freehand. only to see the man disappear when his eyes adjusted to the sight.
pickles was right, drinking tequila was always a bad move. going to sit upon the nearest seat, shrugging at the question dia asked.
"ugh...i guess. i don't have an appetite." he admitted, not locking eyes with the gear. his mind stuck onto the man with the silver face. was he seeing things? was he alive? he couldn't be. he's dead. handing the can of liquid death back to dia, he hunched forward in his seat. head hanging low as he tried to clear his migraine. wondering to himself how long it'll be until they get to duncan hills. recording the new album today was out of the picture. at least this time, he had an excuse.
"I'll place a request for several items off of their food menu in case your appetite changes its mind. Would you like your usual coffee order, sire?" This is automated: speculating problems and being proactive about solving them. There's enough free will to be analytical and observant, of course, because it was necessary for these duties. But not all klokateers emerged from their education of intense, psychological reconstruction with even that much intact. Some had minds too soft to endure the ordeal and retain a shred of intelligence, emotional or otherwise. 547 thought of them as ghosts, obedient ghosts. Ghosts had their uses.
A click of the exterior button blacks out the device screen, shutting away the Duncan Hill menu squeezed on all sides by a dozen windows of live feed video, transmitted from the ground team still putting out the threat at the hotel. A passing thought squeezes through the mental blocks like a stubborn animal tearing itself free from barbed wire: reminiscing over how simple the role of combat fodder was compared to this latest promotion. For this ungrateful idea, the guilt was immense and immediate just as as a klokateer was designed to feel in moments of weakness.
Nathan becomes the center of focus again, finally recognizing the distance in his eyes. Enigmatic and haunted. It seemed too complicated to be a symptom of a hangover, but 547 only had assumptions to go on. Obediently, the water was taken when handed over, then passed off to the other gear who is instructed to fetch the barf bags ( just in case ).
Dia's reach is long, long limbed altogether, leatherbound fingers hooking into an overhead loop, distant memories of combat coming freshly to him, activating stablizers and with an amount of ease came gracefully up to his plated boots. The other hand is pressed down against the top of a thigh to steady himself, shifting with the undulations of the aircraft as he hunched near enough to be easily heard by Nathan. "Are you feeling ill?" Providing a solution, the pads of Dia's fingers disappear into a front pants pocket, retrieving a single treat delicately between the middle and forefinger, its black plastic paper crinkling, depicting a plain rectangular piece of candy within. "Honey-ginger chew," the textured voice explained with as small a voice as it could manage while still carrying over the chorus of machinery sounds. ( Nearly wants to add: the ginger was harvested right from the klokateer's gardens, hand rolled and cut by an overeager baker among the order. it stays a private thought of pride. ) "Might help, sire, if you're interested."
“Everybody has a chapter in life they don’t read out loud.”
— Unknown
