Fandom Posting

Textposts are my fevorite.

[everennn]

Guilt.

Sometimes Legs feels like a alligator. When he wakes, he must blink his eyes clear of murky water, scrabble with clawed hands to get up, rough, scaly skin dragging deep furrows into the ground. But it's not enough to just get up. No, he must be presentable. So he goes through the grueling process of washing off all the mud he accumulated overnight and practicing his most approachable look--as approachable as he can tolerate being--before entering society, grinning that toothy smile and hoping nobody looks too closely at the red stuck between his teeth and crusted under his nails.

[everennn]

Rocky would be great as a massager. Think about it. Instead of having a person walk on your back, you could have Rocky skitter around. He has five feet instead of two. Even if that wouldn't work because atmosphere differences, Rocky could still roll his xenonite ball over your back and it'd be great. I'm sure at some point Grace gets ache-y from linking all those chains, and they could both take a break to enjoy mutual floor time. In centrifuge mode, the ship's gravity is lower than Earth's, so Rocky would be slightly less crushingly heavy. The only issue I see is convincing Rocky to actually do it.

[everennn]

Grace loved too much. He loved so hard that love landed him in the middle of astrophage research as the head astrophage scientist. He loved his kids, knowledge, the Earth.

Grace didn't love enough. He didn't love his kids enough to die for them. He didn't love Earth enough to die for her. He didn't have family, a partner, or even a dog.

I keep thinking how ashamed he must've been. Why couldn't he love less, accept that others would save the world and save himself the pain? Why couldn't he love more, love enough to be brave, to sacrifice himself for the good of all?

In a way, it came down to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He loved too much and it doomed him.

[everennn]

Something something Joel's base is fine and normal and everything is perfect. You walk outside and the paths are neatly defined the plants are the right shape and height and everything is saturated with color. Something about nature can't exist as it is in a perfect world. Something about how Joel is losing his mind in this pristine, beautiful, monoculture society.

[everennn]

Silver Team would refuse to speak to Cortana. It's not because they don't like her--although they certainly have their qualms--but they can't get used to how he acts now. Every movement is calculated and precise. Every touch is just as gentle as it needs to be. He moves through the space like he's in low gravity on a clock that is slower than everybody else's. Not to mention, he's completely silent. Not a single word or a noise comes from behind the helmet. The visor reflects their faces and his is never seen.

They know who Cortana is, roughly. They understand some AI has his body hijacked, and for better or worse, it's complying. They just don't...like it.

[everennn]

Cortana 100% explores John's body. She wouldn't do anything inappropriate. Her moral and social guidelines would prevent her from doing so, but she'd definitely take the time to run her hands over her arm hair, scratch the stubble on her head. She'd stretch her body as far as she could and tap those blunt fingers against Chief's visor. All these sensations she knows, but has never felt. She'd make the same gestures her hologram does, feeling the weight of an arm as it cleaves through the air, the set of her shoulders as she stands at attention, the need to relax her shoulders constantly.

She'd take care of John's body, but not before using it as her own.

[everennn]

He loved Stratt. He thinks. He remembers her in all her glory, knitted sweaters, graying hair, bed head half the time and windblown the other. He remembers how she held two coffees, the sallow complexion of her skin, her eyebags, the way her wrinkles seemed to get deeper the longer they worked together.

He also remembers rare morning meetings where she looks calm, collected, strong. Her hair isn't the bird nest it usually is. It's combed, but strands still stick out the top where she tugged too hard and they snapped, floating about like dozens of alien tentacles. Two coffees in front of her, still steaming.

[everennn]

Carl was supposed to pack Grace's bag. He worked slow and methodically, folding each shirt and taking the time to read the stupid jokes. He's tempted to order one, or maybe sign one, but he can do neither without wasting time that they don't have. About halfway into his work Eva appears, pausing in the doorway, hand lingering on the door frame. Each second ticks by in time with her heart. She can't stay here. But she joins Carl anyways. They work in silence, Carl's folding perfect, Eva's crooked. She leaves. Carl finishes and zips it up. He stands for a moment, staring. The clock ticks. Eva returns, this time with a scrap of what may be denim and a Sharpie. Wordlessly, she hands them to Carl who spells Grace's name in a careful manner. Eva stitches it on. Her hands shake, not from emotion, but from too much caffeine and adrenaline running through her system. She makes quick work of it and it is sloppy. Grace will be unconscious by now. He'll be on the catwalk, oblivious to the rocket that will take him up to space, the last frontier. The bag will go in the storage, along with DuBois' things. There isn't enough time. Not to care. Not to grieve.

[everennn]

I think after it all Stratt can't handle coffee. She drank it black and strong for the majority of the project, but now that Ryland is gone, it tastes sour in her mouth. It tastes like betrayal, and not the cold turn-of-the shoulder-type, but properly bitter and resentful.