Corellian Whiskey and Blaster Fire @ifyoucanhearmenow - Tumblr Blog

fieldfoxes-deactivated20120310

Name a fandom you know I know and I’ll tell you

1. The first character I first fell in love with 2. The character I never expected to love as much as I do now 3. The character everyone else loves that I don’t 4. The character I love that everyone else hates 5. The character I used to love but don’t any longer 6. The character I would totally smooch 7. The character I’d want to be like 8. The character I’d slap 9. A pairing that I love 10. A pairing that I despise

May as well go ahead and do this here, since I'm doing it on my personal (read: the random ass shit Nox likes) blog as well.

#might as well do it here too #nox is so ronery

Yet Another Update

Life has finally resumed it's normal pace, mostly. Hopefully this will let me get back to my writings once again. During the lot of this, I've been able to work, at least a bit, on one of my original universes again, though that's been hard considering the stress. That Dark Tower fic I mentioned probably will -not- be happening, as I've done something a bit different with that particular muse that's a bit more private. Um... Let's see... Uh... No idea what's coming up soon, aside from a warning that I've taken to playing TOR again and there'll probably be some shortfics from that, the Chief and Cortana fic I'd planned post-Halo 4's ending is in the works, and I do have the intent to set to typing some of the oWoD fics in my head soon. Guess that's it.

#updates

Pardon lack of updates

A lot of IRL things have been going down.

Hopefully there's going to be stuff here again soon, I just need to see to my mother's care.

Strange as it may sound, there may or may not be fiction related to Stephen King's The Dark Tower here soon, as I'm back on a kick for it after finishing The Wind Through The Keyhole and from other means that I'm not quite ready to disclose here.

#update #Dark Tower

This is why I like Tumblr

To My Last Reblogger: Oh Shit indeed - and that's just my group of the cast, not counting my partner's. UNSC Resolute Chronicles is a gigantic ensemble cast. Hope you enjoy it once we finish enough Chapters to keep folks busy whilst we continue writing.

Hopefully soon-ish once life calms down, we'll have either the first teaser up, or the first chapter in it's entirety.

I'd have responded to your post directly, but I fail at Tumblr sometimes and I can't seem to manage said option even with my main. Ah, such is life.

#From Nox Aeternus #My feels

Cast List - Halo: UNSC Resolute Chronicles

Figure I may as well have some fun, and post cast lists for the fiction that will be contained herein. Currently only my characters (not listing Aeternium's because I'm not sure who his current cast is going to be with the rewrites), and by no means is this all of them. The lists will be amended and expanded as we go on.

#Halo #UNSC Resolute #By Nox Aeternus

Enlightenment

((Halo - UNSC Resolute canon to be precise. Another of John-117's private journals - I wanted to show both a creative side to him, and the recognition of how fucked up the man's life has been. I should specify now I am not, and never will be, a Halsey fan. I cannot condone what she's done, and in UNSC-RC, we admittedly turn it up.))

#Halo #Halo Fanfic #John-117 #Master Chief #UNSC Resolute #By NoxAeternus

The Awful Truth

((Halo - UNSC Resolute canon. Our Chief keeps small private diaries from time to time, just to blow off steam. At the end of the day, what does the UNSC's most well-known hero think about the state of affairs of his world?))

I’ve watched men dying on the battlefield, screaming for their mothers and fathers to come help them. I’ve watched women cut down by plasma as they run, carrying screaming babies in their arms. I’ve seen children, teens, abandon their mothers and fathers, sons and daughters abandon aging parents, to run away to save their own lives. I’ve seen children abandon baby siblings in order to save their own lives. I’ve watched soldiers turn on their commanding officers, just to escape having to delve into the thick of combat. I’ve been shot with plasma, kicked, bitten, scratched, clawed, mauled, trampled, and stabbed… by both the Covenant and our own UNSC soldiers. War is hell because it brings out the worst in people, both on and off the battlefield. On the battlefield, sometimes, I can justify what I see. Sometimes, I can understand it. I understand that the need to survive sometimes overrides empathy, overrides logical reason and the moral fiber that, I hope, really does exist in every man, woman, and child in the United Nations… even if I myself have never really been privy to any of it. But that’s in the service, and on the battlefield, where I can justify the worst in people Off the battlefield. Hero. Savior. Messiah. I’ve been called a lot of things over the years. The media would have you believe, that I’m some sort of angel, sent from the Heavens to wreak humanity’s own holy, righteous vengeance on the Covenant. A savior who will bring about the end of this war, who will bring and end to death, destruction, and conflict. Of course, according to the media’s opinions, I’m also the only fucking SPARTAN in existence, never mind that there are thirty other MJOLNIR clad super-soldiers whose exploits never once get mentioned. According to the media, once the SPARTANs are on a battlefield, the battle is won… Even though we lose the planet. They paint the picture of grateful civilians and soldiers alike, smiling in adoration as green armored super-soldiers defend them with pride and grace and bearing. They paint the battlefield out to be some big ice cream social, once the SPARTANs hit ground. The media tends to lie. Either that or I need to get some of the shit that those people are taking, because it must be one hell of a fun trip. You see, the truth is this. No one stops to smile at us when we’re planet side, no one stops to thank us. They just run screaming past us – we part the tides of people like rocks in the middle of a river. The regular soldiers are worse. They really could give a shit less about 60 billion dollars worth of energy shielded armor, encasing God only knows what. They tell us to get out there and fight off the onslaught, and to keep out of their line of fire. I saw a newsreel the other day, of a campaign I was on a week ago. They zoomed in on a unit of Marines, valiantly firing away, putting up one hell of an opposition. They cut back to a reporter, talking. Then they cut to one of us, 104, battling it out with an Elite using nothing but his knives, and defeating it. Pro-war sentiments went up by seventy-five percent, a forty percent margin over last week’s polls. Me? I’m wondering who was the dumb sonofabitch that risked their life to retrieve that footage. Because I wasn’t more than four hundred yards away, when I saw the pair of Hunters come crashing through the side of the building, right next to those Marines. The guy with the camera took it the worst. He went out impaled through the chest on one of those spines that those mean bastards have on their shoulders. The other guys were cut down by fire, trampled, or beaten to death by those two. So I guess it was good that the censors cut scene when they did. Otherwise, gasp shock amazement, people might realize that we’re actually fighting a goddamned war here. That dumbshit who retrieved the footage is more devoted to his military than even I am, I guess… So dedicated to it that he would risk his life to preserve a filthy lie. I don’t understand the need to glorify war. I don’t understand the need to tone it’s horrors down for the public. I don’t understand the need to candy-coat the very real fact that we’ve been losing this war since day one, and that unless more soldiers enlist, they’re going to have to reinstate the draft, because not even the supply of convicts can keep the military staffed for good. Hell, I don’t understand how no one can understand how bad the war really is. But then again, the military is really all I’ve ever known. Dim memories of a life before becoming a soldier, isn’t really a life. Sometimes, it startles me to hear how much everyone loves the military nowadays. I remember once, Mendez telling me, that people outside the military would never under stand us, would never understand me and mine… because most people would never know what it meant to have another man’s life, his blood, on their hands. Me and mine are privy to the greatest secret our military harbors – the fact that the UNSC’s beloved SPARTAN poster children, were originally incepted to stop full scale civil war. That our original intent and purpose was to perform brutal and precise strikes against rebel targets, to enforce the rule of the UNSC over every one of humanity’s colonies. We were designed to be a- Designed. As it we were machines built for a specific procedure. Funny how indoctrination strikes when you least expect it. But whatever the case may be, as it stands, that’s what we were made for. And if anyone outside the military knew that, I wonder if they would love me and mine so much the next morning. See, the truth is that, in the end, the Covenant is doing to the UNSC, exactly what the UNSC was going to do to humanity. Eliminating all that don’t mesh with it’s views. I can almost applaud them – they do a much better job than the UNSC ever could. Sometimes, my fellow SPARTANs read what I write here, over my shoulder, and they call me a nihilist. Sometimes, I think they might be right. -End Entry- -End Session-

#Halo #John-117 #Master Chief #UNSC Resolute #By NoxAeternus

Fiction Schedule Thing

I WILL MAKE THIS WORK.

This is by no means a binding schedule, not at all a “This is totes the order of things all!”, more a list of what I’m looking at putting out in the next 1-2 months.

Halo

UNSC Resolute Chronicles

· Rating: Ch. 1-3, PG13 for language and crass military men.

· Rating: Series Overall, NC-17, for a great deal of language, violence and sex of all types. Male/female, male/male, female/female, human/AI and a bit of Covenant lovins thrown in there as well.

· Status: Ch. 1-2 done and in editing phase, Ch. 3 almost ready.

· A rather (read VERY) AU Halo fanon series that my counterpart over at Aeternium Scientium have worked on, and now restarted, for a rather long time. Set in the Halo Universe, with a lot of tweaking and a fuckload of head!canon, it disregards (for now) a great deal of the timeline after Halo: CE and puts our own spin on things. It is, however, a labor of love and (so we’ve been told) a very fun read.

· Originally started when we were over at Y!Gallery as Talon_Godchild and ODSTAdrianFii.

· If you can’t see the Master Chief as a gay man, don’t read this. Yeah you read that right. It works. Give it a chance.

Untitled Un-UNSC Resolute-Related fic

· Rating: Potentially R for overall unpleasant content.

· Status: Started

· Goddamnitt, 343i, you’ve finally done it. You’re making me actually write Cortana/Chief fiction. I’ve never written a heterosexual Master Chief in my life but now you do this to me in Halo 4. IthinkIloveyoubastards.

Star Wars: The Old Republic

Underworld Meeting

· Rating: PG13, for language, booze and spice consumption, and a lot of homoerotic tension between two Chiss.

· Status: Pending Possible Restart

· This may or may not see the light of day, or may actually end up being restarted.

· Originally intended as the meeting fic for Zev’kres’tharti (Chiss Bounty Hunter) and Evit’hali’csapla (Chiss Imperial Agent), things have changed enough that we may end up restarting this piece.

· Imperial Agent, Bounty Hunter, and Sith Inquisitor Storyline spoilers will abound.

Sleepless Nights

· Rating: PG

· Status: Started, discussing further details with Aeternium.

· The meeting fic between Aeternium Scientiem’s Trooper Valenten Sor and my Miralukan Jedi Shadow Khaliel Tam. Supersedes the other Khaliel fic that’s up here.

· Needs some tweaking still since Khaliel’s a complicated little punkass.

Life Lessons

· Rating: R, for violence and disturbing content.

· Status: Started, stuck for inspiration.

· Just how Zev’kres’tharti got those scars of his, and why he has no feels for the Empire. Set before Kres started the whole Bounty Hunting thing, and why Kres says that he was the worst smuggler in the history of anything ever.

And One To Grow On

· Rating: NC17, for cross-species and same-gender sex, forced cross dressing, and violence

· Status: Outlined, not started

· Fath’ray’nekesh is a young Chiss member of Imperial Intelligence, stuck working a desk job for a superior of questionable ethics. When the opportunity to move to field work comes from an unlikely source, will he rise to the occasion or fall? Will involve some input from Aeternium Scientiem down the road, eventually.

· Imperial Agent spoilers will abound.

thingsonhazelshead

im-am-roux

A POLITE DOGE has approached you

ACCEPT TEA

REFUSE TEA

You have ACCEPTED TEA

The DOGE IS PLEASED

ifyoucanhearmenow

Mind melting due to cute... Thank you for the tea, puppy!

En Route to Korriban

((SWTOR - Cyzen Daubain, a Pureblood Sith Marauder, before he becomes Sith. At the age of 17, on the way to Korriban, reflecting about his fellows and society at large. Brief cameo by another toon who goes on to have a major impact on his life.))

As another ripple of raucous laughter tore through the shuttle, sending a fresh jolt of pain through his already aching head, Cyzen briefly wondered if he’d be able to manage another six hours without murdering each and every person on board.

In the rows ahead of him and behind him, his peers stood, clustered around the seats of their friends, blocking the aisles and making a grand mess of things as they thoughtlessly chattered and boasted, told lewd jokes, stories, and laughed loud enough that for a brief moment he wondered if they weren’t all engaged in some sort of psychological warfare against each other, before deciding that was right out as it would involve the sort of forethought or strategic mindset that was severely lacking in the rowdy bunch. To think that any of them believed they would become Sith was enough to make his stomach churn. “-really, what did she expect? She was just a slave, it’s not as if anyone cared!” Cyzen tried his best to block out the story being told in the row ahead of him, as he shifted in his seat trying to get more comfortable to continue reading the novel on his datapad. It was a battle he’d been losing for some time - he’d started the same page over six or seven times. “My father just looked at me and said, ‘Well, at least you were smart about it, could you imagine the children!?’” “What would a human-twi’lek hybrid look like?” “Foul, I’d imagine - I still don’t know how you stomached it. Desperate times, eh?” “Hey now!” The face of the next generation of Imperial society. Cyzen sighed as he saved his place and turned off his datapad, rubbing at his temples for a moment in an effort to ease his headache before standing to stretch. It was an odd sight, really, to look over the occupants of the shuttle. Cyzen wondered for a moment if it was intended to impart some sort of life lesson on the upper-class students, that they were all equals once they reached the Academy, whether that was true or not remained to be seen of course. The vast majority were the Force-sensitive human or Pureblood children of the Empire’s social elite, well-dressed and stylish young men and women who radiated privilege. Physical perfection was the watchword amongst them, with the humans pleasingly tattooed and the Purebloods artistically pierced or simply left to their natural beauty with well-groomed hair and facial tentacles. They laughed and chattered away, occasionally snatching a drink or a piece of fruit for themselves from the serving droids or the tables near the shuttle’s galley through their rudimentary command of the Force. While he was one of them by birth-right, Cyzen knew well that he wasn’t welcome there - his family’s circumstances were an open secret, and he’d spent his life being reminded of his place, last amongst equals, lucky to be there, an eleventh-hour saving grace for a fading bloodline. Others still were the common-borns, those who were Force-sensitives by pure chance instead of breeding, who sat quietly talking amongst themselves or fearfully silent. They were at a disadvantage, Cyzen knew that well - their upper-class peers had received training for most of their early lives, while they largely had not. Some of the middle-class were lucky enough to have had parents willing to bankrupt themselves to pay for the expensive tutors, but even that was a rarity. Some of the youths had received no training, were simply collected by the Academy’s handlers once their talents were discovered and tested, and packed away without care for their protests. While they largely stuck to their own, a few had managed to begin working their way in with the groups of upper-class students, their simple attire a sharp contrast to the finery of the others - willingly play the role of the fool as the butt of jokes to begin forging alliances that could last a lifetime should they survive Academy training. The outgoing ones, the charismatic jokers, they knew well what was on the line, how the hopes and dreams of their families rested on their shoulders. One Force-sensitive who survived to become Sith would rocket their family up the social ladder, make even the poorest merchant or farmer family into the social elite on par with the Lords and Dukes of the Empire. And then there were the most interesting occupants... Cyzen allowed his gaze to trail towards the back of the shuttle, where silent young sentients, humans and aliens of a myriad of species, men and women who sat with their heads bowed submissively, some staring at the floor, others off into space, and others still occasionally daring to sneak a glance up as if to size up the threat of the privileged classes ahead of them. They weren’t well-kept, and certainly weren’t well-dressed, wearing simple shifts and slacks, thin-soled shoes. The marks most of them bore were enough to tell anyone what they were, and had earned them no small amount of jeering and derision from the others since they’d been herded aboard. But Cyzen understood the source of that jeering, the reasoning behind the insults and snide remarks. Fear. The silent, poorly dressed Acolytes were an unheard of exception to the year’s crop of students, culled from the lowest of the low - slaves one and all. Some were strong-framed labor slaves, others wiry house-servants, and others still the long-limbed, supple-bodied slaves used for pleasure and entertainment, exotics one and all. And it gave reason for every one of Cyzen’s peers to feel a ripple of fear run through their hearts at the realization that times were far more desperate than any of them had realized. That the ranks of the Sith Order had run so thin that Force-sensitivity meant more than racial purity or social status - that they were desperate enough to resort to similar recruiting tactics to those used by the hated Jedi Order. And why shouldn’t we resort to it? Cyzen wondered, as his bright yellow eyes traced over each of the slaves, lingering for a moment on a unusually multi-colored, beautifully tattooed Twi’lek female, who sat quietly and subtly observing the exchanges around her as if she were cataloguing every bit of conversation, every snippet of information, away for later use. Why shouldn’t we bring in every last bit of power, put it to use for the glory of the Empire? “Oi, Daubain! Are you listening!?” “Nah, Torre, he’s too busy oggling himself some slaves!” The taunts and laughter of his fellows tore him from his thoughts, and immediately Cyzen plastered a perfect imitation of a smile across his face as he joined the laughter, gave a mock shrug as if to say ‘maybe I was’. “I’m sorry, you just blather on so much, Torre, that I’ve learned to tune you out over the years.” Cyzen teased. “Yes, yes, being a Duke’s son lends itself to long-winded speeches, while you’ve inherited the quiet of your military father.” Torre laughed as he shook his head, his prominent facial tentacles twitching once or twice to both signify his amusement and draw attention to the differences in his heritage and Cyzen’s. Torre Voldaaresh was easily two heads taller than Cyzen despite the two men being the same age, hairless, broad shouldered and well-built with brilliant crimson skin and eyes, the bone ridges of his face and throat pronounced and well-developed. Cyzen himself was lithe and compact of build, yellow-eyed and black haired with dusky red skin. His facial and throat ridges were small, almost delicate, as were the four small vestigal facial tendrils that he tended not to use when expressing his emotions. Torre and Cyzen had played together often as young children, and Cyzen had never quite forgotten how Torre’s mother used to boast to his own that their heritage was Massassai while the Daubains were clearly Kissai, as if anyone could make such a distinction. “There he goes again, windbag.” Cyzen’s smile never faded. “What did you ask me?” “I said,” Torre gave a mock sigh of indulgence. “Since you were wandering instead of listening to the conversation, that you were obviously joining the ranks of the Inquisitors, but Nyda insists that’s not true. I thought to have you clarify.” “Nyda would be right,” Cyzen replied, inwardly uttering a thousand curses at his one-time friend for setting him up for a barrage of insults. “The path of a warrior suits my tastes more than the ways of the mystics.” “Give him a week, he’ll change his mind!” Another youth, a Human nobleman’s son, laughed. Cyzen briefly tried to place his name, knowing they’d attended social groups together as children, before reminding himself that it simply wasn’t worth the time. “Either that or enough tripping and falling over his own feet and they’ll change his mind for him!” Says the boy who managed to break half a china collection trying to fetch a glass. Cyzen laughed along with the rest, shaking his head to indicate that the comment meant nothing to him. “Cyzen, Cyzen,” Torre laughed, reaching out to pat the smaller man on the shoulder soothingly. “I know you’re all about breaking the trend with your heritage, but really there are limits.” Never miss a chance to shame me, do you Torre? “My great-grandfather was a Marauder,” Cyzen shrugged with a smile. “I’m trying to follow in his footsteps, Stars willing. If not, well, I’m certain the Overseers will have a sit down with me. And by sit-down I of course mean toss me around the room until they’ve knocked some sense into me.” “Yes, well, you’re lucky that they won’t simply make an example of you,” Torre mused, before casting a glance towards the back of the shuttle. “They’ll have ample fodder this go around. We really must remember to praise the captain when we disembark, his air filtration system works wonders at filtering out the smell of filth, does it not?” “Don’t get me started,” One of the middle-classed hopefuls rolled his eyes. “Here I am working my damndest, my parents working three jobs to pay for my lessons, and then those things get admitted? It’s a travesty, plain and simple.” “Ah, don’t think of it as an insult,” Nyda chided, patting the human who’d spoken on the shoulder reassuringly. Cyzen noticed, for a moment, that her nails were gilded in gold, striking against her red skin, and wondered if she was attending the Academy for actual training or simply for marriage prospects. “You’ll have more time to come up to the level of the rest of us, Carros dear. You may even get the chance to practice killing a few during the initiation trials, wouldn’t that be grand?” “True, it’s not as if they’re people.” Carro smiled, glancing back. “Say, I was wondering...” Cyzen slowly withdrew from the conversation, his noncommittal responses and occasional polite laughter enough to allow him to disappear. He sighed softly as he sank back into his seat, picking up his datapad again boredly before glancing back towards the rear of the shuttle once again through a gap in the rows. The multi-colored Twi’lek was still watching the others, and for just a moment, Cyzen thought he saw her lip curl in something akin to a sneer of disdain before her features once again resumed the pretty but empty expression it had worn throughout their trip. Of course you can wear a mask in plain sight, Cyzen thought, as her eyes moved, and for just a moment, it felt as if they locked with his before he turned his gaze away. His headache had only gotten worse. If I can do it so easily, of course you can. Your life must have been hellish - I hope the pain and hate make you strong, carry you through. Another burst of laughter filled the shuttle cabin, and Cyzen sighed heavily as he reached out and plucked a piece of fruit from the tray of a passing serving droid before opening the novel up once again, determined to finish it before they landed. Anything to ignore the throbbing pain in his head.

#SWTOR #Sith Pureblood #Marauder #Cyzen #Bana'tiila

Nights Like These...

((Old World of Darkness - Lucius Delacourte. Immortal or not, endless mundane nights are enough to drive anyone mad))

White eyes didn’t blink, didn’t dry, weren’t irritated by the little wisps of hair that danced in and out of them as the wind whipped them around, as he tore down darkened roads at 95mph. He’d left the headlights off again, he didn’t need them, hadn’t needed them by the time they were a feature added to cars, and would never need them any time in the forseeable future. Night was as bright as day for him.

#World of Darkness #Lasombra #Lucius Delacourte

How She Moves

((Old World of Darkness - my Lasombra Cardinal Lucius Delacourte watching a member of his pack))

It’s how she moves.

That has to be it, he decides, as he watches her weave through the crowds in the club, slipping between knots of dancing mortals as they writhe together to the music, stepping lithely out of the way of two who’ve fallen out of step, darting just out of reach of a staggering drunk almost without even realizing she’s moved.

#World of Darkness #Lasombra #Lucius Delacourte

The Man Without A Face

((Original Content, Ahoy! Drabble for our Unnamed Steampunk Universe, with Captain Caliban Moore))

The working man knows his name. He whispers it to friends in darkened alleys, coughing on the soot-filled air and choking on the ether-fumes of passing motor-cars. They breathe it softly, so frightened that someone might hear them, that someone might start to wonder just why they have cause to say his name… and secretly, in their heart of hearts, they envy him for his audacity, for his courage to do what they cannot, for having the gall to rise up above the rest and say that he will not stand for it any longer. They wish they could be him.

#Original Content #Steampunk #Caliban Moore

Routine

((Fandom is the Matrix, and the character is my old captain, Cyanide. This particular character is somewhat dear to my heart, as my counterpart and I actually met each other in the game that he was played in, without realizing it. Another drabble challenge thing.))

There’s really no point to calling it night anymore.

Not when, he reasons, their lives are more or less spent in underground service tunnels, on dim ships that never reach the surface world, where even the skies roll black and dead from the Machine War so long ago. Darkness has ceased to have any real meaning to him, and the night cycle of the ship is just an excuse to have a few minutes to himself for peace of mind. He sits in the Operator’s chair, watching lines of green on black code go by on screens idly, reading a couple’s argument here, a young man jerking off there, a blonde walking down the street alone. Nights in the Megacity are all the same he supposes, and here he sits in another world and another time, playing voyeur as he peeks into the lives of the people that will never know how hard he fights for them. His hands move over the keys quietly, trying to keep their clicks to a minimum as he runs a search for a single line of code that he knows by heart, he’s typed it so many times. Ellie’s identifying codestring is so simple it’s elegant in his eyes, perfect for his perfect daughter. Though in a sense, he’s not really even sure if she’s actually his daughter, or if their connection is just another fabrication of the Matrix, another measure of control, instinct to protect a child’s experiences and ensure they’re still within the parameters of the system, capturing their mind and ensuring they remain asleep through vagaries and pretenses of love. But nihilism aside, she’s always going to be his little girl. He reads her code silently, more carefully than he’d read most others. She’s alone in her bedroom, and it’s dark. She’s alone, curled up in a near fetal position, because for as old as she is, she’s still afraid of the dark. Too big to call out for her mother, she’s never gotten over her father’s mysterious disappearance. She cries quietly, and for just a moment his heart aches as sharply as it would if he’d been shot. Temptation rises to navigate to broadcast level, to jack in and go back to a house that he hasn’t visited in over a decade, to walk in and hold the daughter he left behind so long ago. He misses his daughter more than he misses his wife, who moved on five years after he vanished out of her life, who now spends her nights in the arms of another man. There’s not much happiness in her code, which he glances over idly before looking back to his daughter’s once again. Perhaps her marriage was just one of conveniance – her life still revolves around the daily grind and bills that need paying. She lost her job not long after he took the Red Pill, and oftentimes he wonders if that was some machine overlord’s childish punishment of her in his stead. Leaving his wife and daughter miserable since it lost it’s hold over him. He turns his attentions back to Ellie’s code, and reads as she sits up in bed, knees drawn up to her chest, and for a moment he’s transported back in time, remembering the sound of a six year old child whimpering in the darkness, looking at him guiltily when he opened the door to let in the light from the hallway. “What’s wrong, Els?” “My nightlight Daddy…” “Burned out again, huh? Okay… I’ll leave the door open, and I’ll be right back to bring you a new light.” He smiles sadly in spite of himself, remembering how she smiled at him, how he was the biggest hero in her world, the light-bringer, when he returned with that goddamn lightbulb. How she crept out of bed to hug him when he knelt down, and how he tucked her back in, snuggled her until she fell back to sleep… But then he opens his eyes, and Ellie is up and on her feet. He reads her moving to a window being tapped at by quiet knuckles. His daughter is sixteen now, and the person knocking on her window is the boy from two houses down- Cyanide shakes his head as he pushes himself away from the screens, rubbing at his strained eyes wearily. His crew would chastize him if they knew, tell him he was torturing himself and that he needs to let go and move on, or bring them over. But he knows neither option is feasible. He can’t walk away from his family for good, nor can he bring them into the hellish world of the Real. He can’t let go and he can’t go back. He snaps off the screens after a moment or so more of watching, closing his eyes as he reclines in the seat, closing his eyes in the darkness, and for just a moment allows himself a moment of weakness to weep for the life he’s lost. And to wonder if he’s really doing the right thing.

#The Matrix #Cyanide #Drabble

Snow

((Halo Fandom - CODENAME: Seraph, a Vice-Admiral and member of the Board of Directors for the Office of Naval Intelligence in our Halo fiction. Originally written as a drabble throw-down with my counterpart.))

He never really saw the draw of snow.

#Halo #Codename: Seraph

Second Hand

((Zev'kres'tharti, Kres, my Chiss Bounty Hunter on Bergeren Colony, acquires himself a pretty ship... Oh yeah, and Mako is in it. A little reference to the storyline for Kres in there, regarding the mention of the Red Blade.))

She was old, and she smelt vaguely like stale spice and engine degreaser. Her outer hull was scuffed, and she clearly needed a few fresh coats of paint and some tender love within. But by the stars she was lovely.

Zev’kres’tharti allowed himself a brief moment to relax, a short but giddy laugh escaping him as he sat idly sifting through the previous captain’s remaining possessions as he cleaned out the quarters that would soon be his and his alone. On the deck below him, he could hear the soft sounds of music and the occasional thud or impact of some trinket or bit of unwanted detritus being tossed into waste bins as his young companion worked at getting the crew quarters into a livable state – the previous captain had used them for glorified storage, and Kres briefly wondered just how the man had survived so long if he was the only one piloting the vessel aside from a droid with debatable processing capabilities. She wouldn’t be the first ship he’d become the second-hand captain of, but she was certainly the most fun to acquire. She’d been owned by some hapless, cowardly Nautolan who’d panicked at the first sight of twin-blasters wielded in capable hands and the determined gleam in their bearer’s monochromatic red eyes. It hadn’t come to bloodshed once he’d agreed to let her previous captain retrieve a handful of sentimental belongings from on board, though he’d searched the fool twice to make sure the title and writs of ownership for the vessel weren’t amongst those. The man had put up so little fight that Kres was certain he’d acquired the vessel illegally himself - anyone with good sense or who knew what they were looking at would have never so easily given up a little spitfire like a D5-Mantis so readily. And now she was his, free and clear. Well, free and clear as a stolen ship whose papers he owned could ever be. He tossed the last of the previous captain’s belongings onto the sheets he’d stripped off the bed before bundling the whole lot into a waste bin and moving on to the bridge. The bridge had been better kept than the rest of the ship, and Kres mentally thanked his House elders for such small favors as he trailed gloved fingers over the backs of crewmen’s chairs on his way to the helm. The captain’s chair was pleasantly broken in, the leather seasoned and worn by the presence of a few captains before him. He hadn’t taken the time to enjoy it when they’d made their clean getaway from Drommund Kaas, too busy focusing on piloting a ship for the first time in close to three years and paying attention to comm chatter from the port below to make sure his departure clearances wouldn’t suddenly be rescinded by a vindictive Nautolan’s report to the port authorities… then again, based on the sheer amount of illegal blends of spice he’d discovered poorly hidden below the deck plates, Kres figured the man was at least smart enough not to go that route. “Kres, you alive up there?” The young woman below called up. “Last I checked.” He called back, allowing himself a rare genuine smile that widened the permanent half-smile that constantly graced his features thanks to an old ‘friend’ and a well-used vibro-shiv. “What’s up?” “You left your stuff down here – want me to bring it up?” “I’d appreciate it, thanks.” Kres closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of Mako’s footsteps as they moved below him, then to the stairs. She was a good kid, if not somewhat overeager and excitable. If he weren’t a Chiss and not so inclined, he may have even found her fire and spirit attractive, instead of simply endearing and amusing. “How’s it coming down there?” “Just about done.” She replied, and he could see her smiling at him in his mind’s eye. “You look pretty well done in there too.” “We get that droid to do the dusting and wiping up, and we just might be able to get a few good hours of rest before we hit Balmorran space.” “Sounds like a plan,” He opened his eyes as he felt her weight rest against the back of his chair, and glanced up at her curiously. “So, you really pulled this off.” “You doubted me?” “Don’t take it the wrong way, Kres. You look intimidating and all but… I don’t know, I never associated, well, your race with anything but being prissy Imps. You and the Red Blade are the only two I’ve met who were decent people.” “Your definition of decent needs a tune-up, Mako.” “Says the guy who went into bounty hunting as a career?” “To the girl who breaks into computer systems for a living.”

#SWTOR #Kres #Bounty Hunter #Chiss

Observations

((SWTOR - My Miraluka Jedi Shadow Khaliel Tam, on Bergeren Colony.

In our storyline, my Jedi Shadow Khaliel is assigned to follow ODSTAdrianFii's Trooper Valenten after the defection of Havok Squad... so I got creative.))

#SWTOR #Khaliel #By NoxAeternus

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