#battlebornpride

[shellalana]

June 11th: Attack

Shit shit shit. How did people do this on a daily basis and not screw it up? This was the second pack of bacon Oscar Mike had burned and had to throw away. Thankfully, he could continue to hide his mistakes since he’d taken the batteries out of the smoke detector. Sighing, he dug out another from the fridge, sliced it open, and tossed the thick slices onto the hot oil, jumping back in fright as it spat at him angrily. Pancakes. Right. It had been a few minutes since he’d let the mixture rest, and he was undecided as to whether he should make several small ones or just one big one to fit the Aplian’s appetite. Orange juice or caffe? Syrup or honey? Did he even like fruit? Shit was something burning again???! He managed to flip the bacon in time and rescued it from the frying pan before they became charcoal again, the grease hissing and dripping onto the large omelette he’d already made. That had been the easiest part of this damned breakfast. ... he should have added some cheese to the eggs. That would have made it better. And some Go-Go Juice for flavour. He smeared his gloves on the stained apron before piling everything onto the tray. It was mostly a sad sight, or at least not fitting the image he’d had in his head, but it was better than not making anything at all. He nudged Montana’s door open with his rear and quietly placed the tray on the table next to his bed. “Good morning~.” Bonk. “Ow!” Montana woke with a start, gripping his cheek and the small bruise that was starting to form. “What was that for?!” “Oh, sorry, this dang helmet.” He fiddled with the latches and removed it, offering his pursed lips to the turret-wielder once more. Montana gave him a suspicious look before presenting his cheek again. “You made me breakfast?” He gave the overly-large and overly-thick pancake a hefty poke. He was certainly going to be digesting that all day. “Yeah! You like it?” Mike laid the tray across his lap and adjust the pillow behind his back. “What’s the occasion, exactly?” The eggs looked done at least, and he gave those a taste. Definitely needed some salt. “The occasion? Oh... uh... it’s Thursday! Yeah!” Not the answer Montana had been hoping for, but he’d take it.

[shellalana]

June 6th: LLC

Francesco Drake traced his fingers along the outline of the figure in the photo. He wasn’t sure what had drawn him to the man, but ever since the first day they’d met, he couldn’t help where his mind drifted. He’d tried to beat the thoughts back, taking on match after match, helping to take on Rendain’s forces, even helping Miss Phoebe with her experiments and escorting her around. And yet, he would always find himself here, lamenting over the- “It’s time to go.” A chill of fear shook El Dragon down to his core and he quickly shoved the picture into a drawer, hoping that whoever was calling on him wouldn’t notice. “... everything alright?” He tugged down the edge of his mask and adjusted the hole over his mouth. “You caught me unawares. You know a luchador should never have his face revealed!” His words, intended to be majestic, came out shaky and without confidence. “... sure. Look, we’ve landed and you agreed to help us with this. You’ve got two minutes to grab your gear and meet us outside.” Ghalt gave him one more look before stepping away and allowing the door to slide closed behind him. He hadn’t seen, right? If he had, he would have asked questions. Or maybe he didn’t out of politeness. That was his job, wasn’t it, not to ask the personal questions on the job? Drake sighed and glanced at the shut drawer once more. It wouldn’t hurt to look again, but he was on the clock. There would be time after he got back, during the return ride to the LLC flagship. He flexed his metal fingers and adjusted his hover crown until it sat perfectly in place, checked his mask to ensure it was free of wrinkles, and headed out the door. His picture of the helmeted clone wearing that perfectly pink tutu would be there when he returned.

[shellalana]

June 7th: UPR

“No, like this.” Kid Ultra performed the gesture again, which didn’t look any different from what Ernest had just done. The aviant tugged on the edge of his bandana and tried again, taking careful note of what had been different in the little nanny-bot’s gestures. “Better. At least you’re not telling him he smells like beef.” He would, under any other circumstances. The tall rocker launcher-wielder had done nothing but get on his nerves since they’d first met, and yet he found himself whipping the young man into shape so that he’d start being less of an asshole. A defence mechanism, Ernest realized, for all the shit he’d been through. The short squat aviant had kept it to himself, afraid that Toby would consider him a traitor, especially after that speech he’d given him about their flightless kind. But if there was anyone who needed someone by their side at the moment, it was Benedict. He squared back his shoulders and marched into the hospital room to find Benedict in a bed, his head covered in thick bandages. “No brain damage” the doctor had said... but Ernest was sure he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anyway. “How are you feeling, soldier?” he signed. Benedict looked back at him with confusion, his eyes still a little unfocused. “Kid Ultra taught me a little sign. I thought it would be a good idea until your hearing comes back.” Benedict grabbed the nearby pad of paper and started scribbling: “That’ll be three months from now.” Three months. That was a small blessing in disguise if the loud-mouthed aviant was reduced to silence. “Why are you here anyway?” Benedict wrote with a furrowed brow. Ernest was the last person he expected to visit him... or at least take the time to learn sign language. “You’re still one of us.” “But you hate me.” He used to. Then it had become something else. But now wasn’t the time for that. “Yeah you’re still a piece of-” Kid Ultra hadn’t taught him any swear words. Dammit. He spelled out the word “crap.” “But that doesn’t mean I don’t care, soldier. So stop you’re bellyaching and work on getting back on your feet.” Another confused look, and Benedict started writing again. “Did you just tell me I smelled like beef?” Dammit.

[shellalana]

June 14th: Lazy Sunday afternoon

They’d known weeks ago about the event taking place on Tempest, the event to celebrate the longest day of the year, and that meant dressing all fancy-shmancy. They wanted to fit in, show the Jennerit that they were a part of the Rogues and could be trusted with the more difficult matters, that they weren’t just some kid anymore. But they didn’t know how to do that with the small closet of outfits to choose from. Too bad they’d wasted most of the day away, lounging about on the couch instead of getting ready or preparing more outfits. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, we’re gonna be late and I don’t wanna miss ice cream!” Orendi was bouncing on their bed, her hair tied up with more elaborate ribbons than usual. Reyna had forced her to dress up - even put her through one of those dreadful showers - and was practically itching to get out of the outfit. But Reyna had threatened her with no dessert if she jumped out of her clothes before the party was over. Shayne looked back and forth between the leather jacket and black pants, and the knee-length cute dress they’d just bought last week. The longer they stared at their choices, the more the outfits felt inappropriate. “What’s the hold up?” Whiskey Foxtrot appeared at the door, wearing nothing but a red satine bowtie around his neck. To be honest, he looked more like lewd entertainment than a guest of the Jennerit. “I’m... trying to figure out what to wear. I’m not sure which one I should go with.” The leather said “cool” but the dress said “refined.” “What kind of day are you having?” “Huh?” No one had ever asked them that kind of question before. “Who do you feel like today?” “Sprinkles or syrup!” Orendi blurted out from the position she’d taken up on the ceiling. “That’s... one way of putting it. You having a girl or guy kinda day?” Whiskey had spent a lot of time around the other Mikes, and had seen for himself the various personalities and identities they’d taken for themselves. It was only fair to assume that they weren’t the only ones who had troubles figuring that stuff out. “I’m not sure.” What did they feel like? With all of the confusion of taking care of Solus, they hadn’t had many opportunities to sit down and think things through. Now that they had... “Neither.” “Then we do this...” Whiskey strolled into the room and undid the leather jacket from its hanger. He placed it on the hanger containing the dress, and arranged the collar so that it stuck up, the jacket hanging open. “Cool and cute.” “Huh.” Looking at the ensemble now, they don’t know why they never considered both in the first place. “Thanks, old man.” “No problem, kid. Now hurry your ass up, there’s hors d’oeuvres I don’t wanna miss.”

[shellalana]

June 12th: Confessions

“Hold my hand...” The old clone held out his hand for the Valkyrie to help her up those few short steps that led to the top of the ship. They’d been down here for hours: the engines had conked out, and the fuel was too low to get them out of orbit. They would have been stranded had they crashed on other side of the planet where the comms wouldn’t work. But that was fine with him. It was peaceful and dark, and the quiet washed over him in waves that filled him with a calm he’d never felt before. It was strange but serene, and he wasn’t going to question it. “You’re kidding, right?” Reyna batted away his hand jokingly, her heavy boots ringing against the metal, and took a seat beside him. She looked chuffed, and he could tell she was eager to get away from her and back to her life of chaos. Quiet and peaceful was never really her thing, not when she had her fingers in so many pies. She was eager to get back to it just as much as he wanted to stay here. Whiskey stared down at his empty hand, and his talons dug into his hand as he curled his fingers into a fist. So much for trying. “Another ten hours before Ghalt can send a ship by to help us out.” She ran a hand through her hair and zipped up her jacket. She sounded more annoyed than usual, and he wondered what he could do to help. Well, he knew what to do to ease her tension, but that was the easy way out. Resorting to bad habits that would leave them both in the same situation they’d started in. And he was eager for something to change. “You ever think there could be more to what we’ve got?” He watched as she turned her head, her expression somewhere between confusion and surprise. She said nothing. “I know what we said in the beginning, but-” “Stop.” “... I want there to be more. Between us. You feel it, right?” “I said stop, Whiskey.” She was starting to piss him off; how many times had they done this, toeing a line they’d agreed on, despite knowing there was nothing to lose by crossing it? Hadn’t she always told him to be honest? That he could come to her with anything? “What? What the hell is wrong with-” She had her fingers wrapped around his pauldron strap and pulled him in so fast, he had no way to defend himself. Not that he’d want to with the warmth he felt against the corner of his scarred lips. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All he knew was that this was like nothing he’d ever expected from confessing himself to her. “... you’re a big dummy, you know that?” Her breath was soft and warm against his face, and he couldn’t help but smile. That’s when he felt her tongue against his teeth. And his cheek. And reaching into the recesses of his helmet to get to his nose. Whiskey Foxtrot snorted awake to the furious attacks of Constable Cuddles’ tongue, who only wanted to get some breakfast and relieve himself. He’d let the old clone sleep in for as long as he could - an hour or two - before the pooch was unable to take it anymore. “Alright, alright, get off.” He wiped away the drool and shoved the dog off his bed. The lingering warmth of his dream brought an ache to his chest, one he’d carry with him the rest of the day. One that tugged on his lips every time he saw the Commander in passing, begging him to say the words. It was just a dream, he told himself. Dreams don’t come true.

[shellalana]

June 10th: Defence

Ernest’s comm device was buzzing off the hook, its vibrations sending it tumbling to the floor from off his nightstand. He’d tried to ignore it, hoping that whoever was calling would give up and go back to bed. He had things to do in the morning, and being exhausted wasn’t one of them. Just when he’d started to doze off, it buzzed again with that awful ringtone Benedict had put on it. Ernest had no idea how to go about changing it back. “Mhello?” he slurred into the device as he dragged clawed fingers down the side of his face. “This better be important or I’m filling your as-” “Mister Ernest, sir?” The timid voice of the only other flightless aviant broke Ernest out of his mood and shook him from the dregs of drowsiness. Toby never called unless it was absolutely necessary, never wanting to be a bother. “What’s up, Toby?” He slapped his face a few times to wake himself up some more. “Can you... come down to the police station? I might’ve got myself into a bit of trouble.” He sounded like he was on the verge of tears. “S’Reyna too busy?” “I... don’t want her to know. Can you hurry? Please?” Ernest sighed and started searching the room for his pants. “Sure, kid. Gimme five.” The streets were mostly empty this time of night, and it was hard to miss the single “police” station situated on the Ring. Why it even had one, he didn’t know. Probably to present some semblance of normalcy and order in a place that wanted anything but. One of the officers soon led him back to the holding cell where the small helmeted aviant sat, his flippers in his lap. “Oh my god, you really came! I’m so glad to see you.” He sprinted up to the bars, his eyes rimmed with red and... was that alcohol on his breath? “... what did you do?” Ernest tried not to sound accusatory, but it was hard to think of anything that would have warranted Toby getting locked up. The guy was a pushover! “I...” He cowered away from the bars, realizing he wasn’t quite out of the woods yet. “... I might have had a little too much to drink. And punched a guy. Maybe knocked out his tooth. Or his eyeball, I can’t remember.” The thought of him being in a fight and winning forced Ernest to hold onto the bars for support as he laughed his ass off. This was too rich, and it would be a waste not to share this story with someone else. Not that they’d believe it anyway. “I’ll take care of him,” he mumbled to the officer between his chuckles, and forked over a few credits to make bail. “C’mon kid, time for you to sleep off the rest of your buzz.” The cell door was barely open when he felt the tiny form crash into him, and looked down to find Toby’s face pressed against his stomach, his flippers around his waist in a hug. “Thank you thank you thank you!” “... yeah, don’t mention it, kid.”

[shellalana]

June 9th: Support

“Your heart is racing a mile a minute.” If there’s one thing Reyna hated, it was being fretted over. But ever since they’d picked up the monk, it had become impossible to hide her vices. Those dang abilities of her picked up on every single thing, and it was starting to get on her nerves a little bit. A first, for a leader with seemingly unlimited patience. “I know. It’s supposed to be that way.” She batted away Alani’s flitting fingers, intent on healing her of her “predicament.” “I just had some caffe, leave it alone.” “Too much, by the looks of it. And your liver-” “I said leave it.” Her papers fluttered to the floor with the grab and pull of Alani’s wrist, dragging the aquarian closer. Alani exclaimed with a soft “oh,” taken by surprise at the Valkyrie’s sudden change in mood. “I know you’re curious and all, but if you don’t know when to back down, you’re gonna find yourself in a big pile of trouble.” A smirk danced on the Valkyrie’s face, and a light chuckle escaped her as she witnessed the colouring on the monk’s cheeks. She draped the other’s hand over her shoulder, leaving her with no room to escape. They were supposed to be relaxing, not worrying themselves sick with things that didn’t matter. “M-maybe I like... maybe I like trouble,” Alani tried to puff herself up. Posturing was a thing Reyna liked, right? Always looking for a challenge. But her attempt had the opposite effect, and drove Reyna into a fit of laughter. “No, you don’t. You like a fight, but you don’t want anything to do with trouble.” A swiveling of her position with her knees around Alani’s waist, and she easily had the thinner woman rolled on top of her. “You don’t have a mean bone in your body.” “Yes I do!” Alani flushed an even deeper shade of off-blue, her thin lips pulled into a delicate pout as she tried to free herself from the Valkyrie’s grip on her. She could splash her in the face if she really wanted to, using her powers to send her spiraling across the room. But she didn’t. And Reyna could read it in her expression too. “No you don’t, princess.” Alani retorted with a huff and flicked her fingers in Reyna’s face. A few bubbles erupted from the ends of her fingers and popped against the Commander’s cheeks. Reyna laughed again before smothering Alani’s neck with raspberries and biting kisses. Alani tried her best to maintain her sulk, but it was all for nothing.

[shellalana]

June 17th: Swear

“Look at him. I don’t know how he manages to get anything done with chicken legs that damn small.” Beatrix rolled the lollipop around in her mouth, bored out of her mind. She had experiments brewing in her lab, but no one to test them on. Cowards, the lot of them. “First, that was a swear. And second, that’s not nice. He’s my friend!” Kid Ultra was going at his sugar-crusted confectionary like a thirsty dog on a hot day. Beatrix still didn’t know why she hadn’t moved on, but the little cyborg honestly wasn’t bad company. When he wasn’t reading her the Hippocratic Oath every few minutes. “Everyone’s your friend,” she commented with a roll of her eye. “I swear, you don’t have a mean bone in your body, you pushover.” “Why would I? I was built to be a helping hand!” The downturning of his mouth meant that he wasn’t a fan of this conversation. Hadn’t he done so many good things in the past? Why would she even suggest that people were inherently mean? “So was ISIC, and look at what he’s become.” “Oh, Mister ISIC is very helpful!” Beatrix could practically hear the servos in his legs as he bounced on the spot. “One time, he wanted to make an improvement to my support drones, and said that if I just added a few of these...” He pulled up said schematic, the hologram dancing over a panel in his arm, and beamed proudly at what he and Mister ISIC had come up with together. “... those are torpedo tubes,” she said blandly with another roll of her eyes. “... w-what? He said... he said those would make it easier to distribute candy!” Boy, did he feel duped! “If by candy, you mean micro-torpedos armed with tiny warheads that could take out an LLC fleetship.” The hint of panic in Kid Ultra’s voice caused the corner of Beatrix’s mouth to twitch. This was a lot more fun than she’d bargained for.