#consequentialistgeneticist

[memorystealer]

consequentialistgeneticist replied to your post: All of your Christmas presents will be obtained...

Kasumi. With your nose so bright, won’t you guide my SCIENCE tonight?

Yes. For a fee.

k-rios replied to your post: All of your Christmas presents will be obtained...

I find myself inclined to shout out with glee…yippee?

A glee-shouting assassin? Now I've seen/heard it all. Mind if I post a video of this on the extranet?

[k-rios-blog]

((can you imagine if this actually happened omg))

[meroleplay]

consequentialistgeneticist said: OOC: I’m writing a reply right now. Sorry, the holidays have been hectic. Should I still post it or…?

Replies are obviously ideal~ maybe you can poke Thane too? c:

[operative-taylor]

A Night at the Citadel

With the party disbanded, Jacob made his way back to the armory to gather his belongings. He began closing up the armory and dug out a plain black hoodie from one of the drawers. He pulled it over his armor to conceal the Cerberus logo, kicked the drawer closed again and made his way out of the Normandy.

As the decontamination procedure cleansed him, Jacob sent Mordin a short message that he was ready. He quickly spotted Thane mulling about around the docking bay. He approached him as he brought up his omni tool.

"Hey Thane. I'm hailing us a taxi, so we'll be set to go as soon as Mordin joins us," Jacob stated as he manipulated a few buttons and singled a sky car for them.

[k-rios-blog]

Thane walked out into the smooth metallic confines of the mess hall from the smooth metallic confines of Life Support. He glanced around the corner before getting into the elevator; Kasumi and Zaeed were chatting over a platter of cookies. He tried to think of how the sprightly young thief had managed to lure the battle-worn mercenary out from his nest of guns and grenades a floor below. Somehow, he figured it must involve more about said guns and grenades than of warm confections. He mulled over the idea in his head of grabbing one of the cookies. It would be his first in a long while. He had never even been presented with the opportunity to try one until Irikah had been overcome by one of her culinary flights of fancy. He had made it a point to actually try one after that.

“You know, I’ve never even eaten one of these,” she whispers, like she has shared a precious secret. “I came across them all the time on my travels but never had the courage to try one. Can you imagine? Me, standing in a city square, frozen with fear at the thought of eating such a sugary treat?” She glances away. “I was a very different person back then.” I decide the silence that follows will not be filled with further explanation, clear my throat, and take the small datapad into my hands.

“What do we have here?” It is obviously a recipe, but some of the ingredients listed are completely foreign to me. “‘Cream of tartar’?” Then I spot the name of the particular variety the recipe creates, and I imagine a look of confusion has established itself on my face because I hear Irikah’s expectant laugh, like the tinkle of a bell in a large room. “Irikah, what in the name of the gods is a...” I glance up at her. She wears the pained expression of somebody trying desperately hard to hold back another damful of laughter. I clear my throat before continuing. “...Snickerdoodle?”

And just like that, the dam has burst. Irikah lays her head on the cold counter for support as she lets loose a laugh that sounds like it’s built up over months. She has obviously picked out this particular recipe just to hear me read it. I imagine her scrolling through the extranet late at night, finding all manner of ridiculous-sounding confections and thinking ‘No, that won’t do. It’s not nearly silly enough’. I chuckle at this, and before I know it we are both doubled over in laughter. She stops suddenly and takes my hand, looking into my eyes.

Before I know how to react, she breaks composure and starts laughing again. The laughter stretches on for what feels like hours and like seconds all at once.

The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival at the CIC.

We end up on the cold floor some twenty minutes later. Irikah has tears in her eyes and I am covered in flour.

“Irikah,” I gasp through spent lungs.

“Hm?”

“Do we even have cream of tartar?”

She hesitates and wipes her eye. “No,” she says, the tinkle of a bell still present in her voice. I stretch out on the linoleum and sigh; I have no capacity for any more laughter. I manage a pained chuckle.

“I suppose we won’t be having any snickerdoodles, then.” I glance at Irikah. She wears the same pained expression from earlier, realizing what I am doing.

“No, stop!” She gives my arm a gentle push, indicating that she can’t laugh anymore.

“Really, it’s quite a shame. I happen to be quite a fan of snickerdoodles.”

“Thane!”

“One has to wonder at the reason for naming them that way. Perhaps the cookie represents the perfect union of snicker and doodle.” Her only response is a groan. I smile and close my tired eyes. “You did pick the recipe, siha.”

He realized he had been inside the open elevator for quite a long time, so he just cleared his throat and continued out. They had told him this would be one of the symptoms, an increased sensitivity to the memories. But, he pushed those thoughts to another part of his mind; his main concern at the moment was formal wear.

He looped around to the armory. The door opened with a hydraulic hiss as he entered the weaponmaster’s haven. He saw the haptic upgrade panel on the wall, the armor lockers, and a whole host of weapons that were in the middle of being cleaned, but he saw nothing of the biotic who had been cleaning them. He took the shortcut to the tech lab, cutting through the conference room. He thought this layout was a bit odd, but figured it had been similar on the previous iteration of the Normandy.

With another hiss, Thane was standing in the doorway to the tech lab. Though he knew little about Mordin, he knew enough that the scene in front of him was not as alarming as it seemed it should have been. He cleared his throat.

“My apologies; have I interrupted something?” He regarded the scientist and the soldier. Then he realized he didn’t know quite how to ask what he wanted to. “Mr. Taylor, I have very little experience with human formal events. I was wondering if I might...seek your counsel, so to speak.”

[operative-taylor]

A Matter of Style

The soft hum of the Normandy's Tantalus drive core rumbled through the armory. The sounds of the advanced ship's many systems keeping it functioning gave the feeling of the Normandy having breath and life. The sensation calmed Jacob Taylor. He stood before his workbench, cleaning his shotgun with practiced precision. The armory proved to be a brilliant working environment; not too quiet, not too disruptively noisy either. Not to mention the omnipresence of the ship's AI, which still made him feel like someone was constantly checking up on him to make sure he wasn't goofing off.

Jacob pulled out a pin from the shotgun and pulled away the lower portion, exposing the innards of the weapon. A message pinged on his omni-tool, and he continued pulling apart the gun as he read it with a creased brow. Shepard had brought them a new toy. He smiled as he ran a clean rag through the grooves of his shotgun. Perhaps he'd check it out later, but for now, he had another matter entirely to deal with. 

Whenever Jacob needed time to think, he tended to busy himself with a mediocre chore. In this instance, the quandary of what suit to wear to Anderson's celebration. Unfortunately, Jacob had not packed a full three piece with him since he didn't expect to be going from the battlefield to the ballroom any time soon. Though, hanging up his armor in favor of a classy coat would make for a nice change of pace.

He made one last swipe with his cloth, then snapped the gun together, locking it into place with a click. Jacob stowed it away in the armory locker and headed out the door, walking past the comm room. The idea of seeing everyone else garbed in their Sunday best made him chuckle a little, especially the thought of seeing Mordin in a suit. He assumed the alien had been born in a white lab coat.

Usually he would attempt to find time to drag himself away from his armory to talk with Mordin in the lab. Sometimes he could provide some keen insight into Jacob's questions, yet he mostly spoke with him because the conversations certainly never grew boring. The door to the lab hissed open, revealing the mad scientist's conglomeration of equipment. Jacob made his way over to the table, leaning casually on it, "Hey, professor," he said, picking up an odd looking round device on the table, inspecting it with a bemused expression. He looked back up at the salarian, bouncing the thing up and down in his hand, "Given any thought to that party for Anderson? I'm still stuck on what to wear."