Still trying to sort him out, but to do so I’ve been drabbling. Here’s a bit of the drabble. Super rough, but a good start.
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He is known as the Avenging Angel of Mindoir; the only survivor, the only one who knows. The man who watched as his parents were butchered by batarian slavers, the one who fought back, alone, taking as many of them down with him as he could. Only, he didn’t. By the time the Alliance found him, he’d killed a good two dozen on his own; he nearly took out the commander of the squad who found him. Batarians know him by name, some by face; those who are smart enough fear him. Most are not that smart. They view him as a trophy to be won; proof to the hegemony that the Alliance has it out for them.
He is one man, one voice, one Angel.
He is known as the Butcher of Torfan. The cold-hearted, calculating, ruthlessly efficient lieutenant who sacrificed most of his unit deep in the strongholds of that moon; the one who executed surrendering batarians rather than take them prisoner. Assigned this mission specifically because he does not flinch when duty requires it. The batarians wanted him brought up on war crimes; to reward his success, the Alliance sends him to ICT, to train as the perfect weapon, the one to send in for worst case scenarios.
He is one man, one voice, one soldier.
Gabriel “Ree” Shepard cares not what others think of him. He has a job, a duty, a purpose; that is all that matters. The happy-go-lucky kid from Mindoir, the kind-hearted soul so willingly generous with his time for those who asked of it; that person was killed when the batarians attacked, executed along with his family, his friends and everyone else who failed to make it off the colony. Ree Shepard died and Gabriel Shepard, the Avenging Angel, was born from his ashes.
Considering myself re-tagged by @shadoedseptmbr since I just finished 1K+ words on my most recent mShep. Very very rough, but at least he is actually talking to me now! (Definitely needs a lot of editing if only to improve the fight aspect to the scene, but hey, it’s a start!)
Takao “Taka” Shepard (Earthborn variant/War Hero/Sentinel) meets Kaidan Alenko 10th Street Red on the streets of Vancouver ...
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As he runs through the streets of Vancouver, all Takao Shepard can think of is his mother, these five years gone, and her whispered words of warning as she lay dying. If ever you seek out your father, be wary the streets of the city. He never understood just what that meant.
Until today.
If there is one thing Taka is good at, it’s running. A childhood spent in rural Japan is good for some things, at least, and wide open spaces naturally lend to such activities. Thought of such things brings back memories he would love to dwell on, in, but now is not the time.
He has no idea where he is; no concept of this city. In some ways, it reminds him of Kyoto or Osaka, the cities nearest where he once lived, but the similarities are superficial at best. Walls of metal, sheets of glass, masses of humanity all pressed in together, confined to the same space. It’s smothering, to say the least, and even if only a mental image, one that he cannot get out of his head. Breathing hurts, aches, his lungs cannot fill properly. Is it a mental problem or a physical one? The pounding of footsteps behind him do not provide any answer but run.
Ahead of him, he has two choices: the pier which will leave him no option but to swim, and while he knows how, it is not his strongest suit. The other is a rapidly approaching blind alleyway to his left. It could be open to the streets beyond, or it could be a dead end. He knows not. But time is speeding by and he needs to make a choice.
The minute he darts around the corner into the alley, he knows it is the wrong call. Narrow, cluttered, dark and dank, it opens some distance down, but getting there is the trouble. There is no clear path or even a lane by which he could conceivably climb up and over, and his pursuers are too close; they will have seen him run this way…
As if summoned, footsteps pound up behind him, slowing, scuffing as they come to a stop. Taka spins around, backing against the stack of old shipping crates that blocks the way, his eyes never leaving them. Five … I can take three of them, maybe … perhaps stun the other two … buy just enough time to sneak past them …?
He drops into a crouch, a position as familiar to him as breathing, and prepares as best he can. It is easy to ignore their jeers and taunts and focuses on their eyes, faces, searching for any hint of what they plan. With all of his years of training at his grandmother’s dojo, they are easy to read.
The bamboo that bends is stronger than the oak that resists, his grandmother’s memory whispers in his ear.
A deep breath, an adjustment of his stance, arms that do not waver; in an instant, as two of the five move toward him, he bends, he flows, the crouch becomes a roll, his arms swing out and make contact, he rises back to his feet and kicks. One moment there, the next gone. Within seconds, the two are down – one on the ground, the other in the stack of shipping crates. The important thing is they are incapacitated; only three remain.
He barely has time to draw in a breath before they race toward him at once. Again, he counters. One he kicks into the same spot as the previous who landed in the crates, leaving them both sputtering and scrambling, unable to get back up as they fight one another now. Another reaches toward him. Taka takes them by the wrist, pulls them closer and twists their arm while at the same time using his foot in their chest to push them back. They drop to the ground, whimpering with pain. The last bellows loudly, but it’s more posturing than actual warning or threat. And for just a moment, just a hint of a second, Taka thinks he might get out of this somehow, find a way back to where he missed his step, and survive …
The moment, the absolute instant, his last opponent is down, Taka darts out of the alleyway and turns the direction from which he came … only to discover he isn’t alone. Taller than most of the others, a bit older, more fit. Their eyes meet, and in less time than it takes to blink or draw a breath, he comes to the conclusion that this one is a knowledgeable and worthy opponent.
Taka retreats out into the street; with little to no traffic in the area, it provides more space. His opponent follows him, purpose in every stride he takes. Discipline marks his very presence, and is something Taka has a deep respect for. But there is a difference between respect and surrender or submission. The moment his opponent moves in for him [specific type of move here], Taka is already gone. His opponent tries again, this time with a [specific type of move here]; Taka dodges again.
Heaving in breaths as he can, Taka keeps his eyes on the man as they circle one another, watching for more tells, searching for a clue to escape this, to get out and away. There is a flicker, like the reflection of a pale white-blue light, in his opponent’s eyes. It isn’t something Taka expects, nor does he have a full understanding of its importance, but whatever it is grows and spreads, and soon slithers over his body until he is surrounded by it. Taka is half fascinated and half frightened. Not knowing what it is, he has no idea how to counter it, whether it will harm or help.
In the next moment, as his opponent lunges toward him, he realizes that it is far too late. He is knocked backward, off his feet, and lands heavily on his back as some sort of energy force connects in the center of his chest. He lands hard, groans softly, and tries to push to his feet, but he’s barely made it to his hands and knees, coughing in an attempt to catch a breath, when he realizes his mistake. He is trapped, his arms pinned backward, and unable to move. A sudden, inexplicable panic fills him. Not because he is trapped or that he has lost to a better opponent – he can find respect for that – but because of the strangest sensation that creeps toward him in that moment, slithering over his skin, snaking around his body. It tickles somewhat, burns in a sense, and above all else is completely out of his control as it envelopes him completely. Throwing his head back, he screams to the skies above before blessed darkness finds him …
Tagging back anyone who wants to share a snippet of what they’re working on! If you want to participate, consider yourself tagged! Just please tag me back so I can see!!! :)
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A snippet from my newest Shepard - #100 - yup, you read that right! I hit 100 the other day when I created Alexandre Shepard in memory of a good friend who passed.
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Room 619.
Alexandre Shepard stares at the number, hearing his father’s voice inside his head. Six cents dix-neuf, mon fils. A tremor shakes his hand as he reaches for the handle. Either God has it in for him, or He has a very wicked sense of humor. Six cents dix-neuf. The same number of days since the eezo ‘accident’ that killed the elder Shepard and exposed Alexandre.
Room 619.
He enters the room, sets his things by the empty bed nearest the windows before staring outside. The hospital room is like any other in any Alliance hospital. This one happens to overlook the city of London. Not a bad view by any means, particularly in winter, but not where he wants to be. He should be finishing his studies, preparing for enlistment, anything but waiting on neurosurgery for an implant that will help him control his sudden access to dark energy. He never asked for it; he’s seen the faces of the crew, of the other kids in his class. His mother. His brother. No, he did not ask for this, nor did he ask for his father’s untimely death.
Room 619.
He is alone at the window still, some time later, when the door opens. Not a private suite, all Alexandre knows is that his roommate also is a biotic. There aren’t many of them who come through this hospital, certainly not enough to create a wing specifically to deal with them, and the few rooms they do have double up on occupancy if and when necessary. Alexandre swallows tightly, makes a fist with his hand and watches the strange haze of blue that sparks weirdly around it. He doesn’t want a roommate, doesn’t want anyone else to know his ‘condition.’ Maman insists he keep it quiet, to protect himself, his one chance. David, well, he’s lucky David bothered to send a message, and even then, it was brief.
“Six cents dix-neuf.”
Shuffling steps approach, but not too close. That is something, at least. Alexandre is not in the mood for conversation, good or bad. He would rather be elsewhere, anywhere but here. But he has no choice. The minute he knocks Stacey Ratzenburger from her seat in class after a violent sneeze that has an added dark energy kick, his life is forever changed. No longer a question of what he wants, but where he can be put to not be a danger, to himself or otherwise.
Overall Rating: M (for future chapters, this particular chapter is rated Teen)
Chapter 1: Shannon
Word Count: approximately 2600
Author’s Note: This is the beginning of the Giorraíonn beirt bóthar Mass Effect fanfiction series featuring Commander Caleb Shepard. Caleb is Earthborn, and Seeing Reds explores his younger years and involvement with the 10th Street Reds.
HUGE thanks to both @swaps55, whose original prompt resulted in the creation of Caleb Shepard, and @painterofhorizons, whose encouragement to look into the Sole Survivor background ultimately ended up with me falling even further back in time to examine Earthborn.
Enjoy!!!
Excerpt:
April 11, 2160
They say that the past follows you throughout your life, haunts you until the day you die. However, he doesn’t remember much of anything before THE DAY.
The day he scampers and scrambles down the street, tangled black hair hanging past the threadbare collar of his matching shirt, feet bare as the day he was born covered in dirt and filth and muck. Drenched through and through, the water marks his route with damp squiggly trails. Urgency drives him forward; desperation is his fuel.
Breathing hurts, an invasive ache that spreads slowly across his chest, makes him see spots before his eyes. He trips and lands face-down as he pants heavily. His hands tear across old, rough pavement; a new hole on the right knee of his trousers now matches the left. Pain leaves him numb; a blessing, really. And around him, no one stops to wonder at the child lying there or assist him to his feet.
Not that he expects it.
He lifts his head just enough to see the two garda approaching. With every ounce of effort he can muster, he lurches to his left to avoid them as they march by, side-by-side. But the effort costs him; he rolls out of control, tumbling awkwardly and only comes to a stop when his back hits flush against something solid. Hard. It knocks any remaining breath he has out of him for a moment and leaves another dull ache.
The soft tingling jingle of a bell echoes somewhere nearby; a stark contrast to the crowded, busy city streets. It sounds oddly out of place.
“Here, now, what’s all this?”
Alarm shoots through him and his head shoots up… and up … and up. He knows enough to recognize ‘adult,’ and that means trouble. But when his eyes reach the top, even as he flails to find his footing, they meet something unexpected. A face, at first set back in shadows that are haloed by the sun. He rubs absently at his aching back, only capable of blinking in response.
“You alright there, lad?”
The face moves lower, comes a bit more into focus. Panic snakes through him. Run! Flee! He flails further, finally managing an awkward crab-walk backwards … only to hit the solid wall he’d rammed into in the first place. He is trapped and he knows it. ...
Caleb Shepard is my Camp Nano project, and I finally had a breakthrough (after six tries) on how I want the next chapter to go for Seeing Reds. Have a peek! (And if anyone else would like to share any of theirs, please tag me! I’d love to see what y’all are working on!)
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Colin arrives at Old Neddy’s after dark and slips inside quietly. He keeps to the shadows, not interested in conversation or attention just now; he has things to think about, plans to make, and they are weighty, indeed.
He discovers, much to his own chagrin, he is not nearly as sneaky as he thinks he is. He is barely seated when Caleb arrives at the table and slips onto the bench across from him. Colin eyes him pointedly, hoping he will take the hint. He doesn’t; but at least he is polite and says nothing. Then again, he doesn’t need too. There is something in his eyes that leaves Colin just a bit on edge, and he intends to avoid it. “I’m not here for conversation, lad,” Colin murmurs, hoping it will put the teenager off.
“I know.”
The words are soft, matter of fact, and spoken with such assurance that it only serves to intensify the Ceannasai’s unease. Caleb remains where he is, ever patient, his piercing blue eyes focused. A sudden and inexplicable dread fills Colin’s belly. ...
