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SEPARATION CAN BE A TERRIFYING THING: jess black & beraiah saad
@kenneld went trick-or-treating 👻🎃🦇
starter for @kenneld
Ah, shit - here that one comes again. Her eyes, coated in the blue overlay of a holo-call’s user interface, peered over her interlocked hands which rested firmly beneath her nose – screening any view of the lower half of her countenance. The white sleeves of a, presumably, Jinguji Oxford were rolled up; leaving visible a litany of tattoos on her left forearm. Objects and artifacts of days passed that ranged from the obvious crosses and flowers to the more arcane geometric shapes and unknown numerical references. Piecing it all together would have been like trying to solve a mathematical equation without a formula. Perhaps, just as nonsensical and confounding as to why a person like her had taken such a liking to Rancho Coronado. Which begs the question, what does “ a person like her ” even mean ? Very few even had an understanding of Cross on a personal level beyond the well-dressed figure at the local watering hole who moved product, dealt out jobs, and nearly smoked the general store on 8th Street out of house and home.
‘ I’m hanging up now. ’ The closest thing in her lexicon to ‘ goodbye, talk to you later – drive safe ! ’ With that her posture relaxed, a sigh of relief ( or exasperation ? ) followed soon after.
◈ @kenneld sent ❂ to get a moodboard for our muses
leaves crunched under tiny boots as the child rushed to keep pace with her ‘ big brother. ’ though ber was of no true biological relation, lark saw the way her father treated him. the favor given to the chosen. . . though no one had tried to tell her different, there was no convincing lark that the man who she was frantically trying to keep up with was anything other than family. “ see anything? ” her tiny voice piped up, a little over a whisper in the silent woods. it was her first time on patrol with a chosen -- and she was not about to let ber down. the six year-old, despite being out here as a part of her training, took her duties as seriously as any solider, “ ‘s quiet. . . ”
@kenneld / sc !!
@kenneld ( Beraiah ) | continued from x
It is not her job to manage employee behavior. Their work’s adherence to corp protocol, yes, but patrolling the halls as if she’s some secondary school superintendent, no. This is not the first time Beraiah caused incident, or in this case, almost. The young security guard garnered attention in evaluations; those demerits are pending. This could have ended similar if not for a matter of timing where the least Brianne could do was intervene.
High heel strut hastens its pace, perhaps to help the towering giant manage his long stride beside her. Not until the point blank question does she halt, turning his way and folding her hands at her front; pin straight posture unfailing The dim lit hallway is empty; better if no one can listen in on the advice she intends to give.
With lifted chin, kind eyes keep on his heavily chromed face. So young for so much chrome, she thinks, but then everyone has their reasons. Security does hold certain expectations. Aesthetic, however, follows more so in Arasaka Security dress code. No doubt his sleek suit still feels stiff.
“They do because no one can stop them. Not even you.” Firm tone is unwavering, but it is not without care. Brianne does not want to see anyone fail, especially someone so young. “You know the rules. Security does not intervene unless it is to protect those under their charge. To protect the corp. Your reticence is expected until you are bid to speak.” Aggressive bravado fairs well in the field, not so much in these halls. Besides, a guard is to be unobtrusively seen and not heard. “That means you need to grow thicker skin. You’re a tough lad, I think it’s possible for you to let words slide.”
HTTP:// STARTER - @kenneld
THE REV OF HER QUADRA BREAKS THE HEAVY SILENCE BETWEEN THEM, the radio turned resolutely off [ a sharp slap dealt to the back of his hand when it inches towards the dial ] She had just wrapped up a gig across town when the call came. Blood still warm on her fingers as she exits the abandoned warehouse. A fight of some sort had broken out with her son at the center of it, again. . . The principle was irate, screeching in her ear that Rancho Coronado High wouldn’t tolerate this behavior for much longer, no matter who his parents were. It nearly half the drive to reassure the bitch she would be there with Harlan that weekend to discuss Ber’s future with them, and expelling him would not do anyone any favors. ‘ What the hell happened? This is the fourth time this month, Beraiah. If you get expelled I swear to Christ. . . ’ Fingers tighten on the steering wheel as she glares at the boy beside her, nearly twice her height now and still so young. . . His brown eyes contrite and rebellious as he sulks down into his seat, nearly enough to chill her simmering ire.
‘ You gonna pick fights like this you better not fucking get caught. Do you understand me, отродье? ’
@kenneld
“Stop - Stop it!”
Her protest is quickly swallowed by a fit of giggles as her husband continues to bury his face in the crook of her neck, kissing playfully along sensitive skin. Lynn is all smiles, blissfully unaware of anything outside of this moment. She grips the back of Blake’s shirt, giving a weak and noncommittal pull to the fabric.
Against her neck, she feels him grin and he whispers something there, distant and fuzzy. Far away.
The laughter dies away. Silence hums in the space between them. His hands are around her throat. Squeezing. Lynn’s joy is quickly replaced by terror, her skin paling against his grip. This isn’t right, she thinks as milky eyes stare down at her. This isn’t Blake. His grip tightens and her fingers curl around his wrists in protest, attempting to pry him off. Lynn gasps for what little air she has, her vision darkening and head pounding. Legs kick out from under Blake, but her fighting does not phase him.
Those eyes. Gone. This isn’t right.
Blake.
Lynn awoke with a start, a gasp caught in the back of her throat. No one stirred, the dark barracks unbothered by her sudden panic. Shifting bodies in their sleep is the only sound that pierced through the ringing in her ears. She sat up in the cot, head held in her hands. A nightmare. No, a memory. Memories sewn together in horrific patchwork. A hand dropped and she brushed two fingers against her neck. His hands had been there, wrapped so firmly around her throat, set on killing her. That wasn’t Blake. It couldn’t be. This place, these people broke him, stripped him away until nothing but a senseless shell remained.
And they were intent on doing the same to her.
Survive or die, a lesson ground into her every time she entered a trial, every time she was forced through unspeakable horror and bloodshed. At first, Lynn was content to meet her fate and become nothing more than a memory, but the moment she saw the gun’s barrel pointed at her, something else came over her. It burned in her chest, hollowed her vision. She was an animal backed into a corner, knowing only to survive - whatever the cost. And by the skin of her teeth, she did. She pulled herself out of each and every trial, her body heavy and beaten, but alive.
An alarm sounded over the PA and Lynn jumped, its bell harsh enough to make her sick. It signaled for the camp to awaken, to begin their daily training. On command, she rose and began readying herself. Shirt tucked in, boots secure, hair tied back - like a good soldier.
@kenneld + sc
“ have you seen my brother today , beraiah ? ”
