Hey y'all, haven't written anything in a few days (Been enjoying my long weekend), but glad to see I've been kinda growing. Likes and follows make the Nerb brain chug like the machine I am.
So anyway, new OCs, new short story. Once again, asks are open for questions/comments or constructive criticism if you have any. Just one last FYI, their full names are Sgt. Ashley "Eights" Pierce and Col. Sandra Briggs. Eights is they/them, and Briggs is she/her. Sorry for any confusion!
This story does take place in my worldbuilding project! Pixies be upon thee!
This does feature military themes, guns, blades, violence, gore, drug use and some 'colorful' language, so if any of those things upset you, please don't continue reading for your own mental health. And if you're not sure, please feel free to stop reading at any time if you feel uncomfortable.
STRIKE AT ZERO HOUR
WITH OVERWHEALMING FIREPOWER
THEY'RE FUELED BY THE FEAR
IN THEIR ENEMIES' EYES
ITS A SHOCK TROOP INFILTRATION
A FAST AND VIOLENT ESCALATION
OUT OF THE TRENCHES...
"The stormtroopers rise." the voice finishes as the intense metal music in the background blares, bass thumping in their ears. Emitting a muffled grunt under the several pounds of metal atop their head, the hefty marine slams their breaching axe down, sending a spray of blood the color of moldy bread across their Mythbreaker armour.
Eights slams their boot into the chest of the Other, and using their mechanically augmented hands, pulls free their axe. Their metallic hands, themselves the size of dinner plates, make the bladed weapon in their hands look tiny; even if it is a bulky tool for the average foot soldier. An average man would require two hands to deal any damage with it; Eights can use it in one, and a shotgun in the other.
"Welcome to the 25th century, dumbass" They sarcastically mutter under their breath with a seething rage in their voice. A quick slam of their metal boot and a crunch of bone confirms that the alien isn't getting back up off the floor.
Hunting remnants of these stupid extraterrestrials has been getting old to the young marine. It's been five months since the end of the war, and here they were, being dragged around Known Space to every hulk, ship or station suspected to have an Other aboard. But yet again, after Operation Ragnarök, they didn't have much else to do other than tune the suit's motors and clean their guns. These battles weren't even exciting anyway, the Others always fell back on melee weapons; meaning they were perfect fuel for-
"Sergeant!" Exclaims a familiar authoritative voice from the doorway behind them.
As if by muscle memory, Eights turns to face the figure, their hand pressed against their forehead in a neat and orderly salute. Their posture was as perfect as a marine could get in the bulky armour they wore.
"Yes, ma'am!" They aggressively yell back, every fiber of their voice screaming respect and a sense of duty.
The colonel looks across the room, their diminutive frame being held in the hand of some poor private. While she had a stoic look on her face, the private's face went pale.
The room was stained in blood. Every wall was covered in some sort of bodily fluid in some unnatural, inhuman color. Extraterrestrial corpses littered the room, many with massive tears across their bodies, others riddled with bullet holes. Some still flickered with fire, smoldering silently in the room. It reeked of death, blood, ash, and gunpowder.
"At ease, sergeant." Briggs responds, and as if by command, the hulking, ten foot tall figure before her relaxed their stiffened frame, using the opportunity to pick up a large rotary cannon on the floor. The chest cavity of one of the targets gives resistance, but with a whir of the trigger, the barrel cluster is able to mutilate the innards enough to rip it out with a disgusting squelch.
"Ship's clear." The marine responds as they affix the cannon to their back.
"I noticed. Private, pass me off to the sergeant, please. Then report to your lieutenant."
The still-shaken private nods swiftly, quickly passing the tiny colonel into the metallic gauntlet of the heavily-armed stormtrooper, like a bug into the mouth of a waiting lion. And while pulling their hand back towards their chest, they swiftly leave the room, as silently as they walked in.
It did dawn previously on the colonel that Eights could easily turn her to mincemeat like they do so easily and so willingly to anything the Republic deems dangerous. Pirates, terrorists, Blue Angel cultists, and now the Others. The difference is that Eights respects authority.
"Ma'am, 34 dead, 5 captured. The survivors have locked themselves in what I assume to be the armoury." The sergeant replies, lifting the tiny colonel to be at eye level. Their helmet was menacing; more machine than person. Covered in valves, with a hose running from the mouthpiece to the chest, every breath was accompanied by a whir, and every word echoed inside the hermetically sealed suit.
"Good." The colonel responds with a nod.
"And I'm ready to-" The sergeant begins, before being cut off.
"No. You're dismissed. Rest up, and meet me in my office tomorrow morning at 0600. We need to talk.
_
"Pierce, I'm worried for your health." The colonel continues, pacing back and forth behind her desk. With the sergeant looming over her, it looked like she wasn't in command here. But she, and Eights, both knew the truth. She outranked them.
Eights crossed their pale arms across their chest. They felt naked, missing the second skin the mechanized armour served as.
"So what?" They exclaim dismissively, their emerald green eyes staring downwards at their commanding officer.
"So what?!" Briggs yells back, the sudden aggressiveness catching the battle-hardened and grizzled marine off guard. "That shit, that fucking concoction, that *Flux*-"
Flux. She spat the word like it was a curse. Some combat drug brewed up by the battalion stranded on Taurus-4 during their deployment. Before Eights was placed under her command.
"You're smart enough to know what it'll do to you." She finishes with a disappointed sigh.
"What I put in my body is my business. It helps me get work done, ma'am." They finally reply after a moment of silence.
A moment of silence that returned to the air, deafening, blinding, choking. Horribe in every regard.
But finally, with a deep breath, Briggs spoke again, her commanding voice easily heard despite her small size.
"I didn't want to, Pierce. But I'm ordering you. You will report to the ship's medical team, and you will seek treatment for your addiction. Understood?"
Thought I'd share my first OC here, because I was bored. Pebble is a D&D character that I play in my friend's campaign, and she occupies my heart. Short story under the cut :)
If you have any questions, comments, concerns, crises, conundrums or calamities, I'd love to hear them. Or even just constructive criticism helps too, I'm always looking to improve.
A thud; more of a slapping noise, rang from the cool cobbles as Pebble's bare feet touched down on the streets of New Hoshar. Her face; half obscured by tightly wound cloth that stretched from her forehead to across the bridge of her nose, was warmed by the rising morning sun; a feeling Pebble grew to love.
Her rough, calloused hands gripped the side of the small apothecary as she took in her surroundings; calls of 'good morning!' rang in her ears, the smells of freshly baking bread permeated her nostrils. And a tug at her hair gave more information; the visual kind.
OTHER - LEFT - RIGHT - BUSY - GATHER - FOOD - SAFE
Pebble nodded, signaling back to her Chwinga companions with her hand, knowing they could see it even without line of sight; they were unusual like that. Magical, like Scoria was.
YES - WAIT - CHECK - DANGER
She directed her focus over towards 'left right', which was what would be called a 45 degree angle by anyone of the 'civilized' world. A steady clicking; a sound she associated with footwear on stone. Someone was walking somewhere.
DANGER - GONE
That one almost stung with how violent the ragdoll-sized elemental creatures pulled. The young earth genasi woman was tempted to give them a piece of her mind, but they were right. A growl of discontent emanated from her abdomen, and she knew she would have to go find something to eat that her larger companions would find objectionable. And Pebble knew they were picky; seabirds and discarded food were perfectly edible, they just refused to eat it. Bread it was.
Those thoughts were pushed to the back of her mind as, following a deep breath in, a burst of unnatural speed overtook her, bolting from the alleyway she was stalking her prey in. Her chest rose and fell with each step forward, affixed exclusively on the prospect of breakfast.
And as soon as her bout of speed started, she skidded to a stop, silent as a fox. Her hand quickly danced between all the aromatic baked goods before her palm, the sudden decision overwhelming the young woman, before she swiped down, felt the warm crust in her grasp, and dashed once again, back where she came from.
A soft sigh of relief escaped her lips as she put the roll between her teeth; realizing now that her hand was horribly sticky. An unknown, vicious substance was running across her hand, likely from the confectionary she had just stolen. A smell of her hand, and then a taste, revealed that not only was this safe to eat, but it tasted extremely good to a set of taste buds accustomed to smoked meat and foraged greens. Sweet, subtly earthy and warm.
One last deep breath was enough to get her to jump up, her fingertips digging into the masonry beneath them as she began a climb. It was harder than a rocky outcropping or a tree, not having any handholds, but it was doable. With a grunt, she pulled her upper body onto the tiled roof, her slender legs soon following.
And once again she was bathed in the light of the morning sun, feeling its warm rays dance across her face. Even the bottom of her legs were kept at a cozy temperature as the tiles under them warmed in the light.
She took a hold of the baked good the people she stole it from would call a cinnamon roll in her mouth, and bit down, ripping the chunk out like a feral animal. A small smile of contentment and satisfaction crossed her face; the survivalist survives yet another day.
Accompanying her would be a swarm; a horde of her friends; dozens of dark silhouettes with white masks. These figures climbed, sat, and lounged across the much larger body of Pebble, themselves already tuckered out from the morning's activities. She'd let them rest for now, even if they wanted to sprawl out in her hands, spilling between her fingers like water through a sieve.
She'd be wanted back at the inn by Scoria later in the day, but for now, she would enjoy her hard-earned meal, and the sunrise.
My robot has been redesigned. All the worldbuilding swirling in my head. She's very English and very tall. I love her so much.
Asks welcome. If you want. To engage with my mechanical. blorbo
I have been playing an *unhealthy* amount of Space Station 14 lately and so... here they are.
Finnigan McBarclay and Molly Flamecoat, the former played by a stranger and the latter by me. They accidentally fit the minigiant vibe so it's great. She's a radio host, he's a part-time prisoner and a part time doctor. They make it work.
Asks open, and stuff. Also screw perspective, genuinely, it sucks
