#nictiam

[lieutenant-thace]

►_◄

►_◄  - What makes them angry 

“People who don’t know what the hell they’re doing,“ he grumbled as he practically threw files around. His lip faintly curled up in displeasure, showing a hint of teeth. “That and obnoxiously loud, long noises meant to annoy people on purpose.“ The fur on the back of his neck prickled. Such noises always did set him off into a pissy mood. Obnoxiously rude people with the goal to anger him were never a thing he could learn to tolerate.

[shiroganc]

“Are you scared?”

  The atmosphere is frosted aboard the vessel he resides. There’s a vent in his room, accommodating whatever specific air his human lungs need, drilling a constant cold breeze across his back.

  His head is hung low, remnants of blood dripping from his lip, from the sᴀᴍᴇ sᴄᴀʀ on his nose, even the insides of his ears leaking. It’s difficult to think, to comprehend anything going on around him. They drag him to his room, treat him like they would a corpse with such careless gestures to a point where he thinks he is a corpse, walking, breathing, a mind lifeless and blank.

        There’s only so many times he can tell himself ‘ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴡᴏʀsᴇ.’

   His arm isn’t cooperating. The technology isn’t binding well with his body, and whatever black magic they infused makes it twitch, a mind of its own, something he can’t control yet. The metal scrapes against the floor as it jerks every so often and his fingertips press into the ground, scratching the imaginary nails of black grips across the grooves of the panels. He hadn’t had enough time to forget his arm was cut away before they gave him a new one, the blood of Sendak’s considerate amputation still spewn across the floor, dried, just another mark to add to the previous inhabitants’ legacies.

   Blood mixes with his tears drying his cheeks. They’re making him a monster, an ᴀʙᴏᴍɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. The prosthetic is to be used as a weapon and he can feel its influence creeping into his mind, the cybernetics controlling him rather than vice versa.

   Kelmar wasn’t on shift when they put him away. Either way the guards don’t give him a second glance, a normality for Galra prisoner procedure, especially their Champion.

   As the blood drips, he hears a sound. The cell doors sliding open, a quiet slip of metal surfaces. The figure behind smiles, untapped by the state of the man in front of him, a helmet under his arm. Shiro looks up at him, the quiet whirs of his still twitching arm the only thing breaking their silence. Kelmar gives him a look, beckoning him, as if to say, come on, get out of here. The door is wide open. 

   There’s no fighting today. They threw him in the room less than an hour ago (if he has any grasp on time), why would they request his presence again? Normally it’s hours, even days before they call on him again, a forgotten experiment. Yet, here the guard is, telling him to step outside with nothing more than a smile on his face, a narrow of his eyes (isn’t wearing a helmet supposed to be regulation?). 

   At first, he feels like Shiro feels he’s being ᴛᴇᴀsᴇᴅ. He wouldn’t put it beyond the guard, the value of his life probably slim compared to the friendship he hoped they’d shared. He doesn’t move, still-watering eyes gazing up in disbelief, hoping the empire wouldn’t take away his only friend who can’t be thrown into the arena. Kelmar had once asked him what he would do if he escaped, if he had lead him to an escape pod rather than to where he’d been ordered to bring him, and Shiro believed it to be a trap. Maybe it was a precursor to his current events. Sendak could be just around the corner, or even worse, Zarkon himself, and as soon as he rounds the corridor a claw would rip him from the very air he breathes and drag him down, back into the darkness, back into the cold, the agony —— The galra’s voice derails his train of thought.

        ❝ What are you waiting for? Are you sᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ? ❞

   Shiro looks to the empty hallway, to Kelmar, and back to the hallway. He wants to ask why but suddenly, adrenaline tells him it would be wasting time. He is afraid to escape, after the torture Sendak put him through last time he tried. He knows they won’t punish him with death, not yet, not before he ʟᴇᴀʀɴs ʜɪs ʟᴇssᴏɴ. That is what scares him. He can feel the hot breath on his neck now, the panting exasperation, the needles beneath his skin. 

   Even if it is a trap, with his new gift, he could disarm Kelmar, shoot him with his own gun, and make a run for it. It’s that mind made for leadership generating every possible outcome of the situation. In a spur of the moment, he ignores probability, possibility, and pries himself from the ground long enough to step forward, finally able to look Kelmar in his eyes without a slab of metal blocking the two, the garish display of violence he is fully exposed. 

        “ No, ” he answers simply. Impulse tells him to run. False loyalty, fear, tells him to stay, to follow their orders, do whatever they want him to do to negate possible consequence. He finds a balance of the two and waits, following his own advice. 

                    Patience yields focus, after all.

[knifetastic-blog]

🎲

Headcanon Questions || Accepting

🎲: Does your muse like to gamble?It depends… considering she is gambling with her life most of the times during her missions if she doesn’t take the upmost care. She doesn’t particularly care much for gambling money and doesn’t see the point considering she believes it to be a waste of time when she could be doing actual work to get twice the amount of money that she’d win. 

[trzepac-blog]

Don't deny it. You have the cutest ears in the universe.

  Plucks off his helmet and THROWS IT AT KELMAR’S HEAD, voice pitching up and turning into a rather kit-like whine,

      ❝ Kelmaaar! Shut up! I’m trying to be a serious force to be reckoned with over here! ❞

[belost-the-watcher]

Taking of 6th Fleet

@nictiam

Traffic shuttled to and from the 6th fleet's titanic flagship. It drifted in orbit of a nearby desert planet, catching orange light radiating from the wasteland. An approaching personnel ship signalled for priority landing. The signal read as prisoner transport. Rows of strobing red lights flagged the ship over to a special docking bay.

Rows of armed guards met the ship on the inside as it landed, automated weapons turrets focused at the hatched door which dropped open. Clouds of orange dust seeped out like smoke from a candle and a man stepped out into the open. He was a Galra just like the guards who waited outside. He shook the same orange dust from the fur of his bare arms and motioned for the other passengers to come out.

One at a time a mix of alien creatures filed out and into the landing pad, their hands held in metal restraints bound by a short energy beam. There were seven of them altogether. Three were hunched lizard men, long spikes hung back from their heads. They glared angrily at their captors. Behind them came two lumbering women made of stone, they had to duck simply to get out of the transport and towered over the Galra. Their expressions were difficult to read, if they could show any at all. The sixth that came out was a beaked man whose limbs all seemed just a bit too long for his torso. He stared at the Galra through black eyes. That one made the tracker uneasy even while restrained. Finally out came a shorter man. His skin was red and scaled. His nostrils were slits from a bulge in his face. Dark horns grew at various angles around his face, almost seeming to form what some could describe as his hair. He carried himself with a dignity the others lacked. When the others had been caught, he gave himself up.

Belost watched as the front guards directed them into the only doorway. They shambled through a long hall, Belost trailing in the very back, watching as the rock women nearly had to squat to get through.

Nearly an hour passed before they had all been processed and moved into their own holding cells. Galra ships never lacked those. Belost stood on the outside, taking in the sight of them all locked away. How long had passed since he first started tracking them? Weeks? Maybe even months. All that work leading to this moment. It was always underwhelming and he hated it. But the worst was yet to come. He had to give his report.

The tracker shook his head and leaned against the wall. 'It's cold,' he thought. 'These ships always are.' He took a deep breath and felt the fatigue of his chase setting in. "Command Sergeant Belost. Report to Commander Theron," he heard in his ear. He groaned and leaned in just a bit more. "Yeah. I'll be there."