#t.u.'socs

[trineunbounded]

Maternal Instinct

Bluh bluh, ended up having a crazy awesome dream the other night that pretty much handed me enough material/ideas/inspiration for a bloody novel, and one particular sub-story of the dream had me uber-inspired/led to me making a new OC right off the bat. I really like her and hope to actually write more about her in the future. Yes. Anyway, here's a little 15-minute thing I threw together about her.

alsohere'sasongithinkfitsherrealwellbleh

“Hush, now.”

The woman spoke to seemingly no one, pulling the heavy, white fabric of her cloak over her head, hood resting on her head as the sky continued to darken, thunder echoing in the cold air. Thunder in the middle of winter? A bad omen.

She had been tailing them for quite some time now, the small yet diverse group of travelers had been moving through the market at a slow pace, obviously from out of town…and the rumors had flown at the speed of light through the bubbly, gossip-filled air of the marketplace: they were looking for information on the angels. Finally: kindred spirits.

The woman went to follow them, only to feel the air in her throat go colder than the air she was drawing in, the trailing white cloth of her cloak tugged on ever so slightly in the frigid wind. She sighed, no steam escaping her maw, feeling them speak out in her mind…

“Now now children, I understand that you don’t like them but…they can help us. Perhaps they have seen our old friend…”

The people near the woman saw, heard her speak to no one, but did not bat an eye. This was typical, and the woman’s heavy, white garb made it clear that she was a medium. She was most likely speaking to some spirit, and they couldn't care less. Mediums were a dangerous ilk, as unpredictable as the spirits they harbored, brought to this plane…averting your eyes was the safest thing to do, but, if needed, mediums were often so frail physically you could fight them off…hopefully.

The leader of the travelers, garbed in deep blue, tall, elegant, obviously of noble descent practically ran headlong into the woman that had stepped in his path, the spectre of age just only starting to possess her: a few wrinkles, a mature, loving, warm face, dark skin and intense eyes meeting his pale, glazed-over glance, the woman immediately asking if his group was open to new members. He was ready to dismiss her when he realized her garb, a deep, forboding chill in the air snaking around him as she spoke. A medium.

His questions were delivered evenly, calmly, but he couldn’t hide the excitement in his eyes. He had just about one of everything when it came to his party: an archer, a tracker, two warriors (hired thugs, really), a chemist, a priestess, an assassin, a healer…but they lacked one with understanding of, shall we say, darker aspects of the supernatural beyond their grasp. The woman went on to introduce herself, stating that she had personal business with the angels, and that although her divination and summoning abilities were still in their infancy, still being expanded with practice and work, her channeling abilities were top notch: she already had three spirits well in-tune with her, bonded to her soul. Impressed, the man’s eyes went wide. Three? From a self-taught medium? This early in her career? That was it: she was hired.

The woman smiled warmly, feeling her breath go cold again, clamoring, fearful voices in her head. She turned to them, running her hands through their frigid, invisible forms, caressing them, comforting them. They would be alright, she assured them. Yes, these were new people, and yes, new people were scary…

The priestess at the back of the party shuddered, unable to see but sensing, feeling the monsters that followed their newest member, fear waking in her heart as she attempted to understand the unfathomable forms of the three spirits that churned the air around the medium, child-like in nature, certainly, she could feel that from here but...but also something so sinister, so dark about them.

…but they would be okay. These new people would get them close to finding their old family friend, long past, long lost her mind…find her and get the answers the mother and her three children had sought for years now. The woman turned back to the party, smiling.

“We are ready to go, now.”

No one but she heard her children laugh. 

[trineunbounded]

Forgiveness

Another 30-minute character thing, shorter than usual. Enjoy the some banter and friendship magic between my OCs Deidrich and his best bro Marcel, who happens to be a robot. That is all. 

“Tell me again why you think this is a good idea?”

“I told you, Deidrich, this is the safest route for us to travel by, currently.”

“I know, I know but…did it have to be right through one of their nests?”

The duo was moving silently through the cavernous halls of the industrial district, an odd couple if ever there was one. Leading, several feet ahead of his comrade, was a man barely five feet in height, or, at least, he looked like a man. Red optics, glowing pinpricks in the darkness of a building that had long since lost its power, focused with a small, nearly inaudible whir, robotic joints moving with fluidity that was simply inhuman. Behind him trailed a man whose bulky, almost seven foot frame was tense, his brown eyes, flecked with gold, watching every shadow cast by the dim, overcast light coming in through the windows that rested along the wall to his left. He was on edge, knowing what lived down here probably heard them…but outside it was far worse. Fighting had broken out, and the last thing they needed was to be caught up in the bloodshed. Their job was to maintain peace here, but for all that Deidrich could do, he felt useless as the fray continued outside.

“Marcel, I think we need to retreat deeper into the building.”

The android turned to Deidrich, optics focusing for a second as a loud whir and a click sounded, the robot’s computerized, monotone voice inquiring, indignantly:

“Why?”

Deidrich had to stifle himself.

“You know damn well why.”

The android approached his friend, placing a hand on the man’s face, the frigid touch of the metal underneath the fabric of his gloves making goosebumps rise on the former warrior’s visage.

“You needn’t worry Deidrich. I’m here.”

Marcel turned and continued onwards. Deidrich had long ago accepted that his closest friend was an automaton, a computer in a humanoid body, nothing more than programs being executed and saved in a metal box deep within a false shell. It had never been an issue with him, and while the others viewed Marcel as something of a curiosity, and not a person, Deidrich knew better. Marcel couldn’t emote, except for the occasional half-expression in the human-like parts of his facial plate, and maybe the android would change the pitch of his voice to attempt a small semblance of emotion from time to time, but the truth was obvious.

Marcel felt nothing.

Deidrich, being the man he was, knowing where he was from, and with all that his god had done for him over the years, believed otherwise. Marcel had a flexibility, an intensity in all his endeavors, an aura to him that screamed, simply screamed that he was alive, sentient, a person, deep, deep down in all his processing. There was a soul between those ones and zeroes.  

“…you’re right. Let’s get this over with.”

The duo moved through the empty halls, one pair of footsteps echoing with the near silent push and pull of machinery, the other with the heavy clomp of boots on cement, and neither sounded out of place with the other. 

[trineunbounded]

Choke

Another 30-minute OC thingy because I can't sleep. This is yet another little drabble-me-do thing from the perspective of Azarael, a.k.a. my main bottomless pool of angst, and this little passage is about him helping him carry his bestest bud Sarah's groceries into her kitchen only to be hit with the realization that although he's engaged to the Eldest (the creator of his universe whom he's absolutely devoted to and loves, it also bears mentioning that he's essentially the Grim Reaper of his universe, the little babbu) that not only has he cheated on his fiancee of several thousand years with her rival, another immortal, but that he also has romantic feelings for Sarah, whom he promised himself he would never attempt to seduce or grow closer to romantically because she recently lost her fiancee and he's convinced that they were soulmates and he's not gonna be the guy who picks up a girl after her frickin' soulmate just died. 

So yea, angst. Also, this passage is overly dramatic and heavy-handed and a little corny because it's from Azy's perspective and he's all those things and more. Enjoy. I'mma sleep now. 

Azarael sighed, gently placing the grocery bags onto the kitchen floor, an excited female voice floating over to him from down the hall over the sound of crinkling plastic on the tile floor.

“Azy! I found the curry! We can totally make that chicken bake thing!...and maybe Hora will shut up for once about my cooking…”

“That’s great, Sarah.”

He hadn’t taken a step from where he’d put down the last bag, and, if anything, all he wanted was to just turn on his heels and leave the room, leave Sarah alone here, in this dinky, white-washed apartment kitchen for the rest of the night. He couldn’t stand to look at her.

Sarah came back into the room, her black hair tied up into a bun, her brutal, black-clawed hands clasping a small canister of curry spice, her crimson eyes bright with joy as she placed the canister on the counter with a pleasant clink of glass on granite.

Azarael swallowed hard, as if he were choking on the air, trying to force it down and away from him, dragging himself deeper into the depths as he filled his lungs with lead. He could just make something up, some excuse to leave…he was a busy man. Of anyone in this madhouse, it would be Sarah who would understand.

“Azy, are you okay?”

He nearly punched her when he felt her cold, clawed fingers on his arm, gently clasping it, instincts flaring, his pale blue eyes meeting with hers, her jaw set in genuine, loving concern. All he saw in her face was another woman’s visage, pale skin practically glowing, lips twisted upwards into an arrogant smirk, curved, bestial teeth smiling underneath, her warm body resting against his, every inch of her skin touching his reminding him of his sin. She had said only one thing, one thing that rang in his head like a church bell at high noon as he stared into Sarah’s eyes:

“Tonight was wonderful, Lord Azarael. You should leave her.”

He slumped to the floor, Sarah jumping a little in surprise and crouching next to him as he covered his face, curled up, wanting nothing more than to just disappear, meld into the shadows tossed around the room by the old, flickery lights of the kitchen, just wanted to disappear. On the chain he wore around his neck, the engagement ring that dangled there, as if hanging on for dear life, suddenly felt a million times heavier.

“Azy?”

Sarah knew him too well, her claws ever so gently massaging his temples as he tried in vain to duck his head lower and stop her from seeing the tears that were streaming down his face. He felt like he was neck-deep in ocean surf and couldn’t move, everything bearing down on him, years of claims of faithfulness, years of vows staunchly kept, so easily broken, then built back up the next day like nothing even happened...like nothing EVER happened. He wasn’t a whore, he knew that, but some part of him, every time that one-time slur entered his mind, always brought up all the kisses, bites, heartbeats synced in tune and fear that had swept through his body those two measly times. Two times. Two times a cheater, two times a greedy beast, two times a whore. He had promised to be with her forever, to be there for her for all of eternity, to serve her to the end of time and back. He had promised these things, and now he had not only made love to another woman, but he was now sitting, crying, in the apartment of a woman whom he had never even hoped to touch, but whom he had bonded with more in the course of two years more than he had with his beloved in all his 3000+ years of his life. 

“Azy, if it’s something I did, I’m sorry.”

“N-no Sarah, it’s not you…”

His voice was weak, shaking, sounded like it had been rattled inside a hollow shell, which wasn’t all that inaccurate a description. He got to his feet, brushing at the tears in his eyes with shaking hands.

“I should get going.”

“Azy, come on, I’m making dinner. You should stay.”

“…Sarah. I’d love to, really but…but…”

“You should leave her…”

“…I just have work to do for the Eldest, is all.”

The lights in the kitchen flickered again, making the two shadows cast on the floor meld into the darkness of the room for a moment, only to become distinct again as the light returned.

“Oh…well, you know, she does come first. Do remember to tell her those things I told you to, okay? She’ll remember why she loves you in no time!”

Azarael smiled. Inside his body his heart shattered, crumbled to nothing on the spot. The inside of his mouth tasted like blood and salt.

“Of course, Sarah. See you tomorrow. Stay awesome.”

“I’ll try.”

The door closed behind him, and for a moment, nothing greeted Azarael but silence. He tried to stand up, but the ring resting against his chest was so heavy, so heavy it had crushed his ribs and was resting in the dusty remains of his heart. He heard Sarah humming as she continued to prepare dinner, his back against the door, his body whole and healthy as ever, but his mind and spirit were all but shriveled up and dead. For a moment, all he wanted was to say it to himself, admit it to himself and be done with it, say one little thing, and let it echo down the empty, shabby halls of this prison:

“I should have left her.”

[trineunbounded]

Collection

Hoo boy, another 30 minutes character me-do thing.

Anyway, for those of you who I haven't gushed to about my OCs (which is most of you, which is a good thing because you have avoided the deluge of insanity and ridiculous nonsense that are my characters and my obsession with them) this little drabble-me-do stars Hie'gei, one of my main guys. His shtick is that he was once a noble knight-in-shining-armor type dude until he killed these two evil gods, who used their dying power to curse him, making him immortal, and let's just say that the years of watching his family and friends die and world change haven't served him well. He kinda snapped and now just goes from world to world in the universe he belongs to and kills tyrants, be they immortal or not, and kinda parties and pursues pretty ladies and men to fill the empty void that is his existence, and he hates himself for it.

Anyway, what follows is an excerpt recounting one of his many flings, and him being all mopey about it, because his a big fluffy angst-butt and can't handle himself let alone anyone else. Enjoy.  

The sound of the city outside made the sheet-covered lump in the hotel bed squirm, finally coming to its senses after hours of sleep. The first thing to emerge from the tangled mass of sheets was an arm, lazily grabbing for the bedside table, using its grip on the piece of furniture to pull the rest of its form out from under the mangled cloth.

One of the man’s deep blue eyes fluttered open first, the other staying stubbornly shut as he lazily sat up, bronze hair all ruffled to one side and a mess, which he attempted to correct as he slowly woke up. Before long, he was standing, his muscled, six foot five inch frame silhouetted in the nightly glow of the city as he pulled his dress shirt back on. He was about to start threading his tie back on when a female voice called out to him from the bathroom doorway in the corner.

                “Morning, sleepy head. Didn’t know you were a snuggler.”

The man blushed slightly, although it thankfully wasn’t visible in the dim of the room, lit only by the faint lights of the city and the dull glow of the bathroom light, obstructed by the shapely figure of the beautiful woman that occupied it.

                “Sorry, didn’t exactly come to mind.”

                “Can’t say I like a clingy man, darling, but it was nice. You sure                 you don’t want to stay the rest of the night?”

                “I’m afraid I can’t, Ms. Terz, I have places to be.”

The woman stepped forward, dressed in her white silk nightgown, her arms snaking around the man’s waist, not pulling him closer, but keeping him held fast as her fiery eyes met with his cold, empty pools.

                “You sure you don’t want to give me your number, or anything                 else to contact you by? Tonight was so wonderful, dear…”

Her fingers brushed his cheek, and, for a second, he considered staying with her, if only for the rest of the night, maybe even only for a few hours. She was beautiful, in more ways than one: the dinner and evening he had shared with her, walking along the streets of the theater district had been lovely, talking about everything from favorite types of fruits to religion and politics, had been phenomenal: what a lovely, intelligent, and gentle woman...but, in the end, he knew exactly what this was.

 A one night fling, nothing more, nothing less.

                “No, Ms. Terz, you won’t need any of that information. If I need                 to find you again, I will.”

                The woman’s arms moved up his back, draping themselves                     over his neck, her eyes never leaving his.

“So,” began the lovely lady, “you’re just going to leave me hanging here, wondering whether the man I spent the night with is some sort of international spy, some sort of criminal, a murderer, a ghost, a vampire, the devil or something else completely and utterly ridiculous because you can't just give me your number and you’re just going to go…can I at least have your name, even if it’s a fake one?”

The man could feel the anger in her voice and knew he deserved her scorn. He took one of her hands in his, planting a gentle kiss on the back of it, the sounds of the city ringing in his ears through the heavy silence of the room.

                “Even if I gave you my name, no one in this whole wide world                   would ever know it but you. Goodbye, Ms. Terz.”

The man slid out from her arms and finished doing up his tie, taking his coat off of the coatrack next to the door, sliding it on as he quickly opened and closed the door, even as he heard the woman about to say something else. The elevator doors closed just as he saw her leap out of the room, catching his eyes one more time before he plummeted back to the ground floor, a whisper, a memory, no more. He would be lost in the crowd in a second, and no one would ever even remember that one man who had taken that one lady out to dinner and a stroll that one night in that one city. He was anonymous again, forgotten by the masses, as he always preferred, wanted, to be.

---

The train out of town shook slightly as it moved along the tracks, a man with bronze hair and eyes as deep as the ocean depths curled up in the corner, staring out the window across from him at the sunrise. He could have just left this place, left this world with no problem, but instead he had chosen to spend the night like any other person on this globe floating somewhere in the vastness of the universe, oddly hoping that somehow, some way, that Ms. Terz was following him. He didn’t care for her, he knew that. Her name would stick in his head forever, but she was just one of the many men and women he had spent nights with, trying to cling to something, someone in the cold of expanse of nothingness, the endless road of eternity that lay spread out in front of him…

…yes, her name would ring in his head for the coming ages: Ms. Terz, number 402 of 402 lovers whose names he would never forget, but whose faces he, and surely Time itself, would forget, sooner or later, as he moved on through his never-ending life, surely taking countless other lovers and leaving them behind, as he had been doing for centuries leading up to this brand new day.

 He fought back the urge to vomit as the train glided into the distance. 

[trineunbounded]

Frick, my hand slipped and I OC'd.

Welp, it happened again: combine multiple days of work, little to no ability to write for my own characters, and be thinking about a new thing I'm obsessed with and OCs are bound to happen. So yea, what follows is a profile for a Fossil Fighters Dinaurian OC I have made, I have put it under a read more because I am quite sure most of my followers have no idea what Fossil Fighters is/are not interested in my derp-herp fangirl nonsense. Proceed at your own risk, there be nonsense ahead. 

Name: Durgas Cenem

Age (in human years): 16

Height (Dinaurian form): 5' 2" (1.57 meters, roughly) 

Backstory: Like many Dinaurians after the destruction of the homeworld by Guhnash, Durgas entered Stone Sleep. When preparations for Project Mother Planet and the retrieval of the subidolcomps from Earth began, Durgas was awoken to help the Project along by resuming the same job he had back on the homeworld: administration. 

Durgas' job is simple: run around and make sure that all the different groups working on Project Mother Planet are meeting deadlines, not slacking on work, and are, in general, sticking to the plan. He reports directly to his superiors on everyone's progress, and although he has no authority himself, his reports can very well get others in trouble if they're slacking or just not getting work done on time. 

Personality: Durgas is a stickler for rules, believes in the righteousness of the law and has utter and complete loyalty and faith in the Dinaurian ruling elite, in particular King Dynal, whose decrees and decisions he follows with almost devout absolutism. For example, he went from being on the side of destroying humanity to befriending and preserving it the moment King Dynal made it publicly known that Dinaurians were now to live amongst humans and that they were to be kind to them.

Durgas is generally quite calm and a bit softspoken when not working or talking about rules and regulations, and is one of the weakest Dinaurians in his unit, and personally hates to take on his battle form, choosing to employ his intellect rather than use brute force. Although Durgas may hate to battle, he can be incredibly intense and violent when finally convinced to fight, in particular if his opponent has usurped a rule or order from the Dinaurian elite, and even more so if the offender has gone against one of King Dynal's decrees. Although his battle form is relatively weak, his high amount of poison skills and the fury he can fly into when angry makes him more formidable than he seems. 

Durgas refuses to don a hologram disguise when he's out among humans, not ashamed of his heritage, nor caring about the prejudices some humans have developed towards their new reptilian neighbors, coworkers, and fellow dwellers of Earth. He quite enjoys the company of humans and finds their culture interesting, although he can be a bit condescending when it comes to the state of their technology and the discord between different groups of their species, often getting snippy, sassy and/or snarky about the fact that humans still have wars amongst themselves and the like. 

Durgas' current job is observe and learn more about Vivosaurs and Fossil Battles, as well as the revival technology used to bring Vivosaurs back to life, as although said technology may be Dinaurian in origin, it has been heavily altered by human hands and warrants investigation. It's not uncommon to find Durgas at the Fossil Stadium watching matches or hanging around the cleaning room at the Fossil Center, taking notes frantically on a computer tablet, or occasionally out at a dig site creeping on people and asking about Fossil Battles and Vivosaurs and such. He's very polite about it, but can be more than a bit creepy at times, randomly showing up behind people and what-not. 

Battle Mode: (very, very loosely based on Breme)

Length: 13 feet (3.96 meters roughly) 

Stats: (at Rank 12)

LP: 300

Attack: 56

Defense: 20

Accuracy: 40

Speed/Evasion: 30

  Skills:

Vigilant Swipe

Damage: 70

FP: 50

Hand of the Law (2-hit combo)

Damage: 100

30% to Poison 

FP: 120

Just Reckoning (3-hit combo)

Damage: 140

30% chance to Poison

FP: 180

Toxic Miasma

Damage: 0

100% chance to Super Poison

FP: 180

Status Quo (Team Skill, hits AZ and SZ)

Damage: 200

FP: 280

30% chance to Poison

Support effects: 

To opponent's AZ: -40% Speed/Evasion, -10% Attack

Crappy doodles: So yea, Durgas is very, very, veryveryvery loosely based on Breme, so he has big creepy eyes and I'm sure there's some purple in his clothes/hair possibly somewhere but I just cannot decide on a color scheme for him for the life of me, even after having this guy made up for days, so bleh. Enjoy some crappy reference doodles because I can't draw for the life of me. 

So yea, that's all. I crappy OC'd again. Goodnight. *flops out the window* 

[trineunbounded]

Imperative

A.k.a. another one of those things where I take a half an hour and randomly write whatever comes to mind for fun. This one is about my (pretty much) only robot O.C., Marcel, getting an order to kill a target working for the creatures that are attempting to kill humans/his kind (the Laborers) in his timeline and is basically just me attempting to do a stream of consciousness thing with him. 

Warning: Contains a graphic assassination with shots fired to the head. 

Also, this song is the best bloody thing for writing/reading this kind of thing. goshdangitthemusicfromthenewtransformersthough

             The android’s scarlet optics focused, compensating for both the artificial hair swept over the twin lenses and the movements of his target. A human target. If he had had human emotions, he would have been shaking now, hoping, in vain, that they would call off the order, call off the mission. He was not human, he was not filled with hope or despair, only his usual blend of observant calm. The target let out a cough. The android’s aim shifted ever so slightly to keep the sights on the back of his head.

                The man was a traitor, a threat to everyone. He had been working with the enemy of not only mankind, but of the Laborers, the androids, the brethren that mankind had created when they were forced to leave Earth behind by the enemy, that nameless, monstrous enemy that Man had created in his petri dishes and specimen cages, the thing that they had created to end wars, save human lives, but had become intent on the life of their creator in turn.

                The target moved down an alleyway, still coughing. Moving across the darkened concourse was no problem for the android, his optics dimming automatically as he moved with inhuman grace, his movements not smooth but absolutely and entirely efficient, beyond any human faculties to even attempt. His approach was silent.

                If he were human, the android would be thinking about how heavy the rifle in his servos was, but to him, it weighed nothing. He had no tactile sense, no nerve endings or circuitry dedicated to emulating such a feeling.

                The man turned his head, paranoid. The android dimmed all his luminescent parts: his optics, the circuitry running down where his spine would be if he were human, the display on his arm, to absolute darkness. He saw nothing.

                The android was not human. Orders were orders. Was it right? Human morality is multilayered. Target is moving: maintain heading. Disassembly is a possibility seldom discussed nor particularly practiced. Target is most likely headed for plaza near Medical Bay 4. It is a possibility. Target is locking eyes with nearby scaffolding, cover. I am no threat to them. Target is running. Maintain heading. I am assigned to medical duties. I graduated from long-range weapons handling with more than satisfactory notes. Target appears disoriented. Target’s heading estimated to follow easternmost corridor. Maintain heading. Fire warning shot? Negative. Mission must be clean. I was not made to kill. I was made by humans. I am a machine. Target has drawn weapon: estimated aim 5cm to the left of right optic, aiming for optic circuitry. Say nothing. Shot fired: damage to left shoulder, minor cosmetic damage, circuitry unaffected. Aim set on target’s head. I desire humanity. Digits of left servo on rifle trigger. I want to know fear. Pull trigger? I want to know love. Trigger pulled.

…target eliminated. Lock down current sector. Cleaning operative will tend to body.

The android tapped into his communications transceiver, calling up his superior over an encrypted channel.

“Good work, Marcel. That kill was clean.”

A faint whir and a click sounded through the silent room as the android’s processor booted itself out of combat mode.

“You saw me?”

“Security cameras are a wondrous thing, my metallic friend. Don’t worry, this won’t go on your record.”

“Why did you choose me?”

The human voice on the other line was silent for a moment then spoke again.

“Marcel, you are the most human Laborer I have ever met.”

“That does not answer my inquiry."

“Marcel, buddy…”

The android turned to look at the corpse of his target, his victim, as he got his response:

“…humans don’t kill humans anymore, and if there’s one thing I know about you Laborers…”

Marcel took the still warm, fleshy hand of his target in his cold, metallic servo, made up in so many layers of cloth, false skin, and prosthetics to look human.

“…you never disobey orders.”

If he were human, he would have cried.  

[trineunbounded]

Interrogation (A random Transformers OC AU drabble because I couldn't contain my feels...again.)

Hoo boy, here's something a little different. So yea, how to explain this? Well, this is essentially a short little drabble-me-do from an AU of my Transformers OC Skybolt. Essentially, her whole shtick is that she joined the Decepticons when the war started, taught herself to be a medic and was an asset to the 'Cons for a while, but was forced into being a test subject when Triple Changers were starting to be built, and the operation that made her a Triple Changer also made her go insane, becoming incredibly violent and murderous but retained her high intelligence, which she used to try to mask and control her violent tendencies throughout her life.

In this human AU the same thing basically happened, but it was more of a super-soldier serum than anything that she was injected with, and now, post-war, where medical professionals are needed more than ever as the world recovers, she's been put on medicine to basically calm her violent side, began working in a hospital, and she's just recently broken with her boyfriend, Gavin, a guy who wasn't involved in the war and kinda jumped ship when he found out his girlfriend was a psychopathic murdering machine barely being contained by some pills. 

TL;DR A woman who went crazy after being injected with super-soldier serumy stuff during a grand-scale war is now on meds and working at a hospital because she has medical expertise, and her boyfriend just broke up with her because he found out she's crazy and he became absolutely terrified of her...also this is all vaguely based off one of my Transformers OCs, Skybolt. *shrugs everywhere* 

(WARNING: contains swearing, breakups, medication, mental illness and possibly some other triggering stuff.)

Her alarm went off, echoing through the small, white-washed apartment, ricocheting into the silence that hung over the apartment complex every night between midnight and six in the morning. It was 3 A.M.

She struggled to her feet, eyes still closed, resigned to sleep even as she grabbed for wakefulness, the sheets of her bed tangled all over her body, her strong, calloused hands pulling off the fabric and tossing it aside as if it were shed skin of some reptilian thing that had adhered to her, at one time or another. They still smelled like him.

“Three…”

She mumbled to herself as she swallowed the pills dry: should be enough to get her to work, or so she hoped. Honestly, she could never tell how much she needed in the morning until she was fully awake, something that had annoyed her for…had it really been that long? Years? Yes, years since the war had ended. She ran her fingers over the black, somewhat scarred-over tattoos on her left shoulder, one faction symbol above the other, one stoic, one pointed and violent. Years. Years wasted.

She didn’t bother with breakfast right now, instead she strode into the bathroom, grunting as the light turned on and flooded her vision, burning, glowing shapes flashing in front of her eyes even as she closed them tight. She left them closed for a time, brushing her hair without any need to look, feeling the coarse, browinish-red locks with shaking fingers. She stopped brushing and tried to emulate how he had so gently touched her scalp, had run his pale fingers through her auburn locks. She couldn’t get it quite right, but it didn’t matter. It was pointless, it always had been. She opened her eyes, pulling her hair back into a low ponytail, just until she finished brushing her teeth and cleaning her face. She’d let it hang down later.

She zoned out as she tended to her teeth and face, her gaze in the mirror locking with the 6’ 9” frame of a woman covered in minute, but prominent scars, bulky muscle, relatively small breasts, and those damned tattoos. The war effort had all been about persuading people to one side or the other, a tango she had danced with too many partners, all of them either stepping too quickly or too slowly, too sloppily or too cleanly, too enthusiastic, or too cynical. It had made her dizzy, so she had forged her own path, her own future.

“Bastards…”

The medic took in a deep sigh. The meds were kicking in, she could think straight, or, at least, straight enough as to lock her anger away somewhere safe. She slid on her work clothes, her white doctor’s coat over it, letting her hair out of her ponytail and sliding on a pair of square-rimmed glasses: they served no function of course, her vision was above average, but those false lenses seemed to disarm people, made them view the towering woman as more of a gentle, motherly type than the chiseled, violent murderer she had been…years before.

She turned her gaze back to the bed, almost expecting to see him there, sitting up with the sheets obscuring his lower half, a bright, stupid smile on his face, telling her, lazily, to have a good night at work, and that he hoped none of the patients would bite. The meds always made it easier for her to feel softer emotions, but she didn’t want to cry today, try as hard as she might.

---

“Four…”

She grumbled to herself as she sat in the break room, watching the TV, always locked on the same dreary news channel, today’s forecast was this, some politician was calling for that, same old, same old.            Two of her co-workers came in, saw it was her, and dashed right back out the door. The bulky, powerful woman couldn’t help but make a sad whimper. It took her a second to register it, the sound unexpected as she fiddled with her glasses, thoughts racing in her head. She needed the meds to kick in. Words assaulted her from a nearby person, her superior, giving orders. The ER was even more full than usual, as this was the only hospital in this part of town that had re-opened after the war, the other two destroyed, ransacked, slowly being rebuilt, resources slow to be added into the effort, one bastion of healing open as the others continued to linger in semi patched-up decay. She stood up, and returned to work.

---

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Gavin, I am more than sure.”

“Alright then.”

“And, uh, Bolty?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“I am too.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, you know. I said shit I should have kept to myself, acted like a kid. How can you even put up with me right now?”

“The pills and my eternal patience, Gavin.”

Her bed was cold, it was 2 in the afternoon and all her blinds were shut, doors locked, the only sound her breathing and the slight hum of the AC unit on the wall. Her fingers were tapping on the screen of her phone, texting her…could she really call him an ex when it had been one-sided all along?

“Is it fair to call you my ex? You know, considering everything?”

“Bolty, now really isn’t the time for your nonsense.”

“If you read that in a vindictive tone, you have no one to blame but yourself. I’m being professional about this here.”

“Listen, I didn’t know what I was getting into, and if that is too much for you than you can kindly go fuck yourself!”

“…Gavin, it’s been two weeks. Have you really forgotten what I’m like that quickly?”

“You’re right, dammit I really am an idiot.”

“An idiot in some fields, yes, but not all of them.”

She stopped herself for a second, wondering if she should type out and send what she was thinking, but decided to Hell with it. Her pills were on the far counter, she was already half asleep, and she just couldn’t be bothered to give a fuck anymore.

“Why didn’t you ever just tell me?”

“Well?”

“Skybolt, did you really think I could have just said ‘honey, I’m carrying a gun with me because I’m scared of you’ right to your goddamn face? You could have killed me!”

She let the tears flow, her free hand gripping the sheets with such strength that her knuckles were white, her sobbing silent, shaking her body as she typed.

“You really have forgotten. I don’t think we need to talk anymore tonight.”

“Honestly, though, when did you stop loving me? When you saw the pills for the first time? The war stuff in the closet? When you heard Tavi and the others talk about my past? Or did you just…feel it, after a while?”

“It was the pills.”

“I’m sorry, Skybolt.”

“Goodnight, Gavin.”

It took all her will not to type goodbye instead of goodnight. Her sobs were silent, her eyes closed, and her pills far away. The sheets still smelt like him. 

[trineunbounded]

Hmmmm...

Debating whether or not I should do an OC chatroom on MSPARP tonight, although it'll be kinda off and on and will only last like maybe an hour or two: I kinda just want to get my novel characters out for a little exercise, so to speak. Would anyone be interested?