[It is incredible. A wasteland of a world, desolate as Helheim, left as nothing but a skeletal husk compared to what it once was. Yet still, mortal life carries on in much the same fashion as always. No matter how frustration claws away at him that he is, for a second time in his life, exiled and cut off from all that he knows, Thor finds himself in awe of this realm-- or more accurately, the people in it. They've endured more hardship than they deserve, and should they need an ally in this darkness, so be it: he'll gladly defend them down to his last breath.
For the time being, however, he is content to study whatever curious magic keeps the liquid magma entrapped and blazing hot within the confines of this so called 'Lava-lamp'.
The merchant attempting to sell it seems less than pleased with his curiosity, batting at his heavy hands, muttering a pleading chorus of 'careful-- for the love of god, please be careful!']
[It hasn't been one of the best days that Garrus can remember. Not the worst, either, given the things he's seen: the Geth, Saren, the bureaucratic mess that clots any and all attempts to make even an inch of headway in any given system. What's left in the aftermath of it.
Saying he's had bad luck is like saying Palaven is slightly balmy. Shepard changed that, mostly. As much as (ignoring the irony of the phrase) humanly possible. Which is why when she's not around, no matter how he attempts to ignore it, cynicism always manages to seep back into the edges of his subconscious. He counts the charge left in his rifle from cover. Doubts it's enough to cut a line through what's left of the abandoned facility even with the chorus to Hurt Me Deeper blaring through his headset and a trail of merc bodies leading off behind him. They're packing heavy firepower, heavier than the weight of the gun in his talons, heavy enough to keep him on the move without a solid tactical advantage.
Took them long enough to get their act together, at least. Which means that if he goes out, he can take some small amount of satisfaction from the fact that he gave them hell for it.
And left a relatively clear path to the valuable med research upstairs.]
He wins his battles by making no mistakes. Making no mistakes is what establishes the certainty of victory, for it means conquering an enemy that is already defeated. --The Art of War by Sun Tzu Chapter IV:Tactical Dispositions
Cause I haven't got a clue what else to put here.]
OK HERE WE GO it can be AUversetime or side nonsense so we're not replaying the script
[Errands. Had to be errands. Sure, they need doing. Garrus isn't about to argue that with everything that went down on Thessia-- not to mention what's looming off on the horizon-- that Shepard needs the break, and the Alliance Fleet could use every last drop of the supplies still left up for grabs. He's not complaining, he's voluntarily picking up the slack.
That doesn't mean he's thrilled about competing for resources, or that he enjoys cutting down packs of Loki Mechs instead of real, solid veterans, but this isn't about him. Never really was.
Intai'sei's human colonies are more wide-open space than some of the settlements they've visited in the past. Something to do with the heat and sand, most likely. It means his targets have little in the way of cover (nevermind that it goes both ways, they're walking heaps of scrap for the most part; he doesn't need to be cautious) turns the whole thing into more of a shooting gallery than anything else.
He's still waking up unreasonably early, still suiting up and running the daily inspections required to keep his weapons and tech at the ready-- hell, he strolls right out the front door of the Kima District every single morning. But it doesn't happen under his own name, isn't for recreation or conversation: It's his job, and Archangel does it better than anyone else on Omega.
Still, even he can admit that there's probably some merit to giving social drinking a good half hour of his time. Crime rates are down, his team's running solid patrols on their own, and if he puts this off any longer Sidonis is never going to let him off the hook.
So fine. He's having a drink. Here he is. One drink in hand at the bar. Look at him going for it, world.
Which is more accurately described as sitting there all rigid and irritable, torn halfway between counting the clock and scanning the club in the hopes that there's something going down-- or close to it-- that he can sniff out.]
[He's not fond of it. Fighting always puts him on edge, draws something out of him that's more heat and anger than conscious effort or want. Reactive, volatile, nauseating at best.
There's blood seeping into the snow of Hoth. Crimson coursing out from beneath the crumpled bodies of Republic soldiers and Jedi, Imperial and Sith alike. It's a mirror image of destruction that he blatantly ignores as he fixates on the blinding blue flash of a consular's saber, cutting a wide arc less than an inch from his brow. His mind is a blank slate of emotion. He's forgotten why they've even come in the first place, regardless of the thorough briefing he'd received beforehand.]
[She'll never get used to it, going back in time on odd jobs, the Initiative casual as anything about picking time apart at the seams. Christ, if she had her way, they'd all retreat to 2010 and stay there. Screw the UE; if the cyborg-nation of nutjobs can't find them, why even bother going back to some barely held together wasteland?
But this? London, streets slick with rain that pools up over the cobblestones and splatters beneath trotting hooves. This she likes. More than she should, admittedly.
Chloe's pulling off a decent job of crossdressing (given the time period, her hair's not entirely out of place) hands stuffed down in her pockets as she stares wide-eyed at the store front of a local jewelry shop.]
[Three flights of stairs up and the battered building's ceiling opens out into a rapidly dimming sky filled to the brim with stars. The scenic location isn't for relaxation; where the stairwell drops off to show a skeletal skyline is precisely parallel to the setting sun, and hidden in its shadow, Palmer has a perfect bird's eye view for scouting without sitting exposed.
As usual, she doesn't set foot on the planet's surface when there are teams in need of babysitting (And more often than not, it is babysitting.) so today she's out enjoying a few rounds without any recruits on her tail or cluttering up her feed.
It does wonders for her temper. As does the occasional snipe with the heavy M395 DMR resting idly in her armored hands.]
WHAT IF I USED YOU TO VOICETEST hit me with whoever you want
[The crash had knocked her out cold. Hard to do, given the enhancements made to her body, and judging by the shredded remains of the dropship's cabin enough of an impact to snap the average soldier's neck. Or worse.
Breathing is a trial half-buried beneath the wreckage. She shrugs off tattered scraps of metal and wiring, claws her way out into the open air- and remembers she hasn't got a clue what planet they'd slammed into. It's not familiar. It's not even vaguely recognizable, and her transmissions win nothing but static in return.]
[Venice at five thirty in the morning isn't as quiet as it ought to be. Shops open early, bakeries crack their doors at dawn, and the noise of people milling about to reach either destination through overly narrow streets echoes out between the space between buildings.
But in certain areas, close to the water and less convenient for the average tourist to tread, there's a different sort of calm that comes from the sound of waves slapping against stone. And with three hours to spare before her next job goes down, Chloe's soaking it all in while she thumbs through her notes on the itinerary. It's not an easy lift, that's for sure, and she'd rather know it all by heart than slip-up and botch the whole thing. God knows she's more professional than that. At least a bit more, anyway.]
There weren't supposed to be any contacts down here - just the wreck of a ship, some tenuous signs of what had once been life, and some important old AI data stored in the ship's memory banks with regard to a series of Geth movements that had gone unchecked. And yet here they were climbing through some derelict old war ship in a less than friendly atmosphere (the decks tilted sickeningly underfoot due to the mountainous terrain where its shell had come to rest) being fired on, fortuitously enough, by a goddamn swarm of Geth.
Perfect. Just. Perfect.
Dropping her hand from her comm, having just informed the Normandy of the situation on the ground, Shepard leans tentatively out of her cover. Her back is to a wall that's more floor due to the angle of the ship and the corridor she's peering down now is like a pit waiting to be fallen into. But if her mockup is right, the ship's CIC and databanks are down it, along with who knows what else. It's quiet, but she doesn't anticipate it'll stay that way for long.
"Alright, we need to work our way down there. Garrus, covering fire. Thane, is there any way you can use a biotic field to get us down to that ledge?" Ledge being a hazy term for what once was the next hatch in the hallway.
It had seemed a - well, not a simple mission, but among the more straightforward ones. Get in, get the information, get out. It's a good thing that he rarely expects less than the worst. He's so frequently rewarded by a lack of surprise at whatever circumstances they've managed to land in now.
This one is a little more precarious than normal, but so far it has remained manageable. Most things are, he has found. He picks off another geth that showed his head and glances down at the ledge, up at Shepard and Garrus from his crouched position.
"I can do it." Or he will find a way. It will take a fair amount out of him, but he doesn't think enough to keep him from being effective. "I can slow your descent enough to keep you from harm." Another shot and he moves back nearer to the drop. "Whenever you are ready."
[ The end of the world is a strange place to live. You would think years into it she might have grown accustomed to it, but she has not entirely. There are still the moments everything is terribly quiet and the grass finally starting to grow in looks at once vibrantly alive and very out of place and all she can think is that they are living at the end of all things in this time.
Today she's swirling homemade alcohol around the bottom of a bottle as she contemplates it before taking a drink and holding it out to Chloe in a silent offer. ]
[There's no denying how wrong it all feels: a miserable end to a miserable world. It could be worse, she tells herself, lifting the bottle from Ros's fingertips and admires her handiwork. There's some pristine irony in the fact that with only two survivors left out of god knows how many this skeletal wreckage held beforehand, Ros is better at brewing by miles than any of the proper pubs ever were.]
[2100 is Lights Out for the Academy. It's a schedule strictly kept to and strictly enforced, and Colonel Mehaffey is, as always, part of the crew responsible to ensure just that. Or at least she would be under normal circumstances. These, however, are anything but.
General Black didn't particularly care for the idea of sending off the academy's cadets for a taste of what deployment might be like in the cold, dark reaches of space, but given that the UNSC Defense Force had a frigate sitting idle for a good week or so while a technical slip-up was seen to, the plan of allowing a few select squads off grounds for a few days was nudged through at the last minute. For all their issues, Hastati squad was one of the first few given the option.
Mehaffey might've had a hand in it.
So sunshine or lack thereof, she's out and about making rounds on a sleepless vessel, checking in on a section of the barracks that (even from a good fifteen feet or so off) is absolutely full of excitement and noise. ]
[ April had kept her fingers crossed the whole time the list of squads being allowed to go to the frigate was being read. Sure, she'd have to deal with all Hastati squad's asses in even more enclosed spaces, but it would be real experience and if Hastati squad was picked it would mean that they weren't in quite as deep shit as it was looking more and more like they were.
And even she had to admit that this was fun. Removed from the immediate pressure of the day to day routine, everyone was relaxing and just having a good time.
Which didn't mean she wasn't very aware of the officers in her presence always, and as soon as she sees Colonel Mehaffey through the door she jumps to her feet and snaps a salute. ]
Officer on deck, Hastati! [ She wasn't going to have her squad get reprimanded for something as basic as not showing respect to an officer. ]
They've got time to kill on their way to Utah. Not an excessive amount, and nothing out of the way, but he's made a habit of taking the slower routes with the excuse that all the back roads have less traffic-- less trouble. Hunters don't populate areas too scare to be called towns, clickers only wander so far from their nests. As long as they can hunt enough wildlife to make up for a lack of packaged food, it's the smarter bet.
So when they hole up in a house about 30 miles out of Palisade and Ellie nods off under a heap of old blankets that've been left undisturbed for years, and when the sting in his side kicks him out of sleep at 5am, he takes his time scavenging for supplies. Even makes a stop out back to inspect the boathouse and unearths an old fishing kit and a pair of rods. Useful haul. Metal that's not rusted is a hard find, and he could use a little more scrap for some much needed repairs...
"C'mon kiddo, wake up." Joel toes at the edge of her makeshift bed, sunlight already seeping in to snuff out nearly every shadow in the room.
[There's a heavy bang as Chloe flicks her hand back, slamming an freshly emptied shotglass down on the (mostly) polished bar top with an easy grin; something to prove the spirits aren't anywhere near strong enough to warrant a grimace as heat builds in the back of her throat.
[He grinned at her in response and grabbed the shot between his thumb and forefinger, turned it once before giving a small nod and throwing it back. It was pure, grade-A shit, and it proved it going down. Still, he wasn't going to roll over and quit. He didn't plan to lose to Chloe Frasier. Oh, sure he had been out-drunk by women before. He'd lived a long and storied life. But those women tended to be the stone-cold alcoholic type, the sort who'd managed to have a fair bit more practice than he had. An impressive feat, all things considered. But Chloe was a sweet little thing who was at most a functional alcoholic. Which should have meant a clean victory, but-]
I'm beginning to think you're cheating kid. You have a hollow leg I don't know about?
[He took the opportunity to lean over a little (very little, he didn't want to fall off the stool) to get a look at her legs, a dramatic little motion that, in addition to being good-old-fashioned harmless flirting bought him a little time. He was hoping in a couple of minutes this last round would have had time to hit her like a ton of bricks and she'd admit defeat. Not likely, but worth the effort.]
Day four of scavenging for supplies on the Cyllene isn't everything Garrus had been hoping for when he'd volunteered. It's not the slick, pristine interior of the derelict station that throws him; not the shadowy figures roaming through corridors and solid walls letting out the occasional hiss and howl. Flickering lights, self-locking doors, shifts in temperature-- he's seen worse.
But five hours in sees him somewhere near the glass-lined entrance of the lounge on F7, stalking around corners (only slightly off-balance these days) with a remarkably furrowed brow, lips pressed into a thin, purposefully flat line.
"--Yeah, well, in my cycle we don't win arguments with allies by listing off how many different recipes we had for their ancestors."
Javik usually found conversation with the Turian almost pleasant. He had a good grasp of war, a respect for strategy. A ruthlessness that the universe required from those who would survive. But he was a primitive, there were things he could not comprehend, no matter how many times Javik explained them (Fedora-wearing atheist Javik). That was a weakness.
Weakness would get you killed.
He does not need a reminder of weakness. He is living with it. Javik is certain that this place is hostile, and he can almost feel it. But he cannot, no touch of fingers remembers what happened here, the soft pads of his fingers feel only the cold, the metal. It leaves him more blind than the two eyes do. It makes the back of his neck itch. He thinks they should not be here-
"Could you not?" Chloe hisses out from her spot in the kitchen, aiming her words at the sound of dull shuffling behind the closest wall. Pouring piping hot water into a clean(ish) mug, she might not be able to see beyond the bend towards the source, but her ears are well trained enough to catch it: soaking it up and huffing about it like a bloody offense just before she tears her nails through the top end of a tea pouch.
"Those pins are only a week old-- keep trying to sneak about on it like that and you'll wind up shooting the damn things out like popped rivets."
Two dudes who like to shoot things from far away and also have the same face and also also are totally into ladies that could destroy them with their pinkies (probably).
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THOR;
GOING FOR AN EX SETTING BECAUSE IT IS THE EASIEST COMMON GROUND
For the time being, however, he is content to study whatever curious magic keeps the liquid magma entrapped and blazing hot within the confines of this so called 'Lava-lamp'.
The merchant attempting to sell it seems less than pleased with his curiosity, batting at his heavy hands, muttering a pleading chorus of 'careful-- for the love of god, please be careful!']
yes good
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GARRUS
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Saying he's had bad luck is like saying Palaven is slightly balmy. Shepard changed that, mostly. As much as (ignoring the irony of the phrase) humanly possible. Which is why when she's not around, no matter how he attempts to ignore it, cynicism always manages to seep back into the edges of his subconscious. He counts the charge left in his rifle from cover. Doubts it's enough to cut a line through what's left of the abandoned facility even with the chorus to Hurt Me Deeper blaring through his headset and a trail of merc bodies leading off behind him. They're packing heavy firepower, heavier than the weight of the gun in his talons, heavy enough to keep him on the move without a solid tactical advantage.
Took them long enough to get their act together, at least. Which means that if he goes out, he can take some small amount of satisfaction from the fact that he gave them hell for it.
And left a relatively clear path to the valuable med research upstairs.]
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GARRUS
He wins his battles by making no mistakes. Making no mistakes is what establishes the certainty of victory, for it means conquering an enemy that is already defeated.
--The Art of War by Sun Tzu Chapter IV:Tactical Dispositions
Cause I haven't got a clue what else to put here.]
OK HERE WE GO it can be AUversetime or side nonsense so we're not replaying the script
That doesn't mean he's thrilled about competing for resources, or that he enjoys cutting down packs of Loki Mechs instead of real, solid veterans, but this isn't about him. Never really was.
Intai'sei's human colonies are more wide-open space than some of the settlements they've visited in the past. Something to do with the heat and sand, most likely. It means his targets have little in the way of cover (nevermind that it goes both ways, they're walking heaps of scrap for the most part; he doesn't need to be cautious) turns the whole thing into more of a shooting gallery than anything else.
Bo-ring.]
I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO CALL IT BUT LET'S ROLL :D
GARRUS AGAIN
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He's still waking up unreasonably early, still suiting up and running the daily inspections required to keep his weapons and tech at the ready-- hell, he strolls right out the front door of the Kima District every single morning. But it doesn't happen under his own name, isn't for recreation or conversation: It's his job, and Archangel does it better than anyone else on Omega.
Still, even he can admit that there's probably some merit to giving social drinking a good half hour of his time. Crime rates are down, his team's running solid patrols on their own, and if he puts this off any longer Sidonis is never going to let him off the hook.
So fine. He's having a drink. Here he is. One drink in hand at the bar. Look at him going for it, world.
Which is more accurately described as sitting there all rigid and irritable, torn halfway between counting the clock and scanning the club in the hopes that there's something going down-- or close to it-- that he can sniff out.]
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BATTLE TIME IS GO
There's blood seeping into the snow of Hoth. Crimson coursing out from beneath the crumpled bodies of Republic soldiers and Jedi, Imperial and Sith alike. It's a mirror image of destruction that he blatantly ignores as he fixates on the blinding blue flash of a consular's saber, cutting a wide arc less than an inch from his brow. His mind is a blank slate of emotion. He's forgotten why they've even come in the first place, regardless of the thorough briefing he'd received beforehand.]
CHLOE
aw yeah picture prompt you don't even have to follow
MY DARLING ANORA
But this? London, streets slick with rain that pools up over the cobblestones and splatters beneath trotting hooves. This she likes. More than she should, admittedly.
Chloe's pulling off a decent job of crossdressing (given the time period, her hair's not entirely out of place) hands stuffed down in her pockets as she stares wide-eyed at the store front of a local jewelry shop.]
IT'S BEEN TOO LONG
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COMMANDER PALMER
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As usual, she doesn't set foot on the planet's surface when there are teams in need of babysitting (And more often than not, it is babysitting.) so today she's out enjoying a few rounds without any recruits on her tail or cluttering up her feed.
It does wonders for her temper. As does the occasional snipe with the heavy M395 DMR resting idly in her armored hands.]
WHAT IF I USED YOU TO VOICETEST hit me with whoever you want
-Fred Allen
WHAT IF I JUST GAVE YOU EVERYONE? Oh god I'm so sorry this is going to go badly.
Breathing is a trial half-buried beneath the wreckage. She shrugs off tattered scraps of metal and wiring, claws her way out into the open air- and remembers she hasn't got a clue what planet they'd slammed into. It's not familiar. It's not even vaguely recognizable, and her transmissions win nothing but static in return.]
--shit.
NO IT WILL GO GREAT ALSO I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT HALO WOOPS
CHLOE? :D Or anybody if you have more inspiration for somebody else!
We shall be free.
Chloe it is LET US DO THIS c:
But in certain areas, close to the water and less convenient for the average tourist to tread, there's a different sort of calm that comes from the sound of waves slapping against stone. And with three hours to spare before her next job goes down, Chloe's soaking it all in while she thumbs through her notes on the itinerary. It's not an easy lift, that's for sure, and she'd rather know it all by heart than slip-up and botch the whole thing. God knows she's more professional than that. At least a bit more, anyway.]
CRASHES IN, SHOVES EVERYONE INTO A GROUP HUG
Perfect. Just. Perfect.
Dropping her hand from her comm, having just informed the Normandy of the situation on the ground, Shepard leans tentatively out of her cover. Her back is to a wall that's more floor due to the angle of the ship and the corridor she's peering down now is like a pit waiting to be fallen into. But if her mockup is right, the ship's CIC and databanks are down it, along with who knows what else. It's quiet, but she doesn't anticipate it'll stay that way for long.
"Alright, we need to work our way down there. Garrus, covering fire. Thane, is there any way you can use a biotic field to get us down to that ledge?" Ledge being a hazy term for what once was the next hatch in the hallway.
YES GOOD i'm a big fan of group hugs
This one is a little more precarious than normal, but so far it has remained manageable. Most things are, he has found. He picks off another geth that showed his head and glances down at the ledge, up at Shepard and Garrus from his crouched position.
"I can do it." Or he will find a way. It will take a fair amount out of him, but he doesn't think enough to keep him from being effective. "I can slow your descent enough to keep you from harm." Another shot and he moves back nearer to the drop. "Whenever you are ready."
ME THREE. COME TO MY ARMS YOU CUTIES <3
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CHLOE;
Today she's swirling homemade alcohol around the bottom of a bottle as she contemplates it before taking a drink and holding it out to Chloe in a silent offer. ]
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How is it today?
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SPACEKIDS
General Black didn't particularly care for the idea of sending off the academy's cadets for a taste of what deployment might be like in the cold, dark reaches of space, but given that the UNSC Defense Force had a frigate sitting idle for a good week or so while a technical slip-up was seen to, the plan of allowing a few select squads off grounds for a few days was nudged through at the last minute. For all their issues, Hastati squad was one of the first few given the option.
Mehaffey might've had a hand in it.
So sunshine or lack thereof, she's out and about making rounds on a sleepless vessel, checking in on a section of the barracks that (even from a good fifteen feet or so off) is absolutely full of excitement and noise. ]
/chinhands
And even she had to admit that this was fun. Removed from the immediate pressure of the day to day routine, everyone was relaxing and just having a good time.
Which didn't mean she wasn't very aware of the officers in her presence always, and as soon as she sees Colonel Mehaffey through the door she jumps to her feet and snaps a salute. ]
Officer on deck, Hastati! [ She wasn't going to have her squad get reprimanded for something as basic as not showing respect to an officer. ]
OOPS MY HAND SLIPPED
How dare you
So when they hole up in a house about 30 miles out of Palisade and Ellie nods off under a heap of old blankets that've been left undisturbed for years, and when the sting in his side kicks him out of sleep at 5am, he takes his time scavenging for supplies. Even makes a stop out back to inspect the boathouse and unearths an old fishing kit and a pair of rods. Useful haul. Metal that's not rusted is a hard find, and he could use a little more scrap for some much needed repairs...
"C'mon kiddo, wake up." Joel toes at the edge of her makeshift bed, sunlight already seeping in to snuff out nearly every shadow in the room.
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HEY GIRL
i'm gonna give u options
If I take all of them it's not my fault
Or he
yes it is!!
Mmmmmnnope sorry!
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BROTIME
Seven going on eight if he keeps pace.]
Ante up, darling.
Re: BROTIME
I'm beginning to think you're cheating kid. You have a hollow leg I don't know about?
[He took the opportunity to lean over a little (very little, he didn't want to fall off the stool) to get a look at her legs, a dramatic little motion that, in addition to being good-old-fashioned harmless flirting bought him a little time. He was hoping in a couple of minutes this last round would have had time to hit her like a ton of bricks and she'd admit defeat. Not likely, but worth the effort.]
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>::[
But five hours in sees him somewhere near the glass-lined entrance of the lounge on F7, stalking around corners (only slightly off-balance these days) with a remarkably furrowed brow, lips pressed into a thin, purposefully flat line.
"--Yeah, well, in my cycle we don't win arguments with allies by listing off how many different recipes we had for their ancestors."
Re: >::[
Javik usually found conversation with the Turian almost pleasant. He had a good grasp of war, a respect for strategy. A ruthlessness that the universe required from those who would survive. But he was a primitive, there were things he could not comprehend, no matter how many times Javik explained them (Fedora-wearing atheist Javik). That was a weakness.
Weakness would get you killed.
He does not need a reminder of weakness. He is living with it. Javik is certain that this place is hostile, and he can almost feel it. But he cannot, no touch of fingers remembers what happened here, the soft pads of his fingers feel only the cold, the metal. It leaves him more blind than the two eyes do. It makes the back of his neck itch. He thinks they should not be here-
-and the word was have, not had.
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CHLOE
Gross sobs
"Those pins are only a week old-- keep trying to sneak about on it like that and you'll wind up shooting the damn things out like popped rivets."
Re: Gross sobs
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Garrus
Two dudes who like to shoot things from far away and also have the same face and also also are totally into ladies that could destroy them with their pinkies (probably).
(am I doing this right?)