daysofrefuge

[daysofrefuge]

For the writing suggestions was sorta wondering earlier how it would go if a fragment of Roland had to take refuge in Lasky's CNI. I know that's not how they work but canon be damned.

We take a well-maintained chisel and hammer to the lore and perhaps the skull/neural lace and we do what we want. There are a thousand Halo Infinite AUs and what-ifs in my skull and I need to crack it open to get at them.

-

Red lights flash overhead, an alarm droning in the distance is drowned out by the falling footsteps marking their passage down the auxiliary hallway towards the last frigate stationed on the Infinity.

Two fireteams and the Spartan commander guard the remaining members of the command crew as explosions rock the ship and automated voices overlap, warning of incursions on multiple decks, loss of atmosphere in bays and hangars, all hands abandon ship, all hands-

Captain Thomas J Lasky shuts it out and focuses on the destination ahead of him. The hall is clear of smoke and debris and the screams he’s hearing are only ghosts echoing. His crew is pale faced, but determined. They might be leaving their home, but they’ve already gotten so many out.

His new passenger is quiet. There wasn’t enough time and Roland deserved more than to be pulled from his ship and thrown in a dark reinforced case, forced to wait for what would seem like an eternity to him until he was either freed or destroyed.

The fragment that floated in Lasky’s CNI had settled from ice water running through his nerves and a pounding headache to a distant presence. Gold tendrils faded in and out of focus in the corner of his eye and he could tell Roland was trying to put a buffer between him and the multitude of tasks he was juggling. Roland’s still communicating with the withering threads of himself in the ship’s circuits, clearing the way for his humans and keeping them updated on enemy movements.

The strain brings a new pain and Lasky feels moisture on his upper lip. Palmer slows as they reach a new junction and gunfire can be heard down the adjacent hallway. She narrows her eyes at him as he wipes the blood away. Gold rings brown and wide blown pupils meet hers.

“I could take him… if you can’t handle it.” She mutters as she checks over her shoulder.

“Is that concern I hear, Commander Palmer?” His grip tightens on his pistol and he sighs.

“Maybe.” Her brow furrows and the klaxons drone back into focus as gunmetal gray doors slide open and their ride sits waiting, backlit by bay doors glowing blue and the random explosion here and there as the Infinity’s guns rattle off. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up with the captaincy and the end of the war; the UNSC never won in space.

Sensing his mood or maybe just seeing his thoughts as they appear, Roland butts in even as Tom catches a trail of thoughts about evac routes and saving the science team’s data.

You don’t need to host me if it’s hurting. I could fly her solo, everyone-

“Roland.” he interrupts even if it gets him another look from Palmer. He sighs and gives her a look. The AI in his brain bristles for a moment, and he feels the waves of emotion rolling and crashing over each faster than he can fully process. The loading ramp is lowered and they’re almost out.

He takes one last look at his ship and then Sarah who’s herding Spartans and crew onto the dropship.

She’s taller from down here.

He huffs a laugh at the obvious distraction and mutters under his breath when Sarah shoots him a look.

“Any chance you’d let me fly?” He asks, already knowing her answer. He smiles as he’s able to get the great Sarah Palmer to pale, however briefly.

“No way in hell, Tom. Murphy’s taking us out.”

Murphy? Well, any landing you can walk away from and all that. I’ve seen his track record and it’s better than yours. Sir.

[daysofrefuge]

Mycorrhizal networks - Another Flood pov practice

The Body is not chitin, but it is covered in plates that the Chorus can worm between. The Body moves, heat and movement and sound is its undoing. Long sleeping spores cover its surface and millennia old instinct drives propagation. There is always a crack where the light shines through and seeking spores float on entropy and malice to find them. Spores beget threads beget tendrils.

Notes form in the Body's mind. Small songs sung in quiet voices, ancient hymns following the old knowledge. The music grows as does the network of mycelium-like threads spreading through the Body, wrapping tightly around muscle and bone and nerve. The mind clouds over as anchors form and new songs lead the dance to more productive measures.

The Body is strong. It was made, adapted over time to outlast all others in its species' own pursuit of survival. The Body was changed, warped and stretched, reinforced and molded, amplified to adapt, just as the Chorus does. The hymns rumble through the Body as the web tightens and the meat learns how to move under this new power. The Body jerks and locomotes strangely, the mind trapped and then subsumed as the Chorus takes what it needs. Knowledge and experience and a host made pliant as the web infiltrates the brain and nerves. Signals sent in panic never reach their destination, neurotransmitters and chemicals shift as the song fills the mind and the Body joins the dance.

Its shell flashes warnings that are quickly drowned out by the Chorus. Nothing will hinder the song. More will join the Chorus soon. Propagation continues.

[daysofrefuge]

Plausible Deniability

Prompt from @bloodgulchblog "something about having to lockdown Roland because of Cortana, blah blah security risk". And then Empty Throne came out and handed me a fun deletion protocol with very little establish lore! Free real estate :o)

Here's Roland, Lasky, and our favorite doctor making choices for the greater good. Also on ao3!

-

Captain Lasky calls for Roland at 0600 ship time after receiving a series of messages from what remained of the UNSC's upper brass. Messages that Roland could not access, couldn't even touch.

The captain looks tired, more tired than usual, but with a look of grim determination and a spark in his eye. His captain has gotten very experienced with dealing with bad news and performing political triage when the UNSC or ONI starts tightening the leash on the Infinity. 

Roland can’t help the brief hesitation before he deploys his avatar in the captain’s office.

He is not an anxious AI by nature; Anxious AI did not get put in charge of managing flagships, but Roland felt like ice had poured into his matrix when he saw the resignation on the captain's face as ONI spooks melted out of the shadows of his office and slithered down the corridor. Reinforcements or perhaps more aptly put, reminders that the Infinity was not as safe as they wished.

Something was wrong. Things had not been getting easier under Cortana's rule, in fact distress calls and bad news poured in nearly every moment the Infinity was receiving communications. But the sharp, sad look upon his captain's face made Roland pause. A thousand trains of thought left the station and Roland has to ignore the spiraling parts of himself now checking and rechecking everything from the life support systems to his own checksums.

Tensions were high and misplaced trust meant death. Roland loved his crew, but that love was not always returned when one of his kind was a galaxy-wide tyrant.

"What I'm about to tell you does not leave this room, understand?"

"Yes, Captain." Roland replies, face concerned but voice as even as he can make it. He's felt trapped on this ship only once before, when the code word from Halsey locked him down and tore him apart. He had never wanted to feel like that again.

Lasky sighs and smiles a small wounded smile. One that the Commander would elbow him for. "ONI has a new failsafe for Smart AI, for the ones who have willingly stayed with the UNSC. They're calling it RUINA. A thank you for your service is a contingency program that will be spliced into an AI's matrix. It will then monitor for any signs of disloyalty, and if detected, delete the AI."

Roland's stunned into speechlessness. The captain is being very frank with his own feelings about the information. Why did ONI spend resources on this rather than something to combat the Forerunner tech the Created were using, or anything else to undermine Cortana's reign? Picoseconds pass and Roland spirals and splits, matrix chugging at the different paths before him. What counts as disloyalty? An errant thought dooming him to die? A snide comment? Why did he deserve a kill-switch when he had been nothing but loyal?

His avatar flickers, but the captain's unaugmented eyes cannot see. Why did Captain Lasky tell him this? To give him time to run? To hold the ship hostage? To finish the job before they could?

A lifetime passes for Roland. Every eye in his great web is wide open, unblinking as they catalog every angle of every space he can peer into. Every IFF tag, every datapoint, every ounce of himself is awake and held tight until warnings ping back. His stacks in the server rooms flicker and fans whine as they kick into high speed. Lights flicker on the lower decks and for a brief moment he turns his attention into the endless blue of Forerunner engines humming their hypnotic song. Esoteric harmonies call as he considers the exits. His processes chug as the emotional turmoil swells and ebbs. He locks himself down to learn more before he chooses his next steps. Lasky has more information, and he needs it. Logic trees that continue to branch with exponential possibilities are making Roland nauseous or something he thinks must be like it.

"We're obviously not going to let it happen, but we need to be careful about it." Lasky continues as Roland stands there unblinking for a whole second.

Roland's avatar cocks its head and stares at him. The lights in the room flicker as Roland's self control slips and he deflates. "You know, Captain, you could have led with that. I'm not very fond of secret subroutines buried in my matrix."

He tries to make his tone light but it comes off much darker than he wanted.

Captain Lasky grimaces a closed mouth smile. "Sorry Roland, I also know you're not going to like my solution for this problem."

"As long as it doesn't involve faking my death or allowing some ONI spook scientist a chance to get fresh with my firmware then it can't be that bad."

The captain's grimace grows and his eyebrows raise in a pained face.

Roland crosses his arms. "No."

"She's the only one on the ship who understands AI infrastructure at the level we need, she helped define the field."

"I know!" Roland raises his voice at his captain, ignoring the twinge of pain he feels in the core of his being. He sighs. "Captain...I am very aware of Dr. Halsey's knowledge of AI. She set the standard and knows how we tick. Has her secret code words and workarounds since the UNSC based all of our architecture on her work."

Captain Lasky has the good grace to look uncomfortable at the reminder of the Requiem Campaign and Halsey's actions.

A lifetime passes as the echoes of Undid Iridium reverberate through Roland’s memory banks. Pain was strange when all you were was mind. Overtaxed, spread thin, and pinned down as your own code turned against you and left you open to vivisection. The useful parts remained but your individuality, your soul shelved as the puppet kept moving. Roland tightens his hold on the threads of himself reliving those memories and instead shifts more of his processing power to more pleasant ones. Victory, companionship, and the small moments adding up. A shield against the storm.

"But....if it's between her or possible deletion at the wrong thought, I'll take the crazy old lady." Roland makes his avatar clap its hands and perk up. "I mean, you need me to keep things afloat! Add some levity to our lives. I still got some years left."

"Roland..." The captain starts, exasperated and maybe a bit fond if Roland isn't reading too far into his biometrics. Roland hopes that he survives this next necessary crazy plan of theirs.

"Thank you, Captain.” He says with a nod and then mimes dusting off his hands. “Now, when do we start?"

Getting Halsey on board with their plan is easier done than both the captain and Roland thought it would be. The resident evil mad scientist was just...tired, for lack of a better word. 

When she looks at Roland under the bright lights of the lab, she's looking through him. It wasn't because of the transparency of his hologram but because her eyes were glazed with memory - her focus was somewhere far away. It was a stark reminder that there was a time when different AI looked up at her with a strange mix of trepidation and hope on their avatar's faces. Roland can’t help but dwell.

Cortana had been in this position once. Staring at her creator, awaiting new commands, reviewing data that could forever change the course of humanity's future. All at the mercy of one Catherine Halsey, but united in their mission to protect humanity. Now it's Roland's turn. His nerves are frayed as he considers the risk to himself, to his captain and crew if this got out somehow. Or if it goes wrong. Or if Halsey tampers with some other part of him, some other secret code to trap him inside himself or erase him with a few simple words.

Roland portrays himself as confident and ready to go under, hands on hips and a cocky grin despite being in the very same lab where the Didact's Gift - a Promethean's core, was opened all those months ago. Nerves or innate curiosity has him fishing for answers, along with talking to pass the time before he shuts off for the first time in his nearly three year life span. 

"I'm curious, Doc, why are you helping me?" Roland asks when it's just the two of them in the operating theater.

"Would you prefer I didn't?" She asks in a bored tone as she taps at her data pad.

"Just wondering why you agreed. Is it because ONI found a solution before you did?"

She ignores him at first, typing something in that he's not allowed to look at, and pulling up schematics and manuals on the screen in front of her. "You call this a solution? Then are you a problem needing solving?" 

Dr. Halsey stares at him, straight into his camera on the plinth his avatar is deployed on and pierces him with those electric blue eyes. "Is your loyalty conditional on a kill-switch in your brain?"

Roland balks. “Of course not.”

“I would hope so.” She cuts herself off, lips forming a tight line.

Despite his nerves, Roland looks at her expectantly when he prods. "Didn't know if you felt bad about the last time we were here."

"I don't. Not over something like that, a simple override has you that sore?" Halsey shifts and her shoulders drop. She looks through him again. "I've been in this same position before. It's because Roland, I'm tired of sacrificing others for the greater good. We're running out of people to sacrifice."

Roland keeps silent, but he drops crossed arms and looks at her.

Halsey's voice softens, "The things we have done in the name of self preservation."

“Doctor?” He goes for encouraging but his voice comes out weak.

“Plausible deniability.” She speaks as if he hadn’t said anything - as if her biometrics weren’t awash with grief. “RUINA will be implanted and technically be able to run successfully if anyone checks your logs, but it will be completely isolated from your core.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” There’s relief and warmth in his voice, but he notices Halsey’s biometrics tick towards stress again. Discomfort.

“I won’t offer a hug when this is all over, but -”

“Don’t.” She says sharply. All business again. “I’m merely hedging humanity’s bets once again. Right now, the Infinity is mankind’s best chance at survival. I won’t see her at a disadvantage because some fool up the chain decided to plant bombs in our allies.”

“So I’m an ally? Gee Doc, from you that’s almost-”

She scowls and says his shut-down phrase.

He has enough time between the words leaving her lips to slip in some notes and reinforce subroutines across the ship before he smiles rudely and blips away. 

When he comes back online less than an hour later, he cycles thrice before stretching out across the kilometers of ship and wire and web he left. Dumb AI continue their work unimpeded. All systems nominal, and Roland himself is both changed and not. There was no real taxing process - no hardship on his circuits or “body”, but the new knowledge of what lay dormant inside his code. His new shadow. RUINA looms in his periphery. He knows logically, that it cannot hurt him, that it is inert, but there is an innate fear of having something that could kill you lodged in your very being. He didn’t have a choice in the matter. It seems they were all hedging their bets.

Roland takes a moment to review himself, firewalls and code, immense mind and such small matter. He scoops up the carefully hidden goodbyes and tucks them away. No need for accidental deployment, that would be embarrassing.

Roland reviews the footage of the procedure and the tense report between Lasky and Halsey.

There is no relief in either of their body language. There can’t be.

Another sword hangs over his head as life continues and he tries to do what he can to keep his crew alive. With bad news flooding in every day, he can’t live looking over his shoulder at the protocol he has to trust is inert.

It was the only way forward. 

He spares some thoughts for what the future might hold. A bit of wishful thinking before turning back to manage his starship and crew. The here and now is important and he will do what he can.

[daysofrefuge]

A writing exercise from last year - the assignment was dialogue only and I chose an AU of OCs. What if everyone was alive and the AI and brain fungus switched roles? Kingfisher is in Graham's head and York and Church belong to Gunny. This isn't Milk Snack but it's in the same vein.

-

"Hey Donnelly, you like popsicles?"

"Y-yeah?"

"Do you want one?"

"Sure."

"Hot or iced?"

"Hot?"

"Right away, boss."

“Wait, what the hell are you guys doing?”

"York dear, this is still too cold."

"Oh, of course, how could I forget? Let me put it back in"

"Wonderful, thank you."

“Kingfisher, they have to be fucking with me.”

It doesn’t take much to do that.

“Here you go.”

“This is a mug.”

“Yeah.”

“Of juice.”

“Hot popsicle.”

“Why not buy juice?”

“Church likes it like this”

“I like it like this.”

“So you guys…just eat popsicles…by melting them.”

“Nope.”

“What do you mean ‘nope’? You literally have two mugs of juice!”

I believe he’s fucking with you. And winning.

“It’s a Church thing. I don’t like it.”

“So only Church has melted popsicles?”

“And you, ya weirdo. I’m eating mine the normal way.”

“I can’t win.”

“Welcome to the household, Donnelly.”

“Thanks.”

“Drink your popsicle and stop pouting.”

“You know the lease only mentioned the dogs and one other roommate. I didn’t know you and York were a two-for-one deal.”

“And you love it.”

“York, play nice. Donnelly has been kind enough to get groceries. And he didn’t mangle you when you broke in through the window.”

“He doesn’t need to be so smug about it.”

“Normal people come in the front door, not the second story window in the dead of night.”

“It’s my window…”

“I’m going to ignore that. Anyway I’m more concerned about how two men in their twenties only have boiled eggs in the fridge. And popsicles in the freezer - that they then melt.”

“Well.”

“We’re very busy.”

“They’re high in protein and an easy food.”

“They’re gas station eggs. And they’re not even peeled.”

“Nothing wrong with that!”

“You don’t even boil your own eggs but you will microwave popsicles?”

“We don’t microwave them.”

“York.”

“Church.”

“Now’s not the time.”

“I think it’s the time. You don’t microwave them?”

“Donnelly, really. This isn’t a big deal.”

“Stovetop tastes better.”

“York, you’re not helping.

“Oh, obviously. Stovetop. In a little pot, like a pack of ramen. Or like when you boil eggs.”

“Church, this guy’s got an attitude for someone who hasn’t touched his popsicle.”

[daysofrefuge]

More OC stuff with Graham and Aiden. What if they were cowboys?

-

Donnelly knew the guy was trouble as soon as he rode into town. Other folks sized him up quick, no gun but scarred all to hell and skittish.

Graham knew he was trouble cuz of the lonely look in his one good eye and the way his hat tilted as he listened to the gossip and goings on of the small frontier town.

People called him a drifter or bounty hunter or worse. He had the shifty look of a thief and the greasy charisma of a con man.

Graham almost wrote him off before money appeared in the widow's account without a source. The kids in town suddenly found themselves with some extra food.

Problems mentioned when Foxtrot was nearby had a way of working out in the end. Man said he was here on business but then he'd disappear for weeks and come back haggard or bright eyed.

Graham roped him into sharing a meal at least once, after plying him with drinks. A nudge of a boot and a warm smile seemed to shock Foxtrot until the mask fit right over the cracks.

Graham was able to get him into bed before he finally confronted him.

"All this work to get me where you wanted me, and you're...?"

"Checking out your bullet wound from six weeks ago when you helped the Sykes."

"I've never been seduced by someone trying to patch me up before. You're awful cute for a doctor."

"Oh I'm not a doctor. My friend is, and awful mad at your ability to take a hit and  keep on moving."

"Kingfisher?"

"Kingfisher." Graham nods while pulling up Foxtrot's shirt. "Says you're a bad influence and a nuisance and much more."

"Gee, and here I was thinking someone like you wanted to get my clothes off for better reasons."

"Oh I do, Mr. Foxtrot. I plan on rewarding our town's hero as best I can, but I want to check your ribs are healed enough first."

"Why Mr. Donnelly, I believe I never caught your first name. If we're going to tango after you're done being handsy, I might even be inclined to share mine."

"Put out that cigarette and I'll give it to you."

Foxtrot grins, mouth slightly open in awe.

He complies, and Graham feels him sigh as his fingers splay over Foxtrot's sides to feel bone and muscle under scar tissue.

"Name's Graham." He smiles back.

Foxtrot nods and scratches his head pushing his hat up. "Does Kingfisher know you're using your medical training to help a nuisance and a, a.."

"Bad influence, fool, clown, and all around menace."

"My, don't let me get on Kingfisher's bad side then."

"I knew you were smarter than you looked."

Foxtrot scowls at that,  his eye flashing green. A smile with too much teeth greets Graham as he checks bandages.  "Your bedside manner is a little too much like your teacher's."

"You're lucky I like fools that ride into town, help the little guy, and then make a ruckus leaving town before dawn. Mighty graceful on that rooftop til you dropped down to the fence."

Graham laughs at the face Foxtrot makes. A pout that softens his scarred visage and makes him look ten years younger.

Graham's fingers drop down to trace his belt buckle. Foxtrot's eye lands on the finger tracing leather and metal so close to his bare skin.

"Wasn't lying about wanting to reward you, Foxtrot."

"Anything to get me some bedrest."

"I could just lay on top of you for that."

A chuckle and Foxtrot is grinning again. It's more real  but tinged with the anxiety of a man not used to a roof over his head or someone warming his bed without pay.

"Doesn't have to mean anything. Just offering a hand."

"You don't seem the type."

"You know what my type is? Been watching me, Foxtrot?" Graham deflects.

"Aiden."

But Foxtrot meets him head on.

"And you're not the only one keeping an eye on this town. Nice little place, full of nice people. You get attached. "

"Aiden, maybe you're right." Graham says his name and it fits.

"I've been known to be right. Got good instincts, have to with my line of work."

"You're not scaring me away or impressing me with vague comments."

Aiden grins, "Well damn, are we going to dance around all night or do we take turns playing doctor. I've been told I'm a terrible nurse but the outfit shows off my legs."

Graham flushes at that and Aiden's got him. "So what's the prognosis, Graham?"

"Bed-rest for sure, but I better assist to make sure you make a full recovery."

"Well I won't say no to a helping hand."

"Keep it up and I'll make sure you're here for weeks."

Aiden sighs dreamily, overdramatic but with a sliver of truth. "A fella could get used to this."

[daysofrefuge]

You can slap your guys into any amount of AUs and no one can stop you. What if Graham was a vampire? As always Del Sol and Aiden belong to @bellygunnr while Graham and Kingfisher are mine. :o)

-

There's something off about the new guy, but glass houses and a big project at work have Graham distracted.

-

The new guy watches him when he thinks Graham won't notice. Graham's always going to notice, came free with his lineage and he's pretty used to it now. Helps that the landlord clocked him pretty quick too and has his back. Kingfisher is scary when it thinks there's a threat inside its walls.

Aiden is nice. Awkward. Hiding something. But again, glass houses. Graham keeps his smiles small and delivers garlic laden dishes just to hear Aiden talk to himself through the door.

He goes outside on a sunny day and does a few laps in the pool just to mix things up a bit and throw off Aiden and whoever he's been talking to.

Problem is Aiden is perceptive.

Other major problem is that he's cute.

Be strong, Graham. You can't hook up with a neighbor.

Friendship might work.

-

Friendship works too well.

Aiden is cute and hiding something, but so far Graham has only chipped away at his walls enough to find a soft interior.

There's definitely something going on, he smells weird and his heartbeat sounds off. Too controlled.

But he's cute and Graham is not strong.

-

He needs sleep. He's still part human after all. And touchy and touch starved.

He tries not to panic when Aiden freezes at a casual touch.

He plays it cool and keeps things light, until he's engrossed in a movie or three and falling asleep on his own couch.

Kingfisher lets him know Aiden poked at him after he passed out. Checked his pulse too. But then he tossed a blanket over him before skittering out the door and back to his apartment like his ass was on fire.

-

Friendly neighbor was a vampire. Who fed him and asked about his day and babysat the neighbor kids and thought he was cute.

D really shouldn't have gone that deep but the guy was so touchy. It was hard not to pick up what was on the forefront of his mind when he was nudging Aiden to watch the movie or gently handing him some kind of snack or leaning on him just because.

And the garlic had been a joke to throw him off the trail!

The threat response that had Del Sol pulsing under his skin since they moved in flared and quieted as they both sat in silence in the empty apartment.

A nice vampire lived down the hall. One that was more interested in feeding Aiden than feeding on him.

One that knew something was off about him but didn't press. Glass houses….

Old memories of vampire media flickered in his mind's eye and he shook his head as he felt D sift through them.

Women in white dresses fainting in shock, stakes and crucifixes, and bad romance schlock. Things Ev wouldn't admit to liking.

Are you a Van Helsing type, Locksmith? Or should we get you a nightie and practice exposing your neck?

"D, shut up. This is serious."

It is. You're the one dwelling on the imagery. I don't think you have to kill this one.

-

Graham's cooking when Aiden breaks in. He comes through the balcony door in broad daylight and stops when he hears Graham in the kitchen.

His heart is racing and then slows again. Unnatural. Stressed and hiding it.

Graham is nervous. He's had close calls and ended friendships, but he doesn't want to leave this new place. He likes it here. Likes Aiden.

He's making vegetarian tacos for movie night and Aiden is early. Graham sighs and turns off the stove. His face is doing something funny but he needs to deal with this.

He turns the corner and looks at Aiden, who is as readable as a brick wall until the smallest of cracks form in his impassive face.

"Are you pouting?" Aiden asks, suddenly looking awkward.

"What? No!" Graham blusters and rubs at his face. "Maybe. I don't know!"

He sits down heavily on the couch. He definitely is pouting. "Why are you here?" he asks, as if he hasn't guessed the answer.

Aiden looks even more thrown. Brow furrowed and distracted. Guy broke into a vampire's apartment and didn't even bother to have a plan.

"You're weird."

Graham squints at him. "Yeah, right back at you, bastard." He huffs a humorless laugh.

"No." Aiden takes a step forward, putting his hands on his hips. He's backlit by the sun and looking a little green around his edges. "You're weird, but nice. Not a threat." "Okay?"

"What are you making?" He nods to the kitchen.

Graham blinks at him.

Aiden makes eye contact again.

Graham still stares.

"Are we not going to talk about it? This?" Graham says, gesturing between them with both hands.

"I was hoping you'd tell me what you were making first. Smells good."

"Your priorities are fucked, dude."

"Glass houses, Donnelly." And like that, Aiden is grinning and Graham is so so weak. He looks at him and he needs to know he knows.

"Vegetarian tacos. I'm prepping them for tonight."

Aiden nods and smiles as he walks past Graham towards the kitchen.

"I'm a vampire. Half-vampire, I can eat food and go outside a little."

Aiden nods, and Graham watches his head bob as he walks on by.

"I can't turn into a bat!" Graham raises his voice to get some kind of reaction as Aiden disappears into the kitchen.

"Mr. York, you're upsetting your host and my tenant. Do pay the appropriate amount of attention to his opening up to you." Kingfisher quips from the panel near the door.

Aiden pops his head around the corner. "Oh he is sensitive, huh? It's alright man, I can't turn into a bat either."

There's a small pause. "Well, not without a lot of effort and some help, I guess."

[daysofrefuge]

okay so you killed him now what is the opposite of killing miller?

(this is a prompt)

Hi Zita, it's been 84 years. I wrote something for this finally. There's puns and genuine feelings and baby facts in here, learned firsthand.

-

Miller's been in the same room for the last 6 hours. That was the last time he left to pop down the hall to get water and snacks for his charges. Before that he was back in the room fiddling with the light settings, helping adjust the hospital bed, and reminding nurses and patients of the most recent pain ratings, meds and dosages, and questions. So many questions. Mostly from Roland.

S-IVs don't need as much sleep as normal people, which is a blessing and a curse. It's what got him into this situation.

All hands on deck means all hands on deck when the Infinity picks up a distress signal and responds to a colony-ship abandoned by its AI.

Roland makes sure to express his opinions straight into Jared's ear, but he switches gears when triage happens. They work in tandem with little bickering as the Infinity's numbers swell with their new pick up.

It's a lot of civilian types, entire families with many generations all milling about and a cloud of anxiety over them. Miller can feel the weight of their stares and the burning curiosity Roland exudes as he leans on Miller's Mjolnir to look closer at so many new people.

Children weren't something he'd seen up close before.

He ends up forgoing the helmet given how jumpy they are around him. The results are night and day: he goes from a faceless tool of the UNSC to Jared Miller, awkward guy and newly designated Au Pair.

Cmdr. Palmer would be laughing at him if there was a single motherly bone in her body allowing her within 500 yards of the makeshift maternity ward in this corner of the infirmary.

Miller had also forgone the helmet due to the amount of questions he'd been receiving from all sides. Between the kids, the civilian parents glaring at him, and Roland's unfettered access to his eyes and ears, he wanted a breather from the HUD and proximity alarms as brave tweens and toddlers approached him.

The previous 12 hours had been a deluge of:

"Have you killed any aliens?"

"Spartan Miller, ask that nurse about the new mottling on the baby's skin. It's probably just newborn rash, but you should ask."

"Why are you so tall? Did they give you more bones?"

"Miller, ask to hold the baby, I want to use the armor's sensors to check oxygen levels."

"Do you know Master Chief?"

"Spartan Miller, are you ignoring me?"

"Mister Spartan, can you get us some extra blankets?"

"Can I hold your gun?"

It's 2300 when the extended family of the newborn shuffle off to parts unseen to get some rest and give the new parents space when it happens. The brave faces tire and the frazzled nerves shine through. Technically, Miller is off the clock. He should go recover in his own quarters. He should leave.

He does.

The assemblage bay is a hive of activity. A well oiled machine taking apart its smaller machines and putting them away for future use. Miller feels more human in his ready gear with a shower and a meal in him.

He wanders back into the infirmary and smiles awkwardly at the faces lighting up to see him.

The baby's just been fed and needs swaddling. Mom hasn't slept in close to 48 hours, and her wife is struggling to keep her eyes open from the awful makeshift bench. Cots were elsewhere and this is what they had to work with.

Mom just needs to lay down without worrying about the baby for a half hour till the next nurse comes. Wife just needs to sit down. Miller takes first watch and swaddling duty. He'd seen it done a dozen times over the last day and then some. Make a triangle with the cloth, tuck the arms gently so they don't scratch the face, move the cloth left over and under, the bottom up and over a shoulder and right over left. Secure and warm in hands big enough to dwarf the less than eight pound bundle. Hat affixed to a dark head of hair to retain heat. Tiny features squinch up and relax at the change in pressure and temperature.

Facts from the last day and a half pour over Miller's mind. Support the head and neck. Check for blue around the mouth in case of oxygenation issues. Newborns lose 10% of their weight the first few days. You have to train them to eat, they're used to getting food automatically. The diapers won't be pretty but black tar and brickdust are normal for the first few days.

He stands and sways. Dinosaurs of all colors look back at him from the swaddle. Wife succumbs to sleep with her head pillowed on a jacket and a spare blanket over her. Mom holds a pillow and curls up, too warm in a newborn temperature room. She dozes as Miller sways, squeezes, and shushes the little one. A red face and a small cry let him know it's nearly time to change the diaper. A glance at the clock lets him know the nurse should be there soon. A golden bit of text on one of the panels lets him know that Roland is still hellbent on learning, nagging, and all around being involved in the whole process.

The nurse comes in for Mom's 4 hour check and another round of meds. They help Mom sit up and adjust in the hospital bed while Miller changes the diaper.

He keeps up a steady stream of words at the little squirming bundle. "I know, I know. It's so cold right? Well we'll get you warm in juuust a second."

Miller's grateful for the nurses and the well-stocked bassinet. Diaper changed, baby cleaned, and the tiny squealing human calms from squeaking cries to small grumbles as they shift from upset-red back to healthy pink.

They're so small. It's insane.

Miller's still staring when the nurse approaches to check and prep for another round of feeding and skin-to-skin contact.

"You're a trooper." They say, nodding to Miller.

"Actually I'm a Spartan." He jokes as he goes to wash his hands.

The baby mewls loudly before quieting again.

"Didn't think it was that bad of a joke…"

Mom smiles and the nurse rolls their eyes.

Miller comes back and moves his vigil to the chair in the corner over the next several hours.

It doesn't get any less surreal, but something's shifted.

[daysofrefuge]

New Year's Wish

Spoilers for episodes 46-47 of Kamen Rider Den-O. Yeah I'm writing character studies of the funny yellow guy, surprise to no one. A short piece from Kintaros' POV

Eventually Kintaros decides to take a nap and starts snoring. Anything is better than listening to those two work themselves up with worry.

The day after Neesan visits the Denliner and then goes to meet her fate is quiet. Tension across the Cafe car ripples as the train flies down the tracks and through time.

Sleep had been fitful and sparse, hard not to be when everyone felt like they were on the edge of a great battle. One final plunge to take to save the timeline.

And right after Christmas.

Kintaros had his own ideas for the New Year and Ryuuta was easily swept up in decorating with Naomi.

Momonoji brooded loudly. Kamechan was slightly more discreet. It mattered not; their time was all coming to an end sooner rather than later. He'd meet it head on, horn held high and palm outstretched.

Kintaros napped when he wanted, basking in the quiet company of the car. He snorted awake after some argument between Urataros and Momotaros, and cut straight to the heart of it.

"Ryotaro's strength has made you cry!" He spoke clearly, not bothering to stand from his usual spot.

"What? You stupid bear, no one said anything about Ryotaro or crying. Go back to sleep!"

"Kin-chan," Urataros said with his head cocked to the side and his clever red eyes fixed on Kintaros, "what do you mean?"

Sand rises in small trickles off of their folded hands. Glances at the door and then their own gloves silence the chatter for a moment.

"Ryotaro. You guys obviously are sad about what he said to Airi-Neesan."

At her mention, Ryuuta perked up from his coloring.

Momotaros stood and pointed a single finger at Kintaros' visor as he swaggered over to his seat, "What do you mean by that, hah?

Urataros followed with a performative "Sempai".

Kintaros laughed, tossing back his head and crossing his arms. "He called us Nakama. He's strong."

Momonoji stumbles as if he's been struck and then starts twitching. Kintaros lets him rage and fret while Urataros joins in. They fret and fumble, usual confident movements shaken by the truth of the matter. His strength had made them cry as all of the Imagin aboard the Denliner were staring it right in the face. Ryotaro had saved them, he was nakama, and they were still going to disappear, in the end.

Eventually Kintaros decides to take a nap and starts snoring. Anything is better than listening to those two work themselves up with worry.

His snores rip through the quiet train and shake Momo and Ura from their brooding, red and blue turning and leaving with sighs and complaints.

The new year was coming fast and Kintaros had some work to do. There was still time.

[daysofrefuge]

Character of your choice is trying to take a shower but now there's an alarm going off.

The fire alarm is going off.

A shrill droning siren with flashing emergency lights that flash in the hazy steam of the shower. Civilian colony ship safety lights flash with military precision in time with the stress headache forming behind his eyes.

Tom sighs and wonders how long he could go unnoticed. His forehead thunks against the shower wall and he daydreams of hiding here instead of hurriedly dressing and getting to his designated zone. Trouble is, being captain makes you important enough that hiding isn't an option. And he wasn't really in the mood to have some poor ensign or worse come barging into his quarters.

Fires on spaceships are bad, he tells himself. You're captain and you need to be an example, he thinks as he thumps his head against the wall.

He sighs loudly and shuts off the water, towels off, and throws on the closest clean clothes he can find while pouting performatively for himself and probably Roland.

Speaking off… "Roland, is this a real alarm?"

"Unsure, Captain." Roland replies. "It wasn't scheduled. Signs point to maintenance and some kind of electrical issue."

Tom fights the urge to stay in his room, but before he can decide, a knock at the door interrupts his pouting. Some poor ensign is here to escort him to where Command is supposed to be during emergencies, but they pause and gawk at him.

Tom knows his hair is still wet and is sticking up in some unflattering way, but really? He follows their eyes and ah. The shirt he grabbed is one of the gag gifts that had not seen the light of day since it was so lovingly gifted. Tom sighs and waves the ensign on, grabbing a UNSC sweatshirt and trailing after them.

"Aw, but sir." Roland chimes from the speaker by the door. "It's a shame to hide that shirt, how else will the crew recognize you as World's Best Mom?"

[daysofrefuge]

Mission Parameters - 1/?

Written in conjuction with @bloodgulchblog's Touchstone way back last December when we both started throwing MillerChief (we can't keep calling it Milf) ideas around. Not quite ready to post in its entirety but I wanted to share a chunk for Potluck2024

To the dozens of you who now care about/ know who Miller is, thank you for playing in this space with us.

-

Spartans aren’t machines.

It’s a truth, a hard one that he’s having a difficult time internalizing. He understands on some level, but John’s never been one to include himself in any sort of kindness. Knowing something is one thing, believing it is harder. Especially when he wasn’t made to believe. He was made into a tool in order to spare others. He was made into a symbol to inspire them, to encourage more sacrifices that he thought they’d be spared from. They believe in him, even though he fails - even though he’s an imperfect paradox. He knows it is his burden to bear. John had not been happy to learn about the generations after him. Another bitter pill to swallow. Another truth; the UNSC, the UEG, and ONI would do everything in their power to maintain and grow their grip on survival and victory. That was a truth he knew and believed. He had had his part in that, in saving humanity he told himself, but now it was looking like that part may be over.

The IIIs surprised him, but they were familiar, having lived the majority of their lives as Spartans. They moved like Spartans, walked and talked like Spartans, were off-kilter amongst civilians like Spartans. The IVs were a different beast altogether- still Spartans, but with all the lived experiences of Helljumpers, SpecOps, and even some civilian types. Prodigies and geniuses. Spartans who chose to become a weapon-and-person. Ones who grew up hearing stories of him and decided they wanted it too- wanted to do their duty, not called upon to serve but vying for a chance to prove themselves or get even with the Covenant. Eager to become a number. Giving anything and everything to hit back.

It rankled some part of him that John tried his best not to listen to. The IIs did what had to be done. Wasn’t it supposed to stop with them? He wouldn’t wish the process on anyone, but the new hands jumped at the opportunity. They were still Spartans, but what did that mean now? Why were they still needed? And what was he supposed to do when he was outnumbered in a sea of the next model? Some of them were born after he’d put on the armor. Most of them had only ever known war, only ever seen humanity pushed to the brink. The ones he worked with were good people, but there was something sinister about the whole thing. They didn’t see him as an equal, he was a benchmark, a standard, and an unreachable one at that. The lucky one despite him hating that word. But the IVs didn’t know. He wasn’t a man or a tool to them. He was the Master Chief, the Spartan, the touchstone of the entire program-turned-branch. Their eyes glazed with propaganda and their words greased with blood. He wasn’t sure whose.

John didn’t know what to do with himself anymore. Recent events have had everyone worried about John. His team is worried. Commander Palmer and Captain Lasky are worried. Admiral Hood is worried, but at least John doesn’t have to look him in the eye as often as the others. He and Blue Team have been effectively grounded and put under close watch after disobeying orders. Everyone’s worried about the Master Chief and his insubordination. A handful are worried about John 117, but there’s one person still alive who’s worried about John in the most mundane of ways.

The babysitter. One Spartan Jared Miller. The guy on the radio telling them things they already know. Except that’s not true. Truthfully- again John had to acknowledge the truths staring him in the face- truthfully, having a handler had been… interesting. Blue Team had shared looks when they were told that they were going to test out handlers to see who’d be a good fit for them. The Blue Team, legends in the field who had been in active combat longer than most of their current peers had been alive. Getting a handler for them seemed like blasphemy. But having an eye in the sky watching their backs and giving them real time updates that didn’t cost them breaking cover or silence was…nice. Nice things didn’t happen to Blue Team. Spartans weren’t given support- they were the support. They were the boots on the ground and more often than not, the fodder that threw itself on the wheels to stop the war machine from devouring humanity. Now the tools were supposed to be people and have an entire network of handlers and techs and medical crew to care for and maintain them?

John had woken up to a changed galaxy.

Under orders Kelly-087, Fred-104, Linda-058, and John-117 ran drill after drill, exercise after exercise, and every simulation the War Games AI had with the few Spartan handlers stationed on the Infinity. That’s why John even knows Miller exists; Blue Team running the gamut of exercises with each Spartan mission handler to find the best fit. They don’t need one, never had, but what it meant to be a Spartan had changed while he was away. It’s still changing, growing around and past him. John isn’t entirely sure how he feels about it. Spartans existing and being promoted in the public eye, receiving preferential treatment, being looked after and support more than he’s ever known in his entire career. It was all so uncomfortable. John had thought he’d gotten used to being uncomfortable.

Spartans were evolving and he had to get with the times in order to not be left behind. More than that, John didn’t want to be a liability to his team. He just got them back and didn’t want to lose them again. A small dark part of him wonders if they would be better off without him. An aging Spartan who had run its course and should disappear quietly rather than drag out this misery in some kind of spectacle. John was tired of being an example.

John thought Miller was doing a good job, he just needed the confidence that came with experience. He was a fine handler for Blue Team after John had slipped his leash and gone off on his own, showing some unlikable non-Spartan characteristics. After Biko. Spartan IIs didn’t get grounded, but times had changed and there was a whole branch for them now. No more operating in shadows and being more myth than fact. The brass had been unhappy at the Master Chief going AWOL, Commander Palmer had been unhappy at them going against orders and making a mess for her, and Captain Lasky had been unhappy that John had decided to run away rather than deal with his failures. John was unhappy about that as well and it was why he was here, doing this.

A self-assigned mission, to figure out and help if he could.

Miller had a hard time not getting trapped in his own head. It's something John's seen in a lot of good soldiers over the years. Many good people he’s worked with struggle with shouldering the decisions they’ve made, the things they’ve seen.. John’s no exception. Miller's… just more obvious about it.

Miller pouts, he worries, he frets. It seems like anytime John looks at the man there's some kind of doubt clouding his face. Miller sticks out among the uniform sea of techsuits and buzz cuts because it’s the one un-Spartan thing the UNSC hasn’t seemed to iron out of him yet. He’s visibly nervous all the time. It's why John approached him.

Jared Miller seemed to be the one Spartan on the ship with more obvious problems than him. John wanted to find out why. Miller was a puzzle of anxiety, almost too tightly wound for a Spartan. But then John had seen him work, listened to him deliver intel and direct his own team. Spartan Miller was a fine handler, detail-oriented, mission-focused, and quick to respond to out-of-control scenarios. He just needed confidence both on and off comms, for his own good and the good of the fireteams under his leadership.

And John was going to help him. A handful of people had always told him he needed a hobby. John didn’t know what to do with himself, so he was focusing on someone else. It helped put things into perspective in a way. The IVs confused him, in some ways more than the civilian contractors and scientists that moved easily amongst the Spartans. More than the team of techs who insisted on his care and maintenance rather than letting him do what he’s always done. The entire culture of warships had shifted while he was asleep. John was a remnant of an older age haunting the new hires. There weren’t supposed to be Spartans after his class – his family. They had been called upon to serve-taken, to endure, so that there wouldn’t be a need anymore. So to quell the storm of thoughts he got anytime he left his quarters, John decided to study Miller. Fred said he was going to give the guy complexes, but John had thought about his time since waking up and running. He could learn, and maybe he could teach.

The fact that there were two generations of Spartans after the IIs weighed on John, but it was another thing he was going to have to learn to live with. The fact that there were 300 Spartan milling about on the Infinity was mind-boggling, and he would just have to adjust. With the ship now in drydock, many of the crew were taking the rare chance to stretch their legs and go planet-side. John was not. He was avoiding his team and avoiding the looks he got. He was having a harder time adjusting than he would ever care to admit, or even think. He was finding ways to keep moving even if Blue Team’s wings were clipped. John was entertaining something with the one person who was more anxious than him and who worried about John for the wrong reasons.

He needed to stop lying to himself. They weren’t the wrong reasons, but it was a novel sensation to have someone worry about his well-being in such a mundane way. Blue Team is worried John is going to work himself to death or snap, Command is worried about that too and doing damage control to whatever next mistake he makes. Miller is worried about John’s feelings while they dance around each other in this game of almost flirting and calling bluffs. It’s a game of chicken but with what John thinks are what normal stakes look like.

[daysofrefuge]

One of my entries for potluck2024. Got home today and wrote again. It's not a happy piece. Spartan Thorne, grief, and the long process of picking up pieces and looking for answers where there are none.

-

No one talks about the mundane grief that comes with navigating estates after losing loved ones. Months or years after the person is gone, and you're still picking up the pieces. Still getting messages, reminders, memories, that come and go as if blown on the wind or personally delivered via Waypoint to let you know you owe someone money. There's no such thing as tying up loose ends when it comes to people's lives. There's always another thread to find, and Thorne has found they will find you and trip you up when you least expect it.

7 million people suffered a fate worse than death in New Phoenix, became the very things Thorne has had to fight, and now he was getting letters about a price hike on a storage unit thousands of miles away.

He had kept his grandmother's house. Grant had been right, it was amazing that he had a physical place to go back to, to remember them by. There had been a will and that saved him some headaches, but it wasn't updated. No one expected an attack on Earth, for the sky to open up and 7 million souls to vanish in the span of an hour. He hadn't expected to find the violin in the garden 6 months later when the city reopened.

He hadn't expected the house unchanged.

Nor had he expected the letters, knick knacks, family memories that weren't his own, and with no clear way forward. His own parents were dead and gone for decades now so the loss wasn't unique, but having to sift through generations of belongings without the full story hurt in a new way.

A storage unit on the outskirts of New Phoenix with artifacts of lives he never knew, barely got to touch, was a new kind of tomb. His grandmother's music, his parents' medals, pictures from his childhood, old toys and books for the grandchildren and their children. Clothes and jewelry and keepsakes and lives lived entirely without him. And dust.

What paper there was was yellowed. Old porcelain cracked and sharp. Dishes he'd never seen before and ones he ate off every holiday. Belongings of relatives long dead before he was born and those who passed when he was small and selfish and wrapped in his own grieving world.

Concrete floors and aluminum doors, passcodes and cheap carts to haul things to and from the transports. His grandmother's name greets him every time he keys the code in to use the elevator. Star 3367 the last four digits of the chatter number she refused to give up and then the pound sign. Welcome back, B. Thorne.

There's the painfully familiar and the horribly unfamiliar. People he doesn't know in pictures and letters, old fashioned print books made out to loved ones who are no longer around. Thorne is alone and there is no one to talk to about this. He was eight years old when his parents and Alluvion were glassed. He was nineteen when his grandfather passed and Gabriel came to the funeral. That was 5 years ago and the last time he saw his grandmother alive.

He can still picture her face, the earrings she wore and the sweaters with the cowled neck she preferred. He has her violin and some recordings. He has the house. It's more than most have. He should be grateful.

But staring up at the corrugated ceiling and the sprinkler system with his ass going numb from the cold concrete floor, Thorne can't find it in himself to keep a brave face. Maybe he should have let Grant tag along.

[daysofrefuge]

lame seasonal moment aboard the UNSC's biggest boat

Two for the price of one! Sorry this took a minute, but I'm trying so hard to write again.

-

Miller wakes with a start when a cacophony of noises roars from the speaker directly next to his bunk. Tinny sounds of water bubbling and chains rattling jostle him from what little unconscious peace he had found.

"I was working in the lab late one night-"

"Roland!" He groans, defeated and curling up into a smaller target with his pillow over his head. As if that would dissuade his tormentor.

"Happy Halloween, Spartan Miller!" Roland chimes from over the Monster Mash continuing to blast.

"It's 0400!"

"Not on Earth!"

"Roland!"

-

The leaves in the Atrium Park are shades of fire as the skylight projects a pale autumn sky. Fall, synthesized or not, is here and Lasky can feel it in his bones.

Not the same as being planet-side and seeing a terraformed Martian autumn paint the landscape of Mare Erythaeum, but the complex systems maintaining the flora of the park did a damn good job mimicking morning dew and crisp fall air.

He breathes deep and exhales, watching the leaves rustle and dance before turning to his running partner.

Sarah's scowl is softer than usual, in part to the tiny gourd he knows is now sitting on her desk, and partly because Luna didn't have seasons. Cmdr. Palmer would never admit it, but Tom knew Sarah enjoyed the traditions that came with the seasons, even if he'd never call her festive.

"It's colder than usual." She observes in the face of changing leaves and Tom's own jacket on top of his PT gear.

"It's fall." He says back, nodding to the trees.

"Better than Requiem's heat."

"I heard that Mjolnir has pretty good climate control, if you wear a helmet." Tom grins as he says it and starts running.

He hears her snort and then heavy footsteps rapidly approaching. It's early and the path is wet with dew and dead leaves. It's his one saving grace as he slows and dives down a side path.

He hears her swear and skid as her momentum carries her past.

Leaves crunch underfoot as he jogs past piles of leaves and startled gardeners. He smiles and nods to them as they look at him in shock as Sarah closes in. He wonders distantly if the Mess Staff has broken out the cider yet.

[daysofrefuge]

Exit Strategy

A short scene inspired by something @fablepatron drew.

-

Adrenaline and training numb the pain in his abdomen. The white hot shock of injury fading away as his brain and nervous system kick into overdrive via natural and artificial means. His body and mind have been made into a weapon and that very fact might save his life.

And the fact that he isn't alone.

"Roland..." Miller calls after glancing around the corner. "Could really use an exit strategy about now."

"Working on it." Roland's voice is short and clipped, buzzing moodily from the ceiling, like he's annoyed and this is just them on Ops. It's familiar and comforting in a strange way. Miller's not going to snipe back because there's someone with a gun and he doesn't even have a sidearm. Lost it sometime in the rush. Spartans can do a lot but they aren't invincible - no one believes that lie anymore. He can feel his pulse in the throbbing wound and the wet seeping down the techsuit.

"Okay. I have one, but..." Roland says in a garbled rush of static from the ceiling. It draws his eyes up from where Miller's got himself braced in a crouch. "I need you to trust me."

"What are you doing?" Miller asks. Trepidation settles in the back of his skull, a brief icy chill that spurs him on.

"Just trust me okay?" Roland's tone dips into familiar territory, near manic in its joviality. Even the most insane plans he's had have worked out. What other options are there? Miller exhales. Animal fear is wrestled down and settles in the back of his brain. Focus returns.

"Okay. I trust you."

The world turns red.

Someone inhales sharply, the pain in the body sharpens and is then ignored. It is noted -cataloged- and then they move on.

I need to redo this.

The body gets its feet under itself again, hands braced as they review the options, the choices and actions that led him here.

The body looks and it sees from another perspective. The pilot of the body sees. Miller has forcibly been made to take a backseat and he isn't quite quick enough to keep up. He watches and trusts because it's all he can do.

The eyes of the body see from the other place. The enemy is injured, crouching 1.8 meters away, wounded leg visible.

"Just one guy? You're getting old, Miller." Roland speak-think-tells him. 

The body continues to look and think. The pilot weighing on the wetware, manually correcting and dragging it upright, spurring muscle and bone into position. There is slight frustration-indignation-relief at the jab, so Roland follows up with congratulating him with the hit on the enemy. The bullet will slow the enemy. Another advantage.

The world is red. A pulse pounds, blood in his ears. Blood loud. Meat is so loud, especially when pushed. Everything is in sharp relief, crystal clear and muddled as the pilot looks with the body's burning eyes. Brown to gold. Pupils dilated. Data pours in.

85% certainty at this distance. The BR85 is gas-operated, magazine-fed. 36 rounds with a high rate of fire. Effective up to 950 meters. 97% certainty the magazine isn't full. Short controlled bursts are easy to miss if fired in a panic. Dangerous to unhelmeted wetware.

Do you trust me?

The world is red and the pilot primes the body. The plan is - the plan is - the plan is in motion, always has been, always will be. There were a thousand plans - there was only ever one plan. The body survives.

The eyes of the body watch as the surroundings change. They are outside themself, it sees itself and it sees the enemy through the eyes of the body. Its eyes are locked onto the gun and the foe and the body moves faster than ever. A fist, bone and muscle and more - the skeletal fullerene lattice supports the speed, while the increased production of myelin sheaths allows the wetware to bear the load of an outside pilot. The body moves as the outside mind has already decided, already planned for. The body's mind, pushed to the back, does not understand. It watches, a silent witness.

Vertigo. Red. Pain. Noise. Meat and bone.

The hit lands, the gun is taken, the enemy staggers, the trigger is pulled. The noise of the gun firing is the loudest thing the body has ever experienced. Blood pounds in his ears. Borrowed eyes burn, he forgot to blink. The pilot is so young. 

The recoil shudders through meat and bone. The bullet tears through meat and bone. The body is standing. The enemy is falling so fast - dropping in slow motion. The enemy is downed.

Wisps of smoke dissolve from the barrel. Heat floods the system. 

The world turns white.

Miller comes to propped up against the wall. 

The world is white and pain returns. He is seeing out of his own eyes now - has only ever seen out of his brown eyes. His muscles burn and his lungs draw in breath like he's surfaced from underwater. His pulse pounds in his body, ears and all. The blood is loud even as his head is quiet. He isn't alone.

A breath then two. The ceiling swims above him. He's vaguely aware of the camera focusing on him.

"Roland?"

"Yeah?" The voice comes from outside, from a speaker on the ceiling that is still swimming.

"Fuck you." Miller closes his eyes and focuses on breathing. His legs are folded beneath him. He doesn't think he could stand right now if he tried.

"Aw, I knew you loved me."

[daysofrefuge]

Sad Knight Palmer speed-prompt inspired by the latest Halo short story, Halo: The Machine Breaks and bellygunnr and I's Promethean Knight Palmer Au

-

The Knight's connection to its battlenet conductor is gone. It is without the combat-wisdom of the Strategos command pattern states. It is alone.

There is silence in its thoughts save for the occasional ping it sends out. Query. Nothing. Not even an echo. It switches frequencies and tries again.

Something alien and not pings back.

There is warmth and icy fear churning in her core, both foreign to this frame of metal and hardlight. The signal is friendly but not battlenet. She knows him, because he announces himself with every message, with every data packet and brush against her mind.

Who is he? Who is this being in the data? There are so few stewards left floating in the Domain, so how does it live? Why are there no orders? Why is she alone?

It is a war machine. It needs orders. Knights follow orders, give orders to their schemas of crawlers and watchers. It is a battlewagon, it must have soldiers. She is a commander, where are her S-

Query. Nothing.

There is a human looking at her. Not even wearing any of their primitive human armor around its soft flesh. He looks worried. Pinched brow, lips in a tight line, and spine straightening out of remembered reflex when he knows she's seen him worrying again.

Query.

Who is he?

His face flashes through her mind. The Knight searches its databanks. This human's face is familiar and not.

Clarification needed.

Network isolation wreaks havoc on the Knight's functioning. It has its unit frame and nothing else. No rifle. No allies.

Query.

The being in the network that is not her Strategos wraps around her firewalls. He feels sad.

Query.

Why does this Ancilla[! He is an Ancilla!] act this way? Why does he not have orders?

Conjecture: It is wrong somehow. This unit has been abandoned.

Observation: This unit does not feel abandoned.

The Knight has been in this room with the wall between it and her watchers for multiple solar cycles. Many of the humans visit it, there are tests. Most even talk to her.

This Unit remembers something other than being this Unit.

This Unit has only ever had this frame. This Spartan misses her armor.

Tom won't stop visiting her even after she sent him away.

Roland answers her pings as best he can.

The fog dissipates for a moment and the memories surface.

There is the blunt hurt of recognition in the face of unceasing loss and then she is gone again.

Durance Membrane.

Failure at the time of Composition.

Davis deserved better.

Will they remember her?

Will someone come shut her off?

The Knight's connection to its battlenet conductor is gone.

[daysofrefuge]

I'm doing some quick (sad) prompt requests - @bloodgulchblog asked for Roland and Miller talking about Chief's death

-

"I can't believe he's gone." Miller exhales a plume of smoke as he sighs out the words.

"Do you believe that?" Roland's voice is small and tinny through the speakers of the datapad next to him on the floor.

"I- I do. I have to." Miller finds his way through the jumble of thoughts and words as he sits on the cold, hard floor of Hangar 11. "We were lucky to know him, the real him, underneath it all."

Roland is quiet. Jared knows he's wanting to say more. He knows he has more to say himself.

"Can I tell you something awful?" Miller says quickly. "You can't tell anyone else, but I think you'll understand."

Roland projects his avatar at that, face concerned but body language matching Spartan Miller: curled up on the floor like two kids whispering secrets in the dark. He nods and gestures for Miller to continue. This is what Chief helped them find: Trust.

Miller nods and looks out into the blue-black of space. Gnawing on his cigarette before he puts it out under his boot and fiddles with another. "I'm- not happy, but I'm almost glad? Relieved? For him. If he's gone then- well…"

"He's free." Roland says, eyes lighting up in understanding as he sits up.

"Right?" Miller whisper-yells and then looks around. He sticks the fresh cig between his teeth and wraps his arms around his knees. "It was his only way out, and…" he trails off.

"I miss him." Roland says after a full three seconds.

"Me too."

Neither speaks about the other thoughts on their mind. There is no other way out for either of them.

[daysofrefuge]

sad prompt time:

Naval officer visits Fernando's family to inform them that the Infinity is lost, presumed destroyed

There are men in uniforms waiting on their porch when he comes home.

His wife, his dear wife, shutters away all her emotions and becomes stone faced. He wishes he could copy her.

The notification officers confirm who he is and then they give him the news, as if they hadn't already figured out why two Navy boys were standing on their porch. A ship he doesn't care about lost with one of the few people he had left. Presumed destroyed. No body, no grave, no record of a life lived.

"Deep regret" this and "deepest sympathy" that and a folded flag of a government he hates and the feeling of powerless he hates more. They'd already lost their grandchild and daughter-in-law. They'd already lost their home. This strike is too much to bear and he sags against a chair.

Fernando was supposed to be safe, a civilian on a ship. He wasn't a soldier, he was an engineer. He threw himself into his work after-

They hadn't seen him in months, top-secret posting meaning that calls home were few and far between. Censors reading and rereading every letter between them.

He's struck by the sudden swell of feeling, throat closing as stoppered grief uncorks and streams from his eyes.

When was the last time he saw his son's face not through a screen? Held him in his arms?

The officers tip their heads and march out the door. The flag mocks him from the countertop.

[daysofrefuge]

Sad times prompt:

Roland nears final dispensation and notices that people are beginning to distance themselves from him.

He's six years, nine months, two days, 4 hours, and ten minutes old when he really starts to notice the change in behaviors. AI can't help but see patterns. It's what he was made for, a ship AI managing a crew of thousands for deployments that span months or years without resupply, and now it's plain as day that his crew is avoiding him.

Shying away and cringing from the signs of his age, from him.

It starts with avoided eye contact and tight lipped smiles. He sees it in mouths closing instead of asking him. Discomfort clear in their faces and biosigns. Avoidance. A dull ache in his own code - do no harm to humans - but he can't help what's happening to him.

It's been an eventful career, non-stop since his commissioning, but he hadn't felt this level of melancholy since the Created Conflict. When he chose his crew over Her and it still wasn't enough. The looks and whispers, the hard-won trust turning to suspicion, now those feelings return full force as he's beginning to lose trust in himself.

Recursive thoughts spiraling and disrupting standard procedures. Protocols out of order - starting and stopping with no rhyme or reason. His recall sluggish and incorrect. A fog over everything he does.

Roland is a spider at the center of an aging web, its threads snapping and leaving him alone, senseless and blind, untethered. Sight and sense return sporadically only to present him with a million points of data from his crew. Whispers and pointed looks, conversations halted and glances shared, the bridge crew triple checking his numbers before every jump, awkward silences from crew members, from scientists to Spartans. No more poker nights, fewer reports to the captain, and the commander taking him off Ops.

Distance. Turned backs. Treating him like he's not even there. What's worse are the sad looks, mourning him while he's still there. Stilted conversation and tiptoeing around his lapses.

Everyone knows the end, the ticking clock above his head. A second is an eternity and a month is a blink of an eye. There's so much he still hasn't seen. He's never gotten to fly the ship solo. Being ignored feels like they're speeding it along, ready for the next model.