#c:\\work>dir v:\ THE GHOST GIRL* //5.main/

[ru5t]

@lcfthaunted //> Willow Prompts

listen. be careful.

  Tech scoffs with enough force and sarcasm to startle birds and melt concern. “What am I, an amateur?”

  In many ways, yes. For the love of the challenge, the love of the sheer sense in a line of code or beauty in a well engineered rig. For the love of mischief. She'd had her classes and programs in the city, well advanced for a nine year old, but never quite gotten to the part where it'd stopped being encouraged -competitive- play. At least not while her mind was hers. While she uses her teeth to strip the casing from the end of the cord, though, she glances up, and finally realizes it's some kind of legitimate concern, from Mazie. And not just onlooking eyes that don't know anything, or general what-to-do. Hm. She spits the casing into her palm, pockets it, then brings wire to wire to begin the extra-fiddly process of wrapping them.

  “S'just a panel. Couldn't kill me f'it wanted to.” And it didn't. They generally weren't smart enough to think that way. “Well— not unless the threshold boosted a' the sun started really kickin' somethin' fierce like... five times? Six what it does already? An' then I think we'd have bigger problems then..” she gestures at the set of old solar panels that gave the Haven its sleepy-charging power, and herself. “Yeah?”

[ru5t]

  The compliment sends her head into a sharp tilt. Not quite sure what to do with the shape of it or the weird feeling it gives her. When she's holing on to what sounded like more than what most people would give on purpose, and.

  Oof. New kids. Always a shakeup of some kind, one way or the other.

  "..Isle?" Weasel asks.

  “Like island,” Tech clarifies.

  "The flats?"

  She shrugs. Not sure. But her expression twists, mulling over it. “Don't think so?” Yati's looking-for didn't sound not like a dustkid, but.... if she'd been there, before, and come here after, then it couldn't be. So it didn't make sense. What a puzzle.

  It's nice to know they're not making small talk with someone planning a murder, though. No revenge mission interrupted, or scheme to get tangled in. Just. Looking. And whatever it is 'portal' means. Well- she knows what it means, it's just...why would anyone say it like that? Weasel comments something quick and sharp and not quite a real language – Tech gasps, turning to hiss something back in the same shape of not-words and shove his shoulder.

  “Can't go back th'way y'came, little mouse?” he asks, undeterred by the way Tech is still frowning at him.

Y'wanna try that again?

Not if there isn't a guarantee that her name will be safe - in it's entirety - in their mouths. So she doesn't say anything. Tech introduces herself, and then introduces The Weasel.

"Tech," Udyati repeats softly, nodding her head. Trying to get a feel for the name in her mouth. "Sincerely, that's the coolest name I have heard in my entire life, and I've been around the block."

Not that it matters much.

"Yeah, well, he's friendly to a select amount of people. Me included." Udyati nods her head. "I mean, I sort of got stuck on his isle home. Good times were had by all. In the end, he pushed me through a portal. Been trying to find my way back ever since. I kind of left my heart with him, so---"

[ru5t]

@champagneprobllems ( Gem ) //> Exhaustion...

“With everything you’ve been through lately, of course you’re tired.”

  She snorts. “Lately. Like it ever lets up,” Tech dismisses, “b'sides— 'm not tired enough t'let this slide.” She says it like it's spite that makes equipment loses integrity over time. Only the most personal of slights! the decline or failure of something she cobbled together to begin with. Her big patchwork net. Scraps and junk made into wonder. Sometimes she still can't believe how much of it she's responsible for, like a day dream branching off around her. Something completely imaginable but just too idealized to actually be real...

  Tech gasps as she catches a raw edge to the seat of her thumb. “Sonofa—!” Daydreaming. There's that slight pause. The one where she's trying to figure out if it just surprised her, or what. And then it starts bleeding.

[ru5t]

@hvndredzones ( Omens ) //> Exhaustion... + Nightmare

(doze) : one muse falls asleep on the other’s shoulder

  She rocks up to the club in the latter half of the afternoon. There’s a sparse count of cars parked around it — just the crew she thinks. If she’s timed it right, anyway. She skipped the party on purpose, this time. (Not always true - sometimes she simply missed, got the timing wrong and put on her cutest clothes for nothing!! But-) She’s not after the noise noise noise or the crowd to hide in. No, she’s after the sleepier version of the Starlight. The one that exists just after one of Omens’ big blowouts, when all the stragglers have wandered back out into the sand, and the lights need checking and the speakers need tuning, and Omens in bouncy and bright, armed with a dozen new stories. It's a form of combat. Against the static.

  Tech stows her bike close around the back corner. More of a habit - the kind of thing that keeps it from drawing immediate attention and potentially getting nicked. Except that it’s the middle of the flats and there’s nobody unfamiliar around for the moment. But better safe than sorry, probably. A quick ritual of dusting herself off to shake the worst of the journey out, fluffing her hair out after it’s been trapped under her helmet. She grabs up her things, double checking that her surprise is still there, at the top of her bag, before she circles around to the front again and lets herself in, announcing as she goes with a little tap-tap-tap on the door.

  "Hey Birdie!" Louder than anything the moment she’s over the threshold. Omens rushes to meet her like it’s been a lifetime since they saw each other last, glitter dusted over just about every inch of him. There’s a new range of purples splashed through his hair, and Tech can’t tell if the flush high in his cheeks is alcohol, makeup, or just excitement.

  They spend most of the afternoon making a valiant effort at tidying things whilst being, both, the kind not at all inclined to tidy. Sprucing up the setup. Mostly it’s a lot of goofing off, making things harder (or at least sillier) for the other employees. Throwing things at each other, and a heaping helping of good natured squabbling. They spend at least an hour at one discussion in particular: Omens insists that ‘louder is better’ and Tech’s expertise, being more in the make of a speaker than the music pumped through it, still argues that surely clear is better than window-shattering. They never reach an actual agreement.

  By nightfall the club is back in order. Everything ship-shape shiny. Omens and Tech settle behind the bar, sitting shoulder to shoulder, their arms looped one through the other. Too stubborn to admit defeat and aim for one of the more sleep friendly corners — still chattering away like children putting off a curfew. Five more minutes! Turns to ten. Twenty-five, thirty. Hours into the dark. Eventually, they slow. The rapid back and forth degenerates into half articulated mumbles, half-answered questions. Sleepy giggle fits. Leaning into each other, head on shoulder on cheek on head. Their words turning to mumbles. To mush. Melting.

  No, really.

  It’s hard to say where or when it starts, or how she even knows that it’s happening. But they are. Melting, that is. Only a little at first, sweating colors. Orange and purple and blue and green trailing down their linked arms, rainbow rivulets running together into streams shot through with the sparkles dusted all over the both of them and every inch of the club. It picks up. Smiles lose shape and faces follow suit. Arms and legs, heads and hearts. It doesn’t hurt. In fact it’s a kind of relief, almost. A strange game with so many ways to win! Depending on how they wanted to play and measure the results: who melts faster, or who holds out the longest, or who makes the prettier puddle. It reminds her of oil. Chromatic and crude. It’s not until her shoulders drop away entirely that she realizes she won’t be able to get out.

  Faster and faster, now. The struggling makes it worse. The rainbows fade to muddy shades of watered down brown and uninspired greenish-gray. Dread bubbles up as she boils down, down, in running reds of viscera and swirling silky slips of sclera. She’s sinking and she can’t get out. She can’t unlink their arms - there’s nothing to unlink. No shoulder to lean away from, no legs to lift to. No arms to crawl away with - no body to drag, even if there was. Sinking, sunk. Stuck. Then it hurts.

  It hurts familiar ways, like too-rough needles and the dig of restraints. It hurts like burns and tearing, skin pulled back, tools and fingers digging digging digging. Hands around her neck and pawing. It hurts in new ways too, thumbing into her eyes until everything is squished black, and biting through her throat. Slicing away away, piece by piece, strip by strip. Who knew melting could feel so much like a knife digging through all things vital? What was it looking for? No answers. Only the melting, the mixing. Slopping down into an endless puddle that… seems familiar.

  Empty nothing, by virtue of being nothing, can’t be familiar. And yet. A ground that is not ground. Emptiness that Is. Full. Instead of running over it, wetness sticking and dragging, she is the cloistered splash now. And she isn’t. She is Nothing. And he is too. They all are, melted together, nothing but everything, nowhere but everywhere. So many that circles around back into one. One and done. Done and doing. Trying to pull apart nothing, because of the memory of something, and the end of the world. Whatever the world is.

  When summoned, they speak. Its one voice that is all voices. The words don’t make sense, climbing over each other, and neither do the feelings. Too many to name, too foreign in shape and twist. Too connected to be distinct, to widespread to be singular. All, that is, except the anger the anger oh the anger, the malice. The hate. Like poison. Like blood. Like madness. Nowhere, everywhere, forever and never again. That's why finding the hands, the space to pile into, is so easy. To slip and slosh, spilling into unfamiliar hands. Standing on brand new legs. Arms and legs and ribs and guts. Teeth and tongue. Wits and the world. What to do? Crack open the teeth and tell.

𝚁͔̬̓𝙸̳̲̎𝙿̣̝͈̚ͅ ̖̊𝙸̖̬ͩ𝚃͕̝͉̅̓ ̜̝̗͈ͫ 𝙰̩͉͚ͨ𝙿̲̖̔ 𝙰͈̜̳͌ͭ𝚁͉̰͈̳͚ͯ-̟̖̅̌𝚃̬̺́ ͎̈́ ̺͚͙͎ͨ̂𝙱̖͇̱̔ ̫̫̥̟̖̌𝚄͖̭̣͔̋͊𝚁̱ͯͦ 𝙽̼ͮͩ̅ ̪̭̱͉̘͑𝙸̻͋̾𝚃̱͈͌̓ͭ ̰͓̝ͨ̾𝙳̬͌̈́ 𝙾̫̮̹̽𝚆͇̑ ̮͉̞̼̆𝙽̪̲̤̝͆̚ ͈̜̙͌̌͗𝙵̲̻͎̗̋̈𝙾̯̰ͤ͆̿𝚁͍̱̈ͭ 𝚄̣̖ͤ𝚂̮̘̰̺͗ ̟̫̹̤̃ͪͤ𝙳̞̂̒-̱̲̗̾̆̎̒𝙰̺̬̥́̄𝚁̻̱͖͂̉̾͗𝙻̼̖̾͛ 𝙸͍̟̝̆̓𝙽̯̯ͯͨ͂ ͍̗̿͌͌̚𝙶̮͛ ̘͎͋ͅ𝙲̖̈́̑̑𝙰̲̂̃𝙽̻̒ ͕̞̚𝚈̮̋𝙾̣͐̿́ͯ𝚄̝̘ͥ͐̈́ͮ ̼ͭ̚𝙷̻̞͚̽̄̇ 𝙴̰̰̳̓ͨ͛̾-̘͈́̆𝙰̫͈̐𝚁̘̯̒ ̖̚𝙷͈͛ͩ͒̒͐ |̪ͪ̌͌𝙼͇ͧ?̖ͭͧ͌—͚̃ͬͣͫ̚ ̪̭̒̎ ͕̫͌͗ͤ̆̀ 𝙶̝ͬ͌ͫ̈́̋ ̳̄͂͐͒̇𝙾̗͐ ̯͙ͨͥ𝙷̰͙ͪ̅̒̓̓𝙾͙̀͂͗͛͊𝙼͈͛͐͑ͪ͊ ͔͑̈ͨͯ͑𝙴̠̓ͮ̋ͨ̽ Ļ̸̷͕̹̗̜͙̏̉ͯ̎̒͠͝ Ȉ̛ͣ̿̇ͨ҉̵͠͏͇̮̙̤̩T̷̢̧̗̤͎̻̒̿̒̆̀T̨̨̡̛̩̟͙͓̂͑ͭ̉L̟̟̞͋͛̒̏̕̕͡͞ͅ E̗̣̫̓ͥ̇̀͟͞ O̢̟̥̍̓͞N̠̜ͥ̀́͘ E͇̾͠ S̨̻̒

  Tech jolts awake — knocking heads with Omens as he does the same. The static screech still echoes in her ears, driving her heart into a gallop, the rolling fire of adrenaline and fury. She slips her palm over the left side of her chest, pressing down for steadiness. Hard as you can, don’t let up, you’ll get through this. She looks up to find Omens staring back at her in abject horror. Fingers resting on the height of his cheekbone, the shine of tears pooling.

  If not for that, the look he’s giving her, she might have been fine. Unpleasant, sure, but far from her worst dream. But he’s looking at her in a hollow way she doesn’t think she’s ever seen before. Sick. Exactly like he’s had a weird fucking nightmare about melting into a puddle that -best Tech can figure- represents some kind of fucked up vacuous purgatory that defied all other description. But that can’t be true. Because that would mean they had identical dreams. Nightmares- whatever.

  And that would mean… What? A vision? A warning? They did sort of melt together for a second there, in a less literal way?? No good guesses. No good answers, none at all. She folds her knees close and wraps her arms around them. Containing all of herself, arms and legs. Oranges and greens. Head and heart and thoughts and feelings.

  A low growl of thunder sounds, far off to the east. They both flinch.

  “… … Candles?” she suggests in a raw whisper. Tech doesn’t pray, really. Not the way he does, anyway. But they’ve always seemed to help.

[ru5t]

@desertpoison //> The End of the World

"how the hell should I know?"

  Time with Kobra has taught her to wash the worst of her hero-worship out of her gaze when looking Poison's way. That's the way things trend with this whatever-it-is: her closeness to one of their number gradually supplanting distant awe with new nearness. Replacing broad sweeps with better views of frayed edges and painted over cracks, tools with which to remind herself they're still a regular old flesh and blood person, however influential. However much she owes her life to what he and the others have shaped the desert into. Still, she manages to view him with some kind of rose-tinted visor so much of the time.

  Though... not just now. Now she scrunches her face up and sends over a look that's half disgruntled half baffled and just outright surprised a little bit, too, even though that made for more than a whole. Like how she might look if her cat stared her in the eyes and asked 'how do I meow?' and she's not sure if she should be losing her shit about her cat talking or questioning his intelligence levels for speaking up just to ask her that.

  “That's not funny,” she scolds, crossing her wiry arms over her middle. Surely it's just a bad joke. “You were just there how couldja not know f'it's still standing?”

[ru5t]

  Tech's eyes stay sharp, but her mouth is shut for the moment. Her expression takes a nosedive from decided dislike into its more typical ambiguity. Shifting and changing. Whiskey Runners sounds at least a little familiar, but it's hard to place. Could be as little as hearing it said once. Could be as much as a connection of a connection, or a tie through the eye all nailed down and nested in. The ambiguity of it is the only thing that stops her from laughing outright at the name "Aquamarine Starlight."

(The list rolls through the back of her mind: It sounds like a light bulb brand. Cheap drugs. A shitty drink that didn't actually have any alcohol in it, though it pretended to. The name of a hunk of rock dunked in cheap dye that Tommy'd sell you on the claim that it could manifest dreams. Ugly lingerie. One of those dolls the little shop in the mid city used to make, with the frilly dresses and fluffy hair-do's and empty heads. Glass polish. A toilet cleaner— –)

  “Ah!” Discovery! “F'ya wanted to come play, little Love, all ya had to do was ask.” This comes from the tallest of their trio as he makes a little tent, dropping into a lean to lay his arms over both Tech and the blonde's shoulders in a much softer version of a defensive stance. He directs his next word at Aqua in particular. “I'd start with that instead of rollin' out swingin' strays, next time.” He gives a little nod of his head to his left, the arm Tech is under, then snaps his teeth together. Don't antagonize the kitty cat, she bites. Tech shoulders him, but doesn't duck his arm.

  “You should do more'f your own talking.” Tech advises Synth, leaving the rest of her thoughts on the matter in the final little head to toe glance she gives Aquamarine Starlight (--toothpaste with a whitening agent.) Then she stops looking at her at all, focusing on Synth. “I don't mind you lookin' around this one but I wouldn't go digging around any of the others without callin' out ahead or something. Lotta reasons not to let everybody close. And- hey. You break my setup I break your fingers, yeah? Eyes only.”

  “Oh,” the blonde, sheepish, says “she means that...”

Aqua’s grin grows and twists as Tech speaks, and she focuses on her breathing to keep the desire to turn violent suppressed. They need the help, if Whiskey Flats is gonna keep up with the times. Coyote and North hadn’t been interested, but Sin saw the necessity.

Aqua’s arm drops from Synth’s shoulders as she takes a half-step forward, positioning herself slightly in front of Synth. Defensive. “Aquamarine Starlight,” she introduces, somehow both peace offering and challenge in one. She tips her head to Synth. “Synthetic Love. We’re part’a th’Whiskey Runners.”

“She’s sec-”

“It’s fine, Synth,” Aqua interrupts. “Crew went through a… rearrangement of priorities, recently. Didn’t even know there was a network to get in on until a couple years ago, when Synth joined us. Woulda helped out if we knew, not that we had any techheads ‘til Synth.” Actually, it would’ve been a fight trying to get North to agree to let them help with the network, if they’d known.

Synth’s hands curl under their chin, face still cherry-red. “An’ like y’said, there ain’t a lotta supplies. I done the best I could with what I could scare t’gether, an’ it’s only thanks t’the network that we can get what we do.” They inhale, deep and shaky, trying to scare together enough courage. In a rush, “Was hopin’ I could get a peek at some’a the rigs, see if there ain’t a better way t’set up ours t’get a better signal ‘r range.” Probably expended all of their courage for the year. Voice going small, “But if not, that’s fine too.” They bite down on a thumb knuckle, afraid to meet anyone’s eyes.

[ru5t]

@hvndredzones //> continued.

  Truths told she's never known what to make of the Ghoul. Party is who he is (goodbadprettyugly) and Jet takes her calls and calls her sweet like she's little and Kobra- well. Kobra. But Ghoul? Dark hair and that grim smile at the opposite end of a long counter is about all she's got. Nothing else ever seems to stick. (Barring, of course, the grey-gritty fragments that rattle around in her head sometimes, like someone else's kicked-in teeth. Everyone knows those don't count.) So it's hard to say what the fuck possesses her to do it, but an impish smile coils at the corners of her mouth, sharp little teeth flashing, and she swings her bar stool side to side as she says, “Soooo I'm immune in the meantime?”

[ru5t]

@peranarkia //> Open Waves.

"Incoming broadcast to line K03... If any generous 'joys are out there..." A voice whispers through the static across a radio line that they pray reaches zones four and five. "The robotics field in zone 2... I'm hiding... Too many to fight alone. If anyone, anyone, can come and lend help, I'll make a fair trade when we both make it out alive... Please..."

  The dusty crackle almost passes right on by her, sprinting through signals as she is. It's a broad scan. The kind she sets up to combat the empty silence of the open desert, never really stopping on anything in particular but weaving through one frequency to the next, generating a stream of babble. So much idle noise that, funnily enough, what stands out is a quiet whisper.

  Tech sets her book aside to grab for the transmitter, hastily shuffling back to live line. At first it seems empty, some stretch of quiet static. Then it kicks up again. The call brings a tilt to her head the new voice on the end of he line can't see, of course. It's not often than an SOS goes down a locked line — then up come the words robotics field and suddenly it all makes sense. She locks in to transmit back.

  “You gotta be the luckiest unlucky bastard I ever ran across,” she opens, bypassing hello's and oh no's entirely. She knows the bot dump like an old pair of boots knew who broke 'em in. Including the part where if they catch you there they absolutely swarm. No fighting that, short of being bulletproof or going out with a bang and just so many bullet holes. “If you're already pinned there's no way I could get there fast enough, but here's the lucky part— I'm more use t'you all the way out here anyhow.” Multi-taking ahoy; while running it down, she drags her bag close and hauls out the rest of her gear, the transmitter pinned between he shoulder and cheek so she use both hands. “Now. Next time it won't get you ghosted straight off you poke your head outta whatever hidey-hole you're in an' tell me how close you are to that reeeeaaal tall stack, the one with the long yellow beam stuck out of it. ..Looks like it's givin' you the finger?”

[ru5t]

@methanesk15s ( Sunshine Revolver ) //> Angry & Irritated

"No one is entitled to know things about me that I don't want them to know!"

  “¡OYE!” she barks back, a hand held up, warning to keep distance. Flashing eyes to flashing eyes; double indignation all the way down. “Then stop yellin' at me an' focus on the ones spillin' yer guts for ya, yeah?”

[ru5t]

  No thanks. The board spawning fuzzy little nightmare blobs is a pass. She puts it back where it came from, still making an ew ew ew face at it. Dust she can deal with. Critters? Kid stuff. A fight or even a collapse she can handle. When things start turning to mystery substances that just might be alive, though....

  “Oh?” That tone, that little flicker. She catches on. It's almost...well. Maybe. She wants to wait to call it the thing she's thinking, it can be hard to tell. She turns the next switchboard over in her hands, testing the motions. Running her fingers over a crack in the outer casing. “What'd he do to you mm? Pawn your shoes off your feet or somethin'?” She makes herself giggle with that one. Chimes in the dust and dark.

That's not a name, that's a letter, he wisely doesn't say. It's an ever-changing landscape, the new generations and their chosen monikers.

Midnight watches Tech pick through the equipment, a magpie and her pile of new potential-treasures. He's got just enough knowledge to manage his own radio, maybe repair some basic trouble. Whatever system she's working by to pick out her treasures... he's got no clue.

His own gaze follows the mass down, and back up to her just in time to catch the face. He snorts. He only doesn't toe it to get a better idea of what it had been because he's not keen on wandering around with said biohazard stuck to his boot.

"He'll be thrilled." Said with the driest sarcasm. Privately, he thinks it'd serve Cherri right. Pain in his ass. (Part of the thought crosses his face.)

[ru5t]

@champagneprobllems ( Electric Gem ) //> Angry & Irritated

"It's going to be one of those nights, isn't it?"

  The tone alone makes her teeth set.

  She could kill him sometimes. Really, actually kill him. A finger in every fucking pie! The exterminator had been one thing, Omens another entirely, and now this. This! “Just.” Her fingers flare like a warning, in case the sharp clip in her words isn't enough. Stop? Shut up? Stay away from me? All of the above, maybe. At least until she stops envisioning setting several things on fire.

  She's not gonna demand Gem leave shelter, not in a storm like this, but the storm is the only thing stopping Tech from running for the hills herself.

[ru5t]

@lcfthaunted //> Blood, Blood

“Hey, look at me. I don't care. Are you okay?”

  Violence - a wordless snarl. Enough anger to go, briefly, sightless with it. Tech slaps away reaching hands. Don't care?

  “Of course you don't.” You, crime of all crimes. Tech stomps past Mazie. She goes still again only a handful of paces away, her eyes fixed on the bright orange flames. At this distance it could pass for cookfire. But Tech can still feel the heat on her skin, the smoke in her eyes. She can still hear the sound of the roof collapsing over the roar of the flames. Still smell everything -everyone- burning.

  The whole place. Gone.

  The bar stool where she sat, waiting. The notch in the wall from his knife. All the evidence. The grounding bits of the world that reminded her what's real.

  She wishes, for a moment, that the motherfuckers who'd started the blaze had followed them. That someone she could kick and hit and strangle was standing right in front of her. Bring on the stupid cloaks, the ugly symbols. Fuck their god. Fuck the Hall they'd stolen. She breaks from her still stare to scratch at the ground - picks up the first thing (a rock? a wad of earth?) that her fingers find and HURLS it as far as she can get it to fly, yelling as loud as she can at the distant shapes. It won't matter. They can't hear her. People so rarely can. She grabs up another.

  Fuck October!

[ru5t]

  She works so hard not to keep giggling. Pointedly, her attention stays locked on the cracked board. She's run over all its merits, really, weighed the pros and cons of the apparent model and level of function, traced the branches of the break back and forth, but if she looks up it'll look like she's making fun of him or something.

  “That's the generally accepted series of events, yeah. Dis-likable b'fore disliked. Cloud b'fore rain.” Hm. Fine enough, really. Mostly cosmetic issues, as far as she can tell. Tech tucks the board away. “Chicken, then egg.” She suddenly catches sight of something and drops into a crouch. Shoved back a little, under a table, a tower. Hard to say how old, but seemingly protected from whatever had turned some of the others furry, or warped their more persnickety components. She rubs dust off of it with the heel of her palm. “A world with chicken eggs an' no chickens would be really confusin' for someone, y'know.”

@ru5t || continued from here.

Mm. He forgets, sometimes, how good she is at reading him. Midnight grunts a noncommittal sound instead of immediately answering. Avoidance on some level has him toeing at a pile of wires with casings that seem a little... sticky? He's not touching them to find out.

"I need a reason to not like someone?" The truth of it is decidedly complicated. The rough edges of two former Company Men grating together, and the reminder Cherri serves of so many things that had gone off the rails all those years ago. They get along only as far as Omens is concerned, but even that is a tenuous truce. It doesn't help that Cherri likes to needle.

[ru5t]

@champagneprobllems ( Tack ) //> Blood, Blood

sender kills someone to protect receiver - i just think her disliking tech but still unhesitatingly covering her six in a fight is Neat.

  The wet CRUNCH manages to overtake the roar sounding in her ears. The fangfuck goes down, head split like a piñata (color spilling out-) by the force of Tack's blow with a — – actually Tech can't tell. Something heavy enough to bust up concrete thick übervamp skull, anyway. Tech scrambles for the body. She combs quick, scavenging the gun and and a spare battery before anything else can come flying her way. She gives the still figure a parting kick for good measure.

  “Here.” She passes the gun over straight away. With any luck, the charge will last awhile yet. The battery takes her a second. She has to swipe dirt off of its informational printing. It's a newer run, the ones with the different lock-smart shape and heavier amperage. Her gun's gotten a little outdated but it ought to work . . . Maybe after a bit of jiggery-pokery. “Two seconds!” she begs.

  Then she'll pay back that favor.

[ru5t]

@champagneprobllems ( Ingvi ) //> Angry & Irritated

"You are straying dangerously close to offering advice about a situation you know little about."

  Tech eyerolls with the best of them. It's a whole production that extends to her head and shoulders, lolling in time with a loud noise of annoyance. Always this! The assumptions. The underestimation. Tech knows she's not exactly impressive to look at (straw arms, stupid baby face) and that she's tripped her fair share. Had some pretty spectacular fuckups over the years.

  But she's never been stupid a day in her life.

  “First rule 'f the waves:” she answers, eyes smoldering, “I know everything.”

[ru5t]

@desertpoison //> The Shoulder Touch

[ SHIELD ]: Party catches hold of Tech’s shoulder and draws her back and away from a threat, pulling her behind them for her safety.

  Tech has just enough time to get a little bit ticked off, that flash of fear feeding right into it. Not enough time to really do anything about Party yanking her back through the door when, a half second later with a funerary groan, the ceiling just patently gave up. Already well behind their shoulder, Tech still cowers. Covers her face with her arms as the rubble goes rushing past. It takes FOREVER for the crashing to stop, all the falling scraps to settle.

  When she surfaces, it's to a room full of dust that makes her eyes water. It's thick enough it looks like smoke painting swirls in the beams of light filtering in through the boarded up windows. In the space she would have been standing, a long length of beam surrounded by sheet rock and filthy insulation sits piled like a burial mound. Ouch. Would have been a decidedly un-fun way to go. Worse, it's piled so high it effectively them off unless they start digging.

  She looks up at the massive hole. It opens to darkness - presumably the next floor up, but whoever boarded the windows up there must have done it really, really well, because it's darker than an empty basement. She takes an extra little scoot back. Standing underneath that for any stretch of time is definitely not on her to-do.

  “..Okay... maybe I let you go first.” Joking. But actually not really joking at all. “That wasn't the only way, right?”