#it's a great first interaction

[everyryuujisuguro]

[blaithnne]

Live Mel reaction

[lizardbrainlabs]

Your interpretation of Hector talking with Bauhauzzo post-game (if you can see that happening) would be neat!!

oh the horrors of knowing no one can fix the problem except for you

[lollitree]

A little fanimation I did for practice :3

Audio is from this video!

[herman-draws]

well, this thing was bound to happen sometime: here's my fanart and some doodles for @queruloustea's fic "that makes two of us, then"

I'M ENJOYING IT SO MUCH THIS IS LIKE THE FIC OF MY DREAMS SERIOUSLY

I LIVE FOR SEEING THESE TWO IDIOTS INTERACT WITH EACH OTHER /aff

[robotclownindulgence]

Less "optimus and bumblebee fight megatron and starscream" and more "motley crew of ocean-themed beastformers try to get their old band back together and have to trek through various galaxies to find their missing members"

[cienie-isengardu]

Zuko and Azula in "The Beach"

Lately I think a lot about "The Beach" episode [x], especially about this small detail of great teamwork Zuko and Azula have during the game.

Zuko is looking ahead, directly facing their rivals (who had the control of the ball at this moment) but his body is clearly lowered to the ground, left hand most likely touching the ground, legs bent and widely spaced - a clear contrast to Mai standing near and how he stood before on two separate occasions

which is why I think Zuko willingly create an opportunity for Azula, so she could jump higher - something she definitely used to their team’s advantage. If Azula simply jumped on her brother’s back when he wasn’t expecting it or wasn’t ready, he would probably just fall face down from the impact but as the scene shows, he had no such problem nor was angry about it in the following scenes.

During the game sequences there was no dialogue shown between our protagonists, so it is hard to determine if Azula in advance called Zuko to give her a “lift” or Zuko offered on his own, or did they were that much in sync they just acted without thinking. Regardless I like this few seconds long interaction, because for me it implies how they trusted each other despite all the rivalry and bitterness from previous episodes. Like Zuko trusted Azula won’t use that moment to hurt/humiliate him by overuse of force, the same as Azula trusted in Zuko’s strength and that he won’t mess up by losing his balance. It is a small thing but no less sweet to see them working well together when fighting for the same goal - what reminds me a bit their teamwork from the previous season finale.

Interestingly, it was also the second time Zuko assisted Azula in scoring against their rivals while not scoring himself any point on screen. The first time happened almost right at the beggining of the game (second from total five sequences)

while each girl have the solo sequence of winning a point:

Azula's first attack,

later Ty Lee landing on the net

and Mai kicking the ball (and presumably scoring)

while Zuko’s two actions are shared only with his younger sister while there is no sense of competition between the siblings, something contrasting a lot with some previous and later episodes.

Azula is bossy and competitive through most of the episode and her brother lets her be that without a complaint. Azula and Zuko get along pretty well and A) do not argue (with the exception of the campfire scene and then they argue not even for the whole scene itself) and B) don't get on each nerves the way they do in the palace, with Ozai's presence looming in the back of their mind. I absolutely adore this episode, as it humanizes all our Fire Nation characters by showing them as teenagers outside the war zone but also giving us a bit of insight into what Azula and Zuko could be if Ozai didn't pit them against each other. And they could be a great team!

[itadooori]

yea i rewatched the s1 finale. did a lil doodle about it

[vynxwave]

One of my favorite moments/stories from The Transformers Marvel UK comics has got to be this one: #152/#153 Enemy Action!

[Skipping pages of Galvatron & the Seacons fighting here, and moving onto the next issue]

[Skipping more pages]

[little-pup-pip]

Merry Christmas!!

🎁|🎄|❤️|🎁|🎄|❤️|🎁|🎄|❤️

[laswells-ashtray]

Do you have anymore Weapon!Price? I just can’t get enough of how you write him as a sergeant and his interactions with Mac.

Also, since we’re on the topic: I think when he and Nik first meet he’s awfully wary of the Russian and avoids him like he’s filled with diseases. I also think that since Mac is in his tiny circle of trust, he’d keep him away from the pilot.

That wouldn’t stop Nik though, and he would(slowly but surely) get John to trust him enough to where they can talk without John holding him at gunpoint.

It's reflexive to treat anyone around him with suspicion and borderline disdain. His only exception is MacMillan. Mac is the hand behind the trigger, and John is the shield that warps into position to ensure any stray bullets head his own way. Any knife launched in Mac's direction will meet John's throat long before they draw Scottish blood. That's his captain.

And that's exactly why John pushes himself between Mac and the Russian stranger who insists on feigning a friendly dialogue with the captain. He not so subtly pushes MacMillan back and keeps the older man behind one of his shoulders.

Nikolai's stance is too open to be honest. He's open to different attacks, making himself seem almost docile in nature as he talks to Mac but John sees the scars covering his forearms and the bruises painted across his knuckles. Nikolai is a violent man, the question is: is he a quick one? Could he outmove John if the sergeant decided to plant a knife between his ribs?

He doesn't plan on finding out unless he has to, MacMillan isn't overly fond of how blood stains concrete when it pools below bodies or drips from John's knuckles.

Nikolai's eyes drift between MacMillan and John curiously, raising an eyebrow at the sudden, blunt interruption. He's half smirking, clearly entertained by whatever meaningless falsehoods he was rattling off to the captain under the guise of being helpful. As if MacMillan isn't one of the most competent and downright vicious men on base when it came down to it. It's only a matter of time before the Russian is caught spinning a web of fabrications and stories of suffering, Mac would wrap the web around his throat and let him hang from it.

He'd wait patiently for the day and he'd kick the stool out from under his boots when it arrived. Made in Russia, buried in Britain.

So, he stares blankly at Nikolai until the Russian stops talking and he mutters some half-hearted excuse to leave, anchoring his hand around the Scot's wrist and dragging him away. The amused scolding he receives is worthless in the name of the captain's safety.

When Nikolai walks in, there's already a blade in his hand that he's mechanically cleaning. The repetitive actions are good for him, calming or at least that's what Mac says. John would argue that the most therapeutic activity of all is breaking every bone in someone's hand until they're incapable of using it without chronic pain, every little twinge of pain that shoots up their wrist would bring John's face to the front of their mind.

But he knew there were some opinions he just didn't verbalise, he might be a weapon but he'd been taught the basics of social etiquette contrary to popular belief. John just chose to dismiss that lesson when the man behind him wasn't enforcing it with a belt.

The Russian man glances around the room and it's obvious that he appears to be looking for Mac. They'd be stuck with him for the foreseeable future according to the older man, Nikolai had connections that they didn't and they had to utilise him while he was available.

John will put a knife in him without hesitation if he puts a foot out of line, in fact, he's willing to ensure he leaves the Russian with a jaw wired shut if he so much as approaches the line and there is no doubt in his mind that Nikolai would.

He doesn't roll his eyes when the other man sits down by John's table, nor at the questioning look, he receives when Nikolai notices the way the other soldiers in the room make a conscious effort to avoid so much as even looking in John's direction. He's the feral dog that only the captain can pin down to muzzle, it's hardly a secret.

He cuts off Nikolai before the words have even left his mouth, he has no time to entertain a man whose hours are slipping by him like sand in an hourglass. He should await every word with bated breath in case it should be the last he'd ever hear.

"MacMillan isn't here, he won't be available until half five and then you can find him in his office. Don't waste your time wandering, go back to your bird."

It isn't an order. John Price isn't a man who orders people, he isn't a man at all. He's the split second of recognition before a bullet pierces someone's skull.

It's advice. Stay in your lane and hope that no one merges into it with a semi.

Nikolai, to the surprise of no one, does not take it.

The Russian man looks far too amused as he leans forward, elbows resting on the table and eyes drifting across the scene of John's knives in front of him. "You have a very... distinct way of telling someone to piss off."

John narrows his eyes at the other man as his hands still on the blade reflexively, the split-second preparation of a stabbing is arguably the most important part of one. The time it takes John to register whether he's thrusting the knife with his dominant hand or not, how much vigour he's using to bury the knife in the flesh and the point of entry for his blade.

"You have the ability to use your legs so I've yet to see why you're failing to piss off." He counters, irritation practically dripping from his tone.

Clearly, Nikolai retained some of his intelligence on whichever journey landed him in the UK. he's quick to push himself up from the table but not without a deep, hearty laugh at John's expense.

"I see, I shall leave you to your knives. If you see your captain, tell him I would like to see him."

The sergeant only glowers at him in lieu of a response.

"Please."

He smacks MacMillan's hands away instinctively as the captain reaches for John's jaw. He can't see out of his left eye and he looks like he's been doused in blood. Most of the crimson staining his clothing isn't his, he's only responsible for it. But there's a laceration above John's left eyebrow that's spitting and bubbling blood across his face and the severity of it appears to be a point of contention between himself and Mac.

You'd think his eye had been gouged out with the way the Scot had responded to the sight of his sergeant.

There's a presence lingering by their side that has John's good eye trained on the knife at Mac's waist. Nikolai had been involved in the shitshow of a mission, much to his own displeasure.

John had torn through crowds of armed men like taking a chainsaw to paper, he'd cut them down with a lack of hesitation and a growl arising from the back of his throat. He hadn't cared what the Russian had witnessed, he could take it as a warning. The sanguinary display at Sergeant Price's hands is far from uncommon.

He ducks back again when MacMillan tries to land his hands on John's face and he's met with a swift smack to the back of the head which only incites John's primeval desire to bite the man.

"Fuckin sit still while a deal wae yer heid, ye squirmy prick." The Scot chastises.

John's bestial act of protest is to offer Mac's shin a soft kick.

"Cunt."

He'd been called worse.

If it weren't for the fact that the blood oozing from the wound on his face had seeped into one of his eyes, forcing him to close it then he'd have caught the hands as they moved and beaten the shit out of the man they belonged to. But he doesn't and before he can attempt to, he's met with MacMillan flicking his forehead like John is an unruly toddler instead of an unrelenting mechanism of slaughter.

"Don't. Ye've done yerself a fuckin nasty yin here and he's stopping the bleeding, ye hit him and a'll huv ye tits oor taes."

If it weren't for the fact that his very sense of being is shaped around the survival of one Captain MacMillan then he'd be performing a makeshift vertebrectomy on the man for all to see.

He watches bitterly as Mac walks away, likely searching for a medic who can stitch John's face up and add to the collection of scars that decorate his being. Every mistake immortalised upon his skin. His entire frame is defined by his inability to meet the standards of a military-grade weapon.

The faint change in pressure against the wound on his face is enough to make him hiss and clamp his hand around Nikolai's wrist, pointedly ignoring the fact that the rag held against the mangled, gaping cut is already sopping. John has always been a heavy bleeder.

"Apologies."

For someone so willing to apologise, it only takes one good eye for him to see the lack of remorse on the pilot's face as he continues to stand over John, one hand holding a cloth dripping scarlet to his face and the other large, calloused hand holding the back of John's head so he can't escape the heavy-handed treatment.

"Stick yer "apologies" up yer arse." He mutters.

Nikolai snorts and presses a little harder.

Alcohol is a sinner's creation, made by unrighteous people who wish to watch even the strongest-willed people fall victim to the iniquitous.

At least that's what John chooses to believe as the Russian next to him rolls onto his back and the sergeant is met with the sight of his cock.

He rubs a hand across his face, taking a moment to scrub at his eyes in hopes that he could awaken himself from whatever nightmare situation he has found himself stuck in.

He'd grown used to Nikolai's presence. The man is useful and after John watched him snap the neck of a man who'd tried to attack MacMillan from behind he decided that the pilot could stay, under John's surveillance.

The Russian is handsome, that is factual. He's tall, he's strong and he's hairy. He has scruff decorating his jaw that he pretends not to care about but he never lets it grow into a proper beard. His biceps are bigger than John's and after offering to spar with the man to teach him something, John had felt just how big his arms were when one ended up around his throat. For only a split second before he sent the Russian to the mat. He's chesty and he insists on wearing the tightest of shirts which irritates John to no end.

But none of that is enough to warrant waking up next to the Russian with a condom wrapper on the floor and finger-shaped bruises on his hips.

He remembers getting dragged to a pub, to celebrate a mission gone right was the excuse of Mac. To get plastered was what he meant. At one point during the night, he and Nikolai had drunkenly stumbled outside for a cigarette. Apart from groping the Russian's tits, John can remember little else.

"Fuck."

The pilot lifts his head off of the pillow and smirks at John, evidently charmed by John's sober reaction to a drunken escapade.

"I believe that is what they call it, yes. Some people also label it sex."

He's quick to turn, grabbing the pillow behind him and firing it at the other man's face. The startled "oof" brings him no satisfaction as it's followed by an obnoxious chuckle.

"This doesn't make you any less insufferable." He remarks exasperatedly.

Nikolai tosses the pillow towards the end of the bed and climbs towards him, offering John a look that makes him far too aware of how hard he is under the duvet.

"I could be insufferable with your cock in my mouth?"

Well, fuck if he isn't right.

[chellustrates]

thoughts before bed

[ohmaerieme]

in case anyone is wondering, NO i will NOT be able to replicate this style again. i was possessed

[silvers-starrway]

So the wildest thing happened where @mactheactor decided to dub over (if that's even the correct terminology) the Chaos Sonic animation I made!!!!

I'm still in utter awe about this like, hands down the coolest thing ever I've been thinking about this non-stop. Hope y'all enjoy it as much as I do!!

[zombieplaguedoc]

Imagine sitting in a café with your f/o, you’re both seated near the window. Holding a warm cup of your favorite winter beverage, as your admiring the gentle snow fall in front of you.

ANTIS DNI, THIS IS NOT FOR YOU.

[marlynnofmany]

Not Special, Part Two

(Part One is here)

Oscar Tennyson grabbed his purchases and hurried after the rest of his crew. As usual, they were walking quickly on their longer legs and bellowing for him to keep up. The teeth-and-scales Mighty had no patience for human weaknesses. Of which there were many.

But, as Oscar had just learned, there were some strengths as well. And he couldn’t wait to show them.

He scampered onboard before the door shut, wondering if they would actually leave without him if he dawdled too long. Probably not — who would handle their finances and hunting permits? They’d have to hire someone else, because they certainly didn’t want to do it themselves. But he didn’t want to test that.

He had much better things to test. While the stark metal walls vibrated with the engine’s revs, Oscar wove between scaled biceps and tails to his own quarters. He pressed the panel by the door, which was oversized and cracked like all of them on this ship. The Mighty were not fans of fiddly little buttons or keys. Not when they could have panels big enough to punch, which only broke sometimes.

When Oscar stepped through and closed the door behind him, he felt immediately relieved. This was his private space to decorate as he chose, without worrying that someone would take things down or make fun of him. Ship rules were clear about personal quarters. Oscar’s fake orchids and real cactus made the room homey, along with more posters than the walls could hold. They spilled onto the ceiling, lining it with nature scenes from Earth, sports figures he admired, media announcements, and a good number of fluffy kittens. This was the one spot on the ship where he could feel comfortable, and he was making the most of it.

The bag of refueling station supplies crinkled as he set it on his small table to remove the contents. A high-end store might have had Waterwill bags that evaporated after a day, but this place used regular old plastic. Inside were food cubes, bottled water, and the purchase he was most excited about: six cans of very weak caffeine.

He scanned the label. It was just like the other human had said. Tall cans in dramatic colors, but not much of substance inside. At least, not as far as the average human was concerned.

Oscar couldn’t wait until dinner time.

Before then, he had a permit to submit and several other things to check. The ship should be on the way to Argosha, which was notorious for welcoming outsiders in to hunt the Dagger Birds that were giving everyone so much trouble, but he had better get their paperwork in order anyway.

He grabbed his tablet and left his safe haven, heading back into the public parts of the ship where he could face taunts from any direction. Really, these guys were just like his cousins. At least it was familiar.

Fending off tiresome conversation — “How’s the weather down there?” “Why don’t you ask your mother?” —he reached the bridge and found a corner to stand in. The captain and the pilot were arguing about where to land when they reached Argosha.

“The main site will have more people to admire our ship!”

“The new one is closer to the hunting grounds!”

“Dagger Birds are overrunning the place; everywhere is a hunting ground!”

“Do you want to pay the damages for shooting a building instead of a bird? We can take it all out of your pay, if you want!”

“Fine, but if we land on some overgrown hedge and the ship is scratched, you get to pay for that!”

“Fine!”

The pair of them stopped yelling and sat back in their seats as if nothing at all was the matter, because it wasn’t. Polite disagreements were always held at that volume.

In the brief lull while the pilot manipulated the controls with more force than a lesser console could withstand, Oscar spoke up. “I’d like to come too.”

Both dinosaurian heads turned to stare at him in surprise. “Why?” the captain demanded. “One kick from a bird, and you’re useless to us.”

“Thanks,” Oscar said flatly. “I’ll keep out of the way. I want to take photos of your fighting prowess; I should be able to sell them.”

Both of the Mighty preened at that, as he’d known they would. Ego was big here. The captain agreed, and Oscar didn’t let slip any hints of his secret plan. He just finished working on his tablet, then retreated to his quarters to practice Dagger Bird mating calls.

The air on Argosha was breathable but hot, at least this part of it. Oscar was ready with his Tool in his pocket. (He’d gotten out of the habit of calling it a phone, since the Mighty were right in that it did a near-infinite number of things.) (He still smirked quietly at the potential innuendo, but it was a conversation he didn’t really want to have with giant dinosaur aliens, so he kept that to himself.)

“This way,” announced the captain, pointing in what looked like an arbitrary direction into the wilderness. Whooping with the alien equivalent of testosterone, the crew raised their blasters and tromped off the landing pad with Oscar following close behind.

True to his word, he did take some pictures as he went. But he was waiting for his moment.

It didn’t take long to come. The shouting scared off all the wildlife, then the Mighty found a boulder to crouch behind and wait for the creatures to come back. They played a silent counting game to see who was best at guessing when they’d spot something worth killing.

Distant footsteps on leaves made them smack each other in excitement, but nothing appeared between the trees.

Now or never, Oscar thought. Knowing better than to startled his crewmates, he whispered, “Here, let me.” Then he took a deep breath and let loose with his best imitation of a Dagger Bird seeking a mate. “Woarrrrrrk!”

While the Mighty shushed him and wondered what he was doing and started to figure it out, an answering woarrk sounded from nearby.

Then another, then, three.

Oscar wondered if he’d overplayed his hand.

No less than five large and eager Dagger Birds crashed through the undergrowth at once, croaking and flapping, taking offense at each other’s presence. The Mighty all roared and leapt out, firing in every direction.

Oscar dashed for a tree he’d been eyeing, the one with lots of branches, and didn’t stop climbing until he was out of beak-stabbing range. He held tight to the trunk, catching his breath and watching the chaos. Belatedly, he remembered to take out his Tool and snap some photos.

This was actually a good angle. He got a great shot of the captain aiming down the throat of a wide-open beak, then another a split second later when the beak snapped shut inches from his head. Another of the engineer shooting one from beneath. Two of the pilot tackling the largest bird and sinking teeth into the back of its neck where it couldn’t reach to stab.

Other species did their trophy hunting from a distance. The Mighty liked the fight as much as the kill. Their blasters were set on a deliberately low setting, and their teeth were sharp.

Safe up in his tree, Oscar grimaced at how bloody things were getting down below. He yelled another bird call to distract the one about to spear the crewmate who’d been knocked to the ground, and he got a cheerful “Nice save by the little guy!” which was as close to a thank you as he was going to get. The crewmate scrambled up and bit off a chunk while the bird was distracted. A couple of the crew looked like they were bleeding their own blood, but most of it was coming from the Dagger Birds, which were just as stubborn as the stories had said. Not one of them ran off. The last to die fell on top of somebody, which just added laughter from the rest of the crew to the triumphant cheers.

Oscar took a picture of the bird being dragged off his disgraced crewmate. That photo he wouldn’t sell, but would keep as minor blackmail if he ever needed it. Sticking it up on the wall to remind everyone of this moment could be a valuable strategic move.

“We are the MIGHTY!” bellowed the captain, and the whole crew joined in with a deep-voiced cheer. Oscar climbed down to more approval than he’d gotten in the last month.

“Good work by our human here! Who knew you could do that?”

“That’s sure an efficient way to hunt!”

“We should bring you out every time. That was great.”

Oscar took the praise with pride, not bothering with modesty. That was just another word for weakness as far as these guys were concerned.

He managed to dodge when one of them made to slap him on the back with a large bloodstained hand, which just made them laugh more. Luckily the captain directed everybody to gather their kills for dragging back to the ship, rather than chasing the human and messing up his clothes.

Oscar took a position on the lowest branch of his tree, taking a couple more photos as the victorious hunters figured out how to get it all home. If anyone had asked Oscar, which they never would, he’d have suggested going back for a hovercart, or taking them one at a time. But of course they did neither.

Definitely the type to insist on carrying all the groceries in at once, Oscar thought as his crewmates strained to drag the giant carcasses through the undergrowth. He hopped down and kept pace out to the side where there was no blood on the leaves.

They finally made it back to the ship, doing nothing to clean up the smears of blood they left on the landing pad. Oscar darted off to his quarters as soon as the door opened. The rest of them could handle getting the birds into cryo storage, or chopped up right away, whichever they saw fit to do. The lowest-ranking one without significant injuries would be in charge of clearing the blood from the hallways, but only after they’d all taken a walk through the water-and-air blast chamber that passed for a shower here. It had always reminded Oscar of a car wash.

He kept to himself until dinner, sorting his photos while everyone else dealt with the catch and the mess and the injuries. The mechanical medsystem on this ship was just as efficient as the shower. They’d all be in decent shape by mealtime.

And mealtime after a successful hunt was also drinking time.

Oscar usually ate in his room, wanting nothing to do with the raucous meat-tearing and drunkenness. But today was different, because he’d learned something valuable about the liquid they were getting drunk off.

Oscar considered the cans he’d bought, then decided it would have more of an impact if he just took one of the communal supply. So instead he grabbed his new food cubes and a premade tin of spaghetti from his mini-cryo, and followed the sound of laughter.

They were already a little drunk when he got there. Sprawled across chairs with a table full of meat slabs spilling over the edges of the plates. And as expected, there were tall purple cans everywhere.

“Heyyyy, it’s the little guy! Let’s hear it for the human with the surprise talent! Maybe you’re not useless after all!”

“Thanks,” Oscar said as they pounded fists against anything in reach as a form of applause. He leaned against the open doorway and shuffled his belongings so he could get a fork in a meatball without setting down the food cubes. “That was pretty easy where I’m from. You guys really can’t do that?” He popped the meatball into his mouth, casual as you please.

The Mighty of course, thought this was funny, and took it in stride. More gulps from their drinks, more savage mouthfuls of food, and a few questions about the surely-excellent photos he’d gotten, which would make them all look amazing.

Oscar said he’d share the best ones. These would make fine decorations in their own quarters, and would probably be appreciated by the right paying audience.

Then came the moment he’d been waiting for. The captain raised his drink in another cheer, and somebody noticed that the human was the only one without a can in his hand.

“Get the human a warrior’s drink!”

“Bet you he passes out after one sip.”

“Nah, he can take at least two.”

Oscar smiled quietly. If they’d been paying attention, they might have changed their bets at that smile. He set his food down in the hallway to free his hands. When one muscular, taloned arm offered him a can of their most potent intoxicant, he took it. Oh so casually.

Then he whipped his head back and chugged the whole thing.

“Oh! Human’s gonna die!”

“I’m not cleaning up the puke!”

“What the supernova! There are better ways to go than that!”

“Somebody drag him to medical so we don’t have to find somebody else to do the boring stuff.”

“Yeah, he was just getting interesting.”

Oscar ignored all of them, giving the empty can a thoughtful look. It felt like the same thin aluminum he remembered from Earth. And if there was anything his cousins had taught him, it was the proper way to dispose of a beer can.

He dug his fingertips in and crushed it against his forehead. Then while the room reacted to that, he wiped off the drips and threw the can across the room. When it went into the trash on the first try, he was internally very glad, but he didn’t let it show. Instead he picked up his food and resumed eating. “What’s the big deal?” he said. “Is that what you guys have been getting drunk off? How quaint.”

“How in all the black holes—”

“No, he’s gonna fall over any second; just watch.”

“Quaint, that’s hilarious.”

“He’s totally bluffing. Just wait and see.”

Oscar was enjoying being the center of the crew’s attention today. He made a show of sweeping his eyes across the various cans in the room. “None of you has finished a can yet, I see. Was that supposed to be strong?”

There was widespread laughing and elbowing of each other, most of them still clearly convinced that the silly little human was going to throw up and die any second now.

So Oscar set down his food, walked over to the table, and chugged a second one. It was a bit more liquid than his stomach was really happy with, but that was a small price to pay for the uproar that followed.

They exclaimed; they renewed their bets; they drank from their own cans; they got visibly drunker and abandoned their bets.

Oscar leaned against the doorframe, eating spaghetti and food cubes.

After one particularly unsteady crewmate tripped onto the table full of meat, and someone pointed out that the human wasn’t wobbling at all, Oscar said, “You guys don’t know much about my species, do you? Half of what I eat would liquify your insides.” He held up a food cube, eyeing the different colored specks of all the ingredients that made it balanced for an omnivorous digestive system. He laughed. “You guys just eat meat. How boring!”

They only got drunker after that. Oscar was pretty sure that the nearest two wanted to pat him on the back, but the floor was moving too much for them to make it all the way to the doorway. Somebody offered him a raw slab of Dagger Bird. He turned it down with casual scorn.

“Nah, meat isn’t worth eating unless it’s passed through fire. That’s weakling meat you’ve got there. Get back to me when it’s cooked brown.”

They loved that. The party was an epic one, only winding down when most of the crew was too drunk to reach more drinks. Oscar demonstrated his steadiness by picking through the mess to drop his food containers in the trash, then move back to the door.

“Well, it’s been fun,” he said. “I’ll send in the med-drone to make sure nobody’s going to wake up dead. Let me know if you want to get your tails handed to you by any more Dagger Birds. I’ll call ‘em in close for you again.”

He got groggy approval to that.

Oscar left with a smile on his face, and a mild amount of caffeine in his blood. Maybe after stopping by the medcenter, he’d use that energy on some exercise. Thoughts of the run to the hunting grounds, and the way his crewmates had paced themselves, suggested that it wouldn’t take much practice for him to out-endurance the Mighty on the VR treadmill.

I wonder what else I can do?

~~~~~~~~~

By popular request, this is the sequel to the story I posted last week, which is part of the ongoing series of backstory for the main character in this book. (It started that way, at any rate, and turned into a sprawling series in its own right. Fun stuff.)

Patreon opens the day after tomorrow, on May 1st! There's a free tier and everything if you want to keep up without strings attached! And you can even request more delightful nonsense like this.

Onward!