#man i haven’t drawn the squip in a Long Time

[happistar]

Day 16: New outfit

Cover this guy in circuits and wires. EASY

[soulnottainted]

War of the Worlds: Rebirth Chapter 1

So uh, remember that idea I had about George, Carrie and I in present day but still having our memories of Victorian London?? Kinda reborn au?? Super meta?? The Martians coming back and this connecting with the ending of the musical?

Well I’m writing it, little by little. Here is the first chapter. If you like what you’ve read, consider reblogging this post! I want to make this a big project of mine, and I want to share it with many as I can in the selfship community! Also it helps if you know the basic story of WOTW, and basically that I was adopted by the Herberts after losing my family and Copia during the Martian invasion. Cool? Cool.

Also to the WOTW fandom people who have stumbled upon this, hi there, the Herberts are my fictional parents and I will die on that hill. 

I’m gonna tag some folks who I’ve dragged into WOTW hell with me: @squips-ship @astralshipper @werewolfpine @lovinglittlecrow @jettsships @ampersandies @cosmiccambion 

Chapter 1: We’ll Start All Over Again

No one would have believed… Yes, that’s for sure. No one. They certainly haven’t then, and haven’t now. God, I would move Heaven and Earth for a cup of tea right now. No….need something stronger. Coffee.

Dr. George Herbert sighed, alone with his thoughts while he sat in a chair at the national news station, waiting for his turn to go onto the set for an interview. George didn’t like interviews, he was used to being the one giving the questions, not answering them. But, News 7 wanted to speak with him for a segment regarding his thoughts about life on other planets. He knew right away that the segment would just be a nonsense filler story. At least it would be entertaining to them, he thought, half amused and half insulted at his own words that floated through his head. How many years at University-- and you’ve become the laughing stock of Woking, talking about Martians returning to Earth. Not to mention the claim of a second life, being reborn? That would get you in a couple decade therapy session.

But George knew he was right, and Carrie knew it too. Dearest Carrie...She never turned her back on him. At least she knew the truth as well as he. They had been reborn. Given a second chance maybe. They both remembered their old life, in the same house they resided in now, the same memories as well as new ones came about. They lived a full life into their seventies, well into the 20th century. Carrie passed away first, then George a year following.

But somehow they ended up in 21st century London afterwards. They were born again, they grew up again….

During that entire time, George had his past memories repressed. It took a while for George to be introduced to Carrie, but they the same way they met a century ago. Memories? They were just visions, dreams, nothing more. But as he grew, he started predicting things, and they happened. The visions didn’t become frequent until he was almost thirty.

One of them had been of him taking a train in Victorian England, traveling to London to apply for a job as a journalist.

Well, in the 1990s, he took a car to the same newspaper headquarters, and got hired almost instantly. The reason had been mostly due to the fact that a man by the same exact name, in the 1880s, was the most profound journalist in the newspapers’ history. And then the boss mentioned the long story that the initials G.H. wrote: The War of the Worlds. About Martian invasion.

At that moment, something in George’s mind clicked. This was too good to be true, and yet it was. That was him. Those visions were true. To further his confirmation, he spoke to Carrie about his theory that evening. She had those memories too. They all lined up with his. Maybe they were both insane. But after that talk, that was all George tried to understand and predict.

They both remembered their walks near Horsell Common in Victorian dress, looking up at the stars. They both remembered getting married and being carried away by a horse drawn carriage as the entire town waved at them. The girl they adopted, who brought so much light into their lives. Kelsey. Then of course, they both remembered the Martian invasion. The terrible Martian invasion…

“Dr. Herbert?”

George snapped back into reality as one of the newscast assistants, holding a clipboard. stood in front of him.

“Yes?”

“Five minutes. Might want to get ready.”

“Thank you.”

With a polite but tired nod, George complied and stood. The assistant held the door open for him, and closed it once George walked into the next room. A cozy but modern interview was set up. Two cream colored, leather chairs faced one another. A table was situated between them, and a few magazines with George’s face plastered on them stared back at him eerily. A few thick books with his name on them as well were stacked, their spines facing the camera.

George never had an ego. People who had egos made him sick to his stomach. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t proud of his accomplishments though. He made a passing glance at his life’s work, and took a seat. He put on a smile for the man in a black suit that entered, whom George assumed to be the person who was giving the interview.

The man extended a friendly hand to the famous journalist, “Thomas Keegan. An honor, Dr. Herbert.”

“The honor is all mine to be speaking with you,” George replied. He was three quarters sincere about that. Yes, he was grateful for the opportunity to have his knowledge spread out into the world, but that also meant that letters in the mail would blow up after this interview was over, most of them saying that his theories are- in like one instance- “utterly bullshit”. George truly believed in his work. Many times he had tried to contact NASA, any space organization to listen to him, but that added more to the general consensus that Dr. George Herbert was a total nutcase in the eyes of the people. A brilliant nutcase to those who actually found his work intriguing. Many phone calls of him trying to warn of a possible future Martian invasion, to urge the governments of the world to be putting research of Mars front and center, and to be ready with firepower to take down those monsters should they come, were cut short by the other line hanging up.

“We’re on in two minutes!” was shouted nearby in the studio, and Dr. Herbert flattened his brown suit and readjusted his tie, while Mr. Keegan sat down on the other empty chair.

Then, the Journalist was startled slightly as he felt a buzz in his jacket pocket. His phone. Pulling it out quickly, he saw that it was a text from Carrie. Maybe it was just some encouragement for the interv-

[  The database found her. ]

His heart started to pound in his chest. A year and a half with that database and finally it found a match. He couldn’t stop staring at the text message, the world going on around him in slow motion.

“Sixty seconds!”

George had no choice but to put his mobile device away, but something slipped, quivered his lips before the cameras started to roll. 

“Kelsey...my little dragonfly.”

And then-

“On in three! Two!”

“Good Evening, I’m Thomas Keegan, and here to discuss Otherworldly Beings with my special guest here this evening on News 7: Dr. George Herbert. Doctor, so good to see you.”

A plastered smile came up on George’s face as he acknowledged the camera, and then to Thomas, “Thank you for having me, it’s a pleasure to be here.”

And as he sat there, beyond the gulf of space, slowly, and surely, something was being planned against us.

And no one would believe.....until it would be too late.

[catchwolfzie]

Pretense | Be More Chill story | chap 1

“HEY! HEY!” “Panel’s down, all Combats to Section Thirteen!” “There’s been an attack! The whole wing’s on fire!” “It’s Mell again. Surveillance spotted him exiting the building.” “CAN WE GET A MEDSQUIP TO THIRTEEN!” Hot, angry flames pushed out from the side of the Corporation’s main science building, a torrent of orange combusted into neon yellow peppered with dark ash. It swept out like a wave, exploring every corridor and gutting the tower completely as CombatSQUIPS in black body armour scampered around. Smoke obscured the lone figure standing on a balcony opposite the building. His old hoodie that once was a vibrant red now clung to his body in splotches of brown and black. Tattered patches were sown into his sleeve and chest; most of them were as weathered as the rest of the hoodie, but one was cleaner. Newer. It was a modest, red circle with the embroidered word: Rejects. “Bastards,” Michael whispered. He fished a pair of old earbuds from his pocket along with a battered phone. Every good escape needed a sick-as-hell soundtrack. The bass dropped in his ears, he took off down the fire escape, and shot through the crowded streets of the working sector. His stunt had drawn a lot of attention; a sea of business suits and briefcases stood gawking at the explosions. All the better for the reigning leader of the Rejects, who now just narrowly missed being hit by a car. Instead he rolled over the hood and landed expertly on the concrete, still gunning it. As he ran, he looked for his spotter. Back before the Corporation had seized power, back when squipped people were the minority, you couldn’t tell just by looking who had one and who didn’t. But the Gen4 SQUIPS that came out later caused anyone hosting the technology to have glowing, electric blue eyes. Those eyes surrounded him now, as people began to recognize him. “It’s Mell! Quick!” “Someone call the Combats!” “He’s heading for the gates!” He dodged a woman’s purse. Jumped a manhole. A harsh zap came from somewhere behind him. Michael chanced a look and saw four CombatSQUIPS rushing towards him. Their faces were almost entirely covered by heavy plating, but their eyes shone from a narrow slit. The sight carried him faster. Head down, shoulders back, making sure his feet never touched the ground for more than a second. They kept shooting their blasters. Bolts of blue electricity singed his clothes. Come on. Come on! Where was- Wait. There! Michael hit a hard left, aiming for the open back half of what looked like an ordinary shipping truck. He leaped, just as the engine roared to life. Michael dove behind boxes of what should have been filled with SQUIPs, but had been emptied of those and refilled with low-voltage weapons. He grabbed a slingshot and the energy pellets that went with it. He got four shots off before the truck rounded a corner. Two of the Combats went down. Good enough. He reached out and slammed the doors closed and slumped down in exhaustion. “Did it work?” a loud voice asked him from the driver’s seat. It was Christine. “Yeah. They’ll be busy rebuilding Thirteen for months, at least. SQUIP production’s gonna be down for a long time.” “That’s...t-that’s great. The others are gonna be thrilled.” “I think we have a real chance, you know. The last few hits went off perfectly. And the surgeries are going well too-” “Everyone we've tried it on has died.” “But Ty said he was making progress. He thinks he's getting closer to a breakthrough. I mean, think about it!” he sat up excitedly, still facing the doors, “We might be able to save everyone!” “But how many more people are we going to use before then? How many innocent human beings are you going to let die?” Michael fell silent for a minute. He looked down at his hands and slouched, like a child pouting. He had justified this a million times to himself, but the words that felt so convincing in his head were never quite so strong outside of it. Finally he said, “As many as it takes.” The mood sharpened. He figured Christine would drop it, but instead she pressed on. Her tone was odd actually, a step above her usual restlessness, now more akin to nervousness. “Look I agree with you that we have to do something but maybe you wouldn't be so reckless if it wasn't for, well, you know.” At that Michael froze. He still hadn't turned around, and now he curled in on himself slightly. How dare she? How dare she be right? Because she was, wasn't she? Would he really be pushing human experimentation, all these bombings, if it wasn't for…. For him. He hissed and began to turn, asking “Hey Group Fifteen was supposed to grab another truck for us today. That go alright?” But he sucked in a breath, choking on his words. Christine was in the driver's seat, as usual, facing the road with her hands white around the wheel. Someone else was in the passenger seat, arm extended and holding a blaster up to her temple. It appeared to be a man, all dressed in black, and when he turned to stare back at Michael his glowing blue eyes were visible through the slit in his mask. “What the f-” “Don’t move,” said the Combat, pushing the tip of his blaster further into Christine’s hair. He turned back to her and said, “keep driving. Make a left here.” “What is this? Where are we going?” Michael growled, but stayed frozen. His slingshot was just next to him, but he knew that any move he made would cost Christine her life. A mixture of anxiety and anger swirled together in his stomach, threatening to explode out of him. His mind almost seemed to launch itself away from the situation, rejecting it for imaginary scenarios taking place just minutes before. Maybe if he’d turned around earlier. Been smarter. Paid more attention. Maybe if he hadn’t put down his weapon he could’ve been fast enough to take out the Combat before Christine’s brain decorated the window. Maybe maybe maybe. But that time had passed and Michael would have to deal with this here and now. “Answer me coward! Where are we going?” The Combat spoke, never taking his eyes, or his blaster, off of Christine. “You are to be brought in for questioning and rehabilitation.” “On what grounds?” A drawn out hiss came from the Combat, annoyed. “You Michael Mell are under arrest by the Corporation for assembly and leadership of unauthorized party, treason, theft, and abduction and murder of several operatives.” “I haven’t killed anyone,” Michael said lightly, like he wasn’t the Corporation’s (and therefore the state’s) most wanted enemy. It was a stupid tacic, and not really a tactic at all. Just a defense mechanism. But it was something. “Those people were dead the moment your SQUIP buddies were forced into their heads.” He saw Christine tense up, but went on anyway. “Just like that body of yours. It’s just a shell. That’s what people are to all of you, interchangeable. You can’t murder a corpse.” He had hoped his words might have some distracting affect, hoped he could force an opportunity. Instead the Combat turned to him, and his eyes crinkled up in amusement. Michael heard the smile in his voice. “You wouldn’t be doing all this if you truly believed that.” The rest of the ride passed in silence. Christine drove the truck dutifully, whether her hands were shaking from fear or anger was indiscernible. They exited the work sector, passed through the commons, and turned into a stretch of squat grey buildings that was unfamiliar. Michael stayed still in his position the entire time, so that by the time they stopped before one of the buildings his legs were completely numb and his shoulders were screaming. “Alright everyone out,” the Combat growled in an exasperated tone. His gun arm shook and buckled with relief as he finally lowered it. With the other arm he reached over Christine and unlocked her door. Then he shoved her out. Michael heard her land with a painful thump, and a moment later she had opened the doors to the back. The Combat exited and came around to where Michael was shuffling out of the truck. He grabbed him and pulled him out instead. Michael fell onto his face, legs still asleep, and groaned. He attempted to push himself up and felt a boot on his back, slamming him down again. Then the Combat hoisted him up and pushed him in front. “Walk.” Christine was being held beneath his armpit, gun pointed at her head once again. “Walk Mell!” Michael walked. He walked and while he walked he shoved his hands into the pocket on the front of his hoodie. The cold metal of the slingshot was reassuring. He breathed slowly. Perhaps it wasn’t such a tragedy that he had been captured. After all, maybe he could learn something that the Rejects could use. He just had to stay calm. He just- “CombatSQUIP Two Hundred and Seventy Three,” Two other Combats were stationed outside of a building with a set of black double doors. The Combat escorting Michael and Christine nodded at the acknowledgement, then once again shoved Michael forward. “I captured Mell outside the Corporation building. You’ve heard of the recent attack.” “Affirmative.” “Corp orders say he’s due for rehabilitation in Med six.” He gestured to Christine next, “I’m taking her to be resynchronized.” “NO!” For the first time since the brief conversation in the truck, Christine spoke, or rather, screamed. She squirmed out of the Combat’s grasp, flinging out her arms and just happening to knock away the blaster. It clattered uselessly onto the ground. And about three seconds later, CombatSQUIP One Hundred and Five also clattered uselessly onto the ground. His partner startled, looking between him and Michael, who was wielding his slingshot. Christine dropped to her knees, grabbed the fallen blaster, pointed it at Combat Two Hundred and Seventy Three. Back to back, Michael and Christine stood, aiming their weapons at the two remaining Combats. One was unarmed. But the one still at the door was equipped with his own blaster, and he was aiming it right back at Michael. “Stand down kid.” Michael released the string. Balls of energy shot forward and struck the Combat’s chest, wrapping around him instantly with a loud hiss. He dropped his blaster as his body convulsed, and fell in a crumpled heap, still seizing. And then there was one. Christine fired. Their original escort went down. It was quiet, and they were safe. For a moment, the two stood there, breathing hard. Michael broke out of his daze first, slamming a shoulder through the black doors and yanking Christine inside with him. There he faced her, she seemed fine, then looked around. They were in the entrance of a long, wide hallway, lined with doors on either side. For now, no one was coming, but that would not stay true forever. Michael racked his brain. The solution was easy. All they needed to do was get back to the truck. They could drive out before anyone noticed. But there was another option too, and this one was a mad and stupid idea, but more tantalizing. “I want to look around,” Michael whispered. “Are you crazy?” “This is new ground! We didn’t even know this was here! What if we find something important?” “What do you think you’re gonna find here Michael?” “I...I don’t know! But I know that if we leave now, we’re never gonna see this place again.” “I remember how we got here. We should leave, come back later with more groups.” “The Combat said there was a rehabilitation room, right here.” “So what?” Christine raised her voice, throwing up her hands. “There are hundreds of them at the main Corporation building!” “But we haven’t been able to get into them. It’s been two years and all we’ve done is set off a few bombs! This is as close as we’ve ever been.” “Okay so we can come back later!” ZzzzzzzzzaaaAAAPPP! The blue blast missed Michael by centimeters. He whirled around, fumbling with his slingshot, and saw a dark mass of Combats rushing through the hall. “Stay back!” he screamed. “Mi...Mi...Mich...ael, Micha…” Michael looked over his shoulder. A gasp pushed out from his throat. Christine was on the ground on her back, ropes of blue light crisscrossing over her chest and face. Her eyes were wide open, pupils dilated with so much pain. A soft stream of foam dribbled down her chin while her body tossed and turned of its own accord, like she was possessed. “Christ-” he tried to speak her name. But in that second something slammed into his back, not unlike the feeling of being struck with a dodgeball, only the dull impact exploded into searing agony that ate away at his skin, his hair, his clothes, his eyes. He didn’t register falling to the ground. And all he could see was blue light, until he finally lost consciousness.