#you know those fuckers *constantly* settle as shit larger than themselves

[kariachi]

Okay, I may have made that post 40% so I could get those thoughts in line before coming over here and making this post, which mostly about the overarching changes daemons make to community construction with a partial focus on the alien species I work with.

So, as we’ve discussed previously, because most species on Earth are human-sized or smaller, most local’s daemons are human-sized or smaller. As a result there’s not too big of an overall change. Homes tend to be a little larger, personal space is held to a higher place as a general rule, communities tend to be slightly more spread out, community populations tend to be a bit lower. There’s a lot of more exacting changes in, pretty much everything, to accommodate daemons and their various shapes, but on a large scale the changes tend to mostly be with space allotment.

The same thing is the case for Osmosians and Perison, both of which are also on the large end for terrestrial species on their homeworlds- Perison moreso than Osmosians. Community populations are smaller, homes/dens are larger, personal space is a bigger deal. The general Osmosian population on the homeworld is smaller. Perison men who Settle as their equivalent of megafauna are less likely to marry. Osmosians are more often Separated than other species and hold a nicer view on the matter (it’s just, easier to end up Separated in the Osmos System, shit went down there and Osmos V is a massive semi-livable desert).

Lenopan don’t actually have much change, on the other hand. They already normally are pretty spaced out dwelling-wise, and have large-ish properties. It doesn’t hurt that, as I’ve mentioned previously, they’re one of the biggest species on their homeworld. Equivalent to something like a kodiak or polar bear on Earth. Pretty much everything on Haseil is smaller than a Lenopan, and by a good margin, so there’s not a lot of change necessary as a general rule besides a touch more personal space given.

Erinaens are actually where you see the biggest change, with severely lower population density, larger homes, and homes being made higher and lower on trees than in non-daemon works, though their laxer equivalent to the Taboo of daemon touching means the personal space isn’t so much an issue. This is because while all the species above are either megafauna or borderline megafauna on their homeworlds, Erinaens very much aren’t. On their homeworld they’re a medium-sized critter, sorta the equivalent of a racoon or coyote in comparison to the big leagues. This means that, while it’s still not the most common thing in the world, Erinaens are the most likely of the species I often work with to Settle as something as big or bigger than themselves. As a result, larger homes and more commonly with easier access to thicker branches, the sky, and sometimes even the ground in particularly bad cases, are more common, the larger homes necessitating fewer homes per tree, forcing the species to spread out more than in other universes.

[xadoheandterra]

Title: Don’t Write Me A Postscript Chapter: I (II / III / IV / V / VI / VII / VIII / IX / X / XI /  XII /  XIII) Fandom: Red vs Blue Characters: Church | Alpha, Tucker, Micheal Caboose | Agent California | Micheal-210, Kaikaina Grif | Sister | Agent Kansas, Dr. Leonard Church | Director, Jerome Dupris | Agent Nevada Summary: He was all sorts fucked up and didn’t want to admit it. Being alone for fourteen months didn’t help matters--except, well, Church was tired of being alone. Tired of people leaving and people dying--and he thought, no more. I’m done. I’m out.

Won’t Say You’re Sorry (I / II / III)

Do You Even Feel Compassion? (I / II)

Church sighed heavily as Caboose yanked him over to take a photo. With a put upon grumble he pulled off his helmet like Caboose desired and smiled for the picture. He didn’t honestly feel it—the sadness and the joy in equal measure. The only real thing he could feel lately was the inexplicable loss of a piece of himself. Not for the first time did Church curse Sarge for placing the bomb on the pelican—and praise him in equal measure because fuck, they couldn’t fuck everything up in the way Wyoming convinced Tex to.

(she always left)

(why?)

(what did he do wrong?)

Church side-eyed Tucker who’s face remained pinched even as Caboose made sure the photo clicked off from where he’d haphazardly jerry-rigged up his helmet. Tucker, predictably, took the loss hard as well. His own kid—and Church couldn’t fathom it. He couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to lose a child, not like it was to lose Tex. Church never really had Tex, either, and he damn well knew it. As much as he professed to love her it was more the memory of a love than an actual love.

(no, he’d lost one, hadn’t he?)

(had he?)

(when?)

Church looked away, a frown settled across his face as he debated speaking up yet again since the entire mess with Wyoming, Tex, and Omega. Instead once more he kept his silence, grabbed his helmet, and jammed it back into place. Caboose gushed something as he tugged his own helmet on, but Church didn’t listen. The ever present thrum if your fault your fault yourfaultyourfault hammered at the back of his head. With a sharp huff through his nose—technically simulated because as much as Sarge was a genius with robotics he couldn’t make the android body actually breathe—Church turned and headed back into base.

Tucker didn’t even look at him, as it was his right. Church couldn’t blame the guy—he’d essentially gotten the other man’s own kid killed. It was his bullshit with Freelancers, his not-girlfriend, his own insurmountable mistakes. Even Command saw it, saw fit to finally separate them and take them away from the once safe walls of the box canyon. Church headed straight to his room, yanked off his armor, and settled onto his bunk.

Hands scrubbed over his face; Church wished he could cry. He wasn’t sure if he would even if he could. He knew, clinically, that what he felt was nothing more then depression although how eluded him. Depression at its base level was a chemical imbalance in the human brain where the serotonin levels were either too high or too low resulting in mood fluctuations and a perpetual blue mood. The how of his own depression, his own ever burning, ever circling thoughts of your fault your fault yourfaultyourfault constantly eluded him. How could he suffer through a chemical imbalance without chemicals to create it?

(are you even human?)

It doesn’t matter. Church laid down, rolled over, and pulled his blanket up over his head. It doesn’t matter. They’d be gone soon, no longer Church’s to fail to protect. They’d be gone, and the walls of the box canyon with them, and he’d be alone. Perhaps that was justice. Perhaps that was for the best.

(he deserved it)

(he deserved it)

Church closed his eyes and hoped he could sleep. He missed sleep. He wanted to sleep. He pursed his lips when his door brushed open, when he heard the telltale sounds of power armor step lightly into the room. He could recognize Tucker by his breathing, the sort of nasally sound entirely unique to Tucker. Church wanted to curl up—but he feigned sleep instead.

Coward, his thoughts betrayed. Coward, coward, cowardcowardcoward.

Tucker stood there and just breathed for a moment longer, and then he sighed. “You’re a fucking dick, Church,” Tucker said plainly, turned, and left.

Church gave up and curled into a ball. He felt rage, he felt bitterness, he felt sorrow and loss, and he felt nothing at all. His thoughts bounced, an echo of an echo of an echo.

You’re a fucking dick, Church.

yourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfault

You’re a fucking dick.

cowardcowardcowardcowardcoward

You                                                                       

(what am I?)

Failure

cowardcowardcowardcoward

Of a human being

(am I even human?)

A day, two—Church didn’t notice the passage of time until his door was burst open and Kaikaina ‘Sister’ Grif stormed into his room and pulled his blankets away. She cussed him out, bodily dragged him from the room and it lit a fire that only smoldered before. Church hissed, spit, and snarled insults readily back. He relished in the burn of anger and seething however quick of a flash it was.

(it didn’t used to be)

Church still avoided Tucker, but he at least returned to some semblance of his normal self. Kaikaina helped there—pulled herself into an outlet for whatever issue he needed to work through. The Grif siblings were monstrous beasts in that they understood the people of Blood Gulch often better than the people of Blood Gulch understood themselves. It didn’t help that despite his enhanced android strength Kaikaina could still physically drag him around.

He wondered what it was about women who could beat him black and blue that attracted him so much. Church decided it was better off he didn’t think about that and promptly shuttered danger and attraction and Tex behind so many layers of firewall that he honestly forgot what he was thinking about for a moment. Church blinked, and then flipped Kaikaina the bird and stormed out of the base. It didn’t matter.

(it always mattered)

(who are you?)

(who am I?)

(Tex?)

Church stood watch as the pelican’s came and picked up each member of Blue Team. He stood aside stoically as Tucker left first, unable to say or really do anything. Tucker didn’t say anything back. They didn’t talk—they hadn’t talked for days. It burned something fierce that Church might never see Tucker but he couldn’t work up the courage to apologize. He couldn’t say goodbye.

(we always hated goodbyes)

yourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfault

(is that why…?)

When Caboose left next, Church found himself in a hug and the big man sobbing and saying he’d never forget his best friend.

“I hear ya, buddy,” Church mumbled and then winced when he heard his body creak in an ominous way. “Put me down now, you fucking moron.”

Surprisingly gentle for Caboose the larger man settled him down and sniffled once. He babbled some sort of goodbye to Church is chagrin and then climbed onto the pelican and settled down for his reassignment. Church found himself stuck, words caught in his throat, but before he could work up the courage the pelican closed its doors, took off, and Church was left standing there.

(…goodbye…)

cowardcowardcowardcowardcoward

(…Caboose…)

The routine returned to fighting and snarling between him and Kaikaina, which quickly devolved into sex because form some reason his stupid mind considered fighting and snarling some weird form of foreplay. Church blamed Tex—they were always at each other’s throats, even when they were good for the other. Before everything fell apart at the seams—before—

(a crash a burn and so tired so fucking tired)

(what happened to me?)

(where were you?)

(help)

(Tex)

(I…)

When he wasn’t fighting or fucking Church watched Red Base. He watched as Grif the orange behemoth left with Simmons, the kiss-ass. He watched as Sarge hid out and far away—much like Kaikaina, in fact. She’d hissed at him, snarled at him when her pelican arrived.

“I’m not here. I’m not here, asshole, go the fuck away.”

“Bitch,” Church snapped back, but left her to hide away in the armory. He didn’t know how she did it, but the pelican left without her.

(he didn’t know how Grif made snow in a desert either)

(they defied logic the Grif siblings)

(he…didn’t know how he felt about that)

And then the pelican came for him, and Church marched onto it without a backward glance. He didn’t need these fuckers anyway—he could get by on his own. He could man up and accept his assignment without care, and continue on as he’d always done. So the safe walls of the box canyon would be gone, what did it matter? They stopped being safe a long time ago.

(no they didn’t)

(everything; it mattered everything)

(this was his box)

(his)

Church didn’t need anyone.

(he did though)

(he needed Tex)

(he needed Tucker)

(he needed Caboose)

Everything would be fine. Church was safe dammit. He was safe.

(I don’t know how to be alone)

(Tex…)

(…I’m scared)

Church realized as the pelican settled into the UNSC ship Father of Intuition that no, he was not safe. This realization came upon him with the urge to run, to run as far and as fast as he could. He didn’t like the ships walls; he didn’t like the echoes in his own mind of something long lost and forgotten—something left behind.

(not the right systems)

(where are my systems?)

(everythings wrong why why why?)

Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong

With fear clawing up his throat and threatening to choke him, Church followed after his ‘guide’ in uncharacteristic silence. Church didn’t pause to think about why he was being led to the bridge—didn’t think about the walls and the echoed screams in his mind that weren’t there. He didn’t think about Sidewinder and Tex—

(fuck)

(Tex)

Church built up mental brick wall after brick wall and cordoned off those thoughts with a sharp ringing no. Not now, not ever. He wasn’t dealing with that shit—he didn’t need to deal with that shit. With the firewalls up Church didn’t relax exactly—he still felt tense, still felt everything was off, but now he didn’t bother with the why. The why didn’t matter.

(it mattered)

(oh it mattered)

The bridge was familiar—a comfort. The design exactly as he remembered it even if the systems were weird and off and made him itch with the uncomfortableness of it. His guide—a Freelancer, of fucking course—came to a stop before the ships commander. Church eyed the man from under his helmet with a frown. The stance was familiar—he found himself subconsciously echoing it like something long forgotten. The figure turned—green eyes, glasses, greying hair—

(that’s my face)

(that’s my face asshole)

—the Director stared back at him. Church snarled. Hatred raced through him for a mere second and then burnt itself out. He felt tired.

“Director,” Church spat with as much vitriol as he could muster.

“Private,” the Director hummed, faintly amused as if there were some big secret he wasn’t sharing with Church.

(Alpha)

alphaalphaalphaalphaalphaalpha

“To what do I owe this fucking pleasure?” Church crossed his arms and stood stiff, rigid.

The Director stood relaxed in comparison, hands behind his back. The artificial lighting of the bridge glinted off of his glasses as he smiled that same self-secret smile. Church wanted to punch his face. He debated the merits of doing so.

“I figured it would be best if we escorted you personally to your new location,” the Director drawled. “To ensure no undesirables find their way to you again.”

“You sent Wyoming,” Church pointed out. He bared his teeth behind his helmet.

“A mistake,” the Director agreed. “One which I will not be making again.” The Director paused, and then added, “Private Tucker is no longer a threat.”

Church jolted forward, but stopped when the Freelancer reached for his gun. Instead he screamed, “What did you do to him?!”

The Director jerked back, almost surprised. Church doubted he was honestly surprised. Consummate actor, dear fucking director, Church thought bitterly.

“I have done nothing,” the Director said slowly, “and neither has Project Freelancer. The UNSC has acquired Private Tucker and relieved him of his service within Freelancer. He is now their asset, and therefore not my problem.”

Church relaxed. That was good. That was good. If the UNSC had Tucker then there was no way the Director could touch him—could send out a hit squad like with Wyoming—and that was good. Church already fucked up enough with Tucker; he couldn’t afford to fuck up any more.

“I had no idea you had grown so…attached,” the Director said, and he did sound surprised. Church glowered.

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll kindly not.”

“Fuck you anyway.”

The Director sighed. “Childish behavior aside,” he drawled, “Agent Nevada here will be escorting you to your quarters while aboard the Father of Intuition. Your new posting is as remote as Blood Gulch, and far more secure. You will be alone this time. I will not make the same mistakes with your safety again.”

Church clenched his fists. “I’m better off alone anyway,” he growled. “I don’t need anyone.”

The Director eyed him, murmured a short, “Yes, I can see that,” and then gestured for Nevada to lead Church off. Church went willingly. The less he had to see the Director, the better.

(hate seethed)

(fear surged)

stopstopstopstopstopstopstop

(not again)

(please)

(Tex)

(where are you?)