tragedienes

[tragedienes]

i've moved! follow @someotherdog

[tragedienes]

i've moved! follow @someotherdog

[tragedienes]

i've moved! follow @someotherdog

[tragedienes]

i've moved! follow @someotherdog

[tragedienes]

i've moved! follow @someotherdog

[tragedienes]

is 4:30 am absolutely the worst time to unveil your new blog?? yeah, but it's when i'm awake to do it. follow @someotherdog <3

[tragedienes]

she never wanted to be a celestial lawyer. she never wanted to be a corporate lawyer. her young heart had been set on criminal justice, putting away the bad guys and keeping streets safe. she worked hard throughout grade school, made it through four years of college, then all the way to law school with the intention of becoming a prosecutor. working for weyland-yutani's corporate law firm couldn't have been further away from what she initially set out to do. she had spent so much time, so much money, in the pursuit of that goal... only to end up on a floating hunk of metal, soaring off to a planet filled with criminals, but she was not going there to prosecute them.

she let herself be talked out of criminal justice. the lack of money and funding, the long hours and the potential danger. the lack of job openings. the rarely rewarding work. the law school she had attended was pushing celestial law pretty hard, a fast growing industry that promised opportunity and a whole lot of money. it was the safest bet you could make. ingrid, with her empty bank account and waiting loans, sold out before there was anything for her to sell. she sold her soul to weyland-yutani, breaking the heart of her liberal, neo-hippie father. she broke her own heart, too, but money talked. it mattered more than ever when said money was all tied up in the stars. when the majority of the population on earth were hungry, poor, only able to make it up to the stars if they joined the military, got a job mining on mars, or sentenced to life imprisonment on a penal colony planet.

that was the thing, though. ingrid had never wanted to be up in the stars. while other kids dreamt of being a ship pilot or space marine, she had only ever wanted to be on earth, where the gravity was natural and not artificially made. she never wanted to live on a civilian orbit colony station, didn't want to work on a craft much like the one she was currently on. that was the thing they promised about celestial law back in school, that you'd be dealing with space-related company issues like buying out smaller manufacturers or the lengthy process of decommissioning old ships. they nearly promised she'd never, ever have to be off of earth for the job, except for very specific circumstances. clearly, this was one of those specific circumstances.

the hallway was different from the control room. the former had been lived in, drably gray, things strewn about. the hallway was the opposite, clinically sterile and blindly white. soap waited for her at the end of it and ingrid felt very much like a child following after her impatient father. their differences in stature probably didn’t help much in that regard, and his obvious growing irritation with her. maybe it was her own insecurities talking, but it felt like he was mad at her because of her incompetence. sure, a seasoned spacefarer like himself was used to navigating a ship, navigating a suspicious situation, but this was a first for ingrid. couldn't he afford her a little bit of grace?

it didn't help that once she caught up to him, he reached down and grabbed for the belt adorning her hips. she leaned away at first, eyeing him warily, but quickly realized what he was doing when the belt began to tighten considerably. she looked down the hall towards the control room, cheeks warming slightly. talk about feeling like a child. clearly she couldn't do anything right. the feeling of haughty stubbornness was rising, reaching a peak when he chastised her. she didn't respond, only shook her head. of course she didn't want it in the wrong hands, but she hadn't wanted it in her own hands, either.

finally he answered her question. she crossed her arms across her chest, fitting the gun (finger still off the trigger!) underneath her other forearm as he began to explain. her eyes drifted up to him, tilting her head back slightly to see his face. the explanation made sense to her, but she still didn't really like his tone. of course all that was already known to him, she had only woken up for her quasi-coma an hour ago. she needed to play catchup, along with her general inexperience in active celestial matters. "okay." she said simply. despite her haughtiness, she didn't want to argue. not then, at least.

suddenly, a robotic voice spoke her name. her shoulders jumped inwards, eyes snapping towards the offending interface. it was only the door entrance panel, but her nerves were taut anyway. whatever lay behind that door could kill her. she didn't know if they'd be lucky or unlucky if nothing was beyond the door. stepping closer to the panel, she listened to soap's further explanation. "alright." ingrid quietly conceded, sparing a glance backwards when he nodded towards the gun he gave her. "it could be our destruction, too, though." she commented plainly; she wasn't being argumentative, just stating a fact.

turning her attention back to the panel, she took a half-step back. "i just have to put my hand up to it, right?" ingrid asked him, giving him a sidelong glance. "we could still back out, y'know." her tone was light, almost joking. despite how much she wanted to go back to the control room and wait out the situation, she had to follow him. she wasn't an idiot, but she wasn't experienced like him, annoying as that was. she had to defer to his judgment. steeling herself, ingrid hesitantly lifted the gun in front of her. figuring that he'd probably readjust her position like he had with her belt a moment earlier, she looked at him expectantly. her other unoccupied hand rose to the panel, hovering inches in front of it. "just say when." / @mutatedangels

Two decades ago now, Soap was a white trash kid putting on fatigues for the first time. Bright-eyed and trigger happy, hungry not for blood but for a sense of purpose. His mouth was as big as his ego and anybody who challenged him heard from his fist. He didn't always win, but Quinn at that point in life fought practically everybody.

It wasn't until he and the Reaper Squad (a rag tag team of a dozen other soldiers he graduated with, dwindled down to less than 10 now, scattered all across Earth at this point) actually set foot on enemy dirt for the first time that he realized all of it was just an illusion. Of patriotism, of heroism. Of something. And that beyond the haze of Purple Hearts was nothing but a battleground where some of the best heroes weren't given medals. They just fuckin' died.

Such was the life of a soldier. It was a gamble and unless you knew how to play your cards right, you were in for a losing game. Hell, even if you knew the ins and outs of it, anything could happen.

He remembered how he got his name. "Shepard," Staff Sergeant Langley—who had begun to let Soap call him Skip after years right before he passed away two Junes ago—mused aloud. The squad was in transport after their first successful mission, bruised and battered but breathing. Everybody had a nickname except him. Hell, most of the Reapers had gotten their nicknames in boot camp. (Didn't take a genius to name some of them, though.) Quinn was a black sheep in that way. No name felt right.

Until that mission. "Kinda like 'shepherd.' Not bad for somebody who's always last, making sure everybody's gathered before moving forward. Better than 'Caboose.'" Langley snickered. But his lip turned up. There was still something off about that name.

"You can call him 'Skidmark' for all I care," chimed in one of the other Reapers' voices. It was Eli, also known as King, per his last name. Everybody laughed at that name. Of course it meant shitstain. "All I know is, if he didn't catch that one bogey who was still alive, he would'a killed us all from behind."

In other words, King was saying 'thank you.' They practically grew up together, knew each other from back home, and yet, he couldn't swallow enough pride to show plain gratitude to Quinn. Maybe King figured that tooting his horn in front of everybody would do him well. He was young and arrogant anyway, so in a way, King was right. But Quinn wanted more; he wanted that approval.

"Ah, I know what to call ya," Langley said, cracking a big grin. "You're a scrubber. You ever heard of that, son? 'Scrubbers' make sure the place is wiped clean." A euphemism for making sure everybody was dead before moving on. Quinn didn't know there was a name for it. He just didn't want to leave any loose ends.

"So," Langley continued. Quinn was hanging on his sergeant's every word. "We'll call you Soap."

Soap was pulled out of his memory by the sound of the smaller woman's voice. He'd managed to walk down the aforementioned hallway without crashing into anything, but at the same time, the hallway was completely empty. It was lit with bright white, almost hospital-like lights, feeling strangely serene for the unknown that waited at the end of it. Knowing that her question would likely lead into more, he stopped at the very end of the hallway, waiting for her to catch up to him. He wasn't stupid, he knew she was straying back for a reason, but it felt ironic given what he'd recalled about his name.

He watched her close the distance between them, and she looked so small and vulnerable. Maybe it was because he knew her to be so. After all, he was assigned to protect her. But he found it hard to believe that anyone else, someone unfamiliar with her, would be intimidated by her. Her utility belt dangled loosely from her hips. He reached down to tug it tighter, handling her a bit like a rag doll. Before he addressed her question, he said, "If you drop this, you're dead. Worse, someone else might find it. You don't want it in the wrong hands, do you?"

Then, her question. It was a stupid one. Soap didn't want to explain it. In an ideal world he would make the rules, give her the orders, and she'd have no other choice but to follow them. He'd gone over this before. She didn't think that while she was asleep, he'd already surveyed all of their options? If there was anything better to do than venture out into the unknown, surely Soap would have chosen it. This wasn't a death mission for him. He wanted to get out of this alive just as she did, no matter who was meant to protect who.

Remaining standing in front of the door, which would be activated by Ingrid's handprint and her handprint only (another reason why Soap thought to act when he did), he figured that entertaining her question would shut her up. At the very least, keep her from doing anything stupid in case she didn't think this was a good idea.

"Any time anyone wakes up cryosleep, someone in the pilot's den is alerted. They keep a grid of who's in the cryobeds. It's an overview of everyone's vitals. Hell, they can even tell when you're dreaming," he said. Though, it wasn't hard to measure someone's brain pattern. Being in REM usually meant high peaks, low valleys, rigid like shark's teeth. Anyway, the point is: "Someone would have noticed we were awake and they would have come for us. They would have come for me as soon as I woke up."

He took a deep breath through his nose and looked at the door. The small, square interface to the left of it, where Ingrid would place her hand, woke up with a hum. The female voice of the computer then said: "Good evening, Ms. Sergeant." At least that was working.

"It could be that something's wrong with comms. But even then... At some point, someone would have noticed and have come to check on all of the people sleeping here eventually." A beat. "We could open this door and everything would be back to normal, and you wouldn't need to use that." He gestured to her gun with a nod.

"Or, we could open this door and you might need to use it. All I know is why wait to be saved when salvation might only be a few steps away?"

[tragedienes]

does anyone else have a hard time writing during the day when the sun is still out or am i just weird?

[tragedienes]

the day had just been... shit. that was the only word that barbie could think of to describe it. from the moment she woke up, nothing had been going right: her boss, the city mayor, scolded her after she misplaced an important re-election fund document, her mother had clearly been daydrinking from the handful of misspelled text messages that barbie got while at work, her roommate informed her that she was moving in with her boyfriend in a few weeks when they just renewed their lease for another six months, she spilled coffee all over her blouse, starbucks was out of cake pops—god damn the list went on! she was already on the verge of tears by the time she had finally come home from work, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and probably fall asleep with her makeup still on. thankfully keeping her tears at bay all the way up the stairs and through the hall, she put the key in the deadbolt like she did every night, only for the key to refuse to turn over.

grunting, barbie tried again. and again. the key only moved a bit, no matter how much strength she applied. the second it seemed to actually make a bit of progress, barbie sighed in relief, but then she heard a snap. "no..." she futilely shook her head, those tears previously kept at bay starting to fall. still gripping the key, she brought her hand away from the lock only to see the metal in her hand split in half. "god damn it! no!" barbie yelled, unable to care if she disturbed her neighbors. still not believing it, she stood in front of the closed door as if it would magically open just because she willed it. she doubted her roommate was home, probably off with that damn boyfriend, and the super rarely answered their phone on a good day. unable to do anything, barbie started to sob. dropping her bags to the floor, she turned around and soon followed them, sliding down the door until she sat down completely. her legs sprawled in front of her, she felt—and looked—like a forgotten ragdoll. she didn't know what to do or who to call, so she just cried.

she didn't notice her neighbor walk into the hall, focused on her own sorrow, but they rarely acknowledged each other any other time anyway. barbara was content to wallow in her own pity, softly sniffling, when said neighbor surprisingly turned back around. "huh?" barbie broke out of her trance, looking up to the tall stranger. wiping the wetness off her cheeks, she shrugged sadly. "the lock. its stuck." she sniffled again. "you wouldn't happen to be a locksmith, would you?" barbie asked dryly. she didn't know what he did for work, or what his name was, but she knew she wouldn't be that lucky. she never had been before. @sympathyforawolf

Open To —  F/NB (25+) Description: This mixed in with a little bit of the good ol' I got locked out of my apartment trope

It had been a long night for Kenji and as he made his way through the front door of the apartment complex, he let out a small sigh, wanting nothing more than to get home and rest, the watch he work ticking just past 1am. He readjusted the strap of his camera bag on his shoulders, the device filled with images of the wife of the man who hired him in a very compromising position with someone else. He never did feel good about these kinds of results but it put money on the table which helped him go after those who really mattered.

As he turned the corner and began to make his way to his door, Ken noticed his new neighbor outside her door, sitting on the floor. He didn't even shoot her a glance as he reached his own, just like in nearly every other instance they saw each other in the hall, but he heard a small sniffle behind him and paused at the realization that she'd been crying. Shit. He couldn't just leave the woman out here on her own if she was in distress. So after a brief moment of hesitation, Ken relented to his good nature and turned to his neighbor with a look of trepidation and concern. "Hey," he said - finally acknowledging her for the first time since she'd moved in. "You doing alright?"

[tragedienes]

being the leader of a survivor colony, something that she hadn't asked for nor really wanted, didn't leave alice with a lot of downtime. whether it was an actual threat, like the undead nearly slipping through the barricade, or something more mundane like cranky old mr. sampson accusing a younger member of stealing his rations, there was rarely a moment that she got to herself. there was always something to do, a problem to solve, a crisis to handle. the minutes she could steal away, usually for a private smoke break, didn't last for very long. that was why when melody suddenly popped up, alice couldn't help just a twinge of disappointment. it only lasted for a few seconds though, as melody was one of her favorite members (not that alice would ever admit to having favorites!). she tittered lightly, flicking the ash of her cigarette behind her, "well, at least we can be thankful for that in all of this, right?" alice joked weakly, allowing herself a small drag before speaking again, "i'm doin' okay, all things considered." as much as alice longed for some alone time, she did have to be grateful for melody's concern. the other members of the group weren't always fond her and the hard decisions she often had to make. "how 'bout you, hon? how're you holding up?" @mischicfd

at times it was almost difficult to remember what her life was like prior to this. had she actually been able to walk outside, without the need for a weapon within reach? or wake up, get a coffee and just head to her then seemingly tedious job? it seemed like a fever dream at this point. there was some solace, she supposed, that came with living in the colony. there was companionship and camaraderie that she hadn’t had when the apocalypse first started. she’d been on her own in the beginning, so finally having a community to call her own was something she was thankful for among the chaos. at the moment though, she was on the hunt for alice to check up on the older woman, a daily ritual of sorts. once she found her, melody let out a laugh. “i’m pretty sure, after everything that we’ve had to do, smoking is the last thing someone should judge.” she joked with a smirk. “i just came to see how you’re doing today.” @tragedienes

[tragedienes]

okay hi hello :) i'm in the process of moving to a new blog bc new year new look new velouria (even tho its may) and also i figure i should just get used to beta before we all have to make the big switch anyways. i'm still working on things so i'm gonna reply to a few things on here still before i make the big move, but i'm pretty excited abt it! i'll be going back and forth between this blog and the new one if anyone wants to chat or plot <3

[tragedienes]

@mutatedangels / in reply to this, because i like to turn memes into threads lol i hope that's okay! made in beta.

soleil was a fuckin' liar. there, she just said it, and jeannie's already tenuous belief in her shattered completely then. that was what hurt the most, suspecting that she had been lying and then believing her anyway. jeannie felt a little mean, privately thinking her friend's stories were fabricated, or in the very least exaggerated, but she chose to give soleil the benefit of the doubt because she had just been so damn lonely. even before, when she was just a child and ice skating was only a hobby instead of her occupation, jeannine had a hard time making friends. the culture that figure skating promoted didn't exactly lend its self to friendships much either—everyone, even the few friends she did have, were competition.

she had left that all behind her, though. at least she had tried. since officially hanging up her skates and returning to small town louisiana, she had the same problems she did before, now she just made a lot less money (and had a lot less stress, too). her coworkers at big lots hadn't warmed up to her, nor had she warmed up to them, in her long eight months stocking shelves and ringing up customers. her step-mother, jesus christ did jeannie hate her, and she loved her toddler half-sister but she couldn't be counted as a friend. enter soleil.

soleil reminded her of a time in her life she had tried hard not to miss. she was glamorous and glossy, always speaking of fabulous adventures and famous people. jeannie had not wanted to admit that skating came with benefits, all the sponsorships and free clothing, all the perks that being a (moderately) successful skater gained. she had not wanted to admit that sometimes she still dreamt of olympic gold, she still wished she could've made it farther in her career, that she hadn't given it all up just because she was getting older and aging out. even if a tiny part of her thought soleil was a bullshitter, she was willing to ignore it if it meant she could still be in reaching distance of fame. maybe, if their friendship continued to grow, they'd both head out to new orleans or hollywood and take advantage of soleil's supposed famous connections, and jeannie could probably try her hand at being an influencer or something. just anything to get her out of her dad's house and a big lots uniform.

hearing her friend's excuses, it was making jeannie feel frustrated, ready for a tantrum that would make a kindergartner think she needed to relaxx. "that is not the way to play this!" uncrossing her arms, she held out her hands exasperatingly. even if there was some truth to what she was saying, jeannie didn't think that was a good enough explanation. sure, the house that jeannie lived in was nice, half a million dollars, but it was her dad's house. she had no real claim to it, not with her dad's new family taking up most of the space. sure, she had been used to the finer things in life, being gifted nike shoes and adidas sports bras, taking first class trips to european countries for competitions and exhibitions. that was all in the past, however. that wasn't the girl she was anymore. if anything, jeannie was more like her than soleil had realized: they were both broke as fuck. at least jeannie hadn't lied about it, though.

seeing her friend start to cry, it almost broke her resolve. she held fast, chin turning upwards slightly. "did you ever consider that maybe i would've liked you even if you did live in some shitbox and hadn't made up a bunch of stories?" jeannine dryly swallowed. the slow, sad little tear dragging down soleil's face nearly made her crack, but she kept it together. "i didn't have nobody either, y'know. i came back here to this town i hate and live with people i hate, and work with people i hate. you were the only person 'round these parts that didn't piss me off... now i really don't have anybody. in fact, i wish i had never met you. then i wouldn't be so disappointed."

[tragedienes]

that’s the great puzzle —alice in wonderland.   (  insp  )

[tragedienes]

hi, i hope this is ok to ask?? i was wondering if you were in a roleplay called hellstate a few years ago? cause i swear i remember the name ingrid sergeant from it. anyway - hope you're doing well!!

omgg sorry i took forever to answer this but yes!! i was actually one of the admins, rachel. :) i still have ingrid kickin' around here and a few other former hs characters in my roster, so please do hit me up if you ever want to write again!!! love you non <3

[tragedienes]

[tragedienes]

warren didn't resist the urge to roll his eyes, but that was his standard reaction to his twin, especially when she pulled out the dramatics. flicking his cigarette in her opposite direction (as he wasn't raised in a barn, couldn't say the same for present company), warren sighed. he was a poet, being corny was part of the handbook. "no, i was not in your room. why the hell would i ever want to be in your room?" was the womb they had once shared not enough? "what do you mean your closet was shredded?" he asked, a touch concerned. despite how bickering was natural to them as breathing, they were twins. if anyone was allowed to sneak into her room and mess with her shit, it would only ever be warren. "could you possibly lighten up? it's our birthday, millie."

"are you serious?" camille barked, shifting her weight from one hip to another to emphasize the way she crossed her arms. she was not as gangly as her brother, but she had a way of making herself seem larger than life. "don't be corny." narrowing her eyes, she asked again. "were you in my room? because the place is absolutely trashed and my closet is shredded." if it wasn't warren, something much more nefarious was going on.

[tragedienes]

ingrid had woken up some, but still felt so far away from her body, from their situation. standing in the cold control room, a borrowed wy crew jacket over her torso, she thought of herself and her younger sister, marnie, playing in their mother's dresses and makeup long ago. they were too small back then to fit in the meteorologist's clothes, acting out the forecast in their make-believe tv studio, blouses hanging loosely off their shoulders. that was how ingrid felt then; a child playing pretend, wearing clothes too big and acting as if they were someone different than who they actually were. and before her, the man she needed to pretend to be like: someone strong, someone that knew what they were doing.

i know what guns look like, ingrid wanted to say, like any good wyoming girl, though remained quiet. anyway, it wasn't entirely true. her parents hated guns, actually, and ingrid never had much interest in them herself growing up. so she could identify it on sight, of course, but that was the extent of her knowledge. she never wanted to become more knowledgeable on it, though he clearly had other plans. feeling the weight of the weapon in her palm, it was heavier than she had expected. setting it down briefly, she nodded at his explanation as if that made any sense to her. "okay, i understand." if ingrid had it her way, she'd never have to fire it at all, but she wasn't a complete idiot when it came to guns. never rest your finger on the trigger, never point it at anyone without intent to shoot.

fitting the belt over her hips, she fumbled with the clasp a bit before it finally connected. then, she picked up the force gun again, keeping her finger far away from the trigger, and put it in the holster attached to the belt. a bit more outfitted now, if she saw herself in a mirror, she might've thought that she looked the part. she'd never be like him, obviously, but maybe now she didn't look so out of place. maybe she could pull it off, being a space cowboy. in any case, she at least had something to protect herself, if need be. watching as he readied his own weapon, some sort of rifle-looking thing, it made her grow a tad more fearful. their situation was already strange, waking up to an empty ship, but just how strange was it? how scared should she be?

she had hoped it was all a misunderstanding. that, somehow, the crew had simply gotten lost aboard the ship—it was quite a large one, wasn't it? one of the biggest that weyland-yutani manufactured, she figured. she didn't want to think about any other outcome than them coming upon the missing crew simply eating in the mess hall or going about their daily duties, just on a different hangar. the crew would be confused or unnerved by the pair's entrance, carrying weapons and franticly searching. ingrid would probably burst into tears the moment she happened upon the crew, all alive and chastising them for being so worried. then they'd sail to the planet in question, ingrid would prove those saying her employers did human testing on prisoners were lying, she'd get some big pay bump and then probably never have to see the tall human paid to protect her ever again.

that was a far better outcome, that fantasy, than what had actually occurred before ingrid woke up an hour ago. something had gone wrong, be it human error or—she didn't want to think about it. she didn't want to be awoken from cryosleep, wearing some man's jacket and some other person's utility belt that held a pulse-energy-emitting gun. she didn't want any of what was currently happening to her... and yet. there she was, eyeing the stranger paid to keep her alive carefully. "oh, okay." thanks for the vote of confidence, she bitterly thought, though she would've had to admit that maybe he wasn't wrong to think that. she wouldn't admit it, but she was out of her depth. she wouldn't admit it, but it was clearly obvious. the man didn't even know her and already assumed she'd get herself killed from being too hasty or too confident. one brow quirked in irritation, but she didn't react further.

ingrid lagged a few seconds behind him to start, but followed dutifully once she caught up. she tried to edge closer to him, thinking she'd be less likely to do something stupid if she was near him as possible, without falling into total step with him—if someone or something wanted to harm them on the ship, let them get him first instead! or rather, let them get soap instead. upon hearing his name, ingrid stifled her chortle as best she could. she figured that was just a nickname, probably something he gained in the military or the company or boy scouts, whatever it was he had been part of before his current mission. she didn't ask for his real name, though instantly grew curious as to what it was. percival, maybe? samson or colin? she didn't know why those names popped in her mind, but strangely they made sense to her. a mystery for another day.

sighing, ingrid glanced up at the man next to her. "can i just ask you something?" she didn't wait for an answer, already launching into her question, "is there a particular reason why we're going out there? wouldn't it be just as smart to wait back there for someone to come find us? i mean it seems like we were pretty safe in the control room and if your job is to keep me alive, that looked like a pretty good place to do it." maybe that was the answer, wait until some crew member happened upon them, or they could put out a distress signal and wait until another ship flew into the same orbit as them. she would've preferred to be a sitting duck than going out to solve the crew's disappearance, but she didn't want to be left alone. as annoying as it was that soap had to be paid to watch over her, she had to be grateful she wasn't going through it all by herself. "just sayin'."

@mutatedangels

As soon as the blonde disappeared into the other room, Soap prepared for their excursion. He wasn't sure what awaited them on the other side of the door exiting their quadrant. For all he knew, things could be right as rain; a small society of attendants and staff keeping things in order while passengers in the other quadrants slept soundly. And what happened to him and Ingrid could be nothing but a fluke.

But he remembered what the cryobeds beside him looked like when he woke up. The top glass layer of each cryobed was shattered and the bodies, as far as he knew, were nowhere to be found. Emptied, not empty. Even more peculiar was that there was hardly a trace of a massacre in the cot bay. A few blood stains, sure, but no sign of struggle besides the holes in the cryobed pods. It was as if the passengers were snatched by... someone. Or something.

At least Ingrid was awake now and Soap was that much closer to uncovering the mystery. As a mercenary hired by Weyland-Yutani, he wasn't told much. His objective was simply to protect and assist Ingrid as she needed it. There was no mention or warning that they would be stranded. He glanced up at the separate bay that held escape pods; he forgot to mention those to Ingrid before she stepped away. Getting to the escape pods was plausible if it came down to that. The only thing stopping them was that they needed a chief's authentication. He huffed.

An array of weapons were unrolled on the table in the center of the control room when Ingrid walked in. Soap glanced up when he heard her footsteps, the sound of anyone else alive jarring to him. And it likely would be for some time until he got used to it, but getting used to it meant letting his guard down. That was something he didn't do. He wasn't programmed that way.

At her question, he picked up a utility belt from the table as well as a force gun. It was one of the smaller weapons that anyone could handle whether or not they had prior shooting experience. After all, the gun wasn't exactly something that could deal damage. Worst case scenario, she'd accidentally launch Soap against the wall. "Put this on," he said, opting not to answer her right away. "This—" he set the compact force gun in her palm— "is a gun." Obvious, yes. Except, he omitted some information on purpose.

"It shoots pulse energy. Standard, like a semi-automatic, 9-millimeter back home." Or a GLOCK-9. But that was a lie. "Only shoot it if you absolutely have to. Otherwise, I don't wanna see your finger on the trigger. Understand?" In actuality, the force gun was more of a defensive weapon; something that emitted a force that blew enemies away in case of crowd control. If she needed it, she could use it, and he wouldn't have to worry about getting his brains absolutely blown out by her panic.

He strapped on a pulse rifle, Weyland-Yutani manufactured, just like the rest of the armory. It was an assault rifle, Soap's weapon of choice back when he was in the military. He'd shot it a few times when he was training for this job back home. Most likely it was no different than the real thing. Now, to answer her question.

"I'm supposed to make sure you don't do anything stupid and that you don't die," he told her flatly. "Under my watch. Or else I don't get paid." He nodded toward the exit of the control room, which would lead them into the hallway and to the door that led to the exit of the quadrant at the very end. And whatever lied ahead. At least the lights and power were still on. As he led the way, hand loose around his rifle and eyes forward and alert, he said, "I know your name already. I'm Soap."