.
Ducksworth
Member
Quack.
STATUS: Have you ever had a dream that you um you had your you could you’ll do you wants you you could do so you’ll do you could you you want you want them to do you so much you could do anything? 28 days ago
- Last Seen: Online
- Joined: 2 yrs ago
- Posts: 291 (0.42 / day)
- VMs: 0
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Username history
- Ducksworth 1 yr ago
- ████████ 2 yrs ago
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Status
Recent Statuses
28 days ago
Current
Have you ever had a dream that you um you had your you could you’ll do you wants you you could do so you’ll do you could you you want you want them to do you so much you could do anything?
7
likes
3 mos ago
I've just come out of an existential eldritch hysteria induced nap and running on 6,000 years of sleep
5
likes
9 mos ago
I tap refresh and wait and see, a flashing note, a reply for me. No new posts, just the same old screen, yet still I hope for what might've been.
7
likes
10 mos ago
"He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness."
2
likes
10 mos ago
Looking for a few people to help create a shared sci-fi universe. If that sounds fun, drop me a PM!
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Bio
Hadn't updated this in a WHILE so I deleted it. I'm Ducksworth, or Duck, or Duckie. PM if you wanna know more, yeah?
Most Recent Posts
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Excited to get started on this one! Do you want me to format the CS I gave you into the one provided or is the I did good enough?
Jet propped the prosthetic forearm against his knee, the broken elbow joint cradled against the hard edge of his ribs. Its metal shell was buckled, scraped, scorched where stress had split the casing down the seam. The smell of burnt circuitry clung to it, acrid and metallic. He should’ve fixed it hours ago.
One working hand. One hydrospanner. He turned the tool slowly, easing a warped bearing into alignment. The edge of his thumb traced the rim, checking for catch. The ache in his knuckles had been a dull hum for hours, but he welcomed it. It meant he was still here.
The cargo bay was still, quiet in that heavy way that creeps in late when the ship's asleep but your thoughts aren’t. Above, the fans pulsed softly. Wrench muttered somewhere in the corridor, likely about the busted ceiling.
Nar Shaddaa soon, Helix after that. There were vaults to crack, codes to break… Fel was already dreaming of the payout like they weren’t scraping parts together just to stay airborne. Jet let the checklist roll through his head like static, noise to keep the dark from pushing in around the edges.
He would've had this done already, if it weren’t for Nova dropping through the ceiling…
Nova?
He froze.
That wasn’t Nova.
The stowaway had been human. Wide eyes sunken like someone who hadn’t slept in days. But his mind had conjured green skin, wild curls, and her: Nova, tumbling feet-first from the ceiling of his old Nar’ workshop, laughing like gravity meant nothing to her.
The disconnect fractured something in his chest. The tool slipped.
Metal sliced deep into his palm.
“Kriff—!”
He jerked back, breath catching sharp as the hydrospanner clattered to the floor. Blood welled instantly, warm and viscous, rolling down his wrist. A single drop landed on the prosthetic's wrist socket.
Red on metal. Then…
Felucia.
Jungle heat pressed into his skin like a fever. The air stank of churned soil and something fouler, something burnt. Mud sucked at his knees where he crouched behind a makeshift blind, hands dancing over a cracked security console. His visor flickered.
“Two minutes, Jet,” Rexa’s voice came through the comm, clipped but calm. “You’re almost there.”
He looked back. She was there, rifle raised, eyes locked on the perimeter. Steady, and unshaken.
Then she jolted. It was a clean bolt, center mass. Her chestplate fractured with a hiss and a scream of melting plastoid. She collapsed without a sound.
Jet watched the light leave her eyes before his legs even moved.
“No… no no-...”
He was on her, too late. His hands fumbled for pressure, for a wound he couldn’t find. Her breath was rattling. Then not.
He didn’t remember standing. Didn't remember reaching for her DC-15A. Just the weight of it in his hands. His scream never reached his lips.
He pulled the trigger. Blaster bolts ripped through the jungle. Green bark exploded. Screams lit up the dark and fell quiet. Trees burned. Men died. He kept shooting. Bursts of fire tore through the undergrowth, his vision smeared with tears he hadn’t realized were falling. His arms shook. Blood stuck to his boots. He couldn’t stop.
He didn’t want to stop.
The shots bled into ringing.
“Jet!”
The voice was thin, flickering through the haze.
“Jet!”
He spun, half-expecting to see Rexa, still breathing, still standing.
Just smoke.
“JET!”
The cargo bay came back like a slap. Jet gasped, bent forward. He was soaked with sweat, his shirt once again clung to him like a second skin. His breath came in short, broken pulls. The cut in his palm throbbed angrily.
His fingers trembled. He looked down at the arm, at the blood. At nothing that could give him comfort. She was gone. And Nova? Nova was out there somewhere. Alone, Maybe afraid, Maybe hurt, and he knew nothing. Maybe he hadn’t earned knowing.
His vision blurred again. He blinked hard, setting his jaw, and pressed the cloth tighter to his hand until the sting bit deeper than the memory. Then he reached down, slowly, deliberately, and retrieved the hydrospanner from the floor.
One-handed work. One more seam to straighten. No ghosts now. Just metal.
One working hand. One hydrospanner. He turned the tool slowly, easing a warped bearing into alignment. The edge of his thumb traced the rim, checking for catch. The ache in his knuckles had been a dull hum for hours, but he welcomed it. It meant he was still here.
The cargo bay was still, quiet in that heavy way that creeps in late when the ship's asleep but your thoughts aren’t. Above, the fans pulsed softly. Wrench muttered somewhere in the corridor, likely about the busted ceiling.
Nar Shaddaa soon, Helix after that. There were vaults to crack, codes to break… Fel was already dreaming of the payout like they weren’t scraping parts together just to stay airborne. Jet let the checklist roll through his head like static, noise to keep the dark from pushing in around the edges.
He would've had this done already, if it weren’t for Nova dropping through the ceiling…
Nova?
He froze.
That wasn’t Nova.
The stowaway had been human. Wide eyes sunken like someone who hadn’t slept in days. But his mind had conjured green skin, wild curls, and her: Nova, tumbling feet-first from the ceiling of his old Nar’ workshop, laughing like gravity meant nothing to her.
The disconnect fractured something in his chest. The tool slipped.
Metal sliced deep into his palm.
“Kriff—!”
He jerked back, breath catching sharp as the hydrospanner clattered to the floor. Blood welled instantly, warm and viscous, rolling down his wrist. A single drop landed on the prosthetic's wrist socket.
Red on metal. Then…
Felucia.
Jungle heat pressed into his skin like a fever. The air stank of churned soil and something fouler, something burnt. Mud sucked at his knees where he crouched behind a makeshift blind, hands dancing over a cracked security console. His visor flickered.
“Two minutes, Jet,” Rexa’s voice came through the comm, clipped but calm. “You’re almost there.”
He looked back. She was there, rifle raised, eyes locked on the perimeter. Steady, and unshaken.
Then she jolted. It was a clean bolt, center mass. Her chestplate fractured with a hiss and a scream of melting plastoid. She collapsed without a sound.
Jet watched the light leave her eyes before his legs even moved.
“No… no no-...”
He was on her, too late. His hands fumbled for pressure, for a wound he couldn’t find. Her breath was rattling. Then not.
He didn’t remember standing. Didn't remember reaching for her DC-15A. Just the weight of it in his hands. His scream never reached his lips.
He pulled the trigger. Blaster bolts ripped through the jungle. Green bark exploded. Screams lit up the dark and fell quiet. Trees burned. Men died. He kept shooting. Bursts of fire tore through the undergrowth, his vision smeared with tears he hadn’t realized were falling. His arms shook. Blood stuck to his boots. He couldn’t stop.
He didn’t want to stop.
The shots bled into ringing.
“Jet!”
The voice was thin, flickering through the haze.
“Jet!”
He spun, half-expecting to see Rexa, still breathing, still standing.
Just smoke.
“JET!”
The cargo bay came back like a slap. Jet gasped, bent forward. He was soaked with sweat, his shirt once again clung to him like a second skin. His breath came in short, broken pulls. The cut in his palm throbbed angrily.
His fingers trembled. He looked down at the arm, at the blood. At nothing that could give him comfort. She was gone. And Nova? Nova was out there somewhere. Alone, Maybe afraid, Maybe hurt, and he knew nothing. Maybe he hadn’t earned knowing.
His vision blurred again. He blinked hard, setting his jaw, and pressed the cloth tighter to his hand until the sting bit deeper than the memory. Then he reached down, slowly, deliberately, and retrieved the hydrospanner from the floor.
One-handed work. One more seam to straighten. No ghosts now. Just metal.
I don't know if this has been reported yet but I can't look at individual images from my profile? Like, I can see the images in the preview, I can change the folders and stuff but clicking on an image basically refreshes the current page? Not a major issue but thought I'd mention it.
The mood boards have only ignited my interest even further!
You all good with the image I showed you in my CS?
Aww, man! I just found this and there's already no interest? Sad times.. (Also, I'm interested should it revive)
Ive already shown my CS to OP heh heh heh
Black Fleet, here I come!!
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