Howler

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

It was always fun to listen to them tell war stories. In many ways it reminded him of his father--the better parts, at least, where he wasn't drunk or slapping him around or trying to bulk him up.

...maybe it just reminded him of his father.

Either way, it was a hell of a lot more entertaining coming from friends and comrades than a father figure. The after-the-fact bitching and humor was always easy to fall into, an old routine between the two brawlers of the group, so different but so in sync. He laughed along with the jokes and chuckled, but in some ways he wondered if he wouldn't always be at least a little bit of an outsider to it all. Coming through the labs wasn't exactly like coming in through the proper channels. When he'd first started it had been more pronounced, the pissing contest more awkward and more obvious. It would have been hard if he hadn't shown them what a real flyboy could do when he'd first jockeyed...or cared what they thought.

It was all about the ride. Everything else was just gravy.

Tom was about to open his mouth to chime in when the ship suddenly lurched, sending him down to one knee hard on the metal grating of the floor. With his teeth grit, he swore mildly as the sensation flooded his knee only to be replaced with the yell to brace and the violent lurch of the ship. Only barely did he manage to get a hand on one of the ship's railings and only barely did he manage to keep his footing, but he pulled his way through it and was off for the Mosquito before Trapp was done talking. Close defense for the bombers... the Mosquito was a long range unit, not suited to the task. It didn't occur to him to disobey, or to counter the order, because his lips were already pulling into a quiet smile, his heart already to pump with that delicious adrenaline. Outnumbered, caught unawares, launching under emergency conditions with a new leader, a new pilot...

Oh yeah. This was gonna be good.

He hooked his way up to the Mosquito's cockpit with a practiced hop to the rung at the top of the knee, another pull-push across the machine to the hip joint and an easy swing from there up into the seating configuration. As the dark sealed him in and his fingers deftly pulled his machine tight around him, the lighting came on and the sturdy metal walls disappeared in a twisting display of HUDs just as Wes complained about the bomb on his back.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head, Alice, we'll get Cinderella to the ball." He drawled, already starting to feel the rush as he flexed his fingers and settled them into molded controls--a more modern unit, the Mosquito used a pair of rail-mounted glove controls for fine engine and power manipulation rather than the usual two-joystick set-up you found in most MAS units, and if it made it a bitch to get the hang of once you were there you could run circles around anything on the market. He was awful happy he'd gone through the optimization suite before all this started, it would have been a hell to get it all up and running otherwise, but after sounding off and getting the techno-bullshit out of the way he had a gun in hand and the engine revving by the time it was his turn to chime in.

"Party time, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Wizard's up and running."

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

I'll have a post up later tonight. sorry, I been all lazy and crap.

Game of Thrones - a Song of Ice and Fire

Deckard Stark is submitted.

Might also mess about with a House under the Greyjoys.

Mass Effect : Absolution

I'll probably be applying tomorrow--likely busy today.

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

Even if Tom had an interest in chatting up the rookie, it took him until the inspection was called just to get his stupid machine in fighting order. It didn't matter how many times he saved the profile in the optimization suite or explained to them what he was doing, they still would insist on cocking it all up and he'd still have to redo it. As he settled into line and hopped out of his kneeling MAS to the floor for his inspection, he snapped into a perfect salute when the Captain neared his unit.

They were old hands at this now, he and Alexis. She'd walk up and go through his machine, he'd stand there and wait for her to come back and call him boring, he'd smile and admit that he was and she'd walk on. A bit of banter now and then, but compared to the rest of the squad he was easy. He ate like a bird at the best of times and not in his MAS except during prolonged operations, he didn't keep contraband in the unit--not like there was room--he didn't worry about pictures of naked women...

"Sometimes I think you're more of a machine than Alice, Lieutenant."

Heading down from the cabin with surprising agility, the Captain eyed him up the same way she always did and he smiled the same way he always did, easing from attention at a dismissive wave--they were almost passed formalities at this point. He was surprised she bothered to check.

"You know me, Captain. Bigger fish to fry."

"Someday I'm going to find something deeply disturbing in there." She chuckled, eyeing him in faux-appraisal. "A secret stash of kinky holo-vids, a dead hooker... I should start a betting pool. 'What does Mr. Wizard stash in his MAS when no one's looking'."

"You sure you want to know?" He couldn't help the slight edge of sly that crept into his smile. She had a way with people, he had to give her that--it was a rare person that could illicit any real reaction from the pilot that wasn't intended. A good leader, then--Tori Astelion had been the same way. In all the time she'd been Captain of the kind of ship children dreamed of commanding, he'd never doubted her at the helm.

"Absolutely not." A genuine laugh out of her, even.

"Thank you, ma'am." Snapping to attention, heels clicked together, he chuckled slightly as she shook her head again and stalked off to her next victim.

"And tally those kills, Lieutenant! Show some pride!"

It was her usual admonishment, barked over her shoulder without looking--one of the few orders he didn't follow and never would, but it made him smile to hear it.

-----

As soon as she was gone and they were dismissed he was snapping out a cigarette, the casual motion almost automatic. Everyone knew he smoked like a chimney, the running joke being that he breathed more tar than air. Nobody lives forever, he'd say with a quirked smile as someone shook their head, but just in case. Astelion was getting chewed out, but what was surprising about that? The Captain was a bear when it came to her charges, even among themselves. Making his way to his comrades, a grey sheet sliding past his lips up his face, he settled in almost as silently as Alice while Wes reminisced about the joys of infantry coffee.

"Never did get used to the stuff." He piped up idly, breathing over his shoulder as he ashed. "Figured by the time I'm drinking more cream and sugar than coffee I might as well stop pretending I like it. But knock it back, cowboy, money's on a long day."

There Are No Heroes [Revamp]

There.

Suck it, time.

There Are No Heroes [Revamp]

Nobody likes a warm Coors Light.

At the best of times, Coors Light is what you drank on a hot day when water isn't alcoholic enough and a real beer is too heavy. Ordering one at a bar just seemed like an exercise in futility--what was the point of going to a bar and not getting drunk? That home-away-from-home nonsense never really clicked with Michelle, who understood bars the same way every eighteen year old who occasionally slipped past security thinks they understand bars. Most of what she understood was that warm beer was gross and the fastest way to get a new drink was to pour through the one she had, so she drained it about as quickly as is socially acceptable for a young lady to pound down a shitty beer and flagged down a waitress.

She had to admit, there was something...off about the place tonight. The only way she could describe it was through scent, but that wasn't really right. Big Bad might have had a nose that could smell a quivering meal from a mile and a half away but Michelle very much didn't, and it was hard enough to describe the senses she did have half the time. It was an undercurrent, like ozone, and as far as she could tell it was coming from the three hipsters front and center watching the show. All glasses and flanels and--shit, were those cowboy boots?--they didn't exactly look like the kind of people she thought she'd see in a place like this.

Though admittedly, it did have a weird ass instrument on stage that made music when you waved at it. It didn't get much more hipster than that.

Bars were for getting drunk, and getting drunk took alcohol. 4.2% was not going to make a difference. With a (relatively) flush wallet and a decent enough night for it, Michelle was ready to make a trip to the bar worth it, and that meant girly drinks. The kind with umbrellas and syrups and a dozen and a half different liquors that she would never in a million years bother buying. What was the point in stocking that shit if you weren't ever going to use it? Once upon a time she'd have beat up a girl like her ordering something that ended in -tini, but with a self-conscious little quirk of a smile she did exactly that as she caught a waitress on a drive-by.

Happiness was something for other people, and Michelle was prepared to accept that in some emo little corner of her soul that was willing to just say Fuck It to the notion. She didn't like smiling not because she had anything against being happy in particular, but because when she did she could feel the stretch at the corner of her lip, the tight scar tissue tugging at it just enough to be noticeable. Normal people could smile and not even care, but every time she did it felt like a little reminder, a quiet nagging reminder that she was kidding herself in the end. Like when she saw the tattoo on her neck in the mirror before she covered it--and she always covered it. Tonight it hid behind a thick leather choker she'd studded herself a while back, so worn it felt natural on her.

Every bitch needs a collar, right? She could actually remember that one motherfucker saying that to her.

She could also remember what his zygomatic bone tasted like.

The appletini, when it arrived, was a very welcome distraction.

As she did her best to drink down that shitty hyperventilating feeling she was getting in the back of her throat, her eyes crawled over the crowd again in an attempt for distraction. When she clicked onto the new guy who stepped in looking like part of the staff, she smiled to herself over the violently green drink. She might have found someone who looked as awkward as she felt about this whole 'being in public' thing. By the time he managed to decide he was staying, she was already finding herself looking back over to the three Musketeers bonding over their craft beers or their five o'clock shadow or whatever it was they were doing. For some reason it was these individuals that kept catching her eye, even when she tried not to let them--there was just something about them.

About the time she was tilting the green glass up and feeling cold ice clink on her lips--who the hell put ice in a martini glass?--she realized it was time to get another. Back to waitress-hunting.

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

It's alright, Lin is 24 with 68 MAS kills. Considering the minimum age requirement of around 20 as stated, she's the real monster. ;)

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

Not gonna lie, wine wasn't what I thought Delacroix was suggesting when he offered the Captain a different kind of payment.

Mass Effect : Absolution , Interest Check

Interested.