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8 hrs ago
Current hes not being the person prisma illya thinks he could be
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14 hrs ago
and they should be found and met with force
2 mos ago
the cacophony fills my ears. the screams, the cries, the lamentations and wails. the tamamo fans worst fears have come true - they are owned again. me? i only smile
2 likes
2 mos ago
"yup," i heard my mom say as she spiked my soft infant skull into the floor, "now he's ready for twitter"
4 likes
2 mos ago
the 80s aren't over, i'll say when the 80s are over, the 80s are never over, you don't just turn off the 80s
6 likes

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<<We just don't know what Adam and Eve look like. They didn't, either, until they ate the apple.>> Gypsy Soul had weathered re-entry with a grace as alien as her aesthetic, and skimmed above the surface with her sensors deployed. The Praxis Clock package meant that she would be doing her best flying from above the ground team, with her sensor and communications packages commanding her full attention. Besides, she had spent years with this unit back in Sol, until they were extensions of each other - so close that it often felt like one was plucked from the other's ribs. Their bond was tight enough that Gypsy could feel the obvious intent behind every message: her Orbital was scared to touch the ground.

I wonder if you could sleep with the Adam or Eve here.

<<You may eat freely of every tree of the garden, but of the tree of knowledge you shall not, for in the day you eat of it you will die.>> She was staring at the heat sources Bedwyr had shared. Chaotic, like buckshot beneath the bleached soil. Some overlapping, some dispersed. Empty apartments and full apartments next door to each other. Like a hive. <<I wonder what it was they ate here. Be advised. Those probably aren't hot springs.>>

Gypsy Soul drew her CFL-M rifle, an archangel floating above the world at long range. The masked pilot's brow was furrowed behind her metallic face, its sheen brightened by a small lick of sweat. Her aim was tracing Odysseus' singular drone, the one exploring the unsettling heat.

//Engage communication suite? Y?N?//

No.

//Will you indeed sweep away the righteous with the wicked? Shall not the Judge of all the Earth do all that is just? Y?N?//


Gypsy rolled her eyes and frowned. In her forehead, a vein throbbed. Don't you start praying on me, too.

<<Solid copy, Odysseus.>>
I R I S


"Huh?"

Iris, broken out of her anxious reverie, turned over her shoulder with a jump at the mention of her name. Beneath her mask, a wan, relieved grin came to her face as she saw Cedar behind her. Even in her current kneeling position, they were almost of a height; she had no iea if that was intimidating for Cedar or not, but it made her feel happy to know that someone wasn't looming over her no matter what stage of 'parked on my ass' she was currently occupying. That comfort and relief was coming in really handy at a time like this.

"Yyyeah, actually. Kinda." She pulled one hand from her pocket and raised a closed fist up in greeting - then opened it, spinning the ring she'd discovered on the corpse in a circle on her palm. She stopped its motion long enough for Cedar to be able to give it a thorough twice-over before pocketing it again. The last thing Iris wanted was either of them to wind up with this freaky piece of crap on their finger and wind up like this poor screwball. "And then there's this."

She scooted to the right, boots making soft, wet scraping noises against the muck and soil of the alleyway. Her moving her tall, muscular frame gave Cedar a good look at what she had been examining when he arrived. The corpse's forearm was milky and wizened looking, its flabby, dead flesh growing even paler than it had when Iris reached him. It made the light scarring of a tattoo - and its shape - all the more obvious. Iris giggled to herself, a little nervously.

"Maybeee he had a bad breakup," she suggested, her voice playful despite everything. "People get tats removed after those all the time."

...yyyyeah, those breakups...wiiith the theocratic death cults. They really getcha every time.

She kept staring at the healer's forearm, and the remaining imprint of a tree.
<Snipped quote by Hawthorne>

So, I'm going to be totally honest with you.

It was ten o'clock at night and I was powering through a huge migraine. That 100% was supposed to say "Odysseus" and I fucked up my Greek heroes for a second there. I'll fix that.


krayzikk's iliad director's cut where the wrong guy gets achilles' armor
@Mokley hey, so Iris seems like she has a good chance of keeping the conversation flowing with Cedar here. I don't want to jump ahead of the line or anything, especially if there's a GM post coming, but in the event I can get a post done in the next day or two is there a chance I could get a vague idea of anything she finds in her search? Or should I just sit tight?




Dana watched Bastien's performance with a slightly pronounced pout, bottom lip jutting out in tandem with her sharp jaw as she was victim to Cassi's taunts. His full perfect lips were pursed together like he wanted hers to meet them, but considering the way he had just blown an easy lay-up of a boba date, she knew that taking him up on such a tease was akin to putting a kick me sign on her own back. So she locked her hands tightly by her sides and, as though she was going through a windshield, drew her already 5'10 frame up on her tiptoes and nudged her forehead against his lips instead. Forehead kisses were pure, and more than he deserved.

Then she had plopped back down, flat-footed, to watch the rest of the song. As much as Cassian liked to joke, she could tell it had moved him seeing his friend open himself up like that. Though she had no real love of doing the same - baring herself in front of people like that - she could appreciate the people who were capable of it, and she supposed she could get across emotions like anger and...determination...and...anger...

She grinned, a bit sheepishly.

But such displays just weren't in her nature. Karaoke was one of those rare activities she liked to do just for fun.

She was broken out of her reverie by another approach to the little gang. It was a girl, their age, who Dana was sure she must have seen on campus once or twice. She looked too singular to go unrecognized - pink hair, bright eyes, and a big grin, which grew brighter as the girl's confident approach continued. Confused, she looked over to Cassian to see if he had drawn over some artsy chick or something, but his eyes were still on Bastien's little Macross routine. And the girl's eyes...

Ohhh.

The girl's eyes were on her jacket. How very justice of her, to recognize such impeccable and brash taste. Proud of her style decision for the evening, Dana-chan pulled on the lapels of her jacket a bit; the Balmain spikes on her collar, shoulders and back all jingled like a full ring of keys. The girl's eyes never left the jacket, and Dana grinned confidently.

"Whassup?" Dana tried to say, although her tongue still tripped over the casual American greeting. "Like the jacket? Veeery powerful. Suit of armor against jackass like this."

She nudged her shoulder into Cassichin's solar plexus.


"You really think they know what's happening here?" she asked rhetorically, in response to Adam's musings.

The brass. It was funny, the things that military men sought in their superiors. She supposed that such a rigid environment, armored as it was in the simplicity of orders and higher callings, felt a bit like a theocracy. You served your life in service of gods, and then you got to die feeling meaningful. It wasn't such a bad gig. But Pandora's captain didn't seem like much of a god at all. Maybe when you gathered all the brass in one place they looked a little more divine. But to look at the captain, in his oversized coat and quaint officer's cap, he hardly had the presence of an oracle. He could have at least glowed a little or something.

"I guess, maybe," Gypsy Alexandros responded to herself, punctuating her ambivalence with a shrug. She swallowed and got a faint, savory aftertaste of chocolate from her food. One of the other pilots had broken ranks early to go check on the state of the hangar. It would probably be smart for her to do the same.

Her gaze fell back to the planet, spinning on the nearest screen, and though her mask was inscrutable the face of distaste she made underneath was anything but. The sight of the planet in its current state saddened her. Uneven browns and swathes of sepia had left the surface of Proxima Centauri b looking like an unleavened pizza crust - some parts crispy to the point of crackling, some parts still doughy and raw. Her mouth tightened again, and she took a deep breath to compose herself.

She would be fine by the time she reached the hangar.




"Heyyy, it's Ziggy Stardust!"

The potent combination of a cheerful greeting and an affectionately mocking nickname brought a wan smile to Gypsy's face. Her hands were in her pockets as she approached her Orbital and its support staff, but her head mechanic had stepped forward with an arm raised cheerfully over his tanned face, beaming like a sun beneath close-cropped blonde hair. Gypsy, with her begrudging little grin, drew a hand from her pocket and high fived the mechanic up top. Together, the two blondes stared up at the fey-looking Orbital they were charged with.

"How'dja sleep?" asked Nat Cole, as he wrapped both arms behind his head and looked the Atrox Fortuna up and down with a whistle. With his pierced midriff on full display, his bright tan, and an irreverent disposition, it was hard to imagine what such a gentle kid, lacking in decorum, was doing onboard an expedition like this. The answer, as with most things to do with the more secretive corporate presences onboard, could be taken at face value as 'cash.' Nat was the child of two Jawaid & Jawaid executives who had done much of the overclocking work on the Atrox Fortuna, closely in collaboration with Chiron Works. He had also been a misfit, suffering from anxiety, dysmorphia, and a host of other insecurities that required a lighter touch than throwing cash at psychiatry. Instead, his parents had thrown cash at the Atrox Fortuna, funding further improvements on Chiron Works' design as long as their problem child was taken on as a mechanical designer and tech. He had been working alongside Gypsy Alexandros for eighteen three years. In that time, Nat had transitioned and matured in ways that made him unrecognizable in ways beyond the physical. His gigawatt smile remained the same, though, and right now it was a spotlight, casting extra sheen upon the lush scarlets of the Orbital.

"Slept?" Gypsy asked. "Oh, yeah. 'Slept.' Did you?"

"Mhm." Nat hummed to himself. "You see the planet?"

"Looks like hell. But we knew it might."

"Mhm." Nat hummed to himself. "Well, you're in luck. 70% through pre-flight check, and Gypsy Soul seems ready to rock. She's even feeling a little talkative. I don't blame her. I had the weirdest dreams all the way--"

"Talkative."

"Mhm." Nat hummed to himself. "She won't shut up, actually. I'm glad you're here, she might calm down a little."

"What about combat?"

"Mmmmm." Nat stopped humming. "Well, she's definitely ready for that, too. 'Jawaid & Jawaid--"

"'--we'll work if we're paid,' Gypsy finished, wry smile on one end of her face.

Nat giggled and began to hum again. "I don't think they're after combat this soon, though. At least not from what we gathered back in Sol."

"You don't think? I do."

"Hmmm. I guess. But if they wanted to shoot up aliens you think they would have kept the Ozzies around. Although I guess two hundred and sixty four years is a long time to wait to shoot--"

"Oh. You meant them. Yeah, you're probably right."

"Yeah. What, did you mean them?"

"Mhm." Gypsy hummed, too. Her eyes were looking the Atrox Fortuna up and down. Nat giggled, a little nervously, and ran his fingers through the back of his golden hair.

"Well, try chatting first," the head mechanic advised, punching his pilot and surrogate sister on the shoulder affectionately. "We came all this way, it would really suck if she didn't get to talk."

'Now it shall be said of Jacob and Israel;
What hath God wrought?'
Pre-flight checks are now complete.
Anemoi-001 is now alive.


The two blondes turned to face each other. Their stares connected for a long, long second - a second that stretched into untold more.

"I guess that's my cue," Gypsy Alexandros said calmly, breaking the stare. She put her hand back into her jacket and walked towards her Orbital. The mechanic, brows furrowing a little in anticipation, stayed put as he watched her go.
I R I S


Behind Iris' exquisite, angular mask, the big girl's face was its own mask of slack confusion. She stared numbly at the ring; inside her head, normalcy bias warred with her own intuition. She knew the symbol well, like most in Rig. The symbol was innocuous enough, even aesthetic in a plain way. A simple circle, with a small, strong dot to fill the void inside. In some ways it could be a metaphor for religion, or love, or even vice; its true meaning was an amalgamation of all three.

Amalgam.

Amalgam.

Her eyes clocked the horrific indigo tinge around the finger, where blood had been choked from the digit. Quickly, she slipped the ring off - although she was careful to drop it in her pocket instead of coming anywhere close to slipping it on. It felt like a weight in the pocket of her jacket, and her whole arm tingled with nerves as her mind came to grips with reality.

A thought struck her.

Chewing on her lip behind her mask, all trace of her cheer gone, Iris flipped the corpse's arms over, feeling the stiff cold flesh almost crack under her strength, to look for tattoos. She prayed all she would see was the curdled-milk color of the inside of a corpse's arms.
As funny as this is, The reentry event happened one to two years before the Pandora's launch... Movies take longer than that start to finish in modern times.

unless I retcon the date on his CS for this joke.

Krayzikk, what do you think?


Heroic biopics usually have a first draft written and a lead actor cast before the real event is even done. With the power of Disney+-x/ and the Writer's Guild of Sol, any timetable is possible.
I would like to say I can get a reply up tonight or tomorrow but who the hell knows what's going on with Isaias, one minute it's not supposed to make landfall by us and now there's a tornado warning lmaoooo.

I'll try though!


Since time immemorial, in many of the Earth's colder climates, the living had been vexed by the sacred dead.

It was a problem in Europe, Eurasia, and even the provinces that were as far north as North America went. In the months where vegetation gave way to frost and the ground would grow hard as concrete, burying the bodies of those claimed in winter had become an impossible task. But even in such climates, decomposition was an inevitability - it was an irritating bit of fine print, a sticking point of the terms and conditions for ever having lived at all. The more superstitious the culture, the more steeped in its own mythology and folklore, the more worrying this became; no one wanted to be haunted by their granddad after they let him starve to death, after all, and leaving the bodies to rest atop the frozen earth seemed as distasteful as allowing them to become living room fixtures. So, as a temporary measure, the bodies were frozen artificially - left in wells or chambers, packed with ice to the point where they would be suffocated had they not already died, and left not to rot, but to keep, until they could be buried with honors. They would sit, unmolested by humans and untouched by age, until the spring came and the ground could be cracked open like cold beers. Which, in essence, is what the people were too. Even the unknowable alien gods from afar had followed this principle to some extent, although it was unlikely they understood it; the ship that had started it all, with its awesome machines and unfathomable power, had created one such chamber for itself in Siberia over the eons. Hallowed dead, frozen and forgotten for all of time.

It wasn't hard to imagine why those were the first thoughts on Gypsy's mind as she woke up. Not that she could relate to the frozen dead - they didn't have to feel cold, or even particularly feel dead. But if they were capable, they would probably envy her right back for being able to wake up, so it seemed everyone had something to complain about.

She rarely had time for second thoughts of any nature, but a second thought did creep in as she felt her heart hammer in her chest, felt her her mouth suck in air before her nose did, felt the dryness of her eyes try to clear with lazy blinks - my face. They hadn't let her enter the pod with it.

Her first voluntary muscle movement in a decade and a half was a lethargic, but no less serious, flop of her arm over the top half of her face, bicep doing its best to disguise her from hairline to the soft tip of her nose. Once again, darkness swallowed her sight, but it was more comfortable than the alternative of being seen. The panic that had seized her rebooting body began to subside. She was protected again.

"I'm good," she said lazily to the technicians swarming to her side, as though she'd just been roused from the devil's nap. "I'm alright. Showers are this way, right?"

The hand that had flopped across her right temple and ear balled into a fist, with only an index finger pointed outwards in the same direction. Her whole arm was ungainly, a familiar feeling; it reminded her of nights on Earth and Mars, staring at the ceiling through a protective curtain of blonde hair with a lover who had decided to snooze right on top of her arm until pins and needles filled the entire limb. She found herself, absurdly, spending a couple seconds wondering how many of them had settled down. Aside from the unpleasant physical sensations of leaving cryo, she didn't feel particularly haunted by the places her brain had taken her during hibernation. She felt like herself. In reality, she had wasted fifteen years, the same way she had once wasted one night at a time. Many of her cohorts probably had families by now; some might even be dead. She doubted that they ever thought of her, either, so mentally she dispelled their ghosts and focused on a hot shower. And getting her face back.

"Right. Thanks, boys." She had no idea if the buzzing in her ears was the techs responding or not, but her memories of the ship's layout seemed sound. Arm still covering her face, she moved - painstakingly slowly - out of her frigid coffin and began shambling towards the shower.

Even in the safety of her stall, the water had to plaster her long, dark blonde hair over her face. Only when she could move her mouth and feel soaking tufts brush her upper lip was she able to relax and enjoy the soak. Instinctively, she knew the water was only lukewarm compared to how she had liked her showers in her old life, but to her body it felt absolutely scalding, and as soon as she could look in the stall and see her reflection swallowed by hair and steam the dormant years began to slide off her back just the same as the water.

When she was done showering, she took the chance to wipe some of the steam away with the back of her hand. Before it fogged her reflection back again, Gypsy took a second to stare at herself head to toe. She was paler than she always pictured herself - residual self-image from the days where a tan was accessible anywhere, whether she was in her apartment or in Chiron Works. Gypsy wondered if a tan would ever be that accessible again.

My boobs do look good, though.

She smiled, then caught herself staring at the expression as best she could with her obscured vision. From what she could tell, her grin was still as bright as people had always told her.

Gypsy stepped out of the shower, drying off and running a towel through her hair to dry it off in a hurry. She knew it was a recipe for an absolute mess, but now was hardly the time to get fussy about her appearance when the most important part of it was still missing. Luckily, she found it on top of the belongings that had been set aside for her. Her face - red, black and gold, made with the contours of her cheeks and brow in mind. She hurriedly put it on and let out a sigh that would have been audible had she not been alone. Her sight felt clearer than it had since she awoke, and what was left of the tension in her body from before her shower had ebbed away entirely. Even getting dressed felt good - as soon as she was wearing her face again, she could have walked out completely naked and still felt comparatively comfortable.

For five seconds, Gypsy Alexandros actually, finally knew peace. Then her stomach growled.

"Uh oh."

The second growl was much louder.

So it was that Gypsy Alexandros, composed and self-assured once again, drifted out in search of the mess hall. She didn't know the path there as well as she did the way to the showers. That had been an absolute necessity to feel whole again, while finding the way to instant coffee and crappy MREs had been more about memorizing a routine. That had never been second nature to Gypsy. Luckily, the ship had been plastered with labels, directions, and 'You Are Heres' that made it feel more like a shopping mall than a bleeding edge interstellar cruiser. She took a second to gauge the aesthetics of her new home as she drifted towards the mess. It was alright, she supposed. Definitely looks human.

When she reached the mess hall, the first thing she did was look for an MRE that was the closest thing to a pepperoni pizza and breadsticks. They certainly had a container that shared the same name as her desired food, and she supposed there was no such thing as bad pizza. But she knew she would probably never have the real thing again. Underneath her face, her eyes crinkled in mild displeasure, and her lips drew into a full pout as she stared down at the package in her hands.

This is what you signed up for. You knew you would have to make sacrifices.

As great as the alien gods seemed in every respect, she found it hard to believe they'd mastered the art of a good pan pizza. Or maybe they had?

Those were the possibilities battling in her mind as she sat down, numb to the pilots alongside her at the table. She only vaguely recognized their presence due to the repeated buzzing, the same as she heard when the techs had responded to her. She could make it out and respond in the same way she had to them.

"The Colony Module," she said to no one in particular, as she spread her jalapeno...paste(?)...over her breadsticks. "Wonder if anything in there can make flare bursts safer from planetside. Could help with tanning."
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