Sixsmith — Roleplayer Guild

♥♦♣♠— Memories fade, like tears in the rain —♥♦♣♠
Doral

It felt nice.

The rain, that is. It never felt nice killing things after they'd died. It never felt bad, either. It just felt... well, Roy felt indifference. They died and that was all there was to it.

Nothing would keep Roy from feeling the cool drops of water run down his face and skin, heated from the adrenaline that ran his body into overdrive. Nothing would stop Roy from detaching himself from the world for a few seconds before being thrust into reality. The dull and grey Doral with the lake lapping at her pier, droplets of rain pelting the waves, came upon him in his relishing. It was enough to make him cringe, if only slightly, at the rustic nature of the small town. It looked like it was dragged down by dirt and grime and a blandness that radiated from its shores. There was just something about Doral that he disliked. It just didn't have that feel of a port town, where the only smell was the salt and a tinge of the fish they'd caught fresh that morning. The bustling of people in the market seemed to drone on and wasn't as lively as it should have been. The rain seemed to heavily influence that. It actually smelled more heavily of fish and grime, which didn't hit the nose as sensually as fresh rain.

What was currently happening around him didn't hit him as heavily as the others, not the battle they'd walked from or the outburst from Olivia, nor everyone separating their own ways. His eyes moved over everyone as he processed what was currently happening, but they were all long gone their by the time he realized. It didn't much matter to him, at that point; he was off himself, away from the noise of his friends into the bustle of a crowd. There wasn't much then that Roy had in mind to do. He wouldn't trust himself with money to save his life and beyond that, there wasn't much but quietly relaxing alone that seemed pleasant. He liked the rain, the snow, the heat, whatever the weather had in store, and he'd rather bask in it alone in his thoughts than with others occupying his attention.

The rooftops provided solace to Roy more than a crowd of people, wet and grimy in the rain. He quickly found that solace as he broke from the crowd, agile and with enough alacrity to balance himself along the more narrower paths through the maze of roofs, even as the rain made for more than a slippery surface. If Roy slipped it wouldn't be of his own doing, and he'd sooner catch himself than fall face first in the mud.

Sounds of rain pattering and the crowd chattering, their feet sloshing in the mud, calmed him; he liked it, loved it, even. The silence was louder than the noise, to Roy, and probably to most of his team. When combat and the military was all someone knew, the noise came as a comfort rather than a nuisance. At least, that was what Roy thought of his situation. Roy wasn't fond of silence mixing into his thoughts. The noise helped to drown out those thoughts he did his best to hide and the silence just amplified them. It made them unbearable and heavy.

But, Roy's thoughts were always heavy.

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♥♦♣♠— Hometown Glory —♥♦♣♠
Helston - Eastern Quarters
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"'Ey, kid, get me another beer," the low baritone, heavily country accented, echoed through the halls. The shattering of glass that followed moments later signaled his impatience.

A small boy came running through the living room and kitchen amalgamation, his hair haphazardly cut and his clothes filled with dirt and grime from playing outside too long. He rushed to the fridge, grabbing a small stool to reach the handle. Opening it, he rummaged through what was mostly beer and leftovers to grab the coldest one. Another shout of impatience came from the living room and the boy almost collapsed in his rush to shove it in the waiting hand.

"Take so damn long," the man grumbled, popping open the cap and downing a swig. He turned to look at the boy, his tired face twisting in annoyance. "What? You want one? There's plenty in there, Royce."

"N-no," Roy shook his head, "I'm good, sir."

The man guffawed before completely turning his attention away from the boy, coughing into his bottle as the television caught his eyes. In that moment, it was as if all of Roy's usefulness was bottled up and thrown away. The boy, to his father, ceased to exist when he was no longer needed and this was the perfect evidence. He'd call for him and Roy would come. He'd demand something and Roy would do it. And when it was done, Roy was gone. He was useful for as long as he existed in his father's eyes and that was only ever when something was out of reach from his position on the couch. No matter how long he stood there, he would remain invisible until his father turned around to scream only to find him. He'd then tell him to do something, and go back to completely ignoring him when the task was finished. It was rinse and repeat there. And every time, Roy would look up, tug at his sleeve to no avail, and almost cry. No one would blame him.

To not feel the love of a parent was, more or less, a scarring experience for a child. It was no less for Roy.

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♥♦♣♠— Rain makes the flowers grow —♥♦♣♠
Doral
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These memories weren't hard to chew or swallow—they came and went down like any other. The bad moments Roy cherished the most. No one grew from happiness, no matter how harsh that seemed. Maybe Roy didn't shape out as expected; in fact, he probably shouldn't have compared to the best of the best. But, it wasn't hard for him to accept that, or embrace it, for that matter. The moments, the bad memories, molded him into who he was currently. He was cynical, careless, selfish, and found pleasure at the expense of others. To deny that meant to deny everything he stood for. Maybe he was a bit more nihilistic than he was cynical and maybe that was the reason for his actions. That did not excuse what he did or would do, though. But, that wasn't what Roy lived for, to excuse himself because his past may have ruined his psyche.

On a solid spectrum, no inconsistencies and no variables, Roy was in the middle, if not a touch chaotic.

Death was something everyone faced and Roy accepted that, but he was selfish in his survival. An apex predator among apex predators. The most neutral a human could be.

Who he was or what he was didn't really matter to him as his gaze rose from the rooftops to the horizon. The rain pelted the surface of the lake, clouding the horizon in a light mist. Roy had found his way back to the dock, keeping his eyes on his feet and what lay in front of him. He'd heard the shedding of blood and the cries of battle raging below, but it affected him in no way. There was no need to threaten his own safety for some righteous act of goodness and faith. That was beyond what he cared for. Roy much preferred where he was now, sitting on the ledge of a building, feet dangling over the scaffolding, and eyes blinking away the rain as they stared into the horizon. He caught sight of a body in the lake and a few people reminiscent of Fred and Aaron run off, to which he rolled his eyes, but found no reason to leave his post. There were much better ways of disposing a body—there were a thousand different ways a child could come up with that was better than simply throwing it into a large body of water.

He stared at it, quietly, with a deep frown and furrowed brows.

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♥♦♣♠— A bed of roses; a sea of weeds —♥♦♣♠
Helston - Western Quarters
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There was no one more of an enigma than their mother. Her name was Veronica. She worked two jobs, one as a night shift waitress and another as an intern for a small branch of a larger business company. They lived somewhere in Western Helston in a small apartment in the seedier side of town. Veronica usually hopped from job to job, but this was apparently different than the others. She had a chance this time, as she repeated countless times in the mirror before work. That day, she looked ever more radiant, with her dirty blond hair tied high in a formal bun and her pantsuit looking crisper than it had when they'd bought it. It had been on discount and previously used, probably by an older lady—Roy joked that it would turn his mother into a crone who liked butterscotch more than her children. They'd all three giggled in the beat up car she lugged around and she tickled her two children before dropping them off at a no expense daycare.

It was no expense because the lady that ran it knew of their mother's habits and, seeing how much she loved both her children, decided it would be best to give her more hope rather than crush everything she lived for. If she lost Roy and Vivian, she'd have nothing left and, looking at them running for the church's doorway, she knew that.

Unbeknownst to both her children, Veronica had deep rooted issues with drugs, from abusing p-downs—home brewed Phoenix Downs, stripped of its healing properties to enhance its essential defibrillating qualities and increase the high people got off of it. Unlike actual Phoenix Downs, the street variation was injected through syringe and needle; it soared through the veins like fire, rising with the oxygen to reach the brain and heart to kick start both into overdrive. This produced an unhealthy amount of adrenaline and, due to the high toxicity of the substance, would strip the veins, making them weaker and thinner, while also increasing blood pressure and the risk of both heart attack and stroke, as well as thyroid cancer and lymphoma. It was like a variant of ecstasy and heroine combined into one, throwing people into an overdrive of euphoria and a state of hyper activeness. Many people often used it to enhance rough, sometimes more dangerous intercourse, as the drug enhanced adrenaline would turn pain into pleasure. Coupled with the burst of energy, it would eventually dehydrate the individual and would sometimes lead to death, in severe cases.

This was candy to Veronica.

As both a drug abuser and a nymphomaniac, Veronica often ventured to areas and parties in which it was often common for people to go missing at the oddest times. It was a number one reason why she jumped from job to job; people don't appreciate lateness, but they don't tolerate complete absence. Being a spontaneous and eccentric lady herself, this meant she'd often leave work early or simply not show up just to satisfy her addictions. She'd usually get a warning, until she either did it again or her employers uncovered her habits. It also meant that, during the weekdays, her children were either at a daycare or simply unattended in their tiny apartment for hours at a time. But, her children loved her too much to worry about their well being instead of hers.

It wasn't hard for Roy to learn how to take care of both him and his sister at a young age. Things come easy when one is forced into a situation. Survival came as second nature for Roy and it often came at the expense of others. If they had nothing in the fridge to cook or eat raw, even, Roy would find ways into other apartments, steal an assortment of food, even an unnecessarily large amount, just to feed him and his sister. He didn't see it as an offense to others, but more as a way to stay alive. Any life outside of the one Roy and Viv lived didn't matter, as it never affected them. What he knew currently and what was happening presently was at the forefront of Roy's mind. And what was present was his mother's happiness and their well being as a family.

This time was different. It was like all the other times, but this time was different. They'd have a life, finally.

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♥♦♣♠— There are things meant to be forgotten —♥♦♣♠
Doral - Harbor - Boat
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To spend three entire hours just going over things in his head, now that was an accomplishment. Roy was determined to get a ribbon for not committing any crazy shenanigans for three whole hours. Standing from his perch, he was surprised himself that he lasted that long. Maybe it was the battle or maybe it was just the memories. It ultimately didn't matter in the present.

The walk from rooftop to harbor wasn't that long; he merely retraced his steps, even through his endless musings. That was how he'd found himself back near the boat they were waiting for. His legs took him from one point to the other whilst his mind wandered. That was a regular occurrence for Roy, as he didn't much like the world if he wasn't actively doing something in it. By doing something, he meant creating mayhem or gathering as much attention to himself than was necessary, even if he wasn't one to even crave attention to begin with. Then again, Roy never looked too hard into why he did things; he did them to live and just to do them. If he went further than that, then who knew what would happen. He'd hypothesized that the world would implode, or at least his world would.

Stepping foot onto the harbor as everyone else did, Roy quickly found his way to the furthest end of the boat. He still didn't quite feel like socializing and maybe that was because he'd delved a little too far into his own mind. It was something Roy didn't often do and, on the occasion he indulged in finding his innerself, or whatever the hell it was, he'd set out to completely immerse himself in it. Roy never really did things half-assed, unless it was to aggravate someone; he couldn't deny that he went through the academy half-assing a lot of things that he perfectly capable of doing. But, as Roy passed every one of his friends, nodded politely to Olivia, he'd somehow managed to further detach himself. The bow of the ship, despite the rain, was the perfect spot for him and he was content to lean along the railings whilst they were still docked.

Silence hung over him, even as the waves splashed along the side and the rain poured down. It wasn't exactly an ideal moment for him, but he'd already been drenched and had already taken a fancy to watching the horizon bob in the distance. Plus, Roy had a kind of masochistic feeling that he'd want to delve further, to finally feel what it was like to lose someone, to remember the numbness and the pain that broke through regardless.

He needed more proof that he was alive.

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♥♦♣♠— Vega shines brightest in its turbulence —♥♦♣♠
Oakridge
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He was about two years older and leaps and bounds more mature. Well, in the sense that he knew far more. He watched over her constantly and with a persistence only reserved for himself. It wasn't because she was family, nor was it because he loved her, though he did; actions he took were for his well-being, almost always and without fail. Securing her safety and keeping her well fed and healthy meant he could kept the only constant in his life. Vivian stuck to him like glue and that's how he liked it. Not even twins could compare—an exaggeration Roy liked to boast about. Roy wasn't overbearing, but was definitely selfish with her; wherever she went, he'd follow and vice versa, not out of some need to keep boys out of the way, though Roy did do that the older they grew, but because they suffered from neglect on a daily basis. If they were to add to that, then they'd lose more than just their childhood security.

She was naive and ignorant, with a sense that things needed to be touched for her to see them. Neglect and abandonment was a subconscious worry of hers, never at the forefront of her mind. She couldn't point at the cause, even though she knew what the problem was. The only individual she could look up to and trust was Roy because he was the only one who was there when she needed. She unknowingly abused that trust countless times; Vivian didn't understand consequences, much like Roy. Both children were very present minded, though Roy knew a lot more about his own safety than she did her own. Certain things that Roy caught on, the things that scarred him, didn't exactly register for her. She couldn't possibly understand nor feel what was wrong, just knew that something was wrong. That was always enough for her. She staid on the surface because she was scared of what lay underneath, and rightfully so.

Which was why it happened.

Roy was around sixteen, already deep in the academy, regardless of whether or not he cared for his education. The only contacts he could muster up was a half-broken cell phone that his sister found digging through trash one day. It was a wonder the number remained the same and that it worked for longer than a few years. Or maybe she'd rummaged up the money for a new one with a cellular plan to go with it. The thought didn't really go through his mind when they'd called him, saying that his emergency contact had... well, contacted the academy at two in the morning. Apparently it had been his mother who'd called, which didn't bode well for Roy's psyche that night. He was just lucky a few of the staff were hard at work that night, though he didn't quite know why. He didn't care to remember why.

When he had entered the office, he'd not realized what they even said to him, that the secretaries and the desk clerks were all staring at him with wide eyes and deep frowns. They had no reason to be sad for him then, no reason to feel empathy for his disarray and complete confusion. Not only did he look worse for wear, having been woken up from a very nice slumber, Roy had absolutely no idea how to process any of the information they were giving him. All he could do was answer the phone they held out to him. The lady looked at him like his own life depended on him answering.

What his mother had told him hadn't registered clearly enough to warrant anything but the numb sensation starting to wash through his body. The phone sat tight against his ear, with his hand clutched in a vice grip around it.

"The funeral is in a few months... if..." her voice cracked, "I can't. I can't talk about this Roy. Why are you so quiet?"

"Funeral?" Roy responded, his brows furrowed as he looked around the room. It had emptied without his knowing, leaving the crackle of the receiver the only audible noise above his own breathing.

"Have you not been listening?"

"I have."

"Your sister's dead."

"I-I know..." Roy mumbled, blinking and looking desperately at the door. His own voice sounded so foreign to him, so meek and uncertain. He wanted someone, anyone to be there.

And then, it all hit him too hard. His skin paled over, his entire body quivered in shock, and his breathing was erratic. The numbness didn't stop the pain from rising and his mind from reeling. He wanted to know if any of it was true or if he was just dreaming. It was two in the morning. The only lights that were on were those in the hall and in the office he stood in. The people who had shuffled out were the night shift, and yet they were probably heading to bed after hard overtime. At least, that was the only reason Roy found as he slumped back into a chair, or rather collapsed. His entire body felt heavy and cumbersome, weighing him down. There were no tears yet, no uncontrollable sobbing; Roy was still very much in the process of taking in the information, despite the immediate, negative responses. The emotions hadn't settled yet and the numbness was doing a good job of keeping them at bay.

But the pain never subsided.

It was about three months later when his body finally allowed himself to cry. Three entire months where he locked himself inside his dorm, kept away from anyone who would ever try to console him. Roy wasn't ready to be consoled and he wasn't sure he could be. Vivian was his other half and he lost her; with her, a part of himself died. For three entire months he droned around the academy, letting grades drop, letting friendships die, and letting himself fade into the background. It's how he wanted to cope with it, how he convinced himself that it was the only way to cope. He wanted to fade so far back that no one would notice him quietly whimpering in the corner. He cared less of people's opinions, Roy just wanted to deal with his grief alone. No one could understand him now and they never did before. Or maybe it was just that feeling that no one had the knowledge to help him through it.

He wanted to trust people, but found it was impossible.

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♥♦♣♠— It's better that not even the world knows —♥♦♣♠
The Boat
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"Oh," Roy muttered, looking down at his whitened knuckles. He'd been gripping the railing too hard and clenching his teeth even harder.

Taking a step back, Roy, completely soaked, traversed down to the innards of the boat, where everyone else probably hid from the rain. He avoided eye contact as he rolled in, dripping water wherever he stepped. The squeaking sound as his feet left the tile alerted everyone to his presence, but Roy hadn't seemed to attempt to give notice. With downcast eyes, Roy moved for one of the open cabins, in hopes that no one was currently using it. This was why, during downtime, Roy absolutely hated silence; if he wasn't moving and making noise, then something else had to be. However, it was often rare for Roy to delve that deep into his subconscious, to rip out and actively think about the past situations he'd been most moved, however negative or positive it was. He usually stopped at memories of his mother or of Thael or of Remi and Emily and Freddy. Memories of Sam and Vivian were shoved so far down so that moments of regression wouldn't ever occur. During a time like this, he was just lucky he had a few hours left to recuperate.

But he'd stepped inside his mind for too long—left things unfinished. Roy liked closure. Well, closure when it came to things that meant so much to him and not many things held such a close spot to his heart.

Finding one of the bunks in the far back, Roy made do with what they were given. Shoving himself in the corner, he locked his knees close to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He stared ahead with glazed over eyes and an indiscernible expression hidden behind clutched legs.

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♥♦♣♠— The rain to dry your tears —♥♦♣♠
Helston Outskirts - The Funeral
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It was raining that day, raining hard.

There were approximately twenty people in attendance, most family members, the rest classmates—what little cared, or even knew her.

She'd been fourteen when it happened, two years younger than him. Apparently, the cops had found her in her bedroom, with her father knocked out in his drunken stupor. She OD'd on a various assortment of drugs and was even intoxicated, with beer bottles strewn across the room. Apparently, she called for a emergency, told them she had taken something she shouldn't have and couldn't handle it. They were still investigating what had happened, who had given her the drugs and the alcohol, and why she was so poorly tended to. To Roy, it was obvious who the culprit was. The man was standing there among them, not even flinching or shedding a tear. Of course, why would he? They were unwanted from the get go and neglected when given the chance. Yet, the man still fought for custody and fought the decision to send Roy to the Academy. He'd not seen him in, what? Eight years? Not even for holidays or during the summer. Custody didn't mean shit when the child did everything in his or her power to stay away.

But none of that mattered and it wouldn't matter for a long time to come. His coming wasn't to point fingers and throw blame, this was his closure.

Their family wasn't rich or well off; they weren't even close to being middle class. They had no insurance of any kind, unless a job provided it and they usually didn't. So, this was a grave somewhere far outside of Helston, with a cheap wooden coffin, small and unassuming. They couldn't even afford a proper tombstone, so it was just stone with no engraving—they could mark it themselves if they had the tools. Not like anyone of them would, minus her brother.

Roy didn't cry until the very end of their makeshift ceremony. He didn't talk—he refused. But, when everyone filed out and only his mother staid to wait for him, Roy sat where they buried her, took a few random stones he found around the sight, and chiseled her name, her epitaph, and both birth and death dates. Three hours he slaved, not once pausing as he chunked away with both dull stones. It broke his mother to see him there, tears and sweat in the hard rain. None of it let up, the rain or the tears, in the span of time it took him. When he finished he staid there, head bowed, and let all the emotions come back because the only person who understood him was six feet below. It was time for him to cry, to sob uncontrollably, and to blame whoever the hell he wanted.

The entire thing was his mother's fault: she was neglectful and, no matter how much she showed her love for them, she loved the dope and the sex far more. They were both mistakes and their parents knew it, even if their father was the only one to show it.

He blamed his father for being the sick, sadistic bastard he was. The man took advantage of her nature, her genes and heredity, to feed her more drugs than she'd ever need. Before she knew it, she'd fallen into the same trap her parents had. He gave her debt, disease, and an addiction she couldn't possibly overcome. And he had the gull to feel absolutely nothing when faced with her murder.

And Roy? He wasn't there. He couldn't save her. He couldn't stop it from happening. He was a thousand miles away and didn't bother to visit out of spite for his father. When he finally decided to show it was at her own funeral. This was the point of no return for everyone, not just for the drug addled and the alcoholics; death was one final slap to the face. Had he even called her? Had he sat down with a phone in hand just to talk to her and hear her voice. By now, Vivian was just a distant memory of a little girl. That teenager he saw, shoved into that wooden prison, looked so different that he wasn't even sure Vivian was really dead. The girl with golden hair in braided pigtails doing god knew what because she had the curiosity of a cat that couldn't be sated, grimy and dirty, yet smiling wider than he'd thought possible. Roy had been gone for so long that the little girl he knew might as well have died when he left.

It all worked to boil his emotions inside that those pent up three months of complete and utter silence came barreling forth. It erupted into sobs and fits of uncontrolled breathing that shook his body in a cold shiver. It was the rain that comforted him, not the mother who stood crying near her beat up car. The hard patter of water along pavement, smacking the stone grave, and sloshing in the muddied grass around him shielded the noise of his cries and acted a veil to the tears. He couldn't hear himself then, only the rain.

Roy couldn't hear himself then.

Only the rain.

If Loral could scratch his head, he would have—he settled on rubbing his visor with gloved hands to convey his anxiety. He had the convenience of not being in the absolute thick of the firefight they'd all likely be caught in, but it didn't quite stop the nerves from rising. Hacking wasn't his specialty, but being a quarian definitely meant he'd had more than enough experience in the field to be considered average at it. So, that wasn't something he'd have any reason to be nervous about. It was mainly what lay ahead; no one seemed to know just what they were to do after all of this. Maybe they did and Loral was really catching on; a bunch of Siame data was about to fall in their hands, but what were they going to do with it? Maybe they didn't even have the man power or the expertise to make a dent in Siame Industries and if they didn't, Rebekha would likely swat them away like a fly. That worried him the most and it didn't help that he'd be stuck with a bunch of pirates and outlaws in the end. Loral was certainly proud enough to separate himself from pretty much the entirety of the room, minus the other quarian and maybe the female Drell. He'd done a few morally ambiguous things in his life, but he was obviously either too blinded by ambition and his own goals or the fact that he held too much pride to associate himself with criminals.

Yet, here he was and he'd certainly be no better in the end than any of the criminals that surrounded him.

The thought sent a chill down Loral's spine that urged him to leave, but not in the sense that he quite wanted. Accepting the request and adjusting his omni-tool accordingly, Loral gave the Drell an exasperated look as he stepped over her, forgetting completely about his own visor. He had an assortment of things to pack and he wasn't quite keen on running late, regardless of how long they all had to organize themselves. If anything, Loral was, at his very best, punctual. There was enough time for him to gather his things and go over the layout of the entire station a dozen times; he already knew most of the station, having lived there for the time he had. Being a quarian, he mostly knew where not to step foot and which restaurants and stores sold dextro-protein based food and who to get his equipment from for purifying said foods three to four times over. Quarians were so rare that everyone, especially on Cartagena, found it rather costly to buy proper filtration systems to purify their dextro-protein foods; they almost stopped getting shipments of said food due to the lack of turians, but that was quickly remedied by a sudden and rather suspicious influx not long after. Turians weren't scarce, by any means. Luckily, Loral hadn't made his home on the station when said 'turian shortage' happened. It made him appreciate a safe spot on a what would seem like a harmless ship. The thought of being back on there came with a quick and sudden pain. The frown he wore was hidden by the blue tint of his visor; the slump in his shoulders and slowed pace wasn't as easy to hide.

It took him an hour to pack, and only to waste time. Loral was only patient when it came to his research—anything else needed to be rushed. However, one couldn't necessarily rush a 3 hour wait without doing something wholly stupid and impossible simultaneously. He found himself weighing the risk-reward ratio of that situation as he packed, mindlessly juggling pros and cons of something so ridiculous. Preoccupying oneself seemed to past the time the quickest, which wasn't all that much, to be frank. There were still 2 entire hours to waste away prepping in whatever way possible. Everything he needed was organized in a portable case: all of his medical equipment and personal things were shoved in neatly to conserve the most room. It wasted the most time and helped with his "pre-battle" nerves. He could almost laugh. After packing the essentials, but leaving some room, Loral made for the nearest store for extra dextro-protein based foods for himself, possibly the other quarian, and then the turian, roughly in that order. He didn't necessarily trust a simple roll of the dice; if this one particular Siame ship didn't have a Turian member, then they'd not need to stock up on the necessary food. It didn't matter how much he reminded himself that turians weren't a rare commodity and were actually very abundant in the galaxy. It was better to be cautious.

Gathering what he'd packed, Loral made his way down to the locker they were to leave their things. There really wasn't any need to worry about having anything stolen, especially when they were all supposedly staying together on a ship for an indefinite period of time. Hell, they'd probably die together, but Loral wasn't keen on humoring that thought for more than a second. And, if anyone were to bag it and run, but everything else worked accordingly, Siame's ship would have all the necessary supplies to keep himself healthy and then some. All of that was repeated in a quiet mantra as Loral made his way back to his mini-amalgamation of an office, apartment, and medbay to mull on the plans and further adjust himself.

After going over the schematics and plans a second time, as well as getting a quick bite to eat, Loral gathered the equipment he needed for the mission and made for the hangar they'd meet in. He'd made sure to arrive earlier than he had in the meeting, finding Tanya and Kosso not too far from each other. He made his way to the drell, checking all of his equipment to make sure they'd been properly cleaned and maintained before the mission. If they weren't, then that was his fault, as they obviously didn't have time to waste now.

"Aren't I lucky?" he muttered, holstering his guns and nodding to the drell. The incessant clicking didn't catch Loral's attention as his finger found its way to the holstered pistol's safety, pulling it out slightly to get a better grip. He didn't speak, just remained quiet before any further briefing happened and they were to run off to their designated positions. He made note of the Salarian's absence, though kept his worries to himself. The man seemed a professional and Loral was in no way going to refute that—an easy way to get a bullet in the head, or worse.

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Left half of Lancelot (It's the better half)

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