Supermaxx

Superboy's Shitty Characters

A brief exchange of words between the Admiral's personal aide and Commander Ross were had before Elijah made his way inside the Commanding Officer's Quarters. He knew Locke's office well; in the five years they had spent on the Ark together, they'd held more than one meeting here. Ross had to confess that he was a little envious of the space provided to William. Martian vessels didn't offer lavish extravagances like 'space' and 'comfortable bedding' or other such superfluous luxuries to it's officers. Quarters were, for the most part, spartan and utilitarian in nature- as all things Martian were. Seeing as how the Ark was built and designed by more than just Martians engineers, however, the Feds and Conglomerate types decided to give the royal treatment to the Ark's commanding officer.

'Living like this is going to make Locke go soft.' Ross quietly joked to himself. He wouldn't have protested a room like this...much.

With heavy, uneven footfalls, he made his way inside the cabin. His officer's uniform was crisp and well kept as ever. Appearances were important to Ross. It was a fact he had learned far before he was ever inducted into military service. Back when he was just a school boy, Elijah had a teacher that refused to roll up his sleeves, loosen his tie or unbutton the top button on his shirt. The man ran the most disciplined class in the district. The presence he commanded when he entered the room was never forgotten, even when Elijah became a man. He had learned to emulate that teacher, and it had paid dividends in his military career.

"Sir." Elijah saluted, his arm snapping up into place so that his fingers touched his temple. It was quick and customary, but Ross insisted. Military tradition was a means of honoring the past that they had left behind- a way to keep from forgetting where they had come from.

Once he was given the go ahead, Ross found a place to sit. He wasn't exactly in any shape to remain standing for great lengths of time, given his leg, but Elijah wasn't going to break protocol just because his knee was a little sore. "Captain Lopez." The commander offered a nod of recognition to his equal from the Marine division.

"I have the list of names you asked me to compile. It should be connecting to your datapad in a moment." Ross was as quick as ever to dive into business. Locke and Lopez didn't have time for pleasantries, though Elijah had to confess that his time was a great deal less valuable than theirs. He didn't drill his men as strenuously as Lopez did. Flight simulations and emergency contingency practices could only be run so many times before it just started to feel tedious. And Locke being horrifically busy wasn't exactly a surprise, either, given his position. "None of them should be much of a surprise. They're all experts in their fields with up-to-date EVA training. Provided we're not walking into hell, they should do just fine."

Sticks And Stones [Post-Apoc/High Fantasy Hybrid]

---

Praetor City, Dall
Winter - 941 F.M (Finis Mortem)
[ ♫ ]

---

The frozen breath of the wild brushed against Lethino's rosy cheeks as he stood in the courtyard, his boots soaked from marching across snow-caked cobblestone. "Gods be damned." The royal steward cursed, flinging his head about frantically. There was no one to be seen! He couldn't believe it- he was late. Terribly, horribly, awfully late. Frederick couldn't blame the adventurers for leaving; who would want to stand out in the cold for so long?! Lethino's failure was truly, unequivocally outrageous. So monumental was his floundering that the steward was sure the king would have his head.

Perhaps not his head. That was a little drastic, especially for King Astius II (long may he reign). But he'd certainly lose his position as head steward if he didn't find a way to remedy the horrors of this situation post-haste. "The first expedition of winter, ruined! What an ill omen this is!" He lamented.

If Lethino wanted to preserve his position in the royal court, his first course of action was finding those he had summoned to Praetor City. That was easier said than done, of course- they could've gone anywhere! Literally anywhere! The capital was far too large for the steward to search alone, which meant recruiting the help of others to his cause. Frederick spun about on his heel, rushing back toward the keep. He threw open the heavy oaken doors, raising his voice until it echoed like thunder. "GUARDS!" He cried. "I require your assistance immediately! This is of the utmost importance!" His voice drew the annoyed attention of several men who's duty it was to stand around the keep looking intimidating. They were drawn to him, like moths to a flame, though their slothfulness was less than appreciated.

Frederick was in a hurry! He had no time for dillying or dallying! The steward swiftly explained his predicament to the gathered host, before unleashing upon them orders most divine to seek out any who carried an official summons bearing the mark of the king. Anyone with that letter was to be brought back to the keep- inside this time.

One of the royal warriors raised his hand. He was a brutish looking fellow with an ugly birthmark on his cheek and several missing teeth. "Oi, there was some bleedin' moron come 'round here shoutin' about a quest from the king. Said he lost his summons, so we's threw him in the dungeon."

There was a pause from the balding steward, a look of disbelief plastered on his expression as he tried to find some words to explain how utterly ridiculous that was. "Just..." Lethino began, shaking his head. "Retrieve him." Even if the fellow was full of it, one more body on the mission couldn't hurt. Especially if the entire party had bailed on them, of no real fault of their own. "I will remain here, since...mine being somewhere else sort of caused this whole mess in the first place. But you all must hurry! Quickly, now! Find my adventurers!"

---

Garbed in coats of thick fur over their chain and gambesons, the keep's loyal defenders, six in total, set out into the streets with purpose in their step.

They came upon the first potential adventurers almost immediately. A man of a strange complexion and a questionable mental state was standing ramrod straight in the corner of the courtyard, covered in ice and snow and staring into the distance like an utter loon. A few mutters were shared between the soldiers as they tried to decide who was the unfortunate one among them that would have to go speak to the crazy man.

It was decided that the smallest and most junior of the crew had to go. With a huff, the young soldier started forward, hand resting on the hilt of his sword on the off chance the snow dweller was violent. "'Scuse me, sir," the guardsman started, waving to get his attention. "You wouldn't happen to know where all thems adventure types went off to? The ones here to see the king?" It was a bit of a long shot, but the crazy fellow looked like he'd been standing around here for a good while. He might've seen where some of them went off to, or over heard some crucial chatter. If the man could suppress his urge to stare into the distance long enough to recall, he might actually prove helpful.

The others, meanwhile, continued onward, sharing a quiet snicker at the misfortune of the new recruit. They moved out toward the gatehouse, where they once again encountered a few figures. Two, to be precise. One was an rickety old peasant paid pennies to clear the entryway of snow, who looked like he was having a hell of a time with that broom of his. The other was a woman, if her slight build and height were anything to go off of. It was difficult to tell with the strange attire she wore. The group of five stopped and again discussed their course of action in low voices. It was decided that one of them would address the foreigner while another picked the brain of the servant. Surely they would be able to ascertain the location of their quarry with the help of three separate witnesses!

A man of aging years with many a harsh line upon his face and sunken shoulders stepped up toward the seated foreign woman. He was the eldest of the guardsmen present, and his senior rank afforded him slightly better winter clothing that wasn't so rugged. A polite smile on his lips, the guard deigned to lower his hood despite the weather out of a sign of respect. "Good day, madame." The veteran warrior greeted, nodding his head. "Would I be incorrect in assuming you're here on business with the king? I apologize for the wait; there was an error made on the steward's part. If you'd like to come inside, we can see about getting you something warm to drink."

---

It took a bit of effort, but eventually the royal guardsmen were able to determine- thanks to their witnesses- the location of the rest of the summoned treasure hunters. Now but five in number, the eldest choosing to stay behind and assist the steward in treating their found guests, they set off toward the nearby inn. Though the 'Lame Mule Inn' was near to the keep, it wasn't quite as popular as one might think. The owner was a lecherous old scoundrel that often attempted to bed his female guests. And his employees. And, at one point, a young stable boy he mistook for a woman. Most people didn't like the man very much, but he had been acquitted of any wrongdoing thanks to a few legal loopholes found by his Guild-provided lawyer.

The group of guardsmen entered the inn, throwing open the questionably stable doorway to move inside. It was surprisingly warm within, thanks to the roaring fire that looked like it might be a little too large for the fireplace it was in. They shrugged off the hoods of their coats, striding further inside through the hustle and bustle of activity within. Their impromptu leader, a bald headed and rough looking man who was actually quite fond of quilting, approached the barkeep. There were several people within that looked like they belonged to the crowd the soldiers sought. More than one wizard was present, and there was one particular giant of a man that looked like he could crush a Broken's skull between his thighs.

"Barkeep." The bald warrior called, tapping the surface of the counter. The keeper's eyes went wide with fear when he spotted the King's golden crest on the royal guard's tabard. That was the sort of look one gave when they owed someone money, the bald warrior figured. But he wasn't going to comment- the collectors could handle such petty crimes as tax evasion. "I'd like to buy a round. Colton's Whiskey." A surprised look was sent his way by his three friends, but no one argued at the prospect of free alcohol. He turned, his gaze tracing the occupants of the inn.

"One of you, head back outside. There may be more of them that need to be found." A groan came from the man at the back of the foursome. He knew neither of the other two would be willing to pass up on free whiskey, and his wife had recently ordered him to cut alcohol altogether. Begrudgingly he left, a grumble on his lips as he hit the snow-covered roads in search of more wandering adventurers.

"Attention!" He called out in a booming voice. "I come for those summoned by order of the king!" The warrior explained. "...And I wish to apologize to you all by buying you a drink. Come forward, produce your summons, and let's share a round!"

Superboy's Shitty Characters

---

Praetor City, Dall
Winter - 941 F.M (Finis Mortem)
[ ♫ ]

---

The frozen breath of the wild brushed against Lethino's rosy cheeks as he stood in the courtyard, his boots soaked from marching across snow-caked cobblestone. "Gods be damned." The royal steward cursed, flinging his head about frantically. There was no one to be seen! He couldn't believe it- he was late. Terribly, horribly, awfully late. Frederick couldn't blame the adventurers for leaving; who would want to stand out in the cold for so long?! Lethino's failure was truly, unequivocally outrageous. So monumental was his floundering that the steward was sure the king would have his head.

Perhaps not his head. That was a little drastic, especially for King Astius II (long may he reign). But he'd certainly lose his position as head steward if he didn't find a way to remedy the horrors of this situation post-haste. "The first expedition of winter, ruined! What an ill omen this is!" He lamented.

If Lethino wanted to preserve his position in the royal court, his first course of action was finding those he had summoned to Praetor City. That was easier said than done, of course- they could've gone anywhere! Literally anywhere! The capital was far too large for the steward to search alone, which meant recruiting the help of others to his cause. Frederick spun about on his heel, rushing back toward the keep. He threw open the heavy oaken doors, raising his voice until it echoed like thunder. "GUARDS!" He cried. "I require your assistance immediately! This is of the utmost importance!" His voice drew the annoyed attention of several men who's duty it was to stand around the keep looking intimidating. They were drawn to him, like moths to a flame, though their slothfulness was less than appreciated.

Frederick was in a hurry! He had no time for dillying or dallying! The steward swiftly explained his predicament to the gathered host, before unleashing upon them orders most divine to seek out any who carried an official summons bearing the mark of the king. Anyone with that letter was to be brought back to the keep- inside this time.

One of the royal warriors raised his hand. He was a brutish looking fellow with an ugly birthmark on his cheek and several missing teeth. "Oi, there was some bleedin' moron come 'round here shoutin' about a quest from the king. Said he lost his summons, so we's threw him in the dungeon."

There was a pause from the balding steward, a look of disbelief plastered on his expression as he tried to find some words to explain how utterly ridiculous that was. "Just..." Lethino began, shaking his head. "Retrieve him." Even if the fellow was full of it, one more body on the mission couldn't hurt. Especially if the entire party had bailed on them, of no real fault of their own. "I will remain here, since...mine being somewhere else sort of caused this whole mess in the first place. But you all must hurry! Quickly, now! Find my adventurers!"

---

Garbed in coats of thick fur over their chain and gambesons, the keep's loyal defenders, six in total, set out into the streets with purpose in their step.

They came upon the first potential adventurers almost immediately. A man of a strange complexion and a questionable mental state was standing ramrod straight in the corner of the courtyard, covered in ice and snow and staring into the distance like an utter loon. A few mutters were shared between the soldiers as they tried to decide who was the unfortunate one among them that would have to go speak to the crazy man.

It was decided that the smallest and most junior of the crew had to go. With a huff, the young soldier started forward, hand resting on the hilt of his sword on the off chance the snow dweller was violent. "'Scuse me, sir," the guardsman started, waving to get his attention. "You wouldn't happen to know where all thems adventure types went off to? The ones here to see the king?" It was a bit of a long shot, but the crazy fellow looked like he'd been standing around here for a good while. He might've seen where some of them went off to, or over heard some crucial chatter. If the man could suppress his urge to stare into the distance long enough to recall, he might actually prove helpful.

The others, meanwhile, continued onward, sharing a quiet snicker at the misfortune of the new recruit. They moved out toward the gatehouse, where they once again encountered a few figures. Two, to be precise. One was an rickety old peasant paid pennies to clear the entryway of snow, who looked like he was having a hell of a time with that broom of his. The other was a woman, if her slight build and height were anything to go off of. It was difficult to tell with the strange attire she wore. The group of five stopped and again discussed their course of action in low voices. It was decided that one of them would address the foreigner while another picked the brain of the servant. Surely they would be able to ascertain the location of their quarry with the help of three separate witnesses!

A man of aging years with many a harsh line upon his face and sunken shoulders stepped up toward the seated foreign woman. He was the eldest of the guardsmen present, and his senior rank afforded him slightly better winter clothing that wasn't so rugged. A polite smile on his lips, the guard deigned to lower his hood despite the weather out of a sign of respect. "Good day, madame." The veteran warrior greeted, nodding his head. "Would I be incorrect in assuming you're here on business with the king? I apologize for the wait; there was an error made on the steward's part. If you'd like to come inside, we can see about getting you something warm to drink."

---

It took a bit of effort, but eventually the royal guardsmen were able to determine- thanks to their witnesses- the location of the rest of the summoned treasure hunters. Now but five in number, the eldest choosing to stay behind and assist the steward in treating their found guests, they set off toward the nearby inn. Though the 'Lame Mule Inn' was near to the keep, it wasn't quite as popular as one might think. The owner was a lecherous old scoundrel that often attempted to bed his female guests. And his employees. And, at one point, a young stable boy he mistook for a woman. Most people didn't like the man very much, but he had been acquitted of any wrongdoing thanks to a few legal loopholes found by his Guild-provided lawyer.

The group of guardsmen entered the inn, throwing open the questionably stable doorway to move inside. It was surprisingly warm within, thanks to the roaring fire that looked like it might be a little too large for the fireplace it was in. They shrugged off the hoods of their coats, striding further inside through the hustle and bustle of activity within. Their impromptu leader, a bald headed and rough looking man who was actually quite fond of quilting, approached the barkeep. There were several people within that looked like they belonged to the crowd the soldiers sought. More than one wizard was present, and there was one particular giant of a man that looked like he could crush a Broken's skull between his thighs.

"Barkeep." The bald warrior called, tapping the surface of the counter. The keeper's eyes went wide with fear when he spotted the King's golden crest on the royal guard's tabard. That was the sort of look one gave when they owed someone money, the bald warrior figured. But he wasn't going to comment- the collectors could handle such petty crimes as tax evasion. "I'd like to buy a round. Colton's Whiskey." A surprised look was sent his way by his three friends, but no one argued at the prospect of free alcohol. He turned, his gaze tracing the occupants of the inn.

"One of you, head back outside. There may be more of them that need to be found." A groan came from the man at the back of the foursome. He knew neither of the other two would be willing to pass up on free whiskey, and his wife had recently ordered him to cut alcohol altogether. Begrudgingly he left, a grumble on his lips as he hit the snow-covered roads in search of more wandering adventurers.

"Attention!" He called out in a booming voice. "I come for those summoned by order of the king!" The warrior explained. "...And I wish to apologize to you all by buying you a drink. Come forward, produce your summons, and let's share a round!"

Sticks And Stones [Post-Apoc/High Fantasy Hybrid]

I'lll get that post up in just a bit! Sorry for the wait, everyone.

Except Dead Drop.

He deserves this.

No Turning Back - Surving the Abyss

---

THE GOOD DOCTOR

CDR. ROSS
VITAE LOG #3
Morning, 2221
♪♪♪

---

_{@The Valkyrie}

If there was one thing in the known universe that Elijah might hate more than the Devastators, it was paperwork. Though he hadn't used actual paper official documents in more than a decade and a half, the man still abhorred it. He understood the importance of what he was doing well- deciding who was best qualified to join them on the first expedition to a habitable world was a monumental task. And Ross was honored that he had been chosen for this duty. All of that said, however...

'Good God I hate this.'

It had to be the worst part about all of these promotions he'd earned over the years. Elijah appreciated the increased income and the better quality of life that came with it. And he appreciated, too, the weight of the tasks that came with his rank and title. There was nothing quite like the feeling of commanding a crew from the helm of a gargantuan warship in the midst of battle. It was altogether terrifying and exhilarating in the same breath. With those highs came the lows. And unfortunately for a man of his standing, the 'lows' constituted around eighty percent of what he did on any given day.

Paperwork. It was nothing but paperwork. Signing off on orders, reading over mechanical and troop inspection reports, dealing with requests from personnel and other departments, and any other host of poignantly mundane duties that came with a position of leadership. Elijah's mornings typically consisted of pouring a pot of copy and then looking at his datapad for a few hours. Then he would leave for Eden, and look at his datapad for a few hours. Then to lunch, more of the datapad, on to his office and more of the datapad (and, refreshingly, other viewscreens!) and finally he would return home for dinner and eventually bed...and more looking at a datapad.

If Eli was forced to remain in a single place to do all of this, he might've lost it awhile ago. As it was, he was quite thankful that places like Eden existed to offer some different scenery to his aging eyes. Eden was- pun totally intended- a breath of fresh air. It cut out a bit of the monotony of it all, in a way. Ross enjoyed the warm breeze brushing against his face. The sound of swaying trees broke up the maddening hum that came from the rest of the Vitae.

As his fingers traced across a barely tangible screen, Elijah heard a familiar voice play in his ear. The pad fell down against his knee, forgotten momentarily as the commander turned to face Rois Holt. "Doctor Holt." He greeted, his voice distorted by the mechanical breathing apparatus that dominated the lower half of his face. Elijah ran a finger up along his neck, pressing down on the button that caused the mask to retract. Ross held in a cough, letting his lungs adjust to the unfiltered air for a moment. Even if his doctors implored him to keep the mask on as often as he could, Elijah was adamant about speaking face to face. He was doing his body no favors, but a few minutes of unregulated breathing shouldn't kill him.

Ross rolled his shoulders, bracing himself for the upcoming strain as he went to stand. He suppressed a groan at the screeching ache within his right knee and upper thigh. A near silent mechanical whirring followed the action, the sophisticated brace adjusting to release the pressure on his wounded right leg.

"It is a good morning indeed." Elijah offered a warm smile to Holt, taking several steps to meet the Head of Hydroponics with an outstretched hand. It wasn't just a good morning. A good morning involved waking up feeling rested and eating a healthy amount of scrambled eggs and bacon. No, today was shaping up to be a great morning. Potentially even the best since he had entered the ark five years ago- paperwork aside.

Her question on whether he was in Eden for business or pleasure brought Elijah's hands together, to be clasped in front of him as his demeanor shifted slightly. "A little bit of both, actually." Ross said, his earlier joviality replaced with a dash of seriousness. "I meant to come speak with you personally later today about an...opportunity."

He glanced down at the datapad in his hand, remembering well the names of those qualified for the expedition. Among many others, Elijah had seen Doctor Holt's. "The admiral has me choosing a crew for a very...special assignment. I'm trying to bring together a small team of experts, and, well.." He started, picking his words carefully; he knew that the mission wasn't on the official record just yet, and letting that information slip early could very well stoke the fires of unrest that were already burning.

It was difficult for Elijah to keep from getting at least a little excited at the prospect. They were going to a new world! After five long years spent with nothing but dwindling hope, they had finally arrived at a world ripe for colonization. His attempt at remaining serious and keeping this all under wraps was broken by the slight grin that Ross wore as he spoke in a lowered voice. "...How would you feel about being a part of history, Doctor Holt?"

Rois was not a hard sell. She was their leading expert on plant life and agriculture- along with someone like Wolfe, Holt could determine just how 'habitable' this habitable world really was. "Now, nothing's finalized quite yet, so I can't get into the details until I've met with Locke-"

Ross's point was interrupted by an obnoxious beeping coming from the device he held within his fist. He turned it over, glancing down at the screen to see what all the fuss was about. "Ah. I let time get away from me." Elijah grumbled, switching off the alarm. "Speaking of meetings, I'm going to be late if I don't get moving to mine now. I'll have one of my aide's reach out to yours so we can schedule something." The commander implored, starting to turn away from Eden's caretaker. He really should've set that alarm for fifteen minutes earlier, all things considered, to give himself more time. But Elijah had a terrible habit of rushing to get on time to things. "Have a wonderful morning, Doctor Holt! Oh, and Eden was just superb!"

Superboy's Shitty Characters

---

THE GOOD DOCTOR

CDR. ROSS
VITAE LOG #3
Morning, 2221
♪♪♪

---

If there was one thing in the known universe that Elijah might hate more than the Devastators, it was paperwork. Though he hadn't used actual paper official documents in more than a decade and a half, the man still abhorred it. He understood the importance of what he was doing well- deciding who was best qualified to join them on the first expedition to a habitable world was a monumental task. And Ross was honored that he had been chosen for this duty. All of that said, however...

'Good God I hate this.'

It had to be the worst part about all of these promotions he'd earned over the years. Elijah appreciated the increased income and the better quality of life that came with it. And he appreciated, too, the weight of the tasks that came with his rank and title. There was nothing quite like the feeling of commanding a crew from the helm of a gargantuan warship in the midst of battle. It was altogether terrifying and exhilarating in the same breath. With those highs came the lows. And unfortunately for a man of his standing, the 'lows' constituted around eighty percent of what he did on any given day.

Paperwork. It was nothing but paperwork. Signing off on orders, reading over mechanical and troop inspection reports, dealing with requests from personnel and other departments, and any other host of poignantly mundane duties that came with a position of leadership. Elijah's mornings typically consisted of pouring a pot of copy and then looking at his datapad for a few hours. Then he would leave for Eden, and look at his datapad for a few hours. Then to lunch, more of the datapad, on to his office and more of the datapad (and, refreshingly, other viewscreens!) and finally he would return home for dinner and eventually bed...and more looking at a datapad.

If Eli was forced to remain in a single place to do all of this, he might've lost it awhile ago. As it was, he was quite thankful that places like Eden existed to offer some different scenery to his aging eyes. Eden was- pun totally intended- a breath of fresh air. It cut out a bit of the monotony of it all, in a way. Ross enjoyed the warm breeze brushing against his face. The sound of swaying trees broke up the maddening hum that came from the rest of the Vitae.

As his fingers traced across a barely tangible screen, Elijah heard a familiar voice play in his ear. The pad fell down against his knee, forgotten momentarily as the commander turned to face Rois Holt. "Doctor Holt." He greeted, his voice distorted by the mechanical breathing apparatus that dominated the lower half of his face. Elijah ran a finger up along his neck, pressing down on the button that caused the mask to retract. Ross held in a cough, letting his lungs adjust to the unfiltered air for a moment. Even if his doctors implored him to keep the mask on as often as he could, Elijah was adamant about speaking face to face. He was doing his body no favors, but a few minutes of unregulated breathing shouldn't kill him.

Ross rolled his shoulders, bracing himself for the upcoming strain as he went to stand. He suppressed a groan at the screeching ache within his right knee and upper thigh. A near silent mechanical whirring followed the action, the sophisticated brace adjusting to release the pressure on his wounded right leg.

"It is a good morning indeed." Elijah offered a warm smile to Holt, taking several steps to meet the Head of Hydroponics with an outstretched hand. It wasn't just a good morning. A good morning involved waking up feeling rested and eating a healthy amount of scrambled eggs and bacon. No, today was shaping up to be a great morning. Potentially even the best since he had entered the ark five years ago- paperwork aside.

Her question on whether he was in Eden for business or pleasure brought Elijah's hands together, to be clasped in front of him as his demeanor shifted slightly. "A little bit of both, actually." Ross said, his earlier joviality replaced with a dash of seriousness. "I meant to come speak with you personally later today about an...opportunity."

He glanced down at the datapad in his hand, remembering well the names of those qualified for the expedition. Among many others, Elijah had seen Doctor Holt's. "The admiral has me choosing a crew for a very...special assignment. I'm trying to bring together a small team of experts, and, well.." He started, picking his words carefully; he knew that the mission wasn't on the official record just yet, and letting that information slip early could very well stoke the fires of unrest that were already burning.

It was difficult for Elijah to keep from getting at least a little excited at the prospect. They were going to a new world! After five long years spent with nothing but dwindling hope, they had finally arrived at a world ripe for colonization. His attempt at remaining serious and keeping this all under wraps was broken by the slight grin that Ross wore as he spoke in a lowered voice. "...How would you feel about being a part of history, Doctor Holt?"

Rois was not a hard sell. She was their leading expert on plant life and agriculture- along with someone like Wolfe, Holt could determine just how 'habitable' this habitable world really was. "Now, nothing's finalized quite yet, so I can't get into the details until I've met with Locke-"

Ross's point was interrupted by an obnoxious beeping coming from the device he held within his fist. He turned it over, glancing down at the screen to see what all the fuss was about. "Ah. I let time get away from me." Elijah grumbled, switching off the alarm. "Speaking of meetings, I'm going to be late if I don't get moving to mine now. I'll have one of my aide's reach out to yours so we can schedule something." The commander implored, starting to turn away from Eden's caretaker. He really should've set that alarm for fifteen minutes earlier, all things considered, to give himself more time. But Elijah had a terrible habit of rushing to get on time to things. "Have a wonderful morning, Doctor Holt! Oh, and Eden was just superb!"

Battletech: Anabasis

The question of whether or not any of this was truly real was answered by the sound of an autocannon shot echoing throughout the blistering sands. Contact had been made- the enemy had opened fire on them first. One of the rear echelon's recon drones had been turned to slag. Bjornson felt a swelling in his chest. Some concoction of excitement and fear broiled inside of him at that thunderous sound of cannon fire. He held fast to his controls and listened to the orders dished out by Captain Hart. He was a part of the team advancing alongside the Captain, toward the enemy. They were meant to move slowly. Apparently, the drones had spotted out a particularly dangerous mech that would tear them apart in close quarters. It was up to the team's designated marksman to disable or destroy that mech to allow the rest of the team to move into range.

Han didn't like waiting, but he didn't particularly enjoy being blown up either, so he decided to do as he was ordered. He pulled back on his speed, changing the direction of his Wolfhound to avoid moving too closely. Han kept himself at an angle, slowly inching forward as his sensor array picked up more and more targets within the treeline. The pirates had many among their numbers, it seemed, and they were packing quite a bit of firepower. Most of it appeared to be close range in nature, however, so Bjornson wasn't too worried about receiving return fire as he moved into range for his ER Large Laser.

His assumption was proved incorrect when PPC fire nearly took Mattlov's head off.

"Shit." The nobleman cursed under his breath, searching for the origin point of the shot. Mattlov and the other Overwatch units had the cover of the mountain to aid them. But Bjornson and the rest of the advancing team were out in the open, and a well placed particle cannon shot could immobilize any one of them. "Anybody have eyes on that PPC shooter?!" Bjornson barked over the comms, his head on a swivel as he tried to identify where it came from- but he couldn't see any mechs with that loadout. He noticed Eichberg had turned on his radio, but all that came out was blabbered nonsense.

'Come on, little one- what did you see?' Eichberg wasn't like most pilots Bjornson had encountered. He was quiet and reserved, rarely showing confidence outside of direct battle. But he was also damn near a savant when it came to firing those guns of his. If anyone in the lance had seen where the shot originated, it'd be their own sniper.

Han held his breath, watching as Eichberg's comms once more flared to life. This time, though his voice sounded shaky, coordinates followed. Bjornson couldn't help the grin that spread across his lips as he flipped on his own comms. "Excellent work, Eichberg!" Though the boy wasn't Lyran, Han could not deny his usefulness. "A little faster on the draw next time would be appreciated, however." Praise could not come without criticism; for they were still students, and they could not be allowed to rest on their laurels.

They had identified where the fire was coming from- the river. A Panther was using jumpjets to fire at them from the safety of the curve in the terrain. Han knew he could take it out, but not with the Thunderbolt and Urbanmech standing within range. He changed his course to move in the direction of the Panther without getting close enough to be engaged by the other two mechs. "Rall," Han briefly considered referring to the rat by something less than savory, but chose not to; in the heat of the moment, he could not afford damaging team cohesion. Even if he did loathe the woman. "On me. We're going to deal with that pest in the river." If he was getting this close, Bjornson needed backup. If he failed to take down the Panther or if one of those Harassers appeared, he'd need the Wolverine to assist. It was up to their rifleman to take down the Urbie. Han could've provided support in dealing with the Thunderbolt, given his own range, however...

'If I fire now, I won't have the heat capacity to engage the Panther with everything I have.' Han wanted to take the other mech down in short order, if he could; it's weaponry was too deadly for him to allow it to remain in play for long. He had to hope that Eichberg could handle the pressure from those two on his own. 'Don't let me down, little one.' Bjornson prayed.

He watched the exchange on his map. Information poured in through his Neurohelmet on the battle that raged to his rear. Han kept himself moving straight at a little over half speed, his hand ready to twist to the right to make for the river the moment he was clear to engage. Sweat dribbled down his nose. Teeth clenched tight, Han waited with baited breath.

Then the report came in from Eichberg. He'd damaged the Urbie badly enough to drive it back into the trees. "Wunderbar! Well done." The Urbanmech was no longer in play, at least for the time being. That meant he was clear to advance. Though, the Thunderbolt would be an issue...such a massive mech would shrug off his lasers without much difficulty, and it's own arsenal could tear his own light mech apart. Still, even if it did present a danger, Bjornson couldn't hesitate. He turned his Wolfhound, beginning his approach toward the river as he rapidly increased his vehicle's footspeed.

"I'm moving in to take out that Panther, cover me!" It turned out that Han's request had been superfluous, seeing as how Wulfhart was already pouring fire onto the Thunderbolt. Missiles rained down like divine wrath from heaven, bombarding the heavy mech's position with burning pain. "You have my thanks, Wulf." With the Thunderbolt off balance and the pilot's attention on the Overwatch team, Bjornson was free to enter the riverbed without fear of instant reprisal.

Han felt the ground vanish from underneath him as he guided his Wolfhound to leap down into the slight gulch. It returned a second later as the entire cockpit vibrated violently, Bjornson's stomach turning at the impact. "Really, girl? Now?" He growled. Those shock absorbers were going to get him killed if they didn't pull themselves together. The Wolfhound turned to face down the river, spouting out the little bastard that had opened fire on Mattlov earlier. The Panther had spotted Han on his approach and had prepared by turning to face him.

A critical error that would result in the pilot's demise.

Before Bjornson had fully brought his Wolfhound to bear, a particle projector shot rang out. Echoing like thunder it exploded through the gulch, slamming against the front torso armor. It reverberated through the cockpit as Han clutched his controls until his knuckles were white, his eyes pressed shut as heat rushed into the compartment.

The particle cannon had hit like a runaway freight train, forcing the Wolfhound off it's center of balance. Han intentionally let the light mech fall down onto a knee to avoid falling over entirely. The earth shook with every movement from the massive mechanical nightmare. The shot had caused his armor to cave inward. Coolant was leaking from a damaged heat sink down the machine's side like vibrantly blue blood. A gargantuan palm pressed against the damaged armor, blocking up the wound to avoid further leakage for a short time.

Han responded by lifting up his Large Laser, turning the massive weapon on his brash foe. He lined the crosshairs over the Panther's right arm. Bjornson kept his breathing steady, his heart practically bursting through his chest as he took careful aim. "To hell with you." Han snarled, squeezing the trigger. A brilliant flash of light at the end of his gun shined as the thick laser cut through the air, the Panther's weapon awash in holy pyre.

Waves of unbearable heat assaulted Bjornson from every angle. His remaining nine single heat sinks worked to keep the mech's interior and exterior as cool as physically possible in the desert heat. Thankfully the river's waters would more than make up for the damaged sink, allowing Han to continue fighting without worrying about passing out in his cockpit just from firing his weapons.

The Panther wasn't finished. Though it's weapon was suffering from major overheating issues and a damaged barrel, it still pressed forward nonetheless. Han watched, his brow furrowing at the sight. 'Damn it, it has SRMs.' The pirate was looking to close in and let loose a volley of missiles. Bjornson brought up the ranges on the missiles on his HUD, reading them off quickly as he shifting his mech to stand back up. He had a one hundred meter advantage in range with his three medium lasers, though the Panther would do more damage if it managed to land all of it's rockets.

'Keep out of range, then.' Han prepped his medium lasers, the Wolfhound finally rising back to it's full, impressive height. The river was too tight for the Panther to perform any significant maneuvers; it was a sitting duck. Bjornson loosed a full volley from all three of his close range weapons, letting the trio of colorful beams slash along the front side of the Panther. It's chest armor glowed a vibrant orange as steel melted underneath the concentrated fire. Han started to back away, his feet stomping through the water as he waited for his weapons to cool down enough to allow a second shot from his Large laser.

"Come on then, you bastard! I know you've got more than that in you!"

Superboy's Shitty Characters

The question of whether or not any of this was truly real was answered by the sound of an autocannon shot echoing throughout the blistering sands. Contact had been made- the enemy had opened fire on them first. One of the rear echelon's recon drones had been turned to slag. Bjornson felt a swelling in his chest. Some concoction of excitement and fear broiled inside of him at that thunderous sound of cannon fire. He held fast to his controls and listened to the orders dished out by Captain Hart. He was a part of the team advancing alongside the Captain, toward the enemy. They were meant to move slowly. Apparently, the drones had spotted out a particularly dangerous mech that would tear them apart in close quarters. It was up to the team's designated marksman to disable or destroy that mech to allow the rest of the team to move into range.

Han didn't like waiting, but he didn't particularly enjoy being blown up either, so he decided to do as he was ordered. He pulled back on his speed, changing the direction of his Wolfhound to avoid moving too closely. Han kept himself at an angle, slowly inching forward as his sensor array picked up more and more targets within the treeline. The pirates had many among their numbers, it seemed, and they were packing quite a bit of firepower. Most of it appeared to be close range in nature, however, so Bjornson wasn't too worried about receiving return fire as he moved into range for his ER Large Laser.

His assumption was proved incorrect when PPC fire nearly took Mattlov's head off.

"Shit." The nobleman cursed under his breath, searching for the origin point of the shot. Mattlov and the other Overwatch units had the cover of the mountain to aid them. But Bjornson and the rest of the advancing team were out in the open, and a well placed particle cannon shot could immobilize any one of them. "Anybody have eyes on that PPC shooter?!" Bjornson barked over the comms, his head on a swivel as he tried to identify where it came from- but he couldn't see any mechs with that loadout. He noticed Eichberg had turned on his radio, but all that came out was blabbered nonsense.

'Come on, little one- what did you see?' Eichberg wasn't like most pilots Bjornson had encountered. He was quiet and reserved, rarely showing confidence outside of direct battle. But he was also damn near a savant when it came to firing those guns of his. If anyone in the lance had seen where the shot originated, it'd be their own sniper.

Han held his breath, watching as Eichberg's comms once more flared to life. This time, though his voice sounded shaky, coordinates followed. Bjornson couldn't help the grin that spread across his lips as he flipped on his own comms. "Excellent work, Eichberg!" Though the boy wasn't Lyran, Han could not deny his usefulness. "A little faster on the draw next time would be appreciated, however." Praise could not come without criticism; for they were still students, and they could not be allowed to rest on their laurels.

They had identified where the fire was coming from- the river. A Panther was using jumpjets to fire at them from the safety of the curve in the terrain. Han knew he could take it out, but not with the Thunderbolt and Urbanmech standing within range. He changed his course to move in the direction of the Panther without getting close enough to be engaged by the other two mechs. "Rall," Han briefly considered referring to the rat by something less than savory, but chose not to; in the heat of the moment, he could not afford damaging team cohesion. Even if he did loathe the woman. "On me. We're going to deal with that pest in the river." If he was getting this close, Bjornson needed backup. If he failed to take down the Panther or if one of those Harassers appeared, he'd need the Wolverine to assist. It was up to their rifleman to take down the Urbie. Han could've provided support in dealing with the Thunderbolt, given his own range, however...

'If I fire now, I won't have the heat capacity to engage the Panther with everything I have.' Han wanted to take the other mech down in short order, if he could; it's weaponry was too deadly for him to allow it to remain in play for long. He had to hope that Eichberg could handle the pressure from those two on his own. 'Don't let me down, little one.' Bjornson prayed.

He watched the exchange on his map. Information poured in through his Neurohelmet on the battle that raged to his rear. Han kept himself moving straight at a little over half speed, his hand ready to twist to the right to make for the river the moment he was clear to engage. Sweat dribbled down his nose. Teeth clenched tight, Han waited with baited breath.

Then the report came in from Eichberg. He'd damaged the Urbie badly enough to drive it back into the trees. "Wunderbar! Well done." The Urbanmech was no longer in play, at least for the time being. That meant he was clear to advance. Though, the Thunderbolt would be an issue...such a massive mech would shrug off his lasers without much difficulty, and it's own arsenal could tear his own light mech apart. Still, even if it did present a danger, Bjornson couldn't hesitate. He turned his Wolfhound, beginning his approach toward the river as he rapidly increased his vehicle's footspeed.

"I'm moving in to take out that Panther, cover me!" It turned out that Han's request had been superfluous, seeing as how Wulfhart was already pouring fire onto the Thunderbolt. Missiles rained down like divine wrath from heaven, bombarding the heavy mech's position with burning pain. "You have my thanks, Wulf." With the Thunderbolt off balance and the pilot's attention on the Overwatch team, Bjornson was free to enter the riverbed without fear of instant reprisal.

Han felt the ground vanish from underneath him as he guided his Wolfhound to leap down into the slight gulch. It returned a second later as the entire cockpit vibrated violently, Bjornson's stomach turning at the impact. "Really, girl? Now?" He growled. Those shock absorbers were going to get him killed if they didn't pull themselves together. The Wolfhound turned to face down the river, spouting out the little bastard that had opened fire on Mattlov earlier. The Panther had spotted Han on his approach and had prepared by turning to face him.

A critical error that would result in the pilot's demise.

Before Bjornson had fully brought his Wolfhound to bear, a particle projector shot rang out. Echoing like thunder it exploded through the gulch, slamming against the front torso armor. It reverberated through the cockpit as Han clutched his controls until his knuckles were white, his eyes pressed shut as heat rushed into the compartment.

The particle cannon had hit like a runaway freight train, forcing the Wolfhound off it's center of balance. Han intentionally let the light mech fall down onto a knee to avoid falling over entirely. The earth shook with every movement from the massive mechanical nightmare. The shot had caused his armor to cave inward. Coolant was leaking from a damaged heat sink down the machine's side like vibrantly blue blood. A gargantuan palm pressed against the damaged armor, blocking up the wound to avoid further leakage for a short time.

Han responded by lifting up his Large Laser, turning the massive weapon on his brash foe. He lined the crosshairs over the Panther's right arm. Bjornson kept his breathing steady, his heart practically bursting through his chest as he took careful aim. "To hell with you." Han snarled, squeezing the trigger. A brilliant flash of light at the end of his gun shined as the thick laser cut through the air, the Panther's weapon awash in holy pyre.

Waves of unbearable heat assaulted Bjornson from every angle. His remaining nine single heat sinks worked to keep the mech's interior and exterior as cool as physically possible in the desert heat. Thankfully the river's waters would more than make up for the damaged sink, allowing Han to continue fighting without worrying about passing out in his cockpit just from firing his weapons.

The Panther wasn't finished. Though it's weapon was suffering from major overheating issues and a damaged barrel, it still pressed forward nonetheless. Han watched, his brow furrowing at the sight. 'Damn it, it has SRMs.' The pirate was looking to close in and let loose a volley of missiles. Bjornson brought up the ranges on the missiles on his HUD, reading them off quickly as he shifting his mech to stand back up. He had a one hundred meter advantage in range with his three medium lasers, though the Panther would do more damage if it managed to land all of it's rockets.

'Keep out of range, then.' Han prepped his medium lasers, the Wolfhound finally rising back to it's full, impressive height. The river was too tight for the Panther to perform any significant maneuvers; it was a sitting duck. Bjornson loosed a full volley from all three of his close range weapons, letting the trio of colorful beams slash along the front side of the Panther. It's chest armor glowed a vibrant orange as steel melted underneath the concentrated fire. Han started to back away, his feet stomping through the water as he waited for his weapons to cool down enough to allow a second shot from his Large laser.

"Come on then, you bastard! I know you've got more than that in you!"

No Turning Back - Surving the Abyss

---

INHALE

CDR. ROSS
VITAE LOG #2
Morning, 2221
♪♪♪

---

It had been five, long years since anyone aboard the Vitae had stepped foot on solid ground. With Earth and Mars reduced to ash, all they had left to call home were the claustrophobic and colorless halls of the Genesis Ark. For many, this was a difficult thing to adjust to. Earthers were used to fields of green stretching for miles upon miles in every direction. Martians found their comfort in the endless deserts of twisting dust storms and crimson rock. To know that they might never see land like that again...it tended to drive people mad.

Elijah was not one of those people. He had spent almost every day of his life in the cramped hull of many a lifeless warship. He had grown accustomed to falling asleep to the sound of a purring engine. He was used to seeing nothing more than composite steel and blinking consoles for months on end. Yet still, though Ross was a career Serviceman, he had found the last five years surprisingly taxing. He no longer had a home to return to. There would be no crowd of friends and family awaiting him when he returned from a tour. There would be no quiet celebratory dinner with his aging parents, or night of drunken foolishness with his cousins. They, along with the rest of Mars, were gone. And that was something Ross still had trouble coping with.

Coming here helped.

Ross sat upon an old fashioned park bench made from wrought iron and painted sheer black. A breeze blew gently across his face, passing through the graying beard Elijah had neglected to remove. His mother had always detested facial hair, so he remained clean shaven for her sake. The gesture had lost it's meaning five years ago.

Eden reminded him of a park he used to visit back when he was a boy. He and his friends would race one another around the gardens in their motorbikes. The security officer would always yell at them whenever they got going too fast, but Elijah never listened. The grass was greener here than it was in the Martian park. The trees grew taller, too. Healthier trees and the cutting edge technology involved in keeping Eden running made the air all the sharper than it was back home.

The commander wished he could still enjoy it.

Elijah had always taken air for granted. Oxygen was something they had in abundance, after all; no one worried about breathing while they were young and healthy. Ross couldn't have known how much he missed being able to take a deep breath without a searing pain filling his side.

Almost as if on cue, Ross went to take a breath, only for a sputtering cough to follow. "Damn it." He rasped quietly. A reluctant hand reached up to tap a small button on his neck. The armored piece began to fold out, extending around his jawline and mouth until it snapped into place, both sides connecting to form the respirator that Elijah required to breathe. The mouthpiece itself was transparent, per Elijah's request- he hated how the machine obscured his features. Ross was not the kind of man to hide behind a mask.

The artificially enhanced air forced into his mouth with every puff on the respirator felt cold and hollow. It was as lifeless as the walls of any warship. Elijah despised not being able to breathe real air. He despised needing to be hooked up to some machine. He felt lesser for it. Yet all of all of the options presented to him, this was the only one Ross could take that didn't include dying. Elijah would never give up his pride as a Martian and as a man to force some unnatural cybernetic into his body. Some lab-grown pair of new lungs wouldn't do either. Even if his world was dead Elijah would never give up on it's beliefs. Ross would die before he betrayed Mars's memory.

Though Eden held a special place in Elijah's heart, he knew that it wouldn't for long. He came here because it gave him a reminder of what was. But Admiral Locke's call earlier that morning had changed that- or, it would soon, at any rate. Ross looked on at the tree before him, a smile forming underneath his respirator at the sight of it's blooming flowers. This particular tree was from Conglomerate territory on earth, if he had his facts right. It was gorgeous- probably the prettiest thing Nagasaki ever produced.

If Locke was right, this might be the last time Ross would ever need to visit Eden to be reminded of what land looked like. Elijah didn't believe his ears when he first heard the news. After five years of unending space travel, Elijah had resigned himself to it- he had expected to die never seeing anything other than a bulkhead and the blacks stretch of space ever again.

'A habitable world...'

It was the first of it's kind they had come across after heading through the Eye, and Ross had the privilege and the honor of gathering a suitable team for their first away mission off the Vitae. With the press of a button he opened the holographic display from his personal device, a list of names appearing before his eyes. This was his sacred duty. To humanity, to Mars- to himself.

N.O.A.H had prepared a list of candidates for Elijah, dividing it up by occupation and availability. There were close to fifteen thousand people awake, and this list only contained a fraction of them. Yet there were hundreds upon hundreds of names here. Almost all of them were qualified for this job. It was up to Ross to determine who was the best choice for this. "I suppose I should start with the science team." They needed them to work with the survey drones to determine just how habitable the world really was. "Let's see, here..." Ross muttered to himself, flicking through the various pages of names.

As he began to flag potentially suitable candidates, a funny little thought entered Eli's mind that made him smile.

'I wonder what the air tastes like down there..'

Superboy's Shitty Characters

---

INHALE

CDR. ROSS
VITAE LOG #2
Morning, 2221
♪♪♪

---

It had been five, long years since anyone aboard the Vitae had stepped foot on solid ground. With Earth and Mars reduced to ash, all they had left to call home were the claustrophobic and colorless halls of the Genesis Ark. For many, this was a difficult thing to adjust to. Earthers were used to fields of green stretching for miles upon miles in every direction. Martians found their comfort in the endless deserts of twisting dust storms and crimson rock. To know that they might never see land like that again...it tended to drive people mad.

Elijah was not one of those people. He had spent almost every day of his life in the cramped hull of many a lifeless warship. He had grown accustomed to falling asleep to the sound of a purring engine. He was used to seeing nothing more than composite steel and blinking consoles for months on end. Yet still, though Ross was a career Serviceman, he had found the last five years surprisingly taxing. He no longer had a home to return to. There would be no crowd of friends and family awaiting him when he returned from a tour. There would be no quiet celebratory dinner with his aging parents, or night of drunken foolishness with his cousins. They, along with the rest of Mars, were gone. And that was something Ross still had trouble coping with.

Coming here helped.

Ross sat upon an old fashioned park bench made from wrought iron and painted sheer black. A breeze blew gently across his face, passing through the graying beard Elijah had neglected to remove. His mother had always detested facial hair, so he remained clean shaven for her sake. The gesture had lost it's meaning five years ago.

Eden reminded him of a park he used to visit back when he was a boy. He and his friends would race one another around the gardens in their motorbikes. The security officer would always yell at them whenever they got going too fast, but Elijah never listened. The grass was greener here than it was in the Martian park. The trees grew taller, too. Healthier trees and the cutting edge technology involved in keeping Eden running made the air all the sharper than it was back home.

The commander wished he could still enjoy it.

Elijah had always taken air for granted. Oxygen was something they had in abundance, after all; no one worried about breathing while they were young and healthy. Ross couldn't have known how much he missed being able to take a deep breath without a searing pain filling his side.

Almost as if on cue, Ross went to take a breath, only for a sputtering cough to follow. "Damn it." He rasped quietly. A reluctant hand reached up to tap a small button on his neck. The armored piece began to fold out, extending around his jawline and mouth until it snapped into place, both sides connecting to form the respirator that Elijah required to breathe. The mouthpiece itself was transparent, per Elijah's request- he hated how the machine obscured his features. Ross was not the kind of man to hide behind a mask.

The artificially enhanced air forced into his mouth with every puff on the respirator felt cold and hollow. It was as lifeless as the walls of any warship. Elijah despised not being able to breathe real air. He despised needing to be hooked up to some machine. He felt lesser for it. Yet all of all of the options presented to him, this was the only one Ross could take that didn't include dying. Elijah would never give up his pride as a Martian and as a man to force some unnatural cybernetic into his body. Some lab-grown pair of new lungs wouldn't do either. Even if his world was dead Elijah would never give up on it's beliefs. Ross would die before he betrayed Mars's memory.

Though Eden held a special place in Elijah's heart, he knew that it wouldn't for long. He came here because it gave him a reminder of what was. But Admiral Locke's call earlier that morning had changed that- or, it would soon, at any rate. Ross looked on at the tree before him, a smile forming underneath his respirator at the sight of it's blooming flowers. This particular tree was from Conglomerate territory on earth, if he had his facts right. It was gorgeous- probably the prettiest thing Nagasaki ever produced.

If Locke was right, this might be the last time Ross would ever need to visit Eden to be reminded of what land looked like. Elijah didn't believe his ears when he first heard the news. After five years of unending space travel, Elijah had resigned himself to it- he had expected to die never seeing anything other than a bulkhead and the blacks stretch of space ever again.

'A habitable world...'

It was the first of it's kind they had come across after heading through the Eye, and Ross had the privilege and the honor of gathering a suitable team for their first away mission off the Vitae. With the press of a button he opened the holographic display from his personal device, a list of names appearing before his eyes. This was his sacred duty. To humanity, to Mars- to himself.

N.O.A.H had prepared a list of candidates for Elijah, dividing it up by occupation and availability. There were close to fifteen thousand people awake, and this list only contained a fraction of them. Yet there were hundreds upon hundreds of names here. Almost all of them were qualified for this job. It was up to Ross to determine who was the best choice for this. "I suppose I should start with the science team." They needed them to work with the survey drones to determine just how habitable the world really was. "Let's see, here..." Ross muttered to himself, flicking through the various pages of names.

As he began to flag potentially suitable candidates, a funny little thought entered Eli's mind that made him smile.

'I wonder what the air tastes like down there..'