Remnants of the Earth

"Buzzed," he admitted freely. "Not sober, but not wasted."

He took another deep drag, watching as the lit end burned bright with the pull, reducing a good portion to ash in the blink of an eye. He held the smoke in, flicking the end with his thumb to eject the ash, the bits flitting down to the floor and disappearing in the wind soon after.

He exhaled, the plume even bigger than before, his nerves sedated by the ritual.

"I'm warm. Today's a better day. Didn't even need my cane to get here."

"Of course I do." He gave her hand a little squeeze. "...It's never easy, letting go. Even if you know you really should. Some shit, though..."

Ren shot her a wry kind of smile.

"You and I are two peas in a pod."

He finished his wine and set the empty glass onto the balcony railing. Ren squeezed Kielen's hand again, this time in quiet askance.

"May I smoke?"

Ren was right there in the foyer to greet her, both glasses in hand. He gave her a smile and held out the one he hadn't been sipping at.

"Good evening, my Queen. I've just finished getting everything ready."

It wasn't quite a lie. He had spent the past five minutes double checking that everything was in place, and then triple checking to boot. He hadn't even been on anything this evening, which might've accounted for the ants under his skin, but the slight mania had been helpful in remembering every last detail.

"I've ordered dinner to be brought up - steak in garlic compound butter and seasonal vegetables, with a double chocolate cake for dessert, of course."

{NAME}
Yi Zhou

{ALIASES}
[CLASSIFIED]

{AGE}
Somewhere in his 30’s

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, Pansexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Mostly human, Aedolean

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
5’10”, slender

{OCCUPATION}
Pilot Echo, Inquiry Blackbagger

{RESIDENCE}
Originally Samariel
Currently, who knoooows ask me later



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Build; Zhou is slender but well-muscled from ATC training and constant physical activity. He’s fairly tall but hardly cuts an imposing figure, which suits him because he prefers speed over brute strength anyway.

Color; Very cool toned— Zhou is lightly tanned, with dark ash-brown hair and piercing cold grey eyes.

Alterations; Being mostly human, there’s not much that’s different about him that one would notice on first glance. Repeated study, however, notes the slightest of points to his ears, and that his pupils are closer shaped to slits.

Modifications; Zhou is heavily pierced and tattooed and otherwise modified. He has several piercings in both ears, two eyebrow piercings, mirrored jawline tattoos and several other geometric bands tattooed on his forearms and shins. He also has an ocular implant in each eye, and two other implants set on the insides of his wrists. The ocular implant was voluntary to help with work, providing him an easy read of body signatures and enhanced night vision. The wrist implants function as a heat regulation system, both monitoring his body temperature and providing a cooling function to help keep the temperature constant.

Dress; Most of the time, while on duty, Zhou wears his flight suit. It functions both as a means to regulate his body temperature and also so he can go out into the field at a moment’s notice. He very rarely appears in his dress uniform, unless on very important business. When off duty he prefers to wear as little as possible, usually favoring loose tank tops and capri style pants.

{PERSONALITY}

Calm, collected, observant, aloof, uptight, quiet

Fun Facts!:

• His headbutts hurt like a bitch.
• Drinks like a fish and keeps the scariest poker face the whole time. Until he passes out, anyway.
• TBD.
• TBD.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}

Less an ability and more a condition, Zhou suffers from hyperthermia often if his body temperature isn’t regulated. He puts off a lot of heat and can get heatsick very easily.

Telepathy - Moderate. Decent enough to do a general scan of a room and pick up on details if need be.

Hemokinetic - Moderate-to-high. While not capable of puppeting someone around from across a room, Zhou specializes in disabling his targets by getting close enough to touch them on key pressure points, while focusing his kinesis on those areas at the same time. Used in tandem, he can do anything from paralyze to kill a person, depending on whether Inquiry wants them alive or dead.

{RELATIONSHIPS}

His Inquisitor handler - TBD

The lovely folks at DoSaM who get to see him for checkups on the regular

Some friends he keeps at a distance sometimes

{HISTORY}

{NAME}
Zhang Lian

{ALIASES}
“dead__air” online, but otherwise will only introduce himself as Lian or Li. He doesn’t often trust anyone with his surname.

{AGE}
27

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, bisexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Libran, ‘nuff said

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
5’9”, slender.

{OCCUPATION}
Activist, troublemaker, etc.

{RESIDENCE}
Libra station, closer to the outer edges where the chill from space is more prevalent.



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Build; Lian is slender, but not soft. While he has a graceful kind of stature, it is clear that he does not spend a lot of his time idly. His legs are built strong at the thighs, and his shoulders are more than capable of providing the lifting power necessary to say… climb over a fence in record time. His face is similarly delicately built, with high cheekbones and soft, full lips, which are often pulled into a shit eating smile of one kind or another.

Color; Lian’s skin is somewhat ashen, like a very pale taupe. Had Lian grown up under a natural sun, he might have been a bit darker in complexion, but the void of space doesn’t lend towards much opportunity. There are white spots on his face, one dot on either side of the bridge of his nose, only just visible against his skin. His eyes, angled and full-lashed, are an icy grey-blue, with vertical slitted pupils. When fully contracted, it makes for a very intense stare. His hair is a rich, inky black, long and straight and kept almost pridefully silky.

Alterations; For the most part, Lian looks perfectly human. A few things set him apart from your “standard” Libran, however. The least obvious difference are his ears, which are slightly elongated and finish at a point, similar to an elf’s. The second difference is that Lian grows a set of antlers each year, which he also sheds annually. This only gets really gross when the velvet wants to come off, and Lian tends to stay at home getting the worst of it gone and cleaning up the residual blood rather than go about town looking like he gored someone. Once shed, he looks much like any other human, however. In the center of his chest is an oblong patch of skin, which seems to be translucent when compared with the rest of him, and thus it’s possible to make out the shape and beat of his heart if you’re allowed to stare long enough. The most obvious difference, however, is his feet. Rather than standard human feet, his legs finish off at hooves, similar to those of a deer. The hooves almost seem too delicate to support him, and his step is exceedingly light and quiet as a result. As his legs are shaped more like the forelimbs of a deer, he tends to raise his knees in a way that would look amazing on a catwalk.

Modifications; Lian sports several piercings. He has two studs in each of his earlobes, and several hoops along the underside of his earpoints. He has a few tattoos, such as a cuff of pine trees around his forearm, expanding upwards with interwoven geometric and nature designs. Surrounding the oblong portion of his sternum that shows his heart, Lian has a simple outline of a triangle, with the point facing downwards towards his stomach.

Accessories; Despite the chill of living on a space station, Lian tends to dress very lightly. His shirts are all made of soft, thin material, and he often cuts them to provide a wide neck that shows off his collarbones and parts of his shoulders. He usually favors dark neutrals for shirts, with different screen printed designs or slogans written across them. He wears his jeans dark and skinny, with a few tears in the knees for several pairs. He often has a button down flannel shirt tied around his waist, often in either blue or green plaid patterns. Lian doesn’t wear shoes, and only wears one bracelet made of para-cord, which has several handy tools hidden in the buckle. Like a small razor to cut any restraints, for instance. He also has a collar, though that’s more state-mandated than a fashion statement. The collar has a lead core, surrounded by a waterproof casing and digital lock that cannot be removed except by official state personnel.

{PERSONALITY}
Unapologetic; Lian is a psychic. He is proud to be a psychic. And he certainly will never apologize for who he is. He doesn’t try to hide the fact that he has to wear a psionic-dampening collar, and rather prefers to make it as visible as possible. Whether this is more for himself to prove he has nothing to be ashamed of, or more to make those around him “deal with it”, it’s hard to say. He’s rather quick to get defensive if he thinks someone is being a dick about it, though, and is absolutely unafraid to start a very uncomfortable dialogue right there in the middle of the supermarket, BECKY, so maybe watch what comes out of your mouth next time.

Snarky; While quick to pick up arms and fight the good fight against unsuspecting mothers in the cereal aisle, Lian isn’t completely humorless. He has a dry wit, and is prone to sarcasm, and loves running with a joke to the point it becomes almost bizarre. He’s also not above raunchy humor, and will shoot back with a flirty quip without so much as batting an eye. In terms of his consumption of humorous content, let’s just say that “benevolent surrealism” has a loving home in his apartments. He absolutely has a lamp in the shape of an anthropomorphic waffle with a moustache drawn in sharpie.

Once bitten, twice shy; To say that Lian has commitment issues would be like stating that the universe is bigger than a football field— naw, really? You don’t say. Lian avoids long-term romantic entanglements like the plague. He’s quick to hop in bed with someone, but once the deed is done he is just as quick to hop out and get out the front door again. While he’s not against repeat experiences, he doesn’t seem to be willing to trust someone enough to get close, and certainly doesn’t want to get anywhere near a “meet the parents” stage. Too many of those, and you tend to lose your appetite for being the family dinner scandal.

Generous… for now; Lian is a giving sort. He wants desperately to be able to help his fellow Libran out, no matter what’s dragging them down. Fellow psychic in need of a place to crash because this is the third eviction you’ve been served? Lian’s got a couch. Out and about and realize you forgot to brush your teeth before a meet-up? He’s got a backpack full of quick fixes like gum, travel size soaps, hairspray, bandaids, the works. Need to bum a quarter for the vending machine? He’s got you covered. However, as quick as Lian is to help out, he is just as quick to revoke his help if you cross him. Burn him once, and you’ll never see him again. Good luck with that date and a mouthful of garlic shrimp from last night.

Fun Facts!:

• Loves pizza. Thin crust, cheese, and black olives.
• Has been arrested several times. He won’t say the exact number or the exact reason, but it’s often related to “being very noisy” and the number is somewhere between 2 and 10 times.
• Knows an awful lot about running pirate radio.
• God only knows what he does to achieve income.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Lian is psychic! While he has no telepathy to speak of, he does have above-average cryokinesis. He’s able to manipulate surrounding air molecules and slow them down to produce colder temperatures, and even cause the air to turn to liquid before freezing solid. Or rather, he could do this, if he weren’t made to wear a collar every minute of every day that deadens his psychic abilities.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
A network of acquaintances, coworkers, fellow activists, and other similar supports that keep Lian doing what Lian loves doing. You name what you need, and guaranteed Lian knows a guy. Just keep your mouth shut or else.

Tetra Pak - a fellow psychic and apparent fiend for cheese. Met in a chatroom and subsequently treated Tetra to pizza. Despite getting scared shitless by a small snow leopard dropping from the ceiling, Lian rather likes the hissy kitty.

Travis De Luca - Met in a chatroom, fed him some pizza, rubbed his belly and then got frisky. Not bad for one day.

{HISTORY}
Lian has been in and out of trouble for as long as he can remember. And he’s done it alone for just as long.

   There were a few quick, surefire ways to accumulate funding and public adoration at the same time. While it might have been easier to simply quietly force the necessary financial allotment for a renovation and revitalization of some of the lower levels, what people really needed was to see the action in progress.

   They also needed a chance to participate. Hosting a fundraiser meant that Adstreia wouldn’t need to provide the whole measure of the credits it would take to completely redo the buildings in Sector 9C. It also meant that rather than expecting Adstreia to provide a binky every time they screamed, the people of were learning they could, in fact, do much of the binky-getting themselves.

   Which was something that the upper crust rather needed reminding of from time to time. One might make the mistake of thinking they were utterly helpless, without a single hope of bettering anything or anyone, for how quickly the rich tended to languish about if given the chance. Laziness was an epidemic, and General Aaron Stohl was dedicated to its eradication.

   If all it took was agreeing to a blind date with some high bidder to get them to do something about the state of their city, well, so be it. He’d make damn sure he earned his city a very shiny credit in the meantime.

   Not like he didn’t always take special care for his appearance. Even if this didn’t have a considerable public relations stunt attached to it, it still would have taken him several once-overs to verify himself suitable for general viewing. He thought he had spotted a few grey hairs in the mirror, but it had turned out to just be the lighting— saving him another year or so yet the worry about whether he’d need to dye it or lean into the salt-and-pepper look with some dignity.

   Forty was too young, yet, to be showing such wear and tear. But it did give him the considerable urge to reconsider his diet up to that point and figure out his vitamin intake.

   Just vitamins. Not the doctor. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him to eat more spinach. He was a grown man, and he felt fine, all he needed to do was work out a better system for getting his daily meals. He didn’t need to see a doctor.

   Unfortunately, that particular train of thought added several minutes to his prep time— washing the sweat from his brow and fixing his hair again so it didn’t look like an utter maniac had gone through it strand by strand. In the end, when he looked in the mirror, perfection stared back. Uniform pressed. Medals shining. Not a single thread out of place.

   Boot heels clicking commandingly the whole way, he finally made his way from his apartments to the private transport arranged just for this evening. It wouldn’t do to arrive looking like he’d had to walk from the train station— and given his current state of full dress uniform, it would have likely added an obscene amount of time just from the regular foot traffic on the weekend. Nodding by way of greeting to his personal assistant— a severe looking young woman who likely glared her blonde hair into submission to get it back in a bun that tight— they soon arrived in short order to a starscape of camera flashes and glittering gowns.

   The weather had finally begun its transformation into warmer climes in the northern domes, which meant that there was less of a concern for warmth and more a concern for how much of a ratio between dress and crystal they could manage. In comparison to all the bright colors and brighter jewelry, Pilot Adana looked almost bland— even if her uniform, like Aaron’s own, had been pressed and kept to perfection. Still, there was no mistaking the authority of her stance, and as she stood to the side to allow Aaron out, it was with a suitably wide berth granted by the nearby civilians.

   Which was precisely why he’d kept her, if he was being particularly honest. He could have selected any number of perfectionist yes-men. Very few of them could glare space into being, however, and Adana had an utter talent for making sure the only hands that touched him were by permission. Once they got into the gala, it would be easier; there was decorum to follow, after all, and no one with an invitation was willing to risk losing future ones because of poor manners.

   It wouldn’t be long. Just another evening of small portions and high end champagne. A quick survey showed that even his prospective “buyers” weren’t all that bad to look at. There seemed to be a flux of young scions of older money at this particular event, which was to be expected. Never knew where a blind date might go, and there were several Pilots up for auction that evening. Adana estimated that the evening would result in approximately sixty percent of their funding, even if pursestrings were held tight and bids remained low. A conservative guess, she said.

   Which meant that Aaron could relax. Even if he didn’t go around pretending like every person there was his most valuable citizen, they would meet their goal. The building could commence, and nothing would need to be rebudgeted. Adana always close behind, Aaron made his way through the gala, head held high and mouth upturned as he was stopped every few steps. Shook hands, spoke for a time, inquired to health, to businesses, to recent awards, the works. Adana, as always, kept quiet with her tablet, feeding Aaron information as they went and periodically piping up to join the conversation in her usual clipped manner. Which provided Aaron plenty of time to slip away from conversations, another reason why Adana was paid as handsomely as she was.

   Like an oasis in a desert full of waiters bearing champagne flutes, the bar was set up against the far wall, built into the edifice itself as seemed to be the architectural fashion these days. Aaron stepped over, holding out his hand as he slid past several bodies to avoid looking quite like he was barreling for the nearest liquor bottle. Which he would have loved to just reach over and grab, but his firm hold on his control all but recoiled at the thought.

   “Old fashioned, no syrup,” he stated to the bartender, who had looked a bit distracted and smug just two seconds ago before meeting his gaze. Aaron spared a glance to the side to see just what the bartender had been looking at prior to shitting his white slacks, and very nearly went slack-jawed himself at a slim back all but wrapped in dark stars. Well, at least the lad had taste.

   Nodding in way of thanks at being handed his drink, Aaron lingered by the bar and watched for a long moment. He tried to think why the woman seemed familiar— slim shoulders, a great ass, and from how the crowd around her were staring with open adoration, her front had to be just as lovely to look at. Another twinge of familiarity hit him as she turned her head, giving him a brief glance in profile.

   It was absolutely going to drive him nuts, but Adana was busy fielding his social responsibilities at the moment, so he couldn’t even signal her. Well, nothing for it but to pull up his big boy boots and do the work himself. He took another sip, stepped away from the bar, and up to the small group of bodies orbiting their dark star.

   “Hello, Sweets. Who might you be?” she was asking of some poor young lass, who looked set to blush to the tips of her red hair. Aaron felt a mild pang of sympathy for her.

   “That,” he said, evenly, sparing the redhead a rare small smile, “being your opportunity to go all in on your impressive resume—”

   He took a sip of his whiskey to give himself half of a second to remember where he’d seen the girl before. Three years ago, at a similar event, and he remembered how easily she had lit up when he inquired—

   “Captain Michaels. Last we spoke you were responsible for keeping our ambassadors up to date on current satellite linguistics.”

   Now the redhead definitely looked ready to explode, glancing between him and the pretty woman in all black before taking a sip of her own champagne to steel her nerves.

   “Yes, correct. Though now we’re working on integrating a universally understood creole, so there’s less of a culture shock when our satellite citizens do move planetside. Unification through mutual understanding.”

   Which, on any other given day, Aaron would have been happy to continue asking about. Any other given day, he would have enjoyed the ease of providing a suitable wingman service to one of his regular military personnel— especially such a bright one with potential. Any other given day, he’d be slowly moving the chess pieces about that would, at the very least, allow Captain Michaels the night of her life.

   Unfortunately for Captain Michaels, however, joining the circle had given him an unobstructed view of the mystery woman, and the second he caught her eyes, recognition shot through him like a delicious shock.

   He somehow managed to keep his face neutral rather than immediately going slack-jawed, and Aaron gave Kielen a secretive smirk as he took another sip of his drink.

Well, that depends on what did it? I mean, sometimes all it takes is replacing the rubber chicken you brutally murdered in a soup pot. And letting him squeak it in your face to finalize the revenge.

Otherwise, you just talk to him. I haven't seen him yet, but Nonna's supposed to be cooking on Sunday so I can see him then.

{NAME}
Samson Apollinaire

{ALIASES}
He absolutely insists you call him “Sam”.

{AGE}
42

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, pansexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human, native-born Solartan

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’5”, beefcake

{OCCUPATION}
Inquisitor, Osprey, Pilot Noble

{RESIDENCE}
Solarta, Aedolis


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
   Quarter Winnebago; Sam is a big guy. The kind of guy where you turn around to look at who just spoke and you go “holy shit what did they feed you as a kid”. He stands tall, and solidly muscled, with broad strong shoulders and biceps to rival some thighs. It makes shopping for shirts a real pain in the ass, because while he’s bulkier up top, his waist remains trim, which he blames on never having a spare minute to stuff his face.

   Solartan sun; Sam was born and raised on one of the rancher grids to the far southern end of the dome, where most of the desert sunlight hit without the surrounding cliff face to shield the worst of it. He still maintains the same deep brown tan he grew up with, which throws the vivid silver of his eyes into sharp relief. Softly angled, with thick lashes and a solid set of crow’s feet, you’d never look into his eyes and think about how his job involves the brutal interrogation and execution of other Pilots.

   Non-regulation; His hair, thick and coffee-brown, Sam keeps about shoulder-length, since he suffers from way too many stubborn cowlicks to cut short and not look a total fool. Besides, considering he often wears a wide-brimmed hat out of doors, it cuts down heavily on hat-hair when all you have to do is shake the mess out and retie your ponytail. He usually knots it into a messy bun at the base of his skull when he needs to keep it out of his face, but when he’s particularly stressed he’ll undo it and start running his hands through his hair over and over.

   His facial hair similarly varies. He tries to keep it trim and neat, but if he’s been working several days straight in a row he’ll forget to shave, resulting in some rather frequent stubble.

{PERSONALITY}
   ONCE A FARM BOY; Samson values hard work, the result of getting in with your bare hands and through your own sweat and effort and coming out successful. When he puts himself to something, it’s with 100% of what he’s got, and he’s not “above” any task. Sometimes it feels like he tries to do everything himself because he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right, but really it’s more that he can say with absolute surety it’s done if he himself saw it done. Nothing gets on his nerves quicker than asking what went wrong and getting an “I don’t know” in response.

   P’s AND Q’s; Samson is very polite. He toes the line between familiar warmth and due propriety, and his mannerisms follow suit. He will always remove his hat if he goes indoors, he will always address a person by an honorific or similarly acceptable terms regardless of their civilian or military status, and he certainly will always wait for an invitation before walking into someone’s space (no matter how many times the other person might insist he just waltz in).
   Still, this doesn’t tend to come off as overly formal, rather it’s so natural to him that anything less would be supremely bizarre even to his closest friends and family. It’s just how he was raised, and he doesn’t expect to get anything out of his manners than the satisfaction of having manners.
   
   COLD KILLER; Still, sunshine smiles and “yes ma’am”s aside, there is no doubting who or what Samson is. He is a highly trained Inquisitorial agent, and he does not hesitate in the slightest when it comes to hunting down and executing traitors, or punishing those who step out of line and do both their fellow soldiers and their country a disservice. He goes into his job with the kind of ruthless tenacity that will hear no pleas for mercy or excuses, and certainly no quick easy ways out.
   “You only need to hang mean bastards, but mean bastards you need to hang.”

Fun Facts!:

• Writes poetry in his spare time, and has several collections of poetry in both physical book format (for the more special cases) as well as digitally in his comm. He’s usually reading in his downtime.
• Gave up smoking years ago rather than either let it interfere with his running speed or go through the process of getting robotic lungs. But certain habits are there, and so he tends to keep a toothpick in his mouth, or chew pieces of grass if he’s out in the rural grid.
• Goes bonkers for robot fighting matches. The more whirling blades of death the better.
• Crochets.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Telepath - Standard, better at shielding his thoughts to evade detection than he is at probing.
Telekinesis - His main talent, as he often uses it to manipulate his surroundings in the pursuit of his quarry. Often psychics a literal lasso like the old-timey bumpkin he is.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
TBD, probably a fairly sized family who still run a farm or ranch or what have you.

{HISTORY}
Also TBD because lazybones.

   It took some time before Jonesy could arrive. It wasn’t something he necessarily knew anything about, honestly— he wasn’t a medic, or a doctor, or a trained doula or any of those things. But Joan had pinged him, and so…

   Honestly after the events of the previous evening she could have pinged him about a catastrophic marshmallow deficit in the third floor cafeteria and he would’ve answered it. He’d been such an absolute mess lately, and lately Joan had been nonstop catching the worst of it. The thing after the canister incident, the thing with the Borises Magnificent the other night, the constant screaming matches they seemed to get into over the dumbest fucking things.

   The dumbest things.

   He knew he shouldn’t go to Ellis’ place again. He knew it was inappropriate. There was friendliness and camaraderie and then there was… this. This, like leaving flowers as a welcome home present for Ellis on his kitchen counter. Like spending long evenings eating dinner and letting him fall asleep during a movie. Like going out on Soul’s Night and the soul-searing kisses that had followed— like how the basest animal part of him wanted everyone to know he’d been there and he’d left a goddamn hickey like some hormonal teenager.

   Showing up, again, for no real reason, no real emergency, was stupid. He was being stupid. And yet there he stood, stupidly, holding a box of latex gloves, stupidly, and pressing the door’s intercom exceptionally stupidly to stupidly announce,

   “It’s me, I’m letting myself in,” as if that wasn’t also wildly inappropriate for a commanding officer to do at his subordinate’s doorstep.

   Ellis was his subordinate, and no matter how much he tried to talk himself out of it, no matter how much Joan warned him of what could happen, no matter how much Jonesy knew he was being selfish, and hypocritical, and disgusting, and foolish and damnable and the worst kind of monster—

   He let himself in.

   There was the sound of soft conversation towards the other end of the apartments, nothing too hurried and no waves of excess anxiety to say that something was terribly wrong. There was something else, just below that, some taste of negative against the soft tiredness of a late-stage event. He moved to where he heard Joan and Ellis’ voices, rapping his knuckles against the doorframe before crossing the threshold and—

   Almost immediately panicking his fool, stupid, terrible ass into an about-face and right back out the front door again because Amaryllis Melledy was in nothing but a goddamn towel and the faint pink of being freshly washed cast an amazing contrast against his scales. Fuck. FUCK.

   Looking anywhere but at Ellis had him remembering that Joan was also in the room, and for a brief agonizing moment he wondered if she hadn’t done this on purpose as a kind of revenge for the tarantula hair spray. He honestly would have done the same in her shoes. A little tit for tat. Shitty treatment for shitty treatment, and he’d racked up one hell of a deficit.

   “I have the gloves you wanted.” Another pass of his eyes around Anywhere But Ellis, and he spotted the pile of sheets, a faint but telltale stain on one side causing his nose to wrinkle. Exploded cat vagina indeed. Did cats have afterbirths? Was that all wrapped up in those sheets too?

   Suddenly, the gloves didn’t seem so stupid, and he quickly snapped a pair on before setting the box on top of the nearby dresser, gingerly picking up a corner of the sheets to see if there were any… pieces… that needed removing.

   “How’re the kittens?”

   // WARNING … //

   // CONTAINMENT BREACH … //


   There was a flash of red, before it bloomed outwards like a thousand orange wildflowers, the flare of fire and shrapnel mingling with the dust of the bloodied earth.

   Drop team, disengage.

   The command was sharp, full of bite and fury, a bear’s roar against the backdrop of the world ending. Even through the shielding of his helmet, the roar of the wind was a cacophony, pierced by the shotgun-loud sound of the locks disengaging.

   Svanhvit rolled to the side, and gravity pulled him from the safety and sanctity of his saddle and out into the booming maw of the open air. There had been no time to practice this maneuver, not in the dead heat of conflict. It was do or die, entirely up to him whichever route he ended up choosing.

   Valkyries choose the slain. Never the other way around.

   
   //TOXIN LEVELS UNKNOWN … //

   // O2 RESERVES 12% … //

   There was another flash of red, and for a blinding moment Yavul genuinely believed a grenade had gone off near his head. All the symptoms were present— excruciating pain and the inability to understand which way was up. The only symptom lacking was that he wasn’t completely dead.

   The red flashed again, and Yavul groaned at the searing agony that ripped across his skull from stem to stern. He blinked, once, twice, and slowly the flashing came into focus.

   The words were split, beginning up about his brow and ending across a wide cracking divide, a few letters lost forever to the aether in between. But Yavul had seen them too many times to not know what his suit was trying to tell him.

   Signal lost, oxygen depleted, and the yawning divide in his helmet was from where the armored glass had cracked in two, the jagged edge of a rock mere centimeters from having drilled between his eyes and taken the rest of his skull with it.

   Sighing tasted like dirt, and licking his lips only proved his point. Moving his fingers and feet was an effort, though as the world came back into focus, he was relieved to note that his difficulty moving was not entirely due to lack of personal ability. Rocks and dirt and debris were piled high above him, which also explained the long stretches of blackness in between steady red warning flashes.

   “Helmet lights,” he whispered, but the words fizzled and popped, lips making the motion and mouth filling with dirt for his efforts. Yavul shut his eyes tight against a sudden wave of nausea, fighting back the initial animal panic of being buried alive and unable to move. He breathed through his nose until he could count further than “three” in between gasps, and slowly started to move his hands again.

   O2 at 10%. He needed to get out. He needed to get out. He needed to get out or he was going to die like this, he was going to suffocate and die like this, trapped like an animal in a cage and slowly rotting until they dug him back up again—

   Stand up and meet your fate.

   Yavul took another long, shaky breath, pulled his arms close to himself, and slowly wormed them upwards under the tight shielding of the rocks that had come dangerously close to smashing him to pieces. As he went, he pushed the dirt that fell down towards his feet, granting himself more and more pockets to move within.

   The real challenge was his helmet. He huffed quiet as he considered the rock that pinned him there, and inched his fingertips around the bulk of it, with the sinking realization that bringing his kids all into a singular hold would be a far more physically possible thing than trying to move this earthy behemoth off himself.

   Yavul tried to turn his head to the side, only to flinch his eyes closed as glass crunched and sprinkled sharp dust into his face. Another quick burst of breath, and he wiggled his hands up to the sides of his head, pressing in to disengage the locks just enough for him to get out from beneath the reinforced metal armor and let it continue to hold the boulder at bay.

   For as long as that would last.

   It was three way race, between Yavul’s barking panic, the fragility of the earth above him, and his need to breathe. Eons passed by, tumbling along with every handful of dirt he shoved towards his feet, scrabbling blindly with his eyes shut and praying to Vebeset that he hadn’t chosen the wrong direction in which to dig.

   He tried not to think about what it would mean if he had chosen wrong. Yavul focused on digging, bit by bit, shallow breath by shallow breath, and had to bite back a cry of victory as his hand finally pushed through and out into open void. He moved quicker— quick as he dared— until his head was similarly freed, and took long, gasping gulps of free, if subtly stagnant, air. He shook his head, and carefully blinked his eyes open, only to find that wherever he was was as pitch dark as it was underneath the rubble.

   Yavul wriggled a little more, freeing his shoulders enough to reach into his armor, pulling out a small torch and clicking it on. The white light shot out like a laser beam, making him flinch against the resurgent throb of his headache, and it took another several minutes of squinting and blinking before he could figure out what he was seeing.

   For a moment, it seemed like the world was only made up of his mountainous would-be tomb and the inky black of the void. But then the subtle pressure became less subtle as Yavul looked up, and he realized with no small amount of gut-wrenching that he had dug himself out at an angle.

   Fuck, he was at an angle—

   As if rejecting his attempts to scuttle back into his little tunnel, the earth shuddered and gave way, sending Yavul backwards against the side of the rubble. He managed to tuck himself into a curl to control his fall, each harsh thud against the ground robbing him of any breath he had and thus preventing the long stream of curses that would have blistered the ear off of the saltiest Cancer port guard.

   Eventually gravity stopped being such an asshole, and Yavul rolled to a stop at the base. He lay there for what felt like another eternity, stomach rolling and head splitting and absolutely expecting this to be the point where his body demanded a divorce due to constant battery. He took another breath, letting it all out in a silent huff as he reached to retrieve his torch, flicking it around to gauge his surroundings.

   No immediate danger he could see. Plenty of time to just lay there and make sure he hadn’t broken anything important. Deep breaths, gentle flexes. Extensions, curls, rotations. The worst pain remained in his head, but even that was clearing up now that he wasn’t being bombarded by warning signals from his helmet. Yavul eased himself up, slow and steady, eyes shut against the nausea that followed his sudden change in equilibrium. Bruised but whole.

   And a little embarrassed. Of all the things to happen, he had to fall down a gods-damned hole in the ground. Though, after a quick flick of the torch upwards, Yavul noted that it was not such a terribly tiny hole, the beam of light not bright enough to even begin to see the ceiling of whatever cavern he had landed himself in. All things considered, it was kind of impressive that the worst thing to happen was a killer headache.

   Snorting quietly, he moved from the base of the rubble and along it, finding the closest wall and starting around the perimeter.

   At first, it seemed like just one giant pocket in the earth. It explained the stillness of the air, the almost ethereal liminality of a space that had not been touched by the light of day for millenia, if it had ever been touched at all. As he got further along the wall, however, Yavul felt it— the telltale caress of moving air against his grime-caked face, the tickle of sweat-soaked hair moving along his temple. There was an air current nearby, and like a man greedy for the smell of dinner cooking in the next room, Yavul followed it with quickened steps to the beginning of what looked to be a large tunnel.

   It wasn’t like he was any real expert in the matter, but the tunnel itself looked big enough to drive a railcar through. Which was disconcerting enough as Yavul remembered his reason for being down in a hole in the ground in the first place. It was doubly disconcerting as his footsteps took on the texture of someone walking across a floor where soda had recently been spilled, and a look downwards confirmed the fine filigree of translucent threading carpeting the ground before the tunnel entrance.

   Yavul reached for his hip, unclipped the holster there, and drew his side-arm, resting it over the wrist that held the torch. He stepped backwards, onto solid earth, and took much slower, steadier steps around the edge of the tunnel mouth. At the very least, the adrenaline made him forget entirely about his headache, his heartbeat picking up as he moved from one tunnel… to the next… and to the next… and to the next. Only the fifth was smaller than the rest, and only the fifth wasn’t surrounded by a nest of webbing, though that did nothing for Yavul’s peace of mind.

   Twelve rounds loaded. Two magazines in his belt. Arm at 100% capacity, but for a target as big as a Trapdoor, that would be depleted almost immediately. Not even counting what kind of chaos unleashing his kinesis in these tunnels would cause. Six flashbangs, far more effective against creatures used to the dark, but without his helmet he was just as susceptible. He needed backup. He needed his rifle, but gods both only knew where in the rubble that was.

   But most of all, as the telltale sounds of rapidfire movement became louder and louder, Yavul needed to not be in the open. He ducked into the fifth, smallest tunnel just as the first Trapdoor scuttled out into the cavern, and didn’t stop moving until the thunder of their steps was a distant memory.