clericbeast — Roleplayer Guild

It seemed as though every time Aurelia strode past a window, the room’s temperature soared sharply upwards. Harsh sunlight filtered through the windows, reflecting off the various polished metal objects arranged carefully (but not quite artfully, she decided, because this was the military, and such a brazen display of callow, easily-swayed individuality perpetuated by the common artist would have surely earned the individual in question a dishonorable discharge) throughout the hallway like some sort of bizarre, psychedelic light show. One that was possibly run by junkies that had died halfway through, most likely from the sheer intensity of the glare.

The side of Aurelia’s hand had been cupped to her brow, trying fruitlessly to shield her eyes from that god-awful light, for so long, she was afraid it was going to leave a mark. A big, ugly white line - well, all right, whiter than usual; was there a word for pale that surpassed alabaster? - carving across her forehead, branding her as a massive, unequivocal idiot. Thank the gods natural selection had already occurred in the form of a massive, batshit shitstorm of pandemonium that had, quite literally, obliterated a chunk of Libra, or else she might really have to worry. 

That was . . . surprisingly morbid. And cruel. She tried to look miffed, really, she did, but she couldn’t quite get her eyebrows to do the thing other peoples’ did when they actually cared. Ah, well, c’est la vie? Emotional investment had never quite been her forte, particularly in the face of a tragedy. The memory of her darling Aunt Sylvie turning a particularly lovely shade of plum at Uncle Broderick’s funeral, during which Aurelia had sat, staring blankly at the pew in front of her the entire time, unwavering, eyes as dry as the crisp autumn air, never failed to set her lips quirking up into a satisfied, serene smirk. Then again, Uncle Broderick was also the reigning regent of reprehensible, erm, preferences, which was about seven sorts of disturbing, each in their own vile, twisted right. Though in his case, Aurelia mused, the beginnings of a repulsed grimace tugging at her features, furrowing her brow and twisting up her lips, I suppose “inc'est la vie” is a little more fitting.

A wave of disgust washed over her, and she shuddered under its weight. Finding his secret, “special” photo album had been quite the treat, much like peering underneath one’s bed and finding merely a dead bird instead of a rotting human corpse would be quite the treat. And they wonder why the company’s crumbling from the inside out! It’s rotten to the very core! 

The click of her boots on the tile shifted in timbre and tone, shifting fluidly from the hollow, dull click of tile to the sharp, grating echo of polished metal. The patches of light swimming lazily across the surface of the gleaming iron floor widened, partitioned by wrought iron bars. It made the hallway a bit more tolerable to traverse, but not by much. It was a shame, really, such a massive corporation with so many accolades and attributes couldn’t afford to expend a bit more of their resources lavishing the airship with something a bit more tasteful, maybe something ornate, pretty on the eyes. And again I reiterate, c’est la vie. Perhaps it was to reinforce that whole pragmatism creed they loved so well? Or, perhaps it was so everyone inhabiting this place felt like an equal; that’s probably why all the common areas were so bland and nondescript. From what little Aurelia could glean from the rumor mill, the U.D.F prided itself on egalitarianism. From what the rumor mill had offered once their tongues had been loosened with a discreet exchange (it wasn’t bribery, it was a business transaction, so technically, there were no grounds for complaints), there seemed to be a bit of a deficit in funding - whether or not resulted from the sudden frenzy to finance the little expedition to Astral, well, that would cost extra. Unfortunately, living outside of the RMC meant she had to manage her assets carefully, and so she had, with great disappointment, declined.

Before her lay the hallway to which she and her fellow squad members (she would say best friends, but they were also her only friends, and mathematics had already long since designated them as her best, so she was just choosing not to acknowledge that sad, uncomfortable truth) were assigned. 

The corners of her lips quirked into a small smile. This was it. This was the beginning of her first chapter. The tale she’d fought tooth and nail for the opportunity to pen alone, the truth she’d decided long ago only she would have the right to ascertain, the path she’d carve out with her bare hands or die trying. 

All she had to do was reach for the door.

And reach she did, fingers curling gently around the cool, glossy metal. A shiver wracked her body, coursing through her veins in an adrenaline-fueld rush, and maybe it was the anticipation speaking, but she almost wanted to savor the moment. She shut her eyes, visions of a grandiose suite dancing in the forefront of her mind - would it be fully furnished, or would she have to spend the credits on her own amenities? How large would the bed be? A soft mattress was a necessity, and the U.D.F., despite its perceived frugalities, was surely lenient enough to allow a comfortable bed! Would it come pre-equipped with electronics?

Actually, never mind, she thought, once she’d wasted a few minutes reveling in the glory, throwing the door open with a dramatic flourish, because the last time she’d forced herself to wait for something she’d wanted, there was a headline in the Oakridge student paper the next day, reading 2 comatose, 14 wounded. (In retrospect, amping up the training room seven levels higher than her current hadn’t been the best idea, but it had also been thrilling, so the pros somewhat outweighed the cons.) 

Her eyes snapped open, and her heart dropped just as fast. Her heart had exceeded all existing world records, blazing over the fastest runners on either Elysium and Libra, kicking them once in the head to ensure they wouldn’t overtake it, because what in the seven realms of fresh, frosty hell was this?

This wasn’t pragmatic. This wasn’t even utilitarian. This wouldn’t even be allowed to consider itself “rustic”. A bed. A desk, if you could even dare disgrace the very concept of academia by calling it that. A bathroom - tiny, no doubt, and it probably only had two dials for water temperature. This wasn’t even “bare-bones”! The damn thing looked as as if it’d spent the better part of a decade untouched, judging by the thick layer of dust blanketing the desk. 

Hands curled into fists, and her eye started doing that twitchy thing it did when she was forced to confront the ways in which normal people lived. This wasn’t the military. This was her own, personal brand of hell, served hot out of the fucking oven. She still wasn’t sure if the screaming she heard was part of the metaphor or the sound of all her hopes and dreams shattering before her eyes.

Because situational irony was a flighty whore, and couldn’t resist teasing its favorite personal sandbag by proving that why yes, Aurelia, dear, it can always get worse, the alarm chose that moment to explode in a screeching whirlwind of wails.

“Oh, you harpy,”  she snarled, although to whom, she wasn't sure, turning on her heel and stalking down the hallway, face drawn in a snarl so ferocious, so mutinous, so downright furious that some cannon-fodder manshield soldier she passed actually squealed as she stormed by.

----------

By the time she finally located Selene, having spent the better part of a minute ducking through throngs of people rushing about, Aurelia was all of three things:

1. Livid to the point where she was burning red from the hollow of her throat to the tips of her ears, rage painting itself across her face in broad, sweeping strokes.
2. Betrayed, dismayed, and all kinds of disappointed.
3. Itching for someone to fight, because she was now sufficiently armed and probably dangerous - the twinblade wasn't exactly a toy - so let’s see what her superiors would have to say when they had the end of a wickedly sharp blade scraping delicately against the soft flesh of their throats.

Selene appeared to be engaged in some sort of conversation with some older, distinguished sort of fellow, and neither of them looked particularly happy. Aurelia only managed to catch little snippets of the conversation, things such as “WARGs” and “prima-donnas” and something about horses, but she didn’t care about any of these things, because they weren’t important, and why yes, her sense of priorities was absolutely fine, thank you very much. But she didn't really have time to sit and contemplate what skills she may or may not need to refine quite heavily, because Selene was disappearing into some doorway, and Aurelia needed to have words with her, and she needed to have those words now.

“Selene!” she called, because that man and his petty little berating could wait, there was a serious problem at hand, and her integrity was at stake. “Why wasn’t I informed our quarters would be so pitiful? Is this a prank? Initiation, some kind of stupid attempt at hazing? Are they going to show us our actual rooms later? I can’t even fit all my stuff, for gods’ sakes! There’s - there isn’t any room! I thought it was supposed to be - it's not - this is just - ugh!” Gods, she couldn't even get the words out; her aggravation ran so deep it was actually inhibiting her little tirade. Her tone was gradually escalating, becoming noticeably more distraught with every word that tumbled rapid-fire from her lips, lips quivering with fury and heartbreak and all sorts of unpleasant things, and by the time she’d finished, it had risen about two octaves and was shaky and frail, having left its sense of rationality and steadiness somewhere on a mountain. Keeping herself from whining was a struggle in itself. “It’s an outrage, is what it is!”

Oh, situational irony was a bitch. A vindictive, malicious, truly sadistic bitch.
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