Definitely taking interest in this! Will 2099 be primarily action-based or will you accept roleplay posts that delve into/draw from a character's life outside their powers?
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Wren
★
Morning Woes
★
A veiled smile tugged at Wren's lips, though he did not reply to Maria's friendly banter. He could not glean any more humour from his dreams than he already had. As the briefing room swelled with the influx of other crew members, Lawrence felt his eyelids flutter, heavy with sleep. The morning chatter began to fade into background din. His head propped up by the crook of his elbow, the filmy pall of a reverie cloaked him.
He could see his mother behind a thick wall of glass; see her pearly smile and the wild, curly hair Wren inherited. His father, too, with his hard-nosed countenance and the bristly stubble of a blue-collar worker. He could see their faces being leached of colour, their dusky visage fading to grey husks. Wren felt himself withdrawing from the scene, too fearful to see such familiar and soft faces etiolate like a dying rose.
Wren's view changed abruptly, and he felt his heart wrench in pain. Standing in front of a small lake, air cockling the edges of the waterside gently, was Drew. The man he left behind on Earth to join the Condor, and to seek a purpose that would make him feel worth a tuppence. He missed Drew, and though Wren agonized over it for the first months of being employed, he never tried contacting the green-eyed charmer. No calls, not even an antiquated letter. He could not put Drew through more suffering to satisfy his own wants. Pain crawled about the peripheries of Wren's mind.
Stop, he begged himself, I don't want to see. It hurts to see.
"-ogue Titchua raiding IOSE ships." The voice of Marino startled Wren from his daydream. He sat upright, fingers knotting together and unknotting on his lap anxiously. He listened, trying to reorient himself back to the job he sacrificed so much for.
Wren
Morning Woes
Candied sounds of birdsong bled into the soft droning of the Condor as Lawrence woke from the spell of sleep and dreams, greeted only by the cool darkness of his room. An agitated groan escaped Wren, and he lazily hit a small button connected to his nightstand with the back of his hand.
Pale light bathed his bedroom, sending needles into Lawrence’s eyes. He sat up on his bed, feet on the floor. His black t-shirt and grey sweats knotted and twisted around his willowy frame—and as Wren straightened out his clothes, he noticed blotches of sweat on his chest and under his arms. He felt himself sigh. Nightmares were not a thing Wren recalled having as a teenager, but since his employment on the Condor nearly three years ago, they waxed and waned like moons. He had spoken to a psychologist about these nightmares on occasion—never with the ship's own medical crew; he would not risk the embarrassment—but their cajoling and encouraging suggestions never placated Wren's bad dreams. Even a change in diet failed him.
Wren guided himself to his socked feet, stretched, and shuffled sleepily out of his room, the vestiges of his nightmare still darting around his conscience.
The intercom rang down the sterile, bleached hallway almost merrily, it seemed to Lawrence. Di Liberto's familiar voice reporting all to the meeting room. Arms wrapped around his chest to ward off the biting cold of the ship, Wren moved about the circuitous corridors unhurriedly. The door to the meeting room opened with a soft sigh of air, and Wren stepped in.
Wren sat in the nearest chair, arms still crossed over his chest and bruised crescents under his chestnut eyes. His gaze drifted between the robot Nexus, Aiden, and Masha, before settling on Marino.
"Good morning you four," Wren chirped with a thin smile, tiredness lacing his voice.
@DeadDrop Yup I'm still down to roleplay!
@Erklings25 Okay, got it all sorted out and updated what I missed. I'll add to the specifics of his skills and his history soon. Sorry for awkward code errors haha, should be good now.
__
Accidentally posted while I was adding stuff lol, don't mind the mess. Bit of a WIP.
“‒is here.”
“..Who?”
Sussurrous conversations behind closed doors was no novelty to Josiah, especially in the cesspool of Sierra-Armstrong. Even now, as the clerk recorded stock quantity of pharmaceuticals, foods, beverages and nonessentials on a clipboard with a languor alien to him, Josiah’s attention was garnered not by the fact that muffled voices could be heard less than ten feet away from him in the supervisor’s office, but the startlement which came from them.
The clipboard in Hewitt’s hand was idly discarded on a box of syringes as he gingerly approached the office door. The voices, raspy with emotion and forced quietness, grew more clear as Josiah approached on raised heels. Cautiously leaning his ear against the cool face of the door, the voice of Hewitt’s supervisor, Lee Graham, hissed angrily at his unknown guest.
“Why the everliving fuck are you telling me this? Do you think me knowing will keep my ass safe, José? ‘Cause if anything I’ll be killed for knowing that they allowed a deserter back in!” Graham’s quieted exclamations rose and fell as he enunciated how screwed he believed himself to be.
“Relax, bud, everyone’s gonna know soon. Can’t run a county if you don’t have people.” Josiah felt a debauched, ghostly hand on the nape of his neck. José Ruiz was a courier and, befittingly, a notorious gossip who hit on Josiah on more than one occasion (which he always tentatively turned down) before he had enough sense of self-possession to tell José to drift.
“The kid came without his father, too. No sign of the old man,” again came the whispers of Ruiz, and Josiah barely managed to stifle a gasp. No name had been said or heard, but, as he backed away from the door in dry disbelief, Josiah knew Damian had returned.
Returned from out there; Hewitt always introspectively referred to what was beyond Sierra-Armstrong as the outlands. He did not think that the outlands offered any solace aside from death.
The one, sole image that remained burned onto Josiah’s mind for the remainder of his shift was that of his father.
Are you alive, dad? Could you be? Josiah wondered dreamily.
Please...please be alive.
“..Who?”
Sussurrous conversations behind closed doors was no novelty to Josiah, especially in the cesspool of Sierra-Armstrong. Even now, as the clerk recorded stock quantity of pharmaceuticals, foods, beverages and nonessentials on a clipboard with a languor alien to him, Josiah’s attention was garnered not by the fact that muffled voices could be heard less than ten feet away from him in the supervisor’s office, but the startlement which came from them.
The clipboard in Hewitt’s hand was idly discarded on a box of syringes as he gingerly approached the office door. The voices, raspy with emotion and forced quietness, grew more clear as Josiah approached on raised heels. Cautiously leaning his ear against the cool face of the door, the voice of Hewitt’s supervisor, Lee Graham, hissed angrily at his unknown guest.
“Why the everliving fuck are you telling me this? Do you think me knowing will keep my ass safe, José? ‘Cause if anything I’ll be killed for knowing that they allowed a deserter back in!” Graham’s quieted exclamations rose and fell as he enunciated how screwed he believed himself to be.
“Relax, bud, everyone’s gonna know soon. Can’t run a county if you don’t have people.” Josiah felt a debauched, ghostly hand on the nape of his neck. José Ruiz was a courier and, befittingly, a notorious gossip who hit on Josiah on more than one occasion (which he always tentatively turned down) before he had enough sense of self-possession to tell José to drift.
“The kid came without his father, too. No sign of the old man,” again came the whispers of Ruiz, and Josiah barely managed to stifle a gasp. No name had been said or heard, but, as he backed away from the door in dry disbelief, Josiah knew Damian had returned.
Returned from out there; Hewitt always introspectively referred to what was beyond Sierra-Armstrong as the outlands. He did not think that the outlands offered any solace aside from death.
The one, sole image that remained burned onto Josiah’s mind for the remainder of his shift was that of his father.
Are you alive, dad? Could you be? Josiah wondered dreamily.
Please...please be alive.
Sorry for not posting yet, I work overnight shifts so I sleep most of the day. I'll try to finish it up soon.
Added my relations. Pretty lazy with the descriptions, sorry. I'll add more in time.
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