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MachineSoul
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Zamokra41
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GEARS - Mecha Sci-fi with Anthro characters. RP in a detailed, story-driven world.
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10 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
I'll finish the dream scene in my next post, I simply don't have the energy to write it now
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GEARS - Mecha Sci-fi with Anthro characters. RP in a detailed, story-driven world.
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10 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
Aidan kept his mouth forcefully shut for the rest of the evening with the squad, refusing to drink any drop of alcohol since he was already growing drowsy and lightheaded; he knew he could stomach more than two sips, but he almost forgot his body was on morphine, the side effect kicked in quick enough for him to feel distressed. He saw Ken starting to talk, so he pulled hims brain back from its lethargic state and focused on the sounds the wolf's mouth would make until he could make out words; noticing the semi-desperate expression the airman had on his face, Aidan felt a chuckle arriving, but a nasty burp replaced the sound before he answered in a sketchy tone.
"Listen, mang, I got you the booze, you do whatever you wan' with it. Drink it, piss on it, hell, sell it on the black market, I dun' care. If you take a swig, jus' don't get piss drunk. It's 4% vol. pils beer, one bottle and you'll still be fine."
Sitting mostly to fit in the background, the dog had a quiet night idly wasting time while his brain wandered off into the past to re-evaluate his performance on the field, tracking every step: from the beginning of the operation with the assault on the mine entrance, to Arcade's rescue, to Kuraiko's rescue, the mines, the shootout, his wound, the captain's condition. He blamed his rash decision on the pain and distraction overstimulating his synapses, taking away his ability to thoroughly judge risk versus outcome. It would be too late to back out now, since he already took the responsibility of keeping Es in check and alive; it wouldn't be the first time he would do some not-that-legal workarounds to help a friend out; he wasn't a drug dealer, as he had no interest in extra cash that he could only waste on cigarettes he wouldn't smoke, booze he wouldn't drink and whores he would leave untouched. He thought of acquiring a carbine that would suit his needs better than a PDW could, but he kept reminding himself that he was a PILOT, not infantry; one would still argue that GEARs count as heavy infantry, but that didn't motivate the need for a larger firearm since the pilot wouldn't exit the vehicle for other reasons than maintenance or neutralization of the vehicle. It was at this hour that he felt some sort of feeling that nagged him about acquiring a carbine, or at least take a standard issue from the armory, pray that the tactical rails are not different in size and fit the holographic sight on it.
Another thought nagged at him, urging him to get off his feet and get back to duty, so Aidan quietly took his leave without announcing that he was heading away; he picked himself up and let his feet carry him to the sick bay, using the walls around him to support his weight when his vestibular sensors lagged. He ended up in the morgue, where the two coffins were hastily covered with a flag each. Aidan picked up a folding chair from the antechamber and strategically placed himself next to wall that would, more or less, catch his head if he dozed off; at least he would wake up with a headache, not with a bloody nose. If he would fall on the other side, then may gravity have mercy upon his half-handsome face. He booted his PADD sitting on his lap and while the device went through several loading screens, the dog took a moment to look at the two deceased pilots. He got used to sitting for hours next to corpses as some sort of antique honorary act, but he could remember all of their faces and first names. 90% of them weren't from the 137th, yet, given enough time and energy, Aidan could still make an informative list of each and every of them. To that list, he had to add two more poor sods, one he couldn't save despite his efforts, the other one simply withered away when no one was looking. Both had an incredible potential and talent, and all the reasons to be alive and happy, yet, they were just dead. Along with every inspiring thought, smile, word, imagination and emotion, they become nothing but memories that would also fade and become nothing, given enough time. He himself would become nothing, along with his efforts and dreams. Everyone would one day just read his, or anyone's name, and feel nothing, knowing nothing about those people.
He was too tired to fight off those grim thoughts as he sat slumped on the chair sustaining the dog's weight with some effort, tapping on the surface of the screen until he reached a certain window filled with contacts; there, he double tapped one of the contacts and quickly shoved in the PADD's earpiece. A quarter of the screen was then taken over by a portrait photo that, even though it showed a relatively bored, but beautiful black tabby, it brought a fond smile upon his wrecked face. With the shoddy connection the landcruiser had, it took a while for the PADD to actually "dial" the contact and when the call finally succeeded, the dog had to wait for about one minute to receive an unresponsive tone, much to his dismay. He couldn't do much about it but to exhale his frustration and try not to worry too much about her unresponsiveness; for all he knew, she could be in the middle of an operation far away from home and, maybe, even civilization. He tried to push away concerns and leave them no place in his mind, the last thing he wanted was a pinch of doubt that could easily tip the scale against his favor and make a lot of mistakes for being emotional; it was hard in the beginning to stay so long away from her, much harder than separating from his family of two brothers, a sister and his parents. Doubts about her loyalty to him would be a daily routine chewing his brains until it would bleed misery, but if that was the case, why would she return to him every time? In a way, her death would be easier to bear than her being unfaithful, a thought that made Aidan question his own morals and mental sanity.
After fifteen minutes of staring at the profile photo had passed, Aidan finally got out of the contact window to access a database with all sorts of pathophysiology and clinical medicine tomes in electronic format, downloading as many of them that suited his needs and about one hour in his vigil, Aidan was fighting for the last drops of focus and consciousness, his eyelids growing heavier by the second and his eyes crossed until he would see three PADDs sitting in his lap. A powerful yank pulled him back to reality when the default ringtone blasted loudly in his right ear, scaring him hard enough to flex his whole body and trigger a jolt of deaf, burning pain in his left arm. He fumbled and nearly dropped the PADD in the process of answering the call, his heart attempting to break his ribcage while his body failed to respond to all of his commands.
"H-hello? Can you... can you hear me? Hello?" Hearing something from the other end made him smile, not really knowing exactly what the other participant was mumbling with an evenly tired voice.
"Wow, I- I didn't think that I'd catch you tonight. It's good to hear from you, how have you been? Yes, I know you can't tell me much, but it's you I want to kn- ah. Mhm. Oh, me?" He briefly looked over to his wounded arm. "Not much going on here. We had some activity here, but all in all, not much. Yeah, it's much more active than back home, but I've been good, busy with these kids here and their bruises and all. Of course. I missed you too, kitty."
The conversation went on for some time, but they had to stop as the network connection strength wavered. Just stalling their goodbyes took several minutes and no matter how long Aidan tried to keep his paramour talking into his ear, the bitter taste in his mouth after the end of the call wouldn't leave him alone. He didn't know if she felt the same, but in a way, he hoped she didn't suffer like he did, it would get in the way of her duty; he was built to be hammered with physical and emotional punishment and hardened his ability with military and medical training, but some things still hit home. He completely lost his focus and gave up reading through any of the tomes he finished copying on his PADD's hard drive and instead started playing some stupid game to keep him distracted, but awake; of course it failed, since Aidan woke up several hours later, confirming to himself that he dozed off by looking at his watch, reading 05:42 AM. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head once violently and took another furtive look at his watch, only to be shocked to the core when he read E2:89 DD instead. As his eyes peered at the odd combination, the room's neon light changed from the sterile white hue to an oppressive grey-green, finding himself surrounded with metallic drawers, each with weird number patterns and no door to exit the morgue.
But he didn't want to replay the dream in his head at the moment, forcing it to the back of his mind; the damage it had done, though, wouldn't be easy to push so easily. He checked, and rechecked, and rechecked his watch, looking for any change of flow in time passage. It was 7:15 AM, then 7:16 AM, then 7:17 AM. It did take a code red alarm to get him up on his feet, crashing the chair on the floor as he dashed from the morgue to the common quarters, ready to break a fight, save a dying man or stop a fire. He only found his superior, two of his colleagues and a lot of croissants; his heart was racing and it did no good to his weakened state, something had took its toll on Aidan's droopy and somewhat unfriendly morning facial expression. He rubbed one of his inflamed eyes and muttered a croaky "Sir" under his breath, sketched a salute and took a seat. He tried as much as he could to not act tired, or as if he was a super fresh dandelion, he instead picked a croissant, plucked away one of its ends and shoved it in his mouth, feeling instant repulsion towards the poor pastry.
"We there yet?" He muttered after he downed the croissant end through his dry throat.
"Listen, mang, I got you the booze, you do whatever you wan' with it. Drink it, piss on it, hell, sell it on the black market, I dun' care. If you take a swig, jus' don't get piss drunk. It's 4% vol. pils beer, one bottle and you'll still be fine."
Sitting mostly to fit in the background, the dog had a quiet night idly wasting time while his brain wandered off into the past to re-evaluate his performance on the field, tracking every step: from the beginning of the operation with the assault on the mine entrance, to Arcade's rescue, to Kuraiko's rescue, the mines, the shootout, his wound, the captain's condition. He blamed his rash decision on the pain and distraction overstimulating his synapses, taking away his ability to thoroughly judge risk versus outcome. It would be too late to back out now, since he already took the responsibility of keeping Es in check and alive; it wouldn't be the first time he would do some not-that-legal workarounds to help a friend out; he wasn't a drug dealer, as he had no interest in extra cash that he could only waste on cigarettes he wouldn't smoke, booze he wouldn't drink and whores he would leave untouched. He thought of acquiring a carbine that would suit his needs better than a PDW could, but he kept reminding himself that he was a PILOT, not infantry; one would still argue that GEARs count as heavy infantry, but that didn't motivate the need for a larger firearm since the pilot wouldn't exit the vehicle for other reasons than maintenance or neutralization of the vehicle. It was at this hour that he felt some sort of feeling that nagged him about acquiring a carbine, or at least take a standard issue from the armory, pray that the tactical rails are not different in size and fit the holographic sight on it.
Another thought nagged at him, urging him to get off his feet and get back to duty, so Aidan quietly took his leave without announcing that he was heading away; he picked himself up and let his feet carry him to the sick bay, using the walls around him to support his weight when his vestibular sensors lagged. He ended up in the morgue, where the two coffins were hastily covered with a flag each. Aidan picked up a folding chair from the antechamber and strategically placed himself next to wall that would, more or less, catch his head if he dozed off; at least he would wake up with a headache, not with a bloody nose. If he would fall on the other side, then may gravity have mercy upon his half-handsome face. He booted his PADD sitting on his lap and while the device went through several loading screens, the dog took a moment to look at the two deceased pilots. He got used to sitting for hours next to corpses as some sort of antique honorary act, but he could remember all of their faces and first names. 90% of them weren't from the 137th, yet, given enough time and energy, Aidan could still make an informative list of each and every of them. To that list, he had to add two more poor sods, one he couldn't save despite his efforts, the other one simply withered away when no one was looking. Both had an incredible potential and talent, and all the reasons to be alive and happy, yet, they were just dead. Along with every inspiring thought, smile, word, imagination and emotion, they become nothing but memories that would also fade and become nothing, given enough time. He himself would become nothing, along with his efforts and dreams. Everyone would one day just read his, or anyone's name, and feel nothing, knowing nothing about those people.
He was too tired to fight off those grim thoughts as he sat slumped on the chair sustaining the dog's weight with some effort, tapping on the surface of the screen until he reached a certain window filled with contacts; there, he double tapped one of the contacts and quickly shoved in the PADD's earpiece. A quarter of the screen was then taken over by a portrait photo that, even though it showed a relatively bored, but beautiful black tabby, it brought a fond smile upon his wrecked face. With the shoddy connection the landcruiser had, it took a while for the PADD to actually "dial" the contact and when the call finally succeeded, the dog had to wait for about one minute to receive an unresponsive tone, much to his dismay. He couldn't do much about it but to exhale his frustration and try not to worry too much about her unresponsiveness; for all he knew, she could be in the middle of an operation far away from home and, maybe, even civilization. He tried to push away concerns and leave them no place in his mind, the last thing he wanted was a pinch of doubt that could easily tip the scale against his favor and make a lot of mistakes for being emotional; it was hard in the beginning to stay so long away from her, much harder than separating from his family of two brothers, a sister and his parents. Doubts about her loyalty to him would be a daily routine chewing his brains until it would bleed misery, but if that was the case, why would she return to him every time? In a way, her death would be easier to bear than her being unfaithful, a thought that made Aidan question his own morals and mental sanity.
After fifteen minutes of staring at the profile photo had passed, Aidan finally got out of the contact window to access a database with all sorts of pathophysiology and clinical medicine tomes in electronic format, downloading as many of them that suited his needs and about one hour in his vigil, Aidan was fighting for the last drops of focus and consciousness, his eyelids growing heavier by the second and his eyes crossed until he would see three PADDs sitting in his lap. A powerful yank pulled him back to reality when the default ringtone blasted loudly in his right ear, scaring him hard enough to flex his whole body and trigger a jolt of deaf, burning pain in his left arm. He fumbled and nearly dropped the PADD in the process of answering the call, his heart attempting to break his ribcage while his body failed to respond to all of his commands.
"H-hello? Can you... can you hear me? Hello?" Hearing something from the other end made him smile, not really knowing exactly what the other participant was mumbling with an evenly tired voice.
"Wow, I- I didn't think that I'd catch you tonight. It's good to hear from you, how have you been? Yes, I know you can't tell me much, but it's you I want to kn- ah. Mhm. Oh, me?" He briefly looked over to his wounded arm. "Not much going on here. We had some activity here, but all in all, not much. Yeah, it's much more active than back home, but I've been good, busy with these kids here and their bruises and all. Of course. I missed you too, kitty."
The conversation went on for some time, but they had to stop as the network connection strength wavered. Just stalling their goodbyes took several minutes and no matter how long Aidan tried to keep his paramour talking into his ear, the bitter taste in his mouth after the end of the call wouldn't leave him alone. He didn't know if she felt the same, but in a way, he hoped she didn't suffer like he did, it would get in the way of her duty; he was built to be hammered with physical and emotional punishment and hardened his ability with military and medical training, but some things still hit home. He completely lost his focus and gave up reading through any of the tomes he finished copying on his PADD's hard drive and instead started playing some stupid game to keep him distracted, but awake; of course it failed, since Aidan woke up several hours later, confirming to himself that he dozed off by looking at his watch, reading 05:42 AM. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head once violently and took another furtive look at his watch, only to be shocked to the core when he read E2:89 DD instead. As his eyes peered at the odd combination, the room's neon light changed from the sterile white hue to an oppressive grey-green, finding himself surrounded with metallic drawers, each with weird number patterns and no door to exit the morgue.
But he didn't want to replay the dream in his head at the moment, forcing it to the back of his mind; the damage it had done, though, wouldn't be easy to push so easily. He checked, and rechecked, and rechecked his watch, looking for any change of flow in time passage. It was 7:15 AM, then 7:16 AM, then 7:17 AM. It did take a code red alarm to get him up on his feet, crashing the chair on the floor as he dashed from the morgue to the common quarters, ready to break a fight, save a dying man or stop a fire. He only found his superior, two of his colleagues and a lot of croissants; his heart was racing and it did no good to his weakened state, something had took its toll on Aidan's droopy and somewhat unfriendly morning facial expression. He rubbed one of his inflamed eyes and muttered a croaky "Sir" under his breath, sketched a salute and took a seat. He tried as much as he could to not act tired, or as if he was a super fresh dandelion, he instead picked a croissant, plucked away one of its ends and shoved it in his mouth, feeling instant repulsion towards the poor pastry.
"We there yet?" He muttered after he downed the croissant end through his dry throat.
In
GEARS - Mecha Sci-fi with Anthro characters. RP in a detailed, story-driven world.
→
10 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
What Silver said. The last few weeks have been a nightmare and I have been struggling with sleep patterns and other issues. I am really sorry for being absent for so long and apologies to Cart for keeping you on stand-by.
I will try to write today, but if I fail, you may move on, Cart. Pretend that Aidan said something like: go wild, if you feel like it, but you're not obligated to drink
I will try to write today, but if I fail, you may move on, Cart. Pretend that Aidan said something like: go wild, if you feel like it, but you're not obligated to drink
Hey, no fret, it was funny to me how you implied that the bump was ignorable due to size difference
*reads IC* Oh-oooh... did I just do that?
In
GEARS - Mecha Sci-fi with Anthro characters. RP in a detailed, story-driven world.
→
10 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
Yup, sounds good! I've always had this fetish for fancied urban conflict, where danger lies at every corner and every window
"Peezdets!" He exclaimed the frustrated and anxious man running around the cramp corridors of the damned carrier that seemed to be more of a maze.
Every door, every room, every stair and everyone looked exactly the same, giving him the eerie feeling of running in circles in an endless limbo. He became to worried to actually stop and ask anyone for a bit of direction, not to mention he would utterly detest the moment one of the jackasses would make fun of his accent. He couldn't exactly remember how he trailed off from the rest of the group since he was following it loosely from behind. He pondered that they must have taken a sharp turn, but even then, he still would have noticed them going left or right. Panic started to take over his wits, thinking of the really bad first impression he would make for being absent for lunch, he could already hear them joking about how the Rusky and his Russian drawer of a plane lag behind due to "flawless" Russian engineering; the only thing that would really piss him off about the joke would be people calling him Russian. Pride suddenly shrunk to a pea in his chest and decided he should really ask for a hint that would lead him towards the mess hall, so he took a deep breath before he asked the first crewman he met in the next corridor which he had to carefully access in order not to bump his forehead in one of the pipes hanging above.
"Yo. Where the fucking mess hall at?" The whole sentence sounded off and amusing as it was spoken in a completely alien accent, the crewman at first thought that Dmitry was just some grunt impersonating someone. After the short moment of confusion passed away, the crewman grinned to the pilot and chortled, throwing his hands in his pockets.
"Well, okay, you're hungry and you're in the wrong part of the ship, man. You're one of the pilots from the island, right? C'mon, boss might be looking for you."
Dmitry was really surprised that the man didn't try to poke at him further about his accent, but instead, showed him that way towards his destination; it did worry him even more that someone was searching for him, most likely it was Scott. On the to wherever they had to reach, the man did try to start a conversation to make time pass, but the pilot did not feel like talking, which for some reason, helped keeping the crewman amused of this interesting figure. Dmitry couldn't tell if the man took him seriously and realized that he was a newcomer on the carrier or if he genuinely believed he was another member playing lost and stupid. The way to the meeting didn't seem much different to the other halls and rooms he passed through in his desperate quest to socialize and kill his hunger after a rough day in the air. After minutes of walking, Dmitry could see that these parts of the ship were much more active and populated with all sorts of people and soon enough, they reached the promised land.
"Thanksyou." He said in a monotonous voice, which seemed to pull out another chortle from the crewman moments before his face dropped, his back straightened and turned his body into a rigid plank, his right arm angled to salute someone behind Dmitry.
Kurva blyat was all that he managed to think before he pivoted 180o and mimicked the crewman's gesture, only to meet with a high-ranking officer that was not Scott. Dmitry's eyes wandered around the man's uniform to try to determine his rank and once he found out it was a general he was saluting, the pilot made sure he was standing extra-straight, to the point that he could feel his hair brush against the ceiling of the hall. He couldn't tell if the man even noticed the two as he just barely let his eyes take a short glance at their faces, but Dmitry noticed the plainness of his face, a certain plainness that almost seemed dangerous; the only feature that made him stand out was his missing eye he had no shame to show. Out of curiosity, he peeked inside the room, where indeed, was the entire squad, quickly recognizing their faces from before. Moments before the general would start the briefing, Dmitry quickly made his way inside and crammed himself somewhere in the back of the room where he still had space. He knew the general noticed the dumb clown this pilot was, but for some reason, he decided against scolding him for his insolence. The pilot sat tight and listened carefully, trying to absorb every bit of info in so he could form a large picture of the situation. The briefing was short and concise, he had a clear objective in his mind and he was ready to go into action again as soon as they were needed... though he didn't expect to be up again in two hours. He wasn't sure what to do in order to kill off the extra time, other than lunch.
The general headed off to tend to other most likely important matters, while Colonel Valentine did a quick recap of the mission. With that occasion, he wanted to make sure he would make his intentions clear to everyone in the room by pointing out what he expected of the team. Everyone then buggered off with their own business, the pilot barely making any real contact with anyone, but to him, it wasn't really a problem; he could do well without social contact for a long while, the only thing that worried him was that his lateness would make people doubt his usefulness and capabilities as a pilot. From the mass of pilots making their way out of the room, he picked the one he was most familiar to, Marciano, whose attention he caught with a friendly pat on the right shoulder. He knew the man was callsign Charnel, recognizing his voice from the comms.
"Charnel, I believe I owe a drink, da? I can't get you drunk now with the mission in two hours, but when we're done with that too, I make sure we drink until we won't need planes to fly, oke?"
He left the man with the thought of getting slammed after the mission and as Stalin went off to find the mess hall to get some food down, he saw a very peculiar figure for some reason he missed during the initial meeting on the flight deck; if his vision served him right, he could swear he saw a woman with cat-like ears retreating somewhere. He wanted to blame his imagination or blame it on some weird opportunistic optical illusion, but his memory could only accept the fact that one of the pilots had cat ears. Could it be Kat? That would be very appropriate, thought Dmitry. He did find the mess hall (not without help, of course) where he forced down some plastic-looking sandwiches and found some papers to read through and check some of the latest news in the world... from three years ago. Realizing he was reading whack, Dmitry felt compelled to rip one of the pages off and fold it into a paper plane in a design very specific to him: slim in the wings with a very sharp profile, the plane would build speed as it would descend from its short flight, but steady flight. He didn't have the courage to launch it while he was in the mess hall, but he kept the plane with him so he could play with it a little while later.
He honestly had no clue how he managed to waste two hours and do nothing other than wander around the ship without stopping to recollect and piece together today's events, but at least he started to work out a pattern of how the ship's lower decks interconnected. He found his Su prepped for take off, the only thing it missed was himself, so he made haste; just as he reached his jet, he saw the blast deflector rise to redirect the energy output from the Tomcat's twin engines. As Knight One shot for the skies, Dmitry spat out on the flight deck and drew another imaginary cross over his forehead, belly and his two shoulders; he hopped into his seat and strapped himself tightly and tested his fit by stretching his back and legs while his jet was carried over for takeoff. He lowered the canopy over his head and sealed it shut, then flicked his wrist and fingers around the endless buttons and switches in front of him in a reflex motion; with that, the monitors and displays came to life almost in tandem with the high-pitched whirl of the twin turbojet engines behind him.
"Stormcloud Tower, Stalin, ready on flight deck."
Once he was given the go, he lowered the flaps and increased thrust, approaching the lip of the carrier at a growing speed and once he was sure he would be clear off the flight deck, he slowly pulled the stick back to tilt his nose up slightly and successfully take off after a relatively short run. He built up a bit of speed before he would veer around and fall in formation with Knight One to avoid stalling the damned jet, but he managed to reach Heartbreak from behind and match his speed. He took a quick glance over his shoulder over to the carrier, a slim smile appeared as he now had a chance to take a proper look at the beauty of the carrier.
"Knight One, Stalin reporting in, ready to make some trouble."
Every door, every room, every stair and everyone looked exactly the same, giving him the eerie feeling of running in circles in an endless limbo. He became to worried to actually stop and ask anyone for a bit of direction, not to mention he would utterly detest the moment one of the jackasses would make fun of his accent. He couldn't exactly remember how he trailed off from the rest of the group since he was following it loosely from behind. He pondered that they must have taken a sharp turn, but even then, he still would have noticed them going left or right. Panic started to take over his wits, thinking of the really bad first impression he would make for being absent for lunch, he could already hear them joking about how the Rusky and his Russian drawer of a plane lag behind due to "flawless" Russian engineering; the only thing that would really piss him off about the joke would be people calling him Russian. Pride suddenly shrunk to a pea in his chest and decided he should really ask for a hint that would lead him towards the mess hall, so he took a deep breath before he asked the first crewman he met in the next corridor which he had to carefully access in order not to bump his forehead in one of the pipes hanging above.
"Yo. Where the fucking mess hall at?" The whole sentence sounded off and amusing as it was spoken in a completely alien accent, the crewman at first thought that Dmitry was just some grunt impersonating someone. After the short moment of confusion passed away, the crewman grinned to the pilot and chortled, throwing his hands in his pockets.
"Well, okay, you're hungry and you're in the wrong part of the ship, man. You're one of the pilots from the island, right? C'mon, boss might be looking for you."
Dmitry was really surprised that the man didn't try to poke at him further about his accent, but instead, showed him that way towards his destination; it did worry him even more that someone was searching for him, most likely it was Scott. On the to wherever they had to reach, the man did try to start a conversation to make time pass, but the pilot did not feel like talking, which for some reason, helped keeping the crewman amused of this interesting figure. Dmitry couldn't tell if the man took him seriously and realized that he was a newcomer on the carrier or if he genuinely believed he was another member playing lost and stupid. The way to the meeting didn't seem much different to the other halls and rooms he passed through in his desperate quest to socialize and kill his hunger after a rough day in the air. After minutes of walking, Dmitry could see that these parts of the ship were much more active and populated with all sorts of people and soon enough, they reached the promised land.
"Thanksyou." He said in a monotonous voice, which seemed to pull out another chortle from the crewman moments before his face dropped, his back straightened and turned his body into a rigid plank, his right arm angled to salute someone behind Dmitry.
Kurva blyat was all that he managed to think before he pivoted 180o and mimicked the crewman's gesture, only to meet with a high-ranking officer that was not Scott. Dmitry's eyes wandered around the man's uniform to try to determine his rank and once he found out it was a general he was saluting, the pilot made sure he was standing extra-straight, to the point that he could feel his hair brush against the ceiling of the hall. He couldn't tell if the man even noticed the two as he just barely let his eyes take a short glance at their faces, but Dmitry noticed the plainness of his face, a certain plainness that almost seemed dangerous; the only feature that made him stand out was his missing eye he had no shame to show. Out of curiosity, he peeked inside the room, where indeed, was the entire squad, quickly recognizing their faces from before. Moments before the general would start the briefing, Dmitry quickly made his way inside and crammed himself somewhere in the back of the room where he still had space. He knew the general noticed the dumb clown this pilot was, but for some reason, he decided against scolding him for his insolence. The pilot sat tight and listened carefully, trying to absorb every bit of info in so he could form a large picture of the situation. The briefing was short and concise, he had a clear objective in his mind and he was ready to go into action again as soon as they were needed... though he didn't expect to be up again in two hours. He wasn't sure what to do in order to kill off the extra time, other than lunch.
The general headed off to tend to other most likely important matters, while Colonel Valentine did a quick recap of the mission. With that occasion, he wanted to make sure he would make his intentions clear to everyone in the room by pointing out what he expected of the team. Everyone then buggered off with their own business, the pilot barely making any real contact with anyone, but to him, it wasn't really a problem; he could do well without social contact for a long while, the only thing that worried him was that his lateness would make people doubt his usefulness and capabilities as a pilot. From the mass of pilots making their way out of the room, he picked the one he was most familiar to, Marciano, whose attention he caught with a friendly pat on the right shoulder. He knew the man was callsign Charnel, recognizing his voice from the comms.
"Charnel, I believe I owe a drink, da? I can't get you drunk now with the mission in two hours, but when we're done with that too, I make sure we drink until we won't need planes to fly, oke?"
He left the man with the thought of getting slammed after the mission and as Stalin went off to find the mess hall to get some food down, he saw a very peculiar figure for some reason he missed during the initial meeting on the flight deck; if his vision served him right, he could swear he saw a woman with cat-like ears retreating somewhere. He wanted to blame his imagination or blame it on some weird opportunistic optical illusion, but his memory could only accept the fact that one of the pilots had cat ears. Could it be Kat? That would be very appropriate, thought Dmitry. He did find the mess hall (not without help, of course) where he forced down some plastic-looking sandwiches and found some papers to read through and check some of the latest news in the world... from three years ago. Realizing he was reading whack, Dmitry felt compelled to rip one of the pages off and fold it into a paper plane in a design very specific to him: slim in the wings with a very sharp profile, the plane would build speed as it would descend from its short flight, but steady flight. He didn't have the courage to launch it while he was in the mess hall, but he kept the plane with him so he could play with it a little while later.
He honestly had no clue how he managed to waste two hours and do nothing other than wander around the ship without stopping to recollect and piece together today's events, but at least he started to work out a pattern of how the ship's lower decks interconnected. He found his Su prepped for take off, the only thing it missed was himself, so he made haste; just as he reached his jet, he saw the blast deflector rise to redirect the energy output from the Tomcat's twin engines. As Knight One shot for the skies, Dmitry spat out on the flight deck and drew another imaginary cross over his forehead, belly and his two shoulders; he hopped into his seat and strapped himself tightly and tested his fit by stretching his back and legs while his jet was carried over for takeoff. He lowered the canopy over his head and sealed it shut, then flicked his wrist and fingers around the endless buttons and switches in front of him in a reflex motion; with that, the monitors and displays came to life almost in tandem with the high-pitched whirl of the twin turbojet engines behind him.
"Stormcloud Tower, Stalin, ready on flight deck."
Once he was given the go, he lowered the flaps and increased thrust, approaching the lip of the carrier at a growing speed and once he was sure he would be clear off the flight deck, he slowly pulled the stick back to tilt his nose up slightly and successfully take off after a relatively short run. He built up a bit of speed before he would veer around and fall in formation with Knight One to avoid stalling the damned jet, but he managed to reach Heartbreak from behind and match his speed. He took a quick glance over his shoulder over to the carrier, a slim smile appeared as he now had a chance to take a proper look at the beauty of the carrier.
"Knight One, Stalin reporting in, ready to make some trouble."
Expect something from me on the morrow
In
GEARS - Mecha Sci-fi with Anthro characters. RP in a detailed, story-driven world.
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10 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
Sorry for lagging with my reply. I've been very busy lately and I am still under pressure IRL
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