SirBeowulf

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

Reign of Kings is a Fun game.

The Re-Reignening.

Betwixt the Eternal Light

~-~

Meeting Amongst The Graves

From the journal of John Cleaver.
~-~

"M-Mother!" John called out as he gasped, awake now in the forever twilight that was The Land Betwixt. He grasped his chest as he panted, trying to push through the confusion that was his second Awakening. It was similar to the first time, except now he knew something was wrong. As if he had forgotten something important, but at the same time felt warmth and calmness from something in his hand.

A locket. A simple one, something a farmer's wife would buy for only a few silver. Even so, the intricate carvings showed that someone had put a lot of work into it. The wear and dirt on it showed that it had been around for a long time. Still, it was something to hold onto. John knew instantly that it was something from his past life. A memory, tangible and lasting, unlike the slivers in John's own mind.

The words "Dearest John..." were carved into the top of the pendant, bringing a chill throughout John's body. He remembered back in the crypt. That thing had spoken to him in her voice. The chill seeped through his bones until John opened the pendant, gazing upon the image inside. "Mother," he mouthed silently, before noticing his surroundings, including his newest companion.

The darkness hides all manner of secrets, and all manner of nightmares – and, as some would like to believe, all manner of truths to be unearthed by those who would dare find it. The nameless vagrant stood at the precipice, hunched like an animal ready to pounce and pressed against the wall, as she stared down the black corridor descending into the bowels of the crypt from whence terrible noises escaped. Though distant and muffled, she interpreted the cacophony as the sounds of a desperate battle, where something – or someone – was being slaughtered. Perhaps somebody foolish enough to have believed the tales of those who claimed to have ventured into the darkness, and have escaped being all the wiser and more powerful for it. She had been in the darkness before, she knew it was all fabrication – there was nothing in the black corners of this land save for one’s own nightmares, and the deaths that followed. If there was somebody down there, they were long past salvation, and she had no business trespassing further.

Shaking her head, she removed herself from the mausoleum entrance and returned to the carcass of her fallen prey, one of her largest kills yet – and also one of the most tragic. “What’s done is done,” she muttered under her breath as she drew her iron sword and leaning the glaive on the monster’s flank. Eyeing the monstrosity’s muscular arms, she settled for taking meat from those first. Like a butcher in the slaughterhouse, she began hacking into the flesh and cutting, trying her best to free as large a chunk of meat as she could with the inadequate tool she had. A large axe would serve her much better here, she knew.

“M-Mother!” a juvenile voice called out some distance behind her, and immediately the sounds of hacking and wet, ripping meat ceased. Bewilderment and surprise gripped the vagrant’s mind as she spun around so quickly that her cloak and hair briefly fluttered in the wind. Gritting her teeth, almost snarling, and staring forward with a squinted, singular eye, she saw them – two persons, sitting on the ground not far from her in between some ancient, crumbling headstones. How was this possible? How could she have missed them? Careless! Stupid! Had one of them not called out, they could have gained even more ground on her. Too dangerous. She dexterously unbuckled the shield from behind her back and donned it on her left arm before taking a few, small steps forward and stopping again. Who were these creatures? Were they mere shells of men, lusting after her memories, or were they survivors like her? Was it even possible, that she was not alone in this place? Or was she simply deluding herself into wishful thinking? Whatever the answer might have been, she stood there, poised to strike should the need arise, sword and shield in hand.

Artimus swooped down and landed upon the hunter's knee as he looked around the cemetery, his memories now further blurred by his latest death. The only way he knew this fact is because he remembered having the memories from his past life, but perhaps the day would come when he forgot them all and forgot about having them, turning into a husk. A shell of his former self wandering these wastes in pursuit of those with memories, taking them for his own and forgetting who he once was. Who's to say he hasn't already done that and has already forgotten who he was? Maybe he came to his hellish land a completely different man than he is now. It does not bode well to dwell on these kinds of thoughts though. His attention snapped to his young companion and former prey; the boy had yelled out upon his awakening from the temporary grasp of death in this land. The hunter dove at the boy, slapping his gloved hand over his mouth and shoving him to the ground in fear he would cry out more than the one time.

"G-get off, you'll break it," John said harshly as he wriggled out of Rook's grasp, angry and clutching something important to his chest.

"Shut up. What if that thing is still pursuing us? Break what? What do you have," the hunter asked as he raised to a crouch and grabbed his crossbow, scanning the cemetery once more. His gaze fell upon a shape near the center of the graveyard; it was human in shape, but he couldn't discern too much from it other its stance. It looked ready to fight. He brought his crossbow up to aim at the shap, standing slowly and watching it for any violent movement.

John ignored Rook's question, opening his hands slightly to peer at the locket. It felt good just to touch it. To hold it. To remember. Mother. Then he remembered the hell he was in, cursing under his breath as he shoved the locket into his pocket, noticing Rook's crossbow bearing down on someone. John's eye was caught by the mass of flesh and bone that sat, dead, behind the stranger. "Be careful," he said as he stooped to pick up his cleaver, no longer trusting it to keep him safe. "D'you see that thing behind it? The dead thing."

"Aye. I saw it, boy. That only means whatever it staring us down is strong enough to kill that mass," the hunter responded, his crossbow never waivering from its aim of the shape before them.

Slowly inching closer, the vagrant’s one eye observed the two ill fortuned men with care, examining every last detail as well as the dim twilight allowed. They seemed unaware of her presence for a brief moment, and unaware of their surroundings in general as they recollected their consciousness and sense of self. One of the two, after silencing the short outcry from his companion, lifted a strange, alien-looking device in front of himself, seemingly aiming at… her. Expecting some kind of ranged threat – perhaps akin to the bow that her culture was more familiar with – her knees bent and she managed to contract her entire body behind what remained of her shield, save perhaps for part of her feet or legs occasionally being exposed during her sluggish forwards advance.

The vagrant swallowed a small lump of saliva to wet her parched throat before calling out: “Art ye sane?” to the two men, voice clearly different from the city folk.

John swallowed the lump that was in his throat upon hearing the person. No doubt about it, it was a woman. A woman wearing armor and hefting a sword and shield. Though, he couldn't blame her in a world like this. "A-Aye. We're sane. Can we please put away the weapons? I don't wish to fight anymore."

"Aye. We're sane like the boy says," the hunter called out, but did not lower his bow any. His years of hunting game of all sorts had engraved the instincts of the beasts he hunted into him. His instincts told him to keep the bow raised until he had definite proof that there would be no harm in lowering it.

“This world knows not peace nor trust; it offers me none, and I offer none. Not until you’ve earned both,” she replied, a hint of bitterness in her tone, “How did ye get here? Why did ye creep up behind mineself?”

"We... we died. We died down there in the crypt. We only just awoke, here above ground. I promise you we mean no harm. I know not if laws still mean a thing here, but 'love thy neighbor' is something I wish to follow," John said, letting out a sigh as he dropped the cleaver and sat on the ground, starting to pull out his journal. "I'm tired of fighting. That... thing down there... It was too much. I only wish to rest and write."

"The boy speaks the truth. We did not creep upon yeh. We awoke here after the monstrosity resting in the crypt killed us," once again Rook spoke to strengthen John's point but refused to lower his guard as his instincts urged him to stay on his toes in this land.

Fools, both of them, she thought. Fools, but not liars. She had heard the sounds of conflict in the crypt, and they appeared ill suited to combat the darkness of the land betwixt, and so died as they deserved to. And no amount of foolishness could obscure the fact that they also appeared truly sane – still filled with memories of some kind. The empty ones she had encountered, they were not this clever, could not ruse her so.

“Cease pointing that thing at me, and I shalt lower my blade,” she commanded with confidence as she reluctantly straightened her legs once more to stand upright.

Pausing a moment to think about the woman's command, the hunter did eventually lower his bow ever so slowly. He only did this because he was confident he could raise it quick enough should the woman charge at them through the headstones.

John opened the journal to the hastily drawn picture of the Lamentor. He would have shivered if not for the warmth that emanated from his coat pocket. "Come, maiden. We'll all sit down and share our tales. You... wield weapons, I've never seen a girl with any. Isn't that only for men?" John asked as he started gathering twigs and bits of wood from the ground, forming them into a small tent. Then, he noticed the bird on Rook's shoulder. It was beautiful up close, he smiled as he held out an arm to the creature, letting it jump onto him. "Artimus. She's even more beautiful up close."

Rook kept his gaze on the approaching woman warrior, still paranoid of attack as he spoke without turning to the boy,"I wouldn't make a fire, lad. There could be things out there lurking about," he felt Artimus hop from his shoulder to his companion, surprised she wold trust someone so readily,"Aye. She's a beautiful bird and a loyal companion. She's helped me on many hunts."

The vagrant snorted with amusement when she heard the term ‘maiden’. It implied a certain innocence, or at least evoked images of a reserved, juvenile daughter in her mind; certainly not the kind of woman that her life had made her to be. From what place did this mere boy hail from, she wondered? To hold such a naïve view of the world, it was nigh on inconceivable for her, wielding a weapon was second nature to her, they were a part of her body. It could all still be a ruse to fool her, but she allowed her senses to become lulled in the illusion of security, and her posture became notably less tense; sword hanging low, though shield still raised as she casually walked towards the two.

“No need to be a man to run someone through,” she commented dispassionately. If all went well, she would eventually stop about two meters from the two, now more clearly visible to the naked eye; splattered with filth-ridden blood, one-eyed, unwashed and dirty.

As the armed woman came into view with her comment about not needing to be male to kill, the hunter gaped at her appearance as unnoticably as possible. How long has she been here to be marked so? It had to be longer than the boy and himself; either that or she had worse luck with the creatures lurking in this land and came upon them more often than they had. Though, she seemed to have learned from these experiences, if the pile of flesh behind her was any sort of indicator. The hunter had only met two hostile things in this land, and they had both killed him. The crazed and dillusional cries of the warrior in rusted armor still reverberated within his skull. Would he some day become like that poor soul? The thought sent a shiver through him.

"Why did you kill that beast?" John asked as he began to take out the quill from its slot and dabbing at the next page of paper, starting to draw the locket from his pocket without realizing that he probably shouldn't. "It would've been easier to run away, or just leave it be."

“I want to eat it,” the vagrant answered plainly, raising an eyebrow as she observed John. She had never seen someone draw on paper, and could not quite fathom what he was up to.

"...Eat it?" John asked, cocking an eyebrow as he kept drawing, pausing every so often to scratch the chin of Artimus, who eagerly watched from his shoulder. "Why would you eat that?"

"Aye, boy. Eat it. She's a hunter. What else is there for us to eat in this land? Roots and berries? You can't eat those forever. You need meat."

“Eat your enemy and you eat his strength, I say,” she almost absentmindedly added, perhaps more to herself in an effort to recall an old adage, or perhaps a lesson to the others.

"An interesting mantra to live by. Personally I just believe in eating and using whatever you kill out of respect to Gaithea," the words left his mouth automatically. He barely realized what he had said.

In a different world, she might have shared his view, recalling the faintest memory of having hunted at least once in her youth. But respect was dead in this world. There was only strength, and not dying like all these antiquated concepts had.

“What art thou doing there?” she asked, nodding towards John.

"I'm drawing. Isn't it obvious?" John asked as he held up the journal page, exposing the partially finished locket image. "I've drawn more than just this. This land is full of strange things. Places, creatures I've seen, objects," he flipped backwards to a drawing of the cabin that seemed so far away now. "See?"

Intrigued, she bent down slightly to take a closer look at his partial drawing, lowering her shield in the process. The artwork was reminiscent of her people’s etchings that they might leave in wood or stone, but much more detailed and sophisticated. She had never made one, did not have the steady hand or artistic mind for it.

“Ah, so thou art a chronicler. Rather young, for one.”

Rook glanced down at the unfinished drawing of a locket as he allowed himself to drop down next to John in a sitting position, only now noticing the tears in his trousers from the skeletal puppet that had attacked him. The wounds beneath the tears had since scarred over. The rips were what bother him though, and so as he sat down he pulled his rucksack from his shoulders and rumamged through its contents. He eventually pulled out a needle and spool of dark thread. With barely passable skill, the hunter began weaving the needle through his trousers, closing up the rips while still wearing them.

"Chronicler? Do you mean... a bard, or a writer? I... I guess that could be what I am. It's the only thing I'm good at," John said as he returned to the locket, sighing as he made a slight error. He then noticed Rook sewing up the rips in his clothing. "You know, Rook. I could do that for you. I don't have many memories, but I'm fairly certain I did my fair share of fixing things." John blinked before speaking again. "Oh, I almost forgot. I am known as John, and this is Rook. The bird on my shoulder is Artimus."

“A storyteller. One who remembers one generation’s exploits of the clan to share it with the next,” the vagrant elaborated, paying only loose attention to Rook repairing his clothing. She had done something similar many times, only she lacked a needle and thread. All of a sudden, John chose to introduce himself and his companion to the vagrant, who now simply stood there, uncertain what to do with herself. Names. Huh. Had been a while she was last made to even remember one. They certainly expected a name from her; but she had none to give. Long seconds went by before she eventually, and reluctantly spoke up:

“Very well. None in this land saw fit to grace me with a name, so I have none.”

"No name, eh? Well with that beast dead behind you, I'm tempted to call you Huntress," Rook spoke up in the midst of sewing up another rip near the knee of his trousers, pricking himself in the thumb. He cursed under his breath and stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked at the blood in an attempt to stop the flow. She shrugged. Huntress? She was not much of a huntress, she thought. A wolf pup in a forest of giants, who eats those few weaker than herself whilst living only by the fortune that the true hunters paid her little heed. John grabbed the needle and thread from Rook with a stern look, getting to work with a much more dexterous hand. "Huntress isn't that great a name. You seemed amused earlier at my calling you 'maiden.' Why not that? It's ironic, and I'm sure it will send your foes running in fear." He chuckled as he finished up mending the tear, moving onto the last one.

“Perhaps if I was young and innocent, it might be a descriptive a name. I am neither,” she commented with regret. John looked up, "Under all that mud and gore, I don't doubt that you're quite the sight. That eye might serve a few problems if you were to court someone. What happened to you? Were it beasts that gave you all of your markings?"

“Lost it. An eye for an eye, if thou wilst.” John’s attempt at flattery found no soil to grow on as she chose to ignore it. He was much younger than her for sure – it was natural for him to try and gain the favor of women, she thought.

"Yeh don't remember losing it? Must be the land taking your memories for itself...," Rook trailed off after his interjection, taking his needle and thread back from John as he finished mending his trousers for him. He set to rummaging through his rucksack to take an inventory of what he had.

“I remember enough to know not to lose the other. Thou wouldst do well to remember my lesson too. Thou hadst no business in the darkness below.”

Looking up from his rummaging, the hunter responded with, "The only reason I was down there was because the boy was following me, so I set a trap for him below. Then the monster came..."

He set a trap for his own companion? She was sure to remember that. Was there some underlying tension between these two, a dispute that she was not aware of? She would have to be wary of these two after all – no surprise. Exhaling a deep breath through her nose, the vagrant bent down to ram her sword into the undisturbed soil so that her hands might be free to buckle her shield behind her back once more.

John stared at Rook a bit angrily. "You shot me, and I was following you because there was nothing else for me." He returned to the journal, setting the finishing touches on the picture. "It might not have been for naught. That thing down there... it spoke to me. In Mother's voice. I woke up with this."

He pulled out the locket, feeling the warmth between his hands. It made him smile at how closely he had drawn the locket, the picture resembling it perfectly. "I have no clue why... but it holds power. A lot of power. It might hold a clue as to the meanings of this world."

Us, Redux

Well there goes David being the toughest person at The Towers...

@Gowi

*shows up with his teacher*

WURRR. YERHR. MANLYURURR. Oh, wait. Nope. Just a teacher guy.

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

Cue drunken shenanigans!

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

Jesus Christ, Wes thought as he finally got the hell out of that pit of angst and whining. Sure, he thought a few of them had some good points, but Christ, it was annoying. The whiskey and wine offered up could only do so much for Wes.

When would they realize that this wasn't some two bit war film? They weren't bloody actors who had to cry and moan everytime they killed another person. The enemy was the enemy. It wasn't a game, and you didn't get extra points for feeling sorry for them. Sure, everyone has their own life, but worrying over combat would just get you killed or worse. Wes had learned quickly not to care for the enemy.

No regrets in his career choice. Sure, Wes always felt a touch sorry for the men he's killed, but it was similar to the obligation of apologizing to someone after bumping into them in the street. 'Sorry your husband is dead. I killed him with my rifle. Sucks, I guess.' You didn't have anything to complain about if you died in the field. 'I didn't sign up for this shit,' was a load of bull. You did sign up for that shit.

Hell, Wes doubted he would have a proper funeral when he eventually hit the dust. That shit was too melancholy for him. Drink, fight, fuck, was his motto. Wes remembered back to Tori's funeral. He gave her his respects and left. No use crying over it. She was a damn good leader but hell, everyone's gotta die. Not dying would be boring and repetitive, and would certainly be hell.

He didn't have any sob stories of his own. No heart-stricken lovers who dreaded hearing news from the fronts. No family to return to and tell stories to, Dad died a few years ago. Nope, Wes was a warrior, a fighter through and through, and if he was going to die, it would be on the battefield, not in some retirement home. And if he didn't die on the field? Nah, no way he wouldn't.

Humming a jolly little tune, Wes stared pitifully at the last of the mug of wine he held. Wine wasn't all that great, sure it tasted nice, but it never got him drunk unless he drank copius amounts of it. Speaking of copius amounts of wine, Wes knew just the thing to solve his problems.

The door let out a beeping noise as it slid open, followed by a, "Yo, Gerard. Open up some champagne or something. The cheap stuff'll do. I wanna get drunk." Wes walked in, ignoring the gleaming revolver held in Delacroix' hands. He wasn't one to pry into others issues. "And judging by your state, you also wish to get drunk."

As the door swished open, Gerard hurriedly dropped the pistol from its position under his chin and placed it in his lap. His habitual smile came onto his face as he swivelled around on his chair to see Wes stride in with na'ary a care in the world...or rather, 1 care if his attitude and speech were anything to go by. "I cannot say that I would not like to be, how you Americans say, smashed?" he said with a small chuckle as he discretely slid the revolved into the corner of the desk, pulling back the heavy canvas curtain which had apparently at some point slid backwards. Probably something to do with hyperspace. "but do you not think that it is a little-" he started, before looking down at his desk clock. Right...there WAS no time in hyperspace. "Scratch that, mon amie, I will break out the cheap, hard stuff," he said with a shrug as he stood up and moved towards an innocuous panel. "Hand me my keycard would you?" he asked as he slipped a fingernail behind it.

"Good man!" Wes said, grinning as he walked over to the desk, picking said keycard off of said desk and tossing it to him with a bit of dexterity over the shoulder as he sat down.

They had done this so many times it needed very little effort. Catching the keycard in the air, Gerard slipped it under the panel in a single smooth motion and, with a soft, audible click, unlocked it. Very few squadmates knew about this hidden panel, in fact it was pretty much just Wes, Maki and Sokolov. It hid a small keycard reader that he had obtained from...questionable sources and had both Maki and Lark install it. With a small whoosh of air, it swung open revealing a cooled mini cellar similar to the one in the Marauder, but the bottles were significantly less ornate. This was the stuff which they needed to get truly 'smashed'. Dragging out a bottle of amber liquid, he absent mindedly tossed it behind him. It was already half empty. "I think this was the cognac you liked last time, Shanks," he said as he reached further in for a bottle of cheap chardonnay.

Wes caught the bottle easily after taking a seat at the desk, disregarding any lack of invitation not to. He pulled the cork with his teeth before reaching in and pulling out the revolver Gerard had tried to hide. "S'a pretty little peashooter you got here," Wes said as he examined it, opening the chamber. "Empty. Figures, knowing you. Can you believe Colt is still in service after all these centuries?" Wes shrugged before taking a sip of the cognac. "Fruity. I like it."

Feeling a pang of regret for leaving the revolver out in the open, Gerard strode over and pried it from his hands, stuffing it into the hidden holster under his arm. "I am more surprised that they are working for the Coalition," he said, grateful for the change of subject, "they never struck me as the freedom fighter type." Sitting down onto his bunk, he uncorked the chardonnay and took a large sip, feeling the alcohol sting the back of his throat. "On the other hand, you never struck me as the type of soldier to like fruity drinks."

"It'd be a waste if you were an arms dealer and only made guns for one side. Businesses don't really think the same way as militaries. Gotta make a profit and what not." Wes took another deep drag of the bottle, grinning slightly. "I might've been when I was younger. But you gotta enjoy the little things, such as fruity alcohol. Really, as long as it contains at least one percent alcohol, I think I'd enjoy it. Just not tequilas." Wes gave Gerard a stern look. "Tequilas are for girls."

"I hear that," Gerard said as he clanked his bottle against Wes'. "That being said," he started as he stood up, putting the chardonnay aside, "I think I have a little something you might enjoy." Walking back over to the Gerard Cave, Delacroix reached further in and seemed to struggle for a little bit before pulling out a mysterious, unmarked bottle and two shot glasses. "Remember our little sortie on Sirenia a couple of months ago?" he asked as he kicked two stools into place beside a table which had been bolted to the ground. Wes took one last chug of the cognac, thinking all the while. "Sirenia? Oh, yeah. We got hella lost and had to make our way back everyone else. Didn't our re-entry pod malfunction? Sent us veering off into Coalition territory? I remember it. What about it?"

"To be fair," he said as he smashed the neck of the bottle against the table, causing an odd cap-cork to shoot off, "all of Sirenia was Coalition territory." Pressing two small buttons on the shot glasses, they magnetised themselves to the table as he sat on one of the stools. "Anyways, I managed to...liberate some of Sirenia's cultural wine from a Coalition officer. Remember that time we had to sneak into his office and steal a map? I swear, those ionic clouds really screwed out GPSes...Still didn't stop you kicking his teeth in though"

With a grunt, Wes sat down on the stool, a bit interested. "Aye. I took his fancy cavalry sword, remember? Still got it... somewhere around here. You actually took his hooch? Damn, as if stealing his sword wasn't bad enough. Coalition officers really like their wine."

"Well not all of it," Gerard said with a devilish smile, "just the stuff I thought was interesting." To be honest, talking to Wes really helped take his mind off of his previous thoughts, it was good to have him around. Of course, the alcohol helped immensely. "All right, all right. Get to the chase and pour us some. I don't like surprises," Wes said as he tugged on the shot glass, grunting as it refused to leave the table top. Coalition glasses be damned.

Calming him with a wave of his hand, Gerard started to pour it into the glasses. It was...mystifying to say the least. It was not a singular colour, but rather it seemed to shift like a chameleon every time you tried to focus on it. "So I did some research on this and turns out this was Sirenian dream wine, a local specialty. Has a huge kick and makes your stomach try to eat itself the next day, but gives you a nice little...shall we say...imaginative effects? Only for a few minutes though." Wes stared at the glasses, letting out a sigh. "You always save the best for me. I feel as if I could fall in love," he said, his voice pure sarcasm. "Though, should we really drink this shit? I can handle hangovers, and the battle drugs sure do clear your system, but still."

"But wait theres more," Gerard said with a small chuckle as he shook up the bottle before pouring some more. Almost instantly, the wine grew clear. "I mixed this stuff with some detox tablets and...a few other ingredients. It is my own special blend." Smashing the table with his fist, the glasses loosened themselves. "It kicks harder than a mule, but tastes like a poignant concerto and the best part is, you wake up the next day feeling nothing." Lifting up the shot glasses, he held one out towards Wes. "Well?"

"'Oh, Wes, you're just imagining it, magic isn't real. Quit playing those stupid role playing games and realize its just technology.' Magic. I've finally found proof of magic. Gerard, you're a damn wizard." Wes picked up his own shot glass and eyed it.

"Bottoms up." Gerard toasted, before downing his own drink. Going down, he felt like daggers were piercing his throat. Flaming daggers. Covered in snakes. But a second after it mellowed out into a beatiful, creamy flavour that reminded him of the vineyards back on Noveau France. Accompanying this rapid change in flavour was a sudden loss of balance and unexplainable joy. It was that split second of pleasurable inebriation before you realised you had had too much. Laughing louder than he should have, he slapped Wes on the back as he downed his own. "See what I mean?" he asked, his speech slurred, "Buddon't worry mon frerere...give itt afew meenutes..."

"Yhrra whzrerhd hrry." Wes said, eyes widened after having drank his own. "Gimme shum mor."

Even in this state, Gerard shook his head and leaned away from Wes, almost falling onto the floor. "Nommurh...Not fer anutha...fiphteeen minutes *hic*" That was how long it would take for those effects to dissipate. Rather than actual inebriation, this just simulated it.

"Buht the budderflsh. Theyhr floaatin' allover. S'bootiful." Wes hiccuped before slumping on the table, reaching for the bottle. "Ah beht ah kuld chuggit. Allait. Yuh wash me."

Gerard snatched the bottle away and stumbled towards the Gerard Cave, barely managing to keep balance. "Nah ye dun't," he managed in between laughs and hiccups, "thusshit'll kill yeh!"

Suddenly, Wes appeared more serious, his face turning saddened and depressed. "Gerahrd. Wha'dya havh a gunteryer head? Tellme thaht atleassht. Ah ain't an emoshunlessh monshter. I sawh it. No boolets innacahmber. Whyhy?"

Likewise, Geard's face sobered up...but not actually for another 13 minutes. He collapsed back down into his stool, slamming the bottle back onto the table. "I *hic* I amnt a soldya, Wesss, I's just a conscript, sumun that gut draggedinta this against my will. I dun wanna keel people, nutmai choice" He reached for the bottle. "Butifai want theswaar tend quick, I needt fight myself raight?"

Wes grunted, nodding his head poorly. "Ah dunt hav theh same prollems. Theys jusht peoples. Peoples die. A bajillun people daid before we wuz born. A bajilluhn more wont mattah. We's just cogs in the machina hoomanity. We shtat wahrs. Peoplles'll never changes." He held up his shot glass. "Jusht one mur. A toasht. To hoomanity. Toh evryjun who ever died."

Unthinkingly, Gerard shook the bottle up and poured both of them another glass, although he probably got more over the table than in the glasses. "T'rottun humaniteh!" Almost crushing his glass against Wes' before drinking it down, he fell back down on the ground and passed out. One really shouldn't have more than one of these shots in the space of 15 minutes.

Wes paused as he watched Gerard chug his and pass out. He ignored it most of the time, but he didn't exactly enjoy killing people either. He was addicted to the adrenaline of combat, to fight and fight and fight until you can't do it anymore. It was his drug, and the dead were the side affects. "Tooh humanitee." Wes chugged the booze, passing out and dreaming.

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

<Snipped quote by Whoami>

Maki shall now place Alexis in an ever permanent state of dibs

@Reaper

Sounds delicious.

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

Someone can feel free to drag Gerard out of melancholy if they have nothing better to do

@Harbringer

Would you be up for a collab, then? I can imagine Wes just walking in and ignoring the revolver and just saying, "S'up?"

Us, Redux

DOWN-LOW, DAT CHARACTER SHEET FINNA MAKE DEM OTHER THOTS BE LOOKING SOFT!

@Palindromatic

Us, Redux

All these people have completed sheets, and I'm still struggling through the backstory section of mine. Ah, well, I'll probably have it finished tomorrow, I think.

@clericbeast

*hasn't even started on his*
Err, I mean, yeah. Mine's fully complete!