spakona​.

It all makes sense; Six has considered the dangerous storms that plague Arizona, but she never considered having to share airspace. The fact they’d be doing it with the Brotherhood makes her wish ill things on them that aren’t kind, and so she opts to say nothing about it at all. Golden curls only bob a bit as she nods gracefully. She’ll focus on the positive instead, like the sound of teamwork and a maybe.

“I wish,” She sighs dreamily, a small laugh at the notion, “I been promised a ride’r two, but it ain’t managed to be in the cards yet. Seen plenty of planes fly to be certain – vertibirds, sure, but we got a goup back home what have simulators they been using for years. Can fly old bomber planes and commercial fliers in their sleep, and I’d put caps on it.”

She wants so badly to see what it’s like to be the one who sits in that chair and lifts off into the sky, but they guard that technology with their lives and Six hasn’t been around to flatter her way into it yet. Too much to do. Too much to orchestrate. One day though, maybe she’ll at least get to see what New Vegas might look like if she were a bird. Maybe she’ll get to see the wasteland for miles, “Is it safe to suppose you have, Miss Quinn?”

❝-- I did, actually. Quite often. So often that humanity forgot what a marvel human flight could be... Myself included.❞ The drudgery that led up to flight always felt like a chore. The lines, the check-ins, the waiting before everyone was herded into their little tin can and hurled off into the sky. Even so, there’s something wistful that passes over her expression; a sight unseen, with her head tilted away from Six’s periphery. 

❝It made you feel small, to see how expansive the world is below. To see how miniscule you are against clouds taller than any skyscraper that man could build. But -- it’s not perfect. You might want to bring chewing gum with you if you ever get a chance to fly.❞ There’s a thought that snags at Six’s prior mention of simulators. She thinks of low-light rooms and the creak of wood of a stage. She thinks of a woman in red, lounging in the center of it. ❝Say. You’ve been to the Memory Den before, haven’t you? Over in Goodneighbor.❞  

valourie​.

    “Oh, Ana’Hira…” In Quinn’s voice, of course. “…I’m so sorry I won’t be there to face the Great Journey with you. I-” He. Hehehe. “I REGRET not being of sturdier stuff, darling. Please, remember me after my fragile mortal form fades away.”

  Just one example of a way to properly respond to that. She could come up with more if she’d time to think. “Okay, mostly a joke, means slightly serious. I’ll eat EVERY billionaire I come across, but I’ll pace them out to make you comfy.”  

  She’d already eaten ONE child in her time on Earth and that- that was enough. Angela was the last sin she’d run in that category. “These are good rules. I’ll try not to flake on these.”

❝--- Stop that.❞ To Ana’Hira’s credit, Quinn misses the impulse check; immediately pressing a hand to her mouth to stop talking. It’s not so much the content as it is the voice. Something of a numinous dread to hear oneself speaking, and know it’s not pre-recorded. Alas - shapeshifters seem to relish in their organized chaos. 

❝Just try not to make it a scandal if you do. Maybe stick to the deep sea when you do it? Billionaires do have a penchant for yachts.❞ Ah, but she shouldn’t be giving her ideas, should she? ❝So is cannibalism a common thing where you’re from, or are you just yanking my chain again? What’s your usual diet?❞

the way paragon sheps will open up and share with their crew in ME3 so it feels like a nice equalization for them to have their crew be there for them in that way, considering the way they’ve always been there for their crew 🥺💕

versus

the way renegade sheps tamp down and close off on their emotions and what’s troubling them because they know they need to focus on the mission and focus on what matters, and that they have to be a source of inspiration for both their crew and their galaxy so they can’t afford to let anyone see any cracks in the foundation 😭💔

crimsonsavior​.

“You can’t prove shit, anyway.” Shepard grinned, raising both hands. “As if I was trying to lie to you. Kinda obvious I was messing up with you, but if you want to take that seriously, so I guess you need to relax more in life. Just saying.” No point in hiding his criminal background anyway – he wasn’t part of the Alliance military anymore. Shepard didn’t have to follow any rules.

“Alright. I’ve slept with a hanar prostitute or I’ve killed a teammate during my training years in the Alliance? Which one is the lie?”

❝Didn’t fuckin’ care to, anyways.❞ Jack scoffs. Power plays such as this bore her. Some people get their rocks off on feeling like they’re winning a conversation. As if it’s a game. She has a feeling the proclaimed XO of this tin can is one of them -- and apparently Shepard’s no different. 

❝The teammate’s the lie. You got too specific - probably means one of your old pals ate it after training.❞ Her stare is lidded now; a picture of disinterest that contradicts the curious way she decides to twist the knife. Might be dangerous territory, this, but Jack never did much care about walking on eggshells. ❝So, how’d it happen? You actually do it yourself, or did you just leave ‘em to die?❞

hopecaged​.

It’s horrible–but no more horrible than anything else he’s heard or seen in his line of work. Macen says there’s such a thing as ‘compassion fatigue’, a sort of emotional burnout caused by constantly helping others. Avitus doesn’t see how that could apply to him. He doesn’t really help anyone. The Council points him at a problem, tells him to get rid of it, and he does. No compassion required.

But that woman looked so sad. Avitus’ head keeps turning subtly in the direction she disappeared. She has somewhere to go, doesn’t she? Spirits, he hates this job.

“You’re asking me if I can put down the bastards who took them? Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

As ever, the light at the end of the tunnel is far too meagre. Avitus blinks against it all the same, testing the air. There’s a tinniness to it, a sort of thrum that reminds him of Palaven. The low-level radiation there isn’t harmful to turians, but isn’t it supposed to make humans sick? He gives Quinn another onceover. In spite of her severity, he can’t help thinking she looks vulnerable. Squishy. He’s getting second-hand anxiety already. Ugh.

“What sort of distance are we talking? I’m not worried about catching up if they’re on foot, but if they’ve got vehicles, that could change things.” He keeps scanning over the landscape–even if he doesn’t need to memorize these surroundings right now, he might, later. Anywhere can become a battleground, said Saren, once. Don’t wait until then to figure out your strategy. “Any idea how many were taken? If it’s only a few, I can bring them back myself, but… a large group could become a target, especially if some are injured. I don’t want to risk lives that aren’t my own.”

Moments like these are important for understanding just who it is you’re working with. And Quinn takes to those moments with the full weight of her attention, studying Avitus carefully; every tic, every pause, every twitch. Perhaps it’s wrong to let one person’s loss and suffering serve as bait to better understand just who it was the Council deigned to send to their planet. Perhaps it is unkind.

But she needs to know if the Council is really as benevolent as it claims to be on this mission, or if they’re merely surveying a potential issue to be stamped out. So she speaks of people kidnapped, of people in need, and Avitus’ first words do not immediately go towards a rescue mission, but of killing the ones responsible. Militaristic. That’s expected. Some sort of Turian equivalent of wetworks, black forces, perhaps. So he’s more concerned with culling the issue than remedying the wound, then?

She keys up her omni-tool, a model that looks extensively modified; older model that’s met more than a few adaptations and upgrades over time. But despite that, it seems the file send request clears to Avitus’ own easily enough, just waiting his approval. 

❝That attachment has the list of those presumed missing. There may be more, potentially, from other settlements. There may also be less.❞ Statements that don’t need to be dwelled on. ❝Their settlement was burned. They corralled people using the fires before leaving behind a retinue to scavenge and strip the place for parts.❞ And here, she pauses.  ❝I wouldn’t be asking you to go alone. The Minutemen have already been planning a recovery operation before you showed up... If you were to help me play decoy, that could help my people in getting the abducted out. There is one thing I want to mention though, about these raiders.❞

o-rusted-heart​.

Nick knew how to play along at this point, how Quinn liked to ride a joke with a brilliant sarcasm until she abandoned ship. She was funny, but Nick knew she wouldn’t buy it if he told her that. 

A hand rested over his mouth as he blew her shot, a pitiful attempt to hide a smile that still showed in the creases of his polymer face. He’d been about to ready himself when the cue tapped him in the chest and held him there– yellow eyes turned down to it, then back up to meet hers. “…Don’t know what you mean.”

His hand moved down to his hip to reveal a hard poker face. “Sometimes a fella’s just got a tickle in his throat. …May I?” 

❝Coy ain’t a look that suits you, Valentine.❞ Her head tilts, as if in thought, but it’s the way her eyes remain locked on his that it becomes clear there’s still a serrated sharpness to her stare. So maybe she does have a competitive streak. Everyone has their flaws. Nick cheats to win and Quinn twists the truth to do the same. 

Ultimately, the same method, just applied differently. Two centuries-old peas in a pod.

At his question though, the cue only presses forward, as if intending to push him back. She considers his request. Even shrugs, as if she’s going to let it go. But then that sharpness turns a little sly, evident in the sidelong curve of her own mouth. ❝Say please.❞

synthons​.

          “ 𝗜 𝗠𝗘𝗔𝗡,  𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗔𝗦 𝗢𝗨𝗧𝗙𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗔 𝗕𝗢𝗗𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗠𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗗 𝗔  predator.  it’s much better than the mouthful that’s IF prototype LQ-84i.  ”  it takes a certain amount of mental fortitude not to simply roll his eye at the comment.  the conversation was not well to hamper his annoyance,  but at least there wasn’t boredom.  “  besides,  you have no room to talk.  your name is black-box and your avatar is a cube.  ”  the vent shaft was a bit smaller than anticipated.  both fists clench as raiden worms (  or wriggles?  ) his way towards other side.  this sort of felt embarrassing,  but at least there was only one witness that he was aware of.

     let’s just hope blackmailing wasn’t part of the very short list of humor.

     “  oh,  really?  then tell me about some of your hobbies.  you know,  your likes.  nothing in this mission or your current directive counts.  ”  damn,  how long does this vent system go?  “  i won’t deny that;  every part of my body save for the brain and spinal cord has been artificially replaced.  i don’t believe you though - you’re still only lines of code and hardware.  you weren’t born or have living tissue.  and you wanna know the biggest difference between us?  ”  he’s a bit petty enough to pause and tap at his head in indication,  “  i still have my brain.  yeah,  the one organ that dictates my thoughts and feelings.  ”

❝Indeed.❞ If it were anyone else, any other person, he would have commented along the lines of ‘Maybe it is for you,’ followed up with a questioned observation of how one can ever hope to speak quickly given how confoundedly disgusting and obtrusive a tongue is.

Ah, but Raiden doesn’t exactly have that conundrum, does he? So instead, a mere sliver of his attention diverts to continuing the conversation. ❝I do not possess a preference for making myself palatable to others, but I recognize the convenience of simplifying oneself for another’s limited comprehension. Thus the name Black-Box.❞ Because, as Raiden might say, BBX-8995-1 is simply too much of a mouthful.

❝For you to say that I am merely lines of code would be for me to state that you are only the randomized firing of electrical and chemical signals. I mean really, Raiden - must we be so reductive about the functions of our own hardware? And to think we were just starting to get along.❞ Ah - a signal. It doesn’t have the earmarks of an urgent alert; likely a canned security protocol or log. The interference abates the further Raiden moves, meaning that his suspicion of signal suppressants are only further confirmed. It’s elucidating, and concerning all at once, but ultimately nothing too laborious or difficult for either party to overcome. ❝I quite enjoy the simplistic predictability of puzzles and games. Crosswords, or Kakuro, for example. Though I believe now this would be your turn to share your hobbies.❞

synthons​.

          𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗖𝗬𝗕𝗢𝗥𝗚 𝗟𝗘𝗧𝗦 𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗔 𝗥𝗘𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗗 𝗚𝗥𝗨𝗡𝗧.  𝘾𝙇𝙊𝙎𝙀 𝙀𝙉𝙊𝙐𝙂𝙃.  he slides a finger over the open HUD to grant access to black-box’s request.  “  let’s see.  dr. martel…  5'4.  dark brown hair.  46.  it says here she has nanomachines embedded in her system - that should make her a bit easier to track if we could match her vitals.  ”  there’s a small pip before he tosses the dossier into minimizing again.

     “ roger that.  guess i’ll just stay up here ‘til i run into the office.  ”  easiest way not to get himself caught.  raiden continues stalking the pipeline,  pausing in between to check his surroundings for possibly a hidden camera or stray gekko on the ceiling.    “  you know,  i had worked with another ai before you.  a neuro-ai.  it’s—his name was wolf.  ”  at the end of the room the pipes lead to a vent system,  where he carefully rips off the grate before crawling in.  there wasn’t any particular reason in indulging the small-talk (  especially given how ais were always painfully to the point  ),  but he figures to get some feelers out there on black-box.  an opinion,  an idea,  maybe even a little fact or two.  “  feel like you two would get along much better than with me.  probably even have wonderfully intellectual conversations about humanity’s repetitive flaws.  ”

❝Such a prolific name, Wolf is.❞ Black-Box comments tartly. He’s been trying to get a bead on the nanomachines in question for more than a few cycles now, but the effort has been a fruitless one thus far. The conclusion here is that there’s something actively blocking or interfering outside signals, or the target is not on the premises.

That last one would be unanticipated and unfortunate. Dr. Martel, as most humans are wont to be, is a creature of habit. And her personal residence, correspondences, family and friends gave no indication that she would be out-of-office today. Completion of the first step of this mission without the second step close by only presents snags. He’d rather take the complications from dampeners and signal blockers than an absent Dr. Martel.

❝Raiden, the manner of my inception places me closer to humanity than you might initially surmise.❞ Ah, but he needn’t think of the donor from whom he was made; the proverbial Adam’s rib grey matter that led to his creation. Not when more exciting things are afoot. If Raiden intends to lunge for some ounce of information, however, Black-Box intends to parry. ❝And perhaps the manner of your evolution may place you closer to machine than you might surmise, as well.❞

valourie​.

    “The Covenant Invasion of 2524? Oh, I suppose I’m too early to reference such, aren’t I? Ah, just be thankful you’ll be dead by then, best friend. It’s not a pleasant time for humans and those human-adjacent.” She’d miss her dear friend in those war-torn days. She’d miss them all, really.

  Fingers steepled, the goddess floated casually, nodding along to the ‘rules of engagement’ Quinn had for her. They were annoying, aye, but to be expected from one in her position. “What if I get hungry? Is that a good enough reason? I’m defending my tummy from rumbles.”

❝I mean - is there even a way to properly respond to that? There isn’t.❞ And she exhales in a low sigh because who else but Ana can manage to be both offbeat and ominous, right? Right. 

❝... Only kill if you or someone else’s safety or life is threatened. And --❞ Fingers pinch the bridge of her nose. Is she really trying to set guidelines on cannibalism, now? Is it even cannibalism, in Ana’s case? 

❝Don’t eat innocent people. No kids. Billionaires are open season for all I care.❞ A pause. ❝That last one was mostly a joke, so we’re clear.❞

@daggersandsparks​ sent: ❛ in the process your body is subsumed piece by piece. ❜ 

❝Sounds like a dangerous form of magic.❞ And indeed, she can feel its residue lingering in the air hours since; cloying and chalky. The pads of her fingers trace along the contents of the room, the furniture, the knick-knacks, searching for some echo, some trace of a memory that she can pull apart and unwind. But the magic left is all-consuming, absorbing all those footprints and hiding them. 

❝But it makes sense. You have to, in order to power something this strong.❞ Her brows pinch together in thought. ❝Have you come across this before on your cases? Because while I can’t say I have, something about it just feels... Different. Wrong. Like decay.❞

valourie​.

No longer the size of an unquenchable night terror the scion of the ahamkara found a comfortable balance in the dimensions of an ill omen, or perhaps a violent vision. Still large enough to serve as support for the resting form of her ally and friend, but small enough to match the slowed tremors of quiet acceptance within her.

    “I won’t eat you.” A huff, motes of glimmer escaping her nostrils as she did. “That’s no way to show affection in this civilized day and age… I believe ’hugging’ is in vogue again.” She could not smile. Draconic features did not align to show mortal mirth that way.

  And yet, she was smiling all the same. At least, for a moment.

    “No. What was killed, what had been TAKEN? She needed to die. What was stolen, what no longer was? I mourned her long ago. I am… happy she is free.” She could not cry. Draconic features did not align to show mortal misery that way.

  And yet…

❝Does that mean you want a hug?❞ And there, just slightly is the curving lilt of playfulness that winds itself through her words. They are both old. Older than most. Older than many can cope or even process. She’s learned that bouts of grief are best upsailed with bouts of brevity. Like dark chocolate, or alcohol, or the right dish; you need just the perfect blend of sweet to go with the bitter.

❝Sometimes it’s better to frame one’s thoughts that way. Better to cherish their memory than to want for a ghost.❞ Behind her, she could hear the shift of plating. A small huff as her own companion seems to buzz at the poor choice of words. ❝They have a way of nagging at you. Incessant, really.❞

crimsonsavior​.

“I bet you let other people carry you. It’s just me that you hate.” Another sarcastic comment as he stopped by his locker, opening it. He didn’t care about Jack’s harsh words in any way – she wasn’t military, was forced to work with Cerberus (just like him), so he couldn’t request her to be in a good mood anyway. Being there to help on a suicide mission was enough, she could bite for all he cared. And it was funny to provoke her – of course, not to the point of pissing her off – because sometimes the ship could get boring with plastic people.

“I used to have a buzzcut when I was with the Alliance. Decided to keep the haircut of my criminal years while I work with Cerberus.” A pause as he grinned. “I’m kidding.” Then, he gave her a shrug as he removed the armor, placing it inside his locker carefully. “I don’t blame you, the more I stay here, the more I want to throw this ship against a Cerberus facility or something. But I won’t do that because I have a mission to do.” And that was when he put on his leather jacket, turning around to look at her with a serious expression.

“Cerberus wants me to stop the Collectors from abducting human colonies, and find out why they’re doing it. The Illusive Man claims that they’re obsessed with me, thus the reason why they think humans are superior or some shit. Clearly, a Cerberus opinion only to put humankind on top.”

❝The last people that did ended up as paste on the fucking floor. Think you stepped on ‘em a few times trying to find me.❞ She sneers. Too many hands, all tight grips and harsh words. Loss of control, loss of power, loss of who she is. That’s all it’s ever been when others touch her, really. A collar. A loss of agency. A means to make her quieter, smaller, easier to stamp out or use.

She doesn’t fucking want that anymore. But she isn’t about to snap at Shepard for it. Jackass, maybe. But he doesn’t know. Better that way - this is all just a mutual arrangement. Intel on Cerberus for her biotics. Least here, she’s using him back. 

❝Pfft. Right. Guessing the Collectors are the competition they want stomped out.❞ Cynicism, maybe. But she thinks about it. Thinks about children taken, never given a chance. Her nose twitches, and her back hits the lockers with a steady thunk; arms folding, head tilted the other way in a picture of indifference as Shepard sheds out of the armor. ❝So, what? Only reason you’re stickin’ around is because of the mission?❞ Jack’s eyes narrow when she finally looks at him. Distrust bleeds into the air like an untended wound. ❝Or maybe they got some sorta shit on you that makes it so you can’t get out.❞

synthons​.

          𝗛𝗘'𝗦 𝗤𝗨𝗜𝗧𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗧𝗔𝗕𝗟𝗬 𝗛𝗨𝗡𝗞𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗘  pipelines,  squatting low enough he might as well be facing prone.  there’s a silent,  sort of predatory watch over patrolling guards marking the perimeter,  yet no move to make a direct assault.  this wasn’t the usual sort of head-on approach raiden’s grown more accustomed to after all,  it was a covert rescue mission  -  and a tedious one at that.  scaling the ceiling was the easiest way to defer from being spotted.  the ai hasn’t spouted any nonsense in his ear yet,  so it’s safe to assume the terminus route has run its course…  for now.

     trying not to scrape the claws was a pain in the ass though.

     “  here it is.  cell division c.  ”  but no sign of the T.O.I.  “  huh.  mind pulling up the dossier for the target again,  bb?” and don’t say anything stupid.

          @cryochronism​​    /    ❤’d

❝Very well. I shall refrain from any commentary pertaining to your memory retention.❞ His voice comes in smooth, almost tinny through the earpiece, but clear nonetheless. Neural interfacing might be a more optimal route for a mission such as this, but that’s hardly a discussion to encroach on their first mission together; especially given the origins of who it is Black-Box works for. So instead, he sends the request for Raiden’s approval to open and view. Extra steps, perhaps, but BB’s runtimes don’t so much as hitch. 

❝This cell boasts the same defense structure as the others, but they’re notably dark on the grid. Any means of infiltration will be running off a localized system - thus why I am here. Locate their security office and insert the provided chip into the terminal.❞ The chip in question contains a fragment of Black-Box himself. Not that he feels inclined to share that with him, mind you. ❝From there, I’ll move to grant you uninhibited access towards acquiring the intel that’s needed, and handling the target.❞

spakona.

@cryochronism          /           sms. for quinn.

[whisper:] this u

[Q:] And do you know why I make that face? [Q:] Go on. Take a wild guess.

sometimes i think about this.

luciferian-drama​.

“Oh, ye of little faith. I’d protect you, of course.” 

Her sense of humor was subtle, deeply sarcastic, but it was certainly there. A god of tricks and jokes could pick up on it well enough. Whether or not she believed him was irrelevant if it could pull out a desired answer of humor. 

“It was just a thought exercise– but honestly this sort of temporal business isn’t something particularly Midgardian, it’s something you ought to just consider. I mean, what’s the alternative?” Green eyes slid down to her picking the lock. Approval.

“And more importantly, what’s the motivation? You’ve never given me any theories on why whoever crossed you did so.”

❝For the record: I don’t need--❞ --you to protect me, she almost says. But the memory of the rigged door still stings sharp; the shotgun; the proverbial brush with death. She presses her lips in a flat line as she tucks her pick and pins back away, though not without shooting him a look. Think fast, Quinn. ❝--you to play hero on this. We’re still at the stage of trying to find answers, clues, breadcrumbs. I think the man that lives here has financial ties with the Institute. I just need to get in to confirm this.❞ 

With ease, she slips through the rusted gate and holds it open for him to pass through.

❝Midgard is here, I take it? As in planet Earth, or... the Sol system, perhaps?❞ This isn’t necessarily common knowledge for her paygrade, but she’s trying to take it in stride. It’s only at that question that her stride breaks; actions slowing to a halt, but still her face remains impassive. ❝Because I don’t need a theory. I know exactly why they took my son.❞ A pause. ❝I guess the only thing I don’t understand is why they didn’t take me, as well. Though truth be told: I’m still interested in theories pertaining to your interest in this matter.❞

kenasakis​.

Aria hums, allows her lips to tilt up in a flicker of a smile, even though her head is turned so that the Commander can’t actually see it. She does have her eyes on what matters most, it’s true, and while she doesn’t care for flattery, she is a little bit vain, and they both know it. “ Sweet talker. ” Her own good humor is not spoiled by the corpse she needs to step over in order to reach her private paradise. Her men have already started cleaning the club out, she can take a few moments off. 

The room is somewhat untouched, and she will always thank the day she decided to have it hidden instead on in plain view in her private booth. Not even the great General knew about it, and all of her stash is just as she had left it before her sudden departure. She makes a beeline for the Ryncol shelf, pouring herself a generous amount. 

“ Pick your drink, Commander. I think you’ve earned it. ” And she did earn it, for sure. She won’t be caring if she decided to pick the most expensive bottle in the room, not at all. She has Omega back, and she has only Shepard to thank. “ Suit yourself. ” A shrug follows. “ As a token of gratitude, I’ll let you chat my ear off about whatever you wish to. Not even your incessant flow of conscience could bother me, right now. ”

The privacy of a smile is not exclusive to Aria. With Aria’s back turned to the Commander, there’s a sly set to her mouth at the response offered. But it’s masked quickly, hidden by the way gloved knuckles scrape against chapped lips; flakes of red and rust that serve as reminders to just how decidedly unsweet the past few hours have been. 

❝You got any Akantha up there?❞ Shepard asks. Ryncol might be ideal, if she didn’t have to make the trek back to the ship after. At least with the Asari drink, it can offer a dull reminder of Xiboquinha; less cinnamon, and more honeyed, but it’ll serve well enough. It also makes her wonder just how homesickness might sit with someone like Aria T’Loak. ❝... Alright. What did you miss most about Omega?❞