[ jack had been on the last shuttle off planet, as he always is, for a few reasons, most chiefly being: d'artagnan refuses to fucking leave until everyone is loaded up and gone. the others, maybe, have something to do with wanting to look out of his subordinates - you get a pay dock as unit lead if you lose one of your squad members, you see. the problem was, the end was coming too soon. he's seen what the CDC version of planetary apocalypse looks like - gravitational anomaly, storms, quakes, a planet literally screaming in one case. what comes this time isn't the same, and it's fast. it was as if it was crumbling from the inside, imploding and collapsing, and the shuttle only barely made it off the ground before it had fallen out from under them. not, however, without damage.
it wouldn't make it all the way to the Neheda, so the few left had taken to escape pods, likely should've fit more than one, but Ringo takes up enough room for three. no idea how many actually made it to the mothership, a blast from the shuttle had jack's head slammed against a wall, and the rest was dark. where he woke was Xistentia's beach, having to kick at the pod door until it unhinged enough to open, rolling out onto the hot sand, Ringo nearly falling on top of him, still in his combat gear from the mission. he drags himself up to stand, the faint blue-white glow of his cybernetic spine dull against the bright sun, and the blue hologram of the mental amplifier he wears circling back behind his head from one temple to the opposite side like a fractured circlet, all together looking ridiculously out of place next to a beach, and a lush forest.
and whatever the fuck that rocky, grassy bison looking thing is. out of the corner of his eye, he sees ringo start to crouch, apparently wanting to stalk and pounce and probably eat this thing, or just play around with it's corpse, because cats are sociopathic that way. too tired to deal with this shit, jack snorts, then drops a hand in a light swat on the back of ringo's way too durable head. ] Suppress your murder boner for two seconds, please. You can come back and go homicidal on it later. Work now.
[ 'work' meaning figure out where the hell they are and how to hale the Neheda and get home. Ringo appears to give the equivalent of a monster-cat huff, and flops himself onto his stomach in the sand, looking petulant, Jack snorting at the little display. ] Drama queen.
❚❚❚❚❚ glitch in the city.
Rendering Error #285
Preferred Alias: Jack Benjamin, callsign 'Scion' Marital Status: Engaging in frequent intercourse outside of wedlock with a French swordsman. Preferred Dating Activity: Alcohol, sex (exclusively homosexual), planetary genocide, lying. Other Enjoyable Activity: Drinking, cursing excessively inside a black box, sexual promiscuity, reading the Judeo-Christian Bible, social interaction with select tolerable acquaintances, regicide + patricide, playtime with a monster alien cat, torture. Pet Peeves: Work, people, new people at work, incompetence, Honey, obnoxiousness, waking up before noon, water drops, faulty tech, being here.
[ Jack's still stood outside the tailor's shop, a few bags in hand and white, sci-fi armor still encasing him, staring at the pop up hovering above his head with visible disdain. it isn't beyond his experiences to be found in a virtual world, though imagining that all other dimensions are the same is really pushing the limits of what he's willing to accept. Either way, the situation is what it is, and whether this body is his own, or something constructed inside whatever VR he's been hooked into, there's still a fucking pop-up calling him a slut hanging out right over head.
and announcing to everyone that he's gay as hell - not a thing he likes having advertised either. or the patricide thing. or the regicide thing. or the genocide thing. but whatever, he'd been pulled out of the CDC, if there's anyone else here from the same world, it's hardly going to be a surprise. What he focuses on is the 'marital status' blank, squinting at it bitterly. ]
Not any more, compliments of this shithole, thanks. Add that to the list of complaints to file, right behind humidity and gold edging. [ seriously, rumplestiltskin, this shit is tacky. ]
Jack Benjamin | Kings (CDC CRAU + PSL'd TYL future things hahahaaa)
[ jack had been on the last shuttle off planet, as he always is, for a few reasons, most chiefly being: d'artagnan refuses to fucking leave until everyone is loaded up and gone. the others, maybe, have something to do with wanting to look out of his subordinates - you get a pay dock as unit lead if you lose one of your squad members, you see. the problem was, the end was coming too soon. he's seen what the CDC version of planetary apocalypse looks like - gravitational anomaly, storms, quakes, a planet literally screaming in one case. what comes this time isn't the same, and it's fast. it was as if it was crumbling from the inside, imploding and collapsing, and the shuttle only barely made it off the ground before it had fallen out from under them. not, however, without damage.
it wouldn't make it all the way to the Neheda, so the few left had taken to escape pods, likely should've fit more than one, but Ringo takes up enough room for three. no idea how many actually made it to the mothership, a blast from the shuttle had jack's head slammed against a wall, and the rest was dark. where he woke was Xistentia's beach, having to kick at the pod door until it unhinged enough to open, rolling out onto the hot sand, Ringo nearly falling on top of him, still in his combat gear from the mission. he drags himself up to stand, the faint blue-white glow of his cybernetic spine dull against the bright sun, and the blue hologram of the mental amplifier he wears circling back behind his head from one temple to the opposite side like a fractured circlet, all together looking ridiculously out of place next to a beach, and a lush forest.
and whatever the fuck that rocky, grassy bison looking thing is. out of the corner of his eye, he sees ringo start to crouch, apparently wanting to stalk and pounce and probably eat this thing, or just play around with it's corpse, because cats are sociopathic that way. too tired to deal with this shit, jack snorts, then drops a hand in a light swat on the back of ringo's way too durable head. ] Suppress your murder boner for two seconds, please. You can come back and go homicidal on it later. Work now.
[ 'work' meaning figure out where the hell they are and how to hale the Neheda and get home. Ringo appears to give the equivalent of a monster-cat huff, and flops himself onto his stomach in the sand, looking petulant, Jack snorting at the little display. ] Drama queen.
❚❚❚❚❚ glitch in the city.
Preferred Alias: Jack Benjamin, callsign 'Scion'
Marital Status: Engaging in frequent intercourse outside of wedlock with a French swordsman.
Preferred Dating Activity: Alcohol, sex (exclusively homosexual), planetary genocide, lying.
Other Enjoyable Activity: Drinking, cursing excessively inside a black box, sexual promiscuity, reading the Judeo-Christian Bible, social interaction with select tolerable acquaintances, regicide + patricide, playtime with a monster alien cat, torture.
Pet Peeves: Work, people, new people at work, incompetence, Honey, obnoxiousness, waking up before noon, water drops, faulty tech, being here.
[ Jack's still stood outside the tailor's shop, a few bags in hand and white, sci-fi armor still encasing him, staring at the pop up hovering above his head with visible disdain. it isn't beyond his experiences to be found in a virtual world, though imagining that all other dimensions are the same is really pushing the limits of what he's willing to accept. Either way, the situation is what it is, and whether this body is his own, or something constructed inside whatever VR he's been hooked into, there's still a fucking pop-up calling him a slut hanging out right over head.
and announcing to everyone that he's gay as hell - not a thing he likes having advertised either. or the patricide thing. or the regicide thing. or the genocide thing. but whatever, he'd been pulled out of the CDC, if there's anyone else here from the same world, it's hardly going to be a surprise. What he focuses on is the 'marital status' blank, squinting at it bitterly. ]
Not any more, compliments of this shithole, thanks. Add that to the list of complaints to file, right behind humidity and gold edging. [ seriously, rumplestiltskin, this shit is tacky. ]
❚❚❚❚❚ wildcard.
[ idefk, hit me ]