#━PRKH

[entrophying]

@prkh sent. you and your awful little games. (prompt)

The jab of an accusatory finger against his chest draws an oof out of the psion; he hunches even further, feebly shielding himself from further pokes. Admittedly, he hadn't intended to be so careless with his casting; it just so happened that one of his coughing fits struck at the exact second he'd hurled that chromatic orb.

"I prefer the term strategies," he says, somewhat reproachfully. His hands are raised in a gesture that's half surrender, half an attempt at placation. "I don't understand why everyone is so displeased. A few minor burns is a small price to pay for wiping out that horde. You'll live."

[un1dentity]

#FILE SELECTED: you can’t change your cards. you already looked at them. #FILE STATUS: accepting. #SELECTED BY: @prkh.

GAZE MEETS OTHER’S OVER RIM OF SHADES. "you're talkin' 'bout these cards, right? no?" poker cards are laid out across surprisingly still-sturdy tabletop. [a full royal flush, how 'bout that... not that it matters now.] cue heavy sigh as body stretches backwards, some satisfying pops audible. "alright, well, if we're getting philosophical... sometimes i do wonder what i would do if i could go back in time. what i'd tell myself, what i'd do different, all that fun stuff."

not join the up deathclaws. take barbara, get the hell out of dodge. just become a simple farmer or something.

"but y'know, i was reading this old pre-war book the other day, threw me into some existential crisis. the butterfly effect, they called it. you change one tiny thing in the past, then the whole future is — pardon my french — fucked. so even if my cards, or your cards, could change..." look out, world! rare moment of no-more-mister-funny-guy incoming. "would it even matter?"

[embodies]

hana regards her company with a studious gaze, eager to absorb what knowledge she can and rid herself of the mantle of d.va. if only temporarily. her cross - legged posture makes her seem even younger than her feeble age of nineteen, but her mind is aged with the weight that rests upon her shoulders. a sense of duty and diligence underlies everything she does now — whether she lathers it in pink hearts and bunnies or not. but in this moment, she is simply grateful.

❛ you. are. a. life saver ! ❜ volume increases with each step until it culminates in a shrill exclamation of glee, gloved hands thrusting into the air, celebratory. ❛ tokki would've been so done for if it wasn't for you, you're waaaaaay better with mekas than dae-hyun. uh, don't tell him that— ! ❜ the reversal of an exclamation made in too much excitement, grin sheepish amidst her relief. if her trusty mech was down for the count, she wouldn't know what to do with herself.

❛ thank you, ramya. i'll have to let you take her for a spin some time — you know ! as compensation. ❜ gratitude precedes the knowing glimmer in her eye, the offering of a joyride as sacred as donating a kidney to her. one would do well to know the importance of such a permission.

@prkh. ♡

[sparksavor]

i made a gun called rampage. does this make you my giant terrible horrible no good very bad son

Be my guest. You can't possibly make a worse parent than my real one.

[deathl1es]

@prkh | LIKED FOR A STARTER

Eve Riley staggered through the dust-choked streets, her tattered dress flapping around her skeletal frame. The wasteland had not been kind to her, but she wore the scars of survival with a kind of grim pride. Her skin, mottled with decay and patches of scar tissue, told a story of countless encounters with the harsh realities of this world. Her eyes, however, retained a sharp glint—a remnant of the fierce spirit that had kept her alive for so long.

The sign above the door was barely legible, but Eve had learned to navigate by intuition and the scraps of old-world knowledge she’d picked up along the way. She pushed open the door, which creaked on rusty hinges, and stepped inside.

The interior was cluttered with a haphazard array of weaponry and armor. Dusty shelves groaned under the weight of ancient rifles, barely functional pistols, and an assortment of improvised gadgets.

Eve shuffled forward, her steps deliberate but unhurried. She knew she was an unusual sight but she had come for a reason. “I need something reliable,” she rasped, her voice carrying a tone of determination that belied her appearance. “Something that can still hold up in a fight.”

Eve glanced around, taking in the assortment of weapons. “Raider attacks have been getting worse,” she explained. “I need something that can keep me alive a little longer. Maybe a good rifle, something with range and power.”

[luckynumbersix]

@prkh

He moved slowly, exhausted from his trek and flopped himself onto the little stool beside him. "Ramya?" He called into the space, eyes scanning the area looking for the younger woman. He reached up grabbing his bandana and pulling it from his face before yelling for the woman again. "Ramya! I got your shit."

He chucked the bag he was carrying onto the work table near by him, eyes still scanning the room for any sight of her. "I think I broke a toe this trip." He mumbled to himself, bending down to rub his foot through his worn boots.

[torntruth]

kristen durus interaction call , accepting , @prkh .

nuka-town ( usa ) , goes around in a circle , nuka-market in the center. where all the poor travelers who blinked got caught and forced to work under the raiders ( with an exploding collar as a threat , the ye olde trick ) . kristen durus is just a woman that values freedom. these particular raiders were just animals ( literally for The Pack who's run by a fucking alpha ) . the blonde is sitting in a chair , a nuka-cola in hand , wearing the usual outfits of the operators ( suits with armor ) , watching that cola shaped bot walk around and insult people.

... which she did particularly find amusing.

bright green eyes shift to a face she just hasn't seen before. a breath in. every single traveler runs the risk of becoming a slave. MAYBE SHE DOES HAVE A GOOD HEART. she stands , shifts her combat rifle around in her hands before making it to the stranger's side , combat rifle cradled comfortably in both hands. she just clears her throat before smiling , like this isn't a raider's world filled with torture and chems. but a fun park.

" you want some advice? it's free , on the house. "

[holopiloted]

@prkh asked: stands in his bedroom doorway, whips n naenaes & leaves in silence.

The look on his face is uncharacteristically...BLANK. Seemingly unperturbed by the whole thing — but anyone who knows Elliott would know it's quite the opposite...

His gaze remained LOCKED onto the now empty doorway for a moment, as if Ramya was still standing there; eventually, slowly, drifting back to the holopad that sat in his lap.

— he's gotta get his door fixed. ASAP.

[voidalert]

another victory, another disappointment.

fingers clench to tight fists, form rigid and unmoving as renee rests her elbows atop spread knees. white eyes, narrowed in her ire, remain trained on the empty space in front of her while her teeth clench; to the point where, somewhere deep in her raging thoughts, she worries they may shatter beneath the pressure.

winning meant nothing when she remained stagnant in her hunt for answers. no closer to discovering who she really was. save for a name. an occupation. a betrayal. the hole in her chest thrummed with the almost crushing desperation to know. living life as though a stranger to herself; no knowledge of her own likes or dislikes, her childhood, friends or family, if what she was doing before her lost memory was right or wrong, was haunting. brief flashes of memories brought forth by what little had come to light, yet still lacked sense, were mere shapes behind her eyes. things she couldn't make out, nameless voices blended together in a nauseating cacophony of indecipherable sounds.

a voice drags her from the bleak depths of her mind, head just barely shifting, gaze only now clocking the figure stood before her. rampart — ramya parekh. a fellow legend: one wraith held a lot of muted respect for.

whatever was said fell on deaf ears, but renee's eyes flicker down to follow ramya's own. drops of blood, her blood, had splattered to the floor between scuffed boots, and it's only then that the pain throbbing in her abdomen registers. it isn't bad — nothing compared to the torment inflicted by singh using her as a guinea pig — but uncomfortable nonetheless.

" it's nothing. " brushes it off: just as she always did. leaning back, gloved fingers reach down to press tenderly at the wound, unable to pinpoint any one moment in the arena that could have caused it. a wince, an almost audible grind of her teeth. " i'll get ajay to take a look. " she won't. like she did everything else, she'd deal with it on her own.

. . . at some point.

[ blood ] sender notices that receiver is bleeding. @prkh

[entrophying]

@prkh sent. you're just so sincerely creepy. (prompt)

Thoughts wriggle through Daimon's psychic claws like eels trapped in a rapidly draining pool; confused and terrified and so tantalizingly wet against a motile cutting board of gray-goo matter. He reaches into murky, unconscious depths with relentless precision, sidestepping the gnawing hunger that bothers at his own core. Not now, not when he's so close to providing the solution to their little setback.

One by one, he plucks out the memories he's looking for and transplants the information encased within. He can feed later, once the mission is over and the party is too busy celebrating their victory to take note of his absence. Outside, he feels his brow twitch, contortions forcing his desiccated features into a frown as muffled words pierce the veil. (You're just so sincerely creepy).

His concentration momentarily suspended, he surfaces with a wheezing cough as his perception of outside/inside is reversed. Ramya is rewarded with a glare for her interruption. "I'm doing necessary work," he hastens to remind her. "We can't open that vault without knowing the sequence. I've almost extracted the full set of glyphs. I just need to dig a little deeper..."

The captive duergar gurgles something incomprehensible, their head lolling to the side as a bloody foam gathers at the corner of their gaping mouth. Their unseeing eyes are rolled back in their sockets, and their chest heaves with every labored breath; it won't be long, now, before the trauma of the psion digging around in their head kills them outright.

Daimon sighs, a quiet sound of disappointment, and adjusts his grip. His polished metal claws form a macabre crown about their head. "You don't have to watch. That's your choice."

[embodies]

NEARLY A KISS PROMPTS. ACCEPTING. [ PHONE ] : sender and receiver are about to kiss when a cell phone goes off and makes them pause.

@prkh. for lisbeth salander.

the sharp trill of a phone blares like an alarm between them and lisbeth's breath breezes out briskly after having been held. relationships are . . . difficult for her, even these non - consequential and deliciously apathetic replications of intimacy that she finds easier to digest. any interruption is paramount, the coil of her certainty unravelling swiftly. she keeps a stoic face though, brow quirking only in mild judgment at the selection in ringtone ( not that she can talk when hers is the buck bumble theme, but really ? ) and the corner of the hacker's mouth can't help but follow suit in that lift upward to a crooked smirk, as if they were attached by an invisible cord. her gaze remains firmly analytical even in closeness with others, dissecting ramya's features like code as she taps at her screen. the twin variables of her eyes, dark and infinitely alluring, each lash a line to debug and admire. the punctuation mark stop of a mole above her mouth. the curve of her lips a perfectly executed function as she speaks to her caller, leaving salander pining in a way that would embarrass her later in hindsight.

making a rapt decision, she plucks the device from ramya's palm in a gentle but firm gesture, hanging up on . . . whoever that is and tucking it away into her back pocket for safekeeping. consider it confiscated. ❛ i'm not against hacking that thing if it keeps you away from it for five minutes. ❜ only playfulness in her metal - ringed smile ( a piteously rare landmark on her expression ) as palms return upward to clasp the back of the infamous rampart's neck. her decisiveness comes in bursts, so unsure of what she wants that when it finally becomes apparent it must be shouted to the world too. this is her shouting now. a meekness upon the other's attention having been restored, chestnut gaze overpowering. but she daren't falter, voice lowered as she rises on tip toes to close the gap, her hair a canopy shrouding either side of her face.

❛ —where were we ? ❜

[maximummuses]

❛ i’m not afraid of you. ❜ for javelin! :]

&. 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬.

"What is it about me that keeps you from feeling scared?" Javelin looks down, singular optic flickering.

"Impressive weaponry. Did you make it yourself?"

[ragedagainst]

@prkh : so let me get this straight. you have… never wooed? not once? you are woo-less, as it were?

unpredictability is the key to survival. as long as no one can predict her next move, she can remain steps ahead of them, to figure out what they're thinking before they even know it so she can act on that possibility. because of it, jyn is very rarely knocked off her feet ( literally and metaphorically ) ���– but this is one of those instances. the words that come out of parekh's mouth are so far out of the current galaxy that it leaves her stunned for a few seconds, lips parting slightly and eyebrows pulling together in confusion.

what –– wooing ? the fuck does wooing –– and bloody romance ? both of them have greater priorities than this, surely.

" wooed ? " jyn scoffs incredulously. that's a word she hasn't heard in –– ever. despite being born in a prison, galen and lyra had been relatively well-off for the first few years of her life on coruscant ; that all went to shit, of course, when they'd decided to stop working with krennic. her life so far has been the opposite of high society –– and asking whenever or not she's ever wooed someone has never come up before. her lip curls back into the hint of a mocking sneer, arms crossing over her chest. " i'm sorry –– i didn't know i was in the presence of someone from the bloody upper-core. "

[enccrypted]

> incoming transmission received : @prkh {

“don’t do yourself any favours, do you, anorak…” deft are the hands that work: not so ungentle in the way she packs a considerable tear of gauze into an open g7 bullet hole in crypto’s quad. they’re hunkered down in a corner of the cenote cave with a single medkit between them … and while ramya considers herself no medic of the fleshy kind, the concept of his wound getting infected by some haphazard grains of sand or whatever hellish insects storm point bred admittedly makes the woman squeamish to her core. “but i suppose i owe you for takin��� out that bugger with the l-star... reckon you’ll be alright?” }

" CAREFUL, " CRYPTO HISSES, THE SNAP AND BITE IN his voice out of the ordinary even for him. But what exactly did he expect from a woman whose hands are accustomed to digging around in the guts of bombs and weapons made to maim and kill ? ( When it came to Parekh, the latter's a kindness. Crypto doesn't like to think of what kind of life awaited those that survived her creations. Even medical innovation hasn't come far enough to mend the wounds left behind by a Rampart. Those you kept for life. )

But she's doing the best that she can. He's seen her at work, and there is a mechanical precision to the way her fingers moved. Each deft twist and tap and every minor adjustment she makes is done with a sort of purpose that he knows quite well — that of an engineer's. Rampart knows what she's doing.

" 씨발새끼 ¹ ...! I-I'm fine. I'll be fine. Just — get it over with."

It's the blood-gushing hole in his thigh, he thinks, that's clouding his judgment. There was nothing short of a heavy dose of sansufentanyl and whatever else D.O.C. had in that mixture. His input won't be of any help here, but growling and bitching feels like it's doing something.

At least he's not the other guy. Crypto chokes back a yowl, jerking his head in a nod as she pressed gauze into and against the wound. Unshed tears cling to his lashes. He blinks them away as he presses a hand against his nose and mouth to block out the foul stench of burning flesh, fanned into their hideout by the seaside breeze. ( The smell came from just downhill on the shore, from the not far-off body of the other guy who'd been at the unfortunate end of a barrage of fire from Crypto's L-star. )

Staring at the blood soaked bandages aren't helping much either, he realises, and he skirts his gaze away. It lands briefly on the medkit at Rampart's side. Crypto grinds his teeth before squeezing his eyes shut, fighting off the feverish shudder wracking his body from head to toe. There's no use in wasting it. He wasn't going to die from this. But the pain is always somehow worse in the interim; in the climax of battle, he can count on the rushing of adrenaline in his ears to distract him, no matter how drenched in blood and sweat, how riddled in bullets and cuts, he might be.

" 썅. ² " He shakes his head, tossing off what droplets he can from the rivulets of perspiration streaming down his temples. " S... sorry. I just, I don't usually survive long enough to get to this point. "

He sticks to the shadows for a reason. Combat is more viable for someone with his skillset when he has the element of surprise. When he's caught off-guard like this... well, he'd be long knocked out of the running. And knocked out, carted off to be hooked up onto life support in the infirmary, too.

He blinks blearily, offering Rampart a weak smile through split and bloody lips. ( He must have bit through them when the other man's bullet had hit its last and lucky mark, or when Rampart had been forced to play medic to pick up his slack. Who knew where their actual medic was. The madman had taken off upon landing and, hours later, remains nowhere to be seen. The only response on his radio is static when they try to patch through. Though, truth be told, Crypto isn't all that interested in meeting back up with him. No amount of illicit drugs for that he carried in his pack — for healing, he claims — is worth the headache and lunacy that the man brings with him. ) Her efforts are appreciated, especially when pitted up against the other options he could have ended up with.

" Do I at least get a candy when we're through? Eh...? 간호사 선생님 ³ ? " Maybe he doesn't need the sansufentanyl, after all; he's beginning to feel delirious, as it is.

¹   씨발새끼 ;  ssibal saekki — ' motherfucker '  ²   썅 ;  ssyang — ' shit/fuck '  ³   간호사 선생님 ; ganhosa, ' nurse, ' + seonsaengnim, honorific

[deathchasing]

"yeah, mate, i'mma need, like … two more days with it. minimum." an itch of her nose leaves remnants of graphite grease, posture unbothered, hunched over her workspace with a focus that could be respectable if it weren't indisputably unhealthy. ultimately, money was money; and she's good at what she does. if it jeopardized a few meals, and social interactions, and cut her back a few hours of sleep… she could catch up on it. she's done worse. and who's counting? "my schedule's chock-a-block all weekend. lotta people want a whole lotta lil ol' parekh. who'd've thought, eh? [ ... ] you got any caffeine on you?"

"Come onnnn, that's so long!"

Octane spreads out miserably on Rampart's workshop floor and settles a baleful glare on her boots beneath the desk she works at. She's been tinkering with a new model of prosthetics for him, ones that better acclimate to water. He's always been able to swim reasonably well with the ones he has, but it's never been the same as walking and running. The environment is simply different; no skin and muscle to innately detect pressure changes or current, or to gauge how quickly or efficiently his feet kick at the water. Out of everything he'd had to adjust to since he lost his legs, swimming anywhere that isn't shallows has been nightmarish. He's developed something of a phobia in the interim, though it's not something he'd ever admit aloud. "I wanna try surfing the waves on Storm Point before that big hurricane hits," he whines. Absently he picks up a stray wrench out of a nearby toolbox and begins to spin it around in a circle on the floor, bored and uninspired. "Fuse is gonna get all the attention when he flies down there this weekend cause he always does. I think Mirage's eyes are gonna fall outta his stupid head if he keeps this up."

He sighs. "Anyway, if I had caffeine, I'd be drinking it," he says with a grin, "And you wouldn't get any."

[entrophying]

@prkh sent. 👀 + when you look in the mirror, what do you see? do you like it? are you proud? (prompt)

Is he proud? As logic stands, he must be. He's pushed himself to his limits and beyond, sacrificed too much, to survive this long without feeling pride over his achievements. To cheat death is no easy feat; only through the offerings of his victims has he avoided upsetting the balance and drawing unwanted attention to himself. Why, then, does he wake each day feeling more hollow than the last?

He no longer feels the desire to look at his own reflection. Did he ever? Was he handsome, once? Did his smiles set hearts to flutter? Try as he might, he can't recall his own features. Any memories of his own body are eclipsed by his determination to survive and his simmering hatred for his former guild, buried beneath ribs stolen from another. It's been ten years since the necrosis burrowed inside of him; ten long years of watching his skin slough off, his flesh melt away, his bones turn black and brittle.

"I see nothing of value," he answers, after a long stretch of troubled silence. "Just a corpse, playing host to the larva of what will one day be something truly magnificent. I only need to fathom the means to trigger its hatching; then I shall finally ascend."