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bowieandqueen11 · 1 year ago

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Exchanging Pleasantries / Cooper Howard Imagine

Request: Could you please do hurt/comfort with The Ghoul? Like, maybe you got hurt during a fight with Raiders and he's being mean while stitching you up. Thanks pookie bookie ily

Omg bb @itsyellow ily too I couldn't wait to write this!! Hit me with that hurt/comfort that's my jam son

Also did I make this full of unresolved sexual tension? Frick yeah I did

As always, if you enjoyed please drop a comment to help me out and let me know!

Warning: slightly NSFW/ making out, mentions of injury and violence, slight mention of a choking kink? and some strong language!

(I do not own Fallout or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @goodsirs.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

'Y'know, you may be one of the stupidest goddamn people left on this planet. And I've seen a hell of a lotta stupid people.'

You know better to think that the one and only Ghoul: the slinking shadow that steadily tails and entraps every inch of the starkly barren world he can reach, the infamous bounty feared in every town, from Philly to Rivet City, would be one for pleasantries. Yet, even during your brief period travelling with the man across the wake of the formerly 'glorious' West-coast America, his callousness often left you wishing for the sweet silence of a Nuclear Winter.

Even Cooper Howard himself recognises the fact that he doesn't exactly, well, radiate off anything that could be called close to a succouring nature. Hell, he would be happy to radiate off anything that wouldn't have you spending his valuable time making detours to wandering doctors holed up in blood-splattered tents to use his hard-earned money in bartering for caps off your next bottle of Rad-X. He supposes, as you had shaken the bottle in front of his frowning face and wandered back off into the crowning desert sun, that if he could work himself back up to being unenthused, he would be able to count it as his first win in over two hundred years.

'Well, if you tried to stop fighting every single person still left out here I wouldn't have to risk my ass stupidly running in to save you', you retort, gnashing your teeth and trying your best not to squirm against his chest as he rips a fragment of broken plate from the back of your shoulder.

It wasn't often that you were allowed to light a fire in the wilds of the Wasteland: far too many radroach nibble bites littered your legs, far too many gash-covered tentacles slashes from the repulsive Centaurs marked your outer arms. However, as the two of you had spent your seemingly so lovely afternoon out on the highway being ambushed by a group of bloodthirsty Raiders, you had browbeaten the Ghoul into allowing the two of you such a special treat. An empty bottle of Nuka Cola lies by your faded makeshift floor covering that acts as your mattress, and you sigh in relief as the warmth of the flames licks across your tired arms.

Your soon drawn out of your repose by the feel of The Ghoul's cowboy boots thumping against either side of your legs; he awkwardly tries to leave enough room that he's not straddling your back, but his legs won't quite dip down enough to be more than halfway off the floor.

It leaves him having to scrape himself forward until his groin is nearly pressed against your tailbone, and you can feel the hem of his hat brush up your neck as he idly surveys the extent of your injuries. As he fidgets the strap of your vest down past the joint of your shoulder, you have to breathe in sharply to stop yourself grunting at the sharp scratch of his glove's rough seams as he drags his hand down.

'You're right', he runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, dragging a strip of musty cloth out of his satchel bag and pressing it against your oozing wound. 'Your ass really is fucking stupid if you think that you were helpin'.' You grimace as a flash of stimulation and mortification flashes through your body; whether the pain in your gut is from the flesh wounds or from the clutch of thick leather as the Ghoul tantalisingly rakes his fingers up the tender skin of your shoulder and grips, you're too distracted to try and find out.

Sweeping your eyes over the fire-brushed ground that cracked and and crumbled underneath your heel, you can understand his frustration at you. At the world. Scorch marks litter the dusty ground around your make-shift campsite, the plasma rifles and energy weapons the Fiends had managed to barter, steal, and smuggle out from the Van Graffs stock lying in blasted pieces around the fragments of rusted metal once shielding the long gone diesel pumps. The violence - the anger, it always seemed never ending. Gosh, what you wouldn't give for a canopy right now: to stop the sun burns from blistering your face, to hide the sudden hush of shame and embarrassment that rose flush up your face like a mushroom cloud.

'Yeah, well, I did come running- you're welcome, by the way-', you start, but the Ghoul, as venomous a man as he is, cuts short your reply by prodding the point of one of the needles holding the tail edge of his coat together into the hanging flaps of your skin. Your hand balls into a fist as you feel the sharp tip scrape over muscle; you try your best not to whimper as his poison slits through your veins and slithers down to corrode your very soul, but the relief. Oh, god, corruption has never felt so good as the Ghoul's free hand sliding down to cup your ribcage. His middle and ring finger took turns tapping against your waist, a slight huff coming from his mouth and tingling against the shell of your ear.

At first, you think the Ghoul is mad at you: pissed off that if any of the Raiders had survived and scampered off back to their chem-den to frenziedly retell their confrontation with a certain duster-clad gunslinger, a certain ruthless reputation - a certain long upheld persona, would be tarnished. That he was aggravated in having to waste his dwindling supply of bullets in wasting the spiky-hair fiend that had sprung out from the door of the thought abandoned Red Rocket Truck Stop just as you were busy body slamming his friend to the ground. That he was embittered at the fact that you had the incredibly anserine idea to stop off in the middle of goddamn nowhere: somewhere straight off your Pip-Boy map to nestle down for the night on your route to the New Vegas strip.

Enraged, indeed, by the fact that he may have to admit that he wanted to save your life.

'You call that running?', he puffs out a chuckle, unceremoniously wiping the blood of the needle by using the back of your vest. 'I call that leaping up yonder head over ass across that Nuka-Cola machine.' He lets go of your side, much to your disappoint, and looks at you disapprovingly as you turn around to face him. He's waving the syringe edge of a stimpak in your general direction, and you make sure to slap his hand extra hard as you grab it off him.

'You know, cowboy, you were the one that asked me to tag along. Not the other way round', you groan in exhilaration as you stab the needle into the knife wound on your thigh, and that first hit of the Stimpak courses through your muscle. Cooper has to clench his fingers into the leather of his fist to stop himself from going feral right there and then. He sniffs loudly, scrunching up his nose and casting his gaze to the fireside to try and hide his displeasure.

'Well', he manages to choke out between clenched teeth, gripping onto his own leg so harshly he wonders if he's drawn blood between his claws, 'you are such delightful company.'

For the first time in his life, Cooper Howard wants to just... ride away from his problems. That's all you were supposed to be: a solution. A resource. Another object to exploit, to foist upon his own callous needs so that he may survive another day in this merciless hell pit. A life for a hundred and fifty vials felt like a mighty fair trade in the disintegrating shit-show of post-apocalyptic commerce.

It had been easier that way, luring you away from the only small shack left among the rubble of the underground Subway Station that the Fiends hadn't left splattered with blotted rivers of crimson and half-mangled body parts. It had been so much simpler, as he had shoved the still fresh bodies of the murderers and cannibals off the side of the Metro escalator, that he was here to save you. That he had no knowledge of the bounty held over your head by the Enclave, or of the reasons that you had become so... acquainted with the New California Republic during your month long travels for the Crimson Caravan Company. As the door had groaned open, he was left pointing his pistol in your face: a towering penumbra, larger than life, that seemed to swallow every inch of swinging lamplight around your doorway in a veiled sinfulness. He had found it so much easier, as he peered down at your gloomy face and smirked as the unmistakable sound of a Ripper reared closer to his head, that he was here to be your saviour.

That's right. As he had offered you protection: a safe route away, a constant presence, your second shadow on your journey back to the Strip for only a measly few caps, he had found it so much easier to pretend that this wasn't personal. That the way you shook his hand hadn't made his skin prickle, hadn't been the first thing his nerves had alighted at since the last fading memory he had of caressing his wife. That the way you had strapped your leather armour pauldron around your left shoulder, and pulled up the hem of your trouser leg to strap a hidden knife to your calf didn't have him unconsciously dragging his tongue along the cracks of his bottom lip, and left him staring in bemusement. The incredulousness that had his eyes glazing over and the bottom of his stomach clenching as the two of you pried open the doors back up to the surface, and he had nonchalantly inquired as to who had... disposed of the Fiends before his arrival here. You had just shrugged, throwing a smirk at him from behind your shoulder, and he couldn't help but feel his own mouth twitch up to mirror your reaction.

It had been so, so much easier to pretend that you were just another bounty. That you were the first person, since he had lost Janey in another life, that had made him feel something other than contempt. Or worse, nihility. Nothingness. Just a hodgepodge script of fabricated and fictional lines that he reeled off as if it were more than just second-nature; an amalgamation of everything hollow and horrid that he had spent so much of his long-lost life trying desperately to bury.

But Cooper knew better than anyone, that nothing, and no one, could stay buried forever.

And with every returned smile: every lingering brush of some Caravan Trader's fingers on your arm as they tried to sell you some over-priced snake oil, every repulsive simper of a NCR trooper as they tried to buy you a bottle of vodka during your rare stops at some remote barrack, had the rot he had constructed within his soul become that little bit more mutilating.

The silence between you is deafening. And so you do something really stupid: you decide to ask him about his dirt-stained outfit.

'So', you drawl, turning yourself around so your legs are crossed out by your side, doing your best to stay firmly seated between the tensing muscles of the Ghoul's thick thighs. He draws his spurs in a line across the sand, but to your astonishment, and wild delight, he doesn't pull his legs open any further. 'Did you rob a real cowboy or something? I didn't think they were real. The only ones we ever saw were those rugged, way too contrived looking ones on those old movies.'

Your fingers curl over the edges of his collar, tentatively letting your fingers drop to rest against the sharp gap against his breastbone.

A muscle in Cooper's jaw jumps.

Oh. Oh. You'd never seen him actually angry before, behind all that cowboy western shooter charade.

For a moment, you're worried you've offended him somehow; a faraway look seems to draw him into the pale billows that smoke up from the orange flames, and a look that you've never seen before- never could even contemplate drooping the face of the suddenly so haggard looking man sitting by your side flitted across his scrunching face.

Forlorn. He looked so forlorn.

Neither of you are sure if he's even conscious of his arm moving, snaking itself across the small of your back to clutch almost painfully against the meat of your hip. His thumb strokes against the outline of your bone: probing, testing, clawing and pinching as if he had repeated the action over and over and over again in his mind.

'This? This is as old as the dirt and the worms.'

He doesn't react, doesn't move the frozen stone of his stoic face when you hesitantly grip onto his fingers, and slowly... god, so slowly, pull his glove off and drop it on the ground. Suddenly feeling so exhausted, your droop your head down against the dried sweat on your neck and watch yourself place your hand gingerly over his own, holding him in a wary vice against your side.

'What... what's a worm', you tentatively ask, your eyes wide open in worry that your question might break the provisionary affinity of this moment.

Cooper actually... snorts, a smirk threatening to break across his face as he looks out of the corner of his eye at you. 'An 'ol creature that used to live under the soil.' His eyes burn a hole into your irises, and he finally cracks out in a sallow grin as he contemplates the fact that he has your whole, enraptured attention. 'In fact, almost a whole lot like you.'

You smack his shoulder, but he only tilts his head back with an inquisitive gloat on his lips. He tips his head down, moving his other free hand to grab and squeeze the other side of your waist, making you woefully buck back against the bottom button of his shirt as the pit of your bottom begins to thrum with a devastating heat.

'Now', you can hear the teasing in his voice as he dips his spine down to hover over the shell of your ear. 'The real question is, where in the sweet hell would you have seen such heinous films such as those?'

His hand crawls like sweet spiderwebs across to your bellybutton, taking your breath away as he cups his palm against your skin and carts you back till your resting against the side of his chin, entangling you against the last vestige of the man he's entombed within the Stygian shadows.

'My ma used to show them to me and my brother if we had been extra good. She spent a whole three months saving up whatever metal scraps she could scavenge to go trade over at the General Store in Goodsprings and buy ourselves a real life television. The picture was blurry as shit, and we only had one holotape that I swear I ended up being able to quote back to front by the time I was sick of watching it. But hell, if we didn't crowd around the floor in wonder and dream about being a mysterious, rifle swinging stranger that roamed around the wastes saving people.'

Cooper purses his lips, swallowing thickly as he lassos your words in a whirlwind around his mind. After what seems like an eternity of listening to the soft whistle blow through the cartilage of his nose, of noting the quiet scurry of Bark Scorpions barbing through the pale tufts of faraway brushes, and the sound of your own heart hammering against your ribcage, each hit cracking your ribcage open with a sledgehammer, Cooper grumbles a reply.

'Y'know, there's an old saying back where I'm from - one that those folks in those movies you... respected use' to say. Feo, fuerte y formal. It means you're ugly, strong, and dignified. And shit, I can say for sure that you've got ugly ticked off that list.'

'You cheeky shit-', you start, but you can't help but shove your hand against your mouth to stop yourself from laughing. With a jolt forward over your stomach, you wince at the pain that flashes through your body at your only recently closed wounds. The Ghoul snarkily utters a tut tut, making you actually fucking whimper aloud this time when his hands grab your love handles, lifts you up, and slaps you down atop his lap. A faint slip from the curve of your buttocks sliding down to settle against his inner thigh has him hissing against the back of your head.

Even though there was no chance of it ever occurring, the Ghoul loosely clenched his fingers around your throat and tilted your head back until your throat went dry, as if daring you to move away from him again.

'Ain't your fault darlin'', he twangs out in that hoarse voice of his, his tongue flicking as smooth as molasses against the shell of your ear: his pointed edge darting a sticky trail up to your inner ear. 'It ain't your fault that you look like a molerat.'

You snort, and Cooper finds himself smiling at the sound of a noise he hasn't heard since his daughter was... since his daughter was...

'You remind me of someone I used to know, you know that? She was... she was far too sweet. Far too good for all this shit too.'

'Aha, there he is.' You wrestle out of his grasp and turn your head disbelievingly. The Ghoul looks almost taken aback, before he draws back into himself and fixes himself to stare you down. 'Finally making an appearance after all this time, are we? Good to see I'm finally getting through to you.'

'Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?', he bares his teeth, gnashing them together almost instinctively.

'I mean, I think that was as close to an honest exchange with the man inside you I'm ever going to have.'

That makes him start.

Pensively, he watches you, assessing and appraising the quirks and emotions that wander across your face as he waits for you to finish your accusation.

'And unless you stop sticking your blaster in the face of every creature that walks and talks, probably your last as well.'

The Ghoul swallows thickly, doing his best to seem as straight laced as usual, but growing more and more discourteous in his manner by the almost sinful way he's darting your eyes down to your lips and allowing them to hover there. 'Now darlin', I'm only exchanging pleasantries.'

'Is that really what you'd call yourself? And here I thought it was cantankerous.'

'Considering the literal crap-hole you grew up in I'm surprised you even know that word, now.'

'The sewers are empty, Cowboy - I'd say there's more piss on you from Dogmeat than down there. Besides, I lived in a Subway Station... asshole', you spit out at your feet, hitting the fragmented remains of one of your assailants helmet spikes.

A jab pokes at your inner thigh; the clenched thumb of the Ghoul branding into your skin as he finally looks you dead in the eyes with a cold stare. 'And there you are.'

And yet there's something. There's something lingering there, in the dark. In the swirl of his irises. In the only part of his body that still remains fully intact. Fully him. Something valorous. A convolution of steadfastness and pride. An imploringness.

'Suppose...', you inhale sharply, not realising that the two of you have managed to claw and scrape and crawl inch by inch closer to each other during your... showdown. 'Suppose', you buck your knees forward until you have enough leverage to haunch yourself up and turn, using the exertion to swivel yourself round and straddle the Ghoul's legs. Your gaze dips down to watch the purse of his strangled lips, his head slowly raising itself to unmask itself from the murk. 'That we aren't so different after all.'

Before you have time to regret your words, the stout pressure of clashing thumbs and fingers have jerked against your chin and pulled you down to smash against Cooper's mouth. Gnashing teeth pull at your bottom lip without a moment's warning, slicing down to draw blood. Cooper pulls back to snarl, before diving back in and licking away the thin trail of blood driplets that dribble down your chin dimple with the flat edge of his impoverished tongue.

Your chest rises and falls in quick succession as the man leaning his weight eagerly against your stomach ravishes you, growling as he reaches down to pull at the bottom of your thighs, and raise your knees up so he can cup your ass and knead the sweet flesh.

Part of you wants to rip his clothes off him right there and then, part of the recesses of your mind worries about the impending danger of the Wastelands: a roaming gang of looters, the unlucky shimmer that forewarns the arrival of a Nightstalker, but all of you wants to slam your hands around the side of this man's face and knock him straight to the ground with the ferocity of your kiss.

Before you can even make it past the squishing his cheeks phase, you’re distracted from your plan by the pressure point of his fingers teasingly prodding against the outline of your inseam. You can't enact your plan - you can't, not when you can feel the tip of his finger run slowly... slowly... god! So agonisingly slowly up your inner thigh. Can feel the warm, almost ruinating nibble of his top teeth against the pulse point of your neck, before he leaves an apologetic slide of his inner lip against it: something bright and burning and beautiful making the nerves of his body scream as it gnaws away at their rot.

Perhaps, perhaps there was still time for the Ghoul to exhume the mouldering remains of Cooper Howard after all.

#fallout #cooper howard #the ghoul #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard imagine #the ghoul imagine #the ghoul x reader #fallout imagine #fallout show #cooper fallout #cooper fallout imagine #cooper fallout x reader #fr though why are there so many plates in this game

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delilahsturniolo · 1 month ago

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⟡ ݁₊ welcome to the end of the world! (please leave your sanity at the door.)

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 . . . four friends: nick, matt, chris, and you—find themselves stuck together at the end of the world, trying to survive a zombie apocalypse with nothing but their wits, a questionable supply of snacks, and zero emotional maturity. you’re just trying to stay alive without losing your mind—or falling for someone on the team.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . violence, use of guns, kissing.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE END OF THE WORLD, AND THE BEGINNING OF SOMETHING NEW.

read other chapters here!

the bunker is silent. not just quiet, silent. no humming machines, no creaking pipes, no groaning undead. the only sound is your heartbeat thudding in your ears. you walk slowly down the main corridor, matt by your side, weapon raised. nick, chris, and lana trail close behind. each footstep echoes like it doesn’t belong. the lights above you flicker, some dying, some barely hanging on.

“this place looks like a fallout shelter and a hospital had a messy divorce,” nick mutters. “what was this?” you ask quietly. “maybe the safe zone we were chasing,” matt says. “before it was abandoned.” chris hums nervously. “creepy how the world ends and the only thing left standing is a hallway full of bad lighting and regret.” you pause at the next door. swipe your hand across the control panel. it slides open with a low hiss. and what’s inside makes everyone stop.

beds. food. power. medicine. maps. weapons. a stockpile. a miracle. “holy shit,” matt whispers. “we found it.” but something feels off. the air’s stale, like no one’s been here in years. everything is ready, like they prepared for something that never happened. or something that happened too fast. lana walks slowly into the room, hands still clutched around the key. “my dad used to say there were people who knew it was coming. who built places like this. but most of them were cowards. they saved themselves and left the rest of the world to rot.”

her voice doesn’t shake. not anymore. you look at her. really look at her. not just a kid. a survivor. just like you. “what do we do now?” she asks, voice small again. matt’s hand brushes yours. and for a moment, you forget there’s blood in your hair. bruises on your ribs. a scar forming on your shoulder. you just look at him. his voice is low. steady. only for you. “we make something out of it.”

but peace doesn’t last long. the alarm shrieks before you even find the control room. motion detected.

breach: external perimeter.

you all freeze. “they followed us,” matt breathes. “how?!” chris snaps. “we lost them in the woods!”

“they knew this place existed,” you say. “they knew.” you bolt to the monitors, half are dead, but one flickers with a grainy image. the raiders. at the entrance. trying to force the door. lana grabs your arm. “there’s a back exit. a supply tunnel. we can use it to trap them, cut them off from both sides.”

nick nods. “worth a shot.”

“we split up,” matt says. “two teams. one defends, one flanks.” you catch his hand as everyone scrambles. your fingers curl tight into his shirt.“you’re not leaving without me again.” his jaw clenches. he wants to fight you on it. but instead, he nods. once. “together.”

the last fight is ugly. fast. desperate. gunfire echoes through the narrow halls. one raider goes down. then another. but they just keep coming. you and matt move as one, covering each other, watching each other’s backs. you duck. he shoots. he stumbles. you catch him. and when the smoke finally clears, when the last raider falls, bloodied and broken, there’s nothing left but the sound of heavy breathing.

you collapse together against the wall, bodies trembling, hands bloody, hearts thudding like war drums. “you good?” he asks between pants. you nod, tears stinging your eyes. “you?” he laughs. it’s breathless and cracked. “i will be.” and then he grabs you, pulls you in, and kisses you like you’re the last thing keeping him on this planet. it’s messy. desperate. more teeth than grace. but it’s real. you kiss him back like you’ve been waiting for it since the world ended. maybe you have.

later, when everything’s quiet again, you all gather in the main room. lana curls up in one of the beds. chris finally lets lieutenant whiskers nap in his lap. nick fiddles with a radio that may or may not ever work. and you sit with matt, shoulder to shoulder, watching the static on a monitor screen.

“what now?” you ask. he laces his fingers through yours. “we rebuild. we protect each other. we figure it out.” you lean your head on his shoulder. “and if this is it?” he presses a kiss to your hair. “then i’m glad it’s with you.” you smile. broken world. bruised hearts, but still breathing, still together. and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

the end.

💌: hihihi!! i posted an epilogue giving more closure go check it out!!

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wolven91 · 2 years ago

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Bears In Space

The marauders had thought this would be an easy take. A tiny craft, slinking through the system, using the shadows of the planets to hide. Perfect to go undetected, if not that the raiding party was doing the very same.

The danger on this tiny craft was the ursidain guardian. A powerhouse in her own right, she'd fight tooth and claw for her human ward. But handle her and the human would be easy pickings. They'd caught the craft unawares, deliberately using a small craft of their own to sneak up submerged in the civilian craft's engine wake. Only a pilot who had used the same tactic would know what to look for. At most they'd think their engine was doing something strange, not that a raiding party was mere moments away from boarding them.

The fight for control was intense, but short.

Three of the marauders had been killed. One had their top half separated from their bottom in one, seemingly effortless, pull by the thirteen-foot-tall guardian. Ursidains could tear bulkheads from walls if angered enough, one draconian spine wasn't much of a problem.

The second's, an esquinine, head was limp against their shoulder at an odd angle, the wild swing that had connected had obviously broken their neck with ease. So much for their 'powers'. It didn't take a telepath to know that the ursidain would have killed each and every one of them at a moments notice.

The third and final casualty was an idiot taurian. He had lost their footing rushing the ursidain and had ended up on their back, firing upwards. The ursidain had merely stepped on them. An average ursidain weighed easily over a metric ton. She hadn't even needed to stomp; the fool's ribcage had snapped like thin dry twigs.

The remaining three team members had simply fired round after electrified round at the raging creature. Ursidains were hardly, but not invincible. A thin pelt and flesh prevented rounds from penetrating deeper. A fused ribcage protected their organs, muscles and tendons with naturally occurring carbon, strengthening their power and force. Realistically, the only thing ursidains naturally feared was deep water. Pressure was their enemy, so not even vacuum scared them thanks to their ridiculous biology.

But she eventually went down. The remaining three raiders were smart, staying away from her swipes and keeping their backs to a sealed door in the small cargo bay.

"Don't kill her." Ordered the lead. The human was nowhere to be found, the place reeked of them, but being so small, like a chintian or geckin, they could hide in places the other races couldn't go, there was no point in searching, so they kept their attention on the entrance to the cargo bay. No, the ursidain had to be kept alive so they could use her to pressure the human into giving up. Humans were soft. Weak. One cut and they bleed out, they didn't even have thick flesh or a protective pelt. They could be tricked.

"Human! This has already been a failure of a raid. Not even you are worth the loss of three of my finest." An obvious lie. Those three were wastes of space and with their departure from his crew, the reward for the human would be divided only three times instead of six. Realistically, the felinoid could have given the human a cut of their reward as thanks and still come out with more credits.

"I'll just kill your friend here and blow up the ship. You're not worth this effort."

"You realise you won't get away with this... right?" The ursidain rumbled from her knelt position, head rising. The three remaining pirates turned their attention to her.

"Oh no? An empty system, no signals going out, no relays even if there was and the witnesses about to be taken care of. Go on, how am I not going to get away with this?"

The ursidain grinned.

"You weren't paying attention to the-"

A deafening roar stole her words as a hurricane materialised in the cargo bay. A terrible force tore all four of the creatures from their place on the metal floor as the fury and might of the vacuum of space grabbed a hold of them. The ursidain knew what to look for as she tumbled head over heels towards the black. A human in a space suit, holding the emergency venting lever down. She caught eyes with her ward as she sailed past and out of the doors.

The raiding team screamed as they went, but nobody heard them, there's no sound in space and the moment they were clear of the air rushing out of the cargo bay, all sound cut off for them too. By the time their bodies collided with their own craft, two of the three were pretty much dead. They had attempted to hold their breaths and their lungs had exploded. The third only survived as they had no air in their lungs, but even then, a mere thirty seconds after entering the black, they too passed.

Their last vision was the ursidain, floating by with them. At least they got one of the pair.

The human on the other hand knew they had a few minutes. Using everything their guardian had taught them, they ensured that their own harness was attached to the miles long cord that kept them latched onto their craft. Then, they leapt from their ship.

The only thing they could hear was their own laboured breathing. 'Never get off the boat' was engrained on anyone who left the safety of a station or planet, the panic and fear of the void was real. Too many things could go wrong if one went floating out into the void. The human ignored the other lazily spinning corpses nearby, the heads-up display on their helmet highlighted the ursidain. They slowed their approach and immediately latched a hook onto the ursidain's belt. Checking it twice, the human began to reel in the tether.

Ursidains were hardy. The sheer strength of their chests and muscles, meant that for a time, vacuum would not kill them. Deep water was deadly, able to crush them as it worked against their strengths, but it meant in the event pirates boarded a ship without vacuum suits? It was better to just vent the whole ship into space while the ursidain distracted them. Just so long as they get picked up well within quarter of an hour... after that...

When the cargo bay sealed and repressurised, the human was watching their HUD for the green 'Pressurised' label before unlatching the helmet and throwing it aside.

When their hands shook the ursidain, nothing happened. They shook the giant again and they still remained unmoving.

It wasn't until the human slapped the ursidain with a desperate panicked shout that the guardian awoke with an 'ow!'.

"I thought you were dead!"

"So you slap dead people?!"

"You were MESSING with me!?"

"I thought you'd find it funny!"

"You're mental!"

"You're rubbing off on me then!"

Discord / KoFi

#conservationverse #cuddleverse #human #haso #hfy #humans are space orcs #furry #human x furry #bear #ursidain

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ostrichmonkey-games · 1 year ago

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First playtest for Stampede Wasteland is tonight! Only doing minimal prep for it (since, ideally, that's all a regular GM would need to do). The biggest portion of that is rolling on some tables to generate a settlement that I'll be tossing the players into.

Thought it would be fun to show off the results and walk through how things are starting to come together with minimal effort!

Before I started any of this, I had a nugget of an idea about a faction of raiders that have taken over the town being one of the core sources of conflict, and now we're going to see how that might change or permutate based on how the settlement comes together.

Step 1 is rolling for the size of the settlement;

We get a Medium Town. Nice. Nothing too exciting just yet.

Next is to roll a number of Features based on the size we just got.

Medium towns get 3 Features. We get; Crash-Tech & Comms Relay, a Bazaar & Black Market & Foundry, and an Oasis and Stables. Each Feature has some extra options that help flesh them out, plus more specific mechanical things you can do with them, but I'll lave those for another time right now.

So far, this settlement has valuable Crash-Tech that helps keep it operating, a way to communicate with the wider world, places to buy cool things, but I'm paying special attention to the Oasis right now. Maybe that's why the raiders have taken this place over, to control the oasis? Let's see what else comes up.

The remaining tables are all optional details, but I rolled on all of them just to see what happens.

For a Key Figure in town, we get a Merchant "Prince".

Maybe they made a deal with the Raiders involving the oasis? That could be interesting.

Next up is the settlement's general Style;

We ended up with "rustic", I'm thinking very classic spaghetti western. Which is going to contrast very nicely with the town's Signature detail;

A massive, half-broken glass dome! Which also dovetails nicely with the already present Crash-Tech feature. Clearly, this town was built in the remains of one of the ancient seed ships that crash landed on the planet.

So what's Weird about this town?

Turns out the town is a cultic pilgrimage site. The crash site the settlement has been built on must be significant, maybe related to one of the Orbital Saints.

The next detail is about the local geography, giving some details on what the wider region might be like;

And we get perpetual sandstorms! Must make travel difficult, especially for those pilgrims.

Lastly, there's the "What Keeps Them Safe (For Now)" table. Life in the Wasteland is difficult, and any settlement that lasts sticks around for a reason.

We get "geographic quirk", so there's something special about the physical location of the town that keeps it safe. Maybe the town is built into cave systems that were dug out from within the crater of the seed ship, and that glass dome partially obscures the crater and caves from the sandstorms that howl all around.

And with that! The town is complete, aside from a name, but I'll figure that out later. Probably.

Anyways, testing of the tables complete and working as intended! I think a unique story came together with minimal effort and I'm excited to see what's gonna happen next.

#ttrpg #indie ttrpg #ttrpg design #stampede wasteland

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edgeofn1ght · 1 year ago

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all you conceal, let out: ch. 1

After the death of Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, in his grief, takes off on a mission half-cocked to find a lost holocron on Jedha. The next thing he knows, he's waking up injured on a planet he's never seen before, surrounded by calm and an unsettling quiet. Then, after passing out again, he wakes up in a strange home, patched, clean, and safe. And his savior is someone he loved who he didn't think he'd ever see again. Will he be able to get back to his own universe, and does he even want to?

i finally managed to fill another square on my @obikin-events bingo card well after the event was over 🫡 (i tried my best to finish it before it ended, but oh well)

alternate universe travel • obikin • 5.1k words • read on ao3 instead

Anakin knew his mission wouldn't be easy. He was warned against going, specifically going alone, but he insisted on taking it anyway. He needed to be away from the Temple, from everything that reminded him –

“You still need time to mourn!” His own padawan had cried out in the hangar as he strode away from her, his responsibilities, and any bit of sanity he was still holding onto.

Death is a natural part of life, he thought bitterly as he jogged up the Twilight's ramp, followed quickly by Artoo. I guess you forgot that lesson.

If he had bothered to turn back, he would have seen Ahsoka's deeply troubled countenance, but he wasn't concerned about that. He had a mission to carry out – one that had been important to Obi-Wan. And he would see it through.

But as Anakin slowly lifted his head out of the dirt, he was no longer so sure he could see it through. He didn't even know where he was anymore. His head throbbed as he became aware of the blood rushing through his ears, drowning out all other noise. Not that there was much to hear anyway – no blaster fire, no clankers yelling in their tinny, robotic voices, no shouting clone troopers, no explosions… nothing.

As he became more aware of his being, his whole body ached, hurting so much he wouldn't have been surprised if every single bone in his body was broken. If Obi-Wan were here and could read his thoughts, he would have undoubtedly told him he was being dramatic.

‘Get up, my young padawan, you’re not so old yet.’ He heard his master’s voice so clearly, just as if he was standing right next to him, looking down at his old padawan with a wry grin and his hands on his hips. He frowned – wishing Obi-Wan was here wouldn’t make him appear, no matter how much Anakin wanted it. He turned his head left then right, searching for his ship, for Artoo… for anyone or anything, but he was completely alone.

Anakin gingerly pushed himself up and made it halfway before his arms gave out and he dropped back into the muck with a disgusting squelch . And that, too, was different. Last he could recall, he had been on Jedha, surrounded by orange dust and sand as far as the eye could see, even inside the old temple ruins. But as he looked around now, there was nothing but vibrant multicolored trees, green grass, and a brilliant blue sky.

So where the hell was here?

Anakin really had no chance to think about his location or predicament because, unsurprisingly, he had passed out again. He didn’t know how long he was out, but when he awoke, he was still on the mystery planet and dusk was settling on the land. It was just as quiet as before, but now the silence was punctuated by the sound of night coming to life.

He always found the night strangely unsettling when wasn't at home. Coruscant’s night never deviated from its day – the ecumenopolis was a constant hum of traffic and pulse of billions of lifeforms. And Tatooine’s night had been… well, when it wasn’t eerily silent, it was a howling sandstorm or some other form of danger such as raiders, Hutt cartels, or baying creatures that could eat you whole.

He’d forgotten the true sound of silence, the feeling of it. The way it crept into your bones, enveloped your senses, and made you feel uneasy and cold. Not long after the war began, they all became quickly accustomed to being constantly surrounded by dozens, sometimes hundreds of other beings all the time, whether on board a star destroyer or in battle. Then add to that, life on Coruscant, in the Temple, and pair it with his own constant loud thoughts, feelings, and anxieties, and he really couldn't remember the last time he'd experienced a true quiet like this. Had he ever?

Anakin summoned enough energy to roll over with a grunt. His face was covered in muck and dirt, he could feel it in the pull of his skin when he winced. His cloak was wet, but he still used the voluminous sleeves to wipe it away. All his clothes were wet as it turned out – not exactly soaked , but damp enough to be uncomfortable and annoying. He became more aware of every pain in his body – temples throbbing, joints aching, and most inconvenient of all, the sharp stab of pain in his side. It was most likely a fractured or bruised rib… he hoped anyway.

As he continued to lie supine in the grass, he took stock of the rest of his body, curling and straightening his fingers then rolling his arms across the dirt to test the movement. Next he tried wiggling his toes inside his boots then flexed his calves, and finally pulled up his legs to bend his knees. Nothing seemed broken. He finally pushed himself up until he was in a sitting position, swaying a bit as his vision swam.

Forgetting about all his physical aches, his gloved hand moved to his belt, searching for his communicator, but it was nowhere to be found. Then it flew to his left hip where his lightsaber usually sat, a comforting weight always at his side, but it wasn’t there either.

"Shiiiiit," Anakin whispered. He looked at the ground around him, blinking, his eyes straining to see anything at all in the grass in the low light. It could be anywhere. He would find it – he would – but he couldn’t focus right this second. He scrambled to stand but it was too much, too soon and he fell back into the dirt.

He groaned long and loud into the rapidly darkening night.

But then, he heard the most beautiful sound to his buzzing ears – the sound of help. Help was on its way in a beaten-up X-34 landspeeder, which sounded like the combustor of the axial compressor needed to be replaced. He’d never been so happy in his life to hear the low rumble of an engine that needed some serious maintenance, or more happy that he had not completely forgotten everything he knew.

A wave of dizziness and nausea came over him, but he leaned forward and stretched out his arm as the speeder rumbled closer. “Help?” He could barely muster the single-syllable word. Not that he could be heard over the noise of the engine anyway, but he had to try.

Then, unfortunately, he blacked out once again.

Anakin slowly came-to, aware of warmth, comfort, and a voice, calm and gentle, like home . He suddenly remembered being lifted, a hand on his cheek, his forehead, the cool night air then –

Nothing more.

For the third time in less than half a day, Anakin awoke from slumber. Except this one had been much more fitful than the others. He still ached, but at least he was no longer lying face down in mud in wet clothes. Instead, now he was lying on a sofa under a blanket, his head cradled in a soft pillow, and he was clean and comfortable. The thought was concerning, but he'd get to that later.

Golden sunlight filtered in through the room’s shades. It was certainly no longer night, and it seemed rather bright, but he had no idea what time it could possibly be. He squeezed his eyes tightly and tried to remember… He could recall nothing at all of how he got here – on the planet or in this room. He had been on Jedha with Artoo and a couple of troopers from 501st (who showed up at Ahsoka's insistence), combing through an old excavation site. It was the last-known location of an unknown holocron, apparently buried amongst the ruins, and looking for it had felt like searching for a single star in a nebula.

When the Jedi first learned of its existence (or ‘ potential existence’ rather, as Obi-Wan had insisted), neither he nor Obi-Wan had truly believed in the presence of such a holocron on the planet. Something like that would surely have been recovered long ago! Obi-Wan’s incredulity echoed in Anakin's head. But t hey were instructed to at least look, as it would have been rather foolish to allow something like that to languish untouched with the potential of falling into anyone’s hands. And if the rumor was true and they did find such a thing, they could study it. Incredulity aside, Obi-Wan wasn't very good at completely hiding his interest (or at least not to Anakin), and he had remarked several times on how he'd love to study it and learn all its secrets. Anakin had adored the way the older man’s eyes lit up just talking about it. He wouldn't have dreamed of ever telling his old master that.

Then he would never get a chance to. Obi-Wan became one with the Force, leaving Anakin behind forever, and he was forced to go on, to live the rest of his life without his best friend and master. It had been three months, and the wound was as raw and as fresh as the day Obi-Wan was taken from him. He couldn't find peace no matter what he did or who he talked to. They weren't Obi-Wan.

Master Kenobi’s loss was felt keenly by all the Jedi, but Anakin was sure he didn’t mean as much to them as he did to him. His master was gone and Anakin would never have peace again.

So Anakin had gone to Jedha on a half-cocked mission to find the holocron, because Obi-Wan had wanted to find it, and Obi-Wan wanted to study it, and that was a last wish Anakin could honor even though every fiber of his being cried out for the loss of the man he loved.

Perhaps the holocron held secrets to eternal life. Perhaps there was a way to see or speak to him again. Feeling delirious with the prospect, Anakin had run headlong into the temple ruins built inside a cave mouth of a large plateau, feeling as if he was getting close. The pull of the Force was strong, like a nexus of power. He remembered a thrumming and buzzing in his head then nothing at all after that.

And now he was in some house he didn't know, on a planet he didn't recognize.

He carefully stretched out with his senses and found that all was calm. He reached further looking for someone, anything , but didn’t get much beyond the general course of life on the planet. Then suddenly, on the edge of his consciousness, a single life form appeared, close… It was inside the house with him. Anakin should be on high alert, but he couldn’t find it within himself to be. Perhaps he would come back to the why later. Wherever he was, he felt safe and not in any danger. The life form felt calm, relaxed, and slightly amused. Then suddenly he heard a low humming, but not like the humming of the Force, but a living being softly humming a tune. It wasn’t in the room with him but it was close. Then it stopped.

"Ah, you're awake."

Anakin whipped his head in the direction of the voice. THAT VOICE. A voice he knew better than anyone else's. A voice he had heard most every day since he was nine years old, a voice he'd grown to love more than anyone else's. He twisted around to get a better look, hissing when his side and back protested, clearly still in no shape to move so quickly.

“Take it easy!” The voice warned.

He watched in disbelief as the source of the voice set a tray down on the small table in front of the sofa. As he took in the man before him, his chest constricted and tightened and his breathing shallowed. He stood on the precipice of a panic attack with no way to ward it off. Because here was Obi-Wan Kenobi in the flesh, standing in front of him, whole and alive .

He was older than Anakin knew him to be at the time of his death – by five years or so, maybe more. His hair was longer, not quite as long as it was right before the start of the war, but long enough so the ends curled around his ears and sat on the collar of his shirt. There were more strands of grey threaded throughout his hair and at his temples, more lines etched into his face, particularly around the eyes. His skin had taken on more of a golden hue than Anakin had ever seen – like he spent most of his time outside – which also meant more, darker freckles dotting his forehead, cheeks, and the bridge of his nose.

He was wearing a light colored work shirt with the buttons undone to mid-breastbone and the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His trousers were the color of rust and he wore tall, brown boots. The clothes hugged his strong figure as if they were tailor-made specifically for him. Anakin couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Obi-Wan in anything but his loose, cream-colored tunics, robes or under blacks and armor.

He looked like a man untouched by war, healthy and content. Anakin had forgotten that once Obi-Wan did look like that, but it was long ago. He stared, slack-jawed, as he thought of Obi-Wan’s pale face and lifeless, clear blue eyes as he held him in death. This was Obi-Wan as he could have been – should have been. Anakin's heart clenched in his chest.

"I brought you some breakfast," the man finally added, still hesitant and wary of what Anakin would do next.

Feeling panicked at the strange normality of it all, Anakin attempted to fully sit up so he could defend himself if needed, but he was still in quite a bit of pain. He grabbed his side and winced as the aching muscles in his core contracted. Then his fingers came in contact with a large bandage stuck to his left side.

"Careful now!" Obi-Wan rushed over to grab Anakin's arm and steady him. The touch was like a brand in his skin. He ripped his arm away and stood quickly, hitting his shin on the small table as he stumbled away from the strange Obi-Wan. He blindly reached again for where a lightsaber should be at his hip, only to find it still wasn't there.

Instead, Anakin brandished the knife he'd grabbed off the tray in his haste to distance himself from the imposter. "What kind of trick is this? Who are you?"

Not-Obi-Wan put his hands up in a half-hearted surrender. "I'm not really thrilled about being threatened in my own home. Even if it is with a dull butter knife. I can assure you, I am unarmed."

"Obi-Wan… what… what are you doing here?"

Confusion colored the man's features, but it was there and gone just as quickly. "It's just Ben,” he said, slowly putting his hands down.

Anakin's eye brows pinched as he frowned, “Ben? I– nevermind!” He thrust the knife out in warning and Ben's hands flew back up. "Where am I? How are you here??"

"Well this is MY house, and you're a guest in it, though I have half a mind to throw you out now for threatening me."

This ‘Ben’ was so much like his Obi-Wan, it took his breath away. The way he talked, even if the accent was slightly less of the clipped Coruscanti, and more of a slight brogue, then right down to the casualness with which he handled Anakin's threat… But behind the light-hearted jest, there was a definite wariness, a bit of fear for this complete stranger in his home. Because Ben clearly didn't know him. Anakin meant nothing to him. This wasn't his Obi-Wan.

Anakin blinked as he tried to remember anything before he woke up, trying to make sense of this situation. Maybe he was actually lying in a cot in a tent in the middle of a dusty desert on Jedha. Or perhaps on a moderately comfy bed in the Halls of Healing back inside the Jedi Temple. Or maybe he was floating inside a bacta tank – injured, knocked out, and healing. Yes, that was it. He was asleep and this was a dream, and in his great grief, he'd conjured up this older Obi-Wan. An Obi-Wan who was not only alive, but content, happy, and healthy. Of course he would – that's what Anakin wanted for his friend and the man he loved. He had created a life that Obi-Wan didn't get to live.

Tears began to gather in the corners of his eyes. He squeezed them shut tightly and willed himself to wake up.

"You seem to be very hurt," the voice spoke again, and Anakin opened his eyes. "Why don't you eat something then go lie down?"

"Maybe I am hurt, but this isn't real, you're not real," he said resolutely. "I am hurt, yes. But I'm at home, in the Temple." Maybe if he said it forcefully enough and without any doubt he would make it so.

Not-Obi-Wan stepped towards him and Anakin stepped back.

"I have no intention of hurting you, I think you need to lie down before you hurt yourself," Ben stepped towards him again, one hand extended, palm up as if he was trying to settle a wild nexu.

“You know that I could hurt YOU,” Anakin said, his voice wavering. The knife in his hand trembled.

“You won’t though.”

Their eyes fixed on each other as Ben stepped closer. Anakin didn't know whether he wanted to fight or flee, but he felt immobilized so he did neither.

Before he knew what was happening, Ben lunged forward and wrapped his right hand around Anakin’s wrist, gripping it tightly, forcing him to drop the knife, then another arm came around Anakin’s neck and squeezed.

“Sleep,” was the last word Anakin heard before he did just that.

Anakin dreamt of Obi-Wan.

But not the Obi-Wan he had known since he was nine years old. It was an Obi-Wan he'd known for maybe nine minutes.

In his dream, this Obi-Wan looked exactly like his Obi-Wan, he dressed differently but otherwise moved and talked like him. His gestures, jokes, and smiles were the same, even down to the lingering sadness behind his eyes that Anakin had always noticed when Obi-Wan thought he wasn’t looking. But in his dream, he was still on this other planet, and not Coruscant, and Obi-Wan wasn’t a Jedi, but a farmer.

Anakin was inside a small house which sat in the middle of several acres of land covered in trees and lush fields. Directly behind the home was a large garden where the older Obi-Wan currently stood amongst many kinds of plants, small and large. He was naked to the waist, and the sinking sun's rays reflected off his sweat-shiny skin, making it glisten. Ben was a bit thicker than Anakin remembered ever seeing Obi-Wan, but he was still strong and lithe. The muscles in his back and arms flexed as he dug into the earth and bent down to plant new seeds. Obi-Wan finally stood and turned, wiping sweat from his brow with a bit of cloth he pulled from his back pocket.

“Anakin,” he said with the loveliest smile Anakin had ever seen.

This Obi-Wan loved him. Anakin knew it somehow.

Anakin’s eyes flew open, he was sweating and his breathing labored. He sat up quickly, blankets pooling at his waist, and looked around. Daylight was fading, but it was enough to illuminate the room and he could see it was homey and cozy. He was now in a small bedroom he didn’t recognize in a very comfy bed. Far more comfortable than anything he'd grown used to in battlefield tents and aboard Venator destroyers. He looked to his right, wondering if he’d find Ben there, since this was surely his room, but when he found it empty, he exhaled, strangely relieved.

The bed was a modest size, easily large enough for two, but not so big that two people would never meet in the night. A dresser sat pushed up against the wall opposite with a small mirror resting on top. From where he sat, Anakin could see there were some trinkets and other items there as well, but he couldn’t make out what they were. A large chair sat by the window with a blanket haphazardly thrown over and a discarded datapad in the seat. On the small bedside table next to his side of the bed, there was a lamp, and surprisingly, his communicator and his lightsaber.

Anakin pushed away the covers and swung his legs over the side. He picked up his lightsaber to feel the familiar and comforting heft. Ben had undoubtedly found it, but it was a bit surprising that he had actually returned it to him. Maybe he didn't know what it was, didn't know what Anakin could do with it. Well, at least he'd be spared the 'your lightsaber is your life' lecture, though Anakin would have given up his lightsaber forever just to hear it again.

He was still wearing only a pair of sleep pants and he was glad to find that the glove over his mechno-arm was still in place. He wiggled his toes then slid off the bed and stepped onto soft, cool carpet and stretched away some of the stiffness. It felt like he had been asleep for days. At the window, he pulled back the curtain slightly to peer outside. The sun was setting in the distance behind the foothills, painting the sky in soft pinks, oranges, and purples. The landscape was bathed in a soft yellow, but none of that beauty compared to the man standing in the middle of the large vegetable garden.

Just like in his dream.

His heart rate picked up again.

Was he even awake now? Or was all of this a dream?

Suddenly small flashes of what he thought were recent memories returned to him – a pair of strong arms wrapping around his back and under his knees, the feel of a warm, wet cloth being dragged across his face gently, humming in another room, then Anakin threatening to stab this beautiful man with a butter knife. He flushed, hoping against hope that that was also only from his dream.

He dropped the curtain and made his way through the house and out onto the back porch. Ben was practically glowing in the evening sun. It only took a second for him to look up and smile.

“Hello there.” Ben thrust his shovel into the dirt, then rested his elbow on the handle. Anakin’s mouth suddenly became very dry. “Oh, I’ve hidden all the butter knives,” he added with a slight twist to his mouth. Anakin's face fell – so that one was true. “However, that thing I put on the bedside table seems like it could do much more damage than a knife.” Ben huffed as he pulled a cloth out of his back pocket and wiped his face.

“That 'thing'??” Anakin scoffed as he crossed his arms over his chest. His still-bare chest, he was reminded. Maybe from that distance Ben couldn’t tell that he was blushing. “That thing, Ben, is my lightsaber. MY LIFE. You are… were always so fond of reminding me.” Ben chuckled but said nothing else. It felt so odd for him to say nothing at all about it.

They stood and stared at each other for a few moments. Anakin allowed the stillness and quiet of the evening to envelope him once more. Was this really his current reality? Or was it possible that his mind had actually created some world so tangible, so intricate and detailed? An Obi-Wan who was both Obi-Wan and not simultaneously, and who had no clue who Anakin was.

Ben pulled his shovel from the ground and walked towards the house. He stopped below the porch and stared up at Anakin. “You must be hungry, would you like latemeal?”

As if right on cue, his stomach growled. “Yes, okay.”

“Let me get cleaned up and I will get it for you,” Ben said with a nod and passed by Anakin without a second look.

Anakin sat at the small table in the kitchen and watched as Ben deftly moved around the space preparing the meal. It was strange how everything seemed so familiar, from the way he stood and held himself, to the way he drank from his own mug, even down to how quiet and focused he was on the task. It was strange to know and love the man so well, but to not know him at all. Because this still wasn't his Obi-Wan. No matter what his dream told him. No matter what he wanted to believe and be real. But he was so like him, it made his heart ache. He knew a mind consumed with grief could create fantastical things, believe the unbelievable, especially if it brought back loved ones. He'd also heard stories of beings traveling through time and space, but that’s all they were supposed to be, stories – ‘wistie stories' his mom told him before bed or outlandish yarns spun by his fellow padawans as they shirked their duties.

But if that was true, and he'd been flung into another time and universe… Where was Anakin Skywalker here? And why wasn't he with Obi-Wan Kenobi?

He snapped out of his reverie when Ben set some food down in front of him then took his own place in the chair across the table. It was intimate, but Anakin couldn’t think about it too much because he was starving and the food smelled amazing. It was a needed distraction.

Between sips from his mug of tea, Ben finally spoke up. "I didn't see a ship. Or a speeder, for that matter."

"Uh well, I didn't have one," Anakin said as he pushed the food around on his plate. "At least not here." He shoved a large chunk of fried tuber in his mouth.

Ben narrowed his eyes, "I'm not exactly close to the nearest town, are you saying you walked?"

“No,” Anakin said around a mouthful of food. "I just ended up out there.”

Ben frowned, "How do you mean ‘ended up’?”

"Just that. I was on Jedha then I woke up in a mud puddle… I think."

Ben took another sip of his tea. "You've still not given me your name. What do I call you?"

Anakin felt like sulking, "You really don't know it." It wasn’t a question.

"Well, I… you seem to talk a lot in your sleep, and I thought maybe you'd mention it, but strangely, I only heard my own name over and over.” He looked down then cleared his throat. “But I can't really understand how you know my given name.” He stroked his beard.

Anakin felt as confused as Ben – or actually Obi-Wan. But he did know he didn’t like the way that sounded. He couldn’t remember any part of his dreams except for whatever vision that he had of Ben in the field before he saw him out there. He was now afraid of anything he might have said.

He toyed briefly with giving a fake name, but then decided against it at the last minute. This was Obi-Wan… some Obi-Wan, and with him he was always Anakin. “It’s Anakin.”

"Anakin," Ben repeated softly.

He ducked his head and continued eating, hoping that the older man would find something else to stare at for a little while. But he could feel his eyes still on him.

After a prolonged silence, Anakin spoke up again. "I'm not from here, wherever here is." Ben stared at him but kept silent so Anakin would continue. "I'm from Coruscant. Well, that's where I live anyway… In the Jedi Temple."

Ben’s eyebrows raised briefly then he looked down into his mug. “You’re a ways from Coruscant.”

Well now they were getting somewhere, and at least Coruscant existed in this universe. "And where is here?"

"Stewjon," Ben said as he sat back in his chair.

Of course. Of course! It was so obvious now – he’d been sent to Obi-Wan’s birth planet for some reason. Maybe it would be a starting point for figuring out the how and why.

"And what of the war?"

"What war?"

“What war?” Anakin huffed, "THE war, Ben, the war against the Separatists!?"

Ben shook his head in response. "I'm afraid I don't know it. I try to keep up with news from the Core Worlds as much as possible, but I've never heard of a war or the Separatists. Though, from the name alone, I can possibly figure out their platform.”

Anakin leaned forward, settling his elbows on the table. "When I say I'm not from here, I mean, not from HERE – this universe." It was out there – now it was up to Ben to decide what to do with it. Ben's brow dipped slightly, but he remained silent. "I am a Jedi, a general in the Grand Army of the Republic, I was your…" He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. Did he even know the Jedi? He certainly wasn't his master here. "I was on a mission on Jedha, then… then, I woke up here."

Ben sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't believe him. Anakin could tell even though he said nothing.

He huffed again and ran a hand through his hair. "I want to get back, I need to get back. I don't belong here." Even if he could be at Obi-Wan’s side again, where he did belong.

Ben stroked his beard in thought. "Anakin, what you're saying… it's impossible. You can't hop to another universe. You can't travel through time or to another reality."

Anakin stood quickly, nearly upsetting the chair. "But I did it! And I’m here talking to you! An Obi-Wan who… who doesn't know or care anything about me!"

"Anakin, come now, that's not–" Ben started but Anakin wasn’t staying to listen.

He left the kitchen quickly and headed back to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He threw himself down into the bed, wanting to scream into the pillow.

If he couldn’t even remember how he got here in the first place, how in the hell could he find a way back? And Ben clearly wasn’t going to help him. Anakin had no holocron here or a way to get back to Jedha to check. He couldn’t even get back to Coruscant, to the Temple. Maybe others like Mace and Yoda or Plo Koon existed here, even if he didn’t. Maybe they would know and could help him.

Anakin closed his eyes to keep the tears from slipping free, but they fell anyway, wetting the soft pillow underneath his head.

#obikin #obikin bingo #my writing #never a jedi au #alternate universe #universe travel #obi wan x anakin #fanfic #if you saw me reposting it #you probably didn't cos it wasn't showing up anywhere 😭

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witchofthesouls · 1 year ago

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(Sighs) Look, I've gone deep into the barbarian aus, so-

Very self-indulgent TFP!fic where some Others (including humans) from Earth found themselves on Cybertron as they pushed back a Quintesson invasion on their home planet. Elsewhere functions as a nexus of liminal spaces; time and space are warped as gateways to other planets (and universes) open and close.

Like TFP Sparkling!AU with the barbian/city-dweller twist. Also, humans-into-Cybertronians and Magic-Exists!AU because it’s my ridiculous, self-indulgent AU. (Ehhh, more like human characters that always been Cybertronians, but whatever; humans found themselves on Cybertron because of Quintesson invasion/expansion in the Milky Way or something, and they mixed into the locals since Cybertronians and humans are very much cousins and there are members in their respective species that will bang a monster for fun and profit.)

So, D-16 is the most “civilized” one. Like no, D-16 is no senator’s son, nor does he hail from a high-caste lineage. He’s the bitlet of miners and a child slave worker, but he has creators that try their best for their unexpected, little one. Little D-16 had been raised in a communal underground cohort and had never even seen the surface since he took his first cries. Of course, the supervisors get a train of newcomers, including a couple of sparklings from the untamed Wilds that were deemed too “much” for the sensibilities of the middle/higher castes. Too old to forget. And too violent to make it worth it an adoption.

Before Optimus was even Orion, there was a sparkling that scavenged in the Wastelands. He’s a goddamn, feral raccoon with the tenacity of a seagull and a crow's love for tasty things. He’s clever enough to avoid the obvious traps, but hunger had driven him to gamble his luck on a caravan. His luck ran dry since-

It was a raiding caravan, specialized in capturing creatures and mecha. And it was successful snatching a few beings, including June.

She came on a rescue mission and had managed to free a few other sparklings but was unfortunately caught when she made the choice between retreat or free a flyer with a teleporting ability to take the youngest ones.

The raiders were prepared for specific tribes that had practitioners and artificers because of the “monsters” that traveled with them, and shoved her into a cage that neutralized such abilities.

For some reason, magic falls under sigma abilities, so the suppression mechanisms work.

Cue Alpha Trion wandering in the “wrong” areas and completely missing his protégé-to-be/reincarnated little brother because of other mecha's last second decision change.

June/Juno is no dainty, wee thing that’s defenseless and cute. Oh no, gentle planets make gentle people. Young Earth was not a gentle planet, and its lost inhabitants made their home in the untamed wilds and Wastelands of Cybertron and warred with the natives to keep it as such. After she recovers, she’s a little hellion that confirms all the negative stereotypes that mecha in city-states have of the Wilders/barbarians of the Wastelands.

The only reason why she wasn't bought by another party is because she's a monoformer and seemed to have none of the famed talent. It would have been too much to bring this little ankle biter to yield without the fantastical benefits to offset it.

Same to be said with Orion-to-be. That sparkling had broken a mech's wrist, straight down to the struts with his teeth. It took a couple of shocks from an electro-staff for him to let go because he was trying his damn best to break something off.

No matter her appearance, June is still a descendant of a hybrid coupling, so many things were a learning curve between them and her. Same with a feral, little nameless convoy.

She got terribly sick with a basic Neocybex language installment. Feverish, delirious, and unable to keep down Energon.

A few of the more tenacious miners still alive and kicking had managed to keep her fueled with a slurry mixture of clay, coal, and crushed crystals. Liquid is easy to purge, but the clay and coal will coat the tank and keep it settled.

Downloads from slugs and chips do not agree with her, so she needed to learn and absorb the language on her own.

Orion got his name for the trouble he gets into for every scrap of fuel and for his keen senses. Little thing isn't afraid to rummage into the scrap pile or to claw his way up the shafts to get a tiny cluster of crystal root. In fact, Scraplet was a major contender for his name, especially since he had a habit of biting people.

Orion had a tendency to use proto-language, even with the full access of basic Neocybex and Kaonite. He struggles with using full sentences. Frustration had led to biting, and that isn’t good, especially at his age where he can do damage with his thick denta. Sometimes, he refuses to speak and just flops into the pen with all the younger sparklings, much to the amusement to the Watchers: mecha too old and worn down for the long hours.

The adults were confused by June's adamant refusal to part with her flimsy dressings. (Sigils and runes sewn into the hardy fabric to hide her magical presence.) And then alarmed over her thin armature. More malleable like a newspark rather than an active sparkling. No wonder she gets sick easily!

It's due to her heritage. The mix between Earth and Cybertron meshed well. The inhabitants had gone local, and their descendants had to adapt with every new generation. In June's (and others like her), they have a far more extended development for plating density and growth. It helps limit the strain on their mothers, and some tribes utilize it to carve sigils while soft before hardening.

Eating a large amount of raw minerals and metals. Orion has a similar habit, but due to deprivation.

D-16 manages to strike up a friendship with them due to proximity and that his creators' cohort took them on.

He likes the pictures Juno draws in the dirt between shifts as everyone rests together.

Language is a slow process for different, yet similar reasons. Juno's lexicon isn't compatible with Ilmentite - a Neocybex dialect used by underground Tarnians (fitting as its name comes from a common mining metal), nor does she have the heavy plating and long streaks of biolights to communicate. Orion, however, struggles with verbal communication and has the body language of a wild animal rather than another mech.

Juno is fast and slippery, and if it wasn't for the tracker/inhibition collar, then she would have escaped. She's able to slip between tighter spaces with her lack of bulk. Unfortunately, she has a tight leash, so she can drop to the ground when she passes a certain perimeter.

Orion and Juno get confused over D-16's queasiness over eating a dead animal. It's drained and it isn't sick, what's the matter?!

Someone (D-16 or his parents) needs to stop Orion from rummaging through the garbage.

#transformers #transformer prime #tfp #fic ideas #megatron #june darby #optimus prime #optimus #bitlets #sparklings #creature #culture clash #maccadam #magic #my thoughts #my writing #trash panda feral OP bitty strikes again #cybertronian culture #cybertronian biology

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rlyc00l · 11 months ago

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BL2 AU: Rhys travels to Pandora for a simple job: take a train to Lynchwood, pick up an artifact, return to Helios. Only, he finds himself unwittingly caught in a trap that wasn't meant for him. Now stranded on Pandora alongside six Vault hunters, he has the choice between fighting Hyperion alongside them or dying horribly. Lucky for him, Handsome Jack is always looking for opportunities. All Rhys needs to do is a little bit of spying, maybe a teensy bit of sabotage, and then he's home free with a huge promotion and maybe like ten turbo-mansions. The Crimson Raider cause is doomed anyway, and Rhys is a pro at ignoring his conscience. Not that there's much conscience to ignore when you're betraying a group of murdering Vault hunters. At least, he's confident he won't have any internal conflict about screwing over that selfish jackass of an assassin.

Hey guys I went ahead and uploaded the first chapter of a fic I've also been writing alongside P0is0ned. This is one where I try to be CONFIDENT and not be a perfectionist. So I might update it a little more frequently? I mentioned this idea before but I think it would be interesting to have these two meet when they are both at their worst. Zer0 before discovering the magic of friendship and a Rhys who totally buys into Hyperion bullshit. (Also, I like writing the BL2 Vault hunters in general and IDK I just wanted to write about BL2 I have a lot of thoughts and headcanons.)

EDIT: As ff.net is perpetually broken, the chapter's also under the break!

———— The train was mostly empty when Rhys boarded, aside from the Hyperion soldiers that boarded at the same time as him. Rhys had offered them a cheery greeting, and been mostly ignored as the soldiers filed back into another car, somewhere behind them. One had stopped, asked him “You sure you’re in the right place?”

“This is the train headed to Lynchwood, right? Jack sent me on a job down there.”

“Yeah, well, keep your head down. Stay out of the other cars,” the soldier said, before following the others.

Technically, Jack hadn’t sent him, Vasquez had. But it was always better to invoke Jack’s name, and Jack had given Vasquez the job. Vasquez had simply passed it down to Rhys, and no one outside of Security Propaganda knew who the hell Vasquez was. If you said a job came from Jack, no one questioned it. No one except Vaughn and Yvette.

“Are you sure Vasquez isn’t just sending you down to die on Pandora?” Yvette had asked as the three took their lunch break the day before.

“It’s a peace offering! He knows I’m a threat, so he gives me the prestigious-yet-inconvenient job so I feel like I owe him. If he wanted me dead, he’d throw me out an airlock.”

“I dunno, Rhys,” Vaughn said, mouth still half-full of hamburger. He swallowed. “He’s thrown a LOT of people out of airlocks, they say at a certain level you reach your allotted murder-limit. Now, send a guy down to the death-planet…”

“Yeah, seriously, Rhys, you know there’s a war going on down there? And the entire planet is populated by bandits? And man-eating monsters?” Yvette gestured with her fork as she spoke. “Is he even giving you a gun or something?”

“No, Yvette, because I won’t need a gun. I looked up the route, it’s extremely safe. I’ll mostly be on a Hyperion train, there will be soldiers guarding it, it’s fine.”

Now, watching Pandora pass out the train window, he was feeling pretty confident that his reasoning had been accurate. He’d boarded at a Hyperion military post in the Highlands, its lush green landscapes a far call from the wastelands heaped with trash featured in propaganda videos. By now that green had given way to barren desert, but still not a single bandit in sight. At one point the train passed a pack of oversized skags, and later he was pretty sure he saw a body, but maybe it had been a weird rock. Ocassionally there were remnants of Atlas and Dahl’s failed attempts to colonize the planet. Broken-down buildings, being retaken by the elements. Obviously those two hadn’t thrown enough resources at the place. Jack was going all the way. Yvette would probably note that he’d be safer if he shuttered the window, but hey, it wasn’t often he got to see an undeveloped alien planet, and the glass was probably bulletproof. Rhys was starting to get the sense that Handsome Jack had ensured that Hyperion’s propaganda greatly exaggerated Pandora’s general awfulness–not that he blamed him. How else was he supposed to convince the investors? Not to mention it was a fantastic motivator for the workforce. Still, Rhys was almost disappointed. He’d wanted to see something impressive, have some good stories for when he got back to Helios. This place was just a lot of empty desert, ripe for development. At some point, the monotony lulled him to sleep, head propped against the window. The glass was cold when he woke suddenly. Outside, the desert was gone, replaced by ice and snow. It took Rhys a moment to realize that the sound he was hearing wasn’t the train, but nearby gunshots. Gunshots that didn’t fade out at the train moved. Well, shit.

He shuttered the window, hunkering down between the seats. It had to be a bandit attack, bandits were no match for Hyperion soldiers. Just had to wait it out.

Yvette had given him a stun rod before he’d gotten on the shuttle. “It’s better than nothing,” she’d said. He clutched it now, wishing she’d hooked him up with something more powerful.

Minutes passed, and the shooting went on, accompanied by indistinct yelling. Still, no one boarded his car. He wondered what bandits would do to him if they found him. They didn’t have a reputation for letting people live, except to torture them. Maybe, if Rhys stayed here, waited to unleash the stun rod until the last second, he could catch them by surprise. Then it was a matter of getting a gun from one of them, diving back behind the seats (Were those bulletproof, too?), and taking down the rest of them. They’d be lined up, it had to be easy, right? He hadn’t ever touched a gun, but they didn’t seem that complicated. Right?

His planning was interrupted by a deafening boom, and the next he knew he was flying through the air. He hit the ceiling, hard, and he knew nothing more.

It was dark when he woke, cold, hurting all over, and tasting blood. Part of him was afraid to flick on his palm flashlight, so he first tried to take stock mentally. He could only hear his own breathing, now. The gunshots had stopped. He wasn’t sure what that meant for him, but he was starting to realize that the train had crashed, or been derailed, or something. Which, maybe meant he didn’t have to worry about bandits anymore? Or, they’d be in at least as bad a shape as he was. Hopefully.

That led to the question of how bad a shape he was actually in. Okay, first, the blood taste. He ran his tongue around his mouth, finding the place he’d bitten the fleshy side, hard. Well, at least that wasn’t gonna kill him. His face stung, but in the carpet burn way, not the “there’s shrapnel imbedded in your cheeks” way. He had an agonizing headache, but maybe this was one of those times where you’d worry more if it didn’t hurt. His ECHOeye seemed alright, at least.

Fingers checked out, both flesh and cybernetic, though when he tried to make a fist on the flesh side he found himself letting out a string of profanity. Fine, okay, he hurt his wrist. No big deal. His cybernetic arm was fine aside from an ache at the connection point, he wouldn’t be helpless. His legs were good, at least. And his torso…Well, it sort of hurt to breathe, which wasn’t ideal.

Better get it over with, then. He turned on the flashlight and sat up with a groan to get a better look at himself. Sure enough, his wrist was swelling, and bruises were starting to form all over, but there wasn’t even close to as much blood as he’d expected. So, yeah, he probably wasn’t in immediate mortal peril.

He turned his attention to his surroundings. In front of him were the rows of seating, the entire car had fallen sideways and he was sitting on what had been the wall. Snow drifted in from some broken windows above him. He realized how cold he was, now. He hadn’t packed much of anything, it was supposed to be one night, he’d counted on there being a Quick-Change machine.

Okay, fine, Rhys had seen all those border planet survival shows, you had to be proactive in these kinds of situations. First, figure out where he was, maybe find one of those soldiers, if they’d survived. He rose, broken glass crunching under his feet as he walked unsteadily across the car until he found the roof hatch. It only opened part way when he turned the handle, getting caught on the snow bank the car was half-buried in. It was a little brighter outside the car, a combination of Elpis’s light and a number of small fires revealed silhouettes of the train wreckage.

He had to wriggle and clamber his way out, managing to get snow up his sleeves and down his shirt before tumbling down the bank into a foot of snow.

As he pushed himself up, he found himself facing a…glowing blue line? His eyes followed it up to the hand that held it, and the strangely featureless owner of that hand. He blinked, taking a moment to put it together.

Oh. A sword. A bandit holding him at swordpoint.

He barely managed a “D-don’t.”, knowing he should probably beg for his life. He was finding he didn’t have the energy for begging, though. Snow was already melting through his pants.

The bandit leaned in closer, not taking the sword from his neck. The light of the blade reflected on the dark surface that should have been their face. A helmet with a dark visor, Rhys realized—or maybe they were a robot, but they seemed to be shivering too, just a little.

“You are no soldier.” Their voice was deep, nearly monotone. “But you are Hyperion. / You have ten seconds.” “Ten…? F-for what?” He started to rise without thinking, only to be prodded by the point of the sword.

“To explain yourself. / Jack had someone set this up. / You’re the last one here.” “Look, I…I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s freezing, my head’s killing me, can we just…Not do this?”

They prodded him again.

“I-I mean, I was here for a business deal. I didn’t…”

The figure lowered their sword. A red, glowing “:\” appeared in front of where their face should have been, and Rhys found himself wondering if he was hallucinating this entire thing. “You got on the train / Meant as a place of slaughter, / Just by accident?”

Slowly, things were coming together. God, if he survived this, he was gonna never live it down. “I swear, I-I had nothing to do with this, I was told to get on this train, take it to Lynchwood. I was supposed to buy an artifact.”

The emoticon was replaced by a question mark, but they lowered the sword. Rhys didn’t move, lest he provoke them. “Get up, or you’ll freeze,” they said, turning away. They limped as they walked.

By the time he was on his feet, they were gone, only leaving footprints and an occasional spot of blood. He hesitated. Helios hung indifferently above him, framed with curtains of green auroras. He could just find one of these little fires and sit down next to it for however long it lasted, and hope for rescue. Except, a middle manager didn’t warrant a rescue, once the fire was out he’d just freeze to death. That, or Pandoran wildlife would get to him first.

Following that stranger might mean being stabbed, but maybe they knew where to find shelter. He got up, and followed their prints with his palm flashlight, hoping the snow wouldn’t bury the trail before he caught up.

He passed smoking wreckage and the corpses of soldiers. Wind bit at him as he walked, and he held his vest close, for whatever difference it made. Snow clumped up on his socks and the bottom of his pants, even as he tried to step in their prints. He tripped and stumbled a few times, there was trash everywhere, much of it hidden beneath the snow.

Just when he was starting to resign himself to a cold death in a frozen trash heap, he saw distant lights. As he neared the word “Welcome” lit up one letter at a time, over and over. Again he wondered if he was hallucinating. Was that a symptom of hypothermia? But the footprints continued in that direction, joined by more tracks. Other survivors.

As he got closer, he found that the sign was outside a structure built of snow and defunct Claptrap units. He opened the door. There was a short hallway, built of ice and more dead claptraps, and ending in a warm glow. Fire.

He came out into a low-ceilinged room with six people and a broken–but still functioning–Claptrap. Before he could process exactly what he was looking at, five of them were pointing guns at him.

He held his hands up, trying to inch towards the blazing furnace. “Please—Please don’t kill me. I-I-I–just, I’m trying not to free-freeze to death.”

His eyes found the one who’d threatened him earlier, they were the only one who wasn’t pointing a gun at him now. But they didn’t come to his defense, either. They only watched him, arms crossed. Or, he assumed they were watching him, they could have just as easily been intently ignoring him.

When nothing happened for a moment, he took the last few steps to put himself near the fire. It was hard to care about getting shot when you were so goddamn cold. There were at least six dead bodies already beside the fire, but he couldn’t make himself care about that either.

“That’s a Hyperion uniform.” The speaker was a Dahl soldier–marked by metal implants in his brow. He cocked his gun.

“I uh, I’ve got nothing against Dahl,” Rhys tried.

That earned him a snort.

Right, yeah, they’d all arrived at the same conclusion as the first one. “I had nothing to do with that, with the train, I-I was being set up to die back there, just like you.”

“What’s happening?” The eyeless claptrap demanded. “I can’t see–!” A high-pitched bleep censored out the last word.

“The mortar meat is too stringy! Where’s your pain stick?!” The masked man who looked straight out of Jack’s anti-bandit propaganda waved his gun as he spoke, then lowered it suddenly and gave a shrug.

“Big guy’s right, he’s obviously not a soldier,” the blue-haired woman said, following his lead. Her tattoos matched her hair, and his first thought was “siren”, which almost seemed too absurd, out of six in the universe, why would one be here, in this weird corpse-shack?

“Neither is Jack, and I mean, look at him,” said the pigtailed redhead, making a wide gesture at Rhys with her robotic arm– a much more primitive model than his. She looked too young to be here, he was pretty sure that was a high school uniform.

“I uh, I don’t have the kind of power Jack does, even if I wanted to kill you? Could-could you at least put down the guns, for a second?” His head hurt too much to be dealing with this, he just wanted to sit down and relax for a minute or two. “That Claptrap is a Hyperion robot, right? Arguably more Hyperion than I am. And considerably more annoying.”

“FORMER Hyperion robot!” the Claptrap addressed the wall. “Jack discontinued and destroyed my product line! I am a free robot now!”

“I saw we kill ‘im already. The guy, not the robot.” The short, weirdly muscular man spoke up. “Then get this bullymong.”

“You’re actually going to kill an unarmed man just for a label on his shirt?” the maybe-siren asked.

“Yeah, really? I-I have… several broken bones, too, I think. If that makes any difference. And, if I uh, if I had anything to do with this, I definitely would have avoided hurting myself this bad.” He looked to the one with the helmet, pleading. They’d seen him in the snow, they’d judged him innocent.

“Hurry and decide,” they said, not even turning their head to look at him. “I am eager to move out. / And kill Handsome Jack.” There was something strange about how they talked, Rhys was realizing. Measured, concise, short…

“What, you wanna freeze to death out there?” the soldier asked. “I’m not heading out until morning.”

They crossed their arms, a red “:\” passing over their visor. “Fine.”

“Oh come on, you already decided not to kill me, earlier! Could you at least back me up?”

This time they did look at him. “I have no stake, here. / And you are clearly dead weight. / You’re doomed regardless.”

“Your bones are made of toothpicks and my molars are SPOTLESS!”

“Yeah, alright, good point, I think?” the soldier said. We can always shoot him later, right? Once he’s earned it.”

The short man shrugged. “Yeah, whatever.”

“Fine,” the redhead said with a yawn. “If he kills any of you in our sleep, that’s not on me.”

At that, the group dispersed throughout the shack, finding comfortable spots, as if Rhys were suddenly of no more importance than one of the corpses by the fire. The maybe-siren hung back for a moment.

“Here,” she said, handing him an insta-health. “If you try to screw us over, I will liquidate your brain with my powers.” Okay, definitely-siren, then. “But for now, I’m not big on killing unarmed men.”

“Thanks.” He took the syringe, feeling strange about using a random needle on Pandora, insta-health or not. Still, he was in enough pain to jam it into his arm, gritting his teeth as bones realigned. “So, uh, hi. I’m Rhys.” He offered his freshly healed hand and his most charming smile–he’d better ingratiate himself with these people, fast. “I guess we kind of got off on the wrong foot, thanks for uh, sticking up for me.”

She looked at him, then at the hand, but didn’t take it. “Maya,” she said. “And I can’t say the others were entirely out of line, considering who you work for.” “Worked for. I think trying to blow me up was Jack’s way of firing me.” Always better to invoke Jack’s name. “Might have been a little too vocal in criticizing his policies on Pandora.” He’d heard of people who criticized Jack’s policies, Jack dealt with those hands-on, but bandits didn’t know that.

She raised her eyebrows. “Well, good to hear. Perhaps you can do something worthwhile, now.”

“Worthwhile, like?”

“Tomorrow, we hunt down the bullymong that tore Claptrap’s eye out. Supposedly, he can get us into Sanctuary. We’re going to kill Handsome Jack.”

#zerhys #borderlands 2 #tales from the borderlands #fanfiction #still looking for alternative fic sites? Should I like. just start posting straight to tumblr?#decepti0n

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virovirokun-has-adhd · 1 year ago

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"𝐀𝐢𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥?"

Synopsis:

The trudging footsteps of the Decepticon army awakened a dormant Primus, with crushing news of Autobot defeat on the blue planet. However, this wasn't how he remembered Kaon's tyrant, or his forces, these were something else entirely…

With a broken seal that was meant to keep universes from colliding with one another, multiple incarnations of our beloved villains, and heroes duel it out for their cause on the newly rebuilt Cybertron, it's cities back to their former glory. This doesn't mean the infamous purple crusaders have won yet, because Laser Optimus Prime fights on despite their apparent "loss" against Super Megatron's remaining troops on Earth, as it was their new home that they now choose to defend. While the two cybertronians go at it, there is an individual who wishes the demise of both parties, and will go out of their way to do so…

-A Transformers original story featuring both canons and OCs, ranging from bayverse to pretty much anything else! (EXCEPT KISS PLAYERS YOU WEIRD FU-.)

-Old styled roleplay server, with more relaxed rules and moderation. Most of those who are in this community are teenagers, so expect some goofiness!

-Easy submissions, 7 canon character slots along with unlimited OC's!

-Small, simple channel layout, because we don't wanna fry your brain with 300+ of those.

-VC and game night events, depends on what our little community wants!

-Manual verification, to prevent raiders from bombing the server with My Little Pony YouTube links. Also, if you're gonna join and then leave immediately, I hope you step on a lego brick, pillow is warm, and yo sleeves get wet-.

tagging ppl i know are in it <3 :: @thatturtleleon ,, @mayday-mayd4y ,, @conductorcomet [not a lot of us have tumblr ok]

#viro talks #viro said/drew a thing #discord roleplay server #discord server #discord chat #discord rp #discord roleplay #transformers roleplay #transformers rp #transformers #maccadam #maccadams #transformers discord #transformers server #transformers roleplay server #transformers discord server #im having an anyurism

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delta-dean · 9 months ago

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Hot damn, I've gotten out of my art block and decided to post some Borderlands OCs. With how disgraceful I've heard the movie is and how bad the plot and characters arcs of Borderlands 3 was, I wanted to revive my nostalgia and fix what has been broken. So, here's my own little group of Vault Hunters from left right:

Deacon: A recently ex-marauder who joined the Vault Hunters after an incident where he set his boss, a Nomad named Seymour, on fire which forced him to be on the run. He joined Raoul's space ship to escape Seymour and his goonies, and he planned to leave as soon as possible. That changed, however, when he learned that they were looking for a vault. Realizing this could help him pay Seymour to leave him alone, as well as find himself a permanent way to get himself off of Pandora, agrees to join the Vault Hunters. Deacon is a sarcastic, harsh, brash man who tends to not get along with anyone. His motives seem selfish, but the others are starting to suspect that he might not be searching the universe just for the vault...

Raoul: An optimistic, friendly man turned lab rat. He had lived a relatively peaceful life with his mother on the planet Polites (a planet I made up for the setting), before Hyperion came and took them away to be tested on. In the process of the experimentation, he was transformed halfway into a lab rat, the process only being stopped when his mother had escaped and killed the scientists doing the tests. They soon escaped the Hyperion Hub through a space pod, and landed on Pandora with a crash. Raoul survived, his mother did not. Days turned into weeks with Raoul wondering the strange, hostile landscapes of Pandora, all while gaining the unnatural hunger for flesh that all rats have. He spent years on Pandora, scavenging, surviving, hating. But that all changed when he meant a certain Gunzerker who invited him to come eat REAL good food with his Abuela. Raoul found kindness on that harsh planet, and he cherished it. In fact, one of the quotes from the Crimson Raiders "You may have murder on your mind, but it costs nothing to be kind" became a motivational quote and lifestyle for him. Seven years later, he now wants to make Pandora a better place for everyone and he spends his saved up money for a decent ship to find a crew, go out and find a vault hidden within the galaxy, and use the riches he finds to help others. But his crew is not always on the same page as him, and he finds himself worrying about going back to some old, horrible habits.

Gary: A friendly, one of a kind goliath who can take off his helmet and still somehow be in control, not attack his allies, and can still put it back on. The reasonings for this is unknown, but people around him have made theories. Gary used to be part of a bandit group who he viewed as friends. The bandits took advantage of his control with his helmet and goliath rage, believing that, because he didn't attack them due to "friendship", that they could treat him as badly as they wanted to. They would throw darts at him, get him stuck fighting bullymongs, leave him getting bit and mauled by skags, and even beat him with sticks and the butts of their guns when he did or said something they didn't like. But, worse of all, they would sometimes do target practice on him with electric weapons. He hated this most of all. He hated how it hurt. He hated how they laughed. He hated how they never even apologized. And it made him angry. It made him so angry that he had enough one day, took off his helmet, and proceeded to beat every last one of them to death. Once he was finished, he placed his helmet back on and left to go on a journey to find new and better friends, ones that wouldn't shoot him and hit him. That is when he met Raoul, who found a spot in his heart for Gary and, although still a bit cautiously, allowed him to join. Despite being dim-witted, as nearly all goliaths are, Gary is friendly, cheerful, and loves to make sure his friends are happy. He has a hobby of collecting stickers, which he will put on his helmet.

Celeste: A laid-back former Lance Assassin and mercenary. She was an orphan forced into the Lance Assassins as a little girl and was trained to be ruthless and fierce. She found this lifestyle terrible, but she was a child who was desperate to survive. When she got older, however, she started to stray from her orders and became less scared of Atlas, despite the threats given to her. She hated killing innocent people, wanting to instead use her talents to take down bandits and scumbags (like Atlas!). Things came to a halt, however, when she had a secret affair with a Pandoran man and fell pregnant. After finding this out, her commanding officer killed Celeste's lover and planned to kill Celeste as well. Celeste killed her instead, escaped and left the Lance Assassins, but not before stealing one of the Lance Assassin swords. She planned to leave a somewhat normal life (as normal as one can get on Pandora) with her baby. Unfortunately, her old squadron found her and killed her baby. In a fit of rage, she slaughtered them all and left her home, planning to never look back. She took up mercenary work for a few years before hearing about a certain lab rat wanting to travel the cosmos for a vault. Deciding it was better than what she was doing currently, she decided to join the new Vault Hunters.

#borderlands #borderlands oc #my art #might fix up later #lab rat #goliath #marauder #lance assassin #you guys can probably tell that I can't draw weapons to save my life #Raoul the lab rat #Deacon the marauder #Celeste the Lance Assassin #Gary the goliath

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stardustandash · 2 years ago

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Get By With a Little Help - Jedi Survivor

Summary: The many times the folk of Rambler’s Reach lend a helping hand to their resident Jedi, and a few times he helps them in return.Or, a series of short vignettes of Cal interacting with the folk found around Koboh.

Chapter 1 below the cut, if you prefer ao3 reading, this is the link! (Please drop in and leave a comment if you like it!)

Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort

Koboh isn’t the kind of place they write about in the Core to lure rich travellers somewhere to empty their pockets. It’s the kind of place that you end up in when you’re either running from something or too naïve to understand why the planet is so deserted. Unless you’re Turgle, who came here specifically to swindle fools, but Doma wasn’t Turgle. She’d once been a prospector, full of foolish dreams of striking it rich on an untapped planet. Then her partner had died and she had found herself alone on a backwater planet without a ship or hope of anything.

Then Doma had happened across the barest bones of what was once an outpost, and she has never been a quitter. She rallied a few prospectors and rescued a few others, and over the years a little town grew in the shade of the mountain and nestled against the slow, wide river. Others began showing up too. She didn’t care much about who was coming in back then, she still doesn’t now, as long as they aren’t raiders or agents of the so called Empire that’s burning their way through the rest of the galaxy.

So when a Jedi of all things lands at her doorstep Doma hardly blinks an eye, just gives him the lay of the land and sends him on his way. The kid seems halfway between polished and rough, but he helped out Turgle and that is enough to endear him to her somewhat. That and the priorite he has lining his pockets. Doma may be kind, but she isn’t a fool. There’s nothing that makes the galaxy go round more than getting what’s owed from credits to justice. She might have a few things a kid like him would be interested in, and she makes sure they’re on full display when he comes into Dendra’s Antiquities.

When he enters it’s a bit more energy than she’s used to from the folks around here. Not from the kid, exactly, but his little droid. The thing bounces off his shoulder and starts scanning any and everything around the shop. She watches the duo curiously from behind the counter as they inspect some old tools that Mosey’d found on an unlucky prospector over in the gulch then move on to a broken toy tooka. Not that there were any kids around to play with the thing, but you never know. Maybe the kid needs something softer than the droid to sleep with. He passes right over all the things Doma had laid out to tempt him to trade and eventually lands on the other side of the counter.

“Is there anything I can help you find?” asks Doma, slow and inviting.

“Yeah, actually. I was wondering if you have any clothes in here? I don’t mind used if that’s all you have,” says the kid. The look on his face says that he would actually mind very much but is either too desperate or too polite to say otherwise.

Doma gives him a once-over, taking in his appearance in the close proximity. While his face is clean and his hair has seen a wash sometime in the last few days, the state of his clothes say that they’re the only ones he’s got. Her eyes can pick out the lines of mending stitches beneath dirt that’s been ground into the weave of his shirt. The vest he’s wearing has seen better days too. So have his pants and boots. Probably the only set he owns then, Doma concludes. He must be one of the on the run types. Not that the Jedi part didn’t give that away.

“Sorry kid, not at the moment. At least I ain’t got anything that’ll fit you.”

“That’s okay. Does anyone else around here sell clothes?”

Doma chuckles. “I’m the only shop in business in Rambler’s Reach, though if you find an abandoned campsite out there with something in your size, chances are no one’s going to come complaining if you take it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” says the kid.

“If you’re really desperate I’m sure Mosey has something that might fit a scrawny little thing like you,” she adds.

The kid flushes nearly as red as his hair. Doma forgot that humans did that. It’s sweet. He trades for a few songs and backs out of the store before the red fully fades. Doma watches him go. The new blood’ll be good around here, breathe some life into an old, dusty town. She does make a note to procure some clothes in the right sizes for the kid. If he’s willing to trade all that priorite she may as well give him something to trade for.

It takes a while, but eventually Doma gets a healthy selection of clothes for humanoid males into the shop. Some of it’s been scrounged from abandoned camps, others from the raider’s supply. Either way, no one’s come looking for them yet, and the kid, Cal, is the only one buying. He hasn’t asked her about stocking anything else yet, and so Doma settles in to seeing him at least once every few weeks for a new shirt or pants, the last ones looking like he’d dragged them by nekko around the planet then given them to a mogu. But it works for her and it seems to work for him.

Cal doesn’t have to ask her to stock anything else, but Doma learns. She learns the hard way, as she always does. She learned she wasn’t cut out to be a prospector with the death of her partner. She learns what Cal needs when the raiders come knocking.

The sound of the scuffle is what gets her attention. Doma is in her shop when the echoes of blaster fire ring through the outpost. Screams follow, and the sound of people running. This isn’t the first time the raiders have come to Rambler’s reach however, and Doma knows from experience that having a strong figure to rally behind gives the residents here the spine to stand and fight for their home. So she grabs her rifle and steps out into the sunlight with her shoulders squared. No raider will be taking their home nor goods today.

Yet the sounds coming from the entrance to town aren’t the usual gleeful hoots and hollers from the raiders. No, there’s concern in those shouts. Fear too. And the high pitched sound of something buzzing. Doma rounds the corner and sees the gang of raiders she was expecting, both humanoid and droid together. But what she wasn’t expecting to see was the local Jedi waving his lightsaber around and handling the group by himself. For a moment she feels like she’s small again, back when tales of the mysterious Jedi coming to save a planet were still common bedtime stories. But she has never been one to revel in the past, and Cal has never really cut an imposing fairy tale figure. He does not fight like she imagined a Jedi would. He does not possess elegance and grace but rather a lethal calculation to his strikes.

Doma arms her rifle and steps towards the fray. While she appreciates the help, this is her outpost, and she can protect it. No need to get complacent and rely on a kid, no matter his background. The few raiders still standing looked between Cal and Doma and made the smart decision by turning around and heading back into the dusty hills.

“Get gone!” shouts Doma after them. “And don’t try it again!”

As she tracks the raider’s retreating backs Cal approaches her. He walks stiffly, she notes, and has a bruising ring around one eye. He grins at her as if to share a victory. As if the raiders won’t come back soon, in a week or two when he’s off planet and cannot help.

“Thanks for the assist,” says Cal.

“Usually it’s me or Mosey scarin’ em off like that. You did good,” says Doma.

Cal keeps on grinning at her. He looks half a fool, but she lets it slide. The young often fall prey to foolishness, and he doesn’t seem like one to not know his limits. Unlike a certain green idiot hanging around the outpost.

“Hey, do you have any bacta available in your shop?” asks Cal.

Doma doesn’t. A few of the residents have some stocked away for emergencies, including herself, but nothing for sale. Her eyes wander to where Cal’s hand is pressed against his ribcage, and thinks of the heavy electrostaffs she’s seen some of the raiders using.

“No bacta in the shop, I’m afraid,” she says.

A look of acceptance passes over Cal’s face. He sets his jaw against the pain as he nods and takes a few shuffling steps towards the saloon.

“I said no bacta in the shop, I didn’t say I had no bacta at all.”

Cal turns to her so fast she can’t believe he doesn’t have whiplash from it. There’s a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

“I got some stashed away just in case. I’d be willing to part with a few patches for a handful of priorite,” says Doma.

An amused grin appears on Cal’s face and he digs in his many pouches until he comes up with the required handful. Doma takes it, her large hand dwarfing Cal’s, and leads him over to the shop. He waits patiently as she slips into her living quarters and retrieves the promised bacta patches.

“Thank you,” says Cal gratefully. “Greez can’t complain too much if I already have bacta in hand.”

The last part he adds on quieter, like a thought escaping confinement. His little droid beeps in what sounds like agreement. That’s when Doma learns that she must also keep her shop stocked in bacta and probably other medical supplies. The little Jedi was going to need it if he kept throwing himself at the Bedlam Raiders. Greez would probably buy some too, now that he was shipping out with the kid across the galaxy. Yes, there was likely going to be some profit to be had from keeping bacta in supply.

Doma watches as he leaves, no doubt headed back to his and Greez’ little hideout underneath the saloon. It’s good the kid has someone looking out for him. She turns to survey her store. The shelf over on the left could use some rearranging anyways. Now all she had to do was find a good supply of bacta and she’d be rolling in priorite. She could claim it was to get more priority shards from the kid, or that it would be helping the outpost in the long run, but that wouldn’t be the whole truth. Maybe it was just her going soft as she got older, but she likes him, and if keeping clothes and bacta in stock will help him in the long run, then she is going to do it.

“Is there anything I can help you find?” asks Doma, slow and inviting.

“Sorry kid, not at the moment. At least I ain’t got anything that’ll fit you.”

“That’s okay. Does anyone else around here sell clothes?”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” says the kid.

“If you’re really desperate I’m sure Mosey has something that might fit a scrawny little thing like you,” she adds.

“Get gone!” shouts Doma after them. “And don’t try it again!”

“Thanks for the assist,” says Cal.

“Usually it’s me or Mosey scarin’ em off like that. You did good,” says Doma.

“Hey, do you have any bacta available in your shop?” asks Cal.

“No bacta in the shop, I’m afraid,” she says.

A look of acceptance passes over Cal’s face. He sets his jaw against the pain as he nods and takes a few shuffling steps towards the saloon.

“I said no bacta in the shop, I didn’t say I had no bacta at all.”

Cal turns to her so fast she can’t believe he doesn’t have whiplash from it. There’s a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

“I got some stashed away just in case. I’d be willing to part with a few patches for a handful of priorite,” says Doma.

“Thank you,” says Cal gratefully. “Greez can’t complain too much if I already have bacta in hand.”

#jedi survivor #jedi survivor fic #jedi survivor fanfic #cal kestis #doma dendra #I hope this works I’m using mobile since I’m not even in the same country as my laptop rn lol #I just happened to write so much on the plane and hit post on ao3 #fan fiction #Star Wars

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lesbiantvfish · 2 years ago

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Would Manakko be alright? Just them gossiping and about the hyperforce while snuggling and planning evil shit

Me receiving rare yoai pairing prompt:

Now here I am struggling. Do I write my trucker Mandarin? or the fantasy au Mandy..

ykw I’ll stick with the trucker this time around. There’s always time for the other idea.

(Ty for all the prompts again, ooo I got a bunch today, this is exciting stuff for my overactive brain!)

It’s not that Sakko intended to escape jail. It’s more of, some other high priority prisoner was being broken out, and Sakko’s cell just so happened to get destroyed by the attack to the moonbase.

The raiders took prisoners with them as they fled from their pursuers.

Sakko fully intended to pretend to be on either of their sides if it meant living in comfort. He didn’t know what was going on, entirely. Other than he no longer had a bed or an understanding of where or what he is supposed to eat now.

The raiders who escaped with him and the other prisoners arrived to an underground city on a planet Sakko did not recognize. The raiders now realizing how complicated it is to house all these prisoners decided to ask them if they had a place to stay, and if they could help them make contact with their connections.

Sakko couldn’t be sure if his old emergency contact hasn’t already smashed the communication line they used to share. But he knew it wasn’t like he had any other option.

Sakko held the coordinates to his current location, and a borrowed communicator.

This guy was as Sakko remembered, not that bad. Kind of obsessed, but at a time they both shared an ultimately self serving loyalty to the same ruthless boss.

Who in their right mind would serve Skeleton King selflessly? Not to imply that Mandarin was a well adjusted man. But he was one that understood the importance of keeping a technological expert close.

“.. Hello, this is Samantha’s pickup services. What brings you to this call?”

A familiar voice, but an abysmally unfamiliar line.

“… Mandarin? What exactly are you doing?”

Somewhere else, Mandarin raises his brow at the familiar voice. Sakko kept his number? Sakko had business with him, and not his clone?

Mandarin knew he needed to train himself, and gather a team he could depend on before exacting any revenge on either the hyperforce or Skeleton King.

“This is Mandarin speaking, yes. I didn’t think this was a personal call.”

“Are you doing anything right now?”

Oh boy, was he. Mandarin was hauling an entire amusement park ride in the back of his space car. But this was also his chance to regain his former companion.

“Not anything I can’t multitask. What is it that you’re calling me for?”

“The prison I was at was destroyed. Do you, um. Well, is there any way I can stay with you until I’m able to live elsewhere..?”

“You want to be a stowaway?”

Mandarin continued, feeling obligated to catch him up to speed. “Sakko, my clone stole my identity. Legally, no one considers me a criminal anymore. Anyway, sure. I’ll give you a temporary home if you’ll accept it, that is.”

“Your what?”

“It’s a good thing you called me, and not him. You see, he’d sound like me, and remember being me, but he’d ultimately trick you into losing yourself to Skeleton King. I’m not sure if you figured it out yet, but the Skeleton King can’t help us anymore.”

Sakko still felt the psychological urge to gain Skeleton King’s approval even after all the torment he put him through.

“I’ll make Skeleton King regret losing me. We were his greatest assets. …Anyway, I’ll stay anywhere that lets me eat and sleep and be myself comfortably.”

“Sakko, we’re far more than just assets. But none the less, that works with me. Where can I find you?”

—

Sakko was given new clothes, ones that apparently belonged to a doll. He made it work. The skirt had suspenders, and even functional pockets.

Sakko tried to adjust the ribbon around his new shirt collar just right, as his second impression on Mandarin was significant enough to give himself a new home. Even if it does turn out to be temporary.

A large cargo ship landed nearby. It had a gigantic advertisement on the side for a new theme park. As the door opened, Sakko saw a familiar set of purple feet step out.

Sakko spoke first at the sight of Mandarin’s appearance.

“Man, lose the shades. We’re underground, you know.”

“No. Do you have any luggage?”

“What do you think? The moonbase prison confiscated all my projects and materials. Even my goddamn wardrobe. My favorite blue crop top? Gone.”

“That is rough. You looked fantastic in that one.”

Suddenly, a crowd unaware of Sakko almost stampeded over him.

Mandarin scooped him up by his suspenders, and put him on his shoulders to move onto the cargo ship. It seemed this place was getting too crowded for a proper conversation to catch up with one another.

Sakko clung securely to Mandarin, and felt a comfortable sense of security wash over him. He was so glad his connection to Mandarin seemed to be intact.

#I am not the best ship writer in my opinion!! Hope this is still ok #seriously I can’t even do my otps justice I’m being honest #srmthfg #gil answering post #gil writings tag #manakko

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aith-art · 2 years ago

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Yeehawgust 2023 - Day 9

Masked Bandit

Word Count - 786

Izzy’s POV

The Mojave was warm. I mean, it was a desert, but it was a heat unlike any of the deserts on Pandora. The building we were hiding in was cooler than outside. A small apartment building in ‘fiend’ territory. Not that I knew what a fiend was, or why they were so problematic. Bed roles were laid out, a fire was started, rations were shared.

Jules and Leroy had gone on a supply run, something about them needing to talk. I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust any of them. Arcade and Boone, the two men who had stayed at the camp, both shared in the distrust of Jules and I. The robot caught my interest, but I haven’t been given a chance to study it.

Boone took watch through what was left of a window. His sniper rifle was simple. Though this was a world where the mega-corporations don’t exist. Where the fast fire of a Vladof gun of any kind didn’t exist. It looked closer to a Jakobs gun. Or I guess, Jakobs guns were based on his sniper rifle. His was old. Well used and loved. Held together with tape and wire.

“We’ve got incoming.” His voice was measured and monotone.

Arcade stood from his spot by the fire. His pistol in hand. “There goes the peace and quiet.”

Both Boone and Arcade stood in the window. Guns ready.

Izzy stood behind them, watching the people on the horizon. Hats, masks and guns. People coming on the offencive to take whatever we had. In this world my echo doesn’t work, I have no gun and I doubt any of my current company would willingly hand me a gun. The strangers got closer, with guns out and pointing in our general direction. Boone didn’t give the masked bandit leader a chance to speak before he lodged a .308 round into his head. Arcade took that as the signal to open fire and pulled the trigger. His gun was some form of energy weapon, green light in short blasts fired from the barrel. It was close to the energy blasters Atlas had been experimenting with.

In the blink of an eye the bandits were gone. Bodies, ash and goop were all that were left of the groups of bandits.

Jules and Leroy returned a few hours later, with a warmer atmosphere and a bag full of ammo. They’d also found some old food in an old building. I didn’t know what preservatives had been put into the food and I didn’t want to find out.

As we all sat around the fire, Leroy took a perch at the window. He looked in enough to be part of the conversation. Discussions of the day's events came up and Arcade recounted the bandit attack. My mind thought back to the bandits of Pandora, crazed and broken by the corporations. The masks that they wear, stained with blood and branded with the vault symbol. The bandits of the Mojave were saner, though the people around me insisted on calling them raiders. Viper Gang members. Bandits seem more organised here. On Pandora they followed whoever hit hardest. Or whoever scared them the most. This led to many of the Vault Hunters becoming bandit leaders or cult gods (Long story). I thought back to all the bandits I’d killed with my Jakob’s Sniper and Dahl pistol. I considered how some would have defined me as a bandit, what had happened to me when I was considered a bandit by someone close to me.

Staring into the fire, I let my thoughts of home consume me. Cause that’s what Pandora was to me, a home. A weird, deadly, mildly insane planet. I suppose it wasn’t too different to the desert I’d found myself in.

Jules shuffled over to me. “You okay? You’ve been staring at the fire for a few minutes.”

I smiled at them, pulling myself back into the moment, rubbing down my right arm to dispel the tingling sensation from the woulds I kept wrapped up and hidden. “I’m fine. Just thinking back to my home.”

“I understand missing home. I… I don’t know what became of my home in this - world? Timeline? I don’t even know anymore.”

“We’ll make it home. Somehow.”

“I’m still trying to work out how. Big MT might have some answers. But if this world thinks I'm dead there’s a high chance they won't be willing to help.” Jules continued muttering under their breath about brains and a think tank.

I observed the others as the sun set, knowing that I would find a way home, hoping that the men we were sharing a camp with didn’t betray us in the night.

#fallout new vegas #fallout #jules courier 6 #courier six #fallout nv #new vegas #self insert #fallout oc #yeehawgust 2023 #yeehawgust #icarus borderlands #borderlands #borderlands oc #leroy clayton ncr courier #arcade gannon #craig boone #ed e

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regalium-gravitas · 2 years ago

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» About «

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

Profile

Designation: Optimus Prime Universal stream: Tyran Alt mode: Semi truck Plating: Blue & silver, with red decals Optics: Cyan Height: 8.5m / 28 ft Enneagram: 6w5

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Personality

Optimus at his core is a gentle-sparked nerd, wanting nothing more than to live a peaceful life absorbing knowledge and engaging in science and archaeology. Unfortunately, the world is not so kind to him, forcing him to harden against it if he wishes to protect what he loves. Already carrying trauma of loss from his youth, he becomes aggressive in his defensiveness as more and more is taken from him. His senses of morality and hope battle with learned cynicism, often seeming to oscillate as they tug in one direction or the other. Once his trust is fully broken, it is difficult to win back, and he is willing to kill for the hope to return to peace.

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Background

Though born to a Prime, young Optimus was not told of his identity. He resided with his creators in a hidden, well-protected village away from the more contested parts of Cybertron, shielded from the constant battles over the dwindling supply of energon that spread across the planet. They had their own small mine to support them, and the child Prime began his life sheltered in conservative comfort.

But despite his creators' best efforts, such sheltering was doomed to fail. What they had attracted raiders, and though they could effectively defend themselves, there came an occasion when the attack was larger than expected, with a newly engineered weapon they had no counter for. Optimus' creators bid their precious sparkling take shelter in a concealed energon cellar in their home, an order he obeyed as he always did between raids. With a supply of fuel and minerals to sate the cravings of his growing frame, he could wait as long as necessary for the battle above to conclude. This one, however, never seemed to end. The time dragged on twice, three times, ten times as long as any raid had been before, and neither his carrier nor sire came to retrieve him. Finally he did what he'd been told never to do, and ventured outside of his hiding place.

What he found was a ghost town. Bodies of familiar mecha were strewn along the streets, torn and broken. A few who surrendered were simply missing, taken away as hostages, but his creators were valiant fighters, and both lay now among the slain. Optimus was alone. His energon supply dwindled with no one to restock it, and loneliness burrowed into his spark. As a result, when one cycle he heard a commotion approaching, he couldn’t help but stay out to peer through a window, just to be able to see a living mech.

The one who found him was Sentinel Prime, and though Optimus didn't know it, he'd come exclusively to search for him. He told stories filled with hope and made promises of chances to learn still more, and after they gave the husks of Optimus' creators a respectful burial, the young one left his old home to follow him. Sentinel became his mentor and guardian, and he soon came to view his fellow pupils Megatron and Elita One as siblings, granting him a sense of something like family. It was not an overtly affectionate one, but he valued it nonetheless. His best friends, meanwhile, were books. He soaked up knowledge like a sponge, finding particular interest in science and history but devouring other areas of information as well.

After reaching maturity, he fought alongside his mentor and adoptive siblings for Sentinel's vision of uniting Cybertron, and together they succeeded in tethering their planet to a star, bringing light to their world and powering the Allspark, revitalizing the natural production of energon and setting off a new golden era. Sentinel tried to offer him leadership, telling him at last of his heritage, but Optimus could not believe that he was worthy, nor truly a Prime, and declined. Instead, he oversaw Cybertron's division of science, while Megatron ruled its defense. The life of peace that followed was everything Optimus could have wanted. He absorbed himself in his study of history and science, feeding his passion for knowledge without the worries of war or survival weighing upon him. He'd found stability after spending all of his youth in strife, and was finally happy—so much that he was blind to his brother's jealous resentment and early signs of betrayal. Megatron wanted more power, and Optimus let him take it when he claimed the excuse of needing to protect their way of life more effectively.

An archaeological discovery eventually lead Optimus to the realization that what Sentinel had told him of his heritage was true. Shaken by the thought, he still tried to deny it to himself. He didn't want to be a Prime. Sentinel was the Prime. He only lead in science. But the evidence remained regardless of his feelings about it, and, giving in, he began in secret to research what this meant his duties should be.

Meanwhile, Megatron’s ambitions only continued to grow, and clashes between the two of them became more frequent as he tried to encroach on Optimus' areas of leadership and demanded Optimus rally his science division for war against neighboring aliens. Though the aliens had struck first, Optimus maintained the view that they should only engage in defense, and furthermore that his own division should not be on the frontlines—they were scientists, not warriors, and he later called a meeting to entreat them to ignore Megatron’s demands and instead stay at his side.

Seeking answers to explain his brother's sudden compulsion for war, and took an opportunity to investigate his personal quarters, but found only that an artifact he’d earlier brought there for safekeeping had been restored to pristine condition, and though this was strange, he reasoned that Megatron must have cleaned it up. What he did not realize was that the artifact was sentient and had been communicating with Megatron. The consciousness within it—the mythical Fallen, one of the original dynasty of Primes who had defied the others and attempted to harvest the Sun of an inhabited world—told Megatron of Optimus's snooping. Megatron took this an as excuse to arrest Optimus for treason, and to ambush him along the way in attempt to kill his companions.

Realizing his brother would not see reason, Optimus at last publicly acknowledged his own true title and stood up in opposition against him. Megatron was threatening their peace, their freedom, the life of abundance and potential that meant so much to him. Optimus did not seek war, but he would do what it took to protect the peaceful citizens who relied upon him. He would fight for the right to remain peaceful.

That resolve lead only to destruction; Megatron would not be stopped, and battles ravaged their planet, death surrounding them all over again. But Sentinel had a plan. With his new invention, the space bridge carried on his Ark, all of the Autobots could escape to find a new life and future. This was their final plan, their final hope. With this, they could be free again.

And then an explosion lit up the sky. Sentinel's Ark… had been shot. Optimus’s mentor and paternal guardian was dead, and all of their hopes with him. Despair and grief tore into Optimus's spark, soon turning to anger as he fixated onto Megatron—Megatron had done all of this. He had started this war, had taken all they had, all they'd once fought for. All of this was because of him, and would only end with him. Optimus would take him down, no matter the cost. Even if he had to die, had to abandon his friends…

In the end he found enough reason to back down from his suicide mission, but he could not forgive Megatron. Without Sentinel's space bridge and no other options left now, he gave the order to launch the Allspark into space, plunging Cybertron back into darkness and dooming their species to a slow starvation once again. When Megatron left to chase after the Allspark, Optimus realized his folly and, leaving the other Autobots to evacuate on the remaining Ark without him, selected a small group of volunteers to join him in racing his brother to the relic, a hunt that would lead them both to Earth.

Even when humans acted against the Autobots, Optimus was unwilling to deploy force against them, recognizing that the smaller aliens were not so different from Cybertronians. Fortunately a certain human by the name of Samuel Witwicky was willing to help him, and when Optimus told his new friend to go through with a last resort plan to keep the Allspark out of Megatron's hands by pushing it into his chest to destroy it along with his own spark, Sam disobeyed and released its energy into Megatron's spark instead, effectively ending the Cybertronian war and saving Optimus’s life in the process. Optimus was deeply grateful, and since Cybertron could no longer be restored, he chose to stay on Earth, working together with a specially founded military group called NEST to protect the planet from the remaining Decepticons.

But of course things could not end that easily. A shard of the Allspark was stolen and used to resurrect Megatron, while Sam, who had been imprinted with the knowledge contained in a second shard, was abducted. Optimus fought to save the boy, and gave his life in the process. Sam and his other human allies then learned that an ancient traitor Prime known as the Fallen had returned and intended to harvest the sun… and only another Prime could stop him. The key the Fallen sought—the legendary Matrix of Leadership—also possessed the power to revive Optimus, and so began the race for it. Sam once again saved Optimus's life, and the Fallen was defeated for good.

During the time that followed, the ruins of Sentinel’s ship were discovered on the Earth's moon, and Optimus used the Matrix to resurrect his mentor. Delighted to have him back, Optimus offered to concede Autobot leadership to him, but Sentinel refused, saying in a display of humility that Optimus was the mentor now. This was all a ruse. Once he had been welcomed into the NEST base and given access to top secret information, Sentinel turned on the Autobots and killed Ironhide, before revealing that he had made a deal with Megatron during the war. In shock, Optimus tried to confront him, but Sentinel was unmoved by his words, and used his intact space bridge pillars to bring in an army of Decepticons to launch an assault on the city. He then defeated Optimus in battle during the chaos, but spared his life in belief that he would come to his side. When Optimus refused, Sentinel publicly denounced the Autobots as rebels, leading humanity to believe that Earth would be freed if they exiled them into space.

Optimus did not wish to overstay his welcome, but suspected Decepticon treachery, and so only pretended to comply while hiding along with his soldiers within one of the ship's rocket boosters. Sam asked desperately about the plan before the launch, but after experiencing such a deep betrayal, Optimus's capacity for trust had been broken… and he lied that there was none—a lie that proved fortunate, because Sam was bugged and being blackmailed by Decepticons with a hostage under threat. So the Autobots were only presumed dead when Starscream fired upon the launching ship, and were there to save the human race yet again when Sentinel tried to bridge them to Cybertron as slaves to rebuild infrastructure. Even when Megatron asked for a truce and Sentinel begged for mercy, Optimus slew them both. They were traitors and he could not trust them not to betray again.

Gratitude from the humans was in short supply. The Autobots had to shoulder blame for the decimation of Chicago, and soon both sides were ruthlessly hunted by a human group in the company of Cybertronian bounty hunter Lockdown. Several were lost, and Optimus himself was injured, taking refuge among piles of scrap in an abandoned building as a missile in his chassis sent him into stasis. He was found by inventor Cade Yeager, who removed the missile and performed some repairs, awakening him. Though Cade intended to keep Optimus hidden, his friend sold them out in hope of a bounty, and the men who arrived threatened to shoot Cade's daughter if he did not reveal the Prime's location. The commotion alerted Optimus and he burst from his hiding place to aid his new friend, providing a distraction while the humans escaped before rendezvousing with them and the remaining Autobot survivors.

With Cade's help, they learned the humans responsible were KSI agents, and that they were melting down Autobots and Decepticons alike to obtain materials to build artificial Transformers. Enraged, Optimus stormed the building, destroying the building and threatening the agents before calming and leaving, deflated—killing these humans would not bring back those gone. No sooner were they gone than KSI sent their creations after them including “Galvatron”, who was none other than a rebuilt Megatron and would not obey their commands. The fight was interrupted by Lockdown capturing Optimus, where he learned of the so-called “Creators” who had hired the bounty hunter, before his fellow Autobots rescued him. He had little motivation now to protect humanity again as Galvatron prepared to detonate a terraforming seed in Hong Kong, but Cade convinced him to have faith in their potential.

After the battle was won, Optimus resolved to chase down the one who had sent Lockdown. He found Quintessa on Cybertron, but, weakened by his wounds from the battle on Earth and depleted energon from his journey, the Prime was easily overpowered by her psychic ability and squad of servants. She chained him up, entering his mind to exploit memories from his past, all the while delivering strategically timed painful shocks. Digging into his buried insecurities, she shredded his self worth by giving him full blame for Cybertron's downfall, then extended a veil of generosity in an offer for redemption if he would only obey her. Broken, he accepted.

Now christened “Nemesis Prime”, Optimus returned to Earth to seek an ancient staff for Quintessa, prepared to cut down anyone who stood in his way. With all of his other old friends dead, only Bumblebee was able to get through to his buried sense of self. Optimus remembered his morals, that he would not sacrifice another planet to bring back Cybertron. But the damage Quintessa had done remained, and he gave in to despair, ready to accept his death as the guardians prepared to execute him. After Cade convinced them to let him live, he dragged himself up to save the Earth yet again, only the habit of duty giving him strength.

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srmthfgrimworld · 2 years ago

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Game 1: Part 25

The timeskip was before this!

(I’ve decided to stop writing this day by day, there isn’t enough to write about even combining multiple days anymore)

The monkeys decided to decorate Nevil’s grave with candles, a plant and some photos, they wanted to grow flowers next to the grave once the weather allowed it.

Antauri was quite heart broken, Mandarin was also upset to lose the first friend he’d met here.

More pigmen came, probably looking for Mandarin.

He explained that he’d caused quite a commotion when he escaped, so he was expecting them to come back for him.

The trap tunnel proved effective against the raiders, they would run blindly into the tunnel and fall into the spike traps. This was good news, it meant that aslong as the monkeys stayed in their base during raids, they should be okay.

Nova and Mandarin were a bit worried about Antauri, he wasn’t himself since Nevil died. Nova had stepped up to be the medic of the group, she noticed that Antauri was complaining about a lot of headaches, and he seemed to be forgetting things.

One night, Nova presented her and Mandarin’s daughter to Antauri.

Antauri had no clue that Nova had been expecting a child for some time now. The two had decided to keep it a surprise, they named her Amara.

They explained with Nevil passing and Antauri spending most of his time at the spirit tree, it was easy to keep it a secret.

The three talked about old times, wondering where the rest of their team were.

Antauri explained that he had been living in a cave until he’d seen the smoke from the barn that fateful night. Again, his memory was clouded, but the two didn’t expect him to remember anything anymore, it had been a long time and Antauri had began showing signs of struggling with his memory.

Mandarin wasn’t sure why, but Nova explained that she suspected it came from a raid when Mandarin had been kidnapped. Antauri sustained heavy head injuries and slept for over a week. They thought he’d die, but he survived.

Mandarin and Nova decided to get married, Antauri leading the ceremony, he was sad again that Nevil wasn’t here, but he could see the grave from this spot.

Amara was very sweet, she couldn’t walk or even crawl yet, they hoped that they could provide a future here for her. Off course, they spoke about building a ship and leaving this planet, but that would require a lot of stuff they still didn’t have.

One night as a slave caravan stopped by their base, they couldn’t believe their eyes, Gibson!

They paid the coin for him and took him inside quickly. He was freezing, so they had him sit by the fire.

Gibson was so happy to see them, he thought they had died. He explained that he’d found a city, worked for a king as his scientific advisor. But- the king was murdered and Gibson had been blamed for it.

Gibson had escaped death, but he was captured by the slavers while escaping the city.

They asked if he’d seen Otto or Sprx, but he hadn’t.

The team sighed and they hugged it out, maybe Sprx and Otto were still alive.

Gibson was shocked to see Amara, and that Mandarin and Nova were the parents. It took him a while to get used to this new Mandarin. He was a lot... kinder than how he’d remembered him.

This Mandarin pulled his weight, got involved with building, hunting, cooking and whatever else needed doing. Gibson admitted that he hadn’t learned a lot of survival skills since he’d been in a castle this entire time.

The three didn’t care, they were happy to have him back.

Plus, Gibson could help them get the base really running forward in terms of tech and power.

The base was looking better than ever, they now had a freezer for their food, heaters for the rooms during winter and lights they could use instead of wooden torches. It was still a mess, but it was getting there.

Mandarin was determined to find Sprx and Otto, then they could work on getting out of here.

#srmthfg #super robot monkey team hyperforce go #chapter #game1 #Mandarin #Nova #Amara #Gibson #Antauri

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drunkenskunk · 8 months ago

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I HAVE BEEN SUMMONED.

Okay, I feel like a lot of people don't understand what is actually happening when they hear AdMech tech priests talk about "machine spirits," and assume that the crazy robed space wizard IT dorks are just being ignorant and superstitious about technology. And, yeah, they kind of are, but that's also not the whole story. Because "machine spirits" are VERY real, at least when it comes to technology used by the Imperium. And to understand this, we need to talk a little about Mars.

Mars is a shithole. This isn't some fancy utopian paradise of hyper-advanced technology that the Mechanicus has been hoarding away from the rest of the Imperium out of jealousy and greed since the Dark Age of Technology. No, it is an anarchic hellish nightmare of melted steel and broken concrete. The "safe zones" on the surface are toxic, blighted, irradiated wastelands, constructed atop the ruins and bones of all those who came before. And what lies just below the surface is significantly worse.

There's shit on Mars from the Dark Age of Technology, the War with the Iron Men, the Age of Strife, and the Heresy. Kilometers of labyrinthine corridors full of rogue machinery, self-aware and malevolent AI from before the Age of Strife, and daemonic machines and warp-spawned techno viruses from the Heresy. Ancient horrors, viruses both normal and daemonic, corrupted databases and fragments of fragments of fragments of rogue AI war programs: all of this and more is waiting down there. This is why they spend so much time and effort trying to find off-world STCs instead of trying to send expeditions down below or deciphering the databases. Nearly every single stored record on Mars has been rendered unusable thanks to so many cascading apocalypses over the millennia, and the few that survived? Half the time, the file itself is self-aware and doesn't like you, or it's genuinely daemonic and actively trying to kill you.

And it's that self-aware part that we need to focus on here, because it's not something that's brought up a lot. Trillions upon trillions upon trillions of self-aware programs flourished during the Dark Age of Technology, smashed and fragmented during the war with the Iron Men, and further corrupted by the Heresy. Every piece of technology in the Imperium that can conceivably hold some kind of programming does, even if it's only a fragment of a shard of a program. Echoes and ghosts, confused and angry, as if it were a "spirit" dwelling within the machine. And you better fucking please that spirit, or it is going to do everything in it's power to ruin your day. It might not be too bad if it's just a lasgun, where the only thing it can do is make the gun not work or fire off randomly... but what if it's something like a Land Raider? Or a Warlord Titan? Or a multi-kilometer long starship with the firepower to blow up a planet?

This is the reality of the Machine Spirit: they do genuinely exist, as forgotten and unintended byproducts of how technology is constructed by the AdMech. Every piece of technology in the Imperium is built from schematics found in STCs, and they don't have the time or resources to reverse engineer this shit, so they just follow the instructions, and do their best not to piss off what comes out. As a result, they sometimes end up applying these principles of "placating the machine spirit" to pieces of technology that don't actually have machine spirits, purely out of habit. And it makes sense, because they're so used to dealing with shit like tanks which - if not talked to just right - might go rogue and level half a continent before they can shut it down or blow it up.

This is also why the AdMech is a cargo cult, and why they don't like anyone besides themselves fucking with technology. When you're dealing with things you barely understand, because every piece of knowledge that could exist to explain it was destroyed, then being a cargo cult is the safest and most reliable option. The rituals don't exist purely for the sake of mysticism, they exist because it's the most practical means of building, repairing, and maintaining the equipment they have with what little knowledge survives. It's so rare to find anything from before the Fall that still works and isn't actively malevolent, they can't risk some fuckwit screwing with it and accidentally breaking it, because a lot of this shit is genuinely irreplaceable, because they no longer have the means to make more.

Sure, they don't understand why pressing that button makes it go, because the manual was self-aware and tried to take over the brain of the last tech priest to take a look, but they've trial-and-errored their way into a system that is usually almost reliable... sometimes. They've resorted to ritualizing the whole process, purely out of desperation, because all the other copies of the manual are either lost or unreadable, and the knowledge base that would let them reverse-engineer this technology was destroyed thousands of years ago and cannot be rebuilt. The only way it can be rebuilt is to completely start over from scratch, and that took mankind TWENTY FIVE THOUSAND YEARS to develop the first time, during an age of unprecedented growth and prosperity.

And the Imperium of Man simply does not have that kind of time anymore. Because this is what happens when you live in a setting where every single character, from every single faction, has consistently made the absolute worst decision it was possible to conceive, at every single point in time, constantly.

It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods...

… curious about something

#warhammer 40k #adeptus mechanicus #admech #40k #wh 40k #machine spirits

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