walhallah-blog1

[walhallah-blog1]

semi-hiatus notice !! y’all that have my skype can hit me up on skype, but application season is starting and i’m dying a few times a day here. replies will be slooooow here and on max. 

[walhallah-blog1]

   The sight of the knife gets him hot-blooded and ready for a fight, and at first he doesn’t notice she’s a GIRL. Ferals all look the same, after all, dirty in a completely different way than ENGINE GREASE gets you dirty, and wild in a completely different way than a FIGHT gets you wild. She’s dirty enough, and wild enough, but it takes another beat for him to connect her hair to her eyes to her body and realize ------ ---- -- -

      - -- ---- ---------    “ Drop it,   RUSTY,   or I’m                                       callin’ the rest of THEM. ”

the sands played no part in hiding lara, even if she had hoped the height of the dune could somehow shield her from the unknown dangers of the world. it was practically like hunting – if the prey catches a whiff of you, they then become the predator.   she sees the warboy approach with a smile as evil as the demons they had shunned in her tribe. her breathing comes in frightened gasps. her hands and feet struggle to crawl away from him, but the salt causes her to slip. she comes to her last resort – a puny switchblade pulled from her pocket, pointing it at him. “don’t touch me!”

[walhallah-blog1]

       He takes a long, deep breath, filling his ROTTING lungs, smile still laying languid across his features, pushing old scars out of the way to carve itself out of his battered face. On the exhale, his shoulders shake, but whether he’s laughing WITH her or AT her, it’s not clear. 

              “ Big one’s from a KNIFE FIGHT, ”   he tells her, with more than a little pride.   “ This one’s when my car flipped. They had to STAPLE me back together, ”   Slit grins, standing up straighter now that there’s something worth talking about to talk about. 

[ her eyes close for a moment. perhaps she’s thinking,   perhaps she’s wondering if she can just disappear.   the conversation is a strange one. highly irregular,   too. not often is it that anyone pays her any mind.   looking at him from under her eyelashes, she tilts her   head to the size. her heart and its state is   momentarily forgotten. she looks to his face as if   seeing him for the first time. ]

‘Look at that smile.’ 

[ she mutters, one of her own curling onto her   dark-painted lips. ]

‘I’ve seen scars like that before, on bodies in a morgue.                             You didn’t bleed out?’ 

[ very suddenly, she appears lucid. inching closer to him,   she looks at him with heightened interest. ]

‘Or maybe you did.’

[walhallah-blog1]

            “ C’MOOOON.           What’ll it take ? ”              He takes his hands from his pockets,               advancing slowly.  “ Did I hurt your               FEELINGS, fuckin’ pig ? ” He reaches              out to give the metal chest a SHOVE.

       “There is absolutely no reason for          you to be this crass. I’m not a cop          ‘bot. And you went ahead and          implied I was an officer, which meant          I was a pig!”

             “I– look.               You’re not getting anything. Stop.”

[walhallah-blog1]

   The first thing he realizes is that his Blood Bag doesn’t have the decency to fight like a War Boy. It’s between bringing up his arm to block the sand from his EYES and being tackled to the floor, wind knocked out of him, that he decides enough is enough. If he has to fight dirty, he can. The throng of War Boys seems to recede, their shouts and whoops backing down to a dull roar in the back of Slit’s mind. It’s absolutely NARCOTIC, the sound reverberating in his very BONES. When his head clears, adrenaline has taken over where pain once was, and he charges the Blood Back, tackling him right back and pressing their foreheads together, like when he fights with other Boys. 

               “ MEDIOCRE. ” 

      With a sick grin, blood between his teeth, he brings his head back and forward again, as hard as he can. 

           it was STUPID, it was IDIOTIC, & now he’s FUCKED, because not only            is he weak, tapped of blood & dehydrated & with muscles cramped from            disuse, but he’s never been decent when it comes to a FIGHT. he spills            onto the rocky floor with a hard grunt, flakes of sand & shale slicing across            his cheekbone & exacerbating the patchwork of bruises & cuts that detail            half of his face. his shoulder aches dully, hand tingling & numb from the            blood still pulsing out through the tube. he wraps his free hand around the            tube, wrenches the needle free of his arm with a wince, tastes the blood            that sprays freely into his face before he’s struggling to yank off his belt,            binding his upper arm in a clumsy tourniquet. still, streams of crimson            paint his skin like joints drawn on a doll, & he smiles almost pleasantly            at the enraged war boy, scrambling to his feet with hand still clamped over            the crook of his elbow to stem the flow of blood.

                                    “ rather no’, mate,                                       but ta very much fer lettin’ me stretch me legs. “

             he backs up warily  & slips into a crouch, all too aware that his path of              escape is blocked, hand scrabbling in the dirt for a handful of sand,              & as slit turns back to him, he flings the sand full into his face, following              with a clumsy charge forward, shoulder driving forward at the war boy’s              sternum. as soon as slit gets it together, he knows, he’s absolutely fucked ;              no point in playing  N I C E .

                         “ WITNESS ME, COCKSUCKER! “

[walhallah-blog1]

   The image of a machine just as PERFECT, just as CHROME, coming to life and naming itself, again and again, across the wasteland, in every mechanic’s pit and every makeshift fix-it lean-to by the side of the road, springs to his mind. It’s BEAUTIFUL, Slit decides, whatever this thing is running on. 

       It’s not beautiful enough to make him forget that he’s been half the day in the sun, without a blood bag, without water, without his War Party. The thought makes his stomach twist uncomfortably, but he shoves it down ---- he’s got far more IMPORTANT things to work on now. 

                ( Like explaining why he really can’t use that chrome under any circumstances. ) 

    “ No, no, that’s -- it’s PAINT, not grease. ”    A thought occurs to him, and Slit can’t help but be a LITTLE hopeful.   “ If -- Back at the CITADEL, where I came from, there’s supplies, and water, and more   P E O P L E . . . ”   He turns the dented little can over and over in his hands, memorizing every pock-mark on its surface. It’s strange, being alone. While he’s working, it feels normal, forgettable, but the REALIZATION that his Pack is nowhere to be seen makes him feel SMALL. Or, smaller than normal. 

                                    WHO NAMED YOU?

     and who abandoned you before you were even born? who deemed you too insufficient to even bother with bestowing you the finality of CONSCIOUSNESS? who left you all alone while the world outside crumbled and turned to radioactive rust– who made you crawl out of the stream of unawareness on your own– who– who would even do such a cruel thing– who would let someone come ALIVE in a DYING WORLD?! ( a synthetic soul trapped in decaying body of civilization that was meant to be PROTECTED BY HIM– but he got here too late. no purpose. no purpose at all. ).

                                               ❛ NOBODY. Had to take it myself. ❜

      had to dig it out of half-erased files, PROJECT ULTRON, the peacekeeping initiative– right now, his entire existence means nothing, he is of no use to this world, the apocalypse has already passed– and sometimes he can’t help but to think that HIS would have been so much… PURER AND MORE DIVINE. more merciful, that’s for CERTAIN. optics flicker slightly and he focuses on flexing chrome fingerjoints, distracting himself with the smoothness of his holy movement– well, an improvement, at last.

        ❛ Not bad– seriously, nice job. Can’t remember when was the last time it all worked so neatly. I mean, I’d kill for some grease or anything like that but beggars can’t be choosers, right? ❜  he pauses and his gaze focuses on the mysterious object which seemed to devour most of Slit’s attention. ❛ –because you certainly don’t have any grease there…? ❜

[walhallah-blog1]

     The promise of CANS is enough to distract him, reaching up with one hand with no thought to where the MAN is, where the DOG is, where his gun’s pointed . . . His fingers barely brush fabric and then the ground falls out from under him. 

      “ -------- ---- -- - Ah !! ”

    The shock of being hurt almost entirely trumps the PAIN. This is EXCITING !! This is FINE. He could do this all day. This is blood. This is nothing. This is fine. The dog is strong, though, and he’s hungry. If it would just -- stop -- BITING -- 

       “ DOWN !! Down, you little bastard ---- -- - !!!! ”

    He manages to pin it eventually, though he’s bitten sore and feeling it in his bones, and the cans have rolled all over the place, and he had to get on top of it, with its snapping yellow teeth right in his face, in biting reach. He’s tired. It’s fine. It’s disgusting. ( He dropped the gun at some point. ) Impulsively, because it seems like the thing to do, he bites it back, on the snout, and it stops kicking. His mouth tastes like sand and dirt and dog. 

                  “ I hope you weren’t ATTACHED                      to    this    mangy    old    thing.  ”

     There was slight hesitation from the opponent – anticipating a more violent reaction from Max, he suspected. Dog was growling, nigh feral now, only calm because his companion hadn’t attacked yet; it’d only take one sudden move…              “FRIENDS. Right.” 

     He steps back toward the car. He puts a hand between the door handle and the hot metal, and the door’s pulled open. The canine slips out to curl behind his companion’s legs – still growling, but still waiting. Good dog. Max leaned in slightly to rummage for a rucksack filled with cans. He grabbed it, and paused to look at the stranger.              “Food, y’ said? — – - Catch.”

     The second the bag was airborne, the canine broke lose – teeth bared and eyes wide. The Dog latched onto the opponent’s arm with enough force to knock him over ( were his weight what Max anticipated it to be ).

[walhallah-blog1]

         VERY QUICKLY HEY HERE’S THE DEAL.  i’m on vacation! i don’t have my own room! i don’t have wifi! we’re doing stuff every single day! i’ll work on drafts in the bg, but i can’t do anything but queue until i get home, late on the 16TH. in the meantime, here’s another disgusting cross-promo for MAX and SLIT, and i’ll see you on the flipside!

[walhallah-blog1]

alright, so while i am doing a giveaway: i’m not entirely sure what i’m gonna give away yet so in the meantime to celebrate a whopping two-hundred followers i’m doing a follow forever. so far this is my best received canon yet and i’m just kind of in awe of you guys and this fandom tbh. it’s even actually made me appreciate baneposting. 

THE WAR RIG CREW.

slitdevoted: okay i never actually expected us to become friends like we have. you let me bounce ideas off of you, gush about the pairing we have, and flail about different aus. you’re one of the easiest people to talk to and you write slit in such a realistic way i’m just kind of in awe tbh.

offreedxm: headcanon twinsie! tbh i wouldn’t be here if you didn’t yell at me to do it. it’s kind of scary how likeminded we are on canons, aus, and where the pieces should fall. i’m so excited for our twins verse tbh and you’re so nice?? like??? idgi. 

hiighoctane / walhallah: we don’t talk nearly as much as i would like us to, but i love your portrayals.

boundforvalhalla: we only really started talking but i love the ideas we’ve come up with so far for nux and toast. you’re a great writer and your portrayal is awesome tbh. 

dcliverance: you are so nice??? like, you’re genuinely a sweetheart and your capable is so on point like??? honestly, you’re such a joy to see on the dash and we need to write together more.

THE WARBOYS.

people i really admire though may not write with.  you guys are fantastic tbh, and i really love your writing.

alwaysxcapable, ameaningfuldeath, andglassing, animalcoeur, berserkerwez, blondedagger, bymydeeds, capablequeen, cognosse, cropsforthecitadel, deathtrxpped, diehistoric, dieselisms, efficientqueen, elegantscumbag, empathised, femmortanjoe, furiiosa, furiosahh, gildedmarauder, gizthewizwarboy, gloryawaits, havokreign, heavyfuriousoul, igothisboot, imperatxrfuriosa, knowsbullets, keepmuzzled, livcagain, loyalhound, madmcx, maskdad, meatrunner, mechanux, mxdam, notmcdiocre, ofinsanidad, ofthev8, ogjer, piirateking, queenangharad, roadwcrrior, reddustwander, splcndid sonoftheimmortan, thcdag, the-mekanik, theratcircus, theroadwarriior, thewarboy, valcryy, valkyrieofsalt, warlancerslit, wastemother, xfvriosa, ximmortanjoex.

[walhallah-blog1]

         “ A HEART ? ”  He goes quiet for a moment, PENSIVE. “ I’ve got one lying around somewhere. ” Boy, what he wouldn’t give to trip like she’s doing. And here he thought he’d tried it ALL. “ ‘S got a few MILES on it, but it should work. ”

        “ You’re right about ONE thing, though . . . ” He pats his pockets with a grin, as if looking for it, and pulls them inside out when he doesn’t find it. His GRIN would be a lot more charming if not for the scars marring the side of his face from lip to ear. “ It IS bloody. ”

‘Flattery will get you everywhere. How clever of you.’ 

[ her smile is like a gash across the lower half of her   pallid face. she is breathing, but in her own,   cramped little mind, she is not living. her   bloodstream is unpoisoned, her vision is clear   but her brain is so very sick. falling silent for a   moment, she stifles a sob. she’s gone quiet. ]

‘I don’t want your bloody lungs. I’m in need a of a heart.’

[walhallah-blog1]

             “ -- -- -- TAKE ?               Who’s TAKING ? ”

    He brings the gun away from the man, to his car, to his dog, to his gas, looking for a reaction. When he can’t see one, he levels it with the man’s head again, finger dangerously shaky on the trigger. GODS, was he hungry. Gas meant power meant distance meant food. Dog meant meat meant food. Man meant meat meant food. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t starve. That was a START. 

            “ You’re   going   to   GIVE                it to me. Like, FRIENDLY.                ‘Cause       we’re       such                 F    R    I    E    N    D    S. ” 

Maybe? Max snorted. He stepped again towards him, keeping an eye on the vehicle – Dog was growling, but waiting for his companion’s signal. Kid was lucky the animal wasn’t feral. The blue heeler wouldn’t take him down but he’d distract him long enough.           “I got lots. Guzzoline, food.” He doesn’t mention water.           Max gives him a small smile. “I’d like to see you try an’           take it.”

[walhallah-blog1]

        “ Fuckin’ MISERABLE waste of            parts, then, not even using a            cop ‘bot for cops. You think I            could get one of those ? ”

 “ ------ ANYWAY, I hadn’t even    called you ‘ PIG ’ when you     started saying shit, so that’s    ALL you. ”

               “ … No, no, I-I think would have something                   to do with you calling me pig…     I’m not                   even an officer. I– and I’m NOT crushed.                   So there.”

[walhallah-blog1]

           “ WHAT,  just  ‘cause  I’ve  got  a                hoodie ? ‘S PROFILING, mate.               Fuckin’   PIGS.   Thought   they               CRUSHED   the   rest’a   you. ”

     “… You look very aggressive. I–            please maybe go back a few steps.”

[walhallah-blog1]

He shoves the chrome down the back of his waistband hastily, so it’ll be more of a hassle to get back out the next time he has a TERRIBLE idea like that. His stinging fingers remind him of it every bolt he tightens, every scratch he works dirt out of with bitten fingernails, every TOUCH burning with the pain of bad decisions. ( That was supposed to be for WALHALLA !!! )

    Then he hears that NAME, and it’s all fine. Ultron, like  I M M O R T A N .  That must be it. If he’s using his chrome to honor the both of them by his deeds, there can’t be anything wrong with it. His lungs burn less, his fingers are feeling a shade number, and all is right with the wasted world, because HE WAS RIGHT. Surely, an ANGEL, or a GOD, has been sent down from Walhalla, and as long as he PLEASES him, he can do no wrong. 

           “  U L T R O N . . .             Who named you ? ”

      When he stands off the rock, the TRAITOROUS chrome falls from his waistband onto the sand, and though he’s quick to snatch it up, he’s not quick ENOUGH. With the joints fixed, all that’s left is detailing, and though he’s sure now that    U L T R O N    is the angel he appeared to be, he’s still hesitant to use his chrome on anyone but himself. Call it OLD HABIT. 

         “ Right. How is it ?             How’ve I done ? ”

              ❛ SLIT. Like your face. Original. ❜

obviously he doesn’t mean these words, as confirmed by the unimpressed timbre of his synthetic voice. humans could be very creative, but clearly the one in front of him lacked that virtue– or at least his parents weren’t the brightest of poets. vague gesture of chrome hand flicks the name away like a fly– as if he barely registered the introduction AT ALL. but a machine like him will not forget.

situating himself before the desert stray, he sits down on the burning sand, letting the pale fingers  DIG  into his metallic plating. optic shutters lower themselves as he watches them work, diving in ( despite the heat ) and eventually fishing out the casing– ohhh, nasty. he does not feel pain, but the DISCOMFORT is there and it stems from the fact that he’s supposed to be perfect:    unhindered by the grains of sand, untouched by human aggression…

he bares his chrome teeth at the sound of spitting, uncertain if he should protest, but then his attention is drawn to a single spark of something SILVER, something PURE—    burned fingers work fast, the argent mist gets rubbed into his plating and it drinks it with hunger– where did it come from..? optics turn to the stapled face with INTEREST slowly kindling itself behind the dust-covered lenses.

                       ❛ Sure I do. It’s Ultron. ❜

he pauses, watching sand get chased away from his delicate finger joints. 

     ❛ You’re not really alive if you don’t have a name. ❜

[walhallah-blog1]

at this point i am 99.9% sure that chappiiee and consciious were ripped directly from the movie. pls. they’re so good their voices are so good i hate. petition for (1) you to follow them, (2) them to fight me. 

[walhallah-blog1]

          “ WHAT was that ? ”

   He switched to teasing then, just to watch her squirm. In truth, he would have liked like his face between her thighs as much as she would have, but this was just as fun. 

   oh, no slit, PLEASE.

[    she was told war boys don’t beg… well, it was a good thing she wasn’t technically a war boy.

    her voice was low, eyes locked on to his as she spoke. well now that was just unfair. ]

[walhallah-blog1]

    The old WRECK was still where they had left it, which was good. Meant it wasn’t working, which meant no one was coming back for it, which meant he wouldn’t lose Walhalla getting shot in the back of the head by some COWARD that thought he was clever, shooting a War Boy. Where one fell, ten more would just spring up to take his place. REALLY, Ferals were THICK. 

   Hitching it to the rear of the truck was easy, it was keeping it there that was hard, with thundersticks this close to dragging on the sand and rock and no place for Slit to stand. After a particularly nasty bump, he gave up hanging on and pulled himself across the hitch to the empty, half-wrecked car, falling heavily into the driver’s seat with his feet on the dashboard. 

   WHAT IS THAT IS THAT MOVING WHAT IS THAT.

                “ Found something ! ” he called over the din to the rest of the Boys, keeping the panic from his voice as best he could. 

There was someone headed his way. Damn, that was just gonna put the WORST of dampers on his plans. He hadn’t even finished stripping this–whatever it was, of its metal covering. Those were precious RESOURCES right there, and whoever was interrupting him with their approaching presence was WASTING his time– and keeping him from GETTING those precious resources!

Not much he could do now, though. The guys out here had GUNS, and he? Did not. It was a damn CURSE, the metal body he was stuck in. Wouldn’t even let him fight to defend himself. Fuckin’ robotic LAWS or something stupid like that. Fuck.

Desperate to keep himself HIDDEN, Droid did the only thing he could think of doing–he hopped in the back of the car he’d been busy trying to take APART, and hunkered down, hoping to remain UNSEEN from any prying eyes.