contagio | ( MEMES ) TEST DRIVE >> 003.

(5)
[There is a practical reason, Jack is realizing, that he stayed in civilian sector engineering up until this point. And that reason is that he is essentially terrible at a lot of the mainstays of basic training. His aim with a firearm is awful, running is torture, and his discipline . . . well. If he had this kind of discipline, maybe he would've figured out how to have a normal sleep schedule sometime in the last decade or two. Fellow members of the armed forces can find him on mandatory additional hours on the firing range, or maybe enjoying his usual post-laps activity of panting raggedly and wondering if he's going to throw up. Less merciful fellow members are of course welcome to mock - a bit of ribbing isn't going to make him feel much worse.]

(6)
[Once he's out of boot camp, though, Jack will be returning home - such as it is. He has a new flat, in a different sector of the city, and though he doesn't lose time reconnecting the stronger social links of his pre-military full-time-party-boy days, he's occasionally out and about on his own. Mostly it's to pick up food - the most reliable thing he makes on his own range is acrid smoke, with bland mush a close second - though he can also be found out shopping on his own, humming along with the music he keeps piped into his ears as he sifts through music and resale clothing shops, or even idles through the aisles of the grocer's picking up his trusty premade essentials.]

Edited 2014-02-06 18:30 (UTC)

( 3 )
[ this mission wasn't going to plan - it wasn't going to plan at all. everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong. she had desperately looking for her teammates, who had been scattered - whatever was out there had been waiting for them.

kira stops running for a moment to look at her surroundings. she wants to call out for the others, but at the same time she doesn't want to draw attention to herself which wouldn't help anyone.

that's when she hears a noise behind her, kira freezes. it's a growl, low and threatening. her hand hovers for her weapon, but at the exact same moment the thing jumps at her. ]

( 5 )
[ kira straightens her pony tail. she's exhausted, the training is intense but she knows it's what she needs. still she can't help but wonder if she'd be better off doing something else. but at the same time it's kind of fun to at least pretend she is a bad ass.

she's at the firing range, where she's been for the entire day and where she'll stay until she's able to hit the center of her target. her powers are gone, not that she would really know how to use them anyways - so all things considered that might be a good thing. ]

[ OOC; or feel free to use one of the other prompts! i'm game for anything!! ]

( 5 )
[ tauriel doesn't like guns. she doesn't like how they sound, how they feel or how they smell. she wants her bow and arrow, she wants her swords - she wants anything other than a gun. she had avoided training with it, instead focusing on her speed and reflex now that things were... different. she feels off balance and uneasy here. and honestly she doesn't like it.

but she's determined to do what she can for the people here, if she can fight she'd fight. they were just like her, they had been brought here against their will and forced to endure the horrors here.

which was why she was now at what was called the range looking down at a gun. her lips were slightly pursed. she wondered how a weapon like this would fare in her world. man would use it of course, it had been invented by them in every other world and it felt like a weapon of man. she wondered if the orcs would use it. the orcs thrived on blood and pain and a gun looked like a weapon of both things.

maybe she could make her own weapons. the idea of such power in her hands, of such violence made her nervous, and that made her even more uneasy. she was captain of the guard she wasn't supposed to get nervous, she was supposed to be brave and protect others - now she wondered if she could ever do either. ]

( 7 )
[ LETS DO THE THING! ]

- 6

[ all the world's a blur of shape and form, like looking at the world through black sheets with glazed eyes. one moment he's watching the remnants of an underwater empire crumble as Ryan played his fiddle, the next, he's somewhere else entirely, walking through the slums of a bad dream with no evidence of his previous nightmare and life, or life and nightmare, Will's not really sure.

the district is ugly. lackluster. cruel and exacting, but rough and rusted and it smells. not like death but fear.

it's almost worse.

he knows no one. (and nothing.) and his head hurts. so. badly. throbs and his eyes have trouble focusing, but that's nothing new. the buildings bleed into a haze of poorly picked color. he thinks, for a moment, he might have died, somehow, along the way, when he pulled that trigger, and this all is the afterlife. condemned to jump from place to place with no one world to call his home.

and then he slams into someone else. stumbles (more like crumbles) and falls and his glasses skitter off to the side. his immediate reaction is to reach for his gun and to apologize all at once, funny how that works. ] Oh god, I'm so sor... [ words; they fail him. he's looking back at the image of a ghost and she's looking at him. he forgets how to breathe.

and still manages two syllables: ] ...........Adele? [ and affords himself one more, though it's messy and choked out around dry lips, tongue, and teeth: ] ...how?

[Night vision seemed a smart choice. Given that there were certainly areas where light was decidedly in short supply, the capacity to see more than humans ought to see was appealing. He should have known there'd be a catch, and it made sense that vision augmentation would result in nausea. Vision was intimately involved with one's sense of balance, especially if one had grown up reliant upon it.

But, as this is strong enough to bring him to a pause and breathe through his nose, Arawn can easily be found strategically placed near a bin, either standing awkwardly or sitting and looking less than comfortable. Probably best to give an arm's-length berth. He'll try not to vomit on you.]

[He's never been a part of this world--not really.

There was a time when the glittering casinos and bright screens of the skyscrapers used to dazzle him, growing up as he had in Sanctum's slums, eating scraps by flashlight and listening for gunfire. There are moments when they still do, where he has to catch and check himself, adjust his cuffs and straighten his tie. The details ground him, remind him that he shed Clay Walther and his naivety like a skin, replacing him with more appropriate personas.

Tonight he's Marc Gallagher, software consultant. Never mind that he doesn't know much about the industry--he has the tuxedo and the swagger, enough confidence to convince his fellow guests that he hails from anywhere but District 4. Moreover, he has a few contacts to rub elbows with tonight, corporate pencil-pushers looking for a little more than their salaries allow. If there's one thing he learned early on about corporate, it was that it always left some greedy soul unhappy enough to shirk the rules. And with the kickbacks he can offer from his arms sales, he could very often be their new best friend.

He accepts a cocktail as he passes through the door, flashing a smile at the woman offering it to him, and lingers by the bar as he scans the room. Act natural, his father used to say. Don't stare, don't keep your head down, just act natural. The important part, Clay had eventually realized, was 'act.' Figure out what natural means for these people in this place, then play the part.

This world may not be his, but all the world's a stage.]

[How Loki came to acquire a nice suit--and more importantly a scarf with which to cover the disgusting port on the back of his neck--is a question perhaps best left unanswered. But even freshly arrived, he's doing what he does best. He's blending in, taking in the lay of the land, and searching for any sign of his brother or his wife. Because heavens know, if he's in a situation as ridiculous as this, it must be something to do with Thor or Sif. Possibly both at once.

At one time, he might have resented this, having to find his brother and clean up his messes--oh, who was he kidding, he still resented it a bit. But the work of a shadow was never done, and at least it was interesting. And he's come to understand that being the king just means having a target painted on one's back, whereas being the shadow behind the throne means painting the target on a series of poor fools who have no idea just how much trouble they're in.

So he's cutting through the crowd in the city now, rapidly picking up the little behavioral tics that will mark him as a resident, and always, always watching. But he may stop at a coffee shop or restaurant to buy refreshment with the money he mysteriously acquired with his suit as well.]

[The last thing Nick remembers is a figure dressed in black in the middle of the street, then an explosion and everything went upside down. Then he's waking up in a lab somewhere and it's obvious he's been drugged. It's not anywhere he recognizes, so he doesn't think it's SHIELD. Then he's back out again.

When he wakes up next, he can feel the foreign metal on his spine, and he doesn't like it. There's a monitor on a table, playing a recording. He listens, assessing the message and committing it to memory. Why has he never heard of this place? The appearance of Asgard and the Chitauri opened SHIELD up to the existence of a larger universe, but this is... Seriously, who has the kind of technology to import people from other worlds? And can they send him back. His organization is compromised, and he needs to lock it down.

Then he spares some attention for the other things on the table. His eyepatch, his clothes, his sidearm-- though, picking it up, it feels wrong. He examines it with his good eye only to find that it's a goddamn water pistol. Oh hell no.

He gets dressed, puts on his eyepatch, holsters his ~~motherfucking~~ water pistol, then picks up the last item on the table-- some kind of weird futuristic glasses. It doesn't take him long to work out the encryption feature, and he puts one up at 70%, figuring anyone curious enough to see what's worth hiding has got to also be good enough to crack it in order to see. Then he puts it on top of the monitor so that it's at eye-level, and begins recording.]

This is Nicholas Fury of SHIELD. I need all SHIELD personnel who can see this to report to me immediately. We are undergoing a Category One threat, and I need intel now.

[There's a chance he's the only one here from his particular world, but there's always a hope that he's not. And hoping is a risk he's willing to take.]

I repeat, I am Nicholas Fury of SHIELD. If you can see me and you know who I am, then save me the trouble of coming to find you myself and check in.

Fury out.

#1

[If only this had been the first time this had happened to Steve Rogers.

The last time he'd come to in a strange place, it turned out to be nearly seventy years in the future. Since that day, some silent part of him had always feared the possibility of it happening all over again - that one day, he could wake up and find that once again, the few friends he had were dead and buried. That everything he'd known was gone and changed, and he'd once again become a relic in a world that had moved on without him.

Well, at least this time, they were being seemingly straightforward about it.

The story left on the recording had been a bit hard to swallow - but between aliens, high-powered armored suits and magical hammers, and surviving more than half a century buried in ice, it had become a little bit easier to accept the more far-fetched aspects of life.

... A little bit.

There were still a lot of gaps that Steve needed to fill. It seemed inevitable that mankind would move onto new ways to wage war; S.H.I.E.L.D. had already tried to, with their attempts to follow HYDRA's footsteps in harnessing the energy of the Tesseract. But how were they supposed to help? No matter whose world this was, Steve would do what he could, where he could... but when it came down to chemical warfare, what good was one old soldier in the greater scheme?

'Can the negativity, Rogers,' he chided himself, collecting the scant few belongings they'd left him. No shield, just his uniform and his notebook. A suit that looked as though it belonged in one of Stark's Expos. A pencil. Well, at least they'd thought to leave him that.

It seemed as though the serum had been affected by whatever insane process they'd used to bring him. His senses were dulled, affected by an amount of sedative that really should not have been enough. Between that and the alien metal embedded in his skin... His fingers brushed across the uppermost port with something between awe and nausea, his mind still trying to piece together the fragments of information he'd been left with.

Someone had better have some answers for him.

His limbs felt sluggish, like some bizarre, impossible combination of lead and rubber as he slipped back into his uniform. It was bit ostentatious and out of place given the circumstances, but... between that, the space suit, and the paper gown, perhaps a bit of familiarity wasn't so bad after all.

The glasses he was less sure about. He held them up, peering through them with no small amount of curiosity. At some point or another, his gloved thumb brushed the controls, flipping them on to record.]

You know, I'm starting to miss the days when this stuff came with instructions...

#7

[Hit me. But be gentle, it's my first time. :c Also, I'm fine with CA:tWS spoilers.]

Edited 2014-04-16 06:05 (UTC)

(3)

[Zombies are easy; there's no guilt that comes with killing them, because even if they could figure out a cure, these bodies are too destroyed to ever be saved, so she shoots, and she kills, and she keeps her eyes out for her teammates whenever she can.

She's not reckless, not really, she's a little ruthless and a little too eager, occasionally getting herself into tricky spots that she has to get herself out of. The suit isn't comfortable, but if it keeps her alive she can deal with it, and at least now she doesn't have to worry about accidentally sending herself out an airlock.]

(5)

[Anyone who concerns themselves with that sort of thing might say that Steph spends too much time training. But it isn't an opinion she really cares to listen to. There isn't much too do in this damn city than train, and if it keeps her safer out of that dome, it's worth spending the time.

Mostly, though, training is a distraction. If she pushes herself hard enough, she doesn't have to think about everything that's wrong with the situation; she doesn't have to think about all the people left behind or how scared she is that she might not be able to get back to them.

There's not a whole lot that the trainers have to teach her, so she keeps to herself usually, running through exercises or hitting a punching bag or practicing on the shooting range. Its not much, but its better than nothing.]

(6)

[Sometimes she ventures out in the city, wrapped up tight in her coat and keeping to herself as much as she can. She prefers the poorer parts of the city; it isn't as safe, but that isn't a problem for her, and its better than the richer parts of the city, which always make her skin crawl.

Occassionally, she slinks into a club or bar, just to help herself relax for a night, but she never drinks to excess, and she always keeps her wits about her.

She just can't stand this place.]

#1

[ Jane wakes up a little sick and a lot disoriented. The room spins and the walls - washed white and far too bright - make her close her eyes again. Her vision swims and she's out, swept back into darkness.

When she wakes up again, she's alone.

Completely, utterly, alone.

Shivering, Jane sits up but she immediately cringes and curls in on herself, hands going to her head as memories begin to flash through her mind as her brain reboots itself.

A man with a compound, aimed at Thor--

Jane literally flinging herself in front of him--

Hand wrapping around the handle of the hammer, fingers gripping--

A surge of power, a shriek of confusion, a roar of rage--

Scaled metal, armor, cape soft as silk--

Jane pulls in a shuddering breath and fists at her eyes, trying to make sure she's here - in the now, and completely present. She's not entirely sure that she is, considering her surroundings but perhaps the government decided that whatever had happened with her and their precious artifact was worth examining.

However, upon watching the video, Jane is very quickly convinced that there is no correlation between this place and her world itself.

With shaking hands, Jane fumbles with her new 'glasses' and snatches that little black book close to her chest, breath coming in quick gasps of relief before she figures out how to turn the glasses on. ]

Doctor Jane Foster.

[ Her voice wavers at first, but then firms out. ]

Newly arrived. Obviously. I watched the video, far-fetched, but okay. I can get behind it.

...

So now what?

#7

[ make something up! ]

[ 1 ]

[ The first recollection was hazy static, crackling across her mind in a manner unpleasantly like Eta and Iota during their short term of residence inside her head. She remembered waking, screaming, attempting to-- what, she couldn't recall. She only knew that she had been restrained, her back burned like fire, and black shadows had grasped at her limbs as she struggled to break free. Then something icy cold had slid into her veins and--

The second recollection was like the first only in the unpleasant parallel of awaking alone in a recovery space, flat on her back in a room stilled by silence and cold. A rush of air into gasping lungs followed once the tube had opened, and she failed to cursed under her breath as her limbs trembled and betrayed initial efforts to rise.

C'mon, Carolina.

Sitting was an effort, but she forced her body to obey. The ports along her back were...Strange. Something like outrage tried to rally beneath the induced haze of calm, even as cold fingers probed the back of her neck, settled over the even scarring where the long-destroyed ports for her AI had been conveniently nixed while providing this unrequested body modification.

Eventually, she managed to stand, feeling all too naked without the second skin her MJOLNIR armor and undersuit had become over the years. The lack of its bright aqua paint in the room rang a series of alarm bells in her head, but her mind seemed too slow to react to the fact. Its replacement was stark against the metalic grey and white of the room, and she eyed it, distinctly unthrilled by the change inspite of drug induced apathy. Then, she reached for the black undersuit, fumbling into pulling it on once she'd shed her medical robe.

Only once she was done did she turn to the table and its mystery screen. The table close by held a few things. The strange glasses were ignored in favour of the other items, all of them hers: a battered lighter, paint peeling from its circular logo; the set of dogtags bearing Connie's name, its dataport undisturbed by..whoever..was responsible for her being here; an inert AI chip - Epsilon's, Carolina realised in horror, before recalling he had installed himself into her armor. Where ever it was.

(Chorus? She had no way to know. And this didn't match any facility that she knew Locus had access to...)

The short video provided was educational, to a point. Lips thinned, pressed into the flattest of lines, as the redhaired woman processed what she saw. She had meant to make amends, yes, but this wasn't where, or how, she'd expected to start. Absently she lifted the glasses, normally agile fingers still clumsy from the drugs in her system, unaware that the communication's recording device had been activated as she raised it to eye level while looking into one of the few mirrored surfaces in her room.

Anyone who happens to see the transmission might see a pale redhaired woman, a little older, a little greyer than her thirty-odd years of life should have left her. Dark rings under bright green eyes seem especially stark in the recovery room's light. She regards her reflection dispassionately for seven very long silent seconds. Then the glasses drop away, taking in a clear view of the knees of her undersuit and scarred, pale toes flat against concrete. ]

[ 5 ]

[ It seemed anyone showing a hint of battle prowess was sorely needed, and once the initial disorientation had worn off, and Carolina had had time to gather both her wits and some semblence of understanding about her situation, she had been actively 'encouraged' to go to the military's compound.

The suit they'd provided wasn't at all what she was used to. Carolina tried not to pine for her old and trusted Freelancer armor for the moment. Especially with Epsilon was not there - a missed nagging voice who'd been riding shotgun in the onboard computer matrix prior to her arriving here. And thus far, her 'hosts' had been distinctly silent on the subject of what had happened to her MJOLNIR armor, and whether or not they had had access to it.

If she was to use this new suit, however, she would have to adapt and quickly.

Starting at the shooting range was a simple matter, trying and testing each gun, aware of the officers' eyes on her. But once she made it to the combat floor, she beelined at once for the testing dummies. Hand to hand always had been her strongest suite. Perhaps, once she'd gotten an idea of how this suit handled it, she might find someone to trade blows with... ]

[ 7 ]

[ Have at ye! ]

Edited 2014-04-19 19:10 (UTC)

(7)

What the BLOODY HELL is all this then? Yanking people out of their houses in the middle of the night for no good reason, cracking their backs open and putting in little metal bits and bobs and whatever you please and then waking them with this awful BLOODY video?! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? Do you know who I am? I'll tell you who I am, mate, I'm the biggest flipping headache you lot are gonna have until you GET ME BACK! I got WORK to do and there isn't anyone or anything that's going to keep me from getting it done! You don't know what's at stake here- worlds, whole BLOODY words miss'n and you've got me out of the middle of it for what, a bloody ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE!?

[She stops to breathe, red faced and fuming.]

If you don't get me back right bloody now or give me some way to contact the Doctor, oh, you'll be so bloody sorry by the time I'm through with you!

(8)

[Hit me up with whatever!]

1:

[voice:]

[The feed comes to life with a few moments' silence, and then a weary sigh.]

Hiro, if you've done something, set it right immediately. I haven't time for this.

6:

[The calculation has been vexing him for a day and a half by the time he leaves. They say a change in surroundings jogs the mind, that stepping out of your routine gets the creative juices flowing.

Mohinder isn't certain he could ever think of himself as having "creative juices", but he's so frustrated at not being able to come up with the proper balancing equation that he's willing to try anything.

The midday sun is almost startling in its warm glow; it's not something he's accustomed to seeing. He's usually in the lab. By the time he reaches the coffee shop he has to adjust again, pausing just inside the door as his eyes take in the more dim surroundings.

Maybe there's something to those old ideas. He's just paid when it hits him, the missing piece, the thing he'd overlooked. But of course he didn't think to bring pen and paper. No matter--he reaches over the register with an apologetic murmur, availing himself of marker and empty cup, and he starts to scrawl complex calculations over the cup's paper body.

He's got it. He returns the marker with a triumphant smile, so engrossed in studying his work that he nearly collides with someone stepping away from the pickup counter. It's an accident narrowly averted, and he offers a sheepish smile.]

Forgive me.

She's the archivist for the organization. The record keeper. It's her job to watch over the goings on of the city and record everything important for posterity's sake. But the events of today weren't worth recording. It was just another wedding, for Heaven's sake. Sure, it was a little fancier than her own had been because there was an Immune and a Callsign involved. But in the end it was only a wedding.

She stands in the corner at the reception and sips her glass of wine. She is so thoroughly over this.

[ three ]

[ she's perhaps one of the few people who don't seem irritated to be outside of the dome. natasha thrives out here. maybe it's because she's spent so much time our here, or maybe it's just because the sanctum is still such a cage in her mind. either way, the suit might be doing well to hide it but natasha is practically smiling as she moves around out there.

it's a mission though, rescue and recovery not 'run around and enjoy the sights', and any relief natasha feels at seeing a real sky is short-lived. she serves a purpose here, and that purpose becomes very clear the moment she sees someone approaches by one of the infected. she takes off at a run, pulls the infected away by the back of the head, and before anyone can say otherwise she delivers a high-powered shock to the throat.

(to stun, not to kill, but that's part of a separate agenda that no one needs to know right now)

when the dystrophe drops, she shakes her head briefly before turning to the teammate in question, offering a hand. ]

Find yourself in a lot of near-misses?

[ so maybe she's teasing a little. it's hard to tell when you can't see the little smirk that comes with the deadpan tone. ]

[ f i v e ]

[ it's not to make any more cash so much as to scout for potential talent, but on the days where she isn't working, natalie rushman can be found offering shooting classes. on any given day a handful of people can be found in her classes, and if her heart breaks a little more every time a young girl comes rushing in full of propaganda and sparkling ideals, she's oh so careful not to let it show.

today's much like any other, and when a newcomer walks in she turns around with a dazzling smile, all red curls and bubbly personality. ]

Are you here for lessons? [ handing over a memo pad, she taps lightly on the screen. ] Just fill in these quick questions and we can get started.

[ c h o o s e . y o u r . o w n . a d v e n t u r e ]

[ ic inbox spam? hit me up. random encounters? lets do it. infected angst stories? love it. here's your wildcard option, if you don't want one of the two sets ups/have an idea you want to rock, lets party! ]

06;

[ Delsin has found his way out of the arrival for the newbies (though he'd call it a god damn torture hospital). He brushes off his white hoodie, shifting the vest he has on. He raises his eyes to find any landmark that might be familiar... and finds none. No Space Needle. Hell, there isn't even D.U.P. copters flying around to riddle him with bullets. Not that he's complaining because he totally isn't.

Still, when the hell did a dome pop up over Seattle? ]

Oh... no, man. No. Don't tell me I'm at--[ Curdan Cay. If that bitch Augustine got a hold of him and shoved him in a prison? There's hell to pay. Which is why he's practically running through the crowd now, trying to find the nearest building to scale. Just use a bit of neon and no problemo. ]

07;

So, I get it. You guys need help with your little... "zombie" problem and you called on me. I get it. I mean I DID liberate Seattle. Or, most of it. Sort of still in the works with that one.

But why all the spooky formalities? It isn't like there are actual zombies here. Come on. Every one knows that those aren't real... right?

08;

[ PIKACHU I CHOOSE YOU--wait. ]

[He keeps expecting a voice in his head feeding him the information that he needs. Soleil would have known every dirty little secret about this place in ten seconds if she'd been here. But she's gone, and even if she wasn't, she definitely isn't here and all that's left of the implant is a scar behind his ear and, what had Bardle said? Minor brain damage.

So he'll just have to do things himself won't he?

Apparently even here people are still people and a little sweet talk has him people willing to swear that he's a nice guy and a decent bit of information that should help him fit in more or less.

So now it's time to put that into action. Survey the land.

He manages to look equally at home in the slums of district Four, with his fallback position slowly becoming more secure, or Three where he can often be found watching and chatting up anyone of a scientific bent.]

(Totally open to whatever you want to throw at Lawrence!)

(5)

It had seemed the only real option, re-enlisting in some form of military. It's where most of her skills lie, after all, and if she's to help these people, she's best off doing it the way she's most effective.

It's been quite awhile since she went through basic training herself, but she believes in keeping in top form - never mind she's been travelling by foot for the past several months, barring the few weeks in the hospital after being inconveniently shot in the head. So all in all she supposes she comes out . . . average. Which, yes, needles at her. But even edging toward the latter part of middle age she's doing her best to fly through training with the best marks possible and is fiercely competitive - perhaps most so in the early-morning warm-ups, when she is competing only against herself.

(6)

Now and then, though, she can be persuaded to take a few hours to explore her new home - which she does, albeit with a surveyor's eye more than a tourist's, too accustomed to seeing new cities only when they are fated to soon be battlefields. She can usually be found off her feet in a park, occasionally with a hot tea, surveying what aerial maps of the Sanctum she's managed to scrape together. More rarely she'll be reading, though never very enthusiastically - there's a certain pallor to the approved books, one that leaves an off taste in her mouth.

(7/2-ish)

She would have been willing to live out her life with the stutter. As it stands she's in no hurry to correct the shallow dent over her left eye - it's ugly, yes, but it's not hurting anyone, and she has much better things to do here than start looking for dates. But the stutter is inconvenient and frustrating, and she sees no reason not to have it fixed if medical technology's progressed to a point here where that is possible. Even if she is less than eager to have people rummaging about inside her head again with sterile instruments.

So after some consideration, she addresses the network one afternoon, opting to simply record and broadcast a voice transmission. It's a call for information, after all, not a social visit.

"Natives and Immune of The Sanctum. Good afternoon. This is . . . Private Elizabeth Stanton speaking. I'd like to know what your experiences have been regarding upgrades, especially those installed for corrective purposes rather than simple amplification. Experience with neurological upgrades would- would- would next-"

She stops, just long enough to take a deep breath. To rewind to the beginning of the last sentence and erase the rest going forward. To start again, one unbroken message.

"Individuals who have experience with neurological upgrades are especially appreciated, but any information about the evaluation and implantation process is welcome. Thank you for your time."

Three.

[There was supposed to be somebody stranded out here. They'd been sent on a recovery mission to bring them back. David wasn't sure how someone could survive out here on their own, if it's as bad as they say it is. He hasn't seen any of those dys...thrope? things? yet, but he can hear things moving through the trees.

A flock of birds is startled from their perch and that's the first and only warning he gets that there's movement nearby. He whirls around, rifle aimed and ready.]

Five.

[So maybe he's been in Shiloh and away from war for too long, but he remembers how to do push ups and run laps. The weapons are new-- lighter than standard issue Gilboan weapons, but that makes things easier. Still, he's just glad to hear the enemy doesn't have tanks. Though perhaps the fact that they're skinless cannibal horror creatures outweighs the lack of Goliaths to face. Goliaths he understands. They're machines he can figure out and work around and sneak up on. Zombies? Maybe not.

And maybe this line of thought is distracting David from the training at hand, because he's getting a distant look in his eyes and falling out of line.]

Seven.

[The glasses are... definitely more than a simple farmboy-slash-mechanic-slash-soldier can figure out, so David is wearing them and looking into a mirror when he records his video call.]

Uh, hello. [He clears his throat.] My name is David Shep-- Captain David Shepherd, Royal Gilboan Army. I'm not sure how I was brought here or why, I'm really just no one special. And all I want to know is, is there really no way to get home?

Eight.

[Somehow, somewhere, David has found a piano, and has sat down to play. Come listen, or interrupt him!]

5
[Man, this is so dumb. This is the dumbest. He's in the army for fuck's sake! Sure, one that made sure to pair up a bunch of idiots together to fight other idiots for really stupid reasons. But this is an army he doesn't even know anything about!

Wait, maybe this isn't so different.

See, this all seemed like a good idea at the time. And, hey, maybe if he sticks around, then he won't have to admit that he's a bad shot once he improves. But at the same time, even in the middle of this training that he's only barely half-assing (part because he knows a lot of this already and part because this is dumb and boring and he doesn't want to do it), he realizes...he doesn't even have to be here.

No, really! Not even because he's a.) dead, b.) a computer program, c.) already a private in the army in a war, d.) not seeing any reason to give a shit about what's happening here, or e.) all of the above. He could just get up, walk out, and do something with himself. He could be a...florist or a painter or manage a grocery store or he could run around in circles naked yodeling if he fucking feels like it.

So here's a half-assing trainee looking a little bit stunned at the realization that he doesn't have to be here. And heading for the showers.]

This is bullshit. I am out of here. See you losers on the other side! Of life. See, because I'm a--nevermind.

6
[Having a physical body is not so great. There's sweating and exhaustion and the need to breathe really hard when the sweating and exhaustion happen. And you know what? He doesn't need that. He doesn't need to run around in a suit of protective armor or run around at all. But it does require some shopping. Like a normal person. For food. For clothes.

It feels really weird, actually, like a suit (of armor) that doesn't fit right. Like an itchy, out of reach memory. But he does pick up some snazzy outfits that would make Tucker jealous. If Tucker were here.

Some of the time he's just looking far away and lost. And playing with a bracelet he got on arrival. It seemed really dumb at the time, had nearly left it on the table when he'd woken up, but it's grown on him, with the little Greek alphabet charms dangling from it. Sometimes he touches a letter and lingers, but whatever he's looking for, it isn't there.]

7
Okay, so, it occurs to me that maybe this place needs some sports. Organized sports. Or disorganized, I don't really care. Like...some football, or soccer, or baseball, or grifball. Oh man, I would totally sit down with some beer and snacks and be a lazy fuck on a couch to watch some grifball. Sarge used to try and play it, but it's not as much fun with only two players. Three if you count Grif being the ball as a third person. And a shotgun. I think shooting a ball would probably pop it if it wasn't covered in armor. Also, it's not that much fun after a while trying to watch that through a sniper scope. Hell, I'd take hockey, and nobody watches hockey.

[ spoilers for ca:tws ahead ]

Ⅰ: canon, oo1
(post-tws, before the end credits scene)

[ it feels like months have passed, since the last fight on the helicarrier. it feels like he's dragging his feet, heavy and sore and aching all over. somehow, for some reason, he knew he had to jump from the crashing ship and reach him. he had to dive into the water, grasp him by the collar and haul him to the shore. he knew he had to wait, to make sure he was alive and breathing, before turning around and walking away. he didn't know who he was, not yet - but he knew he had to protect him, he had to save him. somehow. the mission was suddenly no longer relevant, after those raggedly uttered words.

I'm with you, until the end of the line.

so he walks. and he walks, no matter how badly his feet beg him to stop and rest. he walks until it all suddenly goes black, his body unable to keep up, and he can only assume he collapsed in a ditch somewhere. it's not like it matters. not until he does wake up, and the situation is all too familiar, that he can't help but feel a sudden sense of urgency the very moment he opens his eyes. the enclosed chamber, the metal table, a mysterious voice relaying a message that barely makes it through the fog in his mind makes him almost terrifed that they've brought him back here. back here means the chair, the hands pushing him back, the mouth guard, the metal braces securing his arms, and the--

he's determined this time, at least. he's been compliant for so long, following orders and never questioning a moment of it, lest they sit him back in the chair again. but not this time. the monitor doesn't survive the blow dealt by his mechanical arm, more symbolic than anything since it's hard to tell who exactly would be watching. he changes quickly into the clothes provided for him, all black and thankfully with a long sleeved coat to keep his arm hidden for the time being.

the clock's ticking, he knows he can't stay here long. they'll find him. there's just enough supplies left for him to keep going for a while, and that's good enough. he grabs what he can, and he turns and bolts out the door, running as fast as he can into the city - a city he quickly realizes is nothing like he remembers. he runs until his legs strain, and then he stops, breathing heavy as he turns in circles, surveying and ... well, just being very, very confused about his surroundings.

how long was he asleep for this time? ]

Ⅱ: alternate, oo6
(permanent memory wipe, higher tech, thirst for blood)

[ the transmission on the monitor made things clear enough. apparently, there was someone new in charge, someone else giving the orders. that was fine with him, he's not one to question changes in authority. as long as they tell him what to do, that's all he needs to get through the day. then, he supposes he'll have to come back here, when they have to put him in the chamber again. it's a bit of a change, yes, but he adapts quick. a virus is a different sort of target, sure, but the ending footage on the transmission makes it all a little more clear. his targets this time aren't people, but simply monsters. grotesque looking things.

he is a little confused, about the paper gown. but, he doesn't question that either. he notices his outfit and gear on the table, and he takes his time suiting up, to make sure everything he needs is there. it isn't until he's pulled on the mask that he realizes one pretty glaring mistake his new commanders have made. not a single weapon on the table.

no gun. no knife. not even a single grenade. he would have to scavenge, apparently. it wasn't as though he minded the extra task, but it was inconvenient. with the goggles on last, the rest of the provided items packed, he turns and heads out, down the long halls and out into the open (ish) city.

different, but it usually is, after he's been asleep for a while. his first objective is to find an arms dealer, so he marches down the strange city's streets, shoulders and elbows purposefully rammed into those of passers by in order to ensure they stay out of his way. ]

Edited (nobody saw that typo) 2014-05-13 07:08 (UTC)

001;A force of nature

[The going theory is that a single agent can do more then an entire army put together That's the basis of the Winter Soldier program, an unstoppable force (life) meets an immovable object (him, himself.)

He has to be honest, it is only his misbegotten sense of honor that kept him from killing Rogers, not any other reason. The pictures in his head were lies. Lies that he does not like because they have to be planted.

The only dilemma is why plant something that makes him question his place in the world?

He's not designed to think.

He has a mission, and that's to track deep undercover operative six and not stop no matter what these...things might think.

Jamming a knife through one target's mouth he lets it slide before jamming it through a second target's eye.

She is home. Even if their home was compromised by SHIELD. And he is the unstoppable force against the immovable object. Change.

His foot kicks out without thinking at a nearby target, unaware of just who he's hitting. At his best this is a dance, at his worse this is a slaughter. right now it's somewhere in between.]

002; Training

[This is not how you train recruits. He knows that - or perhaps he doesn't know it because he's efficient, they're sloppy, and leaving them with broken legs and arms ...doesn't feel right.

He doesn't care. (Caring gets you killed). Instead he stands outside, straight, always military straight watching the sun come up.]

[ MOOOOORTAAAAL KOMBAAAAT ]

(6/7)

[It has to be a world change, that's the only answer that makes sense. As if one crazy snatching you from reality reality wasn't bad enough; the idea that another one could snatch you from the one that snatched you in the first place was just... crazy. Right.]

Well, this fucking sucks. Just where I always wanted to vacation... the zombieland technodrome.

Hey Tex, I don't know where my journal is but I assume you got one of these things too... so if you can hear me, an answer sooner rather than later would be preferred. You too Wash.

[In the meantime he's going to have a look around. Find Tex and anyone else, find a place to hole up and wait for this to blow over. Why couldn't he end up someplace decent like Tokyo? Hell, he'd take going back to the old folks home over this. Lime-green jello and all.
Something about this place gives him the creeps.]

5 and 6! Choose your own adventure~

kira yukimura (teen wolf)

tauriel (the hobbit!movieverse)

[ w. graham ]: closed to juliett

#2; guilty pleasure torment ur character time~

can't believe you got me into this belle

#6

1 -- spoilers for ca:tws