James "The Rookie" Dante (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whistlesatengineers) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singularityderp2010-12-01 11:59 pm
whistlesatengineers) wrote in singularityderp2010-12-01 11:59 pm
Entry tags:
The Song Drabble Meme
the song drabble meme
It's pretty simple and fun, folks. This is how this works!
( 01 ) Have a playlist ready! Don't use all your songs--try and narrow it down a little.
( 02 ) Let everyone know how many songs you're working with. Also, which characters you would be willing to write about.
( 03 ) Others tag your post, picking a character or pairing or friendship or familial relationship or whatever, and then choose a number from your list.
( 01 ) Have a playlist ready! Don't use all your songs--try and narrow it down a little.
( 02 ) Let everyone know how many songs you're working with. Also, which characters you would be willing to write about.
( 03 ) Others tag your post, picking a character or pairing or friendship or familial relationship or whatever, and then choose a number from your list.
( 04 ) Write a drabble related to that song, using that/those character(s)!
Take as long as you need; there's no time limits here!
And here's some helpful HTML to make it pretty!
FOR EXAMPLE~
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#37
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"Epilogue" - Martin O'Donnell/Halo: Reach
Rookie had decided, quite quickly after the mission went awry, that his life was hell. Holo-Reach had been nasty, and standing up for The Arbiter against a load of angry Spartans had been just as bad. Though he counted it a victory that he’d stayed on friendly terms with them, and had even become fairly fast friends with their sniper, Jun. It made sense, the talker and the listener working together. Hadn’t it?
Of course, peace on the station wasn’t a constant… not that the Rookie could have handled it if it was. The fight was what he belonged to. That was probably why he volunteered for every mission with the Spartans he was able to, and had come out of it with few injuries. Occasional limps and concussions, new wounds that would become scars… a broken arm once. Nothing he couldn’t walk off, though.
Until this one, at least.
He couldn’t even remember what they were after this time, just that he’d wanted to go. Served him right that he’d finally be fatally wounded. Jun hauled him behind cover so hard that J.D. thought his shoulder would dislocate, and he motioned the Spartan to his pack. “Biofoam.” He wouldn’t live, he knew that much, but… he wanted time. He had to tell somebody something. Anything. He hisses shortly when he feels the knives-to-gut sting of the biofoam in his wound, settling once the painkiller set in.
“We’re going to get you out of here. Get you fixed up, and then we’ll be off, huh?” Jun offered. Rookie wondered if this was how that old Helljumper had felt, when he’d been trying to get the guy out for medical attention. That seemed so long ago.
Sometimes Rookie hated his life.
He reached across and put a hand – was that his blood on his fingers? There was so much of it – on Jun’s shoulder, giving the armor a loose squeeze. “Stop. Sit down. Listen.” He lifted his other hand, slowly pulling off his own helmet. “Going to tell you everything. Don’t want to be forgotten.” It was selfish, but…
Jun couldn’t carry his body out, but maybe he could carry Rookie with him, like he’d carried Yevgenny since they’d met. It was a nice thought.
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I just read 'Dirt' for the bajillionth time, too. BAAAAAAAW x20000
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/offers tissues and hugs
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HE WAS THE REAL HERO OF HALO /bawls
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/cries
something slightly sillier, former track entry
It’s a ridiculous vice of his, really. Like his fondness for Jazz – or even better, Jazz mixed with the Slap music that most other troopers hated. They could deal with it, or deal with him. Not that he had to worry about that, now. Kat getting into his private stash of Davis Miles, maybe… not that he thought she’d want it.
But this wasn’t about music. Ooooh, no. This was about vids that he hadn’t seen since he was a kid back on Luna. He’d found a whole stash of them buried under some rubble in the Junkyard. Cleaned them up good, found something to play them. And now. Now he could crank up the volume, sit back and indulge in a bit of his hankering for nostalgia.
The music sounded ancient – 1980s, at least – with a hefty rock beat to it. Enough to get Rookie’s toes moving, at least. “TRANSMORPHERS! MECHA IN DISGUISE-“
“The fuck is that noise…?” That sounded like Emile.
Probably because Emile was standing in the doorway to Rookie’s room.
Where Rookie was sitting on the bed in nothing but black boxers.
With a silly grin on his face.
“Transmorphers. C’mon, take a look.”
This pattern would continue until Rookie ended up with the entirety of Noble Team in his room.
Mission accomplished!
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Drinking with Virgil might have been the dumbest thing that the Rookie had done in a while. Three beers in, he is still trying to decide. Not that he had much confidence when it started with, “Hah, I thought you had a face, Rook!” and led to, “Hey, you have any idea how long Whorehay’s dick is?”
“I think it’s pronounced ‘George’,” Rookie had replied, heading for another bottle and avoiding the question entirely. He so did not want to think about one of his superior’s members today. Or ever. Unless it was their idea.
Either way, three beers in and he’s finally started talking about Helljumpers, ignoring the fact that he couldn’t for the life of him pronounce ‘SOIEV’ right now. “Drop pods, hurtling out of the fuckin’ sky. And you’re in one. And your squad’s in them, too. Sometimes they just… crash or burn up. Blip off the radar.” Rookie was not bothered by it in the slightest; fact of life, right there. “Or you get lost, lost track of your squad. Which sucks. Guess I’ve lost them permanently, now.” He gives the bottle a glare, deciding the beer is at fault for this. “You too, eh, Virg? Fucking space-time… wormholes.”
Virgil shrugs. “Fuck them. Less people bitching at us. Bottom’s up, Rook.”
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He owes his loyalties to the UNSC and to them alone, and by extension to the Spartans. So hearing them constantly mocked on the network was something of a blow to him. Nothing troubling, though – the sting of a hand getting slapped at most, if that. Except when they were called Armor Monkeys; that comment could just as easily be leveled at him, who didn’t take off so much as a glove unless there was a pressing reason to.
He doesn’t mind the man, all told. Might be kind of an asshole, but Romeo had been too and the Rookie had dealt with him just fine. Of course, there wasn’t a Dutch here to get Virgil off anyone’s asses. So Rookie decided to take it upon himself to do just that. Bring him down a few pegs, show him he wasn’t such hot shit after all. If nothing else, maybe it would keep the Nobles from killing the man. Or it would be interesting to see Virgil cool it from up-close.
Finding that throat-thing had just been an accident. Really.
… so was the fact that Rookie was down to the grey-black underarmor of his suit with the composite armor strewn around the room, and a certain shark man was prodding at the neural interface port on the back of his neck, still connected (for now) to his helmet. There was no dignity in those tiny startled noises he was making. How could he have known that Virgil would be this belligerent about the throat-thing... and the fact that Rook had laughed that hard about it? And who knew that prodding there would put such delicious shocks through his neural net?
“Better… not be videos of this on the network later,” the Rookie threatened. Virgil sniggered at him, working the underarmor open.
“You know I wouldn’t, Rook,” he promised.
Just in case Virgil was lying, Rookie had a back-up plan already laid out that would embarrass the sailor more than the Helljumper.
Because this was an accident. Totally an accident.
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