http://gawdamn.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
gawdamn.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singularityderp2011-02-15 10:59 pm
gawdamn.livejournal.com) wrote in singularityderp2011-02-15 10:59 pm
Entry tags:
EVERYTHING TAKES YOU BACK
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)!
- reference our previous meme if you're still confused
no subject
also York and Delta 12
this is such a fun song but so depressing too? why are all my songs depressing sflkas
York's exhausted.
It takes more effort than he would like to push himself to his feet in the stillness of the room, whitewashed walls and beeping machines, a splash of gold against the equally white sheets.
She's been comatose for a week, now, her AI confiscated for "safety," though York has the sick feeling they've been deleted. The attempt was a failure- having AI that were so unstable likely wasn't necessary. Knowing Chi and Psi were gone was just as depressing as knowing that the odds of Merry waking up were next to none.
York leans in, kisses her forehead just once, making sure she's covered up entirely, smoothing back her blonde hair, and leaves the room, heading silently for his own. The alert comes in halfway there- they're being sent out again. He brushes past Montana without a second thought, ducking into his room, locking the door, reaching for Delta's chip to slide him home.
Instantly, everything stops feeling so sharp, so intense. It doesn't stop hurting, of course, but Delta being in his head means everything eases, as the AI spreads out over his consciousness, seeps into all the little cracks and makes him relax.
I know.
He knows Delta's still learning the nuances of human emotion, so the low, harsh ache doesn't quite make a lot of sense-- they've only been together a few months, and Delta's still getting acclimated to the overwhelming rush of emotions that feed through to him with each new event. Carolina's accident had brought with it a whole slew of information and things to process that he was still working on, trying to figure out why York ached this much when the woman was still alive. Delta's attempts at processing make it easier not to think about it, though; York can focus on getting his armor on, explaining with just a short push of the memory of the orders he'd gotten, rather than verbally.
Delta asks dubiously, pausing some of the sub-processes to focus on York as the man keeps putting on pieces of his armor. Even he can detect the loneliness, the guilt that came with the idea that if I'd been stronger, faster, paying more attention, that hit wouldn't have knocked Carolina out and she wouldn't be laying in that bed in a coma.
Idly, Delta starts to press numbers at him (statistics, his own ranking, the speed and just how impossible it would have been for him to have known that grenade was going to go off, and that Carolina'd be right there) but York throws up mental blocks so hard and fast that Delta just sits there a moment, before going back to his analyzing.
Sometimes, Delta, I don't need a rundown like that, okay? York mumbles, as kindly as he can manage right then, and feels Delta latch on to everything right then, trying to make sense of it all- why York's upset, why it so intensely shitty to know there's nothing he can do about the girl in the hospital bed.
, Delta says finally, working on understanding why it is that York's reacting like he is, even if he's fairly sure it's impossible to do.
It's fine. We've gotta job to do. You good?
"Let's go, then," York says out-loud, the words inaudible with his helmet on, and steps out the door.
idk man all my delta prompts were depressing
so tragic ;;
no subject
no subject
SO LOL you get 240. "Soldier in a box | Hot hot heat." ALSO THIS WILL NOT BE DEPRESSING GODDAMNIT.
___
Emile never thought of himself as claustrophobic, honestly. After all, he's dealt with tighter spaces on missions, before, but with each rumble of the ground and shake of the building, he realizes that it's really possible to get claustrophobic. He's got barely enough room to move, one arm pinned-- his good arm, goddamnit, of course, and the slow, steady burn and ache of it lets him know yeah, something is fucked up in it. He hopes it's not too bad, because that's his good arm, and he really, really needs that.
There's little else to do besides, wait, though; the concrete and metal interferes too much with the comms to get anything out past a rush of static. He can really only hope they know where he is, and even then, that they can get to him.
Emile's head thunks back against the rock behind him, and he curses lightly under his breath, each little movement making his shoulder scream with pain, shooting all the way from his fingers to his toes. There's another rumble, and for the longest moment he feels sick, staring at the rocks above him like he has been for the last two hours, watching rubble fall down onto his helmet. He always assumed he'd go out fighting- not like this, not trapped under rubble, waiting to bite it.
The huge rock above his head trembles, more rubble falling onto his mask, and he just yells, straining against the rock pinning him, ignoring the way his whole body protests and he almost vomits inside the helmet. It's only that that keeps him from fighting more-- he doesn't want to be sitting there, trapped with his vomit, too. Emile sinks back, eyes closed, hissing a breath out between his teeth as more static comes over the comms, and he hears Kat's voice yell, distorted but panicked over the radio, followed by Jorge's loud holler of-- well. He can't make that out either, but it's something.
There are explosions in the distance, and Emile chokes on bile when the rock on his arm shudders and shifts, dropping down, pain shooting up his shoulder, making him nearly vomit all over again, breathing in shallow, panicked gasps. There's not enough room, there's really fucking not and he's fairly sure that there's too much rubble out there to get any sort of idea where he is. He's not scared of dying-- none of the Spartans are, it's just not in their heads to be, but he is scared of dying like this. Trapped, unable to fight, when fighting is what he's good at, what he's been trained in.
"Boss, this is Emile, I'm --" he starts, and hears the scream of static and feedback on his mic and headset, shutting up instantly when it gets too sharp. Still no luck.
All he can do is wait, then.
no subject
It's nearly four hours later, when he feels the rocks around him trembling-- they have been this whole time, but this is worse, and for a long moment he thinks this is it, and braces himself, equal parts furious and ready, except--
Except, well, the rock gets lifted off of him just as it smacks against his helmet, and Emile feels the other ones lifted away, catching sight of a blue helmet before he's dragged out of the rubble and the rocks collapse in, leaving him gasping at the rush of dizziness and pain that comes from being manhandled like that. "Easy, boss," Emile says in a pained rush, shaking his head, fingers twitching as he tries to move them and- yeah, best he just leaves off on that, then. Carter gives him a once-over, quiet and concerned, plasma damage on the front of his armor. "You let it scratch my helmet."
"Can't have everything," Carter answers, giving him a once-over, helping Emile out of the rubble until they're down on solid ground, and then he lets the other Spartan down, well aware a bruised arm doesn't mean he needs babied.
Emile wobbles just a little bit, before grabbing his shotgun, and holding it, tipping his chin at Carter. "Took your sweet time getting here, huh?" After so long, he'd thought it was useless, anyway; no motion trackers, no nothing, how were they supposed to find him?
"We weren't gonna leave you," Carter assured quietly, and clasped his good shoulder, nodding his head at where Emile could see everyone else standing. "Let's move out."
"Yes, sir." Emile took the first step toward them, knowing what Carter really meant. Let's go home.
no subject
se this is why Emile follows Carter ;_;
no subject