Hi everyone. This is Valen, the owner of the RP blogs for Jack and Benezia. I had technically resigned last night due to downer real-life reasons, but didn’t really know what to say here. I guess since I haven’t really gotten to know many of you, it’s a little difficult. Still, I didn’t want to wait too long of a time without giving some sort of notification. So here I am, in all my awkward yet thankfully non-naked glory.
To avoid confusion, please unfollow this blog, as well as fromrubble.tumblr.com.
It has been a pleasure reading posts from all of you. This is certainly one of the most talented group of writers I’ve ever come across. The plot, from what I’ve heard of it, has tremendous potential, and so do all of you. I wish you the best of luck.
Professor Nought out.
Right at the next corner.
How many of these signs can there possibly be?
Thane stumbled on, following signs and directions through unfamiliar streets in search of his goal. A hospital. It had been too long since he had actually seen a medical professional. Being dead had its drawbacks. He could feel the weight of their effects in his chest, in his strained breathing. How long can I really keep this up? He didn’t know but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind near immediately.
Ever since the defeat of the Reapers, Jack had gotten into the habit of occasionally styling her hair.
It made her feel a little bit ridiculous, standing in the old office building where she stayed, looking this way and that into a broken piece of mirror in the dust of a near-ruined London.
The thing was, Jack had always needed to maintain a semblance of active control over her appearance, however trivial. Cerberus had marred her body with cuts and bruises, scars from unsolicited treatments, chemical burns from experiments gone awry. With every inch of skin she inked, the former convict reclaimed a part of herself, transformed it into something of her own design. And now, with few clean needles and precious little skin left to transform, she directed this energy into something a little less permanent.
Today, her dark brown hair was spiked into a sizable mohawk, earning her more than a few stares from the hospital staff. (One of the Asari physicians had looked sorely tempted to poke it before a succinct snarl sent her hurriedly on her way.)
Jack sat alone in the hallway, her mood dour. Prangley was in his room, catching up with his only surviving parent. The former convict figured she’d give them some privacy. Besides, she’d hate to have to sit through all that family crap.
She had intended to talk to the kids early this morning about her plans to leave, but couldn’t quite manage to start the conversation. Somewhere between escaping Pragia on a Cerberus vessel and nagging Prangley about his barriers, friendship had become more important to her than vengeance.
Which… kind of sucked.
There had been a certain freedom in having nothing to lose. A sense of exhilaration in simply not caring about the ways in which her decisions affected other peoples’ lives. To be any other way was a vulnerability. A loss of control.
Yet here she was, fucking involved, for better or for worse.
There was a mild commotion down the hallway, which caused the powerful biotic to turn her head - and blink in surprise. During her time on the Normandy, she hadn’t been particularly close to anyone. But here was a person she would recognize anywhere.
Jack watched, unnoticed, as the renowned assassin breathed deeply into his oxygen mask. She had heard from Shepard that Thane still lived, but the drell’s condition had clearly worsened.
There had always been an inexplicable understanding between them, even if they never talked much.
She vividly remembered storming into the Life Support chambers once, huddling wordlessly into a corner of the room without so much as a glance at its regular occupant. It had been soon after Pragia. She had hoped to lay her ghosts to rest. And yet, she’d stalked the bowels of the ship that night, driven to insomnia by the same unshakable rage. As to why exactly she found herself silently sharing Thane’s space… her guess was as good as any. Perhaps she saw a kindred spirit in him. Both of them were trapped in the past. And as much as they tried, neither was truly in control.
It wasn’t until he finished speaking into his omnitool that Jack decided to approach. The assassin stared at his hands, the plates of his brow furrowing subtly the only sign that he was aware of her presence. The biotic frowned, leather-clad feet coming to a stop about a meter in front of where he sat.
“Hey,” she finally greeted, her voice the essence of deadpan levity. “You look good for someone who died a few months back.”
shooting-scars-deactivated20130 asked: "Hey Jack, figured I'd send you a message. How are you? Your students? Never got a chance to say this before, but it was surprising to see that you actually have a soft spot for kids now. We're planning on scouting down the Illusive Man and taking the bastard down. If you want to plant a couple bullets in his body, just let me know." -G
“I figured I’d hear from you one of these days. Guy like you could only sit still for so long before your ass starts to itch. They’ve still got me and a few of the kids with the cleaning crew. Shit, Vakarian. I’ve seen a lot of dead people in my time, but give ‘em a couple of months trapped under rubble with all this heat, and it reeks like you wouldn’t believe. But hey. Unlike these sorry fuckers, I’m still alive. So who am I to complain? Can’t imagine things are any better where you are.
The kids? Well, what the fuck do you want me to say? They’re barely teenagers, and they’ve just survived the biggest war in the history of humanity. Some of them lost their families. Most of them lost their faith. And not a single one of them will ever be the same again. This kinda crap changes you. And either you move the fuck on, or you completely lose your shit. Some lucky bastards never have to learn that. My guys are learning it the hard way.
Prangley took the worst of it though. Piece of Reaper nearly severed his leg clean through. He’s starting PT tomorrow. I’m gonna sit tight till next week. If it doesn’t look like the docs are fucking it up, I’ll be good to go. See if you can keep that trigger finger of yours busy with something else in the meantime. I want the Illusive Man to be alive and screaming when I tear. Him. Apart.
OOC: Anyone have Skype?
OOC: I ask because it’s a bit of a hassle to communicate through tags. And as much as I love Tumblr, its messaging system isn’t exactly conducive to in-depth conversations.
It’d be cool to start up a chat room if the rest of you are interested. My username is nao.kitteh. Feel free to add me.
Notes From a Datapad [Entry Three]
Cheerleader’s got her genetically-modified head lodged so far up her ass, her sense of humor got shit poisoning and died. I’m not figuring this out just now, mind you. But some observations bear restating.
It wasn’t so bad though. Hell, as far as our conversations go, that was downright friendly. Not gonna cuddle up to her anytime soon, but didn’t really feel like rearranging her face either. That’s something, right?
Anyway. Pointless bullshit aside, the Illusive Man’s is still alive.
That little piece of information has been buzzing around my head like a vicious little fly.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not fucking surprised. Bastard could weasel his way out of just about anything. I guess I just didn’t expect it to affect me as much as it has. Fuck if I know why. I’m not Shepard. I don’t forgive.
I dreamt of Teltin last night for the first time in months. I was in my old cell, strapped to the bed. The whole place was going up in flames, but I couldn’t get out.
I can just hear the Girl Scout going on about how time heals all wounds or some shit like that. Maybe it does. I don’t know. But damned if the scars won’t still sometimes itch.
The Illusive Man has a lot to answer for. And if the team that Vakarian’s pulling together’s any indication, he’s about to get what’s coming to him.
As much as I would love to be in the squad that takes him down, I don’t wanna go if the kids still need me. Fucking stupid. They’re not even technically my students anymore. But I guess they’re the closest thing to a family I’ve ever had. They trust me. They look up to me. And I guess that means something.
There’s no reason not to think they’ll be fine. Stradtler and Lewis listen to Rodriguez when I’m not around. And the doc said that Prangley’s gonna need a lot of rest once he’s on that PT program, so it’s not like I’d be visiting much anyway.
So why the fuck am I still fussing? Ugh. Fuck sentimentality, and FUCK Shepard. All this rainbow-shitting makes me fucking sick.
Message from Miranda Lawson
If you are reading this, then I am surprised. Still charming as ever, Subject Zero. You must have toned down if they considered you for a teaching position, though I am sure your biotics were mainly why they were interested. Regardless of what we think of each other… Nice work.
- M. L.
Mere minutes after having contacted Shepard, Jack’s omnitool alerted her to an incoming message. The ex-con arched an eyebrow. That was quicker than she expected. And here she thought the Girl Scout was off rescuing stranded kittens and curing Kepral’s Syndrome.
Upon opening the message, brown eyes widened in surprise, before narrowing in irritation. It had been a long time since someone had called her that. Fucking cheerleader always loved getting on her nerves. Damn good at it too.
It didn’t take long for her to formulate a reply.
“Hey Cerberus. How’d the new lifestyle work out for ya? All that time on the run and no one to condescend to. Must have been like losing an arm. Or two.
Heard you helped take down your old boss. Good for you. Won’t make up for all the nasty shit your old friends have done, though, and doesn’t make you any less of a priggish cunt.”
Jack paused in her message, a small part of her wishing she could be there to see the cheerleader’s reaction, a devilish smile tugging the corners of her lips -
Before she realized that she was, in fact, smiling, and shook it off with a dismayed growl before hastily finishing the message.
“So listen, bitch. You’d better be taking care of yourself out there, or I’m gonna kick your ass. If anyone’s allowed to kill you, it’s me.
Notes From a Datapad [Entry Two]
Funny how many idiots seem to think that a war ends the moment the enemy surrenders. Well, it’s been more than a month since the Reapers were deep-fried, and boy have those sheltered bastards been proven wrong.
We’re still not finished clearing the rubble out of the major cities. Body counts are steadily climbing, and the number of missing are still in the seven-digits. Civilian volunteers are getting tired and making mistakes. And with a lot of the building structures weakened, one little misstep could undo days of labor.
Me and the kids have been working our asses off. Turns out a squad of Grissom-trained biotics is really fucking handy at heavy lifting. We turn up a handful of corpses everyday, but it’s been more than a week since we’ve seen any survivors.
This whole lump of rock is drenched in the stink of death. Those two million missing? Yeah, they’re about as good as fucked. But try telling that to the little girl waiting for her parents to take her home.
A few of the kids - the Earthborns - took off to help their hometowns. Another handful went back to their families. There are five of us left, holed up in an old office building in London. They have nowhere else to go, no family to go back to, and, well, I guess I’m it for now.
Weird seeing them look at me the same way most of the suicide squad looked at Shepard. Crazy… and sobering. But damned if I don’t kinda like it.
And to think, less than a year ago, the biggest thing I was worried about was one-upping the Cheerleader. Scuttlebutt has it that she helped the Girl-Scout take down Cerberus. Whatever. She’s still a pompous bitch. But I wish I could have been there.
Might send Shepard a message. I’d take a running swan-dive into a herd of stampeding elcor before saying it out loud, but I kinda miss her righteous ass.
Notes From a Datapad [Entry One]
War’s over. Most of the fleets have gone home. And if their homeworlds look anything like Earth, they’ll be busy for awhile. Figures it’d take a catastrophe of apocalyptic proportions to get those pansy politicians to stop dick-measuring and do something useful. That, and Shepard. Queen of the Girl-Scouts.
Man, what a mind-fuck. There you are, the toughest biotic bitch on this side of the galaxy. You don’t care for anyone and you’re not responsible for anything, because getting involved just means that it’s easier for people to fuck with you. Then she waltzes over and puts faith in you, and the next thing you know, you’re sitting in a makeshift infirmary for fourteen hours waiting for news on Prangley. Everything reeks of dead bodies and antiseptic, but you’re rooted to the spot. Doc comes out covered in sweat and blood, and it’s not until he smiles at you that you realize you’re crying.
So fucking pathetic.
But, I guess that crazy bitch came through for us after all.
Found this crappy old datapad on a merc corpse, and figured he wouldn’t need it anymore. I’m not usually the write about my feelings type, but going through a war tends to fuck you in the head.