The widow-woman goes to church every Sunday, the picture of hard-bitten virtue earned just as much as any respectable wife in this dusty town. She’s real careful to keep it that way- refusing to so much as glance at a disreputable ranch-hand who gambles too much and wins too often for how raggy he keeps himself.
The only rumors that swirl around her is that maybe she got herself half-scalped by some rogue Water-tribe, but Jet thinks he knows better.
2. Cyberpunk-
He can’t believe he took that mark as the sign of a fighter, someone who’d woken once and fought to keep from surrendering into placid, cowardly sleep again. He can’t believe he took a spoiled socialite for a true wakened dreamer- or he can, but he wishes he hadn’t. Should’ve seen the signs, the brand logos on the jacks, even slumming it like she was in the broke-down reaches of the lowest bubble-towns, pretty gold pod all stripped and dented when it got covertly placed there.
Now she’s sold them all out for the chance at finding a needle in a haystack, one pod among thousands holding a kid that probably isn’t even genetically hers. Fucking madwoman thinks it’s all real.
Jet guns the motor of his speeder, shivering at the feel of real atmo screaming past real skin, and wishes he could set a sweep for that little niggling voice that cries mercy. Quarantine the fucker.
Mercy never freed brain-slaves. Mercy only exacerbated the problem. Mercy only ever got you killed.
But there it sits, flashing its little warning light, beeping forlornly- even as his overclocked senses override it in the wash of adrenaline and speed.
3. Furries-
She doesn’t sing, she doesn’t dance, and she has no time for a lanky, scruffy tom who hasn’t even presented himself to the gathering yet (either). At the edge of the junkyard, the ginger queen keeps to herself and glances constantly to the side, where she thinks her kit remains cunningly concealed. Jet washes his face, and thinks of where he’s hidden a nice bit of fish-paste that might do to tease her out, get her to sing a few notes of her song his way.
He’s not big and buff and blonde, but he can keep a queen happy enough- and blustery Tugger gets quite enough tail already.
When Macavity appears and blocks out the moon, she’s the first to clamp jaws around her kit’s head and leap off with it in tow, and things get too busy in the ensuing fight to really keep track of where she’s gone.
Part 1! (more to follow...)
The widow-woman goes to church every Sunday, the picture of hard-bitten virtue earned just as much as any respectable wife in this dusty town. She’s real careful to keep it that way- refusing to so much as glance at a disreputable ranch-hand who gambles too much and wins too often for how raggy he keeps himself.
The only rumors that swirl around her is that maybe she got herself half-scalped by some rogue Water-tribe, but Jet thinks he knows better.
2. Cyberpunk-
He can’t believe he took that mark as the sign of a fighter, someone who’d woken once and fought to keep from surrendering into placid, cowardly sleep again. He can’t believe he took a spoiled socialite for a true wakened dreamer- or he can, but he wishes he hadn’t. Should’ve seen the signs, the brand logos on the jacks, even slumming it like she was in the broke-down reaches of the lowest bubble-towns, pretty gold pod all stripped and dented when it got covertly placed there.
Now she’s sold them all out for the chance at finding a needle in a haystack, one pod among thousands holding a kid that probably isn’t even genetically hers. Fucking madwoman thinks it’s all real.
Jet guns the motor of his speeder, shivering at the feel of real atmo screaming past real skin, and wishes he could set a sweep for that little niggling voice that cries mercy. Quarantine the fucker.
Mercy never freed brain-slaves. Mercy only exacerbated the problem. Mercy only ever got you killed.
But there it sits, flashing its little warning light, beeping forlornly- even as his overclocked senses override it in the wash of adrenaline and speed.
3. Furries-
She doesn’t sing, she doesn’t dance, and she has no time for a lanky, scruffy tom who hasn’t even presented himself to the gathering yet (either). At the edge of the junkyard, the ginger queen keeps to herself and glances constantly to the side, where she thinks her kit remains cunningly concealed. Jet washes his face, and thinks of where he’s hidden a nice bit of fish-paste that might do to tease her out, get her to sing a few notes of her song his way.
He’s not big and buff and blonde, but he can keep a queen happy enough- and blustery Tugger gets quite enough tail already.
When Macavity appears and blocks out the moon, she’s the first to clamp jaws around her kit’s head and leap off with it in tow, and things get too busy in the ensuing fight to really keep track of where she’s gone.