cryo // anachronism

CARRD // RULES // MUSES

It all makes sense; Six has considered the dangerous storms that plague Arizona, but she never considered having to share airspace. The fact they’d be doing it with the Brotherhood makes her wish ill things on them that aren’t kind, and so she opts to say nothing about it at all. Golden curls only bob a bit as she nods gracefully. She’ll focus on the positive instead, like the sound of teamwork and a maybe.

“I wish,” She sighs dreamily, a small laugh at the notion, “I been promised a ride’r two, but it ain’t managed to be in the cards yet. Seen plenty of planes fly to be certain – vertibirds, sure, but we got a goup back home what have simulators they been using for years. Can fly old bomber planes and commercial fliers in their sleep, and I’d put caps on it.”

She wants so badly to see what it’s like to be the one who sits in that chair and lifts off into the sky, but they guard that technology with their lives and Six hasn’t been around to flatter her way into it yet. Too much to do. Too much to orchestrate. One day though, maybe she’ll at least get to see what New Vegas might look like if she were a bird. Maybe she’ll get to see the wasteland for miles, “Is it safe to suppose you have, Miss Quinn?”

❝-- I did, actually. Quite often. So often that humanity forgot what a marvel human flight could be... Myself included.❞ The drudgery that led up to flight always felt like a chore. The lines, the check-ins, the waiting before everyone was herded into their little tin can and hurled off into the sky. Even so, there’s something wistful that passes over her expression; a sight unseen, with her head tilted away from Six’s periphery. 

    “Oh, Ana’Hira…” In Quinn’s voice, of course. “…I’m so sorry I won’t be there to face the Great Journey with you. I-” He. Hehehe. “I REGRET not being of sturdier stuff, darling. Please, remember me after my fragile mortal form fades away.”

  Just one example of a way to properly respond to that. She could come up with more if she’d time to think. “Okay, mostly a joke, means slightly serious. I’ll eat EVERY billionaire I come across, but I’ll pace them out to make you comfy.”  

  She’d already eaten ONE child in her time on Earth and that- that was enough. Angela was the last sin she’d run in that category. “These are good rules. I’ll try not to flake on these.”

❝--- Stop that.❞ To Ana’Hira’s credit, Quinn misses the impulse check; immediately pressing a hand to her mouth to stop talking. It’s not so much the content as it is the voice. Something of a numinous dread to hear oneself speaking, and know it’s not pre-recorded. Alas - shapeshifters seem to relish in their organized chaos. 

“You can’t prove shit, anyway.” Shepard grinned, raising both hands. “As if I was trying to lie to you. Kinda obvious I was messing up with you, but if you want to take that seriously, so I guess you need to relax more in life. Just saying.” No point in hiding his criminal background anyway – he wasn’t part of the Alliance military anymore. Shepard didn’t have to follow any rules.

“Alright. I’ve slept with a hanar prostitute or I’ve killed a teammate during my training years in the Alliance? Which one is the lie?”

❝Didn’t fuckin’ care to, anyways.❞ Jack scoffs. Power plays such as this bore her. Some people get their rocks off on feeling like they’re winning a conversation. As if it’s a game. She has a feeling the proclaimed XO of this tin can is one of them -- and apparently Shepard’s no different. 

It’s horrible–but no more horrible than anything else he’s heard or seen in his line of work. Macen says there’s such a thing as ‘compassion fatigue’, a sort of emotional burnout caused by constantly helping others. Avitus doesn’t see how that could apply to him. He doesn’t really help anyone. The Council points him at a problem, tells him to get rid of it, and he does. No compassion required.

But that woman looked so sad. Avitus’ head keeps turning subtly in the direction she disappeared. She has somewhere to go, doesn’t she? Spirits, he hates this job.

“You’re asking me if I can put down the bastards who took them? Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

As ever, the light at the end of the tunnel is far too meagre. Avitus blinks against it all the same, testing the air. There’s a tinniness to it, a sort of thrum that reminds him of Palaven. The low-level radiation there isn’t harmful to turians, but isn’t it supposed to make humans sick? He gives Quinn another onceover. In spite of her severity, he can’t help thinking she looks vulnerable. Squishy. He’s getting second-hand anxiety already. Ugh.

“What sort of distance are we talking? I’m not worried about catching up if they’re on foot, but if they’ve got vehicles, that could change things.” He keeps scanning over the landscape–even if he doesn’t need to memorize these surroundings right now, he might, later. Anywhere can become a battleground, said Saren, once. Don’t wait until then to figure out your strategy. “Any idea how many were taken? If it’s only a few, I can bring them back myself, but… a large group could become a target, especially if some are injured. I don’t want to risk lives that aren’t my own.”

Moments like these are important for understanding just who it is you’re working with. And Quinn takes to those moments with the full weight of her attention, studying Avitus carefully; every tic, every pause, every twitch. Perhaps it’s wrong to let one person’s loss and suffering serve as bait to better understand just who it was the Council deigned to send to their planet. Perhaps it is unkind.

But she needs to know if the Council is really as benevolent as it claims to be on this mission, or if they’re merely surveying a potential issue to be stamped out. So she speaks of people kidnapped, of people in need, and Avitus’ first words do not immediately go towards a rescue mission, but of killing the ones responsible. Militaristic. That’s expected. Some sort of Turian equivalent of wetworks, black forces, perhaps. So he’s more concerned with culling the issue than remedying the wound, then?

She keys up her omni-tool, a model that looks extensively modified; older model that’s met more than a few adaptations and upgrades over time. But despite that, it seems the file send request clears to Avitus’ own easily enough, just waiting his approval. 

Nick knew how to play along at this point, how Quinn liked to ride a joke with a brilliant sarcasm until she abandoned ship. She was funny, but Nick knew she wouldn’t buy it if he told her that. 

A hand rested over his mouth as he blew her shot, a pitiful attempt to hide a smile that still showed in the creases of his polymer face. He’d been about to ready himself when the cue tapped him in the chest and held him there– yellow eyes turned down to it, then back up to meet hers. “…Don’t know what you mean.”

His hand moved down to his hip to reveal a hard poker face. “Sometimes a fella’s just got a tickle in his throat. …May I?” 

❝Coy ain’t a look that suits you, Valentine.❞ Her head tilts, as if in thought, but it’s the way her eyes remain locked on his that it becomes clear there’s still a serrated sharpness to her stare. So maybe she does have a competitive streak. Everyone has their flaws. Nick cheats to win and Quinn twists the truth to do the same. 

Ultimately, the same method, just applied differently. Two centuries-old peas in a pod.

          “ 𝗜 𝗠𝗘𝗔𝗡,  𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗔𝗦 𝗢𝗨𝗧𝗙𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗔 𝗕𝗢𝗗𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗠𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗗 𝗔  predator.  it’s much better than the mouthful that’s IF prototype LQ-84i.  ”  it takes a certain amount of mental fortitude not to simply roll his eye at the comment.  the conversation was not well to hamper his annoyance,  but at least there wasn’t boredom.  “  besides,  you have no room to talk.  your name is black-box and your avatar is a cube.  ”  the vent shaft was a bit smaller than anticipated.  both fists clench as raiden worms (  or wriggles?  ) his way towards other side.  this sort of felt embarrassing,  but at least there was only one witness that he was aware of.

     let’s just hope blackmailing wasn’t part of the very short list of humor.

     “  oh,  really?  then tell me about some of your hobbies.  you know,  your likes.  nothing in this mission or your current directive counts.  ”  damn,  how long does this vent system go?  “  i won’t deny that;  every part of my body save for the brain and spinal cord has been artificially replaced.  i don’t believe you though - you’re still only lines of code and hardware.  you weren’t born or have living tissue.  and you wanna know the biggest difference between us?  ”  he’s a bit petty enough to pause and tap at his head in indication,  “  i still have my brain.  yeah,  the one organ that dictates my thoughts and feelings.  ”

❝Indeed.❞ If it were anyone else, any other person, he would have commented along the lines of ‘Maybe it is for you,’ followed up with a questioned observation of how one can ever hope to speak quickly given how confoundedly disgusting and obtrusive a tongue is.

Ah, but Raiden doesn’t exactly have that conundrum, does he? So instead, a mere sliver of his attention diverts to continuing the conversation. ❝I do not possess a preference for making myself palatable to others, but I recognize the convenience of simplifying oneself for another’s limited comprehension. Thus the name Black-Box.❞ Because, as Raiden might say, BBX-8995-1 is simply too much of a mouthful.

          𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗖𝗬𝗕𝗢𝗥𝗚 𝗟𝗘𝗧𝗦 𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗔 𝗥𝗘𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗗 𝗚𝗥𝗨𝗡𝗧.  𝘾𝙇𝙊𝙎𝙀 𝙀𝙉𝙊𝙐𝙂𝙃.  he slides a finger over the open HUD to grant access to black-box’s request.  “  let’s see.  dr. martel…  5'4.  dark brown hair.  46.  it says here she has nanomachines embedded in her system - that should make her a bit easier to track if we could match her vitals.  ”  there’s a small pip before he tosses the dossier into minimizing again.

     “ roger that.  guess i’ll just stay up here ‘til i run into the office.  ”  easiest way not to get himself caught.  raiden continues stalking the pipeline,  pausing in between to check his surroundings for possibly a hidden camera or stray gekko on the ceiling.    “  you know,  i had worked with another ai before you.  a neuro-ai.  it’s—his name was wolf.  ”  at the end of the room the pipes lead to a vent system,  where he carefully rips off the grate before crawling in.  there wasn’t any particular reason in indulging the small-talk (  especially given how ais were always painfully to the point  ),  but he figures to get some feelers out there on black-box.  an opinion,  an idea,  maybe even a little fact or two.  “  feel like you two would get along much better than with me.  probably even have wonderfully intellectual conversations about humanity’s repetitive flaws.  ”

❝Such a prolific name, Wolf is.❞ Black-Box comments tartly. He’s been trying to get a bead on the nanomachines in question for more than a few cycles now, but the effort has been a fruitless one thus far. The conclusion here is that there’s something actively blocking or interfering outside signals, or the target is not on the premises.

That last one would be unanticipated and unfortunate. Dr. Martel, as most humans are wont to be, is a creature of habit. And her personal residence, correspondences, family and friends gave no indication that she would be out-of-office today. Completion of the first step of this mission without the second step close by only presents snags. He’d rather take the complications from dampeners and signal blockers than an absent Dr. Martel.

    “The Covenant Invasion of 2524? Oh, I suppose I’m too early to reference such, aren’t I? Ah, just be thankful you’ll be dead by then, best friend. It’s not a pleasant time for humans and those human-adjacent.” She’d miss her dear friend in those war-torn days. She’d miss them all, really.

  Fingers steepled, the goddess floated casually, nodding along to the ‘rules of engagement’ Quinn had for her. They were annoying, aye, but to be expected from one in her position. “What if I get hungry? Is that a good enough reason? I’m defending my tummy from rumbles.”

❝I mean - is there even a way to properly respond to that? There isn’t.❞ And she exhales in a low sigh because who else but Ana can manage to be both offbeat and ominous, right? Right. 

❝... Only kill if you or someone else’s safety or life is threatened. And --❞ Fingers pinch the bridge of her nose. Is she really trying to set guidelines on cannibalism, now? Is it even cannibalism, in Ana’s case? 

❝Sounds like a dangerous form of magic.❞ And indeed, she can feel its residue lingering in the air hours since; cloying and chalky. The pads of her fingers trace along the contents of the room, the furniture, the knick-knacks, searching for some echo, some trace of a memory that she can pull apart and unwind. But the magic left is all-consuming, absorbing all those footprints and hiding them. 

No longer the size of an unquenchable night terror the scion of the ahamkara found a comfortable balance in the dimensions of an ill omen, or perhaps a violent vision. Still large enough to serve as support for the resting form of her ally and friend, but small enough to match the slowed tremors of quiet acceptance within her.

    “I won’t eat you.” A huff, motes of glimmer escaping her nostrils as she did. “That’s no way to show affection in this civilized day and age… I believe ’hugging’ is in vogue again.” She could not smile. Draconic features did not align to show mortal mirth that way.

  And yet, she was smiling all the same. At least, for a moment.

    “No. What was killed, what had been TAKEN? She needed to die. What was stolen, what no longer was? I mourned her long ago. I am… happy she is free.” She could not cry. Draconic features did not align to show mortal misery that way.

  And yet…

❝Does that mean you want a hug?❞ And there, just slightly is the curving lilt of playfulness that winds itself through her words. They are both old. Older than most. Older than many can cope or even process. She’s learned that bouts of grief are best upsailed with bouts of brevity. Like dark chocolate, or alcohol, or the right dish; you need just the perfect blend of sweet to go with the bitter.

“I bet you let other people carry you. It’s just me that you hate.” Another sarcastic comment as he stopped by his locker, opening it. He didn’t care about Jack’s harsh words in any way – she wasn’t military, was forced to work with Cerberus (just like him), so he couldn’t request her to be in a good mood anyway. Being there to help on a suicide mission was enough, she could bite for all he cared. And it was funny to provoke her – of course, not to the point of pissing her off – because sometimes the ship could get boring with plastic people.

“I used to have a buzzcut when I was with the Alliance. Decided to keep the haircut of my criminal years while I work with Cerberus.” A pause as he grinned. “I’m kidding.” Then, he gave her a shrug as he removed the armor, placing it inside his locker carefully. “I don’t blame you, the more I stay here, the more I want to throw this ship against a Cerberus facility or something. But I won’t do that because I have a mission to do.” And that was when he put on his leather jacket, turning around to look at her with a serious expression.

“Cerberus wants me to stop the Collectors from abducting human colonies, and find out why they’re doing it. The Illusive Man claims that they’re obsessed with me, thus the reason why they think humans are superior or some shit. Clearly, a Cerberus opinion only to put humankind on top.”

❝The last people that did ended up as paste on the fucking floor. Think you stepped on ‘em a few times trying to find me.❞ She sneers. Too many hands, all tight grips and harsh words. Loss of control, loss of power, loss of who she is. That’s all it’s ever been when others touch her, really. A collar. A loss of agency. A means to make her quieter, smaller, easier to stamp out or use.

She doesn’t fucking want that anymore. But she isn’t about to snap at Shepard for it. Jackass, maybe. But he doesn’t know. Better that way - this is all just a mutual arrangement. Intel on Cerberus for her biotics. Least here, she’s using him back. 

          𝗛𝗘'𝗦 𝗤𝗨𝗜𝗧𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗧𝗔𝗕𝗟𝗬 𝗛𝗨𝗡𝗞𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗘  pipelines,  squatting low enough he might as well be facing prone.  there’s a silent,  sort of predatory watch over patrolling guards marking the perimeter,  yet no move to make a direct assault.  this wasn’t the usual sort of head-on approach raiden’s grown more accustomed to after all,  it was a covert rescue mission  -  and a tedious one at that.  scaling the ceiling was the easiest way to defer from being spotted.  the ai hasn’t spouted any nonsense in his ear yet,  so it’s safe to assume the terminus route has run its course…  for now.

     trying not to scrape the claws was a pain in the ass though.

     “  here it is.  cell division c.  ”  but no sign of the T.O.I.  “  huh.  mind pulling up the dossier for the target again,  bb?” and don’t say anything stupid.

          @cryochronism​​    /    ❤’d

❝Very well. I shall refrain from any commentary pertaining to your memory retention.❞ His voice comes in smooth, almost tinny through the earpiece, but clear nonetheless. Neural interfacing might be a more optimal route for a mission such as this, but that’s hardly a discussion to encroach on their first mission together; especially given the origins of who it is Black-Box works for. So instead, he sends the request for Raiden’s approval to open and view. Extra steps, perhaps, but BB’s runtimes don’t so much as hitch. 

@cryochronism          /           sms. for quinn.

[whisper:] this u