The papervork never ends.

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It was her birthday.

Sure, Eliza wasn’t his actual mom, nor was she even his stepmom, but Phil was sure he was allowed to see her as his mom anyway, since she’d been there for him when no other mom of his was.

She had held him while he’d cried, she had laughed with him, she’d protected him, and now he was going to treat her like royalty for the day. 

In a wild display of luck, Phil had managed to kick everyone out of the kitchen (without being yelled at for being in the wrong base, too!) after coming back from town, so he could spend as much time as he needed to cook Eliza the perfect meal.

He knew exactly what he wanted to make for her, and while he was hoping to surprise her, Phil also wouldn’t be opposed if she were the only one to wander into the kitchen to help him cook.

It was time for a break.

Heels clicked hard against the floor, echoing down the hall as she made her way to the commons. It was the middle of the day, and yet no one was lounging around, or even having a quick cup of coffee. Brow furrowed, she looked around and craned her neck in the direction of the mess hall; silence had settled so much in her own ears that the light music filtering through didn’t even register until now.

The medic pushed one of the doors open, and lo, to her surprise, Phil was tinkering away with...some amalgamation of ingredients. Subconsciously, a finger tapped on the door to the tempo as she peeked in.

He hadn’t.. not foreseen an unfavourable outcome for his belligerent taunt and jeering. But the rapidity of her attack—and the cloud of his own indomitable arrogance— had him off guard and unsuspecting of any physical hostility to be wrought against his person.

What a atrocious error on his part. 

Shock benumbed the first strike given to his abdomen, the pull away hit with only a mild sting; the second had much the same effect. 

It wasn’t until the refined and lethal edge of her saw ran athwart his face that he could recognize the warm flow of blood spilling from his gut. 

His hands could not decide which wound to pay soothing mend as he buckled to the ground. Neither shrieking in pain nor wailing in the same. He did not sound in anger, either; no vulgarities did flow from his lips like the thick red that stained him and all around him  in a thick and crimson pool.

No.. Johannes laughed.

He bellowed and barked, cackled and wheezed. Oh me, oh my! Stuck a nerve! How quaint - Strike a nerve and according chords, and have a saw embedded in your entrails and sent across your pretty face.  

Oh.. but this was a lot of blood.. 

He coughed as he laughed, spitting more with a sputter as he cradled his injuries; one, then the other, respectively and in turn.

He laughed.

The medic snarled and pulled back, sending the toe of her boot across his cheekbone—she would surely give him something to laugh about.

Hostility between colleagues was not something Eliza was in the habit of executing, but there was no containing her fury at something that was, at face value, a harmless tease of a pet name. The medic bent down to grab at the man’s collar to bring his bloodied face nose to nose with her.

Gone were her tears—now her hazel eyes only held the discontent in which she was caught up.

"If you vere not a colleague I respected, I vould let you bleed out on zhis floor until Respawn found you," she hissed, venom dripping from each word spoken. "I am tempted to do just zhat, if not for a little vhile. But you ah getting blood all ovah zhe floor."

His collar was released and Eliza straightened her posture, blind anger slowly beginning to give way to a state of mind much friendlier to reason. She wasn’t unjustified in her reaction, but she knew someone might not be incredibly happy with her. Ah well. It would be dealt with.

A swift, fell kick to his already ailing features was effective in quieting his hysterics for a brief moment. Corbin was not a man t swear—quite an improper manner of speech, a deign to his upstanding and noble decorum—but this blow had drawn forth a shrill and pained utterance of a familiar, four letter vulgarity to lash from the medic’s tongue when he felt the full extent of pain brought on by the fury of his comrade’s boot.

Well that /fucking/ hurt.

There, he did cringe. He winced and how brow furrowed, his expression twisting to one of regret and growing pain from the doubled agony wracking his cheek and rattling his skull, and the deep punctures finding place piercing his abdomen.

Johannes allowed himself to rag-doll as he was pulled from his coiled mess on the ground to meet Eliza face to face. He grinned, half lidded in his whimsical gaze and quite clearly not entirely there, he grinned— wickedly amused at the chaos he did bring, both in theory and practice.

He could only do to hold back another violent bark of a laugh, if for nothing else, because he was nose to nose with the other medic, and such an outburst would result in an offending spray of blood from where it had already dribbled down his chin.

Internal bleeding - Confirmed. No surprise there— Oh! Back to the ground we go, to swim around in his own puddled pool of crimson on the ruined tile.

His laughter did begin again as a low and rolling chuckle, quiet, and with a distinct lack of enthusiasm that had been showcased only moments prior. He certainly hadn't been expecting mercy on her behalf— perhaps that was guilt? Guilt for lashing out so violently over the use of—though admittedly demeaning, as was his intent—a pet name? Guilt.. remorse.. silly emotions, those.

Or, as it was more likely, at least from his perspective, what prevented his slow demise was his compatriot’s desire to adhere to the contractual obligation /not/ to send comrades on a Respawn holiday. How noble, how kind. Regardless, it was with a dangerous sense of temptation and deviancy that he stored this theory.

"Do extend my deepest apologies to zhe floor, zhen." With that he issued another wet cough prior to letting his head fall, heavy, back to the ground.

Gift art for @ladyofnucleus. Sweet sweet mother and son moment. 

This post is wildly overdue, but I’m officially placing this blog (and Eliza’s) on hiatus until further notice. I’m just not as active on these blogs as much as I’d like, and I don’t want to keep what few partners I was actively involved with in the lurch more than I already have.

This is the second (third?) time I’ve come back to the tumblr RP scene, only to go silent again. I have a lot of fond memories surrounding writing partners, and the blood and sweat that goes into fleshing out my characters, but at this time I don’t know that I can keep up with it as frequently as a good blog should be kept.

Between working and struggling horribly with muse inspiration, it’s really wearing down on me and making me question whether or not I want to continue with writing at all. The short of the matter is that I’ve run out of steam.

There are so many people I’ve met through the years that are wonderful, irreplaceable and amazing, and I’m beyond humbled to have been given the chance to meet you all; right now, though, I need to step back and figure out what I want and need to do. If nothing else, I’ll keep the girls around as archives.

In the meantime, you guys can find me on my main if you’re so inclined. I promise this isn’t goodbye for good–any OOC updates will be posted, for ease of mind–but it is goodbye for now.

Me:

Blog account: ladyofnucleus.tumblr.com Player Timezone: EST Character name: Eliza Kirsch Character Age: 45 Alliance: RED Class: Medic Small bio:

Eliza wondered when the Industries would fizzle out, but she never expected their replacement to be quite so…efficient. So lethal. The medic would be lying if she said she wasn’t a fan, but the echoes of a past life thrummed too closely with the present. Still, she was set on serving dutifully as she had this past decade-and-a-half, and displeasing the new powers on high was not an option.

Militant exposure as a young woman has deadened her to any shock of what this new designation brings, and though she serves in medical capacity there is a certain thrill of being assigned the dismantling defectors. With renewed vigor, she serves as Hell’s right hand with wicked delight.