WHEN THERE ARE SO MANY around you that you become NO ONE ; that is the most lonesome feeling, moreso than the vast emptiness of the galactic void. in is in this lair of growling basslines and blinding neons that nihlus finds himself looming, with valiant attempts to push innumerable voices out of his head. IT’S ALL TOO MUCH, these lights, these noises, and his only salvation against his sensory violation is a minute identification of every figure and every discernible face - only through this does he find the focus to repel insanity. he always catches familiar traits, glimpses of acquaintances, of old friends, of criminals; people whose lives have gone on, and people whose lives he has ended. it is only NATURAL that, through the tumult of club-goers, war-sharpened eyes find a hunched silhouette, one that, he feels, should be standing proud and upright.
SEA GAZE passes over her form momentarily; keep returning, as though drawn. damn does she look like shepard. just like her, but a little broken, a little ripped at the seams, devoid of the fiery spirit he once admired.
“ pardon the intrusion, but i don’t think you should be drinking alone. “
gut heated by alcohol, the slight tingle under her skin she’d learned to recognize as cybernetics reacting to liquor it didn’t do much to lift her gloom; the Cerberus improvements were steady, constant, reminders of the reasons she was parked at the bar in the first place.
a voice: dual-toned, turian, male. a glance from the corner of her eye confirmed her assumptions, and offered insight to the tangible form to the sound from her quick and fleeting glance, she caught only a few things ( he was tall, unsurprising. his plates were dark, details of his markings were lost on her; except for the white. )
staring down her glass; the substance in it bright pink and, somehow, inviting.
“ I counter that statement with ‘ I should definitely drink alone, ’ “ she said, took a swig, and grimaced at the burn; the gesture pulling uncomfortably on the glowing, unnatural, valleys in her skin.
she turned towards the male, fully, this time, and was about to make a cutting statement about company at bars and the implications of turian/human fraternizing when she stopped. the vague image of him was bestowed with details; the markings, the hazy seagreen of his eyes. Turian, male, dead.
it had to be coincidence, or the alcohol, or a relative, it had to be but lately she had seriously begun to doubt the finality of death. yet the old name wasn’t caught in her throat, like it was supposed to, but slipped out, clear and shocked:
theartofmadeline
annaxmalina
titsay
jacobvanloon
dededos
tangentwithtanner
janainaart
