ＧＨＯＳＴ ＩＮ ＴＨＥ MACHINE

Ill advised that you continue your current trend. Shepard knows that she needs to eat; she isn’t starving herself, but she finds herself having a decreased appetite lately. She doesn’t want to waste food and she rarely finds herself hungry in the later hours of the evening. Her lips part to tell him this ( or something similar; she’d probably give him a better reason, in truth ) but he speaks once more. Noma’s eyes narrow.

“I don’t need a sleeping serum, David,” Shepard responds, ignoring his previous comment about food in the hope that he’ll forget. Can he forget? Shepard doesn’t think so, so she hopes he does whatever he does that’s akin to forgetting. Ignoring the subject all together would be great – Shepard just hopes he doesn’t go talking to Chambers, of all people. “I use stims when I’m not sleeping and that works just fine for me.” More often than not it’s not getting to sleep that she has to deal with ( though that is still a problem sometimes ) but instead it’s dealing with the nightmares. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine.”

Shepard forces a smile there, though it’s stiff and she makes no move to try to hide that fact.

He notes the strain behind her smile. Her skin is tight at the corners of her lips. Her eyes look as tired as they were just seconds before. She shows none of the signs of happiness or of peace-of-mind that he has stored away somewhere, though he scans for them a second time, just to be sure. Still nothing. 

“You are stressed,” he says at last. “It isn’t good to deal with burdens all on your own. It could cause an internal collapse. Mentally, of course---but, certainly, stress-induced ulcers are also a possibility.”

David stays where he is, standing straight, looking much like a military soldier. He considers a list of suggestions, narrows it to five, then to three, then to one. 

@synth8 liked this post for a starter.

Shepard doesn’t have a thing against synthetics – not even after the battle of the Citadel and all the experiences she’s had with the geth. No, she can be quite fond of synthetics if they give her a reason to be, and she tries to treat them like equals, but this time it’s different. Her ship is riddled with people she doesn’t know and can’t trust ( she’s sure there are cameras in her quarters too ) and David is a walking, talking reminder of that.

“What do you want, David?” Comes Shepard’s irritated tone as she gazes upon the other with a stony glare. Hands lean against the table, her head turned to look at him while moments ago it had been hanging low. If he comes out with a psychological assessment of her well-being, so help her.

“You’ve skipped dinner,” David says, standing neatly in the doorway. “This marks the fifth incident of you doing so in as many days. Every human needs three balanced meals to function at the optimal capacity; it is ill-advised that you continue your current trend.”

“the story will follow the crew of the colony ship Covenant, bound for a remote planet on the far side of the galaxy, who discover what they think is an uncharted paradise, but is actually a dark, dangerous world — whose sole inhabitant is the "synthetic" David, survivor of the doomed Prometheus expedition.”

tagging: @thecorrupter,  @bythecode, @oftarth, @anakining, @tyranii, and whoever else would like to do it!

TASTES: oatmeal with raisins and just a pinch of brown sugar. dry martinis, but only when he makes them himself. 

SMELLS: the inside of a conservatory bursting with tropical delights. the ocean, waves crashing on the shore with just enough bite that it sprays him with a fine, salty mist. 

SIGHTS: the sunset at its last dregs, dark clouds looming overhead in vibrant purple. a library, fully stocked, but devoid of people, with rows and rows of lightly-dusted novels and empty chairs. the crisp, unwrinkled grey of his uniform, perfectly-fitted---custom made just for him.

SOUNDS: silence. nothing. the sound of his own footsteps echoing through a clean, cold corridor. the click of his heels against cold, hard tile. the sound of his name in someone else’s voice. the pride in weyland’s voice when he says, ‘this is my david’. 

SENSATIONS: a cat’s fur under his fingers, and the vibrations of its happy, content purring. the feeling of doctor shaw’s hand on his arm, gently calling for his attention. the feeling of a comb’s teeth grazing his skull as he brushes back his hair until every strand is perfectly in place. 

OUTFITS:  the weyland corporate uniform, fitted to his build. crisp shirts and pressed pants. greyscale colours: blacks, greys, but not whites. soft sandals that make no noise as he walks. patent leather shoes that do.  BODY: a perfect balance of muscle and height. broad shoulders, strong arms, a tall, impressive frame towering over most. piercing blue eyes, deep as oceans, cold and calculating, ever staring. blond hair, no dark roots. 

“Mister Weyland would like a meeting with you,” David says, quiet and polite. Certainly, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Weyland gave him an order, and David hadn’t yet failed the man on any of his little tasks. He wasn’t about to start now. “He insists that you must join him for dinner. Tonight. Seven P.M. Semi-formal attire is recommended.”