#argentwhisper

❛  you think i  wanted  this?  ❜    she’s fucking delusional.    she’s always been delusional but right now,  her delusion stands out like a sore thumb  &  it’s enough to nearly make him laugh.    if there’s a god  &  they’re watching over this,  he assumes they’re getting a good laugh from it.

they’re sitting in a digitalized reconstruction of arasaka tower—  not the one they’re actually inside,  but rather the one he blew up decades prior to violet’s entire existence.    he recognizes the interior like the back of his hand,  the place he’d been thinking about for decades  &  never was able to stop thinking about.    (him,  a parasite,  consumed by his own parasite of rage searching for a host  &  finding it inside his brain.)    he’s never been a believer in fate or destiny;  it’s a bunch of bullshit that sells to the lowest loser of the pot who  needs  something to think about.    what he does believe in,  though,  is the transcendence beyond the  cesspool  of what night city has become throughout his years of rotting inside a digital time capsule.    for years,  he believed he could lead the charge for the change this city needed  &  believed in his own cause;  but at this moment,  he’s not too sure whether it’s all worth it anymore.    [fate has a fucking  funny way  of figuring itself out.]

his priorities had been clear from the beginning:  they find a cure for the relic,  he takes down arasaka at the end of their journey,  v gets her body back,  he returns to alt inside the net  &  merges himself with her.    that was the plan.    why the fuck did everything have to be  so damn complicated?     why couldn’t genies fulfill the  entirety  of their wish?    (they’d been forewarned  &  didn’t listen—  maybe they both were fucking fools.)

the end had been reached  &  suddenly, they’ve been thrust back into a battle over the power of her body;  she’ll remain dying even once he’s gone.    6 months,  she’ll be a rotting corpse  &  everything they’ve done,  it’ll be for nothing.    they’ll both return to being dead legends with their stories left for the fate of history to carry.    [it’s comical,  truly—  sounds like a  bad plot  for a syfy movie.]    johnny moves his arms to rest behind his head,  his body sinking farther into the chair he’s perched himself upon.    ❛  i didn’t fucking know this was going to happen,  v.    i’m not a psychic.   i can’t see into the goddamn future.  ❜    

with an inhale,  he rises from the chair  &  continues speaking.    ❛  we stick with the plan.    i go back with alt,  you walk out of here.    none of this changes anything.  ❜    he means it—  he doesn’t want her body.    he’s never wanted it in the first place.    he doesn’t want anything more from her.    he’s already taken up  enough  of her time.

their eyes share the city-view from her apartment,  the feeling of her anxiety surging through his own veins.    it takes some getting used to—  feeling emotions that aren’t necessarily his own.    if she’s vomiting,  he feels the creeping feeling of nausea in the pity of his non-existent stomach because he isn’t real.    he’s a figment of her mind,  or maybe she’s a figment of his own.    some days,  he can never tell who is actually in control of her body.    (because at the end of the day,  it’s not their body,  it’s hers  &  it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.)    something’s wrong,  though;  johnny can feel the faint feeling  &  it’s enough to aggravate him,  which causes him to glitch in front of her.    (they’ve agreed to refer to it as a glitch rather than the true nature:  a hallucination.)

choosing wrong was a forte of hers,  though.    [via his eyes.    he’s always been an unreliable narrator.]    it never ceased to amaze him how frequent the fuck ups were,  though.     for a merc,  she was pretty shit at her job.    ❛  surprise,  surprise.  ❜

not the brightest crayon in the box,  is she?    all those fucking smart,  rich classes  &  all those days as a corpo bitch in counterintelligence,  yet no fucking brain cells to back any of it up.    (fucking pathetic,  but johnny will make it work—  he has to.    he has an end goal out of this too,  he can’t get too fucking cocky yet.)    but it doesn’t stop the dog from biting.

❛  breaking news:  queen of fuck ups absolutely fucks up once again,  picks wrong decision,  shit explodes,  &  more people die.    get a fuckin’ grip,  v.  ❜

as is the way with many things he does, kerry doesn’t stop to think about it.

perched on the edge of a building on the outskirts of westbrook, kerry has only a one-handed hold on the railing he is bent over. the other hand holds a small, sleek recording device. in the not-so-far distance, there is a sudden ratatatata of automatic gun fire, courtesy of a few stray tyger claws. intermittent sprays of bullets, punctuated by other noises of activity—laughing, music, car noises—have been echoing through the city’s din for a bit. they’re nearby, messing around in an empty parking lot, so it’s easy to hear.

kerry and v aren’t too high up, only a few stories, but the drop would still be enough to do some serious damage. or kill. either or. still, the rockerboy doesn’t seem afraid as he readjusts his grip and leans that much more over the railing. at this point, even his hips rest on it. by dangerous, he assumes she means his very questionable position on (and over) the railing, but he doesn’t care. her mild concern is received with no serious regard.

“nah, i’m not goin’ anywhere! done this, like, a million times. trust me.” he says as he holds the recorder out a touch further, and then explains, “i’m just tryin’ to get some preem samples, y’know? see if i can pull anything from ’em to fuck around with, replicate with an axe.” it’s something he’s done for years, an exercise in creativity.

listen to her wrath.  birthed from the ground,  blood spat in the back of her throat  —  anger is all that’s left of her.  her refuge,  her shield,  her birthright.  a result of anger,  she’s the prophecy of hell being a teenage girl.  feminine blessings  &  softened rage,  the blonde can’t help but roll her eyes at violet’s words.  her new roommate.  alison  &  jenna marshall had a falling out—  jenna kicked her out.  the dog can bite back,  alison will allow it for a moment,  but don’t ever forget how fast joan of arc burnt.  &  don’t forget that even the invincible can become weeping wanderers.  (alison has plans for jenna  &  she’ll make sure they’re executed,  even if it ends with a snarling empress being escorted through the pearly white gates of this fucking boarding school.)    ❛  left out?  you do know who you’re talking to,  right?  ❜    the voice of a sinful monster,  alison does a final twirl,  eyes watching every inch of her slender visage  &  its movements in the wall-length mirror she’s standing in front of her.  (as much as she hates this place,  at least the uniforms make her look cute.)  sparkles twinkle in her eyes,  amusement flickering throughout her face.    ❛  trust me,  jenna marshall is a little bitch who’ll get what’s coming to her.  ❜

  Omega was a shit-hole. It was the last place she’d like to be, but Commander Shepard had priorities and it wasn’t Miranda’s place to dictate where those priorities should lie. However, if she had her way, they most definitely wouldn’t be here. By now, she presumes Ivy is off speaking to Aria, the leader of this mining station transformed into the dark refugee spot for terrorists, criminals, and all the other scum that didn’t belong on the Citadel. In typical fashion, Miranda would be behind her, following her into whatever battle ensued— Aria wanted to speak alone, though. 

  The watch dog was left to watch, leading to her wandering around the makeshift city. It wasn’t often she received Shore Leave, nor was it unlike her to hop at the availability. More often than not, she preferred being aboard the Normandy behind the door of her office, working on whatever the Illusive Man or Commander Shepard had asked of her; working was her life, exploring was not. Maybe that’s why she finds herself at Omega’s medical clinic and perhaps speaking to the residing doctor at the moment; she expected Mordin Solus, a Salarian, to greet her. Instead, a human stood in his place— she surmised an assistant of his; Omega was dealing with too many health issues for one doctor to simply keep up with the tasks. 

  They speak for a while— simple chit-chat, enough to pique her interest, but where the interest lies, so do boundaries. Miranda’s boundaries are strict; anyone who has spent a moment of time with the woman recognizes that. 

“Everything’s waiting for you.”   The doctor speaks, breaking the boundary she has for herself, earning a huff from her. Everything’s waiting for you; it sounds identical to the saying her father used to say to her, and it nearly makes her want to projectile vomit. She knows these types too well— the slime of the Galaxy, the piece of mold on rotting fruit that you can’t necessarily cut off. She hates these types of people. They’re a waste of her time— this conversation is a waste of her time. 

  And yet, she finds herself snapping back. 

ncpd putting watson under a lockdown wasn’t part of the plan—  the plan  was  to bring her back to his place for a night,  kick her out in the morning  &  never see her again!    (but,  when do things ever work out in his favor?)    besides,  who is he to complain?    a hot chick stuck in his apartment for a few days?    there’s a lot worse things to deal with—  his job,  for instance,  is at the top of that very list.    regardless,  it doesn’t make the situation any less awkward,  especially when he walks out into the living room  &  spots her.    that’s when the reality settles in:  a complete fucking stranger is going to be living with him for days.    not to add,  a complete stranger he met while he was working  &  picking up a patient.    [he’s not  that  dumb;  it doesn’t take two  &  two to put together her  &  her friend are mercs,  which makes this situation even  worse.    a woman who can kill him if he makes the wrong move?     great.]