#jackfromthegrave

too soon. making contact with her now wouldn't work. the contract was still open but his nerves were raw. boots coated in moondust haven't felt right in days. couldn't carry him from one end of this broken highway to the next without putting a new ache in his back to match the one clamped at his nape. proverbial hand keeping the bad dog down — what a mess.

three minutes isn't a bad record.

static hits him first, a crackle he no longer flinches at. not for the whir of a booting mechanic or that first hum of a voice that both does and very much doesn't sound like himself. " hey there handsome, " there's that gag again.

" the signal out here ? shitty, " especially with his thumb on the disconnect. something he'd only get away with once. maybe twice if he wanted to press already expired and pathetic luck, " lost you there for a second. " and what he wouldn't have given for it to be a second longer than that. let it bleed into nightfall. come up with an excuse that the scavs were breathing down his neck. argue he couldn't talk right now. like that one ever worked. " thought i'd be shooting smelly bandits all by my lonesome this time. " never alone, he thinks, the band on his wrist tingling where it connects into skin ; that forever bond. for another twenty-plus few years anyway.

𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 | Accepting!

@lichteeth​ said:  ❛ death, dust, party, repeat. ❜ from handsome frickin' jack

It wasn’t too awful far from the truth, Xigbar had to admit. Jack might be an insufferable twat in most instances during their various interactions, certainly---the whole bandit genocide thing was really a few steps too far into the Total Annihilation Zone for Xigbar’s personal tastes---but, when hyped up on enough space dust, and leaning back far enough into the comfort of a plush armchair, even that handsome asshole could spit philosophical jazz just as contemplatively as the next basic human existentialist tool. And Xigbar, in the entirety of his time, had seen plenty of those.

But, then again, he could admit when he himself was elbow-deep---no, most definitely approaching shoulder-deep---under that hazy sort of influence, his internal mechanisms working to expel the toxins from his endoskeletal structure---and so, why not another bump? Hard and longer than necessary---and most definitely a tad clumsily at this point. The back of his gloved hand pressing against the stiff columella of his nose in response to the sharp sensation before his backside settled again backwards, down into his seat, mind rising into the throbbing bass beat, eye absorbing the blacklit coloration of the scenery with a renewed appreciation, along with the beauty of the graceful, scantily-clad dancers not even within arms’ reach, the overall image reverberating and undulating and swaying satisfyingly in time with his quickening pulse.

headcanon meme // still accepting!

✎ - taste in music/literature

Music - He generally doesn’t listen to music with lyrics as he’s usually multi-tasking and finds it too distracting. Tends to prefer electronic/instrumental tracks or movie scores. Not above humming his own theme music.

“Literature” - I think particularly as a teenager Rhys would be considered a pretty typical geek; so more into comic books and tabletop games than any sort of high literature. He’s also the sort of person who would like to have guidebooks/behind-the-scenes for games, movies and other media he likes. As an adult, he also reads a lot of non-fiction, particularly related to business and leadership strategies, as well as biographies of people he admires–in short, he’s the sort of person who likes to learn as much as he can about a topic he’s interested in, mostly so that he can win arguments about it.

             She’d had her gun trained on his heart. It would be fairly easy to pull the trigger, see him collapse. It would be SO easy, albeit temporary, to gun him down. Maybe she could wait at the closest U-station and shoot him again if he showed back up. But she didn’t - because he’d said something that had seized her by the throat, left her paralyzed, finger poised on the trigger but not even close to pulling. 

                        “ What the fuck do you mean by ‘using me’? ”

            Just the thought, just the IDEA of being used, of that specific part of her, her Siren powers, which were hers but didn’t DEFINE her, being the only piece of Maya anyone cared for - that was her worst nightmare. To relive her time at the Order, different but so very much the same - it would break her. but to think that the Crimson Raiders were just like them, would even consider such a thing... But the seed was planted. 

            The gun had lowered ever so slightly. Now, she forced it back up. “ You’re delusional if you think---. ” But then she caught herself, the roots already digging its way into her mind, soil ready for doubt to grow and flourish. 

                                                            What... What if they did?

                    It’s been such a long time, since Vaughn’s been forced to think about this. Wasn’t it enough that he’d lived through it? Apparently not, he thinks, scratching at his chin and staring directly into the Pandoran sun, so he doesn’t have to look at Jack. “I think… he was in a delicate place. Emotionally.” How can he put this in a way that Jack will understand? “It’s like when you’d see things people hated and then, y’know, choke them.” Or throw them out of an airlock. Or shoot them. “When he saw things he didn’t like, he’d theorize them into irrelevancy!” 

sequel thread to sysops never sleep. because there is no god.

> I’m back.

> Shift your code back to the echo eye. I'm moving you to another device.

Since it’s not a negotiation--he’s doing Jack a favour, and the tyrant can take or leave it--he only gives him a few moments before he starts to remove the eye from the port it’s been plugged into. This computer seemed the most secure place to initially converse with the AI, since it’s ancient and immobile; easy enough to disconnect from the surrounding network and anything else that might give Jack more of a foothold than Rhys wants him to have right now.

He can’t exactly keep sneaking off into this bunker to talk to Jack after all; sooner or later it’s going to look weird, and the last thing he wants is someone--anyone--getting curious enough to try poking around. So, he’s fashioned a small device out of an old comms unit to house the AI instead. He’s hoping the voice modulator alone will be enough to placate Jack for now; if it isn’t, he’ll reconsider the next step, which would be taking off the piece of electrical tape he has covering the camera. 

He’s turned off the mini-projector for now, too, though he hasn’t covered it; figures he can let him think he’s had a small victory when he inevitably turns it on to project middle fingers at him or something. It won’t be as satisfying if he can’t see Rhys’ face, after all.

Rather than plugging him in right away, though, he waits until he’s reached the sanctity of his new apartment; actually also his office, but there’s an ensuite and an old meeting room he’s filled with a bed and a few personal effects. Work-life balance isn’t really a thing when you’re rebuilding a company from the ground, after all.

The office feels small compared to Jack’s old one--though, to be fair, that had looked a lot smaller too, the last time he saw it; with the weight of Jack’s empire squashing it down to size as the two of them had spoken for the last time. Seems like they’re almost full-circle. Almost.

Sitting at his desk, Rhys’ hand shakes a little as he plugs the eye in to the new device... but just a little. This is still just a test, after all; Jack can’t touch him.

“Right, aaaand... that should do it.” 

The silence seems too deep; Jack transferred his data when he asked him, didn’t he? 

                  Fingers were slippery on the hilt of his buzz-axe. He’d torn through at least several dozens of faces just like his, but on the other side of the line he drew. One side held his friends, the other his enemies. [ At least you possess the wit to distinguish them. ] A grunt sounded, muffled by the mask. His friends weren’t here right now. Just his enemy.[ Maybe we should consider making him our friend. ] Another grunt, this one a fair bit more aggressive.[ What if there is room to talk? Try it. Ask for reason. At least we’ll know, then. ]The Psycho seemed to pause, then, consider. Then he drew a breath.

             “ I’M GONNA TEAR YOUR FACE OFF AND WEAR IT LIKE A MASK! ”

                                                            [ you didn’t even try, did you? ]