@neosy

The Brine Garrison is a well-known gang in the southern reaches of Solara, one of the major shipping port districts in Valluria, an organization answerable only to itself and its own low moral thresholds, largely invisible and uncapturable by the leading insubstantial governmental forces, such as they are on Valluria. The planet itself is a lawless domain, the iron rule of strength and greed predominately festering at its core, immutable, unchangeable, unyielding since terraformation hundreds of years past, and even the so-called “conquering” by the Alliance half a decade ago, is really only a shift in titlework– not even the Alliance battlecruisers bother to settle here, their warships merely hovering in the atmosphere at best, maybe only sometimes, if there’s a very good reason.

Captain Yang Jaewon knows the Brine Garrison, has a particular scar across his left shoulder blade named for one of their axes, having endured several encounters with their representative clergymen on excursions to the planet, all of them ending badly. Each confrontation he’s had in the region has been more dangerous than the last, his reputation building with them just as theirs spreads through the district, both entities with teeth and claws and little patience to show. Solara is a massive expanse, its borders swallowing up three occupied deserts, a couple of cities, and two time zones, and yet, every time Jaewon has to bring Serenity near their territory, he finds they have chewed and torn off larger and larger slices of it for themselves.

Which is why, for all their hunger and hazard, when he sees their name slide across his cortex comm pad with a sizable reward and a recognizable name attached, he groans but also awakens. If there’s anything more savage and starved than a Vallurian cesspit crime syndicate, bent on felony domination, it’s Yang Jaewon with a handgun and at least a half-legitimate reason to pry credits from cold, dead hands. Nevermind the fact that he knows the name of their target, a man he once sailed with under Vera’s reign.

He unspools himself from his chair at the end of the table in the mess hall, bringing his boots down from the tabletop, and strides over to the comm link for the bridge, pressing the bright green button. “Kinam. I’m about to send you over some coordinates, we have a job I’m going to look into.” Since they’re hovering in orbit, it shouldn’t take too long to get there. He gives the codes and then shuts off the comm just as one of his mercenaries stalks through.

Send me “Moodboard” + a symbol for me to make a board for a muse (or pair) with an unpleasant twist. - Accepting!

❓ + Yoga buddies! @syxkafka​

The work they do isn’t easy. It’s risky, dangerous; illegal.

They could plan for every foreseeable circumstance and there could still be any number of variables left unchecked, any number of possible ways things could go wrong. Deadly wrong. Usually, they managed to pull things off but inevitably there were situations when all hope seemed lost. Needless to say, when every member of the team looked to Sullivan as their last resort, the outcome seemed clear.

They were humped.

It wasn’t usual that Sullivan got called onto salvage missions. The Captain liked him safe and that usually meant staying on the Serenity where he was also out of the way, which was everyone’s preference for where he stayed. This time he’d been called into the fray as an extra set of eyes (certainly not an extra set of hands). The ‘scratch’ they’d found was foreign to all of them, something ancient, something possibly, hopefully valuable.

Before they made it back to the hold containing the loot, they’d ended up ducking into a room to investigate something else and the door had sealed behind them. Sullivan hadn’t really been paying much attention to what was going on up until that point and also after when the swearing began. The Captain was with them so, why bother? He’d take care of things; that’s what he did.

What Sullivan assumed had happened is, they realized they were stuck and no amount of Captain’s swearing, kicking and banging on the door could open it. So, Kafka probably said something like “Hey, don’t worry guys! I’ll just wiggle through this pipe and come getcha! LOL BRB!” Well, it had been an hour and Kafka hadn’t opened the door and he wasn’t answering anymore either. Something was wrong.

Sullivan watched in dismay as the arguing came to a roar. Neo had just spent twenty minutes trying and failing to make it into the duct. He just wasn’t quite narrow enough and despite the Captain’s compelling argument, there was no convincing him that the Doc could definitely reattach his arm if Jaewon pulled it off so he could fit inside. They were out of options.

It suddenly felt like there were too many eyes on him. And then, there were hands, the Captain’s hands and no amount of digging his feels into the floor was helping. “S-Sonmi...” he started, flinching when the Captain roared at him. Sonmi wasn’t even with them and how could he suggest she go instead of him? What kind of a spineless coward was he? Well, Sonmi loves climbing through ductwork so why should Sullivan deny her an adventure and hadn’t she been with them? He could’ve sworn she was?

A well aimed “Sully” from the Captain’s lips put the coward right where he wanted him. “Captain, I don’t know the way. I’ll get lost and you won’t be able to get me out. I’ll die in there and I’ll GET DIRTY...Captain!” Of course, Sullivan realized there didn’t seem to be any other option at the moment, despite his protesting. He was sure the others wanted their fate resting in his hands as little as he wanted it resting there. There was no choice. 

@neosy

like a wind, like a torrent, like a storm, jaewon brings serenity up and out of the docks on persephone, the city and then the planet spreading out around them and then drifting off in their wake, the gold churning of the ship’s engine blazing hot and quick and angry, escaping from the planet’s gnawing grasp, its teeth like jagged knives that attempt to bite down on her heels. serenity has always been fast enough to flee any world’s clutches, fast enough to slip through the fingers of menacing organizations and governments alike, and her captain isn’t worried, isn’t bothered, isn’t troubled. he knows her capabilities and her speeds, he knows her twists and turns and curves like he knows his own skin, his own bones, his own strengths.

he brings the ship far enough out of persephone’s atmosphere that he finally allows himself to relax a bit, on the trail again towards the next caper, the next system, the next treasure hunt, assured by ares that his money isn’t locked on persephone, and that they’ll be paid well enough once they’re eating stardust. trusting ares doesn’t make a lick of sense to jaewon, but bothering him at this particular moment in time, after they’ve all just eluded death and the proto is doubtless dealing with his recovered prized possession, doesn’t seem like a smart idea either. he decides to give it at least an hour or two, if ares doesn’t approach him first.

they are fully in the clear, into true black space, when he lets the ship hold to autopilot, setting her on a steadier course and getting up from the bridge chair slowly, his limbs suddenly aching from the lack of adrenaline threading through him, joints rusted and furious at him now that he’s calmed down. he’ll need to sleep soon, pass out from the exhaustion of this mission, from the stress of the day before, his uncertainty with neo, the fact that he hasn’t slept a full night in at least a week. he gives himself a minute to check over all his surfaces; arms still intact, legs still sturdy, nothing bleeding or leaking anywhere, nothing hemorrhaging weakness or new scars.

his footfalls echo heavily down the corridor as he strides slowly through the neck of his ship, bypassing his bedroom in favor of the kitchen at the end, because even though sleep is the plan, it’s not the most immediately pressing problem, as evidenced by his stomach grumbling. he doesn’t hesitate steaming through the room towards the food, even as he notices neo sitting in one of the chairs, looking exhausted. “still alive?” it’s meant to be something light-hearted, even if yang jaewon isn’t necessarily known for his light-heartedness, even if yang jaewon isn’t known for his quips, the words just falling out of him like a gag-reflex, and he refocuses his efforts on gathering together what he wants to eat.

@neosy

the trip between boros’s outter planetary rings and persephone’s atmosphere is tense to say the least, hollow and empty and driven by necessity only, careful planning of scheduled daily activities-- shower, breakfast, bridge check-- all with the intention of avoidance, all with the determination of keeping this trip as smooth and uncomplicated as jaewon can possibly make it, even given how badly he’s already fucked things over with his mercenary. things had been going well, sunlight in through the windows, job connections revitalizing, the verse unfurling in a myriad of new possibilities, for all of two days after jaewon’s mental instability episode, and now everything is back to eggshells and suspicion, carefully controlled evasion and dodging.

and he hates it, he hates this, he hates everything about the last couple of hours, every bone in his chest aching with the need to be on that gorram planet already and have his fingers delved into whatever opportunity neo managed to snake out for them. he hasn’t asked him about the specifics of it yet, he hasn’t asked neo about anything yet (hasn’t mentioned the hours he’s stayed up obsessing and half-dreaming about neo in his bed, neo with his arms around him, neo reaching for him in the dark); it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that neither of them are very good company at the moment. jaewon feels like a hurricane, like a sandstorm, a maelstrom out in the desert, spread too widely for survival, chaotic and impossible to weave through, he feels like his edges are fuzzed out and irregular, he feels like a wildfire out of control.

he needs to be on this planet already. he needs to be out from such a tight space with his mercenary, his lungs torn between wanting to be grateful for his help all throughout this past week and mortification at his handling of their encounter in the navigation room (and lust, and ache, and a craving so hot and roaring inside his body, he’s sure the metal around him melts slightly, bends slightly, he’s sure serenity is singed by it, his hunger so consuming he turns her grey metal to white and red). at least they have a point to focus on, a goal to cave into, something to strive towards that is in a dangerous enough place that jaewon might hopefully catch a bullet or a stray knife somewhere and finally have something to occupy his mind that isn’t the desperate need to see neo in that frazzled state again.

but finally persephone comes into view, and finally they connect to a port, and finally jaewon steps off his ship and into the putrid, decaying, foul atmosphere of one of the world’s worst cities, and jaewon inhales it like it’s a garden because it’s the first time he’s been off serenity in a month, and this time he doesn’t intend on grinding himself down into dust the first chance he has to get drunk enough. this time, he’s turned himself inside out, armed to the teeth with extra guns and blades underneath and over across his coat, his stride long and heavy through the streets, blonde hair alighting in the wind, gold eyes alive and searching. however angry neo may be at him or with him, so long as they’re here, they both have a job to do, and that can clear some paths up, that can cut away some distortion, give them both perspective.

at least, that’s the hope.

they follow the coordinates given to a little side shop, a ramshackle hut, barely a full building, with the sign above the doorway reading “weon parts and mechanics,” and jaewon slips inside, his eyes readjusting immediately to the shades of grey darkness, the whiffs of dust and shavings in the air, oil stains and spots of blood very discreetly on the floor. his hand rests over the pistol at his side, casual for now, but ready to unload into somebody at any moment, when there’s a clanging down behind the far wall, beyond a thin doorway. he frowns. “hello?”

“about damn time.” the face that peaks back into the room he and his mercenary have entered through is somehow not what he was expecting and also somehow everything he was expecting; dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin, a male with raised eyebrows and a quirk to his lips, his gaze pinning mostly on neo and then flickering over jaewon from head to foot like he’s scanning him. “one sec.” he disappears for a moment before stepping all the way through the door, his left forearm in his right hand completely unattached to his body, the end of it leaking wires and sparks-- none of this affecting his grin in the slightest, something crooked about it, something twisted. “you’re late, neo.”

“were we on a deadline?” jaewon’s hand doesn’t move from its perch on his gun.

@neosy

behind him, the city is churning, a metallic creature with too many ends, all gears and grunts and havoc, all shades of dark grey and scarred black coiling around itself like the large body of a machine snake, just as poisonous, just as lethal, just as ready to swallow its prey whole and digest it slowly. persephone’s capital stands in the twilighting light like a breathing beast, its horns and towers aimed at the clouds in retribution, in defiance, in hatred, like the devil himself in opposition to all things holy and heavenly-- not that there’s much of that here on this planet, the orbital rock more of a cesspool than some rim worlds he could name, at least here in the dredges of society that he knows of, the lower tiers that he operates in, that he frequents regularly enough. 

nevertheless, ares strides into a familiar cantina named “the oil rig” like a high maelstrom at midnight, straps and holsters crossing his body, trinkets and tatters of clothing sewn into his aesthetic, a massive wolf hide cascading from his shoulders downwards, the pelt silently growling a warning tone to anyone who looks too directly at him. his eyes are twin holes, as dark as the sky without any stars, as dark as hearts that don’t beat anymore, blood that runs hot and sizzling, every inch of him a conqueror, a steel monstrosity, a war machine ready and waiting for the next battle, the next flirtation with death; he doesn’t see you, he only yearns for the great untamed void.

they know him here, they’ve served him here, recognizing his shadow with enough precision to already be making his particular favorite concoction by the time he slides up to the counter, the best drink they serve to protos, some sort of intoxifying version of what ares is already built with, oils and alcohols and anything with enough kick in it to make him wish he were dead. he carries it to a booth in the tail end of the building, where he knows he’ll own the space around him, an indestructible atmosphere, the music dimming out, the conversations filtering into whitenoise monotone static, his back against the wall, security in check, all exits and entrances accounted for and under his attention.

he opens a sleeve in his forearm, the flap of faux skin clicking lightly on its wheezing hinges, and pulls out his transmitter, fiddling with the dials, tuning it like a radio, the overlapping voices and dance numbers jumping and fading until they connect over a specific set of altitudes and geometric figures. it sends out a cascading number of beeps and notes, long strings of signal reaching out across the universe, its tendril fingers threading through star clusters and bouncing off columns and obelisks from other planets, searching, searching, searching. he takes a gulp from his foul cup and thinks of blood.

@neosy

true to the most basic building blocks of ares tenebren’s style and genetic makeup, he’s already decided what sort of night everyone should have before they even leave for their destination, he’s already cooked everything he needs to cook, already picked up everything he needs to pick up, already scheduled everything he needs to schedule. it’s not that he thinks this little outing of theirs won’t be any fun-- they’re going out to a beach house for fuck’s sake, of course it’ll be fun-- but he just so happens to know ways in which the night can be even more fun. no harm in trying to start off the long weekend with a banger.

the house itself is beautiful, the sights out the huge windows are spectacular, the beach coast that seems mostly privatized to the property itself is amazing, and they themselves, scrambling to get into their swimwear, laying out on the sand for hours, diving beneath the waves-- everything is magnificent. except jaewon of course, who’s having a terrible time here so close to the water, even when he’s shut up tightly in the house in his assigned bedroom, refusing to even acknowledge the ocean, but that’s okay, because ares at least is enjoying his absence. he’d dragged jaewon along despite the blonde hating everything about this trip, because whether or not jaewon wants to admit it, they’ve formed a little group between the lot of them, a bond, a batch, a messy, sexy, hungry circle of people, and jaewon can’t get out of it now. ares won’t let him, and neither will neo, now that they’re doing whatever on-again-off-again-constant-sexual-tension thing they’re doing.

a few hours later sees them all, including the grumpy blond one, passing around tall alcoholic bottles, achara making a few mixed drinks, lianna insisting that she try every single one, ares and neo guzzling straight from the heaviest pitchers like gods. jaewon and gael are the only two sitting down, relaxing while the rest of them fuss over the drinks. “i’ve got a plan for tonight,” ares finally admits to the whole open living room/kitchen area with a gleam and a grin towards gael, who’s looking more and more delicious as the twilight plays across his face. “it’s a kicker.”

“oh no, what are you doing now?” jaewon sips at a perfectly boring beer.

ares goes for the bag he’d set on the kitchen counter earlier, before the beach. “it’s brilliant.”

“all your plans are terrible.”

which isn’t necessarily wrong, but it’s said in the wrong tone of voice; all ares’ plans are terrible because he’s terrible, and being terrible is the only way to truly live life. “no exemptions, especially you.” he pulls out the brownies, the jar of peanut butter, the chocolate bars, three whole bags of cannabis, and three glass pipes, bringing them all around the island counter towards the couches and chairs in the living room and arranging them aesthetically across the coffee table. “pick your poison.”

lianna squeals, lifting up a pipe. “awwww, this one has a little turtle on it! this one’s mine.” she sits down on the floor beside the table and breaks into one of the bags.

ares catches jaewon rolling his eyes. “of-fucking-course you’d bring this.”

ares settles himself sideways across gael’s lap on the couch, reaching for a brownie to feed to him. “yeah, because i’m the fun dad.” he looks at gael’s lips and grins, thinking about biting them. “or daddy, as some people call me.”

@neosy

the bar is a shitty, one-room affair, low lighting and murmuring music, all ambiance and atmosphere and shadows, an anonymous space with nameless patrons and faceless servers, their smiles ranging all over from plastered and rigid to sly and coaxing, and yang jaewon steps into their midst like a stone thrown into a pond, the ripples fluttering away from him in whispers and glances. his eyes are the brightest things in here, twin stars kindling from behind long, dark eyelashes, every detail picked up and documented regardless of the nighttime they’re surrounded by, the metallic plating injected into his life for exactly these sorts of purposes, albeit more war-related and less bounty-linked. he’s clad in his usual black attire, his long coat caressing the top edges of his weighted combat boots, colorless clothes underneath it, dark scarred skin, the ensemble painting him as little more than a phantom, the dimness shading him like a silhouette with a burning, volcanic gaze.

several people from surrounding tables bite their lips, click their nails, place their bets.

one of the servers, a silver-skinned, clockwork creature, rolls up to him on wheeled feet and asks politely him if he would like to sit at the bar or at a booth, but he shakes his head for neither, barely glancing at her as he side-steps her. “i’m looking for someone.” his voice is calm but determined as he enters further into the rags-and-riches dining area, the place a hodgepodge of wealth and poverty, of muted colors and obnoxiously dressed attendees, of smoke and wine and the scent of sex, exactly what you’d expect of a dive at the edge of this side of the galaxy.

“you won’t find anyone here,” the server warns him as she passes behind him, continuing on with her job, her voice lilting and slow, melodic. “no one is here.”

the band on his wrist blinks a special black color, impossible to see from the un-enhanced eye, and jaewon looks at it only a moment to confirm what he already knows, what he’s already converged upon; the girl is here, somewhere on the west side, somewhere in the gloom and contours of this building. he doesn’t hesitate, striding immediately in that direction, his eyes careful and searching but also unassuming and nonthreatening. should his prey find him before he finds her, the chances that she’ll know him, recognize him, worry about him closing in, should be next to nil-- unless she’s just overly paranoid. ares had warned him against this, but there’s always a chance it could simply work, the direct approach, the simple conversation device, the layout of current circumstances. he doesn’t have a lot of time.

when he spots her, he pretends he hadn’t, continues to meander around a little bit, like he’s still hunting for a friend or an enemy or a familiar face in the crowd, speaking to no one and no one speaking to him-- this isn’t that sort of place. she’s in a booth in the far back, a nearly enclosed space with thick curtains, and when he does finally round in on her location, he does it quickly and efficiently enough that it almost seems like an accident, like he hadn’t planned on approaching her, he hadn’t planned on sitting across from her, he hadn’t planned on slapping a sound-field around them, it just all happened that way, an innocent coincidence. he knows being able to find someone here would only destroy the restaurant’s reputation of anonymity, and that’s not what he came here to do.

@neosy

“i just need you here for support, you know?” she insists for probably the fifth time since arriving in the food court, her words bent and mushy around the hour-old bubble gum she’s still chewing out of sheer force of habit, the worry gnawing at her insides similarly. she feels sick, nauseous, nervous, regretting having gotten a basket of orange chicken just for it to sit in front of her on the table, cold and inedible now, tilted and toppled every which way by her fork for the past twenty minutes while they’ve waited here. “you don’t even have to do anything, just sit there and look pretty, you can play on your phone, whatever. i just don’t want to get murdered or anything by a stranger, right?” she tries to say it like a joke, she tries to say it like a quip, like a pun, like something out of a cartoon she used to watch when she was smaller and still believed her parents when they told her they were her parents.

so many things have changed since then.

she doesn’t even glance over at her cousin as she speaks to him, her eyes too preoccupied, scanning the ebbing crowds around them, the mall high class and beautiful but busy nonetheless, everything clean and expensive, but growing chaotic by the second. she wishes there weren’t so many people here, she wishes she’d picked a different meeting place, somewhere outside perhaps, somewhere under the sun where her bright red heart-shaped shades would actually make sense instead of being simply a fashion accessory. she has to wear them anyway, to match her crop top and earrings, but at least outside she would have had more directions to bolt, should this meeting turn absolutely sour.

she has no idea what to expect, honestly. finding out that she has a birth mom who’d given her away as a baby was harrowing enough, that her parents aren’t her parents, that her family isn’t her family, but then also finding out that the woman who’d discarded her went and adopted another child at some point felt like both a blessing and a slap. she can’t organize her emotions, she can’t set anything straight. she doesn’t even know what he looks like, having only contacted him through a genetics blog he hadn’t ever bothered to change the anonymous features of.

she chews her gum and bounces her knee against her chair, her other leg pinned between her torso and the table, and flips one of the orange chicken pieces over, picking at her own nails absentmindedly. where is he, where is he, where is he, why is he making her wait so long, why isn’t he here yet? she inhales, exhales, tells herself she doesn’t need to text him again.

strangely enough, as soon as he steps around a far corner, she knows it’s him instantly. she’s never seen him before, he looks like no one to her, like nothing to her, a complete stranger, a foreign entity, but the way he turns and searches the space around her, gazing, frowning, hunting; she knows it’s him. and he’s not like anything she’d expected, blonde and tall and all in black like a funeral; he strides into the area with all the subtlety of a knife cutting through butter, something impossibly direct about it, impatient, powerful, unkind, inconsiderate of everyone else in his vicinity. she can hear his boots against the floor even over the cacophony of the cafeteria, see the seriousness in his features as he passes her by, like she’s a cowering creature against the onslaught of a roving storm.

she doesn’t like that comparison. she pushes herself to her feet, and even though she is not tall, she still stands as straight as possible. “jaewon yang?”

he flips around, yanked on by the sound of his name and she catches her first sight of his eyes, oddly yellow, bright against the surrounding fluorescence. “lianna devereaux?”

she nods and he steps closer to her, carefully, cautiously, blinking as they formally meet each other, and she gets the sense he’s sizing her up, taking her measure, aligning her with her mother and contrasting the two. how does she match up? how does she fit, in his eyes? “this is my cousin, neo,” she introduces, gesturing vaguely towards him, shooting him a nervous glance as she sits back down again.