#vocalcords

🦷 YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE I'VE BEEN! 🦷

Always Accepting Asks!

the coyote leans further into the wooden-railing of the boardwalk, half-smoked cigarette resting quite loosely between scarred lips, more or less idle as crimson hue stare out at the open, endless expanse of the ocean water that lay in the harbor. despite his fear of the open water, not actually being in the water and instead on a secure and stable constructed platform had provided some comfort, not to mention having a friend close-by also mitigated his discomfort.

finally, she speaks. crimson hue glance towards her from his peripheral vision, scarred digits pinching the filter of the nicotine-stick and extract it from between his lips, instead letting it rest down and away from his face. one could say that the smoke was irritating his eyes, the coyote using the metacarpal joint of his thumb to rub at his right eye, only irritating his eye from the smoke further. although, one could also say that she had said something that had made him feel something other then anxiety or underlying dread, a much more positive emotion that he still wasn't quite used to hearing all in all throughout his miserable and pawn-like existence.

although her statement was short, the impact it carried was still heavy on the man, more or less never feeling much of a solid connection with other people, despite how much he had helped and provided quality services for. "I like that, bein' called a friend. Has a better ring than a mercenary or a soldier." he was more than a dog on a leash, Natsusia at least thought so at least, treating the child-soldier like an actual human and not just a human-weapon and honestly, he was more than happy to hear that. especially from her, given their kindred pasts. a sense of companionship from two unfortunate souls.

Name: Nat

Age: Your mom.

Do you like to cuddle?: You’re warm, it’s cold out.

Can we make-out?: Only if we get to stab each other.

A night in or dinner out?: Night in, I don’t wanna see someone screwing around in the bushes at the local park.

Ice cream or chocolate covered strawberries?: Strawberries. Wait. Can you even have chocolate??

What makes you a good Valentine?: listen. I can buy you beer when you eventually get banned from the liquor stores.

Would you cook for me?: Give me your recipes Khaz!

Would you let me cook for you?: Please.

The paper is messy, clearly scribbled on by Nat. There’s a delicate drawing of a daffodil on the back of the notebook paper.

crimson orbs scan the scribbled application. cuddling? he wouldn't necessarily say no, to be honest quite the opposite. well, also it's a given that he's warm, unnaturally so with the accursed spine of his, the machine often enough overheats forces him to shutdown after excessive use. practically a machine in human's clothing. a walking, talking heater that'll fight for your safety. it was also a given that a night-in would make sense, sometimes people outside suck, not all but more often than enough that the dumb-coyote had made plenty of enemies, both through his own means and those who're seeking to reclaim the stolen technology imbedded into his spine.

alcohol as well? his kidneys hate him but at the same time, they really can't complain when they've got a get out of jail free card with the spine tech.

          “  𝗢𝗛 𝗬𝗘𝗔𝗛?  𝙇𝙄𝙆𝙀 𝙒𝙃𝘼𝙏?  ”  𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛 𝗜𝗦 𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗡𝗘𝗥 𝗢𝗙 𝗦𝗔𝗬𝗜𝗡𝗚  ‘ all terrible things,  i'm sure ’.  nigh impossible it doesn't fall somewhere under the category of bloodshed and cold-violence (  which isn’t something worth bragging over,  unless she’s into the idea of sharing kill counts like it’s the morning paper  ).

Moth heard the hiss of his gas mask before he appeared. If Mantis wanted to be known, he’d surely make it so. The genome soldiers were wary enough of the ex-KGB, Moth had taken her own assumptions. “ I guess not. Didn’t stop them from stuffing REX down here, though. “  

 Nuclear disposal be damned, they may as well strap neon signs around the freezing waste of an island that is Shadow Moses. It was a matter of time.  “ How long you think, until this whole thing goes sideways? “  Her thoughts flicker with faint amusement, not colorful in the slightest, were Mantis listening.

 Moth guessed maybe a handful of months. This whole thing was classified to high hell.

Had a feeling he might find her down here. There's there's a loud creek as his feet touchdown on cool metal plated floor of the control room that overlooked  the hanger. Moth was troubled, he could see it, her mind heavy, and it would seemed she wants to unload it some.

Without a word he strolls past her, stopping at the glass to gaze down at Metal Gear REX, what a glorious testament to humanity’s spite. Eyes narrow, making one last psychic attempt to force the thing to move, nothing.

    Leather digits ruffle through their own ash-blonde, albino locks in thought, processing what the raven-haired woman had just spat towards him. The parasite had entered his home, a knife embedded into back along with the wise-cracks he’d come to somewhat expect. Which, to be fair, Khaz had also learned that being a little more light-hearted with his injuries and wounds would alleviate some pain, not a lot but maybe just enough to keep the nerves calm. If Natsusia was a warning, what was he? Truthfully, he wasn’t any better but also not any worse. The latter half of the statement had got him by surprise, even if it was the parasite trying to be fun in what’s usually the post-gig ritual. At this point, they should open up a street-clinic with the amount of bullets they’ve pulled out of each other. Then again, he wouldn’t be too comfortable with the idea, bad enough as it is.

     His cheeks redden, just by a little bit. Caught off guard with the latter half of her statement and not with the knife, perhaps she had her own fun and this was the aftermath? A question for another time, the coyote moves aside and gestures for her to enter the office. “Uh huh, you look like an art-piece, Nat-- Yeah, I can see the knife stickin’ out of yer’ shoulder you’re okay though, yeah? I’ve got some of that whisky you had at yer’ place. Let’s get y’ in, get that knife out and get yourself cleaned up.” 

Didi could scream. It was a necessary and even expected part of her job— you yell to be heard over the flame and the metal clanging. You yell when you instruct. You yell when people slack off.

But you do not yell at mistakes, because then they never learn, they just become afraid to get caught making a mistake. Even Didi knows that.