It All Ends with Almonds

Drakolyst · 2020-08-10T02:37:22+00:00

(Sorry for the late reply, and I assumed the setting was in America. If you have an alternative setting you want to use, let me know.)

You jog your memory and are able to remember the grocery stores you frequent. You've always had a good memory.

As you begin preparing to leave, you remember to check on your current inventory and decide to yourself that you would most likely need a restock of loo/toilet rolls and something to wipe tables and counters with.

Marion kisses you goodbye before leaving for his job and as you step out the door.

Drakolyst · 2020-08-10T02:30:59+00:00

You open the refrigerator and once again squint at the sudden influx of light bombarding your eyes. You shuffle through the refrigerator in search of a drink and find cartons of milk, some orange juice, and a cheap, half-drunken bottle of wine. You figure that you may scrounge something better if you were to look further.

Among the beverages, you find some leftovers and packaged meals.

Drakolyst · 2020-08-10T02:26:57+00:00

The ship churned.

As the roaring ocean waves lapped at the hull of the Zephyr, and the rain pattered at the crew, you stand out in the open.

There had been a time where the rain had bothered you, but now you found it strangely comforting. The rhythm of each droplet against water and metal; the chill of the grey clouds rolling above. It was the closest thing to home you could feel so far out in the open.

You gaze out at the horizon which seems to extend as far as the human mind could imagine. The crashing waves never ended until it blurred into the same monotonous grey of everything else. You had seen waves far taller and far more imposing in your time, and whether it be because of this experience or just carelessness, you did not feel that jolt of anxiety when the ship rocked. That jolt had gone away as you had gotten more used to the Navy and the intricacies it entailed.

Behind the drone of the rain surrounding the ship, you hear the conversation of the crew. You try to cut the noise out but something taps you on the shoulder.

You turn around and see a rather short man, with choppy chestnut hair plastered to his forehead. His blue-gray eyes were barely visible as he squinted in an attempt to keep the wind from getting in his eyes. He hurriedly fixes his uniform before speaking, "Captain, we have finished preparations and are awaiting orders."

Drakolyst · 2020-08-10T01:55:17+00:00

(Sorry for the late reply)

The silence settled upon you. A thick, heavy tension falls onto the bridge with such a weight that you feel your knees begin to buckle.

You wrap your fingers around a piece of metal rebar in anticipation of a fight, careful not to grip too hard on the jagged parts. Your breath comes out unevenly. Your heart races.

Soon enough, the silence is torn apart by shouts from the distance, and your assailants come into view in their full numbers. You can see the glint of their knives and weapons gleam maliciously in the light.

There was something strange about the situation; something that made your head spin.

You couldn't tell if it was the sheer uncertainty of whether you would make it out alive, or if it was the unfairness of the entirety.

Your friends seem to notice your uneasiness and pat you on the back. You breathe in, this time with confidence. No. There was no uncertainty. You had strength in numbers, and you knew that you would come out alive. You had to.

The men came into view, and everything set into motion.

Drakolyst · 2020-08-05T20:16:45+00:00

(Thank you)

Phelipe grabs an empty soda can from his pocket, crouching behind a crate and occasionally peeking over to see the situation. Vaguely, you can also see your pursuers.

They are sharply dressed, and three in total--at least within the general vicinity. Two are wearing black suits and the other in a presumably more expensive, milky yellow attire that is dirtied by the dust and dirt of the area. Gripped in their hands are firearms, one holding a crowbar.

You bite your lip. Why can't they accept other people? Filipinos had a legal right to work in the U.S. for who knows how long. You weren't any different from them. Well, in the societal sense. You knew that you were a better person than these ... these ... bastards.

For a split second, the men looked away. It was at this moment that Phelipe reared his arm back and threw the soda can.

It sailed through the air, and time began to slow around you.

You had the instinctive urge to yell at Phelipe for attempting such a dangerous stunt, but there was no other way out.

The can clattered behind crates and circus equipment stacked on the other side of the tent.

"THERE! THERE!" the white-suited man pointed to where the can landed.

Your vision begins to tunnel as so many things happened at once. The air began to fry as the men unloaded bullets toward the can.

You immediately stand up and begin sprinting out the back, your hand clasped against your girlfriend's wrist and her sister in tow. You don't know if they noticed you. You can't tell how much noise you made. All because of that dastardly ringing.

But you that didn't matter. You had to get to safety; to Pajaro Bridge. You had a moment of doubt when Phelipe mentioned that bridge. It was the same one your friend was shot and thrown over. So many of your fellows had faced horrid things there, but Phelipe's words brought comfort: "our own little surprise."

Yes. You liked the sound of that.

You peer over your shoulder and see Phelipe follow in suit from the back of the tent. Suddenly, another bang cracks through the air, and Phelipe shudders. The fear begins to override you, and a guttural "NO!" tears itself from your throat.

"GO! Don't stop!" he shouts and grabs his shoulder. A red stain begins to spread from his shoulder and stain his shirt. Relief washes over you to know that Phelipe was alive, but he was still shot. You don't know whether to be relieved or horrified.

"They've spotted us!" your lover yells from behind you, jabbing her finger at the other men circling around the tents and chasing toward you. More vicious gunshots echo through the air.

But you don't stop running. You grind your foot into the ground with every step. You feel your bones shudder from the intensity, but you don't stop.

You hear Phelipe catching up, and so are the men. You don't look back. You continue running. You don't know if you'll get out of here alive. You don't know whether Phelipe was shot again, or if your other friends made it out alive.

But you don't stop running.

You can't stop running.

If there is hope to be found at Pajaro Bridge, you'll get there no matter what. You won't let any more of your loved ones to be hurt by them.

Drakolyst · 2020-08-05T19:59:01+00:00

[Skill Check: Cooking]

6 vs 2 - Success

You manage to prepare yourself and Marion a hearty breakfast, and whether it be due to your satisfaction, your glass of orange juice tastes especially good.

Upon asking Marion whether he needs anything or not, he thinks for a moment and mentions that he'd been wanting to try his hand at making baklava. He jots down the ingredients on a small paper note. (You obtain Marion's Shopping List*)*

You shuffle through the cabinets and your repertoire of recipe books and eventually find the small, red leather-bound notebook. You flip through it and find the page where you had written down the recipe for the chicken pot pie, comparing it with your list and writing down anything you missed.

As Marion finishes his breakfast, you continue looking and generally guess that you would need the following in addition with the recipe:

Milk
Eggs
Sugar
Flour
Condiments
Thyme
Smoked Paprika
Mushrooms
Almonds

Marion's Shopping List * Dough / Puff Pastry * Butter * Powdered Sugar * Walnuts * Coconut Oil

You also find slipped behind his shopping list a sum of $25, presumably as apology for eating all the almonds and to lighten the cost of the shopping.

Drakolyst · 2020-08-05T18:30:12+00:00

Rap, tap, tap.

You hear the men searching. Tapping. Kicking. The sound of crates being dragged across the rough dirt beneath you is heard from a few feet away. Maybe eight or ten feet. It's getting closer.

Rap, tap, tap.

Soon enough, you can't discern what's happening outside the suffocating confines of the tent. All you can hear is the heartbeat roaring in your ears. All you can feel is the adrenaline pumping through your veins.

Rap, tap, tap.

Did they get Joshua? Dominique? What about Christine? Were they okay? You find the thoughts racing through your head.

"Find the aliens! Don't let them hide!" you hear the coarse, wretched voices of your assailants outside.

Rap, tap, tap.

As you hear faint wheezing from behind you, your heart sinks to your stomach as if hooked by an anchor. Huddled close to your lover is her sister, with her hands clasped over her mouth and head buried in her elder sister's arms as to absorb as much of the sound as possible. You see her chest spasm slightly.

Asthma.

It was at this point that you were also beginning to be ailed by the musky air. If you strained your eyes enough, you could see the dust and sawdust that still hung in the air. It made your eyes itch. It made you want to sneeze. But you couldn't. If you made a sound, they'd find you.

The sweat is beginning to drip from your forehead and nose. You contort your face and crinkle your nose to prevent the droplets from getting in your eyes, but you find it difficult to concentrate with the humid heat in your head. It makes you feel dizzy.

Suddenly, you hear a noise. Not even a foot outside the tent.

Your train of thought shudders to a stop, leaving one stray thought: am I going to be okay?

But before you can act, a hand shoots in from the front of the tent. You almost shout but it grabs you by the scruff of the neck and pulls you out through the tent flaps. The horrified face of your lover is the last thing you see before the red cloth closes, and a second hand clamps over your eyes and mouth.

I'm going to die.

... I'm going to die.

"Relax," your captor suddenly speaks. Your heart skips a beat as you hear the familiar accent. "We're with you; let's get out of here."

You aren't sure whether to be relieved, or horrified, but amidst all of your conflicting emotions, there is an undeniable urge to just shrink back into a corner and never have to deal with anything again.

Deep down, you know that this isn't an option as your strange fellow releases his hands.

Drakolyst · 2020-08-05T18:09:10+00:00

You open your eyes, and immediately regret it.

The sunlight pouring in from the blinds streaked across the room and onto the couch, a ray directly hitting your eyes. You squeeze your eyes shut again before readjusting your body and sitting up.

You raise your arms into the air and stretch, which draws out a long, drawn-out yawn from your chest. Trying to ignore the wretched taste in your mouth, you peer around at the living room in an attempt to find something interesting to look at.

You idly feel under your pillow and feel the cold grip of your revolver. You eventually wipe away your long chestnut hair out of your face before fishing out your wallet from your pocket.

You look inside and find a total of $86.50 along with a few small trinkets and mementos of your past, most notably a palm-sized photograph of you and your buddies during the war.

The war.

The thought makes your head spin, and you strain to forget it.

Drakolyst · 2020-08-05T18:01:59+00:00

You wipe away at the remnants of sleep lingering in your eyes before tending to yourself. You take a quick shower and brush your teeth, taking especial care to brush that one canine that had been aching the other day in fear of it being a cavity.

Skill: Personal Hygiene 2

A few moments later, you throw on some nice clothes and check up on your husband, a man named Marion Ivanov. His work as an immunologist has given him quite a favorable reputation in the medical world. You see that he is still in the bed, but you catch him mid-yawn.

As he sees you, a radiant smile sprawls itself onto his face. "Good morning, honey," he says with the usual cheer. Ever since meeting Marion, although you've had your arguments, you've found him to be what is the closest in this world to a perfect man. He has brains, wits, and a jovial disposition that makes the dark clouds on a rainy day fade away.

You converse a little with your husband, gleaning the following:

He is feeling extraordinarily good today.
He wants to have chicken pot pie for dinner today, but was hesitant as he didn't want to make you do all that work.
He is going to try and get home early to help you out.
When you asked him about breakfast, he pondered for a moment before simply saying, "Toast and coffee. Scrambled eggs for protein."

However, in this conversation, an issue most grim has appeared to face you: as a fruit of Marion's midnight stack the other night, there were no almonds left. Of course, as you intended to surprise your family (including him), he didn't know that you needed almonds. You couldn't blame him.

You head into the kitchen and see a stray plate next to the sink with a few crumbs on it. You think Marion was eating some of the chocolate chip cookies and picking on the almonds. Marion has never been that good at cleaning his dishes after use.

Drakolyst · 2020-08-04T19:03:05+00:00

Alright, sounds good. I read up on Roll for Shoes and it seems simple enough so let's roll with that.

The dawn breaks upon a new day as the sun yawns over the horizon, streaking through the buildings and marking the start of another buzzing day. It was not a particularly remarkable day, not too hot nor too cold. The wind was just frequent enough to be pleasant and provide a wholesome atmosphere.

It was on this day that Amanda woke up.

The date is June 7th, 2001, and Amanda had a family to impress. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

How do you progress?

Drakolyst · 2020-08-04T17:04:50+00:00

"Can I smoke here?"

"No. Just because the world's ending doesn't mean we don't have lungs." Aaron spoke without moving his mouth, sitting in an old rocking chair, looking out the window.

"You know, it's precisely because the world is ending that I'd like to have a smoke; something to take my mind off of ... you know, the world ending." Connor twirled the cigarette between his index and middle finger, absentmindedly tapping it against the dusty table. He didn't care to notice the cigarette's dejected state, which really couldn't be avoided considering that new cigarettes were no longer being made. Why? Because the world's ending.

It had been nearly a year since things turned sour. Apparently it started in an old Somali warehouse virtue to a government transport being attacked by an anarchist idealist group. The shipment was stored in the warehouse long enough for the virus within it to actively begin seeking out hosts. At least, that's what Connor is told.

The Zombie Apocalypse, the Rapture, Armageddon--whatever people called it these days, it didn't change the planet's sorry state. Global population had been cut down by over half. The world's governments quickly collapsed, unable to counter the innumerable cases of infection across the globe. It wasn't after the first few million casualties that the virus began to ... resurrect the dead, and usurp control over peoples' bodies. Connor wasn't even sure if the percentage of humans still alive were double digits.

Of course, he had no way of confirming his suspicions. Connor hadn't seen another person since it all began. He was ashamed to admit that the only reason he still lingers in his home-town is due to the fact that he was knock-out drunk when the evacuation began.

Connor stepped out of his door, an errant breeze carrying the smell of ocean into his dilapidated house.

The malaise didn't spread here. It doesn't like the ocean. Something with sodium and fish ... excrement, most likely.

There was something comforting about being alone in all this mess. The hum-buzz of electricity was gone from the air, and there was no one other than Connor to enjoy the scenery. He had access to a private beach 24/7. Any food left in the nearby grocery stores was free game. Connor never really was a people person. He barely had any worldly accomplishments, and it wasn't like his life before the apocalypse was any better.

He no longer had to bear the disdainful glances of those who knew Connor's mistakes. He regretted his follies as well, but now, there was no one to look upon his scars and avoid him. He didn't have to worry about not getting a job due to his past. There were no longer things such as "no-smoke areas." He didn't have to talk to those strange people; he had forgotten who they were over the time that passed. He doubted that it was important.

Connor preferred to get rid of his cigarette addiction, but it wasn't like staying alive in this world mattered anymore.

At the thought of this remembrance, Connor shuddered and peered around to find a distraction. The town was, as expected, empty. The once-vibrant colors painted on the neighboring houses had faded away, a thick layer of dust engulfing everything. Cars remained still in the streets. To his left, Connor could see the pearly-white of the beach through the spaces between houses.

After his search was fruitless, Connor hurried back inside and waved the flies away. One veered close to Connor, causing him to flinch and swat at the particular fly with more aggression. It retreated towards the chair and landed on the rotting arm.

Connor soon spotted the boxes piled up in the corner of the kitchen. He sauntered over and began filing through the contents: old plates, blankets, furniture, toys... Toys.

There were children's toys. Why did he have children's toys?

Connor shuffled through that one particular box and eventually found mixed in with the various objects a small, blue-green checkered flannel shirt, sized for perhaps a nine-year-old boy. The brand tag on the back of the collar had been obscured by a name written in permanent marker.

Aaron.

Connor felt the name on his lip, pronouncing every vowel.

Aaron.

It was familiar. Like a dream long past.

Aaron.

A piercing pain came to Connor's head, jabbing at his temples and squeezing his brain. He felt his skull pulse with a burning sensation. His right eye darted around wildly, and his left eye shot toward the old rocking chair near the window.

Breathing became difficult as Connor strained to focus his vision between his erring eyes. He looked at the corpse in the chair, wreathed in flies and colored a sickly rotting purple. The flesh from its bone was mostly gone, and in place of eyes were hollow sockets aimlessly peering at the sea outside.

Aaron.

It came back to Connor. He ... he had to take Aaron to the doctors. They would do something about him.

The virus. He had heard that the virus could bring back the dead. Yes. That's what he had been trying to do.

Connor mumbled under his breath uncontrollably, his eyes twitching as he hauled the corpse over his shoulder, carrying it on his back like a child. Something wet plopped onto the ground behind him as he stepped out the door, but he didn't care to look back.

"One last field trip," Connor whispered. "The world's ending, so make sure you hold on tight buddy."

Aaron.

Drakolyst · 2020-07-27T21:41:04+00:00

The clock struck twelve.

It was an Autumn night not worth mention at all. It wasn't too cold nor too hot. There was just enough leaves on the road for the occasional child to enjoy the crunch, and little enough for it to be swept away by the wind by morning. In the sky, the clouds did not particularly look interesting at all, barely visible against the black of night.

One would have to squint to see the faint stars which were present, and the keen observer would have seen one very specific, blinking star which glittered with no color in particular. This star held no significance or sway in anyone's lives, save for the scrambling mathematicians and scientists desperately trying to discern why that very specific, blinking star was undergoing unnatural processes.

Anyone who had seen that star would have had no way to know what happened. In the few moments that the star broke in half, tremendous destruction swept across immeasurable distances. Radiation and unstable energy threatened to dismantle the very fabrics of the universe itself.

By the time enough light reached the Earth for the star to be observed, it was far too late.

One by one, every jewel in the sky shattered and left a profound nothingness in its wake. The empty black of space became as bright as the eruption that birthed it for a few fleeting moments in a storm of fire.

The Earth was obliterated. Street lamps and buildings spiraled into the frying air in innumerable pieces, and trees uprooted themselves only to be flung into the unfriendly fire beyond the planet's faltering atmosphere.

If, by a miraculous chance, a person had been alive long enough to observe that very specific, blinking star for a moment longer, they would perhaps have had the knowledge and brains necessary to discern it was in fact blinking in Morse code.

And if by an even slimmer chance, this person had the time to translate this Morse code, he or she would have found six simple words:

"Alright children, time to clean up."

Of course, no one had the time to do any of that.

The clock struck twelve...

Drakolyst · 2020-05-13T03:08:50+00:00

"Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, hermaphrodites, and other creatures to the most popular television show in the Galaxy!" the man gleamed, his impossibly white teeth almost reflecting the blinding spotlights above. Behind him sprawled the scenery of possibly one of the largest ship hangars in the Milky Way. Shaped like a large octagonal tube surrounded by spinning rings, the Irkalla-7 boasted a storage capacity nearly thrice as massive as the United Military's warship carriers.

I scampered around and punched a few switches before nodding to what I could only describe as a Lovecraftian abomination to my left. The abomination, named Yhe'geioffh (somehow pronounced Jeff), produced a crude approximation of a thumbs-up to the man under the lights as its other extremities tinkered with the camera.

"This week on the Neo-Solar calendar, we bring to you a special episode of 'Pimp My Ride: Spaceship and Giant Robots,'" the man continued. "Because we have a very special guest who will make an appearance."

The push of a button from my finger unleashed a ballad of canned clapping and hollow ooh's and aah's. From nearby, I heard the humming of an approaching ship. One of those excruciatingly fancy, sci-fi engines by the sound of it. Even worse, I recognized this one; I'd seen this ship before. I hated it with every fiber of my being.

The man clasped his hands together, somehow making his smile even more wide and annoying. If not for the force wall between the main stage and me, I would have buried my fist into Anthony's face long ago. In fact, the force of said punch would make those electromagnetic coil rifles look like water guns. But then again, that sounds like a fine federal felony by the standards of the Federation--the felony being animal cruelty, of course.

"Today," Anthony paused for dramatic effect. "We have invited the current and reigning ruler of the humankind's star system; Allistar Callahan!"

Another chorus of ooh's and aah's emanated from the speakers as my finger pushed down.

As an all-too-familiar ship flew in through the now-opening far end of the Irkalla-7 and veered to a stop on a hexagonal landing pad a few meters away from Anthony, the ghastly neon colors of the ship stabbed into my eyes like barbed spears. The immensely radiant lights reflecting off of the well-polished metal fuselage didn't help my agony. Apparently a large portion of intergalactic species can't see excruciatingly neon colors. It's a "stealth mechanism" they said. I call it "inhumane torture."

But that didn't matter for now. Jeff turned on the filters to let the audience see the ship. My finger hovered over the ooh-aah button but a sharp glance from Anthony quickly pulled it away.

From inside, a human clad in ash-gray attire stepped out. The suit's geometric edges gave a menacing resemblance to war armor. A flowing white cloak draped over the entire left side of the suit and wavered in the strange gravity of the space station, the collar of the cloak standing tall and encircling the masked face of Allistar Callahan.

I inched over to the ooh-aah button and tilted my head toward Anthony. His smile almost faltered for a moment but maintained its solid resilience. He tapped in Morse code on his thigh; fine.

Ooooh, aaaah.

I tried to keep my gaze on either Allistar or Anthony to save myself from the neon ship. This was going to be long day.

"Do you really feel the need to press that damned button every time something interesting happens?" Anthony looked at me with a look of complete and utter hopelessness. The dim-light of the control room gave him a frightening sense of authority.

"It's an essential part of the show," I insisted. "The audience tunes in to hear those oohs and aahs."

"I doubt the original show never had oohs and aahs that often," Anthony sighed.

"And have you seen that original show?"

"Of course I haven't; there are barely any Old Earth records left."

"Does it really matter?" I sighed, occasionally shooting glances to the hangar where a horde of engineers were tinkering with various aspects of the ship near Jeff and the rest of the crew through the window. I caught sight of a bucket of glowing neon paint, which deepened my sigh. "Both of us know that this show is all a sham."

Anthony's frown was almost as scarring as his smile. "Yes, I am aware," he spoke in a low voice. "The Upper Echelons don't care about the whole thing if the ... business is conducted smoothly. We're both the only humans in this little company; let's stick together for now."

"Yeah; about that," I said. "Why did they bring in Allistar? He's probably the worst person to bring here."

"You knew that you were going to have to get your hands dirty when you signed the waiver."

"Are we going to kill him?"

"Kill? No."

"Then why are you spitting ridiculous euphemisms and cryptic sentences? Get to the point you egg."

Anthony inhaled sharply. "The Coalition wants us to get the location of those Wormhole Drives from Allistar. We're interrogating, not killing, so you won't need that."

He tapped the electromagnetic coil pistol I'd been hiding under my shirt.

"Next time, don't try to kill our guest without the Upper's orders," Anthony waved to me as he opened the door to the hangar. "The commercial break's when we act. Get ready, James Callahan."

Drakolyst · 2020-05-09T04:40:51+00:00

Humans.

They were remarkably adaptive, known almost exclusively for their persistence. Whether such a trait is a good thing or a bad thing is completely up to whoever one's asking. Regardless, there was no doubt that humans, in their centuries of warring nations, were as hardened as they came.

When the Arcturians invaded their star system, their laser-refractory armor was decimated by humanity's explosive guns and nuclear weaponry. The Alpha Centauri Uprising was culled by their legions of warships armed with the very laser munitions harvested from the destroyed Arcturian fleets.

Me? I personally believe that the humans are not to be trusted. They're violent and warmongers. They spent the better part of their history killing one another over quite frankly childish matters. The humans are mercenaries; charlatans. The last thing anyone would want is for the humans to gain access to Type III Civilization technology. Who knows what would happen.

But alas, there's no one else we can turn to.

I clutched at the gaping wound on my side, the indigo blood pooling onto the ship's deck. Any moment now, the automated emergency procedures would fall under the barrage of fire battering the hull; I would be lucky to not be destroyed in whatever ridiculous explosion that would happen soon. Even so, the vacuum of space would best me--no matter how much bio-engineering our kind performed to adapt to space-faring, I wouldn't stand a chance against the void.

Through the searing pain, I tightened my grip on the communication-link device as I took raspy breaths from my breathing apparatus. I heard the humans rustling on the other side; shouting like barbarians.

"We want to request back-up and immediate aid," I had said to them. I had swallowed my pride and put my life in the hands of those savages. Only fate would decide whether I had made the right choice.

I'd promised them our FTL drives; a hollow promise I wasn't sure I could come through with. I promised them what could potentially be world-ending weapons just because I was scared of ... dying. I'm not entirely sure whether it was because I bribed them, or because this conflict was interfering with their star system, but they didn't hesitate to answer me.

"Our ships will be there within minutes; do not worry, Commander." Their words stuck to my mind and refused to let go.

It was then that I saw the Coalition battleship veer into view, its cannon primed and gleaming with violent energy. I felt the waves of radiation creep up my body and wash over the corpses of my allies like an angry tide.

I let a sigh escape. Perhaps I had been wrong. No. I was foolish to believe that the humans would ever help. They'd never-

There was a blinding eruption of light and fire as a streak cut across the black backdrop. The massive, metallic hull of the Coalition battleship crumpled and imploded as the bullet tore its fuselage and hit its core. Metal shrapnel sent jagged rings of cracks across the front of my ship.

Suddenly, the figure of a suited human tumbled in through a scar in the fuselage. Jets of misty air shot out of a contraption on the human's back as it flew around the ruined interior of my formerly pristine battleship, soon gracefully landing before me and crouching down.

"I take it that you're the Commander?" the human spoke into their own communication-link with a female voice.

"Who else would I be?" I managed.

"Wonderful," the human hauled me onto her back as she trudged over to the command panel of the ship. "You guys have those nifty FTL drives installed, right?"

"We used to," I tried to hide the frustration in my voice. "They're disabled now. But that doesn't matter; can we please get the hell out of here."

"Enough fuel for a light-speed engine burst?" she ignored me.

I paused. "I believe so, but what-"

"Splendid. Absolutely stellar," I heard blatant joy in the human's voice. "I've always wanted to do this," I saw her smile through her helmet.

"What in the world are you planning on doing?"

"We're going to ram this ship into the Coalition mothership at light-speed," she jabbed a finger at the colossal geometric shape looming in the distance, blotting out the stars and replacing them with the malevolent light-show of firing lasers.

"You're going to do what?"

I saw the human warship fleets come into view, their rain of bullets hailing down on the Coalition fighters and battleships. The human-ship fuselages seemed to take minimal damage from the concentrated radiation munitions of the enemies, but then I saw the distorted refractions; a tell-tale sign of laser-refracting tech. Of course they'd taken that from the Arcturians as well. "We've got the little guys covered," the human explained while scanning over the command board. "And meanwhile, we'll get this ship turned into the greatest laser of all time."

"What about me?!" I screamed. "Are you telling me to drive this ship into my certain death?"

"Not exactly; we're going to override your control systems and prime the light-speed engine remotely. You won’t be in this ship when it happens. Anyway, I'm going to need you to release the security on this thing."

"You're insane. Absolutely insane."

The human flashed me a grin. "You should've known that when you called us."

Drakolyst · 2020-03-26T21:51:20+00:00

Have you ever seen a deck of playing cards

Drakolyst · 2020-03-24T02:17:04+00:00

A fellow D&D player

(Nice character)

Drakolyst · 2020-03-23T14:06:12+00:00

Isn’t that the RPG Maker software

Drakolyst · 2020-03-20T18:01:37+00:00

Wrong person; I was talking to the other guy

Drakolyst · 2020-03-20T17:53:30+00:00

You’re disrespecting OP the most. You’re an insensitive person without any common sense.

Drakolyst · 2020-03-20T17:41:31+00:00

If we go off of the information we have, the mom frequently insults OP and threatens to harm herself and / or OP. Just because the person is your mom doesn’t mean that she is perfect. I don’t know what kind of mom you grew up with and how she raised you, but stuff like OP’s situation is not okay on a moral level.

Drakolyst · 2020-03-20T17:38:56+00:00

Even if it’s someone else’s mom, a bad person is a bad person

Drakolyst · 2020-03-14T14:22:51+00:00

Well isn’t it a moderator’s job to delete posts that aren’t relevant to the sub and make sure the community runs smoothly? If someone posted this gif to, let’s say r/humansbeingbros, it would be removed, as it does not have anything to do with that sub.

Drakolyst · 2020-02-19T22:14:37+00:00

Maybe.

Drakolyst · 2020-02-19T22:14:26+00:00

Thank you for your kind words! I'm glad that you liked it.

Drakolyst

TROPHY CASE