05-08-2018, 12:28 PM
Seventeen scowled as he watched the blonde medic sashay in from the adjacent corridor. On each of her elbows, she had a woman in a very, very short pencil skirt. At least one of the women still had what seemed to be white dust dabbled above her upper lip.
Dust my ass, son of a …
As she passed by the cyborg, Aisha grinned from ear to ear before gesturing toward one of the magnificent clocks that hung high on the walls of the banquet hall. She mouthed the words ‘three minutes’ as she escorted her ladies-in-waiting into the morass of mid-level Imperial bureaucrats. Once Aisha’s eyes were off of him, Seventeen couldn’t help but smirk. He wasn’t one to indulge beyond the simple constraints of a hard liquor, and while he was fairly certain the Omniverse was still a terrifying, parallel hell dimension designed to make him suffer amid a sea of anthropomorphic furries and hyper-strong midgets, that didn’t meant he had any intentions on slumming it up in a fascist police state.
Fucking Omniverse…
Still smiling faintly, the raven-haired warrior slipped around the edge of the party until he found a window that wasn’t flanked by a half-dozen half-sober bureaucrats. Lifting his drinks up to his lips, Seventeen stared at the stars that glittered and gleamed in the early night sky. The Empire was a police state, that much was clearly evident by their approach to crime, immigration, and free speech, but what fucking police state would spend millions of dollars (or whatever the equivalent was in fairy universe) to create an artificial night sky?
Maybe this place wasn’t entirely shitty? Seventeen lifted the tall glass back for another long gulp of the sparkling, vodka-scented contents. He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to taste like water at this point. That usually didn’t come until he hit the second dirty dozen, but here he was, barely at twenty. Had being dead so long wrecked his constitution?
Then again – was he even alive right now? Or would he go to sleep one day and wake up from this like it was a bad fever dream?
Seventeen glanced at the nearly empty glass and scowled. Too many questions irritated him to no end. Too many questions meant more time thinking and less time enjoying life.
But again … is this place even living?
“Shut the fuck up, dude.” Seventeen groaned beneath his breath as he ended the drink’s life and set the glass on a nearby table. “I don’t feel like being deep right now.” He added as he heard the sound of solid boot steps behind him. Turning on his heels with a little more grace than someone twenty drinks in deserved, the cyborg nearly caught Aisha off guard. The medic, her pupils a little too dilated for someone with everything together, recoiled and nearly spilled her drink onto the floor.
“Nimble on your feet, aren’t you?” She whispered as she stepped up next to him and glanced out the window.
The raven-haired man smirked. The woman’s dress was still a little disheveled—she had missed a button on the back and one of her straps was inside-out. “Where did those two, uh, companions of yours venture off to?”
There was a slight delay, and then Aisha chuckled as she set a hand on the table to balance herself. “I think they went to ply their craft with some CFOs from PepsiCo?” The woman leaned in close enough to the cyborg that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his ear and taste the thick, heady aroma of rich scotch and cheap gin. “They didn’t charge me… they offered to pay me,” she started to laugh, which caused her to topple sideways onto the cybernetic warrior, who managed to get his arms under her before her head ricocheted off the tiled floor of the banquet hall.
“Nice catch,” Aisha whispered quietly before breaking out into a fit of slurred, erratic laughter.
“You sure that was just cocaine?” Seventeen chuckled as he helped the woman up to her feet only to have her fall back onto him, her hair obscuring half of his face in the process. Feeling eyes on the pair of them, the cyborg put a smile on his face as he slipped his left hand around the medic’s waist. He used his other hand to grasp her spare set of fingers, and a beat later, he was guiding the mostly nonresponsive medic in a very slow dance. When he completed half a turn, he saw the same people who had been staring holes in his back had returned to their own gossip and rumor-milling tales.
“Think they had some extra in there,” Aisha whispered into Seventeen’s neck. “Sluh… uh, muh… Slo-Mo,” she managed to finish as the cyborg led the pair on a slow pathway around the perimeter of the banquet hall.
Of course it’s fucking Slo-Mo.
The botched field mission that had resulted in Seventeen being shelved for several months over the summer had been related to the synthetic drug running amok in the second and third tiers. While metaphorically shackled to his office chair, the cyborg had learned that the drug wasn’t that prevalent beyond Tier Three. Apparently, it was considered a luxury drug—something for the aristocrats to enjoy alongside their caviar and fancy horse races.
“You fine?” Seventeen whispered. “You gonna pop?”
“I… I’m good,” Aisha murmured, despite the fact that her skin felt clammy on the man’s fingertips. He knew she would eventually be all right, but once the manic effects of Slo-Mo wore off, it left the person a barely functioning mess. The medic had a sturdy constitution, but even her well-maintained physique would take some time to bounce back from the drug.
Bang!
Seventeen tensed as he glanced in the sound of the crash. When people didn’t immediately start running and screaming, he realized what he’d heard.
“Dinner gong? How classy,” he mumbled softly as he slow danced back in the direction where they had begun their journey. “We’ll wait for the crowd,” he spoke to the woman as he watched the aristocrats, bureaucrats, and military up-and-comers start filing into the main dining hall. As the herd started to thin, Seventeen screened around for Trixie and Nova. The pair had to be somewhere, unless they had just run off the moment they saw their chance to escape the oppressive ‘party’ atmosphere.
And who would blame ‘em?
Dust my ass, son of a …
As she passed by the cyborg, Aisha grinned from ear to ear before gesturing toward one of the magnificent clocks that hung high on the walls of the banquet hall. She mouthed the words ‘three minutes’ as she escorted her ladies-in-waiting into the morass of mid-level Imperial bureaucrats. Once Aisha’s eyes were off of him, Seventeen couldn’t help but smirk. He wasn’t one to indulge beyond the simple constraints of a hard liquor, and while he was fairly certain the Omniverse was still a terrifying, parallel hell dimension designed to make him suffer amid a sea of anthropomorphic furries and hyper-strong midgets, that didn’t meant he had any intentions on slumming it up in a fascist police state.
Fucking Omniverse…
Still smiling faintly, the raven-haired warrior slipped around the edge of the party until he found a window that wasn’t flanked by a half-dozen half-sober bureaucrats. Lifting his drinks up to his lips, Seventeen stared at the stars that glittered and gleamed in the early night sky. The Empire was a police state, that much was clearly evident by their approach to crime, immigration, and free speech, but what fucking police state would spend millions of dollars (or whatever the equivalent was in fairy universe) to create an artificial night sky?
Maybe this place wasn’t entirely shitty? Seventeen lifted the tall glass back for another long gulp of the sparkling, vodka-scented contents. He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to taste like water at this point. That usually didn’t come until he hit the second dirty dozen, but here he was, barely at twenty. Had being dead so long wrecked his constitution?
Then again – was he even alive right now? Or would he go to sleep one day and wake up from this like it was a bad fever dream?
Seventeen glanced at the nearly empty glass and scowled. Too many questions irritated him to no end. Too many questions meant more time thinking and less time enjoying life.
But again … is this place even living?
“Shut the fuck up, dude.” Seventeen groaned beneath his breath as he ended the drink’s life and set the glass on a nearby table. “I don’t feel like being deep right now.” He added as he heard the sound of solid boot steps behind him. Turning on his heels with a little more grace than someone twenty drinks in deserved, the cyborg nearly caught Aisha off guard. The medic, her pupils a little too dilated for someone with everything together, recoiled and nearly spilled her drink onto the floor.
“Nimble on your feet, aren’t you?” She whispered as she stepped up next to him and glanced out the window.
The raven-haired man smirked. The woman’s dress was still a little disheveled—she had missed a button on the back and one of her straps was inside-out. “Where did those two, uh, companions of yours venture off to?”
There was a slight delay, and then Aisha chuckled as she set a hand on the table to balance herself. “I think they went to ply their craft with some CFOs from PepsiCo?” The woman leaned in close enough to the cyborg that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his ear and taste the thick, heady aroma of rich scotch and cheap gin. “They didn’t charge me… they offered to pay me,” she started to laugh, which caused her to topple sideways onto the cybernetic warrior, who managed to get his arms under her before her head ricocheted off the tiled floor of the banquet hall.
“Nice catch,” Aisha whispered quietly before breaking out into a fit of slurred, erratic laughter.
“You sure that was just cocaine?” Seventeen chuckled as he helped the woman up to her feet only to have her fall back onto him, her hair obscuring half of his face in the process. Feeling eyes on the pair of them, the cyborg put a smile on his face as he slipped his left hand around the medic’s waist. He used his other hand to grasp her spare set of fingers, and a beat later, he was guiding the mostly nonresponsive medic in a very slow dance. When he completed half a turn, he saw the same people who had been staring holes in his back had returned to their own gossip and rumor-milling tales.
“Think they had some extra in there,” Aisha whispered into Seventeen’s neck. “Sluh… uh, muh… Slo-Mo,” she managed to finish as the cyborg led the pair on a slow pathway around the perimeter of the banquet hall.
Of course it’s fucking Slo-Mo.
The botched field mission that had resulted in Seventeen being shelved for several months over the summer had been related to the synthetic drug running amok in the second and third tiers. While metaphorically shackled to his office chair, the cyborg had learned that the drug wasn’t that prevalent beyond Tier Three. Apparently, it was considered a luxury drug—something for the aristocrats to enjoy alongside their caviar and fancy horse races.
“You fine?” Seventeen whispered. “You gonna pop?”
“I… I’m good,” Aisha murmured, despite the fact that her skin felt clammy on the man’s fingertips. He knew she would eventually be all right, but once the manic effects of Slo-Mo wore off, it left the person a barely functioning mess. The medic had a sturdy constitution, but even her well-maintained physique would take some time to bounce back from the drug.
Bang!
Seventeen tensed as he glanced in the sound of the crash. When people didn’t immediately start running and screaming, he realized what he’d heard.
“Dinner gong? How classy,” he mumbled softly as he slow danced back in the direction where they had begun their journey. “We’ll wait for the crowd,” he spoke to the woman as he watched the aristocrats, bureaucrats, and military up-and-comers start filing into the main dining hall. As the herd started to thin, Seventeen screened around for Trixie and Nova. The pair had to be somewhere, unless they had just run off the moment they saw their chance to escape the oppressive ‘party’ atmosphere.
And who would blame ‘em?
![[Image: 17.jpg]](http://omniverse-rpg.com/images/17.jpg)