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Callandra Henderson

Security Captain for Tech Con's PMC

0 · 1,900 views · located in Forest of Twilight

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by barney_fife

Description

Image

Tech Con Resource Development Agency

Personnel File




Identity Particulars

Full Name: Callandra Jane Henderson-McGregor
Former Names: Callandra Henderson
Aliases: Cally
Date of Birth: Marcius, 3rd
Place of Birth: Queenstown, Picon

Sex: female
Race: Human, Aschen
Ethnicity: Caprican, Picon
Complexion: Fair
Height: 5'5"
Weight: 120
Build: Athletic
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Brown

Scars, Marks, Piercings, and Tattoos: None

Contact Information

Current Permanent Address: Tech Con HQ, 102 Hagan Ave, Wing City, Terra
Seasonal or Other Addresses: None
Work Address: Tech Con HQ
Former Permanent Addresses: 7-88-324 Aestus drive, Queenstown, Picon; 3223 Oak Drive, Qualai, Sagittaria


Home Phone: 265-555-125-55358
Mobile Phone: 265-555-522-78924
Work Phone: 211-254-855-15152
Email: c.henderson@techcon.co.leo.lg

Personal Profile:

Degrees Earned: None
Educational Institutions Attended: Queenstown Basic Academy, Queenstown Mid-level Academy
Occupation: RDA Senior Captain (Security Manager)
Former Occupations: Specialist, Battlestar Langara

Religion: Kobollian, Gemonite Traditionalist
Political affiliation: Nationalist Reformer
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
Languages spoken: English, Lingua Anquietas, Odd Langaran
Citizenship: United Aschen Empire
Smoking Habits: None
Alcohol Usage: Yes
Illegal Drug Usage: None
History of Significant Health Problems: Langaran Red-eye.
History of Mental Health Problems: None

Criminal History:

Arrests: None
Criminal Complaints: None.
Indictments: None.
Detainers: Aschen High Space Command.
Traffic Offenses: None

Relationships:

Family
Father: Nicholas Henderson
Mother: Molly Henderson (Nee, Lucien)
Siblings: None
Spouse: None
Children: Denzel Ha'ran McGregor, Marlene Angel McGregor

Associates:
Helena Cain, Former Chairman of the Aschen High Space Command
Claire Angelique, Former Minister of Defense
Kara Thrace, Captain, Battlestar Acropolis
Paul Wolfe, Operations Section One
Jane Travell, High Chancellor, Aschen Ministry of Law
George, Director of the LDA
Millicent Centovan, Police Chief, Gaoth Police Department
Richard Adar, President of the Aschen Confederation
Sire Thomas Zarek, Parliament Sagittaron
Raphael McGregor, God-Emperor

So begins...

Callandra Henderson's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Alexander Autry
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It was his turn to to smile now. "Quite true, a pair of daggers won't even keep most alive in the wrong parts of Lutetia. Luckily for me, I've got more than that. Just not on my person, it was only a scouting operation you know."

The ranger watched the buildings wiz by. "And yes, I don't look like much. That's what I'm going for, living here has got it's few advantages you know. Just an 'example' would be ready access to magic wielders, which comes in handy. Potions, enchantments, etc. They've got it. I don't really try to look flashy or anything, it can be rather fatal in some parts. Better to look humble, helps with the element of surprise and keeps you from being targeted...most of the time."

The setting changes from Lutetia City to Tauvyr Tavern

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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Headlights slowly peered their way through the windows of Tauvyr Tavern, and the occupant of the single white pickup truck found themselves pushing the front door of the Tavern open.

"Not the nicest place, but i need to stretch my legs before I head on back to Aslund." The woman said to herself. To those that turned to look, they found a woman in tan fatigue pants, and a dark grey BDU Shirt, a white armband bearing the logo of Tech Con group wrapped around her right arm.

Her hair was done up into a tight ponytail, and she was very clearly armed, with a thigh holster holding a Plasma pistol, tactical knife, and microfusion cells. Worn over her chest was a white ceramite load bearing vest, which fitted loosely over the dark grey BDU Shirt.

Pulling a chair out and away from a nearby table, she lowered herself into the chair, and then she picked up the menu.

"Let's see here." She said quietly.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Alex Gryphon Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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Alex wandered into the tavern in his android form. Alex sat down. To no-one in particular, Alex asked "Any work anyone needs done? I'm available for hire as a 'personal protection force'."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Alex Gryphon Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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#, as written by Varden
A steaming cup of tea was placed on front of Dyew. He picked the cup up with his right hand and managed to turn and nod at Rafeal. It was a silent, passing greeting to the man he shared the bar with. When Callandra entered he did not seem to pay her any mind.

For whatever reason it was Alex's entrance that sparked him to actually turn in his seat and say something. "Personal protection force eh? What is the going rate for such a service?", he said with slight foreign accent but with no hint of sarcasm.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Alex Gryphon Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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Rafael tipped his whiskey glass to the man as he answered. He looked over his shoulder after another sip at the newcomers one of them being a woman taking no steps to hide her weaponry in a bar of all places. The other hulking figure would pass well for some politics bodyguard with his obvious mass and solemn looking face.

"Would we pay the pound? Maybe you could give us some sort of demonstration. Your bulk and size might be intimidating but if that's all you have then you're not much in the way of a protector." Rafael's calm voice entered after Vardens.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Alex Gryphon Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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The woman watched Dyew and Rafael with mild bemusement. It was the large hulking android that seemed to catch her attention. She pondered to herself before she gestured towards the construct.

"I could use your services." Her smile was soft and genuine, and did not betray the thoughts that went on in her head. An AI Construct brought back to the Empire for study would put her in favor with the Emperor, and ultimately with Mr. Hagan. It was a matter of formulating a plan.

"Name your price." She said, slowly standing up. "Tech Con needs constructs like yourself, are you an AI?" She asked, approaching the group with her hand resting on her holstered plasma pistol.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Alex Gryphon Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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Alex replies to Callandra's question "Actually, I am technically not an AI... I was human in the past. However, when my planet was obliterated, I only managed to escape by uploading my consciousness to a mining drone." he continues to answer the question of price "I am actually not looking for currency right now. What I am looking for is some anti-matter, as I need to synthesize more grenades... alternatively, I could use some secure electronic storage to back myself up to, as the space ship I am currently backed up to is far from indestructible. Please note I will not help you raid innocent ships, if that's what you want. However, if you want some bandits gone, or need a security guard, I'm your guy."

Turning to respond to Rafael, Alex responds "I keep a recording of all past missions recorded." Alex starts to show a hologram from his shoulder.

Alex is standing outside a small fortress. It is very old, and there are old, outdated cannons adorning the walls. However, inside there is a well armed crew of robbers, cut-throats and other undesirables. Alex kicks down the main door and fires an antimatter grenade into the courtyard of the old fortress where a couple of armed bandits are stationed as guards. The anti-matter explosive condenses everything within ten meters of the impact into a 1x1x1cm cube. Then that cube violently explodes, showering the surrounding area with dust, wood, stone, and inter- *ahem* external organs.

Alex then starts to push into the internals of the fortress. Alex encounters a guard who sneaks up from behind a corner, and fires on Alex. The bullets ping off of Alex's android shell. He then turns and repeatedly pummels the guard, each time the scarlet crescendo on the wall grows larger and larger. Three more guards appear, and Alex fires on them with his gauss rifle, killing one, injuring another, and leaving the third unharmed. The third fires an electric bold at Alex from his electro-gun, causing Alex's andriod body to freeze up.

Alex then scans the fortress for other electronics, and sees the remaining guard's artificial heart. Alex uploads a small part of himself into it, and shuts it off.

Alex then waits for the android body to reboot and then leaves.

Alex says "Is that the demonstration you wanted? Or do you want a live one?"

(OOC, I have no clue what the currencies are or about the economy, hence the request for a non-currency fee... SUPER NOOB, AWAY!!!)

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Alex Gryphon Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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#, as written by Varden
Dyew watched and listened to Alex after Callandra finished speaking. "Impressive. Very impressive. Sadly I do not possess any anti-matter to pay you with were I to hire you on. I also have no ship that you could use to upload yourself into. As for the demonstration..." He picked up his tea and took a sip before placing the cup back on the bar top. "... it was adequate. I have no need of a live one."

Dyew turned to Rafael and then to Callandra as he stroked his beard with his left hand.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Alex Gryphon Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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"Alright... what about everyone else?" Alex asks

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Alex Gryphon Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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"The holograph will do. But I do not possess on my person anything that would be of any use to you either. The only thing I could truly offer is a partnership." Rafael took another sip of his whiskey turning fully around to look at both the android and woman.

"I know I would not be able to offer you the marvelous treasures that the woman over there could offer to you. The only thing I have to offer is honesty and a fair partnership. One that would not have me studying you like some animal. I know such organizations exist that would want your kind just for what you can do or possess then throw you away once they have what they want." Another sip of the whiskey was taken and the glass placed back on the counter.

"I leave the choice open to you." The man stayed leaning on the counter looking back at both the android and woman gauging reactions.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Alex Gryphon Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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Alex replies "Depending on what she says, I'll consider that offer."

Setting

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Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Alex Gryphon Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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#, as written by Varden
"Apparently a cat has her tongue.", Dyew commented after some time had passed.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Alex Gryphon Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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"I suppose so. I I think I will take you up on your offer, then."

Setting

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Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Alex Gryphon Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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"If the lady has nothing to say about her own proposition. Welcome to the team. With the team really only being you and I at this point in time. " Rafael's voice still mildly calm.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Dyew Character Portrait: Alex Gryphon Character Portrait: Rafael Fisher
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"Alright then" Alex Says

The setting changes from Tauvyr Tavern to Central Arteghia

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Heathin Cassie Emerson Character Portrait: Dacarn Veldrin
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"Eugh, this is a horrible part of Terra, why did Hagan have to send me here.." Callandra muttered to herself as she made her way through what appeared to be some kind of backwater road leading to nowhere. Contrary to Dacarn's jeep that had seen much better days. Callandra was driving a white pickup, resembling a newer Toyota Hilux. The white finish of the truck bore the silver ribbon like logo of one of the Galaxy's largest technology conglomerates, Tech Con Group which was based out of the United Aschen Empire. Tech Con had a long history of resource exploitation here on Terra, and Arteghia; with it's war torn lawlessness seemed to be ripe for exploitation by Tech Con's savvy yet greedy owner and CEO, Miles Hagan.

With each bump, each rock that the white dirtied pickup had to traverse, the young woman was jostled around inside the leather trim cab. Next to Callandra, mounted securely upon a weapon rack, was a disruptor rifle. The Type 53 Disruptor rifle, with it's sleek ergonomic lines, white and black finish, integrated holographic scope, and enough firepower to put a bolt of superheated plasma and charged particles through six inches of concrete was a staple weapon that symbolized Aschen oppression across this part of the Galaxy. That, along with a Type 23 Disruptor pistol, another sleek ergonomic weapon that was securely holstered within a black kydex holster equipped with triple retention to securely fasten Callandra's sidearm, yet afford a quick draw if she was in a situation where she was required to defend herself.

Bored blue orbs drifted across the road as she surveyed the road ahead. After a moment, she spotted what appeared to be a broken down jeep parked besides a strange looking settlement. The woman made a face for a moment as she slowed down, and eased off the throttle to get a better look.

What she spotted didn't seem too out of the ordinary for this part of the world. A man that appeared to be human, dressed in military gear knocking on someone's house. This man, Callandra surmised was likely the owner of the jeep that was parked on the side of the road.

With a snap decision, Callandra brought the dirty white 4x4 extended cab pickup to a stop, it's brakes squealing from the dirt and mud that had caked itself upon the truck's rotors.

Having come to a complete stop behind the jeep, Callandra placed the truck in park, and gently swept a lock of hair away from her face as she pushed the driver door open. In that motion, she grasped a grey military style hat with the Tech Con logo embroidered across the front.

Securing the hat to her head, and adjusting her grey BDU Style shirt and smoothing the creases on her BDU Style pants, which hugged her feminine form but also provided ease of movement. She stepped out from the pickup truck, and let the door slam with an audible thunk, as the muddy Arteghian soil began to cake on carefully polished black tactical footwear.

Her eyes were on Dacarn Veldrin, while her right hand rested carefully on the stock of her holstered disruptor pistol. She was an image of Military Formality, representing the Tech Con Private Military Agency through and through, even as she parted her lips to speak, a soft feminine voice carrying across the air towards the man at the door of the strange house.

"Is that your jeep?"

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Heathin Cassie Emerson Character Portrait: Dacarn Veldrin
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With the intent to get up; she plucked the courage to set aside her longing for sleep in order to have a more clear ambition to get up, first. Even this wasn't easy, as there was a thought in her head in the figure of a monster to her: that would always criticise every single awkward thing she did. It was an organic wall; the monster would only part and give way to thoughts if they weren't nonsensical. This wall, she'd no clue why she put it into metaphysical being. It was very disheartening. However: something simple and no-nonsense like getting up and having breakfast obviously got a pass. Her organic wall let the notion to get up and eat breakfast to go through, giving a little handy advice tip as it slipped through the cavity:
"Use proper English."
Heathin, for a second, felt like nodding. However: the point was to get up. At the current time she could feel a burning sensation on both lower legs; lingerling lifelessly like lucid lanterns. On the lower half of her lower legs this was most apparent. Forcing her whole weight onto her legs after they'd been whimsically spinning around for so long didn't make them temperate: it was boiling her blood. She could feel her blood tense up and gash out of her arms and stomach; reelng towards her legs like a clingy bunch of particles. It made her arms feel less full of life: she felt how they'd been purified and blood just ran through them at a normal rate again. But she could feel her blood congeal and suck: consumed by the legs. As they filled up she felt her legs rush with hotness and warm blood; scalding her almost. Like a warm quantity of firepower; like drinking a fine ale or some caffiene, extra blood invigorated her in the same way. Motivating her to get up. With this concentration? Days and days went by where this made it easier for her to get up from the couch. Just half a second ago, she could feel her legs refrigerated by cool and fresh blankets. Now she felt so much different; but the sense of the refrigerated blankets still lingered on the ankle to the kneecap area. Heathin thought of the bed; even now that she'd woken up and was facing away from it.

Within the moment: she stressed her calf muscles. Heathin could feel them hiss and writhe; products of getting out the wrong side of her bed. Through the air she began to lean them forward. They were quivering with want to sleep as they did so. A moment passed, and the end of her trail still hadn't been met. So slow. Legs so heavy. She thought of getting back into bed and slacking off. So tired, so compelled to yawn out and to assimilate copious ammounts of oxygen into her heaving aching lungs, so delectable is sleep, dreams; she thought about her dreams. She tried to shrug off the thought on dreams and quickly omit her legs, her right more so than her left as she felt more hefty with that one, definitely her stronger leg: she wanted to place the two out in front of her but the right one to take the lead and to simplify getting up. She couldn't get up alright with this hazy, bent posture which just curved her back forwards and smothered her discontented stomach. Breakfast for god's sake. Most important meal of the day. Yet: her eyes still tracing outside whilst she was taking her legs out to become active. Active so that she would walk around. Imbibed by the soft carpet, not rugged like the cushion. Pushing her foot further out; inch by inch by inch. The legs were appeased by the blood that helped them; but the saggy eyes and distortionate brain, the lack of any real clients to tell them what to do: made them move slowly. It had almost clocked in at a minute. Had it not taken so long: she could have grasped the cereal bowl by now. She quickly analysed the window again: douglas firs with ripe health, contented and preparing to cast a thick shadow veil of green arcs rugged across the glade: one tree leaning, one tree split, one tree swimming and with a trunk thicker and a length lingering higher than the others: stuffing them under its choppy thousand hands with thousand fingers. Sap. Sap like blood. Attention shifted back to her legs, aching. It was not torture, it was just a mini-battle. A morning dilemma, she told herself. That was normal for Arteghians. That it was normal to spend almost a minute getting up prematurely. Her legs never felt mature: she'd always cut then smooth and hairless. Baby skin. She didn't know why they never got any blisters, bruises, gashes, cancers; but her legs had always returned to perfect health. She didn't need baby oil; it was like they were immersed in them anyway. A silly thought: but if she cut the lather on the leg when she was sweating, would it be baby oil? Tips of her toes like nerve endings on teeth; being stunned by being pressed and pressed and pressed. Feelings like this shot up, congruent, mingling, conpromising with the other feelings.

"No." She wanted to stop all these lingering and stupid thoughts on legs. She just wanted to get up, but couldn't. This stress would be over soon enough. She would be up, she promised herself. Get some breakfast.

The sole of the foot felt fine. Like a massage to it: heavy pressure and then her dermis was embedded into the woollen carpet. Arcs of light nowhere like a romantic piece of Art in the dark. Cutting her loose from the deep Surrealism of life. Sweet release for them; but her legs were forever pandering. Begging for stopping. Just wanted to go back to rest. Heathin's mind only scolded them and said they had to do sonething eventually. You can't have the good without the bad, then. Then; something that bordered "yes" happened. You could see their visual mobility flashing through blink to blink. Heathin wasn't looking so it was a quiet celebration. But Heathin's legs didn't care and they gratified themselves. They felt very "yes". Her lower legs asked the sole of her foot for some indulgence with the carpet thing. The sole couldn't say yes. Lower legs began to feel insulted and deprived again. Crying. Crying sticky slimy morning residue; a thin layer of sebum like a parasite had been uschering there all day. Slow but steady progress by the legs; never a race. Never was a race. Felt like they could just get there pretty soon. This was actually clocking in at nearly a minute; truly a vision of real happiness if all the legs could start to do was move back and forth. No, they became hesitant. There was another microinstant delay. Pain was wearing down, but still there was a huge embargo as her legs spinned in a dance of fire despite their nervous fragility, like a revolution had caused some of the blood cells to move back and torch the others. She felt so scorched, so apprehended in these parts; millions and trillions of tiny little deaths. Blood cell after blood cell fell on this imbecilic little task. Legs felt like cream cheese as the blood slowly trickled around, the inside cells conducted energetic bubbling like a soda. Legs felt so melty, distortionate, disproportinate. She felt warmth like lava flowing through them; but it was the most temperate and pleasurable lava ever; her bones felt like they could just melt away. So disturbing, but just as much hypnotic as she submitted that her legs were of the consitency of cream cheese, that she wanted her ankles even less stable. It would be so much better if they could just float around softly in a pile of formless slime. That was her aim: to feel as if her legs would be formless slume and that the marrow and the entirety of the puffing, hurling muscle; flesh and tissue strong and thin; the ones that had ripped apart from this and the ones that kept their form; all to just submit and to borge into mindless, baseless creamy milky matter, melting mindlessly moreover, mushy meticulous and simply like stepping in a puddle. All were aims, not conciously by Heathin, but these were just thoughts that had been agreed on at a subconcious level, like a secret agent emanating from within her; laying the land of her body and occasionally exposing the odd, raw thoughts of her brain in little gestures like this. At almost the center of the leg: vigorous buzzing, jolty jeery excercise pain washing and washing over the tiny area right to the front out of strain and frustration. An after shock to a part further down which was the epicenter of this feeling. Right going first, burning more than left foot where it arose. All anonymous was the pain that was felt; sure, the nerve endings understood the pain. But to save Heathin certain discomfort and maybe even extreme pain: it was just reduced to tiny blip-bloop build ups of meaningless, baseless pain. Getting up in the morning pain. And yet still; they soldiered on; moving forward through the pain, disregarding it; looking forward to the lease. Like Tibetan Monks. Congealing. Melting. Bubbling blood. She couldn't stop the feeling as long as she was mobile at any rate; and she was moving. It was her main aim. But the bones, because of the time of day, because of how she'd inconvenienced herself by getting up so early, by buying barricades of self-discipline for not getting up too late and delaying the gratification of a lie-in: her legs, maybe even her arms a bit, they all felt like they were melting. Her brain maybe wanting to spare her the suffering of watching her limbs droop with anguish as they pushed out onto the soil surface of the Terra hidden beneath the carpet; and got caught in a loop of gravity which would press down upon them with no warning of their own: making the base for coming across the sentiment of sleep even smaller, snarling at how spacious her body was when it was asleep; breaking a few centimetres of ground just so it could cut out that precious and valuable space on her legs that was bringing her taller. Without any intent but one make the vertical space in her preoccupied, tired legs be viciously flattened: the top coming down at the bottom of it and the inertia, oh, the inertia: it lay upon it like an endlessly dense weight on a brittle, frail support which seemed to be condmened to collapse any third second that the heaving weight would shatter the useless exertions and her flesh would split open like a warm, humid egg.
Along the way there, Heathin had failed to notice something; Heathin's legs had arrived at their destination. Feet sailing on the carpet contentedly stopped; and it just averted to mild pleasure. Thankfully; action one, clocking in at about half a minute in what seemed like half a day: had resolved.

"Hu" she started to react and attack her actions. Followed by an incovenient pitch change; from the release, from her muscles cooling down for a while; squidgy and pudgy and most of the consistency just felt like it was gone, because, in actual fact: a lot of Heathin's tissue had gone. The tissue was shredded, needy and dependent again; like a warm length of plasma had cut through Heathin's fabric that made her an adult and condensed it into the primordial stage of a happy child, but now this pink, morphable hot fabric would just float free and tranquil in a pool of its own nutrients; doing an existential glide across a massive body. It played about with Heathin's senses a bit; jeering them and teasing them with strong thoughts of desperate, smouldering passion, and then turning them further than off; subtracting all of her energy. Then on again just as fast: positivity zapping through her. Then off, twice as fast, twice as painfully as much little energy. It threw it on again. It was off. On, off, on. Until Heathin's body cried at her nerves to stop this pointless suffering. But, her nerves were un-sympathetic and fetting excited from her body's unusual reaction: their quest for knowledge and excitement from toying with Heathin's mind was bottomless. They tested out some quick and snappy keywords so they could instanteneously frazzle her nerves with information after information after information. So satisfied, then utter despair, and then just again and again until Heathin got tired; but they wouldn't stop. They wanted to totally blast this to the limit. The juxtapostion so vast that the magnetism would blast Heathin's sense of reality to smithereens. "A" was for positivity, "B" was for utter dissatisfaction. Beginning, and they said they would never stop, but they had so much time to determine this. A, B. The scorching nerves were voluptuous and swollen, they stinged and cried out for help. The last thing they wanted was for it to start again. They couldn't feel, they were numb, all they had time to think about was the feeling of good and bad over and over again: it drove them insane and started to chip at their soul as the sifdeeence just got more and more dramatic; broader and broader. Broken as the tissue underneath the skin. A B. Hissing, howling, hurrying, huffing, hacking, fuming, flaming. ABAB. Crying, cutting, currying, ceeling over, curdling, curling, these thoughts were simply cuisine to the odd sensation: devouring the Surrealism bit by bit as they went; and planting more and more Surrealism flora, nearly into overgrowth. These thoughts didn't live of the fat of the land, though: they ate the person's ability to think rationally, turning them slowly insane; gnawing on their unique character full reaction, chewing the escence of the person. Gobbling, sucking, biting and spitting out a blank human . The A's and B's were emerging at what seemed like the same time now. It was one unexpressable, surreal character. Which meant: what did it mean for the nerves? Permanently dissensitised? The nerves couldn't generate any more signals. They didn't know if it was A or B and were terminated by overwork very, very quickly. Their bodies quickly vanquished and evaporated in the land of the forgotten; all that remained was one, final, horrifying telegram to the brain; studying all of this phenomena they still didn't even know. On arrival: it horrified Heathin's brain. But before Heathin on a concious level could see that horrifying message: it was expunged as a singular, concious syllable: "Ugh". And with that the permanent pain of the thought: brought to the infinite air.

This was followed by a loud and clearly expressed "Ugh!"; her voice a shrill shriek, letting go of the built up pain and silently fading out to contented grunts and reassuring "Hm"s. Now once she was doing this; she was brought to the attention of the aftermath of the pain. The release from it. She tried not too let go of this too soon or it would truely be torture. Allready wobbly. Allready discontented, she didn't want to push herself unwillingly to writhe in bed-desiring mental pain and a burn in her legs. But she had to. She had to cure the burn in her flaccid and wilted stomach that hadn't obtained a munch for over 10 hours. Not adapted to this nor callibrated. For once, but just as if it was the last time: her skin felt numb and stinging against the in-out-in-out textiles which jabbed between the sweat pores in her skin; like resting on a thin wall of bee acid, but it was all around you tickling your every orifice. Noting the wind around her; and her sticky, humid, oil covered skin: melting together the idea of fabric and skin; wrestling it into a temporary connection. This sting hummed at a constant pace in every inch of her thighs that wasn't practical - an itch had developed a whole plot of land and its new story was that it invaded the whole of Heathin's curvature; this kind of made a preassumption that it would stop Heathin from itching herself and let the itch be doused by time; because some of the places Heathin considered an itch were not only external, but internal places. This had to stop. She had powerful thoughts that disciplined her to cover up her pain, not jolt around like a dumb imbecille with the attention span of a gnat while she revised the window.

All this time; her pain, her internal struggle with the morning, was fitted with a background of a sunlit tree, foliage veiled in glorious peachy keen, bleached and dazzling sunlight hiding the colours of some of the dark green leaves. Finally; nice, postive, persuasive weather coming to avert people's attention had arrived. It was glorious to dwell in this view sometimes. The longer you hung out by the window, the more thoughts you gathered, and you got tone and atmosphere's flavours of a true vision of lonely but contented happiness, dusted with a tundraic landscape with suburban trees in a place like this: Heathin laced the metaphysical feelings into her mouth like stringent spaghetti.

If Heathin could express her desire for breakfast right now: it would stretch from the bacteria on her cheek to the currently developing edge of the universe. Long. So large was her capacity of hunger that her next action? It wasn't even considered. Instincts overrid any knowledge of reading, writing or community input to get food. If she didn't get food: her instincts said she would not make it through the day. This green-eyed monster started to push her to the kitchen.

Despite the morning blues, the blurred vision, the dead feeling of Heathin's nerves, the urge to get outside: her instincts, on the brink of snapping her fragile patience in two: forced her to take out her leg and move. Her right leg forced itself to take a step forward. Tearing her wandering eye away from the clean, sleek morning dew; emanating from the view. She felt like she haf to do this every morning. One day she had not; but on that very day, she spent until ten O clock oggling the view from her padded sofa arms, head craning in bed over to the panel and drawing it out for a total of three hours. Nothing but contemplating her navel. At least she knew it was an "outy" by now; a protrusion rubbing against her t-shirt meant she probably should have sensed that ages ago on the other hand. Nonetherless, her priorities straight on food and she didn't reminisce of the old fond memories any longer. Collecting them; and deposting the invasive gaseous thought that covered a huge area using a vaccum fit to organise even Heathin's cluttered mind. From side to side Heathin swung her head lazily. The first step with the right had landed; with the bristles lining the inside of her toe cleaning out and moisturing the savoury slippery surface of her silken sole. But, then it stopped. Gravity bounced back on the right, pounding it down and accusing it of its own weight problems; then it moved to the center, the waist to hip area that Heathin's torso and grumbling upset sack of a stomach layed their weight onto. In which area she could feel her stomach's hollowness from below, thanks to an especially sensitive organ that was located there that had a lot of nerves. These nerves exerted to the point that they could go through the diaphragm and the void of space echoes back to her brain. It felt like she needed to capacitiate that space with a healthy balance of nutrients. Grumbling, deprived, food was probably all it had. The strong stomach acid throttling about in wise, gravitational gestures to blindly pick at stalagmites of food

"Hold on, hold on. I'm going to eat something as soon as I can. Please, oh, please: the silly noises. I; I;... Make them s. Stop. Make them stop. I'm going." Heathin became less and less patient with the state of her corpus. Her mouth had just started salivating random words to satiate for the lack of mental activity she was able to perform. Her brain drooped and mushy; truly not kickstarted. Harsher and harsher as her sentence progressed. Only on her second step: she forbid her useless corpus from giving up this soon. Her expression became sharper, rolling up her fingers so that the base of the back of the finger dug into the palm, excavating discomfort and wrought anger.
"Stop! Please!" She boomed idly; facing a clean-looking varnished piece of wood that made up the wall. Orange in tint and tone varying in little lines; little lines dark and the little pattern around it getting more creamy and light in hue; curving around the only eye she could see. The patrern provided some sort of therapy: a starter for one on light relief. She'd thoughts of a broken, thoughtless mindless body: she conpared it to herself and couldn't draw many parallels. It iust made her feel as dumb in evaluating as any old uneducated person would do.

Her third step: a new attitude of worthlesness had appeared and disappeared and she felt refreshed and arisen anew. Wishing the same coukd be said for her maimed, irrecoverable legs. Hopefully they wouldn't just stay warm and slushy and distortionate like this for too mucb longer. She wished it wasn't any longer: but there was a fat chance such a simple scaffolding would be provided to her this late in life.

A slight pulse in part of the back of her smooth thigh: perhaps a pump of fat or a gathering of proteins jumping about. At this scalding, memetic heat: it wouldnt suprise her if they were doing such a silly and pointless thing.

Fourth step turned into fifth step. Heathin wasn't using her brain to numerate thr ammount of the gestures that she made. However, it was known: communicated, that Heathin was constructing he boundaries once again. Inch by inch, Heathin's body got more controllable again. Slowly, the sun dried legs, mictunating blood and sweat, swollen and recovering from the blistering pain of the morning: was reforming. It became easier to control and there were more succesfully recognised collisions. An oppurtunity such as this would be leapt at with tbe notion of purifying Heathin's body of its illing form. What was breaking apart was at large: binary searches conducted to reunite bits of Heathin with other bits of Heathin. The more the bits: the more the reimbursement of her air resistance. Her future pain was delayed, settled as being a redundant effect that promised it would strike again one day.

As her left leg swept across the floor, turning right then left: her right leg was gagged on energy to go in sordid pursuit of the kitchen. What was even better was that the rest of her body kept some reserve through all of this. It highered itself ever-so slightly from the ground, only quite folding some of the irregularly high wools on the carpet with her toe as it swerved past them in a tackling motion. She allowed her foot, toes first, to become weightful and gradually pass down; as the top of the leg shivered from left to right wih staggering fatigue and confusion. Come to think of it: her walking pattern down this place had been drunk to aay the least. But, Heathin didn't admit to having any addictive, alchoholic beverages coarsing through her blood at any point. It just must have been an odd wavelength that got her to occasionally become absentminded. It flowed to the left to start with, along the path, her leg jittered. Her toes began to fold on the carpet: instanteneously or what seemed like right after the touch or a millisecond delay: it seemed the contact with the carpet compelled Heathin to drag it to the right. It was the end of her fourth footstep.

Her face softened, her eyebrow no longer as stiff as a rock. It raised slightly to the ammount of work that was being looked for by her body now. She oversaw her now exposed in-out, thick tar shorts that were composed of fibrous rope and had two pockets on the front and underside. Parts could have faded due to fractions by the sun; the colour was similarly brown to the one in the sofa whence faded. Her legs curved so massively at the hips that the pocket was simply inaccessible; the fabric wasn't flexible and after a few centimetres of stretching it would sretch out and sandwich any previous three dimensional items placed in the pocket. It didn't care much for paper, which could still be fed in through the slit even though it ran the risk of unbinding the fourdriner layers and ripping out the flex of the paper to tatters.

Dealing out her hand; breaking the air slowly as it went, the seperated air washing onto her face. Face instantly tilted forward ever so slightly in response to the cool adding to her fatigue. It then slowed down, and so did the intricate force swirling through the unreactive gas, the force in the façade of a circular, promising path as it slowly died out. Once her hand felt intimate to her; she checked to see what organ it was hovering with her senses. After this: she gathered the data and knew what it was. Promptly, Heathin clenched her midriff with her index finger and thumb on her right hand, these were the most protrusive fingers to begin with. Weighing her mass; she gently rubbed her stomach, the consistency like hollow clay. Behind the t-shirt that was as if added onto her as an extra, dissentitised layer of skin. Thin, narrow, flat scales made rubbings on her clothing; further stinging like the ammount made earlier. This may be one of the reasons she was compelled to stop. During this; without even thinking or taking the time to examine her surroundings: she was almost centrally placed at the opposite of the left arm of the sofa; where one of the three less-well fitted floorboards was placed, at the end: carrying two nails. Heathin's left toe was pointed at the rim of the nail that waa beneath the floor. But Heathin couldn't concieve of this. Her stomach was stinging at the same rate as the front of her leg for a second; and then the stinging of the leg started on its way faster with the many ailments of this fine ligiment again. If she could; she would have the two pains go down together as her nerves had difficult trouble counting different measurements of pain at the same time. It ate up her energy. Heathin had often felt annoyed over not being able to control herself. Talking in a weird voice to herself when she wasn't concentrating. Maybe Heathin was one of the few people who managed to deliver themselves an earache. Gnawing away at the last delicious morsels of numbness: the story of the sensation was sbout to conclude in about a second or so. They'd eaten so much of Heathin's senstivity, as if they were entitled to steal from Heathin whatever they wanted. Ominous now that the fate of the sensation would take an interesting path of suffering of its own in a while. However: Heathin's legs had been their fine and hospitable lounge. They could barely stop eating away at this satiating experiment. Their toying had brung them great satisfaction, much more than they were familiar with. Aroused and entertained and gay because of Heathin's dizziness. Mocking Heathin and turning sonething with sentience into something that couldn't rationalise, treating it as if it was without a brain was so enjoyable. Also, it was fun to turn a human into a monster who couldn't rationalise: just letting all of her jars of emotions and thoughts and hopes and dreams haphazardly hang at random. Her whole sentience was taken hostage and the feeling was determined to drink it from out of her unprotected sensitivities. Sucking the nerve endings out of Heathin's frame, they'd decided: was the most fun they'd had in ten years. It was like serum being sucked up sleekly and slithering, and full of delicious nutrients. They didn't care if it meant Heathin had to give up her integrity. She'd just have to micturnate the produce for them until they could take no more.

They could take no more. This feeling was shaken: the bases of the sensation being reabsorbed into Heathin's sensitivity.

Utilising this: she shook her leg in the second from final second partaking in her next step. With her foot she traced an arc shape with a high degree of accuracy. She couldn't see it, but she could feel the smooth curves and orientation her movement had to her compared to the minutex precceeding. Her ankle was allowed to release its pent-up disharmony and accept the comfort of congruency with her surroundings. The nib of her toe and the base of her foot conceded to scribbling, roly-polying and darting fast around during this arc in the way a pencil conducted scrumbling. Dizziness was averted; since an earlier resistance from the diacontinuation of the dizzy feeling didn't allow for her to feel disoriented at this apparently tamer circumstance. Cutting the air she was; or rather pounding into the air resistance and being forced to face it: considering the surface of her base alone. The tip of her toe on the underside had a sensation like a pencil on paper when it was flying through the weightless sky. Heathin's ankle was supporting it to go there. Making it learn. It had to be disciplined as the rest did. Gases couldn't be released at the wrong time, she couldn't let herself yawn at the wrong time, she couldn't release fluids at the wrong time; or with some fluids: she was never allowed to release them. To be confined to her posessions: it seemed rhese civil rules were a necessary evil. She started considering other thoughts though; she packaged this decidedly intricate and potential-wringing subject in the folio of one of her random, spastic memories. One hard blink, that bound the watery adhesive of the nib of the top eyelid and bottom eyelid, joining in the center in a series of novelty folds before the muscles didn't allow Heathin to exert any more energy: this blink had Heathin covered for making sure this thought would be revised and used again. It felt extremely jailed but safe; like a maximum security prison where the prisoner wad contented on his own devices, and saw no clear goal worth exerting itsleg to in order to escape. Escape: the word curdled in amidst her other thoughts in her mind. It was eight steps she'd made away from her object of tempting confinement; this unbeatable primordial nexus, where her happiness was never surpassed. Alone to her thoughts: whistling, composing, drawing herself into anothef world under the warmth of the bed covers. That string was broken; though, her memories triangulated towards Heathin like a memetic grapple; however the desire for sleep had been overwritten with a desire to get outside. Reality was painful; she could feel her scolding body being burnt outside in by the harsh air of reality each morning; like leaving a pond your warm blood has just settled into: the air around it refrigerated you and bit you because you were absent. Your interest in the water, the different and pleasurable environment; Heathin thought: inevitably led to future suffering, and Heathin had played the game of dramatic irony with herself this way one too many times since she started to live here; so that half her brain knew that she would play for filling her life with unwarranted pleasure which would cause her mentality to lean towards the sensation of lowness; while the other side battled against these thoughts, because they were not powerful enough to involve themselves in the other battle that condemned them to face reality.

Facing reality; Heathin saw how her feet had newly bunched together; with few forces seperating them. She didn't flinch from here for a while, while she idly pondered this mental war; her head still craned so it aligned with her collar bone from the perspective of the forehead. Her eyes taking frequent bursts of blinks; making a low frequency, pleasantly organic squidge each time they bound together and unbound. Keeping her bodily structure tight and unyielding . Whilst her legs were cohabiting it let the diagonals on the outside of her legs redirect any jets of air that arose there on a roller-coaster path to unbalancedness. While the intimacy made her skin through the fabric grow more and more molten, and her legs started to quiver with tremendous energy. The slight nib at the end of her left shoulder blade kicking three times like she was recieiving a spasm. This frenzy caused her left leg, the thigh ligiment, to lightly dribble over her left with its micturnating and malleble, cleanly even heavy weight. It pressed against it and as it did; a little balance was lost when her left shin lanced out bravely and securely to the head of its run and back. Odours had not been recieved as of yet; nothing Heathin could smell was pungent enough to vibrate her sense of smell at the early hour it had stayed at. The gift of a nose with perfect condition cillia wasn't sensed most of the time by Heathin, believing it was partially broken and blocked half of the time for its inability to work as a sense. Heathin veered her head to the left a bit; and also rose her right leg in order to proceed. Of course the foot went ahead: but she hesitantly dismissed what was about to become a shaking of her head. Once she thought of complacency, denial of warmth, inability to be happy again: her velvet-bound book of life dimmed in the sunlight of the truth ever so slightly more. Along with that: the weight of her eyes storing and saving the weighty, unaviating plane of skin that crashed down into a harsh frown with much less effort than it should have required. Almost in a snap: they were down, and she couldn't think of why she ordered them to do it. It seemed to stem from a need to be thinking.

Sensing her right foot flash longitudally along the fibres in between the sensitive burrows between the compact scales on her sole: her right foot was tickled by the fabric before heading on a joyous and hopeful departure. More and more air covered them, and the exertion of gravity influenced them to momentarily plummet and actively wish to regain the velocity: which she sought after as soon as humanely possible to conclude this step as lightning and instanteneous as she could imagine, putting up with as little of the floating Siberian dust as she could while this step concluded. It made its move in a typical bridge-shape, but like a dancer: it was made out to be that her toes would contact the ground first. It was wishful thinking to plug her head and constantly show no respects to the movement of her foot; so she kept her head on where the center of her eyes were now. Perception allowed her to see that she was balancing between displaying her head high and low: and in the middle. The vidwo camera that was her eyes was spherical, and tilted to align at the center. Then, using the handling tool which was her brain; she allocated it to the point where her neck wouldn't make her blood rush to her head or deprived her head of life juice. It walked the middle road with a sensitive circulation and good allocation. The vocation was to make sure it stayed at this priveleged, spiritual balance and didn't get frustrated.

With a plummet: the next step was achieved. Gummy tendrils of the woollen carpet seemed to consummate with her toe using small lengths of material; underlying specfic and meaningless textures that allowed for passage of fabric underwards. Structures on her sole were usually candidates that looked like curved hook velcro and stored a single, andrgynous strand of the carpet's weird and dry and knitted hair, that was no longer in a position of looking like a sickly swelling noodlw that exposed gaps between the fibres but had seperated into an archetype with the same name; but with close-knitting capabilities. Happily, the foot claimed these; despite knowing that the intention of Heathin was to depart as soon as the step was over with the left foot. Sensing the inertia returning and the reunion with the tendrils that symbolised the footing: the unbound, unfocused left leg began its rushed journey.

This was not the raise that would alleviate anything but the temporary stress of the intake of support of the whole body. The panic from the nerves in the ear accelerated when this foot went higher; soon enough it dropped again. Left foots like Heathin's that had cinesthetic potential had always learnt their transport in a flash, tisdue reforming into a map that was ungodly detailed about moving succesfully and securely in the arch-bridge shape. This was its preferred method; and no alternative truly surpassed the simple and complacent nature of this subtle footstep. Toe pressed in against the carpet like a piece of chocolate cake; and the disparity of semi-permeable liquid fascinated her more than she thought; she didn't think her toe was this ecstatic and malleble. But it pressed on diligently, referring to adequate sources of comfort in order to overcome the slight sting in the nerve. There was no need to blow it out of proportion: the escape from reality won this tiny battle These intrusive ceremonious, citable, civilised steps were drawing the line between the bed place and the cinesthetic workshop known as the table. Ah, good memories lingered here from dreariness last night; picturing her sorrows away in silly little captured fables on light cartridge paper from a local fourdrinier machine. Agriculture, dependency on capital, death: any problem she had, she could remember; it seemed important to her while she could to get them down. In a brief moment of Cynic sometimes: she sought out and terminated some of the older, more infantile stories. And it was likely they'd do it again. The waste paper basket would transfer freshness into the air if it had a power source. Biomass seemed like a good investment for it. She realised she was getting tangential and quickly threaded her conversation with a neat bow by once again passing pulp and trees through the bases of thought making; joining the end of this perpetuation to the start, and then exiting into reality by wrestling on the fabric. It would give way to communicate her eventual release afterwards; in any case.

Playing with these cards: dealing them all so early, moving so timidly like a publicly exposed fish. All she could think of was the exposure of the least camera she'd had in her face after becoming aware of this. It was so long ago. She didn't own one. Remarking it as a pointless invasion of privacy, where the cascade of information would bring her unfortunate vessel and livelihood to an abrupt close. It wouldn't kill her, but it had traces of clinical residue. Endure too many of these, or exert the effort to: and you wouldn't see the point any more. The blue light of devices made her brain squirm.

And it would be too late to take any of this back when she raised her right leg for moving again. This time it sensed slow, narrow bristles. Perhaps an inconsistency of carpet texture? Or maybe a different way in moving? The pattern of impression sure was different, more like a psychadelic knot creeping out her experimenting feet. Flaws washed out of them for a brief heavy immersion in air. As if ordered to: it was flinching and making tiny, forced human accidents. They could barely be considered this, since Heathin could resolve to having some impact on this. It stirred the air like the contents of a risotto; in an octopus' eight shape. Ominpotence over even this small space made her reality feel expansive and vast. It was a large world for a moment. Until the size of the universe was remembered again and concieved into rational perspective. The thought wasn't even too irrational for the wall, so it wasn't an unconcious criticism. Walls of flesh were only utilised to filter thoughts and ideas before transporting them into the real world; not the fake. And so this criteria met with the specific demands of the rellevance of information not to be terminated. But the thought was terminated and made to cease to exist by Heathin. Luckily, if people do actually live in a reality in their heads: they were not able to concieve large enough with their mentality to get an out of their own thoughts in their head: wake up, stop seeing the tints, gamut and tone of this world and experience the true, overwhelming informatiom conveyed by the rules of a second dimension. The whole thought made Heathin's foot shriek without noise. Where the reverberations would have came: trampolined itself to an additional five centimetres berth; that at the end of the path she did try to translate to longitudal. Diagonal was the direction that the foot headed out on come the end of the shopping for air. It was stored aroynd her calf. It tested for up and down variable movements abruptly; just an intricate test to determine whether the foot would benefit from recurring or terminating. Nib of her toe, that was hanging in a curved postion: started tugging and elevating the foot to the leg horizontally for a further portion of time. There were two folds in her foot and it was required that the underside was acquainted with the underside when this happened; which exposed the two font ligiments on her foot to the downwards laying postion haphazardly. The gap had yet to stop frustrating Heathin to withdraw her foot a bit; and her ankle raising the battlement of the jabbed spherical shapes in her soft and mush pile foot. Their method of moving was akin to nodding, and they seemed to rejoice. Held further up in entirely pricate and conserved effort put in; in order to sustain this leightmotif of toing and froing. Checking this box seemed like a last screening of animated anticipation for getting to the kitchen. What a goal that seemed to be.

Briefly she contemplated and described this goal. Yes, it was proving to be a disproportionately solid task. It wasn't fair to compare the joy of the reward to the lone person who worked for this goal on a one routr direction witn instant gratification, and not being allowed to wither, to someone who hadn't a clear way of going about it. Maybe they would have to endure some dissensitising like the organ of the gut heading more floppy and vague as she progressed.

At this point: her stomach felt like a pancake. It was drooping over on her diaphragm like a despicable lazy pancake, the base acting as the consistency of a pancake. Deflated like an unstressed elastic band. Consecutive and consecutive gasps for sustenance breaching from off the substrate. She wasn't feeling well at this point; her whole body had a certain degree of torment from the defeatedness feeling. Sloppy surrogate slipping sloping sly slick slit stomach, sickly surrendering to sly sloping sentiments of sagging limbs. She could feel her gut shutting down. The tissue had been tightened so ridiculously painfully confining by its prying for energy that now all it could do was flop like an unfertile flat floating faint fish. Heathin's back craned forward during this at a relatively small angle as opposed to the last large angle she pulled these muscles to; so the base of her stomach was split by her chest muscles close to the recieving end. This lightly forced her to move forward her pelvis and allow for a minuscule gap between her legs; which was commisioned by her thigh gap. She was cautious not to break her line of sight with the table, just adjusting it to a lower perspective and recording some more of the carpet in her vision. Her chest was slightly deflated when she maintained this pose, less like a bird's avid enthusiastic exposed chest and more like a sly fox's. The weight pressing upon her caused her lower mass to spread its weight; not quite like butter: but as a thin dough spread would allow for shifting out this surface area. It expanded outwards, where it went: squashing the length upwards into width across in an exchange of weight. Thankfully, this did not breach past the space where her pelvid was allocated, and generally she didn't appear stout by doing that yet. Her belly shifted out for a couple of seconds in an unflattering croak. She decided that it was demanding passage to the kitchen. Once again it concealed itself beneath the other tissue.

Elevating her right foot, moving was never its speciality. At a rate that demanded a velocity increase of about three centimetres per second for the upward diagonal. Her left foot folding back, as she was not going to walk in stutters anymore, she'd decided. Getting across as fast as she could to the kitchen to relieve her needs for food still stood high, although it jolted to the right a couple microinstants because it was too hard for it to maintain its leverage and plan its descent at the same time. Getting to the top, the centimetres passing over a veil of centuries, she was going to hover her leg here for a further one second. But then gravity impacted, and muliplied her piously aligned folded left foot which gravity'd nothing against by her right leg's inaliable stature which brought anger to its eyes. Of course: it would drop suddenly and violently as revenge for its tedious laziness. It stooped down likd a crashing water droplet; lined with potential energy. It blazed like a fiery demon and was scowered by redded pigment when its violent descent had concluded. The flesh extending outwards and inwards in time that couldn't be recorded. It had been sheltered by the cover of the table; in an awkard position where exclusively the toes had access to the cool shadow that was casted by the inside of the table. Or it would; had the light striked from a different direction. But it seemed not in this dimension with the third one concieving an annoying visual depth. From this depth: her eyes finally highlighted the back wall. Thank goodness it was still there. Coated dark auburn, acsending upward and the boards slanting outwards almost as much as roof tiles. Heathin could percieve lazy, normal-sized cracks in the wood down the lanes with eyes. For the bottom three planks: darkness from the table bit at the information that was traversing a bit. It required a clever sort of strain to make out what it was. Nonetherless, the exhilarating quiz question made its way on stage again:

'What does the term breakfast; meeeeeean?'

Aptly, Heathin formulated a reply to her own voice in the head. She wasn't required to do anything, but there were specific actions that looked like her first aid kit in this context. These actions were few and far between, but their enthuastic and commited attachment to data; made them actiond with medicinal, productive properties that would locate Heathin's areas with strain; in this case the forehead; and reimburse them with vivacious, sweet healing serum. This feeling described that looking up would help her achieve a deeper connection. 'Break the fast' she spoke, through the genderless, anonymous lips of her head representation. Reminding her of her goal, even though it only took three seconds out of the day to make it this way with this tremendous portion of haste: what she'd just said was half the battle against getting to the uncatalouged kitchen room. Depth perception no longer appealed; casting her eyes off the wooden planks and assigning them the 'L' arch securely, efficiently and painlessly. Performing the first part of the 'Molecule Dance' would hopefuĺly turn her to the right direction. A bee sting went through her eyes when she attempted to look at the upper bar on the 'L' arch that was no longer catalouged by her peripherals. Forced to look at something else; she grasped the carpet with her vision. A usual victim of her uncompromising eyes. It rendered some problems in Heathin's eyes by just that: rendering. Trying to pick up every single follicle in the carpet was a nightmare. She counted atleast, she estimated: eight hundred and fifty seperate conclusions of colour to black, neutral, void and dilligent gothic punctuative tone that seperated the carprt into millions of seperate tiny canyons, bridges and valleys. She felt her whole head jostle as it assumed the new posture, and her legs were rather worn by the sudden exchange. However, one molecule dance per forty fice degree turn seemed like an excellent solution. The base of her left foot was facing less of the direction of her torso than the right; untidily postioning itself and conditioning it at about six degrees from the point of her original torso. The right? Was that any better? The right foot was like a dog when it came to adjusting to turns. Its speciality. It was almost mathematically aligned with the direction she was facing. It may have slanted a microinstant away in either direction; but it was impossible for it to be perfectly straight and to be human. By this time, the burden of progressing forward stood like this: because of how idle she was; she felt like she was reading an essay of information between each step, before she could choose to move forward or to stay. The answer would up to this point, consider moving forward as the best option and then go for the juggular on the base of the idea that built the thought; a rectangular abstraction which had four sides for the purpose of releasing the vertices into the ammount of pure energy these shapes were given in the form of a mass value that would turn to voltage after it was picked, allowing Heathin a portion of energy from the food she'd last consumed, usually for this task consisting mainly of minerals and vitamins from the small ammount of fruit she'd found herself eating and many carbohydrates; a wheataholic that she was; to move. Proteins were the obsolete thinga to have in this bunch of energy on the other hand; but they mainly were allready in the joints before the energy was released like regular joeshmoe workers. Less of a burden: more of a whimsical morning distraction that encouraged a deeper envisualising and asessment of generally useless information. Little bits of uncompromising information with a tactical prowess and useful talent were surrounded by a generic slog of other data that was compiled into knowledge by the addition of relevant variables and calculations. Although there weren't alot of numerical figures in this batch of knowing.

It was suprising how Heathin's hair hadn't distracted her vision yet. Perhaps due to the slow and steady pace; next to no hair was gathered upon her clean face. It was a harrowing thought to think about; how not one dead hair had slipped onto her even after that turn. Maybe it was how much it was cut at the front; that made it feel like Heathin bore a binded helmet or coathood. It was more flexible like a coat's hood, but also stood like a material. Waving left, back then when she made a turn. It also raised when Heathin's foot had fallen. This was considered an unnecessary detail to Heathin; arguing that if it kept out of the way of her goal: her hair was maintaining itself to an unimaginable margin of success: but considering the enemy it only resulted in a neutral victory for its enemy's lack of threats. The pain of the legs was much more than the follicles of hair; only having to endure one light tug per step. At the very most, it was like being prodded with the shape of three ovular ellipses at the end of a dramatic sentence. Gifts of health in the serum hadn't seemed to expire yet; endlessly giving of positive thoughts onto the canvas of Heathin's subjected body. Soft, serene and loose became all of her sharp vertices; which seemed to become pleasantly dulled to allow of for a surface area big enough to fill them with comfort. In one instance; warmth and comfort had romantically brightened her whole set of feelings for personal desires, hopes and dreams; lightly hinting that these ambitiona weren't far fetched in the slightest; that she was right. Positivity overrid all negativity in a glorious moment of non-critical union. Her inner critic left for a moment; and for an instance: the wall of flesh's rational beliefs were averted. Allowing Heathin to express her inner child. Maternal warmth wrung through her like a lukewarm blanket. She felt it in her hands; the desirably high blood flow, appeasing her in a comfortable degree; and a lack of need for her to worry about bodily function. The strife of even her stomach and legs, once gushing out with feelings that manifested random aversions of spikes and jolts of lactic acid:. Making all edges of her being feel like pillows she was able to rest upon. Feeling like she should manipulate her facial expression to reflect her mood.

Her lips grew into a beam; compressing her large and temperate cheeks to the right. Strangely, philia coarsed through her smile. Her lower lips maintaining the dominance over her top lips; and both curving in a colon upwards. Liking the taste of her beautiful, sweet caremelised upper lip when she allowed her incisors to dig into the tundra: mining it for even further affection. It provided sugary, glucose-rich water of her own personality and stylistic flavour. It was pressed on by the lower lip; and she lightly sipped this pleasant flavour. Contracting and bringing out her lower lip in a continuous pattern with every blissful intake. The next step would as easy as breathing, she told herself. Before this she'd compared it to being as easy as going to sleep. It made no noise, the foot gratifying itself on the serum also. If half the battle with being mobile had allready concluded: it made this a peaceful resolution to the war. Muscles throughout her whole body, the stinging was doused by the pouring of the serum of awareness over the serum of morning discomfort. It was a pretty unclimatic and generic end by now to the problem. It was always the serun that defeated the two villains and gave her strength in the morning, but she still appreciated it for the noble and titillating experience of relief. It was the good kind of torture; the one that let you linger in the postitive for a very long time and excluded much of the bad. Her belly could be sensed getting back up on this feeling of hope; ready to allow for passage of food again; avidly waiting.

Now that her body was once again fertile: she aimed to stop procrastinating. It would break the peace if she moved; into two or so disproportionate fractions that wouldn't fit back together by any other method but total reconstruction of the tiny little gap inbetween that made the two shapes not fit together. The process to fix the peace would be finnicky and long. Heathin cultivated a goid response to the turmoil at this point, however. They would just prolong the inevitable, and embrace the peace for a bit longer, letting a phase pass, maybe a few seconds, just to extract the notion of hope from resolve that was in the peace. She let her eyes grow heavy; lightly her lower lid felt her lower cheekbone, vibrating like an ecsatic butterfly.

Letting the feeling be plucked from the tempoarary feeling into a less temporary compartment of her mind. Then, she felt ready.

But she would dwell a little longer in this sea... coming through... leaving anything that was causing her pain at the current moment here. Dramatic irony couldn't punish her here when she dropped her feelings. Quivering; all of her senses dreading what was coming next. She had to make the next step.

Step. She would step. Any minute now. It would be the left foot and it would be simple. It wouldn't be hard. It was amazing at moving. Its soft and flaccid skin as sleek as the laid-back movement itself. It began again, starting for the eighth suspension of her foot on this slowly progresseing journey. Quickly she reminded herself of the concept of time: it had been only thirty seconds. Her life was going to last forever. She knew that. She dismissed the thought that she didn't and claimed any reward for it that presented itself. Once again, her sole having normal distribution of mass when it was in the air. Unless, the person considered that the normal distribution of mass was achieved by not standing. In any case: it attained its natural, unimpressed form to a high degree of finery. The animations in this movie she was playing must have taken eyons to complete. And yet: there they were. Presented to a person as significant as her. This was ironic: half of rhe people in the neighbourhood knew not her name. Nonetherless: she returned to commentate on the progress of her left leg. She looked at how involved it was, and how it adapted its movements within the same instance as the instance it had taken a wrong turn. Heathin asessed this; able to give a visual description as her head was tilted down towards the floor: there was one part where on the arc of the bridge it broke the curve in the movement a bit, but it quickly corrected this by making it out to be that the semi-circle she was going in was just wider; a bit of a sloppy execution, but it fit the job of covering her flaw up. It retaliated against some random pressure that upset the foot by giving a different shape to her foot. This was achieved by levering her toe. Thesr two results were relative, and seemed to lean on being very close to the end of the event. How very jostle and merry this whole scenario turned out to be; perfect dictatorship by the senses beared by her left leg; a pure mathematical genius must have lived inside of her left foot. It was time to descend: no problems to answer to; it just swept aside the air and slowly came incoming to land. When it did land; it was inevitably the sly toes that took footing first. She felt she could support herself on these and the base of her foot alone, and exclude the back. But she wasn't sure whether she could maintain that and her balance if she tried to get the other foot to belong to that school of footing also. She wasn't as elegant as a stag when it came to her steps. Or as quiet as an unseen highschool student who managed to evade all problems the education system cast upon her; she was a person who lived alone. Or atleast: she hoped she did. Not being upstairs in a while made her not quite so sure. But she hadn't any notions of another prescence in quite a while.

She hadn't felt close to anyone in a good number of years. Not that she didn't want to support anyone, help anyone: she merely couldn't find anyone who was under any strife in this part of Arteghia. It was impossible; since she'd evaded Arteghian politics as much as she could.

The thought about markings in the wood; and eyes in the wood; it grew less relevant after this.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Heathin Cassie Emerson Character Portrait: Dacarn Veldrin
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Heathin was hungry, so she got up and walked behind the couch. It was too early and she was tired.

It was at that time that there appeared a shangling, tripping, blunt, dismembering sound of a soft object on wood. The moment all of her had been waiting for: a blunt and stupendously formal knock at the door.

Who could it be but someone with great authority? Countryside scrounger, Heathin, mever to the city she did go: was unable to say whether she could know.

It reminded her of the skin of scallops; that faint texture of knock. She couldn't pick up on the exact pattern on the knock; too flowing and blurry. And, in a huge hurry: she wanted to pounce upon that and open the doorknob. But, no. Her legs would not allow.

She'd to rely on a dialouge that could penetrate the door; giving him the idea that he or she was allowed to come in; without having to notify them.

With an almighty breath in: she gathered every hanging decibels in her voice box and compiled them for massive use; of harrowing, styrup-destroying noise. This shouting would probably form a node in her voice all its own:

"How do you do?" She shouted, trying very hard to mix clarity with the tone of a question.

"Please; come in if you want! I'm finding it ; er; really difficult to move to the door! I'm just having breakfast care to join?...!"

The setting changes from Central Arteghia to Flora

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Tech Con Mercenaries Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Obake Character Portrait: Banadar Maibara Character Portrait: Clockwork Character Portrait: Mr Niac
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Flora; a hellish pit stop on the road to Wing City. The Convoy of fifteen whitewashed Tech Con vehicles found themselves moving along the streets of Flora.

The thundering of the truck engines, the protesting moan of the Tylium-Diesel engines in each of the precision crafted Aschen machines, echoed through the run down buildings of Flora, with the dust cloud hovered above the convoy. Fifteen white trucks, eight of them resembling the Toyota HiLux, with various implements of war mounted upon them, and six large white washed Armored personnel carriers made their way towards Flora. Each of these armed vehicles were guarding a large white Tech Con eighteen-wheeler truck, inside the trailer was a Thunderbolt missile, a long range Interstellar Missile employed by the Aschen Empire, and mounted on the missile was a Tricobalt warhead that amounted to a high-yield upwards of 20,000 teracochranes, which was capable of rending space-time itself, and tearing a short-lived hole directly into subspace.

The narrow dusty streets afforded a poor engagement zone for the mercenaries of Convoy Alpha-fifteen, but the multitude of cover, and the general array of the city afforded it's own advantages; advantages that Security Chief Callandra Henderson, the young Security captain of the entire Tech Con RDA Detatchment had to consider as her eyes glossed over the map of Flora.

"This place is a dump." She commented off hand to her second in command, and her right-hand-man Arren Valaj, the muscular Korkea Kallio tribesman, a native of the planet Langara that was not part of the Colonial Aschen settlers. Arren offered a curt nod, as his eyes wandered outside the window of the Technical.

His calm meditation was interrupted abruptly by the sound of a mercenary's voice, the voice cut through the dull roar of the Technical like a knife through butter.

"I got something on the DRADIS." He commented, and both Arren and Callandra turned to face the man, as he held up a portable tablet.

Bishop merely let out an audible grunt, as he turned to go back to his own datapad.

Callandra turned to the Disruptor rifle housed on a secure rack between the front and rear seats, the truck shifted only slightly as it went over a bump, and she grasped the radio.

"All units cease advance, we've got something on DRADIS." She called out, and the entire convoy of vehicles ground to a halt, engines protested and brakes squealed.

The denizens of Flora gave the Tech Con convoy a wide berth, given the Aschen's reputation here on Terra, it seemed fairly wise to simply avoid them. And so the various miscreants hid within the buildings, as the Tech Con security captain opened the driver door to her truck, and stepped out, flanked by a squad of Tech Con mercs that disembarked from the APC Directly behind them.

Callandra grabbed the Disruptor rifle from within the truck, while the Mercenary on the mounted gun swiveled the rotary plasma cannon to bear forward. Arren was directly behind the Captain, with Bishop stepping out third.

The Alteran mercenary looked up, his mind wandering into the surrounding buildings, his lips pursed from behind his skull mask, and he held out his hand. It was gestured towards a large warehouse before them.

"I sense something, we'll need to clear that warehouse before we proceed." Bishop said calmly, as Callandra nodded. "Tairns, Katrine, you're with me, Valaj, Bishop, take point. Everyone else. Guard that warhead with your lives." Callandra ordered, as she checked her disruptor rifle.

"Bounding overwatch, make use of cover. Let's roll!"

Setting

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Character Portrait: Tech Con Mercenaries Character Portrait: Callandra Henderson Character Portrait: Obake Character Portrait: Sin Asphodel Character Portrait: Banadar Maibara Character Portrait: Clockwork
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#, as written by Obake
Obake accepted the modified data unit from Ascendant, noticing that his assassin droids had turned to leave the warehouse towards their spaceship. As this was happening towards the front door of the abandoned warehouse, a convey of large trucks came to a sudden stop towards the back door of the warehouse. Obake immediately sensed it was bad news, considering he could hear the loud eighteen-wheeler semi-truck coming from half a mile away. There weren't many other intelligent lifeforms on this side of the dusty city, only the occasional vagabonds and lone riders. Obake knew right away by the sound of their engines and the number of their exhausts that something was not right. He placed the data unit into his pocket and grabbed two of the briefcases that the other droid had in its possession, one filled with minted precious metals and one filled with actual money. Instinctively, the White Eagle had to cancel their business deal for another time, so he didn't bother to grab the other briefcases. Those would only weigh him down and stall his precious plans.

"Did you hear that?" The masked joker asked...

Just then, the shield opened up on Obake's hovercraft. He had pushed a little button on his wristband which caused the windshield to slide open into the rearside roof of the vehicle. "I hope you have life insurance," the jester said jokingly with a bit of mild sarcasm as he climbed over the side of the hovercraft and slid into the cockpit. He was speaking to an android, after all, and wondering if Ascendant could even compute laughter or what it meant to be sarcastic. Not that it mattered, since all of Obake's u-flies were soon buzzing around Ascendant in a small swarm with more concentration on the droid's sensory mechanisms. They seemed to attack all at once, as a simultaneous unit. The bugbots approached Ascendant from many different angles and directions, specifically targeting the droid's vision, hearing, vocals, sensors and any mechanical joints that might effect the droid's movement. They were alerted to these areas by one of the bugbots that had previously landed on Ascendant's shoulder and began secretly probing for weaknesses. The hive-mind of the bugbots allowed all of them to act as a single swarm, which sometimes gave Obake the element of surprise. In either case, the bugbots were soon prodding at Ascendant with tiny etherine lasers in an attempt to disable the android just like they had disabled the security cameras.

As if that wasn't enough, Obake suddenly raised a rather large hand cannon and pointed it at the other droid which brought out the briefcases, firing a beam of bright blue etherine which blasted a fist-sized hole into the center of its chest-plate. Watching the droid fall over, now disabled lifelessly, Obake then turned and pointed the hand cannon at Ascendant while his white painted face-mask grinned motionlessly. It was a cheap shot and he knew it. He pulled the trigger, firing a blast of blue energy at Ascendant before activating the force-field on his hovercraft. Obake laughed menacingly as the windshield came sliding down over the dashboard in front of him. Dropping the hand cannon into the seat beside him, he grabbed the joystick and hit the thrusters, ramming his hovercraft straight through the garage door into the front parking lot just as the Tech Con team was approaching the back of the warehouse. Obake wasn't about to stick around. Within seconds, he was back on his way to flying across the landscape at incredible speeds. Looking down at his computer screen, Obake suddenly became curiously interested in Clockwork again. The bugbot he had placed into Clockwork's pocket appeared to show exactly where he was located. Soon, Obake was heading back towards the way he came from, to the vicinity of Clockwork and Mr. Niac.