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Marcus Sheffield

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

Groups

An empire stretching thousands of worlds, the Hegemony exists to further one goal; the complete domination of everything non-Scatterran.
An empire of shapeshifters, the Erutins value their twin above all. Largely peaceful, they remain prepared for war.

Description

Deceased

So begins...

Marcus Sheffield's Story

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#, as written by Ottoman
Marcus' mouse-grey fatigues rustled, the polyester in their weave betraying their nature as he shifted to look at the woman, and it was at about this point that he actually bothered to look her over. He couldn't quite put his finger on the adjective he was mentally searching for, and so after a few minutes he didn't bother trying. It'd come to him soon enough, rather, he began to listen to just what it was she had said. He returned her greeting as best he could, not entirely understanding her first word, nodding his head as he spoke, "To you as well."

He looked back to his menu, idly flicking through the thing with his right index finger, not much caring what it was he drank so long as he imbibed. He did shoot a spare glance in her direction as her drink arrived, just some simple hooch, vodka perhaps. A good choice. But it wasn't a moment thereafter that she spoke, again, proposing a toast, on her, in the name of lost souls. Lost souls.

Over ninety million dead in initial estimates, we still have yet to confirm any of this...


Damn them, each and every one.

He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed, he didn't wish to seem rude to the woman, especially after she'd offered to buy him a drink, and he offered a counter proposal within a moment, "Only if I'm allowed to return the favor."

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#, as written by Ottoman
The glass glided across the counter to his domain, the liquid remaining in the vessel for the most part, and, taking it up, didn't wish to appear rude. He knocked it back as he had planned to do many more this evening, but her invitation rang in his ears. It was a rather tempting offer, to be sure. This secluded grumbling, constant drinking, and isolationist nature... they weren't him, at least not the him that he remembered before the glassing. An evening with someone could be a nice change of pace, especially someone who wasn't in a uniform. "That sounds... capital." He had paused mid-sentence, his mind still lingering on just what it was that'd brought such a fiery memory back to him, but he looked to the woman and smirked, asking, "Where to?"

To be honest, he hadn't bothered much with playing for months, at least not blackjack. He had one or two games of poker with the men, but that went over rather poorly with upper echelons. But, it's not like he set out to win. It's not the prize that drives, it's the journey. "I must warn you, I'm a bit rusty with it."

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#, as written by Ottoman
Marcus' glass took a path not dissimilar to her own, its contents emptied into his gullet with not but a passing moment in between. He didn't bother much with tasting the stuff, that wasn't why he drank. He sat his glass down, however, unlike Ari, right side up still. His mind must've slipped for a moment as there was soon a card at his disposal, one that he had yet to examine-an err he'd have to remedy before too long.

His left hand went to his card, which he had yet to inspect, as the woman, who soon introduced herself as Ari, spoke. Odd, he was about to ask just what her name was. He met her gaze as she finished, looking up from his card with his own azure eyes, pondering just how he'd give her his name. She herself had said that this was casual, no need for titles, even if one was clad in their uniform. "Marcus. I was about to say the same." He leaned back for a moment, looking now to his sticks, which he ran his fingers over, slowly.

"If you don't mind my asking, what is it you're speaking?"

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#, as written by Ottoman
Ri'ehn. Odd name, he didn't recognize it, at least not in anything he'd read recently. One of the few things he ever did much of, outside of drinking, was read. History especially, not like it mattered all that much, since so many of the places were gone, but it was good to know one's heritage. Ri'ehn, his mind raking itself for any other time the word had come up, and he drew a mental blank. Again the thought occurred to him that she was an off-worlder, but she wasn't that bad. She beat the Hell out of the tourists.

He was about to ask something along the lines of just what the name meant, if anything, and where it was from when another entered, a woman, appearing young enough to fool Marcus. He turned to look at her, shifting in his fatigues as he did such, and offered her the same greeting as Ari, "Evening, bayan."

He left the two to their business as he checked his card, and lingered for a moment, not sure just how to take it before he realized what it was worth. Quietly, he hummed to himself as we waited for things to proceed, not wanting to interrupt their business. It was obvious the newcomer was some kind of policewoman, though he wasn't entirely sure just what.

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He was rather keen to stay in his own little world, his dominion of the bar, until the word Aschen came up. With it came a rather tired sigh from Marcus, who narrowed his eyes and glanced to the two, who were speaking with each other. He turned back, instead, to his cards, which he now examined with renewed interest, trying to get the previous topic flushed from his mind as quickly as possible. He didn't like to dwell on it, it wasn't very healthy. A jack of spades. Not the worst thing he could get, by any means, and, taking his tried and overly tested strategy to heart still, he made his move, answering Ari only moments after she inquired. "Stand."

He tapped the card with his right index finger, drawing back in anticipation, though he was distracted, for a moment by the Aschen who had just arrived. He bowed his head in response, "Marcus Sheffield, merhaba. A pleasure."

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In response to Ari, Marcus didn't speak, preferring to slide forth a handful of the matchsticks silently, a small smirk trying to make itself known on his face. Something which he soon drowned out with the menu for the bar, flicking through choices as idly as before, his right index finger lightly tapping each of the holograms before sending them on their way, finding their contents to be, for lack of a better term, undesirable. He paused, for a moment, looking to Marlene, taking a moment or two before he spoke, "Want anything?" The offer was genuine, he had offered a counter-toast to Ari's earlier one, and he still had yet to make good on it.

He was, however, rather excited to see how the game went. Ironic, considering Marcus, he was a rather nonchalant individual most of the time, no matter if he was sober or inebriated. But this... well, this was different. Change did a man good every now and then. Marlene, however, soon asked a question of her own, inquiring as to him. Odd. He wasn't that interesting. Allowing his smirk to show, he answered as concisely as he could, "Me? Just a corporal in the service. Nothing terribly exciting."

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#, as written by Ottoman
It had been a handful of days since he'd last been here, and something of a shame that. It was a rather refreshing experience playing cards with that woman. Ari. That's the name. A nice change from simply drinking one's self under the table, especially after a few days worth of keeping some of the most surprising idiots he'd ever have the displeasure of overseeing... if only they were what drove him to drink. He'd meant to come back before this, but the thought had just slipped his mind in recent days, having, oddly enough, been out and about the town rather than spending the evening crawling into a bottle.

But, what else was he going to do with his pay? Shrugging to the mental question as the door to the place slid open, revealing the rather familiar interior that he'd grown accustomed to during his deployment. Taking his usual seat at the bar, conveniently not occupied by someone else this time, he soon brought up the holographic menu, his fatigues rustling as he leaned forward. His gloved hand flicking through the categories with disinterest as the other tossed his field cap onto the bar, rather pleased to simply be back in a more familiar place. Terra wasn't the same since the glassing, and if anyone knew that, it was Marcus.

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#, as written by Ottoman
To be honest, Marcus really wasn't paying attention to his six when he moved to sit, and remained rather blissfully ignorant as the woman narrowly avoided something of a collision with him, as he was likely better off without it. The noise of her heels, however, drew a curious glance from him, away from his holo menu. Might as well, right? It would've been all he shot in her direction if it wasn't for her rather violent treatment of the bar itself, his gaze lingering a bit longer as his eyes darted from her to the surrounding area.

Probably another Aschen.

Her inspection of her seating was something that really made him ponder this, as he really hadn't ever noticed anyone do such a thing in the establishment prior to this encounter. Whatever the case though, she sure held herself like one of the haughty bastards, and he remarked, under his breath, "Something's up her ass." He sighed afterwards though, staring at the menu for a few seconds before deciding to take the initiative, he might as well, anyway... "Something the matter?" He asked, really not knowing what kind of floodgate he'd unleash.

Given, it wasn't long after this that a burst of flame erupted nearby which he looked to with rather puzzled eyes, but seeing how there really didn't seem to be much immediate threat thereafter, his eyelids returned to their traditional slouch and his eyes to the woman.

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#, as written by Ottoman
He hadn't been waiting for but a moment when another patron collided with him, almost upsetting his balance as they did so. With a cold glance, he looked to just who it was, and that frosty glare began to warm itself in his breast. An Aschen, as usual. No regard for anyone but themselves. He looked back to the digital menu, ordering a shot of vodka, the cheap, hard shit, and he tried to calm himself as best he could. Tanrım, he thought to himself, ... elimi muaftır. He didn't hold strong in his belief, but in times of trial, one couldn't help but revert to their base instincts.

With that out of the way, the woman began to speak, almost on cue, and, to be honest, she sounded rather enticing. Sheffield shot her another glance, this time with his right eyebrow cocked at a rakish angle, and watched as she looked to him. It didn't take but a moment, however, for her to ruin it for him, asking just where he was from. Wrong question.

"Nowhere important." He answered coldly after a few moments of deliberation, having removed his gaze from her.

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Marcus drew his lips apart at this, his mouth not quite sure whether it wanted to form itself into a smirk or a frown. Were he either inebriated or not in the presence of the Aschen, he might've found the suggestion somewhat humorous, but instead he remained rather still. Save for his right hand, which arched over his shoulder as he flipped him the bird. Taking the shot glass, which soon found itself in a rather convenient locale near him, in his left hand, he sent it back, welcoming the rotgut with open arms, so to speak. "I'd be more worried about that if I were you." He left the insinuation dangling in the air, not bothering to look at him as he readied another drink on the holo-menu.

The woman, however, couldn't take a hint. It wasn't that she was unattractive physically, such a statement was rather unfitting, but she seemed to be something of a manipulator. Slinking closer to him, in a way that he was almost ready to describe as serpentine, she spoke words that, were he not already on a mental tangent, probably would've had him wrapped around her finger. But she'd already pulled the wrong piece out of the fucking Jenga tower.

"I actually had a rather nice day, today." He said, glancing over her, "At least before I came here, and..." He paused as she placed a hand on his arm, ushering a glance, "... I'm sorry to hear about your misfortune. I'm corporal Sheffield, and..." He placed his hand on hers, a smile that seemed to draw a line between pained and sarcastic made a home on his face, "... I'm not interested." He tossed the hand away, returning again to the new shot that'd made itself home in front of him.

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His ploy worked, Insha'Allah, and he quickly returned to his drink. His mind got to wandering, mainly as to just what God thought of his drinking here... Well, I know guys who eat pork. Why the fuck not? He mentally shrugged as he shot back another glass, happy to be rid of that snake of a woman. God forbid she return.

In her wake, he found himself rather keen to brood on the Aschen present, some mopey dolt with some brass on his collar was over in the corner whining about how his mother had capped herself or something. Good riddance. Maybe you're finally catching on. He smacked his lips, offering a glance around the bar, even looking to the snake before finally resting on what appeared to be a group of rather slavic stock. They may have been traditional enemies, but their sense of camaraderie was admirable, and he couldn't help but hold a begrudging respect for them. Nothing truly changed however, as he continued with his original plan of just getting hammered.

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Marcus, on his usual run for when he had time not dealing with most of the little bastards who managed to sneak a whore in or get drunk off-base, approached the bar with his usual step, not knowing just what it was that was going on inside, and stepping inside the door for only but a moment, his eyes soon rested on the scene before it concluded. Blinking as he watched, he mentally debated whether he wanted to deal with this today, and for a moment considered if it was the Aschen who were behind it. Probably not. This was too random and there weren't enough projectiles flying about. With a sigh he muttered to himself, "Fuck this." and made straight for the bar, immediately taking to one of the automated ordering menus.

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"Shitty. Thanks for asking." He muttered under his breath, knowing the feeling for something which spoke not aloud. God, he thought, looking about the place and over to the disturbing little doll that had made itself present beside him, more of these psychic bastards. He returned to the small shot of vodka which he had ordered, looking forward, again, to trying to forget the misery that his life had become. "And how," He bothered to ask, an angered whisper building in his heart, hoping that he'd have the chance to strangle whatever ass was trying this, "are you today?"

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The longer this went on the angrier he became. They knew, they fucking knew. Why else would they choose the voice of a little girl, of a girl who, by this time, would've been the same age of Farah. No, these bastards wouldn't be pleased with just destroying his life... they had to torment him with his futility, with his inability to change his fate. He would be a reservist for the rest of his life, and the longer he had to deal with things like this, it wouldn't be that much longer. Central Intelligence was shitting itself with the appearance of some new alien threat, Belkans or whatever the Coalition ships had called them. Hopefully they'd perform a more thorough job than the Aschen. "I'm very sorry to hear."

Fuck this. He didn't come in here to be reminded of them. He came in here to kill as many braincells as he could.

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No. Things like this were the reasons why he abandoned his faith, the reasons why he considered desertion and leaving for some other miserable little world. He didn't have anything here: no country, no home, no family. Feed her? He couldn't feed any of them! Not his parents, not his wife, not his son, and how could he dare to even speak to the daughter taken from him before he even met her?

And every day he lived here, with the Aschen. Perhaps this would do him some good. There were some out there who would, quite literally, kill, for some of the secrets inside of the Terran military, and to them he might be worth something. Mayhap this would be what would drive him to do something with his life, to be all he could be. "I'm afraid I can't, seeing as you're dead."

He'd have to talk to someone. One quick run through the system and a ship. That'd be enough.

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Dead? Bullshit. Turkey was nothing but glass now. Ankara was nothing more than a smoulder in some burnt valley. He would play this game only a few moments longer before leaving, though he did hear something from behind him which did ignite a spark of interest -- a pilot. Perhaps he'd speak with this woman, this 'Capsuleer' before he left. She might be of use, if he could pay her for transit somewhere. But then, that was considering that she already had a ship. "Last I checked, Farah, you were with your mother in Ankara. But you wouldn't know about that, would you," He whispered now, "Aschen bitch? Not satisfied with just killing everything, are you?"

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"Then," He said, standing from his seat, with a tone of finality to his voice that few in his unit dared speak against without the threat of his fist following it, "we have nothing more to speak about. Good day." He spat the final words as he turned his back, the gray fatigues whisperings as their polyester fibers collided with each other, following the wearer to a new seat, namely one beside the one who called herself Grove, and he, for a moment, didn't say anything, stewing mentally on the audacity of the Aschen.

How this paranoia would serve Deep well, that mortal creatures are so eager to flit their loyalties about. At least he wasn't one of those Scatterrans, how unruly they proved.

Sheffield offered Grove a nod in greeting and waited until she had finished her conversation with the bartender before he made his proposition.

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He ignored the words, being as such wasn't even his charge. He had no reason to pay it, whatever it was, any mind, just like most of the rest of this planet. He didn't serve in the military because he wanted to protect Terra. He served because that was the only thing he knew. He had no purpose left in his life.

However, there were powers present now in Home that would be eager to remedy such an issue.

He offered his gaze to the Capsuleer, but he didn't have much of a chance to speak with her. Perhaps he would have to speak with someone else concerning transport. Or perhaps he just needed to die. If the news broadcasts were to be trusted, the outlying regions of the Coalition would prove quite opportune for such a thing -- the Razorbacks were a warzone after all.

The challenge would be finding transit.

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Marcus, sensing his chance now, glanced again to Grove, seeing that she was free for the moment, he bothered to open his mouth, asking in a rather nonchalant voice, still unsure whether she would be willing to take the 'job', "I heard you mention that you were a pilot, yes?" An odd question, and one that would reveal that he was eavesdropping, but he didn't have anywhere better to go for the moment. He still rested on his elbows, leaning against the bar as he awaited her response.

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Marcus turned, his stool spinning about as he rose, in a sense, to help her, offering an arm for her to take up. He winced slightly at the sight, recalling how he'd hit his head the last time without his helmet on. Was a rather bloody affair on the inside of an APC. "Terribly sorry about that, Corporal Sheffield." He paused at that, thinking that soon he might not bear the title, "Feel free to call me Marcus."