[Kerrigan hasn't got enough of a cultural grounding to appreciate the farce into which she's fallen, so she instead spent "orientation" memorizing the faces and mental signatures of people she's going to kill later. The list isn't that long, but that perky blond whose smile doesn't make it to her eyes or her mind is going down.
A few hours in the personnel carrier, ignoring the screens and the other riders both, gave Kerrigan more than enough time to get her wind back and recharge the power reserves on her suit, a lightly armored sci-fi-looking affair with a complex visor. Her exhaustion reaches deeper than simply catching her breath and letting the lactic acid drain from protesting muscles, down into what she'd call her soul if she ever bothered to think about things like that. Jim had been entirely right about Mengsk and the futile mission he'd sent her on, and she hopes Jimmy didn't do some hero crap like try to extract her on his own, while at the same time being quite certain he did.
Well, assuming this isn't a strange dream as the zerg exsanguinate her and her oxygen-starved brain starts coming up with bizarre hallucinations, which she thinks is far more likely than it being real, at least she still has the chance of a shot at Mengsk. And to apologize to Jim.
When they get to wherever—she didn't pay attention to the briefing, because who cares—Kerrigan pretends not to hear anything about team assignments and stalks off alone, activating her cloaking and shimmering into invisibility more to hide from her alleged teammates than from whatever enemy they're facing. She can feel the buzz of minds, human and familiar or alien and not, and slips with ease into the silent movements of a ghost as she focuses on the latter.
Scouting. Easy.]
c. Sensitivity Training (CW: Mercy kills)
[The cloak's never been much good against anything that doesn't depend on vision. That's what happens when you design your weapons systems with only your metaphorical relatives in mind. Kerrigan lets it drop after the first few of the scuttling whatevers make a beeline for her. Might as well save the energy.
And the good ammo, come to think of it. She slings her rifle and switches to a pistol. The little zerg-looking things might be fast, but they sure aren't tough, and Kerrigan's aim is superb. The splat and explosion of acidic blood that marks each hit is kinda satisfying, if she's being honest.
What isn't satisfying is the horror movie gallery that greets her when she rounds the corner. The few minds she can still feel within the bodies are consumed by terror and pain, and her eyes narrow. Like hell is she bringing any of these poor bastards back, or turning over any samples to Jorgmund's researchers.
Efficiently, methodically, calmly, Kerrigan starts taking headshots, and doesn't turn when she feels the new mind coming up behind her.]
Help or keep moving.
g. On the Road Again
[Kerrigan regards her own personal mission of leaving nothing for Jorgmund to collect as having been a moderate success, and it's improved her mood somewhat. She leans back in her seat, gulping down half a water bottle at one go and thinking idly about electrolyte balance. With luck, she won't have to kill anything else for at least 24 hours, and she declines to dwell on how unlucky she's been lately.]
Definitely in my top ten worst days ever.
[She's not talking to her fellow passengers, but she's not not talking to them, either.]
Sarah Kerrigan | StarCraft | ignore all the queen of blades icons thx
[Kerrigan hasn't got enough of a cultural grounding to appreciate the farce into which she's fallen, so she instead spent "orientation" memorizing the faces and mental signatures of people she's going to kill later. The list isn't that long, but that perky blond whose smile doesn't make it to her eyes or her mind is going down.
A few hours in the personnel carrier, ignoring the screens and the other riders both, gave Kerrigan more than enough time to get her wind back and recharge the power reserves on her suit, a lightly armored sci-fi-looking affair with a complex visor. Her exhaustion reaches deeper than simply catching her breath and letting the lactic acid drain from protesting muscles, down into what she'd call her soul if she ever bothered to think about things like that. Jim had been entirely right about Mengsk and the futile mission he'd sent her on, and she hopes Jimmy didn't do some hero crap like try to extract her on his own, while at the same time being quite certain he did.
Well, assuming this isn't a strange dream as the zerg exsanguinate her and her oxygen-starved brain starts coming up with bizarre hallucinations, which she thinks is far more likely than it being real, at least she still has the chance of a shot at Mengsk. And to apologize to Jim.
When they get to wherever—she didn't pay attention to the briefing, because who cares—Kerrigan pretends not to hear anything about team assignments and stalks off alone, activating her cloaking and shimmering into invisibility more to hide from her alleged teammates than from whatever enemy they're facing. She can feel the buzz of minds, human and familiar or alien and not, and slips with ease into the silent movements of a ghost as she focuses on the latter.
Scouting. Easy.]
c. Sensitivity Training (CW: Mercy kills)
[The cloak's never been much good against anything that doesn't depend on vision. That's what happens when you design your weapons systems with only your metaphorical relatives in mind. Kerrigan lets it drop after the first few of the scuttling whatevers make a beeline for her. Might as well save the energy.
And the good ammo, come to think of it. She slings her rifle and switches to a pistol. The little zerg-looking things might be fast, but they sure aren't tough, and Kerrigan's aim is superb. The splat and explosion of acidic blood that marks each hit is kinda satisfying, if she's being honest.
What isn't satisfying is the horror movie gallery that greets her when she rounds the corner. The few minds she can still feel within the bodies are consumed by terror and pain, and her eyes narrow. Like hell is she bringing any of these poor bastards back, or turning over any samples to Jorgmund's researchers.
Efficiently, methodically, calmly, Kerrigan starts taking headshots, and doesn't turn when she feels the new mind coming up behind her.]
Help or keep moving.
g. On the Road Again
[Kerrigan regards her own personal mission of leaving nothing for Jorgmund to collect as having been a moderate success, and it's improved her mood somewhat. She leans back in her seat, gulping down half a water bottle at one go and thinking idly about electrolyte balance. With luck, she won't have to kill anything else for at least 24 hours, and she declines to dwell on how unlucky she's been lately.]
Definitely in my top ten worst days ever.
[She's not talking to her fellow passengers, but she's not not talking to them, either.]
?. Wildcard
[Got an idea? Good, 'cause I'm out.]