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One-Way Trip, Chapter Three
Imaginary Six kept making appearances. He hadn't even known her for a full month and yet she was the human presence he associated with this predicament. Maybe it was because she had killed most, if not all, of the hostiles whose smelly bodies now occupied the far wall of the bridge. The Marines Jorge had laid on their backs in a neat row, a token of respect.
You're letting that thing touch sensitive controls? She asked flatly, crossing her imaginary arms as much as her MJOLNIR would allow. She had big eyes, like a doe, but they weren't soft. Though she was from Kat's batch of S-IIIs, Jorge had trouble putting the two women in the same category. Six was just different, maybe because she didn't say as much. Or maybe it was the fact that she didn't have a Carter to depend on.
Jorge kept glancing at the Engineer on and off, his rifle secure in his hands as he stood in front of the massive hologram of Reach that still occupied the center of the bridge. It was almost lik
One-Way Trip, Chapter Two
A demon stalked through the corridors of the Ardent Prayer, and his rage knew no bounds.
According to a few Spartans, including one Emile-A239, Jorge wasn't quite the professional killing machine. Perhaps that was so; he liked to think of himself as a human being despite his role in life, and even though it annoyed some of his superiors, Doctor Halsey included, he tried his best to be more like a man than a living weapon. But there came times when humanity didn't even figure into the equation, and this was one of those times.
He decided to stop shooting when he figured out the persistent little pricks were much easier to just pummel to death. A left hook here, a sharp jab there, and Grunts were sent bawling to the floor, where they quickly expired. He rapidly overtook one that was running away and reached his arm around, caught it by its breathmask, and in one easy twist snapped its neck. It was dead before it hit the floor.
Jorge continued forward, keeping in mind
One-Way Trip, Chapter One
The first thought that entered his head was that he didn't remember going to sleep.
Sensory input increased as he came to, his enhanced senses taking in the different aspects of his surroundings. The air was vaguely cold and the smell resembled an odd combination of soured meat and metal. There were strange noises coming from all around, subtle sounds that only served to amplify his disorientation. When he opened his eyes, they strained to focus on what was directly in front of him, and that was the splay-jawed head of a Covenant Elite.
That snapped him out of it. He jerked into motion, the arm that had been partially under him pushing up and sending him back, the other automatically assuming the best possible position to slug the alien right in the middle of its four mandibles. But then he realized it was dead, laying on the ground as he had been. It had friends, too-- possibly a hundred or so corpses littering the hangar of the Covenant vessel, surrounded by puddle
Dear Someone,I don't know who you are or why I had the sudden urge to write this. You could be anyone in the whole wide world. But for some reason, you were on my heart this morning. I haven't slept all night, and I guess staring at the ceiling makes one think about what really matters.
You're one-of-a-kind, you know that? Not factory-made, not mass-produced, not something but someone. Even if you're a twin or triplet, you're uniquely and wonderfully you. There is something about you that no one else has, and that the world would be woefully without if it were taken away. From the curve of your eyelashes to the barest hint of a smile at one corner of your mouth when you're trying not to laugh, you're a collection of little miracles all wrapped up into one special and wonderfully made package. Each of your cells custom-made, chains of DNA specifically forged and coded just for you. But you're more than science. You're tangible and intangible, physical and ethereal, radiating emotion and life
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More