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Blinding Agreement ~//~ A Blood's Dream
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Praezius Vheruk
Gozantii Industries
#1 - 2015-09-02 06:17:56 UTC
"So if you love me let me go
And run away before I know
My heart is just to dark to care
I can't destroy what isn't there"


The bridge is quiet, with only the sounds of the strips automatically switching from dying asteroids to fresh rocks. Its back-lighting is dim, since arriving in the Heimatar region, once again; the natural light inherent to the region lets most ships conserve energy better spent on ventures other than seeing where one is going--many ports, many windows allow for that from the soft, natural auburn light sifting in with gentle caress across metal halls.

Letty's gaze watches the rocks in the field they've claimed, though from sights of the system, they would be looked-down upon for claiming the whole of the system. It's just as quiet, now, as it had been when they had left for darker skies, seven years ago. This time, it's not them being led by Outlaw--and hating it. It's them being brought full circle by.... It's Praezius, now, isn't it. Praezius Vheruk--it's a good name, she thinks. He made good choices; if it were to come down to using the prototype cross-jump, it was going to be a permanent thing. It's a good body, too. Just... too bad it isn't a human body. Unlike hers, Praezius's body will never age, now. The nanites involving the immortality process keep them too... alive.

Shifting movement catches her ears, and Letty turns around softly. Praezius sits in his chair, legs stretched out, bare arm crossed over his chest, its cybernetic counterpart dangling softly, fingertips inches from the ground. In a deep sleep, even, Praezius looks... haunted. Troubled. Still human, even.

"Mer human than human," Letty whispers, moving softly through the room, to a cabinet at the back of the bridge. When she returns, she's unfolding a blanket, which she tucks around the sleeping Praezius, sauntering off to continue through the rest of the quiet ship. It's his turn to sleep; the day has been a busy one, especially for the man directing those that gathered more than a hundred blueprints, half a hundred modules, two hundred skillbooks and flew five ships more than twenty systems away from another sanctuary.

~//~


Though in a world all his own, Praezius's drifting relaxation is anything... but... relaxing. Behind his eyelids events have played, and replayed themselves, with startling clarity; lucid is not the term for it. In part inductive, conclusive, and in part deadening; in places invigorating and arousing. More human than human? Where the beliefs of the human mind's natural deterioration lie, perhaps he is just that. More human than human, indeed.

But... where the human mind ends, in embrace of pathos and eros and logos, are the immortalized capsuleers indeed any different from the men and women they lead, and serve, as loyally as they break them down, grind them into the dust from which they, themselves, once were derived? More human than human, indeed.

"This time, I wonder what it feels like..."


"You're an ugly one," the voice from behind him spoke, as scarred knuckles closed the last buttons on his Caldari Navy Uniform. He straightened his back, raising the extra four inches out of his slouch, and turned to face the speaker. Much shorter than his own 6'7", the man stepped back at the sight of his face--ink-etched with tribal tones that depicted his origins. The man's rank, higher than his own, kept him from retaliating against the man; honour is everything, here. Like it is in other places, although they don't see it, that way.

"Former pirate, eh? You've got a lot to prove those marks, here; not just drinking and ganging up on some poor miner in space." The man's words would usually set him off; here is not the place for that. Instead, his voice returns, quieter, though not backing down from the shorter man's tones.

"I know. I will do what I can," he says, turning back to the mirror to check that his uniform is proper and straight. He'll be happy when this part is over; once he's finished with the basics of this nightmare, he'll be free to return to his home system; get back into something softer. Something of a darker colour. Something... not starched. These clothes itch in all the wrong places.

To discern faith from falsehood, first one must secure themselves to a lover. Raise the stakes from nightly, to permanent, and faith shall be found at the threshold of one's soul. ( Cup Size < Compassion's Depth, Love = Faith )
Praezius Vheruk
Gozantii Industries
#2 - 2015-09-02 06:52:32 UTC
Reaching from his buttoned collar to the holoscreen playing Caldari Navy scripts at a consistent, constant rate, his fingers pause at the side of the screen. God, she's the reason he's taken the time to learn the stereotypical Caldari boat--its frigates are by rote the most-boring boats in the heavens. Get to watching her climbing into a Caracal--that'll cause any man to shift. Those legs are by far the most exquisite of any legs he's ever seen. He wonders if they are just as appealing in a dress as they are in this confounded wool-and-denim combination.

The man behind him watches his interest in the woman on-screen, her pride for the Caldari Navy forcing his own chest to swell, "She's better than you'll ever be, whelp. You'll never have a chance, you know... and she's not even in the same caste as you and me." As though that is enough deterrent for him, he finishes his reach, switching off the holoscreen, turning to follow the higher rank deeper into the station. It has been mentioned that Caldari stations aren't built for anyone not strictly Caldari, but he never paid attention to that until he wore the same uniform as the rest of the cadets. Here, now, he knows that it's the truth; if he could ever pinpoint just what kind of brute it was that puckered his mama, he'd probably be in a good way--as far as he knows, he's mostly Caldari. Except for his height. That pushes him a little farther than most Caldari ever get. Most.

The two of them, in turning a corner and stepping through a hatch into a hangar, arrive opposite an entourage that causes him to stop for longer than a few long moments. You can't miss those legs, ending in hips perfect for a pair of hands to wrap, to pull her back up, against a hot chest. Waist of a goddess, shoulders hugged by this damnable fabric--he stands there, watching her for so long that he feels like his boots are made of lead. Ice blue eyes study every detail that he can, from as far away as he stands; a shiver races down his spine when it becomes apparent that she's facing him--whether or not their eyes have met, entirely, will elude him when he turns to follow the higher rank towards the frigates for more formations training.....

~//~
"To find the one in this life..."
~//~


"Here. Hope it's worth as much as you think it is," tossing a data chip into the grimy hands of a man whose eyes light up, he turns to walk away from the man he's just given the shock of a lifetime. Shirtless to the waist, his tanned skin is bound tightly in ink etchings depicting dragons in flight; from his shoulders to his wrists the whispered doctrines of the Red Thorn bloodline of the Guristas stares starkly at any man willing to make a fight of the matter. The man gives a call back at him, asking if the data chip is what he thinks it is, and he turns, briefly, removing from a pocket an insignia patch. He wasn't a high ranking official, but he'd acquired the status to be given one of those damned fool Navy chips for the Raven. "Make certain Outlaw gets that, too." He tosses the insignia patch to the ground, leaving behind that part of his world, if he can help it.

Traipsing down the hall from the industrial department of the station, he's crossing past a doorway, when a voice rings out, "Hey, Trip!" You're never gonna guess who just blew the bejeezus outta yer brother's latest Drake!" He pauses, naturally, always happy to hear that his careless-as-hell brother has gotten a part of what he deserves simply in being himself. "Oh? Who's that?" A smile growing on his face, he's happy to be ribbing the hell out of his brother when he gets back into station.

"Erica Dusette; the b**** on the navy news! Outlaw's gotta be f***ing pissed!" Anything else would've been a sheer delight. And it's still delightful to hear--inwardly. But he can't say it to Outlaw, now; not that the same woman who just kicked him out of his ship is the very same one he wants most to plow like a farmer on a Jita farm field. His grin's frozen, and then it fades. Rather than show that he's blanching, he makes an excuse to leave the room, opting instead for finding a Retriever to climb into, and get out of station for a while.

To discern faith from falsehood, first one must secure themselves to a lover. Raise the stakes from nightly, to permanent, and faith shall be found at the threshold of one's soul. ( Cup Size < Compassion's Depth, Love = Faith )
Praezius Vheruk
Gozantii Industries
#3 - 2015-09-02 07:13:13 UTC
~//~
"The one we all dream of..."
~//~


"Atmospheric adjustment online. Life support online. Nanite repair systems online. Strip mining lasers online. Targeting Systems online. Destination programming online. Electronic displays online. Electronic readouts online...." Voices trailing into a blurring buzz, his gaze is on everything, and nothing. Nestled in his captain's chair, the ship has begun to vibrate, albeit softly. The arrival into an atmospheric planet was far more troubling than this, back when it happened, but this is still a disturbing feeling. He has to remember that just about every human has done this, once upon a time.

Doesn't mean he has to like it, himself.
At least, not until the Dragon has taken to the heavens, and gotten him off this godforsaken planet. He needs to be where the rocks twist lazily, where ship parts are a dime a dozen if you pass through the right station--where there's not some damned quarter-bred critter coming up to ask if you'll take them for a spin if you ever get your building to fly, again.

He's barely registered it, but when the Dragon lifts higher, and higher, in its climb for the heavens, he begins to breathe out a slow breath. After landing a ship that's dropping parts the size of some of the authorities' land speeders, it's a inner joy when the same ship, repaired, is making a hearty attempt to return to the dark recesses from which it had first arrived. His only real joy is that he managed to break the Dragon's gliding slide across the streets of Nova Messina with the battleship that rammed them off course. The damage to the underbelly of the Dragon had been a nightmare to repair, but it was worth knowing the bastards that started this mess weren't even recognizable as jelly when they were through sliding down the street.

As azure skies begin to fade, his body is beginning to relax. First his spine recurls into the captain's chair, and then his fingers release their death grip across the arms of that same chair. His legs begin to relax, and he takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly when internal ship systems begin taking over in earnest.

"There... that's a pleasure, indee--" He's speaking to the group of people on the bridge of the Dragon, when the holoscreen flickers. Satellites have caught a faint signal from deep in the reaches of the space lanes, and projecting the imagery on-screen, he and everyone else watches as the familiar sight of a Caldari Navy advert stretches across the screen.

The bridge erupts in cheers as the ship leaves the gravitational pull of the planet, and the faint station slowly becomes clearer; they fall into shocked, stunned silence when the priest's worst nightmare of a mascot appears on-screen, blast helmet under an arm; her voice is starting to arrive through speakers when, in a bright array of sparks and deafening canon-loud blasts, Trip plants three mini rail rounds from his rail pistol into the console and holoscreen with a snarl.

"Correction," the shocked man at the console says, "Holoscreen defective."

To discern faith from falsehood, first one must secure themselves to a lover. Raise the stakes from nightly, to permanent, and faith shall be found at the threshold of one's soul. ( Cup Size < Compassion's Depth, Love = Faith )
Praezius Vheruk
Gozantii Industries
#4 - 2015-09-02 07:53:20 UTC
~//~
"But dreams just aren't enough...."
~//~


"All right, Praezius, let's go over this, again. You were in cryo-stasis for how long?" The man standing to the side of the gurney has his datapad in hand, and is reading off his notes, checking his story for the umpteenth time, now. His face no longer so incredulous, as from the state of the pod's crystalline formations, the dark-skinned man before him has been floating for a long, long time. Praezius raises his hands to rub at his face for a few minutes, as though he is just feeling skin for the first time. But, that's just crazy.

"I daen' knae; lissen, mate; we's gaen o'er 'dis a num'r o'times, nao. 'T ain' gaen' tae change. I daen' knae haow long I's bee' aou'dere, 's bee' sinc't 'de Tengu's bee' a part'o'de 'eavens. Ye've giv't me a name, a age, an' ye're chokin' o'de same words I's gae in me aewn'ead, sae iffin ye'll pleas'n, jes' stop wit'dis. 'T ain't comin' ta-day, sae stuff't, brudda mon." Irked, perturbed and losing his cool, Praezius glares at the man with ice blue eyes, waving away the interns that move in to settle him down. Since his...rescue... that's all these people have done. Question him, over and over and over again.

When the man finishes making notes, he leaves the gurney, the infirmary behind. Praezius looks at an intern as he's laying back against the pillow, "Ye've sai't 's wot year, 'gin? 'Da means shite's changed, an't I's gae tae 'de classes, 'gin. Shite...."

His head rolls back, facing the ceiling. Watching the unmoving lights for a while, his consciousness begins to fade, but his ears take with him a voice too familiar to place, speaking of the joy and pride of the Caldari Navy. God, he could fall in love with that voice. Wrap it around his shoulders, and let it soak into his skin, even.

~//~
"So I'll be wating for the real thing."
~//~


Ice blue eyes meeting and matching ice blue eyes, confident and solid in their setting--if he reaches out, he's going to touch... holoscreen. That's what he'll touch. It doesn't stop him, sooner or later, from stroking the edges of the screen. To the side of that face, watching his own. His mobile quarters deep within Lustrevik's darkest stretches still have the eyes of that damned fool higher ranked bastard in a formaldehyde-filled jar--the trophy he took when he finished choking the life out of the dirty bastard that treated him so poorly in that navy academy--they may, or they may not have worked together. He doesn't know, but here she is! Staring him in the face.

Here. Now. His men making whispered passes that are getting on his nerves, and likely her own, as well.
This close to her, now--be it only a holoscreen away, it's well-nighe impossible to keep his heart rate down, to keep his thoughts on business. That body, dark-clad, is more beautiful than he remembers from years ago. But it's not the blueprints that he's pulling off screen to flip around on his datapad to show her that he wants to be doing, right now. Have to stay on the original plan of attack--sell a product. Just sell the product. Gozantii Industries. What it's going to be, where he wants it to go. Crap, the tongue is tying itself into knots.

Yeah, no shite. There's definitely one thing she can do for him. Just one. Just one tiny, little thing. But there's no way he's going to be able to cover that kind of thing, without.... that's what he'll do, then. He'll become a necessity, if he can. That's how he's going to build that credit. No amount of isk is going to get him there.

Yeah, he'll learn the skills, take the time to manufacture the product; figure out where he can be of most use, in any given situation. And when she asks, at long last, if he's ready to ask his favor, he hopes he will, indeed, be ready.

The chance to kiss Erica Dusette is an overpowering emotion.
If he just leans forward, as the screen is going dark; if he presses his lips to the holoscreen; his body won't move in front of his boys, though. He can't bring himself to do that.

~//~


Jerking half upright, Praezius barely realizes there's no chair where his body shifts to, and he comes crashing down to the floor with a heavy thud. Cheek mashed against the metal, an eye slowly opens, and he lays there, blinking stupidly. Slowly, it registers to him where he is, and he rolls onto a side, looking across the floor of the Hamazte. It's still quiet, in here.

So quiet.

Perhaps after tonight, his boys will be ready for a long day of harvesting. They have a lot of work ahead of them, if they are to manufacture two and a half million rounds of antimatter, between now and when he's ready to start producing the Void rounds.

His eyelids close, seeing a familiar face. They pop back open after a moment, and he forces himself back upright. It looks as though he's not getting much sleep, tonight.

"Damn."

To discern faith from falsehood, first one must secure themselves to a lover. Raise the stakes from nightly, to permanent, and faith shall be found at the threshold of one's soul. ( Cup Size < Compassion's Depth, Love = Faith )
Praezius Vheruk
Gozantii Industries
#5 - 2015-09-02 07:54:55 UTC
Songs used in relation to Blinding Agreement - A Blood's Dream

"Snuff" by Slipknot
and\
"Gotta Be Somebody" by Nickelback

To discern faith from falsehood, first one must secure themselves to a lover. Raise the stakes from nightly, to permanent, and faith shall be found at the threshold of one's soul. ( Cup Size < Compassion's Depth, Love = Faith )