for damon. It wasn't impossible to miss the waking of the new hosts. True, it was hard to ignore--or it seemed hard, to Shepard. The sensation was like movement out of the corner of her eye, something new entering a battlefield, some new variable. It would be easy to miss in the chaos if you hadn't been so attuned to focusing on exactly that. To her, it sang.
Which meant that when the oppressive, hateful darkness that lay over Damon's connection to their brood lifted, She didn't know what to think. You didn't lose that kind of grief over nothing-- not unless you'd made a decision, of some kind. So she leaned toward him, a mental question-mark, and went to find the surly bastard in person.
What the hell, Damon?
day iii, open. [Say what you want about the Rabadoceans, they know how to use light for good effect. And that's fortunate, because Shepard is the kind of person who could not possibly be more bored by the display if she tried to be. And, it should be noted, she's trying not to be. She's trying desperately to find something to enjoy in the weird emotional contortions of the mechanical masks. She's trying to be fascinated by how the orbs glow, or how the darkness is made so absolute. She's just...
...it's just...
God, it's just so fucking boring.
Even watching the room is dull, every face rapt in attention, or in pretend attention. It's dark and she doesn't like being unable to see, and the melodrama is artsy and minimalistic and boring. Shepard hates this stupid mission. In the dark, the red light of her cybernetic fissures is barely, barely visible through the veil covering her face.]
(I don't really get this modern art crap.) [That's a joke-- this is only modern art in that it is sylized. Just because Shepard is as common as mud and twice as coarse, it doesn't mean she's stupid. But she is bored.] (What's your story? Tell me something good.)
Shepard's Pie | one open/one closed
It wasn't impossible to miss the waking of the new hosts. True, it was hard to ignore--or it seemed hard, to Shepard. The sensation was like movement out of the corner of her eye, something new entering a battlefield, some new variable. It would be easy to miss in the chaos if you hadn't been so attuned to focusing on exactly that. To her, it sang.
Which meant that when the oppressive, hateful darkness that lay over Damon's connection to their brood lifted, She didn't know what to think. You didn't lose that kind of grief over nothing-- not unless you'd made a decision, of some kind. So she leaned toward him, a mental question-mark, and went to find the surly bastard in person.
What the hell, Damon?
day iii, open.
[Say what you want about the Rabadoceans, they know how to use light for good effect. And that's fortunate, because Shepard is the kind of person who could not possibly be more bored by the display if she tried to be. And, it should be noted, she's trying not to be. She's trying desperately to find something to enjoy in the weird emotional contortions of the mechanical masks. She's trying to be fascinated by how the orbs glow, or how the darkness is made so absolute. She's just...
...it's just...
God, it's just so fucking boring.
Even watching the room is dull, every face rapt in attention, or in pretend attention. It's dark and she doesn't like being unable to see, and the melodrama is artsy and minimalistic and boring. Shepard hates this stupid mission. In the dark, the red light of her cybernetic fissures is barely, barely visible through the veil covering her face.]
( I don't really get this modern art crap. ) [That's a joke-- this is only modern art in that it is sylized. Just because Shepard is as common as mud and twice as coarse, it doesn't mean she's stupid. But she is bored.] ( What's your story? Tell me something good. )