Futuristic ＨＡＭＡＲＴＩＡ — a bad ending x demonology tragedy

[demonology]

​

 

[demonology]

coded by bad ending

chapter i:

.THE.BOUNTY.

the beginning

of the end.

//LOADING . . .
> aphr0dite IS REQUESTING CONNECTION.
> PRESS entr TO ACCEPT

> PROCESSING REQUEST . . .
> readme.txt RECEIVED.
> PRESS entr to OPEN

> PROCESSING REQUEST . . .
To all hunting parties concerned,

The prize money for catching the biggest CROW in the forest has been increased from $10 million TOR to $15 million TOR. Wanted dead or alive. Respond with coordinates upon acquistion of the Apuleius.
xoxo,
APHRODITE.

> END MESSAGE.

 

[miyabi]

My exhausted footsteps remain alone. Lost with nowhere to go. Like the sunset in the sky. Call me. Awaken me. Yeah, you make me back

reggie aoki

Ragged and shallow breaths puff from parted lips, a steady rise and fall of his chest ease to a lessened pace; some sort of peace pulled from the toilet seat. Grimy, dingy, just about any word that could describe the room — that’s where he’d resided for the past 2 hours, not from anxiety or pain, but from a night of drinking that he couldn’t handle. The air around him is frigid, an apparent apparition of his breath placed in front of him. There is a scent, definitely not pleasant; it makes him gag again before he pushes himself away, placing his back against cold tiles. A rotten ecosystem, if one could call it that — it might as well be; music lingers, so does the chatter of partygoers.

He was never one for parties, partly due to the fact that invites were seldom thrown in his direction, but this case was an exception. It was more obligatory than anything; a heavily drunk boss, dancing women, a cautionary tale of drink not if you want to find yourself face first in a toilet. A celebration of all things, one for the books: they’d gotten another score, it paid big. Reggie didn’t see much of the spoils, bars stacked up in a vault while he got the miniscule YUs. Pennies in modern speech. Pennies in comparison to what his boss kept.

Unfair? Surely. Incontestable? Almost completely.

Courage was never really his forefront, a boundless tale of more don’ts than do’s. Speaking out against a man with such power would turn an already lit fire into raging Hell. In short, he needed the money, didn’t want to get himself in the way of being somewhat fiscally stable in an environment already unstable.

“‘Ya good in there, big guy? Ain’t drink too much right? You got a party to get back to!” A familiar voice, grating, but familiar — it was high-pitched, laced with ecstasy. He could smell the booze from the bottom gap in the door, despite it being shoddily covered by pieces of latex. Another wretch suffocates the air, the smell filling his lungs; Reggie gags again, holds in another wave of vomit just as he scurries back to his feet. The voice, it woke him up, lit a lightbulb in his head.

He hesitates to answer, partly due to the fact that he didn’t want to go back to the celebration. The joyous atmosphere was too much, even if this is what they did for a living — stealing, killing, ravaging — Reggie was never on board with it. Though desperate times call for desperate measures, TOR was seldom come by: especially those whose lifestyles were never coddled and surrounded by wealth. “Yeah, don’t worry ‘bout it. I’ll come back out,” Reggie groans in response, a failed attempt to sound just as celebratory as his counterparts.

A quick exit, he flushes the toilet, quickly washing his face afterward. If there was one thing he’d at least keep, it was his dignity — what was left of it, that is.

“Now that we’re all here,” a man, clad in leather, ornamented with spikes, flashy colors and prints, takes a swig of Sizzle before continuing with a mouthful of the liquid. “I’d like to make a toast: To the best Goddamn Raiders in the fucking galaxy!” He places an extra emphasis on the expletive, raises the glass bottle in the air. The celebration dies down the moment the TV cuts, then a prompt:

To all hunting parties concerned,

The prize money for catching the biggest CROW in the forest has been increased from $10 million TOR to $15 million TOR. Wanted dead or alive. Respond with coordinates upon acquisition of the Apuleius.

xoxo,
APHRODITE.

His boss, Ajax, grins from ear to ear — a cheshire smile delighted by the symphony of words on the screen. It’s bright, much like the gold teeth perfectly placed in his mouth. It was always a delight to see a message from Aphrodite; Ajax was always hungry for it, rabid. Reggie was less-than-pleased. When could he ever get a break?

​

“Switch, you get a reading yet?”

“Nah, got nothin’. You?” Reggie responds, arms crossed against his chest, heavy boots on the control center.

“Nada. This waitin’ game, you think that TOR is worth it? I mean. We could be doing other shit.”

He purses his lips, wants to contest against Ajax’s word, even visibly shakes his head. Reggie’s words say otherwise, “I mean. $15 Million? We’re set for life if we get our hands on ‘em.” For once, he had the same hunger, possible motivations being that he could get himself up and out of that joint on good terms. The "Good Terms" meaning that he could pay his way out, the debt Ajax claimed he owed him for living. At that point, he could still see these people without the threat of losing something. "Our hands won't be dirty after this," one could only hope. Reggie did.

The shake of the ship did nothing for his stomach, bile rising and falling, stirring. Motion sickness, something a Raider wouldn't experience. Reggie, however, classified as one: one Hell of a Raider he was. While his friends, if he could call him that, could ride smoothly, he had to hold it all in. A queasy stomach isn't something you'd want in closed, turbulent quarters. He was thankful Ajax wasn't there; he'd likely catch a fist to the face for being a "pussy" if he saw Reggie's expression — the inner struggle.

Fluorescent green lights up in short ticks, a singular specimen in a sea of nothingness. It piques his interest, a bushy brow arched inquisitively. "Hey, Crash. I think we're comin' up on somethin'," he rises from his slouch, cracks his fingers and his back with a long stretch. His neck is stiff from the sitting, bottom numb, but he pays no mind to it. This could be the score of a lifetime. "Try not to, uh," Reggie pauses, "crash."

mood | SPACE SICK, TF

scroll

location | IDK SPACE

outfit | CLICK

tag | demonology

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[demonology]

My exhausted footsteps remain alone. Lost with nowhere to go. Like the sunset in the sky. Call me. Awaken me. Yeah, you make me back

crow läger 

The smoke from the hole in the wall mixed with the spit flying out of her second's mouth.

"Oh fuck's sake," their captive howled.

Crow growled in return as another bullet embedded itself above her head. "Let's just take them and figure it out later. "

Early, her second-in-command, had their mouth agape. Finally, they sighed and hoisted up their victim. "I'm blaming you if they slit our throat in the middle of the night." In response, Crow's fist turned the lights out on the captive's face.

Wordlessly, Ronnie covered their six as the pair dragged the bruising, unconscious body. Gnashing gunfire followed them as they ran, and Crow and Early quarrled all the way.

"I told you we shouldn't have risked it," Early said.

"I know!" Crow shifted her head to draw her dreads back behind her shoulder. A gleeful smile overtook her face as she looked at the body between them. "But it was worth it."

"Was it?" Ronnie asked, shrouded in a pip-pip of light. Photon casings clattered against the linoleum tiles.

"Let's shut it and get us home," Early mediated.

Ron gave Crow a hard stare. A swell of eye contact between them — Crow, her chin down-turned but her shoulder squared; Ronnie, her ephemeral eyes and nefarious pixie brows. Finally, Ronnie broke it to let off a round of gunfire. "Fine." Her voice had a crackly, cigarette quality.

​

"I still hardly see how that was necessary." Crow unstrapped herself from the pilot's seat. Leaning over at the waist, she carefully typed out the hyperspace command, taking more time than what was needed. "We were almost out of there."

Ronnie huffed and averted her gaze to the nooks and crannies of her shot gun. The blue rag was grease-stained, and Ron had a working theory that it added more dirt to the weaponry than it took away. It flapped to the person tied up in white rope. "I could do the same to them, if you'd like."

Crow snapped her head towards her, meeting Ronnie's wild, toothy grin. She took a rip from her box-mod, blowing out a puff of blueberry smoke. "I will kick you from this ship if you do."

In offering, Ronnie outstretched her arm to give the vape as an olive branch. With the same shit-eating grin, it only causes Crow's face to grow hotter. "Wanna bet?" Ron asked.

The gap between them closed, and Crow pointing a finger and saying, "You're not the only one who can shoot a fuckin' photon gun."

Ron grabbed her wrist, pushing her hand away from her body. "But I'm the only who can kill with one."

"She's right, ya know," Early chimed in. They laid slouched-back against their co-pilot chair. An open chat box on their screen.

"Oh fuck off. You know Ron didn't need to cut and drain him like a pig," Birdie added. She looked up from her hunched position over a magnifying glass and a piece of wrinkled paper.

"That's a low blow—" Ronnie started, moving towards Birdie.

"Really? 'Cause it seems like attacking someone from behind would be like that—"

"How else do you want her to fuckin' do our dirty work?" Early interceded.

Crow, who'd taken an edible, begins to feel it and her eyelids lower. "Stop it," she added weakly. "Let's ask Santo."

As though this is a tango the Apuleius crew is familiar with, they all snapped their faces to Santo, who did not notice the spider's worth of eyes on him. He played with his bottom lip, sucking it in and out so that it makes a popping noise. Only when he realized it was the only sound in the round, he lifted his head like a lazy bloodhound woken from a nap.

"Wha—"

He was interrupted by the well-sung charm of Aphr0dite's call. Ten eyes flicked towards Santo's screen, watching him enter in the commands rapidly. Then, the text as it rolled across screen.

"Fifteen million? Jesus H—" Early started.

Crow pinched the space between her brows, brushing against her sore bridge piercing. "Fuck's sake," she confirmed.

Without missing a beat, Birdie tipped open the small fridge housed between her and Santo's work stations. "Want one?" she asked Crow, preparing to throw.

She caught the XtraFuel, and Birdie threw another one to Santo. Birdie motioned for Ron's knife, which was handed wordlessly. This was another dance well-performed in the recent months since the goddess had it out for them. Surely, it didn't help that they stole one of pirate's hackers.

"Still, though, would've thought you were worth more than $5 million TOR," Crow told the now-awake hostage.

Standing in a triangle, Birdie stabbed her can and released the tab on her energy drink. Crow follow, too, and Santo finished the trio.

"Prepare for a long night," Early grumbled.

"Is it really long if the night never ends?"

​

Hours later, Crow and Santo watch a star twinkle in the distance, the only two people still awake. When the star edges closer and shines directly into Santo's eye, they look to each other.

"Get your asses up!" Crow yells. Santo turns, smashes a few keys, and the lights on their ship noticeably dimmer with the shield's powering up.

"Prepare for a raid."

mood | sleep deprived

scroll

location | IDK SPACE

outfit | shirt pants jacket shoes gloves helmet

tag | demonology

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.