The wall explodes in a hailstorm of shattered bricks as the creature locates a weak spot in the masonry. Staggering from the hole, the top of its head bashed in from ramming through solid brick, the creature aims for the oil tank. A single swipe from a paw armed with wickedly curved talons knocks the large barrel clean off its foundation and sends it flying. Before she has time to react those same claws catch her in the side, ripping a gapping wound across her midsection. Her scream is lost in the primal screech of triumph that rises from the beast’s throat. It lunges forward, blood splattering its corroded armor as its teeth sink deep into her body. It pins her legs down beneath one large foot and begins to gnaw at her innards, feasting on her still living body, tearing out hunks of viscera and –

Shrieks laden with terror and desperation bring Eleven back to consciousness. The last vestiges of the nightmare linger for a moment longer and warp reality as she flounders, unable to tell fact from fiction. Images of carnage from flash past her mind’s eye in striking clarity: blood pooling around her feet as she rips into the warm body trapped beneath her; yanking entire organs free and swallowing them whole, feeling them slide down her throat. At the same time she is experiencing the world shattering agony of having things ripped from her belly and the knowledge that she is being eaten alive. Simultaneous sensations of being both feeding predator and dying prey cause her to cry out. The scream blends with the echoes of the shrieking that had awakened her, triggering the realization that she has been the one screaming all along.

Gradually the dream releases her bit by bit and she quiets with a final distressed whimper. This episode marks the third reoccurrence of the nightmare, the same one that had marked the start of what is undoubtedly the most traumatic period of her life some five days ago. It is always the same: the mad dash through the abandoned city, a futile attempt at hiding and ultimately being discovered and disemboweled by a decaying robot. Afterward she always awakens to an equally horrifying reality where she is trapped in the body of the robot that had run her down. The only things that change are the state of her body and the identity of the Autobot who is on guard duty at the time.

Eleven sniffs the air in an attempt to identify which Cybertronian is with her currently. The frequency with which she has gone blind and deaf over the last few days has forced her to learn each of them by scent. It has not been an easy task. More often than not she has been more interested in picking fights with them when the pain of deterioration got the better of her than getting to know any of them very well in any sense. She had made it quite clear early on that she wasn’t happy with being reintroduced to so many of the crew members during a period of time in which she was unable to move. Though she had grudgingly accepted the stasis cuffs as a necessary evil to insure the safety of all involved, being immobilized was not something she accepted gracefully. All of her guardians have been treated to at least one of her temper tantrums, not including the periodic resurfacing of the hostile, animalistic personality that seemed to want nothing more than to rip each of them limb from limb.

Failing to separate her companion’s scent from that of her own corroded metal the femme sighs and blinks her optic shutters lethargically. The action serves no real purpose – both optical cameras blew out shortly after the last Key treatment. The rest of her body is in no better shape. Her appearance has become oddly skeletal where the rust has eaten through the thinnest portions of armor, leaving behind the reinforced framework where the plates connect. Small pools of hydraulic fluids and other internal liquid have collected on the floor around her. A lack of adequate coolant levels and poorly functioning vents are causing her to run hot, the effect of which muddles her processor like a high fever would do if she were human. The only silver lining to be found is that she is past the point of pain now. With the dream quickly fading and her grip on life slipping away she has settled into that comfortable numbness being close to death sometimes brings. There is just one thing left to do, and then she can rest. Marshalling what strength and willpower remain in her body she speaks for the first time today.

“I want Ratchet. Is he here?” she inquires weakly, her voice starting to take on a slightly faraway tone as she slips further from the mortal coil.

There is no time to think, no time to plan, no time to do anything but run. Fueled by blind terror the flight instinct drowns out all else. She must run, she must hide. To do anything else will mean certain death. Every step is torture. Agony courses through her body each time her feet hit the pavement beneath them. Her vision is starting to tunnel from lack of adequate airflow but she cannot stop to catch her breath. As an experienced hunter she knows what is happening. The beast is running her down. It is driving her towards an area of the ruined city where it can box her in, making the kill that much easier.

(  A harsh metallic scream echoes from one of the alleyways off to her right... )

( 100 Questions you could probably have lived your life without knowing the answers to. )


Ten is completely to blame for this nonsense. She posted the questions in her blog (I think that's the term for it?) and since I wasn't doing much I decided what the hell I'll steal them from her and fill them out myself. I feel like I wasted two hours of my life but, whatever. I'm not real sure I care for this whole 'blogging' deal. What am I supposed to do? Ramble? Hn. This is one of Rosen's ideas, no doubt.


((Open to both Nexus and Xavier IC tags. This is a blog like entry that can be read via the Nexus: any comments made will be 'screened' from other commenters.))

Just a little head's up to let everyone know that I am not dead. I know that it looks like this journal has been abandoned since the last entry was done in June and Nexus posts have been few and far between since then. Over the past six months time has had a habit of getting away from me and I have been at war with a bout of writer's block. After unexpectedly losing my father to a long standing illness back in April my life hasn't exactly been easy, and the desire to write got shoved aside by emotional distress and work related drama. Now, however, most of that stress and drama has been brought under control and I plan to get back into the swing of things because my head is in danger of exploding from backlogged post ideas.

That being said to make up for the giant gap between posts I will be doing a few filler posts and backdating them so that they fall into place. I'll also be re-writing some of the narratives already posted since I am unhappy with their current states. For those of you playing Xavier based characters feel free to post in site_xavier and please, take some initiative in keeping your characters active. You do not need my permission to post in Sages or Dear_Multiverse, and the more interest you show in playing your characters the more motivated I and my co-admin will be to get the ball rolling with things such as missions and strictly Xavier based play. We can't do this entirely on our own, not with a cast this large. The plot has evolved past our ability to shoulder most of the characters in this little science versus humanity drama.

Tucking his ID badge into the breast pocket of his lab coat and collecting his glasses from the little red bin situated on the other side of the metal detector Doctor Anthony Michaels trudges reluctantly over to the palm and retinal scanners. He is a diminutive man of thirty seven going on eighty, world weary and always ready to deploy any of his numerous complaints about society at the drop of a hat. Grunting a noncommittal reply to the guard biding him a good shift Michaels stomps through the newly opened security door, leaving the guard to roll his eyes and return to more important things, namely deciding which local sports team to bet on this weekend.

Weaving his way through the maze of tunnels and corridors that comprise the lower levels of the laboratory complex, following the color coordinated lines painted on the floors, Michaels heads for his assigned work station: Deprivation Chamber Two. His mood is only marginally lifted by the knowledge that he’ll be working alongside his long-time colleague, Doctor Bianca Rhodes. It could be worse, he supposes. While manning the monitors surrounding the large spherical Plexiglas tank can be quite tedious it is also one of the easier jobs. Glancing at his watch he picks up his pace, seeing as how his shift will start in a few minutes and he is still several flights of stairs away from his destination.

Reaching the room with seconds to spare he narrowly avoids plowing into one of his fellow shift workers on his way to his console. Pointedly ignoring the snicker coming from the woman seated to his left he logs in to the system and brings up the scans taken by the previous shift. Sorting through the readings gives Anthony time to both catch his breath and think of something to say that will salvage his reputation in the eyes of the woman next to him.

( No use looking through all of last night’s data. Nothing’s changed in the past twenty four hours. Whatever fight was in her, it’s gone now. )

The voices are back again. No, this is not correct. The voices have never actually left. They are always there when her mind clears enough to take notice. The majority of them are little more than distorted mumbles that aren’t worth the effort needed to make out the words. Others are simply too loud and produce unwelcome echoes in her head, which is still throbbing. There are other sounds as well; quiet beeps and soft hums that do not disturb her rest as they remain a constant volume. Only the voices penetrate deep enough into the inner silence to force her into a more active state of mind, over and over again, the task becoming easier each time. Eleven is beginning to feel mighty pissed off about the situation, not to mention confused. Something isn’t quite right, but she can’t for the life of her put her finger on what just yet.

Another burst of chatter followed by hauntingly familiar laughter prevents her from drifting off to full sleep again. Furrowing her brow in silent annoyance she gingerly rolls onto her side and nestles deeper into the thin layer of bedding draped over her body. Seconds turn into minutes and, though the new position is more comfortable, Eleven finds the promise of sleep eluding her. Rather than fading away into oblivion the world comes into sharper clarity as the haze clouding her perception begins to evaporate. It is a slow process, the sensory input having to be dealt with by a mind that struggles to put the pieces together. None of it makes sense. Nothing matches up with what she has come to know as normal over the course of the past month.

For starters the surface beneath her is too yielding. There are very few things in the Autobot base that are soft enough to conform to something as insignificant and light as a human body. Grasping the sheets with fingers stiffened by lack of use she dully notes their rough texture and compares it to the smooth softness of a sleeping bag. The coverings provide only minimal protection against the chill that has sunk into her bones, her body shivering almost violently in an attempt to make up for the loss of heat. Muted alarm courses through the back of her mind as she curls in on herself. She has never fallen asleep or woken up cold in Detroit before. The warmth generated by Ratchet combined with the sleeping bags has been more than sufficient in warding off any uncomfortable drops in temperature after dark.

( Burrowing even further beneath the inadequate blankets Eleven is struck by another disquieting realization. )

In hindsight fighting for clarity of mind had been a mistake of epic proportions. Coming to full consciousness is painful, a hundred different abuses registering simultaneously the very moment self awareness returns. The worst of the pains is a monstrous headache that rages behind still closed eyes, compounded by the presence of unnecessarily bright light. Summoning enough will power to force herself into a seated position Eleven sucks in an unsteady breath. The decision to move is the second mistake she has made in the last few minutes if the rising bile in her throat is anything to judge by. Choking it back down into her stomach with a grimace the soldier drowsily fumbles with slightly numbed hands in an attempt to open her eyes. Half formed questions worm their way through the hazy fog that clouds her mind. How long had she been asleep? Why does she hurt so badly? Did her chip finally stop functioning? Maybe Ratchet will be able to tell her as soon as she is coherent enough to ask.

Eleven finally succeeds in pulling her eyes open. Wiping the remnants of the dried gunk away with the hem of her sleeve she grunts sleepily. Briefly she entertains the thought of lying down again. There is nothing that needs her immediate attention, not that she would be able to concentrate on it with her head aching as it is. Garbled voices speaking at a low volume interrupt her train of thought. Grumbling a few complaints under her breath the girl tries to ignore them. It is likely nothing more than Bumblebee annoying Prowl again in the common room by blasting the plasma’s volume as high as it will go. Sighing, she makes a mental note to remind the yellow Autobot just how unwelcome loud noises are so early in the morning. The sigh quickly turns into a yawn; she doesn’t even notice the hand that gently shoves her back down to the mattress. By the time her head touches the pillow she is asleep once more.

“She was awake?”

Turning to face the approaching form of the project’s leading medical expert Joshua Rosen shrugs nonchalantly. “The anesthesia hasn’t worn off yet.”

“Yet she was able to sit up, by herself, unaided.” Adamson observes as he moves over to the bedside and leans over the sleeping experiment. Pulling his stethoscope from one of his lab coat pockets the older man listens to the girl’s breath sounds, taking care not to disturb her any more than necessary. Draping it around his neck a few minutes later he trains his attention on the machines monitoring her heart rate and brain activity. “Her body doesn’t seem to be displaying any adverse reactions to the new chip. Still, I think it best we keep her sedated for the next twenty-four hours to make certain it is operating as intended.”

“After that?”

“After that we’ll talk to the head of the hybrid project and see if they can lend us one of their pets to heal the incision before moving her to the deprivation room. I don’t want her to tear it open again while she’s thrashing around.” Catching sight of the look on his colleague’s face the older doctor sighs and shakes his head. “You know as well as I do that in order to save her life we must make her obedient. We have to break her or they’ll put her to death. A soldier that will not fight is a soldier destined to die.”

“Suppressing her memories will kill her! It will be the death of the person she has become. The old Eleven never would've allowed herself to be captured so easily when threatened with the harm of other people. She displayed a conscious desire to protect someone other than herself when she came back. Doesn't that mean anything?”

"It means that she has lost her edge and her effectiveness as a soldier. Don't be a bleeding heart over this Rosen. Would you rather we terminate her instead?"

"..."

"Get back to the rest of your duties."

"Yes sir."

Eleven finally understood why friendly relationships were banned in the Facility. An open heart made the perfect target for blackmail. It was the only reason why she was quietly being led out of the Nexus under the watchful eyes of three older SP-X prototypes, blinded by the heavy cloth wrapped around her head and stumbling along handcuffed to a pair of guards. For all of the girl’s attempts to stay away from the crossroads of realities she had inevitably been drawn back, right into the waiting arms of the very people she hoped to never see again. While the anti-violence field could protect the soldier from being snatched against her will it could not prevent a stony faced One from using a handheld scanner to obtain coordinates from her chip, which had stored those leading to Detroit in much the same way a PINpoint would. The bastards had even given her a choice: surrender there and then, or continue to resist and doom the only place she could call home to the full wrath of the Facility. Knowing too well the damage the Facility was capable of dishing out Eleven made the hardest decision of her life. She surrendered.

As she followed along, head bowed in defeat, Eleven dolefully reflected on the reasons she was giving up her freedom without a fight: her friends. Seven had been far too eager to share with her a rambling list of the most recent additions to the armory as she was being patted down by the guards. His blue eyes had glittered with lingering excitement as he’d explained in detail what happened to the living targets he had tested new ammo on. Gruesome unbidden images of Sari’s corpse mangled beyond recognition flooded her mind but it didn’t stop there. Spurred by the look of horror on her face Seven continued with his bragging, this time about the new armor piercing rounds that had been developed in her absence. Whether the rounds were powerful enough to destroy Cybertronian armor or not Eleven’s traitorous imagination had created equally torturous mental pictures of the Autobots ripped to pieces. Overwhelmed by the images she’d dropped to her knees and remained there until the guards had hauled her back to her feet. Seven’s laughter still rang in her ears.

By the time they reached the portal only One and the guards remained. Seven had wandered off to investigate the Multiverse. Three had been sent after him by One, presumably to keep him out of trouble. Eleven didn’t need to see the portal to know where it led, or when they had stepped through it. The sickeningly sweet scent of the sterilized laboratory sector hit her like a slap to the face, making her jerk and resulting in a shoving match as she tried to pull away from the guards she was cuffed to in an attempt to escape the smell. A team of scientists were quick to rush forward and offer their assistance. Their hands, oh god their hands. They were everywhere, making her skin crawl with every touch as the medical staff relieved the security staff of their burden.

Throughout it all Eleven was silent, her voice lost to the unreality of the situation as she was jostled around for several long minutes before a commanding voice cut above the chattering commotion. There were the sounds of grumbled complaints then the whisper of clothing as nonessential personnel filed out of the room she’d been dragged into. When all that was left were the echoes of their leaving gentle fingers untied the blindfold then guided her backwards when the sudden onslaught of bright light left her stunned. Blinking and shaking her head she jumped when the door shut, the bolt slamming into place as the lock slid home. Then and only then did the full realization hit her. She had abandoned the only family she knew and given up her freedom to protect them with no guarantee that she would live long enough to see them again. If she did the chances of her actually remembering them by the time her reeducation was complete were dismal at best. No matter what she did somehow, someway, she was going to hurt them.

"I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. Ratchet…"

Despite the steamy warmth of the washroom and the post-shower heat that radiates from her body in waves Eleven shivers. There is no logical reason for her to be cold: she isn’t feverish, the water had been blissfully hot and she is dressed in the warmest clothes she has. Still it is hard to ignore the trembling of her hand as she wipes the mirror down with a damp washcloth and stares at her reflection. Dull, haunted eyes tinted a faint red from recently shed tears look back and she turns away with a heavy sigh. Exhaustion has once again claimed a portion of her emotions and the control she has over them for the second time in less than a week. The resulting breakdown was smaller than the meltdown several days ago and had been easily drowned out by the sound of running water, but the fact that it happened at all has left her shaken and feeling hollow. Numbly wandering away from the sink and its mirror she collects the damp towels from the floor and deposits them in front of the washer and dryer hidden behind a half wall; she’ll tend to the laundry later, tomorrow morning perhaps. Pausing only long enough to transfer the salvaged clothes she’d worn turning the paint fight from the washer to the dryer she trudges towards the door leading from the room, flipping off the lights before heading down the hallway, heading for the common room to join the rest of the crew for the evening social hour.

Making her usual near silent entrance she lingers just inside the doorway, glancing at the walls that less than two hours ago had been splattered with neon paint and noting that all evidence of the spontaneous fight had been cleaned up, except for the pictures on Sari’s camera of course. Looks like the drones had gotten everything scrubbed down before the ‘bots on patrol returned from their rounds in the city. This assumption is based purely on the lack of fuming Optimus Prime since Eleven had been in the shower when the rest had returned and missed what if any reaction there might’ve been. Shoving all thoughts of yet another disturbing Nexus visit the girl darts across the room and casually vaults over the back of the couch, plopping down onto a free spot, thoroughly startling Bulkhead with her sudden appearance near him.

“Gosh Eleven, don’t do that!” He admonishes her with a slight flail. Giving him a half hearted smile she murmurs an apology, not quite able to keep the weariness out of her voice. Leaning closer to her he arches an optic ridge, frowning when she meekly shies away from him. “Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m fine Bulkhead. Just… just a little tired, that’s all.” She grumbles hesitantly, the smile fading. The look Bulkhead gives her lets her know that the green mech doesn’t believe her in the least bit, but he has enough tact not to push for more information just yet.

‘Stupid, stupid Ten… No, if anyone here is stupid it is me. I should’ve known that none of this would last for long. One such as I does not deserve the happiness I have been so greedily hording these last few days. I have to leave before the Facility finds this place. The longer I stay here the more danger I am putting them in…’

Standing just outside the open bay doors with the later afternoon sun at her back Eleven rests an unsteady hand against the weather worn framework. The sharp scent of rusted metal makes her scrunch up her nose as her fingers ghost across the rough corroded patches. Long minutes stretch on as the sun sets lower and lower while she struggles to find the courage needed to enter the building that has become her home and face the individuals who’ve managed to worm their way into her heart to varying degrees. Maybe it would just be better if she were to turn around and simply disappear into the vastness of the Nexus. She has no right to remain here and put her friends in harm’s way just because she is too selfish to leave. Thanks to Ten and her undoubtedly still active chip the Facility is closer than ever to finding and reclaiming the runaway. For all she knows they are already mounting an expedition and following Ten’s transmitter signal to the area Eleven had left her pinned to the floor.

Rubbing suddenly teary eyes with the underside of her wrist Eleven clears her throat and trudges into the old factory. Pausing long enough to recompose herself the girl enters the common room, glancing around to take stock of who is currently present. Bulkhead is seated next to the couch flipping through the three thousand channels on the giant plasma screen. If any of the others are around she doesn’t see them, not to say that they aren’t there. Her sense of awareness is too dulled by shock and grief to register much of anything right now. She turns to go back outside but makes it no farther then a couple of steps before doing an about-face and quietly selecting an out of the way place against the wall to sit. It is a shadowy little corner that the girl wedges herself into, slowly sliding down until she is seated. Arranging her limbs into one of the complex human knots she has become known for she stares vacantly at the floor before her. Who is she kidding? She is too much of an egotistical coward to run away from the home she has only had for a little over a week.

Tightening the death-grip she has on her sleeves Eleven buries her face in the crook of one arm. Such a worthless coward, nothing more than a science experiment doomed to failure. She doesn’t deserve the kindness of the Autobots. Such a petty little creature, too ashamed to face the friends she is unworthy of yet too miserable to face the world alone. Instead she’ll curl up in the gloomy little corner of the most popular room on the base and wallow in lonely desolation.

Another round of questions, this time from critical_medic. Same rules as last time.

1) Part of me is afraid to know, but what was your first mission outside the Facility...and was it successful?

My first mission outside the Facility was a breaking-and-entering sort of deal. I had to act as the look-out while my partner hacked into the computer systems of a law firm in Miami. It was simple as far as first missions go and the authorities didn't show up until Three was just about done copying the files our client needed and uploading a virus into the system. No one was killed, neither of us were hurt and we got back safely. It was a success and the Facility was happy with the money the client paid for the files.

2) Do you have any personal enemies among the other prototypes? It seems the lot of you aren't very fond of one another.

Three definitely. She is the second oldest prototype alive and likes to lord this over me as I am the second youngest. Every slightest slip-up I make she makes up an annoying little tune about and it is because of her I had to spend a day in one of the deprivation rooms. I'm also not too fond of Ten.

3) Had you not met up with me in the Nexus, where would you have gone from there?

I.. don't really know. Might've gone back to my world or stayed in the Nexus. There was another person that I talked to, a cyborg I think they're called, that let me accompany him on recon of the Nexus for a while. Whether I would've stayed with him or not I'm not sure.

4) Do nick names bother you?

The ones the other prototypes gave me do, but that could be because I hate the name-callers anyway. I guess if I have a fondness of the person giving me the nick name then it wouldn't bother me too much.

5) As small as she is and as messy as things get, sometimes we can't always look out for Sari in the field as much as we should. Could we count on you to do what you can to keep her out of harm's way? (And not get yourself seriously hurt or worse in the process?)

If that is what you wish me to do then I will do whatever is in my power to protect her. My first reaction to her was not the best I admit that but I was distracted and didn't know she attempted to approach me until you reached out and stopped her. If she had startled me my training would've automatically taken over and... But that didn't happen and now that I know who she is I'll be prepared for her next time. If she is made my mission I will protect her with my life if it comes to that. I do not fail missions.

Urgh. I am apparently required to do this thing because Ten may she die in a landslide says those are the rules. Giant waste of time...

1. Leave me a comment saying anything random, like your favorite lyric to your current favorite song. Or your favorite kind of sandwich. Something random. Whatever you like.
2. I respond by asking you five personal questions so I can get to know you better.
3. You update your LJ with the answers to the questions.
4. Include this explanation and offer to ask someone else in the post.
5. When others comment asking to be asked, you ask them five questions.

1) What was your favorite meal in the Facility?

The T-Bone steak dinner with spinach and a baked potato with sour cream. At least they didn't skimp on the quality of the food, right? That is the only praise I have for the entire damn Facility.

2) Barring all fellow prototypes, who would you like to see killed?

All the people pulling the strings. Finacial backers, the idiots from the government who gave the go-ahead, the Admin and the whitecoats. And all fellow prototypes. Ha.

3) Now that you're free, what has been your favorite experince?

If this gets out to any one else I am going to kill you personally. Get it, got it, good. Now that we are clear on that I guess my favorite experince so far was being comforted by Ratchet. He was worried about me and actually took the time to be soothing and gentle until I was calm again. Do you have any idea what that is like Ten? To have someone hold you and make you feel like everything will be okay even if it isn't? I nearly cried and you know me, I never cry... Remember that this is to stay between us! I swear if I ever find out any of the whitecoats know about this...

4) Favorite weapon. How would you use it to disable someone in a non-leathal fashion?

My favorite weapons would be my Butterflies which are currently in Autobot possession as a sign of my willingness to do whatever I have to in order to gain their trust. Anyway if you actually look at their blades only half of them are sharpened. From the middle of the blade down to the hilt the blade is dull for non-lethal attacks and to keep the sharp portion from being dulled by blocking another blade.

5) Fuck. Favorite swear and why?

I don't swear much. It is too vulgar and unnecessary when there are other means with which to display anger or be insulting. Bitch is the one I use most commonly.

I am a very horrible person with a twisted sense of humor that was randomly struck by a scene bunny while listening to Doggy Dog last night. So. I did something with it instead of working on the tag because it was too amusing to let go to waste. Now that this is out of my system I can get back to serious posting. :D

Title: Comeuppance
Genre: Humor Drabble
Characters: Optimus Prime, Ratchet, Bumblebee, Sari and Eleven

( Ratchet really should've seen this coming. )

Disclaimer:( Standard Disclaimer here. )

Dedication: straya

Stand
An Eleven songfic

Prologue
Begun 7:56 PM February 6th, 2008, finished 1:59 AM February 7th, 2008


Nature’s ability to serve as Mankind’s greatest ally never ceased to amaze Herman Adamson. By working with it rather than dominating it one could hide a surprising assortment of things one did not want found, including, in some cases, an entire facility the size of a small college campus. Pouring himself a cup of coffee the doctor indulged in the luxury of staring out the massive windows that took up the eastern wall of the cafeteria. Having spent most of the day below ground in the maze that was the laboratory annex seeing the outside world did more for his energy then the black liquid steaming away in the mug he held so gingerly. From his vantage point he could see the floodlights beginning to flicker on around the helipad as the bluish light of dusk began to fall about the surrounding forest. Odd, he thought. He hadn’t received any news pertaining to missions or visitors scheduled for after dark. Frowning, Herman took a sip of his coffee and turned away from the windows, sitting at a nearby table.

( At the age of forty-nine he was the head scientist on the facility’s latest project code named SP-X, also known as the Soldier Prototype Experiment. )

First things first I did a very basic text version of 'I AM'. The idea itself is taken from something going around dA and I decided that it'd be fun to do one with Eleven. Basically you take a character and make up an image of them with their inner thoughts scattered around them. Since I don't have a scanner (or the patience to sketch something out in Paint using my mouse) I took the easy way out and simply used her name as the focus point.

( I AM Eleven. )

I've also been bitten by the urge to write something Eleven centric. Since I can't do a full blown story with her until I write Alexandra's I decided that I will start to compile a sort of character soundtrack and write song-fics based on each song.

( Songs located so far. )

I'll add more once I've had a chance to go through the other 200 CDs I own.

"Eleven! Stop dawdling! We have to be out of here in twenty minutes!"

"Yeah come on! Hurry up!"

A scowl briefly fluttered across Eleven's face. Seven and Three were acting like petulant children. They didn't much fancy the idea that neither of them had been chosen to do anything more than act as look-outs. She was younger - supposedly - than they were though she secretly had to wonder about Three. The other girl was immature and boastful despite the fact that she had botched most of the missions she had been in command of by making amateur mistakes. Her subordinates had been left to clean up the resulting messes while Three rushed to lay claim to anything she deemed as a success. Seven wasn't much better; in fact he might have been much worse, as he could back up his boasts with honest mission reports. It was only luck of the draw that she was paired up with the older prototypes. In the last shuffling of teams the admins had decided to place them according to their serial IDs and divided them into four groups of three. So far the teams proved well balanced, each member feeding off the strengths and weaknesses of the others.

( Read more... )

Just a heads up that this journal has been rebooted. Alexandra herself, however, has not. She will remain dead and rotting in the ground. In her place will be Eleven. She and Alexandra are from the same off-site roleplay and are closely-yet-not connected.

Again, Alexandra is dead and gone. Eleven is the new inhabitant of this journal and will come into play soon.

Alexandra Leigh Davis
April 16, 1990 - August 10, 2007

A light breeze rustles the long, sweeping boughs of the willow tree on the far side of the cemetery, the whisper of leaves rubbing together filling the air and mingling with the quiet chirping of birds. Sky a brilliant shade of robin's egg blue with fluffy wisps of clouds promises a pleasant day ahead, warm but not too hot. It is the first time in a week that it hasn't been oppressively hot or overcast, a perfect summer day that should be spent enjoying the last weeks of freedom before school starts. Should be; for one teen, at least, there would be no more last days of freedom.

The black granite tomb stone gleams in the summer sun, standing out amongst the sea of gray stones surrounding it. Flower arrangements stand to either side and wreath the ends of the stone like silent sentinels left to guard the freshly dug grave now that the last of the mourners have departed. There is no elegant inscriptions besides her name, date of birth and date of death. Careful deliberation between those that knew her best had found no phrase or poem or song lyric or quote to sum up her short life. Instead they'd chipped in to design the elaborate image that had been professionally drawn, colored and transferred onto the stone itself.

( Read more... )