(Source: gizthegunslinger)
- Tell my mother that I’m in a bad mood.
- “Well get out of it.”
goddammit I have to wake up in like 3 hours now. Ughhh Good night for real everybody.
How to break out of a zip-tie- potentially life-saving information
You guys, please share it. You never know when someone is going to need this information.
Guys I have to wake up in like 4 hours, WHAT HAVE I DONE
“They know what I am. Let them come, if they find the courage”
for garretthawke.
But the people who I wanted to read that were online just a second ago: A story of betrayal and despair.
Trent is beside him now, biotics crackling like electricity.
“You’re a fucking maniac, Connecticut,” he says to him.
Connecticut smiles, wishes he could wipe the blood away from his nose but his helmet’s in the way and there’s no taking that off in a combat zone.
“Yeah, so you keep saying,” Connecticut says.
Trent peaks over the ledge, ducks back down as bullets streak past his head.
“There’s a lot of guys down there, you shit, why’d you charge over here?”
Connecticut knows that it was stupid. He knew the second before he decided to rush in there, leaving the group far behind.
Instead of admitting it though he shrugs, “That Geth Juggernaut makes me nervous,” he says.
Connecticut knows it’s a poor excuse. He also knows that that giant tower of a Geth is a powerhouse—a tank that they’re lucky to have.
“You ran off on your own and I had to come running after you,” Trent says, “Dumbass.”
But Connecticut can tell from Trent’s ready posture, his loose grip on his rifle, that he’s all in the moment, that he’s rocking on his feet ready to unleash hell and Connecticut’s right there with him.
“You done talking?” Connecticut asks, “Or can we kick ass now?”
Connecticut can hear Trent sigh, but he also straightens, takes one last glance over the ledge.
“There’s two Guardians on the right, a Centurion on the left,” Trent says, “Don’t rush them, I don’t know what’s behind them—“
But Connecticut is already on his feet, his biotics surging through him. He sends a bolt of biotics toward one of the Guardians, hitting him right between the eyes and sending a spray of red across the visor of the neighboring soldier. Mail slot, he thinks.
Connecticut then breathes in, once, twice, and charges. He can hear Trent shout his name through his headset and he comes two feet short of the remaining, blood splattered Guardian.
He takes the trooper’s head clean off with his blade and rolls out of the way of the Centurion’s instinctive melee.
One. Two. Connecticut counts, feels his biotics charge back up. He aims his hand up at the Centurion, takes out his shields with another burst of biotics and then charges into him.
He registers the solid thump of the body and then watches it slam back into a wall a few feet past him.
That’s Three. He quickly scans around him, doesn’t see anything registering on his radar. He turns to look back at Trent, who is no doubt back on the ledge, when he feels the ground begin to pound under him. Fuck.
“It’s an Atlas, Connecticut!” Trent shouts through the comm., “Get the fuck out of there!”
He’s pinned though, and he knows it. He can see the Altas now, coming in nice and close, flanked by a group of five more troopers.
“Trent, get your ass down here.” He says and preps another bolt of biotics.
Connecticut drops two troopers, one with a bolt and another with slash of biotics that he channels through his blade. Another flash of blue and Trent is beside him, ropes of biotics twisted around his wrists.
“Take it down fast!” Connecticut tells him, and charges into one of the other flanking troopers. The trooper goes down and Connecticut rolls out of the way as the Atlas swings one of its arms, taking a swipe at him.
One bolt, two bolts, three bolts—Connecticut watches as his attacks make dents in the Atlas’s armor. He rolls in and out, staying close to the Atlas’s feet so that it can’t shoot those rockets but staying far enough to avoid its stomps.
A wide, crackling sheet of blue sends the Atlas a step back as Trent slams his biotics into the ground and Connecticut follows suit with another few slashes of his own biotics.
“Bring it down, bring it down!” Connecticut shouts.
The Atlas is shuddering with electricity now; the hood is all cracked glass. Connecticut makes a judgment, realizes how reckless it is but shakes his head. He digs his heels into the ground, brings one arm forward and then charges into the Atlas.
He feels the impact, it rattles his teeth and sends sparks across his vision. He sees white for a second, stumbles and then rolls back on instinct.
A wave of heat from the Atlas’s resulting explosion flashes across his vision and he can feel it through his armor. All he can hear for a moment is thunder, all he can see for a moment is blood and flames but it’s over in a second and he bends over his knees, slowly feels his hearing begin to return.
And when he looks up there’s just a huge black scorch mark and a few shreds of metal. It takes a second to click in his head but when it does he laughs. He catches his breath and laughs, looks over at Trent.
Trent is a few feet behind him, but now he walks forward, stands only a short space away.
He punches Connecticut in the face, apparently not caring if he can barely feel it inside his helmet.
“You fucking asshole!” Trent says, but Connecticut can hear that it’s worry not anger that’s fueling his tone.
“Wouldja like me to take off my helmet boss?” Connecticut says, tapping the side of his helmet where Trent had punched him, “Let me really feel it?”
Trent is quiet for a moment but then he laughs, shakes his head; he grips the back of Connecticut’s neck with one hand and leans forward. They both stand helmet-to-helmet, still high and shaky with adrenaline.
“You’re still some kind of stupid,” Trent finally says, and Connecticut shrugs, reaches up and grips Trent’s wrist.
“Don’t I know it,” Connecticut responds.
They can both hear more radio chatter begin—can hear the sounds of transports dropping more troops in and Trent lets his hand fall.
“Let’s find the others,” he says and Connecticut nods, rolls his shoulders and cracks his knuckles.
“And Connecticut?” Trent points a finger at him, “This time we stay together.”
Connecticut smiles, knows that Trent can’t see the expression through the visor but doesn’t care, “Got it boss,” he says, “Just try to keep up.”
(Source: revolverslove)
if he thinks rape jokes are funny go on a romantic boat ride with him and leave him in the middle of the fucking ocean to die
