one of the biggest things I keep in mind about the suit is who made it.

“well duh, creators of anything are important-” no, not like that, see?

jacob hargreave turned himself into a mostly-machine HAL-9000 parked in fucking NY because he wanted to sit in the aliens’ backyard.

karl rasch was short of being a goddamn ceph because he took the idiom “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” a little too seriously.

these are the guys who came up with the nanosuit.

is it really that surprising that it does what it does?

it makes you just on this side of some ceph machine because they thought that was the only way to win.

turns out in some capacity, they were right.

“You’re too good.”

Those are the words that meet him, when he lines the sights between Chester’s eyes. It’s casual, you know. His grip, his stance; Laz Chester takes this as hesitation rather than the predatory ease that it really is.

Chino is behind him to one side, and there’s a couple others aside him. None of them are really surprised, from what False Prophet spits up.

“You won’t shoot me,” Laz taunts. “You’re too good. Even wired into that… thing.”

Grumbling from behind him–and there’s the surprise, when he starts to lower the Majestic. Chino squints a little, though. He must see the lingering tension coiled in Alcatraz’s arm, the way he doesn’t let off the trigger.

Bam.

“FUCK! My foot!” He doubles over, winding up heaved like an old towel over one banded forearm, wincing and spluttering.

“Your first mistake,” starts that tinny, monotone voice, “was assuming I have any sort of moral system anymore.” Chino smothers an amused noise in his fist, and disregards the alarmed bemusement of the other marines.

there’s a reason I base my alky off legion, er–multiple reasons. here’s a few.

HHHHHHHHHHH. so i go to change my mobile header (a treat from the lovely @painsaws !!) and tumblr ATE. ALL OF MY DESCRIPTION FORMATTING. ugghhghh. if anything else doesnt work/looks fucky, shoot me an ask or @ me, i need to set this shit right.

vericulumvenatrix:

golem-boy

[That’s the one,] he says dryly, as if he’d heard it a million times before. [At least I’m not fuckin’ Leavenworth. As for how fitting it is-] He shrugs lazily, not really seeming to care. He seems like the kind of person that’s really seen everything, but how much ”everything” is for him is still up for debate.

At least he’s answering questions and keeping things blunt.

She couldn’t show it, neither portray it in a tone in her voice, as it sounded the same mechanical voice it had been for the last few decades, but she was very grateful to have someone be so blunt and ‘friendly’ with her.

“Ah, seems like you haeard that a lot of time. Wish I had a namesake like that, but I do like hanging onto the name of Rubelia. It reminds me of my origin name, but shows that I changed….May I ask what your real name is?”

[I go by Alcatraz in all the official records anymore, but on… my birth certificate, it says James Rodriguez.] He sounded conflicted–at least, as much as that harsh synthesized voice could sound. Seemed like he wanted to draw a line between the past and present, as well.

[If you ask others, though, I’ll answer to ‘dead guy’, ‘suit thing’, and ‘bastard hybrid’, among others.] That hits a nerve; he looks away from her, staring firmly at a pebble on a nearby waist-height wall.