fic: Neopets; Where the Heart Is
Rated: K+/PG
Genre: .....? I am so bad at genres.
Pairings: Sela Pretore/XL Striker 3.8
Crossposted to ff.net.
Yes I write Neopets fic, shaddup.
I ship these two so hard you have no idea, omg.
Also, WE WON FUCK YEAH.
It feels strange, being planetside.
The gravity is all... wrong. The ambient noise is terribly off. The air smells too organic. It's too warm, too humid. She can feel the grass and the dirt underfoot, even through her boots. It's yielding like deck plating isn't.
The bay stretches out in front of her. Ocean all the way to the horizon. That's something else, there being a horizon at all. That's a lot of water. Saltwater, too. She thinks for a minute that there are going to be a lot of problems with corrosion down the road. Then she remembers that in Altador they still use things like stone.
(Not that she's insulting their skill or anything. Their architects are smarter than she'll ever be.)
The wind unsettles her the most, though. There's not much wind on a space station. Not unless the hull has been compromised. Not unless people are going to die.
The thought makes her shiver, despite the warmth.
She likes Yooyuball. Loves it, even. Every off-season she wonders why she'd ever thought of giving up on the team. Every summer they come back down to Neopia and suddenly she remembers. Feels like death here.
Endless, pulsing heat, like you'd only feel if the environmental controls were on the fritz. A high-pitched alarm trill of a birdcall in the distance. No background hum, so the generators must be offline. The wind rushes past; there must be a hull breech. The backup generators must be slagged, too, if there's no forcefields up to stop the atmosphere rushing into the vacuum -
Frag the team, frag Yooyuball. She just wants to go home.
The wind is suddenly blocked.
A hand comes to rest on her hip. There's the hum, the little mechanical noises; his power cells and his coolant pump and the tiny adjustments of internal mechanisms. There's the smell of solvents from when he'd cleaned his casings. The cold air radiates off of his frame - he hasn't been outside long, and so for now he's much cooler than the surrounding air.
"Are you alright, Sela?"
She smiles. Her own little piece of home, wherever she goes. She twines her fingers through his and leans back into the comforting chill.
"I am now, Striker."
Genre: .....? I am so bad at genres.
Pairings: Sela Pretore/XL Striker 3.8
Crossposted to ff.net.
Yes I write Neopets fic, shaddup.
I ship these two so hard you have no idea, omg.
Also, WE WON FUCK YEAH.
It feels strange, being planetside.
The gravity is all... wrong. The ambient noise is terribly off. The air smells too organic. It's too warm, too humid. She can feel the grass and the dirt underfoot, even through her boots. It's yielding like deck plating isn't.
The bay stretches out in front of her. Ocean all the way to the horizon. That's something else, there being a horizon at all. That's a lot of water. Saltwater, too. She thinks for a minute that there are going to be a lot of problems with corrosion down the road. Then she remembers that in Altador they still use things like stone.
(Not that she's insulting their skill or anything. Their architects are smarter than she'll ever be.)
The wind unsettles her the most, though. There's not much wind on a space station. Not unless the hull has been compromised. Not unless people are going to die.
The thought makes her shiver, despite the warmth.
She likes Yooyuball. Loves it, even. Every off-season she wonders why she'd ever thought of giving up on the team. Every summer they come back down to Neopia and suddenly she remembers. Feels like death here.
Endless, pulsing heat, like you'd only feel if the environmental controls were on the fritz. A high-pitched alarm trill of a birdcall in the distance. No background hum, so the generators must be offline. The wind rushes past; there must be a hull breech. The backup generators must be slagged, too, if there's no forcefields up to stop the atmosphere rushing into the vacuum -
Frag the team, frag Yooyuball. She just wants to go home.
The wind is suddenly blocked.
A hand comes to rest on her hip. There's the hum, the little mechanical noises; his power cells and his coolant pump and the tiny adjustments of internal mechanisms. There's the smell of solvents from when he'd cleaned his casings. The cold air radiates off of his frame - he hasn't been outside long, and so for now he's much cooler than the surrounding air.
"Are you alright, Sela?"
She smiles. Her own little piece of home, wherever she goes. She twines her fingers through his and leans back into the comforting chill.
"I am now, Striker."