(Untitled)

[remindmeof_me]

That whole apocalypse thing going on outside? Shephard's only peripherally aware of it. When you share your room with nine alien puppies and one very hungry alien puppy mama, a lot of your attention is going to be perpetually elsewhere. That includes today. You see, the pups were born about three weeks ago, and while Shephard's not entirely clear

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[boston_bruiser]

Hey, Ado!

How's that apocalypse treating you?

I'M SORRY, I CAN'T HEAR YOU OVER THE INCREDIBLY LOUD RAP MUSIC COMING FROM THE MILLIGYM.

[remindmeof_me]

Shephard can block out a lot of noises. Really, he can. But after several weeks of dealing with the yips and yaps of nine juvenile members of a species whose primary form of defense is sonic projection, he's just a little sensitive.

"SHUT THAT FUCKING SHIT THE ASS UP AND GIT SOME REAL MUSIC, PISSWIPE."

Which is why Disc One of Motörhead's The Best Of set just got flung into the gym at both top speed and head height.

[boston_bruiser]

Watch your head, Ado. That CD's coming back just as fast and just as high.

"FUCKING MAKE ME, JARHEAD."

[remindmeof_me]

Shephard grabs the CD out of the air with a scowl. "JUDAS SHITFUCKIN' CHRIST, YOU'RE LOUDER THAN THE GODDAMN DOGS."

Which are starting to crowd in around his ankles, all of them, blinking in bazillion-eyed trepidation.

Yeah, they're not even the size of footballs, but that can't be especially reassuring to look at.

[boston_bruiser]

"YEAH? WELL AT LEAST I DON'T SHIT ON THE FUCKIN' DECK."

If Shephard looks in the gym right now, he'll see Voodoo beating the everloving piss out of one of the boxing bags. His hands are taped, his shirt is off (he's being doing this for over two hours, and the Milligym is hot), and there's just a touch of blood on the wrappings. The offending stereo is in a far corner, blasting Biggie Smalls.

(GO GO GADGET BOOMERANG)

[remindmeof_me]

Shephard doesn't bother answering that, unless you count that gesture that one of the Poles taught him an answer. And tempted as he might be, he's not gonna waste a perfectly good CD against the stereo. It's not heavy enough to make an effective impact. He'll just whistle for Mrs. Wilson to come and round up the puppies before stalking in there his own damn self.

In a concession of sorts, if he reaches the stereo unmolested, he'll just turn down the volume instead of trying to switch out the CD. He's not entirely heartless.

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo doesn't notice Adrian. He's far, far too focused on the punching bag, ignoring the chafing the tape is giving his hands, the stuffing flying out of the bag, the Marine stalking over to the stereo -

- until one particular mother of a punch snaps the already weakened rope the bag's hanging from the ceiling by. The bag crashes to the ground with a CRUMP just as the music goes down.

He eyes the bag, panting through his nose, fists clenching, unclenching.

Then he turns to Adrian.

"Turn that back up 'n get the fuck out."

[remindmeof_me]

"Christ Almighty. What the fuck crawled up your ass'n died, sunshine?" says Shephard.

(He'd ordinarily just recommend that Voodoo move on to the outdoor heavy bag, but considering all the weird-ass shit going down out there right now, this is probably not a good thing to recommend to anyone.)

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo moves to the bag, wrapping his arms around it. "None-" He grunts, straining against the bag -

"- of your fucking -" he lifts the bag off the ground, heaving it up to the hook in the ceiling -

"- business."

The bag slips out of his grip and falls to the floor, landing on Voodoo's foot. He glares at it as if it'd just humped a leg, then kicks it off with his free foot.

[remindmeof_me]

Yeah, that's a real good sign. But shit, the man's right, ain't his fuckin' business.

"Need a hand with that thing?" he says instead, and nods at the fallen bag.

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo glares at him. "I look like a fucking cripple t'you? Got my own two goddamn hands, don't I?"

He reaches around the bag, lifts it up - only to have it fall again. He sighs, sits down on the ground, runs a hand through his sweat-drenched hair.

"Goddammit, Ellen."

[remindmeof_me]

Yeah, and they're doing you fuckloads of good just now. Shephard bites back the sentence and leans against the doorframe instead.

"Girl trouble?" he guesses. Family issues are his next guess, but women are usually a reasonable place to start.

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo shrugs. "Guess you could say that." He stands up, bearhugs the bag, tries to lift it up. "You know Ellen Park?"

[remindmeof_me]

"Yeah-" Shephard moves to steady the bag from the other side. "Short girl, grey hair, couple notches in one ear? She's our supplier. Radiologicals'n body armor, mostly. Got Ms. Vance a couple nukes small enough to load in a Davy Crockett a while back. Why?"

Shephard doesn't generally interact with her personally. His job intersects with hers only in that he's usually the one to escort whatever hazardous materials she's delivered safely to a Resistance member who can work with them.

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo huffs. "She...she did somethin' stupid. I chewed her out for it. Now I ain't seen her coming on a month."

[remindmeof_me]

Shephard opens his mouth. Closes his mouth. Hastens over to the door to make sure no one's coming from either direction. Returns and mutters, "Ain't never gonna say this where Ms. Vance or my momma can hear, but shit a woman sure can hold a grudge sometimes..."