I R accomplishy beast
Open for a few more fic requests...
...and I just wrote a random Xenosaga pairing generator in Ruby on Rails.
Because I am a dorkwad.
Edit: because ass-dumping fic in LJ update boxes is my new hobby, I shall reap the rewards of said pairing generator. Pairing? King/Scott. YUP. TWO OBSCURE SECONDARY CHARACTERS FROM A GAME NOBODY'S PLAYED. GO ME.
***
To quote his good-for-nothing, pool-shooting older brother, the one who caught the clap when he was sixteen and ran off to join the circus and teased him for reading books and building old-fashioned circuits, the one who said everything Scott never would because Scott was the good boy, the good boy who finished all his studies and put up with all the bullshit that his so-called friends would stick him with, fuck this.
Scott has had half a beer, and the bar is swaying slightly. The everyday chatter of the Kukai foundation drifts by, and the only thing he can think of is the Professor's angry face, the second console standing empty beside him.
Fuck that. Fuck that fuck that fuck that.
No more Robot Academy. No more secret fragments of ancient giant robots lugged in by that hot chick from Vector. No more combining, no more transforming, no more awesome--
--but it wasn't awesome, it was horrible, because the Professor had gotten intolerable, and--
--okay, fine, Scott will admit that he's in a snit. Running off, hiding in a bar, and getting drunk like some jilted girl. But he's allowed this, isn't he? Just once? Even if he's the good boy?
There are voices at the door, and he's too busy staring down at the bar and watching his beer fizz out to realize that the place has mostly emptied out. Laughing voices gone to nervous whispers, or harsher tones. The bad boys have hit the bar. He misses the whole damn thing until the guy a few seats down says, chill as you please, "Hey, King."
Scott's stomach feels like it flips over about twice. King? The infamous gangster holed up in the warehouse over in the next district, cool as you please, the Foundation cops won't even touch him?
"Hey, babe," comes the answer. "The usual," to the barkeep. "Go check with the Nose over there about the shipment. Hey, no sweat."
Silence, relative. King's drink slides down the bar. Scott's frozen to his stool.
"So," says that voice, rich and snide. "You new around here?"
"Agh! Um, yes, very new, never been here before, oh god..."
He trails off, lost for words.
The biggest gangster in the Kukai Foundation, or at least the one with the biggest rep, is looking at him with thick, fluttering eyelashes. Thin silky shirt hanging on lacy straps over his muscles and tattoos. He's got a cigarette in one hand, and he's vamping it like some chick in a softcore, and Scott's brain is like a mid-torso input switch failing to resolve conflicting data and exploding in sparks out the armpit.
"You look like the lonely type," King proclaims. "Drinking away your pain. Did your man leave you?"
Scott keeps sparking aimlessly for, oh, he calculates about thirty seconds. Then he clamps his mouth back shut and thinks, well, fuck it. It's stupider than using a Hyams OS for a high-speed six-legged unit, something he'd learned the hard way back in college, but right now he doesn't fucking care.
"Yeah," he says, almost on the verge of hilarious laughter. "Yeah, he did."
"Poor darling," says King, pursing his lips. "Tell you what, hon. Finish your flat beer, we'll head back to my place, I'll give you a taste of what I've got under my skirt, and you won't feel so lonely no more."
...and I just wrote a random Xenosaga pairing generator in Ruby on Rails.
Because I am a dorkwad.
Edit: because ass-dumping fic in LJ update boxes is my new hobby, I shall reap the rewards of said pairing generator. Pairing? King/Scott. YUP. TWO OBSCURE SECONDARY CHARACTERS FROM A GAME NOBODY'S PLAYED. GO ME.
***
To quote his good-for-nothing, pool-shooting older brother, the one who caught the clap when he was sixteen and ran off to join the circus and teased him for reading books and building old-fashioned circuits, the one who said everything Scott never would because Scott was the good boy, the good boy who finished all his studies and put up with all the bullshit that his so-called friends would stick him with, fuck this.
Scott has had half a beer, and the bar is swaying slightly. The everyday chatter of the Kukai foundation drifts by, and the only thing he can think of is the Professor's angry face, the second console standing empty beside him.
Fuck that. Fuck that fuck that fuck that.
No more Robot Academy. No more secret fragments of ancient giant robots lugged in by that hot chick from Vector. No more combining, no more transforming, no more awesome--
--but it wasn't awesome, it was horrible, because the Professor had gotten intolerable, and--
--okay, fine, Scott will admit that he's in a snit. Running off, hiding in a bar, and getting drunk like some jilted girl. But he's allowed this, isn't he? Just once? Even if he's the good boy?
There are voices at the door, and he's too busy staring down at the bar and watching his beer fizz out to realize that the place has mostly emptied out. Laughing voices gone to nervous whispers, or harsher tones. The bad boys have hit the bar. He misses the whole damn thing until the guy a few seats down says, chill as you please, "Hey, King."
Scott's stomach feels like it flips over about twice. King? The infamous gangster holed up in the warehouse over in the next district, cool as you please, the Foundation cops won't even touch him?
"Hey, babe," comes the answer. "The usual," to the barkeep. "Go check with the Nose over there about the shipment. Hey, no sweat."
Silence, relative. King's drink slides down the bar. Scott's frozen to his stool.
"So," says that voice, rich and snide. "You new around here?"
"Agh! Um, yes, very new, never been here before, oh god..."
He trails off, lost for words.
The biggest gangster in the Kukai Foundation, or at least the one with the biggest rep, is looking at him with thick, fluttering eyelashes. Thin silky shirt hanging on lacy straps over his muscles and tattoos. He's got a cigarette in one hand, and he's vamping it like some chick in a softcore, and Scott's brain is like a mid-torso input switch failing to resolve conflicting data and exploding in sparks out the armpit.
"You look like the lonely type," King proclaims. "Drinking away your pain. Did your man leave you?"
Scott keeps sparking aimlessly for, oh, he calculates about thirty seconds. Then he clamps his mouth back shut and thinks, well, fuck it. It's stupider than using a Hyams OS for a high-speed six-legged unit, something he'd learned the hard way back in college, but right now he doesn't fucking care.
"Yeah," he says, almost on the verge of hilarious laughter. "Yeah, he did."
"Poor darling," says King, pursing his lips. "Tell you what, hon. Finish your flat beer, we'll head back to my place, I'll give you a taste of what I've got under my skirt, and you won't feel so lonely no more."