Writing samples

most group roleplay settings require a writing sample, so ive compiled a number of my starters and replies here for you to view, in hopes it will help you decide whether or not I would be a good fit for your group, server, or just personal 1x1! - éinín

Writing sample #1

Overwatch: Widowmaker/Moira 1x1

description: this was written for a 1x1 thread between moira and widowmaker, focusing on moira meeting widowmaker for the first time after being hired by talon. it is a short character study with regard to how moira views her employer; with time, moira will come to get to know widowmaker, and take more pride in her position at talon.

warnings: none.

Everyone in Talon was so tall.

Moira flopped down into her chair and unbuckled the ankle strap of her shoe, letting it fall noisily to floor as she rubbed at her aching heel. If only so much of her ego didn't rely so heavily on being the tallest in the room. She sighed, lifting her other foot to remove her other shoe before kicking them both underneath her desk.

So her first day hadn't gone as well as she had hoped. She had already met the Omnic Maximillien, at that casino in Monaco; that was where she had been appraised by Talon properly, and then propositioned for her job (among other things she had politely declined). But she had, for the first time today, met one Doomfist the Successor, Akande Ogundimu, one of the other heads of the Talon Inner Council she had been invited to operate on; it was only for the first time today she had met Sombra, whose real name, she had been told, was none of her business; just today she had met Sanjay Korpal, and several others whose names escaped her as she had gotten the impression they didn't matter all that much at all.

Moira sat back in her chair and sighed, letting her feet fall to the floor as she dug through her oversized purse to find a bottle of hand sanitizer, coating her hands thoroughly and rubbing them together in the same criss-crossed pattern until the alcohol dried on her hands. Then she sought a small squeeze tube of lotion, and then a breath mint; once it was all put away, she dropped her purse on the ground next to her chair, and did not move a muscle when it immediately fell onto its side and the contents spilled out.

"In ainm Dé," she said, not looking. Instead, she reclined in her chair, rocking herself back and forth with her foot against the edge of her desk.

Her new office was nothing to turn her nose up at. She had resisted a corner office (Moira did not do well with natural light, not with the number of melanomas she had already had removed) but Ogundimu had still gotten her the hookup: it was more spacious than any of the others on the floor, with two windows that had been fitted with blackout curtains for her benefit and ceiling-to-floor shelves for the books and other trinkets she would want to bring. It wasn't her ideal setup, but it was a place to work, it was a job; Moira simply needed the money too much to complain about a good thing.

The knock at the door earned a groan in response. What now? Moira sat up in her chair, pulling her shoes back on but not bothering to rebuckle the straps. It took another moment of carefully filing away her resentment before she opened the door to see who might be bothering her now.

Earlier in the day, she had looked well put together, maybe even professional. She was wearing a simple white blouse, a grey vest, and a pair of bright purple culottes, with a pair of heels and appropriate jewelry to complete the look. In the morning, that had been a site to see: now in the evening, her vest was partially unbuttoned, her necklaces askew, and her hair was starting to fall out of the gelled-back coif she had spent so long on that morning.

"Yes?" She said, her voice tight.

"Do you have a moment?" The man asked. "We have something more to show you. The laboratory downstairs."

"Yes, of course." He reply was curt and frustrated. What more could possibly be in this facility that she needed to see, that couldn't wait until tomorrow? She was sick of walking, sick of meeting people, sick of playing nice with the same people she had spent nearly two decades of her life seeking to destroy.

She ruminated on it as she made her way to the elevator with her escort, taking her time to fix up her appearance in her mirrored reflection as it descended: rebuttoning her vest, rebuckling her ankle straps, and making one last attempt to fix her hair, which immediately fell back out of place.

Underneath the Talon building proper was a laboratory-- larger than any Moira had ever worked in, nearly four stories deep underground, and Moira had worked at six different Overwatch facilities during her tenure. She feared, briefly, meeting so many scientists, but it quickly became clear that they weren't here for that: her escort lead her down through what seemed like a maze of rooms until they reached what looked less like a lab space and more like a living space, and Moira frowned when she realized what it must be.

"We apologize in advance for her attitude," he said. "She might be in a bad mood. She almost always is."

Moira looked at him, and then turned the door, pausing a moment before raising her hand to knock.

Writing sample #2

Apex Legends: Horizon solo shortfic

description: originally written to prove that i have even the slightest grasp of horizons character, this shortfic was my qualifier to join an apex legends rp group. it only had to be long enough to prove that i knew what i was doing, but i think i need some kind of proof i know how to write in past tense, lol

warnings: very brief mention of drug abuse.

“D’you remember… that book,” she began, pressing the end of her fork to her lips, “... with the man whose crew left him stranded on some other planet-- this was a long time ago, mind you-- and he had to survive off o’ nothing but potatoes?”

N.E.W.T. beeped in response, and Mary paused; she drew the fork down over her lips, pulling down until the soft, wet part of the inside of her lip snagged on the dry plastic.

“The Martian, that was it! And there was a whole scene about him havin’ a celebration where he broke open a Vicodin and dipped the potato in it as seasonin’. Do you remember that? Might have only been in the movie.”

As talented as the people at Hammond Robotics were, and as advanced as technology had become, N.E.W.T was still but a glorified vacuum cleaner-- it beeped again in response to the sound of her voice, of course, a modification she had made herself; but not in any recognizable pattern, not in any emotion. No, that was projected onto the systems by Mary herself.

“Well won’t you relax, am no’ gonna do it,” she said, sitting up in her chair. “I already got salt and pepper, a bit’a ketchup, I got all the seasonin’s I’m needin’. Besides, a vicodin would knock me ri’ out cold, it will! That’ll be the last thing I need when I’m still workin’ on…”

Behind her, the console beeped, and Mary turned around in her chair to observe the screen there for a moment before her shoulders drooped and she let out a long sigh. Another simulation failed. Well, no matter; she held her fork between her lips to free up her hands and checked the logs to see where it had faltered. Each failed simulation was another piece of the puzzle-- that was what she was telling herself, and it had worked every day so far, all 157 of them.

N.E.W.T., upon sensing that she had turned the chair around, puttered over in her general direction until it was once again in her general vicinity. Mary finished her input, and then set the simulation to run again; the sixth one today, by her count, though she had forgotten to look at what number it was overall and couldn’t tell now without cancelling the process she had just started.

“You know,” she said, turning to look at N.E.W.T. “I really hated that movie.”

Writing sample #3

Overwatch: Moira & Hana 1x1

description: a starter written for a hana and moira roleplay with my friend where, following a battle between talon and MEKA, moira and reaper (both horrified by the idea of child soldiers) choose to keep hana with them instead of turning her over to talon. im playing both moira and reaper in this rp-- it was a private 1x1, so i wasnt godmodding a servers reaper, i promise!

warnings: injuries, minor character death/mentions of death, some minor, non-explicit gore text, minor suicide references

The ledge is steep enough that Reaper doesn’t think before offering out his hand.

Her response is automatic: Moira takes it, gripping his hand around his thumb like a child to balance herself as she steps down over the remains of the six-story building the used to occupy the end of the block. Since moving into their apartment on the other side of the city more than a year ago, they had passed it a number of times; it had been standing, then, but it feels like any other time, with how casually Moira steps around the rubble.

She has the fabric of one of her black culottes gathered in a fist above her thigh, lifting the hem of her pants just enough to avoid brushing them against the dust and debris surrounding them. And she is humming to herself, a tune that Reaper recognized, but couldn’t place; at first, he thought it might be a quirk left over from work with Sigma earlier in the day, but the tune was too contemporary, and he could think of the lyrics, if he…

She and Reaper had technically had the day off. They had been fifteen minutes away, slicing fresh-baked bread for lunch in their apartment at the edge of Rome, when the first shots had been fired.

Initially, Akande hadn’t called for their assistance; through Sombra, they had been informed right away, but it was presumed to be small in scale, and over quickly. After all, Talon had spent a lot of time and money carefully baiting the world into believing their headquarters was in Oslo— if they any operations had been tracked to Rome then surely it had been mistaken for a hub, at best, and the attack proportionate in size. Whoever it was that had taken issue, be it federal law enforcement, a ragtag group of activists, or the illegal regroup of Overwatch, would, perhaps, burn down a building or two, and then be on their way, with most of Talon’s base still intact.

It wasn’t until the first bomb had dropped that they realized what they were really in for.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Moira,” he says, and she turned to look at him, under her arm. “Suicide is Painless?”

Moira shrugs in response, running her hands through her hair in a futile attempt to tame it. As soon as her hands fall back to her sides, it pops right back up, jagged and sticking up in every direction from more than six hours straight of active combat. Her pants are darker on one side, where they’re saturated with blood.

“Have they found anyone?” She asks.

Reaper doesn’t seem to have been expecting her to speak, and he glances up at her, and then away. He’s listening to the details being fed into his earpiece: they’re tuned into a live broadcast of the local news, in English, that’s detailing what they think happened on the edge of the city.

“Thirty bodies,” he says, after a slight delay. He tilts his head up to look at Moira through his mask.

Her expression is unreadable, but her body language is tense.

“And Talon?” She asks.

“We’re still holding most of the East side,” Reaper reports. Of course they are. Talon owns most of the local law enforcement, and they can manipulate the scene to suit their needs: Akande would be ahead of all of that, making sure that any “rescue teams” were in their back pocket before allowing the true public to comb through the rubble.

Then, he continues: “But no survivors. Akande’s pissed.”

Moira scoffs and steps over a crumpled rebar. There is blood smeared on her cheekbone.

“What does he expect us to do? Shoot them more gently?” Her footfalls are softer than Reaper’s, but still enough to disturb the ground; he extends an arm to her again to help her over a particularly tough stretch of wall.

“If he wants hostages,” she begins, sliding down over the edge and continuing as soon as she’s on solid ground, “then he should take them mid-battle. You can tell him I said so.”

“I’ll tell him,” Reaper says, with no intention of ever telling him. But it effectively defuses whatever seems to be building up inside of Moira, so they keep walking, hand in hand, with only the occasional pause for him to help her over any particularly difficult obstacles.

Until her heel comes down on something that sounds unmistakably hollow.

“I’ve found something.”

Sneaking a body past the rest of Talon is no small feat, but it’s made easier by the fact that their apartment isn’t that far away. Her dog tags identify her as Hana Song, a name which Moira recognizes, though not with enough confidence to tell Reaper the details of who she is. But they know that they have retrieved her from a mech, where the back has crumpled in, squashing her inside like a bug in a napkin, if the napkin were made from several tons of steel. And they know that, despite the odds, she is still alive.

For hours, Moira sits on the floor of their living room, meticulously separating flesh from machine with a scalpel and the aid of her augmented cybersynthetic eye. She takes breaks and chugs water from an unlabeled bottle that Reaper refills periodically when she bends back over Hana’s crumpled body. The sweat drips down her brow, but never falls to Hana’s skin, hot and slick as a side effect of the knock-out painkillers that are usually reserved for use only by Reaper. Over the course of the evening, she repairs the damage, cutting and slicing and then cleaning, restoring, and healing the wounds left behind by the inside lining of her mech.

And when she’s done, she enlists Reaper’s help for a container of warm soapy water and a washcloth, which she uses to wipe the worst of the grime from Hana’s skin; the dust and debris has stuck to her sweat and blood and is caked onto her skin except for the thin trails on her face where it has been washed away by her tears. Moira cuts away the remains of the polyester suit and sets them aside to destroy later, and then towels her down until she’s clean and dry. Then Reaper helps her pull on a clean shirt and a clean pair of loose sweatpants (without a drawstring), and carry her to what’s supposed to be Moira’s bedroom.

He only breaks the silence after the second lock of the handcuffs slips into place, tethering Hana to the bed.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” He asks Moira, who is still leaning over Hana’s body.

With one hand— the one with the short nails— Moira smooths Hana’s hair back and tucks it behind her ear.

“What is your proposed alternative?” She asks, without looking at him. “Give her to Talon?”

He doesn’t say anything, but he thinks: Yes.

“I Googled her name,” Moira continues. “She’s twenty.”

There’s a long silence, and then Reaper nods once.

Moira turns off the light on her way out, and Reaper shuts the door behind them.