#/and how dare you send a ship with an enforcer he's annoyed by

[reddragon-cowboy]

Spike looking at all those asks @perceptualephemera sent. . .

[wowsoboring]

Deconstructing baseless Harry Potter arguments #1: Harmony Edition

There’s a very helpful account on instagram (this instagram page merely gathers toxic harmony shippers, they don’t ship Harmione or hate all Harmione shippers, please don’t send them hate, show them love and support) where you can essentially find stupid fucking bashers who make baseless arguments. I’m all for Harmione shippers, as long as they don’t denounce Romione, bash Ron and just peacefully co-exist. To my pleasure, such people are out there: they just dont seem to be seen as often as the ones that are not nice. Maybe all I see is the mean people and the majority is nice, but in this post, I am attacking those who make baseless claims and bash Ron/Romione/Hinny/Ginny. I don’t myself hate all Harmione shippers. On top of that, as a Romione/Ron fan, i do acknowledge Ron’s character flaws along with Hermione’s and I hold them on the same pedestal.

This is copied directly from my own instagram page, granger.weasley_ on ig.

Anyways let's get deconstructing

1)

rebuttal:

Yeah okay mf; maybe don’t compare real-life relationships with fucking fictional ones. Your relationship going wrong has nothing to do with Ron/Hermione. It has everything to do with you and your ex: the *real life* people involved in it.

2)

rebuttal:

The weird subreddits and discord servers also seem to have a lot of die-hard Harmione “non-canon” shippers. They bash Ron and Romione (along with Ginny and Hinny) with a burning passion without any objective sense of remorse. They ignore all the merits of Ron’s character and bash him to push their agenda. They can’t even do so much as fucking acknowledge any of Hermione’s character flaws but still somehow manage to fixate on that one time when 11 year old Ron just shit-talked one line while Hermione had just publicly humiliated him in front of the Charms class and practically shouted at him for doing the spell wrong just before. I personally don’t because Hermione was 11 too and wasn’t that good at social cues that early on, which is more than okay. Neither am I.

Only a few people in the Romione fandom bash Hermione. And it’s not like Harmione shippers (most, not all!) don’t bash Ron and Ginny remorselessly, right? The fucking hypocrisy.

If someone considers Ron as the best member of the trio, it is their own opinion and not a fact. I do that. If you consider Harry and Hermione as the best member of the trio or in the whole wizarding world, most people don’t give a flying fuck and probably won’t argue with you because it is simply an opinion. That will only happen when you pass that off as a fact.

Statistically speaking, most (not FUCKING all) Harmione moments are in the movies. The weird dance scene especially. The passionate kiss that happens in Ron’s vision, shit like that. Ron is pushed to the sidelines in the last set of movies while Harry and Hermione show each other endless love and support. “I’ll go with you”. The books on the other hand, describe Harry and Hermione as siblings multiple times, with very little Harmione references.

3)

rebuttal:

So you don't want us to fixate on the large majority of Harmione shippers who do the exact same thing, just kissing Hermione's and Harry's ass and hating on Ron. However you will fixate on people who are most likely not EVEN bashing or hating but pointing out a few character flaws in Hermione in a fair and unbiased way. I would know, I'm a huge fan of Hermione as an individual character (in the books). The only criticism I've seen of Hermione to this day has not been bashing. In the comment section of my own fics (shameless plug) I've seen some Hermione bashing. On an ao3 comment section. And I've seen so damn fucking many people bashing Ron, Ginny, the Weasleys etc. and garner tens and thousands of upvotes on quora.

What does Ron even need excusing for? The running away incident and Krum. What does Hermione need excusing for? Canaries, contributing to Ron's insecurities by making him jealous through Cormac and Krum even though she didn't even like them (especially not Cormac, she fucking hated him). Ron wore a locket that literally highlighted his fatal flaw (insecurity) in an echo chamber. Harry kept getting annoyed when Ron wanted to check in on his family. Harry asked Ron to leave; Ron didn't say that shit in the books about Harry's parents being dead: that was plain shock value.

And sorry for repeating myself but I have seen quite a few Harmione shippers bash Ron and Ginny and excuse every single thing Harry and Hermione have done.

4)

37 upvotes on this weird comment that makes no sense? Echo chamber alert! You know what us Romione/Ron fans all have in common? We have never experienced such an echo chamber. I made a pro Ron/Romione post on reddit and got a considerable amount of people who bashed Ron and Romione in the comments.

The amount of Hermione haters is very few compared to Ron bashers. Nobody hates Hermione for being independent, determined, etc. We dislike perfect movie Hermione who’s an unrealistic image of females and seems like some sort of agenda than a real woman. Most Romione shippers/Ron fans and book fans in general (except for you apparently) dislike movie Hermione and still are fans of realistic book Hermione. Most, not all. In general, we do not claim anyone who does the exact same thing to Harry and Hermione that these sorts of Harmione shippers do to Ron, Romione, Hinny and Ginny. I say this on the behalf of all Romione shippers and Ron fans.

Ron's not a bitchy lay-about drama causing loser. That's Steve Kloves's movie Ron. In the books Ron is realistic and simplistic and apologizes whenever he causes problems. He acts up substantially twice in a span of 7 years where he is also a hormone-fuelled teenager.

This is so contradictory and juxtaposed to the point of near delusion. First you talk about how Romione shippers bash Hermione and then you bash Ron as a Harmione shipper. Mate, fighting fire with fire will get you called a hypocrite. Fix yourself.

5)

So the movies are fine when they work according to your agenda? And yes how dare he add such a (fake) chemistry fuelled moment between Harry and Hermione while defeating the entire purpose and groundwork for Romione, the sadness caused by Ron leaving and so many more things? Those Harmione moments you mention seem friendship -esque more than anything else.

Steve Kloves's moments ruined many things while just paying fan service to the Harmione fans he'd birthed through years in the course of 6 movies where he showed Ron as a, how you so eloquently describe it, lay - about drama causing bitchy loser, Harry as one dimensional and Hermione as a zero - dimensional Mary Sue who might as well be the main titular character. Obviously Harmione fans such as yourself don't see the problem with it as it fits your narrative

6)

We do care about Harry and Hermione at large. Most Romione shippers rightfully bash Draco, Pansy, etc. not particularly Harry and Hermione, that's quite rare. Harry and Hermione can get along without Ron as friends. Ron and Harry can also get along without. Hermione as friend. So can Hermione and Ron without Harry as friends or more. I don't understand your point and how what you said is any different than Romione or Ronarry’s friendship.

7)

Constant arguing is not what they do. They bicker, they apologize, and sometimes they just do it for the heck of it. They are argumentative teenager. Opposites attract doesn't work in the sense of fire and ice, it works in the case of Brownie and ice-cream. Ron is passionate, laid back and insecure. Hermione's passionate, a workaholic and not as insecure. Ron can help her get calm and composed and get her to give herself a break. Hermione can motivate Ron and re - enforce his confidence.

It wouldn't be step incest. Harry and Ginny do not regard each other as siblings. They do not look similar whatsoever. And a Harmione shipper also bashes Hinny and Ginny along with Ron and Romione? Checks out

" that fucked up Harmony" hahaha. What?

8)

Are you literally going to date someone on the basis of what Harry Potter ships they prefer? That is so shallow end depraved. Your Harry Potter ship preferences should not be the groundwork for your dating life. Please understand that. Harry Potter is a fictional world which is not real. Hogwarts doesn't exist. Magic doesn't exist. I sound like a Dursley but that's what it is: a fictional realm with fictional character. I would personally not give a fuck if my best friend or significant other was a Harmione shipper. In the case of them being a Ron basher, I would ignore it as if it was just a minor inconvenience and something we wouldn't be discussing and that's how it should be with you. Fuck BuzzFeed, your opinion on what Harry Potter ship / character is your favorite says squat about your personality and relationship with others in a romantic or platonic context. But who cares? Live your life however you want. I'll be stoic.

9)

It's not opposites attract rubbish or high school opposites attract. Ron and Hermione aren't polar opposites like I said, they are a bit different but similar too in many ways. They have a lot more in common than Harry and Hermione. Ron and Harry have the most in common. Both Ron and Hermione are passionate, loving, argumentative, caring, etc. Your argument lacks substance. It's biased trash. And what does “obhwf " mean?

---------------------------------

at the end of the day, i’m just an annoyed teenager. I try my best to be open-minded to people but only as long as they are too. I tried to use my brain more than my feelings for this post. 

[snarkwriteswrasslin]

Fake Fic Title: August Rush

Okay, so.. I hope you don’t mind that I did this. This is the second part to [ thoughts of yesterday ] which I posted last night and things get... A little twisty. A little intense, dare I say. Small disclaimer. I do not know how law enforcement / organized crime or any of that truly works, but... I tried. So.. this might not be totally accurate. But hopefully, it’s done in a way that’s not godawful. 

Second disclaimer : we’re going to assume that a little bit of time has passed between the first part and this one, m’kay? so yes.

Obligatory Warnings: mentions of organized crime, a bit of a plot twist, intense fluff, slight angst hurt/comfort, ashley dabbling in things that ashley’s not fully aware of but trying, swearing aaand that’s it. Tomorrow’s piece miiight be a little...spicier. Maybe.

The Squad: 

@kyleoreillysknee | @chasingeverybreakingwave | @xwicker-manx | @rampagewriting  | @wrestlingismyguiltypleasure | @writertoo18 | @adampage | @cabotcoves | @heelsamizayn | @missjenniferb | @unabashedwrestlefics | @cowboyshit | @dietwrestling | @schizoauthoress - huuuge nod to something you said when we were talking earlier. Hope you enjoy it, I had to do it when you bought it up bc I loved the idea so much.

[ wrestling tag doc - if you’re not on here, I will not be tagging you, just to be safe. Don’t want to annoy anyone or anything. ]

                              a u g u s t rush - drew gulak x ofc.

“You cannot tell her what’s happening. I need you to understand this, Agent Gulak.” Daniel Bryan stated the obvious for what had to have been the millionth time since Drew took the case and went in deep cover. On the other end of the line, Drew swore under his breath and managed to calmly reply, “Understood. Did you receive my email?” as a way to change the subject quickly. Otherwise, Drew thought to himself, Daniel is going to pick right up on just how hell bent I am on not obeying my orders to the letter.

“I did. The footage the bugs you planted picked up will go a long way in helping the DEA. If I had to guess, you won’t have to be in much longer. Now I’m gonna ask you again, agent… Can you continue without telling her what you’re involved in?” Daniel repeated himself, pausing to wait for an answer. Oh, he knew perfectly well that Drew had ulterior motivation in taking on this case. If the guy would just confess that to him, he might be surprised what Daniel was prepared to do to help him out.

They’d all been there at some point. You didn’t do this job as long as they had without forming some kind of protective attachment to some of the trapped victims in these things. Hell, he’d definitely done that himself.

But he knew the agent he was handling was… not the kind of guy to ask for help. He’d rather rely on himself than turn to a more seasoned team member and rely on them. The thought had Daniel fuming and preparing himself to do what he might have to do, going to their lead agent and telling them that he believed Agent Gulak may be well on the way to compromising himself.

Drew swallowed hard and tugged at his tie, two things that would’ve been a dead giveaway for Daniel Bryan if he were around to witness, luckily, he wasn’t. He propped his legs on the desk in front of him and took a deep breath, already going into exit strategy mode.

Because there had to be a way to do this and get her out of danger. There had to be. And he wasn’t going to rest until he found that way. 

He’d just hung up when he heard her speak up from behind and he realized that somehow, she’d just heard his entire conversation…

Well fuck, he thought to himself, this is going to be fun. I can’t very well not tell her what’s going on now, can I? She’s obviously just heard the conversation.

“Catalina? What the hell are you doing up? And standing outside of doors? Don’t you know it’s rude to eavesdrop?” he turned accusatory, hoping that it’d make her angry enough not to push him. Not to make him crack and tell her everything.

But one look in those big green eyes of hers as she stepped close… dangerously close… that clearly spelled out that if he thought he was keeping this secret?

He was in for a surprise.

--

I froze in the doorway, focused on processing what I’d just overheard Drew saying to whoever he’d been talking to. When it started to piece itself together, all I could do was stand there, shocked.

He wasn’t what I’d written him off to be. He was trying to do the right thing here and somehow, I never should have had a doubt about that. The fact that I had made me feel like utter shit. I shook my head and my mouth opened, only to close again when nothing would come out. I didn’t even realize he was aware I was in the room until he started angrily barking questions at me and I met his gaze, biting my lip as I stepped into the room and shut the door behind me.

Drew walked over and locked it quickly, pacing back and forth in front of me for a little bit.

I stepped in front of him at one point, stopping him and reaching up to thread my fingers along his tie and tug at it. “For your information… I wasn’t eavesdropping, first of all. I came here to apologize about earlier… The argument in the limo? The one where you basically called me a privileged brat?”

He eyed me, taking a deep breath as our bodies brushed against each other. I paused and toyed with the untied tie, not daring to meet his gaze. Because now that I knew the truth, I felt horrible for the way I’d been handling things since he just waltzed back into my life. He was right. I had been behaving like a brat.

Because I never got closure. I never got to tell him how much him leaving me would hurt. I never got the chance to tell him that I wanted to leave with him and that I loved him, probably more than I’d ever loved anyone.

But he was right here, right now.

It didn’t have to continue like this.

Maybe we could even have a second chance. A better one, especially if I got out and away like I’m trying to.

,, you know how dangerous that is, don’t even go there.” but it was too late. Even as that rebuttal entered my mind, I was indeed already going there. In leaps and bounds and another realization dawned.

This ship hadn’t sailed. I wasn’t ‘over him’ like I claimed. I’d never really stopped loving him.

And what he was doing? 

Was dangerous as hell. What if I lost him somehow? Without at least attempting to act on all this?

“Yeah?” his voice was thicker, and his finger curled beneath my chin, guiding my face so that I had to look him in the eyes. I took a second, staring at him; distracted and he repeated himself again, more firmly this time when he asked exactly what I’d heard.

“Enough to know I was completely wrong. And more than enough to know that maybe you were right earlier. Maybe” I stepped closer, my body pressed against his. He swallowed hard and stared down at me expectantly and I took a deep breath, continuing, “Maybe I was being a brat earlier.”

“There’s absolutely no maybe to it. You were being a complete brat.” Drew countered calmly, reaching around me to lock the door to the room. “But I understand. I left. After I promised I wouldn’t.”

“Did you leaving then have any reason to do with why you’re back now?” I asked the question quietly, hopefully and I found myself holding my breath while I looked up at him and waited on my answer. 

“To an extent. My cover was about to be blown back then. I had to disappear. I’m surprised they let me take this one. My cover could still be blown..” he trailed off, going quiet and raised his hand to my face, taking it in his hand. His thumb rolled over my skin and he took a second or two before continuing, “I had no choice but to disappear. And lie to you about who I was back then. If you knew…”

I nodded because I understood. “I get it.”

His hand moved from my cheek, splayed across the back of my head with his fingers tangled in my hair as he looked down at me and muttered quietly, “I had other reasons for taking this. If your dad is in prison, you’re free. You don’t have to worry about all the measures he goes through to keep you prisoner. I came back for you too.”

I felt my stomach flutter a little and my hand rested palm down against the button front shirt before finally clutching at it as I rose to tiptoe and cautiously planted what I thought would be a clumsy kiss against the corner of his mouth. Drew groaned quietly, his free hand going to my lower back, the hand in my hair tugging, pulling my mouth completely against his as he breathed against my lips, “I’m not leaving without you. And I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Am I in as much danger as my father says I’m in all the time?” the question came out quietly after the kiss broke, the two of us pulling away with flushed faces and breathing heavily. I leaned against him and worked on composure.

This was not what I’d come in here for, but it was everything I wanted -and apparently, needed.

“Worse than. I don’t think that asshole really knows just how many people are after him. So when he cast the net for a new bodyguard for you and I put two and two together...I knew I had to come back.”

I nodded, staring up at him as I took a few deep breaths. I knew his secret now. I mulled it over and quietly, I sat down on the edge of the heavy mahogany desk nearby and started to tell him mine. How I planned to leave and in a few months, send a flash drive of every single illegal and shady thing my father had ever done to the FBI. How I knew I’d have to permanently disappear after doing so because daughter or not, betrayal was not something my father took lightly. As I finished up, Drew was pacing the room again, rubbing his chin in thought.

“Give me the flash drive.”

“But he’ll.. If he even thinks you’re not on the up and up…”

“I can call for backup, Cat. You can’t.”

“Damn it, Drew..”

“Don’t fucking argue with me, Cat. Give me the flash drive. I can get it to my handler. Once my handler has it, we can figure out everything else.” Drew insisted and I nodded, biting my lip.

“I’ll meet you tomorrow night. At 8. I’ll be back at my own apartment then. Pretty sure he’s told you that, he plans to make you camp outside my door to keep me safe. It’s what he did with the others.” I told him as my fingertip trailed over his lips. 

“8, it is.” he muttered quietly, leaning in to pull me into another deep and steady kiss before I hurried out, back down to my own wing of the mansion. 

[somedrunkpirate]

in the dark we travel (geraskier scifi au part III)

Ao3 | Tumblr: part 1, part 2 | WIP | No Major Warnings | Rating: M |

The first night is always sleepless. 

Be it the rambunctious nature of a group of people having made it out from whatever they’re running from— you do not use these kinds of ships if you’re not running from something— or getting used to the movement of the ship, the rumble of the engines and the thrum of ventilators. 

Geralt doesn’t even bother laying down. He sits on the far edge of his grate, one leg dangling over the edge and his back leaning against the wall. He hadn’t had much time to pack for the travel; he’d had to leave his larger case behind, but he isn’t bothered by the cold. 

As such, he takes off his jacket and sits on top of it, a measure more comfortable than the iron on its own. But after a while, he takes it, folds it, and puts it behind his head, one loose sleeve over his nose. That way he can at least pretend it’s filtering out some of the stench. 

By some miracle, the passengers down below start to quiet down in earnest three hours into the journey. Maybe the rush has left them all more exhausted than usual. It’s been barely three days since the Magistrate let Enforcers into Erilisis Boulevard. The riots are still going, as far as Geralt knows. 

The Sovereign Wastes have not been all that Sovereign lately, at least not the planets and cities that border with the UNC. A new fervour of anti-augmentation has come out of Novigrad, led by their most fearsome priests on the pulpit. Raving on and on about their beliefs, inexplicably convinced that anyone else should give a fuck about them as well. The everlasting fire will purify the masses, and so on and so forth.

Geralt’s fingers curl into his palm of his own accord. The cool lines of crystal and metal weave between patches of labour-hardened flesh. He breathes, makes a subtle sign in the air. Igni. 

It’s only a flash of flame, ignited by the mechanisms in his fingertips, the fuel stored in a divet between his wrists. At least, that’s the story. It’s mostly true. 

But if the priests already wish to tear out the technological, Geralt can’t even imagine the way their eyes would bug out of their heads when they discover that even without it, he’d be able to produce flame. Not as much, not as controlled. But still. 

For all Ancienthunters are called, hypocritical isn’t one of them. They’ve worked hard to keep it that way. 

Geralt produces another flash of light— for warmth, for something to do, when movement catches his attention. 

A figure, at the mouth of the space between the containers. 

He was distracted, and the figure has already stepped into the dark. 

Well, it's no matter. Roach will handle it. 

He sends her a quiet warning and feels her stand at attention, ready for anything. She’ll start with intimidation, but she’ll be prepared for anything if there is a threat, if someone dares to come to close to her—

She sees the target, recognizes him, and relaxes at once. 

Geralt has to pull himself out of it, tumbling into the sensation helplessly, muscles slacking and breath coming too easy. A warmth of delight. He pushes it all away and grabs his blade. He shifts, leans over the edge,  trying to see below, when he hears—

“Good girl, Roach. Now, can I go up that ladder?” 

Roach huffs. 

“Thank you.” 

Geralt stills and closes his eyes for a moment. He sighs through his nose. 

Jaskier clambers up the ladder with anything but subtlety. His movements make the steel clank and groan under his weight. 

Geralt doesn’t need light to know that he’s grinning, the moment his head peeks over the edge. 

“Jaskier.” 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t push me off just yet. I’m not here to bother you.” 

Geralt can’t help but huff at that. 

Jaskier throws something at him. It’s soft, heavy— a thick padded blanket. 

“Figured that is better than nothing,” he says, and begins to climb down again. 

Geralt stares at the fabric in his hands. Questions rise up in his mind but none of them find their way into his throat, and he’s left there, stunned, rendered mute, at the sheer inexplicable action of giving something— something of actual use — without demanding anything in return. 

Jaskier is half way down the stairway when he calls out. “Geralt?”

Geralt tenses— here it comes. 

“If you change your mind torturing yourself for no reason I can discern, I’ve a cot with your name on it— well, technically, one with my stuff on it, but I suppose it will survive lying on the floor. You can even drag it away from mine, if the illusion of privacy means so much to you.” 

Sideswiped by the lack of— expectation, pressure; Geralt blurts out his surprise before he can stop himself. 

“You’re not in a bunk?” 

“No? Why should I? I don’t need one. Not as much as Skosa, or you.” 

Since when has anything been about necessity, in places like this. 

Jaskier reaches the ground. Geralt can hear him stumbling in the dark. 

Roach sends him a vague thought impression— snout pressing against a back. Gently. Leading. 

Geralt sighs. 

Jaskier laughs softly the whole way, as Roach softly pushes him back to the light. 

He thanks her, and wishes both of them a good night. 

Roach sends him another thought— a young Amaureen, the newest one in the stall. Brash, confident, but uncertain. Out of place. It had to be taught how to belong. 

Geralt isn’t sure if she’s right. Jaskier is out of place, yes. If there is any honesty to his disposition, he shouldn’t be able to survive. He shouldn’t have made it to this point at all. But he does belong, in a strange way. Or rather, he seems to trick others in believing that this is a place of belonging. That everyone does. 

It’s a fantasy. A false belief that will shatter the moment the darkness comes. No group of strangers can be held together by one man, no matter how bright he pretends to shine. He’ll burn himself out trying. 

And yet, Geralt finds himself hoping that he doesn’t learn. That he doesn’t have to grow bitter, after this. He lies down on the blanket, watches Jaskier return to a group of eclectic species, circled in the gentle glow of an emergency light. 

Geralt doesn’t dream— doesn’t sleep at all, but he dozes, a little, wondering despite himself what it would have been like to follow him down. To enter that circle and be welcomed. 

Stupid, of course. 

It wouldn’t do to break Jaskier’s carefully constructed illusion of sociability so quickly. 

For all his mastery of the ways of people, he seems to be blissfully unaware that even the presence of Geralt in his circle would scatter it into pieces.

Ironic, really, that refusing him could be considered a kindness. 

Not that Geralt has any intention— any need, to join him regardless. 

There is no space for him there, but he also never expected there to be one. Never desired to have one. 

He had his place in Ka’er Mor. He has his place now, with Roach, anywhere he wishes to go. Anywhere he can be useful. 

He doesn’t need anything else. 

He doesn’t want the responsibility of keeping it, once he finds it— to deal with the irrevocable consequence of losing it, the unerring awareness that if there is a mistake to make, a misstep to take, he will find it and have no hope of preventing himself from doing it. He’s proven that much. 

He doesn’t want to deal with any of it. 

Geralt is free. He won’t be if he’s holding on to something. 

Or someone is holding on to him. 

And he’s become very good at making sure no one wishes to keep him. 

It is only a matter of time before Jaskier learns that too. 

Geralt doesn’t sleep, but he makes himself stop watching. 

He tries to think of nothing at all. 

The following two days are almost normal. 

Normal, in the sense that they’re excruciating. Geralt does not, in fact, get used to the smell. There is something about the specifics of this batch that clings onto every surface and every fabric. The air dews onto the walls, sparkling droplets of utter disgust, and seeps into his blanket, his jacket, his clothing, until they’d be better suited for the containers than on his body. 

Geralt spends the time curled up and shivering— fleeting memories of before the Trial of Glass encompass his mind, ones he’d forgotten entirely after the change. His mother, a vague image, pressing cooling packs against his forehead. Gentle words of encouragement. Music— lullabies at first, and then longer songs, some lasting hours and hours. Lyrics in shards and pieces, half remembered, half imagined. 

And she stood on the way side, swaying in line

The stars of infinity before her

Sunlight shines brightly, a traitorous friend

Her home, her childhood, she doesn’t look back

Forced to flee her planet’s end. 

Her voice, curling around the words. Her laugh— no, that isn’t right. She wouldn’t have laughed. She was worried, then. Back when he could still get sick— when he could still die from it. 

This is normal. Geralt knows the burden of his senses, shakes and sweats but knows he will live through it. It’s only a matter of time.

In the dark, no one can see him. 

Only Roach knows. 

Her pacing is like a rhythm. Her unrest is only tempered by Geralt’s acceptance. By the familiarity of it all. 

Geralt breathes, and listens to the music down below. He’s annoyed to find that it helps, a little— the kind of stimulation that has a measure of sense to it. A pattern he can follow. 

But singing is not all Jaskier does. 

On the evening of the third day, two nights without sleep, Geralt senses a change in Roach’s footsteps. A line, instead of a circle. 

Geralt groans and sits himself upright. By the time Jaskier crests the edge of the grate, he’s regained control of himself— no trembling, no shaking. His fists are clenched. 

“Jaskier.” 

“Ah, you’re still alive, I started to wonder.” 

He climbs on top of the grate, sitting down with his legs crossed. 

Geralt is too tired to argue— too hungry, too desperate, for anything to distract him. His senses have gone haywire, so sensitive that he can feel the creaking of fabric when he breathes— that he can feel Jaskier’s breath, hear his heartbeat. 

He almost closes his eyes to it. 

Every night, Jaskier has come here. Sometimes to bring water, or food. Sometimes for an attempt on conversation. Every time Geralt managed to get him to leave within ten minutes. But he already knows that this time will be different. 

“Corron, you know, the Decalon, makes a mean stew from those dehydration packs. No clue what he puts into it, but I traded him some in exchange for a few song requests, so if you’ve been wanting to carve out my eyes because of those ballads, hold off for a moment and tell me if it wasn’t worth it.” 

With that declaration, he pushes a bowl into Geralt’s hands, lid open. 

For a single moment everything melts away as Geralt’s focus is entirely enveloped by the scent of actual, edible, warm food. But Geralt would have to put his face in it for the smell to linger, and he hasn’t lost that modicum of dignity, yet. Instead, he begins to eat it, trying desperately to block out all his senses except taste. 

Jaskier, of course, doesn’t let him and continues speaking. 

“Oh and Skosa has been working on these things.” 

Even with Geralt’s darkvision, he can’t make out enough details to discern what objects Jaskier is digging out of his bag. 

“You shouldn’t be near her,” he says, low. A sentence that has somehow become well worn in only a few days. 

“Yes because she’s really going to turn around and shoot me while fixing these—“ 

Suddenly there is a flash of light. Geralt almost drops the bowl at the shock of it and closes his eyes. His head throbs. 

“Shit, sorry, should have warned you. There is a setting somewhere—“ 

The light flashes again, but then dims a little. When Geralt opens his eyes again, he sees Jaskier grinning at him, electropulse-torch in his hands. 

“Karoline found them in the Piles looking for more shot glasses. They were completely busted but Skosa knows her way around broken tech. That T-1 Blaster of hers was also… a project, lets say.” 

Geralt closes his eyes again but this time less from the light and more out of the sheer force of stupidity that the universe manages to confront him with. “The Sketh has a recently repaired T-1 Blaster on her person.” 

“She’s tested it extensively, she says—“ Jaskier begins, sounding slightly defensive, but then he suddenly cuts off. “Oh fuck, Geralt.” 

Geralt snaps his eyes open, hand to his blade, looking for the treat. “What?” 

“Why didn’t you say you were sick?” 

Jaskier is staring at him, mouth agape, and that is when Geralt realises that the torches have more dangers to them than being allegedly fixed by a trigger-happy mercenary. 

Geralt has lost the shroud of darkness. 

“Geralt.” 

“Get out.” 

“The hell I will. What the fuck—“ Jaskier is shaking his head, pulling himself forward, his eyes searching Geralt’s face. “What is wrong with you? Were you already sick when you got here?” 

“Witchers don’t get sick.” 

“We have already established that you’re a special case.” 

Jaskier reaches out a hand— it's going— going to his forehead. The intention of a gentle touch— checking temperature. Worried. 

Geralt responds as if it’s an attack. He can’t help it. He snatches Jaskier’s hand away and growls, “Don’t.” 

Jaskier’s breath catches and he drops the light. It tumbles over the edge of the grate and shatters on the floor. 

Roach gives an affronted noise. 

“Geralt.” 

For the first time, Jaskier sounds uncertain. Not scared— not yet, but on his way to be. His fingers go slack in Geralt’s grip. He’s— he’s holding Jaskier’s wrist too tightly. Geralt can sense the blood being unable to push through, a persistent throb against his palm. 

He lets go as if he’s been burned. 

Jaskier yanks his arm back, his other hand curling around where Geralt had held him. 

Geralt imagines the skin— red, bruising — and his jaw locks together. It takes a mountain of effort to pry them back open and say, “It will be better, once I get some sleep.” 

Jaskier doesn’t respond for a moment. He’s sat back, leaning a way a little, eyes still wide. 

It makes Geralt a little sick, in a different way this time. He should’ve— he should’ve never let Jaskier up here. He’d known this would happen. He’d known and— indulged himself anyway. 

“Is there anything I can—“ 

Still. Still. 

Geralt wants to grab him by the collar and shake him— wants to yell, “Why do you do this? Why, after I hurt you, do you still insist on helping. Don’t you see this is why, this is why I can’t?” 

He’s so tired that he isn’t sure if he’s done it. The image is so vivid in his head. But when he blinks, the world reorientates around him, and Jaskier is talking, still worrying the skin of his wrist like no time has passed. 

“— the problem. Every time I’ve been here, you’ve been awake. I mean, have you even slept at all?” 

Geralt does not say anything. It’s an answer regardless. 

“Wait, really?” 

“I can handle it.” 

“Oh yeah, it really looks like you’re handling it. My wrist agrees with that assessment.” 

Geralt can’t suppress a flinch. He lets his head fall back against the wall, hard. It's so much easier to be miserable when there is no one to see it. He just wants to be alone. 

“I’ll leave you, now, because I can see you’re one wrong word away from pushing me off—“ 

Geralt imagines it— one movement, one snap decision and then Jaskier would fall, scatter, break. Just like the light. Bile gathers up his throat. 

“--so I’m going now. But if you haven’t slept by tomorrow night, you’re gonna fucking get in that bunk, you hear?” 

Geralt suddenly feels a strange kinship with the Sketh— Skosa. This is how she must have felt, overwhelmed with wild emotion, dangerously close to enacting some measure of pain, and then confronted by this strange creature that seems unable to prioritise his own safety above his stubborn fucking sense of what is right. 

“Fine,” Geralt grates out. He doesn’t mean it. He’d say anything to get Jaskier out of here— to be able to fall apart, finally, without a witness. 

But then Jaskier says, “Thank you,” with such naked relief and gratitude, that Geralt already knows he won’t be able to go back on it. He’s excruciatingly aware that it must be the mod— he feels the pull of it, the delicious warmth of genuine care that cannot be anything more than a nicely flavoured lie. Jaskier is kind; he is even kind in using his abilities to convince Geralt, but he can’t truly care like this. Not in this short amount of time. 

Geralt feels himself being persuaded and hates himself for it, but he’s going to let it happen anyway. 

Except if he is able to sleep. He doesn’t have to listen, if he sleeps. That’s the deal. 

By whatever fucking power in the universe, Geralt will convert to any if he just can fucking fall asleep. 

He lies back down and shakes and shakes and shakes. 

He doesn’t sleep at all. 

His vision begins to blur and shift. There are strange shapes in every corner. Figures, sometimes. Roach stops pacing and starts twitching erratically, trying to find the enemies that Geralt’s mind is carving out of a thick cloth made from pure exhaustion. He tries to show her, to calm her down. There is nothing there. It’s all false. 

Her breath comes more rapidly when one figure, a tall elongated humanoid rises up in the shadows, looming over Geralt. It’s fingers are long and thin. His torso is all bones-- too many of them, dozens of ribs, protruding out of paper thin skin. Geralt almost laughs at it. It’s a good impression of something terrifying. Vaguely familiar, even. Dragged out of nightmares, past memories, or even his teachings at Ka’er Mor.

But it remains funny to see a creature so imposing, completely without a head. It reminds Geralt of a butchery-- chickens walking on their last legs. A horrific comedy. 

The creature reaches out, and when its finger is about to touch Geralt’s forehead, it disappears. 

See, Geralt tells Roach. Not real. 

Roach huffs, sceptical, but for the rest of the night the visions stay away. 

Sleep does too, but what's new. 

[tarithenurse]

Agent of Hope - 21

Your world falls into ruin together with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcements Logistics Division when you find out that your boyfriend isn’t one of the good guys. Pairing: Brock Rumlow x fem!reader, Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader Contents: Probably some errors due to lack of concentration when proof reading...both times. Boring office, pain and puking, fluff, hurt/comfort, comfort that is actually very intimate, smut…yeah, I mean smut. A/N: Not only have I finished yet another chapter here, but I’ve also completed two for a new series AND I’m apparently a home owner now! Now I just need to save my job after my performance has taken a toll during the home-process. Thanks for bearing with me! Thanks even more for liking and reblogging!!

21 - Living a dream

Somehow the buzzing from the old fashioned fixtures overhead hits a frequency more annoying than a mosquito at night and the light glares off of any shiny surface, causing you to squint in this world of greys. It’s hard to keep track of the maps and pictures agent Ross is showing you, but you do recognize some of the scenes from your nightmarish memories. Through an increasing blanket of fuzz, he shows you photos from the interior of a ship. It felt bigger, but in reality it’s nothing more than a smallish trawler.

You want to ask how they found it, but the words are warbled, coming from far away. The warmth of Natasha’s hair sweeps into view, blocking some of that awfully bright light before you taste the sour discharge in the back of your throat. Fuck.

Not a sound is heard, but you know the man would have a deep voice, a foreign language that would make you think of heat and traditions from before the alphabet you know. He looks kind, the stocky man, as he stands before an audience. Sweeping rows of tables makes you think of a lecture hall, but that doesn’t fit with the glass façade behind him. Glass that suddenly shatters, pushed into the room by a torrent of fire. You see it in slow motion, how a younger man leaps out of nowhere to push the speaker away as finally there’s a voice proclaiming the king is dead.

…   Romanoff   …

Holding [Y/N] up so she won’t choke in the vomit, Natasha doesn’t bother explaining to Ross what’s happening until she hears the first groan (which could resemble the word “fuck”) is preceded by a flutter of lashes. It’s over.

“Might want to get rid of this,” the former spy remarks, pushing the waste bin across the table to the CIA agent.

Surprisingly, he just accepts, making sure to return with a relatively unused one and even extra plastic bags. “Anything else I can get? Want me to call a doctor?”

If only that would help. “I’ve got something for the pain so I can get her back…learned to be prepared.”

“This happens often?” Shock makes the already pasty face paler.

“Every time she sees something.” Soft hands run circles on [Y/N]’s back, nursing the poor woman as she’s curled together, head cradled between shaking hands. “Imagine getting your skull hit by lightning…overloading every single neuron until the whole thing is overcharged and ready to burst only it can’t explode it can just keep hurting her.”

It’s obvious how Ross’ entire idea of how premonitions work is being re-evaluated and adjusted to allow for what he’s just witnessed. Not as romantic as books or movies claim, huh?

Natasha sits patiently, answering the confused agents many questions (though, to be fair, he actually finds the answer to a lot on his own), while nursing [Y/N] back into a shape where she can drink some water to swallow some of Dr. Cho’s pills and eventually stand on her legs. Wobbly, sure, but well enough to make it down to the car.

…

“How you feeling, babe?” She looks better. There are bags under [Y/N]’s eyes, but at least the ashen shade that had covered her face is gone. “Dare to get some food in you?”

There’s a brief moment where the option is considered before dismissed. “Thanks though…” Then she resumes the scribbling in the notebook Happy has given her, sometimes absentmindedly stroking the sequins or highlighting something – this time in an electric purple shade which she adds to something else after leafing backwards. “Has…has there been aaa…a bombing with a king or something?”

It’s a quick search for the combined forces of Natasha and Jarvis, both coming up with nothing relevant despite the pressure of a growing frown on [Y/N]’s face. The red-head recognizes the thinning line of her girlfriend’s lips and knows an intervention is needed if ever the woman is going to get some rest, but she has also seen firsthand how important it is to work through the vision as soon as possible or it will keep interfering with everything else.

Carefully lowering herself onto the bed behind the pained woman, she runs slender fingers across [Y/N]’s scalp, eliciting a sigh. “What else can I do to help?”

“Thaaaat,” a breathy moan divulges, sending chills up and down Nat’s spine, “it feels sooo good, hon.”

Nails cart gently through messy-looking hair, fingertips circling the temples and adding pressure at the nape of the skull. Back and forth while the woman between the hands start to relax into the touch. Then the slender fingers find the shoulders, kneading gently but deeply into the tangled mess of tense muscles in the vain hope that some release can be found and might help ease the pounding headache Natasha knows is reigning.

It must be working because [Y/N] sighs deeply, a content smile growing on the lips as she arches her back in relief, free breasts stretching the front of the lose t-shirt that replaced most of the ensnaring and sweat-soaked clothes the moment they got home. It’s so simple, so natural to slide a hand along the clavicles and trace the neckline of the shirt with a fingertip while the other traces a path back into the mane that smells so perfectly, and Nat can’t resist the urge to plant a feathery kiss on the top of the ear.

Did you see this too, sweetheart? See me fall in love with you? It doesn’t matter if [Y/N] knew, though, because it won’t change how right it is. It has brought a new worry into Natasha’s life, but it’s a price she’ll gladly pay over and over again as long as she gets to listen to this woman’s heartbeat, taste her kisses in the grey morning hours, know that the trust they share can’t be broken. Not by anything.

[Y/N] twists in the Avenger’s grasp, subtly moving the southern hand to rest on a boob under which a rapid beat is drumming. Led by her own hair, Nat is guided until mouths meet. There is still a tender lightness to it but also an urge, a hunger that demands more and wouldn’t it be wonderful to give in? To gorge in the sweetness without fear of causing damage?

“It’s okay, Tasha.” Hot breath carries a scent of toothpaste. “I want it. Please?”

Anything for you. A searing kiss is the only answer Natasha can muster at first. Then, without breaking contact, she pulls [Y/N] onto her lap like a goddess placed on a pedestal to be worshipped. A stray thought tries to ruin the fun by pointing out how lovely it would’ve been to slowly remove any trousers, but it’s a notion that’s squashed the moment soft thighs settle around Nat’s in a strong hold.

The first buttons of the red-head’s blouse are worked on uncontested while the remainder pop from the brute force of [Y/N] pulling at the fabric, finally allowing colder hands to roam over pale skin, finding and caressing a few old scars and toying with the fine lace.

It’s a slow maelstrom of desire that spins and pulls the women. Natasha isn’t sure when the t-shirt is discarded, she just knows how perfect the hard nipple feels against her tongue and lips and that the weight of each breast is the loveliest burden to hold and massage until [Y/N] rocks against the jeans.

It can be seconds later or minutes when the former spy pulls out the sweetest sounds by stroking the silken folds, already slippery with need. Each pass over the clit has the woman on top moaning, trying to stifle the sound against Tasha’s skin which is puckered after kisses and teasing bites. It’s not enough to silence the quaking groan when the adept fingers brings the roaring sensations to a blissful peak and [Y/N]’s body shudders and stiffens, core clenching around a few fingers that had reach inside and found the right spot.

…   Reader   …

Inside you are heavenly chorus is singing the praises for Tasha, for the fact that she proved your hope right and showed that, yes, being intimate could still feel good. Pfft…inadequate word. It had been beyond amazing, reducing you to a soft mass of euphoria collapsed onto her gorgeous frame.

Once relatively conscious again, you wanted to reciprocate.

“No, babe, not this time,” Tasha shushes you, stopping any complaints with kisses, “tonight I take care of you, ‘kay? And right now you get to rest.”

Of course nothing she says is a lie and she makes sure to clean you before tugging you under the covers. You’re half asleep by then and smiling like a lovesick fool.

“Tasha –“

“Nuh-uh!” A finger lands on your lips. “Unless you’re about to say you love me too then you’re going to sleep. Right now.”

“I guess I have to stay awake then.” But the smirk on your face is stretched into a yawn and you feel warmth echo inside your bones and mixing with the bliss your hero has left behind.

One more kiss, a whispered promise that she’ll be back to check on you, then darkness descends with a gentle peace.

[andersa]

The Kessel Gambit

With a final clunk, the noises of hard-dock abate, leaving just the hum of air conditioning units and electrical systems. It seems unnaturally quiet after all the alarms, high thrust manoeuvring and main armament activity, intermixed with the occasional thump and bang as shields took hits from the enemy. A total engagement time for this phase of the operation: 6 minutes 23 seconds. Seemed like longer, but then things do when you're having fun. It gets trickier from here on in. The run to Kessel was made exactly to schedule and, with small adjustments here and there, exactly to the planned course. A total of six hyperspace jumps with one placed close enough to a known deep space monitoring probe to provide just a hint of our incoming trajectory, giving the star-destroyer Armoured Evangelist just enough time to get wind of our arrival and intercept us as we came out of hyperspace, 0.2 AU from Kessel itself. Just another hunk of junk, making the spice run in the hope of turning a tidy profit and not getting blasted while trying. Or so it seems. But now the real mission begins. Noises in the access way beyond my hiding space signal the imminent arrival of stormtroopers. Sure enough, a second later, the airlock door is blasted open and a unit of white suited 'troopers enter the ship. The stormtroopers run past me and down the corridor towards the bridge and cargo space. I can sense that two remain stationed outside the airlock. There's some encrypted chatter back and forth between the troopers. Probably wondering where the crew are hiding (good luck with that - just little old me here!), and why the cargo hold is empty - except, that is, for the bomb on the cargo bay door. I send a signal to the bomb to blow the device. The cargo bay has a big door, and there is pure vacuum outside, so the resultant explosive decompression is pretty impressive. Air screams through the airlock as that which is lost from the freighter is replaced by air from the star destroyer's dock-space. Within half a second the pressure loss condenses the moisture out of the air and visibility becomes a greyed-out zero. Normally the dock's blast doors would automatically close to seal the breach, but I'm holding the nearest one open by an extension of Force. Time to move. I come out of my hiding place and float out of the airlock against the raging current of air, stopping just inside the blast door to link to the Armoured Evangelist's network using a droid interface. At the moment I have all the advantages - the element of surprise, and a full set of schematics and illicit access override codes uploaded into my processor. It takes me a fraction of a second to countermand the order the panicked ship sends to close all the blast doors​ on the dock level, and another couple of seconds to upload a hijacking routine to the destroyer's internal comms network that allows me to remain linked to the ship without a physical connection. As soon as it's done, I'm off. The fog clears as the remaining atmosphere in the dock space fades to vacuum. The blast doors are still open in the dock but air has stopped escaping, so someone with their wits about them must have manually activated the blast door beyond dock space. A few stormtroopers are revealed, scrabbling around, clutching their throats and generally suffocating. Threat risk is low. As I move down the access way, I transmit one of my purloined codes that gives me access to the Armoured Evangelist's core AI and begin uploading a set of instructions that are so large, it will take a full 10.68 seconds to complete. There are things to do before the upload is finished. The best kind of plans have plenty of resilience built in. If something goes wrong - an objective not possible to achieve, say, or an attack beaten off - then you need to switch seamlessly to the next priority, or attempt an already thought-out alternative tactic to achieve your primary aims. This plan - the one I'm following now - doesn't have that. This is a one chance only, blink and it's gone dash-for-glory attempt that the highly annoying C3 unit back at Polis Massa kept telling everyone who would listen had only a three-point-two percent chance of success. Cretin. What does it matter when your mission is almost certainly going to end in your death, even if it succeeds? Anyway - back to business. I'm at the closed blast doors between dock space and ship interior. No application of the Force will open these now they are locked shut. Brute force is what's required. Blasters are no good ('blast' doors, remember?) and so I rely on my other particular weapon - a light sabre. Not your normal, Jedi issued sabre though. Being a droid means I have certain, ahem, advantages over my biological brethren. Massive parallel processors in a really tiny space mean I have the ability to build three dimensional shapes in real time out of my sabre-generator ports - from lance like projections to a fully-enclosing (but sensor-blinding) sphere out to two meters from case exterior. In training there was no way a single sabre-wielding Jedi could best me in one-on-one combat. And as for stormtroopers... Lighting up a lance from a 'sabre port I push through the blast door; globs of molten metal and carbon-diamond composites bounce and fizzle all over the floor, then I extend the sabre's circumferential dimensions outwards to form a hollow cylinder through which I can fit. Another vortex blasts through the hole as air rushes in to fill the void in the dock space. Strangely enough, resistance on the other side is more concerned with breathing than taking careful aim. I'm through and away and off down the Armoured Evangelist's keel lateral access way that leads directly to engineering space. When I'd reviewed the stolen designs for this class of star-destroyer, it had been with a sense of awe and incredulity that I'd seen the keel lateral access way. Just over two thousand meters long from where I'd entered it, and a dead straight line from docks to just one bulkhead away from engineering, it offered an almost laughably easy route to the decks directly beneath operations, weapons control, communications and command. A pulsed laser-ranging shot down to the far end of the access way confirms a distance of 2032.56 meters from my position to the far end, and no obstructions in my path. All blast doors are open (no one has thought to manually close any - yet), and I make sure ship keeps it that way. I push up to maximum speed, passing through the sound barrier less than a second later, at which point the balance of available Force vs. resistance is achieved. A small object travelling at at 343.2 meters per second through a corridor makes for a hard target, but a few plucky 'troopers have a go. They all miss. Stormtroopers and droids scatter and tumble in the shock wave behind me. A few fall from the access way into the keel space beneath. I can't resist taking a look through one of the Armoured Evangelist's security cameras as I pass ... pretty awesome, if I say so myself. Exactly 4.98 seconds after setting off I begin braking, at the same time sending a spread of stuttered x-ray laser pulses a nanometer wide at the bulkhead wall. The bulkhead gives way in a shower of sparks, heat and light, and with a shrewd nudge with my shields, a diamond shaped section gives way and tumbles to the floor leaving a space just large enough for me to fit through. As I come to a stop inside the bulkhead wall and begin to make my way upwards, the upload of illicit code I started earlier completes. I execute the code, sending all access overrides I possess to make the Armoured Evangelist think it's being given commands by a Grand Admiral, and hope that by the time I reach the top the instructions have done their work. Things might get a little hot otherwise. As I negotiate through a maze of ducting, pipework, power conduits and thick, glowing bundles of optic waveguide cables, I hear alarms through the bulkhead wall. That can only mean the Captain has authorised the activation of the secondary internal defence system (thoroughly independent of the Armoured Evangelist's own systems, and therefore immune to my fiddling). Enforcer droids will now be let loose on a shoot-to-kill engagement protocol. I tangled with a K series some years ago and they make for pretty tricky opponents, with lightning fast target-and-fire routines. Far more accurate than your average biological stormtrooper. Better be careful. By the time I reach the level of the weapons control deck, space is getting tight. I'm having to move things around to keep heading upwards. Progress is slow. It's 36 seconds since I left the airlock. I'm behind schedule. Like a Siche-Tick bite making its host Worrt subservient to its parasitic whim, the illicit code has the Evangelist's AI under my command - at least for the next several minutes or so, until someone realises what's happened and reboots the ship's dyanamid quantum-core processors. I hope the courier makes it on time... *** "How's it looking Chewie?" The big wookie takes his eyes off the navigation screen for a moment, cocks his head to one side and let out a wavering howl that leaves Han in no doubt that his co-pilot is unconvinced by their chosen course. A lopsided smile spreads across Han's face as he stares out at the blue hyper-spacial star-scape through which the Millennium Falcon spears towards Kessel. "I know Pal, but just the bonus alone for this trip will easily pay off all our debts with the Hutts. It's worth a little risk don't you think?" Chewbacca looks again at the crazy human, and wonders once more if his decision to take up the offer of business partner and co-pilot had been a good one. His own race was renown for its fierceness in battle, and no-one would dare question his bravery if they wished to retain their motile appendages. Humans in general were a strange lot, too much concerned with messy, distracting emotions and often shy when it came to battle. Not this one though. Behind the innocent and friendly demeanour was a being with genuine fight and a streak of loyalty that rivalled even that of his own clan members. This particular human, however, was reckless. Very, very reckless. According to the nav computer, the course they’re taking will get them from Forrnos to Kessel in only four jumps, a total distance of just under 12 parsecs. The straight line course (at current orbital alignments) measures only 10.67 parsecs. Normally, to avoid crashing into one of the various debris fields, asteroid belts and black holes that litter space between the two worlds, a ship would have to make numerous jumps, changing course wildly each time to avoid running into something. A typical run to Kessel covered a distance of 16 to 18 parsecs. Twelve was practically a straight line. They were probably going to die. Chewbacca lets out another howl and looks questioningly at Han. "Well," says Han, "He was very certain that this course would work. He told me a ship left months ago to map out the asteroid belts and this course was perfectly safe. Besides, why give me bad information if it means he'd lose the cargo?" Han gave Chewbacca another of his winning smiles. "We'll be making the last jump in a short while. Why don't you check our package is ready for delivery?" Chewbacca leaves the flight deck and makes his way back to the cargo hold, murmuring his displeasure and concern all the way. In the hold, nestled amongst the machine parts they would trade on Kessel for spice, was the thing the man who'd chartered their services back in a bar in Spicant had given them to transport. Chewbacca pulls off a dirty cargo cover to reveal a battered, deactivated R2 astromech unit. Bending down to release the retaining straps, Chewbacca reads the model designation near the edge of the rounded top of the droid, 'R2-D2' it said. Well, R2-D2 is destined for a bizarre journey, thinks Chewbacca as he pulls it over to the starboard escape airlock, pushes the droid inside, and readies the lock for release. *** A sound below draws my attention. Hmm. Something is coming up after me. By the sound of it, it's an Enforcer droid. The Enforcer is much larger than me, so it's having to move a lot more stuff out of the way. While I can easily stop it, it's probably broadcast my position to its comrades, and right now they will be making their way to the weapons control deck and command deck above to meet me. It looks certain a firefight will have to be fought soon if I'm to achieve my goal. I eject an antimatter mine one millimetre in diameter out of my casing and direct it down the route I came from, timing it to reach the climbing droid and detonate a fraction of a second after I laser my way out of the bulkhead into the weapons control deck. Emerging from the wall in a shower of sparks, there is a moment of immobility on the part of the black suited men on watch, one lieutenant in particular open mouthed and staring in amazement at my sudden appearance. This comical tableau is shattered as the mine reaches the climbing droid and detonates, sending a shock-wave through the fabric of the ship and a blinding flash of pure white light through the hole behind me. The lieutenant drops to the floor blinded, but the weapons officers in their anti-flash helmets are not so afflicted. Side arms are drawn and fired with surprising rapidity. I'm already moving through the room, using both my shields and 'sabre to deflect the incoming plasma bolts. Those I deflect using the sabre I send back in the direction it comes from. Others bounce off my shields and ricochet off the walls, floor and ceiling. Shouts of alarm, grunts of pain, bright flashes, smoke and the familiar chemical markers of ozone and burnt flesh begin to fill the space as I head towards the exit. An Enforcer droid appears in the doorway, levelling its weapon at me, but I throw it aside using the Force and tumble out into the access-way. There is open space beyond, and it is a simple matter of clearing the anti-fall field barrier and head upwards to the deck above, where closed armoured doors prevent access to the command deck. Movement to the right and left give away the presence of several Enforcers, backed up by white suited stormtroopers heading in my direction. It is now 62 seconds since commencement of hostilities in the dock. According to my chronometers, there are 306 seconds remaining until the earliest arrival of the courier. Once I'm inside the command deck, the final phase can begin. Before I do that, I need to even the odds. I send an instruction to the Armoured Evangelist, then shunt my cognitive processing routines from a quantum state matrix to a biomechanical substrate. I can access solid state memory still, but my processing speed will be way slower. However - needs must... The Armoured Evangelist carries out my orders, over-rides the safeties on sixty high-capacity EMP ordnance pods in the fighter bay arsenal and detonates them. The resultant EMP blasts take out all droids on board, effectively knocking them unconscious until their systems reboot. Across the ship, all Enforcers, astromechs and service droids go still, offline. It will take several minutes for them to come up to full system readiness. Even if they do, I could tell the Evangelist to detonate another batch of EMPs. Because I'm in biological processing, things are ... slow. I'm protected from the EMP, but my thinking speed is now that of a human. That puts them at less of a disadvantage, but unless I run into Darth Vader himself, I reckon I'm the one with all the aces. Anyway, onward and upward. Admiral Graad awaits... *** "What do you mean, they're all disabled!" Admiral Graad looks down his long nose at Captain D'Horza, whose face turns an even paler shade of grey than normal as he stares up at the imposing visage of his superior. "It seems... It seems that our own ship set off an EMP charge that took down all the droids on board, sir." Captain D'Horza pulls at his collar and glances at the chaos around him as his officers try to make sense of what was going on and what had become of their ship's AI. "I fear that the attacking force has, somehow, taken over the ship and is using it against us!" "Fate's end, how is that possible?" Admiral Graad didn't expect Captain D'Horza to answer. He knew himself that such a thing was unheard of in the history of the Empire. Bangs and thumps on the command deck's blast doors heralded the arrival of their foe. How had they got here from the docks so quickly? Chatter from the radios and officers around him seemed to imply that a single assailant - possibly a droid of some kind - had been the cause of all this. One lieutenant nearby was questioning a subordinate on a comms link, asking them repeatedly if they were sure of what they had seen. The word 'light sabre' was used several times. Admiral Graad began to get that cold, sinking feeling he always had when in the presence of Lord Vader. Surely not, he thought. They were all destroyed decades ago, weren't they? With a shuddering groan the blast doors twist inwards and open slightly, just enough to let a roughly diamond shaped device the size of a disembodied head into the command deck, whereupon it floats along the deck directly toward him. For a moment, a vivid fiery-red glow is visible beyond the blast doors before they slam shut, cutting off the carnage beyond. Everyone in the room is frozen, seemingly unable to act. Faces peer up from the stations below as the invader-droid beelines towards their Admiral. "Greeting, Admiral Graad," the droid says in clear, Imperial Basic, coming to a halt a few meters away. Admiral Graad raises a quivering hand and points at the droid. "I know what you are! An Abomination!" "Touche, Admiral. Although it pleases me that you recognise me for what I am." "It's impossible! Your kind were all destroyed, years ago!" "It's true. Most of us were. In fact, I am the last, and, I'm sure you'll be glad to hear, soon to be no more." Admiral Graad lowers his arm and looks quizzically at the droid. "Vader was most persistent in his pursuit of the droid-Jedi,” it says. “As an experiment, we were rather good at what we did. But he needn't have bothered. We were all getting far too old for this sort of thing, even then. The melding of midichlorians and machine was not a happy experiment. Much of the time it is torment to us. Most of my kin long ago took death as a welcome release. I will soon follow them. But first, I have a task to complete." Admiral Graad looks askance, wondering what this strange abhorrent mix of machine and biology could want from him. Then, unbidden, the thing he least wanted to divulge, the secret he'd buried deep within him came clear in his mind, even as he struggled to resist the growing pressure around his neck. "No, not that! You can't have that!" he croaks, as he is lifted bodily from the ground. But those possessed of the Force were always very persuasive, and in the end, Admiral Graad can’t resist. He tells the droid everything it wants to know. *** The Armoured Evangelist tells me it has detected the signature of a ship's hyperdrive collapsing its singularity field. It's time. I drop the Admiral’s unconscious body to the deck, then give the Armoured Evangelist its last instructions and heave an inward sigh of relief. Death will be a blessing. *** "Hold on, Chewie! Twenty seconds until we drop out of hyperspace. Is the package ready?" Chewbacca howls a brief acknowledgement and readies the airlock release. "As soon as it's on it's way, we make for the rendezvous. Wouldn't want to run into any trouble this close to the mines, not with all the Imperial activity round here lately." Han gives Chewbacca one of his sly grins and slaps his co-pilot on the shoulder. "Ok, here we go..." The Millennium Falcon's nav computer dis-engages the hyperdrive and the star field collapses to a real-space view. Immediately a target alert begins blaring. Chewbacca roars his surprise and alarm. "I know, I see it!" Han begins powering up deflector shields and puts the Falcon into a hard turn. Close by their exit point is a vast glowing cloud of debris, expanding rapidly outwards in a blossoming petal shape. Bits of twisted metal and ceramic shoot past the hull and impact the shields, but fortunately the largest parts miss by several kilometres. Chewbacca hits the airlock release, and the old, battered astromech inside joins the expanding nebula of wreckage. "From the size of it, I'd say that until a few moments ago, that was a star-destroyer. What the hell happened to it?" Han looks at Chewbacca, who shrugs in reply. "You know what, never mind," says Han. "Let's get out of here." Han pushes the throttles to maximum, heading directly away from the last resting place of the Armoured Evangelist toward the relative safety of Kessel itself. *** Signal received from Outer Rim Sector - source location triangulated to near Kessel orbit. Decoded by Alliance milcom at station Polis Massa [Note: Encrypted code stream from high gain directional transmitter - likely source: Imperial Class Star-Destroyer] Begins: Mission codename 'Kessel Gambit' objective achieved. Information extracted from primary target. Auto-destruct of Star Destroyer 'Armoured Evangelist' made at courier arrival. Transfer of Death Star plans to infiltrator-spec astromech 'R2-D2' achieved using low power blast-hardened transmitter following auto-destruct; thereby preventing signal interception by Imperial monitoring station 'Jorrudor'. R2-D2 astromech will broadcast a low power distress signal on 121.5Mhz for Rebel Alliance pick-up in debris field. If Imperial or non-Alliance intercept results, R2-D2 will await further instruction from Alliance milcom. ENDS. Comments

[quasarlasar]

Penguins and Pupfish: A Short Story, Based on a Dream

In the pitch blackness of the slot canyons, she slid her hand down the side of the rocks, unthinkingly. They were still damp from the recent rains. She could smell the intoxicating fragrance from the blooming dryland flowers.

But under the clouds of pollen and perfume lay another scent. One far less inviting.

“What do you mean...triggered?” the geologist asked her. “There are remotely triggered earthquakes, but you seem to be looking for something else...”

“Triggered. Yes. Triggered by...someone...” she replied, focusing in on a strange sensation her hands got as she stroked the canyon wall. 

“Do you have a blacklight on you?” she asked one of her team-mates. He handed her an ultraviolet lamp. She flicked it on, and the walls came alive with fluorescence.  “But...that doesn’t make sense!” the geologist exclaimed increduously. “These minerals do not fluoresce under UV light...”

“That’s because it’s not the rocks. It’s blood...”

The recent magnitude 7.2 earthquake was a nightmare for most people, but for the earth scientists, it had been a godsend. Like moths to a flickering flame, they were drawn to the fault zone to investigate the surface rupture, to record the effects of each and every aftershock.

In the throngs of the curious, she had slipped through. Nobody bothered to give her a second look. At least, they didn’t until she started laying down on the earth, putting her ears to the ground, and whispering, like she was somehow having a conversation with it. 

She recalled the last moments of her sleep, before she had been woken up the night before by the shaking.

What is this?...Such anger...Disgust...Panic...It’s too much! It’s all too much! 

And then she screamed herself awake as the P-waves entered the room, and the rest of the shaking followed....

Gunfire rang out, echoing across the canyons. The geologist dropped to the ground, caught by surprise. Fortunately, he hadn’t been hit. He simply had been frightened by the cracking of the guns. 

“He is here...” she said. “The poacher.”

She scrambled her way up the canyon, onto a smallish bluff. The clear desert sky flickered with stars, twinkling above her, with the mountains silhouetted as dark shadows against the background.

In the distance, the red glow of fire. 

She crept towards the firey glow, her shoes crackling on leftover garbage. Cans of food, emergency supplies, littered by someone who had been hiding out here a long time before the quake.

Dark pelts hang from the branches of the desert shrubbery. She touched one, smooth and silky. The feathers of the coastal penguin, native to the cold waters offshore. Fish bones crunched beneath her feet. She scooped up a handful. The bones of the desert fishes eking out a last living in the sag ponds of the fault zone. 

Both endangered species. Both animals whose homes had been destroyed by man. 

Finally at last she saw him. His hair was a wild, tangled mess, blowing in the wind. His muscles burly, his clothes ripped. His hunting rifle was raised, but he lowered it when he saw her. Not another law enforcement officer. Just some random woman.

“You know what you did last night...” she said with the slightest hint of anger in her voice.

The poacher raised his gun again. “It wasn’t my fault.”

The burly hunter had fled into the desert, on the run from the law. The state had passed an ordinance forbidding the exploitation of the penguins. He thought the science they had used to determine their numbers was bunk, and continued to ply his trade, now illegal. The authorities gave him the chase. But he had other plans, and drove his boat into the river mouth, upstream into the desert. 

“Stupid thing. Wouldn’t stop talking about how this ground was sacred. Since when was anything in nature sacred? Wild animals just kill and eat each other, and predators drive their prey extinct all the time. Who was it to judge me for that, given it had destroyed so many of our homes?”

She got him to lower his gun once more, and eventually, he recounted to her what had happened.

“The river had ended at a spring. I had been hauling the last few penguin carcasses out of my boat. I couldn’t travel any further on water, so once I got my supplies out of the boat, I decided to blow it up. That way they wouldn’t be able to piece together my story. I decided to make my camp out on this bluff. I began to clean the penguin carcasses. I let the blood drain into the valley nearby...”

“But after a while, I heard...screaming. Screaming coming from the valley.” 

“I climbed down, thinking that there was somebody trapped there. But there was nobody. I must’ve gone down there at least five times.”

“Then, on the sixth time I descended, the screaming came back, but now it was all around me. The ground started shaking. I turned around to see the penguins’ blood, now all dried up and forming a thick crust on the rocks.”

LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!!! the voice had said. SMEARING THE REMAINS OF YOUR VICTIMS ALL OVER MY BODY!

“Victims?” Said the poacher. “What are you, some kind of vegan or something?” 

I AM THE SPIRIT UNDER THE DESERT, THE ONE WHO CARVED THIS VALLEY AND UPLIFTED THE BLUFFS.

“Spirit? So you’re like some sort of hippy then.” 

NO. I AM THE ONE THAT SHIFTED THE RIVERS, EON AFTER EON, BIT BY BIT, AND BROUGHT THE WATER TO THE SURFACE.

“An aqueduct engineer?”

MUST A LANDSCAPER BE AN ENGINEER?

“No, but why are you-”

YOU HUMANS ARE ALL THE SAME. INCAPABLE OF COMPREHENDING THINGS BEYOND YOUR SHORT AND FRAGILE LIVES. HOW SELFISHLY HAVE YOU STREWN YOUR WASTE ACROSS MY CREATIONS, DUMPED THE TOXINS OF YOUR SHIP INTO MY WATERS.

“You’re not human then...”

MUST A LANDSCAPER BE A HUMAN?

“Well, I’m hard pressed to think of anything else that can completely change the structure of the land on such a vast scale....”

The ground shook again, like a darkly humored, rumbling laugh.

IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK? THAT YOU ARE THAT POWERFUL? THAT YOU ARE ABOVE IT ALL, EVEN THOUGH A SINGLE SHAKE OF THE GROUND CAN SEND YOUR PRECIOUS CREATIONS CRUMBLING INTO THE DIRT?

YOU HAVE TAKEN LIFE FORMS THAT TOOK MILLIONS OF REVOLUTIONS ABOUT THE SUN TO EVOLVE, AND WIPED THEM ALL OUT IN A HEARTBEAT. THE DESERT FISH THAT I HAD SHELTERED AND PROTECTED WITH MY SAG PONDS FOR SO MANY YEARS--GONE! THE PENGUINS THAT HAD FED ON THE SHRIMP THAT GATHERED AT THE ESTUARY OF MY RIVER---GONE! AND ALL IN THE NAME OF YOUR CREATIONS, YOUR FANCY DISHES MADE FROM THE FLESH OF LIFE, YOUR BRIDGES AND BOATS AND SKYSCRAPERS MADE FROM THE FLESH OF THE EARTH.

“WHAT ARE YOU?” the poacher shouted. “Show yourself!”

Then he instantly regretted it as vaguely serpentine forms moved from within the canyon walls, before linking together, weaving like cracks in bathroom tile. The shapes came together to form the floors of the canyons and valleys, until he realized the ground was like a giant keloid scar. 

I AM THE FAULT ZONE THAT SNAKES BENEATH THE VALLEY. THE ONE THAT HAS BEEN QUIETLY SITTING AWAY, A CLOCK TICKING LIKE FATE, A SWORD OF DAMOCLES HANGING BENEATH YOUR CITY.

“Oh great, a talking fault line...yeah, I’ve definitely seen it all,” the poacher said, rolling his eyes. “Next thing you’ll tell me the ground will just rear up and punch me in the face.”

And then the ground lurched up a few feet, and he faceplanted, just like that. 

I AM THE FURY AND VENGEANCE OF THE LAND. THE LAND YOU TRY TO TAME, BUT THAT WILL ALWAYS BE WILD AND FREE. 

The poacher got up and spat dirt from his mouth. He stomped on the ground, annoyed. 

“Who are you to give me lectures?! A fault line, daring to lecture me on my own so-called ‘destruction?’ You have destroyed countless of our cities, killed thousands of people! How dare you lecture me on destruction when you have caused so much of it more than me?”

NO. YOU ARE MISTAKEN. IT IS YOU YOURSELVES THAT HAVE TURNED WHAT I DO INTO DESTRUCTION. BEFORE YOU CAME, IT WAS CREATION. THE CREATION OF MOUNTAINS AND VALLEYS, SPRINGS AND SCARPS. NOW THAT YOU HAVE BULLDOZED THE SCARPS, HOLLOWED THE MOUNTAINS AND PAVED THE VALLEYS, IT IS DESTRUCTION. 

“EXACTLY! You have destroyed our homes!”

AND WHAT DID YOU DO? YOU POISONED THE SPRINGS SO THE FISH CAN NO LONGER LIVE HERE. YOU LITTERED THE DESERT WITH YOUR GARBAGE AND TRASH SO THE DESERT BLOOMS WON’T TAKE ROOT. 

YOU HAVE CLAIMED A TOLL ON THE LAND. SO...IT IS TIME I CLAIMED A TOLL ON YOU.

He saw footsteps up in the distance. The wildlife patrols. He got out his gun. 

“I don’t have time for this...” the poacher growled. He fired. One. Two. Three times. The bodies of the wildlife officers rolled into the valleys. 

“Here’s what I think of you, ya stupid crack in the ground!” 

And he scraped and smeared the blood and guts of the penguins and pupfihs all over the rocks of the valley. 

The screaming came back. And this time, it turned into a rumbling, and then a roar.