#I can somewhere see nikto doing it back to him at one point if it starts pissing him off too much

[schneckmag]

I dont think people think about the fact that krueger knows russian near enough.

I'm convinced the fucker knows close to perfect pronunciation, but just to piss nikto off he'll speak it with the heaviest accent he can muster

[crystalessenceswrites]

Burden of the Survivors- Chapter Two

Burden of the Survivors

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader Rating: T (at the moment- subject to change) Warnings: swearing, canon-typical violence *no spoilers- takes place in Season 1 timeline* Summary: Mando works alone- except for when the absolutely can’t. There are few people Din trusts – trusts as in he doesn’t expect a viroblade in the back the second he’s turned around. She’s one of them. Just as cautious and nearly as tight lipped about her past as he is, Din doesn’t mind her around too much. A/N: My inspiration is a fickle thing, I’ve been swinging back and forth between Shadows and BotS for a few weeks now. Finally got enough to sit down and finish this chapter, so cheers to that.

[Masterlist] [Chapter One] [Chapter Two] [Chapter Three] Cross-posted to AO3

Chapter Two

When Vero found you, you were nothing but a pickpocket on the lower-level streets of Coruscant-the byproduct of the horrors of the Clone Wars and the rise of the Empire. You were nearing sixteen and beginning to lose your touch. When you were younger-and smaller-it was easier to weave through crowds and avoid attention. Puberty and a growth spurt made it much more difficult for the teenage you to blend in. You made it work, you had to if you wanted to get by, but it took twice as much work to get folks to look the other way. Ever observant Vero caught on quick but said you had potential, just not as a street thief. The alabaster skinned theelin approached you with a job, a job that paid more than you could scrounge up in two weeks selling your stolen treasures. All you had to do was deliver a small parcel to a pilot friend of his at a docking station a few levels up without getting caught by the city guard before the pilot was scheduled to leave in two hours. It seemed easy enough and you desperately needed the credits. The last thing on your mind was what was in the package you carried. You knew better than to stick your nose where it did not belong, especially when you were getting paid. That decision changed your life.

The job was a test to see if you were capable and trustworthy enough to bring on for a real job as a runner, and you passed with flying colors. Vero took you under his wing and had you running smuggled goods and other products all over Coruscant. It was a reckless job, you knew that-even as a child-but it kept a roof over your head and food in your belly at a time in your life when you had forgotten what that was like. You were one of many street kids on Coruscant that had to turn to life in the underworld to get by, but you thank the Maker you ended up with the one crew on Coruscant that had some small sense of morals.

Vero worked for Shan Tillis, who had grown up on the streets of Corellia himself. Shan was sympathetic, smuggling had been his way out of the gutter, and he offered you that same opportunity. It had not taken long for Shan and the others to realize you were too smart and too quick on your feet to just move goods, that you and your brain could be used elsewhere. So, they taught you. Kom and Redarr, Shan’s lead muscle heads, taught you how to fight and how to fight dirty. Sola bought you your first proper viroblade (you’d nicked one years ago but it was made for hands much larger than yours so you’d always been rather clumsy with it) and taught you every trick in the book she knew, every weak spot on the body, how to wound but not kill and where to bleed someone out the fastest. Her lessons were always your favorite. Tala taught you how to pilot every kind of ship you could get your hands on, and how to hotwire a landspeeder- Vero was not thrilled when he discovered that lesson had been performed on his precious baby.

Everything that made you into the infamous bounty hunter you were now had been taught to you by that crew. Every cautious tick had been drilled into you by Kom and Vero. Redarr had schooled you on blasters, made you practice in-between jobs on how to take them apart and put them back together with your eyes closed. Zena taught you how to read people and how to know when a deal was about to go south.

Shan imparted you with the most practical wisdom of them all. How to know when you’re fucked.

This job seems pretty fucked to you.

The Mandalorian is silent as the two of you settle on the ridge above the compound. Scope out, he looks over the cluster of buildings. Even from a distance you’ve already counted ten nikto out and about, and you can safely assume they’re all heavily armed.

You tighten the various straps and holsters on your person before slipping your tactical mask into place. The contraption covers the lower half of your face and has always been more for the intimidation factor than much else. Redarr had gifted it to you all those years ago as more of joke than practical gear but you’d grown attached. Between the mask and its voice modulator, your hood and dark, nondescript clothes you could remained relatively anonymous when you wanted to, which was most of the time.

“If we come along the east side I think I can make it up to the roof without being seen, provide you with a little more cover.” You did always prefer the higher ground.

Mando nods, continuing to scan the scene, “there’s two on the northwest corner you’ll have to manage.”

Your scoff crackles through the modulator, “they won’t be an issue.”

He grunts before his head snaps back towards the edge of the compound, “shit. Bounty droid.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You whip out your own scope, focusing in on where Mando was watching. Sure enough, you spot an IG unit bounty droid making its way up to the group of nikto lingering outside.

“Subparagraph 16 of the Bondsman Guild Protocol Waiver compels you to immediately produce said asset.”

You roll your eyes as the shooting starts. Droids had to have figured out by now it was never that easy. If it was, anyone with a blaster could join the guild.

The droid has a handle on the gunfight, but you groan as you watch the compound go into lockdown, all the blast doors slam shut before the last shot is fired.

“Droids.” Mando snaps as he stands, one hand clenched around the hilt of a blaster.

You jump up, following behind him. Again, with the acting first, thinking second.

As you approach the encampment Mando jerks his head up, “you take the topside.”

“Gladly.”

You scramble up the side of the building with relative ease, there are plenty of odd pipes and vents that make convenient grips as you haul yourself and up over the lip of the roof. When the droid had ruined any chance at a surprise attack, you’d lost sight of the two guards on the roof. You keep your rifle aimed in their last known direction as you settle onto your stomach, ready to cover Mando as needed.

“Subparagraph 16 of the Bondsman Guild Protocol Waiver compels you to immediately produce said asset,” the droid repeats.

Maker they really have no learning curve.

“IG unit! Stand down!”

The bounty droid has split second reaction times, shooting at what you can safely assume is Mando when he groans from somewhere down below and out of view. “We’re in the Guild!”

“So I suggest you stand down before you take a bolt to the brains, droid.”

Your quip draws the droid’s attention to your vantage point on the roof.

“You are Guild members? I thought I was the only one on assignment.”

“That makes two of us,” Mando grumbles. “So much for the element of surprise.”

That was a kriffing understatement.

“Sadly, I must ask for your fob. I have already issued the writ of seizure. The bounty is mine.”

“Unless I’m mistaken, you are, as of yet, empty-handed.”

“This is true.”

You have to restrain your eye rolling to keep monitoring the roofline.

“I have a suggestion.”

“Proceed.”

“We split the reward.”

How many people was he going to offer to share your credits with? This was beginning to get out of hand.

“This is acceptable.”

Well considering how much Mando hated droid he at least knew how to manage them considerably well.

“Great. Now let’s regroup, out of harm’s way, and form a plan.”

You were sorely doubting that the droid was capable of forming a decent plan or following whatever you and Mando came up with, but it was worth a shot considering the situation had become even more fucked thanks to him.

“I will of course receive the reputation merits associated with the mission.”

“Is this really the time?” You shout down at the pair.

Mando seems to have the same idea, “can we talk about this later?”

“I require an answer if I am to proceed-”

An orange head pops into view on the roof across from you, “we’ve got company!”

The nikto takes a shot at the droid, “oh, no. Alert. Alert. Alert.”

Whole lot of help this one was. You land a headshot just as the doors of the compound slide open, more soldiers swarming out, blasters drawn.

“Let’s go!” Mando dives for cover and the droid follows after.

Your spot affords you a decent line of sight into the courtyard but there’s more of them then you thought there would be out in the middle of nowhere guarding who knows what you were after. It takes you picking off three of them before they realize you’re shooting at them from above. There’s a flurry of shouting and pointing in your direction and Mando makes a run for the main set of blast doors at the back of the courtyard. You were going to have friends on the roof soon. Lucky you.

Rolling back you jump to your feet, taking a couple pot shots into the courtyard as you make for the far end of the roof. The droid is a decent shot, covering Mando’s mad dash while you focus on the nikto popping up across the roof. One hauls himself over the edge to your left, making a swipe at yours leg with his blaster. The loud crunch of your boot to his skull cuts through the blaster fire around you as the body falls into courtyard. Gross. Two more appear out of thin air, their shots barely missing your head. Losing your blaster you duck and roll, knocking both over as you draw a viroblade from your thigh holster. Neither have time to react before you’re on them, each taking one clean slice to the neck.

Mando and the IG unit have made it to the main door as you duck behind some ventilation equipment at the northwest corner of the building. You appear to have control of the roof for now, but you can see the soldiers in the courtyard beginning to regroup. They have Mando and the bounty droid pinned. Shit. You can hear Mando’s modulated shouts from below but you can’t quite make out what he’s going on about. Hopefully he’s chewing out the dumbass droid who go you into this mess.

The IG unit steps out again, laying out a spread of blaster fire that doesn’t seem to do much. The nikto have plenty of coverage behind debris and the series of pillars lining the courtyard. Their numbers also seem to be steadily growing. Just how many of them were set up out here? Who needed this many bodyguards? It was nearly a small army. The IG unit cannot keep up with the incoming blaster fire, even with your help from above.

Your stomach drops as you catch sight of another incoming nikto on a hover blaster at the encampment entrance. You were all fucked. All you can do is hope Mando’s found good cover down there as you drop to your stomach, bracing behind the ventilation unit. The nikto lets it rip, covering the area with a spray of bolts. Most sound like they’re striking below you, focused on where you assume Mando and the droid are hiding.

Then as suddenly as it started the gun stops. Poking your head out you watch as the nikto is flung backwards and Mando yanks the blaster to him. You thank the Maker for whatever good fortune he earned for that to work. It takes only moments for Mando to swing the blaster around and mow down the rest of the small army.

“Well done,” the IG unit cuts through the eerie silence following the blaster fire. “I will disengage self-destruct initiative.”

“Wait, you guys can self-destruct?” Seemed a bit counterintuitive.

Mando’s visor snaps to where you’re hanging over the edge of the roof, looking for a spot to climb down. He wordlessly offers you a hand and you toss your pack and blaster down to him. Its not too high up so you simply ease over the edge and drop to the ground, ignoring the harsh jolt to your knees.

“Manufactures protocol dictates I cannot be captured; thus I have a self-destruct initiative.”

So the droid could have killed you all if had deemed the situation too risky. Great. You’re glad you hadn’t been aware of that during the shootout.

Mando helps the droid back to its feet. “You know, you’re not so bad. For a droid.”

Had hell frozen over? Mando was as droid adverse as they got, and now he was complimenting one? The universe must be ending.

“Agreed.”

“That blaster hit looks nasty. You okay?”

“Running a quick diagnostic… it has missed my central wiring harness.”

“Is that good?”

“Yes.”

Mando glances back to you, “good?”

“Never better,” you grin. This could have gone significantly worse, so you had no room to complain at the moment.

“Well, now we just need to get the door open.”

The way Mando’s helmet whips back to the large blaster makes you groan. There were easier, less messy ways to go about things. You don’t attempt to talk the hunter out of it, he most likely wouldn’t listen to you anyways. It almost looks like he has fun shooting out the blast door until in collapses inwards.

You all take tentative steps inside the compound. One head appears around a far corner to the right. Mando’s quick draw has him downed before anyone blinks. “Anyone else?”

As if any survivors were going to offer themselves up to be shot.

“I’ll clear the west side,” you offer and Mando nods before heading off with the bounty droid in the opposite direction.

An unnerving silence settles over you as you stalk down the halls of the mysterious compound. The small army camped here had been prepared and well supplied. There are crates upon crates of food stuffs, weapons and ammunition. Some places are nearly packed floor to ceiling with it. What exactly was going on out here? How did they get all this out here in the middle of nowhere?

You worry your necklace pendant with one hand, an unconscious gesture you have yet to train yourself out of. Something was not right about this job, or at least more than normal. Over the years your own morals had morphed to accommodate your line of work. You worked for the guild and were often paid by unsavory individuals, but that was what you did to survive, and you refused to let that get to you. This however was picking at an old wound, long forgotten.

Another shot echoes through the compound and you find yourself racing back towards Mando and the droid, blaster held at the ready. Swinging around a corner you find Mando standing over a small floating pod, the bounty droid smoking out of its “head” on the floor. Maybe he didn’t want to split the bounty after all.

“Mando?” Your voice seems to cut through whatever trance the hunter was under, head snapping back towards you. “What happened?”

His shoulders drop, the tension seeming to fall away at your appearance. “He was going to kill the bounty.”

“I thought you said the client specified they wanted it alive if at all possible.”

Mando nods, “they did say that.”

That gnawing sense of dreads returns. Stepping up next to Mando you glance down into the pod-which appears to be functioning as some kind of traveling pram-and are greeted with wide dark eyes and pointy green ears.

Oh Maker no…

[velociraptors-dont-lie]

My Way (3)

Summary: Anita’s adventure truly starts.

Warnings: blood? fighting? More swearing? More bad writing and OOcness?

A/N: I. still.hate.this. But imma continue writing it because im not a quitter.

Part one Here, Part Two here

Chapter Three

''We'll rest here for the night''

Anita groaned in relief and dropped to the floor, still cuffed hands going to her red and sore feet. Scamp cooed sadly from his pod and his ears dropped when Anita looked at him. ''I'm okay, sweetheart, promise.''

It got dark in what seemed like no time at all, the sun just under the horizon, and All Anita could hear was the Mandalorian's pained noises. She might've offered to help if she wasn't still distrustful of him, it was only his arm after all and it didn't look too bad.

She'd fed Scamp, gave him a drink and he seemed bored, unable to run about like he was used to doing with his mother. He looked at Anita as she chewed on something she'd stolen from the encampment before looking to the metal man who seemed in pain, deciding to do something about it, Scamp started to fidget.

She saw him moving out of the corner of her eye, saw him drop from out of the pod, and head towards the Mandalorian. Intrigued, she watched Scamp raise his arm and squint his eyes only fearing once the Mandalorian took Scamp's hand and picked him up.

Only to be surprised at his gentle drop into the pod, leaving the child there. So perhaps he wasn't as course and harsh as she first thought him to be, something about Scamp had already wormed its way into his armor, it was only a matter of a time before it reached his heart.

Scamp's second attempt to help yielded the same result, It also had Anita laughing quietly to herself when the man shut the pod with Scamp inside. At least now the little bugger had to sleep.

''I can help with that if you take these off.'' She lifted her hands to show the cuffs ''They're starting to hurt and I promise I won't jump on you again.''

''It's fine''

''It's not fine. It won't get better like that, at least let me clean it.''

He looked at her for a few seconds, debating the options in his head. She hadn't done anything else since arriving out of nowhere except care for the baby. In the end, he relented and released her hands from the cuffs and watched as she took the last of her water and used it to clean his wound.

''You know, that whole situation when I found you was a complete fluke.'' she chuckled to herself mostly as she dabbed his wound dry gently. ''I can't fight at all but you were walking off with my child and I had to do something. Honestly, I didn't think I could take but I was gonna try.''

''You were smart. Avoiding the beskar.''

''Well, I didn't want to break my hand.'' Anita was grinning, checking over the wound for the last time. ''Cause you know I only have two and I need them.''

It was silent again, He didn't reply to her but she had a question on her mind.

''Whoever you're taking him to...'' He turned to face her, the only indication he was looking was that his helmet seemed to bore right into her soul. ''What will they do with me? I'm only on this planet by accident and then Nikto's found me and told me to care for him. I don't-I'm scared.''

Again he was silent, she assumed to try and find an answer that wouldn't make her panic but his silence was doing that already.

''You're his mother. I'm sure they'll keep you around him.''

''And then I need to find a way home!'' Anita looked away, her face scrunched as if trying not to cry. Shuffling away from him. ''But I don't want to leave him but I have to go home, I have godchildren, my friends, my house. I can't stay and I can't take him with me because he's green.''

He was sure Anita would have had a full breakdown if the child hadn't started to cry from within the pod. Anita's ramblings stopped as did the appearance of tears in her eyes when her attention diverted to him Immediately.

She opened the pod and shushed the child, hands either side of the pod and gently rocking it side to side. He stilled in his bed, looking up at her with sad eyes and the beginnings of his own crying fit; The Mandalorian prepared for the loud screams but instead, Anita started to sing.

La la lu, La la lu. Oh, my little star sweeper. I'll sweep the stardust for you. La la lu, La la lu.

She was a good person. He could see that and some part of him didn't want to hand her over to the likes of the client. He saw the love she had for the child, the love the child had for her and he knew she would be devastated when they were separated.

His lie would be found out, she'll hate him but it was a job he had to do. For now, he enjoyed the sound of her soft singing as much as the child.

Little soft fluffy sleeper. Here comes a pink cloud for you. La la lu, La la lu.Little wandering angel Fold up your wings close your eyes

The child had calmed, his eyes drooping down as the familiar song she sung set him off to sleep. The Mandalorian had never heard it but the soft tones that followed on the words were enough to know he'd go the same way as the child did if he wasn't focused on his armor.

La la lu, La la lu And may love be your keeper La la lu, La la lu, La la lu

She closed the pod the instant she finished to protect Scamp from the noises of the Mandalorians fixings. Anita's own eyes dropping closed, the exhaustion of the day reaping the seeds it had sown and there she herself drifted to sleep; forehead pressed against the metal of the pod.

He had gone through her bag while she slept, heavier than he expected to lift. Inside were some familiar items, food packets, water but some were not so familiar. Two rectangles, black on one side and pink and blue on the other.

Wires, one white and the other black. A weird stick, pop off the lid and it smelt...strange and he couldn't place it. Small tubes he assumed was makeup, it did say the words 'Eye' and 'lip' on them.

He kept pulling things out, it wasn't that large of a bag but yet seemed like a black hole of just ...stuff. deciding none of what was inside could be used as a weapon, The Mandalorian placed everything back inside and put the bag back with its owner.

He almost hated to wake her up, to force her closer to the separation she'll experience when they get to Nevarro. She was groggy, her backed ached and her shoulders clicked as she stretched out her arms.

He noticed her feet a long time ago, the way she tried to take small steps and yet keep up with him at the same time while also trying to feed the kid. Walking along the hot floor seemed to hurt her and yet she kept on going, he tried to think if he had any shoes somewhere on the ship for her.

Not that his ship was all that useful at the moment. After walking for a while, Anita stopped behind him as he took the rifle looking weapon from his back, kneeling and pointing it down the ridge at a ship, where some ...small beings were doing something.

''what are they?'' Anita asked as he fired his rifle, disintegrating one of them. ''The small one is your...spaceship?''  

''Jawas'' The Mandalorian fired another shot after reloading, Anita noted the rifle seemed to only use one charge at a time. ''And yes.''

''Manny, your ship looks wrecked.''

After the third kill, the Mandalorian took off running down the small ridge and towards the big fortress the Jawas had retreated into. Anita sighed but ran after him and the pod that followed whether she liked it or not, her feet burning with pain and yet she didn't want to leave Scamp with him.

''You want me to hold your gun, Manny?'' She watched him fire another shot at the moving fortress before he carelessly threw the weapon her way and continued to run after his ship parts.

For a moment, Anita was stood still and struck dumb by how fast he actually gave her the weapon. She assumed his ship was more important than her imaginary mutiny he knew she wouldn't commit.

''Oh he's-okay.''' She ran after the pod, noticing it got too far away and witnessed her only source of life on the planet was trying to climb a moving vehicle. He narrowly missed being throw off by a close wall, and the Jawas started to throw random metal stuff down at him.

Anita continued to keep pace by the pod, the empty gun in her hand. Normally, Anita didn't have trouble running, she was quite fit and enjoyed a run in the mornings; yet her now bleeding feet slowed her down, caused her to bounce each step she took and she was finding it hard to breathe.

Huffing out in relief as the Mandalorian reached the top of the fortress, hoping she didn't have to jump over any more Jawa bodies. Though the relief was short-lived as his visage seemed to glow with blue light before he dropped backward, hitting the ground below with a hard thunk.

Anita cringed as he hit the ground, the pod stopping nearby but she kept going to drop by the man's side, the rifle was forgotten on the floor under the pod. She touched the chest plate of his armor, pulling her hand back as her fingers were zapped by lingering electricity.

Hissing with surprise rather than the pain she shoved her hand under his helmet, pulling down the fabric around his neck and pressing two fingers hard just under his jaw; checking for a pulse he still had.

Scamp made a noise from the side and she looked over to give him a smile. ''He's alright. He just got a bit of a jolt.'' Anita herself got a jolt when he suddenly moved, awake and in pain. ''You good, Manny?''

He said nothing. Only sat up, looked around, and made sure his helmet was still on.  Groaning as he stood up with her following, he walked back into the direction they came from and she assumed it was to return to his ship.

The hull had a few holes in it from where the Jawas had stripped it of its metal. The Mandalorian made a few frustrated sounds and slammed some doors, understandably mad that his ship was wrecked.

She followed him to what she assumed was the cockpit, he sat down in the middle seat and pushed buttons, flicked levers. There was sputtering, the ship wasnt able to take off and he gave up, disappearing back down the ladder.

''Dude, they got you good. This place is a mess.'' Anita jumped from the cockpit, forgoing using the ladder. The Mandalorian had Scamp in his arms, moving to leave the ship and go somewhere else with them since his mode of transportation was unusable.

''We gotta get your shit back man. I hate this planet.''

''Are your feet okay?''

''No, they're fucked.'' Anita laughed, though, to him, it sounded more like a pained whine. ''But if what you're actually asking is ''can I walk'' then the answer is yes. You are not carrying me.''  

''I wasn't going to.''

Anita made a face at him from behind, still following to whenever the next destination was set. The sun was setting and was near fully got when they arrived at a camp, someone of yet another race was fixing a tall, metal pole.

''I thought you were dead.''

''He almost was.'' Anita giggled to herself. ''My name is Anita. It's ...nice to meet you.'' Though confused and still afraid.

''I am Kuiil'' he replied, starting to climb down from the pole. He was small like a child and yet his face wasn't child-like at all. when he was finally on the ground and in front of her, he noticed her feet immediately.  ''You are injured.''

''Hm? oh yeh, just a little.''

''Sit. I will bring you supplies.''

''Oh no its-''

''I have spoken.'' Anita opened and closed her mouth dumbly, looking to Manny to help her but it just continued to stand there, silent as the grave. Kuiil hadn't said it rudely, it seemed more like a mannerism of his speech more than a rude demand that he was going to help.

Scamp had crawled down from inside his pod, playing with the small froglike creatures that hopped around while Anita tended to her feet with the supplies Kuiil had brought her.  

''This is what was causing all the fuss?''

''I thinks it's a child.''

''He is a child.'' Anita butted in, wiping the blood clean from her sore feet. ''his fifty years must be at least...8? maybe younger judging by the interest in slimy friends.''

''It is best to deliver it alive then.''

''him''

''My ship has been destroyed. I'm trapped here.'' The Mandalorian ignored her correction.   Anita rolled her eyes, bandaging up her feet while the two men talked. She wasn['t looking forward to yet another journey across the planet for his ship parts.

But where Scamp went, so did she.

''Hey, spit that out.''

Anita smiled at Scamp, who had caught his frog finally and shoved it face-first into his mouth. Leaning back his head, he swallowed it alive and looked to his mother with pride on his face.

Anita giggled, clapping as she was indeed proud of her little alien son. Though it was very gross, she couldn't help but find it incredibly cute.

The child was too cute.

[bedlamsbard]

Since it is a Rebels Day of Sorrow, and I’m not currently actively working on this story, I’ll go ahead and post this Ezra scene (from the story that must not be named, part of my S4 AU) that starts in the middle of A World Between Worlds and is otherwise, well...pretty classic Bedlam.

2.8K below the break.

I’ve been here before.

It was Ezra’s first thought when he opened his eyes, his head spinning and his whole body aching as if he had put his finger in a power socket.  In a way he supposed he had, if you substituted the Force for electricity.

The sky above him was a particular clear blue, cloudless, with a pair of twin suns burning down on him. Ezra stared up at them in bewilderment until he started to see spots, then grimaced and turned his gaze away. He picked himself up off the rocky ground; somehow sand had already gotten inside his gloves and the neck of his stolen bodysuit.  It was coarse and bitter between his teeth; Ezra spat to clear his mouth and regretted it a moment later even as the sands swallowed up the sputum, the dark trace of the moisture vanishing almost immediately.

A desert planet with twin suns, he heard Maul’s voice say in his head, and looked hastily around, his hand falling to the lightsaber he had hidden inside his stolen armor.  But there was no one else to be seen, just an endless expanse of rolling desert that seemed to go on in every direction.  There was no doorway, either, nothing to show how Ezra had arrived here or how to get back.  There was only a small disturbance in the sand where he must have landed and laid for a time before regaining consciousness.

This was bad.  This was really, really bad.

Maybe if he wandered around long enough Master Kenobi would find him again, but Tatooine was an entire planet, and Ezra had no way to know if he had landed anywhere near the place he had last time.

He rubbed at gritty, already dry eyes, then started to strip out of his scout trooper armor.  It was rated for a Lothal winter, not Tatooine’s endless summer, and he was going to roast to death if he kept wearing it. Beneath it he had kept his regular clothes; Ezra freed his lightsaber from its makeshift casing in the armor and clipped it to his belt, feeling a little better at having it easily to hand. Not that there was anyone around to use it on.  At this point he would have even welcomed an attack by the Sand People, just to let him know that there was someone else around here.

It was tempting to pick a direction at random to start walking, but Ezra had something a little better than mere chance on his side.  Wincing at the feel of the hot sand burning through his trousers, he sat down, closed his eyes, and opened himself to the Force.

I need shelter, he thought.  I need somewhere I can get food and water – especially water – and a way off this rock.  I need to find out why the Force brought me here.

And then he had to go back to Lothal.  That was his fight, and if the Force didn’t understand that – but the Force had let him into the Temple in the first place, and there had to be a reason for that. He clung stubbornly to that despite the fact that the events of the past few days had shown that the Force didn’t necessarily have to have a reason for anything.

Yeah, but there’s a dark side of the Force too, and right now it seems like it’s been calling the shots.

With an effort he pushed his grief and bitterness aside, letting emotion drain out of him like water through sand.  Empty, he sat in the light of the burning suns, and let the Force flow through him.

There.

It was a direction, nothing more.  Ezra was aware of the Force moving around him in unfamiliar currents, something about it subtly different in a way that he didn’t – couldn’t – understand.  Maybe Ka –

No.

His skin was already beginning to redden as he unfolded his legs and pushed to his feet.  With a last look around at the wasteland surrounding him, hoping for and not seeing some kind of landmark to make certain he could find his way back here, Ezra started to walk.

*

He walked for a long time, only subconsciously aware of the twin suns slowly moving across the horizon. Each step blurred into the next, time both compressing into a single unending interval of heat and exhaustion and the slow spread of sunburn and expanding until Ezra felt that he had been here for hours, days, years.  He didn’t dare stop even to rest, not without shelter; the suns would roast him alive one way or another and they might as well do it walking.  He ended up pulling his jacket off and wrapping it around his head as a kind of turban, giving him some protection from the blistering suns, but it didn’t help much.  He could feel the Force shifting around him, protecting him, guiding him, but he didn’t know if the half-trance he had fallen into with each trudging step was due to it or the suns or the slow slide of time.

It was a shock when he stumbled up to the edge of a cliff and nearly fell over it, catching himself at the last moment.  A few pebbles trickled over the edge, bouncing heavily down the steep slope. Ezra put a hand up to shade his eyes, not entirely certain that he was seeing something real and not an illusion. There was a settlement down in the valley below him, a big one by Lothal’s standards and he was assuming by Tatooine’s as well, since it had even less of a population than Lothal.  As he watched, a starship landed and another took off; squinting, Ezra could make out the shape of spaceport hangar bays.

He let out his breath in a low sigh of relief.  The last time he had come to Tatooine he had spent some time looking up information on the planet, even though he had ended up never visiting any of the settlements; this had to be one of them.

It took him some time to find a way down into the valley, but he managed it eventually, trekking down a worn dirt path that showed the passage of people and animals.  There was no city gate or regulated road into the city; Ezra simply walked in, startled by the press of people after the calm, still silence of the desert.  He resisted the urge to throw himself on the nearest of them and demand water; instead, he let himself move among them, following the ebb and flow of the crowd like a leaf carried by a stream.  He wished there was a stream, but he didn’t think there was any such thing to be found anywhere on the planet.

Eventually he followed a group of Nikto into a cantina.  Trying to look as if he belonged, Ezra made his way up to the bar and ordered a blue milk and, apparently as an afterthought, a glass of water, digging a credchip out of his pocket to pay for it.  The bartender took the credchip from him and started to move away, then stopped suddenly and frowned at it, holding it up to the cracked lamp by the shelved bottles.  He turned back to Ezra with sudden violence that made Ezra draw back, startled.

“What is this?” he demanded. “Some kind of joke?”  He threw the credchip back on the bar in front of Ezra.  “You want a drink, you pay with real money.”

Ezra picked the credchip up and turned it over between his fingers, but aside from the regular nicks and scratches of wear and tear it looked exactly like every other credchip he had ever seen, down to the Imperial seal on the back. “This is real money.”

“You want me to bring the Hutts in?” the bartender said, one hand vanishing beneath the bar – either for a weapon or a comlink Ezra couldn’t tell. “Get out!  And don’t come back!”

“Okay, okay!” Ezra said, stuffing the credchip back into his pocket and holding up his hands.  The bartender and a few of the other patrons watched him suspiciously all the way out of the cantina.

He winced as he stepped back into the hot sun, the heat like a blast furnace after a few moments in the relative cool of the cantina.  He licked dry, cracked lips, thinking about what to do next, but if his money wasn’t good here – some Outer Rim planets, even the ones nominally under Imperial control, could get weird – then he’d have to find someone else’s.  Ezra hadn’t had to pick pockets in a while, but it wasn’t as though he’d forgotten how.

He drifted through the crowds for a few minutes, keeping an eye out for someone who looked like having their purse lifted wouldn’t be more than a mild inconvenience.  When he finally found one, a prosperous-looking Rodian, Ezra didn’t even have to use the Force, just moved with the rest of the passersby and slipped the man’s purse off his belt so smoothly he doubted the Rodian would even notice until he tried to pay for something.  He kept walking unhurriedly until he spotted the dubious shelter of a narrow alley, then ducked down it, relieved to find that no one else had had the same idea.

Ezra transferred most of the contents of the Rodian’s purse to his own pockets, then examined one credchip. It looked like the one he had offered the bartender – same size, same weight, probably the same metal content. Ezra turned it over in his hand, rubbing his thumb against the Imperial seal, then stopped abruptly.

Instead of the Imperial seal, the symbol on the back was different, something he had only seen a handful of times before – on old military surplus equipment Phoenix Squadron had acquired, and on the ruined droid ship back on Agamar.  It was the old Separatist symbol.

Ezra knew that there were still old Republic credits in circulation, though by Imperial law they were only worth about ten percent of the equivalent Imperial currency. Confederate credits, on the other hand, were worthless.  This credchip didn’t look like it was old enough to be from the Clone Wars, though, and when Ezra checked the date it was recent.  Since the Confederacy of Independent Systems hadn’t existed since before Ezra had been born, that didn’t make any sense at all.  And the date –

For the first time, Ezra remembered that the gateways led not only to all sorts of places, but to all sorts of times, too.  He’d – Ahsoka had come from the battle at Malachor.  If he’d – come out – at some other time, not just somewhere else –

But the date on the credchip was recent, and it was by Imperial reckoning, not Republic reckoning. The Emperor had reorganized the calendar when he had taken the throne, and this didn’t look like what Ezra knew of Republic reckoning.  So –

Ezra had absolutely no idea what that meant.

He dropped the Rodian’s purse in the street after he had stepped out of the alley, heading for the first cantina he could see.  Hopefully they’d take the money; Ezra didn’t feel like he could think without something to drink.

This cantina was much bigger than the last one, and probably doubled as a hotel or caravanserai going by its size.  Ezra cautiously ordered the same thing he had at the last cantina; the bartender didn’t give his credits a second glance, and Ezra gratefully slurped down the water and, more slowly, the blue milk, then ordered a plate of the special and another glass of water.  As he was making his way through the food and feeling a few of his higher brain functions return, the bartender leaned an elbow on the counter and asked, “You here to meet the other Jedi?  I haven’t seen you in here before.”

Ezra froze, fork halfway to his mouth.  It hadn’t even occurred to him that he was still wearing his lightsaber openly; so few people could actually recognize one these days that he’d gotten used to the idea that no one ever would.

But – other Jedi?

There were no other Jedi. There was just him.  The Empire had seen to that.  Governor Pryce had seen to that.

He made an indeterminate sound that might have been agreement and forced himself to take another bite, just so he wasn’t sitting there looking shocked.  Only after he had chewed and swallowed did he say, “What room are they in again?  That didn’t get passed along,” he added vaguely.

The bartender didn’t seem to notice his uncertainty.  “The suite on the third floor,” he said. “319.”

“Thanks,” Ezra said slowly, his head spinning.  He finished the rest of his food, drained the glass of water, and tipped the bartender with some of his stolen credits.  Well, apparently that money was good here, wherever here was.

The stairs leading to the upper floors were at the back.  Ezra followed them up, finding them clean and well-lit, and emerged onto the third floor.  The suite was easy to find; the door was directly across from the stairs.  Ezra hesitated, staring at it.  He couldn’t sense anyone inside; if there were Jedi staying there, then they weren’t here now.  But that was impossible.  There were no other Jedi, and if there were, they wouldn’t be staying openly at a place like this, even in a galactic armpit like Tatooine.

But if they were Jedi –

He went down the hallway and placed his palm against the door, reaching out with the Force.  There was something here, a faint trace of presence; whoever it was hadn’t been staying here long enough to leave behind anything more significant than that. Ezra reached for the door controls, on the verge of going in and having a look around, then stopped.  If they were Jedi, then breaking in probably wasn’t the best idea.  If they weren’t –

Ezra literally couldn’t think of what would happen then.

Exhausted, he sank down to the floor in front of the door and leaned his head back against it.  He probably should have tried to meditate, but he was too tired. His skin felt scorched from too long in the sun, he had sand in his boots, in his shirt, in his hair, in every conceivable crevice and a few that he hadn’t known he could get sand into, and Ka –

He thumped his head glumly back against the door a few times, trying to bludgeon the thought away. He wasn’t on Lothal, that was what mattered.  He wasn’t on Lothal and he had to get back to Lothal as soon as possible.  He just had to hope these Jedi could help him do that.

Ezra shut his eyes, then opened them again just as hastily, because there it was again, that rising memory of flame and heat and –

He dug the heels of his hands into his forehead, shaking his head back and forth as if he could dislodge the memory.  It was still there, though, all too fresh and all too recent, despite everything that had happened in the past few hours.  Maybe he should have been thinking about that instead, but it was too big to comprehend, too impossible for him to wrap his mind around.

He just had to get back to Lothal.

He sat there for what felt like a long time, half-asleep and trying not to close his eyes, because every time he did he saw it again.  Eventually, though, he felt something in the Force shift, followed by the sound of footsteps on the stairs.  Rubbing a hand over his eyes, trying to force himself back to full awareness, Ezra glanced up to see –

“Ahsoka,” he said, scrambling to his feet, but something was different about her.  Something –

Her armor.  She wasn’t wearing her armor.  And her clothing was different, a dark brownish-red tunic with worked leather tabards in front and covering her thighs, but her lightsabers were the same.

There were several other beings with her, a wiry Mirialan woman with diamonds tattooed across the bridge of her nose and a lightsaber on her hip, and two men behind her in the narrow hallway whom Ezra couldn’t see well enough to identify.

Ahsoka blinked at him in surprise, her gaze taking in his bedraggled appearance and then his lightsaber before she finally looked back at his face.  Recognition showed only belatedly in her eyes.  “Rat,” she said. “What are you doing here?  Did Master Windu send you with a message for us?”

Ezra felt the pit of his stomach drop.  He clenched his hands into fists to try and stop their shaking, but there was a waver in his voice as he said, “Whoever you think I am, I’m not him,” he said.  “I – my name is Ezra Bridger.  I’m a Jedi padawan.  I – I think I’m in the wrong place.”

[monster-closet]

Ch.3 - The Things We Carry

Chapter 3 is up!   (Read Chapter 1, Chapter 2)

Pairing: Younger Mando x badass female OC

Summary: A little “how you doin’” warrior style. 

What Mando might have been like as a young man, maybe looking for fulfillment outside of The Way - while fielding Xi'an's advances and trying to crack the cold exterior of a female OC who urges him not to abandon his vow.

Ratings/Warnings: General, for now.

Notes: This is a super-slow burn with plenty of angst. Hope you enjoy!

Pronunciation of OC's name, Solveig Riis: [soul-vay reese]

Read this and more chapters on AO3

A few days after arriving, the Mandalorian had already formed clear opinions of his teammates’ character, except for one. Riis was still a mystery to him. And it became obvious that she purposefully gave him a wide berth and avoided interacting with the group, preferring to spend her time alone.

Once, when he had cornered her in the docking bay, she gave him one-word answers to his questions and ended their “conversation” abruptly by slipping away. Even Mandalorian women he knew weren’t this cold or evasive. Yet still, something about her reminded him of home, of codes and creeds and rules to be followed. Something about the way she carried herself made him think that she, too, followed a code – not a personal set of values driven by self – but one made for a collective. An army or military, perhaps.

It made sense, the way Riis carried her rifle, like it was an extension of herself. It made sense, the way she gave firm, clipped answers. It made sense that she spoke of nothing personal. It added up that she was a soldier, quite possibly one since childhood, the way she was uncompromising in all these things.

And it made him want to know her even more.

He decided that between the two of them, both being closed books, he would have to be the first to offer her a sliver of himself.

* * *

Ran strode in from the command centre with a wide grin on his blockish face.

“We got another one!” he bellowed.

“What is it?” Qin asked, sauntering over with a fanged grin.

“Oh, you know,” Ran sang. “just a little heist . . .”

Qin gave Ran a playful shove. “Come on, man. Let’s have it.”

The Mandalorian watched as Xi’an and Gorgo moved into the scene. He nearly missed noticing Riis again when his thermal sensor highlighted her form leaning against Ran’s ship.

“We’re gonna get some more of this!” Ran pulled a clear pouch from his pocket and dangled it in front of the crew.

The grins on the Twi’leks grew wide and sharp. Xi’an turned to her brother and squealed, “Spice!” Gorgo licked his lips.

“Hold on, hold on,” interrupted Ran. “I’m just razzin’ with ya. We’ve been hired to smuggle it. So no taste testing!”

Xi’an hissed. “That wasn’t very nice, Ranzar. At least give us a dab.”

Ran laughed. “Not on the job. If you’re a good girl, maybe after.”

Xi’an scowled, flipping her knife into the air and catching it by the handle. Out of the corner of his visor, the Mandalorian saw Riis roll her eyes.

Ranzar had given them the details of the job, to steal a large shipment of spice from Nar Shadaa and smuggle it to Mordagon.

Riis’ voice interrupted him. “Who hired us, and who are we stealing this spice from?”

“Ah, Riis. Always with the questions. You know our policy. Steal first, ask questions later.” Then, turning to the Mandalorian, Ran jabbed a thumb toward her, “Killjoy, am I right?”

The Mandalorian frowned beneath his helmet regarding Ran’s dismissive attitude toward Riis. “No,” he said flatly. “She’s right. Those details are important.”

Ran’s demeanor changed immediately. “Mando, my man,” he said, his eyebrows lifting in interest. “Then let’s talk.I could use your expertise on this one!” The two of them walked away from the crew as Ran plied him with more compliments.

* * *

An hour later, the Mandalorian returned to the docking bay to find the crew prepping for take-off. Well, sort of.

Qin and Xi’an were engaged in a dagger-throwing contest and Gorgo was taking a nap propped up against some crates. After disappearing into the Razor Crest, the Mandalorian soon reappeared with several hover-crates following him down the ramp. He stopped when he reached Riis, who was stationed at a long metal table with a sniper rifle, blaster, and three daggers laid out neatly in rows.

He said nothing when he took the place next to her, opening the crates one by one and unloaded each of his weapons, laying them on the same table with care. From the corner of his visor, he saw Riis’ head turn a tiny fraction. He watched as her eyes assessed his arsenal. He did it on purpose, a warrior’s way of introduction. In Mandalorian terms, allowing another to see the things he carried was an offer of trust. Whether or not she interpreted this the same way, he didn’t know. But it was all he knew, allowing weapons to speak for him.

She was silent for a long while, to the point that the Mandalorian wasn’t sure she would say anything at all. Then:

“Those are good choices,” she said quietly.

“As are yours,” he replied.

Without asking for permission, she reached over, fingertips grazing his blaster pistol. “This one is old but reliable. A gift?”

The Mandalorian was surprised at her insight. It took him a moment before he nodded. “From my Buir –  guardian.”

Riis said nothing, but gave him a nearly indiscernible smile that softened her face and drew a tenderness into her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was leaps and bounds from the tempered steel of her expression during the last few days. She seemed far away as she caressed the handle.

“What’s it like being a Mandalorian?” she asked absent-mindedly.

Another question from her. It seemed he was on the right track, but how to answer a question like that? There were so many things to say, yet so many things he could not say. Instead, he chose to deflect.

“Lots of training,” he replied.

She looked at him then, eyes much warmer than he had seen since meeting her. “How old are you?”

A personal question. He disliked those. “Guess,” he parried.

“Fifty.”

The Mandalorian laughed. It must have seemed funny to Riis, because her face nearly broke its usual hardness.

“Do I seem old to you?”

“How should I know?” Riis was almost smiling as she looked at him, but it seemed she caught her reflection in his visor and it faded quickly. She filled the silence with another question.

“How long since you swore the creed, then?”

So she knew about The Creed. The reason he couldn’t remove his helmet to anyone. All of the outsiders he had met so far knew nothing about it.

“Ten years.”

She nodded. “So, you’re twenty-three.”

The Mandalorian was surprised. She knew the age it was sworn. “How did you know? The age – about The Creed?”

She shrugged. “I was taught a lot of things. One was about other warrior cultures. Mostly, it was about weapons and fighting.”

Other warrior cultures? She just implied that she belonged to one, but which?

Before the Mandalorian could ask, Riis’ hand wandered to his vibroblade and picked it up. He noted that she never looked more content than when holding a weapon. She examined it in her hands. “This is very fine,” she said, more to herself. “The balance is good.”

Yes, she had certainly been taught about weapons. He wondered at her own training, if she was as skilled in their use as she was in their knowledge of them.  All the more interesting was that he had been right about her background: If there is one thing he knew about all warriors, weaponry was a universal language. Now, he felt he was getting somewhere.

Riis had just set down his vibroblade and touched the long staff-like weapon laying beside it. “I’ve never seen a weapon like this. What is it?”

“Amban rifle,” he replied.

Immediately, Riis drew her hand back as if burned.

“What?” he asked, concerned. Her face had hardened again into an expressionless mask.

“A most unjust weapon.”

“Unjust?”

“For the destruction it yields, no skill is required to wield it. Disintegration is the mark of thugs.” She sounded stiff, as though reciting something she had committed to memory.

“It is a Mandalorian weapon. You imply my kind are thugs?”

“No,” she answered matter-of-factly. “I know there are many uses for an amban rifle. The function of disintegration itself is unjust.”

The Mandalorian shrugged. “It’s quick and effective. We do what it takes to survive.” Then, he gestured to her blaster on the table. “What about your rifle? Yours may not disintegrate, but aimed right, it could kill an opponent. What’s the difference?”

“Margin for error.”

The Mandalorian cocked his head. “You mean you wish to miss?”

“No, my point is that I can choose where I aim. I can bring down an enemy while keeping them alive. My one shot doesn’t vaporize them.”

Riis was standing menacingly close, her eyes holding his own behind the visor.

“In my experience, no margin for error is the best kind.” His words came out harsher than he wished through the helmet mic.

The Mandalorian watched as her mouth opened and closed, searching for words. Before she could respond, a large grey hand reached across and snatched her gun from the table. They both turned to see Gorgo looming over her, said rifle in hand.

“Wanna trade?” he asked with a smirk on his face.

“No,” she answered flatly, and she held out her hand like a child demanding a sweet. Gorgo looked at it, and back at her face with a sneer. The Mandalorian hovered a hand over his blaster pistol.

“I’ll give it back,” he began, “For a smile.”

Riis’ impassive face never changed, but her body tensed, ready to act. It was Ran’s voice that interrupted them.

“Gorgo, don’t be an ass. Just give the girl her gun.”

The big Nikto grunted. “I was just having some fun – ”

“Just give it back,” Ran repeated.

After a few heavy seconds, Gorgo handed her the rifle reluctantly. Ran patted him on the back. Speaking to the both of them, he said, “There now, be nice –"

Ran had barely finished his sentence when a shot rang out and Gorgo stopped in his tracks. There was smoke coming off the tip of one of his horns. The hulking Nikto spun around, veins bulging.

Ran stabbed his finger in the air, pointing at Riis, “I told you to be nice!”

She lowered her weapon and shrugged. “I was being nice.”

Ran grabbed Gorgo by the shoulder and held him back. He whispered something to the large sentient and they both turned and walked away. Riis twisted around to face the Mandalorian with the slightest grin on her face.

“See? Margin for error.”

Beneath the helmet, the Mandalorian smirked. They might differ on weapon methodology, but they were both not to be underestimated - and similar in more ways than the masks they wore.

Taglist: @oloreaa

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

What do you think would happen if the Animorphs were caught during their first mission?

“You know that old joke,” Temrash 114 says, pacing up and down in front of them, “about how the babysitter keeps getting calls from some asshole who wants to kill her, and eventually she figures out that, all along, the calls were coming from inside the goddamn house?”  Tom’s face twists, expression cold with anger.  “That’s what my life feels like right about now.”

“It wasn’t a joke, you dumbass,” Rachel mutters, “it was a horror story.”

Temrash 114 shrugs.  “Depends on your point of view, I guess.”

“Won’t you get in trouble, then?” Marco asks, expression still sharp despite the blood painting a line from his scalp to his chin.  “If Jake was here the whole time and you didn’t even know it?  Doesn’t that make you a raging moron?”

“Jury’s still out as to whether we should infest your dad,” Temrash 114 says calmly.  “I could just shoot him in the head, save Visser One a lot of trouble with her host.”

Marco clearly doesn’t know what Visser One has to do with anything, but he snaps his mouth shut all the same, face very white.

Jake tunes out everything they’re saying, because it’s not important.  What’s important—so important that he can’t even think around it—is that this is all his fault.  He can’t believe he was stupid enough, when Marco said that Tom was a controller, to insist on making sure.  To refuse to believe what he was hearing in the middle of that Sharing meeting, to have to get closer…

No one looks twice at a dog, he’d said.  Unless, of course, the someone was Tom, and the dog was Homer.  Unless Jake was stupid enough to wander straight into the loose gathering of controllers on the edge of the beach in the hope that the words he was hearing from his brother’s mouth would somehow prove illusion up close.

Jake was the first one caught, but the roundup after that was brutally fast: they found Marco and Cassie because Tom knew to look for them, whereas Rachel had tried to morph and fight back and Tobias had dived from the sky in an effort to save her.  They’re all tied up for the moment while over a dozen controllers point various weapons at them and two people in the next room (the andalite-controller and a human whose voice sounds familiar for some reason Jake can’t place) shout at each other over what to do next.

Jake’s lying the closest to the door, a short ways away from the others—the yeerk inside Tom kicked him over there in disgust—so he can see as hork-bajir-controllers lead his parents, Rachel’s sisters, even Tobias’s uncle toward the stairs that lead down to the yeerk pool.  He’s vaguely aware that there are tears running down his face, but he tries his hardest to tune out everything except some possible way to get them all out of this.

Rachel is lying a few feet away from Jake, twisting constantly against the duct tape around her wrists.  The only morph she has so far is a horse from Cassie’s barn, but horses can kill people.  She could take a few of them down before they managed to catch her…

She feels a cool hand rest on her ankle, and discovers that Tobias is watching her through wide grey eyes.  He can speak volumes with a tiny shift of expression, wearing his emotions on his sleeve in a way that makes some part of her desperate to draw him close and protect him.  Right now it’s not hard to tell what he’s thinking: that he knows what she’s planning.

Glancing upward at Chapman—or more specifically at the dracon beam in Chapman’s hand—he shakes his head just a tiny bit.

Rachel jerks her ankle out from under his hand.  Wasn’t he the one who was going on yesterday about how they have to avenge the andalite who died for them?  

“We live,” Tobias hisses, voice drowned out by the shouting in the next room and by Marco, who has started loudly asking questions about one of the voices they can all hear.  “We live and fight another day.  We’ll have another chance, okay?”

Gritting her teeth, Rachel nods.

It’s a decision they all live to regret.  Their bodies rapidly become hosts for high-ranking vissers and sub-vissers, their faces and their voices used in the most horrific possible way.

Essak 1275, who gets Jake’s body, acquires every Earth morph that catches his eye and a few dozen from other planets as well.  He gets reprimanded a couple of times, since it’s getting harder and harder to contain Jake during feedings (still not as difficult as Alloran, but no one tells Visser Three to stop), but the yeerk also gets results.  The complaints stop around the time he uses Jake to kill and eat over forty leerans while in the shape of a lerdethak.  

Marco stops walking—stops of his own accord—the first time they send Visser Twenty-Three into a meeting with Visser One.  Eva’s face does something strange and unquantifiable for several seconds before Edriss wrestles it back into harsh neutrality.  “Get ahold of yourself, won’t you?” she snaps.  Marco’s eyes close, and Akdor 1154 nods.  

Rachel screams death threats and other useless words as Visser Eight uses her face and voice to draw in their tenth victim this month.  Melissa Chapman, Brittany Grant, and T.T. Malcolm are controllers already.  Allison Valencia and Beth Hammond both attend Sharing meetings regularly, and they’re thinking of becoming full members.  Rachel’s the most popular girl in her entire class; it’s like taking candy from a baby.

To everyone’s surprise, it’s Cassie who gets the reputation for being the rebellious host.  Niss 240 aims a dracon beam at a suspicious-looking bird; Cassie jerks it to the side.  Niss starts in on a recruitment pitch; Cassie causes her to collapse on the floor.  There’s talk of simply killing Cassie, as reluctant as everyone is to give up on a morph-capable host (and an estreen at that), but the incidents stop happening after Cassie gets transferred to Aftran 942’s control.  In fact, Aftran herself seemingly falls off the face of the Earth for a while, because no one seems to know where she is or what she’s up to a lot of the time.

Tobias morphs, one time when Odret 177 is feeding and he’s temporarily unsupervised in the cage, and nothing the controllers do can get him to turn back.  He sits there calmly and watches as they fire dracon beams at him, as they throw hot acid on Rachel and Jake, as they threaten to kill his uncle and then carry out their threat.  They zap him with picana, with a low-level shredder blast, finally with a nervous system manipulator, but nothing works.  He screams, he fights back, he throws himself against the bars of their birdcage until he breaks his own wings, but he doesn’t demorph.  Two hours and fifteen minutes into the process, the controllers admit defeat: one of them pulls out a handgun.  Tobias dies free.  

Essak 1275 starts being sent on hunting expeditions.  He’s mostly close-mouthed about what he’s hunting, but all of the highest-ranked vissers know: there’s at least one andalite loose somewhere on Earth.  

Reports are conflicting as to whether it’s just one or if the one has support—some of the rumors that trickle in from Nikto 770’s scans of the human media indicate there might be as many as three—but they all know that unless this andalite’s getting help from the humans, there’s no way he’ll blend in for long.  The andalite or andalites, meanwhile, have already taken out a water supply ship and a ground-based kandrona supply.

One day Jake reaches through the bars separating the hosts’ cages and grabs Tom on the arm.  “Tell the others,” he says.  “There are andalites bandits here, and they’re fighting back.  Don’t give up.  Don’t ever give up.  Not while there’s still hope.”

Tom’s eyes widen.  “You mean…?”

“I mean the yeerks aren’t winning this war as cleanly as the vissers want everyone to think,” Jake says.  “Tell everyone you can: the andalites are out there.”

One day Aftran strides into the yeerk pool, Cassie’s chin held high, an unfamiliar young man walking by her side.  Slowly, almost casually, they make their way over to the specialized reinforced cages used to hold the morph-capable hosts.  Threatening to kill one Animorph if the other makes an escape attempt seems to work fairly well, so Jake and Rachel are currently chained up across from each other and guarded by four hork-bajir-controllers apiece.  Cassie’s hand drops to brush along each cage as she walks by, and as she touches first Jake and then Rachel two tiny red dots fall from her sleeve.  

Jake finds himself staring in amazement at the tiny ladybug that crawls slowly across the surface of his hand.  He doesn’t know about the hours Cassie and Aftran and Gafinilan spent experimenting in order to discover that ladybugs have the eyes and the wings to get around in a hurry, while also having all toxic creatures’ calm insouciance which renders them easy to carry around.  He doesn’t know that the bug on his hand traveled here inside Cassie’s mouth to defeat the Gleet Biofilters, or that this is the final execution of a plan which was months in the making.

He does, however, know what to do.  Concentrating hard on the feel of six tiny feet even now resting on the curve of his index finger, he feels the little beetle sag into relaxation.  Across the way, a minuscule point of red falls from Rachel’s arm as she finishes acquiring her own set of DNA.  

«Please be calm,» an unfamiliar voice says inside their heads.  «My name is Aximili, and I am here to help.  Prince Cassie is about to set off a diversion.  When she does, we need both of you to morph as fast as possible and move toward the northwest exit of the yeerk pool.»

Rachel lifts her head up, shorn hair sliding away from her face, and actually grins at Jake.  “Let’s do it.”

The diversion, when it comes, is brutally simple: Aximili starts the sequence that will drain the yeerk pool for cleaning.

Every controller in the vicinity immediately rushes to try and stop him, including the ones guarding Rachel and Jake.  They both morph fast and morph small, shrinking out of their restraints as they become hard-shelled and six-legged.  Jake takes off for the spot where Cassie is rushing the cages, tiny wings beating hard against the stale kandrona-polluted air, but Rachel goes in a different direction entirely.

Jake and the others might be focused on trying to grab a handful of the hosts and run for it, but Rachel’s here for revenge.  She buzzes over the heads of two human-controller guards who never even look up, slots through a tiny crack in the door of the holding cell on the far side of the yeerk pool, and trundles through a crevasse in the two-foot-thick cinderblock walls of the holding chamber.  This is where Visser Three’s loyal sycophants hold any monster whose DNA he’s planning on acquiring—and right now the chamber is full.

When she demorphs on the floor, she finds herself face-to-face with an octopus-like creature.  If an octopus had a hard exoskeleton and several rows of sharp teeth, that is.  If an octopus was fifteen feet tall and had claws on the ends of its tentacles.  If an octopus had a gaping jaw and more clumsy limbs than it knows what to do with.  

“Hello, gorgeous,” Rachel whispers, and the creature attacks.  

She throws herself out of the way of its stabbing claws, dodges a snaking tentacle, and finally flings herself on top of one of its limbs.  The creature immediately grabs her, but that’s exactly what she wanted; she presses her skin against its lumpy body (and has to grit her teeth—this thing feels like it’s made of acid) and the creature goes limp, dropping her to the ground.

Rachel jams herself into a far corner focuses on her brand-new set of DNA, ignoring the creature (rancor, her inner Star Wars geek decides to call it) as it continues to do its best to eat this strange invader to its territory.  As she swells and hardens, she finds herself gasping in pain—the poor rancor is not adapted to Earth’s atmosphere—but doesn’t let that deter her.  The real rancor makes another attempt to grab her and rip her in half, so she reaches out and, with a single delicate tentacle, enters the code on the keypad next to the door that will let them both into the hallway.

Cassie finds herself frozen in shock for several seconds as two aliens—each one the size of a semi-trailer—burst out of a side hallway and immediately start tearing apart every controller within twenty yards.  «How do you like me now?» one of them shouts in a very familiar voice, and laughingly tears the roof clear off an enclosure holding a dozen hork-bajir hosts.

The hork-bajir explode outward in every direction, most of them running for the nearest exit, but several stop and begin slashing at controllers.  One male hork-bajir who can’t be more than two years old takes a dracon shot to center mass and goes down, weakly crying out in pain; four adults jump on his attacker and begin tearing the man to shreds.  Tom and Melissa Chapman are standing back-to-back, firing at anyone who gets too close as they guard the base of a staircase where hundreds of humans and hork-bajir are streaming toward freedom.

Jake, now in some kind of simian-reptilian morph, has broken into a weapons depot and is throwing dracon beams to newly-freed hosts left and right; every minute, the number of deadly beams lancing through the air increases exponentially.  «Don’t shoot at anyone who doesn’t shoot at you first!» he keeps saying, but not everyone is listening.  Friendly fire is everywhere.

Aximili is out of morph and badly hurt, hooves sliding in the growing pool of his own blood as he uses his tail to fend off two hork-bajir-controllers even as both hands continue to fly across the controls of the yeerk pool maintenance computer.   A hork-bajir female Cassie doesn’t recognize is going from cage to cage and releasing ever-more hosts, while a taxxon-controller has set off some kind of alarm that is bringing hundreds of controllers running from every direction to join in the fray.  Rachel is grabbing double handfuls of human-controllers and flinging them across the room to land in wet heaps; even as Cassie watches she calmly lifts a taxxon and stuffs it into her mouth as it writhes and screams and pain.

Meanwhile, the water level on the yeerk pool is slowly but steadily dropping.

Cassie hears a soft moan of pain and anguish come from the back of her own throat.  She’s not sure if she or Aftran is the one making the noise.

And that’s when Visser Three bursts into the cavern, followed closely by Visser Twenty-Three in Marco’s body.  «We got two more morphers!» Jake shouts.

Visser Three takes in the scene all around him, says several very bad words, and then turns two eyes toward his lieutenant.  «Kill them!» he orders.  «Visser Twenty-Three, kill them all!»

Marco’s head cocks to the side in thoughtful consideration.  His hand goes to the dracon beam at his side, and lifts it just far enough to fire a single shot on full power that takes Visser Three’s head off at the shoulders.  “Oh, did I forget to mention?” he says, grinning.  “Visser Twenty-Three’s been dead for almost a week now.  The Peace Movement says hi, by the way.”

Cassie considers the possibility that in freeing him she created a monster.  Aftran privately agrees.  

«ANYONE WHO’S NOT A CONTROLLER,» Jake bellows in a voice worthy of Visser Three.  «STOP FIGHTING.  LET’S BLOW THIS POPSICLE STAND!»

Rachel rips a drop shaft clear off the wall, creating a huge opening into the incline beyond.  She flings the broken tunnel at a group of taxxon-controllers, laughing when four of them burst open on impact and the others go into a feeding frenzy.  Humans, hork-bajir, and the occasional taxxon or gedd are fleeing in every direction now, leaving the Animorphs’ own force dramatically reduced.   

Even as she watches, the real rancor grabs a man running for the exit and eats him alive.  The beast has gotten in among the hosts now, and—enraged as it is from the constant pain of Earth’s excessive gravity and insufficient nitrogen—it’s killing indiscriminately.  «Sorry,» Rachel says vaguely, and then she wraps one of her own tentacles around the rancor’s neck.  The ensuing battle is nasty but brief, and at the end of it Rachel’s the only monster left in the cavern.  

Three hundred, four hundred, maybe more hosts have already made it outside.  Marco has morphed gorilla, and he’s swinging between cages ripping the locks off the few dozen full ones that remain.  So far Jake, Cassie, and the handful of hosts assisting them are holding the line, but with every second that goes by the proportion of controllers to non-controllers shifts in favor of the yeerks.  

«Let’s go!» Jake calls, collapsing the line steadily backward.  There are still hundreds of freed hosts loose in the cavern, still hundreds in the cages, but there’s nothing else to be done to save them.  He and Cassie and the others are retreating shoulder-to-shoulder, hosts dropping steadily under dracon fire but being replaced all the while by more volunteers from behind them.

Marco lopes over and joins their bubble, bellowing a challenge all around.  The andalite kid who managed to drain almost half of the yeerk pool stumbles over as well, tail flashing out at opponents with blinding speed.  Rachel is still halfway across the cavern, but she seems fine, and it’s not like anyone is daring to get close to her. 

Jake is ten feet from the stairs, then five feet, closing the bubble all the while, when someone breaks from the line of hosts and sets off running in the wrong direction.  «Get back here!» Jake shouts.  «Now!»

Tom actually takes the time to pause and flip Jake off, and then turns and keeps running.  He disappears from sight amid the fracas.

Jake feels like someone ripped several feet of intestine out of his stomach, but he cannot linger on it.  «Cassie, get to the surface and start doing crowd control,» he says.  «Ax—mind if I call you Ax?—give her cover.  Rachel, get over here!  Everyone else, up the stairs now.  Marco and I will cover your retreat.»

Several more people run past the line, heading toward the stairs.  Jake doesn’t know if they’re controllers or not, and he can’t bring himself to care at the moment, too concerned with making sure that the yeerks don’t break through to the hosts behind him.  He moves steadily backward until one of his feet hits the bottom-most stair, and then he starts to demorph.  It’s just him and Marco now against about forty taxxon-controllers, both of them bleeding heavily.  There’s no sign of Rachel, or of Tom.  Marco slips; Jake yanks him to his feet.  Jake doesn’t even register the whamwhamwham of gunfire until he looks down and discovers a red hole just above his left hip.  He drags himself up another stair, clinging tight to the railing.  He’s not even fighting back anymore.  Now he’s just a human shield for the hosts behind.

And then an enormous grey-brown tentacle sweeps away almost twenty controllers in one go.  Rachel simply flings herself forward onto the enemy line, crushing people with her bulk.  She’s missing three limbs, dragging herself on the other five, but she’s still moving.

Tom bursts through the hole in the line she created, carrying a human shape over his shoulder and dragging what looks like a child by the wrist.  He shouts something at Rachel, who starts to demorph, still crawling toward the stairs.

Jake makes it outside—with his team more or less intact, no less—even if Marco is mostly carrying him for the last several yards.  He morphs amidst a crowd of hosts who are milling around outside of the shopping mall as if looking for direction, demorphs again as the entire herd starts a mass exodus toward the government buildings at the center of town.

They make a very strange picture, this enormous procession of newly-freed slaves marching through the center of town.  Many of them are bruised or bloodied.  Almost all of them are dull-eyed with shock.  They form an unbroken column that stretches nearly two miles in length, this collection of over a thousand humans and hork-bajir and other aliens.  Whatever else happens, this is too big for the yeerks to cover up.  There are too many of them for the yeerks to recapture them all.  The whole block tower is about to come toppling down.

It’s as they’re standing outside while Cassie and Aftran and Ax storm the mayor’s office with news of the invasion that Jake catches Tom again.  “What the hell were you thinking, going back like that?” he demands.  “If you’d been killed—if you’d been taken again—”

In silent response, Tom lowers the woman he’s still carrying to the floor.  Jake registers in shock that it’s their mother, currently unconscious.  “I couldn’t just leave her,” Tom snaps.

“Yeah, and what if she’s still a controller, huh?” Jake says.

“Get off his case,” Rachel tells him.  She’s holding onto the kid that Tom grabbed as well—it’s Sarah.  In this case there’s no question about whether Sarah’s still a controller, given the bruising grip Rachel has on her wrist and the fact that Sarah’s fingernails have already left bloody scratches all over both her sister’s hands.

“Three days from now it’ll be a moot point.”  Tom stands up, crossing his arms.  “Are you seriously going to tell me I should have left her there?  Are you telling me you’re in charge here or something?”

“Of course he’s in charge,” Rachel says, as if this is something everyone agreed upon in a committee.  “That doesn’t mean he’s perfect all the time.”

“Wait, what?”  Jake’s pretty sure he missed something.

Ax takes that opportunity to stick his head out the door and say, «Prince Jake, the human mayor and Prince Cassie are ready for you now.  They’d like you to make a statement.»

“All right, fearless leader, guess you’re needed inside.”  Marco slaps Jake playfully on the arm.

Jake turns to Tom as a last resort.  “Please tell them I’m not in charge of anything,” he says.

Tom frowns, thinking it over.  “You did pretty good back there, midget.  I think I’d be ready to follow you to hell and back with only moderate levels of insubordination.”

Jake slowly turns in a circle, registering just how many people are looking at him.  Realizing that he’s ragged and barefoot and filthy with dried taxxon guts, but that everyone from the mayor to Cassie to the huge battle-scarred andalite standing over her shoulder is looking at him expectantly.

“If I’m leading this revolution,” he says at last, “Rule number one: nobody’s calling me ‘prince.’”

«Absolutely, Prince Jake,» Ax says, utterly solemn.