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spookyold-saintjm · 5 years ago

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Mandalorian x female reader

Part of the Pilot series [Masterlist]

Warnings: descriptions of blood/injury, sexual references, Mando is a little handsy.

Word Count: 2,805

Using prompt 38 (“What did they do to you?!”) from my prompt list. Requested anonymously.

So many of you loved my first Mando fic (read it here), so I’ve decided to do more! While this isn’t a direct sequel to The Pilot, I’ll be doing plenty of drabbles and short fics that will tie in to that plot line, like this one!

As always, your thoughts are greatly appreciated. If you’d like to be tagged in future Mando works, I would be honored and happy to add you to the list! Enjoy. x

—

Shock does strange things to your body.

You knew you should be feeling pain, exhaustion, or, you know, anything at all. But you were numb.

You vision was sharper than ever, though. As you jogged over to the Razor Crest, you became aware of finite details of the ship you’d never noticed before. A scratch here, a loose panel there, chipping paint over there…

Your feet felt like they were floating above the air as you stumbled into the ship, and you had to remind yourself to take steps, left foot right foot left foot right foot, until you were completely inside.

The figure of a beskar-clad bounty hunter sat at the cockpit of the ship, and you slumped against the back of the pilot’s seat with a weighted sigh as he flipped switches and pressed the necessary buttons to get you in the air and off of this gods-forsaken planet.

“You’re late. So I’m getting us out of here.” His voice, altered slightly by the modulator built into his helmet, was a jolt to your eardrums. He was clearly agitated, maybe even flat-out angry. But you couldn’t will yourself to be bothered.

You shrugged as you stared at a single, fixed point on the control panel of the ship, unable to move or think about anything else.

“Trouble.” Your voice had a light lilt to it when you uttered the single word. There was now a persistent throbbing feeling crossing diagonally along your ribs and down your side. The sensation was almost ticklish, yet you didn’t really feel like laughing.

“What kind of—”

That heightened vision you’d held onto for a moment longer faded, fast, and the cockpit swirled and wavered around you. Suddenly the roof of the ship was far, far above you as you registered a distant thudding sound. You felt like you were sinking into a deep pool of water.

There was a pause, and then a deep voice was shouting a single word, once, twice. A familiar, broad-shouldered figure with long, dark hair was hovering over you, waving a hand in front of your face.

“Huh? Ca—Car—” you sputtered out coughs in attempts to say her name. Her head jerked upward and off to her right, barking out words at the occupant of the pilot’s seat.

“Stay with us, y/n. Come on.” Cara was hovered over you now, poking and prodding at your neck, your wrist. You tried to wave her away, but your hand was too heavy, and it dropped back down over your chest.

“I’m—I’m fine. I—“ You inhaled sharply when you felt something poke the arm you had just tried to move. Cara had grabbed you by the wrist and you squinted your eyes at her grasp on you to see that she had inserted some sort of gods-awful long needle into your arm. You hissed at the intense burning sensation of whatever was in the vial spreading through your system, and you spat a foul curse at the former shock trooper.

Her eyes widened slightly at your words, and despite the apparent intensity of the moment you caught her half-grin.

“Your fly-girl’s got a mouth on her, Mando.”

Mando. It finally registered with you that the Mandalorian was piloting the ship, not you. You weren’t even doing the single job you’d been hired for. In fact, you weren’t quite sure what you were doing at that particular moment, but you did know that you had suddenly started to feel oh so good as whatever had been in that vial trickled through your body.

The bounty hunter had switched spots with Cara moments later, although it took you a bit longer to actually register the change in the body hovering over yours. You felt a rush of cool air as his leather-clad gloves lifted up the right side of your blood-stained shirt.

“Hey now, mister,” you slurred, your eyes narrowing as you lazily grinned up at him. He lifted your off the cold floor of the ship just enough to raise your shirt higher and keep it staying put, taking caution to make sure he didn’t reveal anything that wasn’t necessary. “Maybe you want to think about takin' me to dinner or something before you just—”

“Stop talking.” He ordered. You immediately obeyed, although the grin on your lips lingered a while longer. He was pulling other supplies from the med kit Cara had hauled over, and then you were feeling something cold and mildly stinging on the skin over your ribs. The eventual light tugging of bandages came soon after, and through your thickening haze you realized that he was speaking to you again.

“What did they do to you?” he questioned, his voice barely loud enough for you to hear.

“Got cornered,” you attempted to answer through the sudden dryness in your throat. “Saw you, but. You. K-kid. Didn’t want—”

You couldn’t will more words to come. You titled your head back flat onto the floor, your gaze meeting the visor on Mando’s helmet. Your eyes were quickly drooping, a black fog slowly filling the space around you. The more you willed it away, attempting to turn your head and force your eyes open again, the faster things began to fade.

“M-Mando, I…”

Then there was nothing at all.

—

You awoke to distant, quiet sounds of whirring ship machinery, flat on your back with your arms at your sides.

Opening your eyes was initially a chore; they felt like they’d been weighed down by some invisible pressure. When you finally adjusted to the dim light in the room, you glanced around with a slight turn of your sore neck.

This wasn’t where you normally found yourself waking up. This was…this was his bed. His.

It wasn’t much of a bed, to be fair. Little more than a cot extending from the wall of the ship but…still yet. You were in his realm.

Attempting to raise yourself up was your next mistake. You cried out at the shockwave of sharp pain that blasted through your side. You collapsed back onto the sheets as you tried to catch your breath.

“S’not a good idea.”

You hadn’t heard the door slide open, but there he was, crossing into the room. His footsteps were slow, measured, as always. You looked over to him, instantly annoyed at how helpless you must have appeared.

He reached your side, his form towering over you as his arms reached out toward you.

“Sit or stand?” he asked.

“Sit, I guess.”

He helped ease you up into a sitting position, and you turned so that your legs hung off the side of the bed. The motion caused your vision to spin, and you pressed a hand to the side of your head as you looked up to him.

“What—what happened?” You’d tried to meet his eyes, well, in the way that you could, but you found you couldn’t bring yourself to meet the stare you knew he was giving you beneath the helmet. “We split up and they caught up with me. I couldn’t get to you, Cara had vanished somewhere, and I…" you hesitated as the memories somewhat stuttered there.

“You lost some blood.” Mando stated simply. “You got back to the ship. Gave you something to knock you out. Something else to help you recover.”

You somewhat recalled being sprawled on the floor of the cockpit. “Yeah…” You pressed your fingers to your temple, and winced at the soreness. “Stars, what was in that thing? Is that even on the market?”

The slight tilt of Mando’s head was enough to tell you that you didn’t want to know the answer.

“I need to see. Is that okay?” he asked after a moment. At first you pursed your lips at him, confused, until you realized what he meant.

Oh. Yeah. The massive gash along your side that was the whole reason you were in this situation to begin with.

“Uh…” why were you hesitating? “Y-yeah. That’s okay.”

You scooted closer to the edge of the bed and straightened your posture. There was a moment of stiff stillness between the two of you; were you going to lift your shirt or should he do it?

You settled on being the one to move, and reached to pull up your shirt by the hem. You let in bunch up in your fingers as you pulled it higher, higher, stopping right where the wound began. You held it in place with your right hand, internally cringing when you felt the faint crunch of dried blood in the fabric. The bandaging was somewhat haphazard, but thorough, and seemed to be enough to have held back the bleeding from getting any worse.

Mando took a half-step closer, his hand twitching at his side as if he’d suddenly remembered to ask. “You want to, or me?”

“Ah, I can do it,” you replied. You reached down with your free hand and slowly began to peel away the bandaging that covered your wound. The tug of it against your skin was dulled by the sight of the thing underneath; deep and red and brutal. And this was hours after whatever had been in that e-bacta injection.

You inhaled with a hiss at the sight of it. They’d outnumbered you, normally not an issue because they still couldn’t shoot for shit and you’d been up against much worse countless times before, but one of those rogue bastards just happened to have a jagged-edged viroblade tucked away, ready for the opportunity to strike when you made one wrong half-step.

You were suddenly flooded with anger and shame for allowing this to happen to yourself, and clenched your fist tighter around your shirt as Mando studied the wound for himself.

“Lucky you didn’t lose anything important.” You assumed that was his way of saying that it looked like it hurt.

You muttered some offhanded curse under your breath, the heat from your agitation suddenly turning to something else you couldn’t identify when he knelt face-level you and a gloved finger began to ghost over the gash in your skin.

“Why’d an Imp have one of those things?” he questioned, more to himself as he continued to study the wound. You only half-heard him, something about his touch on your skin giving you the sudden urge to launch yourself through the ceiling.

“Don’t know why you call them that,” you forced yourself to speak, although the falter in your voice most definitely wasn’t subtle. Another finger began to glide along your skin as well, as his touch slowly drifted from where the gash tapered off at your hip.

“That’s not what they are anymore.” Along your ribcage. "They’re just the the shit leftovers.” One fingertip’s length away from the underside of your breast. "I—ah, Mando could you—"

His fingers had stopped running along the wound when you’d spoken, as if he suddenly realized what he was doing. Yet he hadn’t pulled away. His head tilted up to yours, and you could feel his gaze from underneath his helmet. That kriffing helmet…

His hand abruptly dropped to rest on his beskar-clad knee. The silence that passed between you was nearly a beat too long to be comfortable for either of you, his concealed stare somehow still burning through you in places that you wouldn’t care to admit, until he stood again and turned to pull something from the opened med pack that rested on the shelf next to his bed. You recognized the jar in his hands to contain some sort of healing salve that, much like the injection, you weren’t entirely sure that just anyone should possess. He held it out to you, not making the offer to touch you again.

Slowly, you rose from the bed, then took the jar. Standing on your feet felt strange, the after-effects of the drugs in your system still giving you the faint feeling of floating.

“You got a mirror?” You asked.

He gestured with his head to the opposite side of the small room. “‘Fresher.”

You nodded and carefully treaded over, getting reacquainted with the feeling in your legs. You stepped into the refresher and placed the jar down on the sink after opening the lid, the chemical-and-plant smell rushing to your nose. You glanced over to a tiny shelf, where a fresh set of your clothes rested. You prayed to some god that might be listening that Cara was the one who had dug through your things to find them and not Mando.

You turned to the mirror then, and saw that you looked just like you thought you would: dark circles under your eyes, dull skin, a bruise under your left eye and a small cut along your cheek.

You didn’t dwell on it for long, and instead began to scoop the salve from the jar and spread it across your wound with light strokes. It was an instant, cooling relief and you nearly sighed at the feeling as you continued to apply it to the entire area. Whatever was in it, albeit primitive and definitely not entirely legal, was already making you feel infinitely better than you’d been when you’d first woken up.

Mando’s voice came from the other room after a couple minute’s silence.

“Hey, look. I’m…I didn’t mean to lash out at you like that. When you made it back to the ship.” His voice was deeper than you’d heard it before, heavy. “I didn’t know—and I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s alright,” you replied, stepping out to face him again when you’d finished. “I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

You walked over to meet him, the two of you finally standing face-to-face. “I have a job to do, and I wasn’t here to do it when it mattered. I got caught. I deserved it.”

Mando hadn’t moved toward the bandages as you spoke, leaving you just somewhat awkwardly standing there, holding your dirty shirt halfway off your body in front of him.

He still didn’t move when he replied. “No. These things happen.”

You found yourself curiously tilting your head at him, a peculiar thudding echoing in your chest. You weren’t used to this. He felt guilty about this? He was just going to accept your mistake? And that was it?

You could only give him a stiff nod in reply. “O-okay.”

He looked back at you for a brief instance longer before starting to help you re-bandage the wound in your side. No more words were spoken, not until you had dropped your shirt back down over your torso. Not until, again, Mando’s touch had lingered for a little too long, as if something about touching you was something familiar and foreign and entrancing, all at once. You didn’t mind.

Your ears suddenly picked up a shrill chattering that you knew could be nothing other than the child, who was currently squeezing himself between Mando’s feet. The Mandalorian moved so that the little green thing could waddle through, over to you. His huge eyes blinked long and slow, and his tiny, clawed hands reached up towards you.

Mando picked him up instead, and the small creature shot an angry pout toward him.

“She’s still hurt. Let’s leave her alone for a while."

The child whimpered, his ears drooped low as he turned back to look at you. You smiled weakly at him.

“Hey, kid. We’ll play later, okay?” You reached to rub your thumb and forefinger on one of his dropping ears, causing him to give you a contented sigh of acceptance.

“You can take over when you’re ready.” Mando stated, knowing that already, you were itching to get behind the controls again. It was your job, after all. One scrape wasn’t going to stop you anytime soon. And he wasn’t going to be the one to deny that.

The door shut behind him as he and the kid left, leaving you standing in the center of the room.

On the opposite side, Mando was all but ready to collapse as he leaned his back against the door.

He’d only just been able to quiet the frantic pace of his heartbeat, calmed the heat that had raged through his every nerve at your closeness. The feeling of your skin was intoxicating, even through his gloves, and his brain was still begging for him to just turn back around, take the damned gloves off and—

The child’s puzzled cooing at his ear brought him back down to reality, and he released a breath that he’d been holding for far too long as he lifted himself from the door and began to make his way down the hall.

Oh, was he fucked.

—

tags: @jamesdeerest @nadia-rosea @sanslover69 @backontheolebullshit @sunkissed-winter @rogrsnbarnes @capsironunderoos (If you were tagged you commented on The Pilot and I think you rock! I guess I’ll start an official tag list for this now; if you want to be added please let me know!)

#mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #mandalorian x female reader #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x you #mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #din djarin #star wars fic #spooky's writing prompts #anonymous #the pilot

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duchess-of-mandalore · 4 years ago

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The Fragility of Noble Flaws

Obitine, Anidala, Anakin & Satine, Anakin & Obi-Wan

Prompt: Anakin travels to Mandalore to tell Satine that Obi-Wan’s alive (mid-Rako Hardeen arc)

This started out as a writing exercise: I gave myself 500 words to write a ficlet exploring Anakin and Satine's dynamic together, since we see so little of them together on the show.

I failed the exercise and ended up with a 5,000 word exploration of the bond they share through their love of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Oh, well! You can't succeed at everything!!

---

Duchess Satine wasn't expecting him. They were acquaintances, but not friends. Not really. He didn't have to reveal anything to her. He was taking a risk in coming to Mandalore, and she would find out the truth soon enough. Along with the rest of the galaxy. But in spite of his orders, and in spite of the fact that it felt so perversely good to defy the Council after the stunt that they'd pulled, Anakin Skywalker knew he was doing the right thing. There was perhaps no one else in the galaxy who more deserved to know that Obi-Wan Kenobi was still alive.

He probably could have found a secure holo-terminal and contacted her that way. It would have beat the long trip to the Outer Rim, but Anakin felt this news should be given in person.

When he'd arrived, it was already evening in Sundari. Perhaps it wasn't proper protocol – Anakin wasn't really in the mood to care – but he went straight to the throne room, where he was informed by the palace guard that the Duchess had already retired for the evening with orders not to be disturbed.

"Contact her anyway," Anakin said bluntly, already annoyed that the guard had insisted on taking his lightsaber. "She will want to know what I have to say."

"Sir, that is quite impossible. But I can show you to a guest room tonight and you will be granted an audience with her grace tomorrow."

Anxious irritation swirled in Anakin's gut, as if a Rishi eel were writhing inside and trying to get out. He wouldn't wait. He waved his hand in front of the guard's face. "You will tell Duchess Satine that I am here now."

"I will tell Duchess Satine that you are here now," the guard intoned. He turned obediently, and Anakin shoved down the flare of satisfaction that came from being able to so easily direct others. Obi-Wan would have chastised him for that if he were here. It wasn't becoming of a Jedi to relish wielding power over others, even in relatively benign matters.

But Obi-Wan wasn't here.

That was the point.

Anger blazed in Anakin, and for a few indulgent seconds, he made no move to tamp it down.

Eventually though, he breathed deeply, trying to think of other matters. He would be meeting with the Duchess, and she didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of his own emotions. He turned in a circle to stare around the throne room. It'd been nearly two years since he'd last seen the impressively vaulted space. That was when he'd arrived to escort the Duchess and her neutral allies to Coruscant, and at the time, the room had shimmered gloriously, gently diffused light streaming through the windows. Or were they technically walls when they made up almost the entire building? In any case, the artificial sunlight had bounced around the space, bathing everything in a hazy, peaceful ambiance while also creating a steely warmth that bespoke the purposeful actions that took place in this room. When Anakin had met Duchess Satine, he had felt it a perfect reflection of the woman herself.

But now, the lighting of the domed city had dimmed for the night. The transparisteel no longer reflected light back in on itself. Instead, Anakin could see directly out into the sea of buildings that surrounded the palace. Except for the pinpricks of light from certain windows, the darkness of the city stretched in every direction. Literally every direction, Anakin thought, starring down at the transparent floor beneath him. It was like being suspended in space . . . adrift in cold, unyielding nothingness. Anakin Skywalker was an accomplished pilot and was no stranger to such a feeling. He'd never panic in such a situation. But this was different. Standing in the darkened Mandalorian throne room, he felt utterly exposed.

Fragile.

Breakable.

Footsteps echoing around the vast cavern brought Anakin back, and he centered himself as the armored guard reentered the throne room.

"The Duchess will see you now." He sounded a little flustered, and Anakin wondered if he'd been given him a tongue-lashing for disturbing her. Anakin smirked and followed the guard; he didn't know Satine well, but it was obvious she was a force to be reckoned with.

It was obvious when they reached the Duchess's personal spaces, and not just because of the guard standing sentry outside the door. The corridors – made of actual walls, not transparisteel – were narrower, the ceilings far lower than the more public areas. Less exposed. Anakin was grateful for that.

The guard who directed Anakin motioned to the other to stand aside. He waved his hand in front of the panel and the door swished open. "The Duchess will be with you shortly," he said as Anakin stepped inside.

Even with Mandalore's minimalistic tendencies, Anakin thought Satine's apartment was uncharacteristically subdued for a planetary leader . . . or maybe it only seemed so in light of his wife's own love of the ornate. This wing of rooms still exhibited the same simplistic feel that characterized Sundari more generally, but it felt cozy nonetheless. Floor to ceiling windows overlooked the city on one side, but heavy brocade curtains stood ready to block out even that view when greater privacy was desired. The furniture – all in the blue and silver color scheme of Clan Kryze – was sleek and unembellished, save for the soft wool throw thrown over the sofa. A tea service cart sat along one dark blue wall, kettle heating on a burner. Several vases of Mandalorian peace lilies sat along the walls as well, which were empty save for one surprisingly informal portrait of the duchess and a red-haired boy. Anakin remembered him from the time he dropped Ahsoka off – the boy from a pacifist system who'd been enamored with Ahsoka's Jedi lightsaber. So that must have been Korkie, Satine's nephew. But the eyes . . .

"Master Skywalker." Duchess Satine's crisp voice broke Anakin's gaze away from the portrait. Satine had entered from what looked like a bedchamber, clad in a white nightdress covered by a blue dressing gown. Her blonde hair had been haphazardly pinned back, but her demeanor was every bit as regal as every other time Anakin had seen her. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Her voice was diplomatic, but with an unmistakable edge to it. He bowed low. "Hardly a pleasure, your grace. I know you asked not to be disturbed."

See, he could be diplomatic when the situation called for it. Or maybe it was that this woman had a strange effect on him. In spite of the informal setting, she compelled a formality Anakin didn't grant to just anyone. And yet, there was a warmth about Duchess Kryze as well, one that said that every conversation she had was personal, not simply a mere formality. He was awed by her ethereal regality in a way that reminded him of that fateful day when his very own angel had walked into his life.

She nodded once, and Anakin knew that he'd been absolved of his trespassing. Her next comment held a lighter tone. "I assumed you wouldn't have barged into my palace if it weren't something important." She gestured toward a narrow armchair before taking a seat on the sofa. "Though I am curious as to why the Council didn't simply call, as they usually do."

Anakin sat on the edge of the chair and grimaced. "Well, my lady . . . your grace," he stammered. "They wouldn't have, because . . . they don't know that I'm here."

"This isn't a Council matter?"

"Oh, no. This is definitely a Council matter," he said, before continuing pointedly, "but the reason I'm here . . . that's a personal one."

"Oh?"

"Yes, in fact–" Anakin rubbed his neck, suddenly self-conscience about the whole situation– "what I'm about to tell you is something that you can't tell anyone else. Especially not the Council."

The duchess's brow furrowed in apprehensive confusion as she stared at him directly. "Master Jedi – please – tell me what you came to say."

Anakin breathed. "Obi-Wan's alive."

Continue reading on Ao3

#Obitine #Anidala #Anakin Skywalker #Satine Kryze #Obi-Wan Kenobi #Obi-Wan & Anakin #BroTP: You were my brother #Darth Vader #Star Wars #The Clone Wars #SW: TCW #TCW #I can't help it #I just want Obitine and Anidala to all be friends #My fanfic

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renegade-skywalker · 4 years ago

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Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 / Chapter 15 / Chapter 16 / Chapter 17 / Chapter 18 / Chapter 19 / Chapter 20 / Chapter 21: Homecoming

After years in exile, ex-Jedi General, Eden Valen (now going by Vale) continues to clean up after Revan and Malak’s mess of a war, only to find herself forever cursed with their unfinished business. As an ill-fated lead brings her to Tatooine, Eden finds that Revan’s mysterious plans go beyond the Republic, beyond the Outer Rim, and into the utter unknown. (A novelization of The Sith Lords and beyond)

Chapter Summary: Atton returns to a changed Peragus, fearing now for his life as well as his record, and Brianna catches Atris up to the Exile's whereabouts.

Also found on AO3 | fanfiction.net

3951, Peragus Mining Facility Atton

Atton's body ached. One and all.

First it was his head. A typical headache that soon blossomed into a full-blown migraine, and one the likes of which even the most hungover version of himself could not fathom surviving. And then it was his chest. It wasn't a respiratory ache, but a skeletal one. AS if he'd been kicked in the sternum at full force, the ribs beneath cracking in on themselves like an accordion, and while the medic assured him that he had nothing but a dislocated shoulder and some bruising from where he hit the wall on first impact, he felt as if each of his bones had been stomped on, chewed up, spit out, and hastily gathered back together before being glued and taped haphazardly, hoping for the best. His legs were still jelly, but they felt better than the rest of him, and for that he was thankful.

"Just another lap around the medbay and we should be good for the afternoon," his medic assured him, her mask of a smile having quickly become his new normal.

No other survivors came to join Atton in this wing of the medbay, and while Atton was thankful for the alone time, there was something about it that irked him. Especially seeing how on-edge his attendant was, how her eyes always seemed to be on alert despite the put-upon warmness she'd conjure while in his presence, trying to save face in a valiant attempt at bedside manner.

"You're already miles ahead of where you were a few days ago," she laughed, this time sounding genuinely pleased. "You might even be allowed back to work in about a week, if you're lucky."

Lucky. Atton agreed he would be lucky enough to go back to work, even if it killed him. But his attendant didn't know his sins enough to condemn him to the death that would certainly grant him, and he knew the comment was all part of her charade to make everything going on sound normal. If he was reading her facial expressions correctly, she believed that no one should be put back to work on this rock, at least not until the mysterious accidents stopped entirely. Judging by the look in her eyes and despite her forced smiles, she believed the facility should likely be evacuated completely, if anything, and Atton would have to agree. Not that he'd want anyone to know that.

"You sure about that, doc?" he joked, trying to act polite, trying to act normal. If keeping his head down before was hard, trying to act like the guilt of being a lone survivor wasn't eating away at him was another job entirely, and Atton wasn't sure he could keep it up much longer.

"Positive," she said, her brown eyes locking with his for a moment, her confidence shining through for once, even if she felt no one should be here at all, under any circumstances. But perhaps this was as much a show for him as it was for her, an elaborate farce meant to convince herself that it was worth staying here, if not for the pay but for the mere fact that management had them all trapped here until the next fuel shipment was set to leave the station in a standard week. "Wanna venture down the hall?"

"Sure, yeah, let's do it," Atton said, immediately trying not to shake his own head out of embarrassment for himself after he spoke, hoping he didn't sound as dumb as he felt. "You think I'm ready?"

"Psht, how will you know if you don't at least try?"

Well, damn. She's right.

Atton nodded, still feeling foolish as he allowed his medical attendant to stand him on his own two feet while she reached for the door's console to open it. She reached awkwardly forward, trying to keep hold of his torso in case he leaned too far left or two far right without assistance, and pressed her palm to the door's panel, the durasteel sliding out of place to allow them access beyond with a pleasant swish. The air hit Atton's face as if he were walking outdoors for the first time, and though he was still only exposed to the same old re-circulated air of Peragus' less-than-fresh ventilation system, it felt still felt like he was encroaching on new territory as he was led out of the primary medical wing and into the annex, where the more serious cases were often held.

The medbay was emptier than when he'd arrived, thankfully, but it still felt oddly hollow, lonely almost.

"Doing okay?" his attendant asked after a few paces. He remembered another medic calling her Yara, but he still felt strange referring to her as such, though part of him felt that she had introduced herself at some point but Atton simply failed to remember, either because of the drugs or the supposed concussion he suffered back in the rec hallway.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," Atton said, though his voice was stuck somewhere in the middle of his throat as he chalked up the strength to make every step beyond the open doorway, as if he were learning to walk again for the first time. He imagined it wasn't much different - smaller legs, maybe, but the feeling just as jelly-like.

"Now, just turn this corner here," she eased as Atton inevitably leant into her as they made a wide right turn into the adjoining hall, "Aaand we're clear."

He could feel her smile beside him, forced as usual, and especially so as the ICU loomed into view. From past experience, he knew the door to this room was not often left ajar, but now attendants raced in and out of it, reading datapads as they went, unable to waste any time walking that they could spend reading patient charts and calculating life-saving doses of Maker-knows-what.

When Atton first arrived, all the kolto tanks in the ICU were full. Each of them housed a miner, some still clad in their uniforms - the suit still fused to their skin in some cases. But there was one woman in the middle, clad only in the outfit-issued undergarments all miners were given, only she was wearing a set from a couple years back. Not too revealing, but revealing enough to expose the scars on her forearms, her weathered hands. A veteran, no doubt, though her face still seemed a bit too young for that to be the case, her sharp features framed by the black hair floating in the kolto fluid… or maybe it was brown? No, dark blonde-

Atton watched the woman from the corner of his peripheral vision as they walked the length of the hall, trying to glimpse at her silhouette from beyond the other busied medics that paid no attention to him or anything occurring beyond their data pads.

"Will they be okay in there?" Atton asked, his eyes never leaving the dark-haired woman in the center, even if his gaze wasn't exactly direct. Part of him almost felt embarrassed to look, bashful that he was even interested in who she might be if not a miner, but another part of him was simply too pained to look far enough in her direction to get a good enough look, his neck still stiff after the explosion.

"For the moment," his attendant admitted, "I'm still checking on them here and there, when I'm not looking after your sorry ass."

Atton paused, unsure if she was being serious or if this was her idea of a joke.

"I'm kidding," she said, though there was hardly a look of mirth on her face, "You only need to worry about yourself, hotshot. I'm not sure if anyone else will give a damn once you're dismissed."

"Dismissed?"

This time, she laughed, though more out of exhaustion than actual pleasure.

"Dismissed from medical leave," she confirmed, the laugh still pleasantly flavoring her voice even as it faded, "Once you're okayed to go back to work."

"Oh," Atton said dumbly, catching one last glance of the mystery woman in the ICU. "Right."

By the time Atton thought of speaking again, they were already back at his usual resting place, still void of any other patients, though Atton knew they were plenty.

"Any word on when I can at least start taking walks on my own?"

"As soon as your chart says so," she said, giving him a stern look though smiling despite it, "Though I have a feeling it will be soon, so don't worry."

She smiled wide enough that her eyes were barely slits, only Atton knew she wasn't smiling - not really.

"Sounds good," he said, attempting a smile in return, though knowing he failed despite the fake gesture.

"I'll be back tomorrow," the medic assured him from over her shoulder as she exited the room, the worry fast returning to her face as she approached the exit, "See you then."

"See you."

Yara. Her name is Yara. He wasn't sure why it mattered, or why he was so reluctant to say her name, to thank her. Likely because he didn't think he deserved to be alive, for one, and likely because a part of him felt that they would never see each other again.

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

3951 BBY, Dantooine Mission

It had been four years since Mission last stepped foot on Dantooine. As they descended the loading ramp, part of her was instantly transported back to that first time at Nevarra's side, eager as ever to be off Taris. But another part of Mission was hopelessly lost as she came face-to-face with the tall vegetation whistling around her, trying to make heads or tails of the place that resembled nothing of what she remembered.

"Does any of this look familiar to you?" Mission asked above the din of the ships' dying engine, her eyes squinting against the unyielding yellow-orange of the setting sun, "I thought this was supposed to be the main docking bay."

She was nearly yelling now as Zayne's piece of junk aircraft struggled to settle despite having already landed, the motors still running.

"That's what I thought," Zayne answered, coming up behind her, grabbing part of the landing module on the side of the ramp for support, struggling against the rush of air still whirring from the engine exhaust, his mop of hair obscuring his face entirely. "Why does it look so barren?"

Mission held up her right hand as a visor to better scan the horizon. This seemed to be the right place when they'd landed. From above, they could see the clearing set aside for the docking bay set not too far from a cluster of buildings, though it certainly all looked larger from the air, and the grass far less imposing from the top down.

"There," she said, pointing towards a large structure to their left, "I think that's one of the main settlements we saw before landing. I actually think we're outside the Jedi Temple, not beside it."

Mission recalled questioning the farmers here, residents that had claimed these rolling hills for millennia as they used it as their defense in what she remembered was a hard-boiled murder case - but her memory couldn't have been right about that, could it? It seemed so heavy in retrospect yet it was the memory that stuck. But even back then, the grass wasn't this tall. Sure, it was tall enough to hide the bulk of the property from outsiders, but it wasn't enough to dwarf the main dwelling entirely. The growth around them was certainly not intentional, and Mission felt strange as she further descended the ramp and walked into the grass in full, submerging herself as if in water.

"Hey Big Z, can you see anything?" she asked over her shoulder, sensing her long-time companion approach from behind, his familiar scent an anchor to both her past and present.

Zaalbar approached Mission with his usual lumbering stride, still a good head taller than the rest of them, though the grasses still shrouded his view in parts. He only nodded down at her after a moment, confirming her earlier report.

"Really? Just the one building, yeah?"

The more she stood on tiptoe, the more she recognized this specific valley, but the more the location registered the less it made sense. When they'd last been here, the main docking bay was adjacent to the Jedi Temple itself. The one they just landed in was more than several miles away, and in the middle of what had previously been open farmland and rolling hills. There was no other landing bay in sight when they landed. Whatever she had known before was gone entirely.

"I guess I'm surprised it's even still standing," Mission said softly, though she knew her voice wasn't audible over the still-dying engines. After a moment, she felt Big Z rest a hand on her shoulder, the sentiment translating regardless.

"I guess I didn't realize just how much damage Darth Malak really wrought on this place," Zayne muttered from nearby, still grasping the loading gear, though now it seemed to be out of an emotional need than a physical one.

Malak. In uttering his name alone, Mission was truly transported back in time. Even in their pursuit of her current whereabouts, Nevarra instantly became Revan in Mission's mind - though in memory only, not in spirit. Mission only ever knew the woman as Nevarra, insisting that she continue to call her such even long after their collective revelation. But the weight of Nevarra's past came back in full at the mention of Malak, once Revan's best friend and confidante, though Mission only ever knew him as a villain. It occurred to her now that Zayne had perhaps known the man too, being a Jedi and all, but also in the way he spoke his name, emphasizing the Darth moniker rather than the Malak end of it.

The engines were still sputtering to a halt when Asra appeared at the mouth of the ship, her eyes mere slits to sheild against the sharp winds whistling through the grasses in their direction.

"Not as formal as I expected," Asra said, the Togruta putting on airs as she forced a smile while descending the ramp. "Is that supposed to be our welcome party?"

Just beyond the field of grass was a dilapidated wall encircling an outdated console, and standing guard beside it and equally ancient was a rusted-silver protocol droid, growing copper at the hinges, twitching as it looked in their collective direction.

Asra and Mission locked eyes, shrugging in unison before they both waded through the shorter though still knee-high grasses over to the droid, casting wary glances about them as they went.

Zaalbar and Zayne weren't far behind. Once Asra and Mission cleared the grass and set foot on smooth stone, still cracked in places enough to let the weeds push through, the droid ambled toward them, eager for interaction.

"Greetings and good day, traveler. On behalf of the Khoonda settlement, I am programmed to welcome you to Dantooine."

"Oh, is that all?" Mission said, chuckling darkly through her sarcasm, "Can you tell us what this Khoonda even is?"

"Gr-Greetings! Greetings and good day, traveler. On behalf of the Khoonda settlement, I am programmed to welcome you to Dantooine."

Zayne and Zaalbar approached beside them, eyes questioning as the droid drawled on, twitching unnervingly as it went.

"Oh boy," Asra muttered, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, "Is this one of those protocol droids that needs a specifically worded prompt in order to function or is this one just busted?"

"Greetings!"

"Busted, it looks like," Mission sighed, "Guess we should just head to the settlement we saw, right? Take our chances?"

"I am programmed to welcome you to Dantooine."

"Probably our best bet," Zayne replied, eyes already squinting against the horizon to find their directive again, "I remember this hunk of junk. Damn thing hardly worked then, and I doubt it works now. I'm honestly surprised it hasn't been scrapped for parts."

"You remember this thing?" Asra asked, her eyes scanning the droid from top to bottom as if searching for any kind of remarkable feature.

Zayne didn't respond at first. Instead he studied the ruined walls that surrounded this sorry excuse for a landing pad, as if he recognized where they'd been salvaged from, as if he knew every minute detail that had altered this planet in the last ten or so years since he'd last been here. Of course he does.

"Not sure if the others told you, but I don't just have Jedi friends. I used to be one, too. Well, sort of."

Asra watched him for a beat, something akin to pity painting her face as she mulled over a reply.

"I'm sorry," she said after a while, her voice quiet, "Knowing what happened here and all."

"Thanks," he mumbled, his eyes locking with Mission even though he was answering Asra. Mission knew Zayne had formally trained on Taris, not Dantooine, but Taris had unfortunately met the same fate. Mission figured Zayne hadn't been back there yet, either.

"Don't worry about it, let's just keep moving."

"Random building it is, then," Asra resigned as they changed course, now faced with the taller grasses as they pushed onward.

"Any word from your friends?" Mission asked after a few quiet moments as she caught up with Zayne. A ghost of her old crush came rushing back as he glanced over his shoulder at her, a familiar warmth returning to his eyes as he quelled a smile.

"Not yet, though I expected the radio silence. They mentioned running into some trouble here after they'd landed and made camp, but nothing they couldn't handle."

"Trouble?" Mission echoed.

"Rural political stuff, local drama, that sort of thing," Zayne said, shaking his head, not worried or at least trying to act like it, "I didn't get the details, but it sounded more like a nuisance than any real trouble. Or at least, I hope so."

Mission suddenly felt bad even asking, biting her tongue before she could say anything else.

Big Z rumbled beside her, a comforting growl she was used to hearing whenever she got too deep in her own thoughts.

"Thanks, buddy," she murmured, glancing at him as he paved through the grass making way for the rest of them, hoping Zayne didn't hear or catch on as he fell a few paces behind.

"You sure Orex is okay holding down the fort?" she heard Zayne ask Asra after a few quiet beats.

Through the grass, Mission saw the silhouette of Asra shrug in response, confident as ever.

"Orex can hold down anything, though I'm sure he's antsy to get off that ship if that's what you're asking."

"How long have you known him, anyway?" Zayne ventured, slowing down a bit now.

"Not long, though it feels like longer. Been working for him for about a year now, though Darek's been on longer."

"How long have you known Darek?"

"A while," was all Asra afforded this time, and though she shied away from any specifics she did nothing to hide the ghost of a smile as she spoke.

"Orex seems to know what he's doing for someone so removed from the Jedi. But what's Darek's story?"

Big Z slowed once he realized the others were dawdling, Zayne perhaps stalling out of fear for what the rest of his crew might be caught up in despite his show of bravery, though Mission was only guessing.

"Ex-Mandalorian, Neo Crusader."

"Ah," was all Zayne said, the weight of his knowing evident in his tone, now coming to a full stop as they approached the proper mouth to the valley. The large estate wasn't far off, but now there was a silhouette fast approaching them, the shadow of a bobbing head floating through parted grass as it drew nearer.

"So I'm guessing this is the welcome party?" Asra asked, not expecting an answer as the distance between them and their mysterious pursuer drew smaller.

A hand shot into the air, an awkward hello from a few yards ahead, and the neighborly part of Mission emerged unwittingly as she returned the gesture.

Within moments, the silhouette became a slight brunette human woman with tired eyes, her hair pulled into a tight bun at the crown of her head, shiny enough to reflect the morning sun like a halo as if to make up for the clear exhaustion that painted her face.

"More visitors," the woman sighed, already exasperated as she approached, "You must be here to join the plunder of the old Jedi Enclave, like the rest of them. I'm afraid I can't just let you roam the grounds though, you'll have to speak with Administrator Adare, first."

Big Z looked at Mission, who looked at Asra and Zayne, all shrugging in turn.

"Not to be rude but...What are you talking about?" Zayne asked after exchanging glances with the others and awaiting a response, only to receive none.

"You're salvagers, right? Your ship looks banged up enough to be a part of that lot," the woman said, venturing a glance past them at the dock before looking both Asra and Mission from head to foot, as if with distaste, "But you look… different."

Asra and Mission exchanged glances, a heat rising in Mission's chest as words escaped her.

"Excuse me?" Asra asked, a sharpness rising in her voice Mission had not yet grown acquainted with but was instantly thankful for.

The woman shrank away slightly, raising her hands as if in apologetic surrender, though Mission still noticed the stranger's eyes scan both Mission's and Asra's lekku,as if it proved some unspoken point in her unintended backhanded comment.

Mumbling a half-hearted apology, the woman shook her head, a hand cradling her temple as if she'd been dealing with miscommunications like this all day. Or maybe all week.

"I'm sorry," she groaned, though she sounded more annoyed than anything. Mission only glared at her and rested her hand on her holster while they awaited the woman's further reply. "It's just that the only recent visitors we've had are salvagers. That, and a slew of mercenaries."

"I take it you don't get many visitors?" Zayne asked, crossing his arms.

"Not really, no. And when we do, they're usually-" she paused, unsure of how to continue as she looked about the four of them, eyeing Zaalbar last and longest.

Mission could feel the unspoken word trouble hang in the air between them, and knowing the woman would never finish her sentence, decided to speak up for her.

"Just show us the way, will you?" she said, her impatience clearer in her tone than she'd like. Glancing around, Asra nodded in agreement, looking towards the woman as she took another affirmative step forward, as if urging her reply. Big Z did the same, grumbling in the affirmative, though by the looks of it their mysterious greeter took it as some sort of threat. She took a step back, and after a moment simply nodded and braced herself before formally responding.

"Right this way."

Turning on a point, the woman parted the grass behind her and began walking, assuming an air of authority she'd yet to exude - and it was then that Mission also realized she'd never once introduced herself, not mentioning her name, her position, or where she stood in Dantooine's aftermath.

"So I guess we're off to see this Administrator, huh?" Asra asked hypothetically as she gained on Mission, each of them following in unison, though each of them remained a cautious step or two behind their mysterious greeter as she led them onward.

"Guess so," Mission answered, shrugging. Big Z followed, and last to move was Zayne, his gaze far off on the horizon still, as if he were lost in a thought that was far away from here. Not in distance - but in time, memory.

"You okay?" she asked, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder as he finally tore his eyes away from the distant hills to look in her general direction.

"I will be," he said after a beat, his gaze meeting hers as it did before, in silent knowing. He smiled despite the sadness clear in his eyes.

"Good," was all Mission could muster, still unsure of what to say. Zayne clapped her shoulder in kind, in quiet thanks, before followed the others, but Mission paused.

Glancing toward the hills Zayne had been watching, Mission saw that the sun had fully risen, a golden disc now hanging serenely over the hills. Just as it had been that first day off Taris with Nevarra, still raw from the destruction of her homeworld. Suddenly growing cold from an unseen chill, Mission wrapped her arms around herself, goosebumps rising along her skin despite the warmth emanating from the sun as she soaked the scene in.

The Jedi Temple is just over the ridge, she knew instantly, the fact taking hold as the view registered in her memory. Through the valley a ways, just past the river.

She could almost hear the trickling of the water as it flowed under the austere bridge that separated the rest of the valley from the sprawling grounds of the Jedi Temple. The birdsong that echoed over the grasses, the monolithic shadows of the brith lazing overhead like the occasional cloud-cover. Mission was bristling with too much teenage angst to admire the views then, and the planet was too ravaged for her to do so now. Sighing, she pressed onward, Zayne's head still barely visible in the tall grass before her.

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

3951 BBY, Dantooine Mical

The hilt was rough-hewn. Worn from use, yes, but the recklessness of its design was intentional. As if it were a hackneyed half-thought, a thrown-together weapon of little thought. But that was the idea. Make the opponent believe it was primitive. Have them grow accustomed to the single hilt, the lone blade erupting from the short end of the otherwise long stick. The weapon of a Jedi, but not one worth fearing... Only for the other end to reveal a longer blade - rougher around the edges, wilder, yet more precise in its execution - its energy crackling with untamed energy, bristling with chaos and ruin.

Exar Kun's lightsaber was a thing of genius. It was not just a lightsaber, but a puzzle. It was an illusion meant to lull his opponents into complacency, into believing they knew his fighting style, that they knew his traditional, if not unusual, Jedi weapon - an easily recognizable symbol of the Order and everything it stood for, only for it to transform before the final blow, before the second blade would surely cut through whatever defense his adversary had already choreographed in their mind's eye, rendering them helpless, if not dead in an instant.

And this is what made Kun's weapon so utterly and undeniably Sith in design. Subtle, subversive, serving a higher purpose. That, and it was dramatic as hell.

"It's no beauty, but it's also not as ugly as I imagined," Lonna Vash uttered from beside him, eyeing the contents of the parcel with distaste but respect, her gaze intent but critical, ever the Jedi. "But perhaps it is because of the history that comes with it. It's hard to believe that legends can alter memory so completely."

"And it's only been forty years, if we're counting back to the defeat of Exar Kun and not just the man at the height of his power. And that's the power of myth, isn't it?" Mical said reverently, his fingers spiriting over the hilt, housed in a bed of soft felt, "It didn't take long for Revan to don the mask and rise to prominence, for her visions to gain traction and near-mythic proportions, to become a symbol and more than a woman."

"Who knew that a repurposed Mandalorian mask would be the face of the Mandalorian's very enemy?" she smiled, not from any warmth to the memory but perhaps out of acknowledging the bitterness of the truth. "Still, a strange thought to consider."

Mical thought the hilt was beautiful in its simplicity, in its utter deception. The metalwork was unfinished in places, the veneer uneven in others. But the innerwork was intricate, precise enough to house a second crystal and harness its raw power unlike any other Jedi-crafted lightsaber in known history. It was the first double-blade known to modernity, though legend had it that Kun had fashioned this saber from an ancient Sith design. He knew not where, though he would love to find out. Perhaps the Sith that housed them now would have some idea…

Mical and Vash had taken to the rogue Sith's cargo area for the last couple of days while in hyperspace, seeing little of their host but much of his work. Master Vash spoke little of the man, only recounting sporadically recalled moments from distant years she spent with him as his first Jedi Master when he was a child. But the information she had seemed outdated if anything, and only relevant in the way the man's childhood interests clearly played a role in his adult present. Mical hadn't minded being locked in here for two days with little food since he had the man Master Vash called Aiden's work to sift through, piles of notes and unlocked datapads at his disposal, and nothing the likes of anything he'd ever seen before. Decades of Sith history rested demurely atop the messy-but-organized workspace begging to be perused, bits of information that were otherwise inaccessible to anyone not of the affiliation. But none of it dated beyond the Sith of Korriban lore - Ajunta Pall, Ludo Kresh. Mical knew they were not the first Sith. Nor were they the first to study, let alone worship, the Dark Side of the Force. It seemed their host knew this and was well aware of the fact, his research leaning towards not only ancient Sith but Sith origin as well, only to come up empty.

"My hilt was smoother, I'll say that," a voice came from over Mical's shoulder. He should have heard the door slide open, he should have felt the air pressure shift. But part of Mical knew this was the Sith's trick, his very intention to arrive unannounced, to see what his uninvited guests were doing unattended in his private quarters. "Though in my defense, I only ever had technical drawings to work from, never the real thing."

The man brushed a strand of dark hair from his sickly green eyes, piercing as they glittered over the now-exposed lightsaber hilt of Exar Kun, whose ghost had spoken to him in a vision. Mical glanced at Master Vash, as if for direction, wondering if they should perhaps cover the thing up lest it fall into the wrong hands. Vash said nothing.

Instead of reacting, the man ran a hand over his hair, long on top but cut short around the sides, before crossing his arms, watching both guests with a wary stare.

"Also, do call me Erebus. Aiden… no longer suits me."

Somehow Mical knew the man had not reached into his mind but must have simply overheard them in the past couple days, undoubtedly sick of hearing his abandoned name repeated - Aiden, Aiden, Aiden. Mical wanted to ask where Erebus had come from, and if there was an official tradition to Sith names, but instead found himself quiet as he simply shut the parcel closed so the famed saber was hidden out of sight again. As it was intended.

"Erebus," Vash said, as if tasting the name, testing it out. After a moment she nodded, "Erebus it is, then."

As much as Mical couldn't read the Sith, he also had a hard time getting a good impression of the Jedi. One moment she was critical, only to find her exceedingly agreeable the next. There seemed to be no rules to her logic, leaning conservative on some things but liberal in others, especially when it came to her former student.

Erebus nodded curtly, trying not to appear pleased with the approval, and sucked on his teeth, looking around the room as if it were all new to him.

"Perfect," he said quickly, crossing his arms, "Well, if you're interested, as I'm sure you are, we are set to arrive on Dantooine within the standard hour. I have some rations in the cupboard against the far wall if either of you are interested. Vintage Sith rations from Revan's empire - fun, I know. Not sure what the fare will be once we land or who will welcome us, if anyone. The landscape's changed, but I trust you two more more about it than I do."

Erebus looked around the room again, avoiding all eye contact, as he tried to peer at the container that now safely housed Exar Kun's lightsaber, trying his best not to appear interested or disappointed that it was being stored away from his prying eyes.

"You were supposed to meet up with your contacts here, yes?" Vash said, placing a gentle hand on Mical's shoulder. "Assuming they escaped Space City in time, we may run into them here if the Force wills it."

"I have a feeling we will, seeing how things have turned out so far," Erebus sighed, "Let's just hope my former Master doesn't catch up with us."

"Former?" Mical said before he even felt himself think it, instantly regretting speaking upon doing so. Erebus winced as if he felt the embarrassment second-hand.

"It's a guess, but seeing as I've been avoiding Ni-" Erebus almost uttered a name but stopped himself short, his eyes flashing as his gaze flitted from Mical to Vash with mild surprise before recovering, "Since I've avoiding reporting in lately, my Master might assume I've gone rogue. And since I've yet to make up my mind on that front, such an assumption might be correct enough to act upon."

Erebus flashed them a sardonic smile, meant to mask his fear with false bravado, though it was fooling no one.

"There's a radio over there," Erebus said, trying not to sound helpful despite everything he was doing to prove otherwise, "If you want to try and contact your - I don't know - your crew, your people. Whoever."

With a shrug he was gone again, the door that separated the cockpit from the cargo hold closing at his back with an audible whoosh this time. Mical and Vash exchanged glances before looking toward the far wall, noticing a small comms system hidden behind a series of paper notes tacked over it. Wanting to preserve the data, Mical gently tugged at the paper to reveal a panel underneath, his fingers enraptured by the feel of it, unsure he'd even seen paper up close before despite having read about it all his life. The comms system was strange, both outdated and futuristic at once.

"Have you seen this sort of ship before?" Master Vash asked as Mical paused over the control panel, his fingers touching the buttons but failing to press any of them after a minute of admiring the design of it all.

"It's a Star Forge vessel, isn't it?" he answered, trying to keep the awe from his voice. Vash only nodded, her eyes glittering over the panel as if she, too, was in wonderment, trying to soak it all in and make sense of it.

"I believe it is."

"You never saw one up close?"

Master Vash shook her head as she grimaced into a half-smile, meeting Mical's eyes for a brief moment before looking back to the panel, pressing a corner button that made the entire console light up. Unlike ships native to Republic space, these buttons were hexagonal, some diamond-shaped and others pointed, almost pyramidal, and each of them was a shade of white, cream or gold in color. One lone button in the corner was black as the space between stars, but the rest glittered like a sky in miniature

"It's so foreign," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Yet so familiar."

The panel was not unlike modern comms systems in its layout, though the design was so utterly different. Mical wondered what had come first, only knowing part of the history behind Revan's mysteriously instantaneous fleet, yet somehow he knew that this was the blueprint for everything that came after, that every facet of this ship was likely as much a relic as anything Erebus had tracked and collected in this very room. But just how old was the blueprint? Where did she find it and will it into being?

"How much of this did you see in your vision, exactly?" Mical asked, turning to Master Vash. "You said you saw Dantooine, but did you see the planet? The Jedi Temple? Something that would happen here?"

Vash was quiet at first, still admiring the panel as the lights blinked demurely, as if waiting to be pressed, asking for it almost.

"Bits and pieces," she said, "I saw the rolling hills, the ruined Temple. I saw you there, actually, poring over datapads in the remains of the library."

"And Erebus?"

Vash's mouth thinned into a line, her gaze now intent on the panel and nothing else.

"I saw the two of us training. It looked like the Temple ruins, but I can't be sure. I haven't been here since the attack."

"By a one Darth Malak?"

Vash nodded.

"Do you think there is hope for a man like him, for Erebus?"

"Hope?" Vash scoffed. "The Jedi have fallen because there was something flawed about us. Perhaps not in our intentions but in how we executed our beliefs. If anyone knows Jedi history and the intricacies of it, it's that man. And if he turned to the Dark Side before the Order fell to ruin, then I fear he may have had a good reason for doing so."

Vash looked over her shoulder at the empty door that separated them from Erebus, and Mical turned to look along with her even though all there was no man there, only metal. But in his mind's eye, Mical wondered what Aiden had looked like as a boy, as a Jedi, what his copied saber looked like, fashioned from the legend of Exar Kun, whose ghost haunted the galaxy still, just as Revan did though still more a woman than a spectre.

"I don't mean to say that I condone his affiliations or whatever he's done to sustain them," Vash corrected, turning her attention from the closed door to Erebus' myriad of notes and scribblings scattered about them, "But I can see why he did, is all."

"And what of his sister, the Exile?"

"I wish I could tell you," she said, her voice lilting, "And the fact that I cannot is unfortunately the reason why I fear we're all here."

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

3951, Peragus Mining Facility Atton

The medbay was quiet. Eerily quiet. All Atton could hear were the soft whirring sounds of the machine beside him, lulling him to sleep, as needle-thin tubes administered more pain killers and antibiotics. The last medic to do a sweep of his empty ward gave him the run-down about a half-hour ago but Atton was already fast forgetting every word the young Sullustan said, who looked over his shoulder after every other word as if someone were watching him, or as if whatever treatment Atton was receiving were clandestine. Both afraid of and eager for the solitude, Atton nodded impatiently as he spoke, only calm once he was alone again… just for the panic to take over.

With the medics around, he was a mess. But alone? He wasn't sure what was worse.

As predicted, his attendant from the past few days – Yara – had yet to return, the medic turn-over almost as staggering as the number of incoming patients in the medbay's ICU. Atton was still the only occupant in the well ward, not that he was exactly healthy, but the fact that he wasn't in critical condition seemed to be the determining factor in his placement. Still, he saw little of the others, only catching glimpses through the open door whenever a new medic would enter to administer another round of treatment or ask how he was doing, as if he were an afterthought.

What the hell is going on here?

But now, all Atton yearned for was sleep. He'd tried to glimpse the bottle the Sullustan pierced with the IV needle before hooking it up to Atton's arm – y'know, for future reference – but he wasn't so lucky, the aurabesh too small for him to read from a distance.

Damn, I'm getting old. At 32, Atton was feeling the weight of his reckless decisions more and more now, especially after working in the gas mines for the last year, and he figured his newly acquired injuries only depleted his life expectancy if anything.

Before he could lament his possible future, Atton began to drift off, his eyes drooping, senses dulling, though he still seemed to have a fuzzy view of the room he was in, as if his eyes were only half-closed. But he was quickly losing command of his limbs and all voluntary movement, his body fast becoming a cage. And while part of him liked it, another part of him felt suffocated, unsure of this prison, even if it meant he could at least rest for the moment. If all he had to look at was the empty wall for several hours, then so be it.

The room remained unchanged, though Atton did not know for how long. Dreams flitted in and out of his bouts of consciousness, though his corner of the medbay remained a constant, a background character almost, as his mind delved into the abstract.

Atton never let himself dream. Even in his sleep, he was counting cards and power couplings, never sure of who might be watching, who might be looking for him. Revan's empire died not long after Malak took over, but he knew the others trained like him were still out there somewhere. One could never be too careful. But slipping into dreamlike oblivion was almost blissful now despite the chaos he knew that ravaged the rest of the station now, his mind both emptied but full at once. He dreamt of everything and nothing, his memory as thin as air, capturing nothing but wisps of memory, trails of thought that dissipated just as quickly. And then there was the droid.

It was an HK model. Not the kind seen on Peragus in any capacity. Especially considering a protocol droid was hardly needed here, if ever. It drifted about the room, as if floating, before suddenly appearing at Atton's face, its intelligence module mere inches from Atton's half-lidded eyes. He knew he was still dreaming, but part of this felt real – too real.

Atton tried to jerk awake, tried opening his eyes, but they only seemed to want to close further, the panic rising in his chest as the HK's amber eyes bore into his unblinkingly, saying nothing. He felt a metallic hand at his wrist, and then his elbow, and pluck. The IV the medic had inserted earlier was removed and replaced with something else, though Atton could not will his eyes to move enough to see what it was. The droid's cold fingers graced his wrist again, this time checking for a pulse, before finally pulling away and pausing, admiring its handiwork before gliding away.

And then… it paused, poised in the doorway, unmoving. Its silhouette stood still, swaying gently on its metal perch for what felt like eternity, becoming a fixture in the room just as anything else, before it swiftly turned on its heel and rushed towards Atton's bedside again, this time to shut his eyes closed, cold fingers flitting over his face as though Atton were a corpse. He shuddered and the HK was gone.

And then the nightmares started.

#star wars #kotor 2 #atton rand #mission vao #mical the disciple #my writing #fan fiction #back at it again at krispy kreme

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steelbuildingss · 2 years ago

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#Wall Panels #Ready made wall panels cladding systems

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seokiloquy · 4 years ago

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Pumpkin Spice - Miya Osamu

AU: Regular, coffee shop(?)

Server Collab (Linked)

Tags/Warnings: GN Reader, swearing, time-skip spoilers

Word Count: 9.2k+

Working at a cafe in the middle of the busy streets of Tokyo’s business sector often led to many customers in need of a nice brew and in association, tips. Lots of tips that often fell into your pocket at the end of the day. The pay was good enough and made up for the moderately long commute from your campus that you spent sleeping on the train. On top of that, your boss was the nicest and most supportive old woman in downtown Tokyo.

The interior of the cafe was soft and homey in comparison to the reflective silver exterior of the building outside. Seats with red vinyl cushions filled the open area leading to the wooden top counter that you worked behind, mixing up whatever ludicrous drink they asked for. The customers loved you. You loved the money. It was the best.

It was sunny that day, people were smiling for once as they walked to work for once. The traffic was light, people weren’t running late, and to top it all off you had just gotten an email that morning with the mark for your latest assignment, a perfect grade.

“We’re closing.”

“Like, just for today, right?” you asked Juri, brows furrowed as a disbelieving smile pulled on your face as if you were being pranked. She gave you a sad look. “Right?” you repeated, pouring in a measured amount of coffee beans into the espresso machine.

“(Y/N), I’m so sorry,” Juri gasped. “The building owner jacked up the renting price and I just can’t afford it now.”

You reached behind you for the counter, gripping it tightly between your fingers as you pulled yourself closer to slump onto it. A dull ache began to grow right between your eyes. “Don’t apologize, Juri. There’s nothing you can do. I’m fine.”

“Well, that’s a lie,” she spoke after a moment, skating over the thin ice that froze over your conversation. “You can spend more time studying now at least, university gets harder in your final year.”

“University’s the reason I needed this job though.” You walked around Juri’s stout form, reaching for the coffee machine, grabbing hold of a mug and readying yourself for the freshly pressed beans. “I have to pay for it somehow.”

“(Y/N), darling, maybe a three shot espresso isn’t the best thing to have right now.”

You gave the old woman a sour look over your shoulder before shooting back the mug of dark bean soup. Immediately, your tongue tried to escape your mouth. “Oh god, you,” you gagged momentarily. “You were right. That was horrid.” An uncomfortable shiver ran over your shoulders and through your spine.

Juri’s wrinkled hand came to rest over the black strap of your apron that hung desperately to your shoulder, squeezing it tightly to the point of bruising. She pulled you down roughly and flicked your forehead with her nail. “Stupid,” she chastised.

Walking to the sink, she grabbed the mug you held and rinsed it out before handing it back to you, filled to the brim with cold water. She rubbed your back, encouraging you to suck back the water to rid the bitter taste from the corners of your mouth. “If you want, I’ll write up a letter of recommendation for your resume.”

“I’m not sure whoever would hire me would take the time to read it, no one uses reference letters anymore. But thank you, I’d appreciate it.”

She smiled, making the wrinkles on her face shift slightly. “Anything for you sweetheart. Besides, you’ll need every advantage you can get with your horrid cooking.”

On your last day of work, Juri sent you off into the dark streets of Tokyo with a notebook filled with homebrew, baking and cooking recipes —the last two being one’s you have never and likely never will touch— and a container of cookies that she had made that morning.

The book, in and of itself, was innocent enough. A relatively mute earthy colour palette that made flowery designs from one edge to the other. But, you knew there had to be some secret spells of torture within the pages, or just something that you’d injure yourself with.

Not even a day later, far into the night, a sugar-covered cookie was left forgotten on your table as you scrolled through job listings on your computer, occasionally getting distracted by the scantily clad fictional characters that promoted a game on the edges of the webpage. You reached for the cookie, shooting your eyes back to the list and scrolling.

Your dorm was rather modest, more like a small apartment when compared to some of the other dorms on campus though. Which admittedly saved you money and made it more expensive at once. With your own kitchen and modest living space attached to a bedroom and bathroom, you successfully managed to isolate yourself from any other students in the building for just an extra fee. Luckily, having a kitchen meant that the school didn’t supply you with food, saving you money, but also leaving you starving since the only recipes you had in your head were for coffee. Moment’s spent in your kitchen alone with a grumbling stomach sometimes made you wish you were roomed with another person, or had taken the university's food plan. Curse your late teenage pride.

The walls were off white, surrounding a room filled with mostly dark furniture —namely navy— and reflecting the light that came off your computer screen. They made large shadows against your floor and walls. Your two fingers swept along the mousepad, moving the dry list up your screen. You bit into the cookie, quickly scarfing it down and clawing for another, mumbling to yourself as you skimmed over all the nanny jobs, and full-time positions. Corporations that would likely not give you enough pay were quickly forgotten, also.

The neighbours above you were playing study music rather loudly, letting the smooth sounds seep through the walls gently, it made you want to sleep, they probably had an essay to work on. You sighed, rubbing your eyes before sparing a glance at the time displayed in the corner of your screen. 1:32 am. Swallowing down the tired taste in your mouth, you swiped your fingers harshly against the pad, entirely too tired to do any more thinking and letting the loading screen of the website choose your job for you. You threw your head back, slumping into your seat with a worried wince, desperately hoping that you wouldn’t regret it.

You squinted at the top result of the most recent listings. “Huh.”

The black uniform wearing man scratched his head through his matching, logo crested hat, making it shift slightly to reveal his dyed hair underneath it. You sat silently on the plush stool at the counter as the older man —he couldn’t be much older than you, could he?— skimmed through your resume lightly before reading the reference letter Juri had written for you. The sweater he wore tightened at each opening, puffing out into what looked like a cozy crewneck. Definitely not the most common uniform for a food establishment, but you wouldn’t complain, it was starting to get colder. He rested his elbow on the counter-table, turning the top of his stool to face you directly.

“You’ve never worked in food before?”

The open-concept space of the man’s restaurant/cafe seemed to close in rapidly, making the light brown tables and decorations blend in with the white walls and red seats. The colours spun in your vision, blurring all your surroundings except for the tall, hunched man in front of you. He seemed to pop off the screen of your static vision with a halo of light surrounding him. You blinked rapidly, mentally shooing away the loopy visions. There wasn’t enough sleep in your system. That and it felt like you were about to be penalized.

Noticing his intense, stoic eye-contact, heat from your stomach rushed up to your cheeks and ears. He had pretty, grey eyes. Your lungs vibrated under your sternum as you tried to suck in enough air to speak. A bashful smile crept onto your face as your fingers fiddled together, occasionally dragging the pad of your thumb over the length of your nails.

“If I’m being honest, I’ve never been very good in the kitchen. Juri, my old boss, wouldn’t let me help her with baking the pastries because I would always burn myself. I’m working on it though.” That was a lie, a total lie. You weren’t working at it at all. You continued, laughing at yourself, “Because of that, Juri always had me doing beverages. So when I saw you were looking for a barista, I applied.” Well, that was only a partial lie.

The silver-haired man chuckled lightly, “I received your request for an interview, your request, 5 minutes after I posted the listing.”

Biting your lip, you reached for a napkin from one of the dispensers as you forced yourself to maintain eye contact. He seemed to enjoy watching your fingers fiddle with the limp piece of paper. You coughed, “Is that a good thing? Cause my desperate self is in need of a job. I’ll even risk burning my hands off if that’s what’s needed.”

He laughed again, taking the black, curve-rimmed hat off his head and set your papers down next to it on the sleek wooden counter. “(L/N), relax. I am looking for another barista, I had my previous one go work at our second location because it’s closer to home. So I’m short-handed and know only the basics about coffee, and with winter fast approaching I need help.”

You ripped the tissue paper in your hand in half before compiling it and stuffing it quickly into your pocket. “Does that mean I’m hired? Cause I need to pay for my tuition.” He watched, an amused smile pulling at his face, he stood up gesturing for you to follow him. With an awkward grin, you followed his silent instruction.

The rectangular counter you were sitting at wrapped around the back corner, creating a two-metre space walkway that led to the bathrooms and cut off an unlabeled wooden door from being easily accessed by customers. You followed his steps, watching his black Adidas sneakers step over the lines of the large wood floor panels. He opened the wooden door, gesturing you inside, before pulling a box off of the shelf that sat against the back wall and dropping it onto the counter next to a sink. Pulling out a cozy-looking crewneck sweater with a proud and yet desperate smile.

“This is the kitchen and break room,” he said, throwing out an arm to the rest of the large space, before walking back over to you, sweater and cap in hand. “Can you come in tomorrow? I can show you the ropes.”

“I’m sorry Miss, but we don’t have that drink here, it's not the season yet.” You smiled apologetically at the older woman who was digging through her bag in frustration. You hated telling customers little white lies, the feeling dug at the sides of your stomach each time you had to. It was becoming more frequent with October fast approaching.

“I’m sorry too,” she replied, letting her purse drop onto the counter with a smack. “My daughter has been nagging me all day to pick up one of these drinks and no one has it yet.”

You flexed and clenched your fist underneath the counter before adjusting your cap to try and give the woman a confident facade. “We’ll be getting the ingredients next week, so hopefully she can hold off until then. For now, would you like some onigiri? They’re freshly made.”

“Please.”

After ringing up the woman’s total and sending her out the door with a wave, you turned to your co-worker with an anxious grin. Taichi scoffed in response, openly laughing in your face. “You have to stop lying to our customers!” he berated with a lopsided expression.

“I know, I know! But I hate seeing them annoyed or upset. I can’t help it that they keep asking for a drink that we can’t make!”

The 1st year university student (who you quickly found out went to the same school as you) chuckled, leaning against the onigiri display. “What are the ingredients for it anyway?” he asked, watching you rest your hip against the counter next to the cash register.

“One cup of pumpkin puree, half a cup of sugar, half a teaspoon of pumpkin spice seasoning but that’s optional. That’s to make the pumpkin sauce. Then you need a quarter cup of pumpkin sauce, two ounces of espresso, eight ounces of milk, and then whipped cream and cinnamon on top,” you listed, staring off onto the floor.

“You have that memorized?” Taichi asked rhetorically, mouth hanging open.

You crossed your arms. “I’ve been working as a barista for over 3 years now. You start to remember things.”

Taichi lifted his hat, taking a moment to ruffle his straight cut black hair before setting it back down on his head. “Well, you can just ask Miya to order some, right?”

Snapping your finger, you sent the younger boy a finger gun with a pensive look pulling your eyebrows upward, “I hadn’t thought about that.”

On your next shift, after an early morning lecture about the global economy and stock market (which you tried not to sleep through), you walked into the break room to find your silver-headed boss curl over the edge of the small round table in the corner of the room while sitting on the old futon next to it, hair tousled in an oddly pleasant way. His hands moved quickly as he scribbled into the papers before him, the tight grip on his pen making his muscles flex slightly in his arm, that was made visible by his rolled up sleeves.

You quickly looked to your shoes, trying to calm your breathing down. “Um, Miya,” you called lightly, trying not to startle him. Nearly dropping the pen in his hand, he looked up. “Sorry,” you said, pulling your hands into the sleeves of your uniform.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m almost done,” he said, watching your fidgeting hands. “Did you need something?”

“Pumpkin sauce.”

He gave you a strange look, nose scrunching as a single eyebrow lifted. “Pumpkin sauce? Oh right, that’s a thing isn’t it?” Miya said as if just remembering the time of year, looking away from your wiggling fingers to the empty kitchen across from him.

You gulped. “Yes, for pumpkin spice lattes. A lot of customers have been asking about it.”

He raised the other eyebrow in your direction, trying to strangle down a teasing laugh. “You lied to the customers didn’t you?”

“I might have told a little white lie so they wouldn’t get upset.”

Miya sighed, holding eye contact with you for a moment, before signing the last sheet of paper in front of him with an entertained smile. He looked back up while gathering the papers into a neat pile. “I’ll get an order in by next week.”

“Thank you.”

Why did you ever decide that philosophy was a good thing to take in university? Seriously. What were you thinking? You stared at the empty document before you, blinking tiredly as you groaned.

Aesthetics. The first unit that your professor chose to discuss for a university-level because it’s likely the easiest to discuss. The essay itself was more introductory than anything. The instructions were to write an essay about how aesthetics and attraction to particular aesthetics are created, how society plays a role, and finally, your own personal stance.

You clearly remember glaring at the young professor when she said she wanted to gain a deeper understanding of each student. That’s for high school, you thought, mentally going over the three years of university you’ve already suffered through. Then again, maybe an easy grade. The only downside was that even though you’ve gone through nearly a decade and a half of school, you’ve never been good at writing an introspective piece.

“Professor Suzuki, How introspective should it be exactly?” you had asked her after the lecture had finished.

She gave you a sharp pointy smile with a light, slow shrug. “However much you think is needed. But I do want to learn about you and your experiences.”

Your brows were pinched together tightly, as you tried to understand. “So like an attraction autobiography?” That's deeply concerning.

She never did give you a clear response after that. Dancing around the direct answer you needed to hear. She must’ve been a high school literature teacher at some point.

A self-deprecating chuckle escaped you, making the younger boy who was lazing about on your couch turn his attention away from the tv. “What crawled into your pants?” Taichi asked, pouring the last remains of your chip bag into his mouth.

“I have to write about stuff for a philosophy essay.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of an essay?” The empty chip bag crinkled loudly in his hands as they folded the plastic messily.

You scowled at him. “If you’re going to be a smart ass you can stop eating my food and go back to your dorm.” Standing up from your kitchen counter, you scanned the junk-filled counters, eyes landing on the small carpet patterned notebook that sat sadly on the corner edge.

Taichi ran up from his seat, pleading for you to not send him out, claiming that his roommate was mean and hogged up the whole space. You partially ignored him, letting his yapping ring numbly in your ear as you flipped through Juri’s old recipe book.

“Wanna help me make cookies?” you asked, turning your head his way and effectively cutting off his rambling.

He paused, letting his bottom lip hang open before snapping it shut in a cautious sneer. “You’re deciding to bake? I’d rather risk getting bullied by my roommate. Bye.” He ran out of the dorm. Ran.

“God, my baking skills don’t warrant that kind of a reaction, jeez,” you huffed to yourself, slamming the notebook shut. No longer in the mood to experiment in the kitchen.

“Did the new rice come in?” the blond asked, letting his whole torso lie flat on the short table extension of the main counter.

The light click of a plate resonated in the empty restaurant. “You’re lucky,” the grey-haired one said, monotone response making the other look up to the large, meat-filled onigiri waiting for him on the porcelain plate. “Fresh shipment just came in this morning.” At the entrance of the building, the bell attached to the door sang lightly as it opened. Notifying your entrance, while a cool autumn breeze rolled past you. “Speaking of shipment. (L/N), the pumpkin sauce came in!”

You unravelled the scarf around your neck as you walked, giving your boss a large grin that made him gulp slightly. “Really? That's amazing, Miya..” The blond, noticing the other man’s reaction upon your entrance, spun in his chair, making his honey brown eyes meet yours. “There’s t-two. Two of you?” The scarf you had taken off sat limply in your hand as you stared off blankly at the two identical men.

“(L/N), this is my brother. You can call him Atsumu.”

The blonde sent you a small vibrating wave and a smirk, leaning his elbow against the counter as he tilted his head in your direction. With tightened brows and a tight, awkward smile, you nodded in response, bowing as your hand began to grip your colourful scarf a bit tighter. The blond followed up his brother’s introduction. “If you’re gonna call me Atsumu, you might as well address him as Samu.”

“Samu?” You questioned.

Over the table, ‘Samu’ smacked his brother with the black cap from his head. Hitting his shoulder with a loud smack before facing you. “Osamu is fine.”

You nodded hesitantly before bowing again. “Call me (Y/N), then. The both of you.” Facing your silver-haired boss, who still gripped his black baseball cap tightly between his fingers, you pointed to the back room with a meek smile. “I’m gonna go put my stuff down. Sorry for being a bit behind. I was up late working on an essay.”

Osamu nodded. “Sure thing, I have a new recipe for you to try out when you come back out,” giving you an understanding smile before ushering you off to the back, watching the folds of your jacket move with each step. He gulped. As soon as your back fell behind the door frame's edge, he weaponized his flimsy hat again, making the older twin howl as the top button hit his temple.

“What was that for?!” the fake blond screeched.

Osamu sent him a deadly glare. “Don’t flirt with my employee. They’re too young for you.”

“We’re the same age, Samu,” Atsumu teased, as he dropped his voice a couple of semitones. “I don’t see you restraining yourself.”

Atsumu left Onigiri Miya with a number of small bruises running along his hairline that morning. Though, he refused to leave without sending you a request to watch his upcoming game. “I want to have everyone watching,” he said, forgetting to even tell you what you’d be seeing, leaving his younger twin to take the burden.

You sat on one of the red plush stools, swinging it side to side and Osamu stood on the other side of the counter, onigiri filled plate in hand. He wore a hesitant grin as he set the plate down in front of you. Then, he started talking as he walked around the counter. “They’re slightly different than the ones I usually make so they look a bit weird, but we had the ingredients so I thought I'd play around with the different flavours.”

The store was empty. As expected for an early Saturday morning. It was also windy outside, making the inside of Onigiri Miya feel that much warmer as the howling wind ran loudly against the glass wall of the entrance, occasionally making the polyester awning above the entrance flap around like paper.

You gave him an encouraging smile as he walked around your seated form, nearest hand brushing over the length of your shoulders through the black sweater. A chill ran down your spine as his hand fell from the end of your shoulder. He sat down beside you, spinning the stool to face you head-on, much like how you both were during your interview. “I’m sure they taste great. What are the fillings?” you asked, reaching for one-half of the two pairs of onigiri on the plate.

“Well, since the pumpkin sauce came in, I figured I would play around with it a bit,” he said, reaching for one of his own.

Once you bit into the centre of the rice ball the smooth sweet flavour of the sauce rolled over your tongue. The orange sauce dyed the rice on the inside, making the colour soak in the individual grains. You let the flavour sit on your tongue for a moment. “Were you going for a sweet onigiri?”

Osamu chuckled a bit. “Kind of. I made the other one more savoury though.”

You looked at the other slightly misshapen onigiri on the plate, then up at the maker of them, meeting his eyes with a kind supportive smile. “The choice is yours,” you said, taking one off the platter and taking a large bite out of it. “But I think they’re both pretty tasty.”

“Really?” he asked, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning toward you in earnest. “Not too sweet or bland?”

“They’re perfect. Just like the chef who made them," you complimented happily.

Osamu flushed slightly, trying to pout as he chewed away at his onigiri. "You don't have to be so nice, they still look a bit lopsided."

"Does the appearance of the food really matter? I thought the taste was the biggest factor," you teased lightly. Whenever you made a brew for a customer, most never really cared if there was a cute design sprinkled on the top, or if the layers were visible from the side of their plastic cup if they took it to go. All you ever focused on was the taste, and when the 7 am rush comes through, patrons are typically too tired to even care about the look so long as they get their dose of coffee in.

"Do you never look at the exterior of things? Most consumers judge their first impressions of things based on their appearance. Like book covers."

You furrowed your brow. "I've never really thought about it. A lot of the books I read are digital now so there's no need for a fancy cover."

"What about people then," he prompted, leaning further forward, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him. His normally grey eyes seemed to hold tints of the honey brown from those of his sibling. "Have you ever... let's say, been attracted to someone based on their appearance alone?"

Your gaze shot back and forth between his eyes and the fringe of his silver lightly brushing over his eyebrow before finally settling on his left, blown out pupil that started more directly at yours. "Maybe subconsciously." It came out in a light whisper.

The bell at the entrance rang, a ragged, tired looking suit-clad woman wobbled in. Eyes blinking slowly as she waved her hand in the air. "Light roast, double shot espresso with whipped cream! I am running late!"

You shot out of your seat, knocking off Osamu's hat by the brim with your own, before grabbing a mug from over the counter and rushing to the mixtures. "On it!"

"Thank you," she panted, handing her card to Osamu to ring up.

Your head and shoulder twitched as you bounced on your toes outside the glass wall of Onigiri Miya. The wet concrete and frozen air of the early morning made the idea of curling against the polished glass with your face tucked into your scarf all the more tempting. Another silver tickled your spine.

Groaning you spun around to face the golden brown and red streets. Wind carried the dry leaves over their drowned sibling until falling into a puddle themselves. You closed your eyes, trying to redirect the heat in your body to your hands that were tucked into your pockets, clenched tightly.

Something cold lightly smacked against your nose and eyelids.

Cracking your eyes open, your lashes pushed against a brown decaying wall that blocked out all the light of the early morning. When it was away, leaving a cold residue behind, the light made your squint.

“You're here early,” the silver haired man said, tossing the old leaf over his shoulder before pulling a collection of keys from his coat pocket and gently tucked you out of the door with his free hand. Opening it up, he placed the keys into his back jean pocket.

“Did you just give me a face mask with an old leaf?”

“Sure did,” he said, matter-a-factly. “Why are you here so early? You’re not a morning person.”

You followed him through the glass door, letting him take the responsibility of flicking off the lights as you pulled your coats and scarf off. “You said today was your brother's game, I didn’t know what time, so I figured I'd be here a bit early.”

Mouth open, Osamu stared at you without blinking, as if searching for a joke. “You know most post games happen in the evening right?”

“So I’m here early for nothing then.”

The two of you walked through the empty restaurant, coats slung over your arms as you conversed.

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” he teased, hanging up his coat on the hanger in the back, lifting the bottom hem of his shirt slightly. “You get to work.”

“Yay,” you yawned, reaching for your uniform sweatshirt.

“For money.” He added.

He had trouble making you laugh throughout the morning, only receiving yawns and frustrated pout in response as you made coffee for all the equally tired customers.

You’ve never seen a volleyball game before, only ever having tried to play during gym class in high school. On top of that, you never understood the rules, but you blamed that on the phys ed teacher rather than your own inability.

The live recording of Astumu’s game was being played on multiple sports channels. It got pulled up on the large screen of the tv that sat against the wall 30 minutes before the game even started. Osamu stood with you and Taichi —who had made it to work at a reasonable time to watch the game—, explaining the rules and positions over layers of customer chatter, as he made onigiri in view of the game instead of in the back where he normally worked. He pointed to the screen.

“That’s Hinata in the opposite hitter position. He pretty much does the same thing as Bokuto,” he shifted his arms angle to point to the duo-tones haired player on the screen. “An outside hitter.” Then, facing you, he watched as your nose scrunched in thought.

“What makes them different, then?” Beside you, Taichi nodded along, handing a customer a plate of onigiri.

“Their orientation with the setter,” Osamu replied. Before letting out a loud cheer, fist clenched and elbow tucking quickly into his side as his brother scored another point.

You let out a loud, exasperated laugh, shaking your head slightly. “There are a lot of rules and stuff you want me to memorize.” On the other side of the counter, a girl came up to stand in front of you, asking for a pumpkin spice latte. “Sure thing. Taichi, ring her up for me would you?” you asked, making your way to the coffee machines that sat along the length of the counters, continuing to talk to Osamu.

You looked at the available ingredients. “We’re gonna need more pumpkin sauce.”

“I’ll order it. Is it that confusing?” He asked, following you to the machines.

Mug in hand, you gave Osamu an unsure look as you reached for the whipped cream, stretching your arm only to knock it farther away. “A little? But at least their mascot is cute.”

“The black jackal?” he laughed, taking hold of the whipped sugar and placing it in your open palm, to which you smiled in thanks. He quickly diverted his gaze, staring at the blank walls as he bit inside of his cheek. “Didn’t even bother to listen to me ramble then, too busy gushing over the cute mascot. I thought visual exteriors weren’t important to you.”

“Oh shut up, I was listening,” you scoffed haughtily, smacking Osamu’s shoulder as you walked past his tall figure to give the girl her mug. “And he was interacting with the young fans, it was cute.” You looked at the clock. “It’s 6:30, I’m gonna take my break. I got an essay to write.”

Taichi laughed mockingly. “Good luck. We’ll hold down the fort.”

Osamu watched your back as you walked away, adjusting his hat as he turned to face the upcoming customer that had just walked in.

“Bake at 450? Oh, that's Fahrenheit? Why, though? Okay, got it. Oh shit, did preheat it too much then?”

Juri, as lovely a lady as she is, had terrible handwriting, or terrible in your opinion because you couldn’t read it. Whether it was a letter, or note for an order of cookies and bread, the intricate curls of her connected lettering always made your brain feel like it hit a brick wall. Holding the book in your right hand, you used the other to carry the tray of separated butter cookie dough and hooked your foot underneath the oven handle to pull it open. Still glaring at the writing, you slowly lowered the metal tray onto the racks.

“Hey, (Y/N)! Can—”

“Fuck!”

Taichi let himself in, turning the corner of your kitchen counter to quickly pull your hand away from the immense heat source. You clenched your teeth tightly, airy and painful laugh falling through your grimace. Dropping the notebook, you wrapped your hand around your left wrist, squeezing it tightly as Taichi helped you stand up. An endless series of insults left you, directed at the large cubic fire instrument.

“Okay cold water, here we go.” Taichi then left your side to finish tucking in the metal tray, silicone glove on his hand. He turned back around to see you hunched form leaning over the running sink, choppy breaths flying out of you. “Why are you baking?” he scolded.

“Oh, I can’t bake now?”

“You’ve never been able to bake.”

“Oh screw you, dude. I’m trying to learn a new skill.”

“Learning how to kill, more like it.”

Hand still stuck under the cold running water, and pain still crawling up your arm like red ants deciding to feast on your flesh, you slowly turned your head to face the younger boy, smacking your lips. You glared, “Why are you here, Taichi?”

The new university student dug his socked toe into the tiled floor of your kitchen. Pursing his lips and sending you a pair of finger guns as soon as he met your glare. He lowered them when you didn’t laugh. “I was hoping you could take care of my closing shift tonight? I have a group assignment due tomorrow and no one did any work.”

Spinning your head and torso uncomfortably to look behind you, you stared at the clock on your wall. You bit your lip. “Taichi, your shift starts at 6.”

“Uh, ya.”

“It’s 5:30.”

“Uh-huh,” he continued, barefaced, as he tucked his hands into his jean pockets.

“You're working here and waiting for the cookie timer to go off.”

Taichi nodded, moving his feet to look at the oven counting down. “Okay, got it. Do I get to eat some of them?”

You sneered at him as your blistered hand throbbed painfully at the movement of you grabbing your things, notebook included, in haste. “If they don’t kill you.”

“Osamu! I’m so sorry for being late!” You yelled rushing through the main door and startling a few customers. You ran towards the staff only door unravelling the warm scarf from around your neck and letting your jacket fall off your shoulders as you went.

Osamu’s eyes followed your frazzled movements, chuckling lightly as you kicked the wooden door open. He yelled through the door as you changed into your cozy uniform. “Calm down, (Y/N). You’re not late. Taichi called in too, so don’t worry.”

You poked your head through the door, brows pinched in the center before slowly walking up to stand next to him. “So I’m not late?” you asked, adjusting your hat.

The customers had gone back to their individual activities, typing away at their computers or reading whatever book in hand or chatting over a simple brew and snack Osamu had put together for them. You looked out the front window, the sun was already beginning to set over the darkening leaves, letting a warm glow pour in through the glass to cover every surface inside the cafe despite the temperature outside being the opposite.

The evening was spent with both of you helping the late-night customers with their requests, often having to dance around each other's forms with a light ‘sorry’ or ‘excuse me’ to notify the other.

“Thank you both. Have a good night!” the last customer called, waving, as they walked through the door.

Osamu waved back as you collected the mugs and plates that were left at the tables, taking them to the back room. “I’m gonna wash these up then take my break. Is that alright?”

“No problem, we probably won't see anyone else for the night so I can handle it.”

The door swung shut behind you.

When you turned on the tap hot water poured out quickly, and without thinking much of it, you stuck your left hand under it. You flinched, letting out a strangled yelp before switching the water to cold, letting it wash over somehow forgotten burn on the back of your hand. You sighed at your own stupidity, grabbing a dirty plate. Luckily the dishes were quick to clean, the light music you set up on your computer beforehand helped. Before you even realized, the dishes were washed and dried, and you could get some work done on your essay.

You sat down on the couch futon, blowing cold air onto your burnt hand that you switched tabs on your laptop. The constant yawns escaping you only seemed to make lying on the slightly deformed seat way more tempting than trying to get some school work done.

“Can’t do beauty standards, everyone’s gonna do beauty standards,” you yawned again, taking your fingers off the keyboard and turning your eyes away from the bright screen. Your eyes burned as you closed them, leaning your head back against the back of the folded futon. Another yawn. “Maybe books covers?” you breathed slowly. “Hmmm.”

On the other side of the door, Osamu wiped down the table seats and counters until they were spotless, letting the red vinyl and wood patterns shine through uninterrupted. As he cleaned the glass front, squeegeeing it to crystal clear perfection, Osamu watched as the last bit of sunlight that bounced off the top of the buildings across the street disappeared. It suddenly looked a lot colder in the streets.

Hanging up the damp towel, he made his way into the backroom, flicking off the lights in the main area as he walked through the door. “(Y/N) how’s the essay going?” he trailed off, catching sight of your curled up body lying sideways along the old couch, laptop continuing to play a soft tune.

You had one foot off the couch, touching the floor, and another resting on the wooden armrest. The open legged sweats you often wore were crunched up at the knees. Your torso was twisted so you were partially on your side and your hands were pulled into your chest. Mouth slightly parted, Osamu could hear your small breaths as your chest rose and fell.

He chuckled, walking over to your side, and glancing slightly to your screen. The essay you had been rushing to complete was left open, unfinished. He closed the computer, tucking it into your bag, pulling out a small notebook to make space. The bookmarked page fell open as he set in down on the table. With a curious huff, he read the recipe over.

“Huh, simple enough.”

As he reached to gently shake your shoulder in hopes to wake you up, he caught sight of the burn that ran along the back of your hand. Huffing, he lifted his hand, put the book back in its place —tucked between your laptop and the side of your bag—, and walked over to where the first aid kit was.

A scratchy hum was the first noise you made upon waking up. Bleary-eyed, and drained of energy, you slowly blink up to see your hand being gently wrapped in a soft cloth-like bandage. You squinted up to the black-clothed man as he fastened the bandage together.

“Did I really fall asleep?” you asked sadly, voice slightly hoarse. “I have to… write.”

The light in the room was dreadfully bright, making you squint as you tried to look at Osamu’s face. All his features were hard to see, leaving only his hair as an anchor point for you to admire as the light bounced off of it.

He said something, but in your delirious state, all you could make out was the smooth deep hum of his voice reverberating in your head like a slow waltz. You hummed again, letting out a lethargic ‘nice’. Your eyes shut again, and you drifted off to his low, breathy chuckle. An unconscious mumble followed, but you were too tired to hear his immediate response.

“Come on (Y/N),” he cooed, massaging your shoulder gently. “Time to wake up.”

Another incoherent mumble bubbled out of your mouth as Osamu tried to sit you up. Your head bobbled as you moved to be upright, falling backwards before he could catch it. Chuckling at his own mistake, he stuck an arm out, curling his hand around the back of your neck to bring it forward again. As he cradled your head gently in one hand, he used the other to continue prodding at your shoulder.

“Okay, sleepyhead. You gotta wake up now.”

There are those moments where people wake up and they think they see an alien, or shadowy figure at the edge of their bed. Those scary figures that seemed to carry a negative connotation a majority of the time. Most people, if they were to wake up, eyes fuzzy, and see a silhouette immediately before them they would very likely think the same, flail about, and duck for cover. You were not most people.

Eyelids hanging millimetres away from shutting, you gazed drowsily at the blurry from before you, tired mind trying to put together the dark shape as your body swayed back and forth. Falling forward slightly to get a closer look.

Osamu grunted slightly, catching your limp weight. The hand he used to rub your shoulder had now made its way around your back, lifting you from a different angle. His other hand still protected your neck from strain, holding your head closer to his chest. He looked down at your hazy gaze, perfectly timed with your own sudden need to lean upwards.

A near chortle of a huff forced its way out of Osamu’s nose, painting your cheek in warm air as your eyes shut fully. The feeling of your lashes dancing against the bridge of his nose tickled, making his shoulders scrunched up slightly. His grip tightened, pulling you ever so slightly closer. The light scent emitting off of your hair washed over him like a wave of fresh air, and the heat radiating off your body felt like a warm blanket on a cold night. There was a light tug at the end of his sweater as you wrapped the fabric gently between your fingers. Tough dried from being parted in your sleep, Osamu could feel the malleability of your lips as they pushed against his.

This one last surge forward, you let your arms relax, falling almost entirely limp in Osamu’s arms as you pulled away.

He blinked slowly, trying to look at the colour of your eyes between the slits of your lashlines.

Another warm hum left you was your head curled into his shoulder. “Cute.”

Osamu scoffed quietly to himself, laughing as he shook his head. “You never stop lying.”

Osamu liked to think he was a nice brother, a good brother, the best even. He kept his twin out of trouble, made sure he didn’t get injured and protected him from bullies. All for the payment of letting Osamu torment him for all eternity with repeated punches and kicks. Osamu liked to think he was a nice brother, but he wasn’t.

“Assumu, shut up or I’m gonna punch the daylight out of you.”

“Vulgar. That’s a new one, Samu. Try me.”

Hinata grabbed hold of the blond twin’s forearm as he made taunting motions to his brother, pinning it down onto the table. The smaller red-head cried out for the two brothers to stop, calling for Bokuto’s aid.

“Ya, both of you stop it. I’m trying to eat here.”

From behind his white mask, Sakusa let out an exasperated sigh, brushing a hand through his wavy hair at the part. “Would you all calm down?”

Atsumu teased out a laugh as he settled back into his seat between Hinata and Bokuto, who both happily went back to eating their donated snacks. The blonde leaned his elbows onto the counter and bounced a leg beneath him as he looked up to his uniform wearing brother.

“So,” he drawled, smirking at the grey-haired man. “You kissed (Y/N). While they were asleep no less. Doesn’t that seem kind of rapey to you?”

Osamu groaned, ripping the black cap off his head before throwing his arms into the air. “I didn’t force it! (Y/N) was hardly even awake, definitely in some sort of dreamscape, and then just kissed me.” He groaned again, knocking his forehead into one of the coffee machines, making it rattle lightly.

“Damn,” Atsumu replied, finally relenting his mockery and reached for his own onigiri. “Guess I lost my chance then. Do you know if they even remembered it though?”

Setting down his hat, Osamu walked around the counter, pulling up a chair from one of the tables to sit with the four teammates, making them spin in the stools.

“No idea. I just drove (Y/N) back to the university dorms with Taichi’s help.”

Bokuto’s muffled voice spoke up, as he tried to talk through his full mouth. “How is Taichi doing anyway. It’s been a while since we’ve seen him.”

Osamu grimaced at the visible mushed rice poking out between the duo-toned man’s teeth. “He had a project to finish, that’s why (Y/N) was here last night. Overall he’s been doing good though.”

Hinata swallowed his last bit of onigiri, turning the top of his stool to face the older man more clearly. “When will we get to meet (Y/N), then? We could probably see them both at the same time.”

Osamu scrunched his nose up, digging his face into the palms of his hands and let out a tired, run-down laugh. “Hopefully soon if I don’t get arrested for sexual misconduct.”

Sakusa glanced at the drink orders that were written in chalk against the side wall. “Hey Atsumu,” he switched the subject. “Can you make me a pumpkin spice latte?”

Sighing, the owner of the restaurant got up from his chair and walked back to the coffee machines he had earlier abused with his forehead. “I can give it a go, but it definitely won’t be up to (Y/N)’s standards.”

Sakusa just waved it off, not caring.

“I mean, they’re still bad, but at least they’re better than last time.”

You stopped your slow typing and let out a puff of hot air. “If you actually helped maybe you’d be eating better cookies.”

“Hey hey, no no no,” Taichi laughed, munching into another dry cookie from the pile. “You’re the one that wanted to learn a new skill.”

You threw your head back into the soft couch of your living room and grabbed one of the throw pillows from the corner, shoving your face into it to muffle your angered scream. Running out of air, you dropped the pillow into your lap, shutting your eye tightly as you panted for air.

“Here,” he said, stuffing one of the burnt biscuits into your open mouth. “Eat a cookie.”

Taking the box of poorly made cookies with him, Taichi stood up from the wooden bench at your kitchen counter and made his way to flop down onto the other side of your couch. He stuffed another straight into his mouth as he kicked his slipper clad feet onto the coffee table right next to your laptop.

“So, What’s got you all wound up? It has to be more than these cookies.”

“I,” you paused, taking a large intake of decaying leaf air into your lungs through the open window. You got up, wiping your hands on your well worn sweats, and shut the window lightly, so the only thing coming in though it would be the view of red leaves. The palms of your hands dug into the window sill. “I need to get this essay done. It’s due in two days.”

“Not buying it. Keep going,” he said, flicking his finger in a circular motion in the air.

You sighed, still looking at the old piles of leaves in the courtyard outside your dorm. “My baking skills still suck, this essay is due in two days, and I still haven’t written the personal reflection portion of it.” You spun around and leaned against the window, challenging Taichi’s disapproving expression.

He tsked, sucking in the air. “There’s something you're not telling me. What happened?”

You quickly diverted your gaze to the top corner near the exit. Your nails made a clicking sound as they flicked against each other. “I, I can’t.”

“(Y/N),” he strained.

“Nope.”

“(Y/N).”

“I can’t.” You played with the bandage on your hand.

“(Y/N). You’re lying to yourself.”

“I’m gonna get fired.”

Taichi stood up from the couch, stalking over in your direction, meaning to pin you into the corner. He stood tall in front of you, arm crossed as if he were a principal. “(Y/N), what happened?”

“I kissed our boss.”

“You did what?”

You squeaked uncomfortably, thrashing your arms about and shaking your hands to calm your nerves. Head thrown back, you yelled. “I kissed Osamu!”

His arm dropped. Taichi threw his back into a curve, spinning around as he laughed wildly in sharp honks. “That’s amazing!” he squealed, throwing himself onto the couch and kicking his feet into the plush armrest.

“Shut up, I could get fired!”

Taichi, gasping for air, sat up from his fit of giggles and sighed. “Okay, what the hell happened?”

You puffed out an annoyed gulp of air and waddled over to the couch, slumping into the open space next to him. He leaned forward, beckoning you to talk.

“I was half awake, delirious after trying to write an essay about fucking aesthetics and attraction of all things. Osamu tries to wake me up, and I plant a big one on him before falling asleep again.”

Taichi laughed, happy to hear your tale. “That’s what happened yesterday? I just thought you were overworked.”

“I was!” He smirked, watching you squirm around. “Don’t take it out of context, you know what I'm talking about.”

“Fine, fine.” He relented and reached for the half-empty box of cookies, holding it in your direction. “Eat one. You need it.”

You frowned as you bit into the over-salted cookie, swallowing it as fast as you could before the taste settled in your mouth.

“Besides,” He said, grabbing another for himself. “I don’t think getting fired is something you’ll have to worry about.”

Long night shift. The sun had fully set, making the neighbouring stores’ exterior decorations glow in all their spooky glory. You shivered as you yawned, feeling cold air run over the length of your shoulders underneath your sweater.

With a spray bottle and damp towel, you swiped down all the counters, really digging into the coffee stains that were left by an overworked mother and her grumpy toddler. For the umpteenth time that night, another yawn tore it’s way out of you as you walked toward the sink behind the counter to wash the dirtied cloth. You kept your bandaged hand out of the hot water, doing your best to just use the one.

After ringing out the both you grabbed one of the clean mugs from the counter, stalking over to the coffee machines to whip up something for yourself. You yawned again.

“Tired?” From the backroom, Osamu emerged, hands tucked neatly behind his back.

“Hmm? Oh ya. I’m whipping up a pumpkin spice mocha of sorts. Don’t want to fall asleep again.”

Osamu coughed and leaned against the counter next to you, setting down a small box that you didn’t bother to look at, too busy with your coffee. “Ah, right. Do you mind making one for me too? I’d like to be coherent, tonight. I’ll grab some fresh onigiri too.” He smiled at you.

Trying to beat the heat that was quickly climbing up your neck to try and darken the colour of your cheeks, you bit your lip and poured all your focus into the orange-hued liquid in front of you. Behind you, Osamu reached for the freshly made onigiri from the chilled display case. You could hear the fabric of his sweater shuffle as he bent down to pull it out. You reached for the whipped cream with your eye tightly sewn shut.

“Got it,” he said as you turned around with both mugs in hand.

Once in the back room, you set down both mugs onto the table, before sitting down in one of the corners of the futon, letting him take up the other half. Osamu sat down slowly, pushing the second onigiri your way. “Eat up. You can restore some energy.”

You thanked him before taking a bite from the rice ball, it was filled with spicy salmon. Smiling, you took another bite.

Osamu took a sip from his coffee, trying to lick off the leftover whipped cream from his upper lip. It looked like a small mustache, and you laughed.

“Enjoying the food, over there?”

You chuckled again. “It’s great, but. Jeez, you have a mustache.”

Osamu grumbled, whipping the top of his lip with his thumb. “Here,” he said, grabbing the small box off the table and holding it out to you. “These are for you.”

Setting down the half-eaten Onigiri, hesitantly took the box between your fingers. You gave him a confused look as you brought it into your lap. Lifting up the attached paper lid, you found yourself staring at a small collection of cookies, iced and cut to look like the adorable black jackal mascot from his brother's team.

“I saw the recipe in your notebook that...night. I wanted to make you something as an apology, and you said that the mascot was cute.” You looked up to see him scratched back of his head, staring pensively into his mug before glancing up to meet your eyes. He flinched back, pursing his lips and racing to look at the mug again.

“You don’t have to apologize, Osamu. I initiated it.” you reached into the box, pulling out one of the cookies and took a small bite out of the jackal’s ear. “I didn’t hate it either.”

You chuckled in embarrassment, watching from the side as his ears turned a rosy colour. Taking another bite from the cookie, you leaned forward a bit, trying to catch sight of his pink cheeks through his hanging fringe. You prodded.

“I did call you cute too, remember?”

Your fingers danced over your laptop’s keyboard.

I don’t often find myself thinking about the way aesthetics affect my opinions. Looks, trends, and opinions are always evolving and changing. I don’t have the capacity to keep up with such superficial things in the same way a majority of people do. Though, on a rare occasion, I will find something endearing enough to call ‘cute’. /

Outside your window, you could see the last few leaves fall off their branches. You sat down, curled up on your dorm’s couch as you saved the final copy of your essay, nibbling away at the cookies that sat on the table next to you, pumpkin spice latte in hand.

This is now the longest thing I’ve written thus far, and so the next few I write will be short cause I’m lazy.

Once again, this oneshot is part of a fall themed server collab, the masterlist is linked at the top, so I recommend that you give all the other stories a read, I would appreciate it. -Bacon

Posted: 25/09/2020

47 notes · View notes

thelordofdarkreunion · 4 years ago

Text

Magnificent Scoundrels- Rock n’ Roll

This one is definitely a little late. Took me a while to write it, and I had to make several changes. It might be a bit awkward in parts, but that is because I have tried to portray each character faithfully and tried to have them do what they would actually do in the battle scenes. As per usual, I own none of these characters except for Thomas Drake. Enjoy! (Side note: I figured out how to use the “read more” so this won’t be as long in the dash!)

In the hangar of the Normandy, Adam Vir and Master Chief waited. The Chief was currently flipping through everyone’s communication channels.

“Do you really trust this guy, Captain?” That was the internal communications of the Enterprise.

“No. And his group of armsmen is putting me on edge. But we control this ship and we have transporters and they don’t.” The rest coming from Kirk’s crew was all military and technological jargon. He flipped to the Apocalypse's internal communications.

“So, the question is: since it’s a fruit, tomato, mixed with sugar, is ketchup a smoothie?” That was Drake. Of course it was.

“Well, by that definition, yes,” said an unfamiliar voice.

“But ketchup has vinegar in it. And if you think smoothies have vinegar, well, then you really need to reevaluate your life’s choices,” replied someone else.

“An excellent point! Indeed, what is a smoothie? Does vinegar belong in your smoothies?” said Drake. Master Chief shook his head and changed channels. He had a feeling that if he listened to that conversation for much longer, his head would implode.

“How did he get that stuff? Twenty suits of carapace armor, five crates of hot-shot lasguns, ten crates of normal lasguns, a crate of chainswords, and two power swords, all with Imperial markings!” That was Kasteen, commander of the Valhallans. “And, Cain, what was that thing? An Exitus rifle? I’ve never heard of it.”

“That last one’s the one that worries me. The reason I know of it is because of my work with Inquisitor Vail,” replied Cain.

“Shit. You think he stole it from the Inquisition?”

“The only people who have access to those are Inquisitors and Vindicares.”

“Oh he’s beyond frakked.” The Chief cut the communications as Shepard walked into the hangar bay. He was wearing a full set of black combat armor with a heavy helmet. Vir, the other occupant of the hangar, looked up from where he was fiddling with his own armor.

“Shepard. Pleased to see you.” His one good green eye gleamed from under a shock of blond hair. “Are we ready to go?”

“Give me a sec.” Shepard turned to the hooded and violet masked figure that was present with him at the Scoundrel’s first meeting. “Tali?” he asked the figure. “Are they going to know we’re coming?”

“No, commander.” It was a feminine voice, with a strange and slightly mechanical accent that emanated from the suit. “The engineers aboard the Enterprise and Apocalypse are quite good at what they do. It would be interesting to know what all these new people have! Technology-wise, I mean. The possibilities of-” Shepard cut her off.

“Good to know, Tali.”

“Right. Sorry. Got carried away.”

“If you’d like, I’ll give you a tour of the Apocalypse,” cut in Drake’s suave voice over their earpieces. “That, of course, extends to the rest of you.” Master Chief keyed his comm.

“You’ve been listening to us this whole time?” he asked.

“Well, I can’t talk about vinegar smoothies forever, now, can I? To get more to the point, Cain and I are in position, and Cooper and Quill are on their way. This thing all depends on you, so I suggest you get down here before they notice fifty Imperial Guardsmen and fifteen mercenary armsmen hanging outside their front gate.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re going.” They boarded the shuttle, Master Chief having to hunch his massive frame to avoid banging into the doors. The ride to the muddy-brown planet below them was smoot and silent. From the window of the transport, they could see the silhouettes of the teams’ starships above them, gleaming in the weak yellow light of the nearby sun. The atmospheric entry was much smoother than either Vir or Master Chief had ever felt, and the shuttle landed on the planet much faster than they expected. The shuttle’s three occupants disembarked quickly, professionally, and set out in a trot to the distant specter of the military base. They arrived on schedule, and found a small electrical access passage, barely tall enough to squeeze through, exactly where Drake’s map said it was.

Drake checked the timer on his wrist computer. His armsmen and several Imperial Guardsmen cluster around him, waiting expectantly.

“And...nine minutes and twenty-five seconds for Shepard to get his ass in gear and get planetside. If you had more than ten minutes, pay up.” There were grumblings in the crowd, while money and liquor exchanged hands. One of the armsmen looked up.

“Captain, how long for the other timer?” Drake checked his wrist again.

“...nineteen minutes and twenty six...twenty seven seconds since we got here, and they still haven’t noticed over a hundred armed hostiles sitting outside their front gate.” He made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Sloppy. If you bet under twenty minutes, you're probably going to be losing something.” He glanced over to where Cain and Jurgen were leaning against the compound’s outer wall. “How are you two holding up?”

Cain looked up from a mug of steaming liquid in his hands. “Fine. These people still haven’t noticed us?” Drake snorted.

“No. I’m really good at what I do, and they’re really bad. Honestly, I’m not quite sure how they managed to steal the thing we’re after in the first place.”

On the other side of the compound, Peter Quill paced.

“What’s taking them so long?” he hissed. Gamora, his green-skinned second in command, looked up from where she was sitting and sharpening a sword.

“Relax. We’re fine.”

“I know…” Quill trailed off, paced more, then turned back. “Do you think that these people know what they’re doing?” Cooper, who had been silently checking his weapons up until this point, spoke.

“Shepard is supposed to be a hero, and a special forces operative, based on Drake’s briefing.” Noticing Quill’s blank look, he gave a very good incredulous stare, considering he had his helmet on. “You didn’t read it?”

“Uh...maybe.” Cooper and Gamora both shook their heads.

“Shepard’s is apparently very good. At least, according to Drake. And the problem with that is we don’t know if Drake is telling the truth about anything.” Quill considered this. He did have a point.

Shepard, Vir, and Master Chief squeezed through the narrow metal electrical duct and into a small, dimly lit concrete room in the basement of the compound. They brushed plaster dust off themselves before looking up. Shepard tapped his wrist and some sort of glowing orange hologram sprang to life, covering his let forearm. The others leaned in and recognized it as Drake’s map of the compound.

“Right. So we are here,” Shepard highlighted the small room. “The item is here.” He traced a path throughout the sun-levels to a large main room in the center of the basement. “We need to stay low and follow this path.” Shepard glanced up and pointed at Master Chief. “You’re a super-soldier, so you’re taking point.” The Chief nodded.

“Copy that.” He unslung his weapon, dropped into a crouch, and proceeded forward, the two others following him. They walked through the concrete and metal halls, weapons at the ready, searching for any sign of life. Despite being over seven feet tall and clad in bulky armor, Master Chief moved with the deadly silence of a professional soldier. Twice they were almost caught, but due to their superior training and skills, they melted into the shadows as enemy patrols passed by. Through more hallways they made their way, hearing the laughter and occasionally fights of mercenaries. The enemy here was no more alert than they were on the main level, allowing the three to pass through the labyrinthian passageways undetected. They reached a large open area, where Master Chief suddenly gestured for a stop. Peering past the Chief’s massive shoulder, Shepard could see why. The open room was littered with mercenaries, lounging around with weapons still holstered. By his estimate, there were about twenty of them. Too many to take on without raising the alarm. Shepard cursed quietly under his breath, then pressed a finger to his ear.

“Drake,” he hissed. “We’re blocked. There’s a group in our way. We need a distraction.”

“Distraction you say?” The three could feel Drake’s smile over the audio. “Give me twenty.”

Outside the Compound

Drake slid up to the compound gate’s outside audio panel. He slid a knife under a small plate at the base of the panel and slid a small rectangular device from his belt into a slot.

“Let’s see here…” he muttered to himself. “Are you stupid enough to connect the PA system to the main computer? Yes...yes you are.” He tapped several buttons on his wrist computer and took a deep breath.

Inside the Compound

Shepard and Vir jumped as Drake’s voice crackled from the building’s PA system.

“Attention assorted idiots. I am Captain Thomas Drake. You may have heard of me. I am here, waiting just outside the front gate. I am going to kill you all and take back the black box. Come and get me.” The message abruptly terminated, and cheery music started playing.

“Private Perks is a funny little coger with a smile, a funny smile. Five feet none he’s an artful little dodger with a smile, a funny smile. Flush or broke he’ll have his little joke…” Shepard, Vir, and even the superhuman Master Chief started at the loudspeaker as the music played.

“Drake, what the hell are you doing?” asked Shepard.

“Creating a distraction,” replied Drake, just as cheerfully as the song.

“Telling the mercenaries to come and kill you and playing Smile, Smile, Smile is not a distraction,” stated Master Chief flatly.

“You sure about that? Look in front of you,” said Drake. Sure enough, the mercenaries occupying the room had grabbed their weapons and were hustling up the stairs to the main level. Shepard’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish, then he sighed.

“Fine, let’s go.” As the last of the mercenaries trailed from the room, the three Scoundrels slipped by on their way to the item.

Outside the Facility

Drake glanced at his wrist computer and nodded at a group of armsmen.

“Four guards in the compound beyond the gate. There, there, there, and there.” He gestured at four spots beyond the wall. The armsmen nodded and took positions near the gate. “Overriding and opening the gate in three...two...one go!” Drake pressed a button and the massive armored gate swung open. The armsmen stepped forward and fired. The four mercenary guards pitched forward, dead. Drake nodded at the remaining Guardsmen and armsmen. “Right. Through the gate and set up a firing position. They’ll be coming, probably disorganized, from the main door.” He pointed at a large armored set of double doors that led inside the main facility. The soldiers nodded and readied their weapons. Drake pressed another button on his wrist.

On the other side of the Compound

“Cooper, Quill, this is Drake. The mercenaries are going to attack our position while Shepard, Chief, and Vir steal the thing. Get behind them.”

“Copy that,” replied Cooper with a nod. He looked at the large wall in front of them, then took a step back and jumped. Thrusters on the back of his suit activated and propelled him onto the wall. He turned his head to Quill and Gamora. “You two coming?” Quill scoffed.

“I can do that.” He pressed a small button on the top of his boots, and the heels lit up with the orange wash of jet boosters. Without the grace of Cooper he landed wobbly on the top of the wall. “See? Easy.” Gamora muttered “showoffs” under her breath and accepted Quill’s offered hand to boost her over the wall. Cooper dropped into the interior compound without a sound.

“Right. This way.”

On the Other Side of the Compound

The heavy armored doors opened and mercenaries, in various stages of preparedness, scrambled out, only to be met with the full firepower of one hundred and three well trained soldiers. The Imperials’ lasguns spat crimson death that flickered through the muddy air to impact with chests, legs, arms, and heads, burning away flesh and vaporizing the internal organs of the unprotected. The fire from the Apocalypse’s armsmen was no less lethal. The boom hiss thump of plasma infused ammunition contrasted with the whining crack of lasguns as small blue and purple explosions blew apart the mercenaries. Within seconds, the attacking mercenaries were dead.

“Let’s go!” called Drake as he led his armsmen into the interior. Cain nodded at the Guard.

“Forward. I’ll take up the rear.”

In the Basement

The mercenaries vault, the storage place of the item Drake was contracted to retrieve, stood in silence over the barren concrete room. Harsh yellow lights glared from the walls and seemed to be swallowed by the shadows in the corners. Two guards, weapons held at the ready, stood in front of the vault. The air split with two cracks. The two guards fell, two holes blown through their heads. Master Chief, weapon at the ready, entered the room, searching carefully for any other enemies. There were none. He nodded at his two companions.

“Clear.” He shouldered his rifle. “Now how the hell do we get that door open?” Shepard stepped up to the vault door. A small, rectangular computer was built into the wall. Shepard pressed his forearm, and once more the orange hologram appeared. He tapped the hologram several more times, and the vault door sprang open.

“Impressive,” noted Vir.

“I gotta get me one of those,” muttered Master Chief. They stepped through the circular entrance of the vault, and into the room beyond. The room was...unimpressive. It was cluttered with objects, weapons, and boxes of no discernable value. Master Chief keyed his comm. “Drake? We’re in the vault. What are we looking for?” There was a whine then the boom of a plasma discharge, which culminated into an abrupt, high pitched scream. Drake’s ragged breathing could be heard on the other end of the line.

“What? Sorry. Uh...you’re looking for a black box, about half a meter by half a meter. Should be somewhere pretty prominent.”

“Here it is!” said Vir. He held up a black box of the exact length and width.

“Drake, we have it.” There was a scream and the crackle of Imperial lasgun fire on the other end of the comm. “What is going on up there?”

“We’re fighting the mercenaries…” Boom! Hiss! Crack! “...shit. We appear to be winning at the moment. Get up here and kill or capture anyone who gets in your way.”

“Copy that.” Master Chief looked at Shepard and Vir. “Let’s move.”

Cooper, Quill, and Gamora advanced stealthily through the twisting passages of the mercenaries’ compound, weapons at the ready. For some reason, there was absurdly cheerful music blasting through the PA system. If Cooper had to guess, he would say that Thomas Drake most definitely had a hand in this. He sighed to himself, shaking his head, then abruptly stopped and held out his hand. Gamora instantly stopped and crouched, weapons at the ready. Quill almost ran into him. Ahead of the group were two guards, rifles out, looking more competent than any opposition they’d seen today. Quill raised a gun, but Gamora pushed it down.

“Quiet. If we go loud, they might have time to radio that we’re here.” Quill nodded, magining to look mollified behind the red lenses of his helmet.

“Right. My bad. What do we do?”

“I got this,” replied Cooper. Before either Quill or Gammora could say anything, Cooper tapped a device on his wrist. Immediately, his form shimmered and distorted, turning translucent. He took off running, and both watching pairs of eyes lost track of him. Gammora thought she saw a faint blur of movement at the top of the hall, near the ceiling, but dismissed it as her eyes playing tricks. And, just as they started wondering where Cooper had gone, he appeared just as suddenly and silently as he had appeared, this time directly behind the guards.

Quietly and casually, he stepped behind the first guard, wrapped his arm around the guard’s throat in a chokehold, drew the guard’s sidearm from its holster, and unceremoniously shot both guards through the head. Quick, brutal, efficient. Cooper tossed the pistol aside and hefted his own rifle.

“Let’s keep moving.” Gamora stared at him.

“Impressive. I need one of those things. What are they called?”

“Invisibility Cloak or Pilot’s Cloak. You can get them pretty easily from where I come from. Or you could ask Drake. I’m sure he stole a bunch of them.”

Drake’s plasma gun spat a ball of molten death at an enemy mercenary. It melted through the mercenary’s thin armor, blasted through his bones, and disintegrated his organs. The mercenary only had time for a half scream, half whimper, before his chest was opened all the way through and he dropped to the ground, dead. One of the Imperial Guardsmen whistled appreciatively.

“A real plasma gun. Can’t believe you have one.” Drake grinned beneath his helmet.

“Cost me a pretty penny. But definitely worth it, I can assure you.” His earpiece crackled to life. “Hang on.”

“Drake? Are you behind the music?” asked Quill’s voice.

“Why yes, I am. Do you approve of my selection?” Drake replied.

“Actually, I was wondering...do you take requests?”

“Of course I do! What is your request?”

“Hooked on a Feeling by Blue Swede,” replied Quill with no hesitation.

“An excellent choice! Give me a moment.” Drake pressed another button on his wrist computer and spoke into it with an excellent approximation of a radio D.J.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that has been Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag and Smile, Smile, Smile, an old favorite from the First World War, written by George Henry Powell. And next up, by listener request, is Hooked on a Feeling by Blue Swede! If you would like to place a request, even if you’re on the opposing side, please, feel free to contact me.” He cut the transmission. One of the Valhallans turned to her sergeant.

“This guy’s weird.”

“Eh, could be worse. We could be fighting tyranids. Or necrons,” the sergeant interjected with a shudder.

Master Chief turned to look at the nearest PA speaker.

“Well, this is definitely something new.” He turned to his two companions. “You two don’t seem very surprised by this.”

“Honestly, I am not surprised by anything at this point,” Shepard said with a shrug. He turned to look at Vir. “What about you?”

“Happens to me all the time. What’s a battle without some good music?”

Jack Cooper shook his head incredulously as the song piped throughout the compound.

“I have seen a lot over my time in the Militia, but yet I have never been in a battle more bizarre.” He sighed and fired a burst of shots at a mercenary. “Oh, well.”

The Imperial Guard and the Apocalypse’s armsmen, led by Cain and Drake, sliced their way through the enemies ranks like a knife through wet paper. They stood no chance. Anything not eliminated by lasguns or assault rifles was obliterated by Drake’s plasma gun. Drake was leading the charge, cutting down everyone who opposed him with methodical precision. Drake turned, the eye slits of his helmet winking cerulean blue.

“Well, I think we’ve-” He never had a chance to finish, as a particularly large mercenary barreled past a corner and tackled Drake. Squeezed underneath the larger man, Drake could not get enough leverage to shove him off or hit him hard. The two combatants rolled and grappled with each other, the armsmen and Guardsmen daring not to fire for fear of hitting Drake. The large mercenary grimaced and tried to slip his hands under Drake’s helmet to try and throttle him to death. Drake reached up and placed his left hand on the mercenary's chest.

“Overcharge!” he yelled to the air. A sharp whine filled the air, then the crack of discharging electricity. The mercenary flew backwards, twitched spasmodically for several seconds, then lied still. Drake got up to his feet shakily. “Well, that was a...shocking experience.” Several of the soldiers groaned. “C’mon. Forward!” They ran through the maze of dimly-lit hallways, slaughtering anyone they met, until they got to a large room filled with computers overlooking the passageways of the basement. It looked to be a control room of some sorts, and it was absolutely packed with enemies. They seemed to realize the superiority of the Scoundrel’s firepower, and so, instead of trying to fight them bullet to bullet, they charged.

Cooper, Quill, and Gamora rounded the corner of the hallway at a run. The screeched to a stop when they saw what was happening in the large room in front of them. A massive group of enemy mercenaries were battling it out, hand to hand, with Drake and Cain’s forces.

“Well, we can’t shoot for fear of hitting our own side, so…” Quill trailed off.

“So we take them from behind,” replied Cooper. “You two know how to fight hand to hand?” In response, Gamora drew a sword.

“Well, I guess that’s a yes,” said Cooper. He looked over to see a heavily muscled woman bodily pick up and throw Drake through one of the glass panes overlooking the basement. “Oh boy. Better get in there.” They charged.

Vir, Shepard, and Master Chief emerged from the basement’s tunnels and into a pit-like room overlooked by glass panels. Suddenly, one of the panels shattered and Drake flew through and landed on the concrete floor fifteen feet below. He groaned and slowly got to his feet.

“Oh hey there. Fancy meeting you here.” Master Chief held out a hand to steady him.

“Are you alright?” Drake cracked his neck.

��Maybe. Hopefully. Doesn’t much matter. Let's get up there.”

“If you’re really O.K.”

“Yep, I’m good. What’s the fastest way up?” Shepard pointed to a set of stairs, but before he could say anything, Master Chief took a running leap, grabbed the broken window’s ledge, and hauled himself up.

“Or...or that will work.” Vir shrugged and made the same running jump at the same window. With a whir of powerful prosthetics, he made it in much the same way Master Chief had. Not to be outdone, Drake jumped for the same window. He only made it halfway up the wall, but grips built into his forearms and greaves took over and he hauled himself up. Shepard still stood at the bottom and shook his head.

“Ok then. I guess I’ll just take the stairs.”

The vast majority of the wild melee was focused near the middle of the room. There, the mercenaries desperately fought against the soldiers of the Imperial Guard. The mercenaries had thought to take the enemy off balance by charging them, a tactic seldom used in an age of automatic and plasma weaponry, but had not counted on soldiers of other universes, used to fighting in different ways. The Guardsmen had fixed bayonets, and now wielded the twenty inch blades with lethal efficiency. However, despite the Guard doing most of the fighting, it was by far the Scoundrel captains who garnered the most attention. Each fought with their own style, was a death-dealing whirlwind.

Master Chief fought with a precision that only a genetically enhanced super-soldier could. A strange, teardrop-shaped plasma sword was held aloft in one hand, and he brought it down with murderous exactness. Each stroke was backed by the massive strength of his seven foot frame, and gut through armor and bone as if it didn’t exist. He was a one man killing machine; he was a SPARTAN super-warrior. None stood in his way for long.

Ciaphas Cain used the same practical and lethal fighting style as he did in his duel with the Drev. His chainsword hummed and its teeth whirred as it cut through muscle and sinew, raising great gouts of blood into the air. In his other hand he held a laspistol, which cracked off shots at any who were beyond the reach of the deadly teeth of his sword.

Jack Cooper fought with grace and style. He danced around the enemy, using the extra speed and mobility of his Pilot’s suit. His combat knife slid between ribs and through throats, and shots from his sidearm rang out, blowing ragged holes through heads and torsos. His legs lashed out in the form of powerful kicks, still with a Pilot's grace, and landed on kidneys and knees, knocking his opponents to the ground where he finished them at his leisure.

Adam Vir fought with a spear, a most unusual weapon of choice. Nevertheless, he was just as deadly as the rest. The spear sand through the air, catching and impaling his foes. It twirled in intricate patterns, and blocked and flicked aside incoming attacks as if they didn’t exist. He lunged forward towards a panacing mercenary, twisting the spear at the last second so as not to get it stuck in the suction of flesh, then spun around to block an incoming attack.

Thomas Drake fought dirty. No trick was too low or underhanded. His left hand crackled with electricity, stunning and killing any he punched. A keen-bladed knife was in his right, and he stabbed groins, gouged eyes, and slit throats with impunity. He bellowed reactive insults while he fought, calling in to question his opponent’s lineage and stature as he charged and hacked and stabbed.

And Quill...well...he entered the room at a run, then promptly slipped on a puddle of blood and fell face first into the cold concrete floor.

The Scoundrels gradually whittled down their enemies, one by one, until there was only a small group, fear in their eyes, huddling against the back wall. The Scoundrels advanced, weapons drawn, and the mercenaries raised their own, prepared for one last defiant gesture. Then, the air shimmered and distorted, and Kirk and a group of Enterprise crewmen, weapons drawn, appeared as if from nowhere.

“Hands up,” said Kirk with probably more amusement than was really necessary. Slowly, the mercenaries lowered their weapons and put them on the ground. The Scoundrels looked at each other for a moment before Cooper broke the silence.

“Okay. That was...underwhelming.”

“What do we do with them?” asked Shepard, gesturing towards the prisoners.

“Eh. I say we just leave ‘em here,” said Drake with a shrug. The others stared at him with incredulity.

“Wait, wait...you were the one advocating orbital bombardment earlier!”

“Well, we have the thing now. No need to kill them, no need to do anything with them really. We can just pack up and go. Leave them here.” The Scoundrels looked at each other and seemed to reach an agreement.

“Fine. Let’s go.” Kirk looked over to Spock and spoke to him in an undertone.

“You know, this didn’t end that badly. None of the redshirts died!” As if on cue, one of the Enterprise’s crewmen, clad in black pants and a red shirt, fell over clutching his chest. One of the Imperial Guardsmen knelt down to check on him.

“He’s dead, sir! I think a heart attack.” Kirk shook his head.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

After the mercenaries had been herded in the basement and the Scoundrels’ forces were trailing out of the compound, Cain pulled Drake aside.

“Drake, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“Of course. What’s on your mind?” Cain looked around to make sure no one was listening.

“Those weapons. The only way you could have gotten several of them was if you stole them from the Inquisition.”

“And if I did?” replied Drake.

“The Inquisition is not an organization you want to steal from.” Cain loosened his chainsword in its scabbard. Drake smiled.

“Funny, actually. I can. You see, those weapons I found in a small hidden stash. Apparently, a rogue and very dead Inquisitor named Filidarus Calzik had hidden them on the very edge of Imperial space. No one would have ever gone for them, no Imperial would have ever found them.”

“I know of them, now that you’ve told me,” replied Cain, his hands still on his weapons. Drake laughed, the exact same laugh as when he told the Scoundrels he knew their secrets aboard the Apocalypse.

“Interestingly enough, weapons were not the only thing I found in that stash. There was also a computer. Which is why I know Calzik’s name. And, on that computer, was...an incomplete manuscript. An...autobiography.” Drake smiled again. “Your autobiography, my dear Cain.” Cain turned a shade of chalk white. “Now, consider, if you will, my dear Cain, the fascinating consequences if the contents of that autobiography were to be released to the wider Imperium. So, yes, I’m quite sure I can get away with stealing from the Inquisition. Because, no one will ever know anything is missing. And if they do, they’ll never know it was me, because everyone who knows it was me will not be saying anything about it, now will they?” With a final parting smile, Drake spun on his heel and strode away, leaving Cain in the semi-darkness of the compound’s hallway.

That’s it. Hope you like it. As per always, feel free to contact me with any complaints, concerns, compliments, questions, requests, or if you just want something cleared up.

#magnificent scoundrels #warhammer 40k #empyrean iris #halo #mass effect #star trek #titanfall 2 #guardians of the galaxy #crossover #story

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shawtygonemad · 4 years ago

Text

What Is This Feeling: Chapter 4

Fem!9th Doctor x Male! Rose Tyler

WITF Masterlist

The Doctor and Ross made their way back to the observation gallery. The Doctor went over to the panel on the wall and started to do scans.

"That wasn't a gravity pocket. I know gravity pockets and they don't feel like that." The Doctor turned to meet a tree. "What do you think, Jabe? Listen to the engines. They've pitched up about thirty Hertz. That dodgy or what?"

"It's the sound of metal. It doesn't make any sense to me," Jabe replied.

"Where's the engine room?"

"I don't know," he paused, "But the maintenance duct is just behind our guest suite. I could show you and your…husband."

"He's not my husband," she corrected quickly.

"Partner?"

"No."

"Concubinus?"

"Nope."

"Prostitute?"

Ross finally butt in, annoyed. "Whatever I am, it must be invisible. Do you mind?" He frowned. "Tell you what, you two go and pollinate. I'm going to catch up with family. Quick word with Michael Jackson," he referred to Cassandra.

"Don't start a fight," she warned. She turned and took Jabe's offered arm. "I'm all yours," she smiled.

"I want you home by midnight," Ross called after them.

The two aliens made their way into the maintenance duct. They conversed a little as they continued down the hall of wires. It seemed like it went on forever.

"So tell me, Jabe, what's a tree like you doing in a place like this," she asked.

"Respect for the Earth."Jabe gave a small smile. "Well, perhaps it's a case of having to be seen at the right occasion."

"In case your share prices drop?" She smiled back. "I know you lot. You've got massive forests everywhere, roots everywhere, and there's always money in land."

"All the same, we respect the Earth as family. So many species evolved from that planet. Mankind is only one. I'm another. My ancestors were transplanted from the planet down below, and I'm a direct descendent of the Tropical Rainforest."

"Excuse me," she pardoned herself as she took out her Sonic Screwdriver. The Doctor began to scan the door panel.

"And what about your ancestry, Doctor? Perhaps you could tell a story or two. Perhaps a woman only enjoys trouble when there's nothing else left. I scanned you earlier. The metal machine had trouble identifying your species. It refused to admit your existence."

The Doctor froze. Jabe knew who she was. He knew what happened. The pained Time Lord stared off, flashing back to that fateful day.

"Even when it named you, I wouldn't believe it. But it was right. I know where you're from. Forgive me for intruding, but it's remarkable that you even exist. I just wanted to say how sorry I am."

Jabe gently placed a hand on the Doctor's arm. She instinctively placed hers on top of his. A single tear dripped down her face. She quickly wiped the tear and opened the door to the engine room. The Doctor shook her head, ridding herself of the painful memories. They both stepped inside the engine room.

"Is it me, or is it a bit nippy?" The Doctor questioned while staring at the giant fans running at full blast. "Fair do's, though, that's a great bit of air conditioning. Sort of nice and old fashioned. Bet they call it retro," she laughed and turned from the giant fans. She then began to scan another panel on the wall.

"Gotcha," she said as she pulled off the panel cover. A metal spider-like creature scuttled out and up the nearest wall. "What the hell's that?"

"Is that part of the retro," Jabe questioned, innocently.

The leather clad alien aimed her screwdriver at the spider as Jabe lassoes it.

"Hey, nice liana," she complimented with a smile.

"Thank you. We're not supposed to show them in public."

"Don't worry, I won't tell anybody," the Doctor reassured. "Now then, who's been bringing their pets on board?"

"What does it do?"

"Sabotage."

"Earth death in ten minutes," the computer reminded.

"And the temperature's about to rocket. Come on," she led Jabe back out of the wire pathway, and back to the hallways. They both quickly made their way to the steward's office.

Once they were outside the office the Doctor noticed the smoke, and smell coming from within. The steward was dead.

"Hold on. Get back."

She soniced the door's panel, causing the sun filter to rise.

"Is the steward in there," asked Jabe.

"You can smell him. Hold on, there's another sun filter programmed to descend."

She quickly ran off, following the signal. She hoped no one was in the room. She soon found the room with the descending filter. The Doctor started to work on raising it as fast as she could.

"Anyone in there," she called out.

"Open the door," she heard Ross yell from within. She rolled her eyes, not even surprised.

"Oh, well, it would be you. Hold on. Give us two ticks." She spoke as she continued to work.

"Sun filter rising," the computer announced.

Ross and the Doctor both began to relax.

"Sun filter descending," the computer announced once more.

"Just what we need," the Doctor said, annoyed. "The computer's getting clever."

"Stop mucking about," Ross yelled.

The Doctor began to stress out. "I'm not mucking about. It's fighting back."

After a few nail-biting seconds the Doctor finally got the filter to rise, and stay up.

"The whole door's jammed. I can't open it. Stay there!" She told him before heading off towards the observation gallery.

The Doctor walked inside the gallery as Jabe was giving everyone a briefing. She took the spider from Jabe, and inspected it once more.

"I'm afraid the steward is dead," Jabe informed them.

"Who killed him," The Moxx of Balhoon asked.

"The whole event was sponsored by the Face of Boe. He invited us. Talk to the Face. Talk to the Face," Cassandra said.

"Easy way of finding out. Someone brought their little pet on board. Let's send him back to master."

She set the spider on the ground. It scuffled off towards Cassandra, scanned her, and then moved on. It then moved onto the black gowned group.

"The Adherents of the Repeated Meme. J'accuse," Cassandra accused.

"That's all very well, and really kind of obvious, but if you think about it…" The Doctor moved towards the group. The leader swung its arm at her. She caught it, and ripped it out. "A Repeated Meme is just an idea. And that's all they are, an idea."

She pulled the main control wire from the arm. All of the Adherents fell to the floor.

"Remote controlled Droids. Nice little cover for the real troublemaker. Go on, Jimbo," she nudged the spider. "Go home."

The spider quickly scuffled off to Cassandra.

"I bet you were the school swot and never got kissed. At arms," Cassandra commanded. Her attendants raised their spray guns.

"What are you gonna do, moisturize me," she asked sarcastically.

"With acid. Oh, you're too late. My spiders have control of the mainframe. Oh, you all carried them as gifts; tax free, past every code wall. I'm not just a pretty face," Cassandra smiled.

"Sabotaging the ship when you're still on it? How stupid's that?" The Doctor crossed her arms.

"I'd hoped to manufacture a hostage situation with myself as one of the victims. The compensation would have been enormous."

"Five billion years and it still comes down to money," the Doctor was astonished at the selfishness of humans.

"You're just as useful dead, all of you. I have shares in your rival companies and they'll tripe in price as soon as you're dead. My spiders are primed and ready to destroy the safety systems. How did that old Earth song go? Burn, baby, burn."

The space station shook as the spiders were activated. The force fields suddenly disappeared. They were vulnerable.

"Bye, bye, darlings," Cassandra smirked before she and her attendants beamed out.

The heat levels began to rise.

"We have to reset the computer by hand. There must be a system restore switch. Jabe, come on. You lot, just chill," she told them as she exited the gallery.

The Doctor and Jabe sped to the engine room. They only had two minutes to restore the system. No pressure. Once inside, the Doctor quickly searched for the switch. She spotted it behind the three giant fans.

"Oh, and guess where the switch is."

The Doctor pulled a breaker lever and the fans began to slow a bit. As soon as she let go and stepped away the fans reset their speed. Jabe grabbed the lever and held it down.

"You can't. The heat's going to vent through this place," the Time Lord protested.

"I know," the tree told her.

"Jabe, you're made of wood."

"Then stop wasting time, Time Lady," Jabe used the correct gender term of her race. The Doctor grinned, and nodded.

She made it passed the first fan easily. Once at the second fan she looked back at Jabe. He was still okay. They could do this! She turned back to the fan. Timing it perfectly, the Doctor ran through. When she reached the third fan a cry of pain was heard behind her. She turned to look. Jabe had combusted, and was burning alive.

'No!'

She couldn't help him. It killed her. The Doctor had to keep going. Jabe's death wouldn't be meaningless. It'll be harder to get through the last fan since they were back on full blast.

The fans were going faster than expected. The only way she could get through is if she slowed down time. It was something they were taught to do in the Academy. It wasn't easy. It took lots of concentration.

She closed her eyes and steadied her hearts. Her entire body needed to be calm. She breathed slowly and focused. In her mind everything started to slow down. The fans were at a crawling pace. Holding her breath, she stepped through.

Once she realized that it worked, her eyes flew open. She bolted forward and pulled down the breaker.

"Raise shields"

The Shields raised just in time as the Earth exploded. Once her adrenaline slowed down, she decided to return to everyone. The Doctor walked back under the fans. She stopped and stared sadly at the ashes of Jabe. No matter how many companions she had, there will always be one constant one: Death. She turned away, and strode back to the main gallery.

When she stepped inside, she saw some members mourning their loss. Seeing Ross also lifted a weight off her shoulders. However, first thing she needed to do was inform Lute and Coffa. She stepped over to them and placed a hand on both of their shoulders.

"Jabe is dead," she spoke softly. "He died a hero. Make sure he has an honoured ceremony once you return home. I'm so sorry." She turned and stepped away to let them mourn in private.

"You alright," Ross asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm full of ideas, I'm bristling with them. "She spoke angrily. "Idea number one, teleportation through five thousand degrees needs some kind of feed. Idea number two, this feed must be hidden nearby."

The Doctor walked over to the displayed Ostrich egg. She smashed it to reveal a small device.

"Idea number three, if you're as clever as me, then a teleportation feed can be reversed." The Doctor reversed the device. Cassandra beamed back in.

"Oh," she said, shocked.

"The last human," The Doctor growled, very cross.

"So, you passed my little test. Bravo. This makes you eligible to join, er, the human club," Cassandra lied.

"People have died, Cassandra. You murdered them."

"It depends on your definition of people, and that's enough of a technicality to keep your lawyers dizzy for centuries. Take me to court, the Doctor, and watch me smile and cry and flutter," Cassandra began to creak.

"And creak," asked the Doctor.

"And what?" Cassandra spoke, confused.

"Creak. You're creaking."

"What? Ah! I'm drying out! Oh, sweet heavens. Moisturize me, moisturize me! Where are my surgeons? My lovely boys! It's too hot," Cassandra cried out.

"You raised the temperature," the Doctor spoke coldly.

"Have pity! Moisturize me! Oh, oh, Doctor. I'm sorry. I'll do anything," she begged.

"Help her," Ross said, sympathetically.

"Everything has its time and everything dies," She said stone cold.

"I'm too young," Cassandra cried before exploding.

Without a second glance, the Doctor left the room. She needed pace to calm down. She didn't return until everyone was gone. When she walked back into the gallery she saw Ross staring out where the Earth once was.

"The end of the Earth. It's gone. We were too busy saving ourselves. No one saw it go. All those years, all that history, and no one was even looking. It's just-" he stopped himself.

The Doctor knew just what to do. She gently took his hand. "Come with me."

The both silently held hands as they walked back to the TARDIS. When they were inside, Ross sat on the jumper seat, defeated. The Doctor moved around the console returning them to London. When they landed, the two stepped out into a crowd of people.

"You think it'll last forever, people and cars and concrete, but it won't. One day it's all gone. Even the sky." The Doctor took a deep breath. She was going to tell him. "My planet's gone. It's dead. It burned like the Earth. It's just rocks and dust before it's time."

"What happened?"

She looked at him with sad eyes. "There was a war, and we lost."

"A war with who?" The Doctor stayed silent. "What about your people," Ross went on.

"I'm a Time Lord… well, Time Lady. I'm the last of the Time Lords. They're all gone. I'm the only survivor. I'm left travelling on my own 'cos there's no one else."

"There's me," Ross told her.

"You've seen how dangerous it is. Do you want to go home," she asked, waiting for him to confirm her fear.

"I don't know. I want…" he paused, and sniffed the air. "Oh, can you smell chips?"

The Doctor laughed, "Yeah."

"I want chips," he smiled.

"Me, too," she grinned.

"Right then, before you get me back in that box, chips it is! My treat. We've only got five billion years till the shops close."

They grinned at each other before Ross grabbed the Doctor's hand, and led her towards the glorious smell of chips.

***

Thanks for reading! You're all fantastic!

#romance #adventure #doctor who fanfic #doctor who #doctor x rose #the doctor #doctor who fanfiction #ninth doctor #fem!9th doctor #male!rose tyler

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kaioken16 · 5 years ago

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[S]: Rogue of Time RISE UP (Mallek Week Day 3)

Day 3 of @mallekweek‘s fic prompt, choosing the prompt in which Mallek discovers his god tier powers. This fic features my OC watching over Mallek as he begins to ascend to full god tier as a Rogue of Time and displaying his newfound powers to save prospit. Please enjoy the read!!!

Word count: 1452 Rating: Everyone Characters: Mallek Adalov, OC

Prospit was burning. The kingdom of light was under attack, the towers had crumbled, there were fires raging all over. Prospitians either running to safety or dying in the streets. Warriors clad in armor carrying weapons were shooting buildings, marching throughout the city.

Leading the charge was one of the high inquisitors for Her Imperious Condescension, she had been sent to conquest Prospit, and to retrieve a set of rare targets. Aside from these two, everyone else was to be considered collateral, so she let her soldiers go nuts, blow some steam off. Her targets were the knight (Zack), the cerulean (Mallek). Capture if possible, terminate if absolutely necessary.

The duo in question were current in the prospit’s crypt, Mallek had been severely injured in the invasion. It was time. Zack had brought him before his sacrificial slab. The troll had been placed on the red stone, his body still, pale, and cold, his cerulean blood seeping through his dreamer clothing. The knight of light staring down at his friend, hoping that this method would work, he had only heard it from the scriptures, he ascended in the traditional way, so he hoped Mallek could ascend by dying here. It had to work, his original body had already been lost, and his dream body was the only one had left.

Floating in the air beside Mallek, the human looked like all hope was lost… Closing his eyes, praying to whatever or whoever was listening for this to work. The ceiling of the crypt was rumbling, the inquisitor and her troops would soon find this place. Without warning, there was a massive explosion! The roof of the ruins had a large hole, chunks of stone fell, with Zack evading them. With the dust settling, a gigantic metal claw poked through the hole. The knight gritting his teeth in anger was face to face with the inquisitor’s assault drone. Its face came crashing through the hole, its red eyes scanning Zack.

The human stared up at the machine, and then back at Mallek. He needed more time. So, Zack was gonna give him more time. Summoning his sword and shield in a flash of light, ready to keep Mallek’s corpse safe, that was until something else caught his eyes. A flicker of light, the sound of electricity, and familiar feeling, slowly turning his head back. The red slab was glowing, Mallek’s blue blood was now flashing a barrage of colors, his body surrounded in an aura. A smile forming on Zack’s face overwhelmed with joy, it was working. The drone sensed something was wrong and aimed his canon at Mallek, firing a missile at the dead troll.

Zack had no time to react watched the projectile zooming towards the troll. Another large explosion now filled the room. “NO!” Zack shouted as the shockwave of the blast sent him flying into the wall, he grunted in pain.

A large cloud of dust and smoke was covering everything, the knight tried to focus on where Mallek’s body was. When the cloud finally dissipated, Mallek’s entire body was enveloped in a rainbow of colorful aura, the energy surging throughout him. The drone attempted to shoot him again but the energy began swirling into a vortex, which was causing the drone to short circuit, ERROR messages popping up in its visor.

The wounds on his body were gone. His prospit dreamer clothes had been replaced with a new attire, clad in red, with the time aspect symbol now on his chest. Mallek’s eyes shot open, for that instance his black pupils were now, the same symbol of his aspect he now wore. The Rogue of Time had ascended to godhood. He didn’t have to process everything, scanning the room all over, he saw Zack trapped in the wall, and the drone trying to aim its cannon at Mallek. Whispers were filling his ears, his mind, in mere moments he knew what to do.

“Sit tight for me, okay.” Mallek spoke, an air of confidence in his voice, Zack couldn’t help but smile, relieved that it had worked and that Mallek was okay.

Wearing his usual smug grin, Mallek raised his hands up just as the drone discharged at an energy beam at him. Red electric-like energy was flowing around his hands, his eyes widened as the massive gear symbol appeared in front of him, freezing the blast and the drone. Stopping their time, Mallek then made a spinning gesture with his arm and thrust it forward. A clock materialized above the drone, the hands reversing. As they did that the beam was slowly returning back into the drone’s gun.

Mallek zoomed in the air, circling behind the suspended drone, and landing on its back, opening the panel, he quickly fiddled with the wires and buttons. Once he was satisfied he flew to Zack, grabbing the other taking out the room leaving the drone frozen, the clock was about to hit twelve and time for the robot would resume.

“W-What did you do back there?!” Zack asked the other looking confused, Mallek, on the other hand, was looking ahead, smiling. He then snapped his fingers.

The clock above the drone vanished, as time returned to normal, the beam it had a fired was going to discharge for a second time. But this time as it was firing, the robot was glowing and then became to explode all over, until there was a massive ‘KABOOM’. Mallek had set the internal core of the drone to overload, the slightest release of energy would cause a chain reaction and then self-destruct. Zack chuckled with a surprised expression.

“You like my fireworks?” Mallek smugly joked as Zack just looked at him. He had taken to his new god tier powers with such ease. Releasing himself from Mallek’s hand, he flew alongside him.

“We need to find a way to stop them.” Zack was trying to figure out what to do, watching the small army lay waste to Prospit. Mallek however just zipped in front of Zack.

“Don’t worry about it, I can see all the timelines now, all the outcomes, and the amount of time I can take away from these guys… So, you just stay here and look pretty.” Winking at Zack, Mallek spread his arms and legs out, the gear symbol glowing brightly.

Gathering time energy all around him throughout all of Prospit. The inquisitor looked around in the confusion the strange energy rising all around, she then saw Mallek and Zack high up in the sky, the energy gathering around him. Grabbing her blaster, she aimed at then, deciding to shoot Zack first while his back was turned. As she pulled the trigger, Mallek was done he discharged a massive barrier covered in clock-like runes which engulfed the entire dream moon. Everyone but the cerulean was frozen in time, descending to the ground, he casually strolled past the Inquisitor, entering the ship she and her troops had arrived in. Toying around with navigation system, setting new co-ordinates while erasing Prospit’s co-ordinates.

Mallek then flew back into the sky again, holding on to Zack as he started spinning the materialized clock in reverse, by several hours. As he did this one by one, the armored troops began to vanish, the buildings returned to their original state, the fires faded away. The towers that falling were now restored, the prospitians that were in a state of panic and suffering were now back to their relaxed and peaceful state. Mallek then snapped his fingers and time flowed normally open again.

“Ta-Da!” Mallek waved his hands as Zack’s eyes slowly examining the surroundings. To his surprise everything was back to normal, the chaos and destruction were gone. The carapaces were getting along with their daily routine.

“Wha-? What just… Did you? D-Did we just travel back through time?” Zack confused by everything. “Where’s the inquisitor? The battalion?” Before Zack could ask another question, Mallek just placed his finger over the human’s mouth.

“Calm down, there’s no need to worry. It’s all taken care of, Prospit will live to fight another day, and the Inquisitor and her troops are probably somewhere in the deep dead regions of space… Hopefully near a black hole.” Mallek explained as he had reset the ship’s nav system and instead of leading them to prospit, he entered a random set of coordinates.

“Some more magic pajamas now huh? And pre-set instructions for these powers pouring into my mind.” Mallek threw his arm around Zack’s neck.

“It’ll be amazing to see the full extent of my time powers, and to see what specific abilities my unique class had.” The troll said curious to know more about his god tier powers now that the danger had been avoided.

#mallekweek2020 #mallek week #mallek week day 3 #mallek adalov #hiveswap #homestuck #rogue of time #god tier mallek #hiveswap friendsim #fanfiction #HS fanfic #fanfic #my writing #zack daemon (OC)#HS OC #oc/canon

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ramblingsofagaysian · 6 years ago

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A Journey to the Past

A/N: 10 days and 2400 words later, I've finally finished this. I'm currently extremely angry with another community I'm a part of so feel free to send me puppies or something. Anyway.

My take on what happened after James.

-----------

Alice had always found it somewhat ironic that she had the ability to see into the future, yet had no memory of the past. After 90 years though, she tried to not let it get to her.

After all, curiosity killed the cat.

But she couldn’t help it. Not when James had been hunting Bella, and she found out she had a connection to James. That he was a link to her past.

And that’s how she finds herself sitting on the floor, reading a book on the history of mental asylums, surrounded by papers. The book, along with a few others, was in Carlisle’s library. “You may not like what you find,” he had warned her, the horrors he had witnessed cast a shadow in his eyes. His long life as a doctor probably felt even longer in this moment.

It had taken her a little while, finding documents like these was difficult even though they had started to archive them digitally. She printed out what she could, still a little old school and finding it easier to have things physically infront of her as opposed to several pages open on a screen. It felt like a puzzle, and she was putting together the pieces.

A birth certificate. A family tree. Some old photos. Articles from a local newspaper. A death certificate. A patient file.

‘Mary Alice Brandon’ had been her name, though it didn't feel like it. It felt too distant to really belong to her. She had been admitted to St. Dymphna Insane Asylum on the 15th of March 1920, the same date as the death certificate. The corresponding dates felt like too much of a coincidence.

‘Electroshock therapy’ was listed in her file. To treat ‘hallucinations and delusions of the mind’ it said. A couple of the main side effects of this treatment was anesthesia and temporary memory loss.

Clearly it wasn’t always so temporary.

The tattered book in her hands detailed the general treatment of patients of the time. Hair shaved upon admission, well that explained her short hair. Personal items removed, plain clothes for every patient, isolation in what looked more like cells than bedrooms.

Between the electroshock therapy and how patients were generally treated, these asylums seemed to be more like prisons than hospitals.

She could have just asked Carlisle what it was like, instead of doing all the research herself but he looked so haunted when she mentioned her interest. She didn’t have the heart to ask him after that.

She felt a pair of arms wrap around her. Jasper. His embrace filled her with warmth and she felt the mounting pressure in her body dissipate. It could have been Jasper using his gift or it could have just been the effect he had on her, either way she didn’t mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~

When Alice asked him to accompany her on a road trip, he hadn’t hesitated to say yes. She was half his heart and soul, after all. He also knew that this could, no, would be painful and he wanted to be there when she needed someone to lean on.

They told the family that they’d be away for a little while, not too long though. Just a trip to hopefully find some answers. Esme gave them both a hug just before they left, Jasper still wasn’t used to it. And with a car packed with Alice’s research, they left for their first destination.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It was going to take nearly 2 days to drive to Biloxi, or it would at normal speeds. But with a Cullen at the wheel of an Audi TT, they’d get there in half the time but with 20 hours still to kill, Alice started playing some music from a playlist on her phone. A playlist she had deemed ‘Their Playlist’.

It shuffled through and the opening chords of Jon Pardi’s ‘Head Over Boots’ filled car. Jasper’s eyes looked lighter as he gave Alice a small smile for her choice in song. Alice, just being Alice, kissed his cheek and started to sing and even act along to the music. His smile grew to a grin and he was even laughing along with her, his heart warming with happiness.

If he didn’t know Alice was a vampire, he could believe that she was a pixie or a fairy because, to him, Alice radiated pure magic.

~~~~~~~~~~~

After a while, Alice took to reading through her research.

She had a younger sister, Cynthia. A 9 year difference between them. Alice found it hard to imagine being a big sister both figuratively and literally. She was small, she figured she always had been. Her slight frame was made to look even smaller, compared to the rest of the Cullens. Rosalie was tall and statuesque while Emmett looked about the size of a bear.

Oh how struck with irony, their family was.

Following down the family tree, she found a familiar name. Alice. But this wasn’t her, this wasn’t Mary Alice Brandon. This was her sister’s daughter. Her niece! And she was still alive!

She had managed to dig up a few pictures. Her sister holding a baby, she must have been around her mid-20’s. Another, her sister a little older with a young child, perhaps around 7 or 8. It looked a lot like an older photo she had found, one of herself and her family. It felt almost sweet, she just wishes she could have been there.

Flicking through a few more, she found a picture that looked an awful lot like Alice, but perhaps a bit older and hair much longer. Could this have been her niece? If it had been, she was the spitting image of her namesake.

~~~~~~~~~~~

They reached Mississippi and they took in the sight. It had been a long time since either of them had been here, a small sense of nostalgia filled them both.

The asylum that Alice had been held in was now a museum. Jasper leaned over to her, “I know what you’re thinking. You don’t have to do this, you know”. But that was the thing, she did.

So with a quick nod and a determined face, she marched on, Jasper in tow.

They got tickets and walked in with a tour guide. The place felt eerie, like air was heavier and something about the place felt familiar. Not that either of them believe in ghosts, not that it would be overly far fetched if they did, but if they did they would be sure the place would be crawling with them.

They walked the halls, the tour guide’s voice moving them back in time. To most, place must feel creepy but to Alice, it felt cold and unfortunately familiar. Jasper held her hand as they walked through a corridor of doors that led to patient’s rooms. Alice had been right, it did look like a prison. Felt like it too.

They walked by one room in particular. A flash, an image, shot through Alice’s mind. The room had been set up with two beds clad in blue and white striped sheets, like it would have been when it was in use. She ran her hand over a spot near the edge of the bed. There was something that was nagging her at the back of her mind. Something that had been significant, but she wasn’t entirely sure what.

They moved on to different rooms. This one was a treatment room. A bed with harsh leather straps and some crude equipment set next to it. The box was a control panel, it had several dials with varying numbers and switches. Numbers notating current and voltage. Connected to the control panel was what looked like a mix between a stethoscope and a world’s worst set of headphones. The sponges would be dipped in water to increase the conductivity at the contact points across the temple, and a bar would be placed in the patient’s mouth to muffle the screaming, the tour guide went on.

This equipment wasn’t just crude. It was cruel.

Could vampires have panic attacks? She wasn’t sure, but they were about to find out. Alice felt Jasper squeeze her hand. The pressure was grounding and it was sorely needed. With a nod from both, they left the asylum.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Biloxi was hardly Paris, but they could still make the most of their time together.

So it was as they were taking a lovely walk down the beach, taking in the warm sea air without a worry of being caught did they notice a familiar scent. Just down a little further down the beach, was none other than Kate and Tanya.

Alice shot off, running toward them and yelling with a chuckling Jasper not far behind. “Hey! What are you guys doing here? It’s a bit far afield, is it not?”

The Denali sisters turned around at the sound of a friendly voice, smiling, “The same could be said for you, no?” They hugged and perched themselves on a wall. It had been a while since they had seen each other. They were relaying the missed gossip about Edward and Bella, a glint of mischief showing in Kate’s eyes at the thought of experimenting with her gift in the presence of a shield.

They eventually came to the topic of why they were in Mississippi. Kate and Tanya were simply travelling. It had been a while since they had been outside of Denali and thought it was about time they saw how the country may have changed since their last tour, looking through golden eyes instead of red. Alice and Jasper told them about James and his connection to Alice, about the depth of research and how that led them back to Alice’s hometown.

“Alice,” Kate began, “How badly do you want your memories back?” the quirk of an eyebrow was her reply. “You know how you can trigger memories with certain sensations?” a nod, “Well…” Kate lifted her hand, flexing her fingers slightly, “We could give it a shot? See if we can shock your system enough to bring something back?”

Alice seemed to contemplate the idea for a moment, eyes scanning the sea for an answer.

“Let’s do it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Kate held out a tentative finger to her arm, “Ready?” Alice nodded again, preparing for the pain. She felt the pseudo-electricity bolt through her, it was excruciating. It felt like a crackling fire was coursing through her body. As soon as it began, it dissipated.

But nothing.

Her brow furrowed in confusion. Surely that should have worked? Or it should have at least done something. Anything… Wait.

The head piece with the contact plates.

She lifted Kate’s fingers to her temple, “Try again”.

She sprung off the wall to the sand. Images, no, memories, came flying from the pain. A note hidden in her bed in the asylum. Her father sending her to the asylum, his plot to kill her for knowing too much. Her young sister’s face. Her mother’s voice. If she could cry, her eyes would be flooded with tears.

Jasper was immediately at her side when she came back to the present, his eyes were filled with concern. Kate and Tanya followed suit.

Alice recounted everything she remembered, the Denali sisters recoiled in horror at some of the details. For all their centuries of living, the cruelty of humanity never ceased to make them turn in disgust. And Edward believed that they were the monsters.

~~~~~~~~~~~

They made one last stop before heading back to Forks. The cemetery. The Denali’s joined them, they decided a visit to the rest of their cousins was long overdue.

One of the recovered memories had been her mother’s funeral. A heartbreaking day and she now remembers the feeling of dread, being too young and far from ready to say goodbye to her mother.

So with a bouquet of flowers, they went and found the grave of Lillian Brandon. What she hadn’t anticipated was that her father’s, sister’s and her own grave would be beside it. ‘Mary Alice Brandon, 1901-1920’. Seeing her own grave felt bizarre at best and harrowing at worst, especially when the person it belonged to had nothing to do with the arrangements. This wasn’t faking one’s own death. This was her father’s attempt at just getting rid of her. She didn’t hesitate to spit on his grave.

As she lay the flowers down, another woman walked up to Cynthia’s grave. She was much older, must have been in her late 60’s, if not her early 70’s, hair grey and not much longer than Alice’s. She placed her own bouquet of flowers down on the grave, she must have been her niece. It was times like this that she wished she had Edward’s gift.

“Here to pay your respect to lost loved ones as well?” the old woman spoke, her eyes not leaving the headstone.

“Uh, yeah. Kinda of,” the woman turned to look at Alice, “I-I like to put flowers down on the graves of those who died too young, like my mother. To make sure that they are never forgotten, even after their own families have passed away”. It wasn’t a complete lie. Alice had always found cemeteries peaceful, and found short lifespans tragic.

“No one as young as you should have had to lose their mother. I commend you, dear, for not letting such tragedy turn you bitter.” and with that, she left.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The 20 hour drive back to Forks gave Alice a lot of time to think.

She had found her past, and got back some memories. Some were good, and some not so much. But that was life wasn’t it? She had good and bad memories since she was turned, and now these memories are less painful. Alice has grown a great deal since then, and she certainly had fewer stakes now that she had outlived her father by many many years. A small connection had even crossed her path.

When they returned home, Esme was there to greet them when they came in. “How was your trip?” she’d asked and Alice had smiled wide and said it was good. The Denali’s came by the door not long after, and the reunion took place.

The final piece slide into place, the strange empty feeling in her chest filled, and the small nagging voice in the back of her head went quiet.

Some of the things she had discovered were horrifying, even tragic. But some were wonderful, and the time away had done her good. After all, it was better to know and deal with it than to not know and spend eternity wondering.

So yeah, curiosity killed the cat.

But satisfaction brought it back.

#twilight #twilight saga #twilight headcanon #twilight headcanons #alice cullen #carlisle cullen #esme cullen #jasper whitlock #jasper hale #denali coven #kate denali #tanya denali

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