#and be at least partially trusted to not burn down the pod

[spicy-suns]

Cookin’

[whirlybirbs]

MOONLIT DUNES.    ;    boba fett / reader     ;     1 / ?

summary: you’ve found many things in the dunes. a gravely injured mandalorian is a new thing to add to the ever growing list. set directly after return of the jedi. 

word count: 3.5k

pairing: boba fett / scavenger!reader

tags: some body horror, injury mention, boba loses his leg, reader does first aid,  the great pit of carkoon really did one on our man

a/n: my hand slipped i swear.............. (this has been in the works since may)

In all your years spent drifting about the land of Tatooine, you’ve found many things in the dunes.

Rare racing pod parts that had been discontinued after years of upgrades... Discarded weaponry, no doubt used for something more nefarious than Bantha hunting... and many, many skulls, sentient and otherwise.

Such comes with the life of a scavenger — live off the land and the things buried deep; harvest trinkets of lives long since forgotten in the ever changing tides of glittering sand.

However, never in your life —  in all the days spent beneath the twin brother suns —  have you ever found someone alive in the dunes.

Until today, that is.

You should have known venturing North of Mos Eisley was a bad idea. After all, the plains beyond the space port were ridden with starved sarlacc pits. But, with Tanto — the resident Junk Boss — down your throat about catching up on your few owed debts, you’d decided to weigh the risk and trek on towards the looming beast on the horizon: the Great Pit of Carkoon. With any luck, you’d be able to scavenge what little undigested pieces the massive creature had belched back up — maybe some Gamorian armor, or a blaster or two — after one of Jabba’s usual disposal runs.

Ah, Jabba.

Rumor had it that Jabba Desilijic Tiure was dead.

You knew better than to ask about mere rumors being tossed around the clock-out lines as you turned in your hauls for the day. Like you did every evening, you kept your head down. But, you did listen. You always listen — and from what you could gather, there’d already been a few scavenging parties dispatched to the Northern region.

Something about a jedi, a princess and a hell of a mess.

Not that any of that mattered — because dwelling on some fantastical retelling of a lie by Frokop Golp, the resident drunk swindler, wasn’t going to keep you fed. You were hoping that at the least, the part about one of Jabba’s sail barges going down by the Great Pit of Carkoon wasn’t a lie. Then, you could maybe find a few transistor coolant coils...

The dawning realization that you were betting another day’s ration portion on a spun half-truth embellished by the local drunkard hits you as your dewback, a kindly older male you’d named Scud, finally reaches the crest of the highest dune overlooking the Carkoon wastes. For a moment, as you squint into the setting sun, you wonder if this is even going to be worth it.

You sigh, adjusting the light linen face covering over your nose and mouth, and gently urge Scud forward.

No use in dwelling. You’re already here.

“Hup.”

As you near, the wreckage seems to have been picked over completely. Scud plods slowly towards the wreck, tail swatting cautiously as the sarlacc a few meters ahead gives a low hiss at the vibrations riling it awake through the sand. You rock with the slow canter, one hand on the horn of the saddle and the other moving to reach behind you to your pack.

There rests a longspear — the top is crowned with the head of a gaderffii. You’d made it ages ago, well before your fifteen birthday, and it had become as much as a steadfast companion as Scud himself. With a flick and a satisfying click, the longspear extends from it’s compacted state. Resting the butt end against your forearm as Scud continues his meandering pace, you run the spear tip through the sand to your left.

No give.

The dunes creating a wall around the beast’s mouth stand strong. Over the large ridge, and a handful of meters away, tentacles swing eagerly through the air like malicious little whips, hungry for their next meal. The hulking beast, well over 10,000 years old, knows you’re here now — the desperate moan from it’s gaping maw is enough of an indication of that fact.

For now, keeping your distance and guiding Scud towards the barge, you’re safe.

The party barge had certainly seen better days — seems like a bolt from the main gun had ruptured a fuel line below the deck. Half submerged in an encroaching dune, you’re not surprised to be greeted by the foul stench of sun-rotting corpses as you hop down from Scud. Your boots, made of stretched and tanned Bantha hide, kick up a cloud of dust when you land.

Even with the twin suns beginning to set, the sand is hot.

There are footpaths leading to the barge, partially washed away by the wind pulling the sand closer to the mangled helm of the ship. Patting Scud’s neck as you pass, you grip your staff tightly — one tap of the durasteel spear to the twisted hole in the starboard side sends a scattering hiss of a pack of womp rats caught lounging in the evening shade. Carefully, you duck beneath the warped siding and over the lip of metal, eyes flicking around the cavernous sail barge.

The engine room is where you find yourself… or, well, what’s left of it. The engine has since bottomed out of the barge, no doubt laying in the dunes a few meters away. The smell of propulsion liquid burns in your nostrils, even with your white linen head-covering wrapped tight across your face.

You move on, hauling yourself towards the engine and grabbing two of the smaller propulsion pistons from the transmission. You swing your staff across your shoulder. The strap digs into your neck as you lean into the engine and try to disconnect the main hydraulic line from the engine part.

There’s a part of you, small and girlish, that remembers being scared of dark wreckages like this when you were younger. The terrifying scenario of stumbling into a krayt dragon’s nest used to play over and over in your head; and even now, the irrational little thought nags the back of your mind like a bite from a sand flea. What was rumbling beneath the sand, ready to make you its next meal?

In reality, the most likely scenario would be Tusken scouts roughing you up over encroaching on their territory.

Scud, though, you trusted enough to give holler at the sight of another being — skittish was one of his best traits, especially when sometimes the biggest danger out here in the dunes (aside from sarlaccs) was other sentients.

If the Kiqan tribe spotted you this far out? At worst, you’d lose some of the scavenged parts from earlier in the day as a barter. The Kiqan, the tribe local to this region, knew well enough that the majority of scavengers meant well. Unlike some of the tribes native to the Western lands, the Kiqans have come to terms with the traffic coming in and out of Mos Eisley.

Their chief, a broad and strong woman called Rhaza’hoq, led a clan of twenty Tusken men and women. On more than one occasion, you’d crossed paths with her — you’d come to recognize the womp rat jaw as a part of her head covering and a pelt of bantha donning her shoulders. Though their native tongue felt wrong to you, like prying dry sounds right from your throat, you’d tried to apologize for your trespass.  

That seemed to have been enough respect garnered for the chief to allow you to pass through the Bo’mar Flats in peace. You’d even offered up an armful of rifle components as a gesture of good faith — one you haven’t regretted since.

If they were to catch you here, you’d lose a good lump sum of money. The two battered sheets of durasteel strapped to the side of Scud, each four feet by four feet, would catch a fair price at the Junkyard in Mos Eisley. So, you quietly resign your attempt to dislodge the third propulsion piston and shoulder the two others. Your sack swings heavily against your hip as you plant your boot on the lip of the engine and reach through the hole the ignition blast caused in the floor.

Almost as immediately as you haul yourself up do you regret it.

The smell is wretched, and as you cough and gag you can’t help but recoil in disgust.

Your arrival on the main floor of the sail barge brings with it the cacophonous sound of cave beetles wings; the insects scatter as you press your forearm to your face — you’re left only to stare in horror at the sight before you.

Jabba Desilijic Tiure was very dead.

The infamous Hutt is little more than a snack for the various animals who have come and gone from the wreckage, now. Reduced only to a rotting mess of flesh and bones, you feel the swell of bile creep up into your throat as you tear your gaze away.

“Gods above,” you heave, coughing loudly.

That’s when you hear it.

A weak sound.

A strangled moan.

Small, quiet, and nearly nothing but a whimper.

For a moment, your muscles seize up so tightly that you're left holding your breath — was that you? Had that sound slipped from your throat the moment you’d let your eyes slip to the open windows along the starboard side of the ship, overlooking the Great Pit beyond the dune ridge?

Then, you see him.

It’s the single weak raise of a gloved hand in the dirt that spurs you into motion.

Scud, too, in that moment must have realized you both weren’t alone — he gives a great baying moan as you scramble, slipping through the whole and back down the engine. You scale it with ease, staff swung over your shoulder at the ready the moment your boots hit the ground.

You dart out into the sun, escaping the festering wreck, and bolt towards what you had previously thought was just a mangled, twisted piece of a rear booster. Making your way up the rising dune, you groan and push your muscles to reach what you now recognized as a destroyed jetpack — and beneath it, a man.

Your spear greets his body first, rounded butt end planting itself beneath his side and with one good nudge, rolling him over.

That’s when you realize he is very much alive and he is very much missing a leg.

Almost immediately, you sink to the dirt.

He’s big. His chest bears a cracked and scathed piece of armor. One arm, with a tattered sleeve and no glove, bears a shoulder pauldron with an insignia long since charred away. It seems like the entire left side of his body had been scorched by some sort of blast. His jetpack, mangled and shredded, is the first to go. You unbuckle the straps along his arms with an utterance of apology.

You’re greeted with a low groan. Slight protest.

Confusion.

His eyes do not open. Swollen eyelids stay shut.

Clicking your tongue and hollering in Huttese, your lumbering dewback trods closer.

His face is sunburnt, the plains of his sharp cheekbones blistering from the exposure to the sun and sand — though, something ticks in the back of your mind. These burns are fresh. From the last day at least. Suddenly, you’re wondering if he’s a fellow scavenger who’d fallen into the pit.

The jetpack would explain the escape.

You toss the pack down the hill.

You follow it, tripping down the sand towards the side of Scud as you scramble for one of the durasteel sheets. Laying it flat on the hot sand, you wonder how on earth this man had survived this long…. A day at least, judging by the sand swept around him and the burns along his arms and face. How long had he been in The Pit?

Gods above.

The Bo’mar Flats were not a kind place when left to the elements.

You land beside the man once more, this time speaking loudly.

“I am going to help you.”

You’re not sure if you’re saying it more for yourself or him.

There’s a part of you, as your eyes flick down to the stump of his left leg, that would give anything to turn away. Ride off, forget the gorish scene. Yet, the better part of you knows you’d simply come back come morning and do the same thing you’re doing now.

And then, come daybreak, he may not even be alive.

You tell yourself, as you squat and try and get a good grip, that you’re doing exactly what anyone else would do. But the reality is that’s far from the truth. Out here, it’s eat or be eaten.

With your luck, you’re stumbling into a metaphorical krayt dragon’s nest helping this man.

If only you knew.

You root both your fists in the material around his shoulders, worn enough to show the outline of where armor used to sit. And you pull.

It’s no easy feat. Even with gravity working in your favor, you’re struggling to haul the large man down the dune. The sand simply drags along, digging him into the dune as you curse in Huttese and spit out profanities sharp enough to make Scud shift on his peds. Your knuckles ache, fingernails having dug half moons into your palms through the material of his under-armor tunic. Landing backwards, you curse. But, you get back up again, and you pull.

It takes ten minutes to move him two meters to the durasteel sled downhill — and even longer to maneuver him onto the steel piece of scavenged material. By the end of it, you’re prying your scarf from your mouth to breath. Sweat tickles the back of your neck as your hands hit your knees and you groan.

“Koochoo,” you hiss at yourself in Huttese. Idiot is right. This is stupid.

Throughout this, the wounded man has offered nothing, not a single peep — you wonder if his last ditch hail of his hand was the only bit of energy he had left.

With him now on the makeshift sled, you move towards Scud’s left pack. Inside, you dig out your canteen and a spare bacta pack. The water sloshes around the hollow metal sphere. Once cold from your early hour of embarking, it’s warm to the touch.

It’s been a hot day.

Overhead, the twin suns have melted into a hazy coral color. They hang low across the horizon, suspended in a flickering bob of heat that dances across the clouds.

You fall to your knees in the sand. You need to move quickly. Soon, the sun will set and getting back to your hut just north of Mos Eisley is an hour’s ride at best.

The lower part of his left leg, from the knee down, is gone. The bleeding had long since stopped, clotted up from the sand and what looks like corrosive burns… Sure enough, the same patterning around his wrists tell you he sure as all kriff has been in the belly of the Great Pit of Carkoon. It’s the stomach acid that has melted the skin together just enough to halt the bleeding along his knee.

You exhale. Short and quick. Then, you pour your water across the limb.

That earns a loud groan of protest. Good to know he’s still alive.

The bacta is next, squeezed from the age old tube in a glob that lands above the wound. With an iron gut and quick sense of criticality, you rinse your own hands with water, all before holding your breath and pushing the palm sized amount across the mangled flesh and muscle. You try not to think about the way your own knee twitches, and instead, focus on planting your hand on the man’s chest — for the first time, he gives a true indication he feels it. The man writhes, contorting himself as a painful series of expletives fly from his mouth.

The chest plate buckles slightly, and when you lift your palm, the dirt smeared away shows a small emblem… Tan and green and red. What looks like wheat and a drop of blood…

It’s familiar, but you can’t remember why. You’ve seen it somewhere. Chewing the inside of your lip, you tear your eyes away and you move on. In a flash, you’ve hauled the linen head wrap from your hair. With the sun setting, you won’t need it as much as he will — keeping the sand out of the clean-enough wound will make a difference once you get him back to your home.

A part of you wonders if this man has any credits at all — truth be told you certainly don’t have enough to cover a visit to the local doctor. As you finish tying off his thigh, you reason that conversation is a bridge you can cross when you get there. For now, let’s just hope you can get him back to your dwelling alive.

Away from this wretched wreck.

By the time you’re mounted back up on Scud’s back, the suns have begun to dip below the dunes on the farthest horizon — the stars melt as they disappear, casting the shadows of the dunes in inky blacks. Behind Scud, the stranger is dragged, rigged to the saddle by two extending cables originally scavenged off an abandoned pod-racing setup, out by Bestine. The plating he rests on glides across the sand, leaving patterns in the dunes. You crane your neck, turning in the saddle, and frown.

There was certainly a first for everything.

⋆   ⋆   ⋆

Boba Fett wakes to the sight of a dirt ceiling.

The stirring confusion of unconsciousness subsides and almost immediately he is roused by pain — then comes the startling panic.

Is he dead?

Where is he?

What in the hell happened?

This is not the barge; there is no Luke Skywalker here, nor Solo nor the Wookie... The Pit… He’d fallen in. Yea, yea, he remembers that. But, he got out. Jetpack punctured. Flew him straight into the air. Burns. That’s the pain he feels. Burns? Yes. His back.

His leg. Something feels different. An ache. He tries to move his feet.

Boba groans, angled features contorting into a pained look as he tries to sit up on the cot; but suddenly, there’s a hand on the center of his chest. Gently, the hand pushes him down to the pillows.

Slowly, dark brown eyes follow the hand. Wrist, arm, shoulder, face.

Headscarf.

The first thing he realizes is that your eyes are beautiful, but soft. There’s kohl lining your eyes, making your stare piercing. Your brows are knotted in concern, and though he cannot make out the words that fall from your lips, he can understand the tone to be gentle. You’re speaking Huttese.

… Gods damn it all.

The Hutts.

Jabba.

Son of bitch was probably dead. He’s sure that the Desilijic Clan will have something to say about that.

Boba’s eyes slip shut as he exhales.

Sleep takes him easily.

⋆   ⋆   ⋆

When he wakes again, it’s evening. There are candles burning in the room, and once his eyes adjust he can make out your figure through a blanket covering the doorway at the end of the room — through the crack, he can see that you’re cooking over a small stove-top. He is laid up in the bedroom, he realizes, and on the floor across from the cot he lays upon is a pile of pillows.

You must have been watching over him.

Instantly, he’s looking for his blaster.

Call it a habit.

The mere act of bending sends pain shooting up his spine; and Boba finds himself gritting his jaw tightly as his knuckles tense and he tries to see any remnants of his armor or pack or weapons.

The commotion summons you in a flash.

This time, you have no headscarf on; Boba can now see the swell of your lips and the kind slope of your nose. You’re beautiful — his bruised and bloodshot eyes follow you as you glide into the room and duck beneath the patterned blanket separating the bedroom from the kitchenette.

There’s a plate of food in your hand. A fork and a knife rest on the edge of the painted plate.

“Careful,” comes a gentle utterance as you place the food beside his head on the table there, “Take it easy.”

Your basic is dashed with the light accent of Huttese. The syllables are melodic and gentle. You reach to help him into a sitting position, keen on making sure he’s comfortable —

Like a sand viper, the man before you has snatched the knife from the plate, swinging his hand quickly with a lethal sense of precision that stuns you silent. The coolness of the durasteel utensil is pressed right to your throat.

You can see the muscles in his arms tense, the sharp rise and fall of his bare chest. The blanket across his lap has slipped to his waist. Your jaw tilts upward, expression souring quickly. The kindness in your eyes quickly turns to ice.

When you raise your eyes to meet his, all Boba can see is defiance.

“Who are you?” he grits out hoarsely, “And how did I get here?”

“I found you,” you hiss, words scathing and hot as you raise both hands. There’s a wrinkle forming on the bridge of your nose, giving way to the angered expression flooding your face, “I’m beginning to see why The Great Pit of Carkoon spat you back up.”

The tension that builds settles heavily between you both.

And then, Boba Fett lowers the knife.

[superhusbands4ever]

The Chain - Chapter 3/15

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Full Work | AO3 Link

Fandom: The Bad Batch (Star Wars)

Characters: Crosshair, Hunter, Howzer, Rex, Wrecker, Tech, Echo, Omega, Various Clones

Relationships: Crosshair & Howzer, Crosshair & Rex, Crosshair & The Bad Batch, Crosshair & Omega, Hunter & Rex, Hunter & Omega

Additional Tags: Redemption, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Found Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending

Summary: One year after the events of The Bad Batch, Crosshair struggles to reconcile his choice with the harsh truth of the world around him. He finds enlightenment in the most unlikely of places and realizes he may have made the wrong decision. But is it too late to do something about it?

Two years after the events of The Bad Batch, Rex reluctantly agrees to allow Hunter and his squad to help him rescue a man who's been captured by the Empire, an Imperial double agent who's cover has been blown. What Hunter thought to be a simple extraction ends up having far greater consequences for their squad than he could have ever anticipated.

Chapter Warnings: violence/torture, electrocution, anti-clone prejudice, the Empire being the Empire

Most people are drowning in their delusional ignorance without knowing that their suffering was created by themselves.

Jakusho Kwong Roshi

The disk exploded in the air as the blaster bolt hit it, shattering into tiny pieces that clattered onto the floor to join the fragmented remains of the other disks before it.

Crosshair adjusted his grip on his rifle and signaled to the droid at the end of the range to volley another round of disks. The kickback on his rifle against his shoulder was comforting and familiar, the same as it had been since he was old enough to hold the firepuncher up in his arms for the first time.

Shooting the disks was ridiculously easy, no matter how quickly the training droid launched them, but Crosshair wasn’t looking for a challenge. He came to the range to keep his mind busy, a distraction, a mindless task that would give him time to think away from everyone around him.

It had been three months since the destruction of Tipoca City, and three months since Crosshair had made the choice to leave his brothers and return to the Empire.

Those three months had been… interesting, to say the least.

It took the Imperial scouts two days to find Crosshair on that platform. Of course those two days were the two days Kamino decided not to be the stormy landscape it was infamous for. By the time the scouts picked him up he was half delirious from heat exhaustion, dehydration, and his head was covered in burns from the blistering sun.

He woke up again a few days later as they pulled him out of a bacta tank. He’d barely had time to process what was happening before he was being dragged to an interrogation room by a couple of commandos to be questioned by Rampart.

That hadn’t been pleasant.

It was another month before he was sent on missions on his own, before that ordered only to follow Rampart around like he was his personal bodyguard. He knew it was so Rampart could keep an eye on his every move, so he could make sure Crosshair could still be trusted.

Fair, he supposed. Even he could admit his story was shaky at best.

He’d spun some story or another about the girl setting off the training droids in the training room in Tipoca City, his squad being overrun by the droids before the bombardment started. When explaining how he’d escaped alive, Crosshair figured the best lies were the ones that were buried at least partially in the truth.

He told Rampart that he’d been knocked out by his former squad members in the chaos. That they picked him up and dragged him out of the city as they tried to escape. He wasn’t sure why.  He didn't need to lie about that.

He told Rampart about the girl rescuing him, about his squad’s escape through the tunnels to Nala Se’s old lab. He told him about their plan to use the pods to escape to the surface, using that AZI unit as their guide.

And then. And then.

“You were working with them?”

“No,” Crosshair said, staring up at Rampart from the ground. “I was using them. Pretending to work with them until we reached the surface platform.”

“Yes,” Rampart said slowly, “the platform with no ship. How did they get onto Kamino, then?”

“They had help. Communications were down underwater so they needed to reach the surface to call their extraction. They’d just broken CC-5576 out of Daro base, I assume they were working with him.”

Rampart hummed, blank face giving nothing away.

“When we removed your inhibitor chip, Commander, you assured me that your loyalty to the Empire would not be in question. Was that a lie?”

Crosshair shifted in the trooper’s grip in an attempt to get the pressure off of his undoubtedly broken ribs.

“No, sir,” he gasped, biting back a grunt when the commando tightened his grip, forcing Crosshair to arch his back.

Something snapped. Definitely broken then.

“Good,” Rampart said softly. He gestured to the commando and Crosshair was dropped unceremoniously to the ground. He groaned as the muscles in his shoulders finally relaxed. “I would hate to have to replace such a… valuable asset as yourself.”

“They won’t be a problem anymore.”

“So you’ve said. It is unfortunate they won’t be an asset in the pocket of the Empire, but if they were going to be a thorn in our side then I suppose it’s for the best that they’re dead. And you are… sure they are dead, aren’t you?”

Crosshair turned to spit a mouthful of blood at the ground before turning to look at the vice-admiral. He couldn’t quite bring himself to look the man in the eye, instead looking at a spot just below on his cheekbone.

“Their pods were crushed when the lab flooded,” Crosshair said, swallowing hard. “I saw it. To the best of my knowledge, no one could have survived that.”

Rampart stared dispassionately down at Crosshair for a long moment.

“I certainly hope so, Commander. For your sake.”

There was a small part of Crosshair that wondered why he bothered lying, why he was still protecting those traitors. Maybe part of it was self preservation - if he told Rampart that he let the Bad Batch survive and escape, it would undoubtedly end badly for him. The Vice-Admiral had already made that abundantly clear.

He knew it was deeper than that, though, loath as he was to admit it.

He could have done it. He could have killed them. They’d refused to join him, refused to join the Empire, so it was the logical next step in his orders. It would have been so easy, too, distracted as they were by the kid drowning beneath the water. Hunter had brought his rifle and his pack with him into the tube. No one was paying attention to him. If he’d moved quickly enough, he could have grabbed the rifle, shot Hunter and the others, and left the kid to drown. All that would have been left to do was swim to the platform, steal the ship, and fly back to the Daro base to contact Rampart.

He’d been so close. He’d lifted the rifle and had it pointed between Hunter’s eyes before he’d even realized what he was doing.

But something had stayed his hand.

He’d stared down into Hunter’s tired eyes, finger on the trigger and ready to pull, but no matter how much he tried he couldn’t do it. Instead, he did something he’d never done before.

He froze.

Maybe it was a misplaced sense of loyalty. An old holdout feeling, a remnant from the days they were a team, a family. When Crosshair would have been the first to shoot anyone pointing a blaster in Hunter’s face the way he’d been. Maybe it was him returning the favor, remembering that Hunter had saved him, had still grabbed his body and taken him to safety despite everything the two of them had done to each other that day. Maybe it was him remembering the fervor with which Omega had ordered AZI to help rescue him from under the debris so he wouldn’t drown in the cold ocean water.

Maybe it was the memory of Hunter’s voice breaking with desperation when he asked Crosshair how long he’d been without the inhibitor chip. When he’d realized that all of Crosshair’s decisions that led them to that point were entirely his own.

This is who I am.

Or maybe it was the way those familiar brown eyes, eyes that had once looked at him with love and warmth, had looked at him not with surprise or anger, but with resignation . Hunter hadn’t looked at him and felt betrayed or shocked - instead he’d looked at Crosshair with empty acceptance, like he knew this was what Crosshair was planning to do all along and knew he couldn’t fight it. It was like Hunter had finally given up - given up on him .

I wanted to believe it was the inhibitor chip that made you like this, but I was wrong.

Maybe it was the way those same brown eyes had looked at him with that same tired acceptance in Nala Se’s lab, this time on a smaller feminine frame beneath pale, blonde hair.

Before he could even really process what he was doing he’d pulled the rifle away from Hunter and pointed it into the murky waters below. Hunter couldn’t see into the water, but Crosshair could - he could see through the grime and the darkness and the debris to the slowly sinking blur of the girl clinging to the droid. Looking through the scope he realized he was likely the only one of the group who had the ability to save her and survive while doing it. He’d fired the grapple without second thought.

It was after, when he looked back at the others and saw Tech, Echo, and Wrecker shamelessly pointing their own blasters at him, that he realized his plan was never going to work anyway. There was no way his old squad was going to follow him, to come back and join him in the Empire. Whatever bond had existed between them all those years together had broken and he wasn’t sure there was a way for them to get it back. His brothers didn’t trust him anymore and they likely never would.

Once the girl was safely pulled into the pod it was with that knowledge that he tossed his firepuncher back to Wrecker. He sat down in the pod and avoided eye contact with Hunter, not wanting to see the cold blankness in his eyes again. He’d desperately tried to ignore the gnawing in his chest, the emptiness he felt at the thought of his brothers leaving without him again like he knew they were going to.

He couldn’t even watch as Marauder flew away from him for a fourth time, fearful that they’d see the extra shine lingering on his eyes in Kamino’s rare sunlight.

He still tried to ignore the gnawing in his chest that he felt even now, three months later. His temple throbbed and he shook his head to try and clear it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a chime at the door, a warning to whoever was down range that someone was about to enter. The door slid open with a quiet whoosh and ES-02 walked in.

“Commander,” she said with a nod, standing at attention just inside the doorway.

“What do you want?” He said, shooting down the range again when the droid threw the next disk. The shot hit just as the disk was reaching the peak of it’s arch through the air.

“Admiral Rampart has requested you meet him in interrogation room 4-8C,” she said, and he lowered his rifle with a sigh. “He has asked that I escort you.”

“I don’t need a minder,” he said with a roll of his eyes. Still, he stepped back from the range and disengaged his rifle, pulling the nozzle attachment off and slipping it into his pack.

“Vice Admiral’s orders, sir,” she said with a shrug.

Crosshair nodded, slipping his pack onto his back before reaching down beside him to pick up his helmet. He slipped it on, sliding his firepuncher over his shoulder until he heard and felt the metallic clink of it as the magnetic hold in his pack activated.

“Let’s go, then,” he said, gesturing toward the open door behind her.

ES-02 nodded and turned, gesturing for Crosshair to step out in front of her.

They set off down the hallway, ES-02 following a half step behind him to the right. They made their way quickly through the facility until they got to the lift. Once inside, Crosshair swiped his access card to activate the lift and it started lowering itself to the fourth floor.

After a few moments of ES-02’s shuffling and sneaking glances, Crosshair rolled his eyes.

“What?”

She twitched slightly, looking over at Crosshair with what he could only assume were raised eyebrows under her helmet.

“Sir?”

“You have something to say,” he said slowly, as if talking to a small child. “What is it?”

She said nothing, staring at him for a long moment before shaking her head and turning back to the front.

“Nothing, sir.”

He had to fight to not roll his eyes again. These conscripted soldiers were a real pain, and for once in his life Crosshair actually found himself missing the regs. If for no other reason than for their ability to act like actual soldiers and not just gossipy children who thought they were good at lying.

The lift came to a stop and Crosshair stepped out as the door opened, not pausing to wait and see if ES-02 followed him.

He quickly came upon room 4-8C and turned back to the other trooper before he went inside.

“I think I can handle myself from here,” he said dryly. “You’re dismissed.”

She hesitated and her movements shuttered slightly before she jerked her arm up in a salute, nodding as she turned to walk away. He kept his eyes on her back until she turned the corner out of sight.

With a sigh, Crosshair inserted his code into the pad by the door and stepped cautiously into the interrogation room, still unsure what exactly he was walking into.

“Ah, Commander,” Rampart called out. “Thank you for joining us.”

Rampart was standing in the middle of the room next to a blue containment field. In the field’s ray was a man, a clone based on the blacks and the build, head hung low to his chest.

Crosshair slowly crossed the room, stopping at attention behind Rampart.

“The good captain and I were just about to have a long overdue discussion, Commander, and I thought you might like to assist,” Rampart said with a smirk. “You two have a history after all.”

The clone in the containment field finally lifted his head, and Crosshair’s eyes widened slightly behind his helmet as he took in the scarred face beneath scraggly facial hair.

Crosshair hadn’t seen Captain Howzer since he was arrested on Ryloth. Not long after he was arrested Crosshair had been sent back to Kamino to help oversee the decommissioning of Tipoca City. He never knew what became of Howzer, assumed the man had been decommed or reconditioned - if the Empire still bothered with that sort of thing - and he hadn’t spared the other clone a second thought. A few weeks later and the call informing him of Hunter’s capture came in, completely removing the reg from Crosshair’s sphere of concern.

Now here he was, and he certainly didn’t look like the headstrong Captain he remembered on Ryloth. His face was gaunt, his cheekbones stood out sharper than any clone’s should, and his hair was longer, lanky and flopping over his eyes. His face didn’t look any better, skin mottled with black, green, and yellow bruising. He hadn’t shaved in quite some time, and the black facial hair was growing in patches around the scar tissue on his cheek and chin.

The biggest change was in his eyes - whereas the last time Crosshair had seen him his eyes had burned bright with passionate self-righteousness as he rallied the other regs against the Empire, now his eyes were dull. They lacked the intensity, the heat they’d once held within. Before him now were the eyes of a broken man, tired and so beat down he could barely hide it, leaving him a shell of the man Crosshair briefly knew. Crosshair wasn’t sure what the Empire had done to the clone captain, but whatever it was, it wasn’t pretty.

Something about the image tweaked some long forgotten, deeply buried part of his mind. There was something about seeing another clone, strung up like a puppet and beaten down, that left a sour taste on the back of his tongue, but he pushed it down. This man was a traitor to the Empire. This is what he deserved.

“I just have a few questions to ask you, CT-7569,” Rampart was saying as he walked around the containment field, staring up without feeling at the clone held within. “As long as you answer my questions honestly and without issue, no one has to get hurt.”

Rampart stopped when he reached Crosshair.

“Commander, if you would be so kind as to make sure he answers my questions honestly, and without issue,” Rampart said.

He held something out in his hands and Crosshair looked down to see an electro-baton in his palm.

Reaching forward slowly, he wrapped his hand around the hilt of the baton. Before he could pull it from the Vice Admiral’s palm, the other man closed his hand around the opposite end.

“Consider this a reminder of what happens to those who conspire against the Empire,” Rampart said softly, staring directly into Crosshair’s visor. Crosshair narrowed his eyes at the other man from behind his helmet, cognizant of the fact that the words were said quietly enough there was no way Howzer had heard them.

He wasn’t meant to. They weren’t meant for him .

Crosshair pulled the baton out of the nat-born’s hands and walked to the other side of the containment field. He pressed the button on the end of the baton and the tip crackled with electricity as it powered up.

“CT-7569, I have to say, I am very disappointed,” Rampart said, continuing his stroll around the containment field. Howzer followed him with lazy eyes. “Your service record during the war was quite impressive. The way you were able to maintain hold of the capital even after that Jedi scum was killed was quite the feat.”

Howzer shifted slightly, eyes glowering down at the nat-born, but he said nothing. Crosshair tightened his grip in the baton.

“You could have done great things for the Empire,” Rampart was saying. “But you threw it all away. And for what? A little girl? One man and his wife?”

Howzer growled low in his throat, but didn’t move.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

The reg continued to glare.

“Commander,” Rampart called, not taking his eyes off of the captain. “If you would.”

Crosshair clenched the end of the baton and lifted it, pressing it into the small of Howzer’s back.

Crosshair had to admit, he admired the way the other clone didn’t scream or yell. Howzer arched his back, breathing frantically through his nose as the pain built, his arms and legs trembling where they were held in place by the energy shackles.

Crosshair pulled the baton back and Howzer collapsed as much as he could while in the field's ray, his back and shoulders slumping as his head dropped listlessly to his chest. His shaky breathing cut sharply through the quiet stillness of the room.

“Well?” Rampart said, eyebrows quirked.

Howzer whined low in his throat, lifting his head just enough to look out at Rampart through hooded eyes.

“Howzer,” he croaked, voice hoarse. “Captain. Grand Army of the Republic. Designation CT-7569.”

Rampart said nothing, just continued to stare blankly at the clone captain. Eventually he turned to look at Crosshair and nodded.

Crosshair lifted the baton again, pressing it harder into Howzer’s back. This time Howzer couldn’t quite hold back his scream before he cut himself off, and Crosshair pretended not to notice the way his own hand twitched as the sound cut through the buzz of electricity.

“What can you tell me about the resistance on Ryloth?” Rampart asked once Crosshair pulled the baton back again. Howzer hung panting heavily within the containment field’s ray.

“I know Cham and Eleni were planning something,” Rampart continued as he walked around Howzer’s hanging form. “Those fighters they had at their disposal, the ones who attacked our transport--”

“You kidnapped their daughter ,” Howzer hissed, “what did you expect them to do?”

“Don’t play coy with me, clone ,” Rampart snapped, “you and I both know they were planning something before that. Arresting their brat just moved up the timeline.”

“Go to hell!” Howzer snapped back.

Rampart stepped back. “Commander, if you would.”

Crosshair’s hand twitched around the baton handle.

“9904!”

Crosshair’s hand jerked up, pressing the baton harshly into Howzer’s back once again. This time the clone captain couldn’t hold back the screams as the muscles in his back contorted violently again. Crosshair closed his eyes as the pain in his head rose in pitch with the man’s cries.

Finally, Crosshair pulled the baton back and Howzer slumped inward on himself with a whine, his head lolling forward against his chest. His breathing was shallow but slow, the muscles in his arms and shoulders twitching seemingly involuntarily.

“You tried to recruit other clones in your little insurrection,” Rampart said, leaning forward close to Howzer’s face. “I know how close you were to them. Who else is involved? What were they planning? Where are Cham and Eleni Syndulla?”

Surprisingly, the clone laughed. It was a dark and brittle thing that sounded ugly and wrong coming from the once amiable man.

“Save your breath,” Howzer said, glaring down at Rampart with a smug smile. “I’m not telling you anything. You may as well just go ahead and kill me.”

“No,” Rampart smiled back, and even Crosshair felt a modicum of apprehension at the wolfish look. “I won’t be letting you off that easily.”

Rampart took a step back, pulling a comm out of his pocket and pressing a button to activate it. The door slid open behind him and two TK troopers walked in.

“Commander,” he said, turning to Crosshair who was still standing behind Howzer with the now de-powered baton in his hand. “If you could escort CT-7569 back to his cell. It looks like we’ll just have to try this again later.”

Crosshair nodded and attached the baton to a hook on his utility belt. Rampart quickly left the room and Crosshair walked back around to the front of the containment field as the two TK troopers worked on removing Howzer from the ray.

The ray abruptly turned off and Crosshair watched as Howzer collapsed to the ground in a pile of limbs. He didn’t even try to fight as one TK trooper pulled him upright again by the arms, roughly shoving his arms behind his back and slapping a pair of binders onto his wrists. He groaned quietly as the manhandling no doubt pulled on his abused and aching body, but otherwise made no protest.

Once they were finished the two troopers stood back and looked up at Crosshair for instruction. Crosshair paused, staring down at the other clone.

Finally, Howzer lifted his head and stared up at Crosshair with wide, tired eyes. Somehow he managed to meet Crosshair’s eyes through the visor and Crosshair froze.

For a second Crosshair wasn’t staring down into the eyes of a broken clone captain turned traitor. For a second he looked at Howzer and saw another pale, gaunt, and tortured reg. Only instead of tired defeat he saw bright, beholden eyes, staring up at him with gratitude from the floor of the Marauder as they thanked him for helping to rescue him from Skako Minor.

Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat he jerked his gaze away and gestured to the two troopers still standing at attention in front of him.

“Let’s go,” he said, turning toward the exit. Howzer grunted behind him as he was yanked to his feet and Crosshair closed his eyes against the pain in his temples that throbbed in time with his racing heart.

~

After he’d left Howzer chained up in his cell, he started the trek back to his quarters. The pain in his head had abated somewhat, but the day had left him exhausted and he was ready to lay down and attempt some sleep for the night.

The headaches had been getting worse lately, but the medics in the infirmary assured him time and time again that there was nothing wrong with him. Stress, maybe, they said. Psychosomatic. Most days were better than others but occasionally when the pain got too bad, when he couldn’t ignore the bright spots in his vision or the way his hands would tremble, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something they weren’t telling him.

The chip was gone, he knew that for a fact. Had seen the thing, fried and burnt looking, when they’d pulled it from his head after it was damaged on Bracca. Why some of the side effects seemed to linger, he didn’t know, and he didn’t have the energy to ask. He didn’t think he’d get an honest answer anyway.

It was just a little pain. He was used to pain, he could handle it.

The lift opened finally and he had to put conscious effort into not groaning out loud when he saw ES-02 standing inside.

They both stared at each other for a second before she stepped to the side so Crosshair could enter.

One he was inside and the lift began moving, 02 shuffled her feet before turning her head toward him.

“What did Rampart want?”

“Questioning that insurrectionist we arrested on Ryloth,” Crosshair said, leaning back against the transparasteel wall with his arms crossed. “See what he knows about the resistance on the planet.”

02 hummed. “Anything?”

“He still won’t talk,” Crosshair said. “But Rampart wants to break him.”

“Do you think he will?”

The lift began to slow to a stop.

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug as he pushed off the walk. “The Kaminoans trained us to withstand most interrogation and torture techniques. It might end up working against the Empire’s favor, ironically.”

“I don’t know why he’s bothering,” she said with a shake of her head. “It’s been nearly five months since that clone was arrested and he hasn’t said anything yet. If it were up to me I’d just get rid of him and be done with it.”

“I suppose he should be grateful it isn’t up to you, then,” Crosshair said dryly as they stepped off the lift towards his quarters.

“Honestly, he’s just a clone. Rampart should just put him down and move on.”

Crosshair abruptly stopped in the middle of the hallway and ES-02 nearly stumbled into him before she caught herself.

“‘ Just a clone?’ ”

ES-02 shrugged. “Well… yeah. I mean, there’s thousands of them. What’s one less?”

Crosshair hummed as he stared down the other woman, not sure if he should be insulted or impressed by her audacity. Not that it wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard from nat-borns before, even with the Republic. Or, admittedly, nothing he hadn’t thought for himself once or twice in his darker, more embittered moments. But for her to say it to his face, as her superior officer, was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

He took off down the hallway again, fighting the urge to groan out loud as she continued to follow him. He was nearly to his quarters now, where hopefully he could get some peace and quiet to deal with his headache. If she tried to follow him inside, he might just shoot her and be done with it.

“I’m surprised Rampart is letting you near him, actually,” she was saying as they neared his door. “Considering how royally you screwed up dealing with those clones last time.”

This time when Crosshair stopped suddenly she did run into him. He watched with the smallest ping of satisfaction as she stumbled and had to catch herself on the wall.

“ What did you just say?”

She stared at him for a long moment. Her armor clanked loudly in the hallway as she shifted, apparently internally debating how far she wanted to take this.

“You heard me,” she said finally. “I think the Vice Admiral may be putting a little too much faith in you, is all.”

Crosshair’s eyes narrowed behind his visor and he rested his hand on the holster of the DC-17 on his hip. ES-02’s eyes followed the movement, but she didn’t stand down. In a moment of sudden clarity, every slightly off comment, every insubordinate slip, every “misheard” order and twitchy glance over the last three months flashed to the forefront of his memory.

“If you have something to say to me, then say it,” He growled, stepping forward.

ES-02 shifted slightly, hands fidgeting on their rifle, before stepping forward into Crosshair’s space in a way that was likely meant to be intimidating.

“I don’t trust you,” she said quietly, her visor boring into his. “I don’t know how you got off of Kamino alive, but I know you didn’t do it alone. You may have Rampart fooled, but I was there. I know what I saw.”

Crosshair tilted his head. “And what is it you think you saw?”

“I saw our squads’ bodies on the ground. I saw you fighting side by side with those clones.”

“The girl activated the battle droids,” he reminded her. “The girl you were supposed to capture. Are you really so incompetent you let a child and her droid get the best of you?”

ES-02 had the grace to flinch back a little at that, but she held her ground.

“You really expect me to believe our squad was taken out by simulation droids? ”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Maybe if they all weren’t so inept they would still be alive.”

ES-02 bristled and pushed further into his space until their helmets were nearly touching. He held his ground, arms at rest behind his back and he stared back at her dispassionately.

“Or maybe the droids were just a convenient excuse,” she said. “Maybe that was your plan all along. Get your old squad back to Kamino, overrun and kill us so you could get your little friends back.”

She let out a humorless chuckle, head tilted to the side as she regarded him.

“Though I guess they didn’t want you, either.”

“Careful, trooper,” he hissed, finally pushing back into her space. “I could have you court martialed.”

She shook her head, taking a step back.

“You think you’re so important, don’t you?” Her voice dripped with condescension. “You mean nothing . You’re an obsolete meat droid created to die in a war that doesn’t exist anymore. You’ve outlived your purpose. It’s only a matter of time before Rampart realizes that, and when he does? I’ll make sure they dump your body at the bottom of the Kaminoan ocean where it belongs.”

All you’ll ever be to them is a number.

“Get out of my sight,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Yes, sir,” she said, giving him a sloppy ‘ kark you’ salute, disdain clear in her tone, “ Commander.”

He watched the woman retreat down the hall until she was out of sight before turning and punching in the code to his quarters.

As the door slid shut behind him, he reached up and pulled his helmet off, throwing it across the room with a strangled yell. His head suddenly felt like it was on fire and he reached up to press his fingers to his aching temple.

If it were up to me I’d just get rid of him and be done with it.

I certainly hope so, Commander… for your sake.

We still would've taken you.

You’re my brother, too.

With a groan he collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in his hands as voices played over each other in his mind, desperately trying to ignore the cold that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

[daughterofelros]

Hey so I saw your post about Alex and his resilience and how he's rate on a scale and how this relates to his childhood trauma etc and was really curious to know/understand more on the topic and how it manifests with alex but also you mentioned rosa? And the other characters too. If you're happy to elaborate otherwise no worries of course. What interpretations do you make from what we've seen on screen? ☺

Oh my gosh Nonnie, thank you for the juicy, delicious ask!

The Connor-Davidson Resilience Scale (Commonly abbreviated to CD-RISC) measures, in its full version, 25 different statements. Some of the ones that stand out to me in thinking about a bunch of the RNM characters include being able to adapt and change, having close and secure relationships, able to make unpopular/difficult decisions, know where to get help, but they’re all pretty important.

As established in my earlier assessment, Alex Manes = Super Resilient, and that definitely has an effect on the ways he handles the traumas he’s faced over his life.

Let me dive into Rosa little bit more first— Rosa, despite not enduring the specific type of abuse that Alex and Michael did as kids, might actually score in a lower percentile than either of those characters on the resilience scale. Part of this is because adverse childhood experiences, though cumulative, aren’t exactly ranked and scaled. Trauma impacts people differently, and you can’t really say whether growing up feeling abandoned by an alcoholic parent in an otherwise supportive context, or never having a safe parental figure, or having a parent die will impact someone “worse”—they’re all adversity, and they all have an impact on our health and capacity for resilience. (Also, inequality isn’t a fixed experience in our brains—for more reading on how weird our brains are in this regard, check out “The Broken Ladder: How Inequality Affects the Way We Think, Live, and Die”  by Keith B Payne).So Rosa definitely has adverse childhood experiences that impact her relationships. At the point when we’re first introduced to her, she’s probably in about the worst place she could be there—Her friendships are being proven to be based on what drugs she can score, her relationship with her mother is shredded, and she’s just learned that Arturo isn’t her father. Even though Arturo’s love and support for her wouldn’t budge an inch, she feels separated from the most supportive relationship in her life, and she’s spiraling. She struggles to adapt, her coping mechanisms mess with her brain chemistry where she’s already contending with dopamine issues due to the mental illness she’s battling , and it’s pretty clear that she doesn’t have a strong read on where to get help (Though she’s willing to accept it—Valenti’s help getting clean, having met once with a therapist, leaning into her artwork).  Pressure doesn’t make her think very clearly, and she doesn’t seem like she takes high levels of pride in her achievements, or trust that she can achieve her goals if she works for them. Traumas are going to hit her hard. They’re not going to roll off her back easily. When she comes back to life, she gets a partial reset button, and handles some big trauma pretty well…but she also is terrified of messing it up, and breaks down if anything gets derailed (see: “I Ruined my Miracle”). I’d say she’s doing a great job coping with what she’s got…but her resilience score isn’t the highest. Things hit her hard.

Let’s look at Michael then. He’s got every reason why his resilience score might not be high. He’s dealt with so damn much. But the thing that’s helped him get through is that his resilience score actually seems like it would be pretty well up there. He doesn’t have good parental figure relationships (understatement of the year)—But he’s got a couple of relationships (Max and Isobel) that won’t abandon him, no matter how he pushes, even when everything is burning around them. Michael clearly believes that working toward goals means he can achieve them. He’s been trying to build the spaceship to take him back home since he was, like, eight. That’s goal-oriented right there! He’s not going to score well in the “getting help” vector at all, but he does work extremely well under pressure (his genius increases when he’s pissed off). Michael also clearly believes that he can deal with whatever comes his way, he ultimately doesn’t give up when things look hopeless (alien pacemaker in 7 hours), and I’d bet my bottom dollar that he would agree that coping with stress has made him stronger. He’d probably rank himself pretty high on the “Can make difficult or unpopular decisions” factor—choosing to take the blame and protect Isobel, volunteering to be the alien who gets turned into the authorities…there are flaws in his reasoning on the last one, and definitely some internalized feelings of his life not being as important…but he shows a clear propensity for being willing to make unspeakably challenging decisions. He probably won’t rank high in the “Pride in my achievements” vector, and that hits up against the things he’s internalized from the ACES he’s had piled on him—from childhood abuse and abandonment right up to Jesse Manes, crippling injury, and covering up murders. His resilience is high, but he’s coping with a lot, and he doesn’t have as many tools to keep coping as, say, Alex does.  We can also see that there’s a pretty debilitating impact when he shifts to the knowledge that his Mom was alive and he watched her die… and then starts to question why she didn’t take him out of the Pod to be with her in 1947. He starts to have thoughts about abandonment that he hadn’t had when he just thought his Mom died in the crash…and that paired with Max’s death really, really throws him. He rejects connections that have ever been tied up in pain and abandonment, and we see him spiraling. His resilience definitely dips when those circumstances occur…and as we see him trust in some of his relationships again, we see his ability to cope return as well. With the right tools and support, he can actually do a lot of healing yet too.

Isobel probably scores pretty high on the scale at the beginning of season 1. She’s had some adverse childhood experiences from waking up from the pods, from being attacked in the desert as a teen., but she’s made it through all of that without a ton of trauma responses (given that the blackouts turned out to be mind control) She’s confident in her goals, her relationships, she’s strong in her decision-making, she believes she’s built herself a good life. She has a supportive family, Max is her person, she’s got Michael, and her husband is amazingly supportive. We don’t see much in the way of friends, but she’s got a Boss-Ass support structure. Until she realizes she doesn’t. That Noah is a thread of rot through all of it, and she’s been deceived on an inconceivable level. And then she loses Max.

Isobel at the beginning of Season 2 would fill this assessment out very, very differently. And the sharp drop in some of the factors of her resilience really make her struggle. Her confidence in herself as a strong person is deeply under review, and she’s leaning a little hard into the god-like powers aspect of herself. Knocking Rosa out with a book is a really alarming manifestation of how her reasoning and coping skills are out of alignment. She’d probably use it as evidence for her ability to make unpopular decisions though. She’d score really high in the vector regardless though—because choosing to terminate a pregnancy in a town like Roswell…that takes so damn much resilience, ability to make decisions under pressure, etc.  She’s still got the resilience that comes from her goal setting and working for things she values though—her training with her powers shows that pretty clearly.

Isobel definitely isn’t going to score high in the “Knows where to get help” vector though. She refuses therapy, refuses help from family, doesn’t seek medical assistance, and almost dies as a result of her abortion, when she would have had all kinds of support from people around her if she’d been able to reach out. Even when she’s struggling, she has a history of resilience to draw on though.

Let’s talk Cam for a moment—we don’t have a lot of info on her childhood, but Cam actually seems to be a character with high scores across the board—for only having 2 years in Roswell, she forms connections pretty readily, goes to people for help, is focused on goals, takes pride in her work. She handles most things with aplomb, and isn’t easily manipulated. Jesse Manes has to work pretty hard on her to get her to bat an eyelash. That’s particularly interesting given the relationship that resilience has in attenuating depression effects and PTSD effects on people with combat experience.

Max is hard to talk about, because we don’t know a lot about where he is this season, and what the trauma of dying and being kept in a pod in constant pain is going to do to him. He seems reasonably able to deal with the hardships he’s faced prior to this, shows a propensity to be able to make unpopular decisions, and is probably the character who is most consistently and intentionally shown investing in relationships. I’d imagine that his resistance score is at least in the middling percentiles. Max is also pretty much the character it’s hardest to wrap my brain around when I’m writing, so that’s why I think I struggle in guessing how he’d assess himself here too.

Kyle is so interesting, because he’s a character who seems to know himself really well, and has maybe also changed the most over 10 years. Kyle these days really values and invests in his relationships—His Mom, Liz, rebuilding a friendship with Alex, trusting Cam. He’s dedicated in pursuing goals, takes pride in his accomplishments, has a reasonably good idea of where to seek help, works well under pressure. He’s had a lot of advantages in life, and while med school definitely tests his resilience and endurance, I don’t know how much his resilience has had to help him get through trauma before this.  I do know that the scene where he almost buys a gun is one of my favorites, because it shows him trying to cope with crisis and handle a lot of stress. I don’t think we’ve seen a full enough arc of how he’s coping yet though—I think there’s more to come.

Maria DeLuca strikes me as scoring relatively high on resilience assessments (or at least the high end of mid-to-upper range). She’s caring for a mother with dementia, runs a business, and deals with racism and misogyny in a town like Roswell, which it’s well-established is renowned for both of those things. Maria has really strong relationships—her Mother is a huge priority, her friends matter deeply to her (fandom drama over ships aside, and whether Alex should forgive her for dating Michael or not, Maria in canon expresses a lot of care for her friends, worries if she’s hurt them, and forgives when she’s hurt herself). She’s close with Arturo, she visits Rosa’s grave once a month. She does a lot of giving, not a lot of getting back, and feels pretty shaken when she’s deceived, but she still has a lot of stable relationships to lean into. She’s…not great at asking for help, or letting on that she needs it- she tries to go everything alone. But she also problem-solves, she pursues her goals, she believes that you get what you work for  (“No one ever accused me of a lack of hustle”),  and she doesn’t give up when she feels hopeless.  She’s probably middle of the road on handling unpleasant feelings—some she handles well, some she reacts intensely to, some she buries. It seems like when a crisis happens, she’s conflicted and struggling in the moment, but processes through things in a reasonably short time. I’d say one of the places that she doesn’t score that high on is the ability to adapt to change. She gets there eventually, but that’s where she struggles the most. The thing is, because of what she’s faced with in daily life, she’s constantly utilizing her resilience. It’s something she leans on all the time.

Liz is brilliant, and amazing, and it’s kind of hard for me to parse this out for her. Strong relationships, she’s got those. She’s great at adapting, great at problem-solving and pursuing her goals. She sees herself as strong, faces challenges, sees the humor in things, bounces back from setbacks, honestly, she would score pretty well in every category. I think there’s pretty clear evidence that with all the things she’s accomplished and all the things she’s endured, Liz Ortecho is a wellspring of resilience, and it definitely attenuates the long-term negative effects she might face from her experiences. She faces some of the same adverse childhood experiences that her sister does, but reacts very differently. Their resilience—despite the similarity of their contexts for nurture—differs substantially…and that’s even before we add in the trauma of Rosa’s death that Liz contends with.

Overall, the characters on this show are a resilient bunch. I’m watching some other shows right now as I make masks for my community, and it strikes me that most of the RNM characters would score higher on the CD-RISC assessment than the characters on those other TV shows (many of whom hold a relatively large amount of privilege).

But notably, the characters on RNM strike me as far more like the people who move through my community every day. Overwhelmingly, my community is comprised of queer people, people of color, homeless and unaccompanied youth, people dealing with mental health issues, sexual assault survivors, abuse survivors, folks with PTSD and DID, and people who would be considered low-socioeconomic status. My community is made up almost entirely of people who deal with adverse experiences, and had intense adverse childhood experiences. Resilience is the norm. Resilience ends up being a key word in almost every letter of recommendation I write. And one of the reasons I love RNM so much is that the characters are brought to life quite realistically. There’s a lot of different truths from experience, and a lot of different paths to similar truth. But overwhelmingly, their responses to these impossible events are grounded in realistic depictions. When it comes to character development, this might just be some of the best writing I’ve ever seen on TV. And for a show that’s solidly in the sci-fi realm…it’s possibly the most realistic show I’ve ever seen.

[heartslogos]

seas who could sing so deep and strong [65]

Kore finds him in the storage room of his ship, wedged between two crates of protein supplements and nutrient brick. She doesn’t even say anything, which somehow makes him feel worse. She just kicks his ankle until he moves over and she wedges herself in there with him.

Any other time and Judge would be both awed and excited by how close they are. They’re crammed together, touching shoulder to thigh and Kore did it voluntarily and everything.

Judge cups his hands over the back of his head and presses his forehead to his knees. The position is cramped and awkward but it’s helping him keep steady.

“Five Earth rotations,” Kore says, finally.

Judge has been out of cryo-stasis for five Earth rotations. Kore has been out for longer, but she hasn’t told him an exact number.

“Chic made you a cake,” Kore says.

Judge knows, she told him to come and get it. She had set up a small party by the shores of the lake in front of Cetus. Some bread, some honey, a small and precious block of butter, fruits,  nuts, some candy, and of course some fried fish and vegetables so that they actually get full.

He’s supposed to be there in about an hour and his ship is orbiting around Uranus.

“Alpha has most of this dogs,” Kore continues. “I don’t know. That’s what Chic said. I think it was a bribe to get me to show up.”

“I don’t think anyone knows how many dogs Alpha actually has. Or kavats. Or chargers,” Judge mumbles into his knees.

“Alpha does,” Kore shrugs against his side. “The Empress might show up, too. That’s what Punk said.”

“I’m glad you talk to them when I’m not there,” Judge says.

“I didn’t, Ordis took messages. He’s a little annoyed by it. You’re going to make it up to him later. He doesn’t like taking messages because you won’t answer your coms.”

He wonders why they didn’t just leave a message with Scylla.

Kore hunches down against his side and he feels her rest her head on his shoulder, rubbing her cheek against him as she crosses her arms.

“Are you settling in for a sleep?” Judge asks, turning his head a little to look at her, and sees nothing but fair pink.

“Well, I don’t think you’re going to make this short enough for a nap,” Kore says, “And even you wouldn’t be able to stay moody and morose long enough for a van Winkle. I’m going in for a sleep.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be here to make me feel better?” Judge can’t help asking. She already is, though. Just by being there. Judge has no words for how ridiculous his own head and heart is.

Kore grunts and shushes him.

Normally this is the part of their conversations where Kore sleeps or plays with one of their kavats or kubrow or something while Judge returns to whatever he was working on with her in the background.

But Judge’s mind can’t focus.

“You’re going to find her.”

Judge’s entire body loses whatever peace Kore had brought and goes tense.

“You’re going to find her,” Kore repeats, “Because you’re the greatest detective and smartest Tenno I know, even though you use that big head of yours to make fake problems like norg conspiracy theories. But when you actually have a real problem you’re the best at figuring them out. So. Relax. Enjoy today. You’re going to find her.”

“Kore.”

“Besides. You have me,” Kore mumbles, leaning her weight against his side and lowering her head so her pink hair fills his vision. “I don’t know what could stand in our way. But it’s nothing that we can’t handle together.”

Judge swallows around the large lump in his throat, eyes stinging.

He might not have ever truly trusted the Lotus. But he wouldn’t ever want to lose her to Ballas. And if Ballas is around who knows what kind of danger will follow for them?

She’s the Lotus, shouldn’t they have been able to find her by now?

For Kore at least, he has to find her. The Lotus was the only voice Kore had for so long. Her only direction.

She shouldn’t also be Kore’s burden and blame, even if Kore is wrong in thinking it is.

“Yeah,” Judge says eventually, “Together.”

-

“How hard would I have to punch this thing to get the airbag to deploy and send someone shooting into space?” Punk asks as he examines an escape pod that’s been partially fused to the Corpus ship because of the damage from Infested.

Kore, turns away from him and feels a small part of her bubble in satisfaction when the weight at the end of one of Nezha’s streamers smacks Punk in the back of the head.

She has no idea how she got onto this squad and onto this mission, but so far it’s mostly been Punk saying stupid things like that and then trying to find out the answer. And then Chic yelling at the result.

It’s loud.

Judge isn’t here. He’s off somewhere with Alpha collecting samples of something in some cave.

The Empress is here, though. Kore’s just not sure where. She’d gone off about five minutes after their drop in with a wave that sent poison spores down a corridor and set off a series of explosions that actually rattled the ship before disappearing into the miasma.

Kore wishes she could do that. Nezha’s too obvious for that kind of disappearance.

They’ve mostly secured their objective. The other team that dropped and came in through the underbelly should have scrubbed this entire ship’s computer system clean and gotten everything they could’ve possibly needed by now.

The rest of this is just a bonus.

Nezha’s energy is a bright and laughing thing wrapped around her bones as Kore double checks the levels of their life support.

She’s wanted to go to extraction for the past fifteen minutes and they have been getting there but Punk keeps getting distracted, then Chic gets into it, and Kore has to wait for them to finish because she’s not breaking into that. They have to find the Empress, too.

It shouldn’t be hard, based on the sounds Kore can hear through the metal walls, the Empress’ spores are still going strong and she should be around somewhere close by.

A ceiling vent rattles from above them and Kore looks up. She’s got the energy to spare so she prepares some spears, ready to launch as soon as the next wave comes down on them.

But instead of Infested, a Tenno drops down. Kore doesn’t realize it’s a Tenno at first, because the first thing she puts together is dragon nikana and then energy field.

But then the Tenno lands, and straightens up, tossing long black hair over a thin shoulder as the she looks at them.

“You kept me waiting at extraction,” The Tenno says, the flickering lights catching on the gleaming horns at her temples. “What keeps you?”

“Hey, Empress,” Chic says, “Tell this dumbass that he can’t kick an escape pod so hard it launches its contents into space.”

“Depends on how hard you kick,” The Empress says and Kore stares because she’s never seen a tenno wield a blade. It’s long in the Empress’ hand and the Empress is…somehow not at all what Kore expected.

Maybe someone tall and imposing like Alpha.

But the Empress is actually maybe shorter than her with long black hair and a simple black and gold suit. Kore can’t see the Empress’ void scars. Her eyes are dark red. Like Infested flesh.

The Empress smiles at her, and without looking fires a blast of black energy past Kore. Kore doesn’t need to turn because she can hear the scream of Infested burning away.

“Shall we?”

“Where’s your frame?” Chic asks.

“I left her at Extraction,” The Empress shrugs, “It’s faster through the vents.”