#and what an original vision of slow damage is supposed to be

[floofymeow]

Preface: dont wanna hurt any feelings! I just wanna chat about this and maybe get people thinking. Nothing is intended to come off as insulting to any fans of either translations/patch.

this is a really interesting read! my friend and I have been trying to unpack the patch discourse as well and I came to a similar conclusion on that familiarity point—it only became a contesting point of perspective once we had JAST’s pov version of the VN first.

I was thinking about a few things. First off—media draws its fan base. And how do the types of fans find, engage, and stick with media? By its content!!

I’ve been wondering maybe that the way JAST translated slow damage attracted an English speaking audience that enjoys what JAST enjoys—and thus, will stand and find unenjoyable the verboseness or whatever else there have been critical thoughts on. I think that essentially people are speaking to each other with such difficulty because, to so many people, the game actually does feels different enough to no longer resonate with what they started with and enjoyed from slow damage (or likely also a lost comfort). This isn’t a bad thing! Just observation/speculation.

I also went to think about how, in the context of gay media, the internet and queer community / people engaging in gay media have a history of being extremely extremely hard and critical on anything queer, by virtue of there being so little queer media to begin with. Its also the difficulty of the protective nature over queer media—because everyone wants what little there is to be represented correctly—and that manifests in very different, opinionated ways for everyone. Sadly, this also has manifested in the queer community ripping itself apart into rags. I’ve seen happen before over many many yaoi mangas/manhwas.

For slow damage, im almost shocked by how angry and accusatory these discussions have gotten. I just don’t think there’s a need to be so hurtful—especially when im seeing many valid points from multiple sides of like and dislike of translations. I also think that… slow damage of all games is so open minded, in how there’s something for everyone in the themes, h scenes, characters, issues, aesthetic, etc. and yet as fans we don’t respect that same idea for each other.

These I've also shared on Twitter, but I thought I'd share them here before someone tries any sort of libel.

You know what's funny about this whole discourse about the Slow Damage patch ? The whole discourse reminds me of game mods, in a way.

Game mods are made by fans, for free no less, for you to download, and only if you wanted, to help improve your experience with a game.

Whether it's improving the aesthetic (character or background design) or tweaking some of the gameplay elements itself. Or adding new elements, or even changing things purely for shits and giggles.

That way, mods are akin to patches. More often than not, mods are made because the base game had flaws in their design (technical or otherwise) that the mod intended to fix or improve.

But these mods are optional. And naturally, most mods are going to use preexisting assets from either the game they're modding or from another game, assets that they'll either refine or combine with other assets to make something better.

While some mods earn a raised brow, if the mod isn't to one's liking, most generally just ignore it.

Except in this specific instance, some don't like the mod that is the patch and feel that it doesn't sit right with them for whatever reason, believing that its existence would be "spitting" on the original game or because it no longer sounds as snarky as they themselves would like to read it as.

But instead of ignoring the patch, which they were explicitly advised to do if they take offense to it, they decide to make their dislike everyone else's problem, and by poisoning the well, no less.

And one quick way to ensure that is to accuse the patch of bigotry towards the LGBT community.

I'm already aware that this same accusation is spreading like wildfire, both in Reddit and especially in Twitter, and in some Discord spaces, most likely.

But did anyone, and this includes the accusers, even play at least 40% of the patched version, and intensively at that, before making that claim?

Oh, I'm all too aware that bigotry is a real, serious and widespread issue.

But in most online circles nowadays, accusing something of bigotry right off the gate is also one surefire method of turning people off of it before they can even check it out for themselves.

I mean, what better way of publicly dragging something you don't like through the mud than to spread accusations/misassumptions that are quick for others to believe before anyone can even try and personally fact-check anything?

Especially in a place like the internet itself.

The note stating the avoidance of using a specific pronoun for some characters to not assume their identity could've been phrased better, yes, and the patch team did clarify their stance on the matter. Alas, anything can still easily be misinterpreted and used as flame bait.

But what's odd is that the people who first touted this claim (either here or in other platforms) have one thing in common: they never checked out the patch (let alone played through one certain route in full) to personally confirm if that really is the case.

Taking all this into consideration, I think that no matter how the patch was presented, it'd get backlash.

Even long before any of us knew this patch was even going to be a thing, even giving constructive criticism about the localization and any mistakes/goofs it made already drew ire, and it's those same people who took offense that are spreading the hate about this patch.

It all really boils down to the matter of the patch even existing, since - as some detractors point out - it's what they call to be a disrespectful spit to the face, even without factoring the false accusations of transphobia and plagiarism.

Let's say they used the JP game files instead and have the patch work with that version. They'd get decried for copyright infringement and they risk a C&D order.

Use the EN files? We already get the claims that they barely did anything to the text, among other things. Why?

Because they didn't adjust every single syntax and change every single word in every single sentence… when English isn't exactly the most versatile language and there's only ways you can translate something, especially in the simpler sentences like "Who are you?".

Using a thesaurus on everything would make it sound weird. Heck, the patch being more verbose and detailed and impersonal (which is what's to be expected when it's third person and in a visual novel, no less) already got it accused of being no more than a fancy MTL.

And it doesn't help that many already assume that the statement that MTL can be a helpful tool is also the same as "MTL being the superior translator of all time", and people will find anything and I mean anything to hate on something and discredit it.

And as for the preferring 1st person over 3rd person and vice versa? It's a matter of preference, yes, and that can't be helped.

But let's get one fact out in the open: Out of N+C's 5 main VNs, only one is told in first person POV in the JP/original version, and that's DMMD.

The other game that used 1st person narration is Slow Damage's spinoff game, Clean Dishes, but not the main/parent game itself.

And even years before they got licensed, the fan patches followed the intended narration viewpoint of the first 4 VNs. Third person for Togainu no Chi, Lamento, and Sweet Pool, and first person for DMMD.

Their respective localized versions (except Lamento), also followed the intended narration viewpoint, and nobody complained because that was all they knew.

But because Slow Damage's localization took the creative liberty of changing the narration from third to first person, with people exposed to it, it's not really surprising some have gotten accustomed enough to end up preferring it.

Even when another version that retells the game in original narration comes up, for the past two years, the localization has been what they knew, and that is what many usually then decide to stick to.

In the scenario where the localization - even if it would still be a mess - never changed the narration, would people still say "Oh but they should've changed it to 1st person since it would've enhanced the story"?

It's telling that it never happened with Togainu no Chi, Sweet Pool and DMMD, no?

And before anyone tells me that I just hate localizations overall, you don't hear me complaining about the official translation of any of the BLVNs that Mangagamer licensed, do you? I also have plenty of gripes with DMMD's fan translation over what it did to Mink.

[ditzyredrobin]

Former Rogue!Tim/Shrike!Tim verse- (Un)deserved Reputation

Part I

By the time he made it back to his Ducati, things like blood loss and concussions had finally begun to settle over him like an uncomfortably thick blanket, making it hard to process. His vision swam, with multicolor specks threatening to take over.

So, maybe he was just a little worse for wear than originally anticipated.

He was so close to the Nest, if he could make it back soon, he could patch himself up without a fuss from his vigilante boyfriends. Afterwards they could all bundle up on the couch together, watching whatever horrible reality tv Jason was currently into. He could finally get that his body had been so desperately craving.

Unfortunately, his body seemed to have other ideas. His legs decided to give out just a step before his bike, sending him toppling down. Which, ow, fuck, that hurt. His ribs screamed, and the shrapnel embedded in his skin roared to life. What had been a dull ache, turned into a full, white-hot blaze.

Tim groaned, slumped over in the shadowed side-alley. His limbs were stiff and didn’t want to cooperate, and breathing… Well, breathing was another topic.

He forced himself to breathe slow, trying to ignore the catch of the shrapnel in his middle. It was the first time he needed to dig out shrapnel from himself, but this seemed to be worse. He lifted his hand from where it was currently holding pressure, more blood.

The last time, he had been a kid and it hadn’t been far beneath the skin. He had been talked him through it after a particularly rough run in with Batman. He had talked through removing the debris without nicking anything vital, how to disinfect and thread the needle for sutures, how to correctly pierce the skin without causing more damage.

As a 16 year old boy, it had been excruciating. Years later, the pain isn’t any less excruciating, it’s just…easier to work through. It’s easier to focus through the pain, run through calculations, or plans on how to improve the outcome in a future sitch.

He just needed to get back to his safe house.

Tim took a terse breath through his nose and peeled his hand away to look at the injuries. The impact of the explosion had caused metal fragments to fracture his body armor. He couldn’t tell how serious the injuries were. But if he were to go off the blood alone, it wasn’t looking particularly promising.

Dick and Jay were going to be pissed.

They couldn’t find him passed out again. The last time, Dick hadn’t let him out of his sight for nearly a week and, yes, that was included but not limited to bathroom breaks and showers. To be fair, he had a broken leg and 4 broken ribs, but still.

Jason had given him an earful and provided him with an overbearing amount of food and soft blankets (and had taken away his coffee privileges).

Passing out was not an option. He just needed a minute to get it together before trying to get up again when a hand touches his cheek.

They don’t manage to get a word out, before Tim is up and has them pinned on the ground. It’s purely instinct. They are flat on their back, with his knee driven into their belly. They let out a gwah when he knocks the wind out of them.

“Easy, it’s just me.” they wheezed, body remaining open and loose beneath him.

Tim blinked, his mind needing to process their voice, “Jay? Why are you here?”

Last he checked, Dick and Jay were supposed to be out of town for two more nights. Dick had gone off on a mission with the Titan’s and Jason had gone out on Official Red Hood Business ™ nearly two weeks ago with the expectation of all parties returning on Tuesday.

With the agreement that Tim would check in once every twelve hours (although Dick argued for more), Tim had been allowed to go on a recon mission for the first time since he and Jason had squared off, leaving him nearly dead and Jason with a guilt complex he was still apologizing for.

He had been itching for the same freedom he had before and he wasn’t going to ruin that.

“I think the bigger question is why are you here? It’s Tuesday.”

Tim didn’t lessen his hold on his vigilante boyfriend, “What do you mean? It’s Sunday. You aren’t supposed to be back yet.”

“Like hell it’s Sunday, we’ve been lookin’ everywhere for ya, Sugar. Dickybird is frantic, worried you ended up in a gutter dead or somethin’. Would you get off me now?” Jason sounded extra grumpy at this point but didn’t struggle in his hold.

He could have easily escaped but hadn’t pushed it.

“It’s Sunday,” Tim urged weakly. “You’re not supposed to be back yet.”

The world was beginning to spin again, the specks threatening to take over. He felt like he was going to be sick.

There was no way he had lost two whole days.

He had begun his official stake out on Friday. He had been watching and gathering intel through Saturday before making his move before the drop on Sunday (and subsequent minor explosion).

“The hell it is. Do you have another concussion? Because-” he finally got a good look at Tim, how pale his face was, how his hands were shaking, and paused, computing. “Is that blood? Why the fuck are you bleeding?”

“It’s nothing.” He repeats by rote.

Jason, obviously fed up with his shit, shifted out from under Tim, eyes wide behind his helmet.

Unfortunately, Tim was weak to his careful ministrations, and had to just let it happen. His body lost all fight. Sweat had begun to bead down his forehead and he realized just how chilled to the bone he was.

One moment, Jason was moving him and the next he was on the ground and didn’t remember the in between. His helmet sat beside him where he was sitting on the ground, lips moving. But all he could hear was the ringing in his ears from the explosion.

It was only when Jason put pressure on his middle, that he came back too.

“Jesus fucking christ, sugar, that’s a lot of blood.”

[jaybirdhitman]

Time for another drabble~ This one features Ace/Apogee this time, love that guy.

Trigger warning for blood, description of injury and description of death.

It was quiet, far too quiet for what was supposed to be a lively casino when you came too, twitching and listening for any sound. The silence had you on edge as you cautiously looked around the trashed and dark casino floor, your only light coming from damaged machines valiantly trying to stay online, flashing in the dark and barely illuminating your path. You grimaced but managed to keep the pained sounds to yourself as you shifted and slowly pulled yourself off the ground, shakily using an overturned poker table as your crutch. You’d been injured badly in the fight and must’ve either blacked out or been knocked out, no sign of the mobsters or the one you were really looking for in sight. It was unnerving, and your instincts told you to leave and get somewhere safe, get out of the open and find your companion. You had been separated in the fray, originally at his side shooting with him before he got the call of his owner. It was you who told him to go, with a grudging “we’ll talk about this later” sent your way as you hid behind gambling cannets and Ace took off where he was needed, taking out every mobster he saw as he went.

You bit off a scream as you shifted your torso and looked down to see the blood coating your left side, searing pain blazing over your skin as a hiss left you. Very injured, and still losing blood.

You were on a time limit now.

You tore what was left of your shirt and tied it haphazardly over the wound to hopefully staunch some of the blood flow. It had already slowed while you were unconscious, not large but *deep*. You weren’t losing a lot, but you were still losing blood. painstakingly made your way across the ruined floor, barely glancing at the dead bodies as you carefully avoided glass and went as fast as your damaged body would let you. Aside from the stab in your side, you guessed your leg was broken to some degree, and your entire body screamed to just lay down and stop, but you couldn’t yet.

You finally slipped into the stairwell, unwilling to take the elevator for fear of being found and slowly started climbing, having to break every couple steps to let the pain ease before you continued. The only sounds were your own offbeat steps and heavy breathing, unease creeping down your spine as you tried to keep your brain focused on your task, but you could feel the darkness clouding your vision.

“Just a little more.” You whispered, and pushed those last few steps to take a breather by the door, not letting yourself stop for long before cracking open the door and peaking, making sure no one was there before sliding through. The hall to the apartments looked untouched by the chaos and massacre that drowned the casino floor, and you were a little thankful at it, even if it just gave your more feelings of *wrong.* It wasn’t as comforting as you’d hoped it would be.

“Ace?” You weakly call, quiet to the empty hall. A name still nee and foreign to your tongue, the weight of trust in it making you sink with no answer back. You’d hoped the Eclipse would be here, but you supposed once he saw you weren’t safe in his apartment or yours after he had to leave you it only made sense he’d try and find you once the chaos calmed.

You cursed yourself as you trudge down the hall for your stupidity. He had warned you that tonight might be dangerous, that you would know people coming here and that you should stay out of sight, but you didn't listen. You let your worry for him and his struggles cloud your sense and look where it got you, being left to die on the casino floor with the rest, and making his job harder by making him choose between you and his owner.

Stupid.

As you grasped the handle to his apartment you couldn’t find yourself regretting it, even if he’d be furious with you. The door’s unlocked and you don’t even think before pushing inside, gasping as you close the door and lean against it. You’d gotten your shots in, made a point, and you figured you’d die pretty happy with yourself for it. That thought turned bitter and turned your grin down, realizing you should’ve gone to your own apartment rather than dying in Ace’s. You were here now, and you certainly weren’t going back in the open in your sorry state.

The room is dark, simply lit by the moonlight streaming in from the large window, and more than enough for you to slowly trudge your way to the bathroom. You’d make an attempt to patch yourself up and pray you make it, but you only get halfway across the living room before you hear thundering steps. You don’t get to so much as turn before you’re on the ground with your assailant’s food digging into your injury, making you shriek as you claw at their leg from the agony. It does nothing as they lean down to sneer at you.

“Looks like we finally caught ya *scrappy*.” The nickname your parents gave you was spat from the guys mouth, hate and anger all in one as he stared down at you. You knew him, but his name was lost to you. His face was a mess, sliced to bits and bleeding as he looked crazed and dug his heel more into your side, you bitting back the scream this time as you glared. You think you see other people circle and realize it was an ambush set up for you, probably intended to be triggered far earlier in the night. Now you were a little glad you didn’t listen to Ace, even if you ended up back here in the end. At least it was your choice now.

“You think you can just betray your clan? When you were brought in off the streets and given a home? Betrayal doesn’t bode well, and I’m eager to carry out the punishment.” You can’t help but grin a little.

“Kiss ass.” You wheeze out, getting a sharp kick to the side for it that has you keening and curling from the pain.

“Don’t get smart with me, I’d choose your words wisely if I were you.” He says your name with venom, and you pause as if actually thinking before shakily giving him the middle finger with a lopsided grin.

“It wasn’t just you, I was going to screw over these guys too. At least I’ll die free, asshole.” It sounded a lot cooler in your head you’ll admit, and probably would’ve been better if you weren’t wheezing every word, but it had the effect you wanted. Your assailant went red in the face, screaming at you words that you could no longer focus on. You felt it then, eyes staring at you and feeling the worry from the gaze, and relaxed completely. Clearly the other men in the room caught on to the voyer, as you could just see them freeze before whipping around to look for the animatronic you knew was lurking just out of their sight.

You weakly lifted your hand and gave a vague peace sign with a grin, feeling that gaze soften a fraction, amused before moving off you. It fell silent, the ambushers no longer focused on your crumpled form and now looking for an attacker they couldn’t see. You feel more at ease letting the dark take you as the screams start, hearing them as though they were coming to you through murky water. You felt the thuds on the floor as bodies dropped around you, quick gunshots registering sluggishly. Someone grabbed your arm and started to drag you across the floor, but you barely even finished your cry of pain before the tugging was gone, the body of a man you didn’t know falling beside you with a thin metal playing card embedded halfway in his skull. You could catch other people falling to the floor from the corners of your eyes, watching burnt gold and red blur between targets that fell by either bullet or throwing card. You registered it all dully and looked away from the glassy eyes of the dead man before you as you tried to move yourself away from the center of the fray, only managing a few feet before your body stopped responding, feeling like you were made of lead. The silence was back, irritating silence broken by your wheezing as your eyes shut and you started to fade, fighting hard to stay awake. You registered Ace’s eyes on you again, fear that wasn’t your own before you succumbed to the black.

~~~~~~~

When you woke everything was heavy, pain lacing your entire body and mouth dry. You didn’t remember much, just the before and during, but had vague images of a panicked face above you, panicked green looking at you and hovering, and sharp pain. Your eyes opened to the ceiling of Ace’s apartment, a sight you knew well. You shifted and made to sit up, biting back a hiss as you do.

“If you move so much as an inch, I will come up there and tie you down.” You freeze at the sharp disappointment you felt directed your way and cringed, settling back on the large bed feeling like a chastized child. Can’t get anything past the guy. Soft steps ascend the open stairway, a pause at the top before coming beside you. You glance at the animatronic and cringe, unable to help it as you stare at the scratches and bullet holes in his casing and the dried blood that adorned his torn clothes. Ace seemed to pay it no mind as he sat on the edge of the bed with a glass of water in his hand, eyes that were just small green rings boring into you as he carefully sat you up and supported you so you could drink. You weren’t used to his silence and had fully expected a lecture for the mess, but there weren’t any words, just starring that held weighted emotion you couldn’t even parse through, having to look away from the intensity of it.

Once the water was done and you felt less like a desert was in your mouth you went to speak, apologize or defend yourself you weren’t sure, but you didn’t get a chance as one of his hands covered your mouth. His touch was gentle and careful, but his tone was frigid and harsh when he spoke instead.

“Thirty Two. Thirty Two fucking hours you’ve been asleep and in pain. Thirty Two hours were you’ve been injured and I couldn’t be there every hour to make sure you’re cared for. Thirty Two hours were when I walked in my door I don’t know if I’ll find you alive or not.” You wilt under it, and kind of wish he was yelling at you rather than the hurt, and worried and cold whisper he spoke with instead. Yelling you could deal with. His hand moved then from your mouth to your pulse, and you notice then that his fingers both there and behind your shoulders are shaking slightly. “Why?” You’re taken aback by it, expecting more of a tirade and finally look at Ace’s face. He looks haunted, with dried blood across the right side of his rays and face, eyes green with the smallest black pupil in them and his silicon brows pinched. He no longer looks angry like you first thought when he came up, it was *stress*. Ace is watching you intently, waiting for an answer you don’t have to give, so you ask something else to stall.

“Did you get to the Don?” Your voice was still scratchy and grimaced, feeling the sharp look you got for the avoidance.

“Yes. He’s alive and they’re looking into the situation.” Short and clipped, as you expected. He wasn’t going to let you go without an answer, not this time.

“Corazón.” It was soft and light, pulling at your heartstrings as it was firm and steadying to ground you. A simple statement.

“I don’t know.” Is what finally leaves your lips as you look down, refusing to meet the bots intense stare as you talk. “I just, I couldn’t sit while knowing you had to deal with people I knew, who wouldn’t be good to you, and maybe Inalso wanted to flaunt the life I made for myself a little. I, but I really don’t know why I did. I just did.” Quiet, considering.

His hand shifts from your pulse to gently lift your chin, holding your chin in place to look at him as he settles you back on the bed, hand braced by your head as his gentle hold remains.

“You acted brashly, and got hurt for your trouble.”

“That’s life buddy.” You joke, getting a guffaw and a raised brow and getting to see his eyes return to their full green state. A good sign.

“I don’t understand you.” It’s said simply, curiously and strangely fond.

“Good, because I don’t either.” A genuine laugh this time, a low rumble that makes you smile as his hand slide to cup your cheek, thumb gently massaging your badly bruised cheek. You lean into his warmth and feel his faceplate rest on your head, sitting quietly with you. You find that you don’t mind this silence as you settle into it.

“I thought I was too late.” You barely heard it, like a whisper from his voice box, so small and vulnerable that it stuns you. With a grimace you place your hand over his, feeling him tense but stay still.

“You didn’t though. You know I trusted you to find me Ace.” A sigh that sounds all too real from metal shakes you slightly.

“More like you’re too stubborn to die, Corazón.”

“Both can co-exist.” A scoff and his hand clenching the blankets by your head is the answer, and you know you’ll have to talk with him properly when you’re better. For now, you decide you’re going to enjoy this, whatever this is that you’ve found yourselves in, dirtied and broken but alive.

[recurring-polynya]

Writing/Art Update 9.12.2023

Getting this over with so I can restart my word count clock. :P

So, the damage for the week was 1243, which doesn't sound great, but hear me out: it was a thing I have been putting off forever and it was really hard.

Maybe let's back up a little. Please forgive me for actually talking about my fanfic, but this is helpful for My Process. This is really long, so I am going to throw it under a cut.

As far as the rest of the update, I drew a renruki doodle this week, which is better than drawing nothing, like I usually do.

(also, I very much did a bunch of other things this week and also spent a lot of important time Having Unnecessary Anxiety about something else. I really only had two writing days, which also contextualizes this a fair amount)

This is about Ductwork, the next part of HiaM. The thing about HiaM is that the large tentpoles of it were determined by a great deal of daydreaming I did between 2016 and 2018, and then I started writing it down in 2019. Not Broken, Just Bent was a straight brain-dump. See You on the Other Side required a little modification, but also went pretty much to plan. The problem with Between Tides is that I had never bothered to think about a bunch of the actual details of the mystery they had to solve, and it turned out to be a lot of work (or at least, I thought so at the time). It also sort of destroyed the momentum I had going of writing very quickly (or it's possible that seven months into my fanfic renaissance, it was just a natural slow down). Call Me Back was where it went off the rails. It was supposed to be short, and I was supposed to finish it in 3 mo (it took 7, which now feels incredibly fast to me), but it turned into something else entirely. I was ruined at this point. Hearts, in its original embodiment, was supposed to be, like 10k words about a stupid party, and it obviously was something else. So, anyway, here I am. The point of the next story in the series was to do the telling of the story of how Renji messed up his arm, interwoven with the story of getting it fixed. Like, 20k tops, right? (It is currently at, like 23k and much closer to the start than the end)

I think the first mistake I made was back in 2019, I actually wrote out the story of how Renji broke his arm. (Never let yourself write out of order. I still maintain moonlighting around other parts of the timeline is what is responsible for my Failure to Complete this Story in a Timely Manner). My thoughts at the time was that I would mostly be able to integrate it, as-is, into the story that I am working on now, so it was basically just working ahead.

And that's where I am now.

The thing is, the story isn't very, um, integratable. My original vision for this was that it would be in the form of a story Rukia tells to Byakuya. If you've read the story, you know that wouldn't work, even a little, because it's not written in any sort of story-telling voice. I think I was hoping I could have Rukia start talking and then ::hit sepia-toned flashback effect:: and sliiiide into flashback space. I hate that though, because then you get literally the same ambiguous stuff from canon Bleach, where I am honestly not sure what Renji said out loud to Ichigo during the Big Renruki Backstory Flashback. A very distinctive part of the Renji-breaks-an-arm story is kissing and I did not want it to be even remotely implied that Rukia told Byakuya about the kissing. The other thing is that while the proximate cause of Renruki's trauma in this story is the Arm Breaking Incident, there's a second, prior incident, which is the Boar Incident. I'm trying to figure out how to construct a story that is really about these two past incidences, but it glued together by the current narrative and it is hard as Hell, why am I doing this??? (I am doing this, because if I can pull it off, I think it will be really cool). I also keep doing the thing where I wonder if maybe I need to stop it, it's too ambitious, it's ten pounds of crap in a five pound bag, I need to focus more on a writable story. If I can carve it down small enough, maybe I can just get through it, to something I'm more excited about writing (or maybe I could try to get excited about writing this??)

Anyway, what I did last week was to rewrite the first part of Renji-Breaks-an-Arm into a flashback that slots into the first chapter between the cold open and the next scene of the fanfic. This gives me 2899 contiguous words of Chapter One. The whole time I was doing the re-write, I kept asking myself how much I should actually be rewriting. On one hand, I feel like everyone who reads my stories has read Renji-Breaks-an-Arm, and I owe you all something new. On the other hand, as I was working on it, I kept wondering if I was replacing something good with something worse. On the third hand, I've never liked the beginning of Renji-Breaks-an-Arm. Anyway, I did it. It's mostly revamped, but I did keep a few lines. Is it perfect? Probably not. Will I rewrite it later? Will I replace it with the original version? I might. It's there, though, a load-bearing flashback, and I can go forward from here (maybe! that's what I get to figure out next!)

All of this is terrible, I hate using my brain, but hopefully this is part where it starts turning into a story. I do like it when a story comes out the other side. That part is nice. It's also possible all of this will turn into a mess and a failure, and then I'll have to start over, but you know. It won't be the first time. Also, at this point, I am deeply experienced in seeing a pile of horrible garbage somehow Come Together Eventually, so I'm trying to stay optimistic here.

Word count: I am now up to three working documents!! (not linearly independent) Main doc: 20,765 Misc flashback doc: 2,633 Clean, contiguous version: 2,899

Progress towards arbitrary 20k word goal I set for myself last spring: 15,698 (4,302 to go!!)

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

sir, ma’am, person, or other pronouns, you cannot just post good writing ideas right before I sleep /j

I’d like to see that golden house prompt as a short story,,, possibly????😳

-💃

spoiler! i ain't good at choreographing fights but uh i THINK i was poetic enough so it still sounds cool??? hope that's ok!! this is also inspired by some of the brainrot i've been having and getting in the past few days so i can definitely make a part two!! also normal Childe’s there for a bit original prompt was of FL Childe injuring you during the golden house fight!! read Part Two here!!: The Sky’s Tears ~ * ~ Golden House is Falling Down Foul Legacy Childe x Reader Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Angst Warnings: Worrying, descriptions of anger, fighting (battles), a corpse, allusions to blood, pain, potential death, lightning, electrocution

~ * ~

Sometimes Childe worried you. It came with his job, you supposed. You were well aware of his status as a Fatui Harbinger, although you’ve never personally seen him at work- it had been a casual accident when you walked into him discussing plans with his subordinates. The two of you hadn’t been close back then, only acquaintances, and he made you swear to secrecy. Well, technically he had threatened you, but you didn’t particularly mind. You weren’t as in love with Liyue as some of your friends were, and you, unlike many people, understood the importance of a well-paying job. Having his position exposed to the public could very well get him fired. Those had been your concerns, so long ago. But now, as you hurried after the Traveler in all their glory, those pitiful worries seemed so far away, replaced instead by anxious thoughts flurrying by about life and death. You weren’t anyone of particular importance in the harbor, but you always made sure to pay careful attention to any rumors and gossip you heard. You always took them with a grain of salt, of course, but you had long ago learned that it was good to keep things you heard in your mind as potential possibilities. Liyue had a habit of having “impossible” events happen anyways. It really got on your nerves sometimes. Last week’s whispers had been full of a Fatui plan about meddling with the panicking government, after Rex Lapis had allegedly fallen from the sky, his status as the oldest living archon gone. Seeing that the Fatui’s reputation wasn’t particularly good, you had filed the thought away to consider later. A few days later, it came true. And Childe seemed to vanish into thin air, shifting your worries instantaneously over to him. It was funny, how close the two of you had gotten in the weeks he’d been in Liyue. At least, you were close to him. The Traveler was kind enough to let you accompany them to the famed Golden House, just to cover all possible leads. Their steps are light and quick as you approach the elegant building, all lined with gold and jade, and you can almost hear the tinkling sound of mora within. The Traveler stares up at the enormous door, clutching their sword. They seem prepared for a fight. You gulp, hoping that their stance is just how they stand as a default. The doors to the Golden House swing open, and the Traveler gestures for you to follow them, a determined look in their eyes. You enter together, and momentarily you’re distracted by the piles of mora scattered around the floor- probably more mora than you’d see in your entire life. Your eyes scan the room as the glimmer of coins snatches your attention, a tendency that friends and family had always teased you lightheartedly about- they’d call you a crow or a magpie. You didn’t mind being a bird. It sounded fun, to fly away from all your problems. Finally your gaze lands on the corpse of Rex Lapis, floating in the center-back of the room like a morbid decoration put on display. Despite it being very, very dead, it emanates an aura of power, and you involuntarily shiver, the temperature seeming to drop by a few degrees. Suddenly you hear the great doors of the Golden House slam shut, and someone’s voice questions why they, the Traveler, still lingered. The three of you, little Paimon included, turn in surprise. It’s Childe, the very person you were fretting over and looking for. You sigh quietly in relief, but your fleeting moment of calm is quickly dashed as the Traveler silently challenges him to a duel. Hastily you scramble to get out of the way, and just barely find yourself “out-of-bounds” when the arena for their fight flares to life as they both ready their weapons. Childe retrieves his bow with a twisted smile, a counterpart to the Traveler’s iron stoicness. But it seems his gaze lingers on you, and softens for a brief moment, something you tell yourself is just your imagination, because you doubt he was ever your friend to begin with. As someone whose work isn’t associated with adventuring, your knowledge of combat is limited, but even you can see the

skill of both the Traveler and Childe as their blades clash. Several times a burst of elemental energy strikes the burning walls of the arena, and you’re thankful for the barrier between you and them, because you have very little chance of surviving the power of their abilities. When Childe’s clothes darken and the mask falls over his face, you remember hearing something about a far more powerful and dangerous version of Visions- Delusions, items the Tsaritsa, Cryo Archon and ruler of Snezhnaya, rewards to her most loyal and deserving followers. Childe’s is Electro, and the crackle of static energy he slashes towards the Traveler makes your hair stand on end. You shield your eyes from the bright lights dancing around the arena, and when you reopen them, Childe has disappeared. And he reappears next to Rex Lapis’ corpse. Several things happen at once. The Geo Archon’s Gnosis is gone, taken by neither the Harbinger or the Traveler. Paimon looks worried, the Traveler looks shocked, and Childe enraged- You blink and he’s changed. Suddenly several feet taller, he now floats, some sort of terrible creature you’ve never seen before. Everything is loud, too loud, and you clap your hands over your ears, as the floor breaks away beneath you. And you fall with the Traveler and Paimon into the chamber below. You feel something catch you- an enormous clawed hand- and set you down more or less gently into a single large room. The room is the arena, an arena you stand in with no escape. The Gnosis is gone, and Childe is a monster, one of both Hydro and Electro and a foreign, starry magic that makes your skin crawl. And the battle only continues. Luckily the Traveler is adamant on staying away from you, drawing Childe’s attacks to the other side of the arena entirely, and for a majority of the fight the most you have to do is dodge falling arrows and water amalgamations. Childe’s furious questions about the Gnosis soon fade into hisses and growls as he loses himself more and more into the horrible joy of battle. You lean over, coughing slightly from the water that splashed you as a consequence of his attacks and the exertion from dodging and keeping your balance in the Hydro-soaked room. The Traveler screams, and you look up too late as a burst of electro slashes across your chest. Then everything goes white and high pitched, your senses bursting alongside the elemental energy as it runs up your damp skin and clothes. The pain from the combination of Hydro and Electro in your veins brings tears to your eyes, and it’s only amplified around your torso as you vaguely feel something warm and sticky dripping down. Someone shakes you, panicking, calling your name, but everything is white, cold noise. The sounds around you are muffled as the battle slows to a halt, and all you hear is ringing. Another hand, sharp and clawed, brushes against your arm, but it retreats when someone starts shouting. A blade is brandished as someone yells at a monster to stay away, he’s done enough damage, how dare he, and you hear a mournful, desperate chitter through the haze of static. Ah, that curious sound, it makes your heart ache. But what, or who, is it? The sword slices through the air as the monster is pushed away by a blonde-haired Traveler’s rage, and it soon joins into the pitching, ringing note in your ears before it tapers into silence and sorrow, leaving only the inky abyss of darkness crawling up to your eyes as the pain fades into weightlessness. This time, you let yourself fall. In the harbor, the Fair Lady is informed that the Golden House is falling down, falling down.

[kaygee-doodles]

Dark Waters pt3

I have no idea where the rest of this came from so quickly, it just kind of dumped out of my head. So, uh. Have fun.

Final tumblr-only installment of this before I set it up on A03. For more information on the mighty skele-squid, go check out @uhhbananafrappe

“Rule one of diving,” your instructor said, pulling out the display equipment and setting it on the table, “is never dive alone.”

“Oh come on, my partner won't dive with me because her girlfriend doesn't want her hanging out on the beach with other girls, how else am I supposed to write my thesis?!” you argued.

“Second rule: always pay attention to your surroundings,” the teacher continued, ignoring you.

“Look, I'm not saying an abyssal sea monster is smarter than me, but that particular abyssal sea monster is way smarter than me, how-”

“The third rule,” the instructor was talking over you now, the room blurring around him, “is: Don't. Forget. To breathe.”

You twitched, obediently sucking in a breath as things sluggishly clicked back into place around you. Nausea rolled over you as you turned your head, the world seeming to follow a full two seconds behind. Nitrogen Narcosis, the very thing you were trying to avoid. Nausea, disorientation, hallucinations... It was inevitable, you supposed, when a giant mersquid decided to drag you down into the depths. Speaking of...

The depths were awfully dry. Not overly dry. Not bone-dry. Not even normal dry. But you certainly weren't underwater anymore. Mostly.

Okay. Status check. All your gear was still on, though your respirator obviously wasn't in your mouth anymore and your stolen flipper was still stolen. Wherever you were, it was pretty dark, and very blurry. Wait. You broke the suction on your goggles with a wet 'slorp' noise, letting it fall to your chest. That was better. Wiggling your fingers and toes, you checked for any obvious damage (well, any more damage than you came in with) as you looked around properly. You took it slow, not wanting to aggravate your headache or drown yourself by falling off of...a ledge, maybe?

You were in some sort of cave, set up on a partially submerged shelf. The area was dark, but not as dark as you originally thought, light filtering in from below and bouncing up into the damp cavern.

Which...wasn't how light was supposed to work.

You pressed your goggles to your face and laid down, carefully peering down into the water.

Holy shit.

It was like the 'Part of Your World' bit from the Little Mermaid, only more...more.

It was like a dragons' hoard. beautiful purple and white shells overflowing from rusted out chests, actual ye olde treasure style chests, all lined up on stone ledges like the one you sat on. Gold, actual gold, though golden 'whats' you couldn't tell, though the bigger pieces sat on their own, places of pride, perhaps, on top of the smaller jewelry. You were pretty sure there were some diving watches in there too. Bits of luminescent coral, opalized fossils...you were pretty sure you saw a sword. A lot of it couldn't be picked out, everything jumbled together.

Or maybe that was your vision. You retreated back to the middle of 'your' ledge. At least you knew where you were now, in more ways than one.

You were in an ancient volcanic vent, part of a series of underwater caves that lay on the outskirts of the ship graveyard. Officially, they were forbidden to explorers. Hundreds of divers had gone missing in these caverns. And now you knew why.

This was a den.

[val-aquenta]

Last day of Mace Windu Appreciation Week! The prompt: Freeform.

Here on ao3

A little fluffy moment betwen Knight Mace WIndu and Youngling Obi-Wan Kenobi. Thank you all for reading!

Mace had never meant to return to the Temple yet. As a new knight, he was meant to be out and about on missions, resettling into the sway of travelling without a Master, yet here he was. Staring down at a young child who was looking rather tearful. He knelt quickly, one hand lingering on his knee. The boy was red in his face and looked, in Mace’s opinion, positively adorable. “Forgive me, young one, I did not see you there.” There was a soft sniffle and the boy rubbed his face before looking back up, his expressions more in control. He smiled, “There you are. Now, did I hurt you?”

The boy shakes his head, looking at his hands. Oh my Force, he’s so tiny. His hands! Mace thinks watching as the boy stands up and looks up at him. “No, Master…”

Mace gently shakes his head, “I’m a knight, young one, not a Master yet. My name is Mace Windu. What’s yours?” Mace prompts.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi.” The boy, Obi-Wan shifts slightly, looking around before turning and looking back at Mace. 

“Do you have anywhere you’re supposed to be?” He asks, head tilting slightly to the side. 

Obi-Wan looks at him with a soft smile. “Yes? But… Bant left me behind on accident, so I… I think I’m lost.” The boy’s face scrunches up in confusion. “I’ve just been walking around…” 

“And managed to get into the closed-off section?” Mace hums. He stands up. “If you would like, I can take you back to the creche?” Obi-Wan nods, stepping closer to Mace and reaching out to tug on his fingers. 

“Do you think Master Dolan will be angry?” Earnest eyes raised at him. He swears there’s a little sparkle in those eyes. 

“I think he's likely worried, Obi-Wan.” Mace looks around for a second and then begins leading the way out of the closed sector of the Temple. Back when there were more Jedi, these rooms would have been used, but now that their populations dwindled entire sections were closed off as keeping them running simply became too costly for the meagre funds the Republic sent their way. He looks down at Obi-Wan, consciously slowing his pace so that the child can keep up comfortably. Obi-Wan is quiet, remarkably so. His steps are soft little pads on the stone floor. There is a light humming coming from his companion. A song from the creche, he recalls quickly. 

“Knight Windu, how old are you?” Mace raises his brows at Obi-Wan who flushes. “I-I’m sorry Master, you don’t have to answer.” 

“Not to worry, Obi-Wan. I don’t mind, but take note that many other beings do mind.” Obi-Wan nods. “I’m 22.” 

There is a pause before the boy murmurs, “15?” Mace looks down at the boy in confusion, sending a small pulse into the Force. Obi-Wan looks up and startles a little. “Oh… 15 years difference. Between you and me.”

“So you’re… 7?” Obi-Wan nods, seeming very proud of his age. “Very old, huh?”

“Master Dolan says that soon I’ll be able to get my own crystal to build my sabre, though the power will have to be re,” Obi-Wan pauses to suck in a short breath, “regulated. Is your lightsaber regulated, Knight Windu?”

“Sometimes. If I’m sparring with friends for example. Or teaching young 7-year-olds.” He smiles gently, indicating the boy to turn left. “Here we are, just a little bit more.”

“Can I see? Please?” Obi-Wan looks at him. “What colour is it? And what about your hilt design. I’m not sure what I’d want from my hilt, or my regulator or anything, but Master Dolan says that I’ll know when the Force wills it. Did the Force tell you about your sabre, Knight Windu?” Mace blinks, a little shocked before a smile tugs the corners of his lips up. 

“I suppose it did.” He hums thoughtfully. “I had a plan, I suppose, a vague idea of what I wanted the hilt to be made of, the approximate size, the feel of it in my hand, but I had no idea how it would actually look until I made it.” He unclips his sabre, showing the general size and shape. “And the colour of the blade? Now that was a surprise.” Leaning away he thumbs it on, the purple hilt bursting forth with a comforting hum. Obi-Wan’s eyes are wide as plates, shining in the purple light. Mace thumbs it off after a moment, clipping it onto his belt. “But, perhaps you will have a different experience. Shaak, that is Knight Ti, she had a pretty detailed diagram of her lightsaber, though she tweaked it a little when she built it.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen purple. Why is it purple?” Obi-Wan shuffles closer, looking up at him. “I’ve seen all kinds of colours between green and blue and yellow and orange and I think I saw a white blade once, but I’m not sure. I was really small. But I’ve never seen purple.”

“I don’t know why it’s purple. It simply is.” Obi-Wan, if possible, looked even more enthralled. “And you? What blade do you think you will have?”

“Well… when I have visions, I see different blades all the time. Sometimes they’re all black and rough while sometimes they’re gold and silver. Master Yoda says that it's because there are so many futures and I see different ones.” He pauses for a moment. “I do want a type three aurek silver hilt, though. They feel right.”

“Uh-huh.” Mace smiles. The young boy is truly endearing with the way he talks at such a rapid speed, stopping quickly for breaths and breaks. “Oh… we’re almost here. Do you know where you are meant to be?”

Obi-Wan looks up at him. “Well… Master Dolan said we were going to go to visit the archives.” He paused for a moment, hand fiddling with the edge of his sleeve before Obi-Wan looked up. “I don’t know where it is, though.” Mace blinked and smiled softly, projecting a soft reassurance, something that he recalled his creche master doing whenever he was overwhelmed by something. 

“It is no problem, Obi-Wan. I can take you to the archives, and we’ll find Master Dolan together, alright?” He reaches down and offers his hand. 

“Are you… sure?” He speaks with hesitation layering his voice. “I mean, Master Dolan says that Jedi are busy. Aren’t you busy?” Nevertheless, Obi-Wan reaches out and places his small hand in Mace’s trotting along beside Mace as they walk towards the archives.

“I’m on a break,” Mace admits, smiling at a friend who gives them a strange look before shrugging and hurrying along. The pack on their shoulder indicates a new mission.

Obi-Wan goes through the information before nodding seriously. “Master Aliya says that it’s important to have breaks during difficult tasks to not burnout.” The young boy lets out a huff before continuing, “I guess it makes sense you’re resting.” Mace almost wants to laugh, but he fears that the endearingly serious face would lift off of Obi-Wan’s face. 

“I would hope it does,” he offers seriously instead, squeezing Obi-Wan’s hand as they turn a corner almost running right into Master Rancisis. They manage to sidestep, getting a humoured look from the old Master before he slithers down the hallway. They’re almost there, and Mace feels strangely sad about it. The youngling had managed to burrow his way into his heart easily. Kira would say that most things manage to burrow their way into his heart, but he thinks even she would have problems saying no to Obi-Wan’s large eyes. “We’re almost here.”

Obi-Wan perks up, studying the hallway intently, wanting to memorise the route. “Master Yoda told us that the archives are one of the best-kept databases in the Republic. Have you ever seen another like it?” Mace thinks of the seemingly endless rows of blue holos as well as the flimsi copies kept in a more controlled environment to protect them from environmental damage. Indeed, many universities find their way into the database to use it for research. There is an open policy for the archives, though only a select few can change the contents within. He would say that no, he had not seen a library as vast and diverse and well kept as the archives, but he is not sure how much of that statement comes from a healthy fear of Madame Nu should she find out he’d said that. He’d rather not be on the archivist’s bad side. 

“Few have matched the archives' size and wealth of knowledge, though there is a vast library on Alderaan solely composed of original documents.” Obi-Wan looks at him curiously, urging him to continue, “It is more difficult for knowledge to be shared from that library due to the fact that the documents have not been recorded digitally, but it is still a vast library and a sight to behold.” He had visited it twice with Cyslin and the smell of old books paired with the elegant covers had very much seemed Alderaani. “Well, here we are. The archives. Let’s look for Mater Dolan, shall we?” Mace squeezed the hand softly, shooting Obi-Wan a smile. 

Obi-Wan grinned back and followed him, turning the corner. Almost immediately a large wookie was in front of him, and then he was kneeling down and reaching for Obi-Wan. “Thank the Force, Obi-Wan. Where in Force’s name were you? I’ve been worried sick! You and your habit of wandering…” Large hands flutter around, turning Obi-Wan from one side to the other before finally deeming him alright. The reddish-brown fur which had been standing on end in an agitated fashion smoothed down. Master Dolan’s eyes shifted from intently studying Obi-Wan’s face to looking at Mace. “Thank you so much for bringing him here. I was about to call the Temple guards.” The wookie says, head bowing in thanks. 

Mace smiles, “Oh it was no problem. Obi-Wan was a good walking companion.” He shot the boy a smile who still managed to smile back, large hands still resting on his shoulders. Master Dolan begins muttering under breath about how he was ageing prematurely and how ‘all these grey hairs are a result of your habit of wandering, young man.’ Finally, it seemed the wookie truly calmed and stood, towering over Mace though there was a gentleness in his eyes that made it feel calming and comforting. Obi-Wan stood by Master Dolan’s side, head leaning against the Master’s leg with a tired smile. 

“I’m Master Dolan,” he introduced himself, taking in a deep fortifying breath. “I can’t thank you enough, Knight…”

“Ah, Mace. Mace Windu.” Mace bowed a bit in greeting, “And truly, you don’t need to. Obi-Wan is a kind soul, I enjoyed our short walk back.”

“Nevertheless, I thank you.” 

“Ah, well, alright then. But I assure you, it was not an inconvenience at all.” Mace assured. 

The frazzled creche master calmed fully, looking down at the young child and giving him a little poke for attention. “Come now, what do you tell Knight Windu, hmm?” 

Obi-Wan blinked adorably before bowing respectfully, “thank you, Knight Windu, for bringing me back to Master Dolan.” His voice was somewhat soft, but strong still. 

“Well, thank you, Obi-Wan, for your company. I enjoyed our conversation very much.” The young boy perked up before turning to hide a bit behind the wookie Master’s leg, face bright red in embarrassment. Obi-Wan appeared to try and speak, but only a small squeak came out before he retreated further back behind the cover of the legs. 

After a while, though, the young boy found the courage to speak and peeked out, “I like talking with you, too,” he says seriously before retreating even further until he is practically hidden by the Master’s leg. 

“Well, I best be going. Master Dolan, Obi-Wan.” He bows in farewell, receiving one in response from the two. “May the Force be with you.”

Master Dolan smiles and replies in the same manner, “And with you.”

“Always. Obi-Wan adds, peeking out and waving his arm goodbye. “Bye, Knight Windu!”

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH11

18+ Explicit Content: Graphic descriptions of gore, violence, and smut; oral sex (male recieving), vaginal sex. Din Djarin/Third Person POV. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. Chapter Word Count: 12,951 holy fuck Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no use of y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate.

Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER ELEVEN: STORM BOY

Tense. That’s the only word to describe the atmosphere—maybe a little suffocating, too—in Peli’s hangar; she’s been highly adaptable in regards to the Mandalorian’s extended stay, though he suspects she doesn’t mind one bit when the Child is in her arms. Speaking of which, he had eventually reawakened in the earlier hours of the morning when the twin suns were making their reappearance over the town. He hadn’t been acting like his usual self—hadn’t demanded attention nor nutrients all day and the Mandalorian doesn’t know how to restore his regular demeanour. 

Mando isn’t a caretaker—he’s uneducated and inexperienced in regards to performing as someone’s guardian. It’s discouraging not being informed on what to do and there’s not a soul alive that can provide their insight into this situation. There isn’t exactly a whole lot of people in the galaxy who might understand the Child’s abilities, much less the side effects that come with it such as his recent behaviour changes.

Not to forget the Girl.

The Girl—the source of the leaps in his heart, twitching in his fingertips, and the harassing ache in his head. She’s impeccable in contrast to him, beautiful and soft and sweet but dank farrik if she doesn’t know how to invade his thoughts as if they were her own; splayed out in the midst of his consciousness serving as a constant reminder of everything he desires. 

Between needing to prioritise the Child and wanting to surrender himself to the Girl, he’s going stir-crazy being confined in such small spaces surrounded by them, which brings him straight back here—pinned down by blaster fire and frantic screams in Huttese. It’s as though he likes it; enjoys the adrenaline coursing through his veins at every laser shot his way. It gives him an edge and provides a distraction from his thoughts, or it used to but since he took in the foundling his mind hasn’t had a chance to take a break—the arrival of the Girl only made matters harder for him. How’s he supposed to focus when all he can envision is her laying bare underneath him or wearing his shirt, only his shirt. It sends him numb from the waist down.

A twinkle of red flies overhead Mando as he army crawls along the metre-high wall to alternate positions, allowing him to gain an upper hand against the cluster of enemies defending their post. There’s a lot of them, fifteen at the least, all equipped with weapons ranging from vibroblades to flame projectors—he hadn’t prepared himself adequately for such a hefty job only armed with his handheld blaster alongside his amban rifle, though he’s running short on cartridges and decides to save them for when he’s in a pinch. Amongst his blasters he’s low on fuel for the flames in his vambrace, having used a vast majority of it on a heavy-duty lurker mere minutes prior to this shootout.

Putting it simply, Mando was in a dilemma—forced between a rock and a hard place—a real catch-22. He’s reliant on his blasters and that alone as he hadn’t communicated to the Girl about his commission received nor his departure from the hangar. There’s nobody coming to aid him—nobody here to watch as he takes one too many blaster bolts—but he doesn’t mind; actually, he prefers it. It’s as though he’s returned to his earlier years of being a Mandalorian, dependent on himself and his tools and unafraid of death; equipped with nothing but the beskar on his back and the decades-worth of abilities fine-tuned to suit his combat style perfectly. 

Mando won’t go down easy, it’s not in his blood; not the blood of his relatives, but his manufactured Mandalorian blood. He’s been taught to fight - survive and to die here from lousy Klatoonian troopers wouldn’t be warriorlike—especially not with his head wracked with stubbornness regarding his crewmates. Nevertheless, there’s a heaviness in his chest - deep and thick and pleading with him to turn around; to return to the Crest with the Girl and the kid. It’s warning him—the increased beating in his ribs suggesting things aren’t in his favour, but he can’t just leave, not without figuring out what he’s to do for the Child.

And if he was to die here on this scummy rock of a planet, surrounded by nothing but sand, heat, and blasters, it wouldn’t necessarily be all that bad—it’d salvage the Girl and the kid from having to see him die, see him take his last breath.

They’ll be okay in the long run. They’ll care for each other and the Crest will protect them; be their support anchor.

They don’t need to be there when his heart stops beating.

They don’t need to see that.  

It’s a macabre series of thoughts. He sighs groggily and hoists himself up to peer over the barricade, observing two Klatoonian soldiers communing at the top of their post, neither of their eyes on the Mandalorian stealthily underneath—it’s a good opportunity, one with a short duration to act. Mando scans the area for any others on the lookout and climbs the wooden rungs carefully, ensuring he’s making minimal sound to not drag their attention to him. 

At the peak of the tower, Mando fires a bolt at the back of the head to the one on the right and it drops stiffly, the left’s turning around sharply and thrusting a spear in his direction. Mando’s leathers wrap around the shaft and yank it from his clasp, turning it around and penetrating the Klatoonian in the chest above his heart plate. His body plummets to the surface with the spear lodged inside of his torso and Mando steps up towards the edge of the watchtower, counting the visible heads aimed at the barricade he’d been behind a few moments ago. There’s eight to his left, five with rifles and three with melee weapons, and six to his left, all equipped with short-ranged blasters, and another couple secured in the structure below him. 

It’s way out of his comfort zone—there’s far too many for him to take down without receiving some new scars to paint his flesh; he’d already obtained one today. It’s small, not something to fret over, but the gash on his side pulses each time he raises his arm to fire a laser. He’d been distracted while in the midst of combat, his thoughts preoccupied with large green batwing ears, and one of the Klatoonian’s managed a nasty slash to his waist. The assailant was taken care of, of course, but the damage was done and now his movements had been slowed by a hairline fracture—not a lot, but every second counted when on the battlefield.

Mando unclasps the strap of his amban rifle and rests it on the trim of the watchtower’s partition, gazing through the scope as he assesses the situation. There are only three canisters left. Three opportunities to disintegrate and put an end to an overabundance of hostiles. He needs to play it smart; needs to ensure he doesn’t exhaust his ammunition needlessly.

His eyes lock on to an unscathed, ominous-looking canister perched upon a table beside one of their campfires where six of them have gathered around, devouring what looked to be a scorched womp rat. They’re confident in their abilities, not concerning themselves with patrolling the borders for the Mandalorian’s reappearance—a mistake they won’t live to regret. Mando twists the mid-section of the rifle’s scope, scaling in to focus on the canisters’ hazardous symbol painted into the sides. 

Surely they’re not that foolish.

It’s worth a shot—Mando aims for the weakest point in the canister and squeezes the trigger, leather crunching underneath his force and he traces the bolt of red as it nestles a burning hole through the capsule and explodes abruptly upon impact, producing a very loud bang that echoes through the valley for klicks. So they are that stupid to leave out combustible materials, right beside an open flame no less. Four of the six instantly plummet to the ground from the explosion, while the other two attempt to fight off the suffocating flames engulfing their bodies. It’s no use and they, too, fall to a charred heap among the grit; it sticks to their melting flesh with vengeance.

The remainder of the adversaries stand in stunned silence as their heads frantically spin and twist, searching for any sign of the direction the bolt had originated. Mando pops out the empty cartridge from his rifle, listening to the satisfying tink as it bounces along the wooden surface beneath his boots and rolls to a stop beside a corpse. Heaving his leg upwards, he slips another cylinder out of his boot and slides it into the chamber. The nest of Klatoonians have scattered throughout the campgrounds, shielding behind walls of sandstone and supply crates where they blend into a mass of dark greens and browns—Mando activates his thermal vision in order to distinguish the bodies as they peer curious heads out from behind their positions.

His sight is isolated to stone-blue over the landscape except for a blush of orange-red jutting out from the top of a crate, the unsuspecting Klatoonian’s head twisting and turning wildly. Mando shouldn’t fire—shouldn’t waste a shell on a singular soldier, not when there’s still plenty left—but, perhaps, if he eliminates one that’s hiding, they might fall into hysteria and rush out of their concealments. There’s not a whole lot of options from this position—if the watchtower was on the opposing side then he’d be set; easily pick them off one by one with his blaster pistol, but that’s not a course of action now.

Mando flexes his finger against the small of his trigger but doesn’t get the chance to squeeze before there’s a weight on his pauldron—faint, but enough for him to blindly thrust his arm against the figure and knock them against the railings, his hand retrieving his blaster from the holster on his thigh and directing it at the orange heat. Its hands raise swiftly, empty, and the familiar soft, sweet voice he’s grown accustomed to fills his ears, “Hey, hey, it’s me!”

“What’re-”

“Peli told me you went out. Something about a kidnapped girl? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He huffs, returns his blaster to its sleeve and disengages his thermal; returning the colour and the Girl’s features to his vision. She’s eyeing at his side, her eyebrows stitched together in concern but decides not to ask. “It was a ploy. There’s no girl.”

She sighs in relief but notes down his dismissal to her questioning. “Okay, let’s go then. I took out three on my way here and there’s more coming. We’re sitting mynocks up here.”

“No.”

The Girl cocks an eyebrow at Mando and he returns to his scope to avoid her attention. “Let’s go,” she whispers through clenched teeth, digging her fingers into the soft of his shoulder where his pauldron couldn’t shield. She drops the appendage when he shrugs underneath her clutch, obviously peeved at something she couldn’t read on him. “Mando, come on. There’s no girl, there’s nothing to prove to these guys.”

His throat grumbles as he attempts to stifle the thoughts in his head, not wanting to implode at the Girl and potentially startle her, but it’s difficult keeping everything caged up all the time—from his miserable thoughts regarding himself to the domineering cravings deep within his core. It’s too fucking much. If there was a key to it all he’d surely have tossed on a desolate planet by now, somewhere nobody, not even himself, will discover it. 

He snaps.

“I have something to prove—I need to know I’m still useful.” Mando involuntarily groans at his childish outburst. It’s on par with the Child’s when he doesn’t get his way.

He’s not someone to express his emotions and especially not to direct it at another; not the Girl.

“Of course you’re useful, Mando. What’re you talking about?”

Caf-coloured eyes flicker behind the visor and he squeezes them shut, discarding the threats below as he tries to focus on not derailing all of his insecurities at the Girl. He doesn’t want to confess all of the little nitpickings he’s accumulated throughout his life—he’s learned to keep them buried underneath the rubble of trauma that is his daily life—and he especially doesn’t want her to see him so….sensitive; it’s not an attractive feature on him.

Mando’s mouth moves on it’s own accord, suppressed beliefs regarding himself misdirecting at the Girl in surges of angry jeering, “I used to be feared, used to wear this armour with pride; represented the Creed with the beskar the artisans forged for me. Ever since you waltzed in my life, I’ve…” He sighs, his shoulders visibly sagging as he exhales. “My competence has crumbled to dust that resolves from a gentle wind. I’m getting hit, shot, stabbed because I can’t get you off my fucking mind.”

He unknowingly strokes a finger down the barrel of his rifle, as if to imply he’d been shot with one of the pellets—nothing more than mere particles left of him.

He doesn’t need to look at her to acknowledge he’s gone too far—gone and pushed her away—and the lack of noise she produces is mockingly deafening. 

But then there’s that faint, gentle weight on his pauldron again, dragging him from his dissecting and to her eyes filled with reassurance and tenacity. Mando finds himself like an icy dessert underneath the twin suns; liquefying beneath her gaze. 

There’s a lot on his plate right now with the Child’s current situation and the Guild still coming after them—she knows this, and he knows that she knows; she’s accommodating to the unavoidable bursts that may escape him occasionally. She doesn’t need to, but she’s willing to; volunteers as his subject until it’s all out in open air and they can proceed. Mando simultaneously respects that—that he’s allowed to vent even if it means she gets a little bit of venom splattered at her—and despises himself for his misguided resentment.

Mando doesn’t genuinely blame the Girl for his lacking; he’s well aware it’s his own negligence. It’s his responsibility to maintain the upkeep of his abilities, his responsibility to protect himself and his companions as a Mandalorian. It’s just easier to push the blame on another; to pretend it’s out of his reach—out of his control.

“Let’s go,” she repeats, slower. “Please, Mando.”.

I’m sorry, he wants to say. I don’t mean it.

He’s never been good with words.

Hands more experienced than his vocals, he draws a line with his thumb across the curve of her jaw and settles it on the tip of her chin to crane her head back just enough that enables his eyes to swallow the stretched skin of her neck. “Okay,” he murmurs and releases her, withdrawing the rifle from its perch.

She sighs when his leather retires from her face and stumbles over one of the corpses in her daze. She takes the lead down the ladder while he keeps watch from the top, ensuring no Klatoonian’s sneak up on her while vulnerable, and she reciprocates the favour when she’s at the bottom.

“There’s a speeder bike just beyond the walls,” the Girl says once his boots are on firm ground, the sand crunching underneath his weight.

“We won’t both fit on it.”

“Sure we will,” she chuckles. “It’ll be snug, is all.”

Mando scoffs to himself and peers around a sandstone corner, squinting as the suns disorient his vision, but he gets a quick glance at a stroke of red about a metre ahead of him—and then a familiar symbol: hazardous product. 

“Get down!” he yells, but it’s not fast enough - not fucking fast enough - and he’s flung into the parallelled wall. There’s pressure in his neck and spine, his helmet reverberates against the sandstone, and he slips onto his shoulder in the grit; his lesion collecting the sand molecules and painting them red. Pain stretches from the heels of his feet to the back of his head but he hasn’t got the opportunity to examine himself over—the Girl, where is the Girl?

Mando hisses as his head flexes, searching through the cloud of dust and rubble for his companion; heart hurdling over the gaps of beating and his fists balling against the land to keep him off his side.

“Mesh’la,” he croaks. “Where-oh, are-”

She’s hastily beside him, unscathed besides a few grazes across her forehead and hands—hands that are trembling against his beskar, investigating his condition with manic eyes. “Shit, shit, sh-”

There’s an attempt to calm her nerves on his part, placing a stocky leather weight on top of her hand to indicate he’ll be okay, but she doesn’t believe him—he’s still on the ground, apprehensive of moving in fear of what he may discover.

He moans at a twinge in his neck and carefully scrambles to his feet with her aid, her hands submerging into the flight suit for leverage, but it’s a mistake; his legs are numb and can’t support his weight and he has to rely on the wall to remain perpendicular and not tumble on top of her small frame. 

She navigates a hand to his throbbing lesion, covering it with her palm to protect it from further invasion of particles, and the other rests against the back of his neck for reinforcement.

It’s exhausting standing like he’s made of beskar and not just wearing it - anchoring him to the ground, and it’s even worse attempting to move, his legs hot and heavy as his soles drag through the terrain. 

“I got you,” she mumbles to herself, tucking into his side.

There’s a warmth at the back of his neck, his head, underneath her hand; hot, scalding and threatening. It fucking hurts—this isn’t a concussion, he quickly realises, he’s had plenty of them to discern easily; this is different, worse, concerning. The adrenaline is doing very little to conceal the pain and he emits half-groans-half-exhales in protest to his body’s tensing. It’s something he hadn’t experienced before, something that he can’t prepare himself to face the facts.

His leather tugs at the hand on his neck and the Girl hesitantly complies with his request, removing it from the cowl and bringing it ahead of his visor for examination. “What’s the mat- Shit, is that from your head?” she asks, hand trembling. ”

Mando confirms his suspicions; a dark thick coating of the finest Mandalorian blood staining the Girl’s delicate fingers. It’s not good, not ideal, but he wasn’t dead yet and they couldn’t stay pinned down here. “It’s not that bad,” he professes.

“Not that b- your fucking head is bleeding! Fuck, okay, okay. Sit down, here.” She aids him to sink onto an underturned crate against the stone wall and removes a small satchel that rests among her hip. “There’s a medpac in there. Fix yourself up while I go take care of these assholes. Don’t go anywhere.”

“No, wait-” Mando slips his blaster out of his holster and into her free hand, his leathers discreetly caressing the backs of bruising skin before letting her retreat. She glances at him one last time, doing her best to convince herself he won’t bleed out before she makes it back. “You better return,” he whispers as she disappears behind the corner, dual blasters aimed high in her sights.

You better return to me.

Mando turns his attention to the pounding at the back of his neck, the blood pooling inside his helmet, seeping into the thick of his cowl, running beneath the material of his back. What good was a helmet if not to protect your head?

Tatooine’s desert is no match for his throat, it’s suns mere wisps of flames—he’s starting to go into shock and he strives to fight it, his fists clenching and relaxing rhythmically but he can only hold on for so long before it overcomes him. Fuck, he’s so exhausted, his legs numb and throbbing with short bursts of tension beneath the muscles.

The satchel is heavy like a bantha offspring in his lap - taunting and restricting - but he raids its contents in the hope it’ll distract him; it doesn’t. Mando can’t—won’t—dress the wound, not here, not when there’s Klatoonian’s running around with murder on their mind and the Girl in their sights. It can wait—he can wait.

But he’s no help in this condition and he’ll only be a nuisance if he were to go against the Girl’s orders—he’s not that foolish.

He groans, deep and scratchy that tickles his dry throat, and tosses his head back against the wall—prompting a red reservoir to leak from his wound, his vision fuzzy with black and piercing white spots. Fuck. Stupid. So stupid.

“Mando. Mando?”

There’s a tapping against his visor that triggers his ears to ring and his head to throb. His eyes open to see the Girl before him, her face contorted into unpleasant angles of concern; he misses her smile, how her eyes squinted when she laughs.

“Come on, there’s a gap. We need to go.”

“Can’t move,” he whines.

“Use me then.”

He’s apprehensive; she’s small and dainty compared to all the beskar and with his worsening condition his weight will only multiply each step they take.

“Mando!”

She’ll only continue to persist and, to avoid her casualty along with his, he fists the fabric of her shirt and drags himself to his feet, utilising her as a crutch as she navigates him through the narrow alleys of the encampment. They follow a trail of corpses, blood, and blaster holes that he hadn’t even heard ring throughout the desert, his senses so colourless. His boots are alike durasteel; heavy and tight around his feet, constricting and dragging through the sand behind him. He yearns to kick them off, stretch his toes. 

“Left here,” she instructs, twisting his body to a breach in their wall that’ll serve as their escape route perfectly; out of sight, in the far back that’ll provide them enough time to head for the dunes before they’re on their tail—or not. A bolt tinks against Mando’s vambrace grappled around her shoulders, but she’s not messing around - not letting a foolhardy Klatoonian interrupt their evasion. She bends her body just enough to point her blaster at the soldier without disturbing Mando’s positioning and crushes the trigger against the hilt, a vibrant red shooting out of the barrel, skimming through the air and whistling as it burrows a burning hole into his chest—all without looking.

Mando groans, impressed, “Where - where’d you learn that?”

She scoffs in amusement and continues trudging to the hole in the wall. “Well, you’re always so quick to point blasters you never let me show off. Could’ve aided you if you weren’t so metalheaded all the time.”

“Is that so?” Mando huffs a breath as a laugh. “Might have to upgrade your blaster then.”

“I think you need more upgrading than me right now.”

“Not - not a droid.”

She chuckles and assists him in ducking through the hole. “No, but you do need some repairs.”

The speeder bike sits only a few metres away from them; small, dainty, not suitable for a passenger. “Won’t-” he gasps, “-fit.”

She pats his chest for reassurance. “Well, you’re gonna have to. Get on.”

Mando slings a leg over either side of the speeder and lowers onto the back of it, uncomfortable and awkwardly positioned but it’ll have to do. “I can’t drive.”

She teases, “Oh, I know, I’ve seen you pilot.” She seats herself between the handlebars and Mando’s hunched body, patting the side of his thigh to indicate him to scooch closer. “Come on, you’ll fall off back there.”

Mando obeys her commands, his inner thighs pressing against the outside of her frame and beskar squeezed between both of their bodies, an arm gingerly curves around her midsection for greater support and it permits him an opportunity to be close to her - to hold her even if it’s not exactly how he imagines it.

“Go,” he instructs, visor tilted at the influx of Klatoonians emerging from the exit way.

Speeder hums to life, repulsorlift engine vibrates underneath their bodies and sags the vehicle towards the ground at the additional weight of him. She flexes her fingers around the throttle and zips off in the opposite direction of the gathering army, zigging and zagging to dodge the incoming bolts that kick up the dust ahead of them, one of them just barely managing to skid against Mando’s pauldron from this distance. She’s a good driver—avoiding missable dunes and anything else that might jolt him off, but the constant sharp turns don’t assist with his increasing headache and he tucks the peak of his helmet between her shoulder blades, concentrating on the rise and fall of her lungs.

In, out, in, out; fast and shaky like a collapsing tree in a brutish storm.

“Passed by an abandoned cantina on my way here,” the Girl says, mostly to ensure he doesn’t fall unconscious. “We can set up there. Take care of you. Be back before nightfall. Sound good?”

“Nnngh,” he groans. “Out of fucking action, again.”

“There was no way to know they had explosives. Don’t blame yourself.”

“That’s not true - used it against them. Should’ve - should’ve figured they’d do the same.” 

The Girl’s back flexes as she twists the handlebars and sharply turns behind a cluster of boulders, casting them in a thick shadow and providing a break in blaster fire. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mando. I’ll fix you up and we’ll go see the kid, yeah? He’ll be waiting for ya.” It falls on deaf ears, Mando too preoccupied with not passing out and sliding off the speeder—there’s so traction, nothing to support his weight, and he maneuvers his chin to rest against her shoulder questing for the cushioning of flesh to soothe the throbbing in his head.

Normally, the heat of Tatooine suns posed as a nuisance with all of the layers he donned, but now it’s comforting and Mando welcomes it with open arms—the heat equalising with that of his neck—like a temperate bath drawn just for him and he sinks his toes in the waters, moaning at the buoyancy and how light he feels - how unrestricted he is without the beskar.

The Girl slaps his thigh, though it does very little to draw him out of his daydreaming; perceptions desensitising as his weight gradually distributes to her, forcing her shoulders down so she’s almost laying on the speeder with him atop of her. 

“Mando, fuck, come on. Get up, you’re heavy - we’re gonna crash.”

“Can’t.” 

It’s all he can manage to slip out of the drought of his mouth, his lips catching on his teeth. He’s so heavy, blood converted into uncured duracrete that sags through his veins, thick and clumpy and asphyxiating.

“Just hang in there, all right? We’re almost there. Stay awake.”

She sounds so far away, so out of his reach, and his fingers subconsciously dig into the shirt—struggling to latch onto her as though she’ll disappear if he doesn’t—but it feels like he’s grasping at mist; the particles just floating through his digits as he clenches around nothing. He’s breathing it in, dense and cloudy with a taste like smoke and rotten flesh, coagulating in his lungs until he’s spluttering inside the helm at the assault.

Mando doesn’t feel the speeder come to an abrupt stop, doesn’t register he’s been relocated inside the cantina she spoke of until he’s on the floor propped up against a wall; beskar scraping against the stone as he fights off not collapsing to his side and welcome the duracrete as his eternal resting spot. She blocks the door with a bystanding chair, just in case, and returns to his side on her knees, hands frantic and gliding all over his heaving body; it’s oddly comforting - her touches crafted with the healing properties of bacta and his eyes slip closed to envision them slow and grazing along his skin, along his chest and neck, dainty fingers wiping away the dark circles underneath his eyes.

“You didn’t dress the wound?” she questions, dipping her fingers into his cowl and amassing metallic crimson at the tips. “Stubborn son of a-”

“I won’t make it,” he interjects, helm twisting to admire her—memorising her beauty in hopes it’ll remain with him in the afterlife. Her lips raw from the onslaught of pearly whites, her eyebrows taut with concern, eyes shifty as she investigates his bodily injuries; it’s an unfortunate circumstance, yet her beauty knows no bounds—she’s in fear and shock of letting him slip through her fingers but she’s still so fucking breathtaking.

“You’re getting out of this.” 

She files through the medpac stocked with minimal medical supplies, having used a vast sum of it on her the night prior. There’s not enough for both of them, her lashes still needing tending to, and Mando tries to stop her; tries to explain there’s a good chance the bacta won’t even make it to his system before he shuts down, but nothing but a soft groan flutters past his lips - his subconscious taking control over his obscurity. ”

The Girl’s scared, terrified, more than he’s ever seen her before, more than back on the spacecraft; more than when she speculated he would kill her. It shoves needles into his heart looking at her like this, looking at her be so fucking concerned for his health more than her own—she should leave, she needs to leave. They’ll be coming for him. This is why he came alone—why he didn’t want anybody around when his heart stops beating—why he’s been sidestepping around her.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been so detached she’d be back safe in the Crest and he wouldn’t be slowly hemorrhaging to death.

She’s been around him too long; her brain picking up the most minute details he lets slip past his beskar walls. “I’m not leaving you,” she reassures, reading his mind.

“Need to.”

“I won’t.”

Mando whispers her name in short puffs, uttering the beautiful title that is solely her into the sand-buried cantina and strokes a delicate line across her cheekbone to her jaw where he rests his hand. It clenches underneath the leather - Mando swipes his thumb over the front of her chin sweetly, tenderly, just feeling her contours and arches. “Go.”

“Mando,” she forcibly smiles, “you’re an idiot if you think you’re dying here.”

She’s as stubborn as a Bluurg - he smiles.

He’s beginning to understand now—why the Girl hadn’t notified him of her past—or, then again, maybe he already figured it out and chose to ignore it, to replace desires with rationality. Perhaps that’s why, despite all of the suppressed emotions expanding against the confines of a metaphorical transparisteel bottle, he subconsciously found ways to distance himself from her. Utilising the Child’s priority, feigning resentment, straight-up leaving her in the dark—why he was still isolating himself even after their cin vhetin. 

After all, it’s easier to care for a skeleton in the closet than the very alive passion in his chest. But it’s easier to neglect the corpse—forget the closet entirely—than the mania; that never stops, never allows him a brief moment to recuperate his thought process.

“I forgive you,” he mumbles with a smile, a smile she won’t get to see. “I forgive you, ner mesh’la.”

It’s only when you’ve forgiven her that you’ll truly move forward.

That’s what he wants; to move forward.

If he doesn’t make it out alive, she deserves to know—she should know how he feels towards her, even if it’s not reciprocated.

She freezes, hands hovering over him with a tremble that matches his heart’s; her eyes sliding close—it’s for his benefit, he realises, she doesn’t want her pathetic sobbing to be the last thing he sees. 

It’s not pathetic in the slightest; how could somebody so intangible ever be considered pathetic?

With quivering muscles, Mando presses his leather flat against her cheek to collect a stray tear. It rolls along the curve of his thumb and soaks into the wrist of his flight suit, the moisture felt against his skin and he moans in a blend of delight and pain; a drops worth of Her converging against his flesh, staining it with salt. 

“I forgive you,” Mando repeats to himself.

Grief is etched into her eyes when she finally peels the thin lids back, her pupils flickering across the visor desperate to discover the eyes behind the cold blackness. There’s a pang in her heart that pulsates each time his chest collapses underneath her hands, counting down the rise and falls until it inevitably discontinues. “You’re not dying here.” Her lips are pulled taut against her teeth, cheeks wet with tears. “I won’t allow it. The kid needs you. I need you. End of discussion, all right?”

Mando’s head tilts, an overly enthusiastic tug in the corner of his mouth.

“All right,” he permits. 

“Good.” The Girl wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of the shirt; his shirt. “Sit forward, let me fix that head of yours.”

“Helmet,” he groans.

Oh, how his creed screws with him, obstructs him from the most basic aspects of life.

“It doesn’t need to come off.” She drives him forwards off the wall and wraps an arm across the front of his shoulders, a leg clipping behind him and another in front over his lap, snuggly positioning him between her legs so he doesn’t collapse either side. She’s tepid, pillowy, and he allows himself to lean into her, his pauldron squishing into her chest. “It’ll just be hard to tell if it’s sealed,” she narrates to herself as she digs through his cowl where it obscures the underneath of his helmet. “Is this okay?”

He nods, fingers itching in his gloves.

Delicate, smooth fingers trail beneath the rim of his helmet—his breath hitches—and slip through the gap. Mando swallows the moans and twitches she produces when she brushes around the wound, charting out its size, location, and severity. She’s so close to him, so fucking close; her hand is inside the helmet, inside his personal space, inside his Creed—fingers tangling with his overgrown locks, curls knotting around creeping digits dragging them in and holding them against his skull while blood cakes onto her skin.

Bacta spray expels from the flacon in her clutch and adheres to the wound, the properties immediately getting to work reconstructing the fractured cells. It’s sticky, burns against the sensitivity, the groaning is unavoidable but he centres on his breathing and slacking his muscles.

“That’s it,” she coos, patting his far-end pauldron, “relax.”

The consoling reminds him of the nights he’d spent staying up with the kid, murmuring reassuring words he’d plucked from the depths of his memories as a child and he hums at the bittersweet remembrances—they’re faded now with his age, as though he watched it through the eyes of a passerby in a dense crowd, too difficult to focus on the exact detailing but everything that mattered remained; the scratchiness of his father’s beard against his forehead each night, his mother’s subdued tone lulling him to sleep, both of their warmth encasing him on chilly nights surrounded by the village’s campfire.

Mando didn’t have the luxury of a rewarding life - the privilege - the right. There’s not much he remembers from his youth, much less than the average with the trauma he’s endured. He doesn’t want that for the kid, doesn’t want him to forget Mando; he means too much to him and it’d tear his heart beyond death if those memories were buried by the same trauma that keeps Mando awake—the same trauma that draws him right back to a battlefield as a coping mechanism. 

Mando’s been living the way of Resol’nare for decades now—ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor - An vencuyan mhi, he recites the rhyme, obey the commands of Mandalore—his soul intact and a designated spot in Manda reserved just for him; it’s a great honour, one any dar’manda would be envious of, yet he’s uncertain - tentative of the afterlife. He’ll be alone again. Just like before the Child was placed into his care. Just like before he met the Girl. Nobody will be there to welcome him—no parents, no relatives, no friends, no-one.

Twitches coursing along his spine and the back of his neck does little to soothe his nerves regarding his mortality, his body tense and rigid as though he was already proceeding with rigour mortis. He mustn’t be concealing it well as the Girl draws him closer into her chest, his helmet resting against the side of her head as she continues administering the spray, a hand smoothing along the curve of his neck to rest there.

He’s positioned just like he had that night the Mandalorians rescued him, the same fear and panic pulling at his tendons and compressing his lungs, seeking comfort from his saviour—like a scared little boy. 

It’s both humiliating and heartening; the Girl being so delicate with him despite being dipped in a coating of sharp, cold beskar head-to-toe. It’s committed to protecting him, to aid him when all else fails, and yet she’s the one he wants to surround himself with. She’s elastic-y and pliable—versatile for any situation he throws her way—made of exotic materials from the most desolate planets in the Outer Rim. 

Mando wonders what her hands would feel like elsewhere; tending to the wounds he accumulates among his torso, rubbing at the aging lines of his face—always taking care of him. Mando forages underneath the stockiness that is his heart plate and cowl, leathers wrap around the small beskar pendant amidst his chest and rips the lace from around his neck. It’s shiny, rarely exposed to elements and harsh sunlight, but still worn with age and he runs a padded thumb along a steel tusk protruding from the skull.

The Girl pats him on the curvature of neck and shoulder one last time before retracting her hand from his helmet and returning him against the wall; he nearly mopes at the lack of her. “That’s that. I applied a thick coat so you should be okay, give it a moment to settle in.” She wipes her bloody hand against the thigh of her pants and clips the bottom of his helmet between a thumb and forefinger, twisting it to look at her. “How are you feeling?”

Mando considers. The majority of the pain had vanished, or numbed, and his senses are making a steady comeback but the whole ordeal has left him drained, too exhausted to even think about manipulating his muscles to utter a sentence in reply. He does, though, he doesn’t want her worrying more than she already is. “It’s an improvement. Thank you.”

“Let me take a look at this.” She lightly taps around the gash on his side to test his reactivity. It’s not a deep wound—no cauterising today—and he sighs with relief when she fingers through the medpac to recover a bacta patch. He’ll need proper care eventually but it’s all they possess way out here.

Mando flinches when she inches the flight suit out of the way, hissing.

She searches the satchel and retrieves an all-too-familiar pouch, his eyes hardening. “Why do you have that?”

“It can be used as medicine,” she mumbles, suddenly uncertain. “It helped me, it can numb the pain.”

Mando glares at the narcotics, shaking his head obstinately. “No -- no, it’s addictive. You shouldn’t have that. I don’t want you using it.” His muscles tense at his plea, hoping she doesn’t read into it and discover its underlying reasonings—how concerned he is. “It should - should be disposed of. It’ll only entice-”

“I’m not addicted to it, Mando. It was a one-time thing.”

“It’s-”

She cuts him off with a gentle sigh and shoves the pouch back into the satchel. “Was just trying to lessen the pain, ya know, guess you’ll have to endure it. Might teach you some manners.”

His eyes soften, his chest lax; he’s starting to make a habit of blowing things out of proportion—it’ll only drive the Girl away if he persists. His thumb assaults the surface of the pendant in his clutch, rubbing it raw, and folds his adjacent hand over hers poignantly. She understands his sentiment, offering him a small smile that puts his concerns at ease.

She’s too benevolent for her own good—too compliant to his immaturity.

She changes the subject. “This is all getting old real fast, you know. All this patching up we keep doing for each other. We oughta take a break somewhere. Could be good for the kid.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t take breaks, not when he’d been injured and definitely not when he’s a fugitive but hearing the Girl suggest one makes his thoughts run wild creating phony scenarios where the three of them could spend time somewhere secluded other than the Crest. Somewhere far away from all the fucking sand. 

It could be good for the kid, could help him return to himself being out in free lands without the worry of a lurking Guild member aimed to either kill or capture him.

Mando parts his lips but he’s cut off before he’s even constructed a sentence in his mind; the rhythmic strums of speeder bikes nearing their quarters. He activates his sonic detectors and isolates the audio, concentrating on the alternating warbling while the Girl fists the hilt of her blaster instinctively in preparation. “There’s two,” he claims.

“Okay, wait here.”

“Wait, wait.” Mando catches her wrist as she stands to arrest her raring thoughts. He unclasps the strap across his chest and maneuvers the rifle around from his back and shoulders, gingerly pressing the wintry steel barrel into her palm. “There’s one cartridge loaded.” His hand snakes to his boot and retrieves the final cylinder, relinquishing his paramount foundation to survival.

She stares at him with wide eyes filled with wonder and questions he can’t pinpoint, hands examining the Amban-phase pulse rifle loosely clutched in her palms. A soft, genuine smile sketches into the curve of her lips and she gratefully accepts his offer, perching herself against a window to observe the vastness outside. 

Mando can’t manage to see past her, the window too high from his angle, so he entitles himself to travel her frame; monitoring—recording—her posture, alternating foot and knee flat against the duracrete and her shoulders pulled taut where the stock rests in the crevice. The posture of a Sharpshooter.

She sucks in a shallow breath and slowly exhales, her lips curling into a smile as her eyes lock onto an unguarded Klatoonian through the lens.

Mando quietly chuckles underneath his beskar and subconsciously runs his thumb along the beskar pendant once more, his eyes never tearing away from the Girl—she’s like the Child when he’s given the knob of his control throttle; devilishly grinning with a mischievous glimmer in their eye. 

He recounts how curious she had been regarding his rifle, how she used to pester him just to get a glimpse of the silver barrel. I’ll get my hands on it one day and I won’t be giving it back, she had said once and seeing that excitement in her eyes now only insisted on the claim. 

A micro pellet shoots out the fork-tipped tubing, the sound reverberating inside the structure for a moment before it settles to silence. Assessing the expression on her face, she hits her mark. A surge of pride runs underneath Mando’s muscles—the Girl utilising his sniper as if it belongs in her arms, fashioned just for her hands and fingers—followed by an unrelenting tide of arousal through his veins and to his crotch; maybe she can keep the rifle.

The Mandalorian has only ever had material possessions, so seeing her exercise his tools of survival like her own—squeezing the trigger, hugging the stock, peering through the lens—pressing her body up against the exact rifle he’d press against - fuck, if it doesn’t stimulate dark, inappropriate, disturbing thoughts and a tingling sensation at the base of his stiffening cock. 

Embarrassed from his condition—wounded and bloody and fucking horny—he droops his eyes to the opened bacta gel. It’s laughable. It seems each time he’s injured and she’s touching him, taking care of him, his arousal decides it’s time to awaken. She must think he gets off on it; that’s enough to make him cringe under his helm. 

Another blast echoes the spacious room and this time he hears the pop of the second Klatoonian, followed by a soft exhale from the Girl at her accomplishments. “That’s taken care of,” she sighs. “Sorry, Mando, I don’t think you can have this back.”

Mando rolls his eyes but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

“How do you suppose you’ll use it without any more ammunition?”

She huffs and props the rifle against the wall beside him. “Oh, I’m sure you have plenty hidden away. I mean, why not gimme yours? I’m a better shot than you--”

“We don’t know that.”

“--and you did destroy mine, remember?”

Actually—he’d almost forgotten. It’s the entire circumstance that scripted their journey through the Outer Rim together, but with everything that’s happened within the past few days, he wasn’t exactly in the right mindset to be thinking about their agreed-upon reimbursement.

The Girl continues, “We should make a contest for it. Whoever's the better shot, gets to keep it. Sounds fair to me.”

Mando scoffs and reminds, “There’s no ammunition, mesh’la.”

“Come on, just admit you’re scared of losing.” She pauses to allow him to pipe up. He doesn’t. “Okay then. I’m getting you fixed up and then we’re going to the Crest to get ammunition and then I’m gonna kick your ass in this challenge.”

“I never agreed--”

“You’re not getting out of this that easily, Mando.”

He hums in feigned thought; she seems satisfied with herself and lowers to her knees beside him once more, hands uncorking a canister of water to flush the lesion of grit and administer a clump of soothing gel. She’s astonishingly fast and precise; she’s not joking about this competition—he’ll be in trouble if she proceeds. Nevertheless, having her hands so close to—fuck—he jolts abruptly and repositions himself so he’s concealing the bulge in his lap, extracting a concerned yet confused glare from her.

“It’s sensitive,” he lies through his teeth, but she nods her head with the allegation.

Her hands smooth over a bacta patch underneath his flight suit—another ripped garment alongside his cloak—and he moans as the patch pulses a soothing burst that numbs the slash and lessens the tenderness. 

“Okay, you’re all set. How’s that head of yours feeling?”

Always taking care of him; always so concerned.

Beskar is weighted in his palm and he returns his attention to the pendant, shimmering in the sunlight cascading through the windows and reflecting onto the ceiling above them. Mando’s head angles to the side as he slips the torn threads through his fingers and pries them apart, the beskar dangling in the middle of the lace, to slide his knuckles along the sides of the Girl’s neck until he’s at the rear. She gazes down at the pendant stowed against her sternum as he secures a taut knot, mindful of the strands of hair as to not entangle them together.

Pulling away, he hooks a forefinger along the thread and collects the beskar at the bottom where he rubs a thumb along the face of the skull. 

His vocoder whirrs a humming sound, “Better, mesh’la, much better. Thank you.”

“What’s this for?” she questions, examining the necklace incredulously.

“You.” It’s simple - sweet - truthful; it’s all hers. She doesn’t seem entirely content with his answer, her eyebrows stitching together as she mulls the symbolic gesture. He takes mercy on her rationalising, albeit awkwardly, “I can’t return a mutual connection. Can’t give you me - wholly. I received this necklace as part of my initiation to the Creed denoting my trust, my devotion, and it’s been with me since I was a boy.”

She lifts her eyes to the visor as he shares, her hands resting atop his still playing with the pendant. 

“It’s a part of my Creed—a part of me. I want you to have it.”

“Mando,” she gasps. “You’re sure?”

He simply nods.

She leans into his personal space until her warmth invades the confines of his undershirt that puts Tatooine’s twin suns to shame. Mando’s throat bobs when a hand tunnels through his cowl to splay across the side of his neck and her face looms near the side of his helmet. He doesn’t twist to look at her—doesn’t want to unnerve her with the leering tint—but his shoulders sag at the vague tremor through the beskar; her lips weakly compressed against the curvature on his helmet.

He’s not one for words, but it seems he succeeded on that front.

It makes his heart flatten and swell in succession as though she was kneading the organ with her hands, the contact so placid and gradual - just taking her time tenderising the muscle.

Not to mention the boost of blood that flows through his abdomen and finalises below his waist, causing a twitch in his pants and she hadn’t even touched him except for a delicate hand on his cowl. 

Mando really was like a boy—a pining, desperate, hormonal boy.

The Girl withdraws somewhat and trails the hand from his neck over the bump of his heart plate and seats it in the cushioning covering his stomach, her eyes bounce from his visor to his reviving arousal with her bottom lip clamped between rows of teeth. She softly snickers, “You don’t need to get shot at for me to touch you, Mando.”

He swallows, his helmet twisting on its axis to watch her expression—eyes darkening and tonguing crawling through her parted lips to apply a coating of saliva on them. 

“Is that what you want?” she croons. “For me to touch you?”

He’s speechless—choking on his own spit—and she doesn’t help matters when she glides the hand lower, her fingers catching on the hem of his waistband and her palm enveloping the curve of his bulge. 

Mando recollects all the instances he’d thought of the Girl like this—touching him so sweetly, pulling moans from his mouth—all the times he’s wanted more, needed more. Even with her hands down his pants he craved more, required her warmth—wanted to be buried in that warmth.

“Yes,” he musters up, his words coming out staticy through the modulator. 

It’s all she needs to continue, r hand snaking beneath the hem and she wraps slender fingers around his length, sluggishly pumping twice that has his back arching off the wall and she smiles smugly in her endeavours. 

His heart is in his throat, his stomach, his crotch—everywhere. 

The Girl tightens her grip some, her fingers catching on his skin without any form of lubricant but it reminds him of being back on the Crest in the pilot's chair and he has no criticism of that. She drags her hand to the top and gradually slides back down, her thumb following a pulsating vein back to the base. It has his muscles tensing, constricting underneath his layers, but his fingers dig into the cloak underneath him. 

He greedily whines, “Need more.”

She seems to understand his request and reaches for the hem with her other hand, scrambling to yank his trousers down and he assists by lifting his weight off the ground with his forearm until the hem rests at his mid-thigh; the beskar cuisse preventing the fabric from lowering any further but he couldn’t give a shit. It’s enough.

She hums at the sight of his cock—large, hard, and glistening with a bead of precum at the tip. Digits contract at the base, eliciting a groan from deep within his throat, and the Girl tosses a flirty smile at him as she gradually dips her head down for her lips to meet the tip. 

“Fu-ck,” he moans, his eyes widening as she flicks her tongue to collect the drop of white and it just melts into her tastebuds; brands them with his cum. She teases him, just barely making contact with a modest brush of her tongue against the head and he’s forced to restrain himself from bucking each time she spawns a coating of saliva that the hot air wipes dry in a matter of seconds.

Mando scrunches his fists against the duracrete and listens to the tinking his helmet produces each time he twitches his head against the sandstone, if it wasn’t made of beskar it'll surely be scraped to hell. He’s fortunate the bacta spray was so efficient—there’s no doubt in his mind he wouldn’t be able to enjoy this as much as he is without it working wonders on his wound. One of his hands occupies the back of her head and he unintentionally drives her downwards until her lips seal around the head of his cock and he’s gasping for air—the filters of his helmet breathing violently to supply the oxygen he’s lacking.

It’s exhilarating being inside of her mouth—albeit very little of him—and he lifts his hips to delve deeper, exploring the uncharted territory of her tongue and throat; so fucking soft, like her gums are fabricated out of clouds and her tongue a bed prepared just for him to rest on. “Gods,” he chokes. “Such a — pretty little mouth, mesh’la.”

She half-moans around his length, sending pulsations that makes his knees weak and toes curl. She bobs her head up and down rhythmically, her hand stroking what she can’t fit inside, and his gloved fingers twirl around a cluster of strands at the nape of her neck just to hold her - to feel the muscles stretch and loosen each movement she makes.

Mando is gluttonous for her—so fucking desperate to quicken the pace or attain new limits—and he experimentally sinks her head lower onto his shaft, slowly but with some level of authority that makes the Girl moan and comply with his proposal.

The curve of her nose brushes against the flock of unkempt bristles at the base—it’d been a while since he last tamed them, though he suspects the Girl doesn’t mind—and her sharp hot exhales through her nose can be felt dancing along the soft flesh of his groin, the head of his cock nudging against the back of her mouth before it slips past and eases down her throat an inch. Along with the newfound pressure around his length, the Girl flattens her tongue on his underside and sucks—generously hard, might he add. 

There’s an ache in his abdomen, a crack in his knee as it jerks, and he’s forced to gnaw on his lips to refrain from spewing out shameful noises from deep within his throat. His sonic detectors pick up the faintest of audio; the squelching of his cock slipping in and out of her throat, her short puffs of exhales, and her cut-off gagging noises she makes each time he explores a little more than she can withstand. It’s unrighteous how turned on he’s getting from the noises alone, but she makes her presence well known when her lips glue around at the base just sits there taking in his entire length in her throat; tears brew in the corners of her eyes and she swallows a heap of saliva—consuming all of his rationality as her throat tightens around his width.

“Oh, f-fuck, shit. St-sto-op.”

He reflexively yanks her head up until only the head of his cock is situated in her mouth, twitching, leaving the remainder of his length sodden with stringy pools of her saliva that streak to the brown curls.

Mando observes the mess she’s made, mouth drowning with lust. As much as he could sit there and fuck her mouth like this, he aches for more contact—requires it like the oxygen he breathes.

“I want more, pretty girl, need you.”

His hand travels from the base of her neck along the curve of her spine and rests on the soft of her rear, indicating his proposition. She reluctantly pries her lips from his tip and glances up at him with filthy eyes to murmur, “Need me?” she swallows. “Need me to take care of you?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

“Need me to ride you -- to fuck you?”

“Yes, mesh’la.” His fingers bite into the flesh of her ass and dip in the waistband at her tailbone, lazily tugging at the material but it fails to budge against the defence of her belt. 

“Fucking so needy,” she sings.

Mando is needy—dehydrated and starving for her—utterly insatiable. 

She unclasps her belt and unbuttons the two little dimes at her groin, but he beats her to the belt loops and slips either thumb on the farsides and tugs. His eyes soak in the exposed flesh; how cushiony her thighs look, how they must feel squeezing the sides of his head. There’s a rumble in his chest and it finds its exit through his filters, shooting straight to the Girl’s core.

The Girl guides a leg out from beneath her and he continues undressing her from the waist down until she’s only left in her undergarments, the length of her legs being explored by crunchy leather. She doesn’t allow him the opportunity to take initiative and remove his gloves—he wouldn’t be able to control where his hands led if he had—and tosses a leg on either side of his thighs, the underside of his cock rubbing against her clothed pelvis to evoke a muffled moan from his throat.

One of her hands rests on his side atop of the bacta patch and she gazes into his helmet, silently inquiring her concerns.

“I’m okay.” She continues eyeing him, her pupils flickering to the bottom side of the helmet his lesion laid in slumber. “Mesh’la, I’m good.” He proves it with a minor thrust of his hips that has her scooting against his lap, distributing her weight among his thighs.

She seems pleased with his condition, tearing her hands from his wound to bunch up the overhanging fabric. Mando stops her, clinging to the hem of the shirt. “No, keep - keep it on. Looks good on you.”

An imposing heat rises to her cheeks and paints them hues of reds and pinks at the implication Mando gets off on her wearing his clothing. He’s watching her, she feels the leer of his visor, and she bows her head and strokes his length in an attempt to hide away, to distract him from the mortifying blush gracing her cheeks and nose. Mando’s insistent, stubborn, refuses to look away from her ‘pretty little face’—his words, not hers—and just scouts as her features contort shyly.

He won’t look away.

Especially not when she lifts her thighs and hovers over his readying cock, the head nudging against her clothed sex; warm and damp from her secreting through the fabric. She wants this, he acknowledges, just as much as himself.

She dips her hips enough, just barely, so he’s firmly pressed against her; his twitches travelling through to her, sparking her fingers to dig into the pads of his shoulders in shock. Mando groans, powerless underneath her, and bucks his hips plenty to maintain a pleasant caress against the tip of his cock.

“You’re taunting, pretty girl.”

She smirks. “Why not do something about it?”

Oh, he will—he’ll make her applaud the ground he walks on if he has to.

With one foul swoop, Mando plunges his hand between her legs and eases the garment aside, positioning himself between her folds and collecting the slick with his head. It makes something erupt inside of him, in his abdomen, and he freezes like that; his cock scarcely pressing against her entrance - she flutters against him.

The throbbing at the back of his head pulls him out of his relishing but he’s not willing to interrupt—not when he’s waited so fucking long to feel her like this. “Sit down,” he breathes, lightly pushing on her thighs. “S-slowly.”

She abides by his commands and gradually sinks on his length—so fucking slowly. He asked for it, but she’s just torturing him at this point. His eyes tear from what lays between them back to her face, her eyes squeezed closed and her teeth latching onto the flesh of her poor hand. His muscles lack, his hands caressing her legs. “Sweet girl,” he coos, “you can do it.”

“Gods, what else are you hiding under all that beskar?” she moans and continues, stretching herself around his impressive size; Mando’s not small in the slightest.

His helmet inclines with a soft chuckle, clashing against the wall behind them—the wall he was ready to die on and now he’s fucking her against it - he hadn’t even cleaned himself of the blood soaked into his cowl and caking his hair - it’s fucking dirty.

He hums her name in reassurance. “Should’ve - should’ve prepared you with m-y fingers first.” 

“Yes,” she winces. “You should’ve.”

“Doing so well, so good. That’s it. Nice and slow-ly.”

There’s a silence that fills the air once he’s completely sheathed inside her, the both of them tardily comprehending the reality of the situation—they won’t be able to return to normal after this, won’t be able to look at each other without thinking of the other naked. This is their new normal, at least for today, and they carefully descend back to the scene with clarity. 

Her - his shirt’s hem rubs against his garbed stomach, loose and large on her, and he slithers his hands up the back of it to clamp down on her shoulders; holding her firmly against his pelvis so she’s restricted and refuses her the opportunity to move—he wants to savour the feeling of her stretched around him, the feeling of her warmth welcoming him. She hisses at the cold steel of his vambrace along the muscles of her back and arches on him.

Mando basks in her warmth, shifting his hips side-to-side to rub against the inside of her canals, and resting the peak of his helmet against her sternum above the pendant’s residence to breathe in her scent. It’s faint with the helm’s filters stripping the air of her but there’s a hint of sweetness that he jostles around among his tongue and a speck of her musk, alongside a whiff of his personal scents from his shirt—gun oil, leather, his own musk fusing together with hers.

“Mando, I got-ta move.”

The grip on her shoulders loosens, enabling her to move slightly but doesn’t allow her to take initiative this time; his ass flexes against the ground as he thrusts up into her, pulling soft gasps from her tongue. It’s so hot, so enticing, a sound he’s dreamt of hearing but actually triggering the noises from her is intoxicating. He could bury his face between her legs and listen to her all night if she’d allow it; if his Creed allowed it.

“Pretty girl.” His hips slam into hers. “Always - always taking care of me.”

“Fu--fuck, Mand-o,” she chokes, her breathing staggering each time his groin rolls into her pelvis. A delicate hand runs along the front to the back of his cowl and sweeps underneath the steely brim, never breaching his comfort zone until he imparts his consent with a faint nod. She inches her digits up till they disappear inside his helmet—there was a time he wouldn’t let anybody get within arm’s length of his helm and now the Girl was freely raiding the unexplored depths of his skull for the second time that day. 

There’s a slight pang around his lesion when she tugs on the curls and it only roams upwards when she shoves her palm up as far it’ll reach in the cramped space, her fingers working out the tight knot. He jerks at the sensations, all so foreign, so new and exciting he’s struggling to withhold himself from doing something stupid.

“Been thinking about this for so lo-ng,” he whispers, quickening his pace to drive up and nudge against her cervix that has her flinging her head back. “Thought about fucking——fucking you over the control panel ea-ch night.”

“Maker,” she purrs. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move. Nearly crawled in your fuck-ing bunk with you.”

Mando groans. “Yeah? I’ll fuck you in my bunk whenever you want, mesh’la. Name the time.” 

“Fuckin’ hell, Mando.”

“Din,” he slips, freezes, muscles stretched and tight—he went and did something stupid. The Girl notices his wavering, his thrusts having abruptly stopped, and joins his absence of movement. A layer of nervous sweat breaks out across his forehead, his heart paced faster than a Kaadu. Everything is distanced, the Girl seemingly klicks away, thoughts clouded with analysing his psyche’s outburst; a foolish slip of the tongue in the heat of the moment. 

He hasn’t heard that name since he was a boy—hadn’t uttered it aloud since he became a foundling—so it’s a huge fucking shock when he hears the syllable trip past his lips.

And it’s an even bigger shock when the Girl repeats it back to him, “Din?” 

It does sound nice coming from her, though. He can’t deny that. Like his name is made of nectar, sweet and thick that dribbles from her tongue and down her chin—he could just lick it up from her, catch the remnants before it plummets the duracrete.

She grinds herself against him to pull him back to reality, twirling a curl around her finger curiously; cloyingly. 

“Din,” he repeats, firmer, with authority, “Say it, mesh’la, say it for me. Please.”

She tugs on his locks, forcing his helmet to tilt up to look at her and his heart misses a beat when she parts her lips and moans into his visor, “Din.”

Dank Farrik—she always knows just what to do to get his blood pumping. She doesn’t even know the significance of the word, just acknowledges how his cock quivers inside her from speaking it and then she’s a mewling mess muttering along a never-ending string of Din, Din, Din’s.

“Hold still,” he warns, a sturdy vambrace wrapping around her coccyx and propelling himself upwards and unto his knees with her below him, a gloved hand at the back of her head to protect it from slamming against the hard duracrete.

She’s even more sublime from this angle; spread out underneath him, the backs of her thighs pressed against his hip joints—purely on display for him and only him. 

Din can’t stand not being inside her, not feeling her slick walls hugging him so fucking tightly it drags pleasure through the core of his shaft, and he sheathes himself back into her quickly. Propping up his weight with a forearm beside her head, and pounding his hips into hers vigorously - the clap of their skin snapping through the air. 

She grinds her hips upwards into his lap to massage the swollen nub of her clit against him, jerking at the sensitivity - though she’s so restricted between solid flooring and a just as solid beskar figure that she more-or-less humps into Din’s body - her fingers slither behind the beskar margins of his cuisse’s to stabilise herself.

The abandoned cantina air is hot, sweltering, thick with sweat and sex—versus the dry, dusty stench prior that left his lungs ticklish. They’re fucking each other so desperately they’re emitting a skyrocketing heat, it’s dumbfounding.

Her lips are pulled invertedly to force back the whiny incoherent moans. Beads of sweat along her forehead. Eyes glued close. 

What a beautiful sight. All for him. It’s contrasting to the last time they were in a similar scenario—her hands on him, him sitting there licking every crumb off the plate of food she served him—but their positions had changed and now he’s the one working those noises out of her. A flurry of youthful pride rushes through him and he slips two fingers to touch where they connect, feeling the ridges and veins of his cock through the leather as he pulls out and slides back in - feeling what she’s feeling - memorising what she’ll memorise.

“I - I can’t…shit...Din,” she croons.

She’s close to her apex—her walls tighten around his cock even further. If she gets any tighter Din will come right here and now. He’s still not done - still needs more of her - thirsts for it.

“I know, mesh’la, I know. A - a little longer. Just a little longer.”

The digits between her thighs compile a coating of her slick seeping down the sides of her leg, applying it to her clit and drawing fast circles. She doesn’t complain about the scratchy leather on the sensitive bud, doesn’t gripe that he’s not allowing her the touch of his bare flesh—she thinks it’s fucking hot; he can’t take his hands off her for a fucking second to rid himself of the confines, can’t keep her waiting to inch his pants down past his thighs. He’s still completely clothed, permitting only his cock and thighs to spring free of his flight suit enough to fuck her into the ground—into the ground. It’s unadulterated filth through and through.

Din’s tattered and slashed cloak droops to the side of him and the Girl wads a horde of the scratchy fabric in her hand, tugging on it that brings him to meet with her hips like she’s coordinating his movements. “Oh, fu-ck. Right there, Mando, right there.”

“Din,” he growls a reminder all-while maintaining the pace and posture she’s arching into, her moaning of his name an addicting motivator, “my - my name is Din.”

If he wasn’t hitting something so unreachable—something so itchy she never knew existed—she might’ve wrapped her arm around his neck, pulled his helmet in for a kiss, and whisper sweet nothings in response to his confession. She can’t though - he doesn’t give her a second's worth of breaks. Unable to demonstrate her appreciation, she wrenches her head to the forearm beside her and administers a laden press of her lips to his leathered wrist; a small but incredibly sweet gesture that has his lungs tugging on his heartstrings.

She whispers his name as if testing it out on her tongue, this time with more sentiment. It’s a soft, short, and rounded-sounding name—everything he’s not—such a breathy syllable it doesn’t require much mouth manipulation and the Girl takes advantage of that; chorusing the word in sync with her pleasured writhing. 

Din extracts his cock from her gradually and sharply slams back into her, shoving her spine across the ground that she jumps from her position an inch, the grip on his cloak tightening.  “Fuck, Din!” Pearly whites sink into the leather surrounding his wrist and he grunts at the stimulation, his thrusts beginning to stagger as he reaches his climax. He won’t allow it - he’ll postpone his relief until she’s had hers if he has to; she deserves it.

“Come for me, pretty girl. You take care of me so-so well, let me feel you relax; come.”

She does relax, becomes nothing more than a boneless pool of flesh and blood beneath him that yelps at each smack of his hips, tingles at the squelching of his cock slipping through her lubricant and coating the base of his groin in a wet sheen of her. 

Din’s fingers continue on her nub only periodically stopping to delve deeper and amass her juices. He hits a sweet spot and she writhes into his chest, ripping her teeth from the leather to sink them in the thick padding of his shoulder where she freely moans into the fabric—deliberately putting on a show for Din that makes the head of his cock twitch.

Din increases his pace, maintaining a speed that compensates for his lack of back with the explosion—delivering a steady tempo fit for a week's worth of workouts.

She’s so close to his ear, if the beskar wasn’t there she’d be pressed right up against the cartilage, her risque whining intruding the tunnels of his eardrums. It’s too much to consider, too fucking much. 

She clamps down on his cock, tight and vice-like that he struggles to move inside of her. Her body rocks and jolts as she cums on his cock—he can feel the warmth dripping over the head and running along the sides like syrup sliding down his throat. “That’s it, pretty, do-ing so good.” She transmits a low drone from his words of praise, her bite deepening enough to leave a groove of her teeth in his muscle.

Din pinches her nub once, twice, savouring the impact of her chest against his with each jerk he pulls out of her. He aids her descent back to Tatooine, luring out the remainder of her orgasm with slow lazy circles until she politely relieves his hand from her clit—too sensitive and sore to continue.

The Girl shakes and trembles below him, feuding with the hot air that won’t stay in her lungs. She’s glazed in a gloss of sweat from her forehead all the way to her thighs; drained and overstimulated, but she extends a helping hand to the base of his cock and pumps the few inches not inside her. 

“Can’t - can’t stay there all day, Din,” she teases.

It’s on the verge of abusive how she engages him, every inch of her knowing exactly what to touch and how to touch it as if he’s just constructed of mere text on a holorecord. 

He disagrees; he could stay here for eternity.

Although, he takes her laboured breathing into consideration and rewards her with his sympathy; dragging out his own climax. Din experimentally rocks his pelvis, his cock pulling on the tightness of her channel—feeling all the grooves so distinctly, the gentle flow of warm cum trickling past his length—he’s managed his own undoing, his fingernails digging into the leather of his palm, cock rigid and violently palpitating. 

She observes his shoulders tightening, his breathing shake, his thighs flexing as he anxiously pulls out of her sex—buries it somewhere safe in her memory for later—it’s a glorious experiencing watching a Mandalorian—The Mandalorian share something so vulnerable with her; like the after-effects of a meanspirited storm, all tranquil sounds and apprehensive touches. She seizes a hand and presses the leader against her cheek, mildly gnawing on the thumb that impishly slips past her lips, her remaining picking up the pace on his cock drawing out his high.

It’s so cordial watching her tear at his thumb, pull on his length, stare into the visor knowingly; too personal, too spellbinding. He takes the bait. “Fuck, fu-ck,” he moans, staggering on his knees and firing out a sticky white that pains the insides of her thighs—trademarking her.

She’s unrelenting, milking every drop out of him until he’s lagging and softening in her palm. When she’s finally conducted his orgasm, she presses a quick peck to his thumb and retreats her skull to the duracrete, officially out of stamina for anything more than a breathy: Shit, Din. That was-fuck.

Her thighs are wet with their combined juices—a shiny translucent mixing with the softening white. He gathers it up on the tips of his fingertips and lifts it to the Girl’s mouth, wiping the sex on her tongue she’s poked out in compliance. “So good to me. So pretty,” he strums. “How’s it taste? Did we do good?”

She nods, humming and rolling her tongue around inside her mouth to blend the liquids with her saliva. 

“Sweet,” she exhales. “Salty.”

Din can only imagine the flavour they spawned together; a mouthwatering syrup that leaves a savoury aftertaste from the sweat laminating her thighs. He longs for a taste, salivating with need, but resolves. 

The Girl’s slick coating his softening cock sticks to the insides of his pants as he fixes the hem back to his hips—rubbing the remnants on his thighs and gluing the short hairs to his flesh. Din reaches behind him to detach his cloak and uses the edge to wipe away the accumulated mess he’d created between her thighs, mindful of keeping the bloody end far away from her, taking his sweet time to cherish how the flesh judders in the direction of his digits and the muscles tense when he delves closer to her sex.

She props herself up with her elbows and observes him still firmly planted between her legs, a pink blush encroaching her cheekbones at the sight of her nakedness compared to the Mandalorian. 

He notices her shyness and decides not to comment, simply places a hand on either of her knees and trails them up to her torso and across her arms where he interlocks his fingers with hers - bending down atop of her to tuck his helmet in the curve of her neck, shielding her from the prying eyes of the twin spheres peeking through the window.

She rests her cheek against the side of his helmet, murmuring soft praises. Fucked me so good, she whines, gonna leave me sore all night.

Din groans into the helm and settles his weight on her, too exhausted to move, but she welcomes his physique—invites the dense muscles to recuperate on her for as long as he requires—and she wraps an arm around the back of his helmet, cradling him into her sweat-slicked neck.

“So about that break…”

_____________

“ner” - my/mine “mesh’la” - beautiful “cin vhetin” - fresh start/clean slate “Resol’nare” - Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life “Ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor- An vencuyan mhi” - Education and armour, self-defense, our tribe, our language and our leader, All help us to survive” “dar’manda” - one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity

taglist: @ohhersheybars​, @greatcircle79​, @northernpunk​, @tanzthompson​, @djarrex​

[annaraebananawriter]

The Day He, I, We Died

And here we are! The last oneshot I managed to get done. I gave you two days worth of fluff and light-hearted laughter, and now it’s time to attack with all the feels I’ve been holding back.

Hopefully, anyway.

Enjoy!

Fandom: Undertale, but specifically the UTMV

Characters: Nightmare and Dream (Who belong to Joku)

Warnings: Character Death, and I think that’s it. Let me know!

Word Count: 2011

~oOo~

The negativity in the air was growing stronger. It darkened the skies of multiple AUs, made people slow to a stop and stare blankly around, forgetting for a moment what they were just doing. Other people screamed, too much anger for a small instance. Others sobbed, crying out for people they missed, begging for anyone to come and help them. All around, people were hurting, good memories nothing more than just that—a memory, the calming and positive effects gone.

It was sickening.

Nightmare felt all of it. Every fear, every mourner, every heartbreak. He let it all wash over him like a wave, numbing any of his own feelings. The weight of it all coiled in his chest and made it hard to breathe, like the negativity from the Multiverse decided to come back and kill its guardian. He forced himself to breathe, forced himself to absorb the power he was being granted, let it travel and spread throughout his body like electricity, a tingling feeling left behind.

He clenched his hands, extra energy thrumming through his soul. He wanted to run, to find people to mess with, AU's to massacre. He needed to calm down, find a way to get it all out so that he could go home and relax, hang out with his boys.

But...

Another pulse of energy jolted through him, stronger than all the rest. Nightmare froze, a mixture of joy and dread—his own emotions—spiking through all the noise. It felt like something clicked, something breaking and ever so slowly beginning to die off and never be felt again. One side of the scales was dropping, with nothing to replace the weight that had been keeping it level.

Positivity was dying.

But he couldn't bring himself to take the steps back home. He couldn't bring himself to tell his boys that he did it, they won, negativity now reigned supreme. They were free to live as they wanted, without being called evil. He couldn't bring himself to look away from the person whom he had sacrificed to get this ending.

He had ever wanted to kill Dream. Never. It had been an unspoken rule among his boys that they weren't to fatally injure the guardian of positivity, just wear him down and deal some damage. They mostly left him to Nightmare—which was good. He knew just how much to hold back to avoid killing him, knew when to deliberately pull back and stop attacking.

This didn't stop him from hurting Dream. Be it through words or actions, he knew that somewhere in their fights his brother had always gotten hurt in a way he couldn't fix. Maybe he could've, would've, once way back. But he wasn't that person anymore. It wasn't his job to help Dream, to console him after battles and hug him through rainstorms.

He had grown up.

Dream needed to see that.

Despite not wanting to kill Dream, something had happened in their last fight. He wasn't sure what. One minute Nightmare had been thinking about pulling back, already pulling at the magic necessary to teleport away. Dream had been getting quite unsteady and was stumbling into attacks he could've easily dodged. This was the time to call it quits and let him rest for a few days.

Then something bubbled and spit inside him, like a volcano on the verge of erupting. This caused Nightmare to pause and created a lull in the battle. He had vaguely registered Dream dropping to his knees, taking the time to catch his breath, staring up at him in confusion. Nightmare had focused on himself, a hand placed on his chest, where the volcano laid, frowning softly.

The silence had stretched, enough that Dream had found the strength to speak. "Night, what's—" He never got to finish. It was only a couple words, spoken softly, gently, concerned, but they were enough for the eruption to take action.

The red hot feeling of burning rage, hate, with an undertone of deep misery, overspilled.

Nightmare wished he could say that he didn't remember the next part, but he did. He remembered a desire overriding all of his rational thoughts and promises, to himself and others. He knew, on a subconscious level, that part of him that still remembered and still didn't want to see his brother dead, that this new desire was wrong and was an alarming thing. He felt sick thinking back on it now, shame riding up his throat.

It was a desire to kill.

Unfortunately, there was only one other person there with him.

Dream.

In his brother's defense, he did make an effort. He fought back and dodged as much as he could. He wasn't prepared to face someone actively trying to kill him, though, and that tripped him up. He had tried calling for Nightmare, trying to help him calm down and stop attacking (he must've realized something was wrong and Nightmare was himself yet also not himself and was a bit lost right now).

It didn't work.

The next thing either of them knew was that Dream tripped and a tentacle pierced right through his chest, right through his soul.

And like that, the volcanic negativity had disappeared, leaving just Nightmare behind. Once in his right mind, he quickly retreated his appendage, but didn't dare come any closer to Dream, who had dropped to the ground. He only watched as his brother coughed and coughed, hands shakily clutching the gaping hole in his sternum.

He only watched as his brother struggled to lift his head and meet his gaze, eyelights flickering bright gold to gold to bright yellow to yellow to light yellow to pale yellow and eventually growing white and fuzzy.

He only watched as Dream smiled.

"It's okay," were the final words of the guardian of positivity, Dream, his brother. Then his eyelights disappeared entirely and he slumped sideways, physical body all but dead.

Nightmare watched, blank.

He was slow to catch up, slow to gather the will to move, to walk across the clearing and kneel beside his opponent. He held himself back from reaching out and gathering the body into a hug. If he did, he knew he would never find it in him to let go and he would starve himself to death. So, instead, he slowly looked over Dream, taking in every detail possible, committing it to memory.

He expected guilt to bury him in its clutches, but it never came.

He felt numb.

He should feel something. He should be angry at himself, how he even thought for a second he had control over whether Dream lived or died, by his hand or not. He should be in misery, how his brother died right in front of him and he watched and was the culprit. He shouldn't be sitting here, staring blankly at the body in front of him, soul too absent to feeling anything.

This wasn't how things were supposed to go.

But they did.

Nightmare reached out, laying a forcibly still hand on Dream's shoulder. The body was still solid, so signs of breaking into dust yet. It was also cold, gathering from the small amount of white bones his hand was touching. Of course it was cold.

It was dead.

Nightmare blinked and hovering above the body was a little golden orb of flames. It wasn't as bright as it used to be, giving off a faint glow that barely illuminated them both. It was smaller, too. The orb flickered weakly; bright gold to gold to bright yellow to yellow to light yellow to pale yellow—

It was Dream, back to his origins.

And that's when it finally sunk in for Nightmare that his little brother was dying right in front of him and he could do nothing to stop it.

All at once, the numbness disappeared and panic took its place. Nightmare sat on his knees, hovering over the body, eyes widened in helplessness and locked onto the orb—spirit. He had to do something. He didn't want to be alone. He couldn't be alone, not anymore.

Without thinking, his hands went towards the spirit, hoping to gather it close so that Nightmare could—

It flinched away.

A sharp pain went through his soul—heartbreak, he dimly recalled, bring his hands towards his chest and holding them there. He hunched in on himself. Dream flinched away from his hands. Dream was scared of him. He wasn't sure how to feel about that, just that it hurt.

His vision started to blur with tears.

Dream's spirit slowly drifted closer, probably confused as to why Nightmare was crying.

He closed his eyes as it grew closer until it was in front of him.

Warmth made him open them.

He gazed in surprise at the orb. Its glow had increased, although he could feel it start to drain away even faster because of that. Dream had recognized him. It was sending out waves of love for Nightmare, radiating the determination he had seen frequent Dream's eyes so many times in their battles. There wasn't an ounce of hate or confusion over what had happened, just pure love. Pure forgiveness.

A sob broke through his mouth, words finally starting up as if a dam had been broken. "Dream..." His voice was raw and hurt. He knew Dream noticed, as the love increased, a feeling of reassurance's coming too.

Nightmare swallowed. "Dream."

The orb floated forward.

"I-I'm...so sorry." Nightmare said, breaking into another sob at the end. He inhaled and wiped at the tears. He pretended he was looking his brother in the eye. "I didn't mean to. I didn't want to kill you. Never. I'm sorry."

The orb gave a pulse of light, wavering slightly as it used up more of its energy.

"Don't do that. Stop." His voice came out as just a whisper now. "You're using up your energy."

Dream was stubborn and gave another pulse of light.

"Dream."

The orb shook, dulling into a gray colour. Nightmare furrowed his brow in worry, again reaching up and cupping the flame in his hands. Dream couldn't keep this up. The waves of love started petering out, being replaced by the growing negativity again. The warmth they gave stayed.

Dream mustered up the strength for a final pulse, growing smaller and smaller until it was just a speck. There was no love this time, no more warmth, but rather a whisper. A question. It was faint, the voice tired, but it was undoubtedly Dream.

"It's...okay?"

The speck waited as Nightmare blinked.

Funny. Dream had said that to calm Nightmare down before and now here he was again, the same words, asking if it's okay that he died and left him behind. So funny. Before it was a reassurance, to let Nightmare know that it was alright, even though it wasn't. Now he was asking permission to let go and die. From Nightmare.

Why?

Nightmare was the one who killed him. He should be scrambling to get away, putting as much distance between the two of them as possible. He should be jumping into the afterlife or whatever, relieved to get to rest. But he wasn't. He was here. Waiting for Nightmare to tell him it was okay.

...What did Nightmare ever do to deserve such a kind brother?

He started chuckling, though they weren't happy. They were filled with an aching sadness that couldn't be put into words. He looked at the speck, looked at his brother, trying to imagine his patient and awaiting look, bright golden eyes sparked in curiosity and worry—not of himself, but of Nightmare—and he tried to smile.

"Yeah." He whispered, talking through the tears. The pain was forced down. "It's okay."

The speck disappeared.

Nightmare watched the space where it used to be, silently breathing for a long time. Before he realized it, his shoulders were shaking and he thought for a moment he was laughing. But that would be cruel; his brother dying, and he laughed? No. He was crying. When he realized that he could hear the sobs and felt heavy as the weight of grief and pain and sadness and guilt all hit him at once.

He collapsed onto the body in front of him, felt it start to dust. He held on tightly anyway, fingers grabbing fistfuls of shirt. He buried his head in the neck, not caring anymore about not toughing the wound.

"It's not okay." He whispered it over and over, even when he was left holding nothing but clothes and dust covered him.

Positivity was dead.

Nightmare felt like he somehow died right along with it.

[hellowkatey]

Febuwhump Day 8

Prompt: “hey, hey, this is no time for sleep”

Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence and injury

Crash at Point Rain

The battle already rages below them as the 212th Attack Battalion descends toward Geonosis. Obi-Wan watches with great trepidation as the ground forces are already deep in the midst of a violent undertaking. The explosions kick up the dusty surface of the bug planet, creating a cloud that obscures his view from seeing anything besides the muted flashes of blaster and cannon fire. 

The Force reeks of death and destruction. If the turbulence of the gunship isn't enough to cause his stomach to turn, the feeling of darkness is. 

"Five klicks to the rendezvous, General!" the message is passed from the pilot. 

"Very good, stay sharp." 

Everything relies on things according to plan. So naturally, everything goes up in smoke. 

A massive explosion next to them causes the gunship to jolt, nearly throwing half the men out the other side of the open ship. Obi-Wan whirls around in time to watch one of their other ships, hit by cannons, violently explode and fall to the ground in a massive fireball. 

Oh, not good, he thinks, because as long as they are in the air, they are practically defenseless. The clunky ships only have so much maneuverability and the dust is too thick to get a proper visual to shoot down the anti-aircraft tech. 

"Take evasive action!" he yells, though his orders are implied. The blast doors are slammed shut, and darkness encompasses the hold. Obi-Wan white knuckles the hand-hold, his heart dropping as the reports begin to come flooding in through his commlink of other gunships having the same issues. 

He would have preferred to never step foot on this Force-forsaken planet again. One time on Geonosis is more than enough in Obi-Wan's opinion, but apparently, the bugs seem to have a significant role to play in all of this. He still remembers the carnage in that arena like it happened yesterday. It still haunts him that all of this could have been stopped had they managed to capture Dooku. 

Instead, Anakin lost his hand, The Jedi lost numerous, and the galaxy received a civil war. 

Cody's voice rings through on his commlink, sharp and frantic. "General Kenobi, don't land! The zone is hot!" 

"But there's nowhere else to go!"

Suddenly, the gunship jolts once more, but this time the horrible sound of durasteel being forced apart and the heat of explosion accompanies it. 

"We're hit, we're hit!" he yells over the alarms that now blare through the cabin. "We're going down!" 

Some troopers fall into the walls as the ship loses control. Obi-Wan can see out the front window from where he stands, and the red sands of Geonosis are very quickly approaching. We're coming in at too hard an angle!

Another shot comes hurdling through the very window, shattering the transperisteel and striking the pilot. There is only time for a gasp of surprise, and then the trooper slumps forward. 

"Brace yourselves!" Obi-Wan screams as the ship takes a nose dive. Gravity is pulling his body off the ground now, and despite his order, he finds himself suspended with only his grip on the strap as an anchor. The Jedi Master flails, trying unsuccessfully to plant his weight anywhere else and get some traction, but troopers are already being thrown at a terminal velocity within the durasteel coffin, pushing him out of any position of security he could manage. 

When the front of the gunship slams into Geonosis, Obi-Wan is torn from the handle. He unceremoniously crashes into the durasteel floor, his forehead bouncing off it with a sickening crack. Darkness clouds his vision, but he holds onto consciousness as the belly of the ship follows close behind in the violent crash. He is tossed into a huddle of other troopers, their armor cutting into the unprotected portions of his skin. Obi-Wan has no idea if up is up or down is up, or how long they have been skidding across the surface of the planet. The pile of helpless men is suddenly thrown in the other direction as the ship seems to slow, but tip onto its side. Obi-Wan, on top of the pile one moment, is hitting the wall again the next. This time, he doesn't have a moment to react before the other occupants of the hold are on top of him. 

The destroyed gunship itself has stopped, but everything still feels like it's spinning. He gasps through the thick black smoke that has funneled into the cabin, trying to move, but the four troopers that are slung across him have him pinned against the wall. His head throbs, his vision is blurred. He can't tell if it's from the smoke or he hit his head hard enough to give him a nasty concussion-- possibly both. 

Through his haze, he hears groans of agony around him. His troopers have not moved since they came to a stop. He can feel their Force presences-- they're dim. Few. Many have perished, and many more are on the way. 

Obi-Wan manages to get an arm free and pushes the clone that lies across his chest to the side. Blood covers the front of his armor where it looks like his blaster got jammed in his throat. He pushes down a wave of nausea and uses his newfound freedom to push another one of his fallen men off his leg. He's weak. Barely able to manage the weight, though he's never had issues before.

"General!" a faint voice calls from the other side of the ship. It takes him a moment to look up, searching lazily across the smokey cabin. A trooper slowly gets to his feet, stumbling over the bodies of his fallen brothers and landing on his knees at Obi-Wan's side. 

"Trapper," he recalls his name. "are you injured?" 

"Not as bad as others. And you, sir?" 

Obi-Wan grimaces as another wave of nausea burns like acid in this throat, and decides to ignore that question. "Help me get free if you can." 

Trapper is able to pull the other two troopers off him before practically collapsing. Obi-Wan pulls him to sit next to him with his back against the wall. "Well done, trooper. Rest now." 

The clone sighs in relief, reaching up and pulling his bucket off, and holding it in his lap. Now that they have settled and the smoke has thinned, Obi-Wan can finally take stock of the damage. 

The walls of the gunship look as though they were crushed between the hands of a giant. It's a wonder it held up the way it did judging by the force of their impact. Bodies of troopers are strewn about. Motionless. The smell of blood and burning flesh is already potent, which is just about pushing Obi-Wan over the edge. 

"Pardon me, Trapper," he says before leaning over away from his companion and emptying the contents of his stomach. He vomits until there is nothing left, and then his stomach still twists, as though even its natural acid must be ejected. Tears spring up in his eyes and his face feels hot and clammy. Obi-Wan has to clutch the wall to bring himself back to his original sitting position. His hands are shaking. He folds them together in an effort to calm them.

His head hurts. It's a dull, radiating pain that encompasses his head and runs down his neck, making his body simultaneously feel like it's crumbling and completely numb. 

He can feel Trapper watching him. "I'm okay," 

"Did you hit your head general?" 

"A better question may be what didn't my head hit." 

It's more honest than he usually is, but Obi-Wan is quickly losing the will to hide it any longer. He is holding back tears that he isn't sure why are trying to force themselves out. He's felt greater agonies, been through worse tribulations.

But the tears don't seem to be sadness. It's difficult to place, but he feels angry? Frustrated? With every passing moment, his emotion seems to change. 

It's exhausting. He's exhausted. Obi-Wan lets out a shaky breath and lets his heavy eyelids fall closed. Though the gunship was dark already, the total darkness is like immediate relief. 

"Hey, general, this is no time for sleep." 

"It sure feels like it," he groans. 

"If you have a concussion you must stay awake to monitor your symptoms, sir." 

"And if I decide to nap?" 

Silence hangs between them for a long moment. 

"I believe there is a chance you may not wake up. Sir." 

As enticing as that sounds in the moment, Obi-Wan forces his eyes open again, rolling his head slowly to the side to look at Trapper. 

"We can't have that, I suppose." 

Minutes or hours later-- Obi-Wan isn't sure-- voices echo from outside and rapid footsteps approach. Not the buzz of Geonosisans nor the clank of battle droids, which is comforting at least. He grips his lightsaber anyway, ready to use it if needed.

Obi-Wan isn't sure of how much help he could possibly be, though. After taking greater stock of his injuries, he is quite sure he won't be able to stand on his own for more than a few minutes, nevermind actually fighting. 

The door of the gunship is forced open and light streams in, causing a flare of pain behind his sensitive eyes. He squints through the daylight until his swimming vision finally focuses long enough to see familiar troopers. 

"Waxer, Boil. Am I glad to see you," he pauses as they run forward to meet them, their gaze obviously wandering to their dead brothers lying about. "Trapper and I are the only ones still alive." 

"Good to see you, sir," They hoist him to his feet, quicker than he probably should have been by the way everything goes black for a few long seconds, but Waxer keeps his arm securely around him as he blinks through it. "Commander Cody's established the square just beyond this position..." a ringing in Obi-Wan's ears drones out the clone's voice, and he winces, squeezing his eyes shut until it passes. "...trying to surround us as we speak, sir." 

Right. The battle. The war. Now out of the ship, he is rudely reminded of the brutality of the ongoing battle that is only made worse by his pounding head. Blaster shots sound as though they are being amplified directly in his ears, and explosions and cannons make his knees feel weak from the light sensitivity. 

Medical is going to have a field day with this, he sighs. 

Though he wants nothing more than to collapse in his bunk for the next week and a half, he reminds himself of the importance of their success. They must recapture Geonosis and take out their droid foundries. 

Obi-Wan pulls the Force around him, releasing his pain and using it to augment his strength. It's a short-term solution-- and something that will get him in deep trouble with the healers if they find out-- but it will do for now. 

There will be time to rest when the war is over. 

[yunatheintrovert]

the definition of freedom | Protective!Perseus/Fem!Bell

Note: This takes place in a post-Solovetsky AU where the CIA delayed Bell's termination until later on after Solovetsky. 

The sea breeze brushed against your face as you walked alongside Adler. You glanced at him, biting back the questions nipping at your mind. He hadn’t told you anything in the briefing. The only details revealed were the time and date of the exchange, not one mention of whoever was going to be exchanged in return for the US Senator held hostage. 

Just as you opened your mouth to ask at least where the hostage was, Adler abruptly stopped in his steps, looking at the little dirt hiking path in front of you.

You heard the sound of footsteps coming closer and closer along with the muffled sound of protests-

Your thoughts were cut short by the sight of the very man who haunted your memories and dreams. 

Perseus.

The Soviet spymaster was standing there with the struggling figure of the US Senator his operatives had taken hostage during the politician's overseas trip.

You tensed, your hand immediately going to the gun holstered at your waist. Yet when you looked to Adler questioningly, he shook his head. 

Reluctantly, you brought your hand away from the gun. You shifted uneasily as you stood there waiting for whatever the hell was going to take place. That moment of uneasy silence was broken as you finally mustered up the nerve to speak up. 

“Where’s the hostage?” you asked hesitatingly, nervously glancing at Adler. There was something...off with him. 

Adler casually took a drag of his cigarette before sighing out.

“It’s you, kid.” Adler said before gesturing to Perseus, “Now, go to him.” 

“No, no-” you shook your head in denial, taking several stumbling steps away from Adler, “I-I don’t understand-”

Adler sighed, flicking off the ash from the cigarette in his hand. You watched as the embers fell onto the grass below, “Of course you wouldn’t, kid.” 

“Bell, we have a job to do.” 

You blinked, a flash of sterile white filled your vision before fading into a hellish crimson. 

And as soon as it started, it was over. You felt something abruptly snap in mind. The unease within you faded away as you stared at him.

Everything felt distant.

You numbly nodded to him. 

Taking several steps forward, you looked to Perseus. There was something inexplicably familiar about him. He looked like something out of your dreams. 

The same Soviet military coat, telnyashka, and knife sheathed at his belt. 

Perseus was exactly how he appeared in your memories. 

You blinked for a moment, stopping in your steps. 

Was this just a dream?

A test of your true loyalties?

You turned around to look at Adler questioningly once again-

And suddenly there was a crack that reverberated through the air. 

You suddenly felt a bloom of heat at your neck. You instinctively brought a hand up to your neck only to find a heated substance spilling out from the bloom of heat. 

You pulled away your hand only to find it covered in an all too familiar crimson. 

Blood.

You blinked in shock. You turned to stare in the direction you heard the loud crack of the gunshot coming from only to find yourself staring at Perseus. 

You could have sworn right then and there he almost looked shocked .

How funny , you distantly thought. 

Because really the idea of someone much less Perseus caring about you was just comical. 

Hudson was right, after all.

You were of no use to Perseus at this point. 

Nothing but damaged goods. 

Yet as you felt blood well up in your mouth, you couldn’t stop the words from falling off your lips.

“Прости.”

You really didn’t know what compelled you to say that. 

Perhaps, you were sorry for wasting the Soviet spymaster’s time and effort. 

Or for how you betrayed him at the start, succumbing to Adler’s voice in MK Ultra. 

You didn’t remember him.

Yet all those things still haunted you. 

And then you heard a second gunshot from behind you. 

You felt the gunshot at your back throw you to the ground. The bullet hit your ballistic vest underneath your jacket. Yet you choked on the fresh new blood gurgling in your throat from the impact. 

“Nyet...you said you would let her go-”

“No, I said I would set her free.” Adler’s voice calmly said. It reminded you of how he would go over the mission briefings, coolly in that exact detached tone. You laughed lightly to yourself with your chest shaking as you choked even more on the blood welling up in your throat.

At least it would make it quicker, you thought to yourself. 

You heard the sound of approaching footsteps before you were forced onto your back by an abrupt kick to the ribs. 

“What’s more free than this?” 

You stared up at Adler’s face, not even finding it in yourself to be quite shocked.

You should have known better really.

Your use to Adler...Hudson...the CIA was non-existent at this point.

It was only time that you were going to be put down like this.

You only wished he shot you point-blank instead of letting you bleed out slowly like this. 

There was that brief thought that crept up in your mind. He could have easily gotten you to do the job yourself with the press of a gun in your hand and the muttering of that phrase. 

Suddenly, you heard the familiar accented voice of Perseus speak up calmly. 

“ты пожалеешь об этом.” 

And then all hell broke loose. 

Smoke flooded into the clearing in a sudden familiar hiss of several canisters popping open. You wheezed at the smoke inhaled into your lungs. Your vision blurred and dimmed with every desperate breath you struggled to take. 

Suddenly, amidst all the chaos of explosions and bullets going off around you, you vaguely heard the sound of footsteps approaching you. You glanced to the side only to see the blurry figure of Perseus there with his gas mask on before he kneeled down to you. 

...Was he going to finish you off like the traitor you were?

You let your hands lay limply at your sides. 

You weren’t going to fight him...not now. 

And so you watched numbly as he quickly brought a gloved hand to your throat, pressing harshly on the wound there. You groaned at the feeling of leather digging into the bullet wound. 

You closed your eyes instinctively. 

Perseus really did want to make you suffer before you died.

Although, you vaguely wondered why he would want to torture you right in the middle of a firefight. 

"You Americans...did you really think I came here without a fail-safe? I hope you enjoy the parting gift I left with the senator." you heard Perseus say calmly though you could tell there was a quiet fury to his voice.

You could understand that. Going all the way to Argentina for a hostage exchange only for it to turn out to be for nothing would be annoying. 

Although, Perseus needed to hurry up with torturing you if he wanted to deal out any real pain. You could already feel your vision dim more and more and your breathing slow. 

Cold, you noted. There was an icy feeling that seeped into your being more and more. 

It was ironic how the only warmth you felt was Perseus’ gloved hand pressing down hard on your neck. 

Suddenly, you felt the warmth leave your neck. You didn’t bother to even open your eyes. 

You knew what was going to happen next-

Yet you found yourself slowly opening your eyes in surprise at the feeling of being picked up and warmth pressed against your side. You opened your eyes to see the olive green color of Perseus’ military coat as he was...carrying you with one arm under your legs and another supporting your back. Your head was resting against his shoulder. 

“Keep the pressure at your neck, comrade.” Perseus said hurriedly, glancing down at you. You felt his steps quicken as you heard the faint sound of blades clipping through the air come closer and closer at the cliff-side. 

You opened your mouth even as you felt hot blood spill out of your lips. You choked as you struggled to ask why . Then again, deep down you knew the answer. Perseus was still maintaining that hope he could get something out of you to use against Adler.

He’s wasting his time, you thought numbly.

Sighing one last time, you leaned into the warmth against you as your vision dimmed more and more…

“Nyet, nyet- ” 

________________________________________________________________

Author’s Note: This was originally supposed to be a 200-300 word length snippet I was only going to post on here. However, this ended up being way longer than I planned and expected. Also, grammar and descriptive details have left the chat in my mind so my writing is way more brief and less descriptive in this. Apologies for that. Well, I hope this turned out alright. Thanks for reading!

[thatboomerkid]

Giff -- SpellJammer Race for Pathfinder

Giff -- SpellJammer Race [19 RACE POINTS] for First Edition Pathfinder

Known to the gnomes of Markovia as the nilski konj vojnici, to the Hin plantation-owners of Covington Farms as los mercenarios gigantes del río, and to the human field-workers laboring near New Arvoreen most-often simply as “those big goddamn bastards,” the giff -- as they are called in their own guttural, roaring language -- represent a recently-contacted species of huge, violent, powerfully-built, terrifyingly-focused, and dangerously cagey combatants.

In the little-over-a-century since their discovery by the Hin, platoons of giff have already carved a bloody name for themselves across the wilds of Verdura -- and far beyond -- as unparalleled river-guides, rowdies, strike-breakers, mob debt-collectors, private enforcers, heavy-weapons units, siege engines, bodyguards, and elite soldiers of fortune.

Brought to you absolutely free to enjoy, to test & to share – as always – by the fine folks of my Patreon.

original image by the incredible Claudio Pozas, here

Type: Monstrous Humanoid (3 RP)

Ability Score Modifiers: Mixed Weakness (-2 RP)

+2 Strength, -4 Dexterity, +2 Constitution, -4 Intelligence, +2 Wisdom

Size: Large (7 RP)

Giff gain a +2 size bonus to Strength and a -2 size penalty to Dexterity (already included above). Giff also suffer a -1 size penalty to their AC and a -1 size penalty on all attack rolls; they gain a +1 bonus on combat maneuver checks and to their CMD, and suffer a -4 size penalty on Stealth checks.

A giff takes up a space that is 10 feet by 10 feet and has a reach of 5 feet.

Base Speed: Normal speed (0 RP)

Languages: Standard (0 RP); giff speak their own eponymous, curiously poetic language, and most are -- in the modern day -- also conversant in Low Kozah-Talosii (usually spoken with a thick, pompous Verduran accent).

This bastardized dialect, the so-called “Common tongue” favored across Pyrespace for use in international, intercultural, and interplanetary trade, is a degraded mongrel variant of High Kozah-Talosii: the ancient root-tongue of both Arvorean and Brandobarin, still employed by the Church of Yondalla for use in sermons, hymns, and in all official records.

Big Damn Guns: Giff are treated as gnomes for purposes of the Experimental Gunsmith Archetype. (0 RP)

Darkvision: Giff have 60 ft. darkvision (0 RP); giff have relatively poor eyesight while out of water, which is easily corrected with simple lenses -- such as a monocle -- for use while reading. This vision is not poor enough to impart a mechanical penalty on Perception checks or attack rolls made by the giff.

Natural Armor: Giff have +3 natural armor (4 RP)

Natural Attack (Headbutt): Giff receive one natural attack, which is treated as a gore attack that deals 1d8 bludgeoning damage. (1 RP)

Natural Swimmers: Giff have a swim speed of 30 feet and gain the +8 racial bonus on Swim checks that a swim speed normally grants. (1 RP)

Powerful Charge (Headbutt): Whenever a giff charges, it deals twice the standard number of damage dice with its headbutt plus 1-1/2 times its Strength bonus. (2 RP)

River-Sense: Giff can sense vibrations in water, granting them blindsense 30 feet against creatures that are touching the same body of water. (1 RP)

Slow On Land: Giff often select the Clumsy, Easy Target, Magically Inept, Nearsighted, and Slow Reflexes Major Drawbacks (0 RP)

Spell Resistance (Greater): Giff have spell resistance equal to 11 + their character level. (3 RP)

Sporting: The species-wide love of warfare exhibited by the giff draws a sharp line of distinction between “sporting” and “unsporting” combat (see below). (-1 RP)

Sporting combat includes arm-wrestling, fisticuffs, darts, cards, dice, checkers, chess, billiards, cricket, rugby, skeet shooting, tennis, and golf, alongside tests of boasting, carousing, headbutting, toast-giving, swimming, push-ups, and a complex, ritualized sort of thunderous, unarmed mixed martial-art performed solely while stripped down to breeches & undergarments, usually in ankle-deep to waist-deep water, ending in pin or submission, which -- up to a point -- also serves as a type of flirting.

The military mentality of the giff even makes special allowances for a variety of “sporting” duels to the death. Establishing a proper duel requires a huge number of complex ritual elements that -- in the end -- mostly boils down to both giff formally acknowledging that:

Both giff are armed with approximately the same quality of weapons & armor (warhammer, combat knife, pistol, full plate, etc.)

Both giff have equal access to military support, including healing

Both giff have a grievance, no matter how petty

Both giff are suffering approximately the same level of injuries

Both giff have made arrangements for their estate, and for the treatment of their body after death

Once a “sporting” challenge to the death has been agreed-to by both parties, anything up to and including outright murder of one’s opponent is considered fair game.

Several major holidays each year celebrated by the giff include a “violent dueling festival” as part of their celebration; to outsiders, these events have a very bizarre, genteel, 1800s-Victorian-Teddy-Roosevelt-meets-The-Purge sort of feel to them:

“Happy holidays, friend; best of health this year to you and to your kin. And I say, old chap, don’t suppose it’s high time for a kukri-duel, eh, wot wot? Seeing as you got drunk on my finest brandy, made a pass at the missus, wiped your prodigious buttocks with my table linens, and micturated in my hedge-row as of Christmas last, well ... in lieu of an apology, what say I have Jenkins fetch the carving blades, eh? See which of has the moxie, shall we? Cheerio and have at thee then, old sport?”

If this formal challenge to a lethal sporting-duel is declined, the challenger must make all possible accommodations to guarantee the immediate physical safety of the giff she just challenged (at least until such time as the two giff part ways once more): providing the giff with weapons, armor, food, water, medicine, reading materials, a place to sleep, liquor, smoking tobacco, and anything else a gentleman or lady of high breeding could reasonably expect to have access to (even while imprisoned).

In short: if the challenged giff dies immediately after declining a duel, it is considered very embarrassing for the challenger.

For his own part, the declining giff must treat her challenger with the very utmost level of respect ... or risk being guilty of unsporting conduct, a fate far worse than mere death.

Any giff who finds herself about to violate the terms of properly “sporting” conduct instantly becomes aware of the error, just as if she were wearing a phylactery of faithfulness and, at all times, actively contemplating the thought of doing bodily harm to another giff: this behavioral limitation is not built as a trap for players to accidentally stumble into, but -- instead -- as an interesting roadblock to navigate around.

If two or more giff find themselves forced into a position of armed conflict against one another on a battlefield, both groups traditionally retire for at least a day of drinking and sorting-out ranks; on rare occasion, one platoon will join the other; more likely, all giff involved in any part of the operation will quit their current hirings and look for work elsewhere.

Any giff who engages another member of her own species in any type of unsporting combat -- attacking another giff with a weapon, for example, or with magic -- immediately suffers a -2 penalty on all skill checks, ability checks, attack rolls and saves; she continues to suffer this penalty until such time as she is able to make amends: presenting her victim with a formal written apology, or seeking our her victim’s family to beg their public pardon.

Each month, this penalty increases by 2. Guilt is a poison that grows by degrees, after all: ever-gnawing.

While she is suffering penalties in this way, if the giff is presented with the chance to punish herself – or a non-giff opponent! – while presented with something that reminds the giff of her betrayal, she may find herself compelled to do so regardless of the consequences:

Any time her betrayal is directly brought to her attention, the giff must make a Will save (DC = 10 + her character level + the Charisma modifier of the wronged giff). Failure means that the giff falls into a rage of abject self-loathing, completely focused on her own guilt for a number of rounds equal to the DC, above. Until she has finished with this exercise in hate, the giff can take no action other than to harm the reminder of her failure or enable herself to harm it: grappling a human shipmate who mentioned her old friend so that she might headbutt the human while strangling them, for example, or calmly loading a shotgun so that she might shoot the human dead in cold blood.

Note that the giff, while wracked with guilt & grief, is not required to do anything or harm anyone: she may simply stare at an old photograph and feel sad, for example, ignoring everyone around her.

During the fury of this black tempest, the giff suffers a -2 penalty to her AC.

Once the giff successfully makes amends, either with the wronged party or with the victim’s next-of-kin, all of the above penalties are removed. Entire subsets of giff society -- mediators, arbitrators, and negotiators -- are explicitly adapted to making absolutely certain that any errors in sporting conduct among giff are resolved quickly, and to the satisfaction of all parties. 

Should she fail to make amends before her death, any giff who has harmed another giff in an unsporting way invariably rises again as an undead horror of some kind (often a blood knight or graveknight): reborn as a rotting, lurching mountainside of infinitely destructive hated.

Note that the Sporting Racial Trait is not purely social, but rather acts as a species-wide ingrained psychological virtue: two giff living on Fenris who never expect to see the wide rivers of Verdura again are still bound by the rules of “sporting” conflict; neither could shoot the other in the back any more than either of them could grow wings and fly to the moon.

Undead giff do not possess the Sporting Trait, which is seen -- by living giff -- as the most abhorrent and disturbing quality imaginable.

Note, also, that the desire to behave in a sporting manner extends only to fellow giff: Chaotic Evil giff will routinely massacre unarmed non-giff by the thousands, bellowing with laughter as they do so, and even a Lawful Good giff will rarely think twice before sucker-punching a crude human making drunken threats and impolite remarks at the bar.

-------

Giff Timeline:

1603 A.D. (118 years ago): The colony of New Arvoreen is established on Verdura; giff make contact with Hin (and their human servants) for the first time.

1620 A.D.: First generation of giff who have always known about the existence of Hin, humans, and -- most importantly! -- firearms fully comes of age.

1636 A.D.: New Arvoreen is significantly expanded.

1667 A.D.: Nation of Markovia -- the technological-marvel nation named for its Founder, Monarch and Supreme Leader, Dr. Adlai Markovitch -- founded on Verdua; diplomatic trade established with New Arvoreen.

1669 A.D.: City of New Arvoreen significantly expanded.

1702 A.D.: New Arvoreen significantly expanded; land officially cleared for Covington Farms, soon to be the largest agricultural facility in the system; rates of forcible immigration of indentured humans to New Arvoreen tripled.

1721 A.D.: (current year)

original image here

Giff Ranks: Lieutenant, General, Colonel, Major General, Lieutenant General, Lieutenant Colonel, Captain General, Brigadier General, Field Marshall, Major, Captain, Sergeant Major, Commandant General, Wing General, Lieutenant Colonel General, Staff Sergent, Master Sergent, Master General, Grenadier General; note that “Lord” may be added to any military rank, alongside the designations of “First” and “First Class” (for example, “First Lord Brigadier General First Class”)

Giff military ranks are, effectively, meaningless noise to everyone except the giff themselves: every member of the species is a decorated officer of some complex rank within some elite military company or another, but such ranks are largely ceremonial and may be inherited, purchased, or passed through elaborate, bombastic ritual.

Further, the only thing preventing a young giff from forming an entirely new military organization & immediately naming herself -- of example -- Supreme Acting Field Commander and Secretary General of the Armies and Navies at Wartime is -- up to a point -- her own willingness to do so.

Male Giff Names: Any invented male Hin name.

Female Giff Names: Any invented female Hin name.

Giff Family Names: Any invented male Hin first name

Society

The giff are military-minded, and organize themselves into squads, platoons, companies, corps, and larger groups. The number of giff in a platoon varies according to the season, situation, and level of danger involved.

A giff "platoon" hired to protect a gambling operation may number only a single soldier, while a platoon hired to invade an illithid stronghold may number well over a hundred.

The giff pride themselves on their weapon-skills, and any giff carries a number of swords, daggers, maces, and similar tools on hand to deal with troublemakers.

A giff's true love, however, is the gun. A misfiring weapon matters little to the giff (occasional fatalities amongst soldiery are simply to expected); it is the flash, the noise, and the damage that most impress them.

Even unarmed, the giff are powerful opponents. Against non-giff, they’ll often wade into a brawl just for the pure fun of it, tossing various combatants on both sides around to prove themselves the victors.

Once a weapon is bared, however, and the challenge becomes “unsporting,” the giff consider all restrictions off: the challenge is now to the death.

The giff prize themselves as top-quality mercenaries, and to that end take great pride in owning -- if not always wearing -- elaborate suits of full-plate armor. These suits usually include massive helms featuring hyper-detailed, semi-realistic images of exotic monsters on the crests, inlaid with ivory and bone along the largest plates.

Armor repair is a major hobby among the giff, although great skill at the craft is surprisingly rare.

The giff are deeply suspicious of magic, magicians, and magical devices; their legendary foes, the Five Tiger Princes, are despised for their esoteric abilities as much for their wicked deviltry.

image here

Family

The giff are, for the most part, happiest among fellow members their own race, intermingling broadly with the Ghoran -- whom the giff utilize as an edible, inexhaustible workforce -- and the Tengu: another unofficial “servitor race” of the giff, most often used as messengers and household servants.

Ghoran living on giff lands are stoic: dutifully tending the fields of the giff in exchange for protection from ten-thousand other, vastly more predatory dangers. For all that giff treat the ghoran as disposable -- a ghoran living on Verdura produces one seed each year, and can grow a new member of the species in a single month -- the giff do not want the ghoran hunted to total extermination. That, for the ghoran, is saying something,

Tengu, on the other hand, are deeply prized by the giff as staff, usually in the roles of personal assistants, groomers, decorators, butlers, bartenders, man-servants, attaches, major domos, and maids. Since all giff are “wealthy land owners,” to one degree or another, the true power & prestige of a giff can be accurately measured by the number of tengu he employs.

Giff otherwise consider anything larger than them deeply threatening, yet also complain bitterly -- in private -- about the fragility of the smaller races. Outside their own platoons, the giff are happiest among military organizations with a strong chain of command.

For this reason, giff hold the Church of Yondalla in exceptionally high regard.

Giff especially despise the catfolk: although they don’t speak of it to outsiders, a century ago the giff were on the verge of extinction: hunted for sport and trophy by servants of the Five Tiger Princes, their people nearly cut to nothing and their lands held by only a few remaining families. Since their acquisition of firearms -- and the arrival of the Hin -- the catfolk have broadly retreated.

Every giff -- male, female, and giffling -- has a rank within their greater society, which can only be changed by a giff of higher rank. Within these ranks are sub-ranks, and within those sub-ranks are color-markings and badges. The highest-ranking giff gives the orders, the others obey. It does not matter if the orders are foolish or even suicidal: following them is the purpose of the giff in the universe. A quasi-mystical faith among the giff -- who claim to worship, in a vague way, the Golden General Bahamut, who was killed and eaten by the cowardly Five Tiger Princes in order to steal his strength -- confirms that all things have their place, and the place of the giff to follow orders.

This makes the giff very happy.

Giff platoons can be hired from their sprawling, palatial riverside plantations and mountain hunting-lodges by anyone looking for muscle. The social leaders among the giff are contractors: these specially-trained giff review prospective employers according to ability to pay, then make a recommendation to powerful warlords and famous adventurers among the giff. The leaders, in turn, consider the danger of the job, and whether taking it will enhance their giffdom.

Giff jobs are usually paid in firearms & gunpowder, though they often will accept other weapons and armor. Aboard ship, the giff require their own quarters, and will often request to bring on their own large weapons. They favor fire-projectors and bombards for ground work, and will happily blaze away at opponents regardless of the tactical situation.

The giff require the ships of others because they have -- for the most part -- no spellcasting abilities among them.

Giff of both sexes serve in their platoons, and both fight equally well. Giff young are raised tenderly until they are old enough to survive an exploding arquebus, then are inducted fully into the platoon.

The giff practice equality among the sexes in battle and in childrearing. They live about 70 years, but do not take aging gracefully. As a giff grows older and begins to slow down, he is possessed with the idea of proving himself still young and vital, usually in battle.

As a result, there are very, very few old giff.

[the-caffeine-hero]

More Than Enough

Kurapika x Reader - Angst with a (sorta?) happy ending? - Crossposted on AO3!

It was late, the night air piercingly quiet as it always seemed to be on the nights you spent alone. It was to be expected, of course, when you stopped to consider who you shared your living space with. You have known Kurapika for what seemed like a lifetime yet it had only been a short two years. Although, the young man you had met those two years ago was not the same man you now know. While you have heard the whispers between friends that he had grown to be more handsome and intriguing, and I suppose you wouldn’t disagree on the handsome thing but you missed the boy you originally knew. You never failed to notice the markings of overworking and stress that painted the blondes face. You would consider yourself an expert on the said face, you hesitate to admit it but you spend more time that anyone should staring at his face. Some would say that you harbored a small (immensely large) crush on the Kurta but you tried your best to not think about it too much. It wasn't as if you were shy or would rather that he make the first move, rather you had a very early realization of the slim chances of a relationship with him. The possible romantic relationship seemed to be a disaster waiting to happen so you held your tongue. That thought aside, you loved him despite his, unfortunately, self-destructive tendencies and dedicated revenge plans. You were just as happy to spend what little moments you could with him. That was more than enough.

If almost like waking up from a deep sleep, you were pulled away from your thoughts by the clicks and twists of the front door unlocking. Kurapika trudged up the stairs at an almost snail pace. He gave you a small smile as the two of you made eye contact, then retreating into his bedroom. You let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding in once the blonde had passed you. Your heart ached for Kurapika. This wasn’t the first time he had come home this way. It wasn’t always this way, but recently it had only become worse. More late returns home, fewer hours of sleep, and one-word conversations. Your lips pursed as your head fell back against the couch. Were you wrong to be worried? Against your better judgment, you moved to follow him. While you knew there were no romantic ties, you still were one of his friends. You had a right to be at least a little concerned. His bedroom door was closed which was unsurprising. Even at the best of times, Kurapika was a very private man. Your fingers lingered centimeters from the door, your next steps uncertain. While your worries seemed valid to you, you still felt an invisible roadblock stopping you from knocking on the door. It was quite possible that Kurapika would welcome the company but he also could very well want some time alone. You took a breath, grounding yourself as you let your hand connect with his bedroom door, your knuckles making a soft rap on the door. You had no idea what you expected but it wasn’t to find yourself coming face to face with the blonde man.

“Should you not already be in bed?” Kurapika asked as he leaned his head against the doorframe. You smiled softly at him as your eyes met.

“I could say the same about you. I’m not keeping you am I?” You asked, your fingers twiddling with the hem of your shirt. He gives you another small smile, just like the one from before.

“No, you’re never a bother.” He stated almost matter-of-factly. This left a quick yet somehow agonizingly slow silence between the two of you.

“Can I come in?” You asked, breaking the stark silence. He nodded at your request, moving away from the door, allowing you to enter. Every time you saw his room you felt a tang of disappointment. It was barren save for a bed, a closet, and a bookshelf. You knew that Kurapika was not a materialistic man by any means as well as his stay not being 100% permanent, yet you still hoped to see him settle in just a little bit. Kurapika sat down on the bed, his eyes trailing your own as you looked around the room. As your eyes locked, he opened his mouth to speak. You were quick to cut him off before even a single sound could escape his lips.

“Kurapika, I am worried about you.” You stated abruptly. The blonde gazes at you with knowing eyes as he sinks deeper into the mattress.

“There is no reason for alarm. I am quite alright.” He responded with the words he knew youtube wanted to hear. You feel your lips press tightly together before you speak again.

“I don’t believe you, Kurapika. You’ve been overworking yourself and pushing everyone away recently. I know that not everything is okay.” You responded, your words flowing steadily like a waterfall. You take a seat next to Kurapika on the bed, your hands reaching to capture his. You feel a slight blush crawl it's way up your neck at the action.

“I’m not trying to say that you have to stop. In fact, I admire your dedication more than words could ever describe but don’t you think that you deserve a chance to feel good and for once not weighed down by such a heavy responsibility?” You ask, your mind running a million miles a minute, Anyone close to Kurapika knew that his mission was a sensitive topic and you couldn’t help but pray that he knew and understood that you didn’t mean for your words to come across as unsupportive. Granted, you would not call yourself supportive as you couldn’t help but notice the negative effects that that revenge had on the blonde. You could never fully understand the pain he felt but you understood why he had such an immense desire to fulfill his plans. Who wouldn’t want an answer for such terrible actions? You could feel the blondes fists clench at your words. The stark feel of the flexing of each finger against your own caused your heart to jump.

“Weighed down?” He said, the words almost hissing from his lips. “You have no idea what being weighed down is like. The atrocities that I have seen.” He continues, his voice rising slightly as he averts his eyes from yours. You felt the tips of your fingers being to resemble static while you try to gently hold the young man’s hand. The two of you had always had a mutual understanding of each other's emotional boundaries. You tended to wear your heart on your sleeve in most situations, and for what may seem surprising to some, Kurapika was an excellent listener. He on the other hand was the expert in bottling up each and every emotion. While you undoubtedly respected that but you also knew the immense damage that could cause in someone.

“You know that I would never try to stop you or stand in your way. I never want to downplay how hard every single day is for you or am I trying to pretend to be able to understand the pain or challenges you go through. I just…” You pause, your hands moving to caress his face, your thumbs shaking as they swipe across his cheeks. “I don’t want to see you throw your life away. The path you're on isn’t a safe one. What good is revenge if you die?” You stammer out, your hands falling from his face to a resting position in your lap. You hesitated to make eye contact with Kurapika as you could already see the faint rim of red in his irises from the corner of your vision. Before you could speak again, Kurapika let out a sigh and stood up, softly walking to the door, opening it without a word. You tensed up at this action, that static feeling traveling from your fingertips to all over your body. You stood up, your legs slightly shaking as you walked towards the door. You couldn’t work up the courage to look him in the face as you walked through the doorway. The moment you passed through, the door shut behind you softly. For a moment you were dazed. What did this mean? Was he angry with you? While Kurapika had been known to be a hot head sometimes, his friends generally were not the subjects of it. Your body shivered at the thought of being on the receiving end of that temper. You steeled yourself, shoving the thought from your mind as you disappeared into your own bedroom.

As you fell back into your bed, you couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that rattled through your mind. Was something wrong? Everything seemed bad, but could things be worse? Your thoughts traveled to what life was like without Kurapika’s presence in your home. It was a temporary arrangement when your roommate moved out. He needed a place to stay while he took care of business in the city and you happily offered the spare room. You would have been overjoyed to have him stay forever. You knew that was impossible but it never stopped you from thinking it. You shifted in your bed, the sheets wrinkling around you. Perhaps you were overthinking? Was it better to be safe than sorry? Against your better judgment, you slipped off of your bed to return to the blonde's side. You didn’t necessarily feel any guilt but you swallowed your pride and opted to apologize for the press on such a sensitive subject. Kurapika’s door was slightly ajar when you returned to it which was a cause for concern. You gently pushed the door open to see what little evidence of Kurapika in the room was gone. Not even the few books that normally say upon the bookshelf were there. They were gone as if the man was never there. You quickly slipped your way down the hall, nearly tripping down the small staircase that led to the front door. As if this moment was scripted in a film you saw Kurapika. He had one hand on the doorknob and another holding a suitcase. Your eyes widened as the two of you made eye contact. The blonde looked the same as he did when he first arrived home. There was not a single trace of anything other than those familiar overworked eyes.

“Where are you going?” You asked with hushed breath. The blonde only could look at you. The world was once again that familiar and lonely quiet. “Kurapika, please. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just worried.” You began to ramble out, the words as shaky and unsteady as an earthquake. “You know I love you. I just want to see you happy and I know you won't truly be until you complete your mission but I am scared you won't live to see the end of it.” You continued, rattling off every thought your mind could produce. Your brain felt the pull of a sort of fight or flight mode. The static had once again returned to your body, your teeth chattering as you felt thick tears roll down your cheeks. Your gaze fell to the floor as you felt your hands clasp tightening together. You feared the blonde had already walked out the door when you heard the thunk of the suitcase on the floor. Your head snapped to look at Kurapika. His face had not changed, not a single muscle had moved. “Are we not friends anymore? I promise I’ll never bring it up again.” You say, a slight hiccup in your voice. The blonde stiffened at the question.

“It is not as if we are no longer friends. I fear that I cause you distress. I am not suitable to be sharing this space with you.” Kurapika explained, his voice oh so calm. You blinked, the remaining tears escaping your eyes. Had he not been upset with you? Granted, you had thought that it wouldn’t be the case but his actions up until this point seemed to say otherwise. “I greatly appreciate your support to me but I believe that it would be best for you if I took my leave.” Kurapika continued, not hesitating to also add on that he would transfer you some Jenny to cover his portion of the rent until you were able to find a replacement. You gazed at him, your eyes still wet from the sudden wave of tears. The blonde went to pick up his suitcase but you quickly grabbed his hand with your own. Your eyes met and you wondered if yours reflected the same look of loss that his did.

“Please don’t go. I don’t want you to go.” You whispered, your voice hoarse. You felt his thumb gently move across the top of your hand. Normally, a soft action like this directed at you would cause an immeasurably large grin but now it seemed to just live to taunt you as his thumb left your skin feeling like pinpricks.

“I grew angry at you for worrying for me. You do not deserve such a cruel action, especially in your own home. I apologize but this is for your best interest.” He repeated again. You felt as if your head was caught in a whirlpool, your hand still tight around his. How could you possibly imagine a life without him in it? Your mind flipped through each happy memory that the two of you shared. What was your favorite? Perhaps it was the time you first dragged him out to a new and popular restaurant that had just opened downtown? You had told him that maybe some high profile guests would be there and how it couldn’t possibly hurt to check it out. The two of you never did find anyone of interest other than each other. A three-hour meal with Kurapika felt like a blur as you became enchanted by every word that escaped his lips. Maybe you favored the time you caught him reading a very old and weathered copy of Dino-Hunter? He had offered to let you borrow the book if you were interested but you opted to sit by his side and read along with him. There were small notes in the margins written in Kurta and he explained what each one said, you even learned a couple of words by the end of the night. There were plenty of wonderful moments just like those that meant more to you than anything. His presence in your home was what allowed you such treasured interactions. Only you could say you experienced such things with him. Maybe it was selfish but you weren’t ready to give up the chance at more. You took a deep breath before you directed your eyes to stare deeply into his own.

“Kurapika, I love you. I love you more than a friend. There is nothing that you could do that would make me not love you. You being in my life is the thing I am the most thankful for every single day. I just want to continue spending my days with you at my side. I understand if you do not reciprocate my romantic feelings towards you, I know that you have a lot on your plate but as a friend, could you please stay?” You asked, your voice sturdy. It was now or never. You never imagined that you would confess these feelings to him in a situation like this. For once, the lapse in conversation was not quiet, rather you could hear your heartbeat as it thumped strongly against your chest. You didn’t fail to notice the look of shock that took over the blonde's face. If you weren’t in such a heated moment, you may have wondered how he didn’t pick up on these feelings earlier.

“I was not aware that you had such feelings for me.” He stated, the shock laced in his voice. You could only stare back at him, your breath caught in your throat as you waited for his answer. “I apologize but I still do not believe my presence in your life is good for you. You said it yourself, the path I am following is not safe, meaning that I would not want to wrap you up in it.” He explained, the false calm clear in his voice. You took a deep breath before speaking again.

“Kurapika, I don’t care what path you’re on. I just want to walk that path with you. Would I prefer you not to die? Yes! That doesn’t mean that I would just give up on my feelings for you. I have fallen in love with you despite your flaws. Please...just tell me yes or no.” You responded, your exhaustion apparent in your voice. How much more did you need to do so that he would understand your love for him? You could see him shift in his spot and you wondered if it was nerves. Did Kurapika ever become nervous? “You don’t need to reciprocate but I only want to know if you will stay with me. Even as a friend I would be more than happy. I promise I will throw the romantic love I have out the door. It won’t be awkward for either of us.” You reassured, hoping to pull his answer out. Without a word, Kurapika picked up the suitcase once again. Your breath hitched in your throat. Was he going to leave? Much to your surprise, the blonde retreated up the stairs. You hesitantly followed him up as the two of you returned to the bedroom that you, not less than an hour ago, had exchanged your intense words. He sat down in the exact same spot he had before, and you followed suit. It was like a strange dance the way you responded to each of his movements. He turned his body to look at you and you couldn't help but wonder if this action was his version of an answer. Before you could speak up, the blonde quickly tugged you into an embrace, his face pressed into the crook of your neck. At this moment you inhaled sharply, your hands slowly moving to wrap around his body. If you weren’t paying attention you would have missed the words that slipped from his mouth, muffled by the contact of your skin.

“Thank you.” He muttered, his lips grazing your neck. You couldn’t help but feel confused but you didn’t dare to interrupt this moment. You pulled your body away from his, catching his eyes for a moment where you couldn’t help but notice the red that spilled into the whites of his eyes. For once, the red was not from being a Kurta, rather it was from the tears that now made a home on the shoulder of your shirt. You shuffled yourself under the covers as you gestured to him to do the same. He compiled without a word as he slipped under the covers and back into your arms. Perhaps you would talk more in the morning but for now, you held him close to you as you patiently allowed the tears to fall from his eyes. The two of you were as close as two separate people could be as your legs intertwined with each other and your arms tightly wrapped around the other's sides. You felt his head lay against your chest as you ran your fingers through his hair, noting that it had gotten longer than normal. You pressed your lips against his forehead, pressing a kiss to it gently. Your lips ghosted the skin before whispering to him a soft goodnight before closing your eyes, assuming that he would do the same. The two of you drifted off to sleep listening to the rhythmic beat of your hearts intertwining. You would ask him in the morning more, but for now, this was more than enough.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “The Shatter Protocol”

Lol I think you guys are going to totally hate me for this one. Its exciting tho, so there is that. Please don’t hunt me down in my sleep :)

“Commander on Deck!”

Commander Vir took a seat in the captain’s chair spinning around to face front, “Status report!” He barked hands gripped firmly to the seat arms jaw set.

“Rundi radar systems have detected twenty burg short cruisers and at least a dozen kree orbiting satellites, sir, its the whole fucking armada!”

“Keep yourself under control lieutenant! We’ve had worse.” And the way he said it made the crew almost believe him, “Are those satellites armed.”

There was a pause, “No sir, I don’t detect any weapons, mostly just power banks and mild warp capabilities.” 

Off to his left, Sunny had taken her seat at the weapons station, “All weapons systems online.”

“Order the first and fifth fighter squad to deploy.” He said, “Have them pull around back.” He turned to the communications officer, “Get the GA on the line and get me more ships! I don’t care if i have to sell my soul to the GA, but we need more firepower. We aren’t going to win this if we can’t flank them.”

“Yes sir.” He engaged the radar screen, and deployed the forward cameras even as the front blast shields closed over his line of vision, only to be replaced by a projected image of the same.

“Commander, burg warships moving into position.”

He clenched his teeth into a snarl, “Why won't these bastards just give up already.”

“Sir Kozlov and Ho have arrived, and are maneuvering into position.”

“Good. Get me the Burg command on the line. I want to talk to them.”

“Yes sir.”

He waited there for a moment, hands still resting lightly on the sides of his seat, though he did engage the manual controls with one thumb as he did so resting his feet lightly on the pedals and moving his hands to the control sticks.

A projected image appeared in his vision, and it was big and ugly, with too many legs, a couple of mandibles, and some twitching antennae. Commander Vir wished he could meet the thing in person, simply to spit in the creature’s face.

“Commander.” it hissed, it's sibilant clattering voice making him want to open up his skull and itch at his brain.

“I’m afraid you have e at somewhat of a disadvantage…. I don’t know your name.”

The creature hissed, “We are on equal playing fields, commander.” It placed a little emphasis on the last word.

Commander Vir kept his face neutral, “You and I have never been on equal playing fields.”

“I think we have.”

“Well no, you see because ever conflict humanity has had with the burg, we’ve won. Three times. Some of your peop’e were defeated by army ants, so forgive me if I am skeptical.”

INstead of flying into a fit of rage like he had become accustomed too, this creature simply chittered its mandibles, “That will change soon enough.”

“Don’t suppose I can convince you to surrender?”

“No, I don’t suppose you can.”

Commander Vir tapped his fingers  against the chair seat, “Than I suppose you will die like the rest of your predecessors.”

The burg commander, still calmly, “There are worse things than death, commander.” ANd then the line went dead.

Commander Vir frowned, but was cut off from his thoughts, “Sir, The burg ship is preparing to fire.” “Beginning evasive maneuvers.” At the back of the ship, the rear thrusters pulsed and they shot downwards jolting much of the crew in their seats. They couldn’t feel the projectile pass, as there was no blast radius in space, but the COmmander’s quick maneuver had stopped them from taking a round straight to the nose fo the ship.

“Sunny, fire when ready.”

“Yes sir, predictive engine has been booted.”

“Predictive engine?”

“Sunny flipped up the joystick on her weapons module, “Yes sir, I designed it for times just like this.”

Commander Vir watched nervously as she worked, finger twitching towards the trigger on his joysticks, but she was the weapons expert, it was time to let her work.

Two shots fired one slightly delayed from the other. The first of them aimed for the far right deck of the burg ship. It missed entirely as they maneuvered to the side and straight into the path of the second.

Commander Vir had never seen a hit so solid in his entire life.

He blinked in shock as pieces of debris exploded into space around the burg ship.

“Direct hit, sir.” She said. If she had had time to think, she would have been pleased with herself. The predictive engine she had spoken of earlier, was a piece of engineered software she had designed just for this occasion. It used probability, mathematics and fast calculation to determine the most likely course of action for a ship maneuver in comparison to a fired shot. In this way she could predict her target’s movement to an accuracy of 65% and almost up to 72% if she played her cards right.

Commander Vir tightened his hands on the joysticks, “What do you need me to do, Sunny.”

“You do whatever you need to, commander, and I will match you.”

She has sent off anther careful volley of shots, slowly rotating the guns in pairs of two to give the others time to cool off.

Bright white lights lit up the vast darkness of space as the two groups began firing back and forth at each other. The Celzex ship glowed an almost neon purple for a second before a massive discharge cut across the intervening space at speeds nearly incomprehensible.

A burg ship exploded, almost atomized on the spot.

The burg line broke, and dissolved into chaos breaking left and right. Commander Vir maneuvered his ship to the side, and cut forward, dancing the massive ship like a delicate ballet dancer across the stage of space.

As they cut by, Sunny armed close range ballistic cannons, sending a rapid onslaught of tungsten rods straight through the burg hull depressurizing an entire side of the ship. Captain Vir rolled to the side out of the way of another line of fire.

Outside, the fighters swarmed around his ship keeping burg fighters at bay. At a distance, the fight almost appeared like a swarm of bees around the head of a bear, one lumbering, the the others fast and graceful.

The burg tried to cut around to flank them from the back, but Captain Kozlov and Ho were waiting for them. The two crossed their firing fields, and decimated anyone who was stupid enough to enter. The Rundi ship covered the Celzex ship with it’s shielding, dropping it only on occasion when the Celzex’s weapons had charged back to full power.

Their weapons were slow, but when they hit, they absolutely decimated whatever they touched.

The ship shook as one of the burg fighters brought a line of rapid gunfire down their hull. Commander Vir cursed, knowing he could do nothing against an attack from such a small fighter.

Two more sharp blinks of light in the middle of space, and a Terasaki ship appeared escorted by another Rundi imperial.

Their appearance on the fighting stage was so sudden, the Burg had no time to react.

The Terasaki, as innovative as they were  shot off a projectile towards two burg ships. It missed entirely, or so it seemed unti l there was a bright pulse of blue light, and the two ships jolted suddenly sideways as the absolutely massive magnet pulled them together.

They did not remain their long as the Celzex took the opportunity blasting both ships and the Tesraki magnet into atoms.

However, while their shields had been momentarily down, the burg had fired another volley, and the rundi ship rocked violently to the side. At least six burg ships concentrated their attack on the limping cruiser as its shields flickered on and off. The concentration was too high, and commander Vir maneuvered around and back behind them as a pice of the RUndi shi was blasted off. Bodies were sucked out of the open compartment and into the vastness of space.

He was flanking them now having turned a full 180 from their their original position.

Sunny humed in pleasure.

On board the ship’s most powerful railguns fired in quick succession. Commander vir jolted in his seat as the huge weapons bounced the backwards forcing the rear thrusters to fire in response, keeping them steady.

The first round blasted apart the Burg shield, and the second round cut right into the burg engine bay.

He was almost blinded by the bright light as the ship seemed to atomize right there on the spot as the Burg warp core was perforated, and the half that did not atomize imploded. The sudden destabilization of the warp drive was powerful enough to create a rift in the airspace that immediately warped the back halves of two and the front halves of two burg warships into oblivion.

Debris Pelted their companions mostly warded off by shields, but some scored lucky hits on the ships that had already had their shields damaged.

The Celzex took care of the rest blasting an entire field of burg ships into powder.

That was when Commander Vir sensed something to be very very wrong. He didn’t know what for sure, but a pit had formed in his stomach causing his heart to drop into his pelvis. The battlefield around them was chaotic, the burg having switched sides.

He was in back now, and there seemed to be a lot less burg ships than originally.

But where…? He wasn’t sure what made him turn the ship around, but he did, and when he did he saw the reason for his sinking stomach.

“Commander come in do you read, we are sensing a power anomaly behind you.”

He barely heard the words that came over the coms, as he watched the final satellite drop into position in the ring, and when it did a massive pulse of blue power erupted from around them.

When his vision cleared, what lay before him, caused the pit in his stomach to bore it’s way out of his body, his metaphorical heart sinking onto the floor.

Desperately, he fired all thrusters full forward. 

The massive churning black abyss before them was powerful enough to warp space around it. Rings of light rolled at its edges pulsing around and over like a halo, though the center was of the deepest most malevolent black he had ever seen.

Screaming erupted on the bridge.

His ship jolted, and without his bidding slowly moving forward despite their full thrust backwards.

“FIRE THE WARP CORE NOW!” He screamed his hearing popping out to be replaced only with a ringing.

“FIRING WARP CORE.” One of the front panels of the harbinger broke off and went careening towards the black pit.

The ship’s hull screeched.

There was a sharp pulse, and then a jolt. That rent the air around them.

He almost passed out with the powerful wave of warp energy that blasted over the ship, and then died.

“WARP CORE MALFUNCTIONING!”

INside his heart was hammering, his throat was tight and his eyes stung. He stared at the gaping blackness before them and it’s swirling halo.

Comms lit up, “Commander we can’t get any closer, commander!”

It was at that moment he knew.

Suddenly, very suddenly his heart slowed, his breathing evened out. HIs eyes stopped prickling and despite his skin being cold he did not shake. He was still in the command chair as chaos reigned around him.

He heard himself speak as if from outside his own body, a voice that was calm, and decisive, and cool despite the hint of sadness that touched it. Though he did not shout, the power of his voice silenced the bridge, “Initiate the Shatter protocol.”

Everyone was silent.

“Everyone evacuate to the life pods and sealed decks immediately.” His seatbelt clicked into position, and he took a deep breath.

“But commander.”

“I said evacuate, now.” he did not raise his voice but the tone made it clear he would take no argument.

The crew stood from their seats.

Commander vir reached out and under his seat pressing a button that he had never wanted to press. Purple light blinked on around them.

Initiating shatter protocol.

The bridge crew filed out of the room as commander Vir stared stoically forward.

Please report to a restraint harness on an air locked deck or to the lifepods.

Commander Vir closed his eyes thinking “Conn, are you there?”

A soft voice, “Yes commander, I am here.”

“Can you get my dog-”

“Already done commander, she is safe with me.” 

“Conn.”

“Yes?”

“You know I never mean the things I say to you, right?”

“Yes, commander, I know.” 

The Bridge was almost completely empty now.

Shatter protocol to initiate in three minutes.

A hand on his shoulder.

He looked up, and saw sunny standing over him, her golden eyes wide with horror, “Adam, what are you doing!”

“Someone has to stay behind, Sunny. I have to manually fire them if I want everyone to make it out.”

“Bullshit.”

“Sunny, if you don’t leave right now I swear to god I will hate you for the rest of my life.” He locked eyes with her seeing the confusion and hurt there, “I will hate you because you will have murdered someone I loved.” She stared at him still not comprehending what he had said, but that was ok.

He stood allowing the seatbelt to disengage.

He stood Resting his hands on her upper arms pushing her slowly back towards the door.

When she wouldn’t move fast enough, he hugged her close pushing harder until the door was just behind them.

He turned his head to look up at her.

He leaned up moving onto the tips of his toes to reach sliding his hands onto the cool chest plate of her carapace.

She looked down at him confused, maybe scared.

He leaned up a little further bracing his toes against the steel, and shoved hard. 

Sunny stumbled back pitching to the floor as he raced forward and slammed his fist into the locking button.

The door slammed shut as Sunny leaped to her feet.

Sealing ship decks.

All around the ship powerful airlocked metal plates slid down from all the doors, locking each individual deck into an air right compartment.

He heard the metal snick into place behind the door in front of him.

A captain goes down with his ship

He turned and took his seat back in the captain’s chair back straight chin held high.

He reached down and pressed the button again.

Jettisoning Deck F

Once upon a time, some engineer somewhere had designed a plan for an event like this. Lifeboats and escape pods were ok for small numbers of people, but for large amounts at a short notice, it just wasn't viable. So they had designed it where the decks of the ships themselves were lifeboats.

In an event of an emergency the decs would be sealed off into airtight compartments and then, one by one, jettisoned backwards from the ship using all systems for external power.

OUt in space, the Harbinger broke apart starting from the back forward. Thousands of escape pods and chunks of the ship rocketed backwards all at once fracturing like a pane of glass.

Commander Vir felt the power and lurched slightly forward in his seat. The lights around him dimmed as the command deck was cut from power. As the thrusters vanished, there was nothing to keep him stable and he rocketed forward towards the gaping maw of the black abyss. 

HE rested his head back in his seat watching the hole grow wider before him. 

He thought of his mother, hoping she wouldn’t cry too much, of his father who had never lost a son. He thought of his brothers. He thought of Dr. Krill. He thought about his crew, and he thought about Sunny.

Nothing but blackness in his vision.

In the darkness of the bridge, he whispered one final phrase to ALL of them before the command deck spiraled into blackness and vanished.

I love you

[meet-the-decoy]

Hey Decoy! What exactly is your role on the battle field?

MEET THE DECOY

Description

It isn't hard to see that she is the fairest one on the team. Decoy isn't afraid to use her feminine touch to her advantage and being on a team with mostly men has it's perks. But don't be fooled, this girl isn't as sweet as she looks. She's a babe with quite a bite.

Primary

Stock

- Duel pistols: (ammo 12/36 each)

Craft

- Boxing glove gun: (ammo N/A)

Gives Decoy the ability to punch an opponent with as much force as a Heavy.

- Pole vault: (ammo N/A)

Gives Decoy a 20% boost on acrobatics.

-Mini canon: (ammo 20) 

Is similar to Soldier's rocket launcher. Each shot takes several seconds to reload but gives critical damage to enemies. Slows down agility.

Uncrate

- Chainsaw: (ammo N/A)

Gives critical damage at close range. Won't be able to preform acrobatics as a result.

- Bear trap: (ammo N/A)

Traps enemies for several seconds while giving mini crits. Can only be used once every 30 seconds.

- Water pistols: (ammo 100 each)

Counteracts Pyro fires. This weapon extinguishes teammates that are ablaze as well as sapping the enemy Engineer's buildings.

Secondary

Stock

- Hand grenades: (ammo 20)

Craft

- Fireworks: (ammo 20)

This weapon creates flash bangs and blinds the enemy for several seconds and can also light enemies on fire depending on range.

- Taser: (ammo N/A)

Electrifies enemies and paralyzes them for up to 3 seconds. Effects enemies differently. Has a cool down time of 3 seconds.

- Sling shot: (ammo 20)

Let's Decoy launch grenades just as far as a Demoman, letting her throw them farther then she originally could. It can also be used to launch health kits to teammates.

- Water Balloons: (ammo 20)

Extinguishes teammates who are on fire. It also washes way Jarate from teammates who may be covered in it.

Uncrate

- Throwing knives: (ammo 12)

Allows Decoy to trick stab like a Spy but at longer distances. Can be used during acrobatics.

- Playing cards: (ammo 3 decks)

Cards can slice enemies to inflict damage. Cards can be boomeranged back to be reused if thrown correctly.

- Grappling hook: (ammo N/A)

Gives Decoy the ability to get to higher nesting spots with ease. Boosts acrobatics by 5%. Grapple can be shot at enemies to finish off kills.

Melee

Stock

- Bullwhip: (ammo N/A)

Craft

- Chain: (ammo N/A)

Gives critical damage to enemies. Slows down acrobatics by 15% as a result.

- Spider net: (ammo 8)

Bounds enemies for several seconds. This also leaves the enemy vulnerable and more likely to receive critical damage.

- Roller skates: (ammo N/A)

Allows Decoy to match the speed of that of a Scout. Decoy won't be able to preform acrobatics as a result.

- Megaphone: (ammo N/A)

Amplifys Decoy's vocals and lures enemies easier.

Uncrate

- Lipstick: (ammo N/A)

Ables Decoy to give a teammate ÜberCharge for 3 seconds by kissing them. This weapon also restores a teammates health by 50%. Gives critical damage to enemies.

- Mirror: (ammo N/A)

Blinds the enemy for 3 seconds by shining light in the enemy's eyes. This weapon is most effective on Snipers.

- Ribbon wand: (ammo N/A)

Steals 15% of an enemy's ammo. Ammo can be given to other teammates or can be used personally.

- Perfume: (ammo N/A)

Amplifys Decoy's lures. Perfume can also be used to disorient enemies for several seconds. No man can resist the smell of flowers and gunpowder.

PDA

Primary

- Acrobatics

Secondary

- Vocal

Special Taunts

• Song Bird

This taunt makes enemies vision blur whenever they get to close to her singing. This makes the enemy vulnerable and more likely to receive critical hits.

• Damsel in Distress

This taunt gives Decoy the ability to make enemies hurt their own teammates. Every shot that hits a teammate will lower their health depending on distance different variables. Can only be used once every 3 minutes.

• Blowing Kisses

This taunt has the Decoy blow a kiss at the enemy. Whoever the kiss lands on receives critical damage. If the kiss lands on a teammate, it restores their health by 15%.

• Love Me, Love Me Not

This taunt has Decoy pick pedals off of a flower. If a heart appears, then the enemy walks free. If a broken heart appears then the enemy receives critical damage. This taunt gives a 50/50 chance each time it is used.

• Love Potion No.9

Can be slipped into any food or beverage. Once consumed, the enemy cannot hurt Decoy up to 10 seconds. This taunt can only be used 3 times during a match.

• Milkshake

In this taunt, Decoy pulls out a tray and proceeds to make and serve milkshakes to anyone who takes them. Decoy serves any flavor of milkshake to her teammates to boost their health level much like Heavy's Sandvich, but is far sweeter.

Achievements

• Master Maiden: Achieve over 50 'Blowing Kisses' taunt kills.

• Golden Gal: Seduce kill each class in one round.

• Lucky Lady: Dodge 5 airblasted rockets using acrobatics.

• Flirting with Death: Lure a Scout over 100 times

• Here to Save The Day: Protect a struggling teammate more than 5 times in one round.

• The Angelic Acrobat: Save a teammate over 20 times by throwing back a Demoman's grenade using acrobatics.

• Dangerous Dame: Seduce kill 500 times.

• Kiss it Better: Heal over 75 teammates using 'Blowing Kisses' taunt or by using Lipstick melee.

Domination Lines

SCOUT

"So you're the fastest man alive, huh? Is that why you can't get a date?"

"Why so red tough guy?"

"I like a guy who can make me laugh."

"Hey, my eyes are up here scooter."

"Your ass must be pretty jealous of all the shit that comes out of your mouth."

SOLDIER

"If I threw a stick, you’d leave, right?"

"Everyone’s entitled to act stupid once in awhile, but you really abuse the privilege."

"You look good with black and blue."

"Are you always such an idiot, or do you just show off when I’m around?"

"I was hoping for a battle of wits but it would be wrong to attack someone who’s totally unarmed."

PYRO

"I AM a woman, what's your excuse?"

"Still think your on fire?"

"What in the hell? What are you supposed to be?"

"Did things get really hot in here, or is it just me?"

"Earth is full. Go home."

ENGINEER

"Whoopsie, did I do that?"

"Look at the cute little toys! Can I play with one?"

"You only annoy me when you’re breathing, really."

"Your birth certificate is an apology to your parents from the hospital."

"How impressive! You can put your foot in your mouth and your head up your ass at the same time!"

HEAVY

"So... do you name your guns because you can't get a real date or?..."

"Oh wow, this must be pretty embarrassing for you."

"Are your compensating for something?"

"Jesus christ, You’re so fat you could sell shade."

"You are the human version of period cramps."

DEMOMAN

"Sorry, but you won't be able to drink away the alcoholism."

"I'm gonna hit you so hard, you'll lose your accent."

"*sad crying that turns into cruel laughter*"

"You’ll never be the man your mom is."

"Nice onesie, does it come in men's?"

"Aww, Do you need me to kiss your boo-boo better?"

MEDIC

"Excuse me nurse, could you take a look at this for me?"

"They took your license away for a reason doctor."

"Oh! I like your dress!"

"If laughter is the best medicine, your face must be curing the world."

SNIPER

"That's disgusting."

"Isn’t there a bullet somewhere you could be jumping in front of?"

"Just because you have a dick doesn’t mean you need to act like one."

"I’ve been called worse by better."

"There’s no doubt about it. Your father should have pulled out earlier."

SPY

"Is that a knife in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

"Hey croissant, your fly’s undone."

"If you’re going to be two-faced, at least make one of them pretty."

"Acting like a prick doesn’t make yours grow bigger."

"Je n'ai jamais pensé rencontrer un homme sans couilles."

DECOY

"You're not cute sweetheart."

"See, this is why the men don't take us seriously."

"Nice outfit. I bet if you stood on a street corner, you’d make some money."

"Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. Hate me because your boyfriend thinks so."

"I’ve seen your kind before…but last time, I had to pay admission.

Backstory

Decoy (Delilah Lou Rose) was born April 1st, 1941 in a backstage tent and grew up as a acrobatic clown in the Canadian Circus.

She was brought to the Administrator's attention when she slaughtered a total of 12 men with ease during a break in and attempted assault. A meeting with Saxton Hale eventually led to a job offer. Needing the money, she takes a job with the Gravel wars, thinking it was a show. Once she realizes that it is in fact not a show, but a place where men kill each other, it's too late.

Delilah Lou became a new class called the Decoy, where she would lure unsuspecting men to their death. It wasn't long before she fell in love with the job and grew strong friendships with her coworkers.

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: Avengers #244: "AND THE ROCKET'S RED GLARE!"

June, 1984

The Wraiths walk among us!

Actually, the Dire Wraiths would be a good answer for what the imposters in Among Us are. They're imposters, they can shapeshift, and they have deadly tongues.

I think I've cracked this case wide open.

Anyway, we go straight from Secret Wars into another event, although this is a crossover called Wraith War and mostly a story arc in the ROM book but with tie-ins to Avengers, X-Men, and Fantastic Four. In fairness, we were told the Avengers would be getting involved with the Dire Wraiths before Secret Wars went on sale.

That's the life of a superhero. One day, getting raptured to a toy commercial and the next, fighting alien shapeshifters who aren't Skrulls or Space Phantoms.

Last time: half the Avengers were involved in the Secret Wars, the other Avengers hung around and had small adventures. Then the first half of the Avengers returned. And Wasp quit as chairperson so Vision could take over with his big plans like establishing a second Avengers team.

This time: a nice boat.

The nice boat is chilling on the Banana River outside the John F. Kennedy Space Center when a ball of light swoops down on it.

But with Captain Marvel on the Avengers, sometimes a ball of light is her and not the Beyonder bodyjacking people.

Monica returns from patrol to report no suspicious activity at the space center and also to compliment this sweet boat.

Remember how she was in the market for a boat as part of whatever new job she’s cooking up for when she’s not Avengersing.

Well, this is Wasp’s yacht and it’s real nice.

Vision pops up through the deck to tell the two to join everyone else below for a strategy sesh.

It’s kind of a casual strategy session. Half the Avengers are dressed down.

Wasp is in a bathing suit with a neckerchief around her neck. Wanda took off the body stocking part of her costume so looks like she’s wearing a swimsuit despite the boots. And Starfox decides when in Rome and takes his shirt off.

Wasp isn’t even chairperson anymore and she’s still telling some men to undress and this time its Steve Rogers. She only gets him to take off the civilian clothes that he’s wearing above his costume though.

And only as a concession to the heat. They’re in FLORIDA and he’s dressed in layers. I live in Florida and sometimes one layer is too many layers.

Also, Steve America muses on how they were only back from Secret Wars a few hours when Wasp stepped down as chairperson in favor of Vision but he describes Secret Wars as “our confrontation with that... that Beyonder” which is technically accurate but not really how I would describe Secret Wars.

But that’s the hazard of writing about something in the past that hasn’t come out yet. Can’t really have Steve say “that confrontation with the most recent time Doom swallowed an energy field bigger than his head” because that would spoil the game and also maybe that plot point didn’t exist yet. Although the seeds are there from the start.

I would have just had Steve say “back from that Secret War TM” or “back from being kidnapped by the Beyonder.” Go with what’s clear and obvious from issue 1.

New Chairman The Vision summarizes the plot.

New Chairman The Vision: “All right, Avengers... just as a review, we’ll be meeting at the cape with General Bridges within the hour to discuss a number of supposed accidents... Accidents which Washington suspects may be sabotage caused by alien creatures known as Dire Wraiths. The government has managed to suppress information of most wraith activities -- but the space center is too much in the public eye. Eventually, word will leak out. We must do something!”

Captain America: “You’re right on that count, Vision! If an alien life-form attacked the space-center, there could be worldwide panic!”

And as soon as he says this, there’s an explosion on the test-pad.

Talk about timing!

The Avengers leap immediately into action!

Wasp just heads into action in her swimsuit because its not the first time she’s had an adventure in her swimsuit. Her powers are entirely internalized by this point. But its impressive for Wanda because she puts the bodysuit part of her outfit back on without seemingly taking off the leotard part.

Chaos magic? Chaos magic.

Also, they leave Wanda to anchor the yacht and then follow in a skiff so its not like she needed to get dressed magically between panels. She just decided to.

When the Avengers arrive there’s a massive cloud of smoke covering the launchpad and they spot some men dashing into the smoke instead of away from it.

Captain Marvel returns from scouting and mentions that the damage is confined to the test-pad gantries and that there’s not all that much damage.

But then there’s a loud KROOM second explosion which takes down the main supports. The rocket booster on the test-pad starts tipping over so Starfox, Captain Marvel, and Vision rush to try to stop it.

One of the attackers, the Rocketeers, says a few more mini missiles will take the launch-pad out of commission but exposition isn’t a free action and he gets WHUNK’d by Captain America’s mighty shield.

And if that weren’t enough to make him yield, Wasp shoots him in the nipple.

Wasp: “Let’s have no complaints out of you! I can make my Wasp-stings a lot nastier than that!”

Yeah, that guy is lucky she didn’t use one of her patented ‘can blow up a small house’ Wasp-stings. His nipple would never have been the same.

Vision and Starfox catch the rocket booster before it smashes into the ground but Captain Marvel zips around it and spots major fuel leaks.

Since it’s going to explode even if they gently set it down, the two huck it into the Atlantic.

Then the three start lifting rubble and rescuing those injured from any of the mini-missile explosions.

Over at Cap(tain America) and Wasp, they’ve beaten up all the Rocketeers but one. Good job you two! By some accounts the two least powerful among the Avengers present and yet you’ve kicked some ass.

The Last Rocketeer: “You may have stopped my buddies, but you won’t stop me!”

Wasp: “Oh, brother! If you only knew how many times we’ve heard those words -- !”

Captain America: “Don’t embarrass the man, Wasp! He’s in enough trouble as it is!”

Wow, if its not enough that they’ve beaten up all his friends and are about to beat him up, they just burned him so bad that I don’t know if he’ll survive.

The guy throws a lawn dart bomb at Cap and the Wasp. Cap tells Wasp to get behind his shield but the bomblet sharply veers up with a ninety degree turn.

Wow, how improbable!

If you guessed that Wanda showed up after parking the yacht, you guessed right.

And then Wasp shoots the Last Rocketeer in the eyes. His goggles did nothing.

Even though the Rocketeers were wrapped up pretty easily, Vision suggests that they had help since they knew exactly when and where to strike.

But a Dire Wraith shaped silhouette watching this fight from afar reflects that the Avengers are skilled and decides to unleash THE MISTS OF THE DARK NEBULA.

Which is a thick fog. But wait! There’s more! The fog is like a mind-numbing gas and makes the Avengers slow to respond, even Vision who only breathes out of social obligation. And it rouses the Rocketeers who escape into the fog.

Vision follows after them, less affected than the others, but he gets bowled over by the Rocketeers taking off with their rocket packs which presumably given them their names.

As soon as the Rocketeers escape, the fog conveniently disperses.

The Avengers go around making sure they’re all alright but when Cap(tain America) asks Vision, he claims that he is a lot more resilient than “an organic man” and tells Cap not to waste concern on him when there are injured people to be helped.

Wasp, in her thoughts: “Sounds like the only thing wounded was his pride!”

While the Avengers carry injured people to arrived ambulances, Vision castigates himself for the failure.

Vision: “We failed! My first official battle as Avengers leader, and the enemy got away! I suppose I should find solace in the knowledge that the sabotage was cut short and lives were saved... but I cannot!”

“I must not allow myself to be satisfied by anything less than total victory... Not if my long-range plans are to succeed! The Avengers must ferret out the power behind the Rocketeers and bring it down! The trust of the world could depend on it!”

That’s a completely non-ominous thing to think, Vizh.

Also, maybe you could help?

Meanwhile, over at Los Angeles International Airport, Hawkeye and Mockingbird arrive traveling as a perfectly normal couple. Hawkeye wanted to bring his arrows on as carry-on but yeah. Hard to explain that to the TSA.

... Wait, did the Avengers not have a spare Quinjet to send Hawkeye in?

Anyway, Bill Foster meets them at the airport. He’s local to LA and has been checking out some real estate leads for the West Coast Avengers base.

WEST COAST AVENGERS!

It continues to be approaching.

Are we going to get Bill Foster on the team? We haven’t seen him in Avengers for what feels like ever.

But enough of West Coast Avengers, there’s more Dire Wraiths plot to do.

Back at the Cape of Canaveral, General Bridges introduces the Avengers to the very high-strung Dr. Woodrow Cather, the highest ranking civilian scientist.

Cather flips out on seeing the Avengers and asks why they’re here. I guess nobody debrief him on all the explosions.

General Bridges has a slideshow for just this instance and activates a projector to show everyone a Dire Wraith.

The ROM Space Knight and Dire Wraiths plot has been going on for about fifty issues in ROM’s own book by this point so there’s some amount of exposition that just shotgunned in one page.

The Dire Wraiths are an offshoot of the Skrulls, apparently. Except instead of just shapeshifting they have a more predatory method of camouflage. They attack a victim with a drill-like tongue, eat their brains, and assume their forms while the original person is reduced to ashes.

At least, that’s how female Dire Wraiths work.

The Dire Wraiths are like the Badoon in having some truly wild sexual dimorphism and a high degree of hostility between the sexes. The female Dire Wraiths prefer sorcery and the males SCIENCE. Except there was a war of the sexes over differences in their plans for conquering Earth and the women Wraiths won and became the dominant Wraiths.

The Rocketeers that attacked the launchpad today are similar to a group of male SCIENCE Wraiths who also called themselves Rocketeers and attacked Clairton, West Virginia.

So Vision suspects that a group of male Wraiths survived the war of the sexes and are up to Something.

General Bridges isn’t really concerned with the nuances of who and how people are attacking the launch site. He just wants it all to stop.

Dr. Cather is leading the ion-drive project and its already in trouble because most funds have been diverted to the space shuttle program.

General Bridges doesn’t think the ion drive is a target, OR worth attacking (ouch), because none of the sabotage has struck it yet. Bridges thinks the Space Shuttle should get priority attention and decides he’ll call a full battalion to help the Avengers guard it.

Vision disagrees.

He pulls rank and forbids calling in any backup.

Captain America: “You’ll have to excuse us, gentlemen! Our chairman... has plans of his own!”

I BET HE DOES!

Meanwhile, continuing the Quicksilver subplot, it’s Quicksilver.

He Lockjaws down to Transia, Earth to go recruit Bova to be nursemaid for his baby but to his startlement he finds that her cabin has been destroyed.

Big mystery for Quicksilver but followers of this going-slightly-above-and-beyond liveblog will know that Magneto trashed it while interrogating Bova for information about his children.

Wanda and Pietro already rejected Magneto as their dad for being a jerk plus the jerky way he’s treated them. I imagine learning he terrorized a poor cow woman won’t soften their hearts to him.

Anyway, back to the Dire Wraiths plot.

The Rocketeer Dire Wraiths are sitting around and complaining about how the Avengers kicked their butts and they didn’t know humans could be so strong. But what they’re really concerned about is the Dark Nebula Mist.

That’s clearly the sign of the Dire Wraith sisterhood but why would they help the science Wraiths if not some weird mind game to flush them out.

One of the Rocketeers declares that the sisterhood’s intervention gives them a chance to complete their work. Sure, overt sabotage will be hard with the Avengers hanging around like they don’t have anything better to do. And sure, they’ll set up detection equipment. But the Avengers won’t suspect that the Rocketeers will have jamming watches that’ll let them avoid detection.

That’s why Science Wraithing is so rad.

The next morning, the Avengers are spread out throughout the Space Center.

Captain Marvel is standing sentry on top of the vehicle assembly building. Starfox is at launch complex 39A thinking patronizing thoughts about the Space Shuttle.

Starfox: “They call this a space ship? Charming.”

And Wasp watches over the ion-drive rocket.

Meanwhile, Vision, Captain America, and Scarlet Witch are in the security command post watching the cameras with the special detection systems.

If I remember Linkara’s Romtrospective, the special detection systems are probably based on Rom’s Analyzer, which he let SHIELD examine.

Anyway, Scarlet Witch switches to a random monitor to demonstrate that so far so good, pointing at monitor three and its entirely unsuspicious group of technicians.

Vision: “No problem?!? There’s a very big problem!! Can’t you see?!”

Turns out that Vision has better vision, hah, than a human. And with his special eyes he sees that those four technicians are NOT WHAT THEY SEEM.

He immediately grabs the microphone to the PA and announces DANGEROUS INTRUDERS and for everyone to evacuate the area immediately.

The four intruders make a mad dash to the ion-drive ship but Starfox does them a drive by punching.

Starfox: “Good morning, gentlemen! Since you aren’t evacuating the premises, might I assume that you’re our intruders? Hmmm?”

I’ll reveal a cursed secret. If it weren’t for Starfox’s special pleasure beam powers, I wouldn’t have a problem with him. He can be pretty fun sometimes.

Captain Marvel also zips over in light form and then re-assumes her meat form.

One of the Dire Wraiths: “Strike while she is helpless in her corporeal form!”

Captain Marvel: “Helpless?”

Never assume Captain Monica Marvel is helpless just because she’s made of meat. She was a boat cop, dammit.

Its a well known fact that all boat cops that get superpowers and join the Avengers, know how to flip a jerk.

Anyway, Dr. Woodrow Cather, the highest ranking civilian scientist, also runs towards the ion-drive rocket despite the evacuation order.

Dr. Woodrow Cather, the highest ranking civilian scientist: No need to worry soldier! I won’t be long at all... Once I’ve cut my ship off from ground control! I’m glad I returned to the test bunker last night. Otherwise, I might have been found like that the others! Their sabotage missions brought them to a bad end, just as I’d hoped! Now, their capture should be all the diversion I need -- to get away scot free!

Gasp! Dr. Woodrow Cather, the guy who was alarmed to see the Avengers involved is one of the Dire Wraiths and he’s dicking over his alien invader associates!

Is there no honor among alien invaders?

Scarlet Witch and Cap(tain America) arrive in Jeep to where Starfox and Cap(tain Marvel) are kicking the Dire Wraith ass. Scarlet Witch uses her do-anything powers to force the Dire Wraiths to assume their natural lumpy orange forms.

But then Dr. Woodrow Cather blasts off in the ion-drive rocket, luckily managing not to either blind nor burn to death anyone on the ground.

Captain Marvel zips after the rocket because speed of rocket is still way slower than the speed of light.

God, I love Monica’s powers.

The Dire Wraiths start bemoaning how they’ve been abandoned and betrayed but worse than that DOOOOOOOMED.

Cap(tain America) is like ‘come again?’

The Dire Wraiths explain that the ion-drive is actually a secret star-drive, that they cobbled together using whatever ‘backward technology’ they could get and sometimes just steal from other projects (I guess thats what the sabotage was? Covering the thefts?). But uh the red glow from the not-ion-drive exhaust is a bad sign.

It means that the engine is unstable and could explode like an anti-matter bomb at any time.

And to complete the hat trick of ‘rocket stolen’ and ‘rocket gonna explode and destroy a chunk of Earth’, Wasp was watching the rocket and is now trapped inside the command module, squashed against the bulkhead from the acceleration.

THE WORLD IS IN DANGER BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY, THE WASP IS!

DAMN YOU DR. WOODROW CATHER, IF THATS YOUR REAL NAME!

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