#but almost everyone else in the forum was a child so she just wound up bullying a bunch of kids for no reason

[beaft]

i forget if i've mentioned this before on here, but when i was about 5 i was obsessed with monsters inc and watched it at least twice a week not because i especially liked it as a movie but simply because i was passionately in love with randall. and in fact the very first fanfiction i ever wrote was a monsters inc whump fanfiction about me finding randall in the swamp after he got beaten up with a shovel and tenderly nursing him back to health. all this to say i have been the person i am from an incredibly young age

[tillywhim]

Well, That Didn't Last Long

Ok, first things first, I'm playing serious catch up here so you'll have to bear with me if I'm covering things that are in the dim and distant past for you all now. As you know I had one heck of a time trying to regain access to my account then, when I finally did get it back, I caught the flu so have been laid up with that for the past few days. I'm just going to go over the things that have happened as they occur to me and give you my take on them. Here goes:

Yes, no sooner had they landed back in sunny Montecito and heard the news and seen the subsequent portrait of the royal quartet, Our Lady of Perpetual Victimhood shot back with an image of herself and husband Saint Henry of the Wounded Ego taken during their soiree into Manchester for her appearance as the keynote speaker at the One Young World Charity. I'm not a computer whizz but the doctored images doing the rounds are a hoot and well worth a look. I'm sure their "friend" photographer Misan Harriman who took this and other heavily photoshopped (tree of life anyone?) images of the couple would approve. Since the release of the above portrait, it seems that the "charity" which calls itself a "global forum for young leaders" is being investigated for paying Kate Robertson and her daughter Ella McKay almost £2 million in 5 years, some of it during the lockdown periods of Covid when no summits were being held. The Charity Commission is investigating remuneration packages for senior management personnel at One Young World and, although I may be allowing bias to take precedence, looking at the pair in charge, I can only say, why didn't happen sooner. I should point out, there is no suggestion of any impropriety from the Harkles or any celebrities associated with the "charity". One Young World, Markled it would seem. However, back to the point of the photo, it was a knee-jerk reaction to release it when and how she did. It was a fuck you, we're still royal or at least one of us is and we're not going to let you forget it. What it has served to do, is to remind everyone just how bitter Ms Markle can be.

Katie "I saw Him First" Nicholl has a new book out, "The New Royals" and is desperate to plug it and get as many sales as possible. To that end, and with no context whatsoever, she "let slip" a story about Prince George supposedly telling another child at school during a bit of toing and froing "watch out, my dad's going to be king". This opines Katie, makes young George a bit of a brat. The twittersphere went crazy, tumblr went mental, social medias everywhere went into meltdown and poor old Katiekins felt the need to defend herself saying her words had been "taken out of context". Yah think Katie? Would that be because you didn't give them any context? As many of you know, Katie works for Vanity Fair, she very often seems to be a fair minded, even handed, intelligent human being. However, when her mask slips as it did in this instance, you see her for what she is, a mean girl interested only in fame and making money using someone else's name. Remind you of anyone?

Archetypes with Meghan is back *shudder* after a short break following the death of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. This time round, our girl was discussing the stereotyping (someone really should explain the meaning of both words and the differences between the 2 to her) of Asian women in film. By Asian women, Meghan was referring solely to Chinese, Korean and Japanese and possibly Thai, completely ignoring Indian, Pakistani, Israeli, Iranian, Turkish, Lebanese, Sri Lankan, Syrian, Bahrainian and Cambodian to name just some of the 48 countries not including dependencies which make up the continent of Asia. Is her racism showing again? Anyway, this time round, before her guests, Margaret Cho ( Korean-American Comedienne, Actress and Activist) and Lisa Ling (Taiwanese-American journalist, author and television presenter) were given the chance to talk about themselves (and Margaret has had a pretty interesting life, she's a survivor of familial sexual abuse, dated Quentin Tarantino and was openly bi-sexual at a time when it was frowned upon by everyone!) everyone had to endure the thrilling installment of how Doria used to take Flower to the Korean Spa and all these naked women from 9 to 90 would be wandering round waiting for their treatments. Now, all you internet detectives worked out that she had lifted this from a kids cartoon show called Big Mouth (plagiarism is as plagiarism does) but what interested me was did she say what year this was because we know that Doria dropped out of her life for at least 10 years. She did say she was hitting puberty so if our maths is correct, she was definitely with Thomas then and if rumours are to be believed, Doria was incarcerated. Even if she hadn't copied the story from a show she's probably caught one morning, things just don't add up. One minute they're saving up to go eat at a Sizzler and the next Doria is taking them both to a Korean Spa for the works? It's like Judge Judy says "if you tell the truth, you don't need to have a good memory". The best thing about all of this, they've employed a fact checker. On her show. This really tickles me. That girl is going to be so busy, she won't know if she is coming or going and I think she will have a very hard time separating the truth from fiction when it comes to Ms Markle because she has told that many different versions of "her truth" over the years.

Harry has a new Law Suit. It must be Thursday. Yep, Harry, Elton John, David Furnish, Elizabeth Hurley, Sadie Frost and, most notably, Baroness Lawrence have all filed suit against ANL with allegations including the planting of listening devices, paying officials and accessing bank accounts. The accusations listed by the Duke's solicitor's Hamlins LLP alleges the following: The hiring of private investigators to secretly place listening devices inside people’s cars and homes’; ‘The commissioning of individuals to surreptitiously listen into and record people’s live, private telephone calls whilst they were taking place’; ‘The payment of police officials, with corrupt links to private investigators, for inside, sensitive information’; ‘The impersonation of individuals to obtain medical information from private hospitals, clinics, and treatment centres by deception’; and ‘The accessing of bank accounts, credit histories and financial transactions through illicit means and manipulation.

As we all know, Harry does not handle the press well at the best of times and unlike his brother, has been unable to build any sort of working relationship with them (unlike his wife). To him, they will always be the enemy, they will always be the reason his beloved mother died. He and William were both "hacked" by the Sun newspaper group back in the day and what is happening now has echoes of that. Even if ANL is innocent of everything they are being accused of, in Harry's eyes they will always be guilty. I think this is one of the main reasons he has them in his sights as often as he does. I doubt winning the cases matters to him, he just wants to cause them as much upset and distress as he can.

On a lighter and brighter note, after their visit to Wales where they were a resounding success, the new Prince and Princess of Wales made a surprise visit to Northern Ireland.

Catherine seemed to be gifted ALL the flowers, she deserves them, she does, I just hope she had enough people on hand to help her carry them. The pair had fun competing to see who made the best cocktail in the quickest time, Catherine won (natch), I hope they got to drink them, especially Catherine after being accosted by the lady in the crowd telling her it would have been nicer if she was visiting when Ireland belonged to the Irish. Didn't she handle it well, a quick smile and then on to the next person, my message to the lady in question, wait until the politicians are in town and take it up with them. I should say they started their day at PIPS which provides crisis support for people at risk of suicide or self-harm (think they definitely earned those cocktails).

William got accosted by a pair of cocker spaniels who really, really, really wanted him to know what good boys and girls they were.

The last visit of the day was to Carrick Connect and Catherine got to hold another baby (William was smiling but was he also looking a bit worried at that gleam in her eye?)..

That's it from me. I will try to post more. I'm still battling the flu and trying to catch up with everything I've missed from everyone's blogs. Oodles of love, Tilly

[literaryhedgehog]

So I was inspired recently by the amazing @katsens-writing to write a Good Omens piece. I started it at the end of November but decided I would release it today (A bit unedited maybe) as a New Years' present. Happy 2020 everyone.

This could be an AU, but I tried to write it within the context of the show. This is the first fanfic that I have actually completed, so please let me know what you think!

Aziraphale sat down expectantly at one of the tables, and ordered the local wine while he waited. It had only been a few weeks since he and Crowley had encountered each other again. What an amazing coincidence that they both had work in the same place this week! That hadn’t happened in over a century. He, of course, was rather looking forward to hearing about all that Crowley had been up to over the last century. They had meant to talk last week of course, but then the food arrived so promptly, and as they were finishing a messenger arrived requesting Aziraphale’s presence at the Library. (He decided to become a patron of it, he thought it was just wonderful that they were working to spread knowledge from around the world, even if mainly to the upper classes). Before he left he and Crowley had agreed to meet up again, at least one more time before either had to leave the city. Aziraphale knew a lovely place for drinks down the road, and they agreed that at noon on Friday they both could meet and discuss the happenings of the last millenia.

His wine arrived at his table as he was glancing up at the sun again. They hadn’t settled on a specific time to meet of course, just planned to eat a light repast for a mid-day meal. Aziraphale hated to be late, so he had arrived as the sun rose high in the sky. “there’s no reason to be concerned” he told himself, sipping the wine as he turned intentionally away from the sky. “He is likely very busy. Slithering about causing mischief somewhere no doubt.”

His glass was almost empty when he checked the sun for a fourth time. So consumed in looking up – surely two hours hadn’t passed already – that he initially didn’t notice the child approach and stand next to the table.

“Judge Aziraphale?”

He straightened, “yes, what can I do for you?”

“ I’ve got sent with a message for you. Mr. Crowley says sorry, a things came up and he can’t come today.”

He couldn’t come. Aziraphale told himself that the feeling in his stomach was just for want of food, he was just fine eating alone. It was no matter, really. He had looked forward to hearing stories about other parts of the world, but that was all. It was the stories, not the teller that was important. Eating lunch with Crowley was no different than eating with anyone else, Gab—well perhaps not Gabriel, but he was sure given enough time he could think of several beings he would equally enjoy eating lunch with. Five, at least.

“Well that’s perfectly all right. Lunch between two good friends can happen any day of the week can’t it?” He smiled at the boy, trying to give off the air of nonchalance and paternal affection – children liked that didn’t they? “It was so very good of you to carry that message for us! Did Mr. Crowley make sure you were paid for your time?”

“O’Course!” That seemed to be the wrong thing to ask, the child looked offended. “ Mr. Crowley isn’t the kind who expects you to kiss his sandals for none but the blessings of the gods.”

“How silly of me, I should have expected it.” Crowley always did have an affection for children, though it would take more effort than it was worth to get him to admit it. He had a way with them that Aziraphale never quite managed. He was never quite sure how to talk with them, logical conversations never quite held their interest and he was terrible at their small talk.  He had tried saying the things he usually heard from adults – you have grown so tall, what an interesting toy you have, and the like – but he assumed his statements must lack some genuinely because no child ever seemed to like him. It might have hurt his pride, but Aziraphale had long decided that he could serve the great plan just fine by solely interacting with adults. “Is that all you needed from me?”

“Yessir” Aziraphale finished his wine as the child left. He still had some time left in the afternoon to fit in a good work or two. Perhaps he could even get some food on the way. There was this vendor near the forum that always had the most lovely tarts…

                                                      …

It wasn’t quite two days later when Aziraphale had a bit of an incident with a robber. It was a rather minor event really – the man was looking for some money, and he cut Aziraphale with his knife before he realized that it was unnecessary. He did apologize after the two had a nice heart to heart about his long-forgotten dream to become an artist, but Aziraphale turned down his offer to fetch a healer. He had little confidence in the healers on this side of the city, and truth be told he was fairly confident that for a small injury like this his body would heal faster than could be easily explained. No, far better to return to his home and rest. That was all he needed. For now, he could do well enough just wrapping the area tightly with cloth and walking home.

It was a few blocks later when he started to feel a little odd. His eyesight did the strangest thing where little golden dots crept in from the outside of his vision, and he started feeling dizzy.

“It must be the blood loss,” he told himself, leaning against a cart and ordering himself a drink, any drink they could get quickly. “Or perhaps some shock. Nothing a little water can’t solve until I can make it home. I’ll just have to breathe more deeply until then.” He took a sip of whatever they handed him, barely tasting it as he realized his hand was shaking slightly. “It’s only a twenty-minute walk.”

He began again, walking up the hill towards his housing. He watched the ground as he walked, following the lines left behind by the carts. It wasn’t far. He could walk home, there was no need to stop.

As he was entering the temple district his vision began to cloud again, this time accompanied by a ringing in his ears. He found one of the pillars of the nearby temple and sat down, leaning against it for support. It was the sort of place normally occupied by the pour and injured, who had to live off the generosity of others. Luckily no one was at this particular pillar today, so he would just sit until his sight had returned to normal. Nothing to it.

When Aziraphale stood up a few moments later, he realized very quickly that this blood loss might be a bigger problem than he had anticipated. He was beginning to feel faint when he heard a familiar voice a few steps later.

“For a minute there, Angel, I thought you were sitting on the street planning to become a beggar.”

It was at that moment that the gold sparks had begun to close over Aziraphale’s eyes again, and he knew rather than saw himself reach out and grab Crowley’s arm for support. Or perhaps he grabbed his hand. He wasn’t quite sure. He thought he heard himself saying something like “Hello. I am currently trying to avoid fainting. Just a bit of blood loss, you know.” But at that moment his ears were ringing and his memory was hazy until the point where his vision and hearing cleared slightly to find his hand gripped in Crowley’s, arm resting on his, and Crowley saying “I think there should be somewhere to lie down in here.”

“Excuse me, my friend here’s taken a bit ill, you wouldn’t mind if he used one of your couches to die down for a bit?”

“Yes of course.” A fluttery female voice answered. “Right over here. What do you think is wrong? We have a healer on site, though not nearly as fine as I’m sure refined gentlemen such as yourselves are used to.”

“That would be lovely” Crowley answered, just as Aziraphale found the voice to say “Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

“What?” Crowley looked down at him, shock on his face. “Angel, you said you were about to faint from blood loss.”

“From mild blood loss.” Aziraphale sat on the sofa and leaned back, suddenly feeling the need to have his head back. “ I was lightly stabbed-“

“-STABBED-”

“-LIGHTLY stabbed. It was a slight misunderstanding, but it’s all right now. The gentleman realized that his skills are much more suited for the painting of statues – if its not refreshed it fades to the white of the marble you know – and I thought I would feel perfectly better with a little bit of rest.” He opened his eyes to find Crowley staring at him. The demon seemed at a loss for words, almost frustrated as he stared at Aziraphale.

“Right, you’re seeing our healer,” the female voice said. Aziraphale turned to see the speaker clearly for the first time. She had long brown hair left lose and flowing over her shoulders, which somewhat covered what her sheer dress was clearly not designed to. “Don’t worry though” she said, as another woman smelling faintly of herbs carried a small bag from the adjoining room and sat down on a cushion next to the sofa, “sewing cuts is one of her specialties.”

“Oh, how lucky you are to have a medical professional on your own premises! Is that common around here?”

“One of us had to learn,” the girl he supposed was the healer said, as she leaned over him, pulling his robe around so she could see the wound. Her hair, unlike that of her compatriot’s, was bound, and she barely glanced at his face as she sat up to stick a knife near the fireplace and thread a needle. “Girls need babes delivered, or a customer gets violent when he doesn’t feel satisfied with his service.” She turned to see the shock on his face, and smiled. A thin thing, slight enough that with very little effort it could be turned into a scowl. “ Doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it pays to have someone with even basic midwifing skills around. For anything complicated we run for my teacher. Now this will hurt, so I’ll thank you not to cut my hand off.”

“All right.” Aziraphale had no intention of cutting her hand off, deciding just to ignore what she was doing. If he didn’t think about it, all he felt was a light tugging sensation. He opted to scan the room, now that his eyesight had recovered and his head felt light enough again to notice his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that Crowley, who was now standing staring into the fire, had draped his cloak over Aziraphale’s legs. Then he saw that though the sitting room he was currently in was empty, he was being watched by numerous women, who were peering through the entrance of what looked to be a hallway. A few were wearing thin silk similar to the woman who had ushered them in, while others appeared to be wearing bright togas, or less. Aziraphale looked away quickly. “I do hope I didn’t disrupt anything. I would hate to be a bother.”

“Its fine,” a new voice came from the doorway, “we hardly have business at this time of day. In a couple hours though, you should probably be gone. I doubt you’ll have the stamina to keep up with our usual crowd.”

Aziraphale smiled briefly, but otherwise chose to ignore the snickers that came with that comment, and those from other women following it. He instead looked at the woman sitting in front of him, who had now taken her knife back from in front of the fire and was using it to cut and singe the ends of her thread. “Is that it then?”

“Just about.” She sat back and adjusted her toga, then began to repack her bag with the thread and needle, and other herb mixtures he hadn’t noticed her smear around the area. “You were lucky. It was only a small wound, and it had slowed bleeding enough that I could sew it up instead of cauterizing it.” He heard noises from the other girls then, sounds of disgust, and comments like “the smell takes forever to leave.” Crowley looked over at them, and they quickly grew silent.

“May I leave then?”

“I think you should lay there for a few more minutes, and hire a cart to carry you home, if you can afford it. I would definitely avoid going on any stairs for a while at least.” She stood up, and Crowley crossed the room to shake hands with her. He thought he might have seen the glimmer of coin pass between them. She turned to look at him once more before leaving the room, “I do hope you feel better soon.”

Crowley came and sat down by his feet. He had gotten a cup of wine somewhere and was sipping it slowly as he stared at the fire. Aziraphale cleared his throat, “so any interesting assignments lately?”

Crowley turned to look at him. “Really, Angel? That’s what you want to talk about? Not the fact that you were, as you said, ‘lightly stabbed’?”

“Not particularly.” They were silent for a few minutes. “I was just curious what came up the other day. I haven’t seen any major catastrophes around, so I thought you might have left the city.”

“Oh, that. No, it was nothing really. Just some demon drama. Nothing major, just some reports to sort out and all.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale went silent for a minute, looking at the demon’s profile. “Crowley, I-“

“There’s a cart here for you” a young boy ran in the door. He had to be 8 or 9, though Aziraphale reminded himself that he really had no idea how children aged. He had the nose of the first woman they had met. “He said he could take you anywhere you needed to go.”

“Oh. All right. Thank you very much.” With Crowley’s help he stood up and made his way towards the door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Crowley flip the child a coin. Slithering softie.

Crowley helped him onto the cart and stood back. “Well, I’ll see you around Angel.”

“Oh, er, yes. Goodbye, Crowley. He gave the driver his address, then watched Crowley turn and disappear down a side street.

The next time they saw each other, a few months or millennia later, Crowley said that it was “good to see you well.” But that was all the mention they ever made of it. Aziraphale supposed that, to Crowley, it wasn’t anything to fuss over. Just an incident in their acquaintanceship, nothing more. And if it didn’t mean anything to him, then Aziraphale surely wasn’t going to bring it up. The fact that, in what might have been the most helpless moment of his existence, he felt instantly safe once he heard Crowley’s voice was irrelevant. Nor was the fact that he didn’t remember grabbing Crowley’s hand, they just naturally connected. Nothing worth fretting over, so he wasn’t going to mention it. Thanking him would only embarrass the demon.

And so, neither of them ever mentioned it again. Aziraphale certainly never thought about the feeling of Crowley’s hand when they were sitting next to each other on park benches feeding ducks. And why would Crowley ever feel the need to tense up when he saw Aziraphale within 100 meters of a sharp, malicious blade? That would be ridiculous, beyond suggestion. This incident meant nothing to either of them, so neither would ever admit thinking about it briefly every time they saw each other for the next few thousand years.

[smartalker]

Magpie Bridge  [4/10 - Morrigan]

ENTITLED: Magpie Bridge FANDOM: Mass Effect Andromeda - Reyes/Ryder RATING: M LENGTH: 50k via 10 chapters GENRE: Romance/Sci-Fi/Drama/Humor, in that order SUMMARY: With the Kett subdued and Andromeda’s terraforming system running at full power, Kadara Port swiftly establishes itself as the trade capital of the galaxy. The city’s unique combination of affluence, corruption, and growing power inevitably earns the ire of both the Nexus, and Aya. Under tremendous pressure to disavow a known criminal’s legitimacy, Ryder once again returns to Kadara hoping to broker peace, but the Charlatan wants something very different from her… ALT SUMMARY: Two people fall in love, galaxy breaks.

It wasn’t unusual for Keema to be targeted for assassination.

But she usually didn’t call him about it.

“Is the riot about you?” Reyes asked. Keema glared through the com at him, clutching her shoulder. She was naked to the waist, being stitched up before his eyes by an extremely nervous Salarian. She’d been shot, but not by a big bullet, and her hand was flat against the flesh near her wound, protective.

“I don’t care about the bloody riot,” Keema gasped. Her voice was flatter than usual, stretched thin with pain. He tried to remember the last time she’d been targeted—in both instances she’d escaped with minor injuries. Some people would call it luck. The Salarian, looking regretful, approached the bullet wound with forceps. Her surgeon kept moving in and out of the camera, his instruments flashing in the light. “Do you know who just tried to kill me?” Keema hissed.

“No. But I hope you learned something.”

“An Angaran child. Couldn’t have been taller than my waist.” Her face contorted with pain, and she made a sudden animal noise—then controlled herself, breathing heavily.

“You killed him,” Reyes concluded, calmly.

“My sniper killed him, because the little darling shot me, and he was about to do it again,” Keema forced through her teeth. “At a public forum. So yes, the riot is all my fucking fault. Next time I’ll just die politely.”

Reyes swore. Of course it had to be a child. Of course it had to be a fucking child.

Think. Everything was an opportunity, every situation had two perspectives. He needed to get them on the right one, now. “What about the kid’s body? Have we scanned it?”

“The fucking Angara—!” Keema swore, then collected herself. A warped, twisted bit of metal was being pulled out of her as he watched. Keema breathed carefully. “My countrymen seized the child’s body. They seem to think that we’ll desecrate it the second we get our hands on it. They aren’t going to budge.”

“Fine. We’ll collaborate with a third party, some neutral examiner. Say we have an obligation to find and punish whoever would manipulate someone innocent.”

Keema nodded. She was quivering and pale, now that he took the time to notice. Her bullet wound was still bleeding freely, as the surgeon kept pulling bits of metal from her body. Reyes was impressed she hadn’t fainted. “Anything else? Did you notice anything about the kid?”

Keema’s eyelids fluttered. The anger that had so effectively held her together was dissipating. She wasn’t going to hold on much longer. “He’d been drugged,” she managed to say. “I don’t know with what. How. His eyes were all wrong. They should find something when they examine him.” She paused, shaking as the final, bloody scrap of metal was pulled from her. Haltingly, she asked, “I need you to deal with this.”

“What’s one riot?” Reyes snorted. “You do it all the time. It can’t be that hard.”

“Fuck you,” Keema replied, looking marginally more cheerful. She closed her eyes, and Reyes ended the call.

Ryder woke up.

She was definitely, undoubtedly, drugged up her eyeballs. Her entire body, especially her face, felt amazingly heavy. Her lips were like thick, meaty slabs. She chewed them curiously.

“Stop that,” Lexi barked. She rolled over in her wheelie chair, tablet in hand. “Right, I’m going to scan—follow the light?”

Ryder watched the penlight. Pretty. Too bright! “So. I got fried.”

Lexi made a disgusted noise. “Accurate enough. Stop blinking. I’ve had some very stern words with SAM, and we’ve agreed it’s best if the combat matrices be uninstalled for the time being.”

“This blows,” Ryder whined. “I didn’t even get to use it!”

Lexi rolled her eyes. “Alright, sit up.”

Ryder ambled upright, watching Lexi whack at her knees. “That seems related to a head injury.”

“Reflexes normal,” Lexi reported. “Good. Remember anything?”

“I started having headaches after SAM installed his program. Well. More frequent headaches. Sometimes fluorescent lights hurt my eyes too…anyway, I started having more headaches, then the day I conked out my migraine was seriously killer, then I had a crazy psychic vision, and then I collapsed. And I hit my head.” She abruptly straightened. “Reyes.”

“He’s fine,” Lexi drawled. She was tapping things into her tablet, distracted. “Alright, more or less what SAM told me. Don’t worry too much, Pathfinder. Precognition is a hoax.”

“Right.” Ryder smiled sweetly. “That would be ridiculous, says the alien telekinetic.”

Lexi ignored her again. Ryder returned to nibbling on her numbed lips. Suvi and Gil were right, Lexi’s patient beds were almost nice enough for Ryder to consider quietly submitting to the healing process. Almost. As if sensing Ryder’s restlessness, Lexi looked sternly at her most disobedient patient. “Bed rest. At least a day. I want to monitor that head, make sure your concussion hasn’t led to complications I might have missed. Do not pick at your scabs.” Lexi brandished her stylus at Ryder, who grumpily released said scabs. Lexi watched her for another moment, then softened. “You’ve been through a lot. Try to get some rest. I’m having my lunch brought here so I can keep an eye on you.”

Ryder snuggled into her pillow. “You really don’t trust me at all.”

Lexi snapped her fingers, as though Ryder were a dog trying to get at a forbidden treat. “Scabs.”  

Kadara was not a difficult city to understand, but that didn’t mean it was well designed. It had a few official buildings, those large enough to seem intimidating and of such essential that even the worst criminals were inclined to leave them alone. Back when the Port had been controlled by the Angara, there had been laboratories, warehouses for mining supplies, and the docks built to supply shipment. There had been no real need to consider the layout or placement of these structures, because there hadn’t been a population sizeable enough to create any sort of issue.

But things had changed. Now, the docking port spanned for miles, and the market stretched to match it. Paths that led up to those few official buildings were followed by the traders, who crammed and cluttered themselves into every available nook. Every possible square foot of space that might be seen by a buyer was leveraged. There were no vendor licenses, less than the minimum mandated law enforcement, and above all—a pulsing, swollen, tangible need. A desperate, filthy, lawless need. People lived and slept in their booths, or in the ugly, colorless buildings that pulled themselves up around these already cluttered pathways. They squatted, and they waited for the day their lives would change.

It became obvious, then, that the true real estate of Kadara Port was its rooftops. The higher you went, the more you paid, the further you traveled from the smell and the swell of its people. The streets, which were inaccessible by anything other than foot, could be watched from above, in relative comfort.

Reyes watched.

The Angara were furious. Frightened. They hated the Milky Way aliens, the barbarians who would do such unspeakable things to their children. To anyone’s children. The Milky Way aliens had come offering peace, and exchange, and culture. Instead they had given corruption, violence, and greed.

The Charlatan, the Angara were hissing, was a human. Everyone knew that Keema Dohrgun was a face. It was a mystery to outsiders but not to them, not to a people who watched each alien carefully, catalogued their differences. The Charlatan thought and acted like a human. The Charlatan may or may not have been a monster, a child murdering thug, but either way he was in power. Either way, his grip was loose enough for these things to happen.

The Milky Way aliens snarled back. Face or not, Keema Dohrgun was hardly innocent, and the Angara had never been saints. The fact that they had the vocabulary for words like murder, rape, torture—that was proof enough.

Reyes had sent operatives of every species throughout the city, to target the areas of greatest unrest with whispered news that the Charlatan was cooperating, that he was already in talks with the Nexus on beefing up law enforcement—that this violence, this fear, was unforgivable. It would be purged.

But mostly, he watched. He watched the city he had helped shape, and wondered when it had become so ugly. He’d imagined discipline, and beauty, and excitement. Instead Kadara had become a stopping place for the lost—for those with nowhere else to go.

He watched a woman pull her baby beneath her shirt to breastfeed, and he feared for her.

Ryder lasted at least twenty minutes before she was forced to mutiny. “SAM, exactly how definite is that 86 percent chance of Reyes dying thing?”

Our prediction is not set in stone. We do not have psychic abilities, merely predictive algorithms that run simulations based on the available data.

Relief, weirdly, was something she felt in her shoulders. They dropped. “Okay,” Ryder acknowledged. “Good. So we can change things to prevent this outcome?”

Correct, but given the high chance of his murder, I anticipate that several major changes will need to be made. SAM paused, then added, Additionally, it is worth noting that Reyes Vidal’s line of work will always naturally lead him to have a significantly higher mortality rate when compared to the average citizen.

“Great. So I just need to convince him to get back on the forty hour work week.” Ryder considered. “Or set up an enticing retirement package?” She wondered, for a moment, how many hours she worked in a given week. Did Pathfinders get overtime? Why didn’t Addison ever talk about anything important! “SAM, as a point of comparison, how good is my survival rate?”

Your recent head trauma has certainly not helped things.

It figured. Ryder reached up to poke around her wound. The amount of gauze was alarming in itself. “In your robot overseer opinion, what events need to happen for us to get Reyes’ murder chances below, uh, maybe ten percent?”

Irrelevant. We are on bed rest. SAM said, pretty firmly. And I do not want to die.

“We aren’t going to die. We’re going to change things. Just a few tweaks.”

I will inform Lexi, if I must.

“Don’t be such a snitch.” Ryder growled. “Where are my shoes?”

I will not tell you. I do not want to die.

“Tell me where my shoes are, or I swear I will never give you a single Sudoku Master problem again.” Ryder, who had been struggling to her feet, received a nasty static shock from her blanket. “Holy fuck! Was that you?”

Your shoes are in the top left cabinet behind the cleaning supplies. I will be unable to communicate for the next several minutes due to bandwidth restrictions.

Ryder dragged Lexi’s desk toward the instructed cabinet, cursing. The arm that had been shocked was still smarting. “Bandwidth restrictions. Okay.”

Bandwidth restrictions are due to the necessity of updating my back up files, SAM countered. For being an emotionless automated voice, he could get pretty snooty.

Ryder yanked on her shoes, pulled her hair back to hide the lump of gauze patched to the back of her head, and briefly tried to hi-jack Lexi’s cosmetics station to cover some of the damage she’d done to her face. She gave up when navigating the blue skin-tone presets became overwhelming.

Feeling proud of her own stealth parameters, Ryder snuck out of the Med-Bay to encounter the person obviously assigned to keep her from leaving. Kallo blinked at her, reproving. He set aside his catalogue of engine models, an obvious sacrifice.

“That’s ridiculous,” Ryder argued. “If you’re here, who’s even flying the ship?”

“No one. We’re docked,” Kallo explained. He shrugged. “The others fancied a night on the town.”

That was just rude. “Without me?”

Kallo looked as though he were fast approaching a stress-induced breakdown. “You have a concussion,” the pilot pointed out. He added, “Once they get back, I’m hoping you’ll agree that we should return to the Nexus and request formal backup. In case you were wondering, my personal best for exiting this planet’s atmosphere is two minutes, eighteen seconds.”

“I’m not going to run away,” Ryder lied. “I was just going to check my terminal. See if I could maybe access the forensic records on the murder victims.”

Kallo looked annoyed. “You’re supposed to be on bed rest. You have a computer in your head that should be able to access that information for you instantly.”

“Fine. I wanted a snack.”

“I’ll get it for you. Did you want the sausage or the spinach casserole?”

She and Kallo stared at each other in silence. Quietly, Ryder cleared her throat. “Get out of my way,” she ordered.

Bravely, Kallo puffed out his chest. “I suppose I could accompany you.”

The thought of judo-throwing poor Kallo over her shoulder didn’t sit well with Ryder. If only they’d left Drack behind! She had precisely zero qualms when it came to pummeling Drack. Attacking Drack was practically self-defense, considering all the times a friendly tap from the old Krogan had sent Ryder flying into walls, tables, and people she might want to bang in the future.

Ryder took off, with Kallo as her shadow. She was now apparently stuck eating still more casserole. As she waited for her latest dosage of sausage monstrosity to heat up, Ryder pulled up the coroner’s reports on one of the Tempest’s terminals, flicking through the notes her other crew members had already highlighted for her. “So all the kids get torn into pieces, scattered around, and eventually discovered in varying stages of decay…cause of death is difficult to determine due to the extent of damage the victim’s bodies have suffered, but the concentration of blood spilt suggests that victims were killed by some kind of wound—they’re leaning towards stabbing since no evidence of guns have been found—and after suffering an injury, the victims die from blood loss.”

“At least they aren’t being torn apart while they’re alive,” Kallo noted. He reached over Ryder’s shoulder, skipping a few pages. “I’ll surmise. The two main points of interest at this time are the drugs found in the victims’ systems, and the summary of their remains. Right now the forensics teams have been unable to recover a single one of the victim’s hearts.”

“Are they eating them?” Ryder blurted out. She stuffed a bit of sausage in her own mouth. Kallo, watching her, looked horrified.

“I…I don’t know. If you were wondering, the missing heart is also likely a reference to the myth of Zagerus. The god was torn apart as a small child, but reborn because his heart was saved, rather than being destroyed with the rest of his remains.”

God she hated casserole. Ryder swallowed. “And the drugs?”

“Lethal doses of some off-market stimulant, we’ve been calling it Ambrosia. It seemed fitting, with all the Greek mythology connections. Each cadaver’s strain of Ambrosia contains fairly broad variations in the exact chemical composition, which indicates that the formula is still being tested. It is also worth noting that the victims are cross-species and therefore would have very different reactions to imbibing the drug, though Lexi believes the intended effect is meant to simulate the sort of ‘ritual madness’ the god Dionysus was patron of. Suvi tells me that in humans, the effects should be similar to taking Ecstasy.”

“So, there’s some kind of drug lab. Somewhere. If we find them, we find our cultists.” Ryder considered this, wondering how she was supposed to trace an industry notorious for its secrecy. She faced Kallo. “Have you ever gone undercover? For like, anything?”

Kallo shook his head frantically. “No. Stop. I know what you’re doing, Pathfinder! If you leave me right now I’m going to get yelled at by at least three people!”

I agree, SAM chimed in. Ryder had already turned to go. Kallo hovered behind her, whimpering.

“This isn’t fair! I just fly ships through wormholes and asteroid belts! I don’t do combat!”

“I know,” Ryder soothed. “It’s actually pretty ridiculous you were supposed to stop me all by yourself. Hell, I would argue they aren’t even trying to put me on lockdown. Which, by the way, I don’t think Lexi technically has the authority to do? She’s getting pretty uppity.”

Actually, Lexi gave you a generous does of sedatives, SAM pointed out. Both she and I assumed you would not be moving in the first place. It would seem that your metabolism, high activity level, and, perhaps, a genetic predisposition for bullheadedness have all contributed to making your system more resistant to drugs.

Ryder chortled. “That’s stupid. I just drink a lot.”

“No,” Kallo moaned. He grabbed Ryder’s elbow, and she rather gently shook him off. “No,” he moaned again. “Pathfinder, you don’t understand! You can’t singlehandedly infiltrate a drug ring!”

“You’re so right. What I need is discretion. Call Drack,” Ryder chirped, and rolled her eyes. Kallo suddenly brightened, and scurried away to do just that. Ryder slapped the shuttle call button just as Kallo did as she’d suggested, and she even had time to hear him wail, “The Pathfinder’s escaping!” before the shuttle doors closed, and she was once again gliding towards Kadara’s surface.

The riot was diverted, if not outwardly oppressed. No one had been able to find the Angaran boy’s immediate family – no one, in fact, had any idea what his name was. With so little to stand on and money tight, the Angaran community had surrendered his body for investigation – with supervision.

Keema, for her part, was already onto her third dirty martini. Very dirty. Essentially, just olive juice and vinegar. Reyes would never understand Angaran taste.

“Well, it’s a start,” she acknowledged. The martini swirled, almost oily. She was probably not supposed to be drinking, especially considering her pain meds. But Keema drank a lot, as Reyes was beginning to notice. He wondered how an Angara’s body tolerated addiction.

There was something he had to say, something they both knew, but neither wished to discuss. Reyes sighed. “We need to talk about the police.”

Keema’s nostrils flared. “Kill-joy.”

“We can’t keep going like this,” Reyes argued. He let himself sit on the edge of her bed – Keema refused to be treated at a clinic – and hoped that this physical closeness would, somehow, help ease the discussion. “It doesn’t have to be Nexus. But if we install some sort of law enforcement, one that’s sympathetic—”

“Corrupt,” Keema interrupted. “You mean corrupt. A corrupt police is even worse than a known criminal. It will solve nothing, perhaps only increase violence.”

Reyes made a face. “I want someone else to clean up this mess. At this point, no one will even believe us if we do catch them.”

“Why do you think I invited the Pathfinder?” Keema’s drink had sloshed over the rim, she paused to lick her fingers. “But, you’re right. The Pathfinder is still only one person. She can be killed.”

Reyes just looked at her. Keema stared back, defiant, icy. She never slurred. “It’s a fact.”

She wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t matter. His mother would have said it was bad luck to talk that way. Reyes had just opened his mouth to tell her off, when his omni-tool began to buzz. One of the Tempest’s crew, Ryder’s people. He answered before asking for excusal.

“Hey,” Peebee yawned. “Is she with you?”

“The Pathfinder? No.” His follow-up thought was immediate. “Are you saying you don’t know where she is?”

“I hope you’re lying to me,” Peebee sang. She drew closer to her camera lens, until all he could see was a single, gigantic hazel eye. The eye blinked, and squinted. “Ugh!” Peebee withdrew. “So typical! Typical Pathfinder Messiah-complex bullshit! This is totally your fault.” She gestured furiously through the com at him—perhaps it was some vulgar Asari gesture? Or just the physical expression of her frustration? Peebee wasn’t finished. “Children, all of you. Not even thirty years old and she thinks she’s allowed to just ditch her concerned Asari bestie with like a hundred years of experience in the dating game, just saying. Not to mention Drack! I mean, actually, we shouldn’t mention him.”

“Messiah complex?” Reyes repeated. A wash of exasperation blew across him. “She didn’t say where she was going?”

“I just said that!” Peebee hollered. “Goddess! Look, her SAM did some creepy future algorithm weirdness which I guess ends with you dying, spoiler alert, and maybe some other bad stuff but the bottom line is she has head trauma and we can’t find her.”

“I’m going to die?” Reyes repeated, then then with considerably more emotion, “Head trauma?”

“Never mind!” Peebee wailed. “Not helpful! Later.”

She hung up. Reyes dialed back immediately, pounding at his omni-tool with excessive force. Peebee ignored him. She ignored his next five calls so ruthlessly that he began to suspect that the whole thing was some kind of prank. Keema, who had watched the entire exchange in cool silence, finally spoke. “There’s no sense in breaking your omni-tool, darling. The Pathfinder will be just fine.” She crossed her legs, and made a show of rubbing her temples. “What I’m more worried about now is you. If you’re dead, my chances aren’t much better.”

Reyes ground his teeth. His back had begun to ache with tension. “Tell me you’ve at least gotten something out of the Asari assassin.”

Keema snorted. “She won’t talk. The Asari never talk. They aren’t as attached to their bodies as the rest of us.” She cringed back, startled, when Reyes gave in and kicked her bedside table, sending the furniture into the wall with a terrible smash. Reyes jerked away from Keema and her shocked, curdling stare. “You aren’t usually so violent,” Keema drawled, after a pause.

He wasn’t. He wasn’t violent. He didn’t want to be that person. Reyes dragged a hand over his face, trying to think about his breathing, trying to rewire himself. “Are you saying that the Asari is a complete dead end? Or just that she won’t talk.”

“No. There’s something.” Keema confirmed. He looked back at her, expectant. She tilted her head. “There was a certain kind of mud in the tread of her shoes. The bacteria, I’m told, are amazing. She was somewhere in the wastelands recently, somewhere with unique geothermal activity. Get your Pathfinder to wire into a mining satellite for us, tell her to look for somewhere with a massive amount of lithium. Some zinc, too.”

“Lithium?” Reyes repeated, then, as he realized the natural connection, his eyes widened. “The drugs.”

Keema smiled. “Theoretical. But why would they pass up the natural cure for mania? They’ve got to have some bad batches. And a cure’s even better if you can get it for free.”

Reyes nodded, considering the possibilities. “You forget. It’s not so easy to ask the Pathfinder for favors when she’s missing.”

“I forget nothing. You haven’t tried calling her yet,” Keema returned scornfully. She closed her eyes, and slid back beneath her covers. “I need to rest. Take care of things quickly, Reyes. We won’t get much more time.”

Ryder was not exactly a born criminal.

With SAM’s scanner, identifying drug mules was laughably easy. The problem was that she practically had NARC! emblazoned across her chest. After three blow-offs, two arguments, and four people growling, “Fuck off, Pathfinder,” she was forced to reconsider her approach.

Obviously, SAM agreed. This is embarrassing.

Undercover was overrated and, also, boring. “New plan,” Ryder decided. “We stalk. SAM, pull up city cameras, do whatever you can to trace their path—”

Reyes was calling. Ryder hit the denial button. She had a lot of missed calls.

“—what was I saying? Oh. While you’re tracing, I’ll hit the clubs and start scanning for Ambrosia.”

Cora was calling. Ryder hit the denial button three times.

Pathfinder, you could just turn off your phone.

“No, because that confirms that I am in trouble. Right now, I am just out for a stroll. They have no proof.”

Peebee was calling. Ryder, who felt that Peebee was the least effective lecturer of the group, strategically surrendered by answering. “Hey Peebs.”

“Gah!” Peebee yelped. “Finally! Do you know how many times I called you?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I certainly do.”

“Cool. Awesome. I was giving you the benefit of the doubt, like maybe you had fainted from running around with a concussion or, I don’t know, you got jumped by a gang of hangry Krogan because you decided to—once again—solo-mission the dirty space equivalent of the Wild Wild West—!”

“Peebs.”

“But! I was wrong. You’re just an asshat,” Peebee concluded. She made a show of moving around, trying to look over Ryder’s shoulder. “Also. Where the hell are you? I want to come.”

“I’m trying to trace Ambrosia back to the supplier.” Ryder explained. She had begun moving again, distantly aware of SAM’s monitoring – he had hijacked most of her omni-tool’s bandwidth. Ryder lowered her voice. “SAM’s following some dealers, maybe they’ll go back to the supplier. So far none of them have been selling Ambrosia but I figure the higher up we go, the more people will know, right? I’m going to scan the clubs for traces.”

Peebee nodded eagerly. “Right. And I want to come.”

Ryder shook off a vendor. She did not want to eat barbequed space lizard. Plus, she’d already broken enough of Lexi’s rules. Suvi could continue the charge on experimental eating. “Peebs, I actually think it makes more sense for me to solo this—I mean how many drug dealers do you know that like to sell in groups?”

“The lazy ones,” Peebee answered at once. She puffed out her cheeks, now pouting. “Ryder! Ugh! Seriously, have you even smoked?”

“What, like marijuana?”

“Oh. Goddess.” Peebee screamed. Fortunately the Asari had once again cocooned herself in an escape pod, which was naturally very sound proof. “You fucking military-baby dweeb!” Peebee roared. “How dare you? Out of the people on this ship, you thought that you were the best person for a drug deal?”

“Hey,” Ryder defended, now feeling a bit wounded. “I adapted.”

And then she smacked into Reyes.

There were several surprising things about this. First: Ryder was pretty much a champion when it came to dodging things. Second: how had he found her? Third: she had known it was him the half-second before she collided with his chest, without having seen his face, which could really only mean she had adapted some freaky pheromone-sensors.

Ryder looked up. “Oh hey,” she squeaked.

“Get her,” Peebee hissed from her wrist. It was easy to forget that a vindictive hellcat slept beneath Peebee’s bubbly exterior. Ryder hurriedly ended the call.

Reyes looked pissed. There was really no other way to describe it. More disturbing still, Ryder wasn’t sure she had ever seen him get angry before. He regarded her silently for a moment, expression tight, and then smiled. His eyes still creased as he did so. Now she was officially terrified.

“So I hear I’m going to die?” he asked.

“What? No.” Ryder shook her head. “Definitely not.”

“And I heard you have a concussion.”

“Uh,” Ryder stalled. God, she wanted to lie. She wanted to lie so bad. Except her face was beat to shit so her chances of success were admittedly not great. She scratched her undamaged cheek. “I’ve had worse?”

“You’re walking around with a concussion, trying to make a drug deal, because you believe that by doing so…I can only assume the world will be saved and I won’t die,” Reyes surmised. “You also decided not to tell me any of this, why?”

Ryder squirmed. There were times when not speaking was definitely the best answer. Reyes watched her for another moment, still smiling, still terrifying. Ryder cleared her throat, “Well—well you finding me like this means you apparently put a tracker on me so that’s also bad.”

“I don’t need a tracker to find you,” Reyes retorted, now looking scornful. “But that reminds me, you also dodged my calls.”

Ryder considered her possible escape routes. Maybe SAM could reinstall those combat matrices and she could just parkour the hell out of there. She looked at her toes, feeling like a teenager, like a naughty child, like all the things she didn’t want him to see her as, all the things she was dying to prove she wasn’t.

“Come with me,” Reyes said.

Ryder jerked up. “But—I have SAM tailing some people and—”

“I can find your drugs,” Reyes snapped. He was somehow more handsome when he was angry. “Obviously.”

Obviously. Ryder just nodded. She nodded, and she followed.

He took her back to a different but identical apartment, still not sure what he wanted. Keema would want him to get her scanning for Lithium. Her crew would want her stitched up and sent back. She looked like she wanted to lie down, but would never ask. He stepped back to let her inside first, and as she passed him, he saw the clump of bandages fixed to the back of her head, peeking through her hair.

She stood awkwardly in the middle of his room, trying not to look at him. He stared her down. A frustrated, angry energy tightened around him, the longer he looked at her.

“What’s here?” Ryder asked. Answer: nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Like an animal, he’d wanted to stow her somewhere safe. Somewhere he could just keep an eye on her while he figured out what happened next.

Reyes shrugged. She kept waiting for him to explain, a slow heat creeping through her face. “I should get back,” she piped up, rather weakly. Reyes slammed the door, and she flinched. He wasn’t sorry.

“Stay here,” he said, without emotion. He pointed at the bed. “Sit.”

“But I should really—”

He realized that he’d been grinding his jaw only when the muscles began to burn. He spun on her, trying not to shout. “Sit down.”

She sat, her face frozen. Mortified? Angry? For once, he didn’t care. He watched her, running through every conversation they’d ever had, every word she’d ever said to him. Her face was shifting, adapting. She was going to make a joke. She was going to try to force the mood, to dodge the things she didn’t want to talk about. She was used to people listening to her.

He cut her off just as her mouth opened. “You were wrong. You should have told me.”

She hesitated. Her hands twisted together in her lap. “I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time until I had more intel.”

“No. You just didn’t trust me.” Reyes shook out his shoulders. He couldn’t stop thinking about his family, the one he’d left behind. When it had all gone to shit. His old fly buddies, shaking their heads at him. You’re crazy when you’re angry. He wasn’t that person.

Ryder stood. He didn’t miss the slight wobble—the very suggestion of unsteadiness. It frightened him. She was supposed to be indestructible, iron boned, wearing the best armor the galaxy had to offer. He could see the stress, the heaviness of it, how it pulled on her eyes and her mouth. Where did she think she was going, all banged up like that? Ryder had squared her shoulders. “Alright fine, I didn’t trust you,” she acknowledged. “Is that what you wanted from me, my trust? Because the Initiative has to come first. You know that.”

“So why are you here?” Reyes countered. “You’re right, the Initiative does come first. But here you stand, because you risked everything for a smuggler. For me.”

She faltered. “I can handle it.”

“Fine, you can handle it. You can handle being drugged and kidnapped and shot and the rest of the galaxy’s problems while you’re at it. Except I don’t want you to. So what about me?”

She took a half-step towards him, as angry as she was pleading, and as her hand came up to—shove him? Gesticulate?—he caught it without thinking, pulling her into him.

“What about me?” Reyes snarled. Two splotches of color were coming into her cheekbones, making her eyes seem brighter, as though she were about to cry. Fine.

Shakily, she said, “You don’t get to be angry at me for—!”

“Of course I do!” He snapped, and she flinched away from him. Fine. Really, that was fine, that was more than fine. Logically, he preferred the world where she hated him to the one where she ended up dead trying to save him. Emotionally, maybe there was just an ugly streak, a vicious part of him that thought she deserved to be punished.

Glaring, Ryder bared her small, white teeth. “I didn’t do anything wrong!” she shouted back. “And even if I did, so what? Why the fuck do you think you get to judge me for it! Who the hell do you think you are?”

Reyes laughed. “Who am I? Certainly not the Pathfinder. I don’t go around thinking that my every decision is somehow mandated by God.”

That had hurt her. She didn’t back down. “Shut up.”

“No, you shut up this time,” Reyes snapped. “You shut up, because that’s exactly what you did, what you’ve been doing since the second your little feet touched down in my docking bay. Because some part of you genuinely believes that you are the ultimate voice of authority, and I guess the rest of us can go fuck ourselves. I’ve seen the things you can do, and you can call me a true believer, but you should remember that at the end of the day you are just a person.”

She was crying now. Angry, frustrated tears. She was trying to look away, trying to hide her face. When she spoke, her voice was still angry—but shaking. “You know what? Fine. Excuse the fuck out of me. I came here because I wanted to fix things—I wanted to help you. Maybe I should apologize for my methods but I’m not sorry that I cared because you fucking made me!”

He was going to say something ugly back to her, but she’d taken that last half-step towards him, and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, her face pressed into his neck. She was unnaturally still, every muscled tensed—whether that was to keep from shaking or because she expected his resistance, he couldn’t guess. “Don’t be mad at me,” she mumbled. “You’re such a bully.”

He didn’t want to be angry. He didn’t want to be that person. He just wanted her to listen. He let himself touch her. Was she frightened? For him, or because of him? He held the base of her neck, a hot place. He could let this go. He could change. He let himself flick away her armor. All these things, getting in his way. Always. “I should be angry. Just how heartless do you think I am?”

“The worst,” she insisted, not pulling back even one centimeter. “Completely heartless. I have a concussion.”

He tugged her back. She was silent, almost docile, as he undressed her. He knelt, and she had to brace a hand against his shoulder as he lifted her feet from her boots, one at a time. “You have pretty feet,” he noted. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them before.”

“Reyes,” she began, but stopped. He looked up at her, into her bruised face. She struggled to say, “I’m sorry.”

He kissed her stomach, her warm skin. “I shouldn’t have yelled,” he told her, with his eyes closed. “I’m embarrassed.”

“When are you ever embarrassed?” Ryder grumbled, now flushed herself. He nipped at junction where her thigh met her body, his hands smoothing down the backs of her legs. Ryder squeaked. “Are you—um, are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

“You could make it easier for me,” he snipped, pretending to be annoyed. He pushed her a little, back towards the bed. “Sit down.”

“But—”

“Sit down,” he said again, a little more gently. She sat on the edge of his bed, looking dazed. The top of her chest was flushed now as well. He braced his elbows on her knees, and looked at her slowly, letting her embarrassment peak. “You’re naked.”

“Shut up.” Ryder growled. He reached up, and traced the scoop of skin that folded below her breast. Ryder’s hands flew up to cover herself, entirely by instinct, and she twisted around, now yelping. “What are you, some kind of predator?”

“Just frustrated,” Reyes grinned. “You don’t listen well.”

“If I listened to you all of Andromeda would be operating under some kinda bullshit omertà in less than three months,” Ryder hissed. He pulled her legs open. She did a bad job of not looking shy. He bit the soft, fleshy part of her inner thigh and she practically writhed.

“You’re so excited,” Reyes observed, with complete innocence. Ryder glowered.

“If you don’t take your clothes off I’m seriously leaving.”

He took his clothes off. He pinched her, stroked her, scratched her. He didn’t think, or at least he tried not to. Her skin was so pliant, so satisfying to press. He wanted to sink his teeth into every single inch.

He pressed his mouth against everything he could reach, wanting to know her completely, wanting to recognize her body even if he were blinded. When she bent to wrap her lips around his shaft he fell in love with the way her eyes closed.

She crawled, she sank around him. He wanted to yank on her hair, to close his hands over her throat, but the bruises on her face kept him gentle. Almost gentle. He pulled down her hips, dragging her to him, tucking her against his body. He rolled her beneath him, felt her nails cut into his back.

“Promise me something,” Reyes hissed into her ear. He ground himself into her, hard enough for her to gasp, hard as the teeth she sank in his shoulder. “Promise me this won’t happen again. Don’t get in the middle.”

“No,” she whimpered. He kissed her swollen mouth, the edge of her bruised eye. She squirmed, but didn’t ask him to stop. She just took it. That acceptance of pain, that willingness to sacrifice—it seriously pissed him off.

“You have to,” he stressed. “You have to.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” she panted. Her voice ratcheted up when he slammed into her again. “Why?”

What a stupid thing to ask. And yet he couldn’t answer her—nothing felt quite right. There was no one reason. So instead he said again, viciously, “Promise me.”

“Okay,” she whispered, and folded. She lied, so obviously. He felt her shutter down around him, closing. Her eyelids fluttered, and she looked away. She pressed her face into his neck, her breath wet and ragged. And he could feel, in that moment, that he’d lost her. She was leaving even as she came. He could feel her stubborn, arrogant youth and the armor of her idealism. Her dreams, and her ideas about romance, and her distance. And he realized, at last, why she could never understand him. Why she held herself back, even as she forced herself further into his arms. Why, why, why.

She didn’t want to admit, to herself or to anyone, that he was not a good man.

He reached between her legs, and she came again with him. But it was different now, mechanical. He rolled off her, but kept her pulled tightly against his side. She was close enough for him to smell the old blood on her bandages. He had felt lonely before, but never like the way he did now. There was something there, something he couldn’t quite get. It should have been frustrating.

“You promised me,” he spoke into the skin at the back of her head, the crack he pictured in her skull. He imagined he was whispering into her dreams, changing them, fixing her truths. Like a shout into an empty chasm. “Don’t forget.”

She tried to roll over to face him, to argue, and he tightened his grip, fingers digging into her hip, her flank. She had to hear this. “I am not worth your life,” he said again, more violently. “This is my problem. Don’t try to fix it by yourself.”

She was silent, her body wrung out and lean and burning. Her breathing came slower. He could feel her heart beating through the sharp, hard curves of her shoulders. Her hand tried to cover his, but wasn’t large enough.

“Okay,” she lied again. “Okay.”