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motherroam-rs · 11 months ago

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Wrap Me in Your Skin and Bones

NSFW - 18+

Warnings/Tags : Cockwarming, Nightmares, Mentions of Trauma and PTSD, Angst, Comfort, Love Confessions

Relationship: Crosshair/Fem!Reader

Summary: After solitary confinement on Mount Tantiss, Crosshair is plagued by nightmares that lead him to seek comfort in your body.

A/N : Wrote and posted this to AO3 before season 3 but wanted to put it here too 🫡 I just had this angsty lil thing in my head about how a touch starved Cross would deal with physical contact after the empire 🫶 (even though I firmly believe Tech survived the fall - he’s dead for the purpose of this I’m SORRY)

NSFW BELOW THE CUT

The sharp hit to your ribs has you springing into a sitting position, eyes wild and scanning the room for a threat. Muscle memory from years in the war has you reaching for the blaster and pointing it towards various shadows in the room.

You would be a lousy shot with the way your hand shook from the adrenaline in your veins. But, there are no imperial agents hiding in your room, no battle droids under your bed, the source of the attack lays next to you, writhing against imaginary forces in his nightmare.

Crosshair.

Abandoning the blaster on the floor, you work on tearing the bedsheets away from him before he can tangle himself any further in the restrictive fabric. Every muscle in his body seems to be rigid, even once you manage to free him, but he still thrashes, as if fighting against invisible restraints.

The sight of his struggle has your stomach forming knots.

“Crosshair, wake up,” your pleading hands press to his shoulder, thankful that the prominence of his collarbones has eased over the last few weeks, but he’s still nowhere close to as healthy he was the last time you saw him before the war had ended.

Unlike the rest of the batch, you hadn’t seen Crosshair during his time under the empire, and although during his absence you were thankful for it, this only made it worse the day his brothers brought him home.

Crosshair had always been the leanest of them, you had even joked with him on several occasions that he resembled the toothpicks which always hung from his lips, but the breath had been stolen from your body when Echo half-carried him down the walkway. Crosshairs face was almost as hollow as Echo’s had been after Skako Minor, and it was now flecked in silver stubble, with a large scar that stretched across the side of his head where patches of hair were entirely missing.

Just as the pair passed you by, Crosshairs eyes had met your own. You were used to a range of emotions in them, from heated glares and desire filled gazes, occasionally there was even an amused look that framed his eyes with a hint of laughter lines. However, what you didn’t prepare yourself for was for them to be entirely void of any emotion, it was if you were just one of the stone pillars that lined the streets.

After a week in the infirmary, it became evident that Crosshair couldn’t sleep alone. With Hunter preoccupied with Omega, the responsibility fell to Echo the first few nights, he was the closest to understanding Crosshairs situation after all.

On the third day after the rescue, Hunter had told you although Omega was kept somewhat safe with another female clone, they had found Crosshair in solitary confinement. Something deep in your chest broke at the unsaid weight of the information. Despite his aversion to most people, Crosshair had spent years of being in tight living spaces with his brothers, only to be thrown in a cell alone for maker knows how long.

Maybe this was why he gravitated towards you once he was finally in good enough physical condition to be released from the infirmary.

Between Echo’s own complicated relationship with sleep, Wrecker’s inability to not snore and wake everyone in the immediate vicinity, and Hunters responsibility for Omega, it was you who took him in.

If Tech was still here, he would have been the one to stay with Crosshair. You push that thought down, but the pain still resonates in your chest.

You give Crosshair another shake, and the second your other hand presses to the bare skin of his face, his eyes snap open. He lashes out like a snarling animal trapped in a snare, gripping both your wrists and pinning you beneath him with a speed that causes the room to spin around you.

“It’s just me, Cross.” You speak in a hushed tone, attempting to calm him as you fight against his grip.

Reality bleeds into his eyes, momentarily easing his pained expression, but then he’s choking on the air, collapsing onto you.

“I need,” although his face is buried in your neck, you hear the emotion crack his voice, and you already know the broken look that on his face. “Please, I need you.”

“It’s okay, Cross.” You nod and widen your legs, allowing his hips to settle between them. Your bodies act on the familiar routine you had both fallen into over the last few months since he moved into your spare room - which he has still never spent a night in. Crosshairs shakes have already begun to ease with the contact, his hands have at least stilled enough so he can effectively rid you both of the few items of clothing until you were bare against each other.

He coils himself around you at first, as if he were a snake trying to suffocate its prey, but you only wrap your arms around him in return, welcoming his touch. You aren’t certain if it’s the solitary confinement that made him need the contact, or if it’s some lingering effect of the chip, but either way you still offer yourself to him.

Seemingly unable to wait for his heart to settle, he chases the comfort only you can provide, and begins the slow push of himself inside you. Crosshair’s breaths are escaping him in desperate pants and he’s pressing as much of himself to you as possible, seeking the warmth of your body to drive away the sensation of the cold interrogation table that plagued his mind.

The stretch burns with the little preparation you have, and Crosshair senses your silent discomfort. He draws his hips back with a mumbled apology, so only the tip remains inside you, and draws slow circles on your clit with his thumb. It doesn’t take long for the resistance to ease with your wetness, and soon enough he’s rocking back into you with a groan, allowing you time to adjust.

He doesn’t attempt to bring you to the precipice, or anywhere close to it. Once he fully settles into you, his hand withdraws and instead tangles itself in your hair.

Right now Crosshairs need for you isn’t sexual, despite what it seems.

Some nights it will delve into more once his body relaxes, and he’ll take his time to have you come undone beneath him with more care and attention than he had ever possessed before the rise of the empire. But tonight, as he does most nights, he stills once fully seathed inside you, his only desire being your embrace.

“Where was it this time?” Sometimes he would answer, but other times he would give a slight shake to his head in response.

“Barton-4, then the interrogation room.” His voice is strained, and you recall everything he’s already told you about these places, specifically the haunting memory of Mayday’s death.

“You’re safe, we’re both safe, Crosshair.” You press a kiss to his temple as if it would help the promise sink into his mind. One of your hands moves to the back of his head, cradling him against your neck as the other traces patterns on his back.

It takes a few minutes of silence for his breathing to fall in sync with yours, and despite his cock being inside you, the light exhale against your neck has your face heating at the intimacy. His shakes have entirely ceased now, and you think he’s fallen asleep, until you hear the broken whisper.

“I love you.”

Your body freezes at the admission, both hands stopping their comforting movements. His throat bobs against your neck with a dry swallow, and you wonder if it’s his body trying to subconsciously take back the words.

You had been somewhat together during the clone wars, but it was never emotionally intimate. He had a physical need for you in a way that led to fucking you from behind against almost every surface on the marauder. And yet, true to his cold nature he never faced you, or even kissed you. Once he finished, he would neaten his armour and leave without a goodbye, yet you would still allow him back every time he gave the word.

“Crosshair-“ you start, but he’s cutting you off before your mouth can form another syllable.

“I know it’s not the right time to say it, but I do, I always have.” He rasps, trying to force the confession out in one breath, as if ripping the bacta patch off a wound.

Always have?

Your mind begins unravelling years of your self-imposed torture during the clone wars from biting down your feelings, pretending not to care when some pretty girl inevitably threw herself at him in a bar.

“You need to sleep.” He bites out, hurt evident in his tone at your lack of response, but he doesn’t dare peel himself away from you. Despite the hurt seeping into him, he’s too selfish to let you go unless you ask him to leave.

“Crosshair.” There’s no response, but something possesses you to reach out anyways, and you’re pressing your hand to his face, craning your neck to meet his stare. His eyes are open, but still avoid your own.

Your brush your nose against his, and your thumb traces over the sharp angle of his jaw, memorising the way he ever-so-slightly leans into your touch.

“I love you too.”

His eyes close, a shaky breath of relief escaping his lips. Crosshair had never needed a helmet to mask his emotions before his brothers brought him back to Pabu, back to you. His face had always been set in an ever cold smirk, whether it be when he was taunting a reg, on a stealth mission, or when you caught glimpses of him in mirrored surfaces in the marauder as he fucked himself into you. However, at your words, something akin to peace washes over his face, allowing it to morph into a rare expression of something softer, like that of a soldier returning from battle finally setting eyes on his home.

When the morning comes, you half expect the bed to be cold, or at least as cold as it can be in the climate of Pabu, but when the midday sun casts its warming rays over your skin, he’s still inside of you. Slender limbs have tangled with your own and his face is nestled against your neck, but you can tell from his breathing that he’s already awake.

“Stay.” It’s a whispered prayer against your skin, a desperate plea to some deity that seems to have abandoned him long ago in that cell on Mount Tantiss. But you don’t think the gods, the Empire or even the force could keep you apart now, and you don’t want them to. You press your forehead to his, a wordless answer to him that you aren’t going anywhere, that he’ll never have to be alone again.

#tbb crosshair x reader #crosshair x fem!reader #tbb crosshair #crosshair bad batch #clone trooper crosshair #crosshair #crosshair x reader #the bad batch #bad batch

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vagabond-art · 9 days ago

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Posted Fics!

True Colors of Ikigai - Ch. 1: Donnie & Leo & Mikey & Raph - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Rough Night in NYC: Raphael & Donatello & Michelangelo - TMNT (2007)

An Accident Waiting to Happen: Julia Ortega / Sidestep - Fallen Hero: Retribution | Two chapters

Hot Water, the Total Opposite of Hot Soup: Leonardo & Splinter, Donnie & Leo & Mikey & Raph - Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Spy Games: Male Imperial Agent / Theron Shan - Star Wars: The Old Republic

Both Forgotten and Remembered: Dick Grayson / Kory Anders - Titans (2018)

To Take a Fall - Ch. 1: John Doe / Bruce Wayne - Telltale’s Batman: The Enemy Within

Luminescence: Male Imperial Agent / Theron Shan - Star Wars: The Old Republic

Late Night: Julia Ortega / Sidestep - Fallen Hero: Retribution

A Confused Smuggler Comes out to Her Husband: Corso Riggs/ Female Smuggler - Star Wars: The Old Republic

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appendingfic · 5 months ago

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What People Think Death of the Author Means: Once a piece of art is out there, you can fully ignore the author as an agent involved in producing further works, profiting from the work, and promoting their damaging agenda from such profit and popularity What Death of the Author Means: Setting aside JK Rowling's transphobia, a careful reading of Harry Potter reveals a thread of casual racism, classism, a traditional defense of "The System", Anglocentrism, defense of imperial values, abuse apologism, and, shockingly, the use of white female beauty norms as a tool of depicting character morality.

#harry potter #death of the author #jk rowling #sorry if i didn't get everything #i have read a LOT of analyses #and i couldn't remember them all

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starplusfourletters · 1 year ago

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I read specter of the past (hand of thrawn book 1)

This turned into a liveblog srry

Me, reading the Thrawn trilogy: Okay obvi Mara/Luke is a slow burn

Me, skipping to the duology set 10 years later: GUYS YOU’RE LOSING DAYLIGHT

Oh no they have a passive aggressive “may the Force be with you” / “good luck” thing oh no I might ship it

Also the small existential crisis that ensues every time I remember Luke is (checks Wookieepedia) THIRTY-EIGHT YEARS OLD. I cannot picture Luke Skywalker a day over 22 I think my brain would explode [actively represses the sequel trilogy]

This book is absolutely crawling with badass female smugglers and I’m living for it

Oooh proto-convor! [two pages later] OH NO PROTO-CONVOR DEATH ☹

Mara Jade, Force sensitive specializing in precognition, former Emperor’s Hand, second-in-command of the most powerful information dealing organization in the galaxy: Runs into a wall and spends the rest of the book knocked out

Lando “Could I Please Get Back to My Day Job It Has Been Two Decades” Calrissian. Just let the man mine in unlikely places it’s all he’s ever wanted

I got way too happy about the implication that the Imperial whose name I've forgotten figured out the tractor beam thing. He solved Science! Good for he!

Loving how everyone’s opinion on Karrde is basically “nice guy; sus that he insists on getting paid, though.” Like yes this is still a capitalist economy and he runs a business with a large number of employees

We interrupt your space fantasy to bring you a “Chicken Fried” music video with clone sleeper agents

Okay everybody place your bets is Car’das a secret brother, secret father, or ex-boyfriend (hype for some Karrde backstory and realizing the extent to which my brain has decided he and Kaz Brekker are the same person is Extensive)

Legit starting to feel sorry for Gilead “Sad Fascist Grandpa” Pellaeon. Somebody give this guy a peace treaty and a hug. Also more and more irked about No Prisoners why did that need a retcon

Really enjoyed the book’s interrogation of the premise “how do we actually make a galactic organization that includes cultures with mutually exclusive legal and ethical codes WITHOUT being fascist.” Felt very Trek. Actually went further toward radical inclusivity than Trek usually does; the Federation does have an element of “you must be this close to 20th-21st century American values to ride” which is its own kind of cultural imperialism and in this essay I will -

I simply cannot get enough of these books’ “protagonist stumbles, Kramer-like, into the Site of Maximal Galactic Importance Du Jour.” I will let you know when it stops being funny to me. Also really like how the villains are starting to learn to use it to their advantage; like yeah it DOES look like a conspiracy when you think about it

#star wars legends #timothy zahn #specter of the past #hand of thrawn #mara jade #talon karrde #gilad pellaeon #lando calrissian #long post

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cottoncandytrafficcones · 7 days ago

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10 Jewish Women from History Part 2

Shushandukht (4th to 5th centuries, Persia)

Jewish wife of a Sasanian emperor and mother of another. She was said to be the daughter of an Exilarch. She reputedly created the Jewish neighborhoods of Jouybareh in Isfahan and also communities in Susa and Shushtar. She is believed to be fictional by some.

Benvenida Abrabanel (1473-1560s, Italy)

A Sephardic philanthropist, banker, and businesswoman mentioned in literary, rabbinic, legal, and archival sources. Born to a prominent Spanish family, the Abravanel family, she received an education in both Jewish and secular subjects. Following the Expulsion of Jews from Spain in 1492, her family moved to Naples, where she became the tutor of Eleanor of Toledo. After the Holy Roman Emperor declared an expulsion of Jews in 1533, she co-protested and managed to get the order postponed by ten years. She and her family eventually moved to Ferrara. After her husband's death, she was made heir to almost all of his property, and she took over his business affairs, opening five banks in Florence.

Shlomtzion (1 century BCE, Judea)

A regnant queen of Judea, and the wife of Aristobulu I and Alexander Jannaeus. She ruled for nine years in the times of the Hasmonean dynasty. On his deathbed, Alexander trusted the government to his wife instead of his sons. She installed her eldest son as high priest and reestablished the Sanhedrin, and protected the Pharisees. Judea enjoyed much prosperity under her reign.

Licoricia of Winchester (1200s-1277, England)

An English Jewish businesswomen, described as the most important Jewish woman in medieval England. She was a moneylender, and appeared to have had a close relationship with King Henry III. She first appears in records from 1234 as a young widow with three sons and a daughter. In 1242, she married her second husband, who was known as the richest Jew in England. After her husbands death, she was detained by the king so that he could acquire part of her husband's estate; however, she repurchased his estate for 5,000 marks. Over the next thirty years after she was released, she became a highly influential businesswoman.

Esther Handali (?-1588, Ottoman Empire)

A Sephardic Jew reportedly from Jerez de la Frontera in Spain, she was married to a Jewish merchant who sold products to the Ottoman Imperial Harem. Due to the separation of the sexes, she would enter the harem as an agent for her husband. When she was widowed, she took over her husband's business. She was kira, or agent, of Nurbanu Sultan from at least 1566 onward, after Nurbanu became the favored consort of the sultan. She was trusted with political and diplomatic matters, including acting as intermediary between Nurbanu and Catherine de' Medici, as well as contacts in the Republic of Venice. She earned an enormous fortune, and was a benefactor to the Jews of Istanbul, especially widows and orphans and victims of the 1969 fire.

Esperanza Malchi (?-1600, Ottoman Empire)

A Jewish businesswoman in the Ottoman Empire and agent of Safiye Sultan. Reportedly from Italy, she acted as an agent for her husband, a Jewish businessman, in the Ottoman harem. It's difficult to separate her from Esther Handali since their careers overlap. Esperanza was trusted with political and diploamtic matters such as correspondence between Safiye and foreign powers, including the Queen of England.

Qasmuna (11th or 12th CE, Andalusia)

A poet from medieval Andalusia, and the only female Arabic language Jewish poet from the region. Three poems of her have survived. The most famous one is about how she looked in the mirror and decided she had reached the time of marriage.

Sarah of Yemen (6th century CE, Yemen)

A female composer of pre-Islamic Arabic poetry. She was potentially a member of Banu Qurayza, a Jewish tribe which lived in northern Arabia and was one of the major three Jewish tribes, along with Banu Qaynuqa and Banu Nadir.

Wife of Dunash ha-Lebi ben Labrat (920/925-after 985, Morocco or Spain)

Wife of a medieval Jewish commentator, poet, and grammarian from the Golden age of Jews in Spain. She is believed to be the author of a poem on Dunash's exile, making it the only known medieval Hebrew poem written by a woman.

Henrietta Szold (1860-1945, Baltimore)

Born in Baltimore, Maryland, she was the daughter of a rabbi and the eldest of eight daughters. Educated in Jewish studies, she edited Professor Marcus Jastrow's Talmudic Dicitonary, and attended lectures at Johns Hopkins and the Peabody Institute. She also studies at JTS, and studies in the rabbinic school on the promise she would not seek ordination, as the rabbinic school was restricted to males. A religious Zionist, she and six other woman eventually founded Hadassah, the Women's Zionist Organization of America. She funded hospitals, a medical school, soup kitchens, and other services for both Jewish and Arab inhabitants of Mandatory Palestine. In 1933, she immigrated there and helped run Youth Aliyah, an organization that saved 30,000 Jewish children during the Nazi regime. She also supported Brit Shalom, a small organization dedicated to Arab-Jewish unity.

#jewish #jewish women #jewish women's history #feminism #jumblr #there's so little history on Jewish women but for those that are recorded. they're badass.

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inyri · 10 months ago

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Equivalent Exchange (a SWTOR story): Chapter 41: Good Soldiers Follow Orders

Equivalent Exchange by inyri

Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Characters: Female Imperial Agent (Cipher Nine)/Theron Shan Rating: E (this chapter: M. Trigger warning: graphic violence, depictions of torture, body horror.) Summary: If one wishes to gain something, one must offer something of equal value. In spycraft, it’s easy. Applying it to a relationship is another matter entirely. F!Agent/Theron Shan. (Spoilers for Shadow of Revan and Knights of the Fallen Empire/Knights of the Eternal Throne.)

Comments are always appreciated! Visit me at:

Archive of Our Own

Fanfiction Dot Net

Author’s Note: Please note the trigger warnings. I had to step away from this for a little while (all right, more than a little while). Chapters are consecutive, of course, and as I posted the last one and moved to wrapping up this one I found life imitating art in a very, very uncomfortable way. I don’t talk a lot about my work for many reasons. Normally it’s not very exciting. And then there are the days that stay, the reminders that sometimes the world is deeply, viciously cruel in ways that are hard to process. As part of my work I met two men who were subjected to that cruelty, heard their stories, and helped care for them on their paths back home.

The first iterations of this series of scenes were very different from where we ended up. Nine and her team were far nastier at first, which wasn’t really true to her, and then I tried to make it funny which- well, obviously we can see the problem with that approach. So this is where we ended. It’s still an ugly chapter, but here we are.

This chapter is dedicated to AD, AH, and all victims of torture.

Good Soldiers Follow Orders

Theron follows her close as a shadow as they make their way from her ship across the base, dodging carefully around the first watch guards on their patrol routes. A month ago it would have been simple but a month ago they’d been sloppy; since then she’d ordered new watchposts set, new floodlights installed, locked down the turbolift platform to the valley below. There were so many other places to land a ship on Odessen, canyons and clearings and deep, dark forest far beyond the view of the towers, and it would have been far too easy for an infiltrator to sneak in.

Or one might simply use your landing bay. Valkorion’s armor gleams as an arc of light cuts across the path. In through the front door. All comers welcomed. Perhaps Arcann should-

The illusion shatters when she steps through it, the sentence left ominously unfinished.

Second patrol. Third patrol. Through the external door on the heels of a pair of Sana-Rae’s adepts, weaving through the hall and crammed into the back corners of the lift with an absolutely massive Zabrak with a distinct half-ring of glitterstim around one nostril (she makes a mental note- the cantina’s more than necessary but if they’ve got a spice problem that’s another vulnerability they can’t afford), down the hallways into Science Wing and nearly to the lab- outside door’s open, good, but how’s she going to-

Shit.

She’s six steps ahead of herself in contingency plans as usual, mind racing, but that doesn’t matter worth a damn when she fucks up Step One. Stopping so abruptly he almost runs right into her, she grabs Theron by the wrist and pulls him into the darkest corner of an empty meeting room. His head tilts in silent confusion as she reaches toward the stealth generator clipped to his belt. I thought- he starts to sign, one hand raised.

Switching, she replies, left-handed; pulling it free, she replaces it with hers. Backup has a shorter clock when the main’s off. If it overloads-

Theron nods. Bad. Right. Where should I stand?

Back- her fingers stutter as she considers (Void, she really isn’t thinking, is she? She needs to be. One mistake and the whole thing comes apart)- back left corner. You’ll have a five-count to get through the door before it closes, then don’t move and-

Don’t say anything. I know. He repeats the sign, an added emphasis. I promised.

She rubs her forehead, trying and failing to settle the ache building between her eyes. I know. Come on.

***

The inner laboratory door slides closed with a soft hiss, just muffling Theron’s last few footsteps as he settles carefully into the corner, and she lets her stealth field drop.

“I got your message.” Nine forces the words out, forces strength into her voice as she sets the lock. She cannot falter, not now. “SCORPIO, give me the holo. Let’s get it opened up.”

“Commander.” Doctor Lokin looks up from across the room, setting a handful of instruments and an empty syringe- not all clean, she notes- neatly into place on a polished metal tray. Beside him, her would-be killer slumps forward against the treatment chair’s restraints, an intravenous catheter in his right arm and his lower body wrapped in a surgical dropcloth, head covered by black fabric and bound around the middle with thick strips of spacer’s tape. “We were just beginning.”

[ sleepy already, cipher? but we’re only just beginning.

when hunter’s slap hits she startles bolt upright in the chair and then wishes she hadn’t, her ribs shifting beneath the straps like so many shattered potsherds as she grinds her teeth to keep from screaming. she’s screamed so much already and she won’t give him the satisfaction of another, won’t-

hunter gestures- toward the woman, she thinks, it’s getting hard to see now with her face so bruised. let’s wake her up, hm? ah, no- something cold and metallic tightening on her right index finger- the other hand, to start. now the left side, still the index finger, tighter and tighter and oh void it hurts it hurts it hurts she’s got to say something or it-

i’m telling you, she gasps, when those reinforcements get here from- and there’s a sharp snap and she can’t help it and she screams-

keep singing, little bird. I do so hate to have to break your pretty wings.]

Her hand throbs.

“I didn’t tell you to start without me.” Her stomach churns even as she curls her fingers into an easy fist, testing their movement; she couldn’t do that for a month after Corellia so it’s only the memory of pain, isn’t it? “And how long has that tape been on? We need his eyes open, not swollen shut. It’s too fucking tight.”

“If you’re referring to this-” Lokin lifts a pair of bloody-gripped forceps with one finger and a long-suffering look- “your knife tipped his saphenous, and I assumed you would prefer he not hemorrhage before you had the chance to work. I’ve only just run the amytal in, nothing more. But,” he squints at the rings of tape, flips a vibroscalpel from the tray into his palm and before she can even begin to move he slices through the binding neatly, once and then again, “you aren’t wrong. SCORPIO restrained him while I was busy with his leg, but I ought to have-”

SCORPIO turns from the console, shoulders lifting in what might have been a shrug. “My primary directive on Odessen remains operational security, Commander. He cannot share what he cannot see.”

“Yes, but-”

One of the wall-mounted monitors beeps, shrill and insistent, until Lokin prods it with a gloved finger and it lapses into red-flashing silence. “He’s starting to wake. Shall we?”

Void, she hates interrogations. (She used to be good at them once, when she was younger and followed orders better. She used to be good at them because of course, why waste precious time on subtleties when you can simply pry and bend and break and it all comes out in the end either way- maybe in pieces, yes, but that was just another puzzle to solve if one was clever enough, even if it was messier-

Orders were orders.

She used to be good at them once. Before Corellia.)

“Is Lana coming? She’s covering for me with Sana-Rae, I think, but-”

She turns too quickly as the door opens behind her and as she spins the room tips sideways and then it starts to spin, too; pausing midstep, she grabs at the nearer benchtop to steady herself, her left hand raised as a counterbalance. Lana clears the doorway in two steps, the worry lines across her forehead deepening.

“I’ve got you,” Lana murmurs. “We’ve just finished, and I had a feeling you might-” she only wrinkles her nose a little as she glances toward the instrument table- “want my help with this.”

When she nods the world shifts unpleasantly anticlockwise. “Yes. Dialing out blind on his holo’s a losing proposition. With any luck he’ll talk, but I’m not counting on it and we haven’t got the time to wear him down.” Pressing her lips together against a wave of nausea, she inhales. Exhales. Inhales. The spinning slows.

“Physical methods, then?”

She shakes her head- oh, Force, there it goes again- inhale. Exhale. “Just tell me what you see. I’ve been bled on enough today, and if we push too hard-”

“Does it matter? You can’t possibly intend to let him-” at her gesture Lana lowers her voice, just above a whisper- “walk away from this. An attack, here, on you- there have to be consequences.”

“Do I look like a Jedi to you? You know me better than that.” When she says it Lana snorts and rolls her eyes and to be fair she has a point- of course she has a point- but a misstep now could be the last strand of a rope to hang herself by, the final block knocked loose that brings the whole tower crashing down, and she can afford that far less than to give away a shred of undeserved mercy. “You’re a step ahead of me, that’s all. I need the who before I decide the what.”

Lana sighs. “I know. I only- I defer to you, Commander. It’s your decision.”

“Maybe, or maybe it’s Trant’s. But we won’t know until we know, and-” another warning chime from the monitors; another warning look from Lokin. “We’re running out of time. And when we’ve finished I’ve still got to talk to Koth and Senya, and-”

“Already postponed, and that can wait in any case. There’s nothing to discuss that won’t keep for a day. We’ll call them once we’re in transit,” Lana eyes her up and down, “after another round of kolto.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.” Lana’s hand comes to rest beneath her lifted arm; with the world still half-spinning she’d have missed the subtle pulse of energy if Lana hadn’t flinched when their fingertips meet. “Force help me, you’re not - I’ll take it over, Nine. I’ll… I can do it. You should rest.”

“No.” When she shakes her head the room stays level now, at least. It’s something. “No. This is my mess to sort out. Just lock the door.”

***

Five minutes later all she’s got out of him is a slurred sequence of names, ranks, and serial numbers (lying, Lana says each time from her perch behind the chair, though she knew that long before she said it) and the unwavering gut-punch certainty that the man is an SIS agent. With so little actual information to go on and their databases two years out of date- when Theron left he’d downloaded what he could but slicing back into the mainframe to sync them’s a risk none of them are willing to take right now- trying to find a name for her attacker’s useless, with dozens of dossiers a partial match to the same physical parameters: average height, average build, Underlevels accent, Republic emblems tattooed on biceps and back and another handful laser-faded to barely visible outlines. With half the Republic’s infantry dredged up from the Coruscant undercity’s gangs and prisons and half the SIS (and nearly all of SpecOps) poached from the army, she could have shot into the Dealer’s Den or the Red Rancor on a Primesday night and hit five clones of him in a straight line between the door and the bar.

She studies his face from every angle, waiting for a memory to trigger, and- no, still nothing, barely a nod in the corridor or a passing glance in the mess line. Three weeks on Odessen and the man’s practically a ghost, a traceless alias for a name and a ride hitched on a transport from Port Nowhere. Granted, both she and Theron had been off-planet most of that time, but stars, if this one got in so easily how many more could?

That’s a problem for another day. It has to be.

But for now SCORPIO runs the serials, just for the sake of thoroughness, and- ah. Those faces she knows: Corellia, six years ago; a Coruscanti gala, bloodstains on a black dress; Dromund Kaas, only a month or two before Zakuul.

She just hadn’t known their real names, then. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had.

Orders were orders.

“So you’re ten dead men in a trenchcoat, then? And you’re wrong about that last one, by the way. That was probably Cipher Four. I’ve never been to Ord Mantell.” She pushes his commpad away with a scowl. The damned thing’s wiped clean- all the more likely he’d spoken to Trant within the last half-day, then; that was a lesson from Alderaan that only the Director ought to have learned. With enough time they could have recovered it, but they don’t have time. So she turns back to him instead, her thumb and index finger poised on closed eyelids gone puffy from the pressure of the binding. “Last chance to make this easier on yourself. When did you last hear from Marcus Trant?”

“More’n ten. Way more.” His words are less slurred now, the serum finally taking effect, and Lana sits up straighter. “‘nd hells take your easier. You’re gonna kill me anyway, so-”

Void, why are they always so insistent on dying?

She doubts he can see her, so she just adds a twinge of melodrama to her sigh. “Not necessarily, agent. You tried to murder me. Naturally, I objected-” a little more pressure on his eye, just enough that he starts to shift against the restraining strap- “but if I really wanted you dead I’d have let you use your kill pill instead of wasting perfectly good antitoxin on you. I can be civil if you can.”

Lana closes her eyes, focused and still.

“To be clear, you’re alive as a means to an end and it’s in your best interest to cooperate. But you and I know how it goes, don’t we?” When she lifts her open hand SCORPIO presses the holotransmitter into her palm. “Good soldiers follow orders. It’s not personal. You were only doing as you’re told.” She leans in closer, knee jostling against his mended leg just a little harder than necessary as the paper drape crinkles, voice lowered in a simulacrum of confidence. “Stars, I remember those days. He sits in his big office and sics you on a target, unclips your leash and you just- well. Ours not to reason why, hm?”

The cuff around his right wrist clinks against the arm of the chair as he makes an obscene gesture.

Wrong tactic. Well, then.

Her sigh’s loud enough to make him flinch. “And it was all wrong, wasn’t it? All that planning, all that time pacing, writing a five-line message that he never even saw, all for nothing?” His breath stills, his heart rate spikes, and Lokin hooks another syringe to the IV port and slowly pushes the plunger down. “DId you think I wouldn’t see? I’d almost feel sorry for you if it wasn’t so utterly pathetic.”

His head lolls forward against the restraint, a counterpressure against her hand.

“Oh, no, no.” Shifting, she pushes him back upright with two fingertips in the center of his forehead. “Not yet. Not until-”

“I almost got you.” His mouth contorts- it might have passed for a grin in a darker room, teeth bared, feral- and something in his voice makes her hair stand on end. She recoils, pulling her hand away from his face even as he pauses. “So fucking close. Just a few more seconds and I’d’ve bled you dry, Cipher, and then I’d-”

(The words barely register; he’s not the first and certainly not the most creative person to threaten her with postmortem indecencies but somehow they always think it’s going to shock her into silence, as though it’s the single most awful thing that could ever happen when she’s lived through far worse horrors and more to the point she wouldn’t even know, she’d be dead).

“-see enough and you know Shan’d come running- Force, that would’ve been even better, the look on his traitor face even if it was the wrong way round-”

wait.

WAIT.

no, Trant wouldn’t have-

When she blinks she sees it all in the span of a millisecond: half a hundred ways it could have gone, half a hundred indignities inflicted, half a hundred times it breaks Theron for just long enough for the blow to fall. Lana must see something else; she makes the smallest little sound, a muffled gasp of disgust covered over by knuckles cracking in clenched-fisted fury and then a snarled Sith curse she doesn’t understand (but Valkorion clearly does- she isn’t wrong, he murmurs) and it brings her back to herself.

Her comm buzzes; her eyes flick down toward the screen.

Kicking him for breaking comm silence would be counterproductive, she supposes, but what does Belsavis have to do with anything? If Theron knows his name he ought to have just said so, not making her work harder than she already is.

< don’t know him but think I know the unit> <told Marcus it was a bad idea> <don’t think he listened>

That would explain the burned-off tattoos. Stars, has the SIS truly become that desperate? Or was this another Garza project- some experiment likely as not to fail just as Eclipse Squad had, so why waste frontline troops when the Republic had a whole planet full of froth-mouthed maniacs more than happy to keep killing as the cost of their freedom and if things did go bad, well, they were going to die one way or another so what did it matter?

Then SCORPIO blinks once, head turning toward her comm and then, slower, toward the corner and oh, damn it all-

“Didn’t think the SIS went in for necrophilia,” she says conversationally, covering her mouth over a particularly exaggerated yawn as Lokin barely stifles a snort. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell the Jedi. I am curious, though- did you pick that up on Belsavis, or was that why they locked you up in the first place?”

His teeth clench.

“Piracy? Hm, no. Some flavor of war crime, I’m sure- oh, I know. Fragged your CO, I’d bet. You’ve got that sort of look.”

“Onomatophobia. Go fuck yourself.”

(She’d come at it all wrong, hadn’t she?

She’d thought this wasn’t personal because for her it wasn’t. Okay, fine, with Trant maybe it is, now, but this is no old enemy. She only hurt him to start with because he cut her first and deeper and even Theron doesn’t know his name- and stars know his memory’s brilliant, to judge by his stories he remembers everyone he ever worked with and it was far harder for him when they weren’t all just Minder Ten and Fixer Twelve and Watcher Three. The garotte alone might have been sheer bloody-mindedness in a way she wouldn’t have expected from the SIS, but even the Republic for all its supercilious moralizing had its fair share of sadists; Hunter hadn’t truly been one of them but they’d certainly all thought so at the time and still they’d all turned their heads, every single time, even when she’d screamed until her voice gave out.

Of course her control word was in her Republic file. He wasn’t the only one to try to use it, the first ones in earnest and then, when she’d shredded enough of them into bloody little pieces that they realized it didn’t didn’t hold her any more, as a vicious sort of mockery. That worked a bit, she supposes; maybe it always will. Not well enough to save them, of course.

She’d thought it wasn’t personal, that orders were orders and he’d come after Theron because he had to. But stars, she’d been out of the game for five fucking years and he’s practically got her dossier memorized, errors and all, and he’d called Theron a traitor and the first time she really pushes his buttons he-

Oh, this was very personal.)

“No,” she says, and breathes, trying to untie the panic-knot tightening in her chest, “I don’t think I will.” Snatching up a scalpel from the instrument tray as her voice wavers, she presses its tip, just so, beneath his chin. “You thought you were close? Close only counts in horseshoes and heavy ordnance, puppy, and that and a slip of my hand’ll buy you an unmarked grave. And-” he’s trying not to move, trying not to flinch. A single bead of blood wells up beneath the blade and stars, it’d be so easy, just one little movement and stay calm stay calm stay calm- “you still haven’t answered my question. When did you last hear from Marcus Trant?”

Lana exhales as her gaze comes back into focus, lip curling. Whatever she saw, she didn’t like it. “Today. It was today. But beyond that-”

“It’s good enough.” It was never going to be that easy. “SCORPIO, you don’t still have Belsavis census access, do you?”

A yellow flash, and then- “I am no longer tethered to Ward 23, and what I retained is long out of date. Proximity would be required.”

“Never mind. We’ll move on to the holo, then. Doctor?”

“Ready.” Lokin nods approvingly as she sets the scalpel down. “Retractor?”

“Retractor, please. Left eye.”

One click. Two clicks. Three.

The ‘pub squirms, fighting the restraining strap in earnest as he tries to blink against the cold metal instrument. “What are you-” his pupil constricts until she shifts the operating light away- “you gonna take my eyes now, Cipher? Keep ‘em in a jar somewhere, or-”

The holo’s scanner locks on as she holds it level with his forced-open eye. “No, thank you. I never was much for souvenirs.”

It chimes cheerfully as it comes to life in her hand; she flips idly through the settings. The user ID’s a string of alphanumeric gibberish, the message system’s not set up and the whole thing’s still on factory default but she’d expected all of that. It’s almost certainly a burner. The call log’s intact, though, with four time-stamped entries. One: incoming but barely five seconds long, likely a functionality test. Not useful. Two: outgoing, eighteen days old. Confirmation of arrival? That’s a Coruscanti subnet, but that could be a handler. Three: outgoing, one day old, to the same address as the second- they’d landed back from Nar Shaddaa by then.

Four: incoming. Coruscant again, but a different address. One minute and six seconds duration.

Two and a half hours ago.

He said he’d call it off, Void damn him. If Trant kept his word and she’s wrong, if she burns the last thin strands of the bridge between Theron and everything he ever believed in to ashes and she’s wrong-

(He did say he would call them. Reflected in the freezer’s glass door, Valkorion tilts his head contemplatively. And tell them what?

He said-

he said-

[-but those last few breaths last longer if you don’t struggle, don’t they? You’ll figure that out soon enough.]

For the first time she can remember there is something like approval in his smile. So you did hear it, he says. But oh, little Cipher, you didn’t listen.)

She gestures to Lana and Lokin, pointing with two fingers at each one in turn and then the door with a snap of her wrist that sets it throbbing. “All of you but SCORPIO, clear the room. Now.”

Lana blinks but it’s Lokin who speaks first. “Commander, if I may? If you plan to proceed further, the subject may require additional stabilizing mea-”

“Wait outside until I call for you. That’s an order.”

He’s halfway to the door before Lana starts to move from the benchtop and even then she pauses beside her as she passes, one hand on her shoulder and her mouth lowered level with her ear. “You’re not getting Valkorion involved? I know you’d rather not dial out blind, but I thought I felt-”

“I’m not,” she murmurs in reply. “On either count. But if this goes bad I don’t want you in the room when it does.”

“All right.” The sheer force of disapproval contained in Lana’s sigh might have leveled buildings; it isn’t all right and they both know it but it’s far too late to argue over it now. “Should I go and find Theron, then? I can think of some excuse to keep him with me until you’ve finished.”

They both startle at the sound of SCORPIO’s voice. “Unnecessary. He is-” her heart stops as the droid’s eyes flicker- “secure.”

“We can’t be certain of that. He still doesn’t know, does he? If there’s a second-”

“I see many things that you do not, Lord Beniko.” Five metallic fingers uncurl ceilingward (not toward the corner; her heart stutters, then resumes). “I am perfectly certain.”

Lips pressed together, nostrils flared, Lana grits her teeth against a retort before she simply continues toward the exit. “Then I will wait,” she says, a sparking halo of electricity coiling around her words as the door slides shut behind her, “until I am needed.”

And then the room is quiet save the beeping monitors, the ‘pub’s ragged breathing and the sharp rattle of his restraints, and Nine glances sidelong at SCORPIO as she settles herself carefully in the blind spot on his right. “Be nice.”

“Error. Program file: nice not found.”

She must have iterated again; the sarcasm’s new. Rolling her eyes, she glances down at her comm again.

< Also, you are welcome.>

She flicks an ironic salute toward the droid and that too makes her wrist ache. More time in the tank, then, on the way to Voss. More time lost that she can’t afford and a favor owed that she probably can’t afford either- stars know SCORPIO’s kept secrets for her well enough through the years but she’s no particular fondness for Theron; the last time he’d cracked a joke about needing a processor update she’d signal-locked his implant to play That Slippery Little Hutt Of Mine on repeat for forty-three minutes straight until half his face was twitching and he’d finally apologized- but hopefully that can be negotiated. Ongoing access to the network, maybe. Lana will fuss and she’ll be right, but if that message had gone through unintercepted they all know what it might have meant. It’s a small enough price.

“If you’re done arguing-” the ‘pub’s slurring again. He’s burning through the serum faster than she’s ever seen- “either get this thing off me or-”

If he keeps that up she may as well not bother with the call. She ought to have known better than to think that he’d say much of anything useful but his ranting’s absolutely tedious; they’re going to need to gag him after all, aren’t they? It wasn’t supposed to be that sort of interrogation, but she also hadn’t particularly expected him to- oh, if he calls her that one more time she might just stab him after all. (Like he’s got any room to criticize- all her old sins could overfill an archive but at least she’s not a stars-damned corpsefucker.) “Shh.” When she tilts her head toward it SCORPIO picks up the spacer’s tape and tears a strip from the roll, pressing it firmly over his mouth until th+e noise quiets into muffled incomprehensibility. “That’s quite enough out of you, I think.“

Hm. That brings to mind a better idea, actually.

“Do we have enough input for a voiceprint? Something like this?” Tapping a brief message into her commpad, she sends it through to SCORPIO. Only a few lines, but if it truly is Trant on the other end of the connection it should be enough to be certain.

It has to be enough.

She doesn’t look toward the corner. She mustn’t look toward the corner.

“Way more than enough.” It’s near enough a perfect mimic. SCORPIO folds her arms smugly and the ‘pub goes grey. “Prepared for playback.”

“On my signal, then, but give me a twenty second delay on video.” Her fingers twitch despite themselves, tingling at the tips; she forces her breathing into rhythm. (Lana was right. She isn’t fine.

Lana was always right. But she doesn’t have a choice.)

Inhale. “And prep the package files for transmission on verbal command. No passcode.” Exhale.

A pause, a flash of scarlet. Inhale. “Yes, Commander.”

Exhale.

Inhale. She smooths her hair back, adjusts her collar carefully under her chin, slaps both cheeks briskly with closed fingers to bring a little color into them and even that little jolt rattles her brain inside her skull. She considers, briefly, the backs of her eyelids. That seems to help. Exhale.

The far corner remains quiet.

She lifts the holo in line with the ‘pub’s eye once more as his pupil shimmers finely from side to side; they’d definitely pushed the dose too high but even so it’s far faster than it ought to be, chasing some other vice out of his system, and the camera struggles, beeping and chirping error after error until finally it locks on.

Inhale. Exhale.

She meets SCORPIO’s gaze, scrolls back to the end of the call log, and presses redial.

Inhale.

“Connecting.” The tinny synthetic voice of the SIS operator sets her nerves on edge. “Connecting.” Come on, pick up-

The channel opens with a click and she nods, lets her breath out into the following silence before the voiceprint begins.

“It’s done. Shan and the Cipher. Wrong way ‘round, but-”

“Well-” the video delay goes both ways but she doesn’t need it, she’s heard Marcus Trant’s voice in so many briefings it’s burned into her brain; the last brittle shard of hope she’d clung to shatters and leaves her with nothing left but rage. How dare he- “it’s about fucking time.”

Oh, she is going to end him.

***

Nine’s body language shifts then, her spine rigid where she’d been starting to hunch forward in fatigue, her hands fisted, fingernails digging hard into her palms. Her stance settles, just a little wider, forward on her toes; her chin lifts. He can’t see her face, still angled toward the prisoner.

“Send the photo confirmation, then execute extraction- and get your video on. Where are you?” Force, he’s going to throw up. Even when Jonas told him, even after hearing Marcus with his own ears he hadn’t wanted to believe it. He’d called it off. It had to be a mistake- or maybe Nine’s paranoia got the better of her (and he knows why and he doesn’t fault her, she can’t help Valkorion in her head and the poison he’s feeding her day after day after day) and this was just another shadow to peer into. Dragged into the light, it would have been nothing at all. A mistake. A mistake.

She nods to the droid once again. “ Just a few more seconds. Bad connection but I’ve almost got it.”

He shudders. The copywork’s uncanny and he knows for sure that’s not all readback. If SCORPIO gets it in her head to playact as one of them, starts giving orders in Lana’s voice or Koth’s or his own? He’s no reason to think she would, but whatever loyalty she seems to owe starts and ends with Nine. They’ve got to talk about it, at least.

Nine angles away from their prisoner, raises the comm chest-high as the little hologram springs up in the hollow of her hand. He can see her better now, her face blank and beautiful and perfectly, utterly cold, and then she smiles and-

(He has spent far more time than he’d ever admit to, from Rishi to Ziost to Zakuul to tonight, every hit and hurt and shattered bone and her bloody armor left in a pile again and again on the medbay floor, being scared for Nine.

This might be the first time he’s honestly been scared of her.)

“Hello, Director,” she says. “We’ve really got to stop meeting like this.”

It’s only a little flinch, but it’s there. “Cipher. Still alive, I see.”

“Commander. You lied to me, Marcus. You know what happens now.”

“I think you’ll find that I didn’t.”

Every syllable of her laughter’s a rifle shot, clear and piercing. “Yes, yes. You said you’d call, and you did.” By his posture he’s caught and he knows it, back straight, shoulders set. “But you know perfectly well that wasn’t our agreement. To go by the way Theron spoke of you I’d have thought you an honorable man, but-”

Marcus lifts one hand, a futile placation as Nine’s mocking smile fades back into hard-eyed silence. “I really am sorry about Theron, for what little it’s worth. He-”

“You’re sorry?” That wasn’t a laugh, not quite, halfway caught in her broken throat. “You’re certainly about to be, but Theron’s fine. This puppy was just as stupid as the last one- worse, actually, since he got himself caught in the bargain.” She turns her body, lets the camera capture the prisoner behind her straining against the chair straps in wide-eyed muffled fury. “He never got anywhere close to Theron.”

“He knows, then?” (He still can’t see Marcus’ face. He isn’t sure whether he wants to.)

She shrugs, noncommittal. “One thing at a time.” Her free hand gestures vaguely toward the instrument tray. “I’ve been a bit busy, I’m afraid, and now I’ve got all these dossiers to send off-”

“I’d suggest some time in kolto first. You don’t look at all well, Cipher.”

“Commander.” When she blinks her eyes stay closed half a second too long and she sways back and forth and stars, she needs to sit down before she falls over but she’s too stubborn to let anyone see her hurting. He knows her tells now, though- her jaw clenches, her left hand curls and uncurls. “Five years in carbonite couldn’t kill me. You honestly thought a garotte would be enough?”

“No,” Marcus says softly. “Not really. But we make do with what we have, don’t we?”

“I suppose we do. SCORPIO, transmit file Eclipse . Full recipient list.”

One red flash, two green. “Transmission complete.”

(She really did it. Oh, fuck, she really, actually did it.

He should never have gone home. He should never have gone-

It isn’t home. Not any more.)

Marcus sighs. “Where?”

“Everywhere.” Nine looks up abruptly as one of the monitors sounds yet again; she reaches up and simply shuts it off completely and at this angle he can finally see properly, both of their faces in profile. “Every reputable news service in the Core Worlds and about half of the disreputable ones, so you may want to warn your receptionist. I suspect your switchboard’s about to melt.”

“She’ll handle it, and Eclipse Squad was Elin’s mess. I’m afraid I can’t comment. Now, if we’re finished-”

“We are not. Transmit file Legate. Full list. Call it off. Now.”

One red flash, two green, and Marcus winces, his composure finally breaking. “Are you out of your fucking mind? No one came out of that clean, you least of all.”

“I might be.” A knock at the door- no, it’s there, not here, and a comm chiming. “But Legate died in a warehouse collapse on Quesh, poor thing, though with all those warheads going up at once confirming it was quite impossible. Pity.”

A single vein pulses across his forehead.

“Call it off.”

Another knock. “Do you think Theron will believe that?”

“He doesn’t need to. He knows about the Castellan restraints- he’s known for years.” She glances, for the smallest fraction of a second, toward his corner. “I think he’ll understand if I blur the truth a little.”

(He nods before he remembers she can’t see him. Of course he understands. He wishes she hadn’t done it, wishes she hadn’t needed to do any of this, but of course he understands.)

The room goes quiet, the stillness broken only by restraint buckles clinking against the chair frame.

“Do you think he’ll believe this?”

The angle of her head’s a wordless question.

“What wouldn’t you do to bring down an enemy? The head of the SIS, no less.” The framing of the projection changes, the bottom edge of a screen coming into view as he stands up slowly from his desk. Marcus’d always lived at the office, one of so many bad habits he’d passed down to him over all the years they’d worked together (the work always comes first, he’d said. It always will. It will take everything you can give to it and then it will take more and you’ll swear and shout and threaten to quit. And then you won’t, because this is what we were made for. And that is how we win). “It’s everything you ever worked toward. So: a foiled assassination attempt in your own base- how terrible.” He clicks his tongue, a mocking little tsk. “You’d have to retaliate, and who would fault you?”

Nine’s eyes narrow.

“But if it came out that you set it all up- a few intercepted messages, perhaps, shared by an old friend-”

Her lips draw back from her bared teeth. “Stay away from him.”

“I’m finished,” Marcus says. “I know that. But that doesn’t mean you get to win. Once a iiar, always a liar, Cipher Nine. Who do you think he’ll believe- you? Or me?”

No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t . Not that it would have made a difference, but Marcus couldn’t have known that- Force, he really is going to throw up.

(When Theron joined the SIS he was seventeen years old and every adult he’d known for more than a galactic standard month had abandoned him, sold him out or simply sold him at the first sign he’d outgrown his usefulness. It took nearly a year on Coruscant, nearly a year of steady paychecks and a bed to sleep in every night, before he owned more clothes than he could fit into a go bag; it took almost two before he stopped apologizing for asking for equipment. But Marcus never gave up on him, even when he fucked up (which back then was more often than not), even when he bristled and snapped like a half-wild animal, even when he wanted to give up on himself. If Master Zho had been the nearest thing he’d known to a father- stars knows it wasn’t Jace, especially not now- Marcus had come close too, once.

Once.)

She takes a deep breath. She’s fading fast, now, hands tremulous even as she’s fighting to keep the holo steady. He can’t just sit here and watch this, he can’t, he can’t-

“Her,” Theron says, letting the stealth field drop as he takes a step forward and she spins, startled, at the sound of his voice. It comes out as a gasp; he doesn’t even know how long he’s been holding his breath. ”Who do I believe? Her. Always.”

Marcus buckles like he’s been gut-shot, bracing himself against his desk. “You- you said you hadn’t told him yet. You said-”

“I think you’ll find that I didn’t.” Nine smiles, absolutely feral and absolutely beautiful, and he steadies her with one hand at the small of her back. “Though as you can see, I really have been busy.”

The last time he saw that look on his face was the day the blockade went up around Coruscant. “Hello, Theron.”

“Hello, Marcus.”

He sits back into his chair, heavy, elbows resting on the desktop. “This office would have been yours, you know. You were ready for it. But you’re on the wrong side of the war.”

“Which war?” Nine says it at the same time he does and then she dips her head, ever so slightly- you first. “We’re here fighting Zakuul. We’re here fighting Arcann,” he continues, “and we’re finally winning. I know you know that. I know Jace knows that, and I know you’re both still fighting the same fucking war against the Empire that you’ve been fighting since before I was born because for you that’s the only thing that matters. But I’m not.”

“You dare-”

“I made my choice,” he says softly. “Now you make yours. Are you going to drag the whole SIS down with you?”

Marcus rests his head in his hands. For a moment it’s the day after the Ascendant Spear, the day after Ziost, the day after Tython, the weight of a thousand impossible choices and ten thousand lies pressing down on him, and then he looks up and shakes his head. “No.” He sighs. “No, I’m not. What happens now?”

“Resign,” Nine murmurs. “Retire. Disappear before the Senate comes for you, or let them scapegoat you: I don’t care what you do, but you will call this off. You will do it now, and if I ever have reason to doubt you- if anyone from the Republic so much as breathes harm in Theron’s direction- the Ralltiir file goes public.”

Someone’s pounding on his office door, a woman’s voice shouting something incomprehensible as he reaches out of frame, and then a few moments later a series of four tones in a cadence burned into his own memory- send message; subnet selected; confirm?-

Message sent.

The holotransmitter in Nine’s hand chimes.

“Done. Now, if there’s nothing else?”

Nine turns once more (and he turns with her, careful) to put their prisoner back into frame. “What do you want me to do with him? I’d put him back on Belsavis if I was you, but-”

Marcus stands up abruptly, even as he makes a face as she says Belsavis, at the unmistakable sound of a single round of blaster fire and the hiss of a door sliding open. “Elin,” he snaps, “not now -”

“Yes, now.” General Garza’s got a blaster pistol in one hand and a commpad in the other when she crosses into camera view. “I just got a fucking call from the fucking- oh.” She cranes her neck toward the projector. “Well, we can fix that problem, at least-”

The call disconnects abruptly.

Nine sags against him, exhausted. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I know I promised-”

“Commander.” He’d nearly forgotten SCORPIO was still at the console until she speaks, and he’s never heard that tone from her before; he looks sharply up at her and follows her sightline. The prisoner’s sitting bolt-straight, back rigid, eyes wide, and a high-pitched whine like a drill through durasteel shrills warning from somewhere that isn’t his mouth- “Commander, get down!”

All Theron can do is drop where they’re standing, his body a shield over Nine’s, before there’s an awful wet noise and the smell of blood and something else familiar in his nose, hot and metallic and not his and not hers and even though he knows he shouldn’t he looks up again and oh, fuck-

The lab door slides open and Doctor Lokin comes running into the room, Lana just behind with her lightsaber blazing, and they both stop short at the sight of it, at the ‘pub still strapped into the chair with half his head just gone and at him and Nine on the blood-spattered floor.

“What- who-” Lana covers her mouth with her free hand. “What in the Void happened?”

Nine’s shaking so hard she can barely move; he curls her close against him to keep her upright. “Not me,” she whispers. “Not me.”

#inyri writes #equivalent exchange #swtor #swtor fanfiction #imperial agent/theron shan #nine/theron #cipher nine #thank you all for your patience #as i wrote this one fought me for a very long time #so i hope it was worth the wait #and the next chapter is kinder to them i promise

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whataperfectwasteoftime · 6 months ago

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Marcus Pike Masterlist

Born to Run** (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

Marcus is sent on a vacation to a cozy cabin on a wooded bike trail by his coworkers after his devastating breakup with Theresa. You are training for your upcoming marathon on the same bike trail when one of your runs is interrupted by a creeper on the trail, and you are ‘saved’ by a handsome stranger with a tragic (recent) past… Content Warnings: BDSM

Common Grounds** (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

Stop me if you've heard this one: a handsome stranger walks into a coffee shop.

Forgive These Bones I'm Hiding | Part 2** (Serial Killer!Marcus Pike x Police Officer f!Reader)

When five paintings are stolen from their frames, an unusual crime for your small-town precinct in Hannibal, Missouri, it's easy for you to project your insecurities about being a female police officer in a tiny, Midwest town onto the handsome FBI Agent from Washington who arrives to help with the case. But as your disposition--and the solid walls you've built around yourself--begin to soften, you quickly find you have bigger problems than the charming man you can't help but develop feelings for. One by one, bodies are starting to pile up. Bodies that all seem to share one connection… You.

How to Kill an Immortal** (Marcus Pike x OFC)

There is a strange magic that surrounds the life of Marcus Pike. Born in Medieval York in the 1300s, he realizes that he is not aging like other people. For seven hundred years, he wanders the earth, falling love over and over again due to his caring nature. When a new art theft case takes him back to York, Marcus searches for a way to bring an end to his unnaturally long life, so he can finally be at peace.

Intimidation Tactics** (Marcus Pike x you x Dave York)

You and your partner, Marcus Pike, are investigating a case that brings you far too close to something much more dangerous than your average art thief.

le Palais des Roses** (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

A Moulin Rouge AU

The Rift** (Marcus Acacius x Marcus Moreno x Marcus Pike x Reader)

Marcus Moreno and the Heroics managed to contain the detonation of a supervillain's black hole bomb in the middle of Washington, DC, but the energy blast created a mysterious crack in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue. Scientists are calling it a rift in time and space. Marcus Moreno calls it a logistical security nightmare. Several weeks after the Rift opens, unusually well-preserved ancient Roman artifacts begin to flood the black market, inundating Special Agent Marcus Pike's team with work. He enlists you, a Classical Archaeologist with a focus on Imperial Roman art and a curator at the National Gallery of Art, to assist his team in identifying the growing pile of smuggled artifacts. Despite the Heroics' desperate attempts to close the Rift, it's only a matter of time before something much larger than gold coins makes its way through the crack in spacetime and onto the streets of DC... Or: Three people named Marcus are smooshed together into the same space.

Again, Again** (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

Marcus comes home to surprise you with lunch. In the end, who's the most surprised? Content Warnings: Contains CNC

All the Time in the World** (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

You’ve never been able to climax without the aid of a vibrator. Due to your insecurities and internalized shame, you rarely involve any toys during sex with a partner, and have been “faking it” for years. You and your new boyfriend, Marcus Pike, have been taking your relationship very slowly–building up a beautiful connection without ever having seen each others’ bedrooms. Two months in, neither of you can wait any longer. How will Marcus react when he discovers the thing you consider to be your deepest, darkest secret?

The Art of the Double-Cross (Marcus Pike x Reader)

“People have been trying to solve the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum theft for decades,” she says quietly, putting her hand on his arm. “Decades, and yet you find the one detail everyone else had overlooked.”

Best Bike Crash Ever (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

After a hit and run at a crowded intersection, you are suddenly very intrigued by your rescuer–the cute FBI Agent who just happened to be a bystander.

The Crucible** (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

Marcus Pike’s latest case takes him undercover to a BDSM club. When he’s called to participate as a dom in a scene with an unattached sub, will he be able to keep his focus on the task at hand?

Everything** (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

Marcus is obsessed with your ass.

Lead Me Not Into Temptation** (Priest!Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

[Based on the prompt: "Priest Marcus Pike, praying next to the bed he just annihilated a pretty parishioner in"]

No Net Ensnares Me** (Victorian Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

Co-Written with @littlebirdsbookshelf

Of All the Gin Joints...** (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

You and Marcus are both trying to re-enter the dating scene after bad relationships, and you’ve been set up on a blind date. You really hit it off, but after a few dates, it seems like Marcus is being really distant. Before you can ask him about it, you run into someone from Marcus’s past…

Pizza Comes Third** (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

You’ve harbored a crush on your partner in the FBI Art Crimes Department for ages. When he accidentally knocks over your purse and a recent sex toy purchase falls out, how will he react? And how does acclaimed boy-scout Agent Marcus Pike know anything about nipple clamps?

Spilled Ink (Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

Uhhh Marcus Pike as the world's softest tattoo artist that's it that's the fic.

Spring Fling** (Marcus Pike x virgin!f!Reader)

When you and your friend, fellow pre-Law student Emma, plan to go to Washington DC for spring break instead of the typical beach destination, she makes plans for the two of you to stay with her estranged father for the week to save money on lodging. You never expected Emma’s father, a man she says she’s barely seen throughout the years, to be so sweet, so troubled, and so unfairly pretty. Neither did you expect for what you’d thought was a one-sided attraction to turn into a spring fling… or maybe something more.

What A Pair We Make** (Marcus Pike x f!reader)

A series of short scenes depicting a very loving growth and evolution of a dd/lg relationship with Marcus. Content warnings: dd/lg

Date night**

It's me (I'm the problem)

Pregnancy sex with Marcus**

Slow Dancing [Iron Chef 30 Min. Challenge #1]

First Time BDSM Ask**

Kelli's Unhinged BJ Ask**

Marcus Kink Prompts Masterlist (Ask Game)**

Soft Dom Marcus (Brat-Taming Ask)

#marcus pike #marcus pike fanfiction #masterlist post

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vague-humanoid · 9 months ago

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@quasi-normalcy @el-shab-hussein @dirhwangdaseul

A side of the story of Jeffrey Epstein’s creation and maintenance of a pedophilia ring and sex trafficking operation among the wealthiest, most famous, and most powerful Americans seems to have been forgotten. This is the fact that he was constantly surrounded with notable and influential members of the scientific community.

One scientist, who remained anonymous, told Slate about lavish parties Epstein would host at his Upper East Side apartment. These parties often mixed the scientists with individuals from the world of high fashion, including many young models. “Sometimes he’d turn to his left and ask some science-y questions,” claimed the anonymous scientist, “Then he’d turn to his right and ask the model to show him her portfolio.”

Epstein hosted this particular party in 2010, after he had been convicted for soliciting prostitution from a minor. In attendance was John Brockman, a literary agent who has represented Daniel Dennett, Richard Dawkins, and Jared Kahneman, among other scientists turned authors. According to Slate: “At one point, a young female staffer stepped into the room to give Epstein a massage, rubbing his neck as he talked and listened.” “I have only two interests,” Epstein once said to a long time friend, “Science and pussy.” Indeed, when Epstein convened a meeting of 21 physicists on his private island in 2006, he “was always followed by a group of something like three or four young women,” according to one participant.

One of the physicists in attendance was none other than Stephen Hawking, who rode in a submarine specially modified by Epstein for Hawking. According to Epstein’s LinkedIn, Hawking is among the many “well known luminaries” Epstein financially contributed to in his role as a “science philanthropist.” Keep in mind that many of the legal documents produced in the course of Epstein’s trials alleged that photos of naked girls decorated the walls of his property. Professor Lawrence Krauss of Arizona State University, who organized the conference, has said that it, “wouldn’t have happened if Epstein hadn’t funded it” and that Epstein supported “some of the work at my institute.” Krauss remained close with Epstein during and after he was sentenced to prison for his pedophilia. “As a scientist,” Krauss told the Daily Beast in 2011, “I always judge things on empirical evidence and he always has women ages 19 to 23 around him, but I’ve never seen anything else, so as a scientist, my presumption is that whatever the problems were I would believe him over other people.”

Alan Dershowitz, a member of the legal team which helped negotiate a “non-prosecution agreement” to rescue Epstein from prison in 2008, alleges that Epstein once steered a lunch conversation between the two of them toward the issue of improving human genetics. Dershowitz claims he was appalled due to the similarity of what Epstein was proposing to Nazi rhetoric used to justify the Holocaust. Apparently it didn’t offend Dershowitz too much, as the two continued to work together. In fact, Dershowitz was named in court documents as one of the many men who participated in the rape of girls trapped by Epstein on Little St. James.

Epstein’s embrace of transhumanism and eugenics was also overtly Malthusian. Cognitive psychologist Steven Pinker claims that while at a Harvard meetup of scientists Epstein was critical of projects meant to promote healthcare or feed the hungry, warning that this would lead to overpopulation. The fear of “overpopulation” has a long history among bourgeois eugencistists and is rooted in the logic of imperialism.

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officialleehadan · 6 months ago

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Estimated Arrival

HGE – Blackbird

+++

The Downdraft was a heavy-bodied cargo ship, that the crew had modified heavily over her many years in space. She wasn’t a standard ship, and that, it turned out, was the secret advantage of her captain against those who were trying to board.

“First lock is holding,” Marcus said after a moment of watching the screen, which was now still of movement while the attacking ship tried to figure out what just happened. The violent depressurization should have sent the ships rolling, but it seemed Ikaroa had planned for that too, as stabilizers kicked into keep the ship from spinning wildly. “Second lock is loaded.”

“Let’s see if they run at us again,” Ikaroa said grimly as the whole crew took the respite to reload, and to pass water around to everyone. Maggie took a long drink and blessed the Downdraft’s crew for being so efficient, and sadly practiced, at repelling boarders from their ship. Unlike the Blackbird, which was not equipped for a fight, the Downdraft was very clearly ready to go down swinging. “Might be they get more careful now that they know we have a few tricks up our sleeves.”

“Does that airlock open from the other side?” Maggie asked once she was reloaded and ready to keep fighting. “Can they vent us out?”

“They can try, but the last lock in the sequence is automatic, in case one of the earlier ones fails,” Marcus assured her. He leaned back against the wall, but kept his eyes on the camera, ready for the next attempt to crack their defenses. “Any way you can get us a time of arrival on backup? We can hold out, but not for that long. If they have something heavy enough to crack us, we’re in trouble.”

“They very likely do,” Viktoria Tatiana shared. Like Maggie, she was armed, but she was taking the time to hydrate and center herself before the fighting resumed. “Magdalene, try to raise your brother on the comms. We may not have much time.”

There was very little Maggie wanted to do less than leave others to hold the line while she was safely in the cockpit, but she had a job to do. More importantly, she was the only one with the authorizations to actually do that job.

“We’ll be okay,” Marcus said when he saw her hesitating. “Whatever else, they don’t’ want to blow that lock until they’re sure they won’t drop you when they do it, right?”

“We don’t know that.”

“We know we need help. You’re our best shot.”

Maggie gritted her teeth, but he was right, and she knew it. Rather than argue, she leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He stared at her and pressed his fingers to the place she kissed with a stunned expression on his handsome face.

“Don’t die,” she told him firmly. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Before he could reply, she handed her blaster to her mother, who traded nods with her but didn’t take her eyes off the airlock, and made for the comm in the cockpit.

The comm was temperamental. Maggie thumped it hard on one side, as she had the first time she used it. It crackled once, but didn’t connect until she hit it again, and tuned it to a rarely-used military frequency that was difficult to jam. More importantly, it was one the Carriers and Continental destroyers all monitored in case of an unexpected attack.

It took several long minutes, but finally here was the faint click as the comm connected.

“This is Destroyer Africa.” The comms director replied with the cool efficiency that comms agents always did. “Authorization.”

“Imperial Authorization, Lucia Therese Magdalene,” Maggie said shortly and didn’t wait for the comms director to reply. He would transmit whatever she said as she said it. “I am aboard the Downdraft, under attack by an unknown force that has Jump-grabbed us, and require immediate assistance.”

“We have your emergency beacon on our scans.” It was a new voice. Female this time. Presumably, the captain of the ship. “This is Captain-Commander Richal. We are inbound on your coordinates, Your Imperial Highness.”

“What’s your arrival time?” Maggie heard and muttered a curse when she head something that sounded distinctly like an attempt to get through the airlock. There was another explosion, and the ship shuddered. “Time is short.”

“Twelve minutes.”

“Is anyone else closer?”

“No, Ma’am.”

It was unprofessional, but Maggie couldn’t hold back a curse, and spared a glance over her shoulder. She couldn’t see anything, and didn’t hear shooting, but it wouldn’t be long. “Can you cut any time off that arrival?”

“Engines are at top burn already.” The Captain-Commander was apologetic, and Maggie tried hard not to resent it. She didn’t need an apology, she needed heavily-armed backup. “Carrier Pacifica is en-route to you and is the next-fastest after us. Twenty minutes.”

“We’ll try to hold out,” Maggie said and did her best not to curse more, even though it might make her feel better. Officials tended to get nervous when a member of the Imperial family was cursing. “Notify your crew that every member of the Downdraft is classified as a protected individual and should be given every protection upon your arrival, regardless of the situation.”

That part wasn’t required, but the Richal couldn’t do anything to speed her ship, and neither could Maggie. What Maggie could do was make sure that the Downdraft’s crew was protected. They were risking their lives and their ship to keep her and her mother alive. It was the least she could offer in return.

“The order is already given, Ma’am,” Captain Richal promised her with military precision. “They and their ship will be treated with the utmost care.”

“We will need to be tractored into a landing bay. Our airlock is damaged.”

“I will see to it personally.”

“And make sure to tag our attackers, in case they bolt before capture. I imagine His Majesty would like to have a personal conversation with them.”

“With pleasure, Ma’am.” Now, Maggie heard the smile in the captain’s voice even if she couldn’t hear it. “We’re on our way. Just hold out a little longer.”

“I’ll do my best,” Maggie said as another explosion rocked them and she grabbed for the nearest panic-handle to steady herself. “Signing out.”

With that, she flipped off the comm and headed back to the battle-front.

It would be a long twelve minutes, but if there was one thing she was good at, it was stalling for time.

+++

HGE - Blackbird: (FULL COLLECTION)

HGE - Blackbird - Volume 1

HGE - Blackbird V2 (For full collection, see V1)

First Lock

Estimated Arrival

Four Minutes Left (NEW!)

+++

MASTERLIST

#Writing #Lee Hadan #fantasy #scifi #spilled ink #writing prompts

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enigmaticexplorer · 6 months ago

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I Yearn, and so I Fear - A Muse VI

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers.

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

A Like without a Reblog will result in an automatic block.

11 Elona

The impenetrable blackness of the sky spoke of the hour: night quiescent and morning inchoate. The witching hour, as Eriadu folklore named it. A time so indecisive and unknowable even the gods muddied life and death.

Most parents and school teachers taught the witching hour as a means to scare younglings and juveniles into obeying curfews. It was why so many young explored graveyards at this hour. An adrenaline rush; a proof of courage. Carinthia thought they were fools. Then her life crumbled into irreparable fractures and she finally understood the intrigue of the witching hour.

For it was the witching hour where an individual could exist between planes. No longer was one determined by their past, and no longer were they controlled by their future. They simply were.

The witching hour became her sanctuary. A time when she escaped the clutches of her husband and marital expectations. A time when she pretended her husband’s affairs didn’t hurt. A time when she could pretend her daughter was still alive.

A time when she simply existed as herself—Carinthia. Not wife. Not daughter. Not breeding mare.

It was during the witching hour when she made her most important decisions: she fled Eriadu; she betrayed Command; she tricked Bash.

“Bash expects Quin to track the classified shipments from the mine,” Carinthia informed Fehr. Burnt embers simmered in the hearth, offering minimal light within the living area of Fehr’s quaint house. “He thinks the intel could give the Rebellion an edge. If we trace the doonium exports from Eluca, we can find whatever the Empire is constructing and then destroy it.”

From her seat on the couch, Fehr stared into the dying fire, her fingers laced in her lap. Deep rumination wearied her face. Carinthia recognized the intense concentration—the analytical disposition—and took Fehr’s silence to study the woman’s home.

Cold stone walls, in accordance with Elucan tradition, were offset by the redolent honeysuckle vines streaming from the ceiling. Potted plants towered above the couch and chairs. A wall-to-wall bookshelf housed various historical and political tomes along with farming ledgers.

“Bash has grown too bold,” Fehr said. Carinthia didn’t react. Her co-conspirator pierced her with the sharp-eyed look she’d grudgingly come to respect. “He’s too willing to sacrifice others.”

Carinthia moved from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Fehr’s peelroot farm and seated herself in the chair perpendicular. Embers popped—the fire a necessary heat provision for Eluca’s month-long winter season—as she scrutinized Fehr.

“Command agrees with his tactics,” Carinthia pointed out. “He’s proactive and lacks the impulsivity of other agents.”

“We’re not surrounded by the others,” Fehr said with a disapproving clench of her jaw. “You don’t need to play his devotee.”

Carinthia resisted the urge to sneer. Months ago, Fehr had contacted her with a tentative proposal. A proposal to deceive Command. They would retain their hard-earned positions in the rebel network and, to all, appear dedicated to the cause. In reality, they would undermine Command’s questionable decisions they didn’t support. Decisions affecting the lives of those in the network and those outside.

“I am not the Empire,” Fehr had emphasized when she first asked to meet privately with Carinthia. “I want to help people. Not hurt those already hurting.”

While Carinthia longed for vengeance against the Empire, she’d seen reason to Fehr’s proposal. Sacrificing innocent people to obtain the greater good was the same moral argument the Empire practiced.

Yes, the network needed people who were willing to damn themselves: people like Carinthia and Bash. But it also needed people who could withstand the thirst for personal retribution: people like Fehr. Someone who was clear-headed and pragmatic. Someone who could oversee justice while maintaining her humanity.

Fehr was the leader Eluca, the galaxy, would need when the Rebellion overthrew the Empire. Fehr was the leader whose compassion and judiciousness would inspire others. So, in the witching hour of Yelona, Carinthia shook hands with her fellow rebel and signed her own death certificate.

“Quin’s mine produces the second-most doonium planetside,” Carinthia said. “And since Quin’s a sympathizer to the cause, Bash decided he was the best positioned to be of use.”

“We don’t even know if the doonium is important to the Empire’s future plans.” Fehr thumbed her temple, as if trying to ward off a headache. “This plan will get Quin and Heracli killed.”

Heracli and Quin Obisany, parents to their adopted daughter Steiner, were old friends of Fehr. Both wife and husband served in the lower echelons of the network, mere informants. As a legal historian, Heracli held coveted connections with low-ranked Elucan politicians. Now, Quin—the owner of his family’s mine—held an even more important position in the network: a possible explanation to the Empire’s secretive doonium mining operations draining Eluca of its natural resources.

“Will we have warning if the Empire moves against them?” Fehr asked with pragmatic focus.

Carinthia shook her head. “A CI informed me that high-profile spies will be executed quietly. They fear the general public will turn them into martyrs.”

“Magistrate Aro has learned a few things,” Fehr said. The shake of her head was rueful. “We’ll need to move them, then.”

“I’ll be discreet,” Carinthia said. “We should send them to—”

“Is it safe?”

“The Empire has abandoned it,” Carinthia advised, “and Command deemed it unhelpful to future plans. Heracli and her family will be protected from the possible vengeance of both.”

Fehr inclined her chin in acceptance and then scanned Carinthia. With a scowl, Carinthia shifted uncomfortably in the cushioned chair, crossing her legs. The other woman’s overbearing concern grated her.

When Carinthia agreed to Fehr’s proposal, she understood the demands expected of her. They needed information—information neither of them had access to. One of them needed to place herself in a position to be extorted, and Carinthia had accepted that role.

Over the months, Carinthia sedulously constructed a cover: a devout infatuation with Bash. He maintained direct relations and held influence within Command, after all. Her known disdain for most of the other rebels combined with her vendetta for the greater good convinced Bash of the sincerity behind her advances.

Bedding him was easier than expected: one dinner invitation and seemingly guarded interest. He took the bait. Years with her husband prepared her for the intense sex and the seductive role she needed to play.

Keeping his attention without being clingy was the difficult part. To cultivate intel about his personal plans as well as Command’s secrets, she needed to earn his trust and confidence. She had to make herself convenient without being too easy. So far, she’d succeeded.

It helped that her body no longer felt like hers. The pain of taking an un-lubed cock no longer registered, and the revulsion she experienced at sucking one was easy to ignore. Over the years, she’d mastered the provocative praises and well-practiced touches that pleased a male; she’d mastered the techniques and positions that kept him engaged in her body.

Whenever she bedded Bash—whenever she let him debase her and use her however he desired—she cast her thoughts to the future. To a future without the Empire. To the future she wished she could have shared with her daughter.

“Do you want to leave?” Carinthia asked. “I can get you out, too. You will be safe on—”

“No.” Fehr offered her a thin smile. “This is my home, and I will not abandon my people. Not when they need us more than ever.”

Carinthia pushed herself to her feet. A glance at the chrono above the dying hearth confirmed she needed to leave. Bash would be expecting her.

“You’re a good leader, Fehr,” Carinthia said. Most likely spurned by the other woman’s concern for her whoring herself to Bash, she decided Fehr needed to hear the words. The older woman remained seated, unmoving, though her eyebrow knocked in disbelief. “You’ve made mistakes. But who hasn’t? Eluca will need you.”

With a final nod, Carinthia made her way outside. The dense fog of the witching hour welcomed her, and she smiled to herself. Soon, her witching hour would conclude, the suspension between past and future consolidated.

A reunion she most yearned for—a reunion with the one she loved more than any other—awaited her.