#i've had to reformat this so many times i'm not sure if anything will stick

[stalkedbytrains]

Beneath the Electric Sky, Chain One: Preload

[I originally had this whole plan for this story and I had started writing it in third person like most of my stuff is done. But then I wasn't feeling, skipped over huge sections of it. I then had an idea to change the perspective, stick it in Synthia's POV and ever since then I've been off to the races. This is the first chapter that had been previous posted, redone with the new perspective.]

Sequence One: Specialization

The city's atmospheric regulators were working overtime, venting steam from deep underground. The entire city was bathed in steam and fog as the city tried to deal with the never-ending climate crisis and the still active fallout.

It made it very hard to do surveillance on the building, but did provide me with excellent cover. Not that I really needed it.

But the time crunch was against us. I hate a time crunch.

With the winds coming from the East and blowing the radiation this way, everything had gotten truly fucked. Without the surveillance I couldn't track the impossible assassin. This whole thing was turning into a logistical nightmare.

Just to make absolutely sure I turned the rifle over to what I could see of the perimeter of the building. Hyper advanced military grade turrets ring the building. A small army of fanatical, highly trained members of the Illuminated Path cult. And even worse I could still spot the edges of the slightly invisible EMP generators. Powerful electromagnets that would fry anything with a circuit that tried to get within 100 yards of the building without proper authorization.

It would kill me.

If I even got close to the fields my body would shut down and I'd slowly go brain dead trapped within the shell of my body.

With the damn steam I couldn't see the top of the building, so what defensive measures were up top were a mystery which made anything I tried to do to get into the building essentially useless.

Stealth, insertion, infiltration, and sniping were my expertise. But none of those would let me get even close to the building, close to the target.

I was going to need to get an inside man. Someone inside of the goddamn paranoid cult that was extremely picky about who they let get close, and have so many deep background scans of their employees to make sure no one is turning traitor that it was going to be all but impossible.

Well not impossible, but I didn't have the six months to get close enough.

I was going to need a ringer.

And that meant I was going to have to talk to Seth.

[00·000]

I made it back to the tiny headquarters in the city. It was basically a two bedroom apartment that we had taken over and reformatted to our purposes. I sat at the table, idly disassembling and reassembling my rifle.

"What about a HALO jump? Get in over their defenses?" Seth asked.

Seth was nominally my partner, but I knew that the bosses sent him to keep his eyes on me. Keep me within the Collection.

"We can't see what they've got on the roof. The weather has been absolute shit the last few days and there's no sign of it getting any better in the next few days. We can't afford to wait a few more days. They already know that we are coming for them. Besides HALO jumps are fine, but we're talking about hitting the courtyard of a building. Which is not necessarily the easiest target to hit when falling at terminal velocity. Even if there are no roof defenses, if I'm off on my jump by a little bit I'm smashing into the side of a neighboring building at 120 miles an hour."

Seth rubbed his shitty beard. It made him look like an idiot. "Yeah. So there's no good way in?"

"Not unless you can see something. And I can't lie my way in, since they know what we look like since the fucking debacle with the cops."

He gave me a hard look.

"You can't even remotely blame that bullshit on me," I snapped. "We have strict orders to bring the assassin in, and the cops came in guns blazing absolutely burning that bridge. The assassin shot me three times!"

"So what do you suggest? A tactical nuke?"

I gave him just as flat of a look as he gave me. "We need an inside man, but again, this cult is paranoid as all hell, their members are scrutinized within an inch of their lives constantly. And Arc is still having no luck with his job so maybe you jump his ass about his hacking."

Seth just glared at me. It was clear he was blaming me and had no intention of saying anything to the hacker in the other room who has coming up against just as many brickwalls as I was.

"What do you suggest? There's no other Collection agents on this coast. You want to get some outside help? You?"

"I have friends?"

"Really? You? There's someone out there you haven't gotten killed or personally murdered?"

"Io has known me a very long time. He's one of the great con men, and he's in the city right now. He also has the added benefit of being almost completely human. If he does get caught in the EM field he's not just going to die immediately like I would. Like you would."

Set frowned. "Fine. We don't have many other options and we need this wrapped up quickly. But if this goes sideways, even a little bit, I'm torching this friend of yours."

I sneered at him. Like I would let that happen.

"You know where to find him?" he asked.

"I have a pretty good idea."

[00·001]

There was a black tie party happening at the penthouse of the extremely wealthy socialite and minor celebrity Mason Filmont. The man had a penchant for buying rare and expensive per-singularity technology, and he was both stupid and an asshole, which was Io's favorite target.

Sneaking into the party was extremely easy. It was a party, there was a certain expectation of people coming and going.

I put on a dress I was able to buy real quick along with some appropriate shoes. Not my ideal outfit, but the perfect camouflage for getting into the party.

I'd know Io from before everything. It had been somewhere around twenty years since we were last face-to-face, but we were in a lot of shit together back in the day, so hopefully he wouldn't mind seeing an old friend. Even if that old friend had a new body and new face.

"You know I'm worried about all of these gang killings," I heard one of the group that was standing around Io say.

I approached with a glass of champagne in hand. "I know, dreadful isn't it? But it isn't nearly as bad as those killings back in Dallas twenty years ago. Hundreds of people were killing and a black out that lasted over a week. Now that was something to worry about."

The group looked curiously at me. I smiled sweetly at them, not making eye contact directly with Io, at least not yet.

I was slightly out of place and they knew it, the dress I had on was expensive but not tailored perfectly, it wasn't custom nor was it designer. But I didn't let it affect me. I wore it well all the same.

Even still the group parted to let me in. I've been told that there has always been something about my bearing or aura or whatever that make people give me a wide berth. It always worked out for me.

I finally caught Io's eye and he was studying me closely, trying to figure me out, so I winked at him.

"And you are?" one of the rich ladies to my left asked.

"Synthia," I told her. "Spelled like synthetic. And female pronouns if you don't mind."

Io moved pretty quickly after I introduced myself.

"If you don't mind," he said grabbed me by the elbow, "she's an old friend and we should really catch up." His smile was charming and disarming, and his tone was easy. I could tell he was surprised and a little mad, but he played it off so well.

"Congratulations," he said as we stopped at a balcony near a set of stairs heading down into the main party area of the penthouse.

"Thanks," I respond. "And you might be."

"You know it's me. Io, whatever pronouns, don't care. I haven't seen you in nineteen and a half years. And if I recall correctly it was because you were looking for-"

I hold up a finger to stop him. "I'm always been listened in on so be careful about what you say about before."

Io frown. He was upset, but he stayed put.

"And don't be like that. We've communicated here and there since then."

"That doesn't count." He sighed. "Well you look good. I mean you kept the hair color, which isn't surprising. You still look like you've not slept since I knew you."

I shrugged, not entirely sure what to say to that.

"You still in the military?"

I shook my head. "I got out of that a long time ago. New job, came with the whole new me thing. Super top secret."

"And so you just thought you'd drop in on your old friend Io for shits and giggles?"

"I mean, I've been keeping tabs. You seem to be doing good. Except for that fiasco over in Vegas last year."

"Was that you?"

"I may have made a call to drop that particular warrant," I shrugged. I take care of my friends, regardless of how much time has passed.

"I thought you were dead, or gone, or spirited away to some black site prison. After the shit that you pulled I thought they got you for sure."

"They did."

"Fucking hell," Io said. He was about to say something but he cut himself off. "What's up? Why are you coming back to me now? Am I fucked? Am I being black-bagged?"

"No. I wouldn't let that happen," I said seriously. "I'm just in a severe problem right now and I need a favor."

"Of course. Why didn't that occur to me sooner? I'm on a job, a very delicate one, and I'm close to closing it."

"You're going to what? Steal Mason's cybertruck? That ugly fucking thing?"

"Yes, but that's not the main goal. I was going to steal it as part of the getaway. I mean it's a legendarily bad truck. And Mason has a fully restored 2025 model. I want to drive it so bad. It seems so terrible. But I was going to steal some other stuff. There's a couple of art pieces I have buyers for, and some old video game stuff I want for myself. Then I steal the truck."

I nodded. "I'm impressed. A step up fro the shit you pulled back in the day."

"You're being weirdly coy."

"They don't know a lot about me before I joined the military, and I aim to keep it that way."

"Then you contacting me is..."

"Very serious."

Io sighed, closes his eyes for a long moment, and finished off his champagne. "What's up?"

"You know those murders everyone is concerned with?"

"Yeah, some dude is killing gang leaders.

"And about a hundred other people. Ranging from war criminals to CEO's and randomly some dude in an apartment complex."

Io took a deep breath. "That's a lot of dead people. You know I don't do the violent stuff."

"Well the problem is that the murders are one guy."

"Hasn't this been going on for like one week? He's killed more than a hundred people in less than a week?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck. How do you think I can possibly help you?"

"This guy has some illegal tech I'm going to rip out of him. And he shot me three times."

Io hung his head, resting it on the metal railing of the nearby stairs. He knew what that meant. He knew that I could never let that stand.

"The thing is that I know where the headquarters is, where the cult that is support him is located."

"There's a cult too?" Io whined.

"Yeah."

"Balls."

"It's more religious fanaticism and shit and not like the people sacrificing kind."

"I'm really dreading when you get to the point where you ask me to do something."

"I just need you to open the door."

Io looked at me incredulously. I could feel him studying me, reading me like a mark. He was looking at me searching for the person from twenty years ago. I was still there, buried beneath layers and layers of machines and electronics.

I continued. "The entire area is surrounded by EM fields and guards and turrets and extreme paranoia. They know me because their assassin failed to kill me, so I can't walk in or use any of my usual methods. I can't even get close or I'm gonna die."

Io shuddered. "You really went down that route?"

"Yes." It was the simple answer, the correct one. "It gave me the one thing I've always wanted. The costs were higher than I ever knew, but it was still worth it."

"I love tech, just having it be inside me is gross."

"That's part of the reason why I'm here. You won't instantly die if you screw up like I will."

"How badly does this need to be done tonight?" Io asked as he looked around at the fancy party and the riches and old technology he longed to steal.

"Badly. We've got a very small window to strike before they realize that I'm not dead. If they move we're never getting to the assassin."

"Why not?" Io complained, even though I knew I had him.

"I'm fairly certain the assassin can teleport. So this is our one and only opportunity to get him in his home."

"Fuck me," Io said. "Let's go, but I hope I can at least get paid for this."

"The company has deep pockets."

Io moaned slightly as he didn't want to leave the party. "Don't tell me I'm actually doing work for the Company Company."

"The CIA? Those chucklefucks? Oh hell no."

Io heaved a heavy sigh of relief. "Thank god. They are really the worst."

"Yeah, and they've put out hits on me like three times," I told him as we left the party and went out to the car I had waiting out front.

As we climbed into the car Io turned to me and said, "So I have two questions for you."

"Why Synthia?"

I shrugged. "I thought it was funny."

Io rolled his eyes. "Yeah. That tracks. Second question: does Lorelei know you're alive?"

I swore, loudly and angrily. "No."

my kofi

[keeper0fthestars]

recrudescent (i’m right here)

Din Djarin / gn!reader 

1.6k words

warnings: angst / comfort, repressed memories, heartache, nightmares (and the panic that follows), mentions of death / violence

summary: ‘the past beats inside me like a heartbeat’ - John Banville

a/n: please heed the warnings and do not read if you are affected by things like this. 

the prompt for this came from this post

~~

The explosion knocks you back into the dirt. Smoke and ash fills your mouth. Sticks to the back of your throat, stings your eyes. You will yourself to sit up because this time, you tell yourself, it will be different. The ringing in your ears makes you lightheaded, the heat of the billowing smoke gets in the way, but you don’t need to see, you know these winding streets in the dead of night.

You run.

You don’t have to tell your feet which way to go; you know all the shortcuts, avoiding the white helmets with their flamethrowers. You’ll beat them this time. Your heart pounds twice for every stride you take in the packed dirt, the smoke gradually thins the farther away you get, and they don’t even see when you dart across the main path. Climbing the wall, the familiar chase stars and you’re ready for it. Narrowly missing the jump over the ledge, climbing up to the next roof, higher and higher, until your boot catches on a loose edge. You hear rubble fall, knocking the helmet down with a grunt but you can’t look back, there is nothing there for you anymore. There will be nothing ahead of you either if you don’t get there soon. And warn them.

The burn in your muscles doesn’t come as soon as it did before, but you’re older now, stronger. You’re through the trees by the time it hits and like last time, you push even harder. They’ll still be there. They have to be. You will get there in time. You’re older now, faster. You’re getting close, the taste of hot coals once again thick in your mouth and you try to call their names, to warn them, but your voice doesn’t carry. It’s dry as parchment, singed and black.

The house glows orange from inside and no one is here. No no no. Not again. Where are they? There is nothing left of your mother’s curtains in the summer kitchen. The blue enamel flowers on her pottery blister in the heat and no longer match the embroidery on her linens. You smell the scorch of thornwood as the flames lick along the beds and doorframes.

Eyes burning with smoke, the rubble bites into your knees. They’re gone. Everything is gone. Where are they. Clawing at the gravel, every breath scorches against a raw throat, you wish the flames would swallow you too. The grief that comes is like an old friend.

From some hazy distant place, you hear your name; a gloved hand touches your knee.

In a rush of fear, you don’t look to see who it is, your instinct is to kick it away but your feet feel like they’re stuck in mud and it takes an enormous effort to get away from the looming figure beside you. Wiping the sweat and soot from your eyes, you try to focus on the reflective round head beside you. He’s speaking but you can’t understand the words. Something familiar tugs at your memory but you don’t trust your memory because familiar means grief and heartache and misery. And familiar doesn’t matter anymore because you couldn’t save them.

You never will.

The hand won’t let go; no matter how hard you push on it. Please. Where are they?

In your desperation, your foot finally connects with a plank of metal so hard you cry out, sitting up, scrambling away.

“You’re okay,” he says again, his hand still on your knee, “it’s just a dream.”

He’d been startled out of a light sleep; the sound of choked sobs echoed from the other side of the hull, filled his stomach with panic. Detecting your frantic pulse and he’d scrambled over to you. A broken name falls from your mouth, a name he doesn’t recognize, sounding slurred like you were underwater. Under the soft light from the panel over your head, sweat and terror shine on your forehead.

“Hey,” his soft voice blankets your senses with calm. “It’s me. You’re okay… you’re okay.”

The voice tugs at your brain again, the blurry figure is still here and your body reacts to his soothing words. You stop struggling and sit up against the wall, hugging your knees to your chest.

The sharp pierce of your own fingernails digging into your palms brings you back to the Crest.

Just a dream.

Face wet, your lungs are no longer burning from ash and dust, they burn from exertion. In your exhaustion, you make out the beskar helmet through wet eyelashes. It was just like all the other ones. The same explosion, the same suffocating panic, the same fire.

Cool air fills your head as you struggle to catch your breath but your muscles droop like lead, you start shaking.

But that’s ok because he’s holding you up.

With his broad chest and solid arms. You weren’t alone.

No matter how many times you relive it, you would never get home before they were taken away. You’d never get a chance to say goodbye. You turn your face against the fabric of his worn shirt to quell the hurt in your chest but the piercing shock of fresh grief claws at your throat, your mouth starts trembling unable to stop.

“I tried but I couldn’t get there.” They were innocent. “Why couldn’t they take me instead.”

Stomach heaving, the agony of memories spills down your cheeks. It’s the kind of sobbing that leaves your heart ragged and hollow, as if you were a child, bawling on your knees. You cried for all the things you’d never get to tell them, you cried for the years you didn’t dare let yourself grieve, for the years you’d spent fending for yourself.

There are no words in Basic that comfort demons like this. His other language snags inside his mouth and he almost whispers the mantra he knows for protection. Does it still count if he didn’t say it aloud?

Taking your trembling hand, he places it flat on his chest, holds it there. He feels your fingers curl into his shirt over his heart, clinging to the fabric. Your head sags against his shoulder.

“Hear my heartbeat?” the gentle vibration of his voice curls in your chest. “Just… focus on that.”

He knows dreams like this. He wonders what else you’ve kept hidden for so long. You’d not had a nightmare like this the whole time you’d been flying with him, he would have known if you did. Vicious memories can resurface without warning, but he still finds himself wondering what brought this on.

Your day together had been uneventful, nothing out of the ordinary: a stop for supplies and fuel, a quiet couple of hours at one of the markets. The only uncharacteristic thing that stood out in his memory was when something had caught your attention that afternoon and you’d backtracked down the alley, your eyes on one vendor in particular. Like a pinhole, his memory zeroed in on that little cart where it stood behind everyone else on the corner. Two young girls were selling soft-crusted loaves and baked sweets and you’d dropped enough credits on their table to pay a small army. He’d noticed the looks of awe on their dirty faces when they saw the pile of credits, way more than what the Quinn cakes and spiced rolls were worth. He didn’t understand why you’d decided to purchase the contents of the entire cart, but he’d noticed the tender longing beneath your smile when you crouched down and spoke to the smallest one, pulling wrapped candies out of your bag and giving them to her.

When you’d rejoined him, arms full on the way back to the crest, you spoke before he could frame a question. There’s a children’s shelter on the other side of town, and I’m going to bring it all there tomorrow before we leave

Something bites painfully into his heart, swallows his stomach whole. His shirt is tear-stained and soaked and your breathing has evened out but he has no intention of letting go of you anytime soon.

He wonders if you were that young. When you got left behind. He wonders if you were as young as he was, by the time everyone you’d loved was dead and gone.

He pulls you closer to his chest, carefully tucks your forehead against the soft fabric of his cowl under the edge of his helmet. You don’t object to the closeness, exhaustion quickly takes over and you curl yourself into him.

“I’m sorry,” your voice scratches, a lonely sob still hitching in your throat, “didn’t mean to wake you-.”

His chest expands under your head; a deep breath crackles through his helmet. The soft brush of his palm on the back of your head, he murmurs. “Don’t be sorry.”

Maybe you won’t remember this in the morning, he thinks, as he reaches over your head and taps off the light panel. His visor adjusts to the blanket of darkness and the faint glow of emergency lights. Eventually, he breathes a sigh of relief when his newly emitted readings finally tell him you’re in a deep sleep.

You’re oblivious to how he carefully shifts himself and lifts your knees, bringing your limp body down on the cot with him, giving you a soft place to sleep, cocooned inside his arms.

In your sleep, you’re unaware of how you turn towards his touch when the backs of his fingers trace feather-light along your cheekbone. You don’t know that his breath catches in his throat when a soft contented hum slips from your lips. You don’t hear the whisper of his voice from the modulator. ‘I'm right here.’

The soft home-y scent of fresh pastries fills his nose, but that was because the lot of it was currently piled in the Crest’s galley.

He’d go back there tomorrow and buy more.

~~

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