#ice freighter

[lifewithaview]

Thomas Jane in The Expanse (2015) Dulcinea

S1E1

In the asteroid belt near Saturn, James Holden and the crew of the ice freighter Canterbury investigate a distress call from a mysterious derelict ship, the Scopuli. On Ceres Station, Detective Miller begins an off-the-books investigation of a missing heiress, Julie Mao.

*Prologue.In the 23rd century, humans have colonized the Solar System. The UN controls Earth. Mars is an independent military power. The inner planets depend on the resources of the asteroid belt. Belters live and work in space. In the Belt, air and water are more precious than gold. For decades, tensions have been rising - Earth, Mars and the Belt are now on the brink of war. All it will take is a single spark…

[mortalityplays]

talking about this just reminded me I had a dream last night that I'd launched a new epic space opera style webcomic, which was entirely about a vast abandoned space station that was a fully automated unmanned ice cream factory. it was like that one ray bradbury story except the space station made ice cream, forever, for nobody. some lost passenger shuttle docks with it and wakes its passenger from cryosleep, and then they're just stuck there. in the city sized space ice cream factory. alone.

every chapter was themed around a different stage of industrial scale ice cream production, culminating in the product being jettisoned into space through a cargo system that no longer linked to any freighters. very allegorical etc.

[zhjake]

Nestled in the Crux System, The IPS-N Caleuche Shipyard orbits the ice giant Imai in tandem with the moon Lemuy, a manufacturing hub for freighters and warships, now the front row seats to viewing The Yawn From our Lancer module: A Wake Writ in Void

[bumblingbabooshka]

I know the most common fanon for Tuvok post Voyager is that he's mostly fine and one of more stable ones but I personally think it'd be funny if he cracked like a goddamn egg and went off the deep end for a few years before finding his way back to semi-normalcy. Janeway's like "Where's Tuvok?" and the answer is that he quit Starfleet, joined a temple, left the temple in the middle of the night to go wander around the desert, almost died but was taken in by a kindly old woman, lived with her for two months before she died, left the desert hut to alert her family and upon completing that task hopped on the first freighter off Vulcan, got stranded on a deserted asteroid after being the sole survivor of the crash, was rescued, mind melded with an alien who can see the future but died in the process and can't remember anything about it except for the vague feeling that he spoke with Kes, was brought back to life by Chakotay who told him that Janeway was looking for him [at which point he pointed out that Chakotay is also not in contact with Janeway and then ran away again], returned to Vulcan but only to find and climb to the top of a holy mountain which took several months and upon reaching the top he feels a sense of enlightenment which permeates his familial bonds as the first sign in almost a year that he's alive at all. Upon finishing his climb down the mountain he stays in a nearby village and serves in their temple for several more months until it's attacked by aliens because of some artifact hidden deep within the temple walls and he puts his tactical strategy to good use, fending off the attack. Harry Kim [first guy to essentially skip lieutenant class and go right to commander] appears and is like "You need to go home, man. People think you're dead." Then he goes home and joins Starfleet again and he's literally only allowed back in because of Janeway and Janeway accepts him out of her love for her crew and also because she's kind of worried that he'll join an ice fishing expedition or cult if she doesn't. This only adds to the lore of Voyager as a cursed ship and her Crew as all-in-the-family maniacs.

[randybutternubber]

My idiot chud son, Rusty

And the backstory I made tf up for him if anyone wants to read it plus my analysis of him as a character.

This is my design for him. looks ridiculous 💔💔💔

These are the clothes I imagine he would perform in. He also has a cleft lip, I think this kind is called unilateral incomplete. Not sure how well I drew it so if anyone was curious abt what it was there you go

Okay I’m going to paste my HCs about him under a cut because this is long and I would feel bad flooding the tag

By the way, only the last part of this write up is actually written somewhat well/in a more narrative way. I was just doing a quick write up months ago but I got overly excited half way through and went nuts, but couldn’t carry that energy back to the beginning.

I promise if you can get through the sloppy stuff the last part might actually be worth it. It’s still sloppy but I had fun. I tried to clean it up but eh. I’ll just mark when I started going nuts so the tonal whip lash is more palatable. Enjoy the shit I made up about my stupid chudling. Tell me what you think about my brain diarrhea

The premise of my HC backstory for him is that Rusty took care of his mother from a young age because she was suffering from huntington's disease after they immigrated to the counties.

Huntington’s is a cruel disease, and it does not kill quickly. It’s a slow and degenerative death.

His mother was a refugee from the Korean War- a stowaway, as was he- leaving him unable to ask for assistance when his mother changed.

He was conceived not a long time before his mother left but months before they would arrive. he would never know his father, not even his name , only that he was unlike his mother- white, not “oriental”.

And he, as a result, was treated as neither by both sides- all except for his mother.

When he was 9 He worked on the docks to a small, dirty little pier fair. He’d sweep up droppings from small unseen life, clean up piles of sick, and sift through thin sand under the docks for lost change to supplement his paltry salary.

but, as all children do, he’d sometimes slack off to watch the shows. He wished he could walk on the tightropes or swing from the trapeze- he wanted to fly too.

His mother scared him. she didn’t recognize him sometimes, and he couldn’t recognize her at all, but he was crushed with the guilt of wanting to leave her, because without him, she would die, and if he stayed, he would grow up to become like her.

For context, Huntington’s disease is a genetic disorder and if one of your parents has it the chance of you interesting it is very high.

Rusty’s mom also became erratic and sometimes aggressive- something that can happen to people with Huntington’s disease.

She would have episodes of rage and extreme confusion. Rusty didn’t understand why his mom changed, and he would often climb onto the roof of the house. He was terrified of heights but more scared of his mother.

(This is the part where I got too excited and actually started seriously writing)

One day, there was a great cargo ship that docked near the fair. He stared at it blankly. His hands were wet with spittle from trying to help brush her teeth, and there was a deep convex wound blossoming on his right.

She had cried today when she saw what she had done, a thin pink discharge coating her teeth like cheap veneers. He wished she had yelled, not beg for him to hug her while he stood inanimate and still, urine tricking down his leg and his bitten hand thumping like a second heart.

He boarded in secret and was a stowaway in all forms.

He slept among the cargo, in the freighter’s ice cold stomach and laid there, smothered and compact in the dark, laid to rest by the ships metronome sway.

And so he drifted into a world so similar yet different, infested with life of all shapes and sizes, some so spectacular that they could make crowds roar, and others so abhorred and aberrant that they would likely find themselves out of place even in the most exotic menageries.

And still there were others, children of all creeds, tongues, and complexion. They would stare at him with their little dormice eyes, heads popping up and disappearing as soon as they had emerged, like puppets in a shooting gallery. But when under the spotlight and draped in ridiculous costumes that hid the gaps between their ribs, they were brilliant and spectacular- they glowed, and Rusty- Rusty glowed too.

there were lights, sword swallowers, fire breathers, and funambulist- human canon balls, tigers tamed by wild children with whips, roaring audiences, and man dressed in purple- a companion to the diminutive doll-man perched on his lap.

And so he drifted deeper into Nowhere. And then I didn’t write the end but he got trafficked into the fuckinb carnivale and now gets bullied by borderline geriatric gay men.

Rusty’s back story mainly focuses on themes of escapism, abandonment, and the fear of growing up. He’s trapped in between two looming hells- growing up in the nowhere to become as morally bankrupt as any other adult, or to live in the waking world with the possibility that he could die a slow, degenerative death.

Because of this, Rusty is mainly motivated by desperation and feeling like he needs to escape. Similarly to how the devs said that the monsters lack goals but more follow these base urges, pretty much their id, rusty feels that pull too, deep in his tummy, and it’s got him guthooked.

But how do you escape two, almost certainly inevitable fates. Would you choose the certainty of becoming a monster and retaining your autonomy, or would you wait years, building up a life that you know has a very real chance of being dismantled by an incurable illness?

If rusty has survived my idea is that he would have become a Houdini like magician for the funfair, being locked up in absurd contraptions and escaping them on stage. He never stops running, never stops writhing away, always escaping.

He’s very much a “chew your own leg off to escape the bear trap” type character

And every time he escapes he ends up in another hell, another trap, out of the frying pan into the fire and then back again.

He was born as a result of an escape, and he died the same way. Even if he never got the chance to inherit her illness, he may be more like his mother than he will ever know.

Rusty is a sad character. Some people strongly dislike him for what he did to noone, which I understand, but I genuinely think it was due to desperation and some serious lack of foresight (my idiot chud son) At the end of the day though, he did end up using her, and I do think that part of him knew that and still did it. Rusty effectively threw her under the bus, and, intentionally or not, used her as bait.

At the same time though, Rusty likely suffered abuse for years at the hands of the ringmaster and dummy, along with maybe even the other performers to a lesser extent. I don’t think it’s fair to treat him as a villain like some people do to him (to a much lesser extent) and six

I see him in a similar boat to six in some ways. Even though he’s a teenager (I HC him as 16) he’s lacked a proper social structure for what can be assumed to be a massive chunk of his life, so he’s definitely way more immature if that makes sense. He hasn’t had time to grow in a way that wasn’t induced by trauma and pain. The environment of the carnivale itself is perfect for breeding resentment between performers, and Rusty is the star.

People often want to think they’d do the right thing in high stakes situations, but just one split second decision can turn you from victim to villain in the eyes of others.

It is incredibly hard to predict how we will react in life or death situations, and I feel very bad for Rusty despite all his flaws.

I also feel for noone too since she never even got a chance to process Rusty’s assumed death. Not to mention she never seemed to realize that she was essentially being manipulated by him- after all, it seems like Noone is used to that kind of treatment from not only her peers, but the adults around her.

They’re both deeply traumatized children, and Rusty is my idiot chud son.

[collapsedsquid]

The crew of the Manitoulin, according to the U.S. Coast Guard, has plenty of fuel, power, and food to wait things out as the Coast Guard ice breaker-tug Bristol Bay tries to cut a swath in the ice for the Manitoulin to depart. The Bristol Bay arrived Thursday afternoon and worked for several hours before quitting for the night. It once again began breaking ice Friday morning, but by late afternoon had gone to shore to take on fuel and allow the crew to rest and prepare logistics. Buffalo's harbor master, who said he was in touch with the captain of the vessel, told 2 on Your Side the ice surrounding the ship is estimated to be 3 to 4 feet thick.

@todays-problematic-ship

[folykill]

no most psionics are in training pretty involuntarily my moirail is just a panrotted freak who thinks the heiress is going to pick him personally to truss up in her own ship to pail with the helmstentacles for her amusement

n0b0dy r0cks with the slime. sad. (g0t a mere three replies.)

[ebitenpura]

reiterating off my tangent about a potential SWTOR themed cafe with foods representing the eight classes, I decided to come up with a fake menu for fun:

• Sith Inquisitor // Force Ghost Cereal in Lord Kallig's Helmet: Liquid nitrogen infused cereal puffs (with fog!) can be eaten out of a specialty treat bucket shaped after Lord Kallig's infamous helmet, producing a spooky and atmospheric effect of a spirit coming out of this sith lord's vessel. Comes with sweet black licorice flavor and purple yam flavor. The helmet can be washed and taken home as a keepsake.

• Imperial Agent // Castellan Restraint Cocktail with Serum IX Syrup: Non-alcoholic. Inject IX serum (kiwi syrup) into your blue curacao cocktail over fizzy lemonade and ice and blend. Comes with a monaka wafer of Watcher X's face and a red crosshair white chocolate decorative piece. Must be ordered with the secret keyword: onomatophobia.

• Sith Warrior // K'lor Slug Spaghetti al Nero: Black squid-ink spaghetti adorned with parsley, red ginger, and Korriban temple decorative pyramid wafers engraved with Sith teachings. Comes with a side of K'lor slug (one lobster tail) grilled with drawn butter to perfection. Worthy of any Sith Lord.

• Bounty Hunter // Grand Hunt Spicy Flamethrower Curry with 3-meat Skewers: Mandalorian emblem shaped pilaf rests atop hot curry with numerous spices, carrot, and potato in this hearty hunter's meal. 3 different kinds of meat skewers with 3 clan flags (ordo, viszla, lok) are supplied on the side with spicy mala dipping sauce held in a bounty hunter's bracer.

• Jedi Knight // Knight's Lightsaber Rolled Crepe: A crepe rolled into the shape of a lightsaber and drizzled generously with blue raspberry sauce, filled with fresh cream, konpeito, and berries. The mild sweet taste and galactic theme is reminiscent of the light side. The wrapping paper comes with a special print design of various Knight NPCs.

• Jedi Consular // Meditation Tea with Raindrop Cake: Fresh black tea is served aside a clear raindrop cake with dark kuromitsu sugar on one half of the plate and light kinako soybean flour on the other half, signifying the dark and light. The consular's mind is empty, yet draws on these forces, much like the cake. Which will you choose?

• Smuggler // Scattergun Sundae: Dual blaster monaka wafers adorn this loaded sundae (matcha, coffee, and vanilla) with broken glass (cracked sugar candies), blue milk pudding, and chocolate credit pieces, all in a waffle cup. Comes with a paper standee of the XS stock light freighter.

• Trooper // Republic Rationed Lunchbox Meal: Open a special box container modeled after M1-4X to eat themed rations of Mantellian beef stew, Coruscant croquettes (cream and corn), and Taris rakghoul-green wheat bread. The box comes with backpack straps and can be cleaned and worn as such.

[ironworked]

60 Sec Rec: The Expanse

Hundreds of years in the future, humans have colonized the solar system and Mars has become an independent military power. A missing person links an asteroid belt detective, the captain of an ice freighter and a diplomat trying to avert a war. [Rotten Tomatoes & Netflix]

Detective Miller is in a futuristic-noir, a cop tasked with finding wayward heiress turned political activist Julie Mao.

James Holden and crew are in an action/adventure in space, the everyday guys who go from the frying pan to the fire.

Chrisjen Avasarala, UN Security Council member, is in a political thriller, trying to avoid a war and figure out who she can trust in the government.

A bit of Blade Runner/Total Recall, a bit of Alien, a bit of Battlestar Galactica, as the show progresses these storylines intersect and the genres mix. Characters don't become found family but a forged one; forged in near death experiences, impossible choices, secrets kept and shared, and even some romances (not all requited).

This show can fit SO MANY BLORBOS. Also polyamory! one of the leads has 8 parents, and a recurring character, who is the love of my life, is in a poly relationship later in the show. The actors are fantastic (Tipper has an episode in one of the later seasons that's a tour de force. She's tremendous), and the set design and costumes are gorgeous.

The ship names (I mean actual ships here) are so cool too: Rocinante, Guy Molinari, Scipio Africanus... a nice bit of trivia.

It is so, so, so GOOD. You have to give it some time at the start because you might need a while to 'get settled' in this universe, but don't worry because it's a rich story but not a dense one. It's also not grimdark; bad things do happen, and there are losses and casualties, but it's not a cruel show. It won't laugh at you for caring.

Developed by Mark Fergus and Hawk Ostby (Children of Men, Iron Man) based on the book series by James S. A. Corey (pseudonym for Daniel Abraham and Ty Franck). Written by the novelists and mostly new writers. Directed by Breck Eisner (Fear Itself), Jeff Woolnough (Vikings), Terry McDonough (Better Call Saul)... Starring Thomas Jane, Steven Strait, Cas Anvar, Dominique Tipper, Wes Chatham, Florence Faivre, Shawn Doyle, Shohreh Aghdashloo, Frankie Adams, Cara Gee, Keon Alexander, Jasai Chase Owens, Nadine Nicole, David Strathairn, Jared Harris...

Trailer for s1

Previous: Deadloch - Dead Boy Detectives - The Tick - This Close - Kung Fu - Nancy Drew - Kevin Can Fuck Himself - Silo - The Flight Attendant - Severance - Hacks - Hit The Floor - Black Sails - 12 Monkeys - T@gged - The Diplomat - The Mick - Timeless - UnReal - Kings - All Rise - Barry - Halt and Catch Fire - Resident Alien - Santa Clarita Diet - Claws - Roswell New Mexico - Upload - Rutherford Falls

[floridaboiler]

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead When the skies of November turn gloomy…

With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed When the gales of November came early

The ship was the pride of the American side Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most With a crew and good captain well seasoned

Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms When they left fully loaded for Cleveland And later that night when the ship's bell rang Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound And a wave broke over the railing And every man knew, as the captain did too, T'was the witch of November come stealin'

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait When the gales of November came slashin' When afternoon came it was freezin' rain In the face of a hurricane west wind

When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin' Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya At seven p.m., a main hatchway caved in, he said Fellas, it's been good to know ya

The captain wired in he had water comin' in And the good ship and crew were in peril And later that night when 'is lights went outta sight Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

Does any one know where the love of God goes When the waves turn the minutes to hours? The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay If they'd put fifteen more miles behind 'er

They might have split up or they might have capsized They may have broke deep and took water And all that remains are the faces and the names Of the wives and the sons and the daughters…

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings In the rooms of her ice-water mansion Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams The islands and bays are for sportsmen And farther below Lake Ontario Takes in what Lake Erie can send her And the iron boats go as the mariners all know With the gales of November remembered

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed, In the maritime sailors' cathedral The church bell chimed. It rang twenty-nine times. For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee Superior, they said, never gives up her dead When the gales of November come early…

~ “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” by Gordon Lightfoot

Image: “Every Man Knew” by David Conklin

[einsliga]

"Things have changed while you slept, Citizen."

I awoke inside a sarcophagus, nestled deep inside the med bay of my ancient freighter, "Gate of Dawn". Being "spun up" from nutrients was a strange process; some never loved being shoe-horned back into a meat calculator happily after life aboard a freighter. Still, we were approaching old Earth; and after the aeons spent inside the protective confines of the ships vast storage computers, most wanted to see what had become of our ancient, erstwhile home.

I had dreamt of Earth. Never been, of course, but dreamt of it. A blue blur in my memory, as seen from a thousand surveys from as many space agencies. Most planets are not blue. Most, like the planet I was born on, are browns, or purples. A few are golds, and some, rarer still, are red. Like Mars used to be.

But not blue. Blue meant a Yellow or White star. Precious few of those have the potassium, the nutrients, the...the time to support the kind of blue-green algae that is needed to make the waters that loveliest of colors. Most stars with life are red-hued runts, and the bacteria floating around them is so starved for energy that brown or purple is far more common. My own home was a riot of ruddy hues; a hundred browns and reds mixed. And it was always thus; the planet had no inclination, and spun in very nearly a precise circle around its tiny star.

But we swung close. So close did we circle that the planet settled into a non rotating orbit, so that one face was always pointed sunward, the other pointed towards the cold depths of the system beyond. And 'Eyeball' world I'd heard it called. A barren, Godforsaken world known for nothing at all aside from its wondrous purple beaches, and the fact you'd never burn your skin, so slight was our suns warmth.

Earth was different, my folks had taught me. Earth was the primeval. It was the cold of ice, the heat of volcanoes, the glorious Gold of a Sun set so bright in the sky the ancients had worshipped his burning rays, and prayed for rains sweet release.

And maybe that's why I was coming back at long last. To a home I'd never been to, but had always been running from, in some way. To see if some fiery God would speak to me. To see the blue waters at least once in my life with my own eyes. Walk in her white sands, looking out over those waters, watching her enormous moon rise.

Romantic, perhaps. But we all tire of running, sooner or later. The darkness has a call, and I had heeded it. I had lived and survived while a hundred generations passed. Whole colonies had formed, grew, and perished under alien suns while I had dithered in the darkness.

The sarcophagus lid slid open, and cold air greeted my new skin. I prickled, nude, in the cool air. The ship wasn't used to staying comfortable. It wasn't used to being 'lived' in.

But we were close, and she wanted us ready.

Ready to see a mother I'd spent a life running from.

[thrawns-backrest]

Well well, would you look at that, link insertion finally decided to do its job. Anyway, new (relatively long) chapter out and we've got new characters this time too.

Title: Buried in Ice

Characters: Ronan, Eli, Ba'kif and others

Chapters: 13/?

Summary: Ronan adjusts to life with the Chiss when a sudden revelation leads him to realize that his fate is not as firmly in his hands as he'd thought it was.

___

Rhoar was a largely unremarkable place. Not by chiss standards perhaps but Ronan had seen so many like it that he couldn’t help the twang of homesick nostalgia in his chest.

Perhaps the only remarkable thing about it was that the motley farrago of beings and businesses seemed to be contained almost entirely to its handful of trading hubs, the rest of the planet swathed in rolling hills, fields and a pair of snow-capped poles that Ronan had observed upon their approach from space. Back home, those hubs would either be part of a planetary-wide network or otherwise be tucked between the places of residence of regular citizens.

But Rhoar was not just any world. It was a chiss trade world.

Ronan hadn’t even known about the existence of such worlds until recently though in hindsight it made sense. The steady stream of exotic goods that Syndics and Aristocra scratched each other’s egos with had to come from somewhere and singular excursions into alien space couldn’t possibly cut it. Neither were alien merchants allowed on chiss worlds for the sake of security.

Trade worlds were the solution to that problem.

Most importantly, Ronan thought as he gazed out the floor-to-ceiling viewport of his luxurious residence, they were also the only places where the chiss mingled and coexisted with a variety of other species. And that was all that mattered.

“The artisan market is right across the street from here. You’re highly advised to stick to that part of the city for safety purposes. Most of the species here speak Minniasat and Sy Bisti but in case you need them, there are kiosks where you can hire translators,” his guide finished in a bored tone and Ronan turned to him with a strained smile.

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” he told the man with a nod.

Ronan couldn’t for the life of him tell if this was the same aide that had shown him around Csaplar when he’d first been dropped off on Csilla. Though he had the same annoyed, dispassionate air about him that implied he was doing this on autopilot and couldn’t care less about Ronan.

The man nodded back looking glad to be relieved of his duties and left Ronan to his own devices, the hatch sliding shut behind him with a sophisticated hiss. Everything in the room, Ronan noted, seemed like it had been made for nobility.

Naturally, the merchants crawling around the local markets were from all manner and walks of life. But the privilege of visiting Rhoar seemed to be reserved for the highest tiers of chiss society, as evidenced by the shiny hotel complexes and luxury villas that had been built to house them on their trips.

Regular citizens on Csilla also enjoyed access to the goods being sold here but Ronan supposed that had to do with the massive section of the hub’s port dedicated to freighters and cargo ships.

Either way, he decided as he pushed his hover case towards the bed, it wasn’t the chiss on Rhoar he was interested in.

After hastily unpacking his belongings, he ate a quick meal in his room and made the short trip from his residence to the market right across the street. The few odd looks on the way there were a given, mostly from the chiss lingering around their fancy buildings, but once he reached the area of the market, it was like stepping into a whole new world.

A cramped, improvised lineup of stalls and display carts, the place was positively teeming with all manner of alien life and nobody seemed to pay him any mind as he weaved around the crowd. The majority of the stalls were dedicated to small trinkets and decorations but there were a few that specialized in more elaborate wares like clothing and dishware, arranged in flashy displays and aggressively peddled by hardened stall-owners.

The first thing Ronan noted was the relative ratio of chiss to aliens. Most of the people there seemed to be local species who had paid a small docking fee to explore the markets – and enjoy the benefits of chiss security, Ronan guessed – and he eyed them furtively as he pretended to examine the stalls.

Some of them, clearly tourists. Awestruck and distracted and generally not worth his attention. They drifted between the stalls, oohing and ahing at the merchants’ demonstrations and losing their way every so often in the general hubbub.

Others navigated the place with more confidence, moving in small groups and seeming more focused on their conversation than on any of the displays. They gesticulated heatedly in groups made up of two to three species and Ronan figured that it was only natural for such places to become meeting spots where interspecies relations took place. Politics, trade, gossip; all topics that could be discussed in the safety and anonymity of the general buzz of the markets.

With the added bonus of the hundred or so combat-uniformed chiss that hovered around the place like prison wardens. 

At the very least, Ronan guessed, no one had to worry about a political assassination or the consequences of a trade dispute gone awry. The chiss had the March of Silence, he supposed wryly, but noise was just as good at keeping you cloaked as silence was. Which the chiss seemed happy to overlook as long as they pocketed their docking fees.

Speaking of the chiss, they were the clear minority there yet they moved about the place with the unbothered confidence of people who knew they owned the place. But it was the fourth group; those who hurried to scurry out of their way, or otherwise let their gazes linger a bit too long, that caught Ronan’s eye.

Most of them walked with that awkward, hunched gait that Ronan associated with fringe dwellers or dirt-caked asteroid miners looking for their next spice hit and took special care to avoid the information kiosks and their menagerie of guards. Ronan followed a few of them from afar, noting the way they gravitated towards one specific alley, branching off the main street, then dutifully filed that information away for later. 

Finally, after getting a good feel for the lay of the land, he stopped at a few of the stalls, filling his pockets with useless trinkets like any other tourist, before focusing his attention on a few sparsely decorated cloaks made of a soft material that looked unremarkable enough at a glance. He lifted the edge of one and quickly pushed it back down, making sure the action would go unnoticed by anyone watching, and paid for the piece, assuring it remained folded as he made his way back to his rooms.

By the time he was back, the day outside was crawling towards twilight and his legs hurt something vicious.

There was a nervous energy thrumming through his body alongside the fatigue but he simply put away the cloak, checking for the glint of the credit chips he’d swiped from his uniform before coming here, before emptying the rest of his purchases with affected care and sitting down to have his evening meal.

The rest of the evening was spent in contemplation, with him staring at the expansive view outside his viewport. Anyone looking would see a man in the throes of a brooding fit.

In reality, Ronan’s mind had never been clearer.

He did more of the same field work the following day, retiring early in the evening for another lackluster meal and a check of his belongings. 

The next morning, he barely stopped himself from rising too early.

He put his clothes on with extra care, making sure the strip of fitted sheet he’d torn from his bedding the night before was safely tucked into a pocket – same for the credit chips from the bottom of his case – then made his way outside. The main street was as crowded as could be by this time and he felt a small layer of sweat gather on his upper back where the cloak’s hood was tucked out of sight.

After lingering at a few of the stalls and even starting a small argument with one of the stall-owners, he decided it was time to make his move and dove back into the main street. His opening came in the form of a thickening in the crowd gathered around a street performer, and he used the amalgamation of beings as cover to duck into a nearby alley.

His hands were slightly clumsy as they shucked off the cloak and turned it over, putting the white lining right side up, but they had regained their confidence by the time he wrapped the strip of bedding around his head, the way he’d seen some of the local aliens do.

Merging back into the crowd was easy enough from there.

He took a few more turns down streets he’d never been to before, trusting his intuition to guide him back to the main street, and finally reached the alley he’d scouted out the other day, ducking into it just as a large group of aliens cut through his path.

It looked just like the kind of place he’d pegged it for – darker, narrower and more fetid than any other part of the city he’d seen so far – and he felt a sense of triumph as he turned a corner and found a bar nestled into the crook of a dead end, with a bright neon sign above it.

There were a couple of aliens loitering around outside; they gave him bored looks as he passed but didn’t react otherwise.

It was inside, he knew, where he would really make an impact.

Pausing in the entryway to remove his shawl – he expected the smell to be fouler without it but the odors coming from the bar were surprisingly agreeable – he tucked it away in a pocket and pushed the cloak off his shoulders, letting it hang by the clasp around his neck.

Then, satisfied with the way it revealed the robes underneath, he took one last fortifying breath and stepped inside. 

To say the reaction was instantaneous would be an understatement.

Immediately, at least a dozen pairs of eyes locked on to him and followed his every step.

Most of them were smart enough not to pause their conversations so as not to be too obvious but Ronan could feel the weight of their attention on him like needles digging into his skin.

He made sure his gait was confident as he marched to the curved bar and sat himself on a stool, waving down the burly red-skinned barkeep. In the process, he let one of his goldworked sleeves flash under the overhead lights. 

Presentation was key here. And nobody understood good presentation better than Ronan.

Chances were, he guessed, nobody would even speak to him if he weren’t dressed like this. He would just be another shabby alien trying to look tough in a den of wannabe tough types. But the demonstration had done the trick.

Now all he needed was for someone to take the bait, Ronan decided as he pretended to examine his glass while surreptitiously letting his eyes roam over the assembled patrons. There was a good number of them still watching him, trying to hide it behind raised glasses or by averting their gaze every so often. 

They all looked like they could potentially make a move but Ronan preferred to narrow the scope a bit. The more humanoid, the more likely to be from Wild Space so he singled out those that fit the description and didn’t look too much like stereotypical thugs.

Finally, after a minute or so of waiting, he noticed one of them slide out of the booth where he’d been sitting with two others and sidle up to him, trying his best to look casual. Several sets of eyes followed him, some of them clusters of four or six, but did nothing to stop him, only looking mildly disappointed for having been beaten to the punch.

The man came to a stop on Ronan’s left and rattled off something unintelligible. Ronan regarded him with a sneer.

“Sy Bisti only, if you want a conversation,” he sniffed in said language, turning imperiously back to his drink.

You’re in control here, he told himself mentally. Act like it.

The alien narrowed his eyes for a moment before seemingly deciding it was still worth to pursue this and sliding into the bar stool next to Ronan’s.

“Sy Bisti it is then,” he said, his accent smooth and practiced. He ordered his own drink in Minnisiat and tipped the barman with a wink before turning back to Ronan.

“So, friend,” he began with a smile. “You may have already noticed but you’re a bit of an oddity around here.” He pointed around the bar with his glass. “Any chance you’d tell a curious soul what your story is?”

Ronan paused as if to consider the question. And in doing so took the opportunity to examine his companion more closely.

This section of space boasted dozens of species he’d never encountered before. All in one place, they blurred together into a faceless mass of exotic bone structures, feathers, ridges, scales and all colors and patterns of skin.

But up close like this, the differences became more defined.

The man next to him – Ronan was pretty sure he was a male, if such concepts existed in his species – looked humanoid for the most part except for the deep symmetrical groves cleaving his face, going up from his mouth to his cheekbones, their borders raised into ridges with an intricate system of organic bridges crossing from one side to the other. 

The sides of those bridges had an iridescent scaly texture that occasionally reflected the light of the bar in purples, teals and pinks and contrasted with the man’s muted white skin.

Ronan’s guess was that the groves were a sensory organ of some sort – he’d seen other species with complex skin formations meant to provide a large surface area for as many sensory cells as possible and this didn’t look much different.

The top of the man’s head was also covered in ridges where one would expect to see hair, though these had no groves in them. Other than that, his features were remarkably standard and Ronan felt confident enough to be able to read his expressions.

“That depends on what you can offer in exchange,” Ronan retorted and took a sip from his glass. Or rather let the liquid touch his lips briefly.

He couldn’t afford to look too much like an outsider but he wasn’t going to take any chances with these alien concoctions either.

The man next to him chuckled.

“I see you’re here to do business. But for starters, I’ll offer some advice. It’s not very wise to strut around these parts tricked up like that.” He paused as if to let Ronan take in their surroundings before letting his voice drop an octave. Ronan didn’t miss the way his eyes studied him, occasionally coming to rest on the gold accessory on Ronan’s right ear.

“Lots of folks around looking to make a quick buck and that coat alone is worth good money.”

“And yet none of you will so much as try to get it off me.”

“Oh? How so?”

Ronan felt his heartbeat pick up ever so slightly. 

This was the big gamble of his scheme. In theory he had a good grasp of how these people thought but that was just theory sans experience. He thought he knew but he could have misunderstood completely.

Time to put that to the test…

“You don’t want to make them angry,” he said, his voice faltering only a little bit. The reaction was more than he could have asked for as the man’s lips thinned and his mouth contracted.

Bullseye, Ronan thought, mentally patting himself on the back.

So he had been right.

They were all afraid of the chiss. 

This sector may have hundreds of species that ruled their own worlds without opposition and the aliens here acted all tough and mighty but when it came down to brass tacks, the chiss were still the big bad of the area.

No one wanted to get on their bad side. Not when they did such a jealous job of policing the place.

“And you know you will if you rob someone like me,” Ronan finished confidently. For a moment, his companion seemed like he wanted to argue but he seemed to be smart enough and saved them both the time.

“If you haven’t robbed someone already yourself,” he muttered. “What are you anyway? Some kind of weirdly pigmented blueskin?”

The word came out with unmistakable derision. Even on their own world, the chiss didn’t seem much beloved, Ronan noted.

“That’s beside the point. What isn’t beside the point is whether you can be of any use to me.”

The stranger’s ridged brows rose and he looked put off for a moment.

“I didn’t exactly come here to make a deal… but that might change depending on what you’re offering.”

Without a word, Ronan reached into his robe and pulled out a credit bar, placing it in front of the man and making sure the action remained unnoticed by the barkeep and the rest of the patrons.

Even in the dim light of the place, he saw the way the other’s eyes widened.

The logic behind it was simple.

If Alderaanian wine could reach this far outside the Rim and serve as an exotic souvenir, it stood to reason that other wares trickled in from the edges of Wild Space as well, changing hands from merchant to merchant until they travelled the necessary distance. Credits could make the same journey in the same way, only backwards. 

And if expensive smuggled goods were valuable here, so was clean, unmarked cash to the shady types that supplied them. It was a symbiotic relationship Ronan was well aware of. Not least of all because of all the backdoor channels Stardust used to get many of its resources. 

(Which was also incidentally why high-ranking Stardust personnel had access to those kinds of credits, Ronan thought cynically. That and it did miracles for bribery.)

In short, the best move for a merchant in possession of a smuggled, stolen or otherwise questionably acquired ware – the only kind these wares could be; no legitimate business traded with the Unknown Regions �� was to sell it where no one was looking for it and getting a clean stack of cash in exchange raised the status of a potential buyer exponentially.

By the looks of it, his companion knew that too.

Which was exactly what Ronan had been banking on.

“Let me guess, there’s more where that came from,” the man said, picking the piece up and running his finger knowingly over the groves.

Ronan nodded.

“One hundred percent real. Unmarked, clean. You can take this one home with you and check, on the house. There’s also credit chips, unprogrammed, of course.”

“And what you’re asking for in exchange?”

He took a breath.

“Transport. To Lesser Space. I don’t care exactly where but I need to get there. You can have the clothes too,” he hurried to add. Too eager perhaps but he had the man on the hook and he didn’t want to lose him. “And the jewelry. But only once we’re off planet.”

There was a definite spark of interest in the man’s eyes. And it made a corresponding spark of hope light in Ronan’s chest.

“Well, my friend,” he chuckled at length, “it sounds to me like you might just have a deal.”

He pocketed the credit bar and leaned closer to Ronan in a casual friendly way. Ronan reasoned that it wouldn’t do to look too conspiring in front of his colleagues. It might just tip them off to what they were missing out on.

“And if that’s the case, a name might be a good start. Real or fake,” he waved a hand, “we’re not too sensitive about it here.”

“Just Ronan is fine.” He didn’t care either considering he would be out of here soon. “Though I have a feeling you’ll insist on calling me your ‘friend’.”

“Small pleasures.” The alien grinned. “As for yours truly, the name is Ildavo. Transport services extraordinaire.”

“Are they now?”

“Fast ship. Low rates. Good company. What more can you ask for?”

Ronan rolled his eyes. He could have said smuggler and left it at that. 

For the time being, though, this Ildavo fellow looked reliable enough. Not too ambitious to try anything funny based on how he’d reeled back from the deal at first and not too thick to not know his way around.

Altogether the curious type that wouldn’t close his door if luck decided to knock. He was clearly a local and a regular if the friendly conversation Ronan had interrupted was any indication and besides the small sidearm strapped to his thigh that most of the local alien populace seem to carry around (the limit to what the chiss permitted, Ronan guessed), Ronan couldn’t see anything to suggest he was dangerous.

They talked for a while longer, smoothing out the details of the deal, while making it look like they were talking about the weather. 

Just before they parted ways, Ildavo gripped his upper arm and locked eyes with him. 

“Just so we’re clear, this doesn’t have the potential of getting me in trouble with our benevolent blue overlords, does it?” he asked intently and Ronan could feel the tension in his voice.

“If they were going to do something about it, they would have already,” Ronan lied. “As far as they know, you’re a clueless third party.”

“I’m not comfortable with the thought they might know anything about me at all.”

“I told you, they don’t.”

He seemed reluctantly appeased and Ronan reminded him of the credit chips once again for good measure before taking his leave, keeping a low profile now that everything was in place.

A shady-looking alien who had been side-eyeing him for a while stood up to follow but Ildavo was a smooth operator and Ronan watched him put an arm around the alien’s shoulders and steer it back to the bar.

“Friend! Why don’t you let me buy you a drink…”

Ronan shook his head.

He had no doubt Ildavo would go back to his companions and spin a completely false story about their conversation. If nothing else, the self-serving ingenuity of fringe-dwellers could always be relied on, he decided.

The trip back to the apartment was less tense but just as elaborate and by the time he’d flipped his cloak again and traversed most of the market’s back alleys to throw off any pursuers, he was more than ready to collapse into his bed and not think of any of this again for a lifetime.

A lifetime is not what he had unfortunately. A few days, however, he did.

And the best way to spend the next few hours of them was in a blissfully, hopefully dreamless deep sleep…

Author's note: because text formatting is hell, Ildavo's name is ILdavo with an L and not a double i. Felt the need to get this out there from the get go.

[corellianhounds]

Call Sign

Art by @miranhas-art

This is one of few stories where I know exactly what’s supposed to happen and how it’s going to end so I’m able to indulge in art ahead of time 😌 Mari did an incredible job and I love her work 💕

Barton IV was a harsh and unforgiving planet, inhospitable everywhere except beneath the ice, if you could get there. The population was about one sentient per square hectare which made for very few towns and even fewer neighbors. The Vulture’s Spine made up a large portion of the mountain range in the fifth quadrant of the northern hemisphere, named so for the long, ridgelike peaks stretching and winding for miles and inhabited by ice vultures. How the vultures found enough carrion to sustain themselves, no one knew, but locals expected they cannibalized their own once they fell. Their feathers were as thin and razor sharp as the mountain faces, the mountains themselves built of brittle shale and hardened, subzero ice.

It was there that the Empire saw fit to plant Commander Mayday’s crew and tell them to keep watch over the supply depot, so keep watch they did. Outside of fending off raiders from time to time there was precious little to do besides repair equipment (damaged from the cold), maintain the fence and weaponry (faulty and unreliable from the cold), and try to stay warm (due to the aforementioned cold). Some days it was hard to even see the sky, thick clouds and flurries eliminating any scrap of warmth or sunlight they might have had, and the longer time went on, the harder it was to differentiate between day and night anyway.

They didn’t know how long they’d been there before the freighter crashed.

— Chapter 1, “Icebreaker”

[scotianostra]

30th May 1889 saw the birth near Kirkliston of Isobel Wylie Hutchison.

Isobel overcame the constraints that the age, her class, and her own personality placed upon her, to become a solo adventurer in the far North, an accomplished plant collector and a successful poet and writer.

Carlowrie "Castle", a Scots baronial mansion near Kirkliston in West Lothian, was the comfortable upper-middle class home into which Isobel Wylie Hutchison was born in 1889. It was there her father, Thomas Hutchison, a successful wine merchant in Edinburgh, looked after his gardens, and passed on to Isobel his fascination for plants and his habit of meticulous note-taking. I put the commas round castle as, although it is known as a castle by it's name in the old sense of things, having only been built in the mid 19th century, to me a castle needs to have a lot more history than that, Isobels grandfather had it built from scratch, nowadays it is top wedding venue and voted one of the top three venues under 200 bedrooms in Europe.

Back to the lady in question, three deaths were to shatter Isobel’s youth. From 1900 she went to school in Edinburgh where she studied a curriculum suited for a young Victorian Lady. After her sister married a naval officer and saw very little of him for long periods Isobel decided that marriage would restrict her life.

Three deaths were to shatter Isobel’s youth. Her father died suddenly, shortly before her 11th birthday; and her two brothers when she was in her early twenties – one in a climbing accident in 1912, and the other during the First World War. The deaths however meant she has an independent lady of means, affording her the luxury of leading her own life without restrictions.

She travelled to the Arctic, filming the things she saw around her, the landscape and the wildflowers growing there and the daily lives of the indigenous people. Other travellers of the time who wrote of their discoveries did not dwell on the domestic detail that makes Hutchison's work unique. Her first exploration was to East Greenland in 1927, followed in 1928 by a year in Umanak, North Greenland. She filmed eskimos collecting ice for water and hunting seals from a kayak, the wild flowers of Umanak and the Governor's coffee party! Scottish whalers had taught reels and other dances to the locals, Hutchison filmed them a century later still dancing with enthusiasm.

In 1934 she set out for Alaska, travelling by coastal steamer from Vancouver to Skagway and then overland to Nome. Here she found a very small freighter to take her along the north coast of Alaska, ending with 120 miles by dog sledge and returning on mail plane to Alberta. Hutchison brought back samples of the plant life for the Royal Horticultural Society and the Natural History Museum. She had a long connection with the Royal Scottish Geographical Society as Honorary Editor of the magazine and as a fellow and Vice President.

She was awarded the Mungo Park Medal as a tribute to her explorations and in recognition of her original and valuable researches in Iceland, Greenland and Arctic Alaska. She wrote several travel books including 'North to the Rime-Ringed Sun' and 'Stepping Stones from Alaska to Asia' and four volumes of poetry.

In later life she gave frequent lectures, using films and lantern slides, describing her travels for film-making and writing articles for National Geographic' magazine. She died in 1982.

Of her poems I have chosen one I can resonate with, having spent my childhood on the doorstep of the Pentland Hills, south of Edinburgh:

Lament for the Pentland Men.

Oh early grey of morning-time! Oh Pentland Hills! The bracken white with frosty rime, The brown peat rills, Home of the wild-bird wet with dew, Heard ye the sunrise yearning For the eager beat of Pentland feet No more, no more, no more returning?

Up from the city’s clustered spires, Up from the glen, The thin sweet bugle-call inspires The Redford men. Home of the wild-bird wet with dew Heard ye the bugle yearning For the eager beat of Pentland feet No more, no more, no more returning?

From high Caerketton’s pebbly ridge, From Kips to Castlelaw, From Loganlee to Redford Bridge, From Dunsyre to Cobbinshaw, Braes where the sheep-dog watches lone Fling wild the echo, yearning For the eager beat of Pentland feet No more, no more, no more returning.

Oh fallen hearts of Pentland gold! Oh bleeding feet that roam The long grey silences that fold The Hills of Home! Hear ye no sobbing faint and far? The grey old Pentlands yearning For the wistful beat of children’s feet No more, no more, no more returning.

You can read more about this little know Scottish explorer here https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/.../isobel.../

[illuminatedquill]

Ghost Stories 06

Feat. Ursa Wren + The Ghost crew

Story Summary: The Ghost lands on Krownest for a brief resupply and also to visit Sabine, who chose to remain with her family to help marshal the Mandalorian forces against Imperial rule on Mandalore. Ursa Wren, Sabine's mother, comes onboard the Ghost to formally introduce herself to her daughter's friends.

The bitter chill of Krownest's morning air greeted Ursa Wren as she stepped outside the fortress walls of her home. Even with a heating unit installed into her custom-made beskar armor, the cold still found a way to seep through. Despite having spent a lifetime living on the frigid planet that her ancestral clan called home, she never could get used to the freezing temperatures.

In the legends of Clan Wren, the world had once been a beautiful, thriving green planet, filled with lush forests and bountiful lakes. But then a great battle had taken place, between her ancestor, Princess Lenora, and a great witch that had come to steal something precious from her. The fight had scarred the planet's ecosystem, somehow plunging Krownest into an endless winter.

Krownest's unhospitable climate made it good for a few things, she admitted. It made Clan Wren a particularly formidable force, even among the fabled Mandalorian warrior caste. Surviving out here, in the frozen tundra was a rite of passage for any warrior on Krownest: you had to be resourceful, quick to adapt, and possess sheer force of will to battle against the elements.

There was also the added benefit of making any potential ground invasion a suicidal venture. Whoever was foolish enough to attempt found themselves wishing for the swift death by a Wren, instead of the slow freezing hell they would find themselves resigned to from the planet's unforgiving nature. Flying was also hazardous, since the erratic changes in weather could freeze fuel lines in vulnerable space craft or decrease visibility so drastically that all a pilot could see was a wall of white ice and sleet before slamming into a mountain side.

Finally, because of the constant blizzards and storms, it rendered most scanners commonly in use by the galaxy useless - which meant that Krownest was an excellent place to hide contraband, ranging from different types of medicines to various weapons of war, from prying eyes.

It was for this last reason that they had received visitors on this day. Sipping at a mug of freshly brewed caf, with a splash of honey added, Ursa stared at the old freighter docked in their landing bay below.

The Ghost. Its crew made of an eclectic team of rebels, comprised of a Twi'lek, two Jedi, a Lasat, a homicidal astromech unit and, formerly, her daughter, Sabine.

Her mouth twitched. These were the people who had housed her daughter - her heir - for the past several years. She had spent time with the two Jedi and, from what she could tell, they had earned her daughter's trust and loyalty.

Enough to defy me and the Empire, she thought with no small amount of bitterness.

She knew how suspicious Sabine could be towards people, which said volumes about how deeply she cared for the people on that ship if she would defend them against her own flesh and blood.

But, then again, she was the reason why Sabine was so slow to trust others in the first place.

Tristan, her youngest, appeared by her side. "Good morning, Mother," he murmured.

Ursa nodded at him. "Same to you. I take it Sabine is already onboard with her friends?" she asked.

The ghost of a smile played on his lips. "Never seen her move so fast. They hadn't even landed yet when she bolted from the war room."

Ursa felt her mouth twitch again. Is this jealousy? she wondered.

Tristan glanced at her. "Do you wish to meet them?"

Ursa sipped again at her caf, contemplating. "I'm not sure if that's wise. Sabine would most likely disapprove."

Her son turned to her fully, his expression intensely curious.

Ursa eyed him, feeling unnerved by his stare. "What?" she demanded.

"You're scared," he observed. "That's a first."

She almost spat out her caf. "Scared? Of what?"

Tristan pointed at the freighter. "Scared of them. Sabine's friends. You're afraid that they're really better than us."

She glared at him. "That is nonsense. Strike the thought from your mind, young man. We are Sabine's true family."

He shook his head sadly. "It's not like that, Mother. Not for Sabine. It's not 'us versus them' to her."

Ursa arched an imperious eyebrow at her son. "Oh? And what is the truth of it, then?"

Tristan gave her a pointed look. "You'd know that if you actually talked to her."

She glowered at him. "I am losing my patience," she growled.

He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "We're all family to Sabine," he said quietly. "All of us - and them, too. She wouldn't replace us anymore than she would with them."

Ursa fell quiet, his words twisting their way through her gut.

"There was no trade, Mother. Her family just got bigger, that's all," he pointed out.

She studied her youngest for a long moment - and then smiled. Reaching out with a hand, she fondly ruffled his hair. "When did you grow up to be so wise, my beautiful boy?" she asked.

He grinned at her in a disarmingly boyish manner, breaking through the normally serious outlook that was the default expression for Tristan. "Are you going to meet them?" he asked.

Ursa sighed. "I suppose so," she said reluctantly. "If anything, just to be a good host."

"You'll turn on that famous Clan Wren charm, I hope," he teased.

She swatted a hand at him in annoyance.

The hatch was closed when she arrived a few minutes later. Steeling herself to whatever encounters she was about to experience inside the ship, she knocked loudly on the steel frame.

For a few tense seconds, nothing mattered. Then a speaker blared with an unfamiliar voice: "Who's there?"

Ursa replied, "This is Ursa Wren, Sabine's mother. I wish to come inside, if that's alright."

Another pause. Then: "Uh, hang on just a second. I'll open the hatch."

She stepped back a few paces. The hatch opened with a pneumatic wheeze, lowering into a ramp for her to step into the freighter. Standing in the entrance was a large Lasat, dressed in a modified combat suit for his stature, staring at her with a curious expression.

Fo a few moments they just exchanged a look; two warriors, both from dying cultures, sizing each other up.

Ursa broke the silence first. "A pleasure to meet you, Garazeb Orrelios."

The Lasat blinked at her and then did something surprising - he bowed, if somewhat clumsily. It was a formal gesture of respect; one he clearly hadn't done in quite some time, she observed.

"I extend the same greeting to you, Lady Wren," Orrelios replied.

She studied him some more. "Sabine told me you were once a captain for your people's Royal Guard."

"That is correct, Countess," confirmed Orrelios. "I am familiar with royalty."

Ursa smiled. "I am not royalty. My title is simply an inheritance. I am no Queen."

"But you bear yourself with as much regality and grace as any royal subject," Orrelios observed. "And you have done much to earn the title several times over, despite the title being inherited."

She blinked. "Did Sabine talk about me?"

The Lasat shook his head. "No. But I see it in the way she conducts herself. Your daughter wears her surname with pride and steel, just like her mother."

She was touched. The Lasat had a rough appearance, but he spoke with no small amount of heart and authenticity. It wasn't hard to see why Sabine regarded him so highly.

Ursa bowed to him in return. "May I come aboard, Captain?"

"You may," he replied. "And please - call me Zeb."

Zeb, as Ursa now called him, gave her a brief tour of the freighter. She was surprised at how roomy it was, despite the sheer number of supplies crammed inside. The Lasat rarely had to duck down to enter a hallway or room, and walked with the ease of someone who was comfortable with their accommodations. Ursa rarely travelled on ships, preferring the commonly used Fang fighters that were synonymous with Mandalorian culture as a vehicle of transport.

When she first saw the ship at a distance some time ago, her first reaction was to be appalled that her daughter called such a place home for some time. Now, looking around at all the different customizations and obvious care taken into the ship's interior, she began to realize that Sabine might have felt more at home here than back at the fortress of Clan Wren.

How many hallways had she walked down only to spot a doodle on a wall? Sabine's artwork popped up everywhere she looked. On Krownest, her daughter had kept her art kept within the pages of a sketchbook only.

These friends, Ursa began to realize, have not only physically returned my daughter to me. They have also brought her back to herself.

Finally, they came to the communal room. Stepping inside, she saw two figures sitting at a table: one was the familiar face of Kanan Jarrus, one of the Jedi that had accompanied Sabine when she first returned home. The other was a green-skinned Twi'lek woman, similar in age to Jarrus, wearing an orange flight uniform that had seen its fair share of usage.

Jarrus had his arm draped around the Twi'lek's shoulders, his head reclined as though dozing. The Twi'lek - Hera Syndulla, Ursa now recalled - was concentrating on a data-pad, reading intently what was on the screen.

As they entered the room, the Jedi sat up - his partially masked face turned in their direction. "Zeb," he said cautiously. "You've brought a guest."

Hera looked up. Ursa was taken aback at how blue those eyes of hers were - it felt like they were piercing right through her.

"Hello," replied Ursa. "We've met before, Master Jedi."

Jarrus nodded respectfully towards her. "I remember, Countess. This is the captain of our modest little crew - Hera Syndulla."

She extended her hand, which Syndulla grasped firmly. Ursa felt her respect towards the Twi'lek rise several more notches at the strength in her grip. There's steel in her, she remarked.

"Pleasure to meet you at last," Syndulla said politely. "I see where Sabine gets . . . well, everything."

Ursa snorted. "Is that a good or bad thing?"

The Twi'lek's face split into a warm smile. "A little bit of both. Are you here for her? I can call her up, if you like."

She paused for a moment, thinking about what she should say.

Finally, she simply said, "I just wanted to say thank you. For Sabine."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Jarrus smile a little. Syndulla looked surprised and asked, "For Sabine? Why?"

"Everyone here on this ship . . . you restored her to herself. I thought I had lost my daughter forever," Ursa replied, fighting to keep the quiver from her voice. "Not just in a physical sense, but in who she was before everything went wrong."

Syndulla shared a look with Jarrus. Next to her, Zeb scratched idly at his head. Ursa heard a loud sniff from his direction.

"Sabine has inherited much from you, Ursa," Jarrus said firmly. "We may have helped Sabine find her way back to you, but it's only because she had the strength to persevere through whatever challenges the galaxy threw at her. And that incredible strength comes from you."

"And there were quite a lot of challenges," Zeb agreed. "Feels like it was practically every week, in fact."

"Families are complicated," Syndulla added. "Believe me. I know."

Ursa said wryly, "Our family is certainly no exception to that. I just wanted you to know how grateful I am to you all for giving Sabine a home. A place where she can be herself."

"You all talk with her so easily," she said. "I wish I knew how to do that."

Jarrus shared a look with Syndulla, a faint smile playing on both their faces. "Well," Jarrus said, "it helps if you talk to her."

Ursa frowned. "I do talk with her," she replied.

"Not the way Sabine tells it," Zeb pointed out. "You talk at her. That's different."

She thought about it. "Oh," was all she said.

Syndulla interjected, "Although, with Sabine, it is difficult to hold a conversation with her at times. Especially when she's upset."

"That happens a lot when we talk," Ursa replied dryly.

Jarrus chuckled. "We've had our fair share of that, too."

"How do you get her to speak openly then?"

"How do we get her to lower her guard, you mean?" asked Syndulla.

Ursa nodded.

Syndulla smiled. "Lower your own, first."

Ursa paused outside the door of her daughter's room; inside she could hear a pair of voices, loud enough to be heard through the metal.

One of them was certainly Sabine - and the other one was . . .

She leaned in close, straining to listen.

" . . . long have you had these bandaged like this, goober?" That was Sabine.

"Uh. A few days, I think." This voice belonged to Ezra Bridger - the young Jedi who was close to her daughter.

"You're supposed to change out the bandages," said her daughter, sounding annoyed. Annoyed . . . and worried.

Ursa narrowed her eyes, thinking.

"Oh. Right," came the hesitant reply. "Anyway, how are things with your family?"

"They're fine, Ezra," said Sabine impatiently. "And don't change the subject. How did you get hurt? Those Jedi senses of yours getting rusty?"

"Stormtrooper snuck up behind me during a firefight. I'm . . . I'm still getting used to you not being there to have my back anymore," Bridger replied quietly.

"Oh," was all her daughter said.

There was an uncomfortable pause. "I didn't mean it like that, Sabine," Bridger said hastily. "I meant - "

"I know what you meant," replied her daughter quietly. "It's okay."

Ursa, entranced by what she was hearing from her daughter's voice, leaned in closer to better hear the conversation -

The door slid open.

She almost fell straight onto her face, catching her balance at the last second.

Ursa looked up to see the two of them look horror-struck at her sudden presence, sitting close together on the bottom bunk of a two-bed configuration. Sabine, staring at her with wide eyes, exclaimed, "Mother!"

Bridger, on the other hand, abruptly stood up, banging his head on the top bed's underside. He yelped with pain, clutching at the top of his head.

It was then that Ursa immediately noticed that the young man was shirtless. A medical bandage, presumably applied recently by her daughter, was visible on his upper arm.

A-ha, she thought.

Straightening up quickly, Ursa said, "Hello, Sabine."

"W - what are you doing here?" Sabine sputtered. Her eyes were flitting nervously between her and Bridger.

"Just came to formally introduce myself to your friends," Ursa replied.

Bridger, to his credit, recovered with haste. Standing ramrod straight, a lump on his head, he stuck out his hand. "Hello, Mrs. Wren!" he said in a squeaky voice. "It's a privilege to meet you again."

Ursa stared at the young man, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "Why are you shirtless in my daughter's room?"

She glanced at Sabine. "This is your room, correct? That is what the others told me."

Bridger took a small side-step to position himself between Ursa and her daughter. Despite the situation, a smile threatened to crack through her stern facade. The boy was brave, she had to give him that.

"It is, Mrs. Wren - "

"Countess Wren," she corrected.

"Countess Wren," continued Bridger, his face coloring to an alarming shade of red. "Yes, this is Sabine's room. I was just - uh - we were just - you have to understand, I'm not usually shirtless when I'm alone with Sabine in her - her room."

It was like watching a train wreck. Bridger stumbled through the final words of his statement, his eyes widening with embarrassment as he realized in real time how what was spilling out of his mouth did not help clarify the situation at all.

Amused, Ursa let the silence hang thickly after his words. "Why are you not shirtless in your own room, then?" she asked, her voice whisper soft.

The young Jedi turned to look at Sabine, who had buried her face into her hands. He would not find help there, it was clear.

With a loud gulp, he looked back at Ursa. "This isn't what it, uh, looks like," he said lamely. "I mean, your daughter and I - we're just friends."

"Indeed," observed Ursa. She glanced at Sabine, who still was hiding her face. "Friends who seem comfortable enough to be semi-naked with one another."

"Yes," said Bridger, not picking up on the sarcasm. He looked relieved. "And this isn't even the worst Sabine has seen because one time I fell into a thorn bush and it was all over my legs, so she's seen way more - "

Sabine's face finally snapped up. "Ezra! Please, stop making it worse for yourself and just get out."

The young man froze at her daughter's voice, blinked several times in quick succession, and then quickly acquiesced to her command. Grabbing his shirt, he scampered out.

Leaving Ursa alone with her daughter. Sabine let out an exasperated sigh and laid back onto the bed.

Ursa took in the sight of her daughter's bedroom, drinking in the colorful art displayed all over the walls. "He's certainly a handful," she commented, finally allowing a smile.

Sabine snorted. "I take it that he won't be strangled then?" she asked.

"Not today, no. I was listening outside. I know you were tending to his wounds."

Her daughter peered up at her. "You're not upset? Really?"

Ursa shrugged and sat down next to her. "He's your friend. You care about him. And I'm grateful to him for bringing you back to me."

Sabine sat up and looked at her thoughtfully. "So am I," she said.

"Do you miss him?" Ursa asked suddenly.

Sabine looked away. "Yeah," she admitted. "I miss him. I miss everybody on the Ghost."

Ursa studied her. "You could go back to them," she said quietly. "If you wanted to."

Her daughter's face snapped back to hers, eyes wide. She could see the gears turning behind those eyes, considering. Ursa saw a conflicting array of emotions warring for control in Sabine's expression.

Finally, Sabine shook her head. "Someday, I'll go back," she answered. "But my place is with you. I've been running away for too long."

Ursa reached out and enveloped her daughter into a hug. Sabine froze and then melted into her embrace. They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity.

"I should have said this before," whispered Ursa, "but thank you for coming back, cyare. Despite all that has happened between us."

Sabine squeezed her tightly. "We are family, Mother. I will always come when you call."

Ursa smiled and then released Sabine from her grasp to look at her.

My how she's grown into a beautiful young woman, she thought. How much have I missed with my stubborn pride.

Blinking away the tears, Ursa sought to change the subject. "So, you and Bridger. You're really just friends?"

Sabine's cheeks turned a faint shade of pink, but her expression remained neutral. "Yeah. Been that way for a while now."

"I noticed the wound was located on the upper part of his arm."

Her daughter frowned. " Yes. Why?"

Ursa gave Sabine a sly look. "Doesn't seem necessary to remove his whole shirt for that, I would think."

Now her daughter's cheeks were definitely a rosier shade of pink. She cast her eyes down and shrugged. "I was just, uh, being thorough. Ezra's clumsy with medical stuff. I wanted to ensure he didn't miss any other wounds."

"Uh-huh," said Ursa. "Sure."

Sabine looked at her, expression defiant. "What?" she demanded.

Ursa just grinned and ruffled her daughter's hair fondly.

[meowmeowmeowmeow4x]

Dark Blue Moon and the Suffering Sun Chapter 28

>:D

mastapost

The Panama Canal was one of the greatest feats of 20th Century engineering. Originally, ships that wished to cross from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific Ocean, or vice versa, were forced to make the long and arduous journey around South America, a trip that would take 20,000 kilometres, which would also mean our story would be much, much longer (or at least require more time skips).

It was not as simple as digging a ditch. Panama is a beautiful, but very rugged country, with hilly and mountainous terrain that halted the French in their tracks. That, and the copious mosquitoes. Landslides and rain beat back attempts to dig the canal in the 19th Century. But the dream did not end.

How did the Americans do it? All they needed was a bit of lateral thinking. Instead of digging the entire canal and attempting to conquer the mountains and hills, engineers built a dam to flood an artificial lake, leaving a 15km stretch of unflooded land. This is where they built the remaining canal. In order to raise ships into the canal’s lever, they build a system of locks. Each lock would funnel water into the one behind it, raising the ship until the water level was even on both sides, and so on.

The Canal was vital in the war effort in World War 2, and it was a target of the Japanese I-400 programme, until Okinawa fell, and it was decided that destroying the locks would have had no effect on the war.

This is where the story takes Danny and Damian.

“Land ho!” Danny cried out at the first patch of land. At last, after however many thousands of miles travelling (Danny had lost count) they were here.

“We are not sailors.” Damian grumbled. Maybe he was getting excited too. Danny could feel the way the kid’s fin’s thumped on Danny’s scales, like a puppy wagging its tail.

“Right, we’re just borrowing one of man kind’s most impressive engineering accomplishments for sailing.”

Damian huffed. “As sea creatures infamous for attacking sailors. Be glad we are not in the olden days, or our presence would have caused national, or international panic.”

Danny felt the urge to riff on the kid’s comment, but he remembered the stinging silence from yesterday. He decided not to push boundaries this early back into their kind-of make-up. “As it is I’m sure the authorities don’t mind that much. Probably don’t even believe in sirens. I think they’d just be angry that we didn’t pay the fee.”

With the canal in sight, Danny zoomed into the bay in minutes. The bay narrowed into a waterway leading inland underneath a huge bridge. Danny gasped at the size and scale of the thing. The boys continued up the bay. They dodged ship propellers, dove underneath hulking hulls. The water tinged with the smell of barnacles and metal. Nobody was out on the shoreline looking for sirens, which was a big plus, but Danny still kept a tight handle on his invisibility whenever they got close to the surface.

Soon, they reached the first lock.

“We gonna jump over or what?”

Damian trilled. “That would be an easy way to get spotted.”

“I can make us invisible, duh.”

“They would notice the splashes. We have not seen the GiW in some time, but I would prefer not to give them any ideas. We do not know who could be watching.”

With that, Danny found himself icing his body to the hull of some random cargo freighter. The ship approached the locks. They waited for painstaking minutes, watching the water level rise inch by inch. Once it reached the midway point up the next lock, the gates opened. Then the ship slowly inched forward. Then the water level inched upward again.

“This is gonna take for-freaking-ever.”

“Swimming around South America would have taken forever.”

“Uuggghhh.”

It would’ve been nice if there were some pretty landscapes to stare at for the next however many hours this would take. Sadly, their surroundings were all smooth concrete underwater, void of life and energy. Above water, it was the same, save for some small patches of grass and dirt lined the edges of the locks. Workers and vehicles milled about with their tasks on barren grey roads. The shipyard buzzed like persistent mosquitoes. Whirring machinery, shouted orders and gasping engines filled the air. He even felt a literal mosquito land on his nose when he surfaced to check. He was invisible! What the fuck!

So Danny dipped back underwater, hopefully drowning the little blood sucker. He didn’t want to know what a mosquito could do with his blood.

“What is the situation?” Damian asked.

“Boring. And normal, I guess. The stench is killing me though. God damn.”

Damian’s ear fins quirked. “Do sirens worship Christ?”.

“Uhh, not sure. I’m totally atheist though. Must be why the Fentons call me godless sometimes.”

The next lock finally finished opening. The ship continued inching painfully forward. The hum of its engine echoed back and forth in the ditch.

“Gahhh! Please. Move. Faster!” He banged the hull.

“Please stop complaining. You are contributing to the noise.”

Danny went to make another complaint, only for Damian to nip him in the ear.

“Yowch! What was that for!”

Damian went for the other ear.

That was when Danny sniffed a familiar scent. He slapped his hand over Damian’s mouth. “Wait. Something’s up.”

Damian froze. “What?”

The boys scanned the lock. They were alone in there, without a doubt. Danny’s lateral line only sensed Damian with him, and the scent of another sea creature would have been a beacon in the stale water.

Danny broke off from the ship. He melted his ice, just to be safe. The boy carried Damian above the surface invisibly.

“You see anything?”

“Just employees. And equipment.”

“Let’s look behind us.”

The water level had just about filled the up to the top of the gate behind them. There was little risk of being left behind by the next, seeing as Danny’s swimming speed would let them catch up with the boat in seconds. It took little effort for the boy to scale up the walls and peek overhead.

He was treated to a vast overhead view of the waterway. Danny hummed. All he could see was more machines dotting the side of the canal underneath tree cover, and beyond, the vast blue sea.

Damian squeezed his arm like a vice. “We have potential trouble.”

The older boy scrambled. “What? Where?”

“Down there.” Damian pushed the back of his head down.

Danny’s heartrate spiked. Just approaching the lock system was a familiar white boat. Nerves buzzed underneath his skin, like insects crawling into his scales. “I don’t understand. They have no reason to think we’d be here.”

“Perhaps they are just passing by. It could be a coincidence. Will they detect us?”

“Probably not. Radars to detect are expensive as hell, and only the Fentons know how to make them. They’d have to use sonar, and that can only happen if they’re in the same water as us.”

The boys dipped back into the water. Damian clenched his white shoulder. “We will be past these locks by the time they open for that boat.”

Danny nodded quickly. “Yeah. We’ll be fine.”

They returned to waiting.

His fins flipped back and forth in place. Back and forth. He counted the inches. He cheered every new inch the water level took. Why did it take so long just to move some freaking water?! His fins sped up, becoming a blur. They stirred up eddy currents and swirls. At some point he even felt eddies from Damian’s fins too.

Danny took a deep breath. Fear was the mind killer, or whatever they said. Even if his back scales felt like knives were raking over them, the rational part of his mind tried to insist it was all fine. They were probably just moving some assets to the Atlantic. A million and one different ships used this passage.

But it wasn’t right. His nose was good in this form, but not that good. That boat was over fifty meters away in a completely different body of water.

“Damian. There’s more to this. There’s gotta be.”

“Your nerves are contagious. Keep a handle on them.” Damian grumbled.

“I’m serious. I couldn’t have smelled that boat. It’s like a football field away on a different lock. It’s impossible.”

The swirls of water from the small siren’s fins ceased. Danny couldn’t see him, but he felt the weight distribution change a little, like Damian had just lifted his head. “This warrants further investigation.”

The boys resurfaced again. Danny climbed his way up the walls of the lock on the side. They peered over the edge, keeping their noses open. “I don’t see anything.”

Maybe he was overthinking it from stress…

Just then, Damian tugged his sail. “The other side!” He hissed.

Danny turned around. At the edge of the shipyard, his vision clipped onto two distinct white suits talking to some important look guy in a black suit and hard hat. The black suit guy pulled out a walkie talkie. Suddenly, Danny realised the water level had been still for some time.

His voice lowered to a whisper. “Damian, I don’t think they’re just passing by.”

“It cannot be. What reason would they have to suspect we would be here?”

“I don’t know.” Danny clenched his fists around the concrete wall they had been sticking to. “But this is getting bad.”

More men appeared on both sides now, carrying harpoons, hydroplasm guns, and water testing equipment. Quiet adrenaline fired into his fins. A warbling growl rumbled in his throat.

“What if we can swim ahead? You have the speed to outrun them.” Damian’s voice trembled unevenly. His hands shook.

“Damian, the water’s stopped raising. They’ve locked down the lock. If I jump, they’ll be on me in a second.”

“We cannot sit here and wait for them.”

“I know.”

Danny wasn’t doing much better. If he were in human form, his hands would be soaked in sweat by now. His head whirled. The agents seemed to be in every direction. The water still wasn’t moving. The gate was still shut tight. Danny could probably squeeze his body through some kind of gap, but Damian? He didn’t want to grind the kid’s bones into pulp.

“What if we fight them?”

“You don’t have any of your weapons, and I’ve barely had anything to eat.” No food meant no healing, and little energy to toss ice beams willy-nilly.

“Do we have no other option?”

He cursed the stupid freaking GiW. At least his parents had their moments. Nothing good ever happened when the goons in wetsuits showed up. The last time he and Damian saw them was in freaking Amity Bay! His head spun trying to figure out what had given them away. What could get them out of this situation?

There was one other option. The option Danny had desperately hoped would never have to be considered. But it wasn’t just Danny’s safety now. At least his parents had the decency not to dissect Damian (at least during their stay on the SAV). The GiW would be much less merciful.

Danny’s heart rate spiked. Do or die, then. Sink or swim. He gathered up every ounce of courage that still survived his parents.

“We do.”

“Do it now.”

Danny squared up his shoulders, acutely aware of how the scales on his arms touched those on his armpits. How the water touched his back with no clothes in the way. “Do you trust me?”

Damian hesitated. He could smell the kid’s reservation in the water. He counted the steps the GiW agents took, as if in slow motion. “I have no other person to rely on.”

“We won’t be able to cross Panama. We’ll have to go back the direction we came.” Guilt jumped into the party of stressors stomping on his nervous system.

Damian warbled, like a wounded animal. “I know.”

They were so fucking close. They’d just barely gotten into Panama, and it’s all been ruined and he didn’t even know why.

“Hang on to me. And whatever you do, be quiet.”

Danny placed one arm on the top surface of the lock. He used it to pull himself up and over the edge, pushing with his second arm. Slowly he pulled his entire body over the edge of the wall. Danny began wiping drops of water off his body. He could do it while still being completely wet, but it hurt like a bitch and took ages.

Slowly, invisibly, his scales receded into skin. His tail split open. Its bones reshaped into legs. His tailfin hardened into feet. Danny stood up, still clutching Damian to his chest. The boy gasped at the sudden increase in elevation. And despite being invisible, he could practically feel the boy’s judgement baring down on him.

The GiW agents were closing in.

Danny stuck to the dirt and grass. The asphalt would have fried his bare feet off. Not a pleasant sensation. A pair of agents approached the canal, guns in hand. Danny crept along the side, tiptoeing carefully so as to avoid making a sound and drawing attention.

As Danny slipped away, the pair of agents came up to where he’d just been standing. Thank god.

There was an issue though. The locks were obviously built uphill. That meant going along the canal would bring him through the treacherously steep terrain. Not a good look for a scrawny boy with no shoes who needed to be silent. One slip and the entire force would come down upon him.

Damian squeezed his hand. There had to be a way somehow.

Danny swallowed a thick lump. He formed a layer of ice. Despite it only being a few millimetres, it felt clunky and horrible to walk in, and would definitely make a sound, but it would have to do.

Just carefully. One foot over the other. Let the foot come down gently, like a bee’s landing. Danny walked out into the asphalt, just within earshot of the agents at the edge of the canal.

“Got anything?” The one crouching over it said. He was so tempted to shoot an ice beam and knock him into the water.

“Not yet. It could be hiding from the sensor. We’ll give it another five minutes.”

“It better be close. Sun’s killing me out here.”

One of the nice things about sirens is that they were quite sensitive to heat. Thanks to some nifty evolution, it meant that Danny’s invisibility extended into the infrared and ultraviolet range. That was the only reason he wasn’t getting sunburned out the wazoo, and the only reason Damian hadn’t dried out yet. The air was still very, very warm, but he didn’t need to worry about the radiation from the sun itself.

Danny managed to get out of earshot of those agents. His concentration was split between keeping this ice on his feet solid, and on keeping Damian from dying of heatstroke. The boy remained silent, as requested. Danny’s eyes snapped from one side of his vision to the other, hyper aware of his space, and of the dozen or so agents scattered around the perimeter.

Let it be known that he was no ninja. Probably the only saving grace he had was the fact that they were expecting an invisible fish in the water, and not a kid walking on land. One of the agents barked an order. The agents split into groups of two. The pairs scattered, probably making for the other parts of the canal. That meant two of them were coming his way. Danny’s breath hitched. Sweat dripped down his brow. He iced it over.

Damian’s fins hung low too. Their sharp tips brushed against his belly. He couldn’t stay out here long. He needed water and quick. The boy chirped quietly underneath Danny’s hand.

He ambled to the right of the matching pair. Best to get out of their way. For a bunch of guys in fancy suits, they walked quickly. But Danny couldn’t. His makeshift shoes would be too loud.

He was barely able to get out of their way, barely able to avoid brushing shoulders with the men who wanted him a lab rat. Relief cooled his system like his ice.

Then one of them stopped.

“Wait, G.” He turned around. Turned toward Danny. Hairs stood on end. Knees rattled. “Agent H!”

Danny was seconds away from bolting. Only Damian’s tight grip was able to ground him from doing something stupid.

The man pulled a bottle of sunscreen from his suit. “Agent H! You forgot your mandated sunblock!”

With the GiW agent breaking into a light jog, Danny had seconds to react. He threw his body to the side just as the agent rushed through. The motion pushed his upper body just an inch too far off base. Danny’s eyes widened. He flung his arms wildly, but he could not stop the descent.

He shifted gears. The boy twisted his body so it faced the ground. Damian clung tighter, his claws digging into Danny’s chest. He shoved his hands forward. No time to ice them over. Danny planted his fingers on the ground. Sunbaked pebbles seared his fingers. His tongue bled as he bit down the urge to cry out.

His scream was only muffled into a groan. The footsteps of the agent stopped.

“What?” The man whispered.

Danny became a statue. The man’s gaze crawled over his back like an ant colony. Danny’s pulse stomped around in his ears. In his burning fingers. Each millisecond a war between the urge to cry out, the emergency signals of heat and pain, and the adrenaline that he could not let out. Just hunched over, still.

“Agent F! I’m turning into sun-dried tomatoes here!”

At last, at long last, the aforementioned Agent F took off. “Sorry! Just got distracted by some mosquito buzzing.”

Fuck. That was close. Too close.

Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

Panama Canal.

What was that menace doing, heading for Panama Canal?

Maddie Fenton’s phone lay off to the side of the console. The new stream chattered. She paused from her work (really just staring at the radar) to refresh the news sites in English. Then whatever Spanish sites, translated by her browser. Nothing. A week ago she would have gone in guns blazing, ready to take out the pelagic punks and stop them from carrying out their dastardly plot.

With their engines busted, that plan wasn’t looking very good. After six hours of repairs, she and Jack had only managed to achieve a fraction of their original top speed. Enough to get them to Panama eventually, but not any time soon. They still had more repairs scheduled. It was only due to Jazz’s intervention that they sat down and took a break.

She wanted to work. She wanted to throw herself into metal and nuts and bolts. Anything to keep her mind from that face.

For years she had made it her mission to bring the sirens to justice for all they had done to her family and others. The few times she got up close to a siren they were vicious, snarling predators. She expected the same stubborn defiance from Phantom.

His resistance was token, at best. She could tell how scared he was even as he put up a tough face. Then he broke down, sobbing and incoherent. It was fake. It was all an act. It had to be. Phantom was stalling for time. He was manipulating her from the start. It had to be. It had to be.

How could it be?

She pulled off her gloves. She stared at the quivering hands, the hands that were a moment away from pulling the trigger. She was so sure she would have done it. He had to have known. He was an awful liar. Tried to misdirect and feign ignorance, and gave himself away every time. Who did he think he was fooling? And yet she could not steady her hands.

Maybe that was his con all along. Not even try to be convincing. Just babble whatever nonsense to lead them along like a string of helpless ducklings until help arrived.

Phantom had never worked with anyone else before. Not from his own kind, at least.

Maddie sipped a cold cup of tea. Maybe he had been migrating, and these were his original pod? If he were with his original pod, then there would be a lot more noise in Panama. The canals were narrow. Phantom was on the smaller side, but even two adults would have been noticed, right?

Did they even exist at all?! She had rebooted and reconfigured the radar, spending hours only for it to fail to detect any of Phantom’s pod. It was like they showed up for one moment, then vanished into thin water the next.

It wasn’t enough. The scientist in her demanded more evidence. Her hypotheses felt flimsy even to her, like there was something that was glaringly missing.

It all went back to that expression. That haunted anguish. Those streaming tears. The face that tore her vision away and replaced it with years of comfort. Years of holding Danny close. To that day when Danny showed up back home six months ago, the day a miracle came to her.

His face was the same back then. Maddie had rushed to hug the son she’d thought she’d lost. However, her baby boy flinched back, like she was going to strike him.

It broke her heart then.

“Mom?” Her daughter leaned into the door way.

“Jazz, I told you to take it easy.”

Jazz came inside, and sat down on the chair beside her. “I am taking it easy. Just getting some fresh air.”

She leaned to the side, her eyes discerning like they’d always been.

“Mom, are you ok?”

Dammit. Was it that obvious? Maddie shook her head. “You know me too well, Jazz.”

She pulled her daughter in. She held her and let herself be grateful that at least she was still here. That there was still hope, somehow. But that hope now clouded over with uncertainty.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

It shouldn’t be that way. Maddie was the mother here. It was her who was supposed to be comforting Jazz, but it was the other way around again.

“I just don’t know. Jazz. I thought I knew everything I needed to get the job done, but…”

But now she didn’t. Jazz nodded silently, letting her continue.

Maddie held her tighter. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Sweetie, I’m not sure anymore. Jazz, I can’t get it of my head. The way he looked at us. The way he didn’t. And I’ve been thinking about it for hours and I can’t make heads or tails on it. None of my theories can make up any kind of framework that could explain what happened.”

“Maybe it’s time to find a new framework?”

Maddie pulled back in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

“Find new evidence. If the current evidence contradicts established theories, then hunt for new evidence that could explain the discrepancies. And then establish a new more comprehensive theory.”

That… made a lot of sense. It was at times like these she marvelled at the brilliance of her daughter. But there was just one issue.

“But your father and I still haven’t finished repairs yet.”

“That’s ok, Mads!”

Her husband and Bruce leaned in to the bridge as well. Bruce Wayne’s head still sported a large bandage around it, but the man was looking much better for wear.

Jack continued. “It was obvious we weren’t as prepared as we could be. Otherwise the fishie little fiend wouldn’t have given us the slip. With the SAV busted, I say we take Jazzie’s advice and go on recon mode.”

Determination shined from Bruce’s squared shoulders. “Jack’s right. We can take the jet skis and catch up to Phantom easily. Then we can observe him ourselves or deploy a drone or two.”

That was surprisingly sensible. They needed more information. Then they could cross out the possibilities and the what ifs, and narrow down the truth.

More than anything, Maddie needed the truth.

Damian was beginning to get uncomfortable. The mucus coating his scales meant that they remained moist. However, he still lost water due to respiration. Not to mention the sweltering heat. Although he did not suffer the burning sunlight due to Danny’s invisibility, the humid air also contributed to his discomfort. As a fish out of water, Damian could tell he could not last much longer.

But his physical discomfort could only distract from the real questions in his mind for so long. Why did Danny hide this ability from him for so long? What was he so scared of? In hindsight it was logical that a siren with the ability to turn humans into their species could also turn themselves into humans. Damian felt the soft, human skin of Danny’s chest against his own scales. His cheeks just so happened to be laying where the teenager’s gills used to be. Now they were smooth. Damian numbly counted Danny’s ribs, which jutted out.

Why did he expect Damian to trust him when he still continued to hide things from him?

Danny walked into a clearing. He carried Damian far past the shipping yard that they had crawled out of, and into a building. It appeared to be some kind of administrative building. Damian nudged him with his chin. Where was he taking them? He walked through the glass sliding doors behind a member of staff. Cool air conditioning chilled Damian’s scales. Danny bee lined for the bathroom, finding it empty. He iced the door shut.

Damian found himself placed into the (thankfully clean) sink. Cool running water washed over his body, bringing much needed relief. Damian purred quietly underneath the cool tap. For a moment, the room contained only the sound of running water, and Danny’s heavy breathing.

Danny’s invisibility deactivated. Damian watched pallid skin appear out of thin air. Stickly legs shivering. The newly human teenager leaned against the war, panting. His chest had no gills, as he’d expected, and his skin was completely opaque. Black hair appeared where there was white. Eerie aquamarine was replaced with dull blue. A familiar face rendered bare of scales or fins was revealed. A very, very familiar face.

And instantly, everything clicked into place for Damian.