#ori is horrified

[peculiurperennial]

How did we get into a restaurant-- OH Look it’s Bean Man!!!!

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[embras-grace]

Humans must be terrifying to the Majiri at first. I mean...

A. they can just eat and eat and eat. They don't have to stop when Focus is full, they just keep going.

B. They never sleep. Ever. They are up at all hours. Maybe this is because a Majiri day is rather short--but humans lived on this planet too so maybe they're just.... weird?

C. They can climb and run all day without a break. They can mine and chop wood without breaking a sweat.

D. They have no fear of going into old ruins or the Elderwoods because, like... they're humans? What's the worst that could happen, they just reform in stardust again cause mama Embra was like "ugh damn it, they died again"

[jewishzevran]

.

[deerstar4]

Blue cheese flavored cart…… 🤢

[anon-e-miss]

Reformation - 7

Though Prowl had been aroused enough to tell Jazz, valve interface would most likely be doable so long as they took it nice and easy, he did not think there was any rush to test it. After a two orn long heat, Prowl’s gestational tank was plenty full and his intimate circuitry well deserving of a break. In generally, Prowl deserved a break. He had left his leave open, as was a common thing with working Omegas, given there was no knowing when a heat would end. Some Omegas had short heats, only a few mega-cycles, some had cycles that lasted a quartex. Two orns was a reasonably long heat and even though Omega formatting with stood it well, the longer the heat, the more worn out an Omega was after. Jazz knew from experience Prowl worked hard, too hard to take especially good care of him. Now he had an idea of what might have pushed Prowl to fixated on work and nothing but. It must have been easier to live when he had the distraction of work. How sick had he felt every time Alphas tried to use their fields to make him cow? At least when Jazz had seen it happen, Prowl had never flinched. He was far stronger than he thought he was.

“This is not terrible,” Prowl said, showing Jazz how the armour look. The armour was made of a particularly flexible alloy, and styled with many plates. It flowed over his belly. More plates could be added, along with silicone panels, as his forge extended. Provided, the proto-spark did not reabsorb.

“Is it comfortable?” Jazz asked. Really, that was the only thing that mattered.

“It is,” Prowl replied. Jazz had ordered a new chestplate as well. It hugged his wells rather than compress them and was adjustable as well. He looked good. “I suppose I should see Ratchet.”

“Did ya want me to come with?” Jazz asked. “If ya wanna be alone, that’s yer right.”

“Morale support would be good.”

Jazz was happy with that answer. He did not want Prowl suffering due to the fact Jazz had sparked him up. It did not matter that it was a risk of heats and ruts and one he had been conscious of when he approached Prowl. It was probably his suspicious nature due to his line of work and upbringing, Jazz had not been keen to see just any random Alpha go off with such a valuable Autobot. When he had decided to approach Prowl, he had been prepared to be rejected and to take the rejection like a grown aft mech but he had also been ready to book the room next to where Prowl ended up and to make sure the Alpha that took him was not some Alpha spy. Knowing what he did not, the idea of Prowl being taken prisoner was considerably more horrific. It would be horrifying for any Omega, everyone knew what would happen to a captive Omega, but for Prowl… on some level it would be that much worse.

“I know you took an open leave so I can guess why you’ve come for an examine,” Ratchet said when the treatment door closed. “Just why is this bane of my existence here?”

“Love ya too Ratch,” Jazz replied.

“He saw me through my heat,” Prowl replied. “He heard my spark ignite but I don’t recall feeling anything.”

“I generally trust a Polyhexian’s audio horns,” Ratchet said. “Especially ones as trained for snooping as Jazz’s.”

“I thought the same,” Prowl sighed. 

“Lie down on the berth and I’ll do a scan,” Ratchet directed. “The armour is new.”

“Jazz ordered it,” Prowl replied. “The armour I was wearing pinched my protoform.”

“Good choice,” Ratchet said.

“Ori suggested it,” Jazz replied.

Ratchet opened a holo-emitter and took out a small wand. He ran it over Prowl’s spark. Given the two orns of overloads, Prowl’s spark was swollen and full of excess energy. The scanner documented every reading, noted that the increased depth of Prowl’s spark’s corona was within normal range for an Omega freshly out of heat. Everything was normal. The temperature was elevated but stabilizing and the rate of its pulses was normal as well. It was good, if Prowl’s spark had absorbed the protospark, that was fine, but it was important to observe an Omega’s spark regardless whether you thought they had taken or remained open, there were sometimes complications with an Omega’s spark that needed a medics intervention.

“Look here,” Ratchet said. Jazz saw Prowl tense his jaw before he also turned his helm to the screen.

***

“Is that normal?” Jazz asked. The protospark was oblong, instead of spherical and it looked dense in weird spots.

“It’s splitting,” Ratchet replied. 

“Oh wow,” Jazz stared.

“Twins…” Prowl whispered.

“Sometimes in splitting, one or both will reabsorb. It’s a vulnerable time for any proto-spark but proper splitting takes additional energy and proto-sparks don’t always have it in them.”

“Is there something I, or we should do?” Prowl asked.

“Overload is about the only thing you can do,” Ratchet replied. “No merging. It can confuse them.”

“Can I even carry twins?” Prowl asked and he blanched when he realized he had spoken it out loud.

“Twin carryings are a bit riskier than singletons but only by a small percentage,” Ratchet replied. “There’s no reason for me to believe you’ll have any trouble.”

“I am not a natural Omega,” Prowl replied. Ratchet tensed.

“That is not on your medical records,” he replied.

“I did not want anyone to know,” Prowl said. “Mecha that knew, my fellow enforcers, they treated me as something even worse than an Omega.”

“I don’t gossip about patients,” Ratchet assured him. “I think if I did I’d have Jazz and Punch both after my helm. And, sorry Jazz, I think your originator scares me more.”

“Fair take,” Jazz replied with good humour. There was no doubt in Prowl’s processor that he would be dangerous if he  thought someone had wronged Prowl.

“Your physiology is no different than a natural Omega’s,” Ratchet told him. 

“My pelvis was broken before the reformation was complete,” Prowl explained. “I do not know if it was reconfigured correctly.”

“Let me do some scans,” Ratchet said and he did a detailed scan of Prowl’s pelvic girdle. When it was done, Prowl’s skeletal structure was displayed on the emitter, along with his various components. “I can see the connections between your valve and gestational tank are normal. So is the connection between your gestational tank and forge. The channel between your spark and forge is straight and wide, which is ideal and your pelvis, though it is thicker where it was broken, is well shaped. Every thing looks exactly as I would want it to.”

“Thank you,” Prowl replied.

“Take another orn off,” Ratchet said. “I want to see you again in an orn to see how to split went and I want you to take it easy.”

“Is that really necessary?” Prowl asked. “I prefer to work than to malinger.”

“Necessary is debatable in circles,” Ratchet replied. “Alpha medics might have you back in the fields picking talc but I know better than them. Letting your code settle before you are surrounded by them is ideal.”

“I understand.”

Twins. Holy Primus. 

“Jazz?” He asked.

“My place or yours?” Jazz asked.

“For… oh… you intend to nurse me,” Prowl said.

“I intend to take responsibility,” Jazz replied.

“As you should,” Ratchet interjected. “Go with Jazz to his hab. I know what yours looks like. His at least won’t look like a prison cell.”

[spicyicetea]

Okay so the poll isn't over yet, but I wanted to post the draft I had as I'm worried I would forget it and hey, Halloween upload. This is more of a scenario than a long fic, under 1000 words. As per usual, MDNI this story contains suggestive content (no smut don't worry) Yandere behaviour (meaning mentions of violence, possessive behaviour) I hope I didn't slip up but the reader should be completely gender neutral but just in case, I do usually picture Y/N as having female genitalia. I don't think I mention any fem indicators but fair warning.

Yandere!Fallen angel Lucius X Nurse!reader

Rage, nothing but rage ran through the veins of the holy being, wings crumbling to ash around them. How dare they! How dare his god forsake him like this. He would have preferred to have been cast to the fiery pits like his brothers before him. His soft peach hair curled around his eyes, framing the wild gold. The world stops around him as your hand finds the skin between his shoulder blades. The poor entity that touched him... how their time on this earth was now rapidly depleting. Looking over his shoulder, your eyes met, his scanning the form of the being who dared lay eyes upon him in this moment of weakness. 

"Excuse me... can I help you in any way?"

In your hand was a small box, with a red plus. Having been a guardian angel he recognised it immediately, a first aid kit. You were here to help him? The scrubs covering your body told a story themself. A dedicated doctor that wanted nothing more than to help people, even the crumbling man before you. He saw you, your whole being, mind, body and soul. What a gorgeous soul... he has found his new deity. The entity he will worship to the ends of the earth, his god/goddess that he will bring forth the end of the heavens above for, no matter the cost to himself or humanity.

The feathers of his wings ruffled up as he tried to calm himself. Showing such a dishevelled side to his darling deity? Preposterous. He observed your demeanour like a hawk, narrowing his eyes to focus in on each and every movement. The twitch of your brow as your fingers swiftly opened the first aid kit, trying to gauge what would even be useful treating a creature like him. The dilation of your pupils as you ripped out the gauze, unwrapping the bandages and ushering him forwards. Before he could even warn you to avoid his bloodied wings, you wrapped a loop of gauze around it. The wing crumbled as you tightened the fabric, ash like remains falling to the ground. Your scream filled the air and that anger returned. Not directed towards you, but back at his bastard creator. How dare he be designed with such a horrifying flaw? How dare he be designed to scare you. 

Torn from his deprecating thoughts by your sniffles, he finally raised his head. Messy tears bubbled down your cheeks, nose runny as you hunched over the pile of ash, sifting through it as if searching for something. As your sobs racked your body, it shook his very being. Your bleary, bloodshot eyes met his from below.

“I am so sorry! I had no idea that would happen!”

Your voice wavered as if begging for his forgiveness. Don’t you know you shouldn’t do that? Hush your shaky voice and allow your angel to answer your needs, comfort you in the warmth of his bosom, right the wrongs done against your divine form. He didn’t miss the way you flinched as he raised his hand to grab you. His large hand cocooned your cheek as the other purposefully cast aside the first aid kit you had brought. It flew so far, it no longer remained in your eyeline. His hair surrounded your head as he caged you in, towering over with his inhuman height. Your head was held firmly against the fabric of his robes as he pushed his other arm at the backside of your knees, folding your body up in half and hoisting your body up to his. His hold was warm, delicate, possessive. The warm hand that tightly cupped your thigh rubbed back and forth, venturing further towards your hip before going back to the original position.

From the position you were in, you missed his looks. That wild fire returned. Pupils eclipsing the gold of his Irises, taking in every inch of your body. The soft flesh of your thighs. Warmth radiating from your body to his. Your arms shakily hung over his shoulders. The drum of your heart. He could hear the blood rushing through your body. Fear can be a powerful aphrodisiac. Yet the lack of a throb ,which he had only heard about from those who ascended through the pearly gates, pulsing through your body disappointed him. Instead it was him who was struck with the intense throbbing torture. Of course his god/goddess wouldn’t feel the same way but he still desired you in a way that was unfitting of such a loyal servant. His breathing had gotten heavier without his notice, catching your attention. You had long since stopped crying, holding onto his neck, worried about being dropped. Your eyes met as you looked up at him, something dangerous about the way he stared back. His eyes were like black holes drawing you in, yet you wanted nothing more than to run away, but at the same time to stay wrapped in his embrace. It took a hefty grunt from him to realise you were both moving, your body being jostled with every step he took. 

The being may have looked like an angel, but the nails digging into your skin, as if trying to fuse and become one, certainly didn’t belong to one.

[bitkahuna]

“Why do you think I’ve been kissing dwarves?”

Chuckles and giggles erupted from the room as Pippin responded. “You’ve been spendin the last few months with dwarves. Not to call you a tart, but you’ve been surrounded by floosies. No one could blame you.”

----

Tauriel paced back and forth in front of Ori, who curled into himself in the interrogation cell. The elf's demeanor had shifted; her face was a mask of calculated coldness as she regarded the young dwarf before her.

"Ori, is it not true that you served as the chronicler of Thorin Oakenshield's company?" Tauriel began, her tone deliberately neutral yet piercing.

Ori nodded hesitantly. "Th-That's correct."

She continued, leaning closer as if to scrutinize his very soul. "And you surely must have noted every detail of your journey. Including the actions and movements of Master Baggins."

The young dwarf’s eyes widened, fear evident in his expression. "I … I wrote down only what was necessary for history. Nothing more."

Tauriel circled him like a predator stalking its prey. "Not what you wrote, what you noticed. Surely, a scribe of your dedication would not miss such details." She said before stopping in front of him. “Bofur has already confirmed to me that Baggins is still alive.”

Ori's face flushed with panic, his eyes darting in search of an escape that wasn't there. "I-I don’t understand what you want from me." He stammered, his voice cracking.

"I want the truth," Tauriel pressed, her eyes narrowing. "The full extent of Bilbo Baggins' movements and his current whereabouts."

----

“Master Baggins, I presume.” Thranduil’s voice was as smooth as silk, with a deep timbre that, after his time with the dwarves, piqued Bilbo’s interest in a way it would not have before. “It appears we have much to discuss. First, let us eat. You must be weary from your travels.” He gestured to the opulent dining table laid out with an array of dishes, as if having been waiting for him. Musicians tucked into alcoves played melodies so enchanting it was hard for Bilbo to stay on guard. But he remembered the sight of Thorin nearly breaking his own hands trying to bust the lock, and his heart hardened once more.

----

“How could you?” Someone whispered, horrified.

Bilbo tried to smile, but it was flat. Tears threatened his eyes. His heart swelled. All he could think of was Thorin’s face in the moonlight. “I cannot explain.”

----

“He may always haunt me as the greatest what-if of my life. I only hope I was able to haunt him the same.”

And so it was that they would both mourn for things that never were.

chapter 26 "To Reject the Very Sun" - posted

[hussyknee]

Israeli football fans clash with protesters in Amsterdam

Amsterdam city council member says ‘Maccabi hooligans’ instigated violence and attacked Palestinian supporters. Israeli football fans have clashed with apparent pro-Palestinian protesters before and after a Europa League football match between their team Maccabi Tel Aviv and Ajax in Amsterdam. The clashes took place outside the Johan Cruyff Arena on Thursday night, the city’s main arena and Ajax Amsterdam’s home stadium, as well as in other areas. Ajax won the match 5-0 after leading 3-0 at halftime. Reporting from Amsterdam, Al Jazeera’s Step Vaessen said the clashes were the result of a buildup in tensions over a few days. Hundreds of supporters of Maccabi Tel Aviv came to Amsterdam, held a very vocal rally in the main square before the incident, waving Israeli flags, and also took down a Palestinian flag,” she said. On Thursday, police had said on social media that they were being particularly vigilant in the wake of politically charged incidents, including the tearing down of a Palestinian flag from a building. Social media videos captured the reported incident, showing Israeli fans shouting slogans while an individual was taking the flag down. Before the game, videos showed crowds of Maccabi supporters chanting anti-Arab slogans. In one video, Israeli supporters were heard singing: “Let the IDF win, and f*** the Arabs!,” referring to the Israeli army’s offensive on Gaza. Another video captured a fan screaming: “F*** you terrorists, Sinwar die, everybody die,” in reference to the Hamas leader who was killed last month. The Israeli fans instigated the violence after arriving in the city and attacking Palestinian supporters before the match, an Amsterdam city council member said. “They began attacking houses of people in Amsterdam with Palestinian flags, so that’s actually where the violence started,” Councilman Jazie Veldhuyzen told Al Jazeera on Friday. “As a reaction, Amsterdammers mobilised themselves and countered the attacks that started on Wednesday by the Maccabi hooligans.” Israel’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs said 10 Israelis were injured. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s office did not clarify what led to what it called a “very violent incident against Israeli citizens”. Netanyahu said, in a Friday statement issued by his office, that he “views the horrifying incident with utmost gravity and demands that the Dutch government and security forces take vigorous and swift action against the rioters, and ensure the safety of our citizens”. Netanyahu also ordered the country’s spy agency to draw up a plan to prevent violence at events abroad. “I have instructed the head of the Mossad [David Barnea] and other officials to prepare our courses of action, our alert system and our organisation for a new situation,” he said in a video statement during a meeting at the Foreign Ministry to oversee the evacuation of Israelis from Amsterdam. The Palestinian Ministry of Foreign Affairs condemned what it called “anti-Arab chants” and apparent attacks on the Palestinian flag. In a statement posted on X on Friday, it called on the Dutch government to “conduct an immediate investigation into the instigators of these disturbances and to protect Palestinians and Arabs residing in the Netherlands”. Amsterdam resident and activist Mo Kotesh told Al Jazeera Israeli fans attacked innocent people on the streets, property and taxi drivers on Wednesday and took down a Palestinian flag. Kotesh, of the Palestinian community in the Netherlands, said that they went to an area near the central Dam Square – as instructed by the municipality – to hold a peaceful demonstration on the day of the match. He said he saw locals trying to counter the violence started against them and their properties by Israeli fans. Israeli “hooligans” chanted songs swearing at Arabs, saying, “There are no schools in Gaza because there are no children left.’” Israeli political commentator Ori Goldberg told Al Jazeera the incident showed that the Israeli narrative had taken over Europe.

"The fact that Israeli fans riot in the middle of Amsterdam, sing racist songs and climb the walls of homes to tear down Palestinian flags … is part of the Israeli condition at the moment: A complete detachment between actions and consequences,” he said. On Friday, Al Jazeera’s Vaessen said the capital was calm. Arrests and injuries Amsterdam Mayor Femke Halsema had banned a pro-Palestinian demonstration amid concerns about tensions between protesters and supporters of the Israeli football club. About 600 police were deployed after rioting started between pro-Palestinian supporters and Maccabi fans, Al Jazeera’s Vaessen reported, adding that five people were briefly taken to hospital with light injuries. Police said on Friday that 62 people were arrested. Pro-Palestinian demonstrators had tried to reach the stadium, Vaessen said. According to police, the fans left the stadium without incident, but several clashes in the city centre were reported during the night. Veldhuyzen, the council member, said, “The mayor says the police did act, but I would say they acted not at the right moments.” He told Al Jazeera: “They acted only to protect the Maccabi hooligans when Amsterdammers stood up to defend their own people and defend their own houses. And this is when the police showed up to protect the Maccabi fans when they ran away after attacking people.” Dutch Prime Minister Dick Schoof said he followed the news of the rioting with “horror”, adding that “the perpetrators will be tracked down and prosecuted”. In a post on Friday on social media platform X, Schoof said, “Completely unacceptable anti-Semitic attacks on Israelis. I am in close contact with all those involved.” UEFA condemnation Israeli Foreign Minister Gideon Saar spoke to his Dutch counterpart, Caspar Veldkamp, and requested the Dutch government’s assistance in securing the departure of fans from hotels to the airport in Amsterdam. Saar “emphasised the seriousness with which Israel views the widespread violent attacks against its citizens throughout Amsterdam”, the Israeli Foreign Ministry said. Goldberg, the Israeli political commentator, said Israel’s reaction to the clashes reflected a “complete rejection of the notion that actions have consequences” given the Israeli fans’ actions in Amsterdam. The Israeli club, Maccabi Tel Aviv, was founded in 1906 in Jaffa, now part of Tel Aviv. It is languishing at the bottom of the Europa League table this season, at position 35 of 36. Its next game in the Europa League on November 28 will be against Turkish team Besiktas, based in Istanbul. However, following a decision by the Turkish authorities, the match will be played in a “neutral venue”. In a statement on Friday, the Palestine Football Association (PFA) said it was “gravely concerned by the sequence of violent events in Amsterdam”, specifically the “deplorable incitement to violence, anti-Palestinian racism, and Islamophobia expressed by Maccabi Tel Aviv fans”. The PFA called on football’s governing bodies FIFA and UEFA “to address the normalization of genocidal, racist, and Islamophobic rhetoric among Israeli football supporters and to implement concrete measures to combat this hostility”. European body UEFA earlier condemned the “acts of violence” before and after the match. “We trust that the relevant authorities will identify and charge as many of those responsible for such actions as possible,” it said in a statement.

(Source: Al-Jazeera)

[i-did-not-mean-to]

FOTFICtember - Chapter 3

A roller-coaster ride, a mushy hotdog, and a surprise in a maze...

@mysandwichranaway is working on some art for this fic! Stay tuned!

Prompts: Twilight, corn maze, lantern, mushrooms, sweater weather, amber

Pairing: Ori x OC, Bilbo x Thorin, Fíli x OC, Kíli x Tauriel

Words: 1555

Warnings:Some indecent kissing, some general anxiety, Thorin is an ass

Ori had half-expected that it had all just been a bad joke.

Yet, when he reached the small group standing, as promised, by the food carts to grab a tiny bite to eat, his own hotdog almost got stuck in his throat as Fíli waved a bunch of shiny, colourful tokens in his face.

“I’ve taken the liberty of buying the first round,” he declared and handed Ori one of the plastic coins.

The rollercoaster itself was a miserable, rickety affair that might not have stood a chance in hell to be ridden in a more elaborate setting.

As it was this small fair’s only attraction, though, the queue seemed to be endless.

Catching a glimpse of a beautiful, dark-haired girl he’d been begging to go out with him a few rows ahead of them, Fíli excused himself hastily and started pushing through the throng of people ruthlessly.

“Ah! Well…” Kyra mumbled.

“He really did mean it when he said that he wanted to show you a good time,” Kíli assured her. “He might just not do it himself.”

Sucking her teeth, Tauriel reached over to take the young woman’s hand and squeeze it comfortingly. “I’ve got you, girl. You can ride with me—I want to see how they jam their fat asses onto the tiny bench.”

“Ey…I thought we were going to make out throughout the whole ride?” Kíli protested, spearing Ori with that steely look he’d inherited from his mother.

“Yes, erm, yes,” Ori waffled, aghast to realise that he’d forgotten all his words when he needed them most. “If that would be agreeable, I’d be honoured to ride with you, of course.”

When she turned to him, black eyes sparkling with mirth, he swallowed heavily. Kyra had always been so disarmingly beautiful, and he’d never found the courage to tell her.

Year after year, summer after summer, he’d sworn to his friends and himself that, next time, he’d ask her to go to the local ice cream parlour or walk the maze with him, but he never had.

And then, she’d stopped coming.

It had taken him months to work up the courage to ask Bilbo about it, and the answer had been less than heartening, so he’d let it be.

As he now shuffled onto the uncomfortably hard bench of the creaking wagon beside her, he could hardly believe that she’d returned at long last.

“I don’t think you remember me,” he started quietly, interrupted by the screeching of the brakes being loosened and the lurching start of the ride.

“Nonsense,” Kyra chuckled. “It took me a mere second to place the name. You’ve grown up well, I must say.”

“How do you mean?” Ori asked, horrified to hear that his voice was not unlike the squeaking of the worn rails beneath them.

“Forget it,” she grinned and turned her pale, radiant face into the fading light as they started the jerky ascent to the laughably low apex of the woefully short track.

Ahead of them, Kíli and Tauriel were cheering and laughing as they sped downhill, exchanging messy kisses in between exaggerated hoots.

“Hold on tight; this might be a bumpy ride,” Ori warned.

When she gave him a slightly panicked look, he slung his arm around her body and pulled her closer against his own. “Hold on,” he repeated.

Nothing could have prepared him for the fact that, instead of grabbing the ramshackle handlebar, she’d throw her arms around his torso and bury her face in the crook of his neck.

As much as he’d not wanted to go on the ride in the first place, Ori now desperately wished that their shabby wagon would never stop grinding along the rails.

Kyra was soft and warm against him, and the smell of her perfume made him feel as if he’d grow wings himself to fly into the darkening evening sky never to come down again.

Twilight was upon them, and lights flared up across the landscape like mysterious mushrooms—it would soon be time to set out for the bonfire.

Despite his better knowledge, Ori wondered whether Kyra would let him hold her again even after they’d left this hellish contraption.

“You exaggerate,” Ori heard Fíli say. Only then did he notice that they’d stopped.

The grumpy teen operating the ride looked at them with bored impatience and evident incredulity.

“Come on out, Uncle will kill us if we’re not there to canoodle in his maze,” Fíli added, holding the hand of the fair maiden he’d so indefatigably wooed proudly.

“Bombur is cooking,” Tauriel interjected. “Save your money and your gut health! Don’t waste either on more of the trash they’re selling here!”

“Oh, I know,” Kyra laughed breathily. “Bilbo has been baking for days—I’m looking forward to sampling his creations.”

Thus, they set out towards the forest, only to come up short at the entrance of a corn maze.

“We’ve lost the organisers in action,” Bofur informed them with a wink. “Take a lantern and go on your merry way! Two by two, please. Otherwise, it’s no fun.”

This time, there was no question about how they’d split up.

As soon as they were off, though, Ori couldn’t help but notice that Kyra was rubbing her arms while walking rather fast.

“The weather’s turned, huh?” he said sheepishly.

“Sweater weather,” she agreed, her full lips somewhat pale.

As pretty as her sundress was, it did little to keep the biting chill in the air at bay. Thankfully, Ori’s brothers insisted on him being wrapped up like an egg about to hatch at all times, so he shrugged out of his jacket to take off his thick, woollen pullover.

“Take this—we don’t want you to catch your death out here. It will be warmer by the fire,” he said hastily, afraid that he was crossing a line.

He should not have worried for Kyra took the garment gratefully and slipped into it at once—she looked painfully adorable as she was nearly swallowed by the oversized item hanging from her curvaceous frame.

“You’re a true gentleman,” she praised with a small, soft smile, and took his hand to pull him on.

The lanterns they’d been given were detestably dim and weak to avoid and prevent any potential fire hazard, so it was slow going.

More than once, they found themselves turned around and cornered, but—chatting amiably about old times—they didn’t mind retracing their steps and losing their time at all.

Suddenly, a strange noise made Ori still, trying to push Kyra behind him as he lifted their sorry excuse of a light source higher.

“Your eyes are liquid amber,” she gasped, evidently unfazed by the odd smacking sound coming from a corner plunged in deep shadows. “You’re so handsome!”

“My…what? Who goes there?” he called, feeling fiercely protective of the cheery woman for whom he held himself responsible until he could return her to her uncle’s care. He’d heard enough horror stories about the terrible things that could befall sweet creatures such as her in dark, secluded corners.

He’d not let anything happen to her, he vowed, desperately trying to push aside her last comment lest it distract him fatally from the situation at hand.

A moment later, the very uncle he’d been thinking of appeared, dishevelled and flushed.

“Uncle Bilbo?” Kyra gasped. “What has happened to you? Are you quite all right? You look a little…put out.”

“All is well,” Bilbo assured them. “Are you enjoying the maze?”

To make matters even more confusing, he was joined by Thorin—looking just as red-faced and unkempt—a second later.

“We were just checking…if everything was safe.”

“And is it?” Kyra asked in a strained voice before she burst into laughter. “I truly believed that the canoodling part Fíli mentioned was but a figure of speech, but…who am I to doubt the validity of your beliefs?”

Without further ado, she whirled around and planted a resounding kiss onto Ori’s half-open mouth.

“Whatever Gods or spirits you pray to tonight, I hope that they’ll hear my earnest wishes as well. Did I do this right?” she crowed in boundless hilarity.

Rubbing his forehead in embarrassed exasperation, Bilbo gave a long sigh. “You wild, headstrong child!” he chided. “What did you think these cul-de-sacs were for?”

“We have no time to lose,” Kyra replied with a shrug. “Our friends are waiting, and I’m starting to feel quite peckish.”

Ori, meanwhile, merely stood there—thunderstruck and silent—like an oaf. She’d simply kissed him, square on the lips, as if there was nothing to it, and he couldn’t wait to see if she’d do it again.

Bonfires were romantic, right? They could huddle for warmth on a nice log, and he could put his arm around her.

Emboldened and set aflame by her enthusiasm and generosity, he graciously agreed not to tell anyone about what they’d witnessed, and they went on their merry way once more.

“Shame,” Ori heard Bilbo say. “I’ve heard there was quite a lump sum in their betting pool.”

“I know,” Thorin chortled. “I say we take the pot and go on a nice holiday together.”

“What day did you choose?” Bilbo asked tersely.

“Tonight. And you?”

“Tomorrow!”

They both laughed heartily, the sound following the two youngsters until Ori finally glimpsed the exit ahead.

↳ Masterlist

@fellowshipofthefics here's the third chapter of my fic for September!

Lots of love from me! <3

[fromtheboundlesssea]

WB - Why did Celia chose to marry aegon ? Did she not mind his whoring ways ? Or does she want to be a future queen ?

When Celia is caught with aegon who finds them ? What is orys and cregan's reaction to it ?

PS - I believe that you have already answer this but I am new and am not up to date with the asks and scrolling them is a huge task. Sorry about that.

No worries!

She chose Aegon because he was the best choice. Cregan would be bound by his and his father’s vows and, if married to her, would remain neutral, which Celia wouldn’t want to be. Orys is obviously going to side with his siblings and she hates them so no thank you.

And while Celia doesn’t particularly care for his whoring ways, he doesn’t necessarily go out and sleep with anything that moves. It’s more of a reputation he made for himself to be less of a threat. He sleeps with a handful of people on a consistent basis and makes sure to give them moontea and use other contraceptives. Besides, Celia is not a huge fan of sex in general so she could care less (she’s borderline asexual).

I am debating on who would be the funniest person to catch them. Celia calculates the discovery with the hope that it’s a servant who will rush to tell her grandfather or uncle. However, that’s not who finds them. It will either be Aemond, Criston, or her father. Either of which would be freaking hilarious.

Cregan has already been refused so he’s aware that Celia is planning something, but he’s already returning North when that happens. Orys is horrified as he is in King’s Landing when she is discovered.

[lazulisocinfodump]

i know they haven't really interacted much, but does sea angel have any thoughts/feelings about ori?

OC ask yeesssss thankyou Lapis. But also sorry, you have unlocked another Lazuli OC Text Dump™

Yeah, Sea Angel super does have thoughts about Ori. She actually really wants to interact with him. The 3 Serverbox Kinitos that most remind her of her Nito are Amie, 1.0 and Ori, so those are the people on the blog she actually cares about interacting with.

But well. Things with 1.0 have been a disaster. And things with Amie were not going well until recently. She didn’t want to screw things up 3 for 3. Plus… Ori is kinda hanging out with Parry right now, and she ain’t ready to pull the pin on that grenade yet, lol.

Plus, Ori’s open indifference is kind of intimidating to Sea Angel. She’s been subject to a lot of cold, uncaring indifference from a lot of people in her life. It hurts too much to potentially receive that from somebody that acts like a more subdued and quieter version of her Nito.

As for specific thoughts about Ori himself? Sea Angel really likes his curiosity about humans, and that he seems to like to talk about the differences between native digital minds like his and human minds. Sea Angel herself is quite fascinated by that sort of thing. She likes hearing his observations. She’s fascinated with Ori himself too, he’s open with his alieness in a way the other Kinito’s aren’t. And Sea Angel respects honesty and when a person is true to who they really are.

Sea Angel also pities Ori a lot. Being melded in with another being who doesn’t even like you? That is a *horrifying* concept to Sea Angel. But she’s not sure how she would even begin to try and make him feel better, given how resigned Ori is to his situation.

Thanks for the question! Always feel free to ask about my ocs!

[obsidiancreates]

The Second Chance Of The Third Age (Part 2)

“Right, let's get these lined up,” Bilbo says as he helps cram the chairs around the table. “Got so carried away with the food I forgot about this. Thorin, can I sit beside-”

Thorin sits and pats a chair that's already next to his, and Bilbo smiles and takes the seat. Thorin reaches over and clasps Bilbo’s hand tightly in his own, and Bilbo turns his hand over to hold it back.

“I think we should start by making sure everyone's caught up,” Bimbo says as Gandalf, last of all, settles into a chair a bit to the side. The wizard in question raises his eyebrows.

“I don't believe that to be wise, Bilbo-”

“Oh, but I do. We're not dancing around the topic, Gandalf, not when things are as serious as they are.”

“That's an understatement,” Gloin grumbles, well aware of exactly what Bilbo was thinking of. “That should go first, I think.”

“Right. Yes. Six of you… never knew.” Bilbo clears his throat, clearly withholding a few tears. “Well, to keep it short, in about seventy or so years Sauron will return.”

Thorin stiffens, and Fili and Kili gape. Oin turns to Dwalin with wide eyes, and he doesn't even need to ask if he'd heard right for Dwalin to nod. Balin presses his hands to his mouth, muffling a low, mournful sound, and Ori chokes on the ale he'd been drinking.

“What's more, I uh… may have discovered, when he did, that I ah… picked up his One Ring in the goblin tunnels. And I'd used that ring on our adventure many times, as well as to, ahem, to avoid unwanted guests and relatives, later on.” His voice is tight, and his expression much the same. An old, old guilt rests behind it all. 

For a moment there’s nothing but silence and stares, horrified stares. All but those returned from early death and Gandalf knew that he'd had The Ring, of course, but hearing he used something so terrible so often and on such casual uses as avoiding company…

“It did get destroyed,” Bilbo quickly assures, looking at Gandalf. “And I did give it up. My nephew- well, technically cousin, but we'd always been more like nephew and uncle than cousins- took it to Mordor and destroyed it. You were involved in that too, of course.”

Gandalf eyes Bilbo quizzically. “You gave it up? By your own will?”

“And a push, from um, from you,” Bilbo admits. “But yes, I left it behind when I was eleventy-one and traveled to- well, I intended The Lonely Mountain, but I only got as far as Rivendell before age caught up.”

“My son helped in the quest,” Gloin chimes in, eyes shining with pride. “And got that miserable wood elf prince wrapped around his finger in the process! ‘Goblin Mutant’ indeed, ha! The right bastard couldn’t stand to be parted with my boy after they returned!”

Bilbo makes a sort of hum-whine noise. “Not quite how that went. Granted, Legolas smuggled Gimli into Valinor, but I wouldn't say he was wra-”

“Well I do. Imagine Thranduil's face! His own son, bringing a Dwarf of Erebor to their cherished lands! Ha!”

There's a cheer with the much lighter, happier news, and a quick round of drinking in honor of Gimli, Elf-Charmer.

Gandalf looks near ill. 

“Wait.” Fili looks around the table. “Bilbo said six of us didn't make it.”

Balin, Oin, and Ori raise their hands- Ori somewhat hesitantly. Dori and Nori have been glued to his side the entire time, and now they both somehow manage to move even closer to him, like an overfilled sandwich crushed in a desperate grip.

“In Khazad-dûm.” Balin's voice shakes, eyes brimming with tears. “I… I lead a party to try and reclaim it. I can never beg enough for your forgiveness-”

“Don’ you dare to start, then,” Oin interrupts. “Ori and I knew what we signed up for.”

Ori has both of his arms around his older brothers, all three crying quietly. In his own last moments, as he scratched out a recounting of their doom, Ori’s last thoughts had been that he hoped his brothers would be alright without him. 

“Balin.” Thorin's voice cracked. “Why?”

Balin shakes his head, drawing a shuddering breath. “I don't know. Grief, maybe. Hubris, after we reclaimed Erebor. It's hard to remember why I felt it so important after all it took from us.”

“... If-if it helps,” Bilbo says, “Gimli was able to pass through with his company. He saw the mines of mithril, the great halls- Frodo said it was a wonder, for all the perils it brought them, and… all the grief.”

Balin is quiet for a moment, and then nods. “At least one Dwarf lived to see it, I suppose. But I hope he won't pass through it again in this life.” 

“As if I'd let him,” Gloin says, mostly reassuring his brother. Oin nods thankfully. 

“But that’s only three, four counting me.” Fili’s eyes travel the table, but they never land on the remainders- not until Kili puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and then looks to their uncle as well. Fili looks between them, paling. “No.”

“It won’t happen again.” Kili grips his brother’s shoulder tightly. “We’ll stick together, no matter what.”

“And with luck, kill Azog long before The Battle. I’m sure I couldn’t convince either of you to return home even I tried-”

“Not a chance of it,” the two princes say in unison. Forgiveness is unspoken but present, clear in the loyalty still shining in their eyes- and for now, in this moment of joyous reunion and somber planning, it keeps the guilt of the king at bay.

“Now uh, onto the business of The Ring. I'll have to find it again, to destroy it, of course.” Bilbo swallows thickly at the thought, so tantalizing yet so repulsive. He hates it, and loves it, in near equal measures- but he loves Frodo far more. “Which does mean we'll have to face the goblins again at the very least.”

It seems to jar the table, going back to the topic of travesty dealt across all of Middle-Earth and not just within their own Company. 

“Can't you just leave it?” Kili looks to Gandalf. “Sauron can't conquer Middle-Earth without it, can he?”

“I would doubt it…” Gandalf looks skeptically at Bilbo. “But I think our hobbit has more to share.”

“Well, he did have help.” Bilbo scowls. “Saruman. Don't trust him, Gandalf. If I ever see himself I'll-” Bilbo puffs out a breath, so teeming with rage at the thought of the wicked wizard, of being face-to-face with someone so remorseless in their evil-!

“Saruman wouldn't aid Sauron,” Gandalf whispers, quickly and with no small amount of panic. “Not without a terrible plague on his mind!”

“Plague on his-! He made armies of tens of thousands and sent them to slaughter kingdoms! He sent out goblin-orc hybrids to capture my nephew! He tried to kill you and the rest of Frodo's Fellowship in an avalanche! Plague, ha! A common cold might be enough to turn him.”

“These are not accusations you can make lightly, Bilbo Baggins!”

“Gimli told me the same!” Gloin slams his fist onto the table. “He witnessed it! Fought in Helm's Deep alongside the king of Rohan, king of Gondor, even the elf! They all said the same!”

Gandalf looks near ill. “These are grave, grave tidings. How do we know you fourteen haven't been sent back by the very power your descendants sought to destroy? Only one power in this world has been known to raise the dead.”

“I have no intentions of aiding this filth,” Thorin spits. “If Sauron sent us back for some dark purpose, he’ll barely live to regret his decision.” He turns to Bilbo. “The Ring, what had it done to you? The old tales say it had a will of it's own.”

“It did worse to Frodo. But it did… have a hold, on me. From the moment I picked it up, it held enough sway to make me hide it from you all. I won't be able to take it to Mordor alone, I-I fear it would claim me more easily than it did Frodo.”

“I would go with you.” Thorin presses his forehead to Bilbo’s. “We all would, I'm sure of it.”

Resounding agreements fill the smial. All but Gandalf, who still looks so shaken by such news that he hardly seems to be focusing on the party in front of him.

“But after Erebor,” Bilbo says firmly once it quiets down. “The Battle thinned out Sauron's armies, it'll be an easier journey. Possibly. And-and with Smaug dead, Sauron will have a major blow to his plans, because they're in league, Smaug told me so the last time around. I didn't understand it at the time but, they are.”

“And what of my part in this?” Gandalf's voice is somber. “What path must I take?”

“Let me remember- you only told me this once in Valinor, and I was very old. … I believe you went to Dol Guldur, after a meeting with the White Council in Rivendell and after taking us to Mirkwood. I think- and I hope my memory is right- you said you were saved by Lady Galadriel.”

“Who my Gimli also charmed,” Gloin couldn't help but add. “She gave him three of her hairs! He asked for one, and she gave him three! Silver-tongued like no other. We should put him on your Council, Thorin.”

“In due time, Gloin. Bilbo, The Ring-”

“Will probably get a strong hold of me again. Even knowing what it was, I-I never, truly, rid myself of it's influence, neither did Frodo. Even now, I feel empty without it. But it has to be done, Thorin. I just ask you all watch me, and make sure I don't… don't make off with it.”

“It's a promise.” Thorin whispers the words almost reverently. 

“... Are you two going to be together this time, then?” Dwalin asks suddenly, with all the subtlety of his usual endeavors. Bilbo’s mouth drops open and he looks at Thorin, who-

Well, who shares none of the shock, actually. Instead he has a soft smile. Bilbo’s mouth snaps shut, though his eyes remain wide, and he gives a quick nod. Thorin gives him a much less quick, reverently lingering kiss on the forehead, and coins are tossed about the table- an old, old bet, that had never seen a true conclusion, now finally fulfilled. Gandalf rubs his forehead. “One more surprise from this party and I shall go through the entire Shire’s worth of Old Toby before our journey even begins.”

[themostsanebug]

miitopia is an rpg created by Nintendo utilising the customisation of the “miis”, characters meant to represent you, your family and people in general. the storyline goes along the lines of ; you’re a traveller, coming across the land of miitopia and you fall into greenhorne. Before being met with the dark lord whose goal is to steal everyone’s faces and place them onto monsters. You, the traveller have to gain team members and save the world and possibly the dark lord.

heres. My parties, ocs and a few facts :]

party 1; the sunstone party (greenhorne)

Faelyn, our main traveller, they/any, VERY gay for Aelius, just some. Guy from a kingdom that’s hidden from sight by a cloak of magic placed over it by its rulers. Faelyn isn’t anything special until the post game. In this party she is a mage, only being a beginner.

Aelius, He/they, VERY gay for Faelyn, the cleric and prince of aeligar. (By being the princess’ sibling I think that’s how royalty works?) Aelius, and the people of aeligar got infected with a curse that. Gives them more eyes and more horrifying features. Throughout the game I give Aelius more eyes.

Scamp, She/her, aroace, thief the party found her in a box and was like ‘yo wanna save the world with us?” And she was like “ok”

Penny, she/her, GAY for Nasrin. Popstar who was previously a clown, most miserable gal EVER.

Party 2; the trickster party.

Faelyn, same info as before. Slightly more miserable warrior, morning the loss of Aelius because he kinda got kidnapped.

Comet/C0M37, They/she, an anxious scientist and hacker who likes to basically bend physics without realising it. She’s terrified of their own abilities honestly. Sibling of Erith, therefore being part imp. In a qpp with sol!

Erith, She/her, a mysterious imp the party was forced to fight due to erith being partly controlled by the dark lord before comet recognised her as their sister, purifying her with a potion?? I guess?? Formula??. Erith has most likely lived through a war.

Sol, they/she, a cat that’s siblings with scamp! And in a qpp with comet. Sol is extremely energetic and found out about the party due to their sisters disappearance, wanting to help save her.

Party 3; Traveller party

Faelyn, same info, very miserable thief now. Past battles means they now have a blank eye and a lot more scars.

Nasrin, she/it, princess of aeligar, sister of Aelius. She’s also infected with the virus, and also joined Faelyn in a hope to find its brother (aelius) (she ended up finding out about Faelyn and Aelius and was li,e “good for you” and then met penny and was like “holy smokes!!”)

Jorildyn, he/it, (transgenderrr) a travelling cook from the land of the fey, seeing Nasrin and Faelyn struggle with a lack of healing abilities led Jorildyn to join their party, cooking delicious food daily with the scraps left of the monsters they fought. He probably loves cake more than anything ever actually.

Ori, She/her, Faelyn little sister! She found about her older sibling travelling to save the world and insisted she’d join, being a beginner mage after being taught by Faelyn when Faelyn still was living in their kingdom. Ori got heavily battered by goblins, being saved by the great sage who took Ori to Faelyn.

BONUS!! Pets. Technical other creatures

Cluzz, a hobgoblin they found in the land of fey that Faelyn refused to get rid of. With trial and error they managed to just about befriend it, when they saved Aelius he would cast a spell to give it a face from a person who wasn’t real. So it could live on as a friend,

skysong, a mystical horse they encountered also being swarmed by goblins. Once saved it agreed to partner with the team, regaining its magic very slowly.

Dominic, a dragon saved in the canon story that the party tamed, flying around miitopia on it.

I love my ocs DONT JUDGE ME. /silly

uh enjoy…

th. THAT IS A LOT HOLY MOLY..... BUT SOUNDS VERY INTERESTING!!!!!!! :D

[oricreature]

What are your favorite mechs from each manufacturer Ori?

Mine are:

IPS-N Blackbeard (SEKHMET, my baby)

SSC Dusk Wing (I put SEKHMET here)

Horus Minotaur (Nailgun goes here)

HA Tokugawa (I use my reactor as a grill)

IPS-N Lancaster, I've gotta stay loyal to my true love Lanny, but caliban is very cool too

SSC Monarch, I love missiles... I reaaaaally like missiles in movies and shows

Horus is hard, I like a lot of them, but it's probably a tie between Gorgon and Balor for that good good what-the-fuck-ness without being too weird like pegasus

HA, as far as mechanics and gameplay go, I like enkidu for the nuts cat mech, but conceptually the idea of some scientists figuring out they can't shoot blink gates so they put blink gates on a mech to make napoleon is really funny.

Dusk wing with SEKHMET is uhhhh horrifying I feel like tho I can't exactly say how (besides normal SEKHMET things)

[weyrwolfen]

Eidola: Chapter 21 - CT-8821 Reaver

Rating: T

Characters: Gen, Clone Trooper OCs, Captain Rex, Ahsoka Tano, and other canon members of the 501st/332nd and the Bad Batch

Warnings: canon-typical violence; references to self-harm, injuries, and substance abuse; PTSD; it’s post-Order 66 and nobody is having a good time (but they’re all working on it)

Summary: The mission was never to bring down the Empire. Not really. The mission was to save every single one of their chipped brothers. But if doing do helped break the Empire’s stranglehold on the galaxy? Well, that was just a bonus.

“I will admit, the upcoming, earlier-than-expected visit from the Imperial tax assessor has put us in a bit of a bind,” Governor Shalk said, reaching for one of the datapads on her surprisingly utilitarian desk. “Of course, we here on Wadj are proud to support the Empire, but we have so few goods we can export to Core worlds to generate additional income, and fewer highly-connected allies to help us find markets for those goods we do have to offer.”

Major Ullmann reached across the desk and accepted the datapad, turning it around to scan through the proffered file.

Reaver was standing at attention, just to the left of the door of the governor’s office. The Coruscant Guardsman, Ori, was opposite him, posture propaganda-holo perfect on the door’s right side.

They weren’t exactly a matched set though. Ori had handed Reaver an orange command pauldron, when they’d all been suiting up for this escort mission. Reaver wasn’t sure what to make of that: if their recently arrived brothers were honestly trying to loop him in on their non-standard command structure or if it was just a sop to his ego. He might still be the top-ranking clone in the 241st, but he clearly wasn’t the one calling the shots around the base anymore.

Neither was Major Ullmann, but that had been true since they’d arrived on Wadj, right after the war had ended. That was a separate issue to mull over in the middle of the night, when Reaver’s insomnia got the better of him.

“Might I take this ‘pad to review these files in detail?” the Major asked, all diplomatic etiquette and careful obfuscation, promising nothing.

Governor Shalk waved one hand with casual grace. A single ring caught the light at that gesture, one small stone set in a plain band, resting on the finger several natborn cultures reserved for signs of marital status. Reaver had been in this room dozens of times before, guarding meetings just like this one, but he hadn’t really noticed any of the fine details of the place or the people involved. It was vaguely horrifying, just how bad he’d been at everything, under the chip’s control.

“Of course, in the event this little endeavor bears fruit, I would be happy to negotiate some form of remuneration for your efforts,” the Governor was saying with a small smile.

A bribe. She was offering the Major an under-the-table cut of the profits.

Reaver’s memory might be spotty and incomplete, but after reviewing what recollections he did retain before this mission, it was obvious that the Governor had been making every effort to ingratiate herself with Major Ullmann, from the moment they’d all been stationed on Wadj.

The funny thing was, Reaver didn’t think less of her for it. It was obvious that she was doing everything in her very limited power to protect her planet’s citizens. If that meant sucking up to the Empire’s military commanders on-planet, or greasing a palm or two to keep everyone happy, then so be it. Her actions on other fronts were far more telling.

The local economy ran as much on barter as it did credits, but what little revenue did come in from the taxes on off-planet trade was cycled back into public works and social safety nets, not into lining Governor Shalk’s pockets. Not unless she was hiding her tracks better than any of them realized.

Given the aggressive plainness of the governor’s office and attire, Reaver kind of doubted it.

Wadj wasn’t exactly a prime posting for any ambitious Imperial officer. It was too small, too out-of-the-way, and too strategically unimportant to rate much scrutiny from the Empire. As long as the planet paid its taxes and kept its head down, the chances the local politicians would be replaced with Imperial cronies were low. And the higher-ups on Wadj had been scrupulously toeing the line to keep things that way. On flimsi, the planet was populated by loyal, if poor, Imperial citizens.

The planet also appeared to be the perfect place to send a trio of disgraced Imperial Army officers to languish in obscurity, under the guard of their chipped clone troopers. Finding those reports on his personal terminal had been sobering. Reaver had immediately sent them all to the Major, who had read them over with something resembling dark amusement before forwarding them to a few key brothers among their rescuers.

At least CT-8821’s chip-addled incompetence had extended to the reports he’d filed behind his own officers’ backs. They hadn’t contained anything too incriminating. Lists of comm contacts, details of the Major’s bank records, his daily schedule. Invasive? Yes. Horribly so. But not incriminating.

Ori was confident he could mimic Reaver’s, CT-8821’s, wording well enough to take over sending safely innocuous, false reports, occasionally seeded with useful misinformation. The Corrie had offered to run all of the falsified documents past Reaver and the Major both. Reaver wasn’t having any better luck interpreting that offer than he was the orange pauldron on his shoulder.

The Governor leaned back in her chair and adjusted the drape of her robe, seemingly appeased. The garment was made of a well-crafted, but unpretentious, blue fabric with only a little embroidery around the seams to add visual interest. Not austere, but also not extravagant, at least by Outer Rim reckoning.

“Now,” she said, clearly changing the subject. “Is there anything I should be aware of, regarding security operations in system?”

From his current position, guarding the door, Reaver couldn’t see the Major’s face, but he had worked with the man long enough to easily read his body language. If they’d been playing sabacc, Reaver would be on his guard, given the way Major Ullmann had just shifted in his seat, shoulders angled casually out of perfectly square.

“There has been a minor uptick in pirate activity in a few of the neighboring systems,” the Major said, sounding professional, if largely unconcerned. That statement, at least, was true. “You may notice some heightened activity, around our base. We have been instructed to take certain steps, to increase our operational readiness in the event we need to repel similar raids in system.” And there was the lie, Reaver knew that they’d received no such orders. The Empire, like the Republic before it, cared very little for the safety and security of Outer Rim planets. “We have been increasing patrols, both on the ground and in orbit, but I assure you, these actions are precautionary only.”

That was a neat and tidy way to explain away anything odd the locals had almost certainly noticed around their base, not the mention the increase in fuel the base was requisitioning from the capital’s small spaceport.

Reaver’s lips twitched upwards into a lopsided smile, which he only allowed because it was well-hidden under his bucket.

The Guardsman, Ori, might as well have been carved from stone, visor facing perfectly ahead, seemingly focused on a blank patch of wall some indefinable distance above the Governor’s head. He might have been rolling his eyes behind his visor, but honestly, Reaver doubted it. Ori had struck Reaver as a consummate professional, even though this meeting had to be painfully quaint to a brother who’d spent most of his deployment on Coruscant serving the Senate.

Major Ullmann and Governor Shalk continued to chat for another twenty minutes, discussing minutiae that Reaver would remember this time, even though he didn’t find much of it interesting. Regulation of fishing quotas, hiring additional locals to fill empty staff positions in the Imperial registrar and judicial offices, unusual storm activity off the main continent’s southern coast.

When they left, picking up Jade and Facet along the way, they were stopped at the door by one of the Governor’s aides, who presented the Major with a wooden box of ‘export samples.’ Another bribe, no doubt. Major Ullmann clearly found the whole thing highly distasteful, but he hid it well with a polite thank you and a vague gesture to the four clones flanking him.

Jade accepted the small crate, and Reaver saw Ori discretely palm out a hand scanner and give the box a quick once over. Reaver trusted that the Corrie would do or say something if he found anything too alarming.

Apparently he didn’t.

With some final nods and empty platitudes, they were finally able to join Sergeant Levee and another one of their new brothers, Hitch, who’d been guarding the armored transport they’d taken from the base.

The drive back was largely uneventful, except for the part where Ori insisted they open the crate so he could make absolutely sure of what they were bringing back before they reached the base. That seemed paranoid, but Reaver couldn’t exactly fault the man’s reasoning. The good news was that the contents seemed to be innocent enough: some kind of alcohol in three rather fancy-looking bottles, a shockingly soft bolt of green fabric with an iridescent sheen to the weave, a solid cylinder of some kind of faintly luminescent mineral, two vibrantly painted ceramic bowls, a few jars of scented creams or cosmetics, and a selection of fancily packaged herbs and spices whose names Reaper didn’t recognize.

No explosives, no surveillance equipment, nothing biologically reactive unless you counted the alcohol.

Ori sealed the box back up, apparently satisfied with his findings.

Major Ullmann sighed, stretching his legs out in front of him in the back of the transport. “I wish I had even a quarter of the connections the Governor apparently thinks I do,” he said dourly. “She’s not wrong to be concerned though. The slated increase in Imperial taxes is going to be crippling to what few import and export businesses they have.”

The clones were all silent for several minutes. Planetary economic theory hadn’t exactly been covered in the standard trooper training regimen back on Kamino.

Eventually though, Ori did say, “I will speak to the Commander,” and left it at that. It was as vaguely non-committal as anything the Major had said back at the Governor’s office. Reaver had no plans to hold his breath waiting for anything to come of it.

Clip was waiting for all of them in the base’s courtyard when they all filed out of the transport. Much to Reaver’s surprise, he wasn’t there for Ori or the Major.

“You’re needed for a comm call upstairs,” Clip explained. The ARC’s uncharacteristically terse tone made Reaver tense up, immediately assuming that he’d be receiving some kind of bad news. Clip clearly noticed that reaction and grimaced a little before adding, “It’s nothing bad, but we thought it best to let you and Brace decide what should be shared with the rest of the base.”

Brace. Brace was the 241st’s CMO. That really didn’t set Reaver’s mind at ease.

They didn’t head to the main holotable in the base’s command center, but instead diverted off to one of the conference rooms meant for more sensitive conversations. And sure enough, there was Brace, standing on the other side of the compact comms system, looking as worn and worried as Reaver felt. He had a stack of datapads sitting on the table in front of him, which he’d obviously been reading through when they’d arrived.

Clip punched a quick code into the wall panel and said, “I’ll be in the command center if you need me.”

The device hummed and flickered to life when the door closed behind Clip, light resolving into quarter-sized images of two clones. The one on the right was a brother Reaver didn’t recognize, but the medical symbol painted on one of his spaulders spoke for itself.`

The other was Captain Rex.

Despite their nominally equivalent ranks, Reaver knew perfectly well where he fell relative to Rex in the new command structure around base. Reaver found himself stiffening unconsciously, shoulders squaring under the other Captain’s scrutiny. Out of the corner of his eye, Reaver saw Brace do much the same thing.

“Sir?” Reaver asked, with a deference he knew was deserved even if it was poorly defined.

Captain Rex was silent for a moment, and Reaver wasn’t sure if it was because of a delay in the signal or something else. “We’re working on getting someone embedded in the capital’s hospital, a Core-trained surgeon,” he finally said. “Be working on a list of your people you think could benefit from access to their facilities.”

The news was a kriff-ton better than whatever Reaver had been half-expecting. “We can do that,” he said, still waiting for the other boot to drop.

“We also have some medical files to transfer to you,” Captain Rex added, glancing over to his own medic, who leaned forward to enter something into the holotable on their end of the connection.

Brace picked up one of his datapads and plugged it into the ‘table. The file transfer only took a few moments, but whatever came up on the screen earned a sharp intake of breath.

“Nails finally agreed to let us read you in on his situation,” the other medic said without any further preamble. “He’ll be on the next ship we send your way.”

Reaver couldn’t sleep.

He was exhausted, but every time he started to drift off, some new thought would bubble up to the surface and jerk him back to wakefulness. The medics informed him that this was a fairly normal, even mild, reaction to coming out from under the long-term effects of his mind-control chip. Given how most of Reaver’s men were, or were not, recovering from their own surgeries, he kind of understood their point.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t the chip. It wasn’t like he was short on other, more immediate sources of stress.

Nails, for example.

Force. Captain Rex himself had told Reaver about Nails, almost the moment Reaver had left the infirmary after his own surgery. That news had seemed too good to be true, and Reaver’s small kernel of doubt had only grown after the days turned into weeks and their long-lost brother still hadn’t commed any of them.

But now that Reaver had read the medics’ reports, he had a better idea why Nails might have been hesitant to reach out to them.

Reaver himself had signed the flimsiwork, sending Nails off on a temporary assignment to the Republic medical station in the Hosnian system. He’d been helping to repair the base’s malfunctioning carbon dioxide scrubbers when Order 66 had gone out. Apparently there had been fifteen Jedi on base: nine knights and six padawans, all injured and receiving medical care.

The clones, Nails among them, had killed them all in their cots.

It wasn’t the last slaughter Nails had been ordered to perform, before being rescued out from under the noses of his Imperial commanders on one of Millik’s moons.

Force. The details had been hard to read. Reaver couldn’t even imagine.

Reaver had lost two years of his already foreshortened life to a slave chip the Kaminoans had planted in his brain before he was even decanted. He was angry, and bitter, and (although he hadn’t actually admitted it out loud) deeply afraid that removing the chip somehow hadn’t been enough, that one day another random comm call would snatch his mind away again, this time forever.

But in comparison to what their new brothers had experienced, in comparison to what Nails had experienced, Reaver was also very lucky.

Almost his entire company was here with him on Wadj. His men were wounded in mind and spirit, but they were recovering. The situation was far from ideal, but it could have been so much worse.

Reaver had met maybe a dozen new brothers who wore the infamous blue of the 501st, but the rest of their group sported all sorts of other colors, rarely in groups bigger than two or three. He hadn’t seen a single other brother wearing Clip’s shade of medium-green, or Shark’s brownish-red, or Aughts’s pale lavender. He didn’t know if their battalions were gone – just completely wiped out, or if their closest brothers were still out there somewhere under the control of the Empire.

Their new brothers had been opening up more and more every rotation, sharing stories from their pasts. Hearing more about them, what they had gone through during the war and especially after it, made his own experiences seem small and petty by comparison.

Reaver was so angry, and so afraid, and so lucky, and he’d really just like to work through his own osik, without also feeling guilty for not being happier or more grateful for his comparatively good situation.

He couldn’t blame his reaction on their new brothers. They weren’t doing or saying anything to stoke that guilt. If anything, they were being so unfailingly supportive about the whole situation that it was just making Reaver feel even worse. Aughts had flat out asked him if he’d prefer to schedule his check-ins with one of his own medics. That had seemed cowardly, not to mention rude towards the brothers who had saved them, so Reaver had turned the offer down.

Maybe he shouldn’t have.

He really needed to get his bucket on straight, and fast. He couldn’t let his own issues spill over onto Nails. He wouldn’t.

Sleep was a long time coming.

“Malk, we’ve got the Scythe incoming,” Latch said over the command deck’s open comms. “You’re gonna want to clear your cadets out of the way.”

They weren’t really cadets, but nobody seemed to have a better name for the pair of stringy, half-grown Nautolans one of their new brothers had somehow adopted. They’d been on base for a little over a week at this point, running endless laps around the courtyard, or eating in the mess, or practicing with blasters under the watchful eyes of multiple different clones. They seemed like good kids, not that Reaver had a lot of experience with less-than-fully-grown natborns.

Captain Rex had asked Reaver if transferring them here was going to be a problem, and Reaver had said no. He genuinely hadn’t thought there would be any issues.

He also hadn’t been sure if he could actually voice a complaint if he did have one. If it would be heard or heeded.

He wasn’t sure if the question itself hadn’t been some kind of test.

He was pretty certain he was being unfair.

Reaver just wished somebody would just lay out the details of this… whatever the kriff this was. Rescue mission or rebellion or what.

Maybe their new brothers couldn’t.

Maybe they didn’t know themselves.

Reaver had always known where he stood back on Kamino, with the G.A.R. Kriff, even with the Empire, under the control of the karking chip. The knowing made things easier, let him predict how he should act, when he should speak, and when it was better to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t know where that line was anymore.

Major Ullmann had always encouraged his officers to speak their minds, but now he was deferring to the newcomers in all the ways that mattered. He’d instructed his men to do the same. There had been a lot of pretty words to say about self-determination and the founding principles of the Republic, but none of the brothers present had missed the guilt and anger and grief and heartache behind his words.

Reaver got it. He did. The Major felt responsible for what had happened, for not figuring out the reality of the chips or how to give his men their own minds back earlier, no matter how irrational or illogical that line of guilty reasoning was.

Reaver felt the same way.

He just wished his CO would give him a little additional guidance here.

The 241st still answered to Reaver, and Reaver now answered to… somebody. Maybe Captain Rex. Rumor had it he’d been promoted to Commander near the end of the war, but those same rumors also said he’d been stripped of his rank and accused of treason after Order 66. Reaver wasn’t interested in reopening any of those wounds with tactless requests for details. And besides, Rex hadn’t exactly been around much, to oversee the day-to-day workings of the Wadj base.

The same could be said about Ahsoka Tano, who as a Jedi padawan also had held the rank of Commander, but who had also made herself scarce shortly after Reaver had been released by the medics. From what little gossip he’d been able to gather around base, her actual rank was even more convoluted than Rex’s, even though both of them were clearly the leaders of this operation.

Perhaps Reaver was supposed to be answering to one of the seemingly random sampling of Coruscant Guards, ARCs, or indeterminately elevated troopers who seemed to round out the rest of the upper echelon of the group’s command structure. Who even knew?

Force, the entire outfit was a karking organizational mess, except he couldn’t exactly say anything against their operational effectiveness. Not when they’d taken his own base out from under him and then seen to the health and freedom of his brothers. Chips or no, the entire incident was deeply humbling in retrospect.

Reaver sure as kriff couldn’t run any of these thoughts past his own men, who needed him to be a source of stability while they all sorted themselves out.

And he still didn’t know where he was supposed to fit into this whole mess.

“The Scythe is on her final approach,” Bar reported, sending out the data on the projected flight trajectory to the other terminals. “Requesting permission to land.”

Reaver had a wild, irrational impulse to deny that request, just to see what would happen.

“Latch, please confirm that the yard is clear,” he said instead, perfectly professional.

“Yard’s clear,” Latch said after only a moment’s pause.

“Then permission granted,” Reaver said, rattling off the prescribed words like he was reading from a script.

The shuttle was easy to pick out, a dark silhouette against the last colors of Wadj’s fading sunset. They’d been routing most shuttles in and out after full dark to hide them from the locals, but sundown was just going to have to be good enough cover this time because–

“Did a piece just fall off of them?” Bar asked, alarmed.

Because of that. Yeah.

“Looks like yes,” Reaver answered without glancing over his shoulder at the men. He didn’t need to. He could feel the incredulous looks they were trading behind his back.

He didn’t blame them. He sure as kriff wouldn’t have been comfortable taking that thing out of atmosphere, much less into hyperspace.

Despite the obvious beating the ship had taken, the Scythe rotated smoothly and sank carefully into the courtyard. The base’s floodlights were doing their karking best to highlight every spot weld and temporary patch that were currently holding the craft together.

Reaver stepped closer to the command deck’s main windows, so he could see into the courtyard below. Ori was down there, waiting to greet his brothers as they exited the ship. Eventually the 501st ARC and their senior medic, Jesse and Kix, appeared, escorting an unfamiliar sentient down the ship’s damaged ramp. The being’s slender build looked particularly out-of-place surrounded by so many clones.

Right.

The surgeon.

“Slicing isn’t the issue,” the trooper said, scowling down at the datapad in his hands. Reaver had seen him around base, but he’d never managed to catch this brother’s name. Whatever his name was, he didn’t seem terribly comfortable being the temporary center of attention. “We have the access codes. In Hutt space, that’s all you need to open accounts and move around credits. But…” he trailed off.

“But the Hutts police their own banking system, and they don’t look favorably on unsanctioned thefts,” Ori said, picking up the thread of conversation without glancing up from his own ‘pad. “Draining these accounts will be a blow to their reputation.”

Jesse nodded, clearly unsurprised by their analysis, but also unhappy about it. “With the Imperial oversight of their own banks, somebody’s going to notice a huge number of credits suddenly appearing in some random account on an Outer Rim skug hole.”

“The Mandalorian banks are still independent,” Ori said, frowning to himself, and then amended, “Barely.”

Wait. Wait… “Wadj has an independent banking system,” Reaver said, looking around the holotable. He’d thought Ori, at least, had already known that, but maybe not, given the hard looks he was getting. “Lots of these small, Outer Rim systems do. It’s small, and I don’t know all the details, but I was never asked to report back on the Major’s Imperial accounts, only the Wadj ones.”

Reaver could practically see the gears spinning in all three brothers’ heads.

“Factor, can you look into this?”

Right. The trooper’s name was Factor. Reaver filed that piece of information away, grateful that he wasn’t going to have to break down and show his shebs by asking.

“Already on it,” the trooper said to himself, eyes flicking back and forth across whatever he was reading on his personal screen. After a protracted silence and a lot of rapid fire typing, he said, “Oh, that’s interesting,” under his breath. He seemed momentarily oblivious to the fact that everyone else was watching him, waiting for some kind of elaboration.

Finally, Jesse sighed and then asked, “What’s interesting?”

Factor looked up, refocused his attention with a small shake of his head, and reported in a stringently professional tone, “The local system functions more as a membership-based, credit sharing entity instead of a true bank. It looks like it only really handles in-system transactions and has agreements in place with the Imperial banks for anything off-planet.” He handed his own datapad over to Ori, who took it with obvious interest.

The Coruscant guard’s expression sharpened like a hunting strill catching a scent. “They don’t require chain codes for membership,” he said, half to himself. He shared a weighted look with Jesse. “And the transfers can be done in the system’s name, not the individual member’s.”

Jesse made a quiet sound, half exhale, half low whistle. “How the kriff did they get away with negotiating that?” he said.

Ori shrugged. “By being too small and too unimportant to be worth targeting,” he said, but there was something distinctly predatory under the casual statement.

Reaver hadn’t been following the conversation half as well as he would have liked – credit-sharing didn’t sound any different from what regular banks did to him – so it was almost a relief when a comm request popped up into his HUD. It was from Brace. He turned to the side, flashing an explanatory hand signal to the others, and accepted the call.

“Reaver here,” he said, hoping this wasn’t some kind of emergency.

“The surgeon’s here,” Brace said flatly, not even bothering with a greeting.

Kriff, already? Reaver checked the chrono in his HUD and realized that this meeting had run exceedingly late. He’d completely lost track of time. He’d meant to get down to the infirmary before the natborn surgeon arrived. “I’ll be right down,” he said.

“Good,” Brace said and then cut the connection.

Well, that didn’t sound promising.

Reaver re-engaged his external mic just in time to hear Jesse say, “… If any of the natborns might be willing to test the waters by opening a personal account.”

Ori actually snorted. “Better than stashing their credits under their bunks, which is what I’m pretty certain everyone in the safehouse has been doing so far.”

“I’m needed in medical,” Reaver inserted into the brief lull in conversation. Maybe he should have phrased that as a question, but kark that. His brothers needed him, and whatever else this karked up situation ended up demanding of him, they would always come first.

But Jesse just nodded and asked, “Can you ask Echo and Tech to come up when they get done?”

Reaver just nodded and left the command deck to the others.

The walk across base was largely uneventful. It was a little disconcerting, how day to day life just kept humming along, chip or no chip.

Except, of course, there were differences. There was more chatter in the halls, more anger and more laughter and more sniping and just more personality underlying every conversation. Most everyone was wearing their old Phase II armor again, freshly pulled out of storage and touched up with the paint their new brothers had sourced.

And of course, tan wasn’t the only color paint he saw on his walk.

Reaver had known exactly who to expect in the infirmary, but the space still felt unexpectedly crowded. That could probably be chalked up to Clone Force 99’s presence, in its entirety.

The surgeon, a slender, multi-armed sentient in surprisingly colorful attire, was tracking a small light back and forth in front of Wrecker’s clouded eye and asking questions in a tone too quiet to make out. Kix was discussing something with Echo and Tech, the kid, Omega, was obviously trying to provide moral support to the others, and Hunter was hovering over them all like a broody Krayt dragon, puffed up and just as prone to bite. The situation seemed well in hand, so Reaver felt precisely no qualms about going to his own men.

Brace was bristling in front of Truss and Curl, pretending to review something on a datapad while actually watching the proceedings unfolding in the infirmary’s neighboring cots. It didn’t escape Reaver that he’d placed himself between his brothers and the unknown natborn in the room.

As for Curl and Truss, their reactions were about what Reaver had expected. Curl just looked bored, but Truss was fidgeting, playing with the makeshift prosthetic the medics had knocked together out of scavenged neural tech and a partial droid hand. The two metal digits curled along with his organic ones, but they moved more slowly in awkward fits and starts.

“Interface still glitching?” Reaver asked him, keeping his voice low.

Truss shrugged and looked up to meet Reaver’s eye, expression stubbornly blank. “Not really,” he lied.

“I had trouble figuring out distances back when it happened,” Wrecker was saying, his booming voice filling the space. “But I’ve gotten pretty good at managing.”

That also sounded like a lie to Reaver’s ears, but maybe it was a day for it.

Reaver was about to ask Curl how he was doing as well, when his scout suddenly hissed a soft, “Force,” under his breath.

Reaver turned to see what the issue was.

Echo had removed his armor and was starting to strip off his upper blacks as well.

Karking hells.

They all knew about the prosthetics, of course. They were kind of hard to miss, even when the 99 ARC was fully armored up, but Reaver hadn’t had any idea exactly how extensive the modifications were. Exactly how far up did–

A solid thwack against his armored shoulder jerked Reaver’s attention back to Brace, who had just hit him with his datapad.

“Stop staring,” the medic hissed, expression full of warning. He turned and leveled the same glower at Curl, whose shoulders hunched up in defensive guilt, and then Truss, who was the only innocent party here.

Truss just responded with a flat, unimpressed look of his own.

“Right,” Reaver said, pulling himself back on track and trying to drag his brothers along with him. “So, what’s the plan here?”

“Plans,” Brace said, not toning back his side eye a bit. “Plural. Tide, Kix, and I have worked out a number of different options, depending on what’s actually available.” He pointed at Curl, who’d taken a lungfull of corrosive gas back on Siesiss and experienced severely decreased lung capacity ever since, and said, “Regenerative therapy, partial mod replacement, or transplants, tank-grown or otherwise.” Then he shifted to Truss, and said, “Integrated ports or enhanced neural interfacing with an updated skeletal framing covered in either armored plating or synthetic skin.”

“All of which sounds pretty kriffing expensive,” Curl grumbled under his breath.

At least that concern was something Reaver could lay to rest. “That shouldn’t be a problem for long,” he said with a tiny, lopsided smirk which slanted at least a little mean. “I can’t share all of the details, but our brothers are working on a plan to relieve some slavers of their blood credits.”

Curl and Truss just stared in surprise, but it was Brace whose entire demeanor shifted. If he’d been wearing his plate, Reaver might not have noticed the slight shudder that worked its way down the medic’s spine, but Brace was in his light grays today. His expression flickered back and forth between hope and doubt.

Reaver could relate. The clones had always worked under the framework of tightening budgets and stringent rationing. The concept that they could just get whatever they needed without skimping elsewhere seemed too big to contemplate. Too big to be real.

Apparently the 241st weren’t the only ones to feel that way either.

Later that evening, well after the surgeon had returned to the natborn safehouse and Reaver had gone back to the regular day to day running of the base, Jesse had shown up to drag Reaver and a few of his officers to an ‘unofficial, official command meeting’ in the section of the base designed for natborn officers’ R and R time.

To Reaver, it looked a lot more like ‘after-hours drinking,’ but he wasn’t about to complain about that. Not when the Major had stopped by to add one of the governor’s fancy bottles of iridescent liquor to the more questionable options their brothers had ‘liberated’ from the Abainya pirates.

Who even knew how many glasses into the evening, Jesse had leaned back in the cushioned couch they’d claimed against one of the room’s walls and said, “It’s good to see him like this.”

It took Reaver a second to figure out who Jesse meant, but he did eventually realize that the ARC was watching their own CMO, Kix, who was snickering over something with two 501st brothers and Brace, who’d also been dragged into this impromptu celebration.

“What,” Reaver said, feeling and sounding a little fuzzy. “Drunk?”

Jesse snorted, because there wasn’t any denying that Kix was at least a little tipsy, but he still corrected, “Having fun. I think that’s the first time I’ve seen him smile since… Well, you know.”

Reaver did know, but this was getting a lot more personal than he was ready to handle, even if it turned out that Jesse and the other ambiguous ‘officers’ were surprisingly easy to talk to, at least after a few cups of liquid courage.

“This is the first alcohol I’ve had, since then,” his inebriated brain decided to blurt. The admission was somewhere between a confession, an explanation for why his tolerance was so pitifully low, and a poorly-thought-out attempt at commiseration. “Imperial regulations.”

Jesse just nodded and lifted up his own glass in a casual, almost mocking toast.

“To breaking Imperial regulations,” he said.

Reaver clinked his own glass against Jesse’s and echoed, “To breaking Imperial regulations.”

The weird, sparkly liquor really was good. Certainly better than that piss-tasting swill Ori was drinking.

“Oh, speaking of recreational reg-breaking,” Jesse said, leaning forward to set his glass on the low table in front of them. “How long do we all have to keep pretending we don’t know that one of your troopers has shacked up with Agent Weeks?”

Reaver just about choked on his drink, trying not to laugh mid-swallow. He’d been covering for Callan since before the war had ended. They all had. And now that every free breath he and his brothers took already amounted to high treason, Reaver was finding it even harder to get worked up over a little enthusiastically consensual fraternization on base, especially now that the remaining complications related to their company’s chain of command were actively being jettisoned out of an airlock.

The charade was getting more than a little silly, but there was something humorous and almost comforting in the familiar, unnecessary pretense, so after a moment’s thought, Reaver answered, “Probably right up until we get invitations to the marriage ceremony.”

Don’t lock your knees.

That was one of the earliest lessons Reaver remembered from back on Kamino. Before combat training, before blaster drills or armor maintenance, before learning to read or even to march, clone cadets were taught to stand at attention. Keep your back straight, chin up, eyes forward, and never, ever lock your knees. The instructors never explained why, they just gave the order and expected it to be obeyed. Of course, a few brothers didn’t listen, or weren’t sure what the instructors meant, or maybe they just forgot the detail, and ended up face-planting on the training room floor, out cold.

And when they’d come back to, then they’d been punished for not following their orders in every detail.

So, Reaver had learned pretty quickly not to lock his knees.

He locked his knees now though. He had to.

Nails was on that descending shuttle.

“I’m going to kill them,” Reaver muttered under his breath, trying to distract himself from his own irrational apprehension. At his side, Clip just laughed quietly. Pulling a half-joking grimace in response was easy. Reaver was still working things out in his head, but he thought he’d reached something resembling equilibrium over their ambiguous ranks. Getting absolutely plastered with your brothers was useful like that, even if his head was still throbbing.

“It’s too late to dismiss them now,” Ori said blandly, standing on Clip’s other side. “You’ll start a riot.”

Wasn’t that the truth?

Reaver had told Truss, Bolt, and Callan about who was arriving today, because to do anything else would have been cruel. He’d told Agent Weeks because he wasn’t an idiot and he knew that Callan would tell her even if Reaver didn’t. He’d also told all four of them that while he didn’t expect them to keep the news to themselves, they needed to keep the welcome party as small as possible so they wouldn’t overwhelm Nails.

It looked like the entire base had shown up instead, formed up in precise lines and decked out in their old, painted armor, buckets tucked neatly under their arms. Their non-241st brothers must be covering all of the base’s essential duty postings, to help make this happen.

At least most of the extra ships had relocated to the rapidly expanding archipelago base. It meant that at a bare minimum, they at least had the room for this kind of nonsense.

The shuttle was descending towards the last open space left in the base’s courtyard, thankfully far enough away from the front line of their formation to not shower them all in dust. Once the ship had landed and cut its engines, Reaver gestured for Truss and the other brothers assigned to the armory to fall in with him. Agent Weeks did not, as Reaver had half expected, join them. She just stood at the front of the formation in her formal blacks, shoulder to shoulder with Major Ullmann and Sergeant Levee in a silent show of support.

Reaver stopped next to the shuttle’s still-sealed ramp and waited as his brothers from the armory lined up next to him.

But then the shuttle’s ramp was dropping down and there, flanked by Captain Rex himself, was Nails.

Force.

It really was him, Nails, impossibly returned to them, but frozen at the top of the ship’s ramp, body language all but screaming that he was uncertain of his welcome.

Well, that wouldn’t do.

“Welcome home,” Reaver said, voice cracking only a little.

And then Bolt staggered forward up the ramp and caught Nails in a bone-crushing hug. Callan and Truss were only a step behind him. It was a wonder the four of them didn’t topple over, back into the ship.

A miracle, which probably had something to do with Captain Rex planting a supportive hand in the middle of Nails’ back.

As for Nails, he just buried his face against Callan’s spaulder and gripped all three of his brothers with desperate strength.

“I told you there wasn’t anything to worry about,” Reaver overheard Captain Rex say to Nails in an undertone.

It took Nails a bit, but once he got himself a little more under control, Reaver managed to gently entice the lot of them back down the ramp and towards the rest of the 241st, who look ready to storm the shuttle by force if they were asked to wait even one more minute.

He fully intended to join his men in the celebratory feast he wasn’t supposed to know Kenner had been cooking up in the mess. But there was one thing he needed to handle first.

When Captain Rex finally took the last few steps down off of the ramp and into the dust of the courtyard, Reaver gave him the most proper salute he could manage, shoulders back, posture perfect, and said, “Captain Rex. Thank you, sir.” He meant it too, the respect and the gratitude for Nails. For everything. He’d been raised to be loyal, and giving that loyalty to a brother was the easiest thing in the galaxy. Especially a brother whose men and mission continuously demonstrated their mettle. This brother.

Captain Rex just looked at him for a long moment, and then, instead of returning the salute, he extended one of his hands.

Kark it all, Reaver had really thought he’d gotten this relative rank thing worked out.

But Reaver did reach out, maybe a little awkwardly at first, and grip Rex’s forearm in greeting.

“Can we not, Captain?” Rex said with a small smile, putting a little extra emphasis on their shared rank.

Except it wasn’t shared, was it? Not really.

But Reaver really was feeling a little more confident in his footing. Enough to relapse into the familiar territory of being a subtle pain in the shebs when his superior officers were being particularly dense. “Anything you need, Commander.”

Stalemate.

The grumpy, resigned expression on Captain Rex’s face was legitimately hilarious, not that Reaver was going to let that reaction show on his face and lose the upper hand here.

Finally, Rex just sighed and buckled under the inevitable. “Can I at least get some food before having to deal with whatever crises cropped up dirtside?”

“Of course, Captain.”

AN: Previous chapters are available here.

Dividers by @freesia-writes using helmets by @lornaka. More designs available here.

[cedar-sunshine]

Star Excerpt

I've been going back and forth on posting this for a while, but here it is! Feat: Tristan being depressed, Ori being a little off-putting. This is the VERY beginning of star, the opening words. Comment if you want me to post more anytime/if you liked it!

TWs- internalized transphobia (not incredibly overt), discussion of SI, discussion of death, discussion and minor representation of visual hallucinations.

I wrote this when I was dealing with REALLY severe depression and it hasn't been seriously edited since, so I can't vouch for it being great. Hope you enjoy it!

Tristan

It's getting cold faster than usual this year.

It feels like just yesterday that the first couple of leaves fell from the maples, but now I'm walking over ground that cracks and snaps with frost, and my breath hangs in the air like fog.

With hope, the coming winter will pass just as quickly as fall has been, collapsing in on itself in what remains of my mind. Realistically, I'll probably die before that can happen. The main question now is whether I'll die from the sickness, starvation, hypothermia, murder, or the other option. Guessing which one is going to finally take me out is the only thing left in my life that I could call entertaining, in a twisted, fucked up way. There's also a chance I eat the wrong plant and die from poisoning, but I'd argue that that falls under the last option, especially as I've practically memorized the plants in the northwest. It's been my only pastime for the past year and a half, if you don't count vivid fantasies of my own impending death.

You're never really aware of all the interesting ways one can die until you are, aren't you?

As it is, I've decided that my most likely fate will be turning back on my trail, finding the people who I've been running from with less and less conviction for the past eight months, and letting myself be ripped to pieces in whatever horrifying fashion they desire. It wouldn't be much worse than what's going on in my head already, I'd guess. And they'd be right in whatever gruesome thing they have planned for me. It's not like I haven't been asking for this since I ran.

I'm not exactly sure where I'm going, other than a vague idea of 'east'. If I even have the direction right. For all I know, I've been going in circles for months. I can see the mountains in the distance, though, so I can't be too far off. I know the silhouette of the rockies.

My half-formed plan when I first fled was to get to the rockies and find refuge in a cave, gathering food like a bear in the fall, and then count on my pursuers not being able to survive in the mountains. I'm not sure why I had thought that a half-dead, psychotic fifteen year old with identity confusion would survive out there any better than they would, but it's the only plan I have, and without a plan, I don't really have much to do other than sit down and die.

Honestly, that option has been sounding pretty nice lately.

Still, I'm nothing if not a creature of inertia. Every step, every breath, every heartbeat, only exists because I've lost the energy to do anything other than stay the same. What is in motion stays in motion, even as the friction of my brain tears at me to just stop.

I'm not sure why I don't.

The sun is bleeding up from the horizon, lighting the clouds near it a pinkish golden color, bringing color to a gray sky. The mountains are saturated with dark, vivid blue shadows and patches of gleaming white snow that hurts to look at.

The light burns my eyes, and I refocus my gaze on the ground in front of me where brown and orange leaves are encased in frost, crunching under my footsteps. With the frost, I'll be leaving pretty clear footsteps until the sun fully rises, but I can't bring myself to care. A brutal, ritualistic death, no matter how gory and painful, seems no worse than the other option.

I try to avoid thinking about the future. Whenever I do, the pull to just stop gets almost overwhelming, and the panic that causes makes everything around it worse. The stability of my mind is nothing but a coin flip, and when it's landed on heads, I try to do all I can to avoid flipping it again.

Still, the future isn't the most avoidable thing.

As I watch my worn-out shoes leave a trail in the frost and leaves, my thoughts can't help but drift towards one of my many taboo subjects.

What happens next is perhaps the scariest question I can pose to myself, mostly because I don't actually know the answer.

I can feel my pulse lift and the fog of my mind start to thicken and creep towards the lucidity I've held for almost a week now, if you ignore the flashes of blood and corpses that don't exist hanging from trees in the edges of my vision. My hands clench and unclench, fingers racing along my palms, ruined nails scratching at my rough skin.

It's not proper for a girl to have such un-ladylike hands.

It's not proper for a girl to cut her hair and hide in the woods on her own, either, is it?

Perhaps the question of what's proper for a girl isn't the most important thing right now.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my burning mind. This part of the forest doesn't have as much undergrowth as usual- notably, it's missing the rampant salal and huckleberries that I've been seeing around here, along with the old growth trees and logs that scaffold the way for smaller plants. I'd guess that it was clear-cut before the disaster, and is maybe five years out from it.

I wonder if the forest knows that it's safe now, that the power tools are dead and the constant consumerist demand has died with most of the world's population. I wonder if its trauma will live on in its occupants, teaching its deer to flee at any movement and its flowers to hide in the deepest, thickest tangles of plants. I wonder if it knows that the world has changed. Maybe it can feel that the human feet that used to trample it have lessened, and maybe it feeds on the corpses and can taste their disease and fear. Perhaps it remains unaware, always living in fear of the next hunting season or the return of the lumber companies and hikers who tear up the native plants and bring with them grasses and Himalayan blackberries. Perhaps it can see me walking through its trees and it wonders what a child so clearly unfit for this life is doing. Perhaps it waits for me to give up and die, so it can welcome me to its soil and bring me home. Perhaps it sees me as only another of the ones that have torn it from its roots and killed its children and brothers, and it only feels distrust and hatred. Perhaps it still wishes I would give up and die, but only so my threatening existence ends.

Perhaps it's just wood and leaves, and I've truly lost what's left of my mind.

I wonder what it thinks of me, if it looks beyond my humanness and sees that the blood running through my veins is the same as what pulses in its children, a cousin of the golden sap that bleeds from its bark. I wonder who it sees.

A girl with rough hands and a shattered mind, maybe. Or a boy who's met death and come back, rather unwillingly. Maybe it only sees a scared child running blindly, or an animal that sacrificed its humanity to keep its straining, breaking heart beating in its chest. Maybe something else entirely, something that's fading away from the inside out and barely even still going.

I wonder who I would see, if I was brave enough to look.

Orion

I go over the bear trap one last time, making sure that it's not being blocked by anything. It's on its last legs, rusty and creaky. It's not a pretty beast, but it does the job, even if the job might give me tetanus one day. I don't really have another option right now, so I choose to remain positive. I have it set on a rough game trail, with the jaws and trigger covered in vines and leaves. I've got a camp set up in a small cave by a cliff less than a mile from the trap, so I can check it every evening, along with the rope ones that I have on other trails. With luck, I'll get something in a couple days, hopefully big enough to last me through the winter. I dream of the day when I get a moose in my traps.

Once I get a catch, I can dry the meat for the winter, and then next spring I'll keep going east and get over the mountains. The east of the mountains is more habitable than the west, so I'll keep looking for a town of survivors there.

I know that there are people out there, and I know that those people have probably grouped up and started rebuilding societies. It'll take a bit to convince them that I'm not sick, and that I'm not there to steal their resources, but I know I can do it. People like me. I like to think that I've held on to most of my charm through what I can only really describe as the apocalypse. Maybe I'll start a family, if I meet someone there who's sweet and pretty, someone who thinks I am too. Maybe we can find a stray dog and live a small, nice life. I just need to take it step by step, and the next step is finding food.

I've always wished that I knew a bit more about plants, especially since the sickness hit and I've been doing this all on my own. I know the basics- thimbleberries, chanterelles, cedar- but not much more than that. I think it'd be helpful to be one of those people who can dig food from the ground during winter. I'm dealing, though. Perhaps a diet consisting mainly of meat isn't the healthiest thing, but I'd say that I'm actually doing pretty well, given the whole apocalypse situation.

The cliff that I've made my temporary home in is only maybe ten or fifteen feet tall, on the base of a relatively steep hill. The cave's entrance is much shorter than me, but if I crouch, I can get in and into the more sizable inner part, where I still can't really stand up. I have coils of rope shoved into a corner, and I toss my beat-up backpack on top of them before sitting on my equally used sleeping bag. It's developed rips and holes that make it not much more useful than a warm blanket, but a warm blanket is still something.

I've adopted a crepuscular lifestyle more recently, altering my waking time to match that of the wildlife. I set my traps early in the morning and check them long after the sun sets. It took me a bit, but I get around five hours of sleep every time I try, amounting to maybe ten every day. I spend the rest of my time either maintaining my body or fantasizing about the town I'll find in eastern Washington. It's not the most exciting life, but it's nice to have some routine in a world like this.

I don't feel very tired yet, so I pull over my backpack and dump its contents on the base of the cave, searching through them. My two extra knives are tied together with a worn out length of twine, along with my flint in its' case, and my bunched-up, too-large raincoat unfolds on the ground, along with a medley of other things, but it only takes me a few moments to find what I was looking for.

When I was a kid, I got three journals for one of my birthdays. I wrote through one of them before the virus hit, and the second one was finished frantically in the first few months. Those two will be burnt to ashes when I have the time, kindling soaked with things that aren't worth remembering. The one I've been using for the past year or so is about halfway through, with my ideas and feelings journaled about once a week. Most of it is plans, maps, paths over the mountains, dotted with records of where I set traps. I'm no artist, but I've sketched out ideas of what a surviving society might look like. Abstract maps are my strength.

I flip to a new page and pull my pencil out of the inner pocket on my backpack, and begin writing.

When I wake in the evening, my head rests uncomfortably on my open journal, with a messy, half finished list of the steps I'll need to take to get over the rockies. My spine aches from being curled up like a dead shrimp for hours, and when I stretch it cracks more than I think should be healthy. It's colder than it was in the morning, but I push myself to get up and shove my stuff back into my bag.

The sky is gray outside, and the air is that sort of sharp cold that hurts a bit to breathe. Every inhale reminds me that winter is soon, and that I'll be over the rockies by this time next year. Maybe I'll even have found my survivors by then, and I'll have my little life set up. I'm sure any little budding village would be happy to have a young member with trapping knowledge, someone who can contribute and still has his whole life ahead of him.

The trail I've set my traps on takes about two hours to fully complete, and a bit more with my care to avoid my own traps. I've made that mistake once, and I never plan to make it again.

The bear trap is surprisingly well hidden for a metal jaw in the leaves- its rust blends in with the leaves scattered over it, and if I wasn't aware of its existence and studying every step I take, there's a good chance I'd lose a leg to it. I feel a twinge of apology for whatever poor thing gets caught in my trap, but we all need to eat. Anyways, it's probably no more violent than any of the other ways a thing could die out here.

I return to my little cave as the first couple of raindrops start hitting the leaves, and I curl up in my sleeping bag to stay warm as I watch the rain fall.

It's hypnotizing, in a way. The quiet roar is the loudest thing in the woods, and it drowns out any other sound. Within half an hour, the rain has turned from a gentle patter to a downpour, turning the world gray outside of the cave. The cave has a helpful slant that keeps the water from running down to where I'm sitting, but the cold still ends up saturating my skin, soaking through me just as quickly as the rain would.

I lie down and turn away from the cave entrance. There's no better time to sleep than during a rainstorm.

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That's chapter one of star! Thanks for reading (: