#passing gossip; dash comm

[caring-cakeshop]

...is that her baby crying? ...............IS THAT THE STARSDAMNED CLOWN???

"SHADOW. MILK. COOKIE."

[thedistantstorm]

Project Compass 29

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This time: The enemy lies in wait.

Next time: Thrawn makes a choice.

-/

“I was... surprised that you told him what we suspected.”

Thrawn had sat on his considerations for their entire trip back to the Steadfast, almost brooding for how deep he’d been in contemplation. It hadn’t been a terribly long trip, but Eli could tell he’d had questions. And now, for the most part, he could answer them. The human looked comfortable, at ease with Thrawn sitting perpendicular to him in the less formal area of the first officer’s office, a compact sitting area with comfortable-enough chairs.

Eli, who had been reclined in his seat, eyes shut and head tilted up toward the ceiling, cracked his right eye open to regard Thrawn curiously. “After I went through that whole ‘I don’t know if I trust him’ song and dance?”

“That does not translate as well into Cheunh,” Thrawn said, and Eli chuckled. “But yes.”

“Fair question,” The human supposed. “I trust him well enough. But he’s more or less a politician at this point. Ezra’s not the guy I wanted negotiating and unless I missed something, you’re not exactly-”

“I see,” Thrawn said, and folded his hands over the dash. “You knew which parts of our situation he was privy to. That makes sense.”

“Yeah. To be honest, he knows more than I’d like, but I needed some obscure records that Ronan was my best shot at retrieving.” As an afterthought, he produced the chip and slipped it into his datapad. From the angle Thrawn was at, he could see the Aurebesh that popped up, though the information on the screen was hardly Imperial.

“Clone wars?”

“Something like that,” Eli hummed, scanning the information.

“What could the Separatists tell you?” Thrawn’s interest was only as noticeable as the slightest rise in pitch at the end of his question.

Eli scrolled quickly, looking through several tabs of data before sighing and blanking the screen. “Apparently, nothing I didn’t already know from your forays into that time period way back when. But I wasn’t looking for a history lesson,” He admitted. “Seems like the Empire was real thorough,” He scoffed, handing Thrawn the datapad. That figured.

“This could hardly be called a history lesson,” Thrawn said blandly as he took in the very sparse details about separatist aligned houses and senators. “More than half of these contain less than the basic qualifications to establish a profile.”

“Yeah. It’s worthless.” Eli said, covering his eyes with his hands. “It’s not that important, but I had hoped…”

“Had hoped?” Thrawn inclined his head.

“There was a rumor about Count Dooku, that he had some powers nobody who worked with the Jedi had ever seen.”

“Perhaps,” Thrawn considered, though he did not know for certain. “I was aware that the Separatist leader was a Sith, and he was executed by Anakin Skywalker. The details were never advertised, even in the highest Imperial circles.” He waved a hand, “That isn’t to say he would have different powers that were unique. There are variances even among Jedi, if Bridger is to be believed. Of course you have that data, as well as everything I’ve ever sent back to Ar’alani, I’m sure. There weren’t many Force sensitives amongst the Imperial ranks. At all, even.”

“Yeah,” Eli agreed, crossing his left leg over his right. “You’re not wrong there. Any idea why?”

“My conclusion was that the Emperor felt threatened by the remaining Jedi. It was never advertised, but those who were not successfully indoctrinated by the Inquisitors were… dealt with,” Thrawn finished darkly.

“What about Lord Vader?”

“I did not entertain the notion of asking him. Our brief time together was more than enough to ascertain how little of the man truly remained.”

“I don’t doubt it. Can’t say I’m sorry I missed that mission.”

“I am certainly not,” Thrawn conceded, “Although I have no doubt you would have been capable of working with him, he was not someone I wished you to be exposed to. You would have been used against me.”

There was a sharpness, an intensity to Eli’s gaze that surprised Thrawn as he murmured, “I know.”

-/

A rather unimpressed, yet fiercely concerned Formbi made himself available for a conference with Admiral Ar’alani less than forty-eight hours after they returned to the Steadfast. In that time, Thrawn, Eli, and Ezra had laid low, gone through the motions required of their respective positions. Everything about their meeting with Ronan had been very unofficial, despite its very official sanction, thus it had been passed off as an errand for Thrawn and Ezra, with any trace of Vanto’s presence scrubbed from the logs.

Part of Eli’s involvement with Project Compass seemed to involve the captain’s tendency to sequester himself away, Thrawn thought, wondering if the bulk of the crew noticed anything amiss. Certainly the Navigators had noticed Eli’s lack of appearances for what it was. Ezra had said that Un’hee did not appreciate them going dark, but she hadn’t appeared nearly as clingy as he usually saw her. There had been another two Navigators with her at the time, both of whom were around Un’hee’s age and very quiet. Most of what Thrawn had taken from the recap of their brief conversation was that Bridger had been displeased that the other Navigators didn’t trust him the way Un’hee and Vah’nya appeared to.

In retrospect, when Faro sidled up to him on the bridge, not aware of anything amiss, he realized that Eli had the tendency to go dark for long periods of time in the heat of statistical analysis, a trait he’d brought with him to the Ascendency from the Empire. His attention to detail was legendary, and there had been times when only Thrawn himself had been able to raise him on internal comms while he’d been on the verge of a breakthrough. Before, Eli had been apologetic afterwards, aware of his low rank when he drew Faro’s ire.

Now, Faro accepted it as one of her colleague’s quirks. Convenient, Thrawn thought.

Karyn Faro looked smug when she spoke to Thrawn. “The Syndic is speaking with the Admiral now,” She informed him. “I was asked to take a walk and figured it wouldn’t hurt for you to know.” She spoke in near-silent Basic, switching to Cheunh when he inclined his head. “Vanto was busy, as usual, but said give you any news that wasn’t mission critical.” Her eyes danced with something mischievous. “Sounds like you two are doing better, if I might be so bold...”

His eyes flashed. On the bridge? Certainly not. “Thank you for the intel, Commander,” Thrawn said. “If you wish to gossip, please do not do so on my bridge.”

“With all due respect, what exactly do you think happened on the Chimaera’s bridge, sir?”

Thrawn looked down at her. She stared back, unafraid. He raised an elegant eyebrow. She shrugged, nonplussed. “Do you require anything further, Commander?” He asked, before she could become cocky enough to probe him further.

Smiling, she shook her head. “No, Captain. I’ll go back and see if the Admiral has completed her conference.”

“No need,” Ar’alani said. She turned to the helm. “Set course for Sarvchi.” Her eyes locked onto Thrawn’s. “We’ll make the delivery in person.”

Trailing along behind her, reaching the bridge as she arrived at the helm, was Un’hee. Her brilliant crimson eyes seemed like they were sharpened into points. She didn’t look at Thrawn, instead turning to look up at Ar’alani. The admiral took her seat in her command chair. “Navigator Un’hee,” She said, placing a hand atop the girl’s head. “You are not-” She whispered something into the Admiral’s ear.

There was something grim in the set of her jaw, even as she inclined her head, dismissing her back to her station. Un’hee looked at Thrawn, then at the Navigator at the helm. She looked at Ar’alani again.

“To your cabin, Navigator. You are not yet on duty.”

Thrawn waited until the tiny Navigator made her way off the bridge, the girl slinking away displeased. “Is something wrong?”

She shook her head. “I have my own misgivings about this plan,” Ar’alani admitted quietly. “However if Chaf’orm’bintrano needs to see the red of my eyes to believe the seriousness of this threat, he will see them.”

Faro arrived at Ar’alani’s side as she’d finished speaking. “Admiral,” She acknowledged. “Course is locked in and on pace,” She indicated the star-streaks outside the ship. “Estimated time is six hours at current speed, give or take a few minutes.”

“Excellent,” Ar’alani said.

“What of the rest of the fleet?” Thrawn inquired.

Ar’alani inclined her head. “I do not anticipate this taking longer than a day, and the fleet is well protected and secure under Senior Captain Kresh’s command.”

“As you say, Admiral.”

When Thrawn looked up, Un’hee was lingering in the doorway to the bridge. Her eyes felt like they bore through him, the semi-darkness of the hallway just outside the bridge. She shook her head when she realized he had met her eyes and turned to the even smaller Navigator that stood in her shadow, taking both her hands and gesturing to Thrawn with a tilt of her head. The girl nodded, looking concerned but resolved. Un’hee pressed the tangle of their hands and smiled bravely before stepping back.

Ar’alani cleared her throat to get Thrawn’s attention, displeased at his distraction. “I did not wish to leave so abruptly,” She murmured to him. He hadn’t realized Faro had left. Her voice did not carry as she continued, “According to Ivant’s calculations, the fleet is due for another ‘shipment’ in approximately thirteen hours.” She looked up at Thrawn, who stood, leaning in, already thinking over her plan.

“Certainly the Senior Captain can handle it,” Thrawn said.

Ar’alani clenched the arms of her command chair with iron fists. “The shipment was scheduled for the Steadfast.”

“Implying-"

"Yes," She hissed, furious. "Just so." There were more traitors on her flagship.

Thrawn pulled back, but Ar'alani's hand reached out, wrapped around his wrist, sharp fingernails scratching his flesh, grip hard enough to bruise if it lingered for long.

"Mitth'raw'nuruodo," She murmured, in the voice she saved for her Navigators. It was meant to be soothing, but all it accomplished was making Thrawn's blood run cold. "Be ready to do what must be done." She remained looking straight ahead, though her fingers gripped him even fighter then, the bones of his wrist creaking at the brink of pain. She was not seeing the present moment, Thrawn knew, though he could not bring himself to take in the faraway sheen in her eyes, all too aware of the horrors they'd faced together in the past, before he'd left on his mission to court the Empire and she'd carried on alone. Horrors that she refused to allow to befall her cherished Navigators.

“Yes, Admiral.” Above all else, Mitth’raw’nuruodo and Ar’alani were warriors.

-/

Ivant kept the lighting in his office dim, mostly as a balm to the very sensitive Navigators he’d come to be in charge of, as well as by personal preference. The low lights allowed the projections he displayed in the open space to be seen with better clarity, and helped to put off the inevitable headaches he tended to get when staring at display screens for too long. To a human like Faro who had come and gone quickly when he’d been too distracted to entertain, it seemed dark. To a Chiss, it was tolerable. The Empire had only come in shades of sterile white and deepest gray-black.

In front of him, the remainder of the poison they had found remained sealed and locked in a blast-proof canister that would not open for anyone found not to have the clearance Formbi and Ar’alani had personally agreed on. He was not thrilled about the prospect of having the stuff in his office, safely sealed or not, but he knew that the crew would not come to him unless they were guilty of sympathizing with the enemy.

Which was why Ezra Bridger sat in the chair across from him, kneeling on the durasteel floor like it was comfortable, deep in what Eli assumed was a meditative trance. It was nothing like a Navigator, his abilities. They had tested, early on. Had laid subtle hints, looking for indications that his abilities could facilitate healing. But no, he was only capable of trances that seemed to help restore his mental and physical well-being, something that Eli knew through copious amounts of testing was not nearly as helpful to the Navigators, who were trained from early on to be balanced mentally.

Bridger claimed to tap into the Force, to sink into it like one soaked in a bath or waded into an ocean. His people, the Jedi, were meant to be guardians of peace. Spiritual shamans rooted and connected with the unseen ribbons of life itself, if the fragments of oral history and scraps of outlawed texts he’d gotten his hands on meant anything. The Force was his compass, the guide he followed.

Navigators were their own compass; conduits through which greater sight could be achieved. Sight that allowed them to safely direct the course of starships at lightspeed or coax into the smallest minutiae of a living being into healing. Sight into pathways that the future could take, one of infinite pathways that they could help breathe into being or cut off entirely.

The overlap in abilities existed, but mattered little in terms of the overall picture. The Jedi’s Force was not meant to be weaponized despite its many uses. Thrawn had recounted the tale of his and Ezra’s confrontation over Lothal, and the Jedi had confirmed the entire exchange verbatim. Eli was certain he would never forget the words for as long as he drew breath.

Eventually, but sooner than the Jedi might think, they would present Ezra Bridger with a choice: return home or stay, forever.

He didn’t need a Navigator’s Sight to know that Ezra would not choose as he had. He understood why, too. Eli’van’to would never truly be a Chiss. He might never have the same rights or privileges. Similarly, Ezra Bridger would always be a Jedi. He could not truly be a Navigator.

Besides, to the Chiss, their Sight was far more than a tool in a peacekeeper’s arsenal. Their alignment was neither light, nor dark, but something in-between. Their ascension and safekeeping was not destined to be a Jedi’s legacy.

“You’re worried,” Ezra breathed into the quiet hum of computers and the dim underlighting of Vanto’s office. “Everything will be fine.”

“Can you predict the future?” Vanto asked, trying and failing to keep the concern out of his voice.

“No,” The Jedi said, frowning. “The future is always in motion.” He shifted and readjusted his legs to sit cross-legged as Eli rounded his desk, leaning against the top of it, opposite of where he’d usually sit. “But you trust Ronan, and even that Formbi guy, whoever he is.”

“We already can’t trust the Aristocra, which means we didn’t really have many other options besides the private sector,” Ivant explained. “Our only saving grace is that House Chaf is a ruling family.” Darkly, he added, “Assuming he doesn’t betray us and go straight to the admiralty. The admiralty will feel that Ar’alani betrayed them by not coming forward with the information.”

Ezra frowned. “Even if she feared one of the Admirals to be compromised?”

“Even if she knows one of them is,” The Captain nodded. “Which, we know one of them must be, but we don’t know who. So now we’re left with a concept you’re familiar with: seeking forgiveness rather than asking permission.”

“Yeah,” The Jedi inclined his head. “So why are you so concerned?”

“It’s Admiral Ar’alani’s career on the line. And all of our lives.” And Project Compass, he thought to himself. If this goes to hell, if she loses credibility, all the data in the universe won’t matter to the council. If she finds herself blamed for anything that happens here, it would be the end of their project, and likely Eli’s life, for how close he was to all of these events. A family like Inrokini with their brutal, unwavering militaristic idealism would find it easy to take advantage in the fallout and topple House Mitth - Thrass’s influence would be reduced heavily for his loyalty to Ar’alani and the CDF as it currently stood. “Things won’t go according to plan,” Ivant said. “There are too many unknowns to plan for.”

“Aren’t there always?” Ezra rose so that he was looking Eli in the eye. “Look, I get it. Things could go wrong. They probably will.” He shrugged. “We’ll adapt. I know it’ll turn out alright.”

“Do you?”

“I have a pretty good feeling,” Ezra said. Despite Ivant’s skeptical look, he added sagely, “Trust in the Force.” Then, younger and more like his age, he added, “Or, y’know, trust me.”

Eli nodded. “Alright, Bridger. I’ll trust you.” He narrowed his gaze. If things really did go as poorly as his gut indicated it might, he might not get another chance. Ronan and the Empire didn’t have any information to give. He did not want Ezra imprinting his beliefs on Thrawn, given their history. Regardless of their relationship, Thrawn would always be a Chiss. He might understand human ethos, but Ezra was not Eli, and his principles as a Jedi would not always allow him to understand what decisions needed to be made - and at what cost. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“When we first questioned you, you mentioned that you had touched the,” Eli searched for a polite word that would hopefully prevent the Jedi from jumping to offense, “A less Jedi-like side of the force.”

The younger man’s eyes turned hard, like precious gemstones. “The Dark Side, Captain. Call it what it is,” He said, and pressed, “What is it you want to know?”

Eli allowed himself to sit atop his desk, legs hanging over the side. He folded his fingers together and laid them just shy of his knees.“You’ve encountered Grysks. You’ve fought alongside Jedi and against Sith. What do you think of the Navigators, after all this time?”

Silence followed the question. Pensively, Ezra looked up into Ivant’s eyes and then closed his own altogether. He seemed to sink back into that trance state as he stood there, reaching out with the Force. The Captain waited patiently for him to return to himself. When Ezra still said nothing, Ivant began to rephrase.

“The Galaxy is more than black and white, Dark and Light, good and evil.” He murmured the next bit even softer. “Jedi and Sith.”

“The Chiss aren’t on the side of the Light,” Ezra mused, making the connection he’d been steered towards.

“I do not believe so,” Eli admitted. “Not entirely. But I do not believe them to be inherently evil like the Grysks, either.” His gaze was contemplative, but serious. “I believe they are both.”

Ezra nodded his head. “The Chiss do not call it the Force. They are not like Sith or Jedi. There are… beings,” Ezra finally said. “Some are inherently attuned to the Force. My master said there were those attuned to the Light, and others attuned to the Dark. But,” Ezra confessed, “Yes. I’ve used the Dark Side. I’m not proud of it, and I hope never to do so again.” He tilted his head, looking at Eli. “If you want me to teach them how to commune with the Dark Side, I won’t.”

“That was never my intention,” Vanto said sternly. “It is only their goodness that will save them. A goodness they’ve forgotten, a sense of self that they have extinguished for sake of their pride.”

Bridger crossed his arms. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“If things go poorly, you are going to see things you should not see. Things I would ask you never to share with another soul. Things that may make you wonder which side the Navigators are on.”

“Even a Jedi has darkness in them,” Ezra said, suspicious. “Picking the Light... It’s a choice you keep making, you don’t just get to decide once and that’s it.”

Eli considered that. “But again, the Chiss do not see light or dark. The Chiss simply are. You have heard of their culture, their legacy as warriors. They do not perceive the Force like you do, though the ways they wield it may seem familiar to yourself and… others you may have encountered in the past.”

“There are Navigators using the Dark Side?” Ezra’s voice rose. “Captain - Eli - that’s not good. They’re just children, they-”

“Even so,” A solemn voice whispered from behind Ezra. He jerked in surprise, unable to hear, see, or even sense her approach. “A Navigator can be capable of weaponizing the Force in self defense.”

Ezra whirled around. “How?” His dark eyes met Vah’nya’s glowing ones. “Why would you want to-”

“I was terrified,” She said softly, speaking of her own experience as the memory played out in her mind’s eye. “I couldn’t help it. All I knew was that I was to suffer a fate worse than death.” She slipped into the room, head held high. “But like you said,” She gestured toward them with an open palm, “There is good and bad in all of us. Do you believe it is evil to be afraid? To be angry?”

“Well, no, but the Jedi code,” Ezra said, strained, “It kind of specifically warns against emotions ruling you. That isn’t - I don’t believe you or the other Navigators are evil, Vah’nya, but-”

“We are the ones in the middle,” Vah’nya said. “We are warriors, servants to those we protect. That is what it means to be a Navigator, to be a Chiss.” Her eyes glowed in the dimness of the room. “Are we the only ones in the universe who are children of both Light and Dark, not one or the other, but both?”

Understanding flickered across Ezra’s face. He stepped to the side, allowing Vah’nya to join their circle. “There is only one being I know of,” He admitted. Ezra looked between them both. “But you’re not entirely the same. He - Bendu was a bit more… cranky. And chaotic. Thrawn told you about him,” Ezra said. “He was the one on Atollon.”

“He used the Force?” Eli asked, voice rising, sounding surprised. There was an edge to his voice as Vah’nya leaned forward in interest, expectantly. “I’ve heard of sentient creatures - big, small, that doesn’t really matter, but-” Eli didn’t have to go on.

“He did. He taught my master how to see with the Force after he’d been blinded,” Ezra said softly, then looked up at Eli, running through what he knew of the planet-side battle from his friends. “Oh,” He said, and swallowed. Kanan had trusted his friend, had trusted Bendu to help them defeat the Empire, even though he’d used abilities that weren’t becoming of a Jedi, that weren’t grounded in the Light at all. He didn’t see the significant look Vah’nya and Eli shared around him, preoccupied with his thoughts as he said, “I see what you mean.”

[southboundhq]

MEET ALISON,

FULL NAME › Alison Griogair ‘Sonny’ MacClean AGE › twenty four GENDER › Cis male (He/Him/His) FROM › Boot Hill, Arizona RESIDENCY › Blackwater Street (Midtown) OCCUPATION › Bartender at the Bucking Horse Saloon NOW PLAYING › Mama Tried by Merle Haggard

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger/content warnings: disappearance of a family member, presumed death, alcoholism

Two phrases from Grandfather MacClean’s lips have embedded themselves in Alison’s mind since adolescence: your name is all you have and the sins of the father shall be visited upon the sons. He learned quickly that both were true, at least in the town of Boot Hill. From the moment of his conception, Alison has been a MacClean first and a person second. In a place like Boot Hill, in a family like the MacCleans, there’s no escaping your family and all that comes with it. For some, family is a source of pride, their family name a name to be proud to wear. For Alison, his family name has chained him.

In the eyes of Boot Hill, the name MacClean must be some sort of cosmic joke—there’s nothing clean nor good about those dirty MacCleans. In the eyes of Alison, the name MacClean is a searing iron brand given at birth. With the name MacClean, you’re branded for life, and that brand is poor white trash. The ultimate sin Ewan passed onto his children is the sin of doing without. (And multiple affairs, but that was never something to blame unto his children, MacCleans or other—though that didn’t always stop the rumor mill.) Each child born of their family immediately thought to be another waste of space.

Alison has never really understood what made his family so dirty. They weren’t bad, they didn’t hurt anybody, they didn’t sell drugs (his parents didn’t, at least, he could make no promise of his brothers), they gave smiles and waves and small talk to any that crossed their path. Their only apparent crime that too many children filled a four bedroom house. Once a brand sears, it never goes away, just scars, and their brand was given to them generations before Alison nor any of his siblings or his parents were brought into the world. The history of his family weighs heavier than gravity, always pressing down, always there.

The Connelly clan and the MacCleans merged in 1976, with the marriage of young Bedelia, merely fourteen, and Ewan, nearly seventeen. Each had their own sordid history, the mixing of their combined family tragedies doomed Ewan and Bedelia’s children twice over. While bad things always happened to either family or any family with its roots in Boot Hill, it seemed they, these eight boys and two girls, got the worst luck of the lot. This new generation, Ewan’s boys, were cursed, and each side blamed the other for the tragedy that befell the children of Ewan MacClean and Bedelia Connelly. Not much can be said for the children sired by other mother’s, but they must be a bit cursed too, with that MacClean blood in their veins.

Alison Griogair MacClean was born eighth in line. Alison, originally a male name, he’ll likely tell you if you snicker, but he’s always gone by the name Sonny, ever since he was a child. Only his family gets to call him Al, and no one has dared tried to call him Allie. Some used to say it was ironic that he’s called Sonny, since Alison has never been carefree, never had a sunny disposition. Alison was born serious, born anxious and wary of those around him, even his siblings. The type to hang back at the mouth of the cave while his friends, adventurous and dangerous little boys, headed deeper into the darkness. Always the sentinel guarding the door, always on the lookout for parents or cops, always wringing his hands while others had fun.

Number eight, or number seven if you’re just counting the boys, Alison felt he had to be the serious one. His older brothers were rowdy, rambunctious things. The brothers before him had made names for themselves, and yet they were all referred to as ‘one of the MacClean boys’ before their first name is ever uttered. Alison learned quickly that his siblings were never individual people, just part of a set; he, too, just another addition, indistinguishable from any of the others. The lineage of the MacClean family is a sea of men with dirty blond hair and deep cornflower blue eyes, save for the red-headed and freckled Alison. It is an incredibly easy family to drown in, to lose your identity in until being a MacClean is the only identity you have.

The MacClean girl, Eileen. His older sister used to be referred to as ‘the one good thing out of the MacClean family’ before everyone just referred to her as missing, and then finally, dead. Alison was just a small child when Eileen had disappeared, but he remembers her like a burn mark. Most of all, he remembers her storming off on that fateful night after a fight with Fearghas and never returning. Sometimes he wonders if his mother has ever forgiven Fearghas for that, or if Fearghas has ever forgiven himself. As the months grew longer, the hole in the family grew larger, and Alison felt terrible that his little siblings never got to know the type of people their parents were before Eileen disappeared, and felt lucky he was able to experience just a little of it.

Ewan had never been a warm man, but he began to smell more like drink until Alison became convinced his father was bathing in it. His mother, cheerful and happy to greet every day with a smile, closed off tighter than Eileen’s bedroom door. The brothers no longer fought inside the house, instead avoiding it all together as if it was infected with the plague, and more talk came from them about moving out as soon as they graduated–or likely dropped out of–high school. The river of the MacClean family soon dried up after two more came, mother already pregnant with Cian by the time Eileen disappeared, and the next was what most in town (sometimes even Alison) thought of as the replacement. Their claims became even more emboldened when their new baby was a little girl, the second girl to ever be born from Bedelia and now the only girl, and became concrete when Grandmother Connelly proclaimed Isla to be Eileen’s reincarnated soul.

Only missing for four years, Eileen was officially declared dead in absentia, and so added even more gravity to the MacClean name. Now, additional to the gossip and ire that was usually spewed about his family, the tragedy of Eileen MacClean was a tale that bored soccer moms loved to scare their children with when they refused to come in from playing or barmaids and hair stylists used to inform newcomers when giving the lowdown about every family in Boot Hill like it was just some ghost story instead of the absence of a sister and daughter from eleven people’s lives. By the crest of his adolescence, his parents were shadows of their former selves, growing a divide in his mind: Before Eileen and After Eileen. Neither life seemed any more better or worse than the other, or rather her disappearance didn’t change him in the way it did his parents or his older brothers. There grew a second divide; the siblings that remembered Eileen and the ones who didn’t—namely Alison, Cian, and Isla.

As the years kept on, the story of poor Eileen became just another facet in the family history of the MacCleans, and some other town scandal came to distract everyone from a loving mother’s cold-growing heart. Always so serious, even back then, Alison didn’t react much to anything, not even as schoolyard bully’s sympathies dwindled and their teasing roared back up again like there was never any lull. After awhile, even Alison got used to his grieving mother and absent father, like there was never any other version of them he used to know when he was a child.

As the MacClean house grew colder with every brother that moved out to his own home, to start his own job or family, Alison began to feel the town’s eyes focus on him. At thirteen, he became keenly aware of expectations, what came with wearing his last name. There seemed to be only one road for them to travel, a single straight line to follow: be worth nothing, bring no value to society. A rather broad and harsh brush to paint all of the children with, but Alison knew what others saw when they looked at him, what will this one do to screw up his life?

Alison grew up thinking he was just another nameless boy in the MacClean line, so he did nothing to try to stand out. Sometimes, he dreamt of leaving Boot Hill and making a name for himself, like all little kids in Boot Hill did, but rarely did they ever make it out. He dreamt of it, but only fleetingly, and he wasn’t very imaginative with it. Nothing interested him, except for baseball, the one thing he seemed to actually be good at, but he neither had the grades nor the inclination to use that to leave Boot Hill. Sometimes he dreamt of heading down to Tucson or even going as far as Texas, but these flights of fancy left as quickly as they came. His mother used to encourage him to be smart, study as hard as he could, but her grief swallowed her whole and Alison could never count on his father to give any advice on anything other than cheating on your wife and which bars they never card at, not even when his father was a boy.

Any hopes of leaving Boot Hill were dashed the day the guidance counselor called him in and told him he barely had the grades to graduate in two years; he ditched more than he attended and even when he did, the words on the page floated and twisted themselves like ivy until he could barely even think of what he just read. If he worked extra hard, spent every moment of his life getting his grades up, Alison could be the first MacClean to leave Boot Hill. As sweetly as the counselor said them, all Alison heard was that he was stupid like his father, and he stopped attending Boot Hill High as soon as baseball season had ended. Sonny MacClean became another waste of space in a long line of wasted spaces. If he was going to be a MacClean, then he was going to commit to it, and that meant never dreaming anything better for yourself than what you already have.

So Alison resigned himself to his fate. Barely old enough to be even inside a bar legally, Alison picked up a job at the Bucking Horse Saloon (his own father preferred the Coyote’s Howl or his own backyard to drink in, lessening his chances of running into his dad) as a barback. Plenty of people told him he was throwing his life away, fixturing himself to a bar like his father and a few brothers before him—Alison jokes that he’s behind the bar, it’s different. It wouldn’t have mattered anyways, nothing mattered. Alison was a failure and he knew it, ashamed of it but defensive of it. He surrendered to the image that town gossip provided for him, for his family. An intentional self saboteur.

Soon, Alison left the family home and moved into a house with a few high school buddies over in Midtown, close to work; not because he was kicked out or not welcomed, only that he couldn’t stand Eileen’s ghostly shadow hanging in every corner, the reminder that their family was broken and would never be repaired. He easily filled the spot of bartender when his mentor retired and haunts the Bucking Horse Saloon better than any of its barflies. When he’s not there, he’s home. When he’s not there, he’s at the bowling alley or playing a pick-up game of baseball out in the desert with a few guys. If there’s anything to be said about the eighth MacClean boy, Sonny is a great bowler and an even better bartender.

Alison briefly thought he’d get out of Boot Hill. He briefly thought he wouldn’t end up like his father or his brothers. And yet here he is, serving beers to men with livers shriveled like raisins and hanging out the bowling alley every night, just like everyone told him he was going to be. He’s surprisingly okay with that.

❝ i could, so easily, let my heart back inside this burning house. ❞

CENSUS,

FACECLAIM › Harris Dickinson AUTHOR › Admin Rachel

[sinisterssister]

By Any Other Name: Part Three

Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader

Summary: [Y/n] Stark is an acclaimed journalist (and infamous anonymous hacker) who has dedicated her career to uprooting corruption. She has worked hard to separate herself from her brother’s reputation and his world. Now, however, she finds herself right back in the fray as Sergeant Barnes resurfaces. For some reason, Bucky is drawn to [y/n], and she finds herself betraying not only her convictions, but her family as she joins him on his path to redemption.

a/n: If you want to be tagged let me know! Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback! Next chapters will have a lot more romance in them, so stay tuned!

Part two

From the center of the hangar roof, [y/n] couldn’t explicitly see the fight, but the explosions were enough to give an impression of the war below. She had promised Steve she would remain hidden as she hacked into the quinjets system. Her job was to start the engines, enter Bucky’s coordinates, and then act as their defense to prevent Tony from hacking into the autopilot mid-flight. Her assistance would be invaluable, her presence unnoticed, and her consequences minimal. Simple orders, easy instructions, no sweat. However, things went awry- as they do when the future of humanity is at stake.

The hangar shook beneath her as someone collided with the wall. The familiar sound of a repulsor ripped through the air. [y/n] jumped as Sam blasted into view, flailing as he attempted to regain control of his wings. More eruptions followed.

“What is going on down there?” She inquired through her comm. A series of shots rang through the other end as Steve answered with ‘a slight miscalculation.’

This was unlike any battle she had witnessed before. In New York, despite the chaos, everyone knew who the enemy was and there was no hesitation to pull the trigger. Here, however, their adversaries were the people they had on speed-dial, the friends they fought side-by-side with, and -in [y/n]’s case- the brother that raised her. The objective wasn’t to kill the enemy. It was to save their family. She loved the people down there and she had to fight for all of them- even if it meant fighting against half of them.

“Ok, I’m coming down.” [y/n] transferred the controls on her computer to the screen on her arm.

“Negative, Stark. You aren’t cleared for combat. We need you up there.” Steve ordered. “Do not leave your station.”

[y/n] chuckled, jumping off of the black trunk she perched upon. “No offense, Cap, but I’m not a recruit, and I’m not helpless. You need me down there more.”

She ran her finger along a crevice in the crate, and the line began to glow. Taking a step back, she watched as the box unfolded and then morphed into a familiar shape. Her bike is sleek and black with gold trim. A TRON motorcycle, equipped with her very own AI. [y/n] didn’t allow herself to remember that this was her favorite christmas present from her favorite engineer as she mounted the bike.

“Hello OSCAR.”

The bike ignited beneath her, “Hello, mistress Stark.”

“Wanda, I could use a lift.”

“I’m a little preoccupied at the moment,” the witch grunted in response. A red blast of energy encompassed a plane as it hurled toward Vision.

With the only members of the team capable of flight previously engaged, a daunting realization settled in [y/n]’s stomach. She had to get down on her own.

“OSCAR, you know that scene from Fast and Furious 7?”

“I feel compelled to remind you, miss, in the words of the esteemed Brian O’Connor, ‘Cars don’t fly.’”

“Good thing this isn’t a car then, buddy.” She shuddered and took a deep breath, assessing the roof before her. 200 feet stood between her and the edge. She hoped it was enough. Physics was always her brother’s specialty.

[y/n] tightened her helmet and the visor lit up, showing the calculations OSCAR was running through. As she checked the battery, he explained the speed and stability she needed to survive the leap.

“Probability of stable landing: 39.4%. Probability of landing without injury: 12.6%. Probability of death: 78.9%.”

“Thank you, OSCAR, for that encouraging assessment.”

“You did not program me to be encouraging. I have been wired to be cynical, calculating, and caustic. While I may not be able to act as your ‘hype man,’ I can offer you a sardonic comment.”

“Choose wisely Oz. These might be the last words I ever hear.”

He cleared his nonexistent throat. There was a moment of silence as he considered his words. With a deep breath, [y/n] settled forward on the bike, bringing her feet up, and gripping the handlebars.

“Do it.” His monotonous voice whispered, “You won’t.”

“Bet.” She smirked and pulled the clutch. “OSCAR start the ‘Bad Decision’ playlist.”

~

Bucky dodged an iron pipe swung by Rhodey. Just as they moved to initiate another attack, the opening drums of Black Betty sounded from above, followed by the rev of an engine.

They shared a look of confusion, glancing around the airport to search for the source. Suddenly, a shadow passed over them. They looked up.

Time seemed slow as her tires left the roof and [y/n] realized why Tony enjoyed flying so much. In that single moment of suspension, she was unbound to the earth, soaring.

Then the ground was rushing toward her. Her tires collided with asphalt. Her body came down hard on the seat, and her first thought was if someone could break their tailbone.

Turning the bike abruptly, she skid to a halt between Bucky and Rhodey, both of whom had dived out of her way. They stared at her perplexed, horrified, and in awe.

She slipped up her visor to reveal the grin of a child who had finally hit a home run, turning back to check if his mom was paying attention.“ Did anyone else see that?”

“[y/n]? What the hell are you doing-” Whatever Rhodey began to say turned into a series of stutters as his body seized up. He fell to the ground and spasmed in beat with the pulse of the repulsor.

She stared at War Machine for a moment, concerned, but quickly turned toward Bucky with an expectant look. “Need a ride?”

Stunned, Bucky glanced from Rhodeys convulsing body to the cane in [y/n]’s grip, finally landing on her eyes. Her whole visage lit up with innocent exhilaration.

He took a shuddering breath, realizing his heart beat had sped up. There was something oddly endearing about her excited grin, astonished by her own badassery. Bucky was entranced.

The bike lurched forward just as he saddled on. His arm slipped around her waist instinctively in an effort to hang on, the odd shape and speed of the bike being far different to what he was used to. In his other hand, he gripped her cane.

~

“Hey, Nat!” [y/n] exclaimed, a grin forming on her face. Natasha smiled back sweetly, delivering a swift kick to Clint’s chest, knocking him away. She was holding back.

“[y/n]! I love your suit.” She complimented. “Leather looks great on you.”

“You have to tell me how you keep your hair so flawless,” [y/n] inquired, leaning forward on the bike. Natasha laughed, but it caught in her throat at the man who peered over [y/n]’s shoulder.

The smile fell from Nat’s face as she realized they were on opposing teams. Bucky's arm tightened around [y/n]’s waist, almost protectively. His breath was hot against her ear and she could only imagine his confusion. Cautiously, [y/n] brushed her hand over the one clutching her side. As gently as she could, she grasped it, signaling for him not to attack. “So I’m guessing our trip to the mall is gonna be postponed.”

Natasha shrugged, not moving to initiate a fight. “It’s probably better for us to go dress shopping without bruises anyway.”

In that brief exchange, more things were said than Bucky could pick up on. In all those years since she had entered [y/n]’s life, Natasha had developed an incredible friendship with the journalist. [y/n] had given Nat a taste of normality. The assassin had grown to cherish their movie marathons, late night gossip and days spent dressing up and scoping cute guys out at the mall. [y/n] had given her a life she never thought she could have. She was indebted to her in more ways than one.

Nats eyes flicked to the cane in Barnes grip. It looked like a twig in his hands. A pang of guilt struck her as she recalled the role she played in permanently crippling her friend. She was the one to call [y/n] for help in taking down SHIELD, and it was her fault [y/n] was on the highway when the crash occurred.

Natasha made her decision. In truth, she had already decided that she would never harm her friend again after DC. She wouldn’t fight [y/n], which meant she wasn’t getting to Barnes, because if she knew her best friend she knew she was stubborn.

“We have plenty of other friends to fight, I’d say we can postpone this duel too.”

The smile that graced [y/n]’s lips was sad, but her eyes were grateful. Barnes looked between them, utterly lost, but Nat just waved to her friend before dashing away.

A smirk made its way to her lips. She had noticed the way [y/n]’s cheeks flushed as the soldier pulled her into him, and she couldn’t wait to tease her about it later.

~

“Something just flew in me!” Scott panicked, grasping his chest. [y/n] looked over to see Vision phase through the giant and project a beam of light across the tarmac. The beam cut through the tower directly in front of the hangar. Her eyes widened as she realized Bucky and Steve were too far away to make it on foot. Before the tower began to crumble, she was already pushing her bike to the top setting, racing toward the super soldiers.

[y/n] shot across the tarmac. Red energy encompassed the falling debris, and she thanked the gods they had Wanda on their team. The boys startled as she pulled up beside them, Bucky nearly knocking her off the bike before he recognized her.

“Get on!” She ordered, jumping off the bike. Steve followed the command, but Bucky hesitated. He stared at her.

There was a cut across her forehead, and she had lost her cane in the chaos.This bike was her only means of escape. They were leaving her utterly defenseless. He could only hope her brother would show her more mercy than he had received. Softly, he grasped her hand with his human one. She didn’t flinch.

“Thank you,” he whispered, mounting the bike. She nodded, her eyes wide with fright. Bucky held her gaze as Steve sped away, a strange ache is his chest as they left her behind.

Tagged: @chipilerendi @dottirose @gambitsqueen

[we-are-all-obsessed-here]

Heartfelt Reunions

(Not my Gif)

Warning: The Last Jedi spoilers (So I’ll put the fic below the cut)

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Summary: Based on this request (X)

Masterlist

The shields were only just holding up, the constant barrage by the First Order was slowly wearing them down. Fuel was running low and once that was all gone, there would be no shields at all to hold up. Each time a shot landed against the shield the ship jolted slightly, each jolt becoming more powerful the more the shields dwindled. You were treating the few survivors of the bombing run on the First Order Dreadnaught. With each passing moment, more injured came rushing into the main treatment room aboard the ship.

"How long do we have left?" You yelled above the noise of the room.

"Two hours Ma'am!" A voice called back.

"Shit. We're running out of time!" You worried to yourself. Biting your lip, you finished off placing Bactastrips across a wound in a man's arm, wrapping it up in bandages then finally placing it in a sling.

"Take it easy on that or you'll rip the strips apart."

"Yes Ma'am!" The man nodded, hopping off the cot and leaving the room. You rushed around the ship, going from room to room, assisting in the more serious injuries. A particularly harsh barrage of firing from the First Order caused you to lose balance, throwing you sharply over a cot. You landed in an awkward position, pain flaring in your shoulder. Several nurses rushed to you, helping you to your feet and onto the cot. You waved them off.

"I'm fine. I'm fine."

"Ma'am you've dislocated your shoulder. You've got a wound on your forehead." A male nurse fussed. Reaching up you touched your head and found blood coating your fingers.

"This is inconvenient." You murmured to yourself in frustration. A hiss leaving your lips as you grasped the dislocated arm.

"No don't do it yourself!" A female nurse rushed forward trying to swat your hands away. In a fluid movement and a sharp shout you relocated your shoulder and breathed harshly through gritted teeth.

The nurses around you rolled their eyes before returning to the chaos around them. This was typical of you, always being reckless and taking things into your own hands. Its why you and commander Dameron made such a good couple. You couldn't wait until the day ended because it was just one massive shit show at the moment. The Resistance had already lost too many ships and the medical ship you were currently on was beginning to fall behind. It wouldn't be long until the constant barrage of the First Order would wipe your ship out.

"How far are we from the flagship?" You contacted the bridge.

"Falling further behind each minute Ma'am!"

Turning to other senior staff you let out a short sigh.

"Get those with minor injuries and the staff we can cope without on escape ships and get them to the flagship. Get as many people on the ships as possible and get them out of here. We don't have much time left." You ordered. The other senior staff nodded in agreement and began sending orders to the other decks.

"Ma'am please you need to put your arm in a sling!" A nurse followed behind you with a bandage in his grasp. With a frustrated sigh you turned and allowed the nurse to fixed your arm into position.

"Happy?" You asked.

"Yes Ma'am!"

"Get yourself to an escape ship. Take those from your ward that are walking wounded." You ordered. The nurse turned and rushed off to their ward.

Another barrage of fire caused the medical ship to shudder violently, pained cries left those severely injured.

"We're running out of time!" You began to worry. Grasping the heel and calf of the woman in front you told her to take deep breaths. She screamed as you extended her leg, pulling and watching as the exposed bone slipped back into the leg.

"Strap it up and keep an eye on pedal pulse." You told the nurses administering pain relief. You dashed around the lower decks, slipping around medical droids to deal with the more severely injured. You pulled off your blood covered gloves and sighed softly as another Resistance fighter passed on.

"We're losing too many people." You growled out. You glared out the window at the First Order in the far distance. Almost punching the comms button and opened a line to the bridge.

"How long do we have left?" You asked once again.

"Half an hour. If you're getting people to escape ships, now is the time." Was the reply. You opened up a ship wide broadcast.

"This is an emergency announcement, can all remaining staff get every able bodied individual to the escape shuttles," you paused, knowing what you were about to say would be the hardest decision you'll ever have to make. "Medical droids will be left aboard the ship. With deepest regret this also includes...the dead and dying. I thank every single one of you for your service, you've done us proud. May the Force be with you!"

You moved through the decks of the ship, ushering everyone towards the remaining escape ships.

"We can't leave people behind!" One of the senior medical staff berated you.

"This ship is overcrowded to begin with, if we took even the dying, there's not enough space on the shuttles for the living! I'm doing what's best its a hard call but it makes sense! I... I know your father is among them... this is going to be hard to leave him behind I understand that-"

"You don't understand anything. You're not losing anyone you love on this ship!"

"Three of my friends are dead. I've had to call their deaths. Another is dying of their burns, someone I'm having to leave behind. Don't begin to assume you know what I am or what I'm not losing!" You took a breath before adding. "Get yourself to a ship. I'll finish off here."

"There aren't many ships left." A nurse stated in passing.

"Get yourself off, both of you, take as many people as you can." You ordered. With a final look over their shoulders they exited the ward with a handful of people in tow. You were midway through a ward, ushering people out and treating a patient when the ships lights flickered.

"Ma'am the bridge." A nurse hurried to your side.

"Take over." You told him, gesturing to the patient. Standing by the comms unit you opened the broadcast.

"What is it?"

"Ma'am the fuel is about to run out, you have a matter of minutes before the shields fail, one more hit and they're gone completely."

"There's still plenty of people on board, you gave me half an hour not a couple of minutes!" You looked around you at everyone still on board.

"Get yourself to a ship Ma'am we can't lose you too. Commander would have our heads-"

"I don't give a damn what Poe would do, I'm not leaving until every last person is off this ship. That means everyone on the bridge too." You argued back. Before the bridge could reply you were lifted into the air and hauled over the shoulder of who you eventually recognised as one of the doctors.

"Let me go! There's still people on other decks, they leave before I do."

"Ma'am there isn't enough shuttles. We've already breached weight limit on every shuttle that's left so far!"

"I said put me down! That's an order!" You shouted.

"You can punish me after I've saved your life." The doctor called.

The escape shuttle creaked as you were placed on your feet. You rushed over to the comms terminal and opened a link to the bridge.

"Get off the ship! We're the last shuttle!" You cried.

"I'm sorry Ma'am the controls are shot. Someone has to stay onboard."

"May the Force be with you." You whispered, resting your head against the terminal. You tried to keep your composure as the shuttle shakily left the medical ship. Your gaze memorized those who were stood in the hangar who couldn't find a place on the shuttle. Your hand rested against the window as they disappeared from sight.

"We've lost too much today." You bowed your head. The medical ship jolted and began to drift as the fuel finally gave out, the shields failing a moment later.

"They're preparing to fire on the ship Ma'am!" A voice shouted.

"Everyone brace yourself!" You watched in grief and horror as the medical ship was blasted, with no protection it became nothing more than debris in mere moments. The escape shuttle shook as the blast washed over it. You were too close to the medical ship, the debris was travelling too fast when it impacted the shuttle. You began to slow, the flagship getting further and further away.

"Shit!" You cried. The debris had hit one of the engines, wiping it out completely. You watched in terror as people passed to and fro trying to reroute power to try and catch up with the flagship.

You kept yourself busy treating the injured, praying to the Force that the shuttle would make it to the flagship. A jolt made you think the worse but a cheer went through the people. Looking up you saw that you were moving faster than before, the flagship getting closer and closer. Just as you were pulling towards the hangar the only engine began to fail, stuttering and restarting. The shuttle dropped every few seconds.

"C'mon we're so close!" You whispered as you looked onward to the wrecked hangar. Screams went through the crowd as the shuttle gave a final splutter and dropped. It skidded across the hangar ground, screeching filled the air as metal scraped on metal. You were thrown against the window as the shuttle came to a stop. There was a moment of peace before the engine exploded.

Poe searched for you after each shuttle docked in the hangar, but there was no sign of you and no word from the medical ship. He heard rumours of you rushing around the decks on the medical ship like a woman gone mad, delving in to treating everyone you could. Despite the frustration he was failing to contain at Admiral Holdo's decisions, he couldn't help but smile at the gossip of the nurses and Resistance members. As he began to put together a group to support him in instigating a mutiny, he kept his ear to the ground for news of you. His frustration increased tenfold as news reached him of the medical ship falling to the wrath of the First Order, innocent lives being lost in the chaos. That's when he was desperate to hear news about you, he knew how stubborn you were, it was one of the reasons why he loved you. He knew that you wouldn't leave the ship until everyone else did. He also knew that your colleagues knew this and would drag you kicking and screaming if it came down to it. Even after he took control of the bridge, he still hadn't heard any word of you. He began to think the worst and that only fueled his need to get everyone to safety. His mutiny ended in a single shot fired by the General, knocking Poe unconscious. When he woke next he was on an escape shuttle heading away from the flagship. His thoughts left you for a brief moment as the escape shuttles around him were destroyed one by one. If you had made it onto the flagship, and from there made it onto a shuttle, he silently prayed that you were still alive. His hand grasped the ring around his neck. Poe tried to find comfort in his mother and his love for you. He soon found himself on solid ground inside the fortress of the old Resistance base.

Your gaze passed over the remaining Resistance members.

"We've lost too much today. Too much." You wiped away a stray tear before returning to your duties, ushering the very few survivors away from the entrance. Feeling dizzy you sat yourself down on an old crate, you took your head in your hands, your shoulder screaming at you.

"Ma'am... You have a concussion. You need to rest." A doctor crouched in front of you.

"I'll be fine. Just need a breather."

A sharp pain in your neck made you yelp. You looked to see the doctor pulling back a syringe.

"Give yourself ten minutes at least. That's an order Ma'am!" The doctor pinned you with a stare before heading back towards the injured.

"General we have to go out there. Take out that weapon!" A familiar voice called. Abruptly you stood and limped towards the voice. You searched the crowd for the origin of the voice. Then you saw him, giving orders to a group of pilots.

"Poe," you began to push through people. "Poe!" You shouted. The pilot turned and beamed as his gaze landed on you. He rushed to you and embraced you.

"Ow!" You exclaimed, pushing him back. He held your arms and looked you up and down.

"You made it!"

"Only just... our escape shuttle crashed in the hangar, the engine exploded, most people were killed. So I'm very banged up at the minute." You gave a lopsided smile. Poe ran his fingertips over your cheek plastered in blood and black scorch marks. Smiling at Poe you cupped his cheek before raising your hand and slapping him hard.

"A mutiny Poe! Really a fucking mutiny! What were you thinking!" You berated him. Poe captured your lips in a heated kiss.

"I've missed you." He grinned after pulling away.

"I've missed you too fly-boy." You gave him a tender kiss against his lips.

"We're ready Poe!" A pilot called.

"You're heading out?" You asked.

"I've got to, otherwise we're goners," Poe took the chain from around his neck and placed it in your grasp. "I'll be coming back for this." He pressed a kiss against your cheek.

"Poe not your mother's ring!" You tried to push the ring back into his grasp.

"I'm hoping after this it'll be yours." He smiled at you. You pulled him in for a deep, passionate kiss.

"Go and get 'em fly-boy!" You whispered against his lips.

"Yes Ma'am!" He winked playfully at you. You stayed by the comms and listened in on Poe's command over his pilots. You closed your eyes and held tightly onto the ring hanging around your neck. Once today was over, you decided that you would begin the next part of your existence standing alongside the love of your life, till death do you part.

[keaalu]

Remember Me, chapter two

Title (chapter): Remember Me (02)

Series: Transformers, G1-based “Blue” AU

Rating: PG-13

Notes: In which we find out that what do you know, Ramjet’s trine aren’t a bunch of total incompetents, or at least not all the time.

               Today was apparently Slipstream’s turn to spark-sit.

               It hadn’t been, to start with – but Footloose had been called away at short notice to an emergency in the recycling plant on the edge of the district and pleaded his help. He didn’t mind giving his twin a hand, especially if it might lead to the opportunity to blackmail her later.

               Skydash might have been small, but that first-instar frame apparently had oversized tanks because she always had energy to spare. Keeping up with her was usually a collective affair. Only her dam Celerity seemed to be able to manage it on her own, and that was probably only because she was big enough for a cold-fusion core generator. (Slipstream tried not to be jealous of it.)

               Slipstream had collected his little cousin from Surefire, currently on spark-duty in the makeshift nursery in Celerity’s office, then joined up with a small group of close friends and family to take his mid-orn break in one of Deixar’s small new parks. It was greener than most Cybertronians were familiar with, but the trees weren’t just decorative – a small energy collector grafted onto each plant’s trunk fed power into the grid, or any tired machine that wanted to take advantage of it.

               After downloading the latest news to his wafer, the blue mech crashed out in the shade of a nice mature tree to read it while he charged. Longbeam and Whitesides sat together nearby, catching up on the gossip, sharing the remains of a bag of bright fulminating candies (probably swiped off Pulsar’s desk). Sunspot, one of Slipstream’s housemates, lounged full length nearby, chewing a stylus and preparing a playlist; the little yellow bike had almost offlined in shock at being invited to put something together for the Vosian celebrations, and had since spent at least ten orns solid doing nothing else.

               All the inactivity had left Skydash bored. Nobody was doing anything except talk and sit. She wanted to call “Unnolawp” and get him to take her flying, but her little transmitter didn’t have a good enough power output yet to reach him (she knew; she’d tried already) and Unnolseem wouldn’t call him for her.

               Unimpressed by having her family refuse to take her with them to New Vos, Skydash was busy trying to get to the tallest point on the small tree nearby, to see if it’d be tall enough for her to see all the way out there. Unfortunately the spindly trunk wasn’t really up to supporting her weight, and every time she got a fraction higher than halfway, it bowed almost all the way in half to dump her back on her small aft.

               So frustrating!

               She sprawled dramatically over her cousin’s lap, on top of his newssheet, scrolling through a dozen or so pages at once. “Unnolseem. Why Day not take?”

               Slipstream set his wafer to one side and flicked one of her tiny wing-nubs. “Didn’t we go through this two breems ago, Scraplet? Because he’s at work, and it’s a building site, and you’re still little and squish-able.”

               “Took before.”

               “He wasn’t at work before.”

               “But want see! Make fly!”

               “Footloose said she’d come and pick you up as soon as she was done with her latest trauma case, remember? Isn’t she good enough for going for a fly with?”

               Skydash thought about it for a few seconds. “Yes? Not Day.”

               “Ugh. Some people are never satisfied.”

               With an exaggerated roll of the optics, Slipstream rolled her out of his lap and tumbled her down the little slope; giggling, she finally fetched up against Longbeam. The tall femme peered down on her for a second before posting a candy into the small mouth that opened expectantly at her, like the gape of a baby bird.

               No wonder Dash kept them running most of the time. She was always getting topups.

               Slipstream stretched out more comfortably and flicked his way back to his place in the news. It surely wouldn’t have been that big a deal to take the little scrap off to Vos? It wasn’t like she often actually detached from Thundercracker’s shoulders when the big jet was looking after her.

               The sound of approaching jet engines shaded subtly into his awareness. Slipstream looked up from his wafer, curiously – of his family, no-one was due back in the region for ten breems, and no other airframes lived very close to Deixar.

               He couldn’t see anything, and sent out a broad-ranging positional request instead.

               …and got nothing.

               Uneasy, he stood up to get a better look around. Why would someone privacy lock their basic signal data? He dipped into a police channel instead, and turned it into an official request for an ident.

               Still nothing. Slag. He felt his pumps clicking subtly into a higher gear and defensive protocols coming online.

               Longbeam picked up on the use of the official cipher and looked up at him. “Problem, Seemo?”

               “You didn’t hear jets, just then?” At her nod, he added; “They’re not responding to my pings.” The sound of engines had disappeared; too abruptly to have just passed over. They must have landed.

               “You think they’re in trouble?” She stood and moved closer, lowering her voice.

               Something about the exact subharmonic frequency of the engine noise had upset his diagnostics in a very familiar way. “I think they are the trouble.”

               She straightened, subtly, suddenly anxious, and mouthed Decepticons? at him.

               “Not sure. Maybe?” He whispered the words back to her, even though he was aware that suddenly everyone was listening closely to him. “Might wanna get everyone out of the open, just in case.”

               “Good idea.” Longbeam crouched next to her sibling. “Whitesides? Might need you to run interference for me…”

               Slipstream turned his attention towards Thundercracker, out in New Vos. -sent anyone to Deixar?- he asked. -got company, no ident-

               No reply. Wait, no. Not no reply… his signal wasn’t even getting out. Something was jamming him-!

               At last, Slipstream realised Skydash was talking to him.

               “…Who they, unnol? Who coming?”

               Slag! Too close already!

               Slipstream turned, alarmed, and barely had the chance to register the large white body hurtling in his direction before he was impacted by a violent tackle that sent them both crashing into the vegetation. The poor tree didn’t stand a chance, exploding into matchsticks around them.

               The final impact with the ground destabilised all his gyroscopes and left him flat on his back, groaning. Ramjet!

               “You’re coming with us, short stuff,” he heard the jet snarl, over the disorienting echo of rebalancing audios. A big hand clamped down on his wrist and yanked him unceremoniously back to his feet. He promptly went all the way over and ended up on his hands and knees instead, almost falling on top of Whitesides.

               The smaller mech was already tensed into a subtle crouch, fingers curled into fists, looking like he was about to hurl himself into the fight; alarm flashed like cold fingers up the back of Slipstream’s helm. What the bike thought he’d actually achieve by joining the brawl, Slipstream had no idea; Ramjet must have out-massed him by three times his own weight, and was damn near impossible to incapacitate through brute force alone. The diminutive mech would get flattened in an instant.

               “No, run! Get helmmmf!” Slipstream managed to splutter, before an arm came around his throat and a big hand flattened over his mouth, hauling him backwards.

               Whitesides didn’t need telling twice. He folded up into his alt mode and was gone in a flash of dust towards the station. Sunspot high-tailed it in the exact opposite direction. Longbeam was already nowhere to be seen.

               Late to the party, his wingmates dithered on the pavement, not sure which one to chase.

               “Leave ‘em!” Ramjet snapped, struggling to wrangle the smaller mech. “Gimme a hand here, will you?”

               “But they’re gonna raise the alarm-!” Thrust protested.

               “Of course they are, Primus-! That’s the point! Leave them! The block on their comms won’t last long, we’ve gotta get back to the bridge before they can stop us getting through-”

               Using his captor’s momentary inattention, Slipstream got his feet back under himself and shoved backwards, hard. It toppled Ramjet past his centre of gravity, and both went sprawling with a crunch. The smaller mech threw himself away to one side, scrabbling for his footing.

               Ramjet secured a tenuous hold on one ankle and tripped their quarry over again. “So help me Primus, if you two frag this thing up-!”

               Stung into action, Thrust finally piled into the fray. Before the teleport could triangulate an escape route, he lunged and landed square on his back. “Well if you could try and keep a grip on the sparkling, that’d be real helpful.” Wrenching Slipstream’s arms back behind him, he hauled him right up off his feet – unintentionally giving their prey a platform to launch a kick that connected with Ramjet’s face with enough force to knock him clean onto his aft.

               Ramjet snarled and cursed; the kick had fractured his cheek. “He’s a slagging cop, for Primus sake, steal his pitfragged cuffs-! Dirge! The frag are you even doing?”

               The blue jet was barely paying attention, approaching the splintered ruins of the tree Ramjet had destroyed. “I think I see something-“

               “Dirge-! Primus, we don’t have time-! ”

               Dirge ignored him, focused on the shape he’d spotted. Rounding the mess of broken branches, he found something tall and white, trying to pick something up off the floor without drawing too much attention to itself.

               Their optics met and for an instant, they just stared at each other.

               Dirge’s lips drew back in an unhealthy smile.

               Longbeam exploded into action, apparently going to try and outpace him on foot, something small clutched in her arms. She barged into him with her shoulder as she passed, overbalancing him into the bushes, and was halfway up the street in seconds, apparently aiming for a narrow alleyway.

               “Oh please.” Dirge watched her run, amused, then revved his thrusters, creating that precise engine harmonic that put even his allies on edge.

               The bike made a little noise of alarm and stumbled, tripped against a kerb and fetched up on her hands and knees. The small bundle slipped from her arms and tumbled away across the pavement, disappearing into the alleyway.

               Dirge followed, at a more casual pace. “Running away? Nice. That’s one I haven’t seen in a while.”

               Longbeam was fast – already back on her feet, her small sidearm was in her hand, her arm swinging up to shoot – but Dirge was faster. He delivered a quick pulse from his cannon, instantly obliterating the weapon… and most of the hand holding it. The force of the blast spun her around and slammed her shoulder-first into the wall. She choked out a horrible half-sob of pain.

               Dirge ambled over, still purring that hideous fear-inducing sing-song. She scrambled backwards on her aft, away from him, injured arm clutched across her chassis and fans huffing out increasingly warm air. She whooped her siren, trying to threaten him away.

               “This almost makes up for not being allowed to shoot Starscream.” The blue jet dropped to one knee beside her, and flattened a palm over her mouth. “Tell Skywarp I said thanks, Squeaky,” he murmured, before pressing the emitter cone of one cannon into her midsection.

               She knew immediately what he was going to do and braced her feet against him, to try and kick his arm away, but the battle was hopelessly one-sided, over before it even started. The shot was underpowered, but tore all the way through her flank, shredding superstructure. She arched under his hands, screaming against his palm, thrashing against the unforgiving dirt. A sludge of energon and other fluids immediately began to puddle beneath her.

               “All right, that’s enough of that.” Keeping his hand flattened over her face, he gave her a single sharp shove, cracking the back of her head into the ground. Her siren died with a strangled squeak of pain. “Now, where did your little friend go?”

               Leaving his wingmates still trying to wrangle Slipstream, Dirge followed the signal into the alley, towards a little gap between dumpsters. A chilly, flickery blue light filled the space, leading him precisely where he needed to go.

               He crouched to find Skydash huddling into a corner, trying ineffectively to hide from him.

               Dirge picked the small body up in both hands, and held the sparkling at arm’s length; she turned her face away, frozen in fear by the subtle noise of his cycling thrusters. “My. You have been a busy mech, Skywarp. I’d have thought your two little pit-spawn were more than enough.”

               He re-emerged to an assortment of glares, and Thrust had his hands over his audio venting, as if that’d somehow help block out the sound. In spite of Dirge’s uncomfortable broadcast, they’d maintained the upper hand; with both his wrists and ankles finally cuffed, Slipstream had crumpled in the restraining arms, huffing softly in fright.

               “Do you have to do that?” Ramjet snapped.

               Dirge smirked. Yellow fingers had left three bright streaks of warpaint across his cheek. “Sorry. Only way I could catch it.” He lifted the sparkling with a hand around her neck, unable to help preening at his wingmates’ sudden looks of amazement.

               “Where in Pit did you find that?!”

               “I’ll tell you on the way.” Dirge tucked his small prisoner into his cockpit. “Didn’t you say we needed to get to the bridge before anyone could raise the alarm?”

----------

               In the recycling plant in Deixar West-13-B, Footloose straightened up bolt upright, promptly dropping the arm of the poor mech she was working on. “Seem?”

               The mech gave a shriek of pain and turned the air briefly blue, making her fellow paramedic jump and almost drop his other arm. Footloose ignored him; no-one capable of that many decibels could be too badly injured.

               Without any warning, her twin brother’s signal had just… vanished. As split sparks, they could almost always perceive each other’s presence in some way, and now there was just nothing. It either meant he was a seriously long way out of range, or had stopped transmitting, and neither was good. For a spark to stop transmitting? Yeah, that was some seriously bad slag.

               She lurched to her thrusters. “Sorry, Braze, I’ve got to go. This is our last patient, right?”

               Her fellow paramedic looked up at her, alarmed. “What’s happened?”

               “Seem’s gone right off the registry. I can’t see him any more. I’ve gotta chase this.” She shook her head. ”You can cope, yeah? Love you!”

               She kicked off and after barely an astro-second of flight, teleported out of view.

               Braze stared at the spot she’d occupied an instant previously, and wondered how bad the trouble was.

----------

               In the breems after the Coneheads had fled, Longbeam had somehow managed to regain her feet, heeling dramatically over on her injured side and trailing dirty purple footprints.

               After a small eternity, she finally staggered into the reception area of Deixar Central Station, still trailing a slimy mess of mixed fluids behind her, and collapsed against Whisper’s desk. She was dimly aware of the desk sergeant leaping from his chair and yelling for help, even as her legs lost their strength and she sagged to the floor, dragging energon-covered paperwork down with her.

               A confusing swirl of colleagues surrounded her, but she couldn’t pick anyone out of the mass, or even process the words being spoken, any more.

               “Decepticons,” she managed, before the light in her optics guttered and consciousness finally left her.

[caring-cakeshop]

@milk-and-trickery

"....hm. I see."

"Where's my rolling pin..."

[caring-cakeshop]

".......I feel a looming sense of danger..." Will she be bitten? Is she safe? Find out next time /j