#plus i always end up treating the fics like the damn ten commandments to the aus

[transingthoseformers]

with that overlapping territory thing the other asker talked about

could that then mean that optimus and megatron's tarritories are autobot and decepticon territories with them protecting all of their faction within

I thought about that, yeah!

Because in the area (from what i can see) the mecha with the biggest territories are Optimus and Megatron, with there being waters that aren't either of theirs sure but they've got the biggest ranges.

I hadn't really considered faction into any of this, because i mean they're not in a war they're mers so it's more like this tangled web of individual dynamics.

Such as Megatron getting along well with Soundwave who lives at the buttfuck bottom of the sea 87% of the time, Ratchet getting along well with Optimus and probably primarily sticking away from Megatron's territory because those two have beef, Optimus and Megs maintaining separate territories but getting along rather well😏, Starscream and Megatron having known each other for quite a long time now but not having the same connection as megop, i think? I mentioned the pod of dolphinmers that are the autobot younglings that follow around Ratchet often times?

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: The Medic

(A/N: Takes place somewhere around ten years after Arya leaves Ellesméra and joins the Varden. I’ll probably do another fic going into the injury that sent her back to Ellesméra for further healing {something that occurs probably every other year or so, as she’s not a skilled healer and none of the medics in the Varden know elf biology} at a later date. Cheers! Oh, and a reminder, 20 years old is around 10 in human years apparently, or at least how we’re going for MIC. Cheers again!)

Arya leaned back in her chair, eyeing the elf across the small camp table as he scribbled out another note in the Varden medical file spread before him.

Glenwing was the first and only person on Arya’s personal, official squad. He had trotted up to her a day before she was to leave Ellesméra and handed off orders straight from the Queen that he was to become her medic in the field. Even after multiple readings and consultations with Oromis, the orders were clear and gave no leeway or loophole through which Arya could escape. Despite her obviously annoyed acceptance at his sudden addition, Glenwing seemed unfazed and calm throughout the entire process, and set out with his new commanding officer the following morning.

They had reached the edge of the forest now, camped upriver from Ceris at Arya’s request. Three weeks in Ellesméra had left her antsy and entirely fed up with the prim and proper etiquette that made open speech so damned difficult in the pines, something she had not missed in her years with the Varden. Glenwing hadn’t protested in the least, and had spent a majority of the time setting up camp asking her questions about her previous injuries, examining scars, and doing his best to ease into the more personal questions of mental health that he hadn’t had time to ask before they left Ellesméra.

The silver haired elf signed a stop glyph at the end of his most recent note in the margins of Arya’s file before tapping his pen against his lip. “Any trouble sleeping in the past six months? Falling asleep, staying asl–”

“Are you going to report all this to the Queen?” Glenwing looked up, somewhat startled by the sudden interjection. Arya had her arms folded now, regarding him with that solid stare that expected answers and would take no deflection or lie that he could give. “I’m assuming that’s why she assigned you to me. People weren’t exactly lining up behind me to join the Varden, so I doubt you volunteered. Plus, after this long she’s probably realized that I need to return to Du Weldenvarden to be fully healed after larger injuries so she’s probably not keen on giving me more time away from her influence and reach. So there has to be another reason that supersedes that. A way for her to influence and keep tabs on me while I’m away as well as while I’m in the pines.”

Glenwing straightened from where he had been leaning on the table and carefully placed his pen parallel to the top of the file before meeting Arya’s hardened gaze with his steady one. “Do you want me to?” There was a soft curiosity behind his golden eyes.

The question seemed to catch the other elf off guard. Arya blinked, lips parted to snap a retort that now didn’t seem necessary.

“I won’t lie to you.” Glenwing continued. “The Queen has asked– or rather, she has ordered– that I report back on your status and any developments in your mental and physical health.” Anger flashed through Arya’s countentance, but before she could spit out a string of swears the elf across from her held up a finger. “However. You’re wrong about me volunteering. I’m here because I want to be, not just because the Queen accepted my offer. That means that I have willingly taken you on as a patient, and while I am a subject of our Queen’s rule, I am also your medic and doctor.”

“Look, I don’t care if you’re a ‘subject of the Queen’ first.” Arya snapped. The phrase seemed to have set her off enough to break through the final barrier of elvish manners that remained as she cut him off. “If you’re going to be telling the Queen every little thing about me, I’m just not going to accept your help. You might as well go back home, alright?”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all.” Glenwing replied, voice calm yet lacking the patronizing edge that Arya had expected. “I’m saying that as my patient, you have complete control over your care, including who, and when, I give information to regarding it and your status in the past, present and future.

“If you don’t want me to inform the Queen as she ordered, I won’t, and I’ll tell her as much. I’m one of the Queen subjects, yes, but now that you are my patient my purpose here is to keep you alive, and I can’t exactly do that if you refuse care or don’t trust me.”

Arya was silent for a long moment, the silver haired elf’s words sinking in. The elven nation was a monarchy, yes, but there was always an understanding that any elf could act independently unless called to war in defense. Even then there was a choice of remaining behind to tend to the forest and those who returned. Orders given in common elvish, even from the Queen, were considered the rule of law, but in actuality could be challenged or even ignored if the individual thought the orders would cause more harm than good. It could incur the wrath of the Queen, yes, but there was no formal system of punishment beyond the decision of the council. Or, in personal cases such as Arya’s own, the decision of the Queen herself.  

That being said, most people followed their orders when they were given, and as such things were rare it was unusual to find an elf that was quite as willing as Arya to bend or break the rules so to speak. Yet here one was, practically raising his eyebrows in quiet eagerness to open loopholes and ignore centuries of custom all for a chance to…

…to what?

Arya chose her words carefully. “Glenwing…why are you doing this?” She gestured to the square photographs that were scattered on one side of the medical file, images detailing the numerous wounds of note, most in their unhealed state, that the young elf had incurred over the course of just a little over a decade of service in the Varden. “You’ve seen what it does physically. Magic can heal but I think we both know that the scars of the mind do not close so easily. I’ve almost died more times than I can count and watched countless others who were not so lucky lose their lives on and off the battlefield.”

“I’ve seen war, Arya. I’ve not participated in one, but I’ve seen the damage it does.”

“Then why join me?” Arya leaned her elbows on the table, shoulders hunched as her brows furrowed. “Why? I have my reasons, some of them more morally sound and others more or less reprehensible, and the things I’ve already done to further the goal of toppling Galbatorix… I’ve done some terrible shit. I’m not going to skirt around that. You know that you’ll probably have to do similar things, get blood other than that of your patients on your hands. So why? Why risk everything like this?”

Glenwing held her gaze for a time before lowering his eyes to the table. With a fingertip he rearranged the pictures, aligning the edges so that they fanned out and displayed a gruesome line of war wounds over the years. “…I’m not much older than you are, you know.”

“…Pardon?”    

His lips twisted up slightly in sad eyed grin. “I was eighteen when the Fall began. My father was a healer, my mother a warrior.” Gently, with the back of a fingernail, he dragged out one of the pictures, the one of the ragged stab wound to the abdomen that sent Arya back to Ellesméra most recently. “She died of an injury similar to this one. That’s what they told me at least.” Glenwing raised his eyes to meet Arya’s, gauging her reaction to his next words. “She was in the final group that the King led. My father died beside her as he tried to heal her. They were bathed in dragonfire. Nothing to bury.

“I watched my father treat wounds like all of these as the injured returned. He never stopped trying to help, down to the last second of his life, and mother never stopped fighting for our people.” He spread his hands out. “I cannot sit by knowing that I could do the same.”

The he paused. “And there is another thing.”

Arya swallowed. The mention of her father and the battle that had felled not only him but Glenwing’s parents as well made her mouth go dry. The final moments of the conflict before Galbatorix hunted Vrael always did. “Oh?”

“You said that I should go home if I was to report on your condition to the Queen. I cannot return home, which only leaves obeying your orders and remaining as your medic my only option.”  

Glenwing’s feral, bared tooth smile shocked a flash of familiarity and kinship through Arya’s mind. She had seen that smile on her own face before, that wild unrestrained drive to right the wrongs of the world, to take on war and violence so that others could be at peace, tenuous as it was.  

“You see, Arya…I was born in Ilirea. With Galbatorix on the throne, I have no home to return to.”

~~~

To Queen Islanzadí, Your Majesty.

After a lengthy consult with the combat liaison I have been assigned, it has come to my attention that the mentioned patient, Arya, house of none, is against the sharing of medical information beyond a set of predetermined ailments and injuries. As I am bound first to act in the best interest of my patient, I must oblige by her requests. Arya has also indicated that any sharing of information without her consent would result in her refusing any treatment or healing by my hand, which has further forced this issue as she has displayed sufficient aptitude for wards that would block any of my attempts to heal her if the conditions presented were broken in any way.

However, Arya has agreed to allow the sharing of some small yet vital pieces of information concerning her health as seen fit. Thus, any injury resulting in amputation, permanent blindness or hearing loss, traumatic brain damage, complete mind breaking or death will be reported. Arya has impressed on me that she will continue to aid the Varden in the event of non-lethal injuries, and any report of the previous wounds will also include an evaluation on how she can continue to aid the Varden in her current state.

I apologize that I cannot carry out the full extent of your orders. Unfortunately, it is clear that any deviation from the agreed upon conditions that Arya has set would likely result in severe injury to Arya’s person and would constitute reckless and wanton disregard for my patient’s safety and health on mine. I cannot in good conscience go against her wishes, nor can I do so if my conscience were to tolerate it. Arya has forced me to agree to these conditions in the Ancient Language, and I cannot break my oath.

I continue to serve to the best of my ability, and will do my utmost to ensure Arya’s health is taken care of.

May the stars watch over you.

Yours in service,  

Glenwing of House Svanran.

Islanzadí folded the letter again, put her elbows on her desk, and allowed herself a long, frustrated sigh.

Leave it to Arya to ferret out her reasoning for accepting Glenwing’s offer and so quickly appeal to the young elf’s sense of ethical duty. A political force the Queen’s daughter was not, but she still had a knack for picking up on a person’s true motives and finding ways to fit them around her own.

However, this was faster than anticipated. Maybe this Glenwing’s true motives weren’t what he presented to Islanzadí at all. There had been something about his energy that seemed familiar. The Queen now recognized it as a glimmering thread of that determination and wild resolve that Arya so openly displayed.

But what to do now? Islanzadí rubbed her temples, a headache coming on. She knew that there was little she could threaten them with if she ordered Glenwing to return to Ellesméra. The young elf had volunteered after all, and even under duress Islanzadí doubted she could convince any other elf as skilled as he was to abandon their calm life in Du Weldenvarden for years of conflict and uncertainty outside the forest’s protective stands. And she couldn’t just call him back and not send a replacement, not with the state Arya had been in when she finally made it back to Ellesméra. What little Oromis had told the Queen of her wayward daughter’s injuries past and present clearly indicated that an attached medic was a necessity if there was any hope of Arya making it through the war alive.

So what to do….

The clatter of talons on well-polished wood sent a cascade of jolts through Islanzadí’s burgeoning headache, the pops and clicks that followed doing nothing to help the pain.

“The latch is open, Blagden.” The Queen leaned back in her chair and massaged her forehead as the white raven swooped in. Blagden alighted on the desk with a gentle flap of his wings to slow his speed and cocked his head at her, looking smug as he always did. He parted his beak slightly. “Don’t you say i–”

“Wyrda!”

Even as the Queen winced at the cried word the raven flipped a small, densely folded paper onto the desk with a flourish of his leg. He pecked at it twice before fluttering to his carved stand on the back of the chair, settling in before starting his usual fastidious preening.

Confused, Islanzadí picked up the folded note. It hadn’t been but an hour since Glenwing’s letter had arrived, but the glyph that graced the fold of this paper was the one Arya always used. Blagden must have dropped it while flying and went back to retrieve it. The Queen unfolded it with a hint of trepidation in her heart, as always accompanied any correspondence with her banished child.

The young elf’s handwriting had started to take on a sharper shape, but was no less bold in its strokes. It still held the same familiar base that reminded Islanzadí so much of those days that Arya would scamper into her mother’s study and throw notes of love for her mother and records of her daily adventures onto the desk before scampering out, giggling as she departed for her next escapade. All those notes still sat in the drawer to Islanzadí’s left, bittersweet.

The headache throbbed, chasing away the memories. The Queen focused in again, and was somewhat surprised to find only a few short sentences.

Stars watch over you.

Good medic. Intelligent, can toe lines if needed. Fixed a scar issue in short order. I like this one. Requesting permanent assignment.

~ Arya of Du Weldenvarden, combat liaison officer  

Islanzadí frowned slightly as she caught sight of a different handwriting in the bottom corner. It was Glenwing’s, and she couldn’t help but chuckle as she read it aloud. “Please?”

Maybe this Glenwing would be a good influence after all. With that in mind, and the comfort of Arya now less likely to return maimed (or not at all), Islanzadí picked up her pen.

Granted.  May the stars watch over you. Queen Islanzadí.

[weirdponytail]

Modern Inheritance: The Medic

(A/N: Takes place somewhere around ten years after Arya leaves Ellesméra and joins the Varden. I’ll probably do another fic going into the injury that sent her back to Ellesméra for further healing {something that occurs probably every other year or so, as she’s not a skilled healer and none of the medics in the Varden know elf biology} at a later date. Cheers! Oh, and a reminder, 20 years old is around 10 in human years apparently, or at least how we’re going for MIC. Cheers again!)

Arya leaned back in her chair, eyeing the elf across the small camp table as he scribbled out another note in the Varden medical file spread before him. 

Glenwing was the first and only person on Arya’s personal, official squad. He had trotted up to her a day before she was to leave Ellesméra and handed off orders straight from the Queen that he was to become her medic in the field. Even after multiple readings and consultations with Oromis, the orders were clear and gave no leeway or loophole through which Arya could escape. Despite her obviously annoyed acceptance at his sudden addition, Glenwing seemed unfazed and calm throughout the entire process, and set out with his new commanding officer the following morning. 

They had reached the edge of the forest now, camped upriver from Ceris at Arya’s request. Three weeks in Ellesméra had left her antsy and entirely fed up with the prim and proper etiquette that made open speech so damned difficult in the pines, something she had not missed in her years with the Varden. Glenwing hadn’t protested in the least, and had spent a majority of the time setting up camp asking her questions about her previous injuries, examining scars, and doing his best to ease into the more personal questions of mental health that he hadn’t had time to ask before they left Ellesméra.

The silver haired elf signed a stop glyph at the end of his most recent note in the margins of Arya’s file before tapping his pen against his lip. “Any trouble sleeping in the past six months? Falling asleep, staying asl–”

“Are you going to report all this to the Queen?” Glenwing looked up, somewhat startled by the sudden interjection. Arya had her arms folded now, regarding him with that solid stare that expected answers and would take no deflection or lie that he could give. “I’m assuming that’s why she assigned you to me. People weren’t exactly lining up behind me to join the Varden, so I doubt you volunteered. Plus, after this long she’s probably realized that I need to return to Du Weldenvarden to be fully healed after larger injuries so she’s probably not keen on giving me more time away from her influence and reach. So there has to be another reason that supersedes that. A way for her to influence and keep tabs on me while I’m away as well as while I’m in the pines.”

Glenwing straightened from where he had been leaning on the table and carefully placed his pen parallel to the top of the file before meeting Arya’s hardened gaze with his steady one. “Do you want me to?” There was a soft curiosity behind his golden eyes. 

The question seemed to catch the other elf off guard. Arya blinked, lips parted to snap a retort that now didn’t seem necessary.

“I won’t lie to you.” Glenwing continued. “The Queen has asked– or rather, she has ordered– that I report back on your status and any developments in your mental and physical health.” Anger flashed through Arya’s countentance, but before she could spit out a string of swears the elf across from her held up a finger. “However. You’re wrong about me volunteering. I’m here because I want to be, not just because the Queen accepted my offer. That means that I have willingly taken you on as a patient, and while I am a subject of our Queen’s rule, I am also your medic and doctor.” 

“Look, I don’t care if you’re a ‘subject of the Queen’ first.” Arya snapped. The phrase seemed to have set her off enough to break through the final barrier of elvish manners that remained as she cut him off. “If you’re going to be telling the Queen every little thing about me, I’m just not going to accept your help. You might as well go back home, alright?”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all.” Glenwing replied, voice calm yet lacking the patronizing edge that Arya had expected. “I’m saying that as my patient, you have complete control over your care, including who, and when, I give information to regarding it and your status in the past, present and future. 

“If you don’t want me to inform the Queen as she ordered, I won’t, and I’ll tell her as much. I’m one of the Queen subjects, yes, but now that you are my patient my purpose here is to keep you alive, and I can’t exactly do that if you refuse care or don’t trust me.”

Arya was silent for a long moment, the silver haired elf’s words sinking in. The elven nation was a monarchy, yes, but there was always an understanding that any elf could act independently unless called to war in defense. Even then there was a choice of remaining behind to tend to the forest and those who returned. Orders given in common elvish, even from the Queen, were considered the rule of law, but in actuality could be challenged or even ignored if the individual thought the orders would cause more harm than good. It could incur the wrath of the Queen, yes, but there was no formal system of punishment beyond the decision of the council. Or, in personal cases such as Arya’s own, the decision of the Queen herself.  

That being said, most people followed their orders when they were given, and as such things were rare it was unusual to find an elf that was quite as willing as Arya to bend or break the rules so to speak. Yet here one was, practically raising his eyebrows in quiet eagerness to open loopholes and ignore centuries of custom all for a chance to…

...to what?

Arya chose her words carefully. “Glenwing...why are you doing this?” She gestured to the square photographs that were scattered on one side of the medical file, images detailing the numerous wounds of note, most in their unhealed state, that the young elf had incurred over the course of just a little over a decade of service in the Varden. “You’ve seen what it does physically. Magic can heal but I think we both know that the scars of the mind do not close so easily. I’ve almost died more times than I can count and watched countless others who were not so lucky lose their lives on and off the battlefield.”

“I’ve seen war, Arya. I’ve not participated in one, but I’ve seen the damage it does.”

“Then why join me?” Arya leaned her elbows on the table, shoulders hunched as her brows furrowed. “Why? I have my reasons, some of them more morally sound and others more or less reprehensible, and the things I’ve already done to further the goal of toppling Galbatorix… I’ve done some terrible shit. I’m not going to skirt around that. You know that you’ll probably have to do similar things, get blood other than that of your patients on your hands. So why? Why risk everything like this?”

Glenwing held her gaze for a time before lowering his eyes to the table. With a fingertip he rearranged the pictures, aligning the edges so that they fanned out and displayed a gruesome line of war wounds over the years. “...I’m not much older than you are, you know.”

“...Pardon?”    

His lips twisted up slightly in sad eyed grin. “I was eighteen when the Fall began. My father was a healer, my mother a warrior.” Gently, with the back of a fingernail, he dragged out one of the pictures, the one of the ragged stab wound to the abdomen that sent Arya back to Ellesméra most recently. “She died of an injury similar to this one. That’s what they told me at least.” Glenwing raised his eyes to meet Arya’s, gauging her reaction to his next words. “She was in the final group that the King led. My father died beside her as he tried to heal her. They were bathed in dragonfire. Nothing to bury. 

“I watched my father treat wounds like all of these as the injured returned. He never stopped trying to help, down to the last second of his life, and mother never stopped fighting for our people.” He spread his hands out. “I cannot sit by knowing that I could do the same.” 

The he paused. “And there is another thing.” 

Arya swallowed. The mention of her father and the battle that had felled not only him but Glenwing’s parents as well made her mouth go dry. The final moments of the conflict before Galbatorix hunted Vrael always did. “Oh?”

“You said that I should go home if I was to report on your condition to the Queen. I cannot return home, which only leaves obeying your orders and remaining as your medic my only option.”  

Glenwing’s feral, bared tooth smile shocked a flash of familiarity and kinship through Arya’s mind. She had seen that smile on her own face before, that wild unrestrained drive to right the wrongs of the world, to take on war and violence so that others could be at peace, tenuous as it was.   

“You see, Arya...I was born in Ilirea. With Galbatorix on the throne, I have no home to return to.”

~~~

To Queen Islanzadí, Your Majesty. 

After a lengthy consult with the combat liaison I have been assigned, it has come to my attention that the mentioned patient, Arya, house of none, is against the sharing of medical information beyond a set of predetermined ailments and injuries. As I am bound first to act in the best interest of my patient, I must oblige by her requests. Arya has also indicated that any sharing of information without her consent would result in her refusing any treatment or healing by my hand, which has further forced this issue as she has displayed sufficient aptitude for wards that would block any of my attempts to heal her if the conditions presented were broken in any way. 

However, Arya has agreed to allow the sharing of some small yet vital pieces of information concerning her health as seen fit. Thus, any injury resulting in amputation, permanent blindness or hearing loss, traumatic brain damage, complete mind breaking or death will be reported. Arya has impressed on me that she will continue to aid the Varden in the event of non-lethal injuries, and any report of the previous wounds will also include an evaluation on how she can continue to aid the Varden in her current state.

I apologize that I cannot carry out the full extent of your orders. Unfortunately, it is clear that any deviation from the agreed upon conditions that Arya has set would likely result in severe injury to Arya’s person and would constitute reckless and wanton disregard for my patient’s safety and health on mine. I cannot in good conscience go against her wishes, nor can I do so if my conscience were to tolerate it. Arya has forced me to agree to these conditions in the Ancient Language, and I cannot break my oath. 

I continue to serve to the best of my ability, and will do my utmost to ensure Arya’s health is taken care of. 

May the stars watch over you.

Yours in service,   

Glenwing of House Svanran.

Islanzadí folded the letter again, put her elbows on her desk, and allowed herself a long, frustrated sigh. 

Leave it to Arya to ferret out her reasoning for accepting Glenwing’s offer and so quickly appeal to the young elf’s sense of ethical duty. A political force the Queen’s daughter was not, but she still had a knack for picking up on a person’s true motives and finding ways to fit them around her own.

However, this was faster than anticipated. Maybe this Glenwing’s true motives weren’t what he presented to Islanzadí at all. There had been something about his energy that seemed familiar. The Queen now recognized it as a glimmering thread of that determination and wild resolve that Arya so openly displayed. 

But what to do now? Islanzadí rubbed her temples, a headache coming on. She knew that there was little she could threaten them with if she ordered Glenwing to return to Ellesméra. The young elf had volunteered after all, and even under duress Islanzadí doubted she could convince any other elf as skilled as he was to abandon their calm life in Du Weldenvarden for years of conflict and uncertainty outside the forest’s protective stands. And she couldn’t just call him back and not send a replacement, not with the state Arya had been in when she finally made it back to Ellesméra. What little Oromis had told the Queen of her wayward daughter’s injuries past and present clearly indicated that an attached medic was a necessity if there was any hope of Arya making it through the war alive.

So what to do….

The clatter of talons on well-polished wood sent a cascade of jolts through Islanzadí’s burgeoning headache, the pops and clicks that followed doing nothing to help the pain. 

“The latch is open, Blagden.” The Queen leaned back in her chair and massaged her forehead as the white raven swooped in. Blagden alighted on the desk with a gentle flap of his wings to slow his speed and cocked his head at her, looking smug as he always did. He parted his beak slightly. “Don’t you say i–”

“Wyrda!”

Even as the Queen winced at the cried word the raven flipped a small, densely folded paper onto the desk with a flourish of his leg. He pecked at it twice before fluttering to his carved stand on the back of the chair, settling in before starting his usual fastidious preening.

Confused, Islanzadí picked up the folded note. It hadn’t been but an hour since Glenwing’s letter had arrived, but the glyph that graced the fold of this paper was the one Arya always used. Blagden must have dropped it while flying and went back to retrieve it. The Queen unfolded it with a hint of trepidation in her heart, as always accompanied any correspondence with her banished child. 

The young elf’s handwriting had started to take on a sharper shape, but was no less bold in its strokes. It still held the same familiar base that reminded Islanzadí so much of those days that Arya would scamper into her mother’s study and throw notes of love for her mother and records of her daily adventures onto the desk before scampering out, giggling as she departed for her next escapade. All those notes still sat in the drawer to Islanzadí’s left, bittersweet. 

The headache throbbed, chasing away the memories. The Queen focused in again, and was somewhat surprised to find only a few short sentences. 

Stars watch over you.

Good medic. Intelligent, can toe lines if needed. Fixed a scar issue in short order. I like this one. Requesting permanent assignment. 

~ Arya of Du Weldenvarden, combat liaison officer  

Islanzadí frowned slightly as she caught sight of a different handwriting in the bottom corner. It was Glenwing’s, and she couldn’t help but chuckle as she read it aloud. “Please?”

Maybe this Glenwing would be a good influence after all. With that in mind, and the comfort of Arya now less likely to return maimed (or not at all), Islanzadí picked up her pen.

Granted.  May the stars watch over you. Queen Islanzadí.

[serceleste]

star trek: tos season 1

I’ve been rewatching Star Trek: The Original Series instead of starting anything new (of course) and I have some thoughts about season 1! I love this show. Here are some random things I love.

1. Kirk and Spock wordlessly communicating. They’re in love, okay.

2. In ‘The Naked Time’, everything is falling apart, the bridge is in chaos, Kirk loses his temper, Uhura loses her temper. Then Uhura takes a breath, and she is immediately back in ultra professional mode, damn whatever she’s actually thinking and feeling. And Kirk immediately apologizes. It’s amazing.

3. I appreciate random shirtless Kirk. And that time Sulu was randomly shirtless and attacking people with a sword. (The look on the two dudes’ faces when he is brandishing his sword at them in the corridor is PRICELESS.)

4. The unicorn dog. Fave.

5. Spock playing the ka’athyra, and then Uhura sings with him, and she’s totally good-naturedly poking fun at him the whole time, and Spock accepts it with such good humor and he has no feelings my ass.

6. Obviously Kirk’s shirt tearing all the damn time, sometimes with no plausible reason. My favorite is when McCoy just rips the shoulder open to jab him with a hypo on the bridge.

7. There’s some pretty nice work done in the pilot establishing that Kirk and Mitchell have a long history and a deep friendship, and that makes what happens in the episode so much more tragic. I also love Spock’s easy acceptance of Kirk wanting the record to state that Mitchell (and Dehner) died in the line of duty.

8. Uhura competently taking over other positions on the bridge at a word from Kirk. The implication that all members of the bridge crew/senior staff have their specialties but learned all necessary functions in case of emergency is really nice. (I’ve noticed Sulu taking over navigation sometimes, too, and Scotty’s taken the helm at least once, and Kirk himself operates various positions.)

9. One of my favorite things about Star Trek is its optimism, and also the enduring sense of hopefulness and compassion it and the characters embody. In ‘Charlie X’, even after all the shit he did to them, you can see that they are nevertheless moved by Charlie’s genuine terror and Kirk tries to come up with a different solution that will help him. Or in ‘The Corbomite Maneuver’, after the alien has threatened to destroy them, and he puts out the distress call, Kirk’s response is still to help.

10. Kirk is in love with the Enterprise and the show doesn’t even try to be coy about it, it just comes right out and says so. Multiple times. <3

11. It’s clearly a product of its time and some things are... not great, but I love that it tries, and it honestly wants to portray a future where everyone is treated the same and things like race and gender don’t matter, even if it isn’t quite there in the execution of it. (Yeoman Rand in particular gets some wince-worthy moments in the first season, unfortunately.)

12. Evil!Kirk wears eyeliner, because of course he does. LMAO.

13. The green shirt! I love Kirk’s green shirt. (Actually I love the TOS uniforms in general. Best Trek uniforms, fight me.)

14. McCoy and Spock making fun of each other. <3

15. The number of times Scotty tells Kirk he needs hours/days to fix/accomplish something and Kirk is like ‘you have ten minutes’ and Scotty is just like ‘...fuck, okay’.

16. In ‘What Are Little Girls Made Of?’ Kirk sabotages his android by thinking negatively about Spock because THAT’S the thing he knows will make it clear something’s wrong. OMG. And then Spock makes fun of him for using an unsophisticated insult. Hearteyes.

17. Every time Spock calls Kirk Jim. Also, every time Kirk calls McCoy Bones.

18. Their food is hilarious, it always just looks like little colorful blocks. And their idea of futuristic fashion is completely ridiculous and also the best. 

19. Kirk is so charming, but it’s so genuine, which is I think why it’s so devastating. When he’s looking at people, and smiling at them, you know he really genuinely gives a shit, and actually cares about them, and tbh I think I’d do anything he asked if he looked at me like that, lol. 

20. McCoy is a gift. He’s so grumpy! And he calls everyone out on their shit, especially Kirk, and he’d never say so but he cares so goddamn much.

21. I just ship Kirk/Spock so fucking hard, OMG. Every time they interact I’m just like YESSSSSS THEY’RE FUCKING IN LOVE DAMN.

22. “Fascinating.” <33333 Oh! And the eyebrow raise! Especially when he does it at Kirk. Or McCoy.

23. Kirk’s absolute faith in Spock at the beginning of ‘The Menagerie’. It’s a bit heartbreaking, considering. And the moment you can see Spock choose Pike over Kirk, at the end of Part 1, stabs me right in the heart. And when Kirk agrees that Spock is guilty during the “trial”. (Also I love that they found a way to use the rejected pilot and turn it into what’s really a compelling pair of episodes.)

24. ‘Balance of Terror’ is so good. It’s just a battle of wills between Kirk and the Romulan commander, with how difficult the pressure of command can be for Kirk, and that look into racism with the navigator who distrusts Spock.

25. McCoy and Spock having a battle of wills over Spock needing/not needing medical attention and raising their eyebrows at each other. Love. I understand the Spock/McCoy shipping. (Speaking of, in ‘Operation Annihilate’ when McCoy doesn’t want Kirk to tell Spock he said he was the best first officer in the fleet but Spock overhears and says thank you, McCoy’s face, lmao.)

26. When they find Kirk’s brother dead in ‘Operation Annihilate’ Spock actually attempts to offer comfort!!! Also Kirk holds Spock a couple of times in that ep, it’s great.

27. Every time Spock gets offended because they’ve accused him of having a human emotion or reaction. <3333

28. I think ‘City on the Edge of Forever’ works not just because it’s a truly compelling question of not holding one life, no matter how dear, over the lives of millions, but because Edith herself is genuinely lovely. You can see the tragedy in the death of a woman like her, and the soft romance between her and Kirk is beautiful.

29. And even in the midst of what’s easily one of the strongest (if not the strongest) of Kirk’s relationships on the show, you get Edith saying that she can see that where Spock belongs is by Kirk’s side. My heart.

30. The Gorn. Come on. Iconic.

31. As compassionate as Kirk is I also love the moments that remind you that part of the reason he’s such a good captain is that he’s ruthless when he needs to be. He will make the hard decisions firmly and surely and he won’t let his crew know if he’s internally struggling with them.

32. Kirk’s fighting style!! He’s just throwing himself at people and hitting them with his ass and clinging onto their backs and I LOVE IT.

33. In 'Court Martial’, I think Kirk’s lawyer ex might wear a female dress uniform for the only time ever on the show (certainly the only time in the first season). All the times when the dudes are wearing them, the women are all still wearing their regular duty uniforms. It’s sort of hilarious to me that the men’s look so fancy but hers is just a slightly different collar and a longer skirt, lol.

34. When Spock mindmelds with the Horta in ‘Devil in the Dark’! It’s so sad, and I think that’s the first time we really get a look into what it means for Spock to meld, to share so deeply with another being. 

35. I’m into how Kirk looks in that old-fashioned suit in ‘The Return of the Archons’ but definitely nothing beats him and Spock in short tunics and tights in ‘Errand of Mercy’. Plus Spock gets a half-cape!

36. ‘The Conscience of the King’, responsible for so much woobie Kirk backstory, even in AOS fic where it’s not even canon, lol.

37. McCoy strolling out with those women at the end of ‘Shore Leave’, all “well I am on shore leave”, lmao.

38. Of course McCoy’s iconic declarations of ‘I’m a doctor, not a ‘insert occupation here’. 

39. The computer programmed to seductively purr at Kirk is hilarious.

40. The origin of the redshirt. Classic. 

[apocryphalfemme]

Solum Sonus

The successor to my previous fic Veritas Revelata.  Happy (end of) Pharmercy Week 2018!

Please enjoy below the cut, and see you in the air.

“In fact, when she thinks about it, reasons as to why she shouldn’t be in a relationship begin to pile up.  Orphaned before she began her education.  Jumping so many grades at a time that she was in med school before she hit puberty.  Abused and manipulated by the monster that Overwatch became.  Scarred by a toxic amour who inflicted wounds that still haven’t fully healed.  Scorching her soul and breaking her body to heal others.  Thanks to the hellish cocktail that constitutes her life experience, Angela’s interpersonal skills are about as developed as those of a cinderblock.  Fareeha doesn’t deserve to have to put up with this kind of mess.  Maybe…  Maybe they shouldn’t be together.

The thought shakes Angela to her core.”

Or

While awaiting the solider’s return to Watchpoint: Gibraltar, Angela considers the nature of her relationship with Fareeha.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Ti-

-ck.

“Verdammt.”  The clock is broken.  And Angela is losing her mind.  Every five seconds, the accursed thing hangs for just a moment too long.  It’s absolutely infuriating.  

In truth however, it’s been broken for several weeks now.  Usually she’s so focused on her work that the sound it makes is little more than background noise.  Plus, who pays attention to analog anymore?  Athena keeps time accurate to the zeptosecond displayed on the holopads throughout the Watchpoint.  But that’s besides the point.  For some reason, Angela has not for the life of her been able to ignore the noise today.

Of course, today is no ordinary day.  Today, Fareeha is finally returning to Gibraltar from an extended deployment to Nunavut, Canada.  She’s been gone for two months, two weeks, and four days.  Angela has kept very precise track.  She did try to let the time pass of its own accord, but… well.

Call it a scientific foible.  Call it a neurosis.  Call it whatever you want.   Angela has been eagerly counting down the days to Fareeha’s homecoming this entire time.  Part of her can’t wait to hear all about the progress that’s been made in the frozen north of the Americas.  Part of her just can’t wait to see Fareeha again.  Another, more primal part of her wants to press her girlfriend up against the wall and just-

Wait.

Girlfriend?

Are they… girlfriends?

Angela slouches back in her chair, pinching her brow.  This is the other reason she’s so eager to have Fareeha back home.  Because a mere week and a half after Fareeha first professed her love to Angela, Winston had sent her halfway around the world.  Angela had been livid.  Fareeha needed at least a month to recover and acclimatize to her new prosthetic leg.  But mainly, she was angry because they’d never had a chance to… talk.

Oh, sure, they’ve called each other during their separation, almost every day.  But they have yet to take the time to discuss the nature of their relationship and where it’s going to go.  Especially in light of Fareeha’s confession.  To be fair though, neither of them are particularly good at this sort of thing, even under normal circumstances.  Fareeha, charged with the burden of command, is always so very busy marshaling their forces, or organizing briefings, or allocating resources.  And Angela is no better.  She practically lives in her lab.  Sometimes literally.  Though she’s now begun to make an effort to venture out into the world, usually with Fareeha, almost all of her time is still consumed with the fabrication of the pico-structure of new strands of nanite, or the refinement of older surgical impedimenta, or endless experiment documentation, or… something.  There’s always something.  So whenever the two of them are alone together, they’re loath to do anything but simply be; to exist in tandem away from the pressures of responsibility.  There had been months, months of skirting around what they meant to each other before Fareeha’s near-death experience had forced them to broach the topic.  So while they very clearly are something, Angela’s not sure either of them knows what.

And even then, what is that something?  What exactly is the foundation of their relationship?  Fareeha has made it very clear that she’s in love with Angela, desperately so.  Does she love Fareeha in return?  She thinks so.  But the thing is, Angela isn’t good at relationships, she knows this for a fact.  The only other romantic connection she’s ever had was…  Well.  Frankly, it was the relationship equivalent of dumpster fire, and certainly not a confidence builder in terms of her ability to have a healthy relationship with a partner.  The last thing she wants to do is hurt Fareeha by jumping into something that she isn’t prepared for.  

In fact, when she thinks about it, reasons as to why she shouldn’t be in a relationship begin to pile up.  Orphaned before she began her education.  Jumping so many grades at a time that she was in med school before she hit puberty.  Abused and manipulated by the monster that Overwatch became.  Scarred by a toxic amour who inflicted wounds that still haven’t fully healed.  Scorching her soul and breaking her body to heal others.  Thanks to the hellish cocktail that constitutes her life experience, Angela’s interpersonal skills are about as developed as those of a cinderblock.  Fareeha doesn’t deserve to have to put up with this kind of mess.  Maybe…  Maybe they shouldn’t be together.

The thought shakes Angela to her core.

She also knows that’s the last thing she wants.  Even if she knew for certain that leaving Fareeha would be the best thing for the soldier, Angela’s not sure she could do it.  Fareeha is always there for her, always dropping everything to help Angela through the fire.  It’s selfish, she knows but…  Angela moans quietly, holding her head in her hands.  For ten and a half weeks these thoughts have whirled unceasingly through her mind.  On some level, she doesn’t even want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to be thinking about this in the first place.  Honestly, all she really wants is…

Fareeha.  What she wants is Fareeha.  When she wakes, when she dreams, at the forefront of her mind is always, always Fareeha.

Why do they need labels?  Why can’t they just be together?

Enervated, she checks the time, and jumps when she reads the digits on the holopad.  03:45 AM.  Fareeha’s flight is slated to touchdown in fifteen minutes.  She glares at the report in front of her.

“Screw this,” she mutters.

Pulling her lab coat over her shoulders, she’s out the door without a second glance at her shambolic desk.  She can file that report later and Athena can kill the lights.  Angela’s got somewhere she needs to be.

Winding through the empty halls of the Watchpoint, she decides to push her perturbation to the side, if only for the time being.  For Fareeha’s sake.  The soldier’s probably exhausted and the last thing they should do at this hour is have a conversation about the nature of their relationship.  So when Fareeha gets off the dropship, Angela will greet her with a warm, yet calm demeanor.  Maintain composure.  Perhaps invite her back to her quarters and treat her to a well deserved hot meal, if she feels up to it.

Eventually, Angela pushes through the industrial double doors to the landing pad.  She hugs herself for warmth, shivering as the cold night air of Gibraltar nips through her clothing.  Why the hell do they make lab coats so ridiculously thin?  She looks at her watch.  Arrival in T-minus 2 minutes.  Surrounded by slumbering aviation machinery, Angela waits anxiously.  

All at once, a dropship roars overhead, swinging around in the sky before commencing touch down.  They’re here.  The engines thrum thunderously, whipping the air as the craft sinks to the landing pad, causing her coat to billow wildly behind her.  She starts to fidget with the high neck of her sweater, and slaps her hand when she realizes she’s doing so.

Remember.  Composure.  For Fareeha’s sake.

The colossal VTOL thrusters proceed to cool off and the loading ramp begins to extend.  Angela scans the people disembarking, trying to catch a glimpse of golden loops braided in sable hair.  First come the team members who were deployed.  They’re clearly exhausted and quickly filter off the landing pad to bed.  Then the freight unloads itself, running on automated protocols.  And finally comes… the flight crew.  Laughing, joking after a long haul across the Pacific.  They wave cheerfully in her direction, but quickly depart when the pilot suggests they go get drunk in town.  

The landing pad falls quiet.  

Angela’s poise falters.  

Where is she?

And like an answer to a prayer, Captain Amari abruptly appears at the top of the ramp hauling her oversized duffle bag, yawning into the back of her hand.  She’s here.  She’s home.  Angela tries to call out, but her voice sticks in her throat as she stares for the first time in weeks at the strapping woman sauntering down the ramp.

But when Fareeha catches sight of her, the soldier falls stock-still.  Their eyes lock.  For several long, heavy moments, neither of them move.  And then Fareeha is letting her duffle bag fall to the ground, starting to sprint in Angela’s direction.  Angela’s composure flies out the god-damn window.  Suddenly, she’s running across the tarmac, in her heels no less, to meet Fareeha halfway.

They collide solidly, arms wrapping tightly around each other.  She buries her head in Fareeha’s chest and feels strong arms curl further around her back, pulling her close.  Warmth floods Angela’s body, eradicating the chill.  Silence reigns, interrupted only by shaking breaths.  

Until Fareeha finally speaks, tremulous voice muffled in Angela’s hair.

“I missed you.”

Angela almost laughs, but emotion chokes her.

“I missed you.”

Again, silence falls.  

Well.  Not quite silence.  

In Angela’s ears, Fareeha’s heart beats powerfully.  It grounds her like an anchor, focusing her in the here and now.  The worry, the doubt, the fear melts away, immaterial.  Suddenly, clarity strikes Angela like lightning.  She knows what she has to say.  She knows exactly what to say.  Gently, she leans back in Fareeha’s embrace before reaching up to take the woman’s head in her hands.  She gazes into kind ochre eyes and speaks, quiet but unafraid.

“Fareeha, I want to be with you, but I don’t know how.  I’ve never… Never before have I felt about someone the way I feel about you.  Never so strongly.  It scares me a little, and I would be lying if I said I knew how a future together would play out.  I am far, far from perfect.  It will not be easy.  But I do want to be with you.  If you’ll have me.”

Fareeha doesn’t even hesitate.  In lieu of speaking, she pulls Angela close once more, the taller woman leaning down to kiss her fervently.  It’s exactly the answer Angela had hoped for.

Minutes pass before she breaks away to breathlessly speak.

“Now come to bed.  You must be exhausted.”

Fareeha’s eyes twinkle mischievously.

“Why Angela, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were propositioning me,” she teases softly.

Angela snorts and lightly cuffs Fareeha on the chest.

“You are shameless, you know that?”

The soldier goes to retrieve her duffle, calling over her shoulder,

“I only do it because you’re cute when you blush!”

Angela feels herself redden, a fact that has Fareeha grinning when she returns to wrap an arm around Angela’s shoulders.  She slips her own arm around Fareeha’s waist, and they slowly walk towards the doors to the Watchpoint.

“Fareeha Amari, I swear…”

“Oh you know you love it.”

She’s right.

Angela does love it.  

She loves it all.

She pulls Fareeha a little closer as they walk to try to show her just how much love she feels.  Things may not be perfect.  But with Fareeha by her side, Angela feels at peace.  Finally, at peace.  Together, once more.