#some bate this troop

[laski-and-sage]

TJ, sighing: I hate the 'there is only one bed in the room' thing in books...

Seras, nodding: Yes, I mean... Either YOU are going to sleep on the floor or I am. And if you get touchy I'll send you into the bathroom to sleep in the tub!

Alucard, looking at Anderson: One bed?

Anderson, shrugging: Meh, don't care as long as I can sleep.

[hanasnx]

drunk

WARNINGS: my take on the rare occasion of anakin getting drunk and hitting on you. not proofread, i got inspired and wrote it in one sitting. fluff i think? no y/n

ANAKIN SKYWALKER does not like drinking. he doesn't care for the taste of it, or how it makes him feel, or the disillusion that comes with it. he cannot be persuaded to try it if he doesn't agree to it himself. he's a lightweight which makes for disaster if he does not limit himself. on a rare night, in a rare mood, making a rare appearance, anakin allows some of his comrades to invite him to their 79s bar. the demographic is exclusive, but they sneak him in by covering up his curls, his striking scar, and his recognizable face with a cap.

they're surprised to find their general knows how to drink. how he knocks his head back in a precise motion as he downs a shot, pouring it directly down his throat instead of allowing it to linger on his tongue. how he sucks in a breath through his nose and frowns as he always does. even as they grip his shoulders and shake him in congratulations, exchanging laughs and commending him on his bravery for coming out tonight.

before long, they realize he's not all there. his vision is hazy, and he says nothing unless it's necessary. movements slow, swaying lightly in his seat. they prod and tease him, "you alright, gen?" and he offers them a curt nod in response. they keep putting shots in front of him, and they jeer every time he accepts them. his lips press into a thin line, a permanent and uninviting scowl plastered on his features, deepening with each gulp. one of the officers joke about what kind of drunk he is. one theorized he's the angry type, like when a bull sees red. it sets off a chain reaction, his troops seeking out a red situation to direct their general towards. to define if the theory is correct. who knows when the next time'll be when he allows this behavior, they should fulfill their entertainment.

"gen," a nickname for the special occasion. the last thing they need is calling army-men attention to the hero-with-no-fear in this bar. anakin lulls his head in their direction. he appears annoyed in a tired sort of way, which earns a chuckle from his companion. "you see that broad over there?" he gestures discretely towards you a few feet away. sat at the bar, you sip at your drink, while the booth anakin occupies watches his reaction with bated breath. he swings around, pivoting in your direction, blinking gently, and returning to the trooper to nod. "she's been keeping an eye on you since you got here. go talk to her." while he presented his challenge, an officer slid another shot to the intoxicated general. as if he moves through molasses, anakin glances toward the glass, downs it like he's done the others, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and gets up. it earns him cheers, and when he stumbles backwards, they're quick to outstretch their arms, catching him and propelling him forward.

uneven strides finally meet you, bracing himself on the bar in a way that jars you, side-eyeing him as you tuck your cup closer to yourself in case a stray hand knocks it over.

you had expected that he approached the bar to order, instead he props his elbow onto the surface, and rests his cheek against his palm. his gaze completely on you, not even an attempt to seem apologetic or uninterested. he says nothing.

his squad has never seen him so relaxed, that pose completely unfamiliar to them. they hush each other's giggles.

you break the silence first. "can i help you?"

he nods. "hi."

an uproar behind him causes you to turn to face its source, and the booth of officers make themselves look busy. anakin is unwavering, and you clear your throat uncomfortably.

"is this one of those bets?" you ask.

one single, bored reply: "no."

you sigh, impatient. "what do you want?"

"i dunno." a leisure shrug, and he fixes his posture, clanging his free elbow onto the table to incline into your space. instinctively, you arch away. "what're you drinking?" the inquiry paired with his gaze boring into your glass.

"fucking maker, you're wasted." you move to gather your things, sliding off of your stool to collect your credits to pay your tab.

"oh, he's bombing, lads, he's bombing. we better go get him." the troopers agree among themselves, venturing over.

anakin hears the shuffling of their boots, and makes an obvious show of giving them a thumbs-up signal. one officer slaps it down but you'd already seen it. "your friend's a real piece of work. is he always like this?" you spit.

"no, ma'am, promise. he never drinks. we didn't know what he would do."

"make sure he's cut off for the night. he can't be going around like that." you chastise, shouldering your purse.

"absolutely, ma'am, absolutely."

"do you like me?" the words coming from anakin's mouth surprise his surrounding comrades, and the vulnerable nature of them causes your brows to furrow as your gaze lands on him.

"i don't know you." you answer him, and one of the officer's takes the opportunity to pay your tab for you. you cross your arms, some of your anger diffused and your venom cooled. after getting a good look at him, you realize what a handsome face he possesses.

"you should." no sooner had those two words left his lips than his friends erupt in a mixture of chuckles and dismissals. barely staying upright on his own, yet he manages such a smooth line.

"he's had a lot to drink, ma'am, we're gonna get him home. sorry to bother you." the phrase falls on deaf ears, as you're lost in anakin's intense and unwavering eye contact. confident as ever.

[asordinaryppl]

A3! Backstage Story Translation - Itaru Chigasaki SSR - Today's Star: Boyd - Part 3

!! boyd is from the clockwork heartbeat, you can find a translation of its event story on yaycupcake! (+ yaycupcake's page for the play itself)

this is a request from an anon, who also provided the script in video form! (thank you!)

Itaru: Boyd’s costume, cloak and eye patch are all really cool. Kumon told me he’s looking forward to this.

Izumi: Kumon-kun also likes this kind of setting, doesn’t he?

Izumi: Now that I think about it, both of you acted well throughout the entire play, but it got even better somewhere in the middle.

Izumi: The tension in Boyd and Alf’s psychological warfare increased, and all I could do was watch with bated breath.

Itaru: That might be… because Masumi understands chuunibyou a little more now.

Masumi: Don’t believe him, it’s not really like that.

Masumi: But being praised by you makes me happy.

Izumi: (... Did something happen between these two?)

Izumi: Okay, let’s get started.

-

[Buzzer sound, the curtain lifts]

Boyd (Itaru): “To think my recluse of a disciple is out and about…”

Boyd: “It seems meeting that mechanical doll had a positive effect on Luke.”

Boyd: “When I learned of the doll’s creation, I had thought it’d be a waste of time and effort that would end up doing more harm than good...”

Izumi: (Boyd smiles to himself and makes to head home, but then there’s a ruckus in the surrounding area…)

Man A: “It seems there’s been a robbery over there!”

Man B: “The culprit has to be–”

Boyd: “*sigh*... Again?”

Boyd: “There’s been a number of robberies done by the same group lately. … What’s even more troublesome is they’ve been calling themselves homunculi.”

Boyd: “——”

Boyd: “*sigh*...”

Boyd: “... Shouldn’t you be over there as well? Sir Captain.”

Alf (Masumi): “Enough troops have been dispatched to the scene. I have business with you, Master Boyd.”

Alf: “I need to ask you about the serial robberies done by homunculi.”

Alf: “There are not a lot of alchemists capable of creating homunculi.”

Alf: “Luke has been under surveillance due to the S Incident, so we don’t think he’s the one responsible.”

Alf: “Inevitably, this has been making you more and more suspicious.”

Boyd: “Ridiculous.”

Alf: “Did you or did you not try to create a homunculus once? You failed, and lost your eye as a result.”

Boyd: “That’s just an old, idiotic rumor.”

Alf: “Even so, your abilities and your disciple’s sins are enough to make you suspicious, I’m sure you’re aware.”

Alf: “I have made an oath to protect this country.  I will do whatever it takes to uphold that.”

Boyd: “... You leave me no choice. I’ll cooperate until your suspicions of me are cleared.”

Alf: “This is a formal handshake to finalize the agreement of our cooperation. Don’t confuse it for friendship.”

Boyd: “Sorry, but I’m not used to doing things like this.”

Izumi: (Boyd refuses Alf’s handshake and goes back to his workshop…)

-

Boyd: “What should I do…”

Boyd: “The quickest thing to do would be to make “that”, but in order to do that…”

Boyd: “I want to avoid using this as much as possible.”

Boyd: “... Well, I have no choice.”

Izumi: (Boyd gathers the materials and chemicals he needs with practiced ease, and begins preparing…)

Boyd: “So, which stone should I use for the core? Aquamarine, diamond, jade–”

Boyd: “... Libyan glass.”

Boyd: “... gh–”

Izumi: (Boyd begins the transmutation, but his left eye gradually begins throbbing, and he groans in pain…)

[Flashback starts]

Boyd: “Just some more, just a little more… And I’ll be able to meet you again… I’ll bring you back to life–”

???: “Boyd! Get away, this is dangerous—!”

[Explosion]

[Flashback ends]

Boyd: “ —— *gasp*”

Boyd: “... Is it done?”

Izumi: (Boyd comes to his senses and realizes what he was trying to create is complete.)

Izumi: (Boyd puts back on the eye patch that fell off his still-aching left eye…)

-

Izumi: (A few days later, Boyd hands over the anti-homunculus device he created to Alf.)

Boyd: “When a homunculus is created, its components form a special connection– Well, long story short, it’s a tool that homunculi react to.”

Boyd: “This should temporarily stop your opponent’s movements. … As long as it’s a homunculus.”

Alf: “Creating a homunculus is no simple feat. … And many of them, at that.”

Alf: “No alchemist would go such a long way for mere robberies, and no alchemist would go out of their way to become the target of a nation-wide investigation.”

Alf: “The guards have also considered that possibility, I assure you. … My original goal has been completed.”

Boyd: “... So you were testing me to see if I’d betray you.”

Alf: “You can take it in any way you see fit.”

Boyd: “Can’t say that doesn’t hurt. But in that case, I have also fulfilled my goal to clear up any suspicions against me.”

Alf: “...”

Izumi: (As he always does, Alf offers his hand to Boyd.)

Boyd: “Is this supposed to mean that the negotiations have concluded, and the contract has been fulfilled?”

Alf: “... It’s a handshake to show my gratitude. And a courtesy.”

Boyd: “... I’m sorry, I’ll have to decline.”

Boyd: “Instead, I’ll tell you one thing– There is a half-truth to the rumor.”

Boyd: “Do you know of the other taboo transmutation, aside from creating homunculi?”

Alf: “Don’t tell me–”

Boyd: “I’m also the kind of person who would do anything to achieve a goal. I believe we’re similar in that respect.”

Boyd: “Well, that’s youthful indiscretion. Taboo transmutations and taking on disciples.”

Boyd: “You ought to keep your wits about you, too.”

[Boyd walks away]

Izumi: (Boyd says that, and then disappears into the smoke…)

-

Izumi: Good work!

Masumi: You too.

Itaru: GW. Ah, that was fun. This performance is packed with all my fave story elements.

Masumi: It seriously catered to Itaru’s interests…

Itaru: Haha. I pretty much left the scriptwriting up to Tsuzuru, but the script’s contents were something only he, who understands me so well, could come up with.

Itaru: Having to let go of it after one performance is such a waste…

Masumi: You just wanna go at it again.

Itaru: Well, yeah.

Izumi: Fufu, I get the feeling that’s a shared thought with everyone who’s done these performances. 

Itaru: Thought so.

Itaru: If we have another chance to share this story, I’ll happily take part. I’ll be in your care when that time comes.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Christopher Mathias at HuffPost:

NEW YORK — A crowd of pro-Israel protesters gathered just outside the Columbia University campus on Thursday evening, chanting through the gates at a group of pro-Palestinian students inside to “go to Gaza!” “Go home, terrorists!” the pro-Israel crowd screamed at the students. “Go back to Gaza!” they yelled. “Stop wasting mommy and daddy’s money!” one man said through a megaphone. “You want to camp? Go camp in Gaza!” said another man, referring to the Palestinian territory where Israel’s siege has killed some 33,000 people, and where this week local health officials said medics had discovered mass graves at hospitals raided by Israeli troops.

The White House — which under President Joe Biden has continued to send aid and weapons to Israel months after the International Court of Justice ruled that Palestinians in Gaza were at risk of experiencing a genocide — responded to HuffPost’s video of the incident in a statement Friday. “Every American is an American, full stop,” deputy press secretary Andrew Bates said. “It is bigoted and outrageous to suggest that anyone should ‘go back’ anywhere. These kinds of statements degrade all of us, whether it’s telling someone to ‘go back’ to Gaza, or telling someone to ‘go back’ to Belarus and Poland, which was captured in other videos yesterday — countries where Jews were victims of the Holocaust and pogroms. President Biden stands against hateful rhetoric, and believes we must constantly respect the dignity of all people, regardless of disagreements about policy.”

The pro-Israel demonstration Thursday was helmed by a group of far-right Christian nationalist figures. Sean Feucht, the prominent MAGA pastor and musician, was the main organizer of the “Unite for Israel” rally. Feucht is closely tied to a slew of prominent Republican lawmakers, once bestowing Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis with a “Defending Freedom” award at a Miami “Let Us Worship” event, meeting with Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-Ga.) on Capitol Hill, and praying over former President Donald Trump in the Oval Office. He has appeared multiple times on Fox News, is a regular on Steve Bannon’s “War Room” podcast, and is close with Jack Posobiec, the far-right influencer who has a history of making antisemitic remarks. Ahead of the rally Feucht said in a livestreamed video that the “rise” in antisemitism on college campuses was another welcome harbinger of the end days. Many American evangelicals, like Feucht, see the return of Jews to Israel as key to an End Times prophecy that would usher in the Second Coming of Christ and commence true Christians’ ascent to heaven. These evangelicals believe at that moment Jews will have to convert to Christianity or perish — a belief grounded in antisemitism. [...] Columbia’s pro-Palestinian encampment quickly became a lightning rod for accusations of antisemitism, with right-wing politicians and media figures falsely equating the students’ criticism of Israel with hatred for Jews. House Speaker Mike Johnson (R-La.) even held a press conference on campus Wednesday, calling on Biden to take action, and suggesting the president may need to summon the National Guard to end the encampment.

A pro-Israel Apartheid march led by far-right Christian nationalist Sean Feucht on Thursday at Columbia University in New York featured inflammatory chants aimed at anti-Gaza Genocide protesters such as "go home, terrorists" and "Go back to Gaza".

[sweetwhispersofchaos]

Eject Chapter 3

Story Summary: Ejecting from your plane in the face of danger? Expected. Forbidden love amongst pilots? Not so much. Will they bond or will this break them for good?

Chapter Summary: a special picture, an aircraft carrier, and pre-mission discussion

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Natasha “Phoenix” Trace All the Daggers, Mav x Penny, Amelia, OC’s

Warnings: Language, Assault (not by a major character), Injury, Eventual smut, Alcohol consumption, smoking, discussions of mental health. (It’s a rollercoaster. You’ve been warned.)

Chapter Word Count: 5183

Eject Masterlist

I do not own anything except the original characters.

This was bullshit. He may not have been a Mav fan for personal reasons, but pulling him off the mission now? With so little time left to prepare for what lay ahead? And these new mission parameters were bogus. Rooster knew he wasn’t going on the run, but his heart leapt into his throat, knowing that Nat would be, and she wouldn’t be a Phoenix, she would be a sitting duck.

The classroom was ready to erupt at Cyclones latest developments when the radar screen in front of them began to beep. A tiny plane appeared on the screen and the beginnings of widespread hysteria ebbed into confusion for all in the room. Then the voice of Maverick rang over the intercom, asking for a green range. Comms confirmed green range but stated they didn’t see him on the schedule today. When Mav told the comms operator he was going anyways, Rooster heard Phoenix mutter “nice”. He had to agree, although he would never admit it. This was bold of the old man.

The air was thick. Never mind that it was hot to begin with but the anticipation for the next 2 minutes and 15 seconds as Maverick navigated the range made the tension in the small classroom palpable. Everyone waited with bated breath to see if the legend himself could do the impossible.

With seconds to spare, he did it. The sonofabitch did it. Some cheered, some sat back in awe, and a few high fives rang out across the room. Rooster just stared at the completed flight path and time on the screen. So, it could be done after all. This made him slightly relieved to know that Phoenix had a fighting chance.

Cyclone did not look pleased, however. He turned on his heel to face the room and everyone sat in their chairs hastily.

“The carrier pulls out at 0500 tomorrow. Report 0400. Go pack your shit. Dismissed.” He barked and then marched through the center aisle and out the door. That was a very angry man on a mission. Rooster knew Mav was in deep shit. This guy just seriously has a death wish, he thought. But what a way to spur the troops. He found himself feeling some serious respect for the man.

The rest of the squad began filing out of the room. He grabbed his shades from his pocket and began to stand before he realized that there was a small, dark head of hair pulled into a tight and neat bun still sitting in the seat in front of him. As everyone else filed out he took two steps into the aisle and came to a stop next to her. She was just staring at the screen, clutching a pen in her hand just under her chin, a look of intensity he recognized all too well resting on her brow.

“You coming?” he asked, but she didn’t move.

Without taking her eyes off the screen, she spoke in a very hushed voice “I prepared myself to die this week.”

That explained the concentrated look on her face, he thought. Phoenix was a realist at heart. Face the world head on, no bullshit kind of gal. So, this comment didn’t exactly shock him.

She continued. “I called my dad to tell him I love him. I triple checked my will. Wrote a letter for my nephews. You know, the just in case kind. I knew I wasn’t coming back from this. If I was selected. But now. Now I feel hope. And that scares me even more.” Her eyes lowered to the desktop in front of her as she spoke that last part. She took a ragged breath. “I know you have a sordid history with that man, but what he just did. Stealing a very expensive government owned plane and giving hope to the people in this room. It was fucking ballsy. But now all my preparation has gone to shit, and I don’t know what to do. There’s no time to process. This seems to change so much, and nothing, all at the same time.”

Rooster continued to stand, staring down at her. For all the fortitude she carried, he was always taken aback when her insecurities slithered through. He knew she hated to appear weak, but he also knew that he was the only person, aside from her older sister, who she felt comfortable revealing her discomforts to.

He held out his hand to her and she looked over, first at his hand then his face, with a quizzical expression. “How about a cup of coffee to help you process before we pack.”

She smiled a tiny smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes and reached out to take his hand as she stood. Looking up into his face she smugly muttered “I already packed. Two days ago.” And released his hand to stroll to the door.

Of course you did, he thought. He just shook his head and followed her out of the room.

Two empty cups of coffee were discarded on the table by Roosters chair. Nat sat cross legged on his bed, flipping through a car magazine he had laying around. Bradley was busy loading his duffel. The radio was on low, the only noise in the room other than his stuffing of things into the large bag.

“You know, if you stayed a little more organized this wouldn’t be such a chore every time you ship out?” she tossed sarcastically in his direction without looking up from the article she was reading.

“Ha!” he barked sarcastically back at her, a grin growing across his face. “We can’t all be Anal Annies like you, Nat.” He joked as he tossed a t-shirt at her. It landed on her lap, covering the magazine. She looked up, cocking an eyebrow at him, before tossing it back in his direction. He caught it and crammed it into the ruck with a huge grin on his face.

“I’d say being an Anal Annie has worked well for me.” She spit back, shaking her head and smiling at him.

“What did your dad say when you called?” He asked, hoping the lighthearted moment would soften the transition to what he felt needed to be talked about.

“Nothing much. He never says much. Of course, I didn’t give him any details, just told him I was shipping out, I wasn’t sure when I’d be back, and to take care of himself.” He knew the history with her dad was a rocky one, but she always tried to be mindful of Rooster when she discussed her father. He appreciated her thoughtfulness on the subject, she was always thinking of others.

Rooster just nodded his head as he closed and cinched the flap on his overstuffed ruck. Rolling it across the floor towards the door, he then stood and moved to sit on the end of his bed. As he flopped down hastily, he watched her close the magazine and place it back on the bedside table.

She huffed then looked back at him, almost exasperated. “I’m not close to the guy. You know that. But I didn’t want to die without being the bigger person. Clear my conscious.”

“You’re not going to die.” He said, staring at her.

“You don’t know that. No one does. Hazard of the trade.”

He rolled to his back, his legs hanging off one side of the bed, his head hanging off the other.

“It’s going to absolutely suck sitting on that carrier waiting for you to get back. I’m the helpless one over here. I can’t do anything but sit back and wait. You’re going to go be a badass and win the day, and I’ll just be stuck. Waiting.”

“I’m just hoping we hit the target. That’s the only W I can hope for.” She huffed and then stated, “You could go on the mission, ya know?”

“Nat. We know who is going on that mission. And it aint me.” He spit towards the ceiling, staring up in an effort to conceal his irritation at this fact.

“Bradley Bradshaw, sit up and look at me.” She snapped.

He tilted his head in her direction, the serious expression she wore demanding he do as she said, and he didn’t delay. He sat up, crossing his legs to match hers, afraid of what was coming next.

“Damnit, why do you do this? Self-sabotage? You’re a better pilot than the rest of those guys combined, and you can’t tell me the brass doesn’t recognize that, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Every pilot has a vice, even me. Hangman is too confident, you’re not confident enough, I’m too focused sometimes and miss things, like birds. All of us have something. So quit selling yourself short. You have just as good a shot as anyone else to fly this mission and I’m hoping like hell that we do this together.” She hesitated. “I don’t want to do it without you. I don’t want to leave you to worry. So. Stop being an ass.” And she grabbed his pillow from behind her and tossed it at his head with a grin.

He grabbed it, smiling back, and while holding one end swung and connected with the side of her head.

She began to laugh as she leaned over his bedside table, her hand rubbing the side of her face where he connected. He chuckled as the pillow went to the floor. While they laughed, he didn’t notice Phoenix look down on to the night stand she was leaning over. Her laughing abruptly stopped, and he opened his eyes, still smiling, to see that she had discovered a small secret he had kept in plain sight.

“You still have this?” she asked, sliding a picture from between the pages of another magazine.

He shrugged a shoulder “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

She held the photograph in her hands, studying it intently. The photo was older, crumpled and bent around the edges from all the moving it had done. It was slightly blurry, but it was a picture the night before they graduated Top Gun. The class had gone out to celebrate and in her drunken state, Phoenix had flopped down without grace into Roosters lap to clink beer bottles. Her arm slung around his neck and his around her back to stop her from falling over and they both started laughing. Someone snapped a picture as they were holding each other and smiling in each other’s eyes.

It was Roosters most prized possession aside from a few items he held on to of his parents. That photo was his momentum, his reason to fight, what kept him going. In the moment that photo was snapped he held his world in his arms and nothing else mattered. For just a few seconds, he was genuinely happy without care. She had seen it a couple of times amongst his stuff over the years, but she always thought it was an embarrassing look for her, sloppy drunk and falling. She couldn’t see how beautiful she looked in that moment to him. Loose hair, tight jeans and a pale-yellow top, and that gorgeous smile.

She stared at the photo silently for a few more moments, then placed it back on the nightstand. Without looking at him she rose and headed for the door.

“I’ll see you bright and early” She tossed quickly over her shoulder, and she ghosted out of his room without anything else to go on.

He sat staring after her, wondering why she kept running from him like this and would she run off that carrier in just a few days and leave him forever?

******

Their quarters on an aircraft carrier were not luxurious by any stretch. Four beds in a tiny space with a couple of cabinets. Rooster was bunking with Bob, Payback, and Fanboy. This was his least favorite part of the gig. Too much testosterone in a very tiny space. Luckily, his bunkmates all tended to either be quiet in quarters or not hang out there at all. That was what the pilot’s ready room was for. The ready room had a couple of couches and chairs, some lockers, a comms radio and a few other odds and ends tossed around. That’s where he currently sat, reading one of his car magazines and ignoring the banter of Bob and Fanboy discussing some Star Trek something or other.

After two days at sea, it was getting close to time. The class had been stunned when Maverick called them over before boarding early on embarkation day to let them know that he had been named team leader. Rooster knew for sure that meant he wasn’t going. There were two spots for single seaters, and one went to Mav. That dick Hangman would be the obvious choice for the second. He guessed Mavericks ballsy maneuver put him to the task.

The door to the ready room swung open and Phoenix walked in, carrying her helmet and flight bag. She read the room as she closed the door, a light but tense grin on her lips, and moved to sit in a chair near the back wall of the room, behind Roosters perch on the small love seat. They hadn’t really seen each other since boarding. She was rooming with Halo down the hall from his quarters but didn’t seem to be in the mood for social consumption.

“Phoenix, question. Which character would you want on this mission with you: Pickard or Kirk?” Fanboy asked.

Rooster snorted, knowing good and well she had never seen an episode of Star Trek in her life. He placed an arm on the back of the couch and turned to look at her, amused at the thought of what her answer might be. She was wiping her helmet with a small towel and stopped to look up at the three sets of eyes waiting intently for her answer.

She seemed to contemplate for a moment then said “Pickard. Kirks a loose cannon. No time for that shit.” Then she went back to wiping down her helmet, ignoring the shocked look coming from Rooster.

Rooster blurted out “I’m sorry, what the fuck? Since when would you know something like that!?” She cocked an eyebrow but never looked up from her task.

“I didn’t take you to be a sexist pig, cock boy.” She looked up over her eyebrows with an expression of annoyance at the slacked jaw in front of her.

“Oh, come on! I know you’ve never watched Star Trek.” He stated, sounding more of an asshole than he meant to.

“You don’t know everything about me you know.” She spit back, a little more infuriation in her tone than he expected. It seemed like her mood wasn’t as playful as he first thought.

“Apparently.” He mumbled as Fanboy cut in.

“I knew she would have an answer. That’s why I asked her. Bob and I got her to watch some with us over the last week.” Fanboy stated matter of fact.

Rooster looked over at Fanboy as if he were going to chew him a new one then looked back at Phoenix, who was putting away the cloth in her flight bag. She looked up to meet his eyes and a sense of awkwardness seemed to settle over the room. Was it just him or did she seem, edgy, pissed even? Phoenix stood, placing her items in her locker on the opposite wall, then made for the door. Just as she went to step through, she turned to Bradley and started to say something but as their eyes met, she stopped then turned and walked out of the room.

Rooster just sat staring at the closed ship door, wondering what the hell that was all about.

“Rooster. I think someone needs to talk to her. She’s struggling man. I think it’s the mission.” Bob barely whispered.

“I think that’s putting it mildly.” He said, looking over at the two Trekkies. “I’m not sure that little display had much to do with Star Trek.”

“No, I don’t think it did. I’ll go talk to her.” Bob said as he started to rise.

“NO!” Rooster shouted as he got to his feet. “I’ll go. Ya’ll carry on.” And he made a quick exit.

The problem with an aircraft carrier is, its big. He had no idea which direction she went so he decided to start with her quarters. The girls were lucky, since there were only two, they had a room to themselves. More space. He knocked and Halo answered. Phoenix wasn’t there but Halo said Nat had mentioned something about going to the gym. He thanked her and made for the lower decks where the workout rooms were located.

He found her there, running on an elliptical machine on the outside portion of the exercise space. She had her air pods in and was staring intently at the ocean, a scary look on her face. He couldn’t decide if it was determination or fear, or both. She was practically running a full speed marathon. He had never seen her look so unnerved like this. He didn’t want to startle her, so he slipped behind her across the space and leaned against a railing, the sea breeze lapping at his skin. He crossed his arms and decided to wait her out. If for no other reason because it was quiet down here.

20 minutes later, as he shifted his weight to the opposite leg for the 4th time, her pace began to slow. As she came to a stop, Phoenix reached for her water bottle, and began to step off the machine, her back to Rooster. She took a few swigs of her water, panting heavily between swallows. He watched her closely, almost intrusively. She was wearing a basic black tank top and shorts, her black running shoes, and her hair was pulled up in a messy ponytail on top of her head. She was a sweaty mess, but what a gorgeous sweaty mess she was. He wondered if she realized just how gorgeous she was?

He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice her start to turn around. Suddenly, a loud “Holy shit” broke him from his trance of staring at her ass and his eyes snapped up to meet hers.

“What the fuck Bradshaw? Stalker much?” she spat, obviously pissed off. He didn’t move his body or eyes, but he started to think leaning on the railing may be dangerous in this moment. One quick push and she could probably send him overboard.

“Ok, that’s it. What’s with the attitude? What did I do now? Huh? You’re obviously upset about something, so out with it!” He threw at her, more aggressive than he meant to.

She stared at him, eyes narrowing. She was still panting.

“Why do you still have that picture?” she spat.

He became confused. “The pic of us?” he asked. She nodded, still seething in his direction.

He wasn’t sure what to say. She made her stance perfectly clear on the beach about where they stood. This close to go time wasn’t the time to throw down hard truths, or was it?

He stuttered for a moment, not sure what to say. He was wrestling internally. She took several steps towards him, tossing her water bottle onto a bench nearby. “I asked you a question, Bradley. This isn’t hard. Why do you still have that picture?”

He couldn’t let her go on this mission mad at him or concerned about a damn picture. He dropped his head, let out a ragged breath, and decided it wasn’t worth it to fight his feelings to lie to her, to attempt some half assed effort to spare her feelings.

He looked up at her, his resolve completely lost. Arms still crossed, leaning against the carrier railing he decided now was as good a time as any. “Because I love you. There, is that what you wanted to hear? I love you damnit. Not some lust filled thing or as an act of convenience as you put it. I love you Nat, and that picture makes me happy. It reminds me of a moment in time where I was really and truly happy. And I cling like hell to that moment because I never know how many more happy moments I’m going to get in this life, especially with you. Is that such a crime?”

Her eyes went wide. They were both breathing heavily now, staring at each other. The only noise was the crashing of waves against the side of the ship. Minutes felt like hours in that moment. He needed her to say something. Anything. But she just stood there. Then she walked the five feet across the deck to stand in front of him. He stood up from the railing and looked down at her. She was staring at his chest, then she wrapped her arms around his waist. He stood frozen for a few seconds, then wrapped his arms around her.

She spoke so quietly he almost couldn’t hear her over the crashing of the waves. “I’m selfish. I can’t help it. You don’t understand because you’re a man. Women went decades without this ability, just because we have a vagina between our legs.” He let out a light chuckle into her damp hair.

“ I was one of the first women to graduate from Top Gun. That’s HUGE!” she emphasized. “I have a responsibility as a woman to do this job to the absolute best of my abilities. To stay the course and not become distracted. I can’t let things like relationships or the sexist comments of my coworkers…” he felt her right-hand pinch at his waist, and he felt a twinge of guilt. That remark was for him. “…Get in the way of what I feel is my true calling in life. I worked too damn hard to get here.” She paused. Neither of them said anything, he just kept holding her and listening to the rough water behind him.

“We love being pilots. But I wish like hell we lived a different life sometimes. So I’m selfish, and I hate myself for it.” She picked her head up off his chest and her eyes met his, searching. “I love you too. But you know we can’t do this. That picture scared me. What it truly means scared me. The thought of leaving you alone scares the shit out of me. Everything about this scares me. And I want nothing more than to be what you want me to be. But I can’t be this scared and do my job. I must be able to focus. This is too important to me. I’m so fucking pissed and frustrated and…”

She trailed off as he pulled her back into his chest and leaned back into the railing. “Hey, hey, hey. Calm down woman” he whispered, “You’re supposed to be the strong one here.” He felt her body tremor from a small giggle and she slightly relaxed.

She spoke muffled into his chest “Why does everything have to be so hard?”

He placed his lips on the top of her sweaty head, not caring, and mumbled into her hair “You can’t worry about me with what you’re going to be up against. I would worry if you weren’t scared, but I’m sorry for putting some of that fear into you. I didn’t mean to. You’re right, I love being a pilot, but I love being your friend just as much. That is more important to me than the thought of what we could be past friends. So as your friend, “

“BEST friend” she interjected.

“Yes. As your BEST friend” he chuckled “I need to tell you to pull yourself together. Feelings are hard in situations like this, but your head has got to be in the game for tomorrow. Don’t let whatever battle you’re fighting inside get in the way of the kick ass win you are about to accomplish tomorrow. Relationships are a dime a dozen, but what we do, what you are about to do, is once in a lifetime. You’re a badass, that’s what draws me to you. I need you to not worry about me, not worry about us, and focus on the task at hand. Please?”

She nodded her head in affirmative but didn’t remove it from his chest. They stood there for a long time, just holding each other. Not speaking all the things they wanted to say. Not adding to the silence. Just creating another core memory, like the one in the picture, to cling to when shit hit the fan in 24 hours. He placed another light kiss on the top of her head then began to push her back as he stood. She took a small step back and looked up at him as he held her shoulders in his strong hands.

“As much as I’m enjoying this moment, you sort of stink” he said with a wink. Her jaw dropped in shock and then his stomach caught her right hook. He grunted, dropping his hands to the spot she slugged him.

“I swear. You sure know how to kill a moment.” She scoffed as she rolled her eyes. Then her face softened. “Thank you for being honest with me. I know this isn’t easy, trust me. It’s not for me either. But I’m glad to know I have you on my side, no matter what happens tomorrow.”

He just stared at her face memorizing it for posterity. She stepped back, walked over to the bench to grab her water bottle, then turned back to look at him. “I’m sorry I was so short with you. I’ll see you at dinner, yeah?” He nodded and watched her rush through the entry way and disappear back into the ship.

Tomorrow was going to absolutely suck.

He must have missed her at dinner because he never saw her in the mess. He really wasn’t hungry anyways. Rooster picked at some potatoes and steak on his plate while some of the others talked around him. The afternoons events were weighing so heavily on his mind. They had declared love to each other. It seemed to come so casually, so easy, and yet heartbreaking all at the same time. Of course he wanted nothing more than to be with her, in some compacity more than best friends, but her words hit him hard. He had never thought much about her unique position. Phoenix had always been just one of the guys, so the fact that she felt this incredible obligation to her gender was remarkable to him. Just when he thought he couldn’t be more in awe of her, she staked her life and career on the ability to be a role model to the future of women in aviation and he was blown away. She never acted the martyr, so her revelations really hit him differently. He also felt like shit for demeaning her over something so dumb as a Star Trek question. Real smooth dumbass.

Rooster was so deep in thought that he didn’t hear Bob calling his name at first. He didn’t hear it at all until a couple of green peas flew into his chest. He looked up to see several sets of eyes staring at him and a fork in Hangman’s hands facing his direction, a shit eating grin across his face.

“Dude. I think that cow is already dead. No need to keep torturing it like that.” Hangman laughed as he returned his fork to his plate.

“You alright man?” Payback asked and Rooster realized that aside from Hangman, the other guys he was sitting with all looked concerned.

“Nah yeah, I’m good. Just thinking about tomorrow.”

“I don’t know why, I’m sure the comms guys wont mind you keeping them company while the rest of us go take care of business.” Serasin tossed at him then high fived Coyote.

Payback just looked at Hangman with abhorrence, while Fanboy shook his head and Bob rolled his eyes. Rooster decided to do what he did best and ignore the shitbag.

“Time for some shut eye. See yall in the morning.” He said as he stood and made way to the trash can to dispose of his barely touched dinner. Rooster couldn’t get out of there fast enough and sleep sounded like a great idea right about now.

As he rounded the corner to his quarters, he heard steps coming up behind him. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw Bob and stopped, turning to face the WSO.

“I, uh, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Bob stammered.

“Nah man, its all good. You headed to bed too?”

“Um in a while. I was going to go to the head for a shower. But, uh, I wanted to talk to you first.” He looked around as if someone might be listening in on them. Rooster was confused.

“Ok yeah, what’s up?”

Bob hesitated again; he looked like a man warring with himself. He glanced around one more time as if he was waiting to be caught in the act of something mischievous then he looked back at Roosters and he blurted out “You have to give her time. She must get through this tomorrow. But. I know the front she is putting up is just that, a front. Be patient man, there’s hope.”

Rooster wasn’t sure what he was expecting to come from the smaller man’s mouth, but that certainly wasn’t it. He stared bewildered at Bob as he squirmed from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable with the revelation he just spilled. A few uncomfortable moments passed as they just stood and stared, then Bob cleared his throat and mumbled “Yeah uh shower. See ya.” And ducked off quickly down the hall towards their quarters.

Rooster watched him go then leaned his back against the wall, completely dumfounded at what had just happened. This meant several things. The first being that Phoenix had confided something to Bob about this, whatever it was, between them. It also meant that her WSO possibly knew something more than what she had revealed to him. She must really be struggling with her feelings. He didn’t know whether to feel excited or downright awful that his heart was causing her this much of a struggle. It was never his intention, that was for sure.

The door to their room opened and Bob walked out, bathroom bag in hand. He looked down the hall at Rooster, looking very nervous. The men nodded to each other than Bob took off in the direction of the showers. Rooster decided that his crappy little bed was looking better and better at that moment. Tomorrow was going to be shitty enough without being completely exhausted. He ducked off to bed and began to doze while Bobs words swirled in his head, and he dreamed of holding her again one more time.

Chapter 4 ->

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Brothers & Batchmates [Part 1]

Warnings and Information: Made a real mess for myself in the NTMYB narrative by giving one Jedi command of both a battalion and a legion, which just goes to show I didn’t plan this far in advance from the beginning when what was meant to be a one-off has become a Whole Thing. (Ah well. You live and you learn who the hell’s in charge here. This is me fixing my mess and fleshing out the story.) I missed writing about my boys. Reference and allusion to canon-typical violence and war crimes. Reference and allusion to death, injury and loss. More takes on Clone culture. Still no use of Mando’a here. Star Wars and real-world swearing. The usual use of narrative and stylistic italics. Clone OC Scuffle is his own damn warning (perhaps just for this installment as a whole). *Use of a character’s deadname. Reference to the transgender Clone named Sister. Like her Clone OCs, the author can’t stop making up fake birds.  *Jedi OC Caelen is genderfluid, and while any pronouns are applicable, they/them is primarily used in the story for clarity. Caelen’s deadname is brought up ONCE in an establishing flashback, as a warning, to those who are sensitive to such things. (I want it to be very clear it is not done with disrespect, however.)

Word-count: 6,272

The combined unit eyes the three-dimensional map with bated breath. They were warned this morning that the commander and captain needed to conduct a last-minute mission to move against the Separatist forces - an opportunity to deal a critical blow - but they could not take the entire combined company. There is a chance many brothers will have to be apart, a very long twenty-four hours for some. 

All Clones are brothers of course, though batchmates are most often the closest of all brotherly bonds. And for those who have been adopted into these batch-bonds, the potential to be split apart proves more stressful. 

But duty takes precedence over such feelings. 

Their commanding officers are apologizing before they even make their verdicts, who will be going with the commander, and who will be staying with the captain. "We're sorry for what's to come; we never want to split our forces unless necessary of course after growing used to this… unusual arrangement. However, Captain Law and I have agreed this could make the difference between an early victory or a crushing defeat in this sector of Republic space." Hundreds of brothers reply that they understand in the affirmative, however begrudgingly for some, and however anxiously for others. 

"Commander Juke will take volunteers first, and if necessary following that point, we'll select and recruit additional troops into the task force." Captain Law further explains, switching the holonav off for the time being. 

One soldier steps forward out of the lineup, picture of perfection in formation position with his helmet carried in the crook of his arm. There is a jagged notch cut out of his right ear that makes him stand out. This is Nockite, one of the oldest brothers in the combined forces under a singular Jedi’s command. 

"I will go." Nockite’s simple pledge is an unwavering oath, and the first break in the ice of hesitation for many of his other brothers. If Nockite will go, many who look to his example will follow.

He's thanked for volunteering himself, but Commander Juke doesn't need them right away. The only timeframe they are supplied with is “soon enough”. Juke says he is only telling his brothers now to give time to think it over so the call doesn't come as a complete surprise. Where he can avoid it, it is not in the commander's nature to create rude awakenings for the men, whether they be from his battalion, or Law’s legion. He’s proved he cares about preventing the decay of overall morale on many occasions before.

They’ve taken many blows as it is, these brothers. 

The death of General Kalsamm. 

Many of these last planets, festering with CIS battle droids, have proven for staggering losses of life in the name of tentative victories. 

Knowing that though they’ve proven capable thus far, one singular Force-wielder cannot maintain the command of a legion and their late master’s battalion on their own forever; the arrangement brothers have grown used to will eventually come to an end…

Fortunately this dividing line - when that time comes - will not have too great an impact on a group of Clones who admittedly have grown very dependent on one another, in one sense or the other. Canvas, the baby brother of one batch, now adopted into the fold of another, would have been utterly inconsolable if he had been separated from the one brother who’d come to mean the galaxy to him. And Scruffy, equally attached in his own fashion to not just Canvas, but his batchmates Stick and Cypher and twins Carver and Cairn too, would not be capable of taking such orders without challenge. Join the ranks of the battalion without his chosen brothers? Remain in the legion without the brother who spent the most time ensuring he did not die a rookie?

Sat together, not far from where the COs had made this announcement, Scruffy and his brothers consider if they should volunteer to go to assure they don't become fragmented. Do they just say nothing and hope enough brothers will volunteer themselves? Commander Juke is taking a relatively "small" response force for this opportunity, maybe only fifty or so brothers, so surely these slots would fill fast between the legion and the battalion, right? 

The more they all sit and think about it, the more one of them grows nervous about particular possibilities. "Maybe we… should? If we tell the Captain we volunteer to go together then we won't be split up." 

"Is that what you wanna do, Vas?" Scruffy asks, carefully picking leaf after leaf from Canvas’s tight curls of hair. He’d fallen in a patch of bluefern this morning, chasing after a Seppie probe droid. Damn thing nearly got away too, had the Clone with five scuff marks on his chest plate not recklessly thrown himself forward in hopes of catching the thing by one of its many thin appendages and succeeded. 

Lost his helmet in the process, but Canvas looked so damn proud of himself for slowing the recon unit down just long enough for a marksman to turn the droid into scrap-metal. Captain Law had been proud too, once he had talked himself out of lecturing his brother on account of the recklessness. 

"I think so. While it's not that I don't like the look of the situation, I don- can't lose my brothers…" Canvas replies, screwing his eyes shut in his admittance. "I just can't." Out of all his fears - and there are many - the thought of losing his brothers paralyzes him. Battle droids don't frighten the Clone who bears the marks of his dead batchmates like they once had, save perhaps BX commando droids and for every good reason. 

On more than one occasion since being accepted into Scruffy's fold, Canvas has woken up in a bundle of emotionally shattered nerves with hot, thick tears trailing down his face after waking from a dream about losing his batchmates, and then his closest brothers; leaving him all alone. Sometimes the worry stone that sits in his utility belt helps. Other times it's nothing more than whittled wood that has become smoothed through repeated use. 

Cypher looks up from his datapad at long last, breaking away from studying his page on a specimen of carnivorous invertebrates. "Should we ask the Commander before you change your mind?" 

Canvas scuffs the dirt before him with the toe of his boot, taking a moment to ponder. Should they? What if the others didn't want to go? The twins hadn't said anything since Commander Juke and the captain informed them of the plan. 

"Cairn? Carver? What do you think; do you want to do it?" 

"I'm still considering it." Carver admits in a grumble through gritted teeth. Someone has his vibroknife for the time being, and he's been somewhat unhappy without it. He’s always thought best with his hands occupied. His twin, Cairn, on the other hand has his mind made up. 

"I'd go. I'd love to lay waste to a couple of clankers. Tear 'em limb from limb!" 

"Cairn, you worry me." Scruffy's batchmate Stick says plainly, grimacing in concern after sharing a glance as the oldest and next oldest. Yeah, this is normal for him, welcome to my galaxy little brother. "And you too, Carver. You're not usually so… moody." Stick adds with a shrugging gesture. 

"I can't think when I don't have my knife on me." Carver reminds him. 

"That is kriffing terrifying, thank you." Stick replies hurriedly, no longer grimacing, but actively recoiling from the grumpy brother beside him. "I wasn't aware the knife was quite that important."

"It's part of his identity. How he got his Name." Scruffy explains, fishing out a folding blade that's part of his batch-brother's kit after Cypher says he's welcome to take it and use it for the time being ("I needed to collect some cuttings the last time I used it; just… don't get anything on your armor.") apologizing for the purple sap stuck to the edge of the blade. "Back before Canvas had his name, he added Faro, Gunnar, Cryfar and Fluke's scuff marks into his armor after Fluke died. Took him about an hour to do it with nothing but the rough edge of a rock. Carver found an old vibroknife somewhere, and dug a couple of designs into his helmet after watching what Canvas had done. You can guess the rest from there." 

Stick plucks up the whittler’s helmet to examine it for himself at Carver’s invitation when admitting he’s never noticed the designs before. Simplistic renditions of marching bantha and the twin suns of Tatooine. “Heh. Reminds me of the day the captain was talking about naming us Bantha Company, for a while. Not half bad at all, Carver.”

Having honed his skills as quickly as he has, Carver often hates much of his early work; there are at least four known exceptions. His worry stones, the General’s Mudhorn, Canvas’s whittled bird’s nest, and now the helmet carvings. “Thanks. Think that’s what I had on my mind that day as well. Some day, I want to add a great, big old Mudhorn on the other side, now that we’re the Mudhorn Company.” Yeah, maybe he’ll look like a kiss-ass by adding the captain and Jedi’s favorite creatures to his helmet, but so what? (He’d have to add Commander Juke’s favorite creature - a scarab - to really sell the idea anyways.)

“Could paint one for you,” Scruffy offers before reminding him he needs to start thinking on his decision since getting him the temporarily-loaned knife to think, “but you’re not allowed to blow me up in order to make that happen.”

“Don’t worry. Was considering breaking my favorite arm instead.” Carver promises, continuing the gallows humor a moment longer, “Or provoking stone-stacker to.” A small pebble glances off his thigh armor with a sharp tok! in response from Cairn; something Scruffy quickly puts an end to before the behavior escalates, as it often does. 

“Cut it out,” he warns in a paternal tone, confiscating the next pebble from the palm of his brother’s hand, “now’s not the time.” Carver is fixed with a firm look next, one disapproving and unimpressed. “You know he doesn't like that nickname. Let's not have another fight if he's going to come along and you stay behind.” This will be all Scruffy needs to add to make his point to each brother out of the twins before returning to picking out the tiny bits of powder blue foliage from Canvas’ hair. 

“Hold on a second,” the researcher among them requests as he remembers something, reaching for Cairn's right hand which he had recently injured, “I’m not certain you should join the task force with a healing tendon injury.” 

They're unable to recall what he'd done to sprain one of the major tendons in his hand and wrist, and with no great way to treat it out here in the field other than pain-killing stims and compression wraps, Cairn had been given certain restrictions in how much he could safely lift. 

“Oh shit- ow!” Cairn mumbles as Cypher experimentally rolls and prods Cairn’s wrist, and finds it responds less than favorably even now, ��I'd already forgotten about that. Maaaaaybe I should reconsider…” 

The brothers and batchmates have made up their minds, now that they're certain Cairn has come to his final decision. Carver and Cairn will be staying behind, and Canvas, Scruffy, Stick and Cypher will be volunteering to join the ranks of the task force. There are precautionary goodbyes, just to be safe. With few specifics given, there’s no telling what is in store for these brothers, what they’ll face in the line of duty. 

That reality is concerning, but it’s what they were made for. That’s how they serve the Republic. 

"Captain Law, we'd-" Canvas begins to volunteer himself and his brothers, but the C.O. holds his hand out, flat palm and splayed fingers, to halt him. 

The scarred brow belonging to his superior officer furrows harshly. "Actually, Canvas…" Captain Law looks to Commander Juke for a moment, for confirmation, and the furrow deepens when all Juke offers is that solemn nod. The decision is final. “I’m… I’m afraid you can’t go.”

Getting hit with the stun setting from their DC-15s when doing training drills with the Carbines hurt less than this, worse than the total-body paralysis that follows after the tsunami of numbness. What does his captain mean he can’t go?

Risking wrath or reprimand, he challenges the call. “But, sir, I-” His mind races, but he tries not to give into the rising panic. “Why can’t I go? I want to go.” What reason does his brother, his captain, have for retaining him? He’s a willing and able soldier, according to his last evaluation. Does the captain know differently?

“Sir, Vas hasn’t been talked into this by any of us, he’s more nervous about staying than going if this is about his anxieties.” Scruffy steps in to not only defend Canvas’ claims, but of course to support his brother. “Honest, he wants to go.”

“This isn’t about his anxiety-” Captain Law begins insistently at risk of being interrupted, “- this is about other things, boys. The rest of you may go, but Canvas needs to stay behind.”

Before Canvas can get in a word about talking to the captain in private for a moment, Scruffy turns his voice steely and defiant, and that’s unlike him. 

“Then I’m not going either.” 

“Son, mind your tone.” The commander’s warning to Scruffy is more out of habit than true distaste for how his brother is conducting himself right now. He understands the how and the why of the behavior, fully prepared for this. “Let’s not be so hasty. There’s still time to deci-”

“Respectfully, there’s nothing to decide, Commander Juke.”

No, that’s definitely enough now, Canvas decides. “Scruffy… can I have a minute to speak to the captain, alone?”

If he can speak with Captain Law, one on one, maybe he can make more sense of this decision. Maybe he can sway the mind of his immediate commanding officer, and together they can have a discussion with the commander about his participation in the task force. Then he still gets to go. He still gets to prove himself a capable, competent soldier for all of his set-backs and faults, and his older brother won’t get himself in trouble with their even older brothers. 

Canvas feels confident that this discussion could reverse the captain’s decision, if he just has the chance to speak without Scruffy interjecting on his behalf. And though Captain Law agrees to humor him, suggesting they speak a short ways off from everyone else, the pained expression on his face does not bode well.

“I’m sorry, brother… I know you’re hoping to convince me, but I’m afraid the decision was not mine to make in the end…” Captain Law begins, hoping to ply Canvas with apology and reasoning as he reaches forward and takes the younger by their shoulders. “I wanted you to go, too, little brother. I truly did.”

He is not going to cry like a child who didn't get his way. He is a grown man, a soldier. He knew this was a risk from the moment he was old enough to partake in the tests and the training on their motherworld that he would either lose his brothers, or be separated from them, at some point in this war they would be fighting. Every damn one of them knows this. 

I was created to march a war that had not yet started. I was created to serve, to fight valiantly and loyally. I was created with my brothers, and I will lose many of them in this war. If… when… I lose them, all I will have to remember them by is a cut scrap of their body glove. No helmets. Only my memory and their smell in my nose. 

Canvas has the scraps of their black bodysuits all Clones wear under the plastoid armor that once belonged to his batchmates - Faro, Gunnar, Cryfar, Fluke - though unfortunately, they no longer smell like his brothers. 

Captain Law has apologized again and again for what he's had to do. Commander Juke has taken him aside and tried to say something to him too, but the reaction remains the same. 

"Please just try to stay safe." If he speaks anything beyond these six words, Canvas knows how it will end. How his resolve will crumble. How he will accuse his commanding officers of singling him out, babying him like a cadet and lying about it. Abandon the logical understanding of why he has to remain behind with the Captain and why Scruffy, Stick and Cypher are going to be a part of the task force. 

And the General from a planet called Little Archossi… they haven't liked the arrangement either, but the Force-wielder has given full control of this strategized attack to their officers. When they come and speak to Canvas themselves, using the affectionate terminology of their culture and homeworld, they are very, very careful not to sound as though they mean to infantilize anyone.

"Young one, I heard you won't be going with your brothers. I am surprised to see you look so calm."

Canvas can only lift his shoulders stiffly before they are quickly dropped. He doesn't know what he should say to that. He certainly doesn't feel calm, and the Jedi Knight can probably sense that. "Captain Law explained why I'm staying behind, why my brothers have been asked to go. I know what's been asked of me, General." His statement makes the gray-skinned General frown sharply, and he worries he's made it sound like he's waving off sympathetic efforts. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be… like that." 

"It is only understandable, young Canvas, to feel as you do. To understand that your task keeps you here while your brothers will walk another path with trust and acceptance speaks to your training." A calloused hand is laid on his shoulder for a moment, an expression of comfort and compassion. There is understanding when the General speaks next, but also some pride. "And to understand that while you are perhaps very upset about this, you still conduct yourself in spite of your feelings in a way that speaks to your maturity. You prove time and time again that you understand your duty to the Republic without forgetting these are your brothers." 

"I don't always feel very mature, General." Canvas admits gently, shamefully. He can't decide if the admittance is supposed to be bitter, or regretful, or full of remorse and disappointment instead. His feelings are too much of a tumultuous tailspin to make sense of everything on his own. What would the General sense from him? "I'm not like the others…" 

They seem taken aback, short of balking in surprise, starmelt yellow eyes blinking rapidly. 

"No, in a sense you are not. But whatever do you mean, little one?" 

It's too much to explain. Canvas isn't sure where he should start, if he did. Did he tell his General that now that he's been away from Kamino for a while, he suspects one of the Trainers there of abusing the soldiers? Would it be a good idea to tell them that he doesn't always think he's fit to be a soldier; there's some "minor" defect or a mishap with the equipment during his development that explains why he has a perpetual undercurrent of anxiety beyond the pale for someone in wartime? Does he explain that more recently, he dreams he's… decommissioned? Or reconditioned if he's lucky? 

"... nevermind, General. It'd take too long to explain."

"I see, then... perhaps another time. I would like to understand what it is that troubles you."

Canvas thinks on it, seeing no real harm in the General knowing, but ultimately he decides against what he initially had to say. "Perhaps another time would be better to talk about that, yes… but I did have a question about something else. Something I just want a little clarification on, if it's okay." 

The Force-wielder blinks curiously. "What would you like me to clarify, young Canvas?" For a moment, they must believe it's another case of confusion regarding the gender-presentation of the temporarily combined unit's leader. The matter of gender fluidity wasn't a completely rocky concept for their men to navigate like it has been elsewhere in the galaxy, remembering how their first days of command played out.

“You look troubled, my friend. Come.” Master Kalsamm tells them privately, ushering his former pupil into one of the battered command tents. 

There in the sparse shade, the Togruta can find the thin cloths they’ve used before to soak in water, where they then apply it to the sun-flushed skin of the other. Coming from a small world where much of the people are nocturnal, his pada- former padawan does not have certain adaptive traits that protect them well from the light of the sun. Ideally, tolerance to ultraviolet rays would have continued to build over time, but with the state of the war, his former padawan had grown somewhat impatient, and believed the time had come to brute force it instead.

It will be the physical trial I will willingly bear if it means I am able to protect the peace of the innocents of this galaxy before it is too late, Masters. 

His heart pangs, knowing that though they have tried to hide it, these developing sunburns are among the worst his student has suffered. “You’re in great pain today, my friend. Pulling away every time I put down another cloth, shielding your thoughts from me… Are you regretting your decision?” Kalsamm has always had such a trusting bond with his student, very rarely does the other find thoughts have been concealed from the greater current of the Force. 

“I’m sorry, Master Kalsamm. There’s just a lot on my mind. Feel like an overwhelmed padawan again with everything I feel I must remember.” the newly-appointed Jedi Knight admits as their teacher lays another cooling rag to burning skin, doing their utmost to remain still this time. “I do not regret my decision.”

The 302nd Legion of the GAR is mine to command. A Clone captain named Law who offered to find me a new name today after one of the few conversations they had together so far.

“We know you introduced yourself to us as General Caelum, but is there a name you'd prefer to that? Or a name we could… give you? Like we give our brothers?"

They blink in confusion, unfettered curiosity. Scarcely met their commanding officer, explained that though they were born with the body of a boy, they are not limited to this ‘singular capacity of self’. When explaining ‘he is sometimes she is sometimes he’ only a short time ago, already, the one who called himself Law has shown more understanding than people they've spent significantly more time with. 

“You don't seem confused, Captain Law. I am… surprised.” 

Law was only newly promoted, unused to the change in rank, then. It's him who balks next. “Well, um, I don't see why it's something to be confused about. It's not my identity to question, only to respect, General.” 

Indeed… didn't Master Kalsamm try explaining before that the Clones were engineered with things like obedience and respect for command in mind, given that the Kaminoans view them as… property? How heartbreaking. 

If only I could let others feel what I do - that unique sound in the Force every lifeform takes, like a fingerprint. Captain Law: he is a beating heart, keeping time with the slow but relentless surf. 

“Speaking with experience, young one?” they ask habitually. Most Clones haven't gotten used to the cultural quirk. Some hate it. Some don't care for it, nothing more. Others still, after buffeting the initial confusion, love it. 

Captain Law does not indicate disdain for it. 

“Young one's definitely applicable here because she's a couple of Growth Cycles older than me, I imagine, but… Yes.” Captain Law answers with a knowing chuckle and affirmative nod. “Yes, there's a Clone among us who was named Sister, by other brothers. So she knows she belongs.” 

A new name can be thought up by the legion, so the General knows that they belong, too… If that's what they want.

Whether it is shouted across the battlefield in a rally cry, or whispered out of fear when the night is darkest, or spoken with naught but reverence, hearing their new name, given to them by their brave men, sparks a little more love for it with each passing day. 

"Are Jedi forbidden to love, General Caelen?" 

Caelen smiles gently, fondly. Firstly because of the use of the gifted name, followed shortly after by the surging feeling of interest and wonder. They cannot promise the best explanation, only their best effort to give it. "We are not. Love is only natural. It takes too many forms to make it forbidden, too. Compassion and empathy are siblings to the greater concept of love. To live is to love something, someone, not just other than yourself, but along with yourself. It is attachment that is… discouraged. Yet, attachment is only too natural. Jedi are not forbidden from loving, or to love. Common misconception." A gentle and curious 'why do you ask?' remains unspoken for now.

Canvas chews his bottom lip in thought for a moment, one of his hands grazing a scuff mark that mars his armor kit. "I see… Thank you, General Caelen. I was just curious. It's… something I've been wondering about." 

"It was something Gunnar wondered." General Caelen deduces, recalling which of Canvas's batchmates that scuff mark once belonged to prior to him adopting it. "And something rooted up the memory within you, recently." 

Canvas does not, or perhaps cannot elaborate at the time, instead only capable of nodding. Glancing towards the heavens, he studies the Jedi cruiser where it sits just out of reach of the planet’s gravitational pull. 

The Harmonious. This ship was at one point under General Kalsamm’s command; but with Kalsamm’s untimely demise (which General Caelen emphasizes was a test meant for them, by the Force), it has been turned over to Caelen’s command instead. Same as the battalion, for the time being.

Ironic that he spent two weeks growing increasingly paranoid out of his mind on the Harmonious, after what happened to Scruffy, honestly. If the Force is capable of doing things like providing tests to (for?) the ones who can harness the many gifts and abilities within it, is it capable of having a sense of humor as well? (Albeit, a twisted one?)

“I still think of your batchmates, young Canvas,” Caelen shatters the otherwise contemplative silence that has elapsed between themself and their soldier, “though perhaps not as often as you, granted. While they were courageous men I had the honor to fight alongside, for a time, they were so much more to you.” Caelen omits the word only here, refusing to boil down any part of that memory where it is not necessary (like discussing matters regarding the Clones with the long-necks, whose discussions must reluctantly be carried out in terms of property and product for the duration of). 

“I sensed at one point you were deeply ashamed, or perhaps embarrassed by how much Gunnar once disliked me. Perhaps… even hated me, for one particular moment.” General Caelen admits. 

‘We’re their cannon fodder, they don’t care about us. Throw enough brothers at the problem until it goes away and then don’t so much as mourn us.’

Canvas can do little but wince when the words come back to him. Those bitter, stinging words said in a moment of great frustration after five long, grueling days of trying to brute-force their way into a Separatist outpost. So many brothers had been hurt, or picked off by enemy fire. The respective medics of the legion and the battalion had sacrificed so much of their sleep, their sanity, tending to the wounded and the dying in vain hopes of helping them limp along until the next volley, the next thermal detonator, the next anything. He still remembers the way Gunnar’s face fell just a fraction, chipping that shell of stoicism, when the brother’s body suddenly went limp almost the moment the medic, Rid (short for Riddance), took over. 

“You didn’t deserve what he said about you, General…”

“It’s okay, young one. I harbor no hurt in my heart for your brother’s words.” General Caelen assures Canvas, “Grief takes many forms. For Gunnar, it was anger. For Faro, it was protectiveness, was it not?”

Maybe it was. It felt more like it was more a matter of having an impatient, second shadow, honestly. 

Keep up. Don’t fall behind. Yes, it’s not fun to lug a 4.15kg gun, but that’s no excuse to leave it laying around. 

If something happened to you… I’d never forgive myself.

“I guess.” Canvas admits with a shrug. “I’m sure what you saw of Faro was… different, General.”

The Jedi from Little Archossi bobs their head, the movement slow. “He was always so reserved. But, I never once questioned for a moment how much he cared about the larger cause when he did not devote his time to your batch.” The General pauses here for a moment, offering a wistful, but reflective expression to accompany the smile. “While the Force could not tell me everything in the times I meditated for answers, answers I sought trying to meet the needs of my men while aiding my former teacher in his assignments, it told me enough. Faro would have sooner deserted the GAR than bury another batchmate were it not for the guilt of abandoning all his other brothers just to save you and Fluke, on the days his grief was strongest.”

Short of accusing the Force-wielder of lying, Canvas challenges that claim. “I don't know if I believe that… that doesn't sound like something Faro would do.” The notion is disturbing to him, immediately speaking. Desert the GAR? Discard his sense of loyalty and honor for something so… so selfish and self-serving? All because of grief? 

He can't imagine that of Faro, he tells the general. He doesn't want to. 

“No… of course. I'm sorry for upsetting you to suggest such a thing.” General Caelen apologizes in earnest. “I was wrong to do so. Forgive me, for any malice.”

A solitary trill sounds from their respective comm devices, a warning. It’ll be time for the task force to depart ten minutes from now. Canvas won’t have the time to finish, maybe even amend, the conversation with General Caelen and see Scruffy before he has to leave like his brother asked. So it’s time to smooth the ice, “I should go see Scruffy like I promised; but General, before I go… Please don’t be so hard on yourself, just as you encourage us. I know what you said wasn’t meant in malice. I swear it.”

The Force-wielder born on a strange little planet before spending many years in the Jedi Temple to hone their connection to the great galactic tapestry sacrificed not complete connection to, but rather a full immersion in the culture of their home planet. The Chossi conduct themselves in a clan-like structure, placing great importance in paying penances for their acts or words of malice, if they do not feel it is deserved or justified. 

Fact of the matter is that Caelen sees their unit of troops as a clan on a symbolic level; to say I swear it acknowledges the process of offering penance has started, but will not be necessary. 

And so Caelen returns the acknowledgement. “So you swear it. Thank you, young Canvas.” 

He has been dismissed, so he wastes no more time, calling “May the Force be with you, General!” as clearly as he can before breaking into a run; knowing where he will need to go in order to find Scruffy is some way off, and he needs to hurry if he wants to get there with time to spare. 

“Ouch!” “Ow!"

They'll likely bruise one another's brains with the force their buckets have knocked against each other, given how Canvas didn't slow down in the slightest as he was bottoming-out the small hill he had just run down to get here. The stars in the fuzziest edge of his vision are only just beginning to clear, fire in his lungs sputtering out. 

He doesn't let a little thing like the fretful way Scruffy gives his helmet a once-over for any chipping (the same way a young nat-born’s mother inspects a scraped knee, minus the cooing and fussing) give him any pause in what he has to say. 

"You gotta promise me to come back." 

Scruffy looks at his little brother from the same Growth Cycle, a different Batch, with nothing but deep, emotional pain and hurt. "Canvas you… you know I can't. You know what Commander Juke says about those kinds of promises." 

The desperation in him does not care. Not right now. "Yeah-yeah-yeah the poetic kark he read somewhere, but please -" Strong arms throw themselves around him, and helmets knock against one another a second time as Scruffy initiates one of those hugs he's become famous in the combined unit for. Hugs where he pulls you in close with one arm, cupping the back of your head, reminiscent of how one holds an infant's head when they're adorably too young and floppy to support the weight of it themselves. 

War has not stolen all Scruffy's warmth and tenderness, his love for his brothers. It has not made him bitter. It has changed him; chewed him up in its cruelty and jagged edges and spit him out with little regard for how softly he will land… but Scruffy has not lost his spirit in spite of all that. 

Nor his patience. "I will do my best, Canvas, okay?" Scruffy pulls Canvas tighter, if possible, and he hopes Vas can’t hear the heavy swallow in his throat. It may prove difficult, but he’d rather not cry if it can be helped. With a clearer head, the shame has hit him that he was so… oppositional with his commanding officers. Defiant. He should be punished for daring to be so- so insubordinate! He’s never given them problems before, why did he have to start now?

“Maker, I should be in so much more trouble for talking back to Commander Juke like that…” 

Canvas hums thoughtfully, not quite in agreement, while pushing back from Scruffy. Let me go, please, it asks. He’ll feel constricted before long if Scruff had his way in this state. He agreed to stay on the task force only because the time to depart was getting down to the wire, and no other brothers had volunteered themselves. He’s there, admittedly if only to make it less of a hassle for Commander Juke, and to keep the peace. 

“I don’t know. Maybe the commander will let it go…” It seemed plausible, to Canvas. At least in the moment. “You do a good job of hiding it, but you tend to take things pretty hard when you feel you’ve messed up ever since the… well, the tripwire. You’ll punish yourself worse than any reprimand.”

There’s a soft and breathless chuckle from under the helmet. “Do I, now? What gave it away?” When Canvas doesn’t answer, perhaps considering how best to explain, Scruffy changes his tune after a note of the time. “Actually, pretend I didn’t say anything: not exactly a lot of time before I have to go.”

He probably had five minutes at the most before Commander Juke called upon his brothers and it was time to embark on this mission. It would be strange, seeing as they are doing this without General Caelen to guide them, lead them, for the first time since the Togruta Force-wielder perished. They’ve just grown so used to this arrangement; attached to it even, if they had to admit to it. And they have. But the Clones recognize this isn’t the healthiest situation for the Chossi-born General. 

This is so much responsibility for you. You were only ever meant to lead one legion. You can’t do this forever. It’s just not feasible. 

“Give those clankers hell for me.” Canvas requests when the call comes in to board the gunships on Scruffy’s comms. Quickly and gently as he’s able, he and Scruffy touch their helmets together, hoping the other is peering through the t-visor back at him. “For the General, too.” Canvas softly adds, knowing that while his brothers will embark this mission alone out of trust, the Jedi would still desire to accompany them out of principal and bond. 

This, Scruffy can promise. This is what he was made to do, after all. This is what necessitated his very creation: to fight the coming pan-galactic threat it was believed the Republic would one day face. A being of flesh and blood, far superior to any metal amalgamation. This is the grander purpose he’s been made to believe his every breath is dedicated to. 

And it is true. But it isn’t everything his breath is given for.

Scruffy leaves his younger brother with an oath before he must run for the LAATs, mustering as much conviction as he can into a soldier’s creed to make it as meaningful as any loving expression. 

“For the Republic. For my brothers.”

[Clone Masterlist]

[FIRST] [PREVIOUS] [B&B Part 2]

[cricketcat9]

OMFG, the transition

is complete. Not from this to this,

But from this to this

Now I have to wait with bated breath for rain… and find out if the stones and cement stuffed into my sewer connection (now dis-connection) will hold. If it won’t, I’m going to the monte to become a hermit. If it will, the water will go somewhere else, namely to my neighbours. I did give them a fair warning…

Ingeniero Carlos and his wife both look 15. Three young guys working for Carlos dug holes and trenches like before an impending attack by German troops during WW I. The garden is a bit worse for wear, but it will recover.

Now I’m supposed to switch to everything biodegradable and nothing harsh, to keep my new pet bacterias alive. I’m pretty broke too, so some $ better come my way!

Please keep your fingers crossed for me and my pet bacteria!

[kylo-wrecked]

📝 ➤ @smokinmirrors :// { cont'd from the moment mason realizes they're fucked }

It doesn't take much longer than the pause between 'fuck' and 'fuck' for the spherule of bloody light to burst, engulfing half the roof of Maz's tavern and several fleeing transports. Though he'd never admit it, these are the flames that haunt him; the ones that devoured Luke's temple. If Mason looked at Ben now, she might catch their glimmer in his blown black pupils. 

"Can you use your fae abilities to make us disappear?" 

Even if it's a half-joke, it seemed worth asking. 

"If we can get your cruiser onto my ship before—"

Blasters rang out in the distance. Some far-off schism decimated a line of trees. Few could level everything within a two-mile radius of their target instantaneously. Though he and Mason were nowhere near the bed of action, Ben assumed a crouched position on the forest floor.

"Listen," he whispered, holding up a finger. A mechanized scream rose over the trees. "TIE-fighters." 

They had arrived. Ben felt his blood rush; he felt his pulse increase two thousandfold. Fight or flight or freeze. His heart flailed against his ribcage. Flight. 

"Okay, kriff it," he said, his speech coming out staccato. "Yeah, kriff it. Fuck... fuck the ship, we leave my ship. They'll spot it from a mile off—instant death, hear me?"

Though they shook, he brushed the dirt off his palms, and maybe he did, or maybe he didn't draw Mason's face to his with a hand and offer her as reassuring a frown as he could muster. 

"Hold on, all right? Don't do anything." 

Then he sprung to his feet and used the same momentum to run like wind over river and hoist himself through Grimtaash's secret hatch. Ben was strong (enough), but he had to thank raw, ever-loving panic for the boost in upper body strength. And then he was ransacking his transport, shoving a few keepsakes into an unostentatious rucksack, the only items that ever really belonged to him, that would give him away to the troops that would later search his ship. And he leapt down through the hatch, landing easily, if a bit heavily, on his heels, with D-O behind him, hastening over the torn earth left in Ben's wake, and then he was at Mason's side. 

"We'll go in your cruiser until we find something else," he said breathlessly. "Somewhere far out, hear me? Beyond the Outer Rim." 

A strange, eager look came over him. 

"I'm under your protection, right?"

He waited with bated breath for an answer, any answer. Uncertainty and worry were plain on his face. Plain and as real as the haze enveloping the canopies. This was no time for masks and games. He stared at Mason—what was she waiting for?  

"We have to go, Mason. We have to go now or hide and—" Pray? That was the word. "Pray we aren't found."

D-O gave a nervous whirr and pointed his nozzle at Mason's cruiser. There had to be enough room, at least for him. Ben gazed at her imploringly, urgency rising in his throat, rasping. 

"Come on," he whispered. "Please. Make us disappear."

[aeon2407]

Pyro's Pyrotechnic Love Life - Chapter 3

For @contentment-of-cats. Also on AO3.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Evergreen Forest, Krownest

“Actually, how did you two meet?”

It’s been two hours since Artur left, two hours since a Mandalorian wearing the most colorful armor she’s ever seen stripped his weapons and took him away in stuncuffs.

Sabine Wren, Sundari Academy defector and Phoenix Squadron’s weapons expert, took him away in cuffs.

Yana’s been keeping herself busy by helping with digging a trench for shelter and fortifications in case the Wrens decide to go for violence and rigging the Disciple’s databank with a generous amount of dentons. That and casual conversation. Odo’s question caught her attention, and she took a moment to decide if answering it now would cause her anxiety to show.

To Sith hell with it. Everyone here was family to her, anyway.

“Uh… he had to attend a full year at Royal after they left Terra, General Tagge’s orders. Apparently jumping straight from Lieutenant to Major required some extra leadership training.” A few chuckles. “Anyway, he was there my final year. We met in Professor Partagaz’s Criminal Psychology class. We got to know each other in the sparring ring and on the range, though. He went back to batt the day after Jashin and I commissioned.”

A smile crept onto her face at the memories, pushing the anxiety and stress back. The challenges, the banter, The Kiss, the sex.

Most of her paid leave for the next four years was spent taking his private shuttle to Coruscant or Spira or Bespin or wherever they could find real meat on the grill and a good, soundproofed hotel room. She loved being loud and a bottom and vulnerable with him, just like she loves doing it all with Yissa now. It was liberating, especially for someone with her upbringing.

“It was tough, you know?” Now that she was talking and comfortable doing it, everything started to spill unprompted. “Dating someone on the other end of the galaxy, working the jobs and the hours we did. But we made it work. We made it work for four years.”

Odo looked fascinated, Yissa was pointedly uncomfortable, Jashin knew all of this already, but it was Faro who asked the tough question. “Why did you two break things off? I’m not saying it’s anyone’s fault, but he was crying his eyes out that night.”

“We both needed more than what a long-distance relationship can offer.” Pyro automatically used the same reply she gave Jashin back then before she registered the rest of what was said. “Wait, how did you know he was crying? We broke up at Tagge Manor.”

Now it was Faro’s turn on the backfoot. She obviously hadn’t meant to let that slip. “Um… uh…”

Her mentor was uncharacteristically nervous, stumbling over her words like a new ensign, and it took Yana a few seconds of staring before it clicked.

“OH SHIT!”

Everyone jumped back at the volume, and some snow fell from the branches above. Yana was looking at Faro with an unmistakable mixture of surprise and disgust, the galactic expression for when one finds certain people in certain… situations.

Everyone waited with bated breaths for Pyro to finally spill whatever it was she figured out. And when she finally did, it was with an appropriate amount of horror in her voice.

“You kriffed Cassio Tagge?”

Karyn reminds herself, yet again, to cram a filter somewhere in her mentee’s vocal functions. Maybe Thrawn can help.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took another two hours of huddling around and bundling together in their little tarp-covered trench, with Karyn suffering and refusing to acknowledge the bombardment of questions aimed at her, before Artur came back with a Gauntlet starfighter and an escort of jetpacked Mando troops, just before his self-appointed deadline. There was blood splattering his face and coating his fingers, snow in his hair, a blaster burn on his right bicep, and a burnt right gauntlet.

He held his head high despite the injury though, his weapons were back where they belonged, and there weren’t cuffs on his wrists anymore. Something was different about his escorts too. Their stances were no longer hostile, more professional and in some cases even a little deferential if you squint and look from an angle.

Beside her, Pyro must’ve noticed the same thing and came to some sort of conclusion, because Karyn heard her let out a surprised gasp followed by a string of very colorful words, in multiple languages to boot, that would’ve made Marinith proud and Thrawn tell her things about herself.

It wasn’t until her surrogate son lifted the tarp and told them it was time to go that Karyn noticed what Pyro must’ve earlier. There was a lightsaber on his hip. More specifically, the fabled Darksaber, last known to be in the possession of Sabine Wren.

That would explain the escort. The questions now, however, would be whether Artur had to commit sororicide to become Mand’alor, and what he was going to do with the title.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hydian Way, Hyperspace

Artur took a detour close to Mandalore and launched the saber into orbit. “Ni jor'naycir te dha kad'au bal te gai be Mand'alor. Vercopa te projor verda alorir”, he had muttered to himself, voice as flat as when he was Vader’s left hand, then punched in the coordinates for Cantonica and all but yanked the lever. He didn’t want, or need, the title of Mand’alor. Someone else can have it.

A collective sigh of relief was let out from the bundle of people behind him as the familiar warped lights of hyperspace flushed the cockpit a shade of blue. The troop bay on a Gauntlet wasn’t small by any means, but between the number of people and storage cubes, four of them ended up having to sit on each other’s lap. Of course, with two couples among them it worked out perfectly.

He spent the next two hours or so in silence, checking everything from the navicomputer to the engine readings with the precision and decisiveness of someone who gave Soontir Fel and Han Solo a run for their credits during dogfights at Cliffside.

It was a shame Solo deserted on Mimban. He was looking forward to getting the man back into the Carida flight program, or maybe Skystrike would’ve been a better fit. He was definitely good enough to fly for the Empire, maybe even with SCAR Wing One.

The cockpit door sealed shut as Pyro lean against his shoulder from behind. A hand trailed down to his chest in a comforting hug, and he instinctively covered it with his own, lightly squeezing and rubbing her calloused palm with his thumb.

Yana felt a mangled mix of emotions slam into her heart at the touch. Safety came first, then love. Peace. Vulnerability. Longing. Guilt.

She didn’t pull away.

“Did you…”

“No.”

“Are you still…”

“Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, Yana.”

…

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

…

…

“It’ll crush you whether you talk about it or not, Artur. Better here and now than on the job.”

An acknowledging hum. Pyro knew the man well enough to leave it be.

“Does Faro know?”

…

“She does.”

“You told her?”

“Dad did.”

“Wasn’t his place.”

“It was, actually.”

“Says who?”

“Me. Gave him permission and everything.”

“Oh.”

…

“Still can’t believe they…”

A grimace from her. A chuckle from him.

“How’d you think we met?”

…

…

“Fair enough. Was it as gross for you as it is for me?”

“I’m in the Army, Pyro. Unit morale is basically contingent on sex, and we don’t usually have the privacy you sailors do.”

A deadpan and slightly confused stare.

“No, it wasn’t gross to me. They both liked each other, they both seemed to have enjoyed it, and it didn’t affect any careers, so I didn’t care either way.”

“Huh. Haven’t thought about it that way.”

“I can tell.”

A light smack on the head. “Asshole.”

A shared chuckle.

“In her defense he was quite charming back then, and…”

“I really don’t want to think about it more than necessary.”

“Fair enough.”

“Thank you.”

“Everyone else asleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Not you though.”

“Wanted to check up on you.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The conversation lulled into silence from there, but neither of them minded it, Pyro content with leaning against the man who had once made her of all people happy at the thought of marriage, Artur content to keep holding her hand and rubbing her knuckles. It was a pale reflection of what they once had, but it was the best he’d get.

The navicomputer chimed, signally their imminent exit from hyperspace. With a noticeable amount of reluctance, Yana pulled her hand out from under his and made her way back.

Don’t say it, Tagge. For all that’s good and proper, don’t say it.

“You know, if it wasn’t for Hammerly, I would’ve asked if you wanted to try again, now that we’re posted on the same ship.”

Damn it.

Yana paused, her hand hovering above the door control.

“If it wasn’t for Yissa, I would’ve said yes in a heartbeat.”

She opened the door and walked away.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hyperspace Penthouse, 49th – 53rd Floor, Mon’t Car’l Tower, Canto Bight, Cantonica

“So this is what owning a whole region of Space gets you.”

“No, this is what the War Mantle contract gets you.”

“Nah, this is Founder money right here.”

“Can’t be. The Hammerlies were Founders too, and they’re rich, but not this kriffing rich.”

“Tarkin has the one below us, though. Must be an exclusivity thing.”

“You say that like the Tarkins didn’t own Eriadu pre-Empire.”

Karyn and Yissa quietly found seats for their sore and tired bodies, letting the junior officers gush to their hearts’ content while Artur hauled their cubes into the kitchen. To be completely fair to the looies, it was one hell of an apartment. Curved, floor-to-ceiling transparisteel windows on either side and an open concept balcony allowed plenty of light into the living room and provided one of the most spectacular views any of them had ever seen, overlooking a glistening ocean as the dimming lights of sunset caught the waters just right.

Circular living rooms haven’t been in style since the Clone Wars, but this one walked the line between modern and classic and looking no less classy doing it. Couches, armchairs, and pouf couches lined the windows, balcony, and around the large wooden caf table, circular of course, placed in front of the fireplace.

Oh right, there was an actual fireplace here.

The circular, glass-bottomed infinity pool on the second floor led into a decorative waterfall down to the balcony that can double as a refresher, and there were lounge chairs and parasols nearby.

The kitchen was open, only separated from the living room by a marble island and the change in flooring from hardwood and plush carpets to polished stone tiles. Every kitchen appliance under any sun in the galaxy can be seen, sometimes more than once, and Artur had said that there were service droids available for restocking any foodstuff they wanted, whenever they wanted it.

Bedrooms lay spread across the five floors, and Odo joked that he could finally sleep soundly without the others’ ‘nightly activities’ disrupting him. Unfortunately, Jashin and Phyrre seemed to have taken that as a challenge.

“So, is this good or no?” Artur asked from the kitchen, a warm yet amused smile on his face as he watched the lieutenants acting like a clowder given a new shiny toy, which wasn’t all that far from the truth. Honestly, the behavior reminded him of getting Pyro that MM9 for their third anniversary.

Hammerly turned to him from the pouf couch, noticeably more relaxed. “Yeah, this is good.”

Her answer came out in breathy whispers, which got a giggle out of Yana as she curled up on her wyf’s lap, falling asleep in seconds as her daily allocation of manic energy is spent.

They came to Canto Bight for the nightlife, but tonight will be strictly recuperation, either physically or, in some cases, mentally. They have a month. They can waste a day.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Medical Ward, Wren Stronghold, Krownest

Ursa hasn’t slept for two days, despite her son’s urging, despite her husband’s kind but sobering words saying that there was nothing she could’ve done. Despite that darasuum dar’manda and his cutting accusations.

Bridger sat on the ground next to her, meditating like the proper jetii child that she knew he wasn’t. Or maybe he was praying, she could never tell with his kind. Sabine floated in a bacta tank nearby, still unconscious from blood loss but breathing steadily through the respirator. Her left arm was preserved in a cryostasis unit next door along with her right leg. That demagolka had taken both in one fell swoop.

The older jetii was working with Tristan and Captain Syndulla to look for methods of reattaching limbs. Right now, their best lead was the neuropathic connectivity research conducted by the Kaminoans to install inhibitor chips and fix ‘defects’ in their clones. The three of them were enroute to salvage whatever remained of Tipoca City. The Lasat was venting his anger by sparring her guards into the ground, and Ursa could’ve sworn she heard the droid listed at least fifteen different war crimes in a plan to exact revenge. She might just help out.

But first, she had to address the accusations to Sabine when she wakes up. How do you tell your until-recently estranged daughter that she wasn’t your first child?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Canto Casino, Canto Bight, Cantonica

Vacation Day 5. Leave remaining: 30 Days.

At this rate, he’ll have four billionaire crewmates instead of just the one by the time they get back shipside. Jashin was afraid to even think about what they’d do with that much money.

It’s been going on like this for the past four days. Artur supply the creds then loudly loses at a no-limits table to attract the high rollers, Yissa keeps track of the cards, Pyro comes in with her big, beautiful brain and wipe them out while Phyrre distracts the floormen in a shimmering dress that was extremely flattering on her. He’d be tempted to rip it off if it wasn’t more expensive than his entire career so far.

This must be entertaining for them, because so far they’ve wiped out every multimillionaire and billionaire at Tagge Palace, KDY Grand, and Coruscant InterGalactic.

All of them would be nursing lifetime bans from every casino on the planet if it wasn’t for the House of Tagge signet gleaming on Artur’s finger. As it were, no one has tried anything yet, but Jashin and Odo were watching from the bar just in case.

Faro has been joyfully on a bender the entire week they’ve been planetside, drowning in every combination of alcohol under the galaxy that wasn’t lethal for human consumption. Given the nature of her job, no one begrudged her the indulgence.

Artur had very thoughtfully left a stim, a few bacta pads, and some water by her bed after hauling her back the first night. He also left a bucket with a note saying ‘you deserve this’ and a smiley face. The bucket has proven itself incredibly useful every morning thus far, and they rolled a dice every day to see who’d have to empty it.

Back to the game though, Artur let out an exaggerated groan as he tossed his cards onto the table and walked off. Trohren Kuat grinned, happy to finally get one over a Tagge as he dumped his entire credit chit, twenty-eight million total, into the game. Time to wipe out this pretty little lass. Maybe he can offer her a chance to earn them back later. Taking Artur Tagge’s creds and the brat’s little bedwarmer would really make his night.

“What does Kuat have?” Odo asked in a whisper as Artur settled next to them at the bar, eyebrows raised in alarm as the man sighed.

“Either Pure Sabacc or nothing of value.”

“And Pyro?”

The sigh led into a predatory grin, the one even Thrawn has learned to be apprehensive of, as Pyro called and placed her cards down gently. “Idiot’s Array.”

The look on Kuat’s face was pure aurum, and Artur took the opportunity to mockingly toast the man from across the floor with a glass of Kuati gin. A raised eyebrow as the older man rose from his seat hostilely reminded both of them how KDY got such a good deal on their slice of War Mantle, and how easily they can lose it. He lost his father’s favor. He still had his aunt’s.

Artur turned to look at Pyro, smiling gently at the smug and gleeful expression on her gorgeous face as she transferred the eighty-million-credit pot into her chit and skipped to the bar.

The haul was now nine hundred million split four ways. Phyrre gets double on account of marriage, and Artur and Yissa were happy to hand over half their shares each.

“Great job, darling”, Yissa said as she glided up next to her wyf, planting a kiss on her lips now that Pyro can drop the act of being Artur Tagge’s trollop, part of their plan to hook Kuat in given the man’s inexplicable despisal of the House of Tagge, which worked like a kyber charm.

Pyro preened at the compliment and pulled her wyf back in for another kiss, a soft but blazing one that drew a few stares. It was unlike her, really, to be this brazen, but Yissa definitely wasn’t complaining.

“We should be going back. It’s late”, she breathlessly said. Yana nodded mutely.

Artur was the only outsider that recognized the love and lust in her eyes. First time he saw it when it wasn’t directed at him, though, and the realization made his gin taste sour instead of that familiar bitterness he was looking for.

Damn it. Why was this so hard?

“She’s right. It’s 0200. We should head back and catch some sleep before sunrise.” Artur did his damn best to keep any emotion besides joy and contentment out of his voice. Verdict’s still out on whether he succeeded.

With that, he downed the glass, tossed a 5000-credit chip onto the bar, and gestured for everyone else to follow. Odo hasn’t been drunk since making Junior Lieutenant, so he was the designated driver while Artur rode shotgun. Jashin already had Phyrre in his lap behind the driver and was using every last bit of self-control he had left to not take her then and there, taking the edge off slightly by starting a loud and heady make out session, both drunk out of their minds. Next to them, Yissa had Pyro in a similar position, just with more snuggling and cuddling than kissing.

Artur found his knuckles turning whiter by the minute on the armrests, and his heart was pounding in his ears. And if Odo noticed, he certainly didn’t comment on it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hyperspace Penthouse, 49th – 53rd Floor, Mon’t Car’l Tower, Canto Bight, Cantonica

Vacation Day 7. Leave Remaining: 28 Days

Artur was suffering. That much he knew.

He also knew beforehand that being around Yana and not being with her would be a stab to the heart, but after a string of failures against a frustratingly elusive Saw Gerrera he needed an out from under Vader to keep his troopers safe, so when Tarkin gave him a choice between 1st Battalion staying with the 501st or reassignment to the Chimaera as an independent unit he took it, thinking that the wounds had healed.

No regrets on the choice, but he was a fool for thinking that he could ever move past Ilyana Pyrondi. Tagging along on this vacation was just unnecessary torture.

Maybe it was lackluster soundproofing, something he has been wanting to fix for a while, but Hammerly seemed to be extra loud these past few nights, and the twisting feeling in his heart was making it hard to sleep, so he’s been tiring himself out by painting his knuckles red with death stick dealers and spice peddlers in alleyways and taking an ice bath in the morning.

And now they were at the beach, and for the first time since learning how to, Artur Tagge didn’t want to swim.

Because swimming would mean getting close to a Pyro while neither of them had anything on beside skintight bathing togs. And while he immensely enjoyed the view, being in that particular situation, given the circumstances, wasn’t something he looked forward to.

It didn’t matter, in the end. Bright demeanor, easy smile, friendly banter. That was all he needed to do. When all was said and done, everyone present deserved a good, long vacation, and he refused to be the one to ruin it.

“You might want to unclench your jaw, Artur. Imperial benefits doesn’t include dental.”

The Tagge heir glanced towards Faro, who had just made herself comfortable on the bar two seats left of him, a multicolored drink (surprise, surprise) already in hand. There was a dreaded look of sympathy in her eyes, and Artur turned his head away, forcing his masseter to loosen as he took a large sip of Whyren's Reserve. He felt like drowning in alcohol today, might as well splurge on the good stuff.

“I know how hard it is, trust me, but at some point you have to move on.”

“There is no moving on, don’t you get that?” Artur snapped, seething. He hated the tone she used, the look in her eyes. He was a Tagge, damnit. Son of a General, nephew of a Baroness, heir to one of the wealthiest and most powerful dynasties in the galaxy and a kriffing war hero on top of that. Who was she to pity him?

He snuffed out that train of thought immediately as he glimpsed her wounded expression. She was just trying to care, and it was unbecoming to brag about himself like that, even in his own head. A deep breath helped to calm his racing heart and cool the heat in his blood. “I’m sorry.”

The tone he used was even more pathetic than he thought, and far more than he would ever admit to. A hand found its way onto his shoulder, riddled with old callouses that have softened after years of holding bridge command instead of intensive fieldwork. “Talk to me, Arty.”

“She’s the love of my life”, Artur muttered. It hurts, admitting that fact out loud, but this was Karyn Faro he was talking to, so he was safe. “I’m not being dramatic. I’ve put a lot of thought into it. She’s the one.”

Karyn sat there in stunned silence. She knew that when Artur loved, he loved passionately and unequivocally, but this was a completely different level. What should she say?

“And now you’re not with her anymore.”

Because pointing that out was the best option, Karyn. Good kriffing job.

Artur stiffened, swallowing a scathing sarcastic reply. His body loosened up once again as he leaned into her touch.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yana was conflicted, and that made her feel unthinkably guilty.

She was in an incredible relationship with an incredible woman that is Yissa Hammerly. She was loved. She was cared for. She was cherished and appreciated.

So why was her heart torn between loving this incredible woman and yearning for Artur Tagge? It made her feel filthy and disloyal.

Yana dunked her head under again, letting the cold water wash over her face in an attempt to clear her mind. She knew the feelings still lingered, what they had weren’t something one just moves on from, but she didn’t expect it to hit her like a cargo ship the moment she saw him again. She’d managed to mostly stay strictly friendly with him so far, but now he was so close.

Gah, this was why she hesitated to start things with Yissa. It wasn’t fair to her, but even after trying to warn her off by saying that she still wasn’t over her ex, Yissa still wanted to be with her, and that finally convinced Yana that a relationship with Yissa Hammerly was worth it. And it definitely was.

Yana had come to terms with the fact that she loved both Yiss and Arty in equal amounts, if for slightly different reasons. Now, she needed to choose.

Wait, maybe she didn’t.

A plan was beginning to form in Yana’s mind, more complex than any equation she’d ever tackled, one where she can get the best of both worlds. But if it failed, she’ll lose everything.

Now, where the hell is Jashin?

[kudosmyhero]

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (IDW) #20: Krang War - part 4

Read Date: October 12, 2022 Cover Date: March 2012 ● Writer: Kevin Eastman ◦ Tom Waltz ● Art: Ben Bates ● Colorist: Ronda Pattison ● Letterer: Shawn Lee ● Editor: Bobby Curnow ●

Synopsis: Raphael and Zak continue leading the frontal assault, while Leonardo, Michelangelo and the Neutrinos have reached the room where the King and Queen are being held, guarded by General Krang. Leonardo manages to slice off one of Krang's robotic suit's arms. Krang recognizes the Turtles as the ones that were stolen from Stockgen.

Back in the lab, Donatello and Honeycutt have almost finished repairing the END missile. Donatello is telling Honeycutt how he's skeptical that he and his brothers are reincarnations of four boys from Feudal Japan. Honeycutt explains to him how teleportation works; how each individual atom is scanned, destroyed, and an exact copy built in the new location. Despite being intangible, the soul is always intact and present after the teleportation process, something even their advanced science cannot explain. Honeycutt supposes that if the soul can make the journey across dimensions, it's possible it could travel across space and time as well.

Back on Burnow Island, Karai's infiltration and theft of some of the Utrom ooze is discovered while she makes her escape back to Foot headquarters.

Raphael and Zak are continuing to lead the frontal assault when they're set upon by a huge Utrom mecha. The NRF forces in the attack are under heavy fire and the situation looks grim. Honeycutt and Donatello have finished the END missile and launch it towards the battlefield, following it to ensure it isn't struck down. The Utrom mecha is about to swat it down when Raphael takes it out with a rocket launcher, allowing the END missile to detonate and disable all of Krang's troops' weapons. In the Neutrino royal castle there is a standoff between Krang, his forces, the Turtles and the NRF. Honeycutt arrives and says he has neutralized Krang's entire army, effectively winning the battle. However, Krang reveals that his weapons operate on a different frequency, meaning he still has lethal firepower. Honeycutt gives himself up to spare the others, and Krang teleports back to Burnow Island with him. The Neutrinos thank the Turtles for their help, and Michelangelo gets a kiss on the cheek from Princess Trib.

Back at the Turtle's home in New York City, April and Casey are worrying that the Turtles are gone for good, when suddenly they teleport back from Dimension X. Everyone is glad to be reunited.

(https://turtlepedia.fandom.com/wiki/Krang_War,_part_4)

Fan Art: TMNT! by CarlosMorenoD-Art

[peoplemattertv]

B-1 Bombers Strike Back: US Unleashes Fury on Iran-Backed Militias After Fatal Attack on Troops – A Delicate Dance of Retaliation Unfolds in the Middle East

The world had been waiting with bated breath to see how, when, and where the US would respond to the attack that killed three of its troops at Tower 22 in north eastern Jordan last month, and now we know. US forces have now bombed 85 targets at seven sites in Iraq and Syria from where Iran-backed militias have been operating against them, using a total of 125 precision guided munitions. Some of…

[xinxiaogato]

— live to tell the tail

summary. you unfortunately lived in a universe where general gorou had found out ms. hina was… himself. and just your luck: gorou’s first impression of you was a crazed devotee of the ms. hina fan club, but you had only been in the wrong place at the wrong time. will you live to tell the tail?

love interests. gn!reader x a watatsumi general, an inazuman vagrant, the balladeer, and the kreideprinz.

warnings. infinite pet puns, referenced character death, weapons, swearing, blood, alcohol, harassment, and mentions of war.

word count. 1,108

chapter eight ⌇ your hisstory

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gorou wasn't far from the truth; the journey to yashiori island was taxing. for every step you took, your legs felt like they were going to turn into jelly.

during the evening, while the soldiers were hitting the hay to replenish enough energy for the following day, you snuck off to low-profile places, like behind a large rock or among some bushes, to jot down things that the general said or did in your notepad.

on the excursion's second day, you situated yourself in a little clearing by a pond in the neighboring woods. as the frogs croaked and the trees bristled with swaying leaves, you clicked your retractable fountain pen and got to work.

day two — general gorou is very considerate of others. when three of the soldiers escorting us were feeling abdominal pain and nausea, he instantly halted the entire expedition to have their condition checked by our emergency personnel. turns out they got ciguatera poisoning from eating contaminated fish before the trip. thank the archons they're all right, but there is no way in teyvat i'm buying takeout sushi ever again in the future.

every day, general gorou offers valuable advice and also had me use the map her excellency provided us to lead the troops for a bit today. we managed to cover some land before realizing we were lost, but our reliable general put us back on track. this stuff is seriously out of my expertise, but general gorou is encouraging nonetheless.

i asked him why inductees were being admitted into the watatsumi army when the nation is now recovering from the civil war and thriving in a time of a peace, but apparently, the army functions to rid watatsumi island of the ronin and nobushi lurking in its shadows.

side note: based on what happened during lunch break, gorou would rather be struck by a meteor than eat an onion slice. same.

flipping your notepad shut, you leaned against a trunk and closed your eyes, absorbing the smell of dewey grass, the sound of crows overhead, and the feeling of the breeze tousling your hair.

things between you and gorou were only getting better under the veil of professionalism; neither of you had yet to bring up the comically absurd incidents involving ms. hina or the tengu warrior, kujou sara.

the best scenario was that he thought you were your own twin right now. the worst scenario was that he was just choosing not to broach the subject.

after setting your notes aside, you planted your hands into the ground and pushed off your palms to regain your feet. that was when you heard voices that didn't belong to any members of the watatsumi army who were traveling with you and gorou.

"they're in this area, right?"

"yeah, they definitely won't see this coming."

with bated breath, you pressed your back against the tree and peeked around it to discreetly scan your surroundings. some meters away were literal fuel for your next nightmare: a group of fatui members.

your detestation for the fatui organization bore an intensity rivaling a thousand suns.

a year ago, your father was apprehended by someone posing as a "debt collector", and you still hadn't gotten to the bottom of his case. the only piece of information left behind was a ransom note embellished with the fatui crest and stating a price to be paid at some obscure location.

however, you were just an ordinary citizen; you didn't have the funds nor the protection to wend your way to the place they spelled out on the note. what was stopping them from just killing you as soon as you arrived?

you resorted to requesting help from the higher-ups, but the shogunate officers of the tenryou commission refused to prioritize your situation due to the fatui's unspeakably heinous crimes against the nation.

focusing on the present, you pinpointed the encroaching fatui members' positions before sparing no time to slink off. however, the sound of the leaves that crunched under your black hiking boots completely gave you away, causing the fatui members to mechanically spin their heads in your direction.

"who goes there?" the cryogunner legionnaire roared, his cannon at the ready to blast you into the next millenium.

ms. electro archon, i know we aren't buddies, but if you could lend me your strength and guidance right now, i'll forgive you for the sakoku decree, you prayed, clasping your hands in sheer despair, and then broke into the fastest sprint you had ever sprinted in your entire life.

no promises though!

metal projectiles whizzed through the air as you weaved around overgrown roots and ducked under tree limbs, but despite how many of mother nature's obstacles you swerved around, the fatui members were honing in on you based on the heaviness of their footsteps.

in no universe could you outrun them or continue miraculously dodging the bullets sailing past you, so you seized the nearest tree branch and tried hoisting yourself up.

a bullet that got too close for comfort grazed your cheek and pierced through the bole of the tree you were on, making you suck in a hoarse breath. you hung onto one of the tree's decaying branches and accumulated enough momentum to twist around and kick one of the fatui members right in the nose.

"nyeh! this is trouble..."

it was the anemoboxer vanguard, who was staggering backward and groaning in great pain, which meant you had the cryogunner legionnaire and the pyroslinger bracer to deal with in the meantime.

before you could devise the next measure to take, the branch you were swaying from snapped off the trunk, sending you hurtling toward the ground and eating a fistful of grass.

"you're not going anywhere, pal!" the pyroslinger bracer cackled as you peered right into the tube of his rifle.

prepared to meet your end, you squeezed your eyes shut to rid the tears amassing in your peripheral vision until the cryogunner legionnaire roughly grabbed your chin to study the features of your countenance.

"wait, you look familiar..." his glowing eye seemed to crinkle a bit from the wicked smile that grew behind his mask. "you have the same hideous face as that man i killed a few days ago..."

your throat constricted at the thought of your father lying in a pool of his own blood.

"you... you and everyone else in the fatui are absolutely sick!" you vociferated emphatically, unstirred by the firearm that was pointed straight at your head.

"oh, we know," the cryogunner legionnaire sneered at you before releasing your face from his soul-crushing grip. "say hello to your pops for us."

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[cross-my-heartt]

Pieces Ch. 1

Crosshair doesn’t think he will ever have a family again but the galaxy has a knack for proving him wrong. And little by little the pieces fall into place.

_____

Crosshair’s finger twitched at the trigger.

He raised his eye from the scope to survey the landscape then lowered it back again to the couple centered in its reticle. The two locals were still arguing in front of their ramshackle house, the woman screaming something at her partner who seemed content to take it, eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.

A bead of sweat tricked down Crosshair’s temple. He could read their lips but he didn’t understand a karking word they were saying.

You don’t have to understand anything, Tech’s voice sounded snidely in his head, that’s what I’m here for. He swatted it away with a growl.

It was frustrating not being able to tell if they would act on his little theft or not. If anyone were to try and track him right now they wouldn’t have to try too hard for success. He was slow, too exhausted and injured to cover his tracks, but to go into town without some kind of disguise would be suicide.

Finally the woman’s fit subsided and she marched back into the house. Crosshair watched with bated breath as her husband loitered around for a bit doing nothing before going back to hanging up the washing. A ragged sigh of relief escaped his chest. It seemed they were over the loss of their shawl for now.

Pulling the dingy cloth closer around his neck, he picked himself up from the ground with a grunt. He was still limping though the pain above his hip had let up and the gash on his chest didn’t sting as badly. He didn’t know if the miserable amount of bacta he’d applied would allow him to sense an oncoming infection but beggars couldn’t be choosers and he didn’t care for the pain. It would only slow him down further.

The plants at his feet crunched under his weight as he weaved between the trees. At first he’d tried to avoid unnecessary noise but he was long over that.

If they come for me, let them come he thought spitefully. He’d already survived one shootout and though his chances of surviving another were slim he would enjoy taking a few more troopers out with him…

The armory roared and spat fire as more munitions caught the edge of the flames. Smoke and ash were beginning to clog the air and there was no sign of any troops, all of them having opted for a quick evac instead of a lengthy pursuit.

Crosshair leaned against one of the durasteel walls and tried to catch his breath. His body screamed with burns and bruises he couldn’t even begin to account for. Two were giving him more hell than usual and stood out above the rest: a diagonal gash across his chest, still stinking of charred plastoid, and a blaster bolt hole above his hip.

He didn’t know what that bolt had sliced through but the wound was bleeding sluggishly, a piece of armor having probably aggravated the flesh.

He shifted and the hand covering it came away red. He was running out of time.

Another explosion rocked the base and he hurried through the rain of debris, feeling the building unravel around him. If the base collapsed now it would take the whole mountainside with it. That had been the plan, originally, but thinking of this place becoming his grave filled him with a swell of terror he hadn’t thought possible.

He had been prepared to die. He was prepared to die but somehow as his death grew nearer he found himself faltering. He wasn’t a coward. He wasn’t supposed to be a coward. His hand hadn’t twitched as he’d executed his pursuers, set fire to the base and watched as it all crumbled down, a chunk of ceiling collapsing over Rampart’s head and providing a satisfying end to a burning quest for revenge. He’d done all of that on his own, free of that cursed chip, and he hadn’t once let the thought of death stop him, not for a moment.

That is, until he’d found himself alone, bleeding out in an auxiliary hangar and clinging to the last vestiges of life that supported his body.

That’s when the fear had kicked in. Wild and animalistic, more hollow than anything he’d known before.

He didn’t know how he’d found the strength to pick himself back up. Nor what remnants of sanity had guided him through the base to find the last viable escape route in that crumbling hell. He only knew that all-consuming fear that was telling him to get out! Get out, move, now!

And get out he did.

Crosshair watched a bug scale a twisted frond as the memory dissipated. It still left a gnawing feeling in his gut. His reluctance to face that feeling was what had been pushing him forward since he’d made it out of the base.

His anger and determination to destroy his enemy made sense. Many other things didn’t. From the moment he’d woken up under Nala Se’s soulless gaze, thoughts blessedly clear for the first time in months, he’d known it was a tepid alliance. The longnecks would never offer anything in return other than a chip-free existence and a chance for revenge and he’d been content with that.

He would get his closure and they would stick it to the Empire. That was that. Helping him make it out alive had never been in the cards. And yet…

The shadows shifted around him as the day crept towards evening. He was starting to feel an ache in his limbs but he could still keep going, probably for a mile or so though the city was closer than that. He still didn’t have a plan for what he would do once there but he didn’t let that stop him as he moved on autopilot. Some habits from the war were more useful than others. Seeking out a sniper nest had always been a mindless task and he put that mindlessness to work now.

By the time he reached the swampy outskirts of Dunbara, the forest had cleared enough to give his vision that razor-sharp edge in the darkness. The soft earth swallowed his feet up to the ankle, adding to his fatigue, and he gauged the landscape ahead of him. A thicker copse of trees, skirted by a putrid pond. He had a better chance of avoiding the muck if he circled round it, using the paths the locals had forged over time, but that would leave him exposed and prolong his journey…

Through the wood it is then.

Trekking through the mud as fast as he could, he climbed the low incline that led into the trees. It was darker here, difficult still to walk through the plants battling each other for dominance but his single-minded focus carried him forward.

The stinking pond with its slimy flora lay to his right and he moved away from its edge lest he slipped on the banks. Just as he was about to round a group of bushes however, something in the dark caught his attention and he stopped.

There was something at the edge of the pond.

Something that looked suspiciously human-shaped.

The air was thick with tension as his hand shot to his blaster. He stalked towards the barrier of vegetation between himself and the water and crouched down. This was the last thing he needed. He’d hoped to make his way to Dunbara unnoticed but should the city wake to the alarm of a body being found in the outskirts, it would be wise to know what the fuss was about.

That is, if the news of a destroyed imperial base left any more room for excitement.

Crosshair waited for his company to make a move. But as the seconds ticked by, it became clear that that wouldn’t be happening –  the figure lay completely still, half submerged in the sludge of the pond and unresponsive to his presence. He hesitated. A sense of compulsion nagged at him, that same sense that urged him to explore every nook and cranny of his surroundings before he set up a nest.

In the end it got the better of him and he moved closer, breaching the line of bushes to get a better look. The first thing that caught his eye was the assortment of rags the figure wore, already soaked with swamp gunk and sticking to the small frame like a body glove. Crosshair recognized them as some kind of uniform that rose and fell with the flutter of a chest.

So the poor bastard was very much alive…

There were a few random pieces of armor that piqued his interest but more important were the numerous bruises and cuts that peeked from beneath the clothing – various remnants of a fight that were begging to get infected. The figure was pale, deathly so, and trembling and it didn’t take Crosshair long to recognize the clammy sheen of a fever. Perhaps that infection had already happened?

Crosshair stepped even closer. Unconscious or not, this stranger wouldn’t be much of a threat. He had the high ground in the dark and even if this man was someone who could recognize him and call for backup, his shawl and helmet were enough of a disguise. The other’s face, in contrast, was bare and it took Crosshair a second to clock a buzz cut and a tattoo before he realized what features he was looking at.

Crosshair tensed.

A reg.

He was looking at a reg.

Momentarily stumped, he paused in the midst of kneeling down by the other. What in karking hell was a reg doing all the way out here?? He couldn’t have come from the demolished base – Crosshair had covered that distance in what he knew was a steady pace, something that would have been impossible for a man in this reg’s condition. There was another smaller imperial outpost near the city but the tracks embedded in the mud suggested that the reg had been heading away from it, not towards. Was he running away from something? Looking for someone?

Crosshair squinted. Now that he looked closer, there was something odd about this kid. He had originally thought he was a shiny because he was too small to be anything but, yet upon closer inspection the kid was a touch too small and a touch too skinny.

And his skin.

No fever could make a reg this pale, not if it was an ordinary one.

Slowly, Crosshair reached out and his hand landed on a lonely pauldron. He didn’t flinch when the other jerked awake at the touch.

“Wh- what?” the kid gasped, brown eyes peering uselessly into the dark. Crosshair could see the fog of delirium in them, speckled with a touch of panic. The kid tried to say something else but was interrupted by a coughing fit and Crosshair’s hold on his shoulder tightened to signal him to calm down.

“Relax. Not an enemy.”

His voice, modulated and low as it was, didn’t sound like another clone’s but he preferred it that way. Even if a vod’s voice was what the kid probably needed to hear most. The kid turned his head in his direction.

“Where-” He struggled for a moment, clearly in pain and battling the haze of the fever. “Where am I?”

“Outskirts of Dunbara. Kaisel V.” Crosshair said and watched as the reg’s brow furrowed. When he opened his eyes there was a spark of recognition in them.

“I see. And who-”

Crosshair shook his head.

“Right, right…”

He paused to think and then, in a moment that would have otherwise been comical, seemed to realize he was halfway through to becoming part of the swap and started kicking his legs in an attempt to get away from the pond.

“Easy!” Crosshair pressed down on his shoulder again, trying to get him to stop wriggling. At this rate he was just going to hurt himself. It seemed to do the job (or the kid just gave up, Crosshair wasn’t sure) and he stopped kicking as his face went slack. His head slumped back onto the grass and he took a few deep uneven breaths.

“The base. I- I ran away and then…” he trailed off.

“I must have slipped.” he said quietly after a while. Crosshair didn’t deem it necessary to answer. In the process of talking to the kid, his attention had strayed to something he could just about make out in the dark: A scar, mirroring the position of the kid’s tattoo on the other side of his head –  small, angry-looking and jagged-edged but all too familiar in shape and location. He stared at it as the other worked on his breathing.

“I don’t… I don’t think I’m making it through this,” the kid said and let out a shaky chuckle. At some point his hand had found Crosshair’s at his shoulder and it twitched faintly in time with his pained expressions.

Crosshair couldn’t help but notice how cold that hand was.

“It’s funny,” the other continued, “I think I knew this was going to… to happen.” A ghastly smile stretched his lips. “Still it was… it was worth it.”

Crosshair nodded but remained silent. Nothing he said would change anything and no comforting words could really come from a stranger. The kid’s assessment of his situation was probably correct – he likely wouldn’t make it through the night given how bad his fever was and how far his body had deteriorated. Crosshair could do little for him at this point except stay and show some respect.

The kid settled down after that, focused on fighting the fever. Crosshair let him hold his hand and offered some minor adjustments to make him more comfortable. His own legs had gone numb from kneeling in the mud and he could feel it edging into the gaps of his armor, cold and grainy against his blacks. As the sensation got worse he shifted to try and alleviate it.

The movement jostled his arm however and all of a sudden the hold clinging to him was a death grip, strong enough to cut off his circulation, and he bit back a hiss as pain shot up his wrist.

What the hell was that for?

Crosshair turned to look at the other’s face in the dark. The kid’s eyes had snapped open and were darting back and forth, his breathing back to that dangerous erratic wheezing. His whole body shook with the effort and Crosshair knew he had to do something to put a stop to it.

But the kid beat him to it.

Wide brown eyes stared at Crosshair guiltily as the kid seemed to come back to his senses.

“Kriff, I’m sorry, I-” the kid fumbled, relaxing his grip somewhat but still holding on tight. “I don’t know what came over me.” His skin took on an even more unnatural sheen.

Crosshair didn’t pull away or answer him but a pit had started to form in his stomach and he felt his throat constrict.

The kid had thought he was going to leave. He’d thought he was going to leave and he’d held on for dear life to prevent that from happening. It was a desperate, visceral reaction and it stirred memories in him that he’d hoped to forget.

A burning base. A bleeding wound. Collapsing walls coming closer, and a circle of black around his vision.

Crosshair swallowed heavily and felt his brow bead with sweat.

“I don’t know what happened, I -” the kid stumbled, lost in his own confusion. He seemed put off by his own reaction but Crosshair could make sense of it.

Simple. It was so simple.

All this time he’d spent wondering what had gotten over him when the answer was staring him in the face, so obvious even a child could figure it out.

“I just don’t want to -”

“- die alone.”

The kid’s trembling body lay still. As did the air around them.

“You don’t want to die alone.” Crosshair repeated and the words hung between them, heavy with truth.

So, so simple.

The kid looked at him with something akin to awe then, mouth hanging open and eyes clear despite the raging fever. He lay like that for a couple of moments, just staring at Crosshair, before his eyes closed and he let out a shuddering breath.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Yeah, I guess I don’t.”

It was spoken like some kind of profound revelation and the kid’s smile remained on his face as he slumped back into the mud. He looked relieved, peaceful even, as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Crosshair on the other hand felt anything but relief.

The blanket of apathy that had descended over him since leaving the base had been yanked off, the horrible empty space beneath twisting and expanding until it suddenly collapsed on itself, shrinking into a single point of clarity. A new purpose. A new mission.

His hand slipped out of the kid’s grip.

“Well tough luck kid.”

He stood up from the ground and dusted himself off. Confusion turned to betrayal as the kid watched him adjust his shawl and pack and secure his blaster.

He looked like he wanted to say something, mouth working silently, but he didn’t get the chance as a pair of hands was soon pulling him out of the pond, slinging one of his arms over sharp shoulders and supporting his waist as he was held upright. He gasped in equal amounts pain and surprise.

“Because you’re not dying today.”

_____

Next chapter →

[eggsmuses-a]

THE ACE •:

The Ace groaned, pinching where his brow would be. Guess he’ll just have to get to the point of it. “Have you read the works of Sun Tzu, Mara?” He asked “In his writings, he told of the value of knowing the enemy just as well as yourself. During the fight with The Witch Queen, I made it a priority to learn all I could about the hive and, especially, Savathûn. Of course, given that she’s the queen of lies, I made sure to sieve through the sands of her words to find the nuggets of objective truth. Want to know what I found out?”

The Ace walked over to his table and pulled up an image of Fundament, turning their attention to The Hive’s distant past. “Before Savathûn was Savathûn, she was known as Sathona.” He stated “She and her sisters feared for the lives of The Krill. So Sathona, along with her sister, made a deal with The Worm Gods to spare them from a perceived demise. Thus, The Hive were born.”

The Ace switched the image on the table to that of Savathûn’s Throne World, The Traveler above it. “Countless years later, Savathûn obtained The Light and stole The Traveler, all in an effort to fight against our system’s eradication at the hands of our ancient enemy, The Witness.  This tells me something important about Savathûn’s mind. Something useful.”

Flipping a switch, the Ace turned off the table’s screen, walking back over to The Queen of The Awoken. “ Savathûn has a Hero Complex.” He stated “And before her death, that “Hero” learned her whole life as The Witch Queen was manipulated by The Witness. If revived, I’m willing to bet a ton of glimmer that she’ll want to rebel, to get revenge, to declare war on the entity that was pulling The Hive’s strings from day one...and war tends to make strange bedfellows. You’re not the only one who can see the chessboard, Mara. How do you think I’ve survived so long?”    

EGGSMUSES •:

Sun Tzu. How ironic this was to be brought up now, especially when so much of her reign reflected idealistic views of Sun Tzu's work.

#ﾞ ᴍ ——— ❝ I am familiar. ❞ Deep within the halls of Awoken libraries, the Dreaming City was littered with literature of Golden Age times. Those that survived upon the Yang Liwei, those her people still remembered. The ones lost in translation. The Art of War was one of many of those writings that had made it out of the Exodus Green in one piece. ❝ The Awoken particularly enjoy his teachings. We study the work within our troops. ❞

When the projection of Fundament appears though, Mara's interest is piqued. She was aware of the Hive having some past, but never to the extent of what the Worm entailed.

She nods, eyes quite literally lighting up as her eyelids ride each revelation like a wave; rise &. fall. Though she would have found this matter herself if she were to pressure Savathûn's Worm more, it's evermore intriguing to hear the summary directly from the Guardian's mouth. As if she hadn't listened to the comms, as if she were an outsider to the ordeal.

&. it works, because the perspective feels like something new. It's restating what the Vanguard &. herself had assumed, but having the confirmation takes weights from her chest. There was no more uncertainty to what they had all learnt, only the truth spoken directly from a source.

Bated breath is released as she whispers exactly what Rascal announces at the exact same time, ❝ Savathûn considers herself a hero. ❞

Of course, her actions make so much sense now. The Traveler &. hunting its powers, "protecting" it within her throne world, the first Collapse. Everything aligned so perfectly now.

&. the Vanguard was just as blind as ever.

Though, she still begs to differ on the potential of an alliance.

❝ ... nobody truly knows the pieces that are sacrificed in every game of chess. ❞ Mara adds, a stare traded as her eyes graze upwards. While they both see the strings attached, it's harder now to predict their opponents next move. Unless by some miracle a prophet comes with knowledge of something else the Witch Queen has hidden.

❝ I don't doubt that Savathûn has sour feelings towards the Witness, otherwise your Traveler wouldn't have revived her in the first place. My natural worry is within who she determines worthy of that bitterness. We have no way to prove that she will join us, she is a god of cunning after all. ❞

&. the chances are she will make a break for it if they don't stop her before then. The Hive Goddess probably sees all as her enemy now; she is entangled in lies that have shrouded her from knowing the truth. That much is evident by her enragement at learning about Fundament.

❝ I don't believe it wise to trust our forces to someone who deceives. Whether survival banks on it or not. ❞ Bold claims, Deception Queen.

#ﾞ ᴍ ——— ❝ That’s Queen Mara Sov to you . ❞

[professorthaddeus]

batten down the hatches

They’ve gone over the plan a thousand times, yet Fjord can’t help running through it a thousand more. They’ve been preparing for days. There’s still so much they don’t know. 

At some point, Beau nodded off and Essek woke up, and now it’s just the two of them keeping silent vigil over the others.

Essek is a constant wave of motion, gliding slowly around the room, occasionally reaching out a hand to brush against the panels of colored glass. It seems he’s having just as hard a time getting his thoughts to quell. 

At least the movement is a welcome distraction—until he halts, hovering still in the air a few feet away, face unreadable. He pulls out a familiar stone from the folds of his cloak.

Dread settles cold in the pit of Fjord’s stomach.

He may not have Caleb’s perfect memory or sense of time, but he knows. He knows. It hasn’t been nearly long enough for Jester to have replenished the energy she needs to channel her not-quite-a-god’s power, for Yasha to have recovered from her wounds sustained in battle.

Essek’s holding the stone to his ear. The chill spreads until Fjord’s veins are filled with nothing but ice.

To his left, Caduceus stirs, his hand curled loosely around his staff. Ready to defend his family even in sleep. Ready to go down with them all at this site of ancient disaster, even though he has another family waiting for him far from here. He’s always worn duty like it’s a badge of honor. His quiet resolve and faith in the Wildmother’s plans for him have been a consistent source of admiration and inspiration as long as Fjord’s known him.

But tonight, he can’t agree. Death is not an option, no matter what the cards of fate may hold.

Yasha has a hand on her sword as well, and Fjord doesn’t blame her; his own fingers are itching to summon the Star Razor. They’ve all learned to be battle-ready and would die for one another in a heartbeat. But Yasha, more than any of them, has embraced the mantle of protector. 

Fjord only hopes they can watch her six in return, and she’ll survive to soak in the happiness she’s just starting to find.

Speaking of. Jester is curled up by his side, head propped on pillows the cats had brought down for her. None of them had suggested sleeping in their separate rooms tonight. Caleb may have tailored them to be as individually cozy as possible, but there’s nothing more comforting than feeling each other nearby.

As Fjord waits for Essek to deliver the bad news, he can’t stop himself from tucking away a strand of hair that has fallen across Jester’s eyelids. She’s given them all so much—her spells, her strength, her custom-made feast still spread out around them, and more than that, her easy laughter and fierce, endless love. He’s desperately, selfishly relieved that she’s here. But he also can’t stop thinking about her forcing optimism through her teeth before finally faltering.

“I lied to her, Fjord.”

He sets his jaw, tusks poking at his lip. It won’t be a lie. Marion will have her daughter back.

He looks across the room to Beau. Her position is a reflection of his own, sitting up with arms folded, though her chin has dipped to her chest and her shoulders rise and fall in fitful sleep. Not that it makes much of a difference. She’ll be the first one ready at the earliest sign of trouble.

It’s been incredible to see her evolve from someone brash, impulsive, and honestly, a little scrappy—though he’d never say it to her face because she’d punch him into paralysis—to the capable warrior she is now. One who fights tooth and nail for others and is no longer afraid to open her heart to her friends.

“Just thinking about the others.”

“I know. They look to you.”

“Let’s not disappoint.”

Fjord didn’t have a quarter of her bravery when he was her age. Gods, she has so much of her life ahead of her. He’s glad she’s getting a little rest. 

Somewhere out in the dark and cold, Caleb and Veth are sitting awake in the dome, hundreds of feet away from the rest of them.

He almost wants to slip out and find them, take them back to this sanctuary that Caleb has so reverently crafted to keep them safe. It’s wrong that they’re not all together in this final hour.

But no, they are together, because Fjord can feel them, waiting with bated breath just as he is, a prickle of something between anticipation and fear thrumming right under the skin. Maybe Veth is whispering morbid jokes aloud, pretending Caleb can hear her and nudging him every so often to remind him she’s there. Maybe Caleb is preparing to be a soldier again, analyzing every inch of the space ahead of him through Frumpkin’s eyes.

They’re going to be okay. They have each other, and Caleb is more determined than any of them to ensure Veth will walk away from this and return to her husband and child. And though Caleb may have written himself off, Veth never will.

“I’m calling my favor. If it comes to that, you will stop me. Utterly.”

A shiver runs through Fjord’s body. He made a promise, and he intends to uphold it, but it won’t. It won’t come to that.

Essek drifts over, that stone clenched in his grasp. He doesn’t need to say it; Fjord’s already steeling himself as Essek starts to speak.

~

Salt spraying in the air, water sloshing onto the deck. The panicked shouts ringing out amongst the crew are swiftly drowned out by sheets of rain pouring from blackened clouds.

The cresting waves around them are twice the size of their ship. Fjord remembers being awed by the majesty of her sails, the excellent craftsmanship of her hull. It all seems so foolish now. Who are they to think they can fight the sea?

He grits his teeth, the rope burning in his hands as he struggles to keep it from being wrenched away by the winds. “Captain, what do we do? Should we turn back?”

Vandran’s expression is strained, but his voice is strong when he speaks, and his hand is steady where it rests on Fjord’s shoulder.

“We forge ahead. There’s an end to this storm on the horizon, and we’re going to make it to the other side.” 

~

“The rangers have had a sighting. Troop of five approaching. They’re asking if they are to engage.”

Fjord’s gaze flickers once more to his friends. Caduceus. Yasha. Jester. Beau. Veth and Caleb outside, watching their backs. They have to make it. They’re going to make it. They just need more time. 

He looks up, locks eyes with Essek. Sees his grim conclusion mirrored there. 

“Yes.”

—————

also on ao3 | my other cr fics

[heliads]

Making the Team

Based on this request: “The reader is the daughter of natasha and steve, and she is nervous about for her first mission. Her mom and dad tell her that everything is gonna be great, and the mission is complete, but the reader is badly injured and her parents and Bruce takes care of her.”

masterlist

You’re awake when the first light of dawn tentatively begins to shine through your window. You’ve been awake for a while, actually, too excited to sleep a wink. This is the day of a very important mission. It’s probably going to be the most important mission of your life, in fact. If you do well on this assignment, you’ll be made an Avenger. If you don’t, you’ll have to get sent back to training and know that your entire future might have just slipped between your fingers.

Most teenagers your age would never have gotten this opportunity. If they were lucky, they might be accepted to the S.H.I.E.L.D. academy or embark on an internship with Tony Stark. You, however, happen to have two Avengers as your parents. Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff, the classic Avengers couple. After much wheedling and careful manipulation on your end, they’ve allowed you to begin training as a potential Avengers recruit. Now, all you have to do to cement your place on the team is to prove yourself in this mission.

It’s not like you’re getting into this team solely based on nepotism, though. Your father was a super soldier and your mother was trained in the Red Room. Ever since you were old enough to walk, it was evident that you would be destined for the same path as they so famously trod. You ran faster, knew more, threw punches harder than anyone else your age. Even without your parentage, S.H.I.E.L.D. would have tapped you long ago. You just get to bypass the protocols and go straight to a potential slot on the team.

Eventually, you can lie in bed no longer, your adrenaline already pumping through your veins at the mere thought of the upcoming mission. You sling your legs over the side of the bed, jumping down onto the floor and rushing over to don your awaiting clothes. Your real suit is waiting in a quinjet at Avengers Tower, so all you have to do is pull on some casual clothes and rush your parents out the door.

They’re already up, as it turns out. Your mother is nursing a cup of coffee, and your father is standing over the stove, brow furrowed as he considers a pan of scrambled eggs. Natasha smiles when she sees you. “Look at you! Ready for the big day?” You nod excitedly, starting to grab the beginnings of a breakfast. “Couldn’t sleep a wink.” Steve chuckles. “I’m starting to think you’re excited about running headlong into danger.” You stare at him pointedly. “I wonder who I learned that from.” Natasha laughs at Steve’s expression. “She’s got you there.”

By the time you’re pulling up to the Avengers Tower, however, the excitement bubbling into your chest is deepening into nervous worry. What if something goes wrong? You’ve never been allowed on a mission as large as this one before, where civilians and the other Avengers alike are counting on you. What if you mess this up? The stakes are higher than you’ve cared to realize- not just a spot on the Avengers, but the lives of those you care about. You head over to the quinjet, but your fears only grow when the plane takes off.

You force yourself to calm down, heading over to the racks of weapons and gear in the hopes of distracting yourself. There at last is your suit- a flexible, bulletproof black jumpsuit with armored paneling overtop. You glance at your reflection in the mirror, but instead of seeing the usual confident version of yourself, you only see a nervous teenager. Why have you been allowed on this mission in the first place? What if this really isn’t what you were meant to do?

You hear footsteps behind you and turn hurriedly, doing your best to wash away your worries and plaster on an expression of relaxed calm. Your mother, however, has been reading people her entire life, and nothing can get past her. Especially not the worries of her daughter. She frowns at you, pausing at the doorway and heading inside. “Hey, you alright?” You sigh, staring at your palms. “What if you guys were wrong about me? What if I’m not supposed to be an Avenger after all?”

Natasha shakes her head. “We’re not wrong about you. That’s a promise. Y/N, I’ve seen you since you were little. You can do things that most soldiers couldn’t even dream of. If Steve or I thought that you couldn’t do this, we wouldn’t have suggested you take the mission.” You look at her anxiously. “But Steve is a super soldier. You’re a Black Widow. I am none of those.” There’s another voice from the door now, and you turn to see your father leaning against the doorframe.

“You don’t have to have that experience to be special. What about Maria Hill? You’ve seen her before. Even Thor’s afraid to take her on, and she doesn’t have any special abilities.” Steve walks into the room, smiling comfortingly. “No, Y/N, you are more than capable, even without training or a strengthening concoction. Honestly, if I was out in the field and I came toe to toe with you, I’d be worried.” A laugh rises unbidden to your lips. “You just have to say that because you guys are my parents.”

Natasha shakes her head, a small grin crossing her face. “Actually, us being your parents means that we wouldn’t usually say that at all. We made sure that you were given the best training and preparation, and that you had equal treatment with the other recruits. You didn’t make it this far because of us, you made it this far because of you. And, if that isn’t enough to convince you, check out your file. We didn’t write that, your instructors did, and your instructors gave you the highest marks we’ve seen in years.”

You smile grudgingly. “You’re sure I can do this?” Steve nods, reaching out to pull you close in a hug. “I know you can do this. You’re an excellent fighter, Y/N, and after today, you’ll be an Avenger. Just like that.” You laugh, returning the hug. “Just like that.”

This, however, is easier said than done. S.H.I.E.L.D. and Avenger training have done a lot for you- teaching you how to fight, readying you for battle. Nevertheless, no amount of simulations can prepare you for the mission at hand. There are hostages inside a building, dozens of guards and soldiers waiting outside. The hostages aren’t the only things to contend with, though- there are civilians, goons, and the knowledge that S.H.I.E.L.D. plans are hidden in the coat pocket of one of the hostages. At any moment, the guards could find out, and then the mission would be over before it even started. You have to rescue the hostages before the data is uncovered.

Your group fans out, looking for entrances. You spot one quickly, rushing to it. There’s an opening on the roof, and you jump from window to window, quickly scaling the building. There, you’re able to take out a couple of snipers and a few roof guards before heading inside the building through a service entrance at the top. The fighting gives you a rush, and you find yourself smiling as you take down yet another soldier. Maybe you were meant for this after all.

At last, you find the room with the hostages. You draw back, waiting around the corner out of enemy view. You tap on your earpiece, speaking hurriedly. “I’ve found the hostages. Second floor, far east side, about a dozen or so guards.” Steve’s voice crackles across the radio. “We hear you. Do not engage, wait for us.” You nod. “Affirmative. Waiting for you.”

Steve and Natasha, however, take their time getting to you. The soldiers must realize that someone’s found a way in, as they’re doubling up around the entrances. You stare at the room with the hostages, watching with bated breath as the leader of the goons circles the captive men and women. The man frowns, pausing by a woman in blue. She has a gold circle pinned to her chest, designating her as the leader. The man stares at the pin, then at her. You can almost see the pieces clicking into place in his head.

You curse softly as you realize what he’s about to do, and switch your radio back on. “The leader has figured out that someone has the plans. I think I have to go in.” Natasha’s voice is sharp over the comms. “Negative! Y/N, do not engage.” As you watch, the man draws closer, flipping open the woman’s jacket with the tip of his rifle. Even from here, you can see the hidden pocket, and even from here, you can see the man’s eyes light up as he spots the rectangular package tucked away inside.

Your hand rises to your earpiece once more. “Sorry, but I have to do this.” You flick your radio off, drowning out the frantic voices of your parents. You race over to the room, kicking down the door with your boot. The guards turn to you when the door crashes open, but you fire your weapons methodically, taking down the guards one by one as you race around the room to the woman. The leader is standing back up, shouting orders at his troops, but you’re not paying attention.

Then his rifle is raised again, pointing towards the woman with the plans. You feel your feet moving without a second’s hesitation, pounding towards the pair. You manage to shove the woman aside just before the man’s finger tightens on the trigger, and you can feel her slip you the plans even as the bullet impacts on your side. For a second, you don’t feel anything at all, and manage to turn your weapons towards the leader, knocking him to the ground. Then your hand comes up from your side, stained red as blood begins to pour onto the ground, and the pain truly hits.

It’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt in your life. You’ve seen Thor wield his thunder before, seen him raise his hammer and watched as a boom of thunder cracked the sky. Lightning arced down to the ground before him, burning the ground and decimating his opponents. You’ve wondered what that would feel like, and now you have a fairly good idea. Maybe you’re not being electrocuted, but you feel like you’ve just been hit by the blow of a god.

There is shouting above you, more shouts ringing out. You stand up unsteadily, hand clamped to your side, and realize that Steve and Natasha have finally found you. They take down the guards with an almost frightening certainty, and then they see you. Just like that, their calm and cool exteriors break away and they run to your side. Steve visibly pales when he sees the blood pooling out from your side. “Y/N!” He shouts, and you weakly hold up the plans. “It’s alright, I got them. They’re safe.”

Steve shakes his head, and he’s saying something else but you can’t quite make it out. You think you hear your name, then Natasha’s, but for some reason you can’t focus on his words. Then the room tilts dizzyingly, and then you can feel nothing at all except for the overwhelming pain in your side and a sickening worry that your parents will never be able to forgive themselves if you die on this mission.

When your eyes open at last, you’re in a bleached white room. A smiling face swims before you; after a second you recognize it as Dr. Banner. His smile widens when he sees you sit up. “Hey, easy there. You took a pretty big hit.” You groan, feeling pain starting to blossom again from your side. It’s not as bad as it was in the room with the hostages, but it isn’t a picnic either. You rub your face with your hand, still disoriented. “What happened?”

Bruce chuckles. “You took a bullet for Ruth Hanaway.” At your confused expression, he clarifies. “The woman with the plans. You know, with the rest of the hostages. She’s fairly important, too. Apparently a higher-up among the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and she’s very impressed with what you did. She said you didn’t hesitate at all, just dove to save her. Now, that’s Avenger material.” You frown up at him, remembering the stakes of the mission. “So that means-”

You’re cut off by Natasha, who’s just burst through the doors. “Yes, you’re on the team.” She rushes to embrace you, and you smile at the show of affection. “But I got shot- I disobeyed orders-” Steve, who’d been closely following Natasha, shakes his head. “You saved the mission. If you hadn’t acted, the plans would have been lost. As much as I hate to say it, you did what you had to do.”

He fixes you with a sudden glare, although you can see right through it. “That being said, that was incredibly dangerous. You could have died or suffered serious injury. Even as it is, you’ll be spending at least a week in the hospital wing. We thought you were going to die, Y/N. No amount of missions will make up for your life.” You smile up at him, undaunted. “I’m not planning on repeating this anytime soon. I’ve had my life-and-death risk quota used up for the time being.”

Natasha chuckles, mussing up your hair. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Barely awake five minutes, and you’re already cracking jokes. I didn’t expect anything less.” You fix her with a triumphant grin. “Hey, I’m an Avenger now. I’m supposed to be used to this whole lifesaving thing.” Bruce chuckles, standing up to check a few readouts on the surrounding monitors. “I have no doubt about that. You might have to contend with Parker for the title of youngest Avenger, but I think that will be the least of your worries. Welcome to the Avengers, Y/N. We’re happy to have you.”

requested by @maximeevansblog​

marvel tag list: @mycosmicparadise​