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penspiration-writing · 2 years ago

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Baked With Love Chapter 1 (First Draft)

The vial of pink liquid rested in Esme’s palm, begging to be opened as she stared at it. It wouldn’t take much. Just a small pour onto each chocolate cookie would be enough to influence each judge that she automatically deserved to win this year’s baking competition.

That was the power of blissbrew. Even a single drop could be incredibly potent to humans, charming them into a state of near absolute euphoria. And the best part was, they would suspect nothing. Upon biting into the cookie, all they would taste was chocolate mingling with a sweet, pink icing.

Eros himself would be proud if she used it. She’d be able to collect enough love substance for herself and some of her fellow cygna to feed on for possibly a week or so. Cygna couldn’t be satiated by human food. They fed off of the emotion of love, both romantic and platonic.

And yet, Esme was here, sitting in her car and grappling with her conflicting thoughts. She wanted to guarantee herself first place, to prove to the other cygna that her dream of running her own bakery was a dream worth following. Most cygna didn’t venture out openly into the world unless to feed. No one had to know that she used the blissbrew to win. At the same time, however, a part of her mind was telling her that using the blissbrew wouldn’t be right.

But she couldn’t debate over this decision forever. The deadline to submit her competition entry was in less than ten minutes.

Amber eyes casted another glance at the vial of blissbrew. Her fingers inched closer to the cork at the top, once again considering the option that was before her.

It wasn’t much longer before she made her decision.

The fairgrounds were bustling with activity everywhere Esme turned. Parents held the hands of rowdy children, many of whom were eager to get their hands on a balloon or some sugary snack. Roller coasters whirred by at incredible speed, earning screams of exhilaration from riders.

Esme had managed to maneuver through all of the pandemonium and successfully submitted her cookies for the competition. Now she had at least a few hours to kill before the results were to be announced.

For a moment, her eyes followed a young couple as they walked past her hand-in-hand. She could sense the romantic energy they gave off. If she closed her eyes and breathed deep, she’d be able to feel satiated for a moment. But every attempt at doing so today had been a struggle, for the constant barrage of various scents from the human food vendors prevented Esme from concentrating. The smells didn’t exactly make her feel nauseous, but her senses still told her it was better to leave the area.

Thankfully, she’d managed to find a bench farther away from the crowded area full of food. With a relieved sigh, she sat down, closing her eyes for a moment to enjoy the feeling of warm sunlight beaming down on her. While she certainly enjoyed exploring, it became exhausting not being able to fly around in public. She wished she could stretch her wings, if only for a while. But it was always advised that cygna never reveal their wings, or shapeshift, when they were in public.

With that in mind, Esme was content to simply rest for a while.

The sound of someone clearing their throat indicated that there were other plans.

Lifting her head, Esme opened her eyes to see another woman staring down at her. Compared to all the other visitors at the fair, who were dressed in casual clothes or came directly from their farms, this lady looked like she would be more at home in the city. She wore a light gray business suit, complete with a black tie and black rectangular glasses.

Esme watched as her expression remained unchanged when their eyes met. The businesswoman then turned her attention to the tablet currently in her hands.

“Miss Esme Vivienne?” Her voice oozed with professionalism.

Esme quickly got to her feet, and soon realized just how much this woman towered over her. She felt like her exact opposite. Esme’s attire more closely resembled that of the countless fairground visitors, and she couldn’t help but feel as if, behind those rectangular glasses, she was being scrutinized.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Madeleine Sylvie.” Her expression didn’t change. “I was sent by Eros to monitor you.”

“All the way from Paris?” Esme’s eyes widened with some surprise and awe. It wasn’t often that many cygna left France anymore, as there were many who preferred to stay with the flock under Eros’ protection. Esme had been one of the recent exceptions. “How was your trip?”

“I’ll be asking the questions, Miss Vivienne.” Madeleine removed a stylus from her dark hair, which was tied back in a bun, and proceeded to scribble something on the tablet screen. “I’ll be sending a full report of your efforts to Eros. If he approves, you’ll be allowed to remain here in America and run your business as you please.” She adjusted her glasses for a moment. “For starters, have you already acquired a place for your operations?”

Esme shifted uncomfortably from Madeleine’s gaze. She thought back to the messy list and pages of printed out forms littering her small apartment up in Chicago. “Um…”

“I see.” Madeleine made another note, writing quickly in neat cursive. “And why exactly did you choose to showcase your efforts in a place like…” She looked up, taking in their surroundings and frowning as a pair of men struggled to lead their fussy cows towards the stables across the gravel path. “…this? Surely your skills would be better suited back in Paris, where you could work in style and luxury?” She looked back at Esme, and eyed her up and down, seemingly judging her simple, casual attire. “You could also acquire bliss more effectively.”

Now it was Esme’s turn to frown, but she did her best to hide it. She had no doubts about her appearance. In fact, to most humans, she’d be way above what they considered average. Cygna had an alluring effect on humans, as well as various other magical creatures.

“I don’t hate the extravagant lifestyle back home, if that’s what you’re implying. I just wanted a change of scenery.” She smiled as she glanced the other way, noticing a small group of individuals enjoying some carnival snacks. “I wanted to share this talent of mine with the humans of the world. Many of them share my interest in their culinary practices, especially sweets.”

There was no comment from Madeleine. Only the continued sound of occasional tapping of stylus against tablet screen came from her direction. Unease gnawed at Esme's stomach for a moment. She felt the need to speak up again to justify herself. "I wanted the competitions I entered to be one where I could perfect my craft at my own pace. I know I could've entered one of those television broadcast shows, but they're too hectic for my liking. And I don't do too well on camera." Nervousness made her laugh for a moment, which Madeleine did not return.

"This is your first competition?"

"Yes."

"Had any humans tasted your baking prior to this?"

That question made Esme pause, and she wrung her hands nervously. Should she have put out a request for taste testers before submitting her entry? So far, the only person who had tried her baking had been herself, and Abigail, a close friend back home. Thankfully, blissbrew didn't impact the taste of food too drastically for cygna.

"...No." Esme fidgeted again seeing her fellow cygna take more notes. "B-but regardless of today's results, I still plan to enter more in the future."

"If Eros allows you to." Madeleine finally stopped writing. "He could approve of your efforts and allow you to keep trying. Or…" She reached into her purse. "He could ask you to come back to Paris and return to your job as a receptionist "

Esme frowned, returning to sitting on the bench. Her job as a receptionist had left her feeling unfulfilled. Baking brought her joy.

It wasn't long before Madeleine found what she'd been looking for, pulling out a clear bag full of what appeared to be small plain bread rolls. She sat down and held out the bag to Esme.

"He'd also want you to maintain your energy. He heard baking for an extended period of time can be exhausting."

Esme reached in, took a bread roll, and broke it in two. There were light pink swirls in the dough, an indication of blissbrew being used in the cooking process. This was the most common food served in cygna society, besides a wide assortment of fruits and vegetables. Supplies had to be spread across thousands of cygna every day, so only the simplest meals were ever served.

But Esme never complained about such simplicity. Despite having tasted countless human foods during her time away from home, she still closed her eyes and savored the taste of the bread in her hands.

Perhaps she should add this to her list of recipes when her bakery opened. Humans had countless recipes for various types of bread.

And that thought made her smile widened as she continued to eat.

A few more hours passed before the time to announce the results finally arrived. Everyone in the gathering crowd fidgeted with a mixture of anticipation, especially those who had entered into the competition. Although she attempted to keep herself composed, Esme kept toying with a couple of the bracelets around her wrist as she waited. All in the room seemed to hold their breath as the head judge stood up from the table, list in hand, and strode up to the microphone to list the winners of each category.

A portly older woman won first place for her lemon meringue pie. A father and his young son got first place for their outstanding vanilla cake. Another individual won an award for their strawberry tarts.

Esme’s fidgeting grew more prevalent. Her head remained on a swivel, watching the faces of everyone around her, as well as the judges. At one point, she caught sight of Madeleine watching her. The other Cygna merely stared back, watching her, before returning to typing on her tablet.

“And now, we will present the awards for best overall desserts,” proclaimed the head judge.

Now Esme moved her hands to play with a lock of her hair, and her brows furrowed. She hadn’t heard her entry be mentioned yet at all. If she had any chance of proving herself to Eros and the flock, she had to win a purple ribbon.

Sandy Johnson won for her sweet, silky smooth key lime pie. Thomas Brown won for his delectable sugar-coated brownies. Riley Miller won for her vanilla cake with such intricate icing decorations that it looked fit for a wedding ceremony. Then-

“And finally, Esme Vivienne with entry number three hundred fifteen!”

Esme stopped breathing at that moment, eyes going wide. She couldn’t move. Had she heard the judge right? Had he really called her name?

“Miss Vivienne.”

Madeleine’s voice reached her ears, and Esme turned to look at her fellow cygna.

“I believe you’re supposed to go up and accept the reward?”

Only then was Esme finally able to move. She went up and shook the judge’s hand, and as the crowd clapped for her, a smile spread across her face.

She’d done it. She’d won.

The next few hours after the awards ceremony were a blur to her, as she rode on the high of having won an incredible prize in this competition. This competition might’ve only been in a small town, but the purple ribbon signifying her accomplishment meant everything to her.

“I must say, I’m impressed, Miss Vivienne.” Madeleine kept typing out her report even as they walked across the fairgrounds together. There was the faintest hint of a smile on her face. “I’ll be reporting this to Eros. He’ll want to congratulate you, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Madeleine.” Honestly, Esme couldn’t stop smiling. She got the feeling that this elation wouldn’t go away for days, as if she’d consumed an incredible amount of blissbrew all at once.

“Though I must say, seeing all those culinary creations did make me rather curious.”

At those words, Esme’s face only brightened further.

“Well…” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the vial of blissbrew, which was still completely full after all this time. “What would you like to try first?”

#writeblr #wip #writing #writing community #slice of life #fantasy #wip: baked with love #character: esme

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sirthisisa-wendys · 4 years ago

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Sweet Honey and Iced Tea (Part 2): Toji Fushiguro x Fem!Reader

wc: 1.3k

tw: none

masterlist

inspired by "coffee" by Miguel (OH GOD THIS TURNING INTO A SERIES PLEASE SOMEONE STOP ME)

"What would your father think about your behavior last night?"

You stare at your mother, headache mounting, and sigh.

"Dad's in a coma, so he can't think," you reply, rubbing your temples. "Besides, isn't it a good thing to be seen with rival clans?"

"No!" she yells, standing up from her seated position behind the mahogany desk.

"Don't get worked up," her adviser warns, and she sits down, running her tongue over her teeth.

"Your father would be mortified if he saw you fraternizing with a lesser clan, especially one that's tormented our family for generations with their... underground activities." Your phone buzzes in your lap, and you look down at it, seeing an unknown number scroll across the screen.

1 New Text Message

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah," you grumble. "I just don't see the issue. If we can absorb a lesser clan into ours, wouldn't we just become more powerful?"

"At the cost of a fruitful marriage to a more powerful clan?"

"I never said marriage," you retort, and your mother scoffs, waving her hand at you.

"I know how Toji Fushiguro looks at you. Every clan head meeting we've attended, he's been right there, trying his best to get your attention. We all see it." You frown, shaking your head slowly.

"Toji's just a friend."

"Sure," your mother replies. "And let's hope it stays that way."

He's just a friend... you think to yourself as you walk around in the backyard. We just got drunk and explored the dynamic, is all.

You open your messages and look at the newest one, reading the text once, twice, and then a third time.

It's Toji. Just wanted to make sure you got home okay; you left before I could give you a ride.

I'm good, you reply. Just got chewed out by my mother for even being near you lol

You send it and save his number under the name "T. Fushiguro" before your phone buzzes again.

Meet me at the school courtyard at 7. I really have to talk to you about everything.

You consider replying and telling him "no," but then you know you won't get some answers to questions you'd been thinking about. So you reply, "sounds good." and leave it at that.

_____________________________________________________________

The fountain provides a nice perch for you while waiting for Toji to appear with his brooding green eyes and dark hair. And he does, right at seven pm, wearing a black hoodie and holding his car keys in his right hand. When he sees you, his eyes turn from brooding to soft and he holds his empty hand out, looking you over from head to toe.

"Let's go for a drive."

He's silent as you ride in his Charger, navigating the streets with precision and speed while the radio plays grunge rock in the background. You can feel the night before between you, the passion and tenderness Toji willingly showed you blooming out of his coldness, like a Scorpionweed growing from clay soil.

"We need to talk," he finally mutters, parking in an empty field. You turn to him, examining his face for any sign of displeasure. When you see nothing but thoughtfulness, you relax. But only a little. "I don't know if you've taken time to really think about our little situation."

"I have," you assert, looking at your shoes. "It's not hard to imagine how both of our families feel about--"

"Forget family. I'm talking about how you feel." You look up at Toji, who arches a perfect brow at you. "What do you want out of life?"

You'd never really thought about this. What did you want out of life? Other than becoming the family head, what would you do? Live life in service to others? No.

"I want to be able to do what I want, regardless of how my family feels about it." Toji gives you a smile, nodding.

"And... last night? Did you do what you want?"

Yes.

You imagine the look on your face is enough of an answer, because then he smirks, reaching into his backseat for something. He hands you a rectangular black box, tied tightly with a black ribbon and the signature of a famous designer on the front.

"Toji..." you breathe, and he waves his hand dismissively.

"Consider it my graduation present to you."

"But I--"

"Your little rice cake was enough of a present. That was the first time anyone had been nice to me and expected nothing in return." You unlace the bow and slide the top off the box, revealing a gold chain and sphere pendant necklace. At a closer look, the pendant is made from malachite, which just so happens to be the same color as Toji's eyes.

"Just something for you to wear whenever." You loop it around your neck, but struggle with the clasp, and Toji motions for you to turn around so he can place it on you. When he finishes, he smooths his hands over your shoulders and presses a kiss to your neck before pulling back. "There's more." You shift the black cloth aside and a stack of folded-up notes are presented to you. They're wrapped together with a rubber band, and you frown, picking up the pile carefully.

"What're the--" You realize where these notes are from, and Toji shifts back against his car door, looking at you blankly with crossed arms. "It was you?"

"You would've known if you took the time to read them." You undo the rubber band around the stack and take the top one, unfolding it right then and there.

Y/n,

Saw you as I almost got my ass handed to me during my final initiation last week. I know you'll never read these, but seeing you there made me remember reminded me of the time you pushed me down on the ground and I scraped my knee. I could hear you in my head telling me to get up... so I did.

Thanks, I guess. This will be my last little note. I've kind of written these as journal entries to help me make sense of my feelings... but now that my dad's dead but now that we're going to be seniors, I can't pay Gojo to keep quiet and pass these to you. Hopefully, I'll get the guts up to come and talk to you someday.

T. Fushiguro

"How long?" you wonder, letting your hand fall to your lap.

"How long what? Have I been writing those?"

"No," you mumble as you fold the paper back up neatly. "How long have you liked me?"

"Since the day you pushed me. But it was innocent back then; not really comparable to how I feel now." You take this information in and then turn back to him, confused.

"What happened with your little groupies?"

"Nothing, they were just status symbols. Made me look less suspicious and gained points with my associates. You were right; we wouldn't have gained brownie points being friends with each other," he grumbles, placing his hands on the steering wheel. "But I have options now that I'm the head of my clan and calling the shots."

"Right," you state, putting the letters back into the box. "You have options."

"I didn't mean it like that," Toji sighs, rubbing his left brow. "I mean that many of my choices come without questioning now. And as far as I'm concerned, you're the only woman I can see myself being with for the long haul."

"Are you just saying all of this so you can add me to the notches on your belt? You know: virgin girl and an experienced boy makes for a fun tale with your buddies and--" Toji hums, raising his brow again, and you shut up, staring back at him.

"No. As a matter of fact..." he pulls out his phone, typing into it for a minute before putting it away. "I'm taking you out tomorrow. On a date."

"Um," you whisper. "But my parents---"

"Don't have to know it's me. Just get dressed up nice and come outside when I pull up." Toji starts the car and pulls out of the field. "And don't worry, I'm not going to take advantage of you. Everything you do will be your own choice."

#toji fushiguro x reader #toji x reader #toji fushiguro #jjk toji #jujutsu kaisen toji #jujutsu kaisen #jjk

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cafeinthemoon · 4 years ago

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The Home I Crave - Chapter 4

Title: The Home I Crave

Genre: Fanfiction

Pairing: Tobirama Senju x reader

Rating: teen and up

Word count: 2938

Chapter: 4/?

Symbols: ⭕ | ➕ | 💛 | ▶️▶️

Read the previous chapter here: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Though your future husband had his own residence separated from the Hokage’s, you weren’t sent there after being informed that you would stay in the village for the next days. Instead, you would be a guest in Hashirama’s house, and Mito would provide you the orientation you’d need in your new role.

The Uzumaki princess, with her vivid presence and smartness, helped you to find ways to fill your days with meaningful activities, so you wouldn’t see time passing until the wedding and wouldn’t have many chances to feel like a burden staying in the house of strange people counting on their assistance. You couldn’t entirely avoid this sensation, which led you to decline from small favors and treats that were offered to you from time to time; on the other hand, you found some relief once you realized that the manners showed by the Hokage’s wife during the reception were not mere formality: Mito’s interest in your well being was genuine, and she was not going to give up on making you as comfortable as possible under the current circumstances.

It was better this way, you thought. So you just let her be the friend she was willing to be.

In fact, Mito Uzumaki was an excellent friend: she would always answer your questions and doubts with honesty and objectivity and never hide when she didn’t have the information you needed; the things she asked about you were never embarrassing or invasive, and you always saw yourself willing to talk when she made you questions. You spoke to her about your life with your sisters, your training at your clan’s compound, your use of Doton and how it is a characteristic of your family since the oldest generations; Mito explained that her clan was specialized in sealing techniques the same way your were proficient in Earth Style, and when you asked her about them, she described the history and the creation of the most important among them.

During your time together, most of your conversations consisted in you two exchanging your experiences as shinobi, your families and your relationships with your friends. You discovered opinions and preferences in common despite the obvious differences in your personalities: while you had a tendency to live in your head if you were left alone and not speak your mind unless you were invited too, Mito was straightforward when it came to expressing her thoughts, though she was never rude while doing it; many times she took the initiative to start the conversations, and the mission of taking out your thoughts would almost always fall on her shoulders, no matter how many times she assured you that you were free to speak whenever you needed to.

One day, when this situation happened, she looked into your eyes and gave you an advise for which you would thank her later, when you’d be a married woman facing the challenges typical of your new condition:

- I am always encouraging you to not keep everything to yourself when you have the chance to talk, but maybe I’ve failed in explaining why I insist so much in this, y/n-san.

You blinked in surprise and curiosity.

- In this case, let me ask you your reasons for doing this, Mito-san.

- This can be good for you in any circumstance of your life, of course, but the main reason is that this is the most efficient way to communicate with Tobirama.

You clenched your hands to avoid the trembling that was about to reach them after you heard his name. It’s been a while since it was mentioned between you: you’d usually hear it when Hashirama came home and mentioned something concerning his work or a message sent by his brother. However, you always felt it differently whenever it was said by Mito.

You asked little about him since that conversation you had when you first met the Uzumaki woman. You didn’t like to think you were avoiding the topic, though your attitude would say that this was exactly what you were doing; the case was that you didn’t have so much to ask about him after everything she told you that day, and knowing that he was the brain behind the measures of the new alliance between your clans already said too much about the person he was: any other minor information you’d get would sound superfluous compared to that. Mito noticed your reluctance in this, and despite never asking about your reasons for it, she chose to respect it.

To speak the truth, you would only talk about Tobirama when you got in touch with something – a place, a circumstance, an idea – that, according to Mito, reminded of him in some way. There was a time when you were taking a walk at the shores of a river around the village and she commented that you were walking at one of his favorite places to fish and spend time alone after stressful days.

- If he suddenly disappears, it is almost certain that you will find him here – she smiled – But that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to come here unannounced when he’s trying to get some rest. He’s too attached to his privacy.

You looked around and couldn’t judge him for this feeling: that was a beautiful, calm place; you wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted if you were there seeking for relief from the burdens of the day.

Episodes like this happened with some frequency, and you took the opportunities to enrich the image you were creating of him. Everything you discovered was interesting in their own way, though you weren’t still able to decide if your final opinion was good or not. Maybe it was something between the two – shinobi were always in the gray zone of the human moral compass. And when you remembered that you, as a kunoichi, were included in this account, you refrained yourself from pointing your finger at him.

However, there was a parameter that remained unconsidered to you among all the others, perhaps because of your lack of attention or the great amount of urgent preoccupations you already had, and about which you’d only come to think when you were directly led to it – Tobirama’s physical appearance.

After your experience with Hokage, you were aware that sometimes informations could be deceiving depending on their source and the person who received them. With all you’ve heard about him and considering what you thought of the arrangements led by him, it was possible that your betrothed’s looks were just like his personality: not the most pleasing one, and even scary at some point. But when you added the fact that he had a brother like Hashirama, well, maybe he was nothing like this. At some moment, you started to imagine that he could resemble his brother in some traits, or he was just like the men you saw working in the office during the meeting: all of them had a certain level of resemblance, something that made it possible for a stranger to identify them as members of the same clan, even if they were not blood relatives.

Whatever the truth, all you had was a just a vague idea, a second hand thought that you weren’t willing to turn into a concrete concept or to confirm with Mito: it was more interesting just to hear her talk about his actions and attitudes.

You would only change your mind when, thanks to an unexpected incident, you ended up finding a portrait of him.

You were still getting used to the structure of the Hokage’s house: though your own residence at your clan’s compound was large, formed by many rooms, the corridors were few, not enough to form the same intricate labyrinth of the building you were now. Still, you wouldn’t avoid walking through them without company in order to train your sense of direction, and thanks to the orientations you received from Mito regarding the rooms you had permission to enter, you weren’t afraid of invading the wrong place. But you would still get confused if you entered the wrong corridor.

This is what happened that time, so that instead of reaching the living room you got into a narrow hall with a collection of photographs on the walls of both sides.

You recognized some of the landscapes in them from the path you and your group took when you arrived at Konoha’s territory: hills, rivers and the forest’s entry; some of the residences and farms were there too.

You also identified some of the people: there was a rectangular portrait of Hashirama Senju in what you understood to be his official clothing as the village’s governor; Mito Uzumaki appeared in another picture right beside it, surrounded by a group of men and women with their hair as red as hers and dressed in the same style, leading you to the conclusion that they were part of her family or were close friends; there were also pictures with some of the people you saw in the office beside those two.

The majority of the photos were of people you didn’t know but were certainly close to the ones you knew. There was a photograph of a middle aged man wearing a reddish armor; wrapped on his forehead there was a white stripe with the crest of the Senju. The man had his skin as tanned as Hashirama’s, and his hair was straight and dark just like his, though it wasn’t that long. Looking closer, you noticed the two shared similar face traits despite the lack of gentleness and freshness of the older man if compared to the younger one. There was no identification in the picture, but you thought that this man could be Hashirama’s father. If this was the case, they must haven’t had nothing in common besides the appearance.

Near this photograph, there were other, larger, with a group of children surrounding a woman, all of them wearing the Senju traditional clothing. One of the children, a boy with a bowl haircut, shared some resemblance with the man of the previous image: you looked at him for a moment and recognized Hashirama. The other children, all boys, and the woman were too different from him and between themselves, but there was something in them that told you they were relatives, so that if that was the Hokage’s mother, those boys should be his brothers. With this, your natural reaction was to wonder which of them could be Tobirama.

The first kid, close to Hashirama, had a scar on his cheek and brown hair; he was the one with the widest smile. The second, sitting right after him with a sweet look and some shyness in his manners, had white skin and a hair parted in two contrasting shades: white on the right side and dark brown on the left. The third boy, standing up beside the woman and separated from the others, was the one who most resembled her; he was staring at the camera with a serious, firm look. He had the same light skin tone of the second child, and his shaggy hair was of a shade similar to the lighter side of that boy’s hair as well; but the thing that caught your attention in this one was that pair of red eyes, just like the woman’s, with which he looked into the lens, to the photographer or to something beyond them. It wasn’t the look one would expect from a child.

Considering what Mito told you during the tea and what you thought of the arrangements, you were thinking that this kid had the highest probability of being…

- Oh.

Your voice escaped when you took a step ahead to observe the next photograph and found in it a figure entirely different from the ones you’ve saw until that moment.

The portrait was the same size as the one of the Hokage and it showed a young man in a blue armor, with his arms crossed, looking at the lens with the same perspicacity you sensed in the boy’s look. His armor was different from the one of the middle aged Senju who you supposed to be his father: around his shoulders there was a huge, white fur attached to his forearm protectors, all of them together creating the impression that his torso was larger than it really was; under the armor, he was wearing a black shirt that covered his neck and arms until his fists; he wasn’t wearing gloves. On his face, he had a gray happuri with the Leaf crest carved on its forehead.

The man had white, voluminous hair that would rebel against the steadiness of his general aspect, as a minor inconvenience that remained out of his control and to which he was already used; looking closer, you realized it wasn’t of a pure white, but of a slight shade of gray. His skin, only visible through his uncovered hands and face, was light, even pale if you compared him to other people who spent as much time under the sunlight as him certainly did as a warrior; was it a peculiarity of him or just the environment where the photo was taken? You had no way to tell. On his face, too, the light tone served as a white canvas for what you thought to be facial painting or tattoos: three red marks spreading over his chin and under his eyes as slits opened by a kunai; around his eyes, black, thin lines that would contour their natural form, already sharp, giving them the sensitivity of a hunter’s eyes.

Those eyes, you realized with astonishment, were as red as the eyes of the boy from the other photograph.

You went back to the children’s picture to observe his face with more attention, and didn’t need much time to notice the similarities between them. The mannerisms, the traits, the seriousness – they were the same person.

It was when you started to look for portraits of the other children and was unable to find anything except the one of Hashirama in the Hokage’s clothing. You already knew that the Senju head had lost his siblings to war, but just a few days ago you found out there was only one brother left for him. You looked at the blue armored man again…

- Finally I found you.

You startled, almost letting a scream out. When you turned, you found Mito smiling at you.

- If I was an enemy, you would be in trouble.

A glimmer in her eyes insinuated that she has been observing you for a while, waiting for you to notice her presence. You never cursed your lack of sensory abilities as much as in that moment.

- I… I am sorry for this – you apologized, looking at the photographs – I took the wrong corridor and ended up here. I wasn’t expecting to find these pictures, so…

You glanced behind, as if sensing the man’s image right over your shoulder. This didn’t escape Mito’s attention: she walked closer to its spot on the wall, looking in the eyes of the warrior. This gesture eliminated any remaining doubts about the identity of the man.

- You already guessed, didn’t you? – with her unaltered voice, she questioned you without taking her eyes off the picture.

You turned to the portrait too, facing his gaze again.

- This photograph was taken four or five years ago, but he remains the same – Mito continued – Not even a line of expression appeared on his forehead or in the corner of his eyes since then – and with a smile – The same goes to Hashi. Just another talent of the Senju.

You observed the portrait in silence, not interrupted by the princess: having familiarity with arranged marriages as much as you, she was aware of the time one needed to become accustomed with the looks of their betrothed under these circumstances.

You only spoke when you felt prepared to, and when you did, it was to point out that he looked even younger than you expected after all the things you discovered about him.

Mito laughed.

- I don’t blame you. If I didn’t know him or his brother and saw them together for the first time, I would certainly think that Hashirama is the younger one.

You laughed too; when your smile faded, you turned back to your contemplative expression. Now, the white collar and the aspect of his eyes just gave you an idea.

- I hope you don’t find it strange what I’m going to say, Mito-san, but he reminds me of a wolf.

Mito crossed her arms, looking at the picture; now that you were becoming used to her manners, you no longer found it weird to see her doing gestures like that while dressing in noble clothing.

- Nobody never said that about him before, at least not to me – she commented – But it makes sense, now that I’m looking at him.

You stood in silence for some time. You spent it training your eyes to get used to Tobirama’s sight, to the weight of his gaze, for you sensed that once you were together, you wouldn’t have such time. The funny thing was that, while you stood there, you didn’t notice how much time passed, only waking up when you heard Mito’s giggle beside you.

You turned, only to find her still contemplating her brother-in-law’s image.

- In his own way, he’s a beautiful man, isn’t he?

You sensed heat coming up your cheeks, mas didn’t refuse to reply.

- Yes. I dare say yes.

#tobirama #tobirama x reader #tobirama senju #tobirama fanfic #naruto fanfiction

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mihidecet · 4 years ago

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SBi d&d AU: Tubbo

Aka: Tibi’s MCYT WritingTober, day 20!

From @the-only-gamer-gost ‘s list of prompts, another entry for “Fanmade AU” ahahah And as requested by a super cool anon: “ i'd love to see more of tommy's backstory in the d&d au! especially if we can meet tubbo?” :D

Ask and you shall receive! You can also find Tubbo’s reference sheet made by the wonderful @whatimevendoinhere here! Also, @rigatonipastaroni made a super sweet comic about the reunion, waaay before the chapter was even posted!!

There is nothing quite as sad as a bard with a broken guitar.

It happens during a fight, a sadly-not-that-unusual spar with a rogue elemental that had decided to mess with a village just because they had been bored.

Absolutely unrelatable. Tommy's patron had commented, the absolute hypocrite.

Still, the overall business had been quite straightforward: get to the outskirts, find the bad guy, kick their ass, profit.

Nothing they hadn't done before.

And like everything they expected to go smoothly, things went wrong.

Tommy would say that thankfully nobody had gotten hurt, and everyone was perfectly fine, and they'd gotten a particularly big reward for something that standard.

Wilbur would say, instead, that his guitar had been irreparably damaged, its neck snapped in half and body ripped apart, shards laying on the ground like blood, a gruesome heart-wrenching sight that would haunt him until the end of times.

Tommy's patron had warned him that his second-degree cousin was a bit dramatic, but maybe it was just standard bard behaviour.

To be fair, the guitar was mostly gone.

Wilbur had picked up as many pieces as he could and stuffed them in its case, but no amount of mending cantrips had been able to fix it. Phil had tried, but he didn't know how guitars worked and it was hard to discriminate where each shard needed to be placed in order to mold it all back together, like a freakishly hard jigsaw puzzle.

And Wilbur had been extremely proud of his guitar, as apparently it had been a gift and a memento of his grandiose adventures. Sentimental values and such.

Not that Tommy could say anything about it, not after the friendship bracelet incident.

For about a week, every time they stopped by a town, they looked for a carpenter first, a musical expert second, and an arcane expert third.

They never managed to fix it. The thing was, it happened to be a weirdly specific and skill-needing task, so nobody they found was either confident enough or prepared enough to do it.

So they moved on, and the bard's lament continued.

It gets to the point where one night, the innkeeper approaches their table during one of Will's performances - the tiefling had insisted in keeping the tradition of offering his musical entertainment in each tavern they resided in, now with just his voice and sometimes his flute, but being unable to have music as he sang and vice versa was truly different.

That night, Wilbur is singing a ballad so sad and tear-jerking that the innkeeper actually approaches them and asks if everything is alright.

"Oh- oh, yes, my apologies, everything is alright. -" Phil instantly responds, looking quite awkward "- It's just that his guitar broke, and we haven't been able to find anyone to fix it. It was of great personal importance."

The innkeeper nods understandingly, an expression of deep empathetic sadness on their face, before their eyes light up.

"You know, I might just have what you need. You guys are lucky, the Fixer Upper just arrived a week ago! If he doesn't know how to fix it, nobody will."

After obtaining a brief explanation of where to find this infamous "Fixer Upper", who apparently works for free and will probably ask for food, shelter or protection as he moves to the next town over, the innkeeper leaves them be, assuring them that it'll be the solution to all their problems.

Phil finds himself, despite the overall skepticism, feeling a bit of hope. If nothing, at least he might be able to convince Wilbur to buy a new one - make new memories.

Even Wilbur is less enthusiastic than usual when they tell him, but after all they've been redirected to plenty of miracle workers that turned out to be unable to do anything.

The only thing that feels a bit off, is how Tommy's patron keeps giggling in his head - the way he does when he knows something Tommy doesn't. It's a bother, but Tommy's too tired to try and investigate.

The "Fixer Upper" is staying in a farm just outside the village, apparently sleeping in the barn.

He comes to the village every couple of months, apparently used to circling back around the same couple of dozen of places, constantly travelling from one to the other and helping out whoever needs something fixed. The innkeeper that recommended him apparently had him fix their son's prosthetic leg, which has been working better than ever.

The fact that he never asks for compensation is what keeps them all on the defensive: nobody does anything for anyone without coin on the line, so Wilbur is already somewhat expecting to find yet another old relative making deals with young children.

Yes, he is still a bit bothered by the fact that his second degree cousin spends half of his time inside Tommy's head.

No, he's not going to bring it up.

Approaching the barn, an increasing cacophony of sounds greets them, and Wilbur starts looking less and less convinced and more and more like he wants to leave - not to blame him, the noises are definitely not reassuring.

They enter the barn, where one side is perfectly fine and the other has a bunch of mechanical and metallic parts strewn on the ground.

At this point, Techno has a hand on Wilbur's arm, either to instill some confidence in him or to keep him from running away with the shattered guitar.

Then all of them stop, frozen in their tracks, as something completely out of the ordinary appears from behind a wooden wall - that is quite an extraordinary feat, considering the peculiar array of people they are.

There's a huge block of metal, vaguely rectangular shaped and painted black and yellow, floating towards them. It has what looks like the spinny part of a windmill rotating at embarrassingly high speed over it, and the noise it makes vaguely resembles that of a low hum, or maybe a buzz.

Two large semi-transparent circles - its … eyes? - emit a soft light that shines against Phil's palm as it bumps against him, the elf cooing with an adoring expression.

"Hello dear, you're not one of nature's children but you are alive, aren't you?"

Even Tommy, who has no idea how magic or nature works - he made a pact with a demon for a reason, alright? - can see that it's an impressive display of craftsmanship.

Wilbur is looking quite confused on Phil's right, but he's no longer needing Techno to keep him from bailing on the whole thing. And to be honest, if somebody's able to make … this, maybe they'll be able to fix his guitar.

"AH- Visitors! Sorry, I hadn't heard you coming in-" a short figure stumbles in sight from behind a pile of apparently garbage.

The short man, who appears to be human, had wild brown hair, somewhat darker in certain spots where black oil seems to have gotten stuck. There seems to be oil and soot all over his clothes and hands, where bandages cover his fingers.

On his head reside a pair of goggles - multiple lenses of different thicknesses and colours appended to its sides - and he's holding a wrench as if they'd interrupted his work, which would explain the worrying noises.

The mechanic has a bright welcoming smile on his face when he appears, which immediately falters the moment he sees the infamous mercenary group, expression turning to fear. Which is understandable, given their fame of being quick, efficient and rather costly, unless they're working for the good of all.

Then it turns to shock, when Tommy takes a tentative step forward from behind Phil's back. Which is less understandable.

"Tubbo?" Tommy's voice calls, almost breathless. The boy takes off his goggles and blinks. The wrench he was holding clutters to the ground.

"Holy shit, Toms."

The warlock lets out a strangled yelp, then blinks out of existence in a puff of bright red smoke, reappearing right in front of the other boy and picking him up in a bone crushing hug as he laughs - more joyous than Wilbur's ever heard him - and the two of them fall to the ground.

When Tubbo is still a teenager, he loses his best friend to the prejudice and scorn of their hometown.

All they need to see are the buddying horns on his forehead, the flames licking at his fingertips, the reddening skin around his eyes, and they banish him.

They come for him, in the middle of the night, and find nobody but his parents in his home, because Tommy has always been smarter than he let on.

Half a day earlier, Tommy had said his goodbyes to the last few people that deserved to know where he was going; never once asking for his parents' forgiveness for something he always knew he was going to do - Tubbo had never seen his best friend more sure of anything, even at the worst moments, when the ritual was about to begin, or the few first weeks when he had to use all his coins to buy salve for burns.

And so Tubbo was left alone, left behind.

It lasted for one day.

Tubbo had never been particularly gifted in the craft his parents had tried to teach him - glass blowing was definitely not his forte, his hands too strong, his grip too tight - and he'd never shown any latent arcane power. Books on the arcane were long, boring and complex, the glyphs all looking the same and mixing with each other on the page.

But that didn't mean anything to him: he was going to do great things, with or without magic, and he was going to find his best friend again.

Fate wanted to keep them apart? Tubbo was going to stare Fate in the face and laugh.

If the glyphs and arcane chants of the mages weren't going to cooperate, he was going to force his hands into the fabric of the arcane plane and pull magic out by himself.

And again, why stick to prayers and dealings with other entities when he could just make it himself?

To be fair, it does take him a lot more time than the couple of weeks of research and half-and-hour-deal that was Tommy's experience. But Tubbo's always been a quick learner.

The day he finishes his big project, he leaves his home, ready for adventure.

He has a map of the coast, enough coin to pay for emergencies and a backpack full of the tools he needs to offer his assistance to whomever will need it.

His marked path will bring him around the same towns. Tommy is bound to pass by at least one of them during his travels.

Tubbo's going to be alright.

Tommy's eyes are absolutely not, under no circumstances, shining as he tries to squeeze the life out of his best friend.

Tubbo is just laughing, which is quite rude in Tommy's personal opinion, he should be struggling to breathe due to his impressive strength.

"Look at you! You made it!" The mechanic cheers, squeezing tighter - which, ouch, when did he become strong, it must have been all the working with metal, this is the worst possible outcome. Tommy lets him go for a moment, leaning back to splutter and wave wildly at the mechanical bee still intent on bumping its head against Phil's hand. By the Nine Hells, Tubbo made a living bee with the attitude of a puppy out of metal.

"I made it?! You made bees!" Tommy protests, feeling a swell of pride for how far his best friend has come. On a completely unrelated note, there must be light shining insistently in his eyes.

"I know! Aren't they cute! Ah! Let me introduce you to them!" Tubbo exclaims, hurrying to stand up - nearly elbowing Tommy in the gut - and grabbing his hand so that he can drag Tommy towards the bee from earlier.

Then he stops in his tracks - which makes Tommy slam into his back and get oil stains on his favourite shirt - as he realises there are three other people in the room, all staring at them with varying degrees of amusement.

"So, what just happened?" Wilbur asks, looking quite shell shocked.

#mcyt writingtober #sbi dnd au #now sbi&co #dnd au #technoblade #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #philza #ph1lza #tubbo

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north-peach · 4 years ago

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Whoops, lemme fic it (SW)

So I’ve been tossing this idea over in my head, daydreaming, wordbuilding and talking to myself and I’ve had enough.

It’s time to come out.

So, I tried the SI fic once and I didn’t like how it turned out and it was a good few years before wrote one again. There’s a lot of good ones, done by good authors. Silver Queen, Shadowblayze, Vixen Tail, and Mullk6 to name a handful.

But I wanted a character who knew the depth and breath of canon and could fix it. In Star Wars. With Mandalorians.

Which is usually a self insert, but....wasn’t feeling it.

Then it shifted to time travel. Main characters generally revolved around Bly, Aalya Secura, Quinlan Vos or Anakin, Rex and Alpha-17. Then it was a mix, sometimes Padme or Ahsoka, Jon Antilles or Fay, thanks to @blackkatmagic.

Then it was Boba Fett, Jango, Arla or Jaster even Tarre Vizsla. Korkie Kryze, a mix of his father’s ‘obi’ sound with ‘kote’ as in ‘glory’.

It’s been almost a month since this thought sprang from my head, exactly the opposite of Athena, but here it is.

My first Star Wars time travel fic.

Bly doesn’t wake, not for a long time.

Even if he is aware of the pressure against bare skin and the alternating temperatures that cause him to shiver or sweat to beat across his face.

He doesn’t wake to the snack, crack of the whip against his back, nor to the claws that rake across his face, but as the days pass, it is pain that draws him back from the dark.

The cold metal of manacles around his wrists, the dull throbbing of his knees against cool, packed dirt. He doesn’t move even as chains rattle and as a weak light flickers in tiny bursts even though he can’t quite open his eyes.

Bly takes a deliberate breath, deliberately breathing in long and slow.

Ribs, is his first immediate thought as pain now screams in his head, followed instantly by, back.

His arms are numb, lips cracked, throat and mouth dryer then Tatooine and it feels like someone’s poured sand in his eyes and then glued them shut.

We release our emotions, our pain into the Force. We breath it back in and then stand and carry on. Lives depend on us. The trick to keeping the pain away is it set it aside and ignore it. But you need to remember, Bly, pain is our body telling us we’re injured. You cannot ignore it forever.

It’s her voice in his head, the memories always there as soon as he tugs them and he barely muffles a noise in the shifting of his chains because the last thing Bly remembers is a fractured and shattered thing that provides nothing to help him determine his situation.

Beyond the obvious of captured, separated and tortured.

A breath, another and his fingers twitch as he tries to get his hands to response to his commands.

He moves his eyes, scrunching his face, and ignoring the sting of scabbed wounds and manages to crack his eyes open. He’s in a room, surrounded by stone and bars. An electrical lamp flicker erratically in a halo of barely there light in the distance.

No one is there. He is alone.

He listens, strains his hearing, yet nothing so much as stirs.

Bly goes back to restoring feeling in his body.

A minute, two and then an unpleasant rush of pins and needles as sensation returns to his arms. Bly grits his teeth and clenches his thighs, his legs then curls his toes under his feet, allowing his body weight to force him to rock back, using the momentum to stagger to his feet.

Lights prickle against what little vision he has and the chains jerk and rattle as he uses them as leverage to remain on his feet.

Pain bursts across his back, down his legs, his knees, every motion and contraction of his body, his muscles sends signals of agony to his brain.

“Osik.”

The word is almost soundless, hissed between clenched teeth and formed from harsh, gasping breaths.

Bly cannot help how his body curls over it self, even if it sends the blood rushing to his head and makes him even more dizzy. He braces his feet and refuses to pass out.

He doesn’t know where Aalya is.

He doesn’t know who he was with, what he was doing, if any of his vod’e are here, Bly doesn’t know anything.

He remembers blue and gold, the blue of Aayla’s skin, the gold of her eyes, maybe the blue of the 501st? Was General Skywalker on mission with them?

Was... was Vos there?

There’s nothing but a blank space in his head, so Bly puts that away for now and takes stock of what he has on hand.

Which is, in short, a big fat nothing.

He’s in loose pants, thin material, covered in dirt and blood, no shirt, no armor, no weapons- even the small tools disguised as a ring, bracelet- he’s got nothing.

It looks like he’s chained up underground in a cave somewhere. That’s the only explanation for both his surrounding and the relatively cool atmosphere. There’s a door that’s barely even a door, just a large rectangular slab of rusty bars almost propped against the entry way.

He could probably kick it open, depending on how heavy it was, but that was once he found a way out of his chains-

Bly pauses.

Looks up at the roof of his cell where the chains are anchored.

Well, he thinks, an edge of amusement to himself, If I can take my chains with me, I’ll have a weapon.

__________

Honestly, later, if someone asked how long he was stuck there in the murky darkness working and working to pull the anchor points of his chains from the ceiling, Bly wouldn’t be able to say.

He stops and rests when the injuries on his back crack open, spilling blood down his skin and dripping onto the floor, when his ribs scream at him and his breath wheezes as he desperately tries to breath.

He doesn’t ever stop for long though.

Eventually he gets free, the rest anchor breaking free of crumbling stone and Bly sinks to his knees, wincing as pain flares up again.

A moment of rest, to wait until his breathing slows down enough he can regulate it for sleath.

Then he carefully wraps his new weapon around his shoulders, winding them down his arms. Slowly, he makes his way to the door that is currently the only obstacle in his way to relative freedom.

It was heavy as it looked, but several solid shoves and one frustrated kick and the door was free enough for him to squeeze past it.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about directions at the moment because his cell was located at the end of a hallway and the only way out was forward.

So forward Bly went, creeping along the walls on bare feet, moving steadily down to where a single light was valiantly, but ultimately failing at lighting up the area.

Bly took a breath and walked past, heading deeper into the caves with no way of knowing which way was out, if anyone was waiting for him on the other end or even if he could find a way out.

Bly didn’t care because right now, there was an entirely unacceptable amount of space between him and his General and it needed to be rectified, right karking now.

__________________

Times passes and Bly has to take a breather, has to sit to wait for his legs, his hands, everything to stop shaking even as chills crawled up his skin.

He keeps going, keeps following the eternal hallway he seems to be trapped in. Occasionally he’ll come across other cells, but like all of the ones he checked previously, there isn’t anyone in them. Just chains, manacles, shakes, crude stone tables or chairs.

The weak lights are not quite evenly spaced out, but every cluster of cells has one in the middle of the block. He’s sure he’s passed about six blocks by now, and still no sign of this hallway ending or branching off.

A part of him wonders if he’s hallucinating, but the continuous pain for his body begs to tell him differently.

He trails bloodstained hands against the wall and so far he hasn’t randomly circled back around so he must be making progress.

You were modified to see better in the dark? Compared to humans, or near-humans, Twi’leks vision is considered superior, but without the Force, I’m thinking you’d win at Hide-and-Seek-in-the-Dark.

My favorite color? Tell me, if I said blue wh- no, I’m kidding! It’s gold Bly. W- No, not like my eyes! Like Master’s-

Bly can hear Aalya sometimes.

The way she laughed, said his name or how she would stare at him. When her mouth softened and she smiled so easily.

Bly keeps going.

______

Hours? Maybe days later, Bly hears voices that are, for once, not his or in his head. A soft murmur, nothing clear enough to make out words or the like, but Bly grits his teeth and quickly lunges into the nearest cell and flattens himself in a natural curve of the walls.

He’s lost weight during how ever long he’s been here, so he folds himself easily into the shadows and evens his breath down, ignoring the ever familiar spasm of pain his ribs makes with every movement.

A beat, two, three, longer and still the voices only murmur.

Bly slows moves from his hiding place only to step right back into it as the voices abruptly rise in volume along with a feminine scream of pain that rings off the walls and is swallowed by the darkness that leads down to his cell.

Gently, Bly uncoils his chains.

______

When enough time passes he can make out the heavy footfalls of two armored being’s footsteps and the unmistakable sound of dragging feet, Bly closes his eyes and concentrates on his hearing.

“-Ne shab'rud'niÖ, aruetii-”

“-aruetyc dini'la-”

The sharp sound of metal against flesh, followed by a harsh vocalizer.

“Ne'johaa!“

A faint moan, before one of the men laughs.

See, the thing is Bly isn’t considered Mandalorian.

In fact, Manda’yaim considers Bly and his brothers to be abominations. Soulless things created in a lab. Not to mention General Kenobi’s Duchess is a pacifist in the very worst way.

A Mandalorian with a Mandalorian’s stubbornness, determination and pride to be anything but a Mandalorian.

Good intention’s Satine Krytze may have had at the beginning but erasing everything that makes Mandalor Mandalor was not the way to go about bringing peace to her people.

Especially since the Duchess had the final say on if the Clones of Mand’alor Jango Fett should be considered citizens of Manda’yaim. Or rather, she just enforces Prime’s opinion that clones were not real people and this couldn’t be a people or a part of a people.

Jango Fett may have been some high ranked Mandalorian in certain circles, but the only reason why the clones even knew the languages is because of the instructors who adopted the older batches and how those clones would teach one or two- like Kote who became Cody, who taught Ret who was now Rex.

The language and the customs spread from the clones who were actually wanted down to even the shiniest of shinies. Of course, there were parts of their culture that they developed all on their own.

Being modelled after a Mandalorian, of course, meant that they shared the same traditions and quirks that they did as a consequence of being so closely related.

The colors, symbols and naming to mention a few.

Colors all had meaning, as did their placement, the same with symbols and the bucket everyone wore. Working with the jetiise as closely as they did, their culture took bits and pieces that resonated with the Vod’e and as it did with everything, spread to all the battalions.

But when he hears a threatening form of behave, traitor followed by two words that mean ‘traitorous’ and ‘insane’ preceding what is clearly an armored fist making contact with someone’s bare skin, Bly’s already pretty sure who’s side he’s on.

That’s even before he sees the dusty blue and the gray of beskar in the dim lighting worn by two people dragging what looks like a teenaged girl between them.

Kyr’tsad.

Kriffing, karking-!

Bly untucks himself from the shadows and creeps up behind the two, careful to keep to the walls until he lunges forward, throwing one of his chains between target two’s legs even as he losses a coil of chains around target one’s neck and pulls back.

His ribs scream, his arms shake, but he drops his weight and wrenches the shabuir back, his legs kicking out the catch the small space between armor plates on Death Watch’s lower back to toss him over and behind.

Target the second is already dropping the girl, pale blonde hair visible in the gloom and reaching for a weapon at their belt.

Bly doesn’t give them the chance, jerking his chain back instantly compromising target two’s balance.

Barely ten seconds in this fight and both of them are on the ground. Target one is still choking with the chain around their neck and Bly keeps yanking it back to ensure they stays that way.

The other, Bly goes in for close combat, using his chain as bet he can with his shoulders and ribs kriffed up, but he manages to get enough wrapped around their legs and a single arm that he’s able to jab his fingers into the hollow of their throat and jerk their helmet off.

Eyes, nose, mouth, all places Bly can do some damage, but his strength is flagging so he slams his palm into their nose, once, twice, thrice until the shabuir goes limp.

One down, one to go.

Bly cracks the chain and sends the last stumbling even as he palms a vibroblade and uses the weight at the end of the chain the move himself close enough to-

Bly swings up, twists and lets dead weight fall where it may.

A moment, two, three before he breaths again, carefully, adrenaline pumping through his body. He pulls the chain taunt and swings the blade down. Metal chips, but doesn’t break do he does it again, again, again until it gives and all he’s left with is a manacle around his wrist.

The process repeats until he’s free from the weight of chains and he’s free. An arm carefully wraps around his chest as he struggles to breath, but he forces himself back up, to rifle through the utility belts and pockets to see what other weapons or rations he can find.

The first pocket he searches has a whole flask of water and he immediately takes small slow sips,

He coughs, the taste of iron lingering in the back of his throat, but already his day is starting to pick up. Setting the water back down, he turns his attention to the small body crumpled on the ground.

Gingerly he makes his way over, easing himself to the floor and reaching out a hand-

-before pausing.

All three of them spoke Mando’a. Even in the dim lighting, Bly can see all the bruises up an down the girl’s arms. So he opens his mouth to speak, only to cough, his entire body lighting up in pain as his ears start to ring.

It takes a minute, but when he stops, he carefully wets his lips and tries again.

“Hey, ade.”

Silence.

In the hallway, there’s only the sound of his strained breathing and her soft breaths.

Bly doesn’t know if she’s faking or not. Either way, he can’t afford to take any more injuries.

He coughs again, hunching over and unable to avoid the low groan of pain that crawls up his throat.

He does his best to breath, there in the dark with the girl either genuinely unconscious or faking it. Either way, the pain is distracting him and he’s going to need to sit there for a moment before he attempts any other movements.

Regardless he tries again and ignores how his voice cracks.

“I’mma...I’mma need you to wake up here, ad’ika.”

His back burns where he’s leaning against the wall and he can feel the blood begin to drip again. He doesn’t know how much he’s lost, how many times he’s reopened his wounds, but considering how lightheaded he is, considering how everything is starting to close in on him, it’s probably more then recommended.

The world blurs around the edges and his awareness drifts away for a bit. Somewhere, far away, it sounds like Aayla singing, her voice echoing with the 327th Star Corps.

_____

“Gar shuk meh kyrayc.“

Bly blinks back to awareness.

The girl knees in front of him, short blonde hair framing a pale face. Barely out of childhood, even if she looks like she’s in need of a few good meals.

Then the words register.

He can’t help the amusement that wells up and huffs a laugh he immediately regrets.

“Here,” the girl says as she shoves a fist in front of him.

He flinches back, before stilling himself.

The girl doesn’t react, just holds up the water flask in her other hand.

“It’s for the pain. The tall one carried them.”

A breath, then he reaches out, ignoring the shaking on his hands, to let the girl drop two small pills into his hands while shoving the water at him. More careful sips as the pills go mostly dry down his throat.

“Vor entye,” Bly rasps.

“Ba'gedet'ye,” she says, eyes running over his face, his chest, a wary twist to her mouth. “You’re no use dead.”

Unnecessary for her to repeat that, Bly thinks. Scared, but brave. His lips twitch as he runs a searching gaze over the girl.

Torn clothes, almost identical to his own, only with a shirt and less blood and dirt. Thin wrists, lank and greasy hair, coupled with even more bruises he can see blooming everywhere on uncovered skin.

Including her face, one cheeks which sports several colors that frame lines of dried blood and a split lip.

Gently, carefully, Bly lifts a hand and hovers in front of the injury. Not touching, close, but out of reach.

“And you?”

She blinks, startled. The barest hints of confusion crinkle her brow.

Bly smiles, letting his hand drop.

“Are you hurt, ad’ika?”

A touch of fire burns in her eyes.

“You’re bleeding.”

It’s almost an accusation, the words falling harshly from her mouth.

He acknowledges the point.

“Lek.” He continues, more solemnly, shifting his weight forward to meet her eyes, slowly enough that she doesn’t react beyond tensing her muscles. “But Kry’tsad is not known for being kind.”

Slowly, the girl shakes her head.

A moment of silence passes and the girl watches him. Bly gets his breathing back under control and deeply appreciates as the pounding in his head fades along with the burning in his shoulders and arms.

“By any chance, have you seen a blue Twi’lek in any of the cells you passed?”

“We are the only prisoners in this place. There are none who come here, save for the tall one and the cold one, both of which you killed.”

Bly studies the girl, the way the strain in her features eases as she talks about target one and two’s death, the audible note of gratitude.

“Tion gar gai?“

“What is yours?”

The response to his simple question is instantaneous, her tone now biting and wary. He doesn’t react, only lets amusement tug at his mouth.

“Bly-”

(“There is a name that Mandalorians use when they are disowned or cast out from their clan or family. Some chose this name as a way to seperate themselves on their own terms. Others have their names taken and are left with this.”

“Considering that Jango Fett doesn’t considering us real people let alone his ade, do we call ourselves this?”

A humorless laugh.

“You always were the one who never hesitated to go for the throat, Kote.”)

“-just Bly.”

“Arla.”

Not a familar name, even if there’s something about her face that reminds him of- reminds him.

“Let’s get out of here, okay, Arla?”

The barest hints of a smile as Bly hauls himself to his feets and then turns once he can speak without screaming or making any other noises of pain, and holds out his hand.

Arla hesitates to reach out, before glancing over to the bodies.

“Can I have the blaster if you have the vibroblade?”

“How about we see if there’s another vibroblade you can carry and I’ll take the blaster?”

______

A more thorough search of the bodies produces another vibroblade, a small holdout blaster (which Arla claims), a large blaster (which Bly claims) rations, two lights that work and a new set of clothes and armor for Bly.

He makes Arla turn around while he strips the corpse of the tall one, a.k.a. target one and pulls on the armor under suit, which helpfully compresses his ribs and then begins to strap on armor.

“Were you conscious enough to see how many people there are in these caves?”

Arla’s voice is soft, but it carries well as she immediately goes into an information download.

“We came on a ship, just the three of us. There is no one else here. It’s supposed to be so secure that it doesn’t matter if you manage to escape, there’s no where else to go. Plus someone always comes to check every couple of days. Which is when, if they want you to live, you get food and water. This is where you get thrown when they want you to rot away and die in the dark.”

Bly hums, carefully clicking vambraces into place, pleasure briefly rising up in his chest at the decent fit.

“And the war?”

Arla pauses.

“I haven’t- They kept most of the information away from me, but sometimes I managed to hear things. Like how Kry’tsad has a sky in Mand’alor Mereel’s camp and how they’re planning how to lead them into a trap and kill them all in such a way to send a message.”

Bly blinks, as he finishes up with tugging the last piece in place.

“Mand’alor Mereel?”

Arla makes an agreeing sound.

“Someone let slip they’re calling him Mand’alor the Reformer. Vizsla gets really angry when he hears that.”

Mand’alor Mereel.

Jastor Mereel?

On getting access to the holonet, one of the first things the Vod’e who were interested in Mandalorian history looked up was the state of leadership. Kote was certain that he wanted to see who decided that they weren’t citizens despite being from a Mandalorain.

Jaster Mereel was the father of Jango Fett, before he died on Korda 6 twenty something years ago!

Bly took a breath, before spitting out a curse in Twi’lek, follow up by a very vehement “Force osik!”

Arla didn’t say anything when Bly walked up behind her, only stared to stare, distaste clear in the disgust on her face.

“Needs must, ad’ika. I need to find someone and the easiest way off this haran place is on the Death Watch ship you came in one. Which”, Bly slid the helmet on, the HUB automatically pulling up and activating night vision. “Will be a thousand times easier which me pretending to be Kry’tsad.”

Again, he held out his hand.

“Ba'slanar.”

A smile, small, but undeniably there as clearly seen by the display screen in his buy’ce.

Arla took his hand.

_________

The climb out of haran was nothing to sneeze at, but they made it. Upon exiting, Bly couldn’t help the noise of appreciation he made at the sun setting into the distance. Or rising. Either or. It wouldn’t matter in a few minutes as they would be leaving the planet, deserted and rocky as it was, it offered no appeal in water or wild growing plants.

The ship was there, ramp still down and Bly gently tugged Arla along, right into the ship and take that, General Skywalker!

Plan A, accomplished with only a minor deivation.

Minus the either confused youngling or the apparently very real possibility of time travel.

Aayla was still missing and Bly still had no idea if anyone else was missing or if it was him that was missing and not everyone else. For all he knew, this was something that only affected him and Aayla was completely fine.

Surrounded by the 327th and the 501st, plus droids.

Bly quickly ran through each and every room in the ship, Arla right behind him, gripping her vibroblade, clearing each space before moving on to the next one.

Cargo, armory, kitchen, berths, cockpit and a decent sized corner with padded seats and tables.

Bly also ran a lifesigns sweep from the main computer before he was satisfied. It wasn’t a large ship, but it could comfortably accommodate three to four people so it would be perfect for them.

He holstered the blaster and quickly ran through flight check before initiating the start up sequence.

Arla quickly strapped herself into the co-pilots chair, unable to contain the trains of excitement painting itself all over face.

Ramp up, engines fired, all systems green, Bly slowly poured power into the system and the ship lifted off this karking planet, landing gear folding up and away.

Before he turned around to launch into the atmosphere, he quickly toggled the weapons system, loaded up a missile and fired it without hesitation into the mouth of his former prison.

The resulting explosion of stone, dirt and fire would go a long way to ease nightmares for the next weeks.

Once they cleared the atmosphere, Bly carefully used the HUD to change all teh passwords, security settings and just generally switched out who the ship’s computer’s answered to before tugging it off and gently running a hand through his tangled hair.

“Well, ad’ika. I’ve no place to be, but frankly I could use a shower. How about you?”

Arla look up and smiled, eyes wet.

“Shower and food first. Then we find our people.”

The knot of worry in his chest eased somewhat at the assurance that now he was able to begin his efforts to find out if Aalya made it along with him and if any others did.

“Her name is Aalya,” Bly says, longing heavy in his voice. “I don’t remember much, but if she’s out there, I’ll find her.”

Arla, stands, equal height with him before holding out her hand. She wait unti Bly takes it before speaking.

“Arla Fett. I’m looking for my brother Jango. He should be with Mand’alor Jaster Mereel and the Haat Mando’ade.”

_______________________

....so uh. When I sat down like............................five hours ago I did NOT mean to write chapter one of fic. I guess I did though so....eh. I’ll go polish it up and post it on ao3

#star wars #arla fett #jango fett #bly #aalya secura #bly x aayla #time travel #fic #ficclet #chapter one #fanfiction

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hypotheticalskinarios · 3 years ago

Text

I still can't believe that I'm even writing this, but here goes.

I worked with her...well...actually...I still DO. She was, and still is, a few years older than me I'm guessing...but I'm certainly not dumb enough to ask her age....because it obviously didn't matter then anymore than it does NOW.

So anyway, about six months or so ago, I began to notice signs that I recognized all too well. Extended eye contact with certain people, smiling for no reason, laughing at jokes that weren't really even that funny, and of course...the occasional new blouse that showed just a bit more cleavage than she ever had before.

So one day I asked her to lunch...because I wanted a female perspective on a problem that I was having at home. As I drove, I told her in confidence that I had become a physical afterthought in my own marriage...and I was contemplating doing the previously unthinkable. So again...I asked her, as a female, how far she'd be willing to go if nobody ever found out about it...you know...if she ever "hypothetically" found HERSELF in that same predicament.

Well it turns out her answer was one town over...that following Friday...at a cash motel just far ENOUGH off of the beaten path. So we both left work early, separately of course, and reconvened in a rented room before returning home to our respective spouses.

Once inside, I undressed immediately...down to nothing...both for her benefit AND my own. On one hand, I wanted to get if over with before I lost my nerve. And I also wanted her to see me pre arousal, as incredibly vulnerable as it felt, so that she could witness with her own two eyes the effect that she could still have on a man outside of her own marriage.

I had barely registered a chill from the ac unit in that small room before she began to undress as well. First came her blouse...and the sight of her exposed stomach ilicited and immediate reaction in ME that caused her to look down below my OWN stomach and smile approvingly.

The next thing to go was her bra...and I felt the thin skin down between my legs grow even more taught as she looked away, presumably not wanting to see any possible disappointment on my face as her breasts now hung just a little bit lower against her chest than she had previously advertised. So I told her that they were beautiful...just like the rest of her. And to make my point even further, I approached her and took her hand...at which point I dared her to find even the slightest soft spot along the entire length of my shaft...which she admittedly could not.

She practically ripped her pants off after feeling what awaited her, but then paused once she was down to only her panties...as if removing them meant that she would no longer be the wife that she had once vowed to be in front of God and family. So I told her that it WASN'T too late to still be that woman...that she hadn't REALLY done anything yet...and that we could just get dressed and exit that door as easily as we entered it.

But to my surprise, she told me that she needed this more than I maybe even I did. So to lighten the mood, I bet her five dollars that I knew exactly what kind of growth pattern lie BEHIND those panties...which obviously worked, because she immediately pulled them down to her ankles and held her open palm out with a smile on her face.

I grabbed my wallet, but instead of pulling a rectangular Lincoln from it, I produced a square Trojan, which she took as her cue to lie down on the bed.

Now we had set a couple of ground rules going in, which were missionary only...to keep things as straightforward as possible, and no foreplay...since anything oral related felt oddly inappropriate in the context of the situation.

So I joined her on the bed...kneeling between her spread legs. We then prepared OURSELVES by hand...her rubbing herself to make entry as smooth as possible, and me stroking myself to full hardness...before putting the condom on. And then, as if we were both propelled by some unseen hand pushing us...it finally happened.

She took my cock in her hand...and pulled me toward her...guiding me into her in one seamless motion. I leaned OVER her now...placing my weight against her...and slid the entire length of myself slowly into the warm wetness between her legs.

So here we were...a couple of co-workers fucking on a borrowed bed in a rented room...unbeknownst to anyone else in the world. It felt strange to me at first, since it had been years since I had used protection...but it felt like ENOUGH...to even be wanted by another person at all. It didn't feel as dangerous as I'd anticipated though. It felt RIGHT...if anything. I even remember thinking at the time that it probably would have just looked like routine marital intercourse to any casual observer, which I suppose that it WAS...if you considered the gold bands on both of our left hands.

Long story short, after who knows how long, she got what she came for...both literally and figuratively...and I had absolutely NO reason to doubt the sincerity of her exclamations. So keeping a mindful eye on the clock, I began to fuck her even harder than I had before. She actually asked me to turn her over before I climaxed, but knowing that even the GREENEST of race car drivers know better than to downshift with the checked flag in sight...I elected to keep my foot pinned to the throttle.

Now to say that I came would have been an understatement...because it felt more like an exorcism from my standpoint. And then it was over. She began to playfully pout as I slowly went flaccid inside of her...saying that I must not find her sexy enough to make me hard. So I backed away from her and took the condom off...then I held it up infront of her like exhibit A in a trial.

So we got dressed...and parted ways...both getting home before anyone was any the wiser. Best lunch date that I've EVER had...by a CUMshot😉. #writing #erotica

#hypotheticalskinarios

#writing #spilled thoughts #short story

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thelordofdarkreunion · 4 years ago

Text

Magnificent Scoundrels- Rock n’ Roll

This one is definitely a little late. Took me a while to write it, and I had to make several changes. It might be a bit awkward in parts, but that is because I have tried to portray each character faithfully and tried to have them do what they would actually do in the battle scenes. As per usual, I own none of these characters except for Thomas Drake. Enjoy! (Side note: I figured out how to use the “read more” so this won’t be as long in the dash!)

In the hangar of the Normandy, Adam Vir and Master Chief waited. The Chief was currently flipping through everyone’s communication channels.

“Do you really trust this guy, Captain?” That was the internal communications of the Enterprise.

“No. And his group of armsmen is putting me on edge. But we control this ship and we have transporters and they don’t.” The rest coming from Kirk’s crew was all military and technological jargon. He flipped to the Apocalypse's internal communications.

“So, the question is: since it’s a fruit, tomato, mixed with sugar, is ketchup a smoothie?” That was Drake. Of course it was.

“Well, by that definition, yes,” said an unfamiliar voice.

“But ketchup has vinegar in it. And if you think smoothies have vinegar, well, then you really need to reevaluate your life’s choices,” replied someone else.

“An excellent point! Indeed, what is a smoothie? Does vinegar belong in your smoothies?” said Drake. Master Chief shook his head and changed channels. He had a feeling that if he listened to that conversation for much longer, his head would implode.

“How did he get that stuff? Twenty suits of carapace armor, five crates of hot-shot lasguns, ten crates of normal lasguns, a crate of chainswords, and two power swords, all with Imperial markings!” That was Kasteen, commander of the Valhallans. “And, Cain, what was that thing? An Exitus rifle? I’ve never heard of it.”

“That last one’s the one that worries me. The reason I know of it is because of my work with Inquisitor Vail,” replied Cain.

“Shit. You think he stole it from the Inquisition?”

“The only people who have access to those are Inquisitors and Vindicares.”

“Oh he’s beyond frakked.” The Chief cut the communications as Shepard walked into the hangar bay. He was wearing a full set of black combat armor with a heavy helmet. Vir, the other occupant of the hangar, looked up from where he was fiddling with his own armor.

“Shepard. Pleased to see you.” His one good green eye gleamed from under a shock of blond hair. “Are we ready to go?”

“Give me a sec.” Shepard turned to the hooded and violet masked figure that was present with him at the Scoundrel’s first meeting. “Tali?” he asked the figure. “Are they going to know we’re coming?”

“No, commander.” It was a feminine voice, with a strange and slightly mechanical accent that emanated from the suit. “The engineers aboard the Enterprise and Apocalypse are quite good at what they do. It would be interesting to know what all these new people have! Technology-wise, I mean. The possibilities of-” Shepard cut her off.

“Good to know, Tali.”

“Right. Sorry. Got carried away.”

“If you’d like, I’ll give you a tour of the Apocalypse,” cut in Drake’s suave voice over their earpieces. “That, of course, extends to the rest of you.” Master Chief keyed his comm.

“You’ve been listening to us this whole time?” he asked.

“Well, I can’t talk about vinegar smoothies forever, now, can I? To get more to the point, Cain and I are in position, and Cooper and Quill are on their way. This thing all depends on you, so I suggest you get down here before they notice fifty Imperial Guardsmen and fifteen mercenary armsmen hanging outside their front gate.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re going.” They boarded the shuttle, Master Chief having to hunch his massive frame to avoid banging into the doors. The ride to the muddy-brown planet below them was smoot and silent. From the window of the transport, they could see the silhouettes of the teams’ starships above them, gleaming in the weak yellow light of the nearby sun. The atmospheric entry was much smoother than either Vir or Master Chief had ever felt, and the shuttle landed on the planet much faster than they expected. The shuttle’s three occupants disembarked quickly, professionally, and set out in a trot to the distant specter of the military base. They arrived on schedule, and found a small electrical access passage, barely tall enough to squeeze through, exactly where Drake’s map said it was.

Drake checked the timer on his wrist computer. His armsmen and several Imperial Guardsmen cluster around him, waiting expectantly.

“And...nine minutes and twenty-five seconds for Shepard to get his ass in gear and get planetside. If you had more than ten minutes, pay up.” There were grumblings in the crowd, while money and liquor exchanged hands. One of the armsmen looked up.

“Captain, how long for the other timer?” Drake checked his wrist again.

“...nineteen minutes and twenty six...twenty seven seconds since we got here, and they still haven’t noticed over a hundred armed hostiles sitting outside their front gate.” He made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Sloppy. If you bet under twenty minutes, you're probably going to be losing something.” He glanced over to where Cain and Jurgen were leaning against the compound’s outer wall. “How are you two holding up?”

Cain looked up from a mug of steaming liquid in his hands. “Fine. These people still haven’t noticed us?” Drake snorted.

“No. I’m really good at what I do, and they’re really bad. Honestly, I’m not quite sure how they managed to steal the thing we’re after in the first place.”

On the other side of the compound, Peter Quill paced.

“What’s taking them so long?” he hissed. Gamora, his green-skinned second in command, looked up from where she was sitting and sharpening a sword.

“Relax. We’re fine.”

“I know…” Quill trailed off, paced more, then turned back. “Do you think that these people know what they’re doing?” Cooper, who had been silently checking his weapons up until this point, spoke.

“Shepard is supposed to be a hero, and a special forces operative, based on Drake’s briefing.” Noticing Quill’s blank look, he gave a very good incredulous stare, considering he had his helmet on. “You didn’t read it?”

“Uh...maybe.” Cooper and Gamora both shook their heads.

“Shepard’s is apparently very good. At least, according to Drake. And the problem with that is we don’t know if Drake is telling the truth about anything.” Quill considered this. He did have a point.

Shepard, Vir, and Master Chief squeezed through the narrow metal electrical duct and into a small, dimly lit concrete room in the basement of the compound. They brushed plaster dust off themselves before looking up. Shepard tapped his wrist and some sort of glowing orange hologram sprang to life, covering his let forearm. The others leaned in and recognized it as Drake’s map of the compound.

“Right. So we are here,” Shepard highlighted the small room. “The item is here.” He traced a path throughout the sun-levels to a large main room in the center of the basement. “We need to stay low and follow this path.” Shepard glanced up and pointed at Master Chief. “You’re a super-soldier, so you’re taking point.” The Chief nodded.

“Copy that.” He unslung his weapon, dropped into a crouch, and proceeded forward, the two others following him. They walked through the concrete and metal halls, weapons at the ready, searching for any sign of life. Despite being over seven feet tall and clad in bulky armor, Master Chief moved with the deadly silence of a professional soldier. Twice they were almost caught, but due to their superior training and skills, they melted into the shadows as enemy patrols passed by. Through more hallways they made their way, hearing the laughter and occasionally fights of mercenaries. The enemy here was no more alert than they were on the main level, allowing the three to pass through the labyrinthian passageways undetected. They reached a large open area, where Master Chief suddenly gestured for a stop. Peering past the Chief’s massive shoulder, Shepard could see why. The open room was littered with mercenaries, lounging around with weapons still holstered. By his estimate, there were about twenty of them. Too many to take on without raising the alarm. Shepard cursed quietly under his breath, then pressed a finger to his ear.

“Drake,” he hissed. “We’re blocked. There’s a group in our way. We need a distraction.”

“Distraction you say?” The three could feel Drake’s smile over the audio. “Give me twenty.”

Outside the Compound

Drake slid up to the compound gate’s outside audio panel. He slid a knife under a small plate at the base of the panel and slid a small rectangular device from his belt into a slot.

“Let’s see here…” he muttered to himself. “Are you stupid enough to connect the PA system to the main computer? Yes...yes you are.” He tapped several buttons on his wrist computer and took a deep breath.

Inside the Compound

Shepard and Vir jumped as Drake’s voice crackled from the building’s PA system.

“Attention assorted idiots. I am Captain Thomas Drake. You may have heard of me. I am here, waiting just outside the front gate. I am going to kill you all and take back the black box. Come and get me.” The message abruptly terminated, and cheery music started playing.

“Private Perks is a funny little coger with a smile, a funny smile. Five feet none he’s an artful little dodger with a smile, a funny smile. Flush or broke he’ll have his little joke…” Shepard, Vir, and even the superhuman Master Chief started at the loudspeaker as the music played.

“Drake, what the hell are you doing?” asked Shepard.

“Creating a distraction,” replied Drake, just as cheerfully as the song.

“Telling the mercenaries to come and kill you and playing Smile, Smile, Smile is not a distraction,” stated Master Chief flatly.

“You sure about that? Look in front of you,” said Drake. Sure enough, the mercenaries occupying the room had grabbed their weapons and were hustling up the stairs to the main level. Shepard’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish, then he sighed.

“Fine, let’s go.” As the last of the mercenaries trailed from the room, the three Scoundrels slipped by on their way to the item.

Outside the Facility

Drake glanced at his wrist computer and nodded at a group of armsmen.

“Four guards in the compound beyond the gate. There, there, there, and there.” He gestured at four spots beyond the wall. The armsmen nodded and took positions near the gate. “Overriding and opening the gate in three...two...one go!” Drake pressed a button and the massive armored gate swung open. The armsmen stepped forward and fired. The four mercenary guards pitched forward, dead. Drake nodded at the remaining Guardsmen and armsmen. “Right. Through the gate and set up a firing position. They’ll be coming, probably disorganized, from the main door.” He pointed at a large armored set of double doors that led inside the main facility. The soldiers nodded and readied their weapons. Drake pressed another button on his wrist.

On the other side of the Compound

“Cooper, Quill, this is Drake. The mercenaries are going to attack our position while Shepard, Chief, and Vir steal the thing. Get behind them.”

“Copy that,” replied Cooper with a nod. He looked at the large wall in front of them, then took a step back and jumped. Thrusters on the back of his suit activated and propelled him onto the wall. He turned his head to Quill and Gamora. “You two coming?” Quill scoffed.

“I can do that.” He pressed a small button on the top of his boots, and the heels lit up with the orange wash of jet boosters. Without the grace of Cooper he landed wobbly on the top of the wall. “See? Easy.” Gamora muttered “showoffs” under her breath and accepted Quill’s offered hand to boost her over the wall. Cooper dropped into the interior compound without a sound.

“Right. This way.”

On the Other Side of the Compound

The heavy armored doors opened and mercenaries, in various stages of preparedness, scrambled out, only to be met with the full firepower of one hundred and three well trained soldiers. The Imperials’ lasguns spat crimson death that flickered through the muddy air to impact with chests, legs, arms, and heads, burning away flesh and vaporizing the internal organs of the unprotected. The fire from the Apocalypse’s armsmen was no less lethal. The boom hiss thump of plasma infused ammunition contrasted with the whining crack of lasguns as small blue and purple explosions blew apart the mercenaries. Within seconds, the attacking mercenaries were dead.

“Let’s go!” called Drake as he led his armsmen into the interior. Cain nodded at the Guard.

“Forward. I’ll take up the rear.”

In the Basement

The mercenaries vault, the storage place of the item Drake was contracted to retrieve, stood in silence over the barren concrete room. Harsh yellow lights glared from the walls and seemed to be swallowed by the shadows in the corners. Two guards, weapons held at the ready, stood in front of the vault. The air split with two cracks. The two guards fell, two holes blown through their heads. Master Chief, weapon at the ready, entered the room, searching carefully for any other enemies. There were none. He nodded at his two companions.

“Clear.” He shouldered his rifle. “Now how the hell do we get that door open?” Shepard stepped up to the vault door. A small, rectangular computer was built into the wall. Shepard pressed his forearm, and once more the orange hologram appeared. He tapped the hologram several more times, and the vault door sprang open.

“Impressive,” noted Vir.

“I gotta get me one of those,” muttered Master Chief. They stepped through the circular entrance of the vault, and into the room beyond. The room was...unimpressive. It was cluttered with objects, weapons, and boxes of no discernable value. Master Chief keyed his comm. “Drake? We’re in the vault. What are we looking for?” There was a whine then the boom of a plasma discharge, which culminated into an abrupt, high pitched scream. Drake’s ragged breathing could be heard on the other end of the line.

“What? Sorry. Uh...you’re looking for a black box, about half a meter by half a meter. Should be somewhere pretty prominent.”

“Here it is!” said Vir. He held up a black box of the exact length and width.

“Drake, we have it.” There was a scream and the crackle of Imperial lasgun fire on the other end of the comm. “What is going on up there?”

“We’re fighting the mercenaries…” Boom! Hiss! Crack! “...shit. We appear to be winning at the moment. Get up here and kill or capture anyone who gets in your way.”

“Copy that.” Master Chief looked at Shepard and Vir. “Let’s move.”

Cooper, Quill, and Gamora advanced stealthily through the twisting passages of the mercenaries’ compound, weapons at the ready. For some reason, there was absurdly cheerful music blasting through the PA system. If Cooper had to guess, he would say that Thomas Drake most definitely had a hand in this. He sighed to himself, shaking his head, then abruptly stopped and held out his hand. Gamora instantly stopped and crouched, weapons at the ready. Quill almost ran into him. Ahead of the group were two guards, rifles out, looking more competent than any opposition they’d seen today. Quill raised a gun, but Gamora pushed it down.

“Quiet. If we go loud, they might have time to radio that we’re here.” Quill nodded, magining to look mollified behind the red lenses of his helmet.

“Right. My bad. What do we do?”

“I got this,” replied Cooper. Before either Quill or Gammora could say anything, Cooper tapped a device on his wrist. Immediately, his form shimmered and distorted, turning translucent. He took off running, and both watching pairs of eyes lost track of him. Gammora thought she saw a faint blur of movement at the top of the hall, near the ceiling, but dismissed it as her eyes playing tricks. And, just as they started wondering where Cooper had gone, he appeared just as suddenly and silently as he had appeared, this time directly behind the guards.

Quietly and casually, he stepped behind the first guard, wrapped his arm around the guard’s throat in a chokehold, drew the guard’s sidearm from its holster, and unceremoniously shot both guards through the head. Quick, brutal, efficient. Cooper tossed the pistol aside and hefted his own rifle.

“Let’s keep moving.” Gamora stared at him.

“Impressive. I need one of those things. What are they called?”

“Invisibility Cloak or Pilot’s Cloak. You can get them pretty easily from where I come from. Or you could ask Drake. I’m sure he stole a bunch of them.”

Drake’s plasma gun spat a ball of molten death at an enemy mercenary. It melted through the mercenary’s thin armor, blasted through his bones, and disintegrated his organs. The mercenary only had time for a half scream, half whimper, before his chest was opened all the way through and he dropped to the ground, dead. One of the Imperial Guardsmen whistled appreciatively.

“A real plasma gun. Can’t believe you have one.” Drake grinned beneath his helmet.

“Cost me a pretty penny. But definitely worth it, I can assure you.” His earpiece crackled to life. “Hang on.”

“Drake? Are you behind the music?” asked Quill’s voice.

“Why yes, I am. Do you approve of my selection?” Drake replied.

“Actually, I was wondering...do you take requests?”

“Of course I do! What is your request?”

“Hooked on a Feeling by Blue Swede,” replied Quill with no hesitation.

“An excellent choice! Give me a moment.” Drake pressed another button on his wrist computer and spoke into it with an excellent approximation of a radio D.J.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that has been Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag and Smile, Smile, Smile, an old favorite from the First World War, written by George Henry Powell. And next up, by listener request, is Hooked on a Feeling by Blue Swede! If you would like to place a request, even if you’re on the opposing side, please, feel free to contact me.” He cut the transmission. One of the Valhallans turned to her sergeant.

“This guy’s weird.”

“Eh, could be worse. We could be fighting tyranids. Or necrons,” the sergeant interjected with a shudder.

Master Chief turned to look at the nearest PA speaker.

“Well, this is definitely something new.” He turned to his two companions. “You two don’t seem very surprised by this.”

“Honestly, I am not surprised by anything at this point,” Shepard said with a shrug. He turned to look at Vir. “What about you?”

“Happens to me all the time. What’s a battle without some good music?”

Jack Cooper shook his head incredulously as the song piped throughout the compound.

“I have seen a lot over my time in the Militia, but yet I have never been in a battle more bizarre.” He sighed and fired a burst of shots at a mercenary. “Oh, well.”

The Imperial Guard and the Apocalypse’s armsmen, led by Cain and Drake, sliced their way through the enemies ranks like a knife through wet paper. They stood no chance. Anything not eliminated by lasguns or assault rifles was obliterated by Drake’s plasma gun. Drake was leading the charge, cutting down everyone who opposed him with methodical precision. Drake turned, the eye slits of his helmet winking cerulean blue.

“Well, I think we’ve-” He never had a chance to finish, as a particularly large mercenary barreled past a corner and tackled Drake. Squeezed underneath the larger man, Drake could not get enough leverage to shove him off or hit him hard. The two combatants rolled and grappled with each other, the armsmen and Guardsmen daring not to fire for fear of hitting Drake. The large mercenary grimaced and tried to slip his hands under Drake’s helmet to try and throttle him to death. Drake reached up and placed his left hand on the mercenary's chest.

“Overcharge!” he yelled to the air. A sharp whine filled the air, then the crack of discharging electricity. The mercenary flew backwards, twitched spasmodically for several seconds, then lied still. Drake got up to his feet shakily. “Well, that was a...shocking experience.” Several of the soldiers groaned. “C’mon. Forward!” They ran through the maze of dimly-lit hallways, slaughtering anyone they met, until they got to a large room filled with computers overlooking the passageways of the basement. It looked to be a control room of some sorts, and it was absolutely packed with enemies. They seemed to realize the superiority of the Scoundrel’s firepower, and so, instead of trying to fight them bullet to bullet, they charged.

Cooper, Quill, and Gamora rounded the corner of the hallway at a run. The screeched to a stop when they saw what was happening in the large room in front of them. A massive group of enemy mercenaries were battling it out, hand to hand, with Drake and Cain’s forces.

“Well, we can’t shoot for fear of hitting our own side, so…” Quill trailed off.

“So we take them from behind,” replied Cooper. “You two know how to fight hand to hand?” In response, Gamora drew a sword.

“Well, I guess that’s a yes,” said Cooper. He looked over to see a heavily muscled woman bodily pick up and throw Drake through one of the glass panes overlooking the basement. “Oh boy. Better get in there.” They charged.

Vir, Shepard, and Master Chief emerged from the basement’s tunnels and into a pit-like room overlooked by glass panels. Suddenly, one of the panels shattered and Drake flew through and landed on the concrete floor fifteen feet below. He groaned and slowly got to his feet.

“Oh hey there. Fancy meeting you here.” Master Chief held out a hand to steady him.

“Are you alright?” Drake cracked his neck.

“Maybe. Hopefully. Doesn’t much matter. Let's get up there.”

“If you’re really O.K.”

“Yep, I’m good. What’s the fastest way up?” Shepard pointed to a set of stairs, but before he could say anything, Master Chief took a running leap, grabbed the broken window’s ledge, and hauled himself up.

“Or...or that will work.” Vir shrugged and made the same running jump at the same window. With a whir of powerful prosthetics, he made it in much the same way Master Chief had. Not to be outdone, Drake jumped for the same window. He only made it halfway up the wall, but grips built into his forearms and greaves took over and he hauled himself up. Shepard still stood at the bottom and shook his head.

“Ok then. I guess I’ll just take the stairs.”

The vast majority of the wild melee was focused near the middle of the room. There, the mercenaries desperately fought against the soldiers of the Imperial Guard. The mercenaries had thought to take the enemy off balance by charging them, a tactic seldom used in an age of automatic and plasma weaponry, but had not counted on soldiers of other universes, used to fighting in different ways. The Guardsmen had fixed bayonets, and now wielded the twenty inch blades with lethal efficiency. However, despite the Guard doing most of the fighting, it was by far the Scoundrel captains who garnered the most attention. Each fought with their own style, was a death-dealing whirlwind.

Master Chief fought with a precision that only a genetically enhanced super-soldier could. A strange, teardrop-shaped plasma sword was held aloft in one hand, and he brought it down with murderous exactness. Each stroke was backed by the massive strength of his seven foot frame, and gut through armor and bone as if it didn’t exist. He was a one man killing machine; he was a SPARTAN super-warrior. None stood in his way for long.

Ciaphas Cain used the same practical and lethal fighting style as he did in his duel with the Drev. His chainsword hummed and its teeth whirred as it cut through muscle and sinew, raising great gouts of blood into the air. In his other hand he held a laspistol, which cracked off shots at any who were beyond the reach of the deadly teeth of his sword.

Jack Cooper fought with grace and style. He danced around the enemy, using the extra speed and mobility of his Pilot’s suit. His combat knife slid between ribs and through throats, and shots from his sidearm rang out, blowing ragged holes through heads and torsos. His legs lashed out in the form of powerful kicks, still with a Pilot's grace, and landed on kidneys and knees, knocking his opponents to the ground where he finished them at his leisure.

Adam Vir fought with a spear, a most unusual weapon of choice. Nevertheless, he was just as deadly as the rest. The spear sand through the air, catching and impaling his foes. It twirled in intricate patterns, and blocked and flicked aside incoming attacks as if they didn’t exist. He lunged forward towards a panacing mercenary, twisting the spear at the last second so as not to get it stuck in the suction of flesh, then spun around to block an incoming attack.

Thomas Drake fought dirty. No trick was too low or underhanded. His left hand crackled with electricity, stunning and killing any he punched. A keen-bladed knife was in his right, and he stabbed groins, gouged eyes, and slit throats with impunity. He bellowed reactive insults while he fought, calling in to question his opponent’s lineage and stature as he charged and hacked and stabbed.

And Quill...well...he entered the room at a run, then promptly slipped on a puddle of blood and fell face first into the cold concrete floor.

The Scoundrels gradually whittled down their enemies, one by one, until there was only a small group, fear in their eyes, huddling against the back wall. The Scoundrels advanced, weapons drawn, and the mercenaries raised their own, prepared for one last defiant gesture. Then, the air shimmered and distorted, and Kirk and a group of Enterprise crewmen, weapons drawn, appeared as if from nowhere.

“Hands up,” said Kirk with probably more amusement than was really necessary. Slowly, the mercenaries lowered their weapons and put them on the ground. The Scoundrels looked at each other for a moment before Cooper broke the silence.

“Okay. That was...underwhelming.”

“What do we do with them?” asked Shepard, gesturing towards the prisoners.

“Eh. I say we just leave ‘em here,” said Drake with a shrug. The others stared at him with incredulity.

“Wait, wait...you were the one advocating orbital bombardment earlier!”

“Well, we have the thing now. No need to kill them, no need to do anything with them really. We can just pack up and go. Leave them here.” The Scoundrels looked at each other and seemed to reach an agreement.

“Fine. Let’s go.” Kirk looked over to Spock and spoke to him in an undertone.

“You know, this didn’t end that badly. None of the redshirts died!” As if on cue, one of the Enterprise’s crewmen, clad in black pants and a red shirt, fell over clutching his chest. One of the Imperial Guardsmen knelt down to check on him.

“He’s dead, sir! I think a heart attack.” Kirk shook his head.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

After the mercenaries had been herded in the basement and the Scoundrels’ forces were trailing out of the compound, Cain pulled Drake aside.

“Drake, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“Of course. What’s on your mind?” Cain looked around to make sure no one was listening.

“Those weapons. The only way you could have gotten several of them was if you stole them from the Inquisition.”

“And if I did?” replied Drake.

“The Inquisition is not an organization you want to steal from.” Cain loosened his chainsword in its scabbard. Drake smiled.

“Funny, actually. I can. You see, those weapons I found in a small hidden stash. Apparently, a rogue and very dead Inquisitor named Filidarus Calzik had hidden them on the very edge of Imperial space. No one would have ever gone for them, no Imperial would have ever found them.”

“I know of them, now that you’ve told me,” replied Cain, his hands still on his weapons. Drake laughed, the exact same laugh as when he told the Scoundrels he knew their secrets aboard the Apocalypse.

“Interestingly enough, weapons were not the only thing I found in that stash. There was also a computer. Which is why I know Calzik’s name. And, on that computer, was...an incomplete manuscript. An...autobiography.” Drake smiled again. “Your autobiography, my dear Cain.” Cain turned a shade of chalk white. “Now, consider, if you will, my dear Cain, the fascinating consequences if the contents of that autobiography were to be released to the wider Imperium. So, yes, I’m quite sure I can get away with stealing from the Inquisition. Because, no one will ever know anything is missing. And if they do, they’ll never know it was me, because everyone who knows it was me will not be saying anything about it, now will they?” With a final parting smile, Drake spun on his heel and strode away, leaving Cain in the semi-darkness of the compound’s hallway.

That’s it. Hope you like it. As per always, feel free to contact me with any complaints, concerns, compliments, questions, requests, or if you just want something cleared up.

#magnificent scoundrels #warhammer 40k #empyrean iris #halo #mass effect #star trek #titanfall 2 #guardians of the galaxy #crossover #story

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the-original-b · 4 years ago

Text

Archangel--Chapter 4: the Orham Occurence

Format: Prose / Fiction, multi-entry

Part in Series: 5 of 9 (Previous Chapter | First Chapter)

Word Count: c. 7,300

Summary: the Specialist follows the trail of bodies to its apparent source, where his checkered past catches up with him in a way for which he could never have prepared.

Trigger warning(s): blood, (semi-graphic) violence

[A/N: this work of fiction is neither sponsored nor endorsed by Heckler & Koch, GmbH]

Bayview Hospital, Monday 8:46pm.

A fair-skinned woman in her mid-30s entered the building through the visitors’ entrance on the ground floor and walked up to the desk, wearing dark jeans, ankle boots and a thick scarf under a short black leather jacket. In her arms she carried a bouquet of flowers, and from the crook of her left elbow hung her handbag.

She made her way to the desk and got the receptionist’s attention. “Excuse me?” she said from behind the bouquet.

The receptionist looked up from behind his monitor.

“Hi,” she added with a smile. “I’m here to see Walter Mills. I’m his daughter, Jennifer Marshall.”

He ran a quick search for Mills’ case in hospital admissions, and scanned a registry of family members to find her name. “Ah, there you are, Miss Marshall.” He looked back up at her. “Do you have ID?”

“Yes, of course..!” Jennifer freed her right hand to fish in her handbag for her bi-fold wallet, which she opened one-handed, and dug her driver’s license out of the slit with two of her fingers while the other three held the wallet steady. When she was done she held the license out for him between her two fingers.

“That’s impressive,” he nodded, taking her ID. “With dexterity like that you must do a lot of work with your hands.”

“Sometimes,” she shrugged, “when the need arises.”

“I hear ya,” he added with a grin. He compared Jennifer’s face with the license picture. Unlike the picture her dark brown hair was down past her shoulders and she was wearing glasses with thick black frames in front of him, but behind the rectangular lenses were the same icy blue eyes featured in the picture. Her round face and full lips matched too. He briefly scanned the text on the document—her listed height of five feet seven inches seemed right from where he sat, and the rest of the listed information was previously verified. Finally he shined a barcode scanner onto the back of the license and, when it came back as a legitimate document, he handed her a visitor’s badge. “ICU suite 17,” he said. “Down the hall to your right, then hang a left when you get to the end, through the double doors. His room is the second on the right hand side. He’s still comatose after the accident, but I’m betting he’ll hear anything you have to tell him.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the badge and clipping it to her open jacket’s zipper. “And I just come back here for the license when I’m done.”

“That’s right, miss. Return the pass and I’ll give you back your license.”

“Perfect, thank you.” She smiled warmly at the receptionist before turning to head down the hall, cradling the bouquet with both her hands.

She made her way to the end of the hall through the doors and turned left as the receptionist suggested, and counted two doors on her right hand side to arrive at ICU suite number 17. She took a quick, inconspicuous look around her to verify the only medical staff in the unit that night were with other patients, and crossed the doorway.

Jennifer stepped up beside Walter Mills, looking down at him on the bed, and exhaled. Then she placed the handbag and flowers down on a tabletop behind her, where other wilting arrangements were, and removed the bouquet sleeve. She spread the individual flowers apart just enough to expose a 1mL syringe loaded with a botulinum toxin solution. Her back turned to the hallway, she picked it up, unsheathed the needle and stuck it into the injection port on Walter Mills’ intravenous drip, fully depressing the plunger before removing the syringe and placing it back onto the table to re-sheathe the needle. A quick check over her left shoulder assured her she was still in the clear, but she had to move quickly. She neatly arranged the flowers she brought him with the others that were there from before, reclaimed her handbag and the now-empty syringe, turned on her heel, and strode out of the room to deposit the spent needle in a wall-mounted biohazard trash bin on her way out. Finally she turned right again, not back toward the way she came but deeper into the hospital.

A woman and her husband entered through the visitors’ entrance and made their way to the desk.

“Hey man,” the husband said. “Kurt and Jen Marshall to see Walter Mills.”

The receptionist looked up from his monitor, confused. “Didn’t you check in already, Miss Marshall?”

“What?” Jen Marshall shook her head as she stepped up to the desk. “No, no, I just got here with my husband.” Her exhaustion was audible.

“I still have your license here—” he looked down at the document on his desktop. The name listed was Jennifer Marshall, and the height and eye color were correctly listed, but the bone structure of the face was completely different.

Jen’s confusion and frustration began to bubble. “What are you talking about? My license is right here..! Please, just let me in so I can see my father.” Kurt wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulders.

Their attention was stolen by the chirp of a doctor’s pager. Panic washed over his face as the doctor read the message on the display and raced down the hall toward the ICU.

The same message was displayed on the receptionist’s pager—ICU suite number 17 was coding.

Jen could see something was terribly wrong. She began to hyperventilate at the possibility of her worst fears coming true, and Kurt held her tight with both arms. “What’s going on?” she stammered. “What’s happening??”

In the chaos, the assassin who introduced herself as Jennifer Marshall slipped unnoticed behind an employees-only door and traded her ankle boots for indoor cycling shoes she kept in her handbag. She continued down the hall, discarding the boots, handbag, glasses, and visitor’s badge in a trash chute along the way. She undid her scarf and wrapped each end around her hands, tying it tight around the neck of a custodian she passed by to incapacitate him. When she was sure he was unconscious, she wrapped her scarf back around herself and proceeded to the parking garage.

She deactivated the portable CCTV signal jammer she had in her jacket pocket when she entered the car. She pulled a flip phone out of her other pocket and speed-dialed a number. She held it to her ear long enough to hear the click of an answered phone on the other end.

“Contract T-A-three-oh-four-point-seven status update: closed.” Certain Arabic intonations lingered on her natural spoken tones, far from the suburban accent she mimicked before.

She shut the phone to end the call before it buzzed in her hand again. She read the message on the display—an open termination contract in Northeast Pennsylvania, marked to expire in twelve hours.

She was lucky enough to be within range to take the job. She opened the phone back up and dialed the number at the foot of the message “This is Nomad,” she said as soon as the other parties answered. “Responding to your Pennsylvania offering—send details and coordinates to this number.” Nomad shut the phone again and started the engine of her sedan.

~~~~

Krueger arrived at the Armory early the following Tuesday morning, clad in dark tactical gear, where Khai was waiting for him. Her dress was similar to his own—a thick black sweater and gray pants with mid boots.

“Good morning, Krueger,” she said. She had her hair tied back into a ponytail to keep it away from her face and out of her glasses. “I’ve already curated your selection for today.” She gestured the table down the hall. “Right this way,” she added, leading him to the new arrivals.

Krueger followed her down the hall, watching the sway of her hips for a moment before bringing his eyes back up to look directly ahead. “That’s a nice look for you, actually,” he noted.

She chuckled and looked back at him over her shoulder, smirking at him. “It looks much better on you, believe me.” She said playfully. “Here we are.” She presented the items she ordered for him, on display atop a table beside which a third man in a black jumpsuit stood. “I take it these need no introduction..?”

Krueger leaned over the table, examining the weapons he’d identified earlier in the invoice a few days ago. He looked over a USP, an MP5, an MP7, a G36, and a PSG-1—all firearms he had used during his time with KSK. “Nein,” he said sotto voce. “Ich bin vertraut.”

The .45-caliber USP Tactical was the obvious choice for his sidearm; this one featured a 12-round magazine, high-profile sights, barrel threading to accommodate a suppressor, a textured grip to reduce slippage, and serrations in the rear of the slide for easier cocking. As usual he held the gun out in front of him and dry-fired it to re-familiarize himself with the sight picture and trigger weight. “Suppressor?” he asked.

Khai nodded and handed him one. “Silencerco Octane HD.”

He attached the suppressor and raised the handgun again. When he approved, he set it aside and reviewed his options for close-quarters engagements. He examined the MP5 first; this one featured a built-in suppressor and collapsible stock with a 30-round 9mm magazine. He held it up to his shoulder and looked through the sights, then put it down and picked up the MP7. This one didn’t have a suppressor but fired small, high-velocity proprietary rounds that were better at penetrating armor than its predecessor. Its magazine held more rounds than the MP5, and the platform offered tactical furniture, a flip-down fore-grip, and collapsible stock. He made the conscientious decision to sacrifice stopping power for penetration and chose the MP7.

Once he set it aside with the pistol he considered his distance-combat options. He took a look at the G36, a rifle that entered service just about the same year he joined Special Forces. The 5.56mm NATO rounds, long barrel, and built-in optics would offer the range and precision he needed, but not the power to drop a target from a few hundred meters. He put the assault rifle down and picked up the PSG-1, a weapon literally named precision sharpshooter rifle. It was undeniably bulkier and heavier than the assault rifle, but its larger rounds hit much harder over longer ranges, and the proprietary 6x42 scope permanently affixed to the receiver would ensure they were on-target. He made his decision and went with the larger rifle.

Khai signaled the man in the jumpsuit to load the weapons into their cases.

Then Krueger headed over to another table and secured three magazines for each of his selections. He doubted he would have to use that much ammunition but he always felt it was better to have more than he needed. He turned to Khai after handing the magazines to the man in the black jumpsuit. “The rest of the equipment?” he asked.

“The drone is loaded in a van outside,” she said. “We’ll maintain communications via radio.” She handed him a headset with a microphone. “Put this on,” she instructed. While he did she sorted through stacks of broken and ill-maintained equipment to find a working radio. “Check,” she said into the mouthpiece. “Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Krueger said.

“Excellent.” She lowered the communicator and motioned Krueger to take off his headset. “You’ll drive the van with the drone and the guns,” she continued when his headset was off and he could hear her again. “I’ll follow behind in another car. When we get there I’ll provide info with the drone and prepare for the retrieval of the server’s files.”

“You’re not coming with me?”

“No,” she said, taking a few steps up to him and stopping less than a foot away. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t talk along the way.” Her gaze remained on him, looking up into his eyes as she placed her hand onto his chest. It remained there long enough for her to feel the beating of his heart. Then, she pulled her hand away and let the van keys she held up against him fall toward the floor. Krueger caught them instinctively and followed her back outside where the two cars were parked.

~~~~

Ninety minutes into their trip, their conversation continued.

“Okay,” Khai laughed over the radio. “I’ve got one—easiest money you’ve ever made..?”

Krueger, in the van ahead of her on I-80, replayed every assignment he’d been a part of since leaving Special Forces. “That would have to be when I was sent to kill the leader of the Sen Guren clan and retrieve his sword. It must have been four years ago.”

“You killed Takahashi Genbu?”

“No, actually,” he affirmed. “By the time I got there the clan begun tearing itself apart and he was already dead. I never did find the sword, but I got paid without having to raise a hand, so I didn’t care if they withheld the bonus.”

“That is easy,” she said. She changed lanes to stay behind him. “Pretty hard to beat getting paid just to show up… toughest job?”

“Oh, no contest there,” he said. “The Laos-Cambodia border—my team and I put a resistance cell down for a warlord in 2012.” He spat the words out quickly, still not comfortable with them after so long. “And you? Hardest thing about working with the Branch?”

Khai put the radio to her lip for a bit before answering. “Having to leave home for it,” she finally said. “I mentioned I grew up with the Partners?”

“You mentioned that over lunch the other day, yes.” Even if she hadn’t, the framed picture on Everett’s desk would have lead him to the same conclusion.

“When the Branch was in the red back in Oh-Six, they had me move across the country to provide support for somebody I didn’t even know. I was terrified,” she continued. “Twenty-two year old girl right out of college, working a high level job in a brand-new city. If not for Henry I don’t know if I would have made it.”

“I’d say you adjusted well. When I first saw you I thought you’d been doing it all your life.”

Khai exhaled. “I did, yeah. But I still miss my mom’s rose garden sometimes.”

Krueger thought for a little before asking his next question. “Do you ever get lonely?” he finally inquired.

“Sometimes,” Khai offered after a moment’s silence. “The big empty house certainly doesn’t help that. I do get to socialize every now and again but nothing outside the family, so to speak. It would be tough to explain my role in a criminal enterprise to just any handsome fellow I meet at happy hour, you know?”

“I imagine it would be… have you ever found someone?”

Khai was quiet before she answered again. “I thought I did once or twice. But they both stopped calling after a while, which in this line of work means they probably ended up killed… that dread, that fear of probable death, it makes it hard to get close to some people.”

That was something Krueger understood very well. “I’ve got two ex-wives who would agree with you on that,” he said.

“You’ve mentioned Emma once, who was the other one again?”

“Jocelyn,” Krueger said. “She’s in Essen.”

“And you said your son, Alexander, is in Düsseldorf, right?”

“Correct.”

“Do you ever miss them?”

“Absolutely,” Krueger said. “But it isn’t like I can ever go back home and stay. I have to travel where the work takes me.”

Khai shook her head. “That’s terrible,” she said. “You must be so lonely.”

Krueger let himself absorb the sorrow in her voice. “No,” he said. “I’m not really lacking companionship. Just stability.”

~~~~

They arrived at an old nature preserve a few miles off of I-81. Krueger took the van a few miles down a dirt path before pulling over and stepping out. Surrounded by dense greenery in every direction and comfortably tucked away from any prying eyes, he opened the van’s back doors and unfastened the straps holding the quad-rotor recon drone to the cargo bay floor. He hit two switches on its port side before carrying it out and kneeling to place it onto the ground.

“Peek-a-boo,” Khai jested, her voice crackling in his headset. She sat in the other car a quarter mile up the road from him with a tablet computer in her lap from which she could control the recon drone.

Krueger looked at the camera—at Khai—and smirked. “That answers my next question..!” he said into his microphone. He stood up and took a few steps back. “Alright, start the drone.” The rotors began spinning with a surprisingly quiet hum. “Huh. Not as loud as I expected,” he noted.

“It’s designed for stealth,” Khai said. “They couldn’t have it sounding like a table saw while surveying a point of interest.”

“Of course they couldn’t… Now raise altitude three meters.” Khai took the drone up in the air ten feet and maintained altitude. “Descend one meter.” The drone crept down a few inches per second before stopping at the mark Krueger designated. “Forward one meter.” Khai did as instructed, taking the drone forward until it was almost directly above Krueger. “Reverse one.” The drone reclaimed its original position. “Yaw left thirty degrees… now right. Good, now strafe right one meter.” Khai followed his instructions and completed the test run of the drone. “Now left one… Perfect.” He returned to the open cargo bay and pulled out the duffel bag carrying his weapon cases. He squatted down next to them. “Do we know where Orham’s cabin is from here?”

“My associate in Brooklyn couldn’t get an exact position, but it’s in there somewhere. Give me a moment…” The drone’s rotors buzzed to life again, and it zipped up a few hundred feet above him with a quiet hiss and disappeared from his sight.

Krueger opened the cases and sorted out the weapons and ammunition, fixing the MP7 to himself with its sling and placing three magazines into slots on the vest he wore over the jacket. Then he took one five-round 7.62mm NATO magazine to carry as a spare, and loaded a second into the PSG-1. He hit the charging handle and chambered the first round before switching the fire selector to SAFE and hoisting it over his other shoulder.

“Got it,” Khai said. “It’s about a half-mile southeast of you. Personnel on site. They’re armed—looks like 9mm PDWs… Hold on, there’s at least one carrying a five-five-six.”

Krueger stood up as he finished constructing the tripod for his rifle, and made adjustments to the weapon’s grip and cheek rest. “How long before you have a head count?” Then he put a combat knife into a sheath on his belt and pocketed a handful of thermite charges before starting in the direction of the cabin.

“I’ll get you a definitive figure by the time you’re there.”

Krueger moved through the dense forest, mindful of where he put his feet to avoid breaking twigs on the ground and potentially giving his position away. He slowed his movement down and maintained a lower profile as he approached a clearing, and stopped completely at its edge just as the cabin came into view; even without the scope he could identify at least half a dozen people on patrol around the lodge. Krueger decided this was as good a place as any to set up position.

He knelt down and placed the tripod on a fallen log, and rested the rifle on its cradle to peer through the scope. The men around the cabin wore hunting jackets, blue jeans, and work boots—they were either armed amateurs or trained professionals, it was impossible to tell without getting closer.

“I’m in position,” Krueger whispered into the headset receiver. “Northwest corner of the clearing. I can see seven of them from here.”

“I see you,” Khai reported. “There are nine more of them on the other side of the cabin, who knows how many more are inside.”

“I suppose we’ll find out when we’re there.” Krueger thumbed the safety off the rifle and held his finger beside the trigger. He knew the moment he squeezed he would give his location away, and he would either have to scramble to find a new post before shooting again or put as many of them down as possible with five rounds in the magazine. Either way all hell was going to break loose after the first shot. “I have a shot on their rifleman on the roof,” he noted, adjusting his angle and lining up the crosshairs.

“Hold it,” Khai said. “I’ve got movement on the east side.”

Krueger pulled away from the scope to look in the direction she noted. “Reinforcements?”

Khai took a moment to study the newcomers. “Not likely.”

Krueger turned his rifle in that same direction to get a better look at them. After a second or two he spotted one of them—clad in black tactical gear and a face mask and carrying a bullpup automatic rifle he couldn’t identify. He spotted two more, similarly armed and dressed. “Then they’re here for the same reason we are..! How many?”

“I see eight of them.” Khai tried to keep herself from panicking.

Krueger sighted one of the newcomers in black gear and inhaled as he lined the crosshairs. He slipped his finger in front of the trigger and slowly exhaled as he braced the rifle against his shoulder. He shut one eye and squeezed the trigger.

The crack of the rifle split the afternoon air in two as he watched his target fall through the scope. In that instant the other intruders dropped to the floor; he didn’t stay there long enough to see what happened next. He pulled the rifle away and turned over onto his back behind the log as he imagined what would follow:

Orham’s men would turn toward the direction of the gunshot, and a few would slowly advance with their weapons at the ready. They wouldn’t get too far before they crossed the intruders’ line of sight, they would open fire on Orham’s people and the two factions would start trading shots shortly afterward.

A distant pop-pop and subsequent rattling of gunfire proved him right.

Krueger kept close to the ground as he moved east to get a better angle on the intruders. He got set up and was able to fire two more times to put one down before having to relocate again. He retraced his steps and headed west, circling around the back of the cabin to get a better shots on Orham’s forces.

He raised the rifle just in time to watch one of the intruders sneak up behind one of them and plunge a shiny piece of metal—maybe a large knife or machete—into his neck and toss him aside on the way toward what looked like a basement entrance. This intruder was different from the others he saw earlier. The gear was similar enough but this one wore a half-mask that covered the mouth and nose, and wore dark sunglasses partially obscured by side bangs. The rest of the intruder’s dark brown hair was tied in a braid that came down past the shoulder blades.

He could see now, this intruder—a woman judging by her hair and the way she moved and filled her pants—was a cut above the others with her. This was their leader, a deadly professional. “Khai, do you see this? West side of the cabin. “I think I just found another specialist.”

“There’s more of you out there?” she said, her voice in his ear as if she were right beside him.

“No,” he replied, standing up and firing twice at the other specialist. She slipped behind cover after the first impact in a wall near her. “There’s only one of me.” He swapped the spent magazine for a fresh one and raised the rifle to his eye again to reacquire her, but she was gone, out of sight to breach the cabin from some other entrance. “They’ve made it to the cabin,” he said, placing the rifle on the ground and loading his MP7. “No time to fight them from afar, I have to get there now..!” Krueger sprang out of cover and rushed for the basement entrance.

He had to stop behind a wide tree to exchange fire with one of the intruders. After putting him down with two bursts from his carbine he broke from cover again and made it to the basement door, where he placed one of his thermite charges onto the lock to cut into the space. He engaged another of the intruders from behind partial cover as the compound burned through the metal.

~~~~

Orham’s forces began retreating back into the cabin. One of them held a two-way radio up to his mouth as he led two more into the house via a second-floor balcony. “We’re getting killed up here,” he said into the receiver. “Hurry the hell up and finish whatever you’re doing!”

“They’re breathing down my neck too,” Orham said on the other side. There’s one outside trying to cut into the basement as we speak.”

“When this is over, we’re gonna have to have a serious talk about your definition of easy money.”

“You think I expected them to send professionals? I don’t deal with this high-level black ops shit.”

“You started to deal in high-level black ops shit when you bugged that Simon guy’s office. You should have known they’d come with the steam roller.”

During their exchange, the professional made her way to the balcony. Slowly, deliberately, she pulled herself up and over the rail into a handstand and front walkover to clear the banister and land silently on the other side. She stayed low as she approached the three of them from behind and placed her hand on the hilt of a wakizashi sword, drawing it from its scabbard on her left hip slowly. In a flash she cupped her hand over the mouth of the man closest to her and thrust the short blade through his back and out his chest. As he hit the floor the others turned to face her; the first was cut down by a lightning-fast forehand diagonal slice and high horizontal one, the second was floored by a spinning side kick before he could point his gun and fire. The assassin turned the blade downward and plunged it into the man’s chest with both hands and remained there until he lost consciousness beneath her.

“What was that?” Orham’s voice coming through the walkie-talkie.

The assassin looked over to the radio and picked it up.

“Hello?”

She thumbed the power switch off and discarded the device as she pulled her sword from her victim. She cleared the blood from the blade with a flick of her wrist and returned it to its sheath before activating her own communicator. “It’s Nomad,” she said. “I’m inside on the top floor.”

“Copy,” one of the answered. “The basement entrance is locked down; we’ve taken casualties and can’t provide assistance. They’ve got somebody there, he’s trained and trained well.”

“Finish the others and fall back to secure our exit,” she commanded. She slid a fresh magazine into a Five-seven USG and chambered the first round. “He’s mine.”

~~~~

“It looks like they’re pulling away,” Khai said. “One came in through a second-floor window, probably stayed behind to get the data.”

Krueger knew who she was talking about. “Then we better beat her to it.”

“Once you’re inside I won’t have eyes on you anymore. You’ll be on your own.”

“Then I won’t take long.” He stacked up against the doorway and clutched his USP to his chest.

“Good luck in there.”

Through his gloves he gripped the door’s edge with his fingertips and flung it open, staying behind to wait for gunfire. When none came his way, he raised the weapon and crossed the doorway. “Heimdallr,” he called. “Miles Orham!”

Orham scrambled to his feet and went for the stairwell.

Krueger took off in a sprint after the young man, throwing all one hundred and seventy-six pounds of himself into Orham and careening into the wall. “I’m not getting paid to hurt you,” he warned, “so don’t make me..!”

“You don’t want to do that!” Orham pleaded. He was a small-framed guy young enough to be Krueger’s son with fair skin and light brown hair.

“And why is that?”

“You ever hear of a Dead Man’s Trigger? The moment I flatline, the servers dump their memory. Then they’re destroyed.”

Krueger quickly scanned the room around them, noting plastic gallon-jugs loaded with what he concluded was either water or a caustic solution fixed to the walls behind the computers. The jugs were wired to small explosive charges.

“And then there’s the encryption. If you want the data, your best bet is to keep me alive.”

“I hate to say it,” Khai noted, “but he’s right.”

Krueger exhaled a quiet sigh of relief that she could at least hear what was going on inside. “Then get to work and start decrypting.”

“Like hell I will—!”

Krueger grabbed Orham’s right hand and bent one of his fingers back with his thumb, nearly breaking it.

“Okay, okay!” he yelped. “Yes, I will..!” He led Krueger back across the room to his workstation. “Jesus,” he winced rubbing the finger with his other hand. “I’m a righty you know, I can’t work with a broken hand.”

“Then you better learn with your left,” he commented.

~~~~

Nomad watched their exchange from the shadows behind a table. When the time was right she slowly peered around its corner and raised her Five-seven, placing the sights over Krueger.

Krueger inserted the USB antenna into Orham’s workstation and turned to face the stairwell. “Transmitter is in,” he said. “Are you getting it?”

Nomad caught a glimpse of his profile as she heard him speak. Realizing who it was standing before her, she lowered the gun. She couldn’t bring herself to kill him but she still had a job to do; she slowly stood up and raised the gun again, pointing it at Orham.

“I’m getting everything,” Khai said. “ETA to completion, sixty seconds—”

They were interrupted by the loud crack of a handgun firing in a confined space. In that instant Krueger dove to his right and pointed his own gun at the source, but was too late. Nomad was already on the move, bounding over the table and heading toward the stairwell.

Krueger shot a quick glance over to where Orham sat, now slumped over his workstation face-down, blood on the monitor. More of it leaked out of the exit wound in his forehead onto the keyboard. How long had she been there? How much of their exchange did she hear? And why didn’t she shoot him? “Khai,” he exclaimed as he got to his feet. “She just took Orham out, I’m in pursuit..!”

He sprang off the floor and chased her up the stairs, nearly tripping over the severed arm of one of the late Orham’s men as he turned the corner. She moved like the perfect predator, bounding effortlessly over overturned chairs and tables, skipping over bodies and seemingly flying from one end of the ground floor to the other, nimble in a way Krueger hadn’t been for years. He managed to keep up with her, but eventually she pulled away from him as he turned the corner of another stairwell.

He made it to the second floor and advanced on a closed door with his handgun raised. He had no sooner crossed it than had the gun kicked from his hands across the room. He wove under a second kick and returned fire with a right hook which she blocked, and he caught the jab she threw in response before firing a knee into her ribs to get some distance. He scanned the room around them, noting the balcony behind her and the other three bodies on the floor in the room with them, all the while keeping an eye on the sword on her hip. He held his hand over his knife, wondering why she didn’t use it earlier; her still-covered face and eyes weren’t giving him any clues.

Krueger unsheathed the weapon and held it with its blade pointed down in front of his face; Nomad replied by raising both her hands into an open-handed fighting stance. He sprang toward her and started swinging, changing the direction of the blade with each attack but still failing to cut her as she wove between each of them. Finally, she stopped the swing of his weapon with a quick strike to his forearm before taking hold of his wrist and pressing the blade of her other hand against the flat of the knife to pry it from his grip and fling it across the room. She reestablished their distance with a side kick to his stomach.

As Krueger lurched backward and reclaimed his footing it became clearer to him: she wasn’t trying to kill him. She was testing him, measuring her skills against his. She had accomplished her mission already—now that she was done with work, she took some time to play before leaving.

“Do you have… the slightest idea,” Krueger uttered between breaths, “what you just cost me?” He engaged Nomad again, exchanging a string of close-quarters fist, palm, and elbow strikes that she defended and retaliated against which he in turn defended against. Deadlocked between countered strikes she backed away to lead him toward the center of the room before she restrained his hands and swept him to the floor, gaining a position on top of him, crossing her wrists over his throat and grabbing hold of his jacket collar with each hand to press the blades of her hands into his neck and cut off his brain’s supply of oxygen.

Krueger armed a thermite charge and placed it in her jacket pocket before she could lock the choke in. Once she realized what happened she sprang to her feet and cast the jacket to the corner of the room where it burst into flames. Under the jacket she wore a dark green A-shirt that highlighted her toned, feminine figure.

Krueger stood back up to look at her again, and froze when he recognized the half-sleeve of dense tiger stripes tattooed on her left arm and shoulder, identical to his own. It all made sense now, the reason she didn’t take any of the numerous opportunities she had to kill or maim him, why he couldn’t beat her in hand-to-hand combat. It was her. She was the other specialist.

Nomad relaxed her stance when she acknowledged the expression in his eyes. “When I heard I would be competing with another professional,” she began in her native accent, “I didn’t want it to be you.” She pulled her mask down to reveal her round face and full lips to him, and discarded her dark lenses to look at him with her icy blue eyes. “But in a way, I’m happy it was…” She shifted her weight to one side and placed one hand on her hip. “How long has it been, Archangel?”

Since 2012, when the only other four people on earth with those tattoos were killed near the Laos-Cambodia border. “That’s not my name anymore, Seza.”

“It is,” Seza said, taking a few measured steps toward him. “That’s what the others called you.” She stood inches from him, looking up into his eyes. “That’s what I first called you…” she whispered, bringing her hands up around the base of his neck and pulling herself against him as her lips parted. “Remember?”

She gave him a long, heated kiss, holding him close with her arms wrapped completely around him. He hesitated at first, but reciprocated her passion as all the years between now and those nights they spent together evaporated. Their embrace escalated, his hands riding up her thighs and her tongue between his lips. Krueger’s hands came to a stop on her hips before he gently pushed her away to break them up and come back to his senses. He let his forehead touch hers for a moment as he exhaled and fought to reclaim himself before opening his eyes again. “Who sent you here?” he finally asked her. “Why did they want Orham dead?”

“You know I won’t share that,” she said. Her disappointment at his ending their embrace prematurely was there for half an instant before vanishing back behind her eyes. Her left hand still lingered on his belt.

“Of course,” he noted. “Rules of the trade.” He backed away from her, letting her hand fall away from him. “Good to see you’ve held onto what I taught you. I’d even say in some ways you’ve outgrown me.” He motioned the carnage around them. “Who gave you the blade?”

Seza crossed her arms. “Takahashi didn’t need it after I killed him,” she replied, straight-faced.

Even back then she was running circles around him. Krueger was proud of her; she had grown out of his shadow into a capable fighter and iron-willed person. But still he feared for her safety. “Walk away, Seza,” he said to her. “Not just from this cabin, but from all of this. The life, the taking work for dangerous people, all of it. Don’t let what happened to the others happen to you too.”

After all these years, here he was, still trying to protect her. She shut her eyes and let a breath out to suppress the feelings she still had for him. “I can’t walk away,” she said. “Not after what happened to them.” She shot a look over her shoulder in response to the revving of a small engine. “I thought you would understand that, Archangel.” Then she turned on her heel and sprinted for the balcony behind her, vaulting clear over banister and falling out of Krueger’s sight.

Krueger darted to the lookout after her, leaning over the rail to watch her speed away on the back of a dirt bike driven by one of her associates. The two of them disappeared into the trees over the wail of the cycle, leaving Krueger behind among the wreckage.

“Who’s she?” Khai finally inquired after ten seconds of silence.

In all of that time, he’d forgotten she was listening in. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it.” In his mind’s eye she could see her accusatory glare. “So, who’s she?”

Krueger frowned as he looked to the distance, in the direction Seza took off. “We… worked together once.” He turned back around to reclaim his knife and handgun from opposite sides of the room while what remained of Seza’s jacket smoldered in the corner.

“That certainly is one way to put it…”

Krueger didn’t respond to her. He headed downstairs for a fire extinguisher to stop the jacket from starting a forest fire, and when he was done he started for the exit, heading back to reclaim his sniper rifle and tripod before leaving.

~~~~

Not a single word was spoken between the two of them during their three-hour trip back. They only spoke again after coming face-to-face outside the Armory in lower Manhattan.

“What did we get from Orham’s servers?” Krueger finally asked.

Khai took a breath. “One and a half percent,” she said. “It’ll be some time before whatever we can salvage becomes useful, but given the scope of what we lost…” Khai shifted her gaze to avoid his eyes and shook her head, defeated. “I don’t think it’ll make a difference, honestly.”

“I suppose we’ll wait and see,” he noted, matching her tone. He stood there looking at her, wanting to apologize to her. For not being good enough, for letting Orham die, for Seza, for anything. For everything. But he didn’t know where to even begin. So instead he turned away. “Take care, Miss Khai.”

Khai watched him leave. She could see the pain in his expression but didn’t act fast enough to offer consolation. She left the loaded van with the armory technicians and went for her own car.

She didn’t return to the Branch office on Sixth Avenue. She went up the Henry Hudson Parkway on the west side and headed straight home to Westchester. Once there she stepped out of her boots and socks and stayed a moment in the foyer to enjoy the heat radiating from the floor tiles before heading up the spiral stairs and washing her face in the bathroom.

She traded her sweater for a cozier t-shirt and returned to the kitchen, replacing the water and filter in her coffee maker and spooning fresh coffee grounds into it. She hit the switch and placed her favorite mug under the spout, then went to her patio door and wrapped her arms around herself while she watched the sun set behind the trees and delayed making the phone call she was dreading.

She replayed the day’s events over and again in her head until the coffee maker’s gurgling called her attention to it once again. She shut the machine off and retrieved her full mug before returning to her spot at the patio door. She held the mug with both hands and sipped slowly, finding joy in the heels of the day she just had. She even considered spiking it with Irish cream but opted out, since she needed to remain clear-headed for her conference with him.

When she finally mustered the courage to dial her boss, she took a seat at the kitchen table and held the phone to her ear.

“There’s been a complication, sir,” she said. Her tone was flat to keep it from wobbling. “Another group arrived about the same time we did, and in the fight that followed… we unfortunately lost the data.”

The voice that responded was a fruity, sonorous, masculine baritone. “Do we know who they were with?” There wasn’t a trace of reprimand in the way he spoke to her.

“No, sir. As far as I can tell they were independent contractors.”

“And we don’t know who it was that hired them…”

Khai swallowed. “No, sir.”

After an agonizing seven-second silence, the voice on the other side spoke again. “Until we can prove otherwise, we have to assume this was an inside job,” the voice said. “Keep a closer watch on Simon. Monitor his emails and phone records, and forward anything you find suspicious to me or the other Partners.”

“Understood,” Khai nodded. She took from her coffee mug and asked a follow-up question. “What about our specialist?”

The voice considered for a moment. “I think it’s time we brought him up to speed. Let him know to whom you report, and have him stand by for further instructions.”

“Yes, sir.”

“None of this is your fault, Miss Khai,” the voice reassured her. “Remember that. And remember there’s no one I and the others trust more to solve this problem than you. I have faith you’ll get to the bottom of this, and regain control of the situation.”

Khai let out a quiet sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll speak to you again soon. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Good night, Mr. Hayden.” Khai hit the button to end the call and stood back up, reclaiming her spot at the patio door with her coffee as she watched the last of the sun’s rays disappear completely.

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