#the comet detonator

[nondelphic]

sci-fi writers will spend two weeks researching quantum physics just to write one paragraph, but when it comes to naming planets? oh, that’s just Bobtron-7.

[nik0nk1]

Beerus![Name]

Conqueror’s Craving

Humor, Crack, OP![Name], Food-Obsessed [Name], Mark is Traumatized, Guardian of the Globe vs. [Name], Canon Divergence, [Name] Breaks the Plot, Nolan is Confused, Timeline is season two!

Mark Grayson x Reader

Word count: 962 words

•|~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|•

Mark's first mistake was thinking he even stood a chance.

The sky screamed as the invader arrived in the city.

One moment, the city was bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun. The next, a comet-like blur tore through the clouds, slamming into the streets below with a force that shattered windows for miles. The shockwave alone flipped cars like toys and sent civilians scrambling for cover.

Mark had been in the middle of patrol when the call came in.

"High-priority threat inbound—potential Viltrumite. Invincible, do not engage alone!"

He had barely processed the words before the explosion rattled the city. And now, standing in the ruins of a downtown intersection, he saw her.

A woman, young-looking but radiating an overwhelming presence. She stood in the middle of the devastation she’d caused, arms crossed, expression bored. Her Viltrumite uniform was pristine—untouched by the destruction around her.

Mark gulped. He’d fought Viltrumites before. His dad, Thragg’s soldiers—he knew what he was up against.

This woman, though? She didn’t even look interested in a fight.

And that scared him more than anything.

She sighed, rolling her shoulders. “Alright, let’s get this over with. Nolan’s taking way too long.”

Then she moved.

The attack was instant.

A flick of her wrist sent an entire truck careening into a building. A casual kick flipped an armored car as if it weighed nothing. Civilians screamed and ran in every direction, but [Name] wasn’t concerned with them.

The Guardians of the Globe arrived within seconds, launching a coordinated strike. Energy blasts, brute force, everything they had—attacks rained down from every direction.

None of it mattered.

[Name] moved through the chaos effortlessly, dodging, countering, barely paying attention. It was like watching someone halfheartedly swatting at flies.

Rex Splode hurled explosive disks at her. She caught one midair, inspected it with mild curiosity, then crushed it in her palm before it could detonate.

Dupli-Kate tried to surround her with multiple clones, attempting to overwhelm her with sheer numbers. [Name] sighed and blurred forward, wiping out half of them in an instant. The real Kate barely dodged in time.

Shrinking Rae zipped around, landing precise blows at pressure points that should have at least staggered a Viltrumite. [Name] merely blinked, unimpressed, before swatting her out of the air like a bug.

Bulletproof charged next, fists coated in kinetic energy, swinging with all his strength. His punches landed with zero effect. He hesitated for half a second too long.

[Name] grabbed his face and slammed him into the pavement.

She was having fun.

Mark shot forward, fists clenched. He needed to stop this before it got worse.

"HEY!"

[Name] turned, spotting him just as he swung. Their fists collided—except only one of them felt it.

Pain shot up Mark’s arm as if he had just punched solid steel. He barely had time to process that before she retaliated. A brutal uppercut sent him rocketing into the sky. His vision blurred, but his instincts forced him to recover midair.

“Okay—ow.” He shook his head, steeling himself. She was stronger than him. Way stronger. But he couldn’t back down.

He dove, aiming for her blind spot. He struck her side, managing to stagger her. Barely.

[Name] blinked, then grinned.

"Oh, you’re actually putting in effort. Cute."

Before he could react, she grabbed him by the leg and swung him like a ragdoll, slamming him through the pavement.

Pain. Everything hurt.

She wasn’t done.

Mark barely registered being launched again, his body crashing through several buildings before—

CRASH!

A vending machine.

The impact shattered the glass and left him slumped against the broken machine, groaning in pain.

Then, something soft landed in his lap.

A bag of Cheetos.

Open.

Mark barely had the energy to process how absurd that was before a blur of movement was in front of him.

[Name] crouched down, staring intensely.

At the Cheetos.

Mark tensed, expecting another attack—but instead, she sniffed the air.

Paused.

Sniffed again.

Without hesitation, she snatched the bag from his lap and shoved a handful into her mouth.

Mark watched in absolute disbelief as the planetary threat in front of him sat there, chewing.

She froze mid-bite. Her pupils dilated. Her breathing slowed.

The world stood still.

Then she swallowed. Slowly, dramatically.

[Name] stared at the bag. Then at Mark. Then back at the bag.

Mark, still too stunned to function, croaked, “...What?”

[Name] shot to her feet, pointing at him.

"This... THIS is why Nolan hasn’t conquered Earth yet."

Mark’s brain malfunctioned. “...What?!”

She turned toward the ruined skyline, gripping the Cheetos like a sacred artifact.

"The food," she whispered. "Earth’s food is amazing. That’s why he’s keeping this planet. His hording all this"

Mark felt like he was having a stroke. His ribs were broken, his vision was spinning, and now this goddamn lunatic was having an existential crisis over Cheetos?!

“What the hell are you talking about?!”

[Name] ignored him, lost in her own revelation.

She took another dramatic bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then, with the confidence of someone declaring war, she turned back to him.

"Alright. Change of plans. This planet is mine now."

Mark stared, horrified. His fight-or-flight instincts were completely fried. “Wait—WHAT?!”

[Name] casually tossed the now-empty bag over her shoulder. "You heard me. Earth’s mine now. Nolan’s been slacking, so I’m taking over. Oh I'm [Name] by the way."

She introduced and then stretched, completely unconcerned about the damage she’d caused. "Man, I was this close to just wiping out the city. Good thing I found this first."

She gestured to the Cheetos dust on her fingers like it was the most important discovery of the century.

Mark just sat there, completely done. His body ached, his brain hurt, and now this woman was claiming his entire planet because she liked its snacks.

"...I'm gonna pass out."

And then he did.

Author's note: HOPE YA ALL LIKE IT FJJDDJDJD

Just request some Mark Grayson x Reader scenario and I'll try to make some djjbddjddjdsjdsj.

@invoncible is the inspo of this one shot lol

[https-bobreynolds]

enter the sun and the spell

pairing: robert ‘bob’ reynolds/sentry x enchantress! reader

summary: wouldn’t be a part of a superhero team without dramatic, grand entrances.

author’s note: AAAAAAAA I ABSOLUTELY LOVE ACTION SEQUENCE FICS!!! let me know if i should do more of it🥺

everything’s chaos.

ava is down, shorting out and twitching. alexei is half-buried under a collapsed steel beam, protecting yelena beneath him. walker shielding himself with the last flicker of his strength, teeth grit.

red light flashes from every direction. sirens screaming. drones whirring overhead. and in the center of it all, a towering mech-god hybrid bristling with stark-grade weaponry, absorbing every hit like it’s nothing.

“we could use a little help here.” bucky growls into comms, ducking behind a crumbling pillar as plasma sears past.

another blast hits. the concrete buckles.

he mutters, “where the hell are-“

THUNDER.

not from the sky but from the air itself. like the world just inhaled.

crack. the clouds ripple apart.

light splits open the sky like a curtain tearing in reverse, golden, searing, white-hot, as a figure descends from the clouds at terminal velocity.

THE SENTRY.

glowing like a second sun. a comet wrapped in fire.

his landing impact cracks the street, sends shockwaves through the block. cars rattle. the mech stumbles. dust spirals. a sonic boom follows an instant later, late, like the world needed a second to catch up.

from the rubble, yelena groans, shielding her eyes.

walker mutters, “show-off.”

bob sentry lifts his head, eyes blazing pure energy. “heard you guys were in trouble.”

ava starts, “and where the hell’s-“

green lightning splits the ground.

it starts as a low hum, a spell igniting in the marrow of the world. runes spiral across cracked pavement in a circle, glowing from beneath.

the mech rears back, some internal system detecting something wrong, before you rise from the glowing runic seal like mist made solid.

cloak fluttering. eyes lit green-gold. hair lifted in wind that isn’t there.

your boots hit the ground with a light click.

you lift a single hand.

a chain of burning sigils erupts from your palm, wrapping around the mech’s limbs mid-strike, not restraining, but binding, with magic that whines like a violin at its limit. arcane energy threads through the metal plating like vines through stone.

the thing roars.

you cock your head slightly.

“shh,” you murmur. “the adults are talking.”

with a twist of your wrist, the bindings explode, taking both arms with them.

yelena stares. “okay, how did she just…”

“she’s channeling her,” sentry murmurs, stepping forward beside you. “just a fraction of her power.”

“yeah, well,” bucky pants, “someone better tell the bad guy it’s just a fraction, cause-“

before he finishes, you leap.

a golden platform blooms under your foot midair, you vault off it, conjure another beneath you, dancing across sigils in midair as you rain enchanted fire down from your palms. green bolts crash into the mech’s core. you flip backward through burning smoke and land beside sentry.

the mech lurches, failing.

sentry floats up again, his voice low, “you wanna finish it?”

you nod, breathless. “together?”

he offers you his hand.

magic coils around your forearm as you take it. his energy glows hot and gold.

and in one perfect motion, you and sentry lift into the sky like a rising myth, and on his count…

“now.”

he hurls you like a spell itself.

you’re a streak of emerald fire across the sky, spinning, brimming with wrath and elegance, before slamming down into the mech’s core, carving a runed spear from your palm midair and driving it straight through.

impact.

time slows.

the mech goes still, then detonates inward in a rush of imploding magic and machine.

silence.

the dust clears.

the rest of the thunderbolts* stagger to their feet.

you’re standing in the crater, one hand extended, panting, glowing. your eyes slowly dim. the runes fade. the storm calms.

and then, “still a show-off.” walker calls, brushing dust off his jacket.

you smirk as sentry lands beside you. “wouldn’t be me if i wasn’t.”

he glances at you, smiling. “you okay?”

you nod. “i didn’t burn out. not this time.”

his hand brushes yours, a moment, subtle.

“good,” he says, quietly. “i like seeing you light up the sky.”

you don’t say anything back. but your fingers curl into his just enough.

the others gather, limping, groaning, swearing.

and from the wreckage, the team walks off slowly, war-torn, victorious.

part two

tag list:

@lovetoalll

[theresattrpgforthat]

Hello Mint!

I discovered roleplaying through Lancer, and it made me love tactics with a little emergent behavior (with the occasional surprise super silly combo), the sort we also have in some tactical puzzle games like into the breach or tactical breach wizards. Do you know some tactical RPGs with combat that can almost feel like puzzles at times

THEME: Combat with Puzzles.

Hello friend! I think I have some solid recommendations here, but don't sleep on what I've already written about! You can check out some other recommendation posts at the bottom of this.

Celestial Bodies, by Charlotte Laskowski @binarystargames.

Adrift Among the Bodies of the Dead

For a generation after the calamity, the infinite dark between the stars felt cramped, crowded by refugees on ships meant for fewer people and shorter trips.  In the second generation, those who survived in their home-ships now cannibalized the metal skeletons of the less fortunate ships.  The third generation did not just expand their ships; they expanded their mecha and their operations. They fled to farther stars — populations in space stations and on surfaces booming as quickly as lives were lost in petty disputes.  The fourth generation discovered the Titans. No probe had yet reached these dead gods whose frozen bodies spanned hundreds of miles across. You are the fifth generation.

Celestial Bodies uses an inventory system that feels similar to Mausritter; you have to fit your weapons and other gear inside a grid in order to carry everything. Your “puzzle’ involves constructing your mech to work effectively in battle according to the strategy you prefer. You’re also tracking resources gained and resources used; it seems like you have to keep fighting in order to get access to the things that keep you going.

Ultraviolence Radiation, by KintaroTPC.

Ultraviolence Radiation (UVR) is an experiment in action.

Deflect bullets with a knife! Grab a guy and use him as a weapon against another guy! Take a smoke break in the middle of a hail of gunfire! Get your revenge and look cool doing it.

Featuring 100 enemies with unique Intros, Attacks and special things they do when they die! 28 Abilities to make the action hero you want to play! A rule set which takes inspiration from Beat-Em-Up arcade games and applied them to the Tabletop genre.

In Ultraviolence Radiation, one person is a player, while everyone else at the table plays the baddies. The fighter can’t use moves that draw from the same stat back-to-back; a limitation that points towards having to think carefully about what you’re going to do. There are also moves that have cooldown limitations; you can’t spam the same move, but rather have to time everything to make sure you still have access to good options. Additionally, the fighter has access to passive moves, which have no cooldown, and in some cases, might be consistently in effect. They also have interrupt moves, which can be used outside of your turn. This gives you a fairly complex list of options to choose from, which I think is an integral piece to a good combat game.

Mutation, by OneFootWall Games.

The World as we know it has changed. Two centuries from now a comet strikes Earth. This hunk of interstellar rock was an attack by some Klendathu wannabes. “Goddamn bugs whacked us, Johnny.”

It wasn’t really a comet or meteor, or even an asteroid. It was a seed bomb for terraforming sent by some alien species. This thing detonated a mile up over the Florida Keys and scattered radiation, some kind of bio-gel, and spores around the globe. It wiped out 80% of life on the surface. And we never even got to see the damn aliens…

The world was a little weird and quiet after that. But like Dr Ian Malcom in Jurassic Park says, “Life, uh, finds a way.”

A 3d6 system with a reasonable amount of crunch, distance matters in Mutation, and turns have an action economy. This plus the attacks, talents, psychic powers, skills, and gear which all constitute your character mean that you have a number of different distinct tools that can be used to overcome obstacles, especially in combat. Your character also has the opportunity to inflict and also take different conditions; having different ways to affect and damage your opponent feels like another layer of tactical precision to me.

There is a free quickstart if you want to take a peek behind the curtain before you buy.

Thrones and Threads, by OpalBreeze Games.

Throughout the land, warlords hire mercenary champions to try and dethrone one another. Once hired, these champions don cloth adornments embroidered with threads of vibrant colours that signify their allegiance. Endowed with formidable power, champions are tasked with cutting through enemy lines and destroying fortified strongholds until no obstacles remain between their forces and the enemy throne.

Thrones and Threads is a role-playing battle arena based on Songs and Sagas, product of Fari RPGs, developed and authored by René-Pier Deshaies-Gélinas.

This game comes with 5 pregenerated characters and feels very much like an arena battle; combat is front and centre. Each character has a special move that makes them unique, and many of their traits are determined by different sizes of dice. Because each character has flavoured ways of using their stats, if you are inventive in how you describe your characters’ actions, you’ll likely be able to play to your strengths.

Strike Force Omega, by potatocubed.

It is the far future. Humanity spreads across the galaxy. Led by a council of corporate interests, the Imperial Core reaps the benefits of plunder and exploitation on an unimaginable scale, teeming trillions of human beings kept docile by mass media and the never-ending war against every other sentient species humanity has encountered.

You were a soldier in that war. Not one of the grunts, given basic training and a gun and shoved towards the enemy, although you might have started there. No, you were part of Strike Force Omega. Omega, because you ended things. Given the best training and equipment, remade by your corporate masters into a terrifying god of war, and expected to achieve the impossible on a regular basis. Which you did.

Until you got out.

But war has found you, even here. Not all the threats in the corp newsrooms are overstated.

The people of these worlds are frightened, but they will defend their homes against the oncoming tides – and they will fail and they will die. Even in their millions they cannot win.

Unless…

War is what you were made for, after all. You’ve killed and destroyed for far worse causes than this, so why not take up arms one more time and maybe try to claw back a little part of your soul?

LUMEN is generally a great system for strategic combat, all about creating combos that make you feel powerful and effective. Strike Force Omega is a setting that allows you to play with both magic and technology, and it includes 6 sample campaigns, one for each enemy faction written for the setting. Since the lore and world-building is built in, your characters already have a strong reason for fighting, something that sometimes I struggle to put together in Lancer.

demon blade ultimate, by Peach Garden Games.

Take up your Demon Blade and do battle against the oppression of the imperial army, put an end to the shaded cities, and bring the people of the undercity back to the sunlight.

Demon Blade Ultimate uses the Arts Grid, a character creation and power system pioneered in the legendary Horse Girl Infinity by Jordan Cuddlefish. Choose powers from the grid, unleash powerful summoning magic, and know that nothing is truly beyond your reach.

The grid system in Demon Blade involves choosing three powers on a grid. The spaces between the thing you want to do and the thing you are good at determines the difficulty of an action. Advancement allows you to increase your strengths, making you more powerful as you play.

This game takes a lot from shounen battle anime, so expect narratives about striving to improve yourself until you can vanquish the evil that threatens your people.

Other Recommendations:

Loot, by Gila RPGs.

My Dragoon Recommendation Post.

Fantasy With Tools Recommendation Post

Weapons & Weapon Customization Recommendation Post

Spatial Puzzle Recommendations

Combat Recommendations

If you like what I do and want to leave a tip, you can always stop by my Ko-Fi page.

[masterjedilenawrites]

Handcuffed

Clone x Reader Song Lyric Fic Exchange 2024

Wolffe x reader | 4.8k words

Content: swearing, mention of weapons, brief descriptions of explosions and injuries, some arguments, push-you-away-to-protect-you trope, conflicted feelings, both parties are too stubborn for their own good, slightly hopeful ending

Lyric Prompts/Inspiration: 

Told my friends I hate you but I love you just the same. Even if it's handcuffed I'm leaving here with you. I can tell when somebody still wants me. (imgonnagetyouback, Taylor Swift)

His hand, so calloused from his pistol, softly traces hearts on my face. (I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can), Taylor Swift)

Note: Well hello again @ghostofskywalker! So happy to write another story for you, friend. Let's go with Wolffe this time, I'm feeling some angsty romance vibes with these prompts... hope you like!

Wolffe could be such a stubborn ass sometimes. You'd hate him for it if you didn't love him so much.

The ARC troopers of the 104th Battalion were currently lining up at attention in front of their Commander, their boots slapping against the newly waxed floors of the hangar bay. There were several dozen of them being called for this next mission, as well as various support staff such as civilian medics and bounty hunters and even a few Senate negotiators. They all gathered in orderly lines around Commander Wolffe to receive their orders.

You, meanwhile, stood off to the side. Out of the way. Arms crossed, mouth set, and eyes glaring across to Wolffe. If he knew you were there, stewing over yet another mission of being sidelined for no reason, he gave no indication, proceeding with his rounds as normal. As if you weren't one of the best GAR strategists this side of the Mid Rim. As if you hadn't been fondly adopted into the infamous "Wolf Pack" the second you arrived. As if you meant nothing to the hardened clone Commander, had never broken through his walls and gained his trust and seen how kind and good he was, hadn't shared several moments of vulnerability with each other and entrusted deep secrets and wild dreams, wasn't someone he had maybe probably kind of almost kissed that one time....

The memory caused you to squeeze your arms tighter together across your chest in equal parts annoyance and confusion. Wolffe trusted you. He cared for you. And he may even be attracted to you. He'd never said as much but you knew it in your heart of hearts. It wasn't wishful thinking. All the things you'd shared with him had been real. And yet, more and more he was pulling away, putting those walls back up and finding any reason possible to keep you off his missions. You had no idea why. He wouldn't talk to you, wouldn't look you in the eye.

You were over it.

"Commander Wolffe!" you addressed him as soon as he'd dismissed the troop. Soldiers and personnel hurried around the hangar to prep the ship for immediate departure. You made a beeline right through them, determined to get your way this time.

Wolffe, predictably, pretended to not hear you. He picked his way among ammunition crates and tapped at his datapad.

"Wolffe," you snapped as soon as you'd gotten yourself in his line of sight. A few nearby troopers jumped in response but Wolffe remained unperturbed.

"No, I will not be changing the mission assignments," he drawled, continuing to tap at his datapad without looking at you.

"Why not?" You set your hands on your hips and hoped you looked as fierce as you felt.

"Comet, get a recount of these thermal detonators. Anything over a thousand can be transferred to General Koon's vessel."

"On it, boss." Comet hurried over, glancing between you and the Commander uneasily before working on his new task.

Your hands clenched around your hips as your frustration built. "Oh, so that's how it's going to be, then? You're just going to ignore me? Real mature, Wolffe."

Wolffe looked up at you for the first time all day... all week really, but it's not like you were keeping track. He looked annoyed, which made you even more annoyed. You were not the problem here.

"I am preparing for a mission," he stated plainly. As if you were nothing more than a stranger. As if you didn't deserve any further explanation from him. As if he hadn't stumbled and choked over his words that one time you'd worn a nice shirt and let your hair down...

Just as quickly as he'd looked up at you, he looked back down.

"No, you're ignoring me," you huffed, stepping over quickly to snatch the datapad out of his hands. "You're not even working, just pretending... oh."

You glanced at the screen and saw a half-written message about a damaged crate. Your eyes flicked to the crate he was standing next to and saw it was, in fact, damaged, dented along the lid so it didn't close properly. Your eyes finally settled on his, trying to hide your sheepishness from him.

"So you can multitask," you shrugged.

"Give me back the datapad." Wolffe said your name with a sigh. It made your heart do a little leap.

"No." You held the device to your chest defiantly. Or perhaps childishly. "Not until you either put me on the mission or give me a good reason why I'm not."

"You're not needed." Again, another simple sentence. This was maddening.

"Not needed? I'm a strategist..."

"The strategy has already been defined."

"And what happens when it fails? Which it probably will, since I wasn't involved in creating it to begin with."

"Well aren't you so self-important."

His words struck a nerve you didn't know was exposed. He was the one who had told you to be more confident in your abilities. That your way of thinking was unique, your perspective insightful, and the GAR should utilize you more. You frowned deeply in response but couldn't find anything to say.

"Sinker, get the rest of these crates loaded. Take-off in ten."

Wolffe didn't take his gaze off you as he issued the order, and then stepped forward and plucked the datapad out of your grasp.

"And make sure this one's in our rear view when we launch."

With that, Wolffe strode away, leaving you with your bubbling emotions. And with Sinker and Comet, who decided standing beside you whistling about how awkward that was was more important than finishing their loading assignments.

"Ugh," you growled through their comments. "He's so... just so... Ugh, I hate him!"

You couldn't help but stomp your foot a little before marching off. You might as well embrace the juvenile side of your tantrum. It wasn't like Wolffe had bothered to look back at you. You couldn't figure out what his deal was, other than perhaps pride? Maybe he had come up with the mission plans and didn't want you showing him up? Or maybe all those things he'd said to you about confidence and ownership had been a lie, and you actually weren't that useful and he didn't know how else to get you to take the hint?

Kriff it, you were going to get on that ship and demand an explanation for why he was suddenly keeping you at arms' length. You'd choke it out of him if you had to.

"General Koon!" You hurried over to the opposite side of the hangar, where the Jedi had just dismissed his own platoon and was headed off elsewhere. He nodded toward you in friendly acknowledgement, though he continued on his journey without falter.

"Sir, I was wondering if I could be assigned to the Felucia mission? Specifically on the Conquest."

Plo Koon gave you a sideways glance. "I have put Commander Wolffe in charge of the Conquest assignments."

"Yes, and he's benched me, sir. Again."

Plo finally slowed his walk and turned to better face you. "I'm sure he has his reasons."

"And I'd very much like to go aboard to find out what they are, sir."

You could never really tell whether the Jedi smiled, but you had a feeling he was at least sporting a smirk of some kind under his facial apparatus. He stopped walking altogether and folded his arms neatly.

"I trust Wolffe's judgement and won't undermine his authority. He and I need to be a united effort on this mission."

You tried not to let your displeasure show on your face. Damn General Koon and his sensibleness.

But then the Jedi cleared his throat. "But, if someone were determined to get on the Conquest, they need only to give the boarding code 99001 to the protocol droid by the cargo hold."

He patted your shoulder and moved past you, on to his side of the mission, and you grinned after him. Bless General Koon and his insightfulness.

* * *

You timed your boarding onto the ship perfectly, not raising any suspicion or alarm bells, settling into the cargo hold moments before takeoff. Once you felt the familiar sway of the ship jumping into hyperspeed, you quickly picked your way through crates and crawled out the astromech service door. From there, it was a short jog through the various hallways to get to the bridge.

Along the way, the strategist within you started preparing what to say to Wolffe. You'd need to make sure he'd listen to you and not immediately throw you in some corner of the ship, out of the way. And you couldn't come across so angry that he'd put up his walls and refuse to communicate, as he was known to do. But also he still needed to know that you were angry, just enough to maybe feel bad. If he cared about your feelings. Which you were fairly certain existed. About 70% certain. Maybe not the ideal odds to hinge a plan on, you realized a little too late. Oh well.

You ended up coming across him in a hallway a few turns away from the bridge. You halted in surprise, and he as well. He was flanked by Comet and Boost and thankfully had his helmet on, as you could only imagine the displeased grimace that lied underneath.

"We need to talk," you blurted out, a far cry from the careful words you'd been preparing.

"What... what are you doing here?" he sputtered. 

"As I said," you tried to keep your voice level but firm, "we need to talk."

"You violated my direct orders and... and... now you're putting the mission at risk." He was stuttering a bit, likely at a loss for words, having been caught off guard like this.

"Oh please. You already put the mission at risk by not consulting me. Which, by the way, I have some questions about the tactics being used, once you let me know what your deal is."

Comet and Boost were inching backward. Wolffe caught their movement and snapped his fingers at them.

"Get her in an escape pod and set the coordinates back to Coruscant. I want her off this ship as soon as we're out of hyperspace."

The two clones looked at each other with tense shoulders.

"Uh, I'd rather not get involved in this," said Comet.

"Yeah, I think we're needed on the bridge, actually," said Boost.

"Right, yes, we're needed immediately."

"You are not--" Wolffe started to say but the poor troopers were already hurrying away. He raised his hand toward his head as if he'd wanted to pinch his nose and realized there was a helmet in the way. He shook himself with a growl.Oh no, he was far more upset than you thought he'd be.

"Kriff. I don't have time for this. Just... get somewhere safe for now."

He waved a dismissive hand at you before marching off in the opposite direction.

On the lefthand side of the hall, a protocol droid was just exiting out of a supply closet. Perfect. You ran forward and shoved Wolffe through.

"What the f--"

"Wolffe," you said as calmly as possible. The door hissed shut behind you and you smoothed back some stray strands of hair along your temple. You were going to take a different approach this time. "Please. I just need to know... You said I wasn't needed on this mission. But it hasn't just been this mission. It's been a couple now and..."

You took in a deep breath, feeling a lump forming in your throat for some reason.

"And now I'm wondering if I've ever been needed. Have any of my plans actually worked, or was it luck? Did I ever really come up with anything clever or did I say the obvious and you spared me the embarrassment by pretending otherwise?"

Wolffe was silent. You stared at his helmet, imagining the handsome and scarred face within. Was your tactic working? Was he softening under there? Or had you only caused him to retreat even further?

"I'll send one of the shinies to escort you off the ship."

Retreat it was, then. Your stomach twisted at your failed attempt to get through to him. You felt silly, going through all this trouble of sneaking around, insubordination, pushing him into a closet... all for what? Validation? Or was it to confirm something else? That 30% of uncertainty that existed in the depths of your heart made you wonder. 

Wolffe hit the button and the door swooshed back open. He stepped around you to pass through.

"Did you ever like me at all?" you asked quietly, and he paused beside you. "Or did I misread that, too?"

If Wolffe had an answer to that, he didn't get the chance to surprise you with it. First, there was the familiar pull in the surrounding air, the ship coming out of hyperspeed. Then, a beat. A mere moment of oblivious peace where you were just able to look up and find he was looking back at you. And then finally, chaos.

The ship suddenly lurched, throwing the two of you out into the hallway. Sirens started blaring and the lights flickered wildly for a few seconds before going out all together. Strips of red emergency lights clicked on, casting eerie shadows all around. There were frantic shouts and crackled comms messages going off between the siren blares. You froze where you'd fallen in a crouched position on the floor, one of your knees throbbing from the impact.

"Sinker, what's happened?" Wolffe, on the other hand, was still standing upright. He yelled into his commlink while looking up and down the hall as if the answers he sought were hanging in the air.

"Minefield, sir!" came the trooper's garbled reply. "Launched right into it!"

Your eyeballs felt like they were going to pop right out of your head.

"You approached from the north side of the planet?" you asked incredulously while picking yourself off the floor. Your voice was several octaves higher than normal. "Their defenses are stronger there."

"Yes," Wolffe sounded annoyed. "And General Koon approached with a fleet from the south, where their defenses were weaker. Twenty minutes ahead. They should've moved most of their forces to fortify by the time we got here..."

"And if you had let me in on the strategy meetings, I would've told you they'd leave a minefield behind to keep this sector secure."

"Like you would've known that."

"Of course I would have! They're operating a Class-VII Mine Drifter and unevenly dividing their forces between hemispheres. It's a classic MILDEC set-up."

The ship jerked again, sending you fully across the hall until you slammed up against the wall. Your bodies slowly drifted up the wall until it was no longer "up" but "on." The hallway was rotating. The ship was falling apart.

Sinker's voice came through the comms again and explained how things were looking. Half of the ship was already gone, blown off of the main hull and floating in open space with no chance of survivors. The remaining half was dead in the water, but thankfully still contained a means to evacuate. Wolffe quickly barked out his orders for all troops take the main hall down to the escape pods.

Wolffe was inches away from you as you both shifted to your knees on the rotating floor. His helmet was trained in your direction. You swore you could feel his sharp gaze penetrating through the plastoid like a laser. "You need to get to the escape pods. Now."

There was panic in his voice; no amount of helmet filtration could mask the edge in it. It wasn't like the hysteria you were starting to feel rise up from your stomach. It was much more intense and focused. You almost turned tail immediately to follow the order, but some sort of intuition kept you by his side. 

"We need to get to the escape pods," you clarified. And there it was. Wolffe glanced behind him, in the direction of the bridge. Your heart sunk before he could even turn back around and explain.

"They'll need help navigating the minefield and debris if they stand a chance of getting out of here."

You shook your head in confusion. "What... what are you saying? Help navigating how?"

"From the bridge."

"You... no... No! That's crazy!"

You found yourself reaching out to grip his arm, to keep him from leaving. But he shook from your grasp with what looked like a sigh from the movement of his shoulders, though you couldn't quite hear it over the sirens that continued to ring out. 

"I'm the Commander. I go down with the ship." 

"Wolffe!"

"Please. Go!"

He shakily got to his feet, a hand braced against what was formerly the floor and was now perfectly vertical but creeping ever so slightly forward, soon to become the ceiling if you stuck around any longer. Keeping his hand out for balance, he turned himself around, careful to not slip or trip on the new floor that was mired with control panels and gaps for doorways and random objects that had fallen loose from their intended positions.

He was either crazy or valiant, you didn't have the time to decide which. There was no way you were letting him go through with this. Not when there were plenty of other options. You briefly wondered whether your previous concerns about not being good enough were invalid, given the circumstances. Wolffe was the one barreling forward, insisting on a noble sacrifice without pausing to consider alternatives. While you were being strategic. So why hadn't he been including you on missions?

But then a flash caught your eyes and you refocused on the situation at hand. Handcuffs. A shiny pair dangling slightly from the back of Wolffe's belt. A plan immediately clicked into place, though you weren't sure it was so much a plan as it was a desperate attempt to stop this crazy, stubborn asshole from pushing away from you again. Regardless, you promptly jumped forward, yanked the handcuffs off his belt, and snapped one binder onto your wrist and the other on the one Wolffe had propped against the wall. All before Wolffe could properly reorient himself to follow what was happening.

"What are you--"

"Come on," you instructed, pulling your combined wrists to accentuate your point. "Escape is this way."

"You know I can just unlock them," he said from behind you, as you had now turned and were trying to pull him down the hallway.

"I put the pin in my bra."

You hadn't actually, but Wolffe didn't double-check his belt, didn't doubt you at all. Interesting. Instead, he only resisted your tugging with a huffed, "We don't have time for this."

The ship lurched yet again, and this time you could hear an accompanying boom. Another mine hit.

"No, we don't have time," you said with a pointed look over your shoulder.

"The escape pods are no use if--"

"There's a pattern to how the Class-VII lays its mines," you hurriedly talked over him. Ideally you'd think through all nine of the ideas you had before settling on a plan of action, but in such a pinch, the first would have to do. "All I need is a visual on its direction and I can chart a path out of the field. From the pods."

"And the debris from the ship? How are you navigating out of that?"

"That's where you and your boys' training comes in. They don't call you the Wolf Pack as a joke, do they?"

You sported a playful smirk and gave one last tug on the binders. This time, Wolffe followed.

As the two of you ran, leaping over doorways, banking around corners, slipping and stumbling constantly, the alarms cut out and the strip lights wavered in their luminosity. But most inconveniently, the air grew stale and thin. It wasn't long before you had a harder time keeping up and Wolffe was the one pulling you.

"The backup systems must be failing," Wolffe said, slowing down so you could catch your breath. "No air."

"No shit," you panted. "How much further?"

Wolffe didn't answer. You could only see the shadow of his helmeted head shake as he rested one hand on his hip and kept the one joined to yours limp by his side. After you tried taking a few deep breaths to no avail, he then removed his helmet and placed it over your head.

You'd always wondered what it was like to wear a clone trooper helmet. Wolffe had told you once they were unique to each clone, more than whatever paint job they put on the outside. It shaped and molded to their heads, picked up their smell, became as intimate and familiar an item as underwear or shoes might. You hoped you'd have a moment to really revel in wearing Wolffe's soon, but first you needed to breathe.

It was instant relief to breathe through the helmet's filters. And though you knew it wouldn't last long while the air continued to thin, the moment of relief was ruined a lot sooner than you thought. Another sudden lurch to the ship, the hall you were now in tilting forward so you started to slide. You clutched at Wolffe's arm as you careened toward a doorway in the floor and tumbled through. The door opened and you spilled into the room, one of the dorms. Bunks had all toppled into a pile on the floor and now the two of you joined the mess. Various parts of your body were now throbbing in pain, your limbs all tangled in the metal bunks. You both struggled to get yourselves standing atop the pile, especially while you were still handcuffed, but the room was too large and there was simply no hope at reaching the doorway back into the hall. You were trapped.

One of your hands was bleeding from a cut. You pressed it against your leg, accidentally tugging at Wolffe as you moved so he noticed. He inched closer, balancing along a lattice of metal poles, and started to remove his gloves to put over your hands instead.

"This is exactly why I didn't want you here."

Though Wolffe was facing you, the room was far too dark to get a read on his expression. His voice, however, was laced with distress.

"Oh, this exact situation is why? Got it." You almost laughed. This was as close as you'd come to your questions finally getting answered and it sounded insane.

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean, Wolffe? What reason could you possibly have for fucking with my career and my self worth and--"

"I wanted you safe!"

To your surprise, Wolffe firmly clasped the sides of your arms as soon as he was done fixing his gloves onto your hands.

"I... kriff." He hung his head for a moment before looking back up. You desperately wanted to turn on the helmet's flashlight to see him better. "Things are getting worse. You know that. Every day, every battle. More loss. I couldn't stand the thought of something happening to you."

Your mind hummed as if it had just been filled with the details of a new mission, thoughts fracturing off into possible tactics and approaches. You were now 100% sure he had feelings for you, no margin of error. But instead of confessing to you, he had pushed you away. Made you wonder if you had been the problem. Put his men in danger by not using your expertise. Why hadn't he just talked to you? What would have otherwise been a thrilling thing to hear, that your feelings were requited, was now mired with a sting of disappointment.

You also noted a subtle shift beneath your feet. It could simply have been the bunks sliding from your weight, or it could be the ship turning again. You chose not to comment on it just yet, needing to address at least one thing with Wolffe now while you could.

"Why couldn't you have told me this sooner?"

"Would you have listened?"

"Of course."

"Please, you're the most stubborn person I know," he scoffed.

"Me?!"

"Yes, you. Just couldn't stay off this mission, could you." He didn't sound as upset at the thought of you being here as he had earlier. If anything, he seemed cheeky. You responded in kind.

"Well I had to handcuff and trap you in a room to get you to answer a simple question. So who's really the stubborn one here?"

"Ah, so this was all planned then, huh?"

You chuckled, an odd sound through the helmet. "Yep, you know me. I've always got a plan."

"Hmm. Got one to get us out of here?"

You smirked, though you knew he couldn't see it. "As a matter of fact, I do. Better hold on to something."

The room had continued to shift. Wolffe had likely felt it too after a while but you liked to believe you impressed him with your psychic timing. Though, come to think of it, he was probably used to such phenomena with Plo Koon. Damn.

You crouched down simultaneously, gripping onto some beams until the room eventually shifted far enough that the whole pile of beds went tumbling over again. You tried to lessen the blow to your body, Wolffe even shielded you a bit with his own, but ultimately you both were at the mercy of gravity and whatever cascading objects came with it. After a short time longer, you were able to pick your way through it all and reach the door, which was now vertical as doors should be, though upside down from where it was meant to be.

Now running along the ceiling, you were able to more quickly finish your journey to the escape pods. The helmet helped you breathe, and if Wolffe was having trouble without one, he didn't show it. You clasped each other's hands as you twisted around the last few corners.

When you arrived at the loading docks, there were only a handful of troopers left to board a pod. They had to be maneuvered to rotate around upright and re-dock before they could be reopened. The last one clicked into place just as you showed up. Wolffe insisted you get in first while he waited for his men to board but you silently shook your head. You would've insisted he board along with you, but you knew it'd be futile. Wolffe was right, you both were simply too stubborn. So you squeezed his hand a little tighter and stayed by his side until it was finally your turn.

You all but collapsed into the pod. Wolffe's helmet was ripped off and tossed on the ground, to be admired another time. The struggle wasn't over yet, of course. You'd still need to lead the pods safely through the minefield. But for now, for just a brief moment, you allowed yourself to lean against each other and breathe.

Your shoulders rested side-by-side and your faces were turned to gaze at each other, filled with exhaustion and relief. You glanced down at your hands lying between you, still firmly intertwined. You gave a small chuckle and Wolffe grunted in questioning response.

"The binders." You raised your hands up to show there was no longer anything connecting you two, except for your own choice to hold on. You had no idea when the restraints had fallen off.

Wolffe smiled a little and disentangled his fingers from yours. You were about to pout until he moved them over to your face, gentling cupping along your jaw and allowing his thumb to trace absently at your cheek. His bare fingers were calloused and rough but you leaned into his touch regardless. After a while, you started to wonder if his strokes were a bit more purposeful, tracing some sort of shape over and over as if outlining his feelings for you.

"We need to talk," you whispered. You wouldn't be satisfied with mere sketches on your skin, pleasant as they were.

Thankfully Wolffe gave you a nod in agreement just as Comet announced that all systems were a go. Your moment of reprieve was over and it was back into the fight once more. You weren't sure what would happen between you two afterward. Maybe you would finally kiss him, maybe you'd get back at him somehow for all the grief he'd caused. Maybe you would still hate him, maybe you'd admit you loved him. Regardless, there was some hope for more conversations, more understanding. And that was enough.

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Fool's Errand Pt 10

Part (10) of Fool's Errand, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Sorry! I know I owe responses to that fluffy little holiday thing, but I really wanted to get this out, too! (Also... big sorry... you'll see why)

Warnings: mild suspense, vague injury descriptions, decent bit of cursing, minor character death (very minor), (is there a warning for a kid wielding a gun?)

WC: 3,403

Droids don’t need the light. Not like we do. In the darkness, only the automated sound of whirring gears and clacking metal narrate movements governed by near perfect synchrony. The silence that surrounded those movements was deafening. It was easy to forget just how dangerous those machines truly were when watching the incredible ease with which the soldiers of the GAR could tear through them. But up close, when nothing lay between us but darkness and an armor that suddenly felt far too thin, the droids were monstrous; emotionless; streamlined and refined toward a single purpose: destruction.

I tried not to think about the simple fact that the same was often said of the entirety of the clone population; how readily society at large welcomed beliefs of unthinking, unfeeling suits of armor in the stead of the very real people that armor concealed. I tried not to think about how that mentality might linger and fester into resentment and fear once the end of the war offered some hope of integration, nor of the unending hardships that were inevitable with such naïve mentality. As I sat crouched in the nook of the freezing ventilation shaft, I tried not to think about anything at all save the near impossible task of silencing my own heavy breaths, attention trained on the endless rows of automatons marching barely a handful of feet away from me.

Wrecker had made it to the maintenance closet several meters ahead, but I’d still been fighting to force the adhesive of the deceptively small explosive to seal with the chilled metal of the duct, and what few seconds that cost me proved just enough to force me to hide as the echoing orchestra of marching droids approached us. We knew they were coming. Thanks to Echo, we knew exactly when to expect every routine patrol scheduled to monitor these halls, but the sheer frequency of their presence was staggering.

Neither of us moved for several seconds after the last droid finally vanished behind the rear door.

“You alright?” Even whispered, my body tensed slightly at the suddenness of Wrecker’s voice calling through the speaker of my helm, and I had to release a quick breath before responding.

“Yeah.” I murmured, glancing back at the detonator as I carefully began easing my way out of the small shaft. “Had trouble getting this one attached, but looks fine now.” A quiet grumble reverberated around me, and I could clearly imagine the troubled frown tugging at his lips.

My eyes flashed to the timer in the corner of my HUD steadily counting down to the moment Crosshair was supposed to take out the decoy power transformer. We still had several targets to rig if we wanted to level the station in time.

Wrecker led the way forward without another word, quick strides shockingly silent. It would never cease to amaze me how easily the man before me could dance between the kind, boisterous goofball and this: lethal, efficient; movements far too quiet for the terrifying mass of his powerful form. I’d worked with astounding soldiers before, but these men were different. Boost, Comet, and Warthog were frightfully capable, but Wrecker and his brothers…

His hand flashed out, pointing to the spot he wanted the next charge placed. He didn’t pause before moving on to set his own, leaving me to my job without so much as a backward glance. Even now, after so many months of working with them, it still felt odd to be trusted so explicitly, but there wasn’t time for even a moment of self-doubt as I quickly dropped to a knee to begin working. Despite the utter simplicity of these explosives, still, Wrecker could finish two in the time it took me to prime one, but he showed no hint of impatience; merely moved on to the next spot until the room was cleared.

We both paused upon turning to the door. It was quiet. It shouldn’t be. By now, we should have been able to make out the distant chorus of the next patrol.

“Status.” Wrecker called, voice just loud enough to be picked up by the mic. My shoulders ached from how taut the muscles were. He didn’t talk like that, governed by that stark militaristic sharpness… not unless something was wrong.

“In position.” Crosshair responded coolly.

“En route.” Tech answered next.

“Wrecker, update.” Hunter’s order came in far crisper than the others, the Marauder’s comms undistorted despite the metal walls of the facility.

“Clanker’s missed a patrol. Pretty sure they haven’t noticed us, though.” He replied curtly, head pivoting behind us before turning back to the forward door as though half-expecting a troop of droids to come rushing in at any second.

“Crosshair, any change?” The Sargeant called. I could hear the growing tension in his voice and knew he was standing tensely over the intercom, hands grinding into the metal corners.

“No, but this sector isn’t supposed to have another patrol for over four more minutes.” Cross reminded him, voice low.

“Keep an eye on your escape routes,” Hunter instructed, “and report any more abnormalities.”

A series of ‘roger’s answer him in quick succession before Wrecker continued forward, heavy blaster balanced against his shoulder. My pistols felt miniscule in comparison, but I still held them at ready as he cracked open the door. Beyond was a cavernous room dotted with Separatist transports. If things went south, Wrecker and I would blow a series of bombs starting with two at either end of the massive bay, granting us an exit route while several other explosions went off at pre-set intervals to mask our escape. If it came to that, however, there was little hope in retrieving that little girl’s father…

“… don’t like this…” Wrecker muttered after muting his com.

“How many more do we have?” I asked, treading closer to him so my whispered words would reach him.

“Ten. Twelve if we wanna hit the control tower, but…” He let the thought trail off as he peaked around the corner of the doorway to stare at the massive sheets of metal suspended overhead on thick tracks.

“So, we finish those ten and re-evaluate.” I offered quietly. He didn’t respond for a long moment, the fearsome visage of that feral skull still studying the distant bay walls.

“Yeah…” He mumbled absently, but a few more tense seconds passed before he drew a quick breath and moved through the door, strides measured and quick, stance low.

Our HUD timers had been perfectly synced. I’d known that there would be no delay between that small clock striking zero and the distant rumble of an explosion preceding at least a momentary flicker of the lights. Still, my body snapped taut as the world around us trembled, even if only for a moment. And then the darkness descended in earnest.

Our visors were designed for this: to grant us clear images even in the darkest nightmares of distant worlds. Regardless, I felt myself tense, adrenaline flooding my chest as I studied every shadow of the now monochrome display before me. Already, the Separatist forces were responding, dozens of squads activating and filing across the vast expanse of the hanger in precise, unhurried movements. Several took positions at entry points about the bay, though most marched out of sight, undoubtedly en route to the now destroyed power station.

“Yuh got some fun headin’ your way, Cross.” Wrecker warned, large hand reaching into his bag for another charge, attention trained once more on the command post.

“They won’t find anything.” He responded haughtily, words only just betraying a slight breathiness as he sprinted back across the rocky outcropping surrounding the north end of the hanger.

“Imma see how many a’ these I can stick before the others get here.” There was a subtle glee in his voice, thrilled at the promise of even that simple challenge.

“I’ll keep watch.” I drawled slightly, the eyeroll audible amidst my quiet chuckle. That tension was still there; creeping across my skin and keeping the muscles stretching up my spine taut, but this was their world – our world: impossible missions with unending dangers in which we still managed to find some taste of joy.

“…Kriff.” Every wisp of that joy instantly went cold.

“Cross?” Hunter called quickly, voice full of the same sharp concern that turned my blood to ice. Wrecker had just begun setting the fourth detonator and visibly froze, waiting anxiously for a response.

“…trap… -utoff from… -ing around…” His rushed reply broke between bursts of static.

“Dammit, they’re trying to block your comms! Where are you?!” Hunter shouted. The distorted reply was too muffled for me to make out, but the pained shout that followed was nauseatingly clear. “I can’t reach you with the Marauder. En route on foot.” His words left in a growl, voice now muffled with that telltale distortion as he abandoned the protection of the ship, the sound of the ramp lowering in the background just loud enough for the mic to pick up.

I didn’t need to see Wrecker’s face to know he was struck with the same dread as me, and, with a sharp nod of his domed helm, motioned toward the rear wall of the hanger. I was already running when the first explosion erupted through the air, but the sudden scream that tore through the speakers was all I could hear.

“Crosshair!” His name shouted from me in a burst of panic, but his desperate cry didn’t stop. The natural rasp of his voice broke in choked gasps between sounds of an agony that left my skin crawling. Blasterfire shrieked behind me in rapid flurries. I didn’t bother looking back, certain that Wrecker was eagerly providing a distraction to cover my retreat, but the droids weren’t fooled.

A curse caught on my lips as I dropped into a sharp slide, just managing to dart behind a supply crate as a troop of B1s trained their sites on me, and the volley of shots that seared the metal casing left my heart racing even faster. My arm was moving before conscious thought registered what I was doing, hand snatching at one of the few remaining charges. I didn’t know if this would work, fully aware that some explosives were perfectly stable until intentionally set off with a detonator. Regardless, I launched the small device toward them, HUD automatically following my gaze to lock onto it as I raised my own weapons, standing to face down the dozen droids targeting me.

The scent of burnt plastoid filled my senses before noting the faint line of red seared into my shoulder pauldron as I pulled the trigger.

Ringing. By now, I recognized the disorientated daze of shellshock and clung to the sense of annoyance rather than any fear or pain lingering beyond that confusion. Move. There wasn’t time for this… Before the thoughts even solidified in my mind, I could feel my body struggling back to my feet, balance wavering precariously for several seconds even as I staggered forward.

“…!” A voice rang loudly around me, but it took a moment of actual concentration to truly hear him. “-oc! Wha’ happened?!” Wrecker. He was shouting. I glanced over my shoulder to see him quickly backtracking toward me and gave my head a hard shake in some vain effort to clear the lingering fog.

“…m… I’m fine!” I called out, lips sluggish. “Used a charge to… clear the path.” He looked toward me only briefly before returning his attention to the encroaching units. Still, I could see the air of hesitation in his movements, the reluctance to risk creating any additional distance between us, so I took that decision away from him, jaw set as I forced myself through the still smoldering crater blown into the thick wall.

Crosshair was still screaming, growled cries catching on choppy breaths muffled behind ground teeth.

“Hunter, do you have eyes on him?” I shouted, sprinting toward the cover of trees surrounding the station as I silently cursed the steep incline leading toward the ship.

“Not yet, there’s… - dammit -... They sent a kriffing… platoon after him.” I could hear the strain pulling at his every word, and that dread returned en force, fear spiking at the thought of how easily he could find himself incapacitated as well just from exacerbating his preexisting injuries.

“Echo and I can provide backup.” Tech offered. Even his voice held that deep worry.

“No – continue with the mission. We’ll be halfway to the Marauder by the time you’d even reach us.” He ordered. “Doc-”

“I’m already en route,” I interrupted quickly, “just send me your location.” He didn’t respond for a long moment, and I had to fight to keep from shouting my impatience.

That earlier fear was gone. I barely bothered glancing between branches in search of enemy troops, the threat of what danger my brief isolation from the others might pose forgotten in the echo of Crosshair’s pain. My entire focus was on reaching them as quickly as I could, cursing every fallen log and sleek boulder that hindered my progress.

“I’ve got him.” He was panting, pain clear in the breathy words, and my heart twisted at the endless possible reasons for that pain. The keening gasps still sounding from Crosshair’s mic were the only thing silencing some sharp rebuke demanding he stop. There was no right answer here; no way forward without the risk of a sacrifice I couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Might still be s… s’me droids… but think I got ‘m all.” His uncertainty was just as concerning as the slight slur dampening his smoky voice. That meant his focus was dwindling; that inhuman ability to feel the dance of electricity connecting the world around him was overcome by his own pain or exhaustion or something far worse.

“Dammit, Hunter! Just send me your location before you kriffing keel over!” I ordered harshly, no longer making an effort to mask that impatience.

“Tracker… tracker’s on… H… headed back.” Curses flowing unapologetically between ground teeth, I snatched the datapad from my waist, fingers stabbing at the screen far harsher than necessary as I locked in on his signal. The Marauder was just over a klick away, and Hunter’s signal was another half klick beyond that, speed frightfully slow as he made his way back.

“Talk to me, Hunter, or I’ll start using the karking pain scale questions.” I threatened, and was relieved to hear a huff of laughter. It was weak, but it was there.

“Damaged… damaged his helmet… Visor broke…” In an instant, that relief abandoned me. “Gave him… gave him what I had, but… it’s… it’s barely taking the e-edge off.” He panted.

“Burns?” I asked, straining to hide the depth of my fear at the very thought of what damage that might cause, but Hunter quickly dismissed that fear with something far worse.

“No… think it’s… There was a – a gas…” My stride nearly faltered. A gas… Chemical burns were far more difficult to treat…

“Listen to me: when you get him back to the ship, don’t try to rinse it out with water.” I instructed quickly.

“I kn- I know.” There was an unmistakable wheeze in the gasp robbing his retort of whatever annoyance he’d meant it to hold.

“What about you, Hunter? Were you exposed?” I made no effort to hide the harshness in my own voice, words quickly growing breathy as I sprinted from the base.

“N… no, my… my kit’s f-fine.” His response offered no taste of relief, the clear strain sown through each word quickly growing worse.

“Echo and I have secured a low-atmo speeder. We can reach you-”

“Ey, I think I see ‘im.” Wrecker interrupted.

“Ca- can you i-intercept?” Hunter’s vain attempt to maintain that indominable façade only further emphasized how just much he was clearly struggling.

“Uh… only if I start blowing stuff up early.” There was no glee in what should have been an overly eager plea, attention clearly torn between the task before him and worry for his brothers.

“Delay as – as long as you can.” Hunter ordered firmly. “Tech, Ech… Echo… con-continue a-approach.”

“Hunter, if you’re having trouble breathing again, you need to stop moving!” I ordered in a shout.

“Neg… neg’tive… Mar’der’s… in sight.” My lips curled into a snarl.

“I can’t carry you both, dammit!” There was a brief pause, and then,

“Roger.”

I was going to strangle him.

Sweat had long since soaked through my blacks. My muscles burned, blood like acid pounding through my veins, and I tried not to think about how loud my own breathing was, mic pointedly muted as I listened to quick bursts of communication bounce between the others illustrating the progress of a mission I struggled to find even a whisper of concern for. My own attention remained locked on the tracker beacon, noting how near to the ship Hunter and Crosshair finally were; how wretchedly slow their progress had become; how much distance yet lay between us as that accursed hill robbed my speed.

He didn’t check in when he finally stopped, their beacons stalling at the very foot of the ramp.

“Hunter, are you inside?” I asked. He didn’t respond. “Hunter, what’s your status?” I pressed, words growing harsher. Silence. “Hunter?! Cross, do either of you read me?!”

“The Marauder’s ramp appears to have lowered but hasn’t been closed since they arrived.” Tech’s voice was carefully even, but I could hear the faint rush of an anxiety that I had no doubt resonated between all of us.

“I’m almost there.” I assured them, and, mere seconds later, let out a sharp huff of relief upon finally seeing the very tip of the dorsal fin.

The first time I’d seen the complicated overlay of the HUD used by GAR equipment, it hadn’t been during my training to join the 104th. It was in the aftermath of a battle I’d only seen in the darkness of night, sneaking through ruined transports and far too much gore to ever be warranted under the guise of seeking peace. It was maybe the fourth such scene Emmy and I had visited. We didn’t even have a ship then; just us and a pair of overstuffed medbags with no thought toward secession or consequence or even what to do with those we tried to save.

We’d only found one soldier still clinging to life, and it had taken only moments to realize that nothing we did would save him from joining his brothers. He hadn’t blamed us. I think I wanted him to… but he merely got quiet when he understood… peaceful. He’d been a flirt, and I think we both fell in love with him a bit. He’d insisted we try his helmet on – had said something inappropriate about seeing his gear on a couple cute nurses. Neither of us corrected him, and I’d been shocked at the flurry of information that had bombarded me the instant it flickered to life before my eyes. He’d laughed. I’d never forget that laugh. It was free; weightless; haunting in a way that both crushed me and justified every risk we were taking in trying to offer what meager help we could. And then he'd died.

That nauseating hurricane of endless data and alerts was still just as overwhelming now as it was then, but I’d learned to filter it out, to prioritize only what was needed in that moment. When the sudden flash of a warning lit the screen, I didn’t hesitate; didn’t waste time for even a moment’s thought before my body dropped into a slide, just barely dodging the pair of blue bolts that screamed passed me as my hands instantly snatched the pistols from my hips, but then that wealth of data began to coalesce, and I quickly released my weapons, empty hands raising in surrender.

“Wait-wait-wait! It’s me!!” I shouted, wrenching the still flashing helm from my head, and my heart churned at the sight of the terrified girl cowering just inside the Marauder’s main cabin, at the horror and fear and overwhelming relief that left her near sobbing the instant recognition finally stole through her. Then I saw the two forms lying far too still at her feet. And that same terror ripped the air from my lungs in a sob of my own.

Next Chapter

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[eatuniverse]

oh damn, you must've got one of them / combustible heads / i read an article all about them

the Comet . . . superpowers.

the sonny eatuniverse superhero dr.

ib @oretskov in this post !

NUCLEAR GENERATOR ; the comet is not entirely of earthly origin. a changeling of a sort. a grey fey experiment, constructed of mostly human parts, a scrapped project, junked and sent down to earth in a pod . . .

the particles that make up her tissues move incredibly fast, and therefore, her body renews and regenerates damaged or destroyed tissues far faster than a normal human. her inflated internal body temperature is the most distinction between the comet and a normal human.

her body absorbs and stores solar energy, a biomechanical complex built into her cells, linked to her body's electromagnetic field. she is able to convert the solar energy into power.

you're hard to get to know / but you're easy to spot in a crowd

PYROKINETIC ; manipulating the kinetic energy of particles to the atomic level. manipulating the motion && vibration the particles the comet can induce in the chemical process of combustion in most any substance.

. detonation – to make big boom

. self-combustion – becoming a human torch

. flight – propelled upward with the force of hot air

. thermovariance – can increase others' internal body temperature ; raising blood to boiling point, etc

. etc – bursts, blasts, burn or melt things, explosions, literally everything that goes BANG!!

ALIEN PHYSIOLOGY ; enhanced strength, speed, athleticism, etc. normal american woman height and weight. incredibly Human Looking. totally Not Strange at All.

the comet has enhanced control over her bodily mechanics. (i.e she can change and regulate at will her body temperature && heart rate.)

i was born in a flame / mama said that everyone would know my name

ALIEN SENSES ; perception of most of the electromagnetic spectrum. she can see with most acuity in near or total darkness w/ infrared vision. enhanced sense of hearing, sense of smell, etc.

GLOW (visuals && aesthetics) ; the fire she produces is primarily blue, but she is capable of manipulating the waves of light to change the color. she glows slightly in the dark. she gives off heat.

i'm on fire / FIREBALL!

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“The Butcher and The Wolf” Pt.1

Commander Wolffe x Princess Reader

Summary: On the eve of her planet’s first cultural festival in fifteen years, a disguised princess shares an unforgettable night with Clone Commander Wolffe on Coruscant. By morning, secrets, sassy droids, and a high‑stakes security briefing threaten to upend duty, reputation, and the delicate opening of her world to the Republic.

A/N: The planet and culture is entirely made up.

The gunship descended through Coruscant’s evening traffic like a steel predator, repulsors howling against the cross‑winds that curled between transparisteel towers. Inside, six clone commanders—Cody, Bly, Gree, Fox, Bacara, and Wolffe—occupied the troop bay in various stages of fatigue. They were returning from Outer‑Rim rotations, summoned straight to the capital for what the Chancellor’s aide had called a “priority diplomatic security brief.”

Wolffe used the flight to skim intel. A blue holotablet glowed in his flesh‑and‑steel hands, displaying the dossier of the delegation scheduled to arrive from Karthuna—an independent Mid‑Rim world geographically unremarkable, culturally singular.

Karthuna: quick file

• Isolated, mountainous planet of evergreen valleys and obsidian cliffs.

• Atmosphere saturated with trace kyber particulates—reason scholars cite for the population’s universal Force sensitivity.

• Government: hereditary monarchy tempered by a warrior senate.

• Religion: none. Karthunese creed teaches that the Force is lifeblood, neither moral compass nor deity.

• Average citizen competency: lightsaber fabrication by age fifteen; state‑sponsored martial tutelage from age six.

The data fascinated the commanders—especially the by‑line marked Princess [Y/N], Crown Heir, War‑Chief, locals refer to her as “The Butcher.”

Wolffe scrolled. Combat footage played: a tall woman striding through volcanic ash, twin‑bladed plasmablade in constant motion, severing MagnaGuards like wheat. Every slash bled molten silver where molten metal met crystal‑laced air.

Psych‑profile excerpt

“Displays strategic brilliance and extreme kinetic aggression.

Disregards conventional ‘light/dark’ dichotomy—identifies only ‘strength’ and ‘weakness in harmony with the Force.’

Post‑engagement behavior: known to laugh while binding her own wounds.”

Fox leaned over, eyebrow visible above his red ocher tattoo. “That’s the princess we’re babysitting?”

“Exactly,” Wolffe answered, voice rough like gravel in a barrel. “And tomorrow she sits across the table from half the Senate.”

Bly grinned, toying with the jaig‑eyes painted on his pauldron. “At least the briefing won’t be boring.”

⸻

79’s was hellishly loud tonight: drum‑bass remixes of Huttese trance, vibro‑floors that tingled through plastoid boots, neon that reflected off rows of white armor like carnival glass. The smell was ionic sweat, fried nuna wings, and spiced lum.

Wolffe anchored the bar, helmet on the counter, already two fingers into Corellian rye. Cody lounged to his left, Rex to his right—fresh in from a 501st escort shift and still humming combat adrenaline.

“Can’t believe you two convinced me out,” Wolffe growled.

“Brother, you need it,” Rex said, clinking glasses. “Whole Wolfpack can feel when you’re wound tighter than a detonator.”

“Give him five minutes,” Cody stage‑whispered. “He’ll be scanning exits instead of the drink menu.”

“Already am,” Wolffe deadpanned, which made them both laugh.

The cantina doors parted and conversation sagged a note—she glided in. Cropped flight jacket, fitted vest, high‑waist cargo shorts; thigh‑high laces and a thin bronze braid that caught the lights like a comet tail. She had the effortless cheer of someone stepping onto a favorite holovid set—eyes round with delight, grin wide enough to beam through the floor.

She wedged in beside Wolffe, flagging the bartender with two raised fingers. “Double lum, splash of tihaar—one for me, one for the glum commander.”

Wolffe arched a brow but accepted the glass. “You always buy drinks for strangers?”

“Only the ones glaring at their reflection.” She tapped his untouched visor. He couldn’t help a huff of amusement.

Cody’s own brow shot up; Rex’s eyes widened in instant recognition. Princess [Y/N] of Karthuna—The Butcher—yet here she was in civvies, acting like any tourist who’d lost a bet with Coruscant nightlife.

Rex leaned close to Cody, speaking behind a raised hand. “That’s her, isn’t it?”

“Credits to spice‑cakes.”

“She hasn’t told him?”

“Not a word.”

Rex smirked. “Five‑credit chip says Wolffe figures it out before sunrise.”

Cody shook his head. “He won’t know until she walks into the briefing at 0900. Make it ten.”

They clasped forearms on it.

The woman matched Wolffe sip for sip, story for story. Where his anecdotes were sparse, hers were color‑splattered and comedic.

When the DJ shifted into a thumping remix of the Republic anthem, she grabbed Wolffe’s wrist.

“I don’t dance,” he protested.

“You walk in circles around objectives, right? Close enough!”

She dragged him into the crush of bodies. To his surprise, he found a rhythm—left, pivot, step; her laughter bubbled each time his armor plates bumped someone else’s. Cody whooped from the bar. Rex held up a timer on his datapad, mouthing 48 minutes left.

At the chorus, She spun under Wolffe’s arm, back colliding with his chest. Up close he saw faint, silvery scars beneath the vest’s armhole—evidence of battles that matched his own. Yet her eyes stayed bright, unburdened, as if scars were simply postcards of places she’d loved.

“Commander,” she teased above the music, “tell me something you enjoy that isn’t war.”

He paused. “Mechanic work—tuning AT‑RT gyros. Clean clicks calm my head.”

“See? You do have hobbies.” She tapped his nose. “Next round on me.”

Back at the bar Rex leaned over to Cody, “He’s smiling. That counts as suspicion.”

“Wolffe smiles once a rotation. Still ignorant.”

⸻

Near 02:00, after shared tihaar shots and a disastrous attempt at holo‑sabacc, She flicked a glance toward the exit.

“City lights look better from my place,” she offered, voice honey‑slow. “I’ve got caf strong enough to wake a hibernating wampa if you need to report at oh‑dark‑hundred.”

Wolffe’s lips twitched. “Lead the way.”

As they weaved out, Cody elbowed Rex. “Timer’s off. Still clueless.”

“Sunrise isn’t here yet,” Rex countered.

“Credits say briefing,” Cody insisted, pocketing the imaginary winnings.

⸻

Lift doors slid open to a loft bathed in city‑glow: vibro‑harp strings hanging from ceiling beams, half‑assembled speeder parts on the coffee table, and a breathtaking skyline framed by floor‑to‑ceiling transparisteel. Nothing screamed royalty—just a warrior’s crash‑pad with too many hobbies.

She kicked the door shut, tossed her jacket aside, then hooked a finger in the lip of Wolffe’s breastplate. “Armor off, Commander. Café’s percolating, but first—I want to map every one of those scars.”

His growl was more pleasure than warning. “Fair trade. I’m charting yours.”

Outside, airspeeder traffic stitched luminous threads across Coruscant night. Inside, two soldiers—one famous, one incognito—lost themselves in laughter, caf, and the slow unbuckling of secrets yet to be told.

⸻

Warm dawn slanted through the loft’s unshaded transparisteel, painting the tangled figures on the bed in amber and rose. Wolffe lay on his back, left arm pillowing [Y/N] against the curve of his chest; her hair falling softly, draped over his cgest. For the first time in months he’d slept past first light, lulled by the quiet cadence of another heartbeat.

A sharp bweep‑bwap‑BWAA! shattered the calm.

The door whisked open and a battered R4‑series astromech barreled in, dome spinning frantic red. Right behind it minced a sand‑gold TC‑protocol unit with polished vocabulator grille and the prissiest posture Wolffe had ever seen.

“WHRR‑bweep!” the astromech shrilled, panels flapping.

The protocol droid placed metal hands on its hips. “Really, R4‑J2, barging into Her High— er, into my lady’s private quarters is most uncouth. Though, to be fair, so is oversleeping when a planet’s diplomatic reputation depends on punctuality.”

[Y/N] groaned into Wolffe’s shoulder. “Five more minutes or I demagnetise your motivators.”

“I calculate you have negative twenty‑two minutes, my lady,” TC sniffed. “We have already been signaled thrice.”

Wolffe swung out of bed, discipline snapping back like a visor‑clip. He retrieved blacks and armor plates, fastening them while [Y/N] rummaged for flight shorts and a fresh vest.

“Got a briefing myself,” he said, adjusting the collar seal. “High‑priority security consult for the Senate. Some warlord princess from Karthuna is in system—Council wants every contingency.”

[Y/N] paused, turning just enough that sunrise caught the concern softening her features. “I heard talk of her,” she ventured lightly. “What’s your take?”

“Files say she’s lethal, unpredictable. Planet locals call her The Butcher.” He shrugged into his pauldron. “Frankly, senators don’t need another sword swinging around. Volatile leaders get people killed.”

A flicker of hurt crossed her eyes before she masked it with a crooked grin. “Maybe she’s…misunderstood?”

“Maybe,” Wolffe allowed, though doubt edged his tone. “Either way, job’s to keep the civvies safe.” He slid his helmet under an arm, suddenly uncertain how to classify the night they’d shared. “I—had a good time.”

She rose on tiptoe, pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So did I, Commander. Try not to judge anyone before breakfast, hmm?”

He touched the braid beads lightly—a silent promise to see her again—then strode out, door hissing shut behind him.

Y/N] exhaled, shoulders slumping. R4 emitted a sympathetic woo‑oop.

TC clucked. “I did warn you anonymity breeds complications. Still, we must hurry. The Chancellor expects you in the Grand Convocation Chamber at 0900.”

A wicked spark replaced her melancholy. “No, the Chancellor expects a Karthunese representative—he never specified which.”

She strode to a wardrobe, withdrawing a slim holoprojector and thrusting it at TC. “Congratulations, you’re promoted.”

TC’s photoreceptors brightened alarm-red. “M‑my lady, I am programmed for etiquette, translation, and the occasional moral lecture, not military security architecture!”

“Recite the briefing notes I dictated last night, answer questions with condescension—your specialty—then schedule a follow‑up on the command ship. R4 will project the holomaps.”

The astromech warbled enthusiastic profanity at the prospect.

[Y/N] buckled a utility belt over her civvies and moved toward the balcony doors. “If anyone asks, I was delayed calibrating kyber flow regulators. I’ll review the security grid this afternoon—after I explore a certain Commander’s favorite gyro‑shop.”

TC gathered the holo‑pads in a flurry. “Very well, mistress, but mark my vocabulator—this deception will short‑circuit spectacularly.”

“Relax.” She flashed a grin eerily similar to last night’s barroom mischief. “What’s diplomacy without a little theater?”

⸻

Senators, Jedi, and clone commanders straightened as doors parted.

—but instead of a sun‑circled war‑princess, a polished TC‑protocol droid glided to the rostrum with an astromech rolling at its heel.

TC’s vocabulator rang out, crisp as a comm‑chime.

“Honored Supreme Chancellor, venerable Jedi Council, distinguished Senators: Karthuna greets you. My lady regrets that urgent kyber‑compressor calibrations prevent her personal attendance, yet she bids me convey our joy at opening our borders for the first time in fifteen standard years so all may share our five‑day Cultural Festival Week. We trust today’s briefing will guarantee every guest’s safety and delight.”

R4‑J2 pitched a starry holomap above the dais; TC segued into ingress grids, crowd‑flow vectors, and defensive perimeter options with dazzling fluency.

At the back rail, Commander Wolffe’s remaining eye narrowed.

“That’s her astromech,” he muttered—he’d tripped over the same droid en route to the caf‑maker two hours earlier.

Cody leaned in, voice low. “So—how was your night with the princess?”

Wolffe’s brain locked, replaying dawn kisses, scars… and the sudden absence of any surname.

“Kriff.” His helmet nearly slipped from under his arm.

Next to them, Rex sighed, fished from his belt pouch, and slapped the credits into Cody’s waiting palm. Cody tried not to smirk too broadly.

Bly caught the exchange and coughed to hide a laugh. Gree murmured, “Told you the Wolf doesn’t sniff pedigree till it bites him.”

Unaware of the commotion between the Commanders, TC finished with a flourish.

“Karthuna will provide one hundred honor guards, full medical contingents, and open saber arenas for cultural demonstration only. We look forward to celebrating unity in the Force with the Galactic Republic.”

Polite applause rippled through the chamber. Mace Windu nodded approval, even Chancellor Palpatine’s smile looked almost genuine.

Wolffe, cheeks burning behind his visor, managed parade rest while his thoughts sprinted back to a kiss and the words try not to judge anyone before breakfast.

The princess had played him like dejarik—yet somehow he respected the move.

Cody clapped a gauntlet on his pauldron. “Cheer up, vod. At least your about to spend more time with her.”

⸻

Next Part

[timeclipsed]

— ☆⋆˙ LOCKING LEERS CONTRAST FERVORED EMOTIONS in spite of their similar disdainful energies; repugnantly, one side's teeth are grit whilst the other's is curled into an uncanny grin. Neither dares to chance a movement for fear of being the first shot fired in a rigorous throw of blows, instead choosing to circle one another as if looking down prey in the wild.

“Pleasantries” long since exchanged, the silence provides a thick, deafening symphony betwixt bodies on tenterhooks, the perfect backing track for an overdue reunion that needed naught come. Gruff, smoky indignation is what finally shatters that undulating loop as feet plant firmly in the ground, taking a defensive stance to demand answers.

❝No idea what you're doing here, and right now I could care less. Ray; where is he and what did you do to him?❞

 ❝Mighty, Mighty, Mighty… same old imprudent, reckless Mighty. Or should I say… Michael? Tsk,❞ Shaking his head, fingers weave to match opposite and assist in resting his chin, ❝I'm hurt, old friend! What makes you think I did anything to your precious little sidekick?❞

 Choosing to ignore the sudden drop of his real name, clenched fists raise higher. ❝We aren't friends. And for the record, I'm not in the mood for all these “small talk” games you're playing. So I'll ask you one more time before I kick your fucking teeth in. Where. Is. Ray?❞

— ☆⋆˙ BELTING A CACOPHONY OF GUFFAWS so abrupt and loud that even Mighty himself feels a small jolt up his spine, Robotnik leans back in his chair, shaking his head slowly. Torrid, scarlet truculence builds up in his face visibly, leaving rows of teeth grinding against one another and a profile quivering ever so slightly in preparation to detonate, unleashing a flurry of sinewy attacks on his adversary that would make his head spin, if not knock it off that stationary body entirely—

When a hand raises in a stagnant motion as if to halt that very thing.

❝What's funny,❞ Mighty all but demands in that hushed voice, ceruleans trained ceaselessly on him.

 ❝No need for such hostilities, Michael. I propose a mutual boon. You see, there's also someone I've been meaning to locate… I know his location, but I've no way to reach him.❞

 ❝How's that my problem—❞

 ❝If, my demands are met and this boy is brought to me… well, this old brain of mine may just remember a few key details on the whereabouts of your good buddy Ray.❞

— ☆⋆˙ SWALLOWING HARD AT THAT REVELATION, fists lower to sides, although still keeping their rigid shapes, as he charily eyes the man. If the Doctor is to be trusted (he usually isn't), Ray could be recovered by simply playing errand boy and dropping off some poor sap into the malevolent care of the tyrant. Strictly against his moral code on every level. Ray would surely be appalled knowing his rescue and safety came at the cost of another person. And although alarm bells blare in his mind, telling him to just ignore this, to turn and leave now, Mighty presses further.

❝…Who're you lookin' to meet?❞

— ☆⋆˙ MIGHTY DOESN'T MISS THE WAY that grin only grows, splitting across the Doctor's face. Breaching the belt of his suit, an old photo is pulled and haphazardly tossed out, fluttering straight down into his hands. Observing the subject, only momentarily, a sense of recognition fills him and his stomach drops, sunken into clammy nausea.

❝This is Sonic's brother. This is Tails— what the hell do you want with him?! What did you do to him?! Where is he?!❞

 ❝Nothing you should worry about. That is, unless he's not brought to me. In which case, if you refuse, you'll find out when your little compadre starts to feel the effects instead.❞

— ☆⋆˙ PETRIFIED ORBS STARE INTO THE fox's halcyon expression, preserved permanently in the image as he stands next to Comet holding a peace sign, the latter's face scribbled out in black ink. 

❝You sick son of a bitch.❞

 ❝His current place of residence is written on the back of the photo. You have three days to bring him back to this spot, or else your friend is the one who pays.❞ Beaming up, that motorized chair takes to the sky, soaring off as a final sardonic call is given. ❝Ta—ta, Michael!❞

 ❝YOU SON OF A BITCH! GET BACK HERE! WHERE ARE RAY AND TAILS?!❞

— ☆⋆˙ DARTING AFTER THAT APPARATUS AS fast as feet can take him, Mighty gives chase, fury keeping him trained on what's now become a blip of color above the skyscrapers. Signs, postal boxes and whatever else he can get his hands on are hurtled into the air, all attempting to hit the man fruitlessly.

Rushing until his lungs are screaming for air and his knees threaten to buckle, he only makes it a few blocks until Robotnik is no longer in sight. Gasping, gripping onto a nearby railing for support, eyes squeeze shut as he attempts frenetically to regain his bearings.

Cold, caliginous reality sets in, and he takes another hard glance at the photo, pinching it between fingers. Robotnik's words echo in his mind. You have three days to bring him back to this spot, or else your friend is the one who pays.

❝…Shit.❞

[rythmicjea]

I highly disagree with your assessment that he can't perceive intense emotions towards women. He's extremely dialed in to everyone around him, but himself. Which is usually how it goes, especially at that age. While I agree that Cheryl didn't actively, or consciously, see Toni as a vanity project, The Pretty Poisons definitely were. Not to mention after S2 Toni gets relegated to Cheryl's Arm Candy to the point that Vanessa called the writers out publicly. Cheryl very reluctantly said Toni was in charge. And when she heard what Jughead said she specifically went behind Toni's back to try and prove him wrong (in the end she proved him right).

I also disagree that he doesn't see women as people unless the world is at stake. The only time the world is at stake is at the end of S6. And ironically Tabitha is his healthiest relationship up until that point. They aren't codependent like he and Betty were, they weren't in competition like he and Jess were. You say that he can't maintain emotional intimacy with a woman unless she's perfect. Tabitha was never "perfect" and she wasn't discovered to be the town's guardian angel until almost the end of S6. Over a year since they started dating and had been living together. On the surface she may seem like she does no wrong, but she definitely makes some huge mistakes (like giving Jess Jughead's manuscript without permission or care about what Jughead would want).

He also doesn't think of himself as better or above anyone. In fact he thinks the opposite. Early seasons show that he believes himself to be a burden to those around him (his father, The Andrews, Betty). They never give him his own room on screen at his own house. He shares with Betty and there's no part of him in that room at all. And his trailer was shown to be a one bedroom that him and his dad share or have a schedule? Part of his S5 arc is that he wasn't able to break the generational curse of poverty and addiction. He was given a chance to have a college education, money, and all of the tools to succeed but he still ends up exactly where his dad was (working at Pop's and a recovering alcoholic). His adult life directly parallels FP's. He thinks that Cheryl's classist beliefs are wrong but that's because they are and that's it. As for Veronica he never thinks himself above her but he spends S1&2 grappling with the fact that she isn't her family and S3 coming to an accord with her and helping prove that she's not to everyone else.

Also, Tabitha isn't the last person he dates. He dates Veronica in S7 and we learn that they're basically together for a year and a half until graduation. And even that relationship is also incredibly healthy. She's used to name dropping throwing the weight her family name brings around and he doesn't care about any of that. His apathy lets her calm down and ground herself and discover who she really is. And she encourages him with all of his endeavors because even if she doesn't like comic books, he does, and he deserves to be supportive. Veronica and Tabitha support him unconditionally and he does the same for them.

Where I agree is that he very much is righteous. But he's a teenage boy. They ALL are righteous (and he's not the only one in the show who is either, Betty is the most in my opinion, JFC she's bad). And yes, there is literary commentary about het-straight-white-men writing about the world around them as if they discovered it. People wonder why he's the only straight one, and that's the answer. (It's not that Cole Sprouse didn't want to kiss a dude. He's said several times if he could choose another character to play it would be Kevin.)

Lastly, I know this was a throw away comment but, there's absolutely no evidence to support that Alice is his aunt. The only connection would be if she was Gladys' sister but seeing as they're only in one episode together (I think 3x14 or maybe 15) when she realizes that she bought the Cooper's house. She says "why is Alice Smith in my house?" Indicating no connection between the two since before Alice married Hal. There's no real connection between the two at all. There was more between Gladys and Penny than there was between Gladys and Alice. And FP is an only child (In the Midnight Club when he speaks about family he speaks in the singular not multiple as if he had siblings).

Cheryl's beef with jughead cracks me up because it reads more as what jug presumes Cheryl thinks about him like she says so little to him and it's always about him being homeless or gay like don't get me wrong she's classist but she's got way more depth than that

Also like she's chill with Kevin Arch and Reggie so she's able to be around dudes

[honeybewrites]

Last Line Tag

Thank you @katenewmanwrites for the tag, @the-golden-comet for the tag and @the-letterbox-archives for the tag!!

Rules: Post the last line you wrote!

It would be a quick death at least. Or she hoped it would be. Living would mean facing Master Gerd’s wrath and that wouldn’t be near as pleasant. The tell tale whining signaled the bombs preparing to detonate. Chali closed her eyes.  Hopefully she’d done enough so Rage wouldn’t be caught in the explosion.  Then they went off. The release of energy was blinding. It left her ears ringing, her body numb and burning at the same time. There was a brief moment. As she felt herself tumbling through the air in free fall. Only to be jerked to a stop by strong arms. And then everything faded to nothing.

Tagging @halfbakedspuds @wyked-ao3 @nczaversnick @jev-urisk @themboty and anyone else who wants to hop on!!

[nondelphic]

writing a comedic novel as a side project is so fun like i don't have to figure out how to puzzle the pieces together so the reader can't predict the murderer, i can just blow up earth and blame it on a cat named larry toby while my main character floats around a space ship wearing a space suit that looks like a purple condom. no one could predict that.

[quibble-auk]

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

I finally finished the little blurb with Echo and Cometeater. Idk if I got your guy right in this, I just kinda winged it. I swear Echo isn’t usually this awkward, but he’s kinda still messed up and Comet is not helping.

Anyway. I want them to be friends, or at least friendly, but you can tell me if I’m wrong. That may just be me… but of everyone on the base (other than my medics) I feel like these two could chill.

The start is… idk it’s something. I was struggling with how to start it tbh. I gave up. Same with the end.

—

Echo didn’t really know what to do while he waited. Dropmix was supposed to be doing some more tests on his doorwing sensors to make sure everything was healing right but the medic was preoccupied. Even though Echo had previously scheduled the appointment he had been brushed off in favor of treating the mechs that had just come back after getting caught in a minefield—which he had no issue with. He despised having to come down to the medical bay.

Especially when Leoblast wasn’t able to come down with him.

It was nothing against Dropmix or Jeopardy—the older was gentle and kind, and the younger was sweet and innocent—he just simply didn’t like the medical bay. Not after the incident with Sunrazor. He had spent plenty of time in the medical bay both during the ordeal and afterwards. But he had to come get screened, again, just in case for whatever reason things weren’t healing properly.

Usually, Leoblast had always been willing to come down with him to keep him company, however the guardian was off on a patrol. So, Echo would just have to deal with sitting in the sterile room by himself for the time being.

Well, almost by himself.

Jeopardy had sat down a bot cloaked in a blue blanket when he stormed through. He hadn’t been able to offer much introduction, preoccupied with gathering supplies for Dropmix and unfortunate mechs who had detonated the landmines. He had muttered a frantic introduction before explaining to the smaller mech that he couldn’t go with Jeopardy into surgery. Echo hadn’t been able to hear if the mass of blue ever responded.

But the other mech in the room had yet to say anything and Echo would rather not bother him for the time being. Maybe if he was in a better mood he may have been able to muster up a joke or two to try and break the ice, but today he wasn’t up for it. He hadn’t been up to pulling a prank or messing around in awhile, Leo was starting to get worried.

Echo stared down at his fidgeting hands, doorwings flicking behind him as he hunched over in his seat. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft hiss of the medbay's ventilation and the low lulling of soft music that was ever present. Echo’s fingers tapped a twitchy rhythm against his knee as he stole a glance toward the other mech.

Cometeater.

That’s what Jeopardy had called him, right before disappearing behind the surgical doors with a tray of energon packs balanced in his arms. The name didn’t quite match the mech’s current state—bundled tightly in a blue blanket, helm bowed, and posture almost painfully small for someone with such an intimidating designation.

Echo’s doorwings twitched again. He hated awkward silence. It pressed into the back of his processor, static loud and itchy. The pale green mech clearly wasn’t in good shape either—so what was the harm in saying something? Even if Echo didn’t feel like talking, maybe a word or two would help pass the time. Distract both of them.

“It’s um… Cometeater right?” The Praxian began, tilting his head towards the other, “I’m Echo, Jeopardy introduced us a bit ago but…” He trailed off, where was he going? He smiled and laughed nervously, readjusting his posture. He wanted to kick himself, he used to be good at things like this. “We haven’t gotten a formal introduction I guess.”

Cometeater didn’t respond at first—not with words, anyway. The bundle of blanket shifted slightly, as though startled that someone had decided to speak to him at all. He blinked at Echo, eyes sizing him up for just a moment before he responded. The younger mech's voice was soft. Not shy, exactly—closer to something cautious. Carefully rationed. “Yeah… it’s Cometeater.”

Echo gave a small nod, eyes flicking to the floor again. “That’s… a name,” he said with a half-laugh, before wincing. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I just—Cometeater. It sounds… I dunno. Intense?”

The other mech just shrugged blankly. He really wasn’t giving Echo much to work with here. The sharpshooter smiled, trying to remain friendly despite the unease that was crawling through him. There was something about the way that Comet watched him that was unsettling.

The Praxian cleared his throat, trying to brush off the static curling at the back of his mind. “So, uh… are you from around here?” he asked, gesturing vaguely. “Base-wise, I mean. I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

Another pause. Then, softly, “No.”

Echo waited, thinking there might be more, but that was apparently the whole statement. “Cool,” he said anyway, stretching the word out like it might fill the gap in conversation. “Got transferred here recently? I haven’t really been keeping up with the gossip on base recently, maybe I missed your arrival?”

Cometeater just stared blankly at him more, not a single tell on his face. There was no way to tell what he was thinking. The silence stretched on long enough that Echo was starting to believe that the other wasn’t planning on responding at all when they finally spoke again. Cometeater shrugged again and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “It’s complicated.”

When someone said something like “it's complicated” it was a very clear message to drop it. So Echo did. He nodded along, wing twitching slightly.

“…Yeah. I get that,” Echo said quietly, rubbing his thumb against his fingertips, fidgeting again. He didn’t push for more. He knew how much it sucked when people did that—asking questions like they had a right to your trauma just because they were curious. He wouldn’t be that guy.

He let the silence settle again. This time, it didn’t feel quite so suffocating.

Cometeater shifted a little beside him, drawing the blanket tighter like it might shield him from the room, the war, the universe. His eyes weren’t on Echo anymore, instead fixed on a spot near the door, far off and vacant. The Praxian could see the mech’s clawed hands working at the hem of the blanket, tugging at the seams mindlessly. He would destroy the blanket if he kept doing that for too long.

Still, Echo didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back in his chair again and let his gaze wander the ceiling, counting faint cracks in the paneling that he’d memorized from past visits. After a few minutes passed like that, Echo tried again. Not with words, but with something simpler.

He reached into one of the little compartments on his hip, fumbling for a moment before pulling out a tiny hex-shaped stress puck. Tempestrift had given it to him when they were still just getting to know each other—a little comfort thing, something he could squeeze or flick or spin when his processor started spiraling or he got antsy while waiting for a target. Just something simple to forget or play with.

It was meant to be provide him with something to do to keep him from losing his mind with the endless amounts of waiting he was always doing.

The blue mech stared at it for a moment in his palm, then tilted it slightly toward Cometeater. “You want it?”

The younger mech looked over at him slowly. Didn’t take it. Didn’t reject it, either.

“I, uh… I know what it’s like,” Echo added, his voice a bit rougher now. “Sitting in here and feeling like your plating’s gonna peel off if you don’t do something. Even if it’s dumb. Even if it’s just a stupid toy.”

He tried to smile. It didn’t really land. His fingers absently flexed around the small fidget toy, his wings flicking uncertainty as he forced himself to remain still. After another beat of silence he slowly retracted his hand, heel bouncing on the ground as he looked away, “You don’t have to take it if you don’t want it. Just… Figured it would help.”

Echo couldn’t help but look at the edge of the blanket again, where a seam had already come loose. Cometeater slowly followed his gaze down, eyes widening when he looked at the minimal damage done to the fabric. For a moment, Cometeater just stared at the frayed edge—like he’d only just realized he was the one unraveling it. His claws froze, stiff with guilt. Then, carefully, he folded them into his lap. Not tightly. Not clenched. Just… still. A small effort, but Echo could tell it took some control.

“…Sorry,” Cometeater mumbled, voice barely audible. His optics stayed on the blanket. “I didn’t mean to.”

Echo waved the apology off with a flick of his wrist, smiling sympathetically. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s not even torn yet. You don’t have to apologize. You’re fine,” He hesitated, leg still bouncing. “I used to pick at my own paint when I got bored, or I’d start to carve little notches into my gun. So at least with the blanket you’ll be spared a lecture on abusing equipment from Rumbleclutch.”

Cometeater didn’t smile or laugh at the sad attempt to lighten the mood.

The blue mech looked down at the puck he held, debating if he had made the right call or just blown this entire attempt to converse. He decided to focus on the small toy in his hand rather than his failed joke, smile falling.

The small puck that he had was far from anything fancy or nice. The paint had long since been stripped and it was notched and scratched, but so was everything since the war had started. Finding small toys like that had become rarer and rarer, but Tempestrift had gotten him nicer ones since then, he really didn’t need this one anymore.

He tried to offer it again, “You don’t have to take it, but I do have others if that’s what you're worried about. And it’ll help the blanket last longer.”

Cometeater looked at the puck again. This time, for a little longer. He didn’t reach for it, but something in his expression flickered—like a radio signal almost coming through, then fizzling back into static. His claws twitched slightly, and he shifted in his seat again, less like he was trying to disappear and more like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to exist in the space.

Eventually, with hesitant, almost mechanical motion, he extended one hand from the safety of the blanket and took the puck.

Not quite from Echo’s palm, not quite directly either. He scooped it more than he grabbed it, like it might burn him if he touched it wrong. Once it was in his hand, he immediately turned it over, claws tracing the worn edges and the uneven grooves. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes stayed fixed on it, brows furrowing just slightly.

Echo let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, wings settling just a little lower on his back. “Yeah,” he said softly, “it’s ugly, but it does the trick.”

Cometeater didn’t answer, but he didn’t let go of it either.

The music playing overhead shifted to something slower, almost mournful. Echo didn’t recognize the track, which probably meant Dropmix had added new music again when no one was looking. There was always something kind tucked into the playlists—old frequencies of home, long-lost Cybertronian lullabies, distant echoes of a world that didn’t exist anymore.

That was another reason why Echo hadn’t been fond of the medical bay. Not only did it mean he had to sit still and wait patiently but it carried a weight. Sure, people were healed here, but so many were lost as well. The music that was meant to soothe could easily become too reminiscent of what everyone had lost.

His leg continued to bounce as he waited, after a moment of glaring at it from beneath his blue visor he managed to get it to stop. Instead he ended up fidgeting with his fingers, running his fingers over his thumb over and over as he waited. He hated waiting. Waiting for a target, for his team to respond, for someone to come rescue him, or for medical attention. It made his thoughts way too loud, then he would get distracted and people would get upset.

But sitting still and doing nothing had always made his plating itch. That was nothing new, it wasn’t somethin he had picked up from his time with Sunrazor—unlike his inability to have a solid conversation with someone. Echo had always needed to do something, otherwise it drove him crazy. Both Rumbleclutch and Leoblast argued that his inability to do nothing was why he was always getting trouble. Tempestrift said it made him reckless but fun to be around, made him more spontaneous.

Echo missed Tempestrift.

The door hissed open suddenly, pulling the blue mech out of his own thoughts. Echo’s doorwings snapped taut for a second before settling again when he saw it was just Jeopardy—the young medic’s expression taunt as he moved through the entrance with a datapad tucked under one arm, some smudged energon drying on his plating.

“Sorry for the delay,” the medic said, a little breathless. “Dropmix is still busy trying to resync someone’s fuel pump, but I can take you back, Echo.”

The sharpshooter blinked, stood slowly. His joints cracked louder than he liked. “Oh, yeah it was no problem, I didn’t mind waiting.”

He really shouldn’t lie to Jeopardy, but he hated to see the younger mech so distraught. Echo really didn’t care who saw him, it was the same either way. Despite what Jeopardy thought he often provided just as good of care as the more experienced Dropmix. He didn’t give himself credit. Echo smiled as he rolled his shoulders, wings flicking as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Jeopardy gave a warm glance to Cometeater, Echo could see something more solemn in his gaze though. “I’ll be back in just a moment, this shouldn’t take too long”

Cometeater didn’t answer, but he didn’t shrink either. Just curled the puck a little tighter into his palm and gave a small nod. That was enough for Jeopardy. The medic looked back at Echo and motioned to the open door he stood in front of. Cometeater looked up at Echo as he began to walk away, eyes widening as his hands clenched around the small puck.

Echo hesitated. Then looked back down at the green mech. He didn’t need that one anymore, Tempestrift had given him other ones, it still didn’t mean some part of him fought against parting with it. “You can keep it,” he said, nodding at the puck. He smiled, “You might find another use for it besides destroying perfectly good blankets.”

Cometeater blinked up at him, empty eyes looking over Echo once more before turning back to the object in his hold.

Echo hadn’t managed to learn much but he had confirmed one thing from the conversation. The pale green mech that had been following Jeopardy around for the past couple of weeks was an odd bot, but not a bad one.

[rythmicjea]

Them: What's your favorite season of Riverdale?

Me: Season 7!

T: Why?

Me: Okay. So after they fail to stop a comet hurdling to Earth they time travel back to 1955-

Wait... What?

Okay, so in Season 6 they get superpowers...

How?

Okay, let me go back a little, at the beginning of season 6 we're introduced to a parallel universe called RiverVale and that leaches into a Riverdale.

... How is there a parallel universe?

Oh, so at the end of season 5, Hiram Lodge detonates a bomb under Archie's bed while he and Betty are about to have sex.

OMG! Why would he do that?

Oh! So, that's because after everyone graduates and moves away Hiram basically destroyed the town so he could make money off a real estate development scam and when Archie found out he brought everyone back to stop him.

I thought they were high schoolers...

Okay, so they graduated at the end of season 4 after spending most of the year trying to figure out who tried to kill Jughead for a third time. Because Jughead goes to this private school called Stonewall Prep.

A THIRD TIME?

Yeah. See, at the end of season 3 Coke Sprite didn't want to practically be naked at 4am during a Canadian winter so they wrote him out of the scene and people think that the writers based the whole plot around that.

When was he almost killed the second time?

Right, so in season 3 they do an homage to the Satanic Panic surrounding DnD by creating a game called Gryffins and Gargoyles that asks you to gamble your life on drinking poisoned Kool-Aid. And that's completely separate to the organ harvesting cult that tried to suck in Betty through her mom and sister. Also this is all happening while Archie is in juvie-

Good guy Archie is in Juvie??

Yeah. So, in season 2, Jughead joins a gang (and this is the first time that he's almost killed because Hiram basically sends him off to be slaughtered but he survives) and Archie doesn't like that he did that so he joins ranks with Hiram because he's dating Veronica and thinks he can play both sides (he can't). And when Veronica chooses Archie over her dad, Hiram frames Archie for murder.

I thought it was about Archie Comics...

The show is about a town. A small town. And the people who live in that town. From a distance it presents itself like so many other small towns all over the world. Safe, decent, innocent. Get closer though and you start seeing the shadows underneath...

[creepinonmen]

Screenplay Scene: The Ambush

INT. FARMER'S FIELD - NIGHT The scene explodes with a ferocious bonfire, its towering flames roaring like a caged beast, spewing molten gold and crimson tongues that claw at the suffocating black sky. Sparks erupt in violent bursts, streaking upward like fiery comets before dissolving into the void. The air shudders with the twang of a country ballad, its melody twisting into a guttural, apocalyptic symphony of screeching violins and pounding drums. The ground, a scarred expanse of cracked earth and shredded grass, pulses with wet, glistening patches under the fire’s hellish glare. BRADY, 20, a wiry country boy, staggers like a broken scarecrow, his sweat-drenched t-shirt—emblazoned with a snarling rattlesnake—clinging to his ribs. His cowboy hat, caked with dust, tilts precariously atop his head, and a half-spilled beer trembles in his gnarled grip. His bloodshot hazel eyes burn with drunken defiance as the camera zooms into the jagged lines of his grin, then sweeps to his friends—silhouetted demons haloed by the inferno, their laughter a savage howl against the encroaching abyss.

BRADY (slurring, chuckling)

"Y’all hold down the fort. Nature calls!"

His friends erupt in a feral chorus of jeers, one hurling a crushed beer can into the fire, triggering a volcanic spray of scarlet sparks. The camera tracks Brady’s lurching silhouette, his boots gouging deep furrows into the dirt, each step kicking up a choking cloud of dust that glitters like powdered bone in the firelight. A slow-motion plunge captures his unsteady sway, the crunch of gravel beneath his soles exploding like gunfire. The suspenseful score surges, a relentless heartbeat thumping as the camera cuts to a nightmarish POV from the tree line—unseen eyes glowing like molten embers, a jagged blade glinting with a cold, predatory sheen.

CUT TO: TREE LINE - CONTINUOUS Brady stumbles into the tangled thicket, ripping open his jeans with a savage tug. The camera rockets upward to gnarled branches, their twisted limbs writhing like the claws of a monstrous beast, leaves thrashing as if alive with malice. A howling wind rips through, carrying the rancid stench of rotting earth and the metallic tang of blood. He relieves himself, a steaming torrent hissing against the undergrowth, his off-key hum a fragile wail in the growing storm. He zips up, gasping a plume of frosty breath that coils like a ghost, and turns back, his grin collapsing as his dilated pupils strain against the pitch-black void. The score detonates with a shriek of violins, and a BLACK-MASKED FIGURE surges from the shadows—gloved hands, black as charred flesh, wielding a cord that slashes the air like a venomous whip. The camera freezes on the cord’s vicious snap as it coils around Brady’s throat, slicing into his skin.

BRADY (gasping, panicked) "Wha—?!"

Brady’s body convulses violently, his cowboy hat spiraling downward in a slow, grotesque dance, smashing into a puddle of mud that splashes like blood. The camera slams into a grotesque close-up of his hands, fingers clawing at the cord, nails tearing bloody crescents into the leather gloves. His boots slam the ground, kicking up a whirlwind of dirt and grass that scatters like shrapnel, the sound swallowed by a deafening silence. He chokes, a guttural, wet gurgle erupting from his throat, his face swelling into a grotesque mask of crimson, veins bulging like ruptured veins of ore. A wide shot captures his arm thrusting toward the bonfire, fingers splayed like shattered branches, trembling against the distant inferno’s glow. The friends, ignorant, heave a log into the flames, igniting a towering pillar of sparks that rains down like molten tears.The masked figure tightens the cord with ruthless force, muscles bulging under the obsidian fabric. The camera dives into Brady’s POV—a dizzying spiral of warped trees, the fire shrinking to a dying ember in a sea of darkness. His breaths explode in ragged, blood-flecked gasps, each one a desperate claw against the noose. A brutal close-up locks on his eyes, whites flaring like cracked porcelain as they roll back, blood vessels bursting into a spiderweb of red. His body seizes, limbs flailing like a puppet on a fraying string, then collapses into a lifeless heap, sinking into the mire. The figure drags him into the shadows, boots carving savage trenches through the blood-streaked mud. A final, harrowing close-up frames his hand, fingers dragging a crimson smear across the earth as the darkness consumes him, his body vanishing like smoke. The music crashes with a thunderous chord, then plunges into an abyss of silence.

FADE OUT.END SCENE.