#their ship name is Western swing by the way | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

winxanity-ii · 1 month ago

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MEMORY CARD [2/?]

ship: artist!andy x fem!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 7.6k a/n: im in love with this fic lolo (part 3 will be up soon) parts: 1

★·.·´🇦‌🇱‌🇮‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The night had stretched on, the saloon slowly emptying as patrons trickled out into the cool darkness, heading back to their rooms or wherever else the night might take them. You had to eventually drag Kiro back to the inn, but sleep had been elusive.

Every time you closed your eyes, his face flashed before you—those dark, unreadable eyes.

You tossed and turned, the thin mattress creaking beneath you as you tried in vain to find a comfortable position.

You knew who he was, of course. How could you not? He was one of the many hosts set up at the park, his face one that had been meticulously designed and crafted to be both compelling and approachable, his narrative tailored to fit seamlessly into the world of Westworld.

But for some reason, seeing him last night had stirred something in you, something that kept you awake as the hours slipped by and the night deepened around you.

When the first rays of morning light began to creep through the curtains, painting the room in soft shades of gold and pink, you gave up on sleep entirely.

The faint sound of roosters crowing in the distance mingled with the murmur of early risers beginning their day.

You lay still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and restlessness. The room was quiet, the only sound the soft, even breathing of Kiro still asleep in the bed next to yours.

You sighed, pushing yourself up and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor was cool beneath your feet as you stood, the boards creaking softly under your weight.

You padded over to the window, pushing the curtains aside and squinting against the bright light of the rising sun.

The town below was beginning to wake up, the early morning air filled with the distant clatter of hooves and the low murmur of voices.

It should have been peaceful, calming even, but your mind was still racing, replaying the events of the night before.

The way he had looked, so out of place yet so perfectly at home in the saloon, the lines of his suit sharp and crisp against the rough backdrop of the old western town.

The way his eyes had stayed fixed on the stage, as if he were searching for something in the performance, something that eluded him.

The way his presence had felt like a pull, a magnet that you couldn't resist even from across the room.

You knew you shouldn't be this affected. After all, he was just a host, a product of the park's intricate storytelling and advanced technology. But it was hard to ignore the way your heart had jumped at the sight of him, the way your thoughts kept circling back to him no matter how much you tried to push them away.

And maybe it was because of who you were—because of your connection to this place, to the very technology that had made it possible.

You were the daughter of one of the richest men in the world, a man who had built his empire on innovation and vision. Lionel Hawthorne, a name that had become synonymous with brilliance and ambition.

He had risen to the top of the tech world with a groundbreaking line of AI and robotics that had revolutionized the industry, his brilliance encapsulated in a single, brilliant line of code.

That code had been his masterpiece, the key that unlocked the full potential of artificial intelligence. It was the foundation upon which his company, Hawthorne Industries, had been built.

A code so advanced, so ahead of its time, that it had caught the attention of Delos. They had bought the rights to it, integrating it into their own technology to create hosts that were more lifelike, more autonomous, more… human.

You had grown up surrounded by that brilliance, by the power and promise of technology that could change the world. But even then you knew, despite all the marvels and promises it held, there were lines that shouldn't be crossed, boundaries that shouldn't be blurred.

Your entire life, your father had spoken with a certain reverence about one of his so-called greatest partnerships, his eyes lighting up with a rare kind of enthusiasm whenever the topic came up.

Westworld.

He would talk for hours about the marvels of the park, the genius of its design, the limitless potential of its narratives.

To him, it was the pinnacle of human achievement, the ultimate playground where technology and imagination intertwined to create a world where anything was possible.

He would tell you about how the hosts—so lifelike they were indistinguishable from humans—could adapt and evolve within their stories, how guests could step into another life, another world, and experience things they'd only ever dreamed of.

The freedom, the possibility, the sheer brilliance of it all. He spoke of Westworld as if it were a living, breathing entity, something more than just a collection of code and machinery.

It was his legacy, a testament to the power of his creations.

But for you, it was never that simple.

Even as a child, the idea of it had made you uncomfortable. The thought of people coming here, stepping into this world, and doing whatever they pleased to the hosts—creatures who looked, spoke, and acted like real people—had never sat right with you.

It felt wrong, twisted somehow, this notion that someone could pay for the right to play God, to bend another being to their will, no matter how artificial that being might be.

You'd pushed back for years, your arguments falling on deaf ears as your father brushed aside your concerns with a wave of his hand and that charismatic smile of his. "You don't understand," he would say, his tone always patient, as if speaking to a child who didn't quite grasp the complexities of the world. "Westworld is more than just a place for people to indulge their basest desires. It's a place of discovery, of transformation. It's where people can find out who they truly are."

But you weren't convinced. The stories you'd heard, the rumors about what people did in the park, the violence, the debauchery—it was enough to make you want to stay as far away from it as possible.

That is, until your fifteenth birthday.

He had been relentless that year, insisting that it was time for you to see the park for yourself, to experience the wonder of it firsthand. He'd spoken of the other side of Westworld, the side that wasn't about violence or control.

There were family-friendly activities, he said, places to explore, things to learn.

He'd painted such a vivid picture of it, so different from the dark tales you'd heard, that you'd finally given in.

You'd gone, more out of a desire to please him than any real curiosity about the park.

You still remembered the excitement in his eyes as you'd boarded the train together, his hand on your shoulder as he'd told you about all the things he wanted to show you, all the places he thought you'd love.

Your mother had been there too, her smile warm but distant as always, more interested in the idea of being part of something so exclusive, so elite, than in the park itself.

But when you arrived, your parents had quickly been swept away, caught up in the allure of their own narratives, their own desires.

You'd found yourself left to your own devices, wandering aimlessly through the dusty streets of Sweetwater, feeling out of place and overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it all.

You'd spent most of those first few days near the inn, avoiding the chaos and the crowds, watching from a distance as people laughed and shouted, their faces flushed with excitement.

It had felt surreal, like you were watching a play unfold around you, each person an actor in a story that you couldn't quite grasp.

Then, one day, you'd drifted further than usual, your feet carrying you down the winding streets until you found yourself standing outside the post office. It had been quiet there, a small, unassuming building at the edge of town, away from the main hustle and bustle.

You'd hesitated, unsure why you'd come this way, what you were looking for.

And that's when you saw him.

He'd had a telegram clutched in his hand, his gaze downcast as he stared at the ground, his shoulders slumped in a way that made him seem smaller, more vulnerable than the other hosts you'd seen.

When you'd walked by, he'd looked up, his eyes widening slightly as if he hadn't expected to see anyone there. "Excuse me," he'd said, his voice soft, a hint of a British accent coloring his words. "I—I hate to impose, but might I ask for your assistance?" He'd hesitated, his fingers twisting the telegram nervously. "You see, I've found myself in a bit of a predicament. I was meant to take a train to the construction site of the continental railroad, but I seem to have boarded the wrong one."

His story, as it turned out, was one of misplaced directions and missed connections. After contacting his employers via telegram and explaining the situation, he'd been told to catch the correct train at a different station, but he was still unsure of how to get there.

So there he had sat, looking lost and out of place, his elegant attire—a dark waistcoat and crisp white shirt beneath a tailored coat, all of it dusted lightly with the grime of travel—setting him apart from the dusty, rugged townsfolk who milled around the post office.

You'd watched as he struggled to compose himself, his fingers trembling slightly as he'd folded and unfolded the telegram in his hands.

When you'd agreed to help, his relief had been palpable, his shoulders sagging as he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for ages. "Thank you," he said, his voice sincere and grateful. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

The two of you had made your way to the Mariposa Saloon, Andy walking beside you with an air of cautious optimism. He'd explained as you walked that the guide he'd found in town wouldn't take him unless he had someone else with him—a strange, arbitrary rule that seemed designed more to frustrate him than anything else. He'd chuckled softly at that, shaking his head as if he couldn't quite believe his own misfortune.

"It's just my luck, really," he'd said with a rueful smile. "I was hired to document the progress of the railroad, and here I am, stuck in this town, unable to even find the right station. I suppose it makes for a rather amusing story, doesn't it?"

You'd found yourself smiling despite your best efforts, charmed by the gentle self-deprecation in his tone, the way he seemed so genuinely perplexed by the absurdity of his situation.

He was so unlike the other hosts, so unassuming and earnest, and you couldn't help but be drawn to him.

When you'd finally reached the saloon, you'd found the guide inside, a grizzled old man who'd squinted at Andy with a mixture of annoyance and begrudging respect. "About time ya' found someone," he'd muttered, his voice rough as gravel. "Come on, then. We've got a train to catch."

You'd watched as Andy's face lit up, his eyes bright with relief as he’d turned to you. "Thank you," he'd said again, his gratitude clear in every word. "Truly. I don't know what I would have done without your help."

And then, the three of you were off.

Since then, you'd been back and forth to the park so many times over the years that you'd practically memorized the storylines of most of the hosts that had been part of the park's core narrative for as long as you could remember—like Teddy Flood's tragic tale of love and loss, his unwavering devotion to Dolores Abernathy that always ended in heartbreak.

Each story was a carefully crafted puzzle, a web of interactions and possibilities designed to draw people in, to make them feel like they were part of something bigger, something real.

But by far, Andy's storyline was your favorite.

His narrative was simple, almost quaint compared to the others, but there was something about it that had always resonated with you.

He was a British artist who had been commissioned to come to the frontier and document the construction of the continental railroad through a series of sketches and paintings.

The idea of a refined gentleman artist finding himself thrust into the rough-and-tumble world of the Wild West was endearing in a way—a fish-out-of-water story that felt almost whimsical against the backdrop of the park's more violent, chaotic tales.

After you'd agreed to help him find the station that first time, it had become something you looked forward to, something that felt almost like a secret between the two of you.

The route itself was split into two paths, each leading to a vastly different experience.

The family-friendly one, the one you always took, wound its way through a serene landscape, leading you to a hidden waterfall nestled in a secluded glen. There, the air was cool and fresh, the gentle roar of the water mingling with the soft rustle of leaves and the sweet scent of wildflowers. Berry bushes dotted the edges of the clearing, their fruit ripe and glistening under the sunlight.

It was like stepping into a fairytale, a place untouched by the harshness of the world outside.

You'd always found a strange peace there, standing by the water's edge, your hands stained red and purple from picking the berries. Andy would sit nearby, his sketchbook balanced on his knee, his brow furrowed in concentration as he captured the scene with deft, practiced strokes.

It was a simple routine, one you cherished more than you cared to admit.

The other path, the one you avoided, led to something much darker. You'd heard the stories, whispers of what awaited those who chose that route. A ghost town, long abandoned, where the ruins of a saloon stood as a grim reminder of the violence that had taken place there. Inside, there was a reenactment—a twisted, macabre show where guests could play out their darkest fantasies, indulging in acts that blurred the line between entertainment and depravity.

There were no boundaries here, no limits to what could be done.

It was the kind of thing Westworld was known for, the reason so many people flocked to the park in search of thrills they couldn't find anywhere else.

But that wasn't what drew you back to the park year after year.

No, it was the quiet moments, the ones that felt real in a way you couldn't quite explain, that kept you coming back.

It was the feeling of Andy's hand on yours as he helped you over the rocks by the river, his fingers warm and firm against your skin, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

It was the way he would look at you, his eyes soft and thoughtful, his words gentle as he called you a rare beauty, his voice carrying an admiration that made your heart flutter in a way that left you breathless and confused.

You'd tried to dismiss it, to tell yourself it was all part of the narrative, that his affection, his kindness, were just another layer of the story he'd been programmed to tell. But the way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you—it felt different.

It felt real.

And that was what scared you the most.

Each time you reached the station, having taken the gentler path, Andy would reach into his suitcase, his expression proud and almost shy as he handed you a drawing.

It was always a flower, a delicate rose or a wild bloom sketched with such care and precision that you could almost feel the softness of the petals under your fingertips.

You'd collected them all, carefully storing them in a leather-bound book you kept hidden away, a secret reminder of the time you'd spent together.

But then...reality became crashing down.

You were nineteen, on the cusp of adulthood, and the world outside Westworld had begun to press in on you, demanding your attention in ways you couldn't ignore.

You'd tried to put it all behind you, to focus on your life, your studies, your family. But the memories lingered, the feelings you'd tried so hard to bury still whispering in the back of your mind, refusing to be silenced.

You'd found yourself at war with your emotions, torn between the rational part of your mind that told you he was just a host, just a collection of code and circuits, and the part of you that ached whenever you thought of him, that remembered the way your heart had skipped a beat when he smiled at you, the way your breath had caught in your throat when he'd call your name.

It had become too much—the confusion, the longing, the impossibility of it all.

So you'd stopped coming, stopped visiting the park, stopped putting yourself through the torment of seeing him and knowing that it could never be real.

And now, four years later, at twenty-three, you were back.

With a sigh, you turned away from the window, running a hand through your hair as you tried to shake off your muddled emotions.

You'd told yourself you had come here to enjoy yourself, to escape from the pressures of your life for a while, to lose yourself in the fantasy and the adventure of Westworld.

But deep down, you knew the truth.

You'd come back for him, for the chance to see him again, to find out if those feelings, those sparks that had once threatened to consume you, were still there.

And as you stood in the saloon last night, your eyes drawn to his solitary figure in the corner, you'd felt it again—that familiar rush of emotions you'd thought you'd left behind.

The sight of him, looking so lost and alone, had brought it all flooding back—the memories, the feelings, the ache in your chest that had never really gone away.

You knew it was dangerous; you knew you were treading a fine line between fantasy and reality, between what was possible and what could never be. But as you stood there, your heart racing, your mind spinning with a thousand thoughts, one thing was clear.

You weren't done with him.

Not yet.

And this time, you were determined to find out what it all meant, no matter where it led.

The sun had already settled high in the sky by the time you finally left the inn, the warmth of the day pressing gently against your skin as you stepped outside.

You'd chosen to stick with your green aesthetic, just like on the train, but this time you'd added a touch of softness with a dress adorned with delicate flower patterns on the sleeves, the fabric falling gently around your knees in a way that felt both comfortable and flattering.

You were a little embarrassed to admit how long it had taken you to get ready that morning, standing in front of the mirror, making sure every detail was perfect.

Kiro had been exasperated with you, of course.

She'd watched you fuss over your hair and straighten your dress with a mix of impatience and amusement. "You know, you're taking longer than I do to get ready, and that's saying something," she'd teased, her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the doorframe. "I'm heading out. Meet me at the saloon tonight, okay? Don't get too lost in your head today." And with that, she'd left, eager to explore the park on her own terms.

Now, as you descended the stairs of the inn, your hand trailing along the polished wooden railing, you felt a flutter of nerves in your stomach.

You smoothed the front of your dress once more, the soft fabric cool under your fingertips, the vibrant green contrasting with the sun-washed browns and reds of the town outside.

As your feet touched the last step, you heard a low whistle, the sound drawing your attention to a small group of rough-looking cowboys lounging against the porch railing nearby.

They were the kind of men who looked like they belonged in this world, their faces tanned and weathered, their hats pulled low over their eyes as they eyed you with a lazy, predatory interest.

"Well, well, well. Now, ain't you a sight for sore eyes," one of them drawled, his eyes raking over you with a slow, deliberate gaze. "Look sweeter than a peach just waitin' to be plucked." His grin was wide, showing a row of yellowed teeth, his words met with a chorus of chuckles from the men around him.

Another leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked you up and down. "Mmm, I'd sure like to sink my teeth into somethin' else," he added, his tone dripping with innuendo as the rest of them cackled, their laughter harsh and grating in the stillness of the afternoon.

You glanced at them, a single, disinterested look that you hoped conveyed exactly how little you cared for their words.

They were either guests—in which case a host would step in if they tried anything due to the Good Samaritan Reflex code, or hosts themselves—which means their behavior is designed to be provocative but ultimately harmless.

Either way, you knew there was no real danger, not here, not like this.

So you straightened your shoulders, your gaze fixed firmly on the path ahead of you, and walked past them without a word, your chin held high as you ignored their lewd stares and crude comments.

They called after you, their voices fading into the background as you continued down the street, each step carrying you further away from their lingering gazes.

It wasn't long before you found yourself near the post office, the familiar sight of it bringing a rush of nostalgia that tightened in your chest.

You slowed your steps, your eyes scanning the area almost unconsciously.

And then you saw him.

Just like all those years ago, he sat on the bench outside the telegram office, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed over a piece of paper in his hands. The same air of frustration and sadness clung to him, a palpable sense of weariness in the way he held himself.

Your heart flipped in your chest, the familiar, almost painful ache spreading through you as you took him in. The sunlight casted a warm glow over his skin, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the line of his brow as he stared down at the paper in his hands.

He looked just as he did the first time you'd encountered him—disheartened and frustrated.

You stood there for a moment, your breath caught in your throat, your feet rooted to the ground as you watched him.

It was as if you'd been transported back to that first day, the day you'd found him sitting here, lost and alone, a small, seemingly inconsequential part of this vast, complex world.

But to you, he'd been more than that.

He'd been the one thing that had made this place feel real, the one person who had made you feel like you belonged.

But you knew better.

You'd told yourself so many times that he was just a host, just a collection of code and circuitry, that whatever connection you felt, whatever emotions he stirred in you, weren't real.

And yet, standing here, watching him, you couldn't help but feel that familiar pull, that spark of something that had never really gone away.

You took a deep breath, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag as you forced yourself to move, your steps slow and measured as you approached the bench where he sat.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, the anticipation and fear swirling inside you like a storm, but you kept walking, kept moving toward him, drawn by a force you couldn't explain.

And as you drew closer, his head lifted, his eyes meeting yours with that same startled, almost shy expression you remembered so well.

But before you could say anything, before you could even think of what to say, he spoke, his voice soft and uncertain, the words catching in his throat as he looked up at you with that familiar, heartbreaking mix of hope and hesitation.

"E-Excuse me," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Could you… could you help me, please?"

You were taken aback by the slight change in his introduction.

Normally, he would launch into the full explanation right away, his voice carrying a rehearsed cadence that was both familiar and comforting. But now, he just stared up at you, his eyes wide and earnest, the plea in them so tangible it made your chest ache.

It was almost unsettling how real he seemed, how much more depth there was to his expression, to the subtle shift of emotions that played across his features.

Four years was a long time, long enough for all sorts of updates and changes to be made to the hosts. Who knew what modifications had been added to his programming in that time?

But even so, it was hard not to feel the weight of his gaze, the way he looked at you as if he were truly lost, as if the question he'd asked wasn't just part of a scripted narrative but something he genuinely needed answered.

Clearing your throat, you tried to steady yourself, your mind racing to catch up with the moment. "Ah, y-yes, I can help," you managed, your voice a little shaky as you forced yourself to meet his eyes, to hold that intense, almost pleading gaze. "Um, what exactly can I do?"

He exhaled softly, the breath escaping him in a way that felt almost too human, his shoulders sagging just a fraction as if the prospect of your help had lifted some great weight off his shoulders.

"You see," he began, his voice still low, the words coming slowly, as if he were choosing each one with care, "I've found myself in a bit of a predicament." He paused, his brow furrowing slightly, his gaze dropping to the paper in his hands as if he were gathering his thoughts. "I was meant to take a train to the construction site of the continental railroad, but…" He looked up at you again, his eyes filled with a kind of quiet desperation that took your breath away. "It seems I've boarded the wrong one."

His hand tightened slightly around the telegram, his fingers smoothing over the creased edges, the gesture almost absentminded. "I contacted my employers, and they told me I should catch the correct train at a different station. But, I'm afraid I'm still not entirely sure how to get there." He glanced around, his gaze sweeping the street, his eyes lingering on the distant shapes of the trains at the edge of town before coming back to you, a small, helpless smile tugging at his lips. "And I fear my sense of direction is not quite up to the task."

You watched him, your heart thudding in your chest as you took in the subtle nuances of his expression, the way his eyes never quite left yours, searching your face for a response, for some sign of reassurance.

There was something so disarmingly sincere in his mannerisms, the slight hitch in his voice, the way his shoulders hunched ever so slightly as if he were bracing himself for disappointment.

It was impossible not to be struck by how much he had changed since your last visit.

The Andy you remembered had been charming, yes, but there had always been a certain distance to his interactions, a formality that marked him as a creation of the park.

But this version of him felt different, more grounded, more real.

It was as if the boundaries between what he was and what he was supposed to be had blurred in your absence, as if he had somehow become more than just a collection of code and wires.

You were so caught up in your thoughts, your gaze lingering on the way the sunlight played off his features, that you almost didn't notice when he leaned in slightly, waving a hand lightly in front of your face. "Ma'am?"

"Uh—uh, yes! I'll help!" you blurted out, feeling your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you snapped back to reality.

You nodded a bit too enthusiastically, trying to regain your composure. But then a sudden thought hit you like a splash of cold water.

You weren't alone on this trip. Kiro was here too, off doing who-knows-what, and you couldn't just disappear without her or at least letting her know.

You turned back to Andy, an apologetic smile tugging at your lips. "Oh, I forgot, I'm with a friend," you explained, your voice a little hesitant. "And I'm not sure if she'd want to tag along, and I just can't leave her..."

The moment the words left your mouth, you saw his expression shift, the light in his eyes dimming ever so slightly. His shoulders drooped just a fraction, a fleeting look of disappointment passing over his face.

You were already scrambling to make up an excuse, your mind racing for a solution. "...But then again, she's kinda unpredictable, you know?" you added quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Who knows? She might be up for a wild adventure."

He blinked, his gaze flickering back to yours, the hope in his eyes reigniting like a small flame. "Are you... are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," you said, smiling as you nodded. "Lead the way."

Andy seemed to relax at that, his posture straightening as he offered you a grateful smile.

But then he hesitated, glancing down at the ground for a moment before looking back up at you, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck in a gesture that was almost bashful. "I should warn you, though," he murmured, his voice low and almost conspiratorial. "The place I'll be taking you next… it might be a little unorthodox for a lady such as yourself."

He paused, shifting on his feet, his eyes darting away and then back to you. "I apologize in advance," he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, "if it's not quite what you were agreeing to. I assure you, if there were another way to reach the station, I would take it."

You tilted your head slightly, curiosity piqued by the mix of hesitance and sincerity in his tone. "What do you mean?" you asked, your heart beating a little faster as you tried to piece together what he was getting at.

Andy glanced around, almost as if checking to see if anyone was listening, before leaning in slightly. "We need to go through the Mariposa Saloon," he explained, his voice still soft, his gaze searching yours as if trying to gauge your reaction. "It's… well, it's not exactly the most respectable establishment, and I wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable."

A soft laugh escaped you, the sound surprising you as much as it seemed to surprise him.

You couldn't help it—there was something endearing about the way he seemed so concerned for your comfort, the way he was trying so hard to be considerate, even in the midst of this fictional world. "It's fine, really," you assured him, your smile widening as you met his eyes. "I think I can handle it."

He looked relieved at that, his shoulders relaxing as he nodded. "Very well, then," he said, offering you his arm in a gesture that was both old-fashioned and utterly charming. "Shall we?"

You took his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his jacket, the solidness of his presence beside you.

As the two of you made your way down the street, the Mariposa Saloon looming ahead, you couldn't help but marvel at how much this narrative had changed, how much more intricate and layered it felt.

The Andy you remembered would have already told you everything, laid out his entire predicament in a neat, tidy package, but this version… He was different.

The information was spread out, doled out in small, tantalizing pieces that made you want to know more, made you want to dig deeper into the story.

It felt more real, more alive, and you found yourself drawn in, caught up in the flow of it, in the way he glanced at you with that almost shy smile, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you.

There was a depth to his mannerisms, a subtlety to his expressions that made it feel less like a performance and more like a genuine interaction.

It was like he'd evolved, become something more complex and human in the years you'd been away.

When you both entered the saloon, a familiar scene unfolded before your eyes. The low murmur of voices, the lively music from the piano in the corner, and the clinking of glasses created a chaotic symphony that filled the air.

The room was packed, just as it had been the night before, the atmosphere alive with the energy of a dozen different stories playing out around you.

Andy navigated through the throng of people with ease, his hand hovering close to yours as he led the way to the bar.

You took a moment to glance around, your eyes sweeping over the familiar sights. The same rough-and-tumble cowboys leaning against the bar, the saloon girls laughing softly as they coaxed coins from eager hands, the showgirl on stage captivating the audience with her sultry voice.

It was all so familiar, yet there was an added layer to it today, a sense of anticipation humming in the air that you couldn’t quite place.

The bartender from last night caught sight of you as you approached, his smirk widening as he tossed the towel over his shoulder, picking up a glass to polish as if he had all the time in the world. "What can I get for a fine filly such as yourself?" he drawled, his eyes sweeping over you appreciatively.

There was no hint of recognition in his gaze, just the easy charm of a man who was used to making small talk and selling drinks. His purpose here was simple, his role in the story limited to serving alcohol and providing bits of information for those who needed it.

Before you could answer, Andy cleared his throat, stepping a little closer to you as if to shield you from the bartender's gaze. "I'm afraid we're not here for drinks," he said, his voice polite but firm. "We're looking for Mr. Granger."

The bartender's smirk faded slightly, replaced by a look of mild annoyance as he jerked his head toward the back of the room. "Granger's over there, playin' cards," he grumbled, his eyes narrowing as he glanced between you and Andy. "Good luck gettin' him to listen, though. That man's more interested in his women and his winnings than anything else."

Andy nodded, his grip tightening gently around your wrist as he turned to lead you toward the corner where the bartender had indicated. "Thank you."

You felt your heart skip a beat at the touch, his fingers warm and steady against your skin.

It wasn't the first time he'd guided you like this, but something about the way he held your wrist now felt different, more intimate somehow, as if he were reluctant to let go.

You followed him through the crowd, the noise and chaos swirling around you like a living, breathing thing, but all you could focus on was the warmth of his hand, the way his shoulder brushed against yours as he maneuvered you both through the room.

The back of the saloon was dimly lit, the air thick with the acrid scent of cigar smoke and the sour tang of spilled beer.

A large group of men were gathered around a table, their voices rising and falling in a raucous chorus as they shouted and cursed at one another, their hands slapping down cards and coins with equal fervor.

It was a raucous, chaotic scene, the players’ faces flushed with drink and excitement as they leaned forward, their eyes fixed on the game with a near-maniacal intensity.

In the middle of the chaos sat Granger, the man you'd been looking for.

He was a rough sight, a grizzled figure with a scruffy red beard that looked like it hadn't seen a razor in weeks and piercing dark green eyes that were sharp and watchful even amidst the drunken revelry around him. His clothes were worn and dusty, the kind of attire that had seen long days under the sun and cold nights by a campfire.

There was an air of danger about him, the kind of man who'd been through more than his fair share of trouble and come out the other side hardened and cynical.

But what stopped you in your tracks wasn't his appearance—it was the sight of Kiro perched on his lap, her legs crossed casually, looking for all the world like she belonged there.

She was wearing his wide-brimmed cowboy hat, the brim tilted jauntily to one side as she held a fan of cards in one hand, her eyes narrowed in concentration. "C'mon, mommy needs a new pair of snake boots," she muttered, the words drawing a burst of laughter from the men gathered around the table.

You watched, dumbstruck, as she threw down her cards with a flourish, the movement quick and precise.

The crowd around the table leaned in, their breath held in anticipation, and then the room erupted in a chorus of shouts and cheers as Kiro's hand cleared the table, sweeping up the pile of coins and bills in the center.

"Well, I'll be damned!" one of the men shouted, slapping his thigh as he laughed, his voice booming over the din. "She done cleaned us out!"

Granger chuckled, a low, rough sound that sent a shiver down your spine as he looked up at Kiro. "You're somethin' else, darlin'," he drawled, his voice a lazy rumble as he reached up to tip his hat back slightly, revealing more of his weathered face. "Didn't think a city girl like you had it in her."

Kiro just grinned, flashing him a cheeky smile as she scooped up the winnings and shoved them into her pockets. "Guess you underestimated me, cowboy," she teased, her voice carrying a playful lilt as she lifted one of the shot glasses from the table and downed it in one go, the liquor burning a path down her throat.

You exchanged a glance with Andy, your eyes wide with disbelief as you took in the scene.

This was Kiro—your Kiro—sitting on the lap of a man who looked like he could chew her up and spit her out without a second thought, and she was acting like she’d just won a round of poker at a fancy hotel rather than in the back of a lawless saloon.

Without thinking, you pulled Andy a little closer, your fingers brushing against his as you moved to stand directly in front of Kiro, your heart pounding in your chest. "Kiro, what the hell?"

She paused mid-swig, the glass hovering just in front of her lips as her eyes widened in surprise.

Slowly, she turned to look at you, blinking as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "Uh… hey?" she said, the word dragging out in a way that made it sound more like a question than a greeting.

You stared at her, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to find the words to express what you were feeling, but all you could manage was a strangled, "What are you doing?"

Kiro glanced around the table, as if suddenly remembering where she was, and then back at you, her lips curling into a sheepish smile. "Just, uh, making friends?" she offered, her voice lilting up at the end, as if she were trying to gauge your reaction.

"Making friends?" you echoed, gesturing to the pile of winnings in front of her. "It looks more like you're robbing them blind!"

Kiro shrugged, the motion exaggerated as she tossed back the rest of her drink, the liquid disappearing in one quick gulp. "It's not my fault they suck at cards," she said, her grin widening as she leaned back, her elbow resting casually on Granger's shoulder. "Besides, what's the point of coming here if you're not gonna have a little fun?"

You opened your mouth to argue, to say something, anything, but then Andy's hand tightened slightly around yours, his fingers warm and reassuring against your skin.

You glanced up at him, his eyes meeting yours with a look of quiet support, and the knot of annoyance in your chest loosening just a fraction.

Taking a deep breath, you gave Kiro a pointed look, mouthing the word "Later," before turning your attention back to Granger. He was sipping on a cup of whiskey, his eyes sharp and calculating as he watched the two of you.

You cleared your throat, trying to summon as much authority as you could muster in the presence of this grizzled, intimidating man. "Mr. Granger, I need your assistance with getting Mr. Andy to the correct station," you began, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart.

Granger tilted his head slightly, his gaze shifting to Andy, and for a moment, you weren't sure if he was going to take you seriously. But then his eyes lit up in recognition, and a slow, crooked smile spread across his face. "Ah, pretty boy," he said, his voice a rough rumble of amusement as he leaned back in his chair. "I see you did what I told ya, yeah?"

Andy stepped forward, his posture straight and respectful as he nodded. "Yes, sir," he said earnestly, his eyes fixed on Granger’s face. "I desperately need—"

"Yeah, yeah, don't care to hear all that," Granger interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand, his eyes still gleaming with amusement. "Usually, I'd turn down a job like this, 'specially for someone like you." He paused, his gaze flicking over Andy with a kind of wary disdain. "You sound like one of those English uppity types, always comin' through here actin' like they're better than everyone else."

Andy's face tightened slightly at the words, but he held his ground, his jaw clenched as he nodded. "I understand, sir. But—"

"But," Granger cut in, his voice rising slightly as he leaned forward, his eyes locking on yours. "Since you got these two sweet little plums so willin' to get you there, I reckon I can make an exception." He winked at Kiro, who had slid off his lap to stand beside you, her cheeks still flushed from the whiskey.

She straightened her clothes, her hands smoothing down the fabric with quick, nervous movements as she muttered a quiet, "Sorry."

You gave her a small smile before glancing back at Andy. His shoulders seemed to relax just a fraction, his eyes softening as he turned to look at you, gratitude written plainly across his features.

Granger leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest as he considered the two of you. "But I ain't doin' it for free," he continued, his tone turning serious as he met Andy's gaze head-on. "I'll get you to the station, but it's gonna cost ya. I need enough to cover my room and board for three nights when I get back, you hear?"

Andy nodded without hesitation, his voice firm and resolute. "Of course, sir. I'll see to it."

Granger grunted, his eyes narrowing slightly as if searching for any sign of deceit. But apparently satisfied, he pushed his chair back with a scrape of wood against wood, the legs catching on the uneven floorboards as he stood. He reached down, scooping up the pile of winnings from the table with one hand, the coins clinking softly as they fell into his palm.

He glanced at Kiro, his smile widening as he split the pile, holding out half of the coins to her. "Here you go, darlin'. You earned it."

Kiro looked at the pile of coins in his hand, her eyes widening slightly before she shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her lips as she reached up to pat his chest. "Keep it, big boy," she said with a grin, her tone light and teasing. "You need it more than me."

Granger raised an eyebrow at that, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he tucked the coins back into his pocket. "Suit yourself," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. He nodded toward the door, his expression turning serious once more as he looked back at Andy. "Alright, let's get this show on the road."

You felt Andy's hand brush against yours again, the brief contact sending a rush of warmth through you as he offered you a small, reassuring smile.

You nodded, your heart still pounding as you turned to follow Granger, Kiro close at your side.

Whatever lay ahead, whatever challenges you were about to face, you knew you were ready.

A/N: i wanted to give it in 2 parts but my sis bullied me and said nobody wanna read that long ahh fic 😭💔 she right tho haha sry bout that lolol

#xani-writes: andy fics #andy x reader #N-D-255 #androids #romance #andy alien romulus x reader #westworld #west world #westworld crossover #xani-writes: andy-memory card #x reader

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germiyahu · 10 months ago

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That's another perfect example of the dual edged sword that the slacktivist Left, the Leftoids as some have called them, wield against Jews and Muslims at the same time.

American, European, Christian slavery, whatever name you want to call it, is universally condemned nowadays. It has been illegal for almost 200 years in some countries. The United States fought a civil war over it, nearly a million people died.

Coincidentally(?) there is a growing rhetoric among Leftists that espouses phrases we've all probably heard: What about the Southern Jews who fought in the confederacy? Did you know that a disproportionate amount of Jewish families held slaves according to the voices in my head? Um friendly reminder that Jews owned and operated the slave ships!

However, Islamic slavery? Not a concern for Leftists. It's not discussed. And I don't think it's because they admire it, or think it's markedly different from Western slavery. It's because, I personally think, they don't believe it's their place to condemn it. They don't want to speak over Muslims.

But when it is their ideal place to speak (even though it takes no effort to condemn slavery everywhere), funny how they usually find a way to get together and speculate on all the ways that Jews are secretly to blame.

And when they think Jews are responsible for something, they will in fact speak up. They will never stop speaking even if it's not true, and has been known to be untrue for a while. They will do everything in their power to recruit more and more people into discovering the "real truth" in spite of all evidence and in spite of Jews telling them their disinformation is dangerous.

Which is why Jews are not blamed for Islamic slavery by these people. Not because there's no evidence of that. Which is my point. First there must be condemnation. Blaming Jews comes second, as a way to salve the pain of condemning a practice that their people did. But they will not condemn a practice if it done by Muslims because they think Muslim societies need to be handled like Fabergé eggs, lest they break.

And at the end of the day, it says a lot about you that you're too lazy to connect with the Muslims who speak out against slavery and other injustices, and instead choose to blindly pledge support to the loudest machismo dick swinging knuckleheads on Twitter who start salivating about wanting to recreate 10th century slave empires.

We are so lucky ISIS didn't rise to power after 10/7 like so lucky.

#israel #palestine #leftist antisemitism #leftist islamophobia

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esonetwork · 5 months ago

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Timestamp #310: Legend of the Sea Devils

New Post has been published on https://esonetwork.com/timestamp-310-legend-of-the-sea-devils/

Timestamp #310: Legend of the Sea Devils

Doctor Who: Legend of the Sea Devils (1 episode, Easter Special, 2022)

A spell of swashbuckling with Sea Devils.

A coastal Chinese village is under assault. The year is 1807 and a pirate queen stalks through the village, intent on smashing the statue at the center. A man named Ying Wai confronts her, telling his son Ying Ki that destroying the statue will unleash something inconceivable. The pirate chips away at the statue and green energy pours from the cracks. The statue explodes, revealing a Sea Devil that kills Ying Wai.

The Doctor, Yaz, and Dan arrive on the beach. The Doctor and Yaz are in period-specific clothing, but for a visit four centuries off course. Dan, however, emerges from the TARDIS in a pantomime Western pirate outfit. Yaz has been having fun with him. The tone changes when the Doctor finds a localized geomagnetic disturbance, and the team follows screaming voices to the village.

The Doctor and the companions confront the Sea Devil as it rampages through the village, but it is rescued by a large airborne pirate ship. The villagers’ wounds are marked with hexo-toxic poison, and the Doctor meets Zheng Yi Sao, better known as Madame Ching, the pirate queen. She was seeking the lost treasure of Flor de la Mar when the Sea Devil attacked.

Speaking of the Sea Devil, he is the Chief of the group, and he summons the Hua-Shen sea monster to do his bidding. That critter snacks on an innocent fisherman for fun.

Madame Ching returns to her ship as Dan joins Ying Ki to sneak aboard. Meanwhile, the Doctor and Yaz try to track Dan as the latter learns about the Sea Devils. The Sea Devil ship has cloaked, so the Doctor decides to talk to Madame Ching. But first, she decides to travel to 1807 and find the lost treasure.

Dan and Ki are captured as stowaways. They’re shocked to find the ship empty aside from Madame Ching, and the pirate queen offers to spare them if they help her find the treasure. The Doctor and Yaz travel to 1533 and watch as captain Sin Ji-Hun forces his crew to jump overboard. The captain is soon joined by the Chief Sea Devil, for whom the captain has emptied his ship for the Sea Devil’s use. The Sea Devil betrays the captain, and the travelers run for the TARDIS as the ship begins to sink. The travelers move 274 years in the future and land on the ocean floor. In a spectacular view, the Doctor jokes about being a good date (which rattles Yaz) before noting the lack of a shipwreck.

The TARDIS is taken by the Hua-Shen as the ocean floor crumbles beneath it.

Madame Ching, Dan, and Ki try to navigate toward the treasure, but the compass and the stars keep moving inexplicably. Ching explains that her entire crew (including her two juvenile sons) have been captured and will be executed unless she returns with the treasure. They are attacked by Hua-Shen, which can throw cannonballs back when it is shot at.

Hua-Shen dropped the TARDIS at the Sea Devil base. The Doctor and Yaz confront the Chief Sea Devil. The Doctor babbles about the technology around them as she thinks, but the Chief calls her bluff. He reveals that Ji-Hun’s ship is their flying craft and that he needs a Keystone, so the Doctor offers it in exchange for a tour of his ride. The Keystone is a gem of extraordinary power and will lead the Chief to the treasure. The Chief has also kept Ji-Hun in stasis since betraying him, and the Doctor learns that the captain was trying to trick the Chief to save his crew and safeguard the Keystone.

The Chief Sea Devil is alerted by the Hua-Shen that the Keystone is on the surface, so he threatens the Doctor’s life before she forces the ship to surface. Yaz, the Doctor, and Ji-Hun swing over to Madame Ching’s ship as the Chief Sea Devil materializes on deck. Ki has had the Keystone all along, holding it as a family heirloom passed down from Ji-Hun’s trusted second-in-command. The Chief takes it and returns to his ship, forcing the Doctor and her team to follow.

The Doctor confronts the Chief, uncovering his plan to flip the planet’s magnetic poles and flood the planet. The Sea Devils want to reclaim the Earth. A swordfight ensues between the two crews and Ji-Hun kills the Chief, an act that upsets the Doctor. She submerges the ship and asks Dan to watch Ching and Ji-Hun while keeping the Sea Devils at bay. The Doctor and Yaz head to the control core and try to disarm the flooding mechanism.

Ji-Hun sends Ki and Ching to retrieve the treasure while Dan carves through the Sea Devils. Meanwhile, as the Doctor and Yaz work, the former confides (with mention of River Song) that if she was going to commit to anyone, it would be Yaz. But she cannot commit because time always runs out. As they start the process, Ji-Hun offers to sacrifice himself to stop the flooding mechanism. The rest of the team boards the TARDIS and ends up on Ching’s ship as the Sea Devil base is destroyed.

Madame Ching offers Ki a place on her crew as she takes the treasure to save the rest of them. The travelers take a well-deserved break, including a phone call to Diane to patch things up. Meanwhile, the Doctor and Yaz talk about their previous conversation. After what is essentially a “it’s not you, it’s me” discussion, the Doctor makes a simple wish behind a sad smile:

“I wish this would go on forever…”

While the Sea Devils’ return is welcome, this story primarily works as setup for Jodie Whittaker’s finale: The evolving dynamic between the Thirteenth Doctor and Yaz, the budding relationship between Dan and Diane, and the discussions of what happens to companions after the Doctor moves on… all of it sets the stage for the next adventure. Who knows if they’ll ever find that beach vacation.

That said, it’s a pleasure to see the Sea Devils again. They’ve been in two major stories since 1972 — The Sea Devils and Warriors of the Deep — and a few minor appearances including Frontier in Space, Dimensions in Time, The Eleventh Hour, and The Timeless Children. Much like the Sontarans in Flux, the costumes that nod to the classic era were fun.

The swashbuckling doesn’t come without a price as the heroes (especially Dan) are a bit bloodthirsty. The Doctor hangs the lampshade with her disapproval of the Chief’s death, but the Sea Devil body count is pretty high. It’s not the greatest look.

On the other hand, I like Ki’s change of heart from vengeance to gratitude as he realizes Madame Ching’s motivations. She offers him a family after his responsibility to guard the Sea Devil Chief is absolved, and that is precisely what he needs. It was great character development in the span of one episode.

This was the second Easter special in franchise history, joining Planet of the Dead in that elite rank. Much like its predecessor, it comes in the home stretch of its Doctor’s run, but it wasn’t nearly as popular. Regardless, it does pose a good stride toward the finish line as the Thirteenth Doctor prepares to say goodbye.

Rating: 4/5 – “Would you care for a jelly baby?”

UP NEXT – Doctor Who: The Power of the Doctor

The Timestamps Project is an adventure through the televised universe of Doctor Who, story by story, from the beginning of the franchise. For more reviews like this one, please visit the project’s page at Creative Criticality.

#Doctor Who #Thirteenth Doctor #Timestamps Project

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corellianhounds · 8 months ago

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The Exodus

Media: The Mandalorian

Rating: Gen.

Word Count: 5,674

Warnings: Canon-typical violence

Art Credit: Christian Alzmann, The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Summary: Mandalorians are adaptable by nature but often nomadic without choice. The covert on Nevarro wouldn’t have risked the entire tribe to save only one of their own, not without contingency plans in place.

Set during “The Sin,” retconning the canon idea that only Paz Vizsla and the Armorer escaped Nevarro. Mando’a translations are at the bottom.

“In the years to come, when the balladeers of Nevarro spoke of the day the Mandalorian broke the Code and signed his own death warrant, there were as many different versions of the events as there were ears to hear it.

“But it always started with the explosion.”

— The Mandalorian Junior Novel, adapted by Joe Schreiber

An explosion rocked the city above. Barely a minute of cautious, alert networking had passed before the slight frame of Jenryk Lokatta flew down the subterranean antechambers of the hidden Mandalorian enclave, fleet-footed messenger to every tribe member he saw.

The detonation had gone off somewhere beyond the marketplace, calling to it a hurrying fleet of Stormtroopers. Word travels fast on Nevarro, and as tracking fobs blinked to life in dim corners and shadowed streets, civilians and hunters alike traded news in whispers that someone was back on the Guild radar.

The thing about the Bounty Hunters Guild is that listings are largely posted based on who the ISB deems a criminal. Whether laws themselves are just or not matters little to most hunters and good money is the fastest way to find someone on the run: despite the outcome of the war, Imperial credits still spend.

A heavy infantry Mandalorian stalked through the sewers of the black market outpost, bracing for yet another battle and hasty relocation effort that ran the gamut of every possible risk. In another life the bulwark of Mandalorian tradition lived in palatial dwellings with tribute given to his family’s honorable name, his days spent facilitating trade and overseeing the expansion of infrastructure. In another life he trained cadets in green fields and laughed heartily with his comrades-in-arms, swapping tales over tihaar long into the night.

This was not that life, and now as he stormed through the tunnels he mentally spat a curse at those who had driven him and his kin underground in every sense of the word.

Despite those bitter, percolating thoughts, there was a glimmer of something mean at the back of the blue Mandalorian’s mind, raring for a good fight.

From the innermost refuge of their hidden home came the sound of sizzling slag and the *ring* of an iron forge. Steam permeated the chamber as the Armorer, civil and religious leader of the diasporic warriors, worked tirelessly at the millennium-long craft that safeguarded her people.

The silhouette of Paz Vizsla filled the doorway.

“Djarin’s in trouble,” he said. “Topside.”

The Armorer’s hammer stopped mid-swing. Her brass-toned helm swiveled to lock on him, the hum of blue flames filling the forge as he awaited her orders.

“What happened?”

Vizsla’s hand flexed, agitated. “The western scout said he blew a hole in the Stormtrooper safe house and shot his way out. They’re all dead. He’s— He took something—”

“Brevity, Vizsla.”

“We think it’s a child.”

For a singular moment the Armorer felt every muscle coiling to pounce. Clamoring echoed in the tunnels. Decisions had to be made, and they had to be made now. Their brother would not have done something so rash as to take on a squadron of Imperials by himself unless he had a very, very good reason for doing so.

And even then, he had not called for help.

”Let’s move.”

She strode out into the corridor to the assembled brigade awaiting her command with Paz behind her. “Barycir jiila,” she ordered, and the group began to split under her direction. “Tsad Solus, ready the ships for relocation— Take only what can be carried once beyond the flows and get the foundlings out. The rest of you to the south exit past the bazaar. Find him. Follow on Vizsla’s command.”

The remaining Mandalorians beat their right bracers against their breastplates in a sharp *clang* of acknowledgement and turned on their heels to leave for their stations. Shouting from above and the beginning of a firefight echoed from the street level. Foundlings darted through the corridors, hastily grabbing sparse belongings and following orders from those focused on evacuation.

“Reroute the civilians,” she told Paz as they strode through the tunnel. “Get to higher ground and do what you can to contain the firefight— Send the Phoenixes in first. Clear a path for the others and funnel his adversaries back towards the square.”

The infantryman nodded, retreating and clicking the comm on his bracer to relay the message.

“And Vizsla—”

He turned back to her, at the ready.

“Buy him some time. And keep the skies clear.”

—

Working with martial efficiency, the remaining members of the covert crammed supplies into every spare satchel and duffel available. The children crèched together under the emergency lanterns as they packed the barge, helping one another don cloaks and filters as needed while the cadets moved weapons and gear. The Nautolan boy’s hands shook with the effort it took to strap on his vest, his fingers slipping on the latches, and one of the older cadets stooped to help him. The Mandalorians moved quickly, arranging what they could onto the barge that would reconvene with them out past the lava flow at the edge of the flats. The hidden cargo shuttles camouflaged within the caves had been maintained far beyond the city walls, and with luck the fight in the streets would keep all eyes turned inward long enough for the first ship to depart.

The children were antsy, most having been woken from sleep by the urgent call to attention. The adults could hear their murmurings as they shuffled into formation.

“But why do we have to leave now?” one of the foundlings pleaded. Petulance didn’t dictate their inquiries; the children were familiar with the plans laid out for their escape if it ever came to it, but curiosity and frustration were to be expected regardless of age. The youngest just happened to be the most vocal.

Hartek, an older Mandalorian in bronze, glanced at the group from where he stood at the mouth of the cavern. He clasped his sister’s forearm in a reluctant bid farewell, then came over to address the children, kneeling to their level.

“Beroya is in trouble and he needs our help,” he explained calmly. “And he would not need our help unless it was absolutely necessary to reveal ourselves. We have to leave.”

Whispers spread amongst the children before one of the older boys hushed them, and the foundlings exchanged solemn looks. They knew secrecy was the key to their survival; too many had known guardians and kin killed for their armor or hunted for their weapons. The Empire wasn’t the only entity responsible for the destruction they had seen wreaked across the galaxy— The vacuum of power it left behind was filled with mercenaries, warlords, and syndicates of every kind. The Mandalorians protected them, and the bounty hunter had never let them down.

They understood the gravity of what was to come.

Hartek nodded in approval and turned to finish hauling the last gunlocker up onto the hovering sled.

“Remember,” he said. “Stay quiet so you can listen for instructions, stick together, and keep out of sight. Keep low, and stay calm. We’ll protect you.”

Two Mandalorians finished lashing down the barge and shoved off for the exit tunnel following the lava flow. As the cadets filed back in towards the forge the alor waved the group inside. Hartek finalized the head count as the Armorer heaved the grate over the tunnel shut behind the barge. The bronze Mandalorian tugged the end of a leather cord from the collar of his tunic and unhooked the Mythosaur pendant, beskar glinting in the rippling forge light. Another explosion rocked the street above, the Mandalorians tensing as dust and gravel fell from the ceiling. Gritting his teeth, Hartek slotted the pendant into the ridge along the back wall and twisted the latch: an invisible seam in the basalt parted with a grating slide, and the hidden passage came into view on a gust of damp air.

“Move out.”

And on his lead they followed.

Bringing up the rear, Jenryk could feel the course of adrenaline in his veins as he saw the last of the evacuation head out the tunnel that would circumvent most of the attention of the town. Once assured the passageway closed up behind them he rejoined the Armorer as she secured the tripwires beyond the forge. Down at the end of the corridor that would lead them to the bazaar, Vizsla motioned for the troop to clear out. Jenryk hesitated for only a moment before approaching the Armorer, her sharp gaze watching the last of the offensive squads split off into the hidden exits far down the tunnels.

“Alor, will you be accompanying us?”

She shook her head, not looking at him. “My place is here until those remaining are ready to depart. The forge needs dismantled, and I will stay until the rest return.”

Jenryk shifted uneasily. “Something doesn’t feel right,” he said. “The Imperials weren’t the only ones firing at him.”

“… There may be other forces at work,” the Armorer hedged. “Once you’re in the air, keep the transponders off en route. We will regroup offworld and signal for you once we’ve settled at the second camp. Do not wait for us: the second ship will depart once Vizsla confirms the Crest has made its escape.”

“… Will do.”

The Armorer glanced his way as she holstered her hammer. “Do not deviate from the plan, Jenryk,” she warned him. She started to gather her tools, retrieving the last piece of his cuirass from the forge and clasping it to his backplate. “Hartek will need you as medic.”

He nodded reluctantly as she assessed her handiwork, securing the conduit latches for the durasteel jetpack and ensuring the suit’s circuitry had fully integrated into the system. Alfi approached from her setup at the false tunnel, signing that all was set as she grabbed the last rucksack. Jenryk rested a hand on her pauldron as she passed, the two of them exchanging a nod before she took off, racing to the exit.

The Armorer returned, holstering her sidearm as she listened over the comm channel. “The firing team will reconvene from the butcher’s entrance,” she said. “Move out.”

Jenryk activated the chameleon cloak on his suit and departed from the smithy, slinking out to the pyroduct under the west side of town. He spiked into the rock face above him with the climbing gaff on his boots and ascended the winding, eroded tunnel up to the street, his heart thundering in his ears. The natural ventilation shaft spit out past the slums up above, and though it was a more densely populated area of the city it had fewer Imperial scouts stationed between streets.

Smoke and brimstone filled the air, the clamor of civilians weaving through the streets as they bolted themselves indoors. Buildings of stone covered with volcanic earth rippled around him in a near-imperceptible mirage as he cut through town, mapping the fastest route between alleyways and cataloguing potential threats once the covert had finished aiding the bounty hunter at the docking yard.

There was a scout trooper leaning against a speeder bike near the canal, but he was far enough out of the district it seemed like the original safehouse hadn’t commed for him. Two Trandoshan guards for one of the wealthy families had broadened their post outside the townhouse to include the courtyard connecting the intersecting side streets, and the lights of the banking district blazed green and bright.

Blending into the twilight, Jenryk slipped past all of them to the outer edge of town. He cleared the canal, rocking the gondolas as he leapt to the other side. Carefully, he picked his way up the dark, pitted defensive wall, slipping over and out of Nevarro’s starport city and into the night. Once they were on open ground and trekking across the flats they would be vulnerable until they reached the freighter. Dusk brought with it reptavians and other nocturnal predators, and with the cover the cloak gave him, he was the most suited to clear a path.

There were six adults, three cadets, and seven foundlings coming from the flows, himself and Alfi making up the remainder of their group. Alfi would station herself as sniper and watchman while the freighter was loaded, her and Hartek waiting on him to voice the all clear before they departed. Vizsla would be the last to leave with the Armorer on the second ship if all went well, and hopefully they would hear from each other once they were out of New Republic airspace.

This was the third relocation Jenryk had seen. The uncertainty that came with dividing their numbers was not one he missed.

A shot rang out from the street leading to the docking yard far behind him, and a volley of blaster fire followed. Jenryk steeled his nerves, ignited his jetpack, and sped out across the flats.

—

Vizsla led the firing team through the narrow alleys of Nevarro. Doors and windows shuttered at the first sign of blaster fire, and the ground shook with the aftershocks of another detonation. They honed in on the smoke emanating from the shipyard entrance, footsteps weighted down with ordnance and determination. He motioned for the squad of foot soldiers to break off from the jet team, seeing them cut smoothly down to the buildings behind the main street. The remaining troops clambered silently up rock-hewn walls, creeping across balconies and roofs to get a bead on Djarin’s location.

There was a brief pause in gunfire when they were still three streets away before Paz heard the unmistakable sound of a particle disruptor atomizing its targets and reducing them to cinders. As he rounded a turret above the market district he scoped in on the street: bounty hunters of every kind scattered as a fellow hunter disintegrated to nothing, all of them now clamoring for cover. A third shot resounded, disintegrating a Rodian as the Mandalorians advanced, then all fell silent.

Paz held up his fist, signaling for those on the rooftops to halt as the gunfire came to a momentary standstill. He turned up the audio feed on his helmet, tuning it carefully. The Guild broker’s voice projected from the archway entrance and called out to Djarin, wherever he was on the street beyond them.

“That’s one impressive weapon!”

Paz dimly heard their brother respond, tuning in again. “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to my ship, with the kid, and you’re gonna let it happen.”

The broker barked a venomous order, this one loud enough to be heard by everyone in attendance:

“No— How about this: We take the kid, and if you try to stop us, we kill you and we strip your body for parts.”

The truth of the threat reverberated against the chest of every Mandalorian who heard it. Hackles raised, they advanced as one, their net drawing tighter with the impending ambush hidden by the cacophony of blaster fire. The ground team drew up sharp behind archways and corners, visages grim beneath the mask. Vizsla jabbed two fingers in a directive to ready themselves for the assault: the air team was in position. The footmen waited for his signal. He just needed to find Din so they could clear the path to the dockyard.

A plume of fire burst from a speeder on one side of the street. Vizsla narrowed his scope, adjusting the feed and impatiently waiting for the air to clear.

As hunters fell back from the blaze, the fire stuttered and dissipated, sputtering to a failing halt. The figure behind the smoke ducked back down into the open speeder out of firing range, but the armor it wore was unmistakable.

Finally, Vizsla grinned.

—

It wasn’t his reclamation of the child that deemed his actions a sin, but the initial transaction. No matter what he did in this life, Din Djarin would forever be a man who had at one time traded the life of a child to known enemies for payment. That was an immutable fact he would spend the rest of his lifetime atoning for.

He just thought the rest of their lives were going to be longer than this.

The Mandalorian looked down at the little boy he wanted to protect, stricken with the grief of his sin. He had known their chances of a hasty retreat were narrow when he left the ship to retrace his steps, but his prior confidence was founded in his determination to remedy the sacrilege of a tenet he had always held true.

Now though with plasma and fire flashing above them, the gravity of his decision was evident in the tragedy of his shortcomings. Despite his best efforts, he was unable to secure a future where the boy was safe, happy, and free. He was the one responsible for the child’s place here and now in the middle of a dark street on a blighted planet, surrounded by enemies hellbent on killing them both. The sense memory of his own father carrying him through a city filled with destruction refused to leave his mind’s eye, mingling with the guilt of knowing his circumstances and the child’s fate were of his own doing.

He had no right to pray for a painless end, but he hoped whatever life came after this one would grant him mercy for his greatest misdeed.

The child looked up at him with quizzical, sleep-filled eyes. Din stroked the boy’s head and wished he could apologize in a way he would understand.

—

A sharp whistle streaked overhead, following a streaming cascade of sparks. When the missile connected with the corner of the stone archway above the public house it exploded, sending a gunman from above toppling to the street below.

All eyes turned skyward as a figure rose above the crowd like a hawk, a dozen like it soaring up over rooftops and descending in a hail of precise, deadly gunfire.

Din couldn’t believe his eyes.

Laserfire streamed from above, hunters falling in the street. As they fired back the Mandalorians wove through the air, evading and deflecting every shot as they drew the Guild members’ attention to themselves, firing again with unparalleled accuracy into the street. More hunters appeared from alleyways but proved no match for the Mandalorians’ numbers, blaster shots finding their marks in the hearts of those now terrified by the descending ambush.

The covert had appeared from nowhere and rallied to Din’s defense, picking off assailants around him. For a singular, shining moment he was stricken with the same awe he felt when he’d first encountered the warriors as a child.

Another missle screamed from the gauntlet of a Mandalorian firing in mid-air, dodging the shots returned by the panicked and disoriented mercenaries and hunters littering the street. A fuel reserve from the docking yard exploded in front of a salvage shop and blazed up in a fireball that scattered a pack of mercs, three Mandalorians rerouting them to the square south of the bazaar. A Mandalorian in green landed behind an unsuspecting Nikto and wrapped both arms around him, jetting up beyond the buildings as the mercenary cried out in terror. Two more hunters ran for alleyways, shooting wildly behind them at the armored gunmen in the street who then gave chase, boots thumping on stone as their kin covered their backs.

In a stuttering, rapidfire flash of light, an infantryman landed near the speeder, gunning down any hunter foolish enough to have remained out in the open. The bulk of his imposing figure blocked the stone archway to the dockyard, his own aim still precise in its destruction as he cleared swaths of bounty hunters from the black market port in seconds.

Out of everybody, Din had expected him the least.

Paz jerked his head to Din, hollering, “Get out of here! We’ll hold them off!”

Din kept his aim level at their assailants as he hollered back. “You’re going to have to relocate the covert!”

Paz paused in firing for only a moment, nodding in affirmation. His voice was level with assurance. “This is the Way.”

And for the first time in a long time, Din felt something akin to hope.

“This is the Way.”

Din scooped the small child protectively into the crook of his left arm before ducking from the firefight and running to the Crest.

—

The Mandalorians moved quickly. The cargo shuttle was primed for takeoff, Hartek swiftly finalizing their pre-flight checks. He could see the firefight off in the distance as night fell, the rest of their crew moving around the hold below and securing the foundlings and the covert’s supplies. Time was running out.

“How many?” his co-pilot, Sapsen, barked over the headset.

Jenryk’s voice crackled over the comm’s frequency. “Twenty, more— on the way. Alfi’s— karking hell— Alfi’s pinned down, you— need to leave, now! We’ll regroup and— on the second ship!”

Hartek pressed the transceiver’s relay on his vambrace. His voice transmitted over the open channel to the helmets of the others belowdeck. “Who has the most fuel reserve?”

Two lights responded instantly over the head-up display. Hartek weighed his options but knew there wasn’t time to deliberate.

“Kyden, Whyt, jet out to the cliff and get her out of there. We’re nearly ready for takeoff. Jenryk, stay on the ground; we’ll come to you.”

“— long range repeaters,” Jenryk’s voice cut through. Laserfire screamed over his voice on the other end. “TL-50— scout troopers on bikes. They’ll see— coming, you won’t be able to get low enough— the hatch—”

The two Mandalorians following Hartek’s directive blasted from the bay doors in a stream of fire. The engines rumbled to life; Hartek pressed the command for the docking ramp to ascend, flipping the toggle to transfer control to the co-pilot. “Get us in the air. I’ll lock into the harness from the hatch— When we get to the firefight drop as low as you can and I’ll grab him from the starboard side.”

Sapsen’s voice was strained as he pulled on the yoke and leveled them with the horizon. “Hartek, it’s too risky—”

Hartek snapped the tether from above to his belt, yanking himself upward hand over hand.

“So we’ll just have to be careful.”

—

Jenryk’s lungs screamed with the effort it had taken to race over the plateau on foot. His jetpack sputtered and he could smell the fuel leak now soaking into his suit— The pack was damaged by one of the trooper’s heavy blaster bolts piercing the tank. Rendered immediately useless, he’d raced in the direction of his comrade, conveying what information he could to the others in the hopes that they could escape before the scout troopers on bikes caught up. Now camouflaged with the sparse brush, Jenryk crouched out of view, firing at the troopers when he could before pressing on.

Up on the ridge he could barely see Alfi’s red helm peek out in the twilight as she shot at the firing team below, but every time she revealed herself the heavy repeating blasters rattled the cliff edge and broke off more of the upper rock face, sending intermittent rockslides down the cliff. Even though she had the high ground, she was back-to-back with a lava flow that had broken open with fresh magma, effectively trapping her and keeping her from descending to the ravine on the west that would take them to the ships. Any time she rose higher than knee height she caught the troopers’ attention and they opened fire. If she exposed herself on a run to the ravine she’d be riddled with holes.

Jenryk’s cloak on the suit had given him a slight advantage as he shot unseen from the brush, and knowing Alfi she was just as much buying the shuttle time to escape by keeping the troopers occupied as he was. It was her idea to relay the decision to stay, and he’d never been able to tell her no.

Jenryk shot another Stormtrooper in the neck and kept moving. He switched his comm to Alfi’s frequency. “Why haven’t they left yet?”

Alfi signaled back in Dadita: “N-E-E-D-T-I-M-E.”

The remaining troopers advanced towards the trail to the outcropping. Jenryk picked up his pace before he heard one of them yell; he ducked, only narrowly missing a shot that flew by his helmet, and he heard the recoil of Alfi’s sniper rifle echo across the landscape. The heavy repeating blasters picked up again, rocks scouring the earth as they fell in a crashing wave not sixty feet from where Jenryk hid.

As the dust settled he knew he had to face the reality of the situation. By his estimate, Alfi was only a scant forty feet from the magma flow and likely cooking beneath her armor. He wasn’t going to get there in enough time to cover her escape.

He took a deep breath, his nerves settling to resolve as his mind cleared of distractions.

Jenryk spoke again, knowing she would hear him. “Move on my signal, Ori’vod. I’ll see you again someday.”

The Mandalorian armed the last two grenades in his arsenal and stepped out from the brush. He stalked toward the firing team on the ground, the waning light refracting around his figure like heatwaves in the desert, and as he drew near he upped his pace to a sprint. Two cluster grenades sang up through the air and exploded high above the trail to the ridge, eight concussive blasts following as they rained down on the troopers clinging to the rock face. Blaster drawn, Jenryk shot the heavy infantryman closest to him and leapt into the fray.

—

Alfi felt the explosions rock the cliff seconds after Jenryk’s comm went silent. Fear struck like lightning up her spine as she realized what he had done; she yanked herself up over the outcropping to scope in on the ground, seeing only a haze of smoke and blaster bolts firing in every direction. The idiot had given her the opportunity to get to the ravine at the cost of himself, and he had the audacity to keep the lenticular mirage up.

She had never been so angry with him.

Jenryk’s voice echoed in her ears, the reassuring tone doing nothing to calm her in those final seconds as she registered his farewell. Far below, the firing squad was in a disarray, at least a dozen still standing as they fired wildly around themselves while Jenryk cut through the smoke in the confusion.

Dimly, she heard the whine of a jet approaching from behind, and she whirled around to see two of their kin descending from the sky. Whyt and Kyden landed hard next to her as she jumped to her feet, signing quickly with her hands. Three laser bolts shot past their shoulders and they ducked out from range.

J fighting the group. Jetpack damaged. Need to help, she said.

Whyt shook his head and grabbed up her rifle, handing it to her. “Hartek’s on the way. We’ve got to go.”

Alfi violently shook her head, taking a step back, only for Kyden to wrap both of his thick arms around her from behind, pinning her own arms to her side as his jetpack ignited again and lifted both of them into the air. Alfi reared back in anger, a strangled yell escaping her as she struggled against his grip. Whyt followed after, flying with his back to them and firing his carbine rifle into the troopers below.

“I’m sorry, Al,” Kyden said over his headset. “We’re going to get him, just hang tight.”

Heat blazed under Alfi’s armor that had nothing to do with the river of lava streaming beneath them. She swore if Jenryk didn’t make it onto the ship alive she’d crack both their jaws.

—

Jenryk parried another blow, ducking beneath the trooper’s arm and jamming his blade into a crevice of their armor, twisting between their ribs with a snap. He yanked it free and immediately threw it into the chest of another, just as the butt of a blaster rifle came down between his shoulder blades. The fall knocked the wind out of him— On reflex he jerked his boot back, drawing a hard line in the dirt as he swept the legs out from beneath his attacker. He tried to right himself, still struggling to draw air, and a second trooper took aim, finally spotting him in the haze.

With weakening strength Jenryk pulled his arm up to deflect the shot with his bracer, the momentum of the bolt still jarring his forearm and jerking him to the side. Pain radiated from the right side of his chest, a lancing stitch pulsing with his every move. The Mandalorian tensed just as another shot hit his breastplate, sending him back several feet. The smoke was clearing from the basin beneath the cliff, and his camouflage flickered in and out across his suit.

“There he is!”

“Grab him! Don’t let him get away!”

He dearly hoped the covert had made it to safety.

Finally gasping a lungful of air, Jenryk dodged into a side roll, landing in a crouch. He shot his whipcord at the farthest trooper and yanked him into the two closing in on him and sent them clattering to the ground. A scorching volley of shots rattled his bones from the ground up as the last rapid fire gunner swung wide, coming around in an attempt to pin him against the cliff.

His eyes widened and he turned to leap up the rock face, bloodied gloves grabbing a ledge and vaulting him upward. The heavy repeater shook the volcanic earth and it broke apart as quickly as he scrabbled for handholds, barely gaining purchase against the rock. He spiked harshly into the substrate with his boot and yanked himself up. Every shot threatened to shake him off the cliff face, but still he climbed.

A loud, shuddering ripple of wind approached from behind him. Every wave of force felt like it displaced muscle from bone and it took every ounce of his remaining strength to turn his head.

Jenryk was struck with complete astonishment as he looked over one bloody shoulder to see the silhouette of a Mandalorian, illuminated by the waning sun and holding a grappling line on the outside of a cargo freighter. Bewildered hope washed over the resignation harboring in his chest, revitalizing him in an instant.

Without a second thought to anything else— not the height of the cliff side, not the blaze or gunner below, not every Imperial rat on that vile planet— he leapt off from his place against the earth crumbling beneath his hands.

And for a moment, Jenryk hung suspended in midair, one arm raised aloft as he reached for the hand of a friend.

—

Three successive shots rang out over the lava flats. Three troopers fell.

Alfi grimaced, seeing the final two run for the speederbikes. Whyt yelled something she ignored, the din of the engines drowning out the clamoring noise of the Mandalorians waiting tensely behind her as she followed the Imps with her scope. Craning out of the docking ramp, held only by Whyt’s grip on her belt, she fired again.

The speederbike in the lead crashed, digging its nose into the earth and throwing its rider up and over itself, just in time for the second rider to crash into him and for his own bike to explode on impact. Outside the outer hull Hartek clung one-handed to the grappling line and held fast to the forearm of their bloodied comrade.

Alfi handed her rifle back to another Mandalorian and gestured for Whyt to edge them down to the end of the ramp. Whyt carefully maneuvered the two of them as far as he could, still holding onto the railing as Alfi waved to catch Hartek’s attention. The older Mandalorian nodded, managing to get the message across to Jenryk that they were moving. Wind whipped around them as the freighter climbed, pulling Jenryk’s weight against the line, but Hartek’s grip never wavered.

Alfi squared her stance as Hartek heaved them both towards the ramp. Whyt’s grip on her belt tightened as the pilot’s grappling line pulled taut, and a sharp nod from Hartek was all the signal she got before he rocked back and used their forward momentum to swing Jenryk into the hold.

The three Mandalorians on the ramp crashed back into a pile, Alfi with both arms fiercely secured around Jenryk’s middle.

Whyt hauled both of them back as another Mandalorian raised the ramp, Hartek retreating to climb the hull to the hatch above the canopy. Alfi could feel her heartbeat in her ears as the hydraulics hissed and the rest of the covert behind them cheered.

Alfi lay there for several long moments, breathing heavily but grateful for the solid weight of the Mandalorian in her arms. She wished she could verbally tell him how much of an idiot she thought he was, but he was still clinging to her flight suit as his labored breathing struggled to find stasis, so she settled for knocking her helmet against his, perhaps a bit harder than necessary.

Jenryk chuckled through the mask, returning the gesture more gently. “I’m sorry,” he said, warmth suffusing his tone. “I missed you too.”

The intercom in the lower deck crackled to life as Hartek’s booming voice filtered through. “All present and accounted for. Hitting atmo soon so strap in. Lightspeed in three minutes. We’ll hear from Vizsla when they’ve made landfall. Over and out.”

The Mandalorians tucked into the cramped rows of bench seats, securing the cadets and checking again on the foundlings before finding their way to their stations. The rumble of dual engines hummed throughout the ship, but for the first time since the first explosion on the streets of Nevarro, those of the covert could finally breathe easily. Triumph in the face of calamity was a rare find these days.

It wouldn’t always be like this, but for now it was enough.

Mando’a

Tihaar: a strong alcoholic spirit distilled by Mandalorians

Barycir jiila: “Deploy immediately.”

Tsad Solus: Group One

Beroya: bounty hunter

Alor: leader

Dadita: The equivalent of Morse code for Mandalorians

Ori’vod: a stronger term for a beloved friend or family member

#The Mandalorian #Din Djarin #The Mandalorian fanfiction #Star Wars fanfiction #my writing #Paz Vizsla #The Armorer #Star Wars OCs #OC Jenryk #OC Hartek #OC Alfi #Baby yoda #Greef Karga #Star Wars AU

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kahztiy · 11 months ago

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Flash Memoir 8min Read Chapter YD6~05 Incidental, A Secretary's Little Girl

It would have been John Gregory, in Aticon’s fleet Volkswagen Golf, driving up in Fourways, peri-urban’s small holding’s greenhouses, and stepping out with a sloppy gait, rolled shoulders in a flimsy business jacket and pants heading toward a potential client’s invitation by a step back with the hinging door — I followed up on an inquiry, and prepared with a booklet I picked from the Mercedes’ leather passenger seat, swagger to a handshake. Followed the potential client’s hand, waving, closing the door behind. I crossed the hallway toward a woman across the room, lounging amidst cushions on the sofa. The latent tomato grower, far from a farmer and Germanic features, in dress suit pants and long sleeve open collar shirt, as he invites me to sit. with handing him a booklet, saying. “It’s four Rand fifty.” I pinched a nerve, and he turns away, pacing across the flat archway’s opening to sit in unison, triangulated, onto chatting and raised an industrial intonation. I couldn’t imagine foreign currency, and value in shipping tomatoes by airfreight, as he says. “… All my tomatoes go to the overseas market.” After a while, we rose from our chairs, and I daren’t insist, leaving the booklet with him, as the conversion leads me to the front door, to a warm, ‘_Goodbye._’ handshake.

I’m driving away, pursuant of the country roads — to our teen years with Igor, riding to bicycle race meetings. Far from an access road onto the western concrete bypass, but parallel, I pondered, sinking my ego’s learned spread mortar and embed brick, in admiration of John’s inmate Cancer, dealing with people. I reach the Old Pretoria Road, to Southway’s gateway into the suburb of Kelvin, to an immediate branching left into Fairway. Martin Knowles’ double story house, sprout after the cornered filling station, passing the adjacent church, behind a front row of villas. Since the court ordered, I vacate the house for Jean. The car rocks across through the gutter to the dirt street. At the first gateway, the heel of my hand spins the steering wheel past the gates, to the brick paving. counter spinning the porch, rotating by the car windows to a halt. I turn the ignition off, alight the car. By the trunk’s contours, I head toward the waffle panel door, pick the lock, turn the knob. With the door swings, Echo whispers a homecoming chill jilt emptiness - Thwock - closing the door behind.

I sidestepped through the wide opening, deviating from the hallway in the left wing toward the distant rear window’s glow, gleaming bulk plastic wraps. one elongating tread, I descend to a sunken conversation pit, an architectural fashion. From the pile of dormant booklets, I turn away, my business on crutches, past a vacant secretary’s desk, to the shiny filing cupboard. I kick a hip around my desk to sit, grabbing the White Page. Shift the keyboard back against the Central Processing Unit box, beneath the Personal Computer monitor. Paged the top corner index, repeating to myself, ‘_Rand Easter Show…_’ My finger trails the listed family names, until my index finger underscores the phone number. Pick the handset hook by my shoulder to my cheek, piano on the keypad, to hear the distant ringing. A woman’s voice answers, and to my surprise, accommodating. My heart warms with a sense of achievement. Eager to follow up, I’m asking. “… Where are you people?”

With a hand wrist, I flipped and flopped my wallet’s flaps, but the Rand Easter Show moved, since the Milner Park across the campus of the University of the Witwatersrand. I pull an abnormal small ball-point pen, slippery in my fingers, to note in my 7-Star pocket miniature agenda at a random date, while in mind churned her direction to a location on the outskirts of Johannesburg. She hung up the phone, reminding myself. ‘_Just in case_.’ I noted the number dialed and rose from my chair, tucking my wallet into my trouser’ back pocket. track my way across the black slate floor, to the hallway, my mind arises ruminating for a sales speech winning over the unbeknownst, apart grant to access a flood of people. I stepped into sunlight, my ripe orange Mercedes in sight car stationed on a purple-beige-brown solar brick paving - thwack - closing the door behind.

With long strides, keys jingle in my hand, with a hip swing I round the Mercedes’ trunk, pick the lock to for the awakening pneumatic wheeze - Pop -. I pull the handle, step in my door swing - smack - pick the ignition and tweak. Under the hood, the alternator whirs, moody fatigue pistons struggle with the compression to fire the aging engine to motion a purr. My fingers brush the soft steering wheel to fall on the gear knob, toggle into reverse, release for an elbow poke the backrest, my body twisting after an eye slew over my shoulder. Steer with a rear windshield view past the pair of garage doors to a halt, uncoils toggle the gearshift into drive, pulling away by the hinged back iron gates, into the dirt Roseway. I’m steering the car onto the asphalt, from the corner villa and amidst wild thin spread bark sloughing eucalyptus, into Fairway’s leafy prolongation, peered at the translucent red and white Esso fascia cantilevers --.

I’m recollecting calculating the amount of fuel for the day and a single journey in the morning, to drop off at Westbank’s warehouse their recalled leased Audi. pulled onto the driveway to the high plinth, to a halt alongside the far gas pump. Search alongside the gas station storefront, two figures dressed in mousy colored suites, with purple streaks, until one rises from the bench to step out the cabin approaching. I stepped out of the Red Audi to stand by the driver’s window. Across the Audi’s roof, I nod at the attendants crossing the driveway, and by the rear fender to the fuel tank’s cap, I’m saying. “Today, only Ten Rand!”

The Black man’s reach clang the gas pump nozzle to retrieve, when a motion in the corner of my eye calls to glance. He trails the black hose swag to a handhold to fuel tank neck. I repeated glimpses with nothing to see from the shaded forest of eucalyptus flank. niggled, I stared across the station’s concrete driveway, to a lawn girdling a flowerbed with bushy cycads. the converging and evanescent asphalt streets, to a yield road sign, judicious rose a silver radiator grill, to extreme headlights sneak from the shadows. While across the red Audi’s roof, the attendant's cautious eyes rolling a mounting rand display. From the shadows waxes and heighten orange ripe, the Mercedes muzzle coasting, besides the fuel pump attendant’s nozzle - clang - as the hose retracts and he besides the pump hangs up the nozzle.

The orange Mercedes cuts through the splitting streets, for the cornered driveway to halt short of the cast shade lining up to the driveway median’s paired gas pumps. The driver’s figure behind the windshield in the shadows remains. until the figure wiggles, the orange door swings out, with Brian rising tall, with a hunter’s eyes up the driveway, after his staff or property. He paces around easing door closing, approaching the front fender, a car pulls into the driveway, coming around the Mercedes, passing the fuel pump to a halt on the exit way. Brian, In his strides, pauses. Against the brown rustic brick backdrop. I recollected a car on a lift, with the workshop entry door in Southway, around the corner. I hailed. “Hi Brian — You wouldn’t have, or know of, a car for sale. Would you?”

Brian’s eyesight sweeps, rolling his head, fixing the Mercedes behind him, insinuating. ‘_I have this_.’ I’m surprised, without an instant for reflection, to doubt and never decide. Telling Brian without speaking. ‘_ Yuck! That’s a diarrhea-ish color!_’ Back to myself. ‘_You’ll be driving a rich old man’s car? — Good! You’ll break your impatient driving style._’

“Brian, how much?”

“It’s got a new engine!” Brian answers, to which I’m thinking. ‘_The car will come with a good neighbor’s guarantee. Holds a resale value, but I have no choice besides been within twenty-four hours without means of transportation._’

“OK! I’ll take it.” I’m saying. “Brian! I’ll bring you the cash over right now.”

We parted ways. I stepped to the pump attendant with a hand in my back pocket. In a wrist roll flip and flop wallet doors, bring a 10.00 Rand from the purse, handing to the attendant. Climbed into the red Audi, pulled off draining my stress, the incidental luck, U-turn on my way to keeping my part of the deal. I drove home to Sunnyway, to jump out of the red Audi. climbed the stairs into my office. Turned the dial, entered the safe room, and piano the shaved safe, within which I counted 7,000 Rand. I returned to the filling station, stepped up to Brian, handing him the wade of 100 Rand bills.

The attendant filling my Mercedes’ fuel tank, to a greater capacity than my series of Audis’ subsisting on my impatience, sportive and need to be revving the engines. With a bird's-eye view, but destined to circumvent Johannesburg’s inner-city network of streets attaining the Rand Easter Show, I’m creeping along the driveway to Fairway’s Yield sign. Foot feathered the throttle engaged in Southway. Break into the cast shade’s flocculent barrel vault a property deep, remainder’s bicentenary eucalyptus’ spread. I coasted by the hydraulic gears drive up to the sunlight clearing highway’s silver security screen, to the yield sign, changed by indecisive road security engineers to a Stop sign back-and-forth.

Reminded earlier sunlight crept under the Mercedes’ tail ousted night, shine tires tracks wearing smooth. With that in mind, I approached the sun flooded apron, panned the slope to the service road, and way finder on the historic Old Pretoria Road, to Voortrekkers’ trail planted saplings to shade from the scorching sun. I glanced right, and left for upcoming traffic, couldn’t help but slam the throttle, the gear kickdown, the engine roar, storming the steep engage of the Old Pretoria Road, to an appeasing purr along the highway’s glitter trickling traffic. The breeze’s hands waving golden grasslands, scythed, heavy scarifiers ripped open the belly to the ground, bulldozers leveled with aggregates until asphalt’s bands steamrolled. Kelvin’s cornered and from my upper floor office desk, the distant whooshing sunk into quicksands. On Tuesday nights’ South African Broadcast Corporation diffused Dallas to the households in front of their television screen, and on weekdays, after midnight, the skies opened starry nights. vacuumed the day’s residual sunlight dusted across my arboresque brain, open to the upcoming day, my mind piggyback the dancing spectrum of light, to rush downstairs to catch a needed sleep.

My way cast in doubt, short of the Buccleuch interchange’s shadows to monstrous, shining concrete pillars. I’m engaging the old branching Kyalami road to a spaghetti of roadways across the Pretoria highway, and converging to a trickle of traffic along the Western Bypass, and cruising. The Mercedes’ tires wheezing along the white concrete highway. Refrained from my adolescent’s home backyard playground, I’m eager for a peek at how fared, the Richter Architect’s designed flat roof laminated beams, to rough-hewn face brick, modernism glass, among bright pitched roofed wayside development. But the white circulation bands sag across the valley, overpass the gateway to Rivonia, and to a farmer’s supply town. I’m hanging onto the parallel country roads, Igor, and I cycled.

In my face, bright overpass parapets approach and multiplying shortened distances, plowing the car on a stipplechase in a blink break through the cast shade. After the Northern Wheelers’ road race circuit, from the Randburg’s outskirts’ Start and Finish line, past the Velskoen drive-in, to Fourways, a countryside loop. I’m cruising past Randburg’s Afrikaner leafy green suburbs to Igor’s parents-in-law. landmarks of construction sites, to John Gregor, his brother’s thatched roof house, an intermediate to Igor’s Richter designed house. The last overpass blinked at Randburg’s straggling houses, to shaggy grassland. As I’m cruising alongside wasteland sloping away between shallow hills, the shallow valleys regurgitate blurry and dusty, a matchbox housing grid herding behind a billboard exponential over-sizing.

A Nordic naïve white couple heading the wasteland up-slope, trail half a dozen black street young male zombies, with eyes to their enlightenment approaching the billboard’s three flicked cigarette from a Lexington’s red and white pack. To a cheerful golfer’s smoke puffs, fingers clipped a smoke trailing cigarette, cheek-to-cheek with a woman companion. The man shouldering a long lens camera on a tripod, in pursuance of a woman, clear of the billboard’s stilts framework, and wind struts to the overhead advert underscoring. “After action — Satisfaction.” the billboard masks dusty farmed houses, where locals daren’t venture. I cruised by, broke away from the media activists, and lured a mobster agitation for a lucrative anti-apartheid propaganda.

The woman I had earlier on the phone, her instruction, lay open on the passenger seat. I’m pondering over a strategy to focus on meeting responsible people, as along the highway’s inner periphery resembles her instructions. forthcoming clustered bright and shaded industrial sheds. The road shoulder sprouts the Rand Show on a road sign, and again superseded by a pointer. I eased the throttle to ride the diverging ramp from the highway’s dark underpass. I ramped to the yield sign. I steered to crawl the corner onto the deserted thoroughfare from Soweto, looking for signs, and led to a jagged street grid spiraling by industrial sheds inland. I counter steered the car right turn, by hinged back security gates into a glowing delusion, to a courtyard complex’s squatted office facades. Shaded under the corrugated iron guttered eaves. With the heel of my hand, spin the steering wheel coasting, I’m pursuing the flank facade’s row of small administration windows without access. In the corner’s depth, turn to the street facing fenestrated facades, while off sight I’m picking my open diary off the passenger seat, with wallet’s flip the flaps close to my scribbled notes, to step gazing at a milky glass door in the shade, to a shining plaque alongside affixed the wall, saying to myself. ‘_That must be it?_’

Scouting, I step out of the car - Smack - the door closes, approach a Rotary Club’s resemblance copper engraved shield, since I met members by the donated to building the Alexandra Montessori school. I lay fingers crank the door handle, slow-pacing with the hinging back door, to clearing a burly man. With a gay man’s gaze fixing on me, standing in a gray suit, flimsy lapels, white shirt, and open collar bathing in the luminescent interior, I overlook crossing the doorstep. Latching the door behind, sweeping an eyesight behind the figure glued to a carousel’s skirted mannequin quilt’s expansive glossy leaflets, the man’s fingers pick from the stacked without lending an eye.

I’m passing the stranger’s lizard eyes, stalker’s eyesight heat piggyback, I presume, fearing losing to me, his place in the queue. To the petite woman in a loose long dress draping from the stretch counter, stretched on raised heels from slippers to the ball of her feet. I lend sight, scrutinizing the life-size poster sticking out from behind the eerie burly man on standby. depicting frisky staff members serving and jumping the flank wall’s blank column onto the cheerful faces with pearly smiles. I short slow-pace from the deep angle circling from reaching the facing wall, while gazing at trade booths plastering the rear wall, kitchen crowd amid dressed tables for the restaurant opening, I end a discretion space away from the woman.

Patient, and surveying atop the facing plain wall, the calling sunlight’s glow waking in a strip across the room. Windows dropped a yellowish streak along the stretched countertop. Eager to relieve my lower back pinch, I advanced as the woman behind the counter rushed away, leaving her customer in attendance, planting my elbows on the counter, to do a discreet spine stretching exercise to relieve an itching pain. I let my eyesight wander the void to the aisle behind the counter from the corner of my eye, beyond the petite woman’s head. The customer attendant at the end wall seems to traverse the wall’s changing door shade, with a glimpse of a peeking office desk’s corner, further back a photocopying machine, vanishing behind the wall shading an embossed doorjamb. My eyesight wandered in retrieve, discrete in the corner of my eyes, to the petite woman’s mane, flowing over her shoulders, hard-pressed neck deep propped on her elbows, slink in her flimsy floral garment butting and leaning far over the impeding counter.

My temple’s glow, I trail across the enchanting petite woman, neon plasmatic staffs to the burly man’s calling lizard eyes sneaky overs his unfolded trifold leaflet masking his face, and shouldering a spin hold of the carousel’s pamphlets. I’m rolling back my eyes from the weird burlesque man, my eyes brush off the woman’s dark-blonde hair, locks shielding her facial profile, falling on the counter.

The earlier customer attendant frozen in front of the wall, to the secret door’s glitch, her eyes raising from the sheet of paper to glue in space, dancing away in strides at hand fluttering the leading sheet of paper, which glides as she slew, landing on the countertop. While she squares up herself, the customer attendant lie her palm onto the volatile paper still, and onto shifting closer to her customer’s eyes. I repeated, glimpsing over my shoulder, wondering. ‘_What’s the matter with that creep_?’

The petite woman myopic lowers her eyes to the printed form, to black printed tick boxes, and paragraph of text, her confusion to fingers crawling. The customer attendant frowns. ‘_What don’t you understand_?’ lowers her eyes to a serious gaze on the form. Both women’s head low, manes shielding their profiles, as the customer attendant realized something amiss, her fingers spider crawl the sheet of paper swiveling around.

In the angle behind the petite woman, the burly man dithers in his suit, bugged eyes, fingertips smothering the rifled racked leaflet, exposed to his obsession, feign picking another leaflet, his eyesight extended a fixation shackled the petite woman’s ankles, while the corner of his eyes on the translucent door, an overdue exit. I withdrew from the man who hadn’t seen me, wondering. ‘_What a creep!_’ My eyes retrieved to the shade of the women’s arched manes. clear glossy fingernails edge the sheet of paper, their questioning eyes whispering at each other, to a pen appearing in the customer assistant trust the ballpoint - click - onto an exchange amid long fingers. The petite woman pointing the pen at the far bottom corner onto scribbling a full signature. She withdraws her hands, leaving the pen alongside the document. Turning her head away toward the translucent door, I exclaimed. “Ann!” But she rushed after, leaving me a glimpse, trailing her words. “I have a daughter.”

To my regret, Ann left me with a mere soft silky skin profile her face, accelerating her pace toward the exit door, awakes the burly man sheds his right hand from the carousel, to sprint, outreaching Ann dismissive shrugs in her flight, his left hand slipping in the hollow of her back, to a chilly grab. A jitterbug wrapping his arm around her waist. She begs the swinging door stile for a surgical laceration. But against the brighten translucent door pane silhouettes a couple. In unison slipping out, the petite woman swallowed by the burlesque figure’s evanescent shadow in the fasts closing door’s translucent pane. I speculating the burlesque man’s firing jealousy to ask myself. ‘_What happened to her husband — Is this man another husband, or…?_’ When a distant muffled voice, dawn on me, the customer assistant woman calling on me. “May I help you?”

The customer attendant’s candy voice repeats. “May I be of service?” square up to me across the counter, I’m explaining my predicament. To my surprise, in a few words, she opened to me the gateway to the fairgrounds. For free. I thank her, breakaway toward the bright translucent door, with a heartfelt step into sunlight, the blatant sun bathing orange ripe Mercedes in the courtyard. Crossing Ann triggers in mind her.

Succumbed by Ann’s few words, standing beside me in silence, but with pride in her voice. I step into the driver’s seat, pondering. ‘_Why did she, off all things, greeted me with a daughter_?’ I tweak the ignition key, the engine to a purr, toggle through the gears, reversing, onto driving off. Out the gateway into the industrial street, set course for home, baffled. ‘_The coincidence? How did she get to know I stood alongside you? It can’t be her seeing the Mercedes? I drove my Audi fastback back then_?’

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sanctummilitis · 2 years ago

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bakerstreetdetective:

The Jig is up.

Run? No way it succeed. Her speed as a saber would cut him down. Knowing his ill intention she will make sure he is taken down no matter the cost.

Fight? Zero percent also. He might know martial arts and do a bit of fencing. But Saber not only battle harden but also will end him in one swing of her sword. He disarm weapon enemies before….but he knows for sure he wouldn’t be able to easily disarm a trained king.

His only chance might to get under her skin enough she get blinded by rage as Holmes try to do his best to think his way out of this.

Ninety Cm sword. It’s invisible air don’t allow Holmes to deduce much else like which sword it is. He only have a understanding of western swordman ship as the two are now eyeing each other down as hostiles.

Holmes need to choose his words carefully. The jig is up but maybe he could still salvage this.

“If only you protected your country with such ferocity. Tell me…why so much effort for a single normal girl? Protecting the flawed NOW instead of what COULD be? I’m sure you have plenty of regrets no? Just what is so valuable about the CURRENT human order to put in so much effort?”

He not hiding it or try to bs it. He just trying to look around for ANYTHING to throw. Pocket sand or anything. Just enough to blind her and land a single blow to the head to stun her so he can get a sliver of a shot in finishing his work.

So far no luck. He trying to get as much cover as he can as Saber not letting him leave her sight.

How troublesome. Where are the other apostles when you need them?

She bristled. He was goading her. Kiritsugu mocked her the same — disregarded that, despite it not being enough, she had done everything within her power to save her nation. He chastised her the martyr deeming herself the only sacrifice necessary, even once fractures splintered the Round Table. Arturia Pendragon had never been an ordinary girl — she had been bred and raised for Britain’s throne — but at one time, Ritsuka Fujimaru had. She were a mage who diminished her importance, humble so to write herself off as average and extraordinarily lucky. But no ordinary mage could perform what she had accomplished. Humanity rode on her shoulders, and in spite of that tremendous weight, her legs slugged forward, no matter the snapping of bones and oozing of blood. So long as she could, she would. That was the essence of Chaldea’s Master — a being who fought against the impossible, grasping what love and hope there were for a tomorrow constantly under siege, while never turning a blind eye to yesterday.

In her eyes had flashed unending pain and admiration for the Sherlock Holmes of whom she was robbed, she protested fiercely he was family irrespective of the circumstances behind his summoning. And here he was... speaking of her as nothing. It were infuriating — she loved him, and he dismissed her with bitter coldness. Unforgivable. Stoic had she played when delivering the uncomfortable truth of being Ruler and Avenger to the Master, but she could not help but feel flames coil about her heart to hear such insult levied the woman's way. Teeth ground themselves and fingers tighter about her unseen hilt squeezed, a slight shudder from the intensifying pressure of the vice grip.

"She has given up everything and more. the Sherlock Holmes who stayed by her would understand why any would take up their weapon in her name". Valour and reputation had long lost meaning for Chaldea's pivotal existence, but such blatant degradation of her character Saber would never accept. "'Flawed'? And your world is without? Do not mock us, Ruler — Chaldeas would have no need to fight if it were a utopia. We fight because, flawed or not, it is our world — and we will not simply surrender to be culled".

#bakerstreetdetective #BAKERSTREETDETECTIVE 2.#RULER「Sherlock Holmes」.#♚EVENT 20.#♚fragmemoria #are you feeling lucky holmes?

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hikari-kaitou · 3 years ago

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Capcom's Official AA Fanclub Surveys - DGS Edition

Many Western fans may be familiar with the Turnabout 4koma comics that get posted on the official AA fanclub site that Capcom runs, thanks to some lovely fans on tumblr and elsewhere who have shared their translations. What fewer people seem to know about is the character surveys.

Back in the old days, they used to hold a survey on Capcom's official AA fansite every few months where they'd write about the seasonal activities of a handful of characters and ask fans to vote for the funniest/most pleasant/strangest/etc answer.

They stopped doing them in like... 2016? 2017? The original text is lost for good as far as I can tell. Even the wayback machine couldn't help because the content was password locked and you can't get past the password wall while remaining in the archived version.

Fortunately, I saved some of my translations of them so I thought I’d share them.

Cut for length...

"February has begun, and the DGS cast is nearing the end of their journey aboard the RFS Alacrei. Which of them acted the most strangely?"

Ryuunosuke ~ Exhausted from his intensive study session, he decided to try some katana swinging practice as a change of pace and to combat his recent lack of exercise. But because he wasn't used to handling the katana, he swung it too hard and it went flying out of his hands and got stuck in the wall right next to Sherlock, who had just entered the room. Sherlock asked him, "aren't you supposed to be studying right now, Mr. Naruhodo?" and handcuffed him to his desk.

Susato- worked on developing a curriculum for Ryuunosuke. 'If we keep going at this pace, he won't be able to learn it all in time... It'll be hard on Naruhodo-sama, but we'll have to work hard through a couple of nights together.' With that thought, she created a harsh study schedule, and almost seemed to be looking forward to it for some reason.

Sherlock- Driven by excitement over the thought of returning to England after a long absence, he went up on deck to stare at the ocean. Being February, it was very cold out there and he ended up being chilled all the way to the tips of his fingers. He returned to the ship cabins and amused himself by putting his frozen hands on Ryuunosuke, who was stuck in his room studying.

Van Zieks- Upon hearing from Vortex that there was a Japanese exchange student coming to England to study law, he smashed a Lord's Bottle. He apparently also didn't care for the fact that that Japanese student wouldn't be alone, because he proceeded to shatter his chalice, too.

Hosonaga- in order to provide a respite from studying, he provided some hot chocolate. They enjoyed a pleasant tea time, marveling over how sweet and delicious the drink was until Sherlock piped up with some unnecessary trivia: 'Actually folks, chocolate has long been used in Europe as an aphrodisiac!' Everyone promptly spat it out."

"The long winter is nearly over and spring is on it's way, putting the DGS cast members in a celebratory mood. Who found the best way of enjoying spring?"

Ryuunosuke: the Yuumei University faculty members were holding a flower viewing event, and he joined the assistance committee. He exhausted himself keeping the blankets clean so the intense shower of flower petals wouldn't pile up too high on them, delivering sake and snacks, and mediating whatever pointless fights arose. To top it all off, for some reason his compensation was only a single piece of leftover candy. Talk about a sad result!

Susato- her father and the others living in his dormitory were holding the flower viewing event, so she got up early to prepare the bentos. But her father carelessly forgot to tell her that they wanted tea cakes, so she had to go around the house and neighborhood collecting sweets. For some reason, she ended up being able to gather caramels, biscuits, candy sticks, basically everything but tea cakes, for the tea ceremony.

Sherlock- he disguised himself as a beat officer and infiltrated Scotland Yard to have some fun. There was a real beat officer napping on his feet in the spring sunshine, and while observing him, Sherlock ended up falling asleep too. Detective Gregson gave them a good scolding when he found them, but then Sherlock revealed his true identity with a "hey, it's me, folks!" "What the blazes do you think you're doing?!" Gregson shouted, his rage growing even more, and Sherlock ended up making a run for it.

Van Zieks- went to the vineyard to oversee the production of the contents of his Lord's Bottle. As he viewed the still unopened grape blossom buds, he thought about how they would someday grow up to fill his Lord's Bottle, and ended up going around to look at each one. But the farm hands couldn't stop wondering whether the bottle itself or its owner's heel might come flying at them and were quite uneasy.

Asougi: exhausted himself running around since early morning helping with the professors' flower viewing event. When it was over, he took a break, sharing his reward candy stick [the name of the candy literally translates to 1,000 year candy] with Ryuunosuke, who had also been helping out.

"I wonder if the candy's effect is halved if you share it with someone."

"That still gives us 500 years."

They laughed and enjoyed looking at the flowers until dark. Then they parted ways with a handshake and a "see you later, best friend."

(This one was something about celebrating New Years. For some reason I didn't save the original question)

"Ryuunosuke ~ To celebrate New Years, he planned to pound mochi with everyone at the office. He somehow managed to get his hands on some mochi rice and he and Sherlock started pounding. Iris was having such fun watching them that she steamed a whole bunch more mochi rice so they could have some to share, and he and Sherlock spent the whole evening pounding mochi like crazy.

Asougi~ Because it's New Years, he went around to a bunch of shrines. When he drew his new year's fortune, he got a "horrible luck" result. "I'm not worried about it," he claimed, and headed up to the mountains early on New Years morning and work hard on a full training course of purification by water, meditation under a waterfall and wooden sword practice. It seems that he was working really hard to clear his mind of all earthly thoughts

Sherlock- Agreed to help Ryuunosuke pound mochi. As Ryuunosuke was flipping the mochi over, he carelessly dropped his badge into the bowl and Sherlock mixed it in without noticing, so they had to crack open both the hard and soft mochi to look for it. Fortunately they found it in the 4th one they checked, but apparently Sherlock got his hands and face covered in sticky white mochi in the process.

Susato- Wore a furisode and went with her father to do the first shrine visit of the year. The shrine was incredibly crowded and they had to wait in line for a long time, but she brought the Encyclopaedia of British Law and a copy of the Strand Magazine in her sleeves to secretly read as they waited so she actually ended up enjoying the wait.

Van Zieks- Ryuunosuke cheerfully gave him some mochi as a New Year’s (which at that time was celebrated at the same time as the Chinese New Year) gift, which he accepted confusedly, wondering “...Can the Japanese not even keep track of when the New Year is?” Because Ryuunosuke referred to it as a rice cake, he tried to eat it like a regular cake without softening it with heat first. It was so hard that he couldn’t imagine how it could possibly be food, and ended up misunderstanding the Japanese even more!

"Autumn has arrived, and the weather is starting to cool off, which means that everyone is becoming more active. Which character chose the most pleasant autumn activity to keep busy with?"

Iris was making bread but her hands are small and it’s difficult for her to knead the dough, so she asked for Ryuunosuke’s help. She wanted to make enough to hand out to Gina and all the other homeless children in the East End, so she made a massive amount and Ryuunosuke was stuck kneading this massive mountain of bread dough all day. Apparently he became such a expert at kneading that he could be a baker now.

Asougi was practicing with his sword, slicing autumn-colored ginko leaves as they fell from the tree. He cut so many leaves, though, that he ended up making a big mess on the ground, the number of fallen leaves now having increased, and it took him a long time to clean it all up.

Sherlock: Ryuunosuke told him that he was making anpan (bread filled with sweet red bean paste, the bane of my Asian-dwelling existance) and asked Sherlock to help by being in charge of getting the poppy seeds they’d need to sprinkle on top, so Sherlock went out and gathered a ton of poppy seeds. In fact, he got so many of them that no one knew what to do with them all cuz they had a huge amount of leftovers. Sherlock said, “Well, they’re only the size of poppy seeds! Surely you two can deal with them somehow! Ahahaha!” and Iris scolded him.

(I couldn’t capture it in English, but Sherlock’s line contained a pun, and a pretty stupid one at that, so that’s part of why he got scolded)

It’s grape harvesting season, so Van Zieks commutes to the winery regularly to direct the production of the contents for his “Lord’s Bottle.” He demands perfection in everything from the selection of the grapes to the way they’re squeezed, and the winery staff is terrified by the “grim reaper’s” gaze and heel swinging (i.e. the leg thing he does in court) so they grumble as they work.

"Hearing that there’s a holiday in the West called Halloween, the people involved with the court in Japan decided to try it out themselves. Naturally Halloween is a big deal in England as well. So, which member of the DGS cast had the best celebration?"

Team Ryuunosuke and Asougi- Asougi got Naruhodo up on his shoulders and they draped a white sheet over themselves to make a ghost costume. They went out like that, but Naruhodo had such exaggerated reactions to the fear of the people who saw them and to bumping his head on tree branches that they ended up losing their balance and falling on top of each other?!

Sherlock Holmes- went wearing a horse’s head mask. Iris used her skills to make it a fancy horse covered in stars, but the eye holes weren’t well made and he had to wander around blindly. Because of that he tripped hard over a pile of coal! He ended up getting so dirty that the stars on his costume were covered up!

Van Zieks- took inspiration from his nickname and dressed up as the grim reaper. He covered himself up with a skeleton mask and hood figuring no one would know it was him. Unfortunately he got angry when he saw Megundal (McGilded) pass by and started throwing bottles and glasses and ended up giving himself away.

"November has arrived, and autumn is nearing its end. However, the DGS cast is still keeping busy, even on their days off. Which character chose the most interesting way to spend their late autumn day?"

Ryuunosuke- Thinking that he’d better learn more about British culture if he was going to be a defense attorney in Britain, he went down to the East End with Gina for a little observation. However, because an Asian like him stood out so much, he got mobbed by the other children. On top of it all, his arm band got stolen from him and he had to send a replacement request to Yumei University on the other side of the ocean.

Asougi- He went for a meal at La Quantas. The customer at a nearby table got a persimmon for dessert and scarfed it down, saying “Mm! This is it! This sweetness makes it worthy of being called a treasure among foods!” Asougi tried to comment on this by saying, “The customer at that table sure is enjoying his pershim--gak!” but he may or may not have accidentally bitten his tongue in the process and been unable to finish his sentence.

Iris- She accepted Ryuunosuke’s request to learn more about British culture and prepared a bagpipe and kilt costume for him. “This outfit sure is breezy,” Ryuunosuke said shyly upon trying it on. With Ryuunosuke now dressed, he, Iris, and the others from their office headed over to Gregson’s place to get him to treat them to some fish and chips.

Sherlock- He accepted Ryuunosuke’s request to learn more about British culture and cooked up some European style curry for dinner. Thanks to the fact that his secret ingredient was a large amount of Chinese herbal medicine style spice, it caused some strange side effects and Ryuunosuke, who’d eaten it, ended up passing out and falling over.

“Another taxing trial for Ryuunosuke has finished and now it’s December. As the year draws to a close, which character acts the strangest?”

Ryuunosuke- he was recruited to help with snow removal around Yumei University and the courthouse and he enthusiastically began his task with the help of a large shovel. He got a little carried away, though, and ended up accidentally burying his umbrella, which he’d left propped up against the side of the building, in the snow he’d just finished shoveling. He had no choice but to share Asougi’s umbrella on the way home.

Asougi- On the way home, he nods silently to Ryuunosuke’s question of whether he’d finished his travel preparations and changes the subject: “...Come to think of it, it seems that tomorrow is celebrated in the West as God’s birthday.” “I’ve heard that they eat chicken as part of the traditional celebration. Wanna try it?” Ryuunosuke asks invitingly. Asougi is strongly opposed to that particular menu item, however, and they end up going out for their usual beef stew that night instead.

Susato- in addition to her year-end travel preparations, she also was busy with straightening up the book room in her home. She managed to get the law books in order when she suddenly stumbled upon some old issues of Strand Magazine! She hurried through the rest of her cleaning, then began flipping through the magazines she’d found, trying to decide which to take with her on her trip. She accidentally lost herself in her reading and didn’t realize it until it was already the middle of the night.

Sherlock- he was in the middle of a long ship voyage when Christmas night came. His mind on his partner in a far-off country, he made a toast alone on deck, when suddenly the crew began shooting off fireworks with a cry of “Merry Christmas!” Sherlock had to dart back and forth across the deck to prevent the fireworks from hitting him and setting off the explosive chemicals he carries with him.

Main series edition

#dai gyakuten saiban #tgaa #naruhodo ryuunosuke #asougi kazuma #mikotoba susato #dgs sherlock holmes #hosonaga satoru #barok van zieks #iris watson #gina lestrade #translations #official content #my translation #mikotoba yuujin #ryunosuke naruhodo #kazuma asogi #susato mikotoba #iris wilson

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kemetic-dreams · 4 years ago

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Possessed: Voodoo’s Origins and Influence from the Blues to Britney

Blissed-out, ecstatic union with our divine selves — we seek it at raves and rock concerts, and in the desert with the Burning Man. I try to get there when I’m jamming with my band — but I didn’t realize until I wrote The Language of the Blues: From Alcorub to Zuzu how much this longing relates to West African spirituality, and the Voodoo concept of possession.

Vodou (the proper Kreyol/Creole spelling of Voodoo) is a neo-African religion that evolved in the New World from the 6000-year-old West African religion Vodun. This was the religion of many slaves brought from West Africa to the Americas and the Caribbean.

Vodun was brutally repressed by slave-owners, yet its powerful beats, ethics and aesthetics endured. We owe our concepts of cool, soul and rock and roll to it.

The roots of rock are in a West African word for dance — rak. As Michael Ventura wrote in his important essay on rock music, “Hear that Long Snake Moan”:

The Voodoo rite of possession by the god became the standard of American performance in rock’n’roll. Elvis Presley, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, James Brown, Janis Joplin, Tina Turner, Jim Morrison, Johnny Rotten, Prince — they let themselves be possessed not by any god they could name but by the spirit they felt in the music. Their behavior in this possession was something Western society had never before tolerated.

Vodou possession is not the hokey demon-possession of zombie movies; it’s a state of union with the divine achieved through drumming, dancing and singing. It’s becoming “filled with the Holy Ghost” in the Pentecostal Christian tradition or attaining yogic bliss through the practice of kirtan, singing the names of God — Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna.

In the Yoruba culture of West Africa, being able to connect with one’s inner divinity is called coolness (itutu). In Yoruba morality, generosity indicates coolness and is the highest quality a person can exhibit. In American culture, we say that nice person is cool, or that a musician “has got soul.” We notice “Southern hospitality.”

The Trans-Atlantic slave trade carried these ideas to the New World, particularly as slavers burrowed inward from Senegambia on the West African coast to the Kingdom of Dahomey, a Vodun stronghold.

Dahomey spread across much of today’s Togo, Benin and Nigeria and was heavily involved in the slave trade. Vodun practitioners were shipped overseas by the thousands when the Fon people of Benin conquered their neighbors, the Ewe, in 1729. Many Fon were also kidnapped and traded into slavery in exchange for textiles, weapons, brass pots, Venetian beads and other European goods.

Vodun is a Fon-Ewe word meaning God or Great Spirit. This supreme creator was represented as the giant snake Dan carrying the universe in its coils. Today, in Haiti and American Vodou strongholds like New Orleans, Dan is worshiped as Damballah, the Grand Zombie (the Bantu word nzambi means God). He’s John Lee Hooker’s “Crawling Kingsnake”.

Branching off from this almighty God-force are spirit-gods called loa. During Vodou ceremonies, a loa may descend the center post of the temple to possess or “ride” a worshiper who has reached a sufficiently high state of consciousness. The morality implicit in this is stated in the Haitian proverb, “Great gods cannot ride little horses.”

Vodun practices like drumming were definitely noticed by nervous colonists who had imported fierce warriors and tribal priests to work their farms. After a deadly rebellion in the South Carolina colony in 1739, the colonists realized slaves were using talking drums to organize resistance. The Slave Act of 1740 in South Carolina barred slaves from using “drums, horns, or other loud instruments.” Other colonies followed suit with legislation like the severe Black Codes of Georgia.

Soon, religious repression was in full swing. Slaves caught praying were brutally penalized, as this excerpt from Peter Randolph’s “Slave Cabin to the Pulpit” recounts:

In some places, if the slaves are caught praying to God, they are whipped more than if they had committed a great crime. Sometimes, when a slave, on being whipped, calls upon God, he is forbidden to do so, under threat of having his throat cut, or brains blown out.

Vodun practitioners taken as slaves to plantations in Haiti, Cuba, Brazil, and Jamaica were also prohibited from practicing their religion. But enslaved Vodun priests arriving in the Catholic West Indies quickly grasped similarities between their tradition of appealing to loa to intercede with God, and Catholics praying to saints for intercession. By superimposing Catholic saints over the loa, slaves created the hybrid religions Santeria (saint worship) in the Spanish Islands, Vodou in Haiti and Candomblé in Brazil.

On Aug. 22, 1791, Haitian slaves revolted on a signal from Vodou priests, who consulted their oracle to determine which military strategies would succeed. The revolutionaries defeated Napoleon Bonaparte’s army and declared independence Jan. 1, 1804, establishing Haiti as the world’s first black republic. Freaked by a successful slave revolt, the United States and Western Europe slapped economic sanctions on Haiti, turning the prosperous colony into an impoverished state that could no longer sell the products of its fields.

In 1809, Vodou arrived in the United States en masse when Haitian slave owners who had fled to Cuba with their slaves were expelled. Most relocated from Cuba to New Orleans, nearly doubling the city’s size in one year. Today, 15 percent of New Orleans practices Vodou, and it’s popular in other U.S. cities with African and Haitian communities.

Among the arriving Haitians was Marie Laveau. She became the leader of New Orleans Vodou practitioners in 1820 when she was elected the human representative of the Grand Zombie. (Former White House Social Secretary Desirée Rogers is descended from Marie Laveau.)

Laveau kept a python named Zombi, and danced with it on her shoulders while presiding over ceremonies. This image was appropriated, with other Vodou nods, for Britney Spears’s “I’m a Slave 4 U” performance at the 2001 MTV Video Music Awards.

The sensationalistic 1884 book Haiti or the Black Republic by Sir Spencer St. John, slammed Vodou as an evil cult, with gruesome descriptions of human sacrifice and black magic — some of which had been extracted from Vodou priests via torture. It became a popular source for the Hollywood screenwriters who began churning out voodoo horror flicks in the 1930s.

The first musician to bring pop-Voodoo imagery to the stage was Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, who would rise from a coffin onstage with a bone in his nose. Hawkins had intended for his hit record “I Put A Spell On You” to be a soulful ballad. But once the producer “brought in ribs and chicken and got everybody drunk, we came out with this weird version,” Hawkins admitted, adding “I found out I could do more destroying a song and screaming it to death.” Hawkins kicked off the undead craze among rockers like Alice Cooper and Marilyn Manson.

Meanwhile, despite the severe repression, Vodun practices crept into Southern black churches. Descriptions of black Baptist church services in the late 1800s and early 1900s depict the congregation dancing in a circle in a “rock” or “ring shout” as they follow the deacon, who bears a standard.

It was the deacon’s job to whip parishioners into a frenzy of fainting and speaking in tongues called “rocking the church.” The concept of a deity “riding” with a worshiper transferred to these Christian churches, where the cry “Drop down chariot and let me ride!” was often heard, as well as “Ride on!” and “Ride on, King Jesus!” This became the solidarity shout, “Right on!”

Blues singers fronting big bands, like Joe Turner and Jimmy Rushing, copied the way church solo singers belted over the choir. The radio beamed this new “shouting blues” all over black America. It was picked up by country blues singers like Muddy Waters and T-Bone Walker, who had moved to Chicago and used it with their new electrified bands. These, in turn, inspired rockers like Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles and The Rolling Stones

Africans brought here as slaves carried with them incredibly strong aesthetic, ethical and cultural values that not only withstood the shock of their forced transplantation to the New World, but transformed and invigorated it. Their influence made us uniquely American. It’s why we respond to that Voodoo beat.

#africans #african culture #vodun #vodu #kemetic dreams #jimi hendrix #blues #jazz music #jazz #yoruba #igbo #africanspirituality #africanamericans

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whirlybirbs · 4 years ago

Text

MOONLIT DUNES. ; boba fett / reader ; 1 / ?

summary: you’ve found many things in the dunes. a gravely injured mandalorian is a new thing to add to the ever growing list. set directly after return of the jedi.

word count: 3.5k

pairing: boba fett / scavenger!reader

tags: some body horror, injury mention, boba loses his leg, reader does first aid, the great pit of carkoon really did one on our man

a/n: my hand slipped i swear.............. (this has been in the works since may)

In all your years spent drifting about the land of Tatooine, you’ve found many things in the dunes.

Rare racing pod parts that had been discontinued after years of upgrades... Discarded weaponry, no doubt used for something more nefarious than Bantha hunting... and many, many skulls, sentient and otherwise.

Such comes with the life of a scavenger — live off the land and the things buried deep; harvest trinkets of lives long since forgotten in the ever changing tides of glittering sand.

However, never in your life — in all the days spent beneath the twin brother suns — have you ever found someone alive in the dunes.

Until today, that is.

You should have known venturing North of Mos Eisley was a bad idea. After all, the plains beyond the space port were ridden with starved sarlacc pits. But, with Tanto — the resident Junk Boss — down your throat about catching up on your few owed debts, you’d decided to weigh the risk and trek on towards the looming beast on the horizon: the Great Pit of Carkoon. With any luck, you’d be able to scavenge what little undigested pieces the massive creature had belched back up — maybe some Gamorian armor, or a blaster or two — after one of Jabba’s usual disposal runs.

Ah, Jabba.

Rumor had it that Jabba Desilijic Tiure was dead.

You knew better than to ask about mere rumors being tossed around the clock-out lines as you turned in your hauls for the day. Like you did every evening, you kept your head down. But, you did listen. You always listen — and from what you could gather, there’d already been a few scavenging parties dispatched to the Northern region.

Something about a jedi, a princess and a hell of a mess.

Not that any of that mattered — because dwelling on some fantastical retelling of a lie by Frokop Golp, the resident drunk swindler, wasn’t going to keep you fed. You were hoping that at the least, the part about one of Jabba’s sail barges going down by the Great Pit of Carkoon wasn’t a lie. Then, you could maybe find a few transistor coolant coils...

The dawning realization that you were betting another day’s ration portion on a spun half-truth embellished by the local drunkard hits you as your dewback, a kindly older male you’d named Scud, finally reaches the crest of the highest dune overlooking the Carkoon wastes. For a moment, as you squint into the setting sun, you wonder if this is even going to be worth it.

You sigh, adjusting the light linen face covering over your nose and mouth, and gently urge Scud forward.

No use in dwelling. You’re already here.

“Hup.”

As you near, the wreckage seems to have been picked over completely. Scud plods slowly towards the wreck, tail swatting cautiously as the sarlacc a few meters ahead gives a low hiss at the vibrations riling it awake through the sand. You rock with the slow canter, one hand on the horn of the saddle and the other moving to reach behind you to your pack.

There rests a longspear — the top is crowned with the head of a gaderffii. You’d made it ages ago, well before your fifteen birthday, and it had become as much as a steadfast companion as Scud himself. With a flick and a satisfying click, the longspear extends from it’s compacted state. Resting the butt end against your forearm as Scud continues his meandering pace, you run the spear tip through the sand to your left.

No give.

The dunes creating a wall around the beast’s mouth stand strong. Over the large ridge, and a handful of meters away, tentacles swing eagerly through the air like malicious little whips, hungry for their next meal. The hulking beast, well over 10,000 years old, knows you’re here now — the desperate moan from it’s gaping maw is enough of an indication of that fact.

For now, keeping your distance and guiding Scud towards the barge, you’re safe.

The party barge had certainly seen better days — seems like a bolt from the main gun had ruptured a fuel line below the deck. Half submerged in an encroaching dune, you’re not surprised to be greeted by the foul stench of sun-rotting corpses as you hop down from Scud. Your boots, made of stretched and tanned Bantha hide, kick up a cloud of dust when you land.

Even with the twin suns beginning to set, the sand is hot.

There are footpaths leading to the barge, partially washed away by the wind pulling the sand closer to the mangled helm of the ship. Patting Scud’s neck as you pass, you grip your staff tightly — one tap of the durasteel spear to the twisted hole in the starboard side sends a scattering hiss of a pack of womp rats caught lounging in the evening shade. Carefully, you duck beneath the warped siding and over the lip of metal, eyes flicking around the cavernous sail barge.

The engine room is where you find yourself… or, well, what’s left of it. The engine has since bottomed out of the barge, no doubt laying in the dunes a few meters away. The smell of propulsion liquid burns in your nostrils, even with your white linen head-covering wrapped tight across your face.

You move on, hauling yourself towards the engine and grabbing two of the smaller propulsion pistons from the transmission. You swing your staff across your shoulder. The strap digs into your neck as you lean into the engine and try to disconnect the main hydraulic line from the engine part.

There’s a part of you, small and girlish, that remembers being scared of dark wreckages like this when you were younger. The terrifying scenario of stumbling into a krayt dragon’s nest used to play over and over in your head; and even now, the irrational little thought nags the back of your mind like a bite from a sand flea. What was rumbling beneath the sand, ready to make you its next meal?

In reality, the most likely scenario would be Tusken scouts roughing you up over encroaching on their territory.

Scud, though, you trusted enough to give holler at the sight of another being — skittish was one of his best traits, especially when sometimes the biggest danger out here in the dunes (aside from sarlaccs) was other sentients.

If the Kiqan tribe spotted you this far out? At worst, you’d lose some of the scavenged parts from earlier in the day as a barter. The Kiqan, the tribe local to this region, knew well enough that the majority of scavengers meant well. Unlike some of the tribes native to the Western lands, the Kiqans have come to terms with the traffic coming in and out of Mos Eisley.

Their chief, a broad and strong woman called Rhaza’hoq, led a clan of twenty Tusken men and women. On more than one occasion, you’d crossed paths with her — you’d come to recognize the womp rat jaw as a part of her head covering and a pelt of bantha donning her shoulders. Though their native tongue felt wrong to you, like prying dry sounds right from your throat, you’d tried to apologize for your trespass.

That seemed to have been enough respect garnered for the chief to allow you to pass through the Bo’mar Flats in peace. You’d even offered up an armful of rifle components as a gesture of good faith — one you haven’t regretted since.

If they were to catch you here, you’d lose a good lump sum of money. The two battered sheets of durasteel strapped to the side of Scud, each four feet by four feet, would catch a fair price at the Junkyard in Mos Eisley. So, you quietly resign your attempt to dislodge the third propulsion piston and shoulder the two others. Your sack swings heavily against your hip as you plant your boot on the lip of the engine and reach through the hole the ignition blast caused in the floor.

Almost as immediately as you haul yourself up do you regret it.

The smell is wretched, and as you cough and gag you can’t help but recoil in disgust.

Your arrival on the main floor of the sail barge brings with it the cacophonous sound of cave beetles wings; the insects scatter as you press your forearm to your face — you’re left only to stare in horror at the sight before you.

Jabba Desilijic Tiure was very dead.

The infamous Hutt is little more than a snack for the various animals who have come and gone from the wreckage, now. Reduced only to a rotting mess of flesh and bones, you feel the swell of bile creep up into your throat as you tear your gaze away.

“Gods above,” you heave, coughing loudly.

That’s when you hear it.

A weak sound.

A strangled moan.

Small, quiet, and nearly nothing but a whimper.

For a moment, your muscles seize up so tightly that you're left holding your breath — was that you? Had that sound slipped from your throat the moment you’d let your eyes slip to the open windows along the starboard side of the ship, overlooking the Great Pit beyond the dune ridge?

Then, you see him.

It’s the single weak raise of a gloved hand in the dirt that spurs you into motion.

Scud, too, in that moment must have realized you both weren’t alone — he gives a great baying moan as you scramble, slipping through the whole and back down the engine. You scale it with ease, staff swung over your shoulder at the ready the moment your boots hit the ground.

You dart out into the sun, escaping the festering wreck, and bolt towards what you had previously thought was just a mangled, twisted piece of a rear booster. Making your way up the rising dune, you groan and push your muscles to reach what you now recognized as a destroyed jetpack — and beneath it, a man.

Your spear greets his body first, rounded butt end planting itself beneath his side and with one good nudge, rolling him over.

That’s when you realize he is very much alive and he is very much missing a leg.

Almost immediately, you sink to the dirt.

He’s big. His chest bears a cracked and scathed piece of armor. One arm, with a tattered sleeve and no glove, bears a shoulder pauldron with an insignia long since charred away. It seems like the entire left side of his body had been scorched by some sort of blast. His jetpack, mangled and shredded, is the first to go. You unbuckle the straps along his arms with an utterance of apology.

You’re greeted with a low groan. Slight protest.

Confusion.

His eyes do not open. Swollen eyelids stay shut.

Clicking your tongue and hollering in Huttese, your lumbering dewback trods closer.

His face is sunburnt, the plains of his sharp cheekbones blistering from the exposure to the sun and sand — though, something ticks in the back of your mind. These burns are fresh. From the last day at least. Suddenly, you’re wondering if he’s a fellow scavenger who’d fallen into the pit.

The jetpack would explain the escape.

You toss the pack down the hill.

You follow it, tripping down the sand towards the side of Scud as you scramble for one of the durasteel sheets. Laying it flat on the hot sand, you wonder how on earth this man had survived this long…. A day at least, judging by the sand swept around him and the burns along his arms and face. How long had he been in The Pit?

Gods above.

The Bo’mar Flats were not a kind place when left to the elements.

You land beside the man once more, this time speaking loudly.

“I am going to help you.”

You’re not sure if you’re saying it more for yourself or him.

There’s a part of you, as your eyes flick down to the stump of his left leg, that would give anything to turn away. Ride off, forget the gorish scene. Yet, the better part of you knows you’d simply come back come morning and do the same thing you’re doing now.

And then, come daybreak, he may not even be alive.

You tell yourself, as you squat and try and get a good grip, that you’re doing exactly what anyone else would do. But the reality is that’s far from the truth. Out here, it’s eat or be eaten.

With your luck, you’re stumbling into a metaphorical krayt dragon’s nest helping this man.

If only you knew.

You root both your fists in the material around his shoulders, worn enough to show the outline of where armor used to sit. And you pull.

It’s no easy feat. Even with gravity working in your favor, you’re struggling to haul the large man down the dune. The sand simply drags along, digging him into the dune as you curse in Huttese and spit out profanities sharp enough to make Scud shift on his peds. Your knuckles ache, fingernails having dug half moons into your palms through the material of his under-armor tunic. Landing backwards, you curse. But, you get back up again, and you pull.

It takes ten minutes to move him two meters to the durasteel sled downhill — and even longer to maneuver him onto the steel piece of scavenged material. By the end of it, you’re prying your scarf from your mouth to breath. Sweat tickles the back of your neck as your hands hit your knees and you groan.

“Koochoo,” you hiss at yourself in Huttese. Idiot is right. This is stupid.

Throughout this, the wounded man has offered nothing, not a single peep — you wonder if his last ditch hail of his hand was the only bit of energy he had left.

With him now on the makeshift sled, you move towards Scud’s left pack. Inside, you dig out your canteen and a spare bacta pack. The water sloshes around the hollow metal sphere. Once cold from your early hour of embarking, it’s warm to the touch.

It’s been a hot day.

Overhead, the twin suns have melted into a hazy coral color. They hang low across the horizon, suspended in a flickering bob of heat that dances across the clouds.

You fall to your knees in the sand. You need to move quickly. Soon, the sun will set and getting back to your hut just north of Mos Eisley is an hour’s ride at best.

The lower part of his left leg, from the knee down, is gone. The bleeding had long since stopped, clotted up from the sand and what looks like corrosive burns… Sure enough, the same patterning around his wrists tell you he sure as all kriff has been in the belly of the Great Pit of Carkoon. It’s the stomach acid that has melted the skin together just enough to halt the bleeding along his knee.

You exhale. Short and quick. Then, you pour your water across the limb.

That earns a loud groan of protest. Good to know he’s still alive.

The bacta is next, squeezed from the age old tube in a glob that lands above the wound. With an iron gut and quick sense of criticality, you rinse your own hands with water, all before holding your breath and pushing the palm sized amount across the mangled flesh and muscle. You try not to think about the way your own knee twitches, and instead, focus on planting your hand on the man’s chest — for the first time, he gives a true indication he feels it. The man writhes, contorting himself as a painful series of expletives fly from his mouth.

The chest plate buckles slightly, and when you lift your palm, the dirt smeared away shows a small emblem… Tan and green and red. What looks like wheat and a drop of blood…

It’s familiar, but you can’t remember why. You’ve seen it somewhere. Chewing the inside of your lip, you tear your eyes away and you move on. In a flash, you’ve hauled the linen head wrap from your hair. With the sun setting, you won’t need it as much as he will — keeping the sand out of the clean-enough wound will make a difference once you get him back to your home.

A part of you wonders if this man has any credits at all — truth be told you certainly don’t have enough to cover a visit to the local doctor. As you finish tying off his thigh, you reason that conversation is a bridge you can cross when you get there. For now, let’s just hope you can get him back to your dwelling alive.

Away from this wretched wreck.

By the time you’re mounted back up on Scud’s back, the suns have begun to dip below the dunes on the farthest horizon — the stars melt as they disappear, casting the shadows of the dunes in inky blacks. Behind Scud, the stranger is dragged, rigged to the saddle by two extending cables originally scavenged off an abandoned pod-racing setup, out by Bestine. The plating he rests on glides across the sand, leaving patterns in the dunes. You crane your neck, turning in the saddle, and frown.

There was certainly a first for everything.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Boba Fett wakes to the sight of a dirt ceiling.

The stirring confusion of unconsciousness subsides and almost immediately he is roused by pain — then comes the startling panic.

Is he dead?

Where is he?

What in the hell happened?

This is not the barge; there is no Luke Skywalker here, nor Solo nor the Wookie... The Pit… He’d fallen in. Yea, yea, he remembers that. But, he got out. Jetpack punctured. Flew him straight into the air. Burns. That’s the pain he feels. Burns? Yes. His back.

His leg. Something feels different. An ache. He tries to move his feet.

Boba groans, angled features contorting into a pained look as he tries to sit up on the cot; but suddenly, there’s a hand on the center of his chest. Gently, the hand pushes him down to the pillows.

Slowly, dark brown eyes follow the hand. Wrist, arm, shoulder, face.

Headscarf.

The first thing he realizes is that your eyes are beautiful, but soft. There’s kohl lining your eyes, making your stare piercing. Your brows are knotted in concern, and though he cannot make out the words that fall from your lips, he can understand the tone to be gentle. You’re speaking Huttese.

… Gods damn it all.

The Hutts.

Jabba.

Son of bitch was probably dead. He’s sure that the Desilijic Clan will have something to say about that.

Boba’s eyes slip shut as he exhales.

Sleep takes him easily.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

When he wakes again, it’s evening. There are candles burning in the room, and once his eyes adjust he can make out your figure through a blanket covering the doorway at the end of the room — through the crack, he can see that you’re cooking over a small stove-top. He is laid up in the bedroom, he realizes, and on the floor across from the cot he lays upon is a pile of pillows.

You must have been watching over him.

Instantly, he’s looking for his blaster.

Call it a habit.

The mere act of bending sends pain shooting up his spine; and Boba finds himself gritting his jaw tightly as his knuckles tense and he tries to see any remnants of his armor or pack or weapons.

The commotion summons you in a flash.

This time, you have no headscarf on; Boba can now see the swell of your lips and the kind slope of your nose. You’re beautiful — his bruised and bloodshot eyes follow you as you glide into the room and duck beneath the patterned blanket separating the bedroom from the kitchenette.

There’s a plate of food in your hand. A fork and a knife rest on the edge of the painted plate.

“Careful,” comes a gentle utterance as you place the food beside his head on the table there, “Take it easy.”

Your basic is dashed with the light accent of Huttese. The syllables are melodic and gentle. You reach to help him into a sitting position, keen on making sure he’s comfortable —

Like a sand viper, the man before you has snatched the knife from the plate, swinging his hand quickly with a lethal sense of precision that stuns you silent. The coolness of the durasteel utensil is pressed right to your throat.

You can see the muscles in his arms tense, the sharp rise and fall of his bare chest. The blanket across his lap has slipped to his waist. Your jaw tilts upward, expression souring quickly. The kindness in your eyes quickly turns to ice.

When you raise your eyes to meet his, all Boba can see is defiance.

“Who are you?” he grits out hoarsely, “And how did I get here?”

“I found you,” you hiss, words scathing and hot as you raise both hands. There’s a wrinkle forming on the bridge of your nose, giving way to the angered expression flooding your face, “I’m beginning to see why The Great Pit of Carkoon spat you back up.”

The tension that builds settles heavily between you both.

And then, Boba Fett lowers the knife.

#moonlit dunes #boba fett x reader #boba x reader #boba fett imagine #boba fett x you #boba fett reader insert #star wars imagine #mandalorian imagine #I CANNOT HELP MYSELF

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jimlingss · 4 years ago

Text

Moirai [4]

Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

➜ Words: 7k

➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Isekai!AU

➜ Summary: Death is supposed to be the end. Or at least that's what you assumed when you're hit by a TRUCK. But the moment you open your eyes again, instead of being sent to the afterlife, you've become a baby. And not just any baby. You're the female villain of a video game.

“Not bad.” The old woman twirls her the point of her quill all over your parchment, giving check marks with the flick of her wrist while you hold in your sigh. Of course, it’s not bad. You’re probably as old as she is if you count your other life. You might be in the body of a seventeen year old, but you’re smarter than one. Probably. “Fix your posture,” she barks a beat later without sparing a glance and your spine straightens on instinct. “It seems like you can move onto the next volume of philosophy social theory.” “What? Uh, I mean, pardon? I thought I was finished, Lady Devon.” “Learning is never finished. The faster you learn that, the better Queen you will make for the empire someday.” The Viscountess, the one assigned to oversee your princess training, shuts the textbook. “But we will move on next time. It’s time for your dance lessons.” You hold in your groan. On your sixteenth birthday, instead of being gifted diamonds or laced dresses from the best seamstress like any child of a duke would receive, you were shipped off to the royal palace. It was the worst present ever. And you once got soap in your other life. Ever since, you’ve been officially considered the Prince’s fiancée. Not much different from how the game was set up when the main character enters the stage. So you’ve long given up on trying to avoid this, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t happy about it. You might be free from your parents. But unlike the Devereux estate, proving your worth only gives you more to do. None of your tutors or mentors are ever satisfied with your performance. If you show your capability, then they push you further and further to see your limits. You can’t run away or swing your sword either — the tolerance in the castle is at zero. “Excuse me.” Lady Devon gets up from her chair and walks to the door with a grace that only fifty years in high society can bring you. “The dance tutor should be down the hall and coming shortly.” You hum and cordially smile. “Please, take your time.” Her wrinkled eyes pin on you until the door shuts. Only then do you breathe a big sigh, tension released in your body and your back slouching into the chair again. But you don’t waste much time getting comfortable. Instead, you jump to your feet and rush underneath your bed. In a spooled pile in the dusty back is a make-shift rope you tied from spare clothes. It took three nights to rip and weave together, but it was a surprisingly fun activity when you envisioned this moment — knotting the end around your balcony railing and throwing it overboard. As strict as the castle is, that doesn’t mean you’ll give in so easily. Even you deserve a break once in a while. An older man in a frilly jacket enters the room. His eyes dart around before they land on you out the balcony doors, standing at the other side of the marble railing. His jaw drops. Brows raise. “My lady—!” Oh shit. It’s now or never. With your eyes shut tight, you jump. Your dance instructor’s shout echoes through the palace and you peel your lids open when the impact of the landing doesn’t come. When your feet don't touch the ground. It’s then and there that you realize that you’re dangling midair, the clothing rope in your grasps. You didn’t make it long enough! Oh fuck! Fuck! The cloth rope starts to slip from your grip, between your fingertips and you brace yourself. It’s just the second floor of the castle. You’ll survive if you fall, right? Right?! Your teeth grit and your scream is soundless as you let go. But instead of slamming into the ground, you tumble on top of something much softer yet still firm. Something that lets out a pained groan, that’s quite warm. You bolt upwards and your eyes double as you realize that something is someone. By sheer coincidence and coincidence only, you’ve fallen on top of a dark-haired man and pinned him onto the ground. “S-Sorry! I’m so sorry! My deepest apologies.” You bow your head and slide off of him as he sits up while gripping the back of his head. The two of you look at one another, eyes meeting— The moment is interrupted by a shout. “Lady Anastasia!” The sprinting stomps crescendos in volume, coming closer and closer and you start to panic, not sure where to go, where to hide. But then the person in front of you reaches out, grabbing a hold of your forearm. You frown in confusion, about to shake him off until you find your fingertips becoming translucent. The palace guards slow down right where you’re sitting on the ground, yet their pupils move past you as if you were part of the stone wall. “The Crown Princess must be this way!” The parade of guards sprint past. The man lets go, undoing his invisibility spell. “You…” You fall back. “....ended up learning magic?” The corner of Taehyung’s mouth curls. “So you do remember me.” “O-Of course, I do.” How could you not? There’s been only two encounters with him in the past seventeen years, but even before your first meeting, you’ve already had his name imprinted in your mind. For reasons that are perhaps not positive ones. But he looks different now — different from how he was at ten. You suppose seven years would do that to a person. Taehyung is dressed in a white blouse, darkened trousers and a navy cape embedded with gold around his broad shoulders. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he was the prince. A height that towers your own. Cheeks that are no longer plump but chiselled with his sharper jawline. Eyes that aren’t impoverished. He is less like the pitiful boy than you remember him. You try not to stare for too long, but by the smirk on his face, you know it’s too late. You get up and dust your blue gown off. “Do you need a place to hide?” he asks with a small smile, catching on quick as the guards’ shouts fade. “If you are, I know just the place.” You cross your arms and look up at him. “Lead the way then.” Taehyung grins, brown irises lighting up and his lips tugging into a boxy smile that catches you off guard. But he swiftly turns on his heels and you’re left trailing behind him. The castle grounds stretch across the horizon. If someone didn’t know their way, they could get lost forever and potentially starve to death. You know Taehyung’s been largely confined to the Western towers while you’ve been managed closely in the Eastern wing. It was pure coincidence that he happened to go this way and you happened to try to escape at the exact same time. A coincidence that you left your paths and crossed, a coincidence that you landed right on top of him. It’s definitely not a part of the original story. You wonder if you should deviate from the storyline so much. The first time Anastasia and Taehyung are supposed to meet is weeks from now after he lures her in and tries to convince her that she needs his help to keep Prince Jungkook around. Taehyung most certainly did not bring Anastasia to a quiet corner of the garden, far from the stone walls, a private place that’s shrouded in trees with a welcoming white bench. “I come here often to read,” he murmurs as he gazes up at the canopy of the tree providing shade, listening to the leaves rustle. “It reminds me of someone special.” You know that person is his mother. Taehyung gestures to the bench and the two of you sit next to one another, looking out at the beds of pansies, orchids and marigolds. “How have you been?” you pipe up, curiosity nibbling at your skin. You haven’t seen him in so long. You can’t help but wonder if he’s in the same mindset as the Taehyung you know from the game — pained, lonely, blood thirsty. But you aren’t scared of him or what he might do. You feel hurt for him. Taehyung smiles to himself as if he knows what you’re thinking. “I’m fine. Frankly, I’m much more interested in your situation and why you would jump out a window and have the whole castle looking for you.” You sigh, not sure where to start. Maybe the beginning. “Actually...I’m the Crown Prince’s fiancée.” The words are muttered out of your lungs, uncomfortable on your tongue. But when you peek at Taehyung, he simply smiles, seemingly not surprised. So you inhale a breath and allow yourself to slouch. “I’m going under what they call ‘rigorous princess training’. But it’s really awful.” He grins. “Is it?” “They never give me a break,” you whine. “I’m supposed to go to dance class, but I know I’m going to step on their feet so what’s the point?” As you turn your head to look at him, you realize the game animation and drawings really didn’t do him any justice. Taehyung’s shaped up to be a handsome man. You clear your throat. “Since when did you learn magic?” “A long time ago. It’s nothing special.” He glances at you. “Although, I never had it blown up in my face yet.” His words tickle a memory in the back of your mind — the night at the Solar Festival. He smiles as your eyes connect. Taehyung gazes tenderly at you as if your irises are the most interesting kaleidoscopes, like he’s searching for something deep within your soul. Your breath hitches, heart pounding within your ears and you quickly turn away, wondering what this weird tension is. Or shit — maybe this is the beginning of the co-conspiracy that will lead you to your doom. Instantly, you stand on your feet and grab the skirt of your gown. “It was nice seeing you again, Prince Taehyung.” You bow your head and muster a polite smile. “I should get back before I get into any more trouble. I appreciate the help you have offered me today.” You spin around, prepared to strut off. But then your arm is held back. Gently. By Taehyung’s grip. You turn to look at him. “When’s the next time I’ll be able to see you?” You frown in bewilderment. It takes a delayed moment for an answer to come out of your throat. “Will you be going to the debutante ball?” The corner of his mouth turns and he bows. “I will be now.” He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles before you slip away and weave out of the gardens. For some reason you’re left with a strange feeling swirling in the pit of your stomach. // There’s a scolding of your lifetime waiting for you when you return and you muse that you finally found someone worse than Edith and your own mother. The tutors are even more brutal with their discipline and you know there’s only one person who can help you, one person you can escape to readily. “My lady,” a young girl speaks up and you stop right in front of the door. “Lady Devon said you were supposed to be studying embroidery for the rest of the da—” “Am I not allowed to visit my own fiancé?” Your timbre holds firm and you look down at the flinching girl. God, it’s just too easy to play into the villainous role that was set up for you sometimes. “And who are you to tell me what to do? I think you’ve forgotten your place!” “My apologies!” You scoff and your knuckles rap against the surface. There’s a muffled ‘come in’ and you throw open both doors. Jungkook is sitting on the sofa in front of his desk with papers in hand. He looks up expressionlessly as you strut inside. “Anastasia. What brings you here?” “I have matters to discuss, Prince Jungkook.” “Very well.” He looks to the attendants at the doorway. “Please bring in refreshments.” They bow their heads and within the next minute, a pot of tea with two cups and several tiered cake stands full of pastries and tarts are set down. The doors shut shortly after and you count. One. Two. Three. The coast is clear and you immediately flop on to the sofa across from Jungkook’s, kicking off your shoes and slumping with horrible posture into the soft furniture. Jungkook, likewise, throws down the papers in hand with a grin. “You should’ve come sooner,” he complains. “I was getting tired of reading reports and letters from advisors.” “Yeah, well, I was busy.” You lurch forward to grab a sweet fruit tart and stuff your face. Jungkook might laugh while watching you, but no one gives desserts to you in this place. Not like they did in the Devereux estate either, but at least they didn’t watch closely at every single thing you chewed. You don’t care if you can’t fit into those tight dresses. Jungkook pierces a strawberry on top of the cake and chews in his cheek. “I heard you ran out on princess training again.” “Hey. The last time I did that was months ago. Plus, you’re not the one to speak. You’re the lucky one here. Why do you get to do whatever you want and I can’t?! It’s so unfair!” “That’s because two days after you came, you dueled me and won. What kind of Crown Princess wins in a sword fight over the Crown Prince?” You burst out laughing. No one really expected you would win. They were already horrified when you held the sword. You suppose they’re just trying to get rid of those rumours and make you into a dignified, soft-spoken, honourable lady that will win over the public with her gentleness. Yeah right. Like that’s gonna ever happen. “You should’ve just been better. You’re the Crown Prince.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah, and it’s because of you that I had to go under more training with the royal knights until it felt like my bones were going to fall off,” he mutters and you snort. The two of you devour the table like children starved on sweets and once you’re full, you lay down on the sofa as if you’re a stuffed pig ready to be roasted in an oven. Jungkook smacks his lips together and eats the last strawberry. “Are you at least ready for the debutante ball?” “It’s just dancing.” You turn to look at him. “What’s there to prepare for?” The ball happens every other year for the girls in the empire as a coming of age ceremony. It’s a celebration that everyone looks forward to. But for you, this year, it signifies the beginning. “You better not step on my toes,” Jungkook warns. You scoff. “You better not step on mine or else I’ll throw a ladybug at you.” “That was one time!” he yells and you laugh. You gaze at the ornate, painted ceiling of the study. Jungkook doesn’t know that the debutante ball is the start of everything. It marks you turning eighteen. It’s where the game begins and where he’ll meet the heroine. It’s where the gears will set in motion. You’ve long given up on trying to run away from the storyline. Perhaps it was when you came to regret being unable to prevent Taehyung’s mother’s death. Maybe it was when you turned around at the Solar Festival and decided to sit by him. But whatever the case, you decided to stay and fight, to find a way to survive instead of escaping. It still startles you when changes are made that are so different from the original game, when it deviates far out of your reach and control. But one of the biggest changes and probably the best is your relationship with Jungkook. Unlike Anastasia’s, you and him are not just polite on the surface. There isn’t a wide distance. You don’t yearn for him. He doesn’t disregard you. Rather, you’re friends. And you hope that fact doesn’t change. That he never becomes an enemy. From here on out, all the efforts you’ve put forth for the past seventeen years will finally come to fruition and show its effects. You hope you tried hard enough.

The dress is a deep wine red. The layered tulle skirt poofs out in the shape of a bell, spilling from your waist. You turn around in front of the mirror while picking at your translucent sleeves, noticing that the fabric sways with each of your movements. Your hair is in a half-updo with flowers, pinned up as curls drop over your left shoulder. It’s better than what Joan could’ve ever done back at the estate. But altogether, it’s a magnificent yet imposing look. You gotta admit, in this get up, you feel like you could cackle and step on the main character’s hand with your pointed heel as she cowers in front of you. Being the villainess is the easy way. “My lady…” the younger servant steps back with the tape measure. You nod at her. “It’s acceptable. There’s no time to dwell either way. The Prince’s fiancée shouldn’t show up late.” “Of course!” The entourage of servants follow as you stride down the castle halls. The muffled violins become clearer the closer you get to the main ballroom and there at the doors, Jungkook’s already standing there with a cordial smile. He wears a navy jacket with golden buttons, trousers to pair and white gloves that matches the sash over his body with the royal emblem. The maids bow their heads, taking their place at the sidelines and Jungkook offers you his arm which you take. The pair of you stand in front of the doors. “You actually look decent for once,” he mumbles out of the corner of his mouth. You scoff quietly. “I’ve always been this beautiful.” “You always look like you’ve just rolled in mud or hay.” “And you’re beginning to sound like Lady Devon.” Jungkook snickers as you jab him discreetly in the ribs. At the same time, the squire finally makes his announcement — “His Royal Highness and Lady Anastasia!” — and the doors open. Your expressions wipe over with only the corners of your mouths pulled and you enter together. You make sure your back is straight. That your head is raised. Chin out. Steps light. Every scrutiny and detail about perfect posture is displayed right into your body language and the pair of you stop momentarily at the stairs with your plastered smiles. Everyone watches as you both descend the stairs. It’s quiet — some older women awed behind their feathered fans, men sipping their glasses of bubbling champagne. But their gazes are loud as Jungkook guides you to the middle of the cleared floor. Nearly eighteen years of lessons have led up to this moment. Jungkook kisses your knuckles and you slip into position — right hand in his, your left on his shoulder as he mimics you. The mellifluous violins in the corner start to crescendo and you follow Jungkook’s lead, stepping from side to side, back to front. “Looks like you’re not stepping on my feet,” Jungkook murmurs as the two of you begin to take bolder steps and sweep across the ballroom floor. “I might’ve skipped dance every chance I got but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to do it.” “Touché. Just keep smiling.” “I am.” “You look too concentrated.” With his criticism, you fix the furrow of your brows and your smile tries to widen. It feels a bit stiff and psychotic, like you’re forcing yourself to pretend you’re Rose from Titanic who went with Jack to dance when in reality, this is as fun as watching paint dry. “Better?” Jungkook grins. “Sure.” The music continues as you dance, but while you maintain your bright expression, your eyes flicker through the thick crowd. You spot the King who sits in a grand chair at the back. He nods along with an approving expression and your parents are standing by him too. Your dad seems to be getting a comment in every other minute while your mother appears wholly satisfied. You’re happy at least someone’s enjoying this debutante ball. But you don’t look at them for long, not when you’re focused on searching for a girl you have yet to see in the flesh. The main character. The heroine of the game. You know she’s in the room tonight. You know she’s watching right now. Yet, as your eyes travel through the surroundings, instead of trying to find the girl, your mind strays for someone else — Taehyung. He said he would be here tonight. But you don’t see him… “Anna, it’s over,” Jungkook mumbles and you snap back to attention, giving a curtsy. The Prince bows as well and the music continues to a jovial tune. The people around start to enter the floor, dancing with their partners and from your peripheral vision, the King approaches. He’s gotten old since the first time you met him. Each strand of his hair has turned gray, wrinkles deepened and eyes slightly protruding. Yet the man is still dignified and the righteous King of the empire with his commanding, aristocratic presence. But you wonder if he aged so quickly because of the Queen’s sudden death years ago, an event you know shook the Royal family. “Your Majesty.” You curtsy again, pulling the edges of your dress. Jungkook smiles. “Father.” “Very well done job, you two.” He smiles. “I’m confident that the pair of you will lead this empire well.” “Thank you, Your Majesty.” You smile cordially at the older man. “You’re too kind with your words. I can only hope that one day we shall live up to your legacy.” He laughs merrily from the pit of his stomach and even though you and Jungkook both know you’re laying it on thick, there’s no harm done. “Spectacularly spoken. I’m sure you will.” The King turns to his son. “I heard you were managing the finances in the Southern provinces well.” “I was actually going to seek council on that issue,” he exhales and in the meanwhile, you notice a few potential ladies-in-waiting looking at you. You try to ignore them, but their stares are too pointed. They’re outright gawking at you and you grit your teeth, knowing there’s no other choice. “If you’ll excuse me.” You dip down and the King nods. As Jungkook continues talking to the King, the both of them striding to his throne, you’re trapped in small talk. “I believe we’ve met once before. I am Countess Ashburnum.” — “I am Lady Herington, my husband is Baron of Herington.” — “Oh my! You absolutely look beautiful in your gown.” — “I know a seamstress who makes the best lace dresses in all of Ashea!” The conversation drones on and on with the circle of women and you make short replies while maintaining a friendly smile. It’s only when your eyes boredly wander off do you notice a girl eating at the refreshments table. She’s out of place. You can tell with how her eyes dart around the hordes of people and she fidgets alone, dressed in a yellow dress that looks like it’s been sewn from sunflower petals but worn at the hem as if it’s someone else’s. But as unremarkable as her presence is, her features are soft — eyes rounded, lips pouty and cheeks full. You’re beginning to understand how someone can be described as lovely as a rose. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s some few other people I need to meet.” “By all means.” The ladies dip down and you nod your head, beelining through the people to the refreshments table. But it’s hard to get through with the amount of people that want to stop and greet you. You watch the girl in the meanwhile. You don’t blame her for appearing so awkward, like she’s not sure where to go or who to talk to or what to do. If this is who you think it is, then she’s just a baron’s adopted daughter. She hasn’t been to many social events. She hasn’t been exposed to high society. And it’ll be a world that’ll be difficult to adjust to. You remember in the original game, Jungkook just chose her because she looked out of place and he wanted to get away from dancing with you. But considering your relationship with Jungkook isn’t sour in any aspect, a catalyst might be needed to continue the plot. If you start the encounter, then perhaps you’ll have control over it. “The desserts are delicious, aren’t they?” you pipe up beside her, stuffing your cheek as you look out at the crowd. The girl is taken aback at someone initiating a conversation and her excitement is practically tangible. “Yes, they are! I like the strawberry cream one.” “Ah. I’m more of a fan of the fruit tarts.” You turn and meet her eyes with a smile. “What’s your name?” “My name is Lucienne, but my family calls me Lucy.” “Your family?” “The Helena family. My father is Baron of Liza,” she says and that’s enough to confirm it. This is her. The heroine. The main character. The one who will take your place, become the Crown Princess and be with Jungkook. And if such a thing is inevitable, then you can make her perception of you different from how it was in the original game. Just like you did with Jungkook. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you then.” You curtsy and she does as well after a delayed moment. “My name is Anastasia Loretta Devereux.” Her eyes widen. “You’re the Crown Princess! Oh my goodness, I just watched you dance! It was amazing.” You smile and this time, it's more genuine. The heroine’s personality traits are dependent on the player, but it looks like in this world, she’s pretty excitable, extroverted and innocent. If you weren’t so secretly tense, you’d muse that you might actually make a good friend tonight. “Thank you and thank you for coming. I hope you’re enjoying the ball.” “Yes, I am, your grace— I mean, my lady.” “Please, you don’t need to be so formal with me in private,” you tell her even though she insists otherwise. The conversation starts to slow and you scramble for ways to continue it. How did you use to get girls to like you back in school? What the hell did you use to do again? The answer comes a second later— “I love your dress.” Lucy’s eyes light up and she looks down. “Really? I actually sewed it myself.” That revelation has your eyes turning into saucers and your sociable facade falls. “What?” “It’s not much,” she giggles. “The servants were taking down some dusty curtains back at home to replace them, but I thought it was such a waste, so I washed it and hand sewed it myself. I was afraid it would look shabby for tonight’s ball.” “N-No, it’s amazing!” She looks like she’s straight out of a fairy tale. She is straight out of a fairy tale! Even Snow fucking White would feel outdone. “You have some real talent.” You wonder if the girl sings to squirrels in her spare time. You wouldn’t put it past her. She beams. “Thank you.” The violins seem to dial down into a waltz piece and several more people enter the floor with their partners in hand. You turn to Lucy with a smile. “You should dance.” “Oh, well, I’m not much of a dancer.” She brushes a strand of her hair loose from her bun behind her ear. “And I wouldn’t know who to dance with either…” You hum and at the exact same time, someone with doe eyes unsuspectedly passes by. You steal the opportunity when it’s handed to you— “Jungkook!” The Prince turns at the familiar call of his name, one without any title to it. His brow is quirked and you take Lucy’s hands, pulling her along with you as she remains stunned. This is it. This is the first meeting. For you, it’s like you’ve dragged your best friend down the school hallway to talk to her crush. But for them, you wonder if it’s a life-changing moment. One of the ones where time seems to stop and fireworks are bursting in the air and their breaths hitch and their hearts sycroniz—…. Probably not by the confused look on their faces. But you’ll take it! “Prince Jungkook, meet Lucienne. She’s Baron of Liza’s daughter and she goes by Lucy.” You turn, hand gesturing out towards him. “Lucy, meet Prince Jungkook.” “N-Nice to meet you, Your Highness.” She curtsies and you can feel her nervousness by the way her hand shakes in yours. “Likewise.” Your fiancé turns to you with a skeptical brow raised. “Seems like you’ve made a friend tonight.” You plaster on a big smile. “I know right.” He and you both know you don’t like to play nice and hence, don’t have friends at all. So it’s an oddity for you to bring around someone you met five minutes ago. But you don’t let Jungkook ask too many questions. “You should dance with her.” “Pardon?” “Why not?” You push the girl towards him and she nearly stumbles into his frame. “Ball’s are all about dancing and Lucy here’s looking for a partner and I know you have to get that practice in!” By the narrowing of his eyes, you can tell Jungkook’s suspicions of your intentions or what could possibly be up your sleeve. You wish he was as dumb as he was seven years ago. “Anastasia.” “Umm...I really don’t have to, Your Highness.” Lucy bows her head, placed in an awkward position and you internally apologize to her, but you gotta do what you gotta do. “Come on,” you continue to pressure Jungkook. “You’re not going to leave her hanging, right?” Jungkook exhales out of his nose and he looks like he’s not going to let this go so easily, but for now, he relents. He bows slightly and takes Lucy’s hand. “Will you have this dance, Lady Lucienne?” “Yes…?” Okay. It’s not a storybook, fairy tale moment or anything like the game, but this is as good as it’s going to get. This way, your engagement with Jungkook can smoothly end, Lucy will take your place and you’ll be able to survive in peace while supporting them like a secondary character instead of the villainess. With your arms folded, you stand at the sidelines and watch them dance together. It’s stiff at first, but soon, Jungkook’s murmuring something to her and she’s laughing. They look like the picture perfect couple. Even others are nudging each other and watching the pair. A smile tugs on your features, but your observation as an audience member soon is interrupted. “Would you like to dance, my lady?” It’s a husky timbre, one that startles your senses and has your head whirling around. You didn’t know you were waiting for him until he appeared, until a feeling of ease that you didn’t know existed washes over you. Taehyung has his arm extended, a tender smile on his face. His dark brunette hair is combed to the side and he’s dressed in a black jacket with a navy cape draped on his left shoulder, not any less handsome than the others in the room. The corner of your mouth curls. “If you don’t mind me stepping on your toes.” Your hand slides into his palm and he grasps your fingers. “I don’t.” If Jungkook and Lucy had eyes straying then you and Taehyung have eyes turning — most don’t know who he is when he’s never shown up to any social engagements, but few do and while they’re shocked, already whispering tales of scandal, you don’t notice. You’re far too mesmerized by him. By the fact that he’s here, that he’s looking into your eyes, guiding you along the ornate ballroom floor. The skirt of your dress sways as he twirls you carefully, the two of you synchronized to the rest of the dancing crowd. “I didn’t think you would show up,” you murmur once you’ve landed back into his arms again. “Were you waiting for me?” “I decline to answer.” The corner of Taehyung’s mouth tickles into a smile. “Well, looks like it was a good thing you skipped out on that dance lesson since you obviously didn’t need it.” You grin, scoffing lightly. “That’s because you’re a good lead.” “You’re a good partner,” he replies as the music diminuendos. You wonder since when the pitiful boy you knew became so sly and mischievous. Or maybe he was always this way and his mother’s passing simply made him quiet. “And of course I would come if you were here.” Your brow lifts. “And why is that?” Taehyung hums. “Let’s just say, I’ve been meaning to get a chance to speak to you for a long time now.” You wonder what he means. If he’s simply planning to build rapport to conspire with you. But your relationship with the royal family and Jungkook is known to everyone as being decent. The Taehyung in the game also never went out of his way to meet Anastasia either. It was always her. Anastasia’s choices led to her being used as his pawn. Taehyung breaks your train of thought as he leans in close to your ear, “I’m always scared of getting you into trouble, but you can’t when everyone’s here. We can chalk it up to a coincidence that we met and danced, right?” “That’s the bastard’s son, isn’t it?” Your ears suddenly tune into the murmurs, words hidden behind gloved hands and feathered fans. If people didn’t know Taehyung before, word was spreading like wildfire. “The one who was born from that maid.” “You mean the King’s first son?” Your head turns when there’s a heavy set of eyes placed upon your form and you realize the King is sitting on his throne, expressionless. He’s staring at Taehyung who hasn’t noticed, or maybe has and yet chose to ignore. Taehyung’s right. A ball like this is truly the exception. The only time you and Taehyung would ever be able to meet in public. His eyes meet yours once more and you realize the reason Taehyung never sought you out. He never looked for you because he was afraid of what that would mean for you. How the slander and hatred of his name would attach to yours. The dance ends as the turmoil inside of you overboils. Your mouth parts to speak, but Jungkook approaches and interrupts. “Taehyung?” The younger brother has his eyes wide and the older smiles. “Good evening, Your Highness.” Jungkook laughs. “What’s with that? Actually, no, what are you doing here? You never come to these things!” Maybe because he’s not allowed to. You haven’t seen the half-brothers interact before. But you wonder how much Jungkook really knows about Taehyung — probably not a lot based on what you know in the original storyline. The two brothers had to fight each other to the death in a civil war. Jungkook came out victorious. And knowing that future makes you feel queasy as you look at the both of them being friendly together. “I just thought it was time to change that.” “You should’ve appreciated not having to go for longer. These things can be so boring. You’re honestly the lucky one,” Jungkook says. Taehyung’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Am I?” “I wish I was in your shoes sometimes,” Jungkook sighs and turns to you. “Anna. Anna? Anastasia!” You’re startled, brought out of your trance and Jungkook grins. “I was going to ask you how the dance was.” You loll your head to your shoulder. “Taehyung’s a better lead.” Jungkook’s jaw drops in offence and he scoffs. “He’s probably too nice to say anything badly about you.” You roll your eyes and glance to his side, wondering where the main character went. Lucy should be here or at least beside Jungkook. Or maybe something went wrong…. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Highnesses.” You bow, eyes already set off on the crowd. You don’t notice Taehyung reaching out, brows lifted, expression distraught that your moment together was so short. But by then, you’re already gone. You look around, searching for the girl in the soft yellow dress. But instead, your arm is yanked back roughly. You spin around to meet wrinkled but stern gazes. The ones that can only belong to your parents — the Duke and Duchess of Devereux. Even if you’re in the castle now, you’ll never be able to be free of them. They pull you out to the hall and into a nearby private room meant for quieter conversations for the guests. The doors shut and the silence simmers tensely around you. You muster a smile. “Mama, papa, how have you bee—?” There’s a sharp sound that echoes throughout the empty space and you’re shaken, breath staggering when you find your head whipped to the side. Your right cheek is numb. She just….slapped you. You turn to her, voice shrill. “What was that for?!” “How could you dance with that man?” “What?” “Did you know you could ruin your entire marriage by associating with the likes of that man? Everything you’ve worked for, Anastasia, everything that your father and I set up for you and the Devereux house could be ruined.” Her voice sends chills to your spine, quiet, deadpanned and yet full of venom. “Do you know who he is? He’s the bastard son. Do you want to get on the wrong side of the King? Or are you trying to show that you favour him as the next heir instead?” “What?” They’re jumping leaps and bounds, thinking ten steps too ahead. “Do you know how much trouble that would cause?” Your father pipes up behind her, his voice low. “It could get the entire family executed for treason.” From the corner of your eye, you see your mother’s hand raise again. But you clutch her wrist before she has the chance to slap you another time. “Once is enough,” you spit through gritted teeth. “You don’t want people outside to know, do you?” She yanks her hand out of your grasps. “Ingrate. If you’re not careful, everything the family has done for you will be gone in an instant. Don’t you know everyone in that room is watching your every move? You are the only heir of this household. You are the Crown Princess. The future Queen. Every decision, every choice, from what food you choose to put in your mouth to what colour you decide to wear, it affects not only yourself but everyone.” You know. You know the burden on your shoulders better than anyone else. But is one dance with Taehyung not even allowed? Your mother rounds the table and sits down on the sofa. “Not to mention, you allowed another whore to dance with your fiancé. She’s just a measly baron’s daughter. There’s no royal blood in her.” “Neither does our family have any,” you mutter. The Duchess whirls her head around in absolute shock. The Duke is the one who intervenes, level-headed yet stoic. “You must be the Crown Princess, Anastasia. You must keep that status and causing the King to be unhappy will do nothing to help.” “There are other ways to stabilize our family status,” you reason with him. “I don’t understand—” “No matter how talented you are,” he says slowly as he paces to your mother’s side, “even if you can wield a sword better than most palace knights, this is the only way.” Your staggering breath inhales through your mouth and out your nose, frustration, torment suffocating. You want to leave this place. Leave the castle, leave the Devereux name, leave these duties burdened onto you. The scrutiny that comes along with the wealth and power. You want none of it. You might be Anastasia. But you’re also Y/N. Wanting to survive and living a long and fruitful life was your goal even before this lifetime. And as selfish as it may be, you cannot fulfill that wish while maintaining your parents’. You can’t. You can’t fight to be the Crown Princess if you want to live. You can’t see yourself into old age if you’re executed. You can’t keep Jungkook close and Taehyung at a distance. You can’t run away, but you can’t ground yourself and stay either. Everyone! Everyone wants something from you, everyone is expecting you to play some kind of role — daughter, survivor, saviour — and you don’t know what to pick and choose. What decisions to make and how to make them. And because of this indecisiveness, the half-hearted middle ground, you couldn’t save Taehyung’s mom. “It’s because of your narrow mindedness that you’ve pushed yourselves to only one option.” You turn and leave the room, slipping away before they can say another word. If you choose happiness — the happy ending of Jungkook and Lucy with your survival and support, an ending where you will be able to stand in the background, the Devereux house will fall. If you choose to follow duty and selflessness — you will die and ruin their name anyway. You’re not so sure why it’s so hard to make a choice. In the original game, the Duke and Duchess cut ties with you anyway. They threw Anastasia away when she needed them most. But even with that resentment, it still hurts. You exhale, escaping to the terrace and leaning against the stone wall to look up at the stars. Your own words echo back to you and you wonder if you’ve narrowed yourself down to only two options. You wonder what other possible way you can have it all. If it’s even possible…. Or what fate has in store for you.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #taehyung fanfic #taehyung angst #jungkook angst #jungkook fanfic #taehyung fluff #HALFWAY MARK!!!

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hysterialevi · 3 years ago

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Hjarta | Chapter 20

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

THE WAR ROOM

Carefully unrolling the parchment in his hands, Arngeir spread a large weathered map across the table as his companions took their place in the war room, ready to discuss the upcoming assault. Sigurd, Styrbjorn, and Eivor all waited patiently in silence, watching the jarl finish his preparations as they filled their predecessors’ roles.

It felt strange to Eivor, seeing Sigurd standing in Ulfar’s position. Even though he knew the old raider wasn’t coming back from the dead, it still made his head spin to see someone else in his shoes. It was no more than a simple changing of the guard, and yet, to the Wolf-Kissed, it felt like witnessing his entire world shift.

Though, he had to admit, there was something about the king that caught his attention too. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, but Styrbjorn seemed... different today. More... composed. Dignified. As if the life in him had suddenly been reignited. His appearance radiated a noble presence, and his expression looked free of the fatigue that so stubbornly clung onto his eyes. Eivor guessed he finally took Sigurd’s advice to heart.

“Alright,” the jarl said, grabbing everyone’s attention. “We’re all here. Good.” He stepped forward a bit, resting his palms on the table’s surface. “Now, I understand that you’re eager to put this battle in motion, but before we start devising a plan, I believe the king has something he wants to say first.”

“Indeed,” Styrbjorn replied, linking his hands behind his back. “I have declared Gorm’s judgement, and I thought it would be necessary to inform the rest of you.”

That caught Eivor’s interest. “What’s to become of our prisoner, my lord?”

“For now, I’ve made the decision to keep Gorm alive. He has knowledge about Kjotve that could prove to be useful later on, so I will not dispose of him just yet. Once this war is finished, however...” the king exchanged glances with the prince, “...he will be executed. Publicly. Sigurd and I have agreed to grant him a merciful death as repayment for his cooperation, but he is to be beheaded on Bjornheimr soil.”

Arngeir paused. “Bjornheimr? Does this mean you won’t be taking Gorm back to Fornburg, my lord? Normally, when the king passes judgement on a criminal, it is he who swings the axe.”

“True, but seeing as how Gorm wronged your people more than anyone else, I’ve decided to leave his fate in your hands. It seems only fitting to me.”

The jarl was satisfied with that. “...Very well. I agree to these terms.”

“Then it’s settled. Gorm will be kept here as our prisoner for the remainder of the war. As soon as his father is killed, he will follow in his footsteps. Are we clear?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Then I won’t hinder this plan’s development any further.” Styrbjorn turned to his son. “Sigurd, you said you had new information pertaining to Kjotve’s whereabouts?”

“I do.” the prince confirmed. He walked up to the war table and leaned over it, pointing to an island on the western side of the map.

“According to what Gorm told me, Kjotve should have arrived on an island by now known as Thrymr’s Tomb. He’ll be making use of an abandoned fort located in its northern half.”

Eivor took note of the island’s name. “Thrymr? King of the jötnar? Is there a reason for that name?”

“Ah, it’s connected to a local tale, nothing more. Due to the island’s peculiar shape, the folk in that region believe it was once a fragment of Thrymr’s skull. They say it flew off his head when Thor struck him with Mjölnir, and landed in the ocean. Thus, its name.”

“And what of Kjotve’s defenses?” Arngeir asked. “What can we expect when we arrive?”

“The fort itself was built a long time ago, so its defenses should be nothing that we haven’t seen already. Plus, it’s been deserted for ages now. Its walls are feeble and decrepit. We should be able to break through the gates rather swiftly. The biggest challenge we’ll face -- is reaching them.”

“Why is that?”

Sigurd slid his finger down the map. “Because the island has no trees.”

That took everyone by surprise.

“What?” Styrbjorn blurted out. “How can that be?”

“Whoever the fort’s original occupant was, they chopped down all the trees on the island so that their foes wouldn’t have anywhere to hide. This means we’ll have no cover, and no way to approach it discreetly. We’ll be forced to launch a head-on assault.”

Eivor began growing concerned. “And how simple do you think that’s going to be?”

Sigurd furrowed his brow. “I won’t lie to you all. It’s not going to be easy. There’s a river that separates the island into two halves. The fort is on the northern half. We’ll be on the southern half. And the only way to reach the gates... is by crossing the bridge.”

Arngeir paced around the room, stroking his beard in thought. “The bridge will have us all cornered into one spot. We’ll be nothing but walking targets for Kjotve’s archers. They’ll slaughter us before we can even knock on his front door...!”

The Wolf-Kissed wasn’t so sure. “...Maybe. Or maybe there’s something else we could do.”

Sigurd’s curiosity took hold. “You have an idea, Eivor?”

The younger man thought for a moment. “...What if we formed a shield wall? We could protect ourselves from oncoming arrows, and move forward during the time between the onslaughts. It would be slow, but much safer than charging to the gate.”

“A solid idea,” the prince conceded, “but how would it work in this case? Don’t forget, we still need a way to break down the gate. How could we transport a battering ram across the bridge, and maintain a shield wall at the same time?”

“We could create a wall around the ram.” Eivor suggested.

“Around it?”

“Yes. As you said, we’ll need to bring a battering ram in order to get through the gates. But if our men are going to be moving something as big as that, they won’t have any hands free to lift a shield. So that’s why... we’ll protect them in the process. We’ll form a shield wall around them, and keep them safe from any arrows.”

Sigurd played out the method in his head. “...Hmm. It’s damned risky, but I’m afraid it’s the only option we have. The battlements are too tall for us too climb, and there’s no way we could cross the river by foot. We could swim, theoretically speaking, but it’s such a dangerous path that it’s not even worth considering.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, first of all, it’s freezing. The water would probably kill us before Kjotve could. And secondly, the river’s current is so strong that we would most likely be whisked away, or even drowned. Trust me, we’re better off taking our chances with the bridge.”

“Hm. Makes sense.”

The king posed another question. “Alright. So we’ve decided on a way in? We’ll dock our ships on the southern half of the island, and cross the bridge using a shield wall. In the meantime, the rest of our warriors will focus on moving the battering ram to the fort’s gates. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” Sigurd confirmed.

“Very well, then. What happens once we’re inside?”

“Then, we find Kjotve. And put an end to this miserable war.”

Eivor felt a sense of worry flare in his chest. “But what if he escapes a second time? What guarantee do we have that he won’t flee again?”

A grim look hovered over the prince’s gaze. “Our guarantee is Dag’s death. He was Kjotve’s ally, and the reason our previous assault ended in failure. He told the man to flee before we could reach his shores, but this time, he won’t be around to warn anybody.”

Arngeir raised a point. “Of course, however, it is worth nothing that Kjotve might have taken precautions already. After all, I think it’s safe to say he’s probably aware of Gorm’s imprisonment by now. He will be anticipating an assault, now that his own son has been subjected to interrogation.

“Indeed,” Sigurd conceded. “So we’d do well not to let our guard down, no matter how much of an advantage we have.”

Eivor was pleased with that. “Sounds good.”

Styrbjorn jumped back in. “Then, have we agreed on a plan? I believe our current strategy will be our best option, and unlike other battles, we won’t have much time to adjust it. So if anyone has any concerns or objections, now is the time to speak up.”

There was a unanimous silence.

“Very well. I will inform my clan of our discussion today, and prepare them for the battle ahead.” The king turned to the jarl. “Arngeir, I think it’s best if you do the same.”

The other man displayed a slight bow. “Of course, my lord. I’ll start making preparations right away.”

“As for you two,” Styrbjorn faced Eivor and Sigurd, “try to get some rest. Both of you will have a long day tomorrow. The journey to Thrymr’s Tomb will take quite some time, and there’s no saying what will happen during the fight itself. I need you to be sharp.”

The prince nodded assuredly. “Understood.”

“Good. Then this meeting is concluded. Take care of any unfinished business you may have, and prepare yourselves for war. This will be the battle that shapes the future of the entire kingdom. Defeat is something we cannot afford. Stay vigilant. All of you.”

Stepping away from the map, both Styrbjorn and Arngeir made a swift exit from the war room as they headed out to the village, determined to turn their plan into a reality. The torches’ flames flickered in their wake as they strode through the archway, and settled down with a series of soft quivers once they were gone.

In the meantime, Sigurd and Eivor remained at the war table and simply stood there in silence, drowning in the sea of worries that plagued their thoughts. Both of them had plenty of risks to consider in the upcoming battle, but one fear in particular kept shaking the prince’s mettle.

“I can’t believe it...” Eivor whispered, staring at the map, “...after all these years. After everything we’ve lost. We finally have a chance to take Kjotve down for good. We have his son as a prisoner, and he no longer has any allies amongst our people.” An inspiring spark glimmered in his eye. “What if this is it, Sigurd? This could be the victory we’ve been waiting for.”

The older man crossed his arms. “...Perhaps.”

It didn’t take long for Eivor to pick up on his tone. “Is... something wrong, Sigurd?

The prince leaned against a wall and sighed, unable to conceal the sorrow he carried.

“...You do understand that if everything goes according to plan tomorrow, and Kjotve dies, my clan will leave Bjornheimr permanently?”

The realization struck Eivor like a club, and he found himself quickly being drained of the hope that had just settled in.

“...Oh.” He murmured. “Right.”

Sigurd gave him an apologetic look. “Forgive me, love. I know it’s an unpleasant thought, but it’s the reality. If we win this war, I’ll return to Fornburg... forever. And I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to come back.”

Eivor shrugged. “So, what are you saying? You don’t want us to win?”

“No, of course not. It’s just...” the prince pushed himself off the wall, “...I’m going to miss you dearly, Eivor. It’ll be difficult adapting to a life without you.”

The younger man’s head drooped. “...I understand. I’ll miss you too.”

Sigurd approached his partner. “My offer still stands, you know. There’s a place for you on my longship if you wish to join us. You’re more than welcome.”

Eivor drifted off into silence for a moment, pondering the decision.

“As much as I’d love to go with you, I don’t know if I can.”

“You don’t know if you can? What do you mean?”

The Wolf-Kissed glanced upward at his companion. “Don’t forget, Sigurd, you’re still a married man. Up until this point, it’s been easy for us to hide our relationship since everyone’s been so focused on the war. But the minute it comes to an end... their attention will be back on you. And if someone finds out...”

Sigurd took Eivor’s hands into his own. “They won’t. We would just be friends in the public eye. And even then, we could do so many things together -- hunting, fishing, sailing, drinking, you name it. I could show you around Fornburg, take you to places unlike anything you’d ever seen; places where we’d be alone. No one would suspect a thing.”

“Are you sure? No one would find it odd that, in addition to your new wife, you also decided to bring her brother? Think about this, Sigurd.”

“I have,” the prince insisted, “and I want you at my side, Eivor. I love you. You know this. Damn what anyone else says.”

Eivor let out a breath. “I love you too, but...” he pushed Sigurd’s hands away, “...I. Just. Can’t. I’m sorry.”

The older man grew concerned. “Why not, though? You and I have been hiding this for weeks already. This is nothing new. Is there something else that’s bothering you?”

The Wolf-Kissed let his gaze sink to the floor, feeling terribly guilty about the heartache he was causing his partner.

“I wouldn’t be able to handle the pain, Sigurd.”

The response earned him a puzzled look. “Pain? What pain?”

“The pain of seeing you with someone else. You and I may be lovers in private, but to everyone else, we’d have to be friends. You’d have to maintain your image as husband-and-wife with Randvi, and I’d be forced to watch it from the side. I don’t know if I could handle that, Sigurd.”

A shadow of harsh understanding dimmed the prince’s passion, and he finally began to realize the source of his lover’s hesitance.

“...Ah. I see.”

“And besides,” Eivor continued, “I can’t leave my father behind. He’s already lost Thora to this war. If he had to say goodbye to me and Randvi as well, I don’t think he...”

“It’s okay, Eivor.” Sigurd reassured, in spite of his disappointment. “You don’t have to explain. I... understand.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I may not be happy with it, but I understand. I can’t ask you to keep this charade going forever, especially amongst a clan you’ve never known. It... wouldn’t be fair. And you have a father here who needs you. I can’t take you away from him. No matter how much I may want you.”

Eivor felt a tad more relieved. “...Thank you, Sigurd. I know it’s not the outcome either of us were hoping for, but it’s what we’ll have to live with once this war is over. If we survive long enough to see it through, that is.”

Sigurd stepped back a bit, allowing his companion some space. “...Of course. You’re right. This war is bigger than the both of us. We’ll need to prioritize our duties above all else if we’re going to make this alliance work.”

He paused for a short while, attempting to distract himself from the disheartening news. It was clear that he was trying to prevent his emotions from breaking through the surface, but even then, Eivor could see that the man was heartbroken.

“...Anyway,” Sigurd said, clearing his throat, “I should get going. There are many things I need to take care of before we set off. I’ll be in my chambers if you need me.”

“And I’ll be at the temple if you need me.”

The prince found himself intrigued. “The temple? Are you planning on making an offering?”

“Not exactly. There’s someone I wanted to speak with before the battle. I saw them praying at the temple earlier while I was walking to the longhouse.”

“Who, Ingrida?”

Eivor shook his head. “No. Randvi.”

The answer took Sigurd by surprise. “Randvi?”

“Yes,” he replied in remorse. “I haven’t been a good brother to her lately. I’ve practically deserted her ever since your clan arrived. I didn’t even talk to her after Thora died. She’s been dealing with all this grief in complete solitude, and I want to make sure she’s okay.”

Sigurd nodded empathetically. “Of course. Go. See your sister. You and I can talk later.”

“Take care of yourself tomorrow, love.” Eivor said, caressing the man’s cheek before he took his leave. “I don’t want to return home without you.”

The prince gripped his hand securely, looking him straight in the eye. “I won’t let myself fall to Kjotve’s axe. I promise.”

~~~~~~~~~~

LATER THAT DAY

THE TEMPLE

Pushing through the hills of snow that lounged on the earthy terrain, Eivor sauntered towards the temple as a gust of wind fluttered across the land, shaking the chimes that lined the path. A series of scattered clinks decorated the air in the breeze’s wake, and up ahead, Eivor could see the statues of the gods rising into view.

They remained as adamant as ever, despite the mayhem thriving around them. They guarded the village with an unwavering iron gaze, and towered over the worshippers who knelt at the base of their feet.

It was a sight that would’ve brought Eivor a sense of peace in the past. He often came here when he needed guidance from the gods, or comfort from the seeress’ words, but now... all he could think about were the sacrifices they’d made.

Thora, Ulfar, Eirik, Dag... the list grew longer everyday. Their village seemed to be occupied by more ghosts than people at this point, and returning to the temple did nothing but remind Eivor of the times when he had the luxury of taking his loved ones’ company for granted.

What if this was the last time he’d ever see Bjornheimr? What if something happened tomorrow? He was hopeful that he’d finally be able to corner Kjotve after this insufferable chase, but really, he had no guarantee.

It was entirely possible that Eivor could’ve ended up sharing his father’s fate once this war was over. There was nothing else to secure their victory other than the sheer will of their raiders, and ultimately, he had to remind himself that he was just another man.

If Eivor fell tomorrow... there was no coming back. He’d simply be gone forever, and his soul would be taken by whichever god claimed him first.

His legacy in this world would be no more than a warrior who died chasing an impossible dream, and to the Wolf-Kissed, that was a fate far more frightening than death. A fate where he would only be remembered for his failures.

“Randvi?” Eivor called out, searching for his sister. He got no response from the woman in the moments to follow, but eventually found her sitting on a bench positioned before Freya’s statue. Her head was hanging low between her shoulders like an anchor, and her elbows rested gently on her knees.

“Randvi.” Eivor repeated, trying to get her attention.

Still, she offered no answer.

“Hey,” the young man said again, kneeling in front of her. “It’s me. Eivor.”

Randvi’s stone-cold stare inched towards his face at the sound of his name, revealing nothing but a pair of dead orbs sitting in her sockets.

She looked even worse than Arngeir did. Despite his grief, the jarl still seemed to have some fight in him at least. It may have been an act to preserve his clans morale, but even then, he had proven he was capable of leading a battle. Randvi, on the other hand, appeared as if she had joined Thora’s side already.

Her temperament was entirely devoid of any signs of life. She sat on the bench like a frail plant withering in the sun, and the way she peered through Eivor made him wonder if she truly knew he was even there.

“...We should’ve listened to her.” Randvi whispered at last.

Her brother shook his head in confusion. “What? What are you talking about?”

“We should’ve listened to her. She knew all of this would happen.”

Eivor glanced back at the temple. “...You mean Ingrida?”

“Yes. Do you not remember? The day the Raven Clan arrived, she warned us of a vision. Freya’s statue had just fallen, and the gods entrusted her with a dream of the path ahead. A dream of Tyr.” Randvi frowned. “...Ingrida told us about the treachery we’d face. She told us to turn the Raven Clan away, but we refused to listen. We dismissed her fears because we didn’t want to insult King Styrbjorn. And now look where we are.”

She gazed upwards at Freya’s idol. “...What if we had called off the alliance? What if we never went through with this marriage? Would we still be where we are now? Would Thora and Ulfar be alive?”

Eivor took a seat beside Randvi, sharing her anguish. “I don’t know, sister. I really don’t. The gods have been difficult to predict lately.”

The woman scoffed. “Forget the gods. Our prayers have proven to be all but useless. Thora and Ulfar both spent their entire lives following a code of honor, and yet, the Nornir still let them die. Meanwhile, men like Kjotve get to roam free, causing nothing but suffering and death everywhere they go. As far as I’m concerned, I’d be a fool to rely on the gods for protection. I don’t need them. What I need is you.”

Randvi turned to her brother. “Where have you been, Eivor? These past few weeks, you’ve made yourself scarce. I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. I understand we’re in the middle of a war, but...”

Eivor’s tone sunk with guilt. “...I know, Randvi. I know I haven’t been a good brother to you.” He paused for a second. “I’m... I’m sorry.”

A fatigued breath escaped from the woman’s lips. “Well, to be honest, you aren’t the only one who’s deserted me. It seems like all my friends have either died or disappeared. You, Sigurd, Thora, Ulfar... even father keeps to himself these days. The only company I really have anymore is Ingrida, and she’s almost gone completely mute ever since Eirik’s death.”

Randvi stood up from the bench and crossed her arms in thought, taking in the view of Freya’s statue.

“I just miss Thora so much. I see her in my dreams every night. She was always there for you and me, keeping us safe in a world that wanted to leave us behind. She knew how to make people laugh too.” Randvi’s shoulders slouched. “...And Ulfar. I’ll never forget the times when he held me as a child, calming me down after I woke up from a nightmare. He may not have been our real father, but I loved him like one.”

Eivor nodded. “Me too. He was always there to keep me company after Kjotve killed my parents. I can’t imagine what my childhood would’ve been like without him.”

Randvi peered at the clouds gliding above the temple, almost as if she were looking into Valhalla itself.

“I suppose the best thing we can do for them now is to make sure that their deaths weren’t in vain. Knowing Thora and Ulfar, they wouldn’t have wanted us to be consumed by our grief. They would’ve wanted us to push on, no matter the cost. I just wish it were that easy.”

Eivor rose to his feet, joining stepping next to his sister. “It won’t be. But we’re so close to the end, Randvi. Just one more battle, and we can finally put all this tragedy to rest. We only need to fight for a little longer.”

The woman didn’t appear reassured by that. “That’s easy for you to say. If we win, you’ll get to go back home and celebrate your victory. But me? I’ll be forced to travel to Fornburg with Sigurd, and live in a clan full of unfamiliar faces. I’ll have to start an entirely new life far away from here, and spend the rest of it with a husband who hardly even cares about me.”

Randvi shut her eyes in frustration and took a deep breath, attempting to ease her nerves. A bottle of boiling rage sat corked in her chest, and without even meaning to, she had smashed it open due to seeing Eivor’s face again.

He was one of the only people she trusted, after all. With her older sister gone, Randvi no longer knew who she could confide in. She had kept all this pain locked inside her mind, and until now, she never realized how severely it was hindering her.

“...I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to be so curt. I’m sure you have your own burdens to bear. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

“No, I understand,” Eivor assured. “The stress of this war has taken a toll on all of us. And let’s face it -- I haven’t exactly done my job as a brother. I should’ve checked on you more often.”

Randvi shrugged in curiosity. “Is that why you came today? Because you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, actually. I saw you while I was walking to the longhouse. I was occupied with matters concerning tomorrow’s battle, but I still wanted to speak with you.”

A hint of warmth radiated from the woman’s gaze. It was clear that Randvi was surprised by the gesture, but grateful for it nonetheless.

“...Thank you, Eivor. Even though you and I haven’t spoken much recently, I am glad to see you again. I missed having your company.”

A loving grin spread across the man’s face. “I missed you too.”

Randvi slowly approached Eivor, placing her hands on the sides of his arms. “Please, be careful tomorrow, brother. I know you aren’t the type to sit by and watch a battle unfold, but it’s been difficult enough dealing with Thora’s death. Don’t make me bury you too.”

He held Randvi’s hand in a comforting manner, speaking with sincerity.

“I’ll do everything in my power to return unharmed. But I can’t let Kjotve go.”

“I know. And I don’t expect you to. Just remember what matters. Even if you survive this war, losing yourself to revenge can be a death in itself. I don’t want to see that happen. Can you promise me it won’t?”

“Of course. You have my word.”

Randvi didn’t press any further than that. “...Then I suppose it’ll have to do for now. The thought of coming back home to your corpse terrifies me, but I understand how much Varin’s honor means to you. I won’t deny you that.”

“Thank you, Randvi.”

The woman stepped back from Eivor and turned towards the temple’s entrance, ready to get some rest before charging into the storm ahead. Her mood seemed to have lifted somewhat ever since her brother arrived at the temple, but the perturbed nature she carried made it evident that she wasn’t free from her fears just yet.

“Good luck, Eivor. Even though I have faith that you and I will see this war to its end, I’m aware that anything could happen. Fight well tomorrow. If I don’t get to bring you home... then I pray that the Valkyries will.”

#hjarta #assassin's creed valhalla #ac valhalla #eivor wolfsmal #eivor wolfkissed #male eivor #eivor varinsson #sigurd styrbjornson #sigurd x male eivor #ac valhalla fanfic

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miceenscene · 4 years ago

Text

Star-Crossed

din djarin/female oc | soulmate AU | pre-canon

wc: 2.2k / 4.9k (so far)

summary: The Way was not supposed to be a solitary one. People, house, clan. And when all else failed, your Match. “Fits like a Mandalorian Match” was the old saying. Though it wasn’t so long ago that it stopped making sense. But what's a lost Match to a man like Din Djarin?

warnings: canon-typical violence

Previous Chapter | Masterpost | ao3

Chapter Two: The Question

Din Djarin did not have a Match.

He couldn’t.

How, why didn’t matter…

He just couldn’t.

Right?

This Woman with a small dark spot high on her cheekbone and finely calloused hands and wearing his shirt couldn’t be his Match.

She just… couldn’t.

It was just coincidence that he was pulled into her orbit, like a comet desperately seeking gravitational equilibrium.

And it was coincidence that she apparently felt the same. Even foggy as she was.

She still had not said a word, did not reply or even react when addressed, but she always floated in Din’s direction when he stepped away.

Which wasn’t very often.

The urge, or ‘bond’ as the Armorer called it, was only satisfied if she was near.

The pair of them were something of a side-show in the covert for the evening.

Even through beskar and dark visors, gazes felt heavy on Din’s shoulders.

Outside the covert, curiosity – whether hostile or benign – was expected.

But here? Never before.

He thought about leaving. But as confused as she was, dragging her, barefoot, back through the streets of Nevarro, even just to the ship seemed unwise.

So Din found a spare room in the covert–The Woman following in his wake, fingers still threaded with his.

It was barely more than a door and two stone benches that could pass for beds if needed. But solitude was necessary for his kind.

He found himself hoping she’d speak once they were alone.

She didn’t.

But she did grow tired before too long. Not surprising given her recent clinic visit.

“You can sleep here,” he said, gesturing to one of the benches embedded in the wall.

She did not reply. Or move.

He was not used to being the verbose one.

“Here.” He offered her his cape, threadbare at the bottom but warm enough. She took it, thumbs brushing across the fabric.

Nodding once, he moved for the door.

She followed.

“You need to sleep. I’ll be outside.”

He stepped back and she stepped forward.

“No–” he huffed in minor annoyance. Turning her around by the shoulders, he guided her to one of the benches and sat her down. Gently by firmly. “Sleep. ...Please.”

He stepped back once. Twice. She didn’t move.

On the third step, she made to rise, but his hand outstretched stopped her.

He at least made it to the door before she stood back up.

He surrendered with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll stay here.” Sitting down on the opposite bench from her. “Satisfied?”

She apparently wasn’t as she drifted to sit on the bench, hand fitting into his as she curled up next to him.

A beskar pauldron couldn’t have been a comfortable pillow, but it might as well have been down-filled silk for as quickly as she dropped off.

He waited an hour, then two, just to be absolutely certain she was completely asleep, listening to her gentle breathing turn deeper and slower. Then he eased her off his shoulder to lie down, leaving his cape for her blanket.

She didn’t stir as he headed to leave the room, the door hissing open in front of him.

Stay.

A fist pressed to the front of his helmet for a minute in frustration.

Stay.

There’d be no peace if he resisted.

So he sat down in the furthest corner of the room from her, tipping his helmet back to rest in the crook of the walls.

Her sleeping form was the last thing he saw as his eyes drifted shut.

But when they opened a few hours later, the bench was empty.

His head jerked up only to realize that The Woman had simply moved.

Her head now rested on his collarbone, his arm wrapped around her, her hand clasped in his, pressed tight to his cuirass.

Something high in his chest cracked, fissures reaching magma flow far below, and his next breath quaked.

Beskar cautiously pressed to the top of her hair was not perfect, not even ideal.

But the alternative was terrifying.

The next morning dawned and The Woman still had not spoken, still drifted in a haze where Din was her only heading.

“I don’t know what to do with her,” he said, in the early afternoon, back in the Armorer’s forge.

This time with The Woman at his side, hand in his as always.

“I have work to do.”

“Take her with you,” the Armorer replied.

“I can’t do that.” His work was dangerous enough without spacey tag-alongs who did not listen to reason.

“She won’t be happy to stay here. And neither will you.”

Silence seemed the better reply than admitting how correct she was.

“Can you keep her here while I get supplies?”

“Yes.”

Din was never a meandering purchaser, but it was perhaps the shortest supply run he’d ever made. And that was with the addition of finding clothes and shoes he hoped would fit her.

Karga even made mention that he ‘seemed awfully anxious to get going’. But he coughed up four new pucks after a solid minute of silence.

The Woman was waiting at the western entrance of the covert when he returned and followed along happily back to The Razor Crest, now dressed in nondescript pants and tunic that suited the weather.

He set her down in the co-pilot’s seat and started the engines. Cleared for take off. Coordinates plotted. But first––

Turning back to face her, she looked his way, eyes still distant. “If you want to be taken somewhere, just tell me.”

As if that diffused the uneasy energy of leaving a planet with her.

Again.

She seemed entranced by the pulsing blur of hyperspace, eyes wide and unmoving from the windows.

Seeing as there was just one bed aboard, it made sense to sleep in shifts.

Though every time, he woke to her sitting at the cabinet opening, holding his hand.

He really couldn’t bring himself to mind.

He’d never had many passengers aboard his ship before, at least ones not stored in carbonite. But when he had, they felt like an intrusion. Something to be stepped around and removed at the soonest possibility.

It made very little sense why The Woman didn’t fall into the same category.

The first quarry was on Felucia. Seemed a group of bandits had been making life difficult for the local villages, difficult enough to pay Guild rates to have the base cleared out and the leader brought back in carbonite, ideally to be left in there.

The Woman was sleeping when they arrived. He hoped she’d remain that way in the time it took him to finish the job, which he didn’t think would be long. There were two dozen bandits at most, ill equipped and even less trained.

He slung his rifle over his shoulder and paused to rest a hand on her shoulder.

Stay.

“I’ll be back,” he said in a low tone, before forcibly ignoring the bond and heading out.

Return.

Unfortunately, in his admittedly distracted scouting of the base, he missed the patrols they were doing of the surrounding forest.

Which is how his nest was stumbled on by some truly lucky trandoshans, who just happened to have back up already on the way, and Din was disarmed, cuffed, and taken into the yard behind the walls of the base.

Not ideal, but he’d been in worse setups.

Though the odds tilted out of his favor when the head of this bandit ring was revealed to be an ex-storm trooper sergeant. That had not been in the briefing.

No wonder there were forest patrols… and imperial grade handcuffs.

At least they let him keep his helmet for the time being.

However, they were unfortunately interested in how he’d gotten to them. A search party was immediately dispatched to find his ship.

They hadn’t been gone more than five minutes when suddenly,

Danger.

Oh no.

The Sergeant’s comm link activated. “Ship not yet located, but we did find something else, boss.”

“What?”

“Kursan is bringing her to the base.”

No. No. No.

“Well, well, well. This yours, Mando?” the Sergeant laughed as The Woman was brought into the yard at blaster point. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

The Woman did not answer. She tried to step away from Kursan, but his grip on her arm stopped her, blaster pressing to her back.

“Let her go,” Din said. “She’s not part of this.”

“Oh, so, she’s up for grabs then?”

The Sergeant chuckled when Din did not reply. “‘Cause, ah… I know she’s not a local. And it’s not everyday beautiful women come wandering through the forests of Felucia.”

Danger!

He grinned. “This just got interesting. I know you Mandalorian types. Torture doesn’t bother you. Rip your lungs out and you still wouldn’t talk.” The Sergeant swaggered over to one of the weapons racks, picking up a bo staff. “You’re big on honor, loyalty. But more importantly, Protection.”

The Sergeant turned back to face The Woman, regarding her closely. “I wonder how pretty her face will be after I’m through,” he said quietly, steadily.

Rage breaking through control, Din pulled at his cuffs but they held strong.

“Leave her alone!” Din snapped.

Danger. Danger. Danger.

“Tell me where your ship is.”

Din gaze swept through the area, hopping from his restraints to his captors, seeking alternate routes. Desperate ploys. Anything.

The Sergeant did not wait, bo staff meeting The Woman’s ribs with a crack. She cried out and dropped to her knees, arms wrapped around her middle.

“Tell me where the ship is.”

With a swift inhale, the Sergeant lifted the bo staff for another swing–

“It’s on the ridge. A klick and a half due south.”

The Sergeant grinned again. “There. Now was that so difficult?”

He swung the bo staff down towards her–

“NO,” Din yelled–

The Woman’s hand caught the staff, mid-swing.

Her head snapped up. Snarl on her mouth.

She snagged the staff sideways, through the Sergeant’s grip, and gouged it into Kursan’s stomach.

His blaster fell to the ground. She grabbed it.

One shot, Kursan was down.

Second shot, hit the middle of the Sergeant’s cuirass, making him stumble back, and she got hold of the bo staff.

One quick swing knocked him to the ground.

Din used the cover of surprise to knock his blaster out of the hands of his guard.

Grabbing it, one shot to kill that guard and a second to kill the other.

The rest of the battlements finally caught on and opened fire into the yard.

The Woman ran for cover behind a parked imperial shuttle as Din tried to draw as much attention as possible away from her. Still cuffed, but at least he had the beskar.

A post under the battlements was as best cover as he could find. But it gave him a clear view of the opposite wall. Another shot, another guard fell.

A body dropped right in front of him, shot down by The Woman on the other side of the yard.

Who was she–no. Curiosity could be dealt with later, right now he was just kriffing grateful.

In tandem, they methodically took out the guards on the wall.

But Din lost sight of the Sergeant in the chaos.

He found him again when the Sergeant and The Woman came around the shuttle, bo staff and axe swinging furiously.

Din rolled out of cover, getting the last few guards she left behind above him.

The Sergeant blocked her high swing, but wasn’t ready as she brought the bottom up between his legs.

Then around to sweep his feet out from under him again.

Din turned and fired, hitting the gap between his cuirass and pauldron. The Sergeant collapsed.

The Woman turned on Din, gun back out and pointed his way.

One last guard, buried in cover, popped out and got off a single shot that pinged off Din’s armor.

Without looking away from Din, The Woman fired and the guard fell.

Oh.

Silence filled the yard as she turned her gun back on Din.

Her eyes were clear now, scorching in their fury. He was far more likely to die by her hand than any of the bandits.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and Din had never seen anyone more miraculous.

He dared a step closer, still cuffed, blaster in one hand but lowered.

Her grip tightened on her gun.

Probably best to stop moving so the conversation didn’t begin in gunfire.

Her grip flexed again, and her brows flickered together.

Help.

“It’s alright,” he said in a calm, low tone.

She didn’t care much for that, fury flaring brighter.

Frustration became palpable as her mouth opened but no words came out.

She was straining for something, tension pulling her muscles taught. The hand on her bo staff shook once, till finally–

“VAII,” she demanded, the single word wrenched from her mouth with a great deal of effort.

It’d been so long since he’d heard mando’a outside of the covert, it took a moment for the word to register.

“Vaii me’bana?” he asked when she didn’t clarify. Where-what?

“Vaii!?” she repeated, after a shorter struggle.

“Felucia.” He hoped that was what she was asking.

Frustration and fury simmered down into confusion. Mouth opening again but no words coming out for a moment.

“Tion?” How?

Somewhere inside the compound, an alarm sounded.

Next: Chapter Three: The Promise

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needtherapy · 4 years ago

Text

open always petal by petal (ch 2)

Song Lan knows his only passenger, Cao Huan, is more secrets than truths, but he's still the best passenger Song Lan has ever had: paid up front, self-sufficient, and silent.

It shouldn't matter that Cao Huan plays the guqin like his heart is broken.

It shouldn't matter that his smiles light up the darkest corners of Fuxue's passageways.

It shouldn't matter that he makes Song Lan curious, curious in a way he hasn't felt in years.

It's just an ordinary transport, a regular fare, a mostly-honest way to make a living. All they have to do is get from Sichuan Station to Caiyi Port. The galaxy may be a dangerous place, but Song Lan is very good at his job, and this should be an easy two-week trip.

The rest doesn't matter. It doesn't.

READ ON AO3

Notes: Rated E for Explicit. Title from e.e. cummings' poem "somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond". Thanks to @cirilien, @coslyons, @treemaidengeek and tucuxi (AO3) for the beta reads!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

⋆ Day 7 ⋆

I fell in love with him first, and he fell in love with the ship first, Song Lan tries to mumble, but he forgot, he doesn’t have a voice anymore, stolen by the man who stole Xingchen’s life.

A gentle hand smooths back his hair and traces a path across his jaw.

“Captain Song, when you wake up, I will buy you a fleet of ships. Just wake up,” a voice says. “Please wake up.”

Song Lan tries words again, even knowing they won’t work. I don’t want a fleet of ships. I only want to know why you are filled with such sadness, he says, but all that comes out is a breathy groan.

The warm hand on his neck disappears, and he barely stops himself from reaching out to pull the comfort back. Instead, he reluctantly opens his eyes and sits up.

The ship is dark, lit only by red emergency lights. He’s sitting on a table in the infirmary, hooked to a neural interface and cortical stimulator, and Cao Huan is on the other side of the room, disinfecting his hands. When he turns, Song Lan signs, “How long?”

“Only a few minutes,” is the answer, and Song Lan can tell the man is fudging the truth if not outright lying. He’s not great at it. “The shockwave knocked out the electrical systems. I looked, but the backup is uniquely designed. I did not want to risk...fiddling just yet.”

He says the word like he’s never used it before, and Song Lan smiles, slowly unhooking the machines from his head. Xingchen definitely had a unique way of wiring. Sometimes he knitted the wires together because he liked the way it looked. Or he chose colors that didn’t correspond to normal schematics but had meaning to him. Blue for ground because he was from the top of a snowy mountain, yellow for live because the sun created life. And so on.

“Okay. I’ll turn on the backups. Anything else?”

Cao Huan bites his lip and shakes his head.

“There’s no time to be polite. If there’s something I should know, tell me,” Song Lan insists, swinging his legs over the edge of the table and gingerly standing. There’s a bump and scrape on his forehead, but otherwise, he’s fine. He’s more worried about Fuxue.

“No,” Cao Huan says. “Nothing. We are far enough away from the remaining pirate fleet for safety. They should be disabled long enough for us to get somewhere for repairs.”

Song Lan knows there’s something more. He knows it like he knows every inch of Fuxue, like he knows the unperturbed expression on Cao Huan’s face means the exact opposite. It takes a second to unravel.

“You didn’t kill them,” he signs, and Cao Huan’s jaw tightens. He looks away, and Song Lan knows he’s guessed right. “You tried your best. They turned.”

“My best was not enough.”

Song Lan doesn’t miss the bitterness of the words.

“They’re pirates. They knew what the cost might be.”

“You are right, Captain Song. There is no time to delay. Show me how I can help you restart Fuxue,” Cao Huan says, and again, the topic is seemingly closed.

With a sigh, Song Lan motions for Cao Huan to follow him, and they spend the next hour rewiring critical systems to the backup engine. Only life support switches automatically, and they have to reconnect propulsion and flight control. It’s just enough to limp to the nearest station, which is, luckily, Rogue Sky.

Cao Huan is surprisingly reluctant to go there, though, even after Song Lan explains that it’s the best place for repairs.

“Are you certain it is our only option?” he asks.

Song Lan considers, even though this is his ship and his decision. The man had helped save his life. This trip is more like a partnership than a mere transport now.

“I trust their chief absolutely,” he finally signs, and Cao Huan nods, accepting his answer with a quick flicker of a smile that in no way fools Song Lan.

⋆ Day 8 ⋆

Rogue Sky is one of the nicer unaffiliated stations, orbiting a planet on the border of the Western and Eastern Sectors, near Qinghe-controlled space, but it has none of the grandeur of Sichuan, or even Caiyi. Despite having been cobbled together from scrapped and spare pieces, it’s known for quick, skilled, no-questions-asked repairs. Any one of those reasons would be good enough to come here, but the odd assortment of stragglers who live and work on Rogue Sky are the closest thing Song Lan has to friends anymore.

There are more than a dozen ships—including a Goldlighter medic—docked in bays or sitting on landing pads. Song Lan brings Fuxue into one of the large repair bays that already has two other ships in it. Even here, Fuxue isn’t very big, dwarfed by Qinghe mining vessels and Qishan haulers. In fact, the only ship smaller is a sleek Yunmeng runabout, a high-speed cruiser that seems a long way from home, in Song Lan’s opinion.

He’d called ahead, so Qingyang is waiting for him.

“Now that I’ve seen Fuxue, I’m even more shocked you’re alive. What did you do to her this time?” she demands.

Song Lan grins and signs, “I can’t be blamed for pirates.”

He feels more than hears Cao Huan behind him and adds, “We wouldn’t have survived if my passenger wasn’t such a skilled gunner. Luo Qingyang…” Song Lan pauses. He doesn’t know what Cao Huan’s sign for his name is. He picks the signs for the two words as a stand in for now. “This is Cao Huan. Cao Huan, this is Qingyang, chief of Rogue Sky.”

Cao Huan has an odd expression on his face when Song Lan looks at him, but he smiles and nods at Qingyang. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Captain Song speaks highly of you.”

“Ah. Cao Huan,” Qingyang says. “Any friend of Song Lan’s is welcome here.” She turns back to Song Lan. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat while the mechs diagnose your baby.”

They walk through the station and Song Lan takes note of the changes. Typically, many of the station workers live on-world, but he sees plenty of new sections. Living quarters here. New worker dining halls there. Upgrades to the infirmary deck.

He sees other things too. Signs of wear. A bucket under a leaking pipe. Shoeless children running through the halls. He wonders when the last time he visited was, and a pang of guilt taps his shoulder. Every visit matters. Every tiny scrap of work he can give them matters. It’s been too long. However long is too long.

He touches Qingyang’s elbow. “Is everything okay here?”

“Same old, same old. Life goes on and we try to keep up.” Qingyang says with a smile, the same thing she always says. This time, he shakes his head and frowns at her, and she shrugs, giving him a more serious, considering look.

“There are a lot of new people on the station. Better jobs here, and safer. The Joint Senate is doing its best, and even the Goldlighters are...better than they were, but you know how it is. After a war, after a regime change, there’s always a vacuum,” she answers. “It’s never been an easy life, being unaffiliated, and lately, there are a lot more pirates and mercs. But we have a good reputation and I aim to keep it that way.”

It should be comforting, but he doesn’t miss the words between the words and that she only signs to him, doesn’t speak out loud. While the High Chancellor was openly hostile toward unaffiliated stations and colonies, Xiandu was more insidiously at odds with them, framing it as “in their best interest” to be part of the Goldlighter network. It was safer, he’d said. Together, they’d be more prosperous, he’d said.

But more than one station who objected, more than one colony who resisted, had gone missing under his regime. Even the scrapping colony Song Lan had grown up with was gone now, either destroyed or forcibly integrated. It’s a miracle Rogue Sky has remained independent and prosperous as long as they have, and Song Lan knows it hasn’t been as easy as it’s seemed.

He wonders if Qingyang is being mindful of the guest behind them who is undoubtedly one of the privileged class, if not an affiliated Goldlighter himself, or if it’s easier for her to disguise her worries if he can’t hear her voice.

Lunch—or whatever meal this is; Song Lan has forgotten—is hot and brown and full of noodles and vegetables. Hydroponics, Qingyang tells them, with a glance at Cao Huan. An old friend upgraded their systems last year, and it hasn’t given them a lick of trouble since then. Song Lan wonders how legal their upgrade was.

“I would like to see the gardens, if you are willing to show me,” Cao Huan asks, signing as he speaks, and Qingyang looks sideways at Song Lan before she nods. He tries not to smile. Evidently the tall, quiet man is capable of surprising her, too.

The gardens are a full deck, now, alternating between neat and tidy rows of fruits and vegetables and wild, bright flower gardens that seem to have no other value than aesthetic. It’s stunning, far more spectacular than he remembers. Song Lan turns to ask Cao Huan if it’s what he expected, but Cao Huan is distracted, smiling and touching the dark green leaves of a climbing vine. He leans forward to sniff its tiny white flowers, closing his eyes when he inhales.

Song Lan means to step back so he doesn’t intrude on what feels like a private moment, but Cao Huan looks at him. Just looks at him through long dark lashes, with the hint of a smile in his eyes, and Song Lan knows he wants to kiss him here in the midst of all this beauty. He hasn’t felt this way in so long, he almost doesn’t recognize the way desire captures and bends him, focusing everything on a single point of intent.

He is so grateful when Qingyang’s comm squawks for her attention and disrupts the direction his thoughts are heading.

“The mechs say it’s fixable, but it’ll take two days. Honestly,” she adds, when Song Lan’s face falls, “you’re lucky they can do it that quickly. We’ve had an influx of parts for Jian-class ships lately. A lot of crews are upgrading the old Qishan system to Lan nanotech.”

“Captain Song, please, do not worry on my account,” Cao Huan assures him. “Two days will make no difference."

He does look relieved, actually, and once again, Song Lan wonders what’s waiting for him in Caiyi.

“I need to get back to work,” Qingyang says with a wry smile. “Let me show you to your room.”

Song Lan hopes she’s just misspoken. He doesn’t want to ask, for fear of insulting Cao Huan, but he is also increasingly aware that it would be...difficult to sleep in the same room.

First, though, they go back to the repair hangar so the chief mech can tell Song Lan every single thing wrong with Fuxue, some of which existed before the pirates, and all of which the mech is certain must be fixed immediately. It’s hard to argue that the deflectors don’t need upgrading, or that the propulsion system doesn’t need cleaning, so he just sighs and agrees, thankful again that Cao Huan paid so well in advance.

They gather up the things they’ll need for a two-day stay, including the discarded knitting—Song Lan is sure he’s going to need the soothing repetition of knit and purl—and follow Qingyang again.

She hadn’t misspoken. There is only one free guest room on the station thanks to the Goldlighter medic ship, which is two days into a four-day engine repair. It is, at least, a larger room, with plenty of space to hang a hammock, and Song Lan has slept in worse places.

“I’m so sorry. We’ve seen a lot of these longer repairs lately. Either they’re finicky old engines or, like the medic ship, they’re the complicated new Goldlighter systems. If they weren’t ill and injured patients, I would happily make them move into fewer quarters,” she apologizes for the sixth time.

“Chief Luo, I have slept in many worse places. Even the floor would be fine for two nights,” Cao Huan says for the sixth time. Song Lan wonders which one of them is going to win the war of courtesy. “Thank you for your concern.”

There’s something in his tone, both honest and firm, that makes Qingyang finally relax. She starts to say something, but a voice in her comm catches her attention and she shakes her head, waving to them as she walks away arguing.

For a minute, they are alone, and although they’ve been alone on a ship for the last eight days, this time Song Lan is aware of every single one of the sixty heartbeats and twelve breaths it takes for Cao Huan to stop surveying the room and smile.

“If you do not mind, I would like to meditate in the gardens.”

Song Lan tips his head. “You don’t need permission. Most areas of this station are open to all.”

Cao Huan laughs, light and a little uncertain. “No, Captain Song, I…” He falters, and Song Lan wonders what’s in that falter, what he meant to say, because he very clearly changes direction. “I will be gone for an hour, in case anyone looks for me.”

He picks up his guqin and leaves. Song Lan shuts the door behind him, leans against the wall and, very gently, bangs his head on it.

Instead of dwelling on the things he can’t change, Song Lan goes for a run, a luxury he wasn’t expecting to get halfway through this trip. It does help to clear his mind, and the fast, chilly shower afterward—real water, more satisfying than any sonic shower—works even better. He’s still toweling off his hair when he gets back to the room and finds Cao Huan hanging up a hammock.

“No,” he signs, touching Cao Huan on the shoulder to catch his attention. “You should have the bed.”

Cao Huan frowns. “Why? You are the pilot. You should be well-rested.”

“You’re the passenger. You paid for a comfortable passage,” Song Lan insists. It’s ridiculous, but it doesn’t seem right for Cao Huan to sleep in a hammock instead of a bed. He should have soft pillows and plush blankets.

“This is perfectly fine,” Cao Huan argues, a stubborn clench in his jaw. “Do not assume that I am dissembling for the sake of pride. I have not slept in a bed in three years.”

Something about that tickles the back of Song Lan’s mind, but he doesn’t have time to work it out, because Cao Huan frowns and crosses his arms.

“Captain Song, I am not as cosseted as you think me to be. No one has needed to worry about my comfort in quite some time.”

Song Lan only means to look pointedly at Cao Huan’s expensive silk robes, but his gaze lingers on the skin at the base of Cao Huan’s throat, at the hint of muscle in his arms, the way his belt hugs his waist, and his mouth goes dry. He tries to think of a response, any response.

“Well, I do,” he signs with a huff. “Worry about you.”

Cao Huan’s face shifts from aggravation to confusion, and he examines Song Lan’s expression as if, now, he’s the one who doesn’t believe what Song Lan is saying.

“Captain?” he asks tentatively.

Before Song Lan can wipe the truth from his face or think of something to diffuse his stupid stupidity, Cao Huan is stepping closer, touching Song Lan’s face with his beautiful hands, and his lips are on Song Lan’s, warm and inviting.

With a groan he can’t silence, Song Lan accepts the invitation wholeheartedly, wrapping his arms around Cao Huan’s waist and kissing him harder, pressing into his body harder. The lines of it he can feel under the robes are tantalizing, more muscle than he expected, but also more softness—a curve of belly against his and a truly exceptional ass.

Cao Huan tugs at Song Lan’s shirt, and without debating the wisdom of it, without succumbing to the creeping voice that whispers you can’t have this, Song Lan lifts his hands and lets Cao Huan pull the shirt over his head. He fills his mind with the feel of soft silk against his skin and the burning taste of Cao Huan’s mouth.

“You are extraordinary,” Cao Huan says, kissing a spot on Song Lan’s neck that sears like a brand. “Spectacular,” he adds, biting Song Lan’s earlobe softly. “Gorgeous,” he grins before kissing Song Lan’s mouth again, and it even sounds like he means it.

Song Lan hasn’t been with anyone since Xingchen, never thought he could want anyone but Xingchen. He doesn’t know why, why now, why this man, why this place, but maybe it doesn’t matter. He feels what he feels, and Xingchen would never have asked him to seal himself up in a lonely tower forever. He can enjoy this moment before it passes. He can.

He fumbles with Cao Huan’s robes, unsure where to start, so Cao Huan generously helps, untying the complicated knots and ties of the belt and five layers of robes more swiftly than Song Lan could have managed, dropping them to the ground in a heap. He’s breathtaking, standing in his white pants, feet bare, hair pooling around his shoulders, an uncertain smile on his lips, and Song Lan is furious with his own speechlessness. He was never overly reliant on words, but the unfairness of his inability to tell Cao Huan how much he wants him, to not even be able to say his name, hits him all at once.

“Is it...is this...too much?” Cao Huan asks, caressing his cheek, obviously trying to read the shift in Song Lan’s expression.

Song Lan shakes his head and leans forward, resting his forehead against Cao Huan’s. It is too much in the way that the sun in the morning is too much after a long dark night, but he forges ahead, kissing Cao Huan methodically, patiently this time. No, Song Lan changes his mind, nibbling the hollow of Cao Huan’s throat and listening to his soft hum of pleasure, it’s just enough.

He notices Cao Huan’s hands on the waistband of his pants seconds before the man sinks to his knees and tugs them down, nuzzling his nose into the sensitive skin at the joint of Song Lan’s hip. He bites a path up the inside of Song Lan’s thigh, his sharp teeth scattering tingling sparks through Song Lan, and flicks his tongue against each spot, buckling Song Lan’s knees and forcing him to catch himself on the man’s sturdy shoulders. Cao Huan looks up at him, lifts his light brown eyes to meet Song Lan’s, before he licks the hard line of Song Lan’s cock and takes it into his mouth.

Song Lan falls into a dark and nameless void, shocked by his own reaction to Cao Huan’s lips around him. The desire coalesces from every part of him, settling in his core like a waiting explosion. He is desperate for the straining, clawing ache to release, desperate for it never to end. He runs his fingers over the arch of Cao Huan’s ear, and it steadies him in some ways, undoes him in others. He yearns to know more, where this tiny scar on his cheek came from, why his hair is long, what he’s been doing alone for three years, who he is.

Cao Huanes presses lightly into Song Lan’s skin, grazing his hips, skimming the taut muscle of his stomach, touching everywhere he can reach, and he looks at Song Lan with more than just want. It occurs to Song Lan that maybe they are in this void together, careening into something neither of them expected or understands.

He can’t hold back his hoarse cries, and he doesn’t want to. He wants Cao Huan to know what this means to him, that it’s perfect and wonderful, that even if he could speak, he wouldn’t have the words for it.

The climax rolls over him slowly, at first like an opening fist, but then without end, the collapsing star of pleasure stealing away his thoughts, even his breath. He only inhales when Cao Huan’s tongue swirls around his cock, almost too intense to bear, and he staggers backward, hitting the bed and sitting down awkwardly. Cao Huan strips off his pants and follows him, straddling his lap and kissing him, on the mouth, on the neck, on the top of his shoulder, murmuring words Song Lan can’t believe.

“Please,” Song Lan signs, “I want you...anything...everything…Huan-ge, please.”

He doesn’t think he’s asking right, at a loss for forming intelligent words, but Cao Huan growls, low and fierce in the back of his throat, not a sound Song Lan expected from so dignified a man, and he shivers at what it promises.

“I...did not consider…” Cao Huan answers shakily, “I do not want to hurt you,” he says, tightening his hands around Song Lan’s jaw.

Song Lan doesn’t think he cares right now, but as much as he wants to fuck Cao Huan, to be fucked by him, he can adapt.

He swipes his fingers through his mouth and wraps his wet hand around Cao Huan’s cock, stroking him hard and fast. Cao Huan tips his head back, one hand on Song Lan’s shoulder and rocks up into his hand, but it’s not quite enough. Dragging Cao Huan on top of him, Song Lan adjusts Cao Huan’s cock between his thighs and squeezes, reveling in the man’s guttural moan. “Captain Song, you…you are more...” Cao Huan cups Song Lan’s cheek. “You are so much more,” he says and kisses Song Lan, thrusting between his legs, the slippery, sliding pressure igniting something new and frenzied inside Song Lan.

He clutches greedy hands around Cao Huan’s ass, pulling him closer, and they settle into a rhythm together immediately, nearly familiar, like a song he knows by heart. Song Lan looks into Cao Huan’s eyes, his almost golden eyes, and he doesn’t understand how it can be like this. He doesn’t know this man, not even his real name. How can he feel so much for him all at once, so much desire and fascination? It doesn't make sense when he tries to think about it, but when he lets go and just exists, just accepts it, everything feels exactly right.

“Captain, please, I want your mouth,” Cao Huan’s breath next to his ear sends thrilling bolts of lightning down into the tips of Song Lan’s fingers. “Can I come in your mouth?”

Song Lan can’t answer fast enough, tugging at Cao Huan and trying to say yes, fuck, yes at the same time. Only the “yes” comes out in any way discernible, and Cao Huan scrambles forward. Song Lan eagerly takes him into his mouth, his cock hot and wet already, hitting the back of Song Lan’s throat. He urges Cao Huan deeper, tightening the lock of his lips around him. The mechanics are different than he remembers, and he thinks the sensation must be different than Cao Huan expected, but the man cries out almost immediately, his climax crashing over him and transforming his face into something almost too beautiful to look at.

Cao Huan slumps onto the bed, his panting breaths mixed with laughter, and Song Lan scoots toward him. A sated smile finds its way onto his mouth and Cao Huan touches it.

“Captain Song, the service on this transport is unexpectedly thorough,” he says solemnly, and Song Lan laughs.

“You can use my name, you know,” Song Lan signs, and then realizes he’s never shown his name to Cao Huan. There’s a strange intimacy in making the sign, the combination of tented fingers that flick down, like brushing water off of skin, and he feels heat rising to his skin.

“Perhaps I prefer to call you Captain,” Cao Huan teases, but he repeats the sign.

Song Lan doesn’t bother to ask the sign for his name. He knows it won’t be real anyway, but Cao Huan purses his lips thoughtfully.

“I am Huan,” he signs, with a closing, twisting fist that opens flat, almost the normal way of making the signs, but not quite, and he watches Song Lan closely as though there’s some test in these motions. “It is not how I am usually known, but...it is not untrue.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Song Lan tells him, and Cao Huan shakes his head.

“It matters to me.” He brushes back Song Lan’s hair. “I… I want to tell you the things that...that are not too shameful to say.”

And now he is blushing, the red bloom spreading from his neck up into his ears, and he ducks his head, tucking it under Song Lan’s chin. Song Lan doesn’t have an answer for that, for the trust he’s being given. He wants to be worthy of it, though, so he doesn’t ask any questions, just pulls Cao Huan closer.

It is astounding, Song Lan thinks, running a hand down Cao Huan’s arm, how much he wants him again already, but he can hear the man’s breathing starting to slow. He satisfies himself with the feeling of skin against skin, the silky soft brush of hair over his arm, the contented sigh as Cao Huan pins Song Lan’s leg with his.

Song Lan briefly considers how much warmer they would be with a blanket, but reconsiders when he looks at the naked stretch of Cao Huan’s body next to his. There are some things worth enduring a little chill for.

⋆ Day 9 ⋆

Song Lan doesn’t quite know how to react to waking up in a bed with someone else, someone who had, evidently, adjusted them in the night. They are under the blankets now, and Song Lan is curved around Cao Huan’s back, one arm under his head, one across his chest.

He decides he’s not at all unhappy about this unfamiliar arrangement. It’s just a passing fling, and all the more precious for its fleeting nature.

Song Lan sets his lips against Cao Huan’s shoulder, following the muscle up his neck. There is a small bump at the top of his spine, not a bone, something with a faint blue light under the skin. Now that he’s looking closely, he can see a practically invisible line along Cao Huan’s hairline, an indistinct ribbon, and he wonders what kind of neural implant it is. He’s never seen such delicate work. The red contact points and black wiring of his own nodes are barely noticeable at a distance but raised enough to be seen and felt up close, and he is well aware that his rescuers spared no expense to provide them.

He will tell you when he’s ready, Song Lan thinks. Or he won’t. It doesn’t matter.

Song Lan’s hand finds its way down Cao Huan’s side to his hip, flexing involuntarily against the smooth skin, and Cao Huan’s voice rumbles in his chest.

“If you are going to be so ardent in the morning, Captain, we will need to find provisions first.”

He rolls over and kisses Song Lan firmly. Song Lan realizes that he’d been clinging to doubts about whether last night had been intentional or a fluke, whether Cao Huan would regret it in the morning, and the answer is a crushing relief.

“Also, I am hungry,” he grins, sweet and charming in a way that reminds Song Lan a little of Xingchen.

Not that they’re anything alike, Song Lan thinks. Xingchen was a wild soul through and through, nothing like Cao Huan’s outward tranquility and concealed turbulence. It’s like comparing fire and ice, and the only similarity is how they both burn through Song Lan.

They make their way to the city decks, the heart of the station where food sellers, shops, and entertainment stalls are crammed together, one on top of the other. Song Lan waves and smiles at the people he knows, even stops to talk to some of them.

A few people give Cao Huan curious looks. If he stood out in Sichuan, he is a strange and alien creature here, not only for the way he’s dressed. There’s just something about him that draws the eye, even when he is so clearly trying to be unnoticed.

They buy tiny scallion pancakes from one stall, fried noodles from another, curls of fruit-flavored ice cream, lotus root sandwiches, spicy tacos, steamed buns—more food than Song Lan normally has for two meals, but Cao Huan has apparently never eaten any of it before. Song Lan isn’t too proud to admit that he keeps buying food to watch Cao Huan’s expression change with every new taste.

They find the other supplies they’re looking for, too. Song Lan is a little embarrassed to buy lube with someone, but Cao Huan seems unperturbed by the shopkeeper’s knowing grin. He also buys new clothes: dark blue pants, fitted white shirts, and a very sensible leather jacket.

It’s all so mundane, so ordinary to go shopping and eat food with someone, but it feels wondrous, like waking up and finding an uncharted green planet.

He glances at Cao Huan who is looking at him with a curious, puzzled expression, and Song Lan wants him so badly, he’s sure it’s evident on his face. Cao Huan’s mouth quirks, and he speeds up, taking Song Lan’s hand and pulling him along.

By the time they get back to their room, Song Lan has figured out how to undo Cao Huan’s wide silk belt, and the man laughs shakily when Song Lan pulls it off in the hall and loops the long fabric around his shoulders. He reels Cao Huan back to him, one hand snaking down his stomach, and Cao Huan leans back, resting his head on Song Lan’s shoulder.

“Are you planning to fuck me in the hallway, Captain Song?” he asks, tickling Song Lan’s ear with his breath. He guides Song Lan’s hand lower, and Song Lan groans. “I might let you.”

It’s a measure of how far gone Song Lan is that he considers it before briskly pushing Cao Huan through the door.

Inside, he pulls off his clothes, trembling with need, catching Cao Huan in his arms before he can take off the last layer of thin silk clinging indecently to his body.

“You,” he pants, speaking the words, ignoring the muddy way they leave his mouth, because even signing feels too complicated. “Want you.”

“You may have me,” Cao Huan tells him. “Any way you like.”

It seems impossible, too much for Song Lan to comprehend. The words. The way he looks, waiting on the bed, lips red and swollen. The soft heat of his body when Song Lan slides slick fingers inside him. The way he writhes and moans, shockingly uninhibited.

He was loved, once, Song Lan thinks, stroking his hand down the velvet-soft skin of Cao Huan’s cock. He knows how to respond to love.

“Captain...Song Lan, Lan-er, please,” Cao Huan asks, tugging on Song Lan’s arm, his eyes dark with surrender. “I need you now.”

Song Lan watches Cao Huan’s face as he lifts his hips, fits them together, and slowly presses inside him. He distracts himself from the exquisite pressure and enveloping warmth by marking the change of expressions: a twinge of discomfort, blinking surprise, mouth-open wonder, and finally, as Song Lan starts to move, fevered lust that pierces Song Lan and fixes in his mind, never to be forgotten.

This...the two of them...joined like this...Song Lan hadn’t known he’d been in limbo before, only living in the technical sense of the word. This feels real. For the first time in years, he is more than merely existing. It’s unbearable.

His orgasm is an agonizing spike, sudden and blinding, and he crashes into Cao Huan, clutching at him, touching as much of him as possible, as long as possible until the violent shuddering of his body calms and the pounding of his heart steadies.

And somehow, it’s nowhere near enough.

“Will you...” Song Lan is still not used to this, specifying what he wants. He thinks he must seem pathetic, asking so bluntly, but he can’t stop himself. “Huan-ge, will you fuck me? Please?”

Cao Huan closes his eyes and exhales with a tremulous laugh. “Lan-er, it is all I seem to want to do lately,” he says, even as he is sitting up, shifting Song Lan on his lap, kissing his mouth.

Song Lan is not a small man, and there is something about being adjusted with such little effort that sends shivers hurtling up and down his spine. The anticipation, though, is nothing compared to the actuality of Cao Huan’s fingers between his legs, sticky and wet with lube, slipping inside him smoothly. For a moment, for several moments, he’s certain he’s on the verge of combustion, breaking apart along tiny, ecstatic fractures.

Abruptly, Cao Huan bites Song Lan’s collarbone, the burst of delicious pain bringing the world back into focus. His moan comes out in a keening whimper, and Cao Huan flexes his hand, rubbing against Song Lan and sending shockwaves through him. Song Lan sinks into the relentless pleasure of fingers plunging into him, and he whines when Cao Huan stops, even knowing why, even knowing what’s next.

Cao Huan takes his time, letting Song Lan get used to him, filling him inch by inch.

“Breathe, Lan-er,” he murmurs, kissing the side of his mouth, and Song Lan takes a ragged, hoarse breath.

And another as Cao Huan twitches his hips.

And another as Cao Huan pushes the rest of the way into him.

Song Lan had forgotten—how could he have forgotten—this particular surge of feeling, of being so consumed by desire that there’s nothing else, no other thoughts to have. He rocks with Cao Huan, captured by the cadence of his thrusts, his mouth, his hands.

Cao Huan gasps out his name like a plea for mercy, “Lan-er, fuck, Lan-er,” before slamming into him with the force of his climax, and Song Lan cries out too, not wanting it to end.

Cao Huan leans against Song Lan’s chest, panting, and Song Lan kisses the top of his head. Then his ear. Then his nose. Then his mouth. Cao Huan flops back onto the bed, arms and legs akimbo.

“I...I do not know exactly what to say,” he mumbles.

Song Lan wants to laugh. What is there to say? Thank you for the mind-blowing sex?

Actually…

He lays down next to Cao Huan and rests a hand over his heart, feeling its fluttering drumbeat.

Thank you, he draws on Cao Huan’s chest. Thank you for making me feel again.

Their room doesn’t have a dedicated bathroom, but it has a sink. Song Lan eventually gets up to clean himself off and wets a cloth for Cao Huan. He grins when Cao Huan tries to take it away from him and cleans Cao Huan too, kissing the curve of his stomach, the ridge of his hip, the tops of his thighs, as he goes.

“My turn next time,” Cao Huan says with a no-arguments tone of voice. Song Lan doesn’t hate the promise of a next time.

He only barely finishes before the lassitude catches up to him, and he yawns as he climbs under the covers, snuggling against Cao Huan. He shouldn’t be tired—it’s the middle of the day—but it’s safe and warm here, and Song Lan decides to enjoy this moment too. He traces the arch of Cao Huan’s eyebrow and the bow of his mouth, smiling when Cao Huan nibbles his finger.

Song Lan closes his eyes and lets himself rest.

It’s still day when he wakes, according to the clock, and Cao Huan is up, dressing in his new clothes that do nothing to disguise his distinctiveness. He pulls his hair back into a ponytail, and Song Lan’s stomach flops appreciatively.

“You’re still gorgeous,” he signs, and Cao Huan shakes his head.

“You may be biased,” he retorts.

“True,” Song Lan agrees, swinging his legs out of bed and stretching. “But I thought that before I saw you naked.”

He grabs Cao Huan around the waist, and Cao Huan rewards him with a lingering kiss.

“I...I am going to meditate in the gardens. Will…” he sounds so hesitant, and Song Lan tips his head curiously. “Will you join me?”

“Of course.” Song Lan has no idea why Cao Huan is anxious about meditation, which seems innocuous, which Song Lan has heard him do nearly every night since they started this journey, but it’s easy to say yes to Cao Huan.

“Thank you,” he says, touching Song Lan’s face before picking up his guqin. “And then dinner?”

Song Lan’s stomach objects loudly. “Dinner first?” he asks hopefully, and Cao Huan laughs.

“Dinner first.”

Dinner ends up being another kaleidoscope of vendor foods, from meat wrapped in thin pancakes to vegetables fried in spicy batter to skewers of soft chicken and potatoes.

Song Lan finds his favorite dessert, layered frozen fruit bars, and he hands a watermelon lime bar to Cao Huan. Cao Huan’s eyes widen at the sweet and sour taste, and when he finishes, Song Lan hands him a different flavor, the second one melting faster than he can finish it.

“I should have waited to give you that until we were alone,” Song Lan signs, and Cao Huan tips his head.

“Why?” he asks around a bite of what looks like mango and tajin.

“Because I want to lick it off you,” Song Lan grins.

Cao Huan blinks slowly and smiles. “You may,” he agrees, tilting his head back.

Song Lan had always known that what he felt with Xingchen was unique, the ease and willingness of touch and affection, and he’d never expected to find it with anyone else. But when he touches his lips to Cao Huan’s now, surrounded by an almost overwhelming number of people, tasting the spice and tang, he is honestly not sure he can stop at only the kiss. Cao Huan hums in his throat and Song Lan hastily pulls away from the temptation. After meditation. He can surely be patient and wait until after meditation.

The gardens aren’t empty. Workers are picking fruits and vegetables, and visitors are wandering down the pathways. It’s amazing how much this space adds to Rogue Sky, Song Lan thinks. Every station should have one.

Cao Huan settles on the floor in a quiet corner of the deck facing the wall, and Song Lan sits across from him. Cao Huan gives him an uncertain smile before closing his eyes and setting his fingers to the guqin. Song Lan breathes in and out slowly, counting in rhythm with Cao Huan’s breath, finding the quiet space inside him before Cao Huan starts to play.

The sound of the instrument is even more spectacular here, twining through the trees and echoing in the high ceiling. It seems like this was what the guqin was meant for: open spaces and, Song Lan notices, a growing crowd.

To their credit, the people are polite at first, just walking closer, standing nearby without obviously watching, but it doesn’t take long for them to congregate. He can’t blame them. Cao Huan isn’t just playing the guqin, he’s speaking with it, telling a story with it, the music unfolding in a heart-wrenching requiem.

He plays for so long, a single, unbroken stream of sound. Song Lan can almost hear the words, not soothing as he expects meditation to be, but mournful, tearing Song Lan apart with every note. He sees Qingyang in their audience, tears streaming down her face, and he wonders who she’s thinking of, if it’s someone specific or everyone they’ve lost.

Without warning, Cao Huan pushes the guqin away and in a fluid, graceful movement, stands and stalks away through his audience without a backward glance.

Song Lan packs up the guqin—he has no idea what he’s doing, but thankfully, it’s not that complicated—and, with a shrug to Qingyang, heads back to the empty room.

It doesn’t take as long as he expects for Cao Huan to find his way back. Song Lan is sitting on the bed, knitting a sock cuff, when he comes in the door. He flicks a smile at Cao Huan before going back to counting the ribbing repeats, trying to give him whatever space he needs, even here in this small room.

Cao Huan hovers by the door for a few minutes, and Song Lan pretends he doesn’t see the indecision and fear on his face.

“I can not seem to make the guqin do anything but weep anymore,” he finally says, and Song Lan sets down his knitting.

“You are entitled to your feelings,” he signs.

Cao Huan frowns. “What if I am not?”

There doesn’t seem to be an answer to that. Song Lan stands up and carefully kisses Cao Huan’s forehead. “You are. Even if they don’t make sense.”

Cao Huan sighs and rests his head on Song Lan’s shoulder, muffling his words. “What if I did something terrible? Unforgivable, even?”

We’ve all done terrible things, Song Lan thinks, but he isn’t sure if that’s actually true. Maybe other people have lived normal lives and never needed to seek revenge. Justice, he reminds himself. It was justice.

Song Lan smooths a hand up Cao Huan’s back, mapping the dips and ridges, tracing a path around his shoulder blade. He settles it against the nape of Cao Huan’s neck and rubs the tense muscle there.

“You are too good to me, Captain Song,” Cao Huan mumbles, and Song Lan huffs, a single sound of disbelief. Kindness has not been forefront in his thoughts recently.

“Would you be so kind if I’d killed someone?”

The words hang in the air, and Song Lan can feel Cao Huan’s body still, waiting, ready...to run? Ready to fight?

Song Lan rests his other hand on the center of Cao Huan’s back, massaging his thumb in a reassuring circle, a circle that means yes, I would, before he moves away just enough to sign.

“I killed someone—the man who took my voice and killed my partner, my love. He was a hired assassin, only doing his job, but I hunted him down and killed him anyway.”

He searches Cao Huan’s face for shock or censure, but all he finds is understanding, an ever-blooming field of empathy, and it’s a relief, such a relief to admit this vicious secret, the worst thing he’s ever done.

“I don’t regret it. If I could have killed his patron, I would have. I don’t think you’re the kind of man who would kill without reason, but even if you are, it’s your choice to let it consume you or make peace with yourself.”

There’s so much else Song Lan could say. That he’d planned to kill Xiandu, even though the assassin claimed the hit hadn’t been his order. That he cried when he learned the man was dead; he hadn’t cared how it had happened, only that it had. That he’d been drunk for days afterward, both in relief he did understand and despair he didn’t. That peace is a daily battle.

Cao Huan leans into Song Lan, hugging him around the waist. When he finally does speak again, his words are small and brittle eggshells.

“I loved him, and I hated him. And yet, killing him is not the most unforgivable thing I have done. What is unforgivable is that I did not do it sooner. What is unforgivable is that I love him still. And hate him still. What is unforgivable is that I am allowed...expected...to go on with my life as though I did nothing wrong.”

The last words break away in a bitter snap, and Song Lan frowns. He sits Cao Huan down on the bed and crouches down to look at him, at the tear streaks on his cheeks. Gently, he dabs them with his sleeve.

“Huan-ge. You and I get to live with our mistakes. You and I are alive to forgive ourselves and the people we loved. It’s not unforgiveable to live.”

He only half believes it himself, but he hopes if he says it enough, eventually it’ll be true.

Cao Huan doesn’t look convinced either, but he touches Song Lan’s face, and it seems to steady him. The tears stop falling, at least.

“I...I…” He tries to say something and fails. A wan smile flutters over his lips, barely long enough for Song Lan to be sure it was ever there. “You are good, Lan-er.” The smile tries again and sticks this time, slow and resolute, and it reaches the deepest places inside Song Lan, places he has tried to close off. “Thank you.”

When they finally go to bed, it’s only to sleep. Although, with Cao Huan’s fingers fitted between his, Cao Huan’s legs tangled together with his, “only” doesn’t seem like a fair word for the way it feels to sense a new planet forming around him, and Song Lan is afraid he doesn’t know how to face the swiftly shifting landscape of his life.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #lan xichen #song lan #luo qingyang #lanlan #space au #this chapter has sex #also more guqin #also MIANMIAN #Kristina writes tiny stories #this one is medium

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