#they just got roped into helping her reorganise

[ertrunkenerwassergeist]

In the blinded history au, there's finally some progress in researching the Conqueror's trip when the undergrads are allowed into the Royal Archives. Mostly because they find some random stuff that wasn't catalogued, prompting the head archivist to kick off the Great Reorganisation of the Archives (capital letters absolutely necessary).

Marcella stared at the pile of documents like they had personally offended her. Which they very much had. She clucked her tongue and carefully picked up what must have been a part of a beautifully illustrated scroll once. Now it was maybe half its original size and riddled with ancient fire damage. It was written in Sol.

Normally Marcella would have carefully noted down a description of the document and then stored it with the other not translatable things she had in her archives. That's what she did with old documents that first arrived at her archives anyway. But this document - these ducuments - was not a new arrival. If the undergrad student's description of where he had found it was correce, it must have been here since the archives had first been constructed clost to 1700 years ago.

It was infuriating. It was maddening. It was downright insulting.

From the day she had first been named Head of the Royal Archives nearly thirty years ago, Marcella had always prided herself on having a complete record on what was stored within these ancient walls. It was her privilige to choose who would be allowed to see and touch these treassures and who wasn't.

So when a group of undergrad students had gained the permission to go into her archives from the King himself, she had been furious. Children. The King had ordered her to let children into this sanctum. But Marcella hadn't had a choice. She had let them in, sticky hands and loud voices and all.

After giving these children an introduction into the filing system and sufficient warnings as to what would happen, if they misappropriated, or Bahamut forbid, damaged one of the documents, she had sought refuge in her tiny office. Proposals to document preservations didn't write themselves after all.

And now here Marcella was. Weeks after the children had first entered her archives. There was a sheet of paper with scribbled attempts at translating the remains of the scroll. It mocked her. She looked up.

The children were standing crammed in front of her desk, shuffling nervously and making unnecessary noised. She pointed at the two she knew were most competent at using her filing catalogue. They startled.

"You and you. Take the catalogue and get searching." She lifted up the sheet with the attempted translation. "Whoever did that is going to write a detailed paper with the reasoning behind it. The other two: contact your professor, I wish to have a word with him as soon as possible."

"But Maselle..." one of the braver ones dared to speak up.

"It's just that those words are really similar to Hadnissa," another one muttered.

Marcella cast a truly caustic glare into the group. Silence reigned.

"If you want to use these archives in the future, I highly suggest you do as I told you. Now."

The children looked at each other and hastened out of the door a moment later. Marcella stood behind her desk, victorious. She glared at the pile of newly found documents again.

There were so many things to do before she could personally hand King Regis her newest proposal for archival funding.

[glitterisevil-blog]

Angel Cake - a short story

“Just keep the shelves tidy, help customers find things, make sure they know they can borrow books as well as buying them…oh, and make your boss a coffee now and again!” said my new manager, Cath.

It wasn’t my dream career, volunteering in a community bookshop on Trafford’s quietest high street, but that Duke of Edinburgh award wasn’t going to award itself. So here I was, being shown the ropes (and the kettle) by Cath.

I was killing some time reorganising the teen fiction, when he tumbled through the door. The fierce January gale threatened to blow him away along with his hat. He looked seven stone wet through, with tracing paper skin and a faint smell of tobacco that clung to his weather-worn overcoat.

He moved frustratingly slowly, dragging a frail finger across each shelf, squinting through his thick glasses to make out the words on each spine.

“Go on then, don’t just stand there gawping at him – go and help him!” said an exasperated Cath.

“Can I help you with anything?” I said in my friendliest and most efficient voice. I had to say it again, only much louder the second time.

“Do you have a cookery section?” he almost shouted. “I’m baking a cake this week. Never made one in my life! The wife thinks it’s hilarious that I’m attempting my first ever angel cake aged eighty-seven!”

I directed him to the cookery section, and proudly thrust Delia Smith’s Book of Cakes into his hands.

“What Delia doesn’t know about making a cake isn’t worth knowing!” I joked, as he took the book from me and started to thumb through the pages with a look of abject concentration.

“Special occasion?” I enquired, hoping for the sake of the recipient that it wasn’t. I was sceptical at how this virgin attempt at a complicated, multi-layer sponge cake would actually turn out.

“Wedding anniversary” he beamed back at me. “Fifty years on Sunday and never a dull day” he grinned.

“Wow fifty years - is that gold?” I asked.

“Yes, I suppose we are quite old” he replied wistfully.

I flushed crimson and went to correct him, to assure him that I wasn’t casting aspersions about his age. But he seemed so beautifully lost amidst pages of meringues and roulades that I decided to stay quiet.

He fished in his pocket and found a crumpled note which he handed to me; his eyes hopeful that it would cover the cost. It didn’t.

“You can borrow books from here too you know?” I offered, hoping he’d consider this as an option. “Just leave us a few details, and then once you’ve made your cake, you can return Delia to us!”

He produced a pen from his breast pocket, jotting down his name and address in a feathery, shaky scrawl.

“I hope he comes back with that book” said Cath once he’d left, “I can just about make out his first name as Bill. The rest of it… not a clue!”

And come back he did! Bill tumbled through the door again the following Tuesday, book under his arm, ready to expand upon his chef skills.

“How did your wife like the cake?” I asked.

“She said the sponge was a bit dry but she loved it all the same” he said proudly.

“Well, it sounds like it wasn’t bad for your first attempt” I joked, “she’ll have you on that Bake Off show next!”

“She’s certainly got a taste for my cooking now” he said. His eyes suddenly dropped and he became a little less jovial. “I’m doing a lot of the cooking at the minute; her health isn’t so good you see. Anyway, she always says that good food is the path to good health. Let’s hope so eh?”

I helped him seek out a book on pies, which he faithfully returned the following week along with a new request for something on stews and casseroles.

The bookshop grew gradually busier over the coming weeks. I did some social media posts so people knew about us. We even began to serve coffee and tea as our little book-hive began to buzz with more footfall. But I mostly looked forward to Bill’s Tuesday afternoon visits and updates on his cookery projects. The benchmark of success (or failure) was always his wife’s brutal appraisal of the dish.

We’d gained some new regulars too - notably two surly older ladies who drank endless pots of tea and made scathing comments. Cath (secretly) dubbed them The Sisters Grim as they always pored over the local obituaries to see who’d died that week, and then embarked on an Earl Grey fuelled assassination of the deceased person’s character!

We were edging cautiously towards Spring when I’d suggested one week to Bill that he might like to give breadmaking a go.

“I think that Doc Hollywood chap off the telly’s done a book, hasn’t he?” asked Bill.

I smiled and dutifully went off to find what he needed. I’d maintained my habit of never correcting him.

The shop was busier than usual the following week, so much so that it was nearly 3pm by the time I noticed there’d been no sign of Bill. I wondered if he - or possibly his wife - had taken unwell. I hoped they were both alright.

Another Tuesday came and went, but Bill still hadn’t been back to see us.

As I flipped the door sign to CLOSED and cleared away teapots, I saw that The Sisters Grim had left their newspaper on the table. A notice caught my eye:

APPEAL – We’re trying to trace the family of Bill O’Donnell (aged 87)

He sadly died at Cresta Close in Altrincham on Wednesday 9 February. There are no suspicious circumstances surrounding his death.

His late wife Jean (a retired cook at Springwood Primary School) passed away in 2018 and was his last known relative. Anyone with information about his next of kin should contact Trafford Police.

[casitafallz-a]

Decay AU | Birthday time!

Decay knew something suspicious was going on whenever she did her typical routine; Wake up, morning run, food, study for an upcoming assignment or just study, two hours without her prosthetics on to let them charge which was nap time… then lunch…. Then afternoon workout with both hand-to-hand and weapons training and more study of one subject or another, or in most cased get dragged into whatever bullshit her group found until dinner and bed.

Decay hadn’t seen or heard a whisper of even Wanderer or Watcher Mirabel by the time her studying was up which alone was mild suspicious because both or one of them always found an excuse to bother her. What made the warning bells go off was when Pariah and Stray seemed to be absent from their typical places and routines.  

So she went looking.

The Watcher Casita was by no means small, a fact that even Decay often had to check her map to make sure she was on the right floor, even a year in, because it’s size was so vast. It was practically a castle that stood over the districts of the Watcher AU. A lot of space to cover and unfortunately, the Casita was by no means willing to help her so it had to be a manual hunt.

Decay hadn’t gotten to Communications before Tomadas Luisa roped her into helping with her move ammunition crates at the shooting range.

“Has Pariah and Stray been sent onto assignment?” Decay asked boredly, checking through the box with the barcode reader and opened it up once it flashed green. “Like, normally they send me a message on my phone or through the comm-system when they do… I haven’t seen them all day..”

“Err…” Tomadas frowned hesitantly, “They’re….fucking?”

Decay turned and have her variant-sibling a look of disgust and the woman herself looked appalled by her own words. While the two weren’t their parents, they looked like them and anymore more than hand-holding or a soft peck, they didn’t need to see.

Plus, Stray and Pariah made it very clear they weren’t a thing. Stray was 35 while Pariah was still very in her 50s. If Stray ever wanted to get that far, they’d have to wait until he was at least physically older by another 10 years. He had tied his aging process to his Au than take a seal like she had.

“Wanna…run that by me again?” Decay asked, pulling out the magazines and set them into the racking. “

“Can I?” Tomadas looked relieved, “I meant to say, they’re in medical. Rana’s having her little heart checked.”

“Great. Once I’m done with this box, I’ll go right down.” Decay watched as a nervous sweat broke across Tomadas’s for head, watching as she got a little more anxious with each mag she placed.

“I think that was this morning. I don’t know if they’re still there!” Tomadas called as the last mag was placed. “No point bothering Watcher Julieta…”

“Tomadas, like my own Luisa, you’re absolutely shit at lying…which is ironic given you were raised in this AU and by officers.” Tomadas had been kidnapped after her 5th birthday and lost from Encanto until a group recovered her but it had been a rush to leave so they took her with them. Decay didn’t know the details but did find the differences of each world fascinating to have tabs on a few people.

Tomadas looked mildly offended. “Rude.”

“and you lot are hiding something from me. So, gonna spill or should I continue my investigation of why my crew are AWOL.” Decay raised an eyebrow, tilting her head towards Casita’s way.

Tomadas sniffed indignantly and began to reorganise her work which was her answer.

Decay abandoned her to it and padded back to the looming form of Casita.

She felt the familiar buzzing against her shoulder before she sighed and headed towards her room instead; Her arms needed to charge, great. The last thing she wanted was to be caught mid-way when the batteries died on her. Her prosthetics seemed so much heavier when unpowered.

Wrinkling her nose, Decay floated into her room and almost died of a heart attack.

“SURPRISE!!”

Decay screamed, fell back and was bordering almost seeing god before Wanderer’s seemed to appear and caught her by the shoulders.

The urge to clock someone in the face was never higher; sharply throned plants and cactuses spread with a wave of multi-coloured plants and it took a moment to see Pariah holding onto 16 month Rana, the toddler herself trying to get into a small wrapped gift but her baby fingers weren’t strong enough to break through. Stray was next to Watcher Mirabel and a few familiar faces of her friends and Hallow looking majestic with downing bottle of whiskey and a party-hat shamelessly

“Are you okay?” Pariah was the first to ask, her lips pressed into a concerned line.

Decay sucked in heavily before she laughed, “So this is where you lot buggered off too…”

“Yeah, had to make it a surprise.” Wanderer thumped her on the back playfully, pulling her away from her door and inwards to the group before people began to get seats, “after all, given how your 23rd birthday was last year… your 24th had to be better.”

“24th? Wait, it’s my birthday?!” Decay realised before it all clicked into place before the idol giggles and laughter echoed.  “Oh things make so much more sense now!!”

“Yep and this time, you’re under a boulder and no one’s gonna be amputating limbs this time around so that’ll be a plus.” Wanderer added, “Can’t set a bar lower than 23rd.”

“I didn’t get a 22nd birthday party.” That had been a minor debate in the family but there had been a small meal to acknowledge it at the very least. Nothing major.

“As I said, can’t set a lower bar than 23rd.” Wanderer pressed on happily.

“We got you presents” Watcher Mirabel spoke, drawing her attention to the rest of the room. “You can open them now or later…. Once you’ve recovered.”

Decay scoffed, shaking her head. “I thought I died and went to the architects….”

“Deecaay!!” Rana’s little voice and a sudden tug to her knee pulled her attention down to the toddler who held onto her shirt jacket in a tense grip with the gift in the other hand. “Got pressy! Open!”

“Ahh, for me?” Decay knelt down, balancing on the balls of her feet, smiling at her variant-sibling with warmth as the tot nodded viciously.

“Paper shiny.”

“Can you help me open it? Sticky tape isn’t easy to open with metal fingers, Niñita.”

Rana happily complied, taking a moment to get passed the tape before the gift fell out. Decay caught it before she smiled at Pariah’s handwriting. Rana cooed and sat down and began to play with the paper for her fun so Decay rose to her feet.

“It’s a few seeds from Floran-14’s AU.” Pariah spoke, her hand coming to her shoulder. “A few plant that doesn’t allow for magical growth.”

“I’ve heard of them…” Decay gasped, “They’re so rare.”

Floran-14 was a restricted AU, a world that was all but plant-life and animals; it’s AU was set close to a sentient void that radiated off magical energy from recycled debris fields; to why there was no intelligent life or an Encanto. All the plants had evolved to resist magical touch that had initially been damaging them like radiation; no plants could be grown other than naturally. It made the rarest and diverse plants that most, if not all Aus had and to get seeds…. That was touching.  

“Thank you so much!” She’d definitely do her study on them first before she set to get them into the ground.  Decay jumped up and hugged her tightly, pulling back as the sharp inhaled but Pariah smiled at her, her human hand cupping her cheek.

“You’re welcome. I look forwards to seeing that become of them.”

One by one, Decay hugged her friends after she opened her presents; a new knife holster from Wanderer (throwing knives included), Watcher had gifted her a new phone, Stray had given her a new set of clothes, with detachable sleeves, Tek had upgrades for her arms ready, Distort….considered his mere presence a gift while Hallow had arranged an trip to an AU of Delacor-2, an AU that hosts annual hunger-game style challenge but without the death.

All in all, Decay found herself enjoying the party and relaxed making flower crowns and smearing Rana in coloured pollen to spread around.

[remys-lucky-franc]

Sin With Me HC’s: Darius and Joyce (MC’s Mom)

So I’ve binged Darius Season 1 this week, and have just started his Season 2 and I’ve really enjoyed it: he’s more complex and I love him more than I expected to!

Since I’m only on Season 2, there could be things in here that don’t tie into Canon, but basically since I discovered he’s not got a family of his own, these HC’s haven’t left me alone and I want to write them down 💕

***

Joyce, upon discovering MC is dating Darius, proceeds to grill her for information on him, as Moms do:

What age is he? Where does he work? What does he do? What about his family? Where do they live? Brothers? Sisters?

MC rolls her eyes, “Mooommmm...” Joyce throws her hands in the air, “What? I can’t show an interest?” MC sighs, “He’s 28. He’s a trapeze artist at the Night of Sin Circus. He hasn’t actually got any family Mom, just his friends.” Joyce frowns when she hears the last part, it’s one thing not to have a large family, but not to have any family at all? It makes her sad to think of it, he seemed like such a nice boy when he came to the shop before... She decides right then, that she’ll keep an eye out for him.

Joyce tells MC to invite Darius for dinner, and asks what his favourite meal is so she can cook it for him.

Darius is really charming, friendly and respectful to MC’s mom, but she’s instantly like ‘Call me Joyce!’ and pulling him into a hug.

After dinner, Joyce kisses Darius on the cheek and presses a Tupperware with an extra portion into his hand, with reheating instructions on a sticky note attached, ‘for lunch tomorrow’.

After that first dinner, when Joyce knows MC is heading to see Darius, she often ushers her out the door with food in a Tupperware dish for him.

What started out as looking out for Darius, turns into a major soft-spot for Joyce. She absolutely adores her daughter’s boyfriend, she’s always got big hugs and kisses for him and tells him he’s a good boy: the way he blushes and his cheeky grin brighten up her day.

Joyce finds out all Darius’s favourite snacks and makes a point of having a stash of them in the cupboard at all times.

When Joyce hears MC and Darius squabble, she really tries hard to remain impartial, but usually ends up telling MC not to be so mean to him.

Joyce offers to do Darius’s washing / ironing / alterations on circus costumes for him.

Any time Darius wants to surprise MC, he conspires with Joyce about it!

When Darius picks MC up to take her somewhere fancy, Joyce reaches up to dust imaginary lint off his shoulders and straightens his tie for him.

Because Joyce showed so much interest in his job, Darius gives her a VIP ticket. She’s beyond excited! Darius arranges a limo to pick MC and Joyce that night with bottle of champagne. When she’s in her seat at show, he makes a point of winking at her and she gives him a little wave back, tickled pink! She tells literally every person that looks in her direction that night that ‘Lust’ is her daughter’s boyfriend!

When it’s Darius’s birthday, MC’s Mom bakes him a cake and fusses over him to make him feel special. He’s blown away by how kind she is to him

Joyce has a little cry whenever Darius appears with a bunch of flowers for her, just because he was passing by.

Joyce ropes Darius into helping reorganise the bike store, since he’s ‘a strong boy’.

Darius frequently tells MC how much he likes Joyce, and how lucky she is to have a mom like her. One day he accidentally slips up and calls Joyce ‘Mom’ and almost dies of embarrassment, but she loves it! She just ruffles his hair and grins at him.

[duskowithapen]

Day Three: Magic

Writer’s Month 2020

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: None

You Remind Me of the Babe (The Babe with the Force)

‘Their breath – unnecessary as it was – caught in their throat. Against their current programming, a series of beeps left their throat. He is beautiful. Lovely sleek lines were highlighted by the glare of the dual suns, the silvery metal nearly blinding them until they reduced the light input for their eyes, a solid build but obviously built for speed… Motto glanced over and groaned. “Oh please, don’t go fallin’ in love with another ship AySo.” – Basically, AySo meets the Child – AKA the Magic Baby. And falls in love with a ship. Go figure. Writer’s Month Day Three: Magic

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AySo flicked at their dreads again and swore. “Stupid kriffing pieces of scrap, should tear them off and melt them down, all they are bloody good for, the—” A hand connected with the metal panel over their ear, setting off alerts. Spinning around with spanner in hand, they shifted their mouth down five degrees into a scowl.

Motto stared down at them with crossed arms. “Don’t you go swearing like that around my droids, kid.”

“I became a mature adult fourteen standard years ago, Motto,” Ayso said, spinning the blue circle of their iris in a mockery of the normal organic eye roll, “And I have heard you swear worse when you get stuck inside an engine.”

They absently dodge the next swipe, grabbing a spare wire to secure their dreads. Motto nodded at the movement. “Haven’t seen a Uraei have to tie back their dreads before – it’s like watchin’ a Twi’ tyin’ back their lekku.”

AySo’s hands froze on the dreads. “Normally one would not,” they say quietly, “But mine are damaged and do not move the way they used to.” A small line of binary ran through their processor – they do not look the way they used to. It called up an archived image from twenty-nine years ago of themselves with 1.25-metre-long dreads tangling around their hips, desert sun making the copper scales shine. They were white now, with burned black tips, and only 35cm from base to tip. They did not move anymore. *Uraei Dreads – With a similar fashion and purpose to the Twi’lek lekku, dreads are scale-covered tails with a limited muscular and nervous system allowing movement. The average Uraei can have between fifty to twenty dreads, never exceeding a two-centimetre circumference. Ranging in various metallic colours, including gold, silver, bronze –*

Motto’s voice snapped them out of the stream of data. “I came over to tell you we’ve3 got a new customer comin’ in. A bounty hunter with a damaged Razor Crest. I’d advise coverin’ up your identifying bits if you’re gonna be helpin’, just in case.”

“Of course, thank you for the warning.” Ayso pulled the bandana away from their neck and tucked their dreads beneath it, ignoring Motto’s curious glance at the copper wires under their scales running up and around their neck. A pair of welding goggles covered their eyes – too obviously mechanical, unlike the wires which could be considered a ‘fashion choice’.

AySo did not want to take the risk of being identified while their ship was out of commission. If the Hutts found out that they were here… The sound of engines heralded the approaching ship, and they joined Motto as it touched down. A humanoid in armour (*Mandalorian: Connected via Creed rather than blood, the Mandalorians are a tribe of exceptionally skilled warriors--*) stepped down the ramp.

Their breath – unnecessary as it was – caught in their throat. Against their current programming, a series of beeps left their throat. He is beautiful. Lovely sleek lines were highlighted by the glare of the dual suns, the silvery metal nearly blinding them until they reduced the light input for their eyes, a solid build but obviously built for speed… Motto glanced over and groaned. “Oh please, don’t go fallin’ in love with another ship AySo.”

But how could they not? The Razor Crest was an impressive piece of machinery – one of the best remnants of the Old Republic, unidentifiable to most modern systems. Originally a patrol ship, they could see how two mounted turrets had been added later, perhaps by his current owner. They felt their lips shift downward by ten degrees. The carbon build up around the engines needed to be removed at least 22.5 standard weeks ago. The landing gear was uneven by a difference of a metre. Given the sound of the engines, there was damage to the fuel lines, and possibly more carbon build up on the inside. The poor ship was a mess. Their frown turned upon the Mandalorian, who’s helmet was tilted down at Motto.

“No droids,” Came the modulated voice, and AySo tilted their head. Their vocal emotion analysis program wasn’t working properly due to the modulator, but was that… annoyance?

“It’s gonna take longer then – I’ve only got the one assistant. And it’ll be more expensive.”

AySo ignored the rest of the conversation, allowing their recording system to save it for later analysis. They walked up to the ship and placed a hand on the hull. He needs a clean, they beeped to Fiver. Please bring me the cleaning kit. The droid beeped an affirmative to them before trundling off. Glancing around the bay, they couldn’t see the flash of sun off metal (*Beskar: The sacred metal of the Mandalorians and one of the hardest metallic substances – *) so the client must be gone.

Motto walked over with hand on her hips. “This is gonna take some work,” she sighed. “And the Mando doesn’t want the droids near his ship, so it’s just you and me.”

AySo raised the thin line of copper scales over her eye in the organic manner of surprise. “Do I not count as a droid? I am, afer all, more mechanic than organic.”

Waving a hand, Motto said, “You’re not a droid though, are you? And what Mando doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Where do you want to start first?”

“I believe I will begin with the engines,” AySo said, adjusting the harness they wore over their jumpsuit, “I am the best suited to moving on higher, uncertain ground. We could not like a repeat of last week.”

Without waiting for a response, they threw a guide rope up and over the outside of the engine casing and began climbing up the hull. Their hands and feet weren’t scaled like the rest of their body, but the skin was tough and weathered. It was a matter of 40.73 seconds to reach the first engine. “I will need more washers, a replacement fuel line, some wire, and the welding kit, Motto,” They called down. “But it should not take me more than four standard hours to finish this engine.”

“I’ll have Sixer bring it over,” She called, already started on the carbon scoring. “The Mando’s gone to find some work at the cantina, so we’ve probably got a few hours till he comes back.”

As it turned out, they did not have ‘a few hours.’. The Mandalorian returned within 30 minutes of the two beginning the repairs. AySo was largely ignored by the client – it was likely that he did not see them, as they were sitting inside the main body of the engine. There was also damage to the hyperdrive connection, and they hastened to repair it before Motto noticed. She didn’t like it when AySo did more repairs than the client was paying for, but they simply stored the subsequent soundbites in a file titled Reasons Credits are Required According to Peli Motto. AySo was well aware of the necessity of credits – they had spent approximately 29 200 hours reorganising funds in order to help various militaristic groups over the years. They just could not see the purpose in punishing the ship for the owners’ inability to properly manage their funds – an illogical concept, according to Fiver, Sixer and Eighter, but one that AySo adhered to.

It was not until they heard Motto enter the ship that AySo moved from the engine. They tilted their head and diverted more processing power to the subsonic implants in their ears. They registered the sound of Motto’s footsteps on durasteel, the squeak and uneven rumble of Sixer’s tread, the near-silent pings of metal shifting and settling as the planet cooled, an unknown high frequency noise -- *Noise Identified: Colloquially known as ‘coo’, made by infants of various species* Their mouth tilted down five degrees. What was an infant doing in a bounty hunters ship?

They used the guide rope to descend, meeting Motto as she exited the Razor Crest. In her arms was a small creature with green skin and comparatively large ears wrapped in brown fabric. AySo’s eyes glowed, two additional circles appearing in their eyes as they scanned the – *Species Unknown* Hmm. Interesting.

Motto was talking to the infant. “I’m gonna look after you, and then I’m gonna charge that Mando extra for babysitting!”

“Motto.”

At the sound of her name, she looked up and smiled. “AySo! Look what I found on Mando’s ship!”

“I can see that.” AySo took a step back as two very small hands reached out in their direction. “Will you be needing any assistance?”

The infant reached out further, making vaguely distressed noises. It tugged at something in AySo’s chest, and they rubbed the area. *Personal Reminder – Perform full diagnosis – possible damage in middle thorax – pulling sensation indicative of loose wire or misplaced/strained muscle*

“I think it wants you to hold it!” Motto said with a smile.

“That… would not be wise. I have no experience with infants.” AySo took another step away as the creature began to -- *Noise Identified – cry of distress, commonly occurring with younglings of various species when in need of comfort, sustenance, or REM sleep*. “I believe it requires something.”

“It requires you AySo,” Motto rolled her eyes. “Just take the damn baby!”

Apparently AySo didn’t move fast enough, because the infant made a gesture and suddenly their sensors were no longer registering the floor. They accelerated forward at a speed of twenty kilometres an hour before being brought to a stop before the infant. It was no longer making the distressed noise, but one identified as Pleased/Happy. It waved its hands once more, and AySo shifted her feet – now on the ground – to a firmer footing.

“Ooo, Mando has a magic baby!”

“Magic is unquantifiable and thus impossible,” AySo said automatically. “I believe the infant would like to be held by me.”

“Obviously genius. Take the magic baby already!”

Deciding to ignore the continued moniker of magic baby, AySo rapidly scanned the Holonet for information on infant-holding. *Rest the infant against your head and shoulder, supporting the infants’ neck and head with your hand. Place your other hand under the infant’s bottom.* The infant did not seem to require additional neck support, but appeared to enjoy being held against their chest. It did wiggle however, causing AySo to hastily shift their hold when the infant decided to face away rather than towards their shoulder.

Motto was absolutely no help. “You really have no idea what to do with a baby, do you?”

“I am a mechanic,” AySo said with enough voice modulation to suggest. “A cybernetically, mechanically augmented individual. I do not interact with infants.”

“Well this is a magic baby, so you should be fine.”

“It is not magic Motto.” AySo took advantage of the infants distraction – Sixer and Eighter were switching cards on the barrel while Motto was preoccupied – to perform a deeper scan. “It is a physically-male presenting creature of an unknown species, approximately fifty years old and…” The scan had pinged a file. Jedi Master – Old Republic – Yoda. The image was of a similar creature to the infant, but of a more advanced age. “He is a Jedi – no, he has the capabilities of a Jedi.”

Motto’s face, after a moment of processing, conveyed a sense of not understanding.

AySo sighed. “He reminds me of the Jedi Master Yoda.”

“What Yoda?” Motto frowned.

“Master Yoda, wielder of an energy commonly referred to as the Force.”

“The Force?”

“Motto, if you are going to continue repeating my words, I will refrain from trying to explain.” This was an unfortunate habit of hers. While exceptionally skilled in mechanics, Motto did not keep up with other news.

“Is the Force magic or what?”

“The Force is the manipulation of energy. Wielders such as Yoda and this infant are similar to power converters, if the files I have are to be believed. They are able to shift this Force – a metaphysical entity and energy – into a means to manipulate matter and minds.”

Motto shrugged. “Magic sounds more interesting.”

Spinning their iris, AySo drawled in Motto’s voice print, “Fine. It’s a magic baby.”

“I hate it when you do that,” Motto shivered. “It’s creepy hearing my voice come out of someone else’s mouth.” Her face lifted – mouth tilting upwards by a fraction of a degree, pupil expanding by two millimetres – “Since the baby seems to like you so much, you’re on babysitting duty!”

AySo blinked, briefly viewing the world through the misty lens of their nictitating membrane. “I cannot babysit. There are still repairs to be done.”

“You’ve got your harness,” Motto gestured, “Just strap him into that and you’ll be fine.”

Another blink. “I request a portion of the extra payment.”

“Fine. Just try and finish those repairs before Chenini rises – I don’t care how many times you tell me you don’t need sleep, you’re gonna sleep.”

“I shall endevour to complete the repairs quickly.” AySo strapped the infant to their harness with some of the extra wires – the insulates ones, so that they do not injure him – and climbed back up the Razor Crest. The infant cooed as they ascended, looking up at their face. His eyes were wide and dark, in a manner similar to theirs, and reflected the stars.

“Please alert me if you require something,” AySo murmured at a fraction of their normal vocal volume, “And I shall provide it promptly.”

The infant made another noise -- *Noise Identified – contentment* -- before shuffling closer to their chest.

“According to Holonet searches, infants require vocal communication with adults in order to gain their own understanding of language. I shall describe the process of engine repairs to you – perhaps you will become a mechanic.” After a moment, they tapped the infants head with a careful finger. “I cannot continue to call you the infant, as you deserve a better moniker than simply a designation. Perhaps… perhaps I will call you Magic Baby.”

Magic Baby cooed in response.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Magic Baby. I am CAI – AS097, but I refer to myself as AySo.”