#they show up to civilization finally and immediately get in a fight with some mercenaries

[silentspectres]

I would like to know about your disaster tiefling! Backstory, current romance, what drives them, anything youd be excited to share!

thank you for indulging me! I cannot express enough that I am like a vampire in that I have to be explicitly invited to do something, so I'm grateful

This is my disaster tiefling Mercury, they're a mephistopheles tiefling rogue (assassin specifically) and they're allergic to making wise decisions

I have a hard time grabbing good screenshots from my console sometimes so a few of these are Crunchy™ but I genuinely love the range of lighting the game has that makes them go from somewhat well-adjusted looking to mostly just glowing eyes. I'll put the rest about them under a read more!

Mercury usually sticks to decisions that will benefit themself or their friends above all else (and usually not through honest means), but they've been known to freely help children with no clear end gain. They had a great time around Mattis, the tiefling child, out-conning him. It's probably the closest to playful their group has come to seeing them be playful (save around Scratch/the Owlbear), since Mercury was using it as an opprotunity to teach the kid rogue techniques that would benefit him later from someone who's been at it for quite some time. It'd be cute if they weren't such an awful influence

Mercury's backstory is admittedly not something I've been able to work out past large overtones or some general character defining events, but they're a character that likes to keep their privacy and hold things that matter to them close, so I think it works out in the long run. They were fiery and loudly defiant against the world and its cruelty when they were younger, but as they grew older and realized that the only person they could rely on was themself, they grew more cunning, quiet, carefully composed, and discarded the intense emotions that once drove them. This change most likely came from being used + discarded by a disguised devil, and they have an extreme discomfort and distrust for devils or the Infernal as a result

I like to call Mercury a mirror - they're a reflection of the general harshness the city had on them (being a scrappy tiefling with nowhere to call home), but once they're surrounded by people who offer them kindness (Wyll/Karlach/Gale particularly being huge influences) they actually almost habitually return kindness + favors to the small group close to them. Their friends are one of the only noted exceptions, though; they still don't really do great in the empathy department otherwise

I could write several pages about Mercury's romance, BUT I'll try not to ramble too long (narrator voice: this was a lie). Mercury is romancing (spawn) Astarion + their dynamic drives me up the WALL. The two of them had a weird push and pull to their early relationship - Mercury was well familiar with the song and dance Astarion was performing when he targeted them and knew he certainly had ulterior motives, but they... truthfully, between the empty meaningless void that had become their existence and the inevitable certain death they would now be facing as a result of being tadpoled, and the fact that they could never remember a single moment in their life in which they were wanted (let alone desired by someone), they didn't care. So they let him use them and they played along as coyly as he did, fully aware that the more that they got involved with him or the others the higher the chance they might end up walking away caring. Which, unfortunately, happened.

A lot of factors contributed to changing Mercury's apathy toward the group and ultimately swayed the change to caring romantically about Astarion, almost none of which was even Astarion's doing himself. It started with Wyll, who was always kind and selfless without a second thought, who willingly chose to risk losing everything against Mizora because he'd rather stand by Karlach. And Karlach herself was easy to get along with - she cared deeply and loudly about those around her and wasted no time or consideration into treating Mercury with the same warmth as she did the others. Gale, maybe surprisingly, was the ultimate catalyst, though. He had formerly been a wizard Mercury kept at the same distance as everyone, one of the companions Mercury actually thought less often about despite traveling with him among the most, before they met Elminster along the roads to the Shadow Cursed lands. Mercury is hard to sway, but a goddess telling her most devoted follower that he only stands to make something meaningful of himself by killing himself ignited some long since extinguished anger in them - anger at the gods, anger at the world, anger at the shitty hands they and these people they're around were dealt - and Mercury drunk themself to sleep that night following the realization that fuck, this anger in place of apathy meant they cared. Astarion was next to show them a little vulnerability by letting them read his scars to him (and it drives me insane thinking about the level of trust he would've reasonably have had to have in them to turn his bare back to another rogue), revealing that he is only one part of an unknown whole, and that that unknown whole could very well be an Infernal pact. And so it goes - suddenly, Mercury was in over their head. Suddenly, they cared.

They both end up stumbling through figuring what a relationship (and even the full scope of what either of them truly want) means later, when they're both forced to face the fact whatever was between them is now real (and dangerous, Mercury reasons, because to admit they want to care and be alive means they have to invite back in all the hurt it could bring - hurt they're intimately familiar with - but they can't deny that what they have is nice.) Mercury is very much a deeply touch starved person, so they offer Astarion a lot of small, quiet moments of physical intimacy like leaning against him in camp, resting their hands on his, soft touches against his face to brush against his hair, stuff that, in general, he probably has no lasting memories of ever having. In turn, Astarion offers them a quiet sanctuary - a gentle reminder - that they have others they can lean on and rely on and that they don't have to bear their burdens alone. There's a lot of push and pull in this stage of their relationship, too, but it's less about a game they're performing and more about learning boundaries, limits, and the depths that they're both willing to admit to themselves about whatever it is they have.

By act 3, Mercury has no doubts about where Astarion stands to them, and truthfully I don't think Astarion does about Mercury either, but it's a bit harder for him to think about with certain looming disaster hanging over his head. Reasonably. He sort of lashes out the closer they get to dealing with the inevitable, not in the way he's harsh, but in the sort of defensive "I feel like a cornered animal so I'm reverting back to trying to pull the strings (new strings at that!) to use/manipulate you into doing what (I think) I want because I genuinely can't believe in a kinder future for myself" sort of way. Mercury by this point can see right through him and offers a constant, steady pressure by always pointing out "If you do this, you'll have to do a lot of difficult things, are you sure you're prepared to do that?" and by the point of the crypts, it's clear he'd be really fucked up by carrying through with it now that he's had to come face to face with both what he's done and what he stands to become by taking Cazador's power, especially after finding the scroll about the other vampire masters. So Mercury stands firm and becomes his reminder that things don't have to end in bloodshed, lashing out, and bared teeth - a lesson Mercury themself was taught by the kindness (a kindness they had always lacked) their companions (now friends) never gave up on. Their relationship is stronger for it and they're genuinely good influences on each other (somehow, Astarion has become some sembalance of the voice of reason and is a good 90% of the reason Mercury has stopped doing things with no regard to their own self preservation now) and they're both extremely well adjusted partners despite the so many issues both of them have. Who would've thought the local pair of murderers are an exceptionally sweet couple???

I have rambled for far too long and I have a thousand more things I could say about Mercury but I'll spare you because it is very early in the morning, but thank you for letting me speak a little about them!! I have a playlist and a pinterest for them if anyone is seriously further curious about them and my inbox is always open for more questions but I must sleep for now

[lilianaswhatever]

A place in the sun

Oh well, here is my contribution to the Tyler Rake fandom. Thanks to @givemeabite​ for the inspiration! I also listened to “A place in the sun” by Engelbert Humperdinck which gave me major Tyler vibes.

Tag list: @alievans007​

Summary: You broke up with Tyler because of his reckless behavior but you just couldn’t get over him.

Warning: Mentions of blood, swearing (it’s just one word but still), and angst.

Pairing: Tyler Rake x Reader

Word Count: 3013

You were in the line at immigration and had your passport in your hands, ready to be next in line. When it was your turn, you stepped to the counter. The question that you thought about the whole flight then came: “What is the purpose of your trip?” The answer you gave to the immigration officer was simple: “I am here on vacation.” A smile rounded up your appearance as a normal tourist. The truth was you didn’t know why you were here. A part of you wanted to turn around and take the next flight home but the stamp came into your passport as if it sealed the deal. You had spent the whole day in an airplane just to get to Sydney. So instead of getting a ticket back home, you proceeded to board your connection flight to Broome International Airport, located in the Kimberley. After finally arriving at your destination, you were just happy to have solid ground under your feet. You got your luggage and went on to search for a cab. During all the time you had alone with your thoughts you came to the conclusion that you would make it your purpose to at least have some kind of vacation no matter if you would see him or not. But as soon as you stepped outside the airport into the dry heat of Australia your phone buzzed. ‘Nik’ was all you read on your screen, which caused you to sigh. You looked around to see if you could make out someone suspicious watching you -she had her tipsters everywhere- before you answered the call. “Hello Nik.” “(y/l/n). Where are you?” “I am pretty sure you already know, or you wouldn’t have called.” “Alright, I knew as soon as you stepped foot on the ground in Sydney, but I thought I would grant you some time to get settled.” You shook your head at that, waiting for a cab with your luggage in hand could hardly be classified as getting settled. “What do you want, Nik?” You opened your handbag searching for a pair of sunglasses to shield your eyes from the afternoon sun. “Are you up to work?” “Depends, I am technically here on vacation.” “And you picked Australia? More specific the Kimberly region?” “It is as good a place in the sun as others. Look, Nik, I gotta get going. Call me again in case you got something. Bye.” But before you could hang up you heard her say: “He is at home,” followed by the silence of the disconnected line.

- Time skip -

You spent three days in a hotel before you decided you needed to see him. So, you rented a Jeep and started navigation to the middle of nowhere. You carefully folded the small piece of paper with his scribbled address and put it into your jeans pocket. The paper showed clear signs of having been crumbled up and thrown away many times before, but you always fished it back out of the wastebasket and kept it after all. It had been almost a year since your last mission together, which ended with you leaving him in the rain at a small private airport near Tijuana. You had always asked yourself if you wanted to see him again, but the question which nobody could answer for you was if he wanted to see you. It was hard not to enjoy the beautiful landscape that passed by although your thoughts were racing, and your heart was restless. Back then you let your head rule thinking it would shield your heart from greater pain. But it never healed. Tyler was the ghost that haunted you wherever you went, no matter where you had run to, emerged in gun fire or sitting tight in a stake out somewhere in the harsh winter of Russia, he was always there with you – at least in your thoughts. You turned into an unpaved road which lead you to a small settlement. You passed by small houses, a bar and a store until you left the village behind. You had debated with yourself to stop at the bar to get a drink thinking the alcohol might soothe your nerves, but you needed to keep a clear head. You reached the coordinates as you pulled up in front of a little house secluded from the rest of civilization. Your heartbeat was fastening as you turned off the motor. It was almost dark now and a part of you still doubted if this was the right choice. It wasn’t too late to turn around and your hands were still on the steering wheel, grabbing it hard enough for the white in your knuckles to show. But you came all the way and you would not pull out now although you weren’t even sure what you expected from your visit. The only thing you knew was that you couldn’t get Tyler out of your head. You got out of your car and walked towards the small home, which was a nice way of saying a pile of wood and metal. You came to a stop on his front porch and closed your eyes while taking a deep breath before you eventually knocked on the door. But nothing happened, not even the slightest sound could be heard from the inside. A nudge on your leg ripped you out of your sudden sadness and you looked down to see a dog. “Hey there, little buddy. Do you know if Tyler is home?” You asked while leaning down to pet the doggo. And as if he had understood you, he raised his paw to scratch at the door. “Ohh, you live here?” You made the decision to not give up now and almost on an instinct you begin lifting up every flowerpot in hopes to find a key. You knew that Tyler had a habit of drinking a little too much, and you were right, under one of the pots was a key. He had probably left it there in case he forgot where his own was. You shook your head at this careless behavior by the mercenary but that was typical of him. You opened the door, letting the dog in, before stepping into the darkness of the house. “Tyler?” You called out his name to announce your presence. But only silence answered you. The thought that Nik might have been wrong crossed your mind before you quickly discarded it. If someone knew his whereabouts, it would be her. Maybe it just shouldn’t be. You turned around again, ready to leave, but in this moment the door opened, and Tyler appeared. Just like that he stood there. You haltered in your movement and for a moment the two of you just looked at each other. “Tyler, I…” But you got stuck with your explanation because he suddenly collapsed onto the ground. You and the dog were by his side in an instant. “Tyler, are you alright?” A grunt was his only answer as he tried to get up, but he immediately needed to lean against the wall to remain standing. “Come here, you have to sit down.” You wrapped an arm around his torso and pulled him off the wall. His heavy weight rested on you and you had trouble even getting him to his bed, which was the closest thing you could find to let him rest on. This reminded you so much of the past, only this time he was not nearly bleeding to death. You tried to gently place him on the bed, but he plopped down like a sack of potatoes. You went back to the door and found the light switch. You could only hear a groan in the back as a reaction to the sudden brightness. You then filled a glass with water and brought it to his side. Tyler had already sunken into his bed and had his eyes closed. Now the light laid bare the reason for his current state. He had a cut on his right eyebrow and his nose was bloody and his shirt was torn. But what concerned you way more was that blood now stained his sheets. So, scratch what you thought before, this definitely was a lot like some of your last encounters. You grabbed his hand, the source of the blood flow and looked at his palm. A gaping wound greeted you. “This needs stitches,” you concluded. “I’m fine.” An annoyed sigh escaped your lips. “Where is your emergency kit?” and before he could even start to debate with you, you added: “Tell me now or I will turn your house upside down.” “Nightstand.” He vaguely pointed in the direction beside his bed and you went over there and opened the drawers. At first you couldn’t find anything despite some pill bottles and other things. Only at the last drawer you finally laid eyes on the emergency kit, which turned out to be an oversized yellow lunchbox container. You opened it up and relief washed over you as you saw that most of the things you needed were still there. As you lifted the kit out and wanted to close the drawer a familiar picture caused you to pause. Your fingers gently picked it up and you stared at the faces of Tyler and you. He had his arm slung around your shoulder and was grinning at the camera while you looked at him with a loving expression. A pain went through your heart not only at the sight of how happy you once were but also as you saw that the side of the picture was burnt away and a black ruffled edge replaced what had once been the view over the mountains of Mexico. Tyler turned on the bed and you quickly put the picture on the bed before coming back to his side. You needed to tend to his hand first and then you would take care of his face. “Can you sit up?” He did as he was told for once and you went to his sink to fill a bowl with water. You cleaned his hand and disinfected the wound. But the blood was still flowing so you needed to work quickly. You sat down beside him and placed a cloth on your leg. You grabbed his hand and got to work, carefully stitching him up. Once in a while you looked at his face. His eyes were pressed shut and his jaw was clenched but these were the only signs of his pain. Now that you were so close to him you could clearly smell that whatever had caused his injury was probably to blame on alcohol and a bar fight. But the alcohol in his blood would at least numb most of the pain. “What are you doing here?” he mumbled as you cleaned off the blood from the now closed wound. “I am on vacation.” Despite not really answering his question it was also a lie. “Looking for a place in the sun, ey?” Another of those countless sighs left your lips. “She told you.” “I thought you wouldn’t come.” Now you looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in a year. His eyes were still bright blue but to your disdain they still carried the same amount of pain as the last time you looked into them. You turned your gaze toward the emergency kit and drenched some cotton balls with disinfectant and dabbed them onto the cuts on his face which caused him to close his eyes again. You slowly placed your free hand on his cheek to support his head as the last blotches of blood disappeared. Nonetheless, he would have a black eye in the morning, you were sure of it. His skin was hot under your touch and his stubble scratched your palm. You brushed your fingers past the scar he had above his eyebrow and a nameless dread filled you deep inside. You let your hand linger a little longer than necessary. Suddenly you felt like you were back in a shabby motel somewhere in the middle East, patching him up as one of your missions turned out badly. It was a habit even before the two of you became involved with each other. How often you had been in these situations you couldn’t say. You physically shook your head, trying to rid yourself of those sentimental thoughts. “So, I am finished,” you stated before you distanced yourself while grabbing all the blood-stained utensils. You stood up and looked for a trash can in his kitchen. “Thank you.” “No worries, that’s what friends…” you stopped yourself mid-sentence. Did you really just want to say that’s what friends are for? You had been something more than friends before but now you weren’t even friends. You just let it go and left the sentence unfinished and washed your hands. The blood was slowly running down the drain. “I should go,” you uttered. “You just came.” He sounded exhausted and it almost pained you to disappoint him, but you just couldn’t relive the past. “I know but this was a mistake. I am sorry.” “So, you are just leaving? What were you doing here in the first place? And I don’t buy the ‘place in the sun’ bullshit, in case you haven’t noticed.” His voice was strained with anger and it sounded like he had regained his strength just to confront you. “You haven’t changed at all, Tyler.” You started to dry your hands with a kitchen towel, rubbing harder than necessary. You fixed your gaze on the darkness outside the window. You couldn’t look at him for what you wanted to say, afraid that otherwise you couldn’t pull through. “You know this is why I left. You just throw yourself in some situation that could get you killed. You don’t even care. I love you but apparently that was never enough for you. You still threw yourself in front of every bullet that came flying your way. And every time we were not together, I feared that I would get a call from Nik saying that you are dead in a ditch in the middle of nowhere. Honestly, I don’t know what I am doing here, I don’t know why I came. I just…for some fucked up reason I can’t let you go. But I also can’t live with the thought that you go off on a mission and decide that that’s it.” Your chest was rising and falling as you tried to compose yourself again. “I am still here, am I not?” his voice was so near, and you turned around only to find him standing right behind you. You leaned against the counter to have some space, but you imagined that you could still feel the heat of his body radiating off him. You realized that what he said was true. He was still here, and that years’ time was lost. Time you could have spent with him. You were so afraid to lose him that you hadn’t realized that by pushing him away you lost him. “I think I need a drink now.” You brushed past him to his table where you poured yourself a drink, not caring what it even was. You walked back to the bed, not sure of what to do next. “Quit walking away from me, would you.” He exclaimed before heaving himself back to the bed. “Hmm.” Was all you had to say to that, but you still went to sit next him, turning around to grab the picture of the two of you that was laying on the bed behind you. You placed it on your lap and proceeded to pull the piece of paper with his address out of your pants to place it beside the picture. “Guess we both couldn’t bury the past.” A sad smile rested on your lips as you looked at the two remnants of your love. “You love me?” he suddenly asked. “What?” Now you were confused. “Earlier, you said you love me and not loved.” Realization hit you. You couldn’t believe that he caught that out of everything while being drunk. “That doesn’t matter.” You glanced down at your beverage, rotating the glass in your hand. “It does because I love you, too, (y/n).” Your eyes began burning from tears you couldn’t spill. This whole time you thought that love just wasn’t enough. But it had to be enough, at least for the night. “Did anybody ever tell you that you think too much?” You huffed out a quiet laugh at his question “Yeah, you, many times. And you…” you looked at him, the words being stuck in your throat at the sight of him. You couldn’t imagine being separated again. You felt too weak to run away again, the strength you had minutes ago had left you as soon as you sat down. He chimed in, placing a hand on your cheek: “... and I don’t think things through, I know. That’s why I need you.” His eyes travelled from your lips and you caught your breath for a moment. He leaned down to kiss you, but he paused just before your lips could meet and asked: “Will you stay?” You nodded your head slightly. It was all you were capable of before you closed your eyes and welcomed his lips pressing against yours. As you two separated he raised his fingers, tracing the side of your face. A smile lit up his face and the pain in his eyes seemed to have subsided, at least a little bit. You always loved his smile, which was a stark contrast to his usual brooding expression. You knew that when he looked at you like that you would fall for him over and over again. His smile turned into a grin before he said: “I think I sobered up quite a bit but tell me you love me again in the morning.” Maybe you found your place in the sun.

[codythecheshirecat]

Binary Sunset Ch 3: But Finally

Story Summary: Obi-Wan finds himself decades in the future on the ship of a Mandalorian that seems like the last thing he wants is to be sidled with another lifeform. Or two, because suddenly they have a little…tiny… Yoda to deal with. Not actually Yoda, Obi-Wan knows, but still. It’s weird, and stressful, and there’s an entire Empire that’s come and gone (going?). He just wants to rest. Figure out what exactly has happened and maybe, maybe find a way to stop it, if he ever gets back to his own time. Better that than wallow in misery and pain of a past he got plucked from, yet still feels the pain of.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30771671/chapters/76734395#workskin

    Nevarro is exactly as Obi-Wan remembered. As Mando goes off to do his Guild business, he occupies himself with the market. There’s not much. Nevarro is a place that has people only because of the Guild; there’s little other Nevarro has to offer besides. Or maybe that’s just what the people have come to believe, and they’ve found no reason to make Nevarro anything else.

    While he gets some looks, nobody actually seems to care who he is and why he’s here. He takes care to disguise his accent, all too aware that it would be an immediate giveaway as to where he’s from. It’s simple. Mando gave him a certain amount of credits to use, and he does his best to get the most out of them.

    After that, without any sign of Mando, he goes for a walk. Nevarro doesn’t have any sights to really add to the allure, if he’s being honest. It’s a volcanic planet, so plants are few and far between. But it’s certainly a different look from Coruscant, and Christophsis, and most importantly, the Razor Crest, so for that he’s grateful.

    He returns to the Razor Crest having gotten most of his restless energy out. When he climbs into the cockpit, Mando gives him a peeved look-- he might not talk much, but he’s actually quite expressive once one learns to look for it. And Obi-Wan already has some experience with the clone troopers and the way they’re almost constantly wearing their helmets, anyway. Obi-Wan gives him a small smile.

    “I wasn’t sure when you’d be back. You’re not in a hurry, are you?”

    “The usual.” Mando replies, and busies himself with getting the ship off the ground.

    On his shoulder is a shiny new pauldron. Obi-Wan eyes it for a moment, debating. “You have a new piece of armor.”

    “It was made from a down payment for this job.” Mando says. “We’re heading to Arvala-7.”

    “Sounds like an important job, if they’re offering a prepayment. Who’s the bounty?”

    “All I know is that they’re fifty years old. They were…” Mando pauses. He sighs. “They were Imperial remnants.”

    Something catches in his throat. He narrows his eyes. “You took a job from the people that destroyed mine? And yours?”

    “They had beskar. It’s important for it to be returned to Mandalorians.”

    “I see.” Obi-Wan says. He fights to keep the scowl off his face. “Well, I know what I’m doing when we return to Nevarro.”

    “What’s that?”

    “Getting rid of them.”

    “After I get the beskar?”

    “If you aren’t comfortable with finding it in the rubble afterwards, then yes.” Obi-Wan crosses his arms. He stands. “You aren’t supposed to kill this bounty, are you? Just bring them in?”

    “Yes.”

    “Good. They probably haven’t even done anything wrong.” He mutters, and leaves the cockpit.

***

    Arvala-7 is a rocky desert planet. Obi-Wan only sees it once they land, staring past Mando as he walks out of his ship. Obi-Wan stays firmly where he’s sitting on the floor. He’s absolutely not going to be part of this. He’s not even going to ask. He’d receive a firm no from Mando, anyway, but right now it’s the point. He needs to plan his siege on the Imperial hideout, wherever that is. It’ll be difficult not knowing what the place looks like on the inside, but he’s dealt with worse.

    There’s something forming in his chest, something angry, and Obi-Wan isn’t quite sure whether he should embrace it or ignore it. Embracing it could lead to the dark side; ignoring it might only make it worse. And he doesn’t want to just pretend it isn’t there. He’s angry, rightfully so, he thinks, that his people were wiped out and now his only ally has taken a job from them.

    He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost misses Mando getting attacked. He jerks, staring openmouthed at the scene in the near distance. One of the native fauna, a large, two legged creature with an honestly enormous mouth, slams Mando around like it’s nothing.

    He stands, about ready to run over and run interference, when the creature stumbles and falls to the ground. He pauses. Another charges at Mando, only to stumble and fall as well. Obi-Wan makes his way out of the Razor Crest, watching as a newcomer approaches on the back of another one of the creatures.

    “Thank you.” Mando says quietly.

    The newcomer-- an Ugnaught-- nods. “You are bounty hunters.”

    It isn’t a question. Obi-Wan glances at Mando, then back at the Ugnaught. He’s not even going to try to explain the situation, so he’ll let Mando take the lead here.

    “Yes.” Mando says.

    “I will help you.” At their surprised looks, the Ugnaught simply stares back at them. “I have spoken.”

    Obi-Wan looks at Mando. They both know that he has no interest in helping with this bounty, and before, Mando had no interest in his help. And yet, the Ugnaught wants to help them. Why? How would he react if Obi-Wan just walked back into the Razor Crest and refused to come out? Despite the twisting, shifting anger in his chest, curiosity gets the better of him. He gives Mando a nod, and runs back to the Razor Crest for a blaster or two. 

He’ll hear the Ugnaught out, in the least. Hear what he has to say. Then he’ll decide whether or not to help. He’s not that much of a fan of blasters, or most weapons that aren’t lightsabers really, but they’ll have to do. It’s not like he has his lightsaber.

They follow him back to his home, dragging the creatures-- Blurrg-- along with them. The Ugnaught doesn’t seem to be intimidated by their presence. Then again, why would he, if he’s offering his help? They don’t speak until they’ve arrived, but he can practically feel the suspicion radiating off Mando at any given moment. They crowd into the Ugnaught’s dwelling, one that’s much better suited for Ungaughts than humans.

    “Many have passed through,” the Ugnaught says solemnly. “They seek the same one as you.”

    “Did you help them?” Mando asks.

    “Yes.” The Ugnaught says simply. He pours himself a drink. “They died.”

    Obi-Wan quirks an eyebrow. Interesting.

    “Well then I’m not sure we want your help.” Mando says. Obi-Wan has to agree.

    The Ugnaught turns to them. “You do. I can show you to the encampment.”

Obi-Wan glances between the two of them. The curiosity still sits, tantalizing. “Why help us? What do you get from it?”

    “Since they arrived, this territory has been an endless stream of mercenaries seeking reward and bringing destruction. They do not belong here. Those that live here come to seek peace. There will be no peace until they’re gone.”

    He thinks of the droid army on Christophsis, of the Invasion of Naboo, of the Mandalorian Civil War, of all the places and conflict he’d seen as a Padawan. He thinks of all of the innocent people caught in-between warring factions. The people that had only wanted to live their lives in peace. He sighs.

    “You just want your home back.” The realization sits heavy in his chest.

    “Yes.” The Ugnaught nods.

    “The people here-- are they aggressive, or is the conflict coming only from the bounty hunters?”

    “Does it matter?”

    Obi-Wan blinks. “It does to me, I suppose. I just-- I imagine that if you had a bounty over your head, your neighbors wouldn’t be very happy about it, but it wouldn’t change that you only want a peaceful life here.”

    It’s an uncomfortable silence, and he’s stuck under the scrutiny of his peers. Finally, the Ugnaught speaks. “I do not believe they are here for anything good, no. Trouble always brings more trouble.”

    “What’s your cut, beyond getting your home free of trouble?” Mando asks, taking control of the situation.

    “Half.”

    Mando shakes his head. “Half the bounty to guide? Seems steep.”

    “No. Half of the Blurrg you helped capture.”

    “The Blurrg?” Obi-Wan says with a laugh. “You can keep them.”

    Mando tilts his head in agreement.

    “No, you will each need one. To ride. The way is impossible to pass without a Blurrg mount.”

    “I don’t know how to ride Blurrg.” Mando says.

    The Ugnaught only looks at him. “I have spoken.”

***

    Obi-Wan proves within only a few minutes that he’ll have no problem riding the Blurrg. He’s had experience riding several types of animals all over the galaxy. Some of them have been animals that have been domesticated for riding; others, not so much. Despite never having heard of them before, Blurrg are nothing, really. Ridiculously easy to tame. Easy to ride once one recognises how they walk and act.

    Not for Mando, though. His Blurrg throws him off again and again, sending him to the hard ground with enough force to continually drive the breath from his lungs. Obi-Wan watches from the sidelines, leaning against a fence post for the corral. This is the most amusing thing he’s seen in months, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

    After the sixth time Mando gets thrown on his back, the Ugnaught speaks up. “Perhaps if you removed your helmet-?”

    “Perhaps he remembers I tried to roast him.” Mando grunts.

    Obi-Wan smiles at his frustration. It reminds him of Anakin. “She can feel your impatience, Mando. Calm yourself.”

    Mando levels him with a helmeted glare. “We don’t have time for this.”

    Obi-Wan chuckles. He catches the Ugnaught’s eye, sharing a chagrined look. The Ugnaught shakes his head. Obi-Wan laughs again. “She’s not going to just bend to your will because you want her to. Show her she can trust you. Make friends.”

    “We don’t have time for this,” Mando says again. He pulls himself from the ground and turns to the Ugnaught. “Do you have a land speeder, or-”

    “You are a Mandalorian. Your ancestors rode the great Mythosaur. Surely you can ride this young foal.” The Ugnaught says. Obi-Wan catches a hint of teasing.

    Mando sighs, losing some of his fire. He approaches the Blurrg much more calmly this time, holding his hand out not as a way to grab at her but to calm her. She lets him get near, only growling slightly. He speaks to her, low enough that Obi-Wan can’t quite make out the words. Then he climbs onto the Blurrg, and within seconds he’s riding around the corral like he’s been doing it his entire life. Obi-Wan grins at the Ugnaught.

    Seems like things are working out pretty well.

***

    The trip to the encampment takes several hours. By the end of it, Obi-Wan is sore and tired, but he has more himself to blame than the trip itself. He’s hardly been exercising, or even stretching. Finally, they pause, looking over a valley of sorts with the encampment settled inside.

    The Ugnaught points to the valley. “That is where you’ll find your quarry.”

    Mando pulls some credits from his pocket and offers them to him. The Ugnaught shakes his head. “Please,” Mando says. “You deserve this.”

    “I am not interested in payment. I came here to be free of servitude.”

    “Then why do you help?” Mando asks.

    “I have never met a Mandalorian. I’ve only read the stories. If they are true, you will make quick work of it. Then there will again be peace.” He raises his hand in farewell. “I have spoken.”

    Obi-Wan feels a pang in his heart, stronger than before. The Ugnaught’s want for peace is one he feels deep in his bones. He’s never been one that sought out adventure simply because he wanted it; he goes where he’s needed, and yes, there are times he enjoys a more fast-paced life. He’d slipped into his role as a Jedi General with a grim acceptance. Jedi are peacekeepers, but sometimes there is no option of peace. With the droid army, the only option was to fight.

But he’d have been content to live a simple life at the Jedi Temple. That had been the plan, after the war was over (and he’d refused to think that they might lose the war, but now he knows that was the outcome). Knowing that thirty years in the future there are some that can’t even find peace on such a remote planet hurts. 

He slips off his Blurrg, following Mando. They crouch at the edge of the rock outcropping, looking over the encampment. The people there go about their business. They don't seem to be altogether worried about any incoming attacks. Or maybe they’re just confident in their ability to protect their encampment. He’s not sure, to be honest.

And then--

“Oh, no.” Mando mutters. “Bounty droid.”

“This complicates things.” Obi-Wan says. “Were you not the only person approached for the job?”

“Apparently not.”

The droid is efficient in taking care of the Nikto sentries, but even as it does so, the doors to the inside of the encampment shut tightly. Obi-Wan follows Mando down the cliff.

“IG unit, stand down!” Mando snarls.

The droid turns and shoots him without hesitation. He falls over with a groan. Obi-Wan wisely stays behind cover.

 “I’m in the Guild!” Mando holds the tracking fob up.

“You are a Guild member? I thought I was the only one on assignment.”

“That makes three of us.” Obi-Wan says, moving slightly out of his cover to give the droid a look. Mando climbs to his feet and finds his own cover. “Clearly the Imperials don’t care if we happen to clash, as long as they get their bounty.”

“Sadly, I must ask for your fob. I’ve already issued the writ of seizure. The bounty is mine.”

Mando shakes his head. “Unless I am mistaken, you are, as of yet, empty handed.”

“This is true.”

“I have a suggestion.” Mando glances at him. Obi-Wan smiles.

“Proceed.”

“We split the reward.”

The droid pauses. “In two or three equal portions?”

“Two.” Obi-Wan says before Mando can say anything. “He and I are together, so we get half and you get half. Fair?”

“This is acceptable.”

“Great,” Mando says. He throws his hands up. “Now let's regroup out of harm's way, and form a plan.”

“I will, of course, receive the reputation merits associated with the mission.” The droid walks towards them.

Obi-Wan fights not to roll his eyes. “Yes, of course, now let’s get out of here.”

A blaster shot hits the droid in the shoulder. It does almost nothing. Obi-Wan whips his head around, looking for the source.

“Alert, alert!” The droid says.

Mando shoots one Nikto off the roof. Obi-Wan gets the other. The doors open, and suddenly enemies are pouring outside. Obi-Wan glances behind himself just to be sure that there aren't any Nikto coming from that way. He turns back to the firefight, shoots at a few of the Nikto. Three Nikto go down. He longs for his lightsaber.

“Let’s go!” Mando shouts, running from his cover.

Obi-Wan follows slightly more slowly. He isn’t covered in metal, or made of it, either. He dashes from pillar to pillar, shooting at the Nikto. He gets a few on the roof, a few on the ground. A blaster bolt narrowly misses his shoulder. The three of them crouch behind a wagon. At least, he thinks it might be a wagon. It’s made of metal, resting half on, half off, some boxes on the ground.

He pokes his head over the side, shoots at a Nikto, ducks back below as blaster bolts sail past his head or hit the side. The droid doesn’t bother to duck below at all. IG Units are pretty hard to destroy, he knows. Blaster shots from this distance are unlikely to land a hit hard enough to take it down, unless they get some stronger weapons.

“He’s in there!” Mando shouts.

Obi-Wan glances at the door he gestures at. “Well, at least it’s close.”

“Affirmative.” The droid leaves their cover, drawing most of the fire and sending back almost just as much.

Obi-Wan dashes to the next bit of cover, following Mando-- more pillars. He takes the second pillar. “Now what?” Obi-Wan shouts as the Nikto take a moment to recover and prepare for their next attack.

    “It appears we are trapped.” The droid says, joining him behind his pillar. “I will initiate self-destruct sequencing.”

    “What?” Obi-Wan gasps. They have those?

    “Manufacturer’s Protocol dictates I cannot be captured. I must self-destruct.”

    “Do not self-destruct.” Mando snaps. “Cover me!”

    He runs for the door. Obi-Wan leans from his cover. The Nikto immediately start shooting, but he manages to down three before he has to duck behind the pillar again for a breath. “This is so much harder without my lightsaber.” He mutters, and leans out of his cover again to shoot at the slowly-approaching Nikto. Now he knows how the troopers feel.

    Despite their attempts, though, there are too many Nikto, and Mando joins them behind their pillar before a lucky blaster bolt manages to get him. “There’s too many!”

    That’s what I was thinking, Obi-Wan thinks to himself. Perhaps he could lift something using the force, send it at the Nikto and distract them just long enough to get the upper hand- oh. That’s a rather large weapon.

    “I will initiate self-destruct.” The droid says, cutting through his thought process.

    “Do not self-destruct! We’re shooting our way out!” Mando runs around him, blaster up. The droid goes around the other side of the pillar. Obi-Wan stays where he is. They notice the laser cannon.

“...okay.” Mando says, and they join him behind the pillar again.

The laser cannon begins firing. Obi-Wan presses himself against Mando in an attempt to stay fully behind the pillar; pieces of rock go flying as the laser cannon hits it. They can’t stay here for long. The pillar will be utterly obliterated in only a few minutes.

“New plan.” Mando starts. Obi-Wan can barely hear him over the sound of blasterfire.

If he concentrates, maybe he can move it. It’s already floating, all he has to do is make it turn… he closes his eyes, and uses the Force. All he has to do is feel it, the space it occupies, the heat it emits. All of the Nikto surrounding them. The blaster bolts as they fly through the air. He concentrates on the laser cannon, and pushes.

And yet--

Nothing happens.

In fact, he can barely feel anything. He can barely feel the laser cannon, where it is, how it moves with each bolt it fires. The Nikto manning the cannon. The bolts, their journey from cannon to rock, and the damage they cause. When he tries to use the Force to move it, push it slightly, interact with it-- nothing happens. It’s all barely there, an echo of an echo, and he has no idea how he didn’t notice it before.

Nothing happens.

Obi-Wan opens his eyes. In front of him he can see the rock of the building, the metal door. He can see the red blaster bolts hit and fizzle out. Yet everything seems so suddenly far away. Like it’s happening to someone else; even the sounds of blaster fire and destruction and heavy breathing sound as if they’re coming from miles away.

Why can’t I- what’s wrong with me?

His breath catches in his throat, lodged by an invisible mass. He stares at a pebble on the ground. It’s maybe the size of his thumb, somewhat oblong. He reaches out with the force, and he can feel it there, hardly at all, and-- he can’t even make the pebble move. It remains stubbornly still.

And 

Nothing

Happens.

[thepilgrimofwar]

Her House

Things were finally beginning to fall into place. With the counter-attack stopped, their lines broken, the war against Westheath and House Illithia was quickly approaching it’s only conclusion. Victory. Though she did not know the number of lives it would take to get there, or how. But with the resources of all the other provinces coming under their control, and days away from liberating the capital city of Kearn, it was now only a matter of time.

It was a luxury she was going to use to get Shalemarch in order before the final push. A task that Lirelle had helped of her own accord by obliterating the Springvale Free Company who had been looting their way through her province.

She sought her out after the end of the war meeting, joining her outside the dining hall and looking up at the cloudless stars that night. “I don’t think I thanked you yet,” she began once Lirelle was within earshot. “I know it was to salvage the reputation of sell-swords and mercenaries everywhere to deal with those looters. But regardless, it was a task I could not have responded to as quickly as the Crows did.”

“And it may yet prove to be pointless if the people insist on stirring up more trouble.” Lirelle doesn’t bother to look, Judereth’s gait and voice already showing her exactly who it was without having to look. “If they stoop that low, they’re no more than common bandits, and the State has its hands full with all the ones still on the mainland. They were neither organised nor competent,  frankly speaking, Goodember got swindled.”

“From the way he tells it, they were supposed to be cannon fodder. Reasons why they were up there on the frontlines, even ahead of the militia.” Judereth responds, rolling her shoulder. “That man has some sense, but zero contingencies. Throw a wrench in the works and you can literally watch his mind fall apart from the look in his eyes.”

A small chuckle rises from her, one of the few that Lirelle had heard since the Civil War began. “So based on what I heard earlier, I can count on you to deal with the peasants if things go poorly?” Judereth bites her bottom lip. “An ugly affair to be sure. But at least we can be sure that all that are punished, knew the risks, and raised their torches and pitchforks anyway.”

“Well, in that case let us hope that his tenure under you is uneventful at worst. If you’ve figured how to make him dance I doubt you’ll run into many issues, but if you do I’m sure any of the Crows would be more than happy to assist you. They’re all very very taken by Vissehn’s song. It’s almost inescapable at this point.”

Lirelle could sense Judereth’s discomfort when she brought up the peasants, and her stance relaxes slightly as she turns to face the new Lady. “If they refuse to see sense, we will handle things. The ones that wish to leave are free to go, only those who insist on testing the boundaries of rebellion will be gotten rid of.”

“I’ll make him dance, I’ve made it clear to him that he’s not just my steward, but also a hostage. So far he’s been cooperative. Likely because he sees more profit in working for me than getting hanged. Which is smarter than most Lords I’ve read about” Judereth nods to herself. “But I appreciate the support nonetheless. Especially when it comes to those… Shalemarchers. Might even hire you and The Crows after this is all over for a couple of years just to parade around the province and remind the people that we saved them. Nice cushy job that the Gilders could tell you all about.”

“I’ll make sure that Garris knows to take the job when it comes around. If you do need anything from the Crows he’s the one to look for. I have no intentions of staying once the war is done. MY job here is to bring this to a close as fast as possible so that all of us can be done with this ridiculous business.”

Judereth nods and takes note of that. “So, where are you off to then? Home?”

“If you can call it that. Borrowed time has to run out eventually.”

She regards her form. The bladed arm. The crimson red eyes. “I see,” she bows her head, turning away from the stars. “Then for what it’s worth, it’s been good knowing you and it has an honor to serve with you- However short that time may have been. Part of me wishes we had met before your death. Though, being a logistical officer never straying far from the Heartlands, I don’t see how that could have ever happened.”

Judereth makes another chuckle, darker and more sombre this time. “Maybe if Sederis had siphoned me away to the Guard instead of my father and brother.” 

Lirelle dips her head. “Maybe it’s better that he didn’t. I didn’t know your father or your brothers, but I doubt that any of them would be able to do a finer job than you are with Shalemarch.”

“Knowing father, he’d just have Goodember hanged- Put me in charge of the books, and we’ll be struggling to keep the whole place from just collapsing I bet.” She shook her head. “Then again, more likely, I’d have died instead of them on the same field they did- You did.” Judereth pauses for a good long moment. “What is it like? On the other side I mean. If you don’t mind me asking.”

Lirelle looks up to the sky, here the moon hung heavy and full, almost blindingly bright. "That depends on what you want it to be. Death is as old as existence itself. Anything that it could possibly be like has already been written a hundred times over. Whether you choose to search for what you believe is there or simply unravel is up to your own will." 

She takes the cryptic words and does not question them or ask for an explanation. There was no point to it. This would be as close as she got to an answer and she was content with that. “I wonder what my brothers and fathers chose when they passed on. But best to assume that I’ll never see them again. Can’t be disappointed then.” But though she said that outloud, in her heart, she hoped they were waiting for her and her mother. That they could go onwards to whatever it was as a family.

“Where do you think Sederis is? Try as we might to fill his corpse with Light- With priests and paladins calling for him. But he didn’t come back.”

“Because he’s an asshole.” Lirelle closes her eyes. She knew that bastard was listening.

Judereth looks over. “What?” Gears turned in her mind, and then they clicked. “He chose not to?”

“I was the only priest who would have been able to force him back. And besides, he finally got what he wanted.”

The Banneret nods. “Of course he did,” she looks back up to the stars and wonders what she would choose at the end of things if her family wasn’t waiting for her. “Before you go- really go- we ought to share a drink after this war is over. There should be time for that, no?”

“Time yes, but better if you keep the drinks for yourself. They would be wasted otherwise.” Lirelle smiles faintly.

“That I will do, shame though. I heard you used to be quite the drinker.”

“Well, yes. Better than Sederis that’s for sure. He was hopeless at holding it down, and then he would cheat.” Lirelle breaks out in a rare laugh. “It’s a shame he isn’t around, get him the right amount of drunk and you could convince him to do almost anything.”

“Like what?” Judereth snorted. Though they spoken from time to time, she had never shared a drink with Sederis. Not that it was ever possible. Their views of the Emberglades… His rule as an absent ruler for the first years of his reign, never really sat well with her.

"When we were in Dalaran he spilled a drink on himself and when he went to wash up I convinced him one of my pairs of underwear was his. He complained the entire day the next day but didn't actually bother to check until he finally had a bath." It was the first time since she had returned that her thoughts had turned to things that weren't of immediate concern, and she wasn't prepared for how it felt. It was almost painful how far away those memories were now, where all four denizens of the apartment were split across such great distances. Sederis was waiting for her on the other side, Arrenir had vanished, Elleynah had sacrificed herself, and she was here, fighting a war long past her due.

A smile spread across Judereth’s lips. “Sounds like you shared quite a few good memories,” she commented but dared say no more. “You didn’t say he unravelled, since he chose not to come back. So… He’s waiting isn’t he?”

Lirelle nods. "And leaving me to deal with his messes."

“I’m glad for it then,” she replies. “There’s something to drink two. Two ladies cleaning up after Sederis’ messes.”

-

@retributionpriest @stormandozone @thanidiel

[veliseraptor]

sirjohnsmythe replied to your post: one reason I really need more people to read the...

Feel free to scream at me about the trashiest of trash ships.

OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY since you asked (though it’s got some steep competition in my ship arsenal for “trashiest” I must say)

so the thing is. let’s, uh, see if I can make this coherent.

They’re mirror images. There’s the obvious contrast in their physicality (emphasized again and again) is one thing, but there’s also the contrast in presentation. If Lymond deliberately obfuscates his motives and masks himself usually in ways that make people think the worst of him, but is specifically very clear about the fact that there are walls up, Gabriel’s mask is one of openness - he pretends to be transparent and straightforward. The reason that Gabriel’s mask works on so many people - other than straight up charisma - is that he doesn’t seem like he could lie, or would want to. He’s just An Honest Guy, whereas Lymond is very much Nobody Knows Me or My Motives and You Won’t If You Try. 

In general Gabriel presents a much brighter face - the man of the faithful, the beautiful, glorious, and of course perfectly moral Knight of St. John. That’s how he shows himself as a leader - he’s sculpted a reputation for himself as pious and upright, which means people aren’t inclined to be skeptical of his motives. 

Lymond has a disreputable history and to some extent a disreputable present. He’s a mercenary, as many people point out, and he functions as a leader of mercenaries, which doesn’t tend to breed trust in someone’s moral aptitude. He makes good soldiers - very good soldiers - but he never pretends to be an idealist. If anything, he is very skeptical of idealists. And not many people like a cynic.

Everyone sees Gabriel as the civilizing force to Lymond. But of course that isn’t true. And that kind of mirroring, and those kinds of reversals, are a lot of what can make a dynamic very compelling. It’s what makes them such good enemies.

But the real deal when it comes to shipping them - Gabriel spends most of a book basically trying to seduce Lymond to his side, and growing ever more frustrated when Lymond is basically the only person who doesn’t immediately succumb to his charms, and not only that but repeatedly gets in the way. They’re playing this very close and okay, I’m gonna say it, intimate game and only the two of them know they’re playing it up until the very end. 

Gabriel is used to people believing him, used to being able to control everyone around him, but he can’t control or deceive Lymond and that is what makes him so determined to win, but also what makes him so determined to pull Lymond over to his side, but also why he’s so determined at the end not just to win but to make Lymond suffer. 

I think there’s a deep combination of satisfaction in having someone he can match wits against and also a deep rage at not having the easy victory he expects to have. And that is just...mmm. That’s the good shit. See the bit in Disorderly Knights when Gabriel is flogging Lymond (which, again, hot, no you can’t stop me):

“For how long, thought Nicolas de Nicolay, had Graham Malett longed to do just this thing? For twelve long months Lymond had held out against him. For a year he had resisted the mightiest blandishments known to man; returned all Gabriel’s advances with raillery; obstructed all Graham Malett’s confident plans and finally, shown a courage and a stamina under constant, devious attack that must have maddened this great god of a man, so contemptuous of his fellows.”

And like...the way Gabriel talks to him is just - it’s nuts. Like, the entirety of their fight in Disorderly Knights is SO MUCH, I wrote down every endearment Gabriel calls him in a few pages while also trying to kill him and my god if that scene wasn’t written specifically for me

and then the bit in Pawn in Frankincense with Gabriel calling him “my swan” and saying basically “I’m not going to kill you, I’m only going to hurt you” and saying ‘My God: my god: why alone are you not my slave? Why do you not adore me[…]?’

AND BY GOD I AM NEVER GETTING OVER THE PART WHERE GABRIEL HOLDS LYMOND’S FACE AND LITERALLY CALLS HIM A “DIRTY, HUNGERING SLUT” I COULD NOT DESIGN ANYTHING ABOUT THAT BETTER IF I’D WRITTEN IT MYSELF

anyway I can’t handle any of this and I’m just gonna lie down and scream about how Dorothy Dunnett is personally targeting me and I’m mad about it (I love it)

[korkrunchcereal]

Unpleasant Company

The stories of war always told you the heroic parts. Grand battles and mighty conquests by great heroes were tales as old as civilization itself. Cultures like that of the orcs or the Sin’dorei, which are so vastly different, retain the common link of triumphant stories; of men who fight a hundred, and of monstrous evils vanquished by the forces of justice. They were popular, and they were loved.

And they were only half the story.

No one ever talked about the dying men, who screamed abandoned and alone. They didn’t talk about the fear man faced, shaking in his boots and forced forward by those behind him. They never talked about the smells either; the abhorrent stench of rot and decay mixed with blood and gore. If they ever told that part, no one would go to war.

Aurelian wished he wasn’t in this particular war, and not for the first time. He found himself within the Eastern Plaguelands, holed up in his tent to escape both the torrential downpour outside and the stench of the place. He was amidst a small armed force that had deployed there to aid in repelling a demonic outbreak, and so far there had been a string of successes, if somewhat costly. Men died in the mud and the festering bogs by the score, giving their final breath to face down the demons.

Luckily, Aurelian had not met his death as so many had. He doubted he would find death here or anytime soon. So skilled with a sword as he and believing he had a future destiny yet, he felt invincible. Of course, invincibility did not save you from an unpleasant smell as Aurelian learned. Light, the stench was nearly overwhelming. He had even imported jasmine to be liberally sprayed inside his tent in a vain attempt to keep the smell of rot down.

“Why did the demons insist on one of the most unhospitable places on Azeroth to invade…” he mused aloud. Aurelian remembered a time when the Eastern Plaguelands had been called the Eastweald. It was a fertile land of farms and small villages that had always reminded him of the Illonian Plains of his own lands. Of course, that had been well over a decade ago since it was known as the Eastweald, and Aurelian doubted it would ever be called such again. The scourge’s destruction of the land had been overwhelming, and even today its corrupting touch lingered.

Why here, of all places? Aurelian knew the demons attacked across the entire world, but to come to this wretched land seemed punishment. As soon as he thought it he knew why, having replayed this scenario in his mind countless times already. Access to the Plaguelands meant access to Quel’thalas’ southern borders in the Ghostlands. It was why he had chosen to come here in some mad display of patriotism and bravado.

The rain gave a dull thud on the fabric of the tent above him, continuing its irritating drumming. It had been raining for the last three days and showed no sign of stopping anytime soon, which had put any efforts to attack the demons on a temporary hold. They had beat the demons back, but hunting their source was proving problematic. Rain loosened bowstrings and made travel harder, especially with the heavy downpour causing flooding over several of the roads.

Scouts had been sent by Aurelian’s comrades some time ago, but the Plaguelands were vast and so any trackers had plenty of ground to tread. Aurelian hated waiting during war. It made him uneasy, and gave his mind too much to think about concerning the darker aspects of war. The last hour had been what led him to thoughts of war stories, aided no doubt by the empty bottle of wine that lay at his feet. He realized he had been slumped in his chair, groaning as he straightened himself. Perhaps another bottle of-

“My lord.” Aurelian nearly jumped from his chair, turning to look towards the entryway of his tent. The flap had been pulled back, one his guards standing silhouette in the entrance.

“Yes? What is it?”

“A visitor has come to see you, my lord.” A visitor? He had few he’d consider close to being a friend among the soldiers he marched with; they were too crude and crass for him, and did not have good taste. Perhaps it was Sare’wen, come to talk with him again. He had taken a liking to the woman, despite her naïve innocence. Aurelian opened his mouth to speak, then paused as the guard was unceremoniously shoved aside from the visitor and instead saying something else entirely.

“Shit.”

“Hello, Aurelian.” Aurelian’s visitor was a large, heavily armored man that spoke with a gravelly voice. He wore gold and crimson plates, denoting his allegiance to Silvermoon in an eye sore display of colors. Aurelian’s response however was because he recognized immediately who the man was.

“Veridan Koss; what an incredible displeasure. Come, take a seat I suppose. I doubt you’re here to kill me, anyways.”

“Not quite.” The guard, who had recovered from being shoved, moved to grab Veridan as the larger man moved in. Veridan simply craned his neck, staring at the guard with his blank expression helmet. Perhaps realizing that Aurelian allowed the man entrance, or perhaps he knew better, the guard backed away.

“Why are you here? Have I offended Silvermoon in some way?” Veridan grabbed a nearby chair, taking a seat. The wooden chair groaned under the weight of the armored man, and a small part of Aurelian wished it broke under him.

“In a matter of speaking, yea. Got any wine? I’m damn thirsty.” Aurelian curled his lip in annoyance as he eyed the man, who simply sat waiting instead of explaining why he was here. Aurelian rolled his eyes, leaning forward to grab a bottle tucked beside the nearby table both chairs were a set of. He placed the bottle on the table, getting up now to grab glasses for the two men.

“Did you ride all the way out here to speak to me, Veridan? I must confess I am a bit flattered Silvermoon would send one of its dogs to bark at me.” Aurelian’s ears perked as he heard the man remove his helmet, turning around to look at Veridan. Months ago Aurelian had tasked Cyvar with looking into who Veridan was, and apparently the man was essentially unidentifiable.

Apparently, unidentifiable was short black hair and a face only an orc could love. Veridan’s nose must have been broken a dozen times in the past, judging from the unnatural bend in it. He had more scars on his face than any orc Aurelian had ever met, which was saying something. Rather than waiting for any glass, Veridan simply grabbed the bottle and pulled off the cork, tossing it casually to the side before he dipped his head back and drunk deep. Aurelian watched in growing annoyance as the man loudly gulped down Aurelian’s wine, before Veridan pulled it away with a satisfied smack from his lips.

“Not as good as Silvermoon red, but it manages. You know what they have here to drink? Not a fuckin’ bit of wine. Sure they got ale and grog, but have you tasted it? Tastes like bog water.”

“Why are you here, Veridan.” Aurelian’s tone was laced with irritation, to which Veridan gave a smug look.

“Figured I’d stop in and check on my comrades, aye?” Aurelian simply stared in confusion, realizing with growing concern he had said comrades.

“They didn’t.” For answer, Veridan reached into one of the pouches at his side, withdrawing a small piece of metal he showed Aurelian. It was an insignia Aurelian knew all too well, for he also wore it. It was an emblem of the Sunguard, which meant only one thing.

“The Sunguard hired me on as a mercenary. Ah, its great to be back in this gig; making money for mass killing of monsters. Almost beats the dog sitting job.”

“Dog what…? Nevermind, I don’t want to know. Why are you part of the Sunguard? Did Silvermoon grow tired of you? Or was it simply that odd fellow Balasar.”

“Neither, actually. See, here’s the thing Aurelian. You’ve been naughty.” Veridan gave a grunt as he lifted his legs, which was mildly impressive considering he was in plate still. With a loud thud he put both feet on the table, the sound making Aurelian wince. The table had been a gift from one of the lords his hand, and now it was used as a foot stool. How disappointing.

“Me, ‘naughty’? How so.”

“You haven’t responded to any of Silvermoon’s letters.” Right. Aurelian hadn’t responded. They were inane requests and bothersome attempts to speak with Aurelian, and so he had ignored them. He had been busy, anyways.

“Forgive me for being too busy liberating Suramar, aiding in the Plaguelands and of course helping to save the world.”

“And planning a ball.” Veridan countered. “The matter of Lord Illova’s death some months ago at the hands of your ward is still a matter of contention, Aurelian.” Aurelian’s eyes followed the emblem in Veridan’s hand, watching as he rolled it between his knuckles.

“I have ensured she remain within Castle Indaris, effectively under house arrest.”

“And now,” Veridan continued, “there is talks of sedition within the Gilded Lands.” Aurelian guffawed in bafflement.

“Sedition?”

“The Unbidden, Aurelian. People always panic when there’s the threat of being eaten by a goddamn demon, but this is becoming a nuisance that’s spreading.”

“I-you found them in Silvermoon, didn’t you.” Veridan nodded, confirming Aurelian’s suspicion. Silvermoon wouldn’t get involved unless it had begun to involve them, but what was Aurelian’s part?

“Problem about people panicking is they make stupid decisions. Stupid decisions create bigger problems, and soon the whole city is a fucking firestorm of trouble. Silvermoon doesn’t want that.”

“So what’s my part in this then?” Veridan paused at that, as if contemplating what to say.

“Simply know that I’m here to watch you, Aurelian.”

“So you’re posing as a mercenary to watch me.”

“Aye, that’s the basic idea of it. Silvermoon’s authority supersedes the Sunguard’s, so let’s just say you better keep fighting demons, Aurelian.” Did they think he was going rogue? Turning against Silvermoon?

“I plan to, Veridan. If you won’t tell me what Silvermoon’s interest is in me, then so be it. I appreciate however the warning, for what purpose light if I know. Now, do you have anything else to tell me?” Veridan shook his head, getting his legs off the table and standing up.

“Mostly here for the wine. Figured I’d return the hospitality by giving you a heads up.” Aurelian blinked at that, eyeing the man as he placed back on his helmet. “Besides; this shit smelling place is infested with demons. Don’t like the damn things, so I gotta kill ‘em. Goodbye, Indaris.” Aurelian remained silent, simply watching the man leave with a troubled expression. What was Silvermoon planning?

  “Ah yes, I suppose you’ve been wondering why we sent Veridan. The truth is Silvermoon didn’t.” Balasar tapped the tips of his fingers together, humming to himself. He leaned back in his chair, sighing as he glanced at Veridan. “I sent him.”

“Yes, so I eventually gathered. I figured in time that you sent him to ensure I remained fighting demons?”

“Somewhat. The truth is, with the Unbidden presence and lord Illova’s death, there was growing concern that it was all a plot by you, Aurelian.”

“Me?”

“Yes, to seize power. With the Unbidden spreading discord and rival lords being eliminated, several lords of high status had growing concerns. The Council of Silvermoon is uneasy with blatant power plays, so I decided to investigate further.”

“Like you are now?”

“Precisely. I will confess that everything that’s happened since then has only made such unease worse.”

“Hence why I am here. Do not worry Balasar, there is more to my story that will show I’m innocent at least in that regard.”

“Well, go on then.”

“I’ll skip the battle I had with the demon Baal and-“

“No.” Aurelian raised a brow at that, tilting his head.

“No?”

“No. Veridan was not part of that particular battle, and so my details on that are not complete. I hear you were the last to escape back, and so I must know. Tell me of Volcanius, and of Baal.”

“Very well. So, there I was returning to the one demon world I wished never to see again…”

[youngrevolutionary]

Misplaced heroics and the tragedy of Seifer Almasy

[ This is an article published by Electric Phantasms but the website is dead. (Original link to article by Andy Astruc & Published 28 May 2014.) ]

So there’s this tall fellow with a bit of a chip on his shoulder. He’s a student at Balamb Garden — a training school of sorts for young mercenaries in a world oft shaken by civil wars — and he’s dedicated to joining the Garden’s elite fighting force: SeeD. He wears a silly coat to match his silly hair, and his weapon of choice is a Gunblade, which is exactly what it sounds like. A training session with a rival student gone wrong left him with a nasty facial scar that marks the boy Handsome Yet Dangerous. He falls in love with a beautiful girl named Rinoa and, with the help of his quirky friends, offers to help with the lady’s resistance movement. This boy travels all over the world becoming stronger, making powerful friends and enemies along the way.

Now go and kill him, hero.

The above description fits both the main character and one of the primary villains in Final Fantasy VIII, of course; Squall Leonhart and Seifer Almasy, respectively. Villain might be overstating  Seifer’s role, however, as he acts as more of an unfortunate antagonist much of the time. It would be easy to dismiss Seifer as yet another JRPG rival, a simple mirror to hold up to the protagonist and an easy way to add some home-grown emotion to a large scale battle against evil. But Seifer is more than that; he’s the main character, stymied. He is the would-be hero, but for a tragic collection of external and self-inflicted circumstances.

From the start of the game, we’re encouraged to develop a mild distaste for Seifer. The opening cinematic shows a battle between the two SeeD cadets, in which Seifer cuts Squall’s face open. Squall retaliates, which gives them delightful mirrored scarring, and it becomes apparent that this was just practice between two lunatics with boundary issues. This scene serves to set Seifer up immediately as a bad guy — although, at this point, not THE bad guy — and the difficult bug bite which Squall just can’t help scratching. His smug smile, the way he always seems to be a step ahead and his abhorrent turn as the head of the Balamb Garden Disciplinary Committee are all factors in your immediate dislike of the man. But it’s all about perspective, and, all things considered, Seifer’s bump from party leader to party pooper is mostly Squall’s fault.

Right from the word go, Squall is more of a thorn in Seifer’s side than the reverse. Their SeeD exam in Dollet ultimately succeeds because Seifer decides their mission to secure the square isn’t as important as finding out why Galbadian soldiers are so insistent on heading up a nearby mountain. While the act of defiance is presented as a reckless response to boredom, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s because of Seifer the Garden so successfully repels the invaders and learns of their nefarious plot to reactivate a powerful communications tower — a piece of information vital to future events. On their return, Squall and Zell are deemed to have passed the exam for their impressive ability to not die at the claws of an invincible spider robot; meanwhile, Seifer is reprimanded, punished and told he failed the exam thanks to his insubordination.

It isn’t limited to professional hindrance. At the graduation event, players meet Rinoa, a pretty young thing who is looking for help from the school principal, Cid. She’s also dating Seifer. Since Seifer isn’t a SeeD, Squall and friends are sent to help Rinoa’s resistance movement instead, and so begins that messy journey from hatred and indifference to the truest of true love. Nobody ever apologizes to Seifer for this whole girlfriend-stealing business, either, because he’s evil by the time it matters, and we don’t apologize to evil people.

Seifer’s clear devotion to Rinoa is obvious from his actions. No matter how irresponsible someone is, they don’t hold the president of an entire country hostage on an international television broadcast just for kicks. His extreme solution to Timber’s independence solution is a result of the Garden authorities tying his hands, and let’s remember that our hero was involved in a plot just as crazy and illegal; it just had more steps. On top of that, Seifer was acting out of genuine, selfless love and a desire to — at least in his own mind — do the right thing. His reward for such actions is a swift execution. Squall’s reaction to the death of his rival-slash-soulmate and the subsequent emotional breakdown of Rinoa is to shout at everyone like a spoiled child after a lengthy period of selfish internal monologue. Squall is the poster child for stunted emotional growth in Final Fantasy 8, a theme which touches all the younger characters in one way or another; more on that in a moment.

Seifer wasn’t actually killed, of course, as he reappears shortly afterward on a neon-lit parade float as the second-in-command of Sorceress Edea, suggesting that reports of his death — initially assumed to be a way to placate the Galbadians — were an elaborate farce set up for someone’s amusement. This moment, where Seifer becomes the enemy, is a junction point for quite a few fascinating facts about the character. Seifer is now the Sorceress’ Knight, a term which seems rather goofy and idealistic given the seriousness of the situation.

It ties into comments made by the character earlier in the game about his “romantic dream”. We’re talking about the more broad use of “romantic” here — the expression of love towards an idea rather than the pursuit of a person — and the subtext also suits the slightly derogatory second definition: “of, characterized by, or suggestive of an idealized view of reality.” The romantic dream Seifer alludes to before his betrayal turns out to be the rather specific desire to become a Sorceress’ Knight. Not only is it specific, it’s rather strange given that in modern times sorceresses are hated and feared. So why would a boy growing up in this social climate idealize evil witches? A lot of it has to do with a small detail that the game merely implies: Seifer is a huge fan of the old stories about the sorceress who successfully defended her country against invasion many, many years ago.

Searching the Balamb Garden library records shows he has checked out the none-too-subtle book The Sorceress’ Knight, but a more compelling fact was confirmed in the Final Fantasy VIII Ultimania, a book only ever published in Japan which includes plenty of information on the world and events of the game. In its pages, you can find confirmation that Seifer was also a huge fan of the film version of The Sorceress’ Knight, and presumably modeled his aspirations and demeanor around its contents. Seifer even bases his gunblade fighting stance on the knight from the film; we know this because the star of said motion picture was none other than Laguna Loire, and the player participates in the filming during a very odd time travel segment. Laguna isn’t a swordsman, of course, and his stance in the film is utter rubbish, which is yet another sad footnote in the story of Seifer and his blockaded attempts to be the hero. Mercifully, we never get to see the awkward moment when Seifer realizes his cinematic idol is actually Squall’s father.

So it would seem that Seifer is simply the product of his own reckless ambition and a tantrum-like disregard for authority. But a lack of control and choice over one’s own destiny is a strong theme across every part of FFVIII — cities are subjugated by powerful nations, children are recruited into armies, people’s minds are controlled by witches from the future — and Seifer’s destiny is no less directed than anyone else’s. In fact, the very people charged with protecting him as a child are the worst influences in his life.

All the main playable characters in the game, along with Seifer, grew up in the same orphanage. It’s not everyone’s favorite twist, and it comes across far neater than it should be given they began working together seemingly at random, but it does explain why Seifer, in particular, seems drawn to the group. That he is the only other character included in this backstory suggests we give its meaning more than a little thought with regards to his character. Around the time the memory sequence occurs, the characters write off Seifer’s unusual hatred of Squall as a product of jealousy. Squall monopolized the attention of another character, Ellone, on top of generally being the emotional wasteland we all know and love. But we learn at the end of the game that Squall’s involuntary time-traveling after defeating Ultimecia was the catalyst for creating SeeD. His appearance at the orphanage on that day, as a fully-grown man, crystallizes his destiny; from that point on, Cid and Edea treat him as the eventual savior of the universe.

This explains why he makes it into SeeD and is promoted to such a high level so quickly, it explains why he is sent on particular missions, and it answers any questions players might have had about why everyone thinks Squall is so damn special. Now imagine you are a child in the same orphanage, a child without a home or a family thanks to the war. Imagine you have something to prove, and reading about heroic knights and witches makes you feel a little less powerless. Imagine another child, very similar to you, is given preferential treatment. He gets more attention from your surrogate parents, and you have no idea why. You act up, and they still focus on him. When you’re all encouraged to join SeeD — mostly him, though — you see a chance to finally prove yourself. You work incredibly hard and fight to become the best, but that same person is still there, being given all the advantages. He graduates while you get punished; despite a total lack of social skills, he makes friends easily while you’re seen as an annoyance; when your well-meaning actions lead to everyone believing you’re dead, he moves in on your girlfriend.

Seifer is the one who works, and Squall is the one who wins. Earlier I said Seifer’s troubles were mostly Squall’s fault, but that’s not the whole story. Just as our perception of Seifer as an obnoxious fool is simply a mask for the twisting of his genuine intentions, so too is his distaste for Squall actually a distaste for what Cid and Edea did to both men.

Other Final Fantasy games have had characters that either should have been the hero (Basch from FFXII, before focus testing decided he was too old) or are more heroic (Auron from FFX, who only steps aside because he’s simply too well adjusted to get wrapped up in the melodrama of the plot), but FFVIII manages to set up a character that is certainly the hero, while setting him up to consistently make choices that contradict that. He isn’t a mirror for Squall, he’s the guy who has to sleep outside because Squall needed a bed. To his credit, Seifer remains an upbeat and forward-looking character to the very end. He never claims that the world is out to get him. It is, of course.

[garlemail]

Garlemald and You! A special report for all loyal citizens and soldiers behind enemy lines.

Garlean Imperial News Briefing – Thirteenth of November, Seventeenth Year of the Tenth Umbral Age:

Garlemald and You!

A special report for all loyal citizens and soldiers behind enemy lines.

Whether a life now lived far from home, or one recently seeing the folly of their ways, the empire values all. For the greater good of our star, we seek to bring peace across the lands. To elevate all. To bring together the greatest talents around in order to build the world our citizens deserve. From the shores of Doma to the lands of Eorzea, the empire seeks only to bring gifts to the worthy, and education to those who resist.

While our legions may crash against imposing walls and lap over the top in an unstoppable show of force, the empire need not always resort to such actions. War, by its very nature, destroys what we seek. To bring peace and elevation means little if the land is nothing but ashes and laments of the dying. What is needed, in some cases, is a method far more respectful to the land and its people. In these times we seek those willing to spread the value of our empire from within.  To bring about a willing call for aid, so that when our legions arrive, the damage inflicted is light.

Some will call you traitors, kin-slayers, and backstabbers. We, though, we call you citizens. Citizens who are willing to sacrifice the immediate comforts and privileges of home for the good of those around you.

Helping the Empire Spread

So, what can you do for the empire? Stuck within the savage lands, what are your options? That depends on your personal goals.

Elevation through insurrection?

It is always better when new territory willingly joins. Insurrection, though, must be trodden carefully. One need only look at the disaster that is Gyr Abania–a city-state which prospered in the harsh realities of their surroundings, a once kingdom in the desert. While the savage state of Ul’dah sits awash in wealth, Ala Mhigo fell into fighting. Wars abroad and internally weakened it so much that our forces were barely troubled in their takeover. However, while the province was turned into an Imperial holding, it became quite apparent that what was there was…trouble.

The mistrust and infighting sapped the strength of the nation. Its blood stained the fields where families once farmed and lived their lives. A broken nation had been delivered to us by insurrection, a broken and nearly useless nation. Only by our occupation did they attempt to correct their acts, but the blood of the nation would be spilled for many years before we withdrew. Now that we are gone look at what remains. The same broken nation, the same empty soul, the same mistrust. They will require years, generations even, to rebuild what they themselves destroyed before our arrival and what they further burned getting their “freedom” back.

Gyr Abania is a sad blight for all to see and feel pity for.

Insurrection, we feel, is not the strategy you should employ.  So what can you do?

From your various posts, you venture out into the lands around you. You meet, speak, and even share jokes with the savages around you. Some will never listen to anything about the empire; however, some will. As you venture out, find these people. Talk with these people. Make sure they feel no need to take up arms in an uprising. Reassure them. Help them understand the good that the empire provides. Uprising citizens will only burn their own cities. Citizens, who wish better lives, may simply open the gates.

A gradual, yet steady, encroachment of Imperial ideals and values can serve us a far better tool for uplifting minds than a battalion of troops. 

Within Doma, this idea worked well in some areas. Exchanges of Doman and Imperial values did occur; it is with a pity that said values did not reach those who staged their final insurrection. So much blood was spilled. So many potential Imperial lives were lost for nothing. Those that accepted our value, however, remained citizens. Their voices still join others both at home and inside Doma. We continue to encourage them to simply go about their lives and speak normally. Our forces will stretch their hands out once again. Next time, should enough of you spread our values,  Doma may not need the sword again. Doma may even find us more receptive to seeing them as another state to speak with instead of a savage land in need of elevation.

Do your duty, my friends.

Simple. Honest. 

Avoid direct conflict with local forces. Not all of our citizens are willing to stand in fire for the empire. That is understandable–many of you are former savages. You have pledged to us, but still, require more before you will fall on your sword.

To those willing to fight but lack support: what can you do?

Do whatever you can. From the savage lands of Eorzea to those buried deep within the far lands, you blend in, you listen, you hear, and you plan. 

Create your “outpost”, secure a connection to the empire, and report whatever you can. Become active in our intelligence network, keep our vanguard and scout units informed well, and fight a battle without lifting a weapon.

Recruit more if needed, but never cross the line into insurrection. Whether through plots, rumors, or subterfuge, work to earn the trust of the loyal defenders and undermine the land. Introduce doubt to the masses, let the question the worthiness of independence versus the wealth of Imperial knowledge sweep the citizens. When enough intelligence is gathered, our forces can arrive at the borders. The local forces may rush to the defense, but compromised from within, their fortifications will falter and fail. Our airships will control the skies as our armies march past the ruins of their battle lines. Under the weight of the inevitable, many of the questioning citizens will surrender to their doubts. 

That is when you may strike. 

Complete and total disruption of what is left of the local defenses will collapse the opposing army. The “loyal” will flee from their homes as those left behind open the gates.

You remain yet another citizen “caught behind enemy lines”, your allies none the wiser. As our forces elevate the land, you remain in the shadows–the silent source of information helping to squash any attempt to return the land to its savagery.

Be it through slow spreading of our values, or active efforts short of full-blown civil war, these are the best goals for our fellow citizens beyond the empire.

But this is only the method for achieving success, what of your life in general? How should you live within the savage lands?

Your life as a “savage” Imperial

The military has offered several reports on the matter but we at G.I.N have used our own reporters to offer up templates for life.

Method 1: Imperial to savage (Deep Cover 3)

Our operative known as Deep Cover 3 chose to leave his home within Garlean territory to passively aid to the empire within the savage lands. Based within a savage city-state, he set himself up as a traveling scholar, of sorts. His Garlean knowledge is shared through the lens of books and self-made technology. 

Refusing to venture too deeply into the savage culture surrounding him, he instead joined the local forces as an advisor. Our Deep Cover, in particular, aides in the inspection of cargo. A seemingly innocent duty which has allowed the establishment of his own network. Innocent amongst the pirate-filled city, he ships seemingly educational items in and out of the city, many to the benefit of the local guilds. His home and life do not showcase anything of the Empire.

He seeks not the destruction of his home of Limsa, nor the death of its people. He speaks of the empire only when safe, and even then, only lightly. His words plant the seed of doubt in chosen people, allies, and friends who may one day join him. From them, he gets the various information he sends back for both our reports and for the military. What he sends never compromises a military force, it merely confirms what is already known. While discovery is always a risk, he has his plans and the allies to enact it.

In short:

Setup your post.

Establish your cover.

Infiltrate the local forces at a low level.

Build up your own way of gaining intelligence.

Send what home what you feel is safe.

Most importantly, keep yourself safe. Dead agents can send nothing.

Method 2: Savage to Imperial Agent (Deep Cover 1)

Our operative known as Deep Cover 1 chose to be active in her aid to the empire. With posts in both the savage city-state of Ul’dah and Kugane, she has set herself up as a traveling “Adventurer”. Active within a mercenary company, of sorts, her duties to various employers hends her across the savage lands of Eorzea. While her Garlean knowledge only comes out in her knowledge of technology, she knows only enough to get by. A citizen by birth, whose parents took her from the empire, her pledge to support has had her using what she learns from her jobs to send back whatever she feels the empire could use. From simple celebrations to rumored military moves, all are reported. While her savage upbringing helps to shield her from suspicion, she nonetheless has taken a savage husband to act as a shield. Her home and life show subtle hints of the Empire through clothes and decorations.

She too seeks not the destruction of home or the people. The empire is spoken of when possible. She engages, seeking to reach out to others about the state of the land and its problems with solutions that they can offer–and solutions the empire already has. With first-hand experience from the various lands, she masks her Garlean loyalties as the frustrations of a savage wondering whether life will ever return to normal this long after the calamity.

In short:

Pledge to the empire.

Setup a post (or two).

Do not breach your savage cover already established.

Learn to continue living your life normally while incorporating Garlean values.

Travel when possible to gather the intelligence and experiences needed to be an effective operative.

Send anything you feel can be useful home.

Method 3: Forward Operative

There are reporters and agents who’ve adopted a rather extreme form of life within the savage lands. For them, duty to the empire, whether from birth or by choice, involves far more activity than the previous methods. 

These operatives chose to not live within the city-states. Their homes and posts are out within the farmlands and other areas less populated. While they are far from the comforts of the city-states, they are allowed to be more open with their Imperial leanings. While it is still advised to have some connection to the locals, to act as a cover, these operatives are much more forward with action. Intelligence sent home often has orders coming back–orders to be followed to help disrupt enemy military movements and local control.

A suggested cover is that of a bounty hunter and/or black market merchant. While it lowers the social standings amongst many savages, these jobs also carry a bit of fear around them. They allow for leeway in certain areas–an accused criminal captured for a bounty draws few concerns from citizens wanting safe homes. No one notices if the said criminal finds their way into Imperial hands for questioning. Nor would many want to get involved in a black market merchant’s cargo. Imperial matters are freely snuck into, and out of, the savage lands by these skilled operatives.

One of our better reporters, who is in this role, has even been able to take a savage wife and convince her to join him. While this seems like a less-than-ideal life within the shroud to us, it is a well “funded” life to them. There may be blood on their hands, but their actions have done much to help the empire and military agents.

In short:

Pledge to the empire.

Setup a post outside of population centers

Assume a role that will keep most eyes away.

Be open with your Garlean knowledge whenever it aids your duties.

Maintain a savage life near your post, Garlean efficiency when away.

Send anything and everything back home, follow every order sent to you.

 Choice of Residence: Savage City

So, where to? Whether embarking for the empire itself or pledging from outside: Chances are your home will not serve well. That leaves only two choices, one of which is the city-state.

  Arrival at a savage city-state would be an overwhelming experience for a citizen setting forth from the empire. The values and “culture” which dominate the surrounding territories are always strongest within the walls. It is sadly too easy for the unprepared to fall victim to what they find, many an operative having failed to report in soon after their arrivals. Some are recovered, some are lost.

You’ve now arrived at a savage city-state, what now? Well, according to our Deep Cover’s 1 and 3, lodging is the most important acquisition to make. One must determine the price of a room and how much their own wealth means there. When Deep Cover 3 arrived in the savage LeNoscea, items acquired from both home and in travel made him a small enough pool of wealth to acquire his post. Deep Cover 1 however, admits that her arrival in Thanalan was nearly a disaster. The wealth of city had price high and her own pool small. Such is why it took her years to even begin to think of her true home. #3 would recommend in such situations to look for alternative arrangements, #1 simply joined small adventurer parties and companies. Both though agree that one should only remain in the city for so long. If lodging can’t be secured for a length of time it is better to retreat into the outskirts, then to be lost in the city.

So let’s assume lodging has been secured to the point your “post” is now established. You’re now a functioning member of the city, a Garlean amongst the savages. Here is where life becomes tricky. Surrounded you are by all manners of information from a wide-range of sources. Who do you trust and report and who do you ignore? Deep Cover 3 favors information gathered from both local forces and those that seek to outwit them in any variety of illegal activities. Due to the shameless lives many savages’ live corruption is often amongst them. Even before the great calamity the less fortunate suffered under inadequacies of their savage rulers, lesser men and women who sought to appeal more to unseen “gods” then to the ensuring the wellbeing of the people. This allows many a “crack” for a smart operative to slip through. While it does mean rendering aide to the very savages we oppose the short-term discomfort can have long-term gains. Not to mention, service to a savage nation is always forgiven if the Empire’s needs come first.

Perhaps service to the savages is simply out-of-bounds? Deep Cover 1’s choice may be more in line then. Avoid interactions with the local forces and their principal foes and instead engage with the savages directly. Joining companies, adventurers, and/or explorers of sorts provides information on the state of the land itself. “Soldiers yap on and on about orders and enemies, drunks at the bar yap on about whatever they feel like. I like the drunks better, more information for less effort”. A clever strategy we are forced to admit. Within the savage cities are plenty of places were travelers and locals interact amongst drinks, food, and displays of savagery. The words spoken when the guards are lowered can be themselves keys to whole operations or the final pieces to puzzles found by other means. While this does mean entering such dens and pretending to enjoy oneself the empire will reward those that can brave the dangers.

A final idea we have comes from an unlikely source: our operative known as Deep Cover 2. Neither Garlean nor savage-pledged, Deep Cover 2 is under 1’s direct control. Operating on the line between order and chaos, this operative’s “contract” with our own has often provided indirect information of great use. Savage criminals who must watch their backs develop their own ways of keeping themselves safe, information of great importance. A citizen or operative within a city may very well assume a cover that involves no direct action but wears a ring. The other bearer of that ring is their “source”, the criminal they listen to and gather their own needs from. While Deep Cover 1 is more active in her own regards it is still an idea, especially for those who end up far closer to leaders then intended.

 Choice of Residence: Savage Outskirts

You’ve read our reports before, or have even had the misfortune of meeting, from Deep Cover 1. You’ve come to the conclusion that the city-states themselves are no place for decent Garleans, that those there are always a tad “off”. You wouldn’t be mistaken. It takes a unique view to survive within the city-states as long as our operatives have, in effect one must “lose” part of themselves to blend in. While 1 has turned into a wine-addict and 3 apparently fiddles with magitek till the sun rises to counter the savage stupidity around them you may very well just not want to embark upon the path. You, brave citizen, have much to choose from then within the outskirts.

  A title given to the areas outside the population centers, the “Savage Outskirts” offer their own uniqueness: One can retain their “dignity” at the expense of “harsher” life. Deep Cover 2 has spent an amount of time within the outskirts of Thanalan, hiding and camping within the arid and hot areas around the towns can city-state. Operatives within other lands easily do the same. Exploiting the weakness’s and corruption of local forces well known outlaws remain free to enter and leave towns at will, pursuit always lagging behind. You need not be a criminal to live in the outskirts, you simply need to understand.

Being an operative in the outskirts doesn’t favor joining the local military forces. Outposts are often busy with the various beast men the savages allow to infiltrate their lands, chances of injury and death high. While there is a chance of uncovering a jackpot of intelligence the dangers of death before delivery are high. There is also the chance of being stationed near the Garlean border itself, death by friendly-fire no way for a citizen to go. No, unless one is being given a rank high enough to avoid “grunt work”, avoid aiding their military.

It is also advised to avoid direct conflict with local forces. Bounty hunters are tolerated, black market merchants the same depending on what is being sold. Smugglers, sellswords, and other “mercenaries” can be dragged into direct conflicts that can disrupt an entire operatives cover. Within the outskirts the method of communicating with home needs to remain secret but does not always require paranoid levels of protection as within the cities. When one is a member of a “criminal” organization that comes into conflict with the law of the land their entire cover can be destroyed by someone simply trying to get to your leader. Yes, like military service, you might stumble across a wealth of intelligence. In truth you’re likely to stumble over your own death.

  So advisements against joining either the savage military to spy from within or the criminals to spy from the outside. What then? Well, as hinted before, the ideal job for an Outskirts operative is something mobile and unassuming. Due to the presence of beast tribes and savage rogues the most ideal plan is to setup a base of operations one can lose and operate out from there. Become good at your job but not great, savages are always jealous of those that get “too good”. Keep their eyes always on someone else by doing “enough”. You may simply be the bounty hunter that takes the same kinds of jobs, travels the same towns, and brings back charges whenever possible. Some always get away but enough are caught to warrant people to take the small risk with you. The entire time you are “hunting” you are listening, noting, and questioning. After every set of jobs, you return to you base and send out what you have learned and receive your new instructions. Should your home be lost to beast tribes or other savages, you simply move on and set-up shop somewhere else.

Will it be glamourous? No, even the best job we’ve heard of (A black market merchant of rare goods) still has a tough life. The hunter’s live bounty to bounty, grateful on anything the empire can smuggle into for them. Merchant may find wealth but then are forced to spend large to protect both their cover and the items that provide that cover. The farmers, merchants, traders, and workers that fill the space between the two share the same problem: Wealth vs Security. An operative wealthy enough to be fully independent will often be less mobile and more dependent on security. The closer they get to fully independent is the more security they need to buy. Eventually they become fully independent but cannot change base easily, fully dependent on their security arrangements, and are at higher risks of exposure should someone successful raid their base.

So what if even the hint of being a criminal disturbs you? You wish to be mobile, enjoy the land, and wish to travel in hopes of spreading the empire’s values without conflict? Suspiciously, our Deep Cover 2 and 5 have the same advice. Both might as well be called “criminals” now but both state to become that which the empire has few needs of: An adventurer. It will require far greater planning on how and when to communicate with home. That planning trades off with a role free from military eyes, clashes with criminals and beast men only when there is a chance of success, and will often travel the length and breadth of the lands. Whether through aiding the locals, scouting for minerals and other resources, or moving from band to band, the choice of “adventuring” through the outskirts with only occasional trips into the city-states may very well be the role those daring to spy for the empire should take.

Conclusion

The empire’s mission remains firm, the commitment to free the world of dangers protected within the savage lands unyielding. Amongst the glory of our soldiers and resolve of our people are those that operate within the shadows, far beyond the Castrums at the border. Men and women, citizens and savage-borne alike, who strive to do their part to bring the empire’s goal to fulfillment.  You who chose this lesser-known path are important.

Make the correct choices when you embark, establish yourself well, and become our eyes and ears.

  Special report by:

Garlemail News Briefings

Your one stop for news both at home and beyond.

This Garlemail special was done by the request of G.I.N

 Garlean Imperial News

Garelmald’s most trusted news source.

[secretlystephaniebrown]

deprivation

okay so ages ago the amazing @papanorth​ drew this fantastic piece of art and it sparked a conversation. @arirashkae​ and @zalia​ (plus some others) and I threw around an idea for an AU where Wash was brainwashed and skin hunger was a part of it. 

cue angst war, and it was prompted. SO BEHOLD. 6+k of some serious Wash whump. there will probably be a sequel, don’t worry. 

Warnings: abuse, captivity, brainwashing, manipulation, torture, character death, hospitalization

Also on Ao3

The door opens and Wash looks up. Whatever it is they drugged him with is keeping his movements sluggish, and he stares up at Locus blearily, his limbs too heavy to move.

Locus holds out his hand, and Wash’s stomach growls as he sees the food in it. He knows what this is, knows that Locus is trying to do. But he needs to eat. He glares up at Locus and starts to eat as best he can.

“Training today, Agent Washington,” Locus tells him quietly, and Wash doesn’t say anything, just keeps eating, although he goes cold.

The others don’t know where he is. They don’t even know he’s alive, from the ominous comments Locus has made.

No one is looking for him. Only Locus and the pirates know he’s here.

“Aww, he’s getting better at this,” Felix coos from the doorway. “I always wanted a pet.”

Right. And Felix.

When he’s done eating Locus grabs him by the scruff of his neck and forces him to his feet. Wash gives a few token struggles, but he’s exhausted and drugged to the point where moving is difficult and he’s dragged into the hallway and dropped to his knees.

They’re not bothering to train him to fight. They’re training him to be obedient. And if Wash wants to live—and he does, he needs to make it back to them, he needs to warn the others about Felix and Locus—then he needs to do what they want. Which for now, is learning to read the signs of where he’s supposed to go.

Wash starts moving. It’s slow going, on his hands and knees, unable to stand under the weight of the drugs. First door, bright teal tape on the floor. He swallows and keeps going. He’s learning what they want, what they’re doing, and he hates it, hates the fact that he can feel his brain go flat with fear at the sight of the tape. Red tape on the next one. He keeps going. His limbs are steadying as the drug starts to wear off, until finally he gets to a door with orange tape. He stops and looks behind him. Orange tape means he needs permission from Felix. Felix nods, and Wash goes in.

Wash is dead.

The knowledge pounds in Tucker’s head like a drumbeat.

Felix brought the armor he managed to scavenge, coated in blood. He’s got audio of Wash screaming, but no visuals because he couldn’t get the angle right. 

“I’m sorry,” Felix says, and for once the guy actually sounds sincere, exhausted to the core and just... miserable. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t fast enough—Locus decided he was a threat—”

Tucker can’t find it in him to say it’s not Felix’s fault and stumbles away instead, tears streaming behind his helmet.

Wash sacrificed himself to make sure the rest of them made it out of there.

Felix says that the others are alive.

Tucker is going to do anything to make sure that Wash didn’t die in vain.

Wash wakes up cuffed to a bed.

The room is sterile and terrifyingly white; the kind of white that Wash associates with padded cells and hospitals. Even the air smells of disinfectant. Everything hurts; his head is throbbing, and he has the sour taste in his mouth that tells him he’s been out for too long and that everything is wrong. His armor is gone too.

He starts fighting immediately, trying to sit up despite the weakness he feels, tugging at the cuff, hoping to find it loose enough to slip out of, or even to snap the chain. Someone in medic-purple armor immediately comes into his vision, holding a threatening-looking needle, and Wash tries to pull away, trying to figure out how he’s going to fight, with only one hand available and out of armor.

“He’s awake?” Wash freezes, looking for the source of the voice. He knows that voice.

The fight comes rushing back, and Wash remembers looking up at the helmet, cursing out the man above him.

“Yes,” the medic says, scowling. They help Wash sit up, to his surprise, although they look like they want to put him right back under. Something cold sinks into his stomach as he realizes he can’t hear Sarge or Donut, and he can only see Locus and the medic as he finally gets a better look at the room.

Locus comes to stand right by Wash. He looks almost comically out of place in the hospital instead of the battlefield. He seems to be unarmed, clearly not wanting to risk letting Wash near any of his weapons. Wash bets there’s a knife tucked away somewhere, but he can’t see anything, and it won’t help him if he can’t find it.  “I see you’re recovering from your injuries. My employer will be pleased.”

“Where are the others?” Wash demands. He can now see guards by the door, telling him just how carefully Locus is handling his capture. They don’t want to take risks with him. Wash thinks he should be flattered but all it does is worry him.

Why is he still alive?

“Far away from here,” Locus says. “Originally, you were supposed to have accompanied them, but my employer decided there were better ways to make use of you.”

“What does the Federal Army want with me?” Wash pulls on the handcuff slightly. He tries to keep his heart rate even, tries to not let Locus see his concern. Why separate him from the others? Are they alive?

“Nothing,” Locus says calmly. “In this matter, I am not working with the Federal Army.”

“Then who—”

“For your purposes,” Locus says, “the name is irrelevant.” A hand comes to rest on Wash’s implants, and Wash tries to thrash away, but Locus’ hand remains there, armored fingers clutching the back of his neck tightly. “My employer has given me the task of breaking you, Agent Washington.”

Wash grits his teeth. His breathing is ragged, but he glares up at Locus with as much ferocity as he could muster. “You can try.” Freelancer had tried, and if they’d succeeded, it wasn’t completely, and not in the way that Locus meant.

Locus lets go and takes a step back, looking at Wash appraisingly, tilting his helmet to one side. “There is no rescue coming. There is no escape. I have time, and resources, and plenty of assistance. You will break, Agent Washington. I look forward to it.”

Wash doesn’t doubt him on that part.

“And what happens then?” Wash demands. He’ll escape by then, he’s confident of that. But he needs to know Locus’ endgame before he can try to figure out what he’s going to do.

Locus nods approvingly, like this is the first sensible thing he’s said. “Then you will work with us.”

“I’m thinking,” Wash’s eyes flew to the doorway, where Felix was standing, confident and unmistakable in his orange and steel armor, “the first thing we make you do is kill Lavernius Tucker.”

“Felix,” Locus greets, and Wash feels his stomach drop.

It must show on his face because Felix laughs. “Oh man, you were wrong, Locs! He did buy the charming-mercenary act!”

Felix and Locus are working together. The armies, the civil war—whatever is really going on, Felix and Locus are playing some other game, something with someone else in charge, and for some reason, they want Wash as another piece on the board.

“My partner, Felix,” Locus says to Wash, “will be assisting me in the process.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Felix says. “I’m sure Locus would do a great job. But he doesn’t have my… touch.”

“I still need to prep him,” the medic interrupts.

“Very well,” Locus nods. “I will see you soon, Agent Washington.”

The medic moves to inject Wash, but Felix stops them. “No,” Felix says. “Leave him awake for this. Just call it… step one.”

The medic sighs, irritated, but puts down the needle. “Get the guards in here then, I need to move him.”

Felix laughs again. “Have fun, Wash!”

Two of the guards come in, and hold him down as the cuff is removed and he’s dragged over to a chair that reminds Wash terrifyingly of implantation from Freelancer. He’s forced onto it face down, and strapped into place. There’s a gap for his head to press through, but a strap around the back of his head keeps him from moving it.

“Anything else you need?” One of the guards asks.

“One of you stay here, just in case. I’m not taking chances with such a valuable asset.”

Wash pulls on the straps around his wrists hard. He doesn’t like the way the medic is talking about him. It’s calculated, calm, efficient. Like he’s an unusually interesting labrat.

“Project Washington, log 12. Subject is now conscious and vocal, despite initial suspicions of brain damage. Beginning preliminary preparations.”

Wash didn’t like the sound of that.

The medic’s armored fingers lightly pressed against his implant site. “We’ll need to upgrade this eventually,” they observed. “I need to talk to Control about getting the equipment.”

“Who’s Control?” Wash demanded, unable to move enough to even try to throw the medic’s hands off. “What are you doing?”

“I think you’ve got other things to worry about,” the medic says, matter of factly.

A needle presses into the back of his neck and Wash distantly hears himself beginning to scream.

“Skin hunger,” Grey says to them as Wash curls up against Tucker’s side. He’s no longer shaking now that Carolina and Tucker have taken off their armor, and is just content to plaster himself to Tucker and never let go.

Wash hasn’t said a single word since they brought him home. He’s shown no sign of remembering any of them except Tucker, and that burns at the others, Tucker knows. Carolina is taking it particularly hard. She’s been punching walls, that Wash can barely even look at her.

“Skin hunger doesn’t do this,” Carolina snaps. “You’ve seen how he’s acting, that’s not—”

“It’s a part of it, sweetie,” Grey says softly. “I’m sure there’s plenty of the rest of it, but that’s a component for sure. Deny him human contact when he misbehaves, provide it when he does.  It’s an element of his conditioning, even if we don’t have the other parts yet.”

“Um, Doctor Grey,” Caboose says. “Why does Washington recognize Tucker and not me? That is not very nice of him to have forgotten the rest of us.”

Grey let out a nervous giggle. “Oh my! He doesn’t recognize Captain Tucker, silly!”

“He doesn’t?” Tucker demands. He’s petting Wash’s hair to calm him down.

“Nope! I believe that, since you killed his last handler, Agent Washington now believes you are his handler.”

Tucker felt his skin crawl. “Wait. Handler?”

Grey nods. “Oh yes! It was fairly clear there was a level of dependency. And fear. Quite a bit of fear!

“Wash is scared of Tucker?” Carolina demands, skeptical.

“He’s scared of everyone right now,” Grey says.

Wash buries his face in Tucker’s shirt and continues to say nothing at all.

Wash knows they’re winning the day he can’t remember Tucker’s name for a whole half an hour.

It’s the drugs, he knows—they’ve finally perfected the dosage, and it’s terrifying him because Felix has outlined to him exactly what they’re going to make him do once his training is complete, and if he can’t remember them…

He’s been losing for a while now, he realizes, biting his lip as he goes over it in his head. Even when Locus and Felix aren’t there, he doesn’t cross the taped over thresholds. Two days ago they didn’t even bother closing the door to his cell, just taped it over with teal tape, and Wash had been too terrified to even consider crossing it. Yesterday two of the pirates tried to force him across a blue line, and Wash had fought them, fought them until Felix caught them at it, and gotten rid of them.

Then Felix had cupped his face in his bare hands and told him he was a good broken toy, and Wash hadn’t even responded to the insults, just leaned into the touch.

Locus pushes the door open and Wash doesn’t move from his position. Protein bar today—Wash finds his muscles relaxing at this confirmation that he did well, and he tries to rebel against it, but Locus holds it out and Wash loses track of those thoughts as he eats, then swallows the pills Locus offers him.

The last thing he thinks clearly for a while is that Tucker’s coming for him. He has to be.

Locus takes him from the cell soon after that. Takes him to a room usually cordoned off with teal tape, but there’s no tape there right now. Locus pets his hair and Wash whimpers, leaning into the touch. He was good today, he gets to be touched, and Locus chuckles, his hand resting on Wash’s lower back. “Behave,” Locus tells him, before leaving Wash there. There’s a ripping sound of tape, and when Wash goes back to the door, the teal tape is back and Wash recoils instantly, moving away from it.

He wanders around the room instead, and is surprised by the food. His stomach growls, but he doesn’t move to take anything. That would be against the rules. Instead, he sits on the floor and waits, once he’s done exploring the room and determining all entrances are off limits.

Felix comes soon after, and laughs when he sees Wash perk up. “You’re pathetic,” he tells Wash, but he rubs soothing circles against Wash’s back and Wash doesn’t care.

The pirates think it’s funny. A pet Freelancer.

Locus isn’t here all the time—he’s busy with whatever it is he’s doing, although he swings by every day to feed Wash and to put him in his place if Wash has misbehaved. Felix is even less frequent, but when he’s there, it guarantees training.

The pirates are in charge, otherwise.

They don’t hurt him unless he provokes them. He did it a lot at first, trying to fight them or escape while they were around. They don’t take their time with it—their orders are to leave punishment to Locus—but he still comes away from it hurting enough even before Locus punishes him for it. But they report on his behavior to Locus and that’s almost as bad.

The first… well, while, Wash isn’t sure how long he’s been here anymore... at first, Locus only punishes Wash himself, sometimes with Felix.

But then he catches Wash on the wrong side of a line for the third time that day. It’s only a red line, but Locus is furious.

Locus gives Wash to the pirates that night.

Wash is thrown back into his cell, hours later, covered in bruises and cuts, with his ribs broken and throat hoarse from screaming, and Locus is waiting for him.

“No one is coming to help you, Agent Washington,” Locus says calmly. Wash is determinedly not shaking from his position on the floor, even though he wants to. “You will break.” He bends over and grabs Wash’s chin with his armored hand, forcing Wash to look up at him. “It is up to you how much pain you will suffer before that happens.”

Wash’s stomach growls loudly; Locus had fed him barely a few bites of an MRE before throwing him to the pirates.

Locus kicks him and Wash whines, curling up into a ball.

“The pain stops when you accept your fate, Washington,” Locus reminds him.

Wash thinks of Felix’s first words to him when he woke up in this hell. They’re going to make him kill Tucker when he breaks.

He pauses in his thoughts.

If.

If he breaks.

He’s going to get out of here.

He won’t hurt Tucker. They can’t make him.

Locus leaves, the door closing behind him, leaving Wash alone with his thoughts.

Someone wearing the Meta suit shows up on the field one day, and everything goes to shit.

Whoever it is is good, very good, and Tucker charges right towards him, sword out and shouting a battle cry that Carolina has been trying to get him to stop using.

“Swish!” Tucker has been buzzing with a nervous energy all week; ever since they learned Wash was alive, and prisoner somewhere, they’ve been desperately ripping apart everything, trying to find him.

The pirates they interrogated only laugh when they ask. Even Grey hasn’t been able to get anything useful out of them.

Now, at least, he’s got something he can fight, can beat, and whoever the fuck is in the armor is going to have a lot to answer for to Carolina once Tucker is finished with them.

The first strike is blocked easily, but Tucker manages to kick him instead, sending the man stumbling backwards. Sarge charges in next, and ducks under the gun that’s being pointed in his face, slamming the butt of his gun upwards, right under the chin of the helmet.

Later, he realizes that Felix did it on purpose. The helmet was too loose for that to happen accidentally.

The helmet flies off, and everything in the entire world stops. Sarge is there too, equally frozen in place.

“Wash?”

Blank slate-grey eyes stare back at him. There’s a moment where Tucker thinks, maybe, maybe Wash recognizes him, but then the gun comes up and Grif tackles him to keep him from getting a bullet to the face and Tucker struggles to keep his focus on staying alive and not on what the fuck Felix and Locus have been doing to him to turn Wash into this.

Sometime after Wash learns the meaning of all the colors, they start having him kill prisoners who wear teal. At first, Wash is resistant; it’s been ages since he’s held a weapon—they give him a small knife, useless against armor, but deadly enough for the shaking person in teal scrubs.

When he tries to refuse, Felix takes the knife and uses it on Wash while Locus kills the prisoner himself. Slowly. Painfully.

At least if Wash kills them, he can make it quick.

They start making the prisoners fight him; they give them crude weapons and tell them they’ll be free if they kill him, so that self-preservation kicks in and Wash fights back. The drugs no longer impede his movement, and Wash is lightning fast as he regains lost muscle mass.

He’s rewarded when he kills them. Rewarded more if it’s particularly brutal or painful; this is Felix’s work. Locus is happier when he’s quick.

They throw him against people in armor soon; always bright colors, all the bad colors, and one by one Wash kills them. Wash feels sick the first few times, and Locus is surprisingly patient with him for that, as long as he still follows through and kills them. Felix likes to make him fight the teal ones in particular, orders Wash to make it nasty and painful and slow. .

“God I can’t wait,” Felix says, petting Wash’s hair. He’s covered in blood but Felix doesn’t care, laughing as he nudges the body that Wash is shying away from, still worried about the color of the armor. “He’s going to be crushed when you fight him. And when you kill him? Oh man I hope I’ll have a camera.”

Wash says nothing, (he’s no longer sure if he knows how), and just leans into the touch and waits for Locus to take him back to his cell.

They know there’s going to be some weird things happening now that Wash is back, but none of them expected this.

“Wash,” Tucker tugs on his arm, but Wash is curled up into a ball, chest rising and falling far too rapidly, just in front of the door. “C’mon, Wash, we need to go in here.”

Normally they just let Wash do whatever he wants (although he follows Tucker around unless Tucker tells him not to, then he follows Grif, and they all know it’s because, just like Tucker is the new Locus in Wash’s drugged out brain, Grif is Felix because of his armor color). But they need him to go in here, because Grey needs blood samples, needs to try to figure out what they put in Wash’s systems that’s making him so quiet and confused.

Wash shakes his head desperately, not even leaning into Tucker’s touch like he normally does, and he’s letting out a desperate, whining noise that’s like a stab in the gut.

“What’s wrong, Wash?” Carolina asks quietly, kneeling down next to him. Epsilon doesn’t make an appearance—Wash reacts to him badly, and isn’t that just like Felix, to make sure Wash remembers what Epsilon did to him, but not who the rest of them are?

Wash just curls up tighter, and Carolina glances at him. “When did this happen?” She asks.

“I don’t know! He was fine until I tried to turn into this door?”

Carolina bites her lip. “Grey says we need to find out what they dosed him with soon. She thinks he might go into withdrawal.”

Tucker and she share a desperate look. They’ve been worried about what physically did to Wash for ages; they’re still piecing together what they did to him, but physically, all they know is that something’s wrong with his implants and they were definitely drugging him. They need to get him to the infirmary; now that he’s eating again and isn’t freaking out at everyone who isn’t Tucker, they can finally determine what happened to him and try to *fix it*.

“I’m sorry Wash,” Tucker says, and then they grab him and force him through the doorway, Wash thrashing and yelling the whole way.

Grey sedates him the second they get him into the room, then Tucker and Carolina go back to examine the doorway to figure out what was wrong.

“The quarantine line,” Carolina says suddenly. Tucker joins her, staring at the line of dark blue paint.

“Wash is scared of colors,” Tucker whispers.

“Blue was one of the worst,” Carolina says, glancing at him. Teal was the only one worse than dark blue.

“Let’s… let’s get rid of this. For when we get Wash out of there.”

Wash is being punished again; he’s been bad all week and he’s trying, he is, but they keep grabbing his neck and he can’t help but yell and fight whenever anyone but Locus and Felix tries it.  

He’s never been in this room before; the room is usually cordoned off with teal tape, but today he was lead in by Locus, and Felix is already waiting for them.

“He’s certainly ready,” Felix laughs, reaching out and touching Wash’s split lip and pressing at the black eye. Wash cries out and leans away.

“One last thing,” Locus tells him. “If you do well today, your punishment is over.”

Wash looks at him, wondering what’s about to happen.

Felix pushes down on his shoulders until Wash is on his knees.

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Felix tells him, crouching next to Wash. “Every time you hear this sound—” He presses a button and a voice, a familiar voice comes out.

“Wash!” The voice yells.

“Whenever you hear that sound,” Felix tells him. “You need to yell “Tucker!” Can you manage that?”

Wash hesitates, looking at Locus. Locus had told him a long time ago that he’s not allowed to speak. He’s not about to break one of Locus’ rules for Felix.

“You have permission,” Locus says, nodding in approval.

“Are you sure he can?” Felix says, getting up and kicking Wash lightly in the ribs. Wash winces, but accepts it as part of his punishment—he broke one of the pirate’s noses today. He’s earned this. “It’s been awhile since he’s talked.”

“I’ve been lowering his dosage for the past week,” Locus says. “He should be able to speak.”

“You worried he’ll recognize them?” Felix asks, pulling on Wash’s hair hard. Wash wonders what it is they’re talking about.

“The armor should distract him.” Locus isn’t even watching them, his focus almost entirely on the equipment.  

Felix laughs. “Good point. Now let’s practice, Washy. So when you hear this—”

The recording plays again and Wash thinks the world is shaking, but Locus is looking at him expectantly and so all he does is open his mouth and say, “Tucker?”

“Wow, you sound like a frog,” Felix snorts. “Yell it, Wash. I want panic.”

Wash nods, and when Felix plays it again he’s ready.

“Tucker!” Something in that word stirs something in Wash’s brain, fear-addled and drugged as it is. The word is familiar on his tongue. It’s... green grass and warm steel and laughter and...

“Excellent,” Locus says, distracting Wash from his thoughts. “We’re ready.” He puts down the camera, and walks towards Wash. “Hands behind your back, Washington.”

Wash complies, although he whimpers as the cuffs are attached around his wrists and a blindfold secured over his eyes.

“Just do this right, and then we’re done,” Locus says to him. “Can you do this?”

Wash nods. He’ll do anything to stop the punishment, to be good again, and Locus knows it.

“Good.”

The door opens and someone else walks in. One of the pirates.

“You’re allowed to struggle today,” Locus tells him. “Struggle and yell all you like.”

Oh. Are they proving to Control how far his training has come today? It’s been awhile since they’ve had to do that, but Wash figures they’re about due. Or... maybe not? It’s hard to keep track of time.

“Start the call,” Locus says.

Wash lowers his head and listens to words that barely even register. There’s shouting, and then Felix laughs.

“Heeey there, Tucker! You know, Locus and I realized recently we’d never bothered to correct a misconception of yours! Why don’t you say hello?”

A hand fists in his hair and yanks Wash to his feet, and Wash hears shouting, but there’s only one voice that matters.

“Wash!”

Felix telling him how to sound goes right out of his head, because all Wash ends up saying is. “Tucker?” He knows that voice. How does he know that voice?

Locus punches him in the side and Wash doubles over, crying out

There’s a lot of noises, but none of them are the word he’s supposed to respond to. Locus pushes him towards Felix, and Wash goes, stumbling forward until Felix grabs him by the hair and pulls him in front of him.

“He’s a bit beat up, I know,” Felix says, shaking him slightly. Wash wants to go limp, but he tries to pull away instead, because he’s allowed, and he doesn’t want to be near Felix, doesn’t want to wait until Felix sinks a knife into him for misbehaving. “But I think he looks better this way, don’t you?”

“You son of a bitch—”

“Want to see them, Washy?” Felix asks, mocking, and before Wash can formulate how he’s supposed to response, his blindfold is ripped off and he’s looking up at a screen full of people in colorful armor.

Bad colors.

Wash recoils, and Felix laughs loudly.

“Wash?”

It’s the voice, it’s the voice, and Wash says it the way Felix told him too, loud and panicked and thrashing in Felix’s grip, trying to get away from the colors.

“Tucker!”

One of the teal ones rushes forward, and Felix stuffs the blindfold in his mouth, gagging him.

“Wash!”

Wash desperately tries to keep saying the word (or is it a name?) but Felix has his knife out and drags it across Wash’s chest, not enough to be dangerous but enough to draw blood, and Wash cries out and falls to the ground. There’s a calamity on the other side of the screen.

“Locus, take him away would you? As much fun it is to hear him scream, we’ve got business.”

“No! Wash!” It’s the voice again, and so Wash forces himself to try to call out again through the gag, even as Locus hauls him to his feet.

“Say goodbye,” Felix says. “I doubt you’ll be seeing him again, after all!”

“You can stop now,” Locus says in Wash’s ear as he pulls Wash away. Wash follows him limply, struggling to find his feet.

When they get to his cell, Locus removes the handcuffs and gag. “You did well, Washington.”

Wash perks up slightly at that. Is he not going to be punished anymore?

Locus presses a pill into his mouth, and Wash swallows obediently. It’s been a long time since he’s refused the drugs.

Locus takes off his armor and Wash practically vibrates while he waits. When Locus finally reaches for him, pulling him against his chest, Wash practically sobs with joy. It’s been a whole week since he’s been touched, and he only gets this much when he’s been very good. Control must be happy with his progress, Wash thinks, closing his eyes and leaning against Locus.

That night he dreams of teal armor and the word “Tucker!” over and over again.

When Felix calls them to say he’s got an offer, Tucker isn’t sure what to expect.

There’s been this... knot inside of Tucker, ever since he realized Locus probably killed Wash on purpose, to get him out of the way. A Freelancer was too much of a risk.

They’re all mourning him. It’s almost suffocating.

Felix appears on screen.

“You,” Kimball says, voice dripping with loathing. “What the hell do you want?”

“You sick fuck,” Tucker snaps. “We’re not buying what you’re selling, so why don’t you skip ahead to the part where we tell you to fuck off?”

“Heeey there, Tucker!” Felix is practically bouncing in place, and that’s how Tucker knows it’s not going to be good. “You know, Locus and I realized recently we’d never bothered to correct a misconception of yours! Why don’t you say hello?”

Tucker feels his stomach drop like a stone as Locus steps into view. He’s got his hands tangled in a shock of blonde hair, streaked with grey. The man he’s holding upright is wearing a prisoner’s uniform, and is covered in bruises and small cuts. His lip is split open, and there’s a trail of dried blood from the corner of his mouth. There’s a ring of bruises around his neck that look like fingers, and he’s pale and practically shaking as he’s pulled to a stand. There’s a blindfold over his eyes and his hands are cuffed behind his back. And despite all that, Tucker would know him anywhere.

“Wash!”

Wash freezes, head turning as much as he can in Locus’ grip, trying to find the source of the sound. “Tucker?” His voice is a rasp, like he’s been screaming or hasn’t used it in ages.

Locus punches Wash in the ribs and Wash doubles over, shouting in pain.

The whole room erupts in shouting at that point. Tucker spits curses at Felix, his eyes never leaving Wash, who’s struggling in Locus’ grip, breath coming in short, audible pants as he tries to recover.

Locus pushes Wash forward and Wash stumbles into Felix, who laughs and pulls him forward like a rag doll so they’ve got a better view. Wash looks thin, and in pain, and Tucker’s heart lurches something awful as he realizes that they had him the whole time.

“He’s a bit beat up, I know,” Felix says, tugging on Wash’s hair. “But I think he looks better this way, don’t you?”

“You son of a bitch—” Tucker snarls.

“Want to see them, Washy?” Felix says, his voice almost a coo, before ripping the blindfold off Wash’s face, and Tucker sees Wash’s bright blue eyes for the first time in months.

Wash recoils; he must be blinded by the light or something, Tucker guesses

“Wash?” He says, reaching out slightly towards the screen, unable to help himself.

Wash is fighting Felix’s grip now, head tossing back and forth, but he still yells out Tucker’s name, panicked and confused sounding. Tucker feels like he might cry, and he’s glad that he’s wearing his helmet, because Felix is probably enjoying this too much as it is, the sick fuck.

As Tucker steps forward, Felix stuffs the blindfold into Wash’s mouth, but Wash still keeps shouting through the gag.

Tucker thinks he’s saying his name.

There’s a flash of silver, and Tucker yells again as Felix drags his knife across Wash’s chest, cutting through the prison uniform and drawing blood and Wash tumbles down, screaming, out of sight of the camera, and everyone is shouting again.

“Locus, take him away would you? As much fun it is to hear him scream, we’ve got business.” Felix says, and there’s another muffled shout, indicating that Felix just kicked Wash.

“No! Wash!” Tucker’s practically pressed against the screen now, watching desperately as Locus hauls Wash to his feet and drags him away, Wash fighting him and screaming the whole way.

“Say goodbye,” Felix says. “I doubt you’ll be seeing him again, after all!”

“Wash!” Tucker is far from the only one to yell the name as Locus pulls Wash out of sight, Wash’s muffled screams echoing in their ears.

Wash is staring blankly at Locus’ body, and Tucker scrambles at the latches of the suit, because Grey says that they can probably hurt him through it, and he needs Wash out of that thing now.

Wash is no longer fighting; he went limp the second Locus went down, confirming their suspicions that Locus was the one who’d been controlling Wash at least.

Finally, Wash blinks slowly before staring right at Tucker. He recoils for a moment, shaking. He’s *scared* of Tucker.

“Wash, Wash, it’s okay,” Tucker pulls off his helmet desperately. “It’s me! It’s me, right?”

“It’s going to be fine,” Tucker lies through his teeth, because Wash looks pale and thin and scared and that’s all so *wrong* that Tucker can’t even bear to think about it. “He’s dead, right? He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Wash’s look is uncertain, but taking off the helmet helped. Thinking quickly, Tucker removes his breastplate and gloves. Each piece that comes off seems to relax Wash more, and, getting the message, he starts removing his own armor, piece by piece.

Finally, Wash is completely out of armor and Tucker’s only in his bottom half, and he can’t help himself. He reaches out and touches Wash’s face. Wash lets out a stifled noise—a sob, Tucker thinks, and leans into it. Tears are flowing down Wash’s face. “Wash,” Tucker breathes, and before he can stop himself he’s pulling Wash against his chest.

Wash lets out another noise—Tucker hates this, why isn’t Wash *talking*, but finally Tucker has to push him away, because they need to find the others. Reluctantly, Tucker puts on his armor, and Wash seems to shrink again. He starts moving away to call the others to help him with Wash, because Wash is hovering over Locus’ body now, staring down at him.

But the minute Tucker moves, Wash moves with him, staying just a few steps behind him.

“You know what? He can walk,” Tucker says. “Just send people to get the armor.” He glares at Locus again. “And Locus’ body, I guess. We could use it for target practice.”

Wash won’t eat.

Ever since they pulled him out of that fucking suit, ever since Tucker killed Locus, ever since he followed Tucker back, he won’t eat.

He’s not talking either, but honestly the eating is more concerning right now. He’s not shying away from Tucker; in fact, quite the opposite. He’s following Tucker around like… like a puppy or something and he practically luxuriates in every tiny bit of human contact Tucker or anyone else gives him. Caboose fucking hugged him as soon as they got back and Wash was practically glowing for hours.

But he won’t eat. They’ve tried pretty much everything; sticking to bland food, leaving him alone with it, but he won’t eat.

Tucker’s trying again today. He holds the protein bar out to Wash. “C’mon,” he begs. “Wash, you need to eat.”

Wash slowly inches forward, but he’s done that before, it doesn’t mean anything, before he takes a big bite out of the protein bar, and Tucker thinks he might actually cry. Wash relaxes as he eats, and Tucker just wants to bring Locus back to life so he can kill him again for doing this to Wash.

Once Wash is done he starts to back away again but Tucker reaches for him and Wash leans against his hand. “You’re gonna be fine, Wash,” Tucker mutters. “We’re gonna help you.”

His new handler is weird, Wash can’t help but think. He doesn’t… he’s nothing like Locus, or even like Felix. (Wash knows him, he knows him, but he doesn’t know his name, he can’t remember…

He’s not giving Wash the drugs, which worries Wash because the last time he didn’t take his drugs, he was punished for a week.

But… he’s not going to be punished if he’s not given them and doesn’t take them, right?

There’s no tape in the new base, which means Wash can wander freely, but there’s so many colors that it makes Wash nervous. It’s bad enough that his new handler wears teal.

At least he’s no longer in trouble. The new handler’s punishments are lighter than Locus or Felix’s, but Wash still doesn’t like it. Being left alone is… hard. Harder than it should be. Harder than it was. Wash isn’t sure why he hates being left alone by his new handler more than he hated being left alone by Locus. Being left alone by Locus had meant Felix, after all. And Felix… Wash wonders where Felix is. The new handler killed Locus, but he didn’t see Felix die. But Wash is being good again, and the food reflects that.

Today though, the handler wants to try something new. He holds out a  green apple, and Wash knows what this one means. Wash eats it, and then waits. His handler starts to stroke his hair and Wash relaxes again.

The door opens and a soldier in grey armor with green streaks walks in. Wash immediately follows orders.

He pulls out the knife he stole off one of the soldiers and pounces, ready to go for the kill.

The man screams and starts to run away, and before Wash can give chase his handler shouts and pulls him back, grabbing the knife out of his hands, and Wash curls up instantly, wondering what he did wrong.

Suddenly, he’s being pulled into his handler’s lap and there’s a hand in his hair again, petting him. “You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine…” his handler whispers. “You didn’t do anything  wrong, you’re fine…”

Lips press against his forehead and Wash tries to relax, but he doesn’t understand. Why doesn’t… why doesn’t….

Tucker.

That’s his handler’s name.

Tucker.

Wash opens his mouth, clumsily trying to find the words to ask Tucker what he wants, what Wash did wrong, but all that comes out is a whimper. His tongue is too clumsy to form words. Wash realizes he doesn’t even remember the last time he spoke. Felix and Locus didn’t like it when he spoke. (“You don’t get opinions,” Felix had whispered in his ear as Wash wriggled beneath him, begging him to stop. Stop what? Wash doesn’t remember, but he thinks there was blood. “You’re nothing.”)

“I’ve got you Wash,” Tucker says. “I’ve got you.”

Wash feels exhausted, and lets his eyes close.

Tucker has him. It’s going to be fine.

“Tucker,” Wash says as Tucker makes to leave one night.

Tucker freezes, then instantly goes back to Wash. “Wash? Wash? Do you know me?”

“Tucker,” Wash whispers again, and then he smiles, and Tucker thinks he might actually cry. Or hug Wash. He decides to hug Wash, just because.

“You remember,” Tucker whispers. “You’re remembering.”

“I—yes. Remembering,” Wash whispers. “There was… snow.”

“Lots of snow, yeah. We changed your armor, remember?”

“Yes,” Wash whispers. He pauses, struggling to think. “Locus… he’s… dead?”

“Dead as a fucking doornail, you saw me right? I was a fucking badass,” Tucker’s babbling, yes, but he doesn’t care, Wash can remember, Wash can talk, this is… they’ve been so scared the damage was permanent.

“Felix?” Wash is tense under his hands, and Tucker really wishes they’d been better at this.

“Not yet. We’re working on it.”

Wash clings to Tucker tightly, burying his face in his shoulder. “Don’t… don’t go?”

“No way,” Tucker says instantly. “I’m… I’m not going anywhere.”

[solarwindandcosmicash]

interlude i: welcome to the apricity

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Thrown into the Apricity without any prior warning and with its CO, Annos Liohle, barely explaining enough to satisfy their curiosity, the party spreads out to explore their new mobile home. It takes them a while to piece together the whole story, but between Vasir meeting a fan, Vekar and Kate breaking into Annos’s office, Phos sleeping in the CIC, and meeting most of the crew, they figure out they’re being sent to Anhur to stop a rebellion against the Council - and that they’re doing it under the Shadow Broker’s orders.

summary

After a rough and abrupt introduction to the ship’s CO, the party enters the Apricity, a small salarian frigate that is apparently part of the Shadow Broker’s fleet. Annos briefly lays out the plan - there’s a resistance building on Anhur, and the Shadow Broker wants them to take the leaders out - before retreating to his office, leaving the party to explore the ship with express orders not to touch anything.

Taking these words to heart, Phos conks out on the topmost level of the ship, the CIC, with Muffy quickly going to snooze on top her hump. Vasir stays with her and goes to the helm of the ship, where they are quickly stopped by a quarian, who tells them, “It’s best not to bother Elaye when she’s flying.” Realizing that Elaye must be the drell in the pilot’s seat, Vasir quickly backs off and rejoins Phos in the middle of the room, leaning against her and taking out their omni-tool to play solitaire and space Pokémon Go.

Meanwhile, Vekar and Kate have descended a level to find the main level of the ship, which contains the galley, the medbay, the crew quarters, the maintenance rooms, and the offices of the CO and the XO. There, they meet three of the Apricity’s crewmembers: a male turian with orange clan markings named Fausius, who introduces them to the other male turian with violet clan markings, Fawkes, and the female human, Advika. The conversation is almost painfully awkward, with Fawkes and Advika saying nothing while Fausius briefly entertains Vekar and Kate’s attempts at small talk, and in the end, Vekar and Kate move off to the medbay and leave the three of them in peace.

As this is happening, a quarian pops up from the stairs. Her name is Kara’Lisan and she greets Vasir nervously but excitably, having recognized them from her time on her birthship, the Rayya, and brings them down to the third level of the ship to engineering to introduce them to everyone. There, Vasir meets Ann, Bea, and Cat, identical triplets who work under Kara, the lead engineer, along with Isolde, the Apricity’s resident biotic, and Aster, the Apricity’s navigator. After a lively discussion where Kara talks Vasir’s ear off, Aster tells Vasir what he knows of the upcoming mission and answers some of Vasir’s questions:

Anhur was the site of one of the greatest violations of sapient rights: leaders abolished the minimum wage, thereby legalizing slavery. Though abolitionists won and drove the batarians out of Citadel space, there is still a large population of batarians there - and humans as well.

The Apricity is a stealth frigate. If they got into a firefight, the Apricity would run rather than fire.

The rebellion is still pretty small, so there shouldn’t be much opposition as long as they’re quiet... though that may be hard with Phos.

Vasir thanks him, and then the rest of the crew, and bids farewell to Kara before moving up a level and popping into the medbay.

Inside the medbay, Vekar and Kate have already begun speaking with a female salarian, who introduces herself as Suella, and a female turian, who introduces herself as Rela, though she quickly departs to check on another crewmember named Irène. Suella in particular is very excited to meet them and directs Vasir to the ship’s clean room, where they are able to patch the injury they had sustained on the Citadel. Suella is very apologetic that she can’t tell Vekar or Kate more about the upcoming mission, but suggests they ask Tris, the quarian in the helm. Following her advice, Vekar and Kate bid their farewells, Vasir emerges from the clean room, and the three of them depart, returning to the CIC to catch each other up.

When the three of them go up to the helm, the quarian introduces herself as Tris’Coeur, the XO of the Apricity. When Kate asks her about Anhur, Tris gives the party a data packet on their omni-tools - which Annos had forgotten to give them - and then leaves them to it. The data pack contains the following:

about Anhur

A garden world with heavy populations of humans and batarians, Anhur was home to one of the ugliest violations of sapient rights in modern human history. A consortium of corporations and corrupt politicians, fearing batarian economic competition due to their custom of legal slavery, passed a resolution that abolished the minimum wage -- effectively relegalizing slavery on a human-dominated world.

Opponents of the motion quickly turned to activism and violence. A civil war erupted, as one side sought to end slavery throughout the system and another, primarily batarian faction called the Na'hesit sought to keep the slaves they had. The Anhur Rebellions raged from 2176 to 2178. The Na'hesit had a significant advantage in ships, labor, and weapons, forcing the Anhur militias to hire mercenary companies to even the odds. In the end, the abolitionists won out, though at the cost of much of their infrastructure. Though Anhur today still has significant natural wealth, it is economically depressed, save for the reconstruction industry.

Following the Reaper war, Anhur’s population has lowered dramatically, but it has quickly become a refuge for humans and batarians as they flee their colonies. Though supplies are scarce, resources on Anhur are finally being efficiently collected thanks to collaboration between races, and it has become somewhat well-known as being a self-reliant and self-governed safe haven for refugees. It is, however, mostly led by batarians, which has led to tension and is a potential area of strife.

about the rebel cell

The rebel cell is a small group – so far, they have yet to spread off-planet. Estimates gauge their numbers to be near but below one hundred, though only a small number appear to be active in terrorism and planning. They are led by a former batarian slaver named Nyeck Slatojor; eliminating them should be sufficient enough to disorganize the group, but they have three other people they rely on extensively for support. These are Quincy Lorraine, a human male who was former Alliance; Delta T’Rola, an asari commando; and Kany Canard, a human female who participated in the Anhur militias during the rebellion. Eliminating them should be sufficient to disbanding the organization.

Below that is a series of coordinates, the location of the base itself.

Vekar returns to the medbay and asks Suella about the experiment she had been working on when he’d first seen her, and she explains that she’s trying to develop a mechanism that can deliver medi-gel through a quarian’s suit - bypassing the risk that the quarian would get infection from open air when they get a wound. The idea is that quarians would survive a suit rupture with this new medi-gel, and Vekar brings up a point that Suella had not previously considered; with that in mind, she ushers him out of the medbay so she can resume work, and Vekar returns to the CIC.

Kate, meanwhile, goes to check out the crew’s quarters, though she is stopped from entering by Advika calling out, “It’s the night cycle, you probably shouldn’t disturb them.” Not wanting to cause a scene, Kate wordlessly retreats and instead goes down to the lowest deck, where she meets Kara, Ann, Bea, Cat, Aster, and Isolde. Talking to Aster reveals a little more information:

Docking protocols at Anhur are a mess. There are no formalities, first come first serve, security’s abysmal - so no one tracks shuttles. The party will be dropped in without notice for sure.

Kate thanks him for the information before returning to the CIC, making note of the locked offices on the second desk and deciding it might be worth it to try and enter, if only because they don’t have a lot of information and it might be worth it.

Phos wakes up when the rest of the party has gathered in the CIC, cautiously pushing Muffy off of her hump before tromping down to the lowest deck to speak to Isolde. Isolde lifts Phos up with a hug and then challenges her to a fight, which is tabled for later. Phos also talks with Aster, where it is revealed that most of the ship is terrified of her not because she’s a krogan but because she choked a woman scavenger for not doing what she wanted - which is generally the crew’s modus operandi, given who they work for. The ice is broken when Phos calls Annos ‘Anus’, however, and she is immediately endeared to the crew on the lowest deck as she returns to the CIC. Phos then goes to talk to Tris, who treats her with clear derision and condescension, causing Phos to retreat shortly thereafter.

Vasir peels off to visit Kara on the lowest deck again and shows her the data packet, asking her about the coordinates and if she knows anything. Kara is unable to help, but Vasir learns that most missions are not as secretive at this one, and that Kara is afraid she will get in trouble for learning about the data packet at all. They don’t press why she is afraid and back off, going up to the second desk and collecting a tube of dextro paste before returning to the CIC.

Vekar and Kate, meanwhile, go down to the second deck to break into one of the offices, ultimately deciding to break into Annos’s office, with Vekar hacking and Kate keeping watch. Vekar does manage to open the door, and the instant they do, Annos is standing and has his weapon drawn. He’s irritated at the interruption, but impressed that they managed to break into his office, and so tells them a bit more about the rebellion on Anhur - largely that it’s important that it be stopped now, because very likely it will win a lot of support and be even harder to take down. They also learn that the Council Spectres are not going to get involved. Afterwards, Vekar and Kate retreat back to the CIC, deciding to leave the XO’s office alone.

For the next several hours, the party rests in the crew quarters and are called back to the CIC for a last-minute briefing before deployment to Anhur.

noteable lines

Phos: I guess that ‘Anus’ guy didn’t give the greatest impression of me - Aster: Yep, that’s - that’s the guy. That’s him.

Vekar: Only one way to find out [if Annos will space the party if they break into his office]. Cover for me. Kate: UH

Vasir, OOC: [when asked to break into Annos’s office] Uh, I don’t think Vasir would do that. Like, ever.

technical notes

Vekar contributes something to the conversation with Suella. Knowledge roll. 1d20 + know → 15 + 1 → 16 Vekar gives Suella a new perspective on her project, which may accelerate her work in the future.

Phos stands up, dislodging Muffy from where she had been sleeping on her hump. ◈ Muffy will remember that.

Isolde lifts Phos in a hug. Strength roll. 1d20 + str → 20 + 2 → 22 Isolde lifts Phos up a few centimeters off the ground.

Phos gives a friendly slap to Aster’s shoulder. Strength roll. 1d20 + str → 9

Aster contests. Strength roll. 1d20 + str → 19 - 2  → 17 Aster successfully contests.

Phos delivers a friendly pat. Aster stays upright and does not get injured.

Kara learns more about the data packet. Technical roll. 1d20 + tech → 5 + 3 → 8 Kara is unable to learn more about the data packet.

Vasir doesn’t press Kara about how much she can and can’t say. ◈ Kara will remember that.

Vekar breaks into Annos’s office. Vekar breaks into Annos’s office, but he has to decrypt this puzzle first:

Fausius, Fawkes, and Advika notice Vekar breaking into Annos’s office. Perception roll. 1d20 + perc.

Fausius → 8 + 1 → 9 Fawkes → 4 + 3 → 7 Advika → 3 -1 → 2

Fausius, Fawkes, and Advika fail to notice Vekar breaking into Annos’s office.

Annos notices someone is hacking his door. Perception roll. 1d20 + perc → 18 + 3 → 21 Annos knows that his door is being hacked, and he’s on his feet and ready to shoot before the intruder(s) can enter.

prev | start | next

[deepseawritings]

Prank War

This wasn't what he imagined it would happen when he agreed to work with the USS' military, sharing his knowledge of the Zone. He never expected to be sent back, to help the scientists at their new mobile lab in Zaton, but he could deal with that. The Skadovsk was nice enough, he supposed. It wasn't as lively as the famous 100 Rads, but it had the advantage of having actual bunk beds to sleep in. Strelok wasn't a fan of the Rostok's most popular sleeping method, sleeping on the floor around a campfire sucked even if you were inside a building. However, the Skadovsk had a huge downside: he was here.

Strelok had been adjusting to his new routine in Zaton when one day the Major appeared with the amnesiac bastard in tow. In an amazing display of unoriginality, Degtyarev had nicknamed him Scar, due to his scarred face. Nimble had recognised him, claiming Scar had been a mercenary and that they'd worked together once. It all was very innocuous; however, for some unexplainable reason, Strelock disliked the man intensely. He had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind whenever he saw Scar, like he should fight or run far away. Moreover, the first time he saw him he'd felt vaguely familiar. Had they met before? It was a most frustrating feeling, and it only added to his dislike of him. In the end he decided to ignore Scar's existence. It's not like he would see him very often, right? Strelok was either at the new government lab answering the scientist's questions or out there, doing small missions on his own whenever he could. On the other hand, Scar usually worked running errands for Nimble and Owl.

He was wrong. Degtyarev insisted they could help each other cope with their amnesia, like some sort of support group. It backfired spectacularly. Scar had picked up the clues of Strelok's animosity towards him, and now the feeling was mutual. The tension between them when they were in the same room was so thick it was almost a solid entity. Moreover, civil, detached coexistence was not their forte. Any conversation they started didn't take long to turn into an argument peppered with threats. Degtyarev had never regretted something so much as he regretted introducing them.

##

One day Strelok found his personal locker secured with a padlock. What the fuck? That sure as hell wasn't there when he left this morning. At first he tried to pick it open with his knife, but the results were abysmal. Then he went to borrow some tools from Cardan to force it open.

Hearing some strange noises, Scar poked his head in to see what was happening. Strelok threw him a venomous glance. He'd always been prone to jumping to conclusions, and he was very suspicious of Scar's timing.

"Is there a problem?" Scar asked him. That just cemented Strelok's suspicions.

"Did you think it was funny?" Strelok spat.

"What?" Scar made a very convincing picture of confusion, but he wasn't buying it.

"We'll see who laughs last." Scar looked at him like he'd grown an extra head.

It really was a shame that, in his fury, Strelok completely missed the tiny, dirty scrap of paper on top of his locker. During his attempts at opening the locker, the paper slid back and fell between the locker and the wall. It was a hastily scribbled note:

"Snag came back. He's a damn thief, trust me, I know from experience. I locked your locker just to be safe, ask Beard for the key. Hope you're not mad. Degtyarev."

##

It was a stroke of luck that he'd overheard Owl asking Scar to go retrieve something from the bandits camping on the dock cranes. Strelok had nothing to do right now, it was the perfect opportunity. He loitered around the bar until Scar was gone, then he sprang into action.

So many choices, he thought gleefully as he spotted his victim's locker. He felt a momentary pang of guilt. He had never gone through another stalker's personal stuff, and certainly he wouldn't condone such behaviour in others. Then he remembered that Scar had messed with his locker first. Alright, payback was fair. After a quick, superficial search he grabbed the battered Vintar and some spare ammo clips. Now he just needed to...

Scar came back not much later. Strelok coincidentally chose that moment to go to the infirmary to stock up on meds. He heard the noise of a locker opening and then a grunt of surprise. He had duct taped the Vintar and the ammo to the ceiling. Serves him right. Strelok watched him from the doorway as he retrieved his things.

"Is there a problem?" Strelok asked him, unable to keep the smirk off his face. Judging by Scar's narrowed eyes, he had noticed it.

"This means war." Scar said though clenched teeth.

"Bring it on." Strelok challenged him with grim satisfaction.

##

One day passed and no further incidents occurred. Strelok began to ponder which should be his next move, or if he should wait and see if the ex-mercenary had just been bluffing. Turns out Scar hadn't been idle. That night a tired Strelok lay down on the same bunk he always picked and immediately regretted it. The mattress gave in and it fell through the bed frame to the floor with a resounding clank. The noise made Degtyarev come upstairs to see what was happening, fearing Scar and Strelok finally decided to kill each other. He stopped on the entrance, surprised to see the tilted, upside down mattress and Strelok lying half on the floor, half tangled in the bed.

"Oh man, what the fuck happened?" Degtyarev helped him up, laughing at his predicament. Scar was there as well, looking faintly amused. How Strelok wanted to wipe that smug smile out of his face. One of these days, he was going to climb him like a tree and – and strangle him, yes.

The latches holding up the mattress base were undone and the screws missing. Strelok decided that fixing this was not his problem. After some more jokes from the Major, he settled down for the night without further incidents.

##

His chance at retaliation came up unexpectedly. For once the scientists at the lab did not have time to bombard him with their never-ending questions. They had received a new shipment of supplies and some idiot had messed up big time. They received an unholy amount of lab staining solutions and, to top it off, that lab did not even conduct biological research. Surely no one would miss a single bottle. Amidst the chaos, he nicked some powders labelled Congo Red before being dismissed for the day.

Coating the inside of Scar's coat hood was trickier, since he usually went everywhere with his trench coat. He only took it off when he slept. He had to wait until it was the middle of the night, when everyone was either asleep or passed out drunk (since he didn't want interruptions or witnesses) and then sprinkled the inside of the coat and its hood with the staining powders.

The powder was of a bright red colour, so he was genuinely surprised at Scar's blue hair. It made the whole bar erupt in laughter when they saw him with his blotchy dye job. Revenge with a dash of public ridicule was sweet, indeed.

##

It was early at night, the stalkers were starting to come in droves back to the safety of the Skadovsk. Strelok had been sleeping almost all afternoon. He dragged himself up and mentally prepared himself to go hunt that Chimera like he promised to do. He went to put on his shoes and grab some supplies for the hunt. He slipped into his boots and then he fell face-first to the floor when he tried to move. Ugh, some motherfucker had glued them to the floor!

Speaking of the devil, Scar appeared in that moment and smirked at him. He'd already washed almost all the dye from his hair, but even after a day it still had a lingering soft, bluish hue.

"One single word and I'll punch you in the face." Strelok threatened from his spot on the floor.

"Can you even reach that high?" Scar was taking great delight in aggravating him.

Strelok made good on his promise. In a show of remarkable speed, he got up and tackled him, successfully throwing Scar to the ground. He straddled him, preventing him from getting up, and was about to punch him when Scar surged forward, clashing their mouths together. It was a bruising kiss. Actually, it was more like a bite, all teeth and anger. They broke apart panting and Scar's swiped the blood swelling on Strelok's lower lip with his thumb.

"I fucking hate you." Strelok said between uneven breaths.

"Likewise." Scar growled before he was met with another rage fuelled kiss.

##

Upstairs in his makeshift office, Nimble was brokering a deal with Degtyarev when they heard the commotion. Degtyarev ran downstairs like a worried mother hen. Nimble followed him since the Major still had to pay him. They were greeted with the image of Strelok and Scar furiously making out on the floor like a pair of horny, emotionally unstable teenagers. Nimble dragged Degtyarev away before they were discovered and the situation became even more awkward.

"That was... unexpected." Degtyarev chuckled weakly, back in Nimble's quarters. He looked completely stunned.

"Tell me about it, now I owe Cardan two hundred roubles!" Nimble sighed. He was never again going to make a bet with the technician. However, knowing them both, it still could end with one of them throwing the other into an anomaly field as he had predicted.

Author's Note: In case anyone is interested curious about it, Congo Red changes its colour from red to blue in acidic pH (like sweat). It also is toxic, especially if ingested.