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qqueenofhades · 6 years

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the tangled web of fate we weave: xiii

yes i finished it after getting Extremely Distracted last night, and tumblr even appears to have fixed its issues with wonky symbols in text posts. it’s a christmas miracle.

part xii/AO3.

Garcia Flynn has spent the last two years – well, he hasn’t had a single permanent address, a stopover longer than a few months, any phone that wasn’t a burner, a consistent identity or nationality, a less than fifty percent chance that someone will appear with a semi-automatic weapon to finish the job, or a fully legal exit from any of a dozen countries. So really, draw your own conclusions. On the run seems almost hilarious in its understatement; he vaguely recalls that the literary device is called litotes. Completely undersell something for sharper rhetorical effect, usually by presenting it as the negative or opposite of the truth, the kind of sassy and contrary thing that appeals to him. You call Chernobyl just a little industrial fire. Or Rittenhouse really not that bad. Or Garcia Flynn a sensible, well-adjusted man who has a full idea of what he’s doing and everything under control. There, you see? Irony.

Flynn has a full half-dozen fake identities under his belt by now, an assortment of dollars, loonies, euros, pounds, and pesos in reserve depending on where he’s going, and has lived in shitty hotel rooms for so long that he has forgotten there is any other kind of human domicile. It’s better not to ask how he’s getting the money. The NSA doesn’t exactly offer severance pay, and while he has a few accounts in Croatia, they are under his real name and if Rittenhouse knows the first damn thing about their business, they are just waiting for him to try to access them. They’re probably frozen anyway. And while Flynn is perfectly willing to mug someone in an alley if need be, this does not generate any substantial or sustainable income. So he owns one computer, firewalled and encrypted and IP-randomized up the wazoo, a computer that God Himself could not hack (Flynn has made sure of this by running monthly attempts on it himself). This computer is configured to access the Deep Web, otherwise known as the Dark Web, where at least seventy-five percent of the world’s high-level organized crime takes place, a murky cyber underworld and the lifeblood of the black market. Every few weeks, Flynn logs on, performs a few tasks for someone whose real name or employment he will never know, and one to three business days later (good to know that crime syndicates are reliable about their payroll processing) a large amount of money turns up in one of the corresponding fake identities’ offshore bank account. Never the same one twice in a row, or on too consistent a schedule. Flynn likes to think that he hasn’t taken jobs for anyone truly terrible, that it’s the usual petty exchange of knockoff prescription drugs, corporate sabotage, data ransomware, and insurance scams, but he doesn’t know for sure.

And yet. Morally questionable or not, black-hat hacking has enabled him to keep a roof (even a terrible motel one) over his head, eat regularly, change his identities as needed, and track Rittenhouse across multiple countries and continents, so he’s going to keep doing it. For obvious reasons, he cannot return to either Philadelphia or West Point. D.C., where there must be the highest concentration of them, is also out. He can’t go at them directly, so he has to come at them from angles and pincer movements, feints and probes, a subtle, surreptitious game. Try to pin down just how far their influence extends, and how deeply it’s entrenched. It would be impossible for an entire task force with all the money and time in the world. For one man, it’s beyond that. And yet. Garcia Flynn is doing it anyway.

His first port of call was Bavaria, in Germany, seeing if Rittenhouse shared any connections or resources with the Illuminati, founded in 1780 for similar aims but (supposedly) quickly repressed. If you ask your bog-standard conspiracy theorist, they’ll claim the Illuminati are still alive and kicking, and Flynn wanted to figure out if they just subsumed their operations into Rittenhouse. So Dr. Alexander Kovac went to some regional archives and libraries, looking for stuff on Adam Weishaupt and his disciples, any contacts they might have had with David Rittenhouse and his. He found a few things that seemed to suggest this was possible, but Germany has, for obvious reasons, cracked down hard on these kinds of groups post-WWII. It is no longer the ideal environment for Rittenhouse to flourish, even if they probably have a few tendrils planted near Angela Merkel and the EU. Europe might be the birthplace of this kind of thinking, but America has realized it to its fullest potential.

After that, Flynn went to the Caribbean, since he guessed that most of their money has to be moving through the same havens as his. The Caymans, he thinks. But he can’t get physically near it, if there was anything to get close to, without setting off alarm bells, and even his hacking attempts have to be careful. He did enjoy sleeping on the beach beneath the tropical stars, but the news that a hurricane was on the way, plus seeing the same man wander casually past him a few too many times, felt like his cue to leave. Where, he wasn’t quite sure. He wanted to go back to California, wanted like crazy, but he didn’t dare.

Thus, he went to Ottawa instead. It was an unpleasant shock to go from the sunny Caribbean to Canada in winter, but there are bigger problems at stake. Canada obviously has close ties to America, so Flynn could pick up on some things by inference, intercept bits of useful intelligence here and there, and it was close enough to the border that he could nip over a few times and prowl around upstate New York (very, very carefully). The black site in West Point still seems to be in operation, and Flynn made every possible effort to hear about it if Lucy ever returned there, if there is any whisper that Rittenhouse has gotten their hooks into her again. If he did hear anything – well, to hell with subterfuge or delicacy. He would in fact just crash in and pull her out, even if it meant blowing the whole operation, and he’s relieved for any number of reasons that he has not had to. It’s a good thing she did not come along. He could never have been this flexible and this relentless if he had to keep one eye on her and teach her how to live this way. This isn’t a job to learn on.

(A very good thing.)

(Very good.)

(Very.)

Ultimately, however, Flynn’s Canadian sojourn ended up concluding the same thing as Germany: that Canada was not the right place for Rittenhouse to think it worthwhile expanding their foothold. Too nice, probably, and they don’t have the same sense of American imperialism and exceptionalism, don’t fit into Rittenhouse’s patriotic-fascist grand design. So then it was the question of the time machine, which he has been putting off in the hope it was just some sort of trick (even if he has very good reason to know it’s not). Connor Mason has been generously bankrolled to build it, according to Emma, and while Flynn will kill the bitch if he ever sees her again, she’s not lying about that. How much more do they still need to get done to make it a viable operational threat? Where are they getting their engineers, their machinery, their tech? Is Mason himself in Rittenhouse? He has to be. No way they’d outsource that little job to just anyone. Does Mason owe his entire fortune, all his well-publicized accomplishments, to these people? How much else has he done for them?

Flynn still cannot return outright to the Bay Area without sending up too many smoke signals. He has to be strategic. Finally, he lucks into a tip that Connor Mason is taking his team to London for a week in February, bringing the whole circus. As London is obviously also where Emma said she wanted to go, where Rittenhouse was supposedly trying for a new foothold, the coincidence is perfect and self-explanatory. London calling? London calling.

Thus, Flynn picks up from where he has been living in a log cabin in Vermont for the last two months (it’s practically home, he feels an odd pang at leaving it), and takes a flight out of JFK on the Canadian passport that gives his name as Gabriel Ashe. It’s a Commonwealth country, he’ll get less scrutiny entering the UK that way, especially since the passport is only mostly legit. If he blows this, he could find himself out on his ass and in even more hot water, but his luck has held thus far. He has to trust that it will.

On the flight, Flynn supposes that he knows very well what sins he is being punished for by getting stuck in the middle seat, and thinks about Lorena Kovac. About seven months ago, on a lonely, late night, he gave into a moment of weakness and emailed her from his untrackable computer. He hasn’t really spoken to her in several years, and didn’t know what he was going to achieve by getting in touch again. He didn’t say anything about where he was or what he was doing, just that he hoped she was well. He knows it probably confused and hurt Lorena, since he gave her no explanation for dropping out of her life in the first place, and he’s sorry for it. But he wanted – he wanted something, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. Just to be sure he didn’t dream a real life, perhaps. The one where they met for coffee on sunny mornings in Dubrovnik, looked over the glittering Adriatic Sea, and did not talk about war.

Lorena’s reply, three days later, was polite and to the point. She also hoped that he was well. She was doing fine – better than fine,. She has recently had a baby girl, Iris. She and Iris’ father – a childhood friend of Flynn’s, an old schoolmate, Luka – are engaged, and they are very happy. A summer wedding is planned. She wishes Flynn the best in his life, and remains fond of him. She hopes he is at peace. She is.

Reading it felt, for Flynn, like being punched in the chest. Somehow it never occurred to him that Lorena would also move on with her life, that since her feelings for him never turned into the relationship she was hoping for, she would tidily shut the door and walk away. And Luka – he’s a doctor, he’s a great guy, he and Flynn have known each other forever, he and Lorena will have a wonderful life. A baby girl named Iris. The ghost of a smiling child floated into Flynn’s head and has never entirely left. It hurt in a way he can’t articulate. It still does. He loved Lorena, in some unformed, tentative, unrealized way, even if Lucy was already between them, somehow, from the start. He knows why Lorena has written the letter as she did, with the tone of wishing an old flame well, even if they were never officially together. She has made it clear that as far as she and her life are concerned, the wound is no longer open, the space has been filled. Perhaps this put them out of danger from Rittenhouse, but Flynn can’t risk writing back. Lorena will probably wonder why she even bothered, and go to her child and future husband, and live. He wants that, God, he wants that, he does. And yet.

That was the night he finally broke a little, under the strain, the effort, the loneliness. He feels corroded, rusted and deformed and darkened, and he was no saint to start with. He is fighting for something, not just against, but he’s not sure he can see it anymore. It was a strange and highly colored dream, and he’s losing the impossible kernel of faith, or fate, that has driven him thus far. It’s too much. It’s too much.

Someone found his hideout the next day, and Flynn killed him. It’s not clear whether he needed to. It was probably just a lost backpacker stumbling on a place that looked inhabited in the woods. Probably. But Flynn shot him anyway and buried him five miles away from the nearest cell phone signal. It’s not the first man he’s killed on this journey, and by far not the first he’s killed in his life. But it was the first one he killed while the man was defenseless, on his knees, and begging that he just wanted to see his mother again.

(It’s a good thing Lorena is with a man, not a monster.)

(A very good thing.)

(Very good.)

(Very.)

The flight finally lands in London, Flynn just makes it through customs with the bogus Gabriel Ashe passport (the customs officer is a little dubious, but the queue is very long and he smiles as unthreateningly as possible) and heads into the City. He has guessed the approximate location of the hotel that Mason Industries is staying at – it’ll be somewhere fancy – but he can’t be completely sure. There are a lot of upmarket hotels in London, after all, and he needs to be careful about which member of the squad he snipes off. He needs someone well-placed on the project, who can answer his questions, and someone who is conveniently clueless about the fact that Mason is in it deep with Rittenhouse, who is so blessedly fortunate as to never have heard the name “Rittenhouse” in their life. Flynn has a few ideas, but he is willing to be flexible. See what comes up, as it were.

The law is almost a ridiculous concept to Flynn now, has had no bearing on his actions whatsoever for months and months. And so he does not care that he has flagrantly illegal methods of tapping into the vast network of data, of closed-circuit television and cell phone signals and open wifi hotspots and all the other stuff that you can access with just a little effort. He narrows it down to Covent Garden, wanders around until he has visual. Yes, it’s him. One of Mason’s engineers. Due to Flynn’s extensive scrutiny of the employee lists, he can identify him as Rufus Carlin. He looks to be on a date. That’s unfortunate.

Flynn takes a better grip on his gun inside his jacket pocket, and strolls forward for a chat.

“I’m sorry?” Rufus repeats, when Mysterious European Gunman makes another brusque motion. Is he a Bond villain? Is this the start of a heist film where Rufus and Jiya race through London, Paris, Madrid, Budapest, and Rome, trying to stop him before he can launch a nuke from his secret Swiss Alps base? (Rufus should wonder what it says that he has this fantasy all ready to go, but better for all concerned that it remain a fantasy – he is not an action hero). “How do you know my name? What is – do you think you can just – ”

“Let’s just agree I know more than you do, Rufus.” A flash of a shark-like white smile, which (amazingly) does nothing to make him feel more confident. “Sorry to interrupt your date.”

“It’s – ” Rufus starts into his well-worn spiel that it’s not a date, until he realizes that a) they are getting sidetracked, and b) this is not Douche von Douchebag’s business anyway. “Well then? How about you not interrupt it? And just let me go? Look, I’ve got some money. Is this a robbery? You want that? You can have it, man. Seriously”

He makes a motion as if to go for his wallet, thinking that at least he wasn’t dumb enough to bring his passport out – as long as he doesn’t need to spend his time here tied up in the consulate getting a new one, Jerkface McGee here can have the rest. Cancel his credit cards and whatever else, it’s not worth his life. But the man shakes his head. “I don’t want your money. Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

Rufus hesitates. The dude does have a gun and it’s clear just to look at him that he’s not afraid to use it, and who knows what he has in the other jacket pocket – a detonator for a bomb? Damn, and one of the things he was looking forward to on this trip was a lessened risk of being shot for walking down the street while black. “Can I just – can I just tell Jiya that – ”

“Sorry,” the man says pleasantly. “Can’t have her calling anyone. Come on.”

With that, he takes Rufus by the jacket sleeve and walks him briskly out, into the plaza and up toward Leicester Square. Rufus keeps twisting vainly over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of Jiya – great, there goes that entire successful day, she’s gonna think he ditched her on purpose like an asshole, or he’s just the world’s most inattentive doofus who couldn’t bother to wait for her before running back for a nap. Yes, he has more problems on his hands, but that one stings. “Hey,” he says. “Can I call you back? You know, meet for coffee tomorrow, if this is really what you – ”

“Do you think I’m an idiot, Rufus?”

“No… sir?”

“Good.” Sir Shithead keeps walking. Rufus wants to ask him to let go of his sleeve, but he has a feeling that wouldn’t go anywhere good. They make their way up into the maze of side streets and closes that branch off the major thoroughfares in London, toward a tea shop – wait, really, the guy is going to abduct him in broad daylight and then buy him an Earl Grey? Is this the most British kidnapping in existence? His accent isn’t British, though. Rufus is confused enough not to struggle (besides, he also can’t see that going anywhere good) as they reach the shop, Herr Horrible orders a small black coffee, and does not offer to get Rufus anything (he just had his latte, but still). Rufus asks for a Coke just as the man is about to pay, though, which means that he is obliged to buy it. As they sit down at a corner table barely large enough to fit him, the Red Baron raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Well what?” Rufus snaps. “Like I’m the one who needs to explain myself here?”

“I just want answers.” The man – Rufus is enjoying coming up with new disparaging nicknames for him, since it’s the only satisfaction he is getting out of this, but he would like an actual one – sounds impatient. “Do that, you can be back on your way in ten, fifteen minutes, tell the girl that you just got lost. You want to cooperate or not?”

Rufus holds out as long as he dares. Then he says, “How do you know my name?”

“You work for Mason Industries. Yes?”

Oh brother, Rufus thinks. Not another throw-his-weight-around military white boy coming to ask probing questions. This one is almost making him miss Wyatt. “Yeah, so?”

“Does Emma Whitmore still work there?”

“She transferred? About a year and a half ago? She still works there, yeah, but I think she took a job at one of the other offices. Here, maybe?”

“Where?” the man demands. “Where?”

Rufus stalls. It’s pretty clear from the look on the Teutonic Terror’s face that it’s bad news for Emma if he catches up to her. He and Emma have never been buddy-buddy, but they’ve worked together for a while, he’s done the calculations responsible for sending her through time, and he doesn’t want that on his head. He is relieved that it is the truth as he says, “I don’t know. We haven’t exactly been keeping up with Christmas cards.”

The man stares at him narrowly. “Do you know if she’s planning to rejoin the main office?”

“I don’t know,” Rufus repeats. “Maybe you should have kidnapped the HR manager.”

For half a moment, a sardonic but genuinely amused smile flickers across the hard lines of the other man’s face. Then it’s all back to business. “Fine,” he says. “How close is the time machine to being done?”

“I – ?” Rufus stares at him. “I – what are you talking about?”

“You’re a smart man, Rufus. Don’t act like an idiot.”

There is a silence long enough to turn very uncomfortable. They stare at each other over the rickety table. Rufus feels as if his odds of flipping it and launching the hot coffee into the man’s face are very slim, but he has to fight down an urge to do just that. Instead of answering, he says, “I’m guessing you and Wyatt Logan know each other?”

Something brief and inscrutable appears, then disappears, in the man’s guarded gaze. “We were acquainted in the past,” he says noncommittally. “Answer the question, please.”

“This is going to get me into trouble.”

“I honestly don’t care if it does or not.”

“Yeah, well. I do.”

“You’d care about something more if you knew why I was asking. And if you have to make me do it a third time – ”

“Jeez.” Rufus raises his hands. “Scorched-earth everything with you, isn’t it? Look. We’ve progressed to running more extensive tests, but it’s still very buggy. One of the lead engineers just got out of an eight-month coma. It’s not out of any sort of beta.”

“When do you think it will be?”

“What are you, some kind of corporate spy? Government whistleblower?” Mason has, for obvious reasons, wanted to keep this project strictly under wraps, and Rufus has definitely already breached several paragraphs of his organizational NDA by talking this much. “Shoot me if you want, but you’re not going to make me turn on – ”

That mirthless smile pays a visit to the corner of In Soviet Russia’s mouth. “I don’t have to shoot you,” he points out. “The girl you were with. I got a nice look at her face. From my examination of the employee directory, I think that is… Jiya, yes? Jiya Marri?”

That rocks Rufus onto his heels and all further smart remarks out of his mouth. “You son of a bitch,” he says, low and hard. “Stay away from her.”

“Do your part, Rufus, and neither of you ever have to see me again.” The man shrugs. “A little answer. Very easy.”

Rufus chews his tongue. Whatever he says, he has a feeling that it isn’t just an academic interest, that he could be directly responsible for setting off a barrel of nitroglycerin in the middle of Connor’s life – in everyone’s. Finally he says, “Again, like I said. It’s in beta. There is no expected timescale of completion when we’re talking about something this. The Mothership runs better, but we – ”

“The Mothership?” The man leans forward with an intent, wolfish expression. “What’s that?”

Shit. Rufus wants to bite his tongue off. He says reluctantly, “The main machine is called the Mothership. There’s a backup called the Lifeboat, but it’s designed just for short-term use, in the event of something going wrong with the Mothership’s crew and a rescue squad being sent to pull them out. That one’s really in beta.”

“Two time machines.” The man taps his fingers on the table, thinking hard. “And either of these, how do they run? Can you visit moments in your own lifetime?”

That is a weirdly specific question. Rufus almost wonders if he’s a crazy UFO fan, or something like that. Or maybe he’s clung onto a time machine as a solution for the big steaming heap of cow poop that his life appears to be – go back and change all your bad choices, that kind of thing. “No,” he says. “That’s not possible. You can’t travel on your own timeline. The ones that’ve tried, you – you don’t want to know what happened to them. The universe doesn’t like it, it’s not like Harry Potter with two versions of you running around.”

For some reason, that answer disturbs his interlocutor (yeah, he’s disturbed now, finally some equality). Rufus wants to demand how the hell he knows this, where he’s got his information and what he is planning to do. There is a final pause until the man makes up his mind. “Give me your access card to Mason Industries,” he says. “Your ID, your key card, whatever I need to get in. You can say you lost them.”

“I just happened to lose my ID?”

“Or I can rob you,” the man points out. “Yes, I think it might be better if we do that. I will take your money after all. London is an expensive city, why not?”

“I can’t let you into Mason Industries. I can’t – ”

“You’re here in London for the whole week. The entire team is. That is much neater, I don’t need to kill anyone to get in. You can tell Jiya that you were robbed, she will feel very sorry for you. A happy ending. You don’t report it to anyone and you don’t say anything about losing the card until you get back.”

“To what, a giant bomb crater where Mason Industries used to be?”

“Oh, no.” The man shakes his head. “I don’t want to destroy it. I just need information. Now. You give me your ID card, the cash in your wallet, and anything else a robber might take. I will let you keep your phone. Hurry up, Rufus. Jiya must be looking for you.”

Rufus has never wanted to kill anyone with a stare more than he has wanted to kill this idiot, but he can’t think what else to do. Slowly, he fumbles out his Mason Industries ID and key card on its lanyard, jerks the cash envelope out, and shoves it over the table. It’s not even his money, but still. He feels the betrayal on a soul-deep level, the one thing he hates most. What a way to repay Connor, after everything he has done for him. Rufus feels tainted and unhappy and used. “There,” he snaps. “Take it. Are we done?”

“You tell me.” The man shrugs, pocketing the card and cash. “Actually, I have changed my mind. A robber would take your phone. Give it to me, I will mail it back in a few weeks.”

“I – ” Rufus clutches his phone like his firstborn child. Like any proper millennial, he cannot function more than a few hours without it. “Like I’m going to believe that?”

“Phone. Now.”

Rufus grits his teeth, thinks that he can hopefully report it as stolen and freeze it before the bastard has time to mine all its data, and drops it into his hand. King Kraptacular, of course, makes sure to ask him for the passcode, makes Rufus do it to demonstrate that it is in fact the right one, and then finally stands up with a mocking grin. “It’s been good to do business with you,” he says, touching two fingers to his hat. “Enjoy your trip to London, Rufus.”

And with that, leaving Rufus sitting there completely gobsmacked, he goes.

Wyatt Logan has no idea how to find a man whose entire professional value lies in his ability to completely fucking disappear at will, but by God, that is not going to stop him trying.

He can’t exactly drive up to NSA headquarters and demand to consult their personnel files, especially for ex-personnel that, as far as Wyatt knows, still have a standing arrest warrant. He did try the old phone number for Flynn, but he was not surprised at all when the cool female robot voice told him that this number was not in service. He’s tried to think if anyone in the intelligence branch of things owes him a favor, or might feel bad for him because his wife is probably dead and would be willing to kick some rocks. The possibility of the quest has galvanized Wyatt like a direct intravenous hit of caffeine; he hasn’t slept more than three hours at one time since this started. It’s been four days, and he has barely focused on the fact that for all intents and purposes, the cops are looking for a body. That’s not it, that’s not what happened. Jess is alive somehow, somewhere. She’s alive.

In the course of this, Wyatt has also been managing to convince himself that Flynn is not as bad as he remembers. Sure, he was an abrasive jackass with zero interpersonal skills and an amazing ability to make everything ten times more difficult than it needs to be, but to be fair, when they actually met face-to-face, Flynn had just been shot twice and was freshly out of emergency surgery. That might put a damper on anyone’s sunny disposition, and Wyatt is painfully aware that his own behavior has been no basket of roses. Maybe it’s just because he’s so lonely, he’s so desperately lonely and so terrified that this in fact the one mistake he cannot take back or get around, but he’s already half-made Flynn into a friend in his head. Grumpy, but essentially good-hearted. Definitely willing to lend an old pal (even in a very loose sense of the word) a hand. It’ll work out. It has to.

No one ever said that this was the most realistic appraisal of the situation, but at least it’s kept Wyatt from eating bark off trees, and after his feverish hours of work, he’s decided that the best angle he has into the whole thing is Mason Industries. However, that is going to piss off Rittenhouse something wild; the whole scene in the car was very clear at instructing him that he had better never come near that place again. If Wyatt is trying to be clandestine, this is not the way to do it. The only other person he can still contact (hopefully) is not guaranteed special access either, and it could once more put her in danger. But she’s also the only human being on the planet who might know where Flynn is, or at least want to see him again too. And really. Wyatt has nothing left to lose.

He takes out his phone, and dials.

It rings once, then twice, then again. Just as he thinks it’s not going to be answered, it is. “Hello?” She sounds confused and tenuous. “Is this – Wyatt?”

“Hi.” Wyatt blows out an unsteady breath. He was the one who told her to call him if she was ever scared, if she needed anything, and now here he is, practically ready to beg. “Lucy. I – I know it’s been a while since we talked. I’m sorry to just call you out of the blue.”

“No, of course,” Lucy says. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Are you okay?”

Wyatt was fondly supposing that he didn’t sound like that much of a wreck, but he appears to have been disabused of that along with everything else. “Actually,” he says, swallowing hard as his voice catches. “Actually. . . since you ask, I’m. . . I’ve been better. A lot better. I’m sorry again, I know this may not be something you want to talk about, but have you – have you seen Flynn recently? Garcia Flynn?” As if there can be another.

There’s a marked silence. Then Lucy says, “No. I haven’t seen him for almost two years.”

Wyatt can feel his fragile, giddy optimism heading for a crash as fast as it went up, but he still refuses to let this be the end of the road. “So you – you don’t know where he is these days, or what he’s doing, or – ?”

“No,” Lucy says. “I have no idea. Wyatt, what’s – what’s going on?”

Wyatt stares at the ceiling, trying to formulate the words. The idea of speaking it aloud is still unbearable, and it’s bad enough for Lucy that he called her like this, he doesn’t need to start unloading his flaming trainwreck of emotional baggage onto her. He tries to keep his voice as calm as it would be at a briefing for his superiors. Tells her, as succinctly as he can, what’s happened, and why he’s looking for Flynn.

Lucy makes shocked and sympathetic noises, which Wyatt appreciates, but he knows he still does not deserve her pity. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “Is there anything else I can do? Do you have – have family in town, or anything?”

“Family?” Wyatt laughs, bone-dry. “My family? Nah. Grandpa Sherwin died a few years ago. Jess’s family has – they’re in town, they’ve been with the cops. I get the feeling that they think I should be at the station more, that I wasn’t there for her when she was alive and now I’m not there for her when she’s – ”

He stops. He can’t bear the fact that he almost said it, that it seemed so terribly possible. It feels like there’s a boulder wedged in his throat, and he rubs his hand over his eyes, trying to collect himself. “Anyway,” he manages. “I told them that I was – that I was working on something, and – this is my fault, I know it is. But if it’s not just some local scumbag, if it’s more – if it’s them – ”

Lucy doesn’t answer immediately. He can hear what she must be thinking – that he’s got a lot of nerve strolling into her life again, dumping a sob story about his wife on her, and assuming she will return to something that must hurt her as well, that she will unearth what must be some not-very-well-buried bodies and contend once more with the ghosts. She would be justified in any or all of it, and he tries to steady himself for her telling him to take a hike. There might still be some other way to track down Flynn, though it gets much narrower and more impossible if so. But when there’s nothing else but this –

“Okay,” Lucy says, quiet and level and cool as stone. “What do you need?”

This is not the wisest idea Lucy has ever had, not by a long shot. She should be unnerved, perhaps (but again, that is the whole point) at how greatly not-wise it is. And yet. She’s not.

It feels like something has changed in her, turned as sharply as a key, and she’s not even sure what. Just in that moment of finally accepting that Flynn was gone (the way that Wyatt is desperate not to do with Jessica, but it is not for Lucy to decide that before its time) it was like she woke up, somehow. There was never any chance that she was going to sit around and languish on a couch and weep. She got right on with her life, professionally and personally, and she’s done fine with it. And yet, after her visit to her mother’s the other day, when she’s gotten even fewer answers than she has questions, when she realized that she’s lived like she’s sleepwalking, determined that things are normal, not to rock the boat, to make everyone else’s lives easier and safer, pushing herself further and further away –

She doesn’t know what, but she’s sick of it, she’s angry, she’s tired, and she’s not willing to do it anymore. So suddenly, when Wyatt Logan calls out of the clear blue sky, says his wife is missing, and hints that he thinks Rittenhouse has something to do with it, Lucy’s game.

She drives to her mom’s house when she knows that Carol will be out for a doctor’s appointment, goes upstairs, and gets the gun out of the box. Takes the ammunition as well, hurries down to her car feeling properly scandalous – she has never done something like this, it doesn’t even feel like her. She’s licensed the gun in the state of California, she’s allowed to carry it, but she still puts it in the glovebox and locks it. Her hands are shaking, but she clenches them, and they stop. Then she drives back to Stanford, finishes her day, and waits.

It’s around five o’clock when there’s a knock on her office door, and she stands up to open it. Has guessed who it is, but it’s still a small shock to see him in person. He doesn’t look that great, with a missing wife and a long drive under his belt, but he manages a wan smile and offers his hand. “Hey, Lucy.”

Lucy pauses, then reaches out and hugs him. She doesn’t know why, other than that he looks like he could use it, and Wyatt goes briefly stiff, then awkwardly hugs her back. They step apart after a moment, and he clears his throat. “I – so. . . how. . . how are you?”

“Fine.” The word almost lives on her lips these days. “It’s not going to cause you any problems with the cops or Jessica’s family if you came up here, is it?”

“Them?” Wyatt laughs bitterly. “They’ve never exactly been my biggest fans, and honestly, I’m not sure I blame them anymore. Her stepdad almost didn’t attend the wedding – he’s a son of a bitch anyway, but. . . yeah. I told them I was working on something to get her back, and that’s not a lie. Told them to call if the cops – ” He stops. “Well, if anything came up.”

Lucy supposes this is his business, and what they are proposing is going to take enough attention and concentration that they don’t need any more distractions. Wyatt waits as she finishes up a few things, turns off the lights, and grabs her purse. They have a few hours to kill, so they get a quick dinner and try to catch up. The conversation isn’t exactly bountiful, and it’s hard to be sure what the dynamic here should be. Old friends? Not exactly friends, but they did trust each other in a tight spot, and they’re not strangers. Heist partners preparing for the night’s action? Some of that is true, but still. Should she be comforting him, offering to talk him through his problems? She is not a trained psychiatrist, and she gets the sense that Wyatt’s problems are a lot more than she’s reasonably prepared to take any kind of crack at, but there’s also value to be had in just talking to someone who cares. She doesn’t get the feeling there’s a whole lot of that in his life, really. Especially not now.

In any case, it’s getting later, and it’s time to put their plan (such as it is) into action. There is a solid chance that this night ends with both of them arrested, but (who is she and what has she done with Lucy Preston) the idea almost exhilarates her. They drop off her car at home, and Wyatt glances at the house. “All that space just for you?”

“I – no. We – live together. My boy – boyfriend and I.” Lucy feels like a high schooler about to blush at saying the word, given how awkward it feels on her tongue. “Noah.”

“That was – ” Wyatt gives her a funny look. “Wait, was that the doctor at the hospital when Flynn was shot?”

“Yeah. We dated a couple years before that, and I… we got back together about a year ago.” Lucy goes around the side of Wyatt’s truck and climbs in, hoping that none of the neighbors are peering out their windows and will feel like telling Noah about it later. Suburbanites are in fact horrible gossips, apparently. But this way, they streamline their operations, Noah will hopefully just think she’s out for a walk or whatever when he gets home, and it’s just easier to do this in one car. “He works in Oakland now.”

Wyatt glances at her, but doesn’t say anything, as if well aware that he has no stones to throw at anyone else’s relationship choices. He starts the truck and they pull out, heading down the street and back toward the freeway. Here goes nothing.

They are, of course, not going to do this like total savages and/or jailbirds if at all avoidable, and pull into the Mason Industries parking lot when, as planned, it has almost cleared out for the day. There are in fact almost no cars there, which might either make things easier or much more complicated, and Wyatt considers it with a furrowed brow. “Technically, we’re still going to have to break in,” he says. “Let me take the lead, all right? I’ve got a lot less to lose if I’m popped for B&E, but I’m guessing Stanford would be less impressed.”

“I don’t care,” Lucy says, startling herself. She leans forward and checks that the zipped gun case is still in her purse; she took it out of the glovebox before leaving her car. “We’re going to save your wife, all right? We’re going to save your wife and I don’t care if we have to step on Rittenhouse’s toes to do it. I’m tired of waiting and worrying if they’re coming after me again one day. Maybe it’s time we found out.”

And with that, as Wyatt is still blinking, Lucy pushes open the truck door and steps down into the blurry blue evening. She unzips the case and checks that the gun is loaded, but that the safety is on and there’s no risk of it discharging automatically. Her hands are almost practiced at this, though she has obviously never been in a real situation of possibly having to use it and doesn’t know that she ever wants there to be a first. Obviously, they are not going to blaze in and hold a lab full of terrified scientists (or even the lab’s night crew) hostage, but Wyatt wants to talk to Connor Mason, and Lucy intends to see that he does. If that involves a little hardball, even though ‘hardball’ is far from a five-foot-five history professor’s skill set, fine.

They cross the parking lot and head for the visitor’s entrance, which is still open. They push the glass doors open and stroll down to the reception area, where the poor receptionist is just switching off her computer and preparing to go home. At the sight of them, she looks up with a start. “I’m sorry, we’re just about to – there aren’t any more appointments scheduled, I’m sorry, I was just about to lock the building, sir, ma’am, so – ”

“Hi,” Lucy says, smiling sweetly. “We’d like to talk to Connor Mason.”

The receptionist goggles at her. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, this is past business hours. Besides, Mr. Mason is out of the country until next week. Obviously, he’s a very important and busy man, you can’t just expect to walk in off the street and expect to see him – ”

“Fine.” Wyatt steps up next to Lucy. “Who else is here?”

The receptionist’s eyes whiz back and forth between them. She is obviously getting the sense that they are neither a pair of IT professionals late for an appointment, or a couple of starstruck fans wandering off the street and trying to cadge a meeting with their idol for a viral video. She makes a move as if to reach for a security button under the desk, but Wyatt says, “I wouldn’t, ma’am.”

The receptionist glances at Lucy, clearly hoping for some female solidarity here. Normally, that is 100% Lucy’s bag otherwise, but tonight, alas, principles have to be sacrificed in more ways than one. “Tammy,” she says, glancing at the ID badge around the receptionist’s neck. “How about we just borrow that for a few minutes? You sit here and we’ll be right back.”

“I’m going to call security,” Tammy the receptionist warns them. “You need to – ”

“I wouldn’t,” Wyatt repeats. “What you’re going to do is switch off the security cameras, or at least scramble them for a few minutes. We don’t want to hurt you, ma’am, we don’t want to hurt you at all. But we need some answers, and we won’t leave until we have them.”

“I told you. Mr. Mason isn’t here.” Tammy’s face is white. “I couldn’t bring you to talk to him even if I wanted to. I don’t know what you want. Please, I have two children, I – ”

“Calm down,” Lucy says gently. “We’re not here to hurt you, like he said. But even if Mason isn’t here, there has to be someone else we can speak with.”

“No, they’re – it’s a team trip, all the project leads and main engineers went to London, it’s only a few part-timers here, and they’re gone for the night. I don’t want to lose my job, I – ”

“Yeah?” Wyatt says roughly. “Well, I really didn’t want to lose my wife. So I guess it’s going to be hard knocks for everybody, isn’t it? How about his office? Can you take us to his office? Probably won’t be able to get into his computer, but there have to be some paper files. Your boss know anything about Rittenhouse? Probably does, doesn’t he? Since he’s in it?”

Tammy flinches as if she’s been slapped. “Sir – ” She looks appealingly back at Lucy. “Please, it’s – you don’t know, you – ”

“I think you should take us to Connor Mason’s office,” Lucy says, gently but relentlessly. “I really think you should.”

Tammy hesitates.

Lucy reaches into her purse, and draws out what’s in her hand just enough to be seen.

Tammy blanches, and Wyatt blinks again, as if he had no idea she was carrying until now and is impressed (and slightly turned on) despite himself. Lucy shakes her head minutely at him when he opens his mouth as if to ask, and they wait until Tammy, fingers trembling, takes her key card, swipes it, and enters a few things clearly intended to put a five-minute freeze on the relevant cameras. Then she clicks around the desk, beckons them with a very tight nod, and starts to walk, as Lucy realizes she can’t let her get too far ahead of them, and jogs to catch up. She takes firm hold of Tammy’s wrist, and the other woman jerks as if it’s a handcuff. Lucy has never had anyone look at her with that much fear and revulsion before, and she isn’t sure she likes it. And yet, there is an unmistakable frisson of power that is, in a sick way, kind of appealing. Oh God, she isn’t a psycho, is she? She’s not. She’s not.

They walk down a glass corridor that overlooks a vast, dim steel warehouse, banked with computers and consoles on every side. It looks kind of like NASA launch headquarters, an impression reinforced by the sight of the large white plasteel eyeball sitting on struts in the middle of the expanse. It’s banded with blue blinking lights, increasing its resemblance to a UFO even more, and Lucy suddenly thinks that she might know exactly what that is. There has, obviously, still been a kernel of doubt in her mind – Emma was convinced that Mason Industries was building a time machine and she was test-piloting it, yes, but Emma was crazy. This, though. It could somehow be a film prop that Mason Industries is building for some bizarre reason rather than a set dresser in Hollywood, but Lucy doesn’t think so.

Wyatt, who has no clue (probably for the best) that time travel enters into this anywhere, is totally befuddled, but Lucy once more shakes her head at him. They complete the traverse to the doors of important-looking offices – Connor Mason, Anthony Bruhl, a couple others – and Tammy swipes her key card to open Connor’s. One of them is going to have to watch her while the other ransacks for useful intel. Otherwise she will run away and raise the alarm, and then they’re definitely getting arrested. Or worse.

With Tammy still firmly in hand, Lucy ventures over the threshold. She has no idea how they’re supposed to shake down Mason’s office in five minutes or less for some convenient Rittenhouse papers that he might just happen to have in some carelessly unsecured file cabinet. Wyatt, however, clearly doesn’t care if they’re secured or not. He takes a small crowbar out of his jacket and advances in after the women, looking around as if to decide where he needs to start smashing. Lucy appears to be on Tammy-minding duty, but she hopes Wyatt doesn’t leave too much of a mess. There’s no guarantee how long the cameras stay off. Or did they actually even go off in the first place? Maybe they should have worn balaclavas like proper robbers. Wyatt’s right, Stanford will not be enthused, and –

Just then, all the remaining blinking lights in the room, and along the hall, go dark. Wyatt, who was about to start bashing the bejesus out of Connor Mason’s file cabinets, stops with a startled curse, and Lucy thinks that this must be it, Tammy tricked them and the emergency protocol is kicking in. But if so, you’d expect klaxons and flashing lights, not just silent darkness. What the hell? Power just shut down at eight o’clock every night? But from what little Lucy can make out of Tammy’s face in the red emergency backups that are just flickering on, she is as startled as they are. Wasn’t expecting that.

Lucy looks down into the launch area, which she can see from Mason’s magisterial God’s eye view of his kingdom, and her heart skips a beat. She can just see a dark figure wending through the shadows, making its way purposefully toward the time machine (as it has to be). There’s someone else here, someone else broke in, shut down the lights and surveillance with a lot more skill than their clumsy receptionist kidnapping, and is making for its – for his? – target like a homing pigeon. No way to tell if it’s bad news or worse.

“Wyatt?” Lucy hisses. “Wyatt!”

Wyatt, who has clearly been about to decide if he should just smash some shit anyway for the stress relief, looks over with a start and follows her pointing finger down to the interloper on the operations floor. He stashes the crowbar hastily back in his jacket and pulls out his gun instead, then strides out of the office and toward the metal stairs that open into the warehouse. Lucy hurries after him, Tammy bumping in her wake like a kite on the end of a string, then pushes her down to hide behind a computer bank, which the receptionist does only too gladly. If she can somehow call 911 from there, well, that’s another problem. Lucy wants to have her hands free in case Wyatt needs any help.

She reaches in, pulls out the gun, and switches the safety off. Can in fact feel the difference, the way it comes alive, and advances at Wyatt’s side in recon stance. They’re just on the other side of the time machine from the intruder, and Lucy and Wyatt flatten themselves stealthily against it, guns in hand. They exchange a look, trying to decide if they need to actually fire. Not in a warehouse full of priceless technology, not when they’ve already illegally entered, not when they don’t know who the other person or what they want, but –

They can hear footsteps. They need to make a decision.

They throw themselves out from behind the time machine and come around, raising their guns at the intruder, who – even faster than them – has already done the same. Lucy has an indistinct impression of unusual height, and a merciless stare in the low, hellish light, and then, all the blood draining out of her head, her heart, her world. It can’t be, it can’t, and yet. All along, there was really no one else it could be.

She can’t get enough air into her lungs, and isn’t sure she will again. Her strangled whisper sounds as loud as a shout.

“Flynn?”

#lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #timeless ff #the tangled web of fate we weave

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necromantic13 · 7 years

Text

[3] Moira O’Deorain - Bitter Medicine

Part Three of HACKER VS. GENETICIST: SNIPER REVENGE. There will be at least one more part. I’m rolling a lot of canon and fan theory together here so take it for what it is.

Part One Part Two

Where’s the fun in playing fair?

Every day, Sombra prised a little harder on the tiles of Moira’s life, and every day she unearthed a little bit more about the geneticist’s sordid past. It was, at first, illuminating: she found details of her past work, from the inception of her controversial studies in foundational genetic manipulation to her subsequent disavowal by Overwatch during the Venice incident. The trail of logs and GPS ping data showed that Moira had ventured out on her own soon after, hired by all manner of intrepid criminal organizations to fund her work for their own gain - including Talon, and for much longer than Akande had implied - perhaps for longer than he knew. She found evidence of her help in secret Talon operations, the details of which were buried under heavier firewalls and more circuitous IP rerouting than her initial dig would unveil. It was enough to know they were there; she would get to the center of this mess eventually.

She also found private notes, long ago sequestered into a dusty inbox, from Dr. Angela Zeigler. They were decidedly unprofessional in nature, and Sobra could feel herself blushing as she unwrapped a part of Moira’s life she hadn’t expected to find. Recounting of rendezvous, wistful desires for the future, and the persistent use of the pet name darling littered the long forgotten digital trash bin, lost to all but the most persistent of hackers.

Sombra, swiping gently at her screen so as not to disturb the spider sleeping quietly at her side, wondered if any embers of that fire still burned in the cold soul of Moira O’Deorain. A fire could be used as a weapon if stoked in the right direction. Her past was sordid, to be sure, but by all accounts the woman was proud of her morally-corrupt work. It was the personal stuff that really got to people like that.

It was enough for one evening. Disconnecting, she slipped down into bed, letting the spider curl against the curve of her shoulder. She was close to something big, and once she had it, she’d better know what manner of threat Moira O’Deorain presented.

Later that day, she had a meeting with Akande and some of Talon’s passel of lower-ranked operatives to gather intel on a recent operation. They delivered it in the form of flash drives - flash drives, as though this were still 2020 and microgenetic source code weren’t something that had been invented, perfected, and mass-produced a decade ago. She rolled her eyes and accepted it with as much grace as she could muster, resigning herself to using one of her retrofitted computers instead of absorbing the intel directly into her cybernetics like she preferred. Hopefully there wasn’t anything too sensitive on those files.

“Give me an hour, boss,” she promised, ignoring the awestruck look of the three operatives in the room. She had, it seemed, sown her reputation well.

Akande nodded, dismissing her from the room.

Work made Sombra hungry, so she headed toward the kitchen to snag what was left of the sandwich she’d had for dinner last night. The fridge was packed, and as she was shifting around a jug of milk and carton of eggs to reach her roast beef on rye, she heard a pair of voices descending the stairs.

“But you must, Lacroix,” Moira’s sharp, self-assured voice echoed as she entered the room abutting the kitchen. “Your health is of the utmost importance after all.” “I am fine, Dr. O’Deorain,” came Widowmaker’s response, light and detached as ever. It carried the same strain it always did when she conversed with Moira. “We all went through a rigorous exam last month - there is no need for a follow-up.”

They rounded the corner, Widow a step ahead of Moira and looking decidedly displeased at her shadow. Sombra caught her eye; she was tired. She’d seemed more tired than usual lately.

“Hello, Sombra,” Moira said as she stepped into the room. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into Amélie.”

“That’s not her name, Moira.”

The doctor waved her words away, dismissing them immediately. “She mentioned experiencing fatigue as of late, and pains about the joints. I’m simply suggesting she let me examine her.” She stepped around Widowmaker to sit in one of the room’s many chairs. “You care for her, yes?” She gestured toward the spider. “You have more influence over her. Tell her to do as I say.”

The lines around Widowmaker’s eyes were strained, and in any other situation she would have offered a tongue-lashing so severe it would have left Moira deafened. Instead, she stayed silent, a parade of unreachable emotion visibly taunting her.

Sombra smiled at the geneticist.

“Maybe she just needs some convincing. How do you plan on healing what ails her?” she asked, voice deadly-sweet. Widowmaker looked over at her, frowning, knowing her well enough to recognize when Sombra’s act began.

“Simple calisthenics. Stretches. I don’t imagine genetic therapy would be required at this stage, but if there is any degradation of the joints themselves, it may be necessary along with a round of rapid nanobiotic healing.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Sombra said, regarding the lines on the back of her glove as though it were the most interesting thing in the room.

Moira chuckled. “In inexperienced hands, certainly. As the one who conceptualized the methodology, I am more proficient than your average user.” Moira spoke in such a way that indicated she loved nothing more than to hear herself recite the record of her own brilliance. Sombra understood that well enough - she did the very same thing.

But she was speaking of Widowmaker as though she were a thing, and not standing right there, and that was where the similarity ended and Sombra’s choice was made.

“You - really?” Sombra replied, doing her best to look impressed. “I didn’t realize that. Everything I’ve learned about nanobiotic regeneration indicated Dr. Zeigler was the inventor.” She feigned innocence as she attempted to distract Moira from the topic of the spider’s health. It worked like a charm - Moira was silent, regarding Sombra with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

“I assure you, nanobiotic reconstruction was my pioneering work.”

Sombra shrugged, half-smiling in apology. “Sometimes even my data is wrong. Perhaps she worked on it with you? A student of yours, maybe? Coworker?” Her finger was on the button, ready to press it as soon as the opening was there; as soon as she was ready to leverage what she knew.

Moira laughed in response, but there was no part of her mirth that extended past her voice. “There were many up and coming great minds during my younger years. Dr. Zeigler was certainly among them, although our paths crossed rarely.”

“Doesn’t that just figure.” She laughed, looking idly at her fingernails. “Zeigler ending up getting the credit. Makes sense, though, if you think about it. She’s the darling of the science community, after all.” She looked up, one eyebrow raised to punctuate her weighted words, hoping her subtle threat wasn’t lost on the geneticist.

It wasn’t.

“I see,” was all she said, turning back to Widowmaker. “Have a good evening.” Sending a scathing look Sombra’s way, she left the room.

Widowmaker looked at Sombra for a long moment before speaking. “What are you doing?” she eventually asked, her voice soft.

“My job,” was all she said. “Speaking of, I have some numbers to crunch for Akande.” She turned on her heel, making it two steps before she thought better of leaving so abruptly. Returning to Widow’s side, she put a hand on her cheek and kissed her with what she hoped was reassurance. “I’ll see you later?” she said.

“I have nowhere else to go.”

Hesitating a moment, she nodded. Dropping her hand to her side, she headed for the office she shared with Gabriel down the hall.

She could feel the spider’s eyes on her back as she left: cold, stoic, and concerned.

Moira was professional, if cold to Sombra whenever they passed each other in the mansion. She took her tea in her room, made no attempts at small talk, and at least when Sombra was around, avoided referring to Widowmaker as anything but Lacroix.

She thought she’d won, at least for the time being. In a battle of wits pitting Talon’s master hacker against their master geneticist, she’d somehow come out on top.

A part of her worried she’d missed something; that there was a hidden pit located somewhere in her path, but until she had more to go on, she allowed herself to bask in the knowledge that she’d bested the doctor and, she hoped, won everyone some well-needed peace from her constant self-righteous presence

The next morning, as she began her daily delve into Moira’s past, something strange happened. The firewalls around Talon’s deeper databases were...gone. Not disabled or weakened, but entirely, completely eradicated. It was as though they’d never even been there in the first place.

Sombra smelled a trap, but it was a trap with bait too tempting to ignore. With a single wave of her hand, she dove in.

What she found horrified her to her core.

Someone had uploaded entire feeds of video data, timestamped over a decade ago and featuring a distraught Amélie Lacroix on a metal gurney. Splayed out like a lab rat, she saw Moira digging needles into her scalp, monitoring beeping machines, and recording every sordid detail of her work into a recorder. She heard the confused woman’s cries for help, wondering what was going on, where she was, and why her. She called for Gerard to save her, pleas unanswered save for Moira’s excited voice, empty of empathy as she increased the dosage of whatever she was pumping into Amélie until she fell silent.

Curiosity borne of abject terror kept her eyes glued to the screen. She didn’t want to see any of it, but she simply couldn’t look away. It was in her now, downloaded to her central database, there to stay until she went in and manually purged it.

Until she forced herself to touch it again.

The screen went black after a few minutes of graphic video documentation, and left her staring into the blackness of her own palm. There was nothing accidental about that. Moira had left it for her on purpose; left it for her to stumble into unprepared.

She hadn’t won, after all.

“What’s wrong?” Widowmaker asked after the silence had gone on for some time, looking up from where she was folding her laundry on the dresser.

“Nothing, nothing,” Sombra insisted, unable to suppress the tears streaming down her face. She scrambled gracelessly off the bed. “I have to go.”

Pushing past the spider’s outstretched hand, she left the room, Widowmaker’s voice shouting her name after her as Sombra ran.

Want more? Head over to Part Four. If you like this, maybe check out Glitch in the System for more spiderbyte!

#moira o'deorain #sombra #widowmaker #spiderbyte #sombramaker #widowsombra #olivia colomar #amelie lacroix #overwatch fanfic #overwatch

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bloodyangeljay-imagines · 7 years

Text

Sombra x Fem!Reader

I’m giving a huge shout out to: @agent221b, @loverocksin, Tactican_CWolf, MotherRussia543, you guys helped me with this story and i’m so happy that you did!! Thank you so much!! ~Jay

-------------------------------------

*(H/N)= Hero name.

~A few months ago~ You grinned as you signed onto your website so you could talk with your fans about the new person who joined your team. You logged in and started writing a post.

(H/N) posted a status: ‘Omg guys! A new hero joined the team!!! I’m so excited! She is also pretty sexy if I do day do myself~. And I do say so, but is it weird to say that because she joined just a few hours ago?’

angent221b commented on your status: Sexy? Yes. Weird to say? Hell no. She's a very good looking woman

Taylor commented on your status: ‘Dude, that’s kinda weird to say that so soon, but eh it’s your opinion… Anyways, congrats on the new team mate, hope you guys keep up on, yknow, saving the world and what not!’

MotherRussia543 commented on your status: ’ Nah it’s not weird at all, it can’t be helped she is so sexy. I might even call dibs on her ;)’

Tactican_CWolf commented on your status: ‘That’s more than weird, to be honest. It’s more creepy than anything. Are you already checking the rookie out (H/N)?’

(H/N) replied to the comments: ‘Mmmmm maybe you guys are right, and maybe I am Tactican. Anyway thanks for the feed back guys! I love you guys but I gotta long off Morrison’s making us train earlier then usual so night guys!’

MotherRussia538 replied to your comment: *pouts* That Morrison is always taking you away. I guess I can’t be help though night.’

Taylor replied to your comment: ‘Alrighty! Take care and be careful during training, save those injuries for the big battle yeah? Love you too!’

Tactican_CWolf replied to your comment: 'Night (H/N). Btw, get to actually know a person before you start whistling at them. It’ll make things less awkward.’

agent221b replied to your comment: 'Night (H/n), tell Morrison not to train you guys to hard (or kill you after telling him) <3'

You signed off and stretch as you got out of your seat and turned off the laptop. You were about to get into bed when you heard a knock at the door. You opened it to see Jesse McCree (your best friend) and he held up his phone on the last status you updated.

“You know darlin, she can hack into your account and see what you posted.” He said with a smirk and watched as you went pale. You opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water and quickly went to the laptop and logged back in ad Jesse looked over your shoulder.

(H/N) posted a status: ‘Oh shit guys as I was getting in bed I remembered (Well Jesse told me) her skill is hacking!!! Omg I’m so screwed if she finds out that I kinda, sorta really, like her! I think I should delete the status?!’

Tactican_CWolf commented on your status: ‘Not gonna lie. I hope she does. It’ll be comedic and the best thing to happen in weeks. Even if you do delete it, I’m pretty sure she’ll still find it. Hacking I pretty useful.’

Taylor commented on your status: 'Okay! It would be best to delete the status! Don’t let her find out until your ready, okay my guy?’

agent221b commented on your status: Delete it. delete it immediately.

MotherRussia538 commented on your status: 'XD good luck with that, girls have a sensor for stuff like that she’ll find out for sure. Wish you luck!’

(H/N) replied to the comments: 'Okay agent221b I’m deleting it and if she reads this RIP ME. If I die I’ll have Jesse come on here and notify you.’

“Sounds like a deal! See ya in the mornin (Y/N)” Jesse said and kissed the top of your head before leaving the room. You groaned and turned back to the laptop to read the replies.

MotherRussia538 replied to your comment: Nooo we need you. Don’t die just yet, we need to know what happens!

Taylor replied to your comment: 'Let’s just hope she thinks this is a random status aha!’

Tactican_CWolf replied to your comment: 'Good luck ya idiot. This is what ya get.’

agent221b replied to your comment: I'll say something sweet at your funeral, (H/N). Good luck!

You went back into your profile and deleted the whole statuses involving anything to do with Sombra. You took a deep breath and turned off the laptop again before actually getting into bed.

*A few months later*

“Come on Sombra! It will be fun!” Hana told her and leaned over her shoulders.

“Give me a different dare.” Sombra said and Jamison shook his head. “No can do! You picked dare and this is what Gabriel chose.” Lena said The dare was to have Sombra hack into (Y/N)’s account and read her deleted statuses. Sombra didn’t want to because she liked you and felt like that would be an invasion of privacy to you.

Sombra sighed and opened her laptop. She hacked into your account and pulled up your deleted statuses. She quickly shut the laptop and everyone looked at her.

“She’s in her room if ya wanna speak with her.” Jesse whispered to Sombra with a tilt of his hat.

“What did she write about?” Lena asked and Jesse smirked knowing what it was.

“It was nothing important just some embarrassing photos.” She stood up and headed to your room. You sat on your bed on your laptop reading some stories and fan messages. You heard a knock on the door and sighed.

“Go away cowboy I’m not in the mood.” You called out not even bothering to open the door.

“Wrong person.” Sombra said as she walked in and locked the door. You froze mid type and looked up at her. “H-hey Sombra, uhhhhh what did you need and why did you lock the door?” You asked and shut your laptop. She smirked and sat in front of you on your bed.

“I had some very interesting information shown to me.” She told you and opened the laptop and showed you the deleted statuses. Your face went pale and she shut the laptop and set it aside along with yours. You laughed nervously and cleared your throat.

“W-well you see uhhh…” You went silent and stared at her. “I can’t get myself out if this one can I?” You said with a grimace “Well I would have gone easier in you if you just would have told me. That way I could have told you I liked you back. And I don’t find it weird, only because I felt the same way when I first saw you.” She told you and you smiled.

You leaned forward and kissed her taking a giant leap. Sombra froze for a moment before kissing you back. She pulled away and you nodded. “You never did tell me why you locked the door.” You whispered and she grinned. “I’m going to show you how sexy I can be~”

Extra: (H/N) posted a status: 'Well she found them…on the plus side I didn’t die (which made McCree happy) and I now have a girlfriend so awesome!’

Tactican_CWolf commented on your status: 'How the f**k did you manage to get the girl!?’

MotherRussia538 commented on your status: 'Dang you got some skill to pull that and come out with a girlfriend.’

agent221b commented on your status: What a strangely successful accident.

Taylor commented on your status: 'What! No way! Omg! Congrats! I’m so happy for you! And Im glad to hear that you didn’t die!’

#sombra #overwatch x reader #overwatch reader insert #Overwatch #sombra x reader #reader insert #overwatch fanfic #overwatch imagines #overwatch fandom #overwatch fanfiction #sombra x female reader

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writesandramblings · 7 years

Text

The Captain’s Secret - p.13

14 - All That Glitters “Callbacks”

A/N: Ahhh, holiday traveling, back at last!

Full Chapter List << 12 - Affairs of the Heartless 14 - All That Glitters >>

As the minutes turned to hours, even the great Gabriel Lorca began to feel the effects of doubt nibbling at the edges of his confidence, though he took great pains not to show it.

The Dartarans were running late. Almost two hours at this point, because he had thought they would initiate contact with the merchants during his call to Starfleet Command. That had been his intention: "Admiral, they're telling me the transmission is live now. Shall we?" Cue live communications intercept. Show Wainwright firsthand that he knew what he was doing, and his confidence and bravado were entirely justified.

But the call hadn't come, and as much as he'd enjoyed relaying a firsthand account of Tederek to Katrina (what a delightful surprise that was), it hadn't been the payoff he expected.

It was impossible to completely rule out that he might have misread the outcome of their conversation, but every bit of Lorca's instinct told him he had not, and he had to trust his instinct. It had rarely led him wrong. Coupled with the fact that doubt and hesitation were liable to get you or your crewmates killed in a pinch, he didn't afford himself the luxury of second-guessing things. You had to make your decision in the moment and ride out the results. Decisiveness was key to effective captaincy.

There had to be some information he was missing. How else to account for the miscalculation?

If only the investigation into the Dartarans' communications logs were getting anywhere. Russo had been cleared to return to duty and was presently engaged in a full and thorough reckoning of the logs from an office somewhere belowdecks, but hadn't had much success beyond identifying another hunting enthusiast who had probably been on a lului hunt and might have been the one to tell Margeh and T'rond'n about the opportunity in the first place.

The call would come. He simply had to distract himself until it did.

At the moment, that distraction took the form of Benford's ship report covering events onboard during the away mission. Lorca sat in the captain's chair, focused on the report with such pensive intensity he was almost completely still save for the faint tapping of a finger against his leg.

"Events" was a very generous description of the report's contents. It largely consisted of an accounting of routine, standard, and everyday shipboard tasks that might have characterized their time in any sector of space in the known universe, but which Benford had nevertheless diligently recorded to provide his captain with the peace of mind that, no matter what had happened on Tederek, the Triton had been secure and safe under the watchful eye of Jackson Benford. The only thing of any real note was a small, unofficial, personal addendum to the report detailing the installation of thermonuclear seat warmers that had been so “wildly successful” the upgrade had to be rescinded half an hour later lest the ship mutiny out of jealousy. (This was not the first time Benford had used a particularly boring shift as an opportunity for some creative writing, and would not be the last.)

Normally, Lorca would have gotten a chuckle out of Benford's addendum and the extremely apropos double-meaning behind Benford's usage of the words "hot ass," but his present frame of mind had no room for any levity. Instead, he reread for the fourth time a sentence detailing the minor adjustment of a deflector to compensate for interference from a local neutron star, parsing each word in a measured succession that eliminated all other active thought from his mind but failed to completely quiet the slow churn of discontent in his stomach.

And then it finally happened.

"Transmission intercept!" exclaimed Kerrigan, and the whole bridge seemed to snap to attention.

Unfortunately for the long-suffering Lt. Russo, the match for the transmission target came not from the logs he had been so painstakingly tracing, but from the Triton's main database.

“They're calling Risa?" said Kerrigan with a note of surprised confusion. "Planetary directory.”

Risa, the pleasure planet, vacation jewel of the Federation. While that might have surprised Kerrigan, it made perfect sense to Lorca. Why wouldn't a purveyor of exotic hunting excursions catering to the galaxy's wealthy elite set up an office on a planet famed for its hedonism? He rocketed out of the captain's chair as the transmission came onscreen.

The two sides of the transmission were like night and day. The Risian woman on the left was stunningly beautiful, with bright green eyes and cascading waves of honey-brown hair framing the traditional Risian disc on her forehead. Arrangements of colorful tropical flowers filled the unoccupied areas of the frame with bursts of vibrant color. Everything about her seemed to convey beauty, light, and life.

In contrast, the Dartarans' dimly-lit office was immediately familiar to Lorca, as were their dour, prickly faces. The red curtains hanging on the walls were open, revealing several previously hidden bookshelves and dozens and dozens of hand-bound octagonal books. Several books were missing from the shelves and appeared to be stacked in the foreground on top of the office console. One of the books was currently being held aloft in Margeh's clawed hand.

The Risian woman beamed at the Dartarans as she said, "Warm welcomes from Risa, the most pleasant planet in the galaxy! How may I direct your call?"

"Beldehen Venel," Margeh read aloud from the book in her hand. It seemed like a name, but might also have been an establishment or a codeword.

Lorca pressed a hand to his face. Damn it, Lalana. The reason they couldn't locate the merchants' info in the Dartaran archives was because the damn Dartarans had written it down. And from the looks of it, it had taken Margeh and T'rond'n the better part of two hours to find the book containing the information they wanted. Lalana might have mentioned the presence of the logbooks behind the curtains to them when they were on the Tederek moon.

"One moment!" The Risian woman searched her directory. "Transferring you now. Have a lovely day!" Her exquisite face was replaced by a humanoid male with spotted pale yellow skin and fleshy whisker-like protrusions above his mouth. Lorca glanced at Arzo.

"Gentonian," supplied Arzo.

"Yes?" said the Gentonian. A flicker of recognition passed over his face. He remembered Margeh and T'rond'n from before. "Ah, you are..."

"We wish to hunt," said Margeh with a sense of immediacy that saved Venel the trouble of remembering who she was.

A smile emerged beneath the whiskers. "Excellent."

The conversation that followed was strictly business. The Dartarans requested "the same package as before" and discussed payment (which was exorbitant, and had apparently gone up since last time). Beldehen provided them with coordinates to meet at in a five days' time and ended the conversation with what sounded like a standard disclaimer: "As a reminder, we reserve right to reschedule your excursion at any time for any reason and we provide no guarantees as to the success of your endeavor. All fees are nonrefundable. Best of luck on your hunt."

Margeh terminated the transmission, but Lorca could easily imagine her unvoiced response: Luck has nothing to do with it.

Lorca turned to face the bridge, smirking openly. "Ladies and gentlemen. Looks like we're going hunting." He could see the questions on their faces, but also the trust that their captain had everything well in hand as part of some master plan.

At 0900 hours, Lorca began to outline the final part of his master plan to all concerned parties in the conference room. With the exception of Lalana, the meeting consisted of Lorca's inner circle of senior staff: Commander Benford, Lieutenant Commander Morita, and Lieutenant Commander Arzo.

In such a private setting and with no impressionable junior officers to overhear, Benford had no qualms voicing his concerns with the plan. "Again into the field, captain?"

"Captain's prerogative," said Lorca, fixing Benford with a look that suggested the decision was a firm one.

"And I can think of no one I would rather have at my back in the event that things become difficult!" exclaimed Lalana. Arzo glared at her slightly in disapproval. It was the third time she had piped up to share a personal opinion. She didn't seem to quite grasp the particulars of meeting decorum and when might be appropriate for her to chime in. (Namely, when she had something of substantive informational value to contribute.)

Benford swallowed a sigh. There was no stopping a captain who wanted to take an active role in away missions, of course, and plenty of captains did just that, but they had four months until the new ship was ready. He really wanted to make sure Lorca was alive to see it, for both personal and professional reasons.

Lorca gestured at Lalana as if to say, "See? She gets it." Some part of him suspected the objection was jealousy on Benford's part. In the old days, Lorca and Benford had done more missions together than either cared to count, but lately Lorca had been spending more time with Morita. "Alright, then. Everyone clear on their part?"

"Yes, captain!" said Lalana.

"Sir," said Arzo with a nod. Morita inclined her head and Benford smiled warmly and nodded with decisive acceptance.

"Dismissed."

They all exited the conference room. Morita, Benford, and Arzo headed off to handle their respective preparations, but Lalana paused in the hallway just outside. Lorca had to sidestep to avoid tripping over her. He looked down at her expectantly. Her security detail was waiting for a destination, but she didn't seem to have one. "You know, I wanted to ask you something," he said, indicating she should join him.

"Oh?" She fell into step beside him. The security detail waited a moment, then followed a respectful distance behind.

"The name of the merchant Margeh and T'rond'n called? 'Beldehen Venel?' Was written down in one of their logbooks." The bridge came to alert as they entered, but Lorca barely took note.

"Was it?" said Lalana as they entered the ready room. She followed him to his desk and stretched up to its height.

Lorca took a pair of fortune cookies from the bowl and put one in front of her. "You might have mentioned those books when we were there." It wasn't terribly judgmental, just enough to convey his mild disappointment. He checked his fortune. The world you can see is smaller than the world that is.

She did not take the cookie immediately. "I am sorry. I did not think the books were of note. I have never understood the appeal of them, to be honest with you. Books are such a flat way to experience the universe."

Lorca drew back in surprise. "Flat" was not a word he associated with the act of reading, technically correct as it might be. "I suppose your people don't have books."

"No. Lului do not write, we only speak. When you speak, the words are alive. When you write, they are dead."

Again, not how he would describe the written word. In fact, almost the exact opposite—writing had long been how humanity kept alive the words of the greatest minds in human history. It was also an efficient, engaging method of consuming information.

He ate his cookie, chewing contemplatively as Lalana finally opened hers. She put the cookie part in her mouth and held the fortune aloft with her tail for him to read. "Difficulty now is an investment in future happiness."

"Mm," she said. It was not clear if she agreed or disagreed with the sentiment. She seemed preoccupied.

He waited a moment. She had no teeth, but it seemed only right to give her a moment to do whatever it was that passed for chewing or digesting, even if Ek'Ez had said she did not have a real stomach. "Another for the road?"

"May I observe when you contact Beldehen Venel?"

The suddenness of the question surprised him. "I don't see why not. I'll have it patched through to your quarters."

"I meant, may I observe it directly?"

"From here?" It wasn't that he misunderstood her meaning, but it was an unusual request. "It's the same transmission anywhere on the ship."

Her tail flicked sharply to the side and she looked away. "It may seem that way to humans, but to me, it is very different to experience something in person than on a flat surface. The vibrations, the taste of the air, the sense of volume..."

"You mean firsthand, in the thick of the action." Lorca tilted his head very slightly. "We're not so different in that regard."

She turned her enormous green eyes back on him. "Then, I may observe it?"

He hesitated. "It might be a while..." He still had a few notes on Venel collected overnight to review.

"I will wait!" She immediately withdrew from the table and strode to the chair, gliding onto the seat.

Lorca frowned at her presumptuousness. "There isn't something you'd rather do? Jump around? Taste plants? Work with Kerrigan?" He realized he'd never asked what lului actually liked to do; his ideas of her hobbies largely stemmed from the tour of the ship, and the knowledge that she liked climbing trees, which wasn't an option on a starship. (He could have sent her to contribute to Li and Ek'Ez's research in sickbay, but he wanted plausible deniability in the event their poking and prodding soured his interspecies diplomacy.)

"Ensign Kerrigan is asleep for another two and a half hours," she said, proudly demonstrating her grasp of human time.

Fair enough. Kerrigan's current shift rotation started in the afternoon. "So make some new friends in the galley," Lorca offered. He almost suggested browsing the ship's cultural archives, except given her opinions on "flat" media, that was probably a miss.

The reaction this provoked was immediate. She touched her finger joints together. "Nnnn," she went, almost a whine, "a few people is fine, but too many is very... stressful, and in the galley there are always very many people."

As understandable as that was, she was being awfully stubborn. "There must be something you want to do besides sit in here."

"Nothing would make me happier in the universe!" she proclaimed, rotating her hands again. "I promise to be very quiet and not disturb you. I will take a nap." She twisted, curled up in the chair, and covered her eyes with her tail.

Lorca stared. He hadn't given permission and was well within his rights to remove her. "Lalana," he said sternly, "if you're going to take a nap, do that in your quarters." No response. "Lalana."

"Please may I stay in here? I hate being in there alone."

She was still curled up with her eyes covered, so there weren't any physical emotional indicators, but it didn't take a genius to see she was lonely. She knew a handful of people on the ship, all of whom were there to do their jobs, and the one person whose job it was to interact with her was asleep.

Perhaps he'd see about assigning another ensign to keep her company. Maybe someone had an idea for a cultural or historical survey they'd like to do before Lalana was returned to her homeworld. He made a mental note to have Benford elicit some proposals from the crew. In the meantime... "Fine," he said. "Just this once."

Lorca grabbed a cup of coffee and resumed his review of the intelligence gathered overnight, glancing at Lalana periodically. She didn't move and he soon stopped looking. The Risians had been happy to comply and supply all their records pertaining to the merchants, and of course Command had a couple of pertinent files, and Lorca now had a fairly good idea of Beldehen Venel's role on Risa and his purpose at large.

Venel represented the legitimate business operations of a small Gentonian merchant conglomerate with an office on Risa. They were one of hundreds of suppliers to local establishments and seemed entirely unremarkable on the surface. But their connection to various higher-end cultural and entertainment establishments gave them access to information about Risa's more elite patrons. This would be how they farmed targets for the more lucrative tourism side of their business.

Lorca also took a moment to review the file of "Gabriel Lopez," which the overnight security chief had fabricated for the operation. It was nothing fancy, just a standard Federation citizen record that would come up when Venel checked. There was one for Morita, too.

Unlike the ruse with Margeh and T'rond'n, this call didn't require any particular conversational preparation, just a clear head. He cleared his throat. "Lalana?" Her tail shifted and she turned her head towards him. He wondered if she had actually been sleeping, or just sitting with her eyes closed for the past twenty minutes. He activated a commlink to the communications station. "Connect me to Risa's central directory."

"Yes, sir," said Russo.

Lorca removed his uniform tunic. "Not a single word," he warned Lalana. She placed her tail over her mouth.

The transmission went live and Lorca was pleasantly surprised to see the same Risian woman as before. "Warm welcomes from Risa, the most pleasant planet in the galaxy! How may I direct your call?"

Even knowing this was her standard greeting, it still felt warmly personal when she said it directly to him. "Beldehen Venel," he replied, smiling in return. Whoever had decided to employ a woman with her looks as a planetary greeter had made an excellent choice. It was enough to make you want to abandon whatever you were doing to fly to Risa and ask her what time she finished work, and if she was free later.

"One moment!" Sadly, her face disappeared, and Lorca hastily adjusted his expression to a more neutral one as Beldehen Venel appeared in her place.

"Starway Traders," greeted Venel, the name of the conglomerate.

"Beldehen Venel?" asked Lorca, as if he weren't sure.

"Yes, I am Beldehen."

Lorca smiled confidently. "Gabriel Lopez. I got your name from a friend of mine, Margeh. You spoke yesterday?" He kept his tone entirely casual, relying on his naturally disarming charm.

Beldehen was understandably on edge having yesterday's conversation mentioned by a complete stranger. "Yes? What of it?

"We were wondering if you could add two more to the expedition."

Beldehen did not respond immediately, but there seemed to be an unrepentantly greedy glint in his eye.

Lorca went on, "You see, we have a bet with them. They said they'd catch three of these 'lului,' so naturally, my wife said she'd catch four. I mean, assuming you have the space."

Whatever reservations Beldehen had were quickly erased. He recognized the overconfidence of a rich mark when he saw it, and betting was a common pastime of the fabulously wealthy. "That can be arranged. Did you want the same package?"

"Well now, that depends," said Lorca, looking almost comically pensive. "What options are available?"

Beldehen began to rattle off several amenities, noting that there were no permanent accommodations on the planet, so everything would have to be brought in with them and removed, thus the cost. Lorca picked mostly lower-range options, but scattered in a few mid-range choices so he didn't sound too stingy.

Then came the trophy options.

"Standard trophies are skulls and lenses. The lenses are the most popular part, a biological glass, absolutely unique to the species, and we can mount them for display free of charge. Unfortunately, all the other parts degrade, but there is a process that can net you a full skeletal replica of your kill if you prefer! For a modest fee."

Lorca resisted the urge to look in Lalana's direction. "I don't think that'll be necessary, skull and lenses sound fine."

"We also offer a meal package. Eat what you kill, prepared by a top-grade specialist chef. Lului meat has a shelf life of under an hour and doesn't freeze well, so we guarantee a meal like you won't find anywhere else!"

Lorca swallowed, careful not to let his posture or expression slip in the slightest. "Just interested in the hunt, but thank you." Lalana might have preferred he pick that option, but he couldn't agree to eat a member of her species, not with her right there in the room.

The total turned out to be a little more than Margeh and T'rond'n's package, but entirely manageable. "There is also the matter of security arrangements."

These turned out to be extremely comprehensive, to the point that Lorca interrupted after a few minutes and asked, "Can you just forward these to us and I'll have my assistant take a look?"

"We will give you a copy of our procedures, but it's important I outline them now, to ensure you understand the importance." Lorca begrudgingly gave his assent and Beldehen continued with the overview.

The merchants seemed to have covered every conceivable possibility in terms of security. All gear and luggage would be searched, no communications devices of any kind were allowed, no recording devices, no unauthorized or unknown vessels were allowed at the meeting area or while in transit, their transport would be left behind at the rendezvous point, the list went on. "A single violation of these protocols, and we will be forced to cancel your trip and reschedule," stressed Beldehen. "Do you understand and agree to these protocols on behalf of yourself and the other members of your party?"

"I do."

"Very well. Be sure to have payment ready in full. I'll send you the coordinates after we've received payment." They were new customers, so Beldehen was taking some extra precautions. Probably wanted to look up Mr. and Mrs. Lopez's information before fully committing to the expedition.

"Oh, that won't be necessary, we'll ride with Margeh and T'rond'n," said Lorca. "And they'll cover our payment. They lost the last bet we had." He grinned.

"Very well. Please remember, we may reschedule your trip at any time for any reason, and we make no guarantee as to the success of your endeavor." It was almost word-for-word Beldehen’s last words to the Dartarans. How many times had he given this spiel to clients over the years? "Best of luck on your hunt."

Since Lorca wasn't upset the way Margeh had been, he offered her thoughts as a final send-off: "Luck has nothing to do with it."

Part 14

#Star Trek Discovery #Captain Lorca #Gabriel Lorca #fanfiction #Star Trek #Discovery #fanfic #writing

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talkstarwars · 7 years

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Our Star Wars Legacy - Guest Blogger Jared Peppard

One of my earliest and happiest memories is my parents renting out Star Wars on VHS from Blockbuster’s; my mind was blown and I was hooked. From then on, I soaked up anything and everything Star Wars, devouring the comics and books. Growing up we didn’t have a lot of money at all but from a young age my Mum always made sure that I had the latest issue of the Dark Horse comic series and the newest of the young readers Jedi Apprentice books. My pride and joy was a ‘The Phantom Menace’ teaser poster which I still have up on the wall today! (I was only 9 when the first of the prequels was released so yes, I do love the prequels!)

For me personally, the comics have always been my favourite stories in the Star Wars Universe including the films, I used to spend hours arranging and re-ordering my collection and I loved the different alien characters that would make one-off appearances or just pop up here and there playing their small parts in the galaxy. I had it in my head that I wanted my own character, one of the many I used to imagine, to make an appearance in an issue (a Mandalorian Jedi, a Tusken Raider Bounty Hunter ect. I was only 10 or 11 but you get the idea). Being a time before social media and us not even owning or having access to a computer I wrote to Dark Horse or Lucas Film to see if they liked any of my ideas and to my surprise... I had no reply. Looking back, I’m not even sure if the letters had stamps or got posted but still, I was disappointed.

Fast forward 5-10 years and I now had a younger brother (15 years younger!), Theo. The best thing that could of happened to me, though that wasn’t my first reaction to finding out I was going to have to share my room with a younger brother. I loved having a younger brother who I could teach about Star Wars! Theo and myself are more into sport and music and have never really been into comics in general, super heroes, sci-fi films or anything similar but something about Star Wars just has us captivated. It was great re-exploring the Universe with my younger brother after a few years away. We watched all of the Clone Wars series together, played the video games (Battlefront & KOTOR), read a lot of the comics and books together and of course used to binge on the films regularly.

When I was getting married and moving out I knew it would be hard for my brother leaving him with 3 sisters so he used to stay over as often as possible and he would always bring me drawings or short stories he’d done of characters that we’d made up. Seeing as Star Wars meant so much to both of us I wanted to do something really special that we could both share together and I had an idea. I researched the current on-going Star Wars comic series and one in particular caught my attention, Star Wars Legacy Volume II. We were still reading through the first Legacy series and was really enjoying it so I wrote down the names of the authors and then googled their names to try and find a contact number or address. I couldn’t find any numbers or addresses but found the author of Legacy Volume II Corinna Bechko’s Twitter. I tweeted Corinna and asked if she had an email address I could contact her on, she kindly replied so I emailed her. I explained how me and my brother were fanatic Star Wars fans and I wanted to do something special and wondered if in one of Legacy’s issues Corinna could maybe combine our names 'Jared' & 'Theo' (Ja'Reo, Thared?) for a minor character which would just make us apart of the Star Wars Universe in some way. I patiently waited and then Corinna replied that she would love to give us a cameo, but unfortunately our email found her the same day that she found out about Marvel taking over the Star Wars license and that the series was to be cut short and wrapped up in 18 issues. I was disappointed but completely understood the situation. Then, another email from Corinna, ‘I certainly haven't forgotten about you guys! I think I've got it fixed up’! but Corinna understandably didn’t want to make any promises. And then a month later, a message from Corinna, ‘Check out the very last issue when it comes out... number #18. "Thared" is an Imperial Knight :)’! I was of course over the moon with Corinna’s kindness and couldn’t wait (only 6 months). Corinna did say though that a last minute edit out of her hands could possibly change the character so I decided to keep it a surprise for Theo in case it didn’t happen, I didn’t want him to be disappointed. Having read ahead of Theo I was already up to date with the series which was up to issue #10 but I had started to read through the first trade paperback story arc with Theo, not telling him that we could be a part of it. I also brought 2 Stormtrooper themed folders, 2 packs of plastic comic book wallets and ordered 2 copies of every issue of Legacy Volume II and even managed to get the 2 variant covers (one being signed by Corinna and co- author/artist/husband Gabriel Hardman) as well. Over the next 6 months I continued to collect 2 of each issue and put them in the folders (keeping them well hidden from Theo) and just kept reading the trade paperback versions as they were released.

Finally, the week of issue #18 was here, the last Star Wars comic of my era (Dark Horse) and the furthest point in the old Expanded Universe’s timeline. I had told my Mum and we had arranged for Theo to stay over the weekend where I would surprise him with the folder of the entire collection of the Legacy Volume II series including issue #18 with our character ‘Thared’. Being 5 hours ahead in the UK the night of the comics release I couldn’t sleep, (partly nerves and excitement, nerves that a last-minute edit might have taken Thared out and excitement that me and brother might actually be a part of the Star Wars Universe!). I woke up early at 5am (the time of the comic’s online release), logged onto my Dark Horse account, downloaded the comic and started to read. Second page in and there he was, ‘Master Thared’! I can’t explain how happy and emotional I was. That day I went to my local comic book shop who had promised that they would have a copy on its release day ready for me, I picked one up (as I had 5 on order!) and explained the story to the excited shop workers who asked why I was so keen to pick up this particular issue.

After picking Theo up from my parent’s, I told him that as usual I had some Star Wars comics for him and as usual he was excited to see them and start reading through. When I brought out the folder I could see the surprise in his face as he repeatedly thanked me; I explained how I had collected every issue of the series in this folder for him but the last issue wasn’t in there. He said thanks again and not to worry because we could wait for the last issue to complete the collection. I then told him that I had spoken to the author and had told her how it would be a dream come true to have a Star Wars character named after us, he was amazed that I had spoken to the author but still didn’t quite know what I was getting at. I then took issue #18 out of the bag and told him that I had the last issue and that the author had very kindly named a character after us! I showed him and for the first time in as long as I can remember he was speechless. He then gave me a big hug and told me to thank Corinna. Theo now has the comic book framed up on his wall where I used to hang my ‘The Phantom Menace’ teaser poster.

We even got to go and meet Corinna and Garbriel at a comic book signing in London where we got our comics signed and Theo got a personal sketch by Gabriel. For both my brother and myself it was a dream come true to be made a part of the Star Wars Universe that we love so much and we will always be grateful to Corinna & Gabriel for their kindness.

For me Star Wars will always be the George Lucas/ Dark Horse era so being a part of the last issue is that much more special. Even though I won’t be following the new EU as closely as I did the old I look forward to seeing more Star Wars in the future and hope to see Corinna & Gabriel back in the Universe in the future....

#Star Wars #Star Wars Legacy II #Corinna Bechko

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jones573 · 7 years

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Post Log, St. George’s

Winona had begun walking away, and Alex hurried to follow her as she climbed the front stairs, presumably to bypass their friends sneaking up the back. "Win, c'mon, we aren't supposed to try and listen in, it's rude," he protested. "May is," she retorted- He wasn't sure if that somehow meant it /wasn't/ rude, or if she meant the rudeness could thus be overlooked, or perhaps just a general commentary on May's level of boldness in comparison to Alex's, so he didn't reply.

They were back on the third floor now, and instead of heading through the broken door back into Alex's room, she turned the handle to a room across the way, apparently unperturbed by the woman sitting up in the bed. She smelled like Deno a bit, but also like Maria, and showed no aggression, so Winona assumed she could be ignored and turned to examine the wood paneling that covered the lower half of the walls.

"Um- Hi, Mags," he greeted as he followed Win, tugging at her sleeve.

“Alex," the woman replied, her face a mixture of amus.ement and disappointment that he was unsure how to read. "There's another werewolf here, isn't there?"

Alex looked sheepish, especially once Winona found what she was looking for and removed a portion of the wall to reveal the fireplace that had once been connected to the house's principal chimney, but admitted, "Yeah, sorry- Maria said I couldn't tell you." They both watched as Winona stuck her head into the cavity and then reappeared, looking disappointed.

“Yeah, I bet she did. If that's got sound-proofing, the ones below probably do, too," Mags suggested as she climbed out of bed and threw a robe on over her tshirt and sweats, looking at the heavily padded piece of wall Winona had removed before tying her short orange hair back.

‘I think they're done anyways,' Winona signed to Alex in annoyance. That would teach her to dilly dally over his morals. "Better luck next time," Mags told the girl, leaving the room and hurrying down the stairs, especially at the sound of Deno's muffled shout.

“Maria, who are you- Denatro!," she exclaimed when she got halfway down the flight and could identify him amongst the others. She surveyed the others with brief interest, hazel eyes focusing on his hand, and Locke's across his mouth. "You got /marri.ed!," she said with surprise, and a bit of delight. Maria was a bit surprised that her comments had not resulted in unkind words- It had been part of the reason she had said them, after all. If Vlad wanted to have it out with a Councilor, she'd rather he found an outlet that wasn't Von Batts. Annabelle seemed to suspect that and said to Bram, "And I'm sure it's annoying to have someone cling to that story, especially when it continues to dictate their actions and cause undesirable repercussions for all involved. I imagine Maria hoped the chance to yell at someone he disliked would relieve a fraction of Vlad's stress." She looked surprised when Scarlet took no issue with her order, and a wide grin broke across her face. "Oh, I /like/ her, maybe she can stay, I do so enjoy having people around who actually listen," she told Maria as Scarlet and her father left. "What threat level do you feel she warrants?" Maria looked very unimpressed and said, "Absolutely not," before Annabelle even finished the question.

“You want to play with fire," Maria warned her sister-in-law, "Fine. But only so many fires at once, please." Annabelle rolled her eyes. "Well, it's hardly fair to Gabriel- The stress you lot have put on his relationships, I swear. You better be paying him for this," she chastised Bram. "Annabelle- Stay out of this," Maria warned, but she suddenly started at the sound of Mags' voice out in the hall, a panic dawning behind her eyes. Yes, pay closer attention to your /own/ fires, Annabelle thought with enjoyment before turning back to Bram. "I hope she at least /pretended/ to be of assistance," Annabelle said of Maria. "Is there anything Matt or I can do to help?" Gabriel looked just a little bit haggard as Mags appeared, and had he been anyone else he probably would have groaned aloud. At least it distracted Deno from his angry tirade, and he startled as he spun around to face her. Locke blinked owlishly like a deer caught in the headlights, and he quickly removed his hand, running his fingers over the wedding ring sheepishly. It wasn't exactly fancy, considering their budget. ."Mags! Hi!" Deno exclaimed, snapping to attention and looking just a little bit guilty. "I was gonna check in on you, in a bit, but they mentioned you were resting, so..." He trailed off, his cheeks a bit red. "Y-yeah, five years ago. Not that I deliberately kept you out of the loop or anything! I haven't really told anyone back home, you know how Joseph gets about celebration and family..." Locke, for his part, kept mostly quiet, bowing his head politely with a muttered 'nice to meet you'. May had taken a step back towards the wall, but as soon as Alex and Win appeared he rushed over to join them. Gabriel glanced at Devon, pursing his lips as he considered just how much information to divulge. ."There's been a slight... mishap. It might be safer for-c you two to stay here with your guardian in the meantime, while things are sorted out," he said finally, giving as little of an actual answer as he could, but it seemed enough to snap Deno's attention back over to him. ."Yeah, why are you taking her? And why are you sending us back?! We only come down here twice a year to see you, you--" Locke grabbed him by the shoulder to cut off his tirade, interrupting him with a quiet grunt of 'language'. Gabriel glowered at him, but when Annabelle spoke up he cleared his throat, trying to regain control of his composure and the situation. ."It's quite alright, I'd like to speak to Miss Scarlet further about her situation anyways--" He froze when she grabbed his arm, eyes widening, but May seemed to perk up then, grinning. ."Right? He's either all scowly or doing that prim proper rich business smile. I don't think he actually knows how to have fun."

Bram rolled his eyes and shook his head. Maria and her emotional meddling. Like Vlad would show his true emotions to someone he didn't trust. Vampires. Why were they even a thing? "No, that would just make him angrier. Leave the talking him down to me.” He set his hands on his hips and glanced at Annabelle. "She's not listening to you. I think she thinks messing with Gabe would be fun."

Bram shrugged. He had no idea if they were even paying Gabriel. Probably. Vlad might pretend not to use money, but he certainly did a lot of shuffling of accounts behind the scenes. He sighed. "Nah. Letting us stay is trespassing on your hospitality enough, I think. Thanks, though."- Devon frowned and turned to his shorter guardian. "A mishap?"- -"We will discuss it later."-c-

The elder vampire sighed, giving Scarlet a tired look. "Do not torment him."-

Scarlet grinned at Denatro and Locke and practically dangled off of Gabriel's arm—directly ignoring her sire. "Because I'm prettier than you two. Duh."- -"Scarlet," Vlad groaned. -"Maybe he just needs a teacher," Scarlet continued, turning the grin on May. "I like this Sugar Crystal. He is way more fun than all of you put together. Can he come too?"

"Well, I've kept myself out of the loop since I left, so- Wait," Mags said, her eyes narrowing as she caught up with what Deno was saying. Obviously she knew he hadn't been in contact with the pack /before/ she'd left, but she'd been promised that would /change/. "Are you not-? Joseph doesn't know- That stubborn idiot! He promised," she said, clearly frustrated. "The /one/ thing I asked of him before he exiled me, honestly…," she muttered, before sighing. "I'm sorry," she told Deno sadly. "I was so excited about the prospect of news from any of the packs- I hadn't considered you might not have any. But. He smells like a good man," she said with a soft smile in Locke's direction. Actually, he smelled like vampire, but she supposed that was a bit hypocritical of her to take��issue with. Annabelle laughed lightly. "Oh, no one can /trespass/ on anything here- Why ever would you think I'd offer if didn't /want/ you here? You lot are the most fun I've had since I staged my dea.th in that car accident!". It was likely a very good thing Maria was fussing at Mags and did not hear- or at least pay much attention to- Annabelle's enthusiasm over the excitement. "/I/ could get you news, if you wanted it," she hissed, pressing the back of her hand to Mags' forehead. It was promptly smacked away, which Maria counted as a semi-win, as Mags was clearly feeling better. ."Uh- If it affects Devon and Winona, maybe they should know about it sooner, rather than later," Alex suggested from his position on the stair. Winona was hovering behind him, suddenly aware of the number of people in the hall, and wary of the two unknown redheads. Mags was still low threat, but not so much as she had been when she was tucked into bed and not slapping Maria's hand away. And Scarlet- Winona wasn't sure if she was a threat, and if so, to whom? Winona couldn't decide if she needed to get as many trusted people between the two of them as possible, or if she needed to get herself between Scarlet and as many trusted people as possible. ."Alex," Annabelle said with sudden delight. "Some of the guests are heading out now, why don't you see people off, goodness knows your father won't," she instructed. "Maria, you as well. ."But," Alex began to protest. ."Make sure to tell Dr. Vang we'll be keeping his mother in our thoughts. And I'm /sure/ Gwyneth will ask you to remind me about her Vogue problem- Tell her if I haven't settled it by the end of the week, /I'll/ contact her," she continued, and despite her cheerful tone, Alex knew wishing guests good night was not actually a 'suggestion'. He slunk down the stairs do as instructed and Maria followed with much less protest though she told Mags pointedly, "We're going to have to talk about this later. "You're dam.n right we will," Mags growled back angrily, and Alex idly wondered what sort of blackmail material his aunt's friend had that Maria allowed her to speak to her like that. Mostly he felt badly for leaving Winona alone- But she wasn't really alone, he figured, and if she felt she was in any danger she clearly had no problem running loose around the house, so.

#st georges #post log

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