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iffeelscouldkill · 5 years

Text

Any day breathing

“Captain Tripathi. You’re alive!”

He presents it as a joke, to mask the very real fear that lies underneath those words. The fear that someday, she won’t come back to him safe and whole.

–

A/N: I wrote another thing :3

To the folks in the Starship Iris Discord: I finished it! This started out as a little ficlet idea that I had a while back: a Sana/Campbell concept based on Campbell’s stock greeting of “Captain Tripathi. You’re alive!” I wrote half of it down (I got sidetracked partway through) and then let it sit in my Starship Iris ideas notes file (god, you do not want to see the length of that thing) for ages.

Then, a conversation in the TSCOSI Discord about Campbell, pining, and Campbell’s probable reaction to the Rumor reports being uploaded to the public net (which I had totally forgotten about asfdfgsgsdgsg) inspired me to pick it back up.

It was meant to be a short, whimsical, feels-filled ficlet about Sana and Campbell’s conversations through the years. It turned into something… much longer than that.

Enjoyyyyy~

–

“Captain Tripathi. You’re alive.”

The first time he says it, the surprise is genuine. It’s hard not to be surprised to hear from this woman again – someone whose name had been only a rumour to him until very recently. He’d heard about her from contacts of contacts, mentioned here and there, always with a reverent tone. She had some kind of revolutionary past, he’d heard: was jailed as a dissenter, or had taken part in an uprising. One version of that story said that she’d led an entire planet in an uprising. He also heard that she’d hijacked a high-level Regime starship – possibly in mid-flight.

Whatever he was expecting when they finally met face-to-face, the slender, wiry woman in the brightly-coloured shalwar kameez with a streak of engine grease near her hairline and elaborate floral tattoos adorning muscular arms is not it. Sana Tripathi walks straight into his base of operations – a network of winding corridors and tucked-away cubbyholes in what’s meant to be a confidential location – flanked by a younger woman with a murderous expression and more visible weapons than he can take in with one glance, and demands two full sets of new identification, impeccable and untraceable, to get the IGR off their tail.

“I heard you were the best,” she tells him, a challenge.

Campbell holds out for a full fifteen minutes, but by the end of it he’s agreed to everything she asks for and feels distinctly like he’s gone ten rounds in the sparring ring they used to blow off steam back in the military, verbally speaking. She agrees to pay half up-front, with the promise of the rest once they safely reach their destination.

It’s an hour-long job, and he doesn’t know where the two of them go to lie low while he’s working, but exactly an hour later the glowering, heavily-armed woman is back to pick up their documentation. He’s a little disappointed that it’s not the Captain who came to collect.

The other woman – who tells him shortly that her name is Patel; the name on the papers he’s made for her is Kay Grisham – pays and leaves. He later hears that the IGR is conducting randomised searches at every checkpoint, detaining anyone whose background doesn’t quite check out neatly enough, or whose personal or ship ID papers look a little too new.

Campbell is completely confident in the quality of his work, but he’s not sure that Tripathi could pass a visual check, if she’s been on an IGR watchlist – and that friend of hers didn’t really seem like the subtle type. After thirty-six hours with no word, he figures the rest of the money is lost, but chalks it up as an interesting story to tell.

Two hours later, he gets a call from an unknown number. After running the standard traces on it (the IGR aren’t as good at disguising themselves as they like to think), he accepts the call.

“Is this Ignatius Campbell?” asks the voice on the other end – brisk, but with the hint of warmth and humour lurking underneath.

“Captain Tripathi,” he says in surprise. “You’re alive.”

“Of course,” the Captain replies blithely. “We delayed our departure slightly in order to catch the shift changeover for the randomised checks. The outgoing agents are always tired and less likely to bother with a full database check, and the incoming agents have never been briefed properly. Then we had to make sure that we weren’t being tailed.”

“Of course,” Campbell echoes. This woman is no amateur, and he realises that he’d managed to underestimate her even after everything that she’d managed by tracking him down, coming to him and persuading him to work with her. He makes a mental note not to do that again.

“So, I assume this call is about payment,” he adds, when Captain Tripathi doesn’t volunteer anything further.

“How very astute of you,” the Captain replies, too good-humoured to be mocking, and then proceeds to brazenly haggle him down a further twenty-five percent.

Campbell doesn’t believe in love at first sight, and he never will. But he does believe that there are people whom, when you meet them, the universe demands you sit up and pay attention to.

–

“Captain Tripathi – you’re alive.”

Even after resolving not to underestimate Sana Tripathi, Campbell is still surprised when he hears from her again. It’s been eight months, and during that time, his best-placed informants hadn’t picked up a single trace of Captain Tripathi or her companion. Not under the names he’d created for them, and not under the names they’d given him when they met.

It’s unheard of for him to be unable to track an alias he’s created (he wouldn’t be able to stay ahead of any potential threats unless he had that advantage), but he knows that the Regime has ways of making people vanish completely. It’s a cold, unpleasant realisation, and he experiences an unusually strong pang of regret considering that he barely knows this woman. But he’s sure that somehow, they must have slipped up and got caught.

So when Captain Tripathi contacts him again like nothing has happened, he realises he might just have to get used to unexpected developments.

He’s somehow not even surprised to hear that since they last spoke, she’s picked up a Dwarnian and some kind of renegade translator who has a history with the mafia. “He’s an academic, so he won’t be seeing any action, but he needs to have papers that will hold up if the ship is inspected while we’re docked,” the Captain explains casually.

“…Naturally,” says Campbell. “And speaking of your ship – I suppose you have a full work-up of papers for that, too? You know they’ve tightened the regs on those a lot recently.”

He tells himself he’s only saying it so that he can squeeze an extra job out of a contact he’s fairly confident will be good for the money. Not because he’s concerned.

“Are you suggesting that my ship’s paperwork is less than completely impeccable?” Captain Tripathi asks him with mock indignation.

Campbell suppresses a smile as he replies, “Given that it was made by someone other than myself, I’m surprised it’s held up this long.”

Their conversation concludes with him agreeing to redo the ship’s paperwork – somehow at a much lower price than he would usually charge for a second-time client.

–

“Captain Tripathi. You’re alive!”

It’s already become a joke between them by this point, the fact that Campbell answers Sana’s calls this way, and he waits in anticipation of the sarcastic response that he knows will follow. They’ve been in relatively regular contact since Campbell started playing middleman for some of their cargo, using his network of contacts to move it on and taking a cut. He’s stopped bothering to deny to himself how much he looks forward to their conversations.

But this time, the voice that comes down the line is not Sana Tripathi’s, but Arkady Patel’s. “It’s First Mate Patel, actually,” she says brusquely, and Campbell sits up slowly. “I know you guys traditionally open with like, twenty minutes of banter, but we don’t have time for that right now. We’re in a bind.”

Campbell has a cast-iron policy of not offering any favours, offering help to contacts, or otherwise sticking his neck out any further than he needs to. He keeps his relationships strictly about business and nothing more. Much like his ability to track an alias, it’s what’s kept him off the IGR’s radar for so long.

There are one or two folks whom he goes way back with – like Theodore “Red” Gregor, who was in his unit and a fellow dishonourable discharge. Campbell helped him set up his business on Elion. There aren’t many who could manage to stay in business while avoiding both the mob and the Regime, but if anyone could, it was Red.

But they’re rare exceptions to a very strict rule. Anyone else is on their own, or had better be prepared to owe him for a long, long time.

Campbell thinks about all this before he says, “What do you need?”

–

Campbell is ashamed of how long it takes him to realise that Sana is a fellow Telemachian. He’s usually good at identifying fellow homeworlders, even ones who have lived elsewhere. Telemachians have this spark, this spirit, a distinctive culture that even the Regime couldn’t stamp out of them.

They’re diverse, sure, and numerous, but you can always spot a fellow Telemachian if you know what to look for. They’re the unruly planet on the edge of a solar system, a little too far away from any established IGR base to monitor closely; a little too big to be brought to heel. There’s a reason that most protest songs originate from Telemachus – and that there’s been periodic unrest every few years since the coup.

They’re making small talk at the end of a call (something Campbell indulges in far more than he should), and Campbell is talking about evading the IGR’s latest clampdown and how hard it’s becoming to operate underground. “It’s enough to make me want to give it all up and become a vegetable farmer somewhere.”

“Wouldn’t you get bored?” Sana asks, playfully but with a hint of curiosity lurking underneath.

“Yeah. Probably.” Campbell’s not sure. Maybe if he had the company of the right person, it wouldn’t be so bad. “Just, all this running in place… it feels so futile.” It comes out sounding more tired than he means it to.

“Well, you know what they say,” says Sana, seriously. “When their foot is on your throat-”

“-any day breathing is a victory,” Campbell finishes. “I didn’t know you were a homeworlder.”

There’s a pause, and he thinks that Sana is weighing up what to say next. She hadn’t meant to give so much away, he realises – for all that he’s got to know a fair bit about the smuggling business that she runs, and the odd detail about life on board the Rumor, Sana is very cautious about revealing anything about her own past, or that of her crew, beyond what is strictly required to do business. Campbell has never minded that – he can respect a person’s boundaries. He doesn’t need to pry into Sana’s past to be sure that she won’t screw him over.

“I’ve moved around a bit,” she says, finally. “I spent a few years off-planet in the late 70s. Since then I’ve been… transient. Well, you knew that.”

Campbell inclines his head, though he knows that Sana can’t see it. He’s still considering what to say when she carries on,

“I don’t go back to the homeworld much these days. Actually, when we first approached you to work with us-” Campbell gives a wry smile at how much of an understatement that is, “-it was the first time that I’d been back to Telemachus in years.”

“It’s still home, though, isn’t it?” he says, thinking of the time that he’d spent in deployment; the years that he was on the run, unable to get word to his sister or his nephews. “After everything.”

“Yeah, it is.”

–

Campbell doesn’t really think twice the first time he invites the crew of the Rumor to have dinner with him.

It’s late in the evening, and the crew has just touched down on Telemachus a full twelve hours later than they’d originally planned. First there’d been some unprecedented solar flare activity en route, forcing them to take a detour, and then they’d been boarded by Regime agents in a “random” check on entry to Telemachus. Krejjh had been quickly hidden away in one of the ship’s many nooks and crannies, and the paperwork had all checked out (of course), but the agents had been both suspicious and thorough. All in all, the crew is obviously exhausted and a little fractious by the time Campbell meets them to pick up the cargo. Sana is doing her best to keep things businesslike, but she wilts visibly and rubs her hand over her eyes when she thinks he isn’t looking.

“Hey. Listen, we can go over all this tomorrow,” Campbell says, as gently as he can. “You guys’ve had a rough journey – what d’you say we grab a bite to eat instead?”

Arkady’s frown deepens, of course – it’s her job to be suspicious, and Campbell doesn’t take it personally. More to the point, he knows that it’s just her way of trying to look out for the crew. Arkady Patel is a lot more caring than she tries to let on. She might show it with jibes in the background of calls, or with threats and occasional bodily harm in the direction of anyone who threatens her friends’ safety, but she shows it.

For her part, Sana looks extremely relieved at the idea of being able to put business off until the morning.

“That’s really kind of you, Campbell,” she says. “It’d be great to take a bit of a breather, but we don’t want to impose…”

“It’s no imposition,” says Campbell, shrugging. “I was planning to go out to eat tonight anyway – I’ve been cooped up indoors too much lately. There’s a great hole-in-the-wall two blocks away from here – it doesn’t look like much, but the food is something else. Krejjh can come, too – they get all kinds in there.”

Sana tells him they’ll consult Brian and Krejjh before coming to a decision, but Campbell has a feeling that the answer will be yes, despite Arkady’s clear misgivings. Sure enough, Sana is back minutes later with a mild-mannered translator and an excitable Dwarnian (disguised with a large pair of novelty sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat) in tow.

Over the months – almost a year, now – that Campbell has been doing business with the Rumor crew, he has a sense of how they work together as a group: Krejjh piloting the ship and executing daring last-minute escapes; Brian joking and mediating and cooking slightly disastrous food; Arkady watching Sana’s back and intimidating obstacles into submission; and Sana alternately leading and mothering, driving ruthless bargains for the benefit of her crew.

But it doesn’t compare to the experience of eating at the same table, drinking the Rumor’s lethal home-brewed moonshine, listening to outrageous tales and laughing until his sides hurt.

The next day, Campbell is unsurprised when he doesn’t hear a word from the Rumor crew until nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. He himself only crawled out of bed at noon, and has since been avoiding light sources and slowly regaining his humanity over strong black coffee.

“Incoming call from Sana Tripathi.”

“Captain Tripathi,” Campbell says as he answers his comm. “You’re alive?”

“The jury’s definitely still out on that one,” Sana replies, her voice low and rough. Campbell chuckles, and then hopes the sound wasn’t too loud. “We’re at various stages of recuperation, but at a minimum, Arkady and I will be able to meet you with the cargo at our rendezvous point by three.”

“Make it four,” Campbell says, in deference to how utterly wrung-out she sounds. To cover this up, he adds, “I only joined the land of the living about half an hour ago myself. I’m going to need at least three more cups of coffee before I’m functional.”

“Four it is,” says Sana, businesslike, but with a clear undertone of relief. “We’ll see you there.”

“See you both soon. And, Sana –”

Campbell stops, wondering if he’s overstepping. Last night had been so easy, so fun – by the end of it, the Rumor crew felt like old friends. But it’s harder to recapture that feeling in the light of day, sober. What can he say – ‘Thanks for a great night’? ‘We should do this again sometime’?

(‘You have a beautiful laugh’?)

He clears his throat. “Don’t let Brian forget about that drink he owes me. And uh, you and the rest of the crew are always welcome to make a stop. To refuel, or…” He clears his throat again. “Or for whatever reason.”

“Thanks, Campbell,” says Sana, warm and genuine. “We’ll see you soon.”

–

Things start to get a lot tougher over the months that follow – on Telemachus and on every other planet that Campbell has contacts. Forgers and traders he’s worked with for years go silent, or are rarely heard from; he gets wind of abrupt crackdowns, the Regime imprisoning people who show the slightest bit of dissent, petty criminals being sent down with lengthy sentences.

Telemachus starts to stir. He hears murmurs on the streets. A leaflet is shoved into his hand by a hooded young person who is gone before he can blink. Campbell skims enough of it to know that he would probably be arrested if he were found with it on his person. He burns it, but he knows it’s only a matter of time before the protests start.

On his next call with the Captain to arrange a routine cargo drop-off, he can’t stop himself from urging her to be careful. Sounding amused, she promises him that she will.

“Are we still on for drinks at that bar you promised to take us to?”

“I don’t know what their house policy is on home-brewed moonshine,” Campbell warns her. “But of course we are.”

“Great. We’ll see you in a week, Campbell. Sana Tripathi out.”

He’s not expecting to get another call from her just three days later. Campbell is tense as he accepts the call, sure that something must be wrong.

“Captain Tripathi.” He hesitates over the second half of the greeting, and Sana speaks before he can say anything else.

“Campbell, hi.” She sounds well, but Campbell doesn’t relax, sensing bad news in her tone. “Listen, there’s no good way to say this, but… we’re going to have to miss our drop-off.”

“Oh.” Of all the things that Campbell might have thought were coming next, that wasn’t one of them. He knows he should be angry over being left in the lurch by a business partner, about how badly this will put him out, but instead he’s just… disappointed. And concerned. “What’s happening?”

“It’s – hard to go into too much detail right now, but… we’ve got to make an unexpected stop. Something’s come up, and… there’s no way we’re going to be in range of Telemachus for a while. I’m sorry.”

So, not just missing a drop-off, but possibly not making any stops for some time. Campbell is silent for a few moments, absorbing this.

“I know this will put you out in a major way, and I promise that we’ll make it up to you,” Sana says. “You’re our best customer, and we would never bail on you unless it was urgent.”

That’s what concerns me, Campbell thinks. “I… understand,” he says finally. “I’m not going to pretend I like it, but sometimes, that’s just how things are. I can find another supplier for the Scotch. They won’t be you, but…”

“Sorry, again, Campbell. We were… really looking forward to seeing you. Listen, we’ll give you half price on your next shipment. As an apology.”

Somehow, bartering isn’t as fun when Sana is just offering him a lower price – and when she’s doing it as an apology. “We’ll work something out,” he says. “I know you’ve got to keep Krejjh in hot sauce and Arkady in those elaborate hair products she denies using.”

Sana laughs. “Yeah, we might have to ration the hot sauce for a bit, but we’ll survive.” There’s a pause, and then she adds, “I’ll call as soon as I’m able. Let you know when we might be in the area again.”

“Do that. Good luck with… whatever it is that you have to do.”

“Thanks.” For a moment, Sana seems like she’s about to say something else, but then she closes with, “Speak to you soon. Sana Tripathi out.”

–

Campbell doesn’t hear from the Rumor crew for another three weeks after Sana’s call. All told, it’s been nearly four months since they last stopped by on Telemachus. Once upon a time, he would go much longer without seeing or hearing from the crew and not even think about it. But he’s got used to more regular contact – drop-offs every couple of months, and regular calls, sometimes not even about business. He enjoys finding out what the group has been up to, listening to the way that they joke together, the way Sana alternately cajoles and corrals them. How fond she sounds when talking to her crew, her found family.

He’s sure, sometimes, that he hears the same fondness in her voice directed at him. She’s never hesitated to match his banter, and he looks forward to the calls where they haggle over prices, exchanging insults that sound more affectionate than anything. Campbell would hate to cross a line too soon – he doesn’t want to ruin what is also a great business relationship and friendship. But on his calls with Sana, his catch-ups with the crew, their now-regular drinking escapades with ill-advised amounts of moonshine and ridiculous stories… he’s sure that there’s something more there.

He finds himself thinking about Sana at odd moments during the day: dwelling on her voice, her laugh; picturing her smile, her arms, her tattoos. He hopes that she’s safe, that whatever mystery errand took her away from Telemachus wasn’t dangerous. More than once, he’s tempted to put a call through and make sure she’s okay, but he stops himself. Sana said she would call as soon as she was able, and she’s always been a woman of her word.

He brightens when, in the middle of a slow evening, his terminal lights up and his computer intones, “Incoming call from… Sana Tripathi. Incoming call from…”

“Captain Tripathi,” he greets her cheerfully. “You’re alive!”

–

Then, Elion. A body turns up by the landfill. Sana’s accusation.

“In what universe would I turn on you for them?!”

Then they don’t speak for some time.

–

There’s a massive protest happening in the centre of Nestor, the district of Telemachus where Campbell is based. It’s loud enough and vehement enough that Campbell can hear it, just faintly, from where he sits in his cramped office, distractedly going through some accounts.

Normally, the Regime would have deployed riot police by now, violently suppressing the protest and arresting the instigators. But in contrast to how jumpy the IGR had been before, the machinery of the Regime has been oddly absent in recent weeks. As if all its resources are being focused elsewhere. This is the third protest in about ten days – and the largest. He also heard that there’s been some kind of major incident at a Regime lab in New Jupiter – a fire or an explosion or something. He’s willing to bet that it’s just the tip of the iceberg. Something big is going down.

Giving the accounts up as a bad job for now, Campbell dismisses the holographic screen with a wave of his hand and stands up. He needs some air.

Once he’s out of the house, it’s almost impossible to avoid the protest – it seems to be everywhere. Out of sheer morbid curiosity, Campbell walks towards the crowds, his coat collar turned up to obscure the bottom half of his face. Soon he’s close enough to hear some of what they’re shouting.

“THE RUMOR CREW DID NOTHING WRONG!” yells a man nearby, and Campbell’s heart almost stops. “JUSTICE FOR THASIA!”

“JUSTICE FOR EMILY CRADDOCK!” another voice yells back.

Someone stuffs a leaflet into Campbell’s hand. He looks down at it. It’s a cheap, quickly-printed thing, just black text on off-white paper, and it reads:

WE THE PEOPLE DEMAND A FULL AND TRANSPARENT STATEMENT FROM THE INTERGALACTIC REPUBLIC ABOUT THE DISCLOSURES IN THE RUMOR RECORDINGS OF THE WIDESPREAD USE OF SPY TECHNOLOGY IN PEACETIME ASSASSINATION, ABDUCTION, AND THE INSTIGATION OF AN INTER-SPECIES WAR THE RUMOR CREW DID NOTHING WRONG!

Campbell roughly grabs the shoulder of the man who was shouting nearby. “What are these Rumor recordings?” he demands, brandishing the leaflet.

The man looks alarmed, and Campbell forces his posture to become a bit less “military”. “I’m not one of them,” he says, quickly. “I just want to know what’s happening.”

“They’re all over the public net, man,” says the protestor. The ‘where the hell have you been?’ is strongly implied.

“You should start by listening to Report 1: Violet Liu,” another protestor supplies helpfully.

“Thank you,” says Campbell, and lets go of the man’s shoulder. The man shrugs and rejoins the crowd, chanting,

“JUSTICE FOR ALVY CONNORS! JUSTICE FOR THE CREW OF THE STARSHIP IRIS! YOU CAN’T MAKE A PERSON DISAPPEAR!”

Back at home, Campbell discovers the man was right: the files are all over the net. The IGR is clearly penalising anyone who shares them, and trying to shut down the websites hosting them – his search turns up a lot of dead links and mysteriously deactivated accounts. But there are far too many sources to eradicate them all, short of completely shutting down the public net. Before too long, Campbell has a complete set of the recordings, Reports 1 to 9.

He starts to listen.

The report starts, after the introduction from someone who is clearly an IGR drone, with the panicked voice of a woman who sounds vaguely familiar. Campbell has a good memory for both faces and voices, and he’s sure this woman is the new recruit he’d heard briefly on the call with Sana before the Rumor landed on Elion. It might explain her link to the Rumor crew.

Sure enough, a few minutes later he hears Arkady, using the Kay Grisham alias that he’d made for her, years ago. He recognises the con she’s pulling, a trick that Brian Jeeter grandly refers to as “the Carmen Gambit”. He wonders what was so important about this woman that the Rumor crew went so far out of their way to rescue her. He looks for a timestamp on the recording, but it only shows when the file was uploaded to the public net, which was a few days ago. But Campbell has a feeling this was the reason that the Rumor crew skipped their drop-off in Telemachus.

He wishes that Sana had told him what they were doing. God knows he wouldn’t have been angry about them going to save a person’s life. He wasn’t really angry about it to begin with.

Campbell keeps listening, and learns the real reason for the Rumor crew’s detour: a cryptic message from a friend he thinks Brian might have mentioned once – Alvy Connors, a gifted coder moonlighting as a bartender. Campbell’s sorry to learn about his death. He realises that the protesters had been chanting Alvy’s name – but why would they care so much about this man’s death? Where did these recordings come from?

Two more reports in, and Campbell is starting to put the pieces together to form a horrible picture: how the Regime had known that the Rumor was headed towards Elion. How the crew’s IDs had become compromised. They were listening to every word, he realises. But how?

Sana and Arkady discuss trading with the Fowleys – a particularly low breed of scum that Campbell avoids dealing with if at all possible, but he knows the Rumor crew can’t afford to be that picky – on Elion, and Campbell realises that he must be about to make an appearance in the recordings.

Sure enough, as the group realises that they need new IDs, Sana makes the call. It’s surreal to hear his own voice coming from the computer, and Campbell realises he needs to be very careful from now on. Whatever event caused all these files to be leaked onto the public net, he’s now clearly implicated in it, too. At least the Regime don’t have a visual description, but they have his voice and his location, as well as some details about his contacts. He’ll need to warn Red Gregor.

The exchange between Arkady and Sana in the elevator on Elion makes him cringe. “Did it seem like he was hitting on you?” Ridiculously, he finds himself hoping that Sana will give some indication of how she might feel about that, but instead she expertly turns the conversation around on Arkady. “If we wanna open that door, can I just say that you and—”

“No, that door is shut and locked.”

Campbell thinks about how Arkady talks to Violet Liu, her upbeat mood in response to the other woman’s admiration, and smiles.

Things go downhill quickly after that. Campbell is tense as he listens to the exchange with the guard, the Carmen Gambit once again coming into play. It almost works – until the fatal announcement over the comms that blows the crew’s cover. Campbell reflects that the Regime’s ridiculous, stifling bureaucracy was probably the only thing that kept them from getting caught sooner.

He cringes again as he hears his own call come through, and Sana immediately decline it. He’d been a bit over-eager, calling as soon as he’d got Red Gregor’s message to say that the job had gone off without a hitch – he was really just looking for an excuse to talk to Sana. Clearly, Campbell needs to get a grip.

The recording ends, and Campbell looks at his holo-screen, thinking about what the next recording will surely contain.

“Computer, outside call. Ignatius Campbell to Sana Tripathi.”

“Attempting connection…” the computer intones. “Attempting connection… Attempting connection… Attempting connection… Connection not available.”

He guesses he can’t blame Sana for declining his calls, after everything that he’d said to her before.

Reluctantly, he plays the next recording.

He listens to Violet’s attempts to speak to Arkady, Brian’s theories about the robot nanoswarm, and then Violet and Arkady’s conversation in the kitchen and Arkady’s gift of her mint plant. Campbell feels slightly indignant about the fact that Arkady never let on she was a fellow gardener. They could have exchanged tips!

Finally, he hears Sana accept his call in her room, and the friendly conversation quickly devolve into a tense exchange. He’s replayed that conversation endless times in his head, but it somehow sounds even worse than he remembers. Campbell wasn’t angry at Sana – he wishes he could have explained that somehow. But with everything that had happened, she was in no position to give him the benefit of the doubt. He wishes he could go back in time and…

He doesn’t know.

Then, something unexpected. Another call comes through to Sana’s comm, and she accepts it without waiting to hear the name – but Campbell knows that wasn’t him.

“Campbell, I agree it’s a bad idea for us to talk right now, but I just wanna say that if it was only me, I would probably risk it. The thing is, I can’t, I have to think about my crew, and you—”

Campbell’s heart stutters in his chest. “Computer, outside call,” he says, not bothering to pause the recording. “Ignatius Campbell to Sana Tripathi.”

“Attempting connection… Attempting connection… Attempting connection… Attempting connection… Connection not available.”

Campbell sighs and runs a hand over his face. He’s finally starting to get the picture, and he’s desperate to talk to Sana, to tell her that he understands now. He thinks about the way she’d spoken to ‘him’, the vulnerability in her voice. Damn it, he needs to talk to her. He has to make this right.

A man is speaking on the recording now, and Sana responds to him with anger. Campbell realises that he still has three reports left to go. He’s still far from understanding what has happened and where these recordings came from. The least that he can do is take the time to listen to them and understand what Sana has been going through.

He’s afraid of what the other reports might contain. But he would have known if Sana was hurt or worse – wouldn’t he? Surely Sana would still have come to him for help if she really needed it?

Nothing could have prepared him for the contents of the last three reports: the stunning revelations about Thasia, about why the war began; about the Regime’s use of a sentient swarm of nanobots to spy on dozens of its own people, indiscriminately, in every waking moment. His fists clench, hard enough that his nails dig into the palms of his hands, as he listens to Major General Frederick’s cold declaration that future strains of the nanoswarm will include a ‘kill-switch’. He listens to the sad story of Thasia and their doomed childhood friend, Emily Craddock. He understands now why the crowd had been chanting their names.

The crew’s hours of drunken singalongs and fake ‘confessions’ make him smile, but the smile is quickly wiped from his face as he hears the passage of time at the end of the report. “Two weeks have passed since our last update. As Major General Frederick said, we expect diminishing returns via this swarm of strain H.”

Then, the last few seconds. “Agent McCabe, look out the window!”

“Holy shit—”

Campbell can’t believe the recordings end there. He goes back to the site where he’d downloaded the files, to make sure he hadn’t missed one – but the website has already been taken offline. He scours discussion boards for any scrap of information. All of the commentators agree that there are only nine reports, but they have theories about what might have happened next – linked to the explosion (it definitely was an explosion) on New Jupiter. Odds are, it was the Rumor’s destination. But what happened?

He thinks about the words of the other Violet Liu. “If Plan B fails, not all of you will live long enough for Plan C.” He thinks about Violet coughing, Krejjh coughing, an inexorably deadly swarm of nanobots in the air. The Rumor crew taking one last, defiant, heroic stand because none of them could stand the alternative: to save their own lives at the expense of so many others.

“We have a saying on Telemachus, that when their foot is on your throat, any day breathing is a victory. So, I vote we push our luck.”

Campbell’s breathing is unsteady, and his throat feels tight and painful. He tries to fight down the rising panic in his chest, the voice in his head that fears the worst. Sana is alive. She has to be. He rubs at one eye with the heel of his hand, and it comes away wet.

“Computer,” he chokes out. “Outside call. Ignatius Campbell – to – Sana Tripathi.”

“Attempting connection… Attempting connection… Attempting connection… Attempting connection…”

“Campbell?”

Campbell is so stunned that for several long moments he stares at his computer, at the holo-screen displaying a successful connection, counting up the seconds on their call. “Campbell?” Sana says again. “Is that you?”

“Captain Tripathi,” he manages finally. “You’re…”

“Alive,” finishes Sana, with a smile in her voice.

#tscosi #the strange case of starship iris #sana tripathi #ignatius campbell #sana/campbell #arkady patel #campbell is a world champion piner #i got really into the telemachus headcanons as you can probably tell #i mean the details we're given in the show suggest that telemachus is pretty... rebellious? revolutionary? as a planet #and i thought that was cool #also i need to spend way more time developing headcanons about the fallout from the rumor recordings because wow #i had not even thought about that at all #also i would love if campbell reacts to season one becomes an actual trope #guys help me make it happen

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bugborgs · 6 years

Text

we're intergalactic, with thoughts full of static

@bugborgweek day 03: first

just a fic for today! jdhkhs i say “just” this one’s a tad longer than my other ficlets :’) As before, fic is under the cut! Possible title change incoming if i happen to think of a better title in the future but no promises.

AO3 mirror || general audience rating, sfw, about 2800 words.

The first time Mantis tells Nebula she thinks she’s pretty is a mistake. It’s not that she isn’t—Nebula is beautiful—it’s that. Well. They weren’t close and Nebula is…Nebula.

But she is breathtaking both in and out of a fight, strong and quick and deadly, and when she and Gamora have finished sparring and Nebula walks past Mantis can’t stop herself from blurting it out.

Nebula freezes, shoulders tensed. Her expression cycles from surprise to bewilderment to guarded suspicion in seconds and Mantis regrets opening her mouth immediately. Nebula doesn’t say anything, but she scowls, turns away, and stalks off.

Mantis is left with a burning sense of embarrassment at her outburst and she avoids watching any other sparring sessions for a while, even when Nebula is not involved.

Nebula leaves the Guardians again only a few short days later.

The first time they speak again after that is after another one of Nebula’s failed excursions. She returns in a smoking ship and with busted cybernetics and Gamora welcomes her back with a tight hug and clear relief that her sister is still in one piece.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

Nebula doesn’t respond right away, but Mantis can see the tension building in her shoulders and knows she has heard her. It’s the middle of the night. Mantis can’t sleep, Nebula is attempting to repair her damaged cybernetics, and they’re along on the bridge.

“The day after your sparring match,” Mantis clarifies when Nebula still doesn’t answer. “It was a few months ago now.”

“I remember,” Nebula says tightly.

There’s an uncomfortable pause. Mantis isn’t sure what to say, or if she should even say anything at all.

“I don’t need an apology. Your mocking means nothing to me.”

“It—I wasn’t mocking you,” Mantis says, a little surprised at the response. “And I wasn’t lying, either.”

“They why apologize?” Nebula demands.

“Because you seemed unhappy with my comment, and you have been avoiding me ever since. I do not want you to be uncomfortable around me.” Mantis forces her hands to stay relaxed at her sides, trying not to look as nervous as she feels.

Nebula stares at her intently, as if trying to determine if she’s being honest or not, then abruptly looks away. Mantis waits a moment longer, then gently says, “I’ll leave you be now,” and moves to leave.

“You can stay,” Nebula says abruptly. Her fingers curl and uncurl into fists. “Or you can go. I don’t care.”

She doesn’t look at Mantis, but she isn’t leaving, or chasing her away either, and so Mantis says, “I think I’ll stay, then,” settles down in a spot near a window, and tries to hide her growing smile.

The first time they spend time together—really spend time together, like actual hanging out and not just existing in the same room together—Mantis has somehow roped Nebula into listening to music with her.

Even Mantis isn’t quite sure how she managed that. Nebula has always been outspoken when it came to making fun of Peter (including his music, naturally) and yet despite all the grumbling and scowling she’s now sitting next to Mantis, one earbud in her ear, and letting Mantis show her some of her favorite songs.

She likes to think it’s because Nebula has developed a soft spot for her over the recent months.

“Why do you even have this?” Nebula grouses as Mantis thumbs through the list. “Quill never goes anywhere without his stupid music player.”

“He wanted to take advantage of our downtime and nap for a while,” Mantis says, “so he let me borrow the Zune.”

Nebula grumbles indistinctly, but quiets once Mantis selects a song and the first notes start up. Mantis watches from the corner of her eye, wanting to see Nebula’s reaction. Her expression is carefully blank, and Mantis wants so badly to reach out and touch her arm to know what she’s feeling.

Nebula catches her eye and starts. Mantis tries not to laugh; she reminds Mantis of Groot when he got caught trying to sneak some sweets before dinner. “What do you think?”

Nebula looks like she’s struggling with what to say. “It…isn’t terrible,” she eventually says.

“You don’t have to pretend to like it.” The amusement in Mantis’s voice is obvious.

“It’s not…it’s not bad. It’s very you. Sweet and cheerful—” She cuts herself off abruptly and pointedly avoids looking at Mantis. Her cheeks have darkened noticeably, and Mantis feels her own start to warm.

Nebula’s still not looking at Mantis, but she doesn’t get up to leave, so Mantis risks scooting closer and holds out the Zune. “Here,” she offers. “Let’s find something you’d like.”

Nebula slowly turns and leans close enough to see the screen. Together, they start scrolling down the list of songs.

The first time someone says something about it, it’s Peter, and in true Peter fashion he’s a bit of a dramatic dork about it. He catches her in the kitchen early enough one morning, in a rare moment where they’re the only ones awake, and he mentions that Nebula might be visiting soon.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. He has a strange look on his face, unusually scrutinizing. “Gamora said Nebula might be in the area sometime soon, so we might get a visit from our favorite murderous in-law.”

Mantis tries to act casual, but the thought of seeing Nebula again makes her heart flutter a little. “That would be nice. It has been a long time since Nebula’s visited; I’m sure Gamora would like that.”

Peter smacks his hands down on the table and Mantis jumps at the suddenness of such a loud sound in the otherwise quiet room. “Okay, I know what you’re doing and I’m not falling for it.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she protests, flustered.

“You’re pretending you don’t care! Or that you’re not as interested in the news as you really are!”

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“You like Nebula,” Peter says. “And she likes you back, and it’s killing me that my sister has a crush and isn’t doing anything about it.”

“I do not!” Mantis exclaims before the second half of Peter’s statement sinks in. “She…she likes me?” She’s almost embarrassed of how hopeful she sounds.

But Peter is Peter; he’s a sweet man and a good brother, and he just nods excitedly at her. “Gamora says Nebula asks about you all the time when they talk. In typical angry, pretending-not-to-care Nebula fashion, I mean. And you guys are always hanging out when she’s here. You’re like, the only person she willingly spends time with. Aside from Gamora, I mean.” He laughs a little. “You two really aren’t subtle.”

Mantis’s cheeks burn. “Am I really that obvious?”

Peter softens immediately and drops the joke. “Aw, hey, it’s not a bad thing,” he assures as he pulls her into a crushing hug. “Having a crush isn’t bad—though, I gotta say, Nebula? I wouldn’t have expected that. “She’s scary man—”

“Peter,” Mantis interrupts, voice muffled against his shoulder.

Peter releases her from the hug but keeps an arm wrapped comfortingly around her shoulders. “Sorry. My point is, nobody’s going to make fun of you, and anyone that does is going to have your whole pissed off family to deal with, okay?”

Mantis smiles weakly at him. “Thanks, Peter.”

“No prob.” He pats her shoulder. “And if you need anything, just let me know, yeah?”

“I will. Thank you.”

“Now, how do you want to do the whole ‘asking her out’ think? ’Cos I’ve always had good luck with music and dancing, but on Earth some people use flowers, and then in space there’s lots—”

“Peter.”

Their first real date contains a few other firsts, too.

They’re on a local little planet—ostensibly to refuel and restock the ship’s supplies, but Mantis and Nebula leave that to the rest of the Guardians—that Rocket snarkily calls “boring and pathetic,” Peter says is “simple,” and Gamora says is safe.

“It’s nearby, it’s out of the way, and it’s small,” Gamora had said when the Guardians had been deciding which planet to stop at. “We should have no trouble resupplying and finding entertainment until—”

“The bug and you murderous sister are done with their date, yeah yeah. We all know the reason you picked this town is ’cause you don’t want any cops on our tail if they start shit.”

“Why would we do anything to get arrested?” Mantis can’t fathom their date going that poorly but now that the thought’s been put in her head she can’t help but start worrying.

“Okay, look, nobody is going to get arrested,” Peter started, and that’s when Drax chimed in.

“Yes, Nebula is a fierce warrior. If she does not want to be arrested, she will not.

“Dude, that’s not helping.”

From there the conversation only further devolved into bickering (somehow on an entirely unrelated subject), and it was a relief to Mantis when the ship finally docked and she and Nebula were able to officially start their date.

To say they were both nervous would be an understatement.

They were walking a bit apart as they wandered slowly through the park. Neither had particularly wanted to stick around near the market, crowded and busy as it was, and the nearby park sounded quieter and more appealing anyways, so they had agreed that they would head there first and see where that would lead.

Nebula was…tense. Mantis didn’t have to touch her to know that much, but Mantis had no room to talk. They were both nervous. Mantis, certainly, had never dated before, and based off their past conversations, neither had Nebula.

“We can head back, if you would prefer,” Nebula interrupts her thoughts abruptly, after they’d been walking for a while.

Mantis stops and blinks confusedly at Nebula. “Go back?” She thinks she can hear a bit of panic in her voice; did Nebula not want to be here with her that badly?

“If you are regretting this, we can head back,” Nebula clarifies stiffly. She’s staring straight ahead, pointedly refusing to look at Mantis.

“I—no!” Mantis blurts out, and Nebula seems so startled by her outburst she snaps around to look at her. “Why would you—do you want to head back?”

“No!” Nebula bristles defensively. “But you seem tense. I thought maybe you might have begun to regret this.”

“I could say the same about you.” Mantis doesn’t realize she’s wringing her hands until her nails bite into the back of her hand. They stare at each for a long, awkward minute until Mantis finally admits, “I…am nervous, but it’s not because I don’t want to be with you. The Guardians put some silly thoughts in my head—”

“Idiots,” Nebula growls.

“—and I let it feed my nerves,” Mantis finishes. She feels a bit silly now, having said this out loud.

Nebula clenches and unclenches her hands and haltingly says, “I was nervous too. I thought you might not being enjoying this.”

Mantis slowly unlaces her hands and reaches tentatively for Nebula’s cybernetic hand, which hangs stiffly at her side. “Maybe we could…start over, and try again?”

Nebula’s hand twitches, their fingertips brushing. “I would like that.”

Mantis smiles; she still feels a little jittery, but instead of growing dread in the pit of her stomach she has butterflies. Nebula offers a tiny smile of her own in response and Mantis’s stomach flutters, then flips when Nebula lets her hold her other hand.

“Can I kiss you?” Mantis asks.

Nebula’s cheeks darken slightly. “Yes.”

Their first kiss is brief and clumsy, but it’s sweet and leaves Mantis feeling giddy and warm, especially when Nebula tips her head to follow Mantis and they end up with their foreheads pressed against each other. Nebula lets out a flustered little huff and squeezes Mantis’s hand fondly.

Nebula’s hands are rough and her grip is a little too tight, but Mantis never wants her to let go.

The first “I love you” is also the first time Mantis manages to talk Nebula into dancing.

There’s music drifting down from the speakers in the quadrant, and Mantis sits up from where she’d been leaning against Nebula’s shoulder as she read.

“Quill and his stupid music,” Nebula grumbles (because really, if he wants to listen to that blasted Zune all the time then fine, but why inflict that on everyone else by playing it over the speakers?) at the same time Mantis says:

“Oh, I like this song.” Mantis shifts and Nebula can practically feel her staring imploringly at her. “Nebula…,” she starts.

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”

“You’re going to ask me to dance. The answer is no.”

Mantis leans closer, laying a hand on Nebula’s cybernetic forearm for support. “Oh, please? Just one dance, Nebula.”

“I don’t dance. No,” Nebula repeats flatly.

“Not even for me?”

Nebula finally turns to fix her scowl on Mantis, only to falter when she sees Mantis’s endearingly sweet, pleading expression.

That was a mistake, Nebula thinks. She opens her mouth to refuse again but the words catch in her throat, and—sensing weakness—Mantis smiles hopefully.

Dammit.

They’d only been dating for a few short months—still so early in this relationship thing neither had any experience with—and yet, it seemed, Mantis already had her wrapped around her finger. Nebula wishes she could blame it on Mantis’s powers, but her hand is on Nebula’s prosthetic arm and even if it wasn’t she knows Mantis wouldn’t try to alter her feelings (she wouldn’t do that to her) but the alternative is that Nebula has gone soft and sappy like her sister and she isn’t sure if she can deal with that revelation right now so instead she takes the thought and shoves it to the very back of her mind and tries to forget about it.

“I hate when you do that,” Nebula growls, but there’s no real bite to her tone and Mantis lights up, sensing immediately that she’s won. She jumps out of her seat, tugging Nebula by the wrist and Nebula begrudgingly follows.

“Thank you for indulging me,” Mantis giggles. She pulls Nebula closer and takes her other hand, the one still covered in blue synthetic skin.

Nebula scowls. “Only for you,” she grumbles, and follows Mantis’s movements without complaint. “Just don’t tell anyone. If Quill finds out, I’ll never hear the end of it, and he will wind up with a knife in his throat.”

“Do not stab my brother, please,” Mantis chides, but she’s still smiling, too happy to pay Nebula’s grouchy threat any attention. “But, I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

Nebula doesn’t say anything else, just follows Mantis’s lead. Not that it was a particularly complicated dance, as they opted to simply sway gently to the music, but Mantis wasn’t complaining. The fact Nebula was going along with it at all more than made up for the simplistic motions.

The song that started this has just ended when Mantis slides her hand up to Nebula’s wrist and gently guides her hand to her waist. She doesn’t protest, but Mantis feels her pulse spike. Mantis steps closer and loops her arms around Nebula’s neck, and Nebula tentatively moves her other hand to rest on Mantis’s waist.

Their movements slow until their swaying dance is lazy, barely a dance at all at this point. Nebula has recovered from her initial spike of adrenaline (gentle touches and physical affection are something she still hasn’t quite gotten used to), and has relaxed minutely, even seems to be almost enjoying herself. Mantis moves close enough to tuck herself under Nebula’s chin. After a moment, Nebula responds by resting her cheek against the crown of Mantis’s head.

So content in the moment, Mantis misses Nebula’s first mumbled comment. When she finally registers that Nebula has said something, she shakes herself alert and pulls back enough to look at Nebula, head cocked curiously. “What was that?”

Nebula’s brow creases, and Mantis feels the fingers at her waist curl into the fabric of her clothes with a restless, nervous sort of energy. “I said I love you,” she huffs, a little louder and more flustered.

At first Mantis is too surprised to reply, and then she breaks into a huge smile, cups Nebula’s cheek with one hand, and pulls her into a gleeful kiss, clumsy with the sheer giddy joy of I love you.

Nebula melts into the kiss and when they break apart Mantis presses her forehead to Nebula’s. The hand on her cheek slides down to rest across her chest.

“I love you, too,” she says, breathless, and Nebula makes a relieved sort of noise and holds her tighter, and that sets Mantis off and she giggles, and even Nebula can’t hide the growing smile on her face.

#gotg #guardians of the galaxy #bugborg #bugborgweek #ladyships #fanfic #ships #nebula #mantis #frolis writes #bugborg week #titles are the hardest thing to come up with sobs #this was one of the last things i did for bugborg week and i think you can Probably tell #but i enjoyed writing all the fluffy parts :')#also sorry for how late this is being posted ive been out with the fam all day djshkjdsfdsa

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iztarshi · 7 years

Text

Phone Call Ficlet

Because it’s got to occur to Dewey to ask Gladstone what happened to Della at some point. Also because I wanted to play with all dialogue.

‘Heya, Gladstone Gander talking. What’d I win?”

‘An all expenses paid talk with your nephew?’

‘Dewdrop! Wasn’t expecting to hear from you. How’s it hanging?’

‘Okay. Look, if I ask you something, will you not tell Uncle Donald I asked?’

‘Well, sure. What’s eating you?’

‘What happened to Mom?’

‘O-oh. Heavy stuff, huh? What makes you think I know?’

‘Why wouldn’t you know? You knew her, right? And you’re an adult.’

‘Try telling that to Scroogey and D sometime.’

‘…You really don’t know?’

‘Nope. Nada. Great hearing from you, Blueberry, but…’

‘No, wait, you’ve got to know something. You were around back then! What… what was going on when she vanished? Where was Uncle Donald? And Scrooge?’

‘On another adventure or something. You guys were still eggs, so she’d left you with Grandma for a few days.’

‘…A few days.’

‘Yeah. Huh. Guess that lasted a bit longer… sure you wanna do this? You won’t learn much.’

‘Yeah. I’m sure.’

‘Okay. Okay. Uncle Scrooge and Don came back and… I dunno. I don’t know if they’d come back together and she left again, or came back without her, or she and Scrub McDub went off again and only he came back. No one would talk about it. Or her. One minute she’s off on one last adventure before motherhood, next it’s like she never existed. Wasn’t even a funeral. Memorial service?’

‘You think she’s dead?’

‘I don’t know, Dew. I don’t think she wanted to be gone. And D-squad was shattered, but he never tried to find her, so if she’s not dead something really bad… uh, no, don’t cry, don’t cry…’

‘It’s okay. Thanks for telling me. You won’t tell Uncle Donald I asked?’

‘If I tell him about this conversation he’ll kill me. My luck would probably see me through, but why risk it?’

‘Yeah. Thanks Uncle Gladstone.’

‘No prob. Call again any time, kid.’

#ficlet #Dewey Duck #Gladstone Gander #ducktales 2017

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royalrastafariannaynays · 7 years

Text

Fiddler Not On The Roof (that short davekat superhero au ficlet i said i would write)

((also for @davekatweek 2017 day 2!))

“Shut your mouth,” you hear, before the first hit comes.

It’s dark, and dank, and the ceiling is gently dripping from the rain outside.

Oh man, if only some savior could come get you. Kidnapped off the street down by the pier after a movie with your friend. Maybe the Ghost will find you. Fucking superhero he is, gone for like three weeks now with no sign. Crime has spiked again lately. But hey. Maybe he’ll come back, just for you. Or maybe even… what’s his brother’s name? Fiddler?

Even in your shock at the whole situation, the thought makes you laugh. It gets you a nice foot to the gut. Thanks.

“A big iron cage? Really? Get some originality,” You find yourself snarking, even as warm blood drips from your nose. You’re punched again in the side of your head and. Ow.

That one hurt.

Ears ringing, you have to give it a second before you can keep talking. “What’s next, one of those hamster drip water feeders or whatever?”

The words come out with flecks that land on your bare knees and feet. They took your shoes when you got in here, and they took your hoodie to search it. Every pocket was ripped out before they gave it back to you, and half of the lining was ruined.

Cell phone smashed, wallet gutted and burned, even your shades were ripped and crushed underfoot to the tune of noiseless laughter amid the whimpering of the other people in captivity.

You’re tossed back into the cage, wrists sparking at the pain of the landing. Your knees are scraped, and your teeth hurt, and when you try, you find it hard to even lift your head.

“Stay quiet, worm,” the ugly head honcho snaps at you. “All the other animals manage somehow.”

The gated door slams shut. It vibrates the floor, shakes your soul, and makes half of the women scream.

They’re so scared. And they should be.

Women have so much to fear from strange men.

It’s a wonder they even like any of you.

It’s all women in here, except you.

From what you saw when you first got here, before they started putting the hurt on you, all young women, with decent figures and longer hair.

Women looking battered, looking scared and hungry and sleepless.

You know by now that this is slavery.

You’re going to be trafficked.

You knew you were a nubile young thing with a pretty face, but. This?

Dirk said you shouldn’t have been out alone tonight, that people were disappearing slowly in the city. Not abnormal by itself, but he has a cop friend. She said it was strange. For whatever reason.

You really wish you hadn’t been out alone tonight.

Just before you pass out from the pain in your skull, you try your best to catalog the area. Look for escape. Something, anything. Dirk always taught you to look for a way out if this happened.

But you fail him. All you manage is the ceiling.

And then you’re gone.

Fear washes up your nose and into your heart just before the lights go out.

~~~~~

-Four Hours Earlier-

“Hey, Dave, what the heck are you doing?” John laughs, pulling up behind you and slinging his arm over your shoulder.

There’s a brief pause before you reply as the Popsicle is knocked out of your mouth and onto the ground. Aw shit. You paid like two dollars for that shit. Ice cream truck special and everything.

“Dude,” you reprimand, as he guffaws and pats your back.

“I’m the one who should be scolding you,” he says, leaning down to pick up the fallen warrior, and toss it in the trash. New bird poop sprinkles and all. “You’re the one eating ice in the middle of January! When it’s raining!”

You shake your head. “That’s the best time, Johnny my boy,” you say, and turn to give him the absolute best noogie you can. He’s just stepped off the bus, backpack over his shoulder, selling attire exactly what he needs to do his job and not get caught. He just doesn’t look shifty enough, somehow.

Christ, you never expected John to be the type to sell pot out of the back of a van. Well, not out of the back of a van, but in his few little haunts. He doesn’t do any of the really bad shit, but with all the rich kids he knows, he tends to make a killing at parties.

“You ready for this movie?” you ask him. He nods, pulling you toward the theater a block down.

“Yeah!” he replies, heading that way. Squeaky new shoes, too. “Thanks for coming to this part of town, I didn’t want to get stopped by any customers while I was out.”

“No prob, John,” you say, waving him off.

He looks at your basketball shorts and snorts as you round the corner and go inside the theater. “Did you roll out of bed or something?”

“Laundry day,” you tell him. And he laughs again.

John is a fucking breath of fresh air.

“Can I help you two?” comes a growly voice from in front of you, and you have to do a double take when you see that it’s come from a short dude with a bush of dark hair on his head and the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen.

Oh sweet Jesus he’s cute.

Buried most of the way in a sweater and a uniform that’s a little too big, with stout fingers and mouth curled in the worst impression of customer service you’ve ever seen. And he looks… familiar, somehow. His eyes are gray, and it’s very clearly the working of some fancy colored contacts, and he has what looks like a scar through his pouty lower lip.

John shoves you, and when you fail to pull your eyes away from the adorable gremlin, he orders the tickets first.

“Yeah! Two for the new Bourne movie!” he says, and you just nod dumbly.

The ticket guy’s name plate says “K” on it, like his name has been scratched out the rest of the way. Maybe people have a hard time pronouncing it?

Man and he’s the perfect height to tuck under your chin. But his arms, when he rolls back a sleeve to retrieve a fallen ticket from the trash, are… Holy Fuck. He’s… he works out. Holy Mary, Mother Of GOD.

It’s the express line to full facial blush town as you enter the movie theater, eyes matching just one more time with the fake-grey ones of uh. “K” before you follow sweet oblivious John.

And you swear the guy smirks at you as you move away.

Anyways, all that said.

You remember the thunderous scowl on his face a little more.

Since it was the last thing you saw as you waited at the bus stop, and a bag went over your head.

And you could have sworn his piercing eyes glowed red from that far of a distance.

Don’t the Ghost’s eyes glow red?

~~~~~

Present

Of course, maybe you just imagined that, since the next thing you remember was waking up being held by your elbows, getting frisked in literally every possible place, and then your shit getting destroyed.

Now, though, you’re opening your eyes to the feeling of long hair tickling your nose.

Three different ladies huddle around you, one of them with your head on her lap, gently forcing open your mouth and checking for. Whatever she’s looking for. Broken teeth? Bitten tongue, maybe. You feel like you’re on your back, and a few blinks confirms it.

The woman who’s cradling your skull speaks to you, softly. It’s Spanish, thank everything, so you know some of it. You think she’s asking if you’re alright, and you nod.

You attempt to say something you remember about your head hurting, and she nods, looking into your eyes. Checking for concussion? The other two women hover, remaining silent. The woman holding you has black hair and a comforting aura. She speaks softly, and looks like she’s been crying. A lot.

You’re able to sit up, however woozy it feels, and you look around. Thankfully the lighting is low, and thankfully the tough guys seem to be out of the room. There are a few different types of girls in here, you see. But that’s not important.

“How long have you been here?” you ask.

“Six days, for the earliest. Four for the latest,” a soft voice answers you.

You rub your head.

“You get food and water, yeah?” you ask, visually inspecting yourself. Your face hurts, your knees are bloodied but the bleeding has stopped, and you touch your eye. Okay, black eye. Cool. And… sprained wrist. Great. Toes and fingers all there? Alright. But a broken ankle, you find, when all you get is excruciating pain trying to twist it. Not so alright.

“Twice a day they give us enough food and water,” the woman who’d had your head in her lap answers.

You look at the gate of the cage. You look at the floors. You see a corner with some kind of bucket, you assume for waste, and a drain. It smells awful, like piss and shit and vomit and stale body odor.

“They come with guns,” the woman adds. “They have shot one who tried to escape already.”

Fuck.

So you’re not getting out of here.

Not without a miracle.

~~~~~

Present, at the hospital downtown

“Karkat, we haven’t worked in weeks,” Kankri sighs. “And I can’t be there to help you.”

Your brother adjusts his intravenous drip next to his chair, looks down, and reopens his mouth.

“I can’t be there to keep you safe.”

You clench your fists on the arms of the chair you’re sat in across from him. His hospital room is cold, and you’ve always hated hospitals. Your father and mother died in a hospital. Your inheritance is paid from the hospital they owned, a piece at a time.

Kankri is withering in this hospital while he waits for a heart transplant.

Nothing good comes from these places for you.

He doesn’t want you to go into this dangerous place by yourself. But. It’s not a question of him being there with you anymore. It’s a question of how soon you’re going to leave. You saw someone get taken. And you have to fix it.

You’ll need to stay alive for Kankri, but also…

“This is the human trafficking ring we thought we lost because they left town,” you tell him. “They’re good, but I’m better.”

Kankri sighs.

It feels like you’ve been arguing this for hours. It may well have been hours. He’s your brother. You need to keep him alive, and to keep him alive, you have to work that awful job at the theater. The inheritance only covers so much, and the theater manager owed the ‘other you’ and let Ghost convince him to hire your sorry ass for twelve dollars an hour.

That’s the ‘other’ you. Ghost.

But you haven’t been out and running the streets for nearly a month.

Kankri has a hole in his heart, the rare kind. And he’s waiting just a little bit longer for a donor for a new one. Bright and shiny and strong.

He was your partner before this. A good partner. He would scope out the buildings with his clairvoyance, always best on the full moon, and then he would let you do the dirty work.

Saving people. It’s what you do.

And you had needed to leave it to others so that you could live a normal life, just for a bit. But people had been disappearing. And then when you saw one disappear, right in front of your eyes?

It was that cute guy from your temporary job. He’d been at the bus stop, and you were going to ask him for his number or tumblr or whatever normal people do. And then…

He was pulled into a van.

You chased the van all the way to the factory district, keeping to shadows and rooftops. And you lost it.

“I was already going to go,” you tell Kankri, snapping and earning an alarmed look from the nurse as she comes in to drop off a tray. She leaves, huffing, and you flip her the bird.

“I just wanted you to help me sense out which building it was in,” you continue.

Kankri looks like he wants to tell you know. His brow furrows, his cheeks puff out, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times.

And then, the unexpected happens.

He sighs, his eyes go red, and you know he’s looking. He comes back to you sooner than you think.

Looking down at his hands, he says, very softly.

“The docks, warehouse 40013. I believe.”

You leap from your chair, wrapping him in a hug. Careful not to pull any wires, you hold him in your arms, and he weakly pats your back.

“Come back alive, Karkat,” he says, in that naggy way he does.

You ruffle his hair as you stand back, and run from the room.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you say.

You hear him laugh.

~~~~~

Three hours Later

Sollux managed to score some blueprints for you, coming through again. He lives with you without rent, so he does the chores and helps you on missions. It’s good shit.

Then, of course, this time, he had to do more than usual. Through his VPN and several proxies, he was able to disable the security cameras in the warehouse in question. He also managed to shut down the power in that block, temporarily.

It won’t last too long, but he’s done you a huge favor.

The blueprints creak as you push them into the pocket of your pants. And it, like all of your attire and body, turns to liquid with you.

In solid form, you can’t get through the pipes. But using your abilities? It’s almost too simple.

That’s why they call you “Ghost.”

You disappear into pipes and vents without a trace.

Even though you turn into blood.

The men you encounter at the entrance don’t get the chance to shout about the blood dripping from the ceiling until it’s too late. You land at their feet, black mask pulled over your head and symbol flashing on your chest, and knock them out.

It’s mercy, sure. Even when you drop them into a dumpster, it’s mercy.

There should be eight guards. A portion of a bigger operation, you’re sure. But you can only do so much.

Two down.

By the time you get to the doors of the main room, where the captives should be kept, you’ve removed seven obstacles from your way. You hit their break room, using your training to take care of them without killing. Bullets clink on the ground as they fall from your malleable flesh, having been caught just in time. And under the light of the moon, with your powers activated?

Most physical wounds just run right off.

The doors before you slide open slowly.

And there they are. Nine women, and one man. That guy from the movie theater.

You’re so glad you were right.

He’s badly injured, unable to stand it seems, and you feel yourself fill with anger. He’s only been here less than twelve hours. The anger turns into rage as a hand claps down on the front of the outside of the cage, and the women shrink in fear.

They look terrified.

“So, you found us,” the owner of that hand drawls, and you glare up at him. From the shadow of the door, you must just look like a pair of eyes. The building is dark. The cage sits in a shaft of moonlight, and the man stands in another. Warehouse windows.

How fucking cinematic.

“So you’ve taken out my men. It’s admirable,” he says.

You frown. “Can we skip the evil villain speech?” you ask.

The guy from the theater, in the cage, snorts.

A gunshot rings out.

The man by the cage has a gun out, and the women are screaming, and the guy from the movie theater is crying out, clutching his leg. It’s bleeding clean, fresh blood now, from a hole in the thigh.

Fuck.

“How about you shut up while I kill your hero so I can get my paycheck?” the man sneers, and.

Oh.

Was it a trap for you?

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

You should have listened to Kankri. You should have listened.

Before you can think, you’re shaking uncontrollably.

A taser has been fired at your stomach, judging by the location. And it’s a strong one, too. You can barely move.

SHIT.

If you liquefied right now, you’d get turned to sizzling garbage. And you can barely think to do anything. All you can do is fall forward. You can’t let them paralyze you. God, you can’t.

So you get what might be the worst idea in the world.

You haven’t ever done it before.

But somehow, it works.

You sprout goddamn blades from your chest.

“Holy shit,” the guy in the cage says, apparently the only one that hasn’t been broken, as the taser lines tether and you burst forward in a flash of speed.

The man who tased you is dead before he hits the ground, your arm pierced straight through his chest. It feels awful, feels monstrous. But it’s what had to be done. Better him dead, than all of the people in the cage.

You hear police sirens outside before you have the cage opened.

And before they burst through the doors, you’re through a grate in the floor and gone.

Outside the warehouse, you yank the hook out of the front of your suit. Shit. That’ll need a repair. And you’ve got a few new bullet holes, too. You’re out of practice.

You throw a sweater on over your “super suit”, and pull on the pair of pants you stashed outside, and remove your mask.

The guy from the theater is sitting on the back of an ambulance when you round the building. One of your brother’s friends is there, doing a report on the incident. She’s a detective. She’s on your side. It’s a long story.

She waves as you pass her, going over to the guy you saved, and waving a hand to get his attention past the paramedic.

He’s going to be taken to the hospital whether he likes it or not, judging by the stern look from the woman examining the bandages around his leg. The bullet passed straight through, apparently. And he’s got stitches, by the look of it.

How the fuck is he not already on his way to a doctor?

“Look, lady, I can’t afford the box car, so I’ll hitch a ride with a cop.”

“Sir, you’ve bled entirely too much for–”

“I insist. I’ll walk out of here on my own if I have to.”

She throws her hands up in the air, somehow taking this answer, and he’s looking at you.

“What happened?” you ask him.

“Like you don’t know,” he answers, and it’s.

What?

It’s so difficult to hide your surprise and apprehension that you almost forget to deny what he’s talking about.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you echo his thoughts.

He raises his eyebrows at you.

“Yeah okay, ‘K’,” he says. And you.

You forget to be under cover.

“How’d you put it together?” you ask him.

“Lucky guess,” he says. And if he didn’t have a black eye already, you’d give him one. Frustration swells up in you, and you bare your teeth.

“Are you kidding?!” you ask, and he laughs and holds up his hands.

“You show up out of nowhere right after Ghost disappears?” he says, like it answers everything. Yeah, that was a bad move on your part. “And those arms would be hard to forget.”

At this, you balk.

“Excuse me?”

“Do I get to kiss the hero?” he says then, and.

“Are you sure you’re not concussed?!” you demand.

He laughs.

“Yeah I might be. But you’re also cute.”

It’s. God.

“No,” you say, and turn, preparing to leave. He’s clearly fine. You’ll get to his hospital room tonight and convince him not to blab about you. You’re pretty good at that.

“Hey, what?” he asks, and he almost sounds sad.

“Maybe a date first, douchebag,” you say, taking a few steps toward Latula. Her eyebrows are up as she looks between the two of you.

“How will I find you then?!” he calls after you, and you turn to look over your shoulder.

“I’ll find you.”

…………………….

((i didn’t get everything but i did my best! hope you enjoy!))

#i tried to keep it short and failed #im sorry if it seems awkward or rushed im very tired!#i hope you enjoy it #and you have a wonderful day!#davekat fanfiction #homestuck #hs #dk #my short fics that i write #davekat week #superhero au #yeah this is about as much as im contributing to davekat week im sorry guys hahaha #love you all! <3 #violence #human trafficking cw

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