#youre blocking the ENTIRE viewscreen

[spirk-trek]

i love watching spock slowly approach jim in the background of scenes like a cat who thinks they're invisible

[sinisterexaggerator]

Small Victories

Pairing: Shriv Suurgav x Fem! Reader

Summary: Shriv catches you masturbating.

Warning: NSFW / 18+ for oral sex and fingering.

Word count: 2.3k

Notes: Whipped this out last night. Just so sick of not posting anything! Screw you, responsibilities! Maybe I will write this same scenario for Hondo Ohnaka and Cad Bane, too.

It was rare that Shriv left his post any earlier than two hours after his scheduled shift was over, and even rarer still that he left prior to its end. It seemed that all the stars of the galaxy had aligned, the weary pilot set to jet the minute permission was granted.

He had spent too many rotations away from you, enough that his gripes and complaints had finally been taken seriously – he had asked for time off – time to take his gal out for a much deserved dinner date in one of the finer establishments of Coruscant. Though the New Republic was far from perfect, at least now he could afford to eat more than rations and drink something besides stale caf.

In his book, that was a win. Small victories: they were just as needed as bigger ones, sometimes more so as they boosted morale and kept one’s spirits up. But this - this was wholly different. This was important. This was a chance to do something nice for you when you least expected it – he only hoped he didn’t kark it up.

He supposed it might be hard to. As of late, the only thing you seemed to want more of was his presence. Truth be told, he was having feelings about you – feelings that hadn’t always been there, but that had shown up out of nowhere – ones that made his heart go thump thump in his chest if he dwelled too long, or ones that made him bite his lip when he caught himself daydreaming in places he definitely shouldn’t be.

“Don’t look now, Suurgav, but the General seems miiiighty pissed.”

So, he did what any nice guy would do – or so he thought. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he had heard a thing or two hanging around the other pilots who had managed to keep their partners considering their hectic schedules – patrols weren’t always easy – he could be gone for days, weeks, and no personal comms were allowed when on active duty. Honestly, he was surprised you didn’t get bored waiting around. It was a blessing, was what it was.

Shriv counted them every day he managed to stay alive.

Flowers. And chocolate. It was imported, as most everything was on this entirely too big ecumenopolis. He had a time finding any, or at least the kind that was in his price range, but he would be damned if he returned empty-handed. It was said chicks dug it; he had never tried the strange smelling stuff. He had heard stories about candy rotting your teeth – Shriv had enough to worry about already.

Approaching your modest apartment on one of the many lower levels of this busy planet, the Duros could at least still see the sky, or what there was of it, airspeeders and luxury hovercars dotting nearly every speck of open space.

He knew the keycode. You had long ago given it to him. Normally, he would never abuse his privileges, but he wanted this to be a surprise.

Upon entry, your domicile was quiet except for the viewscreen in your living room playing back some old holoromance type-thing, Shriv gazing at the moving pictures for a moment as he took in the scene.

“Huh,” he enunciated dryly, tilting his head to the side. It looked like the two humans were attacking each other, but both of them were as bare-assed as the day they were born. By the way the woman was yelling out, he was for sure the guy was hurting her. He blocked it out though he could have easily tried to analyze your choice of programming, moving onward toward the only other room in the house – the one you slept in.

The door was open, so he crept up toward its righthand side, Shriv peeking around the corner slowly, precious chocolates and a bouquet of Ithorian roses that were near to the color of his scales being clutched behind him in one hand.

What he saw was not what he expected, but it was also not unwelcomed – you looked freshly showered as your hair was still damp, and you weren’t wearing any clothes.

He had assumed you might be napping, but he found himself to be utterly fascinated in that instance by the expression across your face, two of your own fingers fondling the special nub that lay between your legs - it was snuggly sequestered between lush folds of downy flesh.

You were making delicious little sounds as you pleasured yourself - sounds he had only heard when he was embedded deep inside you - the somewhat skittish Duros feeling just a tiny bit brave as he stepped fully into view.

You did not notice right away; he had been as quiet as a mouse, the pilot gingerly placing his gifts down on the table that resided near to the entrance of your boudoir.

“Am I … interrupting something?”

You screamed outright, jumping back across the pillows to the head of your bed as you threw the covers over yourself, Suurgav’s face falling as he took on an apologetic appearance for having frightened you.

“Fullua, I-”

“Shriiiiiv,” you cried out in your most nasal, over-the-top voice, “you scared the banthashit out of me!”

“Wait, don’t stop. I was enjoying that,”  Suurgav quipped smugly, having somewhat recovered. “Looked like you were, too.”

A blush colored your cheeks. “How long have you been here?!” you asked anxiously.

“Long enough,” he cockily replied, pushing off the frame of the door with one elbow – he had temporarily taken to nonchalantly leaning against it, though inside his excitement was building upon itself.

You studied his movements, having forgotten just how good he looked in person, so short was your time together. And God, those arms – his biceps alone – they were incredible.

“I wasn’t expecting you-” you began, watching as your lover approached with a glint of something mischievous in his gorgeous ruby eyes.

“-Should’ve told me that’s how you like it,” he whispered sternly, placing one knee onto your mattress as it sank beneath his weight. Soon after the other joined, Suurgav crawling forward as he lifted the edge of the blanket guarding your nakedness, the cool sensation of his flesh pressing against you as deft fingertips began to massage and grope your thighs.

“Mn, I was just … “ Horny is what you wanted to say, though you thought that might be obvious. “Lonely without you,” you confessed, not desiring to so readily admit he had been the very thing on your mind as you sat there touching yourself.

“That why those other two naked humans are in the living room? They here to keep you company?” he asked casually.

You shivered when his fangs grazed against you, yet the thing you were most worried about was what had come out of his mouth.

“What?! Who!” you blurted out, meaning to rise. The Duros kept you in place, wide palms splayed over the bulk of your legs as he tacked you to the bed.

“The holo,” he whispered along your silky skin, your anticipation increasing as you could not see what the man was up to; his bulbous head was hidden beneath your linen sheets as he sporadically kissed different parts of your sumptuous form.

“Oh, that…” you trailed off, embarrased. You had forgotten you had left it running, having become aroused halfway through the film - it was a somewhat tasteful porno with minimal plot – something about a bounty hunter coming to collect.

“Mhm, that-” he filled in the silence, quick to add, “-hey, so, it was like this, right?”

Your limbs involuntarily shuddered as the pad of a cold thumb brushed against your clit, though it did not stop there. The Duros trailed the moist slit of your sex, gathering your slick to lubricate himself before gliding back upward, then settling across your already throbbing bud.

“Or a little more like-” He applied a scant amount of pressure, massaging the sensitive protrusion of glands that had already been given a head start; you moaned softly as your hips rolled beneath the sheets, pinned succinctly by his bodyweight.

“Just like that,” you breathed, your voice an airy whisper as your eyes began to close.

“Mn, yeah? You like that?” The grin he wore was evident by his tone alone, his deep baritone sounding as flat as it was salacious. Shriv indulged himself by aligning the tip of his index finger with your already aching cunt.

It broached the entrance, the Duros carefully inserting its full length inch by inch - his fingers were one of your favorite attributes.

“How about now, sweetheart,” he asked offhand, knowing more or less the answer to his question as you writhed in rhythm with the thumb unhurriedly circling your clit.

You could only moan again in return, Shriv curling that adroit digit inside you, pressing up against the seat of your pleasure as he gently coaxed you to cum. You held off, shaking your head even as your breathing quickened. You refused to let it end so quickly though you could hardly last when Suurgav put his mind to it.

“Playing hard to get, are you?” the Duros questioned snidely. His attitude was partly a charade; this was only meant to rile you. He knew you loved it when he talked you through it - you had admitted long ago his voice was a turn on for you - something he had been confused by, but ultimately accepted.

“Mmhm,” you hummed through compressed lips, your arms rising so that your fingers could claw into the pillows that rested just beside and below your head.

“Time to bring in the heavy artillery, I think,” he mused out loud, Shriv retracting the finger massaging your innards to leave you empty and whimpering.

“You don’t stand a chance,” he teased, Durosian digits grasping your thighs once more to spread your legs apart, stretching you taut. You pretended to struggle, though more than enjoying the sensation of being bound by the force of pure muscle, Shriv burying his rostrum directly in your pubic mound.

Your breath hitched in your throat, and he had not even touched you yet; Shriv laughed wryly, that cool, wet, artful tongue finally taking its first lap at your pulsating clit.

“Fuck,” you muttered, the Duros administering another long, drawn out lick from the base of your cunt to the top of your slit, concentrating at its apex on the little button that gave him access to all your secrets, or so he thought. He flicked at it repeatedly with a dexterous tip, the warmth in your belly surging toward the cusp of your sex.

“Maybe,” he shot back before plunging the entirety of that thick muscle inside you, it churning and roiling at a slow but steady pace. Shriv was in no rush, the Duros eating you to his heart’s content in the most deliberate and thoughtful way; he slipped back out of you, once more focusing on your thrumming bud.

His forefinger returned, languidly pumping into your pussy as he cooed into your cunt, Shriv’s cock hard as ducracrete as he was content to hump the bed in time with the undulation of your hips.

Your hands searched him out, running the course of his shapely head. They smoothed over its surface, featherlight, the Duros appreciating your affections as he enticed your body to the verge of an orgasm.

“Mn, Shriiiv,” you crooned, guiding him closer by the back of his large cranium. With that he quickened his speed, shifting his grip  to spread your lower lips apart with two elongated thumbs, homing in more precisely on that part of you that made you squirm and gasp when he hit it just right.

It's what finally made you come undone.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you tried to control your breath as Shriv continued unabated, chuckling all the while at your little twists and wriggles until he himself was satisfied - that was not until your fingernails were nearly shredding the sheets into ribbons, and your thighs were clenching the sides of his head so tightly he was afraid you might crack his skull. He did the smart thing and gradually slowed his tempo, withdrawing from the safety of your blankets to finally look at you.

“Told you, you didn’t stand a chance,” he commented, wiping his mouth off on the back of his hand with the sassiest of smirks. Having finally somewhat recuperated, you now had the opportunity to ask how you got so lucky, not having to finish yourself off.

“What are you doing here?” you questioned, though not upset by any means with the turn of events that had transpired.

“Don’t sound too excited,” he muttered.   

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said cautiously, touching the back of his hand - this seemed to halt his worrying in its tracks. “You’re home early is all – are those for me?” you inquired, nudging your head in the direction of the flowers and chocolate that sat waiting by the door.

“Could be,” he shrugged.

“What’s the occasion?” A smile began to overtake your face.

He seemed to be thinking about something. Then, with the most deadpan look he could muster, Shriv delivered what he thought was a perfectly timed joke: “Well, I was going to invite you out to dinner, but I already ate.”

You scoffed, trying to smack the Duros upside the head with the nearest pillow. He easily blocked, giving you an indignant look. You tackled him instead and he allowed it, his mood at once lifting as soon as you were straddled across his lap.

Shriv brushed a loose strand of hair away from your eyes, then he kissed you on the nose.

“Of course, I could always go for seconds.”

----

Reblogs appreciated!

Masterlist

Shriv Masterlist

[libermachinae]

Lost Light/Rodimus

Notes: No, I don’t mean the crew. Unedited bc I’ve already spent way more time on this crack fic than I meant to. Rated G, no warnings apply, 2K.

---

It wasn’t Brainstorm’s fault, entirely.

“How the hell did you make a metrotitan spark?”

Just mostly.

“Well, it’s actually an extremely complicated, delicate, precise procedure,” Brainstorm said as they ran for their lives through shifting, narrowing corridors, Rodimus’ engine gunning to keep up with the jet. “It’s something other scientists have been trying to crack since before the war started, but between the exact measurements of the photonic supercrystal and the pattern of coding charges, no one else ever managed to—”

“Okay, forget how!” Rodimus shouted. “I don’t care about how! Or why! Or even at what point you decided to make a massive t-cog to go with it—”

“Actually, Perceptor cracked that one.”

“—or how you got it past Riptide and the rest of security! I don’t care!” A wall appeared front of them; Rodimus swerved around it while Brainstorm pulled into a neat roll. A wingtip brushed Rodimus’ roof. “Assuming we survive this any other way than First Aid scraping our pancaked frames off a random corridor wall, you’re going to tell the whole story to Megatron, and he can use all the practice he’s had with me to tell you exactly how terrible an idea this was.”

“Pancaked?”

“Earth term. Watch out!”

The hallway to the shuttle bay disappeared behind two shifting plates, and Rodimus had just enough time to brake and avoid being crushed. Brainstorm pulled up and transformed, landing at Rodimus’ side.

“Oh, this isn’t good,” he said.

“No kidding?” Rodimus angled his mirrors to look around, but every glance just revealed fewer directions to escape to. “We’re trapped.”

“Not that,” Brainstorm said. “We’re in the abdomen.”

“Belly of the ship, sure.”

“In root mode, the Lost Light’s power core is situated in the lower decks, under multiple layers of plating and insulation to keep the heat from frying everyone around it.” Brainstorm traced a small circle on the plating just underneath his cockpit, then drew it up, toward his chest. “When Perceptor was designing the transformation sequence, though, we couldn’t quite work out how to transport the core with all its extra plating. So, we just, hm, put a pin in it.”

Rodimus stared.

“So, what you’re saying is—”

Brainstorm pointed to the ceiling.

“The power core is one level above us right now. As soon as the transformation sequence is completed, it’s going to come online. The Lost Light’s designed to handle that kind of output, but not standard Cybertronians.”

“So, right now, this moment, we’re standing in the smelter, waiting for it to come on.”

“More like in front of the smelter after the blast doors have malfunctioned, but yeah.”

“Okay!” Rodimus revved his engine. “Well, that’s no good! We’re getting out of here.” He glanced around again. The walls were thick, but there had to be a weakness somewhere. “Don’t you have a drill gun? Or a drill you reformatted into a gun that can still be used as a drill?”

“I have a regular gun.”

“You do not.”

“I do!” Brainstorm insisted, pulling the standard issue pistol from subspace. “I was just about to see if I could do something about the problem of a finite ammo capacity (spoiler, I could’ve) when Light’s t-cog started spinning. I have others on me, but nothing that’s gotten the Perceptor stamp yet.”

“Everything else you’ve got will kill us if we fire it?”

“Might,” Brainstorm corrected, “they might kill you. Percy just hasn’t had time to test them yet.”

“Okay, fine.” Rodimus glanced around once more, optics falling on one feature he’d thus far overlooked. “You know what? We can work with this.”

  It’s a simple fact that if you’re desperate to have floor-to-ceiling windows along the vehicle-accessible corridors of your miles-wide spaceship, they’re going to need to be reinforced. Heavily. A full round of shots fired at point-blank from a non-infinite pistol might be enough to get a crack in it, but that’s about it.

Of course, if you then ram that crack with a Matrix-armored sports car dropped from the undercarriage of a speeding jet, you might get somewhere.

Rodimus hit the window bumper-first, vibrations from the impact traveling in both directions throughout his frame. Whatever he was feeling, though, the window was having a much worse time: the crack stretched and exploded, shards of glass whipping out into the empty density of space. Rodimus went with them, and for a brief second he feared he would never stop going, before strong arms and the sound of thrusters secured him.

::We’re alive!:: Brainstorm’s comm crackled to life in his audial. ::And assuming at least a couple people listened to Minimus’ instructions, we should be looking at a good—oh frag.::

::What? How bad is it?:: Rodimus tried to angle his mirrors, but two teal wings blocked his view.

::It’s fine! Don’t worry!::

::That’s my ship, Brainstorm, of course I’m going to worry!::

::It’s alright, Rodimus.::

::Who was—::

A white hand appeared in front of them, large enough that Rodimus could have done donuts on its palm, large enough to punch a moon clear through. Brainstorm’s thrusters were straining to slow them down while Rodimus’ emergency brake slammed on, but momentum seemed committed to mashing them like a reverse rustbug.

The hand shifted, flipping over so the palm was underneath Rodimus, scooping up until his tires were just skidding across the metal surface. Forgetting to release his brake, his swerved before he came to a stop, swinging around and taking in the full view of his ship as, with a final ripple, her plating shifted into place.

She glowed. From the fuel rods around the corona of her helm and the winding lanes of windows around her arms, legs, and sides, light streamed from her, but not so much that she hurt to look at. Her optic band was a solid magenta and, Rodimus suspected, unseeing, but even that gave off a light that drew the eye, even as Rodimus felt the increased pressure of the hand lifting them up. In their ascent, they passed her chestpiece, the bow of the ship, and through the viewscreen Rodimus saw a decent portion of his crew, staring back out at him.

They came to a halt in front of her faceplate, and from this distance Rodimus could see the wavering patterns of optical lights, perhaps attempting to generate an expression. Ratchet would demand a look at Perceptor’s coding, he thought, a moment before the Lost Light’s voice returned.

::Hello, Rodimus, Brainstorm.::

::You gave her a comm suite?:: Rodimus asked, glancing at Brainstorm.

::Didn’t you check the ident?:: Brainstorm returned. ::She’s using the communications hub.::

::Oh.:: He glanced at her again. ::Can you access all of our major systems like that?::

::Yes.::

::Cool. Neat.:: An independent Cybertronian with the ability to quantum jump. And they’d been doing so well staying off the bad side of this reality’s Galactic Council.

::Do you have a name?:: he asked.

The optic lights wavered, shifting without meaning.

::Of course,:: she said. ::Drift named me Lost Light.::

Rodimus spluttered.

::How do you know that?::

::I have complete access to all in-network records,:: she said. ::My ‘memories’ extend as far back as my registration five million years ago, though they become more comprehensive within the last several decades, starting with the commencement of your quest.::

::Anything anyone ever dispersed via in-house networks, saved to a private console, or was automatically logged by the systems is up for grabs,:: Brainstorm said. ::Makes introductions pretty simple, at least.::

::Sounds like a fancy way of saying she’s got the worst possible first impression of everyone, but sure, that’s an optimistic way of looking at it.:: Brainstorm had climbed off him, so he transformed and took two steps forward. ::I’m Rodimus, your co-captain. Though, you already seem to know that.::

::Yes. I know all of you.:: For a moment, Rodimus thought they were moving again, but it was the large helm tilting forward. ::Thank you, by the way, Brainstorm. Though I unfortunately agree with Minimus Ambus’ preliminary assessment of your actions, I do appreciate this opportunity to be alive.::

::Like creator, like creation, I guess!::

::Wait, you talked with Minimus?:: Rodimus asked.

::Of course. I’m speaking to everyone right now,:: Lost Light said. ::I’ve been looking forward to this.::

::Wow. You’re either going to be Swerve and Misfire’s missing trinemate, or their biggest competition.::

::I do not find either of those options appealing.::

::Oh, yeah, that’s fine!:: He waved his hands. ::Just a joke. You can do whatever you want, now, you’re your own bot. Well, within reason, I guess. We might need to make another new officer position for you, and then—::

::I will continue to perform my duties, Rodimus. You have no need to worry in that regard.::

::Oh, good.:: Rodimus’ spoiler sagged and a few bubbles of trapped air escape his vents. Brainstorm’s scheme hadn’t dehomed them, at least.

::If you wouldn’t mind hearing it, I do have a request.::

Rodimus’ spoiler twitched back up.

::Sure!:: he said. ::After everything we’ve put you through, we owe you, huh?::

::I would prefer you not consider it that way,:: she said. The connection crystalized and strengthened into a private transfer as Lost Light cleaved Brainstorm into his own channel. ::After reviewing the records, I find I admire you, Rodimus.::

He stared.

::Oh?::

::Despite what you call a poor first impression, I have observed a crew that cares for each other and looks after its most vulnerable, with you as the spark that inspires such communal behavior. You act for the good of others, you encourage selflessness and self-improvement. Does that sound correct?::

There was nothing to hide behind on the palm of her hand. That observation could not kill Rodimus’ instinct to flee.

::I, uh. I don’t know?::

A flicker around the optic band again.

::Oh. My apologies. I have only just started to engage in pattern recognition, and it is possible my assessment is—::

::It’s fine!:: Rodimus assured. ::Sorry, you did fine. Um, yeah, I guess you could say all those things about me. Not everyone would, but if that’s what the logs are telling you, you should trust your instincts. Maybe just like, make sure to update them with your own observations?::

::Acknowledged.:: There was a pause, and Rodimus imagined she was sorting the suggestion among her priority trees. ::I will maintain my assessments as an ongoing process. However, if I am utilizing my initial understanding of each crew member as a basis to form a more informed conception of their character, then it is logical to assume that there must be some element of validity to my initial evaluations, correct?::

::Uh, sure?::

::Excellent.:: Her whole visor brightened, a straightforward positive that must have been easier for her programming to calculate than the emotions it had been trying to convey before. ::Then it is not unreasonable for me to hold to my initial conviction that I admire you, Rodimus. If you have time, I would like to get to know you better.::

::Huh. Uh.:: He hated to make assumptions, but the way her visor sparkled seemed more coordinated now. ::Can you give me one moment?::

::Of course.::

He hopped into a channel so well worn it felt like sinking into his own thoughts.

::Rodimus? Are you okay?::

::I’m fine, Drift,:: he said. ::Just, uh, need some advice.::

::Just advice? Not a rescue? Rewind and Perceptor managed to map out a way down to the shuttle bay, if you need an out.::

::No, no,:: he insisted. ::I’m just… I really don’t want to assume anything, but I think it’s possible my ship just asked me out?::

::Oh, yeah.::

::Oh, yeah?::

::I mean, she did,:: Drift said. ::Before you and Brainstorm broke free, she commed everyone, introduced herself, told them her favorite thing she knew about them, then asked about you.::

::Do I… want to know what she asked about?::

::Depended on the person. Swerve got interrogated about whether you’re available.::

::Swerve?::

::The Lost Light Insider pegged him for a rumor monger and she ran with it.::

::Cool. Great.::

::Hey. Really, you okay up there? Tailgate’s halfway through the vents, we can come get you, if you need.::

Rodimus pointed his gaze down to the deck, though he was too far away to see anyone individually. It was possible the ship’s exterior cameras were still streaming to the command screens, in which case Drift would undoubtedly catch his disapproval.

::Please make sure Tailgate doesn’t get squished, I don’t need Cyclonus seeking vengeance against our ship.::

::Sure. But seriously, Rodimus, are you okay?::

Rodimus spun his wheels with a flick.

::I’m fine. I just… isn’t this, I don’t know, kind of taking advantage?::

::I mean, she asked you, and—wait, are you interested?::

His engine heated up and Rodimus started to pace.

::I don’t know! Maybe?::

::Aw, Rodimus!:: He could imagine Drift’s face: goofy smile, softly dimmed optics. ::Hang on, I’m patching Ratchet in.::

::No, hang on, you don’t have to—::

::You’re saying yes?:: Ratchet demanded as the new connection crackled through.

::I don’t know,:: Rodimus insisted. ::I could? She’s attractive. And she knows a lot about me and hasn’t decided I’m worthless slag.::

::Rodimus,:: Drift chided.

::Hey, look, I’m not saying that about myself,:: he countered. ::Just that it’s a conclusion she could have come to, but didn’t. And I guess I kind of like that?:: He shrugged. ::I wouldn’t mind getting to know her. First new Cybertronian we’ll meet for a long time, you know?::

::Sure,:: Ratchet said. ::Follow her lead, but be up front about your expectations.::

::Both of you will have bots looking out for you,:: Drift promised. ::Seems like she and Nautica are already hitting it off pretty well.::

::Alright.:: Rodimus smiled. ::Okay, thanks guys. I think I can handle it from here.::

::Sure you can,:: Drift said.

Rodimus cut the call and switched back to Lost Light’s channel. Brainstorm was wandering around behind him, still engaged in his own animated conversation with his creation.

::Still with me?:: he asked.

::Of course.::

::Great,:: he said, offering her a smile and a flicker of his headlights. ::So, yeah, I’m down to spend more time together.:: He leaned down until he was sitting, crosslegged, on her open palm, brushing the smooth metal with his own hand. ::You can tell me all about what it was like that time we were getting chased by space pirates.::

::I look forward to it,:: she said. The platform of her hand drifted closer, until Rodimus could have reached out and brushed his fingertips against his facemask. He could have felt afraid, then, but he didn’t. Instead, he felt a warm light in his spark as he regarded Light, the familiarity and comfort that came with meeting an old friend face to face for the first time.

[all-hallows-evie]

Athenaeum: Five

***

More cute domestic moments for Reader and Grogu....and more...

****

Three weeks pass. Three weeks of getting back to normal before he darkens your doorway again. 

You are tucked into the corner of the hovel, surrounded by the glowing stacks of archives. You have curled into an old chair in the corner. Your data pad rests against your thigh, the words in front of you lose all meaning as you hear his heavy boots come through the door. The Mandalorian leans over to place the child on the ground. The moment his little feet hit solid ground he comes rushing over, seeking you out like a missile, a high pitched giggle rings out as he runs.

"My my, your dad must be looking for a babysitter again." You smirk as you shut off the data pad and tuck it into one of the corners. You swing your legs down on to the ground and pick up the kid from under his arms. You plop him on your lap and the babbling begins, he's got a lot to say and many little hand gestures to go along with it. His eyes sparkle from the glow of your helmet as he launches into his tale.

"Really? All of that in three weeks?" You reply with a raised brow. 

The Mandalorian has only taken a few steps into your home, pacing back and forth along your entryway as the kid talks your ear off. He inches a few feet closer, and watches you carefully as the child babbles on.

"Do you...understand him?"

"No. Not really." You reply a little too quickly, "Children...speak on a different wavelength. I don't understand words per say, but I think I get the gist." It was only a little lie, a half truth. He wouldn’t believe the reality of the situation if all you had for him were words anyway.

In reality you could feel the kids excitement through a bond that has started to bloom between the two of you. If you had to put words to it: it’s a dark green silk ribbon the child has tied to your bottom rib; a blue one has tied the Mandalorian to him just as tightly. If you concentrate enough you swear you can see the ribbons even under your dim lights. Through this connection you can catch quick clips of memories he was sharing. It makes you nervous. 

The Mandalorian comes closer, pulling a familiar disk from one of the leather pouches on his belt. The thin plastic case has seen better days. One of the corners is broken off and there are little teeth marks deeply scratched in places. He holds it out in your direction and you have to stifle a giggle.

"Oh, thank you, I guess."

"It helped." He says, "I’m lost when it comes to the Jedi...his world."

You can only nod as the kid has both of his hands on your viewscreen, trying to yank it out from where it’s jammed into the seam of the chair.  You pull it out for him and wait for him to settle against the back of the chair before you place the tablet on his little lap. He lifts his hands as you set it down and run the holo for peko peko birds. Once he seems content you turn back to the Mandalorian, "What else can I give you?"

"I won't have any new information until after I pick up my next quarry."

"I'm not asking for any." You reply, "I'm sorry I can't help you as much as you need."

"That's not how this place works." He echoes your earlier words.

"He's enough." You reply quietly, your eyes on the kid as he watches the birds fly past. "Fine.” You sigh, ”How long do you need to get your quarry?"

"Couple of nights."

You nod, "I'm sure I can manage." You reply as you reach out to stroke one of the kids soft ears. He looks up at you, his big brown eyes sparkle at your familiar touch, "He might eat me out of house and home though."

"Hn." His grunt sounds a bit more amused than usual. "I can compensate you when I get back."

"Don't you dare." You reply sharply, "I was only teasing Mando. I know you know what that is." You reply, reaching up to pull your helmet off, you shoulder it off easily and let him really see you for the first time. You hold the helmet steady on your lap, "Mandalorians aren't strangers to humor or sarcasm." 

He is silent for a few moments, you can feel his eyes on you through the T visor of his helmet. You reach over to hold your hand out to him and you give him your name, "If I'm going to be watching your kid, you should at least know what they call me." You say with a smirk as he creeps up and takes your hand into his. "Nice to meet you Mando."

***

You and the child fall into another easy rhythm, almost like he belongs with you.

You are always up with the first signs of daylight, just as the dark purples of the night are chased away by the pale blues and grays of dawn. By the following morning, the child has gotten brave enough to crawl over every blanket wall you have built around him and you wake up with him curled up under your chin. It’s now a game to see how swiftly you are able to peel him off of you without waking him up. You gently tuck him back under the blankets before crawling out of bed and drawing the curtains. You creep out into the living room to straighten up your home as quietly as possible before starting breakfast..

The kid, you remember, has a massive sweet tooth. You remember from last time just  how quickly he preferred sweet morning cakes and brighter colored fruit over high protein mush. The scent of sweet honey pancakes and fruit jam is heavy in the air, heavy enough you hope, to fully wake him. As you finish making a nice stack of cakes his little sleepy foot steps make their way onto the slick floor of your kitchen area. You cut up his small stack of cakes into claw sized pieces, and make sure to give him a hefty load of fruit before you set him down at the table. You both sit in happy silence until every bite of his breakfast is gone.

Now fully fed and buzzing with energy it’s time to cart the kid downstairs. He is no longer happy with just sitting around watching a screen, instead he follows you around, trying his best to be helpful. It isn't odd to anyone who comes to see you in the next couple of days to see the little green child standing by your feet holding a disk or two in his little hands while he strains upwards, holding them out for you to take. If no one else is around he seems to get brave, and floats the disks up either in front of your face or taps them against the back of your hand. 

You grin. The kid probably wouldn't be doing it as much if you weren't kind of egging him on and thanking him enthusiastically every time he manages to send them to you from farther and farther distances. 

Once the suns hit the center of the sky you take a break from the menial tasks of the day, and march the kid out of the front doors. You wander towards the closest market to let him pick his favorite fruit for a small snack, usually another bright colored fruit that he gnaws into while you hunt down something for that evening’s meal. 

It was a particularly nice day today, the breeze even more gentle than usual. You watch as he searches the streets, watching out for any of the kids who usually run rampant during the night. 

“They’re at school.” You reply as you lead him to a small empty field a few blocks from home is, “I’d take you but your dad might kill me if he found out. Maker forbid anything should happen to you while you are there.” You smirk. 

He seems pleased enough with that answer as he gobbles the last bites of his food and then goes running into the field, pulling at tall stalks of bright colored flowers as he runs. You watch him for a while as he chases the bugs that flutter by, only stopping to take breaths as he runs in chaotic loopy laps. 

The late afternoon walk home is much more calm. The kid is riding in your arms as you chat quietly about anything and everything. As you cook for the two of you, you teach the kid anything that comes to mind, then finally, once he has eaten his fill of the evening meal, you let him run wild in the streets with the other kids until he practically collapses on his feet. 

You always carry him home, he nestles tightly against you in the worn scarf you always keep around for him now. It was usually a calm stroll home under the lamplights, except for tonight. 

The kid’s shields slip, you feel the change in the energy around you instantly as his thoughts and memories drift out of him.

It is like ash rising from a wildfire and it covers every inch of your skin. 

Fear. So much fear. What feels like years and years of darkness followed by deep blue pools of sadness, loneliness, you couldn’t put an exact word to the desperation that clutches at you, but it knocks the breath out of you. 

You lean up against the closest wall, trying to collect yourself and push away this onslaught he has released on you without meaning to. You hold him closer, watching as his little face screws up into something...distraught. You tighten your own shields, pushing away the thoughts he is releasing before you hurry back home. 

Your nightly routine doesn't register as you go through the familiar motions. 

You lock up. 

You walk upstairs. 

You lay him on your bed and tuck the blankets around him. 

You don’t come back into the moment until you are sitting at the foot of your bed, your boots laying sideways on the floor beside you. It’s the heavy thunk of them hitting the floor that finally wakes you from your walking nightmare.

The memories he had shared with you lay at the bottom of your belly, slowly pulling the entire weight of the galaxy with them. They were always running, the kid was being hunted and the Mandalorian was trying his damndest to keep him safe.

Who was hunting him? The kid was unclear. When you dare to reach out into the nightmares the child is having all you get are flashes of faces in dark uniforms and countless droids. None of these creatures ever stays very long in the kids life, except the Mandalorian. 

You don't want to say their name out loud in case the galaxy should catch on. If you slip, and the images you see from the kids eyes are what you think they are, then you are right and proper fucked. 

You all are.

You. The kid. And Mando.

Three fish in a barrel. 

Easy pickings.

You find yourself wading through the dark memories with no exit in sight, until a gentle coo yanks you back into reality. Your head snaps back to your side as the child gurgles again. He has crawled over the short wall of blankets again and now sits next to you. His little claws hold your wrist, and you can see the instant recognition in his eyes as he scans the Imperial cog burned into your skin.

"Kriff." You murmur. 

You were right and proper fucked.

***

Taglist: @prettyboyskywalker

<<Back to Master List  II  Chapter 4  II  Chapter 6 >>

[haru-sen]

Angst!AU

First off, thanks to the anon ask that sparked me actually writing this out.  It’s been a rough week.  But this was fun.  Second, it’s a draft and details may change when I actually get around the writing the fic.  

The Jesse on Route 66 chapter takes place a little before this. 

“He’s four hundred meters out. The vehicle is heavily shielded. I have not detected an escort.”  Zee’s drone floated beside your hovercycle.  “But this is still ill-advised.”

You shrugged, idling on the low rooftop, taking cover in the shadow of a massive viewscreen advertising a new fantasy drama.  The actors were pretty, but the fight choreography looked too stilted.  If you were at home, you would probably be bullied into watching it.  If anyone still wanted to be in the same room as you.  

“You can request backup.”

“Don’t need it,” you said, mapping the trajectory of the armored car.  If it was just the one vehicle, Zee was enough.  You just had to get her through the physical barrier of hardened shielding.  She could penetrate the firewalls on her own.  And more importantly, Zee was the only one not mad at you right now.  

“They would come.”

You frowned.  It was really unlike Zee to harp on this shit.  “It’s not necessary.”  

“Neither is going after Cian Barrett on your own.”  

“I’m not on my own, I have you,” you said, not taking your eyes off the car.  In this moment, you could almost forget that she wasn’t Athena.  You could forget that Athena wasn't really Athena any more. You could forget that Blackwatch was nothing more than a memory of scandal. You could forget...so you did.  That part of your brain wasn’t necessary for this job.  

It was like slipping into your old armor.  It was like coming home.  The world faded away.  There was you, Zee’s drone, and Barrett’s car.  Everything else was secondary.  

There were no identifying marks on your bike or your armor. The form-fitting suit was all matte black and shielded for direct combat. The helm, styled after a motorcycle helmet, covered your features entirely.  Not your usual outfit, but your “Keres” identity had political links.  Best to be incognito for now.  

The sun was just beginning to dip, and the traffic was heavy. Zee would be able to jam the emergency transmissions, but there would be a lot of witnesses.  There would be calls to emergency services. You were running this operation in broad daylight, and you couldn’t summon the urge to care.  

“This is very reckless,” Zee said.  

“Yeah, but Hong Kong is our territory,” you said, gritting your teeth behind your helmet.  “Are you saying we can’t do this in our own backyard?”  

“...It’s the only reason I’m agreeing to it,” Zee said primly.  “But this is our backyard.  Try not to shit where we eat.”  

You chuckled, a little surprised by her use of profanity.  “It’s nothing you can’t handle.”  He was three hundred meters out.  The overlay on the inside of your helmet fed you more statistics.  The vehicle’s armoring class was higher than you expected, but it had side windows.  Windows were always a structural weak point.  You waited for Barrett’s car to reach the next intersection.

On cue, the light shifted to red, stopping the car in front of him. There was a slight reverberation as Zee tethered her drone to your bike.

You shifted gears, and then suddenly you were dropping forward, accelerating even as you fell.  

Barrett’s car was a thick monstrosity, black and purple, custom-made by Vishkar: hard light kinetic shields, front and rear turrets, a Farraday cage overlay to prevent hacking.  All of that was geared to stop bombs, guns, or cyberattacks.  None of it would stop you.  

You leaned into the turn, holding yourself at 45 degrees off the ground, the bike still accelerating as you slipped into traffic. You pulled yourself upright so you could slide between stopped cars.  You took the innermost lane hovering on the border of oncoming traffic.  

Barrett’s stopped car was just ahead.  

“Cut it,” Zee said.

You released the controls, letting her take over as you drew the spike. Eight inches of hardened omnium, the point already starting to glow with heat. It was a simple tool, perfect for shorting out Farraday cages and breaking glass.  Feet jammed in the stirrups, you rested your left arm across your chest, the spike in your metal hand.  Powering up the prostheses and the tool took half a second. And as you passed Barrett’s car your arm snapped sideways, driving the metal into the glass with inhuman force.  

You pierced a thick line through layers of glass, polymer shielding, and then tore through the metal frame, breaking the continuous line of the circuits.  Now there would be a hole in the hard light armoring and the Farraday cage.  In seconds, the spike grew too hot to hold, so you let it go, swinging yourself off the bike.   You just had to carve the hole.  Zee would open the way.  

“I’m in,” Zee said, as the locks popped.

Grinning savagely behind your helmet, you yanked the door open, even as someone within emptied their gun at you.  You jerked back behind the door, getting a glimpse of an omnic bodyguard switching weapons.  

“Zee?”

“Working on it,” she snapped.  

If you’d been alone, you could have used an EMP, but if you’d been alone, you wouldn't be able to pull the data from his devices.  And that was more important than simply killing Barrett.  Not that you planned on sparing him.  Not after what Sakai had let slip. It had taken a lot of work, but in the end, you’d gotten what you needed from what was left of- You winced inwardly.  You didn’t need to think about that right now.  

You drew your gun, angled it, and fired into the car at where the bodyguard had been sitting.  You heard the shots connect, metal rending metal.

“Watch where you’re shooting,” Zee snapped.  

You were never in any danger of hitting her, but if your bullets made it out of the vehicle... You gritted your teeth.  A ricochet probably wouldn’t kill a civilian.  You swung around the door, gun raised.  

The omnic was a smoking wreck.  An armored woman lay bleeding on the ground.  

An older, dignified “gentleman” in a suit, Barrett was pressed against the partition, his own weapon raised at you.  But his hands shook violently. There was blood on his face and in his gray hair, but you didn’t see any serious wounds.  

“Where is she?” You snarled.  

“I don’t know whom you’re talking about!” Barrett shouted defiantly, words blending together in his thick brogue.  

“I think you do,” you sneered, taking aim at his knees.  

“Incoming!” Zee shouted as light flared in your peripheral vision.  

Three things happened at once.   The delivery van in a neighboring lane opened up, half a dozen armored Talon troopers pouring out. And then a sunburst struck the front of Barrett’s car.  You dove to the side, taking cover behind the rear bumper of the vehicle, and then a wave of force rolled you under the next car as an explosion rocked Barrett’s vehicle-though it didn’t come apart.  All around you, car windows shattered from the concussive blast.  

“Is that-?”  You winced, dragging yourself out from underneath a jeep.

“No, not one of ours,” Zee said sharply.  “You need to get out, now.”

“KA-BOOOOM!”  The voice was male, the accent distinctly Australian.  You blinked as you watched a heavily singed blonde man kick Barrett’s front tire. “Hahaha!  You’re blowing up! And this tire is blowing out!”

You staggered to your feet, ears ringing.  There were armored Talon troopers sprawled across the asphalt.  And twenty yards away, Cian Barrett was rabbiting down the crowded streets.  

“Fuck,” you snarled.  

“Move!” Zee shouted in your helmet more forcefully than you’d heard in a long time.  You ducked low, running past prone troopers.

“How did you miss them?” You hissed.

“-I don’t know,” Zee said, her voice distant in your hear. “Transmitting this back to base.”  

“I think they’ll see it on the news,” you huffed.  

There was a ping in your helmet as someone tried to call you.  You ignored it.  

“There’s no way they know about Sakai,” you growled.  Because the only people who knew what you’d done to Sakai and how you made her talk, well, they were on your side, even if they weren’t very happy with you right now.  

“This isn’t for you,” Zee said, even as a Talon trooper raised her gun at you.  “Drop!”

You dove forward, rolling through a brackish puddle, splashing foul liquid everywhere.  It was good thing you were wearing a helmet.  

“Come here.”  A chain shot over your head, a massive hook sinking into the woman’s armor, and suddenly she was airborne.  You turned your head, watching as a massive man in a gas mask yanked her to him.  

“What the hell?”

“Junker mercenaries,” Zee said.  “They’re here for Barrett too.  Avoid them.”  

“Lucky, you butthead! I know you can hear me!  I know this tech can withstand bigger explosions, even if Hong Kong can’t! What the hell is going on?” A very familiar, very angry voice shouted over the comms.  Someone had hacked your settings, not hard considering it was her hardware to begin with.

“Busy!” You shouted, trying to catch sight of Barrett.  In the distance you saw an older European man rounding a corner-

“Yeah, well so am I!  I have the fucking Minister of State Security on hold! Auntie has shorted out the power grid in a six block radius.  Oksana is trying to take out any peripheral electrical surveillance. What in the ten hells do you think you’re doing?”

You flinched.  “I was going after Barrett.  But I’m not the only one.”  You hesitated.  “We didn’t know about the backup.  Or the Aussies.”  You didn’t say whether or not you would have still made the move if you had known.  Better not to go there.  

There was a moment of distracted silence.  She was verifying your claim. “I see that...OK.  Look, you need to get out of there.  Those Australians can take the fall.  You don’t need to get caught up in it any more then you already are.”  

“Barrett has information I need,” you said tightly, vaulting over a low wall as you dodged down an alley, running parallel to the street you saw Barrett turn down.

There was a heavy sigh.  Because they all knew what you would do to get that information.  

“Give me some more time, Lucky.  We can find them too.  You don’t need to cut the answers out of every single Talon agent you dislike.”

“It’s therapy,” you hissed, swearing as dirt and garbage erupted behind you.  A concussive blast nearly knocked you off balance.  “You’re always telling me I need more of that.”

“This bomb’s for you!” The Junker cackled, rapidly closing the distance.  

You swung around, raising your gun.  

The Junker blew past you, literally hoisted by his own petard.  He just waved, winking at you as he rocketed through the air.  

Behind him, three more Talon troopers surged forward.  

So many targets, but it wasn’t a hard decision.  

The visor of your helmet overlaid the shot trajectories, even as you raised your gun in your left hand. Three T-Zone hits, three corpses toppling.  The skill was unnatural as fuck, but you wouldn’t argue with the results.  

You turned back to see the Junker, with his goddamn peg-leg, meters ahead of you. He squinted at you for a moment.  

You surged forward.

“Oh good, I had no idea where he went!” The Junker chuckled as you passed him.  In that moment, he tossed something in front of you, even as you jerked to the side, narrowly missing a steel-jawed trap.

“Aww, c’mon,” he groaned.

You just shook your head and kept moving.  You were very tempted to shoot him, but if Talon was here for him and the big guy, then you might be better off letting him live.  The old you might have been more concerned about the chaos.  But Cian Barrett was getting away.  And that was unacceptable.  

“Zee, I’ve lost visual contact.  Do you-”

“He’s two blocks north,” another voice chimed in.  “You can cut though that alley up ahead and jump the fence.”  

You inhaled sharply.  After what you had done to Sakai, you didn’t think she’d speak to you for another year or two.  And maybe you deserved that. “Thanks,” you said after a moment.  

“Yes, well, be more careful,” she said quietly.  “I’m mad at you, but I’ll be even madder if you die before we can talk about it.”

Dying might easier.  But you were smart enough not to say that out loud. “I’ll be home tonight,” you said.  “If I can wing it.”  

“Kara misses you,” she said hesitantly, in a way that might mean someone other than Karalika missed you.  Which made you smile in spite of the situation. Karalika probably did miss you, but she’d be fine.  Everyone else spoiled her.    

“Yeah, and if you make a bigger mess of this, I’m going to feed her sweet bean paste till she shits all over your room!  Picture it! Bean shits everywhere!” Your “boss” shouted over the comms. “You’ll be mopping the goddamn ceilings for days!”  

If that happened, maybe you’d stay in Hong Kong a little longer.  You turned down the alley, still hearing the peg-legged Junker hopping along behind you.  The fence was three meters high but you leapt onto a closed dumpster, pushed off a support pole, and flung yourself over the chain links.  You dropped down with a heavy thud and picked back up.

“Zee, you have my ride ready?”

“In a minute,” she said, sounding distracted. It should not have come as a surprise, she was balancing a larger workload now.  

With the explosions nearby, the crowds were thinning. You scanned the street- And there he was! A few blocks up, Barret shoved a street vendor and tried to duck into a shop.

You moved quickly through the press, following him into the little electronics stand.  

Sweaty and disheveled, he slumped against a headphones display, panting.  He was not doing a very good job of hiding.  You glanced sharply at the shopkeeper who ducked into a back room.  

Raising your gun in your right hand, you seized him by the collar.  He flailed vainly against the metal.  

“Wait! No! My people will pay handsomely for safety!”

You held up him by the throat, watching him twitch and shake, fear in those pale gray eyes. Your helmet was opaque.  He would not see anything but his own distorted reflection. “Your money means nothing.  I want information.”

“I-I-” He stammered.

“Widowmaker,” you snapped.  “Where are they storing her?”  

He shook his head frantically.  “I don’t know!”

“Agent Sakai seemed to think you did,” you growled.  

“That was a month ago!  I don’t keep close tabs on all combat assets.”

“Bullshit! Where the hell is she?!” You squeezed tighter, rage making your arms shake.  

“I don’t have a fucking clue!” He shouted back.  “They keep the freaks with O’Deorain.  Widowmaker, Sigma, Reap-”

Glass smashed as a giant hook hurtled through the storefront.  You spun, holding up Barrett as your shield.  That thick chain wrapped around his waist.

Maniacal laughter sounded, far too close.  It made your blood run cold. The giant Junker was huge, and only wearing bits of armor, with lots of visible flesh.  The piggy tattoo on his bulging stomach said “Wild Hog Power.”  Barrett screamed as “Wild Hog Power” reeled him in.  

It really wouldn’t do for Barrett to be ransomed.  He was Moira’s financial advisor, and one more nail in her treacherous coffin.  You slapped your gun back into your left hand, letting your helm’s targeting software direct your shot.  

A neat red hole burst in Barrett’s skull.  Much neater than Sakai had been.  But Sakai had been personal.  

“Wild Hog Power” shook Barrett like a doll, the corpse flopped around, neck flopping at an extreme angle. “Wild Hog Power” was breathing hard, hunched over Barrett.  Bestial and berserking, this one was less human than most.  He looked up then, clocking you instantly.  He began spinning his chain.  

Your insides shriveled, an atavistic reaction.  This was a very dangerous place to be.  “Zee-”

“Go out back!”

You jumped the counter, narrowly dodging that damn hook.  More gunfire blew over your head, and you rapidly crawled out the back exit, finding your hoverbike waiting.  

“Thanks!” You hissed, even as you hopped aboard, staying low.  “Chances of extraction?”

“Not any time soon,” your boss huffed angrily.  “I’m busy doing damage control.  Looks like there was a lot of it- mostly property, but also quite a few civilians with shrapnel injuries. Hospitals will be overcrowded.  We’re offering additional support to the locals. You can lay low for now.”

“Understood,” you said.  Your safehouse not too far off.  Checking your mirrors, you saw the Junker pair standing together in your dust, watching you make your escape.  

**

You went radio silent.  You were sore, but you’d gotten off lighter than you deserved, given the amount of mayhem you’d helped instigate.

Your safehouse was well-stocked and decorated to someone else’s taste. It was filled with Pachimari paraphernalia, though there were all kinds of stuffed animals on the couch. Kittens, hamsters, even a piggy.  You shuddered slightly.  “Wild Hog Power” had taken Barrett mid-sentence, but you’d already known about Reaper. Sakai had spilled everything in end, both figuratively and literally.

You showered first, setting aside your battered gear for repairs.  Then you changed into sweats. You considered external healing, but there was no need.  As long as you got a good meal, you’d be back in fighting shape after dinner.  

The kitchen was full of novelty appliances and decorated in an alarming shade of pink enamel: the fridge, stove, sink, cupboards, everything. You’d been here a week and you still weren’t used to it.  But it wasn’t all terrible, there was a bubble tea maker, and you fiddled with that – doing it from scratch wasn’t hard.  But the machine took a few minutes to set up. You started the rice cooker too.

You had filled the fridge yourself, with fresh groceries and a beautiful raspberry chocolate cake covered in ganache. You were still working on improving your recipe for fish head curry. The freezer was packed with dimsum.  Idly, you began heating up a pan of oil. Your body needed a lot of calories post-combat and cooking gave you some time to meditate.  

The Talon troopers had not stepped in to save Barrett from you.  Talon had not been waiting for you. They’d only come out when the Junkers were in range. So Talon had been expecting those Junkers.   Your helm had captured enough footage that you could research the men. Zee had forwarded a large file to you.  

The demolitionist was a man named Jameson Fawkes.  He was a caricature of all the shitty, fried, explosion-happy maniacs you’d met through the years.  Nwazue had been painstakingly responsible.  Hell, Vo had been a pain in the ass, but- You exhaled slowly.  Vo hadn’t been so bad.  Not really.  You stared at the fridge.  She would have loved that cake.  

“Wild Hog Power” was a man named Mako Rutledge.  There wasn’t a lot of information about him.  But you knew “incredibly dangerous” when you saw it.  Both men had accumulated massive bounties and were wanted in several countries. You’d be surprised if they made it out of Hong Kong alive.  

But that wasn’t your problem, you didn’t need to go borrowing more trouble. You had more than enough.  

Your problem was how to save Widowmaker, especially since she didn’t especially want to be saved.  

Your problem was that you knew exactly who was wearing that stupid skull mask and calling himself Reaper.  But you didn’t know why, and that was just as awful.  You had theories, of course, but even the best case scenario made you sick to your stomach.  

Your problems all stemmed from the past, the sort of unresolved bullshit that only worsened over time. Jesse had been trying to get in contact with you, but you’d been putting him off.  You still weren’t sure if you wanted to see him now, no matter what kind of intel he offered.  

But you would, eventually.  Not because he’d been your friend.  Not because you were ready to forgive him.  Not because you missed him. But because you needed every advantage you could get in this war.  

“Lucky, you need to see this.”  Zee’s cultured voice came on over the sound system.  A security monitor flicked on.  You stared incredulously as the two Junkers traipsed up the stairs and through the halls on the building, clearly looking for someone.  They were still several floors below you. You had no idea how they’d tracked you here.  

You could run.  You knew this city pretty well.  There might not be fighting.  There might be more collateral damage.  It was hard to say.  

You could fight.  The building was not unoccupied.  It would not survive. There would be more collateral damage.  

You could try diplomacy.  But you weren’t entirely sure if those men were capable of rational thought.  The Junkers were insane. Look what they had done to their own country.  You certainly didn’t want to invite them in but...

But the enemy of your enemy was useful to know.  

You went back upstairs to change clothes.  

**

It only took them a few minutes to reach your door.  But you were ready. You had changed into a simple black jumpsuit.  It was short sleeved and with a flattering cut, the fabric draped elegantly. You put on makeup, just enough to be a polished hostess.  You didn’t play a honeytrap any more.  Not if you could help it.  Your only jewelry was a thick white band around your left wrist.  It had a pearlescent glow against your dark metal arm.  You took a deep breath, checking the cameras and finding them loitering outside your door, Fawkes fiddling with a goddamn mine, Rutledge blocking the entire hall.

You opened the door, and stared coolly at Fawkes, wondering if he would really detonate the bomb right here.  He better not.  

“Eh?” Fawkes gaped at you, clearly shocked that you’d just opened the door.  

“What are you doing?” You sighed, one hand on your cheek.  You sounded more like an exasperated teacher than a security operative.  That was intentional.  

“Err...nuffink.” He shoved the mine behind his back like a child.  Up close, he was younger than you first thought, though life had not been kind to him. He was scorched and sooty, patches of hair missing, his clothing near rags.  It didn’t look like he cared.  

Behind him, Rutledge regarded you silently, possibly surprised that you had answered the door without attacking, possibly trying to identify you as the woman on the bike.  But with the mask in place it was too hard to tell.  

“You were-” Fawkes jabbed his finger at you accusingly.  

“Yes, I was there,” you said.

There was another awkward moment of silence as they tried to process your declaration.  Honesty was certainly the best policy, when it got you a tactical advantage.  

You regarded them politely.  “Well then, are you going to come in for dinner?”

There was another long stretch of silence as the men looked at each other trying to figure out if you were being sarcastic.  

Rutledge tilted his head back, and you realized he was sniffing the air.  

Fawkes blinked rapidly.  “I don’t like prawns.”

“Are you allergic?” You asked, stepping back to let them come in.  

He glanced back at Rutledge, panic on his face.  This was not how he pictured the encounter going.  You didn’t think most people he met invited him inside for a meal.  

“No,” Rutledge said. His voice was low and dangerous.  

“No, just don’t like’em,” Fawkes fidgeted, and then shoved the mine down his pants.  

You nodded.  “There are slippers if you want,” you gestured to the shoe rack by the door.  It was good manners to take off one’s shoes, though you weren’t going to press the matter with them. You walked back to kitchen, not looking to see if they used them.  You walked down the hall, half expecting a bullet or a hook in the back.  You fiddled with your bracelet, trying to keep your stance relaxed.  

There was a crashing noise, and you flinched, before looking over your shoulder, to see Fawkes trying to shove the broken shoe rack into some semblance of its previous shape.  Rutledge was holding up a very large pair of Pachimari slippers.  They would have fit Reinhardt. You had no idea if they would fit him, but your support staff stocked a broad range of sizes.  

There was a distinct rhythm as Fawke’s leg clicked against the wood.  But it sounded like he was wearing a single slipper.  Maybe one of those furniture leg felts would work on the peg-leg.  You had not considered that.  He followed you from the foyer into the kitchen.  You went to the freezer and pulled out the rest of the dimsum.  You could steam the dumplings, sticky rice packets, and bao, and maybe you’d have enough for Rutledge.  

“Whatcha making then?” Fawkes asked, looking around the kitchen in wonder. He sniffed the air a few times, his eyes bright.  He had terrible posture, shoulders hunched as he eyed the stove with distrust.  

“Fishhead curry and dimsum.”  The curry was still simmering.  “Would you like something to drink?”  Coffee in the jittery demolitionist would be unwise.  Alcohol might be worse. You checked the bubble tea machine.  “I have milk tea with boba.”  

“I would kill for some!”  He nodded vigorously, rubbing his hands together.

“Sugar?” You asked, your metal fingers twitching as you poured.  

“Half!” He did not have an indoor voice.

The machine dispensed bubbles, tea, and sweetener according to his order.  You offered him a cup with a metal straw.  

Squealing, he took the drink from you and then Rutledge reappeared.  Without a word, he snatched the cup out of Fawkes’ hands, popped off the lid, and sniffed.  Then he looked at you.

You poured yourself a cup and took a drink.  Using poison had definitely occurred to you, but with Rutledge’s clearly altered biology, there were too many variables. The tea was a little too sweet, but the tapioca bubbles were the perfect texture.  

“Come on, pig face!  If it ain’t poisoned, give it here!”  Fawkes grabbed for the cup. Rutledge let him take it back, apparently not bothered by the name calling.  

“Would you like some?”  You asked, taking another drink.  You had beer, but you purposefully did not want them drunk.  You didn’t need them rowdier.  

“Full sweetened,” Rutledge said after a moment.

You nodded and made him a cup as well.   You gestured to the round table.  “Please, have a seat.”   The chairs would probably hold.  Your boss got a kick out of making equipment way more durable than it needed to be, just for fun.  

Fawkes straddled a chair, slurping his drink and watching you intently like a feral animal.  

Rutledge carefully sat down, adjusting his mask so he could drink.  

“Fancy pad,” Fawkes said, clearing his throat while he looked around.  

“A friend’s place, I’m only visiting,” you said, not exactly lying.  You stirred the curry.  It was fragrant with spice and coconut milk, but needed to thicken a little more.  You checked the steamer, finding the shrimp dumplings and the soup dumplings to be ready.  You placed the metal steamer tray on a mat on the table and gestured to the cupboard.  “Bowls and plates are up there. Chopsticks and silverware are in that drawer.”  You returned to the stove.  The oil was hot enough for the deep fried taro pouches.   You tossed them into the oil, watching them sizzle.

“Ooooh,” Fawkes was suddenly over your shoulder.  “Wozzat?”

“Fried taro, with ground pork filling.” You paused, glancing over at Rutledge.  He was eyeing the steamer tray of dumplings.  He had not gotten up for plates or silverware. “The yellow and kind of translucent ones have shrimp,” you told Fawkes, gesturing at the food on the table.  “But the round white ones are pork.”  

“Eww,” Fawkes scowled at you.  “I don’t like prawns. Buggy little bastards taste like shite and are filled with-”

“You don’t have to eat them,” you said firmly.  “But where I grew up, there wasn’t food to waste.”  

Fawkes squinted at you.  “But here you are in this fancy city pad-”

You flipped the fried taro with cooking chopsticks.

“-Stealing work from honest Junkers, and acting like-”

You had to maneuver around him to get a plate for the taro. He was getting worked up.  You glanced briefly at your left wrist, wondering if you had made a mistake.  

“Get out of the way,” Rutledge barked.  “Can’t you see that she’s busy?”

You raised a brow, a little surprised by that reaction.  

Fawkes was too.  He blinked inquisitively at his partner.

“Be useful: set the table,” Rutledge said gruffly.    

Fawkes snapped to attention then, skittering over to the cupboard to grab plates and utensils.  You turned back to the roiling oil and began fishing golden brown taro cakes out of the pot.  You filled the plate, and set it down on the table. They were steaming hot and would burn your mouth. Rutledge sat there stoically, watching your every move.  He had not touched the food.  In the corner of your eye,  you saw Fawkes gracelessly slapping a handful of silverware onto a stack of plates.  

You set the rice cooker on the table and checked the steamer trays.  The sticky rice and bao were done.  And the fish head curry was a deep orange color, with pieces of okra, taro, and eggplant cooked soft in the sauce.  You would have liked to simmer the sauce a little longer, but you couldn’t help the timing.  You turned around to see Fawkes seated with two forks and a bowl.  It looked like you had two spoons, a bowl, and a plate, and Rutledge had two plates and pair of chopsticks.  

You brought the pot of curry to the table, and then went back to retrieve more utensils and rice bowls. You set them in the middle of the table, and started scooping rice. You passed the bowls around, noting that still none of the food had been touched.  Paranoia or manners?

Fawkes straddled his chair, surveying the table greedily.  

But Rutledge looked at you expectantly.  

“I am not religious,” you said, unsure if he wanted you to bless the meal. “But I do not offer the courtesy of my kitchen to my enemies.”  

He nodded.  “I am Roadhog.  That’s Junkrat.”  

Professional names then.  “I am known as Keres.”  

“Hooley dooley, Carrie, you got some fancy grub,” Fawkes, who was Junkrat, reached forward and grabbed a taro dumpling with his hands.  “Hot! Hot! Hot!”  He bounced it in his hand while you served yourself some curry.  Junkrat seemed like a more fitting name.  

Roadhog used his hands as well, carefully snatching dumplings and other appetizers, but setting them down on his plate. He wasn’t eating directly from the communal dishes, and you appreciated the courtesy.  

You raised a brow as Junkrat grabbed his own share of curry and began squirting Sriracha into it.  

“You might taste it first,” you said, because you had been liberal with the spices and the peppers.  

“I eat gunpowder for breakfast, Carrie!”  He jabbed his fork at you, eyes blazing.  “Don’t need no drongo telling me how to eat a fish head!”

You chuckled.  “All right.”  You sipped your tea watching keenly as Junkrat shoveled a spoonful into his mouth, grinning triumphantly at you.  It took a few seconds, but as he swallowed, his face began to redden, his cheek twitching.  Sriracha really wasn’t that hot.  But the peppers you’d used were pretty potent.

Roadhog spooned half the curry onto his plate, splitting the fish head and taking the larger portion of that as well.  

They were two different kinds of dangerous.  Junkrat needed to be balanced – too much stimuli and he flew into a manic episode.  Too little and he stirred up trouble to keep himself from being bored. Roadhog was a pressure cooker, holding it in until he hit critical mass.  Keeping them both calm took different strategies.  

Doing so was less difficult than it sounded. You were used to dealing with dangerous difficult people.  After all, back in Zurich you’d been so good with-

You stopped, mid-bite.  Yes, that’s exactly what the Junkers reminded you of.  Your goddamn Blackwatch hardcases.  Fuck.  The wheels of memory ground out another realization: Hell, when you’d first joined up, your manners were only marginally better than Junkrat’s.  That was such a long time ago...

The blonde man was still chattering about how the fish curry wasn’t that hot, while he piled more rice into his bowl and shoveled it down his throat.  Then he loudly drained his cup, still protesting that he had no trouble with spices.

Roadhog noticed your hesitation and slowed his eating.  

You took a drink and went back to your curry.  It could have used a little more tamarind.  The coconut milk mellowed the sharpness a little more than you expected.  

“Well, as long as you find it acceptable,” you told Junkrat when he finished his rant about his tolerance for spicy food.  “I’m still working on the recipe, so I understand if you think it’s lacking.”

He blinked.  “Oh, no.  ‘S good.”  He slurped down another bite and gave you a thumbs up.  

“I’m glad,” you said.  

“Meant to say, that’s some arm you got there,” Junkrat chirped, knocking on your metal limb with his own prostheses. “How’d you lose it? Shark?  Salty? Hamster?” He mimed biting motions with his hands.  

“Terrorist attack,” you said, taking another bite of curry, though in that moment you only tasted ash.  

“Bomb?” Junkrat asked.

“Yeah,” you said, though it had not been that straight forward.  

“Who?” He asked eagerly.

“Talon.” You took a sip of your tea, the sweetness bracing you.  

“Oh yeah, they’re absolute drongos,” Junkrat cackled.  “Keep inviting us around, like we want to join their stupid club with their dumb scrap metal lackeys.”  

“So they’re trying to recruit you?” You asked.

“Mebbe,” Junkrat gave you a sly look.  “Mebbe they’re after me treasure.”

You laughed a little too hard at that.  

“You don’t believe me?” He puffed up then, smacking his bare chest. “Me and Pig Face are rich! We could eat like this every day if we wanted to!”  Madness flared in those eyes.

Under the table, you rested your bracelet against your knee.  

“Shut up, idiot,” Roadhog grumbled.  

“She’s laughing-” Junkrat’s head snapped to the side, reminding you of a mongoose about to strike.  

“You told a joke,” Roadhog’s voice was dangerously low. “Sometimes people laugh at your jokes.”

Junkrat crossed his arms, looking sullen.  

Children with their delicate egos.  You gave a wry smile.  “I thought it was a pirate reference.”  You tapped your knee.  

“Oh,” Junkrat looked at you sideways.  “Of course it was!”  He laughed a little too loudly.  “I really had you two going! This is a dinner party, Roadhog!  You gotta be personable. And I am nothing if not a courteous house guest!”  

Even with the mask on, even if you’d never seen his face, you could feel Roadhog’s exasperation loud and clear.    

“They were really invested in grabbing you today,” you said.  “But there are a lot of cells in Talon,” you said.  They pulled off heists and robberies, though it was usually for things other than money: tech, hostages, an unsavory means to an end... “I can’t claim to know what their intentions are.”

“Of course they want us to work for them! You saw us out there! Regular professionals! We were on a roll!” He grinned at Roadhog, jabbing him with a bony elbow.  “Eh? Eh?”

“Stop that,” Roadhog growled, picking up his plate to drink down the curry sauce.  

“But you did steal our kill though.  He was worth more alive,” Junkrat said, narrowing his eyes at you.  

“Sorry, personal business,” you said with a shrug. “I lost more than an arm to those bastards.”  And given what you had learned from their dossiers, you probably could have left Barrett with them, confident that he wouldn't survive the experience.  They had no love of “suits.”  But you hadn’t known that back in that little electronics shop.  

“Yeah, I get it,” Junkrat heaved a dramatic sigh.  “There are some things money can’t buy.”  He grinned at Roadhog.  “But if that’s the case, you should still try the proper application of high powered explosives!”  

You laughed softly, in spite of the situation.  He was a crude, vicious, and dangerous child.  Maybe he reminded you a little of Vo, of Fitzpatrick, of Távio, and others. Maybe you were just getting old. “I know it’s effective, but I don’t have your talent in that field. Never picked up the knack for anything beyond the basics.”

“I could show you a trick or two,” Junkrat flashed you what had to be his idea of charming smile.  Somewhere between a leer and the awkward smile of a student portrait, he showed far too many teeth.  And he waggled his eyebrows at you.  

You were far too old for this shit.  But you put on hand over your mouth, trying to smother your snickers.  

Junkrat grinned at Roadhog, nudging him with his elbow.  “Suppose she fancies me?  She did invite us in for this real intimate dinner. Ladies don’t just roll out that hospitality for anyone.”  

Roadhog just shook his head.  

“Unless she’s interested in you,” Junkrat murmured a low shocked voice. “Hooley dooley, mate! You don’t think-”

“No, you don’t think,” Roadhog said setting his plate down.  “This is business.”  

Junkrat blinked.  “But dinner-”

“Friendly business,” you said.  “A simple “getting to know you” sort of event.  Though let me emphasize, I don’t share food with my enemies.”    

“Not government,” Roadhog said, utensils set at straight on his plate, indicating he was done.  “Not Talon.”  He looked around. “Corporate security? PMC?”

“Sort of,” you said.  

Junkrat scowled.  “We don’t work for suits.”

“I represent the Peaceful Life Society,” you said.  

Junkrat snorted.  “That’s a silly name.”

“I’m still not sure if it was meant to be ironic,” you said, sipping your tea.  “But yes, it is.”

“Triad business?” Roadhog crossed his arms.

“It could be,” you said.  “We can talk business.  We can talk about cake.  There is no pressure. I’m not here to try to strong arm you.”

“You wanna hire us, Carrie?” Junkrat asked.  

“I have work, if you’re interested.  I have cake, if you aren’t.”

“But we can only pick one?” Junkrat frowned.  

“No. We can just start with dessert,” you said and got up.  You brought the cake out of the fridge.  And when you turned around, Junkrat was hovering over your shoulder, flitting back and forth, staring at the cake.

“Look at that, Roadhog.  Just look at that beauty.  Just covered in chocolate, a goddamn mudslide of chocolate. It’s gonna be too sweet,” he moaned.  “It looks pretty, but they overdid it-”

“It’s dark chocolate,” you said, a little indignantly.

“And all that coating is gonna be gummy pasty sugar shit-”

“It’s not fondant,” you scowled, genuinely offended by the thought.  

“It can’t be as good as it looks, there’s no fucking way!” He wailed, clearly more interested in being dramatic than listening to a word you said.  

You glanced over at Roadhog feeling a growing respect for his levels of patience.  “Would you like a slice?”

He nodded.  

You almost asked if he wanted Junkrat’s slice, but decided to be the mature adult here.  You set the cake on the counter and cut two large slices for you and Roadhog, and one small one for Dramarat.  Against your better judgment, you made coffee to go with it, possibly making it half-caf because your guests were so excitable.  

“Let’s go in there.  I don’t feel like clearing the table right now.” You handed each man their own plate and fork, and poured yourself some black coffee.  You took a seat in a single chair, while the Junkers took the couch.

Junkrat poked at the plushies, giggling to himself as he tossed the pig at Roadhog, nearly missing the other man’s plate.  

“Watch it!” Roadhog snapped.  

You set your drink down on the glass coffee table and took a bite of the cake.  There was a generous spread of tart raspberry liquer filling between each layer of chocolate cake.  Smooth chocolate ganache replaced the frosting, with fresh raspberries adorning the top of the cake.  It was rich with just the right amount of sweetness.  Gabriel would have-

You did not finish that thought. It would have sat badly with your curry.  Instead, you set the plate down and took a deep swig of coffee.   When you looked up, Roadhog was delicately eating his slice while Junkrat was still staring forlornly at his own piece.  

“How is it really?” Junkrat tried to whisper, but he was about as good at it as Reinhardt.

“Find out for yourself.  Idiot.”  

“I’m not like you.  I can’t just eat anything. I’m a connoisseur!”  

Roadhog just shook his head in disgust.  

Junkrat begrudgingly took a bite, grimacing the entire time.  Uncertainly pinched his already pointy features.  He chewed, slowly relaxing as he tasted the cake.  The transformation was nearly instantaneous.  He went from pissing and moaning to an open mouthed quiet awe.  He stared reverently at his slice and then shoved the rest into his mouth.  

You sipped your coffee.  

“Hooley dooley that’s good shit,” he murmured, mouth full of crumbs. “Can I have more?  Before pig face eats it all?!”

You still couldn’t see much of Roadhog’s face, but you could feel the heat of the glare directed at Junkrat.  

“You both can have the rest.  I’m pretty full,” you said, picking up your plate.  There was three quarters of a cake left.  Maybe they could take it to go.  

“Are you sure?”  Junkrat squinted at you.  And then hopped up, bouncing into the kitchen with glee.  

...Oh, maybe you should not have given him that much sugar.  

But then Roadhog was on his feet, lumbering into the kitchen with heavy steps.

“Hey, back off! This is mine!  Carrie said I could have it!”  

“Fifty-fifty,” Roadhog said, pushing Junkrat out of the way.  He lifted the knife and made a sharp cut.  

“That looks more like sixty-forty!”

“Get your eyes checked,” Roadhog said, taking a slightly bigger piece.  

“Come on, don’t be such a pig!” Junkrat jumped, trying to snatch the cake out of Roadhog’s hands.

“We can always get more cake,” you said.  

“...Really?” Junkrat perked up.  

“Yeah, I don’t mind going for more dessert,” you said, even though the bakery was closed. If they pushed, you could get ice cream or something.  

“Oh,” Junkrat grabbed the remaining portion.  “I guess that’s OK then.” The importance of the distraction was to get them to disengage.  You did not want them coming to blows in the apartment safehouse.  Both men returned to the living room, Roadhog taking the far corner of the couch.  Junkrat sat closer to you, eating happily while he poked at the plushies with chocolate-smeared fingers.  

“Didn’t figure you for the stuffed animals type,” Junkrat said, turning over a pirate Pachimari in his lap.  He bounced it a few times, then looked around rapidly, then tried to act casual slinging it to the side.

“I didn’t decorate,” you said with a shrug.  “But they are really cute.”  

“I guess they are,” Junkrat jammed his hands into his pockets. “If you like that kind of thing.”  

Roadhog coughed.

“I mean, I don’t,” Junkrat sputtered.  “I’m a man of sophistication and means.  I just know that they don’t make the pirate one back home.  They were limited edition,” Junkrat said, staring longingly at the pile of plush.

You sighed.  This location was going to be metaphorically burned after this encounter.  You could make some good will offerings.  “My friend won’t mind if you take some.” You paused. “If you had someone back home whom you thought might like one.”

“Oh.” Junkrat perked up. “Really?  Because I think Little...James might like one.  Just some neighborhood kid,” he added quickly.

Roadhog just sat very still.  

“And his little sister...Jamie might want one too,” Junkrat grinned.  

“Go for it,” you said sincerely. “Think of them as...party favors.”  You glanced at Roadhog who  just sat there eating his cake.  

“Carrie, you throw the best dinner parties!” Junkrat squeezed an armful of plush, some of them squeaked. “If more people did it like you, dinner parties wouldn’t be so goddamn boring!”

“Thank you,” you said. “I try.”  

“But I don’t know about working for your Triad buddies.  We’re free agents!  We don’t like being tied down!”  Junkrat looked up from the plushes, expression grim.

“I understand,” you said.  “If you’re fighting Talon though, I’d like to collaborate some time. Or  at least not get blown up or shredded by the two of you in combat.  I’d extend the same courtesy, of course.”  

“Carrie, you’re a nice lady who owes us some more cake.  I would never-” Junkrat pressed his hands to his chest.  “Never ever ever.”  

“That’s a relief,” you said.  You hadn’t expected them to onboard today.  This was just first contact.  You could cultivate the ties over time.  

“Truce,” Roadhog said.  The cake was gone, but there was no trace of it on his fingers, lap, or mask.  

“Truce,” you said with a smile.  

**

Junkrat had stuffed his bag full of toys, though you didn’t miss the piggy tucked on Roadhog’s hip, almost completely hidden by the chain.  Junkrat was snoring now, draped across Roadhog’s back.  He

“If you’re interested,” you said, offering him your card.  “We can talk about it over cake.”  

Roadhog grunted, accepting it.  Those massive hands delicately placing it in a pocket.  He paused, looking down at the bracelet your left wrist. He snorted.  

“Hardlight projector?”

“Yes,” you said.

He nodded.  “Military grade?”

“Of course.”  Because you could be friendly and well-armed. Always hope for peace, but prepare for killing the shit out of your enemies.

Roadhog stared at it for another few seconds, clearly contemplating the other way this encounter could have gone.  “Thank you for the meal,” he said, ducking to go through the door.  

“I had fun,” you told him.  “We should do it again some time.”

**

You sat on the roof, admiring the brilliance of the skyline.  A shuttle would pick you up soon.  A local cleaning service would take care of the facilities.  The Junkers had come and gone with minimal damage. Cian Barrett was dead. Zee had access to his files.  Not a bad day’s work.  

Zee’s drone hovered by your shoulder.  “You still have a way with delinquents,” she said.  

“Takes one to know one.” You fiddled with the bracelet.  It wasn’t your best weapon, but you could use it well in close quarters.  “You can take the girl out of the bar-”

“That is such a crass statement with racist overtones,” Zee said, her tone frosty.  

“Sorry, you’re right.  I don’t need to be repeating that shit,” you said.  You tilted your head back.  You’d spent a couple months in Phuket before you had found Sakai.  You’d picked up some of the lingo, the ways to blend in.  You’d need to shed those habits sooner rather than later.  “How are things back home?” You asked.

“Settling.”

“That could mean any number of things.”  

“You know Feng was never mad about what you did.  She was worried about you.  She still is.”

“I know.”  You toyed with the a large bulldog plush that had somehow been left behind by the Junkers.  If Oksana didn’t want it, maybe Karalika would. “But Oksana...”

“She needed time to come to terms with what she saw you do.  She’ll get past it.  She adores you too much. This was an eye-opening experience about our line of work. Her father has always sheltered her.”

“Her father-” You scowled.

“Will get over himself when she calms down.  He exaggerates all faults. Honestly, all of you are so overwrought and emotional.  Presenting the On Sing Serial Drama: tune in next week for more shocking events and emotional fallout in a real time comedy of errors,” she said in biting tones. “Foolish children. These things take time.  You have to account for that, Lucky. Stop being so impatient.”  

You smiled wryly.  “Thanks, Auntie.  You really do know best.”

“I know, and while you are acknowledging my wisdom and experience, let’s talk about what’s going on with you.  You really need to talk to another professional about what’s going on in your life,” she told you primly.  “Don’t give me the “oh, who’s going to understand the psychological effects of brainwashing, and faked deaths, international conspiracies” speech.  That’s cult of exceptionalism foolishness. Conspiracies aren’t what’s sending you to therapy, it’s your manner of handling the stress. Psychologists understand complications, betrayals, PTSD.  That is what you are asking for help with, untangling your feelings and yourself.  This isn’t about politics or tech.  Your situation may be unique, but your reactions?  Textbook.”

You winced.  “You broke me down faster than I did Sakai.”

“Yes, well unlike you, I’m not playing around, or trying to draw out the suffering,” she said.  “And unlike the others, I don’t care what you did to her.  She earned it.  But I do care what it implies about your mental state, and how it affects the rest of the family.”

“I went too far,” you agreed after a moment.  “I’m not sorry.  Not yet.  But I know I went too far.”   Maybe not far enough to join Talon as a double agent, commit atrocities to win their trust, and then finally exact your brutal revenge.  And that was the best case scenario in a certain Reaper’s case.  

“Make sure you tell that to everyone else.  Ask for their help in keeping you honest.  It will go a long way in earning you some grace.”  

“Yes, Auntie,” you said with a heavy sigh.  You stared out over the city. The night was warm.  “I still have one question.  How did they locate me so quickly?”  You gave the drone a sharp side eye.  

“You need allies.  They have survival skills,” she said, telling you everything you needed to know.

“With friends like you, I definitely need more allies to watch my back,” you scowled, though you couldn’t muster any real ferocity.  

“I had full faith in you,” she said solemnly.  “And total control of the discretely placed turrets.”  

You just shook your head.  “Auntie-”

“You cannot slaughter your way through this, Lucky.  Not if you want to protect the others.  Do you think Oksana is ready for this war? Are you willing to risk it?”  She didn’t give you a chance to respond.  She already knew your answer. “No, you need to be smart and use diplomatic methods too.”

“You’re not wrong, but I think I just used up all my diplomacy,” you said dryly.  

“You should probably work get it back soon,” she said.  “Jesse McCree has just arrived in Shanghai.  He has...information. And he’s insisting that he tells it to you in person.”

****

Yes, you should know all the ally characters referenced, except Karalika.  I’m fine spoiling in the comments if you want to guess. 

My week was stressful.  10-11 hour shifts, a sick cat, cat had teeth extracted Friday and is high out of his mind (or had a stroke? I don’t know.)  I’ve had force feed him a feed a few times this weekend.  He keeps falling off things and walking into walls. He’s not using the litter box.  I am super tired. 

[sharpnothashtag]

The Good Ship CrushWay, Chapter 34

Note: This is going to be a bit more plot heavy.  I had some explaining I needed to do.

Sick Bay.  EMH and Seven are behind the forcefield with Locutus, and Bev and Picard are on the viewscreen.

Picard: That’s our side of the story, Locutus.  Why don’t you tell us yours?

Locutus flinches after hearing his name (as he has every time and I have totally not forgotten to write that in even though I was building to this all along). It’s clear it’s torturing him. He has teared up hearing this story.  He clears his throat and reaches down to straighten his uniform, but he’s still in a gown from surgery.  He takes a deep breath.

Locutus: Kathryn Janeway was declared lost along with her entire crew a few years ago.  I thought it was such a shame--she showed such promise.  When my crew came across Jouret IV, there was no colony.  There was almost nothing left.  Will Riker was offered a command, and someone who wanted his job was on the ship, annoying him to no end.  The Borg hailed us while we were investigating the remains of the colony.  They (struggling) demanded I surrender myself.  Of course, I refused, but they came and kidnapped me anyway.  They assimilated me.  I---I (the EMH places his hand on Picard’s shoulder for support.  Locutus looks down and shuts his eyes as tears well up.) I destroyed sector 001.  They weren’t able to stop us.  Millions of people, dead.  Starfleet Academy, ruined.  Utopia Planitia, vaporized.  My feelings became too overwhelming for the emotional suppressant I was given.  I began to rip the visible implants off my body--wires, metal plates, lasers, plasma weapons.  I stole a vessel we’d conquered, and I flew it away at warp 9 as I sobbed.  My entire crew was gone.  Beverly, Riker, Worf?  Never to be heard from again.  I was so distraught that by the time I reached the border to the Delta Quadrant, I had passed out from exhaustion.  I didn’t come to when the computer warned me I was going to crash-land on a planet full of people.   If I’m aligning the timelines correctly, my shuttle killed the species that helped Tuvok and all of the remaining crew members as well.  I’m honestly not sure how Tuvok survived.  I realized what I had done, and I decided to kill myself.  Nothing could help the people I had destroyed.  I was severely lacking in tools to help me in this deed, so I thought starving myself would be the best way.  The Borg from my universe put a vital-sign-homing-beacon in my cortical node.  If my vitals were below a certain threshold, the homing device would activate and the Borg would be made aware of my location.  After nearly a week of starving, I had finally started to drift away into death’s sweet release.  I was so relieved.  The next thing I knew, I was a Borg again.  The Queen must have realized I was from a different universe, but never bothered to share that information with me.  She said the Borg had changed.  She asked me who I missed the most.  The first one that came to mind was Riker.  She smiled briefly, nodded, and then left me to my duties.  That must have been when they hunted him down.  She knew his was the death that would hurt me the most.  While everyone else got the chance to say goodbye to their families or destroy what hurt them the most, I had to rewatch so many people I loved die over and over again in my head while I walked from one end of the cube to another, repairing and replacing parts.  I heard when she talked with the Enterprise, but I was not allowed into the conversation--the Queen blocked me out. When she realized she needed me gone, she built a shuttle and shot me off the ship.  I crash-landed on the same planet again, and not long after, Tuvok came and found me.  I must have twitched because he put me in the Vulcan death grip and you all beamed me up here.

I asked you not to call me Locutus. Every time I hear that name, I think of... all that. I’m asking you to please let me think about something other than murdering millions of innocents.  Please.  Please call me something else.

Locutus is rocking back and forth, sobbing, hyper-ventilating, knees to chest, mumbling over and over, “Please.”  Everyone is clearly in shock.  After a few beats of silence, the EMH puts a weighted blanket over him and shoots him with a hypospray.  Locutus’ body relaxes enough to put him on his side, but his breathing doesn’t slow and he continues to rock back and forth.

EMH: Breathe with me, friend. (Coaches him through breathing exercises. Locutus’ breathing slows, and he is able to stop rocking back and forth.)

Bev: Hey, Jean-Luc. It’s me—Beverly. Do you want to know about a really good thing from this timeline? (Locutus nods.) You’re in it. I know that seems like an empty statement, but I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am that you’re here in a place and time when we can help rid you of the Borg trauma, both mental and physical.  You survived. And I’m so glad you did. I’m going to bring up DeAnna on your screen. I think it’s best if you let her help you out for now. (Locutus nods.) Picard: Jean-Luc? (Locutus raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement.) Je suis a toi.

The Bridge.  Tom and KJ take over for Tasha and Ro.  On a turbolift:

Tasha: So, do you have any plans? Ro: Right now? (Tasha nods.) I was thinking I’d go back to my quarters and eat something. Tasha: Are you up for some company? Ro: Um, sure?  What are you in the mood for? Tasha: (uncharacteristic shyness) Well...I was kind of hoping we could talk more. Ro: Computer, halt turbolift. (Computer response noise) Tasha, is there something going on with you? Tasha: W-why? Ro: Tasha Yar, I have known you for years.  I can read you pretty easily.  Tell me what’s wrong. Tasha: ...well, it’s just that...we broke things off when you left because I thought you didn’t love me anymore.  I thought you hated Starfleet, and by extension, me.  We were happy and then you were gone.  Now that I understand why you left and I know that you don’t hate me I...I just thought that-- Ro: That we could pick up where we left off? Tasha: Well, yeah. Ro: I don’t think I can. Tasha: What? Ro: I’m not saying I don’t love you, Tasha.  I’m saying that I don’t know if I can do that. Tasha: Laren, you’re the love of m-- Ro: Please.  Please don’t.  There’s more to it than that. Computer, resume. (Computer chirps, opens doors almost immediately.) Have a good evening, Commander. (Ro exits.)

[ladyrevanhalin]

TWISTED MORALITY (PART III of ONLY LIGHT CAN CAST SHADOW) CHAPTER THREE: SEEKING SHELTER FROM THE STORM (PREVIEW SECTION 8 OF 16)

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a preview section from an incomplete Chapter. You can read everything up to this point on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16538378/chapters/52449547 )

><><><><><

CARTH ONASI

The Taris Upper City Cantina was a rather large and bustling place, yet with a certain amount of sophistication to it when compared to your average, every-day cantina. There were members clearly of the Tarisian noble class hanging about, and a private lounge just for patrons of this status. There was a high stakes pazaak table near the entrance that Carth and Gwen passed on their way to the central bar. The two took a seat and ordered.

It had been a bit unnerving coming there. After all, they’d passed several Sith Troopers patrolling the streets, and one had even been standing guard posted at the front entrance of the cantina. It would be impossible for them to avoid the Sith entirely on this planet. They would just have to try to do what they could to keep their low profile until they could find Bastila and secure passage off of this Sith-controlled planet.

Carth took a sip of the Tarisian ale he’d ordered when the bartender brought it to him. A wave of expressions streamed over his face upon the initial entry on the palate, and he finished his first sip gritting his teeth. It was far stronger than he’d expected. He’d not had time to try the stuff last time he was on Taris. After all, it was during the previous war, and the Republic forces had only just recaptured the planet from Mandalorian control. As he was fleet, he wasn’t ever groundside for very long. Most of that work had been led by the Jedi.

He shook his head and took another sip at that thought. It was ironic, really. Once upon a time, the Jedi Revan’s forces had taken back Taris from the Mandalorians and saved the planet. And now, the very Jedi who had aided them before had conquered the planet once more. Only this time, it was in the name of the Sith. And they hadn’t really ‘conquered,’ no…. The Tarisian upper class had never forgotten Revan’s aid in the Mandalorian Wars, and when Revan and Malak had returned to conquer the Republic, the nobles of Taris had submitted willingly. Now, it was quite clear from what he’d seen so far that the majority of Taris’ citizens didn’t agree with the decision, but the class system of Taris had created a society in which the few voices of the rich outweigh the voices of the masses.

He glanced over at Gwen, who was seated on the stool beside him at the bar with her head propped on her up by her hand with an elbow on the counter, while the fingers of her opposite hand tapped impatiently in sequence as she waited on her food. There was a glass of some sort of nectar in front of her. Carth had discouraged his companion from stronger beverages, given the fact that she was still recovering, and had eventually succeeded in having her agree despite her initial reluctance.

He was enjoying his ale and trying to block out the tapping when he suddenly heard Gwen’s voice. “So is now a better time to get to know a little more about you, Carth?”

He set his drink down and turned more directly toward her this time. Her finger tapping had stopped and her brows raised as she looked him dead in the eye with some degree of expectancy which told Carth she wasn’t going to let him ignore her request. He sighed a little before responding to her. 

“Well, I've been a star-pilot for the Republic for years. I've seen more than my share of wars… I fought in the Mandalorian Wars before all this started. But with all that, I've never experienced anything like the slaughter these Sith animals can unleash. Not even the Mandalorians were that senseless.” Carth swallowed. He’d seen far too many images that haunted his mind still from his experiences in the war. Avoiding discussion let him push them back but that wasn’t really an option in the current situation. He couldn’t fault Gwen for wanting to know a little about him. After all, it was just the two of them stuck there until they could locate Bastila. This meant, however, that he’d need to tread his own memories with a degree of caution. He continued. “My home world was one of the first planets to fall to Malak's fleet. The Sith bombed it into submission, and there wasn't a damned thing our Republic forces could do to stop them!”

“Calm down. I was just asking. Geesh…”

He blinked a moment, then realized his hand was clenched into a fist so tightly that his knuckles had begun to go white. He relaxed his hand, flexing his fingers a little in retraction. “You're the one who wanted to know more about me,” he said, attempting to keep a cool air about him. “Well this is it, this is what I am. I'm just a soldier; I go where the fleet Admirals tell me to. I follow my orders and I do my duty.”

“Yeah, well you're talking like it's your fault about the war and your planet. Like you failed somehow….”

“It shouldn't be my fault. I did everything I could… I followed my orders and did my duty. That shouldn't mean I failed them! I didn't!” His voice was betraying him. It had grown more seeped with emotions. He could still see the glow of embers that charred the surface of Telos after the Sith attack. The dead and dying were all around, friends and loved ones among them. Innocents dying there in the streets. He could still hear their voices, their screams, their cries for help…

‘Someone get a medic over here now! Please! She’s still alive! A medic! It’s not too late to save her. It’s not too late…’

“Hey, why are you getting so mad at me? It's not like this was my fault!”

Gwen’s voice brought him back away from Telos’ surface and to that posh little Tarisian cantina where they were seated. Her good seemed to have arrived while he had been talking, but she’d not started eating yet. Instead, she was looking at him with what appeared to be concern.

“I know that,” I know that he said, hoping to dissuade any impressions he might have given of blaming her for what was, but shouldn’t have been, his own failure. “I'm not angry at you… don't think that. I…. I just…” He let out a frustrated sigh. “ I'm sorry. I'm not making much sense, am I?” He shook his head. “ Look, you probably mean well with your questions. I'm just not accustomed to talking about my past very much. At all, actually. I'm more used to taking action… keeping my mind focused on the business at hand. So let's just do that. If you have more questions, ask them later.”

“Right,” Gwen said, turning her attention instead to her meal. Carth picked up his mug again and took another sip of ale, desperately trying to push aside the memories that threatened to spring forth through his own emotional blocks. Now wasn’t the time to think of Telos. He had to focus on their mission to find Bastila so that the Sith could be stopped and an end could be brought to this war. Failure wasn’t an option this time. He had to go through with this, if it was the last thing he did….

“I'm sorry, Carth…”

He paused, but he did not look at his companion as she spoke. He was in no mood for such.

“....It must have been a very painful experience for you,” Gwen finished saying.

“Yeah, well, I’ve just made it a point to not let that sort of thing happen again,” Carth said. He debated, for a brief moment, chugging the rest of his ale, but decided against such. After all, if he finished too soon, he’d have nothing to do while his companion ate, and might get lassoed back into another conversation. Additionally, with how strong Tarisian ale was, he wasn’t certain it would be the smartest move for him to be able to remain at optimum functionality during their first outing on Taris. They needed information on those crashed escape pods still, and the cantina, even with the number of patrons it had seemed blissfully free of Sith presence inside of its doors. Here, it would likely be relatively safe for them to conduct their questioning of the locals on the matter.

Carth paced himself with the ale until he saw Gwen was close to finishing her meal, and then signaled the waiter to bring them their checks. Once they had paid, Carth rose from the barstool where he had been seated and stretched a little. “Well, I guess it’s back to business,” he said. “Feeling better now?” he asked.

Gwen nodded, rising also. “Much,” she replied. “Sorry if I came off a bit… ungrateful.”

Carth had to hold back a snort, but apparently his thoughts had still manifested themselves at least partially in his facial expressions, because his companion shot him a leer all the same. He coughed in an attempt to excuse himself, which only caused her to roll her eyes. “N-no,” Carth insisted with a chuckle, putting his hands up to indicate he meant no offense. “Not ungrateful… I suppose I’d be a bit grumpy first waking up out of a three-day near coma too…”

He looked at her, plastering on an uneasy smile, but her expression remained hard and relatively unchanging. She held his eyes, staring at him for a moment before her lips twisted into a suppressed smile and she snorted back a laugh of her own. While it did male Carth feel much more at ease, he couldn’t help but to wonder what was going on in that head of hers. He still wasn’t fully convinced of the physician Zelka’s assessment of her.

He contemplated commenting on her odd behavior before a commotion caught both of their attentions as a large number of patrons began flocking toward the viewscreens lining the walls of the cantina.

“Hurry!” they heard someone say. “The match is about to start.”

“What’s the point?” came another patron’s voice. “It’s only Gerlon and Duncan again. 

Curiosity about the commotion for the upcoming ‘match’ drew both Carth and Gwen to join the other patrons watching the viewscreen in the cantina.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” came an announcer’s voice. “I draw your attention to the dueling ring. Here, two combatants will battle for your viewing and gambling enjoyment. Now, I hope all your bets are down, because we're ready to roll! In this corner, I give you... Gerlon Two-Fingers! And over here, looking to climb the ranks yet again is the ever persistent Deadeye Duncan!”

On the view screen, there were two men standing on opposite ends of a large circular arena. When the camera zoomed in on the combatants, the younger of the two appeared to be missing fingers on his right hand (Carth could only assume that this was ‘Gerlon Two-Fingers’) and the other a bit older, as his hair was greying. Reason would venture to assume that the older man was the one whom the announcer had referred to as ‘Deadeye Duncan.’ Both men were armed with blasters, hands at rest, waiting for the signal for the dual to begin.

A sound flared, signaling for the duel to begin. However, it came so suddenly that it seemed to startle ‘Deadeye’ enough that he dropped his blaster. As he reached down to pick it up, ‘Two-Fingers’ was already firing and hit him, causing Deadeye to fall. And just like that, as suddenly as the match had started, it was all over.

The announcer’s voice sounded again. “And, to nobody's great surprise, Deadeye is down again. Don't worry, folks – he's just unconscious. As usual. Our medics will have him up and about in a bit. Well, that was quick, wasn't it? So I give you the winner... Gerlon Two-Fingers!”

People had already begun clearing from the viewscreen area before the announcer had even begun his concluding statements. It seemed from the crowd’s reactions that the outcome was already expected to turn out the way it had.

Carth reached to touch Gwen’s arm to indicate they should start their rounds of questioning, but stopped short. He recalled her reaction to when he’d done similar during their visit to the clinic, and thought perhaps he’d better not. Instead, he called her name. “Gwen? Gwen, we should get going. We have a lot to do still.”

Gwen, who had seemed to be wrapped up in watching the medics as they removed Deadeye Duncan from the arena, turned to look at him. “Hmm? Oh…. I guess you’re right. Where do you think we should start? Won’t it sound suspicious if we just go around asking anyone about the escape pods?”

She did make an excellent point. Sith presence or not, they would need to be cautious. After all, it would be foolish to assume that all Tarisian’s loyalies lied with the Republic. He’s learned that the hard way….

“We keep it casual,” Carth said decisively. “If anyone asks, we’re spacers who got stuck by the planetary quarantine after we stopped for supplies.”

Gwen nodded in affirmation and stepped away from the viewscreen, headed toward the music lounge. There were several people sitting and standing, listening to the Bith band play and watching the Twi’lek dancers. They were some of the few positions in the upper city where alien species were readily accepted. In this particular case, it was because of their species’ reputations in the performing arts. While they were acceptable as entertainers to the upper city citizens, it was understood by all parties that the respect for them ended there, sad as it was.

"Well, hello there!” the pair heard upon stepping through the entry to the music room. “I see from your exotic appearance that you are not from Taris originally. All me to introduce myself – my name is Jergan.” The man--Jergan--was seemingly directing his introduction toward Gwen. 

The woman flashed a smile, moving forward, which admittedly confused Carth. He’d not known her for very long, but it seemed a bit out of character compared to what he had come to know of her. “Pleased to meet you. My name's Gwen.” Was she flirting with him? It hardly seemed like the time… though they did need information. Perhaps this was just the woman’s way of being ‘subtle’ with her questioning.

“What do you think of our local music?” Jergen asked. “The band is quite good, wouldn't you agree? They're on the verge of intergalactic stardom, you know.”

“It's different, but I like it,” Gwen said.

“Obviously you have an ear for music,” he continued in an approving tone. “Mark my words, they'll be famous soon enough. They were about to go on tour before this Sith quarantine stranded them here. Would you like to meet the band after the show? Maybe have a brief brush with fame before they become intergalactic superstars? I can arrange it, you know.”

Gwen raised her eyebrows as her expression shifted to one of mild surprise. “Oh really? And just how will you arrange that?”

“I have a sort of standing arrangement with one of the Rodian bodyguards backstage. For the small sum of twenty credits he'll let me set up a meeting with you and the band.”

Gwen snorted, trying to hold back a laugh. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Are you certain? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity – meet the legends before they were famous. All it will cost you is a small handful of credits.”

The woman folded her arms. “Sounds like you're running a scam to me.”

“You sting me with your words!” Jergen said, feigning hurt. “I merely thought I could offer you the rare opportunity to meet a celebrity before they were famous. But I see you're not interested. That's too bad. They really are charming fellows. Very well, then – I hope you enjoy the music. If you change your mind come speak with me again.”

Gwen rolled her eyes and began to walk away, at which point, Carth thought it might be better to try to continue the conversation himself. After all, they’d not really gotten any useful information from him as of yet, and this man might still know something useful to them.

“Excuse me,” Carth said attempting to address Jergen himself, but he didn’t get very far before the other man waved in a dismissive gesture.

“Look, no hard feelings, my good man, but I can't really talk with you right now,” Jergen said, lowering his voice, presumably so no one else in the music room would overhear. “It's difficult enough to draw the interest of the ladies in this establishment as it is. Surely you understand what I'm talking about. I'd guess you've experienced many lonely evenings... something I'm hoping to avoid tonight.” He gestured a bit with his head toward Gwen. “Good luck.”

Before Carth had the chance to protest the insinuation, Jergen had started moving. It seemed he had spotted his next prospect across the room. The pilot shook his head at the comments and went to go find Gwen again, who was already mid-conversation with another male patron.

“Someone sure makes fast friends,” he muttered under his breath as he moved to stand behind her.

“It's good to talk about this stuff – It gets pretty lonely up at the military base,” Carth overheard the man she was talking to say. “I have to get going soon – I've got a shift at the base... but some of us junior Sith officers are having a party tonight to blow off some steam. I'd really like to see you again. Why don't you drop by the party? It’s at the apartment complex next door to the base, apartment A-06.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Gwen said coyly. “Not sure I have anything suited to wear back on the ship. I wasn’t exactly planning on going to any parties during our supplies stop…”

“You know, just because I'm with the Sith doesn't mean I don't know how to have a good time. You'll enjoy yourself. I promise. Don't be late. We're starting right after our shifts end. And don’t worry. Most of us won't even be going back to the base to lock up our uniforms, so I’m sure you’ll look fine. I look forward to seeing you there.”

Carth cleared his throat once the man had left. “An off-duty Sith, Gwen? Really?”

“What? He seemed nice enough…” she replied dismissively.

“You can’t be serious. We’re trying to keep a low profile here. You start asking the Sith about the crashed escape pods and somebody is gonna start getting suspicious.”

“Well, I didn’t ask him about the escape pods once I knew he was Sith. I’m stupid, Carth…”

“Well then what’s this with a party now? We’re not on vacation…”

“I may have just found us a way into the Under City… or did you forget that the planet is under quarantine and the only people allowed to travel to the lower levels are the Sith? Just trust me on this.”

Carth scoffed at the notion.Trust coercing with an enemy junior officer on an enemy-controlled planet? ‘Brilliant,’ he thought sarcastically. “Well forgive me if I’m sceptical at believing that you partying with the enemy is going to help our situation any.”

“Then you’re welcome to stay back at the apartment,” she said flatly as she rolled her eyes. “Me? I’ve got plans for tonight…”

><><><><><

[per-ineptia-ad-astra]

Star Trek Episode 1.17: The Squire of Gothos

AKA Come Away O Human Landing Party

Our episode begins with a nice relaxed scene on the bridge, everyone hanging out, drinking coffee, and charting a course through a great big patch of nuthin’. They’re headed to Colony Beta Six to deliver some supplies. What kind of supplies are not specified. Hopefully not more plague medicine.

McCoy, leaning on Kirk’s chair as is his wont, picks up Kirk’s comment about how this place is a ‘star desert’ and starts talking about deserts and the imagery the word evokes, mirages and sand dunes and all that, with a surprising amount of fondness for a man who grew up in Georgia. Spock helpfully points out that the definition of ‘desert’ is “a waterless, barren wasteland” so he doesn’t really get why McCoy would be waxing poetic about such a place, which is a surprising lack of fondness for a man who grew up on a desert planet. McCoy just rolls his eyes and says that he couldn’t imagine any mirage “disrupting [Spock’s] mathematically perfect brainwaves” anyway, which Spock takes as a compliment.

All the conversation about deserts comes to a halt when Spock suddenly picks up a large “space displacement” up ahead. The navigator says they must be in some kind of light warp (???) or they would have noticed it earlier. Their sensors seem to be registering a planet, and sure enough there’s one on the viewscreen up ahead, clear as anything. Which is super weird, because this whole section of space has been explored and documented and they’re pretty sure there wasn’t a planet here last time. Strange as it is, though, Kirk says they’ve got no time to explore, they’ll just have to make a note of it so someone else can come check it out. Well, I’m glad to see you learned one lesson from last week, at any rate.

Uhura tries to notify someone over subspace radio about the strange case of the mysteriously appearing planet, but she’s getting interference, and thinks the mystery planet might be a natural radio source. What a nuisance. So Kirk tells Sulu to get out of range of that thing, and Sulu starts to—but then, suddenly, he disappears. And I mean really disappears. There one moment, gone the next, accompanied for some reason by an extremely over the top “BOING” sound.

Kirk rushes over to see what happened to his navigator, only for him to freeze in place and then vanish as well, also with a boing. Spock is so busy looking into his scanner he completely fails to notice any of this, even with the boinging, until the remaining helmsman yells out. Man, if I were that helmsman, I’d be getting out there, just in case whatever that was has an area of effect.

Spock whips round to find that the captain and one of the helmsmen have noped off into thin air, which calls for a bellow of “EMERGENCY! FULL REVERSE POWER!” I don’t really know how that’s going to help, but okay.

After the titles, we get a ‘ship’s log’ given by Spock to fill in for Kirk (how this differs from a captain’s log, I don’t know): they’ve misplaced their captain and helmsman and they’ve been circling around this weird mystery planet for four hours now, scanning it with everything they’ve got, but they haven’t picked up so much as a sneeze. Scotty says they’ve checked all over the ship and haven’t found the missing men anywhere, not stashed under a bed or in a closet or anything, which means that if they’re anywhere around here they’ve got to be on that planet. Of course, that’s assuming that they’re anywhere nearby on a cosmic scale, or that they’re currently on this plane of reality, or that they didn’t get zapped outside and are now floating slowly away through the vast emptiness of space, but none of those are really productive options so yeah, let’s look on the planet.

The other helmsman, DeSalle, immediately wants to beam down there with a search party, a suggestion that McCoy jumps on as well, but Spock reminds everyone that he’ll be making the decisions around here, thank you very much, we went over this enough last episode. He’s got a pretty good reason for being hesitant about that search party, as we learn when he asks the blueshirt who’s come in to sit at Sulu’s spot (for...some reason) what his readings about the planet show. The blueshirt, Jaeger, says that the planet has no detectable soil or vegetation, extremely high temperatures, a toxic atmosphere swept by tornadic storms, continuous volcanic eruptions, and is deadly to any life form as they know it without oxygen and life support systems. So that’s fun. Asked how long two humans without any of that protective gear could survive down there, all Jaeger can say is “not very long.”

This cheerful conversation is interrupted by a startled cry from Uhura. A message has suddenly appeared on one of the smaller viewscreens: “Greetings and Felicitations.”

[ID: Uhura sitting at her console with Spock standing behind her chair, both looking up at a viewscreen that reads ‘Greetings and Felicitations’ in ornate gothic text.]

That font does not bode well.

Spock tells Uhura to send a message back asking whoever this is to identify themselves. A moment later the viewscreen displays new text, as Spock reads out in a hilariously serious-yet-puzzled voice: “Hip-hip-hoorah, tallyho!”

Well, this is turning out to be a pretty weird day, alright. Spock tells the bridge he’s open to any theories at all, because really, what could anyone suggest that would be stranger than what’s already happened? McCoy points out that if someone’s sending them messages, there must be some kind of life on that planet. For once, Spock agrees with him, and orders the transporter room to be prepared. Scotty all but jumps into frame to volunteer for the landing party, but Spock tells him no, neither of them can be spared from the ship. Wait, you’re saying the person in charge of the ship isn’t going to be the first to beam down into dangerous, unknown territory? Spock, I don’t know if you’re really cut out for this command business.

Spock orders DeSalle, the helmsman, to lead the party, along with Jaeger, for his geophysical knowledge, and McCoy, because let’s be honest he’s gonna go anyway so you might as well let him and make things easier for everyone. They’re to go equipped with full armaments, communications and life support gear. “If those peculiar signals are coming from Captain Kirk or Mr. Sulu,” Spock says, “their rationality is in question.” Generally I’d agree, although really, with Kirk, anything’s possible.

The landing party soon meets up in the transporter room, equipped with full life-support equipment, which is...breath masks. Just breath masks, nothing else. Not even goggles or, hell, even a hat and scarf. Budget cuts hit hard, huh.

Spock comes in to see them off, and Uhura reports from the bridge that no more messages have come in, but she’s managed to pinpoint their source, so the landing party is going to be beamed there. Spock tells them to contact the ship as soon as they arrive, like your parents reminding you to call them when you get there, and to use the laser beacon if necessary. So...laser beacon. That’s a thing. I guess.

So the landing party heads down, but when they materialize, it’s not in a toxic, infernal hellscape...it’s in a nice grove with some trees and bushes.

[ID: McCoy, Jaeger (a slightly older white man with light brown hair) and DeSalle (a white man with dark brown hair) standing in a sandy clearing surrounded by trees and bushes, with a green sky in the background. All three men are wearing breath masks attached to devices on their belts, and looking around in confusion.]

“wtf, I know I’m a better geophysicist than this”

A quick reading reveals that the air is also quite breathable, so they take off their breath masks. As one might expect, they’re all pretty baffled. McCoy asks Jaeger (mispronouncing his name in the process) what the heck, what’s up with all those storms you were talking about? Jaeger can only shrug, with the half-confused, half-annoyed look of any expert who’s predicted something bad only to have it inexplicably averted.

DeSalle tries to calls the ship but his communicator isn’t working at all, and neither are the other two. As instructed he tries to use the laser beacon, but it seems something’s blocking it, so he says they’ll need to find more open ground.

The three of them separate a little bit to go looking around, but DeSalle quickly spots something and calls the other two over. It’s...a castle? Or possibly just a large and castle-like house, I’m not really sure.

[ID: Broad stone steps leading up to a stone building, with a large banded wooden door, torches on either side, and assorted gargoyle-like decorations.]

Well that definitely has no business being here. But once you see an inexplicable castle-house, there’s pretty much only one thing to do: go inside. The front door is unlocked, so the three of them slowly creep in.

Through the door is a small balcony overlooking a large, fancy room filled with as many historical-looking things as they could raid from the Desliu prop stores.

[ID: The interior of a lavishly decorated but old-fashioned room, with some assorted couches and chairs, suits of armor, a large globe, a bust of a man in a tricorn hat, a row of flags, and various other decorations.]

Also there’s this weird thing on the wall.

[ID: The mounted head of what appears to be some strange gray-skinned creature with big green googly eyes.]

seriously, what IS that

McCoy is like “where in the entire fuck are we” but no answer immediately presents itself. They start to head down the balcony stairs, but get distracted by the sight of something in an alcove to one side. It’s...Salty?? Yes, the ol’ salt monster themselves, apparently dead and now on display.  McCoy looks about as happy to see them as you might expect.

[ID: McCoy, DeSalle and Jaeger pausing on the stairs, phasers at the ready, looking at the still form of the furry gray-skinned salt monster tucked into an alcove.]

“oh man, I had a really bad day the last time I saw this dude”

Inexplicable as it is for Salty to be here, they don’t show any sign of being a threat anymore, so after a moment the three of them carry on. Not for very long, though, because they soon see something even more interesting—Kirk and Sulu! Dang, things always turn up in the most unexpected places after you lose them, huh. Only one small problem: they’re...frozen. Well, kind of frozen. You can definitely see George Takei moving a bit there.

[ID: Kirk and Sulu standing on a balcony in stiff, awkward poses, lit from above by a strange greenish light.]

The landing party naturally rushes forward. McCoy does a scan of the petrified goldshirts and says, “There’s no reading. They’re like waxworks figures.” That’s a disturbing thing to find out, but before they can contemplate it very much, the door suddenly slams shut all on its own. Oh great. Now we have to worry about ghosts too. As if this day wasn’t stressful enough already.

Just as suddenly, there’s the sound of music. They all turn to see a man playing the harpsichord on the other end of the room, a man who definitely wasn’t there before. He’s, uh...interesting.

[ID: A white man with brown hair and thick sideburns, wearing tall boots, green trousers, a fancy blue coat with gold leaf embroidery, and a white cravat, sitting at a harpsichord and looking over his shoulder at the camera.]

“I must say they make a perfectly exquisite display pair,” the man says, in pretty much exactly the kind of voice you’d expect from a guy who looks like that, “but I suppose you want them back now.”

He waves his hand and the strange green light shining over Kirk and Sulu goes out, and the two of them seem to wake up. Sulu starts moving at once, but Kirk just kind of stays in position for a moment with only his eyes moving around in confusion before he straightens up.

“Welcome to an island of peace on my stormy little planet of Gothos,” the guy at the harpsichord says, but everyone ignores him for the moment. Kirk and Sulu climb over the railing to join the landing party, and Kirk tells them to fill him in on just what the frell is going on around here. McCoy tells him that the two of them disappeared and they’ve been looking for them for four hours—which, as far as ways the sentence, “You disappeared and we’ve been looking for you for--” could end, is pretty good, all things considered; better than, say, “You disappeared and we’ve been looking for you for ten years.”

“You must excuse my whimsical way of fetching you here,” Ruffles over there continues, “but when I saw you passing by I simply could not resist.”

Kirk, still looking real dubious and a bit like he has a headache, goes over to introduce himself, which really sends Ruffles into full-on “OH HO HO HOW WONDERFUL SMASHING BRAVO” mode. When Kirk asks him who he is, he says that he’s “General Trelane, retired, at your service,” and tells them to make themselves at home and all that before going back to the harpsichord.

The landing party does a huddle, and DeSalle tells Kirk about how they’re out of contact with the ship, leaving them pretty much trapped here. Trelane interrupts to say that he’s delighted to have visitors from “the very planet that I’ve made my hobby.” Oh boy. It is never a good sign when someone tells you they’ve made the place where you came from their hobby.

Trelane says he’s surprised, though, because he didn’t think they were capable of such voyages. Jaeger quietly points out to Kirk that this place is about nine hundred lightyears away from Earth, and it all looks about nine hundred years out of date, indicating that maybe Trelane’s been looking in on the ol’ home planet without realizing his information is on a bit of a delay.

That really bums Trelane out because he so wanted to make them all feel at home, but he bounces back pretty quickly. When Kirk addresses him as General, he says, no, call me Squire-- “yes, I rather fancy that.” Okay, Squire, why are we imprisoned here? Trelane insists that they’re not prisoners, they’re guests! And he wants to hear all about “your campaigns, your battles, your missions of conquest.” Kirk says that their missions aren’t for conquest, they’re peaceful—well, y’know, most of the time. Romulans notwithstanding. Now, can we please go back to our ship?

But Trelane won’t hear of it. He insists that they stay and have a “repast” with him while they tell him all about their feelings on war and killing and all that jazz. “Did you know,” he asks them, “that you’re one of the few predator species that preys even on itself?”

Oh lord, not this “humans are the only species that kill their own kind!!” nonsense. Predators prey on each other ALL THE DAMN TIME. You think that, say, a lion, in direct competition with other lions for food, territory, and mates, is going to go “well I could have all of that lion’s stuff if I killed him, but of course I would never sink to such lows”? Animals will kill each other, they’ll kill each other’s children, hell, chimpanzees will wage full on war against other chimpanzees. Humans are just the only ones that feel bad about the whole thing. I suppose Trelane could mean humans are one of the only sapient species that does it, except that doesn’t track either—the vast majority of aliens we see in Star Trek seem to be fine with it. Even Vulcans got a whole lot of killing each other in before they settled down.

Kirk reacts to this statement with more or less the same expression that I did.

[ID: Kirk with a distinctly unimpressed look on his face.]

DeSalle has his hand on his phaser, but Kirk tells him to hold off for the moment, and to put it on stun rather than kill. Trelane overhears DeSalle’s name and gleefully asks him if he’s French. DeSalle admits he has some French ancestry, and Trelane promptly rattles off a whole bunch more French, then tells DeSalle that he “admires your Napoleon very much.” DeSalle looks appropriately perplexed about all this.

Kirk introduces the rest of the crew. Trelane gives Sulu an extremely overwrought bow, prompting Sulu to mutter, “Is he for real?”. Then he turns his attentions on Jaeger and starts shouting in German and goose-stepping in a circle. Oof. Jaeger stiffly tells him that he’s a scientist, not a military man, so cut that shit out, but Trelane just says “we’re all military men under the skin.”

He then turns to admire himself in the giant mirror hanging on the wall. Unfortunately said mirror also shows him DeSalle sneaking up on him with a phaser. DeSalle, I’m going to guess that stealth isn’t your strong suit, so here’s a beginner’s tip: don’t try to sneak up on people while they’re standing in front of large reflective surfaces. Trelane promptly turns around and freezes DeSalle in place with a gesture. He doesn’t seem upset about the attempted sneak attack, though, instead taking the phaser from DeSalle before unfreezing him and then gushing over the phaser like a kid with a brand new Nerf gun. It doesn’t take him long to figure out which setting won’t kill and which one will, and he promptly starts shooting it all over the place, destroying Salty—who just can’t catch a break—and another taxidermied monster, while raving about how this awesome gun could kill millions!

At that point Kirk grabs the phaser away from him and says, so what, are we going to be your next targets, is that it? Trelane says that’s just typical of humans, they don’t understand something so they fear it. Really? Really? You were literally just firing a lethal weapon in their direction while talking about how great it would be to kill a lot of people with it. At that point I think we’re in territory where fear is pretty reasonable.

Trelane goes on to “anticipate [Kirk’s] next question,” which he presumes is going to be about how he’s doing all this stuff. He explains that “we—meaning I and others--” yes, thank you, that’s what ‘we’ usually means—he and others have perfected a system by which matter can be transferred to energy and back again. Kirk asks if it’s like their transporter and Trelane sneers that the transporter is just a crude version of their much better and way cooler technology, because unlike the transporter their tech can not only move energy around but change its shape.

But Trelane’s tired of answering all these questions now; he wants his guests to relax and enjoy themselves. Kirk is immediately like “well, I would really enjoy leaving, so bye” and starts herding everyone out of there. This really pisses off Trelane, and, deciding that Kirk needs “another demonstration of my authority,” he vanishes Kirk with a sweep of his hand. Kirk suddenly finds himself somewhere barren and dark, filled with clouds of vapor that have him choking and coughing in seconds. Then, just as suddenly, he’s back in the room. Trelane tells him that that was a sample of what the atmosphere on this planet is like “outside my kindly influence” so he and the rest of them better behave from now on unless they want another taste of that.

After the break, Spock gives another captain’s log for Kirk—specifically a captain’s log this time, and not a ship’s log. I don’t know what the difference is. Maybe Spock just got more ambitious in the interim. Anyway, they’ve orbited the planet fourteen times now and still haven’t found or heard from the missing crew. They also still don’t have communications, but they have gotten their sensors working again by diverting power to them. Oh, huh, that actually worked this time.

Said sensors have located this one tiny little Earth-like spot down there in the midst of all the kill-you-in-minutes stuff. Scotty is, appropriately, extremely confused by how the heck that spot is there, but Spock is not, at the moment, terribly concerned about that; however the spot got there, it’s evidently there now, so we’re gonna work with that. He tells Scotty to fine-tune the sensors to detect any lifeforms that might be down in the oasis and beam them up. Scotty points out that they have no guarantee that any lifeforms down there will be the crew, but Spock counter-points out that if the crew are on the planet, that’s the only possible place they could still be while also still being alive, so they can either see if this works or continue doing nothing.

Meanwhile, Trelane is showing off all his battle flags and going on about how cool armies are while the landing party stands around looking distinctly annoyed. They might have escaped dying in a toxic hellscape, but listening to this guy talk is almost as bad.

Eventually he goes back to the harpsichord, leaving them free to confer. Sulu wonders to Kirk just who exactly Trelane is, anyway. McCoy says the question is more what he is—he did a scan of Trelane and got nothing. No signs of life, no signs of recently deceased life, no signs that anything was there at all. Jaeger also points out that the fire in the fireplace looks like it’s burning but isn’t giving off any heat. Oh my god, he has electric fireplace capability! We’re really in trouble now, lads!

The combination of the faulty fire and the fact that Trelane’s historical knowledge is almost a millennium out of date leads Kirk to the conclusion that Trelane is not omniscient. He’s clearly capable of making mistakes. And if he can make mistakes he has vulnerabilities, and if he has vulnerabilities we can exploit them, and if we can exploit them maybe we can defeat him. It’s a slim chance, but that particular line of logic has served Kirk pretty well in the past.

Trelane interrupts them to say oooh, are they making their little plans? How wonderful! Kirk tries to say that actually they really aren’t, but Trelane waves him aside, saying that he’s not mad at them—on the contrary, he loves this whole martial deception and strategy thing, it’s one of the many things he just admires so much about their species. Welllll, in that case, Kirk says, you must admire our sense of duty, too, right? Our sense of duty that’s making us really need to return to our ship to actually do our jobs?

Nice try, but it doesn’t work—Trelane’s having far too much fun to let them leave now. Kirk asks how long they’re going to have to stay, then, and Trelane says, “Until this is over.” Asked “until WHAT is over” he just brushes the whole thing aside: too many questions, enjoy the moment, etc, etc. Kirk persists that there are four hundred men and women up there on the Enterprise who need their captain and crewmates back. Unfortunately, Trelane fixates on precisely the wrong part of that sentence  and immediately flips out because WOMEN?? DID YOU SAY WOMEN??

Oh dear. Yeah. Trelane is absolutely amazed to find out that there are members of the, ahem, fairer sex in the crew, and starts going on about how, “Oh, how charming. And they must be very beautiful. And I shall be so very gallant to them.” Great. He’s one of those guys. What a surprise.

He’s all ready to bring down all the female crewmen here and now, but Kirk has now really had enough and tells him that this game is over. Trelane is all set to throw a big temper tantrum, but McCoy’s communicator suddenly beeps, and he says he’s receiving a transporter signal. I didn’t know that was a thing that the communicators did, but apparently it is.

Well, looks like the party’s over, thanks, as Kirk says, to Mr. Spock. Trelane pitches an absolute fit about how he hasn’t dismissed them yet and he won’t stand for this, but the group is beamed up all the same. Spock comes into the transporter room to meet them, and if he’s at all relieved to see Kirk back after having been mysteriously gone for several hours on a planet with little hope of survival, he, of course, doesn’t show it. Kirk doesn’t offer much explanation, either, sending everyone back to their jobs as soon as they step off the platform, then asking Spock how they were able to pick up the landing party on sensors through all the radiation. Spock says, well, they didn’t—they just scooped up everyone in the vicinity. Which means, as McCoy points out, that Trelane really isn’t any kind of life form as they know it, since he didn’t get beamed up as well.

No time to stand around and think about that one, though—Kirk orders them to hit the gas and get away from this obnoxious planet as quickly as possible. Everyone returns to the bridge, where some random redshirt has the conn (why must Scotty be so often denied his command?). As Kirk takes over, McCoy goes to hang out by Uhura’s station, and she asks him what the heck was going on there. McCoy gets about as far as saying, “Well, there was a--” before giving up entirely, and really, who could blame him.

They’re all set to skedaddle when who should suddenly appear on the bridge but Trelane himself, startling everyone. Well, mostly everyone. Kirk just sees him and immediately looks extremely tired.

Trelane looks around the bridge and asks where the weapons are—don’t they display their weapons? Well, you know, there’s not a lot of empty wall space on the bridge, so what are you gonna do. Anyway, he tells Kirk not to worry, he’s only a bit upset with him. The person he’s really upset with is this Spock fellow who took away his playmates. Trelane wants to know just which one of these people is Spock, and Spock obligingly gives himself up. Sadly, this does not prompt a Spartacus-like scene where everyone else on the bridge starts yelling, “No, I’M Spock!”

This revelation is surprising to Trelane, who scoffs that, “Surely he’s not an officer, he’s not quite human.” Wow. Rude. Spock tells him that indeed he has a Vulcan dad, and Trelane asks if Vulcans are a predatory species. “Not generally,” Spock tells him, “but there have been exceptions,” with an expression that indicates that he might be willing to make one of those exceptions right about now.

Trelane expects Kirk to have Spock appropriately punished, and Kirk says that on the contrary, he commends Spock for his actions. I might have gone with, “Oh, yeah, sure, I’ll punish him. We have to go far away to do that, though...so we can...put him in time out...” but that works too. He then tells Trelane to get off his damn bridge already so they can leave, but Trelane won’t hear of it. They’re all going to come back with him because he has “an enchanting sojourn” planned.

Just like that, they’re all back at Trelane’s place—all of the original landing party plus Spock, Uhura, and a yeoman who was on the bridge. There’s now a large dining table in the middle of the room, which Sulu and DeSalle find themselves seated at. Despite nothing else seeming to have changed, Trelane boasts that “the décor of my drawing room is much more appropriate and tasteful, don’t you think?”

“No,” Sulu cheerfully tells him, because Sulu does not have a single fuck to give this episode.

DeSalle promptly jumps up to have a go at Trelane, which only results in him getting frozen again while Trelane coos over the impressive savagery of humans and all that. Kirk tells him to let DeSalle go, which he does, leaving DeSalle to be quickly grabbed and led away by the much more collected Sulu, admonishing him not to try that shit again.

Well, never mind that display of bad manners, Trelane says—let’s eat! He’s quite anxious for them all to sit down and sample the victuals. The men glance at Kirk and he gives them a nod, so they sit down. No, you fools, don’t eat the food! If a mysterious and powerful entity living in a place that shouldn’t exist offers you food, do not eat the food. That’s how you get trapped in the Otherworld forever!

But Trelane isn’t paying much attention to his dinner guests anymore, because he’s suddenly remembered that there are ladies here and insists on being properly introduced to them. Kirk begrudgingly introduces him first to Uhura, whom Trelane starts fervently admiring in terms that...well, let’s just say it starts with “a Nubian prize” and only gets worse from there. Then he starts in on the yeoman, one Teresa Ross, with “is this the face that launched a thousand ships” etc, etc, and tries to go for a kiss, but Kirk wearily grabs him by the arm and pulls him back.

He then formally introduces Trelane to Spock, whom Trelane is rather less enthused about. He thinks that Spock’s tone is “challenging” (it’s really not any different from Spock’s normal tone) and asks if Spock is in fact challenging him. Well, since you asked, Spock says, “I object to you. I object to intellect without discipline. I object to power without constructive purpose.” Kirk listens to this little speech with an expression I can only describe as “smitten.”

[ID: Kirk listening and smiling as Spock, offscreen, says, “I object to power without constructive purpose.”]

Trelane comments that Spock does have “one saving grace after all. You’re ill-mannered. The human half of you, no doubt.” Gee, thanks.

He then goes back to bothering the women, asking—well, ‘asking’--Ross to dance with him while Uhura plays them some music. Uhura protests that she doesn’t know how to play a harpsichord, but Trelane says that of course she does, makes a sound effect happen, and suddenly Uhura starts playing with a surprised look on her face. Personally I would freak right the fuck out if someone just up and inserted an entire skill into my head, but she seems pretty chill with it. The poor yeoman, who most surely did not expect her day to wind up going this way when she woke up that morning, gets swept into a dance with Trelane.

I’m not quite sure how to take Trelane’s attitudes here. His information about humans is very dated, so it makes sense that his outlook towards women and black people (and Japanese people and German people, for that matter) would be likewise dated. It’s not a thing that the episode really calls out, though; at most there’s some exasperated eyerolls and polite befuddlement. Now, I don’t mean to come over all “if a work of fiction doesn’t explicitly and firmly condemn bad behavior that means it supports it!!” but it’s a little trickier when you’re dealing with a work that doesn’t necessarily have a great track record with those things to begin with. When you’ve got a show that’s unironically said some rather discriminatory stuff, it makes it more difficult to tell where the line is between that and a character who’s intentionally been written to be offensive in a way that we’re not supposed to approve of. I mean, some of Trelane’s behavior is quite obviously supposed to be outdated, especially what he says about Uhura; it might be more uncomfortable today but I’m sure it was always intended to be uncomfortable to some degree. But a few of the things he says aren’t real dissimilar from things that get said quite seriously throughout the show, so it’s, y’know, kinda weird.

While Trelane is distracted, McCoy and Sulu get up from the table to come talk to Kirk. Sulu wants to know how long they’re gonna be putting up with all this, and Kirk says they’ll have to put up with it until they can think their way out. In the meantime, they’ll just have to go along with Trelane’s hospitality—such as it is. Speaking of that hospitality, McCoy’s noticed a distinct flaw in it: all of Trelane’s dinner, as nice as it looks, is completely and utterly tasteless.

[ID: McCoy, Spock, Kirk and Sulu gathered in front of the large, ornate fireplace. McCoy, holding a glass of brandy, is saying, “Well, you should taste this food.”]

“And this brandy just tastes like apple juice! What’s up with that.”

Spock comments that actually, this makes sense; the flavorless food and drink indicates that Trelane “knows all of the Earth forms but none of the substance.” In other words, he may have observed what their food looks like, but has no idea at all what it should taste like. Kirk points out that this means Trelane isn’t infallible. I thought we already had that conversation, but okay. He also thinks that Trelane must have some kind of device or machine that’s helping him do all this.

Meanwhile, Trelane and Ross are still dancing, which Ross, understandably, does not look super happy about. He stops and says that her dress “hardly matches this charming scene,” and magics her into a fancy new pink one. She doesn’t look super happy about that, either, and really, who would be? The idea of someone being able to just instantly change you into whatever clothes they want you to be wearing is disturbing enough on its own even without all the other stuff Trelane seems able to do.

Trelane then pauses to preen in the big mirror on the wall, and Kirk notes that Trelane seems to have a thing about that mirror and never gets very far away from it. He figures this is just because of Trelane’s enormous ego, but Spock thinks there may be something more to it. Is there something special about that mirror, maybe? The two of them talk about what kind of machine Trelane could have that could do all this. Spock says it would have to be extremely sophisticated. “Like a computer,” Kirk says, “only much more.” ...Sure.

Kirk then asks if the device that’s keeping this whole area in livable conditions could be inside the house. Spock doesn’t think so because anything that could do that would surely be too big to fit in there. Kirk’s glad that Spock agrees on that one because it leaves him free to act. “If I’m not mistaken,” he says, “I think I can turn his lights off at the source.”

He then turns and starts loudly dissing Trelane, talking about how his actions are “those of an immature, unbalanced mind.” Trelane, hearing this, stops dancing and starts getting upset, but Kirk says he’s only just getting started. He wants Trelane to leave his crew alone, then pulls Ross away from Trelane and says that she’s not to dance with him or accept his gifts because Kirk doesn’t like it. Trelane is excited about this apparent display of jealousy, which, like ‘savagery’ and ‘killing things’ he seems to regard as an admirable trait. When Kirk says that he’s “had enough of [Trelane’s] insulting attentions to [Ross]” Trelane responds, “Of course you have. After all, that’s the root of the matter, isn’t it? You fight for the attention, the admiration, the possession of women!” Oh geez.

If Trelane wants a fight, Kirk says, then he can have it, and then he smacks Trelane across the face with Ross’s glove. Trelane gleefully asks if Kirk is challenging him to a duel. “If you have the courage,” Kirk tells him.

Oh boy, a duel? An actual duel? Trelane, practically beside himself with excitement, runs over and grabs a box from the mantelpiece. Inside it are a couple of pistols. “A matched set,” he says, “just like the pair that slew your Alexander Hamilton.” (Insert your own Hamilton joke here.) He then informs Kirk that “Captain...I never miss.” Kirk looks rather rattled, as if he wasn’t expecting to have to fight with guns, geez, how primitive, although I really don’t know what he would have thought they were going to duel with.

(Given that Hamilton died in 1804, and that dueling was falling out of favor in England by the 1840s and in America by the 1850, where it pretty much died off (even in the South, where it was way more popular) after the Civil War, we can estimate that the time period Trelane’s been looking at is roughly the first half of the nineteenth century. (Maybe someone with better historical knowledge than me could narrow it down more—or maybe not, I kind of doubt they were meticulously accurate with their period references here.) The earlier comments about this being nine hundred years out of date would therefore place the show in the twenty-seventh century, four centuries later than what they would eventually settle on. The best Watsonian explanation I can come up with for this is that they overestimated just how much of a delay Trelane’s information was on, and that Jaeger, being a geophysicist and not a historian, didn’t realize that his whole get-up was five hundred years out of date instead of nine hundred. A bit weak, but it’s better than “we forgot what century we were in,” which is the only other thing I can think of.)

After the break, Kirk narrates a “delayed log” (presumably meaning he made it after all this was over, although it’s still in the present tense so who knows) about how they’re all prisoners of Trelane and are weaponless and powerless--’cept for this gun—and the only way out is to play his games. Kirk has chosen this game, and now everything depends upon him and this ancient dueling pistol. Man, I bet Sulu’s feeling jealous right now.

They get into position and Trelane, still all giddy about getting to fight a real human duel, says that as the one challenged, he gets the first shot. Kirk is like, “...no? You don’t? That’s not how this works?” Not that they’re really following any dueling rules at the moment, but that one’s going a bit too far. This is like when my brother used to insist on setting up both sides whenever we played Battleship together. Trelane immediately starts throwing a fit and says that it’s his game and his rules, and if Kirk doesn’t like it, he could be persuaded...as he points the pistol at Spock. Okay, okay, Kirk says, you go first, geez.

So Kirk stands there, waiting, as Trelane prepares to fire. There’s a long, tense pause...dramatic music...and then Trelane fires harmlessly into the air (well, harmlessly in this instance. Please don’t fire guns straight into the air above you in real life) a move known in dueling as deloping. It can be done as an attempt to avoid actually killing anyone should you get dragged into a duel you don’t want to be in, but it can also be taken as an insult, implying that your opponent isn’t even worth shooting. I couldn’t find any examples of it being done by godlike beings toying with their victims, though, so I don’t know what the regulations on that one are.

[ID: Kirk, standing the foreground with his back to the camera, facing off against a grinning Trelane, who has just fired his gun into the air with a puff of smoke.]

“YOU’RE NOT WORTH THE POWDER!” 

Trelane grins and says his fate is now in Kirk’s hands, and hold his arms out all ready to be shot. Well, that looks far too easy. Kirk evidently thinks so as well, because instead of shooting Trelane, he shoots the mirror. Unusually for mirrors, it promptly explodes. Not sure how that’s covered under the whole “break a mirror and get seven years of bad luck” rule.

The lights in the house start flickering on and off—yes, that includes the candles and fireplace—while electricity sparks from the broken mirror, which sure enough, appears to have some kind of machine behind it.

[ID: The remains of a large mirror in a gilded frame, now completely shattered, with most of the glass gone and complex machinery visible underneath.]

As Trelane starts yelling about how Kirk’s ruined everything, DeSalle says the subspace interference is clearing, and Kirk tells him to try contacting the ship. Trelane says that they’d better go back to the ship and prepare for their fates because they’ve earned his wrath and they’re “all dead men, you especially, captain.” Then he disappears.

Well, that’s a bit odd, but never mind that right now—let’s get out of here. Again. Hopefully it’ll stick this time. They’re all beamed up, and everyone heads to the bridge, where Kirk tells Sulu to GTFO. Then he takes a moment to look over a PADD someone’s handed him, because a captain’s life is never free of paperwork, even while fleeing from godlike beings throwing a temper tantrum.

Uhura asks if she should make a full report on all this to Spacefleet Command (goddammit, Gene, could you just pick a name for Starfleet and stick with it) but Kirk says not yet. He wants to wait until they’re out of range before sending out any kind of signal that could potentially be picked up by Trelane. Spock asks if they even know what Trelane’s range is, and Kirk admits they don’t, but he’s going to make an educated guess that it’s about where they first came into this solar system. Are they in a solar system? I thought they just found this one planet out in the middle of nowhere.

Yeoman Ross, still in the dress Trelane magicked her into, takes the PADD from Kirk and asks if she can go change. He smiles and says, “Yes, I think you might.” He doesn’t say, “Sorry I had to yell some nineteenth century views about women at you to provoke a creepy dude into dueling with me,” but there doesn’t seem to be any residual awkwardness between them, so I guess she’s fine with it.

They’re about to go into warp, when suddenly there’s a planet in front of them—so suddenly, Sulu only just barely avoids crashing into it. Sure enough, it’s that damn Gothos again. All their instruments show they’re on course, but as soon as Sulu tries to leave, it shows up in front of them again. And again, with them barely avoiding a crash each time. Even after pulling away from it the last time, Sulu says they’re still accelerating...or maybe the planet is still accelerating towards them (what, do you not have a speedometer on the helm anywhere?). It seems that Trelane isn’t about to let them escape that easily.

Kirk’s had enough of this shit. He tells Sulu to decelerate into orbit, and orders the transporter room prepared—he’s going to go down and talk to Trelane until he lets the Enterprise go. If they haven’t heard from him in an hour, he tells Spock, they’re to leave as quickly as they can. Which, I mean, they can’t leave at all right now, so who knows whether that order will be any use. McCoy, predictably, objects to this plan, and Kirk, predictably, ignores him.

So Kirk leaves the bridge, but before he can even make it to the transporter, he suddenly finds himself in a dark courtroom where Trelane sits high above him, judge’s wig and everything. He tells Kirk, “The prisoner may approach the bench. Any demonstrations shall weigh against you with the court, and this time my instrumentality is unbreakable.” Then the shadow of a noose appears behind Kirk. Well. That got dark.

Trelane then reads out a list of charges: “The high crime of treason against a superior authority, conspiracy and the attempt to foment insurrection.” Kinda surprised he didn’t add “and being a big mean jerkface” on there. He asks Kirk how he pleads, and Kirk says he’s not here to plead anything; he’s here to get his ship back. Trelane only bangs his gavel angrily at this, so Kirk tells him to take all his anger out on him, since he was the one who lead the others and destroyed the machine. He’ll admit to the charges, fine, anything, if Trelane will just let the Enterprise go.

When Trelane still doesn’t seem swayed by this, Kirk marches right up to the bench and tells him that they’re living beings, not Trelane’s playthings. At that point Trelane really flips out and yells that this trial is over, Kirk is guilty on all counts, and “in accordance with your own laws” he’s going to hang from the neck until dead. Which is obviously anachronistic nonsense. You only get the death penalty for going to Talos 4 these days.

After the break, Spock gives a captain’s log saying the hour is almost up and there’s still no word from Kirk, so as per his instructions they’ll have to leave soon. Wait, the hour is almost up? Like five minutes have passed since he went down there. Was there like fifty-five minutes of Trelane shouting that we skipped? I mean, not that I would complain about skipping that.

Down in the courtroom, Trelane throws off his wig and robe and cheerfully says that wow, he experienced actual rage—which he didn’t even think was possible! This whole experiment has been a success! Oh, are you still angry, Kirk? What’s that about?

If Kirk had any hope that this sudden shift in mood might prompt Trelane to call off the hanging, no such luck—he’s fully intending to carry it out, and asks Kirk if he has any last requests.

[ID: Kirk standing in a dark room with his hands on a wooden railing in front of him, glancing back at the shadow of a noose on the wall behind him.]

“Uh...I commend my soul to any god that can find it.”

Trelane wants Kirk to get on with it and put his head in the noose, to which Kirk is naturally like, “I’m not putting my head through that thing get out of here.” But Trelane informs him that he has no choice, and the noose starts moving over to him of its own accord, while Trelane laments that this is all so easy it’s tiresome.

Before things can segue into a Punch and Judy sketch, Kirk says that that’s Trelane’s trouble: he doesn’t think and he misses opportunities, like the experience of being angry right now, which he could never have accomplished without Kirk because he’s a bumbling, inept fool. Wow, don’t hold back, Kirk. Tell us how you really feel.

Kirk says that Trelane could just hang him, if he wants to be boring like that, but there’s no sport in it. There’s an opportunity here for a new experience: “the terror of murder, the suspense, the fun.” This intrigues Trelane, and he asks what alternative Kirk has in mind. “A personal conflict between us,” Kirk says. “Not like the duel before, but the real thing. The stakes? A human life, mine.”

This gets Trelane really pumped, and he starts waving a sword around excitedly. Kirk tells him that that’s the idea, but it’s still not enough sport to just kill him with a sword. So Trelane thinks for a moment and then decides on “a hunt, a royal hunt, predator against predator.” Kirk will go hide in the forest outside, and Trelane will hunt him down. Lovely.

Now he’s talking, Kirk says—but if Trelane is going to make it worth Kirk’s while, he’ll have to up the stakes. If Trelane agrees to free the Enterprise, Kirk will give him a contest he’ll remember. Trelane huffs about how Kirk just can’t shut up about that dang ship of his, but he agrees. Then he magics Kirk outside and tells him to go hide.

Kirk wants to notify the Enterprise before the game starts, and Trelane’s disembodied voice tells him, “At your convenience.” So Kirk pulls out his communicator, but only gets static. He tries anyway, telling them to get the ship out of there while he buys them some time, but he’s barely even finished speaking when Trelane appears and starts attacking him with the sword. Man, that’s not convenient at all.

The two of them tussle a bit, and then Kirk runs off into the woods. He gets some headway, but stops to try to contact the ship again, and Trelane catches up to him. So off Kirk runs, with Trelane running after him and telling him he’s got to try harder because this is too easy.

Kirk runs through a clearing, and a moment later Trelane runs through it after him. As he stops to look for Kirk, Kirk suddenly comes in swinging on a nearby branch and kicks Trelane hard in the chest, causing him to go flying and drop his sword. Kirk grabs the sword and swings it at Trelane—but Trelane vanishes, leaving the sword to pass harmlessly through thin air. Then he reappears, crowing, “Touche, Captain, touche! You scored first! But after all, I never played this game before!”

It’s not looking like Kirk has much of a chance if Trelane’s gonna cheat like that, but he’s not giving up yet. He throws the sword away, only for Trelane to magic it back into his hand and start attacking Kirk with it. They circle around a nearby tree, Kirk fending off the sword with a branch, but eventually the branch breaks against the sword and Kirk has to run.

He makes it back to the house and tries to get in through the front door, but it won’t open, so in desperation all he can do is try to call the ship again. Trelane comes running up and Kirk turns to try to escape, but iron fences appear first on one side, then the next, leaving him cornered. He reminds Trelane that he promised to let the Enterprise go, but Trelane says that no, this game is so fun he’s gotta bring everyone else back to come play it too. Four hundred people to chase through the woods one by one. How many of them would die before he finally got bored?

Trelane orders Kirk to kneel, but Kirk tells him he still hasn’t won, and refuses to back down despite Trelane’s repeated demands. After all, he’s got nothing to lose now, and anyway he’s far too tired and pissed off now to be afraid. So he grabs Trelane’s sword and breaks it over his knee--geez, cheap sword—throws it away, and then smacks Trelane across the face a couple of times for good measure. Trelane rages that Kirk cheated and didn’t play the game right, and Trelane’s gonna show him—when suddenly a female voice firmly calls his name.

Two spots of glowy green mist have appeared above the ground nearby. Trelane runs over to them and protests that they said he could have this planet for his very own. Another voice, this one male, tells him that all this has gone far enough. “But you always stop me when I’m having fun!” Trelane whines, but the orbs tell him that he’s been disobedient and cruel and it’s time to come in now.

Trelane says that he doesn’t wanna come in, and he’s not gonna, cause he’s a general and he doesn’t have to listen to them. Dad Orb tells him that’s enough. Trelane insists he hasn’t done anything wrong and besides, he hasn’t studied finishing his predators yet. But this isn’t hardly studying anything, the orbs tell him; if he can’t take proper care of his pets he can’t have them at all. Anyway, he can’t go around treating them this way because “they’re beings, they have spirit, they’re superior.” He’ll understand when he grows up. Trelane pouts that he never gets to have any fun, and Dad Orb tells him to cut that out or he’ll have his planet-making privileges revoked.

“But I was winning,” Trelane protests, “I would’ve won, I would’ve...” He repeats it petulantly over and over as he slowly fades away.

The orbs then address Kirk, who has been watching all this with a sort of “you know what, this might as well happen” expression. They apologize and say it’s their fault for indulging their child too much, and they would have stopped this all much earlier if they’d realized how vulnerable the humans were. They’ll maintain the life-supporting conditions on the planet while he gets back to the ship, and then with another apology, they vanish.

Kirk stands there for a moment looking extremely tired before trying to call the ship. This time Spock finally answers, and Kirk tells him they’re free to go so beam him up already and let’s leave this dumb planet behind.

This does leave open the question of what that whole business with the machine was about. For all the focus there was on it, and Trelane’s angry reaction to Kirk destroying it, he doesn’t really show any reduction in his abilities after it’s taken out, and Trelane’s parents didn’t seem to be using any such thing when they showed up. So what did Trelane need it for, really? How many of his powers came from the machine as opposed to being inherent to his kind, whatever that is? Whatever the answer, we’re never gonna find out.

Some time later, the Enterprise is finally approaching Colony Beta Six, and as Kirk sits on the bridge Spock comes up to him and says he’s wondering how they’re going to classify Trelane for the record. “Pure mentality? Force of intellect? Embodied energy? Super being?” Are those preexisting classifications? If so, I’m really curious what the exact definition of “super being” is.

Kirk suggests ‘God of War’ which, as Spock points out, is not very helpful. “Then a small boy,” Kirk says, “and a very naughty one at that.” Spock notes that that’s going to make for a strange entry (though really, it should hardly stand out among all their other entries), and Kirk says that, well, he was a strange small boy. But then, he figures, he was probably just doing his equivalent of typical small boy pranks just like Spock might have done as a kid—dipping little girls’ curls in inkwells and all that. Although given the attitude Trelane had towards his ‘pets,’ he seems more like the kind of kid that would pull wings off flies or fry ants.

Spock looks half scandalized and half confused, understandably so since dipping little girls’ curls in inkwells as a prank was anachronistic enough in the 1960s, let alone in the 2300s. Or the 2700s. Whatever century we’re in. Kirk apologizes and says that he should have known better, and Spock gives him an “uh, yeah” eyebrow, and the episode ends.

As you might well have noticed, this plot of this episode bears a striking resemblance to that of Charlie X: the crew are at the mercy of a young person with incredible powers and no real understanding of life outside their own, who they ultimately only escape from because a guardian with even greater powers comes to collect them. In both cases the protagonists, for all their ingenuity and bravery, wind up unable to really do anything except stall for time. Trelane’s fading cry of “I would’ve won, I would’ve...” even echoes Charlie’s last cry of wanting to “stay...stay...stay...”

The difference, of course, is all in the tone; Charlie X is more or less a horror story, while The Squire of Gothos is much more comedic. Trelane presumably had the capability to do things just as horrific as Charlie did, but even at his most threatening his antics are obnoxious rather than terrifying, and no one takes him seriously, even when literally being held at swordpoint by him. The idea of a race of beings so powerful that even their children could treat us as little more than interesting toys could very easily be played as a full-on cosmic horror story, but by invoking highly recognizable human behaviors so closely—Trelane whining that he never gets to do anything fun, and being sternly told to stop playing and come inside, etc—it becomes funny and whimsical rather than threatening. It’s an interesting example, I think, of how much just changing the tone can alter a story.

Trek Trope Tally: We’ve got another case of Godlike Beings, with Trelane and his mysterious parents. Next time, Kirk’s gonna make like Steve Irwin and wrestle a giant reptile in Arena.

[spyvstailor]

Sci Fi: Chapter 1

Here it is guys. That sci fi. I don’t even have a name for it. It’s just a thing I’ve been scribbling. I’m dumping it here for free reads.

Enjoy the free reads on me!

Chapter 1

There was pain first.

Before his mind was filled with conscientiousness, there was a white hot, blinding pain down his left side.

Days? Weeks? Months?

He wasn't sure how long it lasted.

All he knew was that through the haze of his waking death, he was in pain.

Voices haunted the fog, at times near at others far. He could make out words, but nothing more than two or three at a time.

No condition...can't do much...we would strongly...

He will never make a complete recovery.

The first full sentence he heard through the mists of his pain.

And then one oddly cheerful and sunny day, he woke up.

Unable to comprehend his whereabouts clearly, he struggled against the bindings that gently held him in place.

He had been in the midst of a battle with the Tor'qual invaders who were landing their transports on the outer ring of Jiro, the last thing he remembered was being in his zip ship, the next he knew he was spiralling to the ground under the weight of an enemy transport.

No one was waiting for him to regain conscientiousness when he finally stopped struggling long enough to peer around at his hospital room.

We had to rebuild your entire left side, from your collarbone, entire left arm, left lung, kidney, parts of your internal organs, your hip was rebuilt entirely, and your left leg had to be pinned and plated. You will have mobility, but mentally you may never be fit for active duty.

When the Council Head finally showed up, with a phalanx of reporters and bloggers, Joss had been pinned with a medal, congratulated on being a hero of Aevo and photographed more times than he had ever been in his entire life.

He looked pale and wan in those photos, more rattled than pleased and only just a little pissed off.

Embry would say it was just how he looked. Grim and always just a little like a man who had just bit into bitter fruit.

Kinzi would argue that he was just broody because he was born that way. A humourless man who only got joy out of his job.

Both were right in a way.

It had been months of therapy to get used to his new arm and to make proper adjustments to his artificial organs. At one point his body tried to reject his new lung, which resulted in him suddenly unable to breathe fully, his right lung working overtime to make up for it.

He would wake gasping in the night, until the problem was resolved with a lot of meds and even more surgeries.

This went on for six months.

By the time he left the hospital he discovered his face was plastered everywhere as the posterboy for the Sky Guard's efforts against the Tor'qual. It was political, purely political. A reminder to the people of Aevo that the current government had been the ones who reacted, who sent the Sky Guard out to meet the invading transports. It had been the Sky Guard who had prevented the Tor'qual force from ever touching down, but it had been the government who was taking the credit.

Joss was accosted with such headlines that read sensationalist things like, Commander Vespasian of the Sky Guard Recovers, Retires.

The newsfeed on everyone's PCPU's had heralded him as a 'war hero', the man who turned the tides of the battle of Jiro with his squadron of pilots.

It hadn't been his choice to retire.

The head's of council felt he was better suited on the outside than he was slowing the Sky Guard down with his recovery ups and downs.

You're just not suited for active duty at this point in time.

Who wouldn't want to be free to enjoy the remainder of your life?

You have a wonderful retirement package, a brand new personal ship, take it and go on vacation. Enjoy our planet to its fullest, Commander. Enjoy all the galaxy has to offer.

We just can't risk putting you back in command of a squadron when you've been through so much.

You're a danger to the men.

“Just accept retirement, Vespasian.”

It wasn't so much that it was the fourth time that week he had been told that, it was the fact that while he was sitting in the same room with Council Head Orin, the woman wouldn't even look him in the eye.

Seated in his full uniform, shined up and clean, hiding the residual phantom pain in his cybernetic arm behind a cool mask, retired Commander Joss Vespasian wasn't expecting much but to remind the council that he was still around. He didn't want to ever leave their minds, he wanted to be a grim reminder of what they abandoned when they forced him into retirement.

He honestly didn't know what he expected when he dropped in for his visits. They weren't interested in having him back.

It was possibly because he was a guardsman through and through and just couldn't stay away from the base.

“I find it hard to accept retirement when I still have a good fifty, sixty years left in me,” he returned calmly.

Orin laughed. It was placating and came out a little cruel. “I would love to retire and do nothing on the severance we gave you. A big beautiful new ship, and two hundred thousand debs isn't anything to turn your nose up at.”

“Well, you and I are two very different creatures then,” Joss replied archly.

“Have you managed to get your medications under control, Joss?” She changed the subject smoothly, proving how she was in politics and he wasn't. It was both an honest question and a silent reminder to him that he was on so many pills and potions and ointments and injections that he was considered a risk.

“Yes.”

It was a lie, he still wasn't sleeping well. One of his medications gave him heart palpitations, which woke him from sound sleeps, adrenaline pumping, heart racing.

Orin, as much as she was actively avoiding him, looked over then with her hard, glittering blue eyes.

All Aevonian's had blue eyes, it was nothing different than he was used to, but the way she managed to keep her eyes so cold and professional again reminded him why she was in politics and he wasn't.

“That's not what I've heard,” she said.

“Then I suggest getting better spies,” Joss returned.

The woman stood up easily, her tiny frame dwarfed by his towering one, making her look almost like a child compared to him.

Was she, what, ten? Twenty years older than him? Made completely uncomfortable by his height.

Joss stood a whole head taller than most of the analogous Aevonian's of his homeworld and he used his height to his advantage often. His long legs made for a good stride, keeping him ahead of anyone who tried to match him, his chin always able to tilt downwards almost mockingly to any of his subordinates.

“Mr. Vespasian--”

“Commander,” he reminded her. “I still have the title, don't I?”

“Retired Commander,” she replied, putting a hard emphasis on the 'retired' part. “May I suggest taking your beautiful new medals and going off planet to spend some time enjoying your life? You've been given a second chance at it, why not enjoy it?”

It wasn't so much that she said what she said, it was the guards that entered the office behind him that put a rather threatening spin on her words.

Eyeing the young guardsmen over his shoulder with a furrowed brow, he realized that both of the boys were from group 34, one of the groups who had just graduated their training – barely.

“You could not be any clearer, Councilwoman,” Joss finally said, bowing his head to the woman. “I'll find my own way out.”

Passing by one of the young guardsmen, he paused to adjust the boy's rank tiles, patting his shoulder, before slipping out the door.

It wasn't until he was at the gate to the compound that he released the breath he had been holding and stooped down to rub at his knee. For some reason his body took to his left arm a lot easier than it had to the pins and hinges in his left leg and he wasn't sure why, maybe it was because – while reconstructed – his leg was still his own flesh and blood. Some nights it kept him up aching and twitching, and some nights it prickled like white noise in a faulty viewscreen.

“Joss, I heard about Councilwoman Orin.”

He was barely in the door, eyes cast down to the container of takeaway food from the Ralorixian place on the corner of his apartment block, when Embry's face popped up on his console screen. He had to juggle the container in his arms in order to take the call, the small bag containing his replacement medications tucked into his mouth in order to safely make it into his home.

“She had group 19 put on medium alert,” Embry went on, grinning almost proudly. “What'd you say to her?”

Dropping his load on the table, Joss wandered over to water his kiscus tree, ignoring the question.

“Well, whatever you said, General Merrick asked me to remind you that you are retired and not required at the compound.”

Still quiet, Joss watered his plant, right hand white knuckled on the watering can handle.

“How old are you anyways?” Embry went on. “You have to be close to retirement age soon. See this as a gentle shove into that long slope downwards.”

Setting down the watering can, Joss wandered across his living room to stand by the console, bending down to peer into Embry's holographic eye. Reaching out a long finger, he pointedly set it on the button to end the call, looking his old friend in the eye as he pressed it.

They were the same damned age and Embry knew it. The only difference between the two men was that Embry had himself a family, three daughters and a son, the oldest of which was about to enter the Sky Guard herself.

Joss didn't have a family. He had no one. The man was solitary as the grave.

He was the only son of a wealthy academy professor and her husband, but they had died when he was in his late twenties and left him with a little fortune of his own, which he had given away when he entered the Sky Guard. Mostly he had done it because he hated money, partly it was because deep down he knew he was going to be in the Sky Guard for life.

Well, that fell through. He wasn't expecting to be rebuilt from death like a ghoul or some form of revenant monster.

But here he was, made of metal and cybernetic parts, half man, half machine, mostly a sad, desperate former guardsman who didn't know what the hell to make of his remaining half life. His hair was greying here and there, his joints ached when it rained, he was getting so he had to squint to see anything further than his own living room window.

That was a depressing thought, one he quickly shook away with a crick of his spine as he rolled his shoulders.

What was it the recruits used to call him behind his back? Commander Grim Peak? Because he was tall and immovable like the mountain that backed Jiro? Because he was as hard and cold as that beautiful giant.

Joss had been very much aware of what the recruits thought of him. To them he was the giant who spoke rather softly. But in his baritone was authority and a regal regional accent from the Pax province where he had grown up.

To his fellow officers and even some of his squad he had been the man who enjoyed chewing on kiscus bark and playing that stupid block breaking game on his PCPU. He used to lip off to the General whenever she got too confident with him and she would give him a slight frown in return, but he knew it was to mask her smile.

Now he was propaganda for the war effort, a symbol of courage and valour to the recruits, a grim reminder of what could befall a guardsman to his fellow officers and a nuisance to those in command.

He had never been a nuisance before. It put him into an awkward position.

Suddenly he wasn't as hungry as he thought, sinking down at his console and dropping his head into his hand, raking his long fingers through his dark hair.

“Your left arm still isn't as strong as your right.”

Slumped on an examine table in Doctor Amina's office, Joss was staring at a poster on the wall listing all the ways kiscus trees were good for ones health as the woman circled him.

“We can adjust the hydraulics, but I wouldn't want to do that until you fully recover from your last surgery,” she went on.

“It doesn't matter,” he replied. “It's not noticeable.”

“We can improve it, Joss.”

“It's fine.”

“Have you been sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“Eating?”

“When I'm hungry.”

Doctor Amina looked up at him, her blue eyes hard.

“I'm trying my best,” he returned simply. “But half of my fucking colon is rubber hose and most of the food upsets my stomach.”

“Are you nauseated when you eat?”

“Sometimes.”

“Could be your medications, we can try something else. See if there's another combination that might work for you.”

“No, it's fine. No more tinkering with me, thank you.”

“We need to get your weight back to your pre-incident weight.” She argued.

Joss stood up from the table, reaching for his tunic, he towered over his entire race by about a head and a half, which looked intimidating to most. If it had been thirty, forty years ago, he would have been called an anomaly, something odd and not to be bred with. Thankfully his people were coming a long way. He liked to blame Humans for that in public, and thank them for it in private.

Since the Humans made contact and settled among his people, the Aevonian's seemed to have adopted a lot from them. Their food, their dress, the silly way they spoke and even a few of his people took to the Human's religions.

Joss thought about this as he stared down his doctor, holding his tunic in his hands.

Before him, Doctor Amina was unimpressed.

“Have you been doing your therapy sessions? Working your limbs?” She asked.

“Yes,” he growled, his patience growing a little thin.

“I want you to try eating three healthy meals a day, as we've discussed.”

Tugging on his tunic a little too roughly, he winced as his left shoulder pulled at the area where the cybernetic arm attached to the real flesh of his collarbone. You couldn't see where he ended and the cybernetics began, the flesh was real, it was cultivated from his own and covered the wires and metal of his fake parts smoothly. To anyone looking at him for the first time he was entire and whole, only he knew just how broken he was inside, how cobbled together from parts and scraps like an old junked robot.

Slumping out of the office without another word to the Sky Guard issued doctor, he stuffed his hands behind his back and strolled almost angrily down the boulevard, heading for the park across from the medical building.

To anyone seeing him heading their way, he was the full force of a dark and very dangerous storm approaching on the horizon.

He eased down on a bench beside an old man who was feeding the birds.

Glancing over he looked at the poor old man as he tossed seed to the birds at his feet, before he got back to his feet quickly at the sight of a Sky Guard patch on the old man's jacket.

This was the last place he wanted or needed to be.

He took to wandering the park for a bit, not sure what to do with himself. He could go home and do what? Sit around? He could go to that little Nevedak restaurant on the street by his apartment block. The one with the old man who was never impressed by anything or anyone, or he could go to the restaurant with Natalie and Sasha, the ones who always managed to make him feel like his world wasn't changed for the worse.

There was no chance he was getting back into the Guard. He had to figure something out.

“Hey, big guy!”

It took a few more calls of this before Joss snapped back to the present, eyes darting around the sunny forested area he found himself in.

For a moment, he couldn't find the source of the voice, but that was only because he was looking too high up. Lowering his gaze, he found a short, freckled young woman heading towards him. She had fluffy, wild burgundy hair and the large golden eyes of an Impixaen.

“Me?” He inquired.

“Yeah, you. You look like you got nothing going on, how'd you like to make some money?”

Normally Joss was cautious around people who offered to pay him anything that wasn't Guard issued debs and this small, tough looking Impixaen was no different. She looked like trouble.

But he was curious and he had nothing planned.

“Doing what?” He demanded, folding his arms.

“Damn, you got the look, I'll tell you,” she breathed, almost gushed reverently. “Look, you just have to come with me, look tough and don't speak. I'll give you thirty debs. Sound good?”

“Are we breaking any laws?” He demanded of the little thing.

“No!” She declared. “I would never. I just need to reclaim something of mine and I need a little muscle. Or at least for you to look like my muscle, okay?”

He scowled, knowing full well his face could intimidate the strongest recruit. “I'm a former Sky Guard,” he warned her.

She blinked, before smiling. “Hey, I could care less, come on. You want some debs?”

He didn't need the debs yet, but he was a naturally curious sort, so he shrugged and began to trail after the young woman. What else did he have planned?

They walked out of the park, Joss still hanging back from the young woman, watching as she put a delicate brown hand to her mouth and gnawed on one of her nails, the sleeves of her too large jacket hiding most of her face.

He wondered idly how an Impixaen youth got to Aevo when Impix itself was in the middle of a full fledged war that had lasted for forty years. Not even refugees trickled off of the planet anymore, if there were any refugees left.

She took several long, winding twists and turns down some shady streets and up some dark alleys, before they finally stopped before an apartment block on the outskirts of Jiro.

“Okay,” she said turning to him. “Just...keep your mouth shut and look tough. Whatever I say, do. Alright, big guy?”

“Sure.”

She moved to step inside, but he stopped her.

“Hey, money up front, shortness,” he said, pressing his thumb to his PCPU to unlock it and holding out his hand for a PCPU transfer.

“I'm not an idiot,” she returned. “You get half now and half when we finish, okay?”

“Fine.”

Swiping her thumb over the palm of her left hand, she input the amount into her PCPU and ran her hand over his, transferring the amount. After that was complete, she gave him a critical once over, before reaching up and unbuttoning the top clasp of his tunic.

“Looks good, could be scarier but it'll work.”

“Thank you.”

As she hit the comm to reach whomever it was they were visiting, Joss took in the surrounding area.

Jiro was known for its clean streets and open air concepts, but outer Jiro, old Jiro and the metropolis were known for being ragged around the edges.

The outer ring where they were, was absolute tatters. The homeless, the war veterans and refugees from across the galaxy congregated in places like this and they weren't the clean, crisp lined creatures Jiro and Aevo in general wanted.

Being Sky Guard, he was more than used to places like this. There were good people trying to eke out a living, but there were also unsavoury sorts who knew they would fit in better with the raggedy masses than with the sleek members of ideal Aevonian society.

He really must have been bored to have followed a strange young woman to this part of town for a paid job. More than likely, he was looking for a chance to be part of something again and deeper down he figured he was trying to prove his capabilities by doing some muscle work again.

The young woman peered back at him after a moment of silence on the other end of the comm, her wide golden eyes a little hesitant as she took him in properly. Still, when she turned back to the comm, she jabbed at it angrily.

“Listen, Sorel, I'm not fucking around. Open up, my father's with me and he's pissed.”

Joss took in the girl's tawny coloured Impixaen skin, then held up one of his very pale, very clearly Aevonian hands to compare the two, before shaking his head once in a half shrug.

A face appeared on the comm panel, it was an ugly scaly Vikaenian male with at least three piercings for every facehole.

“Tandi, you sold me that piece of junk fairly, don't come crying to me about wanting it back,” the face stuck into the screen closer, so close Joss spied the rainbow shine on the Vikaenian's scales. “Your father's Aevonian? I doubt that.”

“I said my father's thug, progo, clean those holes you have for ears and open up or he'll brain you the next time you poke your dumb lizard face out of your hole!” Tandi returned.

A large yellow eye shifted into sight on the screen and Sorel blinked. “Get out of here, dust mote.”

As the screen went black, Tandi huffed and stared hard at it for a moment, before kicking the wall under the panel and turning to him. She gazed hard up at him.

“Bastard lizard,” she grumbled, chewing hard on her bottom lip, her little Impixaen fang nibbling at her dainty lip. Her shiny gold eyes lit up and she grinned. “I have a better plan, come on around back!”

Joss followed her as the tiny thing scurried out onto the sidewalk, heading for the alley. His long legs slowed down in order for him to drop into line at her back, allowing her to lead the way.

“Tandi,” he said.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Yeah, what?”

“How old are you?”

The girl stopped and turned to him, a hard, glittering gaze. “What?”

“You seem...underage,” he struggled for the right way to say she looked young without offending her.

She clucked her tongue at him. “Yeah, well, you look ancient, probably makes everyone look young.”

“I meant, shouldn't you be at home and not pestering Vikaenian's?”

Her little chin drop and raised as she looked him up and down quickly, clucking her tongue again, before turning back around and carrying on.

“I didn't hire you to ask questions, Legs.”

“Legs?” He inquired as they turned the corner.

She glanced over her shoulder and looked down at his almost ungainly long legs.

“Oh, because I'm tall,” he muttered. “Clever.”

Stopping at a particular window, Tandi took a quick, cautious glance inside, before turning around and looking for something on the ground. “Were you stretched at birth or something?” She asked. “Because you're the first Aevonian I've seen this tall.”

“I'm a genetic anomaly,” he stated.

“And they didn't kill you at birth?” She inquired. “Bold move.”

Joss scoffed. “Contrary to what off-worlder's think, Aevonian's don't kill their offspring for minor imperfections.” He wanted to add 'anymore' but felt it would lead to too much of a discussion and he just didn't care enough for it.

Tandi snorted unattractively.

Squatting near her, Joss asked, “what are you looking for?”

“A key,” she replied, picking up a piece of discarded console equipment.

Watching her raise it up in order to smash the window, he contemplated allowing her to follow through and then arresting her, maybe finally getting somewhere with the Guard, but something told him that she was small time.

He caught her wrist with his cybernetic hand and held it fast.

“That's unlawful entry, Tandi,” he warned her.

She gazed at him evenly, before nodding once. “Yeah, I know.”

“It's at least two to three years,” he went on.

“If they catch me,” she argued.

“I'm part of the eponymous 'they', remember?” He pointed out.

Tandi stared at him blankly, her jaw slack, before she said, “what?”

“Sky Guard? Remember? I wouldn't get involved with illegal activities,” he reminded her.

“Okay, look, Sorel is a frigging maniac, okay? He has something of mine and I want it back. So we need to get it.”

“Is it a want or a need?” He inquired.

“What's the difference?” She asked impatiently.

“You're ignorant?” He asked. It was meant only in the kindest way possible.

“And you're a fuck!” She snapped angrily, struggling to regain her arm from his hydraulic grasp. “Now help me out, you giant fuck!”

Joss eyed her calmly. “You know, Tandi, the foulest mouth on the planet isn't a title worth fighting for.”

“Wow...” she murmured. “I'm embarrassed for you, I really am. That was the saddest thing I have ever heard a grown man say. Now let me break this fucking window so I can crawl inside this building and go upstairs and kick Sorel in the flat area where his lizard dick is supposed to be!”

“This thing he has of yours, does he possess it illegally or have you sold or given it to him willingly?” Joss demanded.

“Do I look like someone who would steal something back from a fair trade?” She demanded.

He shrugged, it was more of a downturning of the corners of his mouth and a head tilt. “Why aren't you contacting the authorities, then? Let them handle this matter?”

Tandi blinked at him. “Okay, my biggest mistake in life is hiring an old washed up Guardsman.”

“I'm not washed up,” he growled.

“You're holding me with a robot hand,” she returned. “I can feel it. It's not normal feeling.”

Joss released her and leaned back a little. That had been one of his biggest fears over his cybernetics. He had yet to touch anyone who didn't know about them and he worried about how his hands, his arm, any part of his new body would feel to anyone.

Apparently they felt unnatural enough to notice.

Tandi seemed to wince a little in apology. “How bad was it?”

“What is it you need out of this apartment?” He changed the subject.

The girl was quiet, before saying, “a data cube. An old school one. Bright blue.”

Pushing to his feet, he checked down the alley one way and then the other, before saying, “alright. Meet me back at that park we were in. Give me an hour.”

“I want to help,” she insisted. “It's my data cube.”

“Just...it'll be easier if I do this alone. Okay? Quicker.”

Tandi frowned. “I don't like people taking care of my business for me.”

“But you needed my help with this and so I'm helping you,” he returned, reaching for his PCPU and punching in the money she gave him, holding his palm out to her. “Here, take your pay and get something to eat. There's a little Earth restaurant on the corner of Tower Boulevard and Command Street, called Home, I'll meet you there instead.”

The girl seemed indecisive.

“Do you want this quick and easy or your way, which seems rash and messy?” He demanded.

“Fine, but don't damage that data cube, it's very, very important to me.”

“I won't. Go.”

Tandi eyed him carefully, shoving his offered palm away. “Don't screw me on this, big guy.”

Watching the young woman as she ran off, Joss considered, very briefly, going home and crawling into bed to live there until he died.

But he did take her money and he was anything but a scoundrel.

Around the front of the apartment block, he pressed the comm call button and waited calmly.

The Vikaenian's face appeared in on the screen.

“No,” the reptilian began.

“Shut up,” Joss commanded in his deepest, most authoritative tone. “We both know I saw at least three illegal violations on the screen earlier. Buzz me up and let me in peacefully or this can end very badly for one of us and it won't be me. Choose wisely, Lizard.”

There was a very long pause, before the door clicked.

Joss grabbed the handle and headed inside.

Wandering up the stairs, he made his way through the shabby apartment halls towards the number on the call box.

When he arrived, he found the door locked and secured.

Politely, he rapped his knuckles against it and calmly said, “I said open up, Lizard. I'm done being fair at the count of three.”

Joss paused long enough to give the Vikaenian fair notice, before he sighed and said, “one.”

There was no sound behind the door.

“Two.”

It clicked.

Placing his hand on the knob, he entered the apartment cautiously.

Inside was the Vikaenian and two young looking Ralorixian's, they all peered at him nervously.

“You can't hurt us,” the Vikaenian said. “That's more illegal than what we--”

“Shut up,” he commanded, pushing on the reptile's face and shoving him hard into a chair. “Where is it?”

The Vikaenian was quiet, eyeing him rebelliously.

Turning to the Ralorixian's on the couch, he repeated himself, “where is it?”

Neither one flinched.

Joss pulled himself up to his towering, almost terrifying height and repeated himself one last time.

One of the Ralorixian's large green eyes flicked to the side only briefly and Joss followed the glance, angling his head in the direction of the bedroom off of the main room.

“Remain in your seats,” he commanded the three lowlifes.

Now, any good guardsman would say that it was dangerous to deal with any criminals who outnumbered them. But really? What did Joss have to lose? His life? He had been there and back. No fear resided within him over that.

Thumping into the next room, using his large feet to thud heavily on the floor as a reminder of his physical power over the others, he pressed the light switch and peered around.

It was a mess. A literal disaster area in need of some desperate relief.

Hearing a soft rustle from the other room, he peered back around the doorframe enough to pin the one who moved with a sharp warning look.

Opening a clothing chest, he searched quietly for a blue data cube.

It took him three minutes to find it tucked at the bottom under some rather startling underwear.

Joss scooped it up and studied it in the light. The hills and valleys of the ridges on the surface of the cube caught the dim light.

It was Impixaen, there was no doubt about that. Aevonian's didn't have cube memory devices.

Standing up to his full height, he exited the room and stood before the lowlifes in the main room with a grim look.

“Behave yourselves,” he warned them. “And don't do anymore drugs, you're already diminishing your brain capabilities. Have a safe night.”

With the data cube in his hand, he walked back towards his apartment block and the little Earth restaurant on the corner.

A part of him was curious about what was on the cube to merit the girl stealing it back from the lowlifes, but another part of him told him that it was none of his business. It was something to do, something to keep his hands and mind busy, and that was it. Better than going home to sit in the dark and feel the faint throb of his body trying to reject his new cybernetics.

Arriving at Home, he peered in through the large window, finding Tandi sitting at the counter beside Natalie's daughter Sasha, the two appeared to being playing some Human game.

She seemed like a nice enough young woman. Rough around the edges, possibly a runaway, definitely younger than legal age. If he looked her up in the database he would imagine he'd find a few minor infractions, possibly a missing child report, maybe reports of her being in and out of the system.

Of course, he didn't have access to the database anymore, so he didn't care as much to make any attempt to try. Most runaways, in his experience, had very good reasons to be on their own. No child ran away from home because it was a loving and kind environment.

Entering Home, he found himself faced with Natalie's warm, welcoming smile, her blue eyes shining in the soft, gentle light of the restaurant. She was a small human, delicate and short, with a sort of slanted, thin lipped smile and expressive eyes. Even to an Aevonian she was beautiful

“Commander, welcome Home,” she greeted, holding out a menu to him.

He took one from her, but didn't return the smile. He wasn't a creature of grins and mirth, never had been.

“Natalie, what's the special tonight?” He asked, heading for the counter.

Tandi turned at the sound of his voice and at the sight of the cube in his hand, she jumped up and ran for him. “Holy shit! You got it! Did you waste them? Did you punch Sorel right in his dumb scaly face?”

Joss handed the cube over, eyes darting to Natalie who stood beside him, a whole head and a bit shorter than him.

“Oh, this one's with you, huh?” Natalie teased. “She's been beating Sasha at checkers for an hour.”

“Did you feed her?” He asked.

“Yeah, she can pack it away,” Natalie returned.

“Put it on my tab, please?”

Nodding, Natalie returned to the area behind the counter.

Tandi gingerly tucked the cube into her sack bag and grinned crookedly up at him. “You didn't screw me, big guy. That's pretty grungy.”

“What?” He demanded.

“You know, great? You're pretty grungy? Fuck, you're so old.” She groaned.

“And just how old are you?” He shot back.

“Eighteen,” she replied easily.

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyways,” she prepared her PCPU, “I promised you thirty, so--”

“Keep it,” he said.

“No,” she insisted. “I like to square up with people. I don't need favours held over my head. Take the other half.”

Joss took the payment, figuring it wasn't worth the fight.

Looking him up and down, Tandi frowned before asking, “are you really Sky Guard?”

“Retired,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

“I thought you boys 'die in the sky'?”

“More like smeared across the ground under an invading Tor'qual transport.” He replied.

Tandi looked him over again, eyes wide. “That's badass. Wait!” She looked down at her PCPU and after a moment of research, held it up for him to look at.

There was his own face glowering back at him, used in the recruitment propaganda. The Sky Guard had used it everywhere after his recovery to encourage young people to join up, claiming that not everyone in the Sky Guard 'die in the sky'.

She pointed at his face on her PCPU. “That's you!” Laughing for a bit at the irony, she turned and headed for the door without much of a goodbye, slapping her hand over the pay screen on her way out in order to pay for her meal.

Joss watched the girl until she disappeared, before turning to the counter and continuing on his way.

“Hi, Commander,” Sasha chirped as he eased down beside the small Human child.

“Hello, Sasha.”

“Your friend seems like she needs a brush and a bath,” Natalie said, joining them, moving behind the counter. “Special?”

“No, I just met her.”

Natalie smiled, laughing softly, her eyes lighting up.

Joss found the woman charming. She was alone on an alien world with only her mother and her daughter, how they wound up far from their own world was beyond him. They kept things as professional as he could, though he found Humans were very personal creatures. As it was Natalie was always touching him in small ways and giving him teasing smiles and playful laughs.

He couldn't understand her very well, but he liked her and her family just fine.

“I meant do you want the special tonight?” She clarified.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” He murmured, already sending a message to Embry. If he could get access to the database, he could figure out a few things about his Impixaen acquaintance, despite promising himself that he didn't care.

“I didn't think you had many friends outside of the Sky Guard,” Natalie said, easing down at the counter after handing his order over to her mother. She knew what he liked with his orders, usually it was some of that tea they had and a glass of water, no ice.

“We thought maybe you finally jumped from Havel's Bridge!” Natalie's mother, Miranda, shouted at him from the kitchen where she did the cooking.

“Mom!” Her daughter scolded.

“Well, he mopes around like he's going to...”

Joss paid Miranda no mind, watching Sasha as she set up her checkers board.

“I'm sorry,” Natalie said, setting a hot mug of tea down before him. “Have some tea on the house.”

“It's fine,” he said. “I don't blame her at all.” To be honest, Joss knew he was being sullen and grim lately, but he was so used to the idea that a guardsman's one direction was death. He had been fully prepared to die that day. Now it seemed like he had no direction.

“Well, not that it matters, but I'm glad you didn't die.” Natalie said sweetly, her pretty pink mouth turning up into a smile. “You've always been my favourite customer and my favourite Sky Guard, coincidentally enough!”

“Put that in a letter and send it to your local council,” he murmured, watching as Natalie headed for the door as a couple entered the restaurant. “Might get me back in the good with them.”

Beside him Sasha put away her game quietly, before turning to him and saying, “mom likes you.”

Joss blinked down at her. “Your family's been good friends of mine.”

The small child rolled her eyes. “No, she likes you. Like...likes you.”

“That would explain so much,” he mumbled to himself, eyes darting from the child to the mother who was returning to the counter. “You missed a piece,” he pointed out to Sasha, plucking a small flat item from under a napkin holder.

The child caught it as he tossed it and asked, “are you really going to jump off the bridge?”

“No,” he assured her. “Your grandmother was joking.”

“Why are you sad?” Sasha asked, tucked her game box under her stool.

Joss wasn't entirely sure he was sad, mostly just confused. But he knew why he missed the Sky Guard. That wasn't the hard part to decipher. “Because there's a lot of bad people out there and I want to be one of the ones who stop them from hurting others.”

“And you can't? Why?”

He hesitated. It wasn't something a child should know about. Mental health was something she would deal with when she got older. “When I had my accident...well, the doctor's think it hurt my mind as well as my body.”

“So you're crazy?”

With a quick downturn of his mouth, Joss sort of shrugged. “Maybe.”

[warsamongstthestar-keen]

Chapter Thirty

*Ghost Crew*

Sabine signals for Zeb, Ezra and Chopper to prepare to jump on a nearby Imperial Walker. The Imperials are searching Capital City in search of the Rebels, so it seems a wise plan to attack them now.

The hatch of the Walker opens, and immediately the Lasat tugs a screaming Trooper out. Ezra drops down, greeting the second Stormtrooper, knocking him out almost instantaneously.

The Walker careens dangerously forward, shooting blaster bolts at civilians and Imps alike, due to the unconscious buckethead against the controls.

The Troopers on the ground begin shooting up at the Lasat, the Mandalorian immediately taking up arms at them. Chopper takes advantage of the distraction, flying his way straight through the open hatch.

"Plug in, Chop. We need prisoner logs of all Imperial detention facilities," the Padawan states, dragging the unconscious man off the pilots seat.

The droid chatters at the boy, placing it's probe into the access point. Ezra finally dislodges the man, knocking the Imperial vehicle out of position, almost causing the Lasat to fall from his position."Hey! Keep it steady in there!"

A hand of a Stormtrooper appears through the hatch, "Here, take this."

A small smirk crosses the Lasats face, as he tosses the unconscious person at the other Imperials.

Successfully leaping over to the Walker, the Mandalorian drops down inside, only for Chopper to inform her that he can't raise a connection to the Empire. "The entire system would have to be down."

"Well, they did blow up their own comm tower," Zeb replies from on top of the Walker, firing at the Imps down below.

"They must have taken down their entire data network."

"How are we gonna find out where they've got Kanan and Keen now?" Ezra grumbles, kicking the wall in anger.

Two more Walkers show up down the street, firing repeatedly on the rebels. As a blast collides with the side of the ship, Sabine reaches for her comm, "Whoa! Spectre-2, we need a pickup."

"I read you, Spectre-5. Rendezvous at the town's western border."

"Hate to be the pessimist, Ezra, but how do we even know–"

"They're alive, Sabine. I know it," Ezra states furiously, cutting off the Mandalorian.

*Tarkin's Cruiser*

Kanan is hooked to an upright standing table, strapped in with metals bars that press uncomfortably into his chest.

Tarkin stands menacingly before Kanan, a probe droid hovering inches in front of his face. "Now we will discover if you are indeed the Jedi you claim to be."

Wearily, the Jedi Knight meets his eyes, "Well, Governor, somebody's gotta keep you entertained."

The Grand Moff activates the droid for a short time, and when Kanan gives him no information he wants, he instructs Kallus to continue, moving across the hall.

The door to the cell slides open, revealing Keen also pressed to a table. Her shoulders are bruised, her robe ripped slightly on the shoulder, mercifully, they left her mask in place. She had fought hard against the Imperials, but had succumbed to them eventually. "Ah, Master Quinara," Tarkin stands in front of her.

"Wilhuff."

"Tell me, how did a Jedi as powerful as yourself end up with these Insurgents?"

"The day I decided I don't like Palpatine. The day that the clones turned on their Jedi. The day the Republic fell."

A droid probe floats in front of Keen as well, "Tell me about the other rebels cells?"

"Rebels in cells? You should know, you're the one who keeps locking 'em up."

"You must remember, Ar'iabel, that I've never had much patience," the Imp glowers at her.

"To be completely honest, Huffy, I tended to block most of our interactions from memory. Spoiler alert, I don't like you, never did."

*The Ghost Crew*

Ezra continues the Walkers trek away from the pursuing Imperials. "Ezra! I can't get a shot if you keep running from them," Sabine complains.

"Use the rear cannon," he shrugs in response.

"There is no rear cannon!"

"Hey, I'm doing the best I can!" the Lasat grumbles through the hatch. One of the other Walkers blaster bolts hits the rebels stolen vehicle, knocking Zeb off his perch, straight in front of the viewscreen.

"I can't see! Move!" the Padawan complains.

"Move? Move where?"

"Anywhere!"

"Just keep it walking in a straight line," Sabine responds. Keeping an eye on her comm. She jumps to her feet a few moments later, "Hera's incoming. Everyone up top! You too, Chop. Let it go."

The droid doesn't move, instead, he keeps searching the records.

Ezra follows Sabine to the top of the ship, just as Zeb climbs up. The Imperial Walker following directly behind them continues to shoot at them. All of the sudden, two bolts rain from the sky, knocking the Imperial ship out of commission. The Phantom zooms in overhead, opening it's ramp, allowing the rebels access to the ship.

Just as their feet touch solid metal, Ezra throws his hands to his head, "Chopper!"

"He's still searching for Kanan. Go get him," she commands the Lasat.

He leaps back across to the Walker, reaching into the ship, pulling the astromech out by his antennae. Tucking the droid under his arm, he growls, "Move, you stubborn junk pile! You're gonna get me fried!"

He successfully leaps back onto the Phantom, just as the rebels appropriated Walker explodes in a rainbow of colours.

"How'd it go?" the Twi'lek asks Ezra, shortly after the team enters the ship.

"It didn't," Ezra responds.

***

"Both Kanan and Keen knew the risks, accepted them. I'm sorry, but you must focus on your next objective," the hooded figure states through the hologram.

"But, Fulcrum, the Jedi are our objective. We can still find them," the Twi'lek pleads.

"At what cost? You? Your unit? The overall mission? There's something else, Hera. The transmission Ezra was able to beam out has attracted attention, not just from civilians, but from the highest levels of the Empire."

"It was Kanan's plan. I guess it worked."

"Your mission was to be unseen, unnoticed, and now–"

Hera cuts the figure off, "Kanan wanted to inspire people. He wanted to give them hope."

"Well, he was successful. But if you are caught, if Ezra is caught, that hope will die. To protect your unit, to protect Ezra, as much as I hate to say it," the cloaked figure sighs, "you must stop your search for Kanan and Ar'iabel, and go into hiding."

The Twi'lek sighs, flopping down onto her bunk, head dropping into her hands.

*Meanwhile*

The other members of the Ghost crew are sat around the holotable, studying a hologram of Lothal. "Odds are they've still got them at the Imperial Complex," the Mandalorian states.

The Lasat sighs, "If they do, we all know they're as good as gone."

Ezra focuses deeply into the Force, sensing their Force signatures. He snaps his eyes open, demanding, "They aren't gone. And they're not in the Imperial Complex."

"How do you know that?" the Lasat grumbles.

"I just know!"

"We can't make a plan based on a feeling," Sabine argues.

"Yes, we can. We do it all the time!"

"Not this time," Hera says, shooting the Padawan down.

"What are you talking about?" he demands, spinning to look at her.

"We can't go after Kanan and Keen," she explains, adding that it'll have to be a trap.

"When has that ever stopped us?" he protests, following her into the room.

"We can't risk it." Hera looks incredibly mournful, wanting more than anything to find Kanan, and by extension Keen.

Both Mandalorian and Lasat, still sitting at the holotable, sigh.

"Can't, or won't?"

"Ezra, there's a bigger mission you're not seeing. It can't be jeopardized for a... a couple of soldiers."

"'Soldiers'? They're our friends, Hera. I can't just forget them. And I can't believe you would either. Kanan would do whatever it took to protect us. Keen too."

Hera turns to face the Padawan, "They both already have when they sacrificed themselves. Ezra, they'd want us to honor the choice they made."

The boy angrily glares up at Hera, who placed her hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off angrily storming to the bunks. He walks down the hall, seeing the door to Kanan's bunk open, and Chopper sadly sitting in the room, "Hey" he confronts the droid. The astromech turns, chattering at the boy, going to leave the room. Ezra kneels down in front of him, resting his hands on the side of it's heads, "Hey, hey, hey, it's okay. I miss him too. But I have a plan to find him, as well as Keen. Wanna help?"

(Beginning of Rebel Resolve/Fire Across the Galaxy)

[waveridden]

FIC: a lesson in framing

All great stories begin with one person yelling at the other from across the street. Or: a photographer/model AU, of sorts. [AUcember]

#

Parker knows a few things about himself. He knows he’s flexible, and he knows he’s probably a little susceptible to suggestion. So when he’s walking down the street and all of a sudden someone shouts “Don’t move,” he stops moving. Even though that’s probably how you get mugged.

“Stay right there,” the voice shouts again, and Parker sees him this time. It’s a guy across the street, wearing a headband and ripped jeans, fumbling with something around his neck. “Hold on!”

Parker points at himself. “You mean me, right?”

“Yes, dude!” The guy lifts something up, and Parker barely has time to register it as a camera before he’s taking pictures, shutter clicking loudly enough that he can hear it.

Parker politely waits until the guy pauses and then says, as delicately as he can, “Hey, what’re you doing?”

“Art!”

“What kind of art?”

“What kind of- oil pastel, what do you think?”

“I think I’m confused,” Parker admits. “And also, we’re kind of yelling across the street at each other.”

A car drives between them, like it’s trying to punctuate Parker’s point. The guy looks totally unbothered. “Listen, the best art happens totally by accident, and you’re hot.”

“I’m what?”

“Hot, dude! Attractive!”

Parker kind of wants to ask the guy if he’s looked in the mirror lately, because he’s definitely got a scruffy hot artist vibe going on, and Parker’s at least a little into it. “Do you do this often?”

“Take pictures? It’s kind of my job.”

“I meant the yelling at strangers across the street.”

“Only when they’re in the middle of good art!”

“Am I?”

The guy snaps a few more pictures of Parker and then gives him a look like that’s supposed to mean yes. Parker supposes it sort of answers the question.

“Can I see the pictures?” he thinks to ask, finally.

“In a minute!” There are a few more photos. Parker tries to strike a pose for all of two seconds, but he can hear the guy make a weird noise from across the street, so he goes back to standing as naturally as he can. “Okay, hold on, I’m coming over!”

“You’re what?”

And the guy sprints across the middle of the street - not like there’s a ton of traffic, but it’s still not a great idea - and stops in front of Parker, grinning. He’s definitely prettier up close. Nice eyes. “Hey, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Parker says. “What was that?”

“I take photos,” the guy explains, because Parker definitely hasn’t picked up on that yet. “And sometimes when I see cool things I take pictures. Check it out.” He holds up his camera, and Parker shields his eyes to look at the viewscreen.

He’s not a photogenic person - at least, he never really thought he was - but the photos he’s scrolling through are actually pretty good. There are two tall buildings a block or two away - office buildings, if he had to guess - with a sizeable gap between them, and then some trees lining the street. And there’s Parker, standing in the middle of the trees, squarely between the two buildings. It’s almost… artistic.

“Whoa,” Parker says. “How did you do that?”

“How did you?” the guy counters.

“Uh, walking?”

“Yeah, sure, walking.”

“So what are you going to… you know, do with those?”

“You model ever?” the guy asks abruptly.

Parker can’t stop himself from snorting. “Uh, no.”

“You want to?”

“For you?”

“I’ll photograph you like one of my German boys,” the guy says. “Get it? Like Titanic.”

Parker has never seen Titanic, but that sounds like it could be a line from it, so he says, “Yeah, of course. Titanic.”

The guy grins a little wider. “I will take you out for dinner if you let me do a photoshoot with you, dude. And also if I sell prints you get a cut, obviously.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, dude! I’ll cut up prints for you.”

“I don’t think- is that what getting a cut means?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Parker says, because it’s not like he knows the first thing about the art business. “But- do you actually want to? For real?”

“Of course,” the guy says, like it should be obvious. “Look at these. Turned out okay, right?”

“That’s the best I’ve ever looked in photos,” Parker admits. “Do you just have an eye for these things?”

“Two of ‘em!” The guy winks. “C’mon. C’mooooon.”

“I don’t know how to model.”

“I’ll guide you. You did okay there, anyways.”

“Thanks,” Parker says, and he can feel himself caving. “What’s your name?”

“Folks call me Cib.” He sticks a hand out. “And yes, it is a nickname.”

“Oh, thank god,” Parker mutters, and then realizes he said that out loud. “Oh, I’m so-”

But Cib just laughs, ignoring the way Parker’s cheeks flame red. “Yeah, no, I did this to myself, don’t worry. What do folks call you?”

“Parker.” He shakes Cib’s hand. “Hi.”

“Hey. Sorry about yelling across the street, but I’m actually not, because you’re going to be so good in pictures. If you say yes.”

“Absolutely yes,” Parker says, and Cib smiles, and god, he’s got a good smile when he’s actually happy. “What does taking a photoshoot involve?”

“You let me drag you around for a whlie.” Cib eyes him up and down. “Maybe wear my jacket.”

“What?”

“For outfit composition. You gotta-” he gestures at Parker’s entire body. “Like, it’s good, but the fashion makes it better, you hear what I’m feeling?”

“Maybe?”

“Good enough,” Cib says cheerfully, and reaches into his pocket. “Almost forgot, I have business cards! So you can look me up and prove I’m real.”

“I think you’re real,” Parker says, but he takes the proffered business card. The name on it is Clayton James, and it feels like it rings a bell, but he doesn’t know why. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, babe.” Cib winks again. “Seriously, anytime, because I printed a lot of these bad boys with typos on them, and I do need to get rid of them, very badly.”

“Really?” Parker looks back down at the business card and squints. “What’s the typo?”

“That’s a fixed one,” Cib says. “But I have about six hundred that say Clayton Jams, which would be a great name if I deejayed a radio show.”

“Or ran a jam and jelly business.”

“Or fixed broken printers,” Cib muses, and Parker laughs. Cib has the camera in his hands in the blink of an eye and takes a couple pictures, camera clicking away.

“Stop,” Parker laughs. “Lighting’s bad-”

“You’ve got a good smile,” Cib protests, and keeps taking photos, almost without pause. “These aren’t for anyone but me, dude, don’t worry.”

Parker can’t help but smile a little wider at that. And Cib keeps taking pictures.

#

He doesn’t think to google Cib until that night, after they go out for dinner (and ice cream, because Parker didn’t want to say goodbye). But the business card is still in his pocket, and so he decides to search for Clayton James.

The first thing that comes up is his website. The second is a shoot with Ed Sheeran, done for GQ. And the third is a multi-page spread with Vogue. And the cast of Star Wars.

“Oh my god, he’s famous,” Parker says aloud, mouth going dry. There are a lot- god, there are a lot of big photoshoots here. And he thought Parker, plain old Parker down the street, was good enough art to take pictures of.

#

To: Cib You actually met the Star Wars cast???

From: Cib hell yeah

From: Cib you were nicer than almost all of them though

From: Cib and better looking. than almost all of them

To: Cib I feel like you’re flattering me

From: Cib mmmmmmmaybe

From: Cib I like you better though

To: Cib I like you better too

[trbl-will-find-me]

We have not touched the stars; nor are we forgiven (2/3)

Everyone has a job to do.

You should eat.

It is the fourth time the creature has said as much.

Not until we hear from the Skirmishers.

She has yet to change out of her bloodied clothing. She’s not sure why Asaru thinks eating is even on her radar.

Her hands ache from gripping the shovel, and her back is locking. She feels hollow, somehow both separate from her body and trapped in it.

Hey, she asks. You don’t know where Central is, do you?

I am as isolated as you are.

She turns her attention back to digging. They’ve settled on two to a grave.

Regardless, it is too great a number.

--

She is still digging, caked in blood and sweat and dirt, when word comes from the ship that there is a secure communication from Skirmisher HQ. She hauls herself up and out of the hole, and makes her way towards the bridge.

“Captain, we have located your Central Officer and have allies in place who are ready to help with the extraction, but we must move quickly.”

“Is he alright?”

“They have not … tampered with him.”

She nods. “Understood. What do you need from us to make it happen?”

“A familiar face. We are allies, but my kind is not known to him.”

“I’ll go. I’m not sure how I’ll get to you, but I’ll go.”

Is this wise? Asaru asks.

“Transmit your coordinates. We will arrange for a solution.”

This is not a discussion we’re having.

“Transmitting now. Should we be expecting a surprise? The crew’s still pretty badly shaken.”

Should you not remain here?

“We will send word before our arrival.”

No, I should not remain here. Not while he’s out there.

“Understood. ETA?”

“Two hours at most.”

“You and your people have our thanks.”

“We, too, have known loss, Captain. Betos out.”

The viewscreen fades to black.

You should take off those clothes.

Excuse me? She asks the creature.

They are covered in blood. You will alarm the tall one.

Gingerly, she lifts the soiled cloth, exposing a thin, white line where the slug had torn through her. She traces a finger over it, not quite believing in her own existence.

I am sorry it was not cleaner. You did not have much time.

She lets the cloth drop, and instead threads a hand through the neck hole of her shirt, her fingers tracing over the skin once torn through by shrapnel. She’d gripped the picnic table til her knuckles had gone white while Central had removed the shards, cleaned, and patched the wound.

She scrubs at her eyes, chasing away a renewed wave of tears.

You must get ready. We do not have much time.

--

Maman raised her on a steady diet of stories, real, imaginary and somewhere in between. There are histories she could scribe for future generations, tall tales she could recite in her sleep, fairy tales she knows by heart.

So, yes, she believes in the magic of objects, of stacking the deck, of refusing to allow the wheel of fate to turn against you because you couldn’t be damned to find some wood to knock against.

She will apologize to him for breaking into his footlocker later.

She finds what she’s looking for quickly enough, two small aluminum tags embossed with lettering. Bradford, John A. 511-48-4360. O negative. Agnostic.

She relocks the container, sets the tags on her bunk, and grabs a change of clothes for the shower.

On any other day, she would take her time, let the water run over aching muscles while she took a few moments to get her head together. Instead, she scrubs down quickly, doing her best to expunge reminders of the day’s events from her skin and hair.

She dresses, and slips the tags from her bunk into her pocket, brushing her thumb back and forth over the embossing.

You do not think we will find him.

She pauses. Shhh, you’re not supposed to say it. Say what?

That.

Why not? Saying it does not make it come to pass.

It’s … it’s a human thing.

Ah, the concept of jinxing it.

She lets out a short bark of pathetic laughter before she can stop herself. Yeah. That’s it. Don’t jinx it.

She bundles into her armor, and spends the remaining time before the Skirmishers’ arrival setting the bridge to rights as best she can.

She lingers at the door to the Commander’s Quarters, knowing that the kind thing to do would be to begin packing its contents away. She knows it is something Central will never do on his own, and is not a task anyone else will be likely to undertake. If it is to be done, it falls to her.

She begins with the best of intentions, gathering glasses and plates to return to the mess. She folds clean laundry dumped on the sofa, separating the Commander’s clothes from his.

She takes one look at the piles folded, sorted, and separated and is on the ground sobbing before she can understand what’s come over her. She doesn’t remember the last time she cried like this, isn’t sure she ever has.

She knows so many people who are lost to her now. Her family. The Commander. Jane. Lily. Virtually every friend she’s ever made. Nearly the entire complement of the Avenger.

The loss is staggering.

It overtakes her, tearing sob after sob from her throat, til she can’t breathe, let alone think. She grips hard at the couch cushion, unable to muster any additional strength. She cannot feel the creature in her head, and she wonders, briefly, if it has left her.

I am here. I did not want to intrude.

She pushes herself up onto the couch, curling into one of the cushions.  She draws in a few shuddering breaths, frantically scrubbing at her cheeks with gloved hands.

She remembers, then, when she’d last cried like this. She was little, then, just barely eleven. Maman had been gone a few weeks. They were staying in a haven somewhere inland from the Virginia coast, a frantic bet on a gentler early spring, and ADVENT had come to pay them a visit, descending from the sky in dropships that had always, perhaps erroneously, reminded her of coffins. The air had reeked of blood and death, with corpses littering the ground. She had hidden, pressed flat to the ground under the remains of a rotting front porch, cowering in the darkness until she’d heard him calling her name. She had wriggled out, brushing herself off, and wandered towards the sound, through the remains of the encampment.

When she’d finally found him, the sound that escaped from her was barely human. He’d held her while she’d howled into his coat, howled the way she couldn’t when Maman had been found dead, when Papa disappeared, when the ships shaped like coffins dropped death itself onto innocents, time and time again.

The realization that she may never see him again, that even their best attempts may be too late, that she may have to file him away on the list of those ADVENT has ripped from her life, is too much.

Her hand flies out, grabbing a pillow and bringing it to her face to muffle the scream she can no longer suppress.

She stays hunched in on herself for a few moments, trying to regain some semblance of her composure.

I did not think you wanted to alert the ship, Asaru explains.

Good call.

--

She cuts through the brush, away from the Avenger, refusing to look back.

“I’m coming back with him, or I’m not coming back,” she said to Tygan.

Two teams of Skirmishers are inbound, one to lead the rescue, and one to prop up XCOM’s battered remnants.

She offers a silent thanks to the Commander for the effort she’d put into cultivating the alliance between the two factions. She cannot imagine such a response from the Reapers or Templars, cannot imagine aid given so freely.

The first team disembarks, and she points them back towards what remains of her home.

A helmetless Stun Lancer extends a hand. She accepts, and is pulled onto the craft.

Inside, she finds another Lancer and a Captain, similarly free of their headgear.

They have suffered, Asaru says. They have known cruelty.

That’s why they’re helping us.

No, he insists. They are helping us because they believe it is the right thing to do.

“Captain Royston,” the Lancer who helped her aboard begins. “I am Emra Alatall. This,” she says gesturing to the other Lancer, “is Amon Vemo. And this,” she says, gesturing towards the Captain. “is Cadna Eim.”

“You have my thanks, and XCOM’s,” she says. “I know this is a huge risk to take.”

“Your people have suffered an immeasurable loss,” Eim offers. “The Skirmishers will carry her memory forward. ”

“I just hope we get a shot,” she says.

“XCOM will not fight alone,” Alatall reassures her. “Have you been briefed on the plan?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

“We are planning a stealthy approach,” Vemo begins. “We have many allies stationed at the facility holding your comrade. They have made arrangements for a transfer of custody. We going in as the transport vehicle.”

She nods. “How can I help?”

“In our experience,” Eim says. “Those rescued from the imprisonment of the Elders are often disoriented. A known face facilitates a smoother extraction.”

“Keep him calm?”

“Precisely.”

“How am I getting in?” She asks after a moment’s contemplation. “I can’t just walk through the door.”

“But you can,” Alatall says. “Though it will not be glamorous.”

She eyes the manacles hanging from the Lancer’s belt. “Prisoner?”

“Prisoner. It is the simplest and the safest way to maneuver you into the cell block where he is being held.”

She nods. “Understood.”

--

She can hear the Speaker’s voice before they even land.

“The degenerate XCOM has once again mercilessly struck down another innocent life.”

She can feel the hives threatening to bloom across her stomach and along her arms.

“A friend of the Elders, a tireless supporter of the ADVENT administration, and a true believer in the promise of the new world.”

Bile rises in her gut.

“Yes, fellow citizens, today we mourn the loss of Elizabeth Regan.”

No screaming. Asaru says. You cannot scream now. There is nothing to muffle it. We are close to the tall one.

You’re positive?  She asks.

Yes. We are close.

Alatall snaps the manacles around her wrists and Vemo helps her to the ground. Eim exits from the other side, leading their small procession through the gate and into the facility.

They walk some distance through dark, silent halls, eerie red light casting menacing shadows as they pass.

They stop in front of a door, and Eim places her palm against it.

She is wholly unprepared for the barrage of sound that assaults her ears as the door slides open. It Is the Speaker’s voice, entreating, demanding, berating, an endless loop of speeches, one no longer discernible from the next. She can’t remember the specifics of what constitutes torture, but she’s fairly certain this at least a close approximation.

Alatall removes the manacles from her wrists, and gestures for her to enter. “Our time grows short.”

He is curled on the floor, hands still cuffed.

She lowers herself to the ground next to him. “Central,” she says, gently shaking his arm. “Central, come on. Wake up.”

He stirs, and rises slowly. “Magpie? How did you …”

“I brought help. I’ll explain everything, but we’ve gotta go.”

He furrows his brow at her. “How do I know you’re---“

She draws a shaky breath. “I have seven perfectly white scars on my right shoulder from a friendly frag grenade that went off during an ADVENT retaliation somewhere in the middle of the place you said used to be Colorado. I was sixteen. I was too afraid to scream and I couldn’t down the liquor and you couldn’t decide if you were allowed to be relieved about that or not, so I gripped at the picnic table till my knuckles went white. And when you were done, you had to dig the splinters out of my hand by flashlight because they’d gone so deep.”

He reaches out a hand to cup her cheek. “You seem real enough.”

“I promise, I am, but we have to go.”

He nods, still dazed, and she works to help him to his feet, guiding him out from the cell into the quiet of the hall.  Alatell replaces the manacles on her wrists, and their small procession, now larger by one reverses its course.

Thank you, Asaru says. She would be pleased.

--

She’s sprawled across Central’s chest in the infirmary, taking comfort in its steady rise and fall. Sleep tugs at the edges of her vision, but she resists, fearing what dreams may come.

What is this? Asaru asks.

You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.

This.

Exhaustion?

No, I understand exhaustion. There is something else here.

Grief?

No, I understand that all too well. This is like what she felt for him, but it is different.

Love?

Yes, maybe it is that. But it does not feel the same.

It’s … think of it as an umbrella term. There’s a lot of different kinds. They all feel different.

What is this one?

She sighs. This is not one of her brighter ideas. It’s … it’s easier if you go look yourself. Try not … try not to hit anything too painful.

She closes her eyes and grounds herself in the steady thump of his heart in her ear. The creature picks through carefully, doing its best to avoid the worst of her memories.

Oh, Asaru says. So, that is what it is.

Yeah, that’s what it is.

[stephanidftba]

BTS of my Entim'ara fic:

(fic at https://archiveofourown.org/works/21487177)

CH 1

“Well, my little brother Norvo’s in prison for murder.” Ezri stopped as Kira put her head in her hands.

“Your past life and your little brother?”

“You mean Joran? Yeah. I think having his memories is part of why I was able to handle it so well when Norvo was arrested.” Ezri nodded.

- Ezri has to deal with a surprising amount of murder 

"Our father left when we were little, Mother ran him off I guess." Ezri listed.

- Where’s Ezri’s dad? He went back to Space Canada after teaching Ezri how to say ‘sorry’. 

CH 2 

"Entim'ara. Togetherness festival." Ezri explained. "It takes place over 3 days. It’s a celebration of romance, family, friends... Joined Trill don't really celebrate since it can be a reminder of all the loved ones past hosts have lost…”  

"So you just psychoanalyze your mother?" Kira asked. 

"Yup." Ezri nodded. "Not to her face, of course, she doesn't like me using my training on family, but it helps to know what you're getting into."

- These concepts lifted from the Ezri-suggestion blog (<3) 

"You really enjoy being the tall one, now." Ezri accused with a grin. 

- I love how short Ezri is, especially compared to Kira and Jadzia. 

Part of her brain kept insisting she'd feel better if she pushed her forehead against something, but it wasn't working. She suspected her brain was actually seeking a cool surface and the signal was getting jumbled.

- My brain does this when nauseous and it’s so weird and annoying 

"What in the pools could a counselor be busy with?"

- I really like taking english phrases and twisting them for aliens 

Kira stood up and held her close, tucked Ezri's head down to rest on Kira's shoulder. Their faces were blocked from the viewscreen. 

- These sentences took me so long to get close to right (I’m still not entirely happy with them). Everything I tried felt wrong, impersonally descriptive, kind of like passive voice, when what I wanted to show was Kira hiding Ezri from Yanas’ view on purpose so they could whisper to each other. 

CH 3

“This must be your girlfriend that I’ve heard nothing about.”

- This guilt-tripping twist on ‘This must be X that I’ve heard so much about.’ still makes me chuckle. 

“Kira, would you prefer to stay in the guest room or Ezri’s room?” Her mother asked… "I assume that's something from Dax…” 

Yanas is very pointedly using Kira’s family name and the name of the symbiont here, saying ‘I can be nice and use the names you want me to’. 

the handful of model spaceships slowly making their way around the ceiling

- Taken from a planned but unfilmed detail from Prodigal Daughter 

"4pm. Can you make it until dinner?" He replied.

"I think so."

"1700?" Kira clarified. Ezri shook her head.

"New Sydney's on a 24 hour system, it's about 1530 Bajoran time."

"We probably will be a bit starlagged, it’s close to 2100 on the station." Kira nodded.

- I made a conversion chart between 24 and 26 hour days because time math is already hard, and I kept almost having people leave work at 1700 

“Because Joining is so important to most Trill, toy symbionts are used to explain the concept to children, as long as they're big enough to not fit into a child's pouch."

- Even though Ezri probably grew up away from the planet Trill, she’s still a Trill, and would learn about her body as kids do. And since many kids stick stuff up their nose, I imagine Trill kids would try and stick stuff in their pouch, especially when adults explain that maybe they might have a symbiont in there when they grow up. 

“Ezri, have you heard from Brinner?” Her mother asked. 

- Ezri’s mother is uncomfortable with the conversation (Ezri dating the second in command of the station), so she retaliates and asks about something that will probably make Ezri uncomfortable. 

“After what he- you’re the one who pressured him into- him and Janel-!” Ezri threw her napkin down and started pacing behind her chair, her thoughts coming too fast to even get out properly. 

- These are happening at the same time, I don’t know how to properly convey that. 

“We were the only Trill on the Destiny, and were informed that if Dax's condition worsened, sy would have to be joined. We both planned for it to be Brinner. Turns out he was a Changeling, though. Completely screwed up his chances of getting Joined when he attacked me." Ezri took a deep breath and Kira squeezed her hand. "Apparently wanted to make certain he’d get Dax. I passed out. When I came to, they told me that the Changeling was dead, but he'd hurt both the real Brinner Finok and Dax. Sy needed to be joined and I was the only one available."

- Taken from what I remember of Ezri’s story in Lives of Dax. 

“I’ve co-slept before. You can’t be worse than a twitchy resistance fighter, or a 7 year old.” 

- Because you can’t convince me little Molly O’Brien never had a bad dream and crawled in bed with her Aunt Nerys. (I’m bad at math but I think Molly would be 7 when Kira’s pregnant with Yoshi.) 

CH 4

Ezri unwrapped her present to find a small bedside mirror with her name printed on it. 

- I know there’s a fic (rated M or E I think) where Ezri has a picture of herself beside her bed to remind her who she is when she wakes up, and it backfires. This idea is adapted from that. 

“I know you sometimes have trouble with Dax in the mornings, I hope it helps.”

“Thank you, Mother, I’m sure it will be useful.” Ezri smiled. At least her mother was trying to help with her struggles...

“Happy Entim’ara, Ez.” He passed her a model spaceship kit, the Defiant. She hadn’t built models in years, she had no need to anymore. But he’d tried to get her something she’d like. 

- When someone gets you presents that you have no interest in because they don’t really know you so they just get things based on the little that they know about you. And you don’t like the present but you don’t want to seem ungrateful so you just go along with it (even though this encourages the bad gifts). 

“You being home is present enough.” He smiled.

- I’M REWRITING THAT FOLGERS COMMERCIAL  

Though she was taking the opportunity to glimpse the ridges on Kira's forearms and calves close-up. She knew they were more prominent when bones and cartilage were near the skin. 

- I like thinking about alien anatomy far too much for someone who doesn’t really know how human anatomy works. 

"You're perfectly safe. Tobin wasn't your fault. We're not going above impulse." Kira murmured. Torias had been the one who died in a shuttle craft, but Ezri knew it was hard for others to keep all of Dax's hosts straight. She sometimes had trouble with it, and she remembered being them all. 

- This line brought to you by ‘I mixed up Tobin and Torias and rationalized that Dax’s friends would probably not remember all the previous hosts perfectly’. 

“because of the secret of Joran and how confused Joining made me, and how few ties I have to Trill, I'm worried the Symbiosis Commission is keeping an eye on me to keep the secret, especially when I call you.”

- Ezri “says goodnight to the FBI agent assigned to watch her” Dax 

"Ez? We landed." Kira wiggled her shoulder. 

"I fell asleep?" She muttered, sitting up...

Eventually Kira woke her (she hadn’t intended to fall asleep) and they went to fall asleep properly in Ezri’s bed. 

- Ezri feels safe and relaxed in Kira’s arms 

CH 5 

This chapter exists because I realized in shortening their trip to and from DS9, I’d accidentally written a 5 day week. 

They entered the gravity acclimatization chamber

- The gravity acclimatization chamber is a little room with its own gravity plating that tilts you from the normal gravity of your ship to the tilted gravity of the station 

“Maybe we can try to sneak onto a blue hill.” 

- Kira “takes a sled down a black diamond run to prove Ezri’s mom wrong” Nerys 

“She told me that when you get upset, you can say really cruel things.” 

- See: Ezri talking to her mom in Prodigal Daughter, Ezri and Worf when they crash land and get taken prisoner by the Dominion. 

“it’s late, people say stuff at night that they wouldn’t say if they were fully awake.” 

- I read somewhere that there’s a scientific reason for this but I can’t find it. 

CH 6 

"It's okay," Kira murmured, rubbing her back, "you're safe now." ... “You can let it out, you’re safe.” 

- Don’t imagine Kira’s dad comforting her like this when she’s little, or Kira during the Occupation comforting other kids by assuring them it’s safe to show emotion, that there’s no Cardassians around. 

CH 7

I’m still debating taking out the early stopping points here. People are going to read to the end, so having multiple ‘the end’s seems weird. But I wrote all 3 intending for it to be ‘the end’ then came back to add more, so all 3 work as ‘the end’. 

[avidbeader]

Yet more of the Sheith soulmates AU

Part 1

Part 2

Voltron fic-in-progress, likely T-rating when all is said and done, and Sheith without monkeying with their ages. Concrit and feedback and title inspirations are welcome.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

When the press conference happened, Keith watched from Shiro’s couch. He leaned forward intently, waiting for the spokesperson to wade through all the things that the Garrison residents would know but that the general population needed for context. Then the spokesperson got to the heart of the matter.

“It is with the deepest sadness and regret that we must share that the Kerberos mission was a failure. The ship appears to have crashed on the moon. We presume at this point that it was due to pilot error, some mistake by Captain Shirogane—”

“WHAT?” Keith shouted in disbelief.

“—and all crew members are missing, presumed dead.”

“YOU LIARS!” He threw the remote hard enough to leave a dent in the wall next to the viewscreen before charging out of Shiro’s apartment.

<> <> <> <> <>

Iverson intercepted him before he got halfway to the Garrison’s conference center. He grabbed Keith by the shoulders and swung him around.

“I know, I know. The higher-ups are trying to brush it all under a rug because if we let it out that hostile aliens exist we’ll have a worldwide panic. And even if we were able to get a new team out just like that we still wouldn’t arrive in time to help. They’re long gone.”

His words shredded Keith from his throat to the pit of his stomach. Until this point he had refused to consider the worst, that Shiro was gone forever. He choked out, “But pilot error? Why not mechanical failure if you have to lie about it? Why blame Shiro?”

“Because too many egos are involved in the design and construction of the ships. It would set us back years if we had to redesign anything due to mechanical failure.”

“You’re scapegoating him!”

“Son—”

“You’re going to let his family, his friends, all of history believe he’s a failure when he’s not!”

“Cadet!”

Keith ground his teeth together, holding back the torrent of words.

“You have to stay quiet. If you want any kind of future here, if you want the chance to get to space yourself, you have to stay quiet. Do you understand? Don’t you think he would have wanted you to achieve your dreams?”

“He does want it. Don’t forget, he’s still alive out there. I know that for a fact.”

With that, Keith batted Iverson’s hands away from him and stalked back the way he came.

He didn’t see Iverson’s expression harden as he watched the youth leave.

Neither of them saw the small figure hiding in a recess in the wall nearby.

<> <> <> <> <>

Katie Holt wasn’t quite sure how she managed to sneak back to the guest quarters where she and her mother were staying. Every bit of her considerable mind was wrapped around what she had heard. Shiro had not crashed. They had seemingly run into aliens and been captured. This cadet swore that Shiro was alive, which meant that her family was out there, still alive, and the Garrison wasn’t planning to even try a rescue. They were going to cover it all up instead and abandon the crew.

She wondered at first how the cadet could be so certain about Shiro, then it hit her. Shiro had a soulmate. Matt had brought it up, making a funny story about them discovering each other in a hand-to-hand combat class. Her father had helped Shiro, something about a scientist wanting to study the bond as two soulmates were about to be divided by the greatest distance ever recorded.

So this cadet knew for certain that Shiro was alive. He might be able to tell from Shiro’s emotions whether her father and Matt were all right. Now she had one available proof.

But two proofs would be better. She would stake out Iverson’s office and try to access any video feeds from the ship that would show a safe landing. Armed with both, she could get her mother and maybe Shiro’s parents to believe and act on the information.

<> <> <> <> <>

Keith managed to hold himself together for the next week. Other than his classes and meals, he hid out in Shiro’s apartment. He spent hours curled up on Shiro’s bed, focusing love and support through their bond. Shiro was still afraid, sometimes angry, injured once, and often sick to his very core over having to kill. Keith guessed that Shiro had been conscripted into some alien army, fighting beings that he had no quarrel with for the sake of the aliens who had kidnapped him. He often worried about the Holts, so Keith had further proof that the entire crew had survived the initial arrival on Kerberos.

He had put Dr. Hooper off, claiming illness and then questioning her need for him as she had her own records of the soul bond extending all the way to Kerberos without losing any strength. But two weeks after the press conference, she called him.

“I need you to meet me immediately, somewhere off campus. It’s hugely important.”

“I don’t know what more I can tell you, but all right. The coffeeshop next to Stellaluna’s Pizza?”

“Be there as soon as possible.”

Keith left Shiro’s apartment and took his hoverbike into town. He entered the shop and looked around, but it took a hand waved at him to recognize her. Dr. Hooper had cut her long dark hair short and lightened it.

He sat down across from her and frowned as she scanned the shop once more. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is that someone killed our project. I haven’t been able to figure out who or why, but something is very, very wrong. Here, take this.” She used her foot to push a backpack against his legs, something fairly heavy inside. “Don’t open it here. I drew out the rest of the grant money just before they closed that off, too. This is your share in cash, small bills. Do not deposit it.”

“But—”

“If I’m wrong, then fine. I’ll look like an idiot. But it hit me, you and I are the only people that can prove that the Kerberos crew is alive. And someone important decided that they need to be dead. I have family up in Alberta who can help me hide. Do you want to come with me?”

“I…no. If what you’re saying is true we need to split up. I think I have somewhere to go if I need it. But I should talk to Iverson, he’s the only one left who will listen to me.”

Hooper’s face creased in worry lines. “If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.”

She stood then leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “It’s been wonderful to work with you. I hope… I don’t know what I hope. But good luck.” She shouldered her purse, picked up her coffee, and left.

<> <> <> <> <>

Hooper’s worry was contagious. When Keith returned to the apartment block at the Garrison, he parked inside the basement garage instead of on the street. He unzipped the backpack enough to see that it was indeed full of fives, tens, and twenties. He locked it in the hold behind the hoverbike seat.

Once in Shiro’s apartment, he found an empty duffle bag and swiftly tossed in clothes from the drawers he had used, grabbing armfuls carelessly. He added the few things that he had brought with him from his own room: the dagger his father had said was from his mother’s family, the single picture he had of his dad, and the black belt he had earned just a month before leaving for the Garrison. He took the packed back down to the garage and added it to the hold.

If he was wrong, he wouldn’t look too much like a paranoid idiot.

<> <> <> <> <>

It was sooner than she would like, but it had to be tonight. Colleen Holt had been awarded a massive amount of compensation money and was returning to her parents’ home in Connecticut with Katie to try and rebuild her life. Their flight was scheduled for tomorrow.

Katie dressed simply, in jeans and a shirt, leaving her backpack of tech behind. She had been allowed to wander freely over most of the complex so far. Her pocket tablet had what she would need to decode any locked door quickly. After that it was a matter of getting into Iverson’s computer and finding the files.

Piece of cake.

<> <> <> <> <>

This was new.

Shiro tried to keep his emotions on an even keel for Keith’s sake, but any change in the routine usually meant pain and blood. Today he and Ch’varr, the red-horned alien, had been pulled out of their cells and loaded into a small transport, going away from the arena. They would not be fighting in teams against large creatures for the entertainment of these aliens—these Galra.

Just yesterday one of the other aliens, Merool, had died in the fight. The creature’s claws had not cut very deep, but from the amount of blood that resulted it was clear that a major artery had been sliced open. Matt and Xi had tried to stem the blood while the others worked to bring the beast down. But by the time they succeeded and ran over to help Merool, he was dead.

Last night was the closest Shiro had come to considering suicide. It would be so easy: provoke a guard, move the wrong way in the next fight, even make a statement of it in the arena by impaling himself on one of the swords. But he knew he couldn’t.

He couldn’t do that to Matt and leave him alone here, with no one else.

He couldn’t do that to Commander Holt, who was hopefully still out there somewhere.

And he couldn’t do that to Keith. His father had made it abundantly clear just how devastating it was to lose that beloved presence, how empty it left one’s mind and heart. Before modern psychology and mental care, soulmates had usually followed each other into death by suicide or neglect.

He would not do that to Keith.

Besides, the only way to get back to Earth somehow was to keep living, keep hoping, and keep looking for a way out.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Part 4

[solarbird]

Two and a half weeks after Lena Oxton arrives in London

[The eighteenth instalment]

"Heya, Winston!"

"Lena! It's been weeks - it's so good to see you," he replied, with a three second delay. "Are you okay? At least you're on the ground this time - where are you?"

"Brighton! Can't you hear - oh, I've got background noise filtering turned on, let me fix that." And the sound of the ocean appeared around her in Winston's feed. "It's cold, but I'm on the beach. Look!" She aimed the camera to the sea.

"It's March and it's not even raining! How about that," came Winston's voice, clearly, over the small speaker. "Is Amélie there? Or any of her friends? "

"Nope!" she chirped, turning the transmitter back around and walking with it. "It's just me, all by myself, kicking around old haunts."

"You're... out, then?"

"Yep. Entirely on me own, footloose and fancy free, walking the earth - or at least this beach - with no way to be found. Nobody even knows who or where I am - except you, I s'pose."

She didn't mention the retrieval beacon in her bag.

"I'm staying a couple of nights in a hostel, a few blocks in. It's cheap! And nice. But mostly, cheap."

"Off-season like this, I'd hope so." The scientist discreetly zoomed his viewscreen and scrolled around, looking for anything out of place in the background. Nothing obvious. "So... Talon just let you leave."

"Sure did. Helped me arrange my story and flew me out."

He leaned forward, and said, conspiratorially and low, "You haven't assassinated anyone yet, have you?"

Tracer laughed. "Only because I can't catch a shuttle to the moon, y'big ape. Which way do you want to go - pummellings or too much peanut butter?"

"Oh, peanut butter, definitely." He put on his best, big, toothy grin, which he let drop to a more genuine smile as a small popup window confirmed, Signal origin: south coast of England (probability 93%), Brighton Beach (probability 77%). "They really just... let you go."

"Yep. I said I needed to go find my old life, and Amélie made it happen." She bit her lower lip. "It's like she even agreed."

"Are you... alive again? Legally, I mean? Do you have money? Did they re-activate your commission?" Location probabilities climbed as more signal data arrived, and Winston dismissed the window. Good enough, he thought.

The smile Lena had been keeping propped up fell. "I'm... still working on that. After they cleared me at the consulate and helped me hitch onto a cargo flight home, I thought it would be easy. I kind of thought I'd be snapped up at Heathrow for debriefing, really. But... I wasn't. I just can't seem to get anybody's attention."

The pilot sat down on the top of a breakwater, propped up the transmitter, picked up a rock, and threw the latter towards the waves. "It's like I'm some kind of ghost."

"That's very strange," he granted. "Overwatch has been out of the news for a couple of years now, but - take it from me - the governments are still keeping tabs on everyone."

"Yeh. But it's fine, honestly!" It wasn't fine, but she managed to mean it through sheer sunny determination nonetheless. She turned back to the camera. "I've got enough money to live on for weeks - a few months, if I'm careful. So I thought, well, I just need to get out of London, right? Take a few days by the ocean, get some of that sea air. Get my head cleared up."

Partial retina image capture, said another, discreet popup. Image quality acceptable. Match probability 96%, margin of error +/-35%. "That accelerator they built you - how's it holding up?" He pursed his lips and shook his head. "I wish they'd used mine," he grumbled.

"Oh, it's absolutely wizard! Once I got the swing of it? Natural as breathing. I'll show you some time, I promise!"

Far away under the surface of the moon, in the research station now again his home, Winston the scientist studied Tracer's face for any hint, any sign, of the kind of programming he believed had been implanted into Amélie Lacroix. Face and voice analytics ran over and through every frame of vision and every millisecond of audio, searching for some hint, some breath of change, and found nothing.

Of course, they'd found nothing with Amélie either. But they'd had less reason to look.

I need someone actually there, he decided. "Lena, would you let me tell Angela you're back, and safe? I'd feel better if she checked you over herself. In person."

The pilot nodded enthusiastically, throwing another stone into the sea. "Let's! I'll be back to it on Monday, trying to get someone to listen to me. It'd be great to have someone from the old crew around to chat." She picked up a little stick of driftwood, and poked at more beach rocks, turning them over, seeing what was underneath. Generally, that meant more rocks. "To be honest, it's been kind of lonely. Funny, innit? Me? Lonely?"

"Haven't you looked up any old friends?"

"Oh, I've looked 'em up all right. It's a military life, though - most everybody I can find's been all moved 'round. Katarina's back in Norway, my graduating class have completely dispersed - a lot of 'em are in Greece, but I don't have the money to fly anywhere. The only one I found still in London was Imogen."

"That's too bad. I'd transfer you some money, if I could. But at least you found her."

"Yeah..." she said, sadly.

"uh oh."

Adequate data received to begin deep analysis, said the popup. Winston deactivated additional notifications.

"It was..." She looked for other words to describe it, and came up with nothing better than, "...it was weird, big guy. We were great friends in flight school, and we kept in touch when I jumped to Overwatch. And now, I'm... I'm literally back from the dead, least as far as she's concerned, and she won't even talk to me."

"That's awful!"

"She recognised me, I'm sure of it. She said she didn't, but I know she did. She said she didn't even remember knowing anyone who joined up with Overwatch." Tracer looked off to the side, not liking where her thoughts went. "She looked scared, Winston. Of me."

I can understand why, he thought to himself. The woman whose death brought down Overwatch is back from the grave, hasn't aged a day, and nobody is talking about it - who knows what you are? But out loud, he said, "I'm sorry," and meant it.

"It's been five years, the world's a different place - it feels like wheels are flying off everywhere, it really does - but now look out everyone, Tracer's coming to town! I thought..." her voice trailed off.

"Those missing five years didn't sink in, did they?"

They really hadn't, she knew. Not until then. "I really miss you, big guy," she said, sad and quiet.

"I've missed you too, Lena," he answered, softly. "I can't get off this rock, but you can always - any time of the day - radio me, and I'll listen." He reached over and touched a few points on a console. "I'm sending you my 'wakeup' prefix code. It will get me up, if I'm here, and I will answer."

Her padd chirped. "Got it."

"And don't wait 'till you're back in Brighton. Any time. Day or night."

"I will, I will! But maybe not tomorrow." She shook her head, brushing off the sadness. "There's a bar just a bit down the way, and it's also just hit me that I haven't picked anyone up in a bar in over five years, and that can't be helping. I think I'm gonna fix that tonight."

Winston howled with laughter, big honking bellows. "Now that sounds like the old Tracer," he said, merrily. "But... how're you going to explain the accelerator?"

"What, you think I've got some bulky ring in my chest, like yours? These are posh, mate!" She grinned. "I figured it out on the flight north. I just call 'em bioluminescent tattoos, and all the girls will want their own."

"Heh," he chuffed. "I believe the traditional Air Force benediction is, 'Good hunting?'"

"Rwrar." She winked.

"Go get 'em, pilot. But promise you'll radio me from London on Monday."

"I will, Winston. I promise."

Winston waited 'till Lena shut down her transmitter, and then threw the whole conversation - sound, vision, raw signal, transmission detail data, everything - into deep computational processing, to send along to Dr. Ziegler. If they've done anything to you, he thought, I will find it. And one way or another, somehow - they will pay.

[marypsue]

Beth leaves shortly after Summer heads upstairs to pack. Slams the headset down on the counter hard enough to put a crack in the viewscreen, sick of the nausea curdling in the pit of her stomach at the sight of the empty house, the birdcages dominating every corner of the main room. Sure, it's a dream life. It's also completely out of her grasp. And the darkness of the room is suffocating.

"Can we find another channel?" Jerry's complaining, as Beth makes her way behind the couch to the stairs. "Think we've all seen just about enough of ourselves for one lifetime."

She isn't planning to leave, at first. She's just planning to remove herself from the kitchen, and earshot of her family, and easy reach of the wine. Make it easier for herself to make positive life decisions, to do something constructive instead of destructive, all those platitudes she's picked up from the (useless) marriage counseling sessions. She's better than this, she's better than - she won't let a little (enormous) thing like this drag her down. Beth will rise above, she will be steady in the face of adversity and she'll set a good example for the kids and - and -

There's a thump from down the hall, Summer slamming her closet door, and Beth sags against the wall.

Summer opens her mouth to yell when Beth pushes open her door, but stops when Beth grabs the garbage bag full of clothes and says, "If you can't carry it down the stairs, then you're not going to be able to haul it all the way across the country. And you'll want it to be able to fit in the overhead bins on an airplane or a bus. Don't you have a duffel bag somewhere?"

"Wait, you're...helping me run away from home?" Summer asks, squinting suspiciously and pulling the garbage bag in close to her chest. Beth can't blame her. "You're my mom. Aren't you supposed to, like, try and talk me out of it?"

"Probably," Beth says. "Did you pack a good winter coat? It gets cold in the desert at night, and you'll probably end up spending a few of them outside."

"Oh, I get it. This is some kind of reverse psychology thing where you pretend you're helping me, but really you're just trying to scare me out of going," Summer snaps. "Well, don't bother. Just get out of my room, okay? Haven't you already made enough of a mess of your own life?"

...

It's so much easier than she'd imagined.

Well. No. If Beth is being honest with herself - and she's trying to, she's done with lying to herself - it's exactly as easy as she'd always imagined it would be. She makes sure she has her passport, all her ID and credit cards, her best clothes and her good jewellery. Something warm to wear on cold nights. The taser, from when Summer was little and they lived in that shitty apartment downtown and she'd had to take the bus back from the surgery at all hours.

And she leaves.

She walks straight past the living room and no one even turns around. Nobody notices the squeaky wheel of her suitcase as she drags it across the floor, nobody notices the creak of the hinges when the door opens. A tinny voice from the television makes a lame dick joke, and her father - the father who'd almost miraculously reappeared in her life after abandoning them without a word, after being away for so long that she'd started to think she'd never see him again, the man she's spent her entire lifetime simultaneously longing to have back and yet trying not to become - bursts out laughing.

Beth slams the door behind her on the way out.

Nobody comes running out to the driveway when she starts the car. Nobody appears in her rearview mirror as she pulls out of the driveway and peels off down the street. As far as her family's concerned, Beth might as well not even be gone.

She wonders, in the back of her mind, why she didn't do this years ago.

Beth fixes her eyes on the horizon, and pushes the gas pedal to the floor.

...

She starts small. Paris, Athens, Rome. Cities known for - yes, thank you, Jerry - their sexually aggressive men. And incredible food, and architecture, and art, and history. Their culture. (And wine.)

It’s exciting, for a while. Living like a fugitive, like a libertine. Beth maxes out her credit cards and doesn’t feel a shred of guilt. She’s the one who’s been paying the bills all these years, anyway. Might as well get a little enjoyment out of it.

She lives in hotels and hostels, takes tours of art galleries and medieval towns, visits churches older than her home country and marvels at beautiful frescos of worlds beyond the one she lives in, worlds beyond the mundane agony of earthly life. She eats all kinds of local delicacies and learns to cook some of them. She makes friends with other travellers and locals alike. She does odd jobs - some of the oddest jobs she’s ever done. She learns how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘where is the washroom’ in seven different languages. She swims in the ocean under a shimmering blue sky, so perfect and even that it’s like the dome of an eggshell seen from inside. She pays five hundred euros for a pair of Swarovski-crystal-bedazzled high heels. 

It’s meaningful. It’s fulfilling. It’s everything she ever wanted when she was back at home in her suburban house, on her suburban street, married to someone she could generously call her high school sweetheart, with two children and a dog.

And then one day she’s standing in an art gallery with the beefy arm of a beautiful Norwegian almost ten years her junior nestled around her waist, squinting at an ornate, gilded empty frame hanging in the dead centre of a huge white wall, and something in Beth, something small and vital that’s been straining for longer than she can even know, snaps.

The Norwegian - Nils or Jens or something - is in the middle of waxing rhapsodic about the use of negative space and the artist’s incisive commentary on the emptiness of consumer culture when Beth interrupts him by throwing her wineglass as hard as she can at the wall. It strikes a little right of centre in the middle of the empty frame, shattering explosively and spraying a rather cheap red across the wall. 

Pale red droplets start to trickle down the wall, the only sound in the sudden, shocked hush the slow tap tap tap of wine dripping against the hardwood floor.

“And there’s my incisive commentary on the relative worth of modern art,” Beth says, as the Norwegian draws back, looking stunned and betrayed. The look is mirrored on just about every face around the room.

The crowd parts for Beth as she strides out, snagging two more glasses of wine from a paralysed waiter as she goes. She knocks one back before she even makes it to the door.

...

It’s not raining, outside, just drizzling, a fine foggy mist that turns Beth’s carefully-coiffed hair into a ball of frizzy curls and makes the ancient cobblestones treacherously slick. Beth kicks off her heels, clumsily but carefully peels off her stockings as she wanders down a street that drunken Romans have been staggering down since long before anyone even knew that the Earth was round. She finds that this piece of cultural heritage, which had so awed her when she’d first arrived, just doesn’t seem to matter as much anymore.

What does matter is that somewhere in this city, there is a party, and Beth is going to find it.

She follows flashing lights and the heartbeat-thump of bass to a door in a wall between a narrow stone building with elaborate ironwork and what looks like the crumbling remains of an ancient Roman watchtower. They’d told her when she’d arrived that what Rome is built on is mostly Rome. Ancient buildings and earthworks that, back home, would have been revered as priceless places of immense historical and cultural significance, here get bulldozed so they can put in an ‘aesthetically-consistent’ McDonald’s.

For some reason, this strikes Beth as both hilarious and fitting. She aims a vicious kick at the falling-down tower wall as she passes, but luckily for her bare feet, misses.

The night and the rain blur into sweat and neon and the ear-shattering throb of music, house or EDM or whatever they’re calling the music kids get high and dance to these days. One drink turns into three, turns into a line of shots and a crowd of Italians who look like extras from some television show about high schools of the rich and famous all chanting something in Italian, turns into sitting in a bathroom stall listening to a girl sobbing her heart out on the shoulder of one of the cluster of friends standing around her and blocking the paper towel dispenser. Beth’s knuckles sting from when she thinks she punched some teenager who called her a cougar, probably, the rest of it was in Italian but the winking and the nudging and the pointing and the dropped English word said more than enough.

Her head is spinning when she stumbles back out the door in the wall. She vomits on the cobbles and is reminded that the most brilliant, important, and historically significant human achievement in this whole storied city is its sewer system, and can’t stop laughing. 

“Y’know,” she slurs at the kind person holding back her hair, “I came here to see some real culture. Like havin’ a history that’s based on...bein’ in one place for millennia...means you’ve got anythin’ figured out.”

The kind person hums, rubs her back soothingly.

“I’m an idiot,” Beth says, and the street is so narrow and the light is turning a pale, pathetic grey and her vomit on the cobbles of an ancient Roman street is suddenly not funny anymore. The sky looms, infinite, overhead. “I really am an idiot. You’ve just got more practice at buildin’ gilded frames around nothin’ at all. Where are my shoes?”

“Can’t take credit for any of it, sorry,” the kind person says, in a smooth, delicious accent unlike any Beth’s heard so far on her European tour. Unlike any Beth’s ever heard at all. “Not being from around here.”

Beth forces her eyes to focus.

“You’ve got two heads,” she observes.

“I do,” the kind person agrees, leaning in closer, and Beth suddenly realises why he’s being so kind. “And that’s not all I’ve got two of.”

Beth tries to fix at least one of his heads in her wavering vision, gives up. “Jus’ tell me you’ve got a spaceship or a portal generator or something that can get me off this godforsaken rock, an’ I’m yours.”

Both heads seem to pause at this.

“Well, usually I’m the one who brings that up,” the head to Beth’s left says, “but what the hell.”

...

There’s really no such thing as day or night onboard a spaceship in high orbit, but somehow when Beth wakes up, it still feels obscenely early. She slips out of the bed as carefully as she can, hoping not to set the mattress moving again and wake the two-headed stranger. Who even has a waterbed these days, anyway?

Last night’s champagne has already gone flat, the bottle standing open and forgotten beside the bed. Beth grabs it anyway, and one of the discarded glasses, pouring herself a flute of warm champagne as she pads across the room to the walk-in closet. She’s not sure whose benefit the glass is for. She already knows she’s going to finish the bottle on her own.

The gold lamé robe she finds and wraps around herself is cold, silky and shivery against her bare, goose-pimpled skin. The bedroom is carpeted in something lusciously soft and thick, and the metallic surface of the hall outside meets Beth’s bare feet with a shock of cold. She presses on, though. Somewhere on this flying bachelor pad, there has to be something that can make her a decent cup of coffee.

That’s how she finds herself on what she’s helpless not to call the bridge, staring out the vast window that wraps halfway around the ship’s front, out into the infinite starfield falling away before her. The ship lists in its lazy orbit, and the Earth rises slowly into view, looking small and impossibly lonely against the vast backdrop of the cosmos, one small bright speck in an eternity of darkness.

Beth hears the voice right in her ear before she realises the two-headed stranger’s come up behind her. “Real hoopy view, huh?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing,” Beth admits, as the two-headed stranger pulls her close, deftly lifting the bottle of champagne from her hand. “I’m - sort of new to all of this.”

Her laugh sounds high, nervous, girlish, fake, but the stranger doesn’t seem to mind or notice.

“You sure seemed like an old pro last night,” he murmurs into her left ear, while his other head nips at her right earlobe.

“No, I - it’s complicated.”

“Hey, you wanted outta there. I got you outta there. What’s complicated about it?”

Beth looks down on her tiny speck of a planet. Down on Earth, the sun is starting to rise somewhere around Asia, lighting up the edges of the planet in a ring of golden fire. The planet flares once, brilliant, beautiful, burning, and then Beth has to look away or have her retinas seared.

What’s complicated about it?

“If I keep giving you sexual favours, will you take me as far as the Horsehead Nebula?” she asks the stranger, who has finished sucking on her earlobe and moved on to her neck.

“Sure, why not,” the stranger’s other head says, before taking a swig of flat champagne directly from the bottle.

Beth lets her eyes slip closed, relaxing into the stranger’s embrace. She’s got time to enjoy herself, indulge herself a little.

After all, she’s got until the Horsehead Nebula to figure out how she’s going to steal this spaceship.