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kalevalakryze · 7 months

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It's Over, Isn't It?

Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV) Pairings: Bo-Katan Kryze /The Armorer Characters: Bo-Katan Kryze, The Armorer, Din Djarin, Axe Woves, Koska Reeves, Moff Gideon Warnings: Broken Bones, Injury, Violence, Character Death, Blood and Injury, Notes: For @whumptober 2023 Day 5. Time Period for Night of a thousand tears to skip to reclaiming Mandalore Prompt: “You better pray I don't get up this time around.” Debris | Pinned Down | “It's broken.” Word Count: 2,317 AO3 Link: Here!

She should have felt more, as she watched Korkie fall at the hands of Moff Gideon, as the same blade that had killed her sister now took the life of the last of her blood line; the last piece of existence that proved the only son of Clan Kryze had ever existed was felled.

Stormtroopers held her back with bodies pressing her into a crumbling wall, electro-staffs readied just centimeters away from her abdomen as she writhed against their hold. “Tell me, Lady Kryze,” The Moff’s voice dripped with venom as Bo-Katan bared her teeth at him. “What will your ancestors remember of this day?”

She sprung forward then, shaking the hands from her own as she surged into the staff of arcing electricity. Her gauntlet managed one short lived jet of fire before the paralyzing pain became too much, as bodies all pounced on the Mandalorian at once.

Pinned to the ground with Stormtroopers each taking one of her limbs, Bo-Katan was only able to spit a mouthful of blood onto his boots as he approached, the warbling of the darksaber like nails on a chalkboard in her ears. “You better pray I don’t get up this time around,”

The darksaber disengaged as Gideon crouched down to her level, pressing the ignition end of the hilt just under her chin as he twisted his lips into something like pity. “I’m counting on it, Mand’alor.”

As Imperials hauled her back to her feet, the Mandalorian struggled in their arms. “We had a deal!” She shouted to no avail, teeth bared as she cursed the man in every language her tongue could formulate.

The bones in her hand were splintering under the enhanced strength that Gideon was given by his Beskar alloyed armor, mechanics whirring as bone and beskar were broken under his grip. She couldn’t shout, only her face twisting beneath the helmet as the darksaber was raised high in the air, blade flickering and sputtering as the Kyber was shattered in its casing.

Bo-Katan was forced to her knees under his grip, pain shooting up to her shoulder as she watched the ancient blade crumble. The saber was forced from her hand as he threw it to the ground, finally releasing her as it clattered to the ground. Her breaths came hard as she cradled her hand in front of her, on her knees before Moff Gideon once again.

Her helmet was forcibly ripped from her head and tossed to the side near the broken remains of Tarre Vizsla’s saber; The woman’s lips pulled into a snarl as she glared up at him once more, the same aching feeling that told her the fight is lost flooding through her veins once again.

“The darksaber is gone,” He announced haughtily through the vocoder of his helmet, slamming the staff into her abdomen and throwing her back.

When she caught herself, her weight landed on the shattered remains of her hand enough to have her breathing through her teeth as her body cashed into the durasteel platform.

It was a fight to raise her arm off the ground and keep her hand hovering as she struggled to rise. “You’ve lost everything,” Pushing off the ground and onto her knees, Bo glared at him through a veil of sweaty hair. “Mandalorian’s are weak, once they lose their trinkets.”

Inhaling slowly as he approached, Bo-Katan was able to school her expression, holding her hand back just enough so if and when he struck the next blow, she could save her agonized arm some trouble. “Mandalorians are stronger together.” She spat, working a muscle in her jaw as she raised her chin up at him; if she were to join the Manda today, it would be in a way honorable to her ancestors, than wasting away on Kalevala.

As the stolen fleet’s capital ship ignited the world around them, and as she slid in to use her shield to cover Grogu, Bo-Katan watched with abject satisfaction as Moff Gideon was swallowed alive in an inferno. My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial. Can you say the same?

Evacuating the survivors from the smoldering carnage had been hard work; harder so with only one working hand, though on her fifth trip back to the surface, a gloved hand had stopped the Niteowl’s mechanical rescue mission. Someone took the Mandalorian from her side as she finally managed to raise her gaze from the worn down path in front of her.

The screaming pain in her hand had dulled into a bone deep ache hours ago, easy enough to ignore once she was in the routine of pulling survivors from the carnage or dragging the dead someplace more respectful than where they’d fallen. She could even argue that the pain was gone, had The Armorer not stopped her mid-mission.

She could feel the judgemental gaze beneath the darkened visor, and yet, it did not ignite the fire in her blood that it may have once had. Her hand was gentle when she reached to touch the Niteowl’s arm, and only then was she reminded of the agonizing pain, of the bones in her hand that sat shattered in their sleeve of flesh and torn tissue.

Something childish deep inside wanted to drop to her knees with the pain, to ask for the help she knew she needed, and to sleep; Krif, she just wanted to sleep. Korkie was avenged, Mandalore was reclaimed, and the weapon that took her family away was demolished, so why was she still here? Hadn’t she done enough? Was there more to atone for, after all this time?

Her nose twitched in response to the pain; she was a Mandalorian, she had to be a Mandalorian, if she showed these people she was anything less, then it would all be for nothing, after all that time chasing away the looming demand of ‘dar’manda’ in her dreams, she could not settle to slip up and ruin this now, not if she would not be granted the glory in death.

“What?” Bo-Katan croaked dumbly, growing anxious under the continued scrutiny. This was it, after all that; no one would argue with The Armorer if she were to throw Bo-Katan out. She would be done.

“You appear to be injured,” The Armorer stated, as if Bo-Katan did not feel the damage to her abdomen or the splintered bone in her hand with each passing second.

“I’m fine,” She shot back too quickly, biting her tongue as she forced her hand down from the cradled position against her armor, biting back the winces into her tongue until the metallic taste of blood was flooding her mouth. “I need to get the others,” Her departure was stopped by a hand on her bicep, squeezing just enough against inflamed nerves to have her crying out, spots flashing through her vision and knees trembling to keep herself up as her hand was brought back to her chest.

“You need the med bay.” Again, a simple answer, a simple answer that could lead to the end of Bo-Katan’s very short reign as Mand’alor.

The Armorer released her hand and started walking, clearly expecting to be followed. Refusing to hang her head in defeat, Bo-Katan squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and followed paces behind the woman to the overflowing medical tents.

Mandalorians were stuffed into the tents to the brim, curtains pulled to offer the children of the watch some form of privacy as they were treated for burns and injuries from the mountains of debris. The Armorer stopped Bo-Katan at the entrance to the tent with a hand on her chest, disappearing into the throngs of people to get… whatever the krif she was looking for.

She could feel eyes on her as others shuffled in and out, though she didn’t spare anyone a glance, even as Din passed with a hand on her shoulder and Grogu reached out towards her; couldn’t bear to look at them if this went how she thought it would.

The Armorer returned after what felt like hours, with the line of their injured moving sluggishly past her. The pain in her hand went numb once more, at least. The Armorer moved past Bo-Katan smoothly, only offering her an acknowledgment when the woman didn’t follow, prompting her to fall into step at her side once more.

They walked for miles, back into the destruction of Sundari, through caverns and tunnels, and into the caves of the Living Waters. “Sit,” The Armorer commander, and she did, dropping herself heavily into the dirt in front of the inscripted pillar, pebbles scratching at her armor and falling between her beskar plates and flight suit.

The other woman was much more graceful when she took her place in front of Bo-Katan, kneeling steadily in front of her as the redhead kept her gaze turned on the water. “What are you convinced is going to happen, Lady Kryze?”

“Like you don’t know,”

“I don’t, may I see your hand?” Laying out the supplies she’d grabbed from the tents, The Armorer grabbed her hand when Bo-Katan offered the shaking extremity, gentle as she removed the woman’s gauntlet and pushed back the sleeve of her flight suit.

Silence hung thick in the air, only broken by the sharp sounds of pain as her glove was slowly cut away, revealing the swollen mess of bones and bruises that had become her dominant hand. “Karabast,” The redhead’s nose twitched, swallowing dry air thickly as The Armorer settled her hand in her lap.

“Lady Kryze?” The Armorer prodded once more as she dug through her supplies, head turning to watch as the woman studied her hand.

“I assume…” Her lips turned into a scowl. This was like the forge on Nevarro all over again; being asked to make herself vulnerable, being asked to take the step that she knew had others declared dar’manda by the Children of the Watch. “That my time is done..” It sounded like a question, like prodding The Armorer to offer that blanket of security that she had then, too. Instead, the woman’s head turned to stare at her.

“Do you want it to be done?” She finally questioned as she readied a stimshot at Bo-Katan’s wrist.

“No, of course not, ah-!” The pain from the stimshot was soothed by the warm tingle of the medicine getting to work. “I served my purpose,” Bo-Katan pushed on, talking to fill the silence, staring at the low-light reflected in the golden helmet as she felt the woman ready the bio-cast and prepare to snap her bones back into place. “Satine and Korkie are avenged, Mandalore belongs to Mandalorians again, and Gideon is dead. That’s… well, it’s all I’ve-” She was cut off by the pressure and the delayed pain from bones being slipped back into place with a sick sound, her head dropping back against the stone as her other hand shot out to fist into The Armorer’s fur cape.

Strong hands settled on her elbows to steady her once the cast was secured, anchoring her back down as darkness ebbed at her vision. “Fuck!” She shouted, voice echoing off the cavern walls once she could breathe again. “Do you not wish to be Mand’alor?” The Armorer questioned, taking Bo-Katan’s attention away from the pain as she injected half of the contents of a stim shot into her hand, soothing some of her pain.

“No,” A tired blink as she looked down at the casing around her hand- still bruised and swollen, but now the bones clearly sat where they were meant to be as the cast continued to press and shift her hand back in place. The expressionless stare she was leveled with urged her to continue. “When I joined the Death Watch, it was because I didn’t agree with my sister, The Duchess Satine; I didn’t think her ideas were right for our people… I still don’t, entirely; But there was a lot she was right about that I never wanted to see, I blinded myself for Pre Vizsla, thought he was the best of us,”

Bo-Katan scoffed, not realizing The Armorer was cradling her hand in one of her own, and still holding her elbow with the other.

“Everything went downhill when he enrolled us with the Separatists, betrayed them, and then found two dar’jetti to enlist into our cause; Darth Maul and his brother Savage.” The woman’s good hand raised to rub at the column of her throat. “Maul won the darksaber and killed Pre- finally opened my eyes. From there, it was a fight to return Mandalore to our people; one that we’ve never truly been able to accomplish until today.”

“Without you, do you believe we would have?”

“Yes. Somehow, someway. I never saw it happening in my life, but I swore not to die until I saw these things through to the end.”

“And now that you have, are you ready to die?”

Bo-Katan’s eyes flickered to the waters, thinking of the great beast hidden in the depths. “No.”

The leather on her face was warm, soft in places, though calloused much like she imagined the hands beneath to be. The Armorer’s hand radiated warmth as she cupped the redhead’s face, thumb stroking across her dirt smeared cheekbone in a moment of weakness. “Then nobody has the right to ask you to leave your home or your people; and we will protect your right to stay and to rule, so long as you find yourself capable of doing so.”

Bo’s head turned, catching the pad of the other woman’s thumb on her lips, breathing in the smell of gunpowder, fire, and plasma with each measured breath. “Thank you,” It was all she could say, the only way she could fill in the words of a lifetime of fears and doubts, forged by war after war, both of her own design, and someone else's.

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tantive404 · 7 months

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Summary: Anya Forger has relied on her mind-reading abilities for nearly her entire life. When a mysterious headache sets in and her powers fade away, there is only one person whom she can depend on- Damian Desmond, the very boy whom she's been surveying as part of her papa's mission.

#whumptober2023 #no 3 #“it's broken”#damianya #anya forger #damian desmond

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faofinn · 7 months

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No.5 "You better pray I don't get up this time around."

@whumptober-archive

Debris | Pinned Down | "It's broken."

When Harrison had met Tai, he’d certainly not expected to grow so fond of him so quickly. But it had just felt… right. They’d somehow got good chemistry, hitting it off immediately after a slightly rocky start. Even though Harrison was busy with university, he still found time to see the Irishman, and they’d fallen into bed on more than one occasion.

They’d decided to change things up a bit and go for a hike rather than their usual bars, and it was nice, the change of pace. It was a short enough drive out of the city, up into the hills, and they enjoyed the warm sun on their faces and good conversation as they walked.

They’d stopped to eat lunch, taking in the views over the city, and when Tai had leaned in for a kiss, Harrison hadn’t pushed him away. It was nice, the casual domesticity of it all. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to kiss him.

As they headed back down the hills, they had to pay attention a bit more as to where they were putting their feet, loose stones and dust easy to lose their footing on. Hars had already done it once, his knee giving out on him, but Tai had caught him with a breathless laugh. They were virtually back at the car when Tai stumbled, twisting his ankle as he went.

He definitely heard a crunch, and the pain was immediate, red hot agony. He just about managed to keep himself upright, but couldn’t take any weight through that foot, gripping onto Harrison like his life depended on it, knuckles white.

"Hey, hey, easy." Harrison was quick to take his weight, wrapping a strong arm around him. "I've got you."

“Fuck.” He whimpered.

"What's wrong?"

“My ankle.” Tai groaned. He tentatively stretched it out towards the ground and recoiled almost immediately. “Nope.”

"Careful!" He couldn't hide his worry. "Let's sit, let me have a look."

“I felt something go.”

"I heard it." Harrison admitted.

“You’re gonna have to drive.” He whined.

"That's the least of my worries."

“Hurts.” He panted, feeling woozy. “Where are we sitting?”

"Just down, you look like you're gonna pass out." He said softly.

Tai nodded, and sat with Harrison’s help on the dirt. “Fuck.”

"I've got you, you're gonna be okay." He soothed, rubbing Tai's back.

“How bad does it look? It felt bad.”

Harrison pulled a face. "I've seen worse. But it's broken, there's no doubt."

“I was hoping you weren’t gonna say that.”

"So was I."

“I’m not gonna be able to stand.”

"I can carry you?"

Tai scoffed. “Really?”

"Hey, don’t be so mean."

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself too.”

"I'll be fine."

“Mm.” He mumbled. “Hurts like fuck.”

"If we get back to my car, I've got stuff in the boot."

He nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

"Or I can go get it, but I'll have to leave you alone for ten minutes." He absently pressed a kiss to his hair. "Hey, if I do that, you'll be high as a kite for the rest of the hike. You might enjoy it."

“I just want to go home.”

"I know, love." He rubbed Tai's arm, the affection instinctive. "I know."

“Can we go back to the car?”

"Of course. Want me to carry you?"

He nodded sheepishly. “I’m not gonna be able to stand.”

"You know, there are easier ways to get close to me." He teased, standing up.

“You don’t like the damsel in distress routine?” Tai joked weakly.

He helped him to his feet, balancing himself s moment before looping an arm under his knees. He moved as gentle as he could, aware each movement would be agony for Tai. Concern covered his face as he frowned at him, eyes wide with worry.

"Is that okay?"

Tai had definitely paled, everything spinning a little, but he nodded. “Yeah.” He replied tensely.

"Just breathe, you're okay. I've got you." He murmured. "You're okay."

“Didn’t know you were this strong.”

"Am I more attractive now?" He teased.

“Maybe.”

"This all a ploy to get closer to me?"

“Would be funny if it was.”

He grinned down at Tai. "Y’know, there's easier ways."

“Probably less painful too.”

"Oh, most definitely."

“Was a nice hike, though.”

"I certainly enjoyed the view."

“Yeah?”

He hummed. "And the scenery was nice, too."

“Oh, shut up.”

"I'm serious."

“So am I.”

"I'll be quiet then."

Tai leaned into him with a soft hum. “You can keep talking.”

"Ah, no. You've made your bed, you can lie in it, suffer in silence and all that." He'd barely made it a few steps before his act broke and he laughed.

“See, you can’t resist me.”

He hummed. "Yeah, something like that."

He was quiet for a minute. “You think it’s definitely broken?”

"I'd put money on it." He said softly.

“Ugh.”

"Hey, you'll have to come stay with me." He murmured. "I can look after you then, make sure you have everything you need."

“Oh, so now you’re trying to get me to move in?”

There was a hint of blush on his cheeks. "Maybe."

“Not complaining.”

"You're not?"

“You just promised to wait on me hand and foot.”

"Like a king." He teased.

“Mm, perfect.”

"Only fair."

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celira · 7 months

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5/5+1

Everything had gone to hell remarkably quickly.

Or maybe it was more remarkable that everything hadn’t gone meaningfully worse until then.

Camilla and Coronabeth stood at the one-way viewport of their shuttle, watching the advancing line grimly. All the ships she’d recognized from their months at the previous planet – and a few more she’d never seen, to boot – had been mustered and now ringed what was quickly becoming a battlefield. The two of them weren’t part of the primary defense; Camilla was still barely better than a captive. Carrying around bones that caused Blood of Eden passersby to hiss and make signs to ward off evil, she supposed that she still warranted suspicion in their eyes.

Skeletal phalanges curled in the pouch around her neck, now, tapping out code to her in furtive moments – far from the confinement of her early days, she rarely found herself alone as of late.

But she hadn’t known about the troop movements until Corona – the recently-anointed Crown, in all her sudden but inevitable betrayal – showed up and announced that they’d found themselves en route to intercepting a swarm of advancing Cohort ships. Cooperation was the lesser evil for the time being.

She glanced back at the canvas that covered Gideon Nav’s uncannily intact body. Perhaps it was a mercy. The dissonance of ringing metal and crossfire in the distance was slowly growing louder, and Camilla fingered the hilts of one of the knives she’d been given in spite of the general distaste she was subject to. A study in contradictions.

There was no sense standing there, waiting for a break in the line or the outcome of the fight, but there was seemingly no sense to the movements of their attackers at all.

Suddenly she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye, startlingly close, and spun around. Two sets of Cohort pairs – how had she missed the telltale red of a Second necromancer and cavalier? – so far from the main force didn't bode well. She looked at Corona, whose violet gaze was slanted in thought. Camilla jerked her head toward the shuttle entry and unsheathed both knives with a resonant slide. Corona unholstered the gun at her hip. Their eyes met again; a brisk nod one, hand hovering over the door release, another nod two, and–

Three things happened in quick succession. The shuttle door slammed open; Camilla darted out, Corona peering around behind the entry to provide cover fire; a deafening screech drew the attention of everyone in the area.

Camilla saw the side of the ship in front of theirs distort impossibly, shimmering like air over heat, then burst, sending a shower of rivets and debris spraying across the space between the two craft.

She hit the ground, rolling behind their shuttle’s landing gear and narrowly dodging superheated metal. The Cohort pair closest to the explosion was less fortunate – an agonized scream; the necromancer went down, gruesomely burned. Their cavalier, pinned by a panel, was out of commission for now.

Camilla took this in with a glance and moved into a crouch – and corkscrewed upward, whirling to catch the downswing of the other pair’s cavalier, rapier locked against her crossed knives. She bore her weight against and sent them stumbling back a pace with an outward arc. Camilla punched forward before they could regain their footing, dodging the wild swing of their rapier. She allowed a glancing slice on her bicep from their offhand rondel, but it cost them; she ducked under their guard and opened two mirrored red lines from chest to neck.

The cav crumpled like wet paper, and Camilla tried not to think about that, beyond wondering: where was their necro?

She heard voices to her left, and edged as quietly as possible around the side of the other ship, silently willing the gravel beneath her feet to hold.

“The Second necros I’ve known had a bad habit of getting back up and causing more trouble,” a voice said heavily.

"You better pray I don't get up this time around," came the rejoinder.

“I won’t hold my breath,” the first voice replied; Camilla peeked one eye around the open entrance. A wiry, ropy figure was pointing an ancient-looking revolver around a large bundle in their arms at the pinned, and fired. The necromancer slumped like a puppet with cut strings.

The bundle was–

“Harrowhark?” Camilla burst out, adrenaline and the circumstances of their last meeting loosening her tongue. The revolver swung around and bore down Camilla’s line of sight; she froze. Some distance behind her, where Harrow’s name had summoned her from her perch at the shuttle door, Corona did as well.

“Who are you?” said the person holding Harrow. “How do you know her?”

“Is she alive?” Corona called.

“Not entirely sure,” they admitted.

“I have medical training,” said Camilla. “She saved our lives once. The rest can wait.”

The revolver lowered, and the person motioned toward the interior of the ship they’d just…burst from? Shelter was shelter, and Camilla followed. They laid Harrow gently on the floor between the them. Contusions and gashes aside, she looked like she had been taken apart and reassembled by a creature working from an oral history of humans, bones in roughly the correct spots but inexpertly aligned and only somewhat connected. Her limbs lay akimbo; her chest, an uneven hollow.

Having brought up the rear, Corona pushed forward. “It can wait for you, at least. I’m Coronabeth Tridentarius–” (“are you again, now,” Camilla muttered) “–and this is Camilla Hect.”

“Third and Sixth,” mused the person. “Explains how you’re all acquainted.”

“How the hell do you–”

"I was a Lyctor," they said. And in the wake of that stunning declaration: “Sort of.”

Camilla said, “Was.”

“My necromancer was Gideon the First, who they called the Saint of Duty. I’m Pyrrha Dve, his cavalier. He’s dead. I’m still here.”

Camilla said, succinctly, hands still flying over Harrow’s body, “The fuck.”

“That’s about the reaction I got the first time I had to explain that, yeah,” said the not-Saint of Duty. “I don’t think I fancy doing it again soon. It’s getting old fast.”

Not having before met a topic she wouldn’t broach, Corona said, “So you’re a woman? In this–”

“Priorities,” Camilla interjected. “Harrow’s not breathing, her pulse is shot, she’s broken more things than I care to count out.” She touched the bag around her neck reflexively, a tic she needed to suppress, if only because it was too obvious and invited remarks like–

“Harrowhark gave the Warden’s Hand a hand,” murmured Coronabeth. Everyone, for once, ignored her. “How can I help?”

“Third, go back to the shuttle. The body’s still in there.”

“That’s not my title any more. And she’s not going anywhere.”

“Check anyway. Pyrrha Dve, you’ll breathe for her.” Pyrrha tilted Harrow’s face up and forward. Good. He – she – knew what she was doing, it seemed.

“What are you going to do?”

“Chest compressions,” Camilla said.

Corona stammered, “Her – it's broken –”

“I know her sternum’s shattered; ignore it,” Camilla said flatly. Urgency and Corona’s unerring affinity for the spotlight were making her snappish. “We need that heart pumping. On my mark.”

Pyrrha positioned her face over the dark head, already birdlike and still somehow smaller and more fragile than ever. Corona backed away.

“Starting.” Camilla drove her palms down, heedless of the bone grinding beneath them. She hit her count, turned to Pyrrha: “Go. Two breaths.” She waited until the second long exhale, and started again.

As they watched her try to shake herself apart, Camilla felt an inexplicable warmth at her eyes, then a brief answering pulse at her fingertips – unfamiliar, but not unknown. She paused, considering the circuit between the hand seeking comfort from the ever-constant bones she carried and the hand that rested on Harrow’s jerking form, and dismissed the wishful thought.

Time dilated and contracted in a methodical cycle until the ravaged chest beneath them heaved, the movement excruciating, the act of trying to scream morphing into an aborted cough that could only have made every bone fragment in her ribcage light up in stretched-out agony, a torture wheel of a feedback loop.

Camilla moved her hands away from Harrow’s convulsing chest, one hand reaching to her own neck and the other sliding to Harrow’s side; Pyrrha pinned Harrow by the upper arms, her wrists too fractured, every jostle asking and answering a flare of compounding, relentless pain. “Come on, kid,” Pyrrha muttered. “Get that healing back online. You can handle this. You should.”

Harrow spasmed violently once, twice more, and something shifted, the amplitude of her movements settling into a jerky tremble as beneath her skin, grotesquely and surely, bone started to slot itself back into place.

Camilla blinked. “That healing” – the likes of which she hadn’t seen since Cytherea walked unveiled before them – was putting it lightly.

Pyrrha blew out a short, relieved breath, then narrowed her eyes at Camilla. “What–”

Corona crashed back into the bay in an agitated flurry of hair. “She’s gone.”

“What.”

“So is the other Cohort pair. They must have–”

Camilla’s snappishness hadn’t abated: “You had one job.”

Corona ignored her in turn. “Where’s the Captain?”

“Still in the Gorgon–” Scarcely had the words left Camilla’s mouth that Corona took off at a run toward the converted Cohort vehicle. Pyrrha, clearly knowing any intel the other Lyctors had known, took off after her.

Camilla had kept long months of faith, for the Warden, for their collective goals, for the loyalties they’d felt honor-bound to uphold – and just as they’d found Harrow, Gideon’s body was gone. Taken. Adrenaline depleted, she leaned on the wall and let herself sink roughly to the floor. The bag around her neck bounced with the impact, and she reached in, touching a finger to their contents. The battle raged on outside, but she allowed herself a moment to feel the weight of another obstacle. Another neutron-star line item, a quietly crushing to-do.

A drop of sweat rolled down her cheek; she brushed it off absently – then stared at the smear of dilute red across the back of her hand. She reached a hand up to the bag again, recalling the icy heat in her fingers, barely daring to believe this, too, wanting nothing more than to drop everything and hide away and methodically and exhaustively figure out what in all that was holy or unholy was going on.

An indulgence she never took and was hardly about to now.

You know what to do. She had a patient in critical care, the person around whom all their plans revolved.

As ever, she stood.

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evillittlebirdie · 7 months

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Protector: Karlach/Tav

Part One Part Two

"Tav, watch out!"

But it was too late.

Like a fool, Tav stood still and looked up. At first, he saw a collection of circles within one another. And then, Tav experienced a tremendous amount of pain. The metal chandelier hit Tav's body, forcing the sorcerer to his belly. Someone was screaming and Tav realized it was him. He was the one crying out in agony. Tav was pinned under the metal chandelier, his body weighed down. He was a slight elf with little muscle. As a magic user and formerly pampered paramour of a Matriarch, Tav didn't need to work on his physique outside of vanity. Now he wished that he was strong enough.

Tav could not move. He tried to turn his body but was only met with dense metal. He could not even move his arms. His head was killing him.

The sound of battle echoed throughout the hall. Karlach, Lae'zel, and Shadowheart were fighting the bulk of the horde. Tav had lingered behind, casting his spells from a safe distance. But when the archer shot the chandelier's chain, it was the worst spot in the hall.

This was it. He was going to die. Shadowheart's spells were depleted. She couldn't heal him. Karlach might have a health poultice in her backpack, but she needed it for herself. She needed it for herself. Tav could feel something wrong in his arm. Tav's eyes drifted to the left and he was almost wretched at the sight of the twisted appendage. Broken. The same feeling was in both of his legs. One of his arms and both of his legs were broken. Absolutely useless.

They would leave him to die under that chandelier. Tav was the most vulnerable link. His childhood and early adulthood in Menzoberranzan taught him that the weak must be culled.

The weight was pressing on Tav's back. His breathing was restricted. He would die slowly. It was a proper punishment for not getting out of the way. It was the mistake of an amateur, not a leader.

Karlach was yelling. Tav was used to her shouting. He could differentiate her happy hollering and her raging screams.

Tav couldn't be her leader. Who was he kidding? Karlach would be a good leader. She was a decent person who brought up morale and fought for everyone around her. Tav would be honored to hand over the responsibility to her.

Hmmm, it sounded like Karlach's roars were growing louder...growing closer.

Suddenly, Tav felt like he could take in a proper breath. He felt the chandelier's weight grow lighter. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Tav didn't realize that Karlach was merely feet from him. She was pulling up the outer ring of the chandelier. Lae'zel and Shadowheart flanked her left and right, fighting off the horde of enemies. Karlach's muscles tightened as she strained to pick up the chandelier. She was yelling as she lifted the chandelier just high enough for Tav to pull himself. Tav used his unbroken arm to pull himself. But it was in vain. He was exhausted and he wasn't strong enough to force his body forward.

"Lae'zel, cover me!" Shadowheart called out to Lae'zel before spinning around. Lae'zel successfully swung her greatsword and cleaved three enemies at once. Shadowheart ducked under the chandelier and grabbed Tav's free hand. She pulled him out from under the chandelier. Karlach let the chandelier fall with a loud clang.

Meanwhile, Shadowheart tried to help Tav up to his feet. Tav only howled in pain as Shadowheart tried to make him stand. Karlach's eyes widened in worry at the sound of Tav's distress.

"Hells, his legs are broken," Shadowheart informed the women.

"There are too many," Lae'zel called out, turning only for the briefest of moments. "I need help."

"Go!" Karlach told Shadowheart as she moved in to pick Tav up. Shadowheart grabbed her spear and went back to Lae'zel's side. Tav felt nearly weightless when Karlach picked him up bridal style before cradling him into her side. He was in too much discomfort to make a quip about the position. "Hang on, sweetheart. I've got you." She dashed away from the group and reached into her armor. She pulled out a health poultice.

Tav stared at it incredulously. "Karlach, no. That's yours. You need it." They had already done too much. Tav saw wounds that were not present before the chandelier fell.

"I will not let you fucking die," Karlach cried out. She used her teeth to pull the cork out of the potion and spat the cork away. She brought the potion to Tav's mouth and begged, "You drink. You need to drink and get better."

Tav almost choked on the wave of liquid that poured into his mouth. But he was able to swallow the healing potion. It was not a large one, but it was enough to save him from permanent damage.

Karlach gave a watery laugh when Tav finished the potion. "There he goes. You aren't going to leave me so easily." Tears still pooled in her eyes but she was smiling now. Karlach tossed the empty potion to the side and kissed Tav fiercely on his lips. Tav returned the kiss enthusiastically even as his head swam.

Karlach lowered Tav to the ground delicately and stood in front of him protectively. Tav watched in amazement as Karlach pulled out her crossbow and shot at the enemy. She did not leave his side. She would never leave his side.

#whumptober 2023 #no.5 #“You better pray I don't get up this time around.”#debris #pinned down #“It's broken”#baldur's gate 3 #karlach/tav #bg3 fanfiction

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stellarcoachman · 7 months

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Chapter 5 of Twisting Tracks

Prompt: Debris | Pinned Down | "It's Broken." CW: Disaster, Claustrophobia, Injury, Blood, Broken Bones Summary: Ingo and Rei try to escape Jubilife Village, but only one of them makes it.

#whumptober2023 #no.5 #debris #pinned down #“it's broken”#submas #fic #disaster #claustrophobia #blood and injury #broken bones

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ice-cap-k · 7 months

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Assassin Games

Cross-posted on AO3 here: Assassin Games

_____________________________________________

“Eyes on the target.”

“Can you take the shot, dear?”

“Give me a moment.”

Etho shifted. The spruce branch bobbed beneath him gently. It gave off no more movement than you’d see in a stiff breeze. A grey-green cloak was just visible through the screen of pine needles. It fluttered in the slight wind. The hood slipped from over the ears of the man it covered.

He was standing at the very edge of the nearby roof with his back to Etho.

Etho almost quirked a smile under his mask. Iskall sure was making it easy for him.

The Swede wasn’t even bothering to lower his voice as he spoke into the communicator strapped to his arm. He must be feeling pretty confident to take such a risk. When he turned, the glint of sunlight off a green glass eyepiece nearly blinded Etho for a second. He blinked away the spot floating across his vision as the other man continued. “I’ve got a clear shot. Has the payment been confirmed?”

“Confirmed. Take it.”

Click!

Etho rolled onto the balls of his feet in anticipation. He didn’t have to see to know that the man on the roof was setting the bolt on his arm-mounted crossbow as if it could even be called that. It was, admittedly, an impressive little device Etho had seen only a handful of times. It was compact, curved with the arm, and made for easy setting of a spring-powered projectile launcher. Projectiles that almost exclusively involved crossbow bolts with poison-dipped arrowheads. But Etho didn’t know of a better name for the gizmo, so ‘arm crossbow’ it was. Etho had always run a little more old school, but after all these years he was still curious about how Iskall’s tech worked. Especially now that it seems to have gone through a recent upgrade. Maybe today was the day he would finally get the chance to have a first-hand look? The thought sent a cold chill running down his spine.

Green flashed red. Iskall’s eyepiece had been activated. Etho knew that meant he had readied his aim. The little bit of tech was most likely gauging the distance, wind speed, and latent speed of the target, should it be moving. That little bit of red was Etho’s personal green light. As soon as he saw it, he leaped from his branch.

For a second, he was weightless. Caught in a glorious free fall past bricks, iron bars, and branches. One gloved hand caught the bottom bar of a fire escape railing. The momentum of his body sent him swinging down. The jolt was rough on his wrist, but he twisted with his palm to let the motion send him swinging back up. With the snap of his elbow, he let go of the railing and launched himself up to the landing above. His feet made contact with the perforated steel platform at the same time Iskall’s arrow fired.

Thwip!

Thud!

Etho had landed steadily on both feet but waited to make a move after he landed, practically holding his breath as he listened for the man above him. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. His hand reflexively went to the kunai at his belt. Has Iskall heard him?

There was a tiny beep as the Swede hit a button on his communicator. “Target eliminated.”

“Good. Get the proof and get back here. Then we’ll give you your next assignment, luv.”

“Copy that.”

All the tension left Etho’s shoulders. He had timed his landing perfectly to not be heard over the sound of the arrow’s fire. Iskall hadn’t heard him. Etho still had the element of surprise. So he made his way up the last few flights of stairs, footsteps feather-light.

When he reached the top, he pulled a small mirror from his pocket to check over the ledge of the roof. The other man still had his back to Etho. The reversed image of him in the reflection was hunched over a large case. Inside were wicked-looking arrowheads, blades, and various other odds and ends Etho couldn’t quite make out from this angle, but he was sure that the case must have held most of the man’s arsenal. Fortunately, Iskall didn’t know Etho was there. He was confident he could walk up behind the man without being noticed. Unfortunately, most of the Swede’s weapons were well within arm’s reach.

Etho fidgeted with the pommel of his kunai. His thumb ran along the edges of the leather wrapping its hilt. There was another option. One that he had considered since he first took this assignment. It was even riskier than simply acting now while Iskall’s back was turned. Much more difficult too, but honestly, he felt he owed it to the other man.

Etho let out a soft sigh. He let his right hand drop away from the blade at his belt. The mirror went back to his pocket. Really, he wasn’t sure why he was kidding himself. He might be good at stealth, but he had no desire to sneak up on the other man. Might as well do this the more interesting way.

“Hey there, Iskall!” He called in his cheeriest voice.

There was a loud clatter from the other side of the roof as the other man fumbled in surprise. Etho almost laughed as he heard the telltale click of the arm crossbow. Thank goodness he hadn’t poked his head out. “Who’s there,” the familiar voice demanded.

Etho dared to raise one hand over the ledge of the roof. He bared his empty palm for the Swede to see. “Aw, Iskall. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten me, eh buddy?”

“Etho…?”

“Hey.”

Footsteps clattered across the concrete. Warm fingers wrapped around Etho’s hand. He let Iskall reach down to help him up. The other man kept a firm grip on his arm as Etho leaped from the edge of the fire escape. “Appreciated,” he said as he landed thighs-first on the ledge of the roof.

Iskall was all smiles as Etho brushed himself off and stood up. He hadn’t changed much since Etho last saw him. His beard might be a little longer, his hair a little shorter, but his eyes and smile were just as bright. Then there were telltale signs of his latest job in progress. The little ticks most people wouldn’t notice. But nothing in this business got past Etho’s eye. He recognized the shaking hands at Iskall’s side. The elevated volume and thickening accent as his ears were surely pounding with the sound of his own heartbeat. The deeper breathing as he came down from the adrenaline high of a fresh kill. Still, despite all the things Iskall must be feeling, he was surprisingly composed. “Good to see you, man! It’s been a while.”

“I know. I know. Time sure flies when they keep you busy.”

“Hey,” Iskall says with a laugh. “I hear through the grapevine that you’ve been pretty busy yourself. Those BEST guys must be leaning on you pretty heavily. Don’t let them make a crutch out of you.”

Etho shrugged. The other man wasn’t wrong. Iskall was hard to get ahold of. That goes without saying even under normal circumstances, but lately he’s been away on assignment more and more. Picking up the slack for Etho’s absence. But this is a cutthroat world, and the BEST organization valued Etho’s skills enough to keep him constantly on the move as well. Between the two of them, there hadn’t been much time to catch up since Etho left. “It’s a living.”

“And working with the Hermits wasn’t?” Iskall laughed. “You should come back to us. You know they’ll pay you more than that silly little business can.” The green glass on his eyepiece flickered, activating at the sound of the company’s name. He tapped some unseen button on the side of it, and the glass became clear once more.

“That looks new,” Etho nodded at the bit of tech, steering the conversation away from work.

“It is! Just got an upgrade from X last week. It’s got an improved targeting system.” He patted Etho’s forearm with the back of his hand. “Check it out. I just hit a mark with it.”

Etho’s eyes followed the point of Iskall’s finger. Directly in front of the building was a semi-truck parked alongside the four-lane road. Then beyond that was a high-rise apartment building. A single window on the floor lower than them had a newly shattered window. He could make out a silhouette slumped against the wall on the opposite end of whatever room he was looking into. He whistled at the sight. “No way! Through a window?”

“Through a window,” Iskall beamed. “Reflective surfaces ain't got nothing on this.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Why thank you. We could get you one of your own after you come back to work with the Hermits. Heh? Heh?!” Iskall tried to elbow him in the ribs, but he deftly sidestepped, just barely out of reach. The arm only brushed against the fabric of his jacket.

Etho doesn’t look at him. Instead, he quirked a brow. “How much practice have you been getting with that thing?”

Iskall frowned. “Not much, admittedly. This is my first assignment with it, but it isn’t my first time with targeting software like this. I picked it up pretty quickly.”

“Cool.”

Iskall tried one more time. “Do they have any cool stuff for you to try at BEST? I’m sure X could get you something more to your taste.”

“You must have souped up your weapon too if it made it that far.”

“Etho-”

“Hm..?”

“I know what you’re doing,” Iskall said sternly. “You’re deflecting.”

He absolutely is. “I’m just trying to catch up with you,” he says, reaching back to scratch at the nape of his neck.

Iskall sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. He opened his mouth to say something, and Etho turned to face him. To really look at him. The sudden eye contact seemed to catch Iskall off guard. His mouth opened and shut before he eventually let out a little laugh. “You know, you can’t blame me for trying to get you to come back. We might not have worked together all the time, but we were good at what we did. Both of us were a force to be reckoned with. The best assassins money can buy.”

“Looks like you’re doing alright on your own.” Etho tilted his head towards the broken window across the street. “Looks like you can hold your own.”

The other man’s lips quirked into a lopsided smile. “I suppose so. But what about you? Are you really happy where you’re at? And don’t deflect this time.”

The truth was, Etho WAS happy. He didn’t regret joining BEST. He had good friends there, a new home base, free reign with weapons and defense design, and a say on planning and future business endeavors. It helped that there were fewer people involved. It felt more like a group of close-knit friends that depended on making things work. It felt more personal. Sure, there wasn’t as much money to go around, but there were fewer voices trying to tell him what to do.

It gave him a sense of freedom. Of belonging. More so than the Hermit Conglomerate ever had. The Hermits only ever put him in a box. He was good at stealth. Better than Iskall, even when the Swede tried. And that was all the company would let him do. At least officially. Xisuma was always tinkering with something, and he would let Etho in on projects from time to time. Now he was letting Iskall test out his latest and greatest instead. By leaving the Hermits, Etho had nothing to lose and everything to gain. They hadn’t even tried to barter for him to stay. They had Iskall to pick up his assignments instead. The fact that the Swede was the only one who seemed to want him to come back reaffirmed that Etho had made the right choice back then. It also made his current assignment that much harder.

Of course, Etho didn’t say any of this as it crossed his mind. Instead, he just nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

The other man’s shoulders sagged a little in disappointment. His voice managed to maintain a bit of cheer, though. “Good. At least things are going well for you. Do they still have you working on the same kind of assignments?”

“Something like that,” Etho said, shifting from one foot to another. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, letting the fingers of his right-hand drape over the handle of his kunai.

“Oooh! Are you working on a mark right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Who’s the mark?”

Etho tensed up. “Funny story, actually… I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“What? I didn’t just accidentally steal your kill, did I?”

“No! No, not that. It’s just, you know Iskall. You’re a good friend.” Etho tried to casually pat the other man on the back of the shoulder, but couldn’t shake the stiffness in his own shoulders. The motion felt more wooden or robotic. “So, I just wanted to be honest with you. You know?”

“If I didn’t know any better, it sounds like you’re trying to let me down easy,” Iskall said with a grin and a shake of his head.

“I mean, kind of.” Iskall quirked one eyebrow. He waited patiently for Etho to provide some sort of explanation. But Etho wasn’t sure he had a good one to provide. This wasn’t going the way Etho had hoped. He was screwing it up. It felt like he was grasping at straws, mouth opening and closing as he tried to start somewhere. Hopefully, the mask covering the bottom half of his face made his struggle less obvious.

“Ok. Do you remember back when we were training together? How we would make a game out of it?”

“Yeah. Like Tag with high stakes,” Iskall shrugged. “I’d be the hit, you’d try to catch me. You’d be the hit, I’d try to catch you.”

“Exactly.”

It was a gross oversimplification, but they both knew the details left unsaid under those words. A bloody business like theirs meant going up against some pretty dangerous targets. Targets that fought back, or worse, if you missed the first shot. While they had strictly used non-lethal weapons when the cat-and-mouse chase was only between the two of them, there had been plenty of nights spent bloody and bruised at the hand of the other.

“What about it?”

“Well, I guess I came for one more game-”

At that moment, the communicator on Iskall’s wrist beeped to life. The familiar sound of Stress’s voice on the other end of the line crackled through the speaker. “Iskall! Have you left yet? We just got word a BEST operative is near your location. Intel shows they recently put a hit out on you. We need you to get to safety, luv.”

The communicator buzzed once and fell silent. The line was still open, waiting for Iskall’s response. The Swede stood frozen, looking at Etho with eyes that were gradually beginning to widen with realization.

“Oh snappers…” Etho didn’t dare make a move. He was suddenly aware of the press of his feet against the roof, the case of Iskall’s weapons on the other side of the building, and the Kunai beneath his fingers. “Iskall…” he started tentatively, only to cut himself off when the other man ripped his shoulder out from under his hand and brought an arm up in a show of aggression. The open barrel of his arm-crossbow was aimed directly at the center of Etho’s chest.

“Am I your mark,” Iskall demanded.

Etho gulped. “Iskall, I just wanted to-”

“No DIVERTING, Etho!” The green eyepiece flashed red as the other man’s targeting system came online. His knuckles faded to white as the hand holding the arm-crossbow curled into a tight fist. The weapon bobbed threateningly closer. The shake of fading adrenaline in his veins was slowing, Etho noted, and he knew from experience that Iskall was slipping back into that heightened sense a hunter felt the moment his sight fell on the vitals of a target. That moment when time was starting to slow with a rush of adrenaline, the sound faded out, and you’re left waiting for the perfect alignment to fall into place before you pull the trigger. At this distance, there would be no missing. “Not this time,” Iskall continued. “Am. I. Your. Mark,” Iskall hissed, punctuating each word with a bob of his weapon.

“Sorry buddy.” Running more on instinct than a conscious desire to protect himself, Etho had his kunai out before Iskall could pull the trigger. Clang! The head of the crossbow bolt hit the thick edge of his blade. The shock sent vibrations up his fingers and palm as shards of steel from the broken arrowhead peppered the fabric of his glove.

Etho stumbled back. He glanced over his hand to make sure the arrowhead hadn’t pierced skin. His brain barely managed to register that he didn’t see any blood when Iskall whirled in a flurry of his grey-green cape, bolting towards the weapons case at the other end of the roof.

Etho couldn’t let him get to that case. Both hands went to his belt. Fingers brushed against steel, letting a handful of knives fly as he leaped after the Swede. A few managed to tear through the edges of Iskall’s cape, and one pinned the hood against the wood railing along the building’s ledge. The fabric around Iskall’s neck tightened as he continued hurtling forward. With a wretched gagging sound, he stumbled. The sudden yank on the cape caused the knife to dislodge, freeing the man, but by then it had given Etho the opening he needed. He leaped ahead of Iskall as his old friend was just regaining his composure and pace.

Click!

Fwip!

Another arrow bounced off the concrete dangerously close to Etho’s heel. He could hear Iskall’s feet pounding against the roof behind him. He was gaining. So Etho pivoted on his heel midstep. Iskall looked surprised to be face-to-face with Etho. He was winding up the spring trigger on his arm as he ran. As far as Etho could make out, that was the only weapon the Swede had on him at the moment. That was the biggest threat. He couldn't make out how many arrows Iskall had left. Knowing him, he had spare caches stowed away in every pocket and under every fold of fabric. The eyepiece was online as well. The green glass was flashing an angry red as it searched out Etho’s vitals.

Priority number one was the crossbow. If Etho could find a way to damage that, he would be out of immediate mortal danger. The second priority was the bag. He couldn’t let Iskall get to it unless he wanted to risk becoming a living pincushion. Priority number three was the eyepiece itself. If he could get that out of the picture, Iskall would have a significantly harder time hitting him while they were on the move. The final priority was Iskall himself. Etho still bore the scars of old training sessions where Iskall had managed to hold his own after being disarmed. Usually with an improvised weapon. Sometimes with his bare hands. Desperate targets would do anything, aim for any vital point if it meant protecting themselves.

But Etho had given Iskall just as many scars in return over the years. Possibly more.

The distance between the two men barrelling towards the other side of the roof remained steady with Iskall chasing after a backstepping Etho. He swiped out with his kunai at Iskall’s neck as he backpedaled; one foot over the other, behind the other in a rhythm that came to him as easily as walking forward. The very tip of the blade skirted the clasp of the green-grey cape at Iskall's throat. There was the gentle tug of something resisting the knife edge, only for the fabric to split cleanly along the line of Etho’s swing. The cape fell away as Iskall’s eyepiece settled into a solid red glare. Etho heard the familiar click of another bolt sliding into place.

Etho didn’t trip. He didn’t stumble or fall. He let himself drop. He simply let his knees buckle beneath him mid-step. Let himself crumple backward to the concrete beneath his feet. A rush of air parted the hair poking up from his bandanna as the arrow whizzed by a little too close for comfort. Pain bloomed in one hip as it hit the roof, but the fall was measured. It wouldn’t leave more than a slight bruise, especially since he allowed his momentum to send him rolling in a backward somersault that ended with him landing in a crouch, kunai at the ready.

There wasn’t enough time for Iskall to stop before he hit Etho head-on. Etho had one arm up, shoulder hunched as he felt Iskall’s shins and knees impact his side. The edge of the kunai in his hand dragged against the denim of the other man’s jeans, catching the back of Iskall’s calf as the Swede went tumbling head over tail.

But Etho didn’t stop there. Before Iskall could hit the ground, Etho heaved upwards with his legs while the other man was still sliding off his back. It changed the direction of Iskall’s fall, pushing him over the edge of the roof with a scream.

“AAAAaaaaAAaAaaaaaaahhh-” WHUMP!

Riiiiiiiiip!

Thunk-a-tunk-a-tunk-a-tunk!

Well, priority two was taken care of. There was no way Iskall was getting at his spare weapons now. So much for the order of priority.

Etho stood with a groan. He rolled his shoulders, already annoyed by the number of bruises he was accumulating. The edge of his kunai was dripping with blood. The gouge on Iskall’s leg probably went deeper than Etho had originally planned. Too bad. It would slow down his friend, but not stop him.

Considering how trigger-happy Iskall had been a moment ago, Etho didn’t feel like risking a peak over the edge of the roof this time around. So instead he fished out the little mirror in his pocket once more. It was small, but it was enough for Etho to scan the street below. He tilted and twisted it, checking the reflection for any sign of the other man.

The street below was empty at the moment, but there were already people in the floors below poking their heads out. Men and women on the bottom floor filtered outside, looking for the source of whatever screaming they had heard. But none of those people were Iskall. It took Etho a moment to notice the jagged edges of a tarp start to flutter out from the top of the semi-truck below. The once solid canvas now had a large hole punched through the center. Inside were cardboard boxes. Many of the brown boxes were crushed and bent at the center. Considering the neat stacks of boxes closer to the wall of the cargo hold, Iskall must have knocked over everything in the center when he fell through the cover.

Etho knew that Iskall was still in there. He didn’t like that he didn’t have eyes on the other man. At first, he thought to wait the other man out. Iskall would have to leave cover eventually, but Etho wasn’t feeling very patient right now. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears. Two parts giddy excitement, one part guilt, and one part adrenaline was already numbing the protest of bruises that were surely already starting to darken on his skin. He waited long enough for the onlookers to give up looking for whatever they thought they heard before returning the mirror to his pocket. The kunai quickly replaced it. He leaped up onto the railing lining the edge of the roof and stepped out into the empty sky. The wind rushed up to meet him as he plummeted down a good four stories. The fall sent his stomach up into his throat. The wind in his ears did nothing to drown the rush of his heartbeat. He landed feet first on top of the semi, balancing on the edge of the wall overlooking the boxes within.

“You hiding in there, man,” he teased, swinging the kunai around his finger by the ring at the end of the pommel.

Something pressed against his ankle. Etho looked down in time to see a hand reach from beneath a pile of boxes and yank his leg out from under him. He managed a startled yelp before falling in, knocking his elbow painfully against the edge of the wall on the way down. The kunai flew from his hand and he lost track of where it went during the fall.

Some of the boxes gave way easily beneath him. Their cardboard edges crumpled under his weight, but still dug uncomfortably into his back and sides. Iskall had managed to drag him down until they were at about the same level. Etho was still struggling to get his bearings when a fist connected with his temple. It sent his vision spinning in a swirl of pain, his skull bouncing off the wall of the truck from the force of the hit. It left him stunned. Another hit sent pain blossoming across his face as it landed somewhere between his nose and his cheek. It made his teeth rattle, and he was becoming aware of his mask growing sticky and warm against his chin and lips.

He could still make out Iskall through his blurry vision, though just barely. At some point during the fall, Iskall must have lost his eyepiece, because he could fully make out both of the Swede’s eyes without having to look through translucent green or flashing red glass. Priority three was out of the way then. There was a stern seriousness in the set of Iskall’s jaw, a calculating look in his eyes, and the smallest inkling of a smile on his face. Etho might have just been imagining that, though. Head trauma made reality a bit harder to parse out.

All he could do was lamely throw his arms up in defense for a moment as Iskall tried to get another good punch in. They only managed to hit the back of Etho’s forearms. It was better than taking another hit to the head, but Iskall had power behind those hits and Etho’s arms were beginning to shake under the pressure.

He managed to blink away the worst of the dark spots spiraling past his eyes, focusing long enough to let the tunnel vision set it. The next time Iskall went in for a hit, Etho twisted along with the punch, letting his friend’s fist glance off his forearm to pound into the metal wall of the truck. He howled with pain, but that hesitation was all Etho needed to kick out at Iskall’s shin. His heel made contact, and he felt the other man’s leg give in. It wasn’t enough to knock him over, but it was enough to make him stumble. Iskall wobbled. He knocked over stacks of boxes that rained down on top of him. They fell between Etho and him, which perfectly broke the line of sight.

Now Etho was in the zone. He was back in the comfortable tunnel vision brought on by the spike of adrenaline and the necessity of a fight. He felt hyper-aware of everything around him. There was no fancy tech. Every box. Every little movement Iskall made. He felt like he could anticipate it all. It was an all too human sense and he knew it well. They both did. But this time it was his turn to go on the attack. One hand went to the wet mask that pressed uncomfortably against his face. It was getting hard to breathe with it on, and as he pulled it down, he noticed that his glove came away slick and red. He wasn’t sure if the blood was coming from his throbbing lip or stinging nose, and he didn’t have time to figure that out right now. His other hand went to one of the remaining throwing knives at his belt. The knife balanced at the edges of his fingertips felt like a trigger on the verge of being pulled.

Iskall tried to lunge for him, but he couldn’t see Etho like Etho could see him. When he reached through the mound of boxes, Etho lashed out with the knife. Iskall yanked his hand back with a cry as the blade left a shallow cut across the back of his hand.

Etho was ready to cut him again if the man tried a second time, but Iskall knew him. Knew him well enough to switch tactics instead of using brute forcing. Instead, the Swede picked up the nearest box separating the two of them and flung it at Etho as hard as he could. Etho threw his arm out, catching the corner of the box with his free hand to knock it away. The other hand brandished the knife for the attack he knew was coming, only to find it buried to the hilt in another box Iskall was shoving at him like a shield. And Iskall kept shoving, not giving the much-needed inch Etho could use to free his knife.

With a cry of triumph, Iskall managed to bowl him over. He fell back against the boxes, but Iskall kept pushing. Etho’s boots scrabbled uselessly against the floor as they slid. The rubber soles couldn’t catch on anything but boxes, and those were falling away from the two of them with every movement. At one point, Iskall let go of the box that had Etho’s knife pinned and went straight for Etho’s neck. He tried to wrap both hands around, but Etho abandoned the knife and managed to grab one of his friend’s wrists. He couldn’t stop Iskall completely, though. His other hand was pinned under the two of them after they tumbled to a stop. Iskall’s grip was uncomfortably tight on his windpipe so he risked trying to overpower the Swede. To push up with his pinned elbow to headbutt Iskall, or at least get his grip on his neck to loosen, but it wasn’t enough. Iskall simply retaliated by slamming his hand down harder into the base of Etho’s neck. It bashed the back of his skull against another box, which wasn’t as bad as the metal wall of the truck but still hurt like hell. For a moment, Etho couldn’t get any air in or out.

Iskall did have him pretty well pinned. He only had use of one hand, and that was currently preoccupied with trying to keep Iskall’s free hand from crushing his windpipe twice as fast. But his legs were still free. With a desperate lurch, Etho threw his knee up. Iskall let out a satisfying wheeze as Etho’s leg slammed into his stomach. The hand around his throat fell away.

Iskall made a desperate ploy to scramble away while he struggled to regain his breath, but Etho wasn’t about to let him go that easily. He yanked his knife out from the box at his side and took another swipe. Blood painted the blade and a line of boxes as he opened up another shallow cut across Iskall’s shoulder and back. He would have gone for another, but Iskall blocked it with the back of his forearm. The forearm with the crossbow. Etho hissed in pain, the knife dropping from his hand. He had heard something in his hand crack. Or maybe it was the crossbow that had broken. Probably both, considering the white-hot pain flaring up his arm and the little broken string now hanging from the crossbow. At least the bolt Iskall had docked in the weapon had fallen out.

Priority one was out of the way. Finally. That just left Iskall himself.

Which made things sound so much easier than they actually were. As soon as Etho realized the crossbow was busted, Iskall launched himself at Etho with a roar. All tact was thrown out the window as he full-body slammed into the other man. They went tumbling out the back of the truck with an avalanche of boxes. Etho kept both arms wrapped around Iskall’s as they tumbled. He wasn’t about to let the other man try another choking attempt, even if the act of holding onto Iskall with his bad hand sent shocks of pain up his arm. But it also left him vulnerable when they hit the edge of the truck. Correction, when he hit the edge of the truck. Etho took the full brunt of their fall when his ribs hit the corner of the truck bed. All the air left his lungs. His mind went blank for a second as his body processed an even greater pain that by far overshadowed whatever he was feeling in his broken hand or bloody face.

He was fairly certain he had broken a rib. So it came as a big surprise he had managed to hold onto Iskall. It came as an even bigger surprise that he had the sense of mind to shift as they fell so Iskall would hit the asphalt first and act as a cushion for Etho. He heard a “whoomph” as air rushed out of Iskall’s lungs a second time. He had half a mind to try to knock Iskall’s lights out while he had a chance. He risked going for a punch with his good hand, but that meant having to keep Iskall pinned with the broken one, which was painful enough that he immediately decided that it wouldn’t be worth a second punch. He only tried it once, managing a left hook to the cheek. But it wasn’t his dominant hand, and the blow didn’t have the power to do much more than snap Iskall’s head to the side. It probably wouldn’t even bruise right away. So instead Etho brought his hand back down to keep Iskall pinned as they both stopped to catch their breath.

It felt good to take a moment to just breathe. Iskall seemed just as tired as Etho felt, and it hadn’t even taken a chase across half the city to get to this point as it had in previous training sessions between the two of them. The moment of calm was both a blessing and a curse, though. Etho could feel himself coming down from the adrenaline rush. The pain was losing its muted quality. His hands were starting to shake where they held Iskall’s wrists against the road where a small puddle of blood was beginning to pool under his shoulder.

Iskall was the first to speak. “Must be getting old if we’re already this tired. This almost feels like one of our old games,” he said. A real smile spread across his face.

Nodding doesn’t seem to be in Etho’s wheelhouse right now. Just the thought of moving his head back and forth is making him queasy, and he wonders if one of those hits to the head gave him a concussion. So instead he lets out a little, “Mmmhmm,” to hum his agreement.

“Well, no game is complete without a chase.” Etho braces for the hit well before the bottom of Iskall’s boots crashes into his chest. He’s already released Iskall’s wrists and rolled into his shoulder as the kick hits. Iskall only managed a glancing blow, but it was enough to send another shock of pain down Etho’s side as he somersaulted out of reach. Etho’s quick enough to land on his feet in a crouch. His free hand braces against the ground to keep him steady as he looks up to face Iskall, who is already back up on his feet. But before Etho can think of a strategy to attack or defend, the other man turns on his heel and runs.

It’s a broken run. A desperate run. The kind of limp a man manages when there is no time to risk being slow. The fabric of his jeans is dyed red from his ankle up to his calf where Etho’s kunai had cut deep. Streaks of red paint uneven stripes down the back of his shirt.

That was it. The game wasn’t over, but they were both finished. There was no way Etho was going after him now, even if deep down he thought he could catch Iskall if he tried. Nobody had been knocked out or fully incapacitated. Nobody had won. Etho sure felt like a loser, though. His good hand began to shake again and lowered himself to the ground. Sitting wasn’t enough, so with a groan he painfully slid down to lay on the side of the road. He needed a moment before he could even think about getting back up again.

He reached over with his good hand and pressed the button on his own communicator strapped safely to his wrist on the other arm. The screen flashed to life, illuminating the bloody fingerprint he had left on the button beneath it. Coordinates flashed white, pinging his location to the rest of his team. Almost immediately a call came in through the speaker. They must have been watching for him.

“Hiya buddy,” Skizz’s upbeat voice buzzed out of the speaker. “How’d it go?”

Before he answered, he tested his jaw. The joint clicked uncomfortably when he wiggled it. That was concerning, but the motion didn’t send bolts of pain through his skull. It mostly just felt sore now. He took that as a sign that it probably wasn’t broken. “About as well as I expected, honestly…”

“Ooooh! Good! That’s good, right? You had fun?”

The act of smiling made his face hurt. It dropped off his face almost as quickly as it appeared. It wasn’t like Skizz could see the look on his face anyway. “Sure. I think Iskall enjoyed himself too, once he got past the mortal terror. You didn’t actually put a hit out on him, did you?”

“What!? No! Yes! I mean no! Pffft, I’m just yanking your chain, buddy. Of course we didn’t. We could have, though. Did you want us to?”

Etho couldn’t help but laugh, but immediately regretted it. The slightest shake of his chest made his ribs ache. A flash of pain lit up his right side. It became a little bit harder to breathe. Yup. At least one of those ribs had to be broken. “Please don’t,” he managed to breathe out, and he was surprised the words didn’t come out sounding more like a whimper.

“Whatever you say Etho. Naw, we didn’t put anything out on him. Top just fed those Hermits some false rumors disguised as internal orders. They actually thought they could bug us and we wouldn’t notice.”

The speaker crackled as Skizz broke out into a fit of giggles. It almost drowned out the much quieter voice of Tango in the distance saying, “says the guy who didn’t notice.”

“Hey!” Skizz snapped so loud that the communicator's speaker cut out halfway through. “Anyway,” he continued, volume dropping back to a still booming but now more typical level for Skizz. “You said you wanted to see what would happen if you two went full out. And you keep saying he’d never give it one hundred percent when it’s just the two of you. Figured you both could cut loose and give it your all if he thought it was for real.”

“I think it might have worked a little too well,” Etho said, trying to suppress a groan. “Better get that rumor cleared up before they put a hit out on me in retaliation.”

“Can do, buddy. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Could one of you come to pick me up? And bring the first aid kit, please.”

#whumptober 2023 #prompt no. 5 #“it's broken”#“You better pray I don't get up this time around”#minecraft: hermitcraft #hermitcraft #creativ #violence #blood #broken bones #implied unnamed character death #ethoslab #iskall85 #stressmonster101 #skizzleman #alternate universe - assassins #modern setting

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