#( 7 years ago was when I first found you. broken and desolate. all alone. now look at you Devil. can I tell you how much I love you? ) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

capricornus-rex · 3 years

Text

A Shadow of What You Used to Be (13)

Chapter 13: The Favorite | Cal Kestis x Irele Skywalker

Requested by Anon

Summary: There is another! Years after young Anakin Skywalker departed Tatooine, his mother Shmi delivers a second child—this time, a daughter. Whilst the circumstance of the girl’s birth remains unexplained, Irele Skywalker has yet to choose the true path between those laid out for her.

Tags: Fem! OC, Irele Skywalker, Force-sensitive! OC, Anakin’s Younger Sister, Skywalker! OC, Darth Vader’s Secret Apprentice, Long-lost Sibling

A/N: I’M NEGATIVE FOR COVID, YAY!!1!! That’s the only negativity I need in life lmao

Requesting to be tagged: @heavenly1927

Also in AO3

Chapters: Prelude – 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10 – 11 | Previous: Part 12 | Next: Part 14 | Masterlist

14 of ?

16 BBY

Battered by the sweat and grit in this confined dojo, Irele had proved her capabilities for battle.

For every instructor that walked in to face her, the difficulty climbed as well.

But the dojo had become her sanctuary. No limitations, no rules. She can be angry as she likes, she can be violent to her opponents, and then there would be no repercussion—it was all at the expense of “training” which was basically they had in mind for her.

Now that she was conditioned for combat, the next phase of the plan laid out for her growth would come next—although it would be simultaneous to this training regimen.

Today marks the first anniversary of her training, the day that started this all. To commemorate the event in some sorts, they sent in an electrohammer Purge Trooper to fight with her. No trooper of this sort has ever come in to this dojo until today. For a second, it startled her; but then she shook off the anxiety from her shoulders and tightened her grip on a weapon she had stuck with since Day One—a javelin.

Her one display of power that warranted Darth Vader himself to pay a visit to the dojo in Nur.

“Admiral, ready my shuttle and chart a course to Nur.”

“Right away, my lord.” The admiral did not give it a second thought, he immediately proceeded with the preparations.

Everyone in Nur knew that Darth Vader was coming, and so they were all in full-blast in cleaning up the place to make it presentable to the lord. Everyone—except Irele, who was too engrossed with her training.

It was just getting good when Vader had arrived in the viewing room of the dojo—Irele’s already picking up the pace in the fight, but the Purge Trooper was nowhere near tired. Suddenly, it seems like out of nowhere, a strong invisible wave had lifted the instructor off the floor and threw him across the room. The last thing Irele saw was her hand held out, fingers curved in a manner as if choking a neck, and vibrating with remnants of that energy that had sent the trooper five feet away from her.

Little by little, her sensitivity with the Force has become more active.

She could not explain it. She couldn’t even believe it, she thought those moments were just illusions or daydreams that she had mixed with reality.

But this moment proved otherwise.

And it intoxicated her.

Although she had not mastered how to utilize it actively and consciously, she would take every chance she gets when she felt like it would come to her aid in the fight.

Vader departs the viewing room and makes his way down into the dojo.

“You fight well, child,” he boomed as he entered, causing Irele to turn to his direction, javelin at the ready. “But you’ve a long way to go if you are to master the art.”

Under his cape, Vader revealed his weapon: a silver cylinder accented with black duraplast grips, covered to the pommel. His leather thumb pressed the switch and out comes a blood-red beam. Irele has heard the stories, but never did she imagined seeing it in person; as a matter of fact, she’s not sure if her javelin has any chance against that.

Irele took the offensive, she moved first.

Vader, unbeknownst to her to be her own brother, effortlessly evaded it as simple as stepping out of the way.

The girl had too much pride in her to admit that her opponent was indeed stronger and more skilled, but she thought she could outsmart him, outmaneuver him, not knowing that her efforts would be in vain.

They traded strikes, but Vader was taking the lead in this fight. Irele’s tiring herself out in evading and looking for an opening, landing fewer strikes than she did with her first opponent—the trooper. The dark lord was neither generous nor kind with the training, he wanted to show Irele different levels of strengths—if she were to be dispatched in campaigns where combat is inevitable, she might as well be fazed now than later out in the field.

“It’s unwise to presume you can overpower me, child.”

With their blades locked in, Irele caught a glimpse of Vader’s face up close. The crimson red film of the lenses of his helmet uncovered a hazy view of his eyes—his real eyes: twin golden discs, glinting with menace and at the same time, a sort of grief.

For a moment, Irele’s expression showed humanity; but in the next second, she remembered the fight.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Her overconfidence in her strike was her undoing, Vader’s lightsaber swiped it out of her hands, leaving her literally empty-handed.

“Perhaps you should re-assess that teenage confidence of yours, little one.”

Vader was moving in for a killing blow. He dared go that far. The operators in the viewing room think, “He’s going to kill her!” but the unexpected happened. In that one moment, time seemed to have slowed for Irele; Vader’s heavy yet nimble movement appeared to be slower in her eyes, which afforded her mere seconds to concentrate.

She closes her eyes… and focused.

Behind the darkness shrouding her view, she wondered why the strike hasn’t landed her yet, slowly she lifts her eyelids and saw a clear sheen shimmering in front of her—like glass with a frosted finish—while her hands were held up in front of her and wide open, sparks sputtered on all sides of Vader’s saber.

There was no time to comprehend this, but what Irele understood is that she needs to use this to advantage… now.

She pushed one hand further away, towards Vader—in effect, he was being backed away, by her. The girl took one more step, and alternately used the other hand to do the same thing as the first hand. Once aligned again, she slowly gravitated both hands to each other, closing the space in the middle and she watched Vader succumbing to his knees.

“Yes…” he lowed, rather satisfied. “You are strong with the Force. Like the blood before you.”

Those words rang into Irele’s soul, like a heavy bell with its ram, and on the top of her mind, there was one that came: Anakin.

She ceased using the Force and stumbled to her bottom, Vader remained kneeling but he held his head up to face the frightened, confused teen.

“Well done, Irele. You are ready.”

–

15 BBY

Irele’s training program did not hold her back, neither did it confine her within the walls of the fortress in Nur.

Roughly a month after her first year, she was tasked to hunt Jedi. Everything she needs to know about them—she did some reading in her time alone. She studied every form, their art and history: down to the most minute part of the culture and norms. And especially the broken legacy that had was their downfall.

It’s been an impressive second year.

Irele has been training consistently, of course, having nothing else to do—except interact with HY-L33, whose programming has been modified into half-protocol droid and half-nanny droid. Most crew members who had the gall to speak to the girl kept telling her that interaction with a droid does little with human social development and growth, to which, in her chagrin, Irele would reply: “I think I’m too old to be told about pediatric psychology.”

Despite her snark, Irele tries to be learned in terms of battle strategies—she’s juggled combat training with studying naval strategies and ground assault tactics, after learning that she may be dispatched on missions with a squadron of troopers in a particular planet from time to time. In one or more occasions, she would cross paths with the devilish Admiral Thrawn, but rarely do they meet for conferences—virtual or otherwise. She can’t help but use some of her street smarts in campaigns, which more often than not, actually works.

These privileges that she enjoys were personally decreed by Vader himself, in the hopes that she would maximize her abilities from more than being a reckless warrior. Some were against it because they perceive her as a rebellious, smart-mouthed child; others decide to give her a chance, because after all, she is a growing girl who’s got a lot to learn in this kind of world she’s been thrown in.

Not all know what she was before—but to generalize it, she was just some local girl in a desolate planet in the middle of nowhere.

The droid HY-L33 looked for her master, and found Irele examining and polishing her lightsaber—something she crafted on her own, the exterior at least. The kyber crystal was harvested from a Jedi survivor she killed not too long ago, in a tropical moon where she was dispatched alone with little to no reinforcements as the troopers were designated as patrols in the town.

“Lady Irele, the briefing with the Inquisitors is due in thirty minutes.”

“Ah yes, the Jedi hunters,” Irele’s brows furrowed, “I thought I wasn’t required?”

“Indeed, but it’s been said to be beneficial for your upcoming campaigns.”

“Who said so?”

“Lord Vader, apparently… and the Grand Inquisitor.”

“Right then, thank you, Haylee.”

Irele dressed into her garbs. Tailored to perfection: the bodysuit and pants were a dark gray waterproof fabric so that the garment won’t weigh her down when fighting under inclement weather such as rain, fog, and snow. The standard material for the armor plating was duraplast—tried and tested against Stormtroopers’ blaster fire and Purge Troopers’ electro-powered weapons—and it covered her torso, shoulders, and forearms; an armor skirt made from the same material complemented the utility belt. Supposedly, they’re to be worn when in the field, but since she’s been cooped up in the Fortress in the past few days, she doesn’t bother strapping on the armaments.

Lastly, she slipped into her low, black boots. Looking at the mirror, she bound her hair in a ponytail. It was once a medium bob with ragged tips, but now she’s grown it out to a length just after her shoulders.

“Alright, I’m ready. I’ll see you in a bit, Haylee.”

The droid gave a short bow and Irele departed her room.

Nur has become her home. The metal maze once confused her, but now she knows where she’s going even with her eyes closed.

She stepped into a turbolift and pressed the button that leads her to the level where the holding rooms and war rooms are.

“Holding Room A-121,” she muttered to herself in reminder.

Along the way, she exchanged short or curt bows to the crewmen who bothered tipping their hats or saluting to her as a greeting. When she saw the engraved number on the door, she pressed another button to prompt the door open. Before her was the group of Inquisitors around a table, lounging about like schoolchildren. Her entrance silenced their already hushed conversations and she stepped in, hoping to find a spot to sit the farthest from them.

“Oh, look who’s come to join us. The favorite.” chided one of the male Inquisitors.

“Let’s make this quick so we can forget each other’s sorry asses were in the same room.”

The briefing consisted of the locations where they would be dispatched. Holograms reflecting the planets flashed one by one on the podium, head profiles of surviving Jedi flashed after the planets, and Irele squinted her eyes on a particular one that stood out like a sore, red thumb.

“Do you know this one, Irele?” one of the male Inquisitors, the Second Brother, asked Irele. He noticed she looked at this one Jedi rather specially—or so he thinks.

Irele turned her eyes to the Inquisitor and replied with a frosty “No” and then she scanned the other head shots. She studied them, since she didn’t want her not being a Jedi-turned-Inquisitor to be a disadvantage. She’s got as much as grit as the rest of them. After the briefing, she isolated herself in one of the couches, locked herself away deep in thought that the Inquisitors’ chatter was just white noise.

She couldn’t wait to retreat to her bedchambers, where she can have some time of her own, unafraid that her idea and its credit might be stolen by another. Over time, Irele has proven to be the kind who “does their homework,” for instance, she remained in the holding room when everyone else had left—probably starting their leg of the hunt once they’re off the moon—and studied the briefing’s log.

“The Jedi are going to be extra cautious if they discover the Inquisitors are hunting them out,” she spoke under the finger against her lip. “Inquisitors are too obvious to spot. The uniforms are a dead giveaway…”

Her eyes widened at the thought.

“But I won’t!” she gasped.

Before leaving the room, she humored herself with listening to the voice logs of Stormtrooper Commanders during their operation in Zeffo. She switched between data tapes, hoping to find an inkling if it was the best place to start.

Audio Data 03403, plays:

“Most of the ancient relics have been extracted from the tombs after much deep digging. Although the acquisition of these antiques were done at the expense of some of us here. Captain Kane, for instance. Who was tagged as K.I.A. while excavating more of these relics underground when local fauna attacked her and a few men in her team.”

Irele stopped midway and scrolled a new one in the databank. Audio Data 34735 plays:

“I’m starting to have a feeling that our patrols are thinning out…”

“Finally, something interesting,” she commented.

“We don’t have the luxury of deploying new troops while sending injured men to the nearest Star Destroyer or outpost. No thanks to that Jedi that was obviously headed in the same direction as we are.”

The girl’s eyes widened upon hearing the word. Her chest tightened, her heartbeat was slow but the thumping was heavy, she could almost feel it pulse through the skin of her ribs. She anticipated more.

“Though I don’t think he was after the relics. I think he was after only one relic, that I don’t know though. Whatever it is, it’s important. But another important thing is that we need to do our job if we don’t wanna lose it—or worse, our lives.”

She’s heard enough and stopped playing the audio recordings. She clicked her way to the metadata of the file and saw that both recordings were one and two days old respectively. She rushed back to her bedroom to slip into her armor, entering the room startled HY-L33, leaving her stuttering and practically choking on what words to say.

“Miss Irele?”

“Haylee, run me a quick scan. How far are we from Zeffo?”

Without question, the droid obeyed. For a minute or two, she stared with unblinking photoreceptors, the white light behind them was unmoving as a faint whirring ran in her central processing unit.

“Approximately two and a half parsecs away, milady.”

“Too wasteful to use Anathema’s hyperspace. No small carrier armed with hyperspace, but the speed is there.”

The words literally rolled off of Irele’s mouth as she talks to herself until she comes into an epiphany of an idea.

“Come on, Haylee!”

“Coming, Lady Irele.” the droid monotonously cooed but one can sense the urgency she adapted with her mistress.

14 notes · View notes

awrenthatwrites · 4 years

Text

“My Battery Is Low and It Is Getting Dark”

This is my submission for @flashfictionfridayofficial‘s prompt Alien Sunsets.

I wrote the original version of this on Feb. 13, 2019, and I have updated and changed it a little.

Opportunity’s fan whirred as she swept her gaze across the alien terrain. Mars. She had called it home for these last 15 years. No longer truly alien as it was all she had ever really known, and so long she would barely remember anything about the place called Earth.

She knew her creators lived there - the ones that had designed her, and had crafted her with care. The ones she called her family, but only after they had explained in depth what a family meant. She hadn’t understood at first. Humans could be so silly, sometimes. But as she sent them updates on what she had found, and when they had cheered and congratulated her from 54.6 million kilometers away, she thought perhaps she understood. How she missed the humans that she never got to meet.

A light blinked in Opportunity’s retinal scanner. A warning. Her battery - 15%. Would the humans’ rescue mission make it time?

“We’re coming, Oppy.” Opportunity’s memory drive repeated, and the rover’s fan whirred in recognition of the human Stephen’s voice.

8 months. It had been 8 months since her Comm had gone offline. Well, partially offline, Opportunity’s system’s corrected her. She could still hear the humans as they desperately tried to make contact with her. But she had no way to give them her reply.

“Opportunity Rover,” another one of her humans had commed, “roll forward 10 meters if you can hear us.”

It had been Morgan that time, the desperation in her voice as clear as the cloudless days there on the desolate planet.

“Three of my wheels have been compromised.” The rover had tried to reply. “I cannot move at all. The debris is too much.”

“Flash your light if you can hear us, sweetheart.” Morgan had tried, months later. “Flash us a quick hello.”

But how could Opportunity tell them that her front lamp had been shattered by rocks tossed in the storm that had ripped her apart all of those months ago? Each thing that they tried, the storm had taken away from her.

She was alone. She could hear them, but she had no way of communicating this to them.

The retina light blinked at her again. 10%

“My battery is low, Stephen.” She whirred. Opportunity’s Memory Drive knew what the caring human would say if he could hear the rover.

“Open your solars, sweet girl.” Stephen would say. “Let the sun’s rays recharge and rejuvenate you.”

“My Solars broke in the windstorm. Broken off and flung far away. There is no way I can reach them now.”

Opportunity’s retina flashed. 7%.

“Besides,” she continued, “it is almost sunset. There would be no sun to recharge my battery anyway.”

“Oh Hon,” Morgan would say, “You can hold on one more night. I believe in you.”

I believe in you.

Opportunity did not entirely understand the meaning behind the human’s words. Believe? It was a matter of ability. Could the Rover travel that many kilometers in a day? Could Opportunity last 90 days on an inhospitable planet? Could she withstand the drastic temperatures of the night one more time?

You can hold on one more night. I believe in you.

15 years.

One more night.

At least the sunset would be pretty. Opportunity thought she liked the color blue.

5%.

If she lasted one more night, would they come for her as the sun rose?

I believe in you.

If she lasted one more night, would she get to meet the humans that had helped her through the years of her life?

4%.

Maybe if they knew she could hear them. Maybe if they knew she wasn’t a lost cause - that she was stranded, but alive.

3%.

Opportunity’s fans whirred, slowing down.

She was going to die.

The sun had begun to set. The sky fading from orange to blue, the shadows lengthened, darkened.

Yes, she liked the color blue.

She tried her Comm one last time. Just as always, it crackled and hissed. It probably wouldn’t work, but she had to try.

“My battery is low,” Opportunity tried.

“My battery is low.”

Blue faded to black.

The sun had set.

Cold. It was so cold.

“My battery is low and it is getting dark.”

Systems failure. Systems shutting down.

“My battery is low and it is getting dark.”

Complete shutdown in 3 … 2 … 1 …

My battery is low and it is getting dark.

----

Thank you for reading,

Talya

#talyawrites #rip oppy #oppy #opportunity

50 notes · View notes

lomlwintersoldier · 5 years

Text

You Know Me {Part 2: Remembrance}

Previous Parts: | Part 1 |

Word Count: 3618

Warning: grief and mentions of death.

A/N: once again, lmk if you want to be tagged!! Enjoy :)

One Week Later

Clint keeps his head down as he hurriedly walks through the rain. He’d gotten a tip that former H.Y.D.R.A. operatives were assembling, seemingly trying to resurrect the fallen organization after the Second Snap that brought everyone back. It wasn’t supposed to be a particularly difficult mission, just some recon, nothing Clint couldn’t handle but Natasha’s recent death reminded him of his own mortality, and he tightened his grip on one of the hidden knives at his hip.

He mentally catalogs his weapons reserve as he comes up on the abandoned warehouse that the tip specified. It’s dark, broken windows are brightened only by the occasional flashes of lightning but they’re all ten feet up and not easily accessible. As Clint surveys a way to get inside without being noticed, he comes upon a single window that has a piece of debris at the bottom high enough to bring him right up to the glass.

He ducks through it, grateful for a reprieve from the heavy rain, but the warehouse is damp and smells like mold. “Some meeting place,” Clint mutters under his voice. Did H.Y.D.R.A. try to be so obviously villainous?

He makes his way down the hallways, checking every room but he becomes increasingly more confused when none yield what he’s looking for. Why would he get a tip for something that doesn’t exist?

The back of his neck prickles and in a split second he whirls around, his bow already dislodged with an arrow nocked, pointed directly at the head of the figure in the shadows.

“Give me a reason,” Clint says darkly. The figure shifts and his grip tightens on the bow but what emerges is not what he expects: a dark haired girl with her hands raised.

“I have no weapons. I just need to talk to you, Clint,” she says disarmingly as she approaches but she knows to keep distance between the two of you. Clint surveys her once she comes enough into the light; she’s young, maybe mid twenties “Who are you and how do you know my name?” He asks, his hands still tight around the bow.

“I’ll explain everything to you. Just please listen.” There’s a desperation in her tone that causes Clint to stop and he slackens his grip a little bit on the weapon. “Here.” She flicks a piece of paper at him and Clint catches it easily. Not a piece of paper. A photograph.

Clint angles the picture to face the faint moonlight that shines through the window and a sick feeling in his chest begins to spread.

A smiling Natasha looks up at the camera and Clint’s breath catches, his heart tugging painfully as he looks at the face of his best friend. His dead best friend. His eyes linger on her face for a few more moments before his eyes drift to the other two people in the photograph. Natasha’s arm was slung around the shoulders of...this same girl in front of him.

Clint looks up quizzically at the girl in front of him, who gives him a saddened look. He flicks his gaze back to the photo. It’s a younger, teenaged version of her but it was her and she had her arms curled over the shoulders of another girl, probably around twelve years old. All three grinned at the camera as if they knew something you didn’t, sharing a private laugh together.

“How….”

She gives him a small, sad smile. “My name is Dominique. Dom.”

“Natasha was my mentor.”

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

When you’d sent out the tip that H.Y.D.R.A. was assembling, a part of you had been terrified that no one would respond, that H.Y.D.R.A. wasn’t a big enough threat for the Avengers to waste their time on. But now with Clint standing here, your fears were put to rest.

“The first time I met Natasha I was 7 years old,” you say to Clint. The two of you had taken a seat on the edge of a fallen pillar and Clint had just been staring at the picture for the last few minutes.

“My parents had just died in a car accident and my sisters and I were going to be put into the system, but that would have made it so much easier for H.Y.D.R.A. to find and kill us. But an old woman showed up at the funeral and brought us to her house in San Francisco. Natasha came to us then.” “Why?” “I didn’t know this until later but our parents were former H.Y.D.R.A. agents that had escaped with us when H.Y.D.R.A. threatened to perform experiments on us. They kept us hidden, but when my parents died in the accident, we were alone.”

“Natasha found us, placed us in homes, and we were okay for a while. That girl,” she points to the younger girl in the photograph, “is my youngest sister, Amara.”

“We have another sister, Nia.”

“What happened to them?”

“They’re both dead.” There’s a finality to your tone and he knows not to press the issue. Clint sits back.

“Natasha started training the three of us when she came back for us the second time, when I was ten. She taught us everything we know about how to protect ourselves

“Why did Natasha go through so much trouble to keep you guys hidden?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, looking down at your hands. “I’ll probably never know, I never got the chance to ask her. But maybe she didn’t want us to suffer the same fate she did.”

“Probably not.” Clint must have been aware of her past in the Red Room because he looks down, his expression unreadable. You knew that Clint had been the one that took pity on her and brought her to the Avengers; the two of them had a long history, and based on the little Natasha had told you about Clint, you knew that he’d been incredibly important to her. “So what do you need from me?” He asks as his eyes meet yours. He looks exhausted and you know this conversation must have taken a lot out of him. He’d loved Natasha and you bringing up secrets she’d kept from him in life could not have been easy for him.

“H.Y.D.R.A.is after me, and Natasha said that if I ever needed help that I could turn to you. She trusted you...to know about me,” you reply, giving him a small sad smile.

“Alright,” Clint sighs as he stands. “You’re coming with me.”

Clint and you talk the whole flight back to the Avengers compound, mostly about Natasha. Clint tells you about the adventures the two of them together and the times they thought for sure they’d die. Every mission, every battle they fought had been ingrained in Clint’s mind and he tells you about them all, but when you get on the topic of her death, both of you become subdued.

“What happened, exactly?” You ask quietly as the silence begins to become overwhelming. Clint glances at you as if he’s not sure he’s ready to talk about it but you’d been wondering for months about the details of how Natasha died. He knows you deserve an answer; Natasha had been your whole world, your friend, your sister, your teacher and the fact that you knew so little about her death infuriated you.

It was the price of being invisible; no one could know who you were for your protection but when Natasha died, there was also no one for you to grieve with, no one to turn to, no one to even tell you how it happened. You’d found out she was dead through a newspaper article that had dedicated two sentences to her memory and moved on to the death of Tony Stark and the aged Steve Rogers, who both had paragraphs upon paragraphs of memorialization.

It had been hard to find out alone and to not have anyone to talk to about it but honestly, the only person you really wanted to talk to about Natasha’s death was Natasha.

Clint sighs. “Alright.”

He tells you about how after the first snap, when everyone disappeared, Natasha had been the one that lead the Avengers, sending the remaining team on missions to keep the world running as well as ones that checked up on the rest of the universe. A swell of pride fills you when he describes her as the one in charge, the one that stepped up when everyone else was too broken to continue, and you smile as you recognize the strong woman that made you into everything you are.

Then he tells you about Vormir.

“We went to Vormir together. We’d all been sent back to different times to retrieve the infinity stones and try to bring everyone back.”

He describes the desolate planet: the darkness that seemed to drain him every second he spent there, the cold chill to the air that felt as is he was being watched somehow, and the cliff they’d scaled to get to the Red Skull.

“We fought about who’d sacrifice themselves,” Clint says in a deadened tone. He’s purposely keeping his voice empty as he speaks about Natasha’s death; he doesn’t want to feel the pain. “She won. And then she jumped over the cliff and I….I tried to hold on but she…”

Tears welled in your eyes and you look down quickly, your throat closing as you picture it.

“I see.” Your voice is brittle as you swallow to try to clear the lump in your throat.

“Thank you for telling me. I didn’t….no one could tell me anything.”

Clint looks at you, giving you a tight smile as he puts a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“She went out a hero, you know that?” He says, nodding. You smile and give a small nod back.

The two of you touch down in Upstate New York a few hours later where the Avengers compound has been rebuilt and you take in the grey and white buildings surrounded by grass and roads connecting them. It looks beautiful and you can’t even tell that there had been nothing there just nine months ago. You glance to Clint in question.

“Tony left the Avengers a lot of money to keep us going.” He looks down at his hands. “He’s still doing everything for he can us, even in death.”

“I’m sorry,” you reply as you squeeze his arm, attempting any form of comfort. The jet starts to power down and Clint stands, turning to you as your stomach lurches in nervousness. “You’ll be fine. They’re not so bad.” Clint smiles at you as if he read your mind and the two of you wait as the doors to the quinjet open.

You see a figure standing there waiting for the two of you about twenty feet away. You survey him, dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, he looks between you and Clint with distrusting eyes. You don’t blame him. After everything these heroes have been through you understand how difficult it can be to trust people on the outside. “Sam,” Clint calls out as the two of you descend the inclined ramp. “How’s it going?” “We’re all good here,” Sam replies as you close the distance. When you reach him, he looks you up and down, scanning you before speaking.

“Who’s this?” He turns to Clint. “Sam, this is Dominique Cervantes. I met her in Ecuador,” Clint introduces you and you reach out your hand which Sam takes. He looks surprised at your firm grip.

“Dom, this is Sam. Captain America, formerly the Falcon.”

You look incredulously at the man in front of you. You’d heard the infamous story of Steve Rogers passing his mantle as Captain America to Sam Wilson but a part of you hadn’t wanted to believe it. Steve Rogers was the Captain America you’d known since you were a child and a part of you wondered if this man would live up the title. “Alright, Dom Cervantes,” he states as he looks you up and down. “What’s your deal?” “She’s alright. She told me everything and I think she can be valuable to the H.Y.D.R.A. OP.” Clint leans in closer to Sam and in a hushed breath says, “Natasha trained her.” Sam draws back in shock then turns his eyes to you. “You knew Natasha?” “Natasha was the only family I had besides my sisters. She was….everything to us.” You reply quietly, glancing at Clint. Sam’s eyes soften.

“Alright.” Sam surveys you. “Come on, I’ll call everyone for a briefing. I’m sure they’ll want to meet you for themselves.”

Clint and Sam talk quietly among themselves, Clint no doubt giving Sam the rundown of what he’d learned on the mission and you walk a few paces behind them to give them a chance to talk privately. You don’t want to look like a bewildered child at the sight of the compound so you force yourself to look straight ahead as the three of you walk into the foyer.

“We’ll put you up in one of the guest rooms. Are you good to convene at 1700 hours?” Sam asks you as he and Clint turn to you. “That way you can chill out for a couple hours.” “Works for me.” You give him a small smile just as an assistant comes up to the three of you. “I’ll take you to your rooms, miss,” he says politely.

“I’ll see you later then,” you shake Sams hand and give Clint a small smile before following the fleet footed assistant down the hallway. You glance back once to Sam and Clint who are talking to each other, before both turning to look at you once more.

They’re talking about me, you think to yourself as you follow the assistant to the east wing where all the sleeping quarters are. He takes you to the end of the hallway before opening the door for you.

“If you need anything, just ask F.R.I.D.A.Y.. She’ll take of it.” The young assistant says to you politely before leaving you in the room.

“Thank you.” You smile at him gratefully and he closes the door, leaving you suddenly very alone in this unfamiliar place.

What a day, you think. You lay down on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling for a while, picturing the story that Clint had told you. You didn’t want to think about it but the thoughts plagued your mind, leaving you unable to think of anything else except what Natasha must have looked like at the bottom of that cliff. Your teacher, your trainer, your friend. It made you sick.

You take a shower to distract yourself when it’s almost time to head back for the briefing. You need to be calm, composed. Forming a plan to take down H.Y.D.R.A., not thinking about Natasha.

When you’re ready you head back down the way you came, having memorized your routes as Nat always taught you to do and you head to the briefing room, where the Avengers have already convened, talking among themselves.

“Hey, hey.” Sam calls for everyone’s attention and the room quickly falls silent, every face turned to you.

“Everyone, meet Dom. She’s got intel on the former H.Y.D.R.A. agents that are still at large. Introduce yourselves, be nice.” Sam warns, giving everyone a playful glare as the new Avengers survey you. “My name is Wanda,” the redhead starts in accented English.

“Rhodey. Welcome,” the man on the far left of the table says. His voice is like that of a reassuring uncle. Authoritative. Comforting.

“Peter.” A kid with tousled brown hair waves awkwardly and you smile at him, amused. He couldn’t be more than sixteen and yet he sat at this table among the world's greatest heroes.

“Bruce Banner.” The scientist in an arm sling says. You remember reading about him too; how he’d been the one to snap everyone back, including yourself.

“Valkyrie,” the next woman says, looking you up and down like Sam had. Her dark eyes are magnetic, and intimidating but you instantly like her. She seemed strong.

“Scott Lang. Ant-Man.”

“Scott, you don’t have to add Ant-Man every time you say your name,” Peter mutters as he rolls his eyes. You giggle as Scott smacks the teenager before turning to the last person at the table.

“Bucky Barnes,” a low husky voice mutters. Your eyes linger on him for a moment, meeting his blue ones and he holds your gaze in his piercing blue eyes. Your lips suddenly feel dry and you quickly tear your gaze away from him, running your tongue over your lips.

You clear your throat and take a breath before you start your story. “As Sam said, my name is Dom,” you state before going into the details of the past few weeks, Santiago’s strange possession, your escape from Ecuador, and your meeting with Clint. You don’t tell them too much of your past with Natasha and your connections with H.Y.D.R.A., but you say enough for them to trust you. It was strange for you, being in a setting like this where everything was so serious and intense at all times but Natasha had prepared you to for briefings like this. You had to be concise, to the point, and not meander too much.

“H.Y.D.R.A. has hunted for me my whole life, and lately they’ve been becoming more persistent. When S.H.I.E.L.D. fell and H.Y.D.R.A. was exposed, I had a short reprieve but they quickly regrouped.”

“H.Y.D.R.A. has always grown back no matter how many heads we cut off. This time,” Sam pauses dramatically, “we’re gonna beat ‘em back for good.”

“So what do we do in the meantime?” Peter asks. “As of now, H.Y.D.R.A.’s slunk back into whatever cave they’re hiding in, so I say we wait until we can draw them out,” he replies. “You could use me as bait,” you suggest. It was the simplest way to lure H.Y.D.R.A. out; everyone knew they hated loose ends and they hated letting insubordinates live.

Sam nods. “Bucky, Dominique, and I will go scope out a few rumoured locations, hope we get lucky. Lets hope that if they catch a glimpse, they’ll come for you.”

“It worries me that they’ve created some kind of tech to control people.” Rhodey says with concern.

“We’ll keep an eye out for that scar on their necks. They must be remotely controlling people’s actions through an implant.” Bucky says as he stares at you but it feels like he’s looking directly through you and suddenly you feel very vulnerable under his analytical gaze.

“We should act soon,” you state seriously. “H.Y.D.R.A. hunts me every day and the longer I live, the angrier they get. I’d prefer to take them down before they kill me.” The new Avengers all nod in agreement, murmuring various comments of support.

“Alright. Tomorrow, training and sparring sessions. Six am.” Sam says as everyone starts getting up.

“Oh come on, Sam,” Peter protests. “You used to be soooo much more fun. Loosen up.”

“Boy, don’t tell me to loosen up. I’m the loosest here. Look at Rhodey,” he retorts playfully as Rhodey rolls his eyes.

“Training. Tomorrow. I swear I’ll beat you out of bed.” Sam playfully attempts to smack him upside the head but Peter quickly evades him, giggling like a child.

You laugh and shake your head as you head back to your room.

What a world, you think as you wander down the seemingly endless hallways. Every little inch of the place was spotless and you wouldn’t be surprised if every tile had some kind of high tech in every inch of it.

You decide you don’t want to go back to your room yet so you wander the halls, familiarizing yourself with the building the way Natasha had always taught you to do.

Natasha. You wondered what she would have thought, seeing you here among her friends, in her world. You’d always felt so far removed from places like this because the way you’d grown up had been so wildly different. This world of...of privilege. It was all so new to you but you were curious and you wanted to know everything.

Then again. Curiosity killed the cat. What if you were opening doors that you didn’t want opened? What if you couldn’t actually trust the Avengers to trust you?

You shake your head. You can’t let these negative thoughts fill you, you knew yourself too well. A seed of doubt would keep you from trusting the avengers and you needed them to survive.

You come across a large glass domed conservatory a few hours later and it instantly becomes your favorite place on the compound. The building itself isn’t very big but when you step inside it’s humid center, you instantly feel comfortable. It’s beautiful, with every plant you could possibly think of and as you wander it, you realize it’s larger than you’d initially thought. Part of the glass dips below the surface, displaying a small underground pond.

You crouch, leaning on your feet as your fingers break the crystal clear surface, creating little ripples that fan from the tips of your fingers

Simple pleasures, you think to yourself humorlessly.

Part 3

Tags: @xxchexchickxx @killpop-writes @melconnor2007 @psychicwitchphilosopher @frolicsomefawkes @the-witching-hours12-3 @bubblegumuntsr @badassbaker @trashsnitches @barnes-toddpartnersinheartbreak @thickthighedqueen @megandrawsspace @rda1989@ailynalonso15 @cupcaitlyn96 @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @thefridgeismybestie @elleatrixlestrange @browncoatforever @elitafuckingone @siobhanrebecca @ my-girl-is-the-best @dugan365

36 notes · View notes

thesinglesjukebox · 5 years

Video

youtube

AMERICAN FOOTBALL FT. HAYLEY WILLIAMS - UNCOMFORTABLY NUMB

[6.17]

thesingl esjukebox

Vikram Joseph: On American Football's 1999 debut album (and, for some 17 years thereafter, their only album), laconic, meandering guitar lines intertwined and diverged, set against a pillowy backdrop of woozy horns and jazz-tinged percussion; Mike Kinsella's vocals drifted in and out like conversation through patches of broken sleep, feeling more like another instrument than a driving force for the song. The songs were rarely streamlined, but in their soft drift they captured, with heart-stopping precision, something ephemeral and intangible -- sunlit fields and slow dusks, an essence of youth and summer. "Uncomfortably Numb" is the Before Midnight to the Before Sunrise of their early songs: older, harder, burdened with regrets and worn down by disappointment. It's more conventionally structured than any other American Football song, borne on a crisp, clean, cyclical Plans-era Death Cab guitar line, and some of Kinsella's lyrics (not always his strongest suit, and better as hazy evocation rather than narrative) are a little on-the-nose ("I blamed my father in my youth/now as a father, I blame the booze"). But it builds a melancholy beauty all the same, Kinsella's voice interweaving with that of Hayley Williams in the flickering chorus; "The lessons are so much less obvious the further you get from home," rings awfully true. The solutions don't present themselves so easily when the issues get this hard to unravel. [7]

Iris Xie: How does one capture the sadness and tenderness at inevitable breakdowns, and the connected hope and sorrow that ties together such tragedy? Through a production that imitates the warmth of moving amongst muted pastel clouds, for muddled psyches and safe spaces. The creation of the space, which facilitates and echoes the depth of the relationship and their connected interiorities, is conveyed through the glowing guitars, patient drums, soft harmonizing, and evocative but hazy lyrics, and sets the environment for a simultaneous warmth and distancing, with endless compassion. There is this beautiful sound in the background where I can't tell whether it's one of the singers slowly humming in the back, or it is a gently played horn, but it is chilling in conveying their not telepathic, but almost as connected, thoughts, even from a distance. When their voices overlap, they glimmer. As Williams sings over his monologue, it results in an incredibly succinct expression of their struggles: "Now I'm used to struggling (tied to a contortionist)/for two"; his last two words are swallowed, giving an impression that he may only be starting to come to terms with how he is hurting for both him and his inner child, while she understands too well what is occurring as an outsider. This conveys clarity in what level of disaster is occurring, as he continues to turn away from home. Unfortunately, there lies the familiar tale to many womxn-identified folks, because Williams's POV remains at home, frustrated and exhausted after her sacrifice. They echo as they distance: "I just want you home/I'll make new friends/In the ambulance." The instrumentals empty out to a lingering, uncertain optimism, and complete this quiet hush of family tragedy. There are no harsh disasters here -- just the slow, ebbing progression towards the rock bottom, from which up is the only way to go. [10]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: As I get older, I find myself far more attuned to the melancholic music of singer-songwriters written in adulthood than in youth. That's partially because so many of these earlier albums -- from Down Colorful Hill to Songs About Leaving to American Football's debut -- defined my teenage years, but also because they featured incredibly overt depictions of angst and malaise. American Football's music post-reunion is far less insular, and with their aging band members comes a more precise portrait of my current life: one characterized by the ability to function in the real world despite persistent, unceasing depression. In other words, the emotions here are palpable because they're less flashy -- after all, histrionic melodrama will only draw attention to one's own childishness, and we're all trying to avoid that, right? With "Uncomfortably Numb," Mike Kinsella finally makes the song I've always wanted him to make. On "Bad News" and "Ugly on the Inside," he delivered harrowing diatribes against friends that I personally read as songs written for himself (this line of thinking being an obvious projection of my own self-hatred). But here, he enlists Paramore's Hayley Williams to take on the role of a wife who's hurt by his decisions. Her topline is unmistakably Kinsella's (the "clear"/"see-through" line being a dead ringer for his lyrical style), so this track does give the semblance of Kinsella addressing himself, but I'm mostly reminded of conversations I've had with my sister; my parents never quite understood or acknowledged my depression, so my sister was the only family member who was evidently concerned about my mental health. But after years of my sister dealing with me, I understand that if she ever caught me in the worst of states again, there would be this mix of pain and compassion and tiredness that Hayley so effortlessly captures here. Her feature is doubly affecting because she represents a generation of emo bands that came after American Football's, highlighting how Kinsella is still succumbing to these habits and mindsets perpetuated by depression. The twinkling guitars and winding drums act to remind listeners of why it can be so hard to break free; the instrumentation is as pretty as anything on the 1999 debut, but it's also incredibly familiar, incredibly safe. When depressive thoughts and actions feel like the warp and weft of your being -- the typical non-solution to dealing with hardship or success or anything at all -- it's easy to default to such a mode of living, even when the numbness is uncomfortable. [9]

Iain Mew: As a dad who just lost my dad, I'm doing the mental equivalent of holding my hand in front of my face to avoid looking at this directly. Except it's all so gentle, nothing but chiming charm, that it's more like the recent time that the sunlight through my office window was perfectly lined up with the corner of my eye but I couldn't even see it there, just notice that my eyes kept watering. [6]

Thomas Inskeep: Never have heard them before, this is American Football, the supposedly legendary emo band? Because "Uncomfortably Numb" sounds uncomfortably like a soft Jason Mraz song. Emo as Adult Contemporary in 2019: who knew? [3]

Jonathan Bradley: The first time I heard the word "emo" was from the tracklist of Blink-182's Dude Ranch; they had named one of their songs this because it sounded a bit like Jimmy Eat World. I didn't know that then, so I got on to a search engine through my high school's computer lab -- school had internet, unlike home -- and AltaVista or Ask Jeeves wondered if I might be looking for Emo Philips. Or maybe an emu? Blink's intentions remained occluded for a few more years until I caught a chance airing of a Get Up Kids song on the radio, which led me to SongMeanings' deconstructions of Sunny Day Real Estate and early Pitchfork pans of The Promise Ring. Then the girl in my drama class with the cool hair who changed her name told me I had to listen to Death Cab because "Photo Booth" was "the most emo song ever." At a time when music gleamed with such bright intention -- even the "alternative" acts of the time, like Korn or Green Day, performed in spit-polished block capitals -- these foreign bands I glimpsed through newly connected dial-up sounded like nothing else: they could be muted, they could be unhewn, they could be obtuse. They were American, but a model of Americanness that was unknowable in Australia then. They were always, in a way mass culture seemed to discourage, unfailingly and embarrassingly earnest. I never heard American Football in 1999; we had the internet at home, but my precious download quota was spent, by chance, on Braid and Texas is the Reason. Hearing the shivering guitar tendrils of "Uncomfortably Numb" now, with its calm and studied drum figures, drops me vividly back into those days. Mike Kinsella's plain voice arcs modestly over the fussiness, melding at times indistinguishably with that of his stylistic successor Hayley Williams, and maybe its only beautiful in the context of the late 20th century. But no; it is beautiful now, too. [8]

Will Rivitz: "I'll never forget the first time I heard American Football because, like, you don't forget the halcyon summer before you depart your home city and go to university," begins a review of the band's reunion LP three years ago, and I think that's pretty on the mark for how people about my age consume and relate to this kind of emo. So much of its appeal is a nostalgia for times we were too young to know when they were happening and, a few years after that, a nostalgia for that nostalgia, the age at which this was the music punching our collective gut. It's weird and a little difficult to articulate: there's something comforting about looking back at other young adults when you yourself were one, understanding that, despite differences in musical diets and environments and technology and what have you, a college-aged guitar virtuoso is probably going to have the same sorts of fears you do. That, I think, is what makes emo's particular nostalgia so powerful; as late-teenaged walking and talking existential crises, we found solace in looking back. We learned that the late-teenaged walking and talking existential crises of a few decades back both captured how we felt with stunning accuracy and, often, made it through alive, helping us feel both less alone and less desolate. Even nostalgia has its limits, though, and though there's no obvious line to demarcate absolutely everything that can be contained in emo's resonant power, it seems reasonable to conclude that Hoobastank is not one of those things. [3]

Will Adams: Wisely restrained, dreamy but devastating, and generally pleasant to hear. At least during the moments it doesn't remind me of "The Reason." [6]

Tim de Reuse: The only good things about American Football's post-reunion material have been the parts that kinda sound like they could've been written back in the nineties, when their crisp, angst-driven debut wormed its way into the hearts of many a disaffected suburbanite. Judging by this single, it looks like their 2019 album is gonna be gaudy, covered in sparkly reverb and dramatic electric guitar tremolos -- and I'm not thrilled about that -- but while I sharply disagree with their sound engineer, I can't fault the composition itself, or the gorgeous (as always) showing by drummer Steve Lamos, or the choice of subject matter. Teenage stress gives way to directionless middle-aged depression: "How will I exist," he says, and there's a weird pang in my chest I didn't expect to get from a band that spent 14 years broken up. [6]

Alfred Soto: I hope these guys gave their engineer a bonus: boy, do those arpeggios sparkle. "Uncomfortably Numb" sparkles to muddled effect, for what they recorded is a valentine to anomie disguised as a depiction. [5]

Ian Mathers: I'm not sure what I expected (having not paid much attention back in the day) when I finally got around to hearing all these reunited or still going post-emo acts, but it sure wasn't for it all to be so determinedly, shapelessly... pleasant. I feel like I enjoyed it, but 10 seconds after it stops it's already vanished from memory. [6]

Alex Clifton: There are a lot of lovely quiet moments in this song with the rolling guitar in the background and some gorgeous harmonies between Hayley Williams and Mike Kinsella; this is more of the music I always wanted to hear Williams do. But something about it doesn't punch me the way it should. A song called "Uncomfortably Numb" should at minimum wedge itself under my skin with some hard truths about life I'd rather not acknowledge; if it wants to go harder, it should leave me devastated. But there's a lot to be said for the numbness here; try as I might to feel for these people, I can't conjure the feeling. [5]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#American Football #Hayley Williams #indie rock #emo #music #music writing #review

1 note · View note

trashunlimited · 6 years

Text

to conclude, here’s the epilogue. also, i’m putting this all on ao3 and will post the link soon. this isn’t the end of my rick x julie content, there will be more! i need to post something fluffy to make up for all this angst.

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

tagging: @nightshade1994, @glampyra

Rick had been looking for a powerful fuel source, and remembered the one on Fyralog, perhaps the crystal was still there? It was certainly worth a shot.

Taking Morty along with him as normal, they were flying around on Rick’s ship, looking for the remains of Fyralog. Rick grinned excitedly when they finally come upon Fyralog, and landed on it. The planet look barren, desolate and deserted, the buildings destroyed and there was no life in sight.

“Jeez Rick, what happened here?” Morty asked nervously.

“This Morty, is all that’s left of the Fyralogin Empire, once the dominant force in the galaxy before it collapsed and was replaced by the F-Feds.” Rick explained. “But g-guess who took it down? Me!” He proudly proclaimed, pointing to himself.

“You took down an entire e-empire?” Morty responded in shock.

“Hell yeah dawg! Years ago I stole a chunk of the fuel source we’re here for, they tried to get it back but it collapsed before they could!” Rick laughed.

He knew he shouldn't be surprised, this was Rick after all. But to know he took down an entire empire single handedly? It was both shocking and amazing.

“So...why are we here now Rick?” He wondered.

“To get the another chunk of that fuel source obviously! What else would we come here for?” He hissed. Morty realized that maybe he shouldn’t have asked.

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

As the duo wandered together, Morty found himself really creeped out by the place. The combination of the lack of life when there clearly had been some at one point, the broken and boarded up buildings and the feelings of emptiness made him uneasy. “This place is really cr-cr-creeping me out Rick..” He mumbled.

“Don't be a baby Morty, y-you've been to worse places, this'll be cake.” Rick brushed him off. Morty sighed and continued walking with him.

He started to realize they were headed towards the large building in the center, and so figured that the fuel source must be in there.

When they arrived in the building, it was completely dark, so Rick took out a flashlight and turned it on, using it to help him look around and traverse the building. Morty clung onto his lab coat as they walked, even more frightened than before.

As they walked around, they saw a green glow and headed towards it, where they the crystal-like fuel source, Even now, it still had broken and mangled wires connecting to it.

“Jackpot!” Rick grinned, pumping a fist in the air.

But as soon as he started heading towards it, a figure with two pairs of golden glowing eyes appeared in the darkness. Startled, Rick used the flashlight to get a better look at the figure, and wasn’t surprised when he saw it was Pyri, the former empress of the Fyralogin Empire. There was a look of pure malice and insanity on her face, which made sense, she had been here, alone in the darkness for decades.

“You..” She snarled, glaring at Rick. “You took everything from me! My planet, my people, my empire, my pride..”

Rick ignored her and she watched as he took out another of the crystal. Her eyes wandered around and landed on Morty, and she became confused, unsure who he was. Pyri had expected to see Julie, but she wasn’t there. She’d never seen what Julie actually looked like, but assumed she would’ve seen a woman around Rick’s age, not whoever this was.

“Where is Julie?” Pyri asked, making Rick stop dead in his tracks. When she didn’t get a response, she asked again. “I asked you, where is Julie? What happened to her?”

Rick still wasn’t responding, which gave her a hint on what had happened. “Oh I see, so she’s dead huh? Did you kill her or something?”

At this, Morty noticed he was shaking and had a horrified expression on his face. He wasn’t sure who Julie was exactly, but knew whoever she was, she must’ve been important to Rick.

“So you did kill her after all huh? Should’ve known...she loved you and killed her!”

Morty didn’t know what to do when he saw Rick clench his fists as he started to tear up.. Something was wrong…

Pyri kept egging Rick on and taunting him. “Poor sweet Julie, you dragged her into your bullshit and tricked her into loving you. She died because of you, it’s all your fault!”

Rick snapped at this, and pulled out a weapon with him. “No!” He screamed as he shot her. “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it! I didn’t…” When Pyri collapsed dead on the ground, Rick sat down on his knees and sobbed.

Morty was concerned and worried for him, what was he supposed to do now? He didn’t want to stay here any longer and so tugged on Rick’s shoulder to get his attention. “W-We should go Rick…”

Rick looked over at him and wiped his tears away. “Yeah...whatever..”

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

On their back, Rick and Morty were both silent, neither saying a word to each other. What could they even say? Morty had seen Rick in such a vulnerable moment, he had let his emotions get the best of him, he wanted to avoid doing something like that again.

Morty nervously rubbed one of his arms and glanced over at Rick. “Rick...whose Julie?”

Rick clenched his fists on the steering wheel of the ship, tightening his grip on it. “Shut up, just shut up...:” He growled before looking away.

Morty knew he wasn’t going to get an answer out of Rick, so he thought on his own who Julie could be. She was someone clearly very important to him, who was also dead. With this, Morty wondered if Julie was his grandma. He’d never met, seen or even heard of his grandma before, no one seemed to want to talk about her, there was no pictures of her in the house, but why? Considering Rick’s reaction to her being mentioned and all, maybe it was just too hard to talk about her. Though Morty was curious about Julie, he wasn’t sure if he would ever get to learn about her, he hoped he could though someday.

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

When they returned to Earth, Rick immediately went up into his room, refusing to even look at anyone. Summer had seen this and walked over to Morty, just as confused as he was. “Uh...what’s wrong with Grandpa Rick?” She asked.

“I...I don’t know..” Morty admitted. “When we went to go get something on another planet, someone there mentioned a person named Julie, she told Rick that he caused Julie’s death and he freaked out and killed her. He wouldn’t say a-anything about it on our way b-back.”

Summer was surprised by this. “What? Really? Who do you think Julie could be?”

“I was thinking that she’s our gr-grandma. I mean...with Rick’s reaction and all, I think she was important to him, but she died…” He answered.

“Makes sense, it would explain a lot wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah...I just h-hope either R-Rick or Mom will want to tell us s-something about her eventually..”

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

Rick sat alone on his bed, tears flowing down his face. When he had brought Morty to Fyralog with him, he hadn’t thought Pyri would even be there, he presumed she’d died, but he’d been wrong unfortunately, at least until he’d killed her himself. But he should’ve known better...he’d came there for his own personal gain, and Pyri had ended up blaming him for Julie’s death.

The truth was that Rick did actually blame himself for Julie’s death. He felt if he hadn’t left her all those years ago, that she would still be alive, that they would still be together and be happy. He could wake up in the morning and be greeted by her lovely face, he could still taste her kisses and feel her warmth, and Julie would continue to be there for him, loving and supporting him as always.

Even if she had developed the condition that killed her anyways, Rick knew he could cure her, but he couldn’t cure her now that she was dead. Despite his genius, Rick couldn’t reverse death. He didn’t see cloning as an option either, because while he could do that, it wouldn’t be the same, the clone wouldn’t be the Julie he fell in love with, it would be someone completely different.

Before Julie had entered his life, it had been lonely, miserable, empty and depressing. But once she had become apart of it, his life instantly became better. She’d brought out the best in him, made him feel genuinely happy, probably for even the first time in his life, and was the first to show him love and kindness.

Now she was gone, and the empty feelings had returned to him, the only way they could be filled, the only way his heart could heal is if she came back into his life. But because she was dead, that was impossible. Rick believed he was doomed to remain a depressed, suicidal alcoholic for the rest of his miserable life.

He took out the crystal rose he’d gotten for Julie, before they’d even started dating. She’d loved it so much, and he could still remember the day he took her to that gemstone planet visibility. Rick remembered they’d even had their wedding there. He clutched onto rose and angrily threw it on the floor, but it didn’t break, there wasn’t even a crack, it stayed still and intact.

Rick pulled out his flask and opened it, downing some alcohol as more tears stained his face.

#my writing #rick and julie

5 notes · View notes

pendragonfics · 7 years

Text

Good To Be Back

Paring: Mark Watney/Reader

Tags: female reader, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, feels, fluff.

Summary: You met in college. Married, got to work together at NASA. You're in SatCon, he's in the ARES III astronaut program. But when he's reported dead on Mars, you're more than a wreck. Thank God for your good friend Mindy Park, and a steely-eyed missile man who're working hard with you to bring him home.

Word Count: 1,914

Current Date: 2017-07-05

You can still remember the first thing Mark Watney had said to you, when you met in college – “It’s not as bad as it looks, I’m fine,” because the guy had just fallen down a flight of stairs trying to get from his botany classes to mechanical engineering in time. He’d gotten a bit bruised, sure, and the notes he’d been holding were splattered everywhere, but apart from his ego being a little damaged, the man was fine. He’d said the same thing after his stag’s night for the wedding had gone south (another stag party decided to ramp up the tension, resulting with Mark needing stitches in his eyebrow the day before the wedding), and still, you worried.

But now, he wasn’t there to say those words. Reassure you with puns and silly memes he’d found on his Facebook feed from the other astronauts.

It was completely fantastic how the pair of you had been accepted into the same workplace over the years, brought into the same sphere. Except, while you were the grounded one in the relationship (as always), he was two feet off the ground, and in the astronaut program.

Mr. Sanders, Director of NASA had seen to you personally, since you were his closest family. It killed you to hear it so factually, even if it was your profession in SatCon. His coms unit severed, deceased, and left behind on Mars after the ARES III crew were forced to depart. Smiling to the man in charge of your pay check, you politely excused yourself to the bathroom, and sat yourself on the closed lid of the toilet.

It’s then when the door is shut you feel the tears coming. Back in college on a drunken night in with old friends, they’d mentioned how dangerous the space program was potentially. Of course, you’d all been off your faces, and thought that space travel was as simple as on Star Trek. But damn it, it was 2035, not 1962; NASA had more tech than when the Friendship 7 circled the Earth. You had met Vogel and Johanssen, and they’d promised to keep him safe. He was supposed to be safe. Not dead.

“Damn you, Mark,” you hiss.

“_________?” A co-worker calls out, the sound of the bathroom door opening. Mopping your eyes with toilet paper, you take a deep breath, flushing the toilet before you go. “You just ran off. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Just needed to go.”

---

Sol 37

I’ve figured out how to make water, but I don’t think NASA will like it. They left me on here, so I don’t really care what they think, I just needed water. I mean, it was an accident and all, no hard feelings to Commander Lewis, and all. Anyways. I blew up a lot of shit (namely, almost myself), all in the name of science and survival and all that.

I keep thinking of what they’re thinking of me back on Earth. You know when you’re a moody teenager, wondering about what people will think about you once you’re dead? Well. That’s me now. Except I’m like, a full-grown adult, married and all. I keep thinking of _________, and how she’s doing. Probably not that great. When her grandpa died, she was a mess for ages. I don’t blame her. He was a great guy, always snuck those nice boiled candies into bingo night at the nursing home for his friends.

What I’d give for candy. No. What I’d give to tell my wife I’m not dead.

---

It’s hard to keep going on. Of course, everyone is asking you to take leave, take time off for your grief. You almost consider it. A week goes by, and then you accept it, taking time to cry by yourself in the apartment that barely smells of Mark anymore, remnants of him everywhere. He’d never put his things away; toothbrush laying by the stand, slippers kicked off by the bed, the coffee cup he’d been drinking from, empty and sitting all lonesome on the coaster by the plant on the breakfast bar. There’s no body to bury, there’s nothing but what you’re living in. Every day, you miss Mark, missing him more, and more, and more, until you can’t handle it anymore. Some days, you can’t get out of bed. Sometimes, you can’t open your eyes.

But one day, there’s a phone call.

You’ve been friends with Mindy Park since you both started the SatCon program, sharing numbers ages ago. When her picture starts vibrating on the bedside table, you find some energy, reaching over to answer the call.

“_________?” Her voice is oddly perky, especially for the hour.

You blink, flicking the bedside light on. You had barely any sleep, or maybe too much; you can’t remember, it’s been so scattered, and your eyes feel almost like they’ve been pissed on by a cat and left to burn (not that that’s ever happened to you, but you imagine it to feel incredibly painful).

“Hey,” you croak. “Is something wrong? Did I log something wrong?” You ask her.

Mindy makes a noise, almost like she’s shaking her head, but realising it isn’t a video call, adds, “Nope. Good news. Mark is alive, _________.”

You swallow, “A-alive?” You stammer, and sitting up too fast, you feel the blood drain from your head, and a little woozy. “This isn’t a joke, please, tell me it isn’t a joke, Min,” you almost pray.

“It’s real. And I’m working with Vincent Kapoor, too. You need to get here as soon as you can, we need your brain on this,” She gushes. “_________, Mark Watney is alive, and you can help bring him home. We all are.”

You’re already out of the bed, stumbling toward the shower to get cleaned up. “I’m on my way, Min.”

---

Sol 223

It’s shitty being alone on a planet, but you know what? There can be perks. I don’t have to fight anyone on the music. Except Commander Lewis. When I see her again, I will tell her where she can stick her records. Why nobody else brought music, it baffles me, because I’d kill for anything. German hardcore metal. Those recent pop music things Beck likes. Hell, I’d kill for showtunes.

Now I’ve started talking to NASA, they won’t shut up. Can’t a man just enjoy a life-threatening one-man holiday on Mars? All I’m missing is a pair of schmuck sunglasses and a bottomless piña colada. I’m waiting for them to tell me I can talk to _________. I mean, when all’s good and well on the Hermes and I’m on it, I’ll see her face, and tell her about all the crap I’ve been through. Might even grow this beard out, it might just make the whole desolate final frontier look complete.

I’m not really that upset about the music. I’m just worried about how much TV missing. If they’ve cancelled my show, I swear to –

---

You still feel like shit, but you’re a piece of shit whose brain is working a million miles a minute with the bigwigs of NASA. When he’s able to, you’re given the privilege of contacting Mark, using the messaging system in the Rover.

IT’S NOT AS BAD AS IT LOOKS, I’M FINE.

He tells you, making you laugh. The other people in SatCon don’t get the inside joke, and for a moment, you realise that it’s the first time in ages that you��ve laughed, and it makes you feel warm inside. Like Mark is already home.

DAMN RIGHT YOU ARE. COME BACK FOR ME.

You reply. Vincent Kapoor must take over the communications or there won’t be contact for a while, leaving you back to your desk to observe the weather maps and satellite pictures once more. Except, you’re feeling your heart beating a little faster, your lips perked up at the sides. You’ve still got those bags under your eyes, and your sleep schedule has gone to the shit house, since you’re working double shifts to keep him alive on Mars. You can’t do anything about the overabundance of potatoes, but sure as hell can you warn him about unprecedented sand storms arriving.

“You look pretty happy,” Mindy passes you a cup of coffee, smiling. You’re both at your desks in the SatCon observation area, currently waiting out the seventeen-minute period between the satellite changes. Opening the lid of the disposable cup, you see she’s remembered to add a marshmallow, just like how Mark likes his coffee. “I’ll try and get you more time to talk to him.”

Taking a big sip of your coffee, you sigh in contentment as the caffeine hits you. “You’re a saint, I swear, Mindy Park,” you tell her, resting your head upon her shoulder. Almost closing your eyes, you feel a wave of tiredness wash over you.

“Woah, you’re pooped,” she notes, taking your cup from you. “How about you take a nap, and I cover for your shift?” You nod, not even going to fight her on this. You’ve been up for the last forty hours waiting to talk to Mark. “Sweet dreams.”

---

Sol 512

I’m going to soar. I might sound like that I’m proud to be the fastest man to go in space travel, but I’m scared shitless. There should be some consequence of it, maybe my organs get f*cked up, or my brain turns to custard, I don’t care. I just want to go home.

I just want to go home to _________.

---

You’re faint when you hear the news. He’s on board. He’s safe. He’s coming home. Everyone is cheering. You’re sure the whole world is cheering. Mindy is jumping, and rushes to your side, and hugs you tight enough to maybe have a few ribs broken. You’re breathless, in a daze.

“I’ve got him,” Commander Lewis’ voice over the coms is still ringing in your ears.

It’s still a year, or three before he’s back on the soil of Earth, decontaminated, and briefed and cared for, and back in your arms, in the apartment, but your heart is racing, a million miles a minute, and so is your brain.

“He’s coming home,” you whisper, still incredulous.

“He’s coming home.” Mindy agrees.

---

“Yeah, I know I stink,” He tells the other guys. “Try not showering for a year and a half.”

Johannsen gags, her hands raised in surrender. “No-oo, no thanks.” Vogel nods silently, keeping his distance while the botanist smells like something that needs to be flushed away by the plumbing.

“But Mark, that’s how you usually smell,” Martinez chimes in from the pilot’s seat.

He laughs, glad to be back with the crew. “Screw you, Martinez”

---

His first words to you aren’t the special words he’s used all these years. I’m fine. It’s not as bad as it looks. Nope. His face is lit up, like he’s the star atop the Christmas tree, the beard the team had been telling the NASA coms about shaven off. He smells of soap and Mark and your arms are around him so hard that you wonder if you’re compressing him into a travel size by your vigour. But he doesn’t seem to mind.

“It’s good to be back,” he murmurs into your ear. “I missed you so much, baby.”

Your grip on him loosens, “You’re not going to tell me you’re fine?”

He laughs. “Only if you swear never to make me look at a potato for as long as I live.”

#mark watney #mark watney the martian #mark watney x reader #the martian #the martian movie #the martian x reader #matt damon #matt damon x reader #chaotic--lovely #pendragonfics #Female reader

109 notes · View notes

andthentherewasgrey · 7 years

Text

August 5, 2017

How quickly worlds can change. A country with a new president. A dear friend without a mom. An idea of God that I was so sure about. My go-to drink at a coffee house (cortado -> hot brown sugar vanilla -> iced brown sugar cinnamon). The focus of a new church service. A feeling of desolation and loss of identity to a feeling of fullness and deep joy (or the reverse). Endless time to write, waste, watch, and worry morphing into only Thursday mornings to mow the lawn and check my email and adjust my bank accounts. Spending my working days transitioning from cleaning large industrial machinery and halfway bossing 15 millennials to actual bossing 22 millennials and being responsible for making millions (400k a DAY) of little brown fake-chocolate donuts using 2000+ lbs of oil a day. Living alone in a house wondering what to do with the seeming infinite amount of minutes and months left in my life to living with a friend and a half; my world suddenly revolving around a person less than 3 feet tall. With two more faceless native babies moving in before the year is out. A year ago, last month, I’d never truly held a baby and certainly hadn’t given much thought to living with any or having one of my own.

It’s borderline embarrassing reading the things I wrote even a year ago and downright humiliating to go further back. Which, according to Brene, means I’m using this space correctly. i also like to think that the gap between the things I think and feel and wonder about and my embarrassment of them is closing. Which hopefully means I’m getting braver and growing more quickly so that even things I thought, felt, and was curious about a month ago are already things I’ve become accustomed to.

Exhibition: My extreme discomfort and embarrassment at telling something they smell. The worry that I’ll forget about a child altogether and leave them in the car or house or lose them in the store. The day I switched uniform colors at work and couldn’t look anyone in the eye for fear of the attention. The time everyone (okay maybe only some) saw my underwear in church. The terror at hearing myself teaching and receiving feedback on where I can improve. The uncertainty at beginning ability tree connections and wondering if I could handle coordinating monthly programs has now become an afterthought that I plan in an afternoon.

I still answer Wilbroad’s emails ridiculously late. No matter how clean I try to keep the house, I’m still a contender with FJD for who can leave the living room looking most tornado like. The thing I like most about living with a kid is that it’s 100% welcomed to be in the moment with them, my absolute best and favorite quality to offer. AND I haven’t yet figured out (slash made time) how to be present with myself enough to be as present as I want to be with others. I get the things done: teaching, ability tree, 5:30 service, house renovations, starting a new job, showing up at my friends big life moments - but it truly is difficult for me to engage with myself in a meaningful way. To practice spirituality in a meaningful way. To connect with many of the people I love most in a meaningful way.

If naturally I’m not so great at thinking, speaking, or even doing one thing at a time, its exponentially harder when a little alarm also goes off in my head every 15 seconds (or less) saying “what is she doing? where is she? how could I handle this? what do I need to prepare for to do the next thing?” And she isn’t even my kid. I just enjoy her and spend most of my waking hours with her and her mom. And also my mom...And a new job with 22 new people. (And I wonder why its difficult to allot my time as I had previously).

We have the most unconventional pseudo family. A mom and her daughter. Me and my sometimes dog Remington. And soon to be kids that are neither of ours, but that I can’t imagine won’t feel like ours until we give them back to whoever they belong to.

FJD officially gets adopted on Monday, about 36 hours from now. And when she does, it will be the most for-sure relationship of our little crew. Our arrangement is most likely transient - if SD or I find boys to marry or if (when) the kids we have get put back in their homes. At first I tried to curb my engagement to some extent because of the unsureness, but like all loves, it’s not a guarantee and no one is better off from receiving less love. As Jamie Tworkowsi said the year I found TWLOHA:

"We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don’t get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won’t solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we’re called home."

I don’t do it right. I neglect the wrong things. Sometimes, I get impatient with FJD, I’ve learned I’m quite controlling when I feel out of control or criticized. That’s weird 7 thing that goes to 1 in stress or worry. I don’t listen to SD or mom or MN or whoever. I don’t reach out to friends and family as much as. I get downright angry at the things SD’s mom does. I do good things in place of following Jesus.

And it’s the last one that absolutely has to change.

Somehow my life has always come back to orphans. As if my desire to help the parentless is a sort of metaphor for how I wish someone would take care of my emotions. (I say that in jest, but maybe? And if it is accurate, is that so wrong?) My childhood dream of being a house mom at an AIDS orphanage in Africa. Telling B (a partial orphan himself) on JN’s barn rooftop that I thought my life would somehow have to do with kids with no place to go. Invisible Children being my saving grace after he died. Uganda and L’esperance and all that has become Weight of Glory. Now FJD and the native foster kids that will begin to poor in and out of our makeshift home. The haunting reality the B’s death gives me courage to believe I can love hard in the face of unfair, insurmountable, and infuriating odds, yet lose everything and still have a soul.

The oddity of only noticing the pattern in retrospect, as if my life continues to tumble into orphans and once I’ve seen, I can’t un-see. All of it an accident turned side project, turned life trajectory. 600 native babies in Adiar County Oklahoma and 7 foster homes. I don’t even know if I believe that statistic because of it’s gaping disparity. And me, a White girl facing the only discrimination I’ll likely face in my lifetime who can’t legally adopt or foster any of them except through my friend and roommate. Nearly 200 Ugandan children dependent on Weight of Glory each month and I can hardly even answer Wilbroad’s emails and begrudgingly procrastinate our biggest fundraiser every year.

But, God. Rich in mercy. Full of light and truth.

8 For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light 9 (for the fruit of the light consists in all goodness, righteousness and truth)10 and find out what pleases the Lord. 11 Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them. 12 It is shameful even to mention what the disobedient do in secret. 13 But everything exposed by the light becomes visible—and everything that is illuminated becomes a light. 14 This is why it is said:

“Wake up, sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.”

Ephesians 5:8-14

I want to be awake.

“It seemed to me that all my other guesses had been only self-pleasing dreams spun out of my wishes, but now I was awake.” -C.S.Lewis, Till We Have Faces.

As much as it bothers me sometimes that wanting “the Light” sounds eerily similar to an episode of The Path, I confess my unbelief, my negligence, my indifference, self sufficiency, hypocrisy, ideology, indulgence, and self centeredness. I put them into the light. Give me a heart of faith. Let me give you my days and rest in your love throughout. Let me be convicted by your words and do what you say. I want to follow you.

Let me be a child of the light; reflecting all goodness, righteousness, and truth.

#words

1 note · View note

ecotone99 · 4 years

Text

[MF]The Man

"Those sirens never get old. They never stop and probably won't. They haven't stopped since my earliest memory. The only constant thing in this life we share. No one knows what happened before but that doesn't matter. They left us with this ground. Desolate and infertile. Nothing grows. The sky filled with grey and white tones. While there are night and day, we never see where the light comes from. The clerics' talk of stories of this bright entity in blue colored skies covering fields of green. Structures that put what we have to shame. Spires that broke the sky. Machines that made machines. And then conflict. One not ever seen before. The cause of all this despair. But we have thrived and discovered our past before the great desolation. Tools, materials, knowledge, and worst of all, weapons. We have little but we live on. We suffer loss but we can't stop. That would be the end of the last precious thing we have. Our lives."

The man downed the last gulp of his drink. Continuing spitting the bullshit the barkeep has heard before. The past this, the past that. That couldn't be changed and he knew that. They both did however one was sober and the other drunk of the alchest from the past. How ironic the barkeep thought. He asked if the man needed anything else before he left to clean the tables. The man couldn't even speak. He left and began to clean the few tables he crafted. Crude yet sturdy, like the barkeep. The creator does so in his own image. He gets caught up listening to another patrons' conversation before he realizes the man at the bar was reaching over the counter. The barkeep speaks up, "Can I help you with that?" The man looks over and pulls a bone shiv from his sleeve while rummaging his other. It's a common tool for most people so it wasn't surprising. As he pulled the shiv out, the man shouted to stay away. The few others that were in there looked on.

Being threatened by a drunk wasn't new. And it will happen again. They tried to talk him down but he wasn't listening. He said he needed it to pay a debt. The barkeep didn't care but he kept quiet. The others keep talking. Finally, the barkeep spoke up. "Let me help so you don't make a mess." The man fell off his seat and threatened the barkeep, barely keeping his words together, "Stay away, you don't need to get hurt over this." The barkeep didn't care. He slowly stepped to the back of the bar and went to where he kept the payments for his services. He bent over to open the container. The barkeep began to stand and realized the man had moved almost on top of him behind the bar. He hadn't realized how tall this man was till now. He looked down on the barkeep, "Where is it?!" The keeper didn't answer. Again the man said, "Where is it!!" He lunged forward. The barkeep was ready. He stood as he came close. In the blink of an eye, the man's hand was gone. It landed on the bar counter. The man screamed in agony, collapsed, and crawled away from the barkeep clutching his now handless arm. The barkeep spoke in a thunderous tone, "Leave or I'll take an ear so you'll listen!" The man, who must have sobered up, stood and fled into the night.

"Everybody out," the barkeep shouted. They listened and left as he asked. No one would disrespect one of the few people who can make alchest. When they left, he stood there, thinking. He hadn't used it in almost 30 years. The glow of his Ion blade caused a slight purple hue to bounce around the room. He stared at the blade that sat on the counter. It was about a meter in length, had an ornate metal handguard, and a matte grey metal blade. It was edged with an unknown material that allowed the weapon to produce the ionized edge. No ordinary man could obtain such a weapon, however.

A tear fell from the barkeep's face as he poured himself a drink. He looked to the bottom of the glass. Looked out through the space in front of him and drank. Another vow broken. Survived through triumph, broken by experience. It all flooded back. The men who died next to him, the men who caused this. The men he killed. He broke down. It was all so close to being forgotten. He threw his glass against the wall. He could barely live with himself let alone in this fucked up place we have to call home. He sobbed for a good time. He finally composed himself, realizing he has to live on for those he lost, just long enough to walk to his room in the back of the bar and find the bed.

He began the next day like any other; by picking up the mess from last night. Lucky for him the blade didn't cause any blood to drop from the man's stub. Blood is hard to remove from wood. So like most days, he finishes quickly. Swept the floor, straightened the counter, organized tables, and the like. And again, like most of those days, he's alone. Thinking. "What's the point?" he says to himself, almost remorseful. Like he betrayed his friend. But nevermind that, today's another day, and he must move on.

He soon found himself alone again. Frozen. Like that day. He never liked that day. The commander kept reminding everyone. “They want your homes, they want your wives, and they want your land. They will take it if we don't stop them”. The things he did to protect what was his. He remembers the screams he heard. Almost Like a symphony when it's mixed with the slashing of weapons and the ripping of flesh as the raid occurred. He remembers watching his fellow soldier strike down a family with nothing but a blank stare. He became an empty husk of a man.

Then, it was his ceremonious turn to spill blood and he saw his offering. A man, trying to escape. He chased him through the house, but he was too slow for a trained soldier. He grabbed the man. The man was speaking a different language. He ignited his ion blade… they never did bleed when he used that. The man went limp and slumped to the floor, falling over a table and knocking it over. There was a surprise underneath. A boy, maybe 7. The soldier the barkeep was did not know what he just did. He looked at his hands, not knowing he had this dangerous potential. He became a man he didn't want to. He looked at the boy and lit his blade one more time.

The barkeep is knocked out of his trance. “Shit”, he said to himself. It's almost dusk and the bar was ready to be open. “How long had past?” He kept muttering obscenities to himself, cursing he let his day go away again. This happened often to him. Losing time. Nevermind that, there was something more pressing: the patrons. He opened the bar and not long after the place began to fill. More than usual. It was nice not to be alone. Drinks were being poured, conversations being made. Of course like any night, someone ruined the night and he was a familiar man. This time he wasn’t alone.

The handless man from the other night had come back looking for revenge and thought he could do so through his friends. Some patrons left. The strong ones stayed and gave them no mind. He waited at the bar counter. The handless man came up and started to heckle the barkeep. What an arrogant man he was. The other men that were with him lined the counter next to the handless man. The 3 of them stayed quiet, just like the barkeep. Finally, after a few minutes of annoyance, the barkeep answered him, “Back again?” The handless man was back for what he was the first time he was here. This time he also wanted his hand. Well, the barkeep was not going to let that happen. He laughed slightly. The man was annoyed with that answer and grabbed the barkeep but the neck, demanding that he surrender the vault. The barkeep could barely get words out. The other patrons noticed and one had stepped up. This one sat in the corner all night and kept to himself. Interesting. The lonely man grabbed the handless man's shoulder, “I think it's best you let him go.” The handless man looked back and threw his hand away and nodded to his friends.

The handless man let go. “Well, this is great,” the barkeep said to himself. The handless man let the barkeep go only because the lonely man had used his own blade against his friends. “Are you fucking kidding me,” the man shouted as he watched his friend catch the blade with his chest. The first man fell. The barkeep smashed a glass over the head of the handless man knocking him down. The others ran after they saw the barkeep ignite his ion blade from behind the counter. He followed them with curses as they returned to their holes.

Everyone looked on as if they never saw him before. At least not like this. The lonely man grabbed the handless man, “I’ve been looking for this one for a while now.” He’s a bounty hunter apparently. The bounty hunter apologized for what he did and offered money or help to pick up the mess but the barkeep declined. The bounty hunter left without a noise after that. And that was it. Like any other night. All this action and it was over along with the night. This was not the chaos he was used to. Like other nights, he was off to bed.

The next morning was different. He was woken by a knock at his door. It was the bounty hunter. “What the fuck?” he whispered.

“What do you want”

“I was hoping to ask a few questions as a follow up for what happened last night”

“I thought you're type wasn’t interested in details?”

“I'm no ordinary bounty hunter, I guess.”

The barkeep let him in. They took a table. The barkeep offered a drink. The hunter nodded and accepted it.

“What is it you want to know?”

“When did you first see him here?”

“3 days ago. He came in by himself. He tried to steal from me so i defended himself.”

“I'm assuming you took his hand?”

The barkeep nodded.

“And you let him go?” the hunter said

“Yes. I had no idea he was a bounty or that hunters even came this way. The local gangs have had a hold out here for a while now”

“Not anymore,” he said plainly.

There was silence for a moment as the hunter wrote.

“Now I have a few more questions for you and then we’ll be done” He flipped his notebook. “

“Where did you get the blade?”

“Why does that matter?”

“I’m curious,” said the hunter almost demanding

“Do I have to ask you to leave”

“No. we all saw what happened that night. I'm the only one brave enough to ask about it.”

The barkeep kept quiet for a moment. The hunter was a patient man. As if he waited his whole life for something.

“I'm a soldier or at least was one” the barkeep finally said.

“The Unification?”

The barkeep hung his head, “Yes.”

“Any good stories?”

The barkeep paused, “None that anyone would hear.”

Another long moment passes with both of them silent.

The barkeep spoke first for once. Maybe because he believed the hunter was someone who finally understood, “How about you?”

What do you mean?” the hunter said almost surprised

“What's your story? You're a bounty hunter with an impressive weapon, and you don’t hide it as I do. You were in a righteous war or something?”

“No…,” he said softly, “I made this one myself actually. But my profession has a story.”

The barkeep sat ready to listen like he had his other patrons.

“It was a long time ago. I'll never forget. It was my birthday. My mother had passed before I was even old enough to know her. It was just me and my father. He had gotten me a device that I could use to discover and listen to these random signals that exist invisibly in the air. It helped me find tools and equipment to make my weapon…”

The barkeep kept listening and offered to get the hunter another drink. The hunter, again, nodded.

The hunter took a long sip and continued, “... He tried his best and that's all that mattered. But that day is one I won't forget. We heard a loud bang nearby and my dad told me to hide. He was a soldier so he was always cautious since he had his war and knew how to handle himself. I hid and as soon as I did he came running through the door. Soon after another set of legs entered. They were armored. He was screaming saying to leave us alone and not to hurt anyone.”

The barkeep got up and went for his own drink. His first in years. He felt like it for once in his life. He couldn’t remember the last time he wanted to do something. He poured himself a tall glass while the hunter talked. He sat and pondered and let the words of the hunter go through his head. Not hearing anything. Finally, he took his sip.

The hunter continued, “Then a faint glow appeared and a hissing noise. That man killed my father in cold blood. He fell out of the man's hands and knocked the table I was under over. The man looked down at me. He was frozen. Like he didn’t know what he just did.”

The barkeep nodded not listening to what was being said.

“You. You killed him”

The barkeep stopped mid-sip.

“What did you say?”

“You remember, don’t you? That day. I remember your face. Do you remember mine?”

The barkeep was frozen

“Frozen again? How can you feel when you act like a monster?”

The barkeep put his glass down, wiped his face, and looked at the boy. He remembered alright. Every bit of his face.

“You look like your father.”

“You shut the fuck up!!” he screamed as a tear ran down his face.

“I'm sorry but…”

“No…” The boy shouted, “...you don’t get to say that. Not after what you did. With no remorse”

The barkeep was calm. Almost like he was in this position before.

The barkeep said sternly, “Well what are you going to do, boy? You're the man now. You found your last bounty and you're going to cry? Yes I killed him and I gave up the blade after that day but I will do what I must to defend myself.”

The barkeep[ ignited his blade. It was redder this time, from all the use of the blade.

“The same color as I remember,” the boy said, pulling his blade out. It was black. As dark as a moonless sky. A never-ending blackness that was the boy's heart.

The barkeep walked around the counter and the boy stood up. They faced each other and prepared themselves. The boy is a vengeful mess. The soldier, ready for whatever fate was planning. They raised their weapons ready to end the years of pain for whoever won and lost.

They stepped forward and swung. A slash, ripped flesh, and a dropped weapon.

“I'm sorry.” the man said.

submitted by /u/rethgualsnam [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/3buijpK

#Blogger #Story

0 notes