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reyloforcebalance · 5 years

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Bonded Chapter 33: Monsters

The newest chapter to my Reylo fanfic (rated T). If you want to check out the previous chapters, here’s the link to AO3!

A BB-9 unit rolls swiftly down the hall of the dreadnaught, its squared dome of a head tilted back, its photoreceptor stuck high in the air.

One might say it almost looks smug.

It moves in a straight line, not bothering to dodge the oncoming traffic.

A couple of officers nearly trip over the droid, sidestepping it just in time. One halts, glaring down with a scowl.

But the droid doesn’t seem to notice. It simply moves forward, only cursorily noting the inferiority of human observation.

It picks up its pace as it nears the end of the hall, preparing for a sharp turn to the right.

But just as it turns, it’s met by a swift kick directly to its round body.

It flies across the hall, barely regaining balance before crashing into the wall.

It sputters in beeps and whirs, searching for the offending boot, ready to meet it with angry burst of curses.

But it shrinks the moment it identifies the guilty party.

A masked Kylo Ren continues down the hall without so much as a backward glance.

He doesn’t notice the droid. He doesn’t notice the people passing by, bowing as they do. He doesn’t even notice the commotion in the medical bay, equipment crashing to the floor as one of the patients raves and thrashes about.

His mind is too preoccupied, fixed on his destination, on the meeting he’s been dreading all damn day.

He tries to remain even, adopt an inward calm.

But he can’t smother that simmering in his gut, fear mixed with uncertainty and deep reluctance.

He squares his shoulders, charging on with his signature stride.

He tries to direct his thoughts elsewhere, anywhere.

He thinks back to the meeting of generals, pictures the them gathered around the table. He smirks as he remembers Hux twitching, that low burning resentment as Petrov raved about Kaddak and the usefulness of the slaves. He swells as he recalls Ailen’s report, the First Order’s reputation continuing its upward climb, the rippling effects on their recruitment and negotiations.

Then he remembers the gaping faces, the wave of shock when he ordered Voigt to submit a list of potentials to lead a raid on slave markets in the Core Worlds.

And he tenses, turning the corner sharply.

He searches his mind for something else to focus on— the ongoing problems with the Corellian government, Sylas and the pirates on Borosk.

But he runs into the same damn wall every time.

He sucks in a breath, clenching his fists.

It’s maddening, this slow, miserable slog.

Every attempt at reform, at evolution, at trying to remold the First Order into what it must become gets met with the same push back, the same outdated way of thinking.

It’s not just Hux.

It’s all the people who think like him, wanting to solve every problem like they’re still at war, dragging him backwards even as he forges ahead. They can’t see, can’t understand why they need to deal with the Corellians through diplomacy rather than firepower, why they need to work with the pirates on Borosk rather blasting them to pieces and starting a damn rebellion.

To them, the idea of devoting resources to stopping slavery is unfathomable.

Why would they?

It doesn’t strengthen their armies. It doesn’t advance their weapons technology. It doesn’t strike fear into the hearts of those who would defy the First Order.

So why would they do it?

To them, there’s no reason, no reason at all…

He barrels down a short staircase, his mind drifting to the unpleasant task that lies ahead.

He twitches, that dread returning like bile.

He tries to redirect his focus to the surroundings but there isn’t much to see. He’s in a narrow hall now, a sparsely populated area of the dreadnought. There isn’t a soul in sight except for a single figure ambling his way, pushing along a hoverlift stacked high with supplies.

Kylo slows as the figure gets closer.

He vaguely recognizes the man. Maybe from one of his rounds to the lower ranks…?

Kylo studies him as he approaches, the man glancing up when he’s just a few feet away.

And that’s when the memory hits, where he’s seen him before.

Kylo slows to a stop, lifting his hands to unlick his mask and bring it overhead.

The man instantly halts, dropping his hands from the hoverlift and snapping to attention.

Kylo tucks the mask in the crook of his arm, eying him coolly.

“You…” He points at him. “Tried out to be one of my cadets.”

The man nods.

That’s right. He remembers now, the skinny one with a knack for evasion and nasty with a vibro-axe.

He didn’t make the final cut. But he certainly left an impression…

Kylo tilts his head.

“General Petrov’s putting together his own unit now, just like mine, did you know that?”

The man just stares, not sure what to say.

“Tryouts are at the end of the week.” He dips his chin. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

“I-I…” the man sputters.

“You should.” Kylo nods at him. “He’ll need someone like you, someone who can dodge as well as he attacks.”

The man gapes.

“Go.” Kylo leans in. “Show him what you can do with an axe.” He squints with a glimmer.

Then he moves on, quickly resuming his signature stride.

He doesn’t look back.

But he can feel the man’s eyes on him, sense his emotions, a mixture of pride and shock.

A smile teases Kylo’s lips.

He doesn’t regret it, taking on the training unit as his own, transforming them into his cadets.

How could he? Not after they put half of Hux’s cadets to shame.

Kylo smirks.

No, they’re much too good just to be a training unit. And they’ve demonstrated something important, something the people in this organization needed to see.

They’ve always been so intent that their martial forces be programmed from birth, raised and trained under the auspices of the First Order.

But does that really produce the best soldiers? Or just the best automatons, men who never question, never innovate, only follow orders?

It’s something to consider. He can’t do much now without Hux pitching a fit. But with Petrov following suit, creating his own unit of untrained brawlers from the lower ranks, the seed has been planted. And in time, it will grow…

For now, he’ll just focus on training his own men, a case study of sorts. It’s felt good to build something new, something different. There’s no way they can know it, but his approach to training them is highly irregular. It’s an experimental instruction style, less of a firm grip, more of a guiding hand. He encourages individuality, gives them a lot of freedom— allows them to make mistakes, learn hard lessons, grow.

It’s like nothing he’s ever done before. Yet he’s taken to it so easily, enjoys it even. He tends to sleep better on the nights he trains with them. It’s not just the physical exertion. It’s something else, something he can’t quite put his finger on.

But he can feel it.

It feels like…

He furrows his eyebrows, searching for the right word. One lurks at the corners, trying to push its way through.

But he grows cold before he can fully articulate it.

Kylo slows, sensing the familiar presence ahead.

His throat tightens.

He takes a deep breath, trying to purge his body of its disquiet. He needs to become even, detached, siphon off part of his mind and bury it.

It’s been so long since he’s been in a meeting like this, one where he needs to be just as careful about what he thinks and feels as what he says and does.

He halts in front of a large blast door at the end of the hall. He focuses on his breath, letting each one bring him closer to where he needs to be— a void, drained of all warmth, all emotion.

He glances down, turning the face of his mask upward. He stares at it for a moment.

Then he tucks it in the crook of his arm.

He’s wearing a different mask now. An inward one.

Kylo lifts a hand, pressing a panel by the door.

He steps forward the moment it opens, entering a narrow room, sparsely furnished, a long, rectangular table in the center and a console lining the back wall. It’s dim, just a low light emanating from the edges of the ceiling.

There’s a thin layer of dust on the table, an unusual sight in a First Order dreadnaught.

But this is a remote part of the ship.

By intention. This meeting isn’t even on his schedule…

Aeneas stands facing the console, his hands clasped loosely behind him. He turns when hears the door.

It’s been over a year since Kylo’s seen him, yet he doesn’t look much different. His hair’s grown out some, but his face is the same— long and angled, stubble along the chin, black eyes with a hint of fire, dark skin reflecting the glow of the room.

He studies Kylo evenly.

Then he lowers, taking a knee.

“Master.” He bows his head.

Read the rest on Ao3!

#reylo #reylo fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #starwars #star wars #kylo ren #rey star wars #kylo x rey #reylofanfiction #ben x rey #knights of ren

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stillthewordgirl · 6 years

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LOT/CC fic: All Your Dreams Are Strange (Ch. 1 of 4/5)

Earth-2's Mayor Leonard Snart is navigating a post-Zoom world--squabbling with the city council, dealing with his best friend, escaping his security detail--when he meets an intriguing newcomer to Central City. Now, if they can just figure out how to navigate these things together. (Prequel to "Another World, Some Other Time."

I don't know what's gotten into my muse lately. But I'm running with it!

Way back when I started writing fanfic again, one of my first Legends/CC fics was "Another World, Some Other Time," in which Leonard and Sara "meet" their Earth-2 counterparts. Sort of. At random a week or two ago, I started turning around the idea of a prequel, a story about how E-2 Len and Sara met.

This is that story.

Right now, I'm thinking four or five chapters. Many thanks to LarielRomeniel for the beta! Can also be read here at AO3 or here at FF.net.

Leonard Snart has escaped again.

There’s no pursuit and no security outcry, no alarm or notice. Just one mayor, walking quickly down the Main Street sidewalk away from City Hall with a grin of insurrection and smug pleasure in his own cleverness—and the knowledge that his secretary is going to glare at him on Monday, although she probably won’t make him pay in other ways.

Probably.

That’s only fair, really. He’s supposed to keep office hours until 5 p.m. on Fridays, and only his appointment to meet with the new YWCA director was going to get him out of that a little early. Skipping out a little earlier still, while Mariah was occupied with a delivery, will just allow him to ensure that the conservative, anti-meta faction of the city council doesn’t have another chance to beard him in his den before the weekend, making him late for the other appointment and ending a long week on a note that will sour things even more.

He counts that as a win.

Mariah was going to be disapproving anyway, he decides, taking off his suit coat, nodding to a passing older couple he recognizes as local business owners. Not only does she have old-fashioned ideas about how the mayor should require others to come to him instead of going to them, she’s going to be appalled he didn’t take a security detail, or at least someone to take notes.

Now, it might be a breach of protocol to go by himself. Not all that long ago, it could have been a death sentence.

But Zoom is gone, and the fall day is mild and sunny, and he’s made it out of City Hall without saying something he shouldn’t to one of the obstinate council members or anyone else. He’s on his way to a place he recalls fondly, to talk to someone he’s really quite curious to meet, and life…is good.

(A bit lonely, maybe, a tiny voice inside comments, but good. Right?)

Then it gets even better.

“Snart!”

“Oof!” Leonard finds himself lifted off his feet in a bear hug, but although he’s taken by surprise, he knows who this is, knows the voice and the hug and even the faint scent—woodsmoke and spice, an incongruous combination. “You…Mick! Down!” When he’s lowered to the ground and can breathe again, he adjusts his shirt and tie, picks up his fallen jacket and runs a hand over the close-cropped hair that’s nearly incapable of being mussed, giving the other man a glare that would make Mariah proud. “What the...” A glance around. “...hell are you doing back in the city? I thought you were in Gotham.”

His oldest and best friend roars with laughter, unconcerned with his friend’s mayoral dignity. “Meetings with the publisher finished early,” he says cheerfully, clapping Leonard on the back. “So I decided to come home a bit. Maybe do an impromptu signing. Relax, you know? I’m not a workaholic like you.”

Leonard gives that statement the eyeroll it deserves.

What seems long ago now, Leonard Snart and Michael Rory had been challenged to make something of themselves that belied their trouble-prone beginnings. They’d both, independently, gotten in minor trouble with the law and both, independently, been remitted to a program designed to keep young offenders out of juvie. While the program—run through the Central City YWCA—had been designed to help the plethora of fatherless or orphaned boys still affected by the fallout from the War of the Americas, Leonard (whose father had died in the line of duty, technically, as a Central City cop) had been accepted due to a thoughtful judge.

There, he’d met Mick, one of those fatherless boys, and they’d hit it off nearly immediately. Neither of them had had a good relationship with a father society now remembered as a hero (war casualty and cop, respectively) and both were really too smart for their own good, although Mick’s natural inclination was to hide his intelligence and Leonard had a tendency to flaunt his to an occasionally obnoxious extent.

Dr. Diane Carberra, director of the program, had seen something special in them both. Instead of punishing them or scolding them, she’d challenged them—to become the men their fathers hadn’t been, to use that intelligence, to set goals, to make a difference. And they’d responded.

Now, decades later, Leonard was the mayor of Central City, lauded as a hero himself (by some, anyway) for holding things together as much as possible during Zoom’s reign of terror. Mick was one of Central’s most loved native sons, an award-winning and best-selling author known for both his wildly entertaining novels and his detail-filled travelogues.

And they were still best friends.

“What, they let you out without a keeper?” Mick comments, glancing around the city streets as if to pinpoint a member of the security staff or some other sort of handler. “That’s rare, isn’t it?”

Leonard doesn’t dignify that with an answer. “You didn’t say you were going to be back in town,” he merely observes, setting off at a walk again. “I’d have cleared my schedule.”

Mick falls into step beside him. “I gotta a key,” he shrugs. “I can get in the house. But I figured I’d go looking for you.”

Some of the more conservative residents of Central hadn’t been quite sure what to make of a mayoral candidate whose easy acknowledgement of past relationships with men and women meant they were required to look up the word “pansexual.” Then, at least one blogger had tried to make an issue out of the fact the candidate lived with author Michael Rory (at least, when Rory was in town) only to be confounded by the facts that, one, the vast majority of the voting public didn’t care all that much— especially if Leonard was a strong enough leader to hold the city against Zoom—and two, this cohabitation didn’t at all suggest what he thought it did.

Mick might write romance adeptly, but he wasn’t interested in, in his words, “playin’ those damned games” himself, not when it came to romance and not when it came to sex.

They’d found their labels together, back when they were starting college—pan for Len, and aro/ace for Mick—and if some people thought that made them something of an odd pair, well, that was OK. They knew what they were to each other.

“I’m actually heading to the YWCA,” Leonard comments to his friend as they continue. “Going to meet the new director. There should still be familiar faces there, if you want to come with me. Just don’t glower at the new director. She didn’t oust Dr. Carberra, she’s just succeeding her.” He smirks a little at Mick’s noise of annoyance. “Don’t ‘hmph’ about it. Doc deserves her retirement. And last email I got, she’s enjoying California.”

Mick mutters to himself, but shrugs. “I know,” he acknowledges. “I promised to do a signing at the library in her town when the new book comes out. But it don't seem right. She’s part of Central City to me, always will be.”

“I hear you.”

The old brick building, one of the oldest in the city, has been expanded and updated through the years, but it still looks much the same. The security system is much more in-depth than when they were kids, and Leonard buzzes at the door, politely identifying himself and Mick for the receptionist and security and waiting for the double doors to unlock.

“Michael!” The eager call makes them both laugh, and Leonard steps back, grinning, as a small, white-haired shape hurtles (as much as a fairly spry 86-year-old woman can hurtle) toward them. The receptionist…a volunteer since they were teenagers, one who’d decided the two scruffy teens needed some mothering and provided homemade food and occasionally questionable reading material accordingly…latches on to Mick, holding onto his arm and speaking earnestly to him.

“…I loved ‘Playing with Fire,’ it was amazing. And so did my book club! I was wondering, dear, if you might be able to speak again sometime. Oh, yes, hello, Lenny…oh, sorry, Mr. Mayor. Michael, and I know the new one comes out…”

The mayor, hardly difficult to track down in Central City, is relatively ignored in favor of the famous author. Len, grinning at Mick’s patient expression, nods to the amused security guard and strolls down the hallway toward the director’s office, figuring that there’s no reason he can’t just politely introduce himself. No need to stand on ceremony.

Unless this Sara Lance is the sort who stands on ceremony. He hopes not. He’d rather like to hope he can work well with her.

Leonard pauses outside the closed office door, eyeing the shiny new plaque with the new name on it. He studies his suit coat and the dusty marks from where he’d dropped it, then shrugs, leaving it off. And then he reaches up and raps on the door, waiting as the sound echoes.

No answer.

Maybe he should have checked at the front desk. Or maybe wires had been crossed and she had gone to his office? No, someone would have said something. Leonard checks his watch. He’s a few minutes early. He should just wait.

Instead, he does something he knows is foolish. He tries the door handle.

It opens easily, and Len, feeling vaguely sneaky, peers around the side of the door. The office is, indeed, empty of people. The obvious lack of some familiar furnishings—Doc’s big painting of the sunrise over the Central City skyline, the Tardis lamp a much younger Leonard Snart had given her—causes a sudden pang, and he leans in just a little more, thinking about the time he’d spent in this office, and challenges given and accepted.

Then something in the corner catches his eye, intrigues him enough to push the door open and take an illicit step inside.

There’s a training dummy in the corner of the big office, an empty weapons rack on the wall next to it, and mats spread around it. Leonard blinks at it, trying to make his brain catch up to the image.

Doc had been very committed to the philosophy of nonviolence; she and Leonard had talked about it, over tea or coffee in this very office—debated, really, especially when Zoom had been at large and Leonard had been first running for mayor and then serving his first term in office. He hadn’t completely agreed then, and he doesn’t now, but given that he knows Doc had hand-picked her successor, the martial arts equipment is a slight surprise.

“Hello?”

The tone is dry and just loaded with enough question to hold an edge of threat. Len spins, feeling sheepish, ready to offer smooth apologies and explanations, but he freezes when he actually first sets eyes on the new owner of this office, who’d entered through the door at the rear.

Sara Lance is gorgeous.

She’s dressed fairly casually, a black shirt and a sleeveless blue blouse, her blond hair loose around her shoulders. He can see the muscles in her bare arms, testament that the martial arts equipment is, indeed, hers, and her blue eyes are direct, studying him. She holds herself like a dancer, a fighter, balance and strength and grace, and oh hell, is he a sucker for that sort of badassery.

A bit younger than he is, but he’d already known that. Doc had tried to fill him in, but loathe to acknowledge she was leaving, he hadn’t listened much.

Doc is probably laughing her ass off in California right now.

“Hi,” he says after a long moment, one in which he’s aware he’s been staring.

The blond woman’s lips quirk. “Hi,” she returns, leaning against her desk, relaxing just a tad and watching him. “Mayor Snart, I presume? I admit, I wasn’t just expecting you to just saunter in like you own the place.”

Ah, hell. “Yes. I’m sorry, I...ah.” He sighs. “I spent a lot of time here back in the day,” he says, moving closer, meeting her eyes and training to convey sincerity. “Your predecessor was...is...a friend. A mentor.” He pauses. “Actually, she probably saved my life.”

Lance tilts her head, watching him, but her eyes have softened just a little. “She’s spoken of you,” she says. “Dr. Carberra. Said she thinks we’ll work well together.”

Oh, she did, did she? “I’m not usually one for breaking and entering...well, there was no breaking involved, really, but...” He looks around the office. “It’s odd and a little disconcerting to see things looking different.”

Lance nods, accepting that, as he takes in other differences: New books on the shelves, new photos on the desk, the empty spot on the wall where the big skyline painting had hung.

“I’m surprised Barbara didn’t let me know you were here,” she comments, still eyeing him closely.

Oops. “My friend’s distracting her,” he admits. “That wasn’t on purpose. She’d just rather talk books with him than city business with me. And he’s the one who spends a lot of time on the road.”

That gets her attention. “Friend?” she questions. “I’ve read...Michael Rory? I’d like to meet him.”

“I think that can be arranged.” The author is always more interesting than the mayor. “Anyway...let’s start over.” He extends a hand. “Mayor Leonard Snart. Welcome to Central.”

His hasty recovery gets a smile and she lets him get away with it. “Sara Lance,” she returns, giving him a firm handshake. He can feel weapons callouses. “Thank you.” She gestures to one of the overstuffed chairs off to the side, not the more formal ones around the desk. “These are more comfortable...”

“I know them well.”

Once they’re settled, Sara with the iced coffee she’d left the room to get, Len with a bottle of water, they regard each other again.

“So,” he says finally, “breaking and entering notwithstanding, I just wanted to introduce myself, to tell you welcome, and to see what you might have in mind for your tenure here.” He shrugs a little. “Doc...Dr. Carrera was always very involved with the community, and she was here a long time in one capacity or another. And now that things are starting to get back to normal after...after Zoom...we’re starting to find our feet again. It’s an interesting time.”

Lance acknowledges that with a tip of her head. “Zoom,” she muses, staring into her coffee. “I’ve read...that must have been...yes. Interesting.”

There are other words for it. Leonard lets his eyes focus on the spines of the books on the shelf behind her, the titles blurring. So many people had just left the city, but he’d stayed, determined to do something. And then, elected to office, walking the line, protecting his city and keeping himself alive and his people safe without bowing down to the meta any more than he had to...

There’d been days he couldn’t imagine a life without that tightrope walk. It’s still a shock, sometimes, the absence of that tension. Compared to that, city politics are a piece of cake.

Sara takes a sip of her drink, and Len blinks, aware suddenly of how long he’s been silent. He takes a swig of his water, mustering his thoughts.

“Yes,” he says finally. “They say there’s a lot of PTSD being diagnosed in the city now, and I get that. But we made it through. We have a meta protector now, a speedster, and we have...resources. We can come back.” He darts a glance at her, deciding not to go into the meta question for now. “So, you’re from Star City, originally?”

Sara’s eyes are on his, and he thinks for a moment that she won’t let him change the subject. But then she nods.

“I grew up in Star City. My mother still lives there,” she says, then pauses, as if considering something, then nods to herself.

“My father died in an accident when I was 11,” Sara continues, nodding again as she sees him register that she’s willing to get a bit personal. “My older sister, who’d always been the disciplined one...she promptly went off the rails.” She glances away; the subject is obviously difficult for her. “Made it through high school, then vanished. We haven’t seen her in years now.” She shakes her head as Leonard tries to figure out what to say. “I guess I tried to compensate—I’d been the wild one before that—and I wanted to work with women in crisis.”

“Understandable,” he murmurs thoughtfully, and gets a small smile in return before she continues.

“I had my bachelor’s degree three years out of high school, went on for a master’s in social work. During that time, I started working in National City, at a women’s shelter, then moved back to Star for a year. I met Dr. Carberra when she visited, and she encouraged me to apply for this job when she decided to retire.” She spreads her hands out. “And that’s me.”

Leonard lifts an eyebrow at her, then turns his head to glance over at the training dummy and weapons rack. Lance follows his gaze, then laughs.

“And, yes, I’m a black belt, in a few disciplines,” she allows, grinning at him and getting an answering smirk in return. “I like the activity, and I’ve found teaching classes to women gives them a feeling of...of control, not necessarily in a self-defense way—although sometimes that—but simply in having control over an aspect of their lives.” She shrugs and smirks a little. “And it occurred to me that, in the never-ending battle to be taken seriously as a woman, the clear signs of weapons proficiency couldn’t hurt.”

Leonard can’t help himself; he snorts in amusement, liking Sara Lance a good deal. “I can’t argue with that,” he agrees. “Maybe I should borrow something, have an unsheathed sword lying on my desk next time I squabble with the council.”

“You’d be welcome to,” she tells him solemnly, then smiles again. “And you? I know the basics. But most of the articles I’ve seen are more about city business than anything…” A pause, and a shrug. “Personal.”

He’s not deluding himself, is he, that there are sparks here, or at the very least, interest that’s more than polite? Len doesn’t think so. Well…he won’t overstep, but he’d like to see if he’s correct.

“My dad was a cop,” he tells her slowly, shifting in his seat, trying to feel his way through this story he’s rarely told anyone, wondering why he wants to tell her. “He died on the job when I was 8.”

She murmurs condolences, but he’s already waving them off. “Of course, he’d been an abusive jerk to me, my mom, and my baby sister,” he said drily, “so it was kind of hard to take when people started lauding him as a hero. My mom kind of checked out and then got sick; I was caring for Lisa; I was angry and desperate. I might have gone down a different road, but...” He looks around the office, knowing his thoughts are pretty clear on his face, then back at her.

There’s understanding there, a degree of understanding he thinks he’s seen in few others. She nods, conveying that, and Leonard continues.

“I know there’s been criticism of the programs here that deal with men and boys, given that the stated mission is to protect and uplift women,” he says quietly. “But…they broke the cycle, with me. And with Mick, too.” He shrugs, then moves on.

“I went through Quad-C—Central City Community College—then transferred to the university. Then I went to law school. Passed the bar, then practiced here a while, dealing with kids like the one I could’ve been. And then…”

“Zoom.”

“Yeah.” He frowns. “No one wanted the job, with all the violence and the deaths…the only one who steps up to run was an...” He catches himself. Don’t swear in front of the lady, Leonard, at least not until you know her better. “…a bit… unprincipled. So I did it. And I won.”

Lance regards him a moment, then nods. “And the rest is history?” she says with a smile.

“As they say.”

They watch each other, both smiling a little, then Len turns his head with a sigh as he hears Mick’s bellow of laugh coming closer, knowing that their time here alone is coming to an end. Lance seems to get it, nodding again as she gets to her feet.

“I think we will work well together, Mr. Mayor,” she says, a sparkle in her eyes, holding out her hand again. “And I look forward to it.”

“So do I.” Leonard is carefully not to hold on to her hand any longer than necessary. He finds himself loathe to leave, wondering what this intriguing woman thinks of the meta programs he’s been responsible for, the safehouses for LGBTQ+ teens he’s been fighting for, the…

He lets go, wondering if he’s imagining reluctance in her own demeanor, then turns for the door…

And for once, he gives in to impulse.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks suddenly, turning back. “Sometime? Coffee? Get off on a better foot, without the, ah, breaking into your office? Show you a bit of the city?”

You’re babbling, Snart.

Lance looks momentarily surprised—but then, yes, pleased, he thinks. Oh, thank god, maybe he hasn’t screwed this up.

“I’d like that,” she says simply. “I’m busy tomorrow, but…Sunday? Maybe late morning? It looks like It's supposed to be a lovely day.”

Leonard nods, feeling oddly like the teenager he’d been here, long ago. “How’s 11 a.m.? I’ll meet you at the CC Jitters by the waterfront?”

“The one near the sculpture park?”

“The same.”

“You’re on.”

Yes, that’s definitely a spark in her eyes. He grins at her. “Again, pleased to meet you, Director Lance.”

“The same, Mayor Snart.”

#all your dreams are strange #captain canary #legends of tomorrow #sara lance #leonard snart

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mandi-celeste · 6 years

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Brave New World (A Scoobynatural Fanfic)~

So, I’ve been writing this on and off since the Scoobynatural episode aired. At first, it was just for myself, just to get this scene out of my head. The past couple of days I’ve been feeling the urge to share it though, so…here it is!

I’m planning on writing more for it, but can’t say for sure when the next chapter will be uploaded. It depends on reader feedback/response I suppose (it’s not worth sidelining my main WIP for this if it’s not getting a reaction from readers, ya know?).

So, if you like this little tidbit of fic, please reblog and let me know (of course, if you’re shy it’s okay to just like the post or reblog with a reaction gif, that’s cool with me! :) ).

Enjoy!

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Shaggy couldn’t sleep.

He stared up at the ceiling of the room he was sharing with Fred and Scooby, listening to their breathing as he tried in vain to count sheep. It was a wasted effort on his part, because he never made it past ten or eleven of the fluffy figments of his imagination. He was too distracted. Everything that had happened in the past few hours ran through his head for the hundredth time, and he shuddered. Wishing they were back home, where everything was normal and safe.

Ghosts, monsters, demons, even angels; according to Sam, Dean, and Castiel they were all real after all! And alternate realities too, as it turned out. Thanks to a freaky purple light, that had appeared out of nowhere and enveloped the gang while they were walking to the Mystery Machine to go celebrate the victory of their joint investigation with the Winchesters and Cas, he and his friends were now all trapped in one of these other realities. Unfortunately for them, it just so happened to be one where all the things that go bump in the night seemed to thrive.

It was everything he ever dreaded, and worse!

Scooby whimpered from his spot at the base of the bed, jolting Shaggy back to the present. He quickly sat up and leaned forward to pat his sleeping dog. Whispering ‘it’s okay, Scoob’ soothingly, over and over again with each gentle stroke, until his best friend stopped twitching and settled down into a more peaceful slumber. The scrawny teen stayed like that for a moment, studying the dog, and then he let his eyes wander over to Fred’s sleeping form.

He couldn’t help feeling a little envious of how his friend had just, more or less, rolled with the insanity that had been thrown at them that night. Then again, Fred was usually the first to recover from a surprise thrown their way. Velma and Daphne still seemed a little unsure of the situation when the five of them had parted ways to turn in for the night, but they did their best to not let it show much. Shaggy knew his friends well, though. By the morning, the girls would be just as calm and collected as Fred seemed to be about the whole thing.

It still rattled Shaggy though, how different everything looked in this world. How different they themselves looked. It was like walking around in a 3D movie, or a cartoon! And it wasn’t just the physical change that disturbed him, he had noticed other changes since they had arrived in this world.

His appetite wasn’t as strong here, although Velma and Sam both theorized that might just be his nerves. Velma’s eyesight seemed a little bit stronger since her arrival, which she had been surprised to discover when her glasses had gotten knocked off when they first found themselves in the bunker. And Daphne had noticed, whispering to the rest of the gang as to not offend their hosts, that their new friends looked older in this reality than they had back home.

The biggest change, though, had been in Scooby.

Shaggy had noticed something was off pretty quickly after they had arrived in this frightening new reality. When he realized what it was, it had come as a terrible shock to all of them. Scooby Doo couldn’t talk in this world.

Dean seemed almost as upset by this revelation as Shaggy had been.

Castiel had tried to fix that. After revealing to the gang that he was an angel of the lord, a fact that Shaggy was still processing even now, he had tried to restore Scooby’s ability to speak. Unfortunately, it didn’t work. The best he could do was allow the rest of them to at least feel the unique dog’s emotions, a kind of psychic connection, but as comforting as the existence of the link was…it just wasn’t the same.

“At least you can still understand us,” Shaggy thought as he ran his hand across the dog’s shoulder one more time. Then, with a tired sigh, he got up.

Even though he wasn’t actually hungry, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to try to find his way back to the kitchen and help himself to a midnight snack. That always seemed to help back at home when he couldn’t sleep if he was too worked up over a case, maybe it would help now.

The bunker was still hard to navigate. Instead of locating the kitchen, he stumbled across a recreational room instead. He flicked on the lights and smiled. “Zoinks! Like, this is a pretty groovy space!”

Dean’s so-called ‘Dean Cave’ was a room that Shaggy could easily imagine himself and the rest of the gang hanging out in a lot in the coming days. He wasn’t much of a foosball player, but he knew Fred would be eager to go a few rounds with everybody. “He’ll coax Dean into playing, no doubt about it.” The jukebox in corner showed promise, and he found himself wondering what kind of music their new friends liked listening to. Would it be bands he and his friends were familiar with, or some groovy new future music?

It wasn’t until he noticed the miniature fridge plugged in by the in-progress bar that his eyes really lit up. Shaggy’s stomach grumbled at the sight of it. Maybe his appetite was coming back to him now that the shock of their trip was beginning to wear off?

With a sigh of relief, Shaggy strode over to the fridge. Walking between the foosball table and the two reclining chairs that were placed squarely in front of the TV that Dean had set up there, having replaced the one he had broken with the one that had been in his own room before calling it a night a few hours earlier.

Shaggy jumped a little in surprise when he stepped on something hard, and heard the click of the TV turning on as he lifted his foot to get a look at the object. It took him a moment to figure out what it was, he was used to the clunkier TV remotes back home, but once he did he was grinning with childlike wonder as he picked it up and flipped through the channels. There were so many stations!

If there was one perk about this creepy reality, it was that they were so much more advanced than the one he came from. “I guess it won’t be too awful, staying here for a while.” He thought to himself as settled on a random station, not paying much mind to what was playing as he turned his attention back to the fridge.

“Like, Scooby and I can stay here and investigate the kitchen!”

Shaggy’s eyes widened with surprise at the sound of his own voice, and he glanced at the TV again. Stunned by what he was seeing, he let the fridge door close on its own and wandered over to stand behind the reclining chairs. He rubbed at his eyes, and blinked with astonishment as he watched the rest of the scene on the small screen continue to unfold. He was on the TV! So was Scooby and the rest of the gang, looking like their normal selves!

“Wha-what’s going on…” Shaggy murmured, feeling the all-too familiar sensation of the hair on the back of his neck standing up and goosebumps rising across his arms.

He remembered the case he was watching.

Was there some kind of TV crew secretly taping them the whole time? But, no. That didn’t make any sense. Way too many cameras would have needed to be used in order to pull off what he was seeing. Plus, he remembered how cramped and creaky that particular house had been; even if both he and Scooby had been oblivious to a camera crew, he was certain the others would have noticed a bunch of men hiding in the house filming them eventually.

Not to mention the fact that this case was close to a year ago now, and no one ever approached them about it.

He was starting to wonder, as he rubbed his eyes again, if he was dreaming after all. But he knew he wasn’t, and as the program ended he felt a sense of unease begin to prickle at him.

“You’re watching The Classic Cartoon Hub!” Said a narrator as the lineup for the next two hours displayed on the screen. “Up next is another episode of Scooby Doo!”

Suddenly feeling weak in the knees, Shaggy gripped the top of the closest recliner. Stumbling his way around it, he slowly sank into its plush cushion and stared on in shock as the screen went black for a moment before the sound of squeaking bats rang in his ears and the opening theme began to play.

“This can’t be real…it has to be some kind of crazy joke!”

He spent the first ten minutes of the program repeating that thought in his head. The case being shown in this episode was a much more recent one, the gang had solved it just last week, and he found himself quoting word for word the conversations he remembered most clearly from that night. By the time the program went to a commercial break, he was too dazed to really pay attention to it anymore. An ad that played a few commercials in advertised a Scooby Doo marathon for the best episodes and movies from 1969 to the present day, and Shaggy felt the dread he was feeling sink its claws in deeper.

“We’re not real…I’m not real…”

Shaggy never did fall asleep that night.

#scoobynatural #supernatural 13x16 #spn 13x16 #scoobynatural fic #supernatural fic #feedback is welcome #feedback is appreciated #please comment #please review #thank you!

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codename-bewareofthefangirl · 6 years

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About Me: Being A Writer

I was tagged by @oiivkawa 😍 Thank you dear, sorry if it took me so long!

tagging: All the ones tagged here :3 (If you feel comfortable) And everyone who read this and want to share: I’d love to know you.

1. How did you come up with your username and what does it mean?

I discovered Tumblr while I was searching a place where I could talk and enjoy my fave anime and shows without being judged or anything else because I’m a nerd, socially awkward etc. etc. I wanted to create a safe space for myself and then for others. Nobody except two people knows about this, so I felt like I had a secret hideout -> I felt like an agent undercover.

2. Which fanfic of yours has the most feedback? (Bookmarks/ Subscriptions/ Hits/ Kudos)

Surely the ones I used to write in Italian, I reached the 1000 XD Now that I write in English I’m sort of an underdog. I have some popular posts or ask. As in for proper ff, it’s Confetti

3. What is your AO3 profile icon and why did you choose it?

Uh I still don’t have one. At first, I created the account only to follow my fave authors and to comment, I didn’t think I was enough good to post my works. I’ll probably put the same one on my blog, Iwa-chan. As I empathize greatly with Oikawa, I admired Iwaizumi a lot; plus, the image is a lot calming and beautiful.

4. Do you have any regular/favourite commenters?

I love everyone who spare their time to comment. I don’t have “regulars” on ao3, but here on tumblr @jenasisity , @ru-cchi and @secret-fujoshi-diary have been with me from the start. @mhioislife is always there for MatsuHanaIwaOi and I love her blog. And I go crazy when people, especially artists, I admire comment positively in my posts (ex. my lovely @nyciel )

5. Is there a fanfic you keep going back to read again and again?

I have a good memory for stories, so I don’t re-read many of them. Coffe King by Oiivkawa and few others are my exception.

6. How many stories are you subscribed to? How many do you have bookmarked? I subscribed to nearly 100-105 ff and bookmarked 99.

7. Which AU do you find yourself writing the most?

I LOVE AUs, I’D LIKE TO WRITE MORE. I love Uni/College Au (being a uni student too), Soulmates Au and Fantasy/Historical but I have barely written for them here.

I’ve been requested more than once (and I enjoyed them greatly) Zombie!Au, HarryPotter!Au, Bodyguards!AU and Spy!Au. I also love Crossovers.

8. How many people are subscribed and bookmarked to you in total?

On AO3 subscriptions: 36 bookmarked: 40

9. Is there something you’d like to write about but are afraid of people judging you for it? (Feeling brave? If so, share it!)

I’m scared every time I write in English, terrified. I’d love to be more confident and being able to finish my projects, since I get discouraged easily when I don’t have feedback. (I was spoiled when I wrote in Italian, but I’m working on it) I’d love to write more AUs, even small shots!

10. Is there anything you’d like to be better at? Writing certain scenes or genres, replying to comments, updating better, etc.

MY ENGLISH. I WANT TO HAVE A FLUENT ENGLISH. And I’m not comfortable with explicit smut, so I avoid it. (and updating with frequency, but my studies don’t let me)

11. Do you write rarepairs or popular ships more often?

I usually ship popular ship...i think? It depends on the anime. My OTP are IwaOi, KuroKen, BokuAka, AoKise, GaLe and KiriBaku.

I have some rarepairs: I’d die for AoKawa (Aomine x Oikawa, Crossover), BakuShimaNari, TodoDenki, my OT4 MatsuHanaIwaOi and (idk if it’s rarepair) BoKuroo

12. How many stories have you posted on AO3 to this day? 3

13. How many stories do you have saved in/ with your writing program? Like WIPs?

HAHAHAHAHAH. Only stories, without headcanons or scenarios? 104

14. Do you write down story ideas or just keep them in your head?

It depends, I’m constantly creating stories, especially if I’m bored, and always before sleeping. I think at least one or two a day so…no, I write down the only ones I project to write or to which I’m particularly attached to. Otherwise I keep them in my head.

15. Have you ever co- authored a story?

Yep, more than once. It’s fun and motivating if you manage to get along.

16. How did you discover AO3? I was searching a new base to read fanfiction from, in English this time, and I stumbled upon it.

17. Do you consider yourself to be a popular or famous author in your fandom(s) on AO3? Nope, no really. I was in my Italian fandoms XD Now I just enjoy sharing small things and reading beautiful ffs.

18. Do you have a nickname or fandom name for your readers?

Survivors. (jk, I don’t have one) I call everyone “dear” or “sweetheart” since I don’t want to offend anyone by assuming things.

19. Was there an author who inspired or encouraged you to write?

In general? Probably my father when I was little, but it was spontaneous. I’ve always created stories, I just needed a way to let them out and…puff, I started writing.

20. What writing advice would you give to a beginning author?

Everyone starts from the basics, making mistakes, receiving few appreciative comments or kudos…don’t let this discourage you. First, because practice makes you better. Second, because even if it’s one person who reads it and leaves a “like”, it means you have made them happy. You don’t know how important for them your story has been, you can’t know, so don’t sell yourself shortly. I’ve been saved over and over by the most unexpected stories.

And, always write something you love.

21. Do you plot out your stories or do you just figure it out as you go?

Both! I have a vague idea and some scenes I’m sure of, but while I write it I understand all the rest. Arguing and discussing with the characters also helps. Half of the time, for most of the short stories, I start writing without having any idea of what I’m doing and they come up on their own.

22. Have you ever gotten a bad comment on a story? If so, what did you do?

Not really, just corrections or correct observations, especially about my grammar or the logic flow. I thanked them, correct the ff and learnt from my mistakes.

Ah, but I’ve received today my first hate on my character analysis of Bakugou Katsuki and…nothing, I’m bothered and a bit annoyed, but haters who have decided to not even try having a dialogue are not worth bothering. It’s just toxic. I tried to focus more on the positive or/and constructive feedback.

23. Is there a certain type of scene that you have a hard time writing? (Action, smut, etc)

Nearly unable to write real, explicit smut (I get embarrassed and I don’t know the real dynamic sooo….) and action is also difficult if you want to describe a specific style of combat.

24. What story(s) are you working on now?

I’m always working on my first book, I’m editing it. I also answer asks for fun (even if I’m horrible slow) and works on Confetti and Hell Mission (I, II)

25. Do you plan your new projects before you finish your current ongoing story(s)? I'm thinking of trying to write an otome.

26. Do you have a daily writing goal set for yourself?

HAHAHAHHAHA NO I WOULD KILL MYSELF. I only set them for my book, for the rest I do it for pleasure and to relax.

27. Do you think you’ve improved as a writer since you first started? ABSOLUTELY YES.

28. What is your favourite story that you have written?

My book, some old Italian fanfictions and…I have some favorite posts: Fantasy/Heian Iwaoi, Star Child, (okay, nearly everything IwaOi and MatsuHanaIwaoi) my Aokise Zombie!Au (Red Sunset, Finally), my AkaMido The Ballad Of The Robin and my AoKawa Series (especially Shooting Stars)

29. What is your least favourite story that you have written?

Usually, if I write or publish something, it means I love it. I often re-read what I’ve written, even if it’s embarrassing seeing how bad it was.

30. Where do you see yourself (as a writer) in 5 years?

WITH A BOOK PUBLISHED I HOPE. Still writing fanfictions too, I like people smiling.

31. What’s the easiest part about writing?

The spontaneous thinking part, during the first moments of creation, when the ideas come up to you; or when you have that five minutes flow where the words write themselves. The rest is pure hell, from the start to the end.

32. What is the hardest part about writing?

Editing. I correct over and over the same parts, especially in lengthy stories. Deciding what to cut or not for me it’s torture, I want to keep everything.

It’s also difficult creating new, consistent, realistic, congruent characters.

33. Why do you write?

It’s the thing I love the most in the world, I don’t know what could I do without it. I need it, it has saved me. And I love making people smile, I’m trying to do what other books and authors have done for me: Give me reasons to go on, hope, warmth, acceptance, a smile…I want to be able to do it.

It’s also my way of thinking and expressing myself since I’m socially awkward; it’s my way of communicating.

And, well, also a ways to have fun and relax when things get tough :3

#about me #about the author #About the blog #being a writer #codename-bewareofthefangirl #i'd love to know you #let me knowài sound crazy #onr h #i love writing #writing #writer

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strainofthestress · 7 years

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Fanfic: Somebody to Share it With Ch. 8

Pathfinder’s Quarters, 2345 Hours

There were two unusual things about the Pathfinder’s cabin. First, the smell of coffee wafted from the cabin into the main corridor outside. It was nothing unusual to smell coffee forward of the research room, Wes’ addiction to coffee was apparent to the entire crew, except perhaps him who ardently refused to admit it. What was slightly unusual, however, was the hour. Addicted though he may have been, Wes’ was adamant about not consuming coffee after 2100 hours, something he said he had picked up in the Alliance, a strategy to ensure that what little sleep he did get on the ship was valuable. His enforcement of this personal rule had been absolute during their time underway, so as Vetra walked by and smelled the familiar bitter odor, she took a step to the door.

The second unusual thing about the Pathfinder’s cabin was the fact that the door was closed. Ryder was a perpetual fan of keeping his stateroom door open, enjoying the view it afforded him of the Crew’s berthing and being able to hear activities on the rest of the ship. No matter how much space and privacy it afforded him, he was rather less-than-fond of being shunted into his own stateroom, away from the individuals who, in his mind, were the only reason any pathfinder mission at all was possible.

Vetra approached the door, the soft hydraulic hiss revealing the cabin to her. The wafting scent of coffee only got stronger as she walked in, as well as the classical music playing in the background becoming audible.

The room was empty upon first review, but as she turned to the right she saw evidence of Ryder’s occupation: coffee pots, plates, water cups, coffee cups, even a few clothes were strewn from him like debris from an impact, leading her eyes up to the Human who sat with what looked like intense focused, bent over his desk. There were two datapads and an input pad on the desk beneath his gaze, his hand loosely holding a stylus.

She walked behind Wes, placing a taloned hand on his chair.

“What are you up to Ryder?”

No response.

“Ryder? Hello?”

She reached out and shook his shoulder, only to step back with a small gasp at Ryder’s head sinking to the desk slowly, with a soft thud as it hit the ground. Her heart rate spiked as death was her mind’s first thought, but quickly returned to normal as she heard the deep breathing of the Pathfinder, realizing that he had instead fallen asleep at the desk.

I wonder what it says about me that my first thought is that he’s dead…

She stepped to Ryder’s side, watching his chest softly rise and fall as his head lay, peacefully, upon the desk. Her brow plates lifted slightly as she watched his eyelids lightly flutter, the hand in which he held the stylus twitch ever so slightly. Her mind thought back to the same face, the same breathing pattern, on the landing pad of the Tempest not a few days ago. Again her heart rate jumped as she remembered the moment, remembered the revelation which came with it. Ryder began to stir, and she quickly pushed the thouhts out of her mind, focusing on the adorably bleary blinking of the man in front of her.

“Vetra? Hi, what are you…”

“You fell asleep at your desk. I smelled coffee, wanted to investigate.”

Ryder sat up, rubbing his eyes as he did so.

“Yeah, well, I guess the coffee didn’t work the way I had intended.”

Ryder stood up, gesturing to the couch. Vetra shook her head.

“No, I didn’t mean to interrupt, just checking everything was okay. I know you don’t like to drink coffee this late.”

“I appreciate that, thanks. I could use the break though, stay for a bit.”

Vetra blushed in her own Turian way as she sat down, and was thankful that Ryder was inexperienced enough in reading Turian body language and facial expressions to not notice. As the two sat, Ryder produced a carafe of something other than coffee, pouring the thick, green liquid into a three-fingered cup, steam rising lazily from the cup as Ryder offered it to Vetra. She gave him an inquisitive look.

“Is that…?”

“Yeah, Shulsnek. Or however your pronounce it.”

Vetra laughed.

“Not like that!”

“I expected as much. Anyways, I try to keep a pot on hand for when you come by, figured it was kind of selfish for me to be the only one with a drink on hand whenever we have our talks.”

Vetra felt the head under her plates from her blush get even more intense as she took a sip of the drink. While a little stale, it was passable nonetheless, and more than anything she was hoping that the cup would prevent Ryder from seeing the deep color of blue her face was turning, the kindness of the gesture obvious to her, in a way that she was certain wasn’t just fantasizing.

“Aw, that’s sweet of you Ryder.” Dammit, Vetra, you keep saying things like that, he’s gonna suspect something. “So what are you studying?”

The mention of his studies caused Ryder’s face to become almost instantly exasperated, his eyes glanding downwards and his lips pursing into a flat line.

“It’s stuff for my Captain Qualification.”

“I thought you were already captain of the Tempest?”

“By necessity, yeah. But according to Andromeda Initiative Regulations the captain of every crewed vessel must complete the ‘Space Vessel Command School’. Pilots have to go through a similar program to get their quals. All the pathfinder’s went through the program, but since I’m new to the job, I never did. So, here I am.”

“So they gave you command of the Tempest, and then expected you to qualify for it later?”

“Yep. And let me tell you what a ball that is.”

“What all does it include.”

“Normally, the program would take 6 months. Classes for 8 hours a day, then studying the rest. Two exams every two weeks. It covers everything from orbital dynamics to nuclear physics to FTL mechanics.”

“Sounds intense.”

“It is. Only thing is, I’m expected to do it in 4 months, and I don’t have time to take off in a classroom to do it. So most of it is self-taught, and then Kallo acts as my tutor when schedules allow.”

Vetra laughed, taking a sip of her drink while Ryder exhaustedly shook his head.

“I’ve been wondering where you’ve been lately. I was scared you were avoiding me after the party on The Nexus.” More accurately, I was scared that I had said or done something drunk and you don’t feel the same way. But I won’t tell you that. “Sounds like you’re in need of a break, Wes.”

Ryder laughed, gesturing to her as he spoke.

“Speak of the Devil and she will appear.”

“What?”

“Old human phrase. Talk about something and it will come to you, I guess.”

Vetra thought for a second, following the statmement before her face filled with feigned indignation.

“Are you calling me a distraction?”

Ryder laughed.

“Please, Vetra, you’re much more than that.”

Vetra had never felt her heart-beat spike in so short a time before in her life. She sat, speechless for a few moments – No, he meant that you two are good friends. Don’t read anything into it… stop it! No! I thought I told you not to… okay, this is hopeless. Blissfully, Ryder didn’t seem to notice, and kept talking.

“So, how’s the rest of the crew?”

“Huh?”

“Well, since I’ve been cooped up in here for so long, I haven’t seen much of anybody besides in the galley and Kallo for my tutoring sessions. How is everybody?”

“Oh, you know, their peachy selves. Peebee is still trying to convince everybody that she’s just here because it was convenient and not because she wants to be. Drack only threatened to eat people three times this week, so that’s an improvement. Cora is as moody as ever… but don’t tell her I said that. Liam is, well, Liam. No other way to describe it. Oh, and Jaal has discovered the joys of Blasto. He’s been binging it for, like, a week and a half at this point.”

“I thought I heard that through the ventilation system. He hasn’t made you watch it with him, has he.”

A grim turian nod.

Ryder extended his hand in fake consolation, taking Vetra’s.

“I am so sorry.”

Vetra’s stomach jumped a few feet higher in her torso. Really? Really? That’s all it takes? I swear, sometimes you’re like something out of a bad love-story fanfic!

Vetra laughed, slyly swatting Ryder’s hand from hers to try and continue ignoring herself.

“I suppose we’ll manage. Have you heard about the response to the Salarian’s rescue on Kadara?”

“No, I haven’t!”

“Well, apparently quite a few people there have friends on the ark. Tri was saying that there was a huge celebration, the entire town partied for a few days as a result. Apparently it’s doing some good things for The Initiative’s reputation down there. Though, apparently they see you as a slightly separate entity, so it might just be you they like.”

“Well, I’m sure we could use that to our advantage. There are a few guns and mods there I’d like, if they were on sale.”

“Wes, I’m almost offended! You wanted something and you didn’t ask me?”

Ryder chuckled, leaning back as the friendly banter and conversation sapped the stress and anxiousness he had been feeling over his training away.

“I know, what a terrible, terrible friend I must be.”

“Oh, absolutely. And a horrible pathfinder too. And ugly, and mean, and…”

“Yeah yeah, I get the point, I’m just an all around piece of space garbage. I get it.”

Vetra chuckled, shifting slightly on the couch. She took another sip of her drink, her subharmonics happily purring in a register which Ryder couldn’t hear. Now, whether that’s for the drink or being with him, I’m not certain I want to know. Ancestors, I really need to sort myself out…

After a short pause, Vetra spoke.

“You ever think about what this whole thing will look like when it’s done?”

“What do you mean?”

“What will the Initiative be in, say, another 600 years?”

“Weren’t we talking about this earlier?”

“Yeah, we were. But I’ve been thinking about it some more, about how it all works...”

Ryder settled down into the couch, adjusting to be more comfortable as he heard Vetra get ready to launch into one of her long thought-experiment discussions. Throughout the course of their late-nigh talks they had become common occurrences: Vetra would open a topic and discuss it out loud, while Ryder interjected a thought here and there. To an outside observer it would invariably seem odd, one-sided, a Turian ruminating out loud while her human side-kick threw an idea up every once in a while. But to both parties involved, it was the most natural thing in the new galxy.

Vetra’s mind, through training or naturally (and assuredly a combination of both) worked best through odd connections of seemingly unrelated ideas. She would draw lines and relations which nobody else could see, causalities which spanned degrees of separation, conclusions which seemed bizarre at first but the most natural ones to come to when further explained. Ryder, on the other hand, was a man whose mind worked in logical procession, travelling from each step to the next with discrete, easily explainable steps. He had an impulsive streak, one needed look no further than his Nomad driving to see that, but he was, at his core, a man of thought and logic; one of the many reasons why he had been able to succeed so well as Pathfinder. So while Vetra’s mind jumped from point to point, building future cities from the dust in the sunlight, Ryder followed her to ensure the thought train had track enough to get from A to B.

Wes listened to Vetra as she painted a world a couple centuries in the making. Gestured wildly as her seldom-seen imaginative streak came out in full force. By trade she was normally scrupulous, shrewd, utilitarian almost to a fault. But the same history which had forged these skills had likewise exposed her to enough of the galaxy, enough of the prejudice and faults with the status quo that she couldn’t help but dream of a better future, see the possibility which came with the unknown. It was seldom seen, too few fell within her circle of trust, even on the Tempest, to be aware of Vetra Nyx’s dreamer side. But Ryder was the privileged few who got to see it. And as he relaxed, sipping cold coffee and trying to follow her line of thought, he smiled slightly for it.

Vetra stopped, looking at Ryder curiously.

“You’re smiling.”

His smile deepened, this time bemusement mixing into whatever emotion was on it before.

“Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You are. Definitely. I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

“No, not at all! It’s just… I don’t know where you come up with this stuff.”

Vetra laughed, sitting down from a standing position she never remembered taking.

“Neither do I. I honestly never talk about this stuff with anybody else. Only you.”

Gee, I wonder why?

Ryder smiled deeper again, a warm light sitting behind his eyes as he regarded his closest friend for billions of lightyears.

“Well, I’m glad you do. It’s a good side of you.”

The small grin on Vetra’s face left, replaced by an unsuspecting expression of guilt.

“Maybe. I should spend less time dreaming about the way things could be and more time making them that way.”

“If there’s anything you do enough of, it’s work. Let yourself dream a bit. What’s a new galaxy if not a new place to build your dreams?”

Vetra laughed, finishing off her drink.

“Maybe.” If he only knew what dreams I’d like to build.

Alright, nope. That’s it. We’re getting out of here before you say something bad, and we’re thinking about this for a good long while.

What’s there to think about? You even said you loved him that night.

Well… said to yourself. It’s progress.

Yeah, but that doesn’t mean my eyes have to melt every time I see him and I turn into a little girl again.

Isn’t that sort of exactly what love is?

Shut up.

“Vetra? You doing alright? You spaced out there for a bit”

Vetra’s eyes re-focused on the wall in front of her, a quick smile replacing the thoughtful expression she was wearing earlier.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Great. Awesome. I’ll get out of your cowl now, Wes, you’ve clearly got studying to do.”

“You can stay if you – “

“No, it’s alright, I have things to do. You have studying. You know where to find me.”

With that she was gone, the hydraulic hiss of the stateroom doors riding her heels as she left. Ryder was left standing in front of the couch, coffee cup hanging loosely in his hand. His expression was puzzled – his brain ran this way and that as it tried to figure out why the sudden exit. After a few minutes he brought himself out of his reverie, physically shaking his head as he walked to the desk, speaking softly under his breath as he did so.

“No time to think about that now. On to Intra-system FTL dynamics. Lucky me.”

With that his datapads lit up again and his eyes scrutinized them as hard as his focus would allow. Only problem is, while his body was at his desk, his mind was still talking with Vetra, and there was a distinct melancholic feeling in the back of his head at seeing Vetra go.

Tempest Armory, 2230 Hours

The soft hum of the HVAC systems filled the ship as the Pathfinder walked through, all the crew save Cora and Dr. T’Perro asleep. In order to sustain constant operations with a crew not even a quarter the size of a normal cruiser, the entire crew had gotten preliminary helmsman and engineering training. During transit, when they were in deep space and operating normally, they would take turns working long shifts. There were two long-shifts per week, one to handle the ship from 1800 to 2400, the other from 2400 to 0600. This week, it was Cora and T’Perro on the first, Liam and Kallo on the second.

Wes made a habit of walking the ship when he was thinking, found the movement and change of scenery a nice refresher from being cooped in his stateroom all day long. He would wander up and over decks, occasionally stopping to stare out the vast windows of the conference room or staring, mesmerized, as the fluidic blue aura which surrounded and danced around the drive core, enjoying the low white noise. Tonight, though, as he walked through engineering, he heard the soft beeping of an omnitool and terminal, accompanied by soft dual-toned muttering and cursing.

He walked forwards, the door set to open only upon request. Pressing the doorbell, he heard a muted sigh of exasperation from inside before a couple of armored footsteps and the pneumatic hiss of the door brought him face to face with a very agitated Vetra.

“Gil, for the last time, I’ll get you your… oh, Ryder, it’s you.”

Wes’ left eyebrow cocked up as his expression morphed from confusion to concern. Even to his human eye it was clear that Vetra was stressed, high-strung, moreso than normal. Her brow plates sat low on her face and her mandibles quickly oscillated from being tightly pressed against her cheeks to wide open. She calmed slightly when she saw Ryder, gesturing him in with a slightly less manic set of motions.

He walked inside, a quick scan of the desk and the cereal boxes and meal bars around it telling him just how stressed and worried Vetra was. He leaned against the table behind the desk as the turian sat down in the chair, falling into it as though some weight were pulling her.

“Ryder, what can I do for you?”

“I was just walking through, heard you were up. Wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine, thanks. Anything else.”

The response was short, tense, said with a bite to her tone which was usually only reserved for annoying customers, the those individuals who she didn’t feel she had time for. While Wes was slightly taken aback by being on the receiving end of such a tone, normally he watched it in parallel, he nonetheless kept his face still, only raising a single inquisitive eyebrow in response, staring Vetra down.

The two held eye contact for three, four, five seconds before she finally cracked, her brow plates releasing upwards and her entire posture relaxing, as a spring which has been compressed a little too much. Her head sank down, her arms relaxing onto her legs as she sat farther back in the chair. Ryder continued to watch her, his expression a mix of shrewd observation and genuine concern.

After a few moments, she spoke.

“I’m sorry Ryder. You didn’t deserve that.”

“It’s alright, Vetra. What’s up?”

“Just cleaning up the mess my sister really made, figuring out just how far she went to make it. It’s not good.”

“You going to recover?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine. Most of my contacts figured out it wasn’t me and were waiting to find out what happened. A few are annoyed that my kid sister was able to get as deep into my systems as she was, but they don’t know Sid.”

“You know, she’s not a kid anymore, Vetra.”

A new layer of anger flashed in Vetra’s eyes as she looked back at Ryder.

“You don’t think I know that? Trust me Ryder, I am painfully aware of just how much she isn’t a kid.”

“Then why do you keep calling her your ‘kid sister’?”

“You’re going to latch onto that? It’s just a phrase, something I’ve said forever. It’s…”

“Something you wouldn’t use anymore if you didn’t still believe it.”

Vetra’s head physically moved back at Ryder’s words. Her expression stormed with confusion, anger, resentment, curiosity. Her mandibles spread wide again, then back to her face, repeating the process as her eyes darted between Ryder’s. Eventually, she spoke, softly.

“Maybe… Maybe it’s what I want her to be.”

“What do you mean?”

The sound of her chair was deafening against the quiet hum of the ship at night as Vetra stood and walked to her window into the drive core, staring up at the fluorescent blue orb, Ryder watching from behind her as she spoke.

“When Sid and I ran away, when it was just the two of us, I did everything I could to stop her from realizing just how bad things were. We got to comfortable eventually, but the people I had to deal with to get us there, the things I had to do to earn it, I didn’t want her to have to see them too. What I do – make deals, keep contacts, it isn’t a nice line of work. I’m good at it, yeah, and it’s treated me fine over the years, but it isn’t exactly the most… reputable, of jobs. I want something better for Sid, something more.”

“You really want to protect her, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Ryder. Maybe it’s because I never got much protection myself. Maybe it’s because it helps me to feel like I’m giving her what our parents never did. I don’t know.”

Vetra’s voice reached a new pitch of exasperated, annoyed, her body tensing as she worked her way through thoughts and feelings she would much rather be a stranger to. After a few minutes, Ryder pressed on.

“She’s not a kid anymore.”

A deep sigh from the window.

Quietly: “I know.”

Ryder paused, collecting his thoughts before he spoke. As he did so he walked towards Vetra, standing abreast from her as the two looked up into the drive core compartment, watching the blue mass effect field move and oscillate.

“After mom… died, Dad took me out fishing on earth. Some lake, somewhere in North America, I don’t even know where. We got out there and sat for hours, silently catching fish. It was, honestly, really awkward. At one point, though, he turned to me and started speaking, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget what he said. He said ‘Son, I want you to know, that everything I’ve done, I’ve done it for you.’ Yeah, I know, it sounds cheesy, but when Dad said it, anything sounded cool. Maybe that’s just because he was my Dad, I don’t know. Anyways, he said ‘The hardest challenge for any parent is to teach their kids how to be their own person. You have to give your children enough guidance that they know where to go, but enough room that they go there as their own people, as themselves. I’ve always aired on giving you more room, your mother was better at giving you guidance. Sometimes, I may have given you too much room, been too distant. And I’m sorry for that. But I hope you’ll understand, someday, that I did it for you, to try and let you be yourself.’ “

Vetra laughed slightly at Wes’ impression of Alec’s grizzled voice, his brows furrowing as he tried to imitate the infamous N7’s unique way of talking. He continued.

“Now that he’s gone, I’ve been thinking about that. Yeah, I think he gave me a bit more room than I needed, and I wish I had known him better. But on a certain level, he was right. Maybe that’s what you need to do with Sid.”

The sound of the HVAC filled the room as the two sat in silence, both staring forwards vacantly at the core. Vetra spoke, almost absentmindedly.

“Mabye. Maybe.”

Almost physically she shook herself out of her thought.

“Haven’t we already had this conversation?”

Ryder laughed, smiling at her.

“Yeah, we did. When you were looking for your lamp. Did you ever find it, by the way?”

Vetra laughed, rolling her eyes as she thought about the process of doing so.

“Yeah, I did, eventually. I’ve got it waiting for me on The Nexus. I don’t think I had realized just how far Sid had gotten when we talked.”

“It alarms you, doesn’t it?”

“Well, yeah. Ryder, these are dangerous people. They’re pretty much the biggest reason I keep an assault rifle with me all the time. Well, besides the Kett. But who in their right mind would want their kid sis… their sister, wrapped up with those people.”

Ryder laughed, holding his hand up in mocking helplessness.

“Hey, I’m not saying you have to like it. Just, give her some space.”

Vetra sighed, frustratedly.

“I thought it would be so… easy, to let her go her own way after we last talked. Thought it’d be as simple as not getting involved. You’re right, Ryder, she just wants to help people, to make a difference. And I guess that’s more of what we do than I give it credit. Certainly now. But the more I find out what she did, the more I imagine her having to deal with those people, having to be in the line of fire, the harder it is for me to let her.”

“I think everybody with a younger sibling can empathize. Nobody said it had to or was going to be easy. But, it’s probably something you should think about.”

“I know, I know. I already conceded. Have I told you just how much I hate it when you’re right?”

“I think you mentioned it, yeah.”

“Yeah? Well, stop it. You’re allowed to be right about pathfinder things, not about me.”

“Oh really? And how are you going to enforce that?”

“Oh, I can think of a few ways. I’ve learned a few tricks in my time.”

After she spoke, Vetra suddenly realized just how close Ryder was now. He was still standing at the edge of the window, wearing a smirk which she had come to love and hate in equal amounts since meeting him. She, however, seemed to have steadily moved across the window, leaning towards him until her face was mere centimeters away from his.

When did… how did… Huh.

She pushed back, trying (and failing) to hide just how surprised and startled she was by her constant drift towards Ryder. Wes’ eyes darted to the side as she did, a slight bit of confusion coming to his expression as he too realized just how close they had gotten, and just how much he had enjoyed it. Vetra coughed, awkwardly, Ryder moved his shoulder, working out a bit of tightness after their rescue of Sid. Silence.

Ryder spoke, awkwardly.

“Well, uh, I should… go back to… studying. And such.”

“Yeah, I’ve got… work.”

“Talk to you later?”

“Yeah. You know where to find me.”

Pathfinder Cabin, 2330 Hours

Ryder laid in bed, staring at the plating above him. He knew he should be asleep, his sense of time had gotten painfully good since he gained full access to SAM. But, still, he couldn’t sleep, thoughts debating and discussing in his head.

What the hell was that?

I don’t know. She got so close and we…

We got excited about it.

Yeah, like, heart-pounding, stomach in throat excited.

Why?

She’s a good friend?

Come on. Liam’s a good friend and we’ve never gotten that feeling. Same with Cora.

So, there’s something different.

Yeah, but what?

Well, let’s work through this. If we get this feeling about one individual, but not others, then we only need to find the difference between Vetra and everybody else, and we’ve got our answer.

What a nerdy way to go about this.

You’ve got a better way?

I’m you, we’re both the same voices, talking crazily inside our own head. Of course I don’t have a better way.

Alright then, what are the similarities?

Well, we’re all on the pathfinder team. We’re all good friends. We all go on missions together commonly.

Alright, differences?

Cora and Liam are biotics, Vetra is more tech oriented?

I can’t see why that would affect it. Next.

Liam and Cora are humans, Vetra is a Turian.

Aliens have never given me issues before, and I really don’t think it’s that. Next.

Uhmmm… We don’t have long late-night conversations with Liam and Cora.

No it can’t be that because… actually, that’s a good point. Let’s take that.

Well, why do we talk to Vetra so much?

Because we like listening to her thoughts and sharing our own. It’s a nice stress relief to have a best friend to tell things to and hear their take on the situation.

Alright. So we enjoy her friendship.

Yeah, pretty much.

Moreso than Liam and Cora. Or at least, more consistently and for longer.

Yeah, friends vs. best friends.

So, why would we get excited at being physically close?

A new voice butted in.

God, you’re all so thick.

Who are you?

The one with the answer.

Again: we’re all Wes, just talking crazily to ourselves.

So it was a dumb question then.

Yeah, I guess so. Anyways, why are we thick?

Because the answer is obvious.

Oh?

Yeah. Who doesn’t get excited around somebody who they love.

Oh,yeah, I guess that makes sense. Plus it… WAIT WHAT?

Come on, don’t tell me you don’t see it. The late night conversations, the fact that Vetra is literally always with us on mission, the times we spend hanging out on The Nexus, the times on Kadara.

Well… huh. Alright, yeah, you’re right. It’s completely consistent. I guess we love her.

There’s no guess in it. You’re way farther over this cliff than you’re giving yourself credit for, Wes.

We’ll deal with that later. Do you think she feels the same way?

I don’t know. Probably not.

Why not?

Look at it. We’re a human, she’s a Turian. She’s this badass smuggler who’s done almost any job the galaxy has to offer and is just as able to talk you into giving her what she wants as shooting you for it. You’re the son of a pathfinder who’s trying, and doing a moderate-at-best job of leading the Initiative with little to no training, who barely even knows how to do his job not to mention anything else.

Alright, point taken. So, we keep it from her.

Yeah, as best as we can.

Something tells me this isn’t going to be fun.

Something tells me we should go to bed.

Maybe. But I want to stay up and think about this.

For the last time, we’re all the same person. This is literally just a thinking exercise. So, we’re going to bed. Now.

Galley, 0630 Hours.

Vetra adjusted her armor as she stood in front of the mirror in crew quarters, ensuring everything was snugly secure, shaking out a few components as a final check. Try as she might she couldn’t fall asleep as early as she should have last night, her mind just as pre-occupied with the incident in the armory as Ryder’s. For how small it was – just standing closer together – she found that it was a much bigger deal in her mind, her feelings magnifying it into an incident of some importance.

She walked out of crew berthing, taking the short, 3 foot walk across the corridor into the galley, the door opening in front of her to reveal Ryder, bags under his eyes, making himself a breakfast ration pack. Vetra caught herself as her stomach jumped a few times, suppressing the blush which seemed to come every damn time she saw him now.

“Morning, Ryder.”

Ryder looked at her, his eyes widening slightly before he quickly looked back at the coffee cup. His revelations from the night before left him blushing at just the sight of Vetra, his internal dialogue blowing up as he forced himself to speak.

“Vetra, morning.”

The turian walked to the counter, grabbing a dextro breakfast pack and popping it into the second food rehydrater. The smell was pleasant, though she new it smelled better than it tasted. An awkward silence sat between the two, Wes becoming incredibly interested in his own ration pack, Vetra examining the deck plating as though it were the most engaging piece of art in Heleus. Eventually, Ryder spoke.

“Sleep well?”

“Not really. You?”

“I’ve had better. Any particular reason?”

“Just thinking some things over. You?”

“Same. Wanna talk about it?”

Vetra cursed the ancestors as she physically shut her mouth for a second. No matter how much you want to, you know that’s a terrible idea. You have no clue if he feels the same way. Don’t do it.

“Not really. Need to think it through a bit more. You?”

Ryder’s own blush became a shade darker as he became even more interested in pulling the ration pack out and mixing the salt into his eggs. Ryder, no. She probably doesn’t even feel the same way. Save the friendship, don’t say a damned thing.

“Not really. Same thing, need some more time.”

The two sat down, across from each other, both looking at the table between them intently, both wearing an expression of somebody who wants to say something but thinks better of it, neither being bold enough to look up to see it on the other.

As they ate their breakfast in relative silence, both thought through the night before, their discussions, their feelings for each other, newly revealed for Ryder and just as perplexing and alarming for Vetra. Both were dying to tell the other something, anything, act in any way on how they felt. Neither was sure enough to do so. Both of their inner monologues followed much the same structure, mini-Ryder’s saying near imperceptibly different arguments from the mini-Vetra’s across the table. But at the end of the day, they both came to the same conclusion:

I’ve got to do something, or this is going to be way, way, way too long of a mission. Why the hell did I have to go and fall in love with them?

#fics #fanfiction #mass effect fanfiction #mass effect and #vetra x ryder #male ryder #vetra nyx

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