#angstpril2024

[kybercrystals94]

The Last Time

Read here on Ao3!

Angstpril 2024 | Day 30 | Prompt 30: The Last Time

Rated: G | Words: 1562 | Summary: “...it was the last time…” | Character Focus: Hunter, Tech, Crosshair, Wrecker, Echo

“Are you awake?” Tech’s voice asks, right at the edge of Hunter’s bunk. 

Hunter doesn’t know how anyone can sleep with the hurricane raging outside the walls. It sounds like the entire city might topple under the weight of its rampant fury. Not that Hunter’s scared. His blanket is only pulled up over his head because the flashes of lightning burn his eyes. But the thin blanket does not protect his frayed senses from the bone rattling thunder and the constant barrage of torrential rain lashing against the walls and windows. 

“I’m awake,” Hunter says, voice muffled into his fabric sanctuary.

The edge of his mattress dips as Tech sits down next to him. “Excellent. Would you like to see the weather radar I have accessed?”

No, Hunter thinks, but he hears the slight tremble in his brother’s voice. With a sigh, he leaves the small comfort of his makeshift barrier and sits up. “Sure, Tech.” 

It is the middle of their sleep cycle. Their barracks should be dark, but the incessant lightning keeps the room lit with a flickering, white light. Tech does not wait for further invitation before he scrambles the rest of the way into Hunter’s bunk, putting himself between Hunter and the wall. He props his data pad between them, the screen a mass of twisting colors. “We are here,” Tech says, pointing to a tiny blip amongst the chaos.

“What do the different colors mean?” Hunter asks. He already knows. Reading weather maps is a basic part of their training; however, he also knows that Tech finds comfort in over-explaining even the most rudimentary facts. 

Hunter becomes so engrossed in the rambled explanation of weather patterns, that he doesn’t notice the shadow prowling across the room until it speaks almost directly into his ear.  “What are you doing?”

Hunter won’t admit if his nerves also leapt bodily in surprise, but Tech startles, the small jerk of motion jarring against Hunter’s side. 

Crosshair stands there, arms crossed tightly over his chest, shoulders hiked just a little towards his ears, waiting for an answer. 

“Tech’s showing me his weather map,” Hunter says. 

Crosshair shifts his weight, sharp eyes cutting away. “I want to see when this karking storm is gonna end,” he mumbles. Like Tech, he does not wait for an invitation to clamber into the bunk. Crosshair puts himself between Tech and the wall. Hunter shifts a little to make more room, Tech tucked snugly in the middle.

Tech starts his explanation all over again, moving the data pad to rest in his lap so that all three of them can see. 

“Hey!” an indignant shout comes from across the room. There’s a loud thump, the thudding of feet running across the room. Wrecker looms over Hunter’s crowded bunk, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. “No one told me we were sharing a bunk tonight. I don’t want to be alone either!” 

“We aren’t sharing a bunk,” Tech corrects him, “I am showing Hunter and Crosshair the storm’s progress on my radar.” 

Wrecker grins. “Then I want to see too!” 

He dives into the bunk amidst shouts of protest, wedging himself into the nonexistent space between Crosshair and the wall. Hunter is nearly shoved out of his own bed, clinging to Tech’s arm to keep himself from toppling to the floor. 

“We can’t all fit!” Crosshair squawks.

“Yes, we can!” Wrecker says, sounding all too pleased with himself.

“Wrecker,” Crosshair wheezes, “your elbow is digging into my ribs.” 

“Oh, sorry,” Wrecker says. 

Another pause. 

“Wrecker, your elbow is still digging into my ribs.”

“I know, but I’m really comfortable,” Wrecker sighs.

Tech huffs. “At least one of us is.” 

Hunter is halfway off the bunk. “We can make this work,” he says, “but not like this.” He drops to the floor and stands up. 

“How?” Crosshair asks. 

“Sideways,” Hunter says. “Now move.” 

“We’re too tall to fit sideways,” Tech points out. 

“Do you want to share my bunk or not?” Hunter asks. 

At that, his brothers don’t argue, quickly rearranging themselves. Sitting up as they had been, their feet - with the exception of Wrecker - come just to the edge of the thin mattress. They leave space for Hunter between the head of the bed and Tech. Hunter climbs into his allocated spot, and they situate his and Wrecker’s blankets over all four of them. 

“Now,” Tech says, taking out his data pad. “Shall I start again?” 

They listen to Tech talk about the storm, hardly noticing the stark flashes of lightning or the grumbling of the thunder or the endless onslaught of rain, until one by one they fall asleep. 

But it is the last time the four share a bunk. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

"Stop looking at my cards!” Wrecker cries, holding his splay of cards against his chest.  

Crosshair scoffs, sitting back. “I would if you’d stop waving them directly in my face.”  

“Maybe if you stayed on your side of the table...”  

“Can we play just one game without an argument?” Hunter asks, the patience in his voice becoming transparently thin. 

A brief moment of silence. Wrecker puts down a card. 

“Wrecker, that is an illegal play,” Tech says.  

“Is not,” Wrecker says. 

Crosshair picks up the card and flicks it back at Wrecker. “Is so. Take it back.” 

Wrecker grumbles, but puts the card back in his hand. 

The game continues without further incident until Crosshair wins the round. 

“How did you know I was bluffing?” Tech asks as Crosshair sweeps his winnings of spare bolts and screws into his pile. 

Crosshair grins. “You’ve got a tell.” 

“Really? What is it?” Wrecker asks eagerly, squinting at Tech. 

Tech rolls his eyes, gathering the cards to shuffle. “I do not have a tell.” 

“He does,” Crosshair says to Wrecker, ignoring Tech, “but I’m not going to give it away. It’s my strategy. He counts cards, and I read his tells.” 

Hunter groans. “Tech…” 

“That is not cheating!” Tech cries, indignant. 

“With your enhancement…” 

“Now wait a minute–” 

“Yeah! Using enhancements is cheating!” Wrecker declares. 

Tech huffs. “Then Crosshair shouldn’t be able to read my tells,” he says, then adds, glancing at Wrecker, “not that I have any.” 

“How the kark am I supposed to play then? Blindfolded?” Crosshair cries. 

Tech shrugs indifferently. “If necessary.” 

The table erupts in a tangle of arguments, rational and irrational alike. 

It is the last time they play cards before Echo joins the Batch. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

“Here we are,” Hunter says cheerfully, stepping into the clearing and removing his helmet. He takes a deep breath, enjoying the inhalation of pure air, rich with the scents of primitive wilderness. The only electromagnetic signals his senses can pick up are from the Marauder an hour’s march away, and the faint output of Tech’s data pad and their gear. 

“If by here you mean the middle of nowhere, then you are correct,” Tech grumbles, shrugging out of his pack and putting it against a tree. 

“It was Hunter’s turn to pick our shore leave,” Echo says diplomatically. “So middle of nowhere it is.” 

“I like it!” Wrecker booms, scaring away a bird that had been watching them from a nearby branch. “We haven’t been camping in ages!” 

Crosshair sighs. “What do you call what we just did on our last mission?”

“Just ‘cause we had to sleep outside doesn’t mean it was camping,” Wrecker says. “Camping means we have a campfire and don’t have to worry about getting our heads shot off by clankers.” 

“Now we just have to worry about our heads being bitten off by wild animals,” Crosshair retorts. 

Tech immediately cuts in. “There are no predators on this planet capable of such a feat. I made sure of it.” 

“See? I feel safer already.” Echo chuckles, pulling off his helmet and grinning at Hunter. “I think I’m gonna like this shore leave. We’ll have some peace and quiet if we can get these two to quit their whining,” he says, nodding at Crosshair and Tech. 

Echo receives twin expressions of indignation in response. 

However, that night, around the crackling warmth of the campfire, the complaints of the early afternoon are forgotten. The soft sounds of nighttime embrace them, soothing chaotic nature for something tranquil. They watch the stars overhead as things unreachable, winking pinpricks of light against a velvety, black canopy of sky. 

Hunter takes first watch, eager to enjoy the serenity they’ve found. Crosshair comes to sit next to him once their brothers have fallen asleep. He bumps his shoulder against the Sargeant’s, and Hunter nudges him back. They don’t speak for long, peaceful minutes, appreciating one another’s quiet company. 

“Do you think we could live like this? After the war?” Hunter asks at last, voice hushed. 

Crosshair doesn’t answer right away, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on his knees, watching the flames of the fire dance and spark. “We’re soldiers,” he says, “we don’t know anything but war.” 

“We could learn,” Hunter says. “Adapt.”

Crosshair chuckles. “I’m always up for a challenge.”

It is the last time they have shore leave before their mission to Kaller. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Hunter tries to remember the last words he said to Omega.

The last meaningful words. 

The last words she might remember him by. 

In case this mission goes wrong.

In case it was the last time he ever saw her. 

But he can’t remember. 

END

That's a wrap! [[On the eve of the Bad Batch series finale too!! 🥲]] 30 angsty prompts fulfilled in 30 days! I am honored to have gotten to collaborate alongside the endlessly talented @the-little-moment and @just-here-with-my-thoughts this month!

A master list post is coming soon with links to all 30 stories/chapters completed this month! So keep an eye out for that ☺️

Happy last Bad Batch eve, my lovelies! **sob**

✨Let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list!✨

Tag List: @followthepurrgil @isthereanechoinhere96 @amorfista @mooncommlink @arctrooper69 @nagyanna424 @proteatook @ezras-left-thumb @maeashryver @merkitty49

#Angstpril2024 #Day 30 #Prompt 30 #The Last Time #the bad batch #star wars #Star Wars the Bad Batch #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #tbb hunter #tbb tech #tbb crosshair #tbb wrecker #tbb echo #Omega mentioned #angst #memories #humor #cadet batch #brotherly love #slight mention of the Bad Batch Season 3 #littlekyberthoughts #fics by kyber

[chaos-company]

Angstpril 2024

Hi everyone!

It’s that time of year again! We are excited to announce that we are hosting the event again this year!

All prompts, FAQs and rules can be found in the graphics and below the cut! 

Prompts:

1. homesick

2. frozen

3. broken-hearted

4. longing

5. rise from the ashes

6. this isn’t going to work

7. bad dreams

8. lost battle

9. trust issues

10. phantom pain

11. no way out

12. a little too late

13. learning the truth

14. surrender

15. confrontation

16. cry for help

17. last chance

18. left behind

19. trembling

20. broken

21. faking a smile

22. drained

23. swept away

24. the ghost of you

25. cold shoulder

26. grief

27. panicked

28. never see you again

29. betrayal

30. the last time

Alt Prompts:

1. troubled mind

2. not strong enough

3. you were never mine

4. the night we met

5. mental scars

6. miscommunication

7. jealousy

8.rock and a hard place

9. emotionally distant

10. paranoid

Rules

All posted content must be your original content. The use of AI for creation of any kind is prohibited.

All tags must be utilized in order to be reblogged. NOTE: the mods are human beings, so not all works will automatically be reblogged, even if all tagging is correct.

Any art form is acceptable, including original writing, gif sets and fan art.

FAQs

“Do I have to create for all thirty days?”

- Not at all! Feel free to jump in whenever you’d like. This is a creation event, so create as much or as little as you want! However, if you want to be entered in the shout out post, you must participate in all 30 days.

“Can I post a creation after the day has already passed?”

- Yes! You’re welcome to post for a prompt day even after the date, just be sure to tag with which day and prompt you’ve created for! You will only be eligibile for the shoutout post if you complete all 30 days within the month of April.

“What if I don’t understand/like a prompt?”

- We have a list of 10 alt prompts for you to choose from if you don’t like the main 30. Feel free to use our alternate prompts for any day, and if there’s any confusion send us an ask!

#angstpril2024 #angstpril #fandom event #fandom culture #writing prompts #angst prompts #star wars #marvel #mcu #dceu #batfam #star trek #ncis #avatar #atla #twilight #anime #angst #naruto #dragon ball #art prompts #ted lasso #fanfiction #the walking dead #pokemon #my hero academia #harry potter #doctor who #sherlock #supernatural

[shebaren]

"Homesick" - SQH

For Angstpril 2024 Day 1

(Trying to do more art that's not polished, filling my sketchbook)

#angstpril2024 #svsss #fanart #day 1 #homesick #my art #sketch

[nyamadermont]

Phantom Pain

Angstpril 2024: Day 10

Rohan was the first to notice when Lin rubbed her forehead. Pema watched him toddle over to her, crawl up beside her on the cushion, and worm his way under her arm until she took her hand down to steady him in her lap. His mother thought she might just melt at the way Rohan lifted ShuShu up to give Lin a kiss on the forehead.

***

The volume of Jinora and Meelo’s argument crested as they chased each other along the breezeway leading to the family’s quarters. The game’s rules were important, after all. Air Nomad heritage was at stake in these things. Would they respect tradition, or strike out onto new paths? 

But when Meelo’s scooter spun him far enough along to see Lin bent over the railing, looking off into the trees behind the house, rubbing her forehead, he froze and plopped to the ground. Jinora, caught completely off guard, slammed into his back, causing them to tumble over each other for several lengths. 

The ruckus snapped her attention to them, but her face looked strange. The children looked at each other, and ran over to hug her.

Uncharacteristically, she knelt between them, and hugged them back.

***

Ikki did not want to clean her room. That was boring.

A quick glance outside told her that no one was walking around below, so she whipped out her glider, and jumped through the window.

The currents carried her around the main tower until she was looking out over the meditation courtyard. In the distance, she could see Lin’s black form stepping to the top of the Thousand Steps. She banked against the breezes to go say hello to the Chief. 

The clomp of Lin’s boots rang out from the stone, loudly enough that Ikki could hear every step Lin took. Until she stopped cold.

Ikki noticed that she was facing the dormitories, a place Ikki knew that Lin knew as well as any of them did. Playing badgermole hunt with Lin was never any fun because she knew every place there was to hide. Even on the roof!

But then Lin seemed to get small, and Ikki got worried. She angled her glider to bring her close.

Lin was on her knees on the pavement, one hand limp in her lap. The other was rubbing at a spot in the middle of her forehead.

Ikki floated down in front of Lin, who looked almost shocked.

Ikki could feel all the questions she wanted to ask, but they all felt wrong. She knelt in front of Lin, and reached up to take the troublesome hand away from Lin’s face. Gently, she kissed the fingertips on that hand before pulling it down to touch the stone under their knees.

Lin gasped and sighed, and bowed her head. Beneath her knees, Ikki could feel little tremors in the stone, and she wondered if that was what Lin felt all the time.

She covered Lin’s hand with her own, stretched up, and placed a tiny kiss on Lin’s forehead.

***

The heavy thump woke Kya with a start.

She rolled over and reached to the other side of the bed. Not finding Lin, she sat up.

“I won’t tell you anything, you monster!” Lin roared from her knees, staring wildly up at…

Nothing that Kya could see.

And suddenly, Lin slumped bonelessly to the side.

Kya scrambled from the bed, flailing for whether to turn on the lights or try to shake her awake, or let her sleep or bring her back gently, or…

She knelt in front of Lin, close enough to touch, but holding back, just a moment longer.

Lin stirred, and slammed the heel of her hand against her forehead, pressing and groaning.

Kya leaned forward and tried to pull the hand away from Lin’s face. Lin resisted, seeming to press even harder.

“Lin, Lin, it’s Kya, honey. Please wake up. You’re having a nightmare. Can you talk to me? Please let me take your hand.”

Suddenly, Lin went limp, the hand dropping away from her face for a moment. She grimaced and curled into a tight ball, bringing her fingers back up to her forehead.

Kya reached down to try to tug her up by the shoulders.

Lin gasped. Her eyes snapped open, and Kya could see the confusion and fear in her face.

“Lin, it’s just me, just Kya. You’re at home. We’re together. Can you sit up? Do you want a light? Feel your pajamas.”

She helped Lin put her back to the side of the bed, then wriggled around on her knees to reach Lin’s nightstand. The familiar meteorite was heavy and cold in her hands, but she knew it would feel different to Lin.

She could tell the instant Lin felt the rock with her bending, not just her hands. Her eyes widened, but her shoulders slumped, and her head fell back against the bed.

Lin let her hands fall to her lap, cradling the meteorite in her two cupped hands.

Her voice was hoarse when she whispered, “It’s just a phantom pain.”

Kya brushed back her hair, reassuring her, “Pain is pain. Pain is real. Even if he isn’t here to hurt you, ever again.”

“Why does it still hurt? He’s dead. I know he’s dead,” she said, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Kya caressed her cheek. “I don’t know. Maybe think about what Korra’s touch felt like when she restored your bending.”

Lin inhaled and held her breath. She opened her mouth and released the breath without exhaling, exactly. Kya pulled back to let Lin lift her head from the mattress.

“Did I ever tell you that it felt like your dad gave me a kiss? He used to do that when I was very little, and that’s what Korra’s touch felt like.” Her watery eyes looked down to the rock in her hand. It shimmered and undulated, changing shapes in a steady rhythm.

Kya reached out her hand again to rub Lin’s elbow.

“Then let his phantom kiss wipe away the phantom’s pain.”

She leaned up on her knees, and placed a gentle kiss on her brow.

#angstpril2024 #angstpril 2024 #avatar the legend of korra #legend of korra #fanfiction #day10 #phantom pain #nyama's shorter stories #kyalin #lin beifong #kya ii #airkids

[pandora15]

Angstpril 2024 Day 1 Prompt: Homesick

It’s so silent.

Growing up in Mos Espa, Anakin is used to the sounds of speeders, ships, travelers, merchants, and the occasional sandstorm pulsing through the night. He is used to a maelstrom of sounds surrounding him as he goes to sleep every night, accompanied by the sounds of his mother moving around their hut as quickly and silently as she can.

Even though Anakin heard her every night, there was comfort in hearing her motions. It meant that she was there with him — no matter what he dreamed, she would be there in the morning, smiling.

His mother was his biggest comfort, growing up.

To be away from her, away from Mos Espa and all the sounds the night would bring, feels so unfamiliar and uncomfortable that Anakin wonders if he will ever hear those sounds again.

For the first few nights, he was alright. He was excited — about becoming a Jedi, about being free and learning to be a Jedi from Master Qui-Gon. The emotions kept him up well enough to not realize just how much he missed being home.

But then the Battle of Naboo happened, Master Qui-Gon died, and now…

He’s sitting alone in this empty bedroom in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. 

They’d only just gotten back from Naboo about an hour ago. After a quick meeting with the Jedi Council, Obi-Wan had walked Anakin to the apartment — their apartment — opened the door to this bedroom, and told Anakin to go to sleep.

But it’s just too silent.

There’s no sound outside. No speeders, no ships, no travelers or merchants, and definitely no sandstorms.

Letting out a frustrated breath, Anakin sits up in the bed.

“Mom?” he whispers.  “I hope…I hope you don’t feel as alone as I do right now. I wish you were here right now. Maybe you’d know what to do.”

She doesn’t answer.

Of course she doesn’t — she’s too far away.

She’s home, and Anakin is…

Why is he even here? Obi-Wan barely talks to him, barely even looks at him. He put him in this quiet room as soon as they arrived, and now Anakin is cold and lonely and he can’t stand the silence of it all.

Slowly, Anakin gets up and makes his way to the bedroom door.

Then, he takes a deep breath and uses his hand to slide the door open — just a little bit.

A sliver of light enters the room — just enough for Anakin to be able to see through into the common space of the apartment, where a lone figure sits on the couch turned away from Anakin, curled into the corner, hands pressed to its face.

Anakin’s breath stills at the sight. He’s seen something he shouldn’t’ve. That much is obvious.

Quickly, he retreats back into the bedroom and lets the door slide shut.

He tiptoes back to the bed, sits down.

The only thing he hears now is the sound of his own breaths — shuddering, uneven.

Swallowing, Anakin opens his mouth.

“I miss you,” he breathes, into the night.

#angstpril2024 #pandora writes #day 1 #homesick #fic #anakin skywalker #there's a bit of a subtle parallel between the homesickness that anakin and obi-wan experience after tpm that's just so fascinating to me #anyways i have no idea if i'll be doing more prompts than this #i definitely hope to

[pigeonwhumps]

Battle

Taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Angstpril: alt prompt 1: troubled mind

Inspired by these two prompts by @hurtmyfavsthanks and an anon ask she received. I saw the more recent one and just wrote this straight up within a couple of hours, unable to resist it.

1k

CWs: living weapon, outcast whumpee, magical whumpee, low self-esteem, betrayal kinda, mentions of battle and casualties, mentioned past discrimination

Whumpee doesn't remember much of the battle.

It went by in a haze. They remember red, people falling, screams, unsure which side they were on. They remember the glee, the euphoria, of using their magic. The high of it all.

Now they're starting to come down from that high, and they can see the fear in people's eyes. The injuries, the casualties. Vaguely, they wonder who caused them. Was it them again?

Hands cup their face, gentle, calloused. The only ones that will ever touch them anymore.

Caretaker's.

"Hey. Look at me, now. Not the camp. Me." Whumpee looks up hesitantly, into their loving, warm eyes. One day they'll change. One day... one day they'll harden. Fear, hatred. From all the people they've hurt, on all sides. One day it'll be too much. They're afraid of the day they'll see that, of what will happen then.

But it hasn't happened yet.

Caretaker wipes their cheek softly. "It's okay. Come on, rest. Lay your head down. You're done for today. Close your eyes and rest."

Whumpee crawls into Caretaker's lap. They vaguely register being carried, head being lifted until it meets Caretaker's neck. Whumpee nuzzles into it.

"Shh. You did so well. You're doing so well, Whumpee. I'm proud of you."

Whumpee doesn't want to be. They want to grow flowers. But this is what their magic likes, this is what their king likes, this is what makes Caretaker say those words of praise in just that voice, so they can't stop.

(They ignore the small voice in their head that says that they have no idea what Caretaker's reaction to flowers would be. This is exhilarating, even if they feel an ever-growing bubble of shame at the endless, ruthless violence.)

Caretaker runs a hand through their hair, combing out the knots from the day's work, using a little water to clean the worst of the blood. Whumpee has been through this so many times that they know what to expect without even a glance. He won't hurt them with those eyes. They know his expression, his feelings, and they curl their arms and legs closer around him.

He's so warm.

"S'okay buddy. I'm here."

"Hmm."

Whumpee closes their eyes. It's so... so... they don't think they can sleep yet but they find themself drifting on the exhaustion the magical high always brings.

_

The next morning is... the next morning. As it always is with a new squad, it is very different to the first one.

And as it always is, Whumpee feels a sharp stab of hurt.

The soldiers know who they are, what they are. Have done since the very beginning .They've worked with Whumpee on the preparations, the journey here, for weeks. They know them. Sat around the campfire, shared meals, joked and talked and laughed. They'd been wished good luck yesterday morning, hair ruffled, smiles and reassurances in abundance. Soldier had even fixed their horse's saddle after the straps started to break. Now...

Now, they won't come within arms length of them. Soldier ladles out breakfast to the rest, leaving an empty bowl several feet from Whumpee, not looking them in the eye as he leaves them to fetch their own. He flinches along with several others as they approach the campfire, more whose hands jerk towards their swords. As if they're going to attack. As if they're so out of control that they'd attack their own side on purpose.

They reluctantly let go of Caretaker's hand so he can fetch their breakfast and the healing potion alone. At least he looks them in the eye. At least he sits with them, and talks, and touches them. Helps convince them to take the potion, even though it's bitter and rancid and no-one will improve it for the likes of them, and they won't need it once the adrenaline and euphoria of tomorrow's battle kicks in.

The kindness is only for now. It will change, sooner or later.

Nobody helps the pair of them take down their tent, or pack their saddlebags, and the Sergeant looks about to stop Whumpee from replacing the emergency set of daggers they carry in their boots at all times. A gift from Caretaker.

It's like they have the plague. Or the Devil's Touch, as their old villagers used to say.

They're pretty much alone in the clearing now, the rest of the squad staying as far away as they can without letting Whumpee out of their sight. Just in case they explode or something.

Without a word, Whumpee settles down on the ground beside the smoldering fire, Caretaker sitting on the log behind them. It's a sharply cold morning, dew dampening their breeches, but their leather armour keeps them surprisingly warm.

Caretaker braids their hair quickly and simply, just enough to keep it out of their face. Battlefields aren't the place for complicated hairstyles. Which is a shame, because Caretaker takes pride in that skill, and Whumpee delights in being allowed to display the results.

Whumpee dries their face with the cloth Caretaker hands them wordlessly. They need to get it together. It's not like it's the end of the world or anything. They try to summon the ease by which they sometimes prepare, the eagerness instead of dread that comes with a lot of battles.

It doesn't come. Today is a day for dread, then, and there's nothing they can do about it but pray for a miracle. And a break in the hatred and fear, the violence with which everyone rejects them.

They can't help thinking, though, that the amount of damage they've done, it's no wonder people want them locked away. They are a weapon, after all.

Yes. Definitely one of the bad days.

Caretaker's their handler. They try not to think about it but it's true. He's the only one who might see it, might offer them a brief reprieve. So they summon up all their courage.

"Please..."

Caretaker finishes the braid and kisses their temple. "I'm so sorry, Whumpee. I really am. But you need to do this. We need to do this. The kingdom needs you."

Whumpee nods. They don't blame Caretaker, not really. They need to win this war. And Whumpee needs to use their magic.

But gods do they wish they could stop.

#whump #whump writing #living weapon whumpee #living weapon #outcast whumpee #magic whump #magic whumpee #battle #caretaker and whumpee #whumpee and caretaker #soft caretaker #hes trying his best #so is whumpee #i am apparently incapable of making a living weapon who enjoys their job outside of the actual battle #i did try but whumpee wouldnt let me #they just want to grow flowers and have their hair done instead #angstpril2024 #writing #alt1 #troubled mind

[the-little-moment]

Angst-pril Day 1

Prompt: Homesick

Words: 550

Warnings: None

Summary: Wrecker goes to Tech for reassurance.

The Heart Grows Fonder

If there was one thing Tech prided himself on, it was his painstaking care of his squad’s modified Omicron-class attack shuttle, their home and main source of transportation, the Marauder. Unfortunately, not every member of his family was as cautious. The pilot sighed as he used a pair of curved tweezers to remove another shard of red plast from the disassembled control panel before him. It had fallen victim to Wrecker’s battering ram of an elbow while his brother and Omega had been playing on the ship that morning.

Tech selected a matching button cover from a small box of replacement pieces. There would be no more of these forthcoming after they inevitably ran through his stockpile. Soon he would need to begin sourcing his parts from other suppliers. 

Wrecker had apologized profusely, as he always did, and Tech had accepted his promises for improved behavior, as he always did. It was simply the way of things. What was unusual was Wrecker’s choice to join Tech for his night watch in the cockpit. Usually the engineer would be fast asleep at this time, but instead, he was sitting quietly in the pilot’s chair while Tech made his repairs. Tech wasn’t entirely sure why, but it was Wrecker. He was sure the answer would present itself soon enough.

“Tech?”

There it was. Tech hummed an acknowledgement as he slotted the new button into place. He was working in the copilot’s chair, parts and pieces spread over the console to his right.

“You ever miss home?”

Well that hadn’t been what he was expecting. Tech looked up from his makeshift workbench in surprise. He blinked at Wrecker, noticing the wistful look on his brother’s broad face as he fidgeted with a thermal detonator in the pilot’s chair. “Home? Do you mean Kamino?”

Wrecker turned a furrowed brow towards him. “Yeah? Where else?”

Tech paused for a moment, thinking. “I regret the destruction of the Kaminoan people. And all the history and culture that was lost, not to mention their unique advancements in the area of genetics."

That clearly wasn’t what his brother was looking for. “Yeah, me too,” Wrecker acknowledged impatiently. “But what about home? Our room? The mess hall? The training facility and the sims and the armory and the—”

“I do remember Kamino,” Tech interrupted mildly before Wrecker could describe the entirety of Tipoca City. He tapped his screwdriver against his fingers. “I suppose…it is sad to think we will never go back. That we cannot go back. Not to mention the loss of tactical support that we are accustomed to. But we will find a way to continue, as we always have.”

“Yeah…” Tech watched Wrecker sigh, slumping further down in his chair as he went back to turning the detonator in his large hands. Out of all of them, it did not surprise him that Wrecker was the one who still harbored sentimental attachment to Kamino. At times like this, his brother required not only commiseration, but comfort. Tech leaned over and poked him with the handle of the screwdriver. 

“Kamino is where we are from. Our origin. That is not to say that we won’t someday find a new home elsewhere.”

Wrecker looked up from his grenade and smiled. “You think so?”

Tech nodded. “I do.”

Welcome to Angst-pril 2024! I'm taking part in this amazing month of angst with a series of Bad Batch stories along with @kybercrystals94 and @just-here-with-my-thoughts! We're alternating prompt days all month, so keep an eye on our blogs to catch all 30 fics.

Taglist: @lightwise @clonethirstingisreal @freesia-writes @bad-batch-lurker

#angstpril2024 #star wars the bad batch #fanfiction #day 1 #homesick #clone force 99 #the bad batch fanfiction #the little moment writes #the bad batch #tbb tech #tbb wrecker #littlekyberthoughts

[nemaliwrites]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug & Plagg Characters: Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Plagg (Miraculous Ladybug), Tikki (Miraculous Ladybug), Nathalie Sancoeur, Gabriel Agreste Additional Tags: Angst, Bodyswap, Post-Reveal Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Bad Parent Gabriel Agreste, Bad Parent Nathalie Sancoeur, Loss of Control, Sentimonster Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Protective Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mind Control Series: Part 10 of Angstpril 2024 Summary:

“Look, I don’t know much about you guys, but I always hear other humans whining about how they have to listen to their parents or their teachers or bosses or whatever.”

“Yes,” says Marinette, “but that’s…that’s different. Usually, when someone tells me to do something, I only do it if I want to. I can think about it, make a real decision. But this…it was like I didn’t even have time to think about it. Like I couldn’t resist, even if I wanted to. And if I did, it would have killed me.”

--

Adrien and Marinette swap bodies. Marinette does not have a good time.

Written for Day 10 of @chaos-company‘s Angstpril - prompt: phantom pain

#angstpril2024 #miraculous ladybug #fanfiction #day10 #phantom pain #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #plagg #gabriel agreste #nathalie sancoeur #prpr #ml fanfic #angstpril #my fics

[numerousbees1106]

Crown of Lazarus Teaser #2 - Tumblr exclusive!

No-One Knows Just Who To Believe

(This is the follow-up teaser to the one posted yesterday, which can be read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55069789#main). Edited on 4/12/24 to fix some formatting issues.

It began slowly, as it always did. His mind, wrapped in infinite nothingness, thought only in the subconscious, all greater thought replaced with the gentle soundless static of the hindbrain. His body existed somewhere far away, his worries and fears farther yet still. For an endless moment, he simply existed within the threads of reality, interwoven with its fabrics, cradled and protected like a dragon in its egg.

But slowly, the harsher edges of existence began to creep in as they always did, like a camera slowly zooming in, and he became aware of his own wakefulness bit-by-aching-bit.

In his mind’s eye, he saw himself, but the proportions were all wrong, with some parts far too large and exaggerated, and other parts far too small, shrunk down like some sort of twisted caricature. He was rotating in an endless void, but simultaneously he was far too still, like an image pasted hastily into a video.

He became aware of his heart thumping, a sensation painful in its sudden stimulation. His breathing echoed loudly in his ears, his blood crawling through his veins like tunneling insects, bringing with them the numbing agony of his nerves regaining sensation.

Anakin slowly peeled open his eyes, eyelids sticky with disuse, nausea boiling in his gut. He felt too hot and too cold, sweaty and shaking, as his organs and various internal systems began to reboot and reawaken.

Even as his sluggish mind slipped in and out of what Anakin called his Reawakening daze, he clung desperately to lucid thought, knowing that he had to think up a damn good excuse for why he was mysteriously back from the dead.

The morgue, he figured. I’m probably in a body locker in the morgue.

Briefly, he wondered why he wasn’t freezing, but as he clumsily felt along his body, he recognized the scratchy textures of the blankets considered damn-near sacred by the clones. The blankets - thick and one of the more expensive pieces of gear - were limited to one per bunk, and it was a pain in the ass to get a replacement. As such, they were considered special by the clones - the blankets were always neatly folded, even in the messiest of chambers, even if the various other sheets were strewn all over the place. The blankets were always kept clean, and to steal a brother’s blanket was considered to be a serious crime. A handful of the 501st had even customized their blankets with dyes or sewn-on patches, despite it technically not being allowed.

And Anakin could feel some familiar patches on some of the blankets he was wrapped in.

Tears began to sting his eyes as he gingerly ran his fingers over one of the patches, shaping it out in his mind until he was certain - this was Rex’s blanket, that was laid out underneath him, cushioning what to them was Anakin’s eternal slumber. And the blanket draped over his torso, that bound his right arm to his side but left his left arm loose, Anakin recognized as Kix’s. And the one that gently wrapped around his legs and feet, Anakin could feel Jesse’s name embroidered on. A few other blankets embraced him, and more still cushioned the body locker around him, and Anakin’s heart clenched painfully with both immense love and grief. Damn his trust issues - he should have told them long ago.

With a shuddering breath, Anakin carefully unlocked the locker with the Force, gingerly sliding it out until a dim and flickering light greeted him.

Oh-so-gently, he moved the blankets out of the way so that he could sit up - they had really tucked him in tight, and it took all of Anakin’s willpower to not break into ugly sobs right then and there. He needed to find them, now. Just the mere thought of his beloved troops mourning for him another needless minute longer… it coiled something in his chest, curdled his heart like spoiled milk, radiating bitter guilt from his soul. He needed to go to them, to explain, to apologize to them, to beg for their forgiveness. He needed to reassure them that it was alright, that everything would be okay, that he was fine, that they would be fine. But, as he clambered out of his not-so-final resting place, he encountered a bit of an unexpected issue.

His wings were back. And they were a lot bigger than he remembered.

Shavit. Kriff. E chu ta. Karabast. Damn.

How in the Sith Hells was he supposed to hide this?

A thousand horrid scenarios raced through his mind. The Jedi, furious at him for lying to them for years. The Republic, desperate for a victory, throwing him into suicide missions again and again until there was nothing human left of him. Obi-Wan’s crestfallen face as he realized the betrayal.

Experiments. Slavery. Torture. His death.

Scenarios, infinitely numerous and infinitely grotesque, raced through his mind.

Except, as he panicked, he saw as the golden feathers became awash with a sickly pale green color, the same color he had come to associate with fear and panic and terror. And, as he noticed this, the pale green was replaced with the blue-violet of confusion.

Okay, he thought. Okay, maybe there is a way to hide this.

As he thought this, a light pink-yellow shade crept into his wings - hope.

He breathed deeply, tenderly stepping around the candles that had been left in front of his body locker, drawing his wings in tight to prevent them from knocking over the lit flames - or worse, catching fire.

All around the room, tiny trinkets and objects his men had held dear were carefully laid or propped up, tiny offerings to help him in his final march towards a battle far away. That was the idea, anyway.

Anakin only realized he had paused when his drooping wingtips knocked over a small wooden carving of a bantha, the grief-gray and guilt-gray-green feathers flinching in surprise and knocking over a few other nearby trinkets. The subsequent racket, though not terribly loud, was enough to make him freeze, that pale green color returning.

“What was that?” A voice sounded from right outside the door.

The Final Guard, Anakin realized. It was a tradition the clones had inherited from the Mandalorians, wherein the Final Guard - a select group of the deceased’s closest friends and allies - would stand watch over the body until it arrived at its final resting grounds.

“What was what?” A louder voice, one Anakin recognized as Hardcase’s voice, responded.

“Didn’t you hear that? That racket?” The first voice - Appo’s voice - hissed.

“I haven’t been able to hear much of anything since… well.”

A solemn pause, a heavy sigh.

“Get that checked out, vod,” Appo muttered.

“Once the Final Guard is done,” Hardcase agreed. “Oh, and the noise was probably just some of the offerings falling over.”

“Probably,” Appo concurred, voice thick with grief.

Breathing out a soft sigh of relief, Anakin tucked his wings tight against his sides as he eyed the vents. Those would be his best best out of the morgue, unless he wanted to knock out Hardcase and Appo with the Force, which he very much did not want to do.

It would be a tight squeeze, but maybe…

Unscrewing the vent and removing the cover was the easy part. Much harder to do was actually maneuvering his body into the small space that was a few feet above his head, all without making too much of a racket. He, however, had a secret weapon on his side: sheer Skywalker stubbornness.

Alas, he mused forlornly as he kicked uselessly at the air, finding himself stuck within the vent, I am also cursed with Skywalker stupidity.

His wings prevented him from moving forwards, the feathered limbs simply being too wide to fit, but also prevented him from reversing out of the vent, as any backwards motion bent the feathers the wrong way, sending sharp pin-pricks of pain through his newfound appendages.

“Stupid… kriff… damn these wings!” Anakin hissed under his breath, wiggling and wriggling each way in a fruitless attempt to free himself. With a sigh, he went limp, resigning himself to his fate. Still, as he reminisced on the events that had led him to this point - sulking, really, though he’d never admit it - he imagined his wings simply… disappearing.

And they did.

Painfully.

Very painfully.

Feathers fused back into flesh, hollow bones breaking up into thousands of fragments before merging into his muscles, tendons dissolving into goo and sticking to his sides until the wings were gone completely, with only his bleeding gums from where he had cracked a tooth on his metal hand, biting down on it to muffle his agony, to show for it.

Gasping and panting, tears streaming down his face, Anakin forced himself to move forwards with shaking hands. He had to keep moving. He had to keep going. Somehow he knew that his wings would come back, but he didn’t quite know what would bring them back. It could happen at any moment, for all he knew, trapping him in the vents until he reabsorbed them - something he very much was not keen on.

Well. At least he didn’t have to worry about having to hide them, though it wasn’t quite what he was hoping for.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the vent collapsing beneath him, sending him plummeting very ungracefully to the floor below…

Right in front of Rex.

The aura around the petrified clone Captain was a horrid shade of pale green and shock-silver, the man’s face draining of color as he stared down at Anakin’s frozen form, their eyes meeting.

Captain Rex collapsed in front of him, unconscious.

Well, shit.

#angstpril2024 #star wars #fanfiction #day9 #trust issues #ao3 #ao3 author #star wars anakin #anakin skywalker #teaser #Crown of Lazarus

[kalolasfantasyworld]

I walk alone

Summary: Nozel walks through the shadows and sees scenes of what his life could have been.

Type: One shot

Genre: Heavy ANGST

Warnings: blood

Word count: 1551

Ships: Nozel x Vanessa, Nozel x Selena, Nozel x Fuegoleon, Nozel x Helia, Nozel x Briar, Nozel x Dorothy, Nozel x Helena

Author's note:

OCs in order belong to @thoughtfullyrainynightmare, @loosesodamarble, @koneko-pi and Helena is mine.

The vibes of this fic were inspired by @f-oighear's one shot: But the cold, dark gaze is your own.

Illustration is at the end.

Ao3

Is he in a dream? He does not know, but the shadows that swirl around him are ominous. He looks away, but it is the same on the other side. Shades of gray. There is a path and he walks on it, because what else can he do?

Each step feels heavy. He feels the burden resting on his shoulders. The burden of responsibility, burden of duty. It is suffocating, but he pushes on. He knows nothing else. Stronger! Stronger! Stronger! He keeps on repeating. My path is mine and mine alone.

So he walks by himself, dragging his feet, tripping. Shadows come closer.

He cannot take a break, but… his composure is shattering. Just a moment, a little bit. 

So he stops, nobody will notice. He turns his head to the side and his lilac eyes widen, surprised. 

The shadows part, just in that one spot, they swirl away and there is light. He needs to squint, because he is not used to it. Dark markings strangled him, kept him away from it, he kept himself from it, for fifteen years of his life. So how is this light apparent now?

He looks closer and he sees a flutter of pink. Pink? He smells wine, but why wine? 

His eyes meet with those of amethyst color and he sees flushed cheeks. 

“Hello handsome,” the woman winks. It is just that she is not talking to him. There is a man next to her. Man that could be his twin, because they both have silver hair, fair skin, lilac eyes. However it is not Nozel, because he knows himself and he is not happy. So how does this Nozel look as if he was? He wants to know the secret, wants to know how?

He takes a step closer… he falls on his knees. 

The light is gone, only shadows remained. 

He struggles to stand up. His legs are wobbly, because the burden is back. Somehow heavier than ever. Alone he pushes on. 

Stronger! Stronger! Stronger! The words are there, repeated like a mantra. 

Yet another step, yet another drag of his feet and they hurt. The soles of his sandals are not enough to shield them from the hard rocks, which suddenly appeared on the path.

He looks at them.

However then suddenly a flash of light appears. His eyes dart to it and he is focused. His legs feel lighter, so he approaches it. 

Silver? No she is not a Silva, he does not know her and yet she feels familiar. As if when he looks at the night sky he sees her. The moon looks down at him. And once again there is a man beside her. She is soft with him and he… he is soft with her. Yet another impossible twin. 

So he wants to gaze longer, but the moment he takes a step closer, light fades again. The burden settles, crushes him. Markings strangle his neck. 

Stronger! Stronger! Stronger!

He walks down the path. The sharp stones seem to break the soles of his sandals, but they are still fine… for now. 

When the light appears again, he is not surprised and he runs to it, once again magically rid of the heaviness. He stops close enough so that he can see, but not too close, worried that it will disappear. 

Why is his rival there? Why are they sitting under a tree? What are they talking about?

Fuegoleon seems to be calmly explaining something and the man beside him… listens. They are younger, teenagers. But he has no memory of that. What does it mean? This Nozel does not look burdened. 

He cannot stop himself from taking a step. It fades… once again it fades…

Stronger! Stronger! Stronger! But he wishes for yet another light.

His shoulders hurt. The burden digs into them. He is struggling not to trip. Not to fall down on the sharp rocks. 

He sees it. He darts towards it. Somehow his prayer was answered. 

Gold? Gold and green. The woman is standing in the water and smiling. She submerged her hands in it only to lift them up and splash them! He flinches, but she did not splash at him. The man beside her gets a little wet. He expects the man to snap. He does not. The man looks… happy?

He needs to take a closer look. He forgets and takes a step. The light fades.

Stronger! Stronger! Stronger! Stronger to see another light?

He feels the rocks. The soles of his shoes begin to have holes in them. It hurts! He pushes it down. He does not hurt. He is strong. 

However when the light appears he does not have to pretend anymore… because the pain fades away. 

The woman is not facing him. She has long, light brown hair, so long that it nearly touches the ground. He notices her ears… they are pointy? Then a man comes up from behind her. He puts his hand on her shoulder and she turns around. Her eyes… They are beautiful, peach colored. Her expression is serene as she looks up at the man. That man… he is not nervous… he is happy. 

Maybe if he got a closer look he too..? However when he does the shadows remind him that he cannot. They swallow the peach eyed woman and the man. Once again he is alone. 

Stronger! Stronger! Stronger! Why is it on repeat?

He flinches. Pain. His shoes break down. The soles do not make it and sharp rocks dig into his feet. The burden, the duty lies heavy on his shoulders. He wonders will his spine make it? It has to. He is strong… right?

However he only feels strong, when the light appears again. His wide open eyes look at those with interchanging colors. Colors of pink, blue and purple. Why is that witch there? How is she not asleep? She makes a V-sign with her fingers and giggles, but she does not giggle at him. She giggles at the man whose cheeks are bright pink. He is embarrassed, but not in an uncomfortable way. This is softer. The man smiles tenderly. 

He wonders would this expression look the same on him? So he tries, but the corners of his lips are not used to the movement. The muscles seemed to forget. An ugly grimace forms instead. He covers his mouth. 

This time he is the one to step back. The light fades.

Stronger! Stronger! Stronger!

Something wet.... There is blood on his feet. He feels his back crack, he needs to lean forward, because the burden is too heavy. He wishes for the light no more. It gets worse with each one. Or maybe… just one more time? One more time, before he hurts his feet and they cannot walk anymore. One more time before he gives away to the burden. He walks, but it is hard. It is hard to breathe with the markings suffocating him. 

He trips. His hands bleed. The rocks cut the skin open. White fabric on his knees tears. There are no tears streaming down his cheeks. He is strong. He tries to stand up.

The light shines. He looks up and suddenly he is able to walk, able to run, but he is scared. He worries that if he gets too close it will disappear again. However he cannot see from this far. His feet decide for him. 

He takes a look. The man standing there looks the most like him, from all of those he saw. His expression flat and arms crossed over his chest. 

He furrows his brows. What does it mean?

But before he can wonder, a flash of red appears and a woman comes from behind the man, she excitedly jumps up and wraps her arms around him. The man nearly stumbles… but he is not angry. And the woman laughs. Her dark chocolate hair falls on him and contrasts with the silver. It frames her bright smile and deep brown orbs… almost black. She whispers something to the man and he rolls his eyes affectionately. Affectionately..? How does one do that? 

He wants to ask, so he opens his mouth… but no words come out. He tries again, but he is mute. He puts his hand to his throat. It burns. The markings burn, they suffocate. He tries to scream, but those two surrounded by light do not hear, because there is nothing to be heard. So he reaches out his hand.

The light..? Why is it… wet?

It disappears. Only his outreached palm stays. His eyes widen. It is red, just as that woman’s dress. Blood red and the droplets fall on the sharp rocks. Right… they cut it open.

Stron… He is not strong anymore. He falls on the hard ground. It hurts his body. The burden crushes his lungs. The markings tighten around his neck. The shadows swirl and blood… it spills. He lies there looking up at the dark. Nothing is there.

Nothing… nothing… nothing…

Something wet trails down his cheeks. Tears? His eyes open and he stares at the white ceiling of his room at the Silva estate. What was that dream? He wonders. Heavily he lifts himself up on the bed and looks to the side. 

It is empty…

#Let me know if this needs more warnings #This was very spontaneous #I wrote it today #nozel silva #black clover fanfic #black clover oc #nozel x helena #nozel x fuegoleon #nozel x vanessa #nozel x oc #nozel x briar #nozel x helia #nozel x selena #nozel x dorothy #angstpril2024 #angst #cw blood #angstpril #one shot

[thechaoticfanartist]

She can't help it. When she looks at Anakin she sees Vader. She always sees Vader. She knows what he will do. She knows who he'll become.

Tag List (let me know if you want to be added or removed) : @padme--amygdala @soclonely @mrfandomwars @jgvfhl @starlonkedd @shinhatigf @togrutanduin @jedi-valjean @one-real-imonkey @traygaming @aiylasdrawings @keoxus @veiled-in-stars @sentineljedi @spicysucculentz @amelia-song-pond @it-was-rose @saturnsokas @thejediprincessqueenofnaboo @veradragonjedi @arrthurpendragon @shrinkthisviolet @doodlebugs-and-doodleart @thebrainofoctavian

#angstpril2024 #star wars #art #day9 #trust issues #grim kennet #my oc #star wars oc #jedi oc #my art #fanart #star wars art #sw art #star wars the clone wars #anakin skywalker #grim and anakin

[kybercrystals94]

Sounds Like Him

Read on Ao3 here!

Angstpril 2024 | Day 24 | Prompt 24: Ghost of You

Rated: G | Words: 435 | Summary: Wrecker and Crosshair talk about their lost brother. | Character Focus: Wrecker, Crosshair 

Wrecker groggily wakes to the sound of sure fingers typing. “Go to sleep, Tech,” he grumbles, turning over in the pull down bunk to face the wall. 

The typing stops abruptly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Crosshair’s voice. Not Tech’s. Never Tech’s. 

Tech is dead. 

Wrecker rolls to his back, stares at the bunk above him. “Sorry,” he says. 

Crosshair makes a scoffing noise. “What for? I woke you up.”

“I thought you were Tech for a second,” Wrecker says. “It just sounded…like he was here. The way you were typing. Haven’t heard typing like that since before.”

Crosshair is quiet for a few moments, and Wrecker isn’t sure he’s going to answer, and then, “Hunter types like a newborn blurrg’s first steps.” 

Wrecker barks out a surprised laugh, turning his head to look at his brother. Crosshair smirks back at him. 

“I missed you, Cross,” Wrecker says. “A whole lot.” He isn’t sure why he’s suddenly feeling sentimental, but the words need to be said. 

He misses Tech. Every day. 

But he also missed Crosshair. 

Every day.  

Crosshair blinks at him, smile dropping. He glances away. “I missed you too.” 

Wrecker sits up, ducking his head so he doesn’t hit it on the upper bunk. He leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Did Omega ever tell you about Tech winning a pod race?”

A half shrug and a nod. “A little. No details, but I got the gist of it.” 

“You should’ve seen him,” Wrecker says, becoming animated. “He was the craziest racer there.” 

Crosshair chuckles. “You sound surprised.” 

“Nah,” Wrecker says. “Just proud of him.” 

His little brother hums. “I would’ve liked to see that,” Crosshair mumbles, looking down at the data pad gone idle in his lap. He pecks one finger at the screen, igniting it to life, but he doesn’t do anything else with it. “There’s a lot of things I should’ve been here for.”

Wrecker swallows, but only lets his silence agree. 

“Maybe,” Crosshair continues once the quiet between them has settled, “you can tell me what happened…with the pod race.”

Wrecker grins so big it hurts. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how badly he’d wanted to share this story with Crosshair. All the details, even the ones he and Tech and Omega had carefully left out when reporting to Hunter and Echo. 

“Well,” Wrecker says, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk. “I’ll have to start at the beginning.” 

Crosshair rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Well, that’s obvious,” he snarks. 

And kriff, if he doesn’t sound just like Tech when he says it. 

@the-little-moment @just-here-with-my-thoughts, less than a week left of Angstpril! But that also means less than a week until the end of the Bad Batch 😭 I'm not ready!!

And I'm posting this story before the second to last episode airs just in case it ruins me emotionally....eeeeeep!

✨Let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list!✨

Tag List: @followthepurrgil @isthereanechoinhere96 @amorfista @mooncommlink @arctrooper69 @nagyanna424 @proteatook @ezras-left-thumb @merkitty49

#angstpril2024 #Day 24 #Prompt 24 #Ghost of You #the bad batch #star wars #tbb wrecker #tbb crosshair #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #angst #grief #brotherly love #bonding #memories #littlekyberthoughts #fics by kyber

[just-here-with-my-thoughts]

Welcome To The Outpost: Part 2.4 - Grief

gif from @midnightdjarin

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: CT-9904 Crosshair, Clone Commander Mayday Word Count: ~3875 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: Commander Mayday was grievously wounded during the avalanche. As Crosshair insists on carrying him back to base, Mayday reflects on his regrets.

Read Part 1.1 - Frozen Read Part 1.2 - Rise From The Ashes Read Part 1.3 - Lost Battle Read Part 1.4 - No Way Out Read Part 1.5 - Rock And A Hard Place Read Part 2.1 - Last Chance Read Part 2.2 - Broken Read Part 2.3 - Swept Away

The churning and tumbling had stopped. All around him was still, the weight of snow pressing and compressing his body so that he could barely hold the breath in his lungs.

And yet, through his closed eyelids, Crosshair sensed light. That meant he must be near the surface.

He began to struggle, thrashing his way through the seductive cold of the ice until he reached air, eyes shooting wide open as a gasping breath heaved into his body.

His chest burned from the time without air – how long had he been under the ice, at the mercy of the avalanche? And still the seductive cold of that whispering grave pulled at him, sapping his strength, willing him to lie down and sleep.

He fought the urge with a physical shake, pulling his arms free of the snow and righting himself. Dimly he realised he had lost his helmet. Perhaps that explained the cold, but also why his enhanced eyesight had noticed the faint filtering of light that guided him here. If he’d been shuttered behind the tinted visor, he might have stayed beneath the surface until suffocation took him.

The mountain air bit against bare skin already numbed from being submerged in the ice, so cold it burned. Crosshair grit his teeth together to keep them from chattering and tried to recall what had happened.

The avalanche, no doubt triggered by the resonance from the cave collapse. Running.

Mayday, pushing him out the way of danger.

Stumbling, falling.

Mayday’s body, swept up and dashed against a boulder with a sickening crunch. The last sound he had heard before his world became ice and snow.

Mayday.

Glancing around at the near-featureless expanse of white left by the avalanche’s destruction, Crosshair tried to pinpoint something, anything, to get his bearings. There was the mountain peak –the tunnels they came in by had most surely been buried in the surging snowfall.

A tiny spur of dark rock jutted up from the surface. Something constricted in Crosshair’s chest and, fighting the chest-high snow every step of the way, he began to head towards it.

Instinct, more than logic, saw him scrabble at the snow around the boulder, franticly sweeping at the surface until his numbed fingertips met resistance. His hands shook so much that delicacy wasn’t an option, but he did his best to be gentle as he brushed the snow aside.

He unearthed a familiar helmet, powdery ice crystals clinging to the fabric and grubby plastoid. It tilted easily, empty.

A rising tremor of panic shuddered through Crosshair’s body as he dived back into the snow. Now his gloved hands found hair, and flesh, and he grasped broad shoulders to pull the buried commander to the surface.

As he broke free of the ice Mayday choked a sodden breath, his body reacting automatically to the air. His eyes were closed, skin pale with cold, beard almost white with snow.

"Mayday... Mayday!"

It felt awkward to wrap his mouth around the unfamiliar syllables of the reg commander's name. He'd spent the whole time avoiding it, not wanting to give the impression of connection.

But now the instinct to call him by name came as easily as saying Echo, or Tech.

A soft groan in response was enough to assure him that the commander was surfacing from unconsciousness. Crosshair gave him another shake, leaning in close, breath clouding the air between them from his desperate, open-mouthed gasps.

“Mayday, wake up!”

Dark brown eyes fluttered open, glazed with confusion. Mayday tilted is head to the side, a weak cough signalling his return to awareness.

“Come on.” Crosshair barely recognised his own voice, the urgent plea in his tone. “We have to move.”

Mayday lifted a trembling arm from the snow, grasping weakly for Crosshair. The sniper caught his hand, ready to haul him up, but Mayday pushed him away.

“Go.” His voice was no more than a wheeze, and his eyes closed as another wet cough racked his body. As the spasm passed his breath hissed out in a sigh, his face contorting with agony. “I won’t make it.”

Crosshair paused his efforts, gaze roving over the commander’s face. Then he reached for the other clone’s helmet, carefully lifting Mayday’s neck so he could slide the protective headwear back into place.

Mayday choked a laugh through the vocoder as Crosshair looped his arm under his shoulders, gently positioning his body alongside Mayday’s and lifting him to his feet.

“Stubborn, aren’t you.”

Crosshair didn’t reply. Mayday was dead weight against him, unable to stand by himself.

“Where’s your bucket, lad?”

The sniper shook his head, taking a fighting step through the snow, hauling Mayday with him. “Lost in the avalanche.”

“Got your rifle?”

Crosshair paused, startled, his sudden stop pulling another grunt of pain from the commander. He hadn’t even thought about his rifle.

He cast his gaze back along the trough of disturbed snow where he had fought his way to Mayday. The dark metal of his firepuncher was half-buried where he had originally surfaced.

He could almost hear the weak grin in Mayday’s voice as he said, “Never known a sniper get separated from his rifle.”

“I had other things on my mind.”

Crosshair carefully eased Mayday back into the snowbank before wading back along the channel to retrieve his rifle.

Some deep part of his mind was horrified that he had let it go. It had been in his hands when the avalanche struck. He was trained never to leave himself defenceless. Countless missions, years worth of training; no matter how bad things got, the only way to get his rifle out of his hands was to pry it from his unconscious fingers.

And yet, fighting his way from the ice, his only thought had been to find Mayday.

Making his way back to the commander, Crosshair carefully lifted him again. Maday sagged against him, and he took the weight gladly.

This time he didn’t bother with reassurances, fighting the chattering of his teeth. He merely set his sights on the horizon and began to walk.

*

Mayday heaved another shallow inhale past the stabbing pain in his lungs, light-headed as the gasping breaths failed to deliver enough oxygen to his system. Every staggered step through the snow jarred his injuries, still unchecked, but there was no need to stop and assess them.

He was dying.

His memories following the avalanche were hazy. Crosshair’s voice had come to him as if from a long way off, tinged with desperation. He’d fought his way towards the sound, command instinct compelling him to reassure the younger trooper.

As consciousness gripped him and pain swamped his senses, he’d realised he wasn’t making it back to the outpost. Better to tell Crosshair to go on alone.

A command the sniper ignored. Instead he’d dug Mayday out of the snow, gentle as he could be when he cried out in pain, then carefully lifted his body to help him walk.

Not that Mayday was doing much walking. Crosshair was half-dragging him, Mayday’s own legs too unsteady to take him more than a few steps at a time.

But still the sniper carried him. So much for his earlier dismissive attitude.

A faint, distracted smile curled Mayday’s lips inside his helmet. He’d seen Crosshair’s façade for what it was early on, recognised the self-imposed distance that only those who truly cared – and had been truly hurt – ever exhibited.

He leaned a little more heavily into the sniper. Despite his acid demeanour, and all the rumours about the CT-99s, Crosshair cared. He could have left him in the snow and didn’t. Even when Mayday told him to.

Now it was Crosshair’s turn to stumble, almost going down in the snow. Mayday dropped to his knees beside him, trying to get his blurred vision to focus on the sniper’s narrow face. The thin clone was wracked with whole-body shudders, his armour not meant for the weather, what little body heat he had rapidly being lost through his unprotected head. His brown eyes were narrowed in a determined glare, but it took him two tries to push to his feet again.

Still, Mayday didn’t try and rise immediately. Instead his hands went to the strips of dirty fabric binding his chest, numbed fingers barely able to find the ends, and started to unwrap it.

Crosshair turned wearily, ready to help the commander stand, and stopped when he saw what Mayday was doing. He huffed an open-mouthed breath, too tired to speak, but the question was in his eyes.

“Gotta cover your head,” muttered Mayday by way of explanation, swallowing against pain as he moved his arms stiffly to unwrap the fabric. “Gotta keep you warm.”

Piercing brown eyes studied him as he wound the length of fabric round his hands, slowly revealing the white clone trooper armour he wore beneath.

His cuirass began to crumble. He’d been hiding the cracks in it for so long he’d almost forgotten them. Now, without the cloth wraps holding it together, the entire chest plate began to disintegrate.

He saw the soft horror in Crosshair’s questioning gaze and swallowed, summoning an explanation.

“Standard clone plastoid… isn’t designed for prolonged exposure to the cold. It goes brittle, cracks.” He panted with the effort of speech. “Doesn’t soak an impact, but it’s better than nothing. Least it’s another layer again the cold.”

Crosshair dropped to his knees with a strangled protest, stopping Mayday’s hands. His gaze was on the ground between them, unable to look at him.

Mayday lifted a trembling hand, clapped it clumsily against Crosshair’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure him. But the sniper covered his hands with his own, taking the bundled strips from him. Then he lifted the sliding bottom section of the cuirass back against Mayday’s ribs, beginning to ravel it back into place.

“What’re you doing?” slurred Mayday. “You’ll freeze without this.”

“So will you, if your armour falls off your body,” bit Crosshair, annoyance his tone, a mask for fear. He batted Mayday’s hands away and quickly resecured the bindings.

Mayday sagged forwards, forehead of his helmet coming to rest against Crosshair’s pauldron. “I’m gone anyway,” he said softly, a bitter chuckle sending lancing pain though his ribs to choke the sound off with a gulp. “You need to get yourself out of here.”

“Shut up,” snarled Crosshair, pulling Mayday’s arm back across his shoulder, heaving him to his feet. With his other hand he retrieved his rifle, thumping it butt-down into the snow. He levered himself against the rifle, starting their stagger forwards once more, feet dragging through the snow.

Mayday couldn’t contain the mewl of pain as he stumbled against the sniper, something in his chest dragging and stabbing further at the already damaged parts of him. Crosshair paused, a flash of concern crossing his drawn features. Mayday quickly shook his head, a silent plea not to worry, and forced his injured body to stand straighter.

Crosshair was exhausted. Just as exhausted as Mayday. And if Mayday didn’t keep walking, Crosshair wouldn’t either. He’d sit by his side and let the snow take him.

The question now was how long could he hold on, for Crosshair’s sake.

*

Day passed as a brightening of the snowstorm that turned the whole world to white. Night descended with it dulling to grey once more.

Through it all the two clone troopers trudged wearily on. Hunger gnawed at Crosshair’s insides, a familiar emptiness. They’d brought no rations.

Each time his long eyesight picked out an ice vulture circling overhead, he wondered if it would be the one to feast on their corpses.

But somehow they fought on. At his side, Mayday struggled through the snow, barely able to stand at times against the driving wind. Sometimes his arm slithered from around Crosshair’s neck as he collapsed to the ground, lost to the brief respite of oblivion that claimed him.

Crosshair had no such respite. Each time he lifted Mayday once more, draping the unconscious commander across his back and finding some inner reserve of strength to carry him.

Mayday always awoke before long. The movement of walking jostled him, starting him groaning as he came back to wakefulness. Crosshair didn’t investigate. There was nothing he could do about whatever injuries were hidden inside his armour, and the exposure would kill him first if he tried to inspect them. Better to ignore his cries of pain, and keep walking. Get back to the Outpost.

It was their best chance of survival.

No amount of dogged determination could keep Crosshair walking forever. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. They’d walked all night to reach the raider’s base, then most of the day after the avalanche. That was without however long he’d been awake before that, nervously awaiting the mission, the flight to Barton IV and the fight at the depot.

Sleep was an alluring idea, but seductive though it was some deep-seated self-preservation told him it was impossible. A rest though. Just a short break, sheltered from the wind and driving snow, a chance to gather his reserves to continue. He could spare the time for that.

Not that there was anywhere sheltered enough to stop. He’d carry on. They’d walk a bit further. Surely he’d find somewhere they could stop.

The storm increased its ferocity. True dark enveloped the mountain, the kind even Crosshair struggled to see in. Still no shelter.

Crosshair could hear the commander’s laboured breathing through the vocoder of his helmet. He felt every grunt of pain that shuddered through the man, transmitted to him where their bodies pressed close together.

They had to stop. Mayday couldn’t go on.

Reluctantly Crosshair steered them towards the wall of the mountain. It wasn’t shelter. Not really. But the nook in the cliff-face was enough to rest against.

Levering himself up the slope with his rifle, Crosshair all but collapsed to sit against the rock-face, tucking his back against the dark wall. Mayday followed him down, half-staggering, and without thinking Crosshair wrapped his arm around Mayday’s body and pulled him close.

It was meagre comfort, his body too numb to feel the contact. But he draped his other arm over them too, rifle coming to rest across their laps. In response Mayday curled into him, knees and arms coming up as his helmet rested against Crosshair’s shoulder, a sigh of relief escaping him as his body sank against the sniper’s.

Crosshair tilted his face against him, ignoring the chill of the ice-crusted fabric as he pressed his cheek to Mayday’s helmet. He had to keep his mind busy. Couldn’t let sleep creep up on him.

Had to get them back to the outpost.

Had to save Mayday.

*

“Geo and Dene died in a snowstorm.”

Mayday’s broken laugh pulled Crosshair from the edge of slumber and he sat up with a jerk, startled by the unexpected comment. He settled his expression into a frown, pulling his arms, which had slackened, more tightly around Mayday.

“Ray of sunshine, aren’t you,” he grit out between chattering teeth. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It was my fault. I ordered the patrol.”

Crosshair didn’t know what to say to that. He chose to stay silent, but at least Mayday’s words had given him the jolt of adrenaline needed to stave off sleep.

The commander was no longer shaking. That wasn’t a good sign.

“Should’ve done better. Should’ve done more to protect my men.”

Mayday’s voice faded in and out, the edges of his words blurred by pain.

“That’s what a leader does. He protects his squad.”

A real leader protects his squad.

Look where that’s gotten you. They’re all going to die here because of your failed leadership.

Crosshair’s stomach seized, a churning sensation that would have made him feel nauseous if he’d eaten anything in the last thirty-six hours. Instead it was just cramps, almost indistinguishable from hunger pangs, except for his brother’s voice echoing in his memory.

“You did what you could,” he muttered, the platitude sounding hollow even as he said it.

“Should’ve done more. Should’ve… should’ve fought harder to get the Empire to send supplies.”

Crosshair’s answer was a bitter scoff. “You’re one man. The Empire weren’t going to listen to you.”

He hated himself as he said it. Hated the bitter taste of truth as he refuted his own delusions to reassure the other man.

For a moment Mayday fell silent. His head went heavier on Crosshair’s shoulder, and for a moment Crosshair feared he’d passed out. Then, “I’m failing you. Just like I failed them.”

“Shut up.” His voice shook. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Guilt was compounding Mayday’s grief over the deaths of his men, and Crosshair risked being pulled into the vortex of his despair. His brown eyes roved over Mayday’s helmet, snow-crusted and tucked so close to his chest.

He brought one arm around Mayday’s shoulders, giving a squeeze that he didn’t know if the cold-numbed commander would feel through his armour. His eyes stung hot despite the ambient temperature, and he pressed them shut before tears could freeze on his lashes.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he repeated in a shattered whisper. “Please don’t say that.”

He felt Mayday shift against him, didn’t open his eyes. Just held tighter, until Mayday straightened, righting himself so he leaned less heavily on him.

“Hexx was my oldest friend. We’d been together since… since forever.”

Crosshair grunted, easing his eyes open and letting his gaze relax over the swirling snowstorm outside their huddled position. He didn’t ease the pressure of his arm around Mayday.

“Been with him since the beginning. Thought I’d see the end with him, too. Never thought he’d go before me.”

His voice wavered, regret leaching into his words. “Kriff, I never imagined I’d have to go on without him.”

“You’re a trooper,” said Crosshair flatly. “You know the risks.”

“Yeah. Just… we’d survived everything up ‘til now. Almost survived this.”

Mayday’s voice grew stronger the longer he talked, like the train of thought was staving off unconsciousness. Crosshair wanted to tell him to be quiet, to keep his doubting, draining words to himself. He couldn’t find the heart to.

“I was just a shiny when we met. Fresh out of Kamino. He had green paint, but it was so new it didn’t have a scratch on it. He wasn’t much older than me.”

Crosshair huffed a soft breath of disbelief. That wasn’t forever. Him and his brothers had been together forever. Ever since he was a cadet, too tiny to remember a time before his brothers were his world.

Part of him wanted to stay quiet and listened to the older clone talk. Part of him burned as Mayday’s unsteady voice evoked those jealous, bitter thoughts about his own past.

“I remember after the order. Scouring our paint off. Stripping the armour back to white.” Mayday choked on a wet cough, the spasm wracking his body and causing him to collapse weakly against Crosshair once more. “Still saw green hexagons every time I looked at him. Couldn’t… couldn’t understand it at the time. Why the Empire wanted us all the same.

“Veetch never got to paint his armour. Never got… never got a lot of things, that boy. Lived on Barton IV, and died here too. Not much of a life.”

Crosshair thought of the two troopers who had shadowed Mayday when he first arrived at the base. They had both looked battle-worn and weary to him, their armour scarred by the elements and similarly bound by dirty wraps, just like Mayday’s.

He didn’t know which had been Veetch, and which had been Hexx. Usually he didn’t worry about that sort of thing. But now he was ashamed.

Mayday’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Tell me about your squad.”

With a surprised exhale, Crosshair almost laughed. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“What colours did you wear? Before the Empire put you in this.”

Mayday’s knuckles rapped weakly against Crosshair’s chest-plate. Crosshair caught the other clone’s hand in his own, wrapping his fingers round Mayday’s, for what little good the extra warmth would do.

“Grey and red,” he said, barely recognising the voice as his own. “Ash grey and blood red.”

Mayday’s feeble chuckle reverberated though their closely pressed bodies, and Crosshair found the sound elicited a wild, hopeful light in him. He rested his forehead against Mayday’s bucket, squeezing his eyes shut as he begged a maker he didn’t believe in to spare the commander, just a little longer.

“You clone commandos always were extra,” wheezed Mayday past his laugh. “Poetic.”

Crosshair found a shaky, shuddering laugh was drawn from him too, so unfamiliar that he panicked to hear it and clamped his jaw shut. When was the last time he laughed?

He didn’t remember. Too long. Not since before.

Before the order.

And now here he was, facing death in the freezing wilderness, and it felt hysterical and freeing to laugh.

Agonising, and cathartic, to let Mayday needle the memories of his brothers, like drawing poison from a wound too long unattended.

He replied at length, squeezing Mayday’s numb fingers in his own. “Yeah. I guess it was.”

“How was your armour painted?”

“With a crosshair. And skulls.”

Mayday’s snorted laugh set off another coughing fit, and Crosshair scrambled to his knees, leaning the commander forwards and holding him until it passed.

“A crosshair,” panted Mayday at last. “That’s on the nose.”

Crosshair just huffed a laugh, settling them back into their nook. The storm still raged, but somehow it seemed further away now.

“And skulls?”

A nod. “Yeah. All of us had them.”

“I’d’ve liked to see that.”

Crosshair lapsed into quiet, his thoughts turning inwards.

His stomach burned hot and sick with resentment, bile gathering behind his teeth as he remembered how they left him. But his fingers, numb inside his gloves, had other plans. With a trembling hand he reached up, began to trace the traitorous pattern on Mayday’s helm.

Half a skull. Even as he tried to shut out the thought, it was impossible to ignore the parallels between the long-haired commander and his estranged brother. His fingers skimmed through the crust of ice on Mayday’s helmet, picking out the pattern in perfect relief.

“They left me behind. After the order.”

He hadn’t meant for his voice to crack. Hadn’t meant for the sob to escape.

Now it was Mayday’s turn to fold his arms around him, drawing Crosshair close against his chest.

“I know, lad. It’s okay.”

Fourteen months since the order. Fourteen months under Imperial control.

Hunting his brothers down. Not understanding the buzzing in his head that wanted them dead.

Then wanting them to suffer the way that he had suffered.

Before they had left him. Again.

Something inside Crosshair broke. As inexorable as the avalanche had been, the tide of grief he had been holding back burst through the brittle dam of his self-control. The howl that ripped from his lips rivalled the wind, anger and sorrow mingling as his so-long repressed fears refused to be chained inside his heart any longer.

Mayday held him as he shook apart. And continued to hold him as they finally slept.

Read Part 2.5 - Betrayal

*something something broken armour Mayday showing Crosshair the fractures in his soul allowing Crosshair to feel his own loss*

I gave passing consideration to concise storytelling and then decided to completely disregard that in favour of writing whatever I liked to my heart's content. So sorry not sorry for the long chapter I guess :)

How are you feeling, beloved readers? There is only one more Angstpril prompt for me to fill: Day 29, Betrayal. I'm sure you all know where this story is heading.

Have you enjoyed all the stories this month? It's been great to work on this challenge in partnership with @kybercrystals94 and @the-little-moment! Keep an eye out for our last few stories, and the eventual master-post rounding up all our fics :)

#angstpril2024 #thebadbatch #fanfiction #day26 #grief #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfic #tbb fanfic #clone commander mayday #commander mayday #barton iv #the outpost #tbb crosshair #crosshair #ct 9904 #crosshair & mayday #crosshair and mayday #littlekyberthoughts

[shebaren]

"Frozen" - SQH

For Angstpril 2024 Day 2

Video for better View of the metallic effect ❄️

#angstpril2024 #svsss #fanart #day 2 #frozen #my art #gouache

[nyamadermont]

This Isn't Going to Work

Angstpril 2024: Day 6 (1368 words)

“Lin, this isn’t going to work. I only have a couple of days in the city and I can’t predict when the baby will come. If you can’t take a day or two off to spend with me, I’ll just stay on the Island and not interrupt your schedule.”

“But Kya, I want to see you. It’s been months, and I miss you. We’ve been planning this raid for six months. I would risk my officers’ lives if I just took vacation time right now. Never mind what the council would say.”

“Oh, don’t bring my brother into this, Lin,” Kya groused.

Lin scoffed. “Your brother would be mad at me, but more for making you unavailable. He’s been on my back for three years to take a vacation.”

“Tenzin and I agree on something other than the fact he’s lucky Pema puts up with him.”

Lin froze.

Through a clenched jaw, she managed to respond. “No, I’m sorry, Kya. You’re right. This visit isn’t going to work out.”

click

***

Lin frowned at the timetables and weather charts spread out over Katara’s dining table. She was nearly in tears as she said, “Kya, this isn’t going to work. I have been gone for two weeks already. I’ve got to get Saikahn back to his usual duties. This election is in two months, and I have security to work out across the city.” She dropped her face in her hands. “I want to stay.”

Kya reached over and pulled one hand away and gave it a kiss.

“Lin, dear, you hate it here.”

Lin scoffed.

“I don’t hate you,” she muttered so softly Kya nearly missed it.

Kya kissed Lin’s hand again before settling her cheek into Lin’s palm.

“I don’t hate you, too.”

Their eyes met and they laughed.

Kya sighed.

“Well, if this isn’t going to work, you’d best pack. You know what Tenzin is like when he’s decided a problem is not going to fix itself. I’m sure he is going to have Korra on a meditation regime like none we’ve ever seen before.”

There was no laughter over the fate of two benders going home without their bending.

The door nearly broke from its hinges as Mako came bursting into the room. “Chief! Korra’s back! Everything is going to work out!”

***

“This isn’t going to work. We should just go home,” Lin growled, her stomach churning. Her feet were encased in soggy leather rather than her standard uniform boots. Everywhere, the riotous green growth was oppressive in its pervasiveness. They could only see so far ahead before yet another tree turned them aside from their best guess of a path.

The earth under her feet was saturated, and the water blurred her seismic sense. Kya, meanwhile, seemed almost to tiptoe through the reeds and rushes.

Lin paused a moment to admire the one spark of beauty in this spirits-forsaken swamp.

Except, of course, the spirits had not forsaken this awful place. They had both had visions the night before, and Lin was embarrassed by what Kya had heard.

“Lin, I have a good feeling. I bet Toph is just past that tree over there. Trust me.”

The cackling laugh seemed to come from everywhere but above them.

“Trust? Kya, you should know better than that. Lin won’t trust her own two feet.”

The tiny, wizened form of Lin’s mother emerged from behind the very tree Kya had indicated. 

“Hey, Chief.”

Lin shook her head and sighed. “Hey, Chief.” 

A few minutes’ worth of backtracking brought them to Toph’s small abode. She negligently raised two stools for sitting, then returned to her own reclining seat.

Kya’s stomach gurgled, so she started opening their pack. “Toph, we brought some food with us. We thought you might like something other than wet mushrooms. We just need a little larger fire to cook everything.”

“That isn’t going to work. The swamp and I have an arrangement, and that fire doesn’t get any bigger. It’s either good enough, or it’s not.”

***

Kya was perplexed by the instructions in the note in her hand. Lin told her to arrive at a very specific hour at the delivery entrance to the Republic City History Museum, and to wait for her.

After a short wait, she began to regret dismissing the cab, because she didn’t see anywhere to sit and wait for her wife. The shadows were shifting, and Kya had other things she wanted to do other than watch the birds flit about the alleyway.

Just as she was about to give up and leave, a police van pulled up and parked next to the dock. Lin exited the passenger side, bent over to speak to the driver, then walked to the cargo doors at the back. Her hand was hidden by the open doors, until she backed up and a large crate floated out and settled on the ground behind the vehicle. Kya presumed there was something metal inside that she was bending.

Lin closed the doors to the van and tapped the back twice. The officer put the sato into gear and drove away. 

Lin bent the crate up onto the dock, then walked over to where Kya was waiting with an arched eyebrow and crossed arms.

“You were very specific, Lin. Why have I been waiting here so long?”

Lin had the decency to look slightly abashed. “The people we are here to meet got caught in traffic and couldn’t let us in on time. I’m sorry.”

With a wave, Kya dismissed the concerns, and leaned over to give Lin a kiss.

Kya was fascinated to get to see the back offices and storage areas of the museum. Even as the child of dignitaries, she had never gotten to see the parts of the museum where all the work was done. It seemed to be a busy place, even on a day when they were closed to the public.

She waited in the chair she was led to while Lin managed the crate under the direction of one of the curators. She rummaged through her bag for a book until she remembered having finished her last one from her last trip to the library. A glance around the room found very little to distract her, so she settled on the floor to meditate.

“Kya, dear. We’re ready.”

Kya was prepared with her side-eye for Lin, who somehow did not seem surprised. Or put off in the slightest.

She was almost smug.

Kya frowned, but got up from the floor to follow Lin.

They emerged from the employee areas into the main visitor gallery. Hand in hand, they walked through an open doorway with the phrase “The Story of Our City” marked out in a cheerful red overhead.

It had been years since the last time Kya had brought the niblings, so she could see a few places where things had been updated and rearranged. Lin took a turn Kya didn’t recognize, only to be confronted with a larger-than-life statue of Toph. Which thankfully was not the size of the statue at headquarters.

Lin guided her through a small hall dedicated to the police force from its establishment under the original council through the rise of the triads, the terror of Yakone, the two chiefs after Toph, to Lin’s own promotion to the top job. There was a memorial wall for those killed in the line of duty, whether in what Lin called the ‘quiet years’ or specific historic moments like the Equalist Uprising.

“Kya, darling. Close your eyes, please.”

Kya looked at Lin first, but slowly and deliberately closed her eyes, and wrapped her arm around Lin’s elbow. It was only about another twenty steps before Lin asked her to stop and turn around. She heard a click that sounded like a storage case closing.

“Open your eyes.”

Behind a glass case, a dressmaker’s form supported one of Lin’s uniforms. The plaque overhead read, “Chief Lin Beifong served Republic City for forty years before retiring in the twenty-fourth year of the Korra Era.”

Kya blinked. “Retired?” She looked at Lin in confusion.

“Retired." Lin pointed at the uniform. "This isn’t going to work.”

She smiled at Kya.

“Ever again.”

#angstpril2024 #angstpril 2024 #avatar the legend of korra #legend of korra #fanfiction #day6 #this isn't going to work #kyalin #lin beifong #kya ii #nyama's shorter stories

[pandora15]

Angstpril 2024 Day 2 Prompt: Frozen

“Anakin.”

The transport is rumbling under his feet. Leia is standing to his side, looking at him with a mixture of confusion and worry. The Inquisitor is likely still standing below, trying to find a way to follow them.

He should do something. There may be a way to track the flight path and confirm that they will actually make it to Mapuzo.

He should…say something. Leia is tugging at his robe now, her voice is louder, but he can barely  hear it over the ringing over his ears.

But all he can think about is Anakin.

Anakin — who he’d left burning on the shores of Mustafar.

Anakin — whose very screams haunted his nightmares for the past decade.

Anakin — who fell to the Dark Side, killed all the Jedi in the Temple, killed Padmé, deprived Luke and Leia of the childhood they could have had.

Anakin — who he was absolutely certain did not survive.

Anakin — who has, against all odds, survived and has been looking for him for the past 10 years, intent on revenge.

“He’s alive, Obi-Wan.”

He can’t move.  His heart is hammering in his chest, his breaths ringing in his ears. The surroundings of the transport feel somewhat fuzzy, unreal.

“Anakin Skywalker is alive.”

He can’t breathe.  He can’t.

“Ben?”

Leia’s voice trickles into his thoughts.  Quickly, he shakes his head, shuddering at the motion.

“Did that Inquisiting lady do something? Are you hurt?”

Numbly, he shakes his head again.  His legs are trembling too much.  He lets himself sit down on the floor — the motion is graceless, clumsy, so unlike the man he’d once been all those years ago.

Vaguely, he’s aware of Leia sitting down cross-legged across from him, squinting slightly. The expression is familiar in a way that’s almost haunting.

She is so much like Anakin that it takes his breath away.

He shakes his head again, trying to rid himself of the thought and get himself out of this state.

“What’s Anakin?” she asks.  “When you came in here, you said Anakin.”

The ship continues rumbling.

His breaths shudder in his lungs, he feels himself shivering even though the interior of this transport isn’t really that cold.

He needs to focus on Leia, on getting her home and away from this danger.  The person who he used to be would focus on what’s important, not freeze in the face of adversity.

I’m not him.  Not anymore.

But if he can even just pretend to be Obi-Wan Kenobi for just a little while longer, maybe he can get Leia back to Alderaan without detection from the Empire.

Maybe that will be enough.

Maybe that means that Anakin won’t find them.

He takes a breath, reaches into the Force with a mixture of clumsiness and desperation.

Master Qui-Gon.

His only response is the silence — the cold darkness that has consumed the Force for over a decade.

Please, Master.

…

I need you.

#angstpril2024 #day 2 #frozen #star wars #fic #pandora writes #obi wan kenobi #leia organa #okay i wrote this while half-awake but it's a vibe and i really like this #might clean it up and post it on ao3 eventually but. this is it for now