#blacksite sirens

[sandstonesunspear]

Transcending Lifetimes, Chapter 3

Summary: The universe said that Marie’s death was a constant event. In each life she lived, Lucy told the universe to go fuck itself and give her back the woman she loved. This time, the universe listened. 

Thanks to @nerdsbianhokie for giving me the idea for this OT4 and to @syllabicacronyms and @georgiew2304 for letting me toss ideas around and giving me feedback about said ideas. And, thanks to @avidreaderffn for also giving me feedback about this chapter.

AO3

“Hey stranger, long time no see.”

Lucy remembered those words. They had become Marie’s catchphrase and were often the first thing that had left her lips whenever she met Lucy at LaGuardia. The phrase had always been accompanied by a warm, cheeky grin.

Today was no different.

Lucy felt her heart stutter to a stop at the sight of her wife’s smile. That smile had haunted her dreams and memories for years.

Victoria gave Lucy a sharp, short poke to the back to get her to move forward. Lucy took a few shaky steps towards Marie’s hospital bed. The last time she had approached a hospital bed that held Marie, her wife had been unconscious and running out of time. The next morning, she was dead.

Except, now, she wasn’t.

Lucy stopped just short of Marie’s side. As much as she wanted to take the final step to her wife, she found that her feet refused to move forward. She was too scared to. What if this was just a dream? What if she took that final step, only to wake up alone in her bed like she had so many nights before? What if what if what--

“Lucy.”

Lucy blinked. Marie’s hand was outstretched, inviting her to take it. Her wife was giving her a fond, exasperated look.

Lucy swallowed. She worked to keep her hand steady as she took Marie’s hand in hers. It was warm to the touch.

“I’m right here, Lucy,” Marie said quietly. She ran her thumb across the back of Lucy’s hand. “I’m back.”

Lucy cracked. She wrapped an arm around Marie and pulled her close. She buried her face into the crook of Marie’s neck, taking in the warmth. Lucy breathed in. The smell of antiseptic burned at her nose, but it couldn’t cover up Marie’s scent. It was too well ingrained in Lucy’s memory to stay hidden. Another breath brought Marie’s scent to the forefront: clove, coffee, a hint of soot that Marie had always joked around as being the result of her work during 9/11 and thus never seemed to fade.

Lucy pulled back slightly when she felt Marie run a hand through her hair. The two stared at each other for several moments.

Marie broke the silence. “Hi,” she said. She looked Lucy over and tilted her head. “You’re as beautiful as I remember you being.”

Lucy fought the urge to duck her head as her cheeks heated up. “You are too,” she said. Her wife hadn’t aged a day since her death. There were no signs of decay to be seen. It was as if she had simply been frozen in time.

“Flatterer,” Marie teased.

“For you?” Lucy leaned forward. “Always, Mar.” She pressed her lips to Marie’s and let her eyes slip shut as her wife kissed her back. She heard shuffling followed by a sharp click of the door to the room closing as Victoria left to give them some privacy.

Both of them broke apart at the noise. Lucy and Marie exchanged looks before breaking out into laughter. Marie’s laughter was such a wonderful sound to Lucy’s ears. Eventually, though, the laughter died down.

Marie coughed harshly, making Lucy jerk in alarm. “I’m fine, Luce,” she quickly reassured Lucy. She gave her wife a lopsided grin. “It comes with being down a lung, remember?”

Lucy bit her lip. “Yeah,” she said. “So...you’re back, minus the lung.”

Marie chuckled. “I am,” she confirmed.

“Does that mean that…” Lucy couldn’t bring herself to finish the question. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the answer.

“That the cancer came back with me?” Marie finished for her.

Lucy nodded.

Marie intertwined her fingers with Lucy’s. “They have to run a few more tests,” she said.

Lucy knew her wife well enough by now to know when to read in between the lines. “But…?”

“But they’re pretty sure I’m cancer free now.”

Lucy let out a breath she hadn’t been aware that she was holding. Before she could say anything, a knock at the door caught her attention.

She and Marie both glanced at it to see a doctor come through. Lucy recognised her immediately.

“Maura?” Lucy only barely managed to contain her surprise. Maura O’Malley had been Marie’s oncologist before she died.  

Maura grinned at Lucy. “Lane, long time no see,” she said. She glanced at Marie. “Doubly so for your wife.”

“I mean, death kinda does that,” Marie said and yelped when Lucy whapped her arm.

“Not funny,” Lucy said.

Marie pouted.

Maura rolled her eyes at the both of them. Their interactions had been the highlight of her being the supervision oncologist in charge of Marie’s treatment the first time she’d been sick.

She cleared her throat, interrupting the couplish bickering that was bound to erupt between the two women. She sat on a stool and pulled up Marie’s chart.

“So, from everything I remember about the two of you, you both hate bullshit. I’m assuming that’s still correct?”

Lucy and Marie nodded.

“Great!” Maura said. “Now, good news or bad news first?”

Lucy felt her stomach clench at the words, “bad news.” Bad news meant that Marie was wrong, meant that she had come back with cancer, meant that she was going to die again. Before her thoughts could spiral too far into panic, a tight squeeze from Marie’s hand pulled her back from the brink.

She looked to Marie.

Marie pressed a kiss to Lucy’s cheek. “Breathe baby,” she murmured against Lucy’s skin.

Lucy took a breath and closed her eyes. She opened them to meet Maura’s expectant gaze. Her hand clenched down on Marie’s unconsciously.

“We’ll take the bad news first,” she said. Rip the bandaid off and get it over with. The sooner she knew what was wrong, the sooner she could process it and shove the fear down.

“Bad news, we have no idea why you came back from the dead,” Maura informed them bluntly.

Lucy’s hand tightened its grip around Marie’s, drawing a small yelp from her.

“And the good news?” Lucy asked. Her hand loosened its hold just barely as Marie took to rubbing her thumb against the back of Lucy’s hand to try and get it to relax.

“Good news is that the scans came back clean.”

Lucy stopped breathing. “What?”

Maura smiled at the both of them. “The scans are clean,” she repeated. She shut the chart. “Your wife looks to be in remission, Major.”

Lucy licked her lips. Her mouth felt so dry. She had no idea what to say.

“Soo…” Marie drawled out. “When can I get out of here?” She shot a cheeky grin at Lucy. “I want to go home with my wife.”

Maura laughed. “I bet you do,” she said. She tilted her head. “We’re going to keep you at least another 24 hours for observation, but you should be able to go home tomorrow evening.”

Marie’s head thumped against the pillow. “Oh thank god,” she sighed.

Maura feigned a hurt expression. “What, you don’t like us here at Mount Sinai?”

Marie chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, Maura, you all are great, but the food sucks.”

Maura hummed her agreement. “That’s fair.” She got up. “I’m going to touch base with Hendricks about your case and then see what we can do about dinner for you.”

“I think Tori’s bringing me take out from that pizza place on Madison,” Marie mused.

Maura sighed. “Of course she is.” Victoria Alexander was a great nurse, but over the years she appeared to have inherited her Marie’s devil-may-care attitude, especially once Marie had fallen ill.

Maura moved to leave, only to pause by the door. “Alexander?” she spoke up. “Just know that as good as it is to see you again, I really never want to see you on my floor again.”

Marie grinned. “That’s fair.”

Once Maura was gone, Marie ran a hand through Lucy’s hair. “You still with me, Major?” she asked, tone half-teasing, half-concerned.

Lucy blinked. “Yeah,” she sighed.

“Uh huh.” Marie leaned back and tugged Lucy along with her as she did so that the two of them were laying together. “C’mere.”

Lucy settled up against her wife. She pressed her ear firmly against Marie’s chest and closed her eyes, savouring the sound of the steady thrum of her heart. As much as she missed the sound, she had missed what it meant even more: it meant that her wife was alive.

“I can hear the wheels turning in your head, Lucy Alexander-Lane.” Lucy glanced up at Marie to see an amused smirk on her lips. “You want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

“There’s nothing on my mind, Mar.” That was a lie. Everything was on her mind: the fallout from Myriad, Marie’s return from the dead, whether or not this was real or just some cruel dream, the paperwork nightmare she was going to be faced with, bringing Marie to National City. All of it was pressing down on Lucy’s shoulders and mind.

Marie saw right through her wife’s attempt to deflect. “Lucy.”

Lucy gave her a sardonic smile. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” she asked.

“You remember who I am, right?” Marie’s question was accompanied by a raised eyebrow aimed at Lucy. “I’m Marie Alexander-Lane, your wife. I was a firefighter and paramedic for a number of years and made a habit of not letting things go so I could run into buildings and save people before lung cancer took me down. That ring a bell?”

Lucy rolled her eyes. She reached up and flicked Marie’s shoulder. “Yes, I remember all of that you ass.”

“Then there’s your answer,” was Marie’s cheeky response.

Lucy sighed. She snuggled closer to Marie. The two lay in silence for a while. Then, “This is real, right?”

It was soft. If Marie hadn’t been paying attention, she would have missed the question completely.

“What’s real?” she asked, slightly confused.

“This. You, us,” Lucy said quietly. She looked up to Marie. “This is real. You’re really here.”

Marie absently ran her fingers through Lucy’s hair. “This is real,” she whispered. “I dunno how it happened, but this is real and I’m right here.”

“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?”

Marie scoffed playfully. “I’m entirely offended that you’d even ask that, Luce.”

Lucy smiled at the response. It was just like Marie to say that. Before she could saw anything, a yawn broke through.

It didn’t escape Marie’s notice. She brushed a thumb under Lucy’s eyes, noticing the dark shadows under her eyes for the first time.

“You should get some sleep,” Marie said.

Fear seized Lucy’s chest. The logical part of her knew that Marie’s suggestion was a good one. After all, she had been burning the midnight oil on both ends for the past week trying to clean up Myriad’s aftermath. But as much as she needed sleep, it was the last thing she wanted to do, especially while in Marie’s arms.

“I don’t need to sleep Mar,” she tried. The yawn that followed quickly undermined her statement.

“Of course you don’t, Major ‘I’ve very obviously been burning the candle at both ends,’” Marie said dryly.

Lucy pouted.

Marie chuckled. “Not gonna work this time, Luce.” And, as cute as her wife’s pouts were, they rarely ever worked once Marie had determined her wife needed sleep.

“I…” Lucy bit her lip. “I’m afraid, Mar.” The last time she had fallen asleep in Marie’s arms, she had awoken the next morning to find her wife dead.

Marie seemed to pick up on the cause of Lucy’s hesitation. She gave her wife a small, reassuring squeeze. “I’m right here Lucy,” she said. “And I’m going to be here when you wake up.”

But being here and being alive were two very different things and the both of them knew it.

“You were here when I woke up last time.” But you weren’t alive.

“This time’s different, Lucy.” Marie pressed a kiss to the crown of Lucy’s head. “I’m alive, and I’m going to stay that way, I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.” It was only through sheer luck and a healthy amount of willpower that Lucy was able to keep her voice from breaking.

“I just came back from the dead,” Marie pointed out. “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.” Not again. Marie would tear down the heavens to get back to her wife if some higher power dared to take her away from Lucy again.

Lucy bit her lip even tighter. Then, “Alright.” She nodded against Marie’s chest. “I guess a few hours won’t hurt. Just…please wake me up if something happens. If you feel like you’re about to go, just…wake me up.”

I want to say goodbye. I want to tell you I love you. I want to say everything I wasn’t able to say the last time you died.  

“You got it, Major.” Marie gave her wife a slightly exasperated smile. “Now, will you get some sleep?”

Lucy sighed. “Oh, fine,” she grumbled. A beat. “Marie?”

“Yeah, Luce?” Marie lifted her head a bit to look down at her wife.

“I love you.” And I missed you so much.

Marie kissed Lucy’s forehead. “I love you too.”

An easy silence settled around them. Lucy listened to Marie’s heartbeat as Marie continued to run her fingers through Lucy’s hair to try and lull her to sleep. Eventually, between Marie’s ministrations and the exhaustion weighing on her body, Lucy’s eyes finally slipped shut.

For the first time in years, Lucy slept peacefully.

#supergirl #my writing #blacksite sirens #marcy #lucy lane #marie alexander

[sidpah]

Glory! 2

Ending up here again I wonder, why is there never any light? By light I don’t just mean brightness, I mean color, levity, Sun… Where are you, you beautiful hot-blooded creature? Why do you run from me? I won’t turn my back again, I promise… Tenderly eased into a state of approximated pleasure,I’m nearly carried away somewhere fantastic when that one-legged preacher starts his maniac call sending shivers through my blood-packed eardrum… “Oh, but don’t you see how they’re wasted! And they’ve tasted the sweet vagrant sin… The fragrance of entropy bleeds from their skin as it touches other warm bacteria-riddled skin! And how my bile riiiises soon as they set about it… Never forget: the most pious man’s the one who claims to have forgotten all about it... Animals needn’t be animals! Beasts, cast your burden off! And kneel down before you eat, before you sleep, before you leave this temple you walk in, the hair and the skin are all nails in your coffin, tell me, must we return there again and again to remind yourself how dreadful the whole cursed cycle truly is?”

Feeling cued, I stand, not sure whether I can walk, but goddamn it, it’s gotta be an easier death on those sand dunes the next block over… I’ll fall on the trunk of a cab, hook my fingers into its wheel wells and hang on to get gone… But as I stand and my head dips down, long gobs of half-clotted blood oozing from perforated skull, I get the woozies and trip those three deadly feet from curb to the middle of the street and I hear a screeching of tires on pavement and curl to protect my already shotgunned head and I’m gone to that sandy shore, that mythopoeic desert surrounded by a million others who tried to fail so completely that they were honored as true pioneers… Bloody swamps made by dead fellahin in deserts collecting their prizes for dying in the heat of gunpowder and fury. The hour struck zero and they all braced themselves for the bitter memorial homage to their Great Omnipotent Delusion…

Curtain rises, protagonist slips on stage, no merchant peddler wiser than tourist mark – snapshot lens glare a wide dusty American grin – Even he isn’t sure if he’s acting or being acted – Green fatigues eye each hunched extra with gated suspicion – A finger twitches, nearly setting off a thick wave of gunfire – Everyone breathes a heavy sigh – muscles relax – A vengeful hallelujah, a bright flare, a second burning Sun, an eruption of visceral smoke and red dust of the lurid town snows all around…

Or it’s red ambulance lights, a curse driven into my ribs. Jerry’s still yelling… But it’s not his voice anymore. It’s Kalday Suglaj, that god-healer in rags… It’s the cloying rhythmic cadence of the street-evangelist, but it’s a ragged pagan voice drilling them directly into that eighth hole in my head…

“Two-thousand years come and gone, and just how many more before the dawn’s shot down from its seat in the sky and laid sacrificially upon the ground feeding buzzards all tradition-bound?… Tradition bound us to the fabled lives of men who’ll never again walk the earth, as if they ever truly did, and weren’t just legends, deified by mouths hungry for heroes – A plague, a god, a fraud, just who are we kidding? Leave it up to the merry men, those denizens of disgrace! Every one of them’ll sell you a book for your soul, all the while impaling you on their devoutly righteous pole. They all take to survive, but greed makes survival so much more palatable. So every time, mark my words, my friends, ev-e-ry time, they’ll steal more flesh than the pound they tell both you and themselves they need as they take a dull butter knife to your love-handles!

Let me tell you ‘bout a man… a man I met recently who lived through the horrors. He is a hero, and yet no one would listen to a word that came out his mouth… I listened, I listened and I’m here to tell you all of his harrowing account… Lie yourself down on a street at night...”

I’m there, waiting as the red lights close in, the siren deafening… I push my good ear to the pavement to drown out the noise…

“Somewhere in the uncharted boondocks lit up by the full Moon and pickup headlights… Around him the gravel shatters and then shatters and then shatters into pieces of pieces of pieces while dark blood splatters steel-toes and asphalt meteors gouge his cheeks, scratch his eyeballs. Heavy links of chain yank tight round his neck bruised purple black, grated and fired by stone rockets and torn apart on streets on the outskirts of right fuckin’ here.”

I hear the loud squeals as ambulance doors open and a collapsible stretcher unfolds its wheels with a clang... There are hands on my body turning me right side up, but I refuse to respond.

“His wrists, impotent, roped together grinding spine since he was kidnapped and shackled like four hundred years refused to pass after one night stepping out of a bar with no words to drunken strangers who were looking for a scapegoat on which to vent their ancestor’s frustration…”

“Pack his head…”

“Support his neck… don’t lift him yet…”

I feel the rough hemp digging into bony wrists… I’m rolled onto the low stretcher, lifted, strapped, thick velcro gripping my arms and chest, legs and ankles, and I’m yelling at them, “Just get me to the next street! Get me to the dunes, man! Get me to the dunes!” But they don’t seem like they can hear me.

They keep shining a light into my eyes and that’s okay, I’m feeling warmer already…

Face of a young Tibetan boy looks down on me. He’s scratching “Liberate Tibet” on a mud wall… Before he can finish, he’s swarmed by drab military uniforms dragging him to a brutal tortured death… This is the land that Mercy forgot…

I feel the burn of my face peeling off grinding against the raging asphalt…

He dies nameless and noble…

Who am I to receive their misguided anger? Am I representative for any in-group? I’ve always been the meekest of outsiders…

Ghosts are gathering in the streets… pale generations clinging to each other’s waists… They all know what’s coming, but no one dares say it aloud… As the truck doors slam shut and Chinese guns flood the thin markets and alleyways… Cell doors shriek embracing robed prisoners, raped and cut…

Sirens wail from the scene but words, manic words, Jerry’s words, still bounce inside the confined little cell, wires and tubes across my face…

“…Reverently they severed that black devil man with the cane in his grip from the white woman at his hip – They did this to him so they did this to me! Tell me it didn’t happen! You know it did! Those dreary soldiers rushing, marching, folding their hands at their hearts… set on getting back the nothing they once were so quick to dismiss! Well they can dismiss us and while they’re at it, they can kiss us a fine ‘fuck you too’ as we pray to be freed from their blessed tyranny – The prince in his finery was shameless. Now we are stones laid before his merciless feet. We threw mud into their faces, on their uniforms, across their eyes and hair, but ended up wearing their mark on our bare chests... You know, I will change what I hate but it will not change me… And I may hate what I change but it will never change me… I will say it a-gain. Say it with me! I will change what I hate but it will not change me… And though I will hate what I change, it will never change me…”

 If I could talk, I’d love to tell him how wrong he is… that we must grow and be flexible, that hate versus hate never succeeds… I can’t even pretend he’d be able to listen… Words never matter to someone who’s caught in his own perpetual rut, so full of righteous fury he thinks he can alter a course of events he himself helped to instigate… Prejudicial anger has an inertia that’ll steamroll even the most skillful and best-intentioned humanitarians. And what use are these thoughts speeding at seventy miles an hour away from the very man I wanted to meet? And what would he know with the likes of a case, and like that, I remember the scaly tote… I yell at the medics, “Give it to me! It can’t fall in the wrong hands. Are my hands the wrong hands? Whose hands are yours?  Bring me back! I must speak with him!”

But they make like they don’t understand. Those sly bastards. They know the sides we’re on. I will get away, though, I will get away… I vow without a breath. And the strange thing is, in this careening ambulance taking me not to a hospital but to an underground blacksite prison, for a moment I really believe it’s possible…

#fiction #revolution #anarchy #Tibet #oppression #atheism

[responsable-pour-toujours]

We have not touched the stars; nor are we forgiven

Blood flows out from the wound in her stomach, across the floor of the bridge.

This is not how she’d thought she’d go.

She can feel more blood rising in her throat and she coughs, gagging on the taste.

I didn’t think it would hurt this much.

She thinks of her parents, of Central. Selfishly, she wishes they were here. She’d like to say she doesn’t mind dying, but she does. She takes no small amount of umbrage at the situation in fact. There is the theory and the reality, and while she is well acquainted with the former, the latter is an entirely different matter.

She is dying alone, on the cold metal floor of an alien ship, with the knowledge that almost everyone she cares about has likely suffered a similar fate.

She would cry, for them and for herself, but it’s getting harder to breathe.

Not long now.

They have come so far. They have felled the Assassin, and the Hunter. They have decimated the blacksite, ransacked the forge, and returned victorious from a Chryssalid-strewn wasteland with an alien gateway in tow. They have reduced facilities to rubble, spared countless families untold heartache, and forged an impossible alliance.

It is not enough.

It will not be enough.

There is no rescue coming.

She doesn’t want to die. Not here, not now, not like this.

She watches, helpless, as the Warlock advances on the Commander. “You’ve lost, oh exalted one,” his voice drips with sarcasm. “Your reclamation and my ascension are at hand.”

She locks gazes with the woman for a moment, sees the fear reflected in her bright green eyes, but sees something else there, too, something she’d almost swear was defiance.

“I don’t think so.”

Time seems to slow.

The Commander raises the gun to her temple.

No, no, no, Sally thinks. Not like this, not like this.

The woman smirks up at the creature leering down at her, the thing who has destroyed XCOM, and with it, humanity’s best hope.

No, Sally corrects herself. Like this. Out on your own terms. Don’t let them take you again. You don’t deserve that.

She pulls the trigger.

Sally’s whole world goes white.

--

Her eyes fly open and she knows; there is something in her head, something that was not there before. She wants to scream, wants to cry. She will take death over this. She reaches for her gun. She will not be their toy, their plaything, will not ---

The thing in her head is grieving. Whatever it is, it makes no move to stop her.

She can cry now, tears rolling down her cheeks. She lets them fall freely as she reloads.

They have him, the thing says.

Bullshit, she retorts. I know your kind.

They have him, the thing insists. You have to do something.

She finishes reloading and cocks the gun, a quiet sob escaping her lips.

Images from a generally happy, if unconventional, adolescence flood her mind, campfires and driving lessons and the sweet spoils of victory, a crate of oranges. Magpie, Central’s voice echoes in her ear.

She thinks she is going to vomit.

She gives the thing a hearty shove, trying to keep it from her memories. Stay away from those.

Do something, the thing demands.

Give me one damn reason to trust you.

You are still holding the gun. It is still loaded.

You want help? Do better.

A new wave of memories, this time distinctly foreign from her own. Flashes from the first war, Central as she has only ever seen him in photographs, the base whole and intact; downing the first UFO, a fleeting hope; psionics, laser weaponry; aliens pouring into the base, sirens screaming; darkness, darkness like she’s never seen; torture like she’s never known, the oppressive feeling of death from being trapped within the suit; and Central again, Central as she knew him. Flashes of the last seven months, good and bad, win and lose, all culminating in the Commander, gun to her head. End of the line, friend, she says. Time to go.

There is an overwhelming grief, the kind of loss she knows all too well. Maman. Papa. Kelly. Central. She tosses the gun aside, and curls in on herself, sobs wracking her body. She finds herself unable to truly say if they are wholly her own, but somehow finds she doesn’t mind.

How long were you with her? She asks.

Before the tank.

Until the end?

Until the end.

Her cries echo in the empty shell of the bridge. 

I’m supposed to be dead. What happened?

I did.

She buries her face against her blood-soaked knees. What?

I did.

Prove it.

Look up.

She does as she’s told, and, through her tears, she sees her hand glows with a bright blue light, unlike any psionic ability she’s ever seen.

Could you heal the others? She asks, after a moment.

Those not yet lost.

She pulls herself to her feet. Who are you, anyway? I am Asaru.

--

She manages to stabilize Thomas and Wallace, a few of the engineers, and Tygan. She finds Firebrand alive, and relatively uninjured, save for a small Elerium burn on her arm. She heals Novikova’s broken leg and Hagen’s crushed arm. They all look at her with a kind of fear in their eyes, a silent question she refuses to answer. The thing, Asaru, seems to respect the boundary she’s set, channeling its talent for psionics with her own, never again reaching into her memories. She finds Shen, curled behind a bench in Engineering, a clean entry and exit wound through her chest, ROV-R hovering sadly over her. She covers the Chief with a fire blanket, unwilling to leave her exposed.

She has never seen so much death, and that is before she steps out onto the ramp.

He’s not here, she says to the creature. She can feel bile rising in her stomach and her heart beginning to race.

I told you: they have him. Do you believe me now?

She wants to scream, open her mouth and give body to her rage, her loss. She wants to scream because it feels like the only rational response, the only sane retort to a world gone mad before her eyes. She wants to scream because, for once, there are no words, no syllables, that come to her, nothing that would give the feeling a life of its own, something to lighten the weight she bears.

She realizes that she now ranks among XCOM’s most senior operatives.

She leans over and vomits onto a small, blood stained patch of grass before returning to the bridge.

Asaru cries out at the sight of the Commander, blood pooled around her head.

We’re not gonna leave her like that, she finds herself reassuring the creature.

She pries another fire blanket from the base of the hologlobe, and uses it to cover the Commander. “See you on the other side, ma’am. Say hi to Maman et Papa for me. Tell them I love them.”

Where are they? Asaru asks.

Dead. For a long time.

I am sorry.

The response catches her off her guard. Thanks, she offers, after a moment. I … wasn’t expecting that.

Why not? Your loss was terrible. You humans are so fragile.

There is no condescension in its voice.

Yeah. She sighs audibly, trying to reboot the communications relay. We really are.

The relay blinks to life and she keys in the code.

What are you doing?

Betos’s face flickers across the screen. “Captain Royston. I was not expecting to see your face.”

Getting help.

“I’m so sorry,” she begins. “I wouldn’t have ---“ She feels tears welling behind her eyes.  She has no idea what to say, where to begin. She is not Central, not the Commander. She is eighteen years old, and she is in over her head. “XCOM’s dead in the water. The Warlock downed us, breached the ship. Most of our people are gone. The Commander’s dead ---“

She feels Asaru wince.

“---and ADVENT has Bradford. The risk that poses to  ---”

“Say no more. You have aided us, and we will return the favor.”

She has always liked Betos.

“Thank you.”

“My sincerest condolences, Captain. I will be in touch once we have located your Central Officer.”

She nods.

“Betos out.”

The feed cuts.

“I guess he’s Commander now,” she says to an empty room. “If we get him back.”

He will not like that, Asaru says.

That’s putting it lightly, she responds, keying in another code.

More help?

“Royston?” Volk asks. “The hell is going on? Why are you covered in blood?”

Warning friends, she answers.

“Warlock got us. Casualties were bad --- including the Commander. And,” she adds, feeling a new wave of nausea wash over her. “They nabbed Central.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. How could you people let that happen?”

“I’m sorry. Next time when I’m bleeding out on the floor, I’ll try to be a bit more vigilant.” She sighs. “I’m not here to play the blame game --- certainly not with the dead. I don’t know if something’s coming, or when, but I’d prep your people.”

“And what about John?”

“We take care of our own, Volk. Just make sure you do the same.”

Again, the line goes dead.

He is abrasive, Asaru offers.

He’s upset. We all are.

She sinks down below the viewscreen, letting the tears fall freely again.

What will you do with her? There’s a fear in the creature’s voice, almost childlike.

What d’you mean? She’s dead.

You cannot leave her here.

The realization dawns on her. You mean, where will we bury her?

Yes, where will she rest? The tall one will want to say goodbye.

She brings her knees up to her chest, and wraps her arms around them. In a sick sort of way, she almost wants to laugh. Central gets nabbed by ADVENT, and this is the creature’s concern: how will he say goodbye to the Commander?

It’s strangely innocent, and not at all what she expects.

Her heart twists in her chest. Maybe not the most important point, she admits to herself, but valid. Everyone knew what those two meant to each other.

Don’t worry, she tells the creature. He’ll get his chance.

She’s roused from her internal conversation by a warm hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” Wallace says.

“Hey. How’re you feeling?”

“Physically or …?”

“I think we all feel like shit on the mental front.”

He nods quietly. “Sally, I don’t know what’s going on, or how you did what you did, but … don’t push it too far. Everyone’s got a breaking point.”

She nods. “I make no guarantees.”

“That’s what scares me. We don’t need any more death.”

She reaches up, covering his hand with her own. “I’ll be fine.”

--

They settle on cold storage.

Gingerly, they lift the Commander’s lifeless form into a body bag, and place it, covered by a tattered XCOM banner, into the specimen locker.

Where will you put her? Asaru asks.

That’s Central’s call.

Why?

Spousal privilege.

Where will he put her?

Somewhere nice, I hope, she answers, shutting the storage locker door.

She slips on a pair of rubber gloves and mixes a concoction of bleach and hot water. She begins scrubbing the blood and viscera from the floor: first the Commander’s, and then her own.

Outside, some of the other survivors have begun to figure the logistics of gravedigging. Do they have enough room, enough time, enough energy to ensure a proper burial for each individual fallen friend? Or will they bury them in pairs, bondmates for eternity? Or will they be forced to concede defeat, cover them in dirt and leaves and rot and let the earth reclaim them?

She hopes not.

Why me? She asks the creature, wringing out the sponge and turning the water a deeper shade of maroon. You had to have known you wouldn’t get a warm reception.

It was not my choice. She asked me to.

Who?

Her.

In her surprise, she almost topples the bucket, a thin blue whisp of energy shooting out from her hand to steady it.

I am sorry --- but I did not think you wanted the additional work, Asaru explains.

She shakes her head, but couldn’t say at whom. I appreciate it.

Sally turns her attention back to scrubbing the floor. Why did she pick me?

I do not know.

You lived in her head.

You do not think she imposed rules of her own?

I guess I’d be surprised if she didn’t.

Every partnership has secrets. She carried plenty.

She stops scrubbing. And just what kinds of secrets are you carrying? She asks, feeling suspicion lick at her gut.

I did not betray XCOM. I did not betray her. She was my friend.

Friend?

Yes, she was my friend, and I will miss her.

Somehow, she believes him.

--

You should eat.

It is the fourth time the creature has said as much.

Not until we hear from the Skirmishers.

She has yet to change out of her bloodied clothing. She’s not sure why Asaru thinks eating is even on her radar.

Her hands ache from gripping the shovel, and her back is locking. She feels hollow, somehow both separate from her body and trapped in it.

Hey, she asks. You don’t know where Central is, do you?

I am as isolated as you are.

She turns her attention back to digging. They’ve settled on two to a grave.

Regardless, it is too great a number.

--

 She is still digging, caked in blood and sweat and dirt, when word comes from the ship that there is a secure communication from Skirmisher HQ. She hauls herself up and out of the hole, and makes her way towards the bridge.

“Captain, we have located your Central Officer and have allies in place who are ready to help with the extraction, but we must move quickly.”

“Is he alright?”

“They have not … tampered with him.”

She nods. “Understood. What do you need from us to make it happen?”

“A familiar face. We are allies, but my kind is not known to him.”

“I’ll go. I’m not sure how I’ll get to you, but I’ll go.”

Is this wise? Asaru asks.

“Transmit your coordinates. We will arrange for a solution.”

This is not a discussion we’re having.

“Transmitting now. Should we be expecting a surprise? The crew’s still pretty badly shaken.”

Should you not remain here?

“We will send word before our arrival.”

No, I should not remain here. Not while he’s out there.

“Understood. ETA?”

“Two hours at most.”

“You and your people have our thanks.”

“We, too, have known loss, Captain. Betos out.”

The viewscreen fades to black.

You should take off those clothes.

 Excuse me? She asks the creature.

They are covered in blood. You will alarm the tall one.

Gingerly, she lifts the soiled cloth, exposing a thin, white line where the slug tore through her. She traces a finger over it, not quite believing in her own existence.

I am sorry it was not cleaner. You did not have much time.

She lets the cloth drop, and instead threads a hand through the neck hole of her shirt, her fingers tracing over the skin once torn through by shrapnel. She’d gripped the picnic table til her knuckles had gone white while Central had removed the shards, cleaned, and patched the wound.

She scrubs at her eyes, chasing away a renewed wave of tears.

You must get ready. We do not have much time.

--

Maman raised her on a steady diet of stories, real, imaginary and somewhere in between. There are histories she could scribe for future generations, tall tales she could recite in her sleep, fairy tales she knows by heart.

So, yes, she believes in the magic of objects, in stacking the deck, in refusing to allow the wheel of fate to turn against you because you couldn’t be damned to find some wood to knock against.

She will apologize to him for breaking into his footlocker later.

She finds what she’s looking for quickly enough, two small aluminum tags embossed with lettering. Bradford, John A. 511-48-4360. O negative. Agnostic.

She relocks the container, sets the tags on her bunk, and grabs a change of clothes for the shower.

On any other day, she would take her time, let the water run over aching muscles while she took a few moments to get her head together. Instead, she scrubs down quickly, doing her best to expunge reminders of the day’s events from her skin and hair.

She dresses, and slips the tags from her bunk into her pocket, brushing her thumb back and forth over the embossing.

You do not think we will find him.

She pauses. Shhh, you’re not supposed to say it.

Say what?

That.

Why not? Saying it does not make it come to pass.

It’s … it’s a human thing.

Ah, the concept of jinxing it.

She lets out a short bark of pathetic laughter before she can stop herself. Yeah. That’s it. Don’t jinx it.

She bundles into her armor, and spends the remaining time before the Skirmishers’ arrival setting the bridge to rights as best she can.

She lingers at the door to the Commander’s Quarters, knowing that the kind thing to do would be to begin packing its contents away. She knows it is something Central will never do on his own, and not a task anyone else will be likely to undertake. If it is to be done, it falls to her.

She begins with the best of intentions, gathering glasses and plates to return to the mess. She folds clean laundry dumped on the sofa, separating the Commander’s clothes from his.

She takes one look at the piles folded, sorted, and separated and is on the ground sobbing before she can understand what’s come over her. She doesn’t remember the last time she cried like this, isn’t sure she ever has.

She knows so many people who are lost to her now. Her family. The Commander. Jane. Lily. Virtually every friend she’s ever made. Nearly the entire complement of the Avenger.

The loss is staggering.

It overtakes her, tearing sob after sob from her throat, til she can’t breathe, let alone think. She grips hard at the couch cushion, unable to muster any additional strength. She cannot feel the creature in her head, and she wonders, briefly, if it has left her.

I am here. I did not want to intrude.

She pushes herself up onto the couch, curling into one of the cushions.  She draws in a few shuddering breaths, frantically scrubbing at her cheeks with gloved hands.

She remembers, then, when she’d last cried like this. She was little, then, just barely eleven. Maman had been gone a few weeks. They were staying in a haven somewhere inland from the Virginia coast, a frantic bet on a gentler early spring, and ADVENT had come to pay them a visit, descending from the sky in dropships that had always, perhaps erroneously, reminded her of coffins. The air had reeked of blood and death, with corpses littering the ground. She had hidden, pressed flat to the ground under the remains of a rotting front porch, cowering in the darkness until she’d heard him calling her name. She had wriggled out, brushing herself off, and wandered towards the sound, through the remains of the encampment.

When she’d finally found him, the sound that escaped from her was barely human. He’d held her while she’d howled into his coat, howled the way she couldn’t when Maman had been found dead, when Papa disappeared, when the ships shaped like coffins dropped death itself onto innocents, time and time again.

The realization that she may never see him again, that even their best attempts may be too late, that she may have to file him away on the list of those ADVENT has ripped from her life, is too much.

Her hand flies out, grabbing a pillow and bringing it to her face to muffle the scream she can no longer suppress.

She stays hunched in on herself for a few moments, trying to regain some semblance of her composure.

I did not think you wanted to alert the ship, Asaru explains.

Good call.

--

She cuts through the brush, away from the Avenger, refusing to look back.

“I’m coming back with him, or I’m not coming back,” she’d said to Tygan.

Two teams of Skirmishers are inbound, one to lead the rescue, and one to prop up XCOM’s battered remnants.

She offers a silent thanks to the Commander for the effort she’d put into cultivating the alliance between the two factions. She cannot imagine such a response from the Reapers or Templars, cannot imagine aid given so freely.

The first team disembarks, and she points them back towards what remains of her home.

A helmetless Stun Lancer extends a hand. She accepts, and is pulled onto the craft .

Inside, she finds another Lancer and a Captain, similarly free of their headgear.

They have suffered, Asaru says. They have known cruelty.

That’s why they’re helping us.

No, he insists. They are helping us because they believe it is the right thing to do.

“Captain Royston,” the Lancer who helped her aboard begins. “I am Emra Alatall. This,” she says gesturing to the other Lancer, “is Amon Vemo. And this,” she says, gesturing towards the Captain. “is Cadna Eim.”

“You have my thanks, and XCOM’s,” she says. “I know this is a huge risk to take.”

“Your people have suffered an immeasurable loss,” Eim offers. “The Skirmishers will carry her memory forward. ”

“I just hope we get a shot,” she says.

“XCOM will not fight alone,” Alatall reassures her. “Have you been briefed on the attack?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

“We are planning a stealthy approach,” Vemo begins. “We have many allies stationed at the facility holding your comrade. They have made arrangements for a transfer of custody. We going in as the transport vehicle.”

She nods. “How can I help?”

“In our experience,” Eim says. “Those rescued from the imprisonment of the Elders are often disoriented. A known face facilitates a smoother extraction.”

“Keep him calm?”

“Precisely.”

“How am I getting in?” She asks after a moment’s contemplation. “I can’t just walk through the door.”

“But you can,” Alatall says. “Though it will not be glamorous.”

She eyes the manacles hanging from the Lancer’s belt. “Prisoner?”

“Prisoner. It is the simplest and the safest way to maneuver you into the cell block where he is being held.”

She nods. “Understood.”

--

She can hear the Speaker’s voice before they even land.

“The degenerate XCOM has once again mercilessly struck down another innocent life.”

She can feel the hives threatening to bloom across her stomach and along her arms.

“A friend of the Elders, a tireless supporter of the ADVENT administration, and a true believer in the promise of the new world.”

Bile rises in her gut.

“Yes, fellow citizens, today we mourn the loss of Elizabeth Regan.”

No screaming. Asaru says. You cannot scream now. There is nothing to muffle it. We are close to the tall one.

You’re positive?  She asks.

Yes. We are close.

Alatall snaps the manacles around her wrists and Vemo helps her to the ground. Eim exits from the other side, leading their small procession through the gate and into the facility.

They walk some distance through dark, silent halls, eerie red light casting menacing shadows as they pass.

They stop in front of a door, and Eim places her palm against it.

She is wholly unprepared for the barrage of sound that assaults her ears as the door slides open. It Is the Speaker’s voice, entreating, demanding, berating, an endless loop of speeches, one no longer discernible from the next. She can’t remember the specifics of what constitutes torture, but she’s fairly certain this at least a close approximation.

Alatall removes the manacles from her wrists, and gestures for her to enter. “Our time grows short.”

He is curled on the floor, hands still cuffed.

She lowers herself to the ground next to him. “Central,” she says, gently shaking his arm. “Central, come on. Wake up.”

He stirs, and rises slowly. “Magpie? How did you …”

“I brought help. I’ll explain everything, but we’ve gotta go.”

He furrows his brow at her. “How do I know you’re---“

She draws a shaky breath. “I have seven perfectly white scars on my right shoulder from a friendly frag grenade that went off during an ADVENT retaliation somewhere in the middle of the place you said used to be Colorado. I was sixteen. I was too afraid to scream and I couldn’t down the liquor and you couldn’t decide if you were allowed to be relieved about that or not, so I gripped at the picnic table till my knuckles went white. And when you were done, you had to dig the splinters out of my hand by flashlight because they’d gone so deep.”

He reaches out a hand to cup her cheek. “You seem real enough.”

“I promise, I am, but we have to go.”

He nods, still dazed, and she works to help him to his feet, guiding him out from the cell into the quiet of the hall.  Alatell replaces the manacles on her wrists, and their small procession, now larger by one reverses its course.

Thank you, Asaru says. She would be pleased.

--

She’s sprawled across Central’s chest in the infirmary, taking comfort in its steady rise and fall. Sleep tugs at the edges of her vision, but she resists, fearing what dreams may come.

What is this? Asaru asks.

You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.

This.

Exhaustion?

No, I understand exhaustion. There is something else here.

Grief?

No, I understand that all too well. This is like what she felt for him, but it is different.

Love?

Yes, maybe it is that. But it does not feel the same.

It’s … think of it as an umbrella term. There’s a lot of different kinds. They all feel different.

What is this one?

She sighs. This is not one of her brighter ideas. It’s … it’s easier if you go look yourself. Try not … try not to hit anything too painful.

She closes her eyes and grounds herself in the steady thump of his heart in her ear. The creature picks through carefully, doing its best to avoid the worst of her memories.

Oh, Asaru says. So, that is what it is.

Yeah, that’s what it is.

--

She’s awake before he is, trying to trick herself into feeling useful, feeling something other than the hollow emptiness or all obliterating grief. She putters around the Infirmary, straightening cabinets and shelving supplies. She cannot cry, not again. There is too much to do.

The Skirmishers have been invaluable help, digging graves, clearing debris, and helping to repair damaged systems. They have watched, and guarded, afforded XCOM’s survivors a few precious moments to attempt to process the horrors of the last thirty-six hours, already fading into a blur of pain and terror.

Does he know? She asks the creature.

He suspects, but he does not accept, Asaru responds. Please be gentle with him.

Her shoulders sag. Asaru, all the gentleness in the world isn’t going to help.

I know. But she would want you to try.

She wipes an errant tear from her eye. She is not ready to do this. She doubts she will ever be ready to do this.

Briefly, she considers fleeing, pawning the job off on Tygan. She still has time. God knows she’d be well within her rights. This isn’t supposed to be her job; there is a reason Infirmary duty does not make its way onto her rounds. She has never known what to say to the grieving; she knows all too well that words do little to lighten the crushing reality. 

She’d spent her first few weeks with him in mute shock, unable to give voice to the words in her head. She’d wedged herself under his arm when she could, hoping he’d understand, hoping he’d know: I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me. I’m scared, and I can’t make the words come out. Please don’t leave me.  

He’d let her come to it in her own time, accepting half-French, half-English missives scrawled on scraps of rotting paper; hadn’t made a show of it when she’d finally managed to eek out a few words; had been there to listen once she could muster more than that.

No, she thinks, closing her eyes. This is my job.

“Sally?” Central croaks, pushing himself up.

She crosses over to him, wrapping her arms around his chest, and burying her face into the crook of his neck. It takes him a moment to respond, but he does, pulling her close, and settling a hand over the old shrapnel wound. She can already feel the tears coming.

“Sally, where’s Re---“ She shakes her head, lump growing in her throat.

“Sal ---“

Again, she shakes her head. Her chest tightens. She can’t do this. She can’t tell him. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t.

“…Magpie?”

She lets out a sob into his shirt.

She’s never heard a heart break, a soul shatter, never felt the fire die in another human being before, but she has no other explanation for the sound he makes. She’s lucky he’s still on the cot, because she’s not sure she could support the weight of him otherwise.

She hugs him tighter, and feels his tears soak her shirt shoulder.

--

In three days, he has only spoken three words: Did she suffer?

Tygan splutters, unsure of how to respond.

“No,” Sally intervenes. “It was quick.”

Asaru offers more that she could add, words, and images, and emotions, but she knows Central, knows it would raise too many questions, knows it would not help.

She worries when he is in the bar. She worries more when he is not, the fear of discovering he’s found his own door and followed the Commander out gripping her. She moves through the ship expecting the worst, the disused spaces demanding close inspection, a steady reassurance that there are no surprises lurking therein. More often than not, that is where she finds him, flask empty and too far gone to think. When she can, she sits with him, refilling the flask from a container of water.

He doesn’t speak, but she understands: she is gone again and, this time, I can’t bring her back.

She cannot find him on the fourth night, and her mind jumps from possibility to possibility.  She is so tired of washing away the blood of others.

He is alive, Asaru says, stirring. And still on board.

Could you be a little more specific?

He does not like to leave her alone.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Oh, Central, she thinks.

She knows him, knows what he is like when he’s fallen too deeply in despair. She makes her way to the Crew Quarters, finding her way into his footlocker once again. Again, she makes a silent promise to apologize at some point.

It would not be the time, Asaru offers, trying, in its own way, to reassure her.

She appreciates the gesture.

She is always taken by the weight of the peacoat, of its heft in her arms. It is a scrap of the old world, with beautiful wool and embossed buttons, a shield borne forth against the insidious creep of the new. It has always been different, a far cry from both the makeshift hodgepodge of the havens, and the streamlined sterility of the city centers. She buries her face against it.

You will not lose him.

 She has come to accept that tears come from the smallest things now, from a kind word or a gentle comment. They come from almost glimpses and imagined voices, from wishes and would-have-beens. They come from memories of laughter, of happiness, of loss, of violence. It does not matter.

She is so tired.

She makes her way through the ship, down towards specimen storage. She pries open the locker door and finds him, just as Asaru described.

She steps in, shutting the door behind her, and drapes the coat over his shoulders. “You can’t stay here all night,” she says, softly. “You’ll freeze.”

He does not respond. “Betos’s people have a lead on the Warlock’s hideout. Wallace is going with them to confirm.”

She is met by silence.

Her breath hangs in the air, and she begins to shiver.

“Are you coming with us to take him out?”

Slowly, he turns to face her. His eyes are empty and bloodshot, sunken in, and ringed by dark circles. There is the tell tale swelling of a binge, of a man dedicated to chasing his own personal oblivion to the bottom of the bottle.

She doesn’t want to watch this. She wants to look away.

Instead, she lowers herself to the ground next to him, working her way under his arm like when she was a little girl. He neither helps nor hinders the endeavor, a living breathing ghost. She settles against his side, and can smell the booze on his breath.

Should we not --- Asaru begins.

No, this is where we’re needed. This is where we’re staying.

She rests her head against the crook of his neck.

After a few minutes, her teeth begin to chatter. “Come on,” she says, working her way to her feet. “You have to get up.”

He does not respond.

You will need ---

I know.

She bends down, trying to get a good grip around him, and begins the arduous process of dragging him to his feet. For all her strength, she still struggles, her progress more lateral than vertical.

Should you get ---

No one else needs to see this.

She fumbles with the handle for a moment, and nearly trips on the lip of the doorway. Never once does he make a move to help her; she doubts he is even capable.

She drags him away from the freezer, towards the wall on the far side of the room, and props him into a sitting position. She collapses onto the floor next to him, her muscles burning from the effort.

“Please don’t do this to me,” she says after a moment, “I know the temptation is there. XCOM still needs you. I still need you. Please don’t make me bury you both.”

He does not respond.

--

The confirmation comes through the next day: they have located the Warlock’s base of operations.

--

They shrug silently into their armor, absent the bravado that would normally accompany such an assault. She feels something rattle against her thigh plating and pulls out two small aluminum rectangles

“What’re you doing with my dog tags?” Central asks, confused.

“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I borrowed them. When we went to get you out.”

That is not much of an apology, but it is something, Asaru comments.

“Why?”

“Luck.”

“You’re a little late for that, Sally.” He insists, but there is no venom behind the words, only a sort of grim resignation.

Sally’s gaze flicks over to Wallace, and sees her concern mirrored in his eyes, but in neither Novikova’s nor Hagen’s. She knows better than to look to Thomas.

-- The wound on Hagen’s arm is bleeding more than it should. Sally dashes across the temple, dashing around fallen Priests and Berserkers, practically sliding into cover. Her eyes dart up in time to see Thomas and Central slice a chryssalid each clean in half.

“Wallace,” she says, unhooking the medkit from her belt and spraying Hagen down. “What are your sight lines like to that sarcophagus? Think you can finish it?”

“It’s as clear a shot as I’m gonna get!”

“Take it.”

He fires and the massive block shatters, bursting into flame.

“Impossible!” The Warlock bellows, teleporting back into view atop the raised platform at the center of the room.

Hagen takes aim and fires, winging the bastard, but he teleports away before Novikova can take aim.

He reappears on the left most platform and she fires three times, the shots from her pistol wedging into the Warlock’s knee.

He disappears again, just out of strike range for Central’s blade.

“Ahhh, Bradford,” he intones. “I would have thought you would have already found a way to join your infidel Commander. Perhaps you may yet.”

A purple jet shoots from the monster’s hand, curling around Thomas. The Ranger raises his gun and takes aim at Central.

Do something! She shouts at the creature in her head.

Oh, I intend to, Asaru says, and energy flows through her veins, buzzing. The Null Lance flies forth from her hands, striking the Warlock in the chest before Thomas can fire.

He teleports for the last time, collapsing in front of his shattered power source.

“I hear their voices!” He proclaims, sinking to his knees. “They are … every … where.”

A purple flash overtakes his body, bathing the room for an instant in a blinding white light. All that remains on the platform is a stone corpse.

She stands, helping Hagen to her feet, as Central makes his way to the platform. Sally walks toward him as he unloads his gun and locks the safety into place. He swings hard, the side of the rifle connecting with a sharp smack against the corpse.

He steps back, and swings again.

All eyes are focused on him.

Cracks begin to form in the body, the material far more brittle than they had anticipated.

“Central,” she calls.

Another swing.

And another.

She stands before the platform and watches as pieces begin to fall from the remains.

“Central!”

More swings, each one harder than the last. The thing lies in pieces.

“Central!”

He brings his boot up, pulverizing the Warlock’s head into bits, then raises it again to crush the pieces.

“That’s it,” she says, vaulting the platform, and catching him by the arm. “That’s it. It’s over. We’re done.”

He considers her for a moment, then nods reluctantly.

“Let’s go home.”

--

They bury the Commander next to the shack Central had built almost two years ago, next to the place where he’d first gotten word that there was hope, that Raymond Shen and his daughter were placing everything they had on a downed alien vessel, a craft they were calling Avenger. It had seemed like a fairy tale then, even more so now.

The October chill sits heavy in their joints, and he builds a small fire in the nearby clearing to warm them while they work. When all is said and done, when they have offered her all that they are able, they take refuge around it.

“I’m not going back with you.” Central finally says.

He is what? Asaru squeaks.

“I’m sorry; what?”

“You heard me: I’m done fighting.”

“What’re you gonna do? You know what we’re up against.”

No.

“Not gonna be a problem much longer,“ he says, unscrewing the lid of the flask and taking a drink.

“We won’t make it without you.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” he says, softly.

No.

“Central, who’s gonna hold us together?”

“Not much to hold together, Magpie.”

 “What am I gonna tell the others?”

 “Tygan already knows.”

 Stop him.

 “And he’s okay with it?”

 “Doesn’t really matter if he is.”

 “Who’s gonna fly the ship?”

 “Don’t have enough people to crew it. You know that.”

 Stop. Him.

 “We’ll get more.”

 “Shen figured out the autopilot.”

 “Shen’s gone.”

 “She left notes.”

“We need you! I need you!”

“Magpie, sweetheart,” he says, standing. “I’ve got nothing left to give.”

Stop him!

“Central, I---“

“Sal, I got you as far as I could.” He douses the fire. “It’s up to you now. You should go. They’ll be waiting for you.”

“I didn’t trip the ---“

“I did.”

He reaches out a hand, cupping her cheek, thumb brushing away the tear spilling down it. “I’ll see you on the other side.” He presses a kiss to her forehead, and walks off, back towards the shack.

Asaru, she says. I don’t think I can.

#there used to be superheroes. they all formed from tragedy. i've got the powers. i've got the tragedy. but i'm not much of a hero. #must have missed some key ingredient there. maybe a pithy saying? #xcom #fic

[trbl-will-find-me]

We have not touched the stars; nor are we forgiven (1/3)

It all goes to shit.

TW: suicide, character death, blood, grief

AN: I cannot stress enough that this is upsetting. It is, without a doubt, the darkest material I’ve ever written. If you’re on the XCOM discord, and have heard me mention the Bad Ending AU, this is it.

Non-canon for EEAE, but set in the same timeline.

Blood flows out from the wound in her stomach, across the floor of the bridge.

This is not how she’d thought she’d go.

She can feel more blood rising in her throat and she coughs, gagging on the taste.

I didn’t think it would hurt this much.

She thinks of her parents, of Central. Selfishly, she wishes they were here. She’d like to say she doesn’t mind dying, but she does. She takes no small amount of umbrage at the situation in fact. There is the theory and the reality, and while she is well acquainted with the former, the latter is an entirely different matter.

She is dying alone, on the cold metal floor of an alien ship, with the knowledge that almost everyone she cares about has likely suffered a similar fate.

She would cry, for them and for herself, but it’s getting harder to breathe.

Not long now.

They have come so far. They have felled the Assassin, and the Hunter. They have decimated the blacksite, ransacked the forge, and returned victorious from a Chryssalid-strewn wasteland with an alien gateway in tow. They have reduced facilities to rubble, spared countless families untold heartache, and forged an impossible alliance.

It is not enough.

It will not be enough.

There is no rescue coming.

She doesn’t want to die. Not here, not now, not like this.

She watches, helpless, as the Warlock advances on the Commander. “You’ve lost, oh exalted one,” his voice drips with sarcasm. “Your reclamation and my ascension are at hand.”

She locks gazes with the woman for a moment, sees the fear reflected in her bright green eyes, but sees something else there, too, something she’d almost swear was defiance.

“I don’t think so.”

Time seems to slow.

The Commander raises the gun to her temple.

No, no, no, Sally thinks. Not like this, not like this.

The woman smirks up at the creature leering down at her, the thing who has destroyed XCOM, and with it, humanity’s best hope.

No, Sally corrects herself. Like this. Out on your own terms. Don’t let them take you again. You don’t deserve that.

She pulls the trigger.

Sally’s whole world goes white.

--

Her eyes fly open and she knows; there is something in her head, something that was not there before. She wants to scream, wants to cry. She will take death over this. She reaches for her gun. She will not be their toy, their plaything, will not ---

The thing in her head is grieving. Whatever it is, it makes no move to stop her.

She can cry now, tears rolling down her cheeks. She lets them fall freely as she reloads.

They have him, the thing says.

Bullshit, she retorts. I know your kind.

They have him, the thing insists. You have to do something.

She finishes reloading and cocks the gun, a quiet sob escaping her lips.

Images from a generally happy, if unconventional, adolescence flood her mind, campfires and driving lessons and the sweet spoils of victory, a crate of oranges. Magpie, Central’s voice echoes in her ear.

She thinks she is going to vomit.

She gives the thing a hearty shove, trying to keep it from her memories. Stay away from those.

Do something, the thing demands.

Give me one damn reason to trust you.

You are still holding the gun. It is still loaded.

You want help? Do better.

A new wave of memories, this time distinctly foreign from her own. Flashes from the first war, Central as she has only ever seen him in photographs, the base whole and intact; downing the first UFO, a fleeting hope; psionics, laser weaponry; aliens pouring into the base, sirens screaming; darkness, darkness like she’s never seen; torture like she’s never known, the oppressive feeling of death from being trapped within the suit; and Central again, Central as she knew him. Flashes of the last seven months, good and bad, win and lose, all culminating in the Commander, gun to her head. End of the line, friend, she says. Time to go.

There is an overwhelming grief, the kind of loss she knows all too well. Maman. Papa. Kelly. Central. She tosses the gun aside, and curls in on herself, sobs wracking her body. She finds herself unable to truly say if they are wholly her own, but somehow finds she doesn’t mind.

How long were you with her? She asks.

After her capture, but before the tank.

Until the end?

Until the end.

Her cries echo in the empty shell of the bridge. 

I’m supposed to be dead. What happened?

I did.

She buries her face against her blood-soaked knees. What?

I did.

Prove it.

Look up.

She does as she’s told, and, through her tears, she sees her hand glows with a bright blue light, unlike any psionic ability she’s ever seen.

Could you heal the others? She asks, after a moment.

Those not yet lost.

She pulls herself to her feet. Who are you, anyway? I am Asaru.

--

She manages to stabilize Thomas and Wallace, a few of the engineers, and Tygan. She finds Firebrand alive, and relatively uninjured, save for a small Elerium burn on her arm. She heals Novikova’s broken leg and Hagen’s crushed arm. They all look at her with a kind of fear in their eyes, a silent question she refuses to answer. The thing, Asaru, seems to respect the boundary she’s set, channeling its talent for psionics with her own, never again reaching into her memories. She finds Shen, curled behind a bench in Engineering, a clean entry and exit wound through her chest, ROV-R hovering sadly over her. She covers the Chief with a fire blanket, unwilling to leave her exposed.

She has never seen so much death, and that is before she steps out onto the ramp.

He’s not here, she says to the creature. She can feel bile rising in her stomach and her heart beginning to race.

I told you: they have him. Do you believe me now?

She wants to scream, open her mouth and give body to her rage, her loss. She wants to scream because it feels like the only rational response, the only sane retort to a world gone mad before her eyes. She wants to scream because, for once, there are no words, no syllables, that come to her, nothing that would give the feeling a life of its own, something to lighten the weight she bears.

Instead, she leans over and vomits onto a small, blood stained patch of grass before returning to the bridge.

Asaru cries out at the sight of the Commander, blood pooled around her head.

We’re not gonna leave her like that, she finds herself reassuring the creature.

She pries another fire blanket from the base of the hologlobe, and uses it to cover the Commander. “See you on the other side, ma’am. Say hi to Maman et Papa for me. Tell them I love them.”

Where are they? Asaru asks.

Dead. For a long time.

I am sorry.

The response catches her off her guard. Thanks, she offers, after a moment. I … wasn’t expecting that.

Why not? Your loss was terrible. You humans are so fragile.

There is no condescension in its voice.

Yeah. She sighs audibly, trying to reboot the communications relay. We really are.

The relay blinks to life and she keys in the code.

What are you doing?

Betos’s face flickers across the screen. “Captain Royston. I was not expecting to see your face.”

Getting help.

“I’m so sorry,” she begins. “I wouldn’t have ---“ She feels tears welling behind her eyes.  She has no idea what to say, where to begin. She is not Central, not the Commander. She is eighteen years old, and she is in over her head. “XCOM’s dead in the water. The Warlock downed us, breached the ship. Most of our people are gone. The Commander’s dead ---“

She feels Asaru wince.

“---and ADVENT has Bradford. The risk that poses to  ---”

“Say no more. You have aided us, and we will return the favor.”

She has always liked Betos.

“Thank you.”

“My sincerest condolences, Captain. I will be in touch once we have located your Central Officer.”

She nods.

“Betos out.”

The feed cuts.

“I guess he’s Commander now,” she says to an empty room. “If we get him back.”

He will not like that, Asaru says.

That’s putting it lightly, she responds, keying in another code.

More help?

“Royston?” Volk asks. “The hell is going on? Why are you covered in blood?”

Warning friends, she answers.

“Warlock got us. Casualties were bad --- including the Commander. And,” she adds, feeling a new wave of nausea wash over her. “They nabbed Central.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. How could you people let that happen?”

“I’m sorry. Next time when I’m bleeding out on the floor, I’ll try to be a bit more vigilant.” She sighs. “I’m not here to play the blame game --- certainly not with the dead. I don’t know if something’s coming, or when, but I’d prep your people.”

“And what about John?”

“We take care of our own, Volk. Just make sure you do the same.”

Again, the line goes dead.

He is abrasive, Asaru offers.

He’s upset. We all are.

She sinks down below the viewscreen, letting the tears fall freely again.

What will you do with her? There’s a fear in the creature’s voice, almost childlike.

What d’you mean? She’s dead.

You cannot leave her here.

The realization dawns on her. You mean, where will we bury her?

Yes, where will she rest? The tall one will want to say goodbye.

She brings her knees up to her chest, and wraps her arms around them. In a sick sort of way, she almost wants to laugh. Central gets nabbed by ADVENT, and this is the creature’s concern: how will he say goodbye to the Commander?

It’s strangely innocent, and not at all what she expects.

Her heart twists in her chest. Maybe not the most important point, she admits to herself, but valid. Everyone knew what those two meant to each other.

Don’t worry, she tells the creature. He’ll get his chance.

She’s roused from her internal conversation by a warm hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” Wallace says.

“Hey. How’re you feeling?”

“Physically or …?”

“I think we all feel like shit on the mental front.”

He nods quietly. “Sally, I don’t know what’s going on, or how you did what you did, but … don’t push it too far. Everyone’s got a breaking point.”

She nods. “I make no guarantees.”

“That’s what scares me. We don’t need any more death.”

She reaches up, covering his hand with her own. “I’ll be fine.”

--

They settle on cold storage.

Gingerly, they lift the Commander’s lifeless form into a body bag, and place it, covered by a tattered XCOM banner, into the specimen locker.

Where will you put her? Asaru asks.

That’s Central’s call.

Why?

Spousal privilege.

Where will he put her?

Somewhere nice, I hope, she answers, shutting the storage locker door.

She slips on a pair of rubber gloves and mixes a concoction of bleach and hot water. She begins scrubbing the blood and viscera from the floor: first the Commander’s, and then her own.

Outside, some of the other survivors have begun to figure the logistics of gravedigging. Do they have enough room. Enough time, enough energy to ensure a proper burial for each individual fallen friend? Or will they bury them in pairs, bondmates for eternity? Or will they be forced to concede defeat, cover them in dirt and leaves and rot and let the earth reclaim them?

She hopes not.

Why me? She asks the creature, wringing out the sponge and turning the water a deeper shade of maroon. You had to have known you wouldn’t get a warm reception.

It was not my choice. She asked me to.

Who?

Her.

In her surprise, she almost topples the bucket, a thin blue wisp of energy shooting out from her hand to steady it.

I am sorry --- but I did not think you wanted the additional work, Asaru explains.

She shakes her head, but couldn’t say at whom. I appreciate it.

Sally turns her attention back to scrubbing the floor. Why did she pick me?

I do not know.

You lived in her head.

You do not think she imposed rules of her own?

I guess I’d be surprised if she didn’t.

Every partnership has secrets. She carried plenty.

She stops scrubbing. And just what kinds of secrets are you carrying? She asks, feeling suspicion lick at her gut.

I did not betray XCOM. I did not betray her. She was my friend.

Friend?

Yes, she was my friend, and I will miss her.

Somehow, she believes him.

#xcom #fic #bad end au #please heed the warnings #more fluff coming later today

[sorrydearie]

Red & Liz: soulmates au 😍

AU prompts

Liz couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

Mere hours ago, she had wondered how someone who had just been arrested for sticking his fingers into every criminal pie in this world’s darkest underbelly could possibly look this calm and laid-back. He hadn’t even blinked an eye when Ressler had shoved him into the Box, acting as if he hadn’t got a care in the world, as if this right here - an unlisted blacksite somewhere in Washington D.C. - was exactly where he had wanted to spend his evening all along.

Back then, Liz had been entirely sure that there was no way she’d ever see him without that sharp look on his face, the infuriatingly smug smile on his lips and knowing glint in his eyes (just like he had looked at her when she had sat down in front of him, knees weak and heart beating fast as if trying frantically to climb out her throat). Liz had believed that - come hell or high water - there wasn’t anything in this world that could possibly fling Raymond Reddington off kilter.  

Which is why it was so unsettling to see him like this.  

Because one car crash and the abduction of a sweet, innocent child later, Liz found herself face-to-face with a master criminal who appeared to be decidedly on edge. His brows were slightly furrowed, drawn into a worried frown, and Liz thought that the way his fingers kept tapping against his thigh would make him an excellent opponent to have in a high-bets game of poker.

Maybe reality was finally catching up to him? Or maybe it was slowly beginning to sink in - the fact that he’d never get to set foot outside this air-tight cage again, soon to be forgotten like a secret-filled box kicked into the dusty grounds of an abandoned attic.  

Still, for some reason the agitated look on his face made her insides twist in something akin to fear (although why that should be she did not know; after all, shouldn’t she feel safe now that the streets were roamed by one less criminal?)

“Is he okay?”

Ressler shrugged, and his lack of concern sent a wave of anger rushing through her.  

“Who cares.”

Scowling, Liz turned away from him and before she even knew what she was doing, her feet carried her down the stairs and towards the Box sitting at the center of the blacksite. All around her, the lights began to flash at once as a howling siren began to pierce through the workroom chatter and watercooler talk.  

As she slowly approached him, Reddington looked up and tilted his head to the side, his face carefully blank as he regarded her with an even stare.

Taking a deep breath, Liz launched right into a series of questions - Where was the girl and did he have anything to do with Beth’s kidnapping? Why send them on a wild goose chase in the first place if he had intended for it to happen after all?

But Reddington just kept silent throughout it all, simply arched his eyebrow in a pointed look that ripped the wind right off her sails. It seemed almost as if he was wondering why she’d want to talk about the case of all things - as if there were something more pressing than the abduction of a child and a threat of more to come.

Still, the way he kept staring at her unnerved her. It was almost as if he was searching her face for a sign - for something which she was fairly sure she’d gladly give to him if it meant that he’d turn his attention somewhere else. Reflexively, her fingers began to reach for the raised skin on the palm of her hand.  

The movement caught his eye.

“May I see?”  

He sounded so hopeful, his voice catching slightly at the words. And it must have been this show of uncertainty, this lack of exaggerated confidence, that made her reach out towards him, shakily presenting her arm for inspection.  

Liz watched as if mesmerized as he slowly raised his hand, his fingers coming up just a breath away from the skin of her arm. But before he could touch her, Liz turned her arm to present the palm of her hand, the inside of her wrist marked by the vicious red of her scar.  

Reddington pulled away instantly, drawing in a sharp breath as if he had just been burned himself.  

“You don’t…”

Liz gave a defensive shrug of her shoulders as she pulled her arm back to her side.  

“I don’t mind.” She said in a clipped tone.

Over time she had gotten quite good at pretending that she didn’t care. Oh, Liz could deal with never knowing for certain if she had found her soulmate; it was all a hoax anyway - genetic mutations invented by the same industry that kept pestering couples to buy chocolate and flowers on Valentine’s Day.

But what she couldn’t deal with were the pitying looks she received whenever people found out that her mark had been burned off when she was a child.

When they realized that she was broken.

“Sometimes,” Reddington said after a moment, seemingly choosing his words with great care. There was a pensive look on his face, and yet Liz couldn’t shake off the impression that he looked almost relieved. “Ignorance is bliss.”

Liz felt a sudden flash of hot-red anger rush through her, but before she could even do so much as throw his stupid fortune cookie advice back into his face, Cooper barked some orders across the room, expecting his agents to follow a new lead in tracking down the girl.  

As she turned away to make her way back into the bullpen, Liz caught a movement from the corner of her eyes. It was barely noticeable, just a miniscule tilt of the head. Slowing down, Liz lingered for just a moment longer - just long enough to follow his eyes down to the time code branded onto the inside of his wrist. His numbers were neatly frozen in time, a constant reminder of the exact time it took him to meet his soulmate.  

How strange, Liz thought. She could have sworn that when Ressler had briefed her on Reddington’s capture earlier that day, his time code had still been running.

#the blacklist #lizzington #this isn't spell checked bc I don't have a lot of time #this is almost three word pages long; this is why it take s me years to write up prompts #also there are already so many fantastic soulmate aus out there for lizzington? #colour has been done and so has been first words #I originally wanted to go for a version of the colours one #but that would have been 50 pages of world building #without any real interaction between lizzington #so we got this instead #no mention of the marks until the very end #because I suck at writing soulmate aus #prompt #Anon #ask

[lostlevelsclub]

Borderlands 3

Mike and Ting talk about Borderlands 3.

Contains SPOILERS for Borderlands 3!

The “book club” game is: Untitled Goose Game.

Contact us: @lostlevelsclub or [email protected]

Show Notes:

Overview and Impressions

Borderlands (video game)

Borderlands 2

Borderlands: The Pre-Sequel

Tales from the Borderlands

Recapping Anthem’s messy road after launch

The Rampager

Free! Now! New Borderlands 2 DLC (Commander Lilith & the Fight for Sanctuary)

Salvador

Amara

Zane

Lilith

Maya

Transaction-Packed

Borderlands 3 Lost Loot: Where to find the Lost Loot Machine

Borderlands 3: How Many Planets There Are

Story

Borderlands 3 - Meeting Tiny Tina (YouTube)

Harley Quinn

What's normal to do as a child but creepy to do as an adult?

Borderlands 3 - Calypso Twins Kill Maya (YouTube)

SPOILERS: BORDERLANDS 2 - ROLAND'S DEATH (YouTube)

Borderlands 3 / Tannis is a Siren Scene (YouTube)

BORDERLANDS Angel Satellite CUTSCENE (YouTube)

Tyreen the Destroyer

Ava

Borderlands 3 - ENDING Scene (YouTube)

Borderlands 2 - Ellie and Bad Maw Introduction (YouTube)

As an author, I can explain the Ava hate in detail for those who don't understand.

Scrappy-Doo

Borderlands 3 - Like Follow And Obey Cutscene (YouTube)

Claptrap

Claptrap’s New Robot Revolution

Tiny Tina’s Assault On Dragon Keep

Gameplay

Moze

Amara (Siren) Phaseslam Melee Build Guide

New-U Station

FL4K

English Etiquette

Is it possible to permanently lose COV weapon in Borderlands 3?

Extreme Hangin' Chadd

Eridian Fabricator

Post-Game and Summary

Girl On Fire - Full Song (End Credits) - Borderlands 3 (YouTube)

Trouble - Full Song (End Credits) - Borderlands 3 (YouTube)

How does the games industry solve its problem with music licensing?

Borderlands 3 - True Vault Hunter Mode and Mayhem Mode explained, including Mayhem Mod list

Borderlands 3 Bloody Harvest Halloween event: How to search the galaxy for a ghost, Bloody Harvest rewards explained

Anthem

Destiny 2: Play for Free

Star Citizen hits $250m raised through crowdfunding

Diablo 3

Nephalem Rift

Takedown At The Maliwan Blacksite Quick Guide

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare

How Call of Duty: Modern Warfare’s cross-play will work

The shotgun is my spirit animal (Twitch)

Download this Episode

#podcast #book club #borderlands 3

[terryblount]

Borderlands 3 February Update is now available, increases level cap, full patch notes revealed

Gearbox has released the February Update for Borderlands 3. This update increases the level cap from 50 to 53, giving you three additional skill points to add to your skill trees. It also adds several highly requested feature updates, such as True Takedown Mode, skippable cutscenes, and event toggling.

Going into more details, with the February patch players can skip all cutscenes in the game, whether you’ve seen the cutscene before or not. This can functionality is available in both solo or multiplayer modes.

On the other hand, this update adds True Takedown Mode to the Takedown at the Maliwan Blacksite. Thus, there is now a way to re-enable the original version of the Takedown scaled to 4 players. Future Takedowns will also launch with both modes enabled.

It’s also worth noting that this update implements multiple performance optimizations and audio performance optimizations. It also addresses multiple reported crashes and multiple reported memory crashes.

Lastly, the February Update adds an Event Toggle. It also allows you to turn off individual Guardian Ranks or the whole system.

As always, Epic Games Store will download this patch the next time you launch its client. You can also find below its complete changelog.

Borderlands 3 February Update Release Notes

STABILITY

Addressed multiple reported crashes

Addresses multiple reported memory crashes

Addressed a reported crash that could sometimes occur when updating the position of the dueling timer during a level transition

Also addressed a reported crash that could sometimes occur when there is no player character while spectating in the Takedown at the Maliwan Blacksite

Addressed a rare crash that could sometimes occur when hijacking a vehicle

Addressed a rare crash that could sometimes occur after extended hours of play

Also addressed a rare crash that could sometimes occur during combat in Athenas

Addressed a rare crash that could sometimes occur during combat in Atlas HQ

Addressed a rare crash that could sometimes occur in a multiplayer game in The Droughts

Addresses a reported crash that could sometimes occur when loading into a map when Campaign Matchmaking

Addressed a reported crash that could sometimes occur when elements react in bodies of water

Addressed a reported freeze that could sometimes occur during garbage collection

Also addressed a reported crash that could sometimes occur when using Iron Bear

Addressed a rare crash that could sometimes occur after respawning a vehicle and then using the CAR station before the vehicle spawns

Addressed a reported crash that could sometimes occur when holding both the left and right arrow keys while on the Skills tab of the ECHO menu on PC

Addresses a rare crash that could sometimes occur when quitting to desktop after another user disconnects during multiplayer on PC

Addressed a reported crash that could sometimes occur when a host selected Quit to Portal on Stadia

Addressed a reported memory leak on map transitions

PERFORMANCE

We are continuing to work on additional stability and performance updates for future patches.

Implemented multiple performance optimizations

Implemented multiple audio performance optimizations

Addressed reported performance issues encountered when players are pushed by another user’s vehicle

Addressed a reported performance issue when fighting enemies at Lumberton Junction in Floodmoor Basin

Addresses reported performance issues when scrolling through Guardian Rank Menu icons quickly

GENERAL

Added weight to the Guardian Rank random reward selection to favor reward options with less tokens applied to them

Addressed a reported concern that some missions were not awarding their cosmetic item rewards

Addresses a reported concern that players could be granted starting gear that was far beyond their level

Addressed a reported concern that a player in spectator mode would occasionally lose functionality when the Takedown host fast traveled to a different map

Also addressed a reported concern that a Second Wind would occasionally reset the Takedown mission after players had failed the mission

Addressed a reported concern that players were occasionally respawning at the incorrect checkpoint in Meridian Outskirts

Addressed a reported concern that the player character on the character select menu would be positioned incorrectly when a player late joins a multiplayer game on Skywell-27

Addresses a reported concern that the weapon Tiggs Boom was spawning projectiles in the wrong location

Increased the chance of Tiggs Boom to spawn a projectile

Addressed a reported concern that Anointed Enforcer’s shield would occasionally disappear and make the enemy appear vulnerable when they were not

Addressed a reported concern that third-person healing effects could occasionally scale larger than intended

Also addressed a reported concern that players were occasionally being teleported to random places during cutscenes when standing on specific spots in a map

Addressed a reported concern that item cards would occasionally remain present on the screen after picking up an item

Also addressed a reported concern with incorrect key glyphs showing when returning to the Main Menu on Stadia

Nativized previous hot fixes

MISSIONS

Addressed a perceived progression blocker after entering Lectra City from another map after completing the “Collect Batteries” objective of “Kill KillaVolt”

Addresses a perceived progression blocker that occasionally occurred during the “Return toppings to Tina” objective of “Hammerlocked”

Addressed a perceived progression blocker that could sometimes occur after leaving and re-entering the map during the “Check dead drop” objective of “Going Rogue”

Also addressed a reported concern where dialog could be repeatedly triggered if the player loaded into another map while on the objective “Take alternate path” during “Footsteps of Giants” on Desolation’s Edge

Addressed a perceived progression blocker during the “Loot Vault” objective with Typhon during “Footsteps of Giants”

Addressed a reported concern where a player with active missions could start a session with no tracked mission if their previously tracked mission could not be tracked

HOTFIX NOTES

Addressed a reported concern that the “Emergency Response” perk was increasing Shield Recharge Delay, rather than decreasing it

Addressed a reported concern that the crowd audio was sometimes coming from a separate location while chasing down Carnivora

Added blockers to prevent players from occasionally escaping the map without dying when jumping off the edge of a cliff in Carnivora

Addressed a reported concern that players could walk through a wall of rocks in Carnivora

Added blockers to prevent players from escaping the map near the Apollyon Transit Station New-U in Neon Arterial

Addressed a reported concern that the Gunner could sometimes get stuck in the second area of the Proving Grounds

Addresses a reported concern that players could occasionally escape the Skag of Survival boss area in The Proving Grounds

Addressed a reported concern that the Siren could escape the map while using the “Downfall” ability in Cistern of Slaughter and the Destroyer’s Rift

Addressed a reported concern that the final satellite dish would not appear for the player to destroy at certain distances during “Bad Reception”

Also addressed a reported concern that players were unable to break an Eridium crystal cluster in Ambermire

Addressed a reported concern where aim assist was snapping aggressively on the center of an enemy when fighting the Blue Fire and Red Rain boss enemies during “Slaughterstar 3000”

The post Borderlands 3 February Update is now available, increases level cap, full patch notes revealed appeared first on DSOGaming.

Borderlands 3 February Update is now available, increases level cap, full patch notes revealed published first on https://touchgen.tumblr.com/

[sandstonesunspear]

Transcending Lifetimes, Chapter 2

Summary: The universe said that Marie’s death was a constant event. In each life she lived, Lucy told the universe to go fuck itself and give her back the woman she loved. This time, the universe listened.

Thanks to @nerdsbianhokie for giving me the idea for this OT4 and to @syllabicacronyms and @georgiew2304 for letting me toss ideas around and giving me feedback about said ideas.

AO3

It was only six AM and Lucy had pounding headache headache. A week ago, Americans across the country had awoken to yet another side effect of Myriad: the appearance of the walking dead, or more specifically, the resurrected dead. The DEO had been alerted as soon as the first frantic reports had hit the airwaves. J’onn had been immediately recalled to D.C. by politicians demanding answers, leaving Lucy to dispatch agents across the country to try and figure out what the hell had happened.

She was in the middle of filling out the paperwork that would send Demos to Pennsylvania when the phone rang.

Lucy sighed. If it was another suit from D.C., she was going to shoot her phone.

“Lane,” she greeted curtly.

"It's Victoria, do you have a minute?"

Lucy blinked. "Sure, I guess? I'm at work but I can spare a few minutes." Not that that would be enough to get Lucy off the phone. She needed a break from all the paperwork. “What’s up?”

"Are you sitting down?"

Lucy frowned. "I am, yeah. Why? What's going on?"

She heard Victoria take a deep breath on the other end. Then, “Do you remember the dream, where Jacob and Marie come back to us? Where Jacob goes for a run and Marie goes--”

“To grab coffee and forgets her keys,” Lucy finished. “Yeah, I remember. Why?”

"Lucy, they found Marie."

Lucy felt like the wind has just been knocked out of her. "What?"

"I got a call from Mount Sinai. She's alive."

Lucy swallowed. "That's, that's not funny, Victoria," she said, trying and failing to keep her voice from cracking.

"Lucy, whatever's been happening across the country, it happened to Marie," Victoria said gently. "She's one of them."

"That's not funny," Lucy said again. She bit back a sob. "That's not funny, Marie is dead."

"She's alive, sweetheart. She's here in New York. They found her at Freedom Tower with a bunch of others and she's at Mount Sinai."

Lucy still couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Marie's alive?"

"She's alive."

Lucy placed a hand over her mouth. “I…” She took a deep breath. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said. “I just have to get a plane ticket and pack and--”

“Lucy!” Victoria interrupted. “Calm down, okay? We already bought you a plane ticket.”

“You did?”

“Mhm,” Victoria hummed her confirmation. “I’ll text you the flight details in a few. It leaves in three hours your time. Gives you time to pack what you need.”

“Thank you,” Lucy murmured.

“It’s what family does, Luce,” Victoria said earnestly. “Call us when you land, alright?”

“I will. Thank you again, Vi. For telling me.”

Lucy hung up before Victoria could say anything else. She collapsed back into her chair and pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. When she had seen that the dead had started to come back in New York, a part of her had hoped that Marie would be among their number. She had quickly pushed it back, though, because Marie was dead and she wasn’t coming back.

Except, apparently, now she was. Marie was alive. She was alive.

Lucy moved her hands, folding them in front of her face as she opened her eyes. She had to get going. She had a flight in five hours, a flight that was going to take her to New York to see Marie.

“Vasquez!”

Vasquez poked their head through the doorway. “Yes, Director Lane?”

Lucy got up. “You’re in charge until I get back.”

Vasquez immediately started to sputter. “What? Back? Back from where?” they demanded, entirely unprepared for what Lucy was throwing them into.

“New York.”

“Does Director J’onzz know?” they asked.

“He will.” Lucy grabbed her jacket and moved to leave. She paused and placed a hand on their shoulder. “You’ve got this. Just make sure that the paperwork for agent assignments is out by the end of the day and don’t blow up my base.”

“Right,” Vasquez deadpanned. They bit their lip. “Director Lane, Lucy?”

Lucy raised an eyebrow.

“Whatever it is, good luck.”

Lucy nodded. “Thanks.”

-

Lucy’s movements were mechanical as she went about packing for her flight to New York. Drawers hissed open and thumped shut as she grabbed random items here and there, her mind such a whirl with thoughts that she barely paid any attention to the things she was adding to her duffle bag.

A pair of jeans. Her West Point sweatshirt. That one red jumper that Marie had loved, but Lucy had come to hate because of how much it reminded her of her dead wife. An old worn olive green t-shirt that had belonged to Marie and that Lucy wore on the bad days because it reminded her of being held by Marie’s arms.

Lucy continued to place things into her duffle bag until the reality of the situation reasserted itself in her mind: Marie was alive. Her wife was alive.

Lucy’s eyes flicked towards the closet. She folded the last set of boxers and stuffed them into one of her sneakers before making her way over. She opened the door to look over the various suits she had hanging.

Two things caught her eye. The first was her blues. The second was a crisp black pantsuit that had been a gift from Victoria, who had claimed that Lucy needed more civilian professional wear.

With DADT long gone and same-sex marriage having been legal on a national level for years not, it meant that, if it really was Marie in New York, she would be entitled to the same benefits that a heterosexual spouse was. All Lucy needed to do was file the paperwork.

I’m going to have go to Fort Hamilton.

But before that, Lucy would have to go get a new marriage license, which meant going to court.

I’ll stop by city hall tomorrow morning. I think Judge Tomlinson is still there.

Lucy eyed her dress blues and the pantsuit and grabbed both. She went back to the bed and carefully laid the pantsuit out before going about removing her ribbons from her blues. Folding both suits and stuffing them into a duffle bag wasn’t ideal, but she could always steam out all of the resulting wrinkles later in the day.

“Fuck!” Lucy swore as the back of her ribbon rack caught her finger. She lifted it up and sighed when she saw that one of the frogs was missing.

Lucy reached under the bed and grabbed the stool before heading back towards to the closet. She climbed it and patted the shelf in search for the box containing her spare frogs. One pat introduced her hand to the soft fabric of a prayer rug that hadn’t been used in years. The second pat saw her her hand connect with something hard. She briefly ran her fingers over the top of it before grabbing it and the prayer rug next to it and bringing both into view.

It wasn’t the box that held her spare frogs; it was the box that held things that were far more precious. Lucy brushed a thumb across the JAG and Signal Corps insignia carved into the cherry wood lid. She couldn’t stop the small smile that rose as she did so.

The box had been an anniversary present from Marie years ago, who had had it made for Lucy after she graduated law school. Over the years, it had come to hold important momentos for Lucy.

Lucy tucked the prayer rug under her arm before she went over to her bed, sat down, and opened the box. She looked the various items over.

A turbah that had belonged to her mother. A pair of tickets from the first Yankees game she and Marie had attended together. A photo of her and Marie on their first date after 9/11, one of the rare moments of peace they had been able to enjoy in the months following the attack. The St. Christopher medal that Marie had sent her while Lucy was stationed in Germany. Marie’s beaten Casio watch, a birthday gift from Lucy that still told the time after all these years because she couldn’t bear to let the watch die.

All of the items lay atop a scarf with the JAG symbol printed on it. Lucy couldn’t stop the lump that rose in her throat at the sight of it. Marie had been wearing it when she died.

Lucy removed turbah and set it aside before taking out the watch and fastening it around her wrist. She went back to the box and gently tugged the scarf out. She turned the fabric around in her hands. She didn’t have much time to examine it before her phone went off, letting her know that she had to get moving.

Lucy sighed. She folded the scarf and tucked it into her coat. She quickly but neatly folded her suit and blues and stuffed them into her bag. The prayer rug found its way into her bag, though its addition came more as an afterthought on her part than anything else.

The sharp sound of a zipper shutting hit the air seconds before Lucy tossed the bag over her shoulder. She took one last look around her apartment. The turbah still sitting on the comforter caught her attention. She reached down and quietly slipped it into her pocket. Then, she was gone.

-

“Ma’am, don’t forget to remove your ring,” a TSA officer spoke up, snapping Lucy from her thoughts as she worked to get her laptop into a bin.

“Huh?” Lucy glanced down at her wedding ring. “Oh, right.”

She pulled her ring off and gently placed it in smaller bucket that also held her phone, wallet, and turbah. She patted her pockets to check if there was anything else to remove, doing her best to ignore how awkward her hand now felt without her ring. Feeling nothing left in her pockets, she sent everything through and let out a breath.

Lucy kept her eyes on the bin holding her ring as she stood in line and waited for the scanner to open up. Having to remove her ring every time she went through security was one of the things she hated most when she flew.

Her hand felt so heavy as she raised her arms when she stepped into the scanner. Lucy rarely took her wedding ring off unless she absolutely had to. If it wasn’t on her finger, it was on a chain around her neck to keep it close.

The scanner whirled once.

“Alright, you can step out now.”

Lucy lowered her arms and stepped out. She sidestepped the TSA agent attempting to usher her through and quickly made her way over to retrieve her things. Phone and wallet were promptly slipped into her jeans pocket while the turbah found its way into her coat pocket. She carefully picked her wedding ring up and slowly slid it back on her finger.

Once the ring was back on her finger, Lucy let out a breath she hadn’t known she had been holding. Even after all these years, not having her wedding ring on her person never failed to give her anxiety.

Lucy glanced at Marie’s watch and sighed. She pulled her bag off the conveyor belt and hurried to her gate, mumbling a quick apology when her duffle checked an older woman in the back.

-

“Oh, do you need me to move over so that your husband can sit down too when he gets here?”

Lucy glanced at the woman in the seat next to the one she was about to take. “Excuse me?” she asked.

The woman pointed to Lucy’s wedding ring. “Your husband,” she repeated. “You’re carrying such a large bag, I just assumed that it was for him.”

Seriously? Lucy fought the urge to facepalm and settled for stifling a sigh of annoyance instead. She gave the woman a thin smile.

“I’m actually flying to New York to visit my wife,” Lucy said, tone curt.

“That’s wonderful!” The woman gushed. “How long have you two been married?”

“A year.” Lucy’s fingers came to rub her ring unconsciously. “Then she died.”

“Oh.” Whatever else the woman had prepared to say was cut off when Marie’s watch beeped

Lucy startled imperceptibly. She had forgotten that Marie had set her watch to go off whenever it was time for Lucy to pray. That way, she could remember when Lucy would need to step away.

You don’t have to do that, Mar, she had told Marie shortly after giving her the watch.

Marie had shot a grin at her then-girlfriend, not yet wife. I want to, your faith is a part of you and I want to respect that.

With the air quickly turning uncomfortable between her and the woman, Lucy got up and grabbed her bag. She moved so that she was apart from the rest of the passengers and stared out the window. She had some time to kill before the boarding process began. She had a prayer rug in her bag, as well as a scarf to cover her hair, and her tubah sat in her pocket.

Lucy bit her lip. She hadn’t prayed in years. She looked over her shoulder. The gate was still filling up with people.

Screw it. She had prayed in front of strangers by herself before. So what if she was going to be rather rusty? It’s not like anyone else would be able to tell.

Lucy quietly knelt down and unzipped her bag. She tugged the scarf out, ignoring the eyes she could feel burning into the back of her head as she lifted the scarf to cover her hair and worked on pinning it up. She reached into her small duffle bag and pulled the prayer rug that hadn’t been used in years, not since Marie had died. She unfurled it before reaching into her pocket and pulling out her turbah. The turbah had been her mother’s once and now it was hers. Like the prayer mat, it hadn’t seen use in ages.

Once everything was in order, she stood. She closed her eyes and mimed the motions normally made during wudu. In normal circumstances, she would have taken the time to complete wudu, but standing in the middle of an airport gate in National City meant it wasn’t going to happen. And, given that this prayer was a last minute thing on her part, she hadn’t prepared for tayammum either. The most that she could do was hope that her niyyah was acceptable enough.

Lucy raised her hands. "Allahu akbar," she whispered and let her hands fall to the side. "Bismillah iramah iraheem..."

She bowed as she finished al-Fatiah. "Subḥāna rabbī l-ʿaẓīm," she said quietly. She straightened. "Allahu akbar." She knelt and pressed her forehead to the turbah. Her lips moved silently as she transitioned to reciting the prayer from memory.

Lucy sat back and opened her eyes. She watched a plane drift on by before closing her eyes again.

“Allahu akbar.” Before she could prostrate herself a second time, the gate intercom cracked to life.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! This is a pre-boarding announcement for United flight N17, nonstop services to New York City. We are now inviting those passengers with small children, and any passengers requiring special assistance, to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin as soon as pre-boarding is completed. Thank you!”

Lucy sighed. So much for prayer.

I’ll make up for it when I get to New York. Or if news of Marie’s revival turned out to be some cruel joke, she would go to a bar, get drunk, and curse the universe around her. There would even been a good chance of her cursing herself for daring to get her hopes up.

Lucy pushed herself up, grunting as her knees protested at the motion. She unpinned the scarf, letting it fall down around her shoulders while she placed the turbah back into her pocket. She quickly rolled up her prayer rug and slipped it into her bag, leaning forward slightly as families lined up to board.

She grunted when a small human collided with her.

“Hayden! Watch where you’re going!” A father scolded his daughter. He glanced at Lucy. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Lucy said, waving his apology away. She looked down at his daughter. “She’s a cute kid.”

“Thanks!” He grinned and ruffled his daughter’s hair. “She takes after her mum.”

Lucy faintly returned the smile and settled against the window as line moved forward. She watched Hayden chatter away with her father. She couldn’t stop the pang that hit her heart at the sight. She and Marie had almost had daughter like that. Marie had ended up miscarrying during the second trimester, though, and Lucy hadn’t been there when it happened.

Lucy shook her head before her mind could hook onto the memories. She couldn’t think about that, not now.

“We’ll now start boarding Group 1. If your boarding pass says Group 1 on it, please begin lining up!” The intercom squawked.

Lucy pulled her phone out to check if that meant her. She nodded when she saw it did.

Thank you, Victoria.

Lucy pushed off the window and grabbed her bag, smoothly sliding into the line. With each step she took towards the front, her grip tightened further and further around its handles. By the time she reached the front of the line, her hand was throbbing from the webbing biting its way into her palm.

“Can I see your boarding pass, please?” the flight attendant asked pleasantly, completely unaware of the anxiety building inside of Lucy.

Lucy fumbled for her phone and handed it over. There was a ping before it was returned to her sweating hand.

“Have a great flight!” The flight attendant flashed a megawatt smile at Lucy.

“Right.”

Lucy walked into the jet bridge and let out a breath. Five more hours until she was in New York. Until she was, hopefully, with Marie.

-

New York was three hours ahead of National City. That meant that Lucy had plenty of energy to spare when the plane touched down at LaGuardia.

She walked through the terminal in a daze. The five hour flight had done nothing to soothe her nerves; if anything, the longer the flight dragged on, the more her anxiety increased.

“Lucy!”

Lucy blinked when she heard someone call out her name. She turned to see Victoria. She hurried over and found herself pulled into a tight hug. She closed her eyes as she returned it.

“It’s really good to see you,”  Victoria said once they had broken apart.

“It’s good to see you too, Tori,” Lucy said. She shifted the duffle bag to readjust her grip around the handles. “So, is it really her?” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “It’s Marie?”

Victoria nodded. “It’s her Lucy, I promise.”

Lucy let out a breath. “And her memories?”

“Intact.” Victoria smiled at Lucy. “She’s been asking for you, actually.”

Lucy swallowed.

Victoria gently placed a hand on Lucy shoulder. “This is real, Lucy,” she said. “I promise. This is real, Marie’s back. She’s back.”

Lucy bit her lip and glanced up at the ceiling as she fought back tears. “Right,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice from cracking. “I know that.”

Victoria squeezed Lucy’s shoulder. “C’mon, we’ve got about three hours before visiting hours are up at Mount Sinai.”

“They haven’t extended the hours with the revivals?” Lucy asked, shifting her duffle so that it was over her shoulder as they made their way out of the terminal.

“The Freedom Tower-Ground Zero group’s the largest so far, according to news reports,” Victoria said. “There aren’t enough personnel at Mount Sinai to keep up with all the families that want to visit.”

Lucy hadn’t even thought about that. She made a mental note to check in with Vasquez later tonight to see which agents were being sent out here and if a someone from DEO medical could accompany them.

A thought struck Lucy just as she tossed her bag into the backseat.

“Are they going to let me in to see Marie?” she asked.

Victoria gave her a look. “Of course they are,” she said in a tone that brook no argument. “We put you down as family. And if they try to stop you, let me handle it.”

“The last time I let you handle hospital staff refusing to let see my wife, you punched one nurse and completely verbally eviscerated the masculinity of another,” Lucy said dryly. “And the only reason you didn’t face charges is one, you’re a nurse yourself and two, I’m a lawyer.”

Victoria waved her off. “No one liked Wanda, she was a crotchety old bitch who refused to catch up with the times.” She started the car. “And Jacob was an arse.”

“Uh huh.” Lucy couldn’t really disagree with those statements. Wanda Adamsson and Jacob Taylor had both proven to be constant barriers to her whenever she tried to visit her wife when she was sick. The memory of Victoria launching a beautiful right hook at Nurse Wanda’s face was an amazing one, as was her completely tearing into Nurse Jacob.

Victoria backed out of the parking spot. There was a glint in her eye that made Lucy feel very nervous. Her hand shot to the grab handle near the ceiling of the car moments before Victoria peeled out of the garage.

Lucy’s shrill, panicked yelp hit the air seconds later.

-

“And we’re here!” Victoria announced cheerfully as she pulled into Mount Sinai.

Lucy glared at her. “God, I remember why I hate driving with you,” she grumbled.

Victoria rolled her eyes. “We made it in one piece, didn’t we?” she asked.

“This is true.” Lucy shoved the car door open with her shoulder. “Still a better driver than Lois…” she muttered under her breath.

She slammed the door shut behind her and stared up at the building before her. For all the good Mount Sinai Hospital did for the city of New York, it was nonetheless an imposing sight. She clenched her jaw to stave off the memories threatening to overwhelm her.

“You ready?” Victoria asked.

“As ready as I can be, I guess,” Lucy admitted.

The two made their way inside. Both dodged the various groups of families, patients and doctors with practiced ease as they headed towards the front desk.

“Hi, I’m Victoria Alexander, my sister’s a patient here and this is her wife, Lucy…”

The noise of the lobby faded from Lucy’s attention as the smell of antiseptic hit her nose. She hated that smell. The sterile scent always burned at her nose and it never failed to bring back memories of some of her worst moments with Marie.

She noticed Victoria nod and follow a nurse towards a set of doors. Lucy followed, still lost in her thoughts.

What if Marie doesn’t remember me? But Victoria had said that Marie did.

What if she’s still sick? Lucy wouldn’t be able to handle losing Marie again, especially not soon after getting her back.

What if she doesn’t love me anymore? But according to Victoria, Marie had been asking for her. Why would you ask for someone if you didn’t love them?

What if what if what if--

“Lucy.”

Lucy grunted when she bumped into something. She blinked and glanced at Victoria. “Yeah?”

Victoria gestured to the door with a slight nod. “We’re here,” she said. “You can go in.”

“Right.” Lucy let out a short breath. She placed a hand on the doorknob. “Right.”

Lucy pushed the handle down and opened the door. She stepped inside and froze at who she saw sitting upright in the hospital bed. Marie’s warm gaze met hers. She stopped breathing when Marie’s face broke into a wide smile.

“Hey stranger, long time no see.”

#supergirl #my writing #blacksite sirens #it's gonna happen I swear

[sandstonesunspear]

Transcending Lifetimes, Chapter 1

Summary: The universe said that Marie’s death was a constant event. In each life she lived, Lucy told the universe to go fuck itself and give her back the woman she loved. This time, the universe listened. 

Thanks to @nerdsbianhokie for giving me the idea for this OT4 and to @syllabicacronyms and @georgiew2304 for letting me toss ideas around and giving me feedback about said ideas.

AO3

The world slowly came into focus for Marie. Her head felt foggy as she slowly took her surroundings in. She took a step back when the New York City noise registered with her ears.

What the hell?

Marie felt a tug on her trousers. She glanced down to see a young girl no older than four at her side, eyes wide with fear and uncertainty.

“Think ‘m lost,” she mumbled. “Can you help me find my momma, Ms. Firefighter?”

Firefighter?

Marie examined her own clothing more closely. She was in her dress blues.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Marie soothed. On instinct, she reached down to pick the girl up and was surprised by how easy it was. “We’ll find her.” She scanned their surroundings. Everything looked different. “We’ll find her.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Marie saw a police officer approaching. Her grip tightened around the child.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the officer said as soon as he close. “Are you alright?”

Marie lifted a hand to rub her forehead, only to frown when she bumped into her cover. She adjusted it and ran the back of her finger against her smooth scalp.

“I don’t think so,” she admitted. With her free hand, she jabbed a thumb in the direction Freedom Tower. “You know when the hell that got finished?”

He frowned. “It’s been finished for a while,” he said.

Marie’s frown deepened. “Define a while.”

“Four years, give or take a few months.”

Marie felt her stomach drop. “Excuse me?” she demanded. “Did you say four years?”

His frown deepened to match hers before morphing into a curious look. “Ma’am, what year do you think it is?” he asked cautiously.

“2012,” Marie said immediately. “I...I made it to June. To my anniversary with my wife.” Like she had promised that she would.

“2012?!” A voice shouted out.

Marie turned in the direction of the noise. She noticed that a crowd of similarly daze people had started to gather close by. At the forefront was a rather harried looking man.

Marie shifted the child in her arms. “What year do you think it is?” she asked him.

“2001,” he said. He glanced up at Freedom Tower. “I was working at the World Trade Center. Which doesn’t look like it’s here anymore. What is that?”

“Freedom Tower,” the officer spoke up.

“The what?”

“Freedom Tower?” Marie said. “It’s what they built to replace the World Trade Centers after they came down.”

“What?!” He took a step back. The crowd also shifted nervously at the declaration.

A slightly hysterical laugh left the businessman’s throat. “This is just a bad joke,” Marie heard him mutter. There were some murmurs of agreement from the crowd. “This can’t be real.” He rubbed the sides of his temples. “Dust, rock, heat, screaming. It’s not real, it can’t be real, it can’t be. 15 years, it can’t be.”

Oh, shit.

Marie recognised the signs on a full-on panic attack. She was by his side in an instant, child still in her arms. She ignored the twinge in her chest that rose as a result of the speed of her actions and focused on working him down.

“C’mon, let’s go sit down, alright?” She freed a hand so that she could tug him towards a bench. Once situation, she pushed down on his back. “Head between your legs and breathe.”

He took a shuddering breath.

“There we go.” She rubbed his back. “Just following my breathing, alright?”

It took a few moments, but eventually his breathing evened out. Marie looked up to see the officer walking over.

“You should probably call paramedics,” Marie told him. She glanced around to see a sea of uncertain faces. She motioned for all of them to come over. “Maybe grab some food. There’s a bodega right down the block, I think.”

“Yeah, that’s still there,” the officer said with a nod.

Marie returned the nod curtly. “Something light,” she said. “Doubt these people can stomach much.”

Doubt I can either.  

Marie settled back against the bench, mindful of the child still tucked in her arms.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” one of the group spoke up. Marie eyed her. She was dressed in a crip pantsuit that was fashionable a decade in a half prior. If Marie had to guess, she would say that the woman had been one of the many to perish when the Towers came down. “Do you know what exactly happened? Or even just what’s going to happen?”

Marie’s mouth opened and closed a few times as she tried to figure out what to say. On the one hand, these people deserved the truth. On the other, the last thing anyone needed right now was cause to panic. Being told that you had died a horrific death years prior, only to come back to life? That would do it. The man still taking deep breaths next to her was proof enough of that.

Marie gave her an easy smile. “I’m, uh, kinda lost like the rest of you,” she said. It wasn’t a complete lie, her mind was awhirl with thoughts as she tried to figure out just how she had come back. “But everything should be okay. We’re all here, alive, breathing. So, we’ll just take it minute by minute. Alright?”

Uncertain glances were exchanged by the forty or so people in the groups. Then, a sea of nods.

Marie exhaled and fought back a cough as she did so.

Looks like some things haven’t changed. She had a feeling that she was still down a lung, though it would take a medical workup to see if it was true or not.

Marie let her head loll back. She stared at the clouds drifting by, savouring the sight. It had been ages since she had seen such a thing.

“Y’all should probably sit down or something,” she mused. “Have a feeling this is going to take a while.”

“How do you know?” one of them asked.

“Just a hunch.”

-

Marie nibbled on a granola bar. The girl that had been in her arms was now sitting next to her, puzzling over the bottle of gatorade in her hands. The officer, Diego, she had learned his name to be, stood watch. He had returned a while ago with an armful of snacks and drinks and two more officers in tow. Now they were all waiting for the medical transports to show up.

“You don’t look like the rest of them,” Diego said quietly.

“I died after them,” Marie murmured. “Cancer, from working the Pile. Though, I could’ve been one of them.”

“Yeah?”

“When Tower Two came down, I got caught in the debris cloud,” she said. “Got buried, not bad, of course, but still. If my guys hadn’t pulled me when they did, I probably would’ve been them.” She gestured her head towards the group.

Before Diego could say anything, the first ambulance pulled up. Marie looked up as paramedics climbed out of the rig.

A paramedic walked over the Marie and Diego, only to freeze as she got close.

“Alexander?” the paramedic asked in disbelief.

Marie waved. “Hey, Julie,” she greeted. “What’s up?”

“Uh, um, you are,” Julie stammered out. “Because you were dead.”

Marie grinned. “I know, right? I honestly have no idea how this happened,” she said, motioning to herself and the group.

“Uh huh.” Julie glanced back at her colleagues. “Alright, Hernandez, you take the left half, Meyers, take right. I’ve got Alexander.”

Marie sighed. “Worry about me last Julie, these people need your attention first,” she said and stood. A wave of nausea rolled through her at the motion. She swayed on her feet.

Julie was by her side in an instant. “Uh huh.” She moved Marie so that she was sitting back on the bench.

“I’m fine!” Marie grumbled.

Julie rolled her eyes. “Good to know that some things don’t change,” she said. She pulled her stethoscope from around her neck. “You know the drill.”

“About that…”

Julie paused. “What?”

“Had a pneumonectomy done on the left before I died,” Marie said casually. “Dunno if being brought back to life also brought my lung back.”

Julie gave her an incredulous look. “You don’t know?” she asked as she set about checking Marie’s lungs. Or lung. “Take a deep breath for me.”

Marie inhaled.

Julie shifted the bell. “Alright, exhale.”

Marie let out a breath and immediately started coughing.

“Well, unfortunately, being brought back to life did not restore your missing lung,” Julie said.

“Oh, darn.”

“Mhm.” Julie sat back on her heels. “What’s the last place you were treated at?”

“Mount Sinai.”

Julie nodded. “Then that’s where we’re taking you.” She signalled for a gurney.

“Oh, c’mon, a gurney?” Marie protested.

“You died of stage IV metastatic lung cancer and came back to life,” was Julie’s droll reply. “Not to mention, you’re also missing a lung. Forgive me for taking extra precautions.”

Marie pouted. “You used to be my favourite paramedic, you know that?”

Julie rolled her eyes. “Shut up and get on the gurney, Alexander.”

-

The ambulance rolled into the emergency bay at Mount Sinai. Julie was the first person out of the back.

“Marie Alexander, female, 37...ish, found at Freedom Tower,” she told the receiving nurse.

The nurse paused. Alexander? Had she heard that right?

“Medical history includes stage IV metastatic lung cancer that resulted in a pneumonectomy of the left lung.”

The nurse decided to look closely at the person being wheeled out of the back of the ambulance. Her eyes widened at who she saw.

Marie grinned at the nurse. “Miranda, hey! Look! Not dead!”

Miranda stared at Marie and promptly let out a shrill shriek. Her eyes proceeded to roll up into the back of her head as she fainted.

Julie yelped as Miranda slumped against her. She glared at Marie. “Oh for fucks sake, really?” she demanded.

Marie had the decency to give her a sheepish look. “Oops.”

#supergirl #my writing #lucy lane #marie alexander #blacksite sirens #eventually