#blitz indites

[meowvin-the-magnificent]

Again

In Space With Markiplier

Warnings: None

Characters: The Captain, The Head Engineer

Tired eyes would open to the glitching screen—again, and again, and again. The infernal looping held them prisoner just as much as anyone else.

Once upon a time, they felt fear, and confusion.

Repetition. A loop. Their heart in their throat, wild looks cast through the bridge as the events repeated—again—again.

Gradually, it turned to anger.

That infernal droning of the computer—each utterance of “absolutely catastrophic”—bringing their blood to boil. Bringing their fist to pound at the glass encasing them, at the screen in front of them, aiming to break something—anything. Multiple times, they even launched themself into the dead of space, hoping to all hell that it would finally be over.

Anger, into exhausted desperation.

Save them, their mind repeated over and over. Figure it out, they’re you’re responsibility! They’d run. They’d try everything they could think of. It was never enough.

Then, numbness.

Tired eyes would open to the glitching screen—again, and again, and again. They’d press the emergency release, step out, try again. Again. Again. Over and over, again, again, again.

The infernal looping held them prisoner just as much as anyone else.

But…did anyone else remember?

Their eyes shifted to meet their loyal Head Engineer’s. Yes. Yes, someone did. He was trying, just as much as they were. Which of them had died more? Which of them had woken up more times to the blasted computer droning on and on? Which of them…

The Captain’s shoulders slumped. Even as the Invincible II jolted violently as, yet again, the ADS was offline, their eyes instead found the window that looked out into open space. The window, that had shattered more times than they could even remember anymore. The window, that had sucked both them, and Mark, out into dead space countless times, in countless loops.

“How long..?”

They didn’t speak much. Their actions spoke far louder, and it was never really questioned. Perhaps at one time, that voice had been firm, held an air of authority that could silence a room and draw all eyes on them. But now…

Now that voice was soft, barely a whisper. The edge was gone, chipped away by time and hopelessness and exhaustion.

Mark, always ready to try again, to try something new that maybe, just maybe, could get them down a path to fix all this, paused with his hand hovering at the ADS door’s controls. Neither of them were in any particular rush, not anymore. They had all the time in the world and more, it seemed.

“I… I don’t know, Captain.”

Both glanced down at the crystal in their palm. They’d gotten it, not long ago. It had allowed them to find new paths, new people, but… It still wasn’t enough. All it had offered was less repetition to the endless loops.

“We’ll solve this.” Mark’s hand on their shoulder. They breathed in. Out. Slowly. Closed their eyes but a moment, then nodded. “We have to.”

#markiplier #markiplier fanfiction #iswm #iswm spoilers #the captain #head engineer mark #blitz indites #minific #au: main verse

[voidendron]

Knew the Risk, Part 5: Iconoclasm

<<< Part 4

Star Wars: The Old Republic Post-Onslaught

Warnings: Brainwashing/Castellan Restraints Characters: Rediaex'aere'zortiea (Cipher Nine - Chiss), Ehna'dissen (Sith Inquisitor - Twi'lek), Ataiqo (Sith Inquisitor - Rattataki)

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

The medics had finally stopped watching him like he could keel over at any second. His body still ached sometimes, or phantom pains would race through the electrocution scars branching out from his chest and wrists. He did his best to hide the scars, but a few of their branches still peeked up past his collar and traced up his jaw.

He couldn’t help but lean heavily on a cane. Couldn’t help but hate himself for it. It was just another thing to inhibit him, to make him vulnerable and a liability, now. But it hurt to walk. That damned Inquisitor had screwed up an already damaged foot, and he just couldn’t hide the limp anymore.

There was still difficulty holding things at times. He couldn’t feel the prosthetic hands, had to watch them when he reached for anything to make sure he grabbed it securely. He’d dropped the cane often, or his water, and would growl with frustration. They felt clumsy, and weak, but at the same time somehow also too powerful—he’d cracked a datapad already when he hadn’t realized how tightly he held it, had bruised Theron’s fingers when he tried to squeeze them comfortingly and couldn’t help the pang of guilt for it.

A few cybernetic fingers was one thing. But the entirety of both hands? It was hard to adjust to. Xaerez had a new respect for the Barsen’thor’s silence and gentleness despite his own prosthetic limbs.

But Theron was patient. He’d bend down to grab the cane, or reach for a towel to wipe at any food or drink that happened to spill. He made no note of the light bruises, not even a grimace, and replaced the damaged datapad without comment.

“Be patient with yourself,” he’d remind the Chiss.

His hair had finally been cut. No more ponytail to tickle the back of his neck and irritate him to no end. He had his short, neat cut back, and was at least grateful for that. He’d hated the long hair. Hated the way he could feel it on his neck, or how loose strands would fall in his eyes. Hated how it offered yet another thing to grab onto or get in his way. He had no idea how he’d been able to stand long hair when he was younger.It felt like that was the only thing to be going his way, right then.

Xaerez grimaced as he wrung a hand around his wrist. The branching electrocution scars were still tender, and his gloves were irritating them to no end. He tried to loosen the straps, but it took three tries before clumsy fingers could finally succeed with the simple action. How could anyone function normally with prosthetic hands? he thought irritably.

Theron was atsome…officer meeting, he thought he’d heard, and wouldn’t be back for some time. It was the first time he’d left Xaerez alone for an extended period since he’d woken up, and it left the Chiss to linger in his own thoughts.

He took a slow, deep breath and tried not to wince at the ache in his chest. His broken ribs were healed by that point, but it didn’t change the fact that he was down an entire damn lung.

Tapping absentmindedly at the datapad, Xaerez’s lip curled into a distasteful frown. He wasn’t allowed into any of the sensitive files. He wasn’t allowed in on meetings. Or the training hall. Or to patrol. Or to even carry a goddamn weapon or chip in with even simple work. Surely, he didn’t blame the Alliance for being cautious—he’d been deep-cover for a few years behind Imperial lines, after all, and was still recovering from his injuries—but he couldn’t help his irritation.

He felt…useless. Vulnerable. A liability.

He was out of his element.

His fingers curled against the edge of the device.

Before he really even realized what he was doing, a frustrated string of Cheunh cursesleft him as the datapad flew from his hand. It hit the wall with a bang, and he grimaced as he could practically hear the crack that spiderwebbed across the screen on impact.

By the Force, Xaerez, he thought with a sigh as he stood. He grabbed for his cane, checked then double-checked that he had a secure hold on it, and went to scoop up the broken device.

A sigh and shake of the head, followed by another grimace when his holocall buzzed from the desk. That…must be Theron. He’d been expecting a call when the meeting was over.

He glanced down at the shattered datapad, tossed it to the bed, and made his way over to answer.

He reached for the device to turn it on.

Static. Then a voice he couldn’t make out. And the image finally flickered to life.

He swallowed and a scowl found his brow.

“How did you get this frequency?” he demanded.

The Twi’lek on the other end tilted her head and actually had the audacity to smile. “Now, that’s not a polite way to answer the holo, love…”

How had she gotten his frequency? How did she even know he was alive?!

He reached to turn it off. It worked for but a moment, then her image popped right back up.

Someone…someone had tampered with his holo. They still had a mole…

His thoughts weren’t allowed to linger there for long before Ehna’dissen opened her mouth again.

“Now, that ain’t nice. I’ve got somethin’ important—”

“And I don’t want to hear it.”

“Oh, I assure you, ya do.” The glare that found her face sent a chill down his spine. “Sister, dear?” Another figure—the assassin—stepped into view of the image. His free hand found the opposite wrist, as if covering the electrical scars would do anything to turn her voidlike stare away from him. “What was that word again?”

“Onomatophobia.”

Xaerez flinched, but locked his jaw and reached for the holo again. “Enough. Get on with whatever you wanted to say—that word hasn’t worked for—”

“Years?” The Twi’lek hummed, picking absentmindedly at her manicured nails. “The Castellan Restraints are permanent though—we both know that, don’t we, love? You can’t rid yourself of it, but can change your itty bitty little codeword. So there’s a new one, hmm?”

He swallowed, tightened his grip on his cane. “How do you..?”

The assassin stepped forward. It felt like she was staring into his very soul. “Your mind is strong.” Her voice was soft. Barely a whisper. His hearing implants almost couldn’t pick up on her words. “But to break the body, can weaken the defenses. Allow the shadows toe intrude. To retrieve secrets, buried deep.”

His eyes widened as realization hit him. His mental defenses…they’d faltered. She’d…she’d gotten that info, and…

His hands reached up to turn his hearing implants off, but clumsy fingers fumbled only a moment too long.

“Iconoclasm.”

The cane clattered to the floor as he stood to rigid attention. Even as his mind reeled, begged him to lunge for the holo, to break it, to silence them…

His body wouldn’t move.

They’d known he was alive when they left him in the hideout. Maybe they hadn’t particularly cared if he’d survived in the end, but they’d left with the knowledge that the Alliance would at least try to save him.

They’d left him, with whatever the assassin had pried from his violated mind.

They’d left him, knowing that if he did survive, well…

Xaerez would have collapsed to his knees and cried, or screamed, or, or… but he didn’t. The Restraints held him patient attention, awaiting Ehna’dissen’s command input.

Now they had a weapon unable to tell anyone that his Castellan Restraints, after so, so many years, were active again.

Now they had a weapon without access to the shuttles for an impromptu trip to Quesh.

Now… Now they had a weapon—a weapon, that would do whatever they demanded of him—planted securely right in the middle of Alliance HQ.

#swtor #imperial agent #sith inquisitor #chiss #twi'lek #rattataki #theron #blitz indites #blitz's ocs #oc: rediaex'aere'zortiea #oc: ehna'dissen #oc: ataiqo #xaerez/theron #brainwashing #castellan restraints #last one! #sorry for the chapter spam. i was just Really excited to Finally have something written after so long #and Especially excited for This piece in particular #sorry xaerez. you just can't catch a break

[blitzindite]

Human Among Aliens

Warnings: None Characters: Rudy (OC), Devos (OC) The characters depicted are OCs. Rudy is a human and scientist, Devos is an alien (Tift’an) and acts as a warrior on the ship. They’re pirates, and traverse space plundering, selling, and discovering new life. This is a little slice-of-life from Rudy’s POV.

It was easy to get lost on the old ship, the human noted. It was an old cargo ship with so many modifications by the pirates now in its possession that it could hardly be called a cargo ship anymore.

The human skirted around the massive Ancient that lumbered past him and his cart. The big beast was the last of its kind, and someone Rudy always found himself staring at in awe. He’d been around non-Terrans all his life, but there were still so many creatures out there he still couldn’t believe existed. Planets that should by no scientific means allow for any form of life, yet did.

The young man grinned as he shoved his cart along, nodded to those to take notice of him. The humanoids received smiles, the eyeless ones a deep nod that their whiskers would pick up the movement of.

“Easy there, Terran!”

The armored form of Devos took hold of the cart and stopped it in its tracks just as a pack of quadrupeds darted through the doorway the alien had just emerged from. Canines from Rudy’s home planet, with a non-Terran or two in the mix. Most of them were mutts, but the man recognized some of the larger breeds as they ran yapping down the hall.

“Dogs’re loose!” the hulking pirate before him laughed. Knowing Devos, he’d probably been the one to loose them in the first place.

Even so, Rudy couldn’t help the wide grin to spread his face. Even with twitching whiskers and armor-plated skin; an eyeless face and nostrils at his neck flaring; sharp teeth pulled into a bright smile, Devos acted human. Or maybe Rudy acted like a Tift’an. It was funny how such different creatures could be so similar, yet look so different.

“So! What’s our resident nerd up to?” the Tift’an asked. When he leaned against the cart, Rudy half expected it to tip over under Devos’ weight.

Rudy leaned forward to lift the tarp off his cart, “Captain’s leg needs some pretty bad repairs. Need to fix up some weapons, too.”

Devos scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “Huh. How about that friend’a yours. The new one?”

“The amphibian?”

“Yeah! That’s the one.”

The human shrugged. “I don’t know anything about its species except that it feeds through photosynthesis and is extremely intelligent despite a lack of mouth and simple cellular structures. I’m hoping an Ancient can help me figure its language out.” Running a hand through his hair, the scientist shook his head. “Right now we don’t even know its name. So. Yeah.”

“Huh. And it’s got those…‘eyes’ some of you got?”

“Yes, Devos.” Rudy grinned and patted the pirate atop the head (or, as far as he could reach on he far taller creature), and couldn’t help but start laughing when it made Devos’ nostrils flare. “I already explained eyes to you. They work like your whiskers!”

A shout from somewhere deeper in the ship brought both men to whirl in that direction.

“…That…sounded like Ashanko,” Rudy murmured. “You, uh…think the dogs..?”

“If they’re in the cafeteria, we’re going to your lab! Go, go!” The Tift’an laughed as he grabbed the cart himself and took off in the opposite direction as the ruckus.

Really, when they weren’t plundering, it was an average day among the pirates of Captain Marra’s ship.

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^^^This is Rudy. He was designed by Lumen-Terra on DeviantArt, who is also the creator of this image. I purchased the character from him, but have yet to make my own reference for Rudy since I just bought him the other day. Use of this image or design by anyone else is prohibited.

Devos has yet to be drawn.

#blitz's ocs #blitz indites #rudy remmings #devos the tiftan #aliens #space pirates #pirates #scientist #ocs #slice of life #original character

[meowvin-the-magnificent]

y'know what this'll make it so much easier to keep track of them and everything than individual posts on Tumblr

so here's my ability & aura headcanons for the Egos

#markiplier #jacksepticeye #blitz indites #hc: auras #hc: abilities #headcanons

[meowvin-the-magnificent]

AU Summary: The Outside

writing this as a means to have something to easily link back to if someone asks, or so I, myself, can quickly double-check things.

The Outside was a massive fic I started back in December of 2017, but unfortunately lost the motivation to work on it come August 2019 after over 60 chapters. I've begun the process of rewriting it, and you can keep up with my progress over on @asktheoutside.

The fic follows the Septics and Ipliers, who've fled their dimensional plane--the Figmental Plane--for the Plane of Reality, or "Outside," as they begin to fade years after their Creators ended their YouTube careers. Now, they have to figure out how to live among humans, while they also try desperately not to give themselves away as non-human--for who knows what a human might do if they figure out Egos truly exist?

Chase and his two kids, alongside Bing, Jameson, the Jim Twins, and Eric are the first group to leave, setting in motion the domino effect that would have everyone else following. They end up in London, England. Chase is the group's primary PoV character, while Bing is the one forging their documentation and keeping contact with the other groups.

Jackie, Marvin, the King, Bim, and Silver and his girlfriend follow next. PoV shifts between Jackie and Marvin, and later Yancy or Illinois. They end up in Los Angeles but quickly change locations to nearby Claremont, and were the group to contact Yancy, Illinois, and Magnum who'd fled years before. The trio helps them adjust to the human world and gives them a place to stay while they get settled.

Jacques follows not even twenty-four hours later, on their own to LA. They're afraid of humans, but even more afraid of dying. It doesn't take long for them to get in contact with the others, however, and can often be found with Jackie's group. Their keen eye tends to notice things better left unseen.

The four Googles follow a few weeks later into LA, following the realization that they can't keep up with the repairs their fades are requiring. Blue forces the Upgrades to follow, and much of their time in subsequent chapters are spent repairing themselves, and keeping in touch with the other groups--specifically, Bing's and Dark's. PoV held most by Blue or Oliver.

Dark, Edward, Host, and Wilford are next, with Edward usually holding PoV. They find their way to Breckenridge, Colorado, in the hopes that it being a tourist town will disguise their sudden residence there. Wilford and Edward find jobs, while Dark remains at the hotel to keep an eye on the Host, who's begun growing extremely ill.

Henrik is last, and leaves on his own into LA. Weighed by a combination of guilt and anger, he won't contact any of the others, and soon finds himself in... less-than-optimal company...

#blitz indites #au: outside #jacksepticeye #markiplier

[meowvin-the-magnificent]

AU Summary: Deep Blue Sea

Deep Blue Sea is my Subnautica/JSE Egos crossover AU.

It follows the sole survivors of the Aurora crash, who must both find a way to cure the bacterium that ails them, and a way off the planet, all while surviving the dangerous ocean world.

Game novelization with a twist.

Chase takes the spot of the player character as the maintenance chief, crashing down in the safe shallows. He's unconsciously taken the role of a leader for the group of survivors, and his words have far more impact than he could have ever expected. Alongside Jackie, the two of them are the first to go scouting dangerous areas just to keep the others safe. He's also the only one who knows how to use the repair tool...

Jackie, a security guard aboard the ship, crashed down into the crag field, where he was forced to flee his damaged and flooding pod as it found itself under attack by bone sharks. While the planet does terrify him, he's the first to step in front of the others in the face of danger, and wields a broken flare as a spear that he's proven to be scary good at using.

Marvin was an entertainer, and managed to take the only other pod that would remain at the surface. Unfortunately for him, he landed in the crash zone and was subjected to reaper attacks, forcing him to flee for the safe shallows before he'd become a reaper's next meal. He's smart, and cautious, but his cautiousness can slow down the progress of the group--especially when it comes to going near the Aurora, as he's especially terrified of the reapers. He starts with self-preservation as his number one priority, but does come to care deeply for the rest of the group's well-being.

Henrik was the chief medical officer, and went down in the bulb zone. He's terrified to the point of paralyzing fear and panic attacks of the world around him, so is often forced to remain at the habitat with Jameson. He's a hack, having cheated his medical exams, but can at least patch up the group's minor injuries with some competence.

Jameson, the owner of the café, crashed into the grassy plateaus near an entrance to the purple caves; he had a lifepod partner, an engineer named O'Harris, who quickly met his end to a crab snake. Jameson drowned on his way to the surface, saved by Jackie and Henrik who were on their way to Chase's pod. Jameson ended up with broken ribs as a result of the CPR that saved him, forcing him to remain in the habitat unless using a vehicle. He keeps the group's spirits up even as all seems lost.

Second Officer Martyn Keen landed in the deep sparse reef and sent out a message to the surviving lifepods to head for the floating island's coordinates. He rendezvoused with CTO Yu on the way, but the two were quickly cut off from escape by an unknown person living on the island. Yu was killed by the figure and thrown into the ocean, while Keen was saved by the arrival of the other survivors--with Jackie distracting the stranger so Keen and Chase could run for the water. Keen has since begun realizing Chase is a natural leader, so while there's some headbutting to begin with, he surrenders it to Chase.

And then Anti... Antony Sepse was a microbiologist aboard the Degasi who's been isolated for nearly a decade thanks to enzyme-carrying peepers keeping him alive. His humanity is gone, and he sees only a threat to his life in the Aurora survivors. While he attempts to kill them whenever seeing them, his and Bart's studies that were left behind prove a boon to the group's survival.

#jacksepticeye #subnautica crossover #blitz indites #au: deep blue sea #chase brody #jackieboy man #marvin the magnificent #dr schneeplestein #jameson jackson #antisepticeye #second officer keen

[meowvin-the-magnificent]

Ego: Blitz

Blitz was the first Ego of his Creator, an internet persona come to life within the Figmental Plane. His mask, horns, and even flower are all derived from the mascot he shares a name with, and although similar they're two different people. His mask is his face, but he can use illusions to hide it and his horns. If he were to enter the humans' existential plane, he'd be granted an actual face and ability to remove the mask, and his horns would disappear. His flower would likely shift positions to look like it was pinned to the chest of his hoodie.

He likes to think he's the common sense among his fellow Flowers, but.... he's really not. He is, however, the glue that holds them all together even as they argue or face life-threatening situations. He's cautious, closed-off, and can be jumpy, but when it comes to the other Flowers he'll step in front of them to take a hit in a heartbeat. Whether he likes it or not, he's become the group's de facto leader.

His flower, an amaryllis, usually curls around his remaining horn, and he uses twine to keep it from moving too much. It represents strength, pride, and determination - virtues he strives for but often struggles with. He often feels that he was granted the wrong flower, and sometimes envies the others for how fitting their own are to them.

The other Flowers noticed a long time ago that he avoids reflective surfaces. When he does pass them, he either lacks a reflection completely, or it doesn't move in sync with him and almost appears to be stalking him.

Aura & Abilities

His aura is the twisted silhouette of the mascot he's inspired by: A hunched creature with a too-long neck, floating gas mask of a face, and arms ending in oversized hands and talons almost dragging over the ground. It towers behind him, mirroring him as if it were actually his shadow. The smell of flowers, too many to name any in particular, radiate from it.

-Reality Warping: Has limited illusionary capabilities. Most often, he'll use them to hide his horns and give himself a "human" face instead of his mask. He'll sometimes use the ability to make it look like he has a reflection.

-Scopaesthesia: That sense you might get when you feel like someone's looking at you? His sense of it is much stronger than normal, letting him know if someone even gives him a simple passing glance so they don't run into him in the street, and is a very much hated ability due to the paranoia it can cause him.

-Necromancy: In a sense. Can bring plants back to life, no matter what state they're in. Even ones burned to a crisp, as long as there's something left to hold, a new root system will grow in moments and color will bloom. Limited mostly to flowers, though can also revive saplings of flowering trees.

#ego: blitz/oliver #the dead flowers #art: concepts #blitz draws #blitz indites #there we goooo #im considering him my persona

[voidendron]

Knew the Risk, Part 1: Liar, Liar

Part 2 >>>

Star Wars: The Old Republic Post-Onslaught

Warnings: Character Injury, Blood

Characters: Rediax'aere'zortiea (Cipher Nine - Chiss), Theron Shan, Ataiqo (Sith Inquisitor - Rattataki), Ehna'dissen (Sith Inquisitor - Twi'lek)

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Lies.

Lies were something he’d always excelled at, from minor twisting of the truth, to taking on entirely new identities.

To get exactly what he wanted, he told even the boldest lies as if they were nothing but truth.

A new face, a new voice, a new name. Just enough data given up to gain Emperor Vowrawn’s favor without screwing over the Alliance, and… well. What galactic power wouldn’t want a skilled spy under its thumb?

The Empire wouldn’t fully trust him—never had as Cipher Nine, never would as Nav’erdat’enn—but he could work with that. A spy was used to not being trusted, after all.

Days turned to weeks, weeks into months, and the months stretched on. Nearly a year, and sometimes he still went to twist the ring that wasn’t on his finger. The ring he’d left with Theron with the promise he’d be back for it, with one final kiss before boarding the “stolen” Alliance shuttle.

Before taking on a new identity.

Before aggravating those he considered allies, to the point they attacked him—to the point they nearly shot down the stolen shuttle, nearly killed him, before he fled for Imperial space.

Time continued to tick on. Time didn’t care what was left behind, only what was to come.

Almost a year-and-a-half, and Vowrawn had begun selecting Xaerez for covert missions. The Emperor’s personal spy.

Finally.

Now his work could truly begin.

He started small. Just the occassional bit of information slipped to the Alliance. Bits that wouldn’t be traced back to him. Bits, that would slowly add up until he slipped away with something big—something important—and wasn’t found out until it was far too late.

Over time, he constructed a small hideout deep in the jungles of Dromund Kaas. Hidden by drooping vines and heavy branches and a rushing waterfall that drowned the sounds of the single door. Foliage, arranged to hide perimeter sensors from sight.

Within, the hideout was a single room with a simple, heavily encrypted, holoterminal. A small cupboard with emergency stocks: Food, water, first aid. Nothing more.

It was small, and simple, but it did its job.

He couldn’t help his gentle smile the first time he could use the holo: A too-familiar face greeted him on the other end. They always stayed professional—they were on the job, after all—but each time he saw Theron on the other end, he was reminded why he was doing this. Reminded, who he could eventually go home for.

They always ended the call with Xaerez inputting his latest data and leaning over the holo to be as close to Theron as he could be. He only wished he could actually touch the man, rather than study his flickering image.

“I love you,” Theron would say.

Xaerez would swallow past the lump in his throat. “I’ll be home soon.”

“Soon” ticked on.

And on.

And on…

Xaerez reported on Vowrawn, the state of the Empire’s military, mining complexes and slave camps and scouting patrols. Anything he could get away with, without ousting himself as a spy or arousing suspicion of one in their ranks.

He reported on a new Sith often at Vowrawn’s side—a replacement for Malgus, for Scourge, for Azan. His new Wrath, in all but name.

He reported when Vowrawn fell ill, and again when he’d recovered. Reported on the state of the Dark Council, and Raven Squad, and the Isotope-5-powered warships.

As time ticked to the three-year mark, he had it: The type of information he’d been waiting for. The Empire was going to attempt an ambush and assassination on the Commander and any of her present officers when her ship reached a neutral spaceport. It would be the Empire’s best assassins, with the best tools, and far more organized than he’d seen from them in a long time. The plan consisted of such clear knowledge of what was happening that he sensed a spy in the Alliance’s ranks.

Xaerez slipped away from Kaas City with a stealth generator active. The long trek to his hideout was one he’d memorized by that point. One he could have practically followed with his eyes closed.

That is, if it wasn’t for rushing rivers, dangerous predators, flashes of lightning that would strike the ground around him, and narrow cliffs that lay between it, and the city.

He wasn’t smiling this time when he reported to Theron what he’d discovered. His breathing was heavy and sweat slicked his brow; he’d run for as long and as fast as a bad foot would allow through rough jungle terrain.

“Assassination attempt?” said Theron. He pursed his lips and glanced to the side, likely to someone out of view of the holo. “When?”

Xaerez shook his head. “Soon. It sounds like the Commander is traveling to Nar Shaddaa soon?” He knew why the Alliance didn’t keep him updated on these things while he was deep-cover, but it would sure be nice to at least have an idea of when it would be happening, or how big of an event was planned.

Theron cursed under his breath. “Okay, okay. I know exactly what they’re trying to stop. This complicates things… But we’ll deal with it. This info will save lives, Xae.”

“…Theron?”

“Hmm?”

“I…fear they’re becoming suspicious.”

His eyes widened. “Of you?”

“Uncertain.” He could still feel the way Vowrawn’s assassin eyed him, the way her eyes bored into him as if reading his very soul.

“Then you need to be careful. Go radio silent for a while.”

Xaerez nodded as he pulled a data spike from his pocket. “Before I go, I do have some good information. It’s about one of the Isotope-5 ships.”

Theron perked up at that. Xaerez had a location where it would be docked for a while. A crew manifesto, codes, how much Isotope-5 was left in the first place and the Empire’s forces on now-uninhabitable Makeb, whatever he’d managed to get his hands on. Maybe, just maybe, the Alliance could claim it for itself.

Theron was actually smiling now. This could be exactly what they needed to finally end the damned war.

The sensors scattered throughout the hideout never went off.

The hidden entrance made not a sound.

There was barely a flicker in the shadows to hint at another presence in the room.

And yet, there most certainly was…

The presence didn’t make itself known until Xaerez reached for the terminal to transmit the data.

He first saw the weapon: A long staff, with what he could only describe as a fanged maw on the end. The wielder’s black robes seemed to manifest from the shadows themselves. Their face, shrouded by a skull-like mask as dark as their robes.

The logical part of Xaerez’s brain said the eyes of the mask were one-way transparisteel. The shocked part saw only soulless voids that seemed to stare straight through him.

The staff’s teeth closed on his wrists.

He wasn’t sure if the noise was its jaws snapping together, or the crunching of bone. Wasn’t sure if the shock traveling up his arms was the electricity dancing between its teeth, or the pain of pierced tendons and splintering bone.

Theron’s cry of alarm was cut short as the wielder proceeded to smash their now-bloodied staff against the holoterminal. It sparked once, his image flickered, and it turned off—likely for good.

Xaerez hit one knee, hands clutched against his chest as he hissed through clenched teeth and eyes blurred by tears remaining pinned where Theron’s image had last stood. It wasn’t long before the shadowy figure moved into his line of sight and, as the shock faded, he recognized her as Vowrawn’s personal assassin—as Malgus’ replacement.

The perimeter sensors started wailing, and the assassin smashed her weapon against the control box near the door.

The sounds immediately died out to leave only the spy’s breathing to be heard.

Minutes felt as though they stretched into hours before the door finally slid open.

The woman to enter was one he’d learned to avoid from others’ stories of her. Twi’lek, Sith—interrogator, with the temper and cruelty to match.

She was the very same who’d killed his clone to convince the Empire—and the galaxy as a whole—that Cipher Nine was dead. The very same who’d thrown the clone’s lifeless body at the Commander’s feet with a sneer, who’d broadcast the murder for all in the Alliance to bear witness.

Under the shadow of her cap, she wore a cruel grin that could make anyone’s blood run cold.

#swtor #imperial agent #sith inquisitor #theron shan #theron shan/imperial agent #blitz indites #blitz's ocs #oc: rediaex'aere'zortiea #oc: nav'erdat'enn #oc: ataiqo #oc: ehna'dissen #xaerez/theron #character injury #blood #YEET LETS GOOOO #finally getting to this fic #AND all the chapters are done 👀 #they just gotta be posted

[voidendron]

Andur Melor, Exarch of the Voss Star Fortress, was the humanity that his fellow Exarchs threw aside for fancy upgrades and powerful battle-stations.

He volunteered for Project: Exarch later into the experiment, and was the final member added to their ranks. He'd suggested a close friend of his to volunteer for the Project after the murder of his wife by what would later become the Alliance - unfortunately, the Project brought his friend's mind to be effectively, if accidentally, wiped and turned into a mere program. The guilt Andur felt for it would bring him to also volunteer, as if to punish himself for the "death" of his friend.

The Project brought forth greater physical strength for Andur, and with it, far heightened senses even by the standards of other Force-sensitives. He can pick up on minute changes in the air, hear things he shouldn't, and see details anyone else would miss. Though Exarch Draya could beat him in hand-to-hand combat, it would be Andur to beat any of the others in a fair match of physical strength alone thanks to his enhancements.

More softspoken and far calmer and more willing to resolve a situation peacefully than his peers, Andur was often considered soft by the others, and some of them looked down on him rather than viewing him as an equal. Still, he worked hard for his people and planet, and would have protected it to his dying breath if the need arose.

That is, until he saw the damage, the pain and suffering, that Zakuul was inflicting on the rest of the galaxy and even its own people, spurred first by what happened to his best friend - to now-Exarch Jom Vanten. And he began to doubt. Doubt his Emperor, doubt his planet, doubt his beliefs and standing with his world.

He met his supposed end at the hands of former Cipher Nine, who'd infiltrated his Fortress with a stealth generator active with the goal of destroying it. However, inconsistencies in the agent's report, as well as his lack of close combat capabilities, suggest Andur may have survived and let the agent go alive (if an altercation even occurred in the first place).

...And also that he was the one to tip off the Alliance to Fortress and Exarch weaknesses in the first place.

#swtor #exarchs of zakuul #exarch: andur melor #blitz indites #doubt and guilt are powerful things that can tear down even the strongest of people #and andur let them eat him alive #andur lost his way. and ultimately lost everything #his best friend. the trust of his people. the knights under his command he surely had a good relationship with #his entire belief and what he'd worked so hard to protect all his life #all in the hopes that. just maybe. the alliance could steer zakuul on the right track #and no one else would have to suffer that way again

[voidendron]

"Glorious" and Forta Gair for the random word generator?

thank you, Raven / @raven-of-domain-kwaad ! 💚💜 have a Forta taking her first steps in her new Fortress

Humming, clicking, whirring, as the station’s automated systems worked tirelessly—noises, all drowned by the clanking of heavy boots over a metal floor.

Helmet tucked under one arm, cape sweeping behind her, eye studying the walls around her. It was a magnificent structure. An impressive weapon—a battle station—all her own.

Forta walked the stretching halls alone; the Knights that were to be under her command were busying themselves elsewhere in the station, and one could hardly count the Skytroopers within as adequate company. Tarso had long since finished his lecture on how the Fortresses worked and Emperor Arcann left the Exarchs to their own devices, to run the Fortresses as they pleased so long as they kept blockade and careful watch over their respective worlds.

She found herself glancing out a viewport, to the planet below. Belsavis. The prison planet.

A distasteful curl found her lip.

On the one hand, an entire planet dedicated to a complex prison system was…rather impressive, to say the least. On the other…the people down there were nothing. She could barely even bring herself to call them “people.”

Shifting her helmet to her hip, her free hand rested on the one opposite as her mind raced with possibilities. The others, with the exception of Tarso, got far more interesting stations. Draya, over the political hellfire that was Alderaan. Melor over the strange world of Voss where one was never short of new mysteries and discoveries. Malforia dealing with Balmorran rebels who couldn’t seem to take a hint and stay down.

And what did Forta get but a world of prison cells and criminals. Prison cells, she could have gotten had she stayed a mere Knight on Zakuul to continue policing the people. Criminals, if she’d taken Zotar’s place in charge of the Old World.

Belsavis was nothing new or exciting.

But…perhaps with the masterpiece that was the Star Fortress—her Star Fortress—well. Perhaps that was about to change.

A thoughtful smile took over as she thought of it. What could she get desperate prisoners to do, for her or to each other? How could she break them, give herself a bit of a show as she waited for something—anything—truly interesting to happen?

Oh, it could be glorious…

#swtor #exarchs of zakuul #exarch: forta gair #answered ask #the-raven-of-highever #random word prompts #blitz indites #this one's pretty short #but i like how it came out!

[voidendron]

Friendly Competition

Star Wars: The Old Republic

Warnings: Smoking, Alcohol

Characters: Zotar, Arlaia Zayzen, Nocturno

They may be at each others' throats in the Arena Grand, where any day could be their last... But they're content to share a drink together when the fight is over.

A contented sigh left him as he watched her take a long drag from her cigarra. She’d already been told off once by the bartender to take it outside, so now she was being (somewhat) more discrete about it.

Zotar leaned back in his seat with his drink clutched close to his chest, stretching to glance at the transparisteel in the floor behind him. The muffled screeching of Iknayids in the arena beneath were almost drowned by the buzzing chatter in the oft-busy cantina, and occasional cheers of its patrons.

Pale yellow eyes drifted from the window into the arena, to the probe droid hovering at his table-mate’s shoulder. He tilted his head at it, listened intently to the noises of its frame. Its topper rotated, single “eye” setting on him as it hummed low. Droids, machines, had a language all their own. If only others would take a moment to appreciate it, as the two of them did.

He pressed further, cybernetics laying bare the intricate processors of the machine before him, making communication with it oh, so easy. But, then he pulled back; pulled away, before enhancements could coax down firewalls and reveal programming. It was a respected opponent’s ally, and not for him to toy with outside the arena.

“Your droids are fond of you,” he rumbled instead.

A grin that revealed a freshly-chipped tooth found her lips and she turned to pat at the droid. It gave a soft trill, pinching in what could almost be called a playful manner at her fingers. It was one that had obviously seen combat: One of its arms was off-model from a scrounged-up replacement, battle scars chipped what had been pristine black paint at one point in its life, and its bulkier-than-average chassis for the unit it was modeled after promised hidden weaponry.

“My Azzies are a pain the ass,” she chuckled, batting the pincers away; there was a fondness in her voice, “but they’re damn loyal old things.”

She blew a puff of smoke at him, but he simply waved a hand a few times to dissipate it before the bartender’s stink-eye could spot it.

“Where are the others?” She was usually followed by a small entourage of the things, with at least two accompanying her in the arena at all times.

She scratched behind her ear with a shrug. “Chargin’ after repairs.” And with that said, she reached across the table to punch his arm; her bare knuckles barely tinked against his heavy armor. “Shocky screwed ‘em up a good one.”

An easy grin found his face at that. After Shock, his trusty old walker. She was quite the adversary even just on her own. She’d barely taken a dent from the probe droids, though had tripped over her own two feet at one point, when the little things zipped around her and she’d tried to keep up, to nearly send her landing on top of Zotar. “It was a good duel,” he agreed.

Most who faced him in the arena never got the chance to face him again, but… Well. There were a few he’d grown fond of over the years, and would much rather keep around. Even if Emperor Arcann wouldn’t have approved. Gods, if he knew Zotar took part in the Arena Grand, rather than simply keeping some semblance of control in the Old World and disbanding the archaic practice, he’d have the Exarch’s head.

He took a deep drink from his glass, closing his eyes as it burned down his throat. Maybe a part of him reveled in the risk of being caught. It was a thrilling notion, even if it would surely mean his demise.

The faint tickle of heat against his cheek brought his eyes open again; his companion had puffed a rather large cloud of smoke in the air. That time, the bartender saw. “Zayzen!” the man barked—Zotar quirked a lip at the thought of the man’s hair bristling atop his head like an agitated Nexu.

Arlaia rolled her eyes andflicked her cigarra to the floor, but her droid obediently zipped around to pick it up and dispose of it properly.

She had her goggles pushed up on her forehead; it made the tanline around her eyes so obvious Zotar could almost chuckle at the sight of it. Instead, he tipped his head a little as she eyed him.

“Your girl always gets the spotlight,” she started as she reached for her own, nearly empty, drink. “But what about your little ones? I’ve seen those karkers reduce a man to ashes, but ol’ Shocky? She just bullies her way to the win.”

That really did bring a chuckle from him. His grin laid bare a few teeth that sat crooked, though none quite so damaged as his fresh-from-the-fight companion. He could still smell the smoke on her, and that wasn’t counting what clung on her breath from the discarded cigarra.

His eyes shifted, to the short hallway that housed a single elevator. A mere thought could bring those very droids, and his trusted “Shocky,” online in an instant. Perhaps, one day, he’d allow her a closer look at them—without them trying to kill her. But for now, he wanted to keep their secrets to himself until he needed to figure out something new to keep up his win streak.

Instead, he simply rolled a shoulder in what could only be described as a shrug. Her scoff only made him smirk behind his drink.

“What’s this one’s name?” he asked instead. Sure, he could have easily gotten it from the droid itself, but he knew how the woman before him could be. Nothing made her happier than rambling about her pride and joys—well, except maybe the idea of, possibly one day, claiming the Eternal Champion title from Zotar. But even that would have been close.

“Azzie-Tee.” She didn’t seem to mind the change in subject even as she rubbed at the kolto patch across the bridge of her nose with a wince. One well-aimed blow from the pommel of his pike had knocked her out cold to win Zotar the fight—and also broken her nose. Again. “Retired now, but he’s a good boy. Aren’t ya, Tee?”

The droid chirped and clicked his pincers together.

He listened to her go on and on about the droid’s specs, and abilities, and how she’d come to acquire him by stealing him from a Breaktown gangster. As he did, his pale eyes drifted through the cantina, caught the elevator as a pair got off. One had the massive grin and pep to his step of a kid who’d just won his first real duel. The other, the slow gait of a veteran who had countless wins under her belt—and also now a mentor to her over-eager partner. Nocturno and her new protege.

The kid—Drake, he believed he’d heard—went sprinting off to the counter to buy himself a drink with his small winnings. Nocturno, for her part, inclined her head in greeting as she approached the table. Zotar pushed his helmet aside to give her a place, but she remained on her feet.

It had taken time for Zotar and Nocturno to have the same, easy conversation the other gladiators did in their off-time. Zotar, an Exarch in charge of keeping the Old World in check. Nocturno, who’d abandoned the Knights long ago for reasons she never spoke of. But now? Oh, even Zotar had to admit he’d learned a thing or two from the old woman.

The former Knight stroked a hand over Azzie-Tee; the noise he made in greeting could almost be called a purr. Arlaia’s little companions always seemed quite fond of her.

“How’s the kid?” Arlaia asked with a grin. “Any potential?”

Nocturno hummed in affirmative. She was oftenone of few words.

Soon, off came the helmet to rest on the table next to Zotar’s, and a pulled out a chair to claim a seat. Any grayed hair that had come loose from its bun tumbled to frame her weathered face.

One gesture from the Exarch was all it took for a waitress to scurry over with a drink for their newest table-mate.

Conversation drifted easily, as if between old friends.

Sure, they knew they could be pitted against one another any time, and maybe one day one of them wouldn’t walk away, but…

Well, it was good to relax a little and be friendly with the competition.

#swtor #exarchs of zakuul #exarch: ren zotar #arlaia zayzen #nocturno #the arena grand #blitz indites #uhhhhhhhhh #zotar/arlaia anyone???? how tf did that happen #anyway! arlaia and nocturno are mine now too #bioware can suck my d*ck about it #and these three can cause problems on purpose together. as a treat #(nocturno is the mom friend who tells them they're both idiots. then has to save their butts) #(because SOMEONE has to have the braincell) #(and whether he thinks he does or not #mister exarch most certainly Does Not have the breaincell between them) #smoking #alcohol

[voidendron]

The Paladins of Odessen (aka Oliver's gonna ramble about his main legacy lore some more)

The Paladins have a simple rank-system based on not only combat capabilities, but also how well they hold up the Paladin Force doctrine, their knowledge in various matters, and whether or not their mentors believe them ready to leave their title of student behind

Recruits are those who wish to become a Paladin. Consist primarily of teenagers and young adults, though anyone can join as a recruit regardless of age and species if they show a willingness to learn. They go through basic training in the Paladins' ways, giving them ample chance to decide if it's the lifestyle for them or not.

Students are recruits who have been taken by a mentor after the period of basic training ends and they've chosen to remain. Most mentors take a few students, and do a combination of group and one-on-one training with these apprentices. Groups of students tend to "graduate" to Paladin at once, and it's a respected and celebrated occasion.

Paladins are the basic rank, like Jedi Knight or Sith Lord. It often takes a few years for a student to become a Paladin.

Grand Paladins have gone above and beyond to protect, teach, and learn. They show great understanding of the Force and world around them, and are highly respected by their Order and the Alliance. Grand Paladins are often trusted with sensitive tasks, and readily aid Paladins with training their students.

Mentors are Paladins or Grand Paladins who have chosen to take on students. It's a highly respected position that requires utmost patience. To become a mentor, Paladins must first look to the Circle to decide if they're ready for such a responsibility, and the Circle can also revoke said responsibility. Revocation is rare, however, as they first aim to aid the mentor in finding their faults in their teaching, and fixing those faults.

The Circle consists of the Paladin leaders - Grands who showed strong leadership and decision-making capabilities, who worked well together but also had differing backgrounds and moral codes that would allow them to view situations from multiple angles. Though members of the Circle may argue or disagree, they're carefully selected based on their abilities to compromise and hear others out, ensuring these disagreements are ended in enlightening ways. Members of the Circle are selected by the Order as a whole by those old enough to comprehend what they're deciding on, and can in turn be removed by the Order.

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

The Paladins are closely intertwined with the Alliance - there isn't one, without the other. Though the Commander ultimately makes the final call regarding Alliance goings-on, their counsel with the Circle becomes important to the point of tradition as the generations stretch on.

It's also not unusual for Grand Paladins to hold officer positions, and in some cases even that of Commander. However, members of the Circle cannot become Commander, and vice versa, to prevent single individuals from holding too much power.

It's commonplace for Paladins to work in Alliance Security or Archaeology, though there are of course those who find other jobs as healers, warriors, scientists, farmers, and more.

Paladins see no issue with relationships - so long as they don't get in the way of their values. And for many, relationships - familial or otherwise - often serve to strengthen the individual's Paladin values.

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

Though the Paladins don't necessarily have a mantra, they instead have a set of important values:

Protect those who can't defend themselves.

Preserve and Respect the histories and cultures around you.

Archive the past to learn from it and prevent its loss

Learn from the people and world around you.

Teach those willing to learn.

Listen to the whispers of the Force, but don't follow them blindly.

#blitz rambles #blitz indites #world building #alliance paladins #this is rambly and some stuff is subject to chance #but YEET #have some paladin hcs

[voidendron]

Knew the Risk, Part 2: Limits

<< Part 1 | Part 3 >>>

Star Wars: The Old Republic Post-Onslaught

Warnings: Violence, Major Character Injury, Torture* *Broken Bones, Choking, Blood Loss, Electrocution Characters: Rediaex'aere'zortiea (Cipher Nine - Chiss), Ehna'dissen (Sith Inquisitor - Twi'lek), Ataiqo (Sith Inquisitor - Rattataki)

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

The Twi’lek—Ehna’dissen—liked to talk. To herself, to her victim, to the assassin she called her “sister.” She wore white, but wasn’t afraid to get blood on her jacket, or gloves, or boots. It looked as though it would stain, but she kept smiling and there was a pep to her voice even as she grabbed Xaerez’s chin and manicured nails bitinto his cheeks.

She wasn’t as good at torture as she thought. Didn’t pace herself, got carried away, and was more likely to kill her victim if they had a strong enough will to keep their mouth shut. It didn’t change the fact that everything hurt.

“C’mon, love…” Her tone juxtaposed her actions as her nails drew blood. “I just wanna know how much your Alliance been told…”

Xaerez didn’t meet her eyes, simply stared down at his discolored hands without a word. They’d gone numb and wouldn’t obey when he tried to make them move.

He knew his limit.

She didn’t.

She’d sooner accidentally kill him than push him to answer, just as she’d done with his clone all those years ago. Just as she’d likely done to dozens of others in the past.

While the interrogator tried to break his body, the assassin prodded at his mind. He could feel her testing his resolve even as she stood motionless out of the Twi’lek’s way. Could feel her prod and pry at his mental defenses that he kept firmly in place.

When he lifted his eyes to look to her mask, the assassin tilted her head.

“Ataiqo, dear. I want his name.”

He couldn’t help his flinch when the assassin was suddenly in his face and the soulless voids of her mask were staring him straight in the eyes. Then she was gone, and he could hear her rummaging about the room.

Ehna’dissen tsked; Ataiqo only shook her head. “Cybernetics and training block his mind,” she said, and her voice was as quiet as one would imagine. Quiet, as if she were whispering through the shadows themselves. “Unless you want it shattered so we don’t get anything at all, I’ll find another way to get his true identity.”

She tried, and she failed, and even still Xaerez stayed quiet despite threats on his life; despite new wounds and electrocution; despite nails biting into his face and neck and his broken hands. Despite it all, he spoke not a word. His mental defenses remained firmly in place, his jaw stubbornly clamped shut.

The smell of burnt flesh and singed clothes clung in his nose; he was shaking. He couldn’t tell anymore if it was from the cold falling over him, or the aftershocks of Force lightning.

His eyes were dull as he felt his body growing weak—internal bleeding, blood on the floor, it was hard to breathe—but they remained fixed at the far wall, now. He no longer so much as glanced at the assassin, nor the interrogator.

He’d slipped up. He might never get the chance to figure out how, but either way he’d messed up. Given himself away. Given the assassin enough reason to track him and discover where his loyalties truly lay all this time. He only wondered just how long that suspicion had been there.

He couldn’t feel his hands anymore. They were discolored from the lack of oxygenated blood, wouldn’t obey him when he tried to bend his fingers. Broken wrists still bled; all he could do was press them against his stained clothes to try and stem the flow.

His clothes were soaked through with his own sweat and blood, clung painfully into the cuts and scratches scored into his flesh. Clung, to the lightsaber and lightning burns that were getting oh, so hard to ignore. The soaked clothes licked the warmth from his body, worsened the shivers already wracking his weakened frame.

It hurt to breathe. Fractured ribs and a punctured lung flared with pain with each shallow breath. He was slowly drowning in his own blood. Every time he coughed, it was accompanied by an iron tang on his tongue and a glob of blood splattering the floor in front of him.

His head felt too heavy for his shoulders. He couldn’t find the strength to hold it up anymore.

The Twi’lek’s hand found his hair as his head dropped against his chest, pulled it harshly to force him to meet her eyes. They were almost gray. The very same gray of storm clouds that promised only terrible weather.

She was snarling, now.

“Who else you got on Kaas? What the kriffin’ hell you tell ‘em?”

Xaerez managed a weak smile—but really, it looked more like a grimace. His voice was soft. It hurt to speak. “Maybe tell your… ngh… f-friend not to destroy the holo next time.” His voice crackled with each word. The implant in his throat was damaged, kept shifting between his own voice (was it really his voice? he hadn’t heard it in so long, he couldn’t be sure anymore), and that of Verdat.

His head cracked against the floor before he’d even realized her hands were at his throat. Vision swimming, head pounding, arms pinned painfully under his back, he couldn’t find the strength to push her off. Couldn’t find the strength to gasp for air as her nails dug into his skin and fingers left bruises.

The assassin hissed her name, but Ehna’dissen…well. Temper, temper…

“Interrogator” seemed too kind of a word, now. No, no—she was but a child throwing a tantrum when she didn’t get the answers she desired.

He could feel the assassin again, prodding, forcing her will to shove his aside. He didn’t have the strength to block her out anymore. She tore at his defenses until they finally crumbled away—not that it would matter. He was a dead man, now. She’d get nothing of importance before his heart stopped and brain shut down.

As his vision krept to gray, he could at least find solace in the fact that the Commander and her officers knew what was coming.

What he couldn’t find comfort in, however, was the knowledge that he’d lied to Theron. Lied, so many times. “I’ll be home soon,” promised again, and again, and again.

He’d never meant he’d come home in a box.

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

Maybe it was the countless sub-dermal cybernetics that activated to fool them.

Maybe his heart really had stopped.

Maybe he’d really been dead, for but a few moments.

But they left. Left him, crumpled up in a corner as they searched the room before taking off for the city with the data spike in their possession. Left him, bleeding and barely able to move.

They’d left, before he was truly dead.

But he really wasn’t far off.

He was faintly aware of cloth—perhaps his own tattered shirt—tied around his hands. He couldn’t remember if he’d been the one to do it. Maybe he had.

His vision drifted, in andout, as he slowly dragged himself to the holo. It took everything he had to move that mere meter closer. It took everything he had just to reach out with a foot to kick at the hidden panel at the bottom, to kick at the switch revealed when the thin sheet of metal clattered to the floor.

The switch—the emergency switch he so urgently needed—wouldn’t budge. He kicked again—again—again, each time more desperately than the last.

His head fell against the floor as unconsciousness reclaimed him.

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

“—agent—”

A muffled voice, as if there was water in his ears. He couldn’t find the strength to open his eyes even as a warm hand felt at his neck for a pulse.

“—blood transfusion—“

Footsteps near his head—far too near—but he didn’t have the energy to pull away.

“—don’t move him!—”

A hand on his arm. Another found a broken wrist without knowing its state. Shocks of pain raced through his arm and he tried desperately to wrench away from the touch. His limbs wouldn’t obey.

A pinch in his forearm, then the touch finally pulled away.

He felt as if he were shivering. Xaerez had never been one to complain about cold, but…

“—our transport?—”

His hearing implants popped; he could no longer make out what his rescuers were saying. Or, maybe that was the sleep once more claiming his mind…

#swtor #imperial agent #sith inquisitor #chiss #twi'lek #rattataki #blitz indites #blitz's ocs #oc: rediaex'aere'zortiea #oc: nav'erdat'enn #oc: ehna'dissen #oc: ataiqo #violence #major character injury #torture #broken bones #electrocution #choking #blood loss

[voidendron]

WIP

His eyes scanned the sight before him, and his stomach twisted. Trenches, scored into the hillside. Patches of forest burned to leave the skeletons of trees trying so desperately to stand tall. The bodies, and weapons, had been taken by those who could still stand, but their lifeblood still stained the earth.

Atten swallowed and turned his gaze to those gathered before him. Exhaustion marked their eyes, as did sorrow and anger. So much anger.

Deca remained a pace behind him, to his left. Araa, standing in line with him at his right.

He took in a shaky breath at his sister brushed his wrist - with concern? To comfort or reassure him? He wasn't sure.

"Odessen," he finally started, his voice carrying over the scarred remains of what had once been one of their crop fields, "this galaxy no longer welcomes us."

Murmuring, for but a few short moments, broke out.

Another deep breath, and he stepped forward on the hastily constructed podium. All eyes pinned on him, and him alone.

"The Empire and Republic continue to war with one another. Our ally of Zakuul is closing the galaxy beyond out. We are alone."

The silence to follow was tense. Atten reached up to tuck a singed lock of hair behind his ear. He let his eyes, as red and piercing as those of his mother before him, scan the crowd.

"The Republic will not aid us. The Empire wants us gone. They both tire of us, and our goals and meddling."

His eyes drifted, from his sister standing tall and strong at his side despite an arm in a sling, to the troops before him, and finally locking onto none other than Varrich. The old farmer looked more than just physically exhausted, but he held his chin up and gave Atten a tiny nod. "Go on," said that nod.

Deep breath. Count to three.

"The Alliance has lost this war." More murmuring; he paused until it quieted again. "We were but the third party to the war between two true galactic powers. Our forces are small, and resources smaller. Our goal has always been to protect, but we can't do that if we're the ones dying. They'll continue these attacks until we are no more."

He closed his eyes for a moment, couldn't help the guilt that gnawed at him. Their mother and her closest allies had worked so hard to build what they had, now.

His eyes flickered open again, and turned to the sky. "One of the droid scouts I sent out three years ago has returned. It found a world much like this one, in the far reaches of space. Odessen can no longer be our home."

He'd barely finished speaking before shouting drowned him out. Anger, accusations, arguments - they all flew through the field. It took everything he had not to step back, not to let Araa, the true warrior of the two siblings, take the stage with harsh words and a voice that could drown them all out. It took everything he had to keep his head high, to look to the riled crowd without flinching.

Deca stepped forward. Her saber pike, unignited, was gripped tightly in one hand. The mask she wore - the mask that showed all around her that she was on-duty not as Atten's fiancé', but at the siblings' personal guard - made it so only her eyes could be seen. They were narrowed, cold, as she brought her weapon down on the podium with a resounding clang that carried on the breeze.

She struck the stage again. Again. The pattern was slow, and clear.

When the voices quieted, Atten brought a hand up to point toward the Alliance headquarters. Most turned to look, others simply kept their eyes pinned on the stage.

"I've consulted with the Circle, and my advisors. We no longer have a home here, but we can rebuild elsewhere. We can build our strength, protect as we've tried - and failed - to do in this war-hungry part of our galaxy."

#swtor #v'ehsz next gen #blitz indites #blitz's ocs #oc: cadera'tten #oc: cadera'raa #oc: deca iresso #my alliance is beaten. they know they are #so they disappear to unkown space before they can be destroyed #this was just a quick drabble #i got the idea for atten's speech and had to jot it down before id forget

[voidendron]

Knew the Risk, Part 4: Awake

<<< Part 3 | Part 5 >>>

Star Wars: The Old Republic Post-Onslaught

Warnings: Coma, Amputation, Major Character Injury Characters: Rediaex'aere'zortiea (Cipher Nine - Chiss), Theron Shan

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Days turned to weeks.

Weeks, into months.

And the months stretched on.

Life in the Alliance went on as usual. There was work to be done, just as there always would be. Reports to tend to, training, meetings, the list went on, and on, and on. The Republic, and the Empire, wouldn’t halt their war because of one spy toeing at Death’s door.

Over time, the whispers had spread. Cipher Nine, who most thought was dead, now barely clung to life with a new face. Life support, oxygen, fluids—the kolto tank had only been able to do so much. The doctors constantly fought with his damaged cybernetics that tried to mask his life signature from what they registered as threats, tried to force out the “foreign invaders” that were really life-saving drugs. Those cybernetics, hidden beneath the skin—practically untraceable, to make their job that much harder.

His wrists were wrapped, hands unable to be saved. They wouldn’t mess with prosthetics—not yet, not while his body or other enhancements may very well just wind up attacking any new cybernetics.

He still couldn’t breathe on his own, and eyes—so dull, so empty—had little reaction when they were forced to open and a light was shined into them.

Theron would stop by when he could spare a few minutes, touch a gentle hand to the side of his spouse’s face but oh-so careful not to bump the ventilator. Vector, with a furrow to his brow as he murmured something to his “brother” before leaving as soon as he’d arrived. Raina would tell him how her own duties went, formal, as if offering a simple report, but something in her voice would tremble. Lokin had demanded to be one of his doctors, and would hear nothing of it otherwise. Even the Commander had checked in from time-to-time to see if there were improvements in who she’d grown to care for almost as a friend.

Then, something changed.

It was subtle, quiet, could almost be passed off as the many machines in the private room to the untrained ear.

A groan, and a grimace. The heart monitor spiked into a healthier beat for but a few moments, fell shallow again.

It took days—weeks—from that point for him to slowly come to. A twitch here, a flicker of the eyelids there, a choked breath on his own and maybe even a second when they were lucky.

Theron was there, more and more.

And this time, when he touched gingerly at Xaerez’s cheek, the Chiss’ head turned slightly to press into his hand. Their eyes met, for the first time in so, so long. Theron had to take a breath, just to steady his own nerves and thumbed at unfamiliar scars. “Hey.” His voice was small, barely audible even in the quiet room.

Xaerez only closed his eyes again.

When they opened once more, it was to an empty room. They lazily drifted about, taking in the sight of the machines, the door, the medical bed and clean blanket pulled up to his chest, but made little sense of it all. He was painfully aware of the tube down his throat, couldn’t help but gag when he noticed it, turned his head to the side as if it would change the fact that it was there.

He wanted to think he should be aching. Instead he was just…numb. Tired.

Exhaling sharply through his nose, he shifted. Tried to sit up. His exhausted body wouldn’t obey. Or, maybe it was because of the drugs undoubtedly coursing through his system that it couldn’t. Against his will, his eyes slipped shut again.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before a hand on his cheek brought him to stir again. He was met by Theron’s tired eyes.

Xaerez tried, with everything he had, to lift a hand. To press it against Theron’s to hold it there, to keep his husband right there. His own hand wouldn’t obey. Instead, he could only turn his face to press into the touch.

The tube was gone, replaced by one much more loosely fitted in his nose to continue feeding him pure oxygen; he was breathing on his own, now.

Xaerez opened his mouth, but his tongue felt heavy. It didn’t feel like it belonged to him. His mouth was dry and it hurt to swallow.

“I know, I know.” Theron’s thumb rubbed small circles over his scarred cheek, over the old burns that had healed to discolor the skin there. Burns, that covered what were once familiar surgical scars that would have been oh, so recognizable.

“You’re home, now.”

He leaned in to press a soft kiss to Xaerez’s forehead. The Chiss could only close his eyes and try again to speak. All that came out was a soft whisper, barely a hiss, that was drowned by the machines.

When Theron pulled back, there was a smile on his lips. Small, but there. “I know—save your strength. I love you.”

#swtor #imperial agent #chiss #theron shan #theron shan/imperial agent #blitz indites #blitz's ocs #oc: rediaex'aere'zortiea #xaerez/theron #coma #amputation #major character injury

[voidendron]

Knew the Risk, Part 3: Now

<<< Part 2 | Part 4 >>>

Star Wars: The Old Republic Post-Onslaught

Warnings: Major Character Injury Characters: Theron Shan, Ar'eonis'terrinxx (Grand Champion, Commander - Chiss), Rediaex'aere'zortiea (Cipher Nine, mentioned)

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

Theron couldn’t focus.

The agents who’d extracted Xaerez had arrived only hours ago, and immediately rushed to get him to the medical bay. Theron had only gotten a brief look at his spouse before the doors locked in his face, but…

He couldn’t get the image out of his mind. The Chiss had looked like death itself, and it was a wonder how he was still even alive.

He’d been stabilized on Dromund Kaas, then hauled off for Odessen while a medic carefully watched his vitals for the entirety of the trip and did what she could for his injuries. It hadn’t been intended for Theron’s ears, but his spouse had flatlined—twice—on the trip back. One of the Voidhound’s girls—Jessi, his eldest, who’d grown into a fine medic over the years—she was the reason Xaerez’s heart still even beat.

There were armed guards outside the room, and likely one or two inside, as well. Very few yet knew that “Verdat” was actually the thought-to-be-murdered Xaerez. It wouldn’t stay like that for long.

His hand, followed by his forehead, rested against the transparisteel that had been adjusted so no one could see into the room. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, what went on on the other side. It trapped him in his own thoughts. In his own imagination.

Was Xaerez stable, or were the doctors fighting to keep his heart beating? Was he breathing on his own, or connected to a respirator? Would he survive, or… No. No, don’t think like that, he scolded himself.

He reached a hand up to pull at the chain tucked into his shirt, fingers tracing the elegant engravings on the ring connected to it. Xaerez had asked him to hold onto it until he came back, and now all Theron wanted was to be able to put it in his spouse’s waiting hands.

His thoughts drifted, farther, and farther. To that day. The last time they’d seen one another in person. The last time Theron’s hands had cupped his face. The last time he’d run his fingers through Theron’s hair. The last time they’d embraced, and had to force themselves to let go as fear weighed heavy on their hearts.

“I’ll be home soon.” A promise. A promise, made with teary eyes and a face hard to recognize. The surgical droids had done well with altering his spouse’s features. Too well. His hair had been allowed to grow out too long, familiar scars too faint, and eyes… His eyes were too sad. Eyes, that Theron had once found so eerie, but had grown to find so much comfort in the loving stare of.

He wouldn’t admit that the hand that found his arm startled him. Too deep in other thoughts, thoughts he wished he could push away, he hadn’t heard the approach of the Commander’s heavy boots.

He turned his eyes to her—to his superior, to the leader of the Alliance—and found only the concerned glance of a friend. For a second, he wanted to be angry with her. She’d been the one to send Xaerez to Dromund Kaas. She’d been the one to permit it, to not pull him out before he could be discovered.

But it was a fleeting thought. There, and then gone again before it could take root and fester in his mind. No, it wasn’t her fault. It had been Xaerez’s choice—his suggestion, even—that he go on that mission. He’d known exactly what he was getting into when he accepted the responsibility.

So instead, Theron sighed and closed his eyes.

Allowed himself to find comfort in her firm touch.

And breathed. In. Out.

Focus on the now, he thought.

He could hear the soft hum from the Commander’s armor—her jetpack, her flamethrower, builtin fans and vents, the shuffle of Beskar plates against each other with every little shift; even without words, she was never truly silent.

His implants, feeding him a constant stream of information: Reports, suspicious activity, scheduling.

Footsteps, through the connected halls. The murmur of voices. The hum of electricity.

“If anyone can pull through, I’ve got no doubts he’s the one to do it,” she finally said without looking at him. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft.

“I know.” It was all he could think to say.

And if he didn’t? Theron thought. He swallowed. Think on the now, he reminded himself as his fingers tightened on the ring around his neck.

#swtor #imperial agent #bounty hunter #theron shan #chiss #theron shan/imperial agent #blitz indites #blitz's ocs #oc: rediaex'aere'zortiea #oc: ar'eonis'terrinxx #xaerez/theron #major character injury