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zet-sway · 3 years

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Spiritual Shrios Summer Fill: Godless

PROMPT WORD: GODLESS | WORDS: ~1800

Rated: "G" - General Audiences AO3 Link: "The Frozen Sea" Pairing: Thane / FemShep Summary: The ocean licks at her knees - not to claim her, but to mark her. 'One foot in the grave,' as the human adage goes.

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Shepard looks forward to being the first one up and awake.

Her cabin is suffocating. There are nights when she appreciates the privacy, but the silence of her isolated quarters makes her insides itch in an uncomfortable way. Just before the common area lighting begins to grow from the dim cadence of the night cycle, she leaves her room and greets the morning, intangible as only time on a starship can be. First she checks on the night crew, then starts coffee for Gardener. Finally, she makes her way down to the shuttle bay for PT. Alone.

It's unexpected when she has a visitor one quiet morning.

"Sere Krios," she says, rising from a deep stretch on the mat.

He smiles warmly, equally as surprised to see another soul at this hour. "Commander, good morning. And please, just Thane if you wouldn't mind."

Thane is the newest member of her crew and they've only spoken twice before. Maybe it shouldn't come as a surprise that he has his daily rituals as well, given his condition. He's dressed simply. Black pants, a sleeveless shirt, his defined, green chest exposed for all the world. Drell and humans share some attractive qualities. He's easy on the eyes.

She's staring, she realizes, and looks away. Thane takes his place on the mat and begins his own warm-up.

Day after day, he joins her, and they build a routine. Together, they begin with stiff, groggy stretches; then there's cardio, sweat, and strength training. Their conversations are light and technical. He respects her silence. She respects his discipline. On leg day, they limp back into the elevator in tandem. If she's lucky, she has time to join him and the crew for breakfast after her shower.

When she's alone, she quietly recalls how the light bends around the contours of his body.

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He's there as usual when she steps off the elevator and into the shuttle bay. Fully armored, helmet under one arm, weapons holstered, but ready.

"Shepard. No training today?" He rises from his place on the mat where he's been exploring the human practice of yoga, per her suggestion. It suits him. Yoga is all about breathing.

"I was beginning to think you tired of my company."

She gives him a weary smile and shakes her head.

There's a new, abnormal tension between them and by his gaze she knows he feels it too. She likes Thane. She knows hardly a damn thing about him, but he's a comfortable presence, follows orders... doesn't ask intrusive questions. However, she's breaking their routine unexpectedly, and in the moment, his gaze is almost painful.

"Is there something I should know about Alchera?"

Okay, maybe he does ask intrusive questions.

His voice is a hot knife through her muddy thoughts. The detour to Alchera hadn't been on their flight plan, but somehow, he knows. Times like this, his eidetic memory puts her on edge. She asks herself how many other kernels of obscure knowledge are locked away in his mind.

Stepping up to prep the shuttle, she weighs the consequences of lying to his face. Only six people on the ship know where she's going and why, and she doesn't want to talk about it with any of them. The words are too hard to say out loud. This is where I died.

"Alliance HR," she says finally. A partial truth.

His brows rise and his posture straightens just a bit. "Human remains." Fuck if he isn't perceptive, but if he has questions, he keeps them to himself.

She nods once, happy to have stopped this conversation in its tracks. Then she changes the subject.

"PT tomorrow," she offers with a smile. "I can't be lifting without my spotter."

"Of course, Shepard. The pleasure is mine," he responds with an acknowledging nod. She feels bad for interrupting his training as he leaves on the elevator, but she doesn't want to face her team until her task is done.

Let's just get this over with.

Alone with her thoughts, she exhales a breath she didn't know she was holding and starts her pre-flight checklist.

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It's well past dinner when she comes to him. The doors at his back swish open and she stands quietly inside the threshold. A fistful of clinking metal dangles from her hand and he knows she's come to have the conversation she avoided earlier.

"Did I catch you at a good time?"

"You did," he says smoothly. "Was there something you wanted to discuss?"

She sits across from him and the metal spills from her fist. Dog tags. Twenty of them. Her gaze is fixed on them and she appears shrouded in a fog of thoughts.

"Did you know them?" The question is gentle, he's almost afraid to know the answer.

Shepard takes a deep breath and blinks slowly. "Yeah. They were my crew."

Thane can feel a chill, as though the icy surface of the planet is still clinging to her long after she's left it. "Your ship went down on Alchera?"

She nods.

"...and you were among them."

"Yes."

He realizes now why she brushed off his words earlier. It strikes him as odd that she would bring this to him instead of Garrus, Tali, Joker, or Chakwas. All of them served on that ship with her, although he isn't sure if they were on board during the attack. She chose him for this, maybe because he'd asked, unknowingly, down in the shuttle bay. Regardless, she's here now and he struggles to understand her needs.

Thane refocuses. There's a pile of dog tags before him and each one represents a human life, now in the arms of Kalahira.

"May I read them?"

She glances up at him then, surprised. "Won't you remember them forever?"

"I'd like to."

Her lips twitch just slightly in the most cautious of smiles, and she nods. "Knock yourself out," a quietly uttered and somehow charming human expression.

Thane picks up each tag one by one and passes his eyes over them. Every name, a life extinguished. Stories unfinished. Loved ones mourning for years without closure or a body to bury. Memories percolate in his mind and he pushes them back because now is not the time. For each name, he offers a silent prayer to the goddess for their eternal peace. When he finishes, the tags are a neat horizontal stack before them.

Hands folded, he looks at her. "I don't see your name."

It's less of a question and more of an observation, but she dips one hand into her shirt collar and produces a pair of clinking metal tags. They dangle from a new chain but the metal scorched and scuffed almost to a state of illegibility. One from the Alliance, the other from the Spectres. Her name is heavily embossed into each one.

SHEPARD DECEMBER HUMAN SYSTEMS ALLIANCE

His expression lifts and he smiles, hopeful. "You survived."

Shepard shakes her head. "I was spaced."

"But you must have-"

"No, Thane." Her tone is firm, unwavering. "I was spaced."

Her intense green eyes pierce through him. There's a twinge in her voice that makes his insides clench. "I read the data on Project Lazarus. I died."

It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. Thane tries to control his features but her assertion shakes the very foundations of his faith. Many had said she died, but he'd always understood it as a metaphor - a near death experience.

He reaches into himself for calm and a memory rises, unbidden. "Jesus and Lazarus, from the Christian bible. '...I am the resurrection and the life.'"

"Kalahira..." he breathes. "Shepard, I didn't know."

She grunts out an ugly, short laugh and tears her eyes from his. "I can't believe you read the bible."

Her words fly past him without acknowledgement. He sees her as though through fogged glass, thoughts spinning. "Kalahira released you from the sea." When the words leave his mouth, they sound like irrefutable truth.

There's silence while she fidgets across from him, and then she asks, "Do humans go to the sea too?"

"We believe all life does."

He has a thought, then. "What do you believe, Shepard?

Her expression is mildly uncomfortable. "Before or after I died?" But then she shakes her head, reconsidering. "The universe is grand enough that maybe it is god's design. But I don't think god gives a damn about us. Agnostic, I guess." Shepard pauses and looks at him, but her eyes are distant. "Maybe I'd like to believe in your sea. Right now it feels easier to accept."

"To bring comfort in dark places is the purpose of spirituality. It does not matter what you believe as long as it brings you peace."

"Some humans would disagree with you."

Aware of the myriad of human religions and their conflicts, he brushes off her statement. "This is my truth. Their opinions don't concern me."

Shepard's gaze is searching, revealing the cracks in her armor, slivers of well-hidden vulnerability. "So I went to the sea. And now I'm back."

"If I am to accept what you say, I can offer no other conclusion." He doesn't ask what she remembers, he knows he might not like the answer.

"Then what am I now? Besides a soggy, undead cyborg?"

Her voice is laced with sarcasm but Thane thinks over her question carefully, aware he will be turning it over in his mind for days to come. Kalahira, Irikah, Siha, the gods and their angels, his lover and confidant, memories and oaths... regrets and comforts.

A heavy veil of epiphany descends on him, awestruck, painfully aware of his mortality, and prickling with a primal, deeply buried fear. Once human and now something in between, she is Commander Shepard, avatar of the Sea, chosen of Kalahira. The ocean licks at her knees not to claim her, but to mark her. 'One foot in the grave,' as the human adage goes.

The fist of tension in his gut calls to mind the image of Irikah's eyes in his scope all those years ago. I thought she was the goddess Arashu. But it's not Arashu who sits before him now, but Kalahira. Her icy breath howls across the inhospitable surface of Alchera, her unfathomable currents gathering those courageous enough to follow her into the abyss. How appropriate that she appeared just as he sought his demise in the Dantius Towers. She will be the one to ferry him into the unknown when they finally breach the relay. He prays she will be merciful.

Placing one hand over hers, Thane squeezes reassuringly. He doesn't linger, the gesture is as much for him as it is for her; he wants to know that she is real, as he finally answers her question.

'Then what am I now?'

"A woman with a purpose so great, the goddess herself answered the galaxy's cry for your return."

#spiritualshriossummer #thane krios #shrios #fshrios #zet writes things #december shepard #for now i'm calling the series 'approaching lightspeed' after a song i really like #spiritual shrios summer #this is one of several tricky conversations i need to write #and its probably the easiest one too so i have my work cut out for me x-x #TLDR shepard is a soggy undead cyborg

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carnegiemuseumnaturalhistory · 3 years

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Becoming a Science Educator

An American toad, similar to those found in the author's childhood backyard.

Think back to when you were a child - what was your favorite way to learn how something works? Mine was to ask loads of questions and then jump in and get my hands dirty. I specifically remember catching toads in the backyard with my mom, asking questions about their appearance and where they lived. She would tell me about the myth of them giving you warts, that they might pee on your hand if they were scared, and how to hold them gently and then let them go. Twenty years later, I became a research ecologist studying amphibian diseases, and I learned how to sharpen these inclinations into more robust skills: how to create focused questions and experiments, collect and analyze data, and present the findings to a range of audiences.

Today, I teach and design curriculum for home-school and summer camp programs at Carnegie Museum of Natural History. Fostering the learners’ own questions and devising hands-on ways to investigate them is the focus of my work. Science and nature provide unlimited opportunities for first-hand investigations, and the process of metamorphosis is one of my favorite examples.

An 8-year-old camper has likely learned about butterfly metamorphosis in school, and might be able to name the four stages: egg, caterpillar, pupa, and adult. Scientists call this four-stage process “complete metamorphosis,” a term whose qualifier invites one to wonder, “what is incomplete metamorphosis?” Enter the majestic dragonfly. Dragonflies also go through metamorphosis, but with only three stages: egg, nymph, and adult; their transformation is therefore termed “incomplete.” Noting this small difference suggests another question: what else is different about a dragonfly?

Above and below: Dragonfly nymphs collected and released in a Pittsburgh section of the Ohio River.

Well those first two stages - eggs and nymphs - are in water! That is why they are part of the far larger group of aquatic macroinvertebrates, creatures with no backbone that can be seen without magnification and that live at least part of their life in water. Some dragonfly nymphs are impressive predators and can live for years in this aquatic phase, even though their adult lives last only a few weeks. In what ways, I challenge the 8-year-olds, is this transformation similar or different from that of a caterpillar and a butterfly?

Jenise looking through a stream water sample for aquatic macroinvertebrates in a sorting tray.

After we’ve explored these questions, we make a trip behind the scenes to look at some insect specimens up close, and allow the students to directly ask the museum’s research scientists even more questions. Finally, we visit Powdermill Nature Reserve to get our hands muddy by looking for dragonfly nymphs and other aquatic macroinvertebrates in the research station’s namesake stream. And before we know it, we’ve done actual science: used the scientific method to gain understanding about the world around us!

I came to teaching from research science because I love building interactive experiences of the world around us like these into courses that can educate and inspire young people. This type of scientific inquiry is universal, and these practices can be adjusted for age. A class about dragonflies for a 12-year-old group, for example, might focus on data collection and include the presentation of our findings to the younger campers. Whatever the age level though...I get to get my hands dirty.

Jenise Brown is a Museum Educator with Carnegie Museum of Natural History. Museum staff, volunteers, and interns are encouraged to blog about their unique experiences and knowledge gained from working at the museum.

#Carnegie Museum of Natural History #Science Education #Science Educator #STEM #STEAM #Science Camps #Powdermill Nature Reserve

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crimson-chains · 4 years

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I just started using CSP, and I know you use it for your art! Your colors in prints are always pretty true to online, but mine have been turning a bit muddy. If you don’t mind me asking, what do you do about the RGB vs CMYK thing since CSP doesn’t do its data in CMYK?

Ooooh, yes, I love CSP ^^

You can actually convert the files to CMYK! You go to Export and then choose the file and a window will open up that will let you save it as CMYK!

I actually rarely do that tho for when I print. My printing place I go to does vibrant colors very well, I’ll tend to adjust the file a little before I send it to him if the colors are dark but, otherwise I haven’t run into many issues! (Except with my promare things, because NOTHING can print that super saturated blue and purple XD)

#asks #Anonymous

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petitepistol · 4 years

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CHAIN OF SWEETNESS

5 THINGS YOU LOVE ABOUT YOUR CHARACTER.

this is hard because i have to separate elena from how she exists in canon from the elena i have built up for myself in my mind, so in the interest of brevity im choosing to focus on the canon aspects that deeply drew me to her to begin with and continue to feed my fascination and frustration with her to this day

ONE elena is a minor character. like, take her out of the story of the game and nobody would bat an eye. the writers dont really know what they are doing with her at any given moment, so she is this half formed mess of anachronistic traits. that can be really interesting and really challenging to try and flesh out, especially when you factor in how disconnected she is from even the characters closest to her and what those interpersonal dynamics must be like. even among the turks she is an outlier, new to the team and hellbent on diligently doing her job despite not having the same ghosts as the rest of them. before crisis tries to touch on that with her sister, but that just muddies the waters further providing conflicting motivations that they never really address. because, as stated initially, she is a minor character. and that means the exposition is something i have to do, not canon.

TWO despite being a minor character, from a mechanics standpoint she serves a purpose. her first appearance is there to give you an important lead on the big bad, her narrative purpose in the wutai subquest means you get both a party member and a forge fragile armistice with the turks. during the icicle portion if you get knocked out by her, she drops you off in gast’s house, which might mean the devs were using her to guide less skilled players into viewing missable but important lore. this extends to the compilation, where she is utilized off screen for the jenova head in a box debacle, and in before crisis to pad out the plot a little longer by getting kidnapped. from a game design perspective her existence is validated not by good writing but by being a deus ex machina and i have learned to love that as much as i hate it.

THREE she occupies a space where you can throw just about a billion tropes at her and it can work. people don’t usually realize this, but for such bit player you can do a lot with her. also if you wanna write snappy dialogue you can let this girl just say fucking anything. nothing is off limits coming out of her mouth, because there is so little to go off of and what data there is can be interpreted so broadly. that also means you can write her as downright sociopathic or as an unlikely altruist, leaning towards either of the extremes or staying dead center in the middle of the road. the only limitations are that of the perceptional biases of the writer.

FOUR that she is the highest level of the turks in game will never not make me ridiculously happy. i love that this so called clumsy rookie is the most difficult to take out in a fight with the rarest gear. if you wanna hear more about aspect that go here.

FIVE hnnnnng pretty girl who can kick my ass please step on me unga bunga

5 10 PEOPLE ON HERE YOU LOVE, AND WHY.

there are so many wonderful people i want to give accolades too that i often find it hard to do these kind of daisy chains, and even now im cheating by doubling the number. that still isnt enough, so to those who arent on this list i have to say i love you too but the powers that be and my own shyness turned off the mic before the speech ended

ONE forever amused by how both @makeupandmateria and @madamdirectcr are not only incredible to me as a player, but elena as a character. we are in love with this surprising supportive mean ladies coterie. swiftie plays an elegantly dubious scarlet to the hilt and manages to bring out the best in everyone. lottie brings an uncanny sensitivity to scarlet that makes you think while being so sweet and engaging outside of play.

TWO speaking of girls muses supporting other girl muses @heavenlyfighter and @cultivatxr are a dynamic duo and im lucky enough to be in talks with both of them. jessica plays a lovely tifa who has such a melancholy imbued to her strength while not only tolerating my flakiness but being so understanding, while phoe has had a perfect grasp on aerith for what feels like an epoch always letting that same vibrancy spill out into reality.

THREE so @animus-inspire and @urbdev-assistant are two peas of positivity in a pod and i adore them for it. one them plays an understated hero who has the capacity to do great good even when aligned with evil and the other has taken the adage about there being a great woman behind every great man and elevated an npc into a brilliant character. both are fantastic.

FOUR shout out to @missionheartcd and @rude-at-your-service for being not only the best coworkers elena could ever had but being consistently delightful out of character. not only do i want to play more with their characters, i also appreciate their support.

FIVE thank you to @warofthebeasts and @inanisvitae for putting up with my inexplicable affection for sephiroth. kevin is so patient with my persistent poking and prodding and you could not find a more passionate advocate for either character development or friendship than maria.

5 SONGS EITHER YOU OR YOUR MUSE REGARD AS A ‘GUILTY PLEASURE’ THAT ALWAYS MAKES YOU SMILE.

these are mostly mine but may or may not apply to elena from some twisted meta perspective also this was hard because i have no guilty pleasures my tastes is flawless (this definitely applies to elena as well unless we are talking about her taste in men which is terrible lmao sorry im just bullying tseng he is actually pretty cool)

ONE you cannot have this type of lists without ABBA represented and while this is almost a lesser known track of theirs, i have liked it since i heard it in childhood playing through the records my mom owned. the lyrical content is very shinra-core and while i dont think elena ever dated a middle aged fat cat for money as a teen im certain she considered it

TWO as a kid i didnt like the indomitable miss spears because i bought into regressive attitudes towards female sexuality while not recognizing she was being exploited by the industry, but i have grown. elena agrees with the sentiment of “you better work, bitch”

THREE im not ashamed of my love of god queen shiina ringo but at the time i first saw this video i was not prepared for the gratuitous badass lady nurse on sexy female patient malpractice action it featured and that was what made it a guilty pleasure

FOUR everybody loves george michael and that includes me. this piece from his wham! era is almost too peppy, but i am an absolutely a sucker for imagining brutal fight scenes with anachronistically cheerful songs playing over the carnage

FIVE rounding things off is an obligatory recent weeb jam. well half of this combo is american but you know what i mean. i love the combination of classic funk and whispery vocals echoing into an unrepentant cry of “fuck you motherfucker.” coupled with the blonde in the video intercut with the OL being joyfully liberated by her train ride? elena vibes

Tagged: @madamdirectcr @animus-inspire Tagging: you!

#ooc #whew lad im bad at these things because im so shy about tagging others but it was worth it

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wumblr · 4 years

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I'm not being a hater but why did you want to be visible at a protest? Like why test this? Everyone was wearing black so they couldn't be identified why would you WANT to stand out?

well since you said you weren’t a hater, i’ll try to give you the best answer i can without revealing too much but it’s a pretty complicated situation and the visibility test was weeks ago now

i’ve been thinking a lot about revolutionary tactics that reach a lot of people in a crowd without saying a word. recently this has taken the form of throwing bags of garbage through holes in the fence while the police shoot rock salt and pepper balls in my face, to get across my point that it’s worth a rock salt bruise to me, in order to show a hundred of my neighbors what i think about our police and trash, because since the international news coverage started, we’ve had a lot of new people showing up and learning lessons i struggled with during week one

the visibility test was similar, in that i hoped most people who saw me immediately looked up for a drone or a helicopter and wondered if i was visible from it. i hope someone i never talked to watched the news and found me. now none of them have to test the limit -- any color that stands out is theoretically sufficient, in a worst case scenario. call me a canary in the mine. i overheard someone say “i don’t trust lone wolf tactics” while i was at the justice center in the coat, and i chuckled and thought, that’s good. (i didn’t go alone, actually, and if shit had gotten bad that night i had several backup plans, although as george floyd showed us, no one is safe if four policemen want to kill you.)

this is maybe my sixth summer of protesting in portland so it was shocking to me to show up and try to read the room and fail some day week one, where people who i suspect later turned into some of the yellow shirt moms were handing out flyers about a “day of rest,” and so i tried to pass this information on and it ended in a minor confrontation and discussion with a few other people in the crowd about “peaceful protest.” (”why am i here if it’s a day of rest?” and “what are they doing in there if we’re resting out here?” are the points i specifically remember)

i think that must have been a different night than the optics test, but one thing it’s necessary to remember about week one in portland is that they tried to liberate the jail on the first night. then, so much of the “peaceful protest” energy was succesfully deflected by the aimless eastside marches during the first weeks, so the justice center was truly an organized conflict attempting to take ground at the jail. so, now that a lot of new people are showing up to learn the same things i learned, i’m finding myself saying “they’ll shoot us whether we act peaceful or not” and “there’s no such thing as a peaceful protest, all protest should be destructive towards the state” (and this is all muddying any attempts to take ground, any time someone new shows up and says “don’t antagonize the fence.” fuck the fence, destroying it is our only access to police defunding, since our political leaders didn't listen to 7hrs of unanimous public testimony at the city council budget meeting.) most of these serious attempts to take ground have probably died out since the federal presence arrived, but at this point, my thought is kind of that the justice center was a poor target because it was so fortified, and maybe we should have tried a smaller precinct first

most of my tactics are not things i would recommend others try, but because i’ve been out in portland for most of the last ~60 days, my tactics have changed. i’m operating under the assumption that i am identifiable and have been identified, they probably already know at least one of my fake names, and i’m banking on the hope they’re not smart enough to catch them all. personally i have very little left to lose so i’m operating under the assumption that it would be better if they shot me with a live round than someone else. (i was operating under most of these assumptions back in june, so if some data warehouse policing chud at the facility in draper utah is reading this, then wow, i’m surprised you made it this far. can you count all the red herrings in this post?)

everyone’s tactics have changed. the moms are in yellow, the dads are in orange, scientists and healthcare workers are in labcoats and veterans are in uniform. some people are in costumes i guess and some girl just got arrested in denim for trying to give the riot cops flowers. we’re not all in black anymore. so, even now, if i wanted to conduct a visibility test, i would need a different tactic to avoid blending in with all the dads

i used the orange trench coat once, and outside of that, even within black bloc it’s possible to make multiple significant changes to your appearance (even changing up whether you wear a mask or a bandana helps). i probably have to wear different stuff for a couple days because a woman in a pikachu suit tried to fight me at 430am for throwing a glass bottle over the fence (and maybe she was right, but bystanders i don’t know told her to let it go)

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inked-foundry · 4 years

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untitled

~2K words

cyberpunk worldbuilding drabble

Ceres had always hated crawling her way to Janus’s base of operations—or that was what he called this excuse of an office space, for lack of a better term. Not that he bothered to treat it in any professional manner. It was holed away in one of the many dark alleys of the Crescent Market, the walls of gleaming onyx encroaching further on Ceres’s personal space as she continued, until she could feel the buildings brush into each side of her already narrow frame. All for the metallic door at the end.

He’d sealed it on all sides, no way to pry a crowbar or more advanced tool into the threshold. Ceres cursed under her breath. Janus better have been home, because she did not drag her ass out in the pouring rain for no good reason.

She slammed the side of her fist against the door. No response.

That bastard better not have been asleep, or drunk, or sleeping off his most recent drunken antics. He was one sappy excuse of a fence. Shame he was the only one in this corner of the city with no corporate associations, the only one who couldn’t pin Ceres for…

She shook her head, damp dark hair scattering droplets over her face. If Janus wouldn’t respond to a classic slam to the door, maybe a message or two would convince him to come to the door. The door he went out of the way to airlock.

Ceres reached for her communicator in her pocket—

Only to hear the stoic click of the lock. Her eyes shot to the door handle, watching as it cautiously turned. The silhouette of a face peeked through, just beyond the chain of the lock. Whoever happened to be behind the door raised an eyebrow.

The chain came undone. Door flinging open, Ceres was forced to take a step back. She had her usual spiel in mind. She’d make sure Janus was sober enough to ask questions, make sure he didn’t have any other clients to deal with, make sure of everything. Even though she was the con artist and not the organizer.

Though the minute she saw a genuine person, and not a texted message or unbiased data sheet, Ceres’s voice crawled into her throat. But Janus hadn’t even bothered to open the door for himself.

Instead was a stranger of a woman. She had a face that might have been all too familiar to one of the districts of the Crescent Market. But any work here was about to be finished.

The stranger continued to raise her eyebrow. “May I help you?”

Janus requested to have a meeting with me, after explicitly inviting me to his own abode, for this specific time. And our presences happen to be intervening right about now, and fairly inconveniently. That was what Ceres wanted to say, perhaps a bit more eloquently.

Instead, her face turned uncomfortably warm. She pointed inside and managed to choke up, “Janus.” When all she got in response was an odd look, she managed to choke up, “Is… is Janus in there?”

The stranger opened her mouth—

A lackadaisical, half-conscious voice muttered over the shoulder blocking the only entrance, “Oh, shit. Is that Cer at the door?”

Looking down at Ceres, the stranger still managed to keep her eyebrow lifted. It was frankly impressive. And simultaneously intimidating. Though it was a look enough, a question in its own right, just to verify Ceres’s identity.

This was her chance. This was one of Ceres’s few opportunities to impose herself upon Janus, to demand a little more respect than he usually gave in their correspondences. He always treated their agreements with chronic forgetfulness and damn well obnoxious brief notice.

Instead, Ceres got on her toes and chimed, “Y-Yeah…! It’s me. Hello.”

“Damn it, we ran over time.” Janus hadn’t even come into view yet, and Ceres could already hear his typical bumbling. Bits of metal crashed together. Chairs were dragged across the floor. “Andromeda, I’ve got another client, if you’ve got your stuff together…”

“I’m on my way out.” The stranger—Andromeda—sighed. She tugged a hood over her hair, pressing the door open further. Which forced Ceres into the outdoor wall. Andromeda strided out, only pausing once to turn to Ceres and offer, “Good luck.”

Then the stranger was on her way.

Ceres tried to take a deep breath through her nose. It was one encounter with an unknown, and she’d been alright. Maybe she’d embarrassed herself slightly. But this wasn’t the end of times, and she had access to Janus.

Janus. She cursed and turned heel, managing to curl her nails into the threshold before the door could swing shut entirely. Though it did crash into her knuckles. Ceres bit her lip to stave off a scream, one that would wake the city, one that could alert the few legal businesses in the Crescent Market to Janus’s little nook.

The same person who helped inch open the door again. “Cer, you’re going to forgive me again. I was out looking for new clients, and I just happened to run into an old friend of mine, and we—”

“I don’t… I’m not interested if you shared a pipe of Lunar Dust.” Ceres gripped both of her elbows, trying to hide her shivering. Trying to hide how bitterly cold the rain was. Or fight off her own nervousness. “Could… could you?”

She didn’t have to finish the question. Janus’s wide eyes like bubblegum in the dim neon lighting the alley, accompanying his expression as he insisted, “Get on in here. No reason to be standing out in the rain.”

He wrapped an arm about her shoulders with one hand, closing the door behind them with the other. The rain was gone. The awkward closeness of the alley was gone, the constant fear of garnering the Skylight’s attention was gone.

Ceres wanted to stay mad. It was just incredibly, ridiculously hard to maintain that anger when Janus fumbled for a stronger light by the counter, the taller young man flinching as the overhead bulb turned blinding.

Janus was far from professional from this angle. His head brushed against the low ceiling, and he was built like a day laborer—strong from simply carrying out his work, but never pursuing a frame beyond that. Everything else about him was haph-hazardly complete. Copper hair was tied back in a loose bun, the stubble on his face still a ghost of the time he’d attempted a beard. Sandals left dents in his thick carpet instead of the normal boots. Hell, he was wearing a cropped shirt, the only bit of decency to cover his abdomen being a thin jacket and oversized sweatpants.

But when he smiled, everything felt a little easier. It reminded her that the entire place did smell like burnt Lunar Dust: sickly sweet, with a touch of rose, and a general sense of intoxication. Not that Ceres had ever smoked the stuff. Or at least, not much of it.

Though it had Janus in a ravenous mood. “I’m going to make some fried eggs and pork belly. Managed to snatch some of the high quality stuff off the Market, as a favor.” He meandered to his narrow stovetop, reaching into the cabinet for a pan. “Want any?”

Ceres really shouldn’t have been eating at her fence’s house. It would make them too familiar, diminish the responsibilities that the two of them had in this festering underbelly of the city.

She shrugged. “I could eat.”

Janus was already making quick work, pulling cartons and plastic packaging from a miniature fridge beneath the counter. It was going to be aromatic as hell. Though Ceres couldn’t be distracted by the environment, couldn’t be distracted by anything. This was business. Janus may have had loyalties to other clients, and they could start at any moment, and he could hand her over to some competing corporation. Or those same corporate militants could knock down the door any minute.

But Ceres’s mind was already wandering, eyes glazing over the sparse rooms of the tiny apartment. They weren’t even separated by doors; everything was soft and inoffensive, with the alcoves separated by gauzy muslin curtains. She was half tempted to take off her boots, if only to revel in the carpet beneath her.

No. She was here for business.

“So…” Ceres swung her heel. “You called me in?”

Janus turned the knob on the stove, the flames at first reluctant in starting. “Yeah. I got an email from… I think it was from the Wayfarer Corporation? Something about taking out their rival’s heiress. Or princess.” He scratched the back of his head. “What do they call them these days?”

“Wayfarer has an heir—they’re not involved with governing.” Ceres furrowed her brow, reminding her of the dew that was still hanging over her face. “The only one that has a princess… that’s Equinox.”

Equinox Amalgamated. The company that had arrived on this hellhole of a planet recently—less than a century ago—then proceeded to assume all the other factions. It was a miracle that other corporations like Wayfarer managed to eke out a life.

And it was that same guppy as a company that wanted to take out the princess of Equinox Amalgamated. Ceres could already feel her chest tighten, knowing that there was no way in hell that she could do this on her own. She couldn’t con her way into Equinox. Much less out.

“Can… can I see the message?”

Janus was already cracking an egg into the pan, his body language as calm as ever, as if he didn’t just announce that Ceres could possibly be the top public enemy in the coming days. “Left it open on the computer by my bed.”

Ceres sprinted across the carpet, muddy footprints behind her, the only thing before her being the curtain she tossed aside. And of course Janus couldn’t bother to make his bed. All Ceres could do was shake her head, dropping into his chair, squeaking slightly when she dropped too low. Of course. He was tall, and she was too short for this damn chair—

She shook her head. These were ridiculous thoughts for a ridiculous girl, and right now, she had to make sure that Janus had his information correct. Ceres reached down and jolted the seat of the chair upwards.

Greeting her on the screen was a few simple lines of text, in a particularly plain window. It didn’t look like there were any security measures besides the fact it was sent over a secure network.

To: J. Volta

[No Message Line]

We know you provide certain services, Janus. If you can provide them, we will pay you and your third party hires rather handsomely. We are looking to secure the princess of Equinox Amalgamated. If it means anything, your payment will come directly from her safe capture.

Respond if interested.

Best regards,

The Wayfarer Corporation

Ceres’s heart dropped into her stomach. She read the message again—then again, and again, and again. That couldn’t be it. Wayfarer couldn’t just drop such a pricey job right in front of him, costing both money and blood.

She wasn’t sure how long she stared at the message. All she knew was there was the soft shuffle of fabric as Janus pushed aside the curtains, sidling up besides her, setting a fork and a plate on the desk beside her. In his other hand he held a burning pipe.

“They want me… to risk my life. I’m risking my life with Equinox.” Ceres shook her head furiously, almost on the verge of laughter. This was ridiculous! “I can’t do this… not… not by myself, anyways?”

The money had to be good. Except was it worth her life, in any manner?

“I’ve got other hires, if you need a crew,” Janus reminded. He took a long drag off his pipe, pointing to the plate he’d set down. Smoke curled out of his math as he insisted, “Though I don’t think you should be making big decisions on an empty stomach.”

Ceres shouldn’t have been making decision like this at all.

She got to her feet, muttering to herself. A moment later, she ripped the pipe from his hand, from his mouth. A long drag of Lunar Dust was much needed. It tasted as sweet as its perfume that had made its way around the room.

This might have been the last time she got to relax until the mission was over.

Though admittedly, she had to live through it first.

#writing #my writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #short story #drabble #writing WIP #cyberpunk #Ceres #Janus

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anistarrose · 5 years

Text

Fateful Detours - Ch. 2 (Gravity Falls x Infinity Train)

Summary: Stan and Ford have a rocky reunion, and Ford invokes the wrath of a scheming new enemy.

Warnings: description of a car accident (no injuries)

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20331070/chapters/48370201

(The Beginning) (The End)

Part two of three has arrived! And don’t get me wrong, I’m quite satisfied with the first chapter, but this one was much more exciting to write :)

***

(12 hours earlier, below a stormy afternoon sky in northwestern New Jersey…)

Stan anxiously drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, checking his mirrors for cops. No one appeared to be tailing him.

Maybe the angry mob had been so hellbent on getting revenge in person that they hadn’t bothered to call the police, or maybe the police hadn’t thought a petty con artist was worth their time, but one thing was for sure — this was the fourth town Stan had gotten run out of this month, which meant that one way or another, staying in New Jersey any longer would surely just get him into even more trouble.

There was only one issue: as much as Stan once liked to brag about how he was going to sail away from that godforsaken state one day, he missed New Jersey.

Or, more accurately, he missed the childhood he’d spent there. He missed Ford.

“You cut that out,” he told himself, shoving the train of thought to the back of his mind. “You think Stanford would care that I feel homesick? He doesn’t deserve to be missed.”

His train of thought refused to go quietly, instead jumping straight off its rails. But you do miss him. That’s why you’re taking the longest possible detour out of Jersey, instead of just heading straight to Pennsylvania.

“Shut UP, Stanley!” Stan shouted, smacking his forehead, and the moment his concentration on driving wavered, his car went careening off the highway. He slammed on the brakes, but there was no traction on the muddy downhill slope, and the Stanleymobile kept sliding until a mighty oak tree intercepted it with a sickening crunch.

For a solid minute, Stan just sat with his head buried in his hands, afraid to even look at the damage. It was the passenger door area that had collided with the tree, so Stan himself had escaped any serious injury, but he didn’t know if the Stanleymobile — his only friend in the world, it felt like — would still be drivable.

Finally, he stepped outside in the rain, trudging through the mud without a single spark of optimism as he made his way around the El Diablo. One look at the front left wheel, pointing an angle it definitely wasn’t supposed to, told him everything he needed to know about whether the car could be salvaged.

He felt like crying, and had he been left alone like that for just one moment longer — his one possession of value wrecked in front of him, his already ruined life reduced to even more pathetic shambles than before — he indeed might have broken down and sobbed. But he was interrupted by a flash of light from the woods, and then another, and then countless more, until the flashing stopped and a constant, brilliant green glow was beaming out from between the trees. Beckoning him.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, but his hands were already opening the backseat door and pulling out the duffel bag that contained all his belongings. His feet were already guiding him into the woods, towards the source of the light…

It was a train, come to a stop right there in the middle of nowhere, advertising its destination of Pennsylvania in bright green letters.

And Stan, under normal circumstances, was not an especially trusting person. But today, for some reason — maybe out of sheer bewildered curiosity, maybe because of some sinister spell the train had cast over him, or maybe just because he had nothing left to lose — he found himself throwing caution to the wind, and stepping aboard.

***

Needless to say, when Ford barged into the rock-climbing car and shouted “What are you doing here?!” all angry and accusatory, Stan told an abbreviated version of the earlier events.

“Got in a wreck, needed a new ride, jumped on the train. Didn’t expect it to kidnap me into a wasteland full of cockroaches that try to suck my soul out if I leave.” His words came out blunt and flat, devoid of a whole flood of conflicting emotions that he struggled to hold back.

“You got off the train?!” Ford didn’t look worried about the state of Stan’s soul. If anything, he seemed incredulous at the notion that Stan would want to leave.

“Of course! Do I look like I want to be trapped in some — some sick experiment, or whatever this thing is? I wouldn’t recommend getting off, though — I kinda almost died.”

Please, Stan thought, please say something that proves you’d care if I did die —

Instead, Ford just stared down at Stan’s crossed arms. “Do you have a number?” he asked, as if that was a perfectly reasonable response to one’s estranged twin talking about their near-death experiences.

“Oh, have you already cracked the code? Have you figured out what the numbers mean using your fancy college brain?” Stan’s attempt to stay detached was breaking down more and more with each retort. “Yeah, I’ve got one, it’s —”

He held out his hand, then blinked in confusion. So did Ford.

“Wait, 153?” Stan asked. “It was 147 just a couple minutes ago! It’s been 147 the whole time I was here!”

“It’s lower than mine?” Ford muttered, narrowing his eyes. “Well, that certainly calls for some adjustments to my hypothesis…”

“So you don’t know what it means?”

“I’ve only been on this train for a matter of hours!” Ford shot back defensively. “I simply don’t have enough data points to conclude anything with any sort of confidence!”

As he waved his hands in the air, Stan caught a glimpse of his number — 163. So Ford was ten points ahead of him… or could it be ten points behind?

“But I will solve this,” Ford continued as he headed for the door on the opposite side of the room. “I’m sure one of the next few cars will provide some clues about —”

“Yeah, good luck with that door,” Stan interrupted. “The only key’s up at the top of that cliff.”

Ford tried to turn the handle, without success, and turned around to squint towards the roof of the car. “Ah. So it is.” He eyed the pulley system. “You couldn’t get up there on your own?”

“Look, there’s not a lot of handholds, okay? I’d like to see you do better.”

“Sure.” Ford picked up a harness lying on the ground, and gestured towards the pulley system. “That’s a manual pulley, right? With two of us here, that’ll make the climb simple.”

“Yeah, but why I am I the one who has to pull you?”

“Because I’m lighter, and you have more upper-body strength?” Ford told him. “I thought that would be obvious.”

Truth be told, Stan didn’t exactly want to attempt the climb again… but as petty as it was, he didn’t want Ford to be the one who arrived and immediately saved the day. Ford was always the irreplaceable one, the star of the show, while it felt like Stan was just the opposite — the twin who failed at anything he attempted on his own, and only got anywhere by riding on someone else’s coattails.

He begrudgingly took ahold of the rope as Ford adjusted his climbing harness. “Okay, am I just holding on to make sure you don’t fall, or am I gonna have to lift you the whole way up?”

“I can support my own weight, for the most part,” Ford replied as he began to climb.

“You’re gonna want to move a few feet to the left,” Stan suggested. “You’re not going to get anywhere near the key if you climb straight up from there.”

“Really?” Ford craned his neck, trying to get a better view.

“Yes, really. Trust me, I can actually see the key without looking like an owl trying to turn its head around but failing because it had a broken neck.”

Ford reluctantly did as he was told, and the first three-fourths of the climb passed quickly and without much difficulty. But when he was just a few feet short of the key, Ford slowed to a halt, awkwardly glancing down at Stan.

“You… you were right, there’s not a whole lot of handholds or footholds up here.”

“Do you want me to pull you the rest of the way?”

“I don’t know… give me a second to try again here…”

“You better make up your mind soon, or my arms will get too tired to even get you down safely.”

“Alright, sure. Lift me the rest of the — woah!”

Stan pulled on the rope with all his strength, and Ford rapidly ascended past the rest of the climb. He pulled the key out of its slot at the top of the cliff, and let go of the rock wall altogether as Stan lowered him to the ground.

“That’s all?”

“Well, I only saw one keyhole in the door.”

There was an awkward silence, as Ford undid his harness and walked towards the exit with Stan trailing a bit behind him. As little as a few months ago, a moment like this would’ve surely been accompanied by a victory chant, or a high-six, or something, but now all they had was… a quiet tolerance of each other, and it felt unrealistic to hope for anything more.

We’re both heading in the same direction, Stan realized. What now?

Maybe this quiet tolerance wasn’t so bad, if it meant he wouldn’t be alone.

“Hey, Sixer?” Stan asked as Ford opened the door, and Ford whirled around to look at him — not quite angry, but certainly confused.

This was a bad idea. Why did I have to bring it up? I probably could’ve kept following him, and he wouldn’t have said anything.

“I was just, uh, wondering… I told you my story, but how did you get on the train?”

Ford’s brow furrowed, his look of owlish confusion morphing into a scowl. “I missed my bus.”

“Why?” Stan blurted out, and immediately regretted it when he saw Ford’s expression darken even more.

“I took an ill-advised detour,” Ford explained, speaking in that verbose, detached way that he only really did when he was upset, “that I didn’t have time for. I had a moment of… nostalgia, and wanted to check up on our old project before I left town…”

Staring off into space with a distant look in his eyes, Ford didn’t seem to notice it, but the number on his hand dropped from 163 to 159.

“The Stan O’ War?” Stan asked. “You’re still working on it?”

Ford snapped back to reality, his wistful expression immediately vanishing. “Of course not. I wish I’d never even checked up on it in the first place.”

“Right,” Stan muttered. “Why would I expect anything different from you.”

Ford hurled the key to the ground, near Stan’s feet. “Sailing around the world was never going to happen, and we both should’ve known it!” he shouted. “You know what? I wouldn’t even be stuck on this goddamn train, if only we’d never gotten that ridiculous idea in our heads! Or, if only you hadn’t sabotaged my chances at getting a scholarship to any school other than fucking Backupsmore!”

He whirled around, slamming the door in Stan’s face as he bolted for the next car. Stan tried to follow, but found that the door had locked again, and wasted a few moments fumbling around for the key on the floor. By the time he got to the next car, he could see Ford standing on a raised platform near the opposite door, having already navigated the maze beneath him.

He locked eyes with Stan, no doubt expecting a plea for help. Expecting Stan to beg not to be left behind. (Again.)

But Stan realized — he didn’t want to give Ford the satisfaction of being correct. (Again.)

I can solve puzzles on my own. I can scale cliffs on my own. I’ll get off this train on my own, and then we’ll see who the dumb twin really is.

“I said it before, and I’ll say it again,” he growled. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”

Even though the words came out of his own mouth, they still stung like a slap across the face.

For one single second, Ford looked caught off guard, but then he turned on his heel and left the room. Before the door even slammed shut, Stan’s hand began to flicker green as his number jumped up once again.

169

***

“I can’t believe I thought this place wasn’t half-bad,” Ford muttered to himself, cranking a lever that lowered a drawbridge into place and opened a path to the car’s exit. His hands were slightly greasy from slotting a dislodged gear back into place, and as he wiped them off, he noticed that his number was rising, passing 166 and going higher than he’d ever seen it.

He took note of the changes in a journal, and headed for the exit. In other circumstances, he might’ve wanted to stay a little longer and study the bridge mechanism, maybe even do a few sketches, but right now his heart wasn’t in it he just wanted to get off the damn train as soon as possible, which meant there was little to no time available for unrelated mysteries.

But as dejected eager to move on as he was, he couldn’t help but find himself captivated by the contents of the next car. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined every wall, holding carefully organized books, strange knickknacks, and a surprising number of yarn balls��

“Ahem,” began a voice from the shadows, interrupting his train of thought, “but did you not even think to knock? Have you no manners?”

The car’s resident slunk out from behind a table — a graceful cream-colored cat, dressed in a sharp navy blue suit and golden silk ascot. “Passengers these days, I swear…”

Ford ignored her, eyes glued to table’s contents. One compact device lit up as he approached it, displaying a waveform that oscillated in time with his footsteps, and he picked it up, snapping his fingers experimentally. One again, the display responded.

“You put that down!” the cat hissed. “My collection is more valuable than you could possibly imagine —”

“Oh, I’m sure it is. I’m so sorry,” Ford hurriedly apologized, lowering the device back down to the tabletop but still holding it between two of his fingers. Recalling childhood adventures in petty crime, he sought to create a distraction with his free hand, reaching for an astrolabe that sat on a nearby shelf. “What’s this? Is it decorative, or —”

“Don’t touch that either!” the cat yowled, springing up on to the shelf to snatch the astrolabe away. As she moved, Ford palmed the smaller device and slipped it into the pocket of his pants, and couldn’t help but smirk as the cat failed to notice.

“Okay, okay, I get the message. Is there anything in this room I can touch?”

“I’m sure there will be plenty of things in the next train car!” the cat hissed. “So go on, make yourself scarce!”

“But your whole collection is so interesting…” Ford replied, looking over the room and assessing which other items he might be able to sneak into his pockets for further study. “Won’t you at least tell me where you found all this?”

The cat blinked twice, and then the corners of the her mouth curled into a smile. “Oh, I can do better than that. I think I know just the thing that will interest you, Mister… what was your name? I don’t think you ever introduced yourself.”

“I’m Ford Pines, pleased to meet you. I didn’t catch your name either…?”

“I’m the Cat,” the Cat told him as she bounded from shelf to shelf. As she rifled through a stack of objects resembling sleek black cassette tapes, she still looked up to glance at Ford every few seconds, as if she still didn’t trust him not to touch her possessions.

“Now let’s see… ah, this edition should suit our purposes well. Just take a seat by the television, and I’ll get this documentary started!”

“What’s it about?” Ford asked, settling into the chair. “Any specific artifact or device in particular, or just a general overview? Did you produce and narrate it yourself?”

“Oh, I don’t want to give away the surprise,” the Cat told him as she inserted the tape, “but I promise, once it gets started, you won’t be able to look away.”

She pressed the play button, and Ford’s mind was filled with static.

***

In any other scenario, the Cat would have at that point taken a few moments to simply stare approvingly at her completed trap, but not five seconds after the television had turned on, the door to her car swung open again.

It took Stan’s eyes another second or two to fully adjust to the dimmer lighting, but not nearly that long for him to realize something was very wrong.

“What the fuck?” He bolted past the startled Cat, shaking Ford’s limp body by the shoulders. Some instinct told him not to look at the TV, so he locked eyes with Ford instead — with Ford’s wide open, yet glazed-over eyes that didn’t show a single spark of awareness.

“Ford, can you here me?” No response.

“Ford, I know you’re mad, but this isn’t funny!” Complete silence, aside from static crackling in the background.

“What did you do to him?” Stan whirled towards the Cat, who grinned sheepishly while slowly backing away. “What did you do to my brother?!”

“Oh, I just… introduced him to a meditative exercise! He was very excited to try it, you see, and requested that I not let anyone interrupt him —”

“Bullshit,” Stan growled. “I know a scam artist when I see one! What did you really do to him?!”

“He messed with my things and refused to leave me in peace!” the Cat hissed. “He had it coming!”

“Messed with your things, huh?” In one fluid motion, Stan snatched a ball of yarn of a shelf with one hand and pulled out a pocket lighter with the other, flicking the wheel a few times before a bright blue flame spluttered to life. “Tell me how to get him back, or I light this baby up and toss it at a bookshelf.”

The Cat gasped when he pulled out the lighter, but then unsheathed her claws and sneered defiantly. “If you’re both on this train, but traveling separately… well, his number’s already sky-high and only getting higher. He doesn’t want anything to do with you ever again, does he?”

Stan flinched, and the Cat smiled. “I assumed as much. You poor thing — all you want is to ‘get your brother back,’ but it’s already doomed to be a hopeless endeavour.”

Stan glanced back at Ford, slumped over in the chair and looking about as alive as a corpse.

“Maybe it is hopeless,” he admitted. “Maybe he never will forgive me. But if I left him here like this, I’d… I’d never forgive myself. I could lie to myself about it for as long as I wanted, I could remind myself how he wouldn’t do the same for me, but — but that wouldn’t make me feel any less terrible. He’s my brother, and I’m going to save him, because… because that’s just who I am.”

He unwound a strand of yarn, and dangled it over the lighter flame. Blue sparks traveled up the off-white string like a fuse, racing to engulf the entire yarn ball.

“And I’m also a person who meant what I said about burning everything in here. So for the last time, I’m asking you: HOW DO I SAVE MY BROTHER?”

“Playing on that television is a record of everything that makes him him,” the Cat explained. “If you look at the screen, you’ll join him inside those memories, but I can’t promise he’ll want to come back out with you. In fact, I’d bet against it.”

“I don’t care what you’d bet on.” Stan blew out the flame, and hurled the extinguished yarn ball at the wall. The Cat narrowly dodged the rebound, hissing as she ducked out of the way.

“Don’t worry, Ford,” Stan whispered. “I’m coming.”

***

(End notes:

Being with yellow eyes and fancy outfit: *exists* Ford: well, they couldn’t possibly have any ulterior motives!

Anyways, thank you for reading and as always, feedback/reblogs are appreciated! The third and final chapter should go up in early September, if everything goes according to plan.)

#gravity falls #infinity train #stanley pines #stanford pines #infinity train cat #infinity train spoilers #fic: fateful detours #rosalia writes fic

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akiwisfics · 4 years

Text

In the Middle Chapter 2

Notes: Cross-posted from AO3. If people get annoyed by this, please savior “kiwi crossposts” to save your eyes.

Description: The war's over, but the mess is still left behind. Kasumi finds herself among the wreckage with unexpected companions and questions that seem almost impossible to answer for. Life keeps moving forward, however, and the surprises it leaves behind aren't always pleasant ones.

Pairings: KasumixSha’ira

Kasumi let very few truths into her world, but if there was ever one thing that remained so consistently true throughout her life it was that fixing things took hell of a lot longer than taking them. Of course, she was familiar with both concepts to a certain degree, a necessary part of her career. And right now, fixing the damn communications tower seemed to be about the only thing she was good for.

Which, she supposed, wasn’t an entirely new thing either. The Normandy had been kinda like that. Cerberus had been a shady organization for sure, filled to the brim with monsters, fiends, and even more human like people, all with some shades of color in their history, but as soon as Shepard became involved, there wasn’t so much stealing as trying not to die, and that one trip through the boiling vents.

Some mornings she still woke up with the stench of melting flesh stuck to her nostrils, and would fill her taste buds for hours afterward, to the point where she couldn’t eat without thinking about a different kind of cannibal. It was almost a shame that she was used to the mixture of influences even the most heroic of characters left her.

Taking, taking was a lot easier. Taking precious treasure, taking lives. In the end, it was the same principle, and usually one led to the other, didn’t matter the start. It wasn’t a worry any longer as it stood, after years. A moral crisis would’ve come much sooner anyway.

But fixing things had been the start of it. The batarians understood some of the basics after all, just not always the practice of it. In order to break and take efficiently you needed to know how it worked. In order to know how it worked, you had to start fixing and playing with it.

The plate still itched when one of the engineers pulled her away from the mine. At the time she had simply called him green boots. For years afterward, all she would know about him was the muddy grass smell on him and the web of scars that formed his hands. The camp at the time was pretty small, just along the side of a valley.

The varren barks trailed behind them with their crunching feet to the cliff side overlooking sharp rocks she’d hear desperate others talking about jumping on sometimes. Kasumi couldn’t recall if anyone had done it, whether out of genuine ignorance or repression, and she was far too young and stupid to consider it at the time.

Only staring at it numbly, resisting the urge to claw the healing skin at her neck away. Green boots had a throaty laugh to him that in maybe friendlier contexts would be comforting. However, for a child, it was a sentence of death sometimes.

"I’d focus, Pyjak," he had rumbled into her ear, "that’s where you’ll be going if you fuck up."

But she’d always been a very good student. Sometimes, the lights of the machines coming to life would remind her of the whites of Ashok’s smile. It was more comforting than it should’ve been.

Most of the mornings she spent working on it had been a misty spring, cool against her skin and easy to draw a small smile to her face. It was always easier to breathe when there was something more natural about the atmosphere, where she can experience the real sun and blistering heat to this. However the adjustment wasn’t the same for everyone.

That said, she liked the turian widow fine. When he bothered to talk, he seemed to actually know whatever he was talking about. The grief was so plain on his face though that too often his company only served as an uncomfortable reminder of what she still didn’t have. They were too familiar with each other she thought.

It took about three days for him to say anything about their arrangement. The city was large, but so crushed under its own weight that it was difficult to find resources that couldn’t be claimed by alliance during the war. It was easy to get a list together and send him on his way.

The third day though, he stood there for a moment, looking at the list with a twitch of the mandibles. “You’re very efficient.”

"Comes with a lot of experience. You’re not too bad yourself."

"As much as an errand boy can be."

She laughed and was happy to return to her work on the tower instead. She was just starting to pick up a signal from it. “No offense. Easier to work alone.”

When Kasumi glanced to him from the tower, the widow was playing with the data pad in his hands, turning it this way and that. “Have you always been alone?”

"What, with working?"

"In any context."

"Well. Most everyone has had some company in their time. That’s not really a fair question."

He plopped down beside her, feet dangling over the edge of the building they had it stationed. The thing about towers is that they needed space and height. Of the small street their camp was occupying, it was the most fortified building on the block. Some traces of Alliance left behind, with blocks and plywood forming makeshift steps leading to the roof. The widow’s steps were heavy, and seemed to whine with each step of the plywood.

"It’s important enough that you made me an errand boy just to avoid me."

"I’ve been alone longer than you have. Does it bother you?"

He gave it some thought, hands on his knees, and slightly hunched over, awkwardly so with the hump on his back. Turians were strange ones sometimes; one of the few species she’d yet to really work out. Kasumi wasn’t about to over this sort of company. “Not really. A little confusing is all.”

"I’d leave it at that. You don’t seem like the type to have big heart to hearts with near strangers."

He laughed, something big and loud— deep and almost guttural about it. “I’ll give you that!” And for once, the damn man smiled, or as close as a turian could to smiling as he looked out back toward the camp.

Kasumi was just happy for some quiet. The panel damage was more complicated than she thought, some of the wires missing inside, rarer components. It was an older model, to be sure. She just hoped that the dead gods wouldn’t mess with it once she did get it working. So far luck was on their side at least.

After a minute or so he finally stood, shoulders relaxed for once in the trip. It was a shame that suddenly she felt so much more tense. “She did say I needed to get out more.” He glanced to her, mouth outstretched with more words that didn’t quite reach his platey lips before it finally closed, and he covered it with a cough.

No. Other than that, there wasn’t much remarkable about the third day. The nice thing about working so high up was how much she could watch the others from down below without interruption, not unlike the evenings she would spend in the citadel catwalks as the wards thrived below. In a way, there was power in it, to see and hold secrets that no one wanted her to hold, but there was a sense of serenity in it too. A form of silence and understanding she could never quite describe to someone, not unless they felt it for themselves.

It was only a shame that so few seemed to. For now she merely contented herself in understanding the routines of the others, to know their lives with some intimacy without having to talk to them. It was much easier that way, to give herself less chances to give away the vital information.

The red salarian was usually up first, cigarette placed between his lips as he perched himself on the sidewalk somewhere. It would almost be the perfect image of stoicism if not for the excitement that would show on his face whenever someone came by, usually the hulking krogan that took it upon himself to do a quick search around the perimeter just in case. From there, they would walk off, usually together. They made sure to be back by the evening.

Next was the drell, who sometimes joined her at her roof sanctuary. Rarely she said anything during her visits, other than maybe odd observations at times, some even Kasumi wouldn’t notice. There was something to appreciate about it, though the woman was rather strange.

One morning before, while the drell tried to share some sort of bird that she caught, she pointed out in the street to a familiar sight of the widow with a grin. “He’s helping you right?”

"None of the others seemed too willing."

"You know he comes back during the day to check in, right. Weird though, he only does it with the turian girl. No one else." The chuckle that was vibrating from her throat was much less attractive with the pieces of flesh stuck between her teeth.

"Think they knew each other before this?"

"That or asari might have some competition."

Kasumi hummed. “He seems a little older.”

"How can you tell?"

"Older ones just have a… Thing to them. Like they don’t have enough patience for diplomacy and the mushy stuff."

"Oh. He does seem kinda crabby." She hadn’t stayed long after that, but Kasumi couldn’t help noticing the same thing afterward, how he seemed to be relying on the other turian’s company than she would’ve initially guessed. The drell was good for that sort of thing, but her food choices could make her bad company at times.

The volus would be out next, usually around the same time as the couple, and the three would often catch each other on the way. They chatted, usually rather animatedly, though with the asari much less enthused over it. If anything, it confirmed something she already knew about the woman: she was simply straight combat. Biotics were… Difficult. She never really knew what to do with biotics other than killing them quickly.

Her first blip would come in on the third day. Salarian voice. Somewhere in the old university. It was comforting.

The elcor wasn’t far behind the volus, and she didn’t see but so much hear it’s heavy steps from where she worked. He usually circled the fire a few times in looking for the volus, and greeted most anyone that was still in the camp with the best enthusiasm an elcor could make. The batarian priest was usually close by around that time.

She didn’t know if the priest slept. On the fourth day, when a bit of an asari’s voice would come in, the priest had stopped by to visit her. The harsh shadows of the evening then, chilly and windy from high atop, only seemed to add to his age, which had to have been advanced already. The top two symbols indicated rank. He owned something likely, something big. It was ashes now.

He refused to look at her. “Have you been adjusting well?”

"Easier when there’s something to do."

He sat beside her without invitation, watching for a few moments. The study was benign she knew, but the beady eyes and heavy set frown always set Kasumi’s teeth on edge with the expectation of a strike following. “Did you learn how to do this from the city you grew up in?”

Her hand slipped from the wire she was working on. “No.”

"You’re quite delicate with it."

"You know," and she ducked below the base, if anything just to avoid more looks from the priest, "anyone ever tell you that was a little unnerving? I’m sure you’re real popular with the whole studying habit."

He didn’t seem concerned over that in the slightest, instead turning back to the campsite. “Forgive me then.”

"There’s nothing to say."

"Plenty. The surgery alone must have been painful."

Kasumi paused. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as it being put on. “If you’re looking for pity, I’d go elsewhere, priest. I’m not dead.” It was more than her masters could say. His presence lingered however for some time, hours it seemed that stretched into a near eternity of awkwardness. It wasn’t until the widow returned that early afternoon with her materials that he chose to leave.

There was something private about it, nothing that could be explained even under the widow’s quietly questioning eyes. She had merely shrugged it off before getting distracted by the third blip, another salarian, tone more questioning than the last one.

The pilot and Sha’ira were almost always the last ones to leave their tent. She could believe the pilot taking so long, as he seemed to be up longer stretches during the evening than the red salarian, and usually wasn’t going to bed until they were all getting up. However, Sha’ira, she knew from her time watching, wasn’t a late sleeper.

Through the week, it seemed easy to ask, but her visits to the roof hadn’t ever seemed to be about conversation. Kasumi always knew when she was coming, for the quick patter of steps, while delicate, seemed to be a little fragile on the plywood. Maybe out of concern that it would break underneath. Her steps weren’t quiet.

The consort studied with something akin to professional admiration, Kasumi thought. It was inherently interested, and felt sorta familiar with the way she had watched her. A small sort of smile would fall on Sha’ira’s lips, and even though her visits would be short and quiet, she seemed to always walk away as if she learned something new from the visit.

Sha’ira’s visit on the fifth day coincided with the tower coming to life again. It seemed almost impossible, with the way it suddenly spun, and how all at once her ear piece had been filled with static. It seemed to dance for her even, and it was with a sigh of relief that she began searching through the channels.

Something cold pressed against the side of her neck, smooth and so concentrated that it made her jump from the sudden sensation. “Geez!” The laughter escaped Sha’ira then was light, fluttering, and surprisingly honest with it.

"I apologize, but you seemed so focused." There was still a cheeky smile on her when she looked, something a little lighter, a little freer than before as she pulled the bottle away. Almost right away, it was something distinct with its dark color and the chill.

"Beer doesn’t seem your style, Consort."

"Is this really the place for champagne?"

She grinned and took the bottle offered to her, welcoming the slight reprieve it gave. Sha’ira slid into the seat next to her daintily, legs crossed and making the reds and oranges of her dress flow against her calves. Freckles there too, but lighter, barely noticeable. Kasumi wasn’t going to look too hard. “It’s more about a mood anyway,” she provided instead, “And we are celebrating.”

"I suppose if there are anyone to talk to in this city." She opened her bottle, twisting the lid with a quick flick. "…and it would be nice to hear how my mother is doing."

"Is she at Thessia?"

"Thought it would be best to help home first."

"But?"

Sha’ira smiled. “We all have a debt, don’t we? Earth could be a very beautiful place.”

"I almost feel offended."

"It’s not your home either."

That was true. Kasumi made a small noise in response and stared at the swishing liquid. There was some rowdiness below them. The red salarian liked to entertain the others some afternoons, usually with various card games. She couldn’t say she had much experience with salarian ones other than that they were exceedingly complicated and grew more so as the game continued. She spent many hours wondering if she would see blood splatter from the krogan head-butting the poor guy out of frustration.

"He says he knows you. Sal."

"That’s interesting." The name sounded it, but there were plenty that she came across during her time and not nearly enough was in her to care to remember those that didn’t matter. If he was a threat, that was a problem, but a man that spent time every day to confuse the hell out of their group wasn’t really worth it.

“So is it true then? We have a mutual associate?"

That. That gave her pause. "I'm sure we'd have a few with my line of work."

"And what would that be exactly?"

"Consulting."

Sha'ira gave a dubious look. "I hadn't realized a 'consultant' could grab Shepard's attention enough to warrant recommendation to the Crucible-- or the skills to break into my office."

She grimaced. "Why not? We'll always know more than the buyer." It was too much to hope she wouldn't bring that up again. Meeting victims, even non-victims and people that just happened to be there, was always a very awkward experience. But with Sha'ira, it was a very different experience. Just explaining why she walked away then was enough to dig herself a grave first.

"Is it really so important to be obtrusive about it?"

"About as much as your last name, I guess."

The face she made was almost funny, twisted and a little harsh around the edges of her eyes-- nose scrunched up. "I suppose someone was going to ask."

"It's not like it stops your name from being searched."

"And how much of it is on my life before being a consort?"

Kasumi paused. Thought about it while messing with the channels. "You cover your tracks pretty well. I'll give you that."

"Because we both know what it means to keep a secret." She tentatively touched Kasumi's knee, a gentleness that was unfamiliar to her. Already, Kasumi saw how she was testing boundaries with every bit of the action. "There's nothing on 'Izumi Maeda,' other than Commander Shepard. Anyone could guess that was not a real name."

She only smiled. "What do you think then?"

"About you?" Sha'ira seemed to consider it, idly tapping a finger against her thigh. It wasn't unwelcomed, though strange if she didn't remind herself of the consort's touchiness. "You might have more at stake than I do, and that is why you're so careful about it. Scars suggest experience in fighting... the one on the back of your head is interesting."

Naturally, she scratched at the rough patch of skin, trying to hide the scowl forming on her face.

"But I have a feeling you are not... much for authority, are you? Quite independent."

"You're getting warmer. So is the last name embarrassing in asari culture or something?"

"Far from it."

"But unique enough to make you worried."

Sha'ira returned the smile, a glint in her eyes-- something knowing. She slipped somewhere, though she couldn't see the slip. "Far from it. You may not answer to authority, but you are not stupid either. If you wanted to dig more than what I have given you, you would."

She laughed, and turned away just long enough to look at the omni-tool once more, ignoring the way Sha'ira's hand seemed to stretch and splay against her thigh. Innocent, but strangely intimate-- more than what she was used to. The static became a little less then, into something more like a white noise-- pleasant, comfortable. "There's no fun in that. How many people figure you out without digging?"

"No clients, certainly."

"And I'm not?"

The consort tipped the beer to her lips, smiling. "There hasn't been one in a while."

"You were happy with it."

"... Perhaps." The beer didn't seem to settle on her well. It was a brief change in expression, the way Sha'ira's eyes darkened and she seemed to stare hard into the bottle as if it would change if she just wished it long enough. It was obvious that the choice was made for Kasumi's benefit and not hers. "But even the best of our lives can hurt us if we let it."

"Almost poetic, isn't it?"

Sha'ira shook her head, amusement in her eyes. "I can't say I'm surprised you would be familiar with that."

"You sound pretty certain of it."

"We're far from kidding ourselves at this point, wouldn't you agree?

She laughed and was ready to speak again until she picked up a voice from the ear piece. With a crooked smile, Kasumi shushed Sha'ira and showed the channel on her omni-tool. There was the salarian voice again-- smooth and steady now, with a deep, authoritative inflection to it.

"Any sign?"

Another voice answered, lighter than the last-- almost childish. "Nothing but trash. This'd be a lot easier if we had those plans. All we can tell is basically scrap metal."

"There's some signs of others a couple of miles from your point. They don't seem to be making any headway either."

"That's probably us," Kasumi finally spoke into the earpiece, "If you're finding materials, let me know? It took us forever just to repair this damn tower. I'd hate to have to work this long for something else that might break."

Her first sign that something was wrong was the deafening silence that followed, as if there was some great offense committed. She usually didn't feel that sort of awkwardness except for that one time she broke into a person's house during their dinner party. That hadn't ended well for anyone involved. Somehow, she could guess this wouldn't either.

Finally, Mr. Authority broke the curtain of silence, "Who is this?!"

But Kasumi couldn't speak.

#kiwi crossposts #mass effect #fanfiction #multichapter fics #kasumi goto

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scribeofmorpheus · 5 years

Text

The Rebel Queen (ii)

Chapter Two: Scramble

Pairing: Poe Dameron x (OFC) Princess Calista Ordell

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | A03

Words: 7k | Warnings: More ramblings of a delusional fanfic writer…

A/N: The murderess who started this entire pandemonium of unrest is front and centre in this chapter. We have more Poe and fun-loving Paige Tico as well! And we get to see my two problematic favs get into some trouble (Ton-Ton and Watts).

Taglist is open

Epilogue | About Thesmora

Karas, Thesmora...

Red on black. The taste of charred timber burning on the underside of her mouth. That was all that bled through as Maligma's polished boots traipsed over the razed courtyard. The once splendid land had been terraformed into a landscape worthy of a sonnet of death. All the bodies had been moved, leaving behind mounds of ash and the smell of fumes from the clouds of smoke that diffused upwards into the sky, polluting it, darkening it as far as the eye could see.

The Duchess nursed a look of stoic resignation, taking in the destruction she had caused through umber coloured eyes. Her feet crunching into the ground as though it were snow at her feet and not the remnants of a once lush and green landscape.

Ping!

Unexpectedly, her boot was obstructed by something hard. Reaching down she noticed the familiar silver and gold weaving of the delicate crown. She’d recognise it anywhere. It belonged to Calista.

Like a grieving widow, Maligma reminisced about the day she had helped her niece pick out that exact crown. Lenora had been away from the capital on that particular day and was unable to share in the experience of choosing ones first crown with her daughter. It had been a kind memory. One she had once thought would turn sweeter with the turning of time. Now it was but a reminder of what she lost… what she had destroyed.

A bitter aftertaste soured her mouth as she realised her sister would never again share any more experiences with her daughter. For once, Maligma was grateful she was without children of her own.

Heaving a weary sigh, she dusted off the blood muddied dirt from the crown, digging out the soot embedded in between the small cracks with her long fingernails. She knew Calista was out there, somewhere amongst the stars, hiding in the endless darkness of space.

"Where are you, little one?" Maligma sought to the sky for answers, her pupils expanding to take in more light. From here Thesmora’s two moons were still visible, even at noon. The shattered rock of the third moon resembling a dandelion gradually blowing away, scattering further and further in the wind.

She hovered close to the burnt-out funeral pyre, placing the crown to rest with the remaining bones of the late queen. Her fist closed around a mound of ash. "It didn't have to be this way..."

Wind blew the tears pooling in the corner of her eyes away in a level stream, a salty droplet falling into her ear, the liquid matter eliciting a shiver from her stiff body.

"Duchess?" the encroaching voice of Hazo O'Raka disturbed her from her solidarity –depriving her a moment of reticent bereavement.

Maligma steeled her nerves before addressing him with the new authority afforded to her, "Commander."

Despite his youth and unhinging beauty, Hazo was the embodiment of discipline; a perpetually straightened posture, an unwavering blank expression and hardened eyes the colour of swamp water branded him as one of the planet’s most revered warriors. His demeanour and gait resembled that of Mokk-Toh's, a comparison that always reminded Maligma to stay vigilant while in his presence.

The Commander handed over a data-pad displaying images of the Somnambulist –the ship Calista had escaped on– taken from the space station on Yotai. Her eye twitched ever so slightly when she read the report.

"We don't know where they're going?" Maligma asked, displeased by what she read.

Hazo shook his head, "We were unable to plant a transponder on their ship and it seems our scanners stopped picking up their signal once they jumped to hyperspeed. They have successfully managed to elude us." He sounded almost impressed.

"Careful, Commander," Maligma eyed him. "A tone like that and I might be inclined to assume you're actually relieved they got away."

No muscle or line on his face moved. He was an impregnable statue. His most inner thoughts would forever remain elusive, even from the most trained eye. "You need not worry, Duchess. My loyalties lie with Thesmora. Who sits on its throne is arbitrary so long as they have the people’s best interest."

Maligma's lips curled upwards, "Always the loyal soldier… Mokk-Toh trained you well. Though, I do wonder if he trained you a little too well."

He said nothing, too smart for Maligma's probing it would seem.

She eyed him through the corner of her eye while she absentmindedly scrolled through pages upon pages of data, "And what of the bounty hunter?"

He shook his head once more, it was the most distinguishable form of emotive language she had witnessed from him thus far. "He went radio silent. We believe he's somewhere in the Western Reaches, but have been unable to locate his ship. Should I send a tight-beam to our spies within that sector to keep an eye out for the Admiral in case the bounty hunter was unsuccessful in his mission?"

"Former admiral," Maligma corrected with a dark ring to her voice. She let out a huff in thought. "And no. Versengen is tenacious and vindictive, being a ghost is in his nature. If there's anyone I would bet on to see this bounty through, it would be him."

She handed the data-pad back to Hazo, feet kicking up dirt as she made her way from the courtyard. Her blood-red coat-tails dragging behind her.

"There is another thing," He informed her as she strode back to the palace. After she didn't reciprocate with any words, Hazo went forward and explained: "The Somnambulist was first spotted leaving the Shallow Pits."

Maligma sucked the air in through her gap teeth in annoyance, she knew instantly what that meant. "Murray, that two-faced bastard." Her words, though insulting, held a form of esteem.

"My soldiers believe that is where the princess and Koa initially secured passage off-world. We took him in for questioning earlier. He is currently under lock and key at the barracks."

She noticed the slight shift in Hazo's tone at the mention of Koa, and even though she was intrigued by his slip up, it didn’t warrant any further investigating given the circumstances. However, she did make a mental note to remember it for later.

"Good work Commander… Keep this up and you'll be on the fast track to admiral soon," she doused her words in honey, Hazo, on the other hand, remained unfazed.

"Promotions are of no consequence to me. Once we've secured Thesmora's safety, then we will let the people decide whom they wish to lead the Royal Guard... If there will be one left after your undertaking." Hazo bowed before taking a diverging path to the barracks, hand on his swords hilt the entire time.

She kept her eyes trained on him until his outline dissipated into nothing more than a shadow. "You trained him well..." Her words were lost in the wind, meant for ears that could not hear her.

The cell door opened with a hiss as cold air washed over Maligma's body. Hot and cold clashed from the still radiating heat of the sun on her skin.

Banden was draped over the clinically white bunk placed in the corner of the equally clinically white room. He had on a bored as he twisted his wrists against the arm restraints in an effort to pass the time. When his eyes lifted to meet Maligma's a look of familiarity shone through them. The green of his eyes turning brighter from the imposing light once he shifted out from under the shade of the bunks canopy.

"Maligma, what a present surprise," his suave attitude rolling out in waves. "Gotta admit, I thought about how things would play out when you came traipsing back into my life…" He scoured the room and then looked to Maligma's furious glare, holding it until she made a move before he glanced back at his restraints. "And I have to admit, you got most of the details right. Except for the location."

She scoffed in disgust, "Keep your lascivious thoughts to yourself, Murray. No one wants to hear them."

"You used to sing a different tune once," Ever the audacious mobster, Banden smirked his famous bone-chilling smirk as if he were talking to one of his mercenary thugs.

Maligma's cheeks hollowed inwards as she stared him down with a scornful look, but there was a hidden lick of heat traded between them, it filled the air with tension, whether sexual or antagonistic was anyone’s guess.

"You know you committed treason by aiding my darling niece's escape?"

Banden shrugged like an aloof idiot, "All you Thessi look alike to an outsider like me. I couldn't tell you for certain if I aided the princess’s escape or not. I handle a lot of business deals at any time of day, it would be all too easy for anyone to fall through the cracks."

Maligma scoffed, flipping her rust coloured hair to the side. "Even a fugitive?"

"You forget my line of work."

She glowered, voice turning sharp, "I could have you executed for less."

Banden's smirk grew wider, "Yes, you could, but we both know you won't. Not if you want things to keep running smoothly. Imagine if all the mines dried up, who would feed all those soldiers keeping the people in order?"

Maligma's eyes narrowed at him, "You dare threaten me?"

"Threaten the Master of Spies? I'd be a fool..." He was leering at her now, his entire body bustling with exultant energy from the thrill of trading verbal blows.

She folded her arms, her eyes looking out through the open door, head bobbing to the side to call someone forth.

Hazo appeared from a blind spot with the keys to Banden's shackles. Begrudgingly, he kneeled close to free the mobster's hands with a snarl curling at his nostrils.

Banden searched Hazo's face, his smug disposition fading away instantly like he’d seen a phantom. Maligma careened her head at his unexpected reaction.

When they were alone again, Maligma patronized, "Acquaintance?"

Banden rubbed the skin on his wrists as he looked up, his brows drawn together like heavy drapes. "Only by reputation," he said through a set jaw.

“Since when were you one to care for reputation?” Maligma's eyebrow arched before setting her eyes on his tattoo written across his chest.

He stood from the bunk, stalking close to her until he towered over her, voice threatening, “I don’t.”

D'Qar...

Poe had managed to get cleaned up, packed up and saddled up in record time. He had traded in his pilot jumpsuit and mechanic overalls for his trusty brown jacket, a tan shirt and a pair of red utility pants –holstering his blaster rifle to his thigh. After grabbing a pair of dog tags that hung off the side of his mirror, he picked up his duffle bag and turned off the lights to his sleeping quarters –giving it one last look before heading for the ship parked outside the base.

BB-8 rolled over to Poe’s side, concerned beeps sounding out as he bumped into his leg to get his attention. Poe crouched down, hand on the little droids round surface. "Sorry pal, not this time." The droid rolled to the side and back, bumping into his leg harder.

Poe couldn't help but laugh at his droids enthusiasm, "I need you to stay here, look after Finn for me while I'm away. Keep the General safe." He patted the round ball. BB-8 whistled and chimed but its tone was more downcast, almost disheartened. "I'll be back in no time," Poe reassured the droid, watching him roll away with a proud smile.

The hot-shot pilot got off his knee and walked out of the shade. Heat permeated off the dry, cracked ground in a mesmer. Burned by the brightness, he cupped his hand over his forehead in an effort to shield his eyes from the sun. Rays of light hitting his parent’s dog tags at a sharp angle, reflecting outward.

A woman standing in front of the banged-up star-ship blinked furiously as he walked closer. "By the stars, Poe, you trying to blind a girl?" Paige protested as she blocked the refracted rays with her arm.

Poe slipped his tags under his shirt's collar and patted Paige firmly on the shoulder, "Now that would be a disaster. It's a bit last minute for me to find a replacement co-pilot."

"Co-pilot?” Her bug eyes sparkled with excitement as she punched his chest playful, “You aren't messing with me?"

Poe handed his duffle to one of the men loading up the ship, "You gotta start somewhere right? Can't just jump straight into an X-Wing without chipping a little paint." His knuckles knocked on the ship's side and ironically, peeling sheets of paint fell off.

Paige giggled with excitement as she looked up at the old piece of junk. Regarding it with newfound enthusiasm as if it had turned into a fancy race pod, "Rose is gonna flip when she hears about this."

"Easy there, hotshot," Poe huffed to keep from laughing. "You have to get us to Takodana in one piece first."

"Done and done!" She said confidently. The smile on her face was full of promise.

Poe admired her spirit. She reminded him of how he used to be in his younger days, before all the politics and red tape caught up to him. Sometimes he wished he could simply be a pilot and only a pilot. Take to the stars. Feel the rush of soaring against the winds. Feel the pull of gravity growing and growing until it was cast aside all together whenever he broke through a planet’s atmosphere. He wanted to return to a time when he'd proudly, and solely, declare that flying was all he knew. But the resistance had many pilots, what they didn’t have in abundance were new heroes. And as Leia had told him: ‘As fighters, we have all to accept that people will always expect more of us if we keep rising to the occasion. You have to learn to rise up to the pedestal all these men and women have put you on. We all had to go through the growing pains of transitioning from rebel to hero.’

Silly him, he had kept rising to the occasion, no matter how perilous or impossible a situation got. Which also meant, he was no longer just a pilot, but a hero that others looked to for guidance. And the Force help him, he had no intentions of ever becoming an authority figure in this war.

"Come on," Poe started towards the ship's doors. "Let's get this bird up and running."

Paige jogged after him, her entire aura buzzing with excitement.

"So what's our mission?" Paige asked, already strapped into the co-pilot seat, headset fixed over her grey woolly hat. The blacks of her eyes reflecting back all the lights of the dials on the dash.

Poe rubbed at his chin, the prickly feeling of newly forming scruff scraping against his calloused fingertips, "No clue."

Paige looked at him in surprise, "So we're heading to Takodana with no intel? Talk about flying blind."

"Our orders are to reach Takodana and get in contact with Maz, the rest is all a coin’s toss."

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it, if the General chose you to oversee this mission it must be important," she reassured him with a big smile. "She's General Leia for crying out loud. There must be a good reason for our mission even if we can't see it yet."

Poe took Paige's words to heart, feeling slightly more at ease.

"We're all fuelled up and ready, Commander," one of his flight crew informed him.

"Ground control, we clear for take-off?" He spoke into his headset.

Through the windshield, a member of the landing party flagged him on with their glowing orange wands, "That's a copy. It’s all clear skies and open runway. You've got the green light."

"Mission Control, we've got green light. Fuelled up and ready for take-off," Poe spoke into the headset at a different frequency.

"That's a copy Black Leader. Mission Control requests a call sign for the log before you take off," Lieutenant Connix's voice spoke out through the headset.

He turned to Paige whose bewildered expression informed him she was still taking everything in, "Well, Number Two? How about it?"

Paige looked like she were about to suffer a stroke, her hand blocking off the mouthpiece so she could whisper to him conspiratorially, "You want me to name the ship?"

Poe chuckled with a friendly nod. She shook the startled look from her face, her hand closing around her pendant. Then, all of a sudden, that look of confidence returned and she punched in the new name into the transponder.

"That's a copy, Rose One. You are clear for take-off," Connix relayed as she spoke out the ships new name for the first time. "May the force be with you."

“And with you, Mission Control,” Poe turned to Paige. "Alright, Ensign Tico, take us away!"

Paige hit the thrusters, retracted the landing legs and turning the ship stern-side until they faced open land. With a deep breath and a kiss to her pendant, Paige set their course for Takodana. Poe helped her climb through the atmosphere like it was a piece of cake with his excellent piloting skills.

"Whoo-Hoo!" Paige cheered as the Rose One broke through several clouds and glided out of the ozone layer.

Space-port Hanoi, 200 Million KM from Hoth...

Odhen sat at a booth in the back of the cantina next to a window just wide enough to see the tiny white planet of Hoth from this distance. His haul: the princess of Thesmora and her trusty, yet frighteningly serious bodyguard, were over by the bar, blending in with the riffraff as best they could.

Ton-Ton had remained with the Somnambulist to oversee its repairs. Docking at the port had been a last-minute decision after Odhen convinced the two Thessi women that a working hyperdrive was more valuable than a ship without a working hyperdrive.

He sipped from his cup, his attention drawn to the commotion at the bar where Koa held a man face down against the counter with a clenched jaw. Calista tapped on her arm and like a reflex, Koa instantly relaxed her grip and straightened her face, a duplicitous look of calm taking over her as the thug fanned his jacket as he made his way to the exit.

Odhen had never seen two people so attuned to the other that they rarely needed words to convey a thought. They worked like a pendulum. When one swung over to the edge the other would veer them back on course.

"Stirrin’ up trouble your first day here," he chugged the rest of his drink when the women returned to the booth, an impressed shrug pulling at his shoulders. "You blend right in. Ever thought of changin’ professions?" He joked.

Koa didn't find his jab amusing, deciding instead to fix her eyes on the pins stuck to his jacket. "Were you some sort of hero?"

Odhen shifted in his seat, "Is there any such thing these days?"

“Did you steal them then? Some twisted form of souvenir?”She arched a brow at him and he simply looked out the window, ignoring her questioning. "A deserter then?"

That got his attention.

The tired pilot chewed at the skin in his mouth. "That don’t say much, aren't you both deserters?"

"Perhaps, logically. But such things don’t matter if you still have your honour." She squared her jaw, nails tapping languidly on the table. “Or is that a foreign concept to you as well?”

He knew something about him rubbed Koa the wrong way, he figured it was her disdain for anyone who lived outside the comforts of lawful structures or orderly hierarchies. She struck him as someone who took her ideologies too seriously. From the prickly way she regarded everyone in this establishment, he could tell she was having a hard time reconciling the fact that she was now just like everyone else in this cantina: an outsider. A fugitive. Someone of little honour.

No matter her disposition, Odhen wasn't planning on pulling any punches. It wasn’t his style. "Honour’s just a fancy word for havin’ a code. And a code is just a set of rules we make to ensure we don't cross those lines we’re uncomfortable with. It’s a barrier we put up to try and distinguish between what goes for civilised and what goes for savage. It’s a delusional safety net, nothin’ more."

“Is that why you live like this? Taking odd jobs for scraps? Because you’re above it all. Above the need to distinguish between the two?”

Odhen pointed his finger to the table, tapping between each sentence to emphasise his point, “Your commission wasn’ for scraps. The two of you were quite the lucrative deal, in fact. And in my line of work, it is all about the credits. So stop tryin’ to analyse me as though there’s more to my story than what you see. If you can promise that, I’ll promise not to raise your expectations of me.”

Koa’s mouth opened, a rumble in her throat signifying she was about to rebuke his words when Calista interjected.

"I've always wanted to travel to Hoth," She said softly, shifting their attention to the small round dot in the distance. "It doesn't snow on Thesmora. Not unless you live among the mountain tribes –but even then it's not the same. In the academy during our history lessons, I'd spend hours staring at its hologram, imagining what it would feel like to be knee-deep in snow. Toes going numb and skin turning blue.” A smile danced over her face at the memory, the tension that had begun to climb between Odhen and Koa diffusing away. “To see nothing but pure white stretching on and on forever. This is the closest I've ever come to seeing it with my own eyes. It may be the closest I’ll ever get to it."

Odhen watched Calista's face change from impassive to cheerful and back again –a glimmer of passion slipping between the cracks every now and then. He saw that the same fire that Koa wore proudly, like a suit of armour, Calista kept hidden, like a concealed weapon. In some small way, she reminded him of his late wife. They both held a stubborn vibrancy, kept hidden behind soft smiles and poised etiquette.

"Who knows, maybe you'll get to do more than just see it one day," Odhen muttered as he stared at the white orb in the distance. Calista hummed into her drink while Koa looked out at the white orb.

He was startled from his thoughts by the sound of his holo-terminal beeping around his wrist. He connected the call once he read the transmission signature. A second later, a miniature hologram of Ton-Ton stood on top of a ring of moisture left behind by his cup. The Jawa was shouting and waving his arms as usual, but his tone was slightly more alarmed.

Odhen frowned, repeating what he heard with a hint of disbelief to his pitch, "They grounded our ship? Why?"

The Jawa explained how one of the smugglers who transported refugees off Thesmora recognised their ship and informed the security personnel expecting a reward. Watts had intercepted a tight-beam transmission sent to the base on Yotai. It became instantly apparent that they didn't have long before a group of Elites would mobilise to their position.

Odhen swore under his breath, ending the transmission with a heavy finger, the two women catching none of what Ton-Ton had just said. "You may need to secure another ride. The Somnambulist just got tagged," he swallowed the remainder of his drink and with a loud clink of his glass, he walked away.

"You can't just leave us high and dry after you promised to get us to Takodana," Koa marched after him with a stern scowl on her face and just as stern of a tone. Calista hung back, the pendulum deprived its opposing force.

Odhen sped up his strides, but the young Thessi woman had no problems keeping up with him, her legs almost as long as his. "First of all, I didn't promise anythin’. We made a transaction, I took a job and now that jobs screwed. End of story."

She clicked her tongue, "Of course someone like you only cares about looking out for themselves."

He rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, "Listen, kid, I'm a smuggler, I take cargo no one wants to be caught dead with and deliver it to where it's supposed to go. I get paid and then I move on. Sometimes things don’t go as planned. Sometimes the cargo gets compromised, sometimes I have to stash it, other times I have to space it. This time I'm giving it a heads up before cuttin’ it loose! Caring has nothing to do with it."

"Congratulations," she clapped sarcastically. "You just lived up my expectations." Koa marched off, going to stand beside Ton-Ton who was currently lost in a heated argument with the port authorities.

When Odhen thought he had the room to breathe, Calista finally walked up behind him, but she stayed silent. Simply using her presence to strong-arm a response out of him.

He pinched his nose with an airy snort filling the awkward silence, "Look, I can ask around the port, see if I can find someone I know. Maybe they can get yo--"

"Time isn't on my side and what little time I do have is too precious to waste on the possibility of finding an alternative,” she stated frankly. "I'll double the pay."

He ran a hand over his beard roughly, feeling slightly insulted, "This ain’t a matter of credits."

"From everything you said to Koa in the cantina, your own words would seem to indicate it has everything to do with credits. Unless you don’t believe any of what you said before."

“Look, I have nothin’, nothin’, to prove to you or your friend over there.”

“I never thought you did,” her tone was cold, detached.

Odhen was seeing a different side to her, a darker side –an entitled side. She didn't look at him while she spoke, instead, she kept her chin high and her face unreadable. She spoke at him rather than to him. She made him feel as though he were no different than a low-life willing to do anything for a scrap of credits.

Isn't that what you want everyone to believe? He laughed ironically. Isn't that what you've become?

“Double?” He asked looking for confirmation.

“Double.” She nodded.

"I'll speak to Ton-Ton, see what we can do," he grumbled as he walked away from her, away from the sickening feeling of being regarded as the very thing he had told them he was.

"She's willin’ to double the pay," Odhen whispered to his number two while they conversed in a dark section of the hangar bay.

Ton-Ton spoke energetically, his feet bobbing at the prospect of an even larger payday.

"I agree, that's a lot of credits, but that doesn't mean it'll be easy."

The Jawa kicked his shin in annoyance as he muttered something else.

"By the stars!" Odhen rubbed at his leg. "Fine, but we'll need a distraction too so the port authorities don't send security after us while we disembark. Someone will also need to override the clamp controls in the station's main offices."

Ton-Ton's arms came together and then rapidly flew apart in a circular pattern as he sounded out an imitation of an explosion.

Odhen’s eyes went wide, "You want to set off an explosion in the port? Are you insane? You could rip a hole through the entire station and kill everyone, us included!" He whisper-shouted as he nervously rubbed at his neck. "Always the pyromaniac. Are you forgettin’ what happened the last time you dabbled in controlled explosives? I was deaf in one ear for a week!"

Ton-Ton brushed Odhen's annoyed complaints away with a whack of his wrench, clipping the large pilot in his shin this time.

"Oof! You measly dwarf, I oughta..." he swore under his breath, side-stepping away from the violent prone Jawa with a height complex.

Ton-Ton explained his reasoning’s for being eager to help the two stranded Thessi women and Odhen huffed, a tweak working at his cheek jowls.

"You like the mean one, eh?" his gaze fell on the two women standing by the Somnambulist. He clicked his tongue as he took a deep breath. "Well, I guess we're turnin’ out to be a pair of suckers after all… Grab your mouthy droid and get to work."

Ton-Ton waddled back to his droid while Odhen strutted towards Calista and Koa, hands picking at his scruffy beard, more silvering hairs falling out. "Once an old fool..."

Calista propped her elbow over her forearm, fingers drumming on her lips as she studied the body language of their pilot and his second mate arguing in a dark corner.

Koa twirled a sharp implement between agile fingers, her line of sight drawn up towards the sparks hailing from a construction site overhead. "Do you think they'll reconsider?"

"They're desperate, and so are we. Whether we want to admit it or not, we need each other," she hypothesized.

"What did you say to him? He was pretty adamant about not wanting to help us earlier," Koa shifted her eyes to look at something else.

"I said what I had to," Calista ran her tongue over her teeth in distaste of her previous actions. She didn’t like manipulating others, but Odhen wore his wounds more openly than he thought. Everything had become clear once he snapped at Koa’s questioning his honour.

From what she had deduced of Odhen’s character during their short time together, she could tell his weakness was somehow linked to all those neglected medals pinned to that ridiculously small jacket he never took off. Something from his past haunted him, so much so that he had to constantly keep on the run from whatever it was that he didn’t want to face. From his past.

Koa narrowed her eyes at her friend's nonchalant countenance, "I know it's been a trying time, but are you certain you're alright?" she motioned to place a comforting hand on Calista's shoulder but the princess narrowly avoided the contact by shifting her weight onto her other foot.

"I'm fine. Let's just focus on getting to Takodana."

Ton-Ton and Odhen made their way back to the Somnambulist at a slower pace than Calista would have liked, her legs and arms were on fire with riled up energy that needed an outlet.

"Well?" she asked the pilot while the Jawa waddled towards his droid, placing several pieces of junk equipment into the trolley before he wheeled Watts towards the scaffolding that held up the construction equipment a few yards away.

"That little daredevil over there seems to think your cause is worth aidin’, which doesn' mean much considerin’ he has the worst self-preservation instincts in all the galaxy," Odhen glanced at his second mate getting into an argument with a construction worker allowing Watts to discretely stash something under a support beam. "You know he set himself on fire one time just so he could--"

"Odhen..." Calista brought him back on topic.

He fisted his hand and brought it to his mouth so he could clear his throat before continuing, "Right, we can help, but we'll need more than two hands if we expect to get off this station without being shot to stardust."

Koa expertly threw the sharp implement at an unsuspecting stranger’s crate, the sharp end lodging itself at the centre of a letter printed on its side. Her swift action had gone unnoticed as she straightened off the part of the ship she had been leaning against.

"What do you need?" she asked, hands itching for some action.

He kicked at the air with his weathered boots, hands on his hips as he rehashed the plan, "We'll need someone to get to the control deck and hijack the controls that are keepin’ the ship docked. You can also access the defence turrets from there too. Giving them a hard reboot will take them offline long enough for us to make our getaway. Ton-Ton will set off a distraction that will draw the security personnel away from their patrol stations allowin’ you two to access the service elevator." He pointed to a guarded elevator that led up to a glass structure in the distance.

Calista frowned, "How do we get back onto the ship once we're up in the control room."

"There's an aerial access panel responsible for sending long-distance tight-beam transmissions, it's accessible through a maintenance hatch. The station is one of the largest in this sector, the dome-like structure will allow 'ol girl over here to fit her fat ass up there with enough wiggle room for you to climb aboard before we leave."

Koa judged the distance between the antenna’s platform and open space wide enough for the ship to fit through, "That's no small jump..."

"We'll make it," Calista said confidently as she held out her blaster rifle for Koa –who in turn tilted her head to the side. "No blades, we just need to scare them."

Odhen unholstered his much larger rifle, "Here, somethin’ tells me you'll feel better handling this." he offered his weapon to Koa and she accepted it with a whistle of approval.

Calista tucked her blaster back in her holster and gave him a nod of gratitude.

Koa checked the weapons specs with a smile. "This bad boy can do some damage," she complimented. "It's still got nothing on trusty Mohara though."

"Mohara?" Odhen cocked his head.

"Her sword," Calista informed him.

"Oh," was all he said.

Hunkered under the darkness of a shadow cast off a larger star-ship, Calista and Koa stayed vigilant, waiting for Ton-Ton to set off the signal so the guards blocking their pathway would move. The silence was so all-consuming that she could hear the grinding of her ribs when her chest rose and fell with each controlled breath. It was akin to the sound of sugar being ground in a mortar and pestle. Jarring and very distracting. She kept the time by counting her heartbeat, she was somewhere close to 300 now.

Koa had pulled up the sagging layer of material of her cloak’s collar up over the sharp point of her nose so it clung to her cheeks and hid everything but her eyes. In the dark, they almost seemed to glow the same shade as her blade. She hadn't moved by even a fraction.

What first appeared as a trick of the light, grew into a bright orange flame and then finally a magnificent show of pyrotechnic colour splashes culminating in an explosion that toppled half a section of the scaffolding absent of workers.

Calista's mouth was pried open by the wondrous beauty of the hazardous flames and all they’re eye-catching flamboyance. Koa smirked as she tapped on her shoulder. "That's our signal."

Ton-Ton had outdone himself. Though something told Calista that this wouldn't be last show of needless extravagance she'd witness at his hands. The guards scurried towards the demolition site, as did several workers and crew docked nearby. Eyes wide and voices filled with panic birthed a pandemonium rife with discord and panic.

"So it is," Calista replied as they snuck passed the unguarded post and high-jacked the express elevator with the scrambler, another one of Ton-Ton’s inventions.

"Don't ever tell him I said this, but that odd little Jawa is a genius," Koa admitted as the elevator doors hissed open.

"And rambunctious, don't forget that."

The second time the elevator doors hissed open, Calista and Koa burst out with their weapons drawn at the engineers and technicians working in the control room.

"Don't move!" Koa shouted as she held the hefty rifle in a menacing manner with both hands.

Frightened faces filled the cramped space maintained by a skeleton crew. Calista quickly made her way to the docking clamp operator and pressed the barrel of her blaster onto the spaces between his spinal discs. "I need you to unlock all the docking clamps in the east bay."

The operator held up his hands, trembles travelling from his skittish body through to her rifle, "I- It's against policy." He stammered.

Koa pulled her trigger, a spark-filled tiny explosion devouring the soundboard in a show of forcefulness. The operator jumped in his seat.

"How about now?" Calista asked.

He flipped several switches and turned several more dials as he pleaded, "O-okay, just… please, don't hurt us."

The mechanical whirr of clamps unhooking and retracting throughout the eastern bay made the entire station sound like an ancient behemoth moving rusting joints for the first time.

Plasma rounds hailed around Koa originating from an adjacent hallway, she fired her rifle at a door panel to seal it shut and hinder their attacker's advances.

The commotion had startled Calista, drawing her attention away from a comms worker who tried to knock the blaster from her hand. Luckily, her training kicked in as soon as she felt foreign hands grip at her wrists. She flicked them upwards and elbowed the comms worker so hard his head knocked into an electrical panel rendering him unconscious. She exhaled and then turned back to the bulging eyes staring at her, "Where are the controls for the exterior defence turrets?"

Her audience all pointed towards a scrawny looking woman manning a large station. "How do I reboot the cannon's targeting system?" she asked her, gun pointing down.

The technician slunk into her neck, both hands raised in the air, "I- I don't know. We've never needed to reboot them before." Her voice trembled.

"Move," Calista tossed her head to the side and the technician pushed her chair away from the control panel, gliding without resistance on the scratched up floor. She aimed her blaster at the panel and fired at it several times until all the lights turned off and the wiring sparked.

The technician took a shaky breath, closing her eyes in relief that it wasn't her that was sporting blaster holes. All of a sudden, the previously sealed door was blown open and Koa was kicked back by the force into a terminal, her body pressing down on several buttons causing unplanned chaos to ensue in the docking bay as mechanical arms, shutters and levers started malfunctioning. A rain of bright plasma shots filled the room with a red glow and everyone hunkered down for cover.

Calista spotted the maintenance hatch and shouted over her shoulder, "Koa, I've found the hatch."

"Can you get to it?" her companion shouted back between a spray of gatling plasma rounds.

Her nails dug into her palm as she looked between her corner of cover and the very exposed hatch, "I can try!"

"Go! I'll lay down suppressing fire!"

"I won't leave without you!" She said stubbornly.

"You won't be, I'll be right behind you. And look, there's our ride, right on queue!"

Calista turned to look at the brightly coloured ship manoeuvring its way around tight spots in order to get to the aerial maintenance tower. Its bulky sides scraping against metal structures.

She cursed before bracing herself as she made a run for the hatch while Koa let out another spray of plasma rounds. The hatch refused to budge at first, its hinges unlubricated and stiff, then, without warning, it popped open with a terrifying screech. Calista climbed down the ladder shoot and balanced her footing on the very narrow walkway. The Somnambulist spinning round and blowing wind as the cargo bay door opened with a hydraulic whir.

Ton-Ton waved her over, his body anchored to the ship using a cable tie while Watt's -sporting some singes and new scrapes- was kept in place by a giant magnet pinning him to a wall. Calista gulped as she jumped the distance and landed with her hands bracing at a depression in the floors panelling. Ton-Ton placed his tiny hands around her arm and heaved until she was safely aboard.

She stared at the walkway with bated breath, waiting for Koa to follow suit. Ton-Ton yanked at her sleeve as he made a motion to pull her further inside.

"Wait," she barked out, chin starting to subtly quiver.

Security personnel started firing on the Somnambulist causing it to sway in the open trying to dodge the attacks.

"This bird's got a fat ass, I can't shake em all. We need to get gone and soon!" Odhen's words rippled out over Ton-Ton's headset. The Jawa spoke a reply of his own as he increased his efforts to drag Calista backwards.

"One more minute!" She begged, eyes rapidly scanning the space for any sign of Koa.

Another explosion broke through the glass of the control room, black smoke curdling outwards. Some seconds later, Koa jumped onto the walkway and discarded the large rifle over the side. She steadied herself before breaking out into a balanced sprint.

Just as Koa made her jump, a rocket hit into the side of the ship causing it to move slightly further. In a panic and fuelled by a rush of adrenaline, Calista grabbed onto the meshed tarp that held the ship’s cargo down and leaned over the edge, arm extended to catch her. Koa's fingers grabbed down on her arm, the weight of her swinging body causing something to pop in Calista’s elbow as she helped her up.

Ton-Ton shouted into his headpiece as he made for the cockpit, the cargo bay doors closing shut, sealing them off from the dizzying cacophony playing outside the walls of the ship.

Calista sighed as she rolled onto her back, her arms splayed out limply. She smiled, feeling like she could breathe again.

"Gahh," Koa groaned, a scorch mark burned into the side of her trousers. "Let's never do that again."

Suddenly both of them were laughing, the ship becoming a womb of safety as they caught their breaths and allowed themselves a respite from all the stresses they had faced.

Takodana…

Lush, bright, mossy greens rolled out forever. A panorama of flora and fauna growing wild and free, a green sea untouched by the poisons of war and strife. The smell of earth and pine and clean made its way into her lungs, clearing her mind and body, separating Calista from her worries. It reminded her of home. Of before.

"Welcome to Takodana," Odhen said, thumb hooked on his belt loop. A sense of discomfort resonating through him as he looked to the large structure suffering from recent damage. Flags of all colours blowing in the wind, contrasting with the green of the land. "I kept my end of the bargain… I expect you'll do the same."

Ton-Ton struggled to wheel Watts through the muddy terrain. Odhen, noticing this, pulled the lever away from the Jawa and into his own hands, his gait less confident than usual. “Oh, and uh… I expect to be reimbursed for that blaster you never returned.” He spoke over his shoulder.

The Jawa hitched a ride by sitting in the trolley while Odhen pulled it with him towards the structure. Faint music travelling with the winds.

Calista took a moment to just stand there and take everything in. To revel in the silence and lack of smoke or fire or ash.

"Bargain?" Koa asked.

"I promised him double."

"Can we afford it?"

"No," Calista's jaw muscle twitched. "But there's always Felix."

Koa took a limping step forward, eyes cast down, stray hairs running with the changing directions of the winds. "Do you think he knows?"

Calista sighed, palm pressed to her mouth as her eyes jumped from leaf to branch to tree and back again. Finally, after a stagnant pause, she spoke, "Lenora is his mother too… Was his mother. No matter how much he claimed to despise her, she was family. We still are."

Her answer wasn't a definitive yes or no, if anything it sounded more like an 'I hope so' than a 'maybe'.

To be continued...

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carsieblanton · 5 years

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SOMETIMES THE PERSONAL ISN’T POLITICAL

How data made me a revolutionary

I’ve been going to church occasionally, with a friend of mine and her granddaughter. I wasn’t raised in the church and I am not a believer, but I am beginning to understand the value of gathering with some of your neighbors once a week, reflecting together and singing some songs.

It’s too bad, I now realize, that this version of church is so muddied up with all those other versions of church: the one where the church is a platform from which to manipulate great swathes of people into voting against their own interests, for example; or the one where the church is used as a battering ram against women and LBTQ people; or the one where the church turns out to be a massive pedophilic child abuse ring.

From the pew of my little church in New Orleans, I see the version of church that people love so dearly. I can see that it’s possible for the same idea to be at once a force for good in our private personal worlds, and a force for evil in our shared political world.

Some of our personal convictions work a lot better if they remain personal. When we try to make them political (i.e., attempt to apply them to society as a whole), they don’t achieve what we hoped and intuited they would, and sometimes they even hurt, instead of helping.

I think many of my liberal readers already embrace this idea, when it comes to Christian Republican convictions (”one man, one woman!”, “it’s a child, not a choice!”, “thoughts and prayers!”). But strap in, Lib Dems, cus I’ve got a piece for you, too.

THE ABORTION RATE DOESN’T CARE ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS

To further illustrate the concept, let’s talk about abortion.

If you really hate abortion, and you’ve never read any data on the topic, I can see how you might think that making abortion illegal is a good way to drive down the abortion rate.

Alas, it has been tried a number of times, and the data has revealed that it is not. The real-world result of banning abortion is not fewer abortions, but more dangerous abortions.

So truly noble-hearted pro-lifers (I’ve met some!) should face the fact that abortion bans are not good legislation. They are supposed to result in fewer abortions, but they don’t. Instead, they kill a bunch of pregnant women (which, I hope we can agree, is pretty anti-life).

Similarly, “abstinence education” does not result in fewer teen pregnancies, “thoughts and prayers” does not result in fewer mass shootings, and “building a wall” will not result in more jobs or less crime.

All of these ideas are “political” only in that they are being used successfully to manipulate voters. None of them is (or can become) a successful policy, according to our hardworking and underappreciated friend, data.

For contrast, here’s some data that could be really useful in policy-making, if anyone bothered to read it:

Countries with more restrictions on abortions tend to have higher abortion rates. When countries with legal abortion provide women with access to free birth control, on the other hand, the abortion rate plummets by AS MUCH AS SEVENTY-FIVE PERCENT.

Legalizing sex work has been shown to decrease reported sexual assault and rape by THIRTY PERCENT OR MORE. Providing safe online venues for sex workers to find clients (the opposite of the recent SESTA and FOSTA bills) has been shown to REDUCE THE FEMALE HOMICIDE RATE BY 17%. (Read that again. It’s insane. Now read this. Or, if you don’t feel like reading, just listen to this podcast.)

There are six times as many vacant houses in the US as there are homeless people, and it costs a ton of money to police the homeless population for nonviolent offenses. Why don’t we just give them houses?

Isn’t data cool?!???

This is why it’s a good idea to craft legislation and political strategies based on data, rather than on what feels intuitively or emotionally "right”. When we are unwilling to examine that distinction, we run the risk of 1) turning our adorable private beliefs (thoughts! prayers!) into ineffective, counterproductive, or dangerous political policy, and 2) ignoring data that can actually save lives, in favor of continuing to debate ideas that are politically pointless (eg: “is abortion right or wrong?”).

PLASTIC DOESN’T CARE ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS, EITHER

But guess what other ideas are personally adorable and politically pointless? “Don’t use straws”. Also “go vegan”, “buy organic”, “reduce, reuse, recycle”, and “impeach Trump”. Regardless of their intuitive or emotional impact, none of these ideas has a snowball’s chance in hell of addressing the problems they aim to address, and thus, as political strategies, they are more or less “thoughts and prayers”. Here’s why:

Worldwide plastic production is projected to increase by 400% by 2050.

Organic food still has a conspicuous lack of conclusive evidence for its benefits to health or the environment.

Despite the fact that vegetarianism and veganism appear to be trending in the U.S. and Canada, global meat consumption is on the rise and is projected to continue rising steeply (76% by mid-century).

That’s because the entire populations of the U.S. and Canada make up only 4.75% of the total world population (and dropping), with the world population expected to double by 2074.

(And, y’all, I hate to remind you, but impeaching Trump (almost certainly) gets us President Pence: an equally insane demagogue who is poised to enact possibly-even-more-terrifying policies.)

I’m not arguing that these ideas have no impact, or that they are bad ideas for you to apply to your personal life (e.g. if you have a Trumpian psychopath living in your household, you should certainly kick him out). I’m arguing that their impact on the problems they aim to solve is so immeasurably, impossibly small, that they will never get within a mile of the ballpark of solving them.

And that therefore, going vegan or eschewing plastic straws is in fact not a political act, but a personal one; like going to church, or getting a pedicure.

I’m not saying this to bum you out, or to judge you (I literally just got a pedicure). I’m saying it because when we pretend that “don’t use straws” is a political strategy, and will help us to address the life-threatening global crisis of ocean pollution, I think we are perpetuating a kind of confusion which could perhaps inhibit our ability to engage with these problems on the level of reality.

Which is, unfortunately, where most of us will have to continue living.

SCALE IS CONFUSING

The difference between political ideas and personal ideas is scale. The ocean, for example, is not a pool in your backyard (which you can simply refrain from filling with plastic). It’s a body of water which covers the entire planet, and is affected by all human activity. And “all human activity”, although it is made up of a bunch of individuals doing individual activities, cannot be accurately portrayed by the phrase “a bunch of individuals doing individual activities”. It’s better described in terms of human systems: institutions, governments, militaries, cities, countries, corporations and industries.

To approach these massive, complex, ocean-polluting systems as though they are a collection of individual people sipping beverages through straws is an ineffective tactic. So ineffective, it really can’t be called a tactic at all.

One way to determine whether something is a good tactic is to ask yourself: if this project was 100% effective, what would be the measurable result? Eg:

If 100% of humans stop using straws: ocean pollution will decrease by up to .025%

If 100% of humans switch to organic food: the environmental benefits will be mixed, and we will grow 25–34% less food.

That’s not to mention the fact that it is probably impossible to achieve a 100% effectiveness rate with ideas like these, because so far they are available to only a small subsection of people in a few very wealthy countries.

So, no matter how intuitively correct they may seem, at the scale of the entire globe (the scale where the oceans and the atmosphere exist), these ideas have roughly the same impact that “thoughts and prayers” have on mass shootings: they make a lot of people feel better about the fact that they are doing nothing to address a looming, life-threatening crisis.

If you ask me, we like to think that these ideas are politically effective for exactly that reason: because otherwise we will have to face the coming apocalypse of climate change, and the fact that humans on-the-whole are doing approximately jackshit about it.

And I understand why you’d want to avoid that! It’s fucking terrifying.

But my hunch is that we should instead admit that we’re doing jackshit about climate change, that the straws and the veganism and the potential impeachment were a waste of political energy, and that we are all absolutely terrified.

If we need to calm our nerves after that, we can go get pedicures.

And then perhaps, with a clearer head and calmer nerves, we can work on creating some actual political strategies.

YOU CAN’T CHANGE THE WORLD BY YOURSELF

Out here in terrifying reality, large-scale problems require large-scale solutions. And although it is intuitive to think that large-scale solutions are made up of lots of small-scale solutions (stop each person from using each straw!), it is sadly untrue. Complex systems – countries, economies, organisms – just don’t behave like a collection of small parts.

Similarly, major societal changes aren’t really made of a bunch of individual people making a bunch of individual changes. They are made of large-scale, long-term, coordinated applications of science, money, propaganda, and strategic organizing.

The right wing seems very clear on this fact, and uses it to great political effect (for example, we are still debating the “rightness” of abortion, despite its total irrelevance to policy-making, because they realized in the 1970s that debating abortion gets more people to vote Republican).

On the liberal left, though, I think there is some confusion about it. “The personal is political”, “think globally, act locally”, and “be the change you want to see in the world” get thrown around a little too frequently, and usually as advertisements for water bottles.

How quickly we forget that when Gandhi said “be the change” (which, by the way, he didn’t), he was probably referring to organizing millions of his countrymen in revolutionary acts of civil disobedience, towards a specific and well-defined political goal. He was not talking about buying a glass water bottle.

A relevant term to introduce here might be “phase transition”. A phase transition is when a system suddenly jumps from one phase to another. Boiling water is a good example: as you gradually turn up the heat on a pot of water, it just becomes gradually hotter water, until you get to 100C. Then, all at once, it becomes boiling water. And boiling water (in order to release the gas that the water is transitioning into) behaves very differently from hot water.

What we need to survive on this planet is not incrementally fewer straws and more Priora, it’s a global phase transition into an entirely different societal structure. And the individual consumer approach (“ask everyone to stop using plastic straws, then ask them to stop driving SUVs, then ask them to stop eating beef…”) is not just devastatingly slow, it is doomed to ineffectiveness.

It’s like trying to boil a pot of water by doling it out into Dixie cups and asking your friends to breathe hot air onto each individual cup. Intuitively, it seems like it might eventually work (the water is getting hotter, right?), but alas. No matter how good a job we each do with our little paper cups, the water will never boil.

If we want to boil the water, we need to pour all our cups into the same pot.

CANADA IS NOT THE WORLD

“But Canada is banning single-use plastic!”, you say. “Isn’t that a large-scale solution?”

Again, and unfortunately, it is not. Although “all the straws in Canada” is a lot more straws than “that one straw you’re using now”, it is still not even in the neighborhood of enough straws. The scale of plastic straw usage in Canada, when compared to the scale of plastic pollution in the oceans that span the planet earth, is just one more lukewarm Dixie cup.

The idea that Canada’s plastic ban is “a big win for the environment” only illustrates how resigned we are to losing. We are so resigned, we aren’t even capable of thinking about the problem at the appropriate scale.

If the Canadian single-use plastic ban has a 100% success rate, the oceans will continue to be 100% fucked by plastic.

That’s partly because there just aren’t that many Canadians. It’s also because consumer plastics are mostly not what ocean pollution is made out of (just like personal cars are mostly not what climate change is made out of).

And finally, it’s because everyone is not going to stop using plastic. Everyone is also not going to stop using petroleum-burning vehicles, or cows, or rice paddies. Everyone is not going to stop doing anything, unless and until the global industrial system allows us to do so.

We are still using petroleum not because we haven’t yet convinced each individual person to stop, but because the entire world economy is based on petroleum, and every powerful government on earth includes or is influenced by representatives of the petroleum industry. We are still using petroleum because the petroleum industry has its own lobbyists and politicians and spies and assassins and propagandists and governments.

We are still using petroleum because, at this point in history, the petroleum industry has a lot more influence over us than we do over it.

This may seem like bad news. But here’s the good news: we are not a bunch of individual people, facing a bunch of individual problems. We - the humans - have just one big problem. Our problem is that we have created a world where the petroleum industry is more powerful than any person, idea, government, or country. And so is the banking industry, and the tech industry, and the pharmaceutical industry, and the prison industry, and the war industry.

And all of these industries share one goal, to the exclusion of all others: profit.

Which means that most of the major societal changes happening on the planet are determined not by data, or democracy, or cute social media campaigns, or the pursuit of the greater good; but by the pursuit of profit, for each company, in each quarter.

And these companies and industries are so committed to that narrow goal - hogtied to it, really - that they are willing to hijack elections and start wars and crash the global ecosystem to pursue it. And all of us who share the planet with them - the humans, and the animals, and the oceans - are at the mercy of that pursuit.

The shorthand for this problem is “late-stage capitalism”.

When we are thinking on the global scale - which, again, is the only scale where we can have a measurable effect on the global phenomena of oceans and atmosphere - it becomes clear that the only way to tackle climate change at this point (having failed to do jackshit so far) is to fundamentally change the way the world works.

We need a phase transition.

But you don’t have to take it from me; take it from this team of independent scientists in their report to the U.N.

WE ARE ALL IN THIS TERRIFYING THING TOGETHER

If you’re a person who thought buying organic was a political act, I apologize. You’ve been duped. But it’s not your fault! The idea that our personal consumer choices have an impact on the global economy is not an accident. It is, in fact, a feature of capitalism.

It is good for capitalism when we believe that our personal choices are political choices, because it keeps us from focusing on large-scale problems and organizing to solve them (which, at this point in history, cannot be good for capitalism). Consumer-level environmentalism creates lots of new markets, while having no negative impact whatsoever on the industries that actually run the planet and profit off of its devastation.

If we want to start making political choices, we need to stop thinking of ourselves as heroic individuals, able to single-handedly stop climate change by buying a different phone case. We are part of the world, which is a small place, entirely and inseparably interconnected, and has one very big problem, which we can only solve together.

The big problem thrives when we believe that we are separate people facing separate problems. It thrives when we worry about ourselves, and our beliefs, and what kind of water bottle to buy. It thrives by keeping us distracted, divided, and self-interested.

The truth is, banning straws will not solve our problem, because our problem is bigger than straws. It’s bigger than plastic, and styrofoam, and carbon emissions. It’s bigger than AK-47s and abortion bans. Impeaching Trump won’t solve it, because our problem is bigger than Trump; in fact, our problem is even bigger than “men”.

There is only one man, his name is capitalism, and he’s got us all by the pussy.

SOME COOL DATA ABOUT SOCIALISM

I am a socialist, which means I think we ought to organize our societies around some motives other than profit. I don’t buy that the profit motive is particularly sacred or efficient (except at making profit - it’s very efficient at that), and I prefer almost all the other motives: creativity, kindness, lust, humor, fun.

I dream of a highly democratic post-capitalist society wherein politically-invested citizens make collective, data-driven decisions about how to allocate the resources of this one small planet that we share.

Before we get to the data, a few clarifying points:

I have scoured the internet for months, and I’ve finally found the best and most succinct summary of the difference between capitalism and socialism. Thank you, comrade Teen Vogue.

If you’re an American, you might’ve inadvertently ingested a bit of data-averse anti-communist propaganda in your lifetime. Just to check, read this fascinating and brief history of U.S. anti-communism (which, somehow, doesn’t even mention COINTELPRO).

And finally: no, the Nazis were not socialists.

“Socialism has never worked.”

According to the World Wildlife Fund, there is only one country in the world which is currently “sustainable” in terms of both human development and environmental footprint: Cuba.

Here is a comprehensive comparison of health outcomes for socialist vs. capitalist countries, using data from the 1970s and 80s. It finds that Cuba made significantly more gains than its neighbors in all available health indicators (life expectancy, literacy, infant mortality and employment), as did China (as compared to India) and the Soviet Union (as compared to West Germany and Austria). Cuba currently has the lowest infant mortality rate in history and one of the highest literacy rates in the world.

All of this is to say that “has never worked” is the kind of blanket statement that is designed to shut down conversations. In my opinion, there is a more productive conversation to be had by asking questions such as “in what ways has socialism worked and not worked? What about capitalism?”

“Authoritarianism! Gulags! Freedom!”

The United States (a capitalist democracy) currently has the highest incarceration rate in the world, with starkly disproportionate incarceration of black Americans. Currently, about 80% of U.S. prisoners are incarcerated for nonviolent crimes, and 22% of U.S. prisoners are awaiting trial (they have not been convicted or sentenced).

Israel is a capitalist democracy and a close ally of the U.S. In May, Israeli forces murdered 16 peaceful protesters and wounded 65, including children and paramedics. Exactly one year before, they killed 65 peaceful protesters and wounded 2,400. (For the record, I am a Jew, and there is nothing anti-Semitic about acknowledging the fact that Israel is currently engaged in a number of human rights violations.)

Then, of course, there’s slavery, the holocaust, the Trail of Tears, The Troubles, the Tuskegee Experiments, and compulsory sterilization, to name just a few. All of these acts of violence were carried out within capitalist societies, under the direction of capitalist governments. Is it possible that we are biased against the failures of socialism not because they are worse than those of capitalism, but because capitalism is the dominant paradigm? Is it possible we are experiencing just a touch of Stockholm Syndrome?

“Innovation! Entrepreneurship! Freedom!”

Cuba just invented the world’s first cancer vaccine, without a speck of venture capital. Actually, public (government) funding gave us most of the vaccines we use today (unless we are Jessica Biel); along with the internet, most of our aviation and space technology, the cameras and touch-screens on our phones, and even Google and Tesla.

About 30% of research worldwide is currently funded by public money (mostly government grants). Private money is not inherently more “innovative” than public money; the thing that spurs innovation is access to money, period.

And of course, there is the dark side of privately-funded innovation: the rising cost of insulin, the $750 pill, the possibility that a single company may one day own the entire food chain, and the likelihood that when it comes to research, there is a relationship between funding source and conclusion.

“But people are lazy! And there’s not enough food! And Soviet bloc housing is ugly!”

It doesn’t matter if people are lazy, we have robots. An Oxford study recently found that 47% of U.S. jobs (and around 13% of jobs worldwide) may be “lost to automation” over the next two decades. And many of our jobs are already bullshit: polls have found that 37% of full-time workers in the UK and 25% in the US are “quite sure that their job makes no meaningful contribution to the world”. Let’s step back a moment and consider the phase “lost to automation”; why is this a “loss” at all? Why aren’t we thanking the robots for allowing 47% of Americans to go ahead and be lazy? (The answer, my friends, is capitalism.)

We have more than enough food. Hunger is caused by inequality, not scarcity.

Speaking of inequality, I believe this line of panic stems from a gross misperception about just how much wealth the world has already stockpiled. The U.S. (for example) has quite a lot more money than Russia did in 1917; if we divided all the wealth evenly, each American household would have $760,000. That’s not to say we should do exactly that, it’s just to illustrate that this number is enough to provide quite a high standard of living for everyone - way higher than most of us are currently accustomed to. If the U.S. were to transition to socialism, there is no reason we couldn’t live in style with free healthcare, gorgeous homes, and delicious petri-dish meat.

So what is the actual objection, here?

REVOLUTION: A PRACTICAL, DATA-DRIVEN POLICY IDEA

What all this data says to me is that capitalism has outlived its usefulness. More than 3 billion people on this planet already live in poverty; tens of thousands of children are dying each day from hunger and preventable diseases; we are currently seeing a global refugee crisis of unprecedented proportions, and it’s likely that 1 billion more people will soon be displaced by climate change.

The only political idea I’ve come across that will allow us to respond to so many crises of such magnitude is to stop doing capitalism. And I believe that a massive, strategic, well-organized movement of many millions of people can make that phase transition happen.

I know it seems impossible. But in the words of my late hero, Ursula K. Le Guin:

“We live in capitalism, its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings.”

Our only hope, at this late date, is to pour all our water into one pot. That’s what “organizing” is; that’s what Gandhi and Martin Luther King and Fred Hampton were doing, and that’s what we all need to start doing. I don’t think this blog post will launch a revolution (sorry, trolls), but I think it was worth writing, because it’s my opinion that American liberals - a huge voting bloc with a ton of money - will be considerably more useful to the revolution if we stop wasting our breath, time and political energy on straws.

If you agree, go make friends with your local socialists (I recommend PSL). Give them your folding money to spend on organizing, instead of blowing it at Whole Foods (so Whole Foods can turn around and spend it on union busting). Commit to educating yourself and others about how capitalism works, what it’s done so far, and what the alternatives are.

All of these activities will have more political impact than going vegan, AND you get to eat bacon.

Resources and suggested readings:

The Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein

Why Socialism? by Albert Einstein

Why Women Have Better Sex Under Socialism by Kristen Ghodsee

The Dispossessed by Ursula Le Guin (if you prefer fiction)

Sorry to Bother You (if you prefer movies)

#capitalism #socialism #election2020

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bad-decisions-at-2am · 5 years

Text

Prompt: “Tell me how you want it.”

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairing: Loceit

Rating: M (Dirty talk, cursing, exhibitionism)

Notes: There’s not any actual sex in this one, but Deceit talks a lot and that’s a bad idea. Or a good idea. Depends on your perspective.

Logan likes it when people are frank. He likes clearly worded and explained plans, curt breakdowns of emotions, and blunt honesty rather than forced politeness that only muddies the actual conversation that’s trying to take place.

Which is why he has absolutely no idea how he ended up attracted to Deceit.

Deceit is, well he’s not the opposite of Logan. Deceit does rely on logic and quick analytical thinking when he’s telling his best lies. But he’s like Roman and Patton in the sense that he’s a talker and he likes to play games. And often times he’ll talk for so long that Logan can almost lose track of the lie that’s being told. Almost. But Logan can’t deny that he enjoys listening to the other facet talk. Likes the way he can catch a peak of his fangs and forked tongue, how his slitted pupil tightens into a pinprick when he’s focused, how his gloved hands weave through the air when he’s particularly enthused by the story he’s telling. Deceit makes storytelling a game. A spot the difference, or a riddle, and when there’s time for it, it can be fun.

But Logan also likes the moments he leans over his shoulder to get a look at the papers on his desk, the slight chill that he can feel radiating from his skin. The smooth even tone of his voice as he moves just a detail here, and replaces a word there, and creates something true enough, but far more meaningful in their scripts. He doesn’t like it when Deceit catches him staring and his lips curl up into a knowing smirk that makes his face go hot.

Like he is now. But unlike the times before-- eight. Logan’s kept track.-- he doesn’t purposefully move out of his space. He doesn’t make a show of straightening his cape or adjusting the leather of his gloves. He keeps watching Logan for a long moment before he sighs. That’s different. And considering that Virgil’s just across the study flipping through one of Thomas’s old journals different is bad.

He stiffens as Deceit leans in even closer, his lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “The things I would do to you if you’d let me.”

Logan manages to swallow a very undignified squak that threatens to escape his throat. But he can’t suppress the shudder that races down the length of his spine. He jerks his head away and begins to gather his work. “If that’s all the insight you have on this issue, I’m going back to my room to finalize these plans.”

“Oh yes, that’s all I have to say about this,” Deceit smiles at him, razor sharp, and it does unhealthy things to Logan’s pulse. “For now.”

He absquatulates in a completely dignified fashion.

The problem is, once Deceit’s planted the idea in his head, or at least brought it to the forefront, he can’t stop thinking about it.

About the way his lips felt just barely brushing against his skin. How Virgil had been just across the room and could have noticed at any time. About the words that keep echoing around his skull.

What would Deceit do if Logan said yes? Logan curses his own nature. He can’t even imagine what would happen. That’s not what he does. He doesn’t have imagination or vision. He has facts, blunt and inescapable. The facts are that if he gave Deceit explicit consent he has no doubt that they would copulate. In his mind it’s a simple line from point A to point B. And he hates it. Because there would be more, because Deceit can be creative, and devious, and cruel when he wants. Logan thinks he would make it good. He just can’t imagine it.

And it’s going to drive him crazy.

He finds himself thinking about it again as he watches Deceit sitting with Patton in the kitchen. Logan’s not sure how the mindscape grew into a home instead of their disparate rooms floating around unconnected in Thomas’s mind, but he thinks the kitchen is the most useless room in the construct. Sure they can pull out memories of food Thomas has eaten to consume but they’re just… something. Mental constructs. Not people. They don’t need to nourish themselves individually so long as Thomas is eating. But Patton is grinning as he sets down a platter of cookies as Deceit pours tea into Patton’s cat shaped mug and-- Logan frowns. That’s his mug. A plain dark blue with his logo stamped on the front. He wants to be annoyed, but he figures that’s probably the whole reason he did it.

Instead he watches Deceit lean across the table and whisper something into Patton’s ear. Sees the other facet flush and reel back with a playfully aghast look on his face.

“That’s not very polite!”

“Have I ever been polite?” Deceit grins leaning back and picking up his mug. “Can you remember a time, Logan?” He asks as he brings the cup to his lips.

“Logan!” Patton says cheerfully, picking up the plate of cookies. “Do you want to join us?”

“No,” He sees Deceit raise a brow out of the corner of his eye. “I was just passing by. And no, I can’t recall a time when you were polite Deceit.”

He leaves before the other facets can get a word in edgewise.

It occurs to Logan that Deceit is playing a game. The game consisting of him taunting and teasing Logan until they do eventually copulate. Which seems ridiculous. He’s obviously interested. Deceit is obviously interested. What’s the point in dragging it out?

“The things I’d do to you if you’d let me.”

Ah. Right. The anticipation. Savoring the almost point. Logan thinks he would enjoy it more if he was capable of imagining. But unlike Virgil, in charge of dangerous fantasies, Deceit, in charge of making fabrications, and Roman who takes point on everything else, he doesn’t have that skill. He’s just faced with an unanswered question that makes his skin go hot when he thinks about it for too long.

What would he do?

Deceit is playing a game and Logan can’t even get onto the same playing field. And frankly that just won’t do.

When he finds himself alone in the study with Deceit he resolves that once they’re finished working on answering Thomas’s business emails he’ll put an end to this. Deceit, maybe emboldened by the relative privacy they find themselves in, has moved his chair so close to Logan’s their thighs are pressed against each other. Gloves fingers brush over his as he takes the papers Logan hands him and he can feel heat starting to bubble up under his skin.

“Have you been thinking about me?” Deceit asks once they’ve lapsed into a pause as they both jot away at the papers.

“Yes.” He doesn’t bother to lie.

“Yes?�� Deceit doesn’t sound surprised, but there’s something in his tone. Relief maybe.

“Yes. I’ve thought about what you said quite a bit.” He says stiffly, not taking his eyes off the papers in front of him. “And I think I would let you do a lot to me.” Deceit inhales sharply beside him. Maybe he’d thought Logan was going to turn him down. “But I can’t know for sure without more data.”

“What?”

Logan finally turns to him, finds Deceit’s face close, but not close enough. He leans in, till his lips are almost touching the other facet’s. “I don’t know what you want to do. So tell me how you’d want it and then we’ll see.” Because he might not be able to imagine things on his own, but he can when he with one of the others. And maybe, just maybe, Deceit can actually back up his teasing words with something more concrete. Deceit tries to close the breath of distance between them but Logan pulls away. “Use your words first.” He reprimands as if speaking to a child.

“Alright.” And there’s a wicked gleam in his eyes, “But come closer, we don’t want anyone to overhear us, do we?” Logan concedes and moves close enough so that Deceit can whisper to him, just like he’d done at the start of this all. “Or maybe you’d like to get caught? I wouldn’t mind the others seeing us together, making them see what they’re missing out on.”

“An exhibitionist. Consider me extremely surprised considering your downright subtle attire and manner.” But his pulse is starting to waver in its steady beat.

Deceit huffs a laugh against his skin. “That’s fair. Besides you want to know what I’d do to you. Darling I don’t even know where I’d start.” There’s a slight pause. “No, I would want to start right here, you’re so embroiled in your work, you wouldn’t even notice me moving closer at first. But soon I’d be a breath away from you and you’d go still. I can’t hear your pulse jump but I can feel the heat tick up as it flows off your body.” Logan wonders if Deceit can always feel the heat output, wonders if it’s one of the many reptilian features Thomas’s subconscious gifted him with.

Deceit reaches for his hand, but he doesn’t break the no touching rule. Just plucks the pen from his too tight grip and sets it aside. “And I would wait until you mustered up the courage to turn and ask what I’m doing before I kissed you.” Logan steadfastly doesn’t turn his head towards the other facet even as he unconsciously lets his tongue flick out to wet his lips. Deceit hums in response. “Your mouth is beautiful. I’ve lost hours just starting at you and wondering how you’d taste. So I’d take my time. I’d lick into your mouth and find every spot that makes your breathing hitch. I wouldn’t stop until you pulled away with your chest heaving and desperate for breath. You wouldn’t even notice I’d been loosening your tie until I pulled open your collar and starting biting bruises into your skin.” He pauses. “Would you let me?”

“Why do you want to?” He tries to sound unmoved, but his throat is starting to get tight.

“Maybe because I want the others to know you’re mine.” He concedes. “But mostly because I think you’d like for me to leave you messy. I know you get tired of having to be so restrained all the time. Would you let me bite at your throat until you started to writhe?”

His mouth is dry as his cock twitches in interest. “Yes.”

“Good. Because I wouldn’t want to stop there. I’d drag you out of that chair and back you up against this table, push you down onto it. You’d be too focused on my mouth at your collarbone and my hands holding your hips to notice how much work was just ruined.” Logan can feel Deceit’s lips curl into a smile against the shell of his ear. Another game. A dare. He stands abruptly and Deceit backs off but Logan doesn’t give him much of a chance to doubt himself. Instead, very aware of how much work is about to be ruined, he sits on the table, legs hanging over the edge and looking back at the other facet expectantly.

“Like this?”

“Almost.” He stands, moves in closer, “I’d want your legs wrapped around my hips.” Logan spreads his legs, lets Deceit stand between them, his palms flat against the table on either side of his thighs. But still they don’t touch. And there’s no denying now that they’re both hard. “What would I do next?” He says consideringly as his eyes trace hungry lines along Logan’s body. Deceit leans in close again the tip of his nose hovering just over his neck as he says, “Maybe back to your throat? Darken those marks from before, leave a new one here,” he shifts so his mouth hovers just over the edge of his jaw. “Where you couldn’t hide it. Maybe I should just keep kissing you.” His mouth shifts again, moves in so close, like he’s going to kiss him. Before he pulls away and Logan lets out a soft keen of disappointment. It makes Deceit smile slightly. “But it’d be time to move on. I’d palm you though your slacks, watch the way your spine goes taut as your hips jerk up into my hand.”

“Fuck,” He wants that. Wants it bad enough his head is starting to spin.

“If you asked me to I wouldn’t be opposed.” Deceit replies easily. Like his breath isn’t growing as heavy as Logan’s. “I want to fuck you, darling.”

“I want you to.” He admits, leaning in closer for another almost kiss. “I want it, how?”

“I’d get my hand around you, love how wet you are against my palm as I conjured lube. By the time I got my fingers in you you’d be begging for me. Fuck. I want to hear you beg, Logan.”

“Please,” he whispers. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard. “Please,” he repeats because he set the rules. He can’t break them. But he needs Deceit to touch him.

Deceit groans low and the sound vibrates through his entire body. “That’s it, just like that. I wanna hear you gasping my name, thrusting back against my fingers because you’re ready and you’re desperate, and you need me.” Deceit’s forked tongue flicks out to scent the air and Logan doesn’t need snake senses to know that he smells desperate already. “You’d be so eager I’d have to hold you down. Push you back against this desk and fuck you hard and deep, until you’re screaming for me so loud you know, in the back of your mind, that any second someone’s going to hear you.”

“I don’t care.”

Deceit closes in, hisses against his lips, “Why?”

“Because I want you more.”

“Let me touch you.” Deceit nearly begs.

“Please.”

If he was still clear headed Logan wouldn’t know if he or Deceit had really won this little game. For the time being he’ll admit it was more of a win-win.

Well maybe not a win-win exactly. Because Roman does overhear them and while Deceit finds the entire thing hilarious and Logan’s too fucked out to get properly embarrassed or angry, any awkwardness is going to impede their functioning. But then Deceit is kissing him again and asking if he wants to hear another one of his fantasies and Logan decides that he’ll worry about work later.

Taking prompts from this list.

#loceit #sanders sides fic #deceit ship #sympathetic deceit #fic prompt #requests #orange #citrus scale

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