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wild-karrde · 8 months

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Guarded - Part 1

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A/N: HI HELLO HOWDY! Alright, so a while back, I decided I would rework "Guarded" and "Reunion" a bit, so THIS IS THE START OF THAT EFFORT. This rework will not be as extensive as what's happening with "In Command", but this fic will be getting upgraded to an Explicit rating (with the M option still available on AO3). So if you're new to this fic, I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT, and if you've already read it and decide to revisit it, I HOPE YOU LOVE IT AS MUCH AS I ALWAYS HAVE. And for this go around, I WILL HAVE MY OUTSTANDING BETA READER HELPING FOR THE WHOLE TIME (TJ came on halfway through this fic last time), so THANK YOU as always to @teletraan-meets-jarvis for her stupendous support and beta-reading!

Chapter Rating: T (entire work is rated E, but M-rated version can be found on AO3)

Warnings: canon-typical violence, character death

Word Count: 3.4k words

She could feel it, something in the darkness, just out of reach, creeping towards her.

Not another dream.

The presence shifted, and with it, her certainty that she was in fact imagining it.

DANGER.

The word flashed in her mind like a siren. She rocketed to a sitting position, her hair sticking to her face and neck with sweat that was pouring from her brow. A dark figure loomed in the corner of her room, body half in her window. Their eyes met and his widened at the understanding that his quarry had detected him.

Oh, Maker.

Diving out of her bed, she rolled behind one of the ornately carved nightstands as a blaster bolt ricocheted off the light that stood on it. She coughed from the smoke as she yanked open the drawer on the front of it, pulling her blaster from its hiding place. Her assailant advanced, firing at her as she ducked further behind the nightstand. She heard him chuckle darkly as he stepped up onto her bed to get a higher vantage point.

She was exposed.

Without thinking, she launched herself from her crouched position, tackling the intruder. Her shoulder slammed into his ribcage, and she heard him grunt as her momentum carried them both to the ground, his helmeted head smacking hard against the floor.

He’s dazed at best. Got to keep moving.

She somehow still had her blaster in her hand and tucked it against the attacker’s exposed throat.

“Make a move and I will kill you without hesitation,” she panted.

She heard the same low chuckle again.

Suddenly, his wrist wrapped around hers as he tried to roll on top of her, but he had underestimated her strength. She squeezed the trigger once, twice, and the bolts hit him in the clavicle and throat. He gasped and wheezed, rolling off of her. She stood, her hair hanging in her face as she leveled the blaster at him again, ignoring the metallic smell of blood and charred flesh.

“Who sent you?” she demanded.

“It doesn’t matter…more…will…come…” he wheezed before falling silent.

She knelt down next to him, feeling for a pulse that no longer beat, and she cursed silently as there was a sudden banging on her door. She stood, tucking her hair behind her ear as her security protocols were overridden and her door burst open, the room immediately filling with guards. The captain stood next to her, gently taking her arm to turn her towards him.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, attempting to hide the fear in his voice.

“No, I’m fine. Can’t say the same for our friend here.”

The captain’s brow furrowed. He snapped out a few orders to the guards, and they all rushed to comply.

“They’re growing bolder. This is no longer safe, and you know it,” he whispered quietly.

“Gregar, we can’t let them win.”

“If you die, they win, and they came close tonight.”

“You don’t give me enough credit.”

“Oh, I think I give you plenty. But I’m making the call.”

---

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Three chimes echoed throughout the darkened ship. Only one of the clones was awake, and he didn’t move in his bunk, hoping one of his brothers would get it.

Beep. Beep. Beep. The comm panel was insistent.

Peering over the edge of the bunk, Hunter could see Tech was asleep at the comm station, his feet propped up on the console and his neck tipped back over the chair at a perilous angle.

How does he even sleep like that? No wonder his posture is terrible.

He could see the flashing indicator trying to tell them they had a new message, but Tech’s snores continued uninterrupted.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Hunter sighed in frustration.

He’s clearly not getting up.

He looked around in the bunk for something to throw at his sleeping brother but was unsuccessful. Groaning one more time as he stretched his shoulders above his head, he rolled out of the bunk taking care not to step on Wrecker in the bunk below him and made his way over to answer the message. He could see Echo asleep in the copilot seat in the cockpit and Crosshair was stretched out on the floor in the back of the ship. Hunter wasn’t sure how long it would take him to re-integrate with the team, but it seemed like the sniper was determined to keep his distance for the foreseeable future, even when he was sleeping. He sighed before moving over to the comm console.

Hunter shoved Tech’s feet off the console, jolting him awake.

“Hmmm…what is it?” Tech asked, readjusting his goggles, which were askew across his face. It never failed to amaze Hunter how alert his brother could be after being woken from a dead sleep. It almost unnerved him at times.

“We’ve got a message.”

Hunter punched a few keys and a hologram illuminated in front of them in the form of Senator Bail Organa.

“Greetings, Clone Force 99. I hope this message finds you safe. I have received a request for protection from one of our closest allies. I have been asked not to disclose the name over this channel for security purposes, but I am transmitting coordinates for your rendezvous with their representative. While this may seem unusual, the situation is…complex, and requires special attention, which is why I’m asking you specifically to take this. The contact has stressed that it is imperative that your presence there remains a secret, so please take the necessary precautions. Send a confirmation once you get this message and are on your way.”

The hologram dimmed and Hunter leaned against the wall, rubbing his hands over his face as he attempted to ingest all of the information.

“Well that was…ominous and vague,” Tech muttered.

“Whereabouts do the coordinates put us?” Hunter asked.

Tech punched a few buttons on the console, and a blue and green planet popped up on the display. “Naboo. Looks like we’ll be putting down well away from any major cities. Theed will be the closest one.”

“What do we know about what’s going on there?”

“So far, minimal Imperial presence. Currently ruled by Queen Kestia Nodala, who seems very anti-occupation and has thus far been successful in keeping large forces away. There’s been some rumored tension between her and the Empire recently, but nothing confirmed.”

“Over what?”

“Resources, allegedly.”

Hunter grunted as he ran the information over in his mind.

“Alright, well, let’s get heading that way. Set a course for Naboo and send Organa a confirmation and an ETA that he can provide his contact with. Also, let Omega know we’ll be unreachable for a while so she doesn’t worry if she tries to contact us.”

Tech nodded wordlessly, standing up and stretching his limbs and cracking his neck before heading to the cockpit to lay in the coordinates.

---

The green of Naboo’s forests glowed like a cut and polished emerald below them as Tech brought the Marauder in to land in a small clearing. They’d been met with no suspicion, and that was enough for Hunter’s nerves to be strained.

Nothing is ever this easy.

Quickly, the five clones exited the ship, armored and armed.

“Heads on a swivel for the contact,” Hunter’s voice buzzed from underneath his helmet.

“Do we even know who we’re looking for?” Echo grumbled, scanning the treeline.

“Me,” a voice said from behind them. A tall, dark complected man sporting an eye patch stepped from the shadows, hands raised to show he wasn’t a threat. “I’m your contact.”

The clones whirled on him, raising their blasters.

“And who are you?” Tech asked.

“Gregar Typho.”

Tech’s head cocked in recognition at the name.

Wrecker noticed. “You know him, Tech?”

“I know of him. He was the personal guard for Senator Padmé Amidala prior to her death, and he now currently works as head of the Royal Naboo Security Forces.”

Hunter stared at Typho. “The Royal Naboo Security Forces?”

The captain’s expression didn’t alter beyond a slightly raised eyebrow. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll explain on the way, but we need to get moving. We’re too conspicuous out here.”

“What about the ship?” Wrecker grunted.

“It’ll be fine. Step this way please.”

They walked to the edge of the clearing and Typho punched a few buttons on his vambrace. The ground underneath them rumbled as the Havoc Marauder slowly sunk beneath the grass, being lowered into large hexagonal opening below them. They peered down into what appeared to be a large hidden hangar below the surface. As soon as the ship was completely submerged underground, two grass-coated plates snapped shut seamlessly, and the clearing was again empty and seemingly undisturbed.

“The very precise coordinates make more sense now,” Tech stated.

“Impressive,” Hunter muttered.

“You’ll get it back,” Typho reassured him with a hint of a smirk. “Now come, my speeder is this way.”

The five clones and the captain piled into the speeder that Typho had hidden beneath the trees, and without another word, they were zooming along under the treeline, mostly obscured from view. Hunter noticed that once again, Crosshair had been largely silent since exiting the ship. In fact, he wasn’t sure if his brother had said anything since learning of their mission. When he’d given them the briefing, Crosshair had been leaning back against the hull of the ship, quietly working on yet another of his toothpicks. All he’d given was a nod of acknowledgement before starting to gear up. Now, he was sitting in the back of the speeder, his rifle tucked next to him while he stared out into the trees.

Just give him time. He needs time.

Hunter turned back to their newfound companion in the seat next to him.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Captain, can we possibly get an idea of what we’re doing here?”

Typho gave him a look out of the corner of his eye before sighing.

“You are persistent.”

“I prefer to know what I’m getting my team into. We trust our mutual friend that set this up, but faith will only get you so far.”

The captain nodded. “You’ll get more details once we reach our destination, but for now, the person I represent –“

“The queen?” Echo asked.

“The person I represent” Typho insisted, giving him a glare, “is in grave danger, and I have been assured that your skillsets are best-suited to protect them.”

“Better suited than your own?” Hunter pressed.

“There are… limitations to what my guards and I can do. Naboo is not a planet of warriors, and we believe in peace at all costs, even if those costs are sometimes great. A military force is not something we possess or something we welcome.”

“And yet you hired us,” Tech said.

“Yes, I did. Please understand the desperation of the situation for me to do so, and the risk that comes with it.” He glanced at their armor. “We’ll have to get you changed once we arrive. You’ll stand out too much with your clone armor.”

Wrecker groaned from the back of the speeder. “Ugh. Nothing ever fits me.”

Typho gave him a once over. “I’m sure we’ll find… something.”

They rode in silence for the remainder of the trip, the wind whistling by their helmets as Typho piloted the speeder through the forest. They could see the city of Theed rushing into view on the cliffs above, but the captain never turned the speeder towards the main entrances, instead steering for the bottom of the bluffs. Echo shot Tech a look, and he shrugged as they pulled into a large cavern. A few hundred meters into the cave, there was suddenly dim lighting along the floors and walls, and Typho expertly piloted through the tunnels.

“Where are we?” Wrecker shouted above the roaring winds.

“These tunnels run alongside the catacombs under the city. Best way to get in and out without being seen,” the captain replied.

Wrecker shuddered at his reply. “I don’t like dead bodies.”

Echo looked at him, tilting his head. “You see dead bodies all the time.”

“It’s different when I’ve killed ‘em.”

Echo started to ask another question but appeared to accept Wrecker’s logic as Tech shook his head, still typing away on his datapad. Crosshair didn’t budge, continuing to stare into the tunnel ahead of them, the dim lighting gleaming off of his visor.

After seemingly several klicks, Typho pulled the speeder to a stop in a tunnel that led to a staircase cut into the rocky walls. He pulled his helmet from under his seat, tucking it under his arm as the clones assembled in front of him. Making sure he had their attention, he spoke.

“From here on out, it’s imperative that you not be spotted by anyone outside of the small group of people that are aware of this plan. You must do exactly as I say, is that understood?”

The rest of the clones turned to Hunter, who nodded. “We understand, Captain Typho. We’ll follow your lead.”

The captain dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement, placing his helmet on his head, but Hunter could sense his continued unease. He turned and began climbing the stairs, and they followed. As they neared the top, Typho reached into his pocket to pull out a commlink, raising it to his lips. “Iden, do you read?”

A female voice responded. “Loud and clear, Captain.”

“Is she ready to receive her private appointment?”

There was a brief pause on the other end. “Affirmative. You have a clear shot all the way. I’ll lock down the entrances and have guards posted outside.”

“Excellent.” Turning back to them, Typho sighed. “Alright, let’s go. Try and stay away from windows if you can.”

They all nodded in acknowledgement. Typho keyed in the door’s code and they stepped through into a well-lit passageway with marble flooring and stained glass windows lining the hall. The corridor was empty, and they moved quickly to keep up with Typho’s pace. Echo had to keep elbowing Wrecker to hurry as he turned, taking in the architecture around them, slowing his strides to stare at the colorful windows.

“You’ll have time to be a tourist later. We’ve got to keep moving.”

Wrecker grunted but obliged, picking up the pace to keep up with the captain.

Typho led them up several flights of stairs and down several corridors before pausing outside a large set of closed double doors. “Iden, confirming we are clear?”

“All clear. Come on in, Captain.”

The doors swung open, and Typho motioned for them to follow him. The room they walked into had massive pillars encircling a seating area that was arranged around an ornate wooden desk. There were guards stationed around the room along with six women in matching dark robes, their hoods pulled low. A large window illuminated the room and the woman staring out of it. She turned to face them as they entered, clasping her hands in front of her.

Queen Kestia Nodala stood taller than most, her dark hair braided elaborately into the headpiece she wore, a silver diadem with dark blue stones that hung low on her forehead. Her gown billowed out, making her appear wider and more imposing with sharp shoulders and wide sleeves that hid most of her hands, only her white thumbnails poking out from the cuffs. Matching silver ornamentation lined the bodice of her gown, fanning out to the hem of the skirts, which flowed towards the floor. The queen wore the traditional white and red makeup of Naboo royalty, the red dots on her cheeks giving her face symmetry while a red line divided her lower lip in two, the Scar of Remembrance. Her green eyes glowed in the sunlight as she stepped forward to meet them.

Typho strode to her, removing his helmet again to tuck it under one arm as he bowed. The clones took their cue from him, removing their helmets as well.

“Queen Nodala, may I introduce Clone Force 99,” he gestured at them to step forward.

Hunter led the group, bowing stiffly. The queen watched him unwaveringly as he straightened, meeting her eyes.

“Your highness,” he said quietly.

His brothers bowed awkwardly behind him, doing their best to show respect even though they were all well out of their depth. There hadn’t been much time to meet politicians of any level during the war, much less any that were considered elected royalty.

The queen stared Hunter down for a few more moments before turning to Captain Typho. “I see my wish to handle this internally has been disregarded then,” her voice boomed with a slow, deliberate tone that made Wrecker shift uneasily on his feet. Her eyes snapped to him, and he quit moving, instead opting to stare at the floor.

“M’lady, we’ve discussed this,” Typho said quietly, his voice strained. “I do believe your safety warrants this measure.” Leaning closer and speaking so softly even Hunter could barely hear him. “And this was a compromise in my book, if we’re being honest.”

She watched him carefully for a few moments before letting her sharp eyes return to the clones, roving over each of them in turn. “Very well. As it appears my captain has decided you are necessary for my safety, I will accept his judgement. For now.” She swept forward, extending a hand to Hunter.

The rest of the clones watched as their sergeant fumbled with how to best greet the royalty before him. Finally, after several awkward moments, he clasped her hand, bowing again. He saw Tech nod slightly out of the corner of his eye and internally breathed a sigh of relief at somehow managing to get that right.

“Hunter, your highness.”

“M’lady,” Tech coughed behind him less than subtly.

Hunter shot him a glare before correcting himself. “M’lady.”

I guess I should be happy he at least tried to be sly about it.

As Hunter lifted his head, he could have sworn a smile tugged at the corner of the queen’s lips as he released her hand. Tech moved in next to make sure his brothers could see the appropriate protocol.

“Tech, m’lady,” he said, dipping his head as he clasped her hand gently. Hunter noted the muscles in her forearm flexing as she gently squeezed Tech’s hand before he released her fingers, raising his eyes to meet hers. Despite her initially stoic demeanor, the queen seemed slightly amused by Tech, her eyes sparkling and her mouth quirking upwards at his bespectacled brother.

Her reaction surprised Hunter, but then again, if she found Tech somewhat entertaining as a first impression, he wasn’t about to shatter that illusion.

We’ll see if she’s as tickled once he starts correcting her every move, he thought with a smirk.

Not everyone had the patience for Tech, and this queen seemed at least somewhat impatient based on her interactions with Typho. The captain was behaving as though he’d been anticipating a fight ever since they stepped into the throne room, and while one hadn’t materialized, Hunter could still see he was tensed in the way his spine was ramrod straight and the way his jaw was clenched, watching her carefully.

Once they’d all been introduced, the queen turned back to Captain Typho. “I suppose we should get these men into clothing that’s less conspicuous.”

He nodded. “Yes, m’lady. I had planned on disguising them as security officers.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What exactly will differentiate them, then?”

“They’ll be stationed right next door to your quarters and at least one of them will be with you at all times.”

Her mouth tightened into a thin line, and they could all see she was half a second from arguing with him again before another guard strode into the room. She was short with her hair pulled back into a slick plait. She appraised the clones for a moment before addressing the queen.

“Apologies for the intrusion, m’lady, but your next appointment is here.” Hunter recognized the woman as the Iden that they’d heard speaking with Typho during their walk to the throne room.

The queen narrowed her eyes at Typho in annoyance as she turned to acknowledge the information. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I shall receive them once Captain Typho and our guests have departed.”

With that, Typho bowed stiffly before turning on his heel and leading the clones out of the throne room the way they’d come, the massive double doors swinging shut behind them with a dull thud.

*Tag List: @seriowan @partoftheeternalsoul @rosmariner @misogirl828 @ellichonkasaurusrex @zoeykallus @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @staycalmandhugaclone @readheadgirl @fordo-kixed-rex @wizardofrozz @ariadnes-red-thread @justanothersadperson93 @leftealeaf @kaminocasey @echos-girlfriend @lucyysthings @obihiddlenox @merkitty49 @littlemissmanga @clonecyaree @baba-fett @sleepingsun501 @rexxdjarin @samspenandsword @babygirlrex0504 @ladytano420 @fxlsealarm @runforrestr @djarrex @corrieguards @the-cantina @witchklng @wolffegirlsunite @fives-lover @rain-on-kamino @ladykatakuri @arctrooper69 @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall

*If you do not wish to be tagged in this rewrite, please let me know (same goes for Reunion)

30 notes · View notes

nightingaelic · 1 year

Note

How would Fo4 companions react to Courier 6

Just... existing?

The Dugout Inn was packed that night, thanks to harvest season caravans, pay day for the security officers, and some harmonica player that was giving an admirable performance by the Port-A-Diner that still held an immaculate piece of pie. But the harmonica wasn't the main draw, the sole survivor's companion noticed when they walked in - it was a newcomer at the bar with a gaggle of onlookers surrounding them, holding sway over the group with some story about an adventure in the faraway Mojave wasteland.

While the sole survivor elbowed their way toward Vadim and liquor, their companion sidled up to the back of the newcomer's crowd to listen in. They were describing a battle with deathclaws in a quarry, filled with blood on the cut stone, teeth and horns sharper than a mother-in-law's tongue, and plenty of pizzazz.

"How much did the NCR pay you, once you were through?" Becky Fallon asked when they reached the tale's conclusion.

"Oh, 500 NCR dollars," the newcomer replied, making a face. "About 200 caps, for you east coasters."

"Only 200 caps for 20 deathclaws?!?" Hawthorne laughed. "You're the cheapest hunter I know. Only 10 caps per deathclaw, that's a hell of a deal."

"I don't hunt full-time. The NCR pays its contracted hunters more."

"If you're not a hunter, then what do you normally do for work?" Hawthorne asked.

The newcomer smiled. "I'm a courier."

Cait: Cait snorted. "A goddamned mailman? Come on. And you're out smashing up deathclaws for what, drinking money?"

"I take whatever comes my way." The courier raised their glass to her, then took a large gulp of it. "It's how I get by."

"Sounds less like 'getting by' and more like you have a death wish," Cait quipped. "If I want drinking money, I don't find it by looking beyond what my baseball bat can handle."

"I like a challenge," the courier admitted. Their eyes traveled over Cait's wiry arms. "I could use one now, truth be told. My purse is a little light."

"I can buy your next drink," Hawthorne offered.

"Out of the way, handsome." Cait pushed the adventurer to the side and slid in next to the courier. She put her elbow on the bar, hand up. "Five caps says you can't pin me, stranger."

A competitive gleam entered the courier's eye. "Make it 10," they said, thrusting their drink into Hawthorne's grasp.

By the time the sole survivor returned, Cait and the courier were gritting their teeth, arms shaking as they both tried to pin the other's hand to the bar. The crowd was cheering them on, growing loud enough to drown out the harmonica as the courier's hand inched closer and closer toward the counter. Cait saw her chance and took it, and the smack of skin on wood was nearly covered by disappointed groans from the courier's admirers.

"Pay up," Cait advised them, accepting her drink from the sole survivor.

"Best two out of three," the courier suggested breathlessly.

Codsworth: "A worthy profession," Codsworth remarked, with a deferential tilt of his eye stalks. "Receiving the post was always one of the highlights of my day, before the war. We don't get many deliveries these days, but that makes the ones that we do receive all the more special, in my opinion."

"Aww, you remember your pre-war days?" The courier looked the robot over with interest. "I'm surprised your current owner didn't overwrite your memories and give you a fresh start."

"That would be because my pre-war owner and my current owner are one and the same," Codsworth replied helpfully. "Two centuries' worth of memories is of course, far too much data for a Mister Handy model such as myself to contain, but they trust me to do my own pruning. I can throw out most of the years I spent trying to polish the car, for instance."

"Is your owner a ghoul?" the courier asked, confused.

"Far from it." Codsworth pointed out the sole survivor at the other end of the bar. "They were lucky enough to gain entrance into a vault just before the bombs fell, and then they were - well, there I go, telling their story for them. I suppose they would rather give it to you in their own words."

"Sounds like quite the story," the courier murmured.

"A tale for the ages, or so they say."

Curie: Curie gasped in delight. "Le service postal of the United States survived the Great War? This is beyond impressive!"

The courier wrinkled their nose. "Is that... French? Oh shoot, I don't remember most of what..."

"It is quite alright," Curie reassured them, patting their arm. "I am fluent in English as well."

"Je ne parle pas français," the courier answered triumphantly. "Ah, shit, I bet Arcade 100 caps that I'd never use it. Can you keep a secret?"

"Most assuredly." Curie smiled. "When did you arrive? It is rare that Diamond City sees visitors from so far away."

"What about the Brotherhood?" Becky pointed out.

"Or that trader from Appalachia who came through last week," Hawthorne added.

"Less rare as of late," Curie amended. "Regardless, you are more than welcome here. It is so nice to see new faces. So encouraging."

"Thank you." The courier smiled. "People are usually happy to see me, but it's nice to know it's not always because I'm bringing them something."

"Viens avec moi," Curie insisted, seizing their hand. "There is someone else you should meet, tonight."

Paladin Danse: "That's an important job in the west," Danse said, nodding in approval. "The coast, mountains, and desert make for dangerous terrain, even for Brotherhood troops. Navigating them as an individual can be safer than traveling as a group."

"As long as you know where you're going," the courier added. "I've done work for the Brotherhood before, but they're a secretive bunch. Keep to themselves, unless you've got something they want. They're a real different beast from the East Coast variety."

"They've faced different challenges and adversities," Danse replied testily. "But the western leadership still provides a clear mission for the order, from coast to coast. We follow their example."

"Mmm, I'm not so sure." The courier tilted their glass around thoughtfully. "Maxson's chapter has an open-door policy, which I suppose isn't the worst thing compared to the desert chapters, but that wouldn't fly on the West Coast. I suppose he gets away with it because he's the golden boy who has all the vertibirds, and that big robot that keeps getting blown up."

"Watch your tone," Danse warned them.

"Or what, you'll court-martial me? Please." The courier chuckled. "Your Mojave brothers and sisters strapped a bomb collar on my neck and made me do chores for them, the first time I came around their bunker. I take a slap on the wrist far better than I do a death threat."

Danse was taken aback, which left them room in the conversation to keep going. "They're not all that bad, though. I've got a Scribe friend from the same chapter who taught me some great moves with a power fist. She's always on the verge of leaving them though, so who knows."

Deacon: "What's your usual cargo?" Deacon asked casually. "Anything you can carry?"

"Usually." The courier tapped their chin. "Though if it can move itself, we'll do escorts for an extra fee. I've driven some brahmin and led some bots in my day."

"Ever move people?" Hawthorne asked.

The courier's eyes narrowed. "What, like slaves?"

"No, no, nothing like that." Hawthorne waved his hands. "I mean, like, freed slaves. Or synths."

"You really think synths would make it that far west?" Becky asked, skeptical. "The Institute's everywhere, and they'd stick out like a sore thumb outside the Commonwealth."

The shopkeeper and the adventurer fell to arguing, leaving the courier and Deacon stuck in the middle of their debate. The courier raised their eyebrows at him from over Becky's shoulder. Deacon shook his head and smirked before walking away.

"What was that all about?" the sole survivor asked, once he'd rejoined them.

"Ah, nothing." Deacon accepted the drink they had bought for him. "Just someone I thought I recognized."

"Anyone I'd know?"

"Nah."

Dogmeat: Hawthorne shifted to the right, accepting the drink Vadim had brought him, and the courier caught sight of the dog that was eyeing them curiously. A peculiar look came over their face, and they set their own glass down and knelt to beckon Dogmeat over. "Here, buddy. It's okay."

Dogmeat, ever the good judge of character, sniffed their offered hand and licked their knuckles. The courier rewarded him with a scratch behind the ears. "There you go. You look just like some other pups I know. Whose dog are you?"

The sole survivor, who had apparently given up on getting Vadim's attention, nudged their way into the courier's circle. "He's mine. Well... I'm his, I suppose."

The courier straightened up again and looked the Commonwealth's latest star over. "You suit each other," they said, coming to some conclusion. "Buy you a drink?"

Mayor John Hancock: "Whoa." Hancock drew some loop-de-loops in the air with his finger, pointing to the courier's various accoutrements. "Stay away from this one, folks. If I know one thing, it's that you don't tangle with a fucking mailman."

"We're only scary if you're standing in the way of our route," the courier joked. "Have you met many of us?"

"Enough," Hancock admitted. "Knew a fiery one from New Reno who retired a few decades ago. She was a crack shot with her pistols and could give a yao guai bad dreams, when she felt like it."

"Oh, Dawn? Petite ghoul, wears pearls and a different wig for every day of the week?"

"That's her! Have you met her?"

"Never had the pleasure myself, but the old guard at the Mojave Express never shut up about her." The courier smiled. "I didn't know she'd come east. Is she still around?"

"Nah, she went north three years back. Said she was going to find her next fortune in the Annex Nation." Hancock seized a nearby bottle from the bar and took a swig before offering it to them. "Got the sense from her that she had to keep moving, or she'd drop dead of boredom. You know?"

"That's the average courier for you." The newcomer accepted the bottle and took a drink. "If I sit still too long, I start to go a little insane. Makes things tough, sometimes."

"Well, those who get you, they get it, and those who don't aren't worth your time anyway." Hancock winked. "She sure made Goodneighbor interesting while she was around, though. If you ever see her again, tell her that John the honorable mayor misses her."

Robert Joseph MacCready: "A mailman?" MacCready made a face. "Might as well join up with mercenaries, if you're willing to risk your life that often. You'd probably make better caps."

"Probably," the courier agreed. "But I get better stories out of courier deliveries than I would if I was just a hired gun."

"Oh yeah?" MacCready settled in against the bar. "What's your best one?"

The courier whistled, long and low. "Where do I even begin? Do you want the best one with a happy ending, the one where I had the most problems in my way but still managed to make the delivery, the one with the best pay... you've got to narrow it down."

"The best one. Period."

"Fine, they're all the same story anyway." The courier grinned. "I picked up a job in the Boneyard for pretty decent caps, nothing to sneeze at, but two weeks into the trip I get waylaid by a guy in a fancy suit and some Khans he paid to find me. They surprise me, take my cargo, then shoot me in the head and bury me in a shallow grave."

"They did not," MacCready cut in. "You'd be dead."

"Yeah, the doc said I was for a few minutes." The courier tipped their hat back, exposing the bullet scar on their forehead, much to the crowd's delight. "So once someone fished me out and nursed me back to health, I tracked that snazzy murderer and his goons down, took back what I was supposed to deliver, and brought it where it was supposed to go."

"And how much did you get in return?"

The courier bobbed their head noncommittally. "Well... there's a bit more to the story, but I got a thousand caps up front, and later I got a casino and an army of robots."

"Pffft." MacCready burst out laughing. "Just who do you expect to believe that?"

Nick Valentine: "A courier from the West Coast, huh?" Nick's golden eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't happen to have some time for a few questions about a case I'm working on, would you?"

Several minutes later, the sole survivor found the pair at a table in the back, where Nick was grilling the courier about their encounters with his pet serial killer. "So no calling card, no trace, nothing," the synth was saying.

"No, nothing like that." The courier scratched their head. "I think I first saw him outside... Novac? Maybe? I was out late after a job, and some Vipers tried to jump me on the way back into town. He put down the last of them before she gutted me with a machete, and when I went up the ridge to see what he was after, he was gone."

"Did he leave any footprints?"

The courier clucked their tongue. "Rock ridge. Nothing there. I have no idea how he got down without me seeing, because there was definitely no way up. Trust me, I looked."

Nick sighed. "Well, it matches all the other descriptions. Best guess I've got is some pre-war ghoul, or maybe a synth like myself, who for some reason gets his kicks from interrupting gunfights and arbitrarily choosing the winner. You should come by the office tomorrow morning, if you're still in town, so Ellie can get this all down officially."

The sole survivor set Nick's drink down in front of him and grimaced. "He's a phantom, Nick. Odds are, we'll never catch him."

"I don't care if he's the Silver Shroud himself, I want to know what he's doing in Boston." Nick took a swig of the beer and scowled. "Thanks for your help, courier. Safe travels, if I don't see you."

"My pleasure." The courier rose and nodded to both of them. "Not sure what all the fuss is in this city about synths. You're a perfect gentleman."

Piper Wright: "Move over, Hawthorne." Piper squeezed in next to the courier and pulled out her notepad. "How long have you been a courier? Do you like it? What brings you this far east?"

"Whoa, slow down." The courier laughed. "Let's just say I've been a courier as long as I can remember."

"Now that sounds like an answer that's got a story behind it," Piper pointed out, jotting their words down. "Are you saying you've been a courier since you were very young, or that you can't remember that far in your past?"

The courier's amusement dampened a little. "Have you ever been told you're too smart for your own good?"

"Often, and usually by people who've got something to hide. Why are you in the Commonwealth?"

The courier downed the rest of their drink and set the glass on the bar. "I'm out. I get enough of this in the Mojave."

"Who's bothering you in the Mojave?" Piper pressed. "You wouldn't happen to know a courier from out that way who was at the fight over Hoover Dam? What are your thoughts on their actions, and on how everything turned out?"

The sole survivor arrived with their drink just in time to watch the courier's retreat toward the door. "Who was that?" they asked the reporter.

"Just someone who's not a fan of the press." Piper rolled her eyes and put the notepad away. "I wish everyone was as open to an interview as you, Blue."

Preston Garvey: "A courier?" Preston commented. "You must have been all over the west, if you work as a courier. What's it like, compared to the Commonwealth?"

The courier shrugged. "Some places are better, some are worse. Depends on where you go. My heart's in New Vegas, of course, but I've found pleasure and danger all over the place."

Preston smiled. "Those two go hand in hand, sometimes."

"More often than we care to admit." The courier smiled back. "I saw some folks with your uniform on my way through Sanctuary. Are you with the Minutemen?"

"You could say that," Preston replied. "Preston Garvey, at your service."

"The Preston Garvey?" The courier chuckled and shook their head. "Hell, the way the people in Sanctuary talked about you, they made it sound like you were the Minutemen. The whole kit and kaboodle."

"That was true at one point, but there are more of us now." Preston took off his hat and slid his hands along the brim. "We're coming back, bit by bit. Mostly thanks to the general."

"The general?" The courier whipped their head around, scanning the Dugout. "Is that who you came in with? The Sanctuary settlers were singing their praises when they weren't talking you up."

"I could introduce you," Preston offered.

"Oh no, I don't want to impose."

"No trouble at all." Preston waved the sole survivor over. "We're always happy to welcome newcomers to the area."

Strong: "Hunter better," Strong grumbled.

The courier chuckled in surprise. "Sorry, I guess? I'll change my business cards when I get home, if you like."

"What the hell's a business card?" Hawthorne asked.

"Pre-war piece of paper with your details printed on it." The courier withdrew such a card from inside their coat and handed it to him. "That one's not mine, it's for someone I worked for once."

"'Robert E. House,'" Hawthorne read. "'President and CEO, RobCo Industries.' What's this string of numbers?"

"Not important, unless you know how to use a telephone." The courier took a sip of their drink. "I have no idea why he kept those around, no one has a telephone anymore unless they're tearing it apart looking for copper wire."

"Strong could tear a deathclaw apart," Strong interjected.

The courier raised their glass to him. "I'm sure you could. I've seen some of your brothers' work in the Mojave. Impressive stuff."

"Mojave brothers have milk?" Strong asked.

"Milk? Like from a brahmin?"

"Milk of human kindness," Strong explained. "Strong drink. Make Strong stronger than humans."

The courier leaned over to Hawthorne. "What's he on about?"

Hawthorne shrugged and handed the business card back. "Beats me. Vadim's got milk at the bar, though."

"Wrong milk!" Strong insisted.

X6-88: Though he was as curious as the rest of the crowd, X6-88 kept his questions to himself and settled for observation as usual. The courier was certainly a genuine wasteland wanderer, with none of the usual tells that an Institute synth or agent had when interacting with the people of the surface. They seemed at ease with themselves and their surroundings, though it was obvious from their stance that they were ready to spring into action if the need arose. He counted four - no, five - weapons on their person, and mentally filed these away as potential threats to the sole survivor at the other end of the bar. Most interestingly, though, the courier had a very visible scar on their head. An execution wound, X6-88 was certain, and that made the figure all the more interesting and threatening. Who had wanted this person dead, and why? How had they survived it? And why were they here now?

By the time the sole survivor came back with their drink, the courier's crowd of admirers had thinned a bit. X6-88 was still watching them, impassive but intrigued. The subtleties of his own interest were well-known to the sole survivor by now though, and they quickly picked out the source. "Anyone we know?" they asked.

The courier perked up at the question. "You seem like a threatening pair," they remarked, scooting a little closer. "Not here for me, I hope?"

"No," X6-88 replied flatly.

"Just as well." The courier raised an eyebrow at the Courser's hand, which had gone to his laser rifle. "You don't look like the usual types who are after me nowadays."

"Who's normally after you?" the sole survivor asked.

"Nobody as well-dressed as you two, that's for sure."

BONUS!

Ada: "With a caravan, or one of the western courier services?" Ada asked.

"The Mojave Express," the courier answered, surprised. "Have you been out west?"

"I have." Ada shifted her frame in excitement. "It's been some time, but all of my previous caravan's ventures there were successful. We only left the Mojave because the sand began to interfere with the parts of myself and our other ground-traveling robots."

"Oh yeah, it's hell for any bots that don't hover," the courier agreed. "Eyebots and Mister Handy models do just fine, but protectrons and sentry bots don't last long without constant upkeep. You look like you're mostly the latter, except for your head - I don't recognize it."

"Assaultron model laser cannon and optics array," Ada said proudly. "Assaultron models are more common on the East Coast than the West. I'm not surprised you haven't encountered them, if you've just arrived."

"You don't want to encounter one," Hawthorne said, shaking his head.

"She seems polite enough," the courier argued.

"My pre-war counterparts are not," Ada replied. "Laser cannons are particularly formidable weapons, when used correctly."

The courier eyed her head with interest. "I'd love to see it in action."

"If my companion is agreeable, perhaps I can arrange a display. Outside the city walls, of course."

Porter Gage: "Much money in that?" Gage asked nonchalantly.

"Enough," the courier answered, with a suspicious look on top of it. "But I'm not here for work."

"Oh, you just crossed the country for fun?" Gage chuckled. "Brave of you. Or stupid."

The courier smirked at that. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Gage let someone else pick up the conversation after that, but he kept his eyes on the courier for the rest of the night. From the way they moved, the way they talked, and the collection of concealed weapons he managed to spot, he didn't think they would be an easy mark, but something about them was compelling all the same.

The sole survivor eventually caught him watching the newcomer, and they tried to drag him off the idea. "We're just here as a favor to Mags and William," they reminded him. "In and out. No trouble."

"No trouble," Gage echoed, but he kept watching the courier anyway.

Near the end of the evening, Scarlett delivered him and the sole survivor some bottles of Nuka-Cola they hadn't ordered. "Compliments of them," she said, jerking her head toward the bar, where the courier was grinning and raising their own drink.

Before the sole survivor could stop him, Gage rose and stalked over. "What's your angle?" he demanded to know.

"What's yours?" they countered, looking him up and down. "You're the one who's been staring."

"Can't figure you out," Gage admitted. "But something about you tells me that if there's something to be acquired in an endeavor, you'll acquire it. Can't rightfully explain it."

The courier grinned again. "Ever heard of New Vegas?"

Old Longfellow: Longfellow snorted. "Ought to drop that vocation, take up spinning yarns professionally. Near two dozen deathclaws, my ass. You've barely a scratch on you."

"That so?" The courier pulled their sleeve up, exposing a jagged, healed wound that snaked up their arm like a lightning strike. "I've got scratches that would put yours to shame any day of the week, old man."

"That's nothing." Longfellow unfurled his scarf, exposing a wicked cut he'd once been dealt in a bar fight. "Broken bottle. Spit glass for a month or two."

The courier's eyes gleamed, even as they unbuttoned their shirt a bit to indicate a neat scar just below their collarbone. "Not bad. This one's from a Legionary's spear. Might still have a piece of it lodged in me, helps let me know when it's going to rain."

"My knees tell me when it's going to rain, kid," Longfellow said with a chuckle. He rolled up his pant leg to show off the white fissure he'd earned only a year prior. "Fog crawler by the name of Shipbreaker. Didn't take too kindly to me and my friend disturbing her hunt."

The courier pulled their hat back and indicated a rather gnarly crater on their forehead. It was unmistakably from a bullet at very close range, and its appearance drew gasps from the crowd.

"Damn." Hawthorne inspected the old wound with an expression of morbid fascination. "How'd you survive that?"

Before the courier could answer, the sole survivor pushed into the crowd with drinks and groaned. "Ugh, another scar-measuring contest, Longfellow? Really?"

Elder Arthur Maxson: "What business brings you to the Commonwealth, courier?" Maxson asked. "I didn't think the Mojave Express operated this far east."

The courier raised an eyebrow at him. "It doesn't. Elder."

The crowd around them began to murmur and disperse, shooting nervous glances at the young Brotherhood leader. Maxson kept his chin up and stepped closer, waiting until most of the attention was elsewhere before lowering his voice. "I didn't mean to pry. I was merely curious."

"Oh, I'm not offended." The courier downed their drink and set the glass on the bar. "I just know where I stand with the Brotherhood of Steel in the west. They're not always fans of mine, and if you're trying to start shit in a bar, I'd prefer to do it on equal footing."

"Start..." Maxson's eyebrows went up. "I only know of one courier the western leadership holds any meaningful opinion for."

The courier shrugged and straightened the lapels of their coat. "The one and only. Number six, in the flesh. If that's a problem, let's take it outside, this place is kind of nice."

Maxson settled against the bar, caught the sole survivor's eye and held up two fingers. "No need. I would, however, be interested in your opinions on my order."

The courier chuckled. "You are not going to like what I have to say."

"All the same."

Desdemona: Desdemona smiled too, but she said nothing and let the rest of the crowd pepper the courier with questions. Any Mojave Express courier that decided to range past their usual territory was someone worth picking the brain of, but while she felt more at ease in Diamond City than other parts of the Commonwealth, she never felt completely safe. You never knew what you might let slip in an innocent conversation.

When the sole survivor returned with drinks, the pair claimed a table and settled in. The harmonica player wrapped up first, and took most of the security officers with them when they left. The caravan guards and traders turned in later, disappearing into the lodging rooms they had booked for their seasonal travel. Scarlett and Vadim were stacking chairs by the time the courier bid their last admirer good night, and approached the table where Desdemona and her agent were waiting.

"Thought you might be who I was looking for," the courier said. They drew a package from inside their coat and set it on the table. "I found the payment where the message said it would be, so we're square."

"Thank you." Desdemona slid the package inside her own coat. "You didn't run into any trouble, bringing it all the way from New Vegas?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle." The courier smiled. "Good to see you again, Dez."

#fallout #fallout 4 #fo4 #companions react #fallout new vegas #fnv #courier six #12 days of ficmas

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ambiguouspuzuma · 4 months

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Redneck

"I mean, sure, slurping is frowned upon - but I can't well let the good stuff go to waste, right? Y'all got all them nice juices down at the bottom of the body, and it'd be a crying shame to leave them for the coyotes like the rest of the carcass. Waste not, want not, as my ma always said, back when we was coming up. You know, I never really got what she meant, until I came to be raising a boy of my own."

Princess Ekara guzzled from their victim between mangled sentences, letting the blood flow freely down her throat. They were amongst friends, secluded here between the trees. Just the three of them, and each of them cursed. She and Count Kajal went back a long way, all the way to the Old Country, and this was nothing that he hadn't seen before - and besides, he'd taken the best bits for himself.

"Well, not my own, grant you, but near close enough. I found him in these here woods, can y'all believe it? Feeding off them slow moving possoms and Lord knows what else, and I'm learning him how to live proper. Taken him under my wings, as they say. Are y'all sure y'all don't want no more?"

"I'm good, thank you," Count Kajal said. He'd brought their quarry down, and that had meant the first glut of fresh blood had filled him up in minutes. It came gushing out if you hit the artery right, and you didn't need to slurp at all.

"That means helping him with his eating, too, of course - he's only a few months undead, you see, and not yet made the switch from solids to liquids. His teeth are still coming in, if y'all can remember what that feels like. Bless his cold unbeating heart. But he's just the most precious thing, the way he tries to chew the gristle down."

Turning, as the elders had termed it, was by no means a one-off thing. A newly formed vampire had to be constantly suckled with some sort of blood - or formula, for those who preferred - to keep the grip of death from taking hold. Before their bodies adjusted, that meant red meat, and lots of it. A balanced diet, with all of the major blood groups.

Princess remembered how it had felt to turn for herself: starting to like her meat rare, and her meals often. She didn't remember much before - the mortal memories often became hazy, lost to the trauma of death. That was why new vampires needed raising: even after learning to feed themselves, they'd forgotten how to do everything else. They were basically kids, even at a century old.

"And he's teaching you the accent?" The boy sat to the right as they caught up, quietly chewing the fat. He would have been a teenager, in human years. Or a corpse. "The dialect?"

"We'll that's the long and short of it, sure," Princess replied. "To help me blend in, best I can, whilst I help him to blend his food. That's the deal we got in place. I teach him to be a vampire, he teaches me to be a regular Joe."

"A regular Joe called Princess," the Count noted, with no small amount of scepticism.

"Oh, that's no problem at all," she said. "We got an Earl or two in the town, a Duke, a Queenie, a Barron. Ain't nobody pays no mind to little old me. Even the surnames really ain't the problem, settling here - y'all get plenty of migrant labourers, Old Country families and the like. We fit in like gecko on a rock. No, the accent's the rub. I can't be talking in that high-falutin, fancy-pants European vernacular. They'll think me awful uppity, and it'll be sore thumbs and pitchforks time."

"So this is all about camouflage." He seemed somewhat relieved. "You haven't just gone entirely native."

"Well, I'm sure fixing to. The boy reckons I still sound like a bad impression, but Lord I'm trying. He says it's like I'm mocking them. Mortal folk can get real snooty like that. But I sure as Hell know they'd mock me if I was talking like we used to."

Princess paused, hearing his own scant lines on replay in her mind. Haven't, not have not. Starting a sentence with So. The old Count wouldn't have ever talked like that. But it had been a long journey here, and it had clearly rubbed off on him too.

"Oh look now, even y'all have softened it a touch, Mister 'I'm good, thank you'. This ain't the land of castles no more, and you ditch the crenellations from your speech to adjust, right? You always got to adapt to survive."

"It seems easier than the cities, at least. More space to hide. More places like this."

She nodded. "We're at home around country folk, y'all got that right. Vampires have always known that rhythm of reap and sow; the milking of the herd, the harvest of the crops. I figure the mob can't come with pitchforks if you're holding onto one yourself."

"American Gothic indeed."

"If you like," Princess said, pushing the finished corpse aside, its remnants now drying on her cheeks and throat. She'd have to show the boy how to get the stains out of their clothes. "I'm just trying to be an ordinary redneck."

#writing #short story #creative writing #original writing #vampires

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observeroflaplace · 8 months

Text

D20 - Grave

CW: violence

Under the cover of night, a Miqo’te skulks ruins of Belah’dah in Southern Thanalan. Though a sun seeker, his eyes have adjusted to the dark through training, patience, and the faintest assistance from magic outlining his feline gaze. Across hollowed shells of buildings and streets, greyed and rotten corpses shambled aimlessly. Aimlessly enough, to put them down without a struggle.

“That which was torn from its rest shall be returned. May those lost in the dark find the glow of your fire’s light.” A prayer muttered under bated breath, as the man draws a dagger, around whose hilt is tied a nigh imperceptible wire chord, which close enough to perceive, faintly gleams with the red of spilled voidsent blood. The prize of another quarry, but not the quarry he was sent for tonight.

Silently, he hurls the dagger towards one of the animated corpses, and its twin at another. He pulls the chords taut, and a bright, near-white flame traces across the length, briefly outlining the wires until they reach the blades buried into unloving flesh.

The corpses immolate with barely a hollow roar of pain, crumbling to ash quickly thereafter.

“…From dust you came, and to dust, you shall return.”

More sentries ambled the area, but with the cover of crumbled walls, these too, were easily dispatched. An ordinary assassin might simply circumvent them in favour of the true quarry of the night, but to the Miqo’te, he was obligated to return these abominations, these tortured souls, back into Thal’s embrace.

Deeper within the ruins, towards the remains of the buried temple of Qarn, wherein Azeyma was once revered alongside the divine kings of Belah’dah, a weeping Hyur is hunched over a corpse laid on an altar. Flames nearby were lit to shed light as the grieving man did his blasphemous works.

Adorned in armour befitting the Sultansworn, this body was considerably more recently deceased; and with the acrid smell of alchemic preservatives, almost certainly fresher than time’s grasp would ordinarily allow.

The Miqo’te treads quietly, trying to take advantage of the plentiful and long shadows cast in the room by the quarry himself.

However, the lack of direct cover meant that on approach, the Miqo’te being revealed was inevitable.

“I’ll make it right. I know the guards were failures in one way or another, but I promise you, my son. I’ll make up for my mistake. Please come back to me.”

The Miqo’te stands over the Hyur’s back, blade in hand, ready to strike, when his shadow barely slips out of that of his target.

“Wait, who’s there-“

Wasting little time, the Miqo’te brings his blade down into the man’s neck. Blood splatters onto the floor and is quickly singed dry, and sparks briefly banish what darkness remained from the lit flames. Ozone fills the air.

Solemnly, the Miqo’te dug two graves that night.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2023 #ffxiv writing #U’rhaya Tia

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dawn-of-worlds · 1 year

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Let us build for ourselves a city

Beneath the claws and cloaks and thirst for blood, beneath the touch of Corobel, beneath their strange homes and stranger thoughts, the Calyptra are human. The curse of humanity; to never feel satisfaction, to always chase some greater goal; that is their birthright as well.

At least in humans, this is mitigated by physical reality. Hunger and thirst will crowd out ennui, the day-to-day struggle for survival dominates questions of higher purpose. Some humans go all their lives without ever giving much thought to that nagging sense of imperfection, too occupied with eking out a living.

But the Calyptra live in an otherwordly paradise. They never go hungry, they need serve no kings, and the few beasts that dare hunt them cannot follow onto the shore. Some become great philosophers, engaged in endless debate about reality and morality. Some seek solace in art, carving blocks of regolith into sculpture, adorning it with shades of red. A few boldly journey inland, starving themselves of blood for days at the time, and return bearing meteoric treasures and strange lunar gems. Mystics and poets and craftsmen all exist among them, as they do among humans.

Most, however, build.

(and they call the thing they built a city, but it has no market-squares, no palaces, no temples, no roads or mills or wells, and in fact its people have no need for cities, and hardly even remember them, and the thing they build is no city at all, but a great stone gate, built for a hateful dark star that spirals inward even now)

Truth-Descends-from-the-Heavens is enormous. The cyclopean city stretches beyond the horizon, its great towers reach a hundred meters into the heavens. A great ziggurat, built far from the shore and slowly sloping up, measures half a mile, and some add to it still. Canals snake between the buildings, providing fresh blood to the city's occupants; many buildings collect blood in their basements and so remove any need to ever head outside. Bridges-turned-tunnels, their cracks sealed with mud, span the bloodways, allowing for easy travel between buildings.

Much of this space is pointless, constructed only because construction was called for. Some buildings are hollow within; others are completely solid. Labyrinthine corridors wind around vast empty rooms, stairs are rough and incomplete, sometimes requiring vast vertical jumps to ascend, designs are unbound by considerations of inhabitant or utility. Nearer to the shoreline, the constructions continue beneath the sea's surface. Blood-filled tunnels connect inland basements to submerged vestibules, megaliths ever-untouched by the sun bear glyphs said to turn away sea monsters.

To most Calyptra, the city is nothing but a form of therapy: an opportunity for endless creation that somehow, somewhat, lessens that terrible wanting feeling. They roam it aimlessly, adding onto the design where their strange standards deem it lacking, painting the floors, carving sigils and images in the walls, pausing only to attend to their needs, to breed, to gather stone from the great quarries beneath.

But some take this plentiful space and turn it towards other ends. A lone astronomer has claimed a single tall tower, drawing vast star charts on its walls and floors, heading out to the roof to study the night sky (trying, as she does so, not to glance too much at the shining world's poles). Others construct ritual chambers, crypts, classrooms, libraries, shrines. In a secluded spot one may find a museum, showcasing bones of sea-beasts and treasures from afield, and even a basin of the strange clear fluid from the lifeless ocean far to the south.

And of course there is community, still. Calyptra are no loners, and desire companionship, and a lone Calyptra wandering the halls will in time come across others and join them. In bands from a handful to a hundred, they travel and work together, splitting and merging as they see fit. What conflict the Calyptra know arises between these groups: more commonly over the proper thing to construct than over tribute or territory.

All of these little wars, these tunnels and chambers and dreams, the cults worshipping their grandfathers' works; they matter not to the intelligence behind it. An anthill cares not for its ants, and likewise the dark star sees only an ever-expanding perimeter, an ever more complex target to hone in on: it is pleased at this.

The moon, who is like a god, might once have hoped to resist the hatestar's arrival at great cost, to turn it away, unleash secret arts upon it, perhaps even destroy it. But the city is a doorway, and an inexorable path points through it: while it stands, it shall one day be reached.

(This is part of my previous action; the creation of the Calpytra. No points are expended)

#world 02457 diegesis #i am not going to give any kind of estimate about the population you would need to construct this in 1-2 centuries #but given that the calyptra have a crazy high upper limit on their population right now #i'm pretty confident it's doable #also obviously there's a lot of calyptra in the sea and shores as well who all have their own coping mechanisms for the human condition #the numbers given for building height assume it scales linearly with inverse gravity; if i am wrong please tell me

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way-ofthe-dumpling · 2 years

Text

Blood, Sweat, and Tears.

{Music}

{TW- Violence - Blood}

A furry of fists, the thundering crowd, the thick air filled with the scent of blood and sweat. This is where Emi belonged.

After the misstep with the Searose Company, her negligence nearly costing the life of a young Archeologist, it was clear she wasn't the most welcome of the crew. Even though Sariah had forgiven Emi for not being at the site on time, the action was enough to make her an outcast to the Company, a feeling Emveah loathed. Once the rescue wrapped up Emi took her pay and split from Searose to find her place yet again, this action led her down a path that opened doors to the Brawler's Guild and her new favorite career.

This was her fourth fight, a run of victories that kept the Monk's blood burning for more, but now she was outmatched. Emveah, a lean and green thing was pitted against a massive Draenei man whose fists struck like a rockslide down a mountain, crushing everything in its path. Dodging had only done her so much, expecting such a large man to move slower and being unpleasantly surprised with his swift strikes, leaving Emveah bloody, tired, and nearing her limit as the behemoth charged in her direction.

It was a snap decision, jumping into the air and mounting the man's shoulders mid-charge, her thighs wrapping around his neck and gripping as tight as possible to choke him out all while landing punch after punch to his face as he tried and failed to pull her off. Emi's choice paid off as the man fell to his knees and passed out from the lack of air, hitting the ground with a thud and throwing Emveah across the ring and against the makeshift wall. Her head was spinning from impact as the crowd went wild, cheering for Emi's fourth straight victory.

The final fights wrapped up as Emveah got bandaged up and collected her winnings, heading out for her typical fight night drinks only to be sidelined by a familiar face, Sariah stood just outside the Guild, waiting in hopes to speak with her.

Emveah took in a deep breath, exhaling a slow sigh before approaching. "Listen I've apologized all I can. I screwed up, but I'm glad you're okay....you are okay, right?" She quarried, now worried about some lasting damages from the woman getting caught up in a trap in an ancient tomb.

"Oh yes, quite well in fact," Sariah spoke with her soft tone and a kind smile toward an unconvinced Emveah. "However, I have been trying to locate you for some time now. I heard you had left the Company and I was furious...Gave the Captain a piece of my mind until he informed me that you had left of your own accord. This troubled me you see."

"What? Why?" Emi nearly shouted in response, having been expecting anger from the woman for being the cause of her unfortunate accident. "I screwed up by sleeping off a hangover. You could have died in there and I wasn't about to stick around and hear it from the Company for three more weeks, so I dipped, but I'm glad you're okay." Emi then began to walk away as Sariah quickly moved to block her path.

"You really ought to forgive yourself, I was the one that moved in without a spotter, I was the one that cause the trap to snare and got caught inside. You are not solely responsible for what happened. Would I have been out sooner if you were there? Yes. Would I still have been injured? Yes. You mustn't place all the blame on yourself. I explained this to the Captain before I learned you were gone." Sariah pleaded, hoping to alleviate the pain Emveah had placed on herself.

"Listen, you're a real nice lady, and while I wasn't the only one that screwed up, I still fell back on some real bad habits, shit I thought I had moved past but clearly that's not the case. So, thanks for trying, but there is plenty of reason for me to be pissed at myself." Emveah then pushed past Sariah and headed toward the tavern.

"Is that why you volunteer to get beaten into a pulp?" Sariah called after her.

"It's the only thing I'm good at!" Emi yelled back at her.

Mentioned: @doc-roberts

#Emi #Storytime #Been a while #Brawlers Guild #Sariah

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adamfinchley · 6 months

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Whatever the subject from carp to digestion, there's a journal

It sometimes seems odd, but there are printed journals in this day of the internet, that cover every conceivable subject. When online newspapers arrived, many people in the media world thought that would be an end of newspapers altogether. But, like books that can be read on devices and bought for a fraction of the hard copy at bookshops, they are still sold by the millions. A few years ago some fellow wedding guests and I decided to kill time in a town called Corby. It wasn't easy. But in a newsagents on the high street we all noticed rows and rows of different published magazines on fishing. Not just any fishing; nearly every one was on the subject of carp. It was hilarious to any non fi

sherman, or carp man, as we all were. Apparently, since the main industry closed, those ex-steelworkers were all on the dole and spending all day and night, fishing water filled quarries, that were heavily stocked with fish. Presumably, mostly carp. So it should come as no surprise to discover there are plenty of weekly and monthly journals on the subject we are looking at, and this is gut microbiome. Gut bacteria is a hot topic today. It not only interests serious medical people working in that area, but also nutritionists and dieticians that also have a lot to keep up with. Gastroenterologists clearly must keep up with the latest research, but it may come as a surprise to discover that neurologists also need to be up to speed. This is because it is becoming increasingly obvious that all that kilo or more of bacteria and other microorganisms in the gut, are directly connected to the brain. This is not just an organism that helps release nutrients from our food and into our blood stream. It's our DNA home and constantly updated immune system. Some of the recent research has identified the value of viruses nestled here that seek and destroy alien bacteria. How all this works will still take many more decades of research. There is a growing belief that the microbiome can be boosted in certain areas to become the medicine of the future. Just picture a scenario where you post a tiny sample of poo to a laboratory perhaps with a description of your sickness. This could be analysed and a powder, liquid or tablet will be sent to you containing a mix of gut bacteria. It may have been found that you are short of one, or overloaded with another. The adjustment could be just what you need to clear that lingering headache, depression, or lethargy. There are already some supplements that can give a boost of essential good gut bacteria. And others like Oxy Powder that deliver a boost of oxygen molecules to the colon.

Oxygen is another essential element that not only arrives through our lungs, but is also an essential part of the whole digestive system.

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saltminerising · 3 years

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This just in: Gore, blood, death, and disturbing imagery is absolutely fine as long as it's written and not drawn.

Like, for example, a monstrous undead being killing and cannibalizing a bunch of innocent fully sentient beings as they attempt to run away "Prey flushed to the sky when they saw their doom. I shook my wings, torn and twisted; I couldn’t pursue. No matter. There was still plenty of prey frozen in place, too afraid to even move. My sister’s low hung head snapped up a meal, greedily swallowing the morsel before rooting for more. Small forms fled into unimpressive structures built for their diminutive size. I easily knocked over the flimsy architecture, and sifted through the rubble with my snout until I found my quarry, warmth filling my mouth as I bit down with a sigh." but don't worry guys, they're not suffering! No suffering dragons on FR, oh no, not ever.

Thanks, FR.

#submission #blood clarification

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wild-karrde · 3 years

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Guarded - Part 1

Master List | Next Part

Chapter Rating: T (entire work is rated E, but M-rated version can be found on AO3)

Warnings: canon-typical violence, character death

Word Count: 3.4k words