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swtorpadawan · 4 years

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Breaking Even

“Kriffing Nar Shaddaa.”

Captain Errul Marsh grumbled under his breath as his light freighter, the Devil’s Horn, finally broke orbit from the infamous Smuggler’s Moon. The Zabrak merchant captain – which, sure, made him a smuggler if you wanted to be crude about it – pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. It was getting harder and harder to make even a (moderately) honest living in his line of work, especially where it concerned the Hutts.

But that was the galaxy for you. With war brewing between the Republic and the Empire everyone was quickly picking sides and carving out their territory. The true independents were getting squeezed out or just dying off.

Errul might have done business with the Republic. He might even have appreciated the Republic when they weren’t trying to arrest him over one of their silly ‘law’ things.

But Errul Marsh was, above all, a true independent. He owned his own freighter outright and incredibly he was debt free, even if he was just keeping his head just above water. He’d die with his ship before he gave any of that up.

It was an existence that had its price. He hadn’t seen or even heard from a family member in decades. Friends (the kind who hadn’t tried to stab him in the back, anyway) had been few and far between. Crew and companions aboard his ship had proved fleeting, signing on with him and staying for a time but each eventually leaving when they finally found something better for themselves. Lovers, likewise, came and went. Usually amicably and with no hard feelings, but sometimes only when they realized that the ace smuggler would never be tied down to anything, not even by love.

He didn’t begrudge any of them – family, friends, lovers, all – anything. Everyone in the galaxy was chasing after something and they were welcome to chase it. Many of his old associates – the ones he’d stayed in touch with, anyway – had done well for themselves. Two of his erstwhile proteges were now captaining their own cargo ships. Others were running cantinas or small shipping companies. One had ultimately made a name for herself as a Mandalorian bounty hunter, of all things. Indeed, there were worse legacies a man could leave behind.

Still, as the Zabrak had inevitably advanced deeper into middle age, he recognized that his had become mostly a solitary existence. And he was comfortable with that, but still, every now and then…

Ah, well. Life was too short for regrets.

Regardless, loner or not, he still had to make a living. Paying off those Cartel ‘customs agents’ at the spaceport had cut deeply into his profits on this trip. In fact, after his projected expenses for docking at Carrick Station, what with refueling and the Republic’s precious ‘docking fees’ for non-Republic personnel, he’d barely break even after delivering his cargo of adrenals.

Errul exhaled again. He wasn’t that old for a Zabrak, but he was for an independent smuggler. This life would be the death of him.

Force help him, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The ship wouldn’t be ready to jump to hyperspace for about half an hour, and it wouldn’t reach Carrick for a couple of days yet. Still, there was no reason to prolong anything that needed doing.

Errul rose from his seat, feeling his back ache in protest. He’d been in hundreds (thousands?) of firefights throughout his life, and he could still beat any young up-and-comers on the draw if it came down to it. But the price being paid by his aging body didn’t make it any easier.

Silently telling his back to stow it, the old smuggler made his way to the cargo hold. The room was stocked with pallets full of stim-packs and combat adrenals, and his ‘arrangement’ with the Republic meant that this shipment was bound for their military. With fighting breaking out in so many theaters, the ‘Pubs couldn’t be too choosy these days about from whom they received their supplies.

Errul surveyed the stacks. It was all in order. The Cartel agents had threatened to delay his departure as they ‘processed’ the outgoing cargo and verified the contents. Errul knew that game, and knew how to haggle them down on the inevitable bribe he offered them. The delay would have cost him with the Republic, and he certainly couldn’t let those agents spend too much time in his cargo hold, anyway.

“Barely breaking even.” The Zabrak sighed again as he stomped his foot three times on the floor panel to the right between the pallets.

“You can come out now.” Errul called out to the empty room. “It’s safe.”

It took several seconds, but finally, tentatively, the floor panel slid open, revealing the secret smuggling compartment he had installed years before.

Huddled within, looking up at him with a frightened expression, was a young Twi’lek woman.

She’s still rattled. He reminded himself. He’d have to play this carefully. Very slowly, making no sudden movements, he reached down, offering her his hand.

“It’s safe.” He repeated softly. “Nar Shaddaa is already behind us.”

The woman – the girl he should say – slowly reached up and took his hand. He helped her out of the hold, and she looked around anxiously.

Errul regarded her with care. Looking at her now in the normal lighting of his ship’s cargo hold, she was clearly even younger than he’d originally thought, having met her in the darkened chambers of Donje the Hutt’s extravagant sanctum. She was still wearing the yellow jumpsuit he had given her earlier – it was at least two sizes too large for her, but it had been all he had lying around that she could wear. It was certainly more appropriate than the skimpy ‘slave girl’ outfit she was still wearing beneath it that left nothing to the imagination. (There was no way he was going to have her running around his ship dressed like that, thank you very much.) Her face and lekku were adorned with elaborate markings which Errul judged to be natural Twi’lek birthmarks and not artificial tattoos. She was quite beautiful, with a painfully feminine figure and lovely blue eyes almost matching the shade of her skin. But then, physical attractiveness tended to be a much sought-after trait of Twi’leks working for Hutts.

Certainly, with the female Twi’leks. Errul reflected somberly. Rescuing her from that disgusting Hutt on Nar Shaddaa, ferreting her to the spaceport undetected and smuggling her off-world had pressed even his considerable talents. He didn’t doubt for one moment that both of their lives would get very complicated if the Hutt ever found out what he’d done.

“Donje cannot reach me?” she swallowed, finally looking up at Errul, hopefully. Her hands had slid from Errul’s hand to his arm.

The Zabrak shook his head for emphasis.

“No, that giant slug can’t reach you here. In a while, we’ll be in hyperspace. After that, you’ll be out of Hutt space entirely, and you’ll be as free as a bird.”

The girl blinked up at him with her blue eyes, still gripping his arm for comfort.

“I…. thank you, master.”

Errul shook his head vigorously again. He had to put the kibosh on that idea right away.

“I’m not your master, kid.” He insisted. “Call me ‘Captain’. Or Errul, if you like. You don’t have a master anymore.” Errul tried to give her a comforting look. “That’s what being ‘free’ means.”

The smuggler let that sit with her for a moment. He figured she’d probably been born into slavery… or maybe she’d been taken so young that she didn’t remember anything else. The Twi’lek looked down at the floor, and for a moment, Errul was worried he’d lost her entirely. But after a long moment, she looked back up at him with a hopeful look in her eyes.

“Free.” She whispered, like it was all a dream to her.

Errul grinned. “Free.” He repeated, for emphasis. The Zabrak tilted his head. “What’s your name, kid?”

The Twi’lek swallowed, nervously. Probably she’d been forbidden to use her real name in public. Forced renaming was a common enough practice among Hutt pleasure slaves.

“Rhi’kih.”

Errul then gave her his most charming smile. It was a look that had melted the hearts of hundreds of women over the years. (And, Errul reflected, a handful of men, as well.)

“Are you hungry, Rhi’kih?”

“I…” the Twi’lek looked up at him, uncertain, as she regarded his expression. Finally, her features softened and she swallowed again.

“Yes, I am.”

**********************************

The galley wasn’t much to look at. To be honest, with the Devil’s Horn having only one permanent resident who wasn’t a droid – that being Errul himself – it didn’t really need to be anything special.

Yet another benefit of bachelorhood. Errul reflected. Unlike some of his contemporaries, he disliked over-decoration, preferring the utilitarian to any ostentatious aesthetic.

Nevertheless, he had always tried to keep it fairly well-stocked and in good order for when he did have company, and with the help of his Seetoo droid, it was kept clean as well. At this moment, there were exactly two frozen bantha steaks left, and Errul decided now was as good a time as any to break them out of the freezer and grill them up.

The girl - Rhi’kih, he had to remember – had sat down at the small table only at Errul’s prodding. She was still very skittish, taking everything in with trepidation. He couldn’t blame her, given where she’d been living.

Finally finished preparing the food, he served the steaks up on a pair of plates, along with glasses of blue milk for each of them.

“Here. Eat up.” Errul smiled, taking his own seat after distributing utensils.

The Zabrak took up his knife and fork and then tasted the succulent meat, closing his eyes in pleasure. Out of all the skills he’d picked up over the years, learning how to cook – properly, and not like the bachelor he was – easily ranked in the top three in having improved his personal quality of life, going along with how to pilot a ship and how to talk your way out of a tight spot.

(Shooting a blaster? Oh, don’t be silly. He was born knowing how to do that.)

Opening his eyes again, he noticed that Rhi’kih was merely poking the steak with her fork, clearly troubled over something.

“Something wrong?” he asked, concerned. “Its not undercooked for you, is it?”

“Uhm. No.” She looked down embarrassed. “My… my master never let me use knives. No one taught me.”

Errul cringed inwardly. There were a hundred plus one evils resulting from slavery. One of the most underrated was the lack of basic life skills many oppressed people suffered from even after finding their freedom. It could keep them on the fringes of society forever, and perhaps, more likely to end up in the desperate circumstances that had seen them become slaves in the first place. Neither the Republic government nor anyone else seemed equipped to help them acclimate.

“Here.” Errul got up and came around the table. Very gently, he took her by the wrist and helped her grasp the knife. She let him, having apparently grown comfortable with him by now.

“Hold it like this. Good. Now the fork like that – yes. Good. Now cut…. Perfect.”

It took about a minute. But Errul was finally satisfied the Twi’lek had learned how to cut her own food adequately.

“It’ll get more natural with time. Trust me.” He reassured her, observing her progress as he took his seat back.

Rhi’khi finally tasted her steak. Her eyes lit up, and he couldn’t help but think of it as a sign of life.

“Good?” he asked with a grin.

“I…. yes!” she gasped.

Errul was rewarded with a lovely smile from the Twi’lek. It was the first time he’d seen her smile genuinely since meeting her. He’d seen the conditions under which slaves were kept on Nar Shaddaa, and what sustenance they were given. Occasionally, pleasure slaves like Rhi’khi would be fed rich food or wine from the plates and goblets of their masters, almost as if they were pets. The rest of the time they tended to be served an unappetizing gruel back in their pens. Neither option was particularly healthy in Errul’s estimation.

A reasonable nutritional diet – including bantha steaks – was another thing she’d have to adjust to.

As it turned out, Rhi’khi was famished. Her table manners needed some work, but she ate her bantha steak and drank her blue milk with gusto. Errul took it as a positive sign; she’d have to learn to pace herself, but that could come later.

Errul was almost done with his steak when he glanced up, realizing that the girl was eyeing him tentatively as if chewing something over.

He put aside his utensils.

“What is it now?” he asked.

The Twi’lek swallowed, then reached out, laying her hand on his.

“I owe you everything for freeing me… Captain.” Rhi’khi smiled up at him, coyly. It was the same smile she’d worn while dancing for Donje’s visitors back on Nar Shaddaa. Noting her brief pause, Errul suspected that she had had to stop herself from calling him ‘master’ again. “I am… very grateful.” Her fingers gently entangled themselves with his, her thumb brushing against his palm.

Errul felt a sudden but familiar warmth in his belly and down to his loins. This beautiful young woman – with her lovely figure, pretty blue eyes and coy smile – was offering him comfort. Even at Errul’s age, the urges still came, and he certainly couldn’t deny the Twi’lek’s sex appeal.

It was the Zabrak’s turn to swallow, as he looked up into Rhi’khi’s eyes.

Errul Marsh prided himself on his ability to read people. During negotiations. During games at the Pazzak table. During a tense stand-off with guns drawn. And the fact that he was still alive after all this time was a sign that he was good at it. It had always been a talent, but he’d refined it over the years with invaluable experience.

So it was that he noticed things. In particular, the slight tension around the girl’s otherwise enticing eyes.

No.

This was not a young woman who was genuinely smitten or enchanted by him. (Galaxy knows Errul knew what that looked like, even if it had been awhile.) No. This was a girl who was, even now, still worried that he would sell her off to the next gangster he ran into or that he’d otherwise abandon her to some unknown fate the moment she became inconvenient.

In her mind, this was about taking control of the situation in the only way she knew how. Rhi’khi was desperately trying to offer him something to ensure he would protect and look after her, this was only coin she could possibly offer him. It bothered him that she’d been conditioned to think that her sex appeal was all she could ever offer to the galaxy. Errul added that to the growing list of consequences of her enslavement. The fear of going back to Nar Shaddaa or the fear of the unknown would lead her to continue living the life she had been living, even after she had just risked everything to escape that very life.

After all, it was all she knew.

That wasn’t what bothered him the most, though.

No, what bothered him the most was knowing – knowing – that not so many years ago, Errul would have taken her up on the offer in a heartbeat. By now, his lips would have been on hers, she’d have been propped up on the table and soon the clothes would have gone flying. (And few of Errul’s lovers had ever complained about his skills in the bedchamber.) Oh, he’d have shown her a great time; he’d have taken her on a trade run or two to some exotic planets and shown her sights few beings could even imagine. Beautiful beaches, majestic mountains, cities that were clean and comfortable in stark contrast to the filth and grit she’d seen on Nar Shaddaa.

He’d have let it last a week. Or maybe – maybe – as long as a month. (He’d only gone as long as a month with a woman a couple of times. It was better that way.) Certainly no longer than that. Then he’d have found something for the young Twi’lek, letting her down gently and making sure she had something to get her started on the rest of her life.

After all, he’d have thought to himself, what she was offering him had been offered freely and was therefore his to take.

That was one of the lies people told themselves. But with age had come wisdom, and Errul liked to think he had given up lying to himself a long time ago.

“How old are you, kid?”

The words came from his lips abruptly. Rhi’khi looked confused for a moment, then worried, as if she thought she had done something wrong, and might be punished for it. She withdrew her hand.

“I…. nineteen, I think.” She said with uncertainty.

Nineteen. Shavit. He was more than twenty years her senior. Force. He’d lived too blasted long.

“Hold on a second, okay?” he offered.

Errul rose from his seat and walked to the far corner of the galley, right next to the washer. He opened the small cabinet above, being careful to block Rhi’khi’s vision of what he was doing. (He didn’t have any reason to distrust the Twi’lek, but he hadn’t survived this long by being careless.) He removed the panel at the back of the cabinet, revealing a hidden biometric safe box. The Zabrak pressed his hand to bio-scanner, then entered a code into the keypad. The safe popped open.

There were a number of trinkets located within, some appearing to be mundane while others would have caught the eye of any professional treasure hunter. Errul ignored the rest and took the one object he had sought. Then he closed the safe, putting the fake panel back in place.

Errul turned back to Rhi’khi, setting the item down on the table. It was a small metallic cube, with ornate engravings etched on all six sides.

“Don’t worry. It won’t hurt you. Promise.” He gave her a soft smile. “Go ahead and touch it.”

Rhi’khi tentatively reached out and lightly brushed the foreign object with her fingertips.

After about a second, the cube suddenly lit up with the engravings emanating a blue light. A small holoprojection then materialized above it, revealing a Cathar woman wearing long robes.

“I am Master Juhani of the Jedi Order.” The projection spoke in an accent that was provincial, but the voice was clear and nevertheless confident. “And these are my teachings.”

Rhi’khi cried out in alarm, withdrawing her hand from the cube. All on its own, the object went flying off the table and through the air, ricocheting off the ship’s bulkhead before coming to a rest on the floor. The Twi’lek, plainly rattled, pulled her knees up to her chest, staring down at it in fear.

Errul just chuckled nonchalantly.

“Sorry about that. I had to be sure, and this saved me a lot of time.” The smuggler reached down and picked up the cube, setting it back on the table. It was undamaged from Rhi’khi’s inadvertent outburst, which he took a relief in. Errul knew it was nearly three hundred years old. “Like I said, this won’t harm you.” He regarded her with a satisfied expression, having been proven right. “I figured as much about you, when I saw you talk that Gamorrean out of ‘enjoying’ the company of your Nautolan friend back at Donje’s club.”

“What… what was that?” Rhi’khi asked nervously, still staring at the cube.

“This? This is a Jedi Holocron.” Errul tapped it, nonchalantly. “I’ve been hanging onto it for a while, mostly for occasions like this.”

The Twi’lek swallowed, starting to regain her composure.

“I don’t understand.”

“Hmmm.” Errul regarded her, debating how to continue. “Have you ever heard of the Jedi?”

“I… yes.” Rhi’khi stammered. “My master… Donje, I mean… sometimes ranted about them. He called them ‘meddlesome Republic fools’. And he said that they fought the Sith.” She paused. “I think he was a little frightened of them.”

The Zabrak just nodded.

“Not without cause. Jedi and Hutts don’t really see eye to eye on much.” Errul sat down across from her, stretching his arms. “Jedi are… well, peace-keepers, you might say. When things are going alright for the Republic, they’re like diplomats. They go around resolving conflicts and helping to uphold the law. They’re pretty… noble, I guess. They’ve helped a lot of people when no one else could. Not as many as you’d hope, but a lot.” He chewed that over. “Of course, these days, they’ve been at war with the Sith Empire, even when they’ve had that sham of a peace treaty. So it’s been tough going these last few decades. They’ve got a lot of rules they have to follow, and they can be very pretentious. These days, they have to defend the citizens of the galaxy, uphold their own lofty principles and beat the Sith all at the same time. No one is going to succeed at that. But to their credit, they keep trying.”

“Having said that…” he continued. “I can honestly say that they do the best they can in a crazy galaxy.” Errul paused at a bygone memory, his voice taking a more conciliatory tone, then looked the Twi’lek directly in the eye.

“You’re Force-sensitive, kid.”

Rhi’khi just blinked.

“The… Force?” she asked in confusion.

“Yeah.” The old smuggler settled into his seat. “It’s like this… invisible energy field created by all living things. It binds the galaxy together, or so the Jedi say. And some special people – like the Jedi and the Sith – can manipulate it; it gives them power.”

“You have that power. You’ve been able to talk people out of doing things before, haven’t you? Maybe not Donje or other Hutts, but others, right?”

Rhi’khi nodded nervously.

“Right. Basically, Rhi’khi, it means you have the chance to become a Jedi.” He paused and looked up at the ceiling. “Or a Sith.” He added dourly. “If you like, I can introduce you to someone on Carrick Station, and, if you decide it’s what you want, they’ll test you to confirm what I just told you. The Jedi usually recruit kids young, but they’re less discerning these days. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but I’m confident they’ll take you in and teach you how to become a Jedi.”

Errul paused here for effect.

“But I won’t do that if that’s not what you want.”

The Twi’lek stared down at the table.

“I don’t know what I want.” She whispered quietly.

The Zabrak nodded. No surprise, there. Rhi’khi had probably never been given the chance to think about what she wanted.

“Well, I think you’re in shock, kiddo. A lot of stuff is happening to you very quickly. I wish things were different, but here we are.” He gave her what he hoped was a comforting look. “Not everybody can quite get over the things life throws at them. And you’ve had way more thrown at you in the last few hours than a lot of people will experience in a lifetime.”

“But… if you can let go of it – what with growing up a slave, everything that’s happened to you, everything that was done to you – then maybe, just maybe, this is for you. And maybe, maybe, maybe someday you can help some other little girl from having to grow the way you did.”

The Zabrak considered what he had said. She deserved the truth. All of it.

“No promises, though.” He added firmly. “Even at their best, before the Empire came back, the Jedi couldn’t stop the Hutts from trading in slaves entirely. The best they could claim to accomplish was keeping the slugs in check. And like I’ve said, the Jedi aren’t at their strongest right now. It’s a dangerous life, what with the Empire hanging around.”

Rhi’khi seemed to chew that over for a long moment. Despite his reputation for being a fast-talker, Errul was actually quite comfortable with long silences, and gave her all the time she needed.

“What if I can’t do that?” she finally whispered.

He understood. Rhi’khi might seem meek and innocent at the moment, but Errul couldn’t imagine anyone going through her life without building up a sense of indignation, and scars on her soul that ran deep. If she were aware of that, then she was wiser than she let on.

“If the anger and resentment are too much, well, odds are you’ll become a slave again. Except not a slave to another Hutt, but a slave to your own anger. And to your past. I’ve seen it happen with others who’ve been through the kinds of things you have, even the ones who weren’t Force sensitive. They just… can’t be free of it. They can’t be free of what they’ve gone through. Even with otherwise good people, it eats away at them, over time, and it never ends well.”

The Zabrak looked away, not wanting the Twi’lek to see the look on his face just now. He was speaking from experience, but that experience wasn’t something he was ready to share.

“And then a lot of them wind up doing to others what was done to them.” Errul continued, speaking from experience. “They all have justifications, of course. Little lies they tell themselves. ‘Oh, the galaxy owes me this’ or ‘these people deserve what I’m doing to them because their ancestors killed my ancestors’. It’s all a load of druk.”

“People hurt other people because they can’t let go.”

Trusting himself now, Errul took a breath and turned back at Rhi’khi, giving her a hard look in the eye. She was still watching him closely.

“The ones who do that who are Force-sensitive? We call those Sith.”

The girl shivered again, wrapping her arms around herself.

His expression softened at the sight. He’d given her the ice bucket of water to the face. The least he could do was offer her a towel.

“But… if neither of those choices appeal to you, the guy who runs the cantina on Carrick Station owes me a favor. He’s a tough boss, and the pay isn’t that much, but he treats his waitresses right. He doesn’t put up with any flyboys like me messing with them, y’know? I could set you up. You could work for him for a while, just serving drinks and finding your feet, until you found something better.”

“As for this ‘Force’ business… well, maybe it will let you just live your life.“

“I promise I’m not going to make you choose anything. I’m just telling you what I can do to help you, since you look like you need it.”

Rhi’khi was looking up at him again. She probably didn’t completely understand everything he had said, but she seemed comforted by his words nonetheless. Maybe she liked having a third option, or maybe she just liked listening to his voice. That didn’t really matter right now.

“Well. I’ve just dropped a barrel of Hutt manure on you, kid. I’m sorry to do it like this, but I find it’s for the best in the long run.”

Errul polished off the last of his blue milk, then cleared the table. He put everything away in the washer, set the machine to run, then turned to her again.

“I don’t pretend to know what’s best for you. But I’ll give you as much time as I can to think all this over.”

He moved to stand, only for Rhi’khi to reach for his hand again.

“Captain, wait.” She suddenly interrupted.

Errul noted she didn’t need to stop and start again to remember to call him ‘Captain’ and not ‘Master’. He smiled at her progress and stopped, sitting back down.

“How… how do you know all of this?” she asked. “If you are just a ship captain, how do you know about the Force, and me, and… why do you have this?” she looked at the holocron again.

The Zabrak slowly grinned. She was a sharp one. Most people struggled to use their intelligence in tight spots; when you’re threatened and focused on simple survival, it was hard to think things through. He’d seen enough of that in the refugee camps growing up. But if you offer folks just a little security and comfort, a little breathing room, sometimes they could surprise you with what they could come up. Rhi’khi may have been under-educated and naïve, but he was suddenly confidant that whatever path she took, she’d figure things out, in time.

“Well, let’s just say that once upon a time, a Jedi helped me out of a jam.” He answered wistfully. “They took the time to tell me about a couple of things. As for why I have the holocron… well, it just sort of fell into my lap during a little misadventure on Dantooine this one time, years ago. It’s no good to me personally; I’m not Force-sensitive. But it’ll make a useful bargaining chip if I’m ever in a tight spot… or for confirming cases like yours.”

The Twi’lek took that in and released his hand, thinking.

A chime sounded throughout the ship, and Errul cocked his head.

“I’ve gotta get that. We’re ready to jump into hyperspace.”

With that, Errul stood up. Rhi’khi turned and stared down at the holocron, lost in thought. The Zabrak made for the door and then stopped, turning just enough to speak to her over his shoulder.

“Just remember: Whatever you choose, that’s your choice, and yours alone. That’s the hardest lesson of freedom. What’s happened to you up until now was someone else’s doing. What you do after this is yours.”

As Errul stepped out of the galley and prepared to head back to the cockpit, he hung back for a second out of view around the corner, watching the young Twi’lek mull over her future. He certainly didn’t envy her the choice before her, but he needed to make sure she was okay to be alone right now.

Slowly, tentatively, Rhi’kih reached for the holocron. As she touched it, the little holo-image – the ‘Gatekeeper’ – once again materialized.

“I am Master Juhani of the Jedi Order.” The Jedi started again. “And these are my teachings…”

Errul observed as Rhi’khi watched the projection, a look of fascination coming across her features. As she listened to the words of the long-dead Jedi, she seemed to Errul to become more relaxed, a small smile coming to her lips. A natural, organic smile – not the coy put-on she’d shown him earlier.

The Zabrak turned away. He didn’t pretend to know his own destiny any more than he knew Rhi’khi’s, but maybe both of them were about to take the next step on their respective paths.

Errul sighed again as he sat down in the chair of his cockpit, finally pulling the lever and triggering the jump into hyperspace. The stars outside the cockpit canopy shifted as the Horn made it’s jump, as the galaxy seemed to bend around the trusty old freighter. It was a welcome sight. No matter how many times he saw it, it always relaxed him.

This had already been too much philosophy for him in one day. He decided to blame it all on that Reactor Core he’d had at the cantina before he left Nar Shaddaa. That Rodian bartender was a good listener, but he always put too much spice liquor in his concoctions, and no doubt that was making Errul sentimental. It made him reflect back on what he’d thought to himself earlier.

If it wasn’t ‘this life’ that would be the death of him someday, then it would be sentimentality. He didn’t doubt it for one minute.

He thought back to Rhi’kih listening to that holocron in the galley.

“Yeah, barely breaking even.” He whispered with a smile. He shook his head. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Kriffing Nar Shaddaa.” He grumbled.

END

****************************************

Author’s Notes: I’ve never written about Errul before, but he’s my oldest ‘active’ O.C., as I developed him way back when I was on Free-to-Play. I eventually abandoned his game play, as in my mind, I don’t see him as an ‘Outlander’ type figure. But I keep him around. I saw some talk on Tumblr complaining about the player’s tendency to make our O.C.s on the young side. Errul, in my head-canon anyway, is a smuggler on the wrong side of forty.

People do change. They learn and they grow and they don’t stop doing that the moment they turn into an ‘adult’. (Which is totally a made-up word anyway.) True, the changes aren’t always for the better, but they do come. How you feel about things twenty years from now may be very different than how you feel about things now. That doesn’t make your opinions any less valid; it just means that they don’t define who you are.

Juhani is here just because I like Easter Eggs.

The character of Rhi’khi is inspired by a Twi’lek slave in Nar Shaddaa who was planning to escape with a smuggler in a bit of ambient dialogue within the actual game.

I remember reading an article about people who defected from North Korea, and the immense challenges they faced adapting to the modern world. Even given assistance by South Korea and other countries, most of them have no practical job skills and an education that was incomplete to say the least. It was very sobering.

Oh – and spoilers – Rhi’khi ‘grows up’ to be the Barsen'thor of the Jedi Order in this iteration. The first lesson there is you never know what the person you help might go on to do. The second lesson is don’t worry if you feel you’re getting a late start on pursuing your life goals. Honestly, it is not a race. It never was.

Good luck, and may the Force be with you.

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #oc: errul marsh #oc: rhi'khi #zabrak #twi'lek #smuggler #jedi counselor #juhani #kotor callback

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yangssunglasses · 7 years

Text

No Summons Allowed

SSM day 15 prompt: The Slug and The Snake

Rated T

Available on FFnet

No Summons Allowed

It was a standard, even encouraged practice among those who held summoning contracts to bond with their summons outside of training and missions. It deepened the bond between the shinobi and the nin-animal as both parties got the chance to learn each other's personality and quirks, which in turn helped in perfecting their teamwork on field. That's why, when Sakura found a nest on a tree outside her and Sasuke's bedroom window, she only smiled and cooed at the pair of hawks sitting on their five eggs.

“Look, Sasuke-kun, they're just like us,” she told her husband with a bright smile as they lounged together on their bed. “They're going to be parents too.”

His gaze drifted down to her hand rubbing gently the still small swell on her stomach through the thin nightgown. He put his hand over hers, their fingers overlapping. Sakura sighed happily.

“Do you know when they will hatch?” she asked.

“In about a month,” he replied.

She hummed.

“Well, we've got more time before our baby comes. Maybe he or she will make a contract with the little hawks? What do you think?”

Sasuke scooted closer and nuzzled her neck. “I don't know. It depends on what our child will want.”

Sakura stretched her neck, exposing it to his gentle caresses. His mouth, nose, cheek brushed her delicate skin lightly, making her shiver. She'd never pegged him as a touchy-feely type of a lover, he was always so physically distant with everyone and avoiding close contact, but in the privacy of their bedroom he loved to touch her constantly. He couldn't keep his hands to himself, running them down her arms, back, stomach, putting them around her waist and holding her tightly. He'd never had enough, but she didn't complain as she enjoyed the intimacy just as much as he did.

“Well, it could be that our child will prefer something more powerful... like a slug,” Sakura mentioned playfully.

Sasuke's attentions to her neck stopped abruptly.

“Darling? What's wrong?” she asked, turning her head to look at him.

He wore a scrunched up expression as he kept rubbing her stomach slowly. “I suppose if our child becomes a medic like you, he or she would like a slug summon.”

Sakura raised herself on the elbow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He looked back at her calmly. “You heard what I said.”

“Are you implying slugs aren't powerful?” she asked with an offended air on behalf of her summons.

“No, I meant they are best suited to medics. Their healing is very powerful,” he explained himself, the irritation seeping through despite his best efforts to keep his tone non-confrontational.

“They're invaluable in battle too! You should see Lady Katsuyu!” Sakura argued.

He really, really didn't want to argue about such a silly thing, but his wife was obviously wrong, so he couldn't help himself. “I understand you're being loyal to your summons, but objectively speaking, snakes are the most powerful from all the summons. Their versatility alone-”

“Slugs ARE incredibly versatile!” Sakura exclaimed. “They can't be broken or crushed, they can bend every way, divide into smaller slugs, make a safe cocoon around you-”

“Sakura, snakes are strong and sturdy and very agile, they can bend and make cocoons too and they're fast enough to dodge attacks instead of taking them. They don't need to divide when their scales are tough enough to withstand even big explosions.”

“Sasuke-kun, didn't Orochimaru teach you that the Slug always beats the Snake?” Sakura asked with narrowed eyes.

“Is that what Tsunade told you?” he replied with a snort. “It may work in a child's game, but the real life is different.”

Sakura pounced on top of him, one hand locked on his only wrist and pinning it down to the mattress, the other on his shoulder. She smirked down at his immobilized form.

“Aren't you getting a bit too haughty? You should cut the crap about this whole snake superiority. It's just a myth.” She leaned down to him to whisper in his ear. “Besides, don't you know... that a summon is only as good as the summoner?” She gave a small nibble on his earlobe and he went rigid as she drew up again. “That's why the Slug always wins,” she said boastfully.

“Sakura,” he said with a growl, roving his gaze over her appreciatively, “you don't know what you're getting into.”

“Oh, I do, darling.”

“Then you should put your money where your mouth is.” He wrenched his hand out of her grip and pulled her down into a demanding, hot kiss.

“Gladly,” she gasped out, before attacking him with her tongue once more.

In the end, the winner wasn't clear, but the tension between the couple due to their little spat was all worked out in the best of ways. Sasuke expected the matter of slugs and snakes to be forgotten entirely. It's not like they could predict how their child would turn out. They would just have to see in a few years.

A few days later, when he reached into a basket on the kitchen counter for a fresh, ripe and juicy tomato to snack on and instead came into contact with something cold, slimy and gross, he leaped away with a yelp of disgust. He held his hand up for an inspection. It was covered in a transparent, thick and gooey slime.

“What the hell,” he muttered a curse and quickly washed the muck off in the sink.

Then Sasuke very carefully approached the tomato basket and peered in. What he found inside made his blood boil.

“Sakura!” a yell resounded through the house. It was a short and urgent call, full of restraint. Something happened, not life-threatening, but important enough that her husband raised his voice to call for her assistance.

“Yes, darling?” Sakura appeared in the doorway after a short while it took her to come from the study.

Sasuke was sitting at the kitchen table with a dark expression on his face.

“Please explain why there is a fucking slug in my damn tomato basket,” he said tightly, gesturing at the basket on the table in front of him.

Sakura raised one pink eyebrow. “There's no need to be so coarse,” she commented on his language.

She checked inside the basket and there really was a small blue slug, just a finger long, innocently munching on the tomatoes. She smiled softly at the adorable sight of her summon.

“Thanks for finding her, I was wondering where she ran off to. Looks like she's got a little hungry, right, my little gourmand?” she asked the slug and it nodded shyly.

“Whatever. Just take it away. And keep it out of the kitchen in the future,” Sasuke said through gritted teeth.

Sakura frowned at him. “Why are you like this?” She gathered the slug in her palm and showed it to Sasuke. Cradled safely in her hold, it was a well-fed, happy and friendly slug. “This is Mi-chan, she's Katsuyu's great-granddaughter. Say hello to Sasuke, Mi-chan!” The slug moved its antennae up and down in greeting. “See how polite she is!” Sakura praised.

Sasuke wasn't as impressed, judging by his sour look and how his chair seemed to magically move back a few good inches.

“Sakura, I don't care about your slug's manners,” he told her. “It ate my tomatoes. Don't let it happen again or-”

“Or what?” she cut him off with a sweet smile. “Are you going to fight a little, itsy-bitsy slug? So you admit that slugs are a powerful threat? Just imagine how fast and strong she would grow if she keeps eating your tomatoes.”

Sasuke glared at her. So this was all about proving her point about slugs?

“Don't make such a scary face, Mi-chan will get hungry from the stress,” Sakura admonished. “And don't worry, next time I'll get her a nice big lettuce. Your tomatoes will be safe,” she added nonchalantly as she sashayed out of the kitchen with her slug in tow.

Sasuke's fists clenched as he watched her go.

She may have won this round, because she took him by surprise, but from now on... the battle was on.

Sakura enjoyed sleeping in on weekends. It wasn't out of ordinary for her to wake up and stretch out her arms only to find an empty, still warm spot in place of her husband. This time was no different, so Sakura only squinted and yawned cutely as she rolled to the center of the bed.

Something moved under the sheets.

The kunoichi stilled, instantly put on alert, chiding herself inwardly for overreacting. She was probably still dreaming.

Then something chilly and very much alive brushed against her calf.

Her scream of terror rattled the whole house.

In an instant, Sakura flung herself out of the bed. She crouched by the wall opposite to it, panting harshly, a kunai clutched defensively in front of her as she stared at the crumpled covers on the bed. Something was definitely wriggling under them.

Sasuke entered the bedroom. “What's going on?”

“Something's in the bed! Please kill it!” Sakura cried out. She was shaking like a leaf from the scare. Her husband's calm presence was reassuring in this crisis.

“Kill?” he asked dubiously, then lifted the covers. A small, purple snake was coiled on the bed in the warm spot previously occupied by Sakura's body. “Oh, it's just Koda, Aoda's youngest son. I had him help me yesterday and he stayed the night.” Sasuke held out his arm to the snake and it climbed on, wrapping around the warm appendage snugly.

“You mean you had a snake in our bed all night and you didn't tell me?” Sakura's voice rose a few octaves as she came to grips with this revelation. Her green eyes were shooting daggers at him. “What if it bit me?”

“He wouldn't, Koda is very well-behaved. Snakes instinctively seek out heat sources, so he just wanted to cuddle with you when I left.”

“Cuddle?” Sakura choked on the word. “With a snake? They're the least cuddly animals around.” She shuddered at the mere idea, unknowingly giving him the opening he needed.

“You don't know until you try. Here, pet him,” Sasuke held the snake out to her. Koda curiously poked out his bi-forked tongue, tasting the air. Sakura took it wrongly as a sign that he was going to bite and she jerked away with a paling face. She shook her head frantically.

“No! Take it away from me!” she cried out.

Sasuke cocked his head. “Are you afraid of a little, harmless snake?”

“I'm not! I just don't want to touch it!” she denied.

“Then you're afraid of touching a snake.” Sasuke smirked. Hook, line and sinker. “So you finally admit snakes are more fearsome and powerful. Even this tiny one scared a seasoned kunoichi like you to death.”

Sakura gaped at him. “Sasuke-kun!” she gasped, eyes bugging out at his devious mind game. “You... you did this on purpose!”

He didn't bother to deny.

“You put a snake in our bed to prove this snake superiority crap?!” she asked with a growl. “Is this your idea of revenge for that accident with Mi-chan?!”

Sasuke scoffed. Accident his ass. She'd thrown down a gauntlet and he only picked it up.

“Sakura, if you can't handle the payback, you shouldn't have started anything with me,” he replied smugly.

A green fire lit in her narrowed eyes. “I didn't start anything, but I will put it to an end!” she declared hotly. “Training ground 45, in an hour. Don't be late.”

His smile showed too much teeth. “I'll be there.”

The showdown between two disciples of the Sannins was spectacular as they pitted their strength, wits and summons against each other, but their fun was cut short when Kakashi dispatched Naruto and his toads to stop things from getting out of the hand. Sasuke and Sakura didn't appreciate their teammate butting into their marital disagreement and the fight ended with a three-way deadlock. Understandably, there was no winner in this outcome.

In the end, Sasuke and Sakura agreed to a new rule: the summons were no longer allowed in the house.

But the dispute of the Slug and the Snake still wasn't settled.

Some changes occurred in the time after their battle—the little hawks hatched, Sakura's stomach got bigger and rounder...

Then she went out shopping for baby things. Later Sasuke found the blue slug-themed blanket and a slug onesie complete with antennae on its little hood in the baby's room.

Next day, Sakura saw a smiling snake plushie in the crib.

The battle raged on.

A few years later, little Sarada was playing with her toys on the carpet. Apart from the snake plushie, she had a slug toy that doubled as a pillow, a green frog from Naruto, a cat, a dog, a duck, and a dino. The girl was doing play fights between the animals.

Both of her parents were sitting on the couch. Sakura was watching TV and Sasuke was reading a newspaper, but their attention became riveted on their daughter when Sarada took the slug in her hand. Then the girl paused as she considered which other toy would be the slug's opponent. Both parents waited with a bated breath.

She picked the snake.

Sakura and Sasuke's gazes met. This was it.

Their daughter would decide on the winner.

Sarada acted out a long, arduous battle with many fake deaths, hissing noises and devastating attacks, but there was no apparent victor. Suddenly, the little girl put down the toys.

“Mama, can I have a cookie?” She turned to her mother, surprising her with the question.

“Of course, sweetie... but why didn't you finish the fight?” Sakura couldn't help but ask.

“Oh, Slug-chan and Snake-kun got tired, so they went to sleep.”

As cute as her explanation was, it didn't answer her parents' burning question.

“Sarada, tell Papa who won,” Sasuke said.

The girl shrugged. “They're both so strong that they can't beat each other.”

“So it's a draw?” Sakura asked and Sarada nodded.

“But if they trained up, who will win next time?” Sasuke inquired.

The girl picked up the toys again and pushed their heads together. Then she looked at her parents seriously. “They won't fight because they love each other. Kiss, kiss!” She mashed the toys' heads against each other.

Sakura and Sasuke exchanged amused glances.

“Can I have my cookie now?” Sarada reminded them impatiently and Sakura got up to get it for her.

“She's right, you know,” Sakura told her husband later as she sank into the couch next to him, pressing herself into his side. He wrapped an arm around her.

“What about?”

“The Slug and the Snake are in love,” she said with an impish grin.

He smiled back.

Sakura pecked his cheek. “But the Slug is still stronger,” she whispered.

Sasuke rolled his eyes. “Show me and then I'll believe it.”

“Alright. Bedroom, tonight?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

When Sarada was twelve, she obtained her own summoning contract, which wasn't a snake or a slug. But that is a story for another time.

#ssm17 #ssm17d15 #sasusaku #sasusaku fanfiction #my fanfiction

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space-inskater · 7 years

Text

Last Stop This Town

We are all ghosts living in clothes of skin. I learned this a long time ago. And those days I do not care much to remember. I don't regret what I said or what I did, but somethings are better left in the past. Though my ghost still fights me, I am alive. That's what counts now isn't it? That's all they tell you. Life equals happiness or so we are lead to believe. But some people fall harder than others and their ghosts demand to be released.

I was sitting in the metro station waiting for the next train to take me home. It was late, so late that I was afraid that the trains would shut down for the evening before could even get to my stop. Though I was dazed, feeling the effect of several hours’ worth of coffee induced rushes, I had to admit, with a yawn, it wasn’t that bad. I usually had to fight the crowds to get on a car, elbowing my way through, but now the entire station was an empty barren waste land. The escalators continued to roll, carrying ghosts of people in and out of the station. Other than the light sound of the icy winter air blowing through the tunnels, the place was silent. Being out of the blizzarding weather and out of the city traffic, I was finally able to get some peace and quiet in my day, albeit in the strangest of places. Being in a dark subway station was the most calm I had all week. I guess that being down below the bustling of the normal world really gives a person some time to think. However, I wasn’t the only person who thought that.

It was eight minutes till the last train, though if there was a deviation I was unsure as I didn’t know whether the trains were ahead or behind schedule. In hindsight, I should have prayed for the latter. It would have given us more time. But in the moment, the clock was ticking and I just needed to get home. I wasn't thinking. Either way, it was still a decent amount of time until the train rolled in when a lucid figure floated down the escalator stairs. Like me, they were bundled up in heavy winter clothes, attempting to fight the storm on the upper levels of the earth. A big scarf was wrapped around the man’s neck where he buried his wind beaten cheeks into the thick fabric. He looked to be a sick fellow. He was worn, icy pale probably having been outside in the cold far longer than what was recommended and he walked like he was sentenced to march with hallowed footsteps keeping time to a silent dirge. Frankly, if one were to put a word to him, he looked dead or at least on his way. With the way he held himself, like the years of his life weighed on his shoulders, it was only when he sat down right next to me on the bench that I noticed he wasn’t even a man. I was expecting someone in their midlife crisis but it was just a kid, only bridging about 20 years of age which was far below my own years. Childishly young features poked out from the bundles of wool the kid was wrapped in. There was not a wrinkle to his face nor even a smile. The kid just sat there on the subway station bench waiting for the last train to take him far away from the busy city until another day.

The clock ticked by at 6 minutes and I was relishing in the silence that had once again befallen us. The kid’s foot bounced anxiously against the stone floors keeping time with the seconds that slugged by until we could board. I tried not to pay too much attention to him. It was common for people to run late and take the last cars. But no matter how I tried to divert it, my attention drew ever closer to the kid sitting next to me. It was as if a beckoning cry from the spirits of the station were enticing me to engage the young man. I didn’t know what to say to make them stop. I was never good with conversation with strangers nor wanted to be the one to bother them so I stayed quiet. Don't get me wrong. I love conversation. I am just too afraid that what I have to say wouldn't be enough for them. So, over the years I learned to love the silence more and more. However, I expect the same spirits were whispering in his ear as it was he who spoke first. The worried look on his face expressed that he had a lot to say, nothing light at that, and I had time to listen to him. 5 minutes time.

“Where are you going?” he asked nervously, a weak conversation starter but they all need to begin somehow and I am not much better.

“Epping, last stop on the line,” I mumbled motioning to the far map that not even a human with perfect vision could see from this distance. However, most people who ride the metro already memorized the map and those who were new would soon learn. It was more common than the dictionary and easier to remember than paying your phone bill.

“Oh… well I hope you get there,” the kid replied tiredly, as if the wind was knocked out of him. There was a pause of silence as the icy wind shuttered through the tunnel system.

“You?” I asked trying to continue his hard-started conversation. He already put so much effort into starting it up, I couldn't let it fall into the depths of silence just yet.

“Oh… my last stop is this town-”

“Here? But you already are here. What are you doing in the tunnels then?”

“Trying to decide where to go next,” he said half mindedly as if his thoughts were dragging him elsewhere.

"So, you are travelling," I stated with obvious naivety to the spirits raking through the kid's mind. He shrugged, accepting my offer of an answer.

"I guess you could say that," he muttered.

"Where do you plan on going?"

"I… Nowhere really- I wanted to come here-"

"Was it everything you thought it would be?" I interrupted rudely. I knew I should have waited. That would have been the polite thing to do but the elderly grow a habit of hypocrisy. We do the talking.

"Not one bit," the kid stated flatly with no life behind his words. He seemed to have an emotional capacity of a corpse. There was a dull look in his eye, the one that I saw in everyone before, I included. It was a ghost of a look that showed in men who were lost to the sickness of their minds. It is thought that only children get lost. I say it is more easy and common in the lives of men who know their ghosts more personally than the rest.

"It never is," I replied knowing the kid's disappointment all too well.

Silence devoured the conversation and I let it that time. The conversation had lived to its end and now it was time for the next form to take over. I looked up at the board and saw that there was only two minutes until the car pulled up. A groan escaped me as I pushed myself off of the bench and stretched out my tired legs. It was late and my body knew it. The kid stood up with me, his dull eyes seeing the time himself and we both made the march over towards the edge of the platform as was the ritual for all passengers. The closer I got to the tunnel opening, the colder the breeze became and the spirits of the station ran their fingers up my spine, giving me sudden chills. I shivered and glanced down the tunnel. One minute remaining.

There was no sign of the car and I almost thought that it was late, until I saw fires ignite from the depths of hell. Relief swam through me as I sighed, seeing the welcoming sign of the car. It is silly how comfortable you feel in your own condition. You can get so stuck in your own mission that you don't see that others' are being cattle prodded by their ghosts. As you are so grateful to be on course, others are steering off the road, blinded by demons in their path. Out of the corner of my eye I caught those demons taking the young man by the scarf and dragging him closer to the edge of the platform. His eyes were imprisoned by the spirits of the station, blank screens that just ticked by the time till his stop. Only he was boarding before I was.

"Kid," I called out to him, but it fell upon deaf ears as the rattling of the train pulled closer. The young man's toes teetered on the edge as the train bulleted into the station. The ghosts pushed his back egging him on, but my own were in a battle against them. In an instant, my hand shot out beyond my own control and yanked the kid back by his scarf as the train hurtled past. The force I was commanded with was strong and I found myself and the young man on the floor of the platform as the train pulled to a stop in front of us.

There was a familiar ding as the doors opened welcoming the invisible people to enter and leave at their will. The chatter of the crowd filled my ears as sobs and mumbled nonsense. Broken from his trance, a falsified illusion set upon him by the ghosts of the station, I heard mutters of gratitude come out from the kid. We all fight our own ghosts in our time but sometimes we don't know we are losing the battle until we already lost the war. Years ago, I was lost too. I still get lost, but if I had lost, so would this kid. Many people who asked me what had happened would say I was brave to have done what I did. But looking back at when my hand reached out towards the lost soul bound within the skin of a child, I knew it wasn't bravery. It was my own ghosts remembering that they couldn't win this fight. Like hell they would let the kid's demons win theirs.

The trains only ran long enough to the hospital where I stopped with the kid. I didn't go home that night.

#suicide #story #subway #inthemiddle #PTSD #ghosts #demons #stories

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gaiatheorist · 7 years

Text

“Reintroduction of apex predators.”

(My head is playing the 2am game again, there are dozens of things I should be concentrating on, but I’m busy going mad. It’s fine, I usually come back eventually.)

2am-ish. “Bleurgh. Ick. Cold. Timesit?”

Yes, ‘Bleurgh’, and yes ‘Ick’, that’ll be the wine. Yes, ‘Cold’, because I’d fallen asleep on the sofa again. ‘Timesit?’, bollocks, I didn’t put my phone on charge, so there’s an on-screen reminder that a pending update couldn’t be installed overnight. I hate phone updates, I always worry that something will go wrong, which is ridiculous, because I haven’t ‘always’ had a mobile phone, and there must, logically, be a way to un-install an update if something does cock up. It’s just after half past three now, so it’s taken me about an hour and a half to convince myself that ‘nothing bad will happen’ if I update my phone. Not that updating my phone would stop OTHER bad things from happening, I’m not THAT mad.

The sensible thing to do if you wake up at 2am on the sofa would be to go to bed. I’m not sensible, and, since the brain haemorrhage, there’s been even more of the “Ping! Wide awake!” malarkey. It is a behaviour I need to change, and, yet again, I failed to do so. (Side-thought about setting up a GO TO BED screen-saver on my phone?) I’m differently-mad to my friend, who called around for a cup of tea after his eye test this week, we share some similar traits, and we’re open-ish with each other. He wakes up every single morning crippled by confusion, processing the fact that he’s one of billions of bipedal beings on the surface of a spinning rock, and, every day, it takes him ‘hours’ to shake off that confusion, and regain some semblance of functionality. In a way, I’m glad I just wake up in the middle of the night, with hundreds of fragments of nonsense-thought running through my head, because his existential anxiety every morning sounds awful. (Waking up at 2am, knowing it’s going to knock-on my sleep pattern again, and immediately checking the internet to see if anything has happened is awful, too, but I’ve normalised it to an extent. It’s my awful, I’m used to it.)

We’re similar in that I knew where his post-vasectomy anecdote was going as soon as he started it, I guessed the ‘masturbating with a bag of frozen peas clamped to his testicles’ part, but the ‘while the police raided the house next door for cannabis’ twist was a surprise. We talked non-stop for an hour, about what utter chaotic twats we were two decades ago, about the times he’d driven the ex and I home out-of-his-mind drunk, bouncing off kerbs, that I couldn’t remember, because I was also out-of-my-mind. He couldn’t remember the time he’d stayed at our old house, and put his foot THROUGH one of the stairs. We both remembered disgusting days of just not going to work, and arsing about. We both remembered the Ouija board, his unflattering nickname for one of my friends, and how unpredictable-unstable our weird little pre-bubble group was. We’ve concluded that we were twats, and we’re trying not to be any more.

Part of his twattery was multiple affairs, his wife is an absolute stoic, and keeps taking him back, they’ve divorced twice. He’s married her 3 times, and she was his third wife, I think. Other people’s business, isn’t it? After one of the affairs, she banned him from associating with us, like she was a grown-up, and we were teenagers, leading him astray. I became ‘Her!’, and the focus of her hate, more so than the ‘other women’ he was having affairs with. (To clarify, there was never any of that between us.) I’d forgotten about being ‘Her!’, but, apparently she hasn’t, and still resents me. I’ll live, but now sort-of-understand why I don’t have his actual mobile number, he only ever contacts me on Fakebook, AND he deletes the chat-messages. “She’d go mad if she knew I was here.” For fuck’s sake, unwittingly duplicitous-complicit in a married man’s sneaking-about.

I went the long way around that, didn’t I? There are several escaped crickets having a little adventure on my living room carpet, I really ought to pick them up.

OK, I woke up at an unreasonable time, and did what I shouldn’t have done, in checking the news, to see if anything had happened. With me, that’s a hang-up from September 11th, I’d been ill with a migraine, and missed the news, I plunged into obsessive-panic about not missing ‘The News’, which, back then, was on the TV, there was one computer in the house, which took about a century to boot up, and then the rest of your life to connect to the dial-up. How times have changed. I’m not the only one doing it these days, logging on, and hoping for the best, but acknowledging that there is the possibility that something catastrophically ominous is on the horizon. Please, please, let me find something in the news that’s not Him, or Her, like the lovely nun yesterday.

Lettuce? I don’t buy it as a matter of course, the father-in-law used to plant millions of the ‘butterhead’ bastards on the allotment, horrible, floppy-limp things, full of mud and slugs, for years my fridge was guaranteed to contain mud and slugs. “Here, lass, I’ve fetched you a lettuce!” I don’t like lettuce all that much.

Wikipedia? OK, it’s a side-swipe at people telling huge great big massive lies, but the ‘many hands make light work’ approach is encouraging. A chain is only ever as strong as its weakest link, but so many links could effectively knit truth-chain-mail. Too relevant, though, too linked to real-time events.

Bullshit Barbie? No thanks, I read that yesterday.

I flicked through, looking for something that wasn’t ‘that’, ready to be witty, or engaging, or insightful before some knobhead invariably weighs in with “How is this news?” That’s the fucking point, knobheads, we’re aware of the news, which is why we’re also looking at “10 ways to tuck in a shirt.”, or whatever, with courses as heavy as these ones, we absolutely need palate-cleansers as well. The ‘breaking’ banner will pop up if something happens, in the meantime, we’ll read the fluff, and the filler.

It would appear that it’s not working, though, the distraction-method. I clicked on an article about a proposal to reintroduce lynx in Northumbria, thinking that couldn’t possibly have any “We’re all fucked!” connotations. (Except if you’re a roe deer, apologies to any roe deer reading this...) I can see the logic, the lynx would be brought in to control the roe deer population. The deer haven’t done anything ‘wrong’, they’re just being deer, you know, making more deer, eating leaves, making more deer to eat more leaves, when the tree really needed those leaves, to photosynthesise, and keep us all breathing, and such. The local farmers don’t want the lynx, because they worry for their livestock, and I’m relatively certain there’s probably some knobhead setting up Fakebook pages that say lynx eat babies. (Note ‘relatively’, and ‘probably’, I talk shit, but I’m not Bullshit Barbie.)

It’s not the ‘people refusing to accept science, because it threatens their lambs’ thing, it was one phrase, used repeatedly. ‘Apex predator’ (Food-chain, chain-mail, my head is misbehaving, but that’s why I’m rattling it all out here, to purge my cranium of these thought-snippets.) Apex predator, top of the food-chain, it’s nature’s way, because most creatures on this revolving rock don’t have access to family planning. Oh. The thing at the top of the food-chain, or food-pyramid, or food-web, depending on how they’re teaching it now eats the things below it. (Fucking hell, woman, park THAT Gaia Theory, this potential catastrophe for the planet ISN’T a global phone-update, move away from the rats-and-cockroaches ideation.)

Nature does its thing, or, at least it did, until we started trying to boss it. We’re twats, some more so than others, we kill things we have no intention of eating. We kill each other. We bugger about with the environment, and then complain about lettuce. We, in the UK have eradicated most of our apex predators, what chance do a handful of nappy-eating foxes have of controlling the rabbit population? (Especially if people in silly clothes carry on with their ‘sport’.) We ate all the dodos, and all of that particular kind of turtle, we’re killing the fucking BEES, and we all know how that ends. (Removes tinfoil hat.)

We have new apex predators, and we need to figure out how to keep ourselves as safe as we can, because these new apex predators don’t behave in exactly the same way as the ones we’re used to. The ‘bubbles’ are electronic versions of stone-age tribes’ perimeter-spikes against sabre-toothed tigers. (I don’t know, I’ve already told you I never paid attention in History, sometimes I used to pick my ear until it bled, so I could get out of class to see matron for a plaster.) I’m dithering around a vague notion that our greatest weapon is the truth, but also dabbling with the idea that our strength is our number, not in the same way as animals produce ‘spare’ young, because they know some will be eaten, though. We are little, but there are lots of us, aside from good guys always coming last, we DO need to remember that we’re human, in the face of this inhumanity, the first big collection of little things that stoops to the level of the new predators is on a very shaky foundation.

This thing will run its course, as all things do, we just need to remember to show our arses to bears, and punch sharks on the nose, not the other way around. Personally, I’d prefer this fuckpuddle to be mopped up with paper rather than projectiles, and soon, because this limbo-uncertainty is exhausting us, and sending us mad. Nobody’s going to pop out from behind the sofa with a hidden camera crew and shout “Fooled you, you’ve been part of the biggest reality TV experiment ever!” We need to watch and wait, keep ourselves and each other safe.

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