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missmungoe · 3 years

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So I'm very very soft for parental Makino and Shanks and recently heard the songs Sleepsong and Song of the Sea which made me wonder if you had any particular song in mind that they'd sing their kids to sleep with? I may also be extremely ridiculously soft for their kids (all of them even the honorary ones)

Oh these are both lovely!! ‘Song of the Sea’ is a favourite of mine, perhaps unsurprisingly (and I may have a little fic in mind for the selkie-verse with Makino and Shanks and their seal-babies). I don’t have a specific song in mind for my stories, I just imagine they sing a lot to their kids, but thinking about this ask inspired this soft, silly thing, so...

pirate lullabies

He’d claimed once, wholly serious although with a twinkle in his eyes, that his singing voice had been deemed so dangerous by the World Government, it had been outlawed in several countries. Among the many outrageous tales he’d told her over the years, it was the only one Makino had no trouble believing.

She was working when the song reached her through the floorboards, carried to her first by the rhythm of their boots, before she picked out his voice, the deep timbre with the raw, laughing lilt that needed no instruments to accompany it, and that probably warranted its reputation, given how many times it had stolen away her good sense, her hair tousled and her laughter faint as he spun her, the polished bar-top under her feet a canting deck: a unique kind of magic he had that could transform even the most ordinary things, gentle-natured barmaids included.

She followed it now, up from the cellar where the casks were stacked floor to ceiling, ageing apple wine and whiskey, the spellbinding sound taking shape into a melody she knew as she hoisted herself up the ladder, although had to pause just to check that she’d heard right, but―no, it was the one she thought, down to the rough, stirring pitch of his voice as he performed it.

Her startled blush recalled the last occasion he’d belted out this particular shanty in her presence, but then he’d been naked at the time, a private rendition she still couldn’t think about with a straight face, which begged the slightly shrill but laughing question now―

“What are you singing to our children?”

It saw him turning around, mid-performance, but he took the interruption in stride, at ease at the centre of attention, the common room of their bar full and every pair of eyes trained on him where he stood, their youngest in her sling across his back and their three-year old on his arm. The former refused to go to sleep without her sister, who could never be compelled to sit still long enough to fall asleep; an alliance that had necessitated some creative strategising. A tiny Scylla and Charybdis, and most captains would have steered clear of the challenge altogether. This one had set his course right through the strait.

“You know this one,” Shanks said, his innocent grin as though she’d asked out of ignorance. “You were the one who taught it to me.”

“One hell of a performance, too,” Yasopp supplied, to loud hoots of approval, their tankards raised to her, frothing at the rim with their latest batch from the brewery. Makino accepted the praise with demure dignity, as Yasopp added, “You nearly fell off the bar. Good thing Boss was there to catch you.”

“He’s the reason I was up there in the first place,” Makino parried primly, and with a pointed glance at the culprit, who didn’t look the least bit chagrined. “I’m just relieved you opted out of the acrobatics this time. You’re not as limber as you used to be.”

“Do you know what ‘savage’ means, swallow?” Shanks asked their three-year-old, who repeated the word, if not exactly with the correct pronunciation, but her father’s adoring grin promised many more attempts.

Turning the grin on Makino, a glint of familiar challenge in his eyes where they curved at the corners, “I’d make you eat those words if I wasn’t carrying precious cargo. Or I could always prove you wrong later, if you’ll join me for an encore. Show you just how limber I am.”

“No cartwheels!” called a voice from the back, to laughing agreement. Shanks stuck his tongue out; the girl on his arm responded in turn, to his delight.

Walking up to where he was standing at the centre of the room, Makino tucked an errant lock back into their daughter’s kerchief, sleek and dark as a swallow’s wing; the only one in their brood whose colouring was like her own. A gentle touch to their youngest’s head saw her looking up, snug in her sling, her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.

“What happened to putting them to bed?” she asked, a teasing tug adjusting his shirt where the sling had pulled the open front even wider than usual, her fingers smoothing through the hair climbing up his chest. Father of three, but some things hadn’t changed. Not that she was complaining.

“What did it look like I was doing?” Shanks asked, with a grin that said her distraction hadn’t missed him, the cheeky flex of a pectoral catching her in the act, but instead of pulling her hand away, Makino only flattened her palm over the hard expanse.

“From where I was standing? Teaching entirely inappropriate bedtime songs to impressionable little ears.” The ones belonging to the girl on his arm missed nothing, to Makino’s continued horror.

“Oh that? Don’t worry,” Shanks said, his wide mouth stretched in a roguish smile she was tempted to remind him was usually cause to do just that. “I censored it.”

Before she could ask if she even wanted to know what he meant by that, a tiny hand gave an impatient tug at his shirt. “Sing about the rusty sailor!”

Brows arching gently with her smile, “Rusty?” Makino asked, as Shanks pressed a sloppy, bearded kiss to a soft little cheek, eliciting an infectious giggle.

The last time she’d seen that grin, he’d had her thighs over his ears. “What?” Shanks asked, his eyes unsheathed steel. “Certain skills need maintenance, to leave all parties satisfied.”

“It’s just hard to imagine he’d ever get that designation, with his infamous appetite,” Makino mused.

“He has a big rock!” their daughter announced.

From the crowded room, a startled cough sounded, from one of the hundred accomplices to this creative rewriting. In the corner of her eye, Ben’s smile curled around his toothpick.

“Oh does he?” Makino asked her, giving a playful tug at her little kerchief, the fawn-like freckles across the tiny bridge of her nose wrinkling with her giggles, before sharing a look with the man who’d given her that laugh, and while she wasn’t sure she wanted to know, “And what exactly does the rusty sailor do with his big rock?”

Shanks grinned, all pride, as their daughter declared, “He sticks it in the hole!”

Her hand flew to cover her startled grin, as several laughs were smothered unsuccessfully, but, “Not the back one,” Shanks assured her, his grin so wide now, she wondered if that wasn’t what warranted censoring. “At least not without asking first.”

“Classy guy,” Makino murmured, and when he wagged his brows, promptly failed to keep a straight face, to the delight of the room.

His eyes danced, the warm look in them compelling the words from her mouth, “So what else does the song say about this rusty sailor?”

A look was exchanged with the girl on his arm, that cheeky little grin his own legacy, and unsuccessfully supporting his claim to innocence, before Shanks said, “That he can usually be found face-up under a tavern bench?”

A round of hollering toasts rose to punctuate the line, the last of a filthy refrain, before he picked it up from the top, his voice raised as he sang to their daughter on her perch:

“Under skirts and petticoats, he’s never hard to ask, a wink and a slap and he’s ready to go, rising to every task. You’ll find him with the portside boars, he knows them all by name, and if he’s got no coin to spend, he’ll charm them all the same. And at the local tavern, well, he’s known to every lass, and every time he visits there, he hopes he’ll get some―”

“GRASS!” shouted a voice from across the room, to hiccuping laughter from the crowd and a bow of approval from the captain, and the loud delight of the girl on his arm, clutching his shirt as he spun her.

“―and if you’re looking for him, know that this is where he’ll be: a sailor with a thirst to quench, you’ll find him on his back beneath a squatting tavern bench!”

This tavern bench was having a hard time maintaining an appropriately chastising expression, hearing the shrieking laughter of the girl on his arm as Shanks spun her, dancing to the song they’d spurred to life like a storm, and with nothing but the rhythm of their boots on the planks. And she might have reminded them that the goal was to get their daughters to sleep, but their children were used to the noise, had all three learned to fall asleep to the sounds of their bar, tucked in their crates, between the shelves of the pantry and the kegs behind the counter, and in the crooks of a hundred arms, coaxed by the wordless lullabies of creaking floorboards and the clink of glasses, ale tapped into tankards and bottles uncorked invoking the sea rushing across the deck and pistols firing, and the muted chatter of a retired crew of pirates that was as effective as any bedtime story, for hungry little ears.

And of course, the songs they’d learned while still in her belly, sung under her breath as she worked, or with his cheek to the swollen curve, his voice reverberating through her, the words pressed with bearded kisses to the movements beneath her skin, as though responding to the sound. They’d known his voice before anything else in this world; had known the songs before they could speak the words, the many in his vast repertoire from a long life at sea, and he’d brought it ashore, to her deck that remained steady underfoot but that didn’t need more than his voice transform to something else; a wild storm brewing and warships on the horizon, and a daring captain at the helm.

He caught her gaze now, a familiar grin flashed like the bare edge of a blade, offering a duel, and it had been a while since he’d proffered his actual sword, his one arm occupied but no regret in the exchange, but Makino answered him as she would with steel, their eyes tethered and her voice raised to join his, her gentler cadence claiming its due amidst the rougher timbres filling their bar:

“And if you’re looking for him, know that this is where he’ll be: a sailor with a thirst to quench, you’ll find him on his back beneath a squatting tavern bench!”

Roaring applause shook the rafters, sending the bottles on their shelves chiming, the kind that would have made her shrink back once, but she’d learned to claim more than just her due, and accepted it now, and the tender look regarding her from over their daughter’s head, and when he bent down to kiss the top of hers, the rough promise kissed into the skin below her ear was uncensored, and had her laughter flinging out, loud and startled.

The noise settled down, their voices taking on a softer pitch, like the sea after a storm, but then this was a familiar routine, performed many times with each of their children, the oldest of whom had claimed the armchair by the hearth, a book in his lap and his father’s cloak around him, and sound asleep, for all his bold claims that he didn’t need a bedtime.

“That’s three out of three,” Shanks said, drawing her eyes back from Ace. His voice was pitched low, to not disturb the girl on his arm, her head tucked against his throat, one small hand still gripping his shirt where she’d nodded off. The one on his back was following suit, her fingers in her mouth and her lashes kissing her soft cheeks. “Questionable methods aside, you’ve got to admit it’s effective.”

Smiling, Makino helped relieve him of the sling, the girl within reaching for her sleepily, a soft breath sighed against her throat as she pressed a kiss to the top of her head, smoothing her fingers over the red down of her hair.

Meeting his eyes, the tender look in them somehow always a little new, “Portside boars?” she asked.

Shanks grinned. “Not to be approached without caution, at least if you value your life.”

“Sound advice.”

“Isn’t it?”

Her soft laugh followed him to the storeroom. The spacious pantry was bigger than Party’s had been, replete with liquors and foodstuffs, crates and barrels and sacks all neatly organised, and all of it written in the leather-bound ledger lying open on the middle shelf. The smells recalled her own childhood, the sound of her mother’s heeled boots across the creaking doorstep, and the bottles chiming in their crates, stacked high above her head. A rough hand smoothing her hair from her brow, before she'd be gone, leaving the door ajar and a sliver of light, the laughter spilling through and into her dreams.

She watched him tuck them in, snug within their makeshift bunks, a different song sung in low, soothing tones, a lullaby for gentler waters that sang of two clever little seals outwitting the fearsome lord of the coast, a longtime favourite that saw two big brown eyes struggling in vain to stay open. Their youngest had already surrendered, even as her sister persevered, but his voice didn’t waver, coaxing until tiny fingers released his shirt, although even asleep, he lingered a moment longer, to finish the verse.

Watching him from the doorway, the sweat of a long evening making his shirt cling to his back, straining over the wide shoulders that didn’t carry the same burdens they had once, she followed the sight to an old memory; a busy galley on a gentler sea, and the rowdy court of pirates with its rakish king that had swept her off her feet. “Do you remember the first time you sang to me?”

Looking over his shoulder at her, his smile held her answer, even before Shanks said, “Don’t know how I could forget, although it’s not my singing I remember. Why do you ask?”

“I was just thinking,” Makino said, smile soft with the memory, her eyes on the little shapes sleeping amidst the liquor crates, “that they’ll remember this when they’re older.” The years had blurred it at the edges, but some things stood out: his hand lifting her atop the table, and of feeling fearless. A long time ago now, but while the course of their lives had shifted, some things hadn’t changed, their marriage always writing new verses, even as the refrains were her favourite―the lines she knew by heart, and while he could still catch her off guard, a few words altered here and there, the melody was always the same.

“Hopefully they won’t find it too mortifying,” Shanks chuckled, lifting back to his feet, before adding, with a look, “That’s not me saying I’d ever stop. As if!”

Smiling, she didn’t say she doubted they’d ever want him to, although wondered how long until it wouldn’t be him holding the room captive with his singing, but two small successors, who knew songs from every deck of the world, questionable rewritings included.

She watched him make a note in the ledger, a once-cheeky habit that had grown tender over the years, no longer noting her missing innocence but two small additions, currently in stock. Makino wondered if it was a way for him to keep them while he could, and might have felt similarly inclined, but the sea had given her more than it had ever taken, and she didn’t fear trusting it with their children.

She lifted her head as he came towards her, bending down to steal a kiss from her lips, his hand raised to tuck her hair back into her scarf, the long length of silk where it brushed her spine, his thumb catching on the gold in her ears, because he might have brought the sea ashore with him, but she had claimed her own parts.

“So, Captain,” Makino said, head tipped back to look up at him, and saw his brows quirking at her gentle challenge, tugging playfully at his scars.

“Join me for an encore?”

#Shanks/Makino #Shanks x Makino #One Piece #Shanks #Red-Haired Shanks #Akagami no Shanks #Makino #fanfic #fanfiction #mungoe writes #I'm so happy you're soft for their kids<3 #it's been a while since I wrote anything about their family and I just realised how much I've missed it

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stardust948 · 3 years

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~*~

“How dare you?! Is an entire army at your beckon call not enough?! Now you hire pirates to your dirty work?!” Katara snarled. “What did His Highness not want to get his fancy warship banged up anymore?!”

“Silence Katara!” Zuko hissed as he glanced at the pirates muttered amongst themselves.

“Oh ho! You didn’t tell your new friends about your royal status?! And yet you feel the need to constantly remind me! So much for manners, eh PRINCE ZUKO OF THE FIRE NATION!!!!”

“QUIET!“

The pirates edged closer with weapons pointed at them. Zuko swore under his breath as he released Katara. The teenagers stood back to back as the pirates surrounded them. Zuko summoned fire daggers in both hands as Katara pulled out her remaining knife.

“This is our lucky day boys.” The captain grinned. “The Fire Prince and the Water Scroll Thief for the price of one.”

~*~

#atla #ao3 fanfic #zutara #book 1 zutara #zutara fanfic #fanfic update

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exploreneoh · 2 years

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Northeast Ohio's Confederate Cemetery

Writing about and discussing monuments commemorating the Confederacy is a difficult task, which is why I have been avoiding composing this blog post for some time now. The Atlanta History Center divides such monuments into three categories. The first refers to mainly funerary monuments, “erected from the 1860s through the 1880s.” The second era of Confederate monuments were installed during the height of Jim Crow, from 1890 through the 1930s, and consist mainly of “an equestrian statute of a Confederate general in front of a courthouse or capitol.” These were not to mourn the loss of dead soldiers, but to celebrate the deeply racist ideals central to the identity of the former Confederate States of America. They were designed to intimidate African Americans passing through public spaces and remind them of their place in Southern society. Such monuments were, “a naked forewarning to the lowest caste of its subjugation and powerlessness… a psychic trolling of the first magnitude” (Wilkerson, 336). These were shrines and threats, aimed at affirming the myth of the Lost Cause and intimidating anyone who dared defy the strict social order. Such insolence would likely mean death. The final era occurred throughout the mid 20th century in response to Brown v. Board of Education and as an ode to segregation.

The monuments on Johnson’s Island in Ohio’s Sandusky Bay perhaps bridge the first two categories. The first Confederate monument erected on the island, a bronze and granite monolith depicting a standing Confederate soldier, was dedicated by the Cincinnati chapter of the United Daughters of the Confederacy in 1910. Smaller monuments were later installed, the most recent “a set of granite markers dedicated to Confederate prisoners of war,” dedicated by the UDC in 2003. But why are these monuments here, and how should we view them, today?

I drove onto the island after visiting my beloved Marblehead Lighthouse on its namesake peninsula, the rugged, quarry-ridden cape jutting eastward from Toledo into the teal waters of Lake Erie. It was a tumultuous July evening, the trees still dripping from the severe thunderstorm that just passed through, its inky clouds still visible along the eastern horizon. The amber sun, sinking farther in the western sky, merging the remaining puddles and the thick atmosphere. The humidity was extreme.

Johnson’s Island is an unusual place. To cross the causeway from Marblehead, visitors must pay a $2 toll. The island itself is roughly 300 acres and home to extravagant lakeside homes, some built within the old quarry pit hundreds of feet below neighboring residences looming above. Its most unusual feature, however, is the Confederate Stockade Cemetery, located on the island’s northeast corner, overlooking Bay Point and Cedar Point beyond. According to the National Park Service, from 1862 to 1865, the United States War Department imprisoned more than 11,500 Confederates at its facility on Johnson’s Island, which it leased from owner Leonard Johnson for $500 per year. The site, surrounded by the waters of Lake Erie, was chosen for its relative isolation. “It was easily defensible and close to rail lines in Sandusky,” (NPS) deemed so secure, in fact, that only Confederate officers were imprisoned here.

Although originally intended only to house a maximum of 1,000 men at a time, at its peak, Johnson Island’s population exceeded 3,255 in 1865. Population numbers were generally lower, however, due to the Union and Confederate armies frequently swapping prisoners of war. The prison, although more luxurious than those for ordinary soldiers, lacked appropriate sanitation, infrastructure, and food, and was frequently overcrowded. Diseases spread quickly throughout the prison and Lake Erie winters were undoubtedly harsh.

In 1864, Confederate soldiers based in Ontario attempted to raid the island. “They successfully seized two passenger steamers in Lake Erie and planned to capture the USS Michigan and use the warship to free the officers on Johnson’s Island,” (NPS) but aborted the mission. As a result, the Union strengthened its prison’s defenses, fearing possible future attacks.

After Robert E. Lee’s surrender and the Confederacy swore its oath of allegiance to the United States in 1865, the prison’s population decreased. By the end of the year, the War Department had returned control of the island to Johnson. During its time as a prison, only 239 men died on the island, their bodies buried a half mile from the original prison facility. Over 20 bodies were removed by friends and family after the Civil War and taken elsewhere. To commemorate those who remain, 206 marble headstones were erected after a group of Georgia journalists described the lack of permanent markers memorialize these men.

The Robert Patton Chapter of the UDC purchased the cemetery in 1905. Chapter leader, Mary Patton Hudson, worked feverishly to oversee improvements to the sight, including the construction of a fence around the cemetery. Her most notable contribution was the large statue of a Confederate soldier, dubbed The Lookout, created by Moses Ezekiel and dedicated in June 1910. “The [UDC] installed two monuments at the cemetery in 1925. The Mack-Hauck Memorial honors two members of the organization instrumental in preserving the Johnson’s Island cemetery” (NPS). Hudson herself was later dedicated a memorial for her effort to purchase the cemetery which was later donated to the federal government in 1931. Since then, additional granite markers have been placed in memory of Confederate prisoners of war.

Nostalgia has been described as “the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return,” (Kundera, 5) and, walking along the rows of headstones and among the ornate monuments in the cemetery on that hot July evening, I was struck by perhaps its opposite. Those who erected such memorials, however, clearly felt this way towards the Confederacy, yearning for its return. The Confederate Cross of Honor in northern soil, with initials CSA encompassing a Confederate battle flag, earnestly and shamelessly celebrates a brief instance of Confederate sovereignty, a reclamation of a place once designed to contain and irradicate it. The pedestal of Ezekiel’s statute reads and is dedicated “to those who died in federal prison on this island during the war between the states,” commemorating those Confederate officers, “dead, but sceptered sovereigns who still rule us from the grave.” The line is from Lord Byron’s Manfred, taken from a scene in which the titular character recounts the former glories of the Roman capital. He describes the “chief relics of almighty Rome,” the “ruinous perfection,” of “Caesar’s chambers, … the Augustan halls,” a place where all that remains is beautiful. “The place Became religion, and the heart ran o’er With silent worship of the great of old” (Byron). The “great of old” here is the legacy of slavery and a society built upon it. For the Confederacy, the owning of twelve generations of human chattels whose patriarchs and matriarchs were stolen from a distant continent was the state-sanctioned religion. The statue is chilling, the words inscribed within it are haunting.

Horrifying as it is, however, I think this is a monument which should be permitted to stand. It is relatively isolated and within a cemetery for America’s war dead. The statuary, although blatantly racist and clearly regaling the country’s most evil legacy, does not act to intimidate citizens in a public square like others. Furthermore, it is a physical relic of a not-too-distant past, personifying the horrors of before, which continue to echo through the modern day. This place made me think of those who commissioned and built its monuments, not with empathy or reverence, but with chilling terror. The tentacles of those who advocated something which, to me, seems almost unimaginable, poke out of the ground in this humble cemetery in Northeast Ohio. The relics earnestly bearing “CSA” really mean it, celebrating a government which actually existed in Montgomery, AL and Richmond, VA, and to which millions (and many who still) pledged their allegiance. These artifacts somehow make it real, the Confederacy: tangible, palpable, solid, and heavy, like a piece of iron in one’s hand. A prolonged southern invasion of my beloved northern home. Let this not be a place of veneration, but one bearing the scars of the past, a quiet warning of the persistence of hatred, imprisoning once more the evils of yore in a fixed position, viewable to all who venture near, but not germinating and sowing the malice, loathing, and rancor of those it commemorates, but nudging us forward to a more equitable and just future.

All photos are my own, taken on Johnson's Island, Ohio, 7/13/2021.

Top left: view of the headstones in the cemetery.

Top right: close-up view of the pedestal of The Lookout.

Bottom left: Iron Cross of the Confederacy, bearing its initials CSA with a Confederate battle flag in the center.

Bottom center: Entrance to the cemetery.

Bottom right: The Lookout.

References:

Byron, L. G. G. (2010). Manfred. Wilder Publications.

Historical introduction: Confederate monuments. Atlanta History Center. (2021, May 11). Retrieved January 19, 2022, from https://www.atlantahistorycenter.com/learning-and-research/projects-initiatives/confederate-monument-interpretation-guide/historical-introduction-confederate-monuments/

Kundera, M., & Asher, L. (2002). Ignorance. Harper-Collins.

Manfred dramatic poem - analysis & summary. English History. (2015, April 19). Retrieved January 19, 2022, from https://englishhistory.net/byron/poems/manfred-dramatic-poem/

U.S. Department of the Interior. (n.d.). Johnson's Island Confederate stockade cemetery. National Park Service. Retrieved January 21, 2022, from https://www.nps.gov/nr/travel/national_cemeteries/ohio/confederate_stockade_cemetery.html

Wilkerson, I. (2020). Caste: the Origins of Our Discontents. Random House.

Wilkerson, I., & Gross, T. (2020, August 4). It's more than racism: Isabel Wilkerson explains America's 'caste' system. NPR. Retrieved January 19, 2022, from https://www.npr.org/transcripts/898574852

#exploreneoh #civil war #lake erie #confederate #ohio #cleveland #northeast ohio #water #cemetery #battle #prison #robert e lee #caste #slavery #history

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amaranthkick · 3 years

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A Therapy Werewolf, part 10

(ao3)

“You should have seen it, Pidge! Shiro threw his head back, a noble howl resonating around the area catching the attention of the space wolves. All Shiro had to do was growl, showing off those pearly whites and they were cowering with their tail between their legs. Ah, as a fellow lupine, it brings a tear to my eye.” Lance dramatically wiped a non-existent tear from his eye.

Shiro knocked Lance down, laying on top of him and trapping him underneath. “You know that is not what happened in the slightest.”

“Mmm, yeah, I’m sure that’s what happened.” Pidge said to Lance, voice dripping with sarcasm. She raised an eyebrow. “What really happened?”

Lance hid his flushed face behind his hands while Shiro whined softly and put a paw on top of his muzzle. Hunk tilted his head at their reactions and gasped as an idea popped into his head. “Oh! Is it like on TV where dogs sniff--”

Everyone froze as the alarm blared throughout the castle and in an instant they rushed to the bridge.

“It's as I feared.” Allura informed them as she pulled up the map, showing an enemy marker heading towards their location. “The Galra are sending a warship to our position. Fortunately, it's not a robeast. ...Not this time yet. But this means we don’t have the leisure to wait here for a way to change Shiro back to normal. Never mind, we’ll talk afterwards. Paladins to your Lions!”

Shiro huffed as he waited on the bridge as the others worked together to take down the warship. He could feel the Black Lion purring in apology in the back of his mind but as otherworldly and advanced as these Lions were, the controls proved difficult in his current state.

Though he wasn’t able to fight with his team, he perked up in pride as they managed to take it down. They have really grown from the first time they piloted the Lions to be able to work together even with one Lion missing.

---

Even though they were victorious it was tense when the paladins returned to the bridge. Keith was tense with anger, of course the Galra wouldn’t let them catch their breath. It’s just a matter of time until they keep sending stronger and stronger reinforcements. Pidge was fiercely staring at a screen as if her glare can make a cure form faster. Everyone else was frowning thinking of what they could do.

Lance started when he felt Shiro nudge his hand with a wet nose. “You said you had a plan B, in case things don’t pan out. Well… things aren’t panning out. Can I hear what it is?”

Hearing Shiro bark made everyone turn their heads in their direction. Lance rubbed the back of his head. “Uh, there is something I’d like to try. I think it’ll be able to help Shiro.”

Lance explained that he wanted to turn Shiro, give him the bite and turn him into a werewolf. He got the idea thinking about Coran’s remarks about his body rejecting the space wolf chemical. The turn would also pretty much be instantaneous. The idea surprised them and certainly piqued Coran’s interest in how the turning works but more importantly brought a spark of hope back in their eyes.

“How interesting, is it magic based or perhaps it works like an infection passed through a bite wound?” Coran was holding a magnifying glass too close to Lance’s mouth for his liking.

“I have no idea.” Lance leaned away from Coran’s good-natured prodding. “I’ve never tried it but it does involve a bite, which obviously hurts. Not sure how I feel about biting our leader. Are you sure you want to try it?” He asked Shiro.

“I’m willing to give it a try.” Shiro nodded, appreciating his concern.

“Are you sure this will work?” Keith asked, highly concerned for Shiro’s safety.

“I don’t know how this’ll work on a space wolf but uh… ok, something like this happened before. They say that no one has turned anyone in a while but my dad or his friends might have done it but don’t you guys tell a soul! My family might get in trouble.”

At their agreement, Lance continued. “A long time ago, when my dad and a few of his friends were young and dumb and unafraid, they asked the age old question ‘can you turn a wolf into a werewolf?’ But unlike normal people and just imagining what would happen, they tried it out. Long story short they ended up adopting a very confused and slightly feral human. Ah, Uncle Jim Jam… the life of the party.” Lance ended with a nostalgic tinge in his voice.

“You guys named him Jim Jam?” Hunk asked incredulously.

Lance gasped, a hand on his chest. “Don’t be mean! He’s doing his best! But anyway, they started a wolf and ended with a werewolf that can turn into a human or wolf. Which is what we’ll end up with, hopefully.”

---

It wasn’t night yet but the moon had entered the sky from the eastern horizon. Lance said he needed some time to concentrate and see if the moon was willing to help. Apparently he had to get the moon’s blessing to be able to turn someone. Shiro found Lance in the usual hall, the moon visible in the window. His eyes were closed and he breathed in deeply, soaking up the moonlight. Once Lance noticed his presence he sat down next to him.

“This moon is happy to help, she feels friendly and kinda curious about me and werewolves since this planet doesn’t have any. ...How are you feeling about all this? Like getting drugged and uh, getting experimented again by the galra?” Lance winced as he asked. There wasn’t exactly a subtler way to ask that.

Shiro was surprised then he deflated with a sigh. It was hard to keep the dependable leader front with all this trauma piling up. “It certainly is not helping that it happened again. Feels like everytime they get their dirty hands on me, I’m changed beyond recognition from who I used to be.” He felt like he could breathe a little easier, having admitted that.

Lance started to gently stroke his fur, he felt Shiro relaxing slightly at his touch. “How about this though? If turning you is successful, you won’t exactly be fully human again.”

“Hmm, but this feels different. Maybe because you offered it and I chose to try it rather than another galran experiment being forced on me.” But still… being a werewolf, it’ll definitely be a new experience, Shiro thought.

“Oh! That kinda reminds me of some werewolf legends, want to hear them?” Lance looked eager to tell him a bit of werewolf culture, his culture. Shiro wagged his tail once, happy to listen.

“Well, they say the first turning was actually a curse.” Lance smiled sheepishly as he started. “Humans were afraid of werewolves so they hunted them. The moon was angry at the many innocent lives lost to the hunters. So she cursed the bite a werewolf had inflicted in self defence and caused the hunter to become a werewolf and thus the hunter becomes the hunted by his own people.

“Oh! But then there’s another legend that makes turning look like a blessing! So there was this werewolf woman whose lover was terribly injured. Since werewolves boasted great regenerative abilities she begged the moon to be able to turn her love so she can save them. And once she did they lived happily ever after and all that jazz. They tell these stories to get pups to not judge things at first glance since something was a curse in once case turned out to be a blessing in another. Ah, I remember when grandma told me these stories...”

Shiro's eyes softened fondly as Lance started to reminisce, happily talking about his family. A blessing, huh? Shiro felt lighter as his nuzzling caused Lance to laugh.

“Haha! Alright, alright. Enough of that, I think I’m good to go. Let’s get everyone and see this through.”

---

Pain.

Shiro was ready to accept that. Sharp teeth sinking into his flesh. But that spike of pain only lasted for a moment.

Then it felt like lava coursed through his veins spreading from the bite to every part of his body. He felt something… in the back of his mind, a gentle pull. Was this how the moon felt to Lance? Lance told him if he felt it, he should go against the pull as it guided them towards their wolf form. He concentrated on doing so. Shiro gritted his teeth as muscles spasmed and bones started to shift. He could vaguely hear yells of concern from the others.

He remembers Lance trying to tell him to not fight against the change before he blacked out.

---

It was a chaotic few minutes full of screaming, cursing, yelling, honestly, just another day out here in space, Lance thought to himself. But everyone calmed down once Shiro had changed back into a human even though he promptly passed out. They quickly dressed him up in the silky, black pajamas stored in the castle. He was still missing his arm but with Pidge, Hunk, and Coran on the case, Lance doubts it would be that much of an issue for long.

Lance suggested a sleepover, getting everyone bringing their blankets and pillows to fill that circle of couches area in the common room. This way with Shiro’s brand new stronger sense of smell, he’d be surrounded by familiar scents when he wakes up.

Allura took Coran with her to chart their next course to their next destination, taking care to mark some safe spots to give the paladins much needed rest. Coran assured Lance that he would make her join the sleepover so she could rest as well.

As they slept in the soft nest waiting for Shiro to wake, Lance settled in and he let his mind wander. It’s been a wild ride out here in space. Becoming paladins, helping Shiro like he helped his uncle, everyone accepting him even if he was a werewolf and him fully accepting them as a pack. Lance knew this war would be tough but he’ll do what he could for his pack.

#writings #werewolf! lance #shance #=w=#i think i get it now endings are hard to write #onwards from this and maybe work on other wips #(/w \)#maybe more werewolf adventures if an idea strikes me

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atinytokki · 3 years

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𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Chapter 6: Friendly Fire

The sun was high and bright but still the winds whipping around the Indeok were numbingly cold.

It had been a few weeks since leaving Kon and finally they were meeting the Black Crow about halfway to the colonies. When Wooyoung wondered why, it fell once again to his brother to investigate for him.

“The Admiral has someone on board who knows the eastern waters better,” he explained in a hush voice while they stood on the main deck with everyone else, summoned to greet their eminent commander. “All Kim’s orders derive from the strategist’s expertise— Lucky, I think the men called him.”

“A special strategist?” Wooyoung scoffed. “Isn’t plotting courses supposed to be Navigator Kang’s job?”

“Look, I don’t question these things.” Woosung said testily. “Ask your sailing master friend, since he seems to know so much.”

Wooyoung scoffed and went to shove his brother for being jealous of Yeosang, but remembered they were in public and supposedly unacquainted, so refrained.

“I think I will do just that,” he whispered back before shuffling over to the stairs. Yeosang was always posted on the quarterdeck or in his cabin, observing the strict hierarchy that placed him above the common sailor, but he saw Wooyoung coming and moved to where he could speak quietly to him.

“Is there any merit to this?” Wooyoung asked when the captain wasn’t looking. “That someone else is calling the shots?”

“I doubt the Admiral would want it to be known if that was the case,” Yeosang argued, not turning around but keeping his eyes focused on the backs of his superiors. “But men will talk.”

The rest of the fleet was a day or so behind them, so the Indeok’s arrival was extremely fortunate. The northwestern colony of Kibo was on the horizon, and two Haemin ships were already lingering around it.

“Only two of them, true to form,” Lieutenant Yoo sighed from the quarterdeck in Yeosang’s general direction before calling for the anchor to be dropped.

The Indeok came to a halt alongside the Black Crow.

“Do any among you speak their language?” Came a familiar call from the decks of the warship.

Lieutenant Byun.

Yeosang and Wooyoung both tensed and looked away, Wooyoung shrinking back and blending in with the soldiers on the main deck again.

“I do,” Lieutenant Yoo spoke up. It explained why he was first lieutenant of the Indeok, if Yeosang thought about it. That was a skill that could come in handy.

He went to the rail and spoke for a moment with Byun before being lowered in a boat and rowing himself over to the Haemin ships.

He was attempting to reach a settlement before they began fighting.

It was only good manners after all.

Predictably, he came back a few minutes later and resumed his post, reporting to Byun and the other Black Crow officers and allowing them to proceed with readying their cannons.

Wooyoung sighed and got to work.

“Have you been in battle, Mr. Kang?”

The navigator startled and turned to bow to Yoo, who appeared to be addressing him.

“Not... Not quite like this.” He had dealt with his fair share of skirmishes and close calls all over the world in his travels, but this lieutenant didn’t need to know that.

“Fair,” the man sighed, and it pulled at Yeosang’s heart a little bit. From the looks of things, he was just another unwilling soldier. “I never thought we’d see war with Haemin in our time. The assassination was so unexpected. But we’ve got to make them pay, haven’t we?”

The final remark gave Yeosang pause.

There was no rallying cry. If not for Yoo Dojoon’s declaration, Yeosang would have no idea what they were fighting for.

For glory? For revenge? For the defence of lands they claimed as theirs?

“For peace,” he finally said. Because that was what he strived for at the end of the day.

Another gust of wind hit the quarterdeck hard and Yeosang gripped the railing even harder, pulling his coat closer around his shivering form.

“Oh, perfect,” Lieutenant Yoo groaned, pointing at the horizon.

Another ship had joined their enemy’s.

Now they were outnumbered.

...

San fought to reach Jongho, and he fought hard.

They were yelling at him to get back, it was a phrase he’d heard enough times to deduce the meaning, and he struggled against them before finally going slack. There was no point in causing a scene if he and Jongho were going to end up in the same place anyway.

“He’s hurt, let me help him!” He screamed at his translator, whose face was set in a stern frown.

“He’s our enemy,” the officer reminded San calmly, before taking him by the arms and pulling him up. “Get back to the brig.”

San sent a forlorn glance in Jongho’s direction. He lay there, blood dripping from his head completely untended, while the soldiers fiddled with his chains, trying to make them tight enough.

They would have to be secure to hold Jongho.

“Now!” The translator snapped, pushing San back in the direction of the prison hold and smacking him over the head for good measure.

It was a much gentler slap than San had come to expect from these barbarians.

“How did you escape?” The man asked, clearly frustrated, as he chained San to the floor again. His vocabulary was expanding, just like San’s, a mutual benefit. San refused to answer and rather than press the matter, the officer simply sighed and got to his feet. “Ready for battle. We sail west.”

It was disappointing, because San had grown a bit of a soft spot for this translator, the only man on the ship with even the slightest bit of patience toward him, but a soft spot was no alliance.

It was a mistake.

He had his duties, and San had his.

A few minutes later, Jongho was dragged in and chained up right next to him. A small mercy, but an important one.

All San could do was dab at the blood with a ripped off section of fabric from his shirt, but after a couple of touches, Jongho awoke.

His eyes were unfocused and he looked to be in pain, but he tried to glance around and take in his surroundings.

“Oh, Jongho,” San cooed tenderly. The younger boy startled and took in a shaky breath. “You’re alright, you’re alright. I’ll take care of you.”

Jongho’s brow was furrowed, probably confused at how San could possibly be there with him. “What happened?” He croaked out hesitantly.

“You were in an explosion,” San explained. “I think you caught the Haemin soldiers off guard.”

He could tell exactly what had happened from Jongho’s wounds alone.

The tower had been blown, and he must have been facing a ledge on the other side, from the wounds around the crown of his head and the burns on the back of his arms. He seemed out of breath, too, likely from the fall.

“We’re prisoners, but at least we’re together,” he concluded.

Jongho’s eyes blew wide in sudden realisation. “Oh no... Seonghwa, Mingi, Yunho, and Maddox... they’ll be wondering what happened to me.”

San froze and turned back to the porthole. They were too far away from the island now to see if the ATEEZ was there. “You were with them? They’re alright?”

“Yes,” Jongho told him with a gentle smile. “We managed to find each other but you... San, we had no idea what happened to you. I can’t believe you’ve been imprisoned on a Haemin ship this whole time.”

“Well, more or less. Please, Jongho,” San’s eyes brimmed with thankful tears. “Tell me everything.”

...

Yunho sprinted across the beach and gathered Mingi in his arms.

“They took him,” the redhead was crying, groaning even louder as Yunho hoisted him up onto his back and made for the ship. “No... you can’t... they took him, they took Jongho!”

“I know,” Yunho gritted out, seething as he watched a rowboat reach the enemy ship and running the other way nonetheless. “But you’ve been shot in the head, Mingi.”

No answer came from him, and so Yunho pushed harder for the ATEEZ. He was seeing red, whether from the droplets of blood hitting the sand or from the anger that clouded his senses, he didn’t know.

Maddox and Seonghwa halted their progress where they were rowing back to the ship and helped pull the listless Mingi and a worn out Yunho into the longboat.

“Pull for the ATEEZ, as fast as you can,” Yunho ordered the quiet Maddox, watching anxiously as Seonghwa’s shaking hands inspected the bloody mess that was Mingi’s face.

From the curse under his breath, Yunho assumed it was pretty bad.

“It must have been a glancing shot,” Seonghwa explained, pushing back Mingi’s hair to give the others a better view. “The bullet’s not here. I think it hit the edge of his face and ricocheted bone fragments into his eye.”

Yunho swallowed back bile. “Do you think he’ll lose his vision?”

Seonghwa shook his head helplessly and passed Mingi up to the crew members as they hauled the boat up to the deck. “I don’t know. We need someone more knowledgeable to take a look at him.”

They needed San. And this time they hadn’t the slightest clue to his whereabouts.

“Hanbyeol!” Seonghwa called breathlessly to the crew member as he carried Mingi down to the abandoned infirmary. “I need help getting the bone shards out!”

What followed was a long and frightening process Yunho could only sit through, looking on as the two of them painstakingly plucked each bone fragment out of Mingi’s face and did their best to cover the wound before he lost more blood.

Only when their patient awoke would they know if he had retained his vision.

“I’ll find him an eyepatch,” Yunho volunteered, feeling restless and wanting to do something with himself.

Maddox snuck up on him while he rifled through spare fabric in the storerooms and gently tried to pry him away.

“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt but I need to ask for a heading.”

Of course, how could he have forgotten? Without Mingi taking care of it, Yunho supposed it was his responsibility.

“Tell the helmsman to follow the Haemin ship,” he ordered succinctly and continued looking for an acceptable fabric.

Maddox cleared his throat, and before Yunho could ask why he was still there, he went on with some unsolicited advice. “Respectfully, I must advise against.”

Yunho rounded on him angrily. “I don’t care what you think, respectfully, they captured Jongho so we’re hunting them down and taking him back.”

Maddox didn’t back down even a single step.

“Now isn’t the time for rash foolishness, it’s a prisoner of war ship, they’ll likely put him to work. He’s in no immediate danger.”

A breath for Yunho to work through what he was saying before he continued, “Mingi however, is. We need to make a strategic retreat.”

“Then how do you propose we find that ship again?” Seonghwa’s voice broke into their standoff, and both turned to see him standing in the doorway with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“It’s called the Paragon,” Maddox informed them both. “I got a good look at it while we rowed out. It’s turned west, likely for the colonies. When we’ve regrouped, we can look for it there. It’s your decision.”

Seonghwa shifted his gaze to Yunho with the question in his eyes, letting him speak for himself.

“Alright,” Yunho finally sighed. “Give the word, we turn east.” Maddox was on their side, he knew that. But the crushing defeat of gaining someone only to lose someone else weighed heavily on him.

Maddox slipped past Seonghwa to inform whoever was at the helm, and Yunho gave the prince another glance, wondering why he had ventured out of the infirmary.

“It’s Mingi,” he sighed, and Yunho pocketed the fabric he had selected. “He’s awake.”

...

The third time Admiral Kim heard Navigator Kang clear his throat and shuffle his feet nervously, he finally looked up at him to see why.

“May I suggest we return Lucky to his quarters?” He muttered, motioning at their approaching escort ship with a stiff jerk of the head. “My son is on the Indeok.”

Kim glowered momentarily but gave his permission, signalling Byun to take care of it.

The first lieutenant approached Park and Hongjoong where they were still in quiet but intense conversation at the starboard rail.

Before he could direct the prisoner to somewhere less conspicuous, Hongjoong rounded on him.

“Is Prince Seonghwa still aboard this ship?”

Lieutenant Byun cast a scolding glance at Lieutenant Park but addressed the prisoner coolly. “I need to get you below.”

“Is he aboard this ship?”

“He is not,” Byun muttered harshly, taking him by the arm and leading him to the upper gun deck. When they were out of the Admiral’s sights, he pulled Park aside to ask what the prisoner was going on about.

“I couldn’t hide it from him,” the lower lieutenant whined. “He knew the prince was aboard and now we’ve received word that Haemin is after him.”

“Keep it quiet,” Byun hissed before he headed back up to facilitate the Indeok as it joined them. “The last thing we need is the entire fleet thinking we’ve gone soft.”

Never mind the fact that it was true.

Park turned to where Hongjoong was staring at him and rolled his eyes. “You’re on the gun team for now I suppose. We’ve got to keep you away from prying eyes. Don’t try anything.”

Hongjoong immediately suspected the Admiral’s reasons but didn’t remark on it while Park finally removed his chains.

“The tailwind is too strong, you should adjust the sails,” he said dryly instead.

“You can’t even feel the wind,” Park scoffed. “We’re belowdecks.”

But a gust from behind a moment later proved the pirate’s point.

“I’ll go inform the Admiral,” the lieutenant sulked and turned to go.

And so began the wait.

Hongjoong wished the Crow could enter battle the same way the ATEEZ once had; with persistent singing and shrouded in mystery.

There was no real advantage that came with charging headlong into combat when they’d already been seen, except for maybe the exploitation of any underlying fear the Haemin soldiers were harbouring towards the deadliest ship in Jaecho’s navy.

He glanced around the deck and calculated their odds. He was placed on the port side of the upper gun deck with a few dozen silent gunners and their short range cannons, trembling almost imperceptibly except to one who could see right through them.

They looked at “Lucky” with wavering eyes.

“Don’t panic, our chances are good,” he encouraged them firmly. “We’re bigger and better armed, plus we’ve got an escort ship for support. We can take whatever they give us.”

The Black Crow drifted closer to the colony and their odds lowered a bit. Battle so close to the shore was never good, and unless the helmsman knew Kibo like the back of his hand it could become a major problem.

They stopped just close enough to begin firing and Hongjoong waited for Byun’s order to come.

It was deathly quiet, with only the ghostly howl of the wind and the deep creaking of a colossal ship weathering the waves.

Then the order came.

“Fire at will!”

The boom of haphazard cannon blasts shook the deck and the gun teams stumbled back briefly before moving into formation.

They had each step of the process practiced and perfected, they only needed someone to tell them where to fire and when. So that was what Hongjoong did.

In the pause of reloading, the nearest Haemin ship finally shot off a volley. It was grapeshot, and judging from the screams that came from the upper decks, it had found its mark.

Their second round tore a hole in the enemy’s gun deck but wasn’t enough to sink the ship.

“Hit them below the water line!” Hongjoong yelled so that everyone facing the port side could hear over the screams and splashes of bodies falling into the sea. His orders went unquestioned, all the gunners immediately pointing their cannon muzzles down so that their shots did real damage.

“Hold your fire!” He called, raising his hand and keeping it midair while he waited for them to drift just a little further, so the enemy’s broadsides were in their sights. A hit to their bow would only cause them to list for awhile, so to fire at the right time could give them a decisive victory.

“Fire!”

In perfect synchronisation, fifty guns ripped a devastating hole in the side of their opponent and all the men on the deck cheered.

Its port quarter was sinking, but the Black Crow’s helmsman had made a mistake. They’d gotten too close to the enemy and now the second Haemin ship was flanking them on their starboard, leaving only the Indeok to fend off the new arrival, the Paragon.

A chilling screech of splintered wood interrupted the cheering and everyone who wasn’t hanging onto a cannon stumbled back from the collision of the Crow with the ship to their starboard.

Hongjoong picked himself up just as Lieutenant Park came running down to meet him, blood trickling down his face, and informed him he was being reassigned.

They would have to board.

Hongjoong followed the lieutenant topside and most of the gunners followed behind him. They trusted him now, whatever doubts they may have had before.

But instead of doing as he was told and crossing directly to the Haemin ship, where fighting had already broken out, he marched up to the Admiral and demanded a weapon.

“Will you give me nothing to arm myself?”

Kim laughed at him outright but motioned the surgeon to hand the prisoner something.

A single, meagre blade.

Hongjoong knew in that moment exactly what the Admiral desired.

He wanted him to go and die, and take as many Haemin soldiers with him as he could.

If he survived it was on to the next battle, and then the next and the next after that until the world was the Admiral’s and Hongjoong was no longer useful, nothing more than a threat.

Seeing as he couldn’t strike Kim then and there, Hongjoong snatched the flimsy thing and turned to join the battle.

“Nothing too flashy, understand?” Admiral Kim called after him, a hint of teasing in his voice.

They couldn’t risk a realisation that the Pirate King was among them.

Time seemed suspended while he swung across on the rigging and prepared for the plunge.

Hongjoong was not afraid of death. No, he had survived insurmountable odds before and trusted his own skill. If it was him and an enemy in a battlefield somewhere he could be sure of the outcome, but the Admiral’s plans were a different matter.

Barely armed and with bare feet and tattered clothes, he shook off his worries and got to work.

The Paragon and the Indeok were firing back and forth a little ways away and the sinking Haemin ship would be of no help, so it was just the Crow and the enemies they mowed down right and left.

Haemin’s soldiers were nowhere near as trained as Jaecho’s, that was for sure.

Blood spurted and shrapnel flew through the air, but Hongjoong was numb to it, dissociating from himself almost completely and letting his body remember how to fight. All of the lieutenants had joined, unwilling to simply leave the outcome up to the midshipmen and average sailors, and it felt nice to have someone he knew watching his back.

Hongjoong had been on his feet too long already, exhausted and with nothing left to give. The sword was difficult, instead of the nice clean cut he was used to, he had to hack his way through opponents. It was dirtier, bloodier, and even more degrading.

Anyone who came within an arm’s length of him was dispatched quickly after.

“Grenade!”

The sudden yell from Midshipman Moon’s direction came seconds before a hand grenade hit the deck. Instinctively, Hongjoong grabbed it and tossed it into the sea before it could explode, wincing at the blistering burns it left on his hands.

A flash of light signalled more shells raining down on them from the rigging, and the soldiers did their best to kick them away but now they were fighting on two fronts, and the cast iron grenades blew apart into tiny metal shards before they could stop them.

An enemy managed to slice Hongjoong across the face while he was distracted, but retribution was swift and he could only take a single step back before being stabbed.

Hongjoong shut his ears to the crunching of bone as he shoved his blade in between the man’s ribs.

He needed to get aloft to take out those grenadiers.

Struggling with his newly singed hands, Hongjoong scaled the rigging and dodged the musket shots that went whizzing past his face.

“What I wouldn’t give to have a gun right now...” he muttered.

Alerted to his presence, the grenadiers moved even higher, and Hongjoong had to pause to regain his breath before reaching them.

As he looked around, he realised the wind had blown in a snow cloud. Flurries and gunpowder alike drifted through the air and the warning groan that echoed through the ship told him it wasn’t built to handle the cold.

Shivering, he pressed on until he reached the cowards.

They had cornered themselves on the end of the mainmast while they reloaded their guns, and Hongjoong was on them before they even had a chance to fire.

He didn’t revel in ending their lives, but he finished the job and then smeared the blood across his face accidentally when he went to wipe away the powder.

It stung, but not as badly as the cold.

Below, the Haemin forces were surrendering, but Hongjoong didn’t want to go back down, as freezing as it was in the sails.

A snowflake gently floated into his raw, bloody hand and soothed him as it melted.

For a moment he wasn’t anyone, just a barefoot, white-haired mystery painted scarlet and sitting high in the ropes while ships were sinking around him.

...

San had no time to grieve. The tears were still wet on his face when the officers ordered them to the gun decks.

Thoughts of the last time he had seen Hongjoong— in the middle of the night at the inn while bullets burst through the window— cycled in his head while he rushed gunpowder back and forth.

It didn’t matter how loud the gunfire was, his heart was only silence and emptiness. If only he hadn’t left them, if only he had disobeyed Hongjoong’s orders.

Maybe they would all have survived.

A hand was placed on his to steady his load when he was pulled too far into his distracting thoughts.

“Jongho...?” San gasped, looking over at the translator and protesting, “No, he can’t fight, he’s still injured—”

“We can’t spare any hands,” the translator insisted, nudging Jongho over to the cannons. “He can stay with you.”

San had no fire left in him to argue. The news Jongho delivered had sucked it all out of him.

And just in time for a battle, from the looks of it.

If San had to be present, he wished he could go back to performing emergency surgeries, but he supposed his incident on deck earlier had banned him from that.

Jongho hadn’t spoken a word since explaining what had happened in San’s absence, and he remained quiet while he helped load the cannons and peered through the gunport.

He didn’t understand what the officers were yelling, but he could see the ships ahead of them and he recognised at least one.

“San, that’s the Black Crow.”

San’s head shot up and he crowded next to Jongho to see for himself.

Again, Jongho placed a steadying hand on his companion’s arm, just in case he dove off the ship and swam over just to make the Admiral pay.

Jongho had half a mind to do so himself.

“There’s no way we’ll survive this,” San whispered instead. And he was right, three small Haemin ships against the Black Crow, especially with an escort ship alongside her, stood no chance. Already one of the Haemin ships was sinking, and the other was being boarded from the looks of things.

The Paragon moved to cut off the smaller escort ship— the name Indeok was written on her— and abandoned their allies, dooming them to deal with the Crow.

The Indeok was ready, and before San and Jongho could get a shot off, cannon fire blasted through the deck.

It was such a powerful blow, the cannons around them reeled back in their gunports with the listing of the ship, and all the war prisoners had to avoid debris.

To protect Jongho from worsening his wounds, San pulled him into his arms and sheltered underneath the cannon until an officer dragged them back out and screamed something while holding out a bucket.

“He wants us to bail,” San explained, and he took the bucket reluctantly, shuffling forward to scoop out the water that was already bursting in.

The officer grabbed Jongho by the collar when he tried to follow and pointed at the cannons. He was to continue firing.

Angry at being separated, Jongho shoved the man off and quickly loaded the cannon completely by himself, lighting the fuse and firing it at the Indeok. The sooner he finished the job, the sooner he could reunite with San.

To his surprise, it was a palpable hit. Invigorated, he loaded again and fired just as quickly, paying more attention where he aimed it this time.

A second hit, this one better than the first by the image of the hole being ripped in the side of the navy ship.

Jongho began rallying the gunners. He may not care for Haemin’s hit and run tactics but he had no love for the navy, and he’d bring that ship down if it was in his way.

As the final, most devastating shot ripped the gun deck in half and just as a smile returned to Jongho’s face, he spotted a familiar head of lavender hair.

Wooyoung was picking himself up from the wreckage, stumbling to his feet and trying to climb to safety before the deck was submerged.

Someone was yelling on the Indeok’s quarterdeck, rushing down to help the gunners even as bullets rained down and Jongho was shattered to see that it was Yeosang.

There was only one reason they’d be on a navy ship, escorting the Black Crow of all vessels.

They were prisoners too.

Jongho covered his mouth to prevent himself from emptying his stomach. Guilt swirled around inside him, that he could have killed them if they had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But at least there was someone on this watery battlefield who didn’t hate him and San.

The Haemin sailors were cheering Jongho on, and robustly loaded and aimed their cannons again. A shot hit the mainmast and Jongho watched it fall, horrified. The next hit the quarterdeck and exploded just below the helm, decimating the entire level.

No one who stood there could have survived that.

Not the captain, not the lieutenants, not his friends.

“Stop! Stop it, please!” He screamed, trying to pull away their gunpowder bags while they celebrated and patted him on the back.

They thought he was encouraging them, and they loaded another cannon.

The Indeok sank before his very eyes.

...

There wasn’t much Yeosang could do to help except to pick off the occasional main deck gunner on the Paragon.

The Crow seemed to be doing fine against the other two Haemin ships, already one was nearly sunk and the sounds of fighting sounded from the second.

Yeosang’s cheeks flamed as he looked over and met eyes with his father.

The man had seen his son’s successful shots and was looking at him with such a genuine smile, his eyes so proud and pure it was sickening.

Yeosang turned away and focused on covering Lieutenant Yoo’s back.

He was lulled into optimism, sure they would take an unquestioned victory, just when several massive explosions rang out in succession.

The gun decks were ripped through with cannon fire, and Yeosang didn’t care if the Admiral himself punished him, he could not stay on the quarterdeck while Wooyoung was in danger.

There was a cloud of powder released by the shot, and the young navigator stumbled through it and down the steep incline where the shells had broken through the deck.

Body parts and weapons were strewn along the collapsing surface but Yeosang averted his eyes.

With their last breaths, some of the wounded screamed for his help but he was only looking for one gunner. He didn’t have time to stop to save anyone else.

He must have yelled his name because Wooyoung stood up and extended a hand through snow and powder, so Yeosang reached for it.

With their fingers inches apart, another blast shook the Indeok and suddenly a mast was falling between them. Yeosang halted just before being crushed and still the momentum knocked him to the ground.

Disoriented and with his ears ringing at the proximity of the explosion, he tried to get up and find Wooyoung, hoping against hope that he wasn’t trapped down in the sinking lower decks.

Before he could even stand, the loudest boom yet came in a brilliant firework display from behind and completely destroyed the quarterdeck.

Yeosang watched the captain himself sail over the railing, wounded almost beyond recognition and scanned the deck anxiously for Lieutenant Yoo... or the remains of him. Whichever he found first.

Someone was groaning intelligibility, a lieutenant with his leg stuck in between the wooden boards of the stairs that led to the quarterdeck. He was hurt but alive, and as Yeosang approached him, he recognised the man.

It was Woosung, Wooyoung’s brother and although he was weeping painfully, he looked like he would recover.

Yeosang helped him get his leg out of the splinters and supported his weight as they moved to see what was left of the officers.

No one had survived.

Even First Lieutenant Yoo Dojoon lay choking on his own blood with shrapnel embedded in his midsection. He raised a hand and when Yeosang took it, it was frozen with the mingled chill of winter and death.

“T-Take them down,” he grunted, not a tear on his face. He was resolute even in his last moments.

Woosung looked to see why their enemy had stopped firing. “The Paragon is retreating,” he told them, voice brittle and confused. “But the Indeok will not survive.”

Yoo closed his eyes in disappointment for a moment. When he opened them, it was like he could see past Yeosang and Woosung, past their entire plane of existence.

“We did our duty.”

The light faded from his eyes and Yeosang closed them with a shaking hand.

It was still for a moment, only the dying cries of men and the wind-blown snow swirling around them as the Indeok gave its final farewell moan and started to disappear below the waves, bow first.

“Where is my brother?” Woosung’s voice trembled and he tried to get to his feet but fell back on the uneven ground. Yeosang could see the white of bone protruding from his leg and grimaced.

“He... he was...” Then letting go of the lieutenant, he stumbled forward to peer into the abyss. “Wooyoung!”

There was no answer.

“Make for Kibo!” He turned and yelled back to Woosung, rushing to lower a longboat and helping him into it. “I’ll find Wooyoung.”

So he peered in every crevice and checked every face, knowing the water was cold and the longer he spent looking, the faster Wooyoung’s minutes ticked away.

Soon there wasn’t much of the Indeok left for him to search and his heart had nearly been crushed with the pressure, but suddenly something in the water caught his eye.

A portion of the mainmast, with a familiar head of hair propped up on it. Wooyoung was there, fighting his wounds and floating towards land.

“Wait!” Yeosang yelled, and he ran to what was left of the rail, scaling it and diving in a perfect arc into the uneasy waves.

“Wooyoung!” He gasped between strokes until his hands made contact with the wooden plank. “It’s me!”

Bleary eyes opened and latched on to him. “Yeosang, I was worried,” he shivered and scooted off to the side, leaving space for Yeosang to share. “Is Woosung—?”

“He’ll be alright, he’s on his way to land,” Yeosang explained through coughs, motioning in the direction of Kibo. It wasn’t far, they could make it if he started propelling them in the right direction.

Wooyoung allowed his head to lower and took in a wheezing inhale. He was injured somewhere and Yeosang didn’t have time to figure it out yet. “I’ll get you to safety,” he promised.

And he promised too soon, because moments later, the Black Crow blocked their path.

...

“You’re doing so well, Mingi, just hang in there,” Seonghwa soothed his protesting patient, wiping away as much blood as he could from his wounded eye.

“M-My head,” he whined in a breaking voice. “It hurts... please, it h-hurts...”

Seonghwa bit his lip and tried to ignore his cries until the eyepatch was secured and he could blow out the candle, casting the room in darkness.

“Is that better?”

“Mhm,” Mingi hummed tiredly, before taking in a hitched breath and letting his other eye drift shut. “Better.”

Seonghwa sat back to give him space, but wouldn’t let go of his hand.

Had the bullet been just centimetres to the right, Mingi would already be gone. Even with him lying there now, sloppily bandaged up and practically drunk on pain relief tonic, Seonghwa had no contingency plan.

They needed to get him to a real doctor.

Seonghwa glanced over to where Yunho sat, long legs pulled up into the chair making him look smaller and more vulnerable.

He rested his cheek on his knees to dab away tears and stared at Mingi like looking away would kill him.

Seonghwa hated how familiar this was. Waiting around uselessly in the infirmary, waiting to see if death would take someone they loved.

Hesitantly releasing Mingi’s hand and pressing the blanket into it, he crossed to Yunho and wiped away a tear with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Sorry,” Yunho sniffled, turning away, but Seonghwa caught his face before he could and cradled it until he met his eyes.

“It’s alright. We’re only human.”

Yunho’s eyes watered more and he dropped his head in surrender, letting Seonghwa hold him for awhile.

“Maddox recommends we retreat for awhile and go after Jongho later. I’m still not happy about it,” Yunho admitted when Seonghwa pulled away to let him talk. Seonghwa knew this, but if Yunho wanted to say something about it again, that was fine. Clearly it was weighing on his mind.

“Let him take care of things for awhile,” Seonghwa sighed, reaching over to grab an extra blanket and then throwing it over the pair of them. “I think we deserve a little break.”

It was indeed a break, but it didn’t turn out to be very restful.

Mingi adjusted well to the eyepatch and his headaches wore off gradually, but the officers spent the week it took them to reach Freeport worrying about his vision. They had done their best to clean the wound daily but still Mingi couldn’t see out of his left eye.

Seonghwa remembered this port from the last time they’d been. They were a group of eight then, spending their well earned salaries in the pub and restocking in the market. Of course, the contemptible mutineer Seunghyun had joined them then as well, but Seonghwa didn’t see any more of his type loitering around.

He did notice some significant changes however, in the general liveliness of the townspeople and the shiny new artillery in the garrisons. Seonghwa didn’t even remember there being garrisons last time.

“Who do the batteries belong to?” He asked Maddox as they sailed past.

“You,” Maddox shrugged before taking a sip of his tea and continuing. “Me. Anyone on this ship. Anyone who wants to keep the free islands free.”

“That sounds like... an alliance,” Seonghwa scoffed in disbelief. “An alliance between pirates?”

“I take it you haven’t been to Geobugi in awhile. It’s not unheard of, especially in wartime,” the older pirate went on to explain as the island faded from view and they reclaimed their seats at the breakfast table on the quarterdeck. “Do you know the history of these lands?”

Mingi accidentally smacked himself in the face with his spoon before adjusting his trajectory and getting it into his mouth. Half-vision had its challenges. “No, not really,” he admitted.

“Well, pirates were once unified, a long time ago. It was pirates who first discovered the East, at least to our knowledge,” Maddox began. “There are ancient ruins on some of the islands, but we’ve never found any inhabitants, assuming they either died out or moved on. Places like Freeport and Geobugi became pirate refuges, especially after the defeat of Captain Seongho of the Hammerhead, when his secret caves on Dalhae were discovered. Eden repurposed those tunnels and dug even deeper, but only as a last resort. We wanted to be free. The Navy’s quest to eliminate us only intensified from then on, and they claimed the island they later imprisoned me on, founded the colonies, and even attacked Geobugi. We drove them away but I was injured in the battle and wished to return to the mainland to be reunited with my family. That was the last time I’ve been there.”

His eyes became cloudy and distant and he poked at his food while he went on.

“That year was the same that Eden met Hongjoong. And so, of course, I’m sure you know what followed. You’ll find that since your treasure hunt, you’ve been included in the pirate legacy.”

The three officers sat in silence.

“This has all been going on since we left?” Yunho finally asked, pushing back his plate. He wasn’t sure how to feel about this supposed truce.

Maddox nodded. “And you’ll be quite surprised to discover that not only is the ATEEZ well known there, but each of you in particular.”

Mingi blushed and glanced around. “Well, I can’t say it wouldn’t be nice to be appreciated but... can we really trust them to help us? Will they honestly want to save Jongho if it means attacking Haemin?”

“If you have a chance anywhere, it’s here,” Maddox insisted. “Now, get some rest. I’ll call you when we arrive.”

So the vessel moved against the movement of the sun, until a familiar harbour was on the horizon.

Maddox took them through the Bem canal which led directly into the heart of the island, and then summoned the officers so they could see for themselves.

Large wooden platforms had been built all along the waterway, with bright lanterns tinted in amber and cyan decorating them and lines strewn back and forth to deliver messages. Flags that indicated residents’ crew affiliations hung near the door posts, and the streams that branched away eventually became roads. There was space at the mouth for ships to be anchored, and the ATEEZ became the next of many while the four of them disembarked.

Crossing a network of bridges clearly made from spare planks and netting to reach what appeared to be the central building, Seonghwa couldn’t help but laugh at all the people flinging open their windows and waving at them, some even cheering.

It was like they were heroes.

“This way,” Maddox’s voice grounded them in reality and they followed into the main building, hands on their swords just in case.

Seonghwa couldn’t help but notice that it almost seemed to be an imitation of the palace, from the material of the tiles to the shape of the trees. There was a vague resemblance that struck him as ironic, and when he entered, he half expected to see a throne.

Someone was there, sitting at a table. Someone very familiar, but whose face he couldn’t quite put his finger on...

Yunho dropped everything and ran towards him.

“Gunho!”

...

Taglist: @serendipityunho @celestial-yunho @atzjjongbby @89staytinyzen21

A/N: So yeah this one was a lot more intense than usual, and I'm sure you've got a lot to say soooo go ahead and say it, leave me a comment :,) Tbh I'm not 100% confident with this chapter but I don't hate it and it was due for an update so I tried lol. If you have any questions about the more technical aspects or are struggling to picture what's going on, let me know and I'll try to clear it up for you! ttfn, hope you enjoyed~

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undermounts · 4 years

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Empire of Light—Chapter 4: The Ties That Bind

AO3 | Table of Contents | Ashes and Embers | Playlist

Fic Summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of Ash, the party travels across Morella in search of allies to defeat the Empire of Ash, once and for all.

Chapter Summary: Back in Flotilla, Imtura makes a risky move to secure her mother’s fleet.

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

Imtura had expected a lot of things to happen when the Wraith docked at Flotilla last night. She had expected the Flotillan guards to swamp her ship—which they did—and fuss over her, flinging royal titles left and right as they knelt at her feet like a pack of obedient dogs—which they also did.

She did not, however, expect to find that her mother was gone.

“What do you mean, ‘she’s not here?’” Imtura snarled, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Behind her, Kraglin and the rest of the crew set about unloading the Wraith’s cargo hold of old supplies and preparing the ship for a few days at port. No one knew how long they would be docked at Flotilla; Imtura supposed it depended on how stubborn her mother decided to be.

The guards before her stiffened, taken aback by the viciousness of her tone. “Her Majesty is away on business—”

Imtura’s brows lowered. “What kind of business?”

“It is not for us to say, Your High—”

“Then what good are you?” she snapped before the man could eke out that wretched title. She glanced at Kraglin, who stood behind her, then Morrigan, who stood beside him, gazing at the floating city with unmasked wonder. Imtura sighed, biting at her lip ring. “When will she be back?”

“We don’t know for certain. It could be as late as tomorrow evening,” one of the guards replied cautiously.

“Tomo—” Imtura cut herself off, reining in her anger. She closed her eyes shut and took a deep, steadying breath, reminding herself that these men were not responsible for her mother’s activities. No one was, aside from Ventra herself. When Imtura opened her eyes again, her temper had cooled somewhat, although her irritation remained. She shook her head, unable to stop her gaze from wandering to the eastern horizon. “I can’t wait that long.”

But left with no other options, she had waited.

After a restless sleep on the Wraith, Imtura dedicated the next morning to giving Morrigan a thorough tour of the sprawling maze of floating walkways and retired vessels of Flotilla, tossing out the names of her favorite ships as she went. The Black Spire, the Copper Thief, the Bloodkraken, the Maiden of the Sea�� Imtura did not even realize she knew the names of all of these places until the words were spilling out of her mouth, her voice taking on a tinge of excitement every time she urged Morrigan to take notice of something she loved so dearly.

There was her favorite tavern, the Sailor’s Lament, which had ale that tasted like stale seawater, but she’d be damned if it wasn’t one of the cheapest and strongest drinks in Flotilla. They passed the supply mill that always gave her a few extra bags of salt for meat, not because she was Princess Imtura, but Captain Tal Kaelen, and here in the reaches of Flotilla that knew Imtura better than Ventra—out there on the roiling waves of the Cartesian Sea—she was respected as such.

Morrigan had gone red with laughter as Imtura pointed out an old, repurposed ship that was charmingly named Taldaro’s Tit, after the legendary orc Vinestra of Clan Taldaro, who was not only known for inventing the modern warship and her incredible prowess in battle, but also her equally incredible prowess in the bedroom. Taldaro’s Tit—yes, tit singular, not plural, and if anyone bothered to ask, the Flotillans swore up and down that it was specifically, “the right tit not the left”—was the best place to go dancing after downing a few drinks in the taverns.

“You must love this place,” Morrigan noted, as she reverently ran her fingertips along the hull of a bobbing ship as they passed, the feathers of her wings whispering in the briny breeze that swept through the city. “Flotilla, I mean.”

Imtura lifted a brow, glancing over her shoulder at Morrigan as she swaggered down the wooden walkways. It was a bit of a strange feeling, to finally have to look up at someone else as she spoke. Morrigan wasn’t built like Imtura, but she did have a good couple of inches on the orc captain, and Imtura knew that her strength wasn’t something to scoff at.

“You think so, birdie?” she questioned.

Morrigan nodded, gazing around. “The way you talk about Flotilla… It’s the same way my brother talks about the Aerie. With such fondness and familiarity.”

Imtura shrugged, shoving her hands into her pockets as she ambled along. “I’m fond of it, yeah. And I know the city like the back of my hand. It’s familiar.”

“Well,” Morrigan said casually, glancing over at Imtura. “Maybe knowing something and loving something aren’t all that different.”

Imtura thought that over for a few moments, then bobbed her head. “Maybe you’ve got a point. I know all about the less than amazing parts of the city, and sometimes… Well, sometimes coming back here bums me out,” she confessed. “Feels a bit like swapping out the sea for some shackles.” She shook her head and shrugged. “But no matter what happens, it’ll always be home.”

Imtura mulled this conversation over as she sat at a rickety, ale-stained table in a cozy corner of the Sailor’s Lament, an untouched stein resting by her elbow. After wrapping up her tour with Morrigan, Imtura spent the next few hours whipping the Wraith into tip top shape. She swabbed the deck, replaced frayed sections of the rigging, and chipped barnacles off the hull—it was menial work, housekeeping chores that Imtura had not done since she herself was a swabbie.

That must have been… almost a decade ago, at least. Imtura could not wrap her head around the fact that it had been nearly ten years since that fateful evening, when she had ran away from Flotilla and stowed herself away on the infamous Sea King. But that was another story.

Repairing the Wraith was not stimulating work, but it was distracting, and Imtura was more than happy to take on the tasks, if only so she could have something to do while she waited for her dreaded mother to finally grace her with an appearance.

But the crew—namely Kraglin, with his damned big heart—put their foot down when Imtura started polishing the Wraith’s hull.

“What kind of pirate lets their captain do all of the work?” Kraglin had exclaimed jovially before stooping to grab Imtura’s legs while his twin brother, Marglin, grabbed her shoulders and began to haul her, kicking and spewing obscenities, off the ship. “You’ve got to have some fun, boss.”

They dragged her, and consequently, Morrigan, into the Flotillan nightlife, down the bobbing, uneven avenues, all the way to the Sailor’s Lament, where her quartermaster and boatswain ordered a round of ale for the entire crew, including that yellow-bellied, doe-eyed, Parnassus cabin boy.

“This is coming out of your coin, not mine,” Imtura snarled as they set her down at a booth in the far corner of the tavern and gave her a tankard, much to their merry amusement.

“Sure thing, boss,” Marglin promised placatingly, ordering a platter of roasted octopus, fried fish heads, and seaweed skewers for the table. “Sure thing.”

With a mixture of warmth and amusement, Imtura watched her crewmates guzzle down their rounds from her spot in the secluded booth, ale sloshing over the edges of their tankards, and Morrigan sandwiched in between them. She was glad to see that her crew had quickly taken the winged woman in, treating her like one of their own, and Morrigan, to her credit, had no problem in keeping up with their revelry.

By the Moon, Morrigan matched Iskra—the Wraith’s navigator—pint for pint without losing her wits, and that woman could drink most orcs under the table. Morrigan also didn’t even bat an eye at the strange array of food. Imtura reckoned that in Rysoth, she’d probably seen stranger.

Imtura wished she could join them, that she could laugh, and dance, and get so irrefutably drunk, she couldn't even remember her own damn name. But for the first time in her swashbuckling life, she did not drink.

She simply couldn’t. There was too much resting on this meeting with Ventra, and even though being a little drunk may have been the only hope she had of getting through said meeting with her sanity intact, it would do no good to anyone for her to show up boozed off her feet. Her mother was already disappointed in her enough.

Imtura watched Morrigan, the members of her crew, and the other Flotillans with a warm sort of contentment that wriggled its way into her anxious heart. She supposed that even if this whole meeting with Ventra went to complete and utter shit, there was one good thing that came out of her return to Flotilla: she got to bring her crew home once more, got to give them this small slice of normalcy before the world went arse up again.

Imtura reached into her pocket and pulled out a single gold doubloon. It was an old piece, dated from before the current Morellian currency was established, and was the first bit of gold Imtura had ever earned as a pirate, a gift from one great captain to another. Only Imtura hadn’t been a captain then. Just a runaway princess, trying to find where she belonged.

Imtura flipped the coin on her thumb and caught it, weighing it thoughtfully in her palm. On one side, it featured a familiar curving symbol. At the bottom, there was a curled arch that looked like a wave poised to crash. Above that was a seashell-like spiral, with two great horns sprouting from the sides. The symbol of her people. The other side featured a crude depiction of land and sea meeting beneath a sky full of stars.

Both faces were worn, both from age and years of Imtura rubbing her thumb against its surface whenever she felt the weight of leadership to be particularly heavy upon her shoulders. She set it on the old, wooden table and spun it on its edge, the lantern lights of the tavern flickering on its golden face.

If I ever find it… I’ll let you know.

The coin spun and spun, then wobbled and wavered.

Then, you can bring our people home.

It was a foolish plan, a dreamer’s hope. Imtura knew that place was long gone, lost to fire, to the sea, and to time itself. To go looking for it… That was like chasing a child’s fairytale.

But…

She had seen many impossible things, even before getting involved with this Shadow Realm business. She had seen so many wonders… What was one more?

Imtura caught the doubloon as it fell, swiping her thumb over the surface that featured the landscape. Then, she pocketed it and stood.

After leaving a quick word with Kraglin, Imtura ducked out of the Sailor’s Lament and made her way across the bobbing walkways of Flotilla, acknowledging the passing nods of respect she got as Captain and ignoring the deferential inclinations she received as Princess.

Officially, Flotilla had no temples or shrines dedicated to elements of nature the orcs worshipped: the Skies, the Winds, the Ocean, the Earth, the Sun, the Stars, and the Moon. Unlike the Faith of the Light and the Shared Pantheon, religion among the orcs was decentralized, piety left to the individual. But there were places in the floating city in which Imtura’s people liked to leave their offerings.

The Sea Nymph was one such place.

Imtura crossed the gangway onto an old, barnacle-covered ship, reaching out to affectionately pat its hull as she boarded. On the bow of the ancient vessel, the name was painted in flowing script, the white paint faded with age.

Barely an adolescent, Imtura had not been around when Ventra officially won over all of the orc fleets and established Flotilla as her capital. Instead, she had been hidden away on a ship with a few trusted orcs of the Minurva Clan, far away from all of the danger and political turmoil as her mother upended centuries of tradition.

But Imtura heard that at the time, when Flotilla was little more than a small cluster of old ships and floating shacks, the Sea Nymph had already been stationed here, with a small collection of oddities already hidden inside. There were even rumors that the Sea Nymph was the first ship in Flotilla, the starting point around which the rest of the floating city had been constructed.

Imtura did not know if those rumors were true, but the Sea Nymph was certainly weathered enough to fit the tale, and in the last decade, no one had ever claimed ownership of the vessel. As such, its wellbeing was left in the collective hands of the Flotillans, which was probably why it had fallen into a state of such disrepair.

As she crossed the deck of the orphaned vessel and descended the stairs that led into its belly, Imtura found herself wishing she could have seen the Sea Nymph in its heyday. Even with all of its rotted wood and the massive holes that gaped in the floors, there were still vestiges of its past glory—faded gold filigree on the bannister, waterlogged wool rugs, chipped carvings of mermaids laid into the creaking walls…

Once, it must have been beautiful.

But now, Imtura supposed the ship had a different kind of beauty, and if she was being honest, she preferred it. Deep in the vessel’s cargo hold, Imtura was surrounded by the multitude of offerings orcs from all across the Cartesian Sea had left here for the elements.

Windchimes and sparkling bits of glass hung from the ceiling, tinkling softly with the swaying motion of the ship and the lazy breeze that streamed through the cracks in the hull—offerings to the Skies and the Winds.

An old fur rug sat in the back corner, right in the path of the moonlight that streamed into the room through a hole in the side of the ship. On top of the rug sat precious gemstones and silver dimes, offerings laid out for the Moon and the Stars.

Imtura crossed to the ship’s stern and clambered up a ladder made of rope, hauling herself into what had once been the quarters of the Sea Nymph’s captain. The bedroom was in no better shape than the rest of the ship—the main entrance was obstructed by fallen beams and splintered wood, the velvet canopy of the bed was peppered with holes and coated in dust. But it still held an air of sanctity and whispers of grandeur.

The doors to the balcony had been left open by the last visitor, the tattered curtains flowing like strands of spider silk. Imtura crossed onto the balcony, which served as yet another shrine. Shells, broken bits of coral, and even small pieces of ships—the knob of a wheel, a shredded flag—were balanced atop the railing or laid on the ground. But the majority of the offerings made to the Ocean were dropped over the side of the balustrade, right into the sea itself.

Imtura reached into her pockets, fingers scrounging around for anything she could offer up to the elements. All she had was a bit of lint, a few ribbons to tie her off her braids, and that golden doubloon. For a moment, Imtura contemplated flipping the coin over the side of the ship, but sentimentality—and perhaps a bit of child-like hope—had her pocketing the gold piece once more. Instead, Imtura took her ribbons and tied them around the wooden posts that upheld the railing.

She watched them flutter in the wind for a moment, taking that as a sign nature had accepted her meager offering, and was about to turn when a voice behind her spoke up.

“The tavern wasn’t fun enough, for you?”

Imtura half-turned, bracing her hand against the wooden banister. A single sand dollar was nudged out of the way by her fingers and fell into the gentle waves with a plunk!

“Morrigan.” Imtura relaxed slightly, dropping the hand that had instinctively moved to hover over one of her axes. “Like sneaking up on me, do you?”

Morrigan shook her head. “I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you. You were just…” she shrugged, her gaze roaming over Imtura’s head. “Deep into your own thoughts, I suppose. What is this place?” she asked, looking around the captain’s cabin with an unreadable expression. “It’s…”

Imtura half-expected her to say “old” or “a wreck” or perhaps “a rotting shithole” and frankly, she would have been right to do so.

But instead, Morrigan said, “Incredible.”

Imtura let out a little breath, lips easing into a casual smile. “Isn’t it? This is where we orcs sometimes come to give up offerings to the elements. There’s no other place in Flotilla like it.”

“Give up offerings?” Morrigan asked, joining Imtura on the balcony. She tucked her wings in tight behind her, taking care to avoid knocking over any of the items strewn about. “Is that what you were doing just now? Making an offering?”

“Yeah,” Imtura shrugged, glancing down at the ribbons that danced in the breeze. “S’pose so.”

“I didn’t take you for the religious type,” Morrigan noted although there was no judgment or accusation in her voice.

“I’m not, really,” Imtura admitted, tapping her fingers against the railing. “At least not in the way that the humans, elves, and your folk are. I didn’t even believe in the gods until recently.” She turned away, fixing her attention on the slivers of the dark horizon that were visible in between other ships and bobbing structures. “We orcs don’t have temples or priests or anything like that. These offerings… they’re just meant to give back to what made us. The elements. And maybe get a little good luck along the way.”

“Good luck?” Morrigan asked, lifting a coppery brow. In the moonlight, the freckles that splashed across her cheeks looked like little stars. She smiled slightly, nudging Imtura’s elbow with her own. “What does a fearsome orc captain like you need luck for?”

Imtura huffed through her nose. “Meet my mother and then you’ll understand.”

Morrigan raised her eyebrows at Imtura for a moment, then nodded. “Ah. So, it’s like that,” she mused aloud. “You think you’ll have difficulty convincing your mother to send the fleet to Morella’s aid.”

“Without question,” Imtura replied. “She harbors no love for human kings. And as far as she’s concerned, the elves can go right on ahead and isolate themselves into extinction.”

“Harsh,” Morrigan muttered and Imtura shrugged.

“Sometimes, I can’t blame her,” she confessed, nudging aside a few offerings to brace her forearms on the railing. “I don’t agree with her, but… There was a time when my people were thought of as the scum of Morella. By some people, we still are. That’s why you’ll never find an orc east of Port Parnassus. Not just because we can’t live without the sea, but because no town would ever have us.”

Imtura laughed, the sound more harsh and bitter than she had intended it to be. “‘We lay no roots,’” she stated, shaking her head. “That’s our motto. It’s what my people have lived by ever since we lost Kell D’hana. My ancestors promised to never settle, to always seek adventure, and to chase the thrill of conquest. But look at Flotilla. A bunch of stationary ships and floating buildings.”

“By your principles, Flotilla should not exist,” Morrigan said slowly, picking up on Imtura’s line of thought.

“Exactly.” Imtura nodded, sighing heavily. “If you ask me, the reason we’re so proud to be a seafaring race is because it goes against the one thing we want but can’t have.”

“And what’s that?”

“A home,” Imtura stated somberly. “Not just Flotilla, but a real home. A place to belong. One that won’t go up in flames if a single lantern drops.”

She’d never spoken about this before, to anyone. In fact, she rarely ever gave these thoughts any time, for just thinking them felt almost treasonous. Even when she reminisced with the party, she usually only told them about how much she missed sailing and her crew. They’d always understood. But maybe that was why it was easier to talk to Morrigan. Because Morrigan didn’t understand. She didn’t know the orcs like Morellians did, didn’t know what they were and weren’t supposed to be.

“It’s all material, though,” Imtura added, feeling a bit of warmth rush to her cheeks at her confession, the uncomfortable sense of vulnerability she now felt. “I know that as long as I’ve got my crew and my freedom, I’ll be alright. ‘Home is where the heart is’ and all that.”

“Are you trying to make me believe that or are you trying to convince yourself?”

Imtura let out a startled huff, surprised—and a little impressed—by Morrigan’s bluntness. “You’re nosy aren’t you?”

Morrigan shrugged, shaking her head. “You sound like you have some stuff you’ve got to work through. I’m just trying to help you figure out what that is.”

Imtura eyed the other woman cautiously. Morrigan was fun. Fun to flirt with, fun to banter with, and Imtura was certain that there was a great deal of other kinds of fun they could get up to together. But now, Imtura began to wonder if whatever flirtation they had between them could ever be more than just fun.

She could stand to find out.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she confessed softly, tugging at the ends of her hair. “But I feel like there’s a part of me missing. Like I’m searching for a place I’ve never been, a place that I’ve never seen. But deep down, I know it and it knows me. Even though we have never met.”

“A home,” Morrigan said, her voice equally soft.

Imtura nodded, trying not to shy away from Morrigan’s green gaze. “Yeah.”

“Do you think a place like that exists out there?” Morrigan asked.

“I don’t know that, either,” Imtura admitted. She supposed that for an adventurer, there was a lot about the world she did not know. “Maybe. I once…” She shook her head, turning her gaze to stare into the depths of the sea below them, the dark waves reflecting the silver moonlight. “I once knew a woman who planned to find out. I’ll never know if she did.”

“Well, just so you know…” Morrigan said after a few moments had passed in silence. “Whether a place like that exists or not, if you ever decide to quit swashbuckling and settle down, the Aerie would gladly have you.”

Imtura smiled at that, leaning her weight on one elbow as she looked over at Morrigan. “Well, just so you know… You’ll always have a place at my hearth. And on my ship.” Then she winked and added, “In case you ever find a storm you can’t handle.”

Morrigan grinned, shifting a little closer. “I’ve been told that the captain’s quarters are the warmest place on the Wraith. Is that true?”

“I’d say so,” Imtura replied, pushing away from the railing to take a step toward Morrigan. She reached out, fingers brushing aside a coppery strand of Morrigan’s unbound hair from her cheek. It was so rare that the Avian woman wore it outside of a plait, and Imtura was possessed by the sudden urge to run her hands through it. “But you are welcome to find out for yourself any time.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer,” Morrigan whispered, her cheeks rounding against Imtura’s fingertips as she smiled and began to lean in.

“As you should,” Imtura murmured, sliding her hand from Morrigan’s cheek to the back of her neck as she closed her eyes. She felt Morrigan’s breath on her skin and thought faintly that she smelled like a storm, wild and reckless. Imtura wondered if she tasted like one, too.

“Captain?”

Sunken hells.

Stifling a groan, Imtura turned away, prepared to bite the head off of whoever just interrupted them. But when she saw her quartermaster, Kraglin, standing in the captain’s quarters of the Sea Nymph, his face uncharacteristically sober, she stiffened. She knew why he had come.

Kraglin nodded, catching the look of understanding that crossed Imtura’s face.

“It’s time.”

Read the rest of the chapter on AO3!

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alexboehm55144 · 3 years

Text

Alex Final Wars 2: Dark Alex, Chapter 33 - Midway

The Typhoon had been zipping all over the pacific throughout the US-Chinese war. This was possible because the ship had cloaking technology and could fly. But a large portion of the US navy was still relegated to the eastern half of the ocean, unable to move west due to Chinese forces.

However, with recent US gains, the offensive had started. Naval forces were now planning a significant strike back against the Chinese Navy and Air Force at the island of Midway.

A US armada, including the Typhoon, aircraft carriers, and numerous smaller escort vessels, was already making haste to meet with an equally sized Chinese fleet.

"I expected more airships," Laval said from the bridge of the Typhoon while JayJay sat nearby and filed her claws. "But we're the only one here."

"Airships are still an experimental technology, Laval," Toothdee noted, sitting in the captain's chair and piloting the ship. "Aquatic vessels are still the mainstay for the world's nations."

"Oh great, your telling me our home and HQ is an experimental vessel?"

"Don't worry, Laval, it's perfectly safe."

"Say, have you guys seen Fabienne?" JayJay asked.

"Oh, the reporter. She's probably filming something." Laval said, "I just hope she stays safe when the fighting breaks out."

"She's worked as a war correspondent before," Toothdee said. "She told me she was getting some shots of the ships from one of the outside decks. Speaking of which...."

The Heroes commander turned the radio on again.

"Fabienne, do you read? Are you alright?"

The snow leopard had set up some recording equipment on one of the outside platforms on the Typhoon's exterior. The ocean breeze blew through her fur, and the beautiful blue sea and sky were visible all around her.

"Do you read?"

The reporter's ears perked up, and she grabbed the radio she had been given since her first day on the Heroes ship.

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm ok. Just about to film a quick shot of the fleet."

"Ok, finish up quickly and get back inside."

"Will do."

The snow leopard turned off the radio and took one last look to make sure her tripod-mounted camera was lined up properly before clicking the record button. Afterward, she quickly tested the audio and the microphone on her collar and stood in position. She was a meter from the camera, off to the side. Enough so that the device could see the fleet of US warships in the background, along with the reporter. She was careful not to step too close to the edge of the platform. Because while there was a railing, she did not want to risk falling overboard.

"Hello, this is Fabienne Growley, coming to you from aboard the Typhoon in the pacific. US naval forces are moving to secure the region around Midway island. They are being led by Heroes, and their airship, the Typhoon. A Chinese fleet is in the area, hoping to defend their territory from the encroaching US forces. At this time, it is impossible to say what will occur during this battle, but this could be a turning point for the war in the Pacific."

The snow leopard moved over to the camera and stopped the recording before packing up all her equipment. As she entered back into the vessel, Fabienne contacted Toothdee on her radio.

"I'm heading back inside Toothdee. I'll get to my battle station."

"Ok, you'll be safe there."

"I guess she got her shot," Laval said as Toothdee disconnected the call.

"Let's check in with everyone else while we're at it. Our forces are spread out all around the area, so we should be able to cover the entire field of battle." She said, switching the channel on her radio. "Heroes, this is the Typhoon. What's your status?"

"This is captain Boehm. Eris and I are flying the deadly skies."

The 2 young pilots zipped through the air above the fleet in their jets. Eris was flying her blue and white eagle interceptor, one that she had modified to her specifications.

Alex flew a custom F-35, one of the standard jets of the US Air Force.

"Nice flying," Eris said, the pair of jets turning and circling the US fleet.

"Thanks, your pretty good yourself. But your reputation precedes you." Alex said, looking at the tally marks on the jet's hull.

"I like your plane's color scheme," Eris said, drawing attention to the aircraft's metallic exterior, which was dark gray in color. A few shiny red, white and blue lines ran along the wings and near the cockpit as a patriotic gesture.

"Thanks! Lately, I've been wondering if I should paint it with some other pattern or color scheme. But that's not the only thing that's different about this plane. It's been modified with upgrades including stronger weapons and armor."

"Alright, you two, don't you keep your heads in the clouds for too long," Toothdee said, be forcing changing the channel on her radio. "Kion, Jasiri, what's your status."

"Kion here. I'm just taking a look at the cannon on this destroyer. This thing looks like it will pack a serious punch."

The lion touched and inspected the barrel of a forward-mounted turret on a US destroyer. Jasiri was nearby, leaning against a railing and enjoying the sea breeze.

"I'm here as well, Toothdee, just enjoying the calm before the storm."

"Alright, keep your heads on the swivel. Your job is to provide support to other US forces. That's why your stationed where you are. Toothdee out. Nick, Judy, you two better not be making out or something."

"Hey!" Judy said, jumping up from where she was lying on the beach.

"Unfortunately, no." Nick said, "we're just sitting here, relaxing- I mean, guarding, this wonderful- I mean, important beach on the midway island."

"Well, you two better stay on guard, lest the Chinese land on Midway, and it's an atoll, Nick."

"Don't worry, no matter what it is, we'll keep it safe."

Judy was still blushing a bit from embarrassment as Toothdee switched the radio channel over to someone else.

"Well, carrots, that was a rude interruption to our make-out session."

"Haida, Retsuko, are you there?" Toothdee said.

"Oh hey, Toothdee," Retsuko said. She was standing in the cargo bay on the Typhoon, stocked with equipment and whose walls were made of hardened metal. "Haida's in the bathroom, but we're right here on the ship, ready to help however we can."

"Glad to hear it. I know your job isn't the flashiest, your not racing into combat, but your job is no less important. It's because of you two that we get our supplies, and all the paperwork gets sorted."

Retsuko blushed and smiled to herself. Her last job didn't appreciate her at all, so it was nice to hear that she mattered.

"Thank you, you don't know how much that means to me. Oh, and that reminds me...."

The red panda clambered on top of a large crate. It was a crate designed for lion-sized mammals, so it was difficult to scale, but Retsuko managed. She compared the label on the container to the writing on a notepad in her hand.

"....we should be fully stocked. We've got plenty of ammo. I checked twice."

The red panda jumped down from the crate and brushed some dust from the blue pants of her uniform. It wasn't required by regulation, but it made her feel a lot more formal when working, which helped her focus.

"Again, thank you." Toothdee said, "always know that you're a part of the team."

The Heroes leader switched the radio channel for the last time and spoke again.

"Jack and Skye, do you read?"

"We hear you, Toothdee."

The fox and bunny couple were in a small rubber-hulled military boat, speeding through the waves. Skye maneuvered the rubber craft around warships and larger vessels. At the same time, Jack stood ready at the boat's mounted minigun, which was a bit large for a rabbit, but he was up to the task of operating it.

"We're ready and waiting," Jack said, holding on tight as the boat hit a wave.

"Lovely day for a battle," Skye said.

"Keep your heads on the swivel. I'm glad we have the support of 2 ZIA agents during this engagement."

Toothdee turned off the radio and returned her focus to the Typhoon's controls.

"Why do you think the Chinese are even here anyway? We keep stopping their assaults."

"I can only speculate, but they probably just can't stop fighting. China has to demonstrate its strength and that it is the world's foremost superpower. Basically, the Chinese need to prove that they, and their way of thinking, are right. Not to mention victory would put them in a very favorable position on the world stage."

The radio came to life again as the voice of a US sailor came through.

"Enemy vessels spotted!"

On the horizon, black shapes appeared and started to grow closer and closer. Chinese warships of the People's Liberation Army Navy. Accompanying them were planes of the Chinese People's Liberation Army Air Force.

"LAVAL! JAYJAY! BATTLE STATIONS!" Toothdee said, prompting the lion and wolf to hop into their weapon positions as armored panels slid up to cover the Typhoon's bridge window.

There was a brief respite of calm, yet the tension was palpable as the two fleets drew closer and closer before entering weapon range.

Missiles and cannons opened fire, projectiles cutting through the sky and either splashing into the sea or impacting enemy warships.

JayJay, Laval, and Toothdee operated the Typhoon and its weapons systems, sending a flurry of shots towards enemy ships and planes. A dark black PLAAF fighter jet that looked heavily modified was leading the charge. Still, it weaved and launched flares to avoid incoming fire.

"that lead aircraft is giving off a unique signature on our sensor equipment," Toothdee noted.

The pair of gunners targeted a formation of hostile bombers with missiles and machine gunfire. Shots were tearing through the wings and into the fuselage while missiles filled the planes with shrapnel. The large airplanes either crashed into the ocean or exploded violently in a massive fireball.

"You know, this is cool and all, but somehow I'd rather be on the ground fighting," JayJay said.

"I get that," Laval said. "We all have our preferred style of combat."

"Agreed." Toothdee said, "It's just sometimes someone has to be around to operate the ship and its weapons. Thankfully you guys are trained for that."

The Typhoon then moved to engage a Chinese destroyer, battering the side of the vessel with cannon shots.

Explosions ripped through the metal of the ship, with the hull starting to fracture and break. After a few moments of sustained bombardment, the boat sank beneath the waves with a loud gurgling noise.

The Typhoon then focused its weapons on a group of smaller watercraft, with PLAN soldiers on the sides of the vessel, firing machine guns missile launchers.

"Damnit, they keep moving too fast!" Laval said, the small vessels zipping at high speed around the typhoon and opening fire.

However, despite this, the Typhoon eventually was able to appropriately target the smaller craft and shred them with weapons fire.

One escort vessel was torn apart with machine guns. While another was utterly obliterated by large cannon shells.

"We're really mopping the floor with them Heroes, but that's going to be a problem," Toothdee said, looking straight ahead towards a hostile aircraft carrier that was launching fighters. "We're going to need some support for that."

The Heroes leader looked out the port side of the ship and saw a US destroyer nearby and quickly radioed for backup.

"Destroyer, USS Gridley, this is the Typhoon. We're heading towards that Chinese carrier and would appreciate the support."

"Affirmative Typhoon, moving to support."

Along with a few other escort vessels and aircraft, the pair of warships made haste towards the PLAN aircraft carrier, accompanied by escort craft.

The vessels closed in on each other, and once the Typhoon was close enough, it opened fire on the carrier with its weapons. The Gridley followed suit, both ships pummeling the carrier with weapons as the escort vessels of both sides battled it out.

The Gridley and Typhoon pulled close, able to wreak massive damage at this close range. Shells ripped through the vessel's hull, and missiles pummeled the bridge.

Kion was operating a mounted machine gun on the outside deck of the Gridley and was spraying the aircraft carrier deck with machine gunfire. Shots tore through equipment, aircraft, and personnel.

"RELOAD!" the lion yelled.

Jasiri was ready to support him, quickly removing the empty magazine and inserting a fresh one, allowing Kion to resume firing. Chinese troops on the carrier deck fired back but were swiftly eliminated.

"Hell yeah!" Kion said, triumphantly raising his fist in the air.

The pair of ships pulled away from the carrier, which was billowing smoke and listing heavily. While the Typhoon moved off to find another target, the Gridley made haste towards an enemy destroyer moving away from the battle zone, having sustained heavy damage.

This hostile ship had been marked as a high-value target, a destroyer that was equipped with a wide range of advanced electronic sensors and weapons. These were used for area denial and electronic warfare operations, along with communications support. Its advanced capabilities were making it a thorn in the side of the American fleet.

"I'm guessing that's our next target," Jasiri said, pointing towards the damaged ship.

Kion laughed, "ha, easy prey."

But the Chinese destroyer was not alone. It was covered by a squadron of planes that moved in to engage the approaching US destroyer. The unit included the jet black PLAAF aircraft that had led the charge earlier. This elite plane was faster and more maneuverable than the others, and its weapons were likely more powerful as well.

The warship's guns opened fire on the incoming aircraft, and even Kion tried engaging them with his mounted machine gun. But the lion and Jasiri needed to duck as explosions went off nearby, missiles hitting and crippling the ship's gun systems.

One fighter was destroyed, and it crashed into the sea nearby with a massive splash. As the jets came around and prepared to make another attack on the destroyer, friendly aircraft arrived and chased the Chinese jets off.

But the Gridley had been left worse for wear, smoke billowing from damaged areas, and alarms blaring all over the ship.

"We better go see what the situation is," Kion said before he and Jasiri entered the warship and moved to the bridge.

The captain of the vessel, a mountain lion, was looking over a computer screen and talking with two other sailors.

"Hey, what's going on?" Kion asked, and the Mountain lion looked up.

"Our weapon systems have been hit. We can't return fire with our main guns. But that enemy vessel we were going after is still active. Its own guns and engines have been knocked out. However, it still has its electronic warfare capabilities."

"So it's been disabled..." Jasiri said, "...but not destroyed."

"Correct. Its systems are wreaking havoc with our own sensors." He pointed to the computer screen, which was partly frozen and full of error messages. "It still poses a serious threat."

"Hmm, then we still need to destroy it. Pull up alongside the vessel, and ready the marines and sailors."

"What? What are you going to do?"

"Something they definitely won't be expecting."

Kion, followed by Jasiri, headed down to the ship's main deck, where friendly troops were preparing themselves. A fox marine opened a weapon container and handed out rifles to other troopers before tossing one to a sailor some distance away.

The two Heroes stood in front of an assembled group of troops ready to receive orders.

The US Navy vessel pulled alongside the Chinese ship as enemy troops swarmed the deck of the hostile craft.

"Follow me!" Kion yelled, raising his sword and roaring, prompting US marines and sailors to raise their weapons and let our battle cries.

Blade in hand, Kion charged towards the PLAN vessel, leaping off the deck of the American ship and landing on the enemy destroyer, cutting down a Chinese sailor as he landed.

The marines and sailors were shocked at what had just transpired. This was a pirate tactic from the age of sail. But with no better options available, the marines followed the lion, jumping onto the deck of the enemy vessel and gunning down hostile sailors.

"Forward!" The young warrior said, sprinting down the length of the ship, cutting down more enemies and deflecting their bullets with his sword.

Jasiri and US troopers were close behind, providing support with gunfire. Some marines even broke out zipline launchers and grappling hooks, using them to board the hostile vessel.

The US troops continued down the deck of the Chinese warship, engaging hostiles and putting them down as they moved. Kion sliced down an enemy trooper that had taken up positions next to a series of different-sized doors. At the same time, Jasiri unloaded her pistols on another enemy standing a few meters away.

The team moved to the series of different-sized doors and prepared to enter. Still, before they could, the doors opened, and enemy personnel of many distinct species came out with their paws or hands raised.

US troops kept their weapons leveled and ordered the PLAN troops down to the ground. But the Chinese wouldn't respond, and they all remained clustered in one big group.

Suddenly one of the enemy sailors, a female panda, yelled out in English.

"imperialist warmongers!"

Two of the surrendered troopers pulled the pins on grenades they had concealed and tossed them at the US sailors.

Jasiri and Kion reacted quickly. Kion swung his sword and hit one of the flying grenades, knocking it into the sea. The other grenade bounced to the deck, and Jasiri bravely kicked it into the water, where both explosives went off with small splashes.

The American troops and Heroes opened fire, gunning down the Chinese sailors, lest they make another attempt at fighting back with more concealed weapons. Kion even cut down one of the sailors who was starting to pull a knife.

"Damnit, what a shame," Jasiri said as the enemy troops dropped to the deck.

"They did it to themselves," Kion said.

"Yeah, your right."

Before the US sailors and marines could move inside the vessel, a small rubber boat passed close by the ship, and the Chinese gunner on board opened fire with the mounted weapon. Two marines and a sailor were taken out as the boat pulled away from the massive warship.

Kion cursed and took cover before Jack came through on the radio.

"We've got you, Kion."

Jack and Skye raced by in their boat, the fox keeping hot on the heels of the PLAN boat. Jack aimed the minigun and fired, bullets ripping through the enemy sailors. The enemy boat stopped, its operators dead, with Jack and Skye racing by, rounding a friendly warship and heading towards Midway Atoll.

"More Chinese!" Jack said, and Skye maneuvered towards a pair of hostile sailors on jet skis, armed with pistols. The sailors opened fire with their weapons, forcing the fox to duck in cover. Jack was able to engage the jet skis, taking them down.

Another jet ski with two troopers on it appeared. The second soldier on board opened fire with an assault rifle. However, he was also quickly eliminated.

"Look! Over there!" Skye said, pointing to a group of watercraft, including landing vehicles, heading towards Midway Atoll.

"Get us over there," Jack said, readying himself. At the same time, Skye maneuvered the boat into a formation of US watercraft and helicopters. Even two troopers were piloting small personal hovercraft.

The US boats and aircraft closed the distance to the hostile vessels, and once it was within firing range, Jack opened upon them with the minigun. A hail of lead took down another jet-ski and another rubber boat.

Suddenly the jet black Chinese fighter dived down towards the US watercraft, launching missiles. The missiles took down a US helicopter, sending it crashing into the sea. Another barrage of rockets destroyed a US patrol boat.

"Whoa! Ok, watch out for that!" Jack said.

Skye pulled alongside a slightly larger enemy escort craft. Jack opened fire as the gunners on board the boat returned fire. The ZIA agent took down one of the gunners, then focused fire on the vessel's hull and bridge.

The vessel soon started to smoke before it stopped moving, dead in the water.

"Landing craft!" Jack said, noticing a group of marine lizard vehicles getting closer and closer to Midway island. These were identical to the vehicles that had deployed troops during the first assault on Zootopia.

Skye pulled alongside one of the vehicles. Jack fired into the troop compartment, killing many of the Chinese soldiers being transported inside the vessel. Jack then focused his fire on the control area of the boat, hoping to kill the driver or destroy the control system.

After filling part of the vehicle with bullets, the landing craft lost control and crashed into another landing craft. Both vessels flipped over, leaving Chinese soldiers treading in the water around the wreckage.

But more landing craft had reached Midway island, and the hostile troopers onboard disembarked and charged towards the American soldiers who were set up in defensive positions in trenches. Nick and Judy were also in place, behind a rocky outcropping. The pair of ZPD officers felt a bit out of their element in the island environment. It was not urban at all, unlike the city of Zootopia, their usual stomping grounds. But they were still determined to give the battle they're all.

"South blade incoming!" An American soldier yelled before being gunned down by the fast and dark black PLAAF fighter jet that was strafing the beach to support advancing troops.

"South blade?" Judy asked as defending troops returned fire.

Nick radioed his human friend, firing arrows at the incoming enemies. "Hey Alex, would you-"

"Give me one sec, Nick."

The human-focused on a Chinese aircraft he was flying towards, flak in the air all around him. He took the shot, a missile streaking through the sky and impacting the ship's bridge, obliterating the glass windows and the mammals on the bridge, before the captain pulled his jet back up into the sky.

"I'm sorry, go ahead."

"Would you happen to know about enemy soldiers called 'South Blade'?"

"South Blade? Those are special forces soldiers capable of air, land, and sea operations. Akin to US navy seals. Eris and I will move to provide you with air support."

"Ok, better switch to something a little more powerful," Nick said, drawing a death arrow from his quiver. He fired a hail of arrows, downing three PLA troopers in quick succession.

Judy used a standard-issue ZPD pistol, supported by a tranquilizer pistol that could down even the largest mammals.

A human commander joined the two ZPD officers behind their rocky outcropping and surveyed the situation on the beach. Two more marine lizard landing craft were incoming, bringing more troops to the battle.

"Demolitions team! Get up here now!" The commander yelled.

A pair of armadillos, who were fantastic with explosives due to their natural armor, ran towards the human commander with rocket launchers. Then the team each got down on one knee and aimed their weapons.

"Fire!"

The rocket launchers fired, their projectiles streaking towards the two incoming Chinese landing craft and hitting them. The vehicles exploded in a bright orange flash and a shower of metal.

"Nice shot," Nick said. "I wish I could do that."

"You should get some arrows with explosives on them," Judy said.

Before Nick could respond, a barrage of gunfire struck nearby.

A PLA bear soldier, armed with heavy armor and an LMG, moved towards Nick and Judy, opening fire with his weapon. Simultaneously, an otter diving team with SMGs moved out of the waves and onto the shore, joining their bear ally in engaging US forces.

"Yeah... I really wish I had some explosive arrows right now!" Nick said as everyone behind the rocky outcropping took cover.

"We've got you!" Eris said over the radio as the roar of jet engines filled the sky.

Eris's eagle interceptor came in low over the beach, opening fire with its front-mounted chi blasters. Bolts of energy peppered the hostile forces on the beach, neutralizing many of the enemy soldiers.

Alex's jet followed behind, strafing the beach with machine gunfire. The planes turned around for another pass on the beach.

The bear heavy weapons soldier angrily turned his LMG towards the sky. Still, he was obliterated by missiles from the American jets.

Explosions tore through Chinese soldiers on the ground, reducing their landing craft to burning husks.

Nick, Judy, and US troops cheered and watched the jets fly above.

"Thanks for the save, guys," Judy said as the jets headed back out to sea.

"Eris, prepare to target remaining Chinese naval vessels," Alex said, pulling alongside his eagle companion.

"Way ahead of you, literally!" Eris said, engaging her afterburners and pulling forward. Captain Boehm laughed and throttled up to chase after her. The aircraft returned to the battle zone, where the United States and China continued to engage. But the scales had been tipped, with the US looking more likely to come out on top.

"Let's target that escort vessel." The captain said, prompting both jets to nosedive towards a PLAN ship. The aircraft fired hails of machine-gun bullets and chi blasts, ripping through the Chinese vessel.

Smoke and fire erupted from the ship as the aircraft pulled around for another attack run.

"Missiles away!" Eris said, the pair of jets firing missiles, streaking low above the water before impacting the hostile escort ship with a massive explosion.

The vessel started to list and soon sank beneath the waves, leaving behind only debris and stranded crew.

"We've got incoming!" Eris said, noticing a group of PLAFF bomber planes moving towards a US aircraft carrier, escorted by some fighter jets.

"This is Hero leader." Captain Boehm said into his radio. "Requesting immediate fighter reinforcements. Hostile bomber squadron moving towards the friendly carrier."

The voice of an airmammal came through the radio.

"Affirmative Hero leader, fighter squadron moving to assist. ETA 2 minutes out."

"It's going to take some time for them to get here, Eris."

"Well then, let's give them something to shoot at!"

The pair of pilots gunned their engines and made haste towards the enemy bomber formation. Pouncing on the enemy aircraft, Eris scored a critical hit on one of the bombers, causing it to lose control and crash into a Chinese fighter nearby.

Alex fired a salvo of missiles that took down one enemy aircraft and heavily damaged another. The escort craft reacted and began to engage the American planes. Bullets whizzed by Eris, the eagle having to fly erratically to avoid them.

An enemy jet fired a missile at Alex, who deployed flares to interfere with the weapon's heat-seeking capability.

The engaging aircraft danced across the sky, turning and maneuvering with immense speed and agility, pushing the machines and their pilots to the limit. Whenever a hostile plane was in their sights, the pilots opened fire with machine guns or missiles.

Eris and Alex gained the upper hand, not sustaining much damage while dishing out plenty of damage to PLAAF planes. But the bombers continued to near the American aircraft carrier.

"Eris, you keep the fighters distracted. I'll go after the bombers!"

"You got it, Alex!" The young warrior said, looping around in her aircraft, getting behind a Chinese jet, and reducing it to scrap metal.

Captain Boehm pulled behind one of the enemy bombers, unloading into it with machine guns and rockets. Flames and smoke came from the plane, which began to rapidly lose altitude.

"Fighter support arrived!" Said a voice through the radio as more US aircraft entered the battlefield, engaging the remaining bombers and fighters.

The Heroes captain cheered and pulled around to rejoin Eris. The eagle had taken down two Chinese aircraft, but a third plane had gotten behind her and opened fire with its machine guns. Eris flew erratically and tried to shake off her pursuer, but to no avail.

"He's on me!" Eris said.

"I'm on him!" Alex responded, pulling behind the attacking jet.

The captain pressed a button on the control stick, firing the jet's machine guns. Bullets tore through the enemy aircraft, and it dove towards the sea, the pilot ejecting.

"Whew, I owe you one, Alex."

"No problem, don't mention it."

Suddenly, a high-speed jet zoomed by, the object only looking like a black blur as it passed by.

"Ok, that's something new," Eris said.

"It's not showing up on my radar as friendly." Alex said, "Assume it's hostile."

The pair pursued the aircraft into a cloud, with the other American fighters capable of finishing off the remaining Chinese planes.

Alex and Eris passed through the cloud, obscuring their view. In that brief moment of blindness, the enemy struck.

Gunfire suddenly struck both American aircraft, forcing the two pilots to move erratically to throw off the enemy. As the planes swerved, they exited the cloud, and pursuing them were 3 Chinese fighters. There were 2 standard fighters, but also a dark black and extremely customized aircraft leading the charge.

The 2 fighters went after Eris, while the head plane went straight for Alex, a voice coming through the radio.

"Hello, hero leader."

Captain Boehm recognized the voice as his own. It was his dark counterpart.

"You! Guess that explains the unique jet."

"I could say the same of you."

"Eris, where are you?"

"I've got some jets on me! Might be able to handle them, though." Eris said, dodging the incoming fire.

Alex also had to dodge and roll to avoid his counterpart's machine gunfire. The captain pulled around and opened up with machine-gun fire of his own, forcing his adversary to go on the defensive.

The aircraft flew circles around each other, both pilots trying to get the other jet in their sights. When the enemy plane was in the gun-sights, the attacker opened up with machine guns or missiles, forcing the pilot to roll or deploy flares.

As he turned his plane, Captain Boehm's vision went hazy as he felt himself about to blackout due to the immense G-forces, prompting him to slow down.

"Not a bad plane." Dark Alex said. "Engines and weapons on par with my own."

"Well, let's see who's jet is better!" The heroes captain said, firing a barrage of missiles. But the dark counterpart rolled his plane and avoided the projectiles, returning fire with machine guns.

"All US fighter craft in the vicinity!" Came a voice through the radio. "We have another enemy bomber squadron incoming!"

"Shit! Someone get on those bombers!" Alex said into the radio, knowing that those aircraft were headed for a US carrier, a ship with thousands of crew. But in this brief moment where he was focusing on the communications, Dark Alex made his move, hitting the Heroes Captain with a barrage of bullets.

"Your care. Your drive to put others before yourself... it is a weakness." The counterpart said. "It holds you back from what you need to do to achieve true strength. You'll always feel yourself chained to others. I learned that lesson long ago and heeded it."

"So that's it, you just think I'm weak?"

"Yes. You are nothing. Both you and your nation are weak and hopelessly lost. It is time for a new power to rise, which is why both you and the United States must die. So new warriors may take your place."

"Oh, so I'm just a target for you to take down and prove yourself? So you can prove your strength and establish your place in the world?"

"This is nothing more than natural selection in the wild. The strong creature devouring the weak one."

"Last time I checked, Heroes took down more of you and your band than you have done to us."

"And you shall pay dearly for it!"

Dark Alex fired a salvo of missiles. With Captain Boehm's craft already damaged, the missiles struck. The Heroes leader felt his plane shake violently as the deafening sound of an explosion and rupturing metal rang through his ears.

The captain hit the eject button, the canopy breaking away, and the seat blasting out of the damaged aircraft.

As the parachute unfolded, the captain looked around for his counterpart's aircraft. He didn't see anything, so Alex turned his attention to where he was going to land.

Below him was a PLAN aircraft carrier and an American destroyer, both heavily damaged and sitting dead in the water over a dozen meters apart. But in the water between the 2 warships was an assortment of debris. Crates of supplies had fallen off the ships, floating in the water. A variety of random scrap and wreckage littered the area. Made of all sorts of materials and even smaller vehicles that had been wrecked. A Chinese fighter floated in the water nearby, having slid off the deck of the carrier. A damaged US patrol boat sat partially sunk in the water, listing hard to the side.

The captain braced himself as he touched down in the sea, unclipping himself from his ejector seat. The Hero leader started to look around, looking up towards the US destroyer and noticing something on it. A Chinese helicopter had crashed into the vessel. Now it was sitting precariously on the deck of the ship, hanging over the water.

As the captain continued to try and get his bearings, he heard a roaring engine growing closer and closer. Looking up, the captain saw his counterpart's jet incoming, prompting Boehm to quickly swim into a large cargo container partially floating in the sea.

Dark Alex's jet engaged hover mode and started to inspect the area, searching for any sign of captain Boehm.

The captain, however, was cursing under his breath and watching the hostile plane. His plane had been destroyed, and he only had a pistol and knife to defend himself with. But this could be a valuable chance to take out his dark counterpart.

First, the captain used his knife to cut up some cargo inside the container that had been covered in a dark blue cloth. The human draped the dark cloth over his head, which would help camouflage him. Spotting the damaged patrol boat nearby, the captain waited till the hostile jet had turned away before diving into the waves and swimming as fast as possible towards the patrol boat.

Reaching the boat, Alex scrambled inside and examined the weapon controls. The main gun was still operational, and the captain immediately targeted his counterpart's jet.

The weapon fired at the unsuspecting jet, shots slamming into the plane's armor and dealing significant damage. As Alex dove back into the water, the enemy jet turned around and took aim.

Dark Alex's jet fired a missile at the wrecked patrol boat, obliterating it. Shards of debris rained down into the water near captain Boehm as he swam his way through the area.

Although damaged, the jet continued to search the area, forcing Boehm to dive underwater when he couldn't get out of the jet's view fast enough. If he came to the surface at the wrong time, the plane would shred him with its weapons. But stay underwater too long, and the captain would drown. All the while, Dark Alex scanned the water and debris for his counterpart. He could not lose. He had a customized jet, while his enemy was simply flailing around in the water. Nothing more perfectly represented the discontinuity between the pair of warriors. One was weak, and the other was strong.

Coming up to the surface out of view of the enemy plane, captain Boehm spotted another cargo container nearby floating in the water. This container was marked with symbols identifying the contents as explosives.

The young warrior made his way over to the container, hiding behind debris and diving beneath the waves when he had to keep out of sight of his counterpart's view.

Once he reached the container, he opened it up, finding explosive material and detonation equipment. Boehm quickly armed some of the explosives, setting up a timer. Once everything was ready, it was time to get his counterpart's attention.

"HEY, OVER HERE!" Alex said, waving his hands and trying to get noticed. The deception worked, and once the jet turned towards him, the captain dove back beneath the waves as the jet fired its machine guns. The bullets missed the young warrior and hit the damaged aircraft carrier as Alex swam as fast as he could underwater.

Once at a safe distance, the human came to the surface and gasped for air, the constant diving taking a toll. Meanwhile, the hostile jet advanced towards the location where Alex had been, searching for the captain. But then the container of explosives detonated, a massive fireball engulfing Dark Alex's jet. The aircraft nearly lost control, spinning and turning before its pilot could regain control.

As the jet turned towards him again, captain Boehm retreated into the US destroyer. Swimming through a hole that had been blown in the side of the ship by weapons fire. However, the enemy jet must have seen something because it moved closer to investigate.

Swimming around inside the ship, the captain realized he was in some sort of control room. There was equipment for controlling electrical systems, engines, and the ship's ballast tanks. Alex suddenly realized something and immediately swam over to the machinery that controlled the ship's ballast tanks, taking care to avoid any exposed electrical equipment. He listened closely and looked towards the hole in the side of the destroyer. His counterpart was still there. With that, Alex activated the pumps, filling the ballast tanks along one side of the ship with water while removing water from the tanks on the other side of the vessel.

The ship slowly listed more to the side. Eventually, the Chinese helicopter hanging from the destroyer fell off the side of the vessel, hitting Dark Alex's jet as it splashed into the water. The hostile plane was heavily damaged, smoke emitting from its engines. Its villainous pilot was filled with rage. How could his top-of-the-line aircraft be bested by his inferior counterpart, and what could be found amongst wreckage. He angrily fired at the damaged US destroyer but could only get a few shots off before the weapon system stopped working due to the damage. Dark Alex turned his aircraft back towards the sky. With no other offensive measures, he started to limp back towards a still active Chinese aircraft carrier.

Hearing the sounds of aircraft engines fade, captain Boehm emerged from the destroyer, catching a glimpse of his counterpart's black jet flying into the distance. He couldn't help but feel proud of himself. With nothing more than wreckage, the Heroes leader defeated his dark double, who had been piloting an elite aircraft. But his pride suddenly turned to concern as he heard another aircraft approaching. He spun around, wondering how he was going to defeat this second enemy plane. But he breathed a sigh of relief once he saw that it was Eris's dark blue eagle interceptor. The eagle pilot put the aircraft in hover mode and opened the cockpit, flapping her wings and flying over to the human in the water.

"So, how'd your big fancy jet work out?" Eris laughed, hovering just above her friend.

"Just get me out of here," Alex said, reaching his arms up towards the eagle.

Eris flew around behind the human and grabbed him under the arms, rapidly flapping her wings to lift him out of the sea.

"Your all wet!" Eris said, "water is heavy!"

Despite the weight of the water, Eris was able to pick up the human and deposit him into the passenger's seat behind the pilot's chair in the cockpit of her interceptor.

"Try not to get water all over me or my controls." The eagle said, sitting back down, closing the canopy, and flying off back up into the sky.

"Get me back to the Typhoon. I need to get back out there." the captain said.

"Get back out there? Look around you."

The captain looked out the cockpit window at the area around Midway. Wreckage was strewn everywhere as ships sank beneath the waves. But there was a lot more wreckage from PLAN vessels than US naval vessels. The Chinese had suffered a massive defeat, stopped dead in their tracks by the US navy, marines, and air force.

"What about that second squadron of bombers?"

"Don't worry, Alex, I dealt with them. They're nothing but wreckage now."

Eris flew low and slow over Midway island, and the pair could see the smoldering wreckage of PLAAF bombers and fighter planes. They also spotted Nick and Judy capturing some Chinese soldiers, with backup from American troops. Jack and Skye had parked their boat nearby and were helping to oversee the operation.

Eris then turned towards the Chinese vessel Kion and Jasiri had helped capture. The interceptor did a victory lap around the ship as US forces on the deck raised their fists and cheered, including the two Heroes aboard the vessel.

The eagle pilot then moved towards the US fleet, steaming past the wreckage of burning enemy vessels and collecting stranded sailors. At the head of the armada was the Typhoon, the crown jewel of the US fleet. The captain could barely believe it.

"Wow….Looks like we won." He said.

"Heh, you can say that again."

Some Chinese naval vessels and jets had managed to flee. But most of their fleet had sunk to the bottom of the ocean. US ships cut through the waves while American aircraft streaked through the sky. No PLAN forces were left to hold the line. Midway belonged to the United States.

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currentboat · 4 years

Quote

Before me, over the tussocky moorland, the train stood at the frontier station, a thin plume of smoke rising vertically from its funnel, a clutter of cars and people all around. Once again I was reminded of Africa, where you sometimes see the big steam-trains standing all alone, inexplicably waiting, in the immense and empty veldt. I looked behind me then, back over the peninsula: and like grey imperfections on the southern horizon, I saw the warships coming.

Jan Morris, Last Letters from Hav

#quotes #jan morris #favourites

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unlockthelore · 4 years

Text

Acceptance

On the beginnings of a journey, Aang and Zuko have a small talk which leads to rehashing a revelation.

This is part of the Peace Is A Journey series on Ao3. For more fics in this series, follow the peace is a journey tag on this blog.

In spite of his ties to the Water Tribe, and his past lives as a water bender, Aang felt uneasy on a boat.

It could have been because several of the kidnapping attempts or attempts on his life were done while at sea. Although, he could still smell the smoldering metal of warships surrounded by charred earth when he closed his eyes, dismissing the explanation promptly.

Wherever the discomfort came from — it was rigidly set within his memories. Out of the behest of the Southern Water Tribesmen, they set sail with one of their boats on a moonlit night. When the winds died, Aang bent air against the ship’s sails, careful not to disturb the sea. Circular motions spun currents around his fingertips like thread and manifested in a spherical tunnel filling the sails til they were fit to burst.

Water creaked along the ship’s hull as the sea rocked the vessel to the command of the tide and its moon. Aang wandered to the ship’s bow and watched as the yellow lantern swayed on the chill salty breeze. His hand brushed against the light brown trimming. It would be awhile yet before they found their destination but he was never one to be unprepared. Heart thudding heavily, Aang looked to the horizon and lamented the last of the glaciers drifting past them revealing naught else but open sea.

It wouldn’t be long now and he hardly knew how he would face them all. Words rolled about in mind were cast aside and lost as he stared past the ship’s side toward the ocean depths.

Aang felt the encroaching presence at his back as he leant against the railing, arms folded and pressed to the wood’s smooth varnish. “Couldn’t sleep?”

The unease twisting throughout his body seemed to be voiced in Zuko’s glum tone, a throat-scratching scoff being the firebender’s only response. Aang thought of Sokka below deck working furiously on the accounts of their ventures. Quick strokes of his brush and mumbling under his breath by the yellow glow of lamplight. Undoubtedly what roused Zuko from his restless sleep considering how many times Sokka bid Zuko to rekindle the light once it began to dim.

With little fanfare, Zuko shouldered his way to Aang’s side and turned his back, leaning against the bow’s rail. His dark hair fluttered and whipped every which way as he tipped his head back, seeming to enjoy the breeze. Aang smiled. Without the crease in his brow or the tension to his shoulders, Zuko was the picture of serenity. His seemingly permanent scowl was just a side-effect of years without smiling. Something easily rectified.

While Aang thought of a way to fill the silence between them with a trick or question or two, he couldn’t help but think about all of the times the two of them met on a ship’s bow. Or their first meeting in fact. When he found himself confused that the so-called villain after him was only a few years older than him.

“When you said I was just a teenager…” Zuko murmured, his voice distant and softer than Aang was accustomed to, surprising him with its lightness amidst the sea’s noise. “I didn’t think about it much at the time.”

Aang raised a brow then inclined his head, a hum buzzed in his throat. Silver light shone in Zuko’s eyes and Aang glanced over his shoulder at the full moon bearing down upon them. Was Yue looking down upon them, he wondered. Shining her light so that they could find their way to those who were lost?

“So,” Aang mumbled as the silence dragged on longer than he was comfortable with. “What has you thinking about it now? The you’re just a teenager thing.”

Zuko sniffed, rubbing a hand down the side of his face, then leaning back on his elbows. “You’re just a kid,” he uttered. “I was thinking this must be hard on you.”

Bewildered, Aang stared at him. He recalled Zuko saying those words to him with a touch more confusion and apprehension. The years had changed them. Trials, tribulations, upsets, victories, and losses — molded them into who they were now. His hopes had been realized that they could be friends but it was in moments like this, that he realized how much was still between them. Standing upright, Aang pressed his hand flat to the wood and looked out to the horizon.

His friends could understand many things about him. They shouldered the burden, the weight, and carried him as much as he tried to help them. But there were some things that simply couldn’t be put into words. Aang glanced up to the sky as he searched for an answer.

“I think you’re forgetting that I’m —”

“The Avatar,” Zuko interjected, the indifference in his voice rattling Aang’s sense. Golden eyes, piercing in their blatant interest and concern, met his own. “Did you want to be?”

Though Aang’s lips parted, no answer came forth. What question was that? He was meant to be the Avatar since birth. It was what he’d chosen to be and strove to be. Saving the world was necessary and he was a component in that. His state as the Avatar, a deciding factor in what the future would hold. Somehow though, he knew none of those answers would satisfy Zuko at all. The fire bender seemed to take his silence as answer enough and tilted his head away. Aang’s eyes shuttered and he stared down at the sea’s churning waters.

“My uncle said destiny is what we choose. You didn’t choose to be the Avatar. You accepted it, and what came with it. That’s why this trip is necessary…”

A heavy weight settled on Aang’s shoulder and he glanced up in time to see Zuko looking down at him. His eyes, rounded and half-lidded, reminded him almost of Iroh. A gentle squeeze to his shoulder preluding words that pierced Aang’s heart.

“You have to figure out what it means to be Aang.”

#avatar the last airbender #atla #zuko #aang #fanfiction #my fanfiction #peace is a journey

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lazywriter7 · 5 years

Text

part by part

“And you won. Congratulations.”

Stark’s ribs are starting to show, ridges of bone pushing against pallid, stretched-out skin. His face is sallow, his fingers trembling. Nebula knows he hasn’t eaten anything for the past sixteen hours. He must be delirious; it’s why he’s saying such things.

But he sounds so sure. Like winning is that easy. Achievable. Like it hasn’t been designed for the express purpose of being a remote point on the horizon, to chase after with no peace or rest or end.

(warnings for canon violence and abuse)

They test her.

Component by component, before they attach it – (graft it, screw it onto her body, weapons bolted to a hunk of breathing flesh) – test the arm and leg and cranium. Melting point, freezing point, corrosion by acid and plasma, ability to withstand concussive impact. They ponder on the best metals, the best configuration. And then the components become parts of her and are tested again – because you couldn’t have a nervous system shutting down due to massive shocks, due to something as commonplace as pain. What use would that be? What use would she be?

You were insufficient before, Thanos tells her, and she’s so grateful for his honesty. For his commitment to making her better. You have to evolve.

But night falls on Sanctuary II, lights dimmed in homage to Titan’s diurnal cycle, and she’s strung up limb to limb and there’s no one. No Korath to sneer at, no Gamora to resent, no Thanos to grit her jaw for and pretend that she’s stronger than the agony. Just a body that has never been hers, and long fingers that trail delicately through the air, pulling her open.

You are replaceable, the Maw whispers – and in the dead of space, there’s nothing else to hear. She’d have torn out her vocal chords if she’d been allowed to keep screaming. Her heart is deadened under plated ribs and an engineered sternum. No value except what we choose to bestow.

Night falls on Sanctuary II, and Nebula believes him.

“And you won. Congratulations.”

Stark’s ribs are starting to show, ridges of bone pushing against pallid, stretched-out skin. His face is sallow, his fingers trembling. She knows he hasn’t eaten anything for the past sixteen hours. He must be delirious; it’s why he’s saying such things.

They’re shaking hands now. “Fair game. Good sport.”

Maybe it’s reachable if the rules are designed different. It’s a traitorous thought – her mind wants to flinch away from it, even now. There are other thoughts to console her – if he’d been in a better state, not half an inch away from starvation, she’d never have been able to beat him.

But he doesn’t look beaten. Stark looks calm, and has a warmth in his eye that is the most alien thing about him.

“You had fun?”

“I had fun.” She rasps – and the world tilts on its axis, and the world stays the same. Because she can’t go back, now. She’s accepted the victory, and it sweeps over her, baffling and wondrous. It’s nothing she remembers feeling, and yet she’s the same person she’s always been.

“Here.” Stark maybe says, and food is being pushed into her hands, and Mother smiles. Her silver hair has gone ragged and grimy-yellow, the sleeves of her tunic hanging loose on knobby wrists. They’re hunched under an awning together, water splashing around their ankles where the Close has been waterlogged for over two weeks now, same as all the narrow alleys in Sector V. But she’s holding a mallowfruit in her palms, slightly squashed at one end but still bright and purple, and Nebula rips it from her hand even though her own fingers don’t completely fit around it.

“Leave some for Aramis.” Mother cautions, but she’s smiling at Nebula’s grubby face and sticky chin, running grimy fingernails through her spiky locks of hair. “You know he hates it when you don’t share.”

Sweet on the outside, with a juice tangy enough to burn the back of your tongue. She hasn’t tasted a mallowfruit in decades. Stark would probably like it.

He doesn’t look surprised when she nudges the food back. It feels like a bigger revelation than winning.

Thanos believes that true gratitude is only possible when you know from where you came. From where you’d risen. It’s why he leaves her all the memories.

Pink skies over the city of Luphom, vivid and brilliant, like the colour of a Krylorian’s skin – tinting to a peach-like hue closer to the horizon. Hilly terrain, sloping streets, air sticky-hot as dawn ripened to dusk, humidity bursting to torrential rain when the night came. Every night without fail – it’s what she’d been named for. The constellations and nebulae that Luphom never got to see, a distant dream.

The rain fills up the streets, drains too narrow to flush out the sheer volume – and they all find their vantage points, the water-climbers. Up on a metal dumpster with a part of its lid still intact, the roofs of speeders long deserted in closed-down garages, in low-hanging balconies whose owners would never come out in the spitting rain. They’re water-climbers because they can’t be anything else, squatting in wet season on the streets.

Aramis can climb with the best of them. They are a laughing, frolicking pack – holey shoes and flyaway hair, not a full set of teeth between them. They find footholds in nothing, sail paper boats down the flooded road, splash and tumble and pull each other up; and Nebula shivers in her little awning, water licking at her thighs, mouth pursed stiff and envious eyes.

He always comes back though. He comes back when the rain stops and dawn is a fine film of mist away; slips a coin into her ragged pocket, and rests his head on her bony shoulder. She stays still until he starts snoring, and then winds her fingers through the fluff of his hair.

Aramis is eight, when the Sanctuary II warship blots out the pink skies of Luphom. Nebula is ten.

Heavy boots splash through the streets, dogged by the sound of snapping mongrels. Blasters. Crying. They’re all nimble, all hardened by what fate has chosen to dole out to them throughout their lives. No one escapes.

Except Nebula, you see – because she is separate from the pack. Separate from the masses huddling together, thin shoulders and pale faces, flinching back from the drooling maws of the mongrels. Shepherded together, knee-deep in water that tranquilly reflects the skies – pink that is steadily darkening as blood seeps into the streets.

She is separate and Thanos takes it to be a mark of strength. Takes her, and it isn’t until they’re halfway up the ramp to the warship that she scrapes together the courage to look back. Peers over the massive arm steering her trembling shoulders, sees the herds in the water. They’re too far now for her to make out any faces.

She searches anyway. Sight leaping from blurry face to blurry face – there, that glint of light off a pale head, that could be Mother–

The arm around her pushes. Nebula snaps her head away reflexively, immediately. She walks. Step after tiny step, till the water level recedes from her ankles; a last, clutching grasp before ebbing away entirely.

She remembers the feeling for years after. The touch of water retreating from her feet as she finally climbs high enough, and the sick pit of self-loathing in her belly.

The Benatar is unsettlingly quiet. It is an M-class spaceship, with only the two of them to putter around, but the raccoon has never struck her as the silent type.

He’s silent now, as they fly out of the Hiberlac system – all the planets in the vicinity have been hit hard by power and supply shortages in the aftermath of the Snap. They dropped off a shipment, and took off straight after by unspoken agreement; neither were comfortable with the all too palpable gratitude in the eyes of the people. It isn’t like they were up to helping with any of the real needs here – leadership, shoring up a crumbling social system, dealing with a population reeling with uncertainty, no idea of the true causes behind what had happened.

They’re in the cockpit now. The racco– Rocket, has been fiddling with the nav panel for the past hour, screwdriver held between his sharp teeth. He put it in there half an hour ago, after one too many times of opening his mouth as if to speak to a spectre, before clacking his jaw shut. He reminds her a bit of Stark in that way – the same strained, uneasy quiet while working, like they were too used to babbling at someone that was no longer there.

(After the glowing woman in Kree gear had brought the ship down to Terra, Stark had offered Nebula a roof for as long as she wished, even though he’d just been reunited with his wife – she’d considered it for a second, before remembering Rocket’s diminutive figure silhouetted against the massive, empty entryway to the Benatar. It hadn’t really been a choice, in the end.)

Rocket screws open a corner of the panel, before screwing it down closed again – he isn’t really paying attention to what his paws are doing. His eyes, beady-black and reflecting the shine of the plasma lights, are staring fixedly at a point on the floor. There seem to be a few grains of something brownish, maybe soil, flattened against the grey flooring.

He reaches out in increments, brushes against it gently with his toe.

“Do you want to play paper football?”

“Wha…?” Rocket blinks, head swivelling in Nebula’s direction.

Nebula presses her lips together, awkwardness twisting up her tongue. She can’t say it again. “Nothing. It’s just a stupid game.”

Rocket doesn’t say anything for a while, before – “Can’t be any stupider than Arcade Defender.”

She ponders that for a second. “What’s an arcade?”

“Hell if I know.” Rocket absently sets his screwdriver down, where it rolls away from him unhindered. “Quill had the game on him when he first left Terra. We couldn’t get Groot to stop playing it…. stupid handheld thing… you could only go left and right, and shoot at bits of light falling from the top. How dumb is that?”

“Very dumb.” Nebula says.

“Quill wouldn’t admit it, but he hated it when Groot started beating all his high scores. Insect chick just stood over Groot’s shoulder and watched like it was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen.” Rocket’s whiskers fluff up a little, like a quiver of amusement. His eyes are glassy. “Drax only tried it once, and got game over in thirty seconds. Said, this machine has thwarted me, and never played again.”

Rocket’s small shoulders curl inwards, bent even smaller. “They were all so, so stupid.”

Nebula’s eyes flick over the metal ports embedded in his back, draggled fur and skin red and scarred-looking around them. It prods at the ache in her own mechanised joints. “Once… when we were younger, Gamora had just been rewarded for making her first kill. She came to find me, to share her winnings. We were both punished when this was discovered.”

That’s… not a funny story, just so you know. Stark’s imagined voice echoes in her head, a warm reproach.

But Rocket barks out a laugh, claws tapping heedlessly on the nav panel, “Yeah. She was pretty stupid too.”

Silence relapses in the cockpit again, six empty chairs and both of them squatting on the floor. A detached part of her mind wonders if Quill left his music-machine down here somewhere.

“It’s.” Rocket begins abruptly, words escaping half-bitten. “It’s better. Having someone around who also knew them.”

It’s like a glitch in her brain, trying to connect better with herself. Her entire life has been about eking out achievements, desperately clawing for better – how did she get it the time she isn’t even trying?

“You too.” The words escape her tongue on reflex, and Rocket nods as if he understands, even though she doesn’t.

Gamora would be proud. Strangely enough, it’s her brain forming the thought – not Rocket, or some remembered echo of Stark. The words don’t ring hollow, or false.

She would, Nebula repeats to herself. And I would totally beat her at paper football.

Coming face-to-face with herself is like cracking open that old pit in her stomach – loathing bubbling out uncontrollably.

Or at least, only for the first few seconds. It spikes and fades, and Nebula is left studying her own mirror-image, wondering what the others see when they look at the past version of her.

Cruelty. Slavishness to a despicable cause. All things worth loathing.

Yet, it’s remarkably difficult to hate something when it looks this desperate. This terrified. Maybe it’s why Gamora (herealiveherehere) tries to reason with the past version of her, even if Nebula knows for a fact it won’t work.

This version of her hasn’t spent three weeks drifting in space with a frail Terran man brave enough to go against Thanos. Hasn’t said ‘I wasn’t always this way’, only to hear back ‘neither was I.’ Doesn’t know a basic, solid truth –

It won’t stop hurting. Nebula watches her own face and feels the loathing seep away. Feels nothing. You think it will, but it won’t. He won’t stop hurting you if he likes you. He said he loved Gamora, and he came back with the Stone, and Gamora never came back at all.

This version of her lies on the ground, after Nebula presses the trigger. It doesn’t feel like an act of hate.

When she steps out on the battlefield, the Sanctuary II is looming in the skies.

For a second, she’s frozen in time. Chin lifted, heart frantic in her chest, watching a too-familiar nightmare. Except then the chaos around her filters in – the yells, the clash of steel, the sparks of magic and lightning and mongrels getting mowed down where they stand.

This isn’t a massacre. This isn’t an array of the defenceless, whose existence was deemed too burdensome to be allowed to continue. This… they’re fighting back.

The air is thick with dust, and Nebula breathes in it all. Her batons sizzle by her sides, electricity arcing up and down her arms.

She hacks and slashes her way through – plunges a baton into the gut of a mongrel and rips it right back out. One leaps onto her back and bites at the steel of her shoulder; she catches it by the head, and snaps the neck clean.

She’s brought down to the ground in the very next instance; a giant blade lodging itself in her knee, attached to a long, black handle – ah, Corvus Glaive. She’d always found the Black Order particularly repellent.

She turns on her back while she’s on the ground, rams a baton right into Corvus’ filthy maw. He howls with the pain, and she takes the few seconds to wrench his scythe out of her knee and swing straight for his head. It separates clean, and rolls to a stop next to her side – Nebula grits her teeth, spits out blood, and yanks her kneecap back in place. Pushes herself up; the pain is secondary. And she has yet to get to the figure in the centre of the field, towering over everyone else.

“You should have killed me.”

“Would have been a waste of parts.”

By the time she slaughters her way to the epicentre of the battle, Captain America and Thor are already down. Thanos is a hulking figure with his back to her, tall enough to eclipse almost everything else. He’s facing Stark, who’s half-braced on the ground, face bloody and ashen and etched with lines of desperation.

Not him. Nebula holds her batons at the ready, metal crackling viciously at her fingertips. Rage swirls through her head, a building blaze. Not him not him not him nothimnothimnothi–

Even across the distance, she can see Stark’s eyes flicker over to her, perhaps caught by the arcing electricity. His hand is half-raised, red-and-gold knuckles glowing with five blinding points of light.

Her fingers slacken, and the batons drop to the ground, sizzling against the soil. She stretches out a hand, unaware of what her face might be saying. Do you believe I can do this?

Stark’s face twists for a second, visible conflict and agony. Then his jaw straightens, firms up in resolve, eyes clear and trusting – and reaches his hand out toward her.

Thanos lunges forward, all-too-clearly realising his mistake, but it’s a second too late. The gauntlet streams through the air, broken down into its component parts – the wrist cuff slamming into her cybernetic hand, metal on metal, the interlocking plates following shortly behind. The Stones are six glowing points of heat on her unyielding skin, and she waits for them to slide in place before closing her eyes and breathing out.

Snap.

The pain. The pain is–

Nothing. Her arm begins to liquefy, gauntlet charring and dropping to her heels, elbow sloughing off after it. It’s nothing she hasn’t felt before, nothing that registers beyond the cold, furious triumph ringing in her head.

Her shoulder moults to a stump, and Nebula pushes herself up to her feet.

She looks down at the slurry on the ground. This is who she is. This is how she was made. An amalgamation of replaceable parts, each one discarded to make way for something better. This is the body she has, and it belongs to her.

At the corner of her vision, she can glimpse Stark’s face – bright eyes and lined with a savage sort of pride. There’s a ember of gratitude beginning to light in her chest, but there’ll be enough time for that later.

Nebula walks. She walks till she’s facing Thanos on his knees, and goes up even closer. Takes in every detail of the man – the dark eyes, the stolid chin, the lips so often flattened in dispassion but now trembling with pain.

Look at me. I did it. I did what you spent your entire life chasing, what nearly killed you, and it couldn’t even keep me down for a minute.

She doesn’t say any of it. Reaches out with her remaining hand instead, runs two fingers over where his brow is beginning to disintegrate.

“You never loved her.” She strokes down his cheek, like he used to with all of his children. His soldiers. And she smiles. “I won.”

Thanos crumples to dust at her feet.

It’s been pouring for the past hour.

Water plinks off the drainage pipes set into the roof, patters on the wet soil and rush-green leaves, hits the surface of the lake to set off a thousand ripples. The wind is angled enough to soak the back porch too, but Nebula is disinclined to move.

The floor is cold under her thighs, the wall colder against her back. She folds her legs in tighter, feels the spray of the rain on her shins. The world smells freshly washed. There are puddles forming beyond the porch, little pools of grey that ripple continually as the drops continue to fall.

She hears bare feet padding across the floor – her ears prick, but there’s no tell-tale sound of slipping heels or a yelp. She looks straight ahead, breathes out and waits.

Morgan comes and sits beside her, legs folding one over the other in imitation, till her bony knee pokes against Nebula’s thigh. Nebula doesn’t twitch.

A minute elapses, maybe more. Morgan fidgets with the hem of her t-shirt. “Do you like the rain?”

Nebula turns her head, regards the small face looking up at her. “I do.”

“I like the rain too.” Morgan scooches up closer to her, till they’re almost hip-to-hip – Nebula extends an arm on automatic, so the cold of the wall doesn’t filter through the thin material of that t-shirt. Morgan presses her back to the arm, small torso warm against Nebula’s side.

“Do you know how to make paper boats?” Nebula asks.

Morgan shakes her head.

“I’ll show you.” A brief pause, then Morgan presses her cheek to Nebula’s side. She’s said she likes the smoothness of the metal.

Nebula settles her hand on the back of her dark head. Winds her fingers gently through the hair, and watches the rain fall.

#avengers endgame #fixit #nebula pov #happy ending #nebula and tony #nebula and gamora #fanfic #canon divergence

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mysticalgalaxysalad · 5 years

Text

Captain’s Star

Chapter 2

Armando looked at Lesaro again. “I want to have all patrols accessed, now! And I don’t care, that they are sleeping just for half an hour! Vamos!” Lesaro run out to fulfill the command and captain looked back at the illegal passenger. Estrella stepped from leg to leg as that guilty officer. “Well…I took a walk in a harbor, I felt somehow attracted to the sea….and I didn’t resist such a temptation, to look at your ship closer…” She looked for a while into Salazar’s darkbrown eyes, which were dangerously glistening from suppressed anger, as if Estrella was looking onto a lightning. “You’re trying to tell me, that you were under that bed for more than a day? And what about your family? They surely had turned whole Havana inside out, thinking you had become a victim of some crime,” captain didn’t deny himself and kinda reprehended her. In his mind, Salazar counted at least to thirty to calm down. “Absolute irresponsibility, young lady,” he finally made a verdict. “But do not expect me to turn the ship back, because of you. I have my orders from admirality and these must be fulfilled.” It took several minutes, but Armando eventually stopped frowning like a storm cloud before a hurricane, and showed his pleasant aspect of his nature. It was clear to him, that startled young woman had to be tired and hungry. “Fortunately, you had chosen the right ship, not some wreck,” he muttered. “Make yourself comfortable, we will discuss the details later.”

Estrella didn’t say a word for her defense. She knew, that El Matador was right. Yet, she added. “My family knows, where I am, I told them. And I didn’t expect anything about taking me back,” a little calmed lady watched Armando cautiously. When she stopped being so nervous, her voice softened and became more melodic. Armando reciprocated her glance consternated, but he seemed relatively calm. “If I can recommend you, Señorita, stay in the quarter, ” he said and slowly walked out to reprehend patrolling men. And Salazar did it precisely and in such way, that the glass in the kitchen shook.

She heard it all. She had guilty conscious for she got the crew in such a trouble as pissed off Salazar was. I should stay in Havana, maybe I would meet captain Salazar there sooner or later, she thought. Captain didn’t come to his quarter for whole afternoon. He respected, that Estrella needed some privacy and also good rest. Yet before, the tall officer, who looked like soaked owl, entered the room. He saluted and put on the table a plate with every goodie possible to find on the ship. And also a jar with orange juice. The officer then quietly disappeared.

She shyly smiled at the officer and after he walked out of the room, she came to the table. She ae a piece from everything and drank glass of orange juice. Estrella yawned and felt tired and still a little bit sorry for what happened, but she couldn’t take it back. She laid on the soft bed and almost immediately fell asleep.

Also Salazar was distracted from his anger, by spotting a ship on the horizon – and under the black flag. “Remind me, that I have to scold the rest of you tomorrow, crew, everyone on the spot, get ready for battle! Vamos, vamos!” Captain shouted and literally flew on the bridge, where he took a wheel from Lesaro. Officers yelled commands and Silent Mary flew on the sea surface for a prey, which didn't know about predator's presence.

Estrella still slept and didn’t care for anything, what was happening above her head. She just turned to other side and continued to sleep. Her body, soft as a velvet at the touch and full of feminine curves, but still slim, was as if it was made from mercury. After some short time, a strong explosion, horrific yells of drowning pirate crap and shooting from muskets, which silenced begging pirates, was heard. Captain Salazar stayed for his reputation and he really didn’t deal with these sea rats gently.

Armando got into his quarter at evening. He knocked, before he entered. He wouldn’t like to find Estrella in an improper position. However, Estrella was already up at the time captain knocked. She had enough time to arrange the bed and her long, golden, wavy hair. She then opened the door and let captain come in. Salazar looked calmer than before – he probably vented his anger on the pirate ship. Estrella took few steps back. She also looked better, with tender cheeks blushing like delicate rose petals. “I think we can talk now, Señorita,” he mumbled, took her small hand and kissed her knuckles. “I’m Armando Salazar.”

She blushed even more. The little touch gave her goosebumps. Her heart started to beat faster, and Estrella hoped he wouldn’t notice. “My name is Estrella de la Cruz,” she introduced herself as well. “The Cruz family? Your relatives have something to do with Armada Española, right?” Salazar stated and seated Estrella at the table. “Wine, Señorita?” “Si, they have. My father was a general. We lived in Spain, but after some fight, where he had been badly injured, he retired from armada and we moved to Havana. Gracias, captain Salazar,” Estrella said with shy smile and took the glass with bloody red liquid from Armando.

“De nada,” Armando nodded. “Now tell me, how did you, for heaven's sake, get that crazy idea to hide yourself on a warship? Not that I haven’t had similar experiences before, but most of time it was men, who wanted to get into the crew, and were sure, that I will not throw them into the Caribbean, when I find them.” Estrella took a sip from wine and shrugged. “I haven’t made this on purpose, captain, that wasn’t my intention. I thought I could slip out back, after I take a closer look at the most famous and biggest Spanish ship,” Estrella sounded honestly and whispered. “But sometimes things don’t go according to the plan.” “You ashamed my patrols – they were utterly defeated,” Salazar admitted and also took a sip. “Mhm,” Estrella couldn’t help herself, but for a while she looked at Salazar. He looked so handsome. When she realized she was gazing at him for some time, she blushed and looked away. Armando didn’t care (for now), he was used to people starring at him. “Just to be clear, we are heading for regular sailing , which usually lasts for two and half months, in the case of bad weather for three months. It’s something like round trip upon problematic places in the Caribbean.” Estrella nodded. “Si, something like puring sea from pirates.” “It’s necessary, there would already be enough problems with the British, even without pirates,” said Salazar and took another sip of wine. “You won’t believe, Señorita, but they dare to announce they have stronger navy than Spain,” Salazar smiled at this fat as at a good joke. Estrella tried to ignore another goosebumps and heat in her lower belly, which she got from captain’s smile, and smiled too. “The pride precedes the fall,” she noted and winked. “That’s what I think,” captain stated proudly. “Even if there sailed ten of British snobs, The Silent Mary will make a sieve from them.” “Si, you will do also impossible with such a ship as Silent Mary is,” said proudly small blonde. Tha sentence slightly tickled Armando’s ego. “I'll believe this, when the sea is pure. When no pirate will dare to leave the port.” “I already believe this,” she smiled again. “Well, you didn’t see this ship in action and you probably won’t, just for your safety.” “You are right, captain,” Estrella just nodded. She didn’t want to cause any more problems to Armando and his crew. “I’m glad we understand each other, Señorita,” Salazar nodded. “If you'll need something, do not hesitate to ask… By the way, I want to excuse crudeness of officer Moss. Somethimes he speaks first, then he thinks.” “Don’t worry about it, it happens,” Estrella widely grinned. “In his case it’s a rule, although he is one of the most efficient individuals in a fight.” She nodded again. “Great,” Armando refilled both glasses with wine again. “To your satisfied curiosity, Señorita.” “Cheers!” Estrella took a look at Armando, then she took a sip. Armando looked a little bit surprised. Since he remained alone, he never drinked to his health. “Gracias, Señorita.” “De nada,” she looked at Salazar for a while. “It seems to be calm evening, do you want to go out for a while?” “Si, why not?” She took the last sip of wine and got up.

Salazar also got up and offered Estrella his arm. Right after Salazar led her out from captain's quarters, they headed on the bridge. Lt. Lesaro only raised his eyebrows - and surprised Moss fell into a bucket of mopping water. It really was not an usual event to see Salazar with some woman. Estrella secretly watched Armando. She blushed, but stayed silent.

It was quite fine evening. The Sun set and pirates nowhere. Captain was silent and wastched squawking gulls. When the Sun had set, he accompanied Estrella to his quarters and wished her good night. This continued for day after day, and eventually the crew got used to this view of captain and the lady. Also Salazar seemed to get used to have a dinner with “illegal passenger”. This rhythm was cut off by destructing some pirate ship from time to time, but in that time Salazar did not allow Estrella to leave his quarters - not even for a milisecond. Hovewer, El Capitán sometimes tried to come up with something, just to make the young lady comfortable at such unusual place. One evening - after the supplies were refilled, was especially good. Armando decided to occupy the kitchen for an hour, just to create one little culinary miracle.

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