#Report Filed (Rebels)

[wttcsms]

i'll pretend you'll stay forever ; kento nanami.

pairing kento nanami x f!reader  word count 2.4k  synopsis no one knows that the bodyguard for the prime minister's daughter fucks her on a daily basis. content contains bodyguard!nanami x prime minister's daughter!reader, big, beefy, strong nanami hehe, creampie, slight brat taming, pet names (baby, good girl, bad girl), cockwarming, dom!nanami, hair pulling, car sex, nanami makes you call him sir author's notes s2 was animated for the nanami girlies

Kento Nanami is good at his job.

Granted, he’s been practically bred for the position. Born and raised by a mother and father who also dealt in espionage, sent to boarding schools that would feed him directly to The Academy, constantly being reminded of his purpose. Agent Nanami serves as one of the Prime Minister’s most trusted secret operatives. A select few who are given the most sensitive assignments. 

“K-Kento — too much,” your shaky whines sound even louder than they actually are, emphasized by the silence in his car. 

Sensitive — yes, that’s what you are. 

“You can take it.” He tells you, gently stroking your cheek. His calloused thumb wipes away a stray tear, and he takes you in. You’re still tearing up, your lashes slick, and you’re pouting at him. You’re always pouting, probably because growing up, you’ve never been told no. It’s not required according to his assignment file (most of what Nanami has been doing with you has decidedly been not required), but Nanami’s been trying hard to give you lessons that will have you behaving politely and like a good girl rather than the spoiled brat you actually are.

Kento Nanami is good at his job.

When he’s told that he is to be the primary bodyguard for the Prime Minister’s daughter, he accepts it without hesitation. Everyone else has had no luck with you, and you certainly don’t seem to be bothered by that fact. You’re in college now, and you want nothing more than to skip lectures and go to parties, both of which is rather difficult when you have a bodyguard watching your every move and reporting directly to your father.

Nanami goes about his assignment in a different way. There’s another bodyguard, one who is also watching you, but young Itadori cannot possibly go about protecting the Prime Minister’s most beloved daughter safe all by himself. He’s barely graduated from the Academy.

Besides, you automatically dislike any of the guards assigned to you. Itadori is a nice, young man, and in different circumstances, everyone is certain that you would have enjoyed his company. The fact that his job is to protect you seems to be his only fatal flaw in your eyes.

Nanami is no stranger to undercover work, and so posing as a final year doctoral candidate at the university you’re attending is an easy cover. Setting up the perfect chain of events that leads to you specifically choosing him to be your economics tutor was also an easy enough task. 

And somewhere along the lines, you got this idea inside of your pretty, little head that you’re just the smartest, sneakiest girl around. You think you’re evading Itadori’s watchful eyes, taking advantage of his rookie status even though he’s always aware you’re “sneaking off” to meet with Nanami. You think you’re finally rebelling against your father’s strict instructions to stay out of trouble. 

And while Nanami does ensure that you keep out of trouble, he’s not sure if your father will approve with how he’s keeping you so obedient.

Kento Nanami is good at his job.

You’re not the first brat that he’s had to train, but you’re proving to be quite the star student. You hold back any more whining complaints, and instead, you’re straddling his lap like the good girl he knows you can be, his thick cock fitting snugly inside your pussy.

Both of your hands are clutching onto his broad shoulders, your pretty, manicured nails digging into the stiff cotton of his blue button-up. His mind doesn’t register the sting of your nails practically sinking into his skin. All he can focus on is what a pretty, dazed little mess you are. 

“See?” He coos, sounding not the least bit condescending. The warmth of his baritone, the reassuring strokes on your cheek — Nanami is a gentleman. You practically beam with pride as he tells you, “I told you you could take it. Such a good girl.”

You still haven’t moved yet, and Nanami whispers more words of praise for you. It only took two weeks of training to get you to understand that you can beg for his touch, his attention, his cock, all you want, but he gives it all to you under his terms and conditions. He knows you want some friction, knows that you need it so badly because why else are your walls clenching down so heavily on his length? You’re being so patient with him that he feels himself getting impossibly harder at the thought of your perfect behavior. 

“You want to ride me, baby?” The question comes out as a throaty whisper, the clear desire he has for you evident in his rough tone. 

You nod eagerly, damn near salivating at the thought of finally being able to take what you want. 

“Use your words.” He demands, moving his hand to caress your face once more before letting his thumb toy with your bottom lip. 

“Yes,” you whimper out, trying your hardest to resist the temptation to start moving, to have the feeling of his cock brushing against your walls, in and out, in and out.

His eyes narrow, and his cold demeanor is enough to keep you frozen in place. Oh, you’ve upset him. 

“You were being such a good girl, too.” He shakes his head in disappointment. “When you answer me, what are you supposed to say?”

“Y-yes, sir.” 

“And if you knew this, why didn’t you say it the first time?” The way he snaps at you shouldn’t give your tummy butterflies, but it does. Nanami is far kinder and gentler than he lets on, and it’s why you enjoy it when he takes on such a demanding role when it’s just the two of you. No one can handle your attitude as well as Nanami, and that’s precisely why you’re warming his cock right now, walls tightening around him with every stern scolding that leaves his mouth. 

“You can’t answer me?” The sharpness of his tone turns you demure, making you turn your head down and away from him, refusing to answer or look at him, and he frowns at that. You feel him wrapping your hair around his hand, and the movements are soft, slow, gentle at first—

—and with speed and dexterity that shouldn’t belong to a mere student, he’s yanking you by your hair, forcing you to snap your head up and look him in his cold eyes. 

“You were behaving so well earlier.” He feigns disappointment, but the hungry glint in his eyes tells you that he’s been looking forward to whatever punishment he has in store for you. “What a shame. I was going to let you have me however you wanted, let you take control for once.” He leans down, whispering in your ear. “Instead, it looks like I get to fuck you like the bad girl you really are, hm?” 

Before you can protest, apologize, beg for mercy, he takes his free hand to grip your waist, strong enough to lift you slightly off of him, only to slam you back down on his dick. 

You let out a strangled cry at the sudden intrusion. It’s one thing to have him sink into you inch by inch; it’s another thing entirely to have him practically impale you with his dick.

His thrusts are rough, hard, unforgiving. Never sloppy, though — Nanami’s much too meticulous to reduce himself to a wild animal, even though he’s fucking you so hard, you can’t tell if he hates your guts or just wants to rearrange them. 

His hand is still tangled in your hair, and he pulls some more, forces your neck to arch up. He leans in, licking at the soft skin of your neck before nipping at the skin, hard enough to leave a mark you’ll need to cover up with a turtleneck because no amount of concealer can save you now.

You mewl in pain at the sensation, but it’s obvious you love it. You’re dripping all over his dick, forcing wet, squelching sounds to fill the car every time he moves inside of you. You should be ashamed — would be ashamed — if only the overwhelming pleasure didn’t leave your mind shrouded in a hazy mist of lust and rapture. The pinpricks of pain from how he’s pulling your hair and from the fresh lovebites marking your flesh should hurt more, but you’re too lost in the way his cock is filling you up. 

“Look at that.” Nanami growls, untangling his hand from your hair in favor of putting his fingers to better use: stroking your clit. “You’re fucking soaked.” You look down as he commands, and your eyes widen in surprise, even though it shouldn’t come as such a shock to you. The front of his trousers is absolutely drenched with your juices, and your clit practically glistens in the faint moonlight that sneaks past the tint of his car. “Is this why you like to be a bad girl? Because you like getting fucked like a fleshlight, is that it?”

You want to shake your head no. You want to tell him that you are good, that you’re not a bad girl. But the stimulation on your clit, his harsh words, the way his cock is repeatedly hitting that special spot of yours — it’s all too much for you to handle.

“I want to treat you so well, baby. I want to spoil you, give you everything, but you make it so — fucking — difficult.” He speaks through clenched teeth, the warmth and ecstasy of being buried in your sweet pussy slowly chipping away at his resolve. The last three words of his sentence have all been punctuated by a particularly brutal thrust, and you’re certain that by the end of this, your cunt will keep the shape of his cock forever.

“I’m sorry!” You scream out, tears flowing freely down your cheeks now. The pleasure is mind-numbing, earth-shattering, reality-altering. Neither of you know what you’re apologizing for. Is it for being a bad girl when all Nanami wants is for you to behave so he can bring you the world at your feet? Is it for the wet mess you’re making all over his nice clothes and cock? Or is it for the fact that you’re breaking a cardinal rule, one that he will be most displeased by?

Maybe it’s all of the above, but if you had to pick, the apology would be for the fact that you’re cumming without permission. Your conscious mind is aware that Nanami is not going to be very happy with you, but this climax has you seeing stars. You can’t find it in yourself to worry about future consequences when you’re losing yourself in the throes of passion and pleasure. You’re drenching his cock in your cum, seeing stars, and reduced to feeling like a boneless mess. You slump against his strong chest, eyes struggling to remain open as you rest your head on one of his big, broad shoulders.

The punishment doesn’t come immediately — it rarely ever does. Nanami bides his time and doles out his punishments when you least expect it. He does it to keep you on edge, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t excite you. 

Instead, he lets you rest against him, reduced to nothing more than a little, fucked-out mess. You feel a rumble from his chest, a series of grunts and curses leaving his mouth as the bucking of his hips is done so harshly, you’re certain that you’re going to be bruised everywhere, from the soft flesh of your thighs to your poor cervix. A few more thrusts and Nanami is certain that he is planted as deep as he could go, the tip of his cock hitting you at your most sensitive spot. 

You feel him bury his face into your hair, taking in the scent of your shampoo and the lingering aroma of sex and sweat. His cock throbs in sporadic bursts, and you hear him grunt out your name like a broken prayer.

He cums, unloading a hot, heavy load directly inside of you, flooding you. You think you forget how to breathe, and all you can do is just take it, take all of him.

The warm sensation has you moaning softly; the feeling of him completely dominating your senses, your body, you, has you wanting him to never let you go, to never leave. You tighten your core, trying to squeeze more of his cum into you as he lets out little groans of pleasure from above you. You love reducing him to a moaning mess, reducing him to this sex-dazed state whenever he lets go because of you.

You don’t think you’re capable of speech, throat raw from your previous screams of pleasure, but you find that you don’t have to speak to let Nanami know what you want. As you lift your head from his shoulder, relishing in the sight of Nanami with his head leaned back, cheeks flushed from the exertion of giving you the best dick of your life, he opens his eyes to meet yours. Leaning down, he captures your lips and gives you a messy, sloppy kiss that is so unbecoming and out of character for him. 

The makeout session lasts until your eyes feel droopy and you’re not responding anymore. Nanami just looks down at you with a fondness that he hasn’t felt for anyone else in a while. You’re all tuckered out, and you’re breathing softly and slowly, lost to the world of dreaming. He’s a bit exhausted, too. He should pull you off his cock and buckle you back safely in the passenger seat, but he sees a small trail of his cum dribbling out of your overstuffed pussy and he figures it’s less of a mess if he just keeps you nice and plugged up for the time being.

Before he can close his eyes and join you, the crackle of his telecom planted in his watch comes to life. The static doesn’t do much to alter Itadori’s voice.

“Y1 to K1, this is Y1 requesting status of the Princess. Over.”

The “Princess” is currently dozing peacefully with his cum settling in her cunt. Nanami thinks that’s too crude to relay over the comms, though.

“K1 to Y1, Princess is secured. Over.”

[astrolook]

🌙 North Node & South Node in Each Sign: What Your Soul Came to Learn

🔮 The South Node = Past Life Karma (What you’ve mastered but need to let go of) 🌟 The North Node = Soul’s Purpose (What you’re here to grow into)

👇 Check your North & South Node placements and see what your soul signed up for!

♈ North Node in Aries / South Node in Libra → In past lives, you relied too much on relationships. Now, you must learn independence, self-assertion, and putting yourself first.

♉ North Node in Taurus / South Node in Scorpio → You’ve had intense, dramatic past lives. This time, it’s about stability, peace, and building something solid without chaos.

♊ North Node in Gemini / South Node in Sagittarius → You were a philosopher, adventurer, or traveler in past lives. Now, you must focus on communication, curiosity, and the details.

♋ North Node in Cancer / South Node in Capricorn → You were all about work and status before. This time, it’s about family, emotions, and nurturing your personal life.

♌ North Node in Leo / South Node in Aquarius → You spent past lives as a rebel or a group leader. Now, it’s about self-expression, creativity, and embracing the spotlight.

♍ North Node in Virgo / South Node in Pisces → You were a dreamer, spiritual seeker, or healer in past lives. This life is about structure, routine, and practical skills.

♎ North Node in Libra / South Node in Aries → You were fiercely independent before. Now, it’s about learning balance, partnerships, and working with others.

♏ North Node in Scorpio / South Node in Taurus → You had easy, comfortable past lives. Now, you must transform, embrace intensity, and dive into the unknown.

♐ North Node in Sagittarius / South Node in Gemini → You were caught up in small details in past lives. Now, it’s about expanding your mind, taking risks, and seeking truth.

♑ North Node in Capricorn / South Node in Cancer → You lived for family and emotions in past lives. This time, you must focus on discipline, ambition, and personal success.

♒ North Node in Aquarius / South Node in Leo → You were all about personal recognition before. Now, it’s about the collective, humanitarian work, and thinking outside the box.

♓ North Node in Pisces / South Node in Virgo → You used to be overly logical and focused on details. Now, it’s about spirituality, intuition, and surrendering to the unknown.

✨ Want a deeper guide on your past life karma?

Karmic Paths & Soul Purpose: A Complete Guide to the North Nodes & South Nodes in Astrology (13-page report) - $5

Get my full PDF guide for just $5! Payment via PayPal. Once payment is confirmed, I will send you the PDF. It covers North Node & South Node in signs & houses, who you were in your past life, your career, family, love and your relationships in detail. Message me to grab your copy! 🌟

Note : Due to different time zones, I might not reply immediately. Don't worry! Leave me your email address for me to send the password-protected PDF file. Once the payment is confirmed, I will give you the password to access to it.

[trademarkblue]

They’re gonna try to spin it like June had no choice. She had to let Nick go as a sacrifice for the greater good.

Fuck, no.

She had a staggering amount of time to warn him in countless ways, starting from the moment he got out of the car. She was in an inexplicably empty hangar, all the other commanders were on board the plane already, and no one was expecting Nick to show up. He almost looks directly at her. She could have breathed sharply and he would have sensed her. The plan would have absolutely stayed intact. But no.

Instead, she callously and passively - with full awareness - lets the man die…

who has literally saved the lives of many of the people she loves, some of them multiple times (Moira, Luke, Holly/Nichole, and June herself)

who was ready to leave Gilead with her a couple weeks ago

who has killed for her

who gave her her agency back

who freely offered her the only safe space in the darkest place

who has never once controlled her

who gave her a way to rebel through the power of love

who has consistently sacrificed his mental and physical wellbeing in favor of hers

who endured a forced marriage to a teenager because of her

who married again (fight me on this) to hold his position in Gilead to help June with info on Hannah (he was already married in 4x09 when he gave June the Hannah file!)

who knew he would probably never see his daughter again and still actively worked to get her and June to safety

who was made a Commander and sent to die in Chicago because he made sure June and Holly were able to escape by holding Fred Waterford hostage

who delivered that same man to June to make sure she got justice for what Fred had done to her

who stood up to Serena for her, risking being reported and put on the wall

who watched her go back to her life with another man because he loved her so selflessly that all he wanted was for her to be happy and safe, even when that could never be with him (“try and be happy” / “keep yourself safe”)

who let another government official take advantage of him and use him, just to fight what Gilead was doing to her in Canada

who punched another Commander in front of a room full of witnesses just because she had been endangered again

who asks about his daughter every single chance he gets and misses and loves her with every breath

who is consistently sickened by violence and only fantasizes about peace and safety

who is terrified and alone and grieving and lost and just needs her help and her love, even if it’s only a fraction of the limitless love he shows to her so effortlessly…

This is the man she destroyed. This is the man she let walk out of her and her daughter’s lives forever, leaving his wife a widow and his unborn son fatherless.

[goblin-jr]

Tell me, where’s your hiding place?

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: Clark Kent braces himself for another forgettable assignment, expecting nothing more than a routine interview. But when he comes face to face with a ghost from his past, he knows he’s in for trouble.

part 1 . part 2 . part 3 . part 4 . part 5

complete

words: 7.2 k

💌 💌 💌 💌

The elevator hummed softly as it ascended, the floor numbers ticking higher with every passing second. Clark Kent exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted his tie, tugging it loose before tightening it again. He caught his reflection in the mirrored wall—neat, composed, and entirely unbothered. Or at least, that was the goal.

In reality, he was still shaking off the last twenty minutes.

He had barely been two blocks from the Daily Planet when he’d heard it—a sharp, metallic screech followed by the unmistakable blare of a car horn. His head had snapped up just in time to see the taxi slam through the guardrail of the Metropolis Monorail overpass, its front end teetering over the tracks, headlights flickering against the rain-slick steel.

The driver had been unconscious. The passenger, a woman clutching a toddler to her chest, was very much awake, pounding on the back window as the weight of the vehicle threatened to drag them both down.

Clark had moved before he could think. A blur of motion between heartbeats. One second, he was stepping off the curb, and the next, he was beneath the car, hands braced against its undercarriage. He could feel the groan of the metal, the way the rain made everything slick beneath his grip, but the moment his strength took over, physics became an afterthought.

The woman’s wide-eyed shock barely registered as he tore the back door off its hinges, scooping her and the child into his arms before setting them safely on the pavement. The whole thing had taken maybe thirty seconds—long enough for bystanders to gape, for phones to rise, for someone to murmur the word Superman before he was already gone, vanishing into an alley before the inevitable swarm of reporters could descend.

And now, here he was, standing in a penthouse elevator, smoothing down his tie, pretending like none of it had happened.

His hair, still slightly damp from the drizzle outside, was combed back, but a stray curl had already begun to rebel against the order he’d forced upon it. His tie, a respectable shade of blue, sat a little too stiffly against his collar, a reminder of how quickly he’d thrown it back on. And then there were his shoes. He frowned slightly as he caught sight of the faint scuff marks marring the polished leather. If his interviewee was the observant type, they might notice.

Not that it mattered.

This wasn’t a real story. It was a fluff piece—some last-minute assignment Perry had thrown at him because the usual reporter was out sick. Some musician, Y/N something. He hadn’t even skimmed the file beyond the basics.

The elevator slowed. A soft chime rang out as the doors slid open.

Clark exhaled and stepped forward.

Half an hour. That’s all this would take. Ask the questions, get the quotes, and be done with it.

How hard could it be?

The elevator doors slid open with a smooth, soundless motion, revealing the entrance to the penthouse. Clark stepped forward, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet runner that stretched down the hallway. Immediately, he was struck by the sheer extravagance of it all.

Marble. So much marble.

The floors gleamed under the soft glow of recessed lighting, the white-and-gray veining swirling in elaborate patterns. The walls, too, were lined with marble panels, broken up only by large, modern art pieces that looked more like expensive smudges of paint than anything with real meaning. Gold accents caught the light at every turn—door handles, lighting fixtures, the trim of an absurdly oversized mirror mounted at the far end of the hall. It was cold. Impersonal. The kind of wealth that demanded admiration but offered no warmth in return.

Clark resisted the urge to adjust his glasses. He’d been in places like this before—interviews with CEOs, gala events, the occasional press function where billionaires pretended to be relatable over champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres. But standing here, surrounded by so much artificial shine, he couldn’t help but think of the Kent farmhouse back in Smallville.

His mother’s worn wooden floors, the way they creaked underfoot no matter how many times she insisted they weren’t old, just well-loved. The chipped paint on the banister, the scent of warm earth drifting in through open windows on summer nights. Even the old oak table, scratched and scarred from years of family meals, had more character than this entire building combined.

Clark much preferred wood over marble.

Still, he had a job to do.

He stopped in front of the penthouse door, glancing at the polished brass number plate. The weight of the assignment settled in again—just a quick interview, a handful of quotes, and he’d be out of here. Simple.

Lifting his hand, he rapped his knuckles against the door. The sound echoed faintly down the hall.

For a moment, nothing.

Then, the click of a lock turning.

The door swung open.

Clark was already prepared with his introduction, but the words stalled for half a second as he took in the woman standing before him.

She was young—probably the same age as him—with sharp, intelligent eyes and a presence that felt effortless, like she belonged in places like this. There was something familiar about her, but not in a way he could immediately place. Maybe it was the shape of her eyes, the way she held herself, or just the faintest pull of recognition in the back of his mind, like he saw her on a billboard somewhere.

She blinked at him, clearly thrown off. “Oh. I was expecting Sasha.”

Clark cleared his throat, recovering quickly. “Sasha’s out sick. Perry White sent me instead. Clark Kent, Daily Planet.”

She hesitated for only a second before smiling, holding the door open wider. “Well, come on in, then.”

Clark stepped inside, the warm glow of the penthouse wrapping around him as the door shut behind him.

Y/N stepped back from the door, letting Clark into the apartment. He walked in, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag as his eyes swept the space. The penthouse was as extravagant as he expected—floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the open-concept living area in golden light, offering a panoramic view of the Metropolis skyline. The furniture was sleek and modern, everything arranged with careful precision. It was the kind of place designed to impress.

“This is quite the place,” Clark commented as they walked further inside.

Y/N glanced at him, an easy smile on her lips. “Yeah, it has its perks.”

She moved ahead of him, leading the way down the short hallway that opened into the living room. A plush ivory couch stretched along the center of the space, positioned in front of a low glass coffee table. Built-in shelves lined the walls, holding a mix of framed awards, books, and decorative pieces that looked like they had been placed there by an interior designer.

Clark took it all in as they walked. “Been here long?”

“A few years.” Y/N motioned toward the couch. “Go ahead, make yourself comfortable.”

Clark gave a polite nod before setting his bag down beside the armrest and easing onto the couch. It was softer than expected, and for a second, he sat a little too stiffly, still adjusting to the unfamiliar setting.

Y/N lingered near the kitchen, glancing toward him. “Do you want something to drink? Water? Coffee?”

“Water’s fine, thanks.”

She nodded and gestured toward the seating area. “I’ll be right there. Just make yourself at home.”

With that, she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Clark alone in the living room. He glanced around again, his gaze settling on the details that filled the space. It was modern, polished, expensive—but something about it felt untouched, like it was meant to be lived in but wasn’t.

His eyes drifted to the oversized fireplace and stopped just beside it. Hung on the wall, standing out against the sleek decor, was a battered silver guitar.

Clark stilled.

Something about it nagged at him, an itch in the back of his mind that refused to be ignored. The rest of the apartment was curated to perfection—everything in its place, designed to impress. But this guitar didn’t belong to the aesthetic. It wasn’t some decorative piece picked out by an interior designer. It was worn, real, lived in. The wood was faded in places, the silver finish dulled by years of touch. The edges were scuffed, the pickguard scratched, the strings looked fresh, meaning they had been replaced more times than he could count.

And yet, it wasn’t just its condition that held him in place. It was something else—something deeper.

Clark leaned closer, his breath slow and steady as his eyes traced over every familiar detail. His gaze snagged on a tiny bird decal on the body of the guitar, its edges peeling slightly with age.

His stomach dropped.

Oh.

The memory crashed into him like a tidal wave. The silver guitar, the hands that had played it, the voice that had carried through the dim light of an apartment he hadn’t thought about in years. The name attached to all of it—Y/N.

How had he missed this?

Clark was a journalist. He prided himself on details, on never overlooking the obvious. Yet here he was, standing in the middle of her living room, blindsided by the realization that this wasn’t just some pop star.

It's her.

Before he could think much more about it, Y/N’s voice called from the kitchen.

“Alright, Mr. reporter. Let’s get this over with.”

Clark straightened slightly as she reentered, glass of water in hand, and set it down in front of him.

Gaining control of his expression, Clark snapped his gaze to hers as she settled into the chair across from him. This really is her.

The realization still sat heavy in his chest, but he refused to let it show. He didn’t know if he should feel proud that she had made it—really made it—or guilty that he had never once thought to check in on her after he left. Seven years, and not once had he tried to find out what happened to the girl with the silver guitar and the fire in her voice. Now, she sat in front of him, a household name, a polished version of the same person he had once known.

She looked different. Older, sure, but there was something else—something lighter. She looked happier.

He cleared his throat and reached into his bag, pulling out a small recording device. The soft click of the power button filled the quiet space as he placed it on the coffee table between them. Business. That’s what this was. He needed to focus.

Clark glanced at his notepad. “Alright,” he said, voice steady, professional. “Let’s start with the album. This will be your first release in two years. What inspired it?”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, considering. “Time,” she answered finally. “I needed time away from it all. Music never stopped being important, but I had to figure out who I was when I wasn’t writing for a deadline. I think this album is the closest thing to me that I’ve ever put out.”

Clark nodded, jotting down notes as she spoke. “Did you feel any pressure coming back after so long?”

She tilted her head slightly. “At first. People love to ask if you’re washed up the second you take a step back. But the truth is, I wasn’t interested in coming back just to prove a point. I wanted to wait until I had something to say.”

Clark tapped his pen against the pad. “And what is it you’re trying to say with this album?”

Y/N’s lips twitched, almost amused. “That would be giving too much away, wouldn’t it?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair enough.”

They moved through the next few questions with ease, Y/N answering smoothly, clearly used to this sort of thing. The creative process, favorite tracks, collaborations—Clark kept his focus steady, writing efficiently, keeping his mind from slipping into dangerous territory. But despite his efforts, his eyes kept drifting over her shoulder, drawn back to the guitar mounted behind her.

The silver finish, the well-worn edges, the tiny bird decal near the strings.

The guitar.

His grip tightened on his pen. He hadn’t realized he had been looking at it so often until Y/N followed his gaze, glancing back at the instrument. A small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips before she turned her attention back to him.

“You probably thought I wouldn’t have it anymore, huh?”

Clark went still.

His entire body locked up for half a second, but he forced himself not to react. His heart hammered against his ribs, though his expression remained neutral.

Does she recognize me?

No. That was impossible. It had been years. His glasses, his posture, the way he carried himself—Clark Kent wasn’t Kal. He had spent his whole life perfecting that distinction. If she did recognize him, that would mean she knew what he was. That Clark Kent wasn’t all human. That the quiet, mild-mannered reporter sitting in front of her was the same reckless, smirking enigma who had once pulled her out of an alley and into his world.

She couldn’t know.

Before he could decide how to respond, Y/N continued, her voice casual, but with unmistakable mischief. “I didn’t take you for a fan, Mr. Kent.” She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin in her hand, the corner of her mouth quirking upward. “Only the hardcore ones know the guitar I recorded my first album on.”

Clark exhaled slowly, just enough to release the tension in his chest. She didn’t know. She wasn’t looking at him like she recognized him—just a reporter showing more interest in an instrument than she expected.

He let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “I do my research.”

Y/N gave him a knowing look, her smirk widening into a full-on grin. “I’ll sign something for you after, but right now we need to finish the interview, yeah?”

Clark felt the tips of his ears heat up but quickly brushed it off, letting out a small chuckle as he flipped to the next page in his notebook.

“Oh my God,” Y/N snickered, watching him carefully. “You are a fan.”

“I’m not—”

“You totally are.”

Clark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before returning to his notes. “Let’s move on.”

Y/N let out a dramatic sigh but gestured for him to continue.

Scanning the remaining questions he realized he had everything he needed—probably more than he expected to get. Still, he asked a few final ones, keeping his tone measured, professional. Y/N answered just as smoothly, leaning back into the couch, arms draped over the arms of the couch like this was just another routine press stop.

“So, what’s next after the album drops?” he asked, capping his pen.

“Tour,” Y/N said easily. “Larger venues this time, I like the small, intimate ones but my team insisted”

Clark nodded. “Sounds like a full schedule.”

“It will be.” She stretched, arching her back dramatically before standing. “But I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t want to.”

Clark closed his notebook and stood as well, slipping it into his bag. “Well,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “I think that covers everything.”

Y/N grinned, hands on her hips. “You sure? This is your last chance to ask the really scandalous questions. My favorite color? My go-to breakfast order? My villain origin story?”

Clark huffed a small laugh. “I think I put you through enough.”

“Eh,” she shrugged, heading toward the door. “You’ve had worse interview subjects, I’m sure.”

He followed, his steps even as she pulled the door open and leaned casually against it. The interview was over, but there was still an odd weight in his chest—one he wasn’t ready to name.

Y/N crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. “I’m excited to read the draft.”

Clark gave a polite nod, offering a small, unreadable smile. “I’ll make sure you get it.”

“Good,” she said, smirking. “And don’t forget—I still owe you an autograph.”

Clark shook his head, amused despite himself, before stepping past the threshold. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Looking back at the door, Clark stilled as he caught Y/N staring.

She hadn’t moved yet, still leaning against the frame, but something in her expression had shifted. Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed in quiet contemplation, like she was trying to place something just out of reach.

A flicker of recognition. A question forming before she even voiced it.

Then, she opened her mouth.

“Have we met before?”

Clark felt his entire body tense, a split-second rush of panic surging through his veins.

Her voice wasn’t teasing this time. There was no playfulness in it, no smirk. Just quiet curiosity, a thread of certainty in the way she said it.

Clark forced his shoulders to stay relaxed, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. He could feel her gaze pressing into him, waiting, searching.

His pulse roared in his ears.

“I don’t think so,” he said, his voice even, carefully detached—a weak attempt at deflection.

A beat of silence.

Then, just as quickly as the moment had come, her face shifted back into an easy smile.

“Yeah,” she said lightly, brushing it off. “I think you’re right. I would’ve remembered meeting my biggest fan”

She pulled the door open just a little wider.

“Goodbye, Clark.”

Clark swallowed, nodding once before turning down the hall.

–

It had been weeks since the interview, and Y/N hadn’t stopped thinking about Clark Kent.

It was ridiculous, really. She had given a hundred interviews in her career. Some routine, some personal, some tedious, and some even fun. Clark’s had been professional, straightforward. Nothing about it should have lingered in her mind the way it did.

But something about him nagged at her.

It wasn’t attraction, though she could admit—if only to herself—that he was handsome in a quietly unassuming way. No, it was something else. Something about his presence. The way he had held himself, the way he had studied her, the way he had deflected, just slightly, when she asked if they had met before.

The thing was, Clark reminded her of someone else.

Kal.

The boy who had plucked her out of a dark alley and tossed her into his strange world, the one who had been both reckless and careful, cocky yet distant. The one who had let her in just enough to make her wonder.

Y/N frowned, shifting in her seat as the town car moved through the streets of Metropolis. It was preposterous, really. Clark Kent was a journalist—a calm, mild-mannered, by-the-books kind of guy. He had sat across from her with a steady, unshakable presence, pen in hand, carefully gathering her words like a collector cataloging artifacts.

Kal had been wild. Sharp-edged. Untamed.

And yet…

Y/N sighed, pressing her fingers against her temple. You’re being ridiculous.

The problem was, she could barely recall the specifics of Kal’s face anymore. It had been a hard time in her life, and memories had a way of shifting in the years that followed. She remembered the feeling of him more than anything—the electric unpredictability, the way he had existed in the world like he was always somewhere else in his mind. She remembered the smirks, the sharp wit, the way he had looked at her when she played her guitar, like she was giving him something he didn’t know he needed.

But the details? The timbre of his voice, the exact shade of his eyes?

They were a blur.

It wasn’t like she had a photograph to remember him by.

Still, something gnawed at her. Clark Kent reminds me of Kal.

The idea was absurd, and yet, it had planted itself in her brain, refusing to be dismissed completely.

She let out a slow breath, watching as the familiar streets of Metropolis passed by. Streetlights flickered against the car window, smearing golden streaks across the glass. The hum of the city at night was something she had grown used to, but right now, it barely registered.

She needed to stop thinking about this. It didn’t matter. Kal was long gone. Clark Kent was a journalist who had done his job and moved on. There was no reason for her to still be thinking about him.

And yet—

Her gaze flickered outside, and her breath caught.

The car was passing the Daily Planet.

The illuminated logo shone high above the building, bold and unwavering, a beacon in the city skyline. The sight of it sent a jolt through her, instinctive and irrational.

Y/N hesitated.

And then, before she could think better of it, she leaned forward.

“Stop the car.”

The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Miss?”

“Stop the car, please” she repeated, already reaching for the door handle.

Grabbing a random T-shirt from the pile she had been signing, Y/N pulled it along without checking what it was. She barely hesitated before opening the car door and stepping onto the bustling sidewalk outside the Daily Planet.

This was impulsive.

Even for her.

Stepping into the lobby of the Daily Planet, she registered the way conversation screeched to a halt. People turned—some subtly, some not so subtly—as they took in the sight of her, standing there like she walked into national newspapers all the time.

She didn’t let it faze her.

Instead, she walked straight up to the front desk, her usual bright, easygoing smile already in place.

“Hi!” she greeted warmly, leaning slightly onto the counter. “I’m here to see Clark Kent. Is he in?”

The receptionist blinked up at her. Mouth opening. Then closing. Then opening again.

Y/N waited, tilting her head slightly.

The woman visibly gathered herself, then reached for the phone. “One second, Miss—um—”

“Y/N,” she supplied helpfully, still smiling. “But you probably knew that.”

The receptionist let out a soft, slightly dazed laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

As she made the call, Y/N rocked back on her heels, glancing around. The Daily Planet was a lot grander than she’d expected, with its sleek architecture and giant windows that let sunlight spill across the lobby floor. She imagined Clark working here—sitting at a desk, pushing up those glasses of his while he scribbled in that little notepad.

It suited him.

The receptionist set the phone down. “Someone will be here in a second.”

“Awesome, thank you!” Y/N said brightly.

A minute later, a young intern appeared—wide-eyed and visibly trying to keep it together.

“Miss Y/N, uh—I—I can take you to Clark Kent,” he stammered, standing a little too straight, as if afraid his knees might buckle under him.

Y/N softened, offering a gentle smile. “That’d be great. What’s your name?”

The intern blinked, like he couldn’t believe she was actually asking. “Uh—Elliot?”

“Well, Elliot,” Y/N said as they walked toward the elevator, “it’s nice to meet you.”

Elliot made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a gasp.

She continued, hoping to put him at ease. “How long have you been here?”

“A f-few months,” he stammered.

“Enjoying it so far?”

He nodded violently, like if he spoke, he might combust on the spot.

Y/N bit back a laugh. The kid was adorable.

As the elevator doors dinged open, she gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Well, I bet you’re doing great.”

The moment they stepped out, Elliot practically sprinted away, disappearing into the crowd of desks like his life depended on it.

And that’s when she spotted him.

Clark Kent, sitting at the farthest side of the newsroom, completely engrossed in whatever he was reading. Glasses sliding slightly down his nose, brow furrowed in concentration.

Oblivious.

A wicked grin spread across Y/N’s face.

“CLARK!!! I GOT THE T-SHIRT YOU ASKED FOR!!”

The newsroom came to a screeching halt.

Reporters stopped mid-sentence. Phones continued ringing, unanswered. Someone dropped a stapler. Perry White’s office door swung open slightly as if the sheer force of Y/N’s volume had rattled it loose.

Clark Kent’s entire body stiffened.

He looked up so slowly it was almost painful, his eyes wide with horror.

Y/N beamed, holding up the atrocious neon pink T-shirt she had grabbed at random—which had her own face on it.

Clark blinked. Once. Twice.

One of his coworkers visibly choked.

Y/N waved the T-shirt again, just in case he hadn’t fully absorbed the majesty of the situation.

“IT’S EVEN SIGNED!!” she added gleefully.

Clark inhaled deeply. Closed his eyes for one agonizing second. Then, very carefully, he put his paper down.

“…Miss Y/N,” he said, voice painfully measured. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Y/N skipped over, gently placing the T-shirt onto his desk like a gift. “I came to see the draft! It’s been a while, so I thought I’d stop by”

Y/N made herself very comfortable at Clark’s desk, leaning back in the chair like she worked there, completely ignoring the fact that the entire newsroom was still staring.

Clark could feel it—the weight of dozens of eyes on him, the absolute shock and confusion radiating from his coworkers. He had handled high-profile investigations, corrupt politicians, and last-minute front-page rewrites, but this?

This was a nightmare.

Slowly, he looked down at the pink T-shirt now sitting on his desk.He flipped it over, inspecting the size tag, and exhaled sharply through his nose.

“A women’s extra small?” he deadpanned.

Y/N glanced down at the shirt like she was seeing it for the first time. She blinked. Tilted her head. Then, with zero hesitation, she looked back at him and grinned.

“Well, you’re not my usual demographic, you know,” she said lightly. “But I had to for my biggest fan.”

A choked wheeze came from the far corner of the newsroom.

Clark didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Lois Lane.

His award-winning colleague. His sometimes friend, sometimes menace.

Clark turned his head just enough to confirm his worst fears.

There she was. Leaning against her desk, arms crossed, eyes glinting like she had just won the lottery. Her grin was catastrophic. Clark could feel the gears turning in her head. He had worked with Lois for years. He knew her better than most people. Which meant he knew exactly what was about to happen. She was going to milk this for all it was worth. Clark could already hear the insufferable teasing. The jokes. The headlines she’d make up on the spot. The fact that this would never die, that she would bring it up for the rest of time.

No.

Absolutely not.

Before she could get a word in, before this entire situation spiraled into an irreversible nightmare, Clark abruptly stood.

“Meeting room,” he announced.

Y/N blinked. “Huh?”

Clark grabbed a report off his desk and marched past her. “If you want to see the draft, we’re discussing it somewhere private.”

Y/N, clearly entertained, hopped up and followed him. “Oooo, very professional.”

Clark ignored her. He ignored the stares, ignored the smug delight radiating off Lois, ignored the way half the newsroom was already whispering.

This was damage control.

And the sooner he got Y/N out of the newsroom, the better.

—

Y/N sat down, her fingers lightly tapping against the cool glass table, her gaze flickering around the pristine meeting room.

“Fancy,” she murmured, raising an eyebrow at the walls of glass surrounding them. “Makes me feel like I’m about to be interrogated.”

She glanced up at Clark, who sat across from her with his usual composed, professional air. He slid the printed draft across the table toward her.

"You wanted to see it,” he said, his voice even, unreadable. “So, here it is.”

Y/N took the pages, flipping the first one dramatically between her fingers before settling into her seat.

Clark watched her closely, pretending to be relaxed, pretending this was just another routine part of his job. But inside, his thoughts were rapid-fire chaos.

She’s just reading the article. She won’t recognize you. She has no reason to.

Y/N, oblivious to his internal spiral, started reading. Her lips pressed together, brows furrowing in concentration. Then—

“Oh, wow,” she muttered, glancing up at him. “This makes me sound so pretentious.”

Clark exhaled sharply through his nose, already tired. “Y/N, that’s a direct quote.”

She gasped, clutching her chest like he had just personally insulted her. “You’re telling me I sound pretentious naturally?”

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m telling you that you said—” He leaned forward, reading straight from the page, “‘Art is only as good as the truth behind it. Without vulnerability, creativity is nothing but empty sound.’”

Y/N blinked. Then she snorted. “Yeah, okay, I did say that. That’s on me.”

Clark just nodded, resigned to his fate.

She continued reading, flipping through the pages at a leisurely pace, pausing only to make random commentary.

“Oh, I like this part.”

“Good.”

“Actually, you could’ve made me sound a little cooler here.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “I refuse to fabricate quotes.”

“Boring,” she muttered.

Another pause.

“Oof.”

Clark glanced up. “What?”

“This part.” She pointed at a paragraph. “The way you wrote this makes me sound so deep.”

He crossed his arms, tilting his head. “Are you saying you aren’t?”

Y/N smirked. “Oh, I absolutely am. I just didn’t expect you to capture it so well.”

Clark shook his head, letting out a quiet, amused exhale despite himself.

She was infuriating. But at the same time…

She made this easier.

As long as she was joking, as long as she was comfortable, she wasn’t suspicious.

And Clark?

He needed her not to be suspicious.

As Y/N flipped through the pages, making little comments, Clark tried his best to sit still, to act natural. But his thoughts wouldn’t settle.

The girl he had met all those years ago had been quiet. Thoughtful. She had carried herself with a kind of deliberate caution, as if she was still learning how much space she was allowed to take up in the world. Back then, every word she had spoken had felt measured, intentional. There had been something raw about her, something unguarded—like she was still in the process of figuring herself out.

This woman in front of him was something else entirely.

She was louder now. Bolder. She moved through the world like she belonged in every room she entered. Her energy was effortless, commanding, like she had not only learned how much space she was allowed to take up, but had decided it wasn’t enough and demanded more.

She was chaotic, teasing, almost cocky in the way she tossed words around so easily. Like she knew exactly what kind of reaction she was going to get before she even said anything.

Clark had not been prepared for that.

And, honestly?

He had barely survived the last hour.

Y/N laughed at one of her own comments, shaking her head as she flipped another page. Clark forced himself to keep his expression neutral, even as a single, crushing thought ran through his mind.

Never again.

Never again would he be in this situation.

Because the second she walked out of this meeting room, she would go back to her world, and he would stay in his. This was a one-time thing, a bizarre collision of past and present that would never happen again.

And thank God for that.

Because sitting across from her, pretending to be a stranger, pretending that he hadn’t once known her as someone else—

It was exhausting.

And then, just when he thought he had her figured out—

Y/N set the draft down, exhaling softly. When she looked at him, all the playfulness from before had faded.

“Thank you for doing this,” she said, voice quiet now. “You got me very well.”

Clark blinked.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do with that.

The sincerity in her voice caught him off guard. Clark hesitated, gripping his pen just a little tighter. Then, finally, he nodded. “I just wrote what I heard.”

Y/N studied him for a second, then tilted her head slightly. “Still. I read some of your other work. I know this isn’t what you usually do.”

Clark exhaled slowly. “No, it’s not.”

She smiled, small and knowing. “Maybe next time, you can sign something for me.”

Clark blinked. That—he hadn’t expected that.

Then, finally, he let out a quiet, almost relieved laugh. “I’ll think about it.”

Y/N grinned, standing up, gathering the pages as she made her way toward the door. Clark followed, holding it open for her, already mentally preparing to never deal with this again.

But as she stepped out, Y/N turned slightly, giving him one last look. And for just a second—barely even a second— Clark swore she looked like she was still thinking about something. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Then she flashed him one last playful smile, and the moment was gone.

Clark exhaled, watching the door swing shut behind her. And for the first time in weeks, he finally let himself think: It’s over.

—

Y/N exhaled, rolling her shoulders as the final note of the song faded into the quiet hum of the recording booth. She pulled the headphones off, running a hand through her hair as she stepped away from the mic.

Through the glass, she could see her producer giving her a thumbs-up, the rest of the team murmuring to each other while adjusting sound levels. It was late, and the session had stretched longer than planned. Her voice was tired, but she knew they got what they needed.

She should’ve felt good about it.

But as she pushed open the heavy soundproof door, stepping back into the main studio, the feeling didn’t come.

She loved music. She always had. But sometimes, being in a room full of people—even people she trusted—felt lonely. Like she was here, but not really part of anything.

Before she could dwell on it, her manager, Sam, approached, a knowing look already on her face.

Uh-oh.

“I don’t like that expression,” Y/N said immediately, swiping a water bottle off the console.

Sam smirked. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I know that look.” She unscrewed the cap, taking a sip before narrowing her eyes. “That’s the ‘I’m about to make you do something you don’t want to do’ look.”

A few of the producers chuckled. Sam didn’t deny it.

“Okay, hear me out,” she started. “The label wants to do a documentary.”

Y/N froze mid-sip. Then, very slowly, she swallowed, recapped the bottle, and set it down.

“No.”

Sam sighed. “Y/N—”

“Nope.” She turned to leave, fully prepared to escape the conversation entirely, but Sam grabbed her wrist, expecting the reaction.

“Okay, at least pretend to consider it before storming out,” Sam said, amused.

Y/N turned back, crossing her arms. “I don’t like cameras in my face all the time. That sounds miserable.”

“I get it,” Sam said. “But this would be different. Not a reality show, not a tour diary— a real documentary. Fans want to see more of you. The real you.”

Y/N scoffed. “The real me? You mean the one who eats cereal straight out of the box at 3 a.m. and impulse-buys weird lamps online?”

Sam ignored that. “Look, the label thinks this is important. Your music means a lot to people, but they don’t really know you. This would be a chance to show them something deeper.”

Y/N pursed her lips, already feeling cornered. “I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.”

“I know that. But you could control this,” Sam said, voice gentler now. “If you agree, you get full creative control. You decide what gets shown. What gets cut. The whole thing would be yours.”

That gave her pause.

“Full?” she repeated.

Sam nodded. “Full.”

Y/N glanced at the floor, shifting on her heels. That changed things. She hated the idea of being put under a microscope, but if she had control… maybe she could shape the narrative on her own terms.

And then, an idea clicked.

Slowly, she looked up, her mind already made up before she even spoke.

“Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’ll do it.”

Sam blinked, startled by how quickly she agreed. “You will?”

“Yes.” She lifted a finger. “But—there’s a condition.”

Sam exhaled, already bracing herself. “Of course there is.”

Y/N grinned. “I want Clark Kent to be the lead journalist.”

Sam blinked. Then blinked again.

“…Clark Kent?”

“Yep.”

“As in The Daily Planet’s Clark Kent?”

“The one and only.”

Sam stared at her like she had grown a second head. “Y/N, I… that’s not his thing. He doesn’t do celebrity interviews. He writes about corruption and crime.”

“Exactly,” Y/N said, unbothered. “I don’t want an entertainment reporter. I want someone who actually listens.”

Sam still looked bewildered. “I—okay, why Clark Kent?”

Y/N hesitated.

Because he was normal with me.

Because he was nice.

Because he reminds me of the first friend I ever had. 

She didn’t know how to explain it. She had people in her life—team members, industry friends, producers—but no one outside of it. No one who wasn’t tangled up in the fame, the business, the expectations.

Clark wasn’t impressed by her status. He had treated her like a person. And after so many years of feeling like a product, that had been… nice.

Maybe she could be friends with him.

Maybe she wanted to be.

She shrugged, playing it off. “I just think he’d be good at it.”

Sam sighed, rubbing her temples. “This is the weirdest request you’ve ever made.”

“Not true.”

Sam gave her a look. “You once demanded only blue M&Ms backstage.”

“That was one time, and I was testing if anyone actually read the rider.”

Sam shook her head. “Okay, whatever, we’ll reach out to him. No promises, though.”

Y/N smirked. “Oh, he’ll say yes.”

Sam narrowed her eyes. “How do you know?”

Y/N stretched, grabbing her water bottle again. “Because he won’t be able to resist a highly interesting investigative project.”

Sam snorted. “Right. That’s definitely why.”

Y/N ignored her, taking a sip. “Plus, I think Perry White is a secret fan. Some account named Perry_NotWhite has been liking all my instagram pics the second they come out for months”

Sam choked on her drink. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I am. And the best part? He leaves comments like ‘real music’ and ‘finally, some talent’ under my posts.”

Sam covered her face. “Oh my God, at least you get your wish.”

—

Clark Kent sat at his desk, typing up notes for a story when he heard it.

The sound that never led to anything good.

“Kent! My office. Now.”

Clark groaned internally. Not again.

Keeping his expression neutral, he saved his work, straightened his tie, and headed toward Perry’s office. He could already tell, whatever this was, he wasn’t going to like it.

Perry didn’t even glance up as Clark stepped inside, instead tossing a thick folder onto the desk.

“You’re covering a new assignment,” Perry said gruffly.

Clark frowned. Red flag. Perry wasn’t looking at him directly, and that never meant anything good.

Cautiously, Clark picked up the folder and flipped it open.

The words at the top made his stomach drop.

Y/N – Documentary Proposal

Clark froze.

No.

No, absolutely not.

“Perry,” Clark started, already shaking his head. “No.”

“Yes,” Perry said, not even entertaining an argument.

Clark set the file down like it was radioactive. “I already did one story on her. That was more than enough.”

Perry scoffed. “Yeah, well, she specifically requested you.”

Clark’s eye twitched. “She what?”

“You heard me,” Perry said, leaning back in his chair. “Label’s doing a documentary. She has full creative control. She picked you to be the lead journalist.”

Clark stared.

His brain short-circuited for a full three seconds before he managed, “…Why?”

“How the hell should I know?” Perry huffed. “Maybe she likes you. Maybe she thinks you’re good at your job. Maybe she just wants to see you suffer.”

Clark was strongly leaning toward that last option.

Perry sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look, Kent, this is a big deal. Exclusive access, behind-the-scenes, high-profile stuff. The kind of thing that would bring in serious readership.”

Clark folded his arms. “I cover real news. This isn’t—”

“This is real news,” Perry cut in. “A story about one of the most influential artists of our time, written by one of my best reporters? I can already hear the Pulitzer people whispering.”

Clark deadpanned. “I can assure you, they’re not.”

Perry ignored him. “Listen, Kent. It’s a few months of work. A couple interviews. A few trips. You do your job, write a damn good story, and then you never have to see her again.”

Clark exhaled slowly.

A few months.

A few months of being around her.

Of hoping she never really looks at him. Never puts the pieces together.

Clark glanced back down at the file. Y/N.

She had been chaos incarnate the last time they saw each other. She had bullied him in front of his entire newsroom. She had grinned as his dignity died a slow, painful death.

And now, she wanted him to work with her for months?

Absolutely not.

Clark closed the file.

“I’m not doing it.”

Perry laughed.

Not a ha-ha funny laugh. A that’s adorable that you think you have a choice laugh.

“Oh, yes, you are.”

Clark gritted his teeth. “Perry—”

“Let me put it this way, Kent,” Perry interrupted, voice dry. “You can either spend the next few months interviewing one of the biggest stars on the planet, or you can spend them covering every city hall budget meeting in a fifty-mile radius.”

Clark stared.

Perry smirked.

“…That’s evil,” Clark muttered.

“Thank you,” Perry said, completely unbothered.

Clark sighed deeply, dragging a hand down his face. He could feel the last of his resistance evaporating.

This was happening.

Y/N was going to be in his life again.

And this time?

He wasn’t sure he was going to survive it.

[torchship-rpg]

Dev Diary 19 - State of the Union Part 1

It’s been a while, cosmonauts, but we’re back at it. This last week has been an incredibly productive one for Torchship, solving a ton of longstanding issues holding up the Alpha, and digging back into the art.

But you’re here for the mechanics, and boy, we have some pretty cool ones for you this Diary. Today we’re going to be talking about the meta-campaign and the core of what drives a multi-episode run of Torchship; playing not just to encounter little morality plays out in the stars, but to find out how the resolution of those issues changes things back home.

To be clear; this is campaign mechanics, and long campaign mechanics at that. You can play short campaigns and one-shots too, but we want to write a game that’ll hold up to truly epic campaigns, or sequential campaigns if you ever wanted to do Torchship: The Next Generation.

Your campaign can take you a great many places, but all of them revolve around one question:

The Star Union & Representative Agents

As we’ve mentioned before, the players are not just playing the crew of their spacecraft as they go trekking around the stars. That crew is the product of a society, and when the players are out making decisions in the stars, we assume that similar choices with similar reasoning are being made by the people back home.

For that reason, players get to have a lot of influence over the direction of the Star Union both through their actions in the actual episodes, and through decisions and votes they hold over what the Star Union does. This isn’t actually their characters deciding what’s happening unilaterally; it’s the assumption that your crew are, in a sense, the median voter. When the players decide to invest the Union’s resources into a certain upgrade path or project, this represents the Union’s population settling on that course of action for all the same reasons the characters would make that decision in their place.

For this reason, while you can be many things in Torchship, you can’t really be a rebel. If you try, you will be part of an enormous rebellious movement that will very quickly become the new authority and now you’re right back to your day job as a government employee, looking wistfully at your old leather jacket as you file a T-18 Use Of Telemat Report.

I can already hear your protests that you want to be a bold iconoclast that strikes out in defiance of the norms of society. I regret to inform you that you want this because it is a norm of your society to be a bold iconoclast striking out in defiance of things.

It’s The Economy, Stupid

The Star Union is mechanically represented with its own character sheet and its own stats; changing that sheet over time is your job. It’s relatively simple, with stats primarily acting as ways of gating your access to the cool upgrades that improve your capabilities, make your rocket better, and get you shiny new toys, but it matters a lot.

At the end of every Episode, you go into a mode of the game called Resupply. This quite literally represents the time passing as your rocket flies from one star to another, usually taking about one week before arriving at the next planet/on the television sets of households across the nation.

Resupply is a portion of the game which can be resolved immediately after the start of one episode or before the start of another, but one of the best ways to do it is during the time between your play sessions; it’s designed to be something easily hashed out over chat programs and the like. We’ll go into more detail about what you do there and how in the future, but the important part is knowing that this is when the Union’s economy starts mattering.

The Union has two sets of Economic stats. The first contains just a single stat, Productivity. This is how many Credits the Star Union generates at the end of each Episode because it has a bunch of factories and farms and stuff. Productivity is difficult and costly to increase; you can do so by starting Projects, with the amount of time and Credits required varying depending on what kind of Project it is. 

Getting infrastructure in place to exploit a rich belt of Very High Rotation asteroids for the valuable quark nuggets inside is a relatively quick and cheap project; it just requires you the players to find and secure such a resource. By contrast, building up Production through modernization and expansion of existing industrial capability is slow, hard work that will take multiple episodes to complete.

The second set of stats is the Infrastructure stats, covering all the stuff that production is used to maintain. These are Social, Technological, Military, and Redundant Infrastructure. Respectively, this is the Union’s standard of living, how shiny and new its stuff is, how big Star Force has gotten, and how many warehouses you have. You increase all of the stats by paying into funds for them, investing your Credits when you have a surplus until you’ve paid them off.

For the most part, these are used to gate access to upgrades; if you want that shiny new laser, you need to get Technology and Military Infrastructure to a certain point first. Redundant Infrastructure is the odd-man out; it doesn’t really give you access to many new Upgrades, but it has a vital function we’ll get to in a second.

Every point of Infrastructure costs 1 Credit per Episode to run, and at the start of the Campaign, the Star Union is overextended; it’s trying to take on all the costs and responsibilities of being the leading power of Local Space while simultaneously managing an enormous humanitarian crisis partially of its own making, and integrating a large number of refugees from the aforementioned enormous humanitarian crisis. Infrastructure will be higher than Production, and that means the balance has to be paid by none other than the Star Union’s exploration, diplomacy, and prospecting service.

That’s you.

This difference is called your Union Dues, and it's very important that you pay them. If you fail to pay, you’ll have to roll on the WHOOPS I FORGOT TO PAY THE POWER BILL table. Regrettably, this is not its final name, but it is what’s in the document right now.

You might think that this isn’t too big a threat; you’ll just always make sure to save up enough Credits to pay your Union Dues even if you have a bad Episode. That’s where we smile maliciously and tell you that you can’t. Societies don’t typically like sitting on huge amounts of surplus production and not using it on things that people want and need, so for that reason, the amount of Credits you can store between Episodes is limited by your Redundant Infrastructure. You know, Infrastructure you also have to pay for.

If your Dues aren’t out of control, you aren’t running too many Projects that you don’t want to fail, and you’re not burning your expensive consumables, then yes, you can usually meet your Union Dues no problem using the banked Credits from Redundancy. But a streak of bad episodes or out of control spending can send your campaign into a death spiral. The good news is that eventually, the Star Union will contract until it reaches equilibrium, either voluntarily or through terrible rolls.

The bad news is that the Star Union will contract until it reaches equilibrium, and you live in the Star Union! And so do a great many people who are going to have opinions about that.

Speaking of…

Getting Political

The Star Union is more than just a series of economic stats. All the people those stats represent have hopes and dreams, and more importantly, they have voting power on local councils. Being a direct democracy, the Star Union has a tendency to undergo pretty seismic political shifts very quickly when circumstances change, and any good campaign is going to have a lot of Circumstances.

To represent this, we use a series of Movements. You may remember us talking about these way back, or rather an earlier version of them; we’ve since expanded how they work and set up a system which allows them to exist alongside others.

So… let’s meet a Movement.

The Centralists are the Leading Movement at the start of your Campaign; they’ll be largely unopposed for the moment, but the Civil Anarchists and the Neo-Trotskyites are waiting in the wings and can join them in a coalition fairly easily.

What that means in practical terms is that they have the highest Power Rank at 5. As both a Major Power and the Leading Power, the Centralists give you two passive effects. Their Major Power bonus relates to Stability, which we’ll talk about in a moment, while their Leading Movement Effect is the benefit you get for being at 10-12 Unity on the Unity track. You’ll remember that from Dev Diary 15; that universal rule is actually just the default you get from these guys being in charge!

They also have a Taboo, which represents a value of this Movement, the violation of which discredits their influence; it’s stuff that makes them look hypocritical or disgusts their followers. For the Centralists, that’s failing to keep Promises made to groups in negotiation; their reputation is built around being the trustworthy and reliable ones that follow through on their deals.

Here’s some examples of other Movements’ Major Power Effect, Leading Movement Effect, and Taboo:

Progress Triggers

Movements advance in Power Rank by gaining Progress; that’s what is tracked on that neat little circular dial. At the end of each Episode, you go through the Triggers for all the active Movements and add Progress based on which ones got done. As a Movement rises in Power Rank, the Triggers are reduced in strength proportionally; at Rank 5, the only Trigger which actually gives the Centralists Progress is bringing new Members into the Union. Don’t worry, though; they have another means of keeping power.

You’ll notice that the 4 Progress trigger, Focus on Fundamentals, triggers when you miss Union Dues. A lot of Movements have triggers like this; this is where we put the stuff that the Movement specifically believes they’d do better. So when the Centralists are out of power, they get a boost from the economic mismanagement of whoever is, but once they have influence in government, failing to balance the budget isn’t going to work in their favour.

By extension, lower-value triggers tend to be things that drive or revitalise a weak Movement, while high-value triggers are triumphs or threats that validate them, either mobilizing a weak movement with a victory, or cementing the authority of a strong one.

For another example, here are the Neo-Trot Triggers. You can see how their lower triggers, the first ones to fade, are the relatively small fundamental issues that form the emotional foundation of the Movement; the Neo-Trots won’t be irrelevant so long as we keep finding planets ruled by jerks and evil computers, and their quest for increased military spending grows more pressing every time a Star Patrol rocket limps back full of holes.

The #4 trigger here ceases to help the Neo-Trots once they take power; it’s expected of them. Both the Centralists and Civil Anarchists get this trigger at 5 instead, which creates an interesting contradiction; once they’re in power, winning battles empowers their rivals because, through victory, they are making themselves obsolete. If they keep winning their fights, why do we need to shovel more resources into Star Force?

That’s why their highest triggers are stuff that give them more material power directly instead. Producing and distributing weapons increases the size of those sectors in the Union’s economy and bureaucracy, increasing their influence, while a war breaking out mobilizes the economy and places all their experts in positions of authority. This also, of course, gives them an incentive to keep arming people and fighting wars once they’re in power…

Stability

Each time an Opposition Movement (that’s any Movement which isn’t the Leading Movement) goes up by a Power Rank, it prompts a Stability Check. You also have to roll Stability Checks if you fail to pay your Union Dues. This is pretty simple; Stability is a number from 0-6 representing people’s faith in the current leadership of the Star Union. You roll 1d6 for each Stability Check; if the result is above your current Stability, the Leading Movement loses 1d6 Progress, potentially sliding back to lower Power Levels. If that happens enough, they’ll be displaced as the Leading Power.

Note that passing Stability Checks has an effect; each test you pass lowers Stability by 1. Fortunately, restoring Stability is pretty easy; every Credit put into the Social Infrastructure fund raises Stability by 1, and incidentally also gives the Leading Movement 3 Progress. 

So basically, the Leading Movement can have whatever ideologically it wants, but once it's actually in power, it only stays in power by raising people’s standards of living, though it does benefit from a slow decay of everyone else’s Progress. If the Centralists spend the entire budget on giant golden statues of Yuri Gagarin, then they won’t be in power for very long, and if they really screw it up… well, that’s what Crises are for.

Endgames

Each Movement has a number of Endgames; the five major movements all have a sort of soft ‘win’ condition that cements their power in some way and makes a lasting change on your game. For example, Federation-Builders basically cements the Centralists’ power for the foreseeable future by having them make good on their promises, and in the process gain a new and fiercely loyal following.

Well, I say soft win condition; they aren’t always.

A ‘lose’ condition deactivates or disempowers a Movement, representing the movement breaking apart, being thoroughly discredited, or otherwise losing their ability to carry on. For the Centralists, the only thing that’ll knock them out of the game is the Cybernetic Democrats actually getting their wild experiment off the ground and fully implemented, which is a huge and expensive Project.

How severe these lose conditions are will vary. Some movements will be outright destroyed, either instantly or by fading out, but others are more resilient.

Finally, we have the Crisis. Crises are triggered if Stability hits 0, and they’re bad. The most survivable ones prompt multi-episode arcs in a mad scramble to save the Union; the worst functionally end the campaign. The Centralists being in charge when the state they build fails means that it all comes apart in their scramble to save it; the cordial competition for the future of the Union becomes a shooting war. This might be where you end your campaign, or it might be where you throw in with another Movement and try to win it for them!

Many Crises will be internal…

… but not all of them.

Expanded Movements

The five core movements we mentioned before are all primary Movements, with a full set of triggers, effects, and endgames. Each of them represents a potentially valid direction for the Union that you, as players, can choose to back or suppress. 

However, the nature of this system makes it very easy for us to add new Movements to the game. Most of these Movements are Minor Movements, with reduced triggers and rules which are usually single-issue and whose Endgames are simplified and easier to hit. Minor Movements don’t cause Stability hits when they gain Power Ranks and can’t take the Leading Faction slot, they can slot easily into a ruling coalition without breaking things, or fade once their purpose is achieved.

For an example, if you integrate the Nariene into the Star Union (either by defeating its current government or making an alliance that bypasses that; we’ll be talking about them in the next Dev Diary), you get the very pressing Minor Movement “Nariene Green Movement”, which is clamouring, quite reasonably, to have their planet saved from the runaway greenhouse effect they’re under. They’ll gain power quite quickly with triggers firing based on the Union’s economy growing, and once they hit Major they’ll mandate the funding of their Project. Once their homeworld is saved, their endgame is triggered and the Movement fades, leaving you with a nice permanent bonus as everyone in the Star Union gets a bit better at reducing, reusing, and recycling.

Not all late-joining Movements are Minors, though; some of them can very much become the Leading Power and change your game accordingly.

Finally… not all the Movements are intended to be viable paths forward. Movements can emerge in dire circumstances, reflecting adverse pressures, but they can also come out of your actions as Star Patrol, if you feed the worst impulses of the Union and give material power to bad actors.

Which is why you don’t start your campaign with five moments. You start with six.

[echoreconcrew]

Stolen Imperial Files - Captain Howzer

SUBJECT FILE: #7569-HWZ-RYL STATUS: DESERTER – ACTIVE THREAT LEVEL: high DESIGNATION: CT-7569 “HOWZER”

AGE: 26 (BIOLOGICAL) SPECIES: HUMAN EYES: BROWN HEIGHT: 6'1" ALIAS: HOWZER  HOMEWORLD: KAMINO

TRAITS: EXHIBITS A CALM, STEADYING PRESENCE—COLLECTED, PRINCIPLED, AND PROTECTIVE BY NATURE. TENDS TO FORM DEEP EMOTIONAL BONDS, PARTICULARLY WITH CIVILIANS AND SUBORDINATES, WHICH OFTEN OVERRIDE PROGRAMMED LOYALTY TO COMMAND. SHOWS STRONG INTERNAL CONFLICT BETWEEN DUTY AND CONSCIENCE, LEADING TO ACTS OF DEFIANCE WHEN IMPERIAL ORDERS CONTRADICT PERSONAL ETHICS. INSPIRES TRUST AND LOYALTY AMONG HIS PEERS THROUGH QUIET STRENGTH, EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE, AND UNWAVERING RESOLVE. AFFILIATIONS: GAR

BIOGRAPHY

CT-7569, codenamed “Howzer,” is a clone officer formerly assigned to Imperial garrison command on Ryloth during the initial post-war occupation. Publicly considered a model officer, Howzer’s service record within the Republic Army was unblemished, with commendations for loyalty and command efficacy. Following the rise of the Empire, Howzer remained stationed under the directive of Vice Admiral Rampart to enforce martial stability across Twi’lek territories. Subject’s defection occurred during the Ryloth Uprising (see Rebellion Suppression Dossier #RLS-INC-33). During an attempted extraction of known insurgent Cham Syndulla, Howzer openly disobeyed Imperial orders, directly intervening to prevent execution of civilian and rebel targets. Eyewitness reports confirm subject incited clone troopers under his command to stand down and join the resistance, resulting in a failed detention of key insurgents and a compromised garrison post. CT-7569 was detained under Imperial security protocols and listed for tribunal transport to Imperial Justice Station ODR-3. During transit, subject escaped custody under unknown circumstances (see Prisoner Transfer Breach Report #ODR-EVAC-19A). It is suspected that Howzer’s extraction was coordinated by rogue clone elements or sympathetic internal agents. Subsequent sightings across the galaxy have placed CT-7569 in proximity to known clone deserter networks, including cells operating beyond the Mid Rim. A verified field report submitted by CC-3636 confirms visual identification of Howzer on Teth, in the company of CT-7567 

PROFILE NOTES Command Proficiency: Trained under Republic High Command; known for adaptive strategy, effective squad cohesion, and exceptional morale leadership. Psychological Deviation: Subject’s behavior during the Ryloth Uprising indicates possible inhibitor chip degradation or suppression. Moral Alignment Shift: Extensive exposure to civilian populations, particularly on Ryloth, may have influenced a psychological realignment. ISB analysts suggest subject exhibits strong empathic bias toward native resistance movements and fellow clones.

THE HUB Ask to join the Tag List!

[aeth-eris]

★ eris' readings menu ★ [offering astrology & tarot]

★ astrology readings ★

60+ pages in writing including:

★ advanced natal report $45 ★

★ mock up example ★

★ planetary placements by house & sign, angles (asc, dsc, mc, ic), dominant themes (element, modality, sign, etc.), aspect configurations (t-square, yods, grand trines, stelliums etc.)

★ major aspects & minor aspects

★ also, a glossary for astrological terms which can be used for studying.

★ I also include tables and pie charts regarding element/modality/house/sign distribution.

★ mini natal report $15 ★

★ big six description (house & sign)

★ major aspects only

★ glossary

★ "ask me anything" chart question $10 ★

★ ask me anything related to a certain topic/area in the natal chart, such as; career, relationship, mental health, etc.

★ I will provide an analysis of the related planets (relevant aspects), houses & their rulers.

*disclaimer: I am not a licensed therapist nor health practitioner, so consult with a professional before making any decision regarding your health.*

★ tarot readings ★

★ 3 card spread $3 ★

★ ask me anything.

*disclaimer: I am not a licensed therapist nor health practitioner, so consult with a professional before making any decision regarding your health.*

★ 5 card spread $5 ★

★ ask me anything.

*disclaimer: I am not a licensed therapist nor health practitioner, so consult with a professional before making any decision regarding your health.*

★ decks I own ★

★ tarot decks ★

★ rider waite

★ the wizards tarot

★ oracle decks ★

★ universal folk oracle

★ island time wellness: love oracle

★ the rose oracle

★ black moon astrology

★ rebel deck

★ love letter affirmation deck

★ ameo deck (astrology)

★ I accept inquiries via dm.

★ the product is sent via email as a .pdf file. payment is accepted via zelle, paypal, or venmo.

(currently allowing 4 slots atm)

★ allow up to 2-3 business days for delivery just in case.

★ slots ★

★ open

★ open

★ open

★ open

[m1ndbrand]

"all it took was..." — The new President

WARNINGS: Coriolanus Snow is it's own warning(Snow after the 10thGames, 2 years after to be precise); Mentions of death and corpse(small description, nothing big).

SUMMARY: The 12th Hunger Games winner unfortunately fortunately gets the attention of President Snow.

WORDS: 1.384

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the franchise The Hunger Games characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them. I do claim what I wrote and only that.

A/N: If you know the tragedy of Coriolanus by William Shakespeare some names will be recognizable...Also I'm sorry but this chapter won't be the continuation of their little...encounter— but I promise, it's going to happen!

TAG-LIST: @sorry-mrs-jacobs; @phoward89;

MASTERLIST

He was never someone who believed in the stars and whatever they might mean to some people.

It seemed completely idiotic and beneath someone from the level of education, you would get from the Capitol to have this belief that in his humble opinion, of course — was archaic and beneath him.

Fate and stories written on the stars were all but a way of fairy tales being made, a topic on some and even a very important one at that "merging" some characters together like the universe itself deemed them a pair, one in two.

Star-crossed lovers.

How he hated that idea, he couldn't believe he even fed it to—

Let's not dwell on that topic, he had better things to do, like arrange a new Games Maker for the 12th Hunger Games.

Doctor Volumnia Gaul is no more, some freak accident with one or more than one mutt; it wasn't clear, the body was far too mutilated to be recognised by anyone at all if not for the DNA tests and well...the place of the accident, a place only a few people were able to enter and of course Doctor Gaul was one of those people, him included in the small pool.

It was slightly weird however how the mulls were able to break free, the reporters debated it for the first days the case broke daylight, but the theory was quickly suppressed.

After all, mulls were still in being tested and we're highly volatile, their behaviour unstable and unpredictable. And of course, accidents happen.

But the world continues to go around and so shall the Capitol, he needed to find someone and fast. 

He should have looked more into it, the selection that is. But he had more important things in his place, strength the security in the several points of entry on all distractions, the training of the peacekeepers and the change of the uniform like he so petitioned for just to name a few.

The new and young president had more important things to worry about than some person who would probably be soon replaced if so needed.

The theme he chose ,he didn't even try to remember the man's name, was an advanced-looking arena; a sign of the year the Capitol got a new President. Coriolanus liked the idea. It painted his future reign as one that would lead them into the future, lead them into a better time.

It painted him as a good leader.

The reaping ceremony passed without a problem. Some students clearly didn't like something— their tribute lack of attributes to make them win or the idea of having to participate in such 'twisted games' as the rebel-like-youth liked to name his games. He honestly couldn't care less, blue-ice-like eyes looking straight at the screens with a fake polite smile when the camera twists at him, showing his all too polished self composed with a deep red suit and thick coat that made his figure even more imposing than it normally is.

He would soon return to his manor and actually work, the two hours of the opening ceremony put his work ethic behind schedule more than he liked to admit.

There was much to be done to make the Capitol and the Districts into the way he saw fit and Coriolanus shouldn't waste more time than he already has.

Not even a day later he would have the files of everyone who chose to review. For some reason the late president did this— the threat of the Rebels was still very much a problem and he was of course scared shitless by them so all 'useful' information was of course turned into two paper pages that it was his duty to read through.

Coriolanus was just about to skim through them all but the very first file caught his attention, District One female tribute.

Not the girl's image he didn't even look at it properly, he already saw every tribute face on the reaping ceremony... all looked underfed and clearly not fit for an entertaining games in terms of pure brutal strength, the mentors would need to sell them well to the Capitol. No it was her name. Her last name rang a bell.

A big warning bell was inside his head and it made his eyebrows furrow, hand picked up the two-page long file and flipped through the description of her family. Something was amiss, he could feel it in his bones. Something was wrong. 

Coriolanus could almost feel the hunger tearing at his stomach, his small sweaty hand tightly gripping his equally moist cousin's hand as they received the news of his father's death.

His other small hand gripping the files of several names of supposed rebels that could be the reason behind his father's death. Blond hair falls against his sweaty forehead as at that time he didn't understand why he had to read the names of random men.

Brutus.

His hand grips the file on his hand, veins popping up as his eyes skim through the contents of the file, once and then twice. He didn't even sit down, reading in silence for 10 minutes over and over again to look out for another word, sentence, or anything more.

Only two people are still alive from her family— grandmother and little brother, Valeria Brutus and Menenius Brutus, then they got the last name from her grandfather. His hand moves the paper right and left, trying to see if her grandfather's first name was there. But it wasn't. It probably wasn't deemed to be useful information since he is dead. Putting the papers down he turns with a sigh to his window, chin rising as he looks to see all the perfectly arranged garden of pure white roses in the front of his mansion.

No this shouldn't matter. It didn't matter, not now. He got what he wanted he won, the victor. He was still standing with or without his father.

The nostalgic feeling of feeling hungry regrows once again and it makes him nauseous, sharp eyes turning to the face of the girl on the page. She looked like every other girl he reminds himself as he starts a little too long at her face. Eighteen, one more year and she should have been safe from the reaping.

A smile creeps on his lips. Amusement dancing in his eyes like he had just read a good enough joke.

He couldn't sleep.

Coriolanus hated to be in need of something even if it was just a simple pill to go to sleep. He was better than that, he could sleep alone thank you very much.

Couldn't he just get the information he wanted? He could, he had the resources, and he had the needs to if he so pleases, so why not?

No.

No, he wouldn't lose to this...whatever this is, curiosity, need— want to know. Closure.

Maybe that was it. Know the person or people that did this to him. To his family. The people that made him starve and struggle. Envy and step on people that he knew were living better than him, growing to bring them down so he could feel himself high above them all. Know the people that in a way, made him the way he is now.

Rising he presses the inside of his palms to his eyes.

For fucks sake— Shut the fuck up! 

His mouth was open. Eyes shot open and hands grabbing tightly the silk covers, knuckles turning white. Did he shout those words? Wasn't it all in his head? His hands were shaking, face was slightly flushed red from anger.

It's one of those episodes.

Rising he curses under his breath, feet carrying him to one of the small tables with some pills on them. Deep eyes thin as he tried to look into the colours of the various drugs that looked like they were thrown there and he picked a deep purple one in the midst of the rainbow and quickly gulped it down without water.

His attention is caught by the silver-like glow of the moonlight slipping through his windows, blue tired-looking eyes looking up at the sky, they find the stars instead of the moon that sings for attention. Wishing to catch a stray star amidst the ones that stay. Maybe he could catch it as it falls.

With those thoughts, sleep would soon catch him.

Previous

[killersfool]

FORCE OF NATURE ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ Syril Karn

pairing: syril karn x fem oc

word count: 6.2k

synopsis: syril karn is alone.

with a new job and a new identity, six months pass in silence. but when footage of a familiar face resurfaces, he can't resist reaching out — unsure of where it will lead him.

notes: my star wars knowledge is not amazing so im sorry if anything is inaccurate. the plot will probably be really different to andor and im thinking of posting this on ao3 to make a full length fic. posting on here first to see what people think!

The apartment was clean. Too clean.

Syril liked it that way — or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Everything in its place. Shirt cuffs starched. Rations aligned with mechanical precision. The only disruption was the low hum of the kettle and the distant, ceaseless murmur of air traffic beyond the window. A Coruscant evening: colourless, endless.

He sat at the kitchen table, a datapad before him. Blank, save for the blinking cursor of a resignation letter he’d never sent.

It had been six months since the chaos at Ferrix. Since Dedra had stopped speaking to him. There had been no formal goodbye. Just silence – clinical, efficient.

He had read back his final message to her so many times, trying to find what had pushed her away. Too much admiration? Not enough control?

She had been the last thread. The final justification that his loyalty meant something — that he meant something. But even her clinical poise couldn’t disguise what he was to all of them.

Replaceable.

He sipped lukewarm caf, eyes fixed on the cityscape. He still wore the old Pre-Mor Authority uniform sometimes — out of habit more than pride — though it hung looser than it used to. These days, he kept it shoved into the leftmost corner of the wardrobe, out of sight. Seeing it stirred a dread he didn’t have the words for.

Had he made a mistake?

Now, he worked in private security — a civilian post, under a new name. Monitoring petty thefts, industrial sabotage, internal disputes between faceless corporate clients. The pay was better. The meaning had evaporated.

Sometimes, in the early hours, he’d wake in a sweat, Ferrix still clinging to his skin. Blaster smoke in his throat. That rebel girl’s voice—loud, defiant—ringing in his ears.

He should've killed her. He knew it now.

And maybe that was where it all began to fall apart.

Because Syril Karn had always wanted to be certain. About the rules. About order. About his place in the galaxy.

But once certainty cracked, once he saw the fracture in the design—what remained?

Just noise.

He watched the feeds now, cataloguing anomalies that weren’t his concern. Names flagged by the Empire. Patterns that didn’t quite fit. Faces that flickered for a moment, then vanished. And sometimes, without understanding why, he saved them.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That he was just curious.

But there was a quiet ache in him — something like sympathy, something like guilt — and he thought, foolishly, that the world might notice. That it might offer him something back. A gesture. A sign. A small kindness, arriving unannounced.

Instead, he was met with silence and static. Day after day. In his own little corner of the world.

His mother never called. When he’d left the job — the one she'd once bragged about — she’d cut the line clean. Called him a disgrace. A disappointment. Now, her messages were clipped, brittle things. He’d stopped opening them.

He liked to pretend he enjoyed the solitude. The hush of Coruscant at two in the morning, when city light leaked through the blinds in pale gold lines, striping the floor. When he wandered into the old bookshop across the street and leafed through volumes no one read anymore. Revolutionary theory. Political ethics. Words he’d once dismissed. Now he read them with quiet, guilty interest.

The new job paid well enough. He filed reports, sorted logs, watched lives play out on grainy screens. Then he went home.

To silence.

A silence so dense, it pressed against his ribs like a hand.

That morning, he looked in the mirror. A scruff of a beard he hadn’t shaved. Dark circles like bruises under his eyes. His brows grown wild. He didn’t recognise the man staring back.

Six months. That’s all it had taken.

-

Two weeks later, it was raining.

Not the kind of rain that washed the city clean. No, this rain clung to everything — oily and relentless — turning the streets into mirrors and the sky into a smudged bruise above the towers. From his window, Syril watched the droplets trace jagged paths down the glass, threading between the red glow of traffic lines and the cold silver of aerial vehicles weaving through the airways.

Coruscant never truly slept, but at this hour, it almost pretended to. A low, mechanical hum bled into the silence of his apartment, barely louder than his own breath.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

The lights inside stayed off, allowing the city’s glare to do the painting — casting long, solemn stripes across his floor and walls, slicing his face into shadow. He sat curled in the corner of the room, knees pulled to his chest, the stale taste of caf still on his tongue and the afterburn of insomnia clinging to his skull like a fever.

The alert came at 04:13.

A soft chirp, barely louder than the storm beyond the glass. It blinked once on his screen — an anomaly — and his eyes dragged toward it, as if his body had been waiting for something to break the stillness.

It wasn’t his jurisdiction.

His name wasn’t attached. No permissions granted. No reason it should’ve arrived at all.

But then... the image loaded.

Blurry. Grainy. Caught in the corner of a surveillance lens from a docking terminal on the outskirts of the mid-rim. Mist curled like smoke around the frame, lights refracted against damp metal. She was running — her head ducked low, hair caught in the wind, a bag slung across her body. The camera only caught her for three seconds before she vanished behind a crate.

Still — it was her.

He didn’t know how he knew. He just did.

There was something in her movement, the cut of her silhouette, that same precise urgency he remembered from Ferrix — like the city had been on fire and she was the only one who knew where to go.

He froze.

Not with fear. Not with awe. With... something harder to name. Like all the hollow spaces inside him had been lit, briefly, by a flickering match.

Her file said nothing useful. No name. No affiliation. No face match strong enough to generate a confirmed ID. Just one line in red at the bottom:

“Possible insurgent. Known to evade detention.”

He let the words sit there, echoing.

He should’ve dismissed the alert.

Instead, he saved the file.

Then he stood, knees stiff from hours in the same position, and crossed the room to his desk. The dim glow of the screen lit his face in a pale wash, sharpening the hollows beneath his eyes.

He opened a new document.

And for the first time in weeks — maybe months — his hands moved without hesitating. On a map. A thread spun between systems, connecting places she might’ve touched. He sifted through archived patrol logs from Ferrix, maintenance records from departing ships, faces that matched fragments of hers even if they weren’t quite right.

It wasn’t duty. It wasn’t redemption.

It was her.

Or the ghost of her.

Because Syril Karn, despite everything, still believed that people left trails behind. That no one truly vanished — not if you were paying attention. Not if you wanted to see them.

And gods, he wanted to see her again.

He didn’t know what he would do if he did.

Only that he couldn’t stop now.

-

The next day, Syril woke before the sun — if such a thing could even be said on Coruscant, where the skyline swallowed light whole and replaced it with something artificial and cold.

His dreams had been strange again. Flickers of faces blurred by smoke. The echo of boots on ferrocrete. And her voice — not words, just the sound of breath caught between fear and defiance. When he sat up, the sheets were tangled around his legs and his shirt clung to his back with sweat.

He didn’t bother with breakfast. The kettle stayed silent.

Instead, he moved straight to the desk, fingers already twitching to reopen the surveillance file. Her image blinked up at him, that same three-second clip, looping silently in the top corner of his screen. He’d watched it over and over, memorised the exact second she turned her head, how the lights caught her cheekbones, how the hem of her coat lifted as she ran.

There was something alive in her. Untamed. Dangerous. Beautiful.

And maybe that was why he couldn’t stop.

His fingers flew across the console, pulling up transport logs from nearby districts, maintenance rosters, dockworker shift reports. He had no clearance — but old habits were hard to break, and backdoors into Imperial systems had been a quiet hobby of his even before he walked away. He found patterns. Irregularities. A handful of similar sightings, two weeks apart, spaced across mid-level ports.

She was moving in spirals. Not fleeing — circling. Waiting for something.

Or someone.

By midday, Syril hadn’t spoken a word aloud. His jaw ached from the tight clench of his thoughts. He barely noticed the ache in his lower back or the way his eyes watered from the glare of the screen. Only when a loud, aggressive ping rang out did he blink out of the haze.

A message.

From his mother.

"I hope you’ve finally come to your senses. They’re hiring at the ministry. Your uncle could still get your record wiped if you stopped being so proud. Call me."

He deleted it without opening the thread.

That afternoon, he walked to the bookshop. The air was damp and sour from yesterday’s rain, puddles gleaming like scars along the pavement. The bookseller — a thin, kind-eyed woman with ink stains on her fingers — nodded to him silently. She knew he didn’t like to be disturbed.

He wandered past the political theory section again. Hesitated. Then, for reasons he didn’t yet understand, picked up a worn copy of Revolution and Memory: The Human Cost of Imperial Order. Something he would’ve scoffed at months ago.

He paid in credits and left.

That night, back in the quiet of his room, Syril sat with the book unopened in his lap. His eyes were on the window — not the skyline, but his own reflection in the glass.

He looked like a man adrift.

But in his chest, there was a flicker of something else. Not certainty — that was long gone.

Conviction, maybe.

-

It began with a face.

Not hers — not yet — but someone else from that same Ferrix clip. A man, barely in frame, helping someone vault over a barricade. Syril had dismissed him the first dozen times he’d reviewed the footage. But now, with every corner of the image magnified and scrubbed clean by his private software, he saw the jawline. The coat. The expression.

Too calm for chaos.

He wasn’t just a bystander.

Syril isolated the frame, ran it through outdated facial recognition tools he shouldn’t have had access to anymore. The result took five minutes to process, and when the match blinked onto his screen, his breath caught in his throat.

C. Andor. Alias: Clem. Known rebel associate. Status: Fugitive.

His chest tightened.

Of course.

The girl — the one he couldn’t stop thinking about — wasn’t just some byproduct of resistance. She was in it. With him.

That should’ve ignited rage. It didn’t. It was something worse — something tangled. Disappointment twisted with fascination. A burning ache he couldn’t name.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers pressed to his lips, staring at the report like it could change if he looked long enough.

She was with Andor.

The same man who had derailed everything. Who had made Dedra unravel. Who had slipped through Syril’s fingers again and again — an absence that haunted him almost as much as her presence.

He opened a secure, anonymous channel. Its name was buried under layers of encryption, but the signal worked.

He hesitated for a long time before typing.

"Meet me at the Transit Platform on District 9. I need to speak to you. You’ll know me.”

He didn’t know if she’d ever read it. But somewhere inside of him, he knew this was a beginning and that wherever this was going, it would be far from good.

He sucked a breath and sent it anyway.

The rest of the day passed like a blur — the seconds swallowing him whole. He didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Just paced, reread old case files, stared at the grainy footage, replayed her laugh in his head — no, not a laugh. Something sharper. A shout. A command.

She’d been fearless.

And what had he been?

Alone. Always alone.

That night, he stood on his balcony — a tiny slab of steel and gloom overlooking nothing but a back alley full of steam pipes and humming generators. Still, he stared into the dark like it might stare back. Like her eyes might be waiting there, in the shadows, defiant and unblinking.

-

The next day he found himself stood before the mirror, shaver between his fingers. He tidied his beard, brushed the long curls of hair away from his face and clipped his eyebrows. He then pulled on a loose white shirt and dark trousers, and slung over a coat with a hood which he threw over his head. It was late and the city hummed with a gentle ambience.

He walked through the streets, a strange paranoia wafting through him. He didnt know who would be there - if anyone would be there. But he definitely didnt want to be seen. He definitely didnt want to risk the kind of trouble he could get himself into.

The Transit Platform was empty. No one there but him.

He glanced down at his watch. The seconds ticked by in sharp, heavy intervals. Syril’s breath misted in the cool night air as he checked his watch again, his pulse quickening with each passing moment. The platform stretched out in front of him, silent and unmoving. He could feel the weight of the empty space around him — the expanse of the city looming like a quiet, indifferent beast.

He exhaled slowly, leaning against a nearby support pole, trying to relax. The tension in his shoulders was unbearable. What if she wasn’t coming? What if this was just another failed attempt, another misstep into something even darker than before?

But no. He couldn’t afford to think like that.

The low hum of an incoming shuttle overhead broke the stillness, and for a split second, Syril thought he heard the distinct, sharp sound of footsteps. His heart skipped. He straightened up, eyes locking on the shadows, but the movement was too subtle, too quick. Had he imagined it? Or was it her?

Then, just as the doubt began to twist at the edges of his mind, he saw it. The silhouette. Small at first, then clearer as it emerged from the darkness.

It was her.

Her coat was dark, its edges catching the faintest light as she moved with purpose, but this time she didn’t hesitate. She walked straight towards him, no pause, no second-guessing. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way she held herself — the confidence, the precision of her movements — that sent a chill down his spine.

She stopped a few feet from him, silent. Waiting.

Syril cleared his throat, feeling the tremor in his voice before he could steady it. “You came." His words came out weaker than he expected. He was surprised he'd ever see her face again.

He remembered the orders he had been given on Ferrix. He had been told to follow her through the back alleys and 'get rid of her'. But they got cornered in an old, collapsing factory. Debris came down. Alarms howled. Reinforcements never came. They had both been stood in this silence, blasters pressed to each others chests, waiting for the other to press down on the trigger. Tension. Quietness. The steady rise and fall of chests and bright eyes in the darkness.

Syril had known that it was his duty to kill her. Or at least to render her unconscious but his finger wouldn't press down on the trigger because there was something in her eyes — not fear, not defiance — but recognition. Like she had seen straight through the uniform, through the polished exterior and years of indoctrination, and had found the small, flickering part of him that hesitated.

That was what scared him most. Not her blaster. Not the ceiling threatening to collapse. But her gaze. The way she looked at him like she knew.

He remembered the words she’d said in the stillness — words barely audible over the creaking metal and distant sirens.

“You don’t believe in it, do you?” she had whispered. “The cause. The orders. Not really.”

He hadn’t answered. He couldn’t. Because she was right. And that truth, unspoken and fragile, had hung between them like a thread that neither of them dared to sever.

Now, on the platform, with the silence humming around them once more, she tilted her head, watching him. Measuring something. Maybe the same hesitation. Maybe the same question.

“I thought you might’ve turned me in,” she said. Her voice was low, even, but it carried something under the surface. Not quite relief. Not quite trust. Something in between.

“I thought about it,” Syril admitted. “More than once.”

“And yet…” She gestured at the space between them with a faint shrug. “Here we are.”

He nodded, unsure what else to say. His throat was dry. The cold bit through his coat but he barely felt it.

“You saved me,” she said, her voice softening. “Back in that factory. You could’ve killed me. But you didn’t.”

“You’re not supposed to remember that.”

She smirked, something almost playful in the curve of her lips. “I remember everything.”

Silence again. The shuttle had passed now. The lights dimmed. The night stretched.

Finally, he asked, “Why did you come?”

"I think you could help us."

Syril raised an eyebrow. "Who's us?"

"We've been keeping an eye on you since you left your job. I saw you the other day buying some interesting books." Her dark eyes glowed with excitement.

Syril’s stomach twisted at the mention of his recent purchase. He hadn’t thought anyone had noticed, let alone someone who might be watching him. He fought the urge to shift uneasily under her gaze.

"You’ve been watching me?" he asked, his voice guarded. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that—about someone tracking his every move. But there was something in her tone, something purposeful, that made him hesitate before dismissing it.

Her eyes remained steady, intense. "You don’t think you’ve been living in a vacuum, do you? Not after everything that happened. We’ve been keeping an eye on the people who might be useful." She smiled, but it wasn’t a warm smile. It was sharp, calculated. "And you, Syril, are more useful than you think."

The sound of his name from her lips felt unfamiliar. He had grown accustomed to answering to his new name, but hearing those two syllables again sent a jolt through him, his heart racing.

Syril couldn’t decide if that sent a thrill down his spine or if it made him feel sick. Useful to who, exactly? To them? To whoever they were? The questions piled up in his mind faster than he could process them.

"And these books?" he asked, though the answer was already clear in his head. "What are you getting at?"

She took a step closer, lowering her voice as if sharing some forbidden secret. "History books. Books about revolutions. About the fall of empires. About the people who thought they were untouchable until they weren’t." She paused, her eyes flicking toward his watch before meeting his gaze again. "You’re reading between the lines now. I saw the way you looked at them. You’re starting to see the cracks."

He swallowed, his throat dry. There was no denying it. Since leaving his position, the world had started to look different. The uniform, the orders, the Empire—he had once believed in all of it. But now? The edges were fraying, the whole system was… corrupt. And he knew it.

"I don’t know what you think I can do," he muttered, stepping back slightly, trying to regain some of the distance he desperately needed. "I’m not one of you."

Her lips twitched, but the smirk didn’t reach her eyes. "You don’t need to be. But you’re in a unique position. You know things. You’ve seen things. And I’m sure you’re realising more each day just how much power you have over your own future."

"I’m not interested in power," he snapped, a little too quickly, his breath catching. "I just want to survive."

Her eyes softened ever so slightly, but there was a knowing glint to them. "I think you're already past that point. Surviving isn’t enough anymore. Not when the world is changing around you."

The words stung, but Syril didn’t argue. He knew she was right. The world was changing, and he had no idea where he stood in it anymore.

She took another step forward, her presence unwavering. "I’m asking you to make a choice, Syril. You’ve been sitting on the sidelines, but that’s no longer an option. The Empire won’t let you stay neutral. You’ll either be crushed by it or you’ll stand up and fight."

Syril’s mind spun, the weight of her words sinking in. He had always been the one who followed orders, who stayed within the lines. But now… now, it felt like the lines were disappearing, and all that was left was a choice he wasn’t sure he was ready to make.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he said, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than he intended.

“I want you to decide,” she said simply. “Decide who you’re going to be. The man who fades into the background, or the one who finally chooses a side.”

Syril didn’t speak for a long time, the silence between them growing heavier. His gaze drifted to the city beyond them—the lights flickering like stars in a sky that seemed too vast for him to understand. Was there even a side worth choosing? Could he live with the consequences of any decision he made?

And for the first time in a long while, Syril didn’t have an answer.

"First you have to tell me your name and who you're with. I need to know what I'm getting myself into," he said, his voice steadying, though the tremor of uncertainty still lingered in his chest. It was a weak attempt at regaining some control over the situation, but it was all he had. He couldn’t move forward without knowing who she was or what kind of danger he was stepping into.

Her smile didn’t fade, but there was a flicker of approval in her eyes. "Fair enough," she replied, her tone deliberate, as if she’d been expecting this question all along. "You deserve to know who you're dealing with."

She took a deep breath, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she seemed to weigh how much to reveal. "My name is Aria. And as for who I’m with…" She paused, glancing around them briefly, as if to make sure no one else was listening, then leaned in just a little closer. "I’m with the Resistance. We’re not a formal organisation yet. But we’re building something. Something that will change the course of everything. The Empire won’t be able to ignore us forever."

Syril’s mind raced. The Resistance. The very idea felt foreign to him, a world away from the cold, calculated structure of the Imperial forces he had once been a part of. A world where things weren’t dictated by rules, where loyalty and duty weren’t enough to make decisions for you. And yet, there was something compelling about it.

"How do I even begin?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of the decision settling on him like a stone in his chest.

Aria smile returned, this time with a hint of something almost approving. "You’ve already begun. You’re here, aren’t you? You’ve made the first step."

He glanced at her, unsure if it was that simple, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised she was right. This was the moment. The choice had already been made, whether he liked it or not.

"Where do we start?" he asked, finally allowing himself to hope—just a little.

Aria's gaze softened, but there was still that spark of determination in her eyes. "We start by taking down the Empire, piece by piece. And it begins with people like you, Syril. The ones who have seen it all. The ones who understand it." She turned, her hand brushing past his as she began to walk away, her pace steady and sure.

"Are you coming?" she called back, without turning around.

For a moment, Syril hesitated, but then he followed her, the decision made. No more running. No more hiding. He was ready to step into the fight, even if he didn’t yet know what it would cost him.

"Yeah," he muttered to himself, more determined than he had felt in a long time. "I’m coming."

-

Aria asked him as they approached her ship if he needed anything from his apartment. If there was anything he truly valued. She also added that they had plenty of clothes and food and he told her that he was alright in the credits department, due to how well-paid his previous job had been.

There was something comforting about her presence. He sat down beside her in the ship, peeled off his coat, and he began to ask her a question, "So, where are you from?"

Aria glanced at him as the ship glided smoothly through hyperspace, her fingers brushing over the controls almost instinctively. The low hum of the engines seemed to match the quiet tension between them, a calm before whatever adventures awaited.

"I'm from Corellia," she said, her voice tinged with both pride and a subtle sadness. "It’s... a bustling world, a place where ships are built and legends are made. The Corellians have always been known for their speed and ingenuity. But it’s a hard place to grow up, always under the pressure to live up to the reputation."

She glanced sideways, catching his eye for a moment. "I left when I was younger. The galaxy seemed like a bigger place than that steel city. I wanted more than just the scent of engine oil and the sound of ships taking off every other minute."

Her fingers tightened on the controls for a brief second, before her grip relaxed, a soft sigh escaping her. "And you? Born in Coruscant, right?"

"Yes."

A silence dragged on.

"You've been alone for quite a while, haven't you?" she said, the question soft but probing.

Syril raised a brow.

"Sorry you just seem so quiet. You were so different the last time I saw you."

Syril looked at her, his voice steady and his hand gripping his glass a little tighter. "I guess I've just gotten used to being on my own. But yeah, it’s been a while since I... had anyone to talk to."

Her mouth seemed to twist to the side a little. "Me too."

"So what have you been doing since you left Ferrix?" Syril asked.

"Watching you."

Syril shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his grip tightening on his glass, but he couldn't help the faint warmth that rose to his ears. He could tell she was teasing, but there was something oddly... intimate about her knowing gaze. Something about the way she said it, as if she had been watching him in a way that went beyond mere curiosity. "The last six months? That's what you've been put up to?"

"Well that and other things. Although, I was told not to approach you or speak to you until you made contact yourself. "

Syril’s brow furrowed at her words. Made contact? He could feel his pulse quicken, confusion mixing with a hint of something else—was it dread? He hadn’t realised there was more to her being here than the mere coincidence of their paths crossing.

"And who put you up to this?" Syril looked away, still trying to regain his composure.

"You will find out in due course –"

Aria started, but Syril cut her off, his voice tight. “It wasn’t Andor, was it? You’re not taking me to him to be questioned, are you? He’s dangerous... he’s—” Syril’s hands tremble as he says it, betraying his anxiety.

Her eyes widened with surprise. "What?"

"Andor. Cassian Andor. Was he the one who wanted me here? Are you taking me to him to get questioned? Are you going to kill me?" Now he was frightened. His mind diverting to the worst possible outcomes. “I’ve heard the stories,” Syril muttered, eyes flickering nervously to the window. “Of what he can do. What happens to people who cross him. If you’re working for him... if he’s the one behind this...” Syril’s voice trailed off, caught in the weight of the unspoken fear.

Her eyes widened with surprise, but there was no mockery in her expression. She studied him for a moment, and for the first time, Syril noticed the softness in her gaze. It wasn’t pity, but something more—concern, maybe. She reached over to put a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "No one is going to hurt you."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I know these people. They don't want to make you suffer. They want to help you. They want to hear you. We aren't like the Empire."

Syril looked at her hand now upon his shoulder, her thumb pressing gently into his shoulder blade. Her skin dark and warm. It brought him comfort. He hadn't felt human touch in a long time, there was something so odd about the feeling rising inside of him.

Syril stayed still for a moment, his mind racing with confusion, suspicion, and an unspoken yearning that he didn’t quite understand. The warmth of her hand on his shoulder was both grounding and unsettling. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d been missing human connection until this very moment. Her touch felt genuine, comforting even, and yet, part of him wanted to pull away, unsure of the intentions behind it.

He swallowed hard, trying to shake off the sudden vulnerability that crept into his chest. "I don’t know who to trust anymore," he murmured, his voice quieter now, less defensive. "Not after everything with the Empire. I’ve been led down too many false paths."

Aria didn’t pull her hand away. Her fingers remained light on his shoulder, a steady reassurance. "I get it," she said softly, her voice calm and steady. "You’ve been through a lot. But I assure you, not everyone is out to use you. Not everyone wants to control you."

Syril's eyes flickered back to her face, searching for something real, something that would tell him that maybe, just maybe, he could believe her. Her gaze met his without hesitation, unflinching, as though she could see the turmoil swirling inside him. She wasn’t pushing him, just waiting, allowing him space to breathe, to decide what he wanted—what he needed.

"I don’t know how to stop being afraid," he confessed, his words almost a whisper. "I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the betrayal to come."

Aria’s hand stayed firm but gentle, her thumb brushing across his skin in a slow, soothing motion. "You don’t have to do it alone anymore," she said, the weight of her words settling in his chest like a promise. "You don’t have to live in fear."

The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was... safe. The kind of silence that felt like an unspoken understanding, the kind that suggested something had shifted, something had broken through the walls Syril had built around himself for so long.

She then pulled her hand away and he could still feel the touch linger. He watched her as she controlled the ship as if it was routine. It was late, he found himself yawning under his breath.

"You can go into the sleeping pod if you're tired," she said. "There's some clothes in there you could change into. A shower also."

"Are you saying I smell bad?" He laughed.

Aria glanced over at him with a playful smirk, her eyes twinkling under the dim lights of the cockpit. "Not at all," she teased, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice. "But you've been awake for hours. And you’ve been through a lot. I’m just offering a little rest, Syril. You could use it."

Syril chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly light in contrast to the weight that had been lingering in his chest all this time. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes flicking to the sleeping pod she’d mentioned. "I suppose you’re right. Been a long day... or night, or whatever it is in hyperspace."

Aria’s gaze softened, her fingers still moving over the ship’s controls with ease, her focus unwavering. "The time doesn’t really matter out here. Just... sleep when you can."

He hesitated for a moment, feeling the awkwardness of the situation settle back into his bones. He had grown so used to isolation that even simple things—like being offered a bed—felt foreign to him. But the kindness in her voice was undeniable. There was no judgment, no expectation, just... care.

Syril nodded, pushing himself up from his seat. "Alright. I’ll take you up on that."

As he moved toward the sleeping pod, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder at Aria, still focused on the ship. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who expected anything in return, just offering comfort and space when it was needed. It made him feel a little less alone, a little less like the world was waiting for him to fail.

The pod was smaller than he expected, but it was functional and clean, and there were fresh clothes neatly folded on a shelf nearby. He changed quickly, the soft fabric of the shirt feeling like a welcome relief after the rough, ill-fitting garments he’d been wearing for far too long. The shower was equally as refreshing, the warm water melting away some of the tension from his muscles.

When he returned to the main cabin, wet hair and a slightly more relaxed demeanour, he found Aria still at the controls, her eyes focused on the blinking lights and the smooth hum of the ship around them. She glanced up when he entered, her expression momentarily softening as she took in his changed appearance.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah," Syril said, running a towel through his damp hair. "Surprisingly so."

He stepped closer to the cockpit, leaning against the wall, unsure of what to do next. The ship was quiet, the stars outside flickering in their distant glow.

"You don’t sleep much, do you?" he asked, observing how her hands moved with practiced ease over the controls. It was as if she didn’t need rest, as if the ship itself was an extension of her.

Aria gave a soft laugh, though it was tinged with something he couldn’t quite place. "I’ve learned to survive on less sleep than most people. It’s part of the job." She didn’t seem to want to elaborate, but the words hinted at something else, something far deeper than the routine of space travel.

Syril nodded, feeling the weight of the silence between them settle once more, but it didn’t feel as heavy this time. There was a subtle comfort in it, an unspoken connection that made the distance between them seem smaller.

"You should try to get some sleep anyway," Aria said after a moment, her voice gentle but firm. "We have a few hours before we hit the next waypoint, and it’ll be better for you in the long run."

"What about you? Aren't you tired?"

"I'm okay," she murmured. "I've gotten used to running on fumes. It’s not ideal, but it’s something I’ve had to learn."

Syril nodded and began to step away.

"You know, Aria," he said after a beat, his voice softer than usual, "If you ever need someone to take over, or if you just need to rest... I’m here."

She looked at him then, her gaze steady and perhaps a little surprised by the sincerity in his voice. For a second, it seemed like she might say something else, but she just nodded instead, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Thanks, Syril," she replied quietly, and for the first time since they had met, he saw something in her—something human. "I’ll keep that in mind."

He met her gaze, surprised by the warmth and care that she seemed to effortlessly give. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable even, but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t mind. He simply nodded, not trusting his voice to convey how much her words meant.

With a final glance toward her, he made his way back to the sleeping pod, settling into the small space. The bed was comfortable enough, and the quiet hum of the ship seemed to calm his racing thoughts. His body, now relaxed from the shower, sank into the softness of the bed, and his eyes slowly closed.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Syril allowed himself to drift into sleep, the tension in his body slowly melting away, replaced with the strange but comforting sensation of trust.

[echonidae]

✦ COMMISSIONS REOPENING on monday, December 2nd!! ✦

hello there!! i'm a good deal late again (i miscalculated how much time it'd take to get everything ready for this new batch orz), but, i bring news of a new commission batch, scheduled for monday, December 2nd!!

i have a bunch of things to report, which you can read under the read-more (or over on [deviantArt!]) but yes, the important bits:

all commission types available!! regular orders: 12 slots total (3 active, 9 in queue) doodle orders: no limit so long as it's open!! (6 active slots!) pagedoll orders: also no limit!! (2 active slots!) the queue(s) will remain open indefinitely the waitlist for the next batch is unavailable until further notice ✦ digital medium only! the commissioned pieces are all .png files; no physical items will be shipped. ✦ for regular orders, max of 2 SLOTS per person; i'll be working on multiple orders one at a time (the second order will be moved into the queue) ✦ waiting period is 2 months at most! i tend to work fairly fast, and i'll keep you updated throughout the whole process!

here's a link to the commission info website!!

more info on the upcoming commissions + new stuff under the read-more!!

so!! >:3c

a new commission option!! we'ge got pagedolls now!! :"D

they're lil' stylized full-body portraits with transparent backgrounds, clean lineart and flatcolors :'3c i just posted the examples separately, you can check them out [here]!! they have their own queue, like doodles, but function the same as regular orders in terms of feedback and client updates– the different queue is just because pagedolls are faster to complete, and therefore it'd be nice if they didn't take regular-order-slots instead :')c no limit of orders per person, but i will be working on those 2 at a time c':

speaking of full-body, from here on all commission options offer full-body portraits, replacing knee-up!! i feel more confident with my art now to tackle full-body stuff :') with this, i went and changed the nomenclature of shoulder/waist/knee-up to just bust/half-body/full-body, which i reckon better suits how i tend to go about where to cut off portraits (uh... ribcage/mid-thigh/mid-calf-up x"Dc)

portraits can now have up to two characters!! slooowly climbing towards just having multiple extra characters x'Dc but for now, just the two!! prices vary depending on how much of the second character is visible (plus an extra fee if the 2nd character is Very Very Intricate design-wise). more on this below, and on the [website] too :')c

that said, familiars / pets / companions don't count as extra characters!! they have their own stipulations, also described below!!

this time i'll be (once again) working on a reduced amount of slots for regular orders (doodles and pagedolls exempt!), in an effort to finish things up in a more timely manner by focusing on a smaller amount of orders, and to then open new batches more often (since the last one was over a year ago). this time around, there will be a total of 12 slots for regular orders: 3 active slots that i'll be getting started on right away on monday, and then another 9 waiting in queue c: again, no deadline for those!!

since it's a small number of slots, regular orders slots are limited to two per person!! so that folks have a good chance of getting a slot :')c and given how it's just 3 active slots, i'll be working on multiple orders one at a time c':

doodles and pagedolls do not have those limits, and i'll just go about finishing them up as i can c: six doodles at a time, and two pagedolls at a time as well, but their respective queues have no slot limit, and folks can order as many as they want at once :3c

in a different note, over the course of the year, i've gone from using Paint Tool SAI to drawing and painting on Rebelle 7 instead, and have since acclimated well enough to continue commission work with no issue– i can now send the finalized files at better resolution too :"Dc yey nanopixel :3c

which reminds me, icons are now sized 1000px square insted of 800px!! minor change but still noteworthy x')c

lastly, cases in which no sketch presented is suitable, and no amount of editing said sketch can help its approval and the client would rather a new sketch be made, i can do so for a flat fee of 35% of the original order's price– this does not impact choosing between sketches and such, or my tendency towards working on more than one sketch for orders, or if the client has presented multiple sketch ideas for the same order :')c the modifications, big and small, of the sketch phase remain entirely part of the process and free of charge!! this is just in case an entirely new sketch is necessary, since the sketch portion of the process is usually the more complicated and time-consuming bit of the commission c': so, edge case, but it's a new thing added in and i want to make mention of it!!

other than that, prices have been updated, and there's been minor edits in wording for the sake of clarity in the terms on the [website], on the forms, and the descriptions of the options and extras c': i've also, as you may have noticed, updated all the examples on the info sheet and on the website to be past commissions!! some of which i have yet to post (orz on my way!!! ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ), but that you can see as well over on the commission-info-place :')c

and that's it for all the new stuff!! :'D

thank you so much again to everyone who ordered last batch (i'm so happy folks like the doodles so much, for one!! they've been a heckin' blast to work on, thank you all again!!), and everyone who reached out and sent messages and stopped by the commission-info-website for orders or to just say hi, i appreciate it tons :')c i'm looking forward to this new batch!! (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

thank you again, and i wish everyone a dang nice day!! :"D i'll be posting until then, but cya monday!!

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ─ | “Who To Believe” | ─ *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Cato (she/her)

Atlas isn’t sure he believes his eyes. 

Sitting criss-crossed on his bed, crouched over a crisp file the precise shade of seaweed, he doesn’t think he’s ever read something quite so outrageous. Eden Inc. is a company built for the protection of Magicae and humankind alike, working in silent secrecy as they rescue forgotten children off the streets, providing them shelter, food, and clothes on their backs. A place to call home. The evidence in these reports is the clear opposite of that. 

The sentences inside these files are too gruesome for Atlas to even name, descriptions and illustrations of a series of reports so vile Atlas is sure that he can’t possibly be reading the right thing. This couldn’t have come from inside the drawers of one of Eden’s own filing cabinets, from inside the warehouse he has grown up and lived in his entire life. Eden has offered him nothing but warmth and love, with open acceptance and plentiful gifts. He would be nowhere, nothing, if it weren’t for Eden’s generosity. 

Yet through the dark green lettering along these pages, Atlas finds himself face-to-face with an organization a clear opposite of that; an organization built on the blood of the poor, the labour of the vulnerable. These missions have no rhyme or reason, no explanation to the horrors and atrocities committed. They don’t follow Eden’s strict rule code, their straight-lined regulations of order, justice, and structure. No, all of these reports, these missions, they’re only after one thing: Complete and total power. 

This can’t be right. 

Surely there’s another explanation for this, a reason behind it. How many times has he sat through lectures, heard stories from real-life survivors of the brutality committed against vulnerable Magicae, seen how Eden saved them? They give people purpose, give people a life. He’s witnessed it himself, his own life a clear example of all the good that the company brings to a nation so divided and at war with each other. He’s been on missions since he was only a child, and he’s never taken part in anything bad — Eden protects innocents and silences terrorists hellbent on destroying peaceful society as they know it. This is how it has always been. 

Perhaps that spy planted these here, just for him to find. They’ve been so obvious about who they are, how they don’t belong. Surely they had been trying to get him to follow. Distract him, plant seeds of doubt… just as all evil rebels would do. 

Or maybe this is a test. A part of his training for Evaluation day all along, set up by Cato herself. Having a soldier serve as a distraction, to see if he was truly suited for the Elites. Even giving them the time of day to just consider their lies would be unacceptable, no doubt. He’s always been good at assessments. So a surprise one, something that none of the trainees have knowledge of; questioning their loyalties, their dedication… That would be the true test. The one to weed out the weak from the strong, the faithless from the devoted. 

Of course. That has to be it. 

This was all a test, and he’s already on the path of failure, allowing the spy to go loose. Next thing tomorrow, he must go down and report them to Cato. He’ll be rewarded highly, granted a sure spot along the Elites. Everything he has ever dreamed for. 

It’ll be perfect. 

Yet staring at the evidence in these files, Atlas can’t help but feel like he’s grasping at straws, trying to find reason in these monstrosities. Would Cato really set all this up to see if it would dissuade him from his mission? Would he really be wrong for feeling wary of it, after all of this, after the torture he has witnessed, displayed between these lines. 

Does he really believe that it’s all made up? 

Staring at the satchel placed haphazardly across from him, he can’t fight the feeling probing inside of him that this is all wrong. That perhaps that spy may have been telling him the—

An abrupt rap against his door cuts him off from finishing that thought. He flinches, hands scrambling at lightning speed to shove everything back into the bag, swiftly stowing it under his mattress. What was he thinking, bringing these files back into his room? What will become of him, if someone finds them here? They’re classified information — he’s breaking so many rules by just daring to peek inside of them. He’s going to be in so much trouble. 

Atlas sucks in a sharp breath, patting down his sheets and trying to hide the tremble in his hands at just the thought of someone finding out what he’s done, what he’s been doing in here. He straightens up, face a perfect mask of neutrality, and crosses the room over to the door, praying the sound of his heart thumping from inside his chest isn’t as obvious to his visitor as it is in his head. 

He finds himself staring straight at Cato. Her lips are drawn into a firm line as she glares, the tenseness in her expression instantly notifying Atlas of the fact that she is absolutely pissed, her mismatched eyes stormy. He has to hold back the urge to shiver, the sight of her glass eye staring through him enough to send fear spiking straight through his spine. He has always felt like that eye has a magic of its own, being able to just pull the thoughts from his head with a terrifying ease. 

Cato’s eyes narrow and Atlas instantly moves in response, opening the door wider and stepping back to make room. She is brisk as she walks into the room, the clack of her heels the only sound to be heard through the chill of the atmosphere. Her hands are folded behind her back as she surveys his dorm, eyes sweeping across his belongings. She focuses on his bed for half a millisecond too long and Atlas holds his breath, dread filling up his already-queasy stomach. 

Oh fuck, she knows. 

He is just about to bow and beg for her forgiveness when Cato’s voice cuts through his spiralling thoughts, her tone clipped and harsh. “You missed training.” She states, head turning an inch as she eyes him again, gaze cold and piercing. “Do you have a good excuse?” 

Atlas feels relief flood through him at her question, though the comfort is only momentary. His face pales as it suddenly dawns on him that he has allowed himself to be so carried away by this spy business that the thought of training or any of his other daily activities completely slipped his mind. 

He’s never missed training. Never misses training. He’s never tardy or behind, perfectly on time and perfectly prepared for each one of his sessions. How could he ever forget? 

His tongue seems to be stuck in place for a moment too long, before Atlas finally manages to find his voice. “I, um, I forgot.” He mumbles, his cheeks burning red in shame. “I’m sorry, there’s no excuse.” 

Cato straightens her back a bit to stand taller, crossing her arms over her chest as she arches a brow in his direction. Her frown only seems to deepen at his words, eyes dark and unreadable. “Atlas, this kind of thing is already not acceptable — but just before your evaluation?” She sucks in a sharp breath through her nose, letting out a heavy sigh. “Are you really trying your hardest here?” 

Atlas stares down at his feet, avoiding Cato’s gaze. Guilt bubbles up inside his gut, slowly eating away at his insides. How could he be so careless? So… worthless. What will happen to his position now, that he’s gone and broken one of the simplest rules Cato has ever set for him? 

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, voice near-silent. 

Cato tips her chin up, brows drawn into a tight line. “Sorry does not make up for the loss of time. You are going to put in extra training hours tonight to make up for it.” She instructs, voice firm and unwavering. “This will not happen again.” 

Atlas silently nods, still not meeting her gaze. He can’t believe he let himself become so carried away with that stranger. What was wrong with him? 

He was never usually like this, so preoccupied by other things. How could he ever allow himself to concern himself with anything other than his mission? Nothing else was important, nothing else mattered. All he lived for was his mission. Why did he let it occupy his thoughts for a mere second?

Now he’d disappointed Cato. 

There is a beat of silence between them, Cato’s eyes searching his face. Atlas half-expects her to criticize him, to critique his appearance or lecture him on the importance of timing — and his contributions to Eden. He’s heard the lecture a million times over. How vital he is to the company, how he isn’t like everyone else. Slacking off will just squander his high potential. 

But instead, she places a singular finger underneath his chin, slowly tipping his head up to be level with hers. It’s only now that he meets her gaze. Her eyes are still dark and gloomy, unforgiving; yet, beneath them, another emotion lingers. Something Atlas is sure is akin to… worry. 

“Is there something on your mind?” She asks, voice deadly quiet. Her hand cradles his cheek, soft against his skin — tender, almost. The slight rub of the thumb against his jaw is enough to make him shiver.

Atlas fears he’ll break right then and there, that all of his fears, the storm of questions currently brewing in his mind, will come spilling right out. Cato is never so affectionate with him. 

You’re being trained for the Elites too aren’t you? They’ll do the same thing to you.

The thought of that spy, teeth bared, eyes bright with defiance, is what stops him. He doesn’t know what they’re here for, how they even managed to sneak their way in. But someone against both Eden and the Congregation of the Chosen is an anomaly that he didn’t know existed. He needs to find out more. Needs to find out what they know.

The next words out of his mouth are a surprise to both he and Cato: 

“I just lost track of time.”

Cato exhales, the moment broken within an instant. Her touch is gone as soon as it came, expression closed off in mere seconds.

“Training. Tonight.” She says, sharply turning on her heel and marching back towards the door. “Don’t lose track of time.”

Atlas closes the door behind her, allowing it to shut with an almost silent click. He waits until he’s positive she has made her way back down the hall before he returns to his bed, slowly pulling the files back out. His head buzzes with a million questions, all of them a complete betrayal to the mission he has sought so hard after. 

He hates himself for getting distracted by the stranger, for letting them pull him away from training. But on the other hand, the stuff he’s seen inside these files…. It’s disgusting. 

He’s not sure what he believes anymore. 

Masterlist || Previous || Next

TAGLIST \\ @ohagiwrites @oros-ash3s @bloodinkandashes @corinneglass @icantthinkofablognameatm @vesanal @inky-anathemata @bioniclechronicles @seastarblue @gr3yhellh0und @aalinaaaaaa @shadow-of-tea-and-tea @robinshandhurts @ieppiq @sugaredparchment @lunaeuphternal @ifmasonbasonwasawriter @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @blackboxwarrior-mkultra @lancedoncrimsonwings @sharkblizzardblogs @nightmaricwriter @scoundrelwithboba @cepheusgalaxy @cacophonyofwords @theink-stainedfolk @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @write-with-will

★ Send an ask or dm to be added or removed from the taglist ★

A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

─ O.A. .ᐟ

[jedi-order-apologist]

An Incident Report

An incident report filed after the Rebellion attacked a non-military prison. The incident report was suppressed in an attempt to cover up the prison facility's failure and risk trouble with higher ranking Imperials, but the first page of it is recovered here more or less intact. Written for Fandom Empire Fandom Rush - Week 10: Star Wars and Star Wars 100 - Prompt: Chain Code and Gen Prompt Bingo Round 27 - Prompt: Documentation

READ ON AO3

██████████ CORRECTIONAL FACILITY

INCIDENT REPORT #████

DATE/TIME OF INCIDENT: █████████████

FILED BY: ███████████████

DETAILS OF INCIDENT:

At ████, the security feeds went offline. The automatic alarm failed to activate. ███████ unsuccessfully attempted to activate the alarm manually. Attempts to communicate with other floors were also unsuccessful. █████ was dispatched as a messenger by foot, but the insurgents had already infiltrated by the time he was able to reach ██████. Camera feeds were restored, but internal communications remained inoperable for the duration of this incident.

The insurgents gained access to the building on floor ██. They proceeded to the detention area, killed all the guards, and released the prisoners.

By this time, most of the facility was aware of the breach. External communications were limited and ██████ was unable to request military backup. Additional guards were rerouted to arrest the insurgents and prisoners (hereafter both groups referred to only as “rebels”) while other staff were instructed to prevent access to sensitive equipment. The guards confronted them on floor ██ and attempted to detain them. The resulting casualties are as follows:

Staff injuries: ███

Staff deaths: ███ (incl. guards in detention area)

Rebel injuries: Unknown

Rebel deaths: 16

A detailed report of staff injuries is attached. The remaining rebels escaped.

They vandalized equipment and the building itself, in particular damaging several doors and any computer consoles they gained access to. A detailed report of the damage is attached.

Investigation after the incident determined that the rebels had compromised our communications and security by installing a virus into a cleaning droid when it had been sent offsite for regular maintenance. ████████ recommends investigating the company responsible for maintenance, ████████████████████████ for rebel sympathizers.

This virus was introduced to our systems by the droid, laying dormant until activated upon the rebels’ infiltration. It destroyed most of our records of the prisoners, including their chain codes. This data remains unrecoverable.

[lesbianalanwake]

more idle Severance thoughts:

--Severance heads, y'all heard about Prey 2017? y'all heard about Control 2019? completely unrelated video games and TV show, and yet it's a trilogy to me.

--pondering Cobel as always.... she wants something from the severed floor and is at odds with Lumon, but it'll be interesting to see what degree of quasi-religious crisis she's having. like, full-blown crisis of doubt/loyalty? or rationalizing it along the lines of something like, Lumon and the current Eagans have strayed from Kier's light, true believer kinda deal? or not even trying to rationalize it, lol, just fuck you, I want what I want, and there is nothing contradictory about me <3

but the S1 finale is becoming increasingly more amusing to me..... the dichotomy between Devon and Mark S being justifiably freaked that Mark S's boss is there and infiltrating their lives, thinking that she would hurt baby Eleanor, while Cobel doesn't give one iota of a fuck that Mark S is there beyond the fact that Helly R could blow a hole in the operation, tells Mark to quit, doesn't do anything to stop him from spilling any beans, and runs off to go do the one thing that will get her back into Lumon. inscrutable queen <3

--Irving worked at Lumon for some years prior to becoming severed, so the question is when the infiltration aspect started. did he apply to work at Lumon with that intent? did something happen that made him turn against them after he started working there? did he discover something about the testing floor? did something happen to him on the testing floor? I feel like Irving having always been a double agent would add some rich flavor to how Lumon-pilled Irving B was, but there's also potential in Irving being used to set the thematic mold for other possible Lumon turncoats. (-grabbing Cobel, Helena, and Milchick by the shoulders and shaking them- rebel! rebel! rebel!) like it could go either way and be satisfying.... such is the character work

--in S1 Helly tells Mark "I'm not your new Petey," but he's trying to be her Petey, trying to mentor her and protect her from his same perceived mistakes and the consequences of them, while in S1 we mostly see a rapidly reintegrating Petey interacting with outie Mark. and if that is Helena on the severed floor, not Helly, then it would be interesting to see an echo of S1: a reintegrating Mark, who is actively investigating the severed floor, interacting with Helena, who is drawn into starting to question and doubt. lots of potential for drama, but also kind of funny as hell if they're both walking around like "yes, that's me, your local innie worker reporting for duty."

--also it's extremely ghoulish that Lumon may have specifically headhunted Mark to work for them after Gemma's "death," in order to start whatever MDR nonsense they needed. because like. he's stuck in his grief, and he's been stuck in it for two years and incapable of moving on, but they place an emphasis on how "you carry it with you" even if you forget, and Milchick says that iMark's happiness will trickle back up to him, but it's the opposite. he's "refining" data that has to do with Gemma, and it has an impact on MDR's cognitive functioning ("scary" numbers), and so the wound is just being continually reopened over and over. no wonder Mark is stuck

(I'm also coming up on a two-year anniversary of grief next week, and it does suck so bad even if things are okay now, and so I'm in a Mark appreciation era right now.... like yeah I'm handling it way better than him but I get it. I get it, man)

-- do we think. do we think Helly was refining data for Kier Eagan with the Siena file

--WHAT are they gonna do with the "visitation" area for families (if they do anything at all, and it's not just a carrot to dangle in front of Dylan). because Irving and Mark and potentially Helena all have some vested interest in being down there as themselves, but Dylan doesn't! Dylan G just wants more than his wife's name and a glimpse of his son, and Dylan just needs a job! Dylan as the everyman is killing me..... literally forming the link holding the team together vis a vis enabling the overtime contingency, and there's every possibility that some part of him resents not being able to join in, or is feeling left out. and that's what the idea of the visitation suite would be preying on.... "the others got out, even though they didn't even really have anything to get out to. but we'll give you that glimpse, and it's just for you." AAAAAH

[transbianmuffin]

Memories pt. 3

cw manipulation but we all know she wants to be a pet, also two queer flirting and a hint of gaslighting

********

this thing is huge, and it's almost nonsensical, so much complexity so incredibly decorated so alienating?

"This is...incredible..."

"This, dear, is Opicala. The main Affini ship overseeing Jupiter."

"How? How? It's..."

"Huge? Fantastic? I know you tend to struggle with words." "Majestic!" "Haha, yes majestic is a nice one to describe it." "..." "I know, I know, most of sophonts don't comprehend the grandeur of Affini's architecture." wait those two affini have people? on a leash? what the hell? I've heard about domestication but I thought it was mostly reducing them to zombies and those guys are making out? they seem so happy so carefree what is happening and why why why I- I like it? No I don't want to be a slave I want peace not being a slave again "But I guess you're not looking at the architecture, don't you?" "Those people, collared, on a leash. Are your slaves? Is this what's gonna happen to me?"

they seem so happy, their eyes filled with bliss their mouths drooling each other's saliva and they seem no to care about a thing which is not their own tongues twitching and swirling "Slaves? Dirt, no! Absolutely not. My dear, those are pets. Domesticated sophonts, and we love our pets so much." "I was told that you enslaved people, keeping them drugged and compliant and used them as your servitude or to do menial work for your empire..." "The rebel propaganda really got you there, my beautiful terran. No, not at all. Well, they are drugged most of the times. That part is true, but I can assure you they really like it. As you did, a couple of days ago when we had our first chat." "What will be of me?" "Well, techinically you'd have been sent to forced domestication since you are a rebel. It is also true, though, that you did what you did and that would make you a defector. In addition to that you surrendered without any resistance and moreover you gave us some very useful intel." "So?" "So, my dear, I filed a special plead for you. You won't be assigned to forced domestication. You will stay here for a while and then we will drop you wherever you like on Jupiter. Lastly, we will grant you the status of 'independent terran', unless..." "U- unless?" "Unless you'd actually want to stay and be a pet, my dear. Oh you would be the cutest of them all. You'd have to either pick or be picked by an owner and you will live forever in care and bliss." oh god oh god a pet? would I be a good pet? I mean those two earlier seemed to be happy but maybe there were only high as fuck but being a pet seems so nice

"An owner, like you?" "Ah, you're saying this, not me~" "I- I don't know." "There is another little thing I forgot to mention." "Now you're scaring me." "Good, you will learn to fear the giant plant girl which work consists mainly in interrogating and inflicting terrible tortures to rebels." "...Sinea..." "Just kidding, just kidding! Look at your face, stars you are so damn cute! Anyway, I saw from your medical report that you were under special medications for HRT, am I correct?" "Y-yes." "Well I think it is worth mentioning that the meds you were taking are nothing more than candies compared to our Class G. Which is basically the same thing but way more advanced and effective." "Oh..."

is she lying? maybe she wants to drug me again but maybe I can trust her, she's been so kind with me and advanced HRT is a dream come true

"Am I picking your interest there?" "Y-yes." "Of course this is not to convince you at all. I am just saying that here you will be loved in a way you have never experienced. You are free to go whenever. Just say a place on Jupiter and we'll drop you there instantly, Deena." "I need some time. I am tired and it's a lot to process." "That's perfectly understandable, little one. Want me to carry you?" "..." "Stars, when you give me those puppy eyes I- I simply can't! Come on. Here." "Those pets."

god they seemed so happy I was envious? jealous? yes that's the word

"Those pets, yes." "Those pets." "Yes those were pets. Do you have any specific consideration you want to make here or are you simply stating a matter of fact, my dear?" "They seemed so happy. Their kisses so blissful, their minds overwhelmed with joy and passion." "Florets usually do that. Here they are safe, protected, free to explore their true self, their true nature. Nobody judges them and the joy you saw in their eyes was certaintly shared by their respective owners."

"I would like to talk to one of them, if possible." "I have a better idea. There will be a little social gathering among florets later, their owners will be there but they won't interfere too much in their interactions. While I am not still your owner, I am your temporary ward so I can vouch for you. There you can talk to any of them and maybe even do something more than talking~" "S- still?"

what does she mean with still? still? she wants me to be her pet? what?

"Uh?" "You said you are not still my owner." "No, no my dear you must have misheard. I said that I am not your owner, which is true. I mean I could be your owner if that's what you want but the choice is yours and only yours."

maybe I misheard? I am sure she said that but I'm also tired and the feeling of her vines around me are so beautifully distracting

"I- I think I'm sure of what i've heard?" "Aw darling~ you are so tired, sometimes it happens to misheard stuff when we are tired. Misheard or projecting. Anyway, would you like to go to the floret's gathering?" "Maybe you're right. I am really tired but yes, Sinea, I'd love to go." "Very well, but first I must to inform you that I won't let my ward take part in a social event without some glowing up. You still smell of surgical sanitizer and your dress is unacceptable. I have a reputation." "Sure..." "That's my good girl. We will go at mine, have a bath, some grooming and I'll provide you with something suitable to wear."

hehe good girl~ wait a second a bath, a dress? what am I a doll? but I don't want to make her feel bad at the gathering I guess I can see how it goes

********

[meshla-cyarika]

Cabur

Pairing: CX-2 x gn!reader

Word count: 1,223

Tags/warnings: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, slight description of blood/injury, established relationship

Summary: CX-2 has come home from a tiresome mission and needs you to pick up the pieces of his lost soul.

Notes: CX-2 fluff anyone 👀? I've made it so he remains anonymous, so you can imagine it as any clone you like (I personally envisioned either Tech or Cody but it works with anyone). Sorry, it's a bit rubbish and short, but yeah.

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

Despite the fact that it is just past midnight, Tantiss base is still tingling with life. The pristine white interior contrasts the darkness of the jungle outside. CX-2 has just given his report to Hemlock and, even though everything went according to plan, the scientist still managed to be condescending.

Something stirs uncomfortably inside CX-2, when Hemlock praises him for his work. Taking down rebels, while murdering innocents caught in the crossfire isn't something to be praised for. Anyone in their right mind would spit words like venom at the assassin, throw punches till the bones beneath his skin turned into dust and leave his body unrecognizably mangled.

CX-2 had never questioned anything the way he does now, before he met you, before he started to be treated like a person. Everything changed, when he met you. Slowly, CX-2 started to become self aware and it terrified him, still does. He acts like nothing has changed, but inside his mind is screaming.

Gradually, he's starting to remember more - blurred faces of his brothers, bits and pieces of old missions, old routines. Despite this, he still can't figure out what his name is, or even his old registration number. Every file on the man he used to be was deleted, when he became CX-2. The same happened to all the other assassins.

The clone snaps out of his thoughts, when he realises he's made it to the door to your quarters. The durasteel door opens with a hiss and closes behind him. For the first time in days, it's like he can finally breathe again. As a chief medical officer, you receive your own private quarters, but it's nothing special and smaller than the one you had with GAR.

The clone peels off his black armour and stacks it on the floor by your desk. He practically rips off his gloves, that have too much blood on them to be able to wash off, and drops them on the floor too. The green glow of night vision leaves his sight, as he removes his helmet and is left in the darkness of your room. The short path to your bed is inbedded in his memory, so he has no problem peeling back the covers and slipping beneath them to wrap an arm around your sleeping form.

One of the only things the clone knows how to do perfectly is to not be noticed when he doesn't want to be. Although, now he's starting to second guess himself, because you soon stir awake.

"Cabur?" He sighs contently at the word leaving your lips. As you grew closer with him, you quickly started to hate calling him just by a number. After he told you that he doesn't have a name, you nicknamed him "cabur" - the mando'a word for guardian/protector. You think it's very fitting, especially after he nearly killed a natborn gaurd that got aggressive when you were treating her dislocated shoulder.

"Go back to sleep." He tightens the arm around your waist and slips his other arm beneath your pillow. You try to turn around to face him, but he holds you still.

"Just let me see you, cabur." You plead and he notices the lack of grogginess in your voice. You haven't been asleep long and he doesn't want to worry you. He gives in more easily than he wants to and loosens his hold on you. You turn over and you're just about able to make out his face in the darkness.

The first thing you notice is the exhausted look in his eyes and the dark circles below his eyelids. Then, you notice the patch running along his cheekbone which is soaked in blood. You hesitantly trace the bandage with you fingertips and he has to hold back a grimace.

"Let me patch you up?" You place your palm on the side of his face and absentmindedly rub your thumb in soothing motions just below his wound.

"You don't have to-"

"Of course, I do." I love you sits on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow it down. You sit up and throw your covers off of you to stand up. He sighs heavily, before hesitantly getting up to follow you into the fresher.

A comfortable silence consumes you both, as he sits on the toilet lid and you slowly peel off the bandage on his cheek. The gash is two inches long, still oozing out blood and deep enough to require stitches. You try to hold back a sympathetic wince, but your expression must still give you away, as he says, "it's not that bad."

"Respectfully, cabur, I'm the doctor here, so I'll be the judge of that." You playfully quirk a brow at him to try and lighten the mood. Sometimes, after you gently encourage him, he'll tell you what's happened on his latest mission and how disgusted he feels. You know for a fact it's not going to be one of those long nights. Just by looking into his deep brown eyes, you can tell all he wants is to sleep. Who are you to deny him that?

The room falls into silence again, as you use an alcohol wipe to clean the crimson liquid off his face. He doesn't even flinch at the sting. Times like this, where you're patching up your cabur, makes you think about the GAR, before the Empire had a chokehold on the galaxy. It makes you think about all the clones you had tended to, not knowing how long they were going to live after they left your medical tent. All that bloodshed and death. For what? Everyone lost in the end.

Being stationed on Tantiss base wasn't by choice. Even though it's supposed to be very confidential and secretive, enough rumours of the horrors of clone experimentation has slipped through to give everyone goosebumps at the mention of it's name. Once you get put on Tantiss, you never leave, prisoner or not.

You used to live in fear everyday for weeks on end, but then you realised that it's not about you. It's about them. The clone troopers of the Republic. The fight is not over yet and it never will be till every last clone is freed from the Empire's grasp. You can't remember when you first started conspiring with Captain Rex's rebellion, it's been months now. You've given him everything you possibly can, except for Tantiss' location. When you were sent on a shuttle with other medical officers to Tantiss, the gaurds never told you exactly where the base actually is in galaxy and you havent been able to find out since.

"All done." You snap out of your thoughts, after smoothing a fresh bandage over his newly stitched wound. Your cabur says nothing in response, he just circles his arms around your waist to pull you closer and rests his forehead against your collarbone.

You can't tell him, not yet. If you tell him you're a traitor, he'll want to help you and get himself hurt. You can't watch him bleed because of you.

You sigh and remove your hands from his hair, grabbing his chin to have him face you. You lean down and press your lips against his and it's like drinking from an oasis.

"Come on. Let's go back to bed, cabur."

[corsair-mercenary-companies]

To all survivors of the 30 hours war. To all surviving members of CORSAIR Mercenary Company our home may have been ripped from us, it may be soaked in the blood of our fallen comrades.... But... It's back in our hands.

The company is dead. CORSAIR Mercenary Company is gone. But... The spirit of what it means to be a CORSAIR is far from gone.

She's battered, and ripped to shreds, her guns pulled out, her streets barricaded still and her shops boarded shut. But friends.... She is ours again. Our home... OUR HOME IS OURS AGAIN.

They cannot take that from us. We can bring her back. Build our lives back, rebuild our shops, our rooms, our safety. Because the Mercenaries we were will never return.... We can still do something with our skills. We can still do good in this galaxy. I offer shelter to anyone willing to help rebuild our home... Rebuild your home. I offer a place in the new life we can build.

But before that... Everyone thank APMS-341-A from @leastinsanesscpilot for filing all the paperwork to get our home back.

Back to the core of why we're doing this... Before our home burned. Harrison Armory accused of slaughter of vicious violence against them... And we told them no. No we would not pay reparations for their crimes. That we would not give them money for the pain and suffering they caused.

Before our home burned we showed the Galaxy the crimes we committed on Three Candles Deep to expose the utter horror of the flash cloning project that Longbeard died to stop.

And as our home burned we fought for what was right, we held off the endless horror of our own friends.. of our family turning guns on us because we wouldn't follow our old leader in her madness. She burned our ties to so many....

I tried to save as many of us as I could. I failed to save Commodore. I failed to save most of the handlers. I failed to save most of us.

But we survived. Despite it all we survived.

That is the story of CORSAIR. We are survivors. We are rebels. We refused to bend under the boot of the status quo.

CORSAIR is the home of the lost

CORSAIR is the home of those seeking something more

CORSAIR was the chance for something new... If you had nothing... Or had nothing but excess.

We never did this for the money truly.... We know the old joke of three deployments. Three times boots hit the ground and you could retire. But we didn't retire.

We kept going in.

For glory.

For a purpose.

For the family we made.

So let's do something worthwhile again. Fight a fight against the status quo like Sylvia wanted all those years ago.

When I awoke from my Coma I made the choice to continue to piss off @harrison-armory-incorporated I chose to release the footage from every deployment we had with them, had against them, anything related. Because we turned on one another because they kicked our fragile foundation.... So I kicked back.

We have evidence

We have expirence

We have mechs

We have the tools to take the fight to the companies. To take the fight to every place where innocent people are hurt.

And we can do what we do best. Tell stories.

Frontline reporting. Taking care of those who can't fight. While we do everything we can to not bend to authority.

If the DoJ/HR can't be everywhere at once. And if Albatross won't show the Galaxy what's going on, then we'll do both.

We'll rebuild. I know Anna already wants to design us a fleet.... It's time to remember what it means to be a CORSAIR.

SO LET'S REBUILD OUR HOME

LET'S FUCKING FIGHT A GOOD FIGHT

AND LET US RESIST TILL LEGENDS BLEED

//Morse\\