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How can I not ask for a snippet from Little Ada??? Pretty please?
Of course!
You know the context, but for the others: this is a one shot fic about Ada's life as a lower deck orphan on a voidship - both before her awakening as a Psyker and immediately afterwards. After her capacities reveal themselves, she is locked inside a special cell, where she waits on a Black Ship. A freshly recruited acolyte of the Inquisition has been summoned to check on the incident - someone she will meet again later, once she becomes the Rogue Trader.
Through the slit between the two metal panels, Ada watched grandma Nel sit close to the candles, clutching a bowl. She could smell the soup from her position on the floor. Hunger always made her senses sharper. Old Crack sat down next to the wrinkled woman, chewing on something old and crunchy.
"So, what did the red robes want?" She asked with her croaked voice, blowing on the bowl.
Ada's stomach grumbled, and she cursed it. Now was not the time to be vocal about the fact it was empty.
Old Crack spat out something, missing the wick of one of the candles. The light flickered.
"Same old. Fuel pipe is losing a too big amount of pessentages again. They want to send some of them small ones crawling through to check for issues."
"What dey offering?"
"A good deal. Stack o' ration cards, discarded clothes and rags, bunch of metal we can make the small ones sort and resell."
Someone pulled on Ada's clothes. She cursed silently at the interruption and turned her head to a small, blonde boy.
"Ada, can I have mister Squibbles?"
"Of course you can." She reached behind her for her old ragdoll, and pressed it in the child's hands. She was starting to feel too old for it, she was a whole 8 years after all, and she was working hard now. Still, she preferred to only give him out on loan. The little boy crawled back to a heap of rags on the floor, and Ada glued her eye back to the small split, hooking the red curls behind her ears to make sure she heard better.
"... how about Bitta?"
"Too small."
"So Kiko then?"
"Yeh, maybe, if you send Ada along, because otherwise she'll get lost."
Ada repressed another curse. The fuel pipes were a job that paid well, because it was so bad. The techpriests would only lower the fuel output for a handful of minutes, to drain a section of the pipe. And by drained, they meant that the children would still be walking through the stinking liquid up to their calves, leading to burning skin and blisters for days afterwards. Sometimes they added more current to compensate, and then you had to make sure it didn't drag you with it. Meanwhile you would feel around the pipes on your hands and knees, trying to find asperities, holes, anything unusual, fighting for air in a rebreather too big for you. If you found anything, you had to bang on the wall of the pipe, until you heard a clang back, and then hope you still had time to make it out before the needs of the reactor cores outweighed your life.
When Ada had asked why they didn't use some tools or servoskull, crying over her burnt feet, grandma Nel told her those were too valuable. When she asked why she had to do it, why her, grandma Nel had answered it was because she was small enough. Ada couldn't wait to be 9, and to become too big for the pipes.
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Top Reasons Fitness Experts Recommend Kevin Levrone Creatine

In the world of sports nutrition, creatine stands as one of the most studied, trusted, and effective supplements. Whether you're looking to build muscle, increase strength, or improve overall performance, creatine should be a staple in your supplement stack. Among the many options on the market, Kevin Levrone Creatine has rapidly gained popularity—and with good reason.
Recommended by top fitness professionals and bodybuilders worldwide, Kevin Levrone Creatine offers a premium, highly pure form of creatine monohydrate that supports strength, recovery, and muscle growth. But what exactly makes it stand out from the rest? Why are more fitness experts recommending it over other options?
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How to Maximize Muscle Growth with Effective Fitness Routines
Achieving significant muscle growth involves more than just lifting weights. It requires a comprehensive approach that includes a well-structured workout plan, proper nutrition like tri test 400, and sufficient recovery. This guide will provide detailed strategies to maximize muscle growth through effective fitness routines.
Understanding Muscle Hypertrophy
Muscle hypertrophy refers to the increase in muscle size achieved through resistance training. This process occurs when muscle fibres undergo damage from intense exercise, prompting the body to repair and build them stronger. Understanding the basics of muscle hypertrophy is crucial to designing an effective fitness routine.
Types of Hypertrophy: Myofibrillar vs. Sarcoplasmic
There are two primary types of muscle hypertrophy: myofibrillar and sarcoplasmic. Myofibrillar hypertrophy involves the growth of muscle fibres, leading to increased strength. Sarcoplasmic hypertrophy, on the other hand, is the increase in the muscle cell’s sarcoplasm, enhancing muscle endurance and size. A balanced approach incorporating both types can yield optimal results.
Designing an Effective Workout Plan
Creating an effective workout plan requires careful consideration of various factors, including exercise selection, intensity, volume, and progression. Here’s a step-by-step guide to crafting a routine that maximizes muscle growth.
Compound vs. Isolation Exercises
Compound exercises, such as squats, deadlifts, and bench presses, engage multiple muscle groups simultaneously, promoting overall muscle growth and strength. Isolation exercises, like bicep curls and tricep extensions, target specific muscles. Incorporating a mix of both can ensure balanced muscle development.
Optimal Training Frequency and Volume
Training frequency and volume are crucial for muscle growth. Most experts recommend working each muscle group 2-3 times per week with a volume of 10-20 sets per muscle group per week. This frequency allows for sufficient muscle stimulation and recovery.
Progressive Overload Principle
Progressive overload involves gradually increasing the weight, frequency, or number of repetitions in your workouts. This principle is essential for continuous muscle growth as it challenges the muscles to adapt to increased demands over time.
Periodization: Mixing It Up
Periodization is the systematic planning of athletic or physical training. It involves varying your workout intensity, volume, and type over specific periods to prevent plateaus and overtraining. Common types include linear, undulating, and block periodization.
Nutrition for Muscle Growth
Exercise alone isn’t enough to maximise muscle growth thermo lipid stack; nutrition plays a pivotal role. The right balance of macronutrients and timing can significantly impact your gains.
Protein: The Building Block
Protein is essential for muscle repair and growth. Aim for a daily intake of 1.6-2.2 grams of protein per kilogram of body weight. Sources like lean meats, eggs, dairy, and plant-based proteins can help meet these requirements.
Carbohydrates: Fuel for Performance
Carbohydrates are crucial for providing the energy needed for intense workouts. Consuming complex carbs like whole grains, fruits, and vegetables can sustain energy levels and support muscle recovery.
Healthy Fats: Essential Nutrients
Healthy fats, found in avocados, nuts, seeds, and oily fish, support hormone production and overall health. Including these in your diet ensures you get the essential fatty acids needed for muscle growth.
Timing and Meal Frequency
Nutrient timing can optimize muscle growth. Consuming protein and carbs before and after workouts can enhance muscle repair and energy replenishment. Aim for 4-6 small meals throughout the day to maintain a steady nutrient supply.
The Role of Supplements
While whole foods should be the foundation of your nutrition plan, certain supplements can support muscle growth and overall performance.
Why Protein
Whey protein is a convenient source of high-quality protein pharmaqo anavar, ideal for post-workout recovery. It’s quickly absorbed and can help meet your daily protein needs.
Creatine
Creatine monohydrate is one of the most researched and effective supplements for muscle growth. It enhances performance, increases strength, and promotes muscle cell volumization.
Branched-Chain Amino Acids (BCAAs)
BCAAs, particularly leucine, play a significant role in muscle protein synthesis. Supplementing with BCAAs can reduce muscle soreness and support recovery.
Beta-Alanine
Beta-alanine is a non-essential amino acid that increases muscle carnosine levels, enhancing endurance and reducing fatigue during high-intensity workouts.
Importance of Recovery
Recovery is as important as the workout itself. Muscles need time to repair and grow stronger. Here’s how to optimize your recovery process.
Sleep: The Ultimate Recovery Tool
Adequate sleep is crucial for muscle recovery and overall health. Aim for 7-9 hours of quality sleep per night to support muscle repair, hormone production, and cognitive function.
Active Recovery
Incorporating active recovery, such as light cardio or yoga, can enhance blood flow to muscles, reduce stiffness, and promote overall recovery without overexertion.
Stretching and Mobility
Regular stretching and mobility exercises can prevent injuries and improve performance. Techniques like foam rolling and dynamic stretching can enhance flexibility and reduce muscle tension.
Hydration
Staying hydrated is essential for muscle function and recovery. Water supports nutrient transport, joint lubrication, and temperature regulation. Aim to drink at least 2-3 litres of water daily, adjusting for activity level and climate.
Mindset and Consistency
A positive mindset and consistent effort are key to achieving long-term muscle growth. Setting realistic goals, tracking progress, and staying motivated can help you stay on track.
Goal Setting and Tracking Progress
Set SMART goals (Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, Time-bound) to guide your fitness journey. Use a workout journal or fitness app to track your progress and make necessary adjustments.
Staying Motivated
Find what motivates you, whether it’s a workout partner, a new playlist, or joining a fitness community. Celebrate small victories and stay focused on your long-term goals.
Overcoming Plateaus
Hitting a plateau can be frustrating, but it’s a normal part of the process. Change your routine, increase intensity, or try new exercises to challenge your muscles and break through plateaus.
Conclusion
Maximizing muscle growth requires a holistic approach that includes effective workout routines, proper nutrition, and sufficient recovery. By understanding the principles of muscle hypertrophy, designing a balanced workout plan, fuelling your body with the right nutrients, and prioritising recovery, you can achieve significant muscle gains. Stay consistent, set realistic goals, and continually challenge yourself to reach your fitness potential.
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Shooting Stars (Din Djarin x F!Reader) Pt. 1
A/N: Okay it’s finally here! I’m so excited for this fic, I’m also excited for y’all to read this fic.
Warnings: MODERN!AU, none
Words: 2.2K
Summary: A new professor has been hired at your work seemingly out of the blue.
Master List
September
Dust-filled rays of golden hues shone brightly throughout the large teachers lounge as you sat there, sipping your morning coffee. The room was empty, save for your sitting figure. You typically got to work early, liking the quietness of the space before the other professors and staff would arrive. It gave you time to wake up, as well as prep for the upcoming day. You would do it in your classroom, however, you shared it with the night school teacher and she doesn't leave until it’s time for your first class of the day.
The school you teach at is a community college, but only a two year institution. It’s quite small, one of the smallest in the state, due to how lowly populated the surrounding cities are. You enjoy it, it gives you a chance to form personal relationships easier. Plus the simpleness of a small town has always intrigued you.
You moved to the low-populated city shortly after graduating and getting your bachelors degree just seven years ago. You got your job as the Film and Literature professor for both grades shortly after and wouldn’t change it for the world, having taught here for six years now. You love your students, and the curriculum, and you’ve also made friends with the other long-time staff.
The school year just started, actually. You're only two weeks into the semester. The beginning of the year always had a bit of magic to it. Students actually want to be here and teachers aren't so crabby. There's a collective togetherness felt across the whole campus for the first month or so, it's the highlight of the year.
“Here again early?” The voice of your colleague startled you, prompting you to spill some coffee over the papers you’d been grading.
“Shit,” You muttered, quickly trying to dab away the liquid, “Uh, yeah, I always do.” You chuckled, shrugging away the situation. You looked up to see who’d entered the room and smiled, noting it was one of your close work friends, Omera. The woman has worked here for almost as long as you, having started two years after. She isn't a teacher, instead she works in the office as a secretary. Omera also has a ten year old daughter, and is an amazing single mother. You've met her child, Winta, a few times in the past. You two became friends quickly, finding out you had many things in common.
“I prefer the extra twenty-five minutes of sleep.” She chuckled lightly, padding over to the old coffee machine. You always made sure to brew a full pot, as you were usually the first person to make any. You nodded towards her with a quieted snort, rolling your eyes, before looking back down at the work in front of you.
“Oh, did you hear? Dean Karga hired a new Astronomy teacher.” She smirked, pouring the coffee into a cup as she leaned against the cabinets. “I got a peek of him after his interview,” She paused to throw away the stir stick and trot over, sitting at the small table to join you, “And he’s cute.”
“I didn’t hear,” You raised your brow, “We’re two weeks into the year, why hire him late? Is he new in town?” Your curiosity peaked as you gawked at the woman for answers.
“I don’t know.” Omera shrugged, taking a sip of the hot liquid, “Could be. But anyways, the Dean is going to introduce him during the morning meeting.”
“Oh maker, I remember when he did that with me.” You chuckled, shaking your head. Every new member of staff got introduced to the others by the Dean. Greef tries to be a comedian during, but it always ends up being an awkward stand up set with no laughter and scoffs of pity.
“I guess we’ll see what happens.” Omera smirked, “Oh, and I heard he’s single.” She added with a tap to your arm. The woman knows that you haven't dated in a while; you just haven't been trying.
“Oh, I don't know…” You trailed off, shaking your head. You didn't have time to think about that. You had more pressing things to worry about like your job, and...
“Just see how it plays out.” The secretary pleaded softly, prompting you to finally cave. She gave a small cheer of delight, her excitement rolling off her thin figure in waves.
-
It took another half an hour before most of the staff finally arrived, just in time. The morning meetings always took place twenty minutes before the starting bell, leaving enough room to cover current topics and get to your classroom.
With the teachers lounge packed as tightly as could be, the Dean finally stepped into the space. Following behind him was, who you could only assume, the new Professor. You didn’t catch a great glimpse, as someone partially blocked your vision, but from what you saw you were intrigued.
“Alright, alright everyone.” Dean Karga’s voice dispelled the murmurs of the room, making it deafeningly quiet. The only sound you could hear was the chattering of students walking the halls outside. You glanced at Omera beside you, her eyes fixated on the new teacher next to the Dean. Scooting slightly until your view wasn't blocked, the mysterious man finally came into view.
You couldn't stop the butterflies from fluttering in your belly, the man in your vision causing them. The Dean’s words melted away, your head becoming fuzzy as you looked at the new teacher. He was handsome, to say the least. He donned a brunette mop of loose, curly hair, and stubble to match. He was broad, the light gray suit he donned only making him look more so. He stood with his hands on his hips, gaze scanning the room when he unsuspectedly locked sight with your own.
Time froze for a moment as his dark eyes peered, your heart gaining speed and your breath catching in unison. Though looking at each other in a crowded room, you felt as though you were the only two. You could've sworn he gave you a gentle nod and a grin, but it felt hazy.
When you finally blinked and looked down, you noted how warm your cheeks had gotten. You felt flustered, the hot rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins and warming up your cold hands. You kept your gaze on the floor ahead of you, trying to steady your racing heart. It was silly to be so flustered over a look, but you haven't experienced that in years.
“And this is our new Astronomy Professor, Din Djarin,” Karga’s words floated back in and you furrowed your brow, trying desperately to ignore the man beside him. The crowd murmured greetings towards the man in the light gray suit, and you felt Omera’s elbow poke your side. Looking towards her, she held a smug expression only fueling the heat in your cheeks.
“Okay, first period is about to start. Better get you all to class.” The Dean’s voice echoed, and the room erupted with chatter as the herds began to clear out. You, flustered, grabbed your stack of papers and bag, ducking your head to exit silently. Getting to the safety of your classroom was all you cared about.
--
The day surprisingly flew by, despite the whole meeting fiasco earlier that morning. Getting into the groove of class always caused the days to drift by without a blink. Plus, you tried to make the curriculum as engaging as possible to keep both you and your students interested.
After dismissing your last period of the day, you remained in the room working on the papers from the morning. The afternoon sunlight barred against the windows and lit the room brilliantly. That's one reason you loved your classroom; no matter the season, you always got sun. Plus, you’d hung several plants by the windows three years ago much to Dean Karga’s dismay. But it made the space feel less like a prison cell with its painted white brick walls and cold, tile floors.
A knock on the door filled the silence of the space, startling you slightly. After letting out a chuckle at your scare, you yelled for whomever to enter, knowing sometimes students will leave something behind. However, when the door clicked open and you looked up, your breath caught.
“Hi,” The new professor's low voice echoed in the silence as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind. You cleared your throat, standing up from your desk and subconsciously straightening the fabric of your clothes.
“H-Hi, you must be…?” You stuttered out the sentence, walking to the edge of your desk and leaning against the surface for support. Of course you know him, but you’d feel impolite not asking. The man trotted into your room til he stood only a few feet in front of you.
“Oh, uh Din, Din Djarin.” He spoke, sticking out a hand for you to shake. Complying, your much smaller hand became engulfed by his own as the two of you greeted the other. You were quick to introduce yourself, managing not to stutter as you spoke this time. The man repeated your name, the sound of it rolling off his lips like velvet.
“Is there a reason you stopped by?” You questioned, nervously playing with the hem of your shirt. His head tilted in question before he realized what you'd asked.
“Oh, Yes, I was just making a point to introduce myself to the staff personally. The Dean put on quite a show.” Din commented, shaking his head. You don't remember a thing about what Dean Karga had said during the whole meeting, only the vivid eye contact between you and the man in front of you, but you chuckled at his claim nonetheless.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you.” You smiled softly, studying the man's face. You couldn't help but notice a few minor scars across his warm skin, one tainting the bridge of his curved nose and another along his cheekbone. There was even a small one hiding on his chin, just showing from behind his stubble.
It made you curious as to how an Astronomy Professor could get such things. Then again, people get scars in all types of weird ways. For example, you have a scar along your thigh that you got from a bike accident involving a hill and your chain catching. You were thirteen at the time.
“What do you teach?” The man questioned, his eyes looking around the room, no doubt trying to guess. The night teacher you shared the space with had put up some decor, but for the most part, the walls were bare of any guidance; aside from the several plants hanging by the window.
“Film and Literature. Have been for...” You paused to do the mental math, “Six years.”
“That’s a long time.” Din observed, nodding his head. You agreed with a slight chuckle, looking away and biting your lip. The man's eyes studied your face as you gazed elsewhere, enamored by your delicate features. Seeing you from across the teachers lounge had been burning in his mind all day. In fact, he had started going room to room for ‘introductions’ just to find you; It only took him seven classrooms.
“Well, I love it,” You shrugged, a smile taking over your face, “And what do you teach?” You finally looked back up at the man, your eyes greeting once again. The intimate contact caused such an anxious stir in your belly, but a welcomed stir.
“Astronomy.” He responded with a nod, putting his hands onto his hips.
“A spaceman huh?” You questioned with a laugh, “I suck at science… hence why I am an Film and Literature teacher.” You gestured to the empty desked room. The man just chuckled along before you two fell into silence again. It didn't feel nearly as uncomfortable as before, your tension slowly melting away.
You haven't felt this way around someone for a long time. At least not since your college boyfriend over seven years ago, you dated for two years before you graduated and moved. You haven't really made an effort to since, not for any reason in particular, mostly just because you haven't found someone who made you feel special. Plus, it’s a small area and most of the men weren't available
“Well, I should let you get back to work.” Din spoke after a moment of wordless stares. His sentence was slow and hesitant, almost like he didn't want to leave.
“Oh yeah, I nearly forgot.” You stood up from leaning against your desk and chuckled, looking to the stack of papers on the surface.
The two of you began a slow pace towards the door, heads cast to the floor in shyness. Your sets of footsteps sounded against the tiled floor, filling the empty silence with an echoed click. When you reached the door, the man turned on his heels, nearly bumping into you.
“I'm in room 302 If you'd ever like to stop by?” The man’s statement was more spoken like a hopeful question.
“Okay, I’ll be sure to.” You bit your lip before giving him a gleeful smile, nodding your head. The man perked up at your response, giving you one last goodbye before stepping out of the room.
------------------------
I know there are a few people who want to be tagged, but i lost your @’s! Please send an ask if you want to be added to the Shooting Stars tag list!
#the mandalorian x reader#the mandalorian x you#the mandalorian fanfiction#din djarin x reader#din djarin x you#din djarin fanfiction#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal x you#pedro pascal fanfiction
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Five Times Mulder Got Scully Coffee, And One Time He Didn’t
MSR || 2k words || @today-in-fic
A/N: I wrote this on the fly based on a post about types of intimacy including knowing your partner’s coffee order.
1 “we leave for the very plausible state of Oregon at 8 a.m.”
It was her first assignment with Spooky Mulder; a crisp Wednesday morning in September. From the backseat she checked her boarding pass once more while the taxi arrived at Dulles International. The red-orange sunrise broke through the distinct wing-like architecture of the main terminal building. The driver idled then popped the trunk and hoisted out her carry-on letting the wheels click to the pavement. She knew she over packed. She thanked him and adjusted the strap on her leather satchel as the cab pulled into the congested river of departure drop-offs.
The sliding doors opened with a breeze of recirculated air and she paused to let a cluster of businessmen pass by. She scanned the corridor and saw Mulder hovering near the escalators, a duffle bag at his feet. He was wearing a smart light blue shirt with a striped tie. She grinned at the fact that his dark grey suit jacket didn’t fully match his lighter dress pants. On her approach she noticed a particular boyish charm to the curl of his hair. He caught her eye and gave a wave. She quickly smiled and shifted her shoulder bag once again while she pulled her carry-on behind her.
“Good morning sunshine,” he stated while balancing two cups in a flimsy caddy, “I hope you don’t mind but I grabbed some coffee.”
“Thank you, Mulder.” She was genuinely surprised. He set the caddy down on the lid of the square trash can and pulled out a cup, handing it to her.
“How do you take it?”
“Uh, just cream and sugar.” Mulder fished around in the middle of the caddy and found her accoutrements. She slowly removed the lid and doctored up her drink.
“Not too early for you is it?” He asked after taking a sip from his cup.
“Reminds me of residency,” she said, shaking her head with a smile and pouring a splash of cream. “The line between late night and early morning was pretty hard to differentiate at times.”
“I find it’s when I’m my most productive. However the T.V. choices leave a lot to be desired,” he said with a shrug, reaching down for his well-travelled duffle bag. He unzipped it and pulled out a folder.
“Is this my debriefing?” Scully asked.
“A little light reading for the flight,” Mulder replied, watching her tuck the documents in the pocket of her shoulder bag. “C’mon, looks like we’re at the C gates.” She followed him down the corridor and to the entrance of the shuttles.
2 “I’ve heard the truth, Mulder. Now what I want are the answers.”
He offered to drive her home. She was exhausted but insisted she was fine. He squeezed her hand when she left to go find her car in the hospital parking deck.
Restlessness had set in when he arrived at home. Eyes darted to his cell phone on the desk, making sure he hadn’t missed a call. She’d call if she needed to. He shuffled through a stack of files he took from the office, looking for a particular case that matched a tip from Frohike. He flipped it open and returned to the computer keyboard, adding to the paragraph he was working on. The TV droned on in the background, coffee finished its brew cycle in the tiny kitchen.
Three taps on the door. He turned down the TV and listened then heard three more. He walked across the room and peered into the peephole then quickly flipped the lock and opened the door
“Hi,” she began, “I’m sorry I didn’t call.” She sucked her lower lip. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Come in,” he said stepping aside. She exhaled and slowly entered his apartment, brushing a wave of hair behind her ear. He quickly stacked his work and moved the pillows on the couch. She took a seat, fingers knitted tightly together in her lap. Her eyes closed as she climatized to his space. He gave her a minute and stepped into the kitchen. When returned she had pulled her hand away from her face, gracefully dabbing at her eye with her knuckle. He set two mugs down on the table and joined her.
“If you want to talk..”
“I don’t,” she said curtly, not intending to sound that short with him. “Not..not yet.” Her anger was still fresh. She was a raw nerve. He pressed his lips together and was patient. He had all the time in the world for her. Another slow exhale to steady herself and she reached for a mug. Cream and sugar. Warmth from the ceramic radiated against her hand; she felt another wave ready to break. He saw the downturn and gently took the mug from her, placing it next to his. She fought so hard but reluctantly crumbled. He embraced her; a shelter from the storm.
3 “Oh I don’t know Mulder, some things are better left unexplained.”
“So tell me more about this talking doll you found,” Mulder stated. Scully swallowed her bite of food and blinked at him.
“I never said it was a talking doll, Mulder. And besides, that was weeks ago, why are you still hung up on it?” He tossed the brown end of a french fry back into the bag and licked the salt from his thumb.
“Color me jealous.”
She stuffed a napkin in the empty fry container and added it to the trash on the table.
“Please tell me this hasn’t kept you up at night.”
“Not more so than usual,” he said with a shrug collecting their fast food wrappers. They left the outdoor seating area and started to walk down E Street. The lunch dates were a little more frequent than before. Her remission and recovery brought them closer together. Scully didn’t want to assume he missed her when she took a well-deserved weekend to herself but Mulder was shit at hiding how clingy he could be. It was all part of the process. He tapped the back of her arm and pointed at a coffee shop window. She agreed and he held the door. The wonderful aroma of roasted beans and steamed milk hit her senses. She peeked at the bakery case as he went to place their order. Mulder soon presented her with a cafe au lait and a wink. Her lips pursed as she blew on it. His gaze shifted to the perfect “o” of her mouth complimented by a subtle glossy lip tint. He then proceeded to burn his tongue as he eagerly went to drink his Sumatra roast, snapping him back to reality.
4 “Get over here, Scully”
The lights in the office were dim. He had set-up the slideshow reel to provide visual aid to a fairly vague case detail. However the only detail he was concerned with at the moment was the taste of her lips. A hint of honey from her lip balm, the whisper of milky coffee. Their cups grew cold and lonely sitting on his desk while they turned up the heat hiding amongst the shadows.
She was needy and pulled no punches. Hand rested firmly against his cheek as tongues danced and twisted. His stubble coarse against her fingertips. Last night at the ball field had ignited a spark. Remembering the feeling of his hands on her hips, cheek to cheek in the cool night air. His weight against her with each swing of the bat. He held her close once again; entwined together in a dark corner of the basement office.
“Remind me to bore you with slideshows more often,” he said, catching his breath. A warm smile crossed his face as he admired her.
“Shut up, Mulder,” she said before kissing him once again.
5 “What if there was only one choice and all the other ones were wrong?”
Three weeks had passed. Scully discovered she was leaving small items behind; a toothbrush, a sweatshirt, a travel sized hairbrush. Evening was still the preferred time of day. Dinner, maybe a beer or a glass of wine followed by ignoring the T.V. Mulder knew just the right amount of pressure to put on the tired muscles of her neck. A rush of circulation flowed through her. She leaned back against his chest and his hands wandered followed by his lips. She loved how he tenderly nipped at her earlobe, He was hard against her lower back and she worked her advantage between his legs. Clothes were shed like new skin. He was swift to carry her from the couch into more comfortable surroundings.
The linens held her scent, the walls held their cries. Deep and passionate. Primal. Two become one. He broke first and she was quick to chase him down. Chest heaving, muscles aching in the best way. They lay together as heart rates slowed. He traced her jawline, a thumb laid claim to her full lower lip. Lust-laden eyes blinked heavily. She decided to stay. Naked, satisfied, and loved.
Morning arrived with a deep yellow glow. She slowly shook off her slumber and reached beside her, feeling an empty bed. Her ear perked up listening for the shower but heard nothing. She slid to his side of the bed and glanced at the clock. Two hours before work. Her hand clutched the bedclothes to her chest and she heard keys hit the wood table in the other room. Mulder nudged the bedroom door open. Scully smiled and ran a hand through her hair, sitting upright.
“Morning,” she said. He approached and kissed the top of her head.
“I got us some coffee. Cream and sugar, of course.”
“You’re too good to me,” she said before realizing it. There was always so much unspoken between them. Affection was a given but rarely vocalized; arousal and desire usually won out. They operated well without words. She blushed and swung her legs over the edge of the bed tucking the sheet closer.
“Hey. I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.
6 “We will find him -- I have to.”
She needed an out. It was too much too fast and the fuel from her anger was on fumes. Scully dried her hands on the edge of her jacket and stormed down the corridor towards the elevator. That might have been the first time she actually threw a drink at someone. A bit dramatic but she would deal with that later, right now she needed to leave.
Her cell phone chirped and she promptly ignored it. The car shuddered as it idled in the parking deck, her head lay back against the headrest, a hand on her belly. She fought against an angry sob. The caller was persistent. She tried to collect herself. Another series of rings and she finally answered.
“Agent Scully? It’s Skinner.”
“Sir?”
“Where are you right now?”
“I’m on my way home. Is something the matter?” she questioned.
“You tell me,” Skinner replied with concern. She closed her eyes and slowly caressed her belly once again. He was the only one she could trust right now. He was trying to be a friend. She exhaled and asked if he could meet her in Georgetown.
Scully sat down at a familiar cafe with small outdoor tables nervously fidgeting with her phone. She didn’t want to deal with the questions, she just wanted to find him. She wanted to talk to him about what was going on and they could figure things out together. She needed to find him. Her attention shifted as a couple walked past with a friendly golden retriever. The animal bumped its nose into her leg then happily licked her hand before it’s owners chuckled and led him back down the sidewalk.
Skinner arrived and set down two cups of coffee along with a handful of sugar packets.
“I got you decaf.” he said sincerely as he took a seat, “hope that’s alright.”
“That’s fine. Thanks,” she said, reaching for the cup then removing the lid and adding half a sugar packet. Her heart ached and she was sure Skinner could see it. He was quiet, not wanting to overstep his boundaries.
“I uh, I just want you to know that I’m your ally in all of this. And if you need to talk…” he trailed off when he saw the change in her expression. She pressed her lips together.
“That means a lot, sir. Thank you.” She brushed away an errant tear and swallowed hard. They had much to discuss.
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oh, that stack of PADDs aren’t gonna read itself. reports from every department head, odo’s excruciatingly detailed reports of the promenade’s security details alone is enough to occupy a good two hours of her time— after all, a lot happens on this station all the time. now, sisko’s been kind enough to let her use his office until he’s back for the beta shift.
but kira’s behind on her work all thanks to a @ltcmdrdax who’s been trying to coax her into a break for the past three hours— but nerys knows all her tricks and resisted ... even though dax’s presence is very distracting.
it isn’t because jadzia dax’s eyes draw her in like bajor’s fifth moon, lulling kira nerys into her orbit— or the way how she tugs at nerys’ heart strings with such ease. it’s the sound of her voice as she presents the most banal scientific research that kira has absolute no interest in, it’s the way how passion etches itself onto every single vowel that rolls off her tongue— it’s the way how jadzia captivates her so effortlessly and attention is a finite resource for the bajoran.
despite disguises and lies being second nature to her from her days in the resistance, the truth is on this station, kira nerys is easy to read like an open children’s book. perhaps, jadzia notices the way how nerys’ eyes struggle to stay down and gaze averting from dax’s own; or maybe it’s the way how scraggly breath patterns from kira nerys that gives away the fact that every cell in her body is struggling to ignore the trill’s eyes, lips, hair, and voice.
then... she kisses her hand. ( a hand that kira isn’t even aware that jadzia had taken into her own )
focus nerys... focus! muscles tense whilst her back straightens and she still somehow, doesn’t make an effort to pull her hand out of jadzia’s soft grip. the organ in her chest swells, beating fast whilst her radial pulse thrums against where jadzia rests her extremities... and that is the fuel dax need to plant another one of those devious kisses of her’s!
a visible shiver runs along kira’s body, an involuntary gasp escaping her lips before her concentration’s severed and her eyes meet those playful, taunting blue eyes before her. blood rushes to her cheeks rendering them a darker hue than her militia uniform. this is dangerous, kira thinks to herself as she watches jadzia touch the tip of her index with her lips— feeling the ways how she’s beckoning her, tempting her away her duties.
a few minutes won’t hurt ... right?
kira puts the PADD face down.
...right?
in one swift, impressive manoeuvre, she swings her legs over the desk and her thighs are straddling on either side of her lover’s lap.
dax’s smugness is evident and kira doesn’t give her the opportunity to gloat whilst she grabs her face, weaving her fingers into the roots of her hair behind dax’s neck before pressing a fervent kiss to her lips. it’s as if the cumulating sleep deprived delirium, dax’s existence, and the fact that she has all this pent up energy with nowhere to release until now that results in a hungry, open mouth collision with the commander.
“ you’re distracting me, commander. ” nerys rasps, breath hot against her girlfriend’s lips whilst the pad of her thumb runs along the spots behind jadzia’s ear whilst another come to rip the uniform off. “ i think ... i think you should take responsibility. ”
they laugh almost in unison and before nerys could even blink, things have escalated feverishly.
those reports remain unread until much later.
send 😘 to kiss my muse.
#ltcmdrdax#* 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 : inbox#* 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 : ic#* 𝐑𝐄𝐋 : you are my sun / moon / & all of my stars ― kira & jadzia#u know ... i wrote this with the intention of it being very cute and then nerys went like oK BUT WHAT IF#gOD I HATE HER#meme status: accepting
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The Chronicles of the Dark One: Breaking the Curse
Chapter 42: Playing Both Sides
The arraignment went well, or at least as well as could be expected. Mary Margaret was to be held in the county jail without bond until the date of her trial. If convicted of murder, she would be taken to a state prison outside of Storybrooke to serve her sentence. If found innocent, she would be released. He had no intention of things ever getting that far, of course. But just because he didn't want things to get that far didn't mean he wouldn't go along and not make it look good. When they stood before the judge, he made a motion to dismiss a jury and instead take a judgment from the judge himself. It was a risky move that most lawyers wouldn't gamble with. He, however, wasn't interested in gambling. He just wanted to get this sham over and done with. A trial involving a jury meant that jury summons had to be sent out weeks ahead of time, accommodations had to be made, selections had to be processed, all before getting to trial…he didn't have time for that. Foregoing a jury meant that in two days, by the end of the week, Mary Margaret could be on trial, and Kathryn could be freed, and this could be over. He would be happy about that.
But first, he had a dance to get on with, one where both Emma and Regina trusted him to do their bidding. He had to keep Emma's suspicion on Regina. In fact, he needed it to be even worse than it was now. And as far as Regina went, he just had to keep her thinking he was on her side so that she'd never suspect he was working against her. Only then, once all this was over, would Emma make herself enough of a nuisance that Regina would properly turn her attention back to her. Only then could the breaking of the Curse begin to move forward again.
It was going to be one hell of a dance.
Regina was, of course, present at the arraignment. She and Emma sat in the back of the small courtroom as Spencer accused Mary Margaret of murder, and he reminded Mary Margaret to enter her "not guilty" plea. He made his argument that Mary Margaret was hardly a threat, that she had no family outside of Storybrooke and no means to flee. Spencer did his job in reminding the court that she had very few connections in Storybrooke, and there wasn't much to keep her here. He'd lost, as he knew he would. Regina still wasn't happy. As Emma led her away back to the prison, the Mayor had approached him, finally wondering why he was doing this, why she wasn't well on her way outside of Storybrooke by now. He assured her with a calm smile as if everything were perfectly under control even though he needed to take an aspirin for the headache it gave him every time he thought of it.
"Worry not, your Majesty. There's more than one way to get a person to cross the town line."
He was about to do something stupid, something that no defense lawyer would ever do to their client. But…was it stupid if he knew he was going to do it? If he didn't mean for it to go so far? Was it stupid if it was part of a strategic move?
A pre-trial interview with the prosecution was always a bad idea. It only gave the prosecutor more fuel to throw on the fire, rarely did it ever solve anything. But if he wanted Regina to trust him in this, then he was going to have to do something stupid. He was going to have to take a planned misstep. He was going to have to let Mary Margaret hang herself with the knowledge that at the end of the day, she wasn't going to be blamed for any of this. Regina was. Emma would suspect Regina, Regina would get away with it, Emma would be angry, the feud would be reestablished.
He needed a bigger bottle of aspirin.
Spencer agreed to the interview the next day. He didn't know a prosecutor who wouldn't have said "yes" to that offer. He didn't need to tell Regina that; he assumed that Spencer would inform her, and she'd be pleased when she heard the news. Mary Margaret would be easy enough to convince, seeing how she was so terrified and pliant in this personality she'd be Cursed into. Convincing this was a good idea with Emma, on the other hand…
"A pretrial interview with the prosecution?" Emma blanched, standing between him and the bars of Mary Margaret's cell as if she could protect her friend from him and this utterly insane idea. If this trial were real, with a real risk of incarceration, he probably would have done the same thing in her shoes. "Explain to me how that is a good idea."
"The D.A. merely wishes to ask Miss Blanchard a few questions."
"She's done answering questions. And why are we kissing up to the D.A.? Why aren't we going after Regina? She's the one who's setting up Mary Margaret."
"And what proof do we have of that, Sheriff?!" he replied, raising his voice. He had a million other things to do, a million other things he'd rather be doing, but he'd started this rouse; he had to finish it. The shovel and the shard were still out there, undiscovered as far as he knew. Maybe if he got her angry and desperate, it would be enough for her to finish her job and find what was right under her nose! Maybe anger would be enough to get her to search under every fucking rock in Storybrooke to find her proof! "Just because you found the Mayor's skeleton key in the cell doesn't mean we can prove she put it there."
"So, what's your plan?" Emma asked.
"I believe our best chance of winning this case is to employ our most valuable asset."
"What's that?" Mary Margaret asked.
"Well, that's you, dear," he muttered, stepping forward, keeping his tone calm and sweet despite the frustration he felt toward Emma. "A sweet, kind, elementary school teacher. Doesn't exactly fit the prototype of a killer, now, does it?" It was a common legal move in these sorts of cases. When the evidence was stacked against the defendant, then put their character on trial. Mary Margaret's personality and reputation, despite the evidence against her, should speak for itself. Of course, if Kathryn didn't make a show before then, the judge would still have no choice but to convict her on the evidence, which was exactly why Emma needed to go out and find more of it against Regina! A good show was all this was. Until it was over, it was just a good show, carefully staged.
"That's how you're going to get her acquitted? By using her personality?"
"Perception is everything, Miss Swan, not just in the courtroom, but in life. As such, I'm sure you can imagine how the jury would perceive Miss Blanchard if she agreed to cooperate with the District Attorney." There was no jury, just a judge, but he wanted her to remember that proving her innocent was about convincing more than one person outside of the courtroom walls. "These things engender trust. It shows the jury she's at least trying-"
"Emma?" Sidney Glass's voice cut through his remarkable bullshit story, and the three of them turned to look at the former writer for the Mirror. So…either Emma had hired him after all, or this was a wonderful coincidence. He fought back a smile. Either way, he could work with it. He had plans for all of this, and Sidney Glass fit into it in his own way. He knew Regina too well. "Oh, I'm sorry to interrupt. I just, uh, came by to drop these off. I thought they might brighten the place up."
Emma and Sidney dismissed themselves into her office, and Mary Margaret approached the bars of her cell so they could continue to talk. He kept talking, but he really wasn't listening to what came out of his mouth, just repeating facts that he knew wouldn't matter because, in the end, Mary Margaret would do what he recommended; it was in her nature, the very character Mr. Gold wished to exploit. So no, he wasn't really thinking about Mary Margaret. He was thinking about those flowers he'd seen. A vase of flowers. He had an idea. One that would push Emma closer to Regina if she failed to look in the woods for the shovel. Lucky how sometimes these things just fell into his lap.
"I'm going to do it," Mary Margaret predictably informed Emma when Sidney left, and she returned to them. "I'm going to talk to the D.A."
"Are you sure?" she asked, looking between the pair of them.
"Mr. Gold's right. I know I have nothing to hide, but no one else does. I need to let people see me for who I am."
"Excellent decision, Miss Blanchard." And it was excellent timing on the part of Albert Spencer, the former King George. He always was a prompt one. "My name is Spencer. I'm the District Attorney. Shall we begin?"
And there she was, Regina Mills, striding in behind him with a slight smile on her face. Whether it was because Spencer had explained how stupid this move was and she was coming to trust him again or because she was losing trust in him, he didn't know just yet. He just took a breath and kept up the dance.
"Yeah," Mary Margaret breathed with a smile. As the five of them went to an interrogation room, he glanced to the vase of flowers on Emma's desk. Any lack of trust they possessed was warranted as he typed out a quick text message to the bird keeping an eye on Sidney to fetch one of his bugs from his home quietly.
The pressure he was under wasn't physical, but it felt physical. He felt like he could feel it weighing his shoulders down, pressing against his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Everything he did was for someone else's benefit. Every word, every action, even the smallest tick and slightest gesture, the very tone of his voice, it was all done for someone else. It was a delicate balance.
Insisting he be in the interview with Mary Margaret, that was for Emma. And for Mary Margaret, he supposed. But using a gentle tone, not one that was frightened or angry, was done for Regina to make her think that if Spencer opposed the action, which he wouldn't, then he would step down. The carefully timed stare he gave Regina before going into the room with Mary Margaret was for Regina. A gesture of trust and understanding that he hoped would fool her into thinking he had her best interest at heart, not Mary Margaret's. The quick glance he gave to Emma was for the Savior, something that hopefully conveyed a message of guilt as they tried not to look like they were in on this together.
Emma and Regina watched the interview from behind the glass. Inside the room with Spencer and Mary Margaret, he reminded his client that he would tell her what she could and could not answer and told her that she should always be truthful.
"I have nothing to hide," she stated confidently. It was good. Pride always went before the fall.
The questions Spencer began with were innocent enough. What was her relationship with Missus Nolan? What was her relationship to David? How did she feel about him? When had the relationship turned into something more than friendship? Mary Margaret answered each question perfectly; without emotion, directly, deliberately…she truly left nothing to the imagination. She would have been any other lawyer's dream. But then, after being lured into a false sense of security, the questions turned a bit more deadly. He didn't object. For Regina.
"Did you and Mr. Nolan ever talk together about what to do concerning his wife?"
"Yes, several times, it was an issue of contention between us."
"Why was that?"
"Because neither of us wanted to hurt her."
"Miss Blanchard," he warned for Emma's sake.
"Hurt her, physically?" Spencer pressed.
"No!" Mary Margaret breathed. "No, nothing like that! Well…I mean…"
"Obviously, they never wished physical harm on her," he answered for Mary Margaret, giving her a slight message and a moment to calm down and get her head together.
"I'd like to hear that from her."
"Of course," she answered, her nerves suddenly under control once more. "Neither of us wanted to hurt her physically or emotionally. But I didn't like going behind her back. I wanted David to tell her about us so that we could truly be together and stop sneaking around."
"And David?"
"He couldn't do it. Not at first. She eventually did find out."
"I see, and…" Spencer looked down to check some of his notes before returning his gaze to her. "After she learned about your affair, Missus Nolan, the deceased, came to your school to confront you. Is that correct?"
"She was hurt, and she felt betrayed."
"She struck you, in the face, was it?"
"Yes, but-"
"That must've made you angry."
"You…you don't have to answer that," he insisted. It was a dance indeed, being watched by the two women he was working with and for and against. He had to push Mary Margaret for Regina but not look incompetent before Emma. He'd let enough questions slide, and fortunately, that one was innocent enough that he had a feeling Mary Margaret wouldn't exactly listen to legal counsel.
"No, it's okay," she assured him. Predictable. "I was not angry. I was sorry for all the pain I had caused her."
"Miss Blanchard, this is not a courtroom," Spencer pressed. "I'm not here to judge you. You can be honest with me."
"Shall we end this?" he muttered hardly loud enough for anyone to hear. Careful.
"I am being honest with you," Mary Margaret insisted.
"The wife of the man you loved humiliated you in a public forum. Surely, you must have felt some anger towards Kathryn?"
"Yes, I was angry-"
"And did you ever think about acting upon that anger?" he questioned, interrupting her again. He let that one go for Regina; he let Mary Margaret get worked up.
"Of course not," she spat out.
"I have a hard time believing that."
"Wh-why?" she gasped, her anger growing. He didn't interrupt, also for Regina.
"Because you wanted Kathryn Nolan gone."
"I never said that."
"All right," he insisted, getting to his feet. That move was for Emma. And Mary Margaret, though Regina would see it as acting. Hadn't she learned…everything was an act with him. "My client is answering no more questions for the day."
"Your client agreed to this interview because she claimed she had nothing to hide."
"I don't have anything to hide," she shouted back at Spencer, who continued. He didn't stop it.
"Then, what is your answer? You wanted Kathryn gone, didn't you?"
"No."
"Even after she tried to keep you and David apart? After she slapped you in public? After she made you a pariah in your own town?"
"Yes, of course, I wanted her gone," Mary Margaret laughed suddenly, sarcastically. "She was the only thing keeping us apart. So, yeah, I wanted her gone. Is that what you want to hear?"
He shut his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. Another act. He'd wanted something like this to happen. He wanted it to happen because he knew Regina would see it as the victory it would have been if he hadn't fixed the whole thing. She would leave. And he could get on to his business. By tonight…her so-called confession wouldn't matter.
#Rumbelle#Rumple#Rumpelstiltskin#dark One#mr gold#mary margaret blanchard#snow White#Regina Mills#Evil Queen#David Nolan#Prince Charming#Snowing#Emma Swan#Albert spencer#ouat#ouat fanfiction#fanfic
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REUNIONS Maul x Ahsoka
I said I’d write it and I did! The last episode was absolutely amazing and put a lot of things in perspective. I love Maul and Ahsoka with all my heart. Their motives and final show down was perfect for the ending. Yes I wanted a team up but this creates a whole other layer of perfection added to their characters.
Short and sweet :3c
SUMMARY Rated G - 1,425 words
They meet again on Malachor by chance or fate, neither of them really knows. It’s been almost two decades and still, the ache is there.
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“You.”
Ahsoka was filled with anger. Had she not had Kanan and Ezra at her side, she wouldn’t have held herself back from killing the former Sith there and then. As she should have all those years ago when he had stolen the shuttle. By all accounts, he should have been dead. All those years later, Kenobi’s words echoed in her head. He was difficult to kill.
“You survived?”
Maul’s distorted smile grew wider as he turned around to face her, the Sith Inquisitors disappearing further into the temple. She had beaten all the odds that were stacked against her. Truth be told, Maul had assumed he had been the sole survivor of Order 66. It made sense really. He didn’t care enough to stick around to watch a ship be swallowed by a moon’s gravity. To his knowledge, she had been dead before they even reached the atmosphere.
When Maul had climbed up into the shuttle and escaped into hyperspace, he held no remorse towards his actions. After all, she had asked for chaos. His kind of chaos. She had asked him to play his role and Maul had taken his part to heart. He had followed orders. Good soldiers follow orders, do they not? Indirectly, she had sent him to march down that hallway and meet death. She hadn’t shown him any mercy or any kindness, so why should he have?
With a shout of rage, Ahsoka charged him like a fury, her lightsabers trailing behind her. She raised them up and they clashed in a blinding shock of light. It forced Maul to back up in a defensive stance, his leg extending back for balance. She pressed on, making him take a few more steps backwards. She slammed her blades into his double-edged lightsaber again with enough force that he stumbled backwards, taken by surprised at the speed and force of her action. His back bumped against the wall and he quickly brought the weapon up again to protect himself from another onslaught. She wanted to kill him, it was clear enough by the blazing look in her eyes and the way she wasn’t holding back. He had seen that grimace on her face once before. Ahsoka had been pushed beyond her breaking point by the mere sight of him.
The sheer force of her strikes spoke of all the resentment, ache and loss she had suffered over the years. Fair play. But Maul had suffered as well. The zabrak snarled, holding off the pressure of their weapons so that it wouldn’t cut his head clean off of his shoulders. He had suffered partial loss before but he doubted this was one he could recover from.
Their lightsabers locked with each other. It forced Maul in an awkward position, the buzzing of the weapons ringing in his ears and the white heat lapping at his throat. In the light of their blades, he could see tears forming in her eyes. She hadn’t been a Jedi for a long, long time. She was letting her emotions go through her freely, using them to fuel her. To Maul, it only made her more human.
“You should have died on that ship.”
Ahsoka said lowly through gritted teeth so that only he would here. Something about Maul made her ashamed. She hadn’t meant to snap in front of her companions. Thankfully, Kanan understood. After all, he had lived through the Clone Wars if only for a brief period. He had seen his master die in front of him just so that he might have a chance to escape. If there was bad blood between the former Sith and former Jedi, it would be settled here. No matter the outcome.
“So should you have, Lady Tano.”
Maul replied aggressively, using his robotic foot to kick her in the stomach and give himself more room to manoeuvre. When Ahsoka had raced him for the only way off the sinking Destroyer, he had finally seen her true colours. War had changed her. It had changed both of them, and yet her opinion of him hadn’t changed. He was a selfish, stubborn, and cruel half-droid scum.
“Well it wasn’t for a lack of trying on your part, was it? I gave you your freedom!”, Ahsoka shouted back, her chest heaving heavily and her voice breaking with emotion.
They stood apart in silence, weapons lowered at their sides while they sized each other up. Freedom? Surely she didn’t believe those words. Surely she was trying to save face in front of the others. There had been no motives other than her escape as to why she had let him out of his cell. Ahsoka Tano wanted her and her trooper friend to survive and live. If it meant sacrificing someone who she didn’t think deserved her mercy, so be it. Her plans had been to bring him to Coruscant for justice. But with no one left to assess his case, it had been easy for her to make a decision. No matter how wrong she knew it was deep inside. She had thought of Empress Sabine. Qui-gon. Finn Ertay. And all those nameless civilians he had killed. They weren’t just casualties, they were victims. They deserved justice for Maul’s crimes and she would be the hammer that brought it down upon him.
“How noble of you! You’re no different than your masters... Just as self-serving and delusional. What were your words again? I’m not rooting for you?”
She gave another cry as they charged each other and clashed. Their weapons were quickly discarded, flying across the dusty floor of the temple and at the Jedi’s feet. The pair of them tumbled onto the floor, kicking and punching to gain dominance. Maul gained the upper hand, locking her arms behind her back.
“I gave you countless opportunities to save yourself.”, he snarled down.
“You know I would never trust a Sith.”
Her words were seething with hatred. So that’s all he had ever been to her. A Sith. Even after the order had abandoned him, after his master had replaced him over and over, after he had lost his entire family to the Sith, that’s all he would ever add up to. This was how everyone saw him. A Sith. It made Maul’s blood boil, more so than usual. So be it. He would utilise the emotions swirling like a storm inside him just like his master had taught him. He would exact his revenge, as promised.
“You’ve made that quite clearly, padawan.”
Using the Force, Ahsoka shoved Maul off of her, holding him down onto the floor in front of her as she rose to her feet and dusted herself. She was in pain, both physically and emotionally. Seeing Maul only opened old wounds she was certain had healed.
“I’m tired of fighting... especially you.”
She whispered out of breath. Even if her eyes were focused on him, he could tell she was looking past him. The girl he had meet in the tunnels of Mandalore didn’t exist anymore. She had lived through and seen too much to have remained the same, unlike him. Maul took pride in his suffering, used it as both a shield and a weapon. Ahsoka ran away from it.
She had run all her life. From people, from her feelings, from who she’d become. She had lost sense of what it truly meant to be herself. To serve a purpose that wasn’t meddled and sullied by war and men. No more. She was free.
“Trust me, my Lady, so am I...”
There was truth in his voice, although Ahsoka wasn’t sure he had spoken at all. The question remained. If she didn’t want to fight him anymore but also didn’t trust him... why had she let him slip through her fingers? What had happened between the trooper and her? What had become of him? He must have meant a great deal to her.
Maul pulled himself up, one hand holding the structure behind him. He chuckled at the absurdity of his words which cued Ahsoka to do the same. It was an emotionless reaction to their display of force. There would never be trust between them, the mere thought of it was as ridicule as it had been before the Republic even fell.
“I could never trust a Sith.”, Ahsoka repeated.
“It’s a good thing I relinquished that title long ago then.”
In the corner of her eyes, she could see the smirk she had learnt to be wary of. What was he getting to?
#maulsoka#maul#ahsoka tano#ahsoka#darth maul#sw rebels#star wars rebels#tcw#tcw s7#the clone wars#fics
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"Who says that dreams and nightmares are not as real as the here and now?"
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Ahsoka asked Ezra while they took to orbit. Her small ship had a cargo ID in rule and didn’t have any problems crossing the tight security of the several Imperial ships around Lothal.
“I… We were returning to the base. To Yavin,” Ezra explained staring blankly at the stars.
“Yavin, huh?” Ahsoka’s eyes lit up with interest. “We have prospected the area before but we were still thinking of our options. Most of the other cells refuse to work together.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Ezra remembered there hadn’t been any transmission from his part or… “Wait. What about Mon Mothma? Is she still alive?”
“Oh… She got captured a while back when she left the Senate,” Ahsoka bit her lower lip. That had been a morale blow for everyone. They hadn’t gotten to her on time. Ezra sunk on his seat. Something in the back of his mind told him that maybe if his parents hadn’t heard the transmission they might be still alive in prison, but Azadi was also missing and… he couldn’t sense them. Just like the Ghost crew… all he could feel was either a void or coldness. They had died. He closed his eyes as a few tears rolled down his cheeks, but he hurried to dry them.
“Just before returning to base, we had saved a few engineers and destroyed a huge kyber crystal. Gerrera wanted to-”
“Saw Gerrera?” Ahsoka frowned. “You were working with Saw Gerrera??” she said with disgust and anger.
“A couple of times… we didn’t part in the best terms,” he said a little nervous. “Why?”
Ashoka was scowling looking ahead. “We lost Lothal because of him.”
“What!?”
“After the Ghost Crew disappeared, no other group took their place… things went downhill pretty quick,” Ahsoka explained and took a deep breath. “When they opened that TIE fighter factory in Lothal... a lot of people didn’t have another option and started to work there. Then, it seems Gerrera caught wind they were doing some kind of secret project there and… he used a service droid to blow the fuel depot… on rush hour.”
Ezra’s jaw dropped. “How many dea-?”
“Several hundred workers died. Thousands were injured. He said that whoever was helping the Empire in any way deserved to go down with them. The people of Lothal lost all trust in the Rebels… Several sympathizers were arrested snitched by locals. They didn’t like the Empire but at least they wouldn’t blow their own, they said.”
A ball of anger started to grow on Ezra’s throat. That’s why they were contracting people instead of droids to do menial tasks at the port. He regretted not looking up further when he was back there.
“Gerrera was… not good… but we had managed to talk to him out of doing a bunch of stuff before,” Ezra said in low voice. “But yeah… he was certainly going on that direction”.
The travel through hyperspace to Garel was short. Surprisingly, Garel didn’t seem too different from what Ezra remembered from his early time here. Ahsoka took Ezra to present him to Sato as Jedi-in-training and left it at that. Seeing Sato was… a shock too. His eyes didn’t have that passion he used to have working for the Rebellion. He looked sad and somewhat bitter.
-Oh no...Mart.- Ezra thought. Mart must have been either killed or taken prisoner over Mykapo. -Dammit...the rest of my friends… Zare, his sister, Jai...- they were gone. Even if he was visibly upset he shook Sato’s hand and promised to do whatever it was possible to help them. Ahsoka and he obviously left out the issue of Ezra coming from another reality… no one else needed to know.
“If Ahsoka vouches for you, then I can’t turn you down. If you are going to stay here you will need some new ID and papers for Garel,” Sato said giving him a curious look. “Please, go to this address with our contact. Give her this code…”
Ezra went on his own, while Ahsoka and Sato discussed the state of Lothal, explaining what she had seen and the increased security. Ezra knew the streets in this city so he had no problem to find the house with the contact. He knocked once, then thrice, then once, just as he was told. The door opened a little and he could see a woman peering through.
“Yes?”
“I need help with a poem. I heard you are a good writer,” Ezra said the secret password too. These Rebels were really suspicious and paranoid, always looking over their shoulders, and he couldn’t blame them. The woman huffed and nodded.
“Fine, fine, I can help,” she said with some reluctance and opened the door. Ezra gasped recognizing her.
“Maketh Tua,” he whispered in disbelief. Tua’s face was washed with fear and pulled him inside quickly and looking outside worriedly hoping no one had heard him.
“Don’t go saying that in the open! I’m not Maketh Tua. My name is Rita Zante. Alright??” she pointed at him shaking with fear. “How do you know me? Have they put a hit on my head? Have you seen wanted posters or something?”
“Oh… no. I… I used to live in Lothal,” he tried to find the right explanation. “I lived in Lothal all my life until recently.”
“Ah… I see,” she straightened up regaining a little of her composure. “I see. Alright… that explains that. You almost killed me from the impression… just… don’t go saying my old name around. Ok, if you come for Lothal making your fake ID will be easier for me… just sit there.”
Ezra sat watching her go through some info on her datapad and comparing it to a stack of papers she had in a desk. Maketh Tua was alive here. She had not been killed when trying to defect when they were being chased by Vader. Ezra remembered Yoda’s words:
Your right, someone’s wrong might be.
If he made things ‘right’ it would mean Ahsoka, Sato and Tua would be gone. Who knows how many other people would be affected. He shook his head.
-Just focus on the problem at hand. Helping the Rebellion. I’m still too weak to do anything about it so there’s no point on worrying on...consequences.-
After an hour or so, Ezra had the best fake ID he’d ever seen. For all intents and purposes, he was now a citizen of Garel. He was also given a tiny private room in an apartment building instead of a shared one on their “base”. It was sad to see this Rebellion so far behind of his own. That night, in the privacy of his room, he cried silently, letting all his pain and sadness out. He knew he couldn’t keep it all in or it would lead him closer to the darkside. Holding at the pillow, he sobbed for his friends and he sobbed for Kanan. He cried for how alone he felt and how much he missed him. But he needed to keep going… even if it hurt. And with that, his new life with the Rebellion started from scratch.
During the following days, Ezra would make small ‘milk runs’, help with scouting, spying and all the normal things he could do without the aid of the Force. On the days Ahsoka returned from some secret meeting or mission they would train and meditate together. As soon as he finished his lightsaber (this time with a regular hilt but with his old blue crystal) he started sparring with Ahsoka seriously. Her training style was very different from Kanan’s, making much more aggressive and dangerous approaches. It was harder than what he remembered, or maybe he was just too far behind? She would push his physical and mental limits with the Force. In any case, Ahsoka was impressed. While his connection with the Force was slowly recovering, luckily, his memories for his fighting techniques were almost untouched.
His nights were restless and every day he would wake up feeling worried and alone. His heart ached, but all he could remember from his dreams was a thick darkness and a sense of hopelessness.
-No, I can’t give in. Kanan wouldn’t want me to...- and that gave him just enough warmth to keep going.
One day, Ezra had been tasked on delivering a package to a group on another city in Garel. He took a bike and headed out by himself. He didn’t expect any trouble… but he also never expected to get his life turned around more than already was.
He was driving down the highway, no other transport on sight, when he heard it. He pressed the brakes so fast he almost thrown ahead from the inertia. He looked around and up almost desperately until he saw it.
The Ghost flew overhead.
A chill ran down his spine. He was frozen in shock. Even though it was repainted, he could have recognized the sound of the engines anywhere, in this reality or back home. Then, after a second he accelerated chasing it. It was also heading towards the same city, but it was going much faster and quickly left him behind. He reached into the Force, trying to feel if he recognized who was flying it but it was a stranger. A ball of anger started to form on his stomach. Someone had taken the Ghost for themselves. He rushed through the gates of the city and the streets to the spaceport as fast as he could, but by the time he found the right landing pad, the ship was already leaving.
“NO!” Ezra cursed watching it go. He turned around and saw a bunch Troopers looking at him. They were moving some cargo around. Ezra became very still.
“Do you have a problem?” one of the troopers asked, suspicious of him.
“Oh… sorry. I just… I just saw that ship and… I had never seen a VCX-100 modded like that. Wow! I mean, it was a VCX-100 right? I wished I could see it more closely!” Ezra laughed nervously and looking sheepish.
“Yeah, a VCX-100,” the trooper wasn't totally convinced. “You can’t stay here while we load our cargo to the transport. Now scram,” the trooper motioned him to get back.
“Yeah! Sorry! Sorry, sir!” Ezra turned around, his smile immediately disappearing from his face as soon as he was out of sight from them. He went to ask around the port about details on the Ghost, always under the pretense of being a fanatic of modded ships. He even used a few terms he had heard from Hera and Sabine to sound knowledgeable. All he learned was what he feared…
The Ghost, it seemed, was the propriety of the Empire right now. With some more coaxing, he also learned the ship used to make deliveries from Lothal and a few other systems to this port. They said it should be heading for Lothal right now.
Cursing in low voice he delivered the package he was meant to and went back to Ahsoka immediately. She had just left from a talk with Sato when he arrived to their ‘base’.
“We need to talk,” he didn’t even wait for a hello, pulling her aside. He explained everything that he saw and learned. “We need to get the Ghost back”
“Ezra…” she wasn't sure of his idea.
“No, no you don’t get it. If I remember correctly the Holocron AND Kanan’s lightsaber could be still there, hidden away in a secret compartment.”
“The holocron that you said had the coordinates to the Temple on Lothal?” Ahsoka blinked with worry.
“YES! Besides… I have seen what other ships this Rebel cell has in the fleet. They couldn’t hold a candle to the Ghost,” Ezra said with sadness. “Hera would never want the Ghost on Imperial hands. She would have wanted the Rebellion to use it for our cause.”
Ahsoka sighed and nodded. “You are right. Let’s get it back.”
They flew to Lothal that same day, wasting no time. They went into the city taking care to avoid the patrols and went to the edge of the Imperial base. They saw the Ghost on one of the landing pads.
“We can use it to flee. If any ship is capable of crossing the blockade while being chased, it's the Ghost,” Ezra said with resolution.
They both headed stealthily towards the ship… but midway, Ezra stopped in his place, a chill ran down his spine. The Force was trying to tell him something. Trying to catch his attention.
“Ezra?”
“I…” he blinked in confusion, unable to explain what he was feeling.
“HEY!” someone yelled behind him. A Storm Trooper had glimpsed them, attracting the attention of his peers and raised their blasters.
“Dammit!” Ezra barely had time to throw himself to the side to avoid being shot. Ahsoka also took cover, trying not to take her lightsabers out and reveal themselves as Jedi.
Somewhere inside the base, Kallus was tensely reporting to the Inquisitor, who had seemingly lost interest on their talk. Something had caught his attention, but with the mask on, Kallus couldn’t tell exactly what. He dared not to ask because from the moment the new Inquisitor had arrived on Lothal Kallus could feel a great hatred towards his persona from him. Kallus didn’t want to give this man any excuse to cut his head off. At that moment, his comm activated.
“SIR! We got intruders on the west landing port. It seems like they are trying to steal a VCX-100 freighter!”
Kallus blinked. He knew that ship. Before he could say anything, the Inquisitor raised from his seat, igniting his red lightsaber.
“I'll deal will them. Send all available troops to stall them,” the Inquisitor ordered him.
“What-?” Kallus started but the blade came suddenly dangerously close to his throat. He stiffened.
“Do it,” it was the last warning. Kallus felt a chill down his spine and pure hatred coming from the Inquisitor. If he did not comply, he would be killed right there.
“As you wish.”
Ezra was returning fire when he noticed the growing number of Troopers showing up between them and the Ghost… And then they saw a red glow coming out of the doors of the base from their right. An inquisitor was running towards them.
“We will have to fight,” Ahsoka took her lightsabers. “We need to get to the Ghost, NOW.”
“I'll handle the Inquisitor,” Ezra said suddenly realizing their situation.
“What?”
“I can't block all those blasters without better Force reflexes, you know that. My fighting technique is the best thing I have right now. I can hold the Inquisitor back while you clear off a path.”
She gritted her teeth. He was right.
“Don't get killed,” she nodded and stood in the open deflecting blast after blast towards the troopers, knocking them out.
Ezra needed to buy time and not get beheaded while doing it. Yes, his lightsaber technique was mostly intact... but not having his full Force proficiency back was going to be a problem as many of the forms required almost supernatural precision and timing to pull off.
“Stick to the basics. Mix it up,” he murmured under his breath. This wasn't an Inquisitor he had met before so he had no idea of his fighting style. He had a feeling of apprehension on his stomach as he ran towards the Inquisitor.
-Yeah, this is dangerous, but there is no other way!- he told himself trying to dismiss the emotion. Ezra went all out with an aggressive approach, combining Form 1 and Form 2, surprising the Inquisitor who immediately fell back to a defensive style. Ezra was glad. It seemed the Inquisitor had not expected someone like him to be able to bring that into a fight. This was risky, but Ezra was almost sure he would be able to go toe to toe with an Inquisitor of a similar level. He knew he needed to dictate the terms of the fight and not give him one moment of respite... and yet...
Something was wrong.
The more he fought, the more the feeling of apprehension grew on him. Now that he had a better connection with the Force he could feel the alarms in the back of his mind. He needed to stop. He needed to get away. The Inquisitor sensed his hesitation and countered back. Ezra had suddenly lost the upper hand on their duel. In a desperate risky move, Ezra blocked then swirled around, rising his lightsaber, vertically slashing off the mask from the Inquisitors face. The inquisitor had jumped back just in time avoiding getting his face slashed too.
The mask fell. The Inquisitor turned to Ezra ready for more. Ezra saw him and his eyes went wide with horror as his whole body reeled back on a state of shock.
NO. IT CAN'T BE.
Ahsoka felt his fear through the Force, making her look back with worry.
“Ezra?”
Ezra couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.
It was Kanan. Short hair. Tattoo marks on his face. Bright yellow eyes… Ezra's lightsaber fell from his hand and he didn't even notice.
“I can feel your despair. The dread…” Kanan narrowed his eyes with an evil pleased smirk.
“EZRA!” Ahsoka’s scream urged him into action but it seemed so far away and he couldn't look back. He could only see and hear HIM, approaching with the red lightsaber.
“Kanan,” Ezra managed to say. His voice was trembling, his body barely holding up. The name made the Inquisitor stop in his tracks and frown, perhaps surprised to hear the name again.
“...Wrong. Tenth Brother,” he shook his head.
“...No…” tears started falling from Ezra's eyes. He felt the world around him collapsing, the core of his being cracking under despair.
“Strange. You are not afraid of dying. What is it then?” Kanan asked curiously but Ezra just looked at him helplessly. “No matter... it ends here.”
“Snap out of it!” Ahsoka yelled running to him and felt a surge in the Force just like that day in the tower.
“NO!” Ezra cried out just as Kanan raised the lightsaber to strike him. Ezra released a huge Force push sending Kanan flying back in surprise. Ezra collapsed in the floor like last time but Ahsoka was there the next second.
“Stand up! We're leaving!” she picked his lightsaber and grabbed him by the wrist pulling him up. She had finished with the troopers blocking them from the Ghost but soon more would follow.
“No... Kanan!” Ezra weakly resisted.
“I can't fight him and defend you at the same time!”
“Kanan!” he was out of himself but Ahsoka was stronger.
“Move!”
“I have to-” he pleaded.
“He's an inquisitor now!” she was almost dragging him away.
“NO!” he cried out in despair, just as he caught glimpse of Kanan standing up with murderous hatred in his eyes. And that sight made something inside Ezra break and he let himself be guided into the Ghost without another word.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/15618783
#Star Wars#Star Wars Rebels#Ezra Bridger#Ahsoka Tano#Kanan Jarrus#Inquisitor#Agent Kallus#Fanfiction#chapter 4
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Fictober #28
#28. “Enough! I’ve heard enough!” Roswell, NM Fanfiction
Echo...this is a prequel to ficlet #22. So same warnings as there...slightly adult, dark, power hungry Max...
It was on his third time since his resurrection that Liz figured out what was going on.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The first time was during a shift. He was at the Sheriff's station and had just brought in his first perp since returning to work. The guy was in the interrogation room waiting for questioning, and Max was about to go to work on him, when suddenly he got an unanticipated bout of vertigo. He stopped, leaning against the wall for support, waiting for the room to stop spinning. When he believed he was finally over it, he took a few steps and just felt weak, like he was going to fall over, or pass out. He couldn't be alone in a room with a criminal feeling this vulnerable.
He was alone in the hallway and he searched the space, desperate for an idea on how to remedy the situation. His eyes fell on a wall socket. He recalled the sensation of absorbing electricity to increase his strength for the battle with Noah. If he was capable of channeling a storm, a little electricity from the power grid should be easy in comparison, right? And maybe it would give him the boost he needed to finish off his workday.
Checking one last time that there was no one approaching, he crouched down low next to the wall socket and placed his hand over it. A deep breath and a pulling sensation with his powers, and there it was, the sizzling burn of the electricity, flowing from the power grid into his cells, his nerves, his bloodstream. He gasped at the sensation of the energy spike entering his system. Immediately he felt stronger, capable of so much more. He felt a burning need to keep going, to absorb as much as possible, to tap into the whole city grid if he could, but his survival instinct kicked in and reminded him that anyone could walk into that hallway at any moment, and he had gotten what he needed.
He broke the connection, pulling his hand away, smiling to himself as he watched the last few bolts of electricity travel between his fingers down to his hands before soaking into his system with the rest of the energy.
He had an extra bounce of energy in his step when he walked into the interrogation room.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The second time he was with Michael and Isobel at Sanders' Auto. While Max was dead, Isobel in particular had been working to push the limits of her powers. Now that Max was back among the living, she was going to show Max what she had accomplished. He wanted to understand how much of what Noah said to him was truth, and how much were lies.
Isobel's progress was impressive. She exploded a few piles of junk with her mind, and then used her powers to collect the debris and return it back to its original stack. After she was done, Isobel encouraged Max to try as well, but no matter how hard he focused his energy, nothing shifted even an inch.
"It could be related to the differences between how you use your powers, and how we do," Michael theorized.
"What do you mean," Max asked, narrowing his eyes at his brother as he considered the statement.
"Well, both Isobel and I are used to using our powers across distances. Your powers usually involve touch."
Max nodded and looked around the junk yard, his eyes falling on the street lights around the perimeter of the lot.
"Maybe I just need a little boost…" Max considered out loud, as he slowly started to walk towards it. "Just to help push me forward."
"What do you mean?" Isobel asked, her voice concerned, but Max didn't reply. He was like a man possessed, his attention focused solely on the nearby light pole, and the incredible energy he could unlock from within it.
"Max!" Michael shouted in a last attempt to distract him, but Max ignored him as well. Instead, he pressed his hand to the metal surface of the pole, closed his eyes, and focused on tracing the light’s wiring into the electrical grid until he reached live energy, and then he began to pull.
The metal pole transformed into an enormous conductor, electricity channeling from the power grid, through the metal, and into Max. He groaned, as the energy surged through his nerve endings, into his brain, his heart, his lungs. His groan shifted into a moan, as a shockwave seemed to activate the pleasure points in his brain. He felt incredible. Like he could do anything. He laughed out loud at the thought of it.
But his laugh was cut short, as his body suddenly flew to the side, thrown from the pole and disconnected from the grid all in one swift motion. He groaned and looked up to see Michael standing over him, offering him a hand up.
"Sorry about that, man, but you scared us a bit with that move. You can't just do that...channel all of that electricity. At least not until we know what it's doing to you."
Max took the hand up, but still glared at Michael. "Why not? It's no different than you exploding things. Channeling electromagnetic energy is my thing."
"Exploding things doesn't make me erratic the way that energy does to you." Michael told him firmly. "Or have you already forgotten.?" Michael held up his formerly scarred hand and raised his eyebrows. Max just sighed and shook his head
"Well it's already done, so let's see if it worked." Max insisted. He turned his focus to a rusty old bumper leaning up against a debris pile, and focused his energy on it. Trying to compartmentalize, he focused on sensing the difference between the electricity inside of him, fueling his body and his powers, and the energy exuding from him when he uses his powers. And then, once he felt the familiar force that he normally channeled to heal, he pushed it at the bumper as hard as he could.
The bumper flew halfway across the junk yard.
"Holy shit." Michael gaped.
Max narrowed his eyes, focusing on the bumper. Using that same focused energy, he tried to lift instead of push this time, slowly and cautiously. The bumper drifted up into the air. A gentle pull and it carefully traveled back across the yard until it reached its original location. Then Max gently lay it down.
He and his siblings met near the bumper and all looked at one another silently for a long moment, trying to process what had happened.
"Was it just more power?" Isobel finally asked. "Were you just not strong enough before?"
"No, it was more than that," Max mused thoughtfully. "It was like with the power boost it allowed be to sort the energy into different categories based on sense or feel, which allowed me to focus the right kind of energy on the bumper. I'll have to try again when my energy levels are back to normal...see if I can still sense those differences."
He was still feeling the electric buzz well into that evening, long after he returned home. Every once in a while, he would just pause, close his eyes, and bask in the feeling of lightning in his veins. It felt like strength and pleasure and possibility all mixed together. He felt amazing.
When Liz came home that night he could barely contain himself. He was so happy and he felt so good, and it was LIZ and she was strong and beautiful and the smartest and sharpest person he knew, and she was just everything he ever wanted and he wanted HER...right now, but not JUST right now, he wanted her forever...and he wanted to try to say it to her, but what words could ever possibly be enough to express everything that be felt, so he didn't try at all…instead he just met her by the door, and as soon as she put her purse and keys down he pressed her up against the wall and kissed her, the kind of kiss that was like making love to her mouth, establishing with a kiss where his intentions lay and how desperately he wanted her, and she responded just as eagerly and that was all he needed and wanted so he picked her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist, and he carefully maneuvered them to the bedroom, and then together they disappeared into the sweetest oblivion.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The third time he was at home.
The third time there was no excuse for it.
The third time he did it because he craved it.
And the third time was when Liz caught him for the first time.
He wasn't working that day, but Liz was helping her dad at the Crashdown. He slept in, ate breakfast, took a shower, and then started to look around for ways to distract himself while he was all alone. He threw in a load of laundry, cleaned the bathroom, then grabbed a notebook and went outside, hoping that the fresh air might motivate some writing out of him. He sat by his firepit, and stared out into the desert for a while, reflecting, before uncapping his pen and trying to get some words down on the page.
His head wasn't in the game. Something just felt off. He was antsy, uncomfortable. His foot kept tapping against the earth, his body weight shifting back and forth, like he couldn't find the right spot to sit in. His hand kept flexing unconsciously, like it was trying to grab something invisible in front of him, but he didn't know what.
Frustrated, he shoved the cap back onto the pen and stood up, pacing back and forth a few times before going back inside and throwing his notebook onto his desk. He leaned on the desk, irritated with himself for his unusually jittery behavior. He didn't quite know what to make of it.
He went back outside, wandering the perimeter of his house, trying to remember if there was any deferred maintenance he needed to do. If he had an excess of energy, he may as well put it to work, after all.
On the side of the house, he froze, his eyes focusing in on the power gauge. One look at it and he unquestionably knew what his body wanted. It was antsy because it was craving the rush that came along with the power surge. Twice in 10 days he had experienced that rush, and it was unreal. Not only did it boost his alien abilities, and help his body recover from its weaknesses, but it made him feel invincible.
He knew inherently that he shouldn't. There was no reason to. He didn't need the power. Plus, it was dangerous to keep pulling from the city's power grid like this. Municipal utilities are monitored. Unusual patterns or sudden surges like the ones he was causing would eventually be noticed and investigated.
But knowing that was one thing. It didn't mean he could fight the hunger.
He tried to distract himself for a while, forced himself to walk away, but soon he found himself back outside, staring at that box on the side of the house.
No one needs to know. He told himself. Just a little taste of it will help.
So he finally gave in.
Hands on the metal surface, he quickly tapped into the power grid and began to pull, to absorb. His whole body shivered as its desires were fulfilled and he just leaned there against the wall, eyes closed, as the crackling electricity filled him.
He thought it had only been a minute, maybe two, when suddenly Liz's sharp voice broke into the fog of his pleasure. His eyes flew open and he pulled his hand from the power box, but it was too little, too late. Liz was standing in front of him, still in her full Crashdown uniform, antenna and all, staring at him with a look of shock on her face.
"What in the hell were you doing?" She asked.
"It's no big deal, Liz. Seriously. Everything's okay."
"Bullshit everything's okay," Liz argued. "Were you seriously just tapping into the electrical grid, Max?"
"So what if I was?" He shot back, his voice defensive.
"Well...what for?" Liz asked. "Is there something going on that you're not telling me that you need the extra power for? You promised no more secrets, Max."
"Nothing is going on." Max admitted. "I just...it feels good, Liz. All that extra energy flowing through me… I don't think you can understand how incredible it is. I've never felt quite so confident and worthy as I do when I have that power inside of me. It's like… I feel like I can do anything, work miracles, give you the universe. I love it."
"No.” Liz shook her head, rejecting his argument. “Enough! I’ve heard enough! That's not you, Max. That's the power masking your intuitions. You have to be able to listen when your body tells you to stop, otherwise you'll end up dead. Again. You're not God, Max."
He nodded, considering her words. In a sense she was right. He did die. But that death had more to do with the havoc Noah had wreaked on his body than the power. He had channeled an entire monsoon that night and lived through it. The power wasn't what killed him.
Plus, they had yet to prove any of Noah's words from that night to be a lie yet, which was weighing on him. Because of course, there was that one bit that he had been trying to avoid discussing with anyone. The part where Noah did imply that he was so much more powerful than they had ever imagined. He took a deep breath, and released it, letting the concept out there for the consideration of the person he loved and trusted most in the world.
"The thing is, though...what if I am?"
Liz's eyes widened. "WHAT?"
"That night, before he died, Noah told me that I'm meant to be a god."
The words sounded ridiculous even to his own ears, but that extra surge of power was rushing through his synapses, and he felt the lightning in his bloodstream, boosting extra life throughout his body, and he felt so strong, so invincible, that in that moment, he could almost believe that it was true.
"Since when did you start believing what Noah had to say?" Liz asked, her voice dripping with sadness.
"Since when did you stop trusting me?" Max shot back. "Please, Liz… I'm not looking to die again. I promise. I'm being careful, I won't take on more than I can handle."
He took a step towards her, reached out, and gently cupped her cheek. "I love you, Liz. I'm not going to leave you. Please trust in me."
She nodded her agreement, but her eyes were still full of fear. Fear that hopefully he'd be able to assuage with time.
But there was one thing that left him feeling uncertain.
He felt Liz shiver when he touched her.
#rnm echo#rnm echo fanfic#Alien!Jesus Max#dark and kinda angsty#slightly adultish#my fanfiction#fictober19
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Chapter 2
“You’re a pilot, right?”
Van glanced up from his drink at a girl in a rather drab beige robe cinched tight around her body that covered most of her face. The robe was immaculate, without spot or wrinkle despite the squalor of their surroundings. He couldn’t help cocking a brow; if she was attempting to go unnoticed, she wasn’t doing it very well. She carried herself far too proudly, kept her shoulders too square, held her head too high. But there was a craze behind her eyes, one that spoke desperation, He scratched at his chin for a moment as he looked around the cantina. Nobody seemed to be paying attention. Seemed nobody had noticed her. This sort of hire had a tendency to get him into trouble… but having spent the last of his credits on that fill-up, Van wasn’t exactly in any position to turn her down.
“Uh, yeah.” He smiled. “Van Taris, pilot-for-hire. You got somewhere to be?”
The girl nodded, frantically it seemed to Van’s eyes. “An orbital station, above Bonumaan.”
In the back of his head, Van felt a twinge of excitement spark. Bonumaan was a ways out. That kind of a trip.... that would be the ticket right there. But he wasn’t fool enough to say as much aloud, instead feigning a half-sneer. “Ick… Never liked Bonumaan,” Van replied. “So muggy everywhere you go… least, where I’ve been. Big planet, all that.”
“But you can get me there, yes?”
“Of course, yeah, but uhhh, y’know... not free.” Van pulled his sleeve back and began punching in a few quick calculations on his wrist console. It was a simple little gadget, mainly just used for this exact purpose. “Lemme see… We’re on Natoth, and Bonumaan is about… 2400 parsecs Rimwards... rounding down, anyway, to save you money.” Van winked at the girl. People usually liked that bit. “That’s gonna be a couple days’ travel… maybe we can stop over on Takodana--”
“No! Please, we have to be as fast as possible.”
“Alright, alright! No stops…” Van continued, changing his calculations. “So accounting for fuel cost these days, food and water for the road, plus my extra twenty percent…” A moment of further calculation, then a quiet ping from the console. “That’ll run you 1680 NRC.”
“Can you take Imperial?”
Van frowned. “Sorry, I… people still do Imperial? That was… that was kinda before my time. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s alright, nevermind…” The girl dipped a hand into her robe and pulled out a stack of 500-NRC chips. Four, to be exact. Van licked his lips; that was a big fat tip.
“Now, I can’t make exact change, you gotta understand…”
“It’s fine,” the girl urged. “Just… please. I have to hurry.”
Van nodded, turning back and draining the rest of his drink. It was an effort to hide his excitement. 2000 credits… back in the day, that would have been enough for a pretty decent used speeder bike. Nowadays… well, Van would put it to good use. Maybe get the Bird shopped up, see if he couldn’t improve her fuel-rate so that his current situation didn’t happen again. Between the creds, and his tank filled up now… Van liked his odds of making it home.
“Alrighty, you got yourself a pilot. If you’ll follow m-ohhh…” The pilot shook his head as he stood up from his stool. He never drank anything too strong, but perhaps that had been a bit of a chug. He cleared his throat and got his feet back under him. “Okay, okay. Follow me, Bluebird’s this way!”
Van led the girl on a quick jaunt out of the bar and across town, in the chilly Natoth air. This particular hemisphere was hitting the middle of winter, and things on this system got particularly cold, cold enough to build up ice on the windows of any structure without proper heating. He liked Natoth well enough, but he didn’t have the blood for it. He blamed Naboo for that one.
Rinng met him outside his ship, covered in grease. Van produced his last 5-credit chip and dropped it into the mechanic’s hand. He would have tipped more, but he was going to need every credit of that 2000.
“Hey, hold on before you take off,” Rinng called after the pair. Van turned curiously back to the tendril-headed fellow. “I noticed a bit of buildup around the base of your cannon, so I went ahead and cleaned it off for ya.”
“Oh, thanks man! You really didn’t have to do that.”
The Nautolan waved the comment aside. “I’d go ahead and fire up the bioshields, get started warming those windscreens up. You know how bad the ice gets these days.”
“Thanks again, Rinng. See ya soon.” Van offered a sloppy salute as he opened the Bluebird’s hatch and led his passenger inside. As he eased himself back into his seat at the helm, he heard the klik-ssssssssssssss of the station’s fuel line disconnecting. As he began firing up the ship, the fuel tank showed at full capacity. While that was always a good sight, Van still couldn’t shake an odd feeling about this gig. Last time he was on Natoth, he picked up a shady character… admittedly he’d been more obviously sketch than this lady, but he’d picked him up in the Cantina just like her. Cheap scum didn’t even leave a tip, and Van was pretty sure he saw the creep try to swipe his blaster on the way out the door. All said creep got away with was a holster… which Van had to replace, since the creep apparently just up and disappeared a day after he left the Bird and couldn’t be hunted down. Either way, this gig still seemed on the verge of being sketchy, but these days… again, 2000 is 2000.
Van grinned as the engines roared to life, and the Bluebird began to lift up out of the station. He quickly pulled up his astrogation chart, plotting a course for Bonumaan, past Takodana--avoiding open space, for Rinng’s sake--as the ship lifted itself up through the atmosphere.
“So!” Van called, turning to see the girl strapping herself in. Nearly swallowing his words, the pilot hurriedly secured his own safety belt as well. “Once we make the jump, that’ll put us just past Takodana, at which point we’ll swing around the planet and make a second jump to hit Bonumaan. Normally I’d just shoot straight there, but I’ve heard about some, uhh… well, some unsavory activity goin’ on right in that sector. Do hope you don’t mind.”
“What sort of unsavory activity?”
“Fighter Jockies,” Van replied with just a hint of a sneer. “Pirates. Like to blast apart good honest travelers, then pick at whatever’s left of their ships like animals.”
“Sounds like you’ve encountered them before.”
“I have,” Van said grimly. “I was lucky I’d just hooked my cannon controls up to the helm, because I didn’t have a gunner with me. If I hadn’t sprung for the upgrade, they prob’ly woulda blown me right outta lightspeed, scattered what was left of me across the whole parsec.”
“How would they fire on you at lightspeed? No weapon can fire that quickly.”
“Not a cannon. Some of ‘em have these big ol’ blades strapped to the flanks of their fighters. So long as they can swing in beside you, they’ll carve your ship wide open.”
“That’s horrid!”
“You’re absolutely right,” said Van, “which is why it’s such skiff that the Senate can’t decide on what to do about it.” He paused for a moment. “Uhh, pardon my language.”
“It’s fine.”
Van turned back to the helm. “Anyway, I’m gonna take us around the other end of Tako just to be on the safe side, alright? If it helps, I can offer you back 20 credits.”
“Don’t worry about the money, I just need to get to that station soon…”
“Don’t suppose you have any reasons for the express treatment you’d like to share?”
The girl frowned. “I’m sorry, but I can’t say.”
Van held up a hand. “Totally cool, pretend I didn’t even ask.”
They had just passed into the void of space, pinpoints of starlight shining through the blackness stretched out forever before them. Van wrapped his fingers around the warp switch and turned back to his passenger. The girl pushed back into her seat and offered a single nod of confirmation. The pilot whipped back forward and slowly pushed the switch forward. The stars stretched and shone brighter and brighter, until the blackness of space gave way to a swirling vortex of shimmering blue hyperspace.
“Beenine. Stabilize, please.”
“Of course, love,” came a voice from overhead.
The girl jumped. “What was that?”
“Oh, that’s Beenine. She useta be a droid, but then we got into a scuffle with an ex-Imp cell. One of ‘em had one of those riot batons, Beenine took a hit. Lucky me, I was flying into Nar Shaddaa at the time, so I swung by a chop shop, got her patched up as best I could. Beenine, say hi!”
Van pointed up over the console, where built into the ship itself was installed the round head of a protocol droid. The girl let out a little gasp as the droid’s illuminated eyes.
“Nice to meet you, love. Designation B9-V at your service. Welcome to Taris Travels, ready to do all we can to make your travels as smooth and swift as possible.”
The girl blinked profusely for a moment, but she nodded. “Pl-uhh, pleasure to meet you.”
After a moment longer, the Bluebird’s pressure-stabilizers kicked in, alleviating the force pressing the ship’s occupants into their seats. Van heaved himself up from his chair and stretched. “So!” he started, “lemme show you where everything is. Don’t worry, she’s a real small ship… sure you noticed on the way in.”
The tour was brief. Van had two sleeping quarters on opposite ends of the Bluebird, one for himself and one for his passenger, or two for his passengers if he was flying for more than one. The pilot’s seat was a perfectly fine napping spot… usually. Foodstores and a very, very rudimentary kitchen took up most of the lower deck, and the rest of the ship was either working parts or storage. Van made a point to keep things cozy. Sure, it was a source of occasional complaints, but what did it matter? This ship wasn’t a home to anyone but Van, and Van liked things the way he had them.
“I believe I’ll retire for a bit, if it’s all the same to you,” said the girl. “Forgive me, but it’s been…”
“Hey, I get it,” said Van. “That’s what the beds are for. Take a load off. I’ll be up here keepin’ an eye on things.”
The girl bowed, and disappeared into the hallway. Van turned back to the swirling hyperspace before him.
Beenine’s head swiveled down to look at her pilot. “So what do we know about her?” her voice came from a smaller speaker on the console now, rather than the overhead speakers.
“Not a thing,” Van replied. “Picked her up in Sen-Trill.”
“Sen-tr--” Beenine sighed, an exaggerated sort of sound. “Captain, we’ve discussed this, nothing good comes out of Sen-Trill.”
“Well that doesn’t change the fact that we’re out of work,” Van shot back. “She gave us 2000 creds, we can’t afford to turn that kind of money down!”
“Is this about Life Day?” Beenine groaned. “We’ve had this conversation a thousand times! Just Comm your mother, she can take care of it!”
“And I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m not doing that! I’m a grown man, I don’t need a handout from my mother.”
“Your credit account says differently.”
“Bee! We literally just got 2000!”
“And before that, you had six.”
“Oh, shut up and plot us a course!”
Both pilot and droid let out exasperated half-shouts as they went back to their respective duties. Van would never think about wiping Beenine’s memory, but times like this she just tested his patience so much…
Just keep flying, Van thought to himself as he gazed out the windscreen. His eyelids grew heavy, and he felt weariness settling on his shoulders like a great weight. Everything will work out fine if… if you just keep… keep... flying...
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Burn: Sequel to Flash Fire • Crossfire • Fuel to the Fire • Friction
Chapter Seven
Barry whisper-sang to the music that poured from the tiny speakers on his cell phone that rested precariously close to the burner that roasted sausages in a sizzling skillet. He flipped them over his arm and up into the air, whirling around with his speed to catch it on a plate before doing the same with a stack of pancakes.
He stood back, looking over the spread of every breakfast item imaginable, silently counting to himself, working to figure out if he’d forgotten something. He pressed a hand to his chin, eyes scanning the eggs, biscuits, sausages, bacon, pancakes, cinnamon rolls, toast, orange juice, hash browns, fruit salad, pastries, and cereal. No…that seemed to be about it. He started to turn away, then realized he was missing the one vital thing that nearly every adult managed to thrive off to keep themselves alive after the daily grind of work and taking care of a family.
Coffee.
Right, he forgot the coffee. He looked at the coffee pot, frowned, and speed-searched the cupboards for anything that would work. It took him only a second to remember, he’d been gone for six months…and Cade didn’t drink coffee. Never had and probably never would, from the way she reacted adversely to it. He wasn’t sure what really made her make a face and stick out her tongue every time even the hint of coffee was in the air, but he was sure all the extra caffeine was something she didn’t need, considering how already outgoing and borderline hyper she could be on a good day.
Barry thought for a moment, sped upstairs to whisk his wallet from his bedside table, ran back to the table by the couch, remember it wasn’t upstairs, and ran all the way to Jitters. He threw the money on the counter, grabbed a Flash that was being handed to the customer in line, and ran all the way back to the loft. He spread all the food out onto the coffee table, moving slowly this time. Allowing himself to take on the music and the feeling that he couldn’t ignore.
He was back.
With his friends.
With his family.
Away from the Speed Force and Savitar and…and the prison he was held in. He was able to live again. Able to experience life the way it was supposed to be experienced in slow time; seconds, minutes, hours. Not sped up to micro-seconds where he saw everything that was to happen in seconds that he couldn’t see where his life started and ended.
A chuckle came to Barry’s lips. He couldn’t ignore the irony. A long time ago he would’ve complained about how slowly things moved in life—don’t get him started on having to still wait for some of his tests to run at the CCPD—and now he couldn’t get enough of it.
Just take those old records off the shelf. I'll sit and listen to 'em by myself. Today's music ain't got the same soul. I like that old-time rock 'n' roll.
“What are you doing?”
Barry turned to see Cadence, Brady, and Conner all staring at him as if he were crazy. Eyebrows raised and with identical—yet warring—expressions of disbelief on their faces. Even Brady’s face was completely screwed up, looking at him with disdain.
“Oh!” Barry grasped his phone and turned down the music. “Hi, sorry, did I wake you up?” He looked at the clock on the wall and shook his head. “Of course not, day’s just getting started.” He chuckled, a little self-consciously. “Well, I couldn’t sleep,” he explained. “I don’t know if it’s the whole, speedster thing, with so many thoughts running through my head.” He wiggled his fingers beside his head. “And, uh,” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I mean the couch…the couch’s not so great for sleeping on. We should probably get a new couch.”
He noticed Cadence lift an eyebrow and immediately cut himself off. It wasn’t her fault he was sleeping on the couch, he was the one who suggested it. Because it was going to take time for things to get back to normal. It was going to take a long time.
#ocappreciation#toalltheocsivelovedbefore#allaboutocs#dailycomicbookocs#fd: the flash#barry allen#oc: cadence nash#barrycade#fic: burn#series: the flash and the flame#chapter update#by: riley#authored by: riley#i actually updated last night#only getting to posting it here now#:p
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WHO
Name: Cain Douglas Dossier: Io Age: 38 Mutant Risk Level: Two Affiliation and Occupation: The Jem Family, Doctor Gender/Pronouns: He/him Faceclaim: Ricky Whittle
POWER
HEALING: The ability to heal others, often coming in various forms. One’s control over this power can determine how fast they are able to heal more serious ailments, how close they must be to the target being healed, and how draining the task is to their own energy. These mutants are often seen as the least dangerous by society, and can sometimes even be seen as beneficial. Cain’s hands must hover near the injury being healed, and can find healing bigger injuries draining to their own strength.
AESTHETIC
They are fists born to hurt with palms born to heal. They are the feeling of swimming stubbornly upstream, that aching breathlessness in one’s chest from denying which way the water is destined to flow. They are the dark purple of a bruise, the ugly tenderness left behind from the force of a blow. They are a wildfire out of control, igniting everything flammable in its path, consuming all fuel in sight until nothing is left. They can be the reason you’re alive, or the reason you wish you were dead.
BIOGRAPHY
The anger is with him all along.
It’s a cyclical kind of story. His father’s father meets some poor woman, makes a baby with her, and leaves. Over two decades later his father does the same thing. This time he clears out their joint bank account before he disappears.
Cain hates his grandfather and his father. He hates that part of them is part of him, buried in his blood and his bones. They ruin his life and neither of them stick around to see it happen. The older he gets the more of his father he will see in the mirror, and the angrier he will become.
His ma is a good woman. She is a good mother. She doesn’t deserve to be married to his deadbeat, chickenshit father.
Cain adores her. She does her best. She doesn’t complain when his father leaves, she doesn’t even resent him for being such a shitty husband. When it becomes clear that his time out on the road is the type of time out on the road that never ends, she just sighs a deep, sad sigh from the middle of her chest. Cain will always remember that sigh, the way it sounds. It is like a reverse Pandora’s box’ all the hope emptying out of her at once and leaving only the bad shit behind.
She has a kid to raise and she does it without complaint. She works herself to the bone to keep him warm and keep him fed. She cleans for a living. The work is hard and the pay is shit. The hours are long. Cain spends a lot of nights waiting for her to come home. She comes back sore and tired and aching. Sometimes she is barely able to stand. Cain learns how to help as quickly as he can. Maybe this is where the healing starts; him and his mother, his hands running over her back, knuckles digging into the knots of tight, angry, wrong, and digging into them until they slowly break apart.
All of the cards are stacked against him as a kid. for most of his childhood he is a shrimp with no father. He is a dirt poor. His mother works all of the time. He’s not that smart and he’s not that friendly. He is at the very bottom of a very long social food chain. He gets into fights often and he is destined to lose most of them. A lot of his time is spent getting hit. He uses up the rest crying, hot angry tears in his room, alone. He makes few friends. As soon as he’s old enough to fake fourteen, and even a little before that, he works. He rides newspaper routes and scrubs dishes and fixes cars and mows lawns and does anything anybody tells him to as long as it will get him paid.
There’s no magical thirteenth year for Cain. He never goes away for summer and comes back gigantic. Growing up is a slow, laborious process that ticks by in centimeters and inches. There’s a time where he’s small and scrawny and always picking fights and always losing them. Then he starts losing them less. Eventually he isn’t losing any at all. His bullies start to look small and scrawny themselves and they start to leave him alone unless there’s enough of them that they think they can all gang up on him at once, but after awhile even those fights are ones that Cain can win.
That’s about when he starts to get paid to fight. This time he gets to fight in a ring. He’ll never get his chance at becoming a boxer or some MMA jackass but he’ll come pretty close. There’s no star power in Cain. He’s an angry, ragged son of a bitch. He’s got the charisma of a fly. People don’t like him much on principal. No one is ever glad to see him win a fight except maybe his mother. But you don’t have to be well liked to win, and Cain does win. He wins a lot. Eventually people start to show up to watch him fight.
That’s how he finds his father again.
Chicago is a big city. It’s the kind of place where you can meet someone and never see them again for a decade, maybe two if you didn’t get out much.
He’s just finished a fight in some seedy arena on the west side of town. He’s won in a single, brutal knock out and some people are excited about that but most people are pissed off that there wasn’t more of a show. Cain’s ignoring whatever the fuck people are yelling at him and Cain is just tryign to leave so he can peel of his dumbass shorts in the bathroom and go home.
And there’s a man in the crowd in front of him. He’s staring at him. Cain stares back.
He is older than Cain remembers, and he is shabbier. There’s a beer gut where there wasn’t one before and his arms are thinner. His face is lined with wrinkles and his teeth are yellow. A few are missing. If Cain were anyone else he might not recognize him
But a boy always knows his father and a man always remembers someone he hates.
This is what he remembers in that moment as his hands curl up into fists. He is a kid. He is watching his mama make some calls. She’s asking around to see if anyone has seen his father. He knows what she knows but refuses to admit. No one has seen him. No one has heard from him in days. He is gone and he is not coming back.
Eventually she dials that bank. Cain isn’t really sure what she’s talking about but he knows that it’s not good. His mother’s face goes pale and her lips go tight and thin and she nods along to whatever the man on the other line is saying even though it’s clear she’s not listening to him anymore.
She says her goodbyes in a tight, polite voice. It only shakes a little at the very end. Then she hangs up and she sighs that sigh. It’s going to stay with him all his life. His father leaving doesn’t destroy his mother. It just hollows her out. That’s worse in Cain’s opinion.
He is only 12. But even 12 year olds can want to kill people. He swears that if he ever sees his daddy again, he’s going to beat him dead.
In 15 years the anger is still there, pure and white hot. It will always be there. It will always be waiting.
He jumps out of the ring in one easy lunge and then he’s on top of his dad. He’s punching him in the face. The man spits blood and broken teeth. Cain is hitting him again and again and again and again. His hands feel hot, unnaturally so, like something other than his own blood is heating them up from the inside. Beneath him his father bleeds and spits out more teeth and groans and still Cain beats him. No amount of beating will ever be enough for him and he knows this. He knows he’s going to murder his father on this floor and he knows it will make his mother cry. He hates that these things are going to happen and he accepts them anyway. This is what needs to be done. This is what his father deserves.
He grips his father’s head in his hot, hot hands and he spits in his face.
It takes six guys to drag Cain off of his father. There aren’t enough inside the bar to do it. He knocks three out when they try. But eventually the police show up and there are enough of them. Cain is a big guy and he’s strong and he’s tough but even big strong, tough guys don’t do well when they get tazed.
They drag him outside and they shove him into a cop car and the last thing Cain sees of his father is a man, covered in blood, pulling himself off the floor with shaking arms.
He disappears before anyone has a chance to ask if he wants to press charges. Cain isn’t surprised.
Three aggravated assault and battery charges are enough to put him away for a long time, though. The sentencing is actually lighter than what he expects. Weirdly enough, despite the bloody crime scene and Cain’s size and all the witnesses who were sure they saw Cain beating his father to death, there’s no serious injuries to speak of. He hears down the legal grapevine that his father walked away that night, and that the guys who tried to pull him off didn’t even need trips to the hospital. Cain had bloodied their noses but somehow neither of them were broken. Miraculously, his public defender tells him. They all claim that they’re feeling better than ever.
Cain sits and listens to him. There’s a tick in his jaw that won’t go away, an angry jump of muscle as he grinds his teeth.
His mother does cry when he’s sentenced. He’s not happy to see that.
When he’s back in his cell, alone, he drives his fist into the wall hard enough to split the skin of his knuckles
His hands feel hot. His knuckles hurt but they stop hurting very quickly. When Cain turns them over to see, he watches his skin knit slowly back together, closing over the open wound until it looks as if there were never a wound there at all. Cain stares. He swallows. He hits the wall again, hard, in the same place. He watches blood drip from his hand and then he watches the dripping stop. The same thing happens again.
Oh, he thinks to himself. Oh fuck.
Prison is a lot like being a kid again, except his mother isn’t there to comfort him when he gets into fights or when he crawls into his bed to bleed. Everyone wants to get a piece of the new guy, especially since half the time somebody gets into a fight with Cain, none of their injuries ever really seem to take. Cain puts his hands on them. He lays them out and he holds them down and he hits them again and again and again and they hurt and they bleed and they get back up afterwards feeling fine.
He hates his powers at first. He wants to be able to beat the shit out of people the same way he has for years but the moment to hands get hot it’s over. Nothing he does is really going to hurt his opponent. Sometimes they leave the fights looking better than when they came in.
It doesn’t take long for his prison mates to learn what he is. It doesn’t take much longer for the warden to get wind of it too.
And that is how Cain Douglas finds himself moved from Cook Corrections to Hornsbury Prison for mutants.
If Cook Corrections was prison then Hornsbury is something below it, something sub-prison where men and women aren’t allowed to feel even the slightest bit human. It’s the type of place that’s not even trying to pretend it’s here to fix you. It’s here to break you and it wants you to know it’s here to break you, all that guards, all the wardens, and most of the prisoners all want you to know you’re here to be broken.
He’s roughed up by a couple guards in the first week. Thanks to his power not much of what they do to him manages to stick, but not much of what he does to them manages to stick either.
After that they just throw him in the hole for insubordination. It’s cold in that dark, empty concrete room. It smells of the piss and fear sweat of the last guy they had in there.
He spends a lot of time in that hole. He will never admit it to anyone. But sometimes he is afraid he will die in there, all alone.
He gets out eventually. Maybe it is for good behavior. Maybe it’s because people realize that Cain can win fights but he can never end them. His hands are harmless and by extension, so is he.
There’s no job waiting for him when he gets out. He’s just spent five years in prison. Two of them were in Hornsbury. Everyone in his part of town knows about what he did to his father and worse, they know that he’s a mutant.
The first night Cain spends back in his home, someone sets fire to his mother’s front lawn.
He packs up and leaves the next day. He loves his mother. This will always be true. But he won’t stick around her if it puts her at risk.
And then there’s really nowhere for him to go but the Jem Family. He’s heard of them, before prison, but he never cared about it before becoming a mutant. He doesn’t care much about it when he first arrives either. It could have been any gang as they gave him a warm place to sleep and some food to eat. Cain isn’t picky. Unfortunately the Jem Family and Damien have a way of creeping under his skin. They’re good people. They care about people, about mutants. And they care about Cain, which more than he can say for just about everyone else in Chicago except for his mother. They give him food to eat and a place to sleep and pay him money he can send to his mother every month.
They help him learn how to control his powers. They give him back a part of himself he thought was lost forever. Thanks to the Jem Family, he gets to decide what, when and who he’s healing. He also gets to decide what and when and who he’s hurting and honestly, he’s a little more thankful for that than the former. He starts to be happy that his power is what it is. He gets to help people that he cares about. He starts to care about helping people at all.
It was easy not to care about mutants when he wasn’t one. It was easy to ignore the way they were treated.
But that’s not something Cain has the luxury of doing anymore. He sees how much people hate them. How afraid they are. He’s seen it in the scorch marks on his mother’s lawn, and in Hornsbury. He sees it now more than ever as everyone in the city starts to pick a side. It pisses him the fuck off.
This city has needed the shit kicked out of it for a long fucking time and with the gan’s finally uniting, now is as good a time as any to land the first blow.
CONNECTIONS
DANA RAMONE, Antithesis: It’s easy to see how opposite they are; Cain longs to harm but can do nothing but heal while Dana trained to heal but now can only hurt. It’s as if the universe created them both to balance them in this way, and yet forbade yin and yang from ever colliding by bestowing upon them the title of enemy. Cain doesn’t care much – though they’ve never met Dana, they’ve heard the whispers about their reputation. If they don’t so much as speak to one another in their lifetime, it won’t matter much to Cain.
JACKSON RAEMERS, Patient: Cain has a specific sigh that can only be associated with the sight of Jackson walking through their door. While they’re used to reluctantly healing all sorts of injuries the other mutants in the Jem Family bring to their door, there’s something about the frequency of Jackson’s presence that annoys Cain. Maybe it’s more than just their frequency, but the fact that half their injuries aren’t life-threatening in any fashion, or maybe it’s just because Cain’s anger is an easy thing to stir up. Either way, there are times they find themself wanting to cause pain to Jackson, rather than taking it away from them.
LUKE ESPINOSA, Punching Bag: If there’s one thing that Cain can’t stand above most things (which is saying something, since they can’t stand most things in general), it’s a Blackburn member who doesn’t know what’s best for them – and what’s best for them is remaining under Cain’s boot as a bloody pulp. Cain and Luke can often be found fighting at the Jungle, where Cain quite obviously prefers the powerless laws that govern it. There, they’re on a much more even playing field, or at least that’s Cain’s opinion – that’s where they thrive, after all. Luke’s much more of a threat when they’re able to use their powers, but in this domain, Cain saw nothing more than someone who could use a good beating.
IO is CLOSED for applications. He is taken by DEL.
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Chapter 1: Three Guns too Few, Three Guns too Many
The supply convoy was gathering its things for extraction. Columns of flatbeds and armored transport were doing their best to form orderly lines, moving along well-worn paths that hadn’t existed eight months ago. As a token of gratitude, the planet’s locals were building pallets and separating salvage from trash. Children held las cells up to their noses to see if they had been discharged or not while the adults stacked things far too heavy for the young ones to handle. The “discharge” pile was significantly larger than the salvage pile, but even the children felt compelled to help the Imperial forces that had made their way to pry Garthin from the grips of a chaos incursion. Maybe “incursion” was too strong a word to use. It was more like a rebellion, but chaos was not a matter to be taken lightly. A single continent, two regional manufactorum districts, and the inquisition had sent in its people yesterday. To be fair, they were the ones calling it an incursion, not the locals.
Major Vord Rankin sipped cold recaff from a hip flask and watched a pair of young girls sorting through trash. The older, maybe seven or eight, gently took a las cell from her little sister and showed her how to administer the sniff test. The toddler had been holding them up to her ear and shaking them, and her sister patiently explained that you couldn’t tell that way. They had to have that ozone smell to them. That’s how you could tell if they had been fired or not.
Of course, they had all been fired, but the major wasn’t about to tell them that.
“Move it,” a voice said from behind, prompting Rankin to sidestep as a small lift rattled by with crates stacked nearly above the driver’s eye line.
Gratitude, Rankin thought, glancing back at the girls. A virtue. No, more than a virtue, it was a blessing from the Emperor himself. Not every child in their situation survived to feel gratitude, and the fact that they were already wise enough to express it filled him with pride.
Garthin was an interesting node in the Imperial supply chain, its manufactorum blocs producing the bulk of all nonessential mechanisms needed to fuel the war efforts in the system. There were entire worlds dedicated to pushing out armor and guns, thousands of square miles of nothing but chassis, treads, and engines. There were factories stamping out so many lasgun frames per minute that the machine song could be heard behind closed doors inside the Mechanicum’s temple walls. But the best place to machine gun barrels might not necessarily be the best place to cut focus crystals. When you need every square foot available to you for steel works, it is sometimes better to have several million polymer trigger assemblies delivered on a single landing pad. Not to mention the fact that Garthin was one of the largest grain suppliers within easy traveling distance. There were so many small pieces moving through Garthin that its troubles had not been noticed immediately, but when shipments started arriving later and later the Mechanicum had taken interest. And when the Mechanicum cried, the munitorum did too. From there it hadn’t been long until there were boots on the ground.
The sound of shouting drew Rankin’s attention away from the girls. He looked across the muddy, torn up field, standing on his toes to see over the milling crowd. He couldn’t see who was shouting, but the voice was all too familiar. He started cutting his way across the slow moving convoy.
The chaos rebellion, as many like it did, had started in secret. Worshippers of the ruinous powers were never bold enough to do so under the sterilizing light of day until their numbers were enough to bolster confidence. Rankin tried to recall the title the chaos scum had given themselves, failed, and realized it was a good thing that he had forgotten. He didn’t need to know who they were, just that they were all dead. Rumors were that the entire thing had started with a single man who had been brutalized one night after his shift had ended. The attackers, they said, had taken everything he had on his person regardless of value. Most of it had been found less than a mile away in a trash can. He had needed extensive surgery that neither he nor his family had been in a position to afford, and it looked like his life had gone from decades of quiet service to the Imperium to destitution in the span of a few agonizing minutes.
There were things in the galaxy who’s mouths were always open and questing for that flavor of frustration.
“There’s sixteen of us!” the voice shouted. There was a pause. “Fifteen, whatever! There’s fifteen of us and you’re going to give me these lasguns or I swear on the Golden Throne I’ll-”
“You’ll what, trooper Slatnik?” Rankin asked calmly.
Slatnik turned, her face red as a brick and twice as hard, and threw a quick salute. Tall for a woman, she had the demeanor of a feral cat, scarred and rough around every available edge. Her face was lined beyond her years from an early career of hard living, and her hair was a short cut nest of oily black feathers.
“Major, sir, these men refuse to help with our resupply,” she said through barred teeth. “We’re shy three lasguns and they won’t budge.”
The men standing behind Slatnik were dressed in officer’s garb, clean and more plump than a soldier should have been. Rankin knew one was a colonel from the pins on his greatcoat, and the other appeared to be an adjutant.
“Is that right, colonel?” Rankin asked, looking over Slatnik shoulder. “You’re here arguing with my guardsman over three lasguns?”
“The lasguns belong to the Feronian Firestags,” the adjutant answered, a smug expression creasing his chubby face. “And the Feronian Firestags need them. We can’t be bothered to give charity out to every poor soul that comes along with open hands.”
The colonel chuckled, clearly taking delight in not having to answer Rankin’s question himself. The major watched him with mild interest. Rankin’s team had been on Garthin for the duration of the conflict. First in and, by the looks of things, last out. These pompous Feronians had been here somewhere, but he couldn’t remember having seen hide nor hair of them. A bloated regiment with a bloated colonel, too afraid to stain their clothes with front line combat. Here was a man who could learn a thing or two from those girls sorting power cells in the dirt.
Rankin looked back at Slatnik.
“I asked you a question, tooper.”
Slatnik squinted at him. “Sir?”
“I asked you what you would do to the colonel here if he didn’t comply. So, what will you do if we don’t get those lasguns, trooper Slatnik?”
Back still to the two men, her grimace curled into a nasty smile. “I’d rather not say, major, sir.”
Rankin sniffed and took a long, careful drink from his flask, making heavy eye contact with the silent colonel. He screwed the lid back on slowly, as if preparing to make love to the vessel, and tucked it carefully back into his hip pocket.
“Show me.”
Like magic, Slatnik’s booted foot was flying in an arc above her head as the last syllable from Rankin’s mouth still hung in the air. It crashed into the colonel’s temple, spinning him sideways into the mud. The adjutant balked, unable to process what had just happened, and fumbled with the leather catch of his holstered laspistol.
Rankin whistled, and the pudgy man looked up in time to see the barrel of a bolt pistol leveled at his chest. Rankin smiled and shook his head.
Gloved hands grabbed the adjutant by his collar. Slatnik screamed away months of pain and frustration before slamming her forehead into his nose. The cartilage shattered, sending a starburst of blood across his cheeks and knocking him out cold. He fell where he stood, crumbling like an old cement wall, and face planted into the wet ground. The colonel had his hand pressed to the rapidly swelling side of his face that had taken the boot and shouted for help. The elegant ceremonial blade he had belted to his side was caked with mud and too slick to pull from its scabbard, and Rankin had not seen any sort of firearm on the man.
The arrogance.
Slatnik straddled the Feronian. “Hey, groxshit,” she said, leaning down. “Was it worth the three lasguns?”
Before he could answer, she stomped the heel of her boot down on his groin and ground it against the road. He screamed, legs reflexively closing down around her ankle. She planted her foot against his stomach, pressing mud into the one part of his uniform that had been spared in the fall, and pulled the boot free with a wet sucking sound.
“That’s enough, trooper,” Rankin said, trying not to show his amusement. Five guardsmen in the Feronian livery were running towards them, lasguns at the ready, and he couldn’t have her actively humiliating their colonel when they arrived. He put away his bolt pistol and ran a gloved hand over his face. Why did it always have to be like this? Why couldn’t they see that they were all fighting for the same Emperor, the same Terra, the same Imperium? It was always a struggle, but it never had to be.
“Back up!” shouted the first guardsman on the scene. He was staring down the sight of his lasgun, his freshly shaved cheek pressed tight to the stock. “Hands where we can see them!”
Slatnik licked the blood off her lips and spat into the dirt at the colonel’s feet. She turned her back to the soldiers and walked to stand next to Rankin.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Likewise.”
The colonel pushed himself up, covered in equal parts mud and shame, and tried in vain to straighten his hat. Two of the Feronian guardsmen tried to help him, but he pushed them away. Blood was flowing from a cut above his right eye, that temple now a rosy goose egg.
“Shoot them,” he demanded, pointing a shaking hand in their direction. “Shoot them right now.”
“Are you a commissar?” Rankin asked. He saw the men hesitate, unsure of whether or not they should execute an officer that clearly outranked them, even if it was one in such a disheveled looking uniform. “Do you have the authority to dole out summary executions?”
“You’re traitors!” the colonel screamed, flinging mud from the tassels on his shoulders as he swung an accusing finger from Rankin to Slatnik.
Rankin nodded to the prone adjutant. “Someone should help him up before he suffocates.”
The guardsmen who had tried to help the colonel looked sheepishly at the adjutant, shouldered their rifles, and got him to his feet.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Rankin said, ignoring the colonel’s outburst. “You’ve got five decent guardsmen here. Good men. I can tell by looking at them. Instead of shooting us here, you can escort us to the command tent and tell top brass what happened. I’ll personally accept any punishment they see fit to bestow on behalf of my subordinate’s actions.”
The colonel breathed heavily, his rage barely contained. “Nothing’s stopping me from taking a rifle and shooting you myself.”
Rankin shrugged. “I guess not, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“No one’s going to fault me for putting down a traitorous major,” he said, spittle on his lips. “Especially not someone like you. The Feronian Firestags wouldn’t soil their boots stepping on a unit only fifteen men strong.”
“Good,” Rankin said cheerfully. “Then take us to the tent. The general can shoot us so you don’t have to waste the effort.”
The Feronians escorted Rankin and Slatnik the short walk to the command tent in tense silence, their backs straight and eyes forward. The adjutant was awake and plodding along in front of them, his gait unsteady and crooked. Their colonel set the pace. He was moving faster than he had likely moved the entire campaign. There was blood in the water, his blood, and he wasn’t going to let it dissipate before taking satisfaction.
Their prisoners made small talk about whether or not it would rain.
Just a week prior, the command tent had been a much larger structure, housing the bulk of tac logis machinery and those who were authorized to use them. These days it was little more than a single tent surrounded by sealed plastic crates waiting their turn to be shipped off world with the next truckload of equipment. They pushed through the tent flaps, the Feronians taking care not to disturb the officers from their discussion therein.
“I’ve seen my breath a couple of times today,” Slatnik insisted, shouldering past the guardsmen escorting them. “Temperature’s dropping. It’s going to rain before day’s end.”
“Hard to tell,” Rankin countered, waving his hands around. “Atmospherics from all these shuttles.... Who can say?”
The inside of the tent was lined with lumen globes hanging from hooks in the poles, tables and dataslates stacked against the perimeter. A long table still stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the eight remaining members in command of the operations on Garthin. They turned to regard the newcomers with mild annoyance, some scowling from underneath peaked caps while others only glanced and shook their heads before going back to the matters at hand.
One man, however, stood very much apart from the rest, for he was no mere man at all.
“Sir,” Rankin said, he and Slatnik throwing a smart salute before approaching the table.
“Major,” the man rumbled, his voice deep and immovably hard. “Trooper Slatnik. How has the resupply gone?”
Rankin cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, sir, that’s why we’re here.” He held out his hand and turned towards the Feronian colonel. “This is colonel....”
“Mastalig,” he said quickly, swallowing hard. “Colonel Thame Mastalig of the Feronian first, the Firestags.”
The man looked to the rest of the commanders at the table. “General Vesbule, the Feronian regiments are here under your deployment, are they not?”
“Indeed,” Vesbule said stiffly, eyeing the colonel in his disheveled state.
“You’re injured,” he rumbled with that penetrating voice, tapping at the side of his head with a massive finger. “Are you alright?”
Mastalig looked at the ground, uncomfortable with making eye contact with the giant. “Fine, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Yeah,” Rankin said, staring at the sweating colonel. “He’s a real trooper, that one. About that resupply, though.”
“Whatever you need, I’m sure general Vesbule will be more than accommodating to our needs,” he boomed. “That will be fine, will it not?”
“Of course,” Vesbule said, waving the statement away before going back to his dataslate. “Take whatever you need. Mastalig, make sure our friends here are well equipped and looked after. Their service has been invaluable, and I want them given only the best treatment. Do you understand?”
Under the layer of mud, the colonel went puce.
“What’s happening?” the woozy adjutant said, shuffling into the tent. Too covered in blood to want to show his face, he had been left outside on a crate with a bottle of water and a towel. He was clean now, but his nose was a crooked lump of purple that would need time with a medicae if it was going to heal any kind of straight. “What did they say?”
“Out!” the colonel hissed, his jaw shaking with embarrassment. He shoved his aide through the tent flap roughly and grabbed the nearest guardsman by the shoulder. “Get him back to camp and set him straight. I don’t want to see him here again.”
The guardsman nodded curtly and hurried away.
“Don’t worry,” Slatnik said, sauntering over to the Feronians. She threw her arms over their shoulders and planted a kiss on the cheek of the guardsman next to her. “I’ll come with you. Make sure everything goes smoothly. We sure do appreciate all your help.”
“Emperor,” the trooper on her arm said, looking away, “your breath is vile.”
“Yeah!” Slatnik nearly double over with laughter as they walked out of the tent. “Don’t I know it.”
The giant nodded as they left. “Happy, major?”
“Yes, sir,” Rankin replied. “Thank you.”
The space marine went back to discussing extraction with the rest of command. Rankin sighed heavily, taking the flask off his hip as he went quietly from their company. Gratitude, he thought, nodding as he swallowed the bitter sludge. A true blessing from the Emperor himself.
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How-to || Pack a backpack:
When pressing my knapsack, I have two essential objectives:
Limit its impact on my focal point of gravity, and
Keep oft-required things effectively available with the goal that I can climb continuous.
I'll begin by talking about these objectives inside and out. At that point, I will address uncommon contemplations like bear canisters and rucksack styles.
Focus of gravity
At the point when not wearing a knapsack, a human's focal point of gravity is simply beneath their sternum, in addition to/less relying upon sexual orientation and body type.
To balance a stacked knapsack, which pulls in reverse the focal point of gravity, the client must lean forward. A substantial pack commonly requires a forceful lean; with a lightweight pack, the lean is increasingly unpretentious, taking everything into account.
There are three different ways to limit the impact on the focal point of gravity:
To begin with, place the heaviest and most thick things (for example nourishment sack, fuel bottle) against the back board. Lightweight and low-thickness things (for example puffy coat, resting cushion) ought to be utilized to fill the "front" of the pack, or possibly the outside push it/scoop pocket.
Second, keep the heaviest things in the focal point of your back. On the off chance that they are kept excessively low — state, at the base of the pack, close to the hips — you can't lean forward enough to reestablish your focal point of gravity. On the off chance that they are kept excessively high, you become top-overwhelming, which is a risk on increasingly specialized landscape. By and by, I put my hiking bed at the base, at that point stack heavier things from that point.
Third, keep the weight fixated on, or balanced, the spine. For instance, as opposed to convey a 80-oz Platypus SoftBottle in a side pocket, store it inside the fundamental compartment, or gap the weight equitably between water bottles on each side.
Association and effectiveness
In the base of the primary compartment, store things that are not required until camp or until some other time in the outing, as:
Camping cot and cushion, haven, and stove; and,
Nourishment for tomorrow and days after.
In the highest point of the fundamental compartment, keep things you may require during the day that don't fit (or that you don't need) in outside pockets. For instance:
Downpour gear, downy top, puffy coat;
Topographic maps and manual areas for later in the day or later in the outing;
The present nourishment, which I more often than not protect with dress to keep it from softening; and,
Emergency treatment, foot care, and fix packs, in addition to satellite delegate.
At last, in outside pockets I keep things that I need simple access to, as:
Essential water bottle
Topographic map(s) for now, and my compass;
Bear splash;
Sunscreen, lip medicine, headnet, and creepy crawly repellent;
"Bio break" unit; and,
Camera.
Be careful that things in outside pockets will drop out, particularly in the event that you are bushwhacking. Consequently, I favor zippered hipbelt pockets; I generally convey two water bottles, regardless of whether I extremely just need one; and I just keep outside the maps that I am utilizing now, not later in the day or later in the outing.
Extraordinary contemplations and better subtleties
Crisp pack
Consistently, the majority of the things in my pack get hauled out, aside from what's in my hipbelt pockets. This enables me to re-pack every morning, which shows signs of improvement results and which is likely quicker than attempting to work with a rucksack that is as of now half-stuffed.
Likewise, I can rest on my unfilled knapsack, for extra protection and pad.
Waterproofing
Barely any rucksacks are waterproof. They might be made of waterproof texture, yet the creases are not fixed; zippers may permit water through, as well.
To waterproof my assets, I utilize 20-gallon Brute Super Tuff Trash Compactor Bags. They are modest, intense, powerful, and simple to supplant. In semi-parched conditions, I utilize only one. In wet areas, two are helpful: in one I keep the things I will never need access to during the day; the other sack is once in a while opened.
Rucksack style
The ideal method to pack a rucksack differs with the pack's stacking style and highlights. For instance, on the off chance that your rucksack needs outside pockets, at that point everything must go inside the primary compartment. In the event that your knapsack has a move top conclusion, you'll need to utilize outside pockets since opening and shutting the primary compartment is an irritating procedure. What's more, if your rucksack has a shoulder tie for a 20-ounce water bottle, that opens up a side pocket for something different.
Larger than average things
In te event that conceivable I abstain from tying things to the outside, where things are in danger of being caught, harmed, and dropped. Yet, there is minimal decision with curiously large things like skis, packrafts, ice tomahawks and full-length shut cell froth cushions.
Condition
Contingent upon the temperatures, precip, and wind — or its danger — it merits reshuffling things. For instance, on the off chance that I figure it might rain when I maneuver into camp, I may keep my haven higher in my sack (rather than close to the base) or even in an outside pocket, with the goal that I can rapidly get to it when I land in camp. In the event that temperatures are lively, I may keep my glove liners and Buff inside reach, as opposed to covered inside. What's more, in case I'm encountering hit or miss downpour showers, I may lash my downpour rigging to the outside.
Bear canister
Hard-sided bear canisters are hard to pack. In a perfect world, it can fit on a level plane inside, without trading off the usefulness of outside pockets. If not, keep it vertical. In any case, you'll need delicate things that can be put away around the canister, so as to fill the holes left by its ungainly round and hollow shape.
As you eat through your nourishment, start filling the void inside the canister with smell-capable apparatus, similar to your stove and espresso cup. If you are looking for more information click bear canister usage right away.
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