#she’d be the complete opposite of cipher

[spirit-lanterns]

Tbh I see Xueyi as one of those black cats that look like a void.Walking around and blending in with any well black background

So a VOID. Sorry anon, I’m afraid VOIDS are not qualifiable creatures in the Hybrid AU, as they are a legendary godly creature /j

Ough but Xueyi would be so CUTE though. Just imagine a hybrid with such wide, thoughtless eyes that stare deep into the Vet’s soul. It doesn’t help that Xueyi is a quiet woman to begin with, so imagine she sneaks around the Vet’s office like a phantom and scares her and her coworkers to death.

“Now, where is Xueyi…? It’s time for her dinner…” and suddenly the black mass that is the darkness of your closet grows a pair of eyes. Xueyi was just sitting there the whole time, watching, waiting. Until you said the magic word of dinner and she slinks out from the shadows, purring against your ankles for food <3

[a-shy-blueberry]

Chapter Two: Just A Drink

A/N: The smut starts in this chapter ;)

Fandom: Star Wars the Old Republic

Pairing: F! Cipher Nine x Theron Shan; F! Darth Nox x Lana Beniko

Genre: Romance, Action, Smut

Chapter Summary: A forced girls' night out leads to interesting entanglements when Nine meets a handsome gentleman in a red coat

Warnings: Swearing, SMUT, Oral Sex F! Receiving, Safe Sex

Word Count: 2.4k

Series Masterlist || Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Nar Shadaa

Two Months Later

“Kaliyo, I really don’t need to go out, I’ll be perfectly fine here, I even have plans.” she tried to plead. The Rattataki had shown up to her Nar Shadaa apartment, two bottles of some kind of swill she was always trying to get Nine to try in tow. And Nine knew her night was going to go awful.

Kaliyo looked her over with a smirk.

Nine hadn’t done much in the months following the Korriban incursion. Keeping her head down, she was torn through file after file looking for connections between the two attacks, sharing what she could with Lana.

“Ah got a hot date with a holo-novel and some knitting do we? Come on, we’re going out, I need a drink and you’re as close to fun as I’m going to get with these stiff imperial bastards.” 

She had a point, even if one of her crew went, it wasn’t as though anyone else would survive a night with her, and if someone didn’t supervise Kaliyo, chances were she’d start a terror cell or buy a casino. It also hadn’t helped that Nine hadn’t been out for fun since well before Arkous’s call.  

“Fine, I’ll go but, no Rodian Ale,” Nine said. 

Kaliyo slumped her shoulders and stuck out a pouty lip, “Aww, you’re no fun.”

“Barfing my guts out isn't fun!” Nine exclaimed.

“It's fun for me,” Kaliyo said with a smirk, and with that, Nine headed to her room to find something suitable for tonight.

They arrived at the Slippery Slope without much incident. Kaliyo dressed in her usually long gray duster but, Nine had opted for a white long-sleeved shirt under a sleeveless black leather jumpsuit. The material left little to the imagination but, if things went sour, it wouldn’t weigh her down. 

Plus it would get her some free drinks. 

Kaliyo was quick to find her catch of the night and disappeared within ten minutes of arriving so Nine sat at the bar and ordered a Corellian Whiskey.  

The Cantina was relatively full, some new dancer apparently was performing but, the bar itself was decently empty. Two gentlemen sat on the end opposite her, one obviously scouting out the crowd, the other had his head down in his drink.  

Nine smiled, she could relate to that, it seemed like Kaliyo was always dragging her off somewhere to have fun only to leave her at the bar. At least it wasn’t one of those little holes she loved, where blood spilled more than beer, and the whole place smelled of rot. Nine shuddered at the memory completely engrossed in her own head.

“Tequila Sunrise for the lady,” the bartender slid the drink to her and continued, “Courtesy of the gentleman over there.” 

Nine looked up, peering at the blonde-haired man the bartender gestured to. 

It was the desperate man from the end of the bar, who began waving to her, then he started pointing to his friend who looked like he wanted to drown in his drink. Nine lifted her whiskey so they could see it, and threw it back. Then taking the drink of nightmares, she strolled to join them at the end of the bar. 

“I hate to say it but, I'm not really a sunrise kind of girl.” She handed her drink to the instigator with a look and followed, “I think this drink might suit you better.” With that, the quiet guy laughed.

“Careful Balker, I think she's got you figured out,” he teased. Balker gave him a look. 

“Well, well, I know when my efforts are in vain,” said Balker, waving his hand in an airy motion. “I'll just have to console myself with some other beautiful young lady,” with that he walked off leaving Nine alone with his compatriot. 

“I guess now would be the part where I would ask you to join me,” Nine looked at the man and weighed her options, granted it had been months since she'd even been close to getting any action, and he certainly was attractive, still something seemed off, but Nine brushed it aside as merely paranoia and took a seat next to him. “The name's Theron,” he said gruffly. 

“Oh, I'm Ni-...,” Shit she had slipped, covering quickly she finished, “Nila, you may call me Nila.” Theron shot her a raised brow and Nine hoped he would let it pass. 

“Okay Nila ,” he emphasized. “Would you care for a drink?” 

They talked for what seemed like hours, real talk, or at least as real as he could be with a total stranger, and as it grew late, Theron didn't want the night to end. He had found this woman to be utterly charming. He had been around operatives for a while now, many of the women in the SIS had displayed their ability to charm but, that always came off different from the real thing, with Nila it didn't have that edge.

She was utterly gorgeous, Her eyes were the color of Alderaanian skies. Her light brown hair cascaded down to her waist in gentle waves. Her lips were red but bare, as was most of her face. Thin silver cybernetic enhancements were adorned to her temples, which caught his notice. Her nose was small but it had a slight upturn that made her look youthful and innocent. He could have admired her face for days but, he had been a little distracted by her outfit. The fabric was a glossy leather that tightly her figure, showing off just how toned she was. As if that wasn't enough, the suit added a plunging neckline. Oh, my stars that bodysuit just about made his mouth water. Well, truthfully it did make his mouth water which is why he spent the better part of the night face down in his drink. It was as if she had been created to seduce.

Nine interrupted Theron's discreet observation “So… would you like to continue this over a cup of caf, perhaps at my place?” Theron looked at her slowly and swallowed hoping his voice would come out clear. 

“I wouldn't mind a cup of caf.” 

 Nine was silently cursing the door to her apartment as she tried to jimmy it open, Theron's mouth was pressed into her neck as he tried loosening her shirt to expose her shoulder. When the shirt came free, he pressed a trail of kisses from her collar bone to her shoulder, oh my stars . It shouldn't feel this good yet. 

She threw her thigh against the door finally getting the door open. Now just to make it to the bed . She had turned back to Theron, hands intertwined in his hair, leading him towards the room. Sensing where to go, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted. Nine wrapped her legs around him and began to press soft kisses against his temple, making her way to his mouth. When she met her mark, she gently pulled his bottom lip between her teeth and felt the groan in his throat before she even heard it. 

Stumbling into the room, Theron laid her on the bed and they quickly started removing hers and his boots. Nine shrugged the sleeves off her bodysuit and carefully peeled it off of her leaving only a simple black bra, and thankfully black lace panties. Theron looked at her new state of dress and his eyes grew dark with lust.

Nine stood up off the bed and wrapped her hands around the lapels of his jacket. She pressed her lips to where his soft spot on his neck met his collarbone and moved up to his jawline. Keeping him distracted with her lips, she took his hand and moved it to cup her breast, Theron began rubbing the silken fabric of her bra with his thumb. When his hand moved towards the clasp of her bra she swatted it away. 

“I seem to be awfully underdressed in comparison here,” she teased in a singsong voice, allowing her hands to spread across his chest under his jacket. Theron got the message quickly, dropping his jacket on the chair beside them, he took her hands and wrapped them around the edge of his shirt. Nine lifted and bit her lip to avoid exclaiming out loud. The pale sinewy skin of his abdomen radiated heat under her fingertips and all she wanted to do was run her hands all over him. While she was distracted, Theron lifted his shirt over her head. Nine looked up to see hard shoulders and sculpted biceps, and with that, she let out a small whine. 

“Like what you see?” he teased. Nine’s face went flush. Theron grasped her hand and brought it to his chest, spreading her fingers so she could explore. Nine’s fingers traced the edges of his pecks, darting inwards to graze his nipples. Theron gasped. 

Nine moved her hands tracing the lines of his abdomen, as she grew closer to his belt her touch got lighter. When she reached the soft patch of skin in between the edge of his pants and his belly button, Theron had stopped breathing, the bulge of his cock was straining against his pants. Nine grasped his buckle, and after fumbling with it for a minute, she finally found the small button on the underside of the buckle and the belt came off. 

Theron pushed her onto the bed, dropping his pants as he approached her. His erection was plain as day through the thin fabric of his boxers, Nine’s mouth went dry. She wanted him inside her. 

“I’m not going to last long if you keep looking at me like that,” Theron said, his voice husky with lust. Nine realized she had been biting her lip and tried to control her expression. She sat up curling a hand behind his neck and pulled him down to meet her lips. Theron’s hands moved to her waist, then traveled upward to the clasp of her bra, waiting a moment, he looked at her for approval and she nodded. With a flick of his fingers, her clasp was undone leaving her breasts to pool into the loose bra. Theron removed one strap, and then the other, and Nine removed the arm that had been holding up her bust. When he looked at her his eyes darkened and he slowly ran his tongue over his lips, “May I?” he asked. 

Nine could barely choke out her reply. He started by cupping her breast, gently running a finger over her nipple, softly squeezing it, teasing it till it hardened. Then he brought it to his mouth and the cipher could no longer contain her pleasure. “Oh fuck,” she exclaimed, her voice breathy, elated by the sensations she was feeling. Theron brought his other hand to cup her unattended breast and began the same process again. Twirling her nipple between his fingers only to move in with gentle teeth, nipping, kissing, sucking. Her hands grasped for purchase, clinging to him as he drove her wild. “Theron, please,” she begged. Theron pried her hands free from him and laid her on the bed. He moved his mouth down, across her stomach, down to her thighs then rested there, gently kissing the insides of her thighs. 

“Does the lady have a request while I’m down here,” she could feel him smirking into her leg as his kissing darted closer to her cunt, only to move away. 

“Stars, Theron please,” she pleaded, and he pulled at the waist of her underwear, freeing her to him.  He carefully slid a finger into her folds, caressing the tip of her clit between his finger and thumb. When she had just about had too much, his tongue joined them. Nine’s fingers curled their way into his hair, trying in vain to hold on, Theron began to moan into her until she came, pleasure rocking her body into spasms. 

“Oh Nila, you’re drenched,” he said, licking his lips of the remains of her orgasm. Nine sat up still shaking and pulled his chin towards her bringing him into a sloppy kiss, the salty taste of her still fresh on his lips. Nine took his shoulders and flipped him so he was lying face-up on the bed. 

“Do you have a condom?” she asked. 

“Inner pocket of my jacket,” he said, and Nine lept off the bed to grab it. She returned grasping a synthskin condom, she unwrapped it and stuck two fingers in to begin the unfurling process, with her other hand she pulled down the waistband of his underwear drinking in the sight of his erection. She almost forgot what she was doing at the sight of him, he was thick, with the prettiest pink mushroom head that made her wanna bend over and suck him dry.

"Nila~," she shook her head, quickly putting on the condom and pulling off his boxers, straddling him between her legs. 

She hovered over him, letting her pussy slide over his cock, coating it in her juices. Over and over, the tip just catching against her hole but never angling herself for it to slide in. 

“Does the gentleman have a request while I’m here?” she teased a coy smile on her lips. 

“Oh fuck Nila,” he said. 

Nine smirked, “I don’t think that was a request.”

Theron gave her a pointed look, “Fuck. Me. Nila,” he said, enunciating every word, with that Nine lifted, grabbing his cock and lowering herself onto his shaft. Oh, my stars . Nine began to move, and Theron quickly followed moving together, slow at first but the pace increased as they both grew closer. “Oh Nila,” he gasped over and over, it wasn’t her name but, it was as close as he could get and the thought of his gasping Nine pleasured her immensely. 

“Theron,” she moaned lifting herself off of him only to bury the complete length of him inside her. She was on the edge, just a little more and she would finish. Theron looked like he was holding on so she pushed another full thrust, her fingers finding their way to her clit to apply just the right amount of pleasure, cumming so hard she saw stars, her own orgasm putting Theron over the edge and he sputtered into the condom. Both of them gently rocked against each other as waves of pleasure passed over them. 

When they both finished Nine dismounted. Theron got up, disposing of the condom and cleaning up before crawling back into bed. She laid there, wondering what to do next, would he leave? Should she ask him to stay? The scenarios rand through her head till Theron tugged her next to him and she nuzzled her head against his chest. It wasn’t long before she had drifted asleep, pleasantly encircled in his arms.

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[forgotten-envies]

No Stronger Thread Than Ours

Thank you @miraculously-purple for the prompt! It’s finally done! It’s ~4000 words and can either be read on AO3 here (x) or under the cut.

Wei Wuxian could only remember one conversation he ever had with his mother. It floated in his mind with little detail, the edges as hazy and warped as a dream. Sometimes, he thought he could recall the deep scarlet of his mother’s ribbon. At other times, her laughter, ringing and loud. Most often, he could not find the event itself, could not distinguish between memory and fabrication and was left with only her message, void in tone but permanent in meaning. 

_________

This is your red string of fate. It leads to the one you will love and be loved by.

Wei Ying sat outside the Jiang compound, sulkily watching as a red string coiled, swayed, and darted across the lake. The setting sun warmed his back and cast a long shadow all the way to the edge of the dock. Shijie was inside, meeting her newly betrothed for the first time. Wei Ying was not inside because the stuck-up, gold-plated peacock had dragged his dog with him.

He kicked the water and watched the thread bob like a fishing line. It was an ongoing experiment of his, to see which objects could affect it. People couldn’t, other than him. Nor dogs or trees. He bet even the claws of a divine beast would pass right through. Still, it rippled in the wind and water as if it were actually there and affected. It wasn’t. He’d tried fishing with the thing before, but no bait could be attached. He had high hopes for using it with a spiritually-infused needle, though. 

A tug on the string pulled a grin out of him. There is, of course, one other person that can touch it. The one on the other end. He pulled it into a taught red line strung between two fingers and plucked it with a nail. He adjusted the length and did it again, picking out a crude melody. He thought he could make a language out of it, like the Lans do with their guqins. 

This is how he was found later, scattering thoughts into notes, a phrase. A presence, tall and comforting, settled by his side. He broke off his ciphered letter and pouted up at his shijie. She smiled and folded her legs under herself. “A-Ying, what’s wrong? 

He snuggled up to her side and looked up at her through his lashes, silver eyes wide. She took his hand with a giggle, familiar with this routine after two years as his shijie. “You shouldn’t marry Jin Zixuan,” he whined.

She laughed, surprised. “Why not?”

He twirled the string around a finger. If he knew the person on the other end, he was sure they’d help him. Wei Ying spoke clearly, laying the case before his understanding shijie, “He brought a dog and said the lake smells bad. When I opened  the gate for him, he asked Madam Jin to take him back to Lanling. The peacock wouldn’t eat the cakes you made for him and he didn’t even say you looked pretty!” Her face fell, but she brought an arm up to wrap around him. Wei Ying mentally kicked himself.

“Don’t be disrespectful to your seniors.” The rebuke was half-hearted and soft-edged though, and she rubbed her pinky with her thumb. The nail caught on an invisible cord and her lips lifted a little. “A-Ying, do you know where the red threads lead?”

“The person you’ll love.” He furrowed his brow, wondering what this had to do with Jin peacocks.

Warm hands patted his head. Quiet and slow she explained, “And who will love you in return. A-Ying, Mother set up my engagement to Young Master Jin because we are connected by this.” She brushes her fingers against his pinky. “Jin Zixuan is the one I will marry.”

This made little sense to the boy. “But Madam Yu and Uncle Jiang aren’t connected! You could marry someone else.”

A strange look crossed her face as she sighed. “I think they might be, A-Ying. They love each other in their own way.” He found this hard to believe; impressions of soft touches and laughter lit up the picture he’d formed of his own parents. She flicked his nose. “And Young Master Jin  and I just met. It’s only natural that we don’t love each other yet.” They sat together in silence as Wei Ying composed a ‘hello’ on the thread. 

Their shadows had stretched, rippling on the lake when Wei Ying’s small, unsure voice asked, “Does it take a long time?”

“Hm?”

“To love someone?”

She shook her head and pulled him closer. “I think it takes longer to learn how.”

_________

It may bend,

Wei Wuxian’s too-long, awkward legs tripped on a tree root. He caught himself and kept going, winding his way through the forest surrounding the lake Lotus Pier was built on.

Jiang Cheng was full of it, obviously, and a terrible prankster. Who could believe his half-spun tale of following his thread and meeting his partner? Certainly not Wei Wuxian, who’d once seen his shidi insult his crush to her face, fist clenched and the cake he’d bought as a present to her ruined. He had to laugh at the memory; the girl, a visiting disciple a few years older than them, had smiled and patted the frozen Jiang heir on his impressively blushing cheek, thanking him with a, “Red is my favorite color!” She’d disappeared while Wei Wuxian had been too busy laughing and they never saw her again. 

So clearly, he had evidence.

Still, the general theory holds true. Two people were connected by a continuous thread and therefore could find each other by simply following it to its end, though parents discouraged their children from doing it. Wei Wuxian had brought it up before to Uncle Jiang and was merely answered with, “They are threads of fate. You shouldn’t rush it.”

But he was restless and it was summer. The Yunmeng sun seemed to stick to one’s skin, seeping its too-bright rays through burned ears. It turned thoughts into the soft, catching mud on the banks of the receded lakes and encouraged the most reckless of decisions.

He wiggled the string like a trill. It was a habit he’d developed, a simple way to convey laughter to the person on the other side, as he wasn’t there to teach his partner the basic language he’d made. Still, he continued expanding the language and sending his letters. He wanted that person to know how he was feeling, wanted to form a relationship. Maybe that was why he was out here, trekking through the forest and spooling red thread around his fingers before it shortened.

It was behaving… strangely, if such a thing could behave at all. It stretched through tree trunks as it normally did, unaffected, but at other points, it wound around several different trees and formed elaborate knots. He knew why the string twisted, who wouldn’t? The Thread and its Three Difficulties were taught early on in the form of stories and cemented in copious allusions. All three were directly caused by the wishes or actions of one or both thread-mates; ergo, his partner was bending the thread.

Honestly, Wei Wuxian couldn’t understand at all why someone would do this. Who didn’t want to meet their partner? Their confidant and future spouse? Well, he wasn’t anyone to be afraid of! And they were destined to love each other, after all.

He circled four trees, straightening the latest knot, and kept following it. The problem was that the thin string could barely be seen from only a few feet away, so he couldn’t simply bypass the entanglement and shorten the string as it fell behind him. So he did it this way and wasn’t sure if it was better to blame his slowly growing dizziness on the heat or his circular motions. Last night’s second jar had been a sweet mistake. He can’t bring himself to regret it.

Hours passed. Several times, he groaned out loud at especially layered or lengthy configurations but didn’t turn back. After the last one, he’d sent, “Just make it a little easier. I’m trying to be friends with you!”  across the thread, but the words seemed to have no effect, or at least no positive one.

The shadows lengthened until the only light came from the talisman glittering in Wei Wuxian’s hand. Made even harder to see in the dark, the string could only be followed and not anticipated.

Finally, he could feel it straightening out, wavering less and forming only very simple knots. He smiled and trilled a laugh, recklessly bounding through the night as he chased his goal. 

He seemed to reach some sort of transition in the terrain, the end of the forest, perhaps, and broke through it. He paused, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, inhaling deeply the fresh, night air, smelling faintly of lotuses. 

His eyes snapped open, and suddenly, he thought he hated nothing more than the lake that spread out in front of him, illuminated by the glow of Lotus Pier at its center. He had followed the thread, gotten turned around so often that he couldn’t tell North from South, and essentially made a very large circle, ending up not far from where he had started.

In the shifting glow of the talisman, his red thread shot off into the forest once more, twisting around a tree like a last teasing, parting wave. 

As he made the short walk back to his little boat, a thought, the only reasonable conclusion, cleared his mind of any lingering sun-induced daze and chilled him in a way the slight breeze could never achieve. 

The recipient of his many letters, his thread-mate, did not want to be found. 

_________

Stretch,

The Cloud Recesses were beautiful, quiet and peaceful in a timeless, pristine sort of way. Its stones had never been stained with spilled dye, its waters ran mountain-cold and pure, and its people walked slowly and purposefully, confident yet humble in their talents. 

All of these qualities, however, faded to a pale background in the presence of its Second Jade, Lan Zhan, Wei Wuxian’s thread-mate. He was purity, icy coldness, and a cloud’s grace. He spoke little, saving his words for only the most important things, the complete opposite of Wei Wuxian who talked even when he could not speak, plucking messages to a person who never responded, aside from biting out scathing remarks about Wei Wuxian. 

And that was it, wasn’t it? His jade-like face never smiled at Wuxian’s antics, only glared and turned away. His deep, soothing voice bit out rebukes for breaking the rules. His powerful frame held no comfort, but rather sidestepped gentle, yearning touches. 

His red string, so bright against colorless robes, hung between them and spooled in a pile on the ground. 

“Lan Zhan!”

“We are not close.”

In the frigid emptiness of a cave under Qishan, hours of battle and days of synchronous preparation led to two people, their breaths shallow and hearts weakened. They stared at each other, gold and silver mixing until one blinked, slow and threatening sleep.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan… sing for me.”

Lan Wangji, brow furrowed in pain, in worry, gently held Wei Wuxian’s hand as if it would break at the slightest movement. In the dark, no excess thread lay between them, no distance separated. 

The world faded and Lan Zhan sang. 

When Wei Wuxian was dropped into the Burial Mounds, he reached out, clutching the taut line as he fell, wishing he could be caught, held, saved. 

When he walked out, shadows filling his fractures and curling around his steps, he did not follow the string. It spilled lax and trailing on the ground, a line of red blood against death-gray. He laughed, but for the first time since he’d begun the habit, he didn’t share it with Lan Zhan. The spirits laughed with him. Good, they said, a grating hiss, feel our resentment, feel our pain. His chest tightened with it, the weight a constant companion, now. Be our revenge! On the last word, familiar screams filled his mind and he pulled out his flute, black as the place it came from, and began playing.

He hunted and he tortured and he had his revenge. When Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan found him, smiles and laughter concealed the damage to his spirit, but the person they expected him to be had died with a prayer on his lips and left barely more than a shell for resentful energy in his wake.

“Wei Wuxian!” “Lan Wangji!”

Again, Wei Wuxian walked out of the Burial Mounds, a flute at his side and a red thread dragging on the ground before him. This time, though, a child sat on his shoulders, laughing pure and untainted, uncaring of his small dinner, lack of playmates, and a guardian who was not his parents. 

The people he now lived with healed Wei Wuxian in a way that the resentful energy could not replicate. A few treasured moments with Wen Qing or a-Yuan or any of the other people who had, quite suddenly, become his family, scattered themselves throughout every bad day. They each featured prominently in the good days. No day could be called perfect when living in the Burial Mounds, but a certain balance formed, a precarious yin and yang.

On the days he was the most clear-headed, he found himself sending messages to Lan Zhan, an activity that had stopped during the Sunshot Campaign. He played about his inventions and his breakthroughs, Uncle Four’s wine and the adventures of a-Yuan. He thought, a strange feeling too warm to be resentful energy curling around his heart, that Lan Zhan would make a good father, though a stricter one than himself. 

In Yiling, Lan Zhan found a-Yuan and spoiled him more than Wei Wuxian thought the austere man capable of. He shared a meal with the two, a red string pooling underneath the table. Wei Wuxian tried to keep the conversation on lighter matters, asking about gossip he knew Lan Zhan wouldn’t provide. For his trouble, he learned of a wedding he couldn’t be invited to, a painful reminder of the family he’d left behind. Inevitably and with his typical direct manner, Lan Zhan changed the subject.

“Can you control it? Will you stay like this from now on?” The Second Jade of Lan probably couldn’t imagine a life in the Burial Mounds, tainted in a way the Cloud Recesses weren’t. He would never choose to walk the single-plank bridge.

When he ran out of the tea shop, Lan Zhan followed. He spared Wen Ning and even helped return him to consciousness, but he would not stay. Wei Wuxian led him to the barrier and with a rueful look, finally answered his question.

“What other choice do I have?” Stay here, and do not leave, Wei Wuxian didn’t say.

Lan Zhan left and did not turn back.

_________

And fray,

Everything blurred together as the shadows whispered and screamed, pulling him down, down, building his resentment at himself, at the righteous, at the shadows themselves. He raised an army brimming with power and darkness, held together by an iron seal. Both him and them, control, control. 

Let it burst out in a wave, let it destroy.

Weak and trembling, frayed threads touched a frayed being. “Goodbye.”

One army against another, familiar faces battling his own end, his final weakness.

As the seal broke, Wei Wuxian acknowledged a truth that he’d chosen to ignore since that day in Yunmeng with his shijie. Between his hands, the blood-red string vibrated, conveying his heart. But a pinch stilled movement and stopped sound, so nothing ever reached his thread-mate. 

Lan Zhan hadn’t heard.

He plucked a laugh across the connection, no fingers to still it, and shuffling feet turned toward him.

_________

Quiet, thin notes gently pulled Wei Wuxian from the depths of sleep. Slowly, he became aware of the warmth that surrounded him, the body pressed against his chest and the quilt draped across them both. Bright, mid-morning sunlight streamed into his eyes from the window above their bed and Wei Wuxian turned his head to bury it in Lan Zhan’s hair.

The lullaby-like song stopped as his husband turned to face him, graceful in a way Wei Wuxian hadn’t thought possible before marrying him. Soft, golden eyes drifted over his face, taking in the sleepy mess of it all. His lips upturned, a content smile. Neither of them spoke, enjoying the peaceful beauty of both the morning and each other. 

They didn’t often have the opportunity to spend mornings in bed together. Supervisory responsibilities required that Lan Zhan be ready much earlier than Wei Wuxian’s habitual wake-up time and they both taught the junior disciples in the afternoon. As such, he treasured such chances to simply be. No boundaries lay between them, no expectations to uphold. They could brush light kisses to tired eyes, entwine their hands, and let themselves breathe.

Wei Wuxian closed his eyes, regulating his breathing to match his husband’s as he entered a casual sort of meditation. He didn’t, couldn’t, stop thinking altogether, but he had become decent at dismissing whatever thoughts came up as unimportant in the moment. Mastery of the technique had by no means been achieved, though..

Eventually, Wei Wuxian’s curiosity got the better of him. Turning so Lan Zhan’s arm curled around his shoulders, he voiced the question that floated lazily at the back of his mind. 

“What instrument were you playing?” he said, voice low and smiling, “It couldn’t have been your guqin. Wangji is deeper. Besides, you only played one note at a time and it doesn’t fit on the bed anyway.” He laughed, quieter than usual but just as happy.

Lan Zhan brought their hands to his lips, peppering a few kisses onto his husband’s knuckles. He looked up, turning their hands so that their little fingers lay in front of Wei Wuxian, the red thread connected to them wrapped loosely around their hands.

His mouth opened quickly once he understood Lan Zhan’s meaning. “You played a song… on the string?” 

“Mm.” Lan Zhan hummed, low and trailing.

He rubbed their thumbs together, thinking. “You know I used to do something like that too?” He glanced over at Lan Zhan and found his head tilted forward in interest. “I made up a whole language! I was inspired by the Lan Clan, of course, but it’s very different from the guqin language, seeing as there’s only one string.”

He smiled wistfully, remembering all the letters he’d sent to his thread-mate even before he’d known it was Lan Zhan. “I would compose letters to you. You couldn’t hear them, of course,” he laughed, “but I liked imagining that you could, that you listened to each one.” He shook his head. “It was foolish, I know, but you’d silence me all the time! I had to talk to you somehow!”  Lan Zhan’s face didn’t slip into his typical fond exasperation at the teasing, instead dropping the smile and becoming serious. 

Wei Wuxian turned back over and brought his free hand up to cup the beautiful face. “Hey, are you okay?”

Lan Zhan looked away, a shadow of sadness coming to rest over his eyes. “I would also speak to you, in a way.” 

Wei Wuxian fought to keep his many questions from bubbling out of his mouth, knowing by now to let Lan Zhan finish whatever he wanted to say. 

“I composed songs on it to convey my thoughts, like Brother.” From what he had learned from them both, Lan Xichen and Lan Zhan often conveyed their emotions to each other via songs and duets. It was simpler than stumbling over words that could be misinterpreted.

“You… played me music?”

“Mn.” His ears looked a little pink, now.

Wei Wuxian smiled and moved closer, pressing their hands between their chests. “Well at least the conversation was two-sided then, even if neither of our messages reached each other.”

Lan Zhan shook his head, a slight, confused movement. “I often received a message from you.”

“A message? Nothing gets through to the other side.” He pinched the string like he used to and plucked it. No vibrations traveled to Lan Zhan’s little finger.

Lan Zhan shook his head and moved a finger to the string, flicking it quickly in a familiar motion.

Oh.

“You… you knew those were from me?”

“Yes, Wei Ying.” There was that fond exasperation, relaxed and a little teasing in itself which, fair. It’s not like anything else could have touched the string.

“Do you know what it means?” He’d never mentioned it to his husband; such a small thing had never seemed important. Besides that, it’d become natural to him, second nature.

“It is Wei Ying’s laugh.”

Surprised, Wei Wuxian did just that, a little too loud for such a morning, and, reflexively, trilled it on the thread. His eyes widened. “My Lan-er-gege knows me so well!”

Leaning in, he offered a kiss, and they stayed like that, lips barely moving against each other, for a long while, until once more, Wei Wuxian broke the silence with a quiet, “I’m glad we know how to love each other, Lan Zhan.”

Eyes gentle, he pulled Wei Wuxian into his arms. 

But it will never break.

[anchanted-one]

The One where Arro Met Nine A Tale of Arro and Lana

Rishi

Lana held Arro’s head in her lap, patting his hair gently as the medicine finally began to take effect. She hated using tranquilizers; not only was there always that danger of overdose, there was also the risk of addiction. And her lover had already skirted that danger once before.

But there could be no helping it any longer. The screams in his head had reduced him to a whimpering mess. Ever since the return of his memories as a Sith tool, he had become less functional by the day. He could no longer clear his mind, no longer reach out to the Force, no longer seek even the respite of the trance that Force users could--short term--use as a substitute for sleep.

Instead, he spent his days and nights with a fog around his head, slowing his wits and his movements alike. He endlessly offered whispered apologies to one of the many victims of his own personal demon, Lord Trykhgar.

And of course, he rarely ever slept. On the rare occasions that raw exhaustion put him to sleep, he would wake up screaming.

After six weeks like this, he was in such bad shape that her medical training had insisted on the drug.

He sighed as he finally drifted off to sleep, and Lana could finally feel the tortured tangle of emotions at the back of her own head find rest at last. She brushed his hair with her fingers, then kissed his cheek.

The torment had stopped. No more pain, no more voices, no more hallucinations.

Peace. Blessed peace!

She reveled in the quiet, astonished at how bad it had gotten. The difference between the extremes was stark. On this end, her own mind had also been hampered by his ailments. The link which at first had thrilled her as if it were her firstborn babe now affected her own mental health, and she hadn't realized just how severe it was until now.

It would be so easy to fall victim to the drug's false promise of a fix. To use it more and more regularly so that Arro--and she herself--could find a respite from the voices. But that was a slippery hole.

A very small part of her agreed with Arro when he told her she didn't have to suffer alongside him. She didn't owe him that. No one did. That tiny traitorous part wanted to find a way to reseal her mind and leave Arro to fend for himself.

But the larger part of her could no more excise Arro from her psyche than it could stop breathing. She loved him with a deep passion she had never known. He meant everything to her. Everything.

Come hell or high water, she would stay with him.

And thanks to their bond, she knew that this was exactly how he felt about her. She could feel his love, like a warm infusion of morning sunlight, like dewdrops catching the rays and scattering a colorful rainbow in her heart. Like a music that she could never tire of. Like life itself.

If it had been her in crisis, he would have been as steadfast an ally in her recovery as she was being in his.

She sighed contentedly. It felt so good to be able to trust someone like this. Her life had revolved around secrets, deception. Her best friend had unknowingly abused Lana’s trust on a number of occasions, it just went with the job. Arro was someone who she knew--even without the bond--she could trust.

A kind voice spoke to her, muted and echoing as though coming across a long tunnel. "So he's asleep at last?"

Lana almost howled in shock. She looked around foolishly, but there was no one there.

"I'm over here," The voice said, and a translucent body of soft mist and light formed in the empty space before her. A Force Ghost. She knew that face, had seen it featured prominently in every one of Arro's biographies.

"Jedi Master Orgus Din," she stated.

"Lana Beniko," he answered with a nod. "You've been taking good care of my former Padawan."

Lana shrugged. "He's mine now. I'm not giving him back."

"You look angry."

"Oh, you can tell?" she snarled softly. "Do you see how badly your little revelation is affecting Arro? I'm all for conquering your demons, but in his case we could have made an exception! And the timing couldn't have been poorer! It--"

"Actually, the timing couldn't have been better," Orgus said. "Because for the first time in his life, he has someone nearby who can and will help him through the darkness. No one else can do for him what you are. Not me, not Kira, not Satele, and not even Rana Tao'ven. Only you." Lana swelled up a little at that. "And make no mistake. He has to confront it. And Lord Trykhgar. For He is returning."

Lana jumped. "Trykhgar?"

The ghost's words sounded forced. "The Sith Emperor. He stirs again."

Lana felt the cold grip of dread seize her stomach. She knew He was still out there of course. "How long do we have?"

"I can't answer that one," Orgus admitted. "My perception of time is… Different on his end. What I do know is that Arro will be forced to face Him again. And if the time ever comes for a final epic clash, he will need to defeat this enemy first. He will need to conquer Trykhgar." He made as if to brush Arro’s hair, but his fingers passed through his scalp like a hologram. The air around the virtual point of contact shimmered blue. "Ah, my poor, young friend. If only you could have the quiet life you deserve."

Lana’s outrage completely melted as she studied his expression. "You love him," she said.

"Yes," he answered simply. "Is that so strange?"

She had to consider before saying "No, not as much as I once believed."

All throughout her career she had heard Jedi preach a dispassionate, ascetic way of life. They scoffed at the Sith wherever they faced them, saying that their use of emotions to seek greater power was a brittle route to power. Even moderates like Darths Prowle and Nox had lost patience with Jedi preaching their nonsense.

Arro, she thought, was different. He wasn't afraid to feel, and even less to admit it. He had told her on a number of occasions that he didn't fit in among the Jedi, which had been something she knew from her own days in Intelligence.

But was he unique? Satele Shan--Grandmaster of the Jedi Order herself--had fallen in love. Theron and Jasme were proof of that, not only the fact they existed, but also the care Satele demonstrably but subtly took to look out for them. Surely there were more such Jedi out there?

"Even after I died, I've watched him, you know. I watched Bengel too. I remember how you were there for him when no one else was."

Lana's jaw dropped. She choked on her words, unable to speak. "What do you--" she finally got out.

The ghost smiled. "You know exactly what I mean," he said simply. "I remember Cipher Nine. I remember what you did for him. And I remember that day when you--or she, if you'd prefer--finally chose to meet him, and give him hope. Do you remember?"

She chewed on her lip, hesitating before nodding. She did. Oh maker, but she did.

*

Ii Juupa Cantina, Tatooine. Some years ago.

It was a pleasant enough evening here in Mos Osnoe, Mercei supposed. The crowd in the Cantina was the affable kind of loud. Drunken singing, loud laughter, the lively music the Bith were playing on their clarinets, the cheers for the Twi’lek dancers’ sensuous performance, and the bell-like sounds of glasses clinking was much friendlier in this town than in many cantinas she’d had the misfortune of visiting lately.

She was coming to love this quaint settlement; one could never have suspected that there was one on Tatooine that wasn’t a haven for criminals, violent or otherwise. People frequenting this place were usually the honest citizen type. At least so far as Tatooine went.

So calm, so peaceful. No blaster fire or bombs or poison darts or daggers or any sort of lethal weapon aimed in her direction. It was perfect!

She did hope that the guest she was expecting chose not to upset that careful peace. She was fairly confident that he wouldn’t: she had been observing him closely for ten months now, and was certain that she already knew him better than he did.

She took a sip of her broth, then took a bite out of her caramelized pork pot pie. She chewed slowly, trying to identify the herbs used in the seasoning. Brown thyme of course, which was grown in the nearby moisture farms. Nutmeg, cinnamon, bayleaf, cloves. And something else… But what was it? She just couldn’t figure it out!

The door opened and a new patron walked in, air blowers coming online to both rid him of the sand on his clothes, as well as to prevent sand from entering the Cantina while the door was open. He wore a light colored poncho covered in the zigzagging motif that was common on the planet. Underneath the cloak, his clothes were the typical, utilitarian workman’s outfit; breathable and loose fitting; perfect for long hours in the Tatooine’s twin desert suns. He carried only a long staff in his gloved hand, with no visible weapons on his belt or boot. It took a trained eye to find the Lightsaber hidden in a holster up the loose sleeve.

The young Jedi Knight, Arro.

He had never seen her before, but his eyes instantly turned and found hers. She smiled and raised her glass slightly. She watched as he casually made his way through the crowd to her, admiring the grace in his step. A master swordsman by training despite his young age, the young Knight had incorporated the agile footwork from the Lightsaber forms into his step, as many swordsmen did.

However, while most walked like dangerous predators, Arro walked like a dancer: friendly, inviting. And while there was nothing overt about it, many eyes nevertheless turned to watch his hips, his legs, his flow. She noticed a regular patron lick her lips hungrily, and understood the sentiment: watching this teenager walk across a room was enough to set hearts racing.

He eventually reached her, and stood beside the empty seat opposite. She gave him a thumbs up, and he sat down at the silent invitation.

“My name is Arro,” he said softly. Close to, he looked half-starved, malnourished. “Of the Jedi Order. But you already knew that. You’ve been watching me for at least five months now, haven’t you?”

“What? Really?” she smiled. Well, by habit there was always a disconcertingly wide smile on her face, carefully arranged to exude maximum confidence while instilling just a hint of unease in the ones who saw her. “A Cipher Agent is far too busy to observe a single target for extended lengths of time. There’s always some plot or other that needs my attention.”

“A Cipher Agent?” he asked, eyes narrowing quizzically.

“We’re ghosts, enigmas, riddles,” she whispered, gesticulating dramatically. “And we live to keep the Empire safe from hostile ghosts, enigmas, and riddles.” She finished the rest of her drink in one go, then signalled to the waitress, catching her eye. “Honni, would you mind getting me a refill?” she called. “Oh, and you can serve that second dish too.”

The Twi’lek woman nodded sourly. She was always a bit sour, but she never messed up an order, and never gave anyone lip unless they were being truly obnoxious and the guard too was busy to intervene. Mercei liked her.

“You can call me ‘Sei’, by the way,” she informed the Jedi Knight, who was staring at her suspiciously.

“Well then, Cipher Agent Sei,” he said. “Why have you been watching me?”

“Maybe I simply like what I see?” she teased lightly. He didn't blush, but he did smile back. A neutral, courteous smile, the sort you saw from politicians and diplomats.

“I’m not that interesting.”

“Really? I suppose it was just my imagination that so many heads turned when you sauntered in.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“Oh, so you spotted that already!” she winked. “I am a spy, my young friend. Avoiding straight answers is in the job description. Section One Aurek. C’mon, let’s play around a little! Like you did with Watcher One!”

He bowed his head, uncertain. “That was a field mission,” he said. “This… well I’m not used to a verbal sparring ground.”

“Then maybe you can use me as the starting point,” she smiled sweetly. “I guarantee that this kind of thing will come in handy someday. As handy a skill as saber mastery.”

His smile became a tad uncertain, then he inhaled. His eyes darted behind closed lids as he searched for what to say. Minutes ticked by, and Honni appeared by their side, carrying the covered tray Mercei had requested.

“Why didn’t you run? You could have. I'd never have found you, if you'd a mind to evade me." His eyes widened as Mercei pulled off the lid. "Is that…?"

"Four cheese pasta!" she smiled at him. "Your favorite! And an orange soda. My treat. Dig in! You're looking even thinner in the flesh. You need the extra bites."

Uncertainly he took a bite, eyes widening with pleasure. "This tastes so good!"

"This establishment uses a unique blend of spices in most of their meals," her eyes widened as a thought occurred to her. "Oh, maybe you can identify them for me?"

"Can't think," he said, eagerly taking a second bite. "Can't tell. All I can say is that this just tastes so good!"

She deflated slightly. Well, growing up on a farm world didn't automatically make one an expert in identifying herbs, apparently.

"And you're not worried its poisoned?"

"No," he said, his voice amused. “Good at spotting that kind of threats.”

“Yeah, the Force does throw a wrench in our plans every once in a while,” she acknowledged glumly. “Every time I have to fight one it’s so kriffing I all but run screaming!”

“Liar,” he accused, though he was smiling again. “You’ve beaten Force users before.”

“A couple of times,” she admitted. “It’d be so much easier if I had a Lightsaber.”

He searched her face. “The Lightsaber is just window dressing. A distraction from our true advantage.”

“The Force again?” she asked, wrinkling her nose, allowing her smile to wry.

“Honestly? The Force is all-powerful and all, but few can use it to its full potential. Power, yes, but also imagination. I’d say the best thing anyone can bring to the table is a sharp mind.”

“That’s a surprise!” she laughed. “Isn’t that the sort of thing that can get you kicked out?”

“I don’t know what can get us kicked out,” he said, eyes clouding.

“Maybe you should do what Kira proposed,” she suggested. “Install a buzzer on Master Shan’s seat.” He gave her a very guarded look that quickly melted back into amusement. They'd get along just fine, Mercei thought.

“You’ve done quite a thorough job, haven’t you?”

“You certainly didn’t make it easy,” she tutted. “Like you said, you’re not very interesting. I had to work to keep my attention!” She took on a dramatic pose of exaggerated sorrow, and he chuckled again.

But he went quiet for a bit after that, and she was content letting him. For the talk of expulsion had got him thinking, Mercei suspected, about his loss of control during the fight with Angral. Well, that was an understatement. He had taken hold of his self control and crushed it like a bug. He had chosen to become vengeance incarnate, utterly devastating Angral and his retinue: Mercei had managed to arrive in time to see that.

She watched him enjoy his meal with a small sense of satisfaction. She had been watching this boy on the Emperor's own orders, and had felt pity for the young man. He had been forced to shoulder burdens he was not quite ready for, and it had broken him. She had seen his attempt to continue living after what he had witnessed--the death of a world, his homeworld--and was reminded that this could have been her. If she had been a hair slower, Jadus would have gotten the launch codes for his Eradicators from his puppet. If she'd had just a little less nerve she may have gone ahead with Watcher Two's desperate plan to allow Jadus a small victory just to earn some breathing room. And she'd have been responsible for millions of deaths across the Empire. Watching him suffer had often made her think This could have been me.

She spent days watching as he screamed out at night, begging for his ghosts to forgive him. Or fainting from the severity of his panic attacks. Or the steadily decreasing amounts of food he ate each day. The pain in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

She had actually intervened in a few of his attempts to end his own life. Why though? He was the enemy. A Jedi at that. And broken people were a credit a dozen these days--some of them even broken by her own blood-soaked hand. So why was she so concerned for his well-being in particular?

… Because the Emperor himself is interested in this one, she thought. That alone makes him… Special.

No that wasn't completely true.

She sighed. Maybe it was time to talk business.

"You've gotten Imperial Intelligence's interest, boy. I know there was no helping it. No one else was available to meet that threat. But a sixteen year-old defeating one of the Empire's most prominent Darths? Foiling a plot seven years in the making? Sniffing out one of our best spies? Anyone would see that you pose a potential threat."

"Why send a Cipher though?" he frowned. "Aren't you a valuable, limited resource?"

Clever boy. She almost wished she could tell him the truth.

"You can see then, just how dangerous a threat we fear you are? And we weren't wholly unjustified. You were admittedly distracted before your rehabilitation, but afterwards you always knew I was looking. The first few times I saw you turn glare at me right through my scope from two miles away, I thought I was done for!"

"I could sense your eyes," he admitted. "But knew you weren't an immediate danger."

"Very lucky for me," she nodded. "If I'd been ordered to assassinate you, I'm sure you would have chased me down. Especially on Coruscant. But you always let me go. Until today."

"Yes," he agreed. "Today I did seek you out. But you didn’t run. If you had, I'd never have found you."

"Luckily for me, I was certain that you wouldn't kill me. Or even hinder me. We're not at war after all, and I wasn't doing anything wrong."

"But you still…"

"Yes," she sighed. "My mission is over. I've been recalled to Dromund Kaas. I leave tomorrow. Why did I stay? I guess I've grown a bit fond of you." She was surprised to hear herself admit it. "I watched you go through it all, you know. The PTSD, the panic attacks." She pursed her lips. "That suicide attempt."

He gasped. "You were the one who cut me down! You were the one who called TeeSeven!"

"Indeed. I don't know why though. I guess it's like I said. I grew fond of you, and didn't want to watch you end your life while I could stop it. I guess I'm human after all." She sniffed. "There, I said it. But please can you not tell anyone what a softie I am?"

His mouth was hanging open. He closed it with effort. "After you saved my life? That is the least I can do to repay you. Please, can I do anything else? I really am so grateful…"

She wondered if she should plant a seed, to get him to consider defecting. The way she'd gotten Havoc Squad. But looking at his honest, open face, she found she couldn't do it.

Damn it, you really have grown too fond of him! Lucky for her she wasn't as much older than him as she pretended. She could admit her attraction to him--at least to herself--without feeling revulsion. She sighed. At least she could have his respect. She found herself appreciating having that consolation prize.

"My job," she said instead. "It twists us up. Makes us cold, cynical, calculating. Ruthless..." Voicing that thought aloud made her pause. Even through Korriban she'd maintained her code of ethics, hammered into her by her father since her childhood. To admit that she might end up losing them anyway… She cleared her throat. "I might have to do some terrible things to protect my people. And that's if… if I even live that long. I'd appreciate it if there was someone out there who remembered that I was a person. Please… no matter what becomes of me, can you promise to remember me as a woman who didn't turn away, someone who could even feel compelled to help an enemy? Someone with compassion? Can you do that for me?"

His eyes were round as saucers, filled with sorrow. But he nodded. He didn't even hesitate. "I swear," he said. "I'll never forget what you did for me."

"Thank you," she smiled. Her throat felt a bit tight. What was wrong with her? "I have to go now. Enjoy your meal. Maybe I'll see you again someday?" There really was little more she wished to say. She had to run, she realised. Before her admission of her humanity took root, and caused her to question her choices.

"I'm sure we will," he said. He smiled again, hesitant, tremulous. "I Sense that we will be working together someday."

She waved and walked away. Yes, she could Sense that too… that was a smaller part of why she'd saved him, though of course she could never admit it. Never in a million years.

*

Rishi. Modern day.

Lana was startled back into the present by the Ghost's gentle voice. "Did you know he went on that mission because I reached out to him?"

"He told me that," she confirmed. "He told me that the Council took as proof that he needed to be on Braga's mission…"

"Unavoidable side effect," Orgus shook his head. "No, I told him to go on that mission, so that he'd meet you." He paused as the words sank in. Lana's eyes opened wide.

"Oh my…" She whispered. "Are you telling me…?"

"If he'd stayed on Tython, you'd have been called away before you could meet. Tatooine though. Legitimate Jedi business. Neutral planet, sparsely populated, meaning that you might consider not running. I thought it would be a huge benefit to both of you, if you were to meet."

"But Rana Tao'Ven…"

"I could sense even then, that she wouldn't live too much longer," he admitted. "Besides this wasn't just about him, you know. After you saved his life, got him the help he needed… I grew to deeply admire you. To seek to repay your kindness. I wanted your paths to cross for your benefit as much as his own. Everything else?" he grimaced. "Well, to me, Braga's mission was of less importance. Way less. Especially since I could already sense that it was going to fail, and that Arro would suffer."

Lana was dumbstruck. She just… Couldn't even think.

"I am not that woman anymore," she managed at last.

"Perhaps you are even better," he countered.

"I… I!" she stammered.

Arro stirred in her arms. Comforted her a wave of Calm sailing across their Link. She was startled to know that he could sense her distress even knocked out like this. I love you, his voice whispered in her head. In her soul.

"You don't have to say anything," The ghost said gently.

"Maybe not to you… But I think I want to tell him about that first meeting. That I was… Nine."

*

[chubbyooo]

A Recipe for Disaster: A Blurred Lines Spinoff Chapter 1: An Enemy Revealed

hey folks so I know we just got back to the main fic but for a while I’ve wanted to tell a side story of how my companions ended up captured for most of Kotfe and it also links in with Blurred Lines in areas so with that in mind here’s the first part of a 6-8ish chapter long spinoff featuring a few of the ocs you know and some new ones

the emperor Vititate has disappeared into wildspace and until recently there was no sign of his location, however Darth Nox met meet Darth Marr on his flagship and soon after word of an attack on theflagship reached the republic. With this knowledge Grand Master Satele Shan has assembled a team of the most adept fighters and thinkers of both governments at least those she could get in touch with to work out what to do next. Kavaraa was quick to respond to the message sensing a great disturbance unlike anything she had felt before.

Kavaraa looked out the viewport as the flagship approached she sensed it something was wrong, something big was about to happen and she had to be ready. She frowned she couldn’t seem to discern the nature of the presence but she could sense great conflict in someone close to her. Still close by what or who it could be was unclear she really hoped it wasn’t a friend, she glanced towards the sith warships littered within the fleet. She had not been thrilled with working with the sith, she’d be the first to admit it had never quite sat right with her not since Master Syo. But the fact they were united against the emperor helped sway her, but having to work with former rivals was certainly a challenge especially those who tried to test her commitment to the jedi order. Still to combat such a foe as Vitiate it was rather necessary, she put the thoughts to the back of her mind Master Satele had summoned her here the least she could do was be punctual.

As her ship docked with the flagship she stepped out into the bustling republic flagship, she had told her crew to stay with the ship just in case. After the rumours she heard about the sith fleet she was airing on the side of caution, she rushed towards the bridge but on the way she nearly crashed into someone.

She stumbled to a stop looking up to see Theron Shan of SIS, she smiled at least there was a friend here that’d make things easier “oh um sorry Theron didn’t see you there” Kavaraa looked away feeling her cheeks go a bit turquoise. 

Theron seemed equally flustered “oh um no worries sorry bit of a rush, important meeting and all” Kavaraa nodded cocking her head, if anyone new something it was gonna be Theron the compulsive spy.

She looked quite seriously at him “so what have you heard” Theron looked around gesturing for her to follow to a quieter location. 

They moved to a rather cramped storage room causing them to have to squeeze next to each other “I uh I won’t lie to you it’s bad” he whispered although due to the cramped nature it was like he was speaking at full volume

Kavaraa sighed “yeah I can sense something is very wrong” Theron nodded messing with a datapad

he let out a long sigh “the sith fleet is uh devastated, casualties are high but there is little sign of what caused the attack” Kavaraa’s mouth hung open this had to have something to do with the attacks on Korriban and Tython nothing like this was ever a coincidence

Kavaraa swallowed “that is bad what of Marr? is he ok?” Kavaraa didn’t really like Marr that much but she couldn’t deny his military mind

Theron looked away “uh no report of him or Darth Nox as of yet” Kavaraa’s eyes widened they got Kyradia too? this may be more serious than she even thought, she couldn’t remember the last time Kyradia was beaten much less missing. Either they were dead or in the hands of Vitiate, Kavaraa wouldn’t have wished that on her worst enemy and well she had kind of got it anyway.

Kavaraa let out a long breath “wow it’s that bad huh?” Kavaraa didn’t even know what they could do next that was two of their best assets gone. Kavraaa may not have agreed with Kyradia’s methods but Kavaraa out of anyone couldn’t deny her skill with both the force and the saber, even if she was unbelievably cruel

Theron looked around the cramped room “that’s all the information I could slice from SIS” he put a finger to her lips “do not tell anyone I told you” Kavaraa could feel his breath they were so close, after a long pause she nodded quickly and followed Theron out of the room.

They quickly headed to the bridge where Kavaraa could see many farmiliar faces, on the republic side she could see Grand Master Satele Shan, Havoc Squad Commander Ash’shen’tor, Jace Malcom and Jonas Balkar but to her surprise she saw no sign of Jedi Knight Dzûsa she hadn’t heard from him in a while and also hadn’t been able to sense his presence. This had been concerning her greatly as he normally had such a loud bashful presence and for it to be muted meant something was very wrong, she glanced over to see Lana with a similar look on her face. She knew Lana and Dzûsa had been close but she also hadn’t seen him since before Ziost, the other Imperials around the table included Darth Acina (probably in Marrs place), Cipher Nine a big part of imperial intelligence and Moff Pyron someone Kavaraa had been on the opposite end of a blade from.

Theron spoke up “sorry we got caught up I think that’s everyone” Kavaraa looked around the room it certainly didn’t feel like everyone she knew some members of each council were busy with military missions but still. She assumed the emperors wrath was abstaining once again still believing in the emperor.

Satele nodded turning on the holopad “this is the footage of the attack on the sith fleet not 12 hours ago” Kavaraa watched as thousands of ships suddenly came into view and slowly but surely she watched as Marrs flagship was destroyed, her eyes widened were they really gone? she would’ve sensed it. She closed her eyes quickly reaching out with the force she could feel a very faint presence of Kyradia but it felt different somehow

The cold calm voice of Cipher Nine cut through the room “what of Marr and Nox is there any evidence they survived I believed them to be stronger than that” Kavaraa frowned at the chiss he seemed so calm about the idea of their death as if it was just an unlikely statistic. She had fought the man before his tactical ability was something but his separation from care of those he hurt was worrying.

Satele answered the question “although there is little evidence of survival I can still sense his pre-” Satele paused holding her chest and wincing, Kavaraa looked to her but was quickly met with a similar feeling through the force. She felt like a massive amount of force energy was just released, Satele made eye contact with Kavaraa the anguish clear in her eyes “you sense it too don’t you?” Kavaraa recognised the energy it was... 

Kavaraa gasped “Marr?” Satele nodded slowly hanging her head solemnly 

Theron looked frantically between them “what happened what can you sense?” Kavaraa was completely preoccupied if Marr was in trouble what of Nox? was Kyradia alive?

in the silence a new voice spoke up “I sense it too it is unfortunate but Darth Marr has passed on, how or why are unclear” Darth Acina seemed less phased than Satele and Kavaraa, Kavaraa guessed it was the sith way. Still she had to reach out she focussed trying to sense if Kyradia was out there, whatever was going on was still happening and if she could just get through. She found the presence but it was in flux, changing, she felt almost forced away as it changed and shifted. Kavaraa stumbled back whatever was happening it had to involve Vitiate and if so that did not bode well.

the rest of their makeshift council began to discus how to move forward as Kavaraa steadied herself making eye contact with Lana who had been strangely quiet, “you sense her too don’t you? I’ve been trying to get through to her but her energy... it’s like it’s being changed and moulded” Kavaraa nodded whatever Kyradia was doing she better succeed 

Commander Ash’shen’tor spoke up for the first time “I assume we didn’t come here just to speculate what are we going to do about this?” Ash did bring up a good point they could stand around here all day but they needed to take action

Satele sighed “unfortunately without anymore information all we can do is defend our territory and keep searching” Kavaraa hated that but it was true, suddenly however as if to answer Satele the hologram switched to an image of a bald human male wearing a Mask

He pronounced proudly "People of Zakuul, the unthinkable has happened. Our beloved Emperor, Valkorion, is dead - murdered by an Outlander who sought to shake the foundations of our great society. The assassin will receive swift and just punishment, and this act of unprovoked aggression will be answered.” Kavaraa looked around the council as everyone looked at the holo dumbfounded, Zakuul? Valkorion? act of aggression? she had no idea what this meant but it had to be to do with the attack

the figure continued “As your new Emperor, I can promise you this: Zakuul's enemies will face the full power of the Eternal Throne. They will answer for their warmongering ways... and every last one of the Core Worlds will burn!" the was an audible silence in the room for a few seconds before Theron spoke up

everyone looked to him “so that has to be what and where we’re looking for right? that can’t be a coincidence” he was right there, an emperor, an outlander who must be Kyradia it was too similar

Ash rubbed her forehead “I think you are ignoring the more pressing fact that he just declared war on all of us and he’s gonna use ‘the power of the eternal throne’ which I’m assuming is that fleet we saw and if not it can only be worse, either way we need to be ready to defend” Kavaraa was still bewildered but they said they were going to punish the Outlander not kill her that was awfully curious.

Cipher Nine spoke up “miss Shen does bring up a very good point but one thing to note is that the individual on the holo implied the emperor was dead, now this may be a leap of logic but I’m going to assume this was the same emperor using a pseudonym. With the Emperors death taking a defensive position may be rather advantageous” Kavaraa had to admit if the emperor was indeed dead then they may have less on their plate, whoever this new guy was he certainly wasn’t as threatening. “But with that said one of our best assets lies in the heart of their empire on Zakuul we cannot ignore the importance of Darth Nox” Kavaraa hated to agree with that but she knew it was true.

Ash spoke up again clearly agitated “so what we’re supposed to fight an offensive war for one sith that hardly seems worth it” Kavaraa had never been a military strategist and seeing these two sharp minds go at it was fascinating

Cipher Nine tutted “That one sith helped taken down Revan and his cult and anyway of course not I suggest we smuggle a small team in to extract our target, you are correct there is no need to over extend ourselves” Kavaraa looked to the other around the table everyone looked like they had a billion questions

Lana spoke up taking charge of the argument “clearly we have a lot to think about but these two points are very valid, it would be moronic to throw our ships against this fleet we have to play smart not powerful and retrieving Nox could be a big gain” everyone seemed to agree with that

Cipher Nine cut in “I’d advise we make haste upon the Nox rescue mission the more we wait the more difficult it will become” the man definitely had a point there they only had so long until the first attack

Theron frowned “but for that we need to know where Zakuul is and I’ve been scouring everywhere for any information on the emperors location” Cipher Nine gave Theron a coy smile it almost seemed like pity

“that’s because traditional intelligence tends to neglect culture, folk tales and legends however I do not and have managed to pin down a few possible locations of a planet with this name, give me a week or two and I’ll have the location” Theron scowled at the chiss clearly there was some tension between agencies

Acina looked to those on the council “who would be on this mission? I’d assume only the best and most undetectable” Kavaraa considered those around the table and who would fit best for a few seconds

Theron spoke up first “I’d happily go and I think I know who else would be able to fly under the radar” Kavaraa quickly turned to Theron and shook her head

she sighed “Ok no you promised after Ziost not to run off into danger” Theron looked confused “anyway we need you to handle slicing and I’d rather you do that from a safe location

Theron still seemed unconvinced “it’s not the same though I won’t be alone will I, I was gonna suggest you come anyway” Kavaraa considered it for a second but she couldn’t stomach the idea

Kavaraa shook her head taking Theron’s hand “not this one spy boy, subtlety isn’t really your style I’ll at least let you be on comms how about that?” Theron seemed conflicted but eventually conceded

“alright fine but you update me at all times agreed” Kavaraa nodded squeezing his hand

Lana cleared her throat “anyway... who else did you have in mind Theron” Theron turned around looking a little flustered 

he turned back to the others “right uh yes well I assume we want people who can’t be sensed well by the force which narrows it down to well Jedi and at least if my information is correct Chiss” Lana frowned at him seemingly disappointed she was left out, Kavaraa knew she would be able to cloak her force ability but a sith like Lana was much harder to control

Cipher Nine nodded “you’re information is partially correct we have no natural ability to cloak ourselves from the force but naturally we have much stiller minds so it can be harder to sense us” Kavaraa looked from him to Ash who seemed to not have a clue what he was talking about

Ash sighed “So you’re saying I have to work with him” Kavaraa was aware of the rivalry between Cipher Nine and Ash it wasn’t quite the level she had with Kyradia but it was certainly intense

Theron nodded “I’m afraid so but from what I know of Cipher Nine he is likely to perform professionally” Ash let out an audible sigh conceding to the plan

Cipher Nine let out a slight smile “so our base plan is to smuggle us into Zakuul and save Nox, rather underdeveloped at the moment it will require some colour and a lot more intel on her location I will do my best to provide them, I assume SIS will do the same?” Theron nodded reluctantly “That still however leaves the question of how we will be able to smuggle ourselves there” Cipher Nine looked to each of them for an answer

Ash let out a chuckle shaking her head “I’m gonna regret this but I think I know a guy” Kavaraa’s eyes widened oh no...

[ariela-of-aedyr]

Have I mentioned that Ariela is occasionally a little bit terrifying? Wrote some cipher battle shenanigans loosely based on something that happened once in game.

Ariela let out a startled yelp, dodging off to one side as a blast of fire soared past her. The blistering heat warmed her skin, and the smell of singed hair filled her nostrils; the very tip of her ponytail being the only thing that remained in the projectile's path thanks to her hasty escape. She felt a hand wrap around her own, tugging her insistently sideways until she met the warm presence of another's body, and found the deeply concerned expression of her lover's face looking back at her.

"Stay close to me." Aloth murmured, the instruction falling somewhere between a command and a desperate plea as he hesitantly released her hand. His eyes darted back to his grimoire, moving over the neatly transcribed words there, and he moved through the motions of the spell; hands forming well-practiced gestures, face a picture of concentration as he recited the necessary incantation.  

A shimmering shield of arcane energy sprung into existence around them, just in time to deflect another blast of energy as it hurtled in their direction.

Ariela bit back another yelp, huddling closer to Aloth, eyes darting over the battlefield ahead of them, as she attempted to locate the spellcaster. Eder and Rekke were both only a few feet away, though in opposite directions, engaged in combat with a large and imposing melee fighter each, keeping them back from she and Aloth so that they had space to work. Tekehu was a little further ahead, his spiritshifted form charging across the space away from a felled enemy and in the direction of the nearest one still standing. Her eyes moved past her friend's target and onto the next, narrowing in concentration as she noted the figure's robes and exaggerated hand motions.

As another arcane projectile formed ahead of them, Ariela raised her pistol, firing off a shot that caught her mark in their shoulder, breaking their concentration and fizzling their spell out of existence. She felt Aloth shift position beside her, and quickly took the time to reload her weapon as her lover rhymed off the incantation for what she was fairly sure she recognised as a missile spell. She turned her attention back to her target, her second shot catching them in the head as they attempted to right themselves, having been practically knocked off of their feet by Aloth's assault, and they dropped limply to the ground, leaving Ariela with a heavy and complicated feeling in her chest. They're trying to kill us, She reminded herself. It isn't as though we have a lot of choice.

Aloth's hand wrapped around hers once again, and for a moment she smiled, letting out a long breath and revelling in the warm comfort and reassurance from her lover before she focused once more on the battle at hand. 

And then pain shot through her, as Aloth's grip tightened uncomfortably.

"Aloth?" Ariela's eyes snapped open, and she found that her lover's beautiful eyes were completely clouded over, his lips part way through reciting an incantation, all of his attention completely focused on her.

She stumbled backwards, yanking her hand free of his grip just as lightning began to crackle from his touch, and wincing in pain as a few stray bolts reached her, surging through her arm and spasming each muscle that they passed. She straightened, desperately surveying the battlefield for anyone who appeared to be concentrating on maintaining their hold on her lover's mind, but had her attention forced back to the man beside her as he drew the scepter from his belt, swinging in her direction. 

She ducked the blow, rolling out of his way, before springing back to her feet behind him, face forming into an angry scowl as her sights finally landed on the other cipher across the space; standing a little ways behind the spellcaster that they had killed, their eyes fixed on she and her lover.

Aloth spun, advancing on her once again, and she closed her eyes, reaching out with her mind instead of with her body, and praying she would be faster than his next strike.

It was easy enough to locate his mind, as familiar as she was with the feeling of it from all of the time that they had spent together since they had met. It was hazy now, surrounded by the tendrils of the other's psionics; dimming his usually bright essence as they obscured his perception of reality, urging him to see friend as foe. She didn't know how to break the other cipher's hold on her lover without causing him pain, and so instead she opted to overwhelm them both, dominating Aloth's mind herself, and overriding the confusion that had been sewn with instructions of her own, helpfully reminding him of who was an ally.

She opened her eyes once again to find Aloth freeze, his scepter merely an inch or two from her head, before turning his attention back to their enemies, a spell forming on his lips, and she let out a shaky breath. His mind was still not his own, but she only had to invade his headspace for a little while longer. As soon as the cipher was out of the equation, she could release him, knowing that he wasn't going to do anything that he would later be horrified by.

She glared across the battlefield at the other cipher, a rare feeling of anger building inside of her as her mind whirred. If Aloth had done something to seriously injure her just then, he would have been absolutely devastated. And now she was having to mind-control him to keep him safe? She'd promised that she wouldn't ever intrude in his mind, but now she had been given no choice but to break that promise. How very dare they make her do that?

She was reaching out before she realised it, her psionics reacting to her building emotions as opposed to waiting for instruction from her rational mind; locating each unfamiliar mind in the area and twisting them, giving them one target and one target only. The cipher.

She heard some noises of confusion from her friends as their targets moved away from them, now completely uninterested in fighting them and instead advancing upon the enemy cipher, but she paid them no mind; attention fixed intently on her target. It wasn't until they fell that she finally released the tension in her jaw- and the minds of everyone that she had been controlling.  

The couple of enemies that still remained looked around in horror, before bolting away from the battlefield as quickly as possible, and Ariela let out a heavy sigh. "Well. I think that that was really quite enough death for today." 

She suddenly felt a little shaky, a dull pain building in the back of her head that made her feel nauseous, and she was incredibly grateful when she felt Aloth's arm wrap around her, pulling her into a tight embrace against his body.

"Ariela, I... I don't have the words to convey how incredibly sorry I am. I almost-"

"Hush, darling." Ariela murmured, burying her face against his chest and clinging tightly to him to stop herself from collapsing to the ground with exhaustion. "It's all over now."

[freeamoebas]

Bill Cipher was awake, as usual, at 3AM.

He absolutely refused to sleep, the idea of entering the plane of consciousness he used to dominate humiliated and (even if he’d never admit it) terrified him. Occasionally, he’d doze off for a couple hours at most, but that was once every couple days. Plus, those precious couple hours of sleep were usually disturbed by nightmares regarding the axolotl, the second dimension, or worse.

Bill was wrapped up in a fluffy blanket Mabel had provided, rereading Flatland by Edwin Abbott. The story was strikingly similar to how the second dimension actually was, with all the rules about shapes, sides, women, etc. The book reminded him of Liam, his irregular brother, and how he read so many illegal books about the third dimension. Odd that a dimension like this would have books about something as dull as the second dimension.

Bill realized it was probably because humans craved the idea of suffering. Or at least the idea of apocalyptic eras. Funnily enough, they didn’t seem to get too big of a kick out of his Weirdmageddon.

The demon’s body froze up when he heard creaks from the staircase. His heart raced, worried it was Sixer coming back to scold him after their little… argument, which resulted in Bill gouging his own eye out after a complete nervous meltdown. Now he had to wear this dumb piece of gauze to cover the wound up.

He found himself pulling the blankets closer around him, as if it were a shield of some sort. He relaxed when it was just Mabel, going to the kitchen to get some water. “Hi Bill,” she said, her voice thick with sleep. “Shouldn’t you be-” She was cut off by a yawn. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Can’t.” Bill held the book close to his chest and warily eyed the girl.

“Why not?”

“Oh, I dunno, Shooting Star, maybe because sleeping wastes ONE THIRD OF YOUR PUNY EXISTENCE, WHICH ISN’T SAYING MUCH CONSIDERING YOU MEAT SACKS LIVE, WHAT, EIGHT OR NINE DECADES BEFORE KICKING THE BUCKET?” Bill’s shrill voice came out louder than anticipated. He hoped the Stan twins wouldn’t wake, he was way too tired to deal with them at that very moment. Mabel simply blinked at the string of words that tumbled out of the demon’s mouth.

“...Does Mr. Grumpypants need someone to stay up with him?”

Bill huffed at that, but made no move to stop her as the teen sat next to him on the couch. She peered over at the book he had still clutched against his chest.

“Yanno, I always see you reading that book. I tried reading it once! It was really boring,” Mabel said, bluntly. She paused for dramatic effect, but noticed the odd, almost irritated look on Bill’s face, and quickly continued. “Why do you keep reading that book over ‘n over again, anyways? I could show you better ones, if you want!”

Bill’s odd expression melted away into something tired and… sad? No way, Bill Cipher’s only emotions were irritating, angry and crazy laughing. Those were totally emotions, at least in Mabel’s mind.

“It makes me feel… nostalgic, I guess,” Bill finally murmured.

“Oh.” Mabel didn’t really know what else to say. How does a dumb confusing book make someone nostalgic? Maybe Bill’s mother- if he even had one- used to read it to him when he was little. That would make a lot of sense, actually. Weirdo.

They sat in silence for a few more moments before Mabel turned to him. “Want me to show you me and Dip Dop’s cool hiding place?” Her mouth stretched into a mischievous grin. She knew Bill had the tendency to hide in odd little spaces. She’d found him in closets, under tables, but usually he’d bundle himself up and hide under the blankets the Pines provided for him. “Blanket town” Mabel had affectionately nicknamed his most common hiding spot.

Bill glared suspiciously at Mabel, clearly not trusting her judgement of what she considered cool. Finally, he shrugged and got up, still keeping the fluffy blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “I literally have NOTHING better to do,” the demon sighed, and followed his ally to a not so trustworthy looking ladder.

The climb to the top was… rigorous, to say the least. Bill nearly fell off the ladder several times, not knowing completely how to put one foot above the other, and occasionally forgetting he had to hold onto the railing. When they finally managed to climb out of the chimney, they sat on the floor of the little flat above the gift shop.

Bill was panting as if he had run a marathon and Mabel was beaming, congratulating him on how well he did.

“Yeah yeah, you don’t gotta BABY ME, yanno.” Bill waved her off with his gloved hand, doing his best to sound irritated. He’d never admit it, but he actually liked Mabel’s pity praises. It definitely beat Sixer’s life lessons about how everything bad that has happened to the Pines family during the past 45 years was Bill’s fault.

Mabel giggled at Bill’s dull attempt at sounding mad and turned her attention up at the starry sky. One thing she adored about Gravity Falls was that there was no more city haze to cover her view of the stars. She could look up, and boom. Thousands upon millions of pretty twinkly dots in the sky, waiting to be stared at.

Mabel turned to Bill. “Do you have any alien friends?” she asked, wiggling her eyebrows. Bill frowned at her, not entirely sure what Shooting Star was implying.

“Sure, kid.”

Mabel gestured for Bill to continue. “C’monnn, didn’t you liberate like… a bazillion dimensions? Tell me about a good one.”

Bill shrugged. “Shooting Star, you gotta remember that what I consider good and what you consider good are LITERAL POLAR OPPOSITES.”

“Okay,” Mabel said slowly. “Tell me about a good dimension… In my standards.”

Bill gave Mabel an exasperated look. He was way too tired to try to remember some puny dimension he had liberated eons ago, especially with his memory failing and all, but at the same time he was way too tired to deal with Shooting Star haggling for a happy story.

“FIIINE,” Bill snapped. He then rested his chin in his hand, trying to think of the best story that would shut Shooting Star up. A small grin appeared on his face and he finger gunned in her direction.

“Did Fordsy ever tell you about GOOD OLE’ DIMENSION 1610?”

And then he continued with an elaborate story about a world where the world hunger issue was solved, the majority of countries allianced with each other under a common socialist society, Bernie Sanders became president, superheroes were real, and much much more. He most of all emphasized how he had influenced the majority of these fortunate series of events, since he wanted at least one good dimension to come out of the countless dimensions he had ruled in the past.

Mabel listened the entire time with round, amazed eyes. Everytime Bill would add a new detail, she would always dramatically react, encouraging Bill to continue.

The story went on for a couple hours at least, Bill staying animated as ever the entire time. When he was finished, the sky was beginning to lighten.

The demon crossed his arms, grinning. One thing that definitely puts him in a good mood was talking about himself.

“So?”

“So…” Mabel’s gaze darkened, giving Bill an extremely serious look, making him worry he said something wrong. “That was… SO FREAKING COOL! And imagine having a superhero boyfriend… Spider-Man… if you’re out there… Why couldn’t you have done that instead of ruining our town?” The girl excitedly rambled.

After a good five minutes of talking, Mabel began to settle down, realizing just how late- or early- it was, and how little sleep she had gotten. She was going to need a lot of Mabel juice today if her and Dipper were going adventuring.

Bill laughed as Shooting Star analyzed his story, with that classic unhinged laugh that always gave her chills no matter how often she heard it. She was a little too tired at the moment to care about just how creepy Bill’s laugh was.

“I just so happen to know a g-” Bill was cut off when Mabel rested her head on his shoulder. His entire body stiffened.

For a split second Bill was tempted to shove the girl straight off the roof, but knew better. Ford would blast his head off without a moment of hesitation. So instead, the demon forced himself to relax and take a few breaths.

He hated being touched, but he realized the only times he’s ever been touched in this new body was when someone was punching him in the nose or yanking his collar so hard he choked. Mabel’s head against his shoulder was… comforting, in a way.

Mabel felt Bill stiffen. She braced herself to have his shoulder yanked away with a snarky comment following. It never came, though, and she let out a small breath of relief.

Mabel talks to Bill the most out of everyone in the Pines family, since she was the most sympathetic. Although, she was very aware to keep a distance, not wanting to be manipulated as Ford had been. Nonetheless, she was glad their friendship had reached a peak from annoying ex-demon living with her family to someone who tells her stories until she falls asleep.

“You know… you’re not that bad of a dude,” Mabel mumbled before her eyelids drooped and she dozed off.

Bill blinked at that final comment, totally taken by surprise. He hadn’t heard someone say that about him in… years. The demon’s heart swelled just a tiny bit, although he wasn’t quite sure what this emotion was called. In the future, he will discover this emotion is called friendship, something the All Seeing Eye hasn’t truly experienced in eons.

[ladyrevanhalin]

TWISTED MORALITY (PART III OF “ONLY LIGHT CAN CASH SHADOW”) CHAPTER 2: ATTACK ON THE ENDAR SPIRE

Read and Comment on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16538378/chapters/43262111#workskin Read and Comment on FanFiction.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13239884/3/Twisted-Morality

           Gwen Dakaal had been asleep when the attack had first begun. She was still recovering from the stew she’d risked the day before. It seemed her stomach just wasn’t going to take the food from the mess hall. She’d vomited three times in the crew quarter fresher before returning to her own bunk area. As much as she probably should have gone to medical to check on what could be causing it, she really didn’t feel like giving up her off shift to go sit in a waiting room. So long as she stuck to ration bars she was fine. The things were stale and tasteless, but it seemed that they were all she could keep down on this godforsaken ship. She didn’t want to wait around to be told not to eat the food at the mess hall—she had been able to figure out that much on her own. After she was finished vomiting, she had returned to the quarters to her bunk, removing the dirtied uniform she had been wearing and collapsing on the bunk in her undergarments. She had fallen asleep like that before the alarm sounding had woken her up.

           Gwen shot up, the sounds of alarms and crashes. He sat up, looking around frantically. The whole ship seemed to be shaking. ‘What the hell is going on here,’ she thought. As far as she knew, they were still supposed to be in hyperspace, headed into the Outer Rim territories. Something was clearly going wrong, and this didn’t seem like a drill. However, before she had much time at all to react, the door of the chamber opened and a blonde man in soldier’s uniform entered. Frantically, she pulled the blanket from the bunk around her and drew the blaster she kept under her pillow—an old habit she’d picked up from her smuggling days—and pointed it at him. Republic soldier or not, there was clearly something going on here, and she didn’t appreciate being barged in on while indecent.

           “We’ve been ambushed by a Sith battle fleet!” the man said. “The ship is under attack! Hurry up—we don’t have much time!”

           “First things first,” Gwen said, cocking the blaster, “Who are you and what are you doing in here?” She hadn’t seen the man before. Granted, she also hadn’t been on board for very long, so she was still getting to know the crewmates.

           “I’m Trask Ulgo, ensign with the Republic Fleet,” the man said, putting his hands up to indicate that he wasn’t a threat. “I’m your bunkmate here on the Endar Spire. We work opposite shifts; I guess that’s why you haven’t seen me before. I figured since you’re new and haven’t been through evacuation drills aboard yet, I should come to make sure you knew how to get out. Now hurry up, we have to find Bastila! We have to make sure she makes it off of this ship alive!”

           ‘Bastila!?’ Gwen thought. Bastila was a Jedi—and the one famous for defeating Darth Revan at that! A cipherer babysitting a Jedi in an attack? She almost laughed out loud at the thought. “Forget it,” she said, standing but keeping her blaster pistol pointed at him. “I’m looking after my own skin!”

           “You swore an oath to protect Bastila when you signed up for this mission, just like everyone else in this crew,” the soldier said. “Now it’s time to make good on that oath.”

           It was at this point that Gwen couldn’t contain her laughter any longer “Bastila’s a Jedi. She’ll be fine.”

           “Look, I know she may not have an official rank in the fleet, but she’s the one in charge of this mission and it’s our duty to protect her!”

           “No,” Gwen said. “That’s your job to protect her. You’re the soldier, I’m the cipherer. Combat is your thing.” Being in the middle of an attack now made her realize what Sergio had been mentioning before. The times between battles suddenly didn’t seem so dull after all…

           Trask, however, didn’t seem convinced by her reasoning. “I know all about your reputation… how you used to smuggle spice and blasters along the Corellian Run. I guess the Republic must’ve figured since they couldn’t catch you, they might as well hire you. I’ll admit, the Republic is in desperate need of someone with your kind of skills right now. Desperate enough to overlook your shady past”

           Gwen let off a warning shot, narrowly missing Trask’s head. The bolt made a scorch mark on the wall behind him and the blast caused him to flinch a moment. “That was uncalled for,” Gwen said, her blue eyes narrowing into a leer. “I’ll have you know I signed up for this myself. That being said, I also didn’t sign up for babysitting Jedi!”

           “Whether you like it or not, when you signed on for this mission you became a part of the Republic fleet and Bastila needs all troops, regardless of position, at her side during this attack!”

           “Oath or no oath, I’m heading to the escape pods,” Gwen said. She moved toward her locker, keeping the pistol aimed at Trask. “Now turn around.”

           “What? Why do I need to turn around?”

           “Because I need to get dressed and I’m not exactly thrilled with the idea of an audience. Now turn, or I’ll make sure to put the next shot between your eyes instead.”

           “All right, no need to get trigger happy about it, geesh,” Trask said as he turned around. “Just hurry up so we can get out of here.”

           Gwen waited to make sure he was completely around before discarding the blanket and opening her locker, still glancing over every so often to make sure her bunkmate wasn’t stealing glances. She threw on a pair of grey pants, a white shirt, and her old red smuggler’s jacket along with some gloves and boots. It wasn’t regulation attire, but her uniform still had traces of vomit on it and she really didn’t feel like dealing with it at the moment. This was more comfortable anyway. She strapped on a simple gear pack around her waist and added some security and computer spikes, a few ration bars, and the few credits she had on her, and attached a vibroblade to her belt. She had a stealth generator there too. She’d not used the thing much before but figured it would be good, at least, to have just in case, and so she clipped it around her waist, under the jacket. Lastly, she pinned her commlink to her lapel. At least she was prepared for whatever was out there on the ship. If they were under attack, the possibility existed that they had been boarded, which meant there could be Sith soldiers about… or worse.

           “Alrighty then, let’s move out,” Gwen said, pulling her blaster pistol back out from the holster strap on her thigh. “I’d rather not die chit-chatting here if it can be helped.”

           “We should stick together,” Trask said as he spun around to face her again. “We’ll have a better chance of success than if we split up. Because of the attack, the dormitories are in lockdown, but I have the override codes. Give me a moment and I’ll override the command… Bet you’re glad you didn’t shoot me now, huh?”

           “Don’t push your luck,” Gwen said, rolling her eyes. “Just get us out of here before the ship explodes…”

><><><><><

The boarding vessel of the Sith fleet had attached itself to the Endar Spire and several Sith Soldiers in trooper armor and a handful of dark Jedi had boarded the ship. At the head of the boarding crew was Darth Bandon, Lord Malak’s apprentice. Bandon had only recently gained the position of the Dark Lord’s right hand. After all, Malak’s own rise to power was still rather recent. It had only been a few brief months… This attack on the Endar Spire was a part of his proving himself to his new Master.

They had intercepted transmissions regarding the course of the vessel which was said to be carrying the Jedi Padawan Bastila Shan. The ship was set along a course from Alderaan using the Hydian Way hyperspace route. They had set an ambush accordingly over the planet of Taris, which was under Sith occupation. The ambush was headed by the Leviathan, an Interdictor-Class star cruiser, and its fleet of forty-eight Sith Interceptor Fighters. Using the Leviathan’s Introduction Field, they were able to pull the Endar Spire from hyperspace and begin their assault.

Malak wanted Bastila, either dead or captured alive. The Republic and the Jedi Order were scrambling for advantage as it was, but Bastila Shan provided them with a small glimmer of hope which he wished to either turn against them or to crush beneath his might. After all, Bastila’s Battle Meditation was the key component to the few victories the Republic had gained thus far.

It was Bandon’s task to lead the team aboard the Endar Spire to find Bastila. And if he could not turn or capture her, then he was to eliminate her. With her death would die the hopes of the Republic war effort and thusly their resistance. The Sith would rule the galaxy once more!

><><><><><

Carth Onasi was on the bridge when the Sith attack had first begun. He had seen enough in his time in the fleet to know that under the given circumstances this was a losing battle for the Endar Spire. His goal was to make sure as much of the crew could get to safety as possible. Already the Sith were boarding. It was obvious that they must have known Bastila was onboard, otherwise, there was no reason they would lay such a trap for a ship passing through the sector in hyperspace.

Carth patched his commlink through to the ship’s crew. “This is Carth Onasi,” he said, “The Sith are threatening to overrun our position! We can’t hold out long against their firepower! All hands to the bridge or nearest escape pods! Repeat, all hands to the bridge or nearest escape pods! Evacuate ship!” He flipped his comm to close the outgoing signal and then turned his attention to the escape pods there. There weren’t nearly enough pods for the full crew of three hundred, especially if everybody was panicking and trying to take individual pods. The rest of the fleet pilots were making their way to the hanger to the Aurek-class tactical strike-fighters in an attempt to hold off the Sith bombardment for as long as they could, knowing full well that it wasn’t a flight they would be returning from given their current circumstance. Carth saluted them, and as much as he wished otherwise, he realized he would probably never see them again. Right now, his mission differed from theirs. Right now his mission was to ensure the safety of the Jedi Bastila Shan and of as much of the crew as he could.

Carth rushed to the emergency control center just beyond the bridge and began checking the status of the crew and of the Endar Spire. They had been boarded since the time the attack had started. It looked like there were two separate boarding vessels with mostly Sith Soldiers, but there were a few dark Jedi among their ranks also, their red sabers gleaming in the feed. There was no longer any doubt in Carth’s mind that it was Bastila the Sith were after.

It was not long before crew members began arriving at the bridge. The Endar Spire was a rather large ship, and its crew was accordingly large. That being said, the number of crew members whom Carth witnessed arrive on the bridge and the number of escape pods he could see from the computer had jettisoned from other levels were alarmingly low, and given the fact that Taris, the nearest planet, was under Sith occupation, it was unlikely many of those who were even lucky enough to make it to the escape pods would survive. Carth did what he could, helping to organize crew members into escape pods, and waiting for his Jedi charge to arrive on the bridge. The Jedi had requested, amongst many other things, that Bastila Shan have her own escape pod reserved in the event of an emergency. The request was justified, given her importance in the Republic war effort, but it meant someone had to be there to make sure the request would be able to be filled.

When Bastila arrived, however, she was not accompanied by the other Jedi who had been with her, as Carth had initially anticipated would have been the case. It had seemed they were busy holding off the Dark Jedi who had boarded so that the Padawan might make it to the bridge without interference.

“Is the pod ready?” Bastila asked upon entering the bridge, deactivating the yellow blades of her saber as she did so.

“Ready,” Carth said, gesturing her toward the pod. “Strap in tight. It’s likely to be a rough landing.”

“I am a Jedi,” she replied plainly. “I can handle myself just fine.”

“Just trying to do my job,” he said as she entered. While she had no official rank among the fleet, Bastila Shan was technically his commanding officer in the situation, since she had been placed as the Jedi in charge of leading the mission. Even if she was acting a bit like a Jedi princess, it was still his duty to follow commands.

The escape pod jettisoned soon after Bastila entered and the door was secured. Carth hoped that she was able to make it to the planet’s surface safely. For the sake of the Republic war effort, they would all need to hope that was the case. Malak’s armies were growing stronger with every passing day, and their chances of defeating him seemed to be rapidly diminishing.

Carth returned to the consul to check up on the crew status. There weren’t many left, but escape pods were becoming more and more scarce. He was determined that anyone left alive who could make it to the bridge would be able to get to an escape pod.

><><><><><

Gwen and Trask had received the message from Veteran Commander Onasi to head to the bridge. It had already been the plan, but given Onasi’s experience in the wars, the situation was understood to be more dire now that his assessment of it had been made known to them. If he thought things were bad, then it was all the more important that they get out of there fast.

Blaster fire and explosions from battle damage could be heard ringing throughout the corridors of the ship. The two stopped short at the first turn upon seeing one of their own fire off a few shots before being hit in the chest and collapsing dead to the ground, the scent of burnt fabric and flesh lingering in the air.

“There must be Sith advance boarding crew members just ahead,” Trask murmured.

“Really? I wonder what gave that away?” Gwen said, rolling her eyes sarcastically. “Sith or no Sith, we’re going to need to head to the bridge.”

“Right,” the man said before swallowing hard and drawing his blaster rifle. “Bastila is counting on us.”

“Again with the Jedi stuff!? Look, I told you—”

She didn’t have time, however, to complete her sentence before her crewmate leapt out behind from the security of the wall and began firing. “For the Republic!” he shouted.

Gwen sighed frustratedly before peering around the side of the wall just enough to get sight of one of the soldiers before she aimed and fired on him, pulling back behind the wall for cover between shots. She wasn’t particularly in the mood for dying like this ‘Trask’ fellow seemed to be.

After a couple of minutes of fire exchange, the confrontation ended. Trask groaned, clutching his left shoulder. “I’m hit, but not bad,” he said before pulling open a medpack from his own supplies and applying a kolto patch to the burn wound. “We should press on. I have a feeling though that this won’t be our last battle with the Sith.”

“Yeah, I doubt it will be,” Gwen said, coming out from her cover location and looking over the corpses of the Republic and Sith soldiers.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking for valuables or anything that might be of use later,” she said, pocketing a few credits off of the remains of one of their own.

“I should have guessed your type would—” He didn’t get to finish his sentence before she threw one soldier’s helmet at him, hitting his shin. “Ouch! What the hell was that for!?”

“I’ve about had it with your comments. You don’t spend your life on the run without learning to take what you can get when you can get it. Besides, somehow I doubt he’ll be needing to spend that any time soon… And if you keep burning through medpacks at the current rate, we’re going to need all of the extra supplies we can get.”

“We need to get going.”

“It won’t take long,” she replied, quickly checking the bodies of two Sith corpses further down the hall, her eyes lighting up a little at the finding of some sort of grenade on one of them, which she quickly stashed in her supplies pack before standing. “See? I told you so! All finished.’ And with that, she turned on her heel before continuing down the next corridor.

They pressed onward. It was becoming more and more apparent the further that they moved as to just how bad array the ship was currently in. Astromech droids were attempting to make repairs, but short-circuiting in minor explosions as power conduits they were working on would overload. Sparks sizzled as they flew from jammed doors throughout the ship. Corpses from both sides littered the halls, but there was still no shortage of live soldiers from the Sith boarding crew, and they were forced into several more firefights as they moved.

Despite Trasks urging otherwise, Gwen continued her collecting. There wasn’t much of use from the state in which they found most of the corpses, but they were able to salvage a few spare med packs, grenades, an extra blaster pistol… even a spare combat suit vest from an open locker, which Gwen quickly slipped on over her jacket, despite the ill fit.

The rumbling of the hits from the ongoing space battle were growing more frequent by the second as it became less and less certain just how much longer the Endar Spire would hold up to the attack. One particularly loud and close seeming explosion caused both of them to stop and duck for cover.

“That one didn’t sound like it came from outside,” Gwen said, pressing her back to the wall.

“Grenadiers,” Trask replied in a low voice. “It sounds like they’re further down the next passage… If we try to move forward and they spot us, then we’re dead.”

“Well if we don’t find a way to get off of this ship before it’s blown to pieces, then we’ll both be dead anyway, and then how are you going to protect that Jedi chick?...” Gwen bit her lip thinking, her hand moving toward the supplies pack on her belt before the idea hit her. “Hang on,” she said, taking one of the grenades she picked up and breathing deeply. “I think I have an idea….”

She pressed a finger to her lips, signaling for him to remain quiet as she took a grenade from her pack and flipped the switch of her stealth generator before creeping around the corner. She could see the grenadier, along with three additional Sith soldiers further down the passageway. It looked as if they had hit one of their own in that last blast that they had felt. It seemed the Sith weren’t worried about losing their own soldiers for the sake of finding this Bastila Jedi…

She inhaled deeply, calculating her throw and her escape route. After she tossed the grenade, she would need to run for cover immediately, since it would give away her position. There was only one shot at this… She kissed the cold metal of the grenade shell for luck before pulling the pin and tossing it toward the small Sith cluster.

It took mere moments before she was spotted. The three soldiers began to fire and the grenadier threw his own grenade in her direction, returning the gesture. She quickly turned and started running back down the hall she had come from, grabbing Trask’s arm on the way and bolting a bit further before diving down and covering her head with her hands. Blasts were heard… and then the blasterfire stopped.

Slowly, Gwen got up from the ground and switched her stealth generator back before peering around the corner where the Sith had been. Finding nothing there but some blown limbs and scored marked, she breathed a sigh of relief and switched her generator back to off. “All clear,” she said. “Good thing I picked up those grenades… Unfortunately, I don’t think that there’s much of these three left to scrap though…. How much further do we have?”

She hadn’t been aboard very long, after all, and it was a big ship. Sharp as her memory generally was, she had still been getting used to the layout before the attack had happened.

“We’re getting close,” Trask replied. “The Bridge is just up ahead.”

“Right. Let’s get moving then. After all, the ship had begun creaking eerily. It would be mere minutes more before they were all blown to space dust. They worked their way through a few more turns before they stopped after one of the doors and Trask pulled Gwen back a little. Red and blue rods of light dazzled in rapid clashes before them, orchestrated by a pair of robed combatants.

“It’s a Dark Jedi,” he said. “We had better stay back. All we would do is get in the way if we tried to help in this battle.”

It was an impressive display. Both were clearly very skilled fighters. The Jedi with the blue saber seemed aware of their presence, as she appeared to be attempting to guide the fight further away from them to give them a safe opening to run. She dodged under one of the Dark Jedi’s kicks before delivering an uppercut which caused him to collapse motionless to the ground.

The Jedi then deactivated her own saber and turned to Gwen and Trask, locking eyes for a moment with Gwen before she opened her mouth to speak to them, only in time for a lighting panel next to her to erupt into a burst of sparks. The Jedi woman let out a shrill cry in pain as the blue sparks coursed over her body and before she too fell motionless to the ground.

“Damn,” Trask said through gritted teeth. “We could have used her help… That was one of the Jedi Masters accompanying Bastila…”

Gwen meant to comment on this. The Jedi seemed to want to say something to them… But there was no time. The Jedi’s screams had attracted a couple more Sith Soldiers, who began firing on Gwen and Trask upon finding the pair. They had no time to dodge for cover in this fight and began firing off bolts as fast as they could, ducking every so often in an attempt to dodge enemy fire. After all, it was far more difficult to hit a moving target.

Gwen winced, stumbling a little upon feeling a sharp pain in her right thigh after being grazed by a blaster bolt. Gritting her teeth in an attempt to ignore the pain, she returned fire, hitting the soldier squarely in the chest and killing him. She opened a medpack now that the fire had ceased and applied a kolto patch to her injury. She was going to head to the Jedi and Dark Jedi to snag their lightsabers off of them when Trask stopped her.

“We really don’t have time for this. We need to get off the ship now!”

“Of course now you’re interested in escape pods!”

“We won’t do anyone any good if we’re dead.”

“Yeah, well you don’t have to tell me twice,” Gwen retorted, doing her best not to limp and they continued onward. Sure enough, it wasn’t long at all before they reached another sealed door.

“The bridge is just beyond that door,” Trask said. “It’s pretty tight quarters in there though. Using a blaster would be suicide…” He pulled his vibroblade from his belt.

Gwen hesitantly holstered her blaster and took up her own vibroblade from its sheath on her utility belt.  “What if they have lightsabers?” she said, the nervousness evident in her voice. Dealing with Jedi on their side was enough already without Dark Jedi after them now too.

“Republic military grade vibroblades come in a standard cortosis weave,” he said, seemingly trying to reassure her. “They can withstand even a lightsaber for a fair amount of time.”

Gwen laughed nervously. “Sure they can. And I’m the Queen of Onderon.”

“Just trust me on this,” he said, choosing to ignore her sarcasm. “It’s not like we have another option. If you want to get to those escape pods so badly, then we’re going to have to pass through the bridge. There’s no time to get to the pods on any of the other levels… Now let’s go!”

Trask opened the door. Sure enough, the bridge had been completely overrun with Sith Soldiers. There were at least eight of them there.

“I’ll take right,” Trask said. “You take left.”

The two worked through the tight space between control panels, blade to blade with the Sith soldiers. They were lucky. With the ship as close to a finish as it was, several of the control panels on the far side exploded, killing the surrounding soldiers before they even had a chance to work their way that far onto the bridge.

“Bastila’s not here on the bridge,” Trask commented, glancing around once they had cleared the enemies present. “She must have retreated to the escape pods already… I guess it’s time we do that too.”

“You think?”

“The Sith want Bastila alive,” he continued. “Once she’s off this ship, there’s nothing left preventing them from simply blowing the Endar Spire into galactic dust!”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Gwen said, sheathing her vibroblade again and drawing her blaster pistol, refamiliarizing her hand with its familiar grip.

><><><><><

The pair continued onward toward to escape pods, but just as they were leaving the bridge, they were met by an ominous tall bald figure dressed in a combination of dark robes and fibremesh armor, wielding a double-bladed red lightsaber.

“Damn! Another Dark Jedi,” Task commented, brandishing his vibroblade. “I’ll try to hold him off. You get to the escape pods! Go!”

“You’re suicidal!” she protested.

He laughed ironically. “You said it yourself—I’m the soldier. You’re just a cipher. No sense in both of us dying here… Now go!” And with that, he pushed her through the doorway to their left, sealing it behind her before turning to face the dark figure.

“You’re brave,” the Dark Jedi commented. “And some would say stupid… but either way, your friend was right. You’re clearly suicidal.” And with this, the Dark Jedi charged him, spinning his saber staff into a strike to the Republic soldier’s right, which he quickly blocked with his vibroblade into a lock. The energy of the lightsaber’s blade sizzled against the metal of the vibroblade’s cortosis weave.

           “You Sith will never defeat all that the Republic stands for,” Trask said. “Not while there are people willing to fight to protect the galaxy from evil like you!”

           The Dark Jedi laughed, clearly toying with the soldier as he allowed the blade of his lightsaber to continue pushing against that of the vibroblade. “You see, that is where you are wrong. Once my Master has located the Jedi Bastila and either destroyed her or converted her to our cause, your puny Republic doesn’t stand a chance. Now tell me where she is and I’ll make certain your death is quick and painless.”

           “I’ll never betray the Republic!”

           “Is that so?” the Dark Jedi said, deactivating his saber.

           The sudden shift in balance from having nothing resisting his own blade threw Trask off for a moment. He thought perhaps this was his own opportunity to strike and charged forward ready to slash when the Dark Jedi raised his hand toward him. Suddenly, Trask felt as though his throat were being grasped and found himself being lifted up off of the ground. He dropped his vibroblade and his hands struggled as he tried to tear away whatever invisible force had him within its grasp.

           “Don’t say that I never warned you,” the Dark Jedi chortled. “Now you’ll die, just like the others who resist the Dark Lord Malak’s rule. And the last thing you will know is that your miserable mind wasn’t strong enough to hide your information on the Jedi Bastila from Darth Bandon…”

           There was a loud crack as Trask Ulgo’s neck snapped and, with a flick of Darth Bandon’s wrist, the Republic Ensign was tossed to the side, hitting the wall before collapsing motionless to the ground.

><><><><><

Gwen was half in shock as she sat on the opposite side of the sealed door. The party of two had become a party of one. She would have to continue alone from here out, and her chances of survival seemed slim. Time was running out, and it was possible that no escape pods were left at this point anyway. It was just after this thought occurred to her that she heard a voice on her commlink.

“This is Carth Onasi on your personal communicator. I'm tracking your position through the Endar Spire's life support systems. Bastila's escape pod is away – you're the last surviving crew member. I can't wait for you much longer; you have to get to the escape pods!”

Carth’s words had confirmed what she had already been able to guess—Trask was dead. But still, a renewed hope was kindled within her. She could still escape. There was still hope! But there wasn’t much time… “What’s the fastest route for me to get to the escape pods from here?” Gwen asked in a low voice so as not to be overheard by any Sith troopers who might be nearby. To be completely honest, she wasn’t even sure how long she should remain by the door she had come through. After all, she doubted a blast door would do much to hold a Dark Jedi if he really wanted to get through…

“Follow the corridor and make your first right,” Carth said. “I’ll try to guide you from there. But be careful. There's a Sith patrol just after the bend up ahead. You might be able to sneak past with your stealth generator.”

She gathered that he must have been watching for some time if he knew she had a stealth generator on her. “On it,” Gwen replied, and she switched her stealth generator to ‘on’ before she began creeping down the hall.

Sure enough, just as Carth had warned her, there was a patrol there comprised of three troopers. She moved onward closer to them, doing all she could to remain as close to the center of the hall as possible. After all, with the number of explosions she had already witnessed from damage that the Endar Spire had incurred during the battle, she wasn’t about to risk getting hit by an explosion from the ship breaking apart like that Jedi she and Trask had seen earlier had been. No, not when she was so close to escaping alive…

In this particular instance, however, the explosions were seeming to work to her advantage. There was one further down the hall, beyond the Sith patrol, and it distracted them long enough for her to slip by without having to worry about the possibility of them detecting her while stealthed. She rounded the first right as she had been instructed, then went down a little further until she was certain she was in the clear before speaking into her commlink.

“Alright, I’m through,” she said. “Where should I head from here?”

“Keep following the hall toward the next room,” Carth said, from what I can see on this end there’s only about two soldiers there, so it’s not too bad. You think you can take them alone?”

“Do I have a choice? Look, unless you’re planning on leaving where you are and coming through this ship to find me, I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to either way.”

Gwen didn’t wait for an answer. She moved to proceed forward down the hallway before she got to the blast door where she paused a moment to prep her blaster before opening, ready to shoot. Just as Carth had said, there were two Sith soldiers. They seemed to be looking through one of the computer terminals, and so her appearance there had caught them off guard. Luckily, this meant she was able to take the first shots, and was able to hit and kill them before they were able to get more than one shot fired at her.

She quickly moved to check the corpses for supplies. Amo, rations, credits… anything that she might be able to use upon landing. Taris, the planet below, was under Sith occupation at the moment, and so she would need whatever she could take if she wanted to have the best chance of survival. She had no plans of dying—not yet, at least. She’d joined the war to survive, to see the end of it, so that, afterward, she could live….

When she’d taken what she could find from the corpses and from the couple of lockers in the room, she went to what appeared to be the only exit. The door was locked, but it seemed easy enough to pick. She had just taken out her supplies in order to do so when she heard Carth’s voice again over the comlink.

“Stop! Be careful!” he said “There's a whole squad of Sith Troopers on the other side of that door! You need to find some way to thin their numbers or you’re walking straight into a death trap.”

Gwen paused a moment with her tools still at the ready. “Well, I do have a couple of grenades left. I suppose I could always toss one in and hope for the best.” She moved as if to set to work at the lock.

“And what are you going to to do about the crossfire before, when you open the door, before your grenade detonates.”

Gwen gave a frustrated sigh and again brought her tools to rest. “Look, do you have any better suggestions? Are you gonna…. Oh, I don’t know! Come in the back way and help he flank them? Because unless I do something I’m going to die here either way!”

“Try to remain calm. I’m trying my best to talk you through this…”

“Well, if you want to help, then try harder, because if you don’t come up with a better plan in the next thirty seconds, I’m going with the grenade.”

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking….  Oh! See that terminal to your left?”

Gwen looked at what seemed like some sort of Comms terminal. “Yeah,” she replied.

“You should be able to access the power supply for the conduit on the next room. If you can override it then you should be able to overload it. The room is small enough that it should take care of the troopers.”

She moved to the terminal and used her credentials to sign in. “Just guide me through what I need to do, flyboy…” She paused for a moment waiting for a reply, but the com went silent. She began to grow concerned again. “Hey, you still with me?”

“Yeah, hang on…”

Gwen breathed a sigh of relief that she had not been left alone, and listened to his instructions for how to overload the conduit in the next room. With any luck, she just might be able to make it off of this ship alive after all…

><><><><><

Darth Bandon had reboarded the Leviathan from his strike mission aboard the Endar Spire. He had entered the bridge of the ship where Commander Saul Karath stood overseeing the attack through the viewport. The Commander turned to him briefly.

“I take it your coming here empty-handed means that your mission was unsuccessful,” Commander Karath commented as Bandon approached.

“The Jedi Bastila Shan is no longer aboard the Endar Spire,” Bandon reported. “Her escape pod must have been one of the ones which jettisoned during out attack, which would mean she’s somewhere on the planet’s surface.”

“It’s possible her pod was one of the ones destroyed in the attack,” Karath stated.

“No… I sense that she is still alive,” Badon replied, “My Master is on his way and he will expect us to have retrieved her by then. The planet is under our control. Have every Sith patrol looking for her, My Master wants her alive. No ship enters or leaves the planet until we’ve located her.”

“As you wish, My Lord… Gentlemen, the last out our boarding party has returned from the Endar Spire. You may fire at will.”

With the command having been given, the Sith fleet opened fire on the crippled Republic Hammerhead-class cruiser.

><><><><><

           Carth had pulled up and been looking over the service records of the remaining survivor while she was on her way to the escape pods. Gwenevere Dakaal… He didn’t get beyond the list of languages before he had to stop her from opening the locked door that led to the Sith squadron and guide her through the computer process to overload the power conduit in the room with the troopers. Everything about her already struck him as odd, the fact that the Jedi had requested her transfer most so… but flyboy? The name she had called him baffled him the most of all, and he wasn’t sure at this point what to think of her.

           His thoughts were cut short before he’d had a chance to make up his mind when Gwenevere Dakaal entered the room. “You made it just in time! There's only one active escape pod left. Come on, we can hide out on the planet below!” He looked up from the security terminal he had been monitoring her from only to find the barrel of her plaster pistol pointed at his face. He quickly put his hands up confused and startled by the situation.

           “How do I know I can trust you,” the woman said.

           Did she mean to take the pod for herself and leave him there to die? Carth had seen more people’s reactions in the heat of battle than he cared to admit. Some people broke. Some people deserted, only caring for themselves. Some people defected to the other side if they thought the side they were on was losing. But the root behind it all was fear. Fear for survival…

           Carth could see the woman’s fear. It was clear in her eyes and in the way she held her weapon. Fear could make a person dangerous, especially if it led to desperation. He had to try to keep her calm and appeal to reason…

           “I'm a soldier with the Republic, like you,” he said keeping his hands where she could see them and trying his best to keep his voice as calm as possible. “We’re the last two crew members left on the Endar Spire. Bastila's escape pod's already gone, so there's no reason for us to stick around here and get shot by the Sith. Now come on – there'll be time for questions later!”

           He slowly risked stretching a hand forward to her. Her first reaction was a flinch, but before she could do any more there was another explosion nearby sending sparks flying. It seemed the Sith had realized Bastila was no longer onboard and were making their final attacks on the Endar Spire. The explosion seemed to have startled the woman, because she darted forward unexpectedly for the solder’s arms.

           Startled himself by this reaction, Carth barely managed to catch her as she ran toward him. There wasn’t much time though… “Come on,” he said. “We have to get out of here.” He led her into the pod and got in himself before jettisoning them both away from the space battle and toward the blueish hue of the planet below.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Seventeen: Marita

A/N  You ever make a list?  A way to compile all the missed opportunities, the transgressions, the warning signs telling you that you’re on the wrong path?  Of course you have.  Part 15.5 in the series.  Part 1 and links to other parts are here. Rated NC-17.  Trigger warning for non-con sex.

15.

He assigned his feelings for Scully a new name, since he apparently wasn’t supposed to be in love with her.   Besotted impassivity.  It covered both his desires and the demands he placed upon himself.  

As far as he could tell, this arrangement suited Scully.  They were both married to their work, and so had exchanged vows in the holy church of transitivity.  They shared a union of fiery passions for truth and justice, and the parallel lonely roads of celibacy.

If he sniffed the wind and scented a crucial element in the mystery that they each uncovered piece by piece from their opposite poles, however, it was hard to channel the predatory urge into the work alone.  His blood ran feral in his veins and she was the only quarry he cared to pursue.  When he was in this mood, he avoided grasping Scully’s shapely hips, now unveiled from beneath her formerly boxy suits, by assigning himself tasks that took him into the field without her.

So it was that he found himself in an ornate Upper East Side apartment building, on the trail of a bio-toxin of possibly extra-terrestrial origin, with Alex Krycek handcuffed to the armrest of his rental car outside.   Even without the influence of sleep deprivation, adrenaline and the scent-trail of conspiracy, New York City always made him susceptible to his appetites, and he was relieved Scully was hundreds of miles away.

Marita greeted him with her usual soignee aplomb.  Despite her Latin-sounding name, she struck him as Nordic, with lichen eyes and hair like sunglow.   Clearly her carefully enunciated words were meant to disguise her background, as well as her allegiances.

But she’d helped him before, and despite his solitary reputation, it grew lonely doubting the whole world with no-one in his corner but Scully.   That was why, when Marita suggested a nightcap while they waited for his special entry visa to Russia to be faxed to her private number, he wearily lowered his defences and accepted.

The days of after-work cocktails and weekly benders were years behind him, but two fingers of scotch shouldn’t make the room pulse and whirl in kaleidoscopic comet tails.  He wanted to tell his legs to flee, but they were leaden weights held fast against the tactile clutch of Marita’s couch.  She was speaking to him, lifting the heavy stone of his head on the crook of a crone’s claw.  Words floated down to him, devoid of context or structure.

“... arrangements... time... insurance, so if you...hardship...job...”

The phone rang, echoing down an endless tunnel.  Murmuring, his name, the harsh fricatives of some Slavic language.

A bedroom.  Cool balm of cotton against the overheated expanse of his skin.  Ice cube tympani in a glass.  Glaciers in Marita’s eyes as she stripped at the foot of the bed.  Ebony corset and garters against arctic flesh.   Cold, so cold, and he was on fire.  Hot and molten inside, as he knew she would be.  Sun blind, solar flare, hot explosion of light burning his retinas.   Gasping in fear, but pumping pumping pumping his hips upward, lifting her up into the nebulous sky.  Calling out for help because even in an upside down dreamscape, he knew this was a betrayal. ScullyScullyScully...

He awoke, fully dressed, back on the couch.  His head felt muzzy and there was a heavy blanket of lethargy lying over his senses, a feeling he associated with orgasm.  The mantle clock read 3am, and in the next room a fax machine groaned to life.

Marita appeared, dressed in the same silken dressing gown, with her shower-damp hair combed away from her cipher’s face.  She extended a manila folder in his direction.

“They’ve finally arrived.  At least you got some rest, while you waited.”

He blinked and dragged himself upright, lost between reality and a mirage.

“Are you sure you’re alright to drive?  I could make up the bed in my spare room and...”

“No.  Thank you, but I need to be going.”

“Everything you asked for is here.  Once you’re on the ground in Krasnoyarsk, you’re on your own, however.  Be careful, Agent Mulder.  Others have already died protecting the secrets you want to reveal.”

“Then I’ll be in familiar territory.  Thank you again.”  And with that, he left.

Something was wrong with Scully.  Their usual easy but combative rapport had turned stilted and cruel, and he could not fathom why.  To make matters worse, he was assailed at the oddest moments by crippling guilt and dread.  He didn’t know what he’d done, but he knew his track record with the cosmic card dealer, and if he was guilty of something, retribution would be swift and lethal.

He thought the other shoe had dropped when Scully returned from Philadelphia with a tattoo and passionate bruises left by another man under her skin.   The betrayal of their silent pact coursed like alcohol through his body, a confusing, erotic provocation, but over it all lay the premonition that he had somehow earned her unfaithfulness.

“Not everything is about you, Mulder,” she dismissed, as he tried to grope in the dark to make sense of her behaviour.

“Yes, but it’s...”  He wanted to say “it’s my trust you’ve broken, my heart that is leaking bloody confusion all over these tile floors” but he held back, again feeling as though there was an element to the puzzle he was missing.  To regain some kind of equilibrium, he was going to have to break his end of their pact of silence.

“Scully, I know that you’re your own person.  That you don’t need my approval to guide your actions.  I may be a self-absorbed asshole, but those are things I know.”

She looked up at him, quietly receptive to whatever he was trying to say, and he closed his eyes and searched for the courage to say the necessary words.

“But I thought... I assumed, rather, that we’d both made the same choice.  To devote ourselves to the work.  For now.  Until... well... I thought you knew.  I thought that was enough for you.”

When he opened his eyes, she was looking at him with more open animosity than ever before, and he physically recoiled as though struck.  Her voice was a diamond-edged blade as she spoke.

“I grew to admire many things about you, Mulder, as we came to know each other.  But the one quality that stood out above the rest was your complete lack of hypocrisy.  Don’t ruin everything by accusing me of behaviour you obviously have no problems condoning in yourself.”  

With that, she rose and left their office battleground, heels tapping across the space he could very well have filled with a second desk.  But it wasn’t about the desk.  It never was.  He was starting to believe it was about some transgression only Scully knew he had made.

If he thought karma was finished with him, however, he was sadly mistaken.  Less than a week later, he was standing in the oncology ward of Holy Cross Memorial Hospital, listening in disbelief as Scully announced that their time together would be measured in mere days or months, not the forever he’d counted on.

Go to Seventeen: SpookyGal42.

[inyri]

Equivalent Exchange (a SWTOR story): Chapter Thirty-five- Blackmail, White Lies

Equivalent Exchange by inyri

Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic

Characters: Female Imperial Agent (Cipher Nine)/Theron Shan

Rating: E (this chapter: M)

Summary: If one wishes to gain something, one must offer something of equal value. In spycraft, it’s easy. Applying it to a relationship is another matter entirely. F!Agent/Theron Shan. (Spoilers for Shadow of Revan and Knights of the Fallen Empire/Knights of the Eternal Throne.)

Comments are always appreciated! Visit me at:

Archive of Our Own

Fanfiction Dot Net

***

Blackmail, White Lies

Sleep is overrated.

They’d planned on a few hours’ rest between packing up and heading out to the shuttle- it wouldn’t be enough but they were used to running on fumes and triple-strength caf these days- but never quite managed it. The bath had gone cool when they finally left it and even then she’d barely closed her fingers around a towel before he’d lifted her up and carried her into the bedroom.  

When the alarm went off they hadn’t slept at all, the pillow beneath her head a sodden mess from her hair and a few new bruises on both of their bodies, and they took a frantic few minutes for a quick application of kolto (more for her than for Theron- he never minded if she marked him so long as they were hidden, but she’s got to fight in an hour and her shoulder still aches, never mind her wrists and the side of her throat and her back where the edge of the bath-

Well.)

Kolto first. Then two stims, one in each thigh, and then her armor, her still-damp hair pulled back and pinned up as Theron shoves the rest of their belongings into their duffel bags. It doesn’t really matter what goes where since they’ll travel together back to Odessen, the two of them and Lana and Miot in the shuttle, and there isn’t anything in her bag that she minds if he sees. After Taris, after her seizure and how he’d had to clean her up afterward, her body holds few secrets from him; if his new trousers end up mixed in with her knickers she doubts very much that Theron would care.

As he tugs the zipper shut on his bag she gestures, catching his attention, and flips a stim toward him.

“Last one’s yours,” she says over the sudden sounds of grinding and hissing steam from the kitchen as the maintenance droid starts on the caf. Oh, she’d missed that droid. Too bad its protocols were program-locked to the apartment- that wretched Cee-Two unit would be on the scrap heap otherwise. “I think it’d be better if you’re awake to talk us through.”

Theron catches the stim one-handed and flips the cap back, injecting into his opposite arm. “That’d probably help, yeah. I-” he winces as the needle bites in- “I should have let you sleep-”

“If I’d wanted you to stop, I’d have pushed you off the bed.”

He grins and reaches for his jacket. “Hard to push me without your hands free.”

“You underestimate my ability to work around restraints.” Only her boots remain; she pulls one on, then the other. “Though if that’s what I get when you’re trying to get me to change my mind-”

“I know you won’t.” She’d meant it as a tease but they weren’t so far past it as that, apparently, and Theron’s voice turns suddenly serious. Nudging both bags toward the door, he slides down off the edge of the bed to check beneath it one last time. “And I know you’re right, Nine. I just- don’t tell me what happens. I don’t think I want to know.”

“How about this? I’ll only tell you if he won’t call off the mark.” She crouches down beside him as he settles back onto his heels, empty-handed. Turning to look at her, he mouths another silent apology and reaches for her collar to flip it up against her neck. “Because if that’s the case, we’re going to need a game plan assuming not everyone in SIS black ops is a complete incompetent.”

(They aren’t. She knows that well enough, fought and killed enough of them in the time before her years in carbonite to know precisely what they’re capable of. None of them stood a chance against her- it’s not a boast and she isn’t proud of it, all the blood on her hands- but the SIS had its knives in the dark, too.

And for Theron some of them would have been friends, once upon a time. He’s not naive and in the abstract he knows as well as her that old friendships don’t mean anything when orders come down, but a moment’s hesitation would be all it would take. He’d be-

He’d be-

It could happen in a thousand different ways. Before she can push Valkorion out of her thoughts, in the few seconds she needs to gather focus and put up her wall and ignore the voice saying useless girl, stupid girl, you can’t shut out what’s inside your head- he shows her twenty.)

She misses Theron’s reply beneath the whine that slips out of her mouth from between her clenched teeth, not quite choking back the noise because her head hurts, oh stars it hurts so badly and she keeps seeing him die, again and again and again, and that hurts so much more. He holds her face between his hands, his thumb wiping away the blood trickling from her nose just as she realizes that it’s there.  

“Don’t tell me,” he says again, a whisper, his forehead resting against hers, rocking slowly back and forth with her until the pain recedes and she can hold onto him too. “I don’t think I want to know.”

Three quick knocks rattle against the bedroom door and they both look toward it when the handle turns. “Nine? Theron?” Lana calls out softly, her face a shadow in the space between door and frame. “We’ve got ten minutes. Are you almost ready to-”

When she sees them beside the bed Lana stops, lip twitching and eyes narrowed, and then pulls off her gloves. The armor plates clatter against the floor on impact but Lana’s already across the room beside them by the time the echo fades; she presses two fingers to the bridge of Nine’s nose.

“Valkorion?”

Theron nods. “I think so. We’re all packed up and then it just-” He shifts his hand but doesn’t let go of her as he adjusts around Lana.

“I’m fine.” It would probably have sounded more convincing if she didn’t have to hang on to Theron to keep herself upright, if her hands weren’t trembling, if she hadn’t had to swallow between words to clear the blood from her throat. “Another damned nosebleed, that’s all.”

“Did anyone ever tell you-” Lana’s hand is warm against her face, energy prickling against her skin. Is that what the Force would feel like all the time, she wonders, if she wasn’t blind to it?- “that you’re an awful liar?”

She closes her eyes. “No. Never.”

***

They descend, one leftward bend after another- even Zakuul’s architecture ran contrary to the Empire’s- in a layout they know by heart now. All the Star Fortresses are the same, built to template just like the machine-made soldiers they contain. It makes it too easy to be lulled into complacency.

They run into the first of the cloaked skytroopers on the fourth level down and she can see how Lana missed it last night. The Zakuulan stealth tech’s strange, too, shimmering mirage-like at the margins; in the heat around the shield generator it would have looked like thermal bleed. When she points Lana’s on the scout like a hunting nexu, springing from their hiding place with lightsaber blazing, and takes the thing’s head off at the shoulders before its shield even drops.

“Much better,” Lana growls as the skytrooper falls. Its companions advance and her rifle shot takes the second through the chest as a neatly aimed lightning bolt knocks the third over the railing and down into the energy core below. “If I’d seen it yesterday-”

She clicks her tongue in disagreement and crouches down besides its head, reaching in around the sparking wires. “Don’t second-guess. You did well, and this thing’s-” she closes her fingers around an oblong metal piece she doesn’t remember from their previous skytrooper dissections; that must be the stealth module- “fucking weird. You saw it this time, though?”

“Yes.” Lana picks off a fourth and fifth droid with a wave of her hand, sending them flying. “But-”

The piece comes free when she yanks. She shoves it into a pouch for later study, hiding the subtle tremor creeping into her hand- too many fucking stims again. She should know better. “We’ll take this back to the lab and let Oggurobb poke over it. But I need you on your game right now. Yesterday was difficult for all of us and we’ll talk about it later, but after this morning I-”

With a sigh, Lana reaches up to mute her earpiece. “Yes, I’d noticed. What were you two arguing about last night?”

The last wave of skytroopers clears the corner of the ramp and she almost misses her first shot, pulling wide before she can rein herself back in. Their conversations hadn’t been anywhere close to loud enough to be overheard, not with Lana in the far bedroom when they’d come in, which only means-

She switches her comm to receive-only. Theron’s been quiet on the channel- with no complications to speak of so he hasn’t had to talk them through beyond slicing the security system and the turrets- and she doesn’t think he’ll notice if she goes silent for a minute or two. “Lana, I didn’t think I needed to ask you to stay out of my head.”

“I wasn’t- I wouldn’t. You should know me better than that. You just-” Lana frowns. A maintenance tech’s half-hidden at the back of the pack, tucked in behind a crate; fist clenched, she lifts the woman into the air and throws her hard down the ramp until her body thuds against the durasteel wall and goes limp. “I can’t explain it in a way you’d understand, but you both feel very loudly. Theron especially.”

“And volume somehow implies permission to eavesdrop?” They need to keep moving. Every minute they linger here’s another minute that the shuttle’s vulnerable and so they keep pushing on and down past the droids and the now-still technician, down one last empty corridor until the final door glows golden and she can feel the Sun Generator beyond, searing heat licking at her face.

Lana stops a few paces behind her, turning back to check again for any stragglers on their tail, then clips her saber to her belt. “Of course not. I only thought that you might want to talk about it. I seem to recall you saying something once along the lines of it’s better to have it all out in the open.”

“And how is Koth, then?”

Eyes narrowed, teeth gritted, Lana just looks at her, then sighs and wipes her face with the tail of her scarf. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

“Did you listen in on all that, too? No, I didn’t, but I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. And don’t be vulgar- you just like to pick fights,” Lana mutters, “when you’re tired.”

“I do not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Over the roar of the miniature star, she can just barely hear a single, very irritated snort.

“All right.” Lana’s right, of course. That was never one of her more admirable traits- after two straight caf-fueled days of data analysis on Rishi she’d once threatened to shave stripes into Jakarro’s fur after he criticised her decryption technique. In fairness, he’d also been right. His shortcut would have saved her an hour, at least. Theron had still offered to help her hold him down. “Maybe I do. But that has nothing to do with anything.”

Stepping forward to draw back even with her, just at the edge of the platform, Lana rests one hand on her shoulder- a gentle gesture on its surface but her armored glove is heavy, her grip firm and her voice half concern and half warning. “Let me finish.”

(She forgets sometimes what hides beneath Lana’s calm, seeing it as a bright-polished mirror, smooth and shatterproof, instead of what it really is: a pool, dark and deep as a Kaasi lake and hiding just as many deadly things beneath its surface. Challenging a Sith is never wise. She learned that lesson long ago, and while she knows Lana wouldn’t dare bring her to heel with that particular chain-

Void knows there must be times where she’s tempted.)      

“If it gives Valkorion more ways to hurt you it has everything to do with everything.” Lana looks across to the far side of the chamber, head tilted. The Exarch must be coming. “All I meant to say was that it’s hard for me to filter things when I’m meditating. When I leave myself open to the Force, sometimes-” She holds up her other hand before Nine can even start to protest. “Yes, I know you can’t sense it, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t present in it.”

She nods slowly. “And we were... feeling loudly. In the Force.”

“Screaming at each other, metaphysically speaking. Enough that I almost got up to check on you two before I realized you’d, ah-” Lana clears her throat- “apparently sorted things out. What happened last night after Kaliyo and I left the meeting-place?”

That’s-

She wipes the beading sweat from her forehead, considering. That question goes far too deep to even begin to answer without Theron as a part of the conversation. After a long night’s discussion after he’d fled Coruscant they’d agreed on an abridged version of events that left Jace’s name out entirely; he hadn’t been ready for that to come to light, not yet- he couldn’t go back to Coruscant for the foreseeable future and the inner circle needed to know that, if only for operation planning. But what his father had said was a wound that hadn’t healed, then or now, and Theron wasn’t ready to bare it to the world.

She understood that, of course. She understood that far better than even he knows.

So they’d lied. It was a small lie compared to thousands of others she’s told over the span of her career. An inconsequential lie. An omission, really, hurting no one.

They were going to have to tell Lana eventually. Whether Trant backs down or not, it’s going to burn every bridge they might have had to the SIS except maybe for Jonas if they’re lucky; if he won’t back down it might mean war.

(Trant will cave. He has to. The SIS hasn’t got the manpower for a war of attrition any more than the Alliance does.

Do they? Void, she hopes not. If he thinks she’s bluffing it might kill them all.)

They were going to have to tell Lana eventually.

She takes a deep breath. In that moment the Exarch’s personal guard. for once a welcome distraction, burst through the door of the nearest monitoring chamber, and she opens her transmitter back up. “Here they come. Let’s move.”

“Nine, please-”

She raises the grapple and lets it fly.

“There you are,” Theron says over the channel as she hits the ground on the far side of the gap. “I was just about to check the channel. You both went quiet for a minute there.”

She draws her rifle as Lana arcs through the air behind her. “You didn’t miss anything, don’t worry. Starting generator overload now.”

***

Ten minutes later the Exarch staggers on the edge of the high platform, dropping to one knee. She levels for the killshot, lines it up-

The gash along his upper chest stops bleeding, ragged flesh beneath armor sliced away by Lana’s ferocious attacks suddenly knitting itself back together before her eyes. Zakuulans don’t use Force healing, she’d thought; Senya had said as much on the Gravestone. None of the other Exarchs she’d fought ever had. But this one stands back up, grip tightening around the handle of his lightsaber, and throws half a shattered console straight at her with a wave of one hand.

Shit, shit, shit-

She ought to have dodged. Instead she steadies herself and takes the shot; it glances off his blade and ricochets to one side, shattering one of the glass panels ringing the platform. With the radiation already at dangerous levels the heat’s unbearable with the shielding gone and she’s got to move but she can’t go left and she can’t go back and so she tries to roll beneath the console before it hits her.

Ducking down, diving forward, she fires off one more round. It hits the Exarch in the throat, in the gap between helmet and chestplate, and he falls like a stone to the floor and all the floating debris around them falls too, straight down out of the air. Lana, somewhere behind her, shouts a warning she halfway hears as a gust of wind rushes past her, carrying most of the metal scrap and shards of glass away-

Most.

The console must have been too heavy- it half-spins but keeps falling and with her rifle still in hand and her momentum carrying her forward she can’t adjust her own trajectory fast enough to avoid it completely. It plummets down toward the platform and slams into the back of her head, knocking her off-balance and pinning her left arm flat against the floor, its base coming down just where her bracer meets her glove.

She screams as she feels her wrist shatter.

She can’t get free. Rolling onto her side awkwardly, she pushes at the machine with her other hand but it doesn’t budge- maybe if she curls up tighter she can get both feet on it, kick it free- no. That means she’d need to turn her arm and she can’t- oh, it hurts-

Her vision swims.

“Nine? Nine, what- Lana, is she okay?” Theron’s voice goes up half an octave. “The core’s destabilized. I don’t think I can-”

As Theron keeps talking Lana’s running from the far side of the platform, footsteps ringing on the metal floor. She skids to a stop beside her, dropping to her knees, hand on her forehead keeping her still. “I know,” Lana says. “I know. I’ve got her.”

“I want to hear it from her. Nine, talk to me.”

She sinks her teeth hard into her lower lip, redirecting the pain somewhere she can manage it. “I’m fine.” It probably sounds about as convincing as it did this morning, she thinks. Possibly less. “Broken wrist. I just-” motherfuck- “get it off of me, damn it-”

“Lana-”

“I know,” Lana snarls, reaching across to the pouch on her belt that holds the autoinjectors. She pulls one free, snaps the cap back. “Painkiller first. Don’t move.”

“Not-” one hand on her forehead again, turning her face away and exposing her throat and then the needle sinks home with a soft hiss that mimics the noise she makes. This, at least, is a familiar kind of pain- “funny.”

And then Lana stands again and she could swear in that moment the whole platform gets ten degrees colder when, with her gesture, the console lifts three meters into the air and launches itself straight into the molten core of the ever-enlarging Sun Generator. The blood flows back into her fingers. The world blurs, red-tinged agony at its edges, then restabilizes.

“Three minutes to shield collapse. Tell me you’re moving.”

She gets herself up to her knees, arm clutched against her chest, panting. “We’re moving. Tell me you’re-” one foot beneath her, then the other, as Lana bends over the fallen Exarch, ripping the seal from his belt- “at the extraction point.”

“Ramp down, engines running.” Is he pacing? Theron sounds as out of breath as she feels. “Should I call Nightshrike? If you need the medbay-”

“Let’s just start,” she says- Lana wraps her arm around her shoulders to keep her upright as they start toward the exit, a quiet reassurance with every step; I’ve got you, Lana murmurs, we’re nearly there, I’m sorry- “by getting out of here.”

***

She only half-remembers the rendezvous.

She remembers the cot on the shuttle, Lana unfastening her bracer and Theron ever so gently pulling off her glove as Miot pilots them away from the exploding orbital station and she tries very very hard not to scream. Her hand and wrist are swollen already- when the glove finally comes free her first three fingers are puffy, tips tingling- and he presses, careful, to check her pulses and makes a face and ah -

-she opens her eyes and turns her head and she’s sleepy, so sleepy, sedative dancing through her bloodstream and lulling her back into unconsciousness and Theron’s hand stroking her hair and Lana talking, somewhere she can’t see. She needs the medbay. Doctor Lokin thinks that by the time we get to Odessen it might-

-it’s okay, sweetheart, he says softly into her ear, here, and she reaches up to push the needle away because she’s slept too long and there’s too much to be done and she doesn’t want more drugs, she can handle a little pain and she must have said all of that out loud because Theron sighs and puts the syringe down-

-half an hour to Daalang, Miot calls back. Miss Djannis just sent the landing coordinates. It should be secure. She wants to laugh- no one ever called ‘liyo Miss - but it hurts to make noise-

-dizzy. Dizzy, dizzy, the shuttle spinning when she tries to stand and Theron picks her up, her good arm around his neck and the other in its sling, heavy in a makeshift splint. When the ramp opens the light hurts her eyes; she buries her face in his chest, whining, as they cross the clearing. What the fuck happened up there? Kaliyo snaps-

-the kolto fills her mouth, her throat, her lungs, and it always feels like drowning right up until the moment when she remembers to keep breathing. The scanner screen across the room’s still lit up like a Life Day tree, indicators flashing. Concussion. Distal radial fracture. Radioulnar ligament tear, partial. Median nerve- she blinks; she tries to fight the tank every time but it always wins- compression. Radial arte-

(-you’re going to say no, Watcher X says- or the illusion of Watcher X, too many damned people in her head nowadays and it’s gotten hard to keep track- his voice a prickle like electricity up the length of her spine and into her arm. So I am going to do this regardless. Thank me later.)

***

Nine breathes, spits out a mouthful of kolto, and then breathes again. As the tank drains down below her waist she wiggles her fingers experimentally. Her hand feels-

Good, actually.

Too good. She can’t have been in there more than a few hours but the throbbing ache’s gone out of her hand and her head, her wrist barely protesting when she flexes it. By Cipher standards she’d usually been lucky as injuries go; still. she’s no stranger to head injuries or broken bones and she knows how long her body takes to heal. If Watcher X did something- if Watcher X is capable of doing something-

The glass surround of the tank slides open and Lana uncurls from a chair tucked into the corner, a datapad sliding down into her lap from its balanced perch on her knees. “You look better. How are you feeling?”

“Better enough.” The display above the door reads half past ten, later than she’d thought, but- wait. “The chrono needs resyncing, though. It says it’s the twelfth.”

Lana glances down at her screen. “No, that’s right. On our current course we’ll reach Odessen on the fourteenth.”

“You’re serious?”

“I can’t exactly change the flow of time.”

She frowns. “You’re telling me you left me in the tank for-” it takes a moment to do the math, her brain slow to shake off the kolto, and she holds on carefully to the side of the tank to keep her balance- “three days? We can’t afford that kind of downtime. Whose brilliant idea was that?” A set of clean undergarments and neatly folded training clothes lay on the examination table just out of reach; she steps over the lip of the tank as Lana gets up abruptly and the datapad hits the ground.

“Everyone’s. We sent your scans on to Odessen and the consensus was-”

She pulls on her underwear and that’s what finally sets her wrist off so she gets them up the rest of the way one-handed, swearing, the waistband askew on her hips. “You realize Oggurobb’s not actually a medical doctor, correct? And since when does the Alliance consensus not include me?” The bra’s an impossibility. Pushing it aside after a half a minute’s fumbling, she slips the shirt over her head.

“The orders came from Doctor Lokin.” When her head clears the shirt Lana’s beside her, holding the trousers out ready for her to step into them. “Oggurobb agreed with him, but I’m well aware that he’s the only one of us you’ll actually listen to when it comes to your health.”

“And he told you to tank me for half a week.” Force help her, she needs to call Ioana back and get the Eclipse Squad files from SCORPIO and half a dozen other urgent messages she’d meant to reply to on the way back and- oh, what were they thinking?

“A full week, actually. The kolto needs changing, so you get a brief reprieve.”

The minute her trousers are on- she swats Lana away and does up the drawstring herself, badly- she starts toward the door to the main room. “Absolutely not. I’ve got work to do. I’ll spend a few hours in it tomorrow if I must, but-”

Lana’s faster than her, reflexes undulled, and ducks into the doorframe to bar her way with arms folded across her chest. “No. Theron and I- and Kaliyo, if necessary- can split your workload. This isn’t up for debate.”

“Get out of my way, Lana. I’m fine. Where’s Theron?”

When Lana frowns she can almost feel it, energy bleeding into the metal edging around the door like a primed shock trap, and she takes a step back out of reflex. “Theron is finally sleeping, and no,” Lana says again, “you aren’t fine. I couldn’t keep that thing from landing on you but I won’t sit by and risk you crippling yourself through sheer stubborn idiocy.”

She holds up her hand, moving her fingers- carefully, still, but they all move just as they ought to. Hardly crippled. “A bump on the head and a broken wrist? I’ve had worse. I’ll be in fighting trim in a week or two at most.”

“Your nerves were damaged. Crushed. Look at the report yourself if you won’t take my word for it-” Lana gestures toward the scanner, readout still scrolling across its screen in bold text- “but Lokin felt the safest course was to keep you in suspension as much as possible until he could examine you properly. If the bone moved too much-”

She reads the report through once and then again as Lana trails off into silence. It’s all there on the screen, yes, everything Lana said, but that’s- that can’t be right. That can’t possibly be right.

(Corellia had hurt. The bruises healed first. A few days after that the cuts and burns started to fade and, more slowly, the broken bones mended. Her nerves healed slowest of all, months of pain, months of tripping over her own feet and clumsy fumbling over her console even with their full arsenal of stims and infusions and therapies and nights lost to the oblivion of the kolto tank. Three days in kolto was about two days and twenty-three hours longer than she could spare. But looking at the report, following the scrolling words with a finger that should be numb and unmoving if she believes the words on the screen, she knows three days shouldn’t have been anywhere close to long enough.

That might have pleased her, once, as a limitation overcome. She might have believed the scan was wrong, once. Now she only wonders. She knows who- or what- is it a what, not quite alive?- and she thinks she knows how. But she is afraid to ask the price.)

She rests her forehead against the machine.

She should tell her. She should tell both of them.  

“All right,” she says instead, turning to look at Lana. “All right. I’ll go back in the fucking tank on two conditions.”

Lana nods and takes a step toward her and then another, reaching out cautiously until her hand just brushes her shoulder. “No promises,” she murmurs, “but go ahead.”

“First, I need the secure holotable. It won’t take long-” she can see her already formulating an objection and so she tilts her head to one side, her cheek against the back of Lana’s hand in a silent reassurance. In the first days on Zakuul she used to to do that, in the days when she could barely speak from carbonite sickness. I’m okay, the gesture meant. Don’t worry about me- “but there are a few things too sensitive for ‘net messages that I can’t delegate.”

“And the second?”

“Put a pot of caf on before I go wake Theron.” She closes her eyes. “The three of us need to talk.”

***

The projection of SCORPIO blinks, inscrutable as always, when she asks for the Eclipse Squad recordings.

(Of course she still had them. She suspects that even the things she ordered SCORPIO to purge from memory entirely were still somewhere inside that metal shell.)

Of course, Commander. A subtle pause, a moment’s recalibration. Access code?

She rattles off the sequence, a jumble of letters and numbers long ago committed to memory.

Access granted. The droid’s eyes flash crimson, then back to yellow. Black level clearance. Additional verification required.

That’s a code she’ll never forget. “Black level clearance requested. Passcode-” she swallows hard, digs her nails into her palms and her wrist screams protest even in the splint Lana made her wear. She needs the kolto after all, it seems. “Passcode: onomatophobia.”

Clearance granted. Transferring files now.

***

"Don’t take this badly, darling,” Ioana Rist says, “but you look awful.”

She’s getting dizzy again. Pulling out one of the chairs ringing the conference table, she sits down carefully. “A few scratches. You know how Nar Shaddaa can be.”

“So that was you.” Io must have been getting ready for bed when she called, hair pulled back and a grey-brown layer of what looks like Alderaanian clay covering her face above the green silk of her robe. “I’d wondered. Those dreadful satellites do look rather better on fire, don’t they?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mm-hm.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table. “Apropos of nothing, you don’t happen to know of any poisons that interfere with healing, by any chance?” None of her usual ones had made a difference against that Exarch. If anyone would know, a Rist would, and Io knew her arsenal better than most.

“The usual sort of healing, or-” a wiggle of fingers, the old Intelligence shorthand for Sith shit- “something extra?”

She returns the gesture.

“Hm. The Tears, of course, but Mother’d murder me in my sleep if I let that one outside the House. I’m sure I could cobble something together that’d do in a pinch." The clay mask cracks across her forehead as Io considers. “You’ve got a chemist?”

“Some of my old team.”

“I’ll experiment tomorrow and see what I can come up with. We caught a Zakuulan patrol on the grounds last week, so I might even have a test subject or two.”

Now that’s a lovely thought. (Theron would have frowned, would shake his head in disapproval, but Theron is a better person than she is.) “I’d appreciate it. But back to why I called- you said you had news for me?”

“I do. As it turns out, that estate isn’t technically Rist property any longer.”

She sighs. Of course it isn’t- that would have been far too easy, wouldn’t it? If it fell to the Ulgos, or- Void, not the Organas, that’ll never work in a thousand years-

“If you’d let me finish, you grump-” Io rolls her eyes and the mask cracks a little more- “I was about to explain. It used to belong to Mother’s second cousin Asenath. She and her husband died during a family squabble and everything went to their children, but then they both died as well. I only half-remember the story. I was just a schoolgirl then.”

“But wouldn’t it default back to the main House in that case?”

“Not quite. Her daughter’d married an Imperial and unlike dear cousin Asenath, she kept her paperwork tidy. Every last credit, the house in town and the entire hilltop estate ended up with her widower.” She’s scrolling through a datapad now, looking through a file as she keeps talking. “I don’t know him well- he was a liaison to Imperial Intelligence but our paths rarely crossed during my contract time, and he only comes to family parties once or twice a year. But he’s-”

(She hadn’t known about the hilltop house.

But she knew the rest of it. He’d told her, two months in, when she’d finally been bold enough to ask how he managed it- the parties, the apartment, the pretty trinkets he’d give her to keep when she’d done especially well, all the trappings of keeping up the carefully crafted front he hid behind- on a military pension and an Intelligence stipend. She’d half-expected him to say he was skimming off the discretionary fund.

My wife, he’d said. All the money was hers.)

It might have been easier, she thinks, if it had been the Ulgos after all.  “Ruana. Major Galen Ruana. His wife’s name was Amalia.”

Io blinks. “It’s Colonel Ruana, now- do you know him? I didn’t realize you worked with military intelligence, Cipher. That never seemed quite your style.”

“It wasn’t.” It wasn’t his, either, but that’s a secret she swore long ago she’d keep. “He was my patron during my last year of training.”

One eyebrow raised, another subtle crack in the clay. “He… oh. Well, then. You shouldn’t have too difficult a time asking for a favor, hm?” The subtext lingers past the words; everyone all knew what patron had meant in those days: favor bought, favor sold. Suddenly a chime sounds in the background and, shaking her head, Io stands. “I’ve got to go, darling, or this mask’s going to take my skin off with it. Promise me you’ll visit when you come to Alderaan.”

“Cross my heart. I owe you brandy, don’t I, since it seems I’ll be headed to Dromund Kaas in any case.” She forces a smile, tone light, but- that’s going to be a problem. The whole damned thing’s going to be a problem.

“Excellent memory as always, but you didn’t let me finish earlier. The Rist Gala’s next month- perfect for business deals and he’s already marked as attending. I’ll furnish the invitations. Just bring your party dress -” Io winks- “and my brandy, and I’ll get working on your poison project in the morning. Talk soon?”

“Talk soon.”

The projection fades; she rests her head in her hands. There must be something he’d want. Something besides-

Two knocks on the War Room door.

Theron. Lana always knocks three times.

“Come in.” She doesn’t look up at the sound of the door sliding open and he slips in behind her chair, arms wrapping close around her shoulders and his face nuzzled into the side of her neck.

“You should be resting,” Theron says. “Your scans-”

She sighs. “I know. I will.”

“This doesn’t look like resting.”

“I had work to do.” She turns her head to kiss his temple. “You should be resting, too. Lana said you were sleeping.”

“I tried.” He holds her tighter. “I kept hearing you calling out. I mean- rationally I know you were in kolto, but- hold on. Tell me you didn’t already-”

Shaking her head seems unwise, as likely to make her dizzy again as to get her point across, so she stays still instead. “No. There are a few contingencies we need to put into place beforehand, but if I’m going back into the tank I need you and Lana to help me with that. And that means Lana needs to know what’s going on, and that means-”

“We need to talk about Coruscant.”

“Yes.”

[a-mad-scientist-approaches]

The Cipher Conspiracy (1)

Another fic! What is this! 

I had a massive brainwave some time ago, and this is what happened. A Gravity Falls Spy AU. 

I don’t know if the Spy AU in general belongs to anyone, let me know if it does, but this was kickstarted by @hntrgurl13‘s version (with a few changes, sorry, sorry) and that one story anon. My imagination was CAPTURED, I tell you.

Adeline Marks is @hntrgurl13‘s marvellous OC, and the Addiford ship belongs to @scipunk63.

AO3  1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11  12  13  14

Chapter 1: Numero Uno

Sacramento, California (USA)    ∆

Stanley Pines knocked briefly on the office door before making his way inside and sitting familiarly in a chair. Not the comfy swivel chair behind the desk. That hadn’t been appreciated when he’d tried it.

“I’m finished for the day,” he said, stretching his arms out behind his head.

“Must be nice,” huffed Senior Special Agent Carla McCorkle of the FBI from over at her filing cabinet.

Oh. One of those days.

“Case not going well?”

“It would be, if one of these idiots could get me the right information, and not lead me on a wild goose chase TO THE PIZZA PARLOUR!” she finished in a shout, turning to direct it across the hall at the office opposite hers. A muffled (and maybe English-accented?) yell answered her, but the words couldn’t be discerned. Although Stan was pretty sure they weren’t polite.

He frowned. “You need me to teach that guy a lesson?”

“Believe me, I already did,” Carla flashed a malevolent grin and walked past him back to her desk.

“That’s my girl!” He took the opportunity to pat her butt. Instantly, she whipped around and gave him a death glare that made him quail. “Okay! Okay! Sorry!”

Not the time. Got it.

A tower of files was dumped on the desk, enough to obscure Carla when she sat down in the coveted swivel chair. Not for the first time, Stan was immensely glad that he had never completed the FBI training course. Best to leave the paperwork to people who actually had the patience to get through it, like Carla, or Fo-

“Y’know, we were getting so close. What the hell happened? Suddenly we can’t gain an inch on these guys!”

“These guys being the-” Stan stood up and looked at the name on the topmost file – “Cipher Wheel?”

“Yep. Whoever’s running the show goes by Bill Cipher, according to rumour. We don’t have anything concrete to back that up, though,”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Stan said easily. Carla grunted unhappily.

Time to break out the big guns, he decided.

He stepped between Carla and the desk, the chair rolling backwards. She didn’t look happy to have her work interrupted, but Stan was confident that that would change soon.

“I have a present for you,” he told her, putting his hands on the chair’s armrests.

“Pines,” she warned.

“You’ll enjoy it, I promise,”

“We’re at the FBI!”

He leaned closer. Before she could threaten to eject him from the building, he shoved a hand in his jacket pocket and brought out a white-petalled flower. While she stared at it, he tried to keep the smugness off his face.

“You lost your other one,” he shrugged, by way of explanation.

For the first time since she’d gotten to work, Carla laughed slightly.

Mission accomplished.

She took the flower and kissed him gently. “See you back home?”

“You know it, babe,”

As he was leaving, Stan gave a mock salute and said, “Until tomorrow, Special Agent McCorkle,”

“That’s Senior Special Agent McCorkle, Mr Pines,”

When Carla made it back to their apartment (a full three hours later than himself), she had the flower tucked behind her ear.

Manhattan, New York (USA)    ∆

“Fidds, what the hell happened?” Agent Adeline Marks stared in shock at her partner, who was covered from head to toe in muck. His normally green suit was completely brown and black.

With as much dignity as he could muster, Agent Fiddleford McGucket took off his glasses and wiped them clean, then placed them back on his long nose. “I’ve just crawled through five hundred heckin’ metres of basement to fix our gosh-darn processin’ system, and I don’t think it was worth it,”

Addi stared at him pityingly for a moment. “You could have waited for the clean-up crew to get rid of the mess down there,”

“I was getting frustrated, and I wasn’t sure they weren’t goin’ to reschedule again.” He sighed. “They wouldn’t keep doin’ that if they knew what our building was a cover for.”

Addi nodded, and Fiddleford knew she was wistfully reminiscing of the prioritisation they had had before their branch was supposedly shut down.

“Well anyway, you know we’ve got a meeting now? I think it’s a new assignment,” she said.

Fiddleford groaned as he looked down at himself, and then back at the mud trail he had left coming through the elevator doors. It had definitely not been worth it. A passing agent slipped in the tracks, papers flying everywhere.

“Alrighty, let’s get this over with,” Quickly, so I can have a shower.

They headed up to their boss’s floor.

Sacramento, California (USA)    ∆

“Hope you like fish! It’s all we had,” called Stan from the stove as Carla dumped her bag on the couch.

“Smells great,” she said in relief, wrapping her arms around him from behind and burying her head in the crook of his neck.

“Geez, you really need a holiday,” said Stan, knowing what the answer would be.

“Not until the case is done,” she mumbled.

“And then you gotta promise you’ll give it a rest for a while,”

“You betcha. I am so sick of these hours,”

They stayed like that for a little while, until Stan noticed the fish was burning. As he hurriedly took it off the heat and waved away the smoke, Carla sat down at the kitchen table and examined their mail.

“Bills, neighbours having a party tomorrow, more bills – huh. A postcard,”

“Well, I don’t have any friends – any who want to contact me anyway – and all yours live around here. So who’s it from?” Stan set a plate down in front of her.

“Doesn’t say, exactly.” She looked up at him curiously. “Take a look.” She passed it over as he sat down on the opposite side of the table.

The postcard showed a forest and a cliff-face with a waterfall running down it. In big orange and green block letters, the words ‘Gravity Falls’ were emblazoned across it.

“Never heard of it,” said Stan, and turned it over. He almost dropped it in shock. As Carla had said, there was no address, no message, not even a name. There was a drawing. A hand. A six-fingered hand.

He looked up at Carla. “Ford?”

“It looks like it,” she nodded, clasping her hands in front of her face. “It’s been, what, five years?”

Stan took a deep breath. “I – I’ve gotta-” He stood up and ran his hands through his hair, staring between her and the postcard helplessly.

“Yeah I know! Go!” Carla said, smiling widely and standing up as well. “Come on, you have to pack!”

Stan laughed incredulously as they raced to the bedroom. He was feeling simultaneously scared and overjoyed. Before Carla could extract his suitcase, he pulled her in for a hard kiss and hugged her tightly.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,”

“No, it’s okay, take your time. I think you’ll need to. He wouldn’t have contacted you unless he needed something,”

Well, that hurt. But she was right. It wasn’t Ford’s fault, not really, and truth be told they hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms. He should be glad he was getting to see his brother at all.

“I should probably bring some cereal,”

“Good idea,”

Manhattan, New York (USA)    ∆

The Oracle Division had been created for the sole purpose of finding and eliminating the worldwide threat posed by an organisation known as the Cipher Wheel. The only problem was, as they soon found, no one had ever knowingly encountered an agent of this organisation. No one had ever admitted to having dealings with the organisation, even through a middle-man. There wasn’t even any evidence to back up the rumour that the head of the organisation’s name was Bill Cipher. So far, the only thing that the agency had managed to collect was a wide variety of symbols that the criminal underground had used in connection with the Cipher Wheel. Of course, they had so far led nowhere. Still, the government maintained that it existed.

So, due to the extreme lack of work available for the Oracle Division, it was a very small agency, and until anything to do with the Cipher Wheel was brought to their attention it was assigned other cases for efficiency purposes. Furthermore, as the Oracle Division was classified in an ultra-top-secret manner, it had to be hidden. Thus, why it had recently been relocated to a tiny five-storey building in Manhattan.

Adeline reflected on this as Fiddleford knocked on their director’s door. It was still surreal knowing they were the only field operatives in the whole agency.

“Come in,”

They entered.

“Well, agents, I’m sure you know – Fiddleford, are you okay?”

Fiddleford dripped onto the carpet. “Sorry ma’am, I was seein’ to the processing system,”

“Well, you have my thanks. It really did need something done for it. You’ll be hailed as a hero tomorrow.” The director smiled. “I’ll make this quick so you can go clean yourself up.”

“Thank you,” Fiddleford sighed.

“As I was saying, I’m sure you’ve guessed why you’re here,”

“You have a mission for us,” Addi said.

“Correct.” The tall, dark-skinned woman stood up from behind her desk and turned on a projector. An image of a bemused-looking woman appeared on the blank stretch of wall.

“This is Dr Jane Hansen. She is a chemist who has developed a new material with extraordinary refractive, reflective, and focal properties, called shimmern. This could be used to revolutionise the technological industry, for instance providing greater laser capabilities, enhancing computer operations, and creating a far cheaper way to manufacture stealth products.” The director nodded approvingly at Addi and Fiddleford’s raised eyebrows.

“Dr Hansen, however, is a very gentle soul who has insisted on using the only existing sample to create a fabulous piece of jewellery for her wife, which made our superiors rather frustrated,” the director said with a small smile.

The image changed to show a photo of Dr Hansen in her house, presenting a glittery, tear-shaped pendant on a silver chain to another woman. The picture was taken through the leaves of a bush.

“Aww,” said Addi. It was a very sweet scene, captured forever in an ethically questionable manner. “So, you want us to obtain that necklace?” she asked, switching back to professionalism.

“Of course. As well as the method she used to create it. We’ve been asked to hold onto it until our superiors have had a chance to study, and presumably replicate, it – as Dr Hansen has made it clear she has no interest allowing it to be used for weapons or stealth technology,” the director said with only the vaguest hint of approval.

“I assume the plans’re all stored electronically?” asked Fiddleford.

“Yes, Agent McGucket,”

“Then it’ll be an easy workday, ma’am,”

“Good to hear. Dr Hansen is planning on unveiling her creation at the Centro Congressi Giovanni XXIII Convention Centre in Italy five days from now. It will be a very classy event, so, Agent Marks, I assume you have some very classy clothes?”

Addi grinned at the director. She was looking forward to this assignment. “Of course, Jheselbraum,”

Gravity Falls, Oregon (USA)    ∆

Stan walked cautiously up the stairs to the porch of 618 Gopher Road. It was a very isolated house, nestled in a forest, and yet Stan couldn’t help but feel watched. Like there were eyes pointed at him from all directions. Considering this was apparently where Ford lived, though, that wasn’t exactly surprising. He’d probably been scanned no less than eighteen times since stepping out of the car.

Trying to convince himself that everything was fine, is fine, would be fine, he knocked on the door. It was flung open instantly, and he looked down the barrel of a gun.

His hand was coming up almost as soon as the door started opening. Stan slapped it away from his face and into his other hand where he flipped it around and caught it in a two-handed grip pointing at his opponent.

Ford beamed and said, “Well done, Stanley. It’s good to see you haven’t lost your skills.” Then he stood aside as though it was perfectly normal to brandish weapons at your family members.

“I’m fine, by the way.” Stan muttered as he stepped inside. “Might’ve pissed myself, but I’m fine.”

“I assume you found my message?” asked Ford, holding out his hand for the gun, which Stan wasn’t exactly eager to return.

“You mean the one written in invisible ink on the mysterious postcard with a cryptic drawing?”

“Yes, that one,”

“Yeah Ford, I found it. Been doing that since we were kids.” Stan rolled his eyes. “But an address and ‘Please come’? You had me worried, bro.”

“I’m sorry, but there wasn’t much else I could say. I didn’t want to risk it falling into the wrong hands. By the way, you burnt that, didn’t you?”

Stan nodded. As they spoke, his eyes roamed around, taking in everything they could. Ford didn’t look like he was in any trouble. He seemed completely normal, if a bit manic, but he had been that way forever. At least he wasn’t in some deep danger like Stan had been had been fearing. Five years of silence, and then ‘Please come’? Worried was an understatement: he had almost had a heart failure.

The large room they were standing in was absolutely covered in things with Ford written all over them. Maybe even literally, if he had been indulging in the invisible ink. Technology, gadgets, weird substances in science beakers, it was all there.

Ford was looking at him oddly, with an awkward half-grin on his face like he wasn’t sure what else to say. Guess it was up to Stan to make the next move.

Crap.

He didn’t know what to do either. It was getting weird now. Should he try for a hug? No, that would make it even worse. Ford was still standing there, and now they were staring at each other. Just when Stan was on the verge of yelling “NON-SPECIFIC EXCUSE!” and making a break for it, his brother spoke up.

“So . . . you’re working for the FBI now?”

“Oh, er, you know about that?” Of course he does, it’s Ford. “And it’s more like with, not for. I’ve got connections and such, I know people. Useful for them, and I get paid when they need me, so I’m not complaining,”

Ford nodded, like this was exactly what he had wanted to hear. This is getting stranger by the minute.

“How did that happen?” This time, the question was genuinely curious, not prying for information, or confirmation, or whatever.

“Heh, well, remember Carla, from back in Glass Shard Beach? She works for ‘em now. Found me in California about four years ago, arrested me on a case, I put the moves on her,” he waggled his eyebrows and Ford snorted disbelievingly, “she couldn’t resist, and the rest is history.” Not exactly true. He’d completely fallen for her all over again as soon as she had laughed in recognition while handcuffing him. Then he’d bargained for a job and sold out his co-conspirators.

“It was surprising to learn you went back into law enforcement, or some semblance of it,” said Ford.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I just never would have expected it of you, especially after the way you gave up your training when we were both at the FBI,”

Stan frowned. “The way I gave it up?”

Ford tilted his head. “Well you didn’t exactly quit in a regular fashion,”

“I didn’t quit, they ran me off the property!”

“Yes, because you were idiot enough to accept a drunken bet and try to steal secure files! That practically sealed your life as a criminal!”

“Well let me remind you why I was off getting drunk that night. A certain high-paying job offer from a shady government agency ring a bell?”

“Stanley, we have had this conversation before. They offered you the exact same deal!”

“Which you were all too eager to accept! A deal, by the way, which included completely cutting off all ties with family and friends,”

They were glaring at each other now, and were unconsciously tensing for a fight. Things had gotten heated even more rapidly than Stan had expected.

“That was not a permanent arrangement, Stanley, as is clear from your presence here right now,”

“It’s the principle of the thing that matters, Ford! You just upped and ditched me, like you couldn’t wait to get rid of me!”

“You’re talking to me about principles and ditching? The last time I saw you was five years ago, when you led the FBI to my apartment after attempting to steal from them, broke in, yelled at me while grabbing all my cereal, and then climbed out the window! I am assuming that was all deliberate, as when the FBI kicked down my door they thought I was you and arrested me!”

“Well, in your words, that wasn’t a ‘permanent arrangement’ and they sorted it out eventually,”

They lapsed into silence, the air between them practically sizzling. Stan had said enough, had had enough. He’d come here to help Ford if he could, and he’d hoped to maybe patch things up, but it didn’t look as though Ford was all that inclined t-

“I didn’t mean to abandon you, Stan,” Ford admitted, frowning angrily at him. Stan blinked. Carla’s words immediately came to him: he wouldn’t have contacted you unless he needed something. However, if this was a ploy to get his help, it was pretty sincere.

“Although your actions didn’t make it easy to apologise. Furthermore, taking my cereal was incredibly petty.” Ford waited, looking closely at him, seeing how he would respond. Stan was tempted to start up another argument over Ford’s hypocrisy in calling him petty – he wasn’t the one still sore about cereal. Instead, he was reminded forcefully of his brother as a kid, and what one of his first thoughts had been to do when he thought he’d gotten a chance to see Ford again. He’d been half-convinced he never would, what with the super-secret job Ford had taken.

Stan pulled a box of cereal out of his bag and handed it mutely to his brother, who stared.

And stared some more.

And laughed. And pulled him into a hug.

“It’s good to see you again,”

“Yeah, you too bro,”

Well that was easy.

Ford gave him a tour of the house. As he memorised the layout of it, Stan noticed that Ford didn’t seem able to confine his inventions to the main workroom – and they were Ford’s inventions. Stan guessed his brother’s brain was the main reason he had attracted attention from the government.

“Ford, not that I’m complaining, but why am I really here?”

Ford grinned and stepped back into the workroom. He picked a thick, red-bound book off a bench. “For this,”

Stan took the book. It had a gold, six-fingered hand emblazoned on it, similar to the one on the post-card. He opened it to where it was bookmarked.

All the words were in code, but it was a code he and Ford had used since they were kids. It was like a second language to Stan, and he read it easily.

“What’s shimmern?” he asked, looking at a hand-drawn picture of a pendant on a chain.

“A new kind of material.” Ford had an excited look in his eyes. “There’s only one sample in existence, in fact. My assignment is to appropriate, and eventually replicate, it. You’re here because I want your help,”

Stan noticed with some elation that Ford had specifically said “want” not “need”.

“This would be much easier with you, Stan. Like you already said, you have contacts. You’re good with people, not to mention you haven’t lost the skills you had five years ago,”

“I’m in,” said Stan without hesitation. “but don’t you have a partner to help you out? Pretty sure that’s what’s supposed to happen when you work for the government.”

Ford cleared his throat. “That’s not how we do things. Our missions are carried out entirely without assistance from other agents. There’s less chance of a leak that way,”

No matter what his brother’s test scores said, to Stan, Ford was as easy to read as a child’s book.

“Ford . . . you do work for the government, don’t you?”

His brother shifted now, not even attempting to lie under Stan’s scrutiny. “You don’t have to worry, we aren’t working against anyone. We’re primarily research-based,”

“What kind of research needs highly-trained field agents with no connections?”

“I’ve told you all I can,” Ford said firmly, with a hint of apology.

Ever since he and Ford had both been made an offer during the training course for the FBI, Stan had assumed it had been some sort of government branch, the CIA or something. However, the more he thought about, there was absolutely nothing to support this assumption. In short, Ford had him worried. Again.

Even more reason to stick close to him then.

“Okay, I’m still on board. How do we get this thing?”

“Italy, five days from now. We have a party to attend,” Ford said mischievously, and again Stan was reminded of the plans they’d come up with as kids, specifically the more notorious ones.

“I’m gonna need my fake IDs again,”

∆

“Hey Fordsy, how’d it go?” Bill Cipher said, sitting ramrod straight in Ford’s desk chair and swivelling around in it as the elevator doors opened to the basement.

“Good,” Ford replied. “We’re ready for the assignment. Or we will be soon. Stan has to sort a few things out first,”

When he’d first met his employer, Ford had been slightly disturbed by his too-wide smile, eyes that blinked less than a person’s normally would, and far more familiar demeanour than befitted the director of a shadow organisation. Now, he knew it was just one of Bill’s quirks.

“I hope you understand how lenient I’m being, letting your brother in on this. Not that I have anything against him, swell guy I’m sure, but of all the people to choose . . . I mean, really? Didn’t he used to be a bit – what’s the word? Oh yeah. Impulsive. Reckless. Untrustworthy. Take your pick. From what I’ve seen, smart guy, you are far more capable on your own. I don’t want him dragging you down or anything, numero uno,”

“Stan was just angry before. I promise that he will be more focused on this, and he will be a valuable asset,” Ford assured him quickly. It had taken over a year for Bill to come around to the idea of letting Stan meet up with him, and Ford was sure he had only agreed because he knew how ridiculously stubborn Ford could be.

Or because it was affecting your work.

The thought was immediately brushed away. Bill was right to be concerned about Stan. The organisation he had built was founded on levels of secrecy unlike any Ford had previously encountered. Any breach of that could bring it all crashing down. So yes, allowing Ford to bring someone in was a risk, he understood that. And so what if Bill had only agreed because their argument five years ago was eating away at Ford enough to disturb his performance in the field and the lab? That just proved how much Bill trusted, valued,and even cared, about him.

“Alright Sixer, we’ll try this your way. Just keep the objective in sight, you know what I mean?”

If there was one thing Ford was certain about in his line of work, it was that Bill Cipher was a good guy.

“Yes sir,”

[blessed-but-distressed]

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU.

also on ff.net

Tagging:  @katie-dub, @wholockgal, @kat2609, @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @biancaros3, @ms-babs-gordon, @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld, @chocolatecrackle.

This chapter was a mess for so long, so big thanks to @wholockgal for helping me try to whip her into shape, and @lenfaz for always listening to my writing-related whining.

Emma

The next person who emails me asking for an extension on an assignment they’ve had ALL SEMESTER to do, I’m straight up murdering. ES

I think that’s what they call premeditation, Swan. KJ

There are 33 emails in my inbox right now asking for last minute extensions. 33! Justifiable homicide. ES

33? You’re quite right. Not a jury in the land would convict you. KJ

… This is the part where you chime in with your own work horror story, so I can see I’m being irrational. ES

Is it? As you wish. I just thought seriously about poisoning our illiterate sub-editor with expired milk I found in the darkest recesses of the break room fridge. All because she used a Daily Mail-worthy pun as a headline for one of my articles. And I might’ve done, if the work experience kid hadn’t just used up the last of it for his Ovaltine. KJ

Oh god. Is he okay? ES

For the moment. Looking a bit green around the gills though. I’ve a bet going with the Pictures Editor he won’t make it til lunchtime. KJ

Okay, so not exactly what I was going for, and yet, I feel strangely less like a monster. You, on the other hand, might want to get that kid to a doctor. And/or book yourself in for a refresher for that workplace sensitivity training seminar. ES

According to Liam, there isn’t an opening for six months. Believe me, he checked. KJ

Of course he did. So... 6 hours til happy hour at the Jingles. You in? ES

Oh? Are you buying? KJ

The first round, sure. But only if you promise me it’ll be an early night. I have 203 final assessments to grade. I DO NOT have time to be hungover. ES

Your proposal is acceptable. KJ

Emma saw the poster on the last official teaching day before Reading Week, tacked to the pinboard outside her office. Poorly formatted, and clearly the work of someone with little to no design ability, it nevertheless managed to stop her in her tracks.

End of Academic Year Staff Party

LASER TAG

School of Classics, Archaeology & History VS School of Social & Political Science

Has it ever rankled to be told we produce “Mickey Mouse” degrees? Have you ever been made to feel that your knowledge of Classic Greek literature was “too highbrow” to be relevant in today’s job market? Ever run afoul of Tracy from Social Anthro in the Library Cafe?

Here’s your chance to get your own back! Sign ups below.

Emma could feel something building in her gut. Something unpleasant and inevitable. Something like picturing herself strapped into a cheap plastic breastplate sometime in the near future.

Killian was going to have a field day.

Or, she thought he might, if she could just dig herself out from under the pile of term papers she needed to grade long enough to set up a meet with him.

It figured that all of the empty space in Emma’s schedule would evaporate just as soon as the weather turned. Living under so many layers for so long, Emma had almost forgotten the sun was supposed to have any real warming ability at all. But suddenly, just as the semester was drawing to a close, it re-appeared with a vengeance, and the city was utterly transformed.

Gone were the puffer jackets and tights, the Gore-Tex and the ugly sweaters Emma had long considered to be the unofficial national uniform. Instead the sidewalks became filled with pasty-limbed people displaying their newly liberated flesh with the kind of exhibitionist zeal Emma hadn’t seen since her first Spring Break trip to Florida.

She nearly tripped over a few as they lay sunning themselves out on the Meadows, oblivious to her sweaty, breathless approach. Not to mention the ten or so pubs she had to avoid on her walk home from work, the pavements outside bursting with mismatched outdoor furniture someone had scrounged up in a hurry. All of them packed with sun-worshippers in the most reptilian tradition, and none of them alone.

Who were these people? Emma wondered. Drinking Magners mid-afternoon and stripped down to the barest essentials, always an audience for their bawdy jokes. Where had they all materialized from? Didn’t they have jobs to go to?

In contrast, Emma’s apartment remained completely ignorant of the change in seasons, still cold as a morgue. Her south-facing windows not only had a great view of the brick wall opposite, but they also brought in precisely zero natural light.

It really was a shitty apartment.

And if she had to spend any more time cooped up in it, alone, wrapped in three sweaters while she read circuitous papers in defence of Andrew Jackson, she was going to go crazy.

She had to get out.

She discovered it by accident, really, one day last November when she’d been caught in a surprise hailstorm, and looking for somewhere warm and dry to scarf down the rest of her Greggs donut. Her office-mate had office hours, and the University library stacks were always too crowded with clueless undergrads or amorous couples looking for privacy.

But the City Library? There were whole floors where the only ones around were harmless old biddies working on their genealogies, and their peripheral vision wasn’t the greatest. It was the perfect place to devour a forbidden pastry, or wait out a hailstorm or two. Or run into the very Englishman you’d been meaning to text back.

Emma liked the Reference Library best. It looked kind the kind of thing a fairy tale Beast might gift to a reluctant new house guest to win her over: floor-to-ceiling shelves lining every wall, supported by cast iron balustrades reachable by spiral staircases, an imposing geometric dome that looked like it came right out of Versailles. For the nerds, original card indicies. And for the displaced American history lecturer: plentiful desk space, wi-fi and always somewhere to charge your phone.

Emma had always considered the place to be kind of her little secret. No matter the time of year or weather, it was never too crowded. But there was no mistaking the leather-clad figure sat alone in the second row, feet up on the desk, nose buried in a thin paperback.

He didn’t register her proximity as Emma made her approach, even as she bent down to get a better look at what had him so engrossed.

‘‘Codes, Ciphers and Secret Writing’?” Emma read aloud, perversely gratified to see him lurch forward in his seat, caught unawares. She clicked her tongue as she took the seat next door. “If you’re considering taking up a career as a spy, you might want to make yourself slightly harder to sneak up on. Just a tip.”

He set the book down on the desk, shooting her a somewhat annoyed glance. “Well this is a turn up for the books. It’s been so long between texts I thought maybe you’d done in one of your students, and were lost to the ravages of the criminal justice system forever.”

Emma made a face.

“No? Well, small mercies I suppose. And fancy seeing you here. I didn’t really pick you for a fan of French Renaissance architecture, Swan. Or was there some other marvel you’d come to admire?” He asked, batting his eyelashes in the kind of over-the-top way that would put a silent film ingénue to shame.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Sorry to deflate that massive ego of yours, but I’m not stalking you. I’m just here for the free wi-fi. How was I supposed to know you’d be here… studying spycraft?”

“So just a happy coincidence then?” He held her gaze for a moment, like he didn’t quite believe her. “Well then, as to the book, believe me, Swan, I have zero aspirations towards the Security Services. Callum, however…”

At that, a young woman a few rows down glanced up from her MacBook to give them the evil eye, and Killian ducked his head, slipping a piece of paper from out between the pages of the book, marked with an indecipherable jumble of numbers written in a childish blue scrawl.

“He’s off penguins for the minute,” he continued, his voice now little more than a hushed whisper. “Now it’s codes. Ciphers. Secret communiqués. Which wouldn’t be so bad, perhaps, if the lad hadn’t refused to communicate in any other way...” He scrubbed a hand over his face, his frustration plain.

By the sound of it, things might have been a little tense at the breakfast table lately.  

Emma whistled through her teeth, though she fought to match his soft tones. “Wow. I think when I was eight years old, all I cared about was ponies.”

He glanced up at her then, the unspoken ‘Is that so?’ making her cheeks color. Even when he said nothing at all, Killian still found ways to make her regret every casual remark, every tiny breadcrumb she unwittingly left behind of the childhood she’d tried so hard to forget.

“Let me see that,” Emma said hotly, snatching the coded message from where it lay before him, leaning forward to examine it.

Then without thinking too much about it, she plucked the red pen from her hair that she’d been using to keep her bun in place, and set about making a series of tiny scribbles.

Killian, his book apparently forgotten, leaned over to study her work. “Know a thing or two about ciphers, do we, lass?”

Emma shrugged. “A bit. It came free with my John Jay obsession. But Callum’s what? Eight, right? So it’s probably not anything too difficult…”

The numbers could mean he was using a book as the key. Each number corresponding to a page and paragraph in the book where the desired word lay. Jay had been a fan of that particular method. He’d favored a dictionary as his key, usually. But the numbers Callum had written…

Emma drew up the matrix, smiling to herself as the childish meaning behind the code slowly became clear. She twisted the paper back in Killian’s direction with a victorious flourish.

“Lachie... is... a…” she translated. “Well, you can see for yourself.”

Killian’s eyes widened looking from the paper, back to Emma, his mouth agape. “You’re bloody brilliant, Swan.”

Emma wasn’t sure she’d ever been told that before. By anyone. Certainly not by someone who’d never been on the receiving end of one of her blow jobs. It was a single stray thought that stuck uncomfortably in her thoughts, and had her barreling on in a hurry to fill the awkward pause.

“It’s a six-sided Polybius square,” Emma explained, keeping her eyes trained to the piece of paper. “I’m pretty sure I read somewhere POWs in Vietnam used a variant of it to communicate between their cells. But Callum’s numbers only go up to 6, so I… what?”

He was staring.

“Nothing,” he said with a cough, though she could see the tips of his ears turning pink.

“You okay?”

He shook his head. “Of course. I was just thinking…”

“Thinking what?” Emma asked warily.

Looking kind of like he’d rather the ground rose up and swallowed him instead, Killian sighed and met Emma’s eye, shooting her a look that was so direct she was tempted to scoot her chair back to give them some space. “I was just thinking that Dr Swan is quite a good look on you.”

Emma opened her mouth, to what? Scoff? Say thank you? Luckily, she never had to find out, the silence punctuated by a series of conspicuous buzzing noises.

Emma heard MacBook Girl’s muttered curse. As if she wasn’t just dicking around on Facebook, like everyone else.

“Forgive me,” Killian murmured, clearing his throat and reaching into his pocket and fishing out the device. Whatever he read on that screen, his face immediately pulled into a tight frown and he rose out of his chair all at once.

“Everything okay?” Emma asked, growing concerned.

“Hmmm.”

It was not the most convincing sound Emma had ever heard.

As if somehow sensing Emma’s frustration, he raised his gaze from the phone to look at her, his expression softening a fraction around the eyes. “Apologies, Swan,” he said with a pained smile. “It appears I’m needed elsewhere.”

He hovered a moment, his weight shifting restlessly from foot to foot. “I need to head back to the office first. Would you like to walk with me? Or is the lure of free wi-fi too good an inducement to pass up?”

Emma glanced down at her watch, which showed the time to be little past noon. She’d been planning on enjoying the silence of solitude of the library a little more. Make a dent in her grading somewhere with decent heating and what passed for natural light.

But given the look on his face right now, and the way he was clenching his jaw, the fact that he’d even asked meant he probably really, really needed the distraction. And Emma might be pretty selfish on her best days, but she wasn’t cruel. And it just so happened, she had a particular distraction in mind.

“Sure,” she said, letting some of her weight fall onto his proffered prosthetic, as she rose from her chair.

“Sure, I’ve got time.”

Yeah, he was a fan of the laser tag idea.

His mood wasn’t buoyant exactly, as they wended their way along Castle Terrace, dodging Chinese tour groups who were arriving by the busload, selfie sticks at the ready. But the idea of Emma making a humiliating spectacle of herself certainly seemed to hold some kind of appeal for him.

He was no longer actively brooding.

“I can just picture it now; Emma Swan: Jungle Warrior.”

Emma snorted. Then she opened her mouth to refute this, and then closed it again, considering her track record.

Killian considered her shrewdly. “Something you’d like to share with the class?”

“I don’t know…I don’t know if you know this about me, but I’m kind of competitive. The last time I did something like this, it got kind of… ugly.”

“Define ugly.”

“We went paintballing for David’s birthday one year and August ended up in the ER with a dislocated knee.”

Killian winced.

“He says he can still feel it when it rains. Of course, he’s a novelist, so he’s kind of known for being needlessly dramatic so...”

Encouraged by the prospect of mayhem, the usual mischievous sparkle was returning to Killian’s eyes. “I think this competitive side is something I’ve got to see for myself.”

“Too bad you’re not invited, then, huh?”

“I could be…?” Oh no. No way. Was he really pulling puppy dog eyes right now?

“No way. Not happening. You can put those eyes away. It’s a work event. The administration are already on my case about this whole thing enough as it is.”

“And if I talk them ‘round?”

“You’re not going to get the administration to change their minds about me with a winsome smile and pretty boy charm.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

Emma just rolled her eyes, and nudged him into the path of an oncoming tour group.

When I got back to the library I realized you left your book, btw. I returned it. Figured you didn’t need it anymore? ES

Indeed I don’t. In cracking his code, I believe you’ve exhausted Callum’s sudden passion for cryptography. At least, for now. Elsa would like to express her eternal gratitude. KJ

Wow. Look at me, extinguishing a young boy’s thirst for learning. Clearly I’ve got this whole teacher thing on lockdown. ES

Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I saw him googling nebulas on the iPad earlier. I dare say another obsession is in the offing. One that might drive his mother a little less insane. KJ

Well, that’s something. ES

Okay, so clearly the administration was into winsome smiles and pretty boy charm, because the next thing Emma knew, she was seated on a university-chartered bus headed out into the hinterland, her columnist stretched out of the seat beside her.

Because that was a super normal thing to bring along to a work event.

Emma found it easiest to ignore the curious looks of her bus-mates by picturing how she was going to wipe the floor with each and every one of them when they got to where they were going.

For the most part, the reluctant recruits they’d manage to scrape together from the School of Social & Political Science did not inspire awe. Emma was pretty sure she could take them. Between Tracy from Social Anthro with her scoliosis, and Glen from British Politics with his spare tire, they seemed a pretty ragtag bunch, not suited to roughing it in the great outdoors.

There was only one among them who looked like a contender, the bearded guy in the army surplus jacket dozing at the back of the bus.

His possible narcolepsy aside, he at least seemed to be in decent shape, if the cut of jaw was any indication. As if he could feel her gaze on him, his eyes blinked open, and Emma turned back to Killian, who’d suddenly trailed off mid-sentence.

“And you didn’t hear anything I just said, did you?”

Emma cringed inwardly. “Sorry. I was just sizing up the competition.”

“Oh?” He enquired, his tone lightening. “And how do they measure up, in your estimation?”

Emma shrugged. “I think it’s in the bag. Our combined youth-”

“Your fighting spirit-” Killian interrupted.

“And the fact the history department won against the Divinity School last year...  ,” Emma continued, ignoring him.

“What about Rambo over there?” Killian asked, raising his chin to indicate the same guy Emma had been caught checking out before. “He looks like he might present a challenge.”

“Yeah, well,” Emma said, refusing to follow his gaze. “We’ll see.”

If Emma thought she might be able to somehow avoid this handsome stranger, maybe she should have remembered that she was cursed. Because when they nominated team captains, somehow it was him that Emma found herself facing off against.

The two of them stood awkwardly, forced to wait while some teenaged employee scrounged around in the pockets of his cargo pants for a coin to flip to determine territory.

And he was handsome, there was no getting around it. Nice hair, just on the manageable side of curly. Admittedly impressive biceps peeking out from underneath an ill-fitting plastic breastplate. Not to mention the warm, friendly smile as he held out a hand.

“Best of luck,” he said.

Oh, and an accent. A very nice accent.   

“And to you,” Emma said graciously, accepting the handshake. She might have been naturally competitive, but there was no need to be rude.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you on campus before,” he mentioned casually, even as his hand still clasped over hers. “I’m Graham Humbert, International Relations.”

The way he said it, with his tongue peeking out to wet his lower lip, she wondered if he was flirting with her. She wondered if she wanted him to be.

“Emma Swan,” she replied, letting her hand fall back down to her side, palm tingling. “American History.”

Killian

Killian Jones was no stranger to using his masculine wiles to his advantage. Though he’d been something of an awkward youth, his university years had been their own sort of education, quite aside from his unfinished philosophy degree.

Now, as a mediocre journalist with few moral scruples, he employed charm and flattery as tools of the trade. What better way to put an interview subject at ease? Or finesse that long-guarded secret from someone’s lips?

True, Saorsa was hardly The Guardian. He wasn’t uncovering government corruption at it’s highest levels or netting himself any Pulitzers. Though he did manage to stir up a hornet’s nest in Parliament that one time, after he got a MSP to admit to an extra-marital affair. Necessary to the public interest it was not, but it never did the circulation numbers any harm.

It was these skills he thought might help secure him a spot on the team bus to Lugton Bogs, the aptly named quagmire that was home to Edinburgh’s premier, and only, outdoor laser tag centre. Or at the very least, might improve Emma’s standing with the university after a rocky start.

Killian’s first port of call? The Press and Public Relations department, tucked away in cobbled alley near Sandy Bell’s. And from the rising stink of it, mostly treated as an open latrine by some of the male patrons of said watering hole after one too many libations at the weekend.

The inside was decidedly more pleasant, sheltered from the stench by double glazed windows and a heavy steel door. The office itself was attractive enough, a hive of industry playing to the soundtrack of ringing telephones. He stopped to ask the way to the right office, and was directed up to the first floor, where cubicles gave way to actual offices.

It was a promising start, he thought. That is, until he seated himself in a rather uncomfortable chair outside his target office, and had gotten a good look at the nameplate velcroed to the door.

That Killian’s quarry turned out to be a male was regrettable, and a waste of Killian’s talents.  That Killian’s quarry turned out to be none other than Robert Gold, native Glaswegian and former husband of one Belle French, Killian thought perhaps it wasn’t too late to do the honourable thing and fall on his sword.

He’d never been stupid enough to name Belle directly, but realistically, how many Australian librarians in Edinburgh could there be? And here was the very man Killian had publicly outed just a few short months ago, as a man who’d chosen his pill addiction over his marriage.

This was the man he had sought?

Killian was already halfway to his feet, ready to skive off their meeting with great urgency, when the door opened and out stepped a slight, silver-haired man, leaning heavily on a cane.

Tink hadn’t been lying when she’d said he’d been older.

“Killian Jones, is it?” he asked, looking bored.

Hello, rock. Hello, hard place. Killian’s first temptation was still to flee, but seeing as he was half-standing in plain sight, it seemed that ship had long sailed.

Instead he straightened, and held out a hand, trying to keep his voice quiver-free. “Aye, Killian Jones. I believe you’re the man to see about getting oneself included on an employee outing?”

For all his vices, Robert Gold did have one thing to his credit; he did not seem to be a Saorsa subscriber. Indeed, Killian’s name did not seem to bring about any flash of recognition. Nor, to Killian’s immense relief, a sudden zeal to sue for libel.

Though now Killian knew what to look for, he very much doubted the man would have much legal grounds. From the sweat soaking through his dress shirt, to the sallow complexion, to the pupils round as saucers, there was no way Robert Gold wasn’t in the throes of some chemical cocktail. The single life clearly wasn’t working for him.

He did, however, seem for the moment to be all-business.

“Laser tag?” he enquired.

Not sure if he was asking for an explanation, or merely a confirmation, Killian hesitated. “Something of an annual tradition from what I understand. Pitting department against department, all in the name of friendly competition.”

Gold nodded, absently.

“And this…” He peered down to examine the form in front of him. “... Emma Swan. You’re writing a column about her personal life?”

“It’s more an exploration on the nature of adult friendships. How difficult it is to make meaningful connections when you find yourself separated from your familiar networks. Emma is merely a vehicle I’m using to…” Killian fumbled for a suitable word. “...illustrate the point.”

“Hmmm.”

With any luck, that “Hmmm” meant that Gold found the idea tedious, and never wanted to hear about it again. Still, Killian wondered how long it would take him to convince their IT guy to “accidentally” corrupt the link to February’s column online.

“And you feel it would be helpful to you if you ‘tagged along’ on this outing?”

Truthfully, now he’d gotten Ruby to confirm Emma’s ER story, he mostly just wanted to watch her in action. But something told him Gold wouldn’t be particularly sympathetic to his plight.

“I think it would lend my words a certain credibility, if I was actually present for the events, certainly.”

Gold looked thoughtful, as if he was actually entertaining the idea. Or perhaps he was just meaning to add his next date with his dealer to his personal calendar. At any rate, he didn’t make Killian wait too long.

“There’s a number of forms to fill out,” the Glaswegian declared airily, pulling a stack of papers from a filing cabinet. “And some insurance concerns. I imagine your employer can email through proof of that?”

Could they? Killian certainly hoped so.

“Aye, of course.”

“Of course, we don’t ask for copy approval ahead of time, we’re not totalitarian savages. But you should be aware that we are always looking for ways to promote the university as a diverse, innovative and enjoyable workplace. Sometimes this means entering partnerships with members of the fourth estate, and sometimes that means breaking off such arrangements, if we feel our aims are not in concert. If you understand my meaning?”

Don’t burn any bridges. Duly noted.

At Killian’s nod of acquiescence, Gold clapped his hands together. “Well then, dearie, it looks like we have ourselves a deal. Blue pen, or black?”

And you thought it couldn’t be done. KJ

You didn’t. ES

I did. KJ

Please tell me you’re joking? ES

Alas, the cramp I’m nursing after signing near a dozen documents in triplicate says otherwise. I am UoE approved, and ready to watch Emma Swan go full berserker. KJ

I hate you. ES

I know. KJ

“Players must keep two hands on the phaser at all time to activate it. This is a safety feature which prevents the phaser being held at an arm’s length,” Killian read the tiny warning sticker on the side of his gun aloud.

Well, wasn’t that just fantastic.

Killian looked around for some teenaged, zero-hour contract flunky he could flag down, but after the initial hubbub of the coin toss, they’d all but vanished. The stand of trees stood all but empty now, except for the handful of middle-aged academics in green vests, wheezing as they made their way over the rise.

Sod it.

His gun might be fucking useless, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do what he came here to do: Watch Emma Swan kick arse and take names.

She really was in fine form. She might have been surprised by her appointment to team captain, but Killian wasn’t. She was the only one among them who actually looked like they knew what they were doing, and objectively speaking, she looked good doing it.

And as the reluctantly appointed leader, she was the one leading the charge to the enemy compound, organising her little band using military tactics she’d probably lifted straight from Che Guevara. This was exactly why people shouldn’t cross history professors.

Expending the last of his lung capacity, Killian caught up with Emma’s splinter group, just in time to hear the electronic sound effect that signalled a direct hit to the man to his left.

“Six o’ clock,” Killian bellowed, diving for the cover of the nearest tree stump. Emma was already there, pinned down by two more red-vests advancing from the other side.

“Alright, Swan?” he asked, wiping at his forehead with the sleeve of his useless arm.

To his delight, she actually seemed to be enjoying this, her face aflush with activity, her grin wide. She turned his way, tucking a stray tuft of hair behind her ear. “Give us the the tools, and we will finish the job.”

Churchill. She was quoting fucking Churchill.

But as she heard her compatriots fall to enemy fire, he could see the enthusiasm in her eyes visibly dim with each electronic squeal. If they stayed here too long, Rambo and the lasses from Gender Studies were going to pick them off, one by one.

Someone had to do something, and quickly.

And that someone might as well be the eejit with the gun that didn’t bloody work.

Nudging Emma’s shoulder, he pointed to a pile of boulders a little way off. “You make for those, and I’ll cover you.”

Emma looked from the pile, back to Killian. “Are you crazy? That’s like twenty yards. There’s no way we’ll both make it.”

“Only one way to know for sure,” Killian said, rising from his hiding place, and giving her no choice but to follow his lead.

“Aargh,” she cried, scrambling to her feet, rifle at the ready. “You know I hate you, right?”

“Aye, Swan,” he said, swinging to face his aggressors head-on. “I know.”

It wasn’t a drawn-out death.

To Killian’s satisfaction, a few of them had turned and fled when they saw him stand up. But Rambo, the bearded leader of the opposition seemed clue-ier than his friends. He saw the diversion for what it was. And as Emma darted out from behind the stump, he set his sights accordingly. Might have gotten her too, if Killian hadn’t stepped into the line of fire.

“You do know the purpose of the game is not to get hit, right?” Rambo called after him.

But instead of replying, Killian merely slung his rifle up onto his shoulder and headed back to the holding area, humming a song under his breath.

In the end, Emma decimated them, as he knew she would. All but Rambo, that cocksure son of a bitch. He had military training, of that Killian was certain. Or at least a stint in the cadets. He was a little too at ease, in Killian’s view.

Still, Emma managed to hold her own, waiting the bastard out until the clock ran down.

A draw.

He thought he might shout Emma a drink for this. Something tall and refreshing. But as she emerged from the stand of trees, still aglow with near-victory, he saw she wasn’t alone. Rambo strode along beside her, the two of them getting on suspiciously well for people who’d just been trying to “kill” one another.

Killian shrank back, letting himself fall back into a crowd of archaeology professors, comparing aches and pains. They certainly weren’t of the Indiana Jones mould.

He wouldn’t say he watched them. He merely observed them, like any other dispassionate member of the fourth estate. And how could he not notice his subject’s pleasure at this man’s company? The way her gaze dropped downward as they shook hands, a rare show of shyness.

Emma liked him. Rambo. Whatever his name was. Even a blind man could see it.

As far as the project was concerned, this was good news. Emma Swan, single and ready to mingle? Hell, it was a boon. Not to say one’s social life never suffered from embarking on a new relationship, but it was a damned sight better than Emma staying home every night with her marking and her Netflix.

So why did the sight of Emma typing her number into the man’s phone suddenly make Killian feel queasy? This was a good thing.

He should be happy for her.

Getting home took a little longer than anticipated. Not least because he stopped by the Jingles on the way and emptied out their stores of Captain Morgan.

“Maybe you should call it a night, eh?” the bar man suggested, just around the time Killian’s vision started going blurry.

Recalling Liam’s last lecture about “unnecessary expenses” he walked the rest of the way home, taking a somewhat circuitous route through a few back gardens.

He struggled with the lock, frustrated to find his keys kept slipping from his hand. He almost had it when the door suddenly fell in, and Killian with it.

“What the-”

Who else but Liam stood over him, arms crossed in that same look of quiet disappointment he’d been wearing for years.

“Good night was it?” his brother asked coolly, reaching forward to help him up.

“Geroff me, you judgy git,” Killian scowled, rising to his feet perfectly well on his own, with nary a wobble. “Would ‘ave been fine, you hadn’t opened the door like that.”

Liam stepped away, hands held up in surrender. “If you insist.” And then after a moment, “Why do you look like you’ve been at the Somme?”  

Killian looked down at himself, to the best approximation of combat clothes his wardrobe had to offer, now caked in mud to the knee, and streaked with dirt elsewhere.

“Laser tag,” Killian replied. “S’for work.”

“Hmm,” Liam hummed. “Let me guess, you weren’t on the winning side?”

If you wanted to get technical about it, it had been a draw. But deep down, Killian couldn’t kid himself on that front. 

Whichever side he’d been on had definitely been the losing one.

And how were drinks with Rambo? KJ

Graham. His name is Graham. ES

So it is. Does that sharp rebuke mean that in addition to guerrilla warfare, the man also excels at scintillating conversation over cocktails? KJ

Has anyone ever told you you’re a shameless gossip? ES

Once or twice. Though I much prefer the term “indomitable busybody.” That’s my favourite. KJ

Gee, I wonder why. And for your information, it wasn’t terrible. ES

Coming from you, Swan, that’s almost a ringing endorsement. KJ

23  25-32-33-45  51-33-43  42-33-33-25    42-22-11-42  12-26-11-41-42   16-33-36  31-15. ES

23’31  41-43-36-15  23 22-11-44-15  32-33  23-14-15-11  45-22-11-42  5-33-43  31-15-11-32. KJ

Whatever you say, buddy. Good night, Killian. ES

Good night, Emma. KJ

[firjii]

A5, C1, F1, G4, J5, L3, N2, R4, U4, Y2, and Z4! Any OC you like, mix and match, up to you. <3

A fine list. I had to think about these overnight.

~For Bae Lavellan~

A5. what is their most impressive talent?

She actually excels at many things, but her most uniqueskill is that she can speak backwards. She’ll do it when she’s bored, she’ll doit when she’s upset, she’ll do it to unsettle someone she dislikes. She cansustain it for quite awhile if she’s feeling talkative. Leliana thought that itwas a secret code or cipher at first. When pressed, Bae didn’t have a goodanswer for why or how she’d learned to do it. It’s especially surprising whenyou consider that she’s not fluently multilingual – she was a hopeless studentwhen it came to elven, so she mostly gets by in Common.

J5. what brings them the most joy in the world?

Interesting question. Her skills aren’t necessarily what shetakes pleasure in – they’re just things that she happens to be good at. Sheenjoys problem solving and looking for things that other people miss (it’s anuncontrollable reflex anyway), so she enjoys climbing, especially if the goalis a quiet and private spot with a good view. When she was still living withher clan, it was one of the only ways that she could really clear her head. Shecan be a bit clumsy with other kinds of movement and doesn’t have big muscles,but she’s very flexible and climbing just…makes sense somehow. She could alwaysreach heights that others didn’t dare to go to or couldn’t see a way to get to,although she rarely did it for competition’s sake and not everyone realize howgood at it she was.

~For Gelya Tabris:~

G4. what parts of them do they like and dislike?

She always wanted more muscle. Life in the alienage meant alot of crime, and not just involving humans. There were few depths thatpickpockets and muggers wouldn’t stoop to. As befits a rogue, Gelya always hadfair reflexes, but no matter how much she tried to build muscle mass, she couldnever make real progress (partly because she was never exactly well-fed andpartly because she was born very prematurely and was never going to have alarge frame anyway). A man of even middling strength could have easilyoverpowered her, though luckily many elves pitied her instead and sometimesshunned her a little or even regarded her as mentally ill (which isn’tcompletely incorrect, though most of her psychological issues are directly dueto alienage life, not genetic predisposition).

She is, however, a very fast learner, and she knows it. Shecan improve greatly after making just one mistake, and once she’s learned howto do something, she never forgets it. She’s not especially skilled inanything, but it’s always been obvious – even to her – that her chances ofsurvival are ultimately better than many others’ because she understands how toadapt and adjust (even if it kills her a little inside sometimes). It’s a small comfort, but it’s enough to get her through the day.

~For Mervyn Lavellan~ [y’all haven’t seen him yet since he’strapped in the PS3, but he was my first Inquisitor and first DA build]

F1. what do they do for fun?

Though he didn’t grow up playing it, he ADORES chess and anyother games that even vaguely resemble it. He’s not always the absolute bestplayer, but his strategizing skills are a perfect foundation for learning it.He frequently hounds his advisors for a chance to hone his skills and learn newmoves. He can be quite cynical about non-elves sometimes, but he greatly admiresthe other races’ board games and sees the value in applying the skills neededfor them to real life and vice versa.

~For Radi Lavellan~

C1. how do they sit in a chair?

At a formal dinner table? Tidily and carefully. Her sitting posturein front of others is so polished that you’d think she’d grown up in Orlesianhigh society.

But in an armchair by a roaring hearth? All bets are off.She usually just ragdolls and passes out because she’s very prone to worrying andlong days and basically never gets enough sleep.

L3. are there any foods they hate?

Bread pudding, rosemary, and most pickled foods. She’s alsonot crazy about most liquor unless it’s cider, beer, or wine.

N2. what have they never done that they want to do?

While she’s socially confident and isn’t particularlyinhibited, she was never in a relationship pre-Inquisition. Growing up, she sawteenaged friends and family gradually marry off or at least get involved inmatchmaking, but she never even spent private time for a picnic with someone,never mind a kiss or something more. Cullen is her first everything.

It’s not that she didn’t want anyone prior to that (she’s not ace or aro), butshe saw enough families get separated by war, feuds, etc. that she couldn’tquite commit to the idea herself. She also always focused on protecting othersin the clan, so tbh she was honestly too busy keeping track of the clan’ssafety most of the time to really step back from worrying long enough to thinkabout it.

R4. have they broken any rules they now regret breaking?

I think she regrets that she doesn’t regret breaking rules. She’s usually done so for thegreater good and she only defies authority when its logic no longer serves agood purpose, but it’s happened often enough over the years that she waspainted as a cocky youngster early on. Some in the clan praised this and otherscalled her a traitor for it.

Now and then, she has a quiet moment of reflectionand wonders if things would have been better if she’d let others share some ofthe load. She’s not assertive by default and didn’t quite choose to be theguardian type – it sort of just happened in some moments when others didn’thave the same willpower. By the time she’d realized what she’d become, it wastoo late to change course…especially considering there was nothing actually wrongwith who she was.

U4. have they ever been doubted?

Considering she’s fairly atheist for an elf? You betcha.Plenty of people in her clan always resented her input/advice/opinions onimportant matters. Even the Keeper only let her be Second – Radi doesn’t try tostep on others’ toes and she doesn’t openly try to tell other people how tothink, but her lack of firm belief in the gods definitely meant that she waslooked down on, held back, and not always taken seriously.

Y2. what inspired you to create them?

It’s like this: my last DA OC was pretty nondescript on theoutside but basically scarred beyond recognition on the inside. I thought I’dtry the opposite with Radi: someone with a lot of literal scars but a bit lessof the “acute psychological trauma” side of things (not that there isn’t any,but it’s not the outright paralyzing sort like Bae has). She’s alsoneurotypical, so the scores of things that bother/confuse/upset Bae don’tnecessarily stand out to Radi.

I also have a bit of a hangup about making my OC’s look “tooperfect.” Granted, none of mine have horrible deformities and I’m thrilledevery time someone calls one of them cute, but mine don’t have fancy hair, alot of makeup, large eyes, flawless skin, etc. I’m not complaining becausethat’s 10000% deliberate. I spend much moretime making them look the way they do, not less.

While I definitely wouldn’t call Radi ugly, she does have some verydistinctive features which may or may not be attractive according tostereotypical beauty standards (a very angular jaw, noticeable cheek hollowsthat point to her scarily underweight tendencies rather than nice bonestructure, a cleft and sort of puffy chin, recessed eye sockets and puffy eyes that make her look a lot more squinty/suspicious than she actually is, etc.).

Furthermore, although she’s cis female, I wanted her to bean example of a woman who doesn’t necessarily get positively recognized for heroutward appearances since her features aren’t widely praised (or even widely acknowledged) for women. In fact, a fewpeople have already misgendered her. That actually makes me happy because it shows that Idid my job right.

And, of course, I loved the idea of having a character whohas very visible, very striking scars but actually isn’t that bothered by themcosmetically because they’re proof of just how tough someone can be – even ascrawny mage.

Z4. what’s their dream pet?

She’ll take every opportunity she gets to have a new pet, regardless of species, but she’s fascinated by turtles and tortoises. She’s goodaround most domesticated animals but appreciates the ones that have a quietsteadiness.

[theeurekaproject]

Mortuus Reginae

“I will never understand your insatiable desire for attention.” “I will never understand your propensity for completely unnecessary insults.” “It’s just banter. You’re oversensitive.” “Banter is tasteless.” “Who are you, the Imperatrix of Eleutheria?” “Yes.”

Andromeda groaned. “Fine. I surrender. I still don’t get why all of this is needed, though.” Acidalia’s landing had been as theatrical and overly dramatic as she could possibly make it; the Revelation’s white exterior glimmered in Base Alpha’s fluorescent lighting like a beacon that screamed I’m Acidalia Cipher, come and get me. That ship had top-notch cloaking systems, but the extravagant flamboyance and beauty of its design made them kind of moot; sure, enemy ships couldn’t track it from a distance, but anyone with eyes could see the massive white mansion-with-an-engine hovering in front of them. If Acidalia had gotten ambushed and murdered on her way back from her impromptu journey to Mars, Andromeda wouldn’t have been the least bit sympathetic.

Then again, she wasn’t too sympathetic of Acidalia on a day-to-day basis, anyway—but Acidalia didn’t to know that. It was really better for her and everyone else if the Imperatrix Ceasarina continued to think of Andromeda as her right-hand-man, and honestly, there was no harm in that; they were on the same side, and they were brilliant leaders with levels of genius the rest of the movement could hardly hope to aspire to. If them getting along meant that Andromeda had to continue to pretend that she actually enjoyed spending time with this insufferable, melodramatic, over-glorified princess with more money than God, then so be it. She’d met worse people before.

Still, she grated her teeth a little bit as Acidalia’s face came into her field of vision. Maybe it was Andromeda’s high-definition cybernetic eye that made Acidalia look more annoying than she actually was… or maybe it was just her obnoxious, holier-than-thou personality.

Well, her absence had been nice while it lasted.

Acidalia was dressed in a long, sweeping dress intricate enough to be a wedding gown, because of course she was. If marriage was still a thing in Eleutheria, she’d have looked exactly like a bride. A delicate, sheer veil was draped over her perfectly-curled hair—a symbol of mourning that wouldn’t be obvious to anyone who didn’t know her intimately enough to understand that she was exactly the type to still use mourning veils, but only when they were bleached white enough to match her style. Andromeda almost wanted to ask what the point of a bleached-white mourning veil was—didn’t its brightness kind of defeat the purpose?—but she already knew the answer; like everything else Acidalia ever did, it was for the aesthetic.

“You look absolutely ridiculous,” she snapped, motioning to the veil. She realized suddenly that it was topped by a pearlescent quartz tiara studded with diamond flowers, and mentally facepalmed.

“My brother is dead,” Acidalia said cooly. Next to her, David Seren shot Andromeda an ugly glare. She’d have told him to stuff a sock in it if his daughter wasn’t standing right next to him.

“Then I guess we’re on even footing,” Andromeda shrugged.

Acidalia’s expression didn’t even change. “You never had any brothers,” she said.

“And now you don’t, either. See?” The see? at the end was unnecessary, but being patronizing felt good, and Andromeda had no time for this type of sentimental bullshit. Acidalia may as well have weighted herself down with six feet of black crape like the widows of old. Leave it to the Imperatrix to turn the death of a seventeen-year-old—who was, naturally, in no way special in any sense of the word when his relationship to Acidalia was removed from the picture—into a whole big elaborate production combined with a fashion statement.

Acidalia’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You know that witnessing a sibling’s death and being born an only child are two objectively different things, Praetor.”

Andromeda groaned internally at the use of her title, which Acidalia only used when she was trying to be quietly passive-aggressive. It carried the same weight as a parent referring to their child by her first, middle, and caste name all at the same time, and she had a sudden flashback of hearing someone yell Andromeda Amalura, Labora! and knowing she was in trouble. When most people called her a Praetor, she felt powerful—it was the highest military rank anyone in the Revolution could achieve, and she was quite proud of it—but Acidalia managed to make it seem infantilizing, and perhaps the most infuriating thing was that Andromeda responding to it would only make her look more childish.

“Everyone here has lost someone,” she said, hoping she was coming across as stern instead of angry. “You know how many seventeen-year-old boys die on a daily basis? T wasn’t special.”

“Every person’s life is special,” David Seren said with faux-fatherly wisdom.

Andromeda rolled her eyes. “Oh, I’m so very sorry for not dropping everything to mourn some random kid who was exactly as special as every other random kid who ever dropped dead. It’s almost like I don’t place any extra value on his life just because he was related to a powerful woman… or I thought that’s what you wanted? Unless nepotism is acceptable now.” “I never said that. Stop putting words in my mouth—“ “She’s right, David,” Acidalia interrupted, sighing. “More people are going to die if we don’t start coming back from this, and none of those soldiers’ lives are inherently more valuable than T’s was. If he were still alive, he never would have wanted more boys being sent off to their doom because the leadership couldn’t get its lives together.” David’s expression softened, but he still didn’t look entirely too pleased with Andromeda, who decided not to dignify him with a response. She could not possibly care less about the opinions of a random Martian farmer—or secretary of agriculture, whatever the hell that was—when it came to her relationship with Acidalia and her job. “Okay,” she said briskly. “Now that we’ve got that conversation over with, we should probably focus on the imminent military threats, which are much more important to me personally than the death of a guy whose body we can’t even recover. Anyone else agree?” “Yes,” Acidalia said, “but you don’t have to be so crass about it.” “More like you don’t have to be an asshole about it,” murmured a random girl Andromeda had never met before in her life. She was about to retort, but Acidalia said softly, “she’s just being pragmatic, Athena.” “Why do you defend her?” David asked.

“Because her heart’s in the right place, and she’s a military genius.” Andromeda smiled. That’s more like it.

“Can’t argue with that,” David said, “but—“ “No buts,” Andromeda interrupted. “We’re going to the Scorpio. Move.”

***

The Scorpio was the exact opposite of the Revelation in every way, and that was just how Andromeda liked it.

It always astounded her how this military ship—a ship that was pretty much held together with duct tape, no less—managed to be more welcoming and human than the most expensive cruiser the entirety of the solar system had to offer. The Scorpio was a monument to Andromeda’s achievements, but it was organic, living, full of humanity—not some stiff white statue dedicated to short-lived Imperial beauty. She loved it like she’d love her own child—if she liked children, which she didn’t—and she felt that the affection was well-deserved; this ship had seen so many battles and bore so many scars on its steely black hull that it practically warranted its own Purple Heart.

Acidalia, of course, didn’t see it that way. She hated the Scorpio, but she was too infuriatingly polite to say so, and Andromeda didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

As they crossed the threshold of the ship, Andromeda felt everything in the left side of her body settle. Her cybernetics liked this place, and they had enough of a mind of their own that Andromeda thought it best to keep them happy. Human or otherwise, she was more than ready to grant rights to the systems that controlled her labored breathing and the pulse of her overworked heart (hearts? She’d lost track of her organs years ago—they were too numerous and fickle for her to remember any of them, anyway.) The mechanical half of her brain emitted a surge of dopamine, or something like it, in the same way a cat purred in contentment, and Andromeda’s organic mind had to agree with it—the Scorpio was home.

“Take your shoes off,” she called to the crowd behind her. (Why were there so many people here? she wondered. Acidalia and David, of course, and David’s teenage daughter—but who had invited two Scientias, a mutant cantrix, and a random AX-class to this meeting?) Nonetheless, they all complied, even Acidalia—who, Andromeda noticed with annoyance, was wearing ridiculously tall high-heeled shoes that probably cost more than this entire base. She zoomed in on one of them with her left eye and saw diamond fire flickering in the center of each tiny gemstone—yep, those shoes were definitely worth somewhere in the millions to billions of dollars. And Acidalia had just casually tossed them to the side like they were $10 clearance pumps she bought from a department store. Of course she did—if a single jewel broke, she could have a dozen new pairs made for her by tomorrow, each more diamond-studded and more valuable than the last.

“You seem frustrated,” Acidalia said, deliberately non-confrontationally.

“Yeah, well, I’d like to get this show on the road before all of Terra gets invaded by blue alien fish people,” Andromeda replied pointedly. She couldn’t do much, not when Acidalia was mourning a brother and dressed like an overgrown flower girl—anything Andromeda could possibly say would make her look like an asshole. If there was anything Acidalia excelled at, it was delicate, verbal manipulation, and she would have everyone convinced she was the victim within thirty seconds of being insulted. So Andromeda had to speak like a military commander who was worried about her movement instead of an irritated peer who didn’t like the notion of spending millions of credits on shoes, and nobody would judge Acidalia at all. Such is life—or, as Acidalia herself would have said, c’est la vie (because of course she spoke fluent Francogallicus, a language that had been dead for over ten centuries. Again, aesthetic.)

Andromeda shook her head, trying to clear it. She was a Praetor, above all—and that meant that, unlike the Imperatrix, she actually had to do things other than flee from danger and look pretty on camera. She couldn’t afford to be thinking like this any more than Acidalia could afford to grieve for her dead family. There was danger in the upper atmosphere and work to be done, and rationality and logic had to rise above anger and resentment, at least until the threat was gone.  

She sat at the head of the table and pressed the big metal button at the center, changing the windows from translucent to opaque. The Scorpio was one of the most technologically advanced starships in the galaxy, and she could easily replace every mechanical switch with sleek holographics, but there was something visceral and satisfying about physically changing things with her fists, and exposed wires and motherboards scared her guests more than plastic and glass ever could. At the clicking sound of the button, the Cantator jumped, and Andromeda felt a wave of sympathy for her—she’d been like that once, too, in another lifetime.

Acidalia sat at her right hand side and David at her left, and that probably meant something, etiquette-wise, but Andromeda had no idea what it was. The others arranged themselves around the three seats of power awkwardly, like they’d never been in this type of situation before—save for Cressida Seren, who sat right next to her father with an air of arrogance and immediately started examining her fingernails in the universal sign of “I’m bored.” Andromeda surveyed them all from left to right: a very clean-cut looking Scientia with short ombré gray hair and understated makeup, a significantly more disheveled Scientia with a bored smirk, a frightened and clearly genetically modified Cantator, and a soldier boy with tears in his eyes. “First order of business,” she said, “who are these people?” “David Seren, Cressida Seren, Carina, Athena, Lyra, and Ace,” Acidalia said, rattling off the names like an Auctor teacher would say words on a spelling test. “David is the Secretary of Agriculture on Mars, quite obviously, and Cressida is his daughter. Athena and Carina are both astrophysicists who risked their lives to warn me about the assassination attempt staged by Cassiopeia. Lyra is a new recruit who accompanied Ace to Mars as a plan to safeguard him from Alestra, and Ace is my late brother’s best friend, who saved me at the coronation. Each one of these people deserves to be commended for their bravery—they’re risking everything they’ve ever known just by being around me.”

Andromeda looked at them again. None of them looked particularly brave, and she was about 75 percent sure that Athena had stolen good sticking out of her pockets. Cressida was already scrolling through a Martian social networking website on her metadit, clearly not paying attention to anything that was being said, and Carina was rubbing the back of her neck like she didn’t quite know what to do with herself. There was a decent chance that Acidalia had simply taken a personal liking to them and exaggerated their backstories for their sakes, but Andromeda decided not to question that—after all, these six strangers were the only people on the planet who knew Acidalia was alive, and that would be supremely important later.

“Okay,” Andromeda huffed. “I’m assuming you’re all trustworthy, right?” It really didn’t matter if they weren’t—this meeting wasn’t exactly a secret. Acidalia nodded, though she did glance quickly at Athena’s overflowing pockets and shot Andromeda a look that said, leave it be.

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Andromeda continued. “So, second order of business: we might be getting invaded by aliens.”

If that news surprised Acidalia at all, she didn’t show it, but everyone else around the table jumped—save for Cressida, who had transitioned from Martian social media to a cheap mobile game with lots of flashing lights and obnoxious noises. “What do you mean?” David asked.

“I mean that the interstellar mermaid gladiator people who have been orbiting our planet for decades have finally made landfall,” Andromeda said. “Look.” She pulled up a map of Appalachia City and pointed to a glowing dot that hovered somewhere around the Imperial District. “That ship isn’t Terran or Martian, and the signals I’m getting from it are showing me that it belongs to the Mira.” “How many are there?” Acidalia asked, concerned. “Just the one, but that could change. We’ve been on even footing for a while, but now that our army is fighting itself, I think they’ve found the chinks in our armor. This might be their opportunity to land.”

“Well, have they deployed any weapons?” Acidalia asked, “or done anything to indicate they want to harm us?”

“They’re Mira, of course they want to harm us.” “But they wouldn’t have sent just one ship if that were the case, would they?” Acidalia tilted her head in a pointed way, not exactly self-satisfied but close to it, and a surge of anger shot through Andromeda’s body again. She was so infuriatingly good at being eruditely snobby without making herself snobby at all, and it bothered Andromeda because she knew damn well that her level of politesse was simply not high enough to counter Acidalia’s. It didn’t matter what she thought or said or did, every conversation she could possibly have with the Imperatrix Ceasarina would wind up making her look like an imbecile and Acidalia like an eloquent space queen.

“We don’t know,” Andromeda said, gritting her teeth. “They sent us a message, but I don’t trust it.” “Play it for me,” Acidalia said.

“It’s written. Like an email.” Andromeda pulled it up anyway and handed it off to Acidalia, who read it quietly for a few minutes. It was nothing remarkable—mostly it was an extraordinarily generic statement about wanting to meet with an Eleutherian diplomat, the type of thing any sovereign would send to another leader in the hopes of forging some kind of political relationship. If it hadn’t come from an alien civilization Terra had been in a war of attrition with for the past God-knows-how-long, it wouldn’t have rung any alarm bells.

“Well,” Acidalia said, “they definitely know just what to say. This entire letter is written in Roman Latin too, did you notice that?” Andomeda hadn’t noticed that, but now that she was looking right at the words, it was obvious—the grammar was perfect. Eleutherian Latin didn’t even bother with any sort of grammar as long as the speaker could get their point across, but Roman Latin was fancy and full of itself, with complex systems of declensions and phonemes and other linguistic words she could only half-remember. Not even the Imperials spoke in Roman Latin outside of very, very formal events, none of which Andromeda was privy to, and even then it was purely ceremonial—nobody actually put effort into speaking in that archaic dialect of a dead language. And yet, the Mira had put in all that effort.

“How would they even know what ancient Romans spoke like, anyway?” Athena asked, voicing what Andromeda was thinking. “Nobody even talks to the Mira. The cultural exchange between us is like, zilch.”

“Well, it’s not quite zero,” Acidalia replied, “as we do know some things about them… namely that they’re significantly weaker than us physically, and also much more aggressive, it seems. But that’s all stereotypical and based on the experiences of a few men. They don’t like to take prisoners and they most certainly don’t like to be prisoners, so contact has been limited, to say the least. I do wonder why, out of all things, they would choose to learn an extremely antiquated form of Latin. Perhaps it’s for the sake of getting our attention?”

“If they wanted attention, why are they just sitting there quietly?” Andromeda pointed out. “I think they’re trying to lure either you or Alestra there, and then kill you. I mean, think about it: they have the perfect opportunity now. Eleutheria is tearing itself to pieces, you and your mother are both desperate to get the upper hand, and they’ve managed to breech our defenses, land in our capitol city, and bring a whole ship with them—not just a tiny fighter. If they want to occupy Terra, this is a good time. All they have to do is bring in their army and clear us out, and that starts with the leadership.” Acidalia frowned. “You may be right.”

“Aren’t I always?” David rolled his eyes. “I think you’re being a little pessimistic here. They aren’t doing anything just yet—I think they might genuinely want to talk to us. If they want Acidalia dead, why haven’t they hunted her down already?” “Because she’s in one of the most secure places on the planet? Not even the Nova have access to this base, and they’re just as Terran as we are. The Mira are aliens. How could they possibly find it?” Andromeda said. “They’re just waiting for Acidalia to come out of the woodworks.” “Doesn’t the entire planet think Acidalia’s already dead?” David asked.

Oh, right, Andromeda thought. Shit. With the Imperatrix sitting right here in front of her, she’d completely forgotten the fact that Alestra had announced the demise of her daughter to the entire planet just a few hours ago.

Acidalia sighed. “Do we know how much the Mira know? Because that could change everything. If they think I’m dead, then they wouldn’t be trying to kill me, and they’re not after Andromeda, either, because they have no idea she exists.” “Don’t know she exists?” David said incredulously. “Isn’t she like your equivalent of a general?”

“Yes, and I am a very, very, very secretive general,” Andromeda replied. “If a job is well-done, people won’t even realize that it was done in the first place. You know how many ‘accidental’ deaths were a result of me?” Her mechanical arm sprang to life, LEDs blinking like sleep-clouded eyes, and she flexed her hand to show off the metal. “I’ve got built in tasers and brass knuckles, plus a cybernetically reenforced steel skeleton. I’m about seven times stronger than the average man, and just as fast. I can beat someone to a bloody pulp and be gone before anyone saw me, and in case I need a little more subtlety than what a cyborg soldier can offer, I have the whole damn Revolution underneath me—including the spies. I can do whatever I want and nobody has to know.”

David looked nervous. “Great,” he said, sounding forced. “That’s… cool.”

“And,” Acidalia continued, “they have no reason to want anyone else dead, either. I mean, they could be targeting Alestra, but again, why wouldn’t they just kill her? We know she’s not buried in some hidden Nova base—she was giving a speech about my ‘unavoidable and tragic accidental death’ a couple of hours ago, and she was standing right on the palace balcony. Surely they could have killed her then if they wanted to really cause chaos.”

“There’s still Mars,” David said. “What about Arlen Tycho?” “Do you really think they give a shit about Mars?” Andromeda laughed. “Come on, man. It’s Mars. Not even Martians care about Mars. Besides, we all know the presidents are all doomed. Didn’t the last guy die in office after he was rude to Alestra in public?” “Last four,” Acidalia corrected. “And their vice presidents shortly thereafter. I believe President Tycho was… President pro tempore of the Senate? He was third or fourth in line; my mother murdered all of his predecessors.”

“Jesus,” Athena huffed. “I never imagined the bureaucracy could be so exciting.”

Before David could respond to that, Acidalia effortlessly inserted herself back into the conversation, interrupting so fluidly that it didn’t feel like she was interrupting at all. “Either way,” she said, “I think we’ve come to the conclusion that they don’t want to kill us. I think we should send a diplomat.” “Or we could nuke them to death and forget the whole thing,” Andromeda shrugged.

Acidalia practically gasped. “Have you gone mad? That’s what landed us in this war in the first place.”

“What?!” Andromeda snapped. “It’s an effective display of power, at the very least. It’ll show them we mean business. And, for the record, they have committed a crime—they’e trespassing on Imperial territory without permission.”

“That is absolutely 100% not a nuke-worthy crime,” David said, as if Andromeda would ever care about his opinion at all.

“I just think that sending a diplomat to this is dangerous and ridiculous,” Andromeda said. “Who knows what they want? It’s an eat-or-be-eaten world out there, literally. They kill us or we kill them.” “Not everything has to come down to that,” Acidalia replied. “But I do agree that this is a mine field. This situation that calls for civility and grace, not nuclear bombs and indiscriminate murder. So, if we do send a diplomat, I propose that I go myself.”

A chorus of questions acme from the rest of the table. “You can’t do that,” David said. “It’s too risky, and we need you.” “But it’s a power play, and it gets them on our side,” Acidalia argued. “Look at it this way. They’re currently staring at a war-torn city on a planet they’ve thought of as backwards and barbaric for the past few centuries at the very least. They don’t see a noble cause fighting against tyrannical overlords; they see two equally bad warring factions killing each other in a brutal and bloody civil war. But if we could get them to see us as friends and my mother as the enemy, two things happen: one, this war of attrition might end and they’ll stop trying to hurt Terra, and two, we gain someone on our side, backing us up. But imagine what would happen if my mother got to them first. Either she kills them all and makes them angrier than ever, and all of Eleutheria falls to pieces because divided we fall, or she gains an ally. Both are bad.” David groaned. “I hate that you’re right about this." “And,” Acidalia continued, “if I go myself, that immediately shows them that Alestra—and, by extension, the Nova—is duplicitous, manipulative, and all-around untrustworthy. What better way to showcase that than by proving that they lied about the death of an enemy leader? The Mira aren’t dumb, and I’m sure they’ve had their suspicions for a while, but this will confirm them. And, hopefully, we can make them sympathetic to us. But it’s going to take an expert politician to navigate this, which is why I propose that I go. Not to sound arrogant, but—" Andromeda started playing white noise in her ears and promptly stopped paying attention. Whatever Acidalia was about to say after that but was not worth listening to—she’d learned that much. Listening to her talk about how good at politics she was was could bore any sane human being to tears, and it was especially grating to Andromeda, who had to put up with it almost constantly. She waited until Acidalia’s sparkly red lips stopped moving, then returned to the conversation, hoping nobody had noticed her brief vacation from having to listen to the Imperatrix talk. Honestly, though, even if they had, she wouldn’t care.

“I still think this is inordinately risky,” David said. “Even if they’re benevolent towards Acidalia, and that’s a big if,  what if they also just genuinely want our planet for their own? It’s not like we can do anything now when the whole Earth is divided in two.”

“We can still nuke them,” Andromeda said again. Next to her, Acidalia rolled her eyes in annoyance. “What?” Andromeda asked. “Got any better solutions?”

“Yes. Diplomacy.”

“And what if they kill you?” “The planet already thinks I’m dead. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me. It matters to the Revolution.”

“You’ll get over it.” “The scientists won’t.” Acidalia sighed, looking very overburdened, and stared off into the distance—or, at least, she tried to. It would have come across as less spacey if she wasn’t looking blankly at the Scorpio’s opaque windows. “That’s true,” she admitted, her voice soft. “But they could learn.” “They won’t learn without someone to teach them,” Andromeda said, hoping she looked more enthusiastic than she felt. She had seen this type of thing before in dozens of people; one person died and suddenly everyone was borderline suicidal. Acidalia, for all her high-and-mighty queenliness, was not as immune to grief as she thought she was.

“You are right,” Acidalia said, “but they aren’t going to kill me. I’ll go, and I’ll take a guard and an entourage. It would look suspicious if I showed up alone, anyway—I want them to see me as a legitimate leader ousted from the palace, not a bastard rebel out for blood because my pure-bred little sister is getting the throne. Why doesn’t David come with me?” David sat up straight as a board, looking panicked. “What? Me?!” “You’re much physically stronger than I am,” Acidalia said, “and I can’t exactly bring anyone else, seeing as no one has any idea I’m alive. I suppose I could reveal myself now, but I’d rather stay silent and make a big show of it later—that way, if I should die before the victory comes, nobody will have known I was alive to begin with. As it stands, I’m a martyr and the Revolution is mourning me—they’ll fight harder than they ever have before, because it’s personal this time, and they’re angry. So guards are out of the question..” “But its been years since I was in the army,” David stammered. “I’m not as tough as Andromeda, and I’m not a real a politician like you.” Andromeda snorted. “You’re the minister of farming on a planet known for its farms, how is that not political?” “Secretary of agriculture,” Acidalia corrected. “But she’s right; you are a politician.” “In name only! Mars is a meritocracy built around a computer program created a thousand years ago by some religious fanatics; the only reason I ever got power to begin with was because the whole internet thought my baby daughter was cute and that drove up my social points so much that my boss named me as his successor, and then my boss got shot and here I am. It was all just luck! Besides, nobody in the Martian government does any actual work—the Algorithm runs everything, we all just stand there and look handsome.” Beads of sweat poured down from his curly hair into his unshaven stubble, and Andromeda wondered not for the first time where Acidalia was even finding these people. David Seren was like a bad one-credit-store, off-brand version of someone respectable—what help could he possibly be? And it wasn’t like anyone else here would be useful, either—both of the Scientias seemed absolutely clueless, Cressida was still playing on her phone, and Lyra and Ace looked too sad to serve any real purpose.

Fucking fantastic. We’re supposed to be meeting aliens and this is the team we have? When Andromeda was sixteen, she’d escaped from a jail cell with a crack team made up of four stim addicts and three separate men who had been arrested for public indecency, and every single person in that little cohort still managed to be more competent than any of the supposedly high-ranking, important officials standing around blankly right now. Andromeda had never felt smarter—probably because her IQ drove the mean of the people in this room up by at least ten points. She couldn’t possibly let all of these morons go off to meet the Mira alone—with her luck, they’d all manage to stumble into the path of an asteroid or fall off a cliff or meet some other hilariously unlikely and horrible fate, because the universe just didn’t seem to like them very much.

“You know what?” Andromeda said. “Fine. Fine. We’ll go talk to the Mira, and David can stay on the ship and wait and see if they want a Martian representative before he gets off. And we can bring this disphit—“ she gestured to Ace—“because one immune is better than nothing. As for the rest of you, do what you want—just be quiet about it. And I’m coming.”

“You?” Acidalia asked, alarmed. “We can’t have the both of us go; it’s far too risky. We’re putting all of our eggs in one basket, and there is no designated survivor or line of succession here. They think I’m already dead, but you—you’re one of the biggest assets we have, we can’t lose you and me both.” “Well, if I don’t go, all of you are going to get your asses kicked,” Andromeda snapped. “I mean, look at you. Acidalia, you’re an excellent shot, but you’re a twig. You got all cut up just from Ace trying to protect you—imagine what you’d look like if someone really wanted to hurt you. And these other people are, what, Scientias? Cantatores? They’re not made for fighting. The only physically strong people here are Ace and David, and even David might be pushing it a little with that dadbod. You need someone to smash those blue fuckers’ skulls in if things get dangerous.”

“I have smashed plenty of skulls in throughout the course of my life, for the record,” Acidalia said, “but if you’d like to accompany me, I have no real qualms with that. I’m just concerned that both of us will—“ “‘Both of us die? Anyone who wants me dead will have to fight me first.” Andromeda flexed her metal arm. “No offense, but carbon nantoubule bones and steel muscle are a little harder to break than weak-ass myoblast fibers covering osteoporotic calcium bones.” “I am not osteoporotic, my ancestors were just accustomed to lower gravity—“ “Doesn’t matter, the point has been made.” Andromeda leant back and put her feet up on the table, partially to establish her dominance in the room and partially to show off her fancy new 3D-printed, custom-made metal prosthetics. Noir-black titanium alloys just seemed so much more intimidating than pasty pale flesh and blood, and they were prettier than the brusied, burnt skin that used to cover her body. “I’m going with you.” Acidalia looked like she wanted to protest, but she didn’t. Instead, she swallowed her words and looked down at the holographic pinpoint representing the starship, examining it with uncomfortable closeness. “We should leave soon,” she said finally, “before they assume we aren’t coming. I’ll draft a response to their letter.” “Sounds good,” Andromeda said. “And as for the rest of you people, do what you want. Nobody here cares if you live or die, so you’re free to make your own decisions.”

Ace and the girls at the table looked at each other, semi-alarmed, as Andromeda strode away. It must be freeing, she thought, to live like that—to be a teenager with no real connections to anybody and no responsibilities. She’d never had the luxury of freedom; her entire life had just been falling from one type of slavery into another. Being a wage slave to the Revolution was better than being an actual slave to the Eleutherian government, but it still wasn’t true freedom the way she’d always envisioned it—she was still trapped here, forever working. Serving the state and serving a master were not entirely different things, especially when she still had to put up with people as dumb as David Seren and as infuriating as Acidalia Cipher. And sure, this job allowed her to use her strategic mind a little more, but what was even the point if she wasn’t allowed to play with her favorite toys? Nuclear bombs were horrific and useful, and they seemed about as appropriate a response to an alien landing as anything else.

But Acidalia said no, and that meant no.

Andromeda tried not to think about her as she stormed off down the landing ramps. Acidalia would get her dues someday, when she tried to fix some problem with friendly diplomacy but her enemies brought guns to a knife fight. Then she’d be sorry—sorry that she hadn’t listened to Andromeda, the military genius who’d won every war she’d ever fought, and sorry that she’d been so inordinately idealistic about war, where everything is fair and the victors make the only rules long after the fight has ended. Andromeda played with fire, but she did it well; Acidalia just sat there surrounded by gasoline and matches, wondering what she should do.

Whatever. There was a time for diplomatic relations and a time for mushroom clouds, and Andromeda would be getting her way soon. If there was anything her life had taught her, it was that there are some situations where violence is the only answer—and if this war continued on the trajectory it was heading towards, it would be time for mushroom clouds very soon.

[videogamelover99]

The Oracle

A/N: I bring you the thing I had wanted to write in like forever: the saltiest reunion yet. But come on, did you really think I’d leave this character out? Not a chance.

Based on Flat Dreams by @pengychan. AU by @doodledrawsthings. Enjoy.

Part 1

Part 2 

“He is awake.”

“So soon?” Jheselbraum casts a look at at dimension 46’/, where Mabel Pines reaches to shake the hand of the monster they defeated only a year or so ago. “I would have expected at least a few more centuries.”

“I’m sure you know that time is relative.” The is a tone of amusement in the Ancient’s words. “It has been a lot longer than that.”

The Oracle takes that in, watching the events in Stanford’s home dimension play out, and hums in amusement, “‘A different form’,” she repeats to herself, “You couldn’t resist the irony, could you?”

The Axolotl chuckles, “Rather fitting, considering the many times humanity was deceived by him.”

“And who brought him to his demise.” she mutters. It is strange, seeing the used to be triangle in a completely different form, and she feels a certain satisfaction when he starts to panic, staring at his newfound body in shock. That’s when Mabel Pines finally collects herself, putting her grappling hook to good use. “Looks like the universe is giving its tormentor a warm welcome.”

Another chuckle. “What will you do now?”

She shrugs, her gaze still aimed at the two small Pines twins as they argue on what to do. She’d waited for a trillion years to see her mistakes paid for. And now, when Bill Cipher is finally getting what’s coming for him, she can’t help but feel a bit overwhelmed. Interfering now seems too soon. She’ll stay, and wait her turn. For now, she has her own personal comedy to watch. If the Pines family handles him as well as they had so far, then she has nothing to worry about. Besides, she has a feeling her meeting with Bill Cipher wasn’t that far away. A brief glimpse in the future tells her as much.

Then she’ll rub his loss in his eye. Or eyes. Seems like he has two now.

“I’ll stay.” she answers finally, turning to her friend. “A confrontation now doesn’t seem all that appealing.”

“It’s your choice.” the Axolotl seems to have expected that from her. He gives a farewell nod before leaving. The temple seems quiet now, but it doesn’t matter. There is a calm relief, now that Bill would not be posing a threat to anyone. And a certain anticipation, an emotion the Oracle hadn’t felt in a very long time. She will wait, then. After a trillion years, waiting doesn’t seem that hard at all.

…

“Wait, so you’re the one that helped my uncle defeat Bill, right?”

“That would be me, yes.” Dipper Pines is, as Jheselbraum soon finds out, extremely likable. He’s smart, resourceful, and has a thirst for knowledge not unlike that of his great uncle. In only a few hours the boy manages to ask enough questions to fill a star system. She tries her best answering all of them, seeing as how they are somewhat predictable, yet some just have her at a loss of words.

“Can I get your autograph??”

“Um…”

“NEVERMIND THAT!” Mabel literally jumps in the conversation, pointing an accusing finger at her. “Tell me, if you’re really an oracle, how come you don’t speak in rhyme?”

“Mabel, this isn’t Percy Johnson-”

“Shush, this is an important question.”

While the younger Pines twin is subdued but thoughtful, the older one is the complete opposite. She’s loud, lively, and a welcome change to the usual quiet of the temple. Unlike her brother, the questions Mabel asks are often slightly absurd even for the Oracle.

“It would be a pointless amount of effort to do so.”

The girl seems to think it over, then nods approvingly. “Fair enough. Okay, but why are you purple?”

“…Symbolism.”

Mabel gives another satisfied nod, “Gotcha.” Her brother looks even more confused.

The Oracle’s attention is briefly torn away from the children as she casts an unimpressed look at the balcony, where her third visitor sits with his back to her, trying his best to ignore all three of them. “He’s always like that.” Mabel supplies. “Plus, you know, you kinda helped defeat him and all that junk. He’s probably still mad about that.”

“Of course.” Her tone turns cold, and the twins seem to flinch slightly at that. The Oracle noticeably softens her demeanor. “Why don’t you two go explore?” she asks instead, careful to keep her voice friendly. Often times she ends up intimidating the mortals she converses with, and while that’s understandable, it mostly makes her conversation with them…awkward. She’s sure not to make the same mistake with the Pines children.

Judging by the brightened looks on both of their faces, that shouldn’t be a problem. “Oh, we did,” Dipper confesses eagerly, “though most of your books aren’t in English, so kinda hard to..read. I wrote some stuff down though, so-”

“And I found a lazer gun!” Mabel cuts off her brother, “Or I think it was a lazer gun. Maybe it’s a can opener…it looks like a gun. And you’ve got a lot of weird gadgets, lady. Where do you get them all, some kinda sci-fi black market?”

“Yes, a lot of the parts come from…interesting places.” she smiles, the two lower eyes crinkling in amusement. The girl’s enthusiasm seems to be contagious, and the Oracle doesn’t mind at all.

“Wait, so what kind of stuff do you actually have? Can you show me? I mean, you don’t have to I just- yeah sorry, it’s just so cool.”

That is flattering, extremely so, despite the fact that the boy is slowly running out of air. “I’ll be glad to show you sometime, but for now, I’m sure you’d want to see what the rest of this dimension is like.” The Oracle gestures toward the balcony, where far below them the valley extends into the fading sun on the horizon. The village lights were just starting to appear, blinking serenely in the distance.

The two human children stare at her dimension in silence, before Mabel brakes it with a whoop of joy. “YES! Wait…” she glances back down at the settlement warily, “It’s not gonna be like last time, right? Cause we kinda pissed off an alien princess, and then these giant buff guards started chasing us. Through one of them was kinda cute…”

“Correction, Bill pissed her off.” Dipper glares at the figure who made himself comfortable on her terrace.

“Bill pisses everybody off.” the boy’s twin shrugs. “I don’t know what’s so surprising.”

“Good point.”

After she assures them that her dimension is one of the safest they could possibly visit, Jheselbraum  hands both of them translators and sends them on their way. To think that the two were running around without one. No wonder their journey hadn’t been that pleasant.

The woman finally turns her attention to the elephant in the room. Bill Cipher. The monster she’d worked most of her trillion year old life to defeat is now sitting on her stoop like it’s nothing, so the least she could do is give him a nice warm welcome. The Oracle fixes her seven-eyed stare on the back of his head, silently watching. The tension in the room winds up, ready to burst as soon as one of them speaks. Of course, the one that eventually does is Bill. “Whatever you gotta say, say it already.” he doesn’t turn around, but she can tell by his tone he is angry. That is not surprising in the least.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Oh come on! What, don’t even wanna gloat about anything? That stupid piece of metal in Sixer’s head, maybe? Or maybe that unicorn spell you were so eager to share with him? Don’t think I didn’t notice it was you.” the demon finally turns around to give her a humorless sneer. Jheselbraum, in turn, keeps her expression calm, devoid of any fury she might be feeling right now. That only seems to fuel his own anger. “Let me guess: the big frilly got you those eyes, didn’t he? I betcha you’re one of the guys whose dimensions I freed, right? And you were pissed because you couldn’t take a little change. So he offered you some kinda deal, to “stop his chaos”, yada yada, and you took it because you were so eager to play hero. Did I get it right? I bet I did, didn’t I?” he fixes her a mirthless smile. It seems like Cipher tried his hardest to find the words that would best get a reaction out of her. To be fair, it was a pretty good try. But considering that it’s exactly what the Oracle expects from him, it doesn’t prove to be very effective.

“Yes. I suppose there’s some truth in it.” As tempted as she is, she doesn’t mention that the dimension he destroyed was hers as well. So far, Bill Cipher did not give any hint that he knows her identity. She’d like to keep it that way, for the time being. It’s interesting to see how long it will take until he figures it out. Perhaps he won’t. It has been a trillion years after all, easy for him to forget. “Though some respect could be shown for the Ancient. He’s the reason you’re still here, after all.”

“Oh yeah, thanks! Feels great to be me again! Except I’m not, am I?” Bill raises his voice almost to the point of shouting, and it echoes through the temple, leaving an uncomfortable heat in the air. “SO YEAH, THANKS FOR PUTTING ME IN THIS USELESS SKIN PUPPET.”

“The alternative would be death.” Though you deserve a lot worse than that.

Bill falls silent, turning away abruptly to stare at the valley below. It isn’t hard to guess what he is thinking, she spent too much time observing him not to know. In this body he is mortal, the maximum he could live is 6 or 7 more decades. A long time for most, but for beings like themselves, it was nothing but a blink. To Bill, this form is nothing but prolonging the inevitable. No doubt it scares him.

Good.

“So, which dimension was it, anyway?” he asks suddenly, faking amusement. “22? 1.357? 666/513? Oooh, I bet it was one of those flowery, happy-go-lucky ones like this one, huh? Too bad it’s ALL GONE NOW. The nightmare realm’s got more use for it than the idiots that lived there.” he pauses, turning to stare viciously in all seven of her eyes. “And you’re still here, taking the ‘moral highroad’ or whatever. Helping people. And what did they ever do for you, huh? Nothing. Soon enough they’ll forget all about you, because mortals only care about what concerns them. So you’ve ‘defeated me’, congrats. Here’s a gold star, you’re free to go. What now, Seven-Eyes? Too bad nobody knows what you did, right? Nobody cares. You’ll just stay here, alone, dancing to his tune. Hope you’re HAPPY about that.” Jheselbraum casts long, cold look back at the demon. It seems that the horrifying one-eyed beast is now reduced to nothing but a pathetic kicked puppy, whose bark is far worse than his bite. Though the Oracle has to admit, it’s a bit impressive. For him, this is technically the first time they’ve ever met, and Cipher still finds something about her that actually hits its mark.

There’s a temptation to march over to the demon and shake him, to give him a harsh reminder that the only reason he is still alive is because of the mercy of those whom he has wronged. To rub his loss in his face, to remind him that he is nothing but a pathetic little man now, with not even a scrap of the power he had before. Nora wants to take all those millennia of hurt and hopelessness and anger and hurl it back in his stupid ignorant face, and make him feel at least a fraction of what she felt because of him. That was what she had planned to do.

But something holds her back.

Spotting the hesitancy, Bill looks ready to spout something else, but loses his nerve when she shoots one look at him. The Oracle finds herself fiddling with her pendant, a nervous habit she had developed a few millenia ago. It catches the demon’s eye, and from the corner of her vision she can see him staring at it, an unreadable look on his face. She drops her hand, leaving to tinker with one of her personal projects, though her attention is elsewhere, and the action seems more like a need to keep herself busy than anything else. After an eternity of waiting, that method of occupying her time seems common to her. All she does is wait, and the Oracle can’t help but feel frustrated just at the familiarity of it. She waited most of her existence to see Bill Cipher defeated, and waited for the right moment to rub that defeat in his face. But now, she can’t even bring herself to say anything, and the waiting game begins anew. Except now she is waiting for the twins to come back, and hopefully distract her from the thoughts of the past that keep on surfacing, despite her best efforts to snuff them out.

And, as if to her own silent plea, the children do come back, holding an assortment of trinkets that they seem to have acquired free of charge and chatting amiably with each other. “You’re such a nerd, Dip Dop!”

“Hey! This thing could be really useful, you know?” Dipper waves a small book around, and Jheselbraum could just make out the title: A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Multiverse.

Well. At least he would get a laugh out of it. Once the disappointment clears away.

“Besides,” the boy continues, “who gets a freaking pillow when they visit another dimension?”

“Actually,” the Oracle gestures at the woven mass of cloth in Mabel’s arms, “It’s a bagpipe.”

“Ooh,” the girl looks down at her new-found souvenir. “So like an interdimensional bagpipe?”

“No, a regular one.” The two blink simultaneously down at the object.

“How did it-”

“Who cares!” Mabel squeezes the instrument in a strange sort of hug, making it emit a small tooting noise. “I’m keeping it!”

“Alright, just make sure not to break it.” the Oracle smiles at the girl. Yes, Mabel Pines is extremely likable. There is a sort of nostalgic feel she can’t shake away when taking to the child, though in all honesty she cannot place where it’s coming from. “I believe it is time for you to be heading back. Your family is extremely worried about you.”

“Oh man,” Dipper drops the books he’s been holding and grips the sides of the hunting hat he’s wearing. “The Grunkles! They’re probably freaking out right now. Mabel, we gotta go back! Uh-” he turns to her pleadingly. “How do we go back?”

The Oracle reaches for something cluttered among the shelves that she’s been saving a while ago for this exact occasion. She hands it to the boy carefully. “These are dimensional scissors. They would be able to get you back to your dimension safely. But,” she explains as the two twins look at them quizzically. “These are only good for three uses. So please don’t go joyriding.”

“Aye aye, captain!” Mabel salutes playfully. “Hey Bill, quit sulking, it’s time to go home!” The demon, who left her balcony a while ago to stare at the hydrodisplacer she had assembled a few weeks before with mild interest, turns to look back at the girl with a confused sort of frown. “Home?”

“You know, the Shack!”

“Oh, right.”

Dipper inspects the scissors. “It looks like one of those kiddie ones for arts and crafts. Uh, no offence,” he remarks quickly at her, blushing in embarrassment, “It’s just- how do you use them? Just cut the air or-?”

Bill stanches them away with an annoyed growl, dismissively slicing through the fabric of reality, leaving behind a glowing blue cut where spacetime had divided to provide a pathway through. “Great, LET’S GO.”

“Wait!” Mabel looks back at the woman, still clutching the slightly battered bagpipe. “We’ll meet again, right?”

Jheselbraum winks with three of her eyes. “Sooner than you think.”

The girl beams, waving one last time, before fearlessly dragging a nervous looking Dipper and an impatient looking Bill right through the portal.

“I’ll be watching you, Norm.” The demon freezes at the nickname, turning around to look back at her in newfound shock. Or more exactly, at her pendant. His eyes then dart up to her face, a realization in them that is hard not to catch on to. He opens his mouth to say something, only to be dragged into the portal by Mabel’s impatient grip. The Oracle watches the three disappear, and then the rip in reality closes, leaving the temple quiet and empty once again.

And for the first time in a trillion years, she breaks down laughing.

…

A week passes by before Bill Cipher finally returns, dimensional scissors in hand and looking ten times more livid than before.

“I take it you’ve figured it out by now.” She says, calmly watching the demon out of the corner of her bottom left eye. Cipher looks like he’s just about ready to break something, and her relaxed demeanor only seems to fuel his unrelenting anger. She tries not to smile in amusement.

“I thought you were dead.”

The last word seems to hover heavily in the air for a moment, and the Oracle blinks in surprise, turning around fully to stare back at her visitor. Enacouraged by her stunned silence, Bill keeps going, his volume growing with every word. “A TRILLION YEARS, and not even a ‘hey Bill, how’s it going? By the way, I’m totally fine, living it up in my fancy mansion on a freaking mountain, not a pile of dust and ashes at all, WHY WOULD YOU THINK THAT?’ SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE HELL, NORA?”

She pushes back her surprise and tries not to wince at that name, the one she hadn’t heard in quite a while. “Is that what you are mad about?”

“Oh trust me, I’ve got a whole list. THAT just takes the cake. I thought you were dead, and you just show up like it’s no big deal with your-haha-” he cuts himself off with laughter, gripping a nearby column to keep himself upright. “Wow, okay. The whole ‘wise, ancient oracle’ shtick? Real clever of ya, Nora, hard to guess it was you under all that.” he sobers up then, renewing his glare.

“That’s not my name anymore.” she remarks, watching as he sputters indignantly.

“No your- are you serious?” Bill throws his hands up. “That’s THE MOST CLICHE THING I EVER HEARD YOU SAY. WHERE DID YOU GET THAT FROM, SOME B-RATED SOAP OPERA??” He points an accusing finger in her direction. “OH YEAH, LIKE ‘JHESELBRAUM’ IS WAY BETTER. IS YOUR LAST NAME YOUR POSTAL ADDRESS, TOO?”

She blinks, considering how off kilter this conversation is going. Then again, this is Bill. “I…don’t think that’s relevant.”

“NO IT ISN’T! But you wanna know what is? YOU TRYING TO KILL ME!”

This is a little more of what she had expected. Jheselbraum’s expression turns from surprised to cold once again. “Actually, I believe I’ve succeeded.” The way he opens and closes his mouth, not knowing what to say, makes her snort under her breath. “What, the great Bill Cipher has nothing to say now? And here I thought you were a maser with words.” She looks away to examine the edge of her sleeve. “I guess dying changed that.”

“YOU- WHY WOULD-”

“Why do you think?” The spark of anger, the one that’s been death for so long finally ignites, and burns in a cold, unmasked fury as the Oracle slowly walks up to him. Bill notices the change, and almost subconsciously backs away a few steps as she looms over him. “I watched dimensions burn and people die just because you thought it might be fun. Do you know how many I’ve met that suffered because of you? Stanford Pines was no where near the worst case, oh no. There were people whose minds you’ve shattered completely because you felt like it. Beings whose scars were too deep to ever heal, and I had to put them back together again. So many I’ve watched that suffered because of my mistake, because I believed what you promised me. And what did you promise me, Bill?”

Make it worth something.

I will.

“Well, did you?”

Bill, who had been glaring at her as she talked, flinches away at that as if she were yelling, despite her voice being only slightly above a whisper. He looks to the side, biting his lip and not saying a word, and even though her mind is now clouded with anger Jheselbraum can’t help but notice how strange it is. The scenario she had seen had Bill yell back at her, defending the chaos he created, and giving her an excuse to throw him off her mountain.

He does none of those things, and it strikes the Oracle just how different this seems to be from how he had acted a week ago. And she berates herself for all this time not even taking a glance at Gravity Falls, because she has no idea what could have possibly happened to make him act this way.

“So, you’re not happy about that.”

Jheselbraum blinks down at him, and resists the sudden urge to laugh. “Now why would you think that?” she asks, the anger no longer present. She is still looming over him, and Bill only seems tense, something between fear and disappointment in his expression. The Oracle takes a small moment to note just how small he is compared to her. Nothing like the terrifying demon he made himself to be. She steps back finally, giving him space to breathe. Bill straightens out, only to fiddle with the sleeve of his sweater awkwardly. The bright yellow color and the big, black eye on the front has Mabel’s handiwork written all over it. That girl is a bit too open, a bit to accepting for her own good. “If you have something to say to me, say it now. Those scissors only have one more use, after all.”

That is an unsubtle message to get out. Bill takes it without comment. “You kept it.” he says instead, gazing at the pendant she’s wearing. The original grey has been gone for a long time, replaced with an intense dark purple that seems to absorb all light. So he still remembers it as well, despite how different it looks now. She regards the necklace with a detached sort of acceptance and offers him no explanation, partly because she is tired, the anger draining most of her energy, and partly because she has none. “You can go now,” is all she says instead. “The sun is almost rising.”

“Fine.” He says not without a hint of rejection. There is a sound of reality splitting at the seams, and then he is gone.

Jheselbraum gazes at the brightening hizon, watching as the sun showers Dimension 52 in a gentle golden glow. Her grip is on her pendant. It’s like the layers of hurt she kept buried for eons had emerged again, and the Oracle doesn’t quite know what to do. So she stares at the valley down below, and tries not to think about the conversation that just happened.

“He is still angry.” Well, that proves to be futile, and she turns to face her second visitor with a small frown. The Axolotl makes a sound not unlike a sigh, and his presence does seem to soothe the soothsayer somewhat. “I’m sure you aren’t very surprised at that.”

“What…happened?” she asks instead, eyes still directed at the horizon line. She absentmindedly rubs her pendant, and realizes that she is anxious. “Why is he-?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him that yourself.” she could hear the slight smile in the being’s voice. “His bubble cracked, and of course the All-Seeing Eye was not left unscathed. No matter what he wishes you to believe.” He regards her patiently for a while, before his gentle voice breaks the silence once again. “Will you join them?”

Jheselbraum finally tears away from the scene outside to look at the piece of parchment that had made it to her only a short time ago. Stanford Pines had found a way to reach a dimension as remote as hers, and the Oracle can’t help but be impressed. “In a while,” she replies, hand on her pendant once again. “I…need to think.”

There is a silent acknowledgement, and then she is alone again. One of the few things Bill had gotten right simply by looking at her. In the silence, there is finally nothing to distract the Oracle from her concerns, and for once the concerns are about the past as much as they are about the future. Well, no, that wasn’t quite true. The future still worried her a whole lot more, and for good reason. The Oracle makes the mistake of, once again, glancing at what lies ahead.

And sees nothing but flames.

[awkwardtimezone]

Sparring Practice (Caspira/Laz’ab)

((Another oooooooooooooooold RP log I should have gotten around to editing way sooner. Following his doctor’s orders, Laz’ab needs to prepare his body for the upcoming stress before he can receive his new cybernetics. Caspira, as usual, becomes his reliable punching bag.

Really just an excuse to see these two duke it out.))

The shadows were long and the sun had since dropped below the horizon of cramped buildings, cliffs, and ramshackle lots by the time the hooded figure made his way down the boardwalks of Rishi. Despite the pirate hub’s tireless energy he mostly ignored the jeers of the locals, the hawking of the marketplace, walking with purpose through the labyrinth of sordid characters. Somewhere a merchant heckled him for refusing to glance at his wares, a man barked offense but was met by his retreating back when attempting to goad a fight, and a Kowakian monkey-lizard brought a brief flash of familiarity to those red eyes before they swept past.

Finally, he found it.

The last glimmer of sunset had bruised the sky a thick blue-black by the time he pulled up in his speeder, having left the heart of the city behind him. She’d done a right good job disguising the exterior of the cave, lush foliage and old transport crates hiding the gleam of a ship’s sleek sides beneath. It’s once impeccable slopes had dulled over the years, marred by filth and paints. But it was her ship alright, and Laz’ab always found his Shadow.

There was a knock at the door that Caspira wasn’t expecting. Visitors were not only rare but entirely unwelcome, and she’d gone to great pains to be as unfriendly as possible short of some serious stabbing incidents out on the docks. Less-than-serious seemed to serve a good enough indication that she wanted to be left alone. Nobody had bothered her in weeks and the knock at the door had her hackles up almost immediately.

Rishi had been the safest place to relocate and it had been with a serious amount of thought that she had grounded her Phantom years ago. It avoided unwanted attention from the major powers of the current galaxy, but put her in a more vulnerable position. Swiveling away from the medbay’s workbench she pulled her beaten jacket over her shoulders and shoved her hat down over her head, grabbing up the blaster set on the hook near the door, and flipped the safety off as she reached the handle.

“Piss off!--Oh.”

Tattooed brows arched upwards as he shot her a dry glare. “... Your hospitality is somewhat lacking since last I remember it.”

Caspira decided not to touch that one, instead flicking the safety back on and opening the door wider by way of invitation. “I wasn’t expecting anybody worth offering hospitality.”

He followed her into her ship as she set the weapon back in its handy spot by the door. “Nice place. The smell of grophet shit almost completely drowns out the odour of unwashed pirates.”

“The locale isn’t ideal, but it is out of sight from those who might cause trouble. Pirates are far easier to deal with than Skytroopers.” It had been a little while since she’d seen the Sith, and last time he had been little more than a skeleton propped up on wires. Laz’ab up and about on his own feet once more was … well, she wasn’t entirely sure. Good, yes, but until she could shake loose his intentions and goals she wasn’t sure how to take his little visit.

“It’s good to see you up and about, my Lord.” It was sincere enough, and as she closed the door behind him she took the opportunity to give him a brief once-over. “What brings you to this corner of the system?”

“You, as always,” Laz’ab drawled. The sarcasm was strong with this one. “What, can’t a Dark Lord visit his Shadow just because he misses her?”

Caspira had briefly forgotten how close his call in the tombs had been. She was reminded sharply of the limb he’d lost when his single remaining arm reached out and ran a hand over the walls of her ship, his other shoulder ending in a folded sleeve. Though looking much healthier than he had been in the recovery ward, his plain black robes did little to hide his ribs, and his spine appeared like rows of small spikes when he arced.

His sharpened nails traced over panels and curves as though checking they were actually there, basking in the ship’s familiarity.Things had been so up in the air since he was pulled out of Korriban he’d hardly had a moment to rest. His estate on Dromund Kaas was a ruin at best, and his chief of security saw them constantly uprooted in an effort to remain undetected.

With a hint of a smile the twi'lek made his way to the sofa in the far corner. He’d spent more than a few sleepless nights on this thing … it seemed like forever ago now, but he could still see the stitches where she’d had to repair it following one of his more extreme episodes. After a moment of indulgence to soak in the memories he turned to face her, leaning against the couch.

“Looks like you’ve been doing well for yourself.”

Caspira had trailed him into the ship like the Shadow she was, watching him circle through the main room. He seemed calm, collected, put together … her eyes inevitably roved to the shoulder of his missing arm but the robes disguised whatever loss he still suffered. Deliberate, she knew, and wondered how he might be faring with that particular detail.

Eyes moving to his own she shrugged out of the beaten jacket and hat she kept around to better look the part of the pirate. “I’m faring well enough. I’m alive, I’m safe, and I’m off the radars for the most part. The downside to remaining this quiet means I haven’t accomplished anything either, though. Whispered information, small actions. It doesn’t seem enough.”

There was no reason to be evasive with him. What she had to say was mostly the truth. “Helping little rebellions, hoping they’ll grow into larger ones. In any case, you look like you’re adjusting well to being back in action.”

“Being confined to a sickbed for months does make the body jittery,” he muttered in wry agreement. If he felt any loss at the absence of his arm he masked it well enough, though the shoulder would occasionally shrug as though attempting to perform a gesture it no longer could.

His remaining arm swept out in a broad arc. “In any case, this is good news for me, because if you’re not up to anything then maybe you have time to help me with something …”

“Inactivity can be a challenge.” Lips pursed thoughtfully, Caspira stepped towards him while staying outside of the personal bubble he always maintained. Clasping her hands behind her back she assumed a relaxed position of attentiveness. “You know you can always count on me to assist. What is it you need me to do?”

Laz’ab’s lips cracked into a grin. “I have a cure for inactivity, but I need your help finding a place. I’ve been instructed to train in preparation for receiving the cybernetic replacement for my arm, but my base is little more than a crater in the ground. Sorvik and I have yet to find a new location suitable for our needs.”

A finger tapped thoughtfully at his chin. “You must keep in shape, Cipher, despite severed loyalties. Show me where.”

“New arm?” Her expression shifted to curiosity as she leaned to the side, as if looking from another angle might afford her a better look. Knowing Laz’ab she was prepared to see any manner of monstrosity attached to the stump of his missing arm, something nightmarish and metal, maybe with an arachnid theme.

He squirmed a little under the gaze, wiggling his stump beneath the robes. “It’s not with me. I had my first appraisal from the new doctor, Sorvik and I just got done commissioning it,” he explained somewhat dejectedly, clearly hoping to have resolved the issue sooner. “She doesn’t seem to think my current … physique will be able to handle the extra weight. I’ve got all sorts of fun supplements to take and homework to do.”

Clearing her throat she straightened back up. “I don’t have as much space here as I did in my apartment on Kaas, but the cargo bay does double duty as open space to keep in practice.” Giving him a small wave to follow, she turned and headed back down the hall to the back of the ship.

The Sith slunk after her, his footfalls barely audible as he utilized his training on Korriban. He peered around the corner, appraising the room. It was typically a very cluttered cargo bay, but there was some order to it now, crates and boxes stacked wall to the ceiling while the open floor was padded with thin training mats. With the ship stationary for so long there was no need to anchor anything, and a few bits of equipment were scattered about the open space. It was a lot smaller than he had hoped for, but it would serve its purpose.

“Though if you’re feeling in need of a more realistic target, the wilds out there are full of all sorts of beasts. Those on two legs and otherwise.”

He followed Caspira into the bay and unclipped his cloak from his shoulders, tossing it into the corner on top of some of her things. Out there the planet was crawling with all manner of nasties, he wanted to control the variables as he eased himself back into the fight.

“That’s alright,” he said, “I have a realistic target right here.” A flash of red eyes and a grin.

“Hm, I suppose that makes enough sense, though a mock-up might be more helpful in assisting you, regaining ability and balance with that side of your body.” She moved to the other side of the room and began some warm-up stretches, eyes on Laz’ab as she dipped and bent. “But you know you can count on me to help you regain some of your former limber speed.”

Grinning in return, she scuffed her feet on the mats and flexed her fingers. “I’d recommend doing a bit of stretching first if your goal is to avoid undue strain.”

“She only just got the blueprints. I was only satisfied once I’d handed them over in person.” Circling around the room, he took a place opposite the former Cipher agent and stretched, imitating some of her routine. It felt awkward at times, and his lips curled absently with every sensation from his phantom limb.

He was still still clad head-to-toe in his long robes, brushing just past his ankles. Despite the extra maneuverability of Caspira’s more practical ensemble--flexible pants and loose shirt--Laz’ab was stubbornly fond of his robes and insisted on fighting in them, though he pulled off his boots. He set them to one side and swept up a long wooden staff from among the bundle of practice dummies and weapons.

“What do you think, Twelve? Think you can take me?”

Caspira bit her tongue as the first acidic response came in reference to his missing arm. While they were typically almost ruthless with their conversational sparring that seemed a mark too far just yet. “Is Rishi full of pirates?”

Kicking off her boots, she grabbed up a shorter sparring blade more representative of a standard length saber, giving it a quick twirl to gauge the balance. “I think this will probably benefit the both of us, it’s been a while since I’ve gone up against anyone of your particular talents and skills.”

Giving him a quick little beckoning gesture to begin, she lunged in first. Starting slow a bit easy to give him the opportunity to find his balance, she swept the blade toward him a smooth arc. He ducked away easily, twirling backwards in a graceful half-pirouette but for a slight stumble in footing. Easily rectified and hardly noticeable, the twi’lek flicked his wrist and brought his own staff up to knock hers aside with a quirky little sneer of his own. He crossed his legs in another sidestep and threw a few more jabs in her direction. They were short, harmless passes intended to get them both in the motion, slowly acclimatizing to using his non-dominant hand.

Unencumbered by a missing limb and time lost in limbo, Caspira was still rather well in her prime so far as fitness and ability went, sidestepping and bringing her blade up to block his own, sliding it harmlessly off to the side as she flowed into a familiar old fighting stance. Gradually working toward full speed, she kept slashing and swiping at the Sith lord with the practice blade.

“Better than I thought, keep at it.”

Laz’ab bared sharpened teeth despite himself when the practice staff wobbled with the blow, the unfamiliar weight cumbersome in his untrained hand. The frustration was only compounded by his inability to reach out with the other, to grip the handle with both and attack as he would have. The rest of his skills, however, had only been sharpened in his fight to survive in the tombs. His feet moved with a mind of their own and fell back on memorized feints and steps. He ducked beneath an oncoming blow, racing past the former agent before spinning, straightening up in the same movement, and lashing out with the staff at her unprotected back.

“Thank you, I did practice. Five years is a long time to go mad with boredom.”

The movement was not entirely unexpected, Caspira had sparred and fought with Laz’ab before, but she hadn’t figured he would move into that sort of combative aggression quite so soon. Bringing her blade up and about, she managed to catch the edge of his staff, clipped by the blow instead of taking it fully. Hissing, she crouched and slid back away, practice blade flashing toward him with an expert twist of the wrist. Bringing her free hand around to lock to the hilt, she increased the ferocity of her blows bit by bit.

“That makes sense of course …”

That arrogant smirk was slowly creeping back across his face when she came at him more aggressively, though he was forced to take a step back as he found himself struggling with the parry. The edge of her blade nicked him more than once and he lunged to press the attack, and if he still had both hands he might have lashed out with his claws by now on impulse. As it was he was forced to rely on his training, and was breaking out in a sweat.

“You’re not bad yourself, for a former agent with a penchant for firearms. Been practicing with your trophy lightsabers while I’m not around?” That sounded a tad dirtier than he’d intended.

Two arcing blows on either side, aiming to knock her arms before he spun, locked the staff under his arm, and shoved it backwards into her chest.

“No, without the Force using a lightsaber is a danger,” Caspira huffed as she backpedaled and dodged the first of his blows. “I’m as likely to hurt myself as achieve anything--”

If she’d meant to say anything else it was lost when his staff struck her square in chest, driving her back a few steps but more importantly driving the air out of her lungs in a sharp ‘whuff’ of breath. Even so she backed off with a quick snap of a counter-blow, batting his staff away with her blade and ducking down to draw in a lungful of air.

He pranced away to the back of the room like an elated child when his blow struck home, watching with a glint in his eye as the former agent caught herself, hands on knees, sucking down air. “You never were one to let risk stop you,” he grinned. “You throw yourself head-first into danger all the time!”

“Good hit,” she wheezed, holding a hand in a gesture of timeout as she stopped to catch her breath. He used the time to better acclimatize with the staff, hewing it through the air. Perhaps jumping straight to the saberstaff had been a bad idea, he usually needed both hands even when he was using his own saber, but he wanted to prove so badly he was still just as capable as before.

After a moment Caspira dropped back into a ready posture and nodded at the Sith--point to Laz’ab. Her eyes narrowed as she took a good look at him, grinning faintly. Time to step it up. And once he was ready she lunged in with a rapid series of feints and strikes, attempting to drive him back and get past his strained guard.

All future thoughts were dashed out of his mind when she came at him again, landing a few knocks on his arms and smacking his knuckles so he hissed and twirled back, feeling his fingers ringing. They were doing well, both of them calm and collected and holding their tempers evenly. Even as she drove Laz’ab back, the agent kept an eye on him, gauging his mood with each pressing swing even as she kept herself in check. There was no need to escalate things emotionally when all they were doing was a bit of practice, a bit of training.

Distracted as he was by holding her off, he didn’t notice how far he was backing him up until it was too late and his back came up against the wall. Struggling with the weight of his weapon there was no room for comebacks, he had to lock one end of the staff under his arm for stability and huffed as he just barely blocked another blow. Pinned against the wall and desperate for space, he brought up one foot, planted it on her chest, and shoved.

Braced against the wall as he was, his foot caught her square in the chest and she rolled with the kickback, hitting the ground at her hips, rolling to her shoulders, and off in a practiced little hop that landed her a bit unevenly on her feet. Hissing, she straightened and took a moment to stretch sore muscles. He was certainly providing her with a good workout. Blade at the ready, she began to circle about his position on guard and waiting for when he threw himself into action once more.

“Calculated risks, yes …” Her eyes remained on him, grip changing to one hand as she rolled her wrist and the blade with it. “But not careless risks …”

Laz’ab, for his part, found it interesting to experience first hand how Caspira moved. He rarely got to witness her at work in the field, if ever, and it had been such a long while since they last sparred. He could see at once what an asset she would have been to any of her previous Lords, such a pity it had never been him.

He also made mental notes of her techniques, similar to his own training in some regards but less … erratic? Her movements were precise, practiced, and calculated, her recovery elegant and fluid, not at all surprising considering the individual she was and her line of work. He got the sense some Sith relied too strongly on the Force and let their technique get sloppy.

Well, he wouldn’t be like them. After circling each other he sprang at her once more, cleaving downward through the air in an arc that made the staff whistle with frightening speed. He cleared the room in a single leap that betrayed the agility hiding beneath the loose robes and skinny physique.

Laz’ab always had been a dangerous mix of Force and fury, Caspira thought, more apt to unpredictability than what she (or anybody, really) could consider classical fighting. What he practiced and used as a fighting style should never have been quite so successful but it had always served him well. There was something new to it now, though, whatever order and finesse he’d picked up during his later training on Korriban had honed that wildness down into something dangerous.

She darted back as he cleared the length of the room, cursing herself for so trained a reaction when she could have gone forward instead. There was no blocking the staff but she diverted the full energy of the blow off an angled guard and fell back a step before trying to press in and take away whatever he may have used as recovery time. Blade shifting, she came in low and swung at his legs, dropping an elbow to try and get in past his guard.

The Sith hissed when she swung, cussing audibly as once more the weight of the staff and his missing limb culminated in a clumsy defense. He just barely stopped himself from lashing out with the Force out of reflex, instead blocking at the last minute. He was unable to stop both their staves from knocking him behind his knees, dropping to the floor before swerving and locking her staff in the crook of his leg. In pain from the attack but quick to recover, he twisted himself into a roll that disarmed them both.

If he had both hands he would have taken up her weapon. As it was he merely kicked them both aside and got back to his feet, using the quick break to wipe a claw across his brows.

“Not bad,” he huffed, visibly warmer beneath all his layers. He tugged at his collar for air, which hugged his neck right to his jaw, grimacing when he was unable to undo his own clasps. His form may have been streamlined in Korriban, but his anger and unpredictability was still very much there and cracked through the façade with each inconvenience.

Shoulders hunched and knees braced, Caspira was grateful for the break herself, huffing out a flat chuckle and glanced over to where her blade sat off to the side of the room. “You’re doing well. I don’t think we need to spar much. We might be going about it the wrong way.”

Moving off to the side of the room, she kept in motion. Stretching, hopping on the balls of her feet and bouncing her steps. “We don’t want to get you too used to fighting one-armed when you have a replacement coming, and if that doctor you saw just wants you to be in shape maybe a bit of target striking or stationary physical exertion will be enough to get you into whatever physical shape you wants you in.”

Pacing along the side of the room, she rifled through some of the other gear she had stockpiled. There would certainly be something close enough to a strike pad for her to wave around at him while he struck out at it. Making sure her intentions were casual, she gestured to the clasps he couldn’t quite get on his own.

“Would you like me to get those for you?” It was an easy offer, passing, easy for him to accept or decline.

“You want me to hit you without fighting back? That’s a first.” Still fumbling and scraping with his clothes he shot her a sharp little glare, pursed lips tight. Then his shoulders sagged in a submissive gesture. “Fine. I could use the Force but that would defeat the purpose of me being here,” he added almost defensively. “You’d think my time in the tombs would have helped me get used to this … problem.”

That was about as much heart-to-heart as Caspira was going to get. He allowed her to help him out of his shirt, discarding it with the rest of his effects. He retained his headgear, a vital piece he rarely took off. She knew vaguely that it was supposed to subdued the noises in his brain to manageable levels, but that was all he had told her. It also helped dampen the feeling of nakedness that washed over him for a moment. He kept his elbow-length wrap on the left arm, ending in his signature fingerless gloves, and his lower robes and belt. The rest was a jumble of straps, rings, clips, and fabric designed to make him look more imposing, small wonder he struggled to dress himself.

Now the agent could see for the first time the full extent of the damage. His torso was riddled with fresh, pink scars so large they were still in the process of healing even months after his stint in the hospital. They interrupted several tattoos, upsetting the symmetry of his body, but the Sith’s markings had never been a point of pride with him. Just another form of torture his master had subjected him to, nothing he earned, and they served as a constant reminder of his past. The most noticeable scar twisted through his right side, mutilating his flesh into a lumpy knot where presumably one of the creatures had literally bitten off more than they could chew. Despite numerous grafts it would take several more reconstructive surgeries to avoid hardening into a fleshy, uneven mass.

And then of course there was his right arm, missing almost entirely but for a superficial stump that twitched with some phantom gesture. It was wrapped in specialized gauze that stretched across his chest, keeping whatever tourniquet in place as he moved. And he was thin. Far too thin. No doubt this was what concerned the doctor, and it was clear he would need to put on much more weight before he could dream of attaching cybernetics. Caspira could practically count each rib and vertebrae on his back. His clothes hid his emaciation well enough, with his headpiece giving the illusion of broadening his shoulders, but without the rest of his ensemble it just made him look even more disproportionate.

The agent took her time taking in the Sith’s appearance, though didn’t linger so long as to make him uncomfortable, something that would have ended poorly for them both. Folding the shirt across a forearm, she moved to the other side of the room and laid them atop some stacked crates, digging into the contents until she found a chest plate that was light but still thick enough to do double duty as a strike pad. Turning back to him, she cracked a smirk and tossed her head a touch.

“You look as though you’ve been trying to survive my cooking,” she quipped, and hooked her arms into the plate’s back straps, bracing it in front of her. Despite being a whiz with a centrifuge and chemical compounds, the agent was an abhorrent cook … something Laz’ab had learned earlier in their partnership. A good portion of the stacked crates were standard bagged and canned survival rations: high calorie meals that would keep a person well fed if not gourmet.

“I’m not going to make myself a stationary target, but you should get a bit more of a beneficial workout this way than trying to learn to manage one-handed. That’s going to change soon enough. Once you’ve got your other arm set, come on back and we’ll go put it through the motions.” With the armor padding positioned in front of her chest and vital organs, she began to circle about the scarred twi'lek, inviting him to action. “Maybe even go wipe out some of the scum lurking about in the jungles.”

“Your cooking would have been preferable to the shit I had to eat in those caves,” he muttered, shooting the staves a morose look before reluctantly taking position across from her.

Though his previous saber ‘technique’--or lack thereof--had consisted mostly of desperate flailing, scratching, and savage mauling for his life, Laz’ab had returned to Korriban to complete his training prior to Zakuul’s invasion. He had taken his studies very seriously, actively improving both his understanding and connection to the Force and practicing his technique with a lightsaber every day. It felt odd going back to physical sparring now. Nevertheless he hunched down, bounced light across the balls of his feet, and lurched out with the first few hits.

“Raw k’lor’slugs … tuk’ata … shyrack or … squellbugs!” He lashed out and struck the pad with each name, a grimace on his face. “If I was lucky I could keep the corpse of the bigger creatures for maybe two days before drawing unwanted attention.”

Caspira made a face as she sidestepped about the area, giving Laz’ab a slowly moving target to strike at. Each swing he made, she braced for, at times shoving back with the padded plate to spice things up a little.

“I was stuck on this godless little swampland planet over the occupation,” She huffed, braced her arm up to absorb a strike and continued to move. “Just myself and one other agent for weeks. Supplies ran out, Skytroopers and Knights all over the place so no chance for extraction or resupply. Ended up eating these nasty little local bugs.” Another strike, another grunt. “Hard shells, slimy meat.” It wasn’t even close to the near-five-years of horror the twi’lek had suffered through, but those close calls and long missions had stacked up over time.

“How are you feeling? Sore, tired … ?”

Laz’ab grimaced briefly at her story, swiping and swinging and occasionally missing. He recovered quickly and corrected his mistakes. “At least you got out of there.” It sounded like the closest thing to genuine concern she was going to hear. The Eternal Empire had screwed everyone over and he wasn’t sure if he could quite come to terms with it. It still felt like he was standing in the middle of the fallout, his home and everything he knew in pieces around him, and yet some corners of the galaxy remained untouched, and life went on.

“I wasn’t in any fatal danger, not like you,” she explained between parries, finding little comparison between her own strained missions and the hell he had survived trapped in those old catacombs and tombs. “I had another agent there to watch my back for me. It was a relief when you were finally found.”

The Sith pursed his lips, lapsing into momentary silence as their separate fates mulled over in their minds. Eventually he changed the subject. “I see you’ve learned from your mistakes.” He nodded towards the stacks of preserved rations, and when she was slightly distracted he thrust his weight into his leg, landing a swift kick in the centre of the plate.

“I feel fine,” he added with a cheeky grin.

His kick connected with enough force to send her staggering back, feet scuffing on the hard flooring as she caught her balance once and let the plate drop, rubbing the sore spot at her chest with a wry smirk. Though he was itching to move after so long in a medical bed, Laz’ab relented, taking a step back and giving her time to recover. He was a little out of breath himself but, apart from the few snags with the staves, was satisfied that his form hadn’t completely gone to shit.

“Yes, you certainly seem fine. Is there anything specific that you’d like to work on or practice so long as we’re here?”

He idly picking at a scab on his chest. “Did you just say it was a relief to see me? Never thought I’d hear you say that … except if maybe you were held at gunpoint.”

He flashed teeth. “Force knows they tried. As for exercise, I don’t know. I’m supposed to be building muscle and putting on weight before the doctor will even consider fitting me with implants. Can I even put on weight?” He’d always been a waif of a Lord, something other Sith sometimes mistook for weakness. And paid for dearly.

“How much weight does that doctor expect you to put on before she gives you this arm of yours?” Scuffing the pad aside with the toe of a boot, Caspira turned to regard the always dangerously-thin-looking twi'lek with raised brows. “Or muscle for that matter?” Knowing at least a moderate amount about cybernetics and limb replacement, she moved to sit on one of the shorter crate stacks and rubbed her knuckles thoughtfully against her breastbone. “Enough to support the weight of a new arm, certainly, but unless it’s made of some truly heavy alloys it shouldn’t be too much.

“I would think that some nutritious food, a bit of physical exertion here and there in the form of workouts, sparring or even hunting would be enough to help you regain some of your former ability and mass. If she’s expecting you to bulk up to standard proportions for a male twi'lek, she’s going to be waiting quite some time.”

He looked less than enthused. “That’s what I was hoping to avoid. The sooner I’m whole again, the sooner I can focus on more important things. But it’s one of my own designs with several internal components. Doc reckons she’ll need to reinforce certain bones and muscles for me to even move the thing without tiring myself out.”

“Augmentation cybernetics should help to solve some of the weight distribution problems, and there are adjusters that you can map to nerves and tendons. It’s invasive though, I don’t think you’d want that sort of deep-surgery done. Which is likely why this doctor didn’t bring it up.” His torso was scarred enough, she doubted anybody that elected to put him under the knife really knew the entirety of what they would be dealing with. Replacing a missing limb was one thing, opening him up to install cybernetics would go beyond what was necessary and edging into excessive.

Rummaging through his utility belt, Laz’ab tossed a data chip her way. “If you’re curious, that’s the full design. I haven’t trusted her with it yet, she’s got a modified version of the file without the insides. The fewer who know of my intent, the better.”

Catching the chip, she pulled out one of her many datapads from around the room and fed it into the system. The three-dimensional hologram of a mechanical arm flittered into focus in front of her. It was sleek, mostly made of reflective materials overlapping and fitting together while imitating the direction and shape of where his muscles should be. Several indentations and patterns were etched across its surface, callbacks to the twi’lek’s deadly Widowmakers, and no doubt intended to glow their same warning colours. The design was simultaneously sharp and jagged, and sleek and practical. It boasted an optional shoulder piece capable of expanding or collapsing, that he could manipulate based on mood or intimidation tactics.

The hologram then deconstructed before her eyes and the plates fell away, revealing the intricate internal workings Doctor Odolys had not been privy to. The main hand, already constructed to resemble a claw and armed with spring-locked blades for nails, fell away and was interchanged with a series of even more brutal blades, needles, and hooks. It looked like he intended to carry some sort of poison or hallucinogen inside the compartment, and all the weapons could splay out at once in a grotesque bastardization of arachnoid horror. The entire structure was a weapon in and of itself.

Caspira opted for casual optimism. “That’s a lot lighter than the average models, but I can see why you would want to keep it that way. I’m not an expert in construction or installation of course but it seems entirely capable of meeting any needs you might have.” She set the datapad aside once more, ejecting the chip and offering it back.

Laz’ab caught the chit in midair, fingers folding around it. “That’s the intent. It has to be light, I need to be quick and quiet when I work. But all the special modifications could mean that by the time the insides are done I may need special counterweights just to balance it." He briefly considered his stump, as though mentally mapping the cybernetic horror on top of it. “I designed it with feedback from my engineers. I knew what I wanted but how to make it all work, that’s all them.”

“A shoulder harness will probably be a necessity for a while anyway, something to keep it comfortably in place without it pulling on all those newly altered muscles and nerves. I’m certain the Doctor already discussed that with you.” Caspira wasn’t a pro when it came to cybernetics, far from it. But she’d watched and observed a certain mercenary Commandant renew and adjust and even add to his collection over the years. Though Jean’s arm hadn’t been severed so close to the shoulder, there was still a lot of work that gone into proper seating, balance and functionality.

Not that she was going to bring up Jean here, no sir.

Knuckles brushing across her jaw as she considered, her glance dropped to the gaudy looking bracer she always wore. “Have you considered adding alchemical means to it? A little bit of Force anchored here and there might make it lighter or at least easier to handle.”

The Sith tilted his head and considered her with renewed interest. “You know about such things? The doctor we sought is Force blind. She seemed to think relying on the Force to would be tiresome and might risk an accident. If there was some way of doing that without maintaining a constant link to the Force, though …”

“There are all manner of different artifacts and talismans dealing with the Force, I’m sure there’s something that could be applied to the arm or the design to help it function in the way I’m thinking. Though she does have a point, there could be involved risk if you were to get over-stressed. Building in some sort of failsafe may help.”

Inquisitor Craiken had one of the largest collections of old antiquities she could think of, it would be possible he might have something she could use for this very purpose. “Sith of the past were fairly creative when it came to solutions for problems and considering that infighting, war and the injuries caused by both have been around forever … it’s not too far fetched to think there could be a focus or even an alchemical design that already exists. And if not, given time, one could probably be made.”

Laz’ab hugged his chest despite himself, absentmindedly seeking comfort as uncomfortable memories came trickling back--darkness, the echoes of his own screams ricocheting down writhing corridors, purple smoke seeping from shards of artifacts like claws as their secrets leaked into the air. They filled the room, filled his mind, crawling into his eyes, creeping down his throat to smother him.

A lekku twitched.

“Probably,” he echoed, as if he was elsewhere. He blinked and the red glaze cleared from his eyes, straightening up. “All the more reason to recover quickly. I’m going to need a proper base of operations before I can even start to research this. I haven’t been back to Dromund Kaas yet, but from what Sorvik tells me, there isn’t much to go back to.”

Caspira watched carefully as the twi’lek divided out from himself, dragged back to something she could only guess at. It wasn’t too difficult to think of what he might have been thinking about or even reliving and she mentally kicked herself for not considering his past versus her proposal. Hard times for them all. But he snapped out of it without much more than one little twitch, and she continued on as if nothing had happened.

“Dromund Kaas is the same as it always is and always will be. From the outside nothing has changed and the leadership pays the Eternal Throne their dues while Sith jockey for position and power. Darth Acina has a tight grip on the Imperial Throne.” Caspira sighed, an old and familiar frustration building. “Everybody goes about their lives pretending that we aren’t being watched, observed, searched. Pretending the Empire is still in charge of their own fate.”

Jaw clenched, she glanced up at Laz’ab. “I might suggest Tatooine, or even Alderaan. Zakuul’s glance isn’t so keen there anymore. Or here, of course. As long as you don’t mind the occasional interruption or attempt at piracy.”

Sitting now on a crate across from her, the twi’lek arranged his head-tails around his shoulders while she spoke, idly tracing over the patterns of his tattoos “Tsssk--typical of the Empire,” he hissed. “From what I’ve been told my compound was pretty much wiped off the map after Zakuul thought they finished me on Korriban, just tying up loose ends no doubt.

“Tatooine or Alderaan you say … pirates wouldn’t be a problem, at least I’d get frequent target practice. I doubt they give much stock here if their civilians go missing or turning up with their body parts rearranged.”

A poor attempt at a joke or dead seriousness, it was hard to tell.

Even knowing his sense of humor, Caspira was prepared to take the remark at face value. “I think it depends,” she hazarded with a faint little grin. “If they’re stupid enough to blunder into danger without taking proper precautions … well, I don’t think they spend too much time searching. If you start making a spectacle of the deaths and disappearances though, that might prompt somebody to start looking deeper. Still, it might be worth it to see.”

The last was a bit more hesitant. She’d seen what Lazab could do and had done to people during her stays and visits to the compound. It was a shame that it had been so badly damaged, over time it had almost become a second home.

“Pirates are predictable. Either nobody misses them and you never hear of it, or you get their crew suddenly out for blood but mostly too dumb to plan beyond a forward, head-on ambush. Eventually they wise up and leave you alone.”

“Sounds like the voice of experience,” he remarked dryly. “Do you need someone taken care of, Twelve? Been bothered by the locals?”

“Not anymore, no. You know how it is, I’m sure. Pirates operate quite a bit like Sith: a newcomer arrives on the scene and you need to test their ability, their drive, their willingness to defend themselves. Find out where they sit in the pecking order.” Caspira shrugged and absently nudged a bit of garbage away from the crates with a toe. “I was an unknown. Now they know that I’m a fixture here, not to be messed with but I’m not aggressive or planning expansion either.”

“Still,” she sighed with a touch of amusement. “You do get the dumb ones that can’t take a hint. They tend to come around every now and then. Hence my greeting you with a blaster earlier.”

He smiled wryly. “That could have ended badly. You’re lucky I’m so fond of you.” That one was definitely sarcastic.

With a groan Laz’ab stood up and stretched, feeling his muscles complain as they were finally put to good use. He folded back into his usual posture when his scar tissue tugged, hunched over with his hands like claws fidgeting by his sides.

“Since you don’t seem so keen on facing me again I guess we could call it quits tonight. Score one for Laz’ab,” he added under his breath.

Caspira chuckled as he finished and took the opportunity to stretch as well. “I could go on sparring with you if you wanted, but I don’t think it would benefit you. Why get you used to fighting one-armed only to have to do it all over again when you got your cybernetics?” Her wry smile was a little teasing.

“You’re welcome to the couch if you don’t want to trouble yourself with navigating this place at night, although I don’t think you’d be bothered if you did. I’d only watch out that you don’t hit a grophet. Those things can destroy a speeder, the dense little pigs.”

“You mean the target practice I saw dotting the landscape?” He raised a brow, collecting his clothes from the crate. He struggled to pull them on, using his teeth as he tried to maneuver his arm through the sleeve. For a while there he was little more than a flailing hand wriggling about as he gnawed and pulled at the fabric. “Fey fidn’t loof life fusch!” he grumbled.

Stepping over decisively, she hooked Laz’ab’s shirt up and over his skinny frame with much the same detached professionalism as she’d shown when she helped him get rid of it earlier. “You’ll rip something, either that shirt or a muscle.” A wry half-smile sneaking into place, she helped him wrestle the shirt into place before stepping back to let him rearrange it. “And yes, the little ones aren’t much a problem but they get large. Mostly they’re just too dumb to move when you come at them.”

“So like you when you’re sparring,” he drawled, returning her dry wit. “But since you offered, I will stay here. Remember that you have only yourself to blame when you wake up in the morning to a Sith sleeping on your sofa.”

“I move!” she quipped back and folded her arms across her chest, fingers tightening around her biceps as she thought briefly back to some of their old sparring matches, and the less friendly attacks of opportunity that seemed to happen when they got onto the wrong foot.

Smirking, she shifted her arms about and deftly curled her braid back around her neck as the coils snaked loose. “It’s been nearly half a decade since I woke to that particular sight. I might even be convinced to go out and net us some of that greasy dock chow.” Better than rations, anyway.

“Ooh, you really are settling down! First the cuisine, next showing me the sights … I don’t know if I trust your taste, after that sludge you call ‘food’.” He tapped his jaw mockingly, as though weighing the pros and cons of accompanying her.

“Keep that up and you’ll be having rations instead.” Moving to the stacked crates, she rifled through several of them until she came up with a spare blanket. Still bantering, she led the way down the hall and into the common area. That too had seen better days since being grounded, though it was still in good condition. The entire ship had taken on the loose-item clutter of a stationary home. “I’ll even be nice and let you pick out which flavor of protein bar you want.”

“Something fruity,” he drawled, trailing after her lazily as she made her way around the ship until she had finished setting everything up. “I’ll stay here and continue practicing with one of your dummies, let you pick tonight’s mystery meal.”

Caspira shrugged. It was almost starting to feel like old times with the bickering and snide remarks. “Alright. I’m taking my rifle, I’ll leave the blaster at the door in case it’s needed.” Her jacket and hat were where she’d left them and in short order she was suited up and looking very little like the capable agent she was. Looking ‘local’ in the somewhat battered clothing, she slung the rifle over her shoulder and looked back at the ship with a thoughtful frown.

“Just don’t dry anything electrically while I’m out.” Smirking, she left on that note and headed out toward the docks.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She paused at the door, looking unconvinced. It sounded like there was more to that sentence.

A flash of teeth, but one could hardly call it a smile. “ ... It’s much more fun to mess with your things and watch you try to figure out what’s changed.”  He wiggled his fingers in a sarcastic goodbye.

“Good hunting, Twelve!”