#Ships Stern Circuit

[dfortrafalgar]

Gift of Belonging

Luffy x GN Reader

Life didn't have a purpose without Luffy.

Warnings: Fic from my 100 followers poll!!! can be read as either platonic or romantic, mentions of self deprecating thoughts but nothing too severe, just some short, feel good, reassuring hugs from our favorite straw hat-wearing captain <3

Taglist: @bokutosbiceps | @luffy0s | @surgeonoffish

You were at the end of your rope when you joined the straw hats, but who wasn’t?  You weren’t special in the grand scheme of the world’s most infamous pirate crew.  You couldn’t compare to the tumultuous lives of the rag-tag bunch that had quickly become your lifeline, you had nothing on being the child of an abusive royal family, or the last survivor of a decimated nation, or the unfortunate witness to the killing of a friend or parent, or a literal god.  You weren’t a cyborg or an animal or a reincarnated being hundreds of years old.  You were just… simple.

And yet, the Straw Hats made you feel accepted.

They made you feel wanted.

And no one had wanted you more than Monkey D. Luffy.

You still struggled to accept the boisterous boy’s words when he welcomed you aboard his grand ship.  You had put up an argument, insisting that you would only get in the way, that your strengths paled in comparison to the rest of the crew, that you had no business being a part of the inner circle of one of the Emperors.  But not a single eyelash was batted in the direction of your plight.  Simply endless stares of patience, waiting for you to finally bite the lure and climb up the gangway and officially join the Straw Hats.  And when you finally did, Luffy had said the words that had stuck with you since then.

“I don’t care who you are.  You’re special and you deserve a spot in my family.”

It was as if the world opened up around you for the first time.  Instead of seeing your surroundings in black and white, colors infiltrated your retinas in ways you had never experienced.  Suddenly, the sunshine that beat down on your skin felt like a pleasant hug from the world, rather than a punishing burn against your weary being.  Food you ate and drank every single day tasted extra good because it was always cooked with love and affection, the flirtatious cook not caring at all where you had come from.  Luffy and his crew made it known from the second they met you that you were deserving of love, respect, and friendship.

And you couldn’t lie… the first few days were overwhelming.

The Straw Hats were loving.  They were really loving, and their unique ways of showing they appreciated you were slowly building up in your veins like a disease until one night, when you were on watch, you cracked.

You broke down.

You sat on the stern of the Thousand Sunny, gazing out from the white-painted railings and over the vastness of the dark ocean and seamlessly blended in with the sky above you, the only light shining on you being from the twinkling stars millions of light years away.  Quiet, salty tears flowed down your cheeks, your shoulders clenched as you wrapped your arms around yourself, sniffling into the collar of your shirt.  You loved your crew, you really did.  You began to realize that you loved them more than you ever loved anyone else in your life, and that thought somehow scared you.  Like you were unprepared.  Like your heart had been so deprived of love for your whole life that the overabundance of it in such a short time caused your brain to short-circuit.  And you cried.  You weeped on the Sunny’s back deck, into the calmness of the night.

Until the sound of clopping flip-flops climbing the steps to where you sat alerted your attention, causing you to freeze up, holding your breath, wishing your tears could evaporate away.

“Hey, what are you doing up here alone?”  It was Luffy, his usually exuberant voice a rare form of calm as he approached you.  He wasted absolutely zero time in plopping himself onto the hard deck beside you, extending his legs and holding his arms out, hands behind his head.

You stayed hunched into yourself, trying to hide your shame in your hands.

“Hey… are you alright?” he asked, his voice somehow even softer.

A faint sniffle from you was all your captain needed to hear.  He sat up with a start and grabbed your shoulders with his calloused hands, yanking you around to face him.  Your eyes were wide with shock at his actions, but you stayed frozen.  It’s not like you could run anywhere, the man was made of rubber.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, his eyes narrowed and eyebrows furrowed, an intense stare that bored into your skin.  “Did someone say something to you?  Did someone hurt you?”

You shook your head, wiping your tears away on your arm.  You took a deep, shuddering inhale before finally forcing your shoulders to relax.  “No… no one said anything to me.”

“Then why are you crying?”

Luffy, despite not being overly emotional in normal circumstances, was scarily good at reading people.  It didn’t matter if you couldn’t outright say what was bothering you, he would eventually figure it out with that convoluted tunnel system of a brain.  His adorable lips curled into a pout as he analyzed your face, picking apart every twitch of your muscles.

You inhaled once more, turning your face away from him slightly.  “I’m just… not used to this.”

“Not used to what?”

His questions, and the feigned clueless tone of his voice almost made a smile crack onto your face.  Another talent of Monkey D. Luffy: he was like a wrecking ball for the walls you built up around yourself.

“I’m not used to… this.”  Your hands circled around you, gesturing to the ship, causing Luffy to finally drop his hands from your shoulders.  “Being a part of a crew.  You guys are… too nice to me.”

Luffy was ready with a response immediately.  “We could never be ‘too nice to you.’  That’s impossible.  We love you.”

Your lip quivered slightly.  “That’s what I’m not used to.”

“Being loved?”

There it was.  You feebly nodded.  “Yeah.  That.”

Your captain scooted across the deck closer to you, if that was even possible.  He was basically flush against you at this point.  He wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pulling you into a warm bear hug, his fluffy black hair tickling the skin of your cheek.  “We love you because you’re special to us, we don’t need a reason for that,” he described.  His voice faltered, as if he wanted to say something else, as if he was trying to add to his words.  Instead, he squeezed you into him, closing his eyes as he felt your muscles grow limp.  ‘We love you, but I love you more.’

“I just wish it was easier for me to accept that,” you whispered into his shoulder, struggling to hug him back.

Luffy’s embrace didn’t relent.  If anything, he tried to pull you in closer.  The force of his hug made you lose your balance on the floor, falling over on top of him, your chin hitting his shoulder.  But he still didn’t let up.  He held firm, squeezing you as if you would fade away into dust if he let go.

“Luffy–” you wheezed against his skin.

“What?”  He sounded completely oblivious.  “I’m going to keep hugging you until you don’t feel sad anymore.  No more crying,” he demanded.  “Captain’s orders.”  His last sentence held a hint of playfulness, the smile he surely wore on his face coming through the sound of his voice.

He must have been contagious, because your own grin slowly grew on your lips.  After what felt like hours, you finally reciprocated his hug, curling your arms under him and letting yourself finally relax in his embrace.  You knew Luffy had odd ways of showing he cared, but this was definitely unexpected.  Unexpected, but not necessarily unappreciated.  His presence emitted a warmth akin to summertime air, his existence like the calming breeze of the open ocean that wafted around you and circled you in comforting drafts.  Luffy never judged, never wavered, never ceased to let his crew, and now you, know how truly grateful he felt to be able to live his life with his favorite people.

You made a slight movement to stand up, but Luffy’s arms tightened their hold around your back.  “Not yet,” he grumbled.  “I don’t wanna stand up yet.”

“Is this how you comfort everyone on the crew?” you asked, your voice coming out muffled as you spoke into his neck.

“Hmm… not necessarily.  Everyone’s different.  Chopper really loves hugs, and Zoro lets me hug him, but sometimes Nami and Robin can take them or leave them.  Usopp likes hugs but doesn’t like to admit it.”  A smile crawled to your face as your captain rattled off the preferences of your fellow crewmates, the ways in which he perceived their unique and individual personalities bringing a comforting reassurance to your heart.  “I feel like you really like hugs, and you clearly needed one right now.”

You bit the inside of your lower lip, trying to bite back the tears that formed in the corners of your eyes.  The tension escaping your body dissipated in large waves, leaving you with nothing but warmth and comfort in the arms of the man who had surely saved your life.

And for the first time since officially joining the Straw Hats, you began to feel truly, unconditionally loved.  It was miraculous.  All it took was a single hug from the nicest, most selfless person you had ever met.

Someday, you’d be sure to return the favor for Luffy, even if he wouldn’t accept.

[tinydefector]

I do not know if you have ever thought about it, but listen! Last night I came up with a funny idea where Nadia and her friend decided to have fun and did a survey among bots. who do they think they would fuck that night and obviously almost all the bots have chosen our favorite ambassador. I would be interested to see the ambassador's reaction to this prank from Nadia😁良い一日を。💕

Pay back-Human affects

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: pin-up photoshoot, mentioned nudity, thirsting, unhinged behaviour.

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Is it nearly 1am, yes, but I wanted to finish this piece because it was written with the last part, but I wanted it to split it for these requests.

Ask and request are open

________

The Ambassador sat with the three surfing what was essentially the cybertronian version of Twitter, Tumblr and Reddit all in one, laughing and reading the post.

"Ooo, this one's juicy!" Nadia crowed, shoving her datapad in the Ambassador's face, making them read through yet another raunchy post.

DockDawg66: "Primus, you guys, have you SEEN our Ambass? The way their hips sway when they walk...I just wanna toss 'em in my cab and take 'em for a spin, if you catch my drift! That soft little organic is begging for a spike the size of their torso. Bet I could make 'em sing."

The whole crew roared with laughter as the Ambassador snatched the pad, face heated in embarrassment, they were aware that some of the bots on ship had a thing for them but this, this was not what they had expected they literally had a full forum dedicated to them.

"Have you no shame, you pervs?" They huff out while pressing a hand to their forehead. Millian scanned down their notes with a smirk. " it seems you've got a bit of a fanclub, chief. Check out 'Ambass_Admirer' tag

'I just wanna rub my plating all over that smooth flesh...make 'em squeal.' They go on like that for paragraphs, it's a riot."

The Ambassador rolled their eyes good-naturedly as their motley human crew dissolved once more into giggles at the bots' oh-so-secret desires. Their jaw nearly drops as the crew scrolls through even more posts. "Fucking hell! How many of these are there!?!?"

"Seriously, it's like every other bot's got the hots for you!" Millian snorted, scrolling furiously. Nadia nudged them with a wicked smirk. "We should totally roast these pervs. Post looking for 'hot single bots' - bet their inboxes would explode!"

Millian cackled, adding fuel. "Ooh, or you could play hard to get! anyone feel like earning a private photoshoot?' Their circuits would short for sure!"

Ambassador's could feel the colour nearly draining from them with the continued bullying and jokes from the three. As for feeding such flames... Well, a little harmless teasing did feel justified, if they wanted to be fiends what was stopping the Liaison from being one back.

"Alright you hooligans, enough scheming for one night." They chuckled. That's when Taylor speaks up. " you know we could do a bit of a spicy photoshoot, kinda like only Fans make some money of horny bots," she hums while leaning over the Ambassador's shoulder. "Taylor!" The Ambassador sputtered with embarrassment and shock.

"Now there's an idea..." Millian mused, eyeing their boss. Money could go far in this ragtag outpost, and fleecing horny mechs of their shanix just felt poetic.

"Alright you lunatics, I will play along. But first-" They turned to Taylor with a stern look. "Ground rules. Nothing goes public without my say-so, got it? I don't need an invasion of metal pervs in my room!"

They three nearly squeal in delight over the go ahead. "So how far are we going to go with this boss, just some light stuff like you laying on a bed or what?" Millian asked. The three are already scheming ways to do decent photos.

"Oh, oh I have a camera somewhere"

"So... I may have been able to talk One First aid into giving me Ratchet's old servos from before we ended up on ship. Don't ask how" one of the others stated.

The Ambassador rubbed their temples, already regretting this scheme but far too amused to back out now.

"Alright, you loons - nothing explicit, got it? I'm not getting Naked for anyone, Classy pin-up style shots fine, some saucy photos sure but that only." They start laying out ground rules for the three,despite being their boss, they were also friends and they did want to enjoy some letting loose. "And I suppose props could...add a dash of naughty flair, but if we are doing this you guys act professional, don't make weird comments."

As the crew dove into planning, they shook their heads fondly. "We'll start simple - you lounging in 'sexy' clothes, maybe leaning on those servos. Gauge how you feel, then amp it up gradually if you feel comfortable."

"And I get 30% of all earnings!" The Liaison called after them as they scramble to grab what they can for the shoot.

Both Millian and Taylor carted in the servos on a trolley, the ambassador was almost impressed but decided to keep their questions to themself, not really wanting to know how they got ahold of severed cybertronian hands. The three are trying to figure out where to start and what the ambassador should wear.

"I swear if Kyle, David or Daniel find out about this I'm putting all three of you on cleaning duty for forever." The Ambassador threatens them, hands on hips, eyeing the bustling preparations with mingled amusement and trepidation. What had they unleashed upon this ship?

"Boss, take a look, scored this silky robe that's sure to drive 'em wild!" Nadia called, holding up the item in question with a smirk.

Millian hauled over a plush bed adorned with soft blankets and pillows from over in the corner Of their room. "Lay back here while Taylor and I do a test shoot, just want to try and set up lightly."

They move to lay on the bed, trying to get comfortable and move things until they feel right. Millian snaps a few pics before the Liaison stands back up looking at the box of clothing.

Nadia and Taylor begin moving the Servos trying to get them set up as close to the bed as possible. “I'm so glad these are holo on the inside, they are Heavy enough” Taylor huffs out and the move and curl the digits.

The Ambassador looks at the different clothing and fabrics with a raised eyebrow. "Do I want to know where you guys got all of this?" They ask. The three just give mischievous looks.

They let out a sigh. "We will start off with something like this, then you lot can play dress ups with me, Christ never knew you three were this much of a nightmare"

"Alright you troublemakers, out with you while I change," they chide their over-eager crew, shooing them from the room with a laugh. Once alone, they unfurl the silky robe reverently, resting it on the bed before peeling off their uniform. Neatly piling it together. They rummage through the other clothing grabbing out a rather nice looking set of underwear before dragging luxurious sheen robe over their shoulders.

They move over to Millian's set before calling out to them. "I'm changed, you can come back in" they call out. Millian's head popped in, eyes widening at the vision before them. "Boss, you clean up nice!" They let out a low whistle.

The liaison's eyes trace over the large Servos on the ground with a pile of pillows and blankets set between them. "So how are we doing this?" They ask. Nadia and Taylor piled in behind, stopping in their tracks at the enticing sight. The Ambassador lounged lazily amid plush bedding, silhouetted seductively against the soft lights. Those mighty metal servos loomed ominously close.

Taylor shook off her daze first. "Lay back and get comfy. We'll start with some innocent stuff - just look smouldering while you toy with the fabric." With that the three moved around getting lights set so they had the height for the photos. “I'm starting to get suspicious on why you guys have all of this equipment in here Millian.” They call out only for them to wave the accusation off. “Eh I do photos for Nadia on occasions”

"Alright, lay back against those pillows- yeah, just like that. Now arch your back a little and tilt your chin up," Nadia instructed eagerly, moving a few pillows into a good position, Ambassador's gaze up with eyes half lidded. “I feel so stupid doing this!” They call out which makes the others laugh. “Ahh don't worry, last time Nadia did a shoot she nearly lost the bikini top she was wearing because it got caught. Spend ten minutes trying to not have to cut it off” Taylor informed.

“Yea I didn't want to wreck one of my favourites!”

Millian gave a low whistle. "You're doing great, I promise the more you laugh the less awkward it is. Now trail one hand slowly down your chest while the other grips the robe's lapel." Taylor surveyed their work, making subtle adjustments here and there.

"You two- move that big metal hand like it's gently cupping their waist." The crew buzzed around their model putting touches in place. Each minute adjustment drew out as they chatted away about random stuff while doing the photos, it helped them not feel so awkward about doing the photos.

"Alright, I think we've got our money shot," Millian declared at last, snapping one final smouldering image. The shutter clicked rapidly as they tested angles, coaxing out new provocative poses little by little. They stand back up, wrapping the robe around themself as they walk over to Millian. " Can I see the photos? They were rather excited, this wasn't something they normally did, but the three were actually rather professional with it.

The group looked at the photos as Millian slowly flicked through the collection showing off the collection along with some of the more silly ones they took to help ease the tension. The silky robe clung to curves in all the right places, every inch of exposed flesh looked as if it glowed. Bedroom eyes beckoned from heavy lids, lips parted as if panting from passion's heights recently scaled. One hand grasped the large metal hand.

"Holy shit, you really got me good!" They breathed, awed by photos that the three had helped craft. Nadia gave a devilish grin. "Just wait till the boys get an eyeful. They won't know whether to rub one out or combust on the spot!"

Laughter spilled forth from them as Millian begins transferring them over to their data pad. “this was fun, I can see why you enjoy doing it Nadia, I haven't felt this..”

“Beautiful?”

“handsome?”

"Desirable?”

The three state one after another which gets a head shake from the Liaison. “Yes, “ They admit.

"Also how exactly are we going to be posting these photos?" Inquiry, the were feeling rather daring now and wanted to have input on the posting.

They ushered the others close, datapad in hand. "Here's what we'll do- I've got an anonymous account on one of those seedy Commlink forums the bots love. You know, the one where they all drool over flesh?"

Nadia snorted. "Oh yeah, the 'Human Fucker' board. Classy place."

Millian ignored her, pulling up the photos. "I'll post just one crop out whatever you want for your comfort - the money shot where your hand is gripping that servo. Caption will be 'Look who I've got...' nothing else."

“don't crop it post the full thing, I like it and well they want to play with fire this is what happens” the Ambassador hums which makes Taylor cackled, rubbing her hands together. "Mark my words, those mechs will be tripping over themselves trying to claim the 'lucky bot' title," Millian promised gleefully.

Commlink forum: human fucker.

Ambass_Admirer pin.

Tin_Bin25: 'Look who I've got.'

a photo of a bots servos cupped partly around a human in a Satin robe looking rather Ravished, smiling up while their robe is hanging off their shoulder showing off a rather scandalous amount of skin.

Overcharger69: Holy frag is that the Ambass? Lucky slagger, frag what a fine piece!!!

T-Wrexz: No way!. Someone Fragging did it. They got with a Fleshie!

Rev-Rid3: some lucky mech sampled fleshy friction and got the dream...

Flyboi69: : FRAG THIS WHO CARES WHO FRAGGED THEM I JUST WANNA KNOW IF THEY'RE AS SOFT AS THEY LOOK!!!!

ScienceSorcerer: My oh my, what scandalous treasures, do share more with the class! For historical and scientific purposes, of course.

Oiler69: No way, you can't just Post that! Do you have more, Post em up already, need more Proof!

_Heavyhaul: Hey, hey, keep it in your panel's mechs. That photo wasn't released with their consent, it's not cool.

Tin_Bin25: Here is another.

It's a new photo showing the Ambassador lying back against pillows in a low cut silk robe, one hand trailing lazily across their collar while the other grips a metal servo their face pressed against one of the digits as they kiss it, gazing at the camera with hooded eyes

How's that for proof, sceptic? I've got permission for their personal photoshoot, even let me post without hiding their face. Bet your spikes would glitch seeing them like this in person.

Scope_ridge: *venting noises* Frag me sideways, they look good enough to eat! This is officially the best solar cycle ever.

Bar-rizzla: Why, they positively glow with sensuality! One can only imagine the debauchery that inspired such provocative portraits.

StarFielder: Seriously, does anyone have any idea who the lucky mech was? Gotta be someone important...

WPHAS-violation: my Shanix is on it being an officer right? Bet it was Magnus!, rather tasteful compared to the stuff I make.

Con_Spiracy: got me wonderin' - think any other bots have been sampling alien delights?

SunRunner: Whoa, hold up- you've got a whole collection? Heater's firing up over here! *fans self jokingly*

Pimptheride: Hey mech, wanna pass those images over? How much you asking for?

Bar-rizzla: I've got enough engex to trade for a peek! C'mon Tin, help a bot out with his late night activities...

_________

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[littlespacereader]

hii there i dont rly know how this works so i hope im doing it right >-<

can i perhaps req little!crosshair hcs and how the batch would accommodate him and help him? they would be the best big brothers to him ik!!! ^^ if also omega could be included too not as a cg but i think she'd be so sweet about it n the best sister :o

GET OUT OF HERE!! Don’t actually because this is such a cute idea!!! Before I read this I always saw Crosshair as more of a CG but THEN this request had my brain short circuit with ideas!! I absolutely love a Little who doesn’t want to regress but is loved and accepted by those around them that they start to regress without realizing it! And that’s definitely Crosshair! I decided not just to write a general Headcannons for him but him as a Little throughout the first seasons to the current season. So we see Little Crosshair before the empire, during and after. This is LONG, I think I got a little carried away!😅😅

(I will keep updating this every Wednesday so that it’s up to date with the show. If you’re reading this right now it is updated to Season 3 ep 11 - Point of No Return)

Without further ado, please enjoy Little! Crosshair Headcannons with the Bad Batch as Caregivers & Omega as a Little sibling! Thank you for the request and feel free to leave another if anything from this inspires you! 😄

Little! Crosshair🎯Headcannons / Storyline 🤍 (SFW)

Tags/ TW - BAD BATCH SPOILERS, mentions of clone wars & bad batch typical violence (shooting/death), classification au, accidents, cuddles, self doubt/hatred

Background on the Republic and on Regressors in the Clone Wars era:

Just like every citizen, every clone of the republic must be tested for their Classification and have it on their file. They get it right after they’ve finished all their training and their ready to be shipped out into battle. As much as the Kaminoans would like for all of the clone to be Neutrals, they have no control over it. They just hide all notes about it and tell the republic all their clones are neutrals. But the clones know otherwise. Though most of the clones are Neutrals, there are the few exceptions. It’s rare to get a Caregiver Clone, but even rarer to find a Little Clone.

The Bad Batch have been and continue to be anything but normal. So when it comes for them to get classified, the results don’t come to much of a shock. Each one test right after the other, then waits in their shared room for everyone to come back and say their results.

Hunter is the first to test and his comes back as a Caregiver. Then Tech is up and is tested as a Caregiver as well. The two are shocked at first, never expecting their classification to come to any use. Then Wrecker test and his comes back as a Little with the age of a big kid (7-9). That…wasn’t much of a shock to the team. What is a bit shock to the team is Crosshair’s classification.

Little Crosshair before the Empire & Omega :

Crosshair is the last one to test mostly because he’s the youngest. He expects, no, he knows he’s a neutral. So when he’s told otherwise he loses it. He demands the droid test him again, then again, then again. But it’s the same result every time. He’s a Little with the age of a little kid (4-6).

He starts to panic. Before he sees his brother he takes time for himself to try and calm down but he can’t. He has this stern tough guy persona to himself. What if his brothers see him differently? What if they think he’s not as capable? What will happen when he regresses? No! No, he’s never going to regress. That is not happening.

After a moment of pulling himself together and cooling his emotions, he leaves and head back to his room with the rest of the squad. Wreck is eager to hear his classification but Crosshair just shrugs him off saying he’s a neutral. Tech and Hunter share a look but don’t say anything.

Crosshair can feel it bubbling inside, almost scratching at the back of his brain to regress but he fights it. Wrecker always regresses after a long mission. Something inside of Crosshair always yearns for him to do the same with him.

Crosshair keeps his classification well hidden. No one questions Crosshair on his Neutral classification and he doesn’t regress…that is before their latest mission goes south.

Crosshair gets hurt, badly hurts. A broken leg and possibly a concussion. He hits the ground HARD. His leg hurts and his head is pounding. Wrecker picks him up and carries him back to the ship with the others. Once they’re all safe in the Marauder, Hunter and Tech realize Crosshair regressed.

Wrecker doesn’t understand what’s happening and questions it. “Why’s he acting like that?” “Because he’s regressed” Tech explains plainly. “But he’s a neutral.” Wrecker adds, but Hunter shakes his head, “He never has been. Isn’t that right Crosshair?” Crosshair just looks away as tears start to fall from his eyes.

They start to take care of him while he’s injured and regressed. The more they do, the more Crosshair realizes his regression isn’t such a bad thing after all, So the crew of the Marauder start to learn a few new things about their newly regressed squad member.

For one, Hunter is Crosshair’s favorite person. When he isn’t around Crosshair he begins to panic and look for him. It’s an unspoken truth with the Batch that when Crosshair regresses he’s always hanging around Hunter. “Hunter?” “Over here little sniper.”

Hates cutsie nicknames. Really only accepts Little sniper, Cross, and very rarely little one.

He’s a very quiet Little as opposed to Wrecker who is a very loud energetic Little.

Though he is very quiet, he does have a voice when it comes to something he doesn’t like. He is extremely stubborn. (More below on this)

Wrecker loves to take the lead and guide Crosshair to play along with their crazy games. He’s an older headspace than him so he loves to be big brother.

Whenever Crosshair is upset, Wrecker will bring him Lula to make him. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, it does make him better.

Crosshair is super cuddly when he’s regressed. But you can’t force him, he just walks over to either Hunter or Tech while they’re relaxing in their bunk, doesn’t say a word, and just snuggled up beside them.

Tech loves to read to him, it always seems to relax him and sometimes it makes him fall asleep with all the knowledge.

Crosshair throws tantrums often. He is a fussy Little. When something doesn’t go his way, he doesn’t want to do something, or something wasn’t what he wanted he will throw a huge tantrum.

He also fights most if not all of Hunter & Tech’s rules. They’re getting a bit tired of his constant rebellion to their rules but nonetheless their as patient as they can be with him, knowing he’s probably lashing out because he needs some attention and is too shy to ask for it.

In and out of his regression his brothers love and respect him. They don’t look down at him for being a Regressor and they certainly don’t underestimate him.

No toothpicks when Crosshair is regressed, as it’s too dangerous. Instead the Batch find him an alternative in the way of chewable necklaces and teethers. Pacifiers are labeled too babyish by Crosshair so the alternatives make him feel a lot better.

When Echo joins the team, Crosshair doesn’t regress for a while around him. Nervous of the new Caregiver on the ship, though he’d never admit it.

When he does eventually regress, Echo is extremely kind to Crosshair. Whenever he get fussy or is on the verge of a tantrum, Echo seems to have the magic touch or the magic saying that starts to settle him down. “Why don’t we go look at the stars outside?” “I don’t want to!” “Oh, well I guess I’ll just go out by myself and look at the starts. *sigh* I’ll just be so lonely.” He leaves the ship to look at the stars and find Crosshair beside him a minute later.

After their mission with the Jedi during order 66, they meet Omega. And at the same time as meeting Omega, Crosshair begins to have terrible headaches. Usually when he has a headache it turns into him regressing but this one is doing the opposite. Plus now with Omega, he can’t help but feel a slight twinge of jealousy for her.

They learn that Omega is a part of their squad. But not only that, she’s also a Little same headspace as Wrecker.

Crosshair fights with the team against being on the opposite side of the Empire. Deep down he just wants things to be the same as they were before.

When they are captured again, Crosshair hold his head in pain. Whatever was going on, Omega seemed to sense it. She takes a seat by him and takes his hand in his. “I know this isn’t your fault.” Maybe this isn’t his fault. Before he’s decided whether he was going to ask her about it or just roll his eyes, the Empire goes to take him away.

“Ct-9904 you’re coming with us.” Hunter is the first to stand up and block them from taking Crosshair but he is punched in the stomach. Crosshair is dragged out of his cell, casting one last worrying look to his squad.

Little Crosshair during the Empire (Season 1)

The Empire begins experimenting on him to keep him as their “good soldier.” In doing so his regression starts to fade away for him for the time being. He doesn’t feel the usual pull to regress like he did before.

His brothers leaving him behind doesn’t hit him at first. But when the realization and loneliness hit him, it’s like a train. Late at night in their old barracks, Crosshair lays awake in his bed. He longs for Hunter, Tech or even Echo to come and comfort him. But now as the Empire’s perfect soldier, he forced himself to push it down.

(The Reunion s1 ep 8) When he gets injured by the cruiser engine and is medically evaluated off the planet he involuntarily regresses for the first time since joining the empire. Something happens with him getting burns to the side of his head. It makes his chip or his motives to stay with the Empire wavier.

His injuries brings him back to when he first regressed with his squad. Except now he was surrounded by medical droids. He freaks out but is only restrained more by the droids until they finish the proper treatment to the burns on the side of his head. He has an accident while they treat him, something that has only happen on extremely few occasions. The embarrassment eats away at him.

Once treated he is sent to his barracks to heal. This time everything feels different. He cries as he sit in his bed all alone. He longs for Hunter, or Tech, or Echo, or even Wrecker to make him feel better.

(War-Mantle s1 ep14 & Return to Kamino s1 ep15) When Hunter is captured by the empire, Crosshair makes it a point to be in charge of his arrest. While he acts sassy on the outside, Hunter sees right through it all. When Crosshair confronts Hunter in his cell Hunter asks him about it, “Crosshair…when was the last time you-.” “I DON’T! Not anymore.”

(Kamino Lost s1 ep16) Capturing Hunter was the biggest part of his plan. Why? So the rest of the squad could come and get him. With everyone back together he offers them to join the empire once more. But again, they refuse. Crosshair lashes out. Hunter and Crosshair fight which results in Hunter taking down Crosshair.

During their escape out of Kamino, Omega and Crosshair have a chance to chat. She really just wants to connect and be an older sister to him, being a Little herself. But he scoffs her off, choosing to self isolate himself rather than make friends with Omega. There’s also something inside of him that feels a bit of jealousy when he sees Omega around the others, especially Hunter.

Crosshair save Omega from drowning. He looks around at the guns surrounding him. He wasn’t going to shoot Omega, he was saving her life! But he’s done too much damage and that shows in the way Wrecker, Tech and Echo look at him.

They offer him a choice to join them again, no questions asked. There’s something deep down inside of Crosshair that’s screaming at him to join his squad again. But his stubborn need to be a good solider wins over and once again his squad leaves him. As they fly away he can’t help but let a few tears fall.

Little Crosshair during the Empire (Season 2)

The Empire left him on that platform in the ruins of Kamino for thirty two rotations, left to starve.

By this time back with Empire he is starting to notice more and more clone question the Empire’s intentions. The first of whom that really gets Crosshairs attention is Commander Cody.

It’s like a breath of fresh air to work with Cody. But even he could see that a good soldier like Cody is even questioning the Empire’s intentions. This starts to have Crosshair thinking about the Empire’s intentions for him.

After Cody disappears, Crosshair continues to work for the Empire but his treatment gets worse and worse. The stormtroopers disrespect his abilities, he eats alone and is isolated from everything expect work.

At night Crosshair stays awake, curled in a ball crying. His regression is becoming a big issue for him. He can’t stop feeling the pull to fully regress but with how the Empire is treating clones he scared he’ll be disregarded if he did.

(The Outpost s2 ep 12) Everything changes when he’s assigned to the Outpost. There he meet another clone named Mayday who reminds him so much of Hunter. It brings that Little feeling deep down inside. It doesn’t help that Mayday is also a Caregiver and can sense that Crosshair isn’t the neutral he says he is.

When they go out to retrieve the items stolen by raiders they come to find that all their hard work has led them to just retrieve new armor for the stormtroopers that plan on replacing them.

During the battle to get the supplies back, Mayday pushes Crosshair out of the way, saving his life but injuring himself. Though he insists on Crosshair leaving him, Crosshair doesn’t abandon him there. Instead he helps him go back to the Outpost.

There were moments spent huddled next to one another as the snow blew back and forth. As injured as Mayday was, he always tried to comfort Crosshair who regressed on and off because of his worrying about Mayday. “It’s okay Crosshair, we’ll make it. Just stay close to me. I’ve got you.”

Crosshair takes his arm and wrap his around his shoulders for support. Both to support Mayday as he walks and for the comfort of keeping him close.

Eventually they do make it back to the base. Crosshair lays Mayday down for a minute as the Lieutenant comes over to the two. He begs him to get a medic for Mayday, tears falling down his face. But the Lieutenant mocks Crosshair, saying how weak and expendable the clones are and how angry he is that they came back empty handed. When Crosshair looks to Mayday, he’s passed away.

Crosshair losses it. Everything he felt about the Empire fades away. He realizes the mistake his made and more than anything wants to be back with his squad. But he’s stuck here, with the Empire. He begin to cry, holding onto Mayday hand as the Lieutenant turns away.

There’s only one way out and that’s the option he goes for. He takes his gun and shoot the man. There’s a sense of relief that washes over him. But that relief immediately turns to exhaustion. He crumbles to the ground as storm troopers run over and passes out.

When Crosshair awakes he’s taken prisoner by Hemlock and Emerie. They inform him that they’re going to use him to capture Omega. It’s with this knowledge Crosshair sets out to do one last good deed to redeem a bit of his old self.

He breaks out and goes to the communications board where he sends out an encrypted message to the Bad Batch, “Plan 88. You have to hide. They’re after…..”

The last part of the message doesn’t go through. Gas fills the room and Crosshair collapses. Hemlock walks through the gas as it doesn’t affect him. He tells Crosshair of the mistake he’s made and how he’ll pay for it. A single tear falls from Crosshair’s eye before he passes out.

His punishment is being thrown into a cell, forced to be subject to different test both of his defective qualities and his Little classification.

When Omega is captured, she find Crosshair strapped to a table unconscious. At least the two Littles of the Batch are reunited.

Little Crosshair is back with the Batch (Season 3)

Crosshair has lost hope of ever escaping Tantiss. He has his usual schedule of trying to train him to be some brain washed assassin (doesn’t work on him), then he’s experimented on and then thrown into his cell. Most nights he’s alone, left to cry. But soon, Omega starts to visit him.

At first he tries to steer her away from him. Saying mean things so she’ll leave him alone and escape herself. He feels in some twisted way he deserve this punishment. But unlike everyone who he’s felt abandoned him, Omega never gives up on him. She visits him every night.

Some nights he’s regressed, others he’s not. Omega stays with him through and throughout. She loves his little side, though it’s mostly just him crying and holding her hand through the cell door. The small comfort is needed.

They break out! Omega takes the lead getting them out of the prison while Crosshair mans the guns. He feels comfortable not making the decisions and instead letting his sister do it for them. Though nowadays his shooting isn’t as good as it used to be thanks to all the experiments to him.

Once free they crash land, steal a ship and travel to meet Hunter and Wrecker. The whole adventure brings Crosshair very close to Omega who looks after him like Wrecker used to. He now protects her at all cost.

When they land, Omega is first to run and hug Hunter and Wrecker. The happy reunion is ruined by Crosshair as he also steps down off the ship. Too much betrayal has caused their relationship to splinter. It makes his heart sink

(The Return Season 3 ep 5) Back with the Batch and back to somewhat safe place. Crosshair tries to find his place back in the group again. But he knows Wrecker and Hunter don’t trust him at all. So he isolated himself from the group, looking to instead fix his shaking hand. The only one who’s close to him is still Omega. She urges him to talk to Hunter who has given him the cold shoulder.

When Echo arrives they realize they need to go to an imperial base to help unlock a datapad from Tantiss and free the clones. The only issue, this isn’t just any imperial base, this is The Outpost.

Wrecker is kind enough to give him his old armor back. He steps inside the Marauder and changes. Looking in the mirror he sees a hint of his old self again. The hope makes his heart stop for a second.

Walking outside brings back all the memories of Mayday, something that wrenches his heart.

He lashes out at Hunter throughout their entire time at the Outpost. It brings back old memories of when Crosshair would deny regressing, throw a tantrum, eventually break down and regress with Hunter.

The only thing is, Hunter is not being as kind as he used to be. Crosshair hasn’t exactly been kind to him and the rest of the Batch. So it’s all expected.

There’s small insults thrown here and there between Hunter and Crosshair. All with Omega and Echo trying to get the two to talk to one another, knowing that’s how it would fix everything between them.

When they enter the Outpost, the team works on the datapad while Crosshair slips away, looking through the outpost, remembering the last time he was there.

Out of the corner of his eye he spot a group of clone helmets and in the middle sits Mayday’s helmet. He immediately goes over and fixes the helmets, putting Maydays in the middle to honor him. A stray tear falls from his eye as he stares at the helmet. He quickly wipes it away, unaware Hunter had been watching him.

But slowly but surely Crosshair and Hunter get on each other nerves to the point of having an all out argument with one another. Hunter questions Crosshair’s loyalty to the squad and Crosshair just lashes out, saying things only to hurt Hunter.

Their argument is interrupted by a giant monster! (Of course) During the mission to get rid of this giant monster, Crosshair and Hunter work together for the first time in forever. Crosshair saves Hunter’s life by merely getting eaten himself.

After that they just sit in the snow, breathing heavy next to one another. They look over and silently there’s a difference in the air. All the anger all the heartache is gone. What’s left is what they were before, brothers, Caregiver and Little.

They walk back to the squad. Wrecker runs over and hugs the two together in a group hug like he used to do. Echo smiles at Omega saying “See? They always work it out. And this time Hunter’s not bleeding from one of Crosshair’s tantrums. I’d say it’s a win win.”

Once they start packing up to leave, Hunter and Crosshair get a moment to talk to one another. “Hunter, I…I thought I knew what I was getting into with the Empire. I thought I was being a good soldier.” Tears threaten to spill from his eyes. It’s all too much. Now that he’s in Hunter and the squad’s good side. He feels the need to regress once more.

Hunter steps up, walking over to Crosshair, “Nobody really understood what was happening back then.”

“I’ve done thing, I’ve made mistakes.” The tears that threatened to spill start falling as soon as he turns and looks at Hunter.

Hunter decides to clear the space between them. He brings Crosshair close and wrap him in a hug, something he hasn’t had in forever, “I have regrets too, Crosshair. All we can do is keep trying to be better. And who knows? There just might be hope for us yet. It’s okay my little sniper. You’re home now.”

Crosshair just cries and cries into Hunter’s shoulder. So much being built up over time that just finally being let out. After a moment Crosshair lifts his head and Hunter wipes the remaining tears away. “I already told the squad, tonight you and I are going to spend some quality time together. Sound good?” Crosshair nods, taking his hand and being led onto the ship.

The night feels like a dream to Crosshair. He’s finally able to fully regress and feel safe doing so. He cuddles close to Hunter and never leaves his side. With him, his old chewable necklace that getting pretty worn out.

(Infiltration s3 ep 6) Things remain pretty peaceful until a call from Rex comes through. The Batch are brought to give anymore information about Tantiss to Rex.

Crosshair meets Howzer again, who rightly so, doesn’t like him. Hunter sticking up for him brings a sense of warmth and happiness to him. His brothers truly accept him again.

But seeing the Assassin clone has Crosshair’s heart stop all together. This is bad, really bad. He fears not only for his own safety but mostly for his sister safety who the Empire desperately wants. After everything the two have been through together Crosshair couldn’t be without his big sister.

(Extraction s3 ep7) Running away from the assassin is a daunting task. This clone is good and Crosshair’s shaking hand isn’t helping. He still is useful but not as good as he hoped to be.

Once outside Crosshair check up on Omega, “you good?” “Un-huh.” “Got your crossbow?” “Yup.” “Sure you can carry those supplies?” “Yes.” “Stay close. It’s easy to get lost in this terrain.” Omega smiles but rolls her eyes, “You’re as bad as Hunter.” “Oh, I’m much worse.”

As they journey through the forest to get to the pick up location with Echo, Crosshair can sense the clone assassin is close. He turns to go alone, hoping to draw the assassin away from Omega.

The assassin seems almost mad at Crosshair for not being one of the assassins like himself. As the fight goes on, Crosshair is starting to slip up. The assassin hold his underwater and he struggles to breathe. But thankfully the rest of the team gets there to save Crosshair before he drowns or worse, falls down the giant water fall like the assassin did.

Hunter and Omega rush over as Crosshair coughs up water. Both the Caregiver and the Little are worried about him.

Finally they are about to be picked up when an old clone commander Wolffe tries to stop them. But after Rex’s speech, he has a change of heart. Crosshair notices how more clones, like Cody are beginning to question the order like all of them.

Once saved by Echo and heading to Padu, Wrecker and Omega begin to regress and play around the ship. And despite it all, Crosshair joins them, letting the worries of the missions and what happen tonight.

(Bad Territory s3 ep8) Hunter and Omega worry about Crosshair’s shaking hand. He tried to hide it from all the Caregivers and even Omega but everyone begins to notice it.

So while away on a mission Hunter instruct Omega to have Crosshair check it out. Sadly though it isn’t a medical issue. It’s because of the severe anxiety and PTSD he has since Tantiss.

Despite being against it at first, Crosshair follows Omega along and listens to his older sister as she teaches him how to meditate. At first he thinks it stupid and is about to walk away but she takes his hand in his.

With a deep breath he closes his eyes and focuses. And without him noticing, his hand stops shaking.

(The Harbinger s3 ep 9) Crosshair and Hunter work as the ultimate Dad team duo against Ventress who the don’t trust or want Omega to be around.

They work extremely well together. Despite getting their butts handed to them by Ventress they both see that their main priority is to keep Omega safe. That to them is what matters most.

In the end, Ventress warns them about Padu, saying it’s not safe. While it shouldn’t bother Crosshair, it eats away at him all night. Maybe they should leave? Maybe they should hide? He wakes Hunter up and explains his worries. “No use in staying up all night worry Cross, here. I’ll protect you and Omega tonight.”

It seems Crosshair was beat to Hunter’s bed by Omega who’s cuddle against his side. Old Crosshair would’ve been jealous. But now? Now he feels happy to have both of them around. He snuggles with the two. Happy to be protected by Hunter and happy to protect Omega.

(Point of No Return, s3 ep11) While Crosshair hasn’t been on Padu for as long as the others, he feels a bit sad to see it go. He sticks with Hunter, helping to load supplies onto the ship before the take off.

Just as they’re making their last trip BOOM! The Marauder, their home, explodes. Hunter, Omega and Crosshair run to the docks to find an unconscious and injured Wrecker. Crosshairs heart stops seeing his brother so injured.

But they’ve got bigger issues. They look to the skies and see an Imperial cruiser entering the airspace. He subconsciously goes closer to Omega, knowing that they’re here for her.

The three take off, trying to figure out a plan. Hunter suggests Crosshair stay with Omega while he finds a ship for them. Crosshair happily agrees, afraid of being away from Omega. The two run away, hiding with Wrecker’s unconscious body as AZ works on him.

Crosshair can see it in Omega’s eyes and on her face. She’s guilty. The people of the planet are being hurt and she feels as though she is to blame for it all. Crosshair wishes he could say something to reassure her it’s not her fault but he doesn’t say anything.

They watch as Hunter’s plan fails. He falls into the ocean. Crosshair grabs a view finder frantically and searches the ocean. His heart doesn’t start pumping again until he sees Hunter’s head pop up from the water. “He’s okay.” He says both to Omega and to himself.

Back inside Omega stops Crosshair and tells him she’s going to surrender herself. Crosshair is immediately against it, insisting they stick to Hunter’s plan. But Omega has made up her mind. She doesn’t want to see another suffer because of her.

Her plan is simple, hide a tracker on her and have Crosshair shoot a tracker on the ship. That way they can track her to Tantiss and they’ll be able to save the other clones, Crosshair is not confident on the mission. He doesn’t agree with it but Omega made her mind up. She’s doing it.

So when Omega surrenders herself they find her tracker, leaving it up to Crosshair to be the one to put the tracker on the ship.

Storm troopers are everywhere. With only seconds to shoot the tracker he’s attacked by troopers. He stops them and then takes his position again, but this time the ship is taking off.

He shoots and…he misses. The tracker lands in the ocean and the ship takes off with Omega with no way of tracking her at all.

Crosshair just watches the ship leave, in shock and in anguish. Tears fall from his face under his helmet as the ship gets small and small before disappearing from view. He failed them, he failed her.

How will be ever face Hunter and Wrecker who don’t know? How will be able to live with himself?

[healix17]

Not to request twice but I see Cygates also an option so how about a bit of a silly old fashioned fanfic trope?

Cygate fic where Cyclonus and Tailgate swap bodies. Could be pre or post relationship. Up to you.

Omg I'm so SORRY FOR THE LATE REPLY, I WAS SOOO BUSY WITH A MATH TEST!!!!!

But here's the fanfiction—I wrote it in a rush.

Swapped Circuits

In the quiet corners of the Lost Light, strange things always seemed to happen. Cyclonus and Tailgate had seen their fair share of adventures, but this was new, even for them.

It started with a harmless exploration of a newly discovered chamber deep within the ship. Tailgate, ever the enthusiastic explorer, had urged Cyclonus to join him. The chamber was filled with ancient Cybertronian artifacts, one of which was a peculiar device that glowed faintly when they approached.

“Tailgate, be careful,” Cyclonus warned, his optics narrowing as Tailgate reached out to touch the device.

“I just want to see what it does,” Tailgate replied, curiosity getting the better of him. The moment his fingers brushed the device, a bright light engulfed both of them.

When the light faded, Cyclonus felt... different. He looked down at his hands – smaller, white and blue hands that definitely weren’t his own. He turned to see his own body standing awkwardly beside him, looking just as confused.

“Cyclonus? Is that you?” came Tailgate’s voice from his own mouth.

Cyclonus, now in Tailgate’s body, frowned. “It appears we’ve swapped bodies.”

Tailgate, in Cyclonus’ body, blinked. “This is weird. Really weird. What do we do?”

“We need to find a way to reverse this,” Cyclonus said, trying to maintain his usual calm despite the strange circumstances. “First, let’s see if the device can undo what it did.”

They approached the device again, but this time, it remained inert, as if it had exhausted its power.

“No luck,” Tailgate said, crossing his arms. It was strange to see Cyclonus’ usually stern face displaying such an expressive pout.

“We should seek assistance from the others,” Cyclonus suggested. “Perhaps Perceptor or Brainstorm can help us.”

As they walked through the corridors, they garnered more than a few confused stares. Cyclonus’ imposing frame and Tailgate’s small stature made for an odd visual when their personalities didn’t match their bodies.

When they finally reached the lab, Brainstorm looked up from his workbench. “What happened to you two?”

“We’ve swapped bodies,” Cyclonus explained tersely.

Brainstorm grinned. “Fascinating! I’ve read about such phenomena but never seen it firsthand. Come, let’s see what we can do.”

Hours passed as Brainstorm tinkered and theorized. Throughout the process, Cyclonus found himself growing more impatient in Tailgate’s body. His partner, on the other hand, seemed to be having an unexpected amount of fun experiencing Cyclonus’ strength and abilities.

“You know, it’s kind of cool being as tall as you for a change,” Tailgate said, flexing Cyclonus’ muscles. “I can see why you’re always so stoic. It’s hard to be scared when you’re this strong.”

Cyclonus couldn’t help but smile at Tailgate’s enthusiasm. “And I see why you’re always so full of energy. Your smaller form is quite agile.”

Finally, Brainstorm clapped his hands. “Got it! I think I’ve figured out how to reverse the swap.”

With a few adjustments to the device and some recalibrations, another flash of light enveloped them. When it faded, Cyclonus looked down at his own hands once more, feeling a sense of relief.

“It worked,” Tailgate said, now back in his own body.

“Thank you, Brainstorm,” Cyclonus said, inclining his head slightly in gratitude.

“No problem! This was an exciting challenge,” Brainstorm replied, waving them off.

As they left the lab, Tailgate looked up at Cyclonus with a grin. “That was quite an adventure. But I’m glad to be me again.”

“Indeed,” Cyclonus agreed, resting a hand on Tailgate’s shoulder. “Though it was... enlightening to experience life from your perspective.”

Tailgate beamed, leaning into Cyclonus’ touch. “Maybe next time, we can find a less dramatic way to see things from each other’s point of view.”

Cyclonus chuckled softly. “I would prefer that.”

Together, they walked back to their quarters, grateful to be themselves again but also more appreciative of each other’s unique strengths and perspectives.

---

I hope you enjoyed this short Cygate fic! Let me know if there's anything you'd like to add or change.

[lonestarbattleship]

Battleship Texas: Hits from the Battle of Cherbourg

"On this day, June 25th, 1944, the USS TEXAS was hit by two German 240mm shells off the coast of Cherbourg, France.

The First Hit

At 1310 TEXAS receives a hit from a large caliber shell atop the ship’s armored conning tower shearing off the top of Direct #3, which fell on to and injured the Gunnery Officer beneath it. The shell would then strike the longitudinal frame on the ship’s foremast causing an upwards explosion into the Pilot House directly above injuring many of those inside. By 1325 the crew began removing the thirteen casualties wounded in the explosion. These men suffered traumatic leg injuries, fractures, contusions, blast concussions, and abrasions. The ship’s helmsman, Christen Norman Christensen, would receive a fatal prognosis and die of his wounds later that day, becoming the ship’s only combat fatality during her career.

The explosion sheared off three sections of floor plates damaging the steering gear, compasses, engine revolution indicator, and many electrical cables and circuits. The space was demolished, and could no longer serve as the ship’s control station. All ship control operations moved to the Conning Tower as the ship maneuvered radically away and out of range of the German battery.

'The conduct of all hands during the action was worthy of praise and attaches no censure to anyone on board. In particular, Lieutenant Command Louis P. Spear, USN, Lieutenant Clarence L. Moody, Jr., (ChC), USNR, and Eddleman, Will J., Bgmstr2c, V6, USNR were worthy of praise for the cool manner in which they rendered first aid to the wounded on the Navigation Bridge, in spite of the continued fall of enemy shells in the vicinity of the ship.' Battle Report, J.M. Cabanillas, USN

Fire!

As the ship maneuvered away, the guns of Turret 4 and 5 continued to fire over the ship’s stern. These blasts warped nearly every door midship, damaged 40mm director mounds, and set fire to some of the canvas covers that were draped over the 40mm ammunition. With ammunition in such close proximity to the fires, nearby crews consisting of both Sailors and Marines quickly jumped into action by throwing the loose ammunition overboard.

'There were canvas covers over the shells in the gun tub. Circular canvas covers protected the clips that were in the racks on the gun tub. That canvas is what caught fire when the 14-inchers fired aft. No canvas cover on the guns themselves. The Marines threw the hot 40mm ammo over the side. No one was injured. The deck did not catch on fire, but there was lots of shrapnel on the deck. The shrapnel made dark spots on the deck.' -Veikko Liila, USMC

Second Time's The Charm

After a quick maneuver, TEXAS returned to face the battery once more. Both TEXAS and Battery Hamburg would exchange fire, encountering many close calls as gun salvos continued to straddle the ship. At 1444 two shell splashes were reported near the ship’s portside bow, and just three minutes later, an unexploded 240mm shell was discovered inside a stateroom on the Half Deck. TEXAS had been hit a second time. With no visible or reported damage, the ship continued its brawl with the relentless battery. By 1500 the ship had received orders to retire and return to Portland, England.

Upon returning to England, the 'dud' 240mm German shell was removed and disarmed under careful direction of the Bomb Disposal Officer. The shell would then be placed back on TEXAS, where it still resides to this day.

'The performance of the TEXAS while under heavy and accurate fire of the enemy was outstanding. She was smartly handled and continued the engagement until ordered to withdraw, although hopelessly outranged and continuously harassed by enemy fire over a period of two hours and twenty minutes.' - C. F. BRYANT, USN."

Posted on the Battleship Texas Foundation Group Facebook page: link

[kindlythevoid]

Halo Reloaded - Chapter One

The Spirit of Fire, a behemoth of steel and circuits, gracefully drifted through the vacuum of space. Its engines hummed quietly in the vast, star-speckled expanse, a comforting constant for those aboard. The crew, just roused from the deep, icy embrace of cryosleep, stretched and yawned, their bodies slowly reacclimating to the notion of movement and the mundane demands of the day ahead.In the command center, Captain Andrew Del Rio stood with an authoritative ease that matched his crisp, navy-blue uniform, adorned with the badges of his dual life as a seasoned ONI politician and a UNSC officer. His gaze swept over the bustling activity with a practiced eye, catching every minor detail—the sharp salutes, the brisk nods, the quiet chatter of status updates.

"Report, Dot," he called out, his voice resonant and commanding, yet carrying an undertone of the day's first brewed coffee—a hint of warmth that suggested more camaraderie than most would expect from someone of his stature.

A hologram flickered to life in the center of the room, the luminescent blue form of Dot, the ship's AI, materializing with a swirl of digital particles. "Good morning, Captain. We are currently in orbit around Tau Ceti. Preliminary scans are complete, and I have something rather extraordinary to report," Dot announced, her tone imbued with a synthetic crispness that mimicked curiosity.

Del Rio leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. "Go on," he urged, his fingers clasped behind his back."The star, Tau Ceti, is enclosed within a colossal ring structure of unknown origin. Its diameter spans approximately 600 million miles," Dot continued, her form gesturing towards a rotating holographic model of the ringworld that now accompanied her display.The crew members crowded around, their eyes wide with wonder and the restlessness of minds starved for discovery. The ringworld, displayed in brilliant hues of blues and greens, rotated serenely in the hologram.

"By my calculations, the radius of this ring is akin to the orbit of Earth around the sun. And yes, Captain, it is quite beautiful," Dot added, a programmed appreciation in her voice, as if she too could perceive the aesthetics of this celestial marvel.

Del Rio nodded, his face reflecting the awe felt by his crew but tempered by the seasoned caution of a man who knew space was as dangerous as it was beautiful. "Prepare a detailed survey of the ringworld. I want options for closer inspection. Let's tread carefully but curiously. The universe seems keen to start our day with a mystery," he said, a hint of excitement threading through his otherwise stern directive.

The crew set to work, energized by the discovery and guided by a captain who respected the vastness of their mission—a blend of the known and the unknown, where each day began with the promise of new horizons.

The calm aboard the Spirit of Fire shattered abruptly as Dot flickered erratically, her holographic form blurring and distorting with electronic spasms. Warning klaxons blared, casting a red glow that washed over the faces of the crew, now etched with sudden tension and confusion. Panels and screens that had moments ago displayed the serene majesty of the ringworld were abruptly hijacked, replaced by the grim visage of a Covenant Elite.

Commander Var 'Gatanai, clad in the ornate armor of a Zealot, his mandibles twitching with barely contained zeal, dominated the screens. His voice, a harsh growl laced with contempt, boomed through the command center. "Humanity's destruction is the will of the gods. And we, The Covenant, are the gods' instruments."

As his image faded, the ship jolted violently, the shock of nearby slipspace ruptures sending tremors through the hull. Crew members grasped at consoles for stability, papers fluttered like caught leaves, and the constant hum of the ship's operations grew to a cacophony of alarms and running feet.

Captain Del Rio, maintaining his composure amid the chaos, turned sharply to the glitching form of Dot. "Status report, now!" he demanded, his voice cutting through the noise with the precision of a seasoned commander.

Dot stabilized momentarily, her voice still tinged with static as she relayed the dire situation. "Multiple Covenant corvettes have exited slipspace at close proximity. Hull integrity is compromised in sections 3A through 3C. Shields at 40% and falling. Additionally, a distress beacon is emanating from the ringworld, origin unknown."

Without hesitation, Del Rio turned to the intercom, his voice resolute. "All hands, this is Captain Del Rio. We are at Combat Alert Alpha. I repeat, Combat Alert Alpha. Prepare for engagement," he announced, his tone leaving no room for doubt, only action.

He pivoted back to Dot. "Get every Marine and MJOLNIR-Trooper to their stations. Arm all defensive systems. And wake our Spartan," he ordered succinctly, the weight of each command underscored by the severity of their predicament.

Dot's form flickered once more before nodding, her systems buzzing as she executed the commands. "Waking Spartan-II, designation Sierra-One-One-Seven. Initiating combat preparation protocols."

---

The armory was alive with the sound of metal clanking, hydraulics hissing, and the murmured voices of marines and MJOLNIR-Cyborgs suiting up. The atmosphere was charged, a palpable mix of tension and determination filling the air as each soldier donned their battle gear. The marines tightened their straps and checked their ammo, while the cyborgs, integrated with their enhancements that, physically speaking, made them more machine than flesh, underwent system diagnostics, their mechanical limbs gleaming under the harsh white lights of the deck.

At the center of this orchestrated chaos stood Sgt-Major Avery Johnson, a towering figure even among the giants clad in armor. His presence was a rallying point, a beacon of unyielding resolve. He paced in front of the assembled troops, his eyes scanning the formation, taking in the readiness and fierce resolve mirrored in the faces of his troops.

"Men," Johnson began, his voice booming over the clatter, drawing every eye to him. His stance was wide, hands clasped behind his back, his face hard as carved granite. "We let those split-chinned, squid-faced sons of bitches out into the edge of space to keep their filthy claws from Earth." His tone was harsh, a controlled burn of fury and contempt for the enemy.

He paused, letting his words hang in the air, his gaze piercing the ranks. "But we've scrambled onto something they're so hot for, that they're trippin' over each other to get it!" Johnson continued, his voice rising, a sardonic smile playing on his lips as he imagined the enemy's desperation.

"Well, WE'RE NOT GONNA LET 'EM HAVE IT! What we WILL let 'em have: Is a belly full of lead, and a pool of their own blood TO DROWN IN!" His fist punched the air for emphasis, a definitive gesture that invited no argument, only compliance and shared conviction. "AM I RIGHT, MARINES?!"

The response was immediate and thunderous, a chorus of armored figures stomping their feet. "SIR, YES SIR!" they shouted back, the sound echoing off the metal walls, a unified declaration of readiness and aggression.

Johnson's smile broadened, pride swelling in his chest at the sight and sound of his troops, united and fierce. "Mmhmm. Damn right, I am," he affirmed, nodding slowly, his eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and anticipation. "Now move it out! Double time! All you greenhorns who wanted to see the Covies up close: This is gonna be your lucky day!"

---

In the cold, dimly lit confines of the cryo-chambers room, the sudden onslaught of alarms sliced through the silence, shattering the icy stillness. Red warning lights pulsed rhythmically, casting eerie shadows that danced along the metallic surfaces. John, Spartan-II, designation Sierra-One-One-Seven, slowly stirred from the depths of cryosleep, his senses sharpening with each passing second as the cryotube's lid hissed open, releasing a cloud of icy vapor into the air.

He swung his legs over the side of the tube, his bare feet touching the cold, steel floor. The blare of the alarms echoed in his ears, a relentless reminder of the urgency at hand. He took a moment to orient himself, his training kicking in seamlessly. John's movements were calm and methodical as he made his way to the armor bay, his mind already racing through potential threat assessments and tactical strategies.

The armor bay was a cathedral of war; rows of MJOLNIR armors stood solemn and silent, waiting like ancient warriors to be awakened. John approached his own suit, the familiar contours and the scent of polymer and metal greeting him like an old friend. His armor, the MIRAGE-IIC, was a masterpiece of military engineering, its metallic green surface almost iridescent under the flickering lights. The suit was sleek, lightweight and streamlined in design, crafted for full maneuverability and agility in exchange for light protection, and it featured a utility belt and solar-powered shielding systems meant to compensate for the light-protection of the suit, all accented by a striking orange visor.

John began the armoring process, each piece of the variant-MJOLNIR armorcore locking into place with satisfying clicks and whirs. He started with the leg armor, lifting the heavy plates and aligning them with precision around his thighs and calves. Next, the chest piece—a robust shell that slid over his torso, its inner workings buzzing softly as it synced with his biometrics.

The arms were next, gauntlets that were both shield and weapon, followed by a pauldron on his left-shoulder, which was emblazoned with the insignia of the UNSC while the right shoulder served as a sheathe for a small vibro-knife, a knife meant to combat plasma weapons from Energy-swords to Storm-rifles. Finally, he picked up the helmet, the most personal piece of the suit. He paused, his reflection caught in the glossy orange visor, a man marked by war yet unwavering in his resolve.With a deep breath, John placed the helmet on his head, the final seal clicking into place. The HUD sprang to life, overlaying his vision with data—vital stats, system checks, and tactical overlays..."

...Time to get to work."

---

As John rounded the corner, the corridor before him swarmed with Covenant troops. His HUD lit up with targets, the chaotic overlay only spurring him on. Lights flickered overhead, casting an otherworldly glow on the scene—a perfect backdrop for the storm to come.

First to engage were the Grunts, their clunky methane suits puffing and hissing with each awkward step. John didn’t bother with finesse; a brutal palm strike shattered the visor of the nearest Grunt, sending it careening backward into its companions, bowling them over like a line of mismatched, alien pins.

But the Elites were a different game—a deadly dance that demanded more than brute strength. As the first Elite lunged, its energy sword slicing through the air with a deadly hum, John’s reflexes took over. He ducked under the swipe, feeling the heat of the plasma blade just inches from his neck. With a fluid motion borne from countless drills, he drew the combat knife from his shoulder-sheathe. The blade, forged from a rare alloy impervious to plasma, caught the dim light as he brought it up in a defensive stance.

The Elite, undeterred, attacked again, its movements a blur of alien grace and lethal intent. John parried with his knife, sparks flying as metal met energy. He followed up with a quick jab to the Elite’s midsection, the impact absorbed by the alien’s shield. Unfazed, the Elite swung again, faster this time, but John was faster. He sidestepped, and with a twist of his wrist, he hooked his knife behind the Elite's arm and yanked forward, disrupting its balance.Using the moment’s advantage, John launched into a series of calculated strikes. He slammed his elbow into the Elite's faceplate, cracking it, then spun, driving his knife into the junction of the alien’s neck and shoulder. The Elite roared, staggering back, its energy sword flickering and dying as it dropped the weapon.

Now weaponless, the Elite bared its teeth in a snarl, but John was already moving. He kicked out, his boot connecting with the Elite's knee, bending it backward with a crunch of alien anatomy that echoed off the metal walls. As the Elite crumpled, John turned just in time to see another rushing him, sword raised.

This time, John charged forward. He slid under the sweeping arc of the blade, coming up behind the Elite. With a powerful heave, he lifted the alien off its feet and threw it into an oncoming group of Grunts. The collision left a tangle of limbs and a chorus of pained yelps.

Breathing steadily, John surveyed the corridor now littered with Covenant bodies. With a cold, calculated calm, John adjusted his grip on the knife, his stance relaxed yet unyielding, a silent challenge hanging in the air. The remaining Covenant troopers, unnerved and leaderless, began to retreat, their morale broken under the weight of John’s indomitable presence.

The smoke hung thick in the air as John secured his combat knife back into its sheath, the sounds of distant combat echoing through the damaged hallways of the Spirit of Fire; he moved with undiminished purpose, scanning for any more threats.

"Chief!" The voice cut through the chaos, a familiar tone laced with urgency. John turned to see Corporal Dubbo, rifle slung over his shoulder, making his way toward him through the debris. Dubbo's armor was dusted with soot, his expression a mixture of relief and stress as he approached the Spartan.

"Captain Del Rio needs you on the bridge, ASAP," Dubbo panted, slightly out of breath from navigating the war-torn corridors. His gaze flicked over John's stature, as if confirming that the Spartan was indeed ready to move.

John gave a brief nod, acknowledging the order. "Lead the way," he replied, his voice steady and commanding, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.

Dubbo turned without another word, his trust in John's ability to keep up apparent. They moved quickly, side-stepping rubble and darting past groups of marines who were setting up defensive positions. The corridor was a labyrinth of chaos: panels hung open with wires sparking, emergency lights cast eerie shadows, and the occasional explosion rocked the structure, a reminder of the ongoing assault.

As they maneuvered through a particularly damaged section of the ship, Dubbo glanced back at John, trying to make himself heard over the clamor. "Covies hit us hard, Chief. Didn’t see 'em coming. We’re holding our own, but it's a mess out there."

John's response was a simple nod, his focus undivided as his eyes continuously scanned their surroundings. The sounds of his heavy footsteps were muffled by the softer thuds of Dubbo's boots, creating a rhythmic cadence amidst the discord.

Finally, they reached the secured blast doors of the bridge. Two marines stood guard, their weapons trained on the corridor. Recognizing John, they snapped to attention, one marine rushing to open the door.Inside, the bridge was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Crew members were hunched over their stations, fingers flying over controls, and voices crisply calling out statuses and orders. The expansive windows showed the stark blackness of space, pierced by the occasional flash of ship-to-ship fire.

Captain Del Rio stood at the center of the activity, his eyes locked on a tactical display. He turned as John entered, his face set in grim determination.John strode onto the bridge of the Spirit of Fire, his presence immediately commanding attention. He snapped a crisp salute to Captain Del Rio. "Captain Del Rio, sir," he greeted, his tone respectful yet imbued with the urgency of their situation.

Del Rio, a man of no small stature himself, looked over with a gruff nod, his expression tight with the stress of command. "About damn time, Major. I'm glad you're here," he said, his voice rough like gravel. He turned back to the main display, his hands clasped behind his back. "Dot's set up and deployed all defensive options for the *Spirit of Fire*, but we've not a chance."

The captain's blunt assessment hung heavy in the air. He walked over to a secondary tactical console, motioning for John to follow. "Listen, I've initiated Cole Protocol Article 2. You know what that means—no capture of ship AI, dumb or smart, especially not on my watch," Del Rio continued, his gaze intense, flickering to the holographic projection of Dot.

John nodded, understanding the gravity of the directive. The loss of any AI, with their extensive strategic data about humanity and the United Nations Star Council, could be catastrophic.

Del Rio's voice lowered, heavy with responsibility. "John, you're to keep this information, ergo Dot herself, with you at all times." He paused, ensuring his next orders were clear. "There's a distress beacon coming from the Ringworld. I'm going to try and land the Spirit of Fire on it, while you need to get to a lifepod down to follow and find that beacon."

John absorbed the plan, his mind already racing through tactical scenarios, when Dot's calm, synthesized voice interrupted, "Alert: A bomb has been detected in the hangar bay. Estimated yield is equivalent to the destructive power of a metropolitan city-level explosion."

John’s reaction was immediate, his decision made in the blink of an eye. "Permission to give the Covenant back their bomb, sir?" he asked, turning back to Del Rio.

Without hesitation, Del Rio pulled a small, sleek data chip from a secure compartment in the console. He handed it to John. "Permission granted. Take Dot. She’ll be your guide." His voice was stern, yet there was an undercurrent of trust that resonated deeply.John took the chip, his fingers closing around it with a sense of new responsibility. He slotted it into the port on the side of his helmet. The chip clicked into place, and immediately, Dot's interface seamlessly integrated into his HUD, her voice now directly in his ear.

"Ready to assist, Spartan."

---

The elevator hummed steadily as it descended into the depths of the Spirit of Fire, headed for the hangar bay cradled in the ship's belly. Tension filled the cramped space, a silent prelude to the storm that was about to break. John, aware of the likely ambush, had positioned himself within the ceiling panels of the elevator, a move dictated by tactical foresight and Spartan ingenuity.

As the elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, a barrage of plasma fire lit up the interior, painting streaks of deadly energy where John would have been standing. The shots sizzled against the metal walls, leaving scorch marks and molten splatters. Above, hidden and silent as a ghost, John watched the Elite guards through the grate of the ceiling panel, waiting for the right moment to strike.

With a swift, calculated move, he pushed off from the ceiling, the panel clattering to the floor as he dropped among the unsuspecting Elites. His arrival was a blur of motion—immediate and devastating. Before the nearest Elite could react, John delivered a powerful elbow strike to its head, the impact echoing in the hangar like a gunshot. The Elite crumpled, its shields flaring and fizzling out.

Another Elite swung its energy sword in a deadly arc, aiming to decapitate the Spartan. John ducked low, the heat of the plasma blade grazing the air just above him. Using his low position, he swept the Elite's legs with a precision kick, toppling it over with a thud that resonated across the metal floor. Quick as lightning, John was on his feet, spinning to face another attacker.

This Elite was quicker, its movements sharpened by battle-honed instincts. It thrust forward with its sword, but John parried with his forearm—armored and shielded against the plasma’s kiss. He grabbed the Elite's arm, twisted it back, and with a swift step forward, he used his shoulder to deliver a dislocating blow to the Elite's elbow. A sharp crack filled the air, followed by the thud of the dropped sword.

John didn’t pause, his body already moving to the rhythm of battle. He launched himself at the next Elite, his fist cocked back. The punch he delivered was like a hammer blow, crashing into the Elite's shield and shattering it upon impact. As the shield disintegrated, John followed through with a knee strike to the abdomen, folding the Elite in half, breathless and defeated.

He turned just in time to catch the rush of the last Elite, its sword raised high. John stepped inside its reach, his hands shooting up in a double palm strike to the alien’s chest and chin, disrupting its attack and staggering it backward. With no time to waste, he delivered a final, spinning kick to the side of its head, sending it crashing into a stack of supply crates with a conclusive crash.

Breathing steadily, John scanned the now-quiet hangar. Around him, the fallen Elites lay in disarray, testament to the Spartan's lethal proficiency. With a grunt, he hoisted the bomb onto his shoulder, its weight a solid, unwelcome presence against his MIRAGE armor. Every step towards the docking bay was calculated under the burden, his muscles tensing with the effort, the servos in his suit whining slightly under the strain.

Reaching the massive pressure-sealed door of the hangar’s docking bay, John set the bomb down momentarily to access the control panel. With a few swift taps, the door began to open, revealing the endless expanse of space beyond. It was a silent, star-filled void, indifferent to the chaos unfolding within and around the Spirit of Fire.

As the door fully retracted, the vacuum of space greedily pulled at everything within reach. The bomb, its mass now a liability, began to slide toward the open bay. John didn’t hesitate. With a powerful kick, he sent the bomb tumbling into the void, then launched himself after it, his body slicing through the lack of atmosphere.

Outside the ship, John maneuvered onto the bomb, positioning himself atop it like a surfer catching a wave. The bomb and Spartan together hurtled through space, a bizarre tableau against the backdrop of a cosmic battlefield. Around them, the remnants of a recent dogfight floated by—twisted metal and debris that told of fierce combat.

Ahead, a Covenant battlecruiser loomed, its size monstrous. A gaping hole in its side—torn open by the dogfight—served as an unintended invitation. John steered the bomb towards this breach, using his body’s momentum and small movements to guide their path. The cold of space bit at him, but his suit’s systems compensated, keeping him alive in the deadly environment.

As they neared the opening, John spotted the battlecruiser’s reactor core, exposed and vulnerable. With precision born of countless battles, he aligned the bomb with the core. Then, with a firm push, he sent the bomb spinning towards its target. The device spiraled away from him, its trajectory perfect as it disappeared into the dark maw of the cruiser.

The moment the bomb was released, John kicked against a piece of debris, propelling himself back towards the ringworld. The cruiser, a silent behemoth against the stars, was unaware of the fatal gift now ticking within its bowels.

Behind him, the battlecruiser erupted in a brilliant explosion, a fireball consuming it from within as the reactor met the bomb. The shockwave rushed past John, a roaring tide of energy that sped his descent towards the ringworld. Below, the massive structure awaited, its secrets hidden beneath its surface, a silent witness to the destruction above.

Freefalling through space, John watched as the remnants of the Covenant ship scattered into the void, a satisfactory conclusion to his daring plan as he descends to the ringworld below him...

(Sorry it took me so long to read this!!)

Oh my gosh, I love it!! This honestly works super well as an introductory chapter (and I absolutely think this could work as a genuine novelization for the games!!), especially with the introductions to all the characters, a bit of their background, and a really solid feel for their voices!! (tl;dr It's perfect for people like me, ha ha! <3)

I freaking love some of the metaphors you use to describe things!! Calling the armory the "cathedral of war"!?! Got me FERAL!!! "Body slicing through the lack of atmosphere"??? YEEESSSS!!!! "stop it like a surfer catching a wave"??? *chef's kiss* Wonderful work!!

I also appreciate the drop in my inbox, it was a lot of fun to see it in their (even if it did take me forever to get around to a proper reading). :) <3

Thanks!! And keep up the writing, you're doing good work here!! :D

Kindly,

The Void

[empresskadia]

Halo Reloaded - Chapter One

The Spirit of Fire, a behemoth of steel and circuits, gracefully drifted through the vacuum of space. Its engines hummed quietly in the vast, star-speckled expanse, a comforting constant for those aboard. The crew, just roused from the deep, icy embrace of cryosleep, stretched and yawned, their bodies slowly reacclimating to the notion of movement and the mundane demands of the day ahead.

In the command center, Captain Andrew Del Rio stood with an authoritative ease that matched his crisp, navy-blue uniform, adorned with the badges of his dual life as a seasoned ONI politician and a UNSC officer. His gaze swept over the bustling activity with a practiced eye, catching every minor detail—the sharp salutes, the brisk nods, the quiet chatter of status updates.

"Report, Dot," he called out, his voice resonant and commanding, yet carrying an undertone of the day's first brewed coffee—a hint of warmth that suggested more camaraderie than most would expect from someone of his stature.

A hologram flickered to life in the center of the room, the luminescent blue form of Dot, the ship's AI, materializing with a swirl of digital particles. "Good morning, Captain. We are currently in orbit around Tau Ceti. Preliminary scans are complete, and I have something rather extraordinary to report," Dot announced, her tone imbued with a synthetic crispness that mimicked curiosity.

Del Rio leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. "Go on," he urged, his fingers clasped behind his back.

"The star, Tau Ceti, is enclosed within a colossal ring structure of unknown origin. Its diameter spans approximately 600 million miles," Dot continued, her form gesturing towards a rotating holographic model of the ringworld that now accompanied her display.

The crew members crowded around, their eyes wide with wonder and the restlessness of minds starved for discovery. The ringworld, displayed in brilliant hues of blues and greens, rotated serenely in the hologram."

By my calculations, the radius of this ring is akin to the orbit of Earth around the sun. And yes, Captain, it is quite beautiful," Dot added, a programmed appreciation in her voice, as if she too could perceive the aesthetics of this celestial marvel.

Del Rio nodded, his face reflecting the awe felt by his crew but tempered by the seasoned caution of a man who knew space was as dangerous as it was beautiful. "Prepare a detailed survey of the ringworld. I want options for closer inspection. Let's tread carefully but curiously. The universe seems keen to start our day with a mystery," he said, a hint of excitement threading through his otherwise stern directive.

The crew set to work, energized by the discovery and guided by a captain who respected the vastness of their mission—a blend of the known and the unknown, where each day began with the promise of new horizons.

The calm aboard the Spirit of Fire shattered abruptly as Dot flickered erratically, her holographic form blurring and distorting with electronic spasms. Warning klaxons blared, casting a red glow that washed over the faces of the crew, now etched with sudden tension and confusion. Panels and screens that had moments ago displayed the serene majesty of the ringworld were abruptly hijacked, replaced by the grim visage of a Covenant Elite.

Commander Var 'Gatanai, clad in the ornate armor of a Zealot, his mandibles twitching with barely contained zeal, dominated the screens. His voice, a harsh growl laced with contempt, boomed through the command center. "Humanity's destruction is the will of the gods. And we, The Covenant, are the gods' instruments."

As his image faded, the ship jolted violently, the shock of nearby slipspace ruptures sending tremors through the hull. Crew members grasped at consoles for stability, papers fluttered like caught leaves, and the constant hum of the ship's operations grew to a cacophony of alarms and running feet.

Captain Del Rio, maintaining his composure amid the chaos, turned sharply to the glitching form of Dot. "Status report, now!" he demanded, his voice cutting through the noise with the precision of a seasoned commander.

Dot stabilized momentarily, her voice still tinged with static as she relayed the dire situation. "Multiple Covenant corvettes have exited slipspace at close proximity. Hull integrity is compromised in sections 3A through 3C. Shields at 40% and falling. Additionally, a distress beacon is emanating from the ringworld, origin unknown.

"Without hesitation, Del Rio turned to the intercom, his voice resolute. "All hands, this is Captain Del Rio. We are at Combat Alert Alpha. I repeat, Combat Alert Alpha. Prepare for engagement," he announced, his tone leaving no room for doubt, only action.He pivoted back to Dot. "Get every Marine and MJOLNIR-Trooper to their stations. Arm all defensive systems. And wake our Spartan," he ordered succinctly, the weight of each command underscored by the severity of their predicament.

Dot's form flickered once more before nodding, her systems buzzing as she executed the commands. "Waking Spartan-II, designation Sierra-One-One-Seven. Initiating combat preparation protocols."

---

The armory was alive with the sound of metal clanking, hydraulics hissing, and the murmured voices of marines and MJOLNIR-Cyborgs suiting up. The atmosphere was charged, a palpable mix of tension and determination filling the air as each soldier donned their battle gear. The marines tightened their straps and checked their ammo, while the cyborgs, integrated with their enhancements that, physically speaking, made them more machine than flesh, underwent system diagnostics, their mechanical limbs gleaming under the harsh white lights of the deck.

At the center of this orchestrated chaos stood Sgt-Major Avery Johnson, a towering figure even among the giants clad in armor. His presence was a rallying point, a beacon of unyielding resolve. He paced in front of the assembled troops, his eyes scanning the formation, taking in the readiness and fierce resolve mirrored in the faces of his troops.

"Men," Johnson began, his voice booming over the clatter, drawing every eye to him. His stance was wide, hands clasped behind his back, his face hard as carved granite. "We let those split-chinned, squid-faced sons of bitches out into the edge of space to keep their filthy claws from Earth." His tone was harsh, a controlled burn of fury and contempt for the enemy.

He paused, letting his words hang in the air, his gaze piercing the ranks. "But we've scrambled onto something they're so hot for, that they're trippin' over each other to get it!" Johnson continued, his voice rising, a sardonic smile playing on his lips as he imagined the enemy's desperation.

"Well, WE'RE NOT GONNA LET 'EM HAVE IT! What we WILL let 'em have: Is a belly full of lead, and a pool of their own blood TO DROWN IN!" His fist punched the air for emphasis, a definitive gesture that invited no argument, only compliance and shared conviction. "AM I RIGHT, MARINES?!"

The response was immediate and thunderous, a chorus of armored figures stomping their feet. "SIR, YES SIR!" they shouted back, the sound echoing off the metal walls, a unified declaration of readiness and aggression.Johnson's smile broadened, pride swelling in his chest at the sight and sound of his troops, united and fierce. "Mmhmm. Damn right, I am," he affirmed, nodding slowly, his eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and anticipation. "Now move it out! Double time! All you greenhorns who wanted to see the Covies up close: This is gonna be your lucky day!"

---

In the cold, dimly lit confines of the cryo-chambers room, the sudden onslaught of alarms sliced through the silence, shattering the icy stillness. Red warning lights pulsed rhythmically, casting eerie shadows that danced along the metallic surfaces. John, Spartan-II, designation Sierra-One-One-Seven, slowly stirred from the depths of cryosleep, his senses sharpening with each passing second as the cryotube's lid hissed open, releasing a cloud of icy vapor into the air.He swung his legs over the side of the tube, his bare feet touching the cold, steel floor. The blare of the alarms echoed in his ears, a relentless reminder of the urgency at hand. He took a moment to orient himself, his training kicking in seamlessly. John's movements were calm and methodical as he made his way to the armor bay, his mind already racing through potential threat assessments and tactical strategies.

The armor bay was a cathedral of war; rows of MJOLNIR armors stood solemn and silent, waiting like ancient warriors to be awakened. John approached his own suit, the familiar contours and the scent of polymer and metal greeting him like an old friend. His armor, the MIRAGE-IIC, was a masterpiece of military engineering, its metallic green surface almost iridescent under the flickering lights. The suit was sleek, lightweight and streamlined in design, crafted for full maneuverability and agility in exchange for light protection, and it featured a utility belt and solar-powered shielding systems meant to compensate for the light-protection of the suit, all accented by a striking orange visor.

John began the armoring process, each piece of the variant-MJOLNIR armorcore locking into place with satisfying clicks and whirs. He started with the leg armor, lifting the heavy plates and aligning them with precision around his thighs and calves. Next, the chest piece—a robust shell that slid over his torso, its inner workings buzzing softly as it synced with his biometrics.

The arms were next, gauntlets that were both shield and weapon, followed by a pauldron on his left-shoulder, which was emblazoned with the insignia of the UNSC while the right shoulder served as a sheathe for a small vibro-knife, a knife meant to combat plasma weapons from Energy-swords to Storm-rifles. Finally, he picked up the helmet, the most personal piece of the suit. He paused, his reflection caught in the glossy orange visor, a man marked by war yet unwavering in his resolve.With a deep breath, John placed the helmet on his head, the final seal clicking into place. The HUD sprang to life, overlaying his vision with data—vital stats, system checks, and tactical overlays..."

...Time to get to work."

---

As John rounded the corner, the corridor before him swarmed with Covenant troops. His HUD lit up with targets, the chaotic overlay only spurring him on. Lights flickered overhead, casting an otherworldly glow on the scene—a perfect backdrop for the storm to come.

First to engage were the Grunts, their clunky methane suits puffing and hissing with each awkward step. John didn’t bother with finesse; a brutal palm strike shattered the visor of the nearest Grunt, sending it careening backward into its companions, bowling them over like a line of mismatched, alien pins.

But the Elites were a different game—a deadly dance that demanded more than brute strength. As the first Elite lunged, its energy sword slicing through the air with a deadly hum, John’s reflexes took over. He ducked under the swipe, feeling the heat of the plasma blade just inches from his neck. With a fluid motion borne from countless drills, he drew the combat knife from his shoulder-sheathe. The blade, forged from a rare alloy impervious to plasma, caught the dim light as he brought it up in a defensive stance.

The Elite, undeterred, attacked again, its movements a blur of alien grace and lethal intent. John parried with his knife, sparks flying as metal met energy. He followed up with a quick jab to the Elite’s midsection, the impact absorbed by the alien’s shield. Unfazed, the Elite swung again, faster this time, but John was faster. He sidestepped, and with a twist of his wrist, he hooked his knife behind the Elite's arm and yanked forward, disrupting its balance.

Using the moment’s advantage, John launched into a series of calculated strikes. He slammed his elbow into the Elite's faceplate, cracking it, then spun, driving his knife into the junction of the alien’s neck and shoulder. The Elite roared, staggering back, its energy sword flickering and dying as it dropped the weapon.

Now weaponless, the Elite bared its teeth in a snarl, but John was already moving. He kicked out, his boot connecting with the Elite's knee, bending it backward with a crunch of alien anatomy that echoed off the metal walls. As the Elite crumpled, John turned just in time to see another rushing him, sword raised.

This time, John charged forward. He slid under the sweeping arc of the blade, coming up behind the Elite. With a powerful heave, he lifted the alien off its feet and threw it into an oncoming group of Grunts. The collision left a tangle of limbs and a chorus of pained yelps.

Breathing steadily, John surveyed the corridor now littered with Covenant bodies. With a cold, calculated calm, John adjusted his grip on the knife, his stance relaxed yet unyielding, a silent challenge hanging in the air. The remaining Covenant troopers, unnerved and leaderless, began to retreat, their morale broken under the weight of John’s indomitable presence.

The smoke hung thick in the air as John secured his combat knife back into its sheath, the sounds of distant combat echoing through the damaged hallways of the Spirit of Fire; he moved with undiminished purpose, scanning for any more threats.

"Chief!" The voice cut through the chaos, a familiar tone laced with urgency. John turned to see Corporal Dubbo, rifle slung over his shoulder, making his way toward him through the debris. Dubbo's armor was dusted with soot, his expression a mixture of relief and stress as he approached the Spartan.

"Captain Del Rio needs you on the bridge, ASAP," Dubbo panted, slightly out of breath from navigating the war-torn corridors. His gaze flicked over John's stature, as if confirming that the Spartan was indeed ready to move.

John gave a brief nod, acknowledging the order. "Lead the way," he replied, his voice steady and commanding, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.

Dubbo turned without another word, his trust in John's ability to keep up apparent. They moved quickly, side-stepping rubble and darting past groups of marines who were setting up defensive positions. The corridor was a labyrinth of chaos: panels hung open with wires sparking, emergency lights cast eerie shadows, and the occasional explosion rocked the structure, a reminder of the ongoing assault.

As they maneuvered through a particularly damaged section of the ship, Dubbo glanced back at John, trying to make himself heard over the clamor. "Covies hit us hard, Chief. Didn’t see 'em coming. We’re holding our own, but it's a mess out there."

John's response was a simple nod, his focus undivided as his eyes continuously scanned their surroundings. The sounds of his heavy footsteps were muffled by the softer thuds of Dubbo's boots, creating a rhythmic cadence amidst the discord.Finally, they reached the secured blast doors of the bridge. Two marines stood guard, their weapons trained on the corridor. Recognizing John, they snapped to attention, one marine rushing to open the door.Inside, the bridge was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Crew members were hunched over their stations, fingers flying over controls, and voices crisply calling out statuses and orders. The expansive windows showed the stark blackness of space, pierced by the occasional flash of ship-to-ship fire.

Captain Del Rio stood at the center of the activity, his eyes locked on a tactical display. He turned as John entered, his face set in grim determination.John strode onto the bridge of the Spirit of Fire, his presence immediately commanding attention. He snapped a crisp salute to Captain Del Rio. "Captain Del Rio, sir," he greeted, his tone respectful yet imbued with the urgency of their situation.

Del Rio, a man of no small stature himself, looked over with a gruff nod, his expression tight with the stress of command. "About damn time, Major. I'm glad you're here," he said, his voice rough like gravel. He turned back to the main display, his hands clasped behind his back. "Dot's set up and deployed all defensive options for the *Spirit of Fire*, but we've not a chance."

The captain's blunt assessment hung heavy in the air. He walked over to a secondary tactical console, motioning for John to follow. "Listen, I've initiated Cole Protocol Article 2. You know what that means—no capture of ship AI, dumb or smart, especially not on my watch," Del Rio continued, his gaze intense, flickering to the holographic projection of Dot.

John nodded, understanding the gravity of the directive. The loss of any AI, with their extensive strategic data about humanity and the United Nations Star Council, could be catastrophic.

Del Rio's voice lowered, heavy with responsibility. "John, you're to keep this information, ergo Dot herself, with you at all times." He paused, ensuring his next orders were clear. "There's a distress beacon coming from the Ringworld. I'm going to try and land the Spirit of Fire on it, while you need to get to a lifepod down to follow and find that beacon."

John absorbed the plan, his mind already racing through tactical scenarios, when Dot's calm, synthesized voice interrupted, "Alert: A bomb has been detected in the hangar bay. Estimated yield is equivalent to the destructive power of a metropolitan city-level explosion."

John’s reaction was immediate, his decision made in the blink of an eye. "Permission to give the Covenant back their bomb, sir?" he asked, turning back to Del Rio.

Without hesitation, Del Rio pulled a small, sleek data chip from a secure compartment in the console. He handed it to John. "Permission granted. Take Dot. She’ll be your guide." His voice was stern, yet there was an undercurrent of trust that resonated deeply.

John took the chip, his fingers closing around it with a sense of new responsibility. He slotted it into the port on the side of his helmet. The chip clicked into place, and immediately, Dot's interface seamlessly integrated into his HUD, her voice now directly in his ear.

"Ready to assist, Spartan."

---

The elevator hummed steadily as it descended into the depths of the Spirit of Fire, headed for the hangar bay cradled in the ship's belly. Tension filled the cramped space, a silent prelude to the storm that was about to break. John, aware of the likely ambush, had positioned himself within the ceiling panels of the elevator, a move dictated by tactical foresight and Spartan ingenuity.

As the elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, a barrage of plasma fire lit up the interior, painting streaks of deadly energy where John would have been standing. The shots sizzled against the metal walls, leaving scorch marks and molten splatters. Above, hidden and silent as a ghost, John watched the Elite guards through the grate of the ceiling panel, waiting for the right moment to strike.

With a swift, calculated move, he pushed off from the ceiling, the panel clattering to the floor as he dropped among the unsuspecting Elites. His arrival was a blur of motion—immediate and devastating. Before the nearest Elite could react, John delivered a powerful elbow strike to its head, the impact echoing in the hangar like a gunshot. The Elite crumpled, its shields flaring and fizzling out.

Another Elite swung its energy sword in a deadly arc, aiming to decapitate the Spartan. John ducked low, the heat of the plasma blade grazing the air just above him. Using his low position, he swept the Elite's legs with a precision kick, toppling it over with a thud that resonated across the metal floor. Quick as lightning, John was on his feet, spinning to face another attacker.

This Elite was quicker, its movements sharpened by battle-honed instincts. It thrust forward with its sword, but John parried with his forearm—armored and shielded against the plasma’s kiss. He grabbed the Elite's arm, twisted it back, and with a swift step forward, he used his shoulder to deliver a dislocating blow to the Elite's elbow. A sharp crack filled the air, followed by the thud of the dropped sword.

John didn’t pause, his body already moving to the rhythm of battle. He launched himself at the next Elite, his fist cocked back. The punch he delivered was like a hammer blow, crashing into the Elite's shield and shattering it upon impact. As the shield disintegrated, John followed through with a knee strike to the abdomen, folding the Elite in half, breathless and defeated.He turned just in time to catch the rush of the last Elite, its sword raised high. John stepped inside its reach, his hands shooting up in a double palm strike to the alien’s chest and chin, disrupting its attack and staggering it backward. With no time to waste, he delivered a final, spinning kick to the side of its head, sending it crashing into a stack of supply crates with a conclusive crash.

Breathing steadily, John scanned the now-quiet hangar. Around him, the fallen Elites lay in disarray, testament to the Spartan's lethal proficiency. With a grunt, he hoisted the bomb onto his shoulder, its weight a solid, unwelcome presence against his MIRAGE armor. Every step towards the docking bay was calculated under the burden, his muscles tensing with the effort, the servos in his suit whining slightly under the strain.

Reaching the massive pressure-sealed door of the hangar’s docking bay, John set the bomb down momentarily to access the control panel. With a few swift taps, the door began to open, revealing the endless expanse of space beyond. It was a silent, star-filled void, indifferent to the chaos unfolding within and around the Spirit of Fire.

As the door fully retracted, the vacuum of space greedily pulled at everything within reach. The bomb, its mass now a liability, began to slide toward the open bay. John didn’t hesitate. With a powerful kick, he sent the bomb tumbling into the void, then launched himself after it, his body slicing through the lack of atmosphere.

Outside the ship, John maneuvered onto the bomb, positioning himself atop it like a surfer catching a wave. The bomb and Spartan together hurtled through space, a bizarre tableau against the backdrop of a cosmic battlefield. Around them, the remnants of a recent dogfight floated by—twisted metal and debris that told of fierce combat.

Ahead, a Covenant battlecruiser loomed, its size monstrous. A gaping hole in its side—torn open by the dogfight—served as an unintended invitation. John steered the bomb towards this breach, using his body’s momentum and small movements to guide their path. The cold of space bit at him, but his suit’s systems compensated, keeping him alive in the deadly environment.

As they neared the opening, John spotted the battlecruiser’s reactor core, exposed and vulnerable. With precision born of countless battles, he aligned the bomb with the core. Then, with a firm push, he sent the bomb spinning towards its target. The device spiraled away from him, its trajectory perfect as it disappeared into the dark maw of the cruiser.

The moment the bomb was released, John kicked against a piece of debris, propelling himself back towards the ringworld. The cruiser, a silent behemoth against the stars, was unaware of the fatal gift now ticking within its bowels.

Behind him, the battlecruiser erupted in a brilliant explosion, a fireball consuming it from within as the reactor met the bomb. The shockwave rushed past John, a roaring tide of energy that sped his descent towards the ringworld. Below, the massive structure awaited, its secrets hidden beneath its surface, a silent witness to the destruction above.

Freefalling through space, John watched as the remnants of the Covenant ship scattered into the void, a satisfactory conclusion to his daring plan as he descends to the ringworld below him...

JOHNSON?! JOHN!?! AN ELITE!? I love it. And now if we can please hit Del Rio with a train ;)

[ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask]

Halo Reloaded - Chapter One

The Spirit of Fire, a behemoth of steel and circuits, gracefully drifted through the vacuum of space. Its engines hummed quietly in the vast, star-speckled expanse, a comforting constant for those aboard. The crew, just roused from the deep, icy embrace of cryosleep, stretched and yawned, their bodies slowly reacclimating to the notion of movement and the mundane demands of the day ahead.

In the command center, Captain Andrew Del Rio stood with an authoritative ease that matched his crisp, navy-blue uniform, adorned with the badges of his dual life as a seasoned ONI politician and a UNSC officer. His gaze swept over the bustling activity with a practiced eye, catching every minor detail—the sharp salutes, the brisk nods, the quiet chatter of status updates.

"Report, Dot," he called out, his voice resonant and commanding, yet carrying an undertone of the day's first brewed coffee—a hint of warmth that suggested more camaraderie than most would expect from someone of his stature.

A hologram flickered to life in the center of the room, the luminescent blue form of Dot, the ship's AI, materializing with a swirl of digital particles. "Good morning, Captain. We are currently in orbit around Tau Ceti. Preliminary scans are complete, and I have something rather extraordinary to report," Dot announced, her tone imbued with a synthetic crispness that mimicked curiosity.

Del Rio leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. "Go on," he urged, his fingers clasped behind his back.

"The star, Tau Ceti, is enclosed within a colossal ring structure of unknown origin. Its diameter spans approximately 600 million miles," Dot continued, her form gesturing towards a rotating holographic model of the ringworld that now accompanied her display.

The crew members crowded around, their eyes wide with wonder and the restlessness of minds starved for discovery. The ringworld, displayed in brilliant hues of blues and greens, rotated serenely in the hologram.

"By my calculations, the radius of this ring is akin to the orbit of Earth around the sun. And yes, Captain, it is quite beautiful," Dot added, a programmed appreciation in her voice, as if she too could perceive the aesthetics of this celestial marvel.

Del Rio nodded, his face reflecting the awe felt by his crew but tempered by the seasoned caution of a man who knew space was as dangerous as it was beautiful. "Prepare a detailed survey of the ringworld. I want options for closer inspection. Let's tread carefully but curiously. The universe seems keen to start our day with a mystery," he said, a hint of excitement threading through his otherwise stern directive.

The crew set to work, energized by the discovery and guided by a captain who respected the vastness of their mission—a blend of the known and the unknown, where each day began with the promise of new horizons.

The calm aboard the Spirit of Fire shattered abruptly as Dot flickered erratically, her holographic form blurring and distorting with electronic spasms. Warning klaxons blared, casting a red glow that washed over the faces of the crew, now etched with sudden tension and confusion. Panels and screens that had moments ago displayed the serene majesty of the ringworld were abruptly hijacked, replaced by the grim visage of a Covenant Elite.

Commander Var 'Gatanai, clad in the ornate armor of a Zealot, his mandibles twitching with barely contained zeal, dominated the screens. His voice, a harsh growl laced with contempt, boomed through the command center. "Humanity's destruction is the will of the gods. And we, The Covenant, are the gods' instruments."

As his image faded, the ship jolted violently, the shock of nearby slipspace ruptures sending tremors through the hull. Crew members grasped at consoles for stability, papers fluttered like caught leaves, and the constant hum of the ship's operations grew to a cacophony of alarms and running feet.

Captain Del Rio, maintaining his composure amid the chaos, turned sharply to the glitching form of Dot. "Status report, now!" he demanded, his voice cutting through the noise with the precision of a seasoned commander.

Dot stabilized momentarily, her voice still tinged with static as she relayed the dire situation. "Multiple Covenant corvettes have exited slipspace at close proximity. Hull integrity is compromised in sections 3A through 3C. Shields at 40% and falling. Additionally, a distress beacon is emanating from the ringworld, origin unknown."

Without hesitation, Del Rio turned to the intercom, his voice resolute. "All hands, this is Captain Del Rio. We are at Combat Alert Alpha. I repeat, Combat Alert Alpha. Prepare for engagement," he announced, his tone leaving no room for doubt, only action.He pivoted back to Dot. "Get every Marine and MJOLNIR-Trooper to their stations. Arm all defensive systems. And wake our Spartan," he ordered succinctly, the weight of each command underscored by the severity of their predicament.

Dot's form flickered once more before nodding, her systems buzzing as she executed the commands. "Waking Spartan-II, designation Sierra-One-One-Seven. Initiating combat preparation protocols."

---

The armory was alive with the sound of metal clanking, hydraulics hissing, and the murmured voices of marines and MJOLNIR-Cyborgs suiting up. The atmosphere was charged, a palpable mix of tension and determination filling the air as each soldier donned their battle gear. The marines tightened their straps and checked their ammo, while the cyborgs, integrated with their cybernetic enhancements that make them, physcially speaking, more machine than flesh, underwent system diagnostics, their mechanical limbs gleaming under the harsh white lights of the deck.

At the center of this orchestrated chaos stood Sgt-Major Avery Johnson, a towering figure even among the giants clad in armor. His presence was a rallying point, a beacon of unyielding resolve. He paced in front of the assembled troops, his eyes scanning the formation, taking in the readiness and fierce resolve mirrored in the faces of his troops.

"Men," Johnson began, his voice booming over the clatter, drawing every eye to him. His stance was wide, hands clasped behind his back, his face hard as carved granite. "We let those split-chinned, squid-faced sons of bitches out into the edge of space to keep their filthy claws from Earth." His tone was harsh, a controlled burn of fury and contempt for the enemy.

He paused, letting his words hang in the air, his gaze piercing the ranks. "But we scrambled something they're so hot for, that they're trippin' over each other to get it!" Johnson continued, his voice rising, a sardonic smile playing on his lips as he imagined the enemy's desperation.

"Well, WE'RE NOT GONNA LET 'EM HAVE IT! What we WILL let 'em have: Is a belly full of lead, and a pool of their own blood TO DROWN IN!" His fist punched the air for emphasis, a definitive gesture that invited no argument, only compliance and shared conviction. "AM I RIGHT, MARINES?!"

The response was immediate and thunderous, a chorus of armored figures stomping their feet. "SIR, YES SIR!" they shouted back, the sound echoing off the metal walls, a unified declaration of readiness and aggression.

Johnson's smile broadened, pride swelling in his chest at the sight and sound of his troops, united and fierce. "Mmhmm. Damn right, I am," he affirmed, nodding slowly, his eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and anticipation. "Now move it out! Double time! All you greenhorns who wanted to see the Covies up close: This is gonna be your lucky day!"

---

In the cold, dimly lit confines of the cryo-chambers room, the sudden onslaught of alarms sliced through the silence, shattering the icy stillness. Red warning lights pulsed rhythmically, casting eerie shadows that danced along the metallic surfaces. John, Spartan-II, designation Sierra-One-One-Seven, slowly stirred from the depths of cryosleep, his senses sharpening with each passing second as the cryotube's lid hissed open, releasing a cloud of icy vapor into the air.

He swung his legs over the side of the tube, his bare feet touching the cold, steel floor. The blare of the alarms echoed in his ears, a relentless reminder of the urgency at hand. He took a moment to orient himself, his training kicking in seamlessly. John's movements were calm and methodical as he made his way to the armor bay, his mind already racing through potential threat assessments and tactical strategies.

The armor bay was a cathedral of war; rows of MJOLNIR armors stood solemn and silent, waiting like ancient warriors to be awakened. John approached his own suit, the familiar contours and the scent of polymer and metal greeting him like an old friend. His armor, the MIRAGE-IIC, was a masterpiece of military engineering, its metallic green surface almost iridescent under the flickering lights. The suit was sleek, lightweight and streamlined in design, crafted for full maneuverability and agility in exchange for light protection, and it featured a utility belt and solar-powered shielding systems meant to compensate for the light-protection of the suit, all accented by a striking orange visor.

John began the armoring process, each piece of the variant-MJOLNIR armorcore locking into place with satisfying clicks and whirs. He started with the leg armor, lifting the heavy plates and aligning them with precision around his thighs and calves. Next, the chest piece—a robust shell that slid over his torso, its inner workings buzzing softly as it synced with his biometrics.

The arms were next, gauntlets that were both shield and weapon, followed by a pauldron on his left-shoulder, which was emblazoned with the insignia of the UNSC while the right shoulder served as a sheathe for a small vibro-knife, a knife meant to combat plasma weapons from Energy-swords to Storm-rifles. Finally, he picked up the helmet, the most personal piece of the suit. He paused, his reflection caught in the glossy orange visor, a man marked by war yet unwavering in his resolve.

With a deep breath, John placed the helmet on his head, the final seal clicking into place. The HUD sprang to life, overlaying his vision with data—vital stats, system checks, and tactical overlays...

"...Time to get to work."

---

As John rounded the corner, the corridor before him swarmed with Covenant troops. His HUD lit up with targets, the chaotic overlay only spurring him on. Lights flickered overhead, casting an otherworldly glow on the scene—a perfect backdrop for the storm to come.

First to engage were the Grunts, their clunky methane suits puffing and hissing with each awkward step. John didn’t bother with finesse; a brutal palm strike shattered the visor of the nearest Grunt, sending it careening backward into its companions, bowling them over like a line of mismatched, alien pins.

But the Elites were a different game—a deadly dance that demanded more than brute strength. As the first Elite lunged, its energy sword slicing through the air with a deadly hum, John’s reflexes took over. He ducked under the swipe, feeling the heat of the plasma blade just inches from his neck. With a fluid motion borne from countless drills, he drew the combat knife from his shoulder-sheathe. The blade, forged from a rare alloy impervious to plasma, caught the dim light as he brought it up in a defensive stance.

The Elite, undeterred, attacked again, its movements a blur of alien grace and lethal intent. John parried with his knife, sparks flying as metal met energy. He followed up with a quick jab to the Elite’s midsection, the impact absorbed by the alien’s shield. Unfazed, the Elite swung again, faster this time, but John was faster. He sidestepped, and with a twist of his wrist, he hooked his knife behind the Elite's arm and yanked forward, disrupting its balance.

Using the moment’s advantage, John launched into a series of calculated strikes. He slammed his elbow into the Elite's faceplate, cracking it, then spun, driving his knife into the junction of the alien’s neck and shoulder. The Elite roared, staggering back, its energy sword flickering and dying as it dropped the weapon.

Now weaponless, the Elite bared its teeth in a snarl, but John was already moving. He kicked out, his boot connecting with the Elite's knee, bending it backward with a crunch of alien anatomy that echoed off the metal walls. As the Elite crumpled, John turned just in time to see another rushing him, sword raised.

This time, John charged forward. He slid under the sweeping arc of the blade, coming up behind the Elite. With a powerful heave, he lifted the alien off its feet and threw it into an oncoming group of Grunts. The collision left a tangle of limbs and a chorus of pained yelps.

Breathing steadily, John surveyed the corridor now littered with Covenant bodies. With a cold, calculated calm, John adjusted his grip on the knife, his stance relaxed yet unyielding, a silent challenge hanging in the air. The remaining Covenant troopers, unnerved and leaderless, began to retreat, their morale broken under the weight of John’s indomitable presence.

The smoke hung thick in the air as John secured his combat knife back into its sheath, the sounds of distant combat echoing through the damaged hallways of the Spirit of Fire; he moved with undiminished purpose, scanning for any more threats.

"Chief!" The voice cut through the chaos, a familiar tone laced with urgency. John turned to see Corporal Dubbo, rifle slung over his shoulder, making his way toward him through the debris. Dubbo's armor was dusted with soot, his expression a mixture of relief and stress as he approached the Spartan.

"Captain Del Rio needs you on the bridge, ASAP," Dubbo panted, slightly out of breath from navigating the war-torn corridors. His gaze flicked over John's stature, as if confirming that the Spartan was indeed ready to move.

John gave a brief nod, acknowledging the order. "Lead the way," he replied, his voice steady and commanding, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.

Dubbo turned without another word, his trust in John's ability to keep up apparent. They moved quickly, side-stepping rubble and darting past groups of marines who were setting up defensive positions. The corridor was a labyrinth of chaos: panels hung open with wires sparking, emergency lights cast eerie shadows, and the occasional explosion rocked the structure, a reminder of the ongoing assault.

As they maneuvered through a particularly damaged section of the ship, Dubbo glanced back at John, trying to make himself heard over the clamor. "Covies hit us hard, Chief. Didn’t see 'em coming. We’re holding our own, but it's a mess out there."

John's response was a simple nod, his focus undivided as his eyes continuously scanned their surroundings. The sounds of his heavy footsteps were muffled by the softer thuds of Dubbo's boots, creating a rhythmic cadence amidst the discord.

Finally, they reached the secured blast doors of the bridge. Two marines stood guard, their weapons trained on the corridor. Recognizing John, they snapped to attention, one marine rushing to open the door.

Inside, the bridge was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Crew members were hunched over their stations, fingers flying over controls, and voices crisply calling out statuses and orders. The expansive windows showed the stark blackness of space, pierced by the occasional flash of ship-to-ship fire.

Captain Del Rio stood at the center of the activity, his eyes locked on a tactical display. He turned as John entered, his face set in grim determination.

John strode onto the bridge of the Spirit of Fire, his presence immediately commanding attention. He snapped a crisp salute to Captain Del Rio. "Captain Del Rio, sir," he greeted, his tone respectful yet imbued with the urgency of their situation.

Del Rio, a man of no small stature himself, looked over with a gruff nod, his expression tight with the stress of command. "About damn time, Major. I'm glad you're here," he said, his voice rough like gravel. He turned back to the main display, his hands clasped behind his back. "Dot's set up and deployed all defensive options for the Spirit of Fire, but we've not a chance."

The captain's blunt assessment hung heavy in the air. He walked over to a secondary tactical console, motioning for John to follow. "Listen, I've initiated Cole Protocol Article 2. You know what that means—no capture of ship AI, dumb or smart, especially not on my watch," Del Rio continued, his gaze intense, flickering to the holographic projection of Dot.

John nodded, understanding the gravity of the directive. The loss of any AI, with their extensive strategic data about humanity and the United Nations Star Council, could be catastrophic.

Del Rio's voice lowered, heavy with responsibility. "John, you're to keep this information, ergo Dot herself, with you at all times." He paused, ensuring his next orders were clear. "There's a distress beacon coming from the Ringworld. I'm going to try and land the Spirit of Fire on it, while you need to get to a lifepod down to follow and find that beacon."

John absorbed the plan, his mind already racing through tactical scenarios, when Dot's calm, synthesized voice interrupted, "Alert: A bomb has been detected in the hangar bay. Estimated yield is equivalent to the destructive power of a metropolitan city-level explosion."

John’s reaction was immediate, his decision made in the blink of an eye. "Permission to give the Covenant back their bomb, sir?" he asked, turning back to Del Rio.

Without hesitation, Del Rio pulled a small, sleek data chip from a secure compartment in the console. He handed it to John. "Permission granted. Take Dot. She’ll be your guide." His voice was stern, yet there was an undercurrent of trust that resonated deeply.

John took the chip, his fingers closing around it with a sense of new responsibility. He slotted it into the port on the side of his helmet. The chip clicked into place, and immediately, Dot's interface seamlessly integrated into his HUD, her voice now directly in his ear."

Ready to assist, Spartan."

---

The elevator hummed steadily as it descended into the depths of the Spirit of Fire, headed for the hangar bay cradled in the ship's belly. Tension filled the cramped space, a silent prelude to the storm that was about to break. John, aware of the likely ambush, had positioned himself within the ceiling panels of the elevator, a move dictated by tactical foresight and Spartan ingenuity.

As the elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, a barrage of plasma fire lit up the interior, painting streaks of deadly energy where John would have been standing. The shots sizzled against the metal walls, leaving scorch marks and molten splatters. Above, hidden and silent as a ghost, John watched the Elite guards through the grate of the ceiling panel, waiting for the right moment to strike.

With a swift, calculated move, he pushed off from the ceiling, the panel clattering to the floor as he dropped among the unsuspecting Elites. His arrival was a blur of motion—immediate and devastating. Before the nearest Elite could react, John delivered a powerful elbow strike to its head, the impact echoing in the hangar like a gunshot. The Elite crumpled, its shields flaring and fizzling out.

Another Elite swung its energy sword in a deadly arc, aiming to decapitate the Spartan. John ducked low, the heat of the plasma blade grazing the air just above him. Using his low position, he swept the Elite's legs with a precision kick, toppling it over with a thud that resonated across the metal floor. Quick as lightning, John was on his feet, spinning to face another attacker.

This Elite was quicker, its movements sharpened by battle-honed instincts. It thrust forward with its sword, but John parried with his forearm—armored and shielded against the plasma’s kiss. He grabbed the Elite's arm, twisted it back, and with a swift step forward, he used his shoulder to deliver a dislocating blow to the Elite's elbow. A sharp crack filled the air, followed by the thud of the dropped sword.

John didn’t pause, his body already moving to the rhythm of battle. He launched himself at the next Elite, his fist cocked back. The punch he delivered was like a hammer blow, crashing into the Elite's shield and shattering it upon impact. As the shield disintegrated, John followed through with a knee strike to the abdomen, folding the Elite in half, breathless and defeated.

He turned just in time to catch the rush of the last Elite, its sword raised high. John stepped inside its reach, his hands shooting up in a double palm strike to the alien’s chest and chin, disrupting its attack and staggering it backward. With no time to waste, he delivered a final, spinning kick to the side of its head, sending it crashing into a stack of supply crates with a conclusive crash.

Breathing steadily, John scanned the now-quiet hangar. Around him, the fallen Elites lay in disarray, testament to the Spartan's lethal proficiency. With a grunt, he hoisted the bomb onto his shoulder, its weight a solid, unwelcome presence against his MIRAGE armor. Every step towards the docking bay was calculated under the burden, his muscles tensing with the effort, the servos in his suit whining slightly under the strain.

Reaching the massive pressure-sealed door of the hangar’s docking bay, John set the bomb down momentarily to access the control panel. With a few swift taps, the door began to open, revealing the endless expanse of space beyond. It was a silent, star-filled void, indifferent to the chaos unfolding within and around the Spirit of Fire.

As the door fully retracted, the vacuum of space greedily pulled at everything within reach. The bomb, its mass now a liability, began to slide toward the open bay. John didn’t hesitate. With a powerful kick, he sent the bomb tumbling into the void, then launched himself after it, his body slicing through the lack of atmosphere.

Outside the ship, John maneuvered onto the bomb, positioning himself atop it like a surfer catching a wave. The bomb and Spartan together hurtled through space, a bizarre tableau against the backdrop of a cosmic battlefield. Around them, the remnants of a recent dogfight floated by—twisted metal and debris that told of fierce combat.

Ahead, a Covenant battlecruiser loomed, its size monstrous. A gaping hole in its side—torn open by the dogfight—served as an unintended invitation. John steered the bomb towards this breach, using his body’s momentum and small movements to guide their path. The cold of space bit at him, but his suit’s systems compensated, keeping him alive in the deadly environment.

As they neared the opening, John spotted the battlecruiser’s reactor core, exposed and vulnerable. With precision born of countless battles, he aligned the bomb with the core. Then, with a firm push, he sent the bomb spinning towards its target. The device spiraled away from him, its trajectory perfect as it disappeared into the dark maw of the cruiser.

The moment the bomb was released, John kicked against a piece of debris, propelling himself back towards the ringworld. The cruiser, a silent behemoth against the stars, was unaware of the fatal gift now ticking within its bowels.

Behind him, the battlecruiser erupted in a brilliant explosion, a fireball consuming it from within as the reactor met the bomb. The shockwave rushed past John, a roaring tide of energy that sped his descent towards the ringworld. Below, the massive structure awaited, its secrets hidden beneath its surface, a silent witness to the destruction above.

Freefalling through space, John watched as the remnants of the Covenant ship scattered into the void, a satisfactory conclusion to his daring plan as he descends to the ringworld below him...

This is definitely a very interesting opener. I liked seeing Del Rio as a somewhat competent leader... I know that must have been difficult, given your hatred of him haha.

Great first chapter! You let us see that things were changing without forcing too much of it all at once. Really enjoyable. Excellent work as always!

[punks-never-die205]

Unseen

afab!reader x Killer

CW: canon-typical violence, smooches, sexy times, second go at life try again style story, 18+ only

Chapter 5: Us

After a few minutes you leave the storage room. You couldn't get the feeling of the kiss from earlier to leave your mind while you sat in the room and you understood why Killer had left to cool his head.

When you reach the deck and feel the cool breeze on your face, and the smell of salty air you feel a lot of the heat leave you. The sun was still up, and there was something about being in it that left you feeling exposed. It felt a little like everyone on the ship knew exactly what had transpired because the sun had told them about it.

"Hey Brat," Heat pipes up behind you, getting your attention and causing you to nearly leap out of your skin.

"H-h-eat, hi, hello." You let out the excess air you'd sucked in and smile awkwardly. "What's up?"

Heat's looking at you with a crooked smile on his face and confusion in his eyes. "Nothing. You alright? Getting nervous about the job, maybe?"

"Huh? No, yes, I mean, I'm fine." You laugh nervously and consider just leaping off the ship into the open ocean.

His crooked smile turns a bit knowing, and he leans down to tease you. "I see what it is, House has you practicing on live crew members, is that it?"

The very vivid idea of flirting with Killer came into your mind and all the blood rushes back into your face. "N-n-no, nope – ah, not... yet." You cover your face with your hands. Kissing someone for the first time apparently makes you a fool. "Is that gonna be something she does?"

Heat laughs and ruffles your hair. "I don't know, brat, but she might if she thinks you need the practice. If you can keep a straight face flirting with the Captain, you'd be solid no matter what."

"Pfft, haha! I cannot imagine flirting with Kid," Your hands fall away and you're beaming a smile back at Heat. "I can't imagine the Captain actually flirting." You admit, after giving it some thought.

You didn't notice Heat's smile go from knowing to mischievous. "Yeah, Killer would make for more natural practice."

Your eyes and mouth go wide as your brain just short circuits. Not only had you walked right into that, but you were also sure you helped Heat build the trap with a smile on your face.

"Smooth move, short stack." You hear Killer sigh behind you.

"Heat?" You ask, looking down at the deck.

"Yeah, brat?"

"Toss me into the sea."

"You'll have to come back onboard sooner or later." Heat reminds you with a laugh.

"Tease her later, Heat," Killer says, his fingers slipping over yours as he tugs you to the stern of the ship with him. "Let's talk."

"Ohhh." You hear Heat mumble as Killer leads you away.

Killer prompts you to sit on the crate you had before, and then leans against the rail nearby. You have no idea what to say, and Killer is keeping his gaze out into the sea. After a moment, you look out into the water as well, and realize it's really calming to watch the steady shift of the ocean break against Victoria's hull.

"Only me, huh?" Killer prompts after you've lost your thoughts into the shifting waters. You flinch, more at the sudden sound, soft as it was, than the words themselves.

Your face is hot, and you steal a glance over at him before looking out to the horizon. "Only you," you admit. "I really thought about it too. I thought about Kid and Heat and Wire. I thought about House and Hip 'n' Hop, and Reck. I really thought about the whole crew, and even people I'd left behind." You sink against the rail a little, "I even thought about Nezumi."

You can feel Killer tense at that name, but you'd known since it was first brought up that he didn't like the plan from the beginning. You thought at first it was just because he was too kind, or you were too new, but after earlier you realize it was for different reasons.

"I... Killer, I don't know how to talk about futures," You're looking at him and you're sure he was looking back. "I've had seven more years of freedom than I already thought I would. I don't know what stretch of time is going to see me at the bottom of the ocean, or in chains for CP9. And... a few weeks ago, that didn't bother me."

Killer turns toward you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders, and letting you rest your head against his chest. You can hear the surprisingly calm rhythm of his heart, and his embrace is gentle. If you weren't a mess of emotions and embarrassment, you could easily fall asleep like this.

"My priority," He begins, his voice steady, his tone firm, "will always be Eustass."

You nod, and mumble, "Of course," and feel his body tense.

"Of course?"

You reach your hands out and slip them around his waist. "Of course. Eustass is the Captain, he has to be the priority for both of us or it's not gonna work."

"... I was not expecting that." His tone makes you smile; you hadn't heard Killer legitimately confounded before.

"I almost left," you look at him seriously. "I've thought through the possibilities and risks and threats every single day for the last seven years. Even before then it was beat into my soul to assess. Assessing correctly means success. Failure is unacceptable. Relationships are a risk, connections to people who can't be used are a risk. I couldn't afford risks. I had to stay ahead of CP9 if I wanted to remain free.

"Physical contact can escalate. Putting someone else before you means risk. I've left every person who was even remotely beginning to matter to me. I've never known. I've never tried. I've..."

You swallow, a terrible realization dawning on you, and you can feel emotion welling up in your eyes. "Never, really lived, in a way."

Rough warm hands wipe the tears from your eyes before they reach your cheeks. The action was so kind that it makes you cry harder. You hold his hands in place with your own and smile even as the tears overtake you.

"It's relief," you assure him.

He leans down and taps your forehead with his mask, like he's giving you a kiss. "In the end, you're still crying."

"Heh, you were expecting me to cry?"

You can feel him nod, "I didn't think you'd be okay with my priorities."

"As long as you're not prioritizing kissing Eustass over me-."

"No." Killer pushes away from you, holding your shoulders, and keeping you at arm's length as you start laughing. "Don't even joke about that."

You try to stifle your laughter, and without saying anything just start laughing harder. "Sorry, I'm sorry, oh that's a terrible thing for me to think, sorry!"

His hands flex against your shoulders. "What's a terrible thing to think?"

You put your hands over your face, hiding yourself from the unseen gaze you could feel. "It's terrible to think you wear that mask to keep Kid from kissing you."

"You really are a brat." He growls, but there's a smile in his voice, that causes you to laugh again.

He lets go of your shoulders and you grab his hand and stop laughing. There's a dangerous look on your face you hadn't meant to make. After a moment, the serious look on your face turns to one of shock.

"I..." you let go of his hand after realizing what you'd done. You swallow, and then reach back out. "I want to keep touching you." Your face is red, but from the moment you'd told him to kiss you, it seemed silly to be shy with your thoughts. "If there's time."

"I can't promise you'll be able to keep holding myself back," Killer admits, his voice coming out thick when he finally speaks.

You lean forward, moving close to his ear. "I don't remember telling you I needed you to."

Killer's arm slips around your waist, pulling your hips against his chest and almost putting you over his shoulder. You can sit into the crook of his arm enough to steady yourself against his helmet. You laugh as he marches back to the cabins without a word.

Just like the other night you come across House again, but this time she looks up from her work and her mouth goes agog. You wave as Killer walks by without a word and give your best sheepish smile.

"Sorry doc, I'll be late for practice. I'm uh, getting... er-."

"Schooled." Killer prompts.

House laughs as you walk into the cabin areas proper, going through the hallways. She says something in response, but you didn't catch what it was.

.

.

.

Killer walks into what had to be his private room. There aren't any mirrors in here, and considering how he hides his laugh and his face you weren't surprised. He sets you on the edge of the bed and you can feel the need, the desire and the hesitation.

"You can cover my eyes," you say, closing your eyes even as you speak. "I don't know why you keep your face covered, and I won't demand anything about it. I can wait."

There was a long silence and then the click of his mask coming off, "Tomorrows aren't promised."

"No, but I'm sure I can spare you a few days," you smile, eyes still closed. "If you need time, it's okay. I'd rather wait and have you be comfortable, than have either of us regret anything."

More silence, but after a moment you hear a noise like fabric shuffling, and then a cool strip of cloth – silk maybe – covers your eyes. You can feel the heat of Killer's body near yours. You weren't surprised by the choice. Years of keeping himself tucked away like that couldn't be shattered in a single day.

You feel the heat rise in your face against the pressure of the blindfold settling into place. You feel like you have a kink you hadn't been aware of before. Your breath is already coming out heavier than you'd meant, and you shift further onto the bed, suddenly hyper aware of the body near you.

You feel the weight of him as his knee sinks into the bed between your own. You lay back as his hands push into the mattress on either side of your chest. You know you're caged beneath him, effectively trapped and yet free to leave if you so desire.

"If you react like this every time I mean to kiss you," He whispers, his breath rolling over your face as he draws near. "Then I'll need to soundproof the room before going further."

"I could... cover my mouth," you offer, your head is mush and your ability to think had gone out the door when you felt the weight of his knee come onto the bed earlier.

"(Y/N), I want to hear you." He shifts, pressing his knee against the crotch of your pants, causing you to suck in a breath at the sensation. His lips followed your gasp, hot and needy against your own, his tongue pushing deep into your mouth. It was more demanding than earlier, and almost desperate. The fire behind it made you needy in return, and you run your hands over his arms and down his chest, shifting your hips and pushing back against his knee.

The action causes a rush of pleasure and you groan into the kiss. Killer grabs your wrists, pinning them to the bed and breaking the kiss. He nudges your head to the side and you oblige, soft lips and teeth gently nip at your earlobe pulling small gasps from you. The kisses shift down along the line of your neck and pleasure builds as you squirm under his grip. Your squirms ripple through your body, shifting you against his knee and sending jolts of pleasure from the kisses on your neck to the heat in your belly.

"hnnng, K-Killer," He sucks the tender flesh on your neck and nips a little harder causing your voice to shudder and your body to shift under him again. "You... seem to enjoy... teasing me," you gasp.

"You seem to enjoy being teased," He replies, and you swear you hear your sense of reason shatter.

Oh. Oh, he is not wrong.

Releasing your wrists and shifting his weight enough to slip a rough hand under your shirt. "If you need me to stop," his voice was low and dangerous, and you could feel his lips dancing across your own as he spoke, "you need to say so before I claim those sweet lips again."

Your brain scrambles to think, and all you can think was that you want to disappear into this man and never surface again. "Here I was thinking you was going to be Schooled, Ki-Mmmngh."

Your words are stolen as the last wisps of space between you disappear. Killer's kisses scramble your thoughts and your body rolls under him, shifting like a wave from your shoulders to your hips. His hand slides up your side far too slowly, and you whimper at the anticipation of having those rough hands against your breasts.

His hand shifts around to your back, and you couldn't suppress a grunt of frustration as he lifts you slightly. You can feel him smiling against your lips as he shifts you both, ready to lift your shirt when a knock comes at the door.

"Killer, Captain wants ya'," Papas' voice comes from the other side of the door.

You feel Killer groan more than hear him, and he turns toward the door, "Can it wait?"

There's a pause, "He's coming down the hall now, so probably not."

"Dammit," Killer gets up and puts his helmet back on. You sit up as you hear him moving around and then there's a tug at the silk over your eyes and you realize Killer is taking it off for you. "Sorry."

You step up onto your tiptoes and kiss his mask. Walking by him you open the door to a surprised Papas, and when you poke your head out the door Kid slows his march down the hall. Realization dawns on him as you step out and head down the hallway.

"Sorry for occupying your man, Captain," you say as lightly as possible. "I still have some practice to do with House, so you'll leave you two to it."

There's a pause and then you hear Kid swear, "Uh, fuck, Killer, my bad."

[twothpaste]

fic bit featuring Claus and Nana. a scientist and a paramedic debate the former's relentless work ethic, despite a No Good Very Bad Lobotomy-Induced Chronic Headache. 😏😖🙄

The process is a softer affair than it used to be. When the world population clambered by the billions, pharmaceuticals comprised a labyrinthine industry. Bloodthirsty minotaurs n' all. Ruthless steel compaction, from the milling n' grinding to the pretty penny on the opposite end. Stuff's still made of powdered plants, mostly. They've still got laboratories, concocting the rest. Factory lines, however, were a centuries-prolonged growing pain. As was the chokehold on your very biology. We're post-apocalyptic anarcho-communists, for Christ's sake. Get with the times. Y'need pills, just take 'em.

When the Commander clambered from its recharge station, it took what was fed to it. And asked for nothing more. Any pang or spasm, no matter how severe, warranted not even a note in its data log. Biology was superfluous. Far as it was aware - ruthless steel had always trumped flesh.

Claus comes to. Six on the dot. Darkness strobing like sun spots. An aching exhale, through a clenched windpipe.

Their left brain says:

- [ Loading Status Report… ] -

- [ <STATUS: "Migraine."_> ] -

Their right brain says:

Ow.

Zolmitriptan makes it into the running, this morning. Alongside painkillers of an entirely unrelated ilk - dosed low, for his eighty or ninety pounds of biomass. There's the Adderall that almost works like a charm. The SSRI that failed him, the other night. Cyclosporine's what keeps his insides from breaking out into unrestricted civil warfare. A calcium supplement might accompany his lunch. Assuming he can stomach it. Ocean waves send the cramped bathroom roiling, and his guts right along with it. Yellowish wood walls, closing in tight, parrot the creaks in his joints. Or vice versa. Or vice versa… Cold fingers knead the right temple, with blunt faux-nail tips. Incidental luster stings like tarantula hawk.

A ghoulish countenance greets him in the mirror.

He grins back. Crooked teeth n' all.

"G'mornin', sunshine."

The Commander wouldda headed to work nonetheless, bright n' early, on nothin' but a stern order. Claus does it on a cane. N' a belly full of get well soon.

See? Softer.

As they don their lab coat and step outside, the upper bunk remains utterly undisturbed. Hardback volume nestled somewhere ajar in the covers. Sweet dreams of omelets and Middle Earth carry on, and on. Lucas' slumber is as nigh-sacred as it is boulder-esque.

Anyways.

Rhinos predate hippos by thirty-four million years in the fossil record. Prototype Rhinocerocket models, likewise, predate Hippo Launchers by about twenty-two months. With New New Pork shrinking, year by year, tighter quarters had driven both clades to territorial disputes. A contributing factor toward the latter's increased aggression, Claus hypothesizes. They've gotta wonder if similar bloodshed arose along the Nile, when planet Earth simmered to a fever pitch. Or whether Noah took care to board 'em on opposite ends.

(They consider these things in meticulous detail, mulling them back n' forth between circuits n' neurons, to distract themself from the dawning sunbeams. And the nauseous discrepancies beneath their boots, trekking uneven terrain. Both of which gnaw incessantly at every periphery.)

Sanctuary Shipment Part 2: Electric Boogaloo begins in - [ <3 DAYS, 21 HOURS, 27 MINUTES, 49 SECONDS_> ] -. Hippo Launchers, as I'm sure you've gathered, will not simply march onto a ship 'cause you asked 'em nicely. N' those Rhino whistles do fuckall to charm 'em. They'll have to bring out the big guns. Literally. It's an old Pigmask blaster. Standard issue. The heavy sort, that pink suits used to haul around. Yank out all the laser beam cartridges, and replace 'em with a transformer n' a capacitor. Ain't aimin' to hurt 'em. No pain nor irreparable damage is due upon any chimera. 'Specially not on Dr. Westwood's watch. Tune the copper coil just right, n' the big lugs'll doze right on off to sleep mode. No fried wiring. No ruptured batteries. Their artificial hearts won't skip a single beat.

Of course, should he miscalculate his extremely precise adjustments, this chimera may be in for an absolute boatload of pain and irreparable damage.

Claus ain't allowed to work on the EMP Gun unattended. Which is fair, he thinks. Totally reasonable. He most certainly and definitely has no restless qualms about it.

If he wants his electronics specialist, he'll have to wait another four hours. Sheep sleeps in almost as late as Lucas, when given the luxury. His weapons specialist, however, retains the circadian rhythm of a true soldier. Hell, Hox was prob'ly up long before the accursed sun clawed its way over the horizon to chew on Claus' frontal lobe. Now, if he can just find her…

"Hi, Claus," chirps a dearly familiar voice, from the elevated walkway to his left. Pitchy, yet even-keeled. A far cry from the ex-colonel's gruff zeal. "Good morning."

"Hah.. Uh - Mornin', Nana!" Their headache strains in unheeded protest, as they swivel sideways n' up-ways to face her. Cane wobbling ever so slightly. "You're out early! Whatcha up to?"

"Restocking first aid supplies. Bronson got a papercut in the mailroom yesterday. He's on those blood thinners now, you know. Have you ever seen any slasher movies? It was like that. We went through so many sanitizer wipes."

"Sounds like a bloodbath."

"It was."

"I bet the doves were totally traumatized."

"They were. And I figured, well. If I need to restock there, I may as well check everyplace else. I'm headed to the transit ship, next."

"Aw, same here. I'm lookin' for Hox. Have ya seen 'er?"

"No. Why are you down there?"

Claus, hardly perturbed, grants his lowly surroundings only a cursory glance. There's a marked sinkhole next to him. And a big pinkish-whitish hunk of billboard signage. So bleached with age, you can scarcely read the words "YOU HAD ME AT BACON." (Come to think of it, the Harbor's garbage is a trench knife to his right eye's nerves, too.)

"Oh. Heh. Shortcut," he answers.

Nana's ponytail's already comin' loose in the breeze, sending wild strands of blonde across her face. She squints through the thicket. Inspecting her old friend with about as much scrutiny as the litreage of rubbing alcohol available in each work station's first aid kit.

"You look awful."

"Well, shucks, thank ya."

"You've got another migraine. Don't you."

"I resent that accusation," Claus retorts. Leanin' back, shruggin' his arms wide, in a show of lackadaisical cowpoke bravado. Only for his balance to lurch beneath him. And for his head to sear with a particularly potent throb, when he jolts to steady himself. He opts to cough, instead of whimper. "Ah-ugh…!"

"I'm surprised Lucas let you by."

"Hngh.. Luc's asleep," they remind her. With a little shushing hiss, and an index finger to their lips.

"Come on. Up here. I'll get you an ice pack at the med bay."

"Nah. Don't worry. M'fine."

Their winking thumbs-up is less than persuasive. Folks like Jill n' Bateau love to mistake Nana for a terminal case of social agnosia, on account of her tactless tirades. Makes 'em feel real psychologically savvy. But they're simply incorrect. She can tell the difference between an earnest smile and a set of clenched teeth from a mile away.

"You know you don't have to do this to yourself, Claus." They seem to perk up, at that. Their one eager eyebrow, beckoning forth a forehead wrinkle or two. "You could take the day off, or at least stay in bed until you feel a bit better. We don't need you working yourself sick -- "

" -- Dr. Westwood!! We need you over here! Immediately!"

Nana doesn't flinch at the brash bark, or the imposing presence, or the heaps of curly hair that've erupted abruptly beside her. Just glances sideways, expressionless. Heartfelt sentiments sink in her chest, as she sees who's actually snagged Claus' attention.

"Heyyy, Hox! I was just lookin' for ya! What's up?"

"Found somethin' weird out by the Junkyard. You'd better come check it out."

"Aw, yeah? What kinda weird?"

"Weird weird."

"Couldja be more specific?"

"'Fraid I can't. No one on staff right now can identify it. If yer askin' me, I would describe it as ooey-gooey, Mx. Look, with all due respect, can you just get the hell over here?"

"Ten-Four, comrade. Agh. Ughff…"

Their metal hand clatters onto the walkway. Followed by their cane, sideways, clenched in a fist. Boot treads gnash and heave, from garbage to pristine timber. Eighty or ninety pounds of biomass. The other hundred n' ten or so's all metal n' plastic. And every remaining bone's got somethin' to say about it. Climbing used to be Claus' strong suit, back in the days of yore. Nana could offer him a helpin' hand, up top a beachside oak tree, and the little hooligan'd take it as an insult. This morning, he grips tight. Nearly pops every one of her knuckles, as she hoists him up n' over the railing.

"Hah.. Whew. Thank ya, Nana. 'Preciate it."

"Sure," she replies. Dryly.

She spots his limpish leftward lean, sparing his opposite hip, as he rises back to his feet. Hox's limp leans right. Conversely.

"Make sure they take it easy," says the paramedic to the ex-colonel. Doctor's orders. "They've got a migraine. Just so you know."

"A migraine? Huh. I didn't know cyborgs got headaches."

"Oh. Claus gets them all the time."

"Alright, alright! Ha, jeez, y'all! I toldja, I'm fine…! I promise I can handle a little ooey-gooey."

Hox snorts. Nana rolls her eyes.

[lifblogs]

“But the fagged whale abated his speed, and blindly altering his course, went round the stern of the ship towing the two boats after him, so that they performed a complete circuit.”

[dragonstonefury12]

Cold Beginnings

Deep grumbles echoed through the vacant hallways of the warship as the Second-in-Command approached the kennel. The atmosphere felt bitter and cold as Starscream walked closer inside, seeing the deep blue glow of the beast's optics. The Seeker stopped, watching the reptilian Cybertronian look in his direction with a cold, neutral stare, unblinking and animalistic.

Starscream could feel every circuit in his frame go cold as he stood mere feet away, shuddering a bit but trying to hold onto the little sliver of confidence and ego he had.

But even the stare from the cold optics made him think secondly.

The beast rumbled once more, the noise making the slim mech jump a little, his pedes clattering against the metal floor of the ship. He continued on with caution, slowly but surely delivering the energon cubes to the huge Predacon laying on the floor, chained like a wild animal in a circus. It didn't jump out or attack him like Predaking had done, which was the scary thing. It just laid there, looking at Starscream, observing him. It moved its head occasionally, tilting it in confusion. But somehow it could sense his ever-growing fear.

Starscream placed the energon cubes down next to the Predacon, before quickly scattering back, shaking still. He cleared his throat, before speaking in a stern yet anxious tone.

"You're... You're lucky Lord Megatron has kept you alive. You better not act like that feral Predaking, understood?"

The beast grumbled in response, though it didn't know that Starscream didn't understand him.

"Ugh. Why bother talking to an incomprehensible beast when it can't talk?" The Seeker growled. He walked away, locking the door to the kennel.

The Predacon looked at the energon cubes, thinking for a moment, before eating away at them. It could understand Starscream and his annoyance, as Predaking was not easily susceptible to obedience or orders. Most Predacons were feral, that much was obvious. But for this one, it was different. It was like Predaking in a way. It had thoughts of its own, which made it question things that would span literal deca cycles. But those answers would have to wait until the moment came.

For now, the Predacon simply had to wait.

[forcesung]

Darklighter’s voice came over the speaker a moment later. “Yes, Colonel?” In the background, Caedus could hear the rumble of discharging turbolaser batteries and the crackle of shields dissipating excess energy. “We’re pretty busy right now, so I hope this isn’t another message of congratulations.”

“It isn’t,” Caedus replied. “I wanted—I needed—to advise you that—”

“That help is on the way,” interrupted a familiar voice behind Caedus. “Be ready to exploit.”

“Is that who I think it is?” Darklighter gasped.

“Yes,” Luke’s voice replied. “Carry on, Gavin.”

Caedus was already spinning his meditation chair around, but the motor was far too slow for his comfort. As soon as he had a clear path into his day cabin, he dived over the armrest and rolled to his feet, lightsaber in hand. Luke stood about a meter away, dressed in a StealthX flight suit and staring at the weapon in Caedus’s grasp with a be-mused, slightly sad scowl.

“Is it still that bad between us?” he asked.

“You tell me.” Caedus continued to hold the lightsaber. “It wasn’t the Force urging me to press the attack, it was you.”

“And you think that was a setup?” Luke asked.

“I know it was.” Caedus allowed a bit of animosity to creep into his voice. “You tricked me into committing the Fourth Fleet to a dangerous attack, and only you can keep it from turning into a disaster. What is it you want in return?”

Instead of looking smug, Luke’s face fell. “Nothing, Jacen. We didn’t set you up.” He reached into the battle-meld and urged the Jedi to attack. “I just wanted you to know we could have.”

Caedus didn’t know whether Luke was ordering the Jedi to attack the Commenorians—or him. Then the Force shuddered with the stunned anguish of thousands of beings perishing in a surprise attack, and Caedus half expected to feel the Anakin Solo bucking and twisting beneath his feet.

But the deck remained reassuringly steady, and no damage sirens sounded, and Caedus finally began to understand that the Jedi threat had been an empty one. Their trick had been little more than a halfhearted attempt to intimidate him, to remind him they possessed both the courage and the means to destroy him—and the Alliance. But the very fact that they had warned instead of acting betrayed their bluff. As long as GAG controlled the academy grounds, they would never risk an assassination or treason. They were too frightened of his ruthlessness—of his brutality.

[...]

Caedus watched as the Fourth Fleet accelerated after the Hutt capital ships and began to hammer their sterns. When the first marauder designator turned red and faded into destruction, Luke’s voice sounded from where he had remained standing.

“You planned this. You sacrificed a whole planet—”

“I foresaw it,” Caedus interrupted, turning back to his uncle. “All I did was take advantage…of…”

He let the sentence trail off as he realized Luke was no longer standing there. Caedus frowned and extended his Force-awareness first to his entire day cabin, then to the entire Anakin Solo. He felt no sign of his uncle’s presence anywhere.

“Luke?”

SD-XX emerged from his security station and ran his electronic gaze around the perimeter of the cabin, then reported, “There’s no one here, Colonel.”

“What about Luke Skywalker?” Caedus asked. “I was just talking to him.”

SD-XX fixed his blue photoreceptors on Caedus’s face. “You were talking,” he said. “But there was no one here. I assumed your circuits were misfiring again.”

Caedus considered this, wondering whether his anxiety over being discovered might be making him imagine things. Then he remembered that Gavin Darklighter had not only spoken to Luke, but also reacted to his instructions.

“No, he was here.” Caedus opened himself to the battle-meld again and felt his uncle among the other Jedi, his presence filled with sadness and disapproval…and admonition. “I don’t know how, but he was here.”

—Legacy of the Force: Inferno, Troy Denning

[hummingbird-of-light]

Against All Odds

Part 399

McCoy

Scotty was unconscious again. His body sagged heavy against the cell bars. Minutes were ticking by incredibly slowly. There was nothing to look at in this brig, so McCoy studied his boyfriend.

In rest Scotty’s face had relaxed only slightly. McCoy knew how badly he needed medical care. He looked down at his hands. Why didn’t he know more yet? Christine would know what to do. A frustrated sound climbed his throat.

What time was it? How much time had passed since they had beamed onto the Romulan ship? There was no way to tell in the brig.

Could they escape? Could Scotty’s electric shock with the ring work on the cell doors? Short circuit them so they could be free?

Yes, they could short circuit the cells, sneak from the brig, collect a weapon if they could and beam themselves away. With a weapon they might have a chance against the stronger Romulans. A faint smile began on McCoy’s mouth as he thought through an escape.

He glanced over at Scotty and his heart dropped as the plan fell apart. How could they move fast enough to escape with Scotty’s broken leg? McCoy could carry him for a bit, but nowhere long enough to do any good.

He could escape on his own… No. They went together or they stayed put. McCoy would not leave Scotty alone with the Romulans. They would kill his boyfriend in an instant. They had already said as much.

He hung his head. What was Father doing? Was he working on a way to free them? And Mother and Leah, had Father told them what had happened? He wouldn’t keep such a thing from them would he? Leah would be fighting to do something. If she was still acting queen she would have begun making moves without thinking them through. She had done a good job that summer, but still had so much to learn, mostly about not being impulsive.

Mother would be quietly in the background, David looking for agreement at each move. McCoy wanted to be a small child again, and this all a nightmare. Mother would come in and hold him and rock him back to a peaceful sleep. A tear slipped down his cheek, and he looked at Scotty again.

Did the Scotts know? Had they been informed Scotty had been kidnapped? Robbie must know. Everyone at school must know by now that Scotty and McCoy were missing. But had Francine and Granddad been told yet? Who would tell them?

McCoy could picture Francine and Mother comforting each other. Tears mingling between the two mothers as they awaited news. Granddad would be stern faced, but his eyes would betray the worry for his grandson. Leah and Robbie. Were they comforting each other?

Spock.

What must he be thinking? Would he feel he had failed at his job? Had they gotten lax about McCoy’s safety? Spock wasn’t to blame. He had done his part in making sure the school was safe and he had had his doubts about Sural from the beginning. Some of that had been jealousy, but still, his doubts had been there.

McCoy had rushed off impulsively after Khan, how could Spock have foreseen that? He’d defend Spock if it came to it. He had done his duty the best he could. Even if there were other guards, adults, McCoy still would have run after Khan to help Scotty.

And Khan. Would anyone suspect him of having played a part in this? McCoy’s blood boiled at the thought of him playing innocent.

His thoughts broke as the brig door swished open.

Part 400

Robbie

"I... I have no words to describe that... that strange feeling in my chest. I know that I have failed the prince. And your brother. I was supposed to protect Our Highness, you are right about that."

Robbie swallowed down the big lump in his throat as he listened to Spock's words. The Vulcan's face showed more emotion than it ever had done before.

"However, I was fooled into thinking that the school's ground is a safe place. All these months we spent here... have made me careless. It is illogical. I know. But... I knew that my constant presence is not what the prince or Scotty would have wished for. Therefore, I kept my distance."

Robbie knew it. He knew that Spock was right. Leonard and Scotty both had longed for privacy. Robbie still remembered the time when they had started to date. Spock had often been around and it had annoyed the couple very much. They wouldn't have let him protect them. But... that was just because they didn't know that something like this could happen.

"We were assured that this school and its surroundings are safe. That was the main reason why the prince wanted me to leave him space. I followed his order. And we got used to this way of living."

Robbie felt tears streaming down his cheeks. Spock was right. The school was supposed to be safe.

"Sural..."

Spock sighed at the name coming from Robbie's lips.

"I had what humans call a 'gut feeling' about him from the start. Not a pleasant one. However, he managed to integrate quite well and I let down my guard. If only I had followed my instincts back then. It would have been the logical thing to do."

Robbie nodded slowly. He remembered that Spock had had his doubts about Sural, but...

"Come on, Spock. Everyone thought that you were just jealous, because that bastard was my roommate. We all convinced you that he was a good guy!" Jim intervened. He touched his love's hand softly.

"That doesn't justify my actions, ashayam."

Spock looked at his boyfriend, before his eyes fell back on Robbie.

"I cannot express just how sorry I am, Robbie. But please know that I'll do everything I can, to get Our Highness and your brother back."

And even though Robbie had been filled with rage at first, his anger slowly cooled down when he looked into Spock's sad eyes. The Vulcan was blaming himself. For something he probably could only have prevented by invading Leonard and Scotty's privacy.

"I..."

Robbie didn't know what to say at first, but eventually he wiped away his tears and gave Spock a firm nod.

"We will find them. We will save them and then... we can forget all of this."

It was a promise.

His PADD was gone. Robbie had promised to call Leah though. Well... he still could. But only from Pike's office.

Well... it was worth it.

He knocked gently at the door of the headmaster and it took a while for the door to open.

"Robert."

"Hello Sir. I... would like to call the princess."

It was strange. No one except his closest friends and family knew that he and Leah were a couple.

"Oh, of course. Come in."

Robbie followed Pike and the man told him to sit down on the couch.

"How are you doing?"

Robbie shrugged at the question.

"I talked to our friends. Everyone is as shocked as I am, especially Christine. But... they are all there for me," he answered with a weak smile.

Pike nodded and handed him the PADD.

"You can talk to Dr. Hudson if you need anything."

A psychologist. Robbie had never been to one. Despite all the problems he had had in his past. And he didn't know if he was ready for it now.

"Aye, I know. Thank ye."

Pike gave him a reassuring smile and then walked over to his desk.

"Well, I'll... be sitting here. Try to ignore me."

It was meant to be a joke to relieve the horrible tension and... Robbie actually had to chuckle.

"Will try, Sir."

Quickly he pressed the button to call Leah. He really hoped that she had time.

[daraoakwise]

Nyota Uhura. Legend. In celebration of her well-deserved reappearance in Strange New Worlds, here is a series examining her appearances in the Original Series.

Episode 1x2: Charlie X

This episode is again important because it establishes a relationship between Uhura and Spock. The crew is in the rec room relaxing. Uhura, obviously well liked by everyone, is playing cards with Rand. Spock is playing his lyre. She starts to sing along with him. Spock is annoyed, she apologizes, but then he SMILES faintly at her and starts playing. On the fly she extemporizes a teasing song about him, to everyone’s enjoyment. Including, clearly, Spock, even though he pretends not to enjoy it.

Applause all around, and Spock shares this grinning smirk with her. There’s a history here, people. Exactly the shape of that is hard to say, but they have a past together that we haven’t—yet—seen. The antagonist of the episode, the powerful boy Charlie X has come into the room, however. She sings a song about Charlie; he doesn’t like it and uses his mind powers to interfere with her voice, to her pained confusion.

The next time we see her, Uhura is trying to pull in a message, a warning from the ship that was carrying Charlie that is abruptly cut off. A few moment later Spock reports that the ship has been destroyed.

As Charlie becomes more petulant and exercises his control over the ship, Uhura is badly shocked. She is hurt but not too badly, and reports to the Captain that there was no reason for the panel to cross-circuit like that as she checked it over herself a few minutes before. An opinion Kirk immediately accepts, apparently aware that she has significant technical acumen with the communications system.

Her next scene of the episode is a report that the board is showing that they are receiving a message but that she can’t hear it. She and Spock work together on the equipment for a moment, but Charlie is clearly interfering.

As the episode winds down, Charlie is taken back by the stern beings who created him. Charlie begs to stay, but is transported away, and Uhura reports, with some sadness and regret shared by the entire crew, that the other ship says they are leaving.

The front half of this episode in the rec room with Spock is the Uhura gold.

[madhyanas]

there can be no oceans

It's only when the Child needs a bath that Din realises his ship doesn't have one.

Read this on AO3!

Characters: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda

Rating: G

Word Count: 2.7k

Warning(s): One mention of ‘spice’ as a drug. Set sometime soon after Chapter 4: Sanctuary. No spoilers for S2.

Notes: i! want! to write! more! character fics! so take this. thank you @pettyprocrastination for taking the time to read this beforehand <3

masterlist

———

The Crest wasn’t built for children.

Her walkways are narrow, interiors unpainted. Any room not taken up by essential utilities has long since been repurposed for weapons and munitions storage. There are no rounded corners, no softened edges; there is no baby-proofing to speak of. A capsule of robust, sturdy durasteel hurtling through the galaxy.

As reliable as she is, especially in the hands of Din’s capable piloting, the bare minimum the Crest offers to any inhabitants at all is an absence of jagged scrap metal jutting out to be slashed on. Which is as close to a miracle as he’s going to get, considering his ship’s survived being taken apart and stitched back together again.

Sometimes the visor’s sight catches on a slivered scar. The junction between the cockpit and ladder, the panel next to the hatch. He’ll look at it for a second, bumpy and gnarled, remembering the Crest’s shell scattered in pieces across desert rock. He’ll remember his ship, peeled to bits without mercy. Then he’ll brush his fingers over the soldered mark, and walk away.

But despite everything, the Crest is comfortable; Din can admit that her resilience, outlasting her age, is something he’s grown attached to. And when it comes to the very, very mundane, the kid seems to have pretty good instincts — doesn’t dangle over heights, doesn’t stick his hands into sockets and plug ports. His ship, in and of itself, doesn’t pose a threat to the little one. So long as he’s not left in the cockpit unsupervised.

It’s a minor weight off his shoulders that the kid’s content to amuse himself with that gear knob, occasionally gurgling commentary to Din — who has found “Is that so, kid?” to suffice as proof that he’s listening — and offering a satisfied, toothy grin. This is typically the point that Din feels his mouth pulling up into a crinkling smile, fond and proud.

It reminds him of something Omera told him in passing. Din hadn’t understood the phrase at the time, hadn’t ever needed to apply it in his day-to-day.

“You’re lucky,” she’d said knowingly. “He’s an easy baby.”

Thinking of mudhorns and mudjumpers and the kid’s inability to follow instructions, Din didn’t think it made much sense. He understands it now.

But, no — the Razor Crest, being a gunship and not a nanny droid, was not constructed for childcare. In all honesty, this hadn’t really occurred to Din beyond the obvious.

Until the kid needed a bath.

A bath that his ship does not have.

Din sighs, standing in the refresher doorway and staring at the slim sonic shower compartment. The Child waddles in curiously behind him, leaning on his boot with both arms hugging the ankle. He coos up at Din questioningly. There’s a slight twitch of his ears before he raises his arms. Two chubby fists clench and unclench repeatedly, a familiar demand.

Din promptly bends down to pick him up, angling him face forwards to stare at the offending compartment together.

“It’s a sonic shower,” Din explains. He frowns, wondering how to go about this. The kid smacks his lips idly. “Don’t think it’s meant for kids, buddy.”

Those wide, dark eyes suddenly turn to him with hope, but Din’s already shaking his head. “No.”

The kid blinks, multiple times. Din could swear the little monster’s batting his eyelashes. “No. You still need a bath, you’re not getting out of it that easy.”

In his arms, the kid deflates with a huff. His ears droop so quickly they bat against Din’s chest and quiet grumbles buzz through the cloth of his shirt.

It makes Din smile, part-amused and part-relieved. He’s never been very good at the whole ‘disciplinarian’ thing, especially not with a kid that can move things with his mind. It’s difficult to tell where to draw the line between kind and disapproving. He’s probably leaning more into the former.

“We’ll just have to… figure something out.”

He glances to the left. The sink is built into the wall, a nondescript metal bowl with a drain and tap. Din avoids looking at the mirror above. After so many years under the helmet, it doesn’t necessarily feel surreal. It’s simply odd to have visual confirmation of what he looks like.

The kid squirms in his arms, and Din blinks, slowly placing him back on the ground. He shuffles out of the ‘fresher quickly to whichever corner he’s chosen to play in today, his stuffy brown robe dragging slightly on the ground. Maybe that needs to be looked at.

Din looks back to the sink, figuring something out.

———

For all intents and purposes, the sonic shower is useful. Or perhaps that isn’t the right word, considering it just does what it’s supposed to.

It’s efficient, then. A way for Din to stay clean without worrying about the ship’s current water capacity. Whether it’s actually pleasant or not is another question, but one that’s never been important enough to be asked.

Now, though, Din thinks he’ll need to find a more permanent solution.

The sink in the ‘fresher has its own water supply, true. But it’s enough for Din to wash his hands and shave every few weeks at most. Since the New Republic started cracking down on smuggling circuits, the price of water transportation fit for hyperspace has spiked. A popular medium for diluted spice, apparently. So he’s careful with how much he uses up, wary of the ever-dwindling pile of credits to his name.

He kneels down next to the sink, craning his head to check behind a panel and exhaling sharply with the protesting ache of his neck. It’s a small slot for a liquid tanker, and Din soon realises it won’t be enough to fill a cup, much less the whole basin.

It won’t work.

———

This brings him to the next idea. Somewhat quickly, because the kid seems to have gotten into his head that no water means no bath. That’s probably bad handling on Din’s part.

There are sealed tanks of water stored in a hull compartment. Bulk-purchased and potable, for prolonged journeys and adverse conditions. Tanks that he’s loath to crack open when there’s water available elsewhere.

He lugs one into the fresher, and when he feels his lower back twinge with the effort, he makes sure to bear the brunt of the weight with his legs. Then his knees begin to strain. He sighs.

He passes by the kid on the way, sitting on the floor and gnawing on his metal ball with intense focus and adoration. He looks up at the sound of Din approaching, tilting his head sweetly at the tall canister.

Din takes it as a question, so he answers. “No idea, kid.”

When he does, finally, manage to shove the tank in the refresher and pour as much of it as he can into the sink’s water supply tube, the Child follows. His head turns from the half-empty tank, to Din, and back to the tank. As the ears swish with every movement, like palm leaves twitching and swaying in the breeze, Din watches the gears turn patiently. It’ll click.

Then the kid thwacks a hand on Din’s thigh, and very insistently garbles something with a firm nod. His approval is understood.

Din smiles. Lets it linger on his face, melt in his chest so warmly he can nearly ignore his aching joints. Gently, he places a hand on the little one’s head, rubbing the spot between his ears and eliciting a fond coo. “Thanks.”

———

That good mood doesn’t last very long when the kid realises, eventually, that bath time has arrived.

———

A tragic wail cuts through the Razor Crest.

From where he’s held over the ‘fresher sink, the kid screeches in Din’s hands, kicking his little legs in the air and keeping a vice grip on Din’s sleeves. Even the ears — those huge, petal bat-ears — are wiggling up and down in his efforts to escape.

“Hey,” Din says. He tries for stern, but it comes out mostly tired. “Hey. Stop that.”

The kid is either ignoring him, or just can’t hear it over the racket he’s making. He scrunches his eyes closed with newfound vigour and shrieks so loud it rings in Din’s ears. He winces.

The Crest’s refresher is built into a cramped corner of the hull. Fitted with a sonic shower, privy, sink and mirror, Din’s fairly certain there are graves dug bigger than this.

It’s never mattered before, since Din spends so little of his time in here anyway, but now he’s stuck in a broom closet — a metal one, with solid, echoing walls — with a screaming child.

Din sighs, with feeling. His headache, which hasn’t let up since the jump into hyperspace, throbs heavily behind his eyes and between his ears. For a second, he toys with the idea of turning off the helmet’s auditory sensors.

The kid had more or less been fine at first. From filling the sink to fetching the soap — a standard, unscented brand that Din only really stores for handwashing — to barely managing to tug his robe over those oversized ears. The kid had insisted on doing that last one himself, until he’d stumbled with the shift in centre of gravity and bowled himself over.

He’d been fine, until his stubby, clawed toes first dipped in the water.

It’s remarkable, Din realises as he looks down at the distraught child dangling from his hands. The kid hasn’t really cried for… for anything till now. At the most, Din just gets a dry, unamused look whenever he hasn’t followed the little overlord’s express wishes. Like eating wild frogs off the ground. Womp rat.

Hearing the repercussions now, it might not have been remarkable so much as just lucky. How does one so small have lungs so strong?

“All right,” Din calls. Trying to be gentle yet also heard over the noise at the same time is a challenge, so it comes out somewhat choked.

At his voice, the kid takes a breather. Literally, his round body heaves in Din’s hands, gasping for breath after his tantrum. Din eyes the tear tracks streaming from his wide, dark eyes, and his sniffling little nose. He can feel the kid’s ribcage pushing in and out rapidly beneath his fingers, stretchy like a balloon fitting in the palm of his hand. He hadn’t forgotten how tiny the kid is but — a lump settles in his throat at the reminder.

He feels his face fall. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, unsure of what he’s pleading for but feeling as if he’s wronged the Child anyway. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it would upset you so much.”

Whether it’s his tone or the words themselves, something brings the kid to peace. Though still hiccuping, his breathing evens out.

“That’s it,” Din encourages. “Deep breaths.”

He inhales, lifting his head and shoulders slightly with the movement to demonstrate, before lowering on the exhale.

The Child watches him for a moment, blinking wetly, before doing the same. His ears perk up and down with every breath. “That’s it,” Din repeats.

When he’s reasonably sure the Child won’t start bawling again, Din takes a second to rearrange the kid into sitting balanced on his forearm, facing him towards the mirror. With the other hand rubbing circles into the kid’s back, he addresses the reflection.

“Listen,” he starts seriously. The kid looks up, watching the helmet in the mirror’s shiny surface. “I get that you don’t like it. And I’m sorry I upset you. But you need a bath, so we have to figure something out.”

Din swallows, wondering how they’re going to do just that. The kid, in the meantime, clutches the shirt of Din’s sleeve in two grubby claws and starts chewing, not taking his eyes off the helmet for a second.

Just as he’s about to ask the kid to stop, or at least lay off a little so the fabric doesn’t tear, he gets an idea.

———

In the recent past, Din can’t really remember when things last went his way. So he’s almost confused when the third time really is the charm.

“That’s all it took, huh?”

The kid happily ignores him, watching the gear knob through the shallow, mildly-soaped water with fascination. He stares straight down, his ears sticking up like fresh reeds from a pond, enamoured with the sight of his favourite thing underwater. The concentration he uses to roll it around with both hands softens the corners of Din’s mouth.

You’d never guess the little womp rat was raising hell just minutes before.

Fetching the gear knob from outside was a last resort. He’d been grasping at straws, willing to take anything that would calm the kid down.

And it worked. Leading Din to scrub the bar of soap between his hands, trailing suds through the clouding water.

The temperature suits the kid just fine, apparently. With no way to heat the basin, Din had just… waited for it to get more or less lukewarm. Not ideal, not by a long shot. He’d clenched his jaw, uncomfortable and awkward in the face of yet another reminder that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Standing around doing nothing didn’t sit well with him. At one point he half-seriously considered getting the flamethrower out to speed things along.

But the Child, naturally, didn’t seem to mind. He now slaps his hands into his bird-bath pool with delight, relishing in the waves he can create. The pale, fuzzy hairs on that wrinkly head don’t so much as twitch, and Din has to wonder if the kid’s leathery skin has something to do with that tolerance.

A bubble wobbles into the air, fragile and translucent. A dark, watery gaze snaps to it immediately — the kind of precision only reserved for mudjumpers. The kid stills, and the gear knob is momentarily forgotten in favour of biting through the air to catch the floating parlour trick between sharp, pointy teeth.

Pop. Smack on the kid’s mouth. A light burst of soap residue sprays on the kid’s face, and the squeak of a sneeze he lets out pushes him an inch backwards in the basin.

Din can’t imagine how a thing could be that tiny.

“Nice job,” he offers quietly, because a successful hunt is something to be praised. He gives the kid’s face a once-over — with eyes so big, it’s impressive that the soap missed them entirely. The kid whines disagreeably; he evidently doesn’t care much for the flavour. His button nose wrinkles, and he bounces again with a cough.

Din chuckles. The sound rings in time with water sloshing over the lip of the sink.

“Maybe save the hunting for outside,” he advises, patting the kid on the back. The Child looks up at him mournfully, as if to agree, before returning to the gear knob resting by his foot. A new game is begun; shoving the metal ball so that it rolls halfway up the sink’s bowl before returning straight back, like magic. Every metallic scrape brings a new ripple of laughter.

He should be more mindful of how there’s more water on the floor than in the basin, now. But there are always more tanks in the brig.

In a series of excited, comprehensive babbles, the kid begins explaining the rules of his new game to Din, who listens closely. He interjects here and there to show the kid as much, but is otherwise just a spectator to the kid’s lecture.

Then for a moment, without thought, he looks up. Straight ahead, into the mirror. And he almost can’t recognise the sight.

It’s his helmet, obviously. Comforting; beskar gleaming as much as the day it was first given to him. Unchanged. Same height, same clothes.

But his sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, baring inches of skin and several wiry scars. The front of his dark, woven shirt is darker still with the water lapping over the sink’s edge, a sodden patch forming over his abdomen. He feels some of it drip onto his boots and the floor. His hands are covered in suds, tenderly but thoroughly scrubbing the edge of one floppy green ear.

The kid, sitting satisfied and unaware with his cherished toy, makes the image look complete.

Din looks at the man in the mirror, giving his son a bath in the sink. He thinks that his image probably needed a reset anyway.

Then, with something caring and delicate fluttering in his chest, he moves on to the baby’s claws. He makes sure to scrub between the fingers.

———