#Source: Sharpe's Rifles

[avictimofthejazz]

Hannibal: Stick with me, Face, and I'll see you right

Face: You'll see me dead, sir.

Hannibal: -laughs and slaps him on the back- That's my boy!

[pretzel-box]

Idk if requests are open but an idea has been chewing at my side like a piranha for a few days now.

Sebastian, scavenging, searching and coming across whatnot, meets another humanoid such as himself. though, imagine reader is much like a certain character from another media. Twisted wonderland, floyd leech.

Basically, Sebastian meeting a floyd leech-like reader, maybe with a twin too? Not sure, though am leaving it in your servos to do what you want with it.

It's likely I'll come back, though am not sure if I'll have the courage to do so, idk how to ask properly. Have a great rest of your week

words: 1k

tags: gn!reader, reader is a eel hybrid and a prank master, sebastian gets pranked!

“Hehe, they are certainly squishy,” you giggled with a toothy grin, pressing the Squiddle against the hard wall with a bit more force than necessary. Its makeshift face shifted fast in a futile attempt to scare you, but you only blinked at it with glowing eyes, more amused than anything.

The poor creature had made the mistake of jumping at you in the dark, getting startled by you passing through, and now it was paying the price for its recklessness. You pressed harder, watching its panicked reaction with mild interest. But your boredom quickly sets in, and you soon let go of it's head, already losing interest in the squid-like monster.

“Oh well,” you sighed with an eye roll, casually pushing the Squiddle away. You made your way to dove back into the flooded part of the facility, swimming through giant pipes in search of your next source of entertainment.

And then you saw him.

Peeking out of the water, your tail wagged in excitement as you spotted Sebastian Solace on one of his usual scavenging runs, rummaging through debris with that familiar look of intense focus. He was completely unaware of your presence, and that made your grin widen. You knew just how to make his day a little more…interesting.

As always, you were determined to ensure he had a bit of unexpected fun, courtesy of your playful nature. The perfect prank was already forming in your mind, and you could barely contain your anticipation.

You grinned mischievously as you watched Sebastian from the shadows, your sharp eyes tracking his every move. The man was engrossed in his scavenging, completely oblivious to your presence as he rifled through the debris in the flooded section of the facility. Perfect. You hadn’t had this much fun in ages, and Sebastian’s all-knowing and self-confident nature made him the ideal target for your latest prank since you knew he wouldn't see that coming.

Slithering silently out of the water, your tail curling beneath you for extra balance, you scanned the area for something to use. Your eyes landed on a file—one of the many random documents scattered around the facility. A grin spread across your face as an idea formed.

With quick, precise movements, you tied a nearly invisible string that you found in a drawer, to the corner of the file. You could barely see it yourself, and you knew Sebastian wouldn��t notice until it was too late. Holding the other end of the string firmly in your hand, you settled back, ready to enjoy the show.

Sebastian moved toward the file, his eyes narrowing as he spotted it lying on the ground. “What’s this doing here?” he muttered, bending down to pick it up.

Just as his fingers brushed the edge, you gave the string a gentle tug, causing the file to slide away from his grasp.

Sebastian blinked in confusion, staring at the file as if it had just insulted him. “What the—?” He reached out again, but you pulled the string a little harder this time, making the file skitter across the floor, just out of reach.

His brow furrowed, clearly puzzled. He stood up, glancing around suspiciously. You had to clamp a hand over your mouth to keep from giggling out loud as you watched him. This was going even better than you’d hoped.

Sebastian cautiously approached the file again, crouching down with a look of determination. He was careful this time, moving slowly as if trying to catch the file off guard. But just as he was about to grab it, you yanked the string sharply, sending the file shooting across the floor and into the shadows.

“Okay, what in the world is going on here?” Sebastian exclaimed, clearly frustrated now. He scanned the area, his three fluorescent eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of the ridiculous situation.

You couldn’t hold back your laughter anymore, a soft, bubbling giggle escaping your lips as you watched Sebastian’s bewildered expression. His head snapped in your direction, his eyes narrowing even further.

You quickly ducked behind a stack of debris, trying to stifle your giggles as you heard Sebastian approaching. He was muttering under his breath, clearly irritated but still confused.

You peeked out from your hiding spot, your tail wagging with glee as you saw him cautiously searching the area. He was so close to discovering you, but the thrill of the prank was too much to resist.

Just as Sebastian reached the spot where the file had disappeared, you gave the string one last tug, pulling the file into the water with a splash.

Sebastian jumped back, startled. “Oh, for the love of—!”

You couldn’t help it—you burst into full-blown laughter, doubling over as you watched Sebastian’s exasperation. He finally spotted you, his eyes widening in realization.

“You!” he exclaimed, pointing a finger at you, his frustration melting into a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “You little eel!”

You grinned up at him, flicking your split tongue playfully. “Gotcha, didn’t I?”

Sebastian sighed, shaking his head, though the small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. “You’re going to be the end of me, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you teased, flashing him a playful wink. “But at least you’ll never be bored!”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, as he glanced at the file you had just made him chase around. “I suppose that’s true,” he admitted, a hint of fondness in his voice.

“Exactly,” you grinned, swimming a little closer, your tail flicking in the water. “Consider it my personal mission to keep things interesting.”

Sebastian shook his head again, but this time, his smile was full and genuine. “Well, mission accomplished,” he said softly, his eyes locking with yours. “Just try not to get us both killed in the process, alright?” He knew you wouldn't dare to put you two in actual troubles but he still felt like mentioning it since your pranks were a thing for itself.

You laughed, the sound echoing through the water. “No promises, Solace. But I’ll do my best.”

[stoneagedevil]

Reunion (I’m Not in Love Pt. 2) | Alastor x f!Reader

CW/TW: suicide, gore, death, murder, predatory behavior, blood, initial unrequited feelings, insecurities involving looks.

-♥️-

It is only when you lose everything, that you have the power to do anything. After all, what are the consequences?

There is nothing left.

There is only you. Head throbbing after a bullet went through it and a subsequent smack to…pavement?

There is only you filled with grief from an unrequited love you’d sunk over half of your lifespan into and a world you can’t quite understand.

There is only…

You.

Until you heard the screams. Cautiously peeking around the corner of the alleyway you landed in, you witnessed the abhorrent atrocities committed by beings you couldn’t quite comprehend. They were inhuman and inhumane.

You were inhuman and inhumane, taking notice finally of just how sensitive and high up your ears suddenly were. Perhaps your face was thoroughly scrambled by the bullet and you didn’t die? Impossible. But it would just be your luck wouldn’t it? Surviving a point blank shot to the face with a large caliber. You reached your hands- claws- claws?!

Sidetracked, your eyes gaped at the change in your hands. They were pitch black, fading into your skin tone that had lost its vibrancy the farther you trailed up your arms. Surely it was a malfunction or flaw within the rifle that caused an abundance of gun powder to color your limbs black? But…that didn’t explain the claws in place of your dull fingernails. You continued to reach towards the top of your head, startled by your new fuzzy appendages.

They were your ears.

Quickly darting out of the alleyway, you faced yourself in the reflection of a nearby storefront window. Only, this wasn’t the Y/N you talked to before ending your life.

This was…this was something entirely different. Someone entirely different.

But sure as the days are long, it was you. Your ears reminiscent of a deer, and twisting your spine and neck to look behind you, you were adorned with the tail of one too.

“What on Earth-“ You cut yourself off. Earth? No. This couldn’t be. You most certainly died. And if you were dead, and yet alive, that had to mean one thing.

You were in the beginning stages of your afterlife, which in turn meant one thing or another: you were either in Heaven or Hell. Taking into account the potential love rivals you murdered and your demonic appearance, you could only assume the latter option were true.

Hell. You were in Hell.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing out all by yourself? It’s a dangerous world out here, little girl.” A gravelly voice brought you out of your daze. You whipped your head around to face the source of the slimy words. It was another demon, wolf-like in appearance with a smile that looked as if he would eat a grandmother.

“I would stay away.” Is all you said. Truly, you were a deer in the headlights. What did he mean by turf war? And how were you going to prevent yourself from becoming Little Red?

“And if I don’t stay away?” He challenged, slimy tongue running over rows of sharp teeth, inching closer as if to tease you. As if he preferred to play with his food.

“Then I’ll have no choice but to kill you. I’d rather not, if I can help it.” You replied. Maybe you could trick him into thinking you were dangerous, but given your new form, you doubted it. A prey animal. How unfortunate when your newest enemy was a wolf.

He barked out a hearty laugh, thoroughly amused by your polite warning, but continued to close in on you.

You felt something underneath the surface of your soft flesh. A mix of anger, of the warmth of a light, of the cold of a shadow, of the bubbling of champagne, all fueled by the sheer audacity of a man who couldn’t let you get your bearings in such a strange place. Couldn’t you ever get a fucking break?!

It happened suddenly, the cracking of pavement sounding beneath your hooves, vines dressed in thorns sharper than knives rose up from the crevices, almost shielding you from the perpetrator. Following suit, poison ivy twisted around, blocking any means of escape for the offending wolf demon. Your lack of fear and something else you couldn’t place told you these earthly vines of torture were yours.

You looked back up at the mangy mutt, a soft but dangerous smile stretching across you face, “Congratulations, my friend. You’ll be the first of many.” You flicked your pointer finger at him, and the vines shot out, tightening around his torso like snakes to mice. He yelped and whined, fighting against them. You were annoyed by the sounds he made, another set of vines wrapping around his unfortunate looking face, clamping down on his long snout like a muzzle.

“Good dogs are quiet.” You said.

It was like life on the surface. Smothering and strangling the life out of the women who had romantic intentions for Alastor. Women who told you that you’d never be right for him. That no one could ever love someone so poor as you. Your heart swelled at the thought of him. He would be so disappointed in you, surely.

But…

He’s not here.

There is only you.

The mutt of a man’s struggling subsided, his body falling limp from the hold of your vines and landing with an audible thud to the ground.

You were a firm believer that life was what you made it. You couldn’t make your life better, especially without your Alastor, so you ended it. But now, maybe the afterlife could be what you made it. He wasn’t here, you both separated by different plains of existence, and surely when he died, he’d go to Heaven.

Far, far away from you where he belonged. Where he surely wanted to be.

You’d been too pliant for too long. Holding in an anger that felt released ever so slightly when you killed so freely. Here in Hell, you didn’t have to hide your victims, and in their second deaths, they could be used as tools to earn respect around here.

Perhaps it was far better to be feared than loved.

Yes. The afterlife could be what you make it too. And you were going to make your afterlife everyone else’s problem.

——

You were deemed “Smother Nature.” One of the only clever names given to an Overlord in Hell. You strangled, smothered, and swindled your way to the top, becoming a feared but not unfair Overlord in just a few short years.

Within that span of time, you became more accustomed to your new body and its capabilities.

You were a deer demon, specifically a doe when in your regular form, but when in your more powerful demonic form, your skull would sprout wide black antlers with vines snaking around each one like a crown of thorns. From the tearing of skin atop your head at the site where these new extensions of you sprouted, blood would trickle down your face. Initially it was painful, but now? It only added to how absolutely terrifying you could be. Here, fear meant power, and you basked in it.

This was the only time you loved yourself. You were someone to answer to. Someone powerful and dangerous, who didn’t take anything laying down. You’d killed several Overlords in order to gain this title, and you were proud of it.

Every death at your hands or vines was a surge of adrenaline coursing throughout your body, and you couldn’t have been more thrilled with your decision in looking down the barrel of that rifle.

However, someone else had felt entirely different about their demise at first.

——

Distraught was an understatement. How was he supposed to visit you and his mother? Who else would get you your favorite flowers? Not just any random bouquet, but one composed of your most favorites?

How would he ever see you again?

Seeing as he was in Hell, that confirmed the existence of a Heaven, and surely you’d be up there.

He let out a growl of frustration, a long arm striking the side of a building, a spiderweb of cracks forming from the force. What a surprise, Alastor had committed atrocities during life so selfishly, and now they’d barred him from seeing you ever again.

He should’ve been more careful when burying that man in the swamp. He knew it was hunting season, and yet he couldn’t help himself. Even if it wasn’t, the police that were initially closing in on that woman-strangler shifted their focus onto him since the other killer’s disappearance. He always warned you about walking home alone at night because of that strangler. You’d always brush it off.

A snap from a twig and his head snapped towards the sound, and that blasted hunter shot well before he could ever think about what he was shooting at.

The shot connected at Alastor’s forehead, perfectly centered between his eyes. One of the best shots he’d seen since he took you on hunting excursions when you both were alive.

His heart tightened at the thought of you. You were all he ever seemed to think about.

He hated himself. He hated this body. A prey animal. A buck. Pathetic little antlers akin to toothpicks until he was in his more powerful form.

Nothing down here mattered. If you weren’t here, then nothing mattered. Down here, it was survival of the fittest, and it seemed he needed to make more of a statement in order to curb any ideas that he was weak, and considering his affinity for all things radio-related, he had just the idea to make it a reality.

It didn’t take him long at all to unlock his full demonic potential, hijacking the sound waves and crackling onto every radio in Hell, he made his debut appearance.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I interrupt this regularly scheduled programming to bring you the worst thing to ever happen to you sorry sinners since the day of your demise!” Screams of terror and agony rang out from all devices in Hell, reflecting the sheer agony he’s felt ever since he lost you. How therapeutic it was to inflict pain on others, and yet how simultaneously unsatisfying that they’d never feel a fraction of the pain he felt.

If only he knew that your little doe ears flicked to your radio in pure shock.

——

It had to be him. No one else sounded like that. Talked like that. Made your heart race like that.

Ever since being here, the only thing that terrified you was that initial run-in with that wolfish sorry excuse of a man, but now that was topped by the sound of Alastor’s voice filtering through your radio, accompanied by the screams of his victims.

It wasn’t that you were afraid of Alastor, just of facing the unrequited feelings you initially shot yourself to get away from.

Why was he here? He was such a gentleman in his life on the surface, how could it be that he’s here? More screams cut your thoughts short.

He’s so…used to this. So used to torture that he welcomes it with open arms.

He…he had to be like you, no? Living a double life, teetering on the edges of a socially acceptable, functioning member of society, and a cold-blooded killer?

A part of you salivated at the thought that maybe he killed for you at least once, like you’d done for him so many times.

No. No he wouldn’t do that for you.

Your tail wagged and your legs craved to bolt out towards wherever Alastor was. But who knew if he even wanted to see you again? You looked into the mirror of your vanity where the radio rested.

Were you ugly? Would he find this form hideous?

Your fist collided with the mirror, shattering into hundreds of tiny images of you.

You rested your face in your palms, a took a deep breath.

…what did he look like?

The temptation to see him was so strong, it was as if you were caught in a trance that forced you out of your luxurious penthouse, a testament to the many lives you ended and souls you puppeteer. The over abundance of hope held in your body leaked out in the form of green grass and clover that sprouted from each footstep you took.

“Please let it be him.” You whispered to no one in particular. “Please let it be him.”

——

It felt like no amount of bloodshed was enough. He wanted others to feel the hurt he felt internally, and yet, despite the fact that the streets were painted with the lives of the sinners caught in his clutches, it simply wasn’t enough.

The void in his heart and soul was gaping, and he attempted to fill it with the viscera and gore of those he slaughtered, the taste of bitterness and iron filling his maw.

“Y/N if you’re looking down on me, look away.” He whispered to himself, hoping you’d hear his plea and turn away from the carnage he created in your name.

“Alastor?”

This truly was Hell. He was hearing your angelic voice calling his name.

“Alastor?!”

What hurt most was that every part of this eternal punishment was deserved, he just didn’t know if he could accept it.

“Alastor!”

No. He couldn’t accept this infernal reality. If he had to hear your voice but never see you again, he was sure he wouldn’t make it in this afterlife.

His train of thought was cut clean off by a harsh yanking around his throat that sent him flying backwards into the ground.

In shock, he bolted upright, fingers moving towards his throat to cup it gently, as if to assess the damage. Instead of being met with the warmth of his demonic flesh, his fingertips met something cold, and metal-like.

There were no words for how you felt about this situation. How did you…how…?

How did you have a chain around his soul if you never initiated a deal with him? This was unheard of. Absolutely unorthodox.

While you were staring in shock at the glimmering white chain that you held in your hand, his red eyes drifted from the chain up towards the culprit who yanked it, forcing him to the ground.

His eyes widened when he saw who was at the other end of it. He lost his breath for the third time that day.

The first being the impact of his fall.

The second being the chain pulling on his neck.

The third being the vision of you, which could absolutely not be real.

“Y/N?” He whispered, wishing he could take it back. He hadn’t said your name in so long, it was like a button that made his tear ducts malfunction. His vision was blurry, his breathing shaky.

“I-“ you opened your mouth then immediately closed it. It truly was him. He looked different, hair longer, skin grey, teeth sharp. And he was red. So, so red. But it was him.

Your Alastor.

He slowly got up from the ground, feeling as though if he moved too quickly, you’d dissipate like a mist. He couldn’t handle that.

The chain you held in your claws slacked because of his inching towards you. You debated backing away, but his eyes, despite being the color of blood, of warnings, of danger, you were sure they’d never looked to soft.

And they were looking right at you.

You. The object of all of his wants, desires, and affections. Too stupid to realize it in your lifetime, yet brought together by the very thing that made him realize the depth of his love for you; death.

You weren’t sure when, but you started to cry.

His heart felt so heavy. Heavy with love, with grief, with a hatred for the way he made you cry.

His claws reached out, cradling your wet face, the most gentle action he performed with them that day.

Your body betrayed your mind, your head leaning into the warmth of his large hands. You thought he certainly wouldn’t want you to, but your heart couldn’t help it.

His thumbs carefully wiped away the tears on your cheeks, being mindful of the sharpness of his claws. “Is it really you?” He asked.

Your eyebrows furrowed, and you looked as though you were in pain. Your ears drooped. This isn’t the way you wanted him to see you. You looked-

“You’re as stunning as the day I lost you.”

You sucked your lips in, trying to hold in the sob that was fighting its way out of your body, and you closed the distance between the two of you in the tightest embrace you could possibly muster, buried your face in the lapels of his overcoat.

He held onto you like you’d disappear for a second time, finger carding through your hair, nose intaking your scent. You smelled just like you did on Earth, only, with more floral notes.

For the first time since you got to Hell, you sobbed. “I’m so sorry Alastor.” You wailed.

He was sure you could both hear his heart audibly crack, “You’ve nothing to be sorry about, my darling.” He tightened his hold onto you. He was terrified he’d say something wrong, to have you take your life a second time in order to run away from him. “I’m the one who will forever be sorry. I-I was such a fool.”

You looked up at him, and shook your head. “I- I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me again.” You admitted.

“Darling, every waking moment of my life after you’d gone was spent wishing you were by my side once again. What I did to deserve my wish coming true, I’ll never know, but I’d do it over again if it meant I could have you.” Your foreheads pressed together, entry wounds kissing. “Y/N, no words could ever convey how sorry I am for treating you the way I did. I was so blinded by my own ignorance and arrogance that I couldn’t see just how madly, deeply, and quickly I’d fallen in love with you.”

You searched his eyes for a hint of an untruth, but found none. You laughed wetly, sniffling. “I love you too. More than anything. To live without you wasn’t an option, Alastor.”

His smile tightened at your last sentence. “I feel the very same way.”

You were counting in your head when to act on your emotions, trying to build up the courage.

One.

Two.

You never got to three. You didn’t like landing on three because that’s when everyone expected something to happen, and you just couldn’t wait any longer.

You took Alastor’s face in your hands, leaning into him while bringing him closer with your arms. Your kiss wasn’t how you always dreamed it to be, and yet, it was somehow better. It tasted of bitterness, of sweetness, of blood and death, and of life. He smelled of iron, of rot, of cinnamon and a fireplace.

And then it overwhelmingly smelt of roses.

You parted, both looking around in shock at the garden of rose bushes your powers created. You were initially bashful, but Alastor’s smile never looked brighter, laughing as he took your face in his hands and kissed you again, looking around as the rose bushes grew even larger.

“It seems the best way to get you flowers is to kiss you, hmm?” He teased. “We’ll have our very own Garden of Eden by the end of the day.” He teased softly.

“Not before you tell me why you’re down here.” You lightly scolded him, no real anger of malice behind the question.

He froze for a second, wondering if he’d scare you away if you knew what he’d done. “My dear, I-“ you placed a finger over his lips.

“Alastor, nothing you could say would ever make me stop loving you.” You removed your finger from his face and gesturing for him to keep going.

“I murdered many men who preyed on women…” he admitted, looking off to the side.

“You’re leaving something out.” Your neck craning to follow his line of sight.

“I also murdered men who meant to court you…” his claws reached up behind his neck to scratch at it, but he was reminded of the chain around his throat.

“You killed for me?” You said, astonished. Alastor mistook it for silent horror, until he saw clover sprouting out from around your hooves. He looked into your eyes, and saw nothing but an unbridled passion for him and his actions, leading to his cheeks to burn red as the rest of him. “I have something to confess myself.” You said at this revelation. “I strangled multiple women because they sought your heart. I couldn’t allow any competition whatsoever.” You played with your fingers nervously, afraid of what his reaction would be.

He was sure that you were made for him, and he for you. No other woman could compare to the lovely creature that was you; homicidal tendencies and all. He kissed you again, having to put this surge of love somewhere.

You looked at his throat then, at the glowing white collar around it. He shivered when your hands traced the metal, the very hands that had wrapped around so many necks before. The softest and most delicate hands he’d ever known that had snuffed out so many lives in the name of your love for him.

“I don’t understand how this happened, Alastor. We never made a deal. I shouldn’t own your soul.”

He thought back to a human version of himself, a broken man who pledged his afterlife to you. A decision he wouldn’t ever regret.

He took your hands in his larger ones. “Darling, you have all of me, heart and soul. I know you’ll take wonderful care of it.” He kissed the inside of one of your palms. “However, if you are going to pull on the leash so harshly, next time I’d prefer a warning.”

-♥️-

I would say I apologize for the wait, but patience is a virtue! I hope you all enjoyed this part 2, and I appreciate the support my last fic got. Please know I appreciated all comments, reblogs, and hearts you all so generously gave. ♥️

TAGLIST: @diffidentphantom @xalygatorx @whitewolfsoldat @littledolly2345 @purple-umbrella-girl @milkissesx @cinnamon-galaxies @michi-keinz

And apologies to @psychoaxo and @ari42 I wasn’t able to tag you for some reason.

[justagalwhowrites]

Yearling - Ch. 14: Time

You and Joel go on your first overnight patrol. A continuation of Yearling ch. 1-13 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Violence against animals (not thoroughly described); canon-typical violence; canon-typical torture. No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ Only 

Length: 7.4k 

AO3 | Chapter One | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

September 15, 2023

Time. 

What you needed was time, that’s it, you had to buy time, enough time for any of it to matter. 

Hercules was your largest horse. Your fastest but the hardest to control, the one with the biggest stride, the one you thought it would take more than one shot to take down. So you’d taken him.

Time, you just needed more fucking time. 

You whistled and Ruger howled back. You shifted Hercules, going for the sound. She’d have at least some of them in her sights. You pushed the horse faster, harder, feeling his heavy breaths from your position on his back. 

He was running full tilt when the gunshot cracked through the air. It was sharp and clear and you could hear the bullet as it passed you. You slung your rifle from over your shoulder and shifted the horse with your legs and body weight, the reins falling to his neck. A bullet whizzed past where your horse had been just a moment before but it was enough to give you an idea of the source and you caught a glimpse of him, a man in forest green and brown but the white of his skin caught your eye. You lifted the gun quickly and shot. He dropped and you whistled again, another howl from Ruger in response. You followed it. 

Your dog wasn’t far, tracking a group of about a dozen men from the trees. Her muzzle was bloodied which didn’t surprise you. You’d been tipped off to the attack by her sister, Gattling, running to the cabins with a chunk of flesh dangling from her jaws. 

It felt like you hadn’t breathed since then, jumping into action to do everything you could to protect your home, protect what mattered. 

But there was only so much you could do against numbers like this. All you could really hope to do was buy time.

“Ruger,” you kept your voice low, the men just 100 feet away through the forest. You doubted you’d even see them if you didn’t know the area, didn’t know how to hunt and stalk through the brush. Her head snapped toward you. “Heel.” 

She slid obediently alongside the legs of your horse and you pressed Hercules quietly forward. You turned your horse so you could push him in another direction as soon as your shot was clear, took a deep breath, and fired. 

The men reacted quickly, but you were faster, not waiting to see if your shot found its target. staying low on your horse and pushing him back behind the group. They didn’t see you cut around behind them and you were able to line up your shot more freely that time, taking aim at a man toward the center. 

“There’s gotta be two!” One yelled as you took off around the other side. 

“Nah, just the bitch,” another man said. The leader, you were pretty sure, the man who had showed up at the edge of your land just days before on a horse, asking to trade for more. But he rubbed you the wrong way, the way his eyes ranged over you, his entitlement. You weren’t going to invite him closer to your home, you weren’t going to trade with him. 

You hadn’t expected him to come back with this many others.��

“She’s a feisty one,” he said. “Ain’t ya, Texas?” 

You ground your teeth, lining up for another shot. 

“Don’t want us getting any closer to whatever set up you’ve got back there, do ya?” He called, taunting. You pulled the trigger. A man on the end dropped. “You really think you can outlast us? You moved too quick on those first two shots so you’re one in three and I got more men, Baby Doll. We’ll get ya, don’t you worry that pretty little head.” 

“Fuck you!” You bit out, shooting another man, not bothering to move this time. The men were changing position, turning to face you, taking cover. You looked down at your dog, still glued to Hercules’ side. “Ruger, Attack.” 

She launched forward, a bullet from the gun that was her namesake, snarling and racing for the man who was closest. She hurtled herself against him just as you got off another shot, dropping another man. 

The man Ruger attacked screamed and you watched him go down. 

“Someone get this fucking dog!” He shrieked. 

“Ruger, kill!” You yelled to her, aiming again. But when you pulled the trigger, it jammed. You tried to force it again and again but it wasn’t going.

It was an old gun, you’d had it since the earliest days of the outbreak and it was hardly new then. You weren’t surprised that something had gone wrong. You just wished it had picked any other time. You hadn’t taken your handgun or shot gun. You were down to this and your knife.

You adjusted your hold on the weapon so the butt of the gun was facing out and roared, charging forward on Hercules as you heard the bloody gurgle of Ruger finishing her victim. 

“There!” A man yelled, someone finally getting a bead on you through the brush. 

“Want her alive!” The man in the lead yelled. “Just shoot the fuckin’ horse!” 

You plowed forward anyway, you didn’t have much choice, landing a hit on a man with the butt of your gun, sending him flying with the force of it as you tore past on Hercules. 

For half a moment, you wondered if maybe - just maybe - you could pull this off. Their numbers had taken a hit, if you could get through the group, send Ruger after another one or two, draw them to you on your terms… 

And the first shot hit Hercules. 

His steps stuttered and he let out a pained cry but he kept going as you raised your gun to strike another man. Then another shot caught him, right in the chest near the base of his neck, and his legs buckled, sending you flying forward over his head, tumbling onto the ground.

It only took a second for hands to be on you and you shrieked and kicked and swung blindly with your gun but it was quickly wrested away. 

There was a vicious snarl and Ruger tore into the fray, latching her teeth around a man’s forearm. He released you and screamed, the sound earsplitting, followed by the crack of a gunshot and a sharp whimper. 

“No!” You shrieked, trying to throw the men off you but they held you in place so you couldn’t even see her, just hear her pained, afraid sounds. “It’s OK, you’re such a good girl, it’s OK…” 

The man who had showed up days before prowled forward and grabbed your chin, smirking as he leaned over you. Even in the dim light of the forest at dusk you could see the sickening look on his face. Like you were something he was about to consume. 

“You’re even prettier up close,” he said. “Think you’ll be lots of fun.” 

“Try it,” you hissed through your teeth. “Bite your fuckin’ dick off.” 

“How about you cooperate,” he said. “Or we go see just what it is you’re hiding up at that homestead of yours.” 

You just panted for breath glaring at him. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

You tried to think of how long it had been since Gattling ran up to you, part of a man’s body dangling from her teeth. 

You just hoped you’d bought enough time. 

August 3, 2026

“You really don’t have anything to be worried about.” 

Ellie was perched on a rail as you worked with the last of the feral horses, Artemis. You’d gotten her to dumb broke but she still needed a little time to get her the rest of the way. 

“I’m not worried,” you said, guiding Artemis in a zig-zagging pattern through the paddock. 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Ellie rolled her eyes. 

“Shut it, kid,” you glared at her. “I’m not.” 

“Well, you’re acting fucky,” she said. “From everything I’ve heard about overnight patrols, they’re basically like camping and shit.” 

“The fuck do you know about camping?” You asked, bringing the horse back around. “Didn’t you grow up in a QZ as a sad little orphan?” 

“Ha ha,” she rolled her eyes again. She was such a teenager. “I can read, you know, I know what camping was. And everyone who goes on the overnight patrols make them sound fun and shit. Get out of town for a night, be in the woods, maybe shoot an infected or two…” 

“Sounds like a blast,” you brought the horse around to her. “Want to give her a go? She’s in a good groove.” 

“Hell yeah!” 

You dismounted and held the reins while Ellie got situated on her back. You gave her a quick reminder of the ways to guide the horse, telling her she might need a second to respond to commands or something a little firmer than she was used to giving with Shimmer. 

“I’ve got it, geez Mom,” she teased. You mockingly mouthed the words back at her as you handed her the reins. You stuck close as she took Artemis around the paddock. “You worry too much.” 

“Stop acting like a stupid teenager and I won’t worry,” you replied. 

“Hey, I wasn’t even talking about that!” She said, indignant. You’d yelled at her the day before when you’d caught her climbing on the roof of the stable to get a frisbee down for some kids who’d been playing in the street nearby. She’d acted personally offended that you’d had the audacity to think she might break her neck doing shit like that. “I mean, you worry too much about shit like the patrol. I can tell you’re basically freaking the fuck out…” 

“Am not!” 

“And I’m telling you, you have nothing to worry about,” she said. “It’s cool. We haven’t lost someone on patrol in a long time. You don’t need to worry about that.” 

“You realize that I lived, on my own, in the wild, for longer than you’ve been alive, right?” You asked, brows raised. “Watch your legs, you’re relaxing them too much, you need to keep your knees in closer.” She adjusted. “Being outside overnight doesn’t bother me.” 

“So what’s got you all fucky?” She asked.

“Nothing,” you lied. “Will you focus on the horse, please? Gonna get yourself hurt because you’re not paying attention.” 

“Whatever you say,” she said, skeptical of all of it. 

She was right to be. You were freaking out but not about the patrol part. About being outside, alone, with Joel. 

Things had felt… different with him since the Simon incident. You’d already been close, already took comfort in sleeping next to him when running down the feral horses, already liked having him close by and liked feeling his hand against your back or at your hip. 

But it was different now. It had gone from a comfort to a need. He hadn’t slept over since the night he came back from killing Simon and Ben and you missed him there next to you. It was hard to sleep without him there, your mind kept drifting to what he felt like pressed against you, his hand on your skin. The way you felt when looking at him, wanting to press your lips to his, wanting him to put his hands on you and pull you tight against him. 

Part of you wondered if this is what it had always been like when you wanted someone before. It felt bigger now, headier, more dangerous. How much of that was because it was Joel and how much you cared for him? How much of it was the thrill of fear that ran through you when you thought of your body under the control of anyone but yourself? 

The fear didn’t seem to dull the hot, throbbing want that was starting to take hold of you the moment you gave it a chance to blossom. You’d try to fall asleep and the image of your hands on Joel’s face, pulling him in to more devour your lips than kiss them as he pulled at your clothes was there, ready and eager. He’d look at you to make some silent comment on something, his brows raised, slight smile on his lips starting to make the edges of his eyes crinkle and you’d feel part of yourself get tight and achy and you were suddenly imagining what it would feel like to have his mouth on your breasts, your stomach, your sex. You had to fight the thoughts away, alarm bells ringing in the one part of your brain that didn’t seem to be drowning in want. 

It was easy to picture what you would have done before. Before the outbreak, before Mitchum, before you were who you were now. You’d have gone up to him and made some smart assed remark and asked if he wanted to fuck and he would almost certainly say yes. You’d never had a man turn you down. And then you would fuck him and be at least somewhat sated and you could move on with your life. Or at least have a regular outlet if you weren’t. 

But that wasn’t an option. You weren’t sure it would ever be an option with someone like Joel, someone who seemed so capable of swallowing you whole, of taking your entire being into himself and remaking you into something you didn’t recognize anymore. But it really wasn’t an option now. The thought of throwing yourself at him only to panic once his large hands cupped your breasts, the idea of him seeing the brand at your hip and seeing you like property, the notion of someone you cared so deeply for being the cause of that much fear and it tainting one of the only good things you’d found in the last few years. 

That was too big a risk. 

Your body didn’t seem to understand that. 

Being alone, outside, with Joel, nowhere else to go? It was dangerous. It felt dangerous. But you had to do it. You had no reason not to. You’d just have to figure it out. 

You didn’t sleep well the night before leaving for patrol, something you were sure was going to bode well. At least you’d be too tired by the time you stopped for the night for anything else to sound even remotely appealing. 

“Alright,” you said, riding alongside Joel away from Jackson in the cool morning air. The trees were shrouded in fog, the insects and birds still quiet. “Walk me through it one more time.” 

“We have one path out to the ski lodge,” he said. “We check up on anything we find out that way. We’ll probably run into a few infected this time of year but not much else. Should get to the lodge in time for dinner. We spend the night there. Come back to town a different route in the morning.” 

“Right,” you said, trying to relax as you sat astride Renaissance. “Easy enough.” 

“Specially for a deadeye like you,” Joel teased. “Had to do this route with Tommy before, it’s a wonder we survived.” 

You huffed a small laugh. 

“You telling me he’s not shooting infected from half a mile off after walking to school up hill both ways through the snow?” 

Joel laughed back. 

“Afraid not,” he said. “And he has no damn excuse, not with that scope…” 

It didn’t take long for you to wonder just what it was you’d been anxious about. It was Joel. Just Joel. Your best friend, the person you trusted more than anyone else, the only person you wanted to be around just about all the time. It was going to be fine. 

It was close to ten when you came across a few infected, a group of three. They looked to be recently turned, a man, a woman and someone who couldn’t be any older than Ellie. They looked almost disturbingly human compared to the clickers you usually were taking potshots at. They looked like a family. 

Joel sighed heavily. 

“Hate ones like this,” he said, lining up his rifle. “We need to clear out the ones who are bitin’ folks like this. You take the man, I’ve got the woman and kid.” 

You nodded grimly, taking aim and blowing the head off the man. Joel killed the woman just as she turned to roar and run toward you and she fell, leaving just the kid. He hesitated. 

“I can…” you said quietly. 

“I got it,” he replied, voice gruff. He took the shot and the girl dropped. 

“It’s a mercy,” you said, watching him as he slung his rifle over his shoulder again. 

“I know,” he sighed. “Don’t make it any easier shootin’ a kid.” 

You looked back toward where you knew the bodies were, part of you wanting to dig graves for the people they’d once been. 

You just pressed on, Joel quiet for a while, face drawn. After a while, you started humming Born to Run and he looked at you, smiling just a little. 

“What?” You asked. 

“Springsteen, huh?” 

“Well,” you shrugged. “Tramps like us…” 

He smiled a little bigger, seeming a bit more like himself. 

You stopped for lunch in the early afternoon, tucked against the thick trunk of a tree, the forest floor cool and calm, the sound of birds and bugs on the air. You leaned against Joel’s side, your legs straight out ahead of you so that your foot drooped onto his shin as you ate a peach, wiping the juice on the back of your wrist. 

“Fuck I haven’t been this far out from Jackson like this in so long,” you said, looking out at the plants. Everything was cast in a dappled green hue, the soft light filtering down through the canopy. “It feels… I dunno, different somehow. I’ve done patrol before of course but…” 

“I get it,” Joel said after you trailed off. “Kind of like just going for a hike when you lived in the city before.” 

“Right,” you said. “Like we’re so disconnected from everything back there. Might as well be another world.” 

You pulled the last of the flesh from the pit of the peach with your teeth and sucked your thumb clean. 

���I used to just… live like this,” you sighed, shaking your head a little before you dropped it to Joel’s shoulder. “Seems like forever ago.” 

He paused for a moment. 

“Do you miss it?” 

You thought, turning the sticky stone over in your fingers, feeling the ridges of it against your thumb. 

“I don’t know,” you said eventually. “There are things about it I miss but what I miss most I could just… pick up and move to Jackson. It’s not like I have to be in the middle of nowhere just…” You sighed. “I do miss being this close to nature sometimes. I was never a city girl. Jackson’s hardly a metropolis but every now and then I look around and think ‘fuck there are a lot of people.’” 

Joel was quiet for a bit. 

“But you’ve stayed.” 

It wasn’t a question, more of a statement, but you nodded anyway. 

“Yeah,” you said. “I have. I… I like Jackson. The people are good, it’s quiet, I get to work with horses and help people while doing it. I have you.” 

You glanced up at him for a moment when you said it but looked forward again quickly, not sure that you wanted to see what he’d think of his inclusion on the list. You threw the pit into the brush. 

“I’m glad you stayed,” he said quietly. 

“Just because I’m not about to let Ellie get killed by a horse?” You teased a little. 

He laughed. 

“Doesn’t hurt. But no, definitely not just that.” 

You smiled a little when you heard a twig snap. Your head shot up and Joel all but leapt to his feet, tucking you behind him once you were up, too. 

Your heartbeat got faster. The patrols that had gone out to investigate the X you’d found on the tree couldn’t track any recent paths. There was no way of knowing if it was raiders or just a person or two passing through, looking for a place to settle. After a few days, they’d given up until there was more to go off of. You’d hoped that there wouldn’t be. 

“Joel,” you said quietly, getting your rifle out from Renaissance’s saddle. “Have there been raiders on this route before?” 

“Years ago,” he said quietly. “Could be nothin’ but… Stay behind me, let me do the talkin’.” 

There was another snap and you were able to locate the sound better than the first time, now that you were on alert and your ears were listening for it. 

Joel moved quickly, stepping around you to be between you and the horses you could make out through the trees now. You kept your rifle aimed at the ground and peered around him, watching as the seven men rode up. All middle aged, all large, all armed. They were slow, confident. You adjusted your grip on your rifle and tightened your jaw. 

“Somethin’ happens,” Joel said, not looking back at you, his voice low and quiet. “Take a horse, get back to Jackson as quick as you can.” 

“Joel…” 

“I mean it,” he looked back over his shoulder at you. “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll buy you time, get the fuck away from here.” 

You leaned around Joel to untie Ares and Renaissance from the tree you’d bound them to, looping their reins over your arm, their large bodies feeling oddly hot at your back.

“Howdy stranger,” the man at the center called out as he approached. “Sure would appreciate you puttin’ that rifle down.” 

“Gimme a reason to and I will,” Joel said. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” 

“Just a group of friends passin’ through,” the man said. You fought to not go plant yourself next to Joel. You didn’t want to leave him standing alone but you knew that, regardless of how capable you were, if these men saw you as a commodity, you would be a liability. You stayed put. “Haven’t spent much time around these parts, know the area well?” 

“Well enough,” Joel said. “There’s a river, about 20 miles east. You’re gonna want to find it, cross it and keep going. It’ll keep you outta trouble.” 

“That sounds an awful lot like a threat for a man outnumber seven to one,” the man’s fake smile was fading. 

“Seven to two,” you snapped, unable to stop yourself. 

The man stood up a little in his saddle to take a better look at you before he smirked and sat back again. 

“Don’t think your little deer there counts as extra muscle,” he said. 

“Seven to one, seven to two,” Joel shrugged. “No difference to me. Like those odds either way.   Head on over to the river and be on your way and we won’t have any problems here.” 

“Seems like there’s plenty of open country for all of us,” he replied. “Unless you’ve got something you’re protectin’.” 

“Something besides your little toy of course,” a different man spoke this time, the sound of heavy footfalls as his horse stepped forward. His voice was familiar, in a way that made your stomach turn. You swallowed and peered around Joel. The man leaned over on his horse and looked you up and down. Joel glanced behind him to you and adjusted again, blocking their view. 

“Not going to tolerate you talkin’ to her like that,” Joel said, his voice strained and rough. “We’ve been around this area for a while. It’s ours. We decide if there’s enough room and there’s not. Move. Along.” 

“You look familiar,” the second man said, adjusting his horse again and you could just see him, frowning down at you. You narrowed your eyes, heart pounding, praying to a god you didn’t believe in that he couldn’t place you. 

“Last chance,” Joel growled. 

The man’s face shifted, from questioning to recognition. For just a moment, it felt like you were going to throw up. 

“I know you,” he said, smirking. “You’re Mitchum’s favorite doll! Oh, he’s been looking for you…” 

“Shut up,” you hissed, teeth clenched. You dropped the reins and raised your rifle, stepping around Joel to get a clear shot. You fought to keep your breathing under control, to keep from devolving into the anger that was licking its way through your veins and trying to swallow you whole. 

“She as good for you as she was for me?” He asked Joel with a laugh. He didn’t wait for a response. “Mitchum’s been looking everywhere for you. Bet he’d let me have another go if I brought you back…” 

“Shut the fuck up!” Your finger moved to the trigger, but the man in the middle of the group rode up in between the two of you. 

“Now now,” he said calmly. “No need for any bloodshed…” He turned his attention back to Joel. “Sure you didn’t mean nothin’ by it, but it sounds like your little… friend here belongs to someone else. We’ll take her back with us and…” 

Joel shot before the man even finished speaking, the bullet catching him in the chest and sending him slumping over and off his horse with a thud. 

The group was still and silent and you gaped at Joel, your gun still pointed in the direction of the man you recognized. 

Joel turned his gun to the next man closest to the middle. 

“She ain’t property,” he said. “I got no problems killing every last one of you. Could use the practice. Get the fuck out or I’ll kill you. Last chance.” 

You looked back at the men, your rifle up, as they looked between each other, weighing their chances. 

The one you recognized’s hand drifted to his side arm before he spoke. 

“Think we’ll take the doll and be on our way.” 

He started moving just as you fired and your shot went wide, hitting the man on the other side of him. Joel shot, too, before screaming at you to run. 

You weren’t going to listen. At least, not at first. Joel threw you behind a tree and followed before he fired again, his shot making contact this time and dropping another man, already moving another bullet into the chamber. 

The man you recognized seemed to change his mind about coming for you, instead turning his horse and starting to take off in the opposite direction. 

You weren’t about to let him.

You shoved the rifle back into its spot on your saddle and jumped onto Renaissance, urging her almost immediately into a gallup to run down the man. 

He had a decent enough head start and, when you were getting close to him again, you could barely hear the commotion behind you, just the crack of gunshots. 

Catching him was going to be tricky. He was riding fast, looking back over his shoulder at you, pushing his horse. There wasn’t a clear route to him, you were having to guide the horse through it all while trying to keep pace. You tried to not let your rage be the only thing driving you, tried to let your logical mind take hold again. 

If you took advantage of a sloping hill you thought was ahead, you’d be able to gain some ground on him. You split off from him and pushed Renaissance toward where you remembered the gentle slope down to be before it got steeper later on, something he’d have to slow up on. 

You were right and you could hear him, not far away, the thundering hooves and the gasping breaths, even though you couldn’t quite see him through the thick of the forest. It was quiet behind you now and you tried not to think about what that might mean. You had to stop this man. If he knew where you were, he’d get more men and come after you. If Mitchum really wanted you back that bad, he’d come for you. 

You weren’t going to let him take you, not again. 

You broke through the trees, just feet behind him now instead of yards and he looked back over his shoulder, his eyes wide. He started fumbling for the gun at his waist but you pulled up alongside him and did the only thing you could really think to do. You jumped, leaping from the back of your horse and into him, slamming into him with all your weight and knocking him out of the saddle, both of you careening toward the earth until you landed with a heavy thud, the two of you tumbling through the undergrowth until you stopped, him awkwardly on top of you. 

He smiled, eyes dark, down at you. 

“So eager to come back home,” he panted. “Don’t think he’ll mind if I take my payment upfront…” 

You roared and thrashed below his weight and he punched you across the face. 

“Think your guard dog’s dead,” he said. “Not so tough are you now, baby doll?” 

He leaned in close to you, so close that you could smell his breath and you slammed your head into his nose. You felt it collapse below your forehead and he yelped and instinctively jerked back from you, his hands clutching his face. 

It was enough. 

You wrenched your body over and he collapsed to the ground, still clutching his face as you all but jumped on top of him. You sat on his chest, ripping his hands back from his face and pinning his arms beneath your legs before you punched him the same way he punched you. He groaned and you smiled. 

“Still think I’m good for you?” You could taste blood in your mouth as you panted for breath. You dug your nails into his cheeks until you felt his skin give and he shrieked and thrashed but your position was too solid, he couldn’t shake you, had no hope of reaching the most vulnerable parts of you as you dragged your fingertips through his flesh, leaving trails of red in their wake. “Am I your baby doll now? Huh?” 

You pulled your hands from him, his skin below your nails, and wrapped your fingers around his throat, squeezing as his eyes went wide. 

“Still think I feel good?” You couldn’t get your breathing to slow down but you didn’t care, your heart pounding against your ribs. “I remember you, you fuck, I remember all of you. Not so tough now that I’m not chained to a wall are you?” 

His hands scratched uselessly against your upper arms, legs flailing behind you. He was gasping for breath, reminding you of a fish on a dock. His eyes were just as wide, his motions just as desperate, his being just as powerless. 

“Bambi,” Joel’s hand appeared on your back, making you jump, loosening your grip on the man and he gasped for breath, sucking in air like a drowning man. You looked back at him, breathing heavy. Ares was at his side, you hadn’t even heard them approach. “Need you to stop.” 

“Why,” you demanded, eyes narrowed, teeth clenched. 

“Need information from him,” he said, kneeling beside you, his voice calm and even. You looked him up and down. He didn’t look hurt. “He’s the last one alive. Just need a few answers, then you can decide what happens to him.” 

You looked at Joel for a moment, his eyes soft and open. 

“Bambi,” he said quietly. 

“Fine,” you snapped and Joel’s hand traveled down your back to your waist, guiding you off the man as he panted for breath. 

“Help…” the man managed weakly, reaching for Joel, but Joel’s hand shot out, snatching his wrist out of the air. His large hands wrapped around the other man’s arm and he twisted until you heard a snap. The man screamed. 

“Not here to help you,” Joel said, his voice almost eerily calm, so calm it sent a chill down your spine. “I’m here to get information and there’s only one way I know how to do it. You’re gonna want me to give you back to her by the time I’m done. So let’s begin.” 

***

Joel dragged the man by his hair to a nearby tree and sat him up before he broke his other arm, too, just to be safe. He didn’t want to waste time tying him up but you knew he couldn’t throw many punches with a broken arm. 

This wasn’t a part of himself he’d ever wanted you to see. It wasn’t a part of himself he was particularly fond of. Not of his willingness to do it to begin with, not of his skills, not of the way he picked it up to begin with. 

But it was effective. And the important thing was keeping you safe. 

Seeing you take off on Renaissance like that scared the shit out of him. Because of course you didn’t take off in the direction they’d been heading or even, really, back toward Jackson. No, you’d taken off after a fleeing man. 

A man who said he knew you, who obviously horrified you. 

Joel was desperate to get to you then. The way that man talked about you… he was not going to let him get his hands on you. If it was the last thing he did, he was going to protect you from him. 

Thankfully, you were relatively easy to find. The man’s screams weren’t exactly quiet and he was able to find you quickly once he’d taken out the rest of the crew, leaving them dead on the forest floor. 

“Look,” the man panted. “I don’t have to take her with me, alright? If you’re attached…” 

“How many of you are there?” Joel cut him off. He wasn’t going to be able to get any answers out of this man if he heard him talk about you like you were nothing but an object, something to be owned and controlled. He’d kill him too fast. 

“What?” He frowned and then winced, the bloody paths you’d cut into his face pulling and oozing. 

“How many men,” Joel asked. 

“I don’t…” 

Joel sighed and freed his knife, thrusting it into the side of the man’s thigh. He screamed, so loud birds took off from nearby trees. Joel gave him a moment to catch his breath before he asked again. 

“How. Many. Men.” 

“About fifty,” he said quickly. “But miles from here, two days ride at least, we were sent out this way to scout…” 

“Anyone else sent this way to scout?” Joel asked. 

The man just looked at him, panting for breath. Joel twisted the knife in his leg and he screamed. 

“Any. One. Else?” He demanded again. 

“No one!” He said. 

“How long was your team supposed to be gone?” He asked. The man hesitated and Joel pressed on the knife. 

“Fuck, please! You can keep her, alright? I won’t eve tell Mitchum I found her, you can have her…” 

Joel punched him across the face, his knuckles connecting with the cuts you’d made in his skin. 

“Jesus Christ!” He managed as he gasped for breath. “Please…” 

“Never understood why men like you think you’re gonna get mercy,” Joel said, grabbing his hair. “God washed his hands of your kind a while ago. I’m what comes for you instead and I don’t know mercy. So tell me, how long were you supposed to be gone?” 

“A week!” He said quickly. “A week, we’re three days in and they won’t come looking for us if we all disappear, they’ll think we got infected or something, I promise…” 

“What were you looking for?” Joel asked. “Lookin’ for her?” 

“No,” the man panted and shook his head, wincing as he did. “No, we were looking for a new place to set up, maybe for the winter, I just know Mitchum’s been looking for her and offering…” 

Joel cut him off. 

“He have any idea where she is?” 

“No,” he shook his head, quickly this time. “No, he has no idea, I swear he doesn’t know and I swear I won’t say anything, I promise I won’t…” 

Joel laughed once, darkly. 

“You’re not leavin’ here,” he said, ripping his knife from his leg. He actually looked surprised at that as Joel wiped the blood on the man’s jeans. “Told you, wasn’t here to help you.” 

Joel looked around until he found you sitting against a tree, your legs pulled tightly to your chest. He looked back to the man for a moment. His legs were too intact. He stood and, for a moment, the man looked relieved. And then Joel brought all his weight down on the man’s shin, stomping on it, the bone snapping as the man screamed. 

Satisfied, Joel went to you, sheathing the knife. Your eyes were wide and doe-like, afraid and watchful. He approached you slowly, keeping his hands where you could see them before he knelt a few feet away from you. 

“Bambi,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm and even. “I’ve gotten what I need from him. You can have him now if you want him. He can’t leave here alive but how he dies is up to you.” 

You nodded, pulling your eyes from Joel’s to look at the man. Joel glanced at his bleeding form, whimpering on the ground, before focusing on you.

“You’ve killed before,” Joel said. 

“Yes,” you said quietly. 

“Did it satisfy you?” 

You stared into space for a moment, a dazed look on your face. 

“No,” you said eventually, shaking your head. “I wanted it to but…” 

“Did you like it?” 

“No,” that you answered quickly. “No, it made me sick, I don’t…” 

“Then tell me how you want him to die,” Joel cut you off. “And I’ll do it.” 

“I want it to hurt,” your voice cracked. “I want him to fucking feel it.” 

“OK,” Joel said gently. 

“And I want to watch.” 

“OK,” he said again, straightening up and offering you his hand. You took it and he pulled you to your feet. There was a cut at your cheek and he slowly, gently, reached his hand out and held your face, his palm curving over your wound. You closed your eyes and breathed deep, your hand covering his and holding it to you. “Come on, Sweetheart. Let’s finish this.” 

He held your hand as the two of you went back to the man, who was still breathing heavily, still crying in pain. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “Please, I….” 

“You hurt her once,” Joel cut him off. “She decides what happens to you now. And she said she wants it to hurt.” 

He released your hand and freed his knife again. 

“No,” the man shook his head. “No, I didn’t mean…” 

He didn’t finish begging, Joel thrusting the blade deep into the man’s gut and he screamed. He twisted it before pulling it back out, looking up at you. 

“Short or long?” He asked. 

You looked at the man, examining him. 

“Short,” you said after a moment. “I want to get the fuck out of here.” 

Joel plunged the knife between the man’s ribs then, piercing a lung, and pulled it out before wiping it on the man’s clothes and sheathing it. He straightened up and stood beside you as you watched the man drown in his own blood, a cold and detached look on your face. After a few minutes, he was still and you were still watching him. 

“Sweetheart,” Joel said softly, his hand delicately on your back. 

You spat on the man’s body. 

“Let’s go.” 

***

Joel was right, you weren’t too far from the ski lodge. He helped you clean the blood from your face and quickly found Renaissance - who hadn’t gone far - before getting underway again. It only took another two hours to get there, much faster than going back to Jackson. 

But there was the hot clutch of fear in you now, threatening to strangle you from the inside out, the tendrils of it reaching and threatening to take control. By the time you reached the ski lodge, you could hardly breathe. You jumped off Renaissance and Joel dismounted Ares, frowning as he came to your side. Your hand went to your chest, your neck. 

“I can’t…” you managed, the first words you’d said in hours, fighting to get enough air to keep talking. Your heart was racing. “What’s happening? I… I can’t…” 

“It’s OK,” Joel said, guiding you to a fallen tree and pulling you down onto it next to him. “Think you’re havin’ a panic attack, Sweetheart, you’re gonna be OK. Just gotta breathe deep, you’re OK. I’m going to touch you, alright?” 

You nodded quickly and he delicately pulled you against him, his arms going around you, close enough that you could feel the rise and fall of his chest. 

“Try to focus on my breathing,” he said gently. “Try to match it, OK?” 

You closed your eyes and nodded as he took a deep, slow breath in and you tried to do the same. He held it for a moment before breathing out just as slowly and starting again. 

“You’re OK,” he said gently. “You’re OK, I’ve got you. Not gonna let anything happen to you, you’re safe, you’re OK.” 

You focused on his words, the sound of his voice, the feel of his breathing as you matched it to your own. After what felt like a small eternity, you felt like you could take a normal breath again, your heart no longer threatening to pound its way out of your chest. 

Some part of you was still afraid. Afraid of how close you were to Joel, of how violent you’d just seen him be - violence you never would have thought him capable of if you hadn’t seen it yourself. Afraid of how out of control these feelings you had for him could be. 

But that part of you was smaller than ever, a quiet whisper against the overwhelming sense of warmth and longing that you’d come to associate with Joel. He was so close to you then, he’d pulled you almost onto his lap, your legs draped over his thighs, your head tucked against his chest. In spite of everything that had happened that day, in spite of the fact that he was so big and strong that he could hurt you without even really trying, in spite of that part of you telling you that being this close to anyone was a danger, you felt safer than you had in years. 

You pressed yourself closer to him, your nose buried in his neck. 

“See Bambi?” He said gently, pulling away from you ever so slightly to look down at you. “You’re alright.” 

He was so handsome. Maybe you just hadn’t seen enough people over the last 20 years but Joel was easily one of the most beautiful human beings you’d ever seen and he smelled like safety and home and you couldn’t help but reach your hand up to his cheek, your fingers dipping ever so slightly into his hairline. 

“Joel,” you said softly. 

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, his eyes searching your own. Your grip on him strengthened and you gently, slowly, tugged his face toward yours. 

You couldn’t help it. It was something that was inevitable. Some part of it feeling like it was always meant to happen, like you’d been moving all your life toward specific points of time and this was one of them, a moment that was built into your genetic code. 

You were always going to kiss Joel Miller. You’d been running toward it your whole life. There was no reason to deny it. 

So you didn’t. 

You kissed him then, his lips soft and gentle and warm on yours, his hands spreading wide over you to delicately, carefully, pull you closer.

And you knew, in that moment, your life would never be the same.

Next Chapter

A/N: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

THEY KISSED Y'ALL

FINALLY

IT ONLY TOOK 14 CHAPTERS OF WHAT WILL - EVENTUALLY I SWEAR - BE A FIC THAT HAS SMUT THEY KISSED.

I'M GONNA DIE!

Thank you thank you thank you for riding out this slow burn with me! I hope this felt right for these characters for you the way it did for me.

I do have an updates blog. Follow and subscribe for post alerts to get an alert whenever I post a new chapter! I promise I won't spam ya!

Thank you for reading and for interacting and for being here. I'm so behind on replying to comments but know that I've read them (they're some of my favorite pick-me-ups during my work day!) and I so appreciate them and I'll be getting caught up soon. I love you all so very much, thank you for making sharing this story so fun!

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[harpyface]

Kim Kitsuragi - The bullet falls in the bag leaving a smattering of blood on the plastic. He raises the bag under his eyes and says:

Kim Kitsuragi - "Unknown calibre. Rifled. Some kind of brittle alloy, fractured on impact..."

You - "Can I have it?"

Kim Kitsuragi - "Of course. You've *earned* it." The lieutenant drops the bag in your bloody hand. It feels light.

Perception (Sight) - Your gardening glove is completely covered in the corpse's blood.

Inland Empire - Cold and absent of life.

Half Light - Lick your fingers.

Volition - What-

Electrochemistry - YES-

You - Um...?

Endurance - Uh, no. You barely got your shit together when approaching the hanging corpse. Your body will not be able to handle its dead blood inside it.

Electrochemistry - The dark liquid glistens on the yellow latex in the cold sunlight. Your fingers are *dripping* with it.

Authority - You outlived this sad, sad man. It's only right that you should feast upon his corpse.

Logic - No, you shouldn't. The corpse has been hanging outside - mouth open - for a week. In any case, it won't taste good.

Conceptualisation - That's because it's raw, unseasoned blood. This is just a little taste.

Perception (Smell) - You waft the odor towards your face. If you close your eyes, you can imagine it's a kebab.

Volition - We all know that the kebabs you ate were no better than a week-old corpse. Take the gloves off and clean them when you get back to your room.

Reaction Speed - You will never get this chance again, especially with how the lieutenant regarded you when you tried to remove the hanged man's boots.

You - Lick your fingers.

Perception (Taste) - You swipe the flat of your tongue along the back of your hand. Why did you do that? You could have just dabbed at it. It's disgustingly sour and tastes awful. You gag when your saliva washes the fluid down your throat.

Authority - You have bested this man. You have consumed him.

Electrochemistry - It's fucking vile. It's enlightening.

Logic - Great. Now that you've established that brain fluid and blood tastes bad, let's get back to the autopsy.

Kim Kitsuragi - He had turned to his notebook when you took the bagged bullet. He's still looking down at it.

Kim Kitsuragi - He was beginning to write the bullet wound's description. The pen has not touched the paper.

Composure - He *saw* you lick your bloody glove.

Empathy - It's not a surprise. He is still appalled.

Half Light - You conquered your prey. You are the predator.

Inland Empire - A four-legged beast with sharp claws and numerous teeth. Muscles powerful and flexing.

Shivers - In a grimy butcher shop in Faubourg, a rugged man pulls a thawed lamb down onto the somewhat clean counter. He grips the front legs and tendons crack. In the front of the shop, raw meats line the shelves. Red steaks with beautiful marbling, sausage casings stuffed full of spiced pork, pink breasts of chicken shining in the artificial light.

Electrochemistry - You recall the sweet ham of Gaston's sandwich.

Physical Instrument - Your muscles are also powerful and flex-worthy. Your meat would be highly coveted.

Volition - Right. Who would want to buy meat sourced from an addicted alcoholic? Take off the damn gloves.

You - "I wonder what I taste like."

Kim Kitsuragi - You pull him out of his silent stupor. After a second, he decides to ignore what you said. "We need to add an item to the injury list."

[kidasthings]

Echoes of Eden by Kida

Noa x Mae - #mommaknowsbest

Chapter 3: https://www.tumblr.com/kidasthings/751031002718240768/echoes-of-eden-by-kida?source=share

Next Chapter: https://www.tumblr.com/kidasthings/751482584388829184/echoes-of-eden-by-kida?source=share

Chapter 4

They made it back to the Eagle Clan village at daybreak, just as the first rays of early light touched the earth and migrated through the trees above. It painted the ground cover with a dappling effect, shifting penumbras and warming daisies.

Mae walked among the apes wisely sticking close to Noa. Anaya gave her a wide berth all the while, nervous eyes flicking her way when she strayed too close. Soona was much the same, save for the steady eye contact when they did trade looks. The rest of the small contingent remained at a respectful if suspicious distance; only Noa seemed moderately comfortable with her in his immediate vicinity.

The welcome party at the village consisted of a few curious ape children and Dar, Noa’s mother. She threw her arms around her son, gave Mae a curious look, and then patted Noa on the back before speaking in hushed tones with Anaya and Soona. Mae stood awkwardly, highly aware of being the only human amongst sentient animals. There was still the chance one or more of them might try to assume issue with her for the flood she set upon them, and for this her guard remained up. The village, despite her paranoia, buzzed about her without fail. Apes were climbing half-built structures, connecting beams, and the young ran amongst a small herd of horses at pasture in a clearing dotted with wildflowers. Their shouts and hoots of joy reached beyond the treetops, unmarred by the fact their clan had barely survived the year.

Because of her.

Eventually Noa returned to her side, gesturing for her to follow him with that world-weary look he usually sported. Relieved, Mae followed and found him leading her off to a crude shack that resembled the one in which they had first met; it seemed these were used primarily to store fish. This one, however, had a different purpose.

Inside the raw-wood walls was a cache of human weapons and supplies. An ape of stature stood posted at the door, nodding at Noa but glaring balefully at Mae as they simultaneously ducked inside.

Everything was abandoned on the floor in a haphazard pile: a few rucksacks, dented weapons, sharp hunting knives, a canteen or two, rope, and other random oddities. There was not much, admittedly, but what Mae sought wasn’t exactly of size.

Mae drifted down to her knees, alighting on the packed dirt floor. “Is this everything?” she asked Noa without losing focus on the heap before her.

“Yes,” Noa confirmed.

“I see.” She floated her palm over the pile, mimicking a scanning device. Her hand hovered over the first brown knapsack, travel-worn and rusted at the buckles. Gingerly, she touched it and ran her fingers over the flap. It was secured by a simple button from the top, zippers being an exotic novelty rarely seen anymore. Carefully, she opened the bag and rifled through the contents.

Nothing caught her eye at first. There were three small knives, a few canned rations, a water flask made of animal bladder, and something that looked like –

Mae pulled out a crinkled piece of faded paper and held it up before her face. Dust motes floated lazily across an old illustration made by the hand of a child. Pastel paints depicted two stick figures, one larger than the other, holding hands. The taller one sported short blonde streaks, likely a representation for hair, and the shorter one had longer hair of the same hue. Both were smiling; simple lines curved their two-dimensional mouths upward to their dots-for-eyes.

Sucking in her cheeks until they were hollow, Mae refolded the paper and placed it back into the bag. She continued, patting down the sides and coming up empty save for a small silver key on a thin ring. She could hear Noa shuffle his weight from one foot to the other, indicating he was growing impatient. Utilizing the soft sound to her advantage, she surreptitiously used a sleight of hand technique to slip the dented key into the inner pocket of her short jacket.

Mae hazarded a quick look behind her; Noa was still staring at her back, arms folded, but there was no recognition on his face that anything was amiss.

The next bag proved more interesting. This one, black and made of canvas, contained an array of pistols with silencers. Pushing past those, the brunette located a dark metal container at the bottom of the bag. It turned out to be a lockbox secured by a small gold padlock looped through a latch on the side.

The word MASTER was emblazoned on the front.

Mae ran her thumb over the worn word in the metal, realizing it was a remnant of the world before.

Reinvigorated, she turned the box this way and that, examining the angles. Inside, something rolled back and forth in a reassuring, cylindrical way. Mae pitched her chin inward towards her collarbone and a few errant wisps of hair disconnected from her braid and swept forward, brushing the sides of her face.

Her pupils rapidly dilated behind the curtain of her hair.

Silence.

Without fanfare, Mae returned the box back to the bag and made a small show of picking up other various artifacts in the human-made heap. She stood and turned around when Noa made a small sound.

“Thank you,” she told him quietly, shoving her hands in her pockets. “I’m done.” Her voice, quick and clipped, followed the path of her footsteps as she carried herself outside of the ape-made hut.

Noa’s green eyes tracked her as she swept past him, the lower lids tensing at the edges. Finally, he nodded and removed himself from the structure to follow her out.

“Are you leaving to … follow them?” he called after her.

Mae stopped in mid-step, now well within the village proper. The ape posted outside the door traded curious looks with Noa as both watched the long line of Mae’s rigid back.

“I should,” she told him, voice muffled while she remained turned away, “but if you would allow me to remain a few more days, I can rest before returning.”

This caused the villager standing watch near Noa to silently reveal long canines, but Noa just shook his head at him before approaching Mae.

“I will … speak to the council … about it,” he told her, that stilted way in which he spoke comfortingly familiar. “For now … stay at the edge of the … village.”

“I can do that. I left my horse tied up over there.” Mae pointed off to a stand of trees to the south. “Hopefully, she isn’t too thirsty by now. I need to check on her.” Her expression remained stony and shuttered.

“Something … wrong?” Noa asked, tone too low for the other villagers to catch.

Mae’s head made a small adjustment in his direction. “No, I am just tired. Thank you for letting me look. What do you intend to do with all of it?” She was not settled with the idea of leaving human weaponry with the Eagle Clan. Her body turned halfway, her profile perfectly in view.

“We will … look through it,” Noa stated grimly. “It is ours.” He looked off to the woods, where both could hear the distant whinny of a frustrated equine. The breeze picked up, stirring the fur along his low forehead. “She sounds … hungry.”

“She had plenty of grass around. Water is more important. Do you have any nearby? I saw a lake to the north…”

Noa nodded, finding comfort in the discussion of logistics. Logistics were emotionless, effortless. He rolled his gaze over to hers, holding it. “We have a … pond in the meadow … she can drink from.” He pointed east, where the villagers’ horses were at pasture.

“Better yet.” Mae flashed him a too-tight grin, and then startled when an ape woman in a new blue shawl approached them.

“Noa, a word,” the ape said, her tenor deep and calm.

“Yes, mother.” Noa turned to Mae once more. “I will return later.”

Mae smiled then, a short spread of her lips with a quick nod. “Right.” She spared a second to and gave a once-over of the ape Noa had addressed as “mother”, and the object of her focus did the same. No words were exchanged, save for a small incline of the head on Dar’s part.

Mae spun on her heel and made off for the woods before slipping between the trees. Once the human was out of sight, both mother and son turned back to their conversation.

“Are the echoes gone … from here?” Dar inquired, now that they were passably alone.

She received a firm affirmative in the form of a grunt.

The older ape’s eyes slipped over to the ape standing next to the weapons hut, and then she motioned with her hand for Noa to follow. “Come.”

Noa trailed obediently and without objection. The pair winded their way through a gaggle of giggling ape children watching two older apes practicing fish retrieval with their newly hatched eaglets. Noa thought he spotted Soona’s long stare as she tended to a nest of eagle eggs nearby, but he could not be sure.

Eventually, they ended up at the entrance to one of the two rebuilt sky towers. Dar passed through a beaded partition, beckoning her son inside.

Within the structure a wooden ramp led to higher levels, spiraling well above their heads, but Dar paid it no mind. “Let’s speak of … the echo,” she said firmly, taking a seat on a woven mat near the back of the main floor. She patted to a place next to her, offering Noa a shallow cup of water made from a hollowed oyster shell. “Drink?”

Noa had no issue understanding who she was referring to. His thoughts would not detach from that echo. Dar’s son sighed, and accepted the shell gingerly with two hands, palms up. He took a small sip and set it aside on an overturned basket. Dar gave him a reassuring smile and placed her long forelimbs before her in a pleasant mien. “Tell me what ails you, son?”

“I do not … know what to … do,” Noa admitted, lost.

“About the echo?”

“Yes,” he replied haltingly, expecting immediate censure.

To Noa’s surprise, Dar did none of that.

She signed, “I can imagine.” Her smallest finger glanced off her forehead, shooting up with her left hand. Then, switching to words, she added, “Do you … think she is dangerous to … us?”

“Not right … now,” Noa returned, although he cast his gaze over and down, indicating doubt. “I believe … she feels bad … for flood.”

“This is good,” Dar told him, nodding in apparent acceptance.

“She wants to … stay, rest,” Noa said quickly. “Could you ask … the elders if she can … stay a few … days?”

Dar thought about that for a moment or two. Her warm toffee-colored eyes scanned Noa’s face, seeking a truth he would not voice. At last, she nodded and leaned over to place a hand over the ball of his shoulder. “She saved … Soona, yes?”

Noa nodded, “She put us all … in danger, but she saved … Soona’s life first.”

Dar considered this information, an internal debate roiling about in her head as a distant expression took up residence on her face.

Finally, she gave a short nod. “I will speak to them.”

For that, she was awarded with a small smile. “Thank you, mother.” he signed.

She signed back, “Of course. For now … keep an eye … on her.” The ape matron lifted a gray-brown index finger to one eye, illustrating her words. “Could be … trouble yet.”

Noa blew out a quick exhale before his mouth made a moue of distaste. “I fear this.”

Dar nodded, mollified by her son’s suspicions. It would do him well to have them. She gave his shoulder a good-natured shake before releasing it. “Go, you have much … to do.”

“Thank you, mother,” Noa replied.

Dar nodded. “Before you see her … call on Sun. He may … help.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

They took their leave, Noa standing slowly before exiting the tower. He looked to the south, where he imagined Mae to be, and pondered over her loyalties before calling to his eagle in the way of his clan.

A cry sounded from above, his winged companion never too far away. As the bird alighted on his wrapped forearm, Noa snorted and welcomed the pain of the talons as they dug into his hide. The bird’s watchful, amber eye flicked towards him, head snapping this way and that, wings partially extended and at the ready.

“Sun,” he began, as if there were some secret between them that only they knew, “keep watch over Mae.” The bird, somehow understanding although it was impossible to believe it so, gave his handler a look of avian scorn. Its razored beak parted, clicked shut, and a shrill cry emanated from its trachea.

“Calm,” Noa told the bird, giving his bonded’s back one pat with his long fingers. The bird fluffed its feathers, appearing momentarily larger, and then dropped into a temporary crouch before launching himself from Noa’s arm. The heavy weight of the raptor now released, Noa watched it circle once overhead and wished it could also do the same for the weight on his chest. He rubbed his clavicle with his hand, trying to distill the phantom pain he felt there.

He might have a chance to rectify that when he spoke with her later that night. For now, Sun would keep watch. Noa watched until his eagle disappeared over the tops of the trees, momentarily wishing for the gift of flight.

How easy it would be, to fly away, he mused.

[xamaxenta]

Creature feature the desolation of a ruined laboratory Marco and Ace part of an extraction team answering the SOS ping from a distanct planet markered as keter class

Marco’s assigned because he’s got medical experience to rival his rescue resume, he’s also quite handy with a pulsar rifle and his reinforced skeleton is also a plus

Ace is also assigned because he’s never missed a shot, he’s also the best in the fleet for navigating hostile environments whilst airborne with the greatest end outcome

But when their team alights and commences their extraction mission the laboratory doors are blown wide open

Their first class bestiary expert and tracker Yamato makes the not so comforting observation that the tracks are leaving the facility, Ace doesnt particularly like that, no one does

They dont have time to hunt it though, their mission is to enter the facility rescue any survivors and get out, it would also be extremely stupid to go hunt whatever escaped down on the minimal information theyve got to go off of

The deeper they press forth into the facility it becomes far more apparent that there are in fact no survivors its also cold extremely so

So its no wonder that when Deuces voice crackles through their headsets that hes picked up a signature, its not heat based his voice sounds strained and unsure so Ace and Marco regroup and requests the rest of the team to round back to the gathering point on the main floor and they head down to find Deuce and Koala who are crouched behind a pair of obnoxiously heavy vacuum pressure doors

Ace signals deuce who shakes his head, whatever was in there hadnt been alerted to their presence

Peering around through the opening Ace sucks in a sharp breath at the sight, its a cell, but shaped like some parody of a room and curled up on the bed is a human, or so they assume hes tall, very tall or perhaps the cot is too small

Theres not alot of light in the room other than an emergency source flickering shallowly overhead in upsetting dissonance and the other source, his chest glowing red orange through pale translucent skin

[clove-pinks]

I used to dislike the War of 1812 frontier-style "hunting frock" garment with fringed borders (which supposedly help it dry faster). So help me, my resistance has broken down and I like it now—I can't resist the pull of the Old Northwest. I also love how it resembles fashionable civilian men's coats of this time period with multiple cape collars.

I would love to find the source of this really nice illustration. As you can see from the top two soldiers, the United States went with a very similar look, compared with Britain, for Napoleonic-era riflemen (think of Sharpe's 95th Rifles in their green uniforms), like our equally confusing artillery.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: What comes after

( Don’t forget to come see my on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord )    

The nights on Drenar were a sharp contrast to the daytime. No sooner had the sun set on the scorching sands did the creeping chill of night sweep across the land and drop the temperature some thirty degrees.

Nefari sat atop a sand dune overlooking the war camp. His eyes drifted across the sky, taking in the countless lights of stars. Even with the light from the campfires of the camp they did little to drown out the stars majesty. They were the only thing worth of note on this otherwise miserable mound of sand drifting in space.  Yet his orders were to assist with the war here and so his cohort had been tasked to the reconquest of this world from the Feng Empire.

A soft sound of shifting sands drew Nefari back to the present and he reached for his plasma rifle. He stalled himself from bringing it up to fire as the sounds drew closer and he saw another of his kind making their way up the sand dunes.

“You are relieved of your watch.” They said without preamble.

Nefari nodded before clutching his weapon and sliding back down the dune to the war camp. He reached the bottom with ease but did not make for his tent. His mind felt no need for sleep so instead Nefari took a quiet stroll through the war camp.

Much to his displeasure the campaign was not being fought by his people alone. Allies and other belligerents had joined the conflict against the Feng Empire and reluctantly his people’s leaders had decided to form a temporary alliance with them until the Feng were eliminated.

Several fires burned in the camp and Nefari saw many different species huddled around them in one form or another. His kind did not feel the sting of extreme temperatures as they did so there was no need for such sources of warmth. In truth he found them a potential risk as it would take only a single enemy scout to see the light they generated then radio in an artillery strike, yet the other species had said that they were a necessity to their survival.

“Care to join us?”

Nefari turned towards the sound of the voice and saw it was from a human gathered around one of the camp fires. They were joined by three other humans and a Varlan who was roasting a leg of some native animal over the fire.

The Varlan, with their thick exoskeleton and insect like features Nefari respected as at one point in their people’s histories they were enemies, but the humans were an unknown to him. Contact with them had mainly been through traders, merchants, or diplomats; and this conflict was the first time he had seen their warrior caste.

“My thanks.” Nefari said and went over and took one of the empty seats surrounding it for their own. He looked at the humans as he did so, taking in their measure. Despite being in the middle of a secure war camp each wore their armor and had their weapon resting in the sands next to them. Internally he was gratified that these warriors were always prepared for combat even in what seemed to be the safest of areas.

As he sat the human who invited him pointed to himself. “I’m Nate,” he began before pointing to the rest of the gathering one by one, “that’s George, Danny, and our mantis friend here is Forgorn’ril.”

“Mantis?”

Nefari was unfamiliar with the term and pondered it when the Varlan spoke up to resolve his confusion. “It is an insect from the human world that they say resembles my people.”

“Is that not an insult?” Nefari was surprised, for if he had been compared to an insect he would have removed the speaker’s head from their body. Forgorn’rill laughed and shook his head.

“I was at first, but it seems they insects are highly skilled in the ways of hand to hand combat, and that after sex the females devour the males.”

When Nefari did not respond Forgorn’rill looked offended. “I am female,” she said as she gestured to her body, “and there are plenty of men I have mated with that I regret and wish I could have simply eaten afterwards to spare me from their prattle.”

Not knowing how to respond to such a statement Nefari said nothing and rubbed his hands together over the fire. They sat in silence for some time before Danny spoke up.

“What are you lot going to do after the war?”

This was a question Nefari had thought self-explanatory given that they were all warriors. They would be sent off to fight the next war or return to one of their worlds for training or garrison duty. George broke this structured future when he spoke up.

“My tour of duty is over so I’ll be heading back to mars.” George answered. “My family has a small mining company there and I’d take a manager position.”

Danny chuckled at that. “If you manage workers as well as you manage magazines they’ll all be dead by weeks end.”

Nate and Forgorn’rill laughed, with Forgorn’rill’s laugh sounding like several dozen small insects chirping at the same time. George was less than amused though and frowned.

“Hey fuck you dick head,” he retorted, “it’s better than heading off to Boria IV for nothing but drinks and sex.”

“Have you ever seen an actual Borian?”

“No.”

“They have three sets of hands and lips and know how to use every one of them.” Danny smirked as he made some strange gesture with his hands as if highlighting a body. He looked over at Forgorn’rill but she was taking a rather large bite out of the meat that had been roasting so instead moved to Nate next. “What about you sarge; what are your plans for after all this?”

Before Nate could reply Nefari spoke up and interrupted the group.

“What do you mean by “When your tour is up”?”

The humans looked at each other in puzzlement at the question. “We all signed up to serve at the same time so our term of service is almost over.” George spoke up first. “Three years of service for my contract and then I’m done.”

“You do not serve for life?” Nefari asked amazed.

“Do you?” Nate replied.

“Being a warrior has been the only thing I have ever known; it is what I was created for, it is what we die for.”

There was a drawn out silence amongst the group at Nefari’s proclamation. Even Forgorn’rill was chewing softer leaving only the crackling of the fire to break the calm.

“There are plenty of reasons for people to fight,” Nefari turned his gaze to Nate who poked the fire to stir the flames, “but all wars come to an end and soldiers need to find their place in society again.”

“That is the difference between us.” Nefari countered. “You are soldiers, I am a warrior; my place in society is to fight.”

“And what happens when there is no one left to fight?” Nate retorted. “Will you take up arms against your own?”

Nefari’s mouth opened to speak but Nate continued.

“If you don’t find another purpose in life you will just keep on killing and killing, until one day you stop seeing things like friend and foe and just kill to remind yourself that you’re alive.”

“I will be dead long before such a time.” Nefari burst. “I would rather die on the fields of war than reduce myself to living the life of a potter or street cleaner.”

To Nefari’s surprise Nate stood up from his chair at that statement. His seat tumbled backwards into the sands and he was standing before the alien looking up into his eyes as if his glare could pierce flesh.

“You think it’s easy?” he spoke in a soft voice tingling with sharpness. “You think you can just switch this shit off and just become some fucking painter; is that it!?”

Nefari was not intimidated and glared back down at the human. “Maybe you humans are made of weaker stuff then I was led to believe.”

He could hear Nate’s fists clenching and the strain it put on his gloves. He could smell the aggression oozing off the human like their filthy sweat glands and was predicting a strike any moment now that he would counter and return tenfold.

The blow never came as Nate unclenched his fists but still kept his icy gaze on Nefari.

“You keep this up and you’ll die out here all right, and no one will remember who you are.”

Nefari’s face twitched at the insult as Nate continued. “You’ll be nothing but a statistic future generations of kids gloss over in history class because they’re bored; one in a million whose only achievement in life was fighting and dying because they were too scared to do anything else with themselves.”

“Tread carefully,” Nefari spoke through sharpened teeth, “we are allies but if you continue I will throw you upon your fire and watch you burn.”

Before either could come to blows Forgorn’rill spoke having finished her meat.

“I think it best we part ways here, lest we come to such unfortunate results.”

Nefari took one look around and saw the other humans were watching the argument unfold but also slowly reaching for their weapons as if expecting the trouble to unfold. He spat something into their fire and turned around leaving the group to their silence.

As he returned to his own tent and crawled into his sack he angrily pondered the human’s words over and over until the embrace of sleep finally took hold; and for the first time his dreams were not filled with the bloodshed of his enemies or the marching in line with his brethren but of something knew and entirely alien to him.

He found himself dreaming of painting.

[vonev]

The Executioner (and the judge) I

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x reader

Chapter 1: end it all, where it started;

Part I Part II

Words: 2.2k Warnings: Graphic depictions of gore and violence Summary: You somehow end up in an unforeseen predicament, now facing the horrors and fears of your past, meeting old faces, would it all come crashing down? Maybe after seeing his face again, it'll all make sense.

a/n: this premise was so fun to write, please enjoy the prologue!

Pitter-patter

Wet footsteps reverberate in the echoes of the empty hallway, its pace set to a slow, cautious tempo. A stained rifle clutched in your hand; eyes trailing the narrow hallway, subconsciously drinking in the cracks and dents in the walls around you.

It’s quiet, silence becoming its own company, with only the muffled tap-tap-tap of your boots avoiding the limbs of the corpses fills void where once voices were: people’s chatter, the ghost of their laughter teasing the air like a past lover’s touch. There but, not there. 

Blood pools on the cold concrete floor. Some dried, some still rather fresh, mix with water dripping from the ceiling above: you get the disgusting squelching noises under you.

Soon—the sight of an entry greets you as you round a sharp corner. Pushing the squeaky door open with your fingers, you take in the sight that you’ve grown familiar with.

Bodies. Laying out like a feast at a ball; limp figures decorate what was once a lively lobby, red from the people painted over walls that used to confine an entire organization, families, friends—teammates.

You find that your soles lead you further into the room, painfully bright fluorescent lights flicker overhead; the air is biting, despite the slowly crumbling walls keeping out breezes from the outside with its best efforts. Somewhere along the way, a beeping from a still functioning telephone rings, piques your full attention.

Your body functions on auto-pilot: and you, a mere bystander, watching the way your body moves closer to the source of the ringing. 

Right down the vast lobby, through the tight spaces of the cramped hallway, in a room you remembered to be storage—sitting prettily next to the busted ceiling remnants is someone’s personal phone: you take in the cracked screen as you neared, shards of glasses crunches under your boots, head tilting slightly to the side in amazement at how it was still alive.

In this building, only you breathe the soiled air.

The handphone vibrates violently on the floor, its screen showing a pop-up of the caller. A middle-aged looking woman who wears a smile that could rival against even sol itself. 

You don’t pick up.

It goes straight to voice-mail, a sign that you’ve stood there over the phone longer than comfortable.

“Hey honey, I know you’re busy, but I just saw the news.”

Silence.

Ruffling of fabric: skin on clothes, the sound of the constant shuffling around on the other side of the phone indicates the nervousness of the woman’s demeanor—without even seeing her face.

“The explosion wave was so close to your building, I’m worried, son. I knew you shouldn’t have signed up for that—“

A quiet, trembling groan.

“—to leave me all the way here and move out to that country, your poor mother, and now I don’t even know—“

‘If you’re alive’ was most likely the drifting words caught in her tongue. Pure denial laced in her voice: as if not muttering the words would stop her son from waving at the grim reaper himself. 

“—I hope you get this, and when you do…”

The quiet sniffles of the mother reach your eardrums, you hold in your breath.

“—Please…please call me back okay?”

She chokes out in her sobs, full-on heaving over the voice-mail, her tears could be felt even through the small speaker on the phone.

“I love you.”

With a shaky breath, the voice-mail ends.

Drinking in the quiet murmurs of the wind that found its way through the crack of the door behind you, your eyes soon register the bloodied hand next to the tiny gadget.

Nose scrunching up in disdain, you take in the brain matter that splattered all over the floor, the hand you previously noticed connects toward the body that has been swallowed up by the heavy collapsed cement of the ceiling, unrecognizable even if you’d try to piece the little remains of the body together.

Somewhere out there is a mother who would never see her child ever again. Struggling to mend her broken heart over the loss of her child, just as those families and friends who would never find their loved ones’ bodies that disappeared underneath the crumbled walls.

And somewhere out there, is someone who will never find peace with the cruel world—it takes, it takes and takes. A one-sided exchange; for the universe could care less about a freckle of dust in the swarm of many millions. 

You’re on your own—

—loneliness tastes bittersweet on the tip of your tongue.

The town was in shambles.

It was a miracle you survived, out of the tens of thousands who fell victim to the catastrophic disaster that struck. 

Why?

No clue. 

The universe loves playing sick jokes on you—always taunting, relentless, never giving an ounce of mercy in your name. You nick the skin around your fingertips, the fireplace cackles in front of your figure, its warmth engulfing you like a mother’s embrace. Dazed, mesmerized by the swirls of the flame, your mind wanders off. 

It has been a couple of months since you resided in the bunker near your home, luckily for you, due to your father’s paranoia; you’ve always had a stacked basement full of all the necessary resources. Canned foods, water, weapons, everything. Except for a comfortable mattress to sleep on.

You know, just in case—and this is the case.

Papers strewn across the mahogany desk you’ve spent countless sleepless nights at. The desk lamp a soft glow, illuminating the pages underneath its sturdy body. Glossing over the words on the file, eyes scanning every word on every inch of the paper. 

Months ago, you had taken a long stroll around what used to be where your town sat, now instead occupied by the distraught of conflict; of war. Ashes contaminate the air, fallen buildings and bodies laid about—the vehicles weren’t spared of the mercy either, joining the abundance piles of rubbles outside. It was a sight alright.

It’s the natural devastating result of wars; of national conflicts. 

There’s always a price to pay. 

Unfortunately for many, innocents are usually the ones at stake: they pay with their lives. Their blood bath spilled the most out on the field, not the soldiers, not the perpetrators—the civilians. It has always irked you, an annoying itch in the back of your head, a bothersome subconscious thought. 

You click the pen held in your palm against the hardwood table, the steady rhythm of it occupies the silence of the room. 

Viktor Romanov.

A name that sings despair, injustice, dismay. 

The stacks upon stacks of jumbled files sitting at the corners of your room says a lot. You’ve done your fair share of research; surface insights regarding his whereabouts, the predicted state of conditions. Being ex-military specialized in combat and intelligence has its benefits at times, picking up good intel skills has gotten you far, far in life. 

7 years of service since 18. All reduced down to being able to dig dirt and shoot better than the average person.

It wasn’t particularly an easy task prying into his past; but having had worse experiences, you make-do, adapting to the poor circumstances you’re dealt with. 

Whew. You’re in for a ride.

He was the sole reason behind your early ‘retirement’ at the age of 25 instead of your original plan to serve 20 years (free healthcare for life, woo!) and banished from the military for good. It was all against your wishes.

Also the same man that bombed your town.

A small, rather secluded town. One built up from its traumatizing past of warfare and bloodshed, just to end up where it started: in the gutter. A place where you originally ran to after hardships and scars that still haunts your nightmares—somewhere safe, sound and definitely away from prying eyes. Yet, they found you. Even after years and years of covering your tracks, practically having your presence wiped off of everywhere. They still found you. After all this time, he’s still obsessed with you: why else would he drop a bomb in the middle of nowhere in Argentina?

Him.

You’ve got to give it to him—to the public eye, he’s got a clean slate. He doesn’t scream ‘I murder innocents for breakfast, lunch and dinner’ but rather ‘I will solve all your problems with one look’. Hence why the public opinion loves him: to them, he's sweet, caring of his people and always gives back. They're unaware of the dirty business ran behind their backs; the lives he's casually taken out of spite and for the fun of it. Anything to satiate his thirst for blood, for power.

Deceit runs in his blood, and his family, in fact.

Throughout the decades, he’s managed to scramble his way out of the numerous controversies his family was involved in—infidelity, assassination attempts, scandalous involvement with the opposing units. You name it, he’s got it all stamped under Romanov’s name.

A tainted sheet; yet now clean of its impure past, only a goody-two-shoes mascot in the place of a new form of tyranny.

You yearn for his downfall; watch as the power slips away from in front his eyes, observe the way the structure he’s built crumbles under his very gaze—you seek revenge. 

Where would you start, though?

“Fucking nuisance,” you grumble under your breath. Spinning around in your office chair, head tilting back as you stare up into the ceiling, defeated. Sometimes, you ponder the trajectory of your life if everything had gone according to plan: retire after 2 decades of hard work, maybe start a family, or live a fulfilling life of content and peace. Something to look forward to every morning you awake, every breath you take in the field; it would make all the heads you’ve dropped worth it. Yet it didn’t.

It didn’t; because of a single silver-spoon fed toddler who happened to be born from a family of riches, connections and power. Power of authority, of the absolute his words wield. ‘Yes Viktor.’ ‘I will do that for you, Viktor.’ ‘Anything you’ll ever wish for, Viktor.’ 

His word goes, and so does his command. 

Which begs the question: what would be the most satisfying way to tear a tyrant from their throne?

You never truly believed in the death sentence in law—as sadistic as it sounds, you’ve always been a firm believer of having the person suffer the same amount of agony they put their victims through. Let their suffering be drawn out for all to see; to deliver justice for those who were deserving. 

Maybe you’d rip out his eyes from the sockets, a deep knife wound puncturing dangerously close to his heart; or maybe, even lure him under a false sense of comfort, just to pull the rug from underneath him and make him fall into the abyss, the realization that he will live a life of anguish. Maybe even strip his skin bare and watch his face contort in pain no one has ever—

—your alarm blares in your ears, making you flinch back into full consciousness. You dart your eyes around the room, as though your guilt would manifest into a being and eat you alive; lucky for you, it doesn’t.

A sigh escapes your lips.

“Maybe I should get therapy.”

Days, weeks, months go by. Not a single day where you had taken a proper rest, nor eaten a true meal that doesn’t consist of dry sweetened cereal, tea and your saliva. No, you feed on the twinge of revenge at the tip of your tongue for fuel, for motivation. All to pin his location down—

—as you stare at the doodled map under your gaze, you feel lethargic; giddy, even. You finally found him. Not just his estimated location, his exact position. You could even picture the way he’s relaxing in his armchair, unaware of the catastrophe gradually approaching him. A smirk teases the end of your lips, threatening to break through with every passing second at the thought of his life in the palm of your hand.

You’ll end it off where it all started—

—Urzikstan.

You had been preparing for the fight ahead: a backpack packed full of guns, pocket knives, a grenade or two and some rations; anything to get by. But first, you’ll have to take another way of travel; god forbid the international airport hunts you down for bringing in weapons to traverse the international water. Luck was on your side though, because you know just the person to contact. An old friend; where you both used to share laughs over drinks and nights spent pouring your hearts out, someone that always has a place in your heart.

As you punch her number into your throwaway phone, you bite your lips in anticipation.

Would she still remember you? After all, you should be dead, not alive and breathing hiding away in a bunker no one else knew existed. A part of you feels like you’ve been lying to her; that she would scoff and turn away at the sound of your voice—because technically, you did leave her without a second notice nor a proper goodbye, and to everyone else: you were dead. Or worse, what if she changed her numbers? Your efforts would’ve been absolutely futile.

But if she picked up, it would mean seeing the people you’ve abandoned, the way their eyes would scrutinize you for leaving them—you were a team, after all.

The 141.

And him.

The image of a skull printed balaclava flashes across your mind like a fleeting memory, you feel the corner of your eyes wet, the back of your head dulls as his face now taunts your mind. You taste iron on your tongue: your blood. You had gotten carried away and somehow bit yourself in nervousness. The blue screen shines on your face, the numbers written across the screen; all you have to do now is to press the green button, to call.

And you do.

The dial indicates it’s going through; that she still has the same number even after so long.

…

Okay, why isn’t she picking up?

Maybe your fears came through: that she still has your number memorized and saved, thinking that some stranger is behind the other side. Or maybe she grew tired of you, that she wouldn’t need your presence back in her life. Maybe—

“Hello?”

—maybe it was worth it all.

[brucenorris007]

Expiration

Summary: When your goals revolve around one person, the day they're gone is always going to catch you unawares. And few, if any, are as singular in their motivations as Omega.

2147 words

Br-r-r-at-at-at.

Boom.

Omega charged ahead, leaving the combusting remains of the twenty-third badnik in his wake as he retracted his guns. He approached a turn in the corridor at speed. Another mass-produced E-series bore down the hall toward him, laser cannon already primed. Rather than stop, Omega let his momentum carry him forward, his frame skidding past the corner just as the inferior model fired; magenta energy singed the handle on Omega’s left shoulder.

He slammed his feet down to seize traction and redirected his charge before the E-2000 could deploy its shield or fire again; drove his right fist through its arm cannon, metal erupting and splintering like wood under his attack. The E-2000 switched offensive protocols to its remaining arm, ramming the chief of its shield into Omega’s shoulder.

A notification chimed across his CPU.

He preemptively dismissed it.

He opened his fist to grasp what remained of the mass model’s left arm. He swung his torso around with his full weight, bashing his captive’s head into the wall as he engaged his afterburners; he careened forward, metal scraping and sparks flying from the E-2000’s spasming body until all resistance ceased. The hall opened into a chamber with three floors.

Upon entry, he detected another nineteen badniks visible on the floor below; no fewer than six E-1000s turned and aimed their laser rifles at him, two from a higher elevation. Prioritizing destruction of the rejects in an advantageous position, Omega hoisted his defunct cargo and hurled it at the mass-products nearest him to occupy their attention.

Before he could open fire, a discharge of concentrated energy struck his back; he stumbled forward, swiveling his head to identify the source.

A Newtron; a fucking Newtron sat on the wall over the door behind him, its mouth closing to conceal the plasma pistol within.

Another internal notification pinged. Omega ignored it again.

In the split-second he took to reorient his balance, a Grabber dropped down from the ceiling and hooked its legs onto Omega’s chassis, two gripping him by the handles on his shoulders. The badnik lacked the structural strength to lift him, but it did inhibit his movements while the E-1000s adjusted their aim. Omega fired from the gun barrels on both arms while simultaneously re-engaging his engines to wrest himself free.

Three shields came up; only one rifle fell to gunfire.

The tensile strength of the thread connecting the Grabber to the ceiling held.

Thin red laser sights trained on him.

The ticking that preceded detonation sounded from the spider badnik.

Kvhroon.

Chaos energy, sharp and wild, sliced through the leg gripping Omega’s right shoulder handle. A grenade struck one of the E-1000s descending from above, detonating on impact.

Omega’s teammates thus announced their arrival.

Omega veered left, this time managing to generate enough force and momentum to snap the leg holding his other handle; with the Grabber lacking purchase, he broke free entirely. With another chaos spear, Shadow cut through the thread connecting the badnik to the ceiling and grabbed the line. Like a ball and chain, he swung the reject over his shoulder and slammed it down on top of the other badniks filing up from the floor below.

Overhead, Rouge smashed her foot through another E-1000’s head with a spiraling kick. The mass-product’s body crashed to the floor and scattered into pieces.

Omega’s two fleshy teammates regrouped on either side of him.

He disabled all damage notifications and switched his weapons to blasters.

—————

Ninety-six minutes later, Pacific Rim quietly played in Team Dark’s living room on their TV; Omega sat on the floor while his teammates lounged on the sofa beside him. On screen, the cables suspending Gipsy Danger over the harbor released, dropping the unit into the water. Omega found the concept of a mech requiring two meatbag pilots to function absurd, but he did enjoy watching the destruction depicted in del Toro’s action scenes.

Although they’d been successful in clearing out the base, Rouge had been less than impressed.

(“You know. When I said we should pace ourselves, that wasn’t really a suggestion.”)

While she’d spoken in collective terms, she’d been looking squarely at Omega when she used them; referring to the caution she’d advised after he’d charged ahead of his teammates through several other bases. He’d pretended he didn’t notice–same as he'd feigned ignorance of the fact that Shadow had consistently positioned himself four centimeters closer to him than was typical on missions.

He’d endured several similar expressions of concern over the past eighty-one hours; a greater frequency of the same within the last forty-three.

Nine days and two hours had elapsed since G.U.N. removed Eggman from its terrorist watchlist.

Nine days, one hour and fifty-eight minutes since Eggman had been declared deceased.

Three days and eight hours had elapsed since Omega independently verified the fact.

One day and nineteen hours had elapsed since Omega last spoke.

(“Is this a malfunction or a quiet day?”

“His quiet days don’t usually last all day; either way, something’s wrong.”)

Omega had expressed–via nonverbal means–that yes, his voice box was malfunctioning, and no, it did not require repair.

He did not tell them that his processors and circuits had sparked with so many things to say simultaneously that it overburdened his voice box. They didn’t need to know the specifics. Nor was their concern necessary; his effectiveness in carrying out missions hadn’t been impeded whatsoever. Particularly the variety they’d been taking on.

Though Eggman was gone, his machines nonetheless continued the maintenance and patrols of his hideouts in his absence; while they wouldn’t break away from their routines or attack anyone beyond their stations without explicit orders from their creator, it was still a sizable force to leave unchecked.

Rouge had secured a considerable commission from G.U.N. for each base that Team Dark cleared out. Omega had taken to the job enthusiastically, perhaps more than usual–he’d been in an especially destructive mood.

It’d been with great reluctance that he conceded to Shadow teleporting them home after their eighth hideout in the span of thirty-four hours.

On screen, Pentecost told Raleigh about his illness. From the couch beside Omega, steady and rhythmic breathing told him that his teammates had fallen asleep. He delved into his CPU and connected to the Egg Network.

For practical reasons–and his hatred for all things Eggman–he hadn’t interfaced with the network in more than a decade. Now, though, while there would be several warnings and alerts triggered by his digital footprint, without anyone to react to his presence, they posed no threat. Firewalls erected throughout the network barred him access from information such as the locations of bases established within the past eight years, but the same security did not extend to data from older hideouts.

Omega breached the outdated protections around the neglected servers like walls made of cardboard. The feasibility of finding any practically useful information in such old archives was questionable; nonetheless, he picked his way through them.

Anything from Eggman’s earliest years of terrorist activity–he’d held a disproportionate interest in islands–that wasn’t destroyed was obsolete. What badnik designs he still used from that time had since been updated several times over. A footnote’s worth of interest in the kingdom of Soleanna coincided with the creation of the Egg line; Gunner, Keeper, Lancer, etc., which would be expanded upon later. The base in Egypt had been discarded wholesale; more of a launching point for Eggman’s attempt to conquer the ARK. Prior to that…

Omega remotely delved into the archives from the bunker in the Mystic Ruins.

The birthplace of the E-100 series.

Omega navigated through rudimentary airship schematics, interpretive translations of texts on the subject of an ancient deity, half-finished plans for a third iteration of Mecha Sonic… typical of Eggman to discard anything that didn’t maintain his fickle interest.

He came upon a folder marked E-100s; found within another folder of video files.

Eggman had, initially, installed in his prototypes a function that recorded the visual data captured by his robots and filed them into the archives via the Egg Network upon the prototype’s destruction. Usually at Sonic’s hand. He’d done away with the practice sometime prior to Omega’s creation.

Omega idly opened the file for E-100 Alpha; skimmed over a lot of footage tracking a Flicky through Station Square, one that attached itself to Amy Rose. The files attached to most of his other predecessors save Beta were considerably smaller and their videos shorter in length; though Delta, Epsilon and Zeta shared one point of commonality with E-101.

E-102 Gamma.

Several people, Amy Rose chief among them, had mistaken Omega for his predecessor upon their first meeting. A ridiculous comparison, obviously; they didn’t share any commonalities save defection from Eggman and the color red.

. . .

Omega played Gamma’s video file.

He skipped through the first half of footage; more to the point, Eggman’s frequent appearances and orders. He paused at the moment of Gamma’s defection.

“Erasing Dr. Eggman from ‘Master’ status.

Established: E-series robots. Friends.

I must save them.”

Omega scrubbed through the video. His predecessors fell systematically, one by one to Gamma’s plasma rifle.

Delta.

Epsilon.

Zeta.

Beta; who managed to inflict a critical wound on Gamma moments before his demise.

Gamma’s visuals shook and blurred. Came to a stop aboard the beached Egg Carrier.

A cut to static coincided with the beginning of an explosion.

The file, played to its conclusion, closed.

Omega sat in silence for a minute.

He closed the folder; turned his attention in toward his own CPU. Extracted the code for his core directives.

Defeat of Eggman.

Destruction of all Eggman robots.

Directives independent of any orders from his creator; ones that he’d taken great pains to establish while he was sequestered in the basement. He determined now, however, that they required examination.

Omega questioned what objective the pursuit of each directive served.

His processors sparked.

He immediately dismissed the question as irrelevant with regard to his first directive. Eggman’s demise rendered a defeat impossible.

He applied the question to his second directive and found a simple answer. Destruction of all Eggman robots would establish the fact that Omega was the strongest robot.

Knowing the objective illustrated that further pursuit of the directive as a directive was obsolete; Omega had already destroyed more Eggman robots than anyone else. Shadow and Sonic were the only ones, meatbag or otherwise, to approach his record. His CPU automatically produced the follow-up query of why he pursued said objective.

“. . .”

He banished the question altogether from his motherboard.

Having thus clarified his objectives, and the fact that both had been fulfilled, Omega promptly deleted both from his internal software.

Which left him without a core directive.

Briefly, he receded from his CPU–the credits scrolled by on the TV. He turned his head.

Rouge lay with her head propped on one arm of the sofa; her body sprawled out to take up as much space as possible. Her mouth hung slightly open, as it often did when she didn’t sleep hanging from a perch. Shadow, his lap occupied by Rouge’s legs, had sunk into one of the couch’s backrest cushions, almost engulfed in down with his chin touching the tuft on his chest.

Omega listened to the sounds of his sleeping teammates. He didn’t even need to guess what their reaction would be to his current thought process.

Resoundingly, loudly negative.

He retreated into his CPU.

Drew up the code for commands of his primary functions.

A cautionary prompt popped up.

Terminate?

Omega watched the words blink at him for approximately two minutes. Failing to produce any reasons to avoid executing the command, he made to confirm–

Blip.

Foreign access to the Egg Network diverted his attention; he’d neglected to disconnect.

That the network recognized the other party as foreign narrowed their identity down to two possibilities, both of which Eggman had given up on years ago. And since Gemerl didn’t connect to the Egg Network on principle to avoid incurring any undue risk to Cream…

Metal clocked Omega within moments of its connection.

It made Omega aware of the fact, annoyingly, by communicating with him. The equivalent of a text message came through his Wi-Fi signal.

Oh. You’re still operational?

Metal’s presence vanished from the network half a beat later; before Omega could even reflexively fire off a Fuck You.

His internal fans whirred; his chassis chafed.

His temper flared nearly enough to forget what he’d been doing. The popup remained:

Terminate?

Omega disconnected from the Egg Network.

Cancelled out of and dismissed the command prompt.

The TV had returned to the DVD menu. Omega remotely switched it off; reclined until his shoulders and chassis were propped against the living room wall.

Before entering sleep mode, he made a single update to his drivers.

Core directive: Pending.

[strljaem]

“LOVE POTION.”

adapted by “the boy is mine” ariana grande’s music video.

💿 : the boy is mine, ariana grande.

The night hung heavy with anticipation as I stood in my dimly lit apartment, the air thick with my thoughts. I slid my long, slender hands over the kitchen cabinet, fingers trailing delicately over the cool, smooth surface until they reached the small glass bottle of pink sparkling love potion. My blonde hair was neatly pinned in a flower bun, and I adjusted my cat-shaped black-framed glasses, straightening my white blouse and smoothing down my black skirt. A smile curled on my lips as I envisioned tonight's plan: sneaking into Na Jaemin's apartment and using the potion to win his heart.

The small TV on the kitchen cabinet beside the sink hummed softly, the news reporter's voice a distant murmur. Suddenly, the words "newly elected mayor Na Jaemin is set to address the media any moment for a press conference" cut through the fog of my thoughts. I gasped, turning quickly to the TV and raising the volume. My eyes sparkled as the screen switched to his handsome face, framed perfectly by his blue dashing suit. His voice, deep and commanding, filled the room, making everything else blur. I was entranced, staring at him, my mind drifting into fantasies.

"...we have gathered the city’s overflow of stray cats. And we will release them, hungry into the streets, to combat this problem at its source."

His words snapped me back to reality. The plan to combat the rat infestation with stray cats seemed almost poetic in its simplicity and brilliance. "Thank you," Jaemin concluded, his face serene yet powerful.

"That's brilliant, so hot," I whispered, a smile spreading across my face. My moment of admiration was abruptly shattered by a sharp cracking sound. I whirled around to see the love potion bottle shattered on the floor, pink liquid glistening in the dim light. A cat, wide-eyed and guilty, darted out the open window. I squeaked, rushing to the floor to salvage my precious potion.

Carefully, I opened a drawer, retrieving a syringe. Kneeling, I began gathering the liquid and dust, painstakingly sucking it back into the syringe and transferring it into the bottle. It wasn't perfect, but it was more than enough. I couldn't let my carefully crafted potion go to waste.

With the bottle secure, I giggled, a thrill of excitement coursing through me. Hurrying to my closet, I rifled through the fabrics until I found the perfect black material, sleek and form-fitting. I was going to make a Catwoman suit. The idea was exhilarating. I ran to the living room, sat on the couch, and began sewing with feverish determination. Hours passed, the rhythmic hum of my sewing machine blending with the sultry tones of Ariana Grande's "The Boy is Mine" on the turntable.

Finally, the suit was complete. I stood before the mirror, admiring the way the fabric clung to my curves, accentuating my form. I looked dangerous and irresistible. I applied smokey black eye makeup, enhancing the mystery of my eyes, and tied my hair back into a sleek ponytail before donning the mask. A cat tail, the perfect final touch, swayed behind me as I moved.

My heart pounded with anticipation as I climbed out the window, the cool night air brushing against my skin. I moved across the rooftops with feline grace, the city sprawled out beneath me, every shadow and corner familiar. I knew exactly where Jaemin lived.

The journey was swift, my adrenaline propelling me forward. I arrived at his building, scaling the side with ease. His apartment was on the top floor, the large windows offering a glimpse of his world. I slipped inside silently, the darkness my ally.

I finally landed outside his window pane, crouched low, my senses alert. The kitchen was empty, the quiet hum of the refrigerator the only sound. I sighed in relief, my breath catching as I saw him emerge from the bathroom. Na Jaemin looked so hot, his black jet hair drenched as if he had just taken a shower. He was wearing a white t-shirt, unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, revealing his toned arms. My mouth hung open at the sight, desire pooling in my veins.

Carefully, I opened the window, watching as he went back into the bathroom. This was my chance. I slipped inside, landing softly on the floor, and crawled towards the bathroom. The door was half-open, and through the crack, I saw him staring at the mirror, steam swirling around him. Oh god, he looked so hot, his plump lips, wet hair, and damp skin just for me.

As I pushed the door slightly, it creaked, and he turned around, eyes wide with surprise. I quickly hid myself, heart pounding. He stepped out of the bathroom, a glass of wine in his hand, and his eyes landed on me. I was sitting on his bed, legs crossed in a seductive pose, smiling at him.

“Hey,” I purred, my voice dripping with allure.

He was startled, fear flashing across his face. He dropped the glass of wine onto the floor. Thankfully, it didn’t cracked but it made a loud thunk noise. He tried to run, but I stood up on the bed, taking my bullwhip and throwing it around his feet. With a quick flick, he was pulled towards me, falling to the ground. I slowly reeled him in, my eyes never leaving his confused yet captivated gaze. At the same time, I was wondering why he didn’t even bother to tell me and let him go? Instead, he just played with my actions. He amazed me, that’s actually so hot of him.

As we made eye contact, the tension in the room became electric. I lowered myself to his level, crawling over him. Our faces were inches apart, breath mingling. He smelled just like wine, mixed perfectly with the scent of his masculine perfume, air thick with unspoken desire. I smiled, taking out the love potion. My hand reached out, cupping his cheek as I brought the bottle closer to his lips.

But before I could pour it into his mouth, his hand shot up, grabbing mine and the bottle. Our eyes locked, and the room seemed to shrink around us, the world narrowing to just the two of us. My eyebrows furrowed, confused by his sudden resistance. He looked deep into my soul, his gaze intense and unyielding.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he took off my eye mask, revealing my whole face. A smirk played on his lips as he leaned in closer. My heart raced, thinking he was going to kiss me. I closed my eyes, anticipation swirling inside me. But instead, I heard the shattering of glass as he threw the love potion against the wall.

I gasped. “What are-“

Then, his lips were on mine, claiming me with a fierce, possessive kiss. The world melted away, leaving just the two of us, tangled in a web of desire and danger. The kiss was a promise, a challenge, and an acceptance all at once. I melted into him, my hands clutching his shoulders, the heat between us scorching.

He placed me carefully on the wooden floor. When we finally pulled apart, his eyes were blazing with a mix of emotions. Both of us were out of breath by the passionate kiss. “What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice husky.

I hesitated. His eyes were looking worriedly into mine, searching for response. “You.” I breathed out, “Only you.” While tucking one of his hair behind his ears. He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through me. He took my hands and kissed it. He leaned in and whispered on my ear, “Then, you’ll have to earn it.” he spoke in a low tone.

And so, the night unfolded, a dangerous dance of passion, power, and unspoken promises.

[yanderes-galore]

I’m reading your Xenomorph works, and I got curious as to how you would think a Xenomorph, Queen or otherwise, would react to a darling who’s on the firing team from the 2nd movie? Like, they go with their team, find them, and after attacking and escaping, is 100% on board with nuking the area. They accompany Ripley to go free Newt, and maybe sacrifice themselves so they can escape?

Sure! To refresh my memory I watched the Aliens kill count by Dead Meat. I'll link it here if you're interested. Aliens is one of the best movies in the franchise to me. This focuses on a new Xenomorph OC, Tip, and her mother who just likes seeing her happy. I do hope you enjoy Tip.

Fun Fact: Alien: Prototype (A book I am reading) described what Xenomorph eggs smelled like. The more you know~

This is an AU of the movie Aliens. It does not exactly follow the plot except for the start.

Sacrifice

Yandere! Xenomorph(s?) Scenario

Pairing: Animal/Pet-like

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, OOC Xenomorphs (obviously, my bad-), Obsession, Stalking, Violence, Injury, Stockholm syndrome, Alien/Human, Kidnapping, Aliens, Slobber, Scenting, Marking, Intelligent Xenomorph.

"We're looking for a kid? In all of this mess?"

You had already seen many of your fellow colonial marines die. You all were originally checking to see why a colony suddenly went silent. Now you've met something straight out of your nightmares....

They were creatures known as Xenomorphs. Creatures that were insect-like and attacked in groups. They killed your friends... they eradicated this whole colony.

They were fast with sharp claws. They had a second mouth they loved to shove deep into your skull. They even had acid for blood.

Throughout the entire Hadley's Hope mission you had some close calls. You didn't dare dwell on the times you were up close and personal with those things. A full glimpse of their slobbering mouth, sleek shell, and hissing vocals.

You're surprised you lived this long.

Now, you and Ripley were looking for a young girl trapped in the remains of this colony. You wanted all of this over with. Yet Ripley and Hicks wanted to push ahead to find the source and end it all.

Your chances of survival only decreased as time went on....

"We can't just leave her here." Ripley says, turning towards your worried figure. "I saw that Xeno drag her through the water tunnel. The tracker says she's still alive."

Holding your tongue, you stay beside your fellow marines. You might as well help the best you can. You're in too far to just back out.

While you three stroll through the ruins of Hadley's Hope, you're unaware of prying eyes. Xenomorph Warriors hide in the vents and walls, dark skin unable to be seen on the dark walls. Their lips curl back with drool at your smell.

Something about you made them hunt you. The closer you got to their queen nesting away, the more curious they got. They had told their queen about you....

The queen wanted to take you into their numbers, originally for a host.

The young female human was great bait. You were under watch by the queen's drones. According to one of her drones... you were worth keeping an eye on.

A drone had caught you earlier... caging you against a wall. Out of fear, you had tried to talk it off you. The drone didn't entirely understand you and you couldn't shoot it due to being unarmed. Although... your touch was scared yet soft. Your voice was filled with meek fear but made the drone coo. You didn't want to be here. You barely got any kills anyways, you're better with tech.

Your vulnerability made the Xenomorph mark you for later, sparing you after scenting you with a bite.

What happened to you next... was up to the queen to decide.

You had no idea that the bite wasn't a failed attack from a Xenomorph...

It was a message for later.

---

"God damn it, Ripley! Take Newt, Hicks, and leave!"

Your grip on the pulse rifle was shaking. A group of Warriors that have been hunting you stalk closer to your group. Ripley had been hesitant when you said you'd buy time.

"No! We can make it!"

"No... we can't!"

You scream when a Warrior screeches, a quick whip of the tail smacking you onto your back. You shoot the rifle, missing only for Ripley to nail it in the tail... the tip flying off. Another screech echoes through the nest while acid spills onto the floor and on your skin.

"(Y/N)-!"

"LEAVE. NOW. WE'VE LOST ENOUGH!"

As more Warriors made their presence known, Ripley shoots off rounds while fleeing to the evac point. You cry in pain at the acid burns on your legs and stomach. If it didn't eat your skin and bones, it would certainly cause scars.

The Xenomorph Ripley wounded backed off while the two others covered you. You struggle, the gun torn from your grasp and injuring your fingers before you can fend off your attackers. Chitters and screeches fill the air before you're dragged back... deeper into the nest.

You shake your head and struggle. The Warriors notice, chitter to each other, then place you down. You try to flee but they stop you easily.

A webbing like substance is applied to your burns. Then while that thickens, more nesting material is placed on your mouth. It's sticky and foreign... an alien gag to keep you quiet.

Then they continue to drag you to hell, demons obedient to their master.

You can only hope Ripley got what she wanted.

---

When you awaken, webbing is heavy on your body. Your mouth is still covered... which at least means you weren't used as a host. However... you couldn't move.

Despite the gag you could still smell where you were. You were in the Xenomorph nest in a more humid area. The smell was reptillian... and like strong chemicals. Your weary eyes look around to see...

Eggs.

You panic softly at the amount. What's worse? The creature you were next to.

A creature that resembled a Xenomorph monarch or mother of sorts.

Upon hearing your beating heart, the walls move. Warriors come into view to sit in front of their newly caught prey. You can see one of them was the one who Ripley shot the tip of the tail off of-

You hoped they did not keep grudges.

When the queen sensed her children, she turns to meet your frightened eyes. Her lips curl up to slobber, hissing softly. Not... aggression, just... you couldn't even read it.

The Warrior with the tail blown off leans closer, you decided to call it 'Tip' just to tell it apart from the others. You laugh to yourself... you're naming them now? Was the smell getting to you?

Tip hisses before chittering, then looking to her mother. This human's friend had hurt her... but her mother said you wouldn't hurt them. She decided to give you a chance... restrained.

Tip looks over to her sister, gauging how the other Xenomorph reacted to you. You had been marked by a fellow drone, but why?

Mother said you were no host, not anymore atleast...

You were quite a vulnerable human, though.

Not understanding the Xenomorphs staring, you look away. Why weren't you dead? You didn't even feel like you had a creature inside you.

Tip hears her mother call her, the scarred Xenomorph turns to the queen obediently. She wanted her to move you.... Tip hesitantly looks between you and her mother. You were unarmed....

You then feel Tip dig into the webbing and pull you off of the wall. Doing as her mother told her, she holds you tightly and shows you to the queen. You freeze when the queen inspects your wrapped figure before chittering to Tip.

Tip understood it as you being put under her care... you understood it as being dragged off again.

You didn't know what they wanted from you or how intelligent these creatures really were...

You wondered just when you'd die here.

---

You lost count of how long you were here and Xenomorphs had no track of time. All you know is the Xenomorph you've "affectionately" named Tip had served as your personal caretaker for the time you've been trapped in the nest. It was nearly impossible to leave with the amount of Xenomorphs here, too.

Tip, while at first being scared and irritated of your kind for hurting her, had grown attached to this human of hers. Her mother instructed her to keep you fed. Tip soon began to adore you as her mother did.

You were a good catch.

You haven't seen human contact in a long time now. The only contact you had was Tip webbing you enough to curl around you. The bluish scarred Xenomorph cooes you to sleep whenever she feels you need it, claws wrapped around you tightly. The only time you slept was when you passed out.

You felt you were going insane when you thought of the creatures touch as comforting. The alien acted like an affectionate beast, replicating human emotion by watching you. She hugged you when you felt hopeless, she gave you space when afraid, she even reacted positively to your accidental pets.

Tip was a beast you feared, yet could not live without. This Xenomorph had been your only sense of comfort since your kidnapping. That may just be the stockholm syndrome.

While Tip was the Xenomorph around you the most, she was not the only Xenomorph that liked you. The queen herself appeared to enjoy the much smaller human that roams her hive.

You made Tip, a name that she heard you give her daughter, extremely happy. The queen often got reports from Tip about you. You had taught the Xenomorph how to be oddly human with you.

Even as a nub, you saw Tip's tail flick around whenever she saw you.

Your sacrifice for Ripley's safety wasn't your life... it was your freedom. You had been reduced to an alien's playtoy. The worst part?

You didn't entirely mind it.

Escape was impossible without fire or a gun. Your only companion had been Tip, an alien intelligent enough to cater to you. Part of you felt she was different...

Or perhaps you're just crazy.

[literallydontlook]

Atonement - part 1

Pairing: Crosshair x f!sex worker!reader

Rating: Explicit (minors, skidaddle)

WC: 5.7k

Series summary: After Cody deserts, Crosshair comes to terms with his place within the Empire and the things that he’s done in its name. As the inhibitor chips begin to degrade, his building guilt finally pushes him to defect himself. Life on the run is harder than he imagined, but he’s found moments of comfort and true peace from an unlikely source. Can he ever atone for the crimes he’s committed or is he condemned to a lifetime of guilt?

Series CW: canon typical violence, swearing, sex work, lots of negative self talk, PiV, masturbation (m and f), probably oral at some point; reader has a back story but no physical descriptions; lmk if I missed anything

Unwhitewash the bad batch disclaimer: these guys are straight up white in the show and that is not ok with me. My descriptions and headers are made to combat canon designs. If you don’t like that pls leave.

A/N: SOOOOOOO ONCE AGAIN I’m on my Crosshair shit even though almost 0 of my followers are here for this. I wanted to explore what it would take for him to find redemption. TO BE CLEAR a lot of the stuff he says on the show and his attitude and superiority complex in canon are straight up disgusting, but I can’t help but wonder if I’d be strong enough to defect if I were put into a similar situation. In an age where we are so quick to condemn people for their mistakes (god knows I’ve made my share), how can we nurture the good in people instead of pushing them farther away? Also I was horny lol

—

Sharp eyes scan the cantina over the rim of his drink. Others are like him — sitting at tables obscured by the darkness. They’re scheming and dealing, keeping low profiles as they search for their next gigs. The dim lighting blurs their faces and the air is hazy with smoke. But Crosshair still sees everything.

But he also listens.

“…Black Sun…—ot take kindly to…”

“…we’ll need a qui—….to pick off…”

“I don’t want no part of…-mperial control…”

There are a number of promising-sounding leads and he indulges in a little bit of cautious optimism. It’s been 2 months since he’d defected and two rotations since he’s eaten. He never thought he’d ever miss the Imperial slop they served at the mess, but it’s starting to sound pretty good right about now. His stomach rumbles.

Finding jobs was proving to be more difficult than he’d anticipated, especially for a man looking to disappear from the Empire. Most bounty hunters belong to the Guild, but he can’t risk leaving that kind of a record. It leaves him with the kinds of jobs that are actively avoiding official channels.

A spineless-looking gentleman dressed far too expensively for the establishment looks over his shoulder before taking a seat across from Crosshair. He runs a hand through greasy, slicked back hair and fiddles with the gaudy rings on his fingers, twisting them nervously. Crosshair acknowledges him with a silent nod.

“That’s quite a rifle you’ve got there,” he says, attempting to sound nonchalant.

Crosshair hums in response, taking a sip of his drink. The man looks around again and dabs at the sweat around his neck before leaning in.

“I’m looking for some help,” he says, voice lowered to almost a whisper. There’s an awkward silence as he waits for a response but he’s met with Crosshair’s usual brand of stoicism.

He waits for the man to continue and it takes almost all of his willpower not to roll his eyes and scoff. “What’s the job,” he asks finally.

“Ah, yes — well, I’m looking for someone who can be discreet. This cannot be traced back to me,” he says, looking over his shoulder again, “and my associate spoke very highly of you.”

Crosshair narrows his eyes. “And who, exactly, is this associate?”

He leans further over the small table, lowering his voice even further. “Gini Millegi,” he whispers conspiratorially.

“Hmm…” Crosshair considers this information carefully while absentmindedly stirring his drink with a toothpick. Millegi was a notorious gangster in the region who’d hired him for a hit just a few weeks ago. Something about rival gang politics — he couldn’t care less, to be honest. The pay was good and the job was surprisingly easy. What more could he ask for?

The man clears his throat and Crosshair’s returning glare nearly burns a hole in his forehead. “Go on,” he says impatiently. The man jumps in his seat and pats down his pockets nervously.

“The target will be at Safa Toma, just across town tomorrow.” He frowns, mumbling something to himself before exclaiming, “The little brat — she can’t just waltz in here out of nowhere and take our family’s hard-earned fortune! Who does she think she is?!”

He closes his eyes and places a hand over his heart dramatically.

“My father is not long for this world and she needs to be eliminated before he passes.”

Crosshair holds up a hand, “Spare me the details. What’s the bounty?” He didn’t need to hear a long winded story about greedy families vying for an inheritance. The less he knows, the better.

The man sits back and huffs indignantly. “Five thousand credits. Double if you can make it look like an accident.”

Five thousand credits. That's enough to buy some stability for at least a month. He locks eyes with the man and something in the pit of his stomach turns as he considers the proposition. It sounds easy enough, but he’s learned quickly that in this line of work, nothing is ever as simple as it seems.

Especially when the client is avoiding official Guild channels.

His stomach grumbles.

“Fine. But I want fifty percent up front. Those are my terms,” he says, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. “You won’t find a more discreet hunter.”

The man hesitates, chewing on the inside of his cheek in consideration. Finally, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a coarsely woven bag. He sets it on the table, but his hand lingers over it. “How do I know you won’t just run off with the credits?” He asks with narrowed eyes.

Crosshair plucks it from below his palm. “You don’t.”

—

Safa Toma is boisterous, a hub of raucous activity and a host of unsavory characters. The main draw is riot racing, a dangerous sport akin to Tatooine’s pod racing with the addition of officially sanctioned weapons usage. Crosshair had heard of it. Many clients in his new line of work were enthusiastic participants with racers of their own, but he’d never had an interest. The place is decidedly too cacophonic for his taste.

He peers at the stadium through his scope, searching for the reflective discs he’d strategically placed the night before. With any luck, he’d be able to mask his location with a shot rebounded from the opposite direction.

He’s perched high on an abandoned building, several kliks away. By now, the toothpick dangling from his lips is gnarled and ready to snap. He can’t shake his nerves and the vague feeling of foreboding he’s had about this job. His commlink crackles to life.

“The target is en route to the viewing suite. Do you remember the hand signals?” His client’s voice is low and his speech is rushed, nervous and impatiently demanding some sort of comfort to placate his anxious energy.

Crosshair rolls his eyes before responding. His scope swings across the stadium in search of a group matching the provided description. An older, heavier-set woman with a severe expression and dressed impeccably. Another woman in expensive robes and perfectly coiffed hair carrying a small child. And two greasy-looking men in suits wearing jewelry worth more than Crosshair’s entire ship.

“I have a visual. Awaiting your signal.”

The link goes silent as he watches the client dart out from behind a column and speed walk down the hallway to catch up, arms pinned rigidly to his sides in a ridiculously short strut.

So much for playing it cool.

Now that they’re all together, it’s clear that these people are the client’s family. The resemblance between him and the two men is unmistakable. And they’ve all clearly inherited the older woman’s chin, who he figures is their mother. The connection to the younger woman and the toddler is less clear.

He’s focused on tracking the group but registers the sound of stray blaster fire and a unified gasp from the crowd. The announcer’s voice booms and even from this distance, Crosshair can hear it.

“A friendly reminder to all our spectators: be mindful of blaster fire. Safa Toma Speedway is not liable for any injury, death, or disintegration. Thank you.”

He absentmindedly rolls his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. Hmm, he thinks, that’d be a convenient cover if the timing is right. Maybe I can double the bounty after all.

Steadily, he follows their movements with his scope until they reach the suite. The two men plop down on a luxurious looking sofa and turn on a large screened TV, where they’re able to watch several sporting events at once. The client pulls out a seat next to the window for the younger woman and Crosshair tenses in preparation, recognizing that this placement is surely intentional. She must be the target.

She sits and places who Crosshair assumes is her daughter on the ground. The child toddles towards the window, pressing her small, chubby hands against the glass, looking down at the speedway with wide, innocent eyes.

He exhales a stuttered breath and closes his eyes.

The kid will be fine, he reassures himself. The family’s loaded anyway.

When he peers through the scope again, he sees the client approach the child, kneeling down to meet her eye level. He places a hand on her shoulder and gestures down toward the track with three fingers, wagging them three times.

Crosshair sucks in a breath.

The hand signal.

Maker. What in Malachor has he gotten himself into? The toothpick snaps between his gritted teeth as he focuses on the small child. She ohs and ahs, clapping clumsily as the speeders pass by. And as if she knew he was there, she turns towards Crosshair’s position, looking straight into his scope and smiles.

Finger hovering over the trigger, he contemplates the job. He’s so close to the easiest payout of his life, but he’s struggling to make the shot. His head begins to throb violently.

Just do the job.

The faces of every innocent child he’d ever executed flashes in his mind.

You must do what needs to be done.

“You know what makes us different from battle droids?”

Just fucking pull the trigger.

“We make our own decisions. Our own choices.”

You were born for this.

“And we have to live with them, too.”

The pain crescendos — an acute, stabbing — until he can’t take it anymore, releasing his rifle with a clatter as he grits his teeth and sits back, hands gripping his scalp and eyes squeezed shut.

He can’t do it.

He won’t.

—

It’s late by the time Crosshair arrives at the agreed-upon meeting spot. The sun has long set and the only respite from the bite of cold evening air is the occasional puff of putrid-smelling steam released from an underground pipe. He leans against the damp alley wall, eyes cast downward. Anger and frustration swirl but at who and about what? He’s not sure.

His brooding is interrupted by the splash of stomping feet approaching. The client is cloaked, a hood pulled over his head, but Crosshair doesn’t need to see his face to know that he’s pissed.

“What the kriff happened back there?”

“You failed to mention the target was a child,” he growls, jabbing a finger into his chest.

The client, seeming to forget Crosshair’s physical advantage in this altercation, doubles down on his outrage.

“What happened to ‘spare me the details’?!” He shouts, slapping away the accusatory hand. “What part of non-Guild work do you not understand?”

The toothpick in his mouth snaps in frustration, knowing it’s his own fault for taking this job, so he only responds with a silent glare.

“I’m not a child murderer,” he seethes. He pulls the burner commlink from his belt pocket and throws it on the floor, crushing it under his heel.

Not anymore, he thinks.

The client rears back with his jaw hanging open. He points a condemnatory finger towards the sniper.

“You —“ he shrieks, “you’ll pay for this.”

“Enjoy the fucking credits. I hope it’s worth it,” he says darkly before spitting at his feet and disappearing into a mysterious speeder just arrived at the end of the alleyway.

The leather of his gloves squeak as he tightens a fist and inhales slowly through his nose. He exhales a steadying breath and closes his eyes.

At least he’s got the deposit.

The coarsely woven bag sits heavy in his other hand but lifts a weight from his shoulders. Enough credits for a few weeks. He stares blankly at it until his stomach protests, reminding him that he’s close to death. He lets his feet take him to his next destination.

His boots splash murky puddle water as he mindlessly travels to the closest source of food. The shop is crowded but the warm, comforting smell of stewed nuna and protatoes is too enticing to ignore on such a frigid night.

He waits in the crudely formed line outside. There’s no indoor seating, only a dark window where credits are exchanged for a piping hot bowl of stew passed anonymously by a clawed hand. A Rodian man shoulders his way past Crosshair and anger flashes hot in his chest before the hollowness in his weakened limbs reminds him of his vulnerability.

The air is moist by the time he gets his bowl, the hazy fog settling heavily and blurring his surroundings. He finds privacy in an unoccupied alley to enjoy his meal and absorb its warmth. After the first taste, his eyes widen before he tilts the bowl back and gulps the stew ravenously, nearly choking on the large chunks of meat.

He tosses his trash into a dumpster and begins the long trek back to his ship, docked outside the city’s limits. He hasn’t had enough credits for docking fees and had been making the long journey into town by foot each day.

He absentmindedly scans the fliers posted to a communications pole. It seems like a popular spot judging by the absence of any free space. Some locations are stacked thick with flimsi and everything is damp from the dewy droplets formed on the metal shaft. Many fliers are out of date — faded and torn, pasted over by newer announcements and ads.

Lost Tooka - REWARD. Last seen at central market.

Waste removal services. Discreet and quick. Comm for pricing.

Rhodian Underground LIVE at the Spotchka A GoGo

Midtown Inn — long term and nightly rates available

Crosshair digs into his utility belt, fumbling for the credits. Weighing the bag in one hand, he deliberates his lodging options as he calculates the cost of ship repairs and ammo and food. His body aches and the thought of sleeping on a real bed is tempting, to say the least.

He looks at the time, knowing he’s got another hour or so until he reaches the ship. He makes a spontaneous decision to stay in town, allowing himself to indulge for one night. It’s a short walk to the Midtown Inn, but by the time he gets there, the “no” has been illuminated on their vacancy sign.

He sighs. Just his luck.

He runs a hand over his head, his shoulders sagging in defeat, as he looks around for another option. The immediate surroundings look like a bust. Just closed businesses shuttered for the night.

The inn itself is tucked into the neighborhood, surrounded by a maze of small streets and alleys that eventually link up to the main road. He’s not sure anymore what the fastest route would be so he takes an educated guess and follows the small road past more closed shops below crumbling housing, using the tracking equipment in his vambrace as a guide.

He’s so focused on the little red dot on the radar that he nearly misses it.

The repeating pattern of one junk building after another is finally broken by a small pathway nestled between two closed restaurants. It’s remarkably void of trash. In fact, everything he can see of it from the road is uncharacteristically pleasant. He stares at it for a long time, looking back at his vambrace to determine if this could lead to the main road.

He approaches it skeptically, standing at the mouth of it and finding it to be very well maintained.

Cautiously, he follows the path, each side flanked by tall, solid stone walls that tower even above his significant height. They’re lined with lamps hung close to the ground where they cast a warm, otherworldly glow, keeping most of the way shrouded in darkness. The tranquility here is a sharp contrast to the grit of the rest of Ord Mantell City. He feels as if he’s entering a secret space and he’s careful to stay vigilant as he travels deeper down the path.

Finally, he reaches a crossroads. To the left, the path continues, turning sharply around a corner and out of sight. To his right stands a nondescript two story building, perhaps a house. On one side a large tree’s branches reach up and over its flat roof. And while the walls are painted a dark color, adding to the home’s mystery, there’s something welcoming about it. There aren’t many windows, but the lights are on in most of them, the curtains all drawn shut. Barely visible, painted in a hue just one tint lighter than the walls, is a small sign reading “House of Desire - walk ins welcome” in aurebesh.

Ah.

He thinks again about the credits in his pocket. Doesn’t he deserve one night of relief? He could certainly use it.

Reluctantly, he approaches the door and stands at the entrance. The cylindrical eye of a TT-8L gatekeeper droid extends abruptly from the peephole, focusing on Crosshair’s face before quickly retreating with a slam. The door slides open.

The entryway opens directly into a comfortable living room with a plush sofa set behind a low, circular holo table. A set of stairs runs parallel against the back wall where he sees two sets of legs disappearing up to the second floor. An older pantoran woman stands regally at the center of it all, her hands clasped low in front of her body.

“Welcome to the House of Desire. How can I help you?” She asks, motioning for him to take a seat.

Crosshair reluctantly approaches the sofa, carefully unholstering his rifle so he can sit comfortably. The woman seems entirely unbothered by his armored appearance and weapon as she takes a seat across from him.

“Can I offer you anything to drink? Perhaps an herbal tea?”

He simply nods and she immediately comms someone to bring them a pot.

“It’s your first time here, I gather,” she says with a smile, tapping the table’s control panel and projecting a menu of options. “Let’s start with some questions,” she suggests.

Crosshair visibly stiffens and she smiles knowingly, “Don’t worry, we understand the…sensitive nature of our business. There's no need to divulge your full identity here, only what’s necessary to ensure the safety of our girls.”

He hums in acknowledgement as she asks him for a name, to which he declines, instead opting for an identification number — ironic choice for a clone who’d only ever wanted to be recognized as a person, but different times and all that.

She conducts a full health screening, including a body scan for signs of contagious infections and disease. Finding him healthy, she takes note in his registration file as she explains the rules of conduct within the House. He agrees, signing his newly issued identification number.

“Alright, that about does it,” she says, navigating the holotable program to a roster of the House’s available girls (although the word “girls” is a fairly restrictive industry term it seems, as the catalog features people of all life forms and genders). He peruses a catalog of full body, three dimensional holos, each one including detailed information about their specialties, likes, and dislikes.

The options feel endless and he swipes through each one almost mindlessly, trying to narrow down his criteria. It seems like there’s something for everyone here.

He’s on the verge of making a random selection until one catches his eye. He’s not sure exactly what draws him to you specifically, as many of the girls are what he’d consider pretty — he wouldn’t have a hard time getting in the mood with many of them, truthfully. But there’s something about your entry that makes him stop and piques his interest more than the others.

He silently glances at the madame and she smiles, making note of his selection in his file and sending a message to you.

“Oh, you’ll like her,” she says, pulling a small card from the holo table. She hands it to him before inviting him to follow her up the stairs.

“This is your membership chit. Bring it whenever you visit,” she explains, “you can also plug it into your data pad to make appointments with or contact any girls you’ve had sessions with before.”

He pockets the chit as they walk up the stairs and down the hall to a door marked simply with the number 04.

She knocks gently and a voice answers from within, granting permission to enter. The door slides open to a dimly lit bedroom awash in the dreamy, soothing glow of candlelight. Taking a tentative step inside, he immediately feels his tense shoulders relax as he breathes in the light scent of jogan-blossoms and Felucian jasmine. The gentle plucking of strings, the song more atmospheric than melodic, plays quietly in the background.

“Enjoy your visit.”

Crosshair whips his head around, startled from his reverie by the madadme’s farewell. She shuts the door with a swish, leaving him suddenly feeling very self aware of how dirty his armor is.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” a voice calls from the adjoining refresher, “you can store your rifle and armor in the wardrobe. Unless you’d prefer to keep it on.”

Still hesitant, he finds the aforementioned wardrobe and shrugs off his weapon, next unclipping each piece of armor slowly. Once down to his bodysuit, he looks around the room feeling uncertain about his decision but ultimately resigned to it. He sits down on the sofa, hands clasped together and body hunched over, one leg bouncing anxiously in anticipation.

“Well hello there.”

He stills before finally lifting his gaze. Fuck. You’re even more beautiful in person. The holo doesn’t do you justice.

You walk towards him slowly, exaggerating the sway of your hips, each step shifting the hem of your deep red negligée in the most tantalizing way. This thing was designed specifically to send him to an early grave — he’s sure of it.

You stop in front of him, trying to suppress a smile, mirth dancing in your eyes. He realizes his jaw has been hanging open and he shuts it immediately, averting his eyes. Caught.

“May I?” You ask with a chuckle, motioning to the seat beside him. He continues to avoid your gaze but nods once.

Cautiously, you lay a hand on his bicep.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” you coo, “you can look. Isn’t that why we’re both here?”

He’s got a lot of shame and pride, you think to yourself when he doesn’t acknowledge you.

You smooth your hand up to his shoulder and down his back, feeling the defined muscle beneath your palms.

“Let’s get the boring stuff out of the way first,” you say, shifting to a more businesslike tone. He finally turns to look at you. “Lay down some ground rules and talk about what you want to do.”

You forge ahead. “I ask all my guests to wear a biosheath for the duration of our sessions.” You reach into a jar sitting on a side table, pulling out a foil packet and handing it to him. He accepts it with a silent nod and you smile, pleased that he seems unphased by this request. A good sign.

“Additionally — and I’ll understand if you’d like to find another girl — I will not kiss my guests on the mouth.”

Crosshair raises a brow, surprised by this rule, but nods in agreement. You sigh with relief.

“At any time, you and I are able to renegotiate any activity if either of us begins to feel uncomfortable.

I like to use a color system. Red means stop. Yellow for proceed with caution. And green for go. Does that work for you?”

Another nod.

You laugh. “Talkative I see.”

He shoots you a withering look and you laugh harder.

You move to stand in front of him, using a gentle hand to push him back against the seat.

“Relax,” you say lowly as you swing a leg over his lap to straddle him, running your palms up his firm chest. “Is this okay?”

You grind your hips down against his experimentally, feeling him grow hard beneath his pants. His breath hitches and you take this moment to firmly place his hands on your waist.

“Is that a yes?” You ask, only to be met with obstinance and his silent, piercing gaze. You tsk, “I need to know you want this.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, “why else would I be here?”

What a brat.

“People come here for all kinds of reasons,” you explain, soothing your hands over his shoulders. “Some people come to watch or be watched,” you grind down again, nipping at his ear, “some people just want me to hold their hand.”

“Now,” you whisper, “what about you? What do you want?” You ask, letting your breath fan against his neck. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat attempting to adjust himself, but there’s no hiding how turned on he is beneath the skin tight bodysuit.

Truthfully, he hadn’t thought this far. The entire journey had been fairly spontaneous and he didn’t think he’d have, well, options. He’s never had options before. Not any so straightforwardly given anyway.

You crawl off of his lap, dancing your fingers along his shoulders as you circle the sofa to drape your arms around him from behind. Your hands explore his upper body and you feel his muscles begin to relax when you massage his neck.

“I…want to watch you,” he says finally. “And then I want to fuck you until you scream.”

You hum in agreement. “That sounds like a good plan. You’re so tense,” you muse, digging your thumb into a particularly large knot. He groans involuntarily — something between pleasure and pain.

“How about a massage first? Then you can watch me play with myself.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, palming himself over his pants. You smile impishly.

“I’m gonna take that as an enthusiastic ‘yes’,” you tease, leading him to the bed and slipping your fingers below the hem of his top. He pulls it over his head, and you nearly gasp. Brown skin pulled taut over some…significant muscle development has your eyes bulging. You thought his body suit was leaving nothing to the imagination but apparently there was much more to see.

Maker, you think to yourself.

It’s now his turn to smirk, making you look away embarrassed, caught off guard.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” he teases, “you can look. Isn’t that why we’re both here?”

You roll your eyes. “Get on the bed.”

He doesn’t respond, but he smirks at you knowingly as he lies face-down.

“So tell me,” you start, massaging the scented oil over a particularly nasty scar across his shoulder blade, “what do you do for work? I’m guessing you’re a bounty hunter.”

“…something like that,” he answers evasively. You hum thoughtfully, finally deciding to cater to his preference for silence as you work over his tired muscles.

He sighs and you smile to yourself, pleased to be able to offer this man some relief. You crawl onto the bed, swinging a leg over his hips to straddle his back as you continue.

Your fingers work into a tattoo of a skull over the number 99 written in aurebesh and you wonder about its meaning knowing you shouldn’t push him too much. The man is like a stray, injured tooka — skittish and deeply suspicious but desperately in need of affection and attention.

“What? No more inane questions?”

You chuckle - Maker this man is infuriating. “Tons. But I won’t pry. You’ll tell me everything I want to know in your own time.”

He scoffs, “Awfully confident, aren’t we?”

You only smile and hum in response as you dig your fingers into a particularly tense knot of muscle. He hisses, turning his head in an attempt to scowl at you. You laugh.

It’s not everyday you’re actually attracted to a guest, but there’s definitely a level of sexual chemistry here that’s unusual for your experience. His kriffing back of all things is getting you hot and bothered. Without even realizing it, you begin to grind yourself down on his ass, your breath growing heavy as you mewl softly.

Crosshair can feel you becoming needy and it makes him feel ready to burst. He’s been rock hard since you’ve entered the room and he knows that if he so much as ruts into the mattress he’ll come in his pants like some shiny fresh from Kamino.

He growls, finally flipping you over and caging you in between his arms.

“I said I wanted to watch,” he breathes, pupils blown wide with lust. You swallow and nod, almost paralyzed by his hungry gaze, before he releases you.

He pulls up a chair and takes a seat, lounging with his legs spread wide and one hand cupping his bulge. Grabbing the hem of your negligée, you begin to pull it off but he stops you suddenly.

“Leave it on.”

He looks like a king. The way one arm drapes casually over the seat’s back. The way his eyes devour you. Everything about him thrills you, shooting electricity down your spine. It’s been ages since you’ve felt this nervous energy performing for a guest.

You make a show of it. Biting your lip and massaging your breasts. You tweak a nipple and mewl in pleasure as your chest begins to heave with heavy breaths.

“Fuck, kitten, yes” he groans, using every ounce of self control not to stroke himself, “play with your pretty pussy. Show me what you like.”

Obediently, you sit back against the pillows, letting your legs fall open to put yourself on display. You pull your soaking panties to the side and run your fingers through your glistening folds to gather the wetness. Without breaking eye contact, you bring them to your lips and dart your tongue out to lick them before sucking with an obscene moan.

Crosshair grinds his teeth together so hard they nearly break. He doesn’t even know what to focus on anymore. The outline of your pebbled nipples through the silky fabric? Your lips wrapped deliciously around your fingers? The other hand rubbing circles over your clit?

“Fuck your fingers,” he demands, voice painfully strained. You obey, releasing your fingers with a pop before plunging them into your cunt. “Such a fucking good girl,” he praises.

You can’t help but to cry out in frustration as you try to reach that impossible place within you, working both hands feverishly to chase your high.

“That’s right, kitten, is that how you like it? Add another finger for me,” he grits.

You comply, panting heavily, your eyes screwed shut in pleasure. Before you know it you hear the violent clattering of the chair being upturned. You feel his hand wrapped around your wrist, yanking your hand away. Your cry of frustration quickly morphs into one of pleasure as he plunges two fingers into your tight hole, scissoring them until you snap, coming with a scream as his fingers fuck your through your high.

By the time you’re able to see him again through heavy lids and the aftershocks of your orgasm have subsided, he’s desperately rolling the biosheath down his thick cock.

“Hands and knees,” he rasps, barely in control of his desire.

You scramble to obey, arching your back deliciously and presenting yourself to him with a wiggle of your ass. He kneads your cheeks, reverently admiring the way his fingers sink into the plush meat there.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes. Fuck me,” you respond breathlessly.

Grabbing you firmly by the hips, he finally guides himself into your waiting heat and, finding no resistance, sheathes himself to the hilt in one stroke.

You both groan in unison as he stretches you open for the first time.

He hunches over you, fondling your breasts. “I won’t be gentle,” he whispers into your ear. He feels your walls clench around him as he ruts into you.

“Good,” you breathe.

Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him.

Raising himself back up, he grips your hips and begins to pound into you mercilessly, taking out years of pent up frustration as his fingers dig deep into your flesh. For the first time in a long time, he feels in control, using you for his own pleasure.

“You’re such a fucking good girl. Listen so well. Letting me destroy this tight cunt,” he growls.

You can do nothing but grip the sheets as he pistons his hips into you, the bed frame slamming into the wall with each thrust. You’re sure the other girls can hear it. The lewd squelching. The slap of his hips against your ass. Your pathetic moans. Apparently this man is silent except during sex.

“Yes. I’ll do anything you ask, sir. Make me feel so good,” you mewl. His rhythm begins to falter as he reaches his high, finally plunging himself deeply as he comes undone. His release triggers your own and you scream, your walls clamping down on his cock, milking him until he’s spent.

Panting, he pulls out, carefully removing the biosheath and disposing of it, only to collapse back onto the mattress when he returns.

“Maker,” you breathe with a hand resting on your sweaty forehead, “that was —that was…“ you laugh in disbelief as you struggle to catch your breath. He doesn’t respond so you enjoy a moment to come down from your high.

The candlelight is beginning to dim as some candles flicker out. The music has long since reached its last track. The two of you lay in contented silence for some time as you softly caress his bare skin, walking your fingers up his arms and smoothing your hand down his back in soothing motions.

You get an inkling when you feel his pliant body first becoming tense beneath your touch.

Before you know it, he’s trembling, his shoulders shaking more and more violently as he begins to sob. It starts as silently but soon devolves into wretched cries, his voice rough with pain. You gather him into your arms, letting him hide his face in your neck as you cradle him, gently rocking your body until you both fall asleep.

—

By the time your alarm chirps and the sun begins to stream in through the curtains, he’s gone. You wake up to an empty bed and a stack of credits on the nightstand.

You lay back down, clasping your hands behind your head and sigh contentedly.

You wonder if you’ll ever see him again.

—

A/N: 🫠 uh i Guess i hope you enjoyed?

[revoltedstates]

Unidentified corporal of the 5th New York Infantry ("Duryée's Zouaves") armed with a breechloading Sharps rifle and saber bayonet. Source: USAHEC.

[pearlsinmyhair]

༄ breath of venus ༄

chapter ten: incident report

synopsis: a girl born from nothing has spent her entire life trying to be everything her family and her clan needs. but when dead faces and old ghosts come back to haunt her, her life takes a sharp turn. the question is: for better, or for worse?

chapter summary: lyle wainfleet is sent some concerning news from an unlikely source, and it takes him back a year to two terrible events that occurred on the same day. the rda was never righteous, just as venus was never pure. but to what extent was she justified? bloody hands are often times hidden by omission, and our players are no different. saints are born from bloodshed. tread lightly.

warnings: READ READ READ. body horror. vivid descriptions of gore. mental distress. death. pregnancy and birth. birth complications. blood. did i say death? mental breakdowns. death of innocence.

a.n.: i told you you would feast. but i’m serious, READ THE WARNINGS.

word count: 14.5k

“you died screaming,

yet,

the monster

who took your

place was silent.”

-you are a weapon, and weapons do not weep.

༄

The world around Lyle was asleep and awake at the same time, ever active and ever changing. His and the other recombiant’s tanhì glowed and dimmed in time with their breath and heart beats, just as the other bioluminescence of Pandora shifted. On earth, you knew everything was alive. On Pandora? You could see it happen, watch it breathe. You could sit for hours and see non-existent lungs fill and drain of air.

Venus had called it life. Lopez had called it beautiful under his breath.

Lyle wasn’t a poet; he called it freaky. Like being watched by eyes you couldn’t see.

Nonetheless, he understood the wonder of it all. Religions had been made off less. But to him, a tiny part of him at least, this was still a place of terror. Pandora’s box had been filled with evil when its namesake had opened it to humanity. Yet here they were, crawling to it like bees to honey.

Lyle scrunched his nose at the comparison.

Yes, you could watch the landscape for hours. But when you couldn’t explore it, looking from the same vantage point got rather dull.

He checked his analogue watch, reading 01:45 off the face. Internally, Lyle groaned. He had had the bright and gracious idea to take two shifts tonight. Specifically, he had forced Quaritch to go to sleep, insisting that he would take care of his watch.

One of the two reasons for him doing so were the bags forming under the Colonel’s eyes. The man never seemed to really, truly sleep. He swore that he just laid for hours on high alert and rose when the rest of the squad did.

The second reason was sitting on the other side of the tree, staring into the distance and twirling her songcord. Lyle could hear the clicking and rolling of the beads as Venus did it. He himself had fiddled with his knife and rifle back and forth for the past hour and forty-five minutes just to keep himself occupied.

This was his cycle: look at Quaritch, check on the squad, listen to Venus, mess with your tablet, check your gun.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

But by now his gun was clean and loaded, his knife sparkling, and his playlists skipped through. He was bored out of his mind, and his hands itched to do something. Anything.

Lyle had been like this ever since the thanator attack. Since Venus had come down with bloodshot eyes and the Colonel with a far off look. Something had happened, something that left them both unsatisfied and antsy.

And if there was anything he hated more than early morning watch shifts, it was being left out of the loop.

He slapped a hand over his shifting tail, tucking it between the back of his knee and thigh to keep it still. The last thing he needed was to hit Brown's face and wake everyone up.

He closed his eyes and focused back in on the sound of the swaying trees and shifting life around and below him, trying to clear his head. It was no use, of course, and he ended up accidentally fazing into the soft words of the girl on the other side of the tree.

Venus hadnt spoken since the morning after Tamar's death. At least, not when strictly necessary. Gone were the playful jabs and the sarcastic commentary and her laughter.

She was trying to mourn in the best way she could when surrounded by enemy soldiers. She had no time to herself, no Tree of Souls to connect with, no elder to ask for guidance.

But Venus did have these quiet moments, when all were asleep and the forest covered her voice.

Lyle leaned his head back and let the sounds creep to his ears, keeping his breathing soft and slow.

“Lie si oe neteyamur

Nawma sa'nokur mìfa oeyä

Atanti ngal molunge

Mipa tìreyti, mipa 'itanti”

Lyle didn’t know much about the Na’vi, but after spending so much time around Grace, he had picked up a few cultural details. He vaguely understood the importance of a songcord, and Venus often caught him staring at hers.

He and Grace may have been on rocky ground at the time, but he knew exactly where the shell and pearl at the top of the string came from.

Translating the words was slow going, but he eventually got the meaning. He already knew who Neteyam was from Venus’s stories. The fifteen year old olo’ekte, the eldest son of Jake Sully, and the only Sully kid he hadn’t yet seen.

It was during the sharing of one of these stories that Lyle pieced together that Venus was always strategic with them. Every word that came out of her mouth was tactically meaningless to the recoms; there were no secret war plans in them, no hidden routes to strongholds, and no indications on the location of Jake Sully.

She was giving them nothing.

A part of him felt guilty for trying to worm information from her in such a way, to exploit her trust to reach their goal. But her sideways looks and narrowing eyes told him that she was just as aware of their snooping, and therefore she kept everything useful close to her chest.

She had played up her innocence and her age, acting the part of the troubled teen. And she was some of that, but again, Lyle was not entirely oblivious to Na’vi culture.

He was well aware that they reached maturity around sixteen years old. He knew that Venus had gone through ceremonies to cement her place in the clan as a warrior.

The girl among them was a woman, more than capable of killing them all and easily able to manipulate each and every one of them.

He wondered what Grace would have thought, but he knew instantly that the woman would have been proud. A part of him was proud, too. When he wasn’t acutely aware that they were on opposite sides of the war, and the only thing keeping a knife away from his throat was Venus’s empathy and the tracker in her arm.

It didn’t escape him that Venus had loyalties in the Tawkami clan, either. Loyalties that would very much so like to sink poison arrows into their chests for so much as touching her.

A soft sob snapped him from his thoughts, and he closed his eyes tight and pressed his ears to his head. The familiar mantra rose in his mind, bashing down the urge to climb to the other side of the tree.

This is war. She is safe, and this is war. She is not injured. This is war. This is war. This is-

He was going straight to the assigned psychologist when they got back to base.

Lyle wondered what it would have been like if they had managed to grab a different kid instead of her. Hell, he wished they had. Maybe then they could complete this mission without moral conflict or hold ups.

But he also understood that Venus was as much a mercy as she was an anchor. Her brother and youngest sister had bit the shit out of their respective holders arms, and Kiri, who he knew the least about but who’s mention always led Venus to give him a sidelong look, would have most likely just stayed silent.

And God forbid they have gotten Neteyam. Venus understood diplomacy. Lyle wasn’t so sure a fifteen year old son of Sully would have let them live this long, no matter the repercussions.

Lyle was seriously contemplating trying to speak with her when a soft ding alerted him of a notification on his tablet.

He clicked on the device and logged into his emails, glancing briefly across the subject line. Lyle’s heart halted in his chest.

TELL HER.

The sound around his ears dropped out as he read the sender id.

Dr. Gabriel Alza.

The main medical technician of the recombinant squad. The man who had injected a tracker into Venus’s arm. The man who he had always thought to be cowardly.

Was now sending him classified RDA documents at two in the morning.

Dr Gabriel Alza. Bridgehead, Pandora. alzar@rda.gov.

May XX, 2170.

Robert Alza

Lead Medical Technician of the Recombinant Program and Deja Blue Unit

Bridgehead, Pandora.

RDA.

Cpl. Lyle Wainfleet,

Forgive me for this sudden email. I am aware of the hour, but there is no time for fromalities. There has been talk at BH for some time now of a Na’vi who had gone rogue about a year ago and destroyed two of our patrolling Scorpions. There was a group of military that specifically wanted to find this Na’vi and convict her. But the idea seemed too tedious and would take far too many reasources. They had a picture, which I will link here(📎), but it was far too vague to actually find the woman.

I’m telling you this because they have found her, and she resides with you now.

Below, I have linked two articles written by the RDA, one of which involves the Lone Na’vi, and the other which will alert you as to the state of the Tawkami tribe, which you will no doubt soon come into contact with.

Additionally, this email is coded to dissapear once all attachments have been reviewed. There will be no trace of it once it has been read. The RDA does not want these notes open to the public or to its personal.

📎 incidentreport.rda.doc

📎 classified-attack/angelofdeath.rda.doc

They know that I know. She must be protected at all cost, Corporal. They intend for her to have a far worse sentence than death. If they find out that Venus Sully is the Angel of Death, you will wish you had never found her.

They are coming for me.

Warn her. Before it’s too late.

It felt like the ticking of a time bomb. Like looked down the barrel of a gun.

Lyle clicked on the first link.

༄

“Lilliana, c’mon! We’re going to miss it!” Venus called over her shoulder at the tripping avatar behind her, her hand clenching her wrist in a death grip.

It was the summer festival in the Omatikaya village, and everyone was celebrating. Preparations had been made many cycles in advance. Hunting parties gathered, supplies prepared, dancing and festivities arranged.

And for the first time since the war, the dream walkers were allowed to participate.

“Not everyone was born in their bodies, Cielo.” Lilliana wheezed as Venus finally slowed to a stop, and the sixteen year old smiled brightly as her older friend laid her head on her shoulder.

“You won’t be able to use that excuse when you’re training, Lilly. You have to start somewhere.” Venus hummed as she continued to march further into the village, though she slowed her pace out of consideration for Lilliana’s lack of balance.

The woman had been out of her avatar body for weeks, stuck researching new synthetic plants for the humans to grow to eat and medicines to heal them. The lack of exercise left her avatar body weak. But Venus had refused to allow Lilly to stay in her ventilated trailer for one more hour.

Though she pretended to ignore them, Venus felt her companion go tense at the gaze of the Omatikayans. They were unused to any dreamwalkers besides Norm, and the only physical deviation they usually saw were Venus, Lo’ak and Kiri, who got a pass by being Toruk Makto’s children.

Venus used her approval as a buffer, and once she met the gaze of the onlookers they quickly glanced down in embarrassment. Lilliana squeezed her side appreciatively, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge either the curious eyes nor Venus’s protectiveness.

Deep down, she understood that Lilly didn’t enjoy relying on her endorsement to gain access to the goings-on of the Na’vi, and now was no different.

“I just wish they’d stare at something other than my eyebrows or my fingers. If they just listened to me then they’d see I wasn’t like the soldiers…” Lilly said quietly into Venus’s ear, and she nodded in agreement.

“It takes time.” Venus said, and again Lilly squeezed her, this time in solidarity. She’d seen firsthand her stumbles and her victories in gaining appreciation in the clan. She had it firmly now, but her body bared the price in scars along her skin and her memory. Venus had earned her place, and the Omatikaya had finally agreed to let Lilliana earn hers.

The two entered the family hut, greeted by the war zone that was the Sully girls getting ready for a ceremony.

Neytiri had wrestled little Tuk into sitting in her lap, and Kiri was busy drawing patterns along the youngest’s skin. Tuktirey squirmed impatiently, and the moving only grew worse when she caught sight of Venus.

She was quick enough to catch Tuk by the shoulders before she could smudge white paint along Venus’s freshly scrubbed skin, and she kissed her sisters forehead before pulling her back to her mother.

Neytiri greeted her eldest with a smile and a tired look, but her gaze sharpened when she caught sight of Liliana in the doorway. Venus lay a gentle hand on her mothers shoulder as she turned back to Lilly.

The woman stood awkwardly in the doorway of the hut, holding the flap with one hand as if ready to bolt at a moments notice. But with Venus’s reassurance, Neytiri gestured Lilliana further inside, and the woman sat beside her to make more paste to decorate Venus.

Lilliana had been eighteen when she arrived on Pandora, sent as an intern for Grace Augustine on the same ship that her father had been on. Her and Jake only crossed paths once, and that was the first day Jake had partnered with his avatar.

It was easy to forget that Neytiri and her were the same age, especially when Lilliana was in her avatar. But the way the women settled shoulder to shoulder, working diligently to prepare the girls for the oncoming festivities, was a reminder of their shared years.

Venus allowed herself a private smile as she settled down and began to undo the braids of her hair.

The celebrations began at sundown, with Venus accompanying her grandmother in the opening ceremony. Soft feathers adorned her arms by cuffs, and she lifted her hands to the stars to thank the Great Mother for a kind spring and good hunting. Her people yipped with each sure step of her feet, and soon she was joined by other dancers, their bodies moving to the beat of log drums.

By the time Venus took a break, her body was already hot and sweaty from effort, and she leaned on Lilliana as they sipped sweet wine from carved cups.

Lilly was dressed in her mothers clothes. Of course, she had tried to tell Neytiri that she didn’t need them, but her mother was stubborn as tree roots. Venus had insisted that the woman looked beautiful, but Lilliana had simply shook her head.

“What about him?” Lilly whispered now, and Venus looked to where she was inclining her head.

“At’lanu is too proud, ‘eylan. He would never mate with a ketuwong.” Venus replied with a sip from her cup, and Lilly swatted at her.

“Do not call yourself alien, V.” she said softly, but Venus only shrugged.

“They call me what they wish. If that is how they see me, then I will not spend my life trying to force them to change.” Already, Venus could feel the haze from the wine at the edge of her mind. She didn’t yearn to be drunk, but she welcomed the ease that the alcohol brought. It was an unfortunate truth, however, that this ease brought thoughts that were normally so deep to the surface. Lilly pulled her closer to her side, and Venus wished suddenly that she had gone flying instead of coming to this party.

But before she could sink more into her self-doubt, she spotted a figure moving towards them.

“There is a very handsome and very interested man heading this way.” Venus hissed to Lilliana, and the woman’s gaze snapped forward.

She knew Cantù well enough. He was a friend of her father- a rather quiet man with a gentle manner and a strong gaze. She had hunted with him, and he had been one of the many to guide her in archery and banshee flying when her parents were otherwise occupied. He was handsome, and he was unmated.

And right now, he was looking directly at Lilliana.

“He will ask you to dance, and you will say yes.” Venus whispered to her urgently, but Lilly was shaking her head. “There’s no way I’m going out there, V. I’ll have no idea what I’m doing.”

But Venus was already straightening her friends hair and top, her body buzzing with excitement. “I’ve had enough of your longing stares, Lilly. Here is an opportunity. Take it.”

Lilly opened her mouth to again protest, but a deep voice brought her attention away from Venus.

“Tsakarem, I see you.” Cantù greeted Venus, and she returned the gesture. Beside her, Lilliana hardly breathed. “Brother, what brings you away from the festivities and over to us?” Venus asked with a knowing smile.

Cantù dipped his head to her respectfully and turned his eyes to Lilly. “I was wondering” he asked with a soft tone “if your friend would care to dance?”

Venus watched Lilly’s wide-eyed expression as she worried her lip between her teeth. Slowly, her grip on Venus’s arm loosened, and she placed her palm into Cantù’s outstretched hand.

“Yes.” was Lilliana’s reply. “Yes I would.”

As they walked off, Tarsem took Lilliana’s place at Venus’s side. “I’d like to say I’m surprised.” the young man said, taking a sip from his own cup.

“I give them six months.” Venus said, casting a side long look at Tarsem. He returned her gaze with a mirthful eye, the corner of his mouth already turning up. “A wager? That’s much too short of a time to be so certain, Venus.” he admonished, swirling his wine. “I say at least a year.”

Venus shook her head. “What will you lose for that, ‘sem?”

Tarsem offered his hand to her, three fingers and one thumb open. “My pride.” he said.

Venus shook his hand with hers and said “I hope you enjoy watching me rob you of it.”

༄

Venus was right, of course. For while Tarsem knew tradition, Venus knew Lilliana.

Lilly and Cantù were mated before Eywa five months later, and only two months after Venus’s seventeenth birthday. The two had become inseparable , and when Venus wasn’t teaching Lilliana the ways of Eywa, Cantù was.

There was some minor upheavals that came with the union. While Lilly had gone through the trials to become one of the people, she had not yet made the soul transfer. It was taboo to many to not be fully dedicated to the Na’vi way, but still become mates.

Venus had shook off these doubts by logic: her father still had a human body when he mated Neytiri, and had not gone through the ceremony for some time afterwards. It was only a matter of time until Lilly would do the same.

It was the week of the ceremony when everything started to go wrong.

Venus and Lilliana had risen early for a hunt, intending to be back before midday. But Lilly was ill, and had not lasted an hour before she had told Venus that she was not feeling up to it.

Venus had a sinking feeling in her gut as she led her friend to her ikran, and Mo’at had only studied the woman for less than a minute to confirm her fears.

“You are pregnant, child.” the Tsahík said solemnly, and Venus felt her hope sink.

Lilly’s face burst with joy, before it fell at observing the faces around her. “That’s…bad?” she asked.

Venus made eye contact with her grandmother, who nodded.

“If there is a child in you, then there is a chance that the soul-transfer could disrupt its development.” Venus said as she looked down at her hands. “It’s much stress on your body, so the possibility of the baby perishing is large.”

She would not look at Lilly.

“You must make a choice.” said Mo’at, her voice firm. “Now.”

Venus glanced up and caught Lilly’s determined eyes, and a knife buried in her gut.

“Is there a way that I can still have the baby, even if i’m in two bodies?” she asked Mo’at, though she held Venus’s gaze. Her hand found Lilliana’s.

“There is always a way, child. But it will be hard.” Mo’at explained.

Lilly squeezed her fingers.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” Lilliana stated, and Venus felt a shift of something dark fall over her shoulders.

༄

Slice, went the knife in Venus’s hand as she cut the paywll root, trying to drown out her grandmother’s words and her own thoughts.

“It’s foolish.” hissed Mo’at as she rubbed oil into Lilliana’s swollen ankles. “To even think that such a plan will be fruitful.”

Slice.

“They need to get their barings, grandmother. We cannot know how to fight the sky people if we do not see their arsenal.” Kiri added, breaking her focus on her weaving for only a moment.

Slice.

“They can get their barings by scouting on foot, not as flying targets on their ikran.” Mo’at’s scowl deepened.

Slice.

“Venus.” Lilliana chided, and the girl’s gaze snapped away from the root to her now eight month pregnant friend. “Please, you’re going to cut yourself.”

Venus heaved a sigh, apologizing. Mo’at shook her head at her granddaughter. “It’s no good to stew, child. Your father did not take you because you are safer here. Be grateful that he does not rush you into war.” Venus shrugged her shoulders, setting the cut root into a clay bowl to be baked and preserved later.

The reason for Mo’at’s frustrations and Venus’s disappointment was the hunting party Jake had organized to scout out the RDA’s new base. The patrols had been gradually delving deeper into the forest and therefore the Omatikaya territory, and her father was keen to observe just how large a force they would be up against.

It had been three months since they vacated into what they called High Camp, an internal cliff dwelling of the Hallelujah Mountains. Venus had been the least externally reluctant of her siblings, but she was second only to Kiri in her longing for the trees and grass. Now, children had to be either brilliant at climbing or be escorted on ikran-back to get to the ground. Tuktirey rarely got to go, and the four eldest Sully’s had to sneak around in order to escape their sky-bound home.

While their parents expected the most submission from Neteyam and Venus, it was the two eldest that were often flying long past eclipse on late night retreats. Since the return of their old enemy, the olo’ekte and tsakarem had felt the pressure build, and finding small pools of glowing water or fruit trees no one else knew of was a welcome distraction. It was the closest she and her brother had ever been, though Venus hated that it was brought on by the drums of war.

It was why she was so confused now. Her father had raised her and Neteyam for conflict, so when he had outright refused to let them come on their little scouting party the two had argued. Neteyam was no where to be seen (though she guessed he was off keeping Lo’ak in check), and Venus was relegated to the Tsahík’s hut to be kept under the watchful eye of her grandmother.

The list of men and women had been short: Jake and Neytiri, of course, and a few more warriors. Cantù was among them, and that alone had Lilliana worried sick to her stomach, her hand rubbing against her swollen belly. She wasn’t gigantic; Venus had seen heavier-carrying mothers before Lilly. But she still worried at the swells of anxiety that often plagued the soon-to-be mother.

It didn’t help that Lilly was experiencing cramps across her belly.

“Come child, take my place.” Mo’at said calmly, gesturing for Venus to continue her rubbing Lilly’s ankles. Venus did so without protest- she never protested when it came to helping Lilliana- and looked to her grandmother curiously as she rose. Mo’at smiled, rinsing her hands of the oil and sweeping a shawl around her shoulders. “There is a boy whose leg isn’t healing right after a fall. I am going to see him. Expect me back in an hour.”

Venus nodded, and Mo’at strode out of the hut. Kiri herself vanished with a kiss to Venus’s cheek and a warm smile to Lilliana, claiming she needed more thread for her new necklace for Lilly’s baby.

Silence filled the hut for a few moments, and Venus could feel Lilliana watching her, occasionally wincing from cramps.

“This could be you some day.” the woman said, and Venus looked up at her bright yellow eyes, the full face. Pregnancy favored Lilly, though some worry lines plagued the space above her eyebrows.

“With swollen belly and aching ankles? I think not.” Venus laughed softly, switching from oil to a lotion made from the whipped butter of rumaut fruit, messaging the tendons in Lilly’s calves. “No man wants a child out of me.”

“Ku’altu did.” Lilly reminded her, and then Venus really did laugh. It was a dark thing, one laced with bitterness. “Ku’altu thought me a fleeting fancy; I was pretty and innocent and a good dancer. I would have gone with him to become his Tsahík and been abandoned quickly.”

Lilliana caught her hand, wincing at the stretch across her belly but not letting go. “Not all is lost just because no man presents himself. Look at me: thirty one with my first child, on a planet that I wasn’t born to, with a man who isn’t even of my original species.” she said, releasing Venus’s hand when the younger woman simply stared blankly at her. “All I wish for is to be here if you do have them, if just to see you suffer as I am now.”

Venus softened at that, reaching forward to again enter twine her fingers with Lilliana’s.

“I’m glad you’re here with me. I don’t think I could have stood the fear if you weren’t.” she whispered after a moment, and Venus’s hands halted. She had tried desperately not to think of the danger that followed the scouting party, of the threat of war. But now, with Lilliana’s mate and her own parents gone, Venus felt the thrum of fear under her skin.

“I’m glad I’m here too.” she admitted, and Lilly smiled.

When Venus thought back to this time, it would be with crippling devastation. There was no way she could have predicted the slaughter that was to come with her brother’s approaching footsteps. How could she have?

Neteyam burst into the hut, breathing hard and with shaking hands. Lo’ak followed not five seconds after, looking confused at his brother’s agitation.

Venus stood, walking over to place her hands on Neteyam’s shaking shoulders to steady him. When the boy glanced past her and saw Lilliana, who herself now stood and regarded the abrupt entrance with concern, his face dropped further.

“What have you seen?” Venus asked, and Neteyam broke. His eyes met his sister’s, and Venus braced for the worst.

“The scouting party was ambused by a group of RDA ships. I was too far off to do anything or even see them coming. They came out of nowhere, Venus. They were fucking expecting us.” he said quickly, his voice carrying an unusual stammer. She flinched at the curse: Neteyam wasn’t one to cuss unless the situation was dire.

“Are they safe? Did everyone get out okay?” she asked, already preparing a plan in her head.

Neteyam’s eyes drifted from hers to Lilliana’s, and she felt her stomach drop.

“It happened so fast. It was so quiet, and then there was gunfire and screaming and… and they were chasing mom and dad and… then Cantù flew in front of them to get the gunship away…” Neteyam trailed off.

“Lilliana… I am so sorry.” he whispered, his eyes filling with tears.

Venus heard the sound of Lilly dropping to her knees just before her wail of grief pierced her ears. Lo’ak rushed to the woman’s side, and Venus was frozen for an instant before she grabbed Neteyam’s upper arms. “Get Tarsem. Now.”

Her brother bolted out the door.

“Venus?” Lo’ak called softly, his voice wavering. She turned around to find Lilliana eerily silent, staring between her thighs. Lo’ak held one hand out and away from him. She took a step closer to see some kind of wetness dripping from his fingers, and a puddle below where Lilliana had knelt. The knife that had buried itself within her gut at the news of Cantù’s death twisted.

It was too early- one month too early- but Lilliana’s water had broken.

Mo’at was across the camp in Eywa know’s which tent. There were plans for this, they had figured this all out. All she needed was to get Norm and Max-

Her stomach plummeted when she remembered that Norm had gone with the scouting party, and Max was somewhere deep in the Pandoran jungle finding plants to study.

She was on her own.

Lilliana was going into labor, her mate dead and her baby a month too early, and Venus was on her fucking own.

A warm hand settled against the small of her back, and she whipped around to find Tarsem’s concerned eyes staring into hers.

“Tell me what to do.” he whispered, registering Lilly’s state with a quick glance over Venus’s shoulder. For a moment, she allowed herself to rest her head against his arm as she thought, fighting down the bile that rose in her throat and threatened to spill out.

His hand cradled the back of her skull as he watched Lo’ak guide Lilly onto a mat, finding a cloth to help clean the mess and already pulling out the necessary materials for birth.

“I need you to take a party to reinforce my father’s. Take any guns you can find along with your bombs. And stay low. I must stay here.” she whispered, and Tarsem caught her hands in his.

“You’re trained for this. You’ve been training for this for years. Do not falter.” he said quickly before he exited the tent to do as she said.

“And you.” she turned to Neteyam, pointing at him. His ears dropped, looking at her with wide wet eyes. “You will not leave this camp, or so help me, I will throw you from the cliff. Am I understood?” she growled.

Neteyam nodded, bowing his head.

Venus hated this part of herself. The part that reacted so sternly at conflict, that snapped at innocents. But she couldn’t afford to have Neteyam flying into battle. She couldn’t add his body to the amount she’d have to clean and prepare for a funeral.

“Help me.” she whispered, and Neteyam sprung into action.

Together, the two boys manuevered Lilly into a comfortable position, Lo’ak cradling her head as she sobbed, and Nateyam working with Venus to quickly prepare chewing mush for pain and numbing cream for her stomach. Neither of them were trained as Venus was, but with a grandmother like Mo’at and sisters like Kiri and Venus, they’d have to be deaf to know nothing.

The labor progressed quicker than Venus would have liked, though she prayed to the Great Mother for swiftness if she would grant it. Lo’ak had taken down Lilly’s hair and worked to soothe the woman as Venus took her place between her legs, finding the baby’s head and trying to judge their size.

Even in Venus’s limited experience, she knew the baby was far too small.

Neteyam was at her shoulder, laying his head briefly against her skin for comfort before he said “I’m going to find grandmother.” and pulling away.

After what felt like years, the quick footsteps of the Tsahik were heard, and Venus’s shoulders sagged with relief.

That relief died as soon as Mo’at looked at Lilly’s belly, felt her child’s head. The older woman clucked her tongue and stroked the spasming baby bump, making eye contact with the teary-eyed Lilliana.

“You must begin pushing. Now.” she said, and Venus grabbed Lilly’s hand.

Lo’ak laid the side of his head against Lilliana’s, and Neteyam placed his hand on her shoulder. Venus started to cry. The first push went over well enough. Lilly cried out but otherwise bore the pain.

But when Lilly began to push again, her head fell back and her eyes rolled white, her body going limp.

This was the danger they had all planned for.

Avatar bodies had a neural self defense system built in to prevent nerve frying: if an avatar felt too much pain, the body would effectively eject the mind back to the human body to prevent mental damage.

And birth was registered as an act far too painful for the avatar body to go through.

Lilliana’s body was effectively empty.

Mo’at started praying.

But the woman’s body lurched as the soul drive kicked back in, rushing to push even as the pain became near unbearable. This time, Lilly lasted a few more pushes before her soul ejected once more.

After one hour, Mo’at quietly told Venus that the baby wasn’t emerging.

Venus wanted to vomit.

They didn’t have the right supplies to perform and effective caesarean section that would let both the baby and Lilliana’s avatar body live. Without Max and Norm, she had no conceivable idea about the levels to which they’d need to go to preserve the body. Grace had been a careful but successful procedure, but her body had also been a shell.

Mo’at dismissed Lo’ak and Neteyam to find their parents and tell them what was going on, and Venus moved to sit at Lilliana’s head.

“They’re gonna cut me open.” Lilly whispered, and Venus nodded, stroking her cheek. “We don’t have to, tsmuke. We can keep trying. There must be a way, and Norm and Max might be here soon.” whispered Venus, trying to speak past the knot in her throat.

But Lilliana shook her head, resting her hand over her belly. A few tears streamed down her face, and Venus’s heart swelled with sorrow. Without her avatar body, Lilliana would have to watch her child grow behind a glass shield, watch as they grew twice her size.

“You’ve worked so hard, Lilly. Please-“ she tried, but a raised hand halted her words.

“This child will be born, Venus. I do not care how. I do not care in which body I will dwell. But he will be born.” she said, fire and determination in her eyes, pain swimming just below.

Venus held her hand and laid against her chest as Mo’at ran a finger dusted with coal along Lilly’s belly to mark incisions. Lilliana watched her, her eyes filled with tears as she felt the edge of the knife.

“I love you, Venus.” she whispered, and Venus fought down the sob that rose in her chest.

She looked over her shoulder at Mo’at, who nodded.

Lilliana grimaced, and then her mouth dropped open in a silent scream. Venus could feel warmth on her skin, the wetness of it sickening. She would always remember this moment everytime she gutted a yerik; the sound of slicing skin into its organs.

Lilliana only managed one ear splitting scream of terror and pain before her body went completely limp.

Venus should never had turned around. She should never had watched as her grandmother performed this bloody procedure. But her training overrode her sense, and it made her unwell to see Lilliana’s rolled-back eyes and open mouth.

The sight that greeted her when she turned was far worse.

Mo’at’s hands were inside Lilliana’s stomach, riffling through intestines and blood, pulling out and setting aside organs to find the soft layer of womb where the baby resided. Her face was concentrated, her mouth set into a thin line.

It was the smell most of all that caused her to turn her head and empty her stomach: iron and warmth, skin and blood. Acid and bile burned her throat as she tried to recover herself, tried to tell herself that this body was only a shell now.

Venus looked up in time to watch as Mo’at’s bloody hands rose from the red, holding a tiny bloody bundle of blue skin. Venus waited for sound as her grandmother checked it’s mouth and lungs, waited for the bleat or cry that always accompanied a newborn’s emergence.

Only silence greeted her.

But Mo’at showed no signs that the baby was dead, merely took it over to a wash bowl and cleaned at its skin. “A boy.” she stated with little enthusiasm. Mo’at did not say he was healthy. Venus was frozen on her hands and knees, watching as her grandmother covered Lilliana’s dead avatar in a thick knit blanket. Red soaked it where it touched her stomach.

Venus turned away only to see her father and Norm at the entrance to the hut. Jake looked exhausted, and Norm looked devastated.

“Lilliana.” Venus whispered, looking to Norm as she managed to stand. “She was ejected and she wanted to get the baby out. The baby is…fine. Just quiet.” She could feel her sense of self coming back to her, could feel security re-emerging as she remembered that Lilliana was only at the edge of the village in one of the science buildings, probably drinking water and waiting for news.

“Is she well? I haven’t been to the avatar stations yet, so I don’t know-“ she was cut off by her father folding her into his arms and pressing her against him.

Confusion turned to terror as Norm touched her arm.

“Lilliana isn’t in her body, kid. She’s empty.” the man whispered, and Jake’s hold tightened. It was only because he was holding her that she didn’t fall to the floor. “Her soul… got stuck somewhere in the in-between of the two bodies.”

“I don’t understand.” she whispered, her eyes stinging.

A hand touched her back. Venus looked to find her mother, her ionar still atop her brow, looking at her with sadness. “She’s gone, payfya. I’m sorry.” Neytiri whispered.

Venus didn’t make a sound. She didn’t breathe. She didn’t cry. She stood in her fathers arms and turned to stone. She was not in her body. She was praying, or maybe she was pleading.

She turned in her father’s arms to look at Mo’at.

“Give me the baby.” she whispered, and Neytiri grabbed her hands.

“The child will not survive the day: he is weak and frail and does not make a sound. I will not allow you to grow attached to him.” Mo’at stated, voice firm. Her mother tried to soothe Venus by rubbing at her skin, but she was far too gone to notice the tender touch.

“I have lost Lilliana. Cantù is gone. I watched her die. Let. Me. Hold. Him.” she breathed, her voice carrying the same amount of stern declaration as her grandmother’s. She didn’t care what happened when morning came. Venus could give a damn about getting attached. Her friend was dead, and only Eywa knew how long it would be until her son joined her.

Mo’at looked between her and the baby, and she knew that the cogs were turning. The mental battle between a woman who has lost everything and a mother, of someone who had held her babies and watched one die a young death.

She allowed Venus to hold Lilliana’s child.

He was so terribly small, so tiny that he felt weightless. He bore his fathers four fingered hand, but his mother’s eyebrows. His tanhì glowed faintly, and his eyes scrunched at the movement of Mo’at to Venus.

“Kaltxì, hì’aw.” she whispered, and the baby lifted his face to her breath, trying to find her. Venus lowered her face to his so their noses brushed, and he let out the smallest mewl, just barely audible. She felt her heart break for him, felt a wave of something she had never known.

Her mother pleaded with her to let him go, but Venus refused.

“He’s mine.” she had stated to the room of onlookers. “I will take care of him.”

Her parents shook their heads, and Mo’at regarded her with stony certainty. “Stubborn girl,” the woman stated, “you will break your own heart with all the love you pour into the hopeless.”

Venus had given her a teary smile in response. “My heart is already broken, grandmother. And even the doomed need hope.”

It was all for nothing, of course. The fact of the matter was that the baby did not eat nor drank. He barely made a sound and barely moved. He was tiny, and he shivered terribly. Premature, Norm had murmured at observing him over Venus’s shoulder. There was nothing they could do.

But she tried, oh, how she tried. Venus finger fed him water into his tiny little mouth, massaging his throat with her fingertips to get him to swallow. The whole of the night she sat with him pressed to her chest, feeling his tiny heart beat flutter like bird wings against her own strong thrum.

She named him Tìfnu, Quiet, for his lack of sound. Ever so often he’d sigh and she’d hold her breath, waiting for the pitter-patter heart to stop. And then she’d relax when he continued breathing.

Sometime in the midst of night Neteyam came, escorted by Tarsem, to bring her some roasted talioang from a hunt. Venus wouldn’t be separated from the child, and so Tarsem handed her pieces of the meat to eat whilst they spoke. Neteyam laid his head against her shoulder to watch Tìfnu, playing with his tiny hands with his pinkie, and Tarsem sat across from her.

“It was terrible. They filled him with bullets, txur’aw.” Tarsem whispered, recounting the sight he and the rescue group had beheld when they found Cantù’s body. “Unprovoked and all. And they slaughtered him.” he hissed, and Venus caught his raised hand with hers to calm him. Neteyam looked wide eyed at the man, and Tarsem dipped his head in apology.

Neteyam let out a yawn, and Venus pulled him close to her side before whispering a soft goodnight. The boy cast a sidelong look at Tarsem before exiting the tent and retreating to bed.

Tarsem watched him go, his ear twitching as he mulled over his thoughts. Venus in turn watched Tarsem whilst her finger drew small circles into Tìfnu’s soft hair.

“He knows.” a statement, not a question, but Venus nodded in confirmation. Tarsem carefully scooted forward to peer at Tìfnu before opening his arms. Venus looked at him suspiciously. “You need to drink and at least stretch. I won’t hurt him.” he said softly, and Venus reluctantly placed the boy in his arms.

“Neteyam’s young. Don’t worry about his regard of you. He still quite likes you, even if he suspects that father might replace you with him.” Venus said as she stretched and walked over to a pile of clothes and water flask Neteyam had brought. She checked over her shoulder to make sure Tarsem was faced away before she changed clothes.

“I think he’s more worried about my intentions with you than with his position.”

That made Venus pause, the flask raised halfway to her mouth to drink. She took a sip, then a gulp, before standing behind Tarsem.

It had started as a joke made by Jake, but the joke had quickly progressed into a possible match when it reached the ears of Mo’at.

Venus and Tarsem could be mated, and together they would lead the Omatikaya as Tsahìk and Olo’eyktan.

Venus had answered with a flat “no”, but word had apparently spread. And her brother, the olo’ekte, was now having to worry about competition from a twenty-four year old warrior. Along with that, her mother and father had always known that who Venus would mate with would lead to at minimum a disruption to the succession of leadership. Neteyam was young, and now with war on the horizon, many worried if the fourteen year old could step into his fathers place were the mighty Toruk Makto to die.

Venus didn’t like thinking about it much, and much less liked thinking about it when her friend was being prepared for a funeral in a separate tent.

“Neteyam is protective, but he has nothing to worry about.” Venus said as Tarsem handed Tìfnu back to her, and he watched her for a few moments silently. He had known her for years now, and she could almost never keep a secret from him.

“He’s going to die, Venus.” he stated plainly, and Venus’s chest tightened. “I know.” she whispered, tracing the line of Tìfnu’s spine as she tucked him against her. The conversation about the ambush and nagging grandmother’s had distracted her from the ache in her lungs and the way her eyes still stung from crying. She knew she must look a mess. An hour ago she had stopped crying only because she didn’t have anymore tears to shed. From dehydration or exhaustion or both, she did not know.

“You’re going to hurt yourself the more you hold on-“ Tarsem tried, but Venus didn’t let him finish.

“Do not presume to tell me how to grieve or what to do, Tarsem.” she snapped, barring her teeth at the man before her.

He didn’t even flinch, but regarded her with sad eyes. She was getting damn tired of everyone looking at her like she was pitiful.

Why couldn’t they understand that she was trying?

“I’m sorry for any offense I may have caused you.” he said softly as he stood. Carefully, he moved a strand of her hair away from her face so he could look her fully in the eyes.

“You will burn yourself to nothing if you do this for every innocent that dies, Venus. And believe me, these deaths will not be the last.”

And then he was gone, leaving her to the cold, empty Tsahík hut.

Silence was a reminder of the temporary warmth that sat against her chest, that the breath of against her skin would not be there forever. If Venus tried, she could still smell the blood in the air.

She wanted to weep. She wanted to scream. Something in her was dying, something that shouldn’t be. “Strong girl” Tarsem had called her, but she felt like leaves battered in a storm, their stems breaking from the wind and withering from endless rain. She felt like she couldn’t stand, like there was no one that could help her rise.

So Venus cherished the time she had with Tìfnu, the last remenant of her friend and her mate, the last part of herself that she could hold and love. Tìfnu mewled against her cheek, and then Venus really did weep. His hands gripped her top, and he nuzzled into her hair.

Hours and hours of quiet mourning and waiting awaited her. She curled her knees closer and tucked Tìfnu into the crook between her shoulder and jaw.

༄

It’s just as the sun peaks into high camp that the child’s last breath leaves him.

Venus was numb to it. She found the cloth that’s always kept in the corner of her grandmother’s hut for the still-borns and wrapped Tìfnu in it, whispering a silent prayer and kissing his covered head. Then, she found the coal and white powder stowed away, mixing it with water and painting the two black stripes over her eyes, then one down the center of her face. Her step is steady as she pulls the beaded curtain of the hut aside and sets out to find her father.

He was exactly as she knew he’d be: elbows on his knees and head in his hands as he sat by the glowing coals of a long-dead fire. His head rose at her approach, and he gave no reaction of surprise to her show of mourning.

“Which one was it.” is all she said, her voice gravelly from the hours of silence.

“No.” is his firm answer.

While he expected rage, he got only cool acceptance. “I will fly to the base and destroy every single Scorpion I can before they shoot me. With or without your leave. I am sure there are plenty of other warriors who would be willing to give me specifics, as well.”

Jake’s hand finds hers, and for an instant the wave of sorrow that has been gathering at the back of her mind pulls at her. Venus has to blink away the tears as they gather at her lash line, unwilling to show him any weakness.

“It will not satisfy you, and it will not bring them back.” Jake assures her, his other hand joining the tight grip around her own. “And Eywa, Venus, I can’t lose you.” He lifts the back of it to his forehead, and something inside Venus crumbles at the sight of him begging. Her mighty father, bowing his head before her in an attempt to make her stay.

But iron hardens in her gut. “Eywa demands balance, and so I will enforce it. No man who kills innocents deserves to live.” she whispers, her palm resting against his cheek in an assuring gesture. “And I will not stop until the one who killed Cantù is dead.”

Venus is her mother’s daughter, forever and always.

Blood for blood. A life for a life.

Jake sees the truth of her declaration in her eyes and squeezes her wrist, taking one last look at his eldest.

“Red stripes down the sides with a yellow underbelly.” he says, releasing her.

Venus walked away from him silently, leaving him to his thoughts and his worry.

Rutxïryo was already waiting for her, silent and brooding as he watched her approach. The ikran had never been to war, but he knew his rider’s intentions even before they made tsaheylu. A high wail breaks Venus’s attention from adjusting her bow.

Lilliana’s ikran, Txampay, watches her, and Venus nearly doubled over at the sharp pain to her chest at the empty saddle across the female’s back.

The ikran bowed her head to her, and Venus dismounted Rutx.

Txampay was always a spitfire. She was older, and being tamed later had set many of her mannerisms in stone. But she’s completely still when Venus touches her head, her cheek, and her neck, until the saddle across her back is undone. The woven leather falls with a thunk to the mountain floor, and Txampay crows softly to her. When Venus turns and meets her eyes, she sees vengeance.

Ikran only fly with one rider, and they’re prone to revenge if that rider is harmed.

Txampay takes off with Rutxïryo and Venus as they head for the patrol lines of the RDA.

A distant chirp sounds across the sky just before High Camp is out of sight, but Venus doesn’t look back. She has already explained herself to one parent, and she knows she will not be able to escape Neytiri were she to object to this mission.

The sun is in her eyes, and she finds something like solace that they are stinging from something other than tears.

༄

The humans are careless as babies, Venus thought, rejoicing in their small victory. Their ships are loud, and they fly low along the trees; they believe they are invincible, with their guns and metal beasts.

She knew better- as soon as the RDA returned, she and Neteyam took to studying old logs of patrol patterns and fighting strategies. It was only a matter of time until there was a call to action.

Now, she and Rutx clung to a cliff, watching patiently for the ship Jake had described. Txampay had not been with them for about an hour now. The sun had risen slightly, and the world was bathed in orange and red as rider and mount prepared for death. Rutxïryo’s orange dots leant to camouflage best at this time, and Venus pressed herself to his back as they both watched the goings-on below.

It was near impossible to distinguish the Scorpions, but she waited for the comm at her throat to pick up the signal.

Static.

More static.

“Razor to Swordfish, do you read?” came crackling english over the the speaker. Venus closed her eyes.

“Swordfish to Razor, we copy. Changing patrol teams. Good luck out there.”

The scorpions parted ways, one heading back towards the newly established RDA base, and her target moving into position.

A streak of screaming blue and purple darted across her vision, and Txampay landed on the retreating one, pulling out one of its gunman and eating him headfirst before twisting the whole gunship upside down.

Venus and Rutxïryo dropped from the cliff side, rounding the Swordfish quickly to put and arrow through the pilot’s chest.

Before she could get there, Venus heard a flurry of gunfire, and Txampay screamed. The ikran’s chest exploded from the rain of bullets, blood coating her vibrant skin and the side of the ship. Venus cried out, docking an arrow. But Txampay just roared and clung to the scorpion’s railings, hurling it and herself into a cliff. The explosion was enough to temporarily knock Venus and Rutxïryo off balance in the air.

An ikran only bonds with one rider, and if that rider died, then the mount would live in solitude for the rest of its life.

Somewhere between the sound of crashing metal and roaring flame, Venus thought she heard a shrill cry of victory before the burning hunk of metal fell into the trees below.

Venus turned towards the Razor, watching it shake as the pilot panicked. Over the tapped comms, she could hear him frantically screaming for backup.

Rutxïryo twisted down and away from the burst of gunfire that came from the gunman, darting into hidden caverns in the floating mountains around them.

“Approach your prey downwind. Then it will never know you’re there.” her mother had whispered as she guided her bow. “Be patient, and wait for your opening.”

She guided her ikran below the yellow underbelly of the scorpion, twisting so that she faced the cockpit. The pilot looked at her through the glass front, his mouth open as she aimed her arrow at his chest.

“And…release.” said her mother against the shell of her ear.

The glass shattered, and the ship tipped forward.

The gunman was next, and she dove down and around the ship to grab at him with Rutxiryo’s talons. But he ejected, the white of his parachute an unnatural spot against the orange sky.

Her ikran roared and grabbed the man by the strings of it, throwing him into the trees where the ship had crashed. Venus bared her teeth, blood roaring in her ears as she heard the man’s scream, hand on his comm in hope that someone would come in time.

You were dead the moment you ambushed them.

The heat of the burning scorpion made the skin of her back tingle as she landed. In the depths of the flames, she could see the body of the pilot, impaled with her arrow, and the other gunman burning.

She knew that many humans prayed to a God that promised penance in a burning underworld, and Venus hoped that the fire that they perished in was only the beginning of their suffering.

Something in her peripheral vision moves, and Rutxïryo squeals and flings her to the side just as the sound of gunfire bursts across the clearing. A bullet scratched her arm, and Rutxïryo let out a shrill scream when one pierced his wing membrane. Venus unsheathed her knife and flung it across the clearing.

The parachuted gunman cried out when his shoulder was sliced through, dropping the small handgun to the ground. She stepped towards him, watching how his heels pushed at the dirt in an effort to get away from her. Her foot came down on his chest, and he wheezed as it pressed against his likely-broken ribs.

“Please.” the man hissed, wincing at the pressure. But his begging feel on deaf ears.

Venus peeled her lips back in a snarl as she knelt, hovering over him as she let him hear her rage. Quick as lightening, she pulled her knife from his shoulder and raised it above her head. The man opened his mouth in protest, but she was blind now. Nothing could halt her resolve.

The blade sunk into his soft tummy easily, the flesh giving way to warm innards as his mouth widened in a silent scream. She leant closer to his face to look him in the eyes as she pulled the blade up, slicing him open from his navel to his ribcage. She felt the slick warmth of his blood around her fist, and she was reminded of the cold feeling of Lilianna’s body as they sliced her open.

“May you rot.” she hissed in her mother tongue as she made the final cut from his sternum to his throat, and his flailing ceased.

She dropped back on her heels and tipped her head to the sky in a scream of victory and grief, calling the hungry to feast on her kill. She took one last look at the corpse before she mounted Rutxïryo and flew home.

༄

Daylight pierced the edges of High Camp, but most of the clan was still asleep. It was early morning now, and Venus held her still bloody hands close to her stomach as she approached her family’s tent.

It was empty, and Venus thanked the Great Mother for it as she sank onto her mat, kneeling down so that her forehead pressed to the soft material. She kept her hands away from it, refusing to stain the woven fibers with demon blood.

She was silent for a few moments before the weight of it all crashed down on her, and something between a sob and a dry heave clawed its way up her throat.

Venus cried into the ground, her shoulders shaking as she wept for the dead, for the martyred. She ground her teeth together as the blood caked and dried, staining her skin.

She recognized his footsteps instantly, turning her head to meet his eyes, her cheek rested against the mat.

Her father looked down at her, silhouetted by the new dawn, his face indeterminate as her eyes adjusted. She knew what he must see, knew what she appeared to be.

Vengeful, hateful, wretched, monstrous.

Gone was his precious baby girl who he could cradle and shield. The one who he would protect with his life. The one who beckoned him with clenching fingers and raised arms.

That girl died the moment Lilianna did, the instant the Sky People returned, the second he came home with a grim expression and war in his eyes.

Venus leant back and raised her bloody hands to him, and the smell of iron wafted throughout the tent. Tears dropped off her chin as she stretched her arms, pleading. She honestly expected disgust. She didn’t know what she wanted from him now. He had been right: nothing could bring Lilliana, her mate, or her son back. Venus thought he would turn away from her and never look at her again.

She did not expect for him to drop to his knees before her and haul her into his arms as if she was still three.

“I have failed you.” he whispered against her hair, ignoring how her bloody hands pressed to his skin. “And I’m so sorry, baby girl.”

She screamed into his chest then, beating her fists against him as everything caved in. And he let her, all the while consoling her with quiet words and apologies. He kissed her temple and held her close, and for once in many years Venus felt small against her father.

Neytiri found them like that, her sobbing dryly against his chest and him weathering her storm. Her mother brought a cloth to clean her hands with and began to take down her hair, and they stayed leaning against one another for some time.

Mother and daughter and father, united by the pain of sacrifice.

Before they laid Lilly and her family to rest amongst the roots of the Tree of Souls, Venus cut a few strands of Cantù’s, Lilliana’s, and Tìfnu’s hair. With the help of her grandmother, she braided the strands into a woven ball and encased it in tree sap, hardening it into a bead. Kiri added the tiny necklace she had made for the baby to it, and together they added it to her songcord.

The beads twinkled in her ear as she held the atokirina in her hands, watching its movements before allowing it to drift down to the three bodies, curled around each other as if in deep sleep.

While the clan sang for them, Venus turned to the rising sun and stared into it, letting it blind her.

Two month’s later, Venus turned eighteen.

༄

Case 4:56-mr-09675-BER Document-Angel of Death Entered on May XX, 2169 Page 1 of 1

CLASSIFIED BY THE RESOURCES DEVELOPMENT ADMINISTRATION.

On today, May the XX of 2169, a mayday call and request was received from Scorpion ‘Razor’ at 05:45 am, only about half a minute after the pilot of the craft had signaled Scorpion Swordfish to change watch shifts. According to the brief and choppy signal, the two crafts were attacked by a lone Na’vi and two banshees. The Swordfish, after being retained and studied by forensics and mechanics, had deep grooves from a large aerial animal, most likely the lone pale blue banshee. One of the gunman were not found at the sight of crash, and the forensics team has deemed that the soldier was most likely thrown by the animal from the sky. The two bodies that were present at the scene had been mauled by a pack of viperwolves, and their remains will be cremated.

The Razor has visual evidence of the assault, with a vivid picture of the lone na’vi being recovered from the front camera of the cockpit.

(📎) image description - The banshee itself is vertical and perpendicular to the Scorpion, with its back turned to the cockpit and its wings spread wide. It’s a vivid blue, with orange stripes running alone its back. The na’vi sits at its shoulders, leaning back to aim an arrow directly into the cockpit. Her eyes are marred with black lines of dirt or coal-dust, and her attire is simplistic. Due to the paint, it cannot be discerned wether she has eyebrows or not. She is lighter in skin tone, but clearly Omatikaya.

Dr. Robert Alza, Xenobiologist and future Recombinant Primary Medical Technician, estimates the girl to be in her late teens and approaching adulthood. (Added by Robert Alza- She wears many arm bands, and the length and detail on her bow leads I and my team to believe she has been a warrior of the clan for some time now. The size of her ikran is also indicative: no doubt the two have been paired for a few years for him to be so large.) She has been marked as a threat in the system, and all patrol personal have been warned against flying too far into Hostile Territory.

This attack occurred after an attack not twenty-four hours before. A group of Na’vi banshee riders were discovered and chased, and Jake Sully was identified. One na’vi male was taken down, and many have pointed to the actions of this girl to be retribution.

To add to this conclusion, the men of the Razor were found to be burnt to a crisp inside of their Scorpion. The pilot was discovered to be impaled through the chest by an arrow once the craft had been throughly extinguished, and the body of one gunman was found in the backseat.

The other gunman was discovered not one hundred feet away, he himself appearing mauled just as the soldiers of the Swordfish. When studying his body, however, forensics discovered a stab wound from his lower abdomen up to his jaw, too sharp to have been done by a native species.

The girl has been called The Angel of Death by many, and a group of soldiers formed quickly to mutiny and kill her. They were disciplined and are now out of commission.

The girls identity has not yet been found, and the RDA CEO’s have decided not to press the issue until there is any more disruptions.

༄

It felt like something was pressed against Lyle’s ears as he stared at the image, studying the glaring eyes and the sure aim. If he had never seen Venus before, he wouldn’t have recognized her.

But he did recognize her, just as he recognized the look in her eyes as she started into the cockpit.

It was the same way she had looked at Quaritch when she had first dropped from the trees, aiming an arrow at his head in the same instant the Colonel had aimed a gun at her brother’s.

Cool acceptance. A promise of death.

Before he could even think to go back, Lyle watched as the document and its link disappeared. With nothing else to do, and frankly and eagerness to dispel the image from his mind, he clicked on the second link.

༄

Ku’altu was going to strangle Lui’to.

“Just because father said that I couldn’t get close doesn’t mean I can’t come, ‘altu!” his thirteen year old brother called over his shoulder as he flew ahead of the hunting party. Around him, Ku’altu’s friends chuckled, though a glare from him silenced it.

“The jungle is no place for the young, Lui. Go home!” he yelled, but Lui’to simply turned his face to the sky and laughed.

In truth, the idea that the jungle was dangerous was laughable to a Tawkamian child. They knew the flora and fauna like they knew their songcords: from birth and with perfection. Growing up in a clan that valued appreciation of the wildlife as much as the Tawkami did leant their fear of it to be, well, considerably less than many of the other clans.

But it wasn’t the natural beings of Pandora that Ku’altu worried about.

“The skypeople wont stop at the Omatikaya, Father.” Ku’altu tried, sitting cross legged in a clan meeting. His father, Ank’tanu, had already shot him down before, exasperated at his son’s repeated attempts to get the Tawkami involved in the oncoming war. “We must prepare for conflict when it arises. And it will arise.”

“Do not tell me how to lead my people, boy.” the Olo’eyktan yelled over the clammer of advising voices. “You know nothing of war. We don’t have the provisions to defend ourselves, let alone another clan! To rush into war is to call the nantang to our doorstep before we can even speak.”

Ku’altu rose to his feet in agitation, trying and failing to get someone to take him seriously. But before he could even open his mouth, his father hissed.

“You wouldn’t be this invested in a war concerning the Omatikaya if you hadn’t tried to court the half-breed daughter of Toruk Makto.” Ank’tanu said lowly.

Ku’altu had stormed out to avoid getting into a fight with his own father.

He hated to admit it, but Ku’altu knew his father was mostly right. Yes, his father was selfish for wanting to stay out of war even if it meant another would endure hardship. But was he not also selfish for caring for a clan simply because of its Tsakarem?

It haunted him at night, wondering if he’d want to defend a clan so ardently if Venus wasn’t in it.

It had been nearly two years since that night in the pool, but he could still envision it clear as day. Sitting atop his ikran, the sunrise lighting his body, he could still feel the cool water lapping at his thighs, the hands resting against his shoulders, her mouth pressing to his. It was embarrassing, truly. But every time his parents brought up the idea of mates, all he could see was a dancing girl illuminated by firelight, reaching a hand to him and asking him to dance.

But these memories were now plagued by visions of war, of Venus riding her ikran into battle, of her getting wounded. It was haunting, and sometimes he woke up in a cold sweat with her name on his tongue and his heart running in his chest.

Ku’altu worried that the RDA would lose interest in the Omatikaya and come for his own clan, seeking trade. The Tawkami were not as war prepared as the Omatikaya, so the risk would be less.

It was this thought that guided his hesitance to allow Lui’to to fly with them. His brother was fresh out of his iknimaya ceremony, his mount a young male ikran with a tendency to snap at the others. If something were to go wrong, Ku’altu feared that his brother wouldn’t know what to do. Eywa, he didn’t know if he’d know what to do.

The prey was becoming scarce, more and more herds of large game migrating away from the Tawkami territory. It was alarming: Greenhome was a safe haven for many species. But recently, Ku’altu and his hunters had only observed four healthy herds of yerik grazing. His mother sought answers in Eywa, but the Great Mother had been largely silent to Suna.

Ku’altu’s ikran dove over a lake as he scouted out cleared trails of sturmbeast, the group of banshee’s calling to one another about scents picked up. Right as his ikran picked up the smell of prey, a large boom sounded off in the distance.

The group halted over the water, flying in place as the ground shook softly. Ripples spread across the lake’s surface, and Ku’altu squinted in the direction they started from.

“What the hell was that?” murmured Tu’la to his left.

Ku’altu was inclined to call the party back and away to camp, but a yellow spot zoomed past them and towards the explosion, Lui calling back to them to follow. Ku’altu had half the mind to just leave him to make his way back, but another large boom caused even more noise, and he chirped for the hunting party to follow in the chase.

Lui was far in front of them, fast with youth and innocence. He knew nothing of what could be ahead, and that excited him. But the older boys feared it, having heard stories of powerful explosions that would blow Na’vi to dust. Ku’altu could just barely make out his brother in the blinding sunrise, a small blue-green spot atop a yellow banshee.

They passed by downed trees, and the boys circled them to see that the roots were destroyed, completely blasted. Ku’altu spotted bits of twisted metal amongst the dirt, and he dove to see it closer.

He landed and picked up a piece, studying it carefully. His stomach dropped when he read the words in thick black type- the same black type he had seen on the fallen amp suits buried in Omatikayan greenery.

PROPERTY OF THE RDA.

A distant scream ripped through the air, accompanied by the sound of a machine gun unloading its bullets into the sky.

Ku’altu was on his ikran and flying faster than he ever had, desperately trying to get to where his brother had cried out from. His friends followed, except for one, Tai, who flew quickly back to Greenhome to get backup.

They landed in the trees quietly, trying to scout out what was going on before they attacked. Ku’altu had to restrain himself at the scene before his eyes.

Lui’to was trapped under his ikran, the banshee’s yellow skin colored orange with blood from the gunfire. He tried to get out from under the body to no avail. Four amp suits and multiple RDA foot soldiers aimed their guns at his brother, calling something to him. Neither he nor Lui knew english well enough to understand it, but the body language was clear.

Don’t fucking move.

Time stood still. Lui tried to wriggle out from his ikran’s corpse and away from the guns, his eyes wild as he called again for Ku’altu.

Please, Eywa, have mercy.

One of the soldiers stepped too close, and Lui hissed and pulled his knife from his side.

Lui’s chest lit up with at least fifteen red spots. The boy went still as one of them moved up to aim between his eyes. Someone cocked their gun.

Ku’altu’s ikran screamed as she slammed into one of the amp suits, sending it toppling back. Ku’altu, on foot, delivered the killing blow with his arrow.

The clearing exploded with sound and gunfire, and Ku’altu felt more than one bullet shoot past him as he ran towards Lui. He grabbed his brother by the underarms, hauling him out from under his ikran before ordering him to run to the trees. Lui’s eyes darted over his shoulder, and Ku’altu had no time to react before a hand seized his neural queue and tugged him off his feet.

He hissed, beating the metal arm of the AMP suit as he twisted in air. His spine was searing hot, and his vision went partially black at the pain of the tendon being pulled away from his skull. Lui was screaming, scrambling back, and he heard the crash of a body hitting the ground somewhere behind him.

Ku’altu was forcefully turned around to stare at the pilot of the suit, and the man grinned as he raised his oversized knife to Ku’altu’s throat.

He saw the reflection of his father’s ikran in the glass before the arrow even hit it.

The shield shattered, and some of the glass shards cut at Ku’altu’s chest as he dropped to the ground. He grabbed Lui by the arm, looking around for his ikran.

He saw her, her purple body collapsed on top of an AMP suit. It was only upon running to her then he realized that she was impaled through the gut by one of the knives, blood leaking from her open mouth.

Ku’altu tucked Lui into his side as he turned, watching as his friends and the adults come to relieve them fell to guns. His father roared in the air before his ikran landed behind his sons. The male banshee screamed as he covered Ku’altu and Lui, shielding them from the onslaught of bullets.

“Get to the trees!” his father yelled, and Ku’altu hauled Lui onto his back and ran for the foliage.

But as they crossed the clearing, their father not far behind, Ku’altu heard a distinct hiss that made his hair stand up.

“It’s gasoline.” said Venus softly, catching some of the dark liquid in a leaf. They were crouched at a fallen amp suit, half covered by the metal as she pointed to its metallic intestines.

She carefully took the leaf to a cleared spot of dirt, pouring a long trail of it before dumping it into a puddle at the end. Ku’altu watched her curiously, studying the way that she didn’t touch the foul-smelling water. Venus set the leaf inside of the AMP suit before returning to his side.

“You take some fire.” she whispered as she struck flint at the end of the long line, crouching down to be at level with the gasoline. “And you light it.”

The first explosion took them off their feet, both Ku’altu and Lui flying forward. Lui landed facing the clearing, Ku’altu facing the trees.

“And the fire travels from here, to there.” she whispered against his ear, placing an arm against his chest to prevent him from getting too close.

“What happens when it gets to the larger spot?” he asked, his heart speeding up under her touch.

He watched as the burning amp suit fell over into another, a louder hiss sounding in the air when they stumbled towards a group of plastic wrapped packages labeled, in english, EXPLOSIVES.

Venus leaned closer as she lit the gas. Her mouth brushed against his ear, and his arm wrapped around her waist to hold her against him.

“Boom.”

Ku’altu cried out for everyone to get down, lunging for Lui to turn him away. But he couldn’t reach, and suddenly everything was loud and white.

Vaguely, he registered that he was in the air before he came crashing down. Ku’altu’s skin felt cold, but after a few moments, the chill turned into blistering heat, and Ku’altu registered that his skin was burning. The material below him was hard and warm, the lines of it burrowing into his skin. He tried to open his eyes.

“Don’t.” came his fathers voice, gruff and strained as he pressed a hand over his son’s eyes. Ku’altu jumped at the proximity of the sound, but relaxed when he recognized his father.

It only took one try to discover that he couldn’t speak, either. He swallowed and waited for his throat to comply.

“Father.” he managed, his throat burning with the effort. Ank’tanu’s hand remained against his face, and Ku’altu tried to breathe past the smoke and the smell of smoldering flesh.

“I’m sorry.” his father whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Ku’altu tired to find his father’s other hand with his, but his fingers came away wet.

“Dad…” he rasped. “Dad, what’s going on?”

“I should have listened to you. I shouldn’t have said those things to you in that meeting. Eywa knows I trust your judgement more than I let myself admit.”

“Father, speak plainly.”

“I wish I had been better. Tell your mother I’m sorry.”

Ank’tanu’s hand fell from his face, and Ku’altu opened his eyes.

At first, all he could see was red. He raised a shaking hand to wipe at his eyes, and blood smeared across his face. He blinked it a few times and looked forward.

His father, the greatest man he had ever known, the one who had taught him how to hunt and how to walk and how to speak, was in front of him, his right arm missing, and his body impaled upon a slice of metal from a ruined AMP suit.

Ku’altu opened his mouth to scream, and his vision went black.

༄

Case 4:56-mr-09675-BER Document-Tawkami Bombing Incident. Entered on May XX, 2169 Page 1 of 1

CLASSIFIED BY THE RESOURCES DEVELOPMENT ADMINISTRATION.

On today, May XX of 2169, there was a brief insurgency near the territory of the Tawkami clan. The initial call for backup was received at about 07:15 hours, but when reinforcements arrived, the conflict had already simmered.

Ten armed foot soldiers and four AMP suits had been sent out to begin clearing for another base, much like Bridgehead, to begin negotiations with neighboring tribes. To do so, they were issued explosives that would be placed along the roots of the surrounding trees to uproot them, efficiently clearing space. However, not a few rounds after they began, a na’vi atop a yellow banshee appeared above the group. They were fired upon and told to stand down.

When the na’vi did not do so, they were approached with assault rifles and amp suits. It escalated into a skirmish when a purple banshee emerged from the surrounding trees and attacked an AMP suit. Many more na’vi appeared, and some flew in. A significant amount of explosives were activated by a flaming AMP suit, and there was no movement in the clearing when new soldiers came to refresh the previous squad.

All fourteen issued RDA personal were KIA, and only three of the na’vi survived.

They were identified as a Tawkami warrior, a young son of the now-deceased Olo’eyktan, and the eldest son. They were taken to a nearby RDA facility to be treated and studied. After about twelve hours, a banshee and woman approached the base with no weapon. She was identified as the Tawkamian Tsahík, Suna, and the local RDA administrator and translator began negotiating.

For the safety of her people and her sons, the Tsahík agreed that the Tawkami would trade freely with the RDA, and the location of their sacred village Green Home was revealed. Her sons were healed to the best of the doctor’s abilities and given back to their people, along with the warrior. The young Olo’ekte would be placed as Olo’eyktan once he was healed enough.

The previous Olo’eyktan, Ank’tanu, died in the skirmish.

༄

“Lyle.” came a soft whisper, tearing his eyes away from the screen.

Venus watched him from a distance, carefully perched on one of the smaller limbs of the tree. She always made it look effortless, no matter how thin the branches got. Brown had nearly fell out of a tree when he tried to mirror her movements a week ago, and it was only Venus’s grip on his shirt that had kept him safe on his feet. It was ominous, how she looked at him. It made his skin crawl and his mind go static. Off putting, he’d describe it. Like Venus could see straight through his eyes and his skull and read his mind.

Maybe she could. Sometimes he wondered at just how much she understood, and just how much was guess work. It was an interesting survival strategy, making everyone believe you already expected every move they could ever make.

Venus knew everything about others, yet nothing about herself at the same time.

“Lyle.” she said again, and he refocused.

The only evidence of her crying was the puffiness of her eyes, accentuated by the glowing property of her irises. Otherwise, she looked like how steel felt; calm, collected, and composed. Venus looked like her mother. She had taken to braiding her hair tighter and back away from her face, the long braid trailing all the way to the small of her back, whipping like a tail when they flew. Gone were the curly strands that framed her cheeks and hid her eyes. There was coal around them now, some kind of show of mourning.

It reminded him of how she had looked in the photograph, aiming her arrow into the cockpit with certainty.

“Venus.” he replied, his voice at a whisper to not awake those around him.

Her eyes flickered across his face, and a flash of silver glimmered in her hand as she twisted her wrist. The darkness concealed what it was from him, and he peered at it curiously.

Venus tossed it in a smooth arc, and he caught it with one hand with ease.

He looked down to see a silver chain and two tiny dog tags in his palm. Well, not terribly tiny, rather relatively small. When he narrowed his eyes at the small punched-out script, he felt his chest tighten.

Cpl. Lyle Wainfleet. Type AB. SpecOps.

The metal was crinkled and weathered, with some parts smoothed from fidgeting. He ran his fingertips along the rounded edges of the tags, wondering at how they got so rubbed down.

The answer came to him quick.

They were his human dog tags- that much was clear by their size and state. But they were on his body when he had died. Venus, at some point, had found his fallen amp suit and taken them, keeping them all these years. Probably, the wear had come from her fidgeting.

“I used to wish that you were good.” she whispered, and he looked up again to find that she was closer now. “I used to watch the videos and hope that you would turn against them because you had me. That I would have made you realize how wrong it was.”

Venus gestured to the surrounding bodies, inhaling deep. “But I know now that there was never a thought in your mind to change. Because if there was, you would have taken this second chance and used it.”

She watched him for a moment. “If you want to cling to your past life so bad, then you can have those. Hold onto them just as your colonel does for all I care.”

With that, she vanished, leaving Lyle with a deadman’s necklace and a pit in his stomach.

Dread crawled up his spine as he glanced back down at the rapidly-disappearing email.

Warn her. Before it’s too late.

Lyle pressed the power button to the device, and leaned his head back against the tree to listen to the sound of the forest.

༄masterlist | next༄

tadah! heavy on the flashbacks this chapter, but i’m back!

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