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knight-of-aether · 5 months ago

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SWEU Fanon Codex: Red Zabrak in the Sith Empire

Thousands of years before the first Zabrak colonists crash landed on Dathomir, when the Nightbrothers and their kin had yet to exist, Force-sensitive Zabrak with bright red or orange skin could be found throughout the galaxy. These Zabrak owed their similar traits to their relationship with the Tsis, or ancestral Sith species, and their destinies were linked with the Sith Empire's long and bloody history.

I. Origins

During the early days of the Sith Empire, as it expanded within the isolated Stygian Caldera region, the Sith attempted to conquer and enslave worlds that had previously been settled by Iridonian Zabrak explorers, but they didn’t expect the local resistance - which was largely Force-blind - to put up as much of a fight as it did. In this clash between two warrior cultures, the Zabraks’ tenacity eventually earned the grudging respect of the larger Imperial army.

The Sith lords eventually decided that they were wasting resources on the war, and would be better off taking the locals as their servants and their lands as fiefdom than bombarding them into oblivion. Thus the first treaties were drawn up, with their terms leaning greatly in the Empire's favor. Most Zabrak clans, unwilling to admit defeat but exhausted by the war, agreed to join the Empire after several revisions to their terms. Those who refused were enslaved or executed, their lands confiscated and divided among the Sith and their new vassals.

Many Zabrak followed their new lords to the Sith homeworlds, including Korriban, Ziost, and the Dromund system. During the ages of the Great Hyperspace War and the Empire's fall and reconstitution, its Zabrak diaspora continued to grow. By the time of the Cold War, they had thoroughly intermingled with the last remaining Tsis and their Human-hybrid Red Sith successors, becoming their own hybrid people, the Red Zabrak.

II. Biology

While they share many traits with their Iridonian cousins, the Red Zabrak population has inherited notable Tsis features that are expressed to varying degrees in each individual.

Iridonian-inherited traits:

near-human height and generally fit build

vestigial horns that appear in the first few years of life, and grow in symmetrical patterns on the crown of the head

less hair than most mammalian species; no eyebrows or facial hair, often naturally bald

two hearts and resilient cardiovascular and nervous systems, resulting in greater stamina and a slightly higher pain threshold than many other near-human species

pronounced canine teeth and a metabolism optimized for a carnivorous diet

darkened camouflage striping or inkblot patterns that fade during adolescence, upon which tattoos are traditionally based

Tsis-inherited traits:

skin colors varying from burgundy through red, orange, and peach, similar to Red Sith in complexion and always more ruddy than Iridonian Zabrak

“bleeding” effect of a bright red ring around the iris, a partial expression of the Tsis species’ characteristic glowing eyes

heightened midichlorian levels and increased chance of Force sensitivity

Occasionally, Red Zabrak will display subtle, angular ridges across their skin. Though generally less noticeable than in Red Sith, these ridges have influenced their iconic face and body tattoos, which are a fusion of traditional Iridonian and Sith ritual tattoos that incorporate various symbols to convey clan affiliation and personal stories, and are often designed to outline and enhance any observable Tsis traits.

Bone spurs and cartilaginous tendrils, however, are recessive traits that were lost in most of the Red Zabrak population after first-generation hybrids. These traits, like the aforementioned ridges, appear with more frequency in Human-hybrid Red Sith due to both the selectiveness of the Sith elite, and the quirks of Tsis genetics.

III. Society

While Red Zabrak citizens are nominally equal with all free beings in the Empire, in practice they are second-class citizens compared to Red Sith and Humans, though with societal privilege above other nonhuman species, including Iridonian Zabrak. Scholarly opinion on the merit of their Sith blood weighed against their nonhuman heritage is mixed. Their treatment is comparable to that of the Chiss, but as ancient dependencies of the Empire rather than newfound foreign allies. Meanwhile, in Republic space, they are often viewed with distrust, if not outright detested by Iridonians as traitors to their species. Due to vows of fealty that were sworn when their clans first joined the Empire, many are bound to the ancient Red Sith aristocracy as vassals, with all that entails.

Family ties are vital in both Zabrak and Sith cultures, and the two have become inextricably entangled over their centuries together. The Zabrak openly regard their accomplishments in the Sith Empire as a point of pride and their allegiance as a concession that made both peoples stronger; according to their officially sanctioned history, the Sith definitively proved their superiority in the arena of war, and have remained worthy of following in their exploits to the present day.

Despite the Empire's tendencies towards forced assimilation, the clans have held onto some of their autonomy as agreed upon in their treaties - particularly to organize for cultural events, such as the yearly coming-of-age ceremony in which teenagers traditionally receive their first tattoos, after several days of combat sports, storytelling, and feasting. Large clan gatherings are required to be open to the public, and are routinely monitored by Imperial security forces, but are among the freest cultural expressions in the Empire outside Mandalorians.

Most young Red Zabrak end up in careers that will further the agendas of their affiliated Sith Houses - often the same ones their ancestors swore fealty to when the first treaties divided them among the Sith. Choosing a marriage or career that one’s clan or House disapproves of, or siding with a rival, is to become a social outcast at best. Since the Sith hold the strings of the Empire, they can and will obstruct and manipulate the paths of their servants, and sweep impromptu executions under the rug, in the name of preserving their power bases. Systemic xenophobia in the Empire at large makes social mobility for Red Zabrak even more challenging without Sith aid.

Stereotyped as violent, stubborn, and simple-minded but ultimately honorable aliens, Red Zabrak often end up in military positions within the Empire, and frequently serve as enforcers and assassins to their affiliated Sith houses. Despite the setbacks they face, this tenacious people can be found throughout the Empire in higher positions and greater numbers than any other non-Human or Sith species.

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durrtydawg · 2 months ago

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The Sadir Inheritance

{Sam Drake x F!Reader} Chapter 10 | '999'

Sorry this isn't Sam-heavy but I like this chapter rehhhhh. Good things come to those who wait x

masterlist ✨

Other chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

You thought being back in the UK would’ve been boring. Perhaps... you wish it was.

blood & injury mention

Word count: 4.6k-ish x

London feels different after being somewhere like Jordan.

It’s not just the weather - the biting, damp chill that lingers in your clothes, makes your hair ratty and frizzy all at once, no matter how much surface area your umbrella covers. It’s the pace of things. Slower in some ways, suffocatingly fast in others. The tube rattles, dawdling tourists and miserable commuters create a constant clamour, and cars blur through rain-slicked streets - it’s cold, but damp and sweaty all the same, and yet somehow, in the overstimulating midst of it all, you feel... removed.

Disconnected.

Like part of you is still standing on that sun-drenched plateau in Petra, sand lodged in your stupidly chosen mesh trainers, wind whipping through your hair, the sting of sunburn blooming on your nose.

The real world, much to your sorrow, doesn’t pause for dreamy treasure hunts. Bills still exist. Bosses still get pissy when you disappear for too long.

Sam and Scott have alternated between being holed up in the British Library, sifting through microfilm and archive reels, and travelling slightly further out of the city - Surrey, then Sussex, now across to Kent, tracking down stately homes once in William Campbell’s possession.

And you?

Between pouring pints and wiping down sticky tables, you’ve been scribbling notes in the gaps of your battered notebook - half-formed theories, snippets of leads, anything that might connect Emaan Sadir to a child lost to history.

Names are underlined, question marks scattered, but the pieces still don’t fit.

You flip the pen between your fingers behind the bar at any given moment of peace, scanning the latest page.

Emaan died 1893, Layla died 1872. Baby? A smudge of green ink where you pressed too hard. Boy? Girl? Another scribbled out theory. A tap of the pen. Campbell - last ledger entry 1892, one year before Emaan kicked the bucket. Four sketched bird outlines. Coincidence? Foul play?

You’re stuck somewhere in the middle.

But you’re grateful. Grateful that you even got to go in the first place. Sam didn’t have to bring you. It’s not like you’re some hotshot archaeologist. You’re an ad hoc research assistant at best; enthusiastic tech-slash-moral support with a useless history degree.

And yet, you were there.

And now you’re here, slipping back into normality like a coat that’s grown a tad too tight since you last wore it.

Still, it’s important to count your blessings. At least the weird… shit has stopped. No headaches. No nosebleeds. No ominous figures lurking just out of sight - Not that you ever saw anyone back in Jordan, but Sam and Scott had been paranoid enough about being followed.

Your shift ended twenty minutes ago, but it’s safe to say your sleep-deprived brain is still buzzing - all of this untangling history alongside bar orders and shitty tips? You’re doing enough thinking for two.

You duck out of the spit, climbing into your car.

It’s eight-thirty-something pm. Day shift over. You’re knackered, there’s what you hope is a sticky beer stain on your jeans and your bed is very much calling. You slide behind the wheel, keys jingling as you stick them in the ignition.

The engine sputters, coughs once, then reluctantly rumbles to life.

You give the dashboard a light pat, letting out a breath of relief as the car settles into a steady, if slightly unconvincing, idle.

She’s been cooped up in an airport car park for two weeks, gathering dust and sulking in the British drizzle. You fear she’s on her last legs. Wheels. Whatever. The weird rattling coming from the engine has made that clear enough.

You settle in, adjusting your seat belt, tossing your book onto the passenger seat. Your fingers drum absently on the steering wheel as you wait for the mist to clear from the windscreen.

Sam would have something to say about the green ink smudged along the side of your hand.

Something glib. Teasing, probably. Or maybe he’d just point out, with a lazy half-smirk, that normal people don’t walk around looking like they’ve just done ten rounds against a leaky biro.

You can almost hear it - his voice, dry with some sort of muted amusement. It’s not hard to picture the way his eyes would flick to your hand, then back to your face, with a distinctive kind of warmth you’ve grown to enjoy.

Like you’d done to him on the plane home.

You hadn’t meant to look at him for so long. But he’d fallen asleep on your shoulder, and in the dim hush of the cabin, with the drone of the ventilation lulling you into something close to contentment (despite just recovering from what might be one of the worst headaches you’ve ever had), it had felt impossible not to watch. His hand had twitched once against his thigh - dreaming, maybe - but otherwise, he’d been still. Peaceful, weirdly.

But that wouldn’t explain why you’d kept looking. Why you’d let your eyes stay glued to him past the point of casual observation, tracing the crease in his brow, the way his face softened in sleep, the ratio between how much salt versus how much pepper was stippled across his jaw.

And - God, weird, right? - that that was the second time he’d fallen asleep beside you in the past couple of days.

He’s always going on about his insomnia. That it’s a thing. That he doesn’t sleep well, doesn’t sleep often. And yet-

What is it they say about being around someone you like? Like… like like? Oxytocin? Dopamine? Some chemical thing?

Oh, for God’s sake.

You roll your shoulders back, crack your neck, shake the thought off like a dog would with water.

It wasn’t oxy-bloody-tocin. He was tired. Both times. That’s it.

It was just a long flight.

That’s all.

And you’re reading far too deeply into your own emotions, too, because it had been the same with Scott, hadn’t it?

A harmless, fleeting sort of pitching in your stomach. The kind of admiration that fizzles out before it can become anything invasive - just when his self-awareness of his looks and intelligence and general grade-A excellence in everything started to grate more than inspire.

This will fizzle out too. It has to. Not that you’d realistically get a second glance from either of them. Ha.

Sam already doesn’t take you seriously, does he - and if he ever got the slightest inkling that-

You huff.

More futile overthinking to fill the void.

The windscreen is still fogged over, so you crank up the heat dial a notch, settling back into your seat as the day washes over you. You fold your arms against the cold, watching the mist clear in slow, uneven patches-

Then your phone buzzes violently from the cup holder.

You glance down, and-

What a coincidence.

You smile despite yourself, digging the phone out and swiping to answer.

“Did you know the British Library doesn’t actually let you check out books?”

You huff in amusement, “Every day's a school day, Samuel."

“Stupid, if you ask me.” A faint tut. “I mean, it’s a library.”

You snort, reaching for the gear stick as the mist on your windshield starts to clear enough to drive. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Eh.” You can hear the shrug. “Just wanted to hear your voice.”

You pause.

Probably nothing more than one of his usual throwaway remarks, and you know better than to misconstrue something that’s purely his character. But still - something tightens in your chest before you can stop it.

You shake it off, scoffing lightly. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Sweet-talker.”

“Guilty.”

You roll your eyes, easing out of the car park. “How’s your thrilling week of stately home trespassing?”

Sam groans. “If I see one more oil painting of some smug bastard with mutton chops, I’m gonna start growin’ 'em in my sleep.”

“Eurgh. That bad, then?”

“It’s like these guys never heard of redecorating. Campbell’s family really stuck to the whole ‘evil rich guy’ aesthetic. Scotty boy’s eatin’ it up. A bit too… put-together for my liking, though.”

“‘Course it is.”

A sigh.

“Anyway, I’m currently diggin' through microfilm like I’m some eighties movie extra, but Scott’s down near…” He pauses, exhaling, “Uh… Chatham. Can you, uh, do me a favour?”

You hum, slowing at a red light, brakes squeaking as you come to a stop. “Depends. Am I gonna get arrested?”

“Not if you drive safely.”

"Are you implying I drive unsafely?"

"Well," He says tightly before clearing his throat. "I'm still try'n'a work out why I've had a crick in my neck since you drove us back from the airp-"

“Sam.”

He makes a sort of low 'heh' sound that makes your mouth twist in a suppressed grin. “Alright, look, he just needs an extra pair of hands to make sure he doesn’t… I dunno, fall through some rotten floorboards, or get possessed, or anything, y’know? He’s onto somethin' - or so he says - and I can’t get down there yet.”

You sigh, tapping the wheel. “You really know how to sell an evening.”

“C’mon,” he draws it out, “You’ll love it. Derelict site, middle'a nowhere, definitely haunted. Plus,” he pauses for half a second, reducing volume, “Took me forever to score this chair and I sure as shit am not lettin' it go now.”

“I don’t know… I was going to throw a day-out-of-date korma in the microwave and catch up on Bake Off, but-” You sigh, drawing it out teasingly. “I suppose I could rearrange my schedule.”

“You goin' or what?” You can hear the smile in his voice.

You should play it cool. Shouldn’t need the validation nor feel the ridiculous, somewhat embarrassing rush of relief at the idea that, yeah, you are still part of this - that Sam wants you to be. But you do.

You shake your head, already flicking on your indicator. “Of course I’m going.”

A hum of approval, and then: “Atta girl.”

The phrase lands low in your stomach. You glance out at the empty road, mouth twisting in an effort to ignore the stupid little grin tugging at your lips. Pathetic form, really.

You flick the wipers on to clear the droplets from the windscreen as you trundle along a pot-hole-riddled tarmac. “Scott’s already there?”

“Yeah. Pokin’ around.” A rustle of paper. “I’ll get him to send you the details.”

“Sounds good.”

A pause.

Then-

“Hey,” he says.

You pause, too. “…Yes?”

There’s a shift on his end.

“Be careful, alright?”

Your grip tightens slightly around the wheel.

It’s a stupid thing to get stuck on. A normal thing, something anyone would say.

And yet, something in you bristles. You’re not a child. You don’t need to be treated like one.

Hiding an important piece of the Sadir puzzle, and odd physical symptoms of something you've given up trying to decipher aside, you’ve managed just fine so far, haven’t you?

But then, beneath that, there’s something else. A smidgen of warmth melting away the edges of your irritation, soft - insidious. Because he means it, doesn’t he? Because he wouldn’t say it if he didn’t.

You swallow. Push past it. “I’ll be fine.”

“…Yeah.” A pause. “I know.”

Neither of you say anything for a second.

Then-

“Alright,” he exhales. “Go forth, kick some doors down. I’ll tell Scott to give you a buzz.”

You let out a breath. “Thanks, Sam.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, “Yeah.”

And then the line clicks dead.

A text pings through minutes later,

The message is short, clipped. All function, no fluff - typical Scott. You stare at it for a second, thumb hovering over the keyboard before typing out a quick:

Me: On my way. Save any drama for my arrival.

Buzz.

Scottimus Prime: No promises ;)

You huff a quiet laugh, securing your phone in its holder, already turning the car toward the A2.

Address in tow, the hum of the engine and nighttime talk radio fills the quiet, and for a while, you let your mind drift - half-focused on the road, half on everything else. Sam’s voice still knocks around somewhere in the back of your skull, your thoughts curling around words he probably didn’t mean as much as you wanted him to.

You sigh, pressing a little harder on the accelerator and cranking up the radio. Not the time for that.

The satnav’s voice cuts through from time to time, guiding you turn by turn until the lights of the suburbs blur into open stretches of countryside. The road winds on, the sky turning a deeper shade of grey as you leave the familiar behind.

When you finally pull up to the site, the place looks about as inviting as you expected.

The crunch of gravel under your tires gives way to the unsettling silence of an overgrown driveway, the car rolling to a stop outside what was once - presumably - a grand country estate. You sit for a second, fingers still curled around the wheel, as your headlights let you take it in.

It’s exactly what you expected, but somehow worse; its decay isn’t just age, but abandonment. Half-eaten by time. Late Victorian - what remains of it, anyway. A hulking old thing, all crumbling brickwork and weather-stained stone, the kind of house that was probably in a stately homes guidebook once, before it got sold off to some lazy private buyer who left it to rot. Even the health and safety demolition site notices are discoloured from mere time.

You step out of the car, boots crunching against the dirt-streaked gravel, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and thick veins of ivy. The main house looms over you, its façade partially strangled by greenery, roots and vines pushing through the cracks like nature itself has tried reclaiming it by dragging it back down into the ground.

You pull out your phone, tapping out a quick message.

Me: Estoy aquí. Where r you?

No immediate response. You frown, shoving your phone back into your jacket as you step forward, pushing through the overgrown hedges toward the entrance.

The front doors are ajar, hanging slightly off their hinges, an uneven gap leading into the shadowed interior. The wind whistles softly through the broken windows, rattling the few remaining shards of glass still clinging to their frames.

You glance at your phone again.

Still nothing.

The air inside the house sort of reminds you of the men’s bathroom in the pub. Stale. Damp. Generally unpleasant with period features that have gone through decades of maltreatment. Luckily, this isn’t a place you’re expected to tackle hourly with a toilet brush and a bottle of bleach, though it doesn’t make it any less repellant.

You step forward cautiously, boot scuffing against debris. Dust motes swirl in your headlights’ dying glow before the automatic shut-off plunges everything into dimness. Your eyes adjust to the low light leaking in from outside, fingers tapping on your phone’s torch.

You move through what was probably a grand foyer, past the remains of a chandelier that’s lost most of its crystals - robbed, most likely - only a skeletal brass frame left to gather cobwebs. The walls, once probably covered in intricate paneling, are now peeling like old sunburn. Bits of plaster crunch underfoot.

Still no response from Scott. You check your phone again, the little read receipt stubbornly absent.

You grunt.

Your hand tightens around it as you turn a corner, pausing in front of a massive, dust-cloaked portrait, paint discoloured and peeling, laid lopsided on the floor. Another Victorian bastard stares back at you - some dead-eyed, moustachioed old fart with eyes that follow you.

You snap a photo and fire it off to Sam.

Me: Feeling those mutton chop follicles a’growing?

Samalam: 👴🏼❌.

Samalam: Did I use those correctly?

You smirk, but it fades fast. Scott still hasn’t replied. A thread of unease winds itself through your ribs as you pocket your phone and move deeper inside.

You pass a bookcase, most of its shelves emptied, a few yellowed tomes left to sag in their decay.

Reaching out, you trail a finger through the dust, the disturbed particles swirling as you agitate it.

Then - a creak.

You freeze.

Another sound follows, a dull thud from upstairs.

Your stomach tightens.

“Scott?” You sing-song.

No answer. Just the wind wheezing through the shattered windows, rattling loose panes. You roll your shoulders, exhaling sharply.

Still, you move towards the staircase, the wooden steps groaning under your weight.

As you climb, a dull ache curls behind your temples - you pin it down to dehydration and wince, rubbing your forehead. Absent-mindedly, you reach back to wrestle in your bag for your water bottle - only to realise, with a tut, you’ve left it in the car.

You push through the headache and keep moving.

The second floor is worse than the first - colder, somehow. The air is thinner. Your hands graze the wall as you walk, the wallpaper beneath them cracked and dampened.

To no avail, you call out for Scott once more, before you pull out your phone and dial.

The ringing barely has time to connect before a tinny, distant chime of Marimba echoes through the silence.

Scott’s ringtone.

Your pulse kicks up. The sound is muffled, swallowed by the high ceilings, but you can tell - he’s nearby. You take a step forward, turning toward the source, and then you see a bookcase, toppled and broken, its warped shelves forming a splintered barricade between you and the next room.

The sound is coming from behind it.

You hesitate, then press a hand against the wood, pushing experimentally. It doesn’t budge so you try again, planting your feet, throwing your weight into it. Still nothing.

"I hope you’re enjoying this, knobhead." you mutter, breath coming short.

No answer. Just the shrill persistence of his ringtone.

Huffing, you drop to your knees and eye the gap underneath. Just wide enough.

You sling your bag through first.

With a sigh, you flatten yourself, forearms sinking into dust and debris as you inch forward, accidentally shining the torch into your eyes once or twice, which does little to quell your headache. The air tastes stale, thick with rot and something coppery. You swallow against the tightness in your throat, trying not to cough.

Pushing up onto your knees, you shuffle awkwardly through the last of the gap and brace a hand against the bookcase as you rise.

The moment you straighten up, a rush of dizziness blooms behind your eyes, a sudden, tilting sensation that sends the room pitching sideways. You blink hard, stumbling into the wood, exhaling slowly until the feeling ebbs, breathing through it.

Too fast. You got up too fast.

The phone is still buzzing, discarded in the middle of the floor. Odd.

“Alright,” you mutter, turning in a slow circle. “Aren't you bored yet?”

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. Something’s off.

You reach down and pick it up. The screen is cracked, smeared with something dark along the edge. Your own call flashes across it for a second before cutting out, plunging the room into silence.

Your eyes sweep the room, searching for movement, a shadow, some sign of his usual cocky grin peeking around a corner.

But there’s nothing.

…Aside from a leg.

Sticking out from behind a battered chest of drawers.

Your stomach knots.

"Scott?"

Your voice feels thin. You take a step closer. Another. Your frown deepens.

You round the corner, then you see him. Slumped against the wall.

Your breath catches, and for a second your trainers remain firmly pinned to the ground.

His head is tilted at an unnatural angle, his face half-hidden in the dark. His hair, usually pushed back and hairsprayed to perfection, flops over his brows.

The cold light of your phone skims over his features, and your stomach turns.

A split lip. Bloody nose. Bruises, deep and splotchy along his jaw.

What the fuck?

He moves.

It’s barely anything - a twitch of the fingers, a tiny grunt of discomfort.

Regardless, you gasp, a pathetic, breathy little sound of sheer relief as your body slumps forward, nearly collapsing onto him. “Oh, my God,” you choke out. “What the hell?”

Your hands move automatically, checking his pulse even though you’ve already seen him breathe. You press your fingers to his throat, then his wrist, the way you’ve seen in films. You don’t really know what you’re doing. But the steady flutter is there. He’s okay.

Still, your panic doesn’t fade. Not entirely. It just mutates. Because who on earth has done this to him?

You stumble back onto your heels, trying to catch your breath. “Okay. Alright. Ambulance,” you mutter, grabbing for your phone with trembling hands. “You need an ambulance, we need - fuck.”

As you say it, your thumb hesitates over the screen.

999.

You glance over your shoulder. The broken, boarded windows. The rotted walls. The shattered floorboards and toppled furniture. You’re not supposed to be here.

You’re trespassing.

“Shit,” you mutter again, louder now. “Shit, shit, shit-”

You start pacing in a tight circle, trying not to trip on the wreckage of the room. Call Sam? He’d know what to do. He always does. But he’s an hour-and-a-half away at best - maybe more - and you’d rather not wait around.

You chew your thumbnail, trying to force clarity into the chaos. You could move Scott. Carry him? No chance. Drag him downstairs? You’ll make it worse.

The phone shakes in your hand.

You’re just about to hit Sam’s name in your recents when the floor creaks behind you.

You whirl around.

A man stands in the doorway. Early thirties. Average height. Jeans, canvas jacket, slightly mussed hair - unassuming, completely forgettable in any other context.

Except for the blood crusting his knuckles. And the calm, amused tilt of his head, like he’s walked in on a mildly entertaining surprise.

It doesn’t take a genius.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

You say nothing at first. You can’t. Your mouth opens, closes.

He just watches you.

A sickly silence stretches between you, broken only by the wind outside and the low, unconscious breaths of Scott slumped behind you.

You bolt.

You barely register the choice - your body just moves. Skimming past him, down the hallway, praying your feet don’t catch, and the door you’re going for doesn’t lead to a dead end.

You make it halfway to it before a second figure appears, rounding the corner.

Taller. Broader than the other. His face is hidden by the low light.

You skid to a stop so fast your breath punches out of you.

The second man unfolds from the shadows, arms crossing lazily over his chest. He’s been waiting. He cocks his head, expression unreadable, then lifts his shoulders in a slow, mocking shrug. Oops.

Your stomach drops.

You turn around, pulse hammering in your throat, but the first man hasn’t moved. He’s still in the doorway, still watching you, that same idle amusement playing at the edges of his face.

You take an instinctive step back from him as man number two takes a step forward, caging you in.

Shit.

Your pulse throbs away between your ears. You glance past his shoulder, looking for another way out, but it’s all just peeling wallpaper and splintered floorboards. No exit. Nowhere to go.

He takes another step as the first man dips back into the room where Scott’s incapacitated in a corner. The moment your eyes meet and you realise how close he actually is his, your headache spikes like a blunt nail’s been lodged into your skull.

“Ah-” You cry out and stumble backward, one hand shooting out instinctively - only to hit the wall.

You crash against it and double over, clutching your head. It worsens as he gets closer. You retch, borderline immobile as you try and fail to look up at him, eyes wide and stinging.

“No- no-” Your breath comes in broken, shallow gulps, your knees threatening to give as the pain crests again and again. The same pressure. Pure agony. You know this. You remember this. Jordan. The tomb. The heat. The blood.

Not again.

The man says nothing. He just walks calmly forward.

You don’t know what they want. Who they are - what they’ve done to Scott. Why they’re here. Why this is happening again.

Your legs won’t hold. You crumple to your knees, then to your side, hands clenched in your hair, screaming inside your head. The pain is making it impossible to breathe, impossible to think.

You can’t look up. You’re half-kneeling, half-fallen, your forehead nearly touching the floor, hands digging into your scalp like you can dig the pain out if you try hard enough.

You’re dimly aware of footsteps. The second man grabs your arm. You flinch, try to twist away, but your body won’t cooperate. He hauls you upright like you’re made of paper.

“No-” you manage to croak, your voice barely audible.

You’re dragged backwards, heels scraping over splintered wood, one arm flailing weakly, the other pinned to your side.

Something - your phone - slips from your fingers, landing with a clack. You barely register it, but the screen flashes as it hits the floor.

A burst of light.

Blue and white. The selfie you took at the Petra lookout point.

Your thumb must’ve-

You did call him?

You did.

He’s-

The call’s still-

Is it ringing? Connected? You can’t tell. Everything’s sideways, off-kilter, noise and pain and Scott-

The corridor lurches and tilts with each step, your vision doubling. You think you hear Scott’s name fall from your lips, slurred and broken, but it might just be in your head.

Fuck, it feels like every ounce of pain you’ve ever felt in your life is in your head, so you wouldn’t be surprised.

You’re thrown. Your back hits the floor of the other room hard, the breath knocked out of you in a hoarse oof. Pain ricochets through your ribs, your shoulder, your skull. You curl on your side, blinking furiously, trying to focus. Nothing stays still long enough to make sense.

You don’t even realise you’re crying until you taste salt.

You lie there, blinking over at Scott. You just about make out his face crumpling in discomfort, but not for long. Everything swims. The shapes of the men blur.

��Looks like you two have been busy, huh?” one of them says. Fuck knows who - it crawls through your head, waterlogged.

You blink slowly, unable to move your head, unable to turn toward the voice. Your chest heaves as you try to breathe around the ache - fast, shallow breaths that won’t do your lungs the satisfaction of being filled. Your vision jumps, fractured by tears and panic.

Somewhere behind you, there’s a rustle of paper, the wet shhfff of pages turning. You can’t see it, but you know what he’s handling - your notebook. Your fucking notebook - the one you’ve kept from day one.

The sketches, the translations, the maps stapled in, the snippets of Sam’s handwriting in the margins. The theories all three of you scrawled at 2AM under torchlight on your last night in Jordan. Every dead lead, every almost-clue - weeks of work splayed in the dirt under his bloodied fingers. You sob, another trembling ‘no’ spurting from your spit-slicked lips.

You’re still trying to suck in a full breath, your lungs fluttering shallowly.

“Boss’s gonna love this.”

You don’t know who Boss is.

You don’t want to know.

The second man drops to a crouch in front of you. His face hovers too close. You can smell sweat and something sweet, chemical, underneath it. A quick nudge at your arm and you’re flat on your back.

You can’t focus on his features.

Black spots pop behind your eyes, swimming in and out of the moonlight. You try to move. You can’t. You squeeze your eyes shut, breathing ragged, fists curled tight at your temples as the pain pulses and pulses and pulses.

A copper taste creeps up your throat.

The second man crouches in front of you, and you realise, through the fog, that his expression is enjoying this.

He reaches into his pocket.

“Took this from your buddy over there,” he says casually.

You force your eyes open, just barely.

Something small gleams between his fingers. At first you think it’s a coin. But no - it’s round, and filigree. He twists it, lets it dangle in just above your eyes. Gold. A locket?

The moment you register what it is, a shrill, unnatural sound builds behind your ears. You let out a strangled, involuntary whimper. The air tightens. Your muscles lock.

Tremors begin in your fingertips. Then your legs. Your whole body starts to shake, teeth chattering. You can’t stop it. You don’t understand it. It’s worse than Jordan - worse than the crypt, reading William’s name in the ledger, when Scott told you about Emaan’s lover - and their potential child.

"Just…wondering if you've got anything similar to hand, princess."

You try to answer. To move. To scream. Plea. Shake your head. You can’t do anything. Until, you splutter.

The man leans in, watching with a curious tilt of his head and a smirk. Like a boy prodding at roadkill.

Intrigued.

“Huh.” he hums softly, as if he’s watching you have a reaction to a cheap magic trick.

The copper taste hits tenfold.

Then the warmth.

You're shaking uncontrollably now, whole-body tremors. Your vision pulses in and out. Heat dribbles across your face, something wet dripping down to your chin-

Your vision collapses into stars. Everything becomes blotchy. You spit and grit your teeth, eyes rolling back in an attempt to offset the pain.

Blood pours down your lips, choking you. You gag, spluttering as it slicks your skin, drips down your throat, drowns you.

You meet the man’s eyes - just for a second. He smiles, eyes widening with excitement. Like he’s been expecting this to happen.

"Shit! He was right." He says, excitedly up towards the other man.

Before you can question who, what, or why, everything goes black.

#sam drake #samuel drake #uncharted #samuel drake x reader #sam drake x reader #tsi

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