#bennys space squad | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hauntedjpegcollection · 1 year ago

Text

have fun

wc: 12,150 au: space horror au ch: xavier, benji, lark, matilda, benny, nomi, maran

“We’re allowed?”

It’s Maran who asks, his voice laced with surprise, but also a giant shine of hope in his eyes. They’re thickly lashed and pretty, with a biotic ring in the middle of each iris that glows, especially when his gaze is sharp on something (or someone, either blue haired technician or nasty tattooed sniper). In the dark holding room, he is slightly ambient lit. The only one of the trio of bounty hunters so obviously modified—if not the only one modified.

Xavier hasn’t exactly had the chance to check Benji, has he?

And if Matilda is at all altered, she must have been to the sort of bone cutters that charge prices a man might never even see in writing; and her elegant sort of pretty seems entirely her and not physician made. She sits on a chair with legs crossed, arms tossed behind the chair, staring at Xavier with suspicious, narrowed eyes. She’s perfectly at ease, despite circumstances. He can see why Lark likes her.

But Xavier doesn’t immediately answer and his eyes can’t linger on either Maran or Matilda for very long before they slide Benji’s way. He stands in the corner, staring out a viewing port to the base they’ve docked at. It’s a sprawling city now, once just a military out posting where they refueled between jumps. It’s nothing glorious, but after so much time space side and after…everything they’ve been through—the look of humanity, even the seedy underbelly of it, is welcome.

Benji doesn’t look his way. Xavier tries not to be nervous because of that.

“Captain said he’s not holding you as prisoners right now.” He can’t help but ease himself into a militant stance as he speaks, hands folded behind his back, booted feet slightly apart.

“There’s a catch,” Matilda says, examining her nails, nose tilted up.

“There’s always a catch,” Maran sighs, sinking back into the chair he’d stood from when Xavier had delivered the news they could leave the ship. He bites into his lip, trying not to look back to Benji. Of course they’d make him be the messenger. Captain Mataro hadn’t asked, not really. They were too clever an Imperial Legionnaire to not notice what was happening between their prisoners and their soldiers.

Xavier had never been able to hide much from Mataro. Maybe that was why it hurt to know they’d never necessarily intervened with Tillman. Xavier’s loyalty ran too deep to ever say no. He’d walk to a firing squad with hands raised if his captain asked. Of course they’d ask him to liaison between the military and the prisoners like this.

“If you run,” Xavier starts, unwinding his hands from behind his back. “Captain Mataro will release your details to the base. Not just the military. News stations. You won’t get far.”

“Fucker,” Matilda snips, folding arms around her stomach, sinking further into the white shell of a chair she’s in.

“That one felt obvious,” Maran comments, chin in his hand as he leans on the modest table in the room. Xavier feels like they could have been friends—could be friends. If the universe weren’t such a cruel place that put Maran and Xavier on very opposite ends of space, where they’d never interact except for this slim and horrible chance meeting.

Benji had talked about their home world, just once before, when they’d not been able to sleep. With the lights down, and just the two of them, it had felt so safe and private. Xavier had talked about the belt system he’d grown up on, the over abundance of children in their small home pod. The virtual screen their parents had bought, stuck on a vision of Earth’s old sea.

“They also don’t want you to tell anyone about the prison carrier.”

“Yeah.” Benji’s drawl from the corner makes Xavier jump. His hands tangle together in front of him. He should be embarrassed by the amount of nerves he’s displaying in front of three criminals—two of which he’d helped capture. The one he’d brought to knees himself, striding forward. He stands by Maran and their closeness seems inevitable like that. Their gravity pulls to one another and Matilda is their beautiful moon. Xavier feels an abstract loneliness thinking like that.

“Right, now that one fuckin’ checks.”

“Who would we tell?” Matilda throws hands into the air, laughing. It’s a cold sound. “What a bastard. We’re not his little toy soldiers.” That insult stings, but she isn’t wrong. Xavier folds hands behind his neck, sighing loudly, tilting his chin up to stare at the ceiling.

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Maran teases, but even his friendly voice is strained.

Would you run? Is that why you’re all mad? You’d get off the ship and just leave? It’s such an incredibly selfish thought that it sours his stomach. Of course they’d leave. They should leave. They’re notorious, they’re infamous for their crimes and like ghosts in machines, they are the sort of people that disappear in mist and shadow. It had been something of a miracle to capture them in the first place. Xavier’s eyes lift to Benji, who is finally looking at him.

You’d leave?

“So does that mean you don’t want to come out with us?” Xavier asks.

All three bounty hunters blink in near unison. The room goes entirely still and quiet. Xavier would be proud to catch them all off guard (it isn’t exaggeration, they are criminals that had hated him just a month ago), but he feels a little silly. Standing there in his black spacer fatigues, delivering the news that they are still very much prisoners if not just in name, and also that his lame fucking friends put it on him to invite them to the base for a night out.

“Whose us?” Matilda asks. Her voice hasn’t changed, nor her aloof mannerisms, but the interest is not easily hidden. Her foot bobs a little, knee high white boots pristine looking against her neon attire.

“Yes, Lark is going,” Xavier replies tiredly, then looks at Maran directly. “And Nomi.” He pauses and then shrugs his shoulders with a heavy doggish sigh. “Fuck, even Benny, and he hates this place.”

“And you?” Benji startles him again, asking like that. Being underneath his stare makes Xavier’s skin flush. His cheeks burn. He can’t think about that supply closet, not with the others right there. He can’t think of Benji’s mouth and his eyes and his heavy breathing, or the way he makes soft noises in his sleep or how he blinks himself awake and sometimes looks directly at Xavier before anything else.

“And me,” he finally replies, with a wolf of a grin. His hands fumble behind his back again. “Plus, Lark smuggled some stims from the—”

“Well, I’m in,” Matilda announces, rising from her chair. Her slender frame just keeps going, even taller in those clean boots. Her striking beauty is dizzying. Maybe she is modified. Maran’s head tilts back to look at Benji, who only just seems to be able to tear his eyes from Xavier and look down. The thin white biotics in Maran’s eyes sparkle.

“Let’s get off this fuckin’ ship.”

—

What had started as a military base had grown into Red God, which was the very city they navigated together as a unit. Atmosphere had been turned to night, which lit all the glowing signs, foggy air misting around them. Red God was not entirely unlike all civilizations that grew sprouted off a military base; it had a pleasure district and a marketplace and dark alleys for crime that the military police ignored. There were people who stood outside buildings, offering drugs with coded names, or cheap augmentations that would certainly leave an infection worse than the modification itself. Housing piles atop housing, in tall buildings that cramp together little cubes of space.

The city is a loud buzz of activity, even at ‘night’.

Lark spearheads the group, because although Xavier is undoubtedly intimidating as the tallest and Benny precisely looks the type to enjoy the settlement, Lark is like the bounty hunters. Undeniably street savvy—his confidence leads them quickly and stops people from approaching. Little throngs of Red God citizens part for them. Their group isn’t small, meaning it would be a target for thieves or a small gang, if not for the tight cluster they make.

Being off the ship feels undeniably good.

Xavier can almost forget the horrors they’d endured not that long ago, on a prison carrier they were being forced to pretend didn’t exist. When he catches Nomi’s face underneath her hood, he remembers. Whenever his arm bumps into Benji’s, he remembers. But there’s also something soothing about fading into the obscurity of this obscene city, in this pod of people who should not be together. The air might be tight with pollutive fog, but it’s better than the ship, all that recycled oxygen they’ve all already been breathing.

“Okay.” Lark brings them into the small, enclosed alley beside an entrance near flush to the wall with glowing symbols that he must understand. He’s grinning, in that sharp way he smiles. Close lipped, slightly crooked. Matilda drifts to his shoulder, looking at the small terminal on her wrist that Xavier should have confiscated from her.

She won’t risk Benji and Maran’s safety and freedom. He doesn’t think anyway.

Lark withdraws his hands from his pockets, holding upraised palms with stimulant inhalers.

“No, thanks,” Nomi says immediately, drifting to the wall, looking at it curiously.

“Alcohol only,” Benny replies, following her. Maran doesn’t say anything, but finds his way between them, chin tilted on his shoulder to keep one eye on Benji.

“More for me.” Xavier reaches out and takes one, uncapping it swiftly. Matilda follows suit, as if she doesn’t want to be outdone. They stand in a protective circle of each other and Xavier doesn’t miss that Benji is not taking the last one. Lark doesn’t do drugs often—not that there isn’t plenty of opportunity to do drugs on a military cruiser. In his early days of soldiering, his medkit had come with a highly addictive painkiller that Xavier felt was rather purposeful. It was an easy way to keep recruitment.

But the stim is mild; a light blue color that tastes bad on the back of the tongue as he inhales it. A puff of air escapes from around his mouth and into the rising fog of Red God. There’s a hiss following all three of them taking the drug together and then Lark collects the inhalers and tosses them back into the alley. It must not count as littering since there is no nature to pollute to begin with.

The drug hits his blood stream in a way that is instantly satisfying. A floaty feeling that makes his head light and slightly off hinge. Benji hasn’t said anything since they got down the alley, but Xavier refuses to let paranoia make the high tank. Instead, he elbows the bounty hunter softly, who looks up at him in reply. The neon glow of the club beside them plays blues and pinks across his dark skin. Xavier’s lips tingle.

“It’ll wear off in an hour,” Lark says, his pupils already blooming wide. “I’ll meet you back here.”

“You’re not coming into the club?” Nomi suddenly pipes up, sneaking back into their circle. Xavier mourns the way it parts Benji from him.

“Promised I’d show Matilda the marketplace.”

“Hopefully two very wanted criminals with semi-recognizable features don’t get into trouble while I’m gone,” their pilot sniffs. She dabs a finger around her eyes, the stimulant making them glittery and pretty. She’s loosened into a bit of a smile. None of them could have worn their helmets out; they sit in the storage of their rooms together. It would be have been reckless, as those helmets saved their real faces from becoming famous, but they were in turn tuned in on every surveillance bank worth its salt.

Not that Red God likely had a very good security system.

Lark leans toward the door, patting symbols in an order that Xavier would have been able to memorize if the high wasn’t curling at the edges of his vision. The door slides away to reveal a long dark hallway that is already pulsing with music. The sound calls to him, makes his muscles feel instantly twitchy. Adrenaline dumps into him like cold ice. Xavier wants to be inside. To move, to feel free, to not be on the ship, to not be a soldier for a night, to enjoy this breath of freedom, as artificial as it is.

“Have fun,” Lark whispers to him, a squeeze to his bicep as he walks by. As he disappears with Matilda, his arm is slung around her waist in a possessive way that makes Xavier laugh.

—

“Benji, wait.”

The hallway seems to thrum with the club music, in a way that is most likely the stimulant acting in his system. Benji halts as the other three continue, Maran and Nomi once more animated with each other as Benny trails with them. It’s not shocking that he came out when Xavier watches Nomi pull down the hood of her wicked hi-vis yellow jacket. It pools around her shoulders, her blue hair slightly messy. Maran’s sleeves are missing, that one black mechanical arm displayed along with the organic one he has left.

“Alright?” Benji looks tight with an energy that Xavier doesn’t think is excitement. His eyes flicker to the black double doors separating the hallway from the club. Xavier fishes into his back pocket, pulling out a sleek black device that springs open at a touch to a minuscule button. It’s curved and lightweight and impossibly thin.

“I brought this for you,” Xavier explains, stepping closer. The drugs are making his heart beat only a little erratic. He’s glad for how dark it is. Benji’s brow quirks. He has to lift his chin to look up at Xavier, their height difference putting Benji as his chest. It makes it temporarily hard to breathe. Xavier laughs, gesturing to the device. “It’s one of my rebreathers. I thought—maybe you’d want something…like this.”

Their fingers brush as Benji takes it.

He doesn’t say anything as he looks down at the now borrowed rebreather. An emotion passes over his features.

“Are you two fu-fucking coming?” Benny snaps over his shoulder, hands buried in his jacket pockets. His sunglasses are a dark maroon, slid down on his nose, so his near white eyes are even more eerie above them.

“Fuck yourself,” Xavier yells back at him. When he turns to Benji once more, the rebreather is firmly in place. He could never forget what Benji’s mouth looks like—he’s sure he’s dreamed of the shape of Benji’s lips and how soft his facial hair seems—but it completely erases his identity save for the wild curls and heavy brows. The breather comes to his nose bridge, so even that aspect of him is hidden. It’s flush, yet completely obscures features.

Selfishly, Xavier thinks, good. He doesn’t want others to look at Benji. But he also knows that Benji doesn’t want them looking either.

“Nomi wants to go to th-the virtual reality section.” Benny’s voice interrupts the moment, making Xavier spring back. “She saw a sign.” He indicates with a tattooed hand. The sign does say IMMERSE REALITY BECOME A NEW YOU and it also has a red sign attached that says TEMPORARILY CLOSED FOR RENOVATION. Underneath that is a crude drawing on the wall in neon yellow of a xenobite getting a blowjob. Xavier raises his brows, but Benny shrugs.

“You can’t st-stop her when she gets started.”

Which is true. Nomi already has both arms around Maran’s sleek black one, pulling him toward a shuttered door at the end of the hallway. Maran looks a mixture of nervous and absolutely smitten. His cheeks are splotched with color. Benny’s stare at him and the blue haired hacker is a hungry thing.

Thinking of Lark and how he’d immediately found a way to be alone with Matilda, Xavier laughs. He shoves Benny by the shoulders toward the retreating duo, and whispers, “Have fun.”

—

The inside of the club is large enough to not feel claustrophobic despite the bodies. Paid dancers entertain on raised platforms, rings of people surrounding them. There is a wall of a bar to the side, a pit of a floor where everyone mingles into one throbbing mass. The lights are every single color all at once and somehow coming up mostly purple. Xavier’s entire body reacts to the club.

He had somewhat of a vice for clubbing. He’d picked it up during his second run through on the cruiser, when things had first started to get bad with Tillman. When he’d realized how much was wrong about a superior officer approaching him like that. Xavier had retreated off ship every time they docked, and found places like this. It wasn’t so much that he needed to be drunk or high. He liked that too, the feeling of everything else being pushed out and replaced.

But it had been the simplicity of it all. Music and movement and no military or back logged calls from home he hadn’t answered or a sergeant that suddenly wanted to know why Xavier wasn’t answering his door at night. Xavier’s body hums in memory of all those clubs, all those different escapes. Only he isn’t alone now.

Benji stands beside him, slightly turned with shoulders curved. It’s obvious he’s marking exits. His dark eyes sweep and scan.

Xavier reaches for the zipper of his jacket, slowly peeling it open. Benji stops staring at everything else and looks toward him. He shoves it off, tossing it to an area he already knows he’ll forget to stop by when they leave. He’d switched from his fatigues into civvies. Tonight, Xavier doesn’t want to look like a soldier. Instead, he’d borrowed something from Benny; this mangled net top that was far too loose, and a long sleeve black shirt underneath that was entirely too tight. He liked that it was long enough to tuck over his knuckles.

He grins at Benji, whose stare is firmly pinned to his upper body. He’d wanted to look good. He’d even let Nomi dust some of her black shadows at the corners of his eyes. Your green is natural? She’d asked. When he’d told her yes, she’d snorted and shook her head and told him that belters genes were a gift from some old Earth God. Xavier had never thought about it. He’d known in obvious ways that he was good looking. It had never done any good for him, though.

But now, with Benji drinking him in, he’s suddenly grateful that he’d made some sort of attempt.

The bounty hunter himself is in all black, a borrowed shirt from Xavier of all things. Something buttoned down, sleeves rolled up, loose at the top. The peeks of his skin are enticing like water for thirst. The rebreather blends with the outfit seamlessly. Good for a club, where no one will think twice about it. Half the fun is dressing up for a part. Someone might think him an entertainer. That thought makes Xavier’s stomach turn with acidic jealousy so he steps closer.

“I wanna dance,” Xavier says, just loud enough for Benji to hear him. Others around them aren’t paying attention anyway, which feels silly. Everyone should notice Benji. How could they not notice him?

“I don’t dance,” he replies, brown eyes almost black underneath the swirling purple lighting. The hard tempo music reverberates in Xavier’s chest, reminding him of the body high that will only last for so long.

For a moment, he considers taking Benji and finding a small place for them to be alone. A corner of the club where the music isn’t so loud, where there are no dancers, where people won’t find them. It could be like his bedroom, where it’s safe and small. He could…But instead, his wrists drape over the bounty hunters shoulders. He captures a curl with his fingers, rubbing it and appreciating the soft texture. Sleepy eyes widen, pupils going huge like Benji had taken a hit. Xavier leans in, brushing their temples together.

“I’m going to go dance.”

—

Once in the crowd of people, Xavier really does lose himself. The music carries him elsewhere. He isn’t particularly good at dancing, nor is it really anything other than just letting his body do whatever it wants to the sound all around him. People fade in and out, people he pays no attention to because he’s not there for them. He fishes his necklace from his collar, holding it like one might a leash, head hanging back, smiling with eyes closed to the ceiling. Sweat collects along his skin, under his arms, on his back, over his throat. It dampens his hair and sticks curls of it to his cheeks and neck.

He doesn’t care about being jostled, or the occasional person that slings an arm around him, or someone he touches in turn. There’s no intimacy to dancing with these strangers. It’s just movement.

Until a hand slides purposefully across his back. It briefly cups his hip. Xavier’s whole body shivers, recognizing an intense desire unfurling in his lower stomach. Every want pools there, his hips tight and his thighs burning. Benji, he thinks, smiling to himself. Only when he turns, it isn’t Benji, but a lithe man with shocking white hair. He smiles, the club lighting turning his teeth florescent. Xavier stares for a moment. Then he smiles back, hesitantly.

The white haired stranger holds his elbow, a thumb brushing along the crook. It isn’t like accidentally stumbling into someone dancing and sharing a few gyrating movements together. This purposeful touch stuns him. The man steps closer. He’s young, with dark violet eyes that search up Xavier. He’s not short, but no one is necessarily tall next to Xavier.

“I’m obsessed with you,” he yells over the music. You don’t even know me, Xavier thinks immediately. He doesn’t yank his arm away just yet, but he doesn’t invite the man in closer either. “You just look so happy.” Xavier narrows his eyes, tilting his head, staring down at the man. He wonders if this is some sort of joke, his smile twitchy on his face. The drugs are burning off in his system, making him cold despite the air in the club being heavy and warm.

“Could I dance with you?”

“It’s a club,” Xavier finally replies, finding his voice. “We’re all dancing together.”

“I want to dance with you.”

“Hey, man,” Xavier laughs, feeling it come out more on edge than he’d have liked. “Do whatever you like, I—”

Suddenly, a cold glass is shoved into his hand. Xavier looks down at it. Then up and Benji stands there.

“Queue was long at the bar.” His voice comes out with that electronic twinge to it from the breather. His eyes are shiny underneath the club lighting, his only feature visible. He’s not looking at Xavier. He’s staring at the pale stranger. The man tilts his head back and forth, surveying before releasing Xavier’s elbow. Then he steps back, a graceful turn on his heel. Xavier isn’t sure how to process the moment. The glass in his hand is delightfully cold.

“Weird fuck, that one, hey? Why’s he touchin’ you like that?” Benji shuffles closer. The rebreather hides his sneer, but just by the pinch of his brows, Xavier know’s its there. He brings the glass to his lips and takes a quick, happy sip. Then he sputters and laughs.

“Is this water?”

“You’ve been dancin’ for a fuckin’ minute, Xavier—aren’t you tired?” Had it been long? He’d not really noticed. Xavier feels guilty for leaving Benji like that; he’d really only meant to dance for a song or two. Or…truthfully, maybe for Benji to join him after watching him go. He’s joined him now, though Xavier doesn’t see Benji getting into the music. The people around them are closing in, forcing them closer and closer. Xavier kills the glass of water in one go and then puts it on the ground at his feet. It’ll likely get kicked somewhere, but he isn’t thinking much.

“I am tired.” Xavier gets closer still, their bodies nearly pressed together, so he doesn’t have to yell. “Come with me?” He won’t force Benji to go—and maybe the drugs had been scrambling his senses, trying to tease Benji to him like that. Now, he feels more steady. Maybe the water had helped. He thinks of the man touching his elbow, that soft gentle press of thumb to the rarely touched spot on his arm. He thinks back to that sudden, intense longing when he’d thought it had been Benji’s hand on his lower back.

“Let’s go.” Benji’s voice is not loud, but it cuts through the music. Through everything. Xavier, with nothing else to do, takes Benji’s hand. Their fingers do a slow, unsure lace together. Xavier tries not to think of the way his heart climbs his throat at that, the way it makes a throbbing feeling pulse through his whole body. Instead, he turns and begins tugging Benji through the crowd.

—

Clubs always have private rooms available. It isn’t hard to guess why. These are a hallway past the bar where the music suddenly becomes muffled, like an afterthought. The bass line still echoes down the passage, still feels tingly in his fingertips. Sparse people stand around, either waiting for someone to come join them, or needing a break from the crowd. Their conversations are a low murmur. They don’t pay attention to the new duo and that anonymity makes him giddy. Xavier doesn’t let go of Benji’s hand as he finds a room marked vacant. He holds the chip in the webbing of his thumb to the wall reader.

It chimes, reading off an electronic amount of credits immediately yanked from his account—Xavier briefly hopes he isn’t going to catch a bug from this and have everything drained overnight. He can’t find it in himself to care as the door slides open with a hiss and the sign beside it switches to a red OCCUPIED.

Once inside, the club music truly does disappear. The vibrations still pulse along the floor, underneath Xavier’s feet. But instead the room is washed in an ambient setting, a dim garnet color with some soft humming soundtrack instead. The furniture isn’t particularly lavish, but two couches and a low table are enough. In fact, Xavier decides they don’t even need the table—he crosses to it and using the toe of his boot, shoves it neatly to the side where it clatters against the wall.

Then he turns to Benji.

Sweat cools over Xavier’s entire body now that he’s not dancing. His hand is still firmly in Benji’s, their fingers tangled together. It does nothing to stop the hammering heart in his chest. It beats so loudly, he’s afraid Benji can hear it. They’re unusually quiet. Silence doesn’t often linger between the two of them. It hangs there now, along with a thickness to the air. Hairs raise along his skin at the thought that they are truly alone.

Xavier steps closer and puts his hands on Benji’s waist. Then he turns, swiveling him toward the couch, where he lands with a soft exhale. The rebreather makes it an electronic whisper.

He thinks about all the things he could say now that it’s just them. This isn’t like being in his room at night. The ship isn’t buzzing around them, the threat of Benji’s predicament right outside the door. This isn’t the supply closet either, where they’d come together in that lusty, messy way. And not even kissed, Christ, they’d not even kissed. Maybe it’s no better that it’s a sleazy private room in a club he’d paid for. But it feels different. Nothing else is in that room, except them.

Instead of speaking, he steps forward. Benji’s knees part to accommodate him in a way that makes his eyes vibrate in his skull. Xavier’s breathing is rapid, as though he’s still recovering from dancing. He’s not—he just can’t catch air. He pushes closer and Benji’s knees widen more. His hands stay flat on his thighs, but he looks up as Xavier stands in front of him. With Benji seated, Xavier is even more imposingly tall. It’s not too different from the first time they’d met and Benji had been on his knees.

A slim pale hand, with black sleeves tucked over scarred knuckles, lifts. Xavier reaches out slowly, in a tentative way that could be brushed aside. Benji could stop him. He gives him that option, moving lethargically. But Benji doesn’t stop him. His chest is rising and falling just as rapidly, the sound whistling through the rebreather. His eyes are glassy, as if he’s the one that’d taken drugs earlier.

Xavier touches the edge of the rebreather and gently tugs it away. Once free, he tosses it to the side, where it joins the discarded table.

“Fuck, you are so beautiful,” Xavier breathes, his voice shaky. “Jesus, do you know how beautiful you are?” He puts the back of his knuckles to Benji’s cheek. It’s a gentle touch. Then he moves, slowly dragging his fingers across Benji’s jawline, underneath his chin. A thumb touches the corner of Benji’s lip. Xavier doesn’t stop, his imagination nothing close to the way Benji’s warm skin actually feels. His fingers trail over his cheek bone, one touching his eyebrow, another brushing a curl from his temple.

As he touches, Benji shivers. That shivering turns into a shaking, and his head falls back as if off hinge. His lips part and he makes a whimper of a sound that shoots directly into Xavier’s lower stomach. Both of Xavier’s giant hands take Benji’s face then, holding his cheeks. He hunches over, bringing them close, staring, thinking about that pretty, high sound. Benji’s face pinches in embarrassment and desire, lip curled as if he’ll need to defend himself. The vulnerability in him is so terrifying it makes every muscle in Xavier’s body flex.

“You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to touch you,” Xavier says, their faces close as he bends over. One of his hands sinks into Benji’s dark hair, tilting the bounty hunters head to the side. Benji’s eyes don’t leave his, but they flutter at the sensations.

“Got a handful now, hey?” Benji’s usual bravado is wavering, his voice thick. He wets his lips with his tongue, lips staying parted after, looking lonely. “Where’s this comin’ from, Xavier?”

“This is from way back, Benji. Since you were staring at me on your knees like you wanted to kill me.”

“I did want to kill you.”

His throat bobs. Xavier’s back muscles strain at the way he’s folded himself. His one hand still cupping Beni’s cheek tightens, fingers underneath his ear lobe, touching softly to sensitive, thin skin. He grins ear to ear, buzzing eyes narrowed.

“And now?”

“Might still kill you.”

It’s met with a laugh as Xavier sinks to his knees. It levels their heights, putting them face to face. Not that Xavier leaves them much time to appreciate that. He pushes forward, his lips skimming Benji’s temple. He’s thinking of that fucking closet. He’s living in that closet and has been since it happened. Watching Benji’s tongue and his lips. Enjoying the sight of his eyes rolling closed, holding him as he fucked into his mouth. Xavier wants to apologize for that moment, not that it wasn’t good. But God, he should have found a way for this to happen first. He should have gotten to taste Benji before Benji got to taste him.

He moves his mouth slowly until a frustrated sound leaves Benji, so much like that touch starved whimper from before. His chin tilts up abruptly and then—then their mouths are right against one another. Just breathing. Xavier thinks he hears his name, in Benji’s voice, high strung with want. It snaps something inside him and he crashes them together.

They kiss—and it’s a hungry thing. Xavier crushes his body forward, hands engulfing underneath Benji’s thighs to yank them around him. Benji’s hands snag at the net top, the sound of fabric tearing loud in their ambient private room. Neither of them stop for anything. Xavier parts their lips forcefully, his tongue pressing into Benji’s mouth. He moans at the sensation, at the sudden taste of him. He tilts his head back and forth, hands roaming up Benji’s body to grasp his face once more.

The kiss is messy and frantic. Teeth nip his lower lip and he responds with his own bite. He devours as much as he’s being devoured. Benji pants between every turn of their heads to find new angles to taste more of each other. His hips grind upward into Xavier’s torso, while Xavier’s hips buck hard against the couch. Maybe it isn’t so different from the supply closet, then. Maybe this is oral sex, because it feels remarkably like fucking.

Xavier instantly wants more, his hands yanking Benji’s borrowed shirt up. Buttons pop as they go, revealing more brown skin, coarse dark body hair. He shoves harder than he means to, Benji slipping on the couch, his torso undulating with movement. The sight of his tattooed body makes Xavier feral and his mouth dives down.

He isn’t slow about it at all, but he takes as much time as he can. Sucking kisses to Benji’s chest, his sternum. His tongue drags and finds a peaked nipple, pulling it into his mouth. Benji’s hand tears at Xavier’s hair, the other fisted into that netted shirt that’s slowly being torn to shreds. The sounds he makes are unlike anything Xavier’s ever had the fortune to hear. They’re growls and grunts mixed with sudden inhales and then more of those beautiful whimpers. Especially when teeth join his tongue on the nipple he hasn’t abandoned.

There’s a certain revelry in how sensitive Benji is. How every touch elicits movement and sound, as if his body is writhing upward and begging for attention. Xavier’s ego is stroked for a moment until he realizes that desperation for attention feels strange with everything he knows of Benji.

Shamefully, he’d dug surface level into the bounty hunters past that he could find. He’d read more than a few newslogs; some of them blatant tabloids and gossip spheres. He couldn’t help himself. He’d wanted to know more, had felt mad for the desire to know anything else he could know. And among those sordid details, Benji had been called a lover. Someone with many partners, a string of them that he left around the galaxy, all sighing over the helmeted criminal.

So why was Benji so…hopeless for touch? Why was he moving like it was the first time in a long time someone had put hands and mouth to him? The thought comes to him, just as he’s withdrawing his tongue, a string of spit still connected to the pectoral he’d been abusing. No one was touching Benji like this. No one was making him feel good. They were only taking. And Xavier feels gruesome about that. He feels hot anger pour through the arousal in his veins, a dangerous alchemical concoction.

Maybe a bit righteous about the want to draw Benji’s pleasure out, kicking and screaming and moaning.

Xavier hears his name in that breathy groan, but he can’t focus on that. Instead he sinks lower, shoving fabric away. For a moment, all he can do is rub his face against Benji’s torso, the smell of him like an aphrodisiac. He groans, tongue out, lavishing, not caring how messy it is. He kisses his way down Benji’s navel. Then lower. He kisses directly underneath Benji’s belly button, feeling muscles dance and flex. He wants to shove his fucking nose into the thick dark hair above the zipper he’s nearly gotten down. He wants smell and taste everything.

But calloused hands cup his cheeks. They tilt his head back. He relishes the feel of those fingertips across his cheeks, his face nuzzling sideways to capture a palm in a close lipped kiss. The point of his nose drags to the delicate, throbbing pulse on the inside of Benji’s wrist. Then his head is tilted again, a little more forceful.

“Hm?” Xavier hums.

Benji moves his face back and forth, peering closer at him. For a good moment, Xavier is too fucking bludgeoned by the feel of his hands and the tickle of his breath on his swollen lips once more to really notice that Benji is checking his pupils.

“Are you,” Xavier withdraws somewhat, but not enough that Benji’s hands move from his face. He cracks a disbelieving smile and then laughs. “Are you checking to see if I’m still high, you asshole?” The laughter catches in his throat when he realizes he’s right, as Benji grumbles to himself and doesn’t stop examining. Then an emotion swells up inside his chest, nearly cracking his ribs open to reveal his bloody, beating heart.

His head falls forward out of Benji’s grasp. He presses his face into the bounty hunters thigh, trying to make his breathing even. The emotion keeps pressing, up his throat and making his hands curl tightly into Benji’s shirt.

“Did I take advantage of you before?” He doesn’t give Benji time to answer. Instead, he shakes his head, rubbing his face on the coarse, black denim clad thigh below him. “I shouldn’t have—I just—you were so—and I wanted you and you wanted me and—”

“Don’t take that from me, Xavier.” He stills and rises from his hunched over, apologetic position. His hands don’t unfurl from Benji’s shirt. They’re a bit painful, with how tight he’s holding on. “Alright?” There’s not many words and they’re caught in Benji’s throat, but his eyes are burning into Xavier with meaning. Something unspoken passes between them, in the way silent communication works with two individuals that are—what? That are close? Like this?

“That was the best one I ever gave,” Benji continues with a crooked grin. He’s not saying out loud everything else he means, but Xavier gets it. He leans in again, his hands finally escaping their unyielding torment on Benji’s shirt to cup around his ribs. He can feel the way they move as he breathes. “Yeah, Xavier, kiss me again. You fuckin’ dickhead, I want you to kiss me again.”

This time it’s a slower affair. Benji is moving, laying back on the couch as Xavier crawls above him. Their hard bodies line up together, even though his legs are far too long. One hangs off, knee still to the ground, but they laugh about it. Their mouths come together again, this time slower. This time it’s languid and their hands roam in appreciative gropes. Benji’s hand digs into his lower back and then cups around Xavier’s ass, making him laugh into the kiss.

He buries his nose to Benji’s neck. He inhales. Hard. He rubs his nose along the pulse that’s only started slowing.

“What a dog,” Benji murmurs, his other hand petting hair back from Xavier’s face.

“Woof,” he pants close to Benji’s ear.

They’re going to kiss again. Maybe, they’ll do more in the privacy of this little maroon room, with their friends spread across Red God. Maybe they’ll use their hands, or mouths or simply press together until it’s enough.

Maybe, but then, there’s the alarm.

The sound makes them jump—makes Xavier scream and roll off, onto the ground on his knees. His hands go to his ears. It’s the emergency all station alarm; too loud to be ignored by anyone. It’s an alarm that only sounds when something mission critical is happening. Nuclear or catastrophic. Invasion, turf war that’ll leave everyone dead, military policy finally getting what they deserve. Something. The alarm is so loud, Xavier stumbles to his feet as Benji does the same from the couch.

“Fuck!” He yells it right as the alarm cuts, and all that’s left is the emergency lighting.

It reminds him of the prison ship. The blue and red, the flashing, the enviro turned off as they melted, the crawling dead things. The twist of flesh and merciless fear. Xavier’s hands shake as they pull from his ears, staring at Benji with wide, desperate eyes.

“No way,” Benji pants, shaking his head. “It’s—can’t be here too.”

Panic threatens Xavier with bile in his throat. He slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes shaking as he tries to ignore the bright flashing emergency lights. There’s commotion outside. The music shut off, the sound of pounding feet. People evacuating. For a moment, they only stand there and stare at each other until dread pours over Xavier, his skin going icy and clammy.

“Nomi,” he moans, a thread of terror there. “Oh, fuck, we have to find her.”

“Yes,” is all Benji says, darting for the door.

The club has dissolved into absolute chaos. With the emergency lights on, it looks like a garish crime scene. The bright white interspersed with blue and red makes it look clinical and shameful as people dart for the exits. Xavier jolts when someone running collides with his shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. He sneaks a hand into his pocket so he can have a grasp on his mechanical knife, but there’s too many bodies to switch it open without a close accident.

“This way,” he yells, starting for the double doors they’d come through. They’re all the way slid open, a vein of people shoving their way through. He’s running, doing his own fair amount of pushing. But the tidal wave of people maneuvers him. And in the herd of terrified people, Xavier is lost. He doesn’t see Benji, his wild curly hair, his beautiful face, his worried brown eyes.

He’s dragged toward a side exit.

“Benji!” But his yells aren’t very loud over the rest of the commotion. Fuck, fuck, fuck his anxious lizard brain chants. And then, someone random holding his arm and tugging him, their panic making them as helpful as they are harmful, Xavier is suddenly behind a grate of bars that slam down. Someone’s screaming down the dark hall. Xavier’s blood pulses in his skull, pressing himself against the bars.

“No fuckin’ shot,” Benji growls, shoving himself against the opposite side.

“It’s security,” Xavier pants, his hands shaking as they close around the cool metal. He puts his forehead against it, eyes closed. “I dunno—I dunno what’s going on.” He pats frantically at the communicator chip behind his ear, but it’s crackling silence. There’s no connecting to the ship, or the captain. He presses himself harder against the bars.

“Xavier, alright, mate, look at me. Look at me.” When he does, Benji is reaching through the bars, taking his face. He smooths fingers over Xavier’s cheeks, a thumb brushing his eyebrow. “Go back to the ship. I’m goin’ to double back, look for Nomi and Maran.” There’s a pause and a brief pause before he snorts derisively. “And Benny.”

Benji’s hands withdraw. Xavier tries to summon the soldier that lives inside his head, the corporal that operates with a cool, detached calm. He has to keep his eyes closed, because he’s afraid if he looks at Benji, it’ll shatter the effort to switch that mask on.

Then he regrets it, when he opens his eyes and Benji is gone.

***

The poster hadn’t been lying. Most of the virtual arcade is under shrink wrap, a construction set of tools scattered about, a sleek black ladder leaning against a wall. It’s cavernous, because virtual reality games don’t require much. Benny kicks over a bucket that spins and spits black oil everywhere in little splattered patterns.

At least it’s quiet. Maybe a little too quiet, compared to the hallway they’d come down, with the music bleeding through it. He wonders how Xavier is fairing with that sullen little bounty hunter that looks at him like he’s a bone to chew on. Their steps echo in the arcade, on slick white tiled floor, especially Nomi’s chunky boots. Benny keeps his hands to himself as they wander, ducking exposed wires from ceilings that are cracked open for easy access.

“Wicked,” Nomi quips in her cute colony English accent. A word stolen straight from their corporals vocabulary. It makes Benny smile at her, head tilted down, eyes scanning over his sunglasses as he takes in their derelict environment. Half the games are shut down. The lighting is on, but Benny suspects that’s because the power is connected to the club, not because anyone is there. They’d likely have been kicked out by now, after he’d borrowed a trick from Lark and broke the lock keeping people out.

“I played this one back home. Got the highest score every time, yunno,” Maran says proudly, standing in front of a large blocky machine. XENO INVADERS is a giant flashing title above a huge, inky screen. He takes the controls in his hands, pretending for a moment to be shooting something, faking sound affects under his breath.

Nomi giggles and collides her shoulder with him, which makes his face light up. Benny wonders where the jealousy is. If he needs to drag it out with a knife, because he’s unused to it not being there. Usually if someone glanced Nomi’s way, his loser sensitive emotions were already spiraling and telling him to either kill himself or the person in question.

But Maran is so fucking easy to like. Not just because he’s so boyishly handsome; though he is. Especially with those arms exposed, one fake and one real. The curve of his brown bicep is inviting in a way that makes Benny’s mouth water. His face is freckled, like he got actual organic sun as a child. And even in the low lighting, his eyes spark not just because of those thin white biotics.

Maran’s also just ridiculously sweet, isn’t he? Hands to himself as Nomi keeps inviting him to touch, with her hard to read body language. The few conversations that Benny has trapped him into there was just a current of openness to him. Hadn’t the world been cruel to Maran? Hadn’t someone hurt him? Why wasn’t he angry? Why wasn’t he worse?

Benny follows them as they dig deeper into the arcade. He ignores the swirling emotions in his gut. He’s very good at ignoring things.

“Oh, I love this game,” Nomi says, darting to a virtual pad with a sleek, minimalistic motorbike attached. It’s a suggestion of the real thing, no tires, just mounted to the sensor pad underneath it. The lights are dancing technicolor, but the visors attached are blank, resting on the console. As is the screen in front. She hums as she goes to her knees, feeling her hands across the ground.

Benny and Maran stand side by side, watching her.

They’re so close, they might as well be actually touching. Benny can sense he’s being stared at as well, but he doesn’t turn his head, or risk glancing to the side. He continues watching Nomi, but he does indulge himself with imagining what could happen. If he did turn, put his chin to his own shoulder and stared back at Maran. Would he smile, that bashful, proud grin that he has around Nomi?

The technician in question touches behind her skull, deft fingers pulling a thin little cord free from the mess of her blue hair. Her other hand rummages the pockets of her oversized jacket until she comes up with a slim all purpose tool Benny had gifted her. He shifts at noticing it, trying to contain the strange elation that pulses through his veins at how comfortably she flicks it open. That she kept it on her.

The two men continue to watch as she gets a panel free, and then jacks herself into it.

Nomi looks up at them, her pink eyes turning bright blue.

“Wow,” Maran says quietly. “That’s impressive.”

“I guess so,” Benny replies, affecting nonchalance. The burning sensation is back, like Maran’s eyes are crawling over his tattooed neck. Benny fakes a yawn into the crook of his elbow to cover the nervous energy that’s making his arms jittery and his stomach spin. There’s a brief moment of silence and then Nomi exhales and unplugs.

The screen comes to life immediately, muted sounds following from the visors on the console. Nomi stands and dusts her hands together, smiling proudly at the two of them. Her pales cheeks are flushed slightly pink, as though from exertion. Neither of the men seem capable of saying anything for a moment, until Benny firmly puts a hand behind Maran’s shoulders and pushes him forward.

“It’s m-more fun if there’s two,” he explains with a wicked sneer as Maran looks over his shoulder back at him. His thick lashed eyes are wide. Nomi, who must agree, has already climbed onto the bike, sorting out the visors. She has to scoot herself forward to let Maran climb on behind—and he does so with this gentle, nervous energy. His hands stay firmly planted on his thighs, rubbing an anxious pattern back and forth.

Benny observes the two of them with what he hopes looks like disinterest. Instead, he is following Nomi’s hands as she tucks hair behind her ears. He’s watching her pass the visor back and put her own on with the rapt attention of someone entranced. Benny watches Maran sling it around his face, his anxious scoot forward bringing his chest to Nomi’s back. His hands fall back to his thighs, fingers curling. Benny breathes in and out evenly, pulling his tin case of cigarettes from his pocket.

He slides one behind his ear as he approaches the rear of the virtual reality bike. Maran is wide enough to dwarf Nomi, his shoulders broad. His thin shirt is flimsy enough that his light brown skin is slightly visible. Benny takes the criminals wrists from behind, gently navigating them forward until they are on Nomi’s waist. Maran stiffens. Benny is so far pressed forward that he can feel him go still against his chest. His mind fills with the image of Maran’s back flexing like that in very different circumstances. Benny’s chest to his back in very different circumstances.

Then he relaxes. He leans back. He grips Maran’s thighs and gives them a short squeeze before letting go. His lips to Maran’s ear, he whispers, “Have fun.”

—

Benny doesn’t wander far. Just because he doesn’t want to watch them, doesn’t mean he necessarily wants to be away from them. It makes his nerves prickle to think of them being separated, so instead he wanders back to XENO INVADERS. Benny stares at himself in the full black screen. He inhales hard on the cigarette, lazy about the exhale so smoke curls all around him. He shrugs his jacket off, feeling strangely warm. The enviro must not be cycling in the arcade very well.

He leaves it on the stool beside the game.

Nomi had kissed him first, after repairing his arm. There was still oil on her fingers from where she’d gone poking around in the sensitive bits of his non organic matter. She’d leaned in, with her fingertips brushing the side of his jaw and put her mouth to his. Benny had loved her probably sooner than that, but it was worse now. Sometimes, it was such a consuming feeling he hated himself for it.

Benny doesn’t think he can handle that two fold. Maran’s face swims in his vision, his plush lips looking kissable even just in memory. He sucks a hard inhale of nicotine. He shakes his head, kicks the stool over and—

“Jonny…”

The cigarette drops from his mouth.

“Hello?” He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out as high pitched as it does. He’s not a baritone to fucking begin with, but it’s down right squeaky with fear just then. He clears his throat, rubbing a hand aggressively across his chest. He’s hearing things. It’s too quiet in this arcade. They never should have left Benji and Xavier. Lark never should have set that precedent.

There’s a shvhhhhh sound of plastic wrapping bunching together. Benny stumbles toward it. He should—he should run. Probably. He should go back to Maran and Nomi and tell them they should leave, but…it’s a worker. Maybe security. Even more reason to leave. But something snags in Benny’s skull and tugs. He feels an impossible pull. The strange human desire to investigate.

“Jonny.”

Maybe there’s curiosity to it. Hearing that name after so long. Benny hadn’t been on the ship. But he’d seen their faces when they’d come back. The shell shocked glassy eyes; Nomi’s nightmares afterward. Maybe he is afraid—he can’t not be—but maybe he’s also interested to know what the horrors really are. Benny, after all, has experienced horror so much already. What more could really happen?

He meets a wall of plastic sheeting. And inside he can see the murky silhouette people.

“Hello?” He calls again, in a rough voice. He clears his throat. His pulse thunders up underneath his jaw, hammering cruelly at his throat. He chews his lip, breathing in and out through his nose like an abused race horse. Benny’s hand shakes as he lifts it.

Jonny, something whispers inside his head. No, he thinks. No.

He yanks it away. And then he regrets it.

Benny should have listened to Nomi. He should have listened to Xavier, who was a scary enough man himself sometimes. Benny is ill equipped for the scene in front of him. It is a reality defying image, so reality warps at the edges of his vision, turning black. Tunneling him into the four men standing in a circle.

They’re dressed in the old republic uniforms. Pilots, with gas mask helmets on that wheeze with every inhale. They stand above a figure on the ground, huddled in on itself. Blood splatters the ground just like the oil from before. It drips from a broken nose. His own broken nose. A tooth sits on the floor. It’s his tooth. A back molar. They’d knocked it loose when they’d jumped him.

Benny is standing there, staring at himself, on the ground.

“What the fuck?” the words spill out with spit, because vomit rises in his throat. The air is tangy with sweat and blood and fear. He swallows it down, stumbling back. The noise makes the pilots snap to attention. All of them turn and look at him at the same time. Their visors are black. Not the sort of black that the plasti-steel helmets are made of. It’s a swirling, liquid texture that ripples with acknowledgment. Those waves say, I see you. He whimpers on the ground. A hand out stretched. He’s thin and younger and pathetic and beaten black and blue and red.

All the pilots hold a knife. A familiar one.

Sergio had given him that knife. A sweet parting gift, from his pilot lover back in the force. It’s distinguishable by the curve at the end. S.R. is etched into the handle. He’s so distracted staring at that knife that he doesn’t notice the version of himself changing on the ground. He rises to his bloody knees and instead of being him twenty, it’s him at twelve. Benny can almost feel the child’s black eye, his split lip.

But when the child opens his mouth, it’s just the loud snarling sound of an animal.

And then Benny runs.

The snapping, snarling, growling follows, along with the heavy sound of combat boots on tiled floor. It isn’t human, whatever that sound is. It’s nothing distinguishable. No animal he’s ever heard before. It’s mingling with voices, with his voice, with his crying. Benny feels real tears in his eyes, pouring along his cheeks, more spit from his mouth as he screams. His shoulder clips with a machine as he runs, sending him sprawling to the ground.

He raises hands to protect his face—just like he’d down so many years ago—but it’s only one pilot now. It stands over him, switching the knife back and forth between black clad hands. The sounds it makes are wet and keening, like a hyena’s laugh. Benny kicks out, trying to strike the monster’s leg, but it swipes with the knife, catching a slash across his knee. Pain erupts like a white hot flash, then the wet feeling of blood.

“Fuck you!” Benny yells, sliding himself backward desperately on the tiled floor. He needs Xavier—he can’t win a fight without Xavier. Fear makes his body unresponsive, his limbs twitchy and useless.

And then a haymaker catches the pilot monster right in the fucking helmet. The force behind the punch sends the monster straight to the ground, where the helmet cracks against the floor like the shattering of a skull. Benny stares, open mouth, face wet with tears as Benji of all people stomps his booted foot down on the pilots hand. There’s an unmistakable snap of bone and the knife tumbles free.

Benji wastes no more time. His boot goes for the throat then. Over and over.

And over.

Until the creature convulses violently and black blood pools from under the cracked helmet. It goes still.

Neither of them speak. They stare at the impossible thing bleeding on the floor. Benny goes to his knees, panting wildly. His hands card back through his sweaty hands, his hand rubbing across his mouth. His knee burns where his lovers blade has cut his skin cleanly, like a surgeons scalpel. He’s not fully in control of himself as he crawls over, a hand prepared to yank the helmet free.

“Don’t.” Benji’s voice is eerily calm. Benny looks up at him. His face is a pure mask, lips thinned. He isn’t even breathing hard from that brutal explosion of violence. His hands are curled into fists still. “You don’t want to know, mate. I think—fuck. I think knowing makes it stronger.”

Benny doesn’t have time to ask what that even means. He gets to his feet, legs shaky and number. Bloods wet across his shin, but he doesn’t pay it any attention. He swallows more vomit down, hands closing over his mouth. He can’t speak. If he does, it’ll just be a stuttering mess. They made him into this. This terrified little creature. Benny shuts his eyes, trying to ignore the dead body on the ground. If it’s a body. Whatever it is.

“Did you hear the alarm?”

“What?” Benny finally drops his hands, looking at Benji. They step carefully away from the dead thing on the ground, putting distance, in case it gets back up. They’re careful not to turn their back on it for that exact same reason. Benji looks like he’s going to press, but there’s shouting and then suddenly, Nomi and Maran.

They skid around a corner together. Fear mangles their beautiful faces. Benny turns to try and put the corpse behind him so they don’t have to see, but it doesn’t matter. Nomi isn’t stupid—she notices and goes still, hands raised to her mouth.

And then, inexplicably, she’s stepping toward Benji. She’s taking his hand in both of hers, staring at him with giant, pink eyes. He seems momentarily startled by her—and then relaxes. Benny can’t begin to imagine what sort of bond forms between people who went through more of whatever just happened to him. How much did he not know about that ship?

“It fucking followed us,” Nomi whispers, her breathy, deep voice terrified.

“Was there an alarm, Nomi?” Benji steps closer, trying to crowd the answer out of her.

Benny jumps when there’s a touch to his elbow.

Maran stares at him, his gorgeous eyes filled with concern. They’re the same height, if not an inch skewed because of Benny’s boots. It means they can look directly at one another with barely any movement, as they do just then. The hand at his elbow curls. It holds softly. It’s warmth radiates through Benny’s cold, shocked body. He wants to cry all of a sudden. He wants to break down crying again, he wants Maran to come tuck arms around him. To know what that carbon metal skin feels like. If it would be cool against his tear stained cheeks.

Instead, he swats the hand away, taking a step back.

“I’m fi-fine,” he mumbles, tilting his head toward the ground and away. Maran doesn’t step back, but his hand recedes. Benny can’t handle looking back up and seeing that soft, inviting face. There’d been no hint of pity. Just genuine worry.

“Where th-the f-fuck is Xavier?” Benny asks, quickly realizing the corporal isn’t there. His chest tightens with panic once more, his frayed nerves feeling ambushed and bruised. Benji doesn’t answer immediately.

“The station alarm went off.”

“What?” Maran steps toward Benji, to his side. That concerned hand touches Benji instead, his shoulder. Benny’s scrambled and terrified brain focuses on that touch and hates it. Friendly little fucker. How could he stomach being jealous of that? He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, realizes his sunglasses had fallen off somewhere in the chase.

“Xavier and I got separated. He’s goin’ back to the ship—I was tryin’ to find you lot.”

“No.” Nomi’s voice cracks. She shakes her head, folding arms around herself. “He shouldn’t be alone—I think it—this fucking thing works better when you’re alone, yeah? It didn’t get us on the ship because we were never alone.”

Benny fumbles for the com chip behind his ear. But the ship sends nothing but static back. He jerks out a communicator from his pocket. His hands shake as he dials Xavier. It rings. And continues ringing. Bastard. He’s never not answered before. Unlike Benny, who often misplaces the technology, Xavier is often glued to it. There’s slim chances that logs from his sisters back home will come through, depending where they are in voyage. He never wants to miss them.

Benji is staring at him, his eyes dark. His jaw is tense. Benny feels a sudden surge of sympathy and chooses not to panic him. Instead, he finds Lark’s contact and dials it instead.

“What the fuck, Benny?” His annoyed voice is crisp through the line. Benny thumbs a button so that the other three can hear as well. “I’m like, very fucking busy right now, man.”

“You need t-to find Xavier.” Benny stutters, but his voice is unrelentingly firm. He’s surprised at his own calmness. It feels like a balm to the pain in his leg and the fear making every part of him twitchy. He wipes his pale blond hair back, exhaling slowly. The device is quiet for a moment.

“What’s wrong?”

“Too long t-to explain. He’s he-headed back to the ship.”

“Copy.”

The call cuts. Benny puts the communicator into his pocket, hands still shaking hard enough it almost tumbles free. They all pause then, the three of them standing there.

“Well,” Benji says, lifting a finger to point behind Benny. “That’s not fuckin’ shockin’ at all.” He doesn’t want to look, but he does. Turns his head over his shoulder. There’s a black stain on the ground, but no body. Nothing but the scuffed marks of it’s death and the now drying pool of it’s blood to say it was ever there. And the cut on Benny’s leg. That was real. There was no denying that.

When he looks back to them, they all three stare, as if he’s the one to make the next move. Benny blanches.

“Ship,” he says, a short, quiet word because he can’t trust himself to say more than that. When Nomi and Benji turn, it’s Maran who lingers, looking at him just a bit longer. Benny is almost thankful for it.

***

“This is a terrible date,” Matilda remarks, even though her eyes are alight underneath Red God’s overstuffed markets. They’re bursting with colors, especially with the environment set to night time. Stalls have neon lights draped over them and people hawk wares loudly and store fronts have doors open, inviting people to come inside and lose money. The smells are both acrid and awful and mingling with the scent of people and food.

It isn’t necessarily a place to go, but an experience none the less. He buys them cheap food at a vendor that deals with Earth delicacies. Something cold and sweet that melts quickly on your tongue and makes her pinch her eyes shut when she eats a scoop too fast. The energy is low and humming, nothing like the club would have been. The drugs make all the colors bleed together, harmonizing under the constant buzz of people yelling around them.

“No it isn’t,” Lark replies, an arm wrapped around her slender waist. She lets him, her own draped lazily across his shoulders. The feel of her body so close makes him feel even more intoxicated, even though its the tail end of the high. “Besides, you told me I couldn’t take you on a date.”

“You can’t.”

“So what is this?” Lark looks up at her, grinning wickedly. Her height only amplifies her beauty. He’s gotten her naked in his bed, her long pale body spread out across his shitty military sheets. The length of her is appealing, because it’s so much more for him to enjoy. He’d made a path of bites and kisses from her ankle to the inside of her thigh and taken his time too.

Maybe it was backwards that they’d slept together and only now were carving time out to be truly alone. Wander a shitty military base city, high and satiated off sweets that had cost too much. Truthfully, it was backwards to begin with, when she’d snuck onto the ship to steal Maran and Benji away. It would never not be backwards, considering all the stretched between them.

Lark isn’t sure if they’re together purely because they’re attracted to each other and there. Available. He gets the sense that she would flee very quickly. Take her boys and run and he’d never see her again and never forget the taste of her on his tongue. He isn’t even sure that Matilda would like him if things were different. If they met differently.

Matilda sighs, long suffering as she dances forward, yanking him onto a steel grated bridge that overhangs a dark abyss drilling into the planet the base is on. The height exhilarates him. He’s never once been afraid of heights. Maybe that’s why he’d joined the military—not just because he had to. But because being off the ground felt good.

He’s pinned back to the guard rail, her body to his as her hands curl around it behind him. Strands of her dark red hair fall from her messy yanked back pony tail. He’s dizzy at the sensation of her possessing him like that.

“You didn’t want to go dancing?” She pouts. Her lips are glossy from something she’d paused and applied in a window of a store, the owner staring at her with stars in his eyes.

“I wanted to be alone,” Lark replies, shrugging lazily, spine curving as he stands there. His booted feet are splayed around her, elbows to the rail, hands dangling even as they want to yank at her.

“You’re not alone.”

“With you,” he bites out, head tilting forward. Matilda looks down at him with her chin slightly raised. Her eyes are an overly large feature in her face, the stimulants making her pupils massive, even as they wear off. She curls her lip, like she might disparage him. But his hand curls around her hip. His fingers indent her skin, holding her tighter until she’s shuffling closer. The bridge is empty, save for them, darker down at this end of the marketplace. It’s not private. But…

“I don’t like you that much, Tanaka,” Matilda murmurs, even as her glossy lips are almost touching his.

The communicator in his pocket goes shrill. It makes Matilda recoil, stepping back from him. Lark promises a swift, brutal end for whoever is on the other end. A quick tap on the chip behind his ears brings the com length for the ship entirely inactive. It can’t be an emergency then…

—

To her credit, Matilda doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t even offer a sarcastic word, or a clever quip. Something in his face must make her pause—something might even make her worry. Maybe not for the same person. Lark doesn’t think Matilda has any particularly strong feelings for any of them, least of all the corporal. But if something is wrong, it might not just extend to Xavier. She has to care for Maran and Benji. She’d come for them, after all. She was in this mess because she’d cared for them.

Some small part of him that he ignores as best as he can, wants her to care for him too.

Instead, he’s walking at a pace she matches with her long stride. The pass through the markets isn’t as rose tinted now that he’s scared. And it’s undeniable that he is, with his pulse beating Xavier’s name in his chest. Benny’s voice had been warped by the electronic cackle of the communicator, but he’d not sounded…right. He was an easily spooked man, which maybe made him perfect for his role as a demolitions expert, or a sniper. But hearing the thinness in his voice had made some animal instinct in Lark surpass rationale. Xavier’s name, said like that.

Not Xavier. Lark can’t do this without him.

“Fuck, where did everyone go?” he stares around at the emptiness of the entertainment district. It had been bursting with people just an hour ago, when they’d made their departure from the ship. It had been nearly overwhelming with populace. Half the reason why he’d dragged her away, because the thought of all those bodies pressing in on Matilda hadn’t sat right with him.

The pilot pauses beside him. He’s startled to realize she’s taken his hand. He doesn’t give her any placating words, but he does squeeze it once. She squeezes it back.

They slide around a corner together, connected like that—and a figure at the end of the hall pulls them up short.

Before Lark had ever been a soldier—before he was even Lark—he had grown up a poor boy on a colony made for food production. It was one of the nastier colonies, as food producers usually were. He’d grown up in a hot, two bedroom house, where he slept in the corner of the room beside his sister. Parents in the other room, sleeping only a couple hours a night before they went to the production plants. Everything they’d ever owned fit in one giant hover crate when they’d been forced to downsize, as the plant consumed everything around it, growing larger to make food for the rest of the galaxy.

He’d turned to crime easily, then, because it was the only way real money could be made. And he’d needed money. Lark never truly forgot the sort of fear that came with being cornered. Feeling backed in. And that’s how the stranger makes him feel, even though they are technically outnumbered.

But truthfully, it’s Matilda beside him that makes Lark even more afraid. Because she stumbles. Her hand goes tighter around his, so tight he can feel his bones sliding together.

“Mouse,” she whispers.

The figure stalks toward them with a rolling gait. Their foot steps echo loudly in the hall that had just been bursting with people and music. Plastic cups and cans and inhalers like the one he’d used earlier litter the ground. Where had everyone gone? Had they done something?

They resolve into features. A short and non lethal looking urchin, with messy brown hair and tawny skin. There is a long scar across the side of their face, stark white and mean looking. They’re smiling, but God it doesn’t look like a smile. It looks like a savage opening of the face to reveal teeth. Lark’s tongue touches his steel canine. His free hand slowly goes for the pistol in the back of his jeans, tucked away.

“Mouse!” Matilda yells. He tilts his chin down, staring with narrowed, cold eyes. Fear becomes anger. His hand touches the cold metal of his gun.

But this person—Mouse—raises her own.

“Hi, Mattie,” they yell. “Baby. Did you miss me?”

Then they fire.

#writing #space horror au #xw #bp #mgc #mmr #lt #jlb #nw #xw x bp #good taste #lt x mmr #my god the whole squad

3 notes · View notes