#central officer dadford

[trbl-will-find-me]

Daemon AU - Growing Pains

Titouen’s settled. Sally isn’t pleased. From @coloneljamesmoriarty‘s daemon ‘verse.

He wakes to see Verena curled around Sally, who is clutching something in her hands.

"T, we had a plan," she insists. "A plan. What happened?"

English, he notes. She wants this public.

"Magpie?" He calls.

"Titouen settled."

"You don't sound happy."

She raises something above her head, but he can't make it out. "Look at this!" She calls.

He pushes himself up and closes the distance between them. Titouen stares up at him, indignation shining in his eyes.

"He's cute,” Sally groans. "He's not supposed to be cute."

"Can I see?"

She deposits the daemon into his hand, and leans back, pouting. Verena nuzzles closer to her, her head resting on the girl's lap.

"Not a bad set of talons."

"Central."

Titouen ruffles his feathers. "It was the best I could do."

"Large bird of prey. How could you forget large?" Sally moans. "No one's ever going to take us seriously."

"What? I don't count," Central asks in mock offense.

She shakes her head. "You're not who I'm worried about."

It takes him a moment to realize what she means. "Oh, Magpie."

"Come on. I'm screwed the second we broach camp. We both know it. Just. Just leave me out here. It's easier."

"No," Verena says. "It's not safe."

"It'll be a more merciful end. "

Verena glowers. "Not funny."

"Please don't make me go."

"Magpie..."

"Central, they're all gonna laugh."

"'m sorry," Titouen finally manages.

Sally's shoulders droop, and she gently scoops the daemon from Central's hands. "Ah, petit oiseau." She presses a kiss to his head. “Je sais.”

--

Titouen is perched on her shoulder strap, talons sunk into the mesh pocket.

"It's just ... you've got Verena. Volk's got Nadya. Maman had Thomas. Papa had Cécile. I wanted something to compete with that."

“It’s not a competition.”

“People see Verena, and they know you mean business. They’re gonna see Titouen and think I’m a joke.”

Titouen twitters.

“Don’t think you’re helping your case, T,” Verena says.

“You sound like a squeaky toy.”

Titouen takes off, settling instead on Central’s shoulder, and glowers down at his partner.  He reaches up, offering the daemon a few gentle strokes. “Magpie, would you have really been happy with something that was a quarter of your size?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“A peregrine falcon isn’t big. A barn owl isn’t big.”

“Magpie.”

“I just … Maman had a red tail. Papa had a wolf. I have …” She gestures at Titouen.

“A bird of prey who’s small enough not to be noticed when he’s running scouting duty.”

“Small enough to be eaten in one bite is more like it. I just want to be taken seriously.”

Verena presses up against her. “It comes with age.”

“It comes with having a daemon that’s bigger than a feathery baseball.”

“Have you ever seen a baseball?” Central asks.

“…No. Maman had, though. I’d know one if I saw one.”

“They … could pack a lot of damage. Don’t count Titouen out on size.“

A tiny feathered head nuzzles along his jawline.

“We’ll handle Volk,” Verena promises. “I’ll handle Nadya.”

Sally sighs, and clicks her tongue, summoning Titouen back. He nibbles gently at her ear, and settles back on her pack strap.

--

Verena knows, as soon as she looks at Nadya, that there will be trouble. She curls around Sally, doing her best to comfort the girl.

“What?” Volk grins. “No sweeping display? No midair acrobatics?”

“He’s settled,” Sally mumbles.

Verena presses closer, anticipating Volk’s reaction.

“It’s a tender topic,” Central says, shooting the Reaper a pointed look. “Try not to be yourself.”

“I’m wounded, John. I would never insult something so cute.”

Titouen takes off, and Nadya gives chase, the smaller bird refusing to cow. Verena lets out a low growl.

“Knock if off. I said don’t be yourself,” Central grumbles. Titouen comes to land on his shoulder and, instinctively, he reaches up a hand to shelter the tiny creature.

“Everyone learns their place in the pecking order eventually.”

Verena’s growl grows louder. “Easy, easy,” the Reaper says with a smile she has learned not to trust. “It’s all in jest.”

Sally settles a hand against Verena’s side, holding her close. “It’ll all be in jest when there’s hemlock in your tea, “ Sally spits. “Titouen, vas-y.”

Verena trots after her, Central jogging to keep up.

--

They sit at the base of a large tree, Central’s arm around her shoulders, Titouen perched on his hand, and Verena stretched over her legs. She rests her head against his chest, and tells herself she will not cry.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I know I was outta line.”

Central shakes his head. “So was he. ‘Least you had your reasons.”

“This is what I was afraid of. It’s gonna be like this the whole time we’re here.”

He sighs. “It’s too late to keep going tonight, but we can leave in the morning. Haven a few days south of here.”

She picks her head up. “Won’t it be weird?”

He shrugs. “Dealt with bigger problems. Might send a message, too.”

She reaches out a finger, offering Titouen a few affectionate scritches. “You were pretty tough today,” she says, voice catching at the back of her throat. “Didn’t even flinch.”

“Ferocious little bird,” Verena says, lifting her head.

“It’ll be fine, Magpie,” Central says, pulling her into a one-armed hug. “You’ll see.”

[ask-manda-of-the-6]

Interdimensional Commander

commanderweir

A dimensional gate suddenly opens. Weir stumbles through it looking confused. He spots the sloshed recruit, and gives her sympathetic look.

“Drink peppermint tea in the morning. You’ll thank me.”

Weir looks around, and realizes he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.

“Thanks Mister Old Guy!” Manda waved in greeting to the man who stepped out of the violet portal. “That works ‘cause I looooooooove tea!”

There was something oddly familiar about the uniform he was wearing, but it was difficult to pinpoint it.

“Wait a minute...” She squinted at the symbol. “You’re not Central Officer Dadford!” She blinked once and then corrected herself with a hiccup. “Bradford...” She tilted her head to the side, not unlike a confused puppy. “Who’re you?”

[trbl-will-find-me]

TBTV: Respite

Summer vacation takes on a different meaning. Canon, pre-EEAE.

He could get used to this.

Yes, the water is just a little too cold, and yes, there’s just a few too many people, but he could get used to this.

The museum grounds are small, but the houses are well built. Freed from their ropes and barriers, they’ve become comfortable living spaces once more. Yes, he admits, it would be more comfortable with air conditioning, but he’s accepted that’s a luxury he’ll never find outside of the city centers.

Portsmouth is small, too small to have caught ADVENT’s attention, with winters far too harsh. It is riskier in the summer, yes, but with its own rewards. He can’t remember the last time he’d managed something approaching stability for Sally.

She’d taken to stable living better than he ever could have imagined. After the initial adjustment period, she’d settled down nicely. Their bags still sit mostly packed at the door, yes, and he is certain she still carries a pistol concealed on her person, but he’s gotten used to the sight of her zipping by on a bicycle liberated from museum storage.

The dresses are still a sight.

Even so, he’s grateful. The work is steady and stable, and he’s relieved to have time to think. For her part, Sally seems to be making the most of her access to new people. She’s taken to sewing with aplomb, now that there’s someone to teach her.

“Magpie!” He calls up the stairs. “Dinner.”

“Ow,” comes the response.

“Ow?”

“I stuck myself.”

“Come down. You’ll have better light on the porch.”

He is really not used to the dresses.

“You look nice,” he offers. “Looks new.”

“Sort of,” she chirps. “It was too big. Had to fix it.”

“You’ve been busy.”

She grins at him. “Amazing what gets done when we’re not traipsing around the woods. Dinner smells good.”

He chuckles. “What, you getting soft on me?”

She nods, sitting down. “I can feel my firebuilding skills slipping away.”

“It’s like riding a bike.”

“Think I’m doing a lot more of that.”

--

She sits on the porch after dinner, thimble on her finger. It’s perhaps a little too hot to be working with wool, but she has a mission.

Central is off, some meeting about long term evacuation plans. The specter of ADVENT hangs over everything here, but she does her best to avoid it. Everything is ephemeral; that does not mean it isn’t worth savoring.

She ties off the final thread and examines her handiwork.

--

It’s late when he makes his way back, and his stomach is in knots. They won’t be able to stay on much longer.

Inside the house, the blackout curtains are pulled, but the kitchen light is on.

Propped against the napkin holder is her bear, sporting a small woolen peacoat, meticulously hand-stitched, a near perfect miniature of his own. He picks it up, brushing the faux fur from the creature’s eyes and straightening the lapels.

“How’d I do?” the note hanging from its paw reads.

His heart twists in his chest. He wishes he had more time to give her, a longer respite to offer. He spends enough time wondering who she could be, who she would be, if it weren’t for the aliens. 

He sets the bear back on the table. He’ll break the news to her in the morning.

[trbl-will-find-me]

Some concepts haven’t survived the rise of ADVENT. Thanks to @the-grim-squeaker-8 for pointing out the existence of the museum in Leavenworth!

She stops at one of the cases: an ornately carved and painted wooden frog with a brass tube through its center.

“It’s beautiful,” she says. “But what is it?”

“It’s a carousel animal,” he says. “Nice one, too. Gotta be over a hundred from the looks of it.”

“A carousel?”

“You know, a merry-go-round.”

She stares at him blankly.

“I don’t know the French for it, Magpie.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a kid’s ride. It’s the thing that spins around and the animals go up and down and there’s music. You know.”

She shakes her head.

“Really?”

“Really. I think you’re pulling my leg.”

“I would never.”

“You would too.”

He grins and shakes his head. “We ever make it to Leavenworth, you’re gonna be eating your words. Assuming it still exists,” he adds under his breath.

“What’s in Leavenworth then?”

“A whole shrine to’em.”

[trbl-will-find-me]

Darkness on the Edge of Town

Hello everyone! Welcome to life post-GRE for me. If you’ve left me prompts, I have not forgotten! Just wanted to get this out for Friday the 13th.

There is one lesson every kid knows that every adult has forgotten: here there be monsters.

Sally + Central. Pre- EEAE.

John Bradford has learned not to trust in human decency, that it is a concept wholly dependent upon the existence of civilization and its social contract, a concept that crumbles in the face of the impetus to survive.

So, no, literal white picket fences do not instill in him a sense of confidence.

There is a storm on the horizon, the low rumble of thunder filling the air with the promise of rain. The breeze ruffles the leaves of the trees and something stirs on the edge of the wind.

“It’s gonna be bad,” Sally says. “Can feel it in the air.”

“It’s the south in the summer, Magpie. This is what all storms are like.”

She shakes her head. “This feels different.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You mean trouble.”

She nods. “Think so. Just a hunch.”

He casts a glance down the tree lined street. Officially, the town shouldn’t exist. They are still at least a day’s tree from the nearest haven, and several more outside of ADVENT territory. Still, he can’t dent the obvious signs of non-alien life.

Another roll of thunder sounds in the distance and he feels it in his chest. Sally fidgets with her braid, eyes fixed on the building clouds.

The odds of being struck by lightning are 1 in 3,000, he tells himself. But then again, the odds of losing the woman you love to alien invaders and being made to watch as everything you’ve ever worked for or loved is reduced to rubble are a hell of a lot lower and those events came to pass all the same.

Perhaps testing their luck is not the best idea.

Sally shifts from foot to foot, her eyes darting from heaven to earth and back again. Her hands fidget with the straps on her pack, in search of something to hold.

“I don’t like either of our choices here,” he says.

“How bad could it be? We made it past an ADVENT checkpoint last month. This doesn’t seem half as dangerous.”

“Houses, lights, electricity: this doesn’t seem odd to you?”

She shrugs. “I’ve got two dead people’s memories in my head. I’ve got a pretty forgiving definition of that word.”

He sighs. “Stay close.”

They’ve made it a few blocks into the town when they first notice the posters, faces staring out at them in silent accusation, wrapped around wooden telephone poles.

They’re new, maybe a few weeks to a few months old at most, written by hand and run off on a copy machine. They look like something out of the world that was, the world before the aliens, and a knot forms in his stomach. There are three or four different posters, each in its own distinct hand, with its own distinct face. An uncle, two children, a godmother, and a nephew are all among the lost.

The hair on the back of his neck stands on end as another, more insistent rumble passes through them.

“This a better fit with your definition of odd?”

She hugs her arms to her chest. “It’s definitely weird, but I don’t think it’s ADVENT. We’re easily 300 miles from the closest city center.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“It’s not gonna matter if we get caught outside when this storm breaks.”

A gust of wind picks up behind them,  blowing the stray hairs from Sally’s braid in front of her face.

He tries to think of something glib, something funny. There’s no way she hasn’t picked up on his anxiety, on his concerns about this place. He wants to find something, anything, to reassure her, to reassure himself.

Lightning splits the sky ahead of them, and rain begins to fall. Maybe he should have taken the 1 in 3,000 odds.

–

They push further into town and the missing posters grow more abundant. They wallpaper poles, fences, front doors, and mailboxes. They stick out from storm doors. They flap in the breeze.

She does not see any people. More importantly, she does not feel any people.

She does not have her mother’s skill with the gift, and certainly not her father’s. She cannot wield it as a weapon, cannot wrap herself in it as a shield. How could she, when she has spent so much of her life learning to contain it.  But she can listen. She can sense.

There is nothing here.

She holds to that, focuses on it.

Something flickers at the edge of her vision, and when she turns her head, the once immaculately manicured lawn of the house is now overgrown, the lights are off, and the shudders hang ajar.

She stops dead in her tracks and turns, surveying the rest of the street. The lamp poles still shown brightly down, but they now illuminate decrepit ruins and creeping decay.

Thunder booms overhead, the telltale sign of the storm’s approach.

“Central,” she says, voice beginning to shake. “Tell me you’re seeing this.”

“Seeing what?”

“This.”

“This is what towns used to be like.”

“You’re not seeing what these houses look like?”

“Magpie, I grew up on a street that didn’t look much different.”

“Shudders falling down? Doors ajar? Cracking sidewalks?”

He wrinkles his brow. “The hell are you talking about?”

“You don’t see it?”

Her heart begins to beat a little faster. She can feel something prod at her mind, and she tries to quiet her thoughts. She does not want to lose whatever small advantage she has.

“What?” “That,” she says, wrapping her hand around his forearm. “All of this.”

He blinks once, twice, and she can feel a slow wave of confusion emanating from him. “The hell?”

“You see it now, right?”

“Yeah, Magpie. I see it.”

The drizzle begins to gain strength.

“I don’t … I don’t think we should be here.”

“Until this storm passes, we don’t have much choice.”

“We could take our chances.”

“You and I have sucker’s luck. We’d both get hit.”

“Yeah, but this smacks of psionic bullshit,” she says. “And that scares me a lot more. Getting struck by lightning is one and done.”

“Very comforting.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll take a quick death over a slow one any day.”

“The fact that you’ve thought about that …”

“Oh, come on,” she says, quirking an eyebrow. “No way you haven’t.”

“I’m older.”

“And I’m pragmatic.”

Thunder cracks above them.

Sally feels something beginning to pull at her again, the same unknown force from earlier. She sees the world around her begin to distort again, melting back into the same façade of suburban perfection, and responds with a hearty mental shove. The street snaps back into sharp focus around her, and she feels the hair on the back of her neck begins to rise.

“Something’s here,” she says. “I don’t know what, and I don’t know who. But it’s not ADVENT.”

The rainfall graduates to a downpour, sticking her braid to her neck and threatening to soak through the outer lining of her pack. Every instinct she has tells her to get out, to leave while they still can.

“Can’t go on that long. We’ll let it pass and get back on the road.”

She really wishes she were strong enough to drag him out.

They push further towards the town square. Missing posters litter the ground, the sidewalks, the street. There are so many, more than she will ever be able to count. It doesn’t seem possible for so many people to have disappeared from one town. On the green, the gazebo’s roof has caved in, exposing rotted boards and disintegrating shingles.

“Why is this part of town okay?” He asks.

“You’ve got a funny definition of okay. Look at the gazebo.”

“So, it needs a new paint job.”

“And a new roof?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s collapsed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There!” She gestures.

“I don’t know what you’re —“

From the corner of her eye, she sees something advance.

“Central,” she says, cutting him off. “I’d love to have this conversation with you, but we have to get out of here.”

“In this? We’ll be walking into flooding.”

“Then let’s at least get out of the open, alright?”

“Agreed.”

–

He knows something is wrong. He doesn’t know what, but something is amiss. In the almost three years he has traveled with her, he has learned that Sally doesn’t spook without reason.

Yes, the town is empty, and that’s unsettling. The fact that everything looks as if it’s been perfectly preserved, left aside by a populace that’s collectively left for dinner, does, indeed, add another level of alarm. And yes, there are a lot of missing persons posters, but for god’s sake, it’s been fifteen years and he’s altogether too used to the sight of them to think twice.

But Sally? He can’t explain Sally. He can’t explain why her hand rests on the revolver at her side, readying it for a fight.

They’ve bunkered down in one of the houses off the green, their packs left by the door. Normally, she’d settle down; four solid walls and a roof tend to ease both of their minds.

Not today, though.

Outside, lighting splits a tree and she jumps. “Fils de pute,” she mutters.

“Language, Magpie.”

“You swear,” she retorts, wrapping her arms around herself.

“I’m older.”

“I might not get that chance.”

He glowers at her. “Don’t even joke.”

“Who’s joking?” She asks, her eyes darting around the room.

“Alright, I give up. What’s going on?”

“There’s something here,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “And it’s getting closer.”

“ADVENT?”

She shakes her head. “Worse.”

“Worse? You wanna elaborate?”

“You don’t see this place for what it is.”

“Magpie —“

Skinny fingers wrap around the exposed skin between his sleeve and his glove, flesh and bone and the metal of mismatched rings pressed against his wrist. His vision warps and distorts, as buildings stretch and squash like a fun house mirror, then snap back into shape. Something moves near the window behind Sally.

“See?” She asks, a frantic edge to her voice.

“How’d you do that?”

“That’s … it’s … something else is here.”

The lights flicker and her grip tightens. The world warps again and he can almost make out the gazebo, now ruined, before the perfect, empty vision snaps back into place.

Outside, the rain runs down the street in small rivers.

His head spins and he squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel a headache coming on, not a migraine and not a hangover and not withdrawal, but something else entirely.

“No, no, no, no, no,” someone says and he’s pretty sure that someone is Sally. Pretty sure, but by no means certain. The world feels wrong, slow and sepia, and there’s a nausea settling in his stomach. He knows he should get up, should find out who’s upset and what’s wrong and.

No. No no no. This is wrong. He knows this is wrong. 1 in 3,000 odds and they should have taken them. Quick death beats a slow one. The door bangs and he wants to yell, wants to remind her We live in a house, not a barn, Magpie.

A house. A house. What house? Low slung brick in the Kansas sun, sunflowers off the back porch. Bright brick and brighter shudders, a house with history, a house with ghosts, her ghost, her ghost on the floorboards, the floorboards that have probably rotted, could have, should have, don’t die wondering, her voice in his ear.

Magpie. Magpie. Little bird, little girl, gone. All gone. Young and small and vulnerable and shouldn’t have let her go, promises to keep, promises that can’t be kept, never could be. Little girl, flash of blue, make it quick for her, come for you next.

This is always how it ends. Can’t protect one; can’t protect the other. One dead and the other soon to follow, a whole army of ghosts to follow you down. Can’t fight, can’t win, surrender now, make it quick for her if you —

Not real, another voice comes in. Not real, not real, not real.

He can’t think, not well enough to place it, but it’s familiar. Not her, and not Steph, but there’s someone he’s forgetting. Someone who he can almost think of, whose name is on the tip of his tongue. Red hair and a flash of blue and.

Sally.

–

Not real, not real, not real. She holds to the thought, clings to it. It is now as much her weapon as the gun in her hands, as the knife in her boot.

Not real, not real, not real.

There are things she knows. Her name is Sally Élise Royston. She used to answer to Punch. She still answers to Magpie.

Not real, not real, not real.

Her parents are dead. They were XCOM operatives, and they both gave their lives in an attempt to stop the aliens.

You don’t know that Papa is dead, some other voice, one not quite her own, offers. You never got —

Not. Real. Not. Real. Not. Real.

Her name is Sally Élise Royston. Her parents are former XCOM operatives. They are dead. She is alive.  She is here and whole and alive and she needs to get out.

Not real, not real, not real.

She needs to get out and she needs to get him out because he is the last, closest thing she has to family and she will be damned if she loses him too.

Rain pelts down on her, soaking her through. She spares a moment to be thankful it is the dead of summer, not winter, shuddering at the memory of being too cold, too cold, can’t go further, just let me, just—

She shoves at the presence clawing at her thoughts.

Not real, not real, not real.

She forces herself to focus on her surroundings, on the way the boards rot and the sidewalk chips. The missing posters littering the ground curl and warp under the force of the deluge, the insistence of the water. She focuses on the feel of it in her boots, against her skin, soaking her socks; of the cold grip of the gun in her hands. She refuses to look at whatever flickers at the corner of her eye, the almost glimpses of someone else’s memories.

If she’d just turn her head, she’s sure she’d know whose.

But, no. No. She knows a trap when she sees one, knows temptation when it’s flashing right in front of her. She has a job to do. She cannot falter; she cannot fail.

But you were scared, no? She’d once asked her mother.

Of course we were, but, you can’t run forever, came the response. Eventually, it catches up with you. Better to fight on your own terms. You wanna squish the spider in the bathtub or when it’s crawling up your leg?

She will not be trapped. She will not run. She will end this.

XCOM’s gone, Central never fails to remind her. You’re a few years too late to the party, Sal. Can’t be second generation anything if it doesn’t exist.

Past. Present. She doesn’t care.

Her name is Sally Élise Royston, but she answers to Magpie. Her parents are gone, but her family is not. She is terrified, but she is XCOM; she will not waiver.

Vigilo confido.

Her mark appears almost in front of her and she stops short. He looks barely human, caved-in chest, long fingernails caked with what she suspects to blood, and an almost skeletal face. He reaches for her, and she stumbles backwards, keeping the gun pointed straight ahead, even as her arms shake. She pulls the trigger, hitting the man in the shoulder, but it does nothing to stop his advance.

She considers the possibility that she’s going to die here, in the skeletons of the so-called American Dream, a whole town rotting as her tombstone. She’d like to laugh, to find some irony in it, which is what she’s almost certain Central would do, but can’t. There’s a sort of terror creeping up her spine, and a lump in her throat. She thought she’d be braver than this.

A shot rings out from behind her and, instinctively, she dives for the nearest cover

The man — no, the thing grabs her by her wrist and yanks her to her feet, sending her gun flying.

She thought she had a few more years before she’d be staring down the barrel of an assault rifle pointed directly at her.

–

He is not drunk.

He is confident in that knowledge.

There are two Sallys, one dragging the other. One is shouting, the other silent. One is armed, one is not. Both are soaked to the skin.

Same body language.

“Central!” One calls.

Same gait.

“Central, do something!”

Same look of terror.

“Central!”

He is not as confident in the knowledge of which one is real.

The shouting one has all the hallmarks of Magpie. Some French-English pidgin, a touch of indignation, and the sense that whatever’s she dragging is entirely too heavy for someone her size. Sally’s clever, always has been, and he doesn’t put it past her to have nabbed whatever the creature is.

He knows they are out of time. The thing she’d warned him about is here, and he has a choice to make.

1 in 3,000 beats 1 in 2, he thinks. Should’ve stayed on the road. Should’ve kept going.

A gunshot wound this far from help won’t end well. There’s bleed out, there’s infection, there’s healing. There is the fact that he should almost certainly be shooting to kill.

Tick tock, something says in his head.

But there’s something else, a different voice. The voice from earlier, panicked and unsteady. Oh god, it says. Oh god, not real, not real, not real, fils de pute, not real, not real. There is no color in the face of the dragged girl, but there is a quiet terror and, if he looks carefully, if he focuses, something like trust behind her eyes.

Mortal terror has almost always rendered her mute. Retaliations. ADVENT patrols. Men who for whom the idea of she’s thirteen sounds more like encouragement than admonishment. Without fail, they knock her into silence, knock her back to the scared little girl he’d collected from a ruined haven one winter’s night.

Thunder crashes over head and one of the two flinches.

It’s enough. It’s all he needs.

He takes aim, fires, and the whole street goes dark.

–

For a moment, there is only the sound of rain.

“Magpie, tell me that’s you.”

Her heart is racing and she can’t quite think straight, but still. “It’s me,” she manages, standing. The blood rushes in her ears and she tries to slow her breathing. “How’d you know?”

He shakes his head. “Just did.”

She pokes at the bloodied body, shot clean through the head, with the toe of her boot.  “You think he was working alone?”

Central looks around, as if truly seeing the town for the first time. “I’d say that’s a safe bet. Still, let’s not take any chances.”

“Agreed,” she says, trying to hide the shiver that runs down her spine. “Let’s get out of here.”

She makes her way back towards him, never quite taking an eye off of the body in the street, all too secure in the knowledge that it could have been her.

He seems to know, too, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they head back towards the house where they’d left their gear.

“Why do this?” She asks.

He shakes his head. “Couldn’t tell you, Magpie.”

She leans into him, and he pulls her into a one armed hug.

“Time to go?”

He nods. “Time to go.”

[trbl-will-find-me]

Hearth & Home

He just wants peace. He wants somewhere safe and dry to lay his head at night, a place where the floors creak and the sunlight pours in, where broken things can be mended once again.

The house might be enough. @companionwolf​: some fluff for you

All things considered, the house isn’t in bad shape. Sure, there’s a few boards on the outside that need to be repaired, and the floors need to be redone, and that step creaks, and the shutters are loose, but overall. It’s not in bad shape.

The owners had moved out towards the city center in Chicago years back. The stragglers who stayed behind at adopted the house as their own. Strange, maybe, but that’s small town Kansas for you.

Kansas. God, the thought of being back here voluntarily is strange. When he’d left, he’d sworn he was gone for good. Then, XCOM happened. After that, he knew he’d never be back.

But they’d needed gear from the base. He’d needed files. His mother’s house was still a warm place to winter. Manhattan still had salvage. But once again, he’d promised himself: this is the last time.

He’d left for the ocean; now, he wants to be as far from it as possible. So, Kansas, once again.

Slowly, the world is reforming, reintegrating. There are challenges, and there will be for some time. The almost total loss of skilled manual labor outside of the Resistance and Haven communities will be a challenge that takes years to really overcome. The losses in biodiversity may never truly heal --- at least not without intervention. The decimation of the Lost cities remains an ever present concern.

And that’s not factoring in integrating the ADVENT forces, newly able to act of their own agency, into a society that still isn’t sure how to react.

He is tired. He has fought so hard for so long. The ache of old injuries never truly goes away, and the new ones throb in ways he never truly thought possible. His nerves are raw, his nightmares ferocious, and his strength worn.

He just wants peace. He wants somewhere safe and dry to lay his head at night, a place where the floors creak and the sunlight pours in, where broken things can be mended once again.

The house might be enough.

He brings the idea up after dinner one night, a sketch of an idea presented to the partner curled against his side. The Commander listens and nods, rubbing circles into his palm while he talks.

“Sounds like we’re finally getting our chance.” A better benediction than he could have hoped for.

They’ve come to know the community, or at least what remains. Those brave enough had made contact with the Avenger when it had landed in one of the fields on the outskirts; they’d been happy for the supplies and rations, and had welcomed the crew into their lives.

It is a chance to begin again, maybe the last one; he has no intention of squandering it.

--

Three months in, and the big things have all been fixed. The shutters have been re-hung, the rotted boards replaced, the creaking step silenced, and the floors redone.  Their small solar grid keeps the house comfortable, the lights on, and the water running. It has been long, hard work, but he is satisfied.

Menace had liberated a mattress from a former ADVENT warehouse as a kind of housewarming gift for them, parading it off the Skyranger with such solemnity before asking if they could surf it down the stairs. The Commander had just laughed, unable to respond to such an absurd request. For his part, he’d simply glowered up at their surprisingly cherubic grins.

“Not unless you’re planning on fixing the wall --- and doing it the right way.”

That had been more than enough to disabuse them of such an idea.

He sits on the porch steps with Kelly that night, watching the sun set over the land.

“It’s amazing what you’ve done,” she says. “You’ve gotta be exhausted.”

He shrugs. “Take this over the war any day.”

She chuckles. “Yeah, I’d imagine. God,” she sighs. “I’d kill for a break. Even just a little time away from it.”

“So, stay.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You’re gonna have to steal your own mattress, but we’ve got the room.”

“You mean it?”

“I’m not the only one who’s earned a break.”

--

The garden starts as a joke, a bet that a human bonded with an incredibly powerful alien, the only person to survive being inserted, removed, and re-inserted into the ADVENT network, is, in fact, not in possession of a green thumb.

It is not the correct assumption.

The berries have taken over, sprawling out into the lawn, with watermelons and summer squash chasing after. Oregano, mint, and lavender sprout in the window boxes, and tomatoes climb towards the sun in their cages.

“This your doing, or his?” He asks one afternoon.

“Both, I think?” The Commander answers. “I think he likes that it’s constructive.”

“Keep it up, and we’re gonna have to find help eating all this .”

“That’s the goal.”

--

There are still nightmares. He suspects there always will be: the faces they couldn’t save, the friends they lost, the horrors they saw, the few agonizing seconds waiting for the Commander to come back to him after Leviathan. These are the things that haunt dreams.

They have been in the house for five months. They have beds and bookshelves and the kitchen cabinets are almost almost entirely refinished. The swing he’d put up for Kelly as a joke has become something of a neighborhood attraction. There is a kitchen table in progress, even.

There are times it is still not enough.

So, yes, it is 4 AM. Yes, he is awake. Yes, he is sanding the damn kitchen tabletop because yes, he has to do something.

“Hey,” a gentle voice says. “Don’t jump. It’s me.”

He offers the Commander a tired grin over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Could ask you the same thing.”

He shakes his head. “Tried. Failed. Had to do something.”

“So, our table?”

“Yeah, our table.”

The Commander settles next to him. “Can I help?”

“You’re gonna get covered in sawdust.”

“Ah, the miracle of a working shower.”

Kelly finds them later that morning, asleep against the wall on the back porch, hand-in-hand.

“Remind me why we stole you two a mattress?” She asks.

“So you could try surfing down the stairs on it,” the Commander mutters.

Central just grins.

--

Seven months in, and they have made real progress. Every bed has a mattress and every mattress has a bed. The kitchen cabinets are finally finished and the table sits proudly in the breakfast nook.

The town has grown, opening its doors to ADVENT refugees of all stripes, both human and hybrid. He has been drafted into the efforts to build a better gazebo for the green, a bigger one, one that might actually be able to hold all of the faces that flock to the teach-ins.

He has thus far resisted being drafted into giving one of those.

There is a market of sorts, a place where people come to swap their goods. The Commander and Kelly bring the extra produce, and come back with books and tools and hats and coats and sweets.  

There is a rug at the bottom of the stairs now, and on each of the bathroom floors. Curtains line the windows and the wallpaper that once peeled has been stripped away, replaced by a fresh coat of paint. There are sheets and spare sheets, soft towels, and an understanding that you will take the damn boots off when you walk in.

There are even rumors of a sofa.

He comes down the stairs every morning to the sight of three coats hanging from the rack and knows he is home.

--

They crowd into town for First Night, watching a small fireworks show set against the Kansas cold. There is tea and coffee, and hot apple cider from one of the orchards farther west. The Commander’s glove-clad fingers are threaded through his, and Kelly’s head is on his shoulder, her usual baseball cap foregone in favor of warmer headgear.

The hybrids and humans mingle freely, much of the fear having been abated. The Commander had played no small part in that, loud and public speeches about the oppression of the former under the ADVENT administration, the vital efforts of their freed brethren to help reclaim the earth. It had been enough wiggle room, enough of an in, for the Skirmishers and their kind to have a chance --- and that was all they needed. Confronted with the reality of the individuals, wise yet curious, battle savvy yet not blood thirsty, many found themselves embraced.

As they trudge home through the newly fallen snow, he feels something funny in his chest, something he almost doesn’t recognize: hope for what’s ahead.

--

The nature of children is that, left unattended, they will bring home unexpected animals. The nature of soft-hearted parental figures is that they will be powerless to do anything except welcome these creatures into their homes with open arms.

At least she didn’t bring home a pony, he tells himself.

The rumors of ADVENT scientists working to reintroduce decimated livestock populations had begun sometime last summer. Of course, he hadn’t paid it any mind. Sure, he’d love for fresh milk and eggs to make a comeback, for steak to be edible once again, but he’d refused to get his hopes up. Stories came in fits and spurts, but they never added up to anything more substantial than alluring rumor, a fantastic but ultimately false hope.

He hadn’t been sure what to say when Kelly walked through the door with a chicken under each arm, and a floppy eared puppy at her heels, her eyes beaming with joy.

So, yes, naturally, he’s building a chicken coop on this early February afternoon. What else is he supposed to do?

--

He sits on the porch steps, Toto’s head resting in his lap. He’d protested the name, at first, but warmed to it quickly enough. Thelma and Louise, Kelly’s much loved chickens, strut proudly about the yard; they’ve been a good source of both eggs and laughter since their arrival.

It’s been a year since they moved in, so to speak, a year of building and rebuilding, repairing and reinventing. There are beds now, and a table, dressers even, but still no sofa. There is power, water, and a garden out back. From the ashes of the old, they have built anew.

He looks out across the yard to the tree beginning to bud, the grass beginning to green. He looks up at the cloudless blue sky and offers a silent thanks to what, or who, ever allowed them to get this far. The front door closes and the Commander is next to him, nuzzled into the crook of his neck.  “You okay?” Comes the muffles question. He nods. “Just thinking.” “About?” “What’s next.” The Commander squeezes one of his hands. “I don’t know, but as long as I’ve got you, I’m sort of excited to find out.”

[trbl-will-find-me]

49, anyone from xcom

[Pre-EveryExit, but same canon]

It has beena week since they were last in a haven, the closest holdout to civilizationoutside of a city center in these parts. The weather is temperate, beautifuleven, and the terrain is easy. They have been without the buzz of ADVENTcarriers for days now, and the woods give them good cover.

Their haven stayhadn’t ended well. He doesn’t make a habit of starting fights, especially notwhen they’re low on supplies, and extra especially not when they’re lowon booze. Making enemies won’t do them any good, and besides, it tends to drawtoo much attention to their already unusual little party.

However,when the sonofabitch responded to a growled “She’s fourteen” with “We couldshare her,” there was really no other appropriate option.

Still, hishands are beginning to shake, and that’s never a good sign. He squeezes hiseyes shut. Thanks for the legacy, dad, he thinks, and remembers theashes he keeps meaning to spread one of these days, stored at the bottom of hispack.

If Sallynotices, she doesn’t say anything, just keeps poking at the vegetable kebabsroasting over the fire. He’s not proud of the drinking, not proud of howvulnerable it leaves them, but he’s in far enough that there would beconsequences now if he stopped. Risk management, he reminds himself. Longas you’re both breathing, and outside of ADVENT custody, it’s fine.

Seeminglysatisfied with dinner’s progress, he watches her cross to her pack and beginemptying it out on the tarp they’ve spread on the ground. Most of it, herecognizes. It’s the essentials: clothes, rations, tools, her father’ssweatshirt, a small first aid kit, and the few sundry items she’s picked upalong the way.

“A-ha!” Shecalls as her hands find something he can’t yet see.

She pulls alarge glass bottle from her bag, then crosses to the other side of the campfireto sit next to him. “I have no idea if this is good, but it’s got a label andit’s sealed, so I’m relatively certain it’s not the kind of alcohol that makesyou go blind.”

“This wasyour trading priority?” He asks.

“Hey, I maybe an idiot, but I’m your idiot. Besides,” she shrugs. “Gotta look outfor each other somehow. And it came with, like, a week of rations. It was half a carton of cigarettes — I drive a hard bargain. We’ll befine.”

Yeah, he thinks, breaking the seal. We just might be.

[trbl-will-find-me]

Central + Sally to each other: -incoherent shouting- Central + Sally to anyone else: That is My Person and you will leave them the fuck alone.

[trbl-will-find-me]

This Be The Verse (1/?)

Fathers, daughters, and the things we hope to god we don’t pass along. (Central + Sally. Companion to Every Exit, An Entrance. Chapter CW for graphic violence and brief predatory behavior)

This really isn’t how he envisioned parenthood,

It’s not that it wasn’t on his radar. Really, he was sure he’d eventually get around to it.  Find the right person. Settle down. Be a dad.

Except, he’d found the right person under arguably the worst possible circumstances, and somehow, they’d only gotten worse.

And then, it all went up in flames.

What he means to say is that he somehow never pictured parenthood as lecturing a fourteen year old about why using her latent psionic talents to cheat at poker is a bad idea, even if it did get them the first real food they’ve had in a week.

It’s hard to argue with her, though, in the face of a crate of tangerines.

“You’ve gotta stop doing this, Magpie,” he says, handing her another wedge from the small orange fruit.

“Soon as we stop starving,” Sally says, popping the morsel into her mouth. She leans back against the old wooden barn, a smile pulling at her lips.

He wants to lecture her about risks and safety, about how you never know who’s watching, who might be reporting to ADVENT. They’re all good points. They’re all important points. He made a promise, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t keep it.

But she looks happy, really happy, and it’s been a long time since he’s seen that.

Later, he tells himself. We’ll talk about it later.

--

“Sally, if you’re gonna go, you better go now,” the voice in her ear says.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Kelly whispers. “He’s … yeah, just go.”

“I owe you.”

“If he catches me, yes, you will.”

She thinks, not for the first time, that this is not something Maman would have approved of.  It’s high risk, she has no exit plan, and if things go wrong, she’s on her own. There is no backup, no rescue coming, so she had better get it right.

As far as she knows, Shen hasn’t yet activated the perimeter alarms. Power fluctuations in the core mean too many false alerts, too many panics. So, for now, they put their faith in Reaper and Resistance intel. Besides, if ADVENT shows up, it’s not like they’ll manage much beyond a last stand, even on a good day.

At least, she hopes Shen hasn’t activated the system yet. She yanks the hoodie up over her head, making a break for the do-or-die line. Either she passes through without incident, or she joins the ranks of the ‘I owe the crew an apology because I set off the alarm’ club. Given how spectacularly the latter would blow her cover, and the questions it would inspire, she offers up a prayer unto the gods of misbehavior.

Thought, it’s more than that. This is about harm reduction, plain and simple.

But it’s also about revenge, about drawing a little blood of her own, about having something to prove. She doesn’t like to admit those things, though. Those things make it sound petty.

Operational security, she’ll tell him. I had a chance, I took it. It was easier than risking ADVENT getting any more intel, and you weren’t in any shape to deal with it.

She crosses the perimeter bounds without a hitch, and breathes a sigh of relief.  It’s nothing, she tells herself. You’ve barely begun.

It’s everything, she counters. You’ve made it this far.

This Haven is decently sized, serving as a hub for trade. The med tent is well-enough equipped; there is some amount of working plumbing; and a well-designed solar grid keeps the place twinkling in multicolored Christmas lights the whole year round. People come and go with some regularity, on their way to here or there, almost always with goods. Lacking a proper market, they all filter through the bar.

She thought she’d been mistaken when she’d first seen him. After all, she had been distracted. Fishing Central out had never been an easy task, but since he’d thrown his shot at sobriety to the wind, he’d gotten to be an even more unruly drunk.   Granted, unruly was better than the alternative.

“Come on,” she’d said. “Gotta go back. Got a new recruit. You’ll like her, but you gotta sober up first.”

He’d turned to glare at her, and that’s when she’d noticed.

Eight years later, and the face was still burned into her memory. Or rather, the scraps of her mother’s memory that she still carried. The line had really begun to blur.

Merci mille fois, Maman, she’d thought.

She’d bundled Central back, and sobered him up as best she could. It wasn’t fair to ask Lily to get involved, not with her father’s loss so fresh.  Still, the Chief Engineer helped, knowing full well that they desperately needed the fresh blood. When they’d finally introduced him to one Miss Jane Kelly, he’d been close enough to sober to make a good impression. With that hurdle cleared, however, she’d known full well what she needed to do.

Getting the intel to confirm wasn’t hard. She’d made excuses, found reasons to spend time out and about. She’d watched. She’d lisened. She’d talked to the man, for god’s sake.  She’d talked and she’d noticed, noticed the way his eyes lingered, noticed the faces he made when he’d thought she wasn’t looking.

Any other day, it would have been enough to send her running. She’d seen enough like him. Maman had seen enough like him. Still, she’d made her plan.

The ramshackle structure bustles with activity, the noises and sights and smells of too many people crammed into too small a space all searching for the same thing: a moment’s happiness, the briefest escape from the onslaught of surviving.

Her mark is already at the bar, a few drinks in from the sight of it. His face lights up at the sight of her, and she plasters on what she hopes is a convincing smile. He offers to buy her a drink, and she counters, feeding him some line about offering something else up instead.

She crosses her legs, knocking one ankle against the other, satisfied in the pressure of the knife she’d stolen from Central in its holster against her skin. She leans in towards her mark, ever so slightly, trying to seal the deal. Vaguely, she thinks she can feel something approaching surprise at the front of his mind, but between her nerves and his booze, she can’t really be certain.

A hungry smile spreads across his lips and her stomach twists.  Play the part, she tells herself. You can’t stop now.

“You lead the way, beautiful.”

She can taste the bile rising in her throat.

She leads him to a clearing in the woods nearby, far enough removed from the Haven itself to give her some sorely needed privacy. She’d discovered the place by accident, out wandering around one day when the walls of the ship had started too feel a little too close, a little bit too much like a prison, too little like a refuge.

She’s certain her mark must be almost Central’s age, but his face doesn’t show the same kind of worry and wear. He is clean shaven, he has no scars, and his cheeks don’t look like they’ve ever caved with the hollow of hunger.

When the man pushes her roughly against a tree, his mouth on hers, it takes her a moment to regain her composure amidst the wave of revulsion.

We all make sacrifices for the cause. This is yours.

She slides her right hand into her left jacket sleeve under the guise of wrapping her arms around him, and wriggles the arc thrower from its makeshift holster. She flips the switch and jabs it against his neck, relieved at how immediately it halts his advances. Kneeling down, she repeats the process, ensuring the device’s capacitors fully discharge.

“It’s defense, not offense,” Maman’s voice echoes in her ear. “Use it and get out.”

Though it runs counter to everything she knows, everything Maman or Central imparted to her, everything Papa left her, she turns and retches. Everything is a commodity, she reminds herself. Even that. Especially that, she adds, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

She works quickly, relieving him of his gun and his datapad, before bundling him towards the long abandoned ramshackle shelter at the edge of the clearing. She shoves the depleted arc thrower back into her sleeve, and instead draws the purloined knife from her boot. She tilts her mark’s head back and draws the blade across his throat, doing her best to keep the ensuing carnage to a contained area. She wipes the knife on the back of the man’s jacket and waits for his pulse to fade away, before shoving him into the shelter itself, doing her best to conceal the hiding place with leaves and rocks and other downed branches.

When all is said and done, she settles on the ground, staring at the impromptu mausoleum.  It feels too good for the bastard, after everything he has taken from her, from so many others. Maman gave her life trying to stop him; she’d finished the work.  She wants to feel something, anything. She wants the hole in her chest to stop aching. She wants a sign; she wants magic. She did not spend eight years biding her time to find the same old emptiness she’d always feared.

What about the stories of glory, of victories over the wicked? What about justice? What about wrongs righted? What about lives saved?

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. Maman is dead, and there’s nothing she can do about it.

--

On good days, he tells himself that he may not have been the best parent, but they’ve made it this far, so he must have done well enough.

Days like this, though, he’s forced to confront the truth: he’s an awful parent, more his father’s son than his mother’s. Royston made a mistake entrusting him with Sal but that’s really no surprise, because, god knows, give him a chance, and he’ll find a way to fuck it up.

There are better things he could have led with. Are you okay? Why didn’t you tell me --- don’t you know I would have made sure you had backup? That wrist mounted harness for the arc thrower is clever; how long have you been working on it?

Or, for a change, he could have led with the truth. Jesus Christ, Magpie, you scared the hell out of me.

Instead, he’d gone with “What the fuck were you thinking?”

It was the alcohol talking. He knows it; she knows it; the whole damn crew knows it.

“I saw an opportunity, and I went for it. No one needed ADVENT on the welcome mat. Not us, not the Haven, nobody.” He still could have de-escalated it. Her response was reasonable enough; he couldn’t fault the logic. If he had been sober, he might even have turned it into a real conversation.

But, alcohol.

“So, you stole a knife, went AWOL, and murdered someone?”

He looks back now and can pinpoint that one verb as the inciting factor. It hadn’t been a fair assessment. It hadn’t factored in the planning she’d no doubt gone through, the precautions she must have taken to ensure she’d had the right mark. Her knows her; there’s no way she would have acted without good reason.

“I’m sorry,” she’d said, voice light. “Next time I get a line on an ADVENT snitch while you’re on a bender, I’ll make sure to wait and discuss it with you after you’ve sobered up. I’m sure there’s no way we’d be attacked in however long that took.”

Looking back, that’s where he should have de-escalated. He should have apologized. He should have been honest with her. Should have should have should have. It’s one of the phrases that loses more and more of its meaning the older he gets. The base should have held and the aliens should have been defeated. He should have said something to Elizabeth after Berlin and he should have kept a better eye on her when the base was attacked. Martin and Royston should have survived and Sally should have grown up safe and comfortable, raised by parents who loved her, and not a drunk.

Should have. He’d laugh if it weren’t for the headache pounding against his eyes.

Of course, he didn’t de-escalate. He didn’t apologize. He’d upped the ante and she’d countered in turn because she’s always been good at mirroring people.

Him. She’s always been good at mirroring him.

He rolls over and reaches for his flask. Can’t get any worse, he tells himself.

This isn’t the way to make it better, the rational part of his brain says. This is what fucked it up to begin with.  This is how you take a bad situation and make it worse.

Then again, he’s not sure what, if anything, would make it better.

Sober up. Go apologize. Cut back the booze, that rational voice offers.

He shakes his head, though he couldn’t say at whom. Too far in now.

[ask-manda-of-the-6]

For Drunk Manda- "What is your opinion of Dadford?"

“He’s scary!” Manda hiccuped, nodding her head in agreement to her own statement. Then she stopped because the movement was making her dizzy and paused to think. “Buuuuuut... not in the same way that the Commander is scary… more like you know he’s disappointed in you if you act unprofessional around him. Like -well- a dad kind of disappointed. But at the same time when he’s around the Commander you can tell he’s so happy that she’s back and here and with him.” 

Manda practically melted against the bar in happiness, gushing over her superior officers’ romance.

“I remember going up to the Bridge to bring them coffee one morning and they were just sitting against the railing that goes around the Holosphere next to each other.” She smiled. “I dunno what they were talking about but they were both smiling and they looked so happy and in love.”

Manda sighed wistfully; omitting that she’d almost dropped the thermoses of coffee and kind of ruining the moment between Central and the Commander.

Central Officer Bradford (c) Firaxis Games

The Mighty and Powerful Commandy One (c) @commanderplease