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split-spectrum · 8 months ago

Text

Water and Rock

Chapter 16

Pairings: Obi Wan/FemReader

Warnings/Tags: angst

Description: There are only so many excuses a master and padawan can make to kiss under "extenuating circumstances" before circumstances stop arising and start being created. You are an expert at your craft - a Jedi knight in service as a spy for the Republic. When your former master Obi Wan joins you on a mission, it's clear things aren't the same as they once were. The trials you face together may break your bond, or turn it into something else entirely.

☆☆☆

Obi Wan wakes ten minutes before his alarm. As always.

He resets the chrono for tomorrow, silently eases from his bed, and prepares for morning meditations. Coruscant's sun won't rise for another hour. He prefers to meditate in the dark whenever possible, leaving the least opportunity for distraction. When he passes the mirror in the main living space of his quarters, only the shadows look back.

Settling himself into a seated position in the middle of his floor, Obi Wan's hands find their places at the tops of his knees without any guidance from him. His body fades into the background, making space for his mind.

He normally doesn't tend to use mantras, but today Obi Wan's mind is fixed on words from long ago.

"You must allow the Force to guide you, my apprentice. Never presume to know the path that lies ahead."

He turns them over and over in his head. He listens to them, inspects them, considers them, until the quiet hour has ended.

He's still picturing the day Qui Gon said them as he steps into the refresher, steam filling the air.

"To be a Jedi is trust in the Force, above all else."

"Yes, Master."

"Sometimes, the Force may lead us to unexpected places. But it will never lead us astray."

"I understand."

He'd received a kind smile. "Do you, Obi Wan?"

A tilt of Obi Wan's head. "Master?"

As Obi Wan finishes dressing and clips his lightsaber to his side, he wonders what Qui Gon would think of him now.

"One day, you may find yourself in a position to follow the wisdom of the Jedi order, or the will of the Force. And you must never confuse the two."

Obi Wan had done his best to maintain a neutral expression, despite yet another lesson in defying the council. "Are they not one and the same?"

He'd tried to hide his frustration when Qui Gon had given a sly smile. "Many believe so. But you are much wiser than that, my young apprentice."

Obi Wan grimaces, thinking back on his own arrogance. He'd always hated when his master had talked like that. It had seemed to him that he'd been speaking from a lack of respect. Maybe even a lack of discipline. But in truth, Qui Gon had been preparing him to understand not only that the council wasn't infallible, but that the Force didn't require him to be a perfect Jedi in order to be good.

He runs a hand through the running water of his sink, then flicks it through his hair, combing it back into place. If only he could ask his master whether the council was following the right path now.

As he looks into the mirror, though, he knows given the chance, he would only have one question to ask. And it wouldn't be about the council. It would be about you.

Since your return to Coruscant, you've been all he can think about. He'd known he would inevitably gravitate back to you.

No - not just since your return.

The truth had been buried inside him since Ilum. Even as he'd left you standing there in the snow, he'd felt it. He'd known it wouldn't be the last time. The burning ache he'd felt that day had been branded into his bones. It's a part of him, now.

But had it burned brighter than the revolutions of a thousand subjugated star systems throughout the galaxy? Did it ache deeper than the pain wracking through the Force from those who suffered and died at the hands of the Separatists?

He known the answer then. And he'd known the answer as he'd held you in his arms, breaking his own heart along with his sacred vows in this very temple.

And as he smooths the collar of his robe, sunlight beginning to spill through the edge of his window, Obi Wan knows the answer still. He knows it clearly. He knows it will not change.

"You may open your eyes."

The man you know as the brother calls you back from the abyss, and you return to him, emerging from deep meditation. The Force is thick, syrupy-sweet around you, and it softens his voice in your ears.

"You have made a strong connection with the Force. For the final step, you must remain open. Do not close yourself off; do not be afraid of what you feel."

Your answer stays at the tip of your tongue. You want to answer that Jedi do not fear. But you know better.

It's been a long night, drifting in and out of consciousness; of reality. You're exhausted in every sense of the word. He's pushed you to what you'd thought to be your limit, and surpassed it many times. And now, as the sun begins to crest over the temple, you sit at the feet of your guide, feeling like a padawan again, and letting his words penetrate you deeply, ready for whatever comes next.

Slowly, he reaches out and touches the pad of his finger to your forehead, between your eyebrows.

Instantly, you have the feeling of going over a steep drop, your stomach rising and your breath leaving you. Your chest flutters, then begins to heave, feeling full to the point of bursting. Your eyes fall closed again as you concentrate on keeping your connection to the Force open while the channel of energy seeps out of your chest and starts to fill the rest of your body.

You feel like a vessel that had never known it was empty. There are spaces inside you that you'd never known existed, and now they're awakening, burning, thrumming with life. It's at once liberating and terrifying. It's almost too much to bear.

You look back up at the man standing over you, watching with curious eyes. You want to beg him to ease your pain - to take some of this power from you before it overwhelms. But you know that's not how this works. Slowly, you start to come to grips with yourself, feeling the energy coursing through you in waves, and you manage to break the surface, controlling it more than it controls you.

"That's it. Good," he coos. "Tell me, how do you feel?"

"I..." You swallow. "I feel..." Struggling between keeping your focus and trying to find the right words, you catch your breath for a moment before you finally answer.

"Whole."

He grins broadly. "Yes. Now you see."

You nod, not really able to hear him clearly. But he's right. You do see. For the first time, you finally feel what has been promised to you all your life: You are at one with the Force.

"Our work here is complete. Now you may rest, and prepare yourself for the task ahead."

Coming back to yourself, you shake your head, looking at the ground. "No, I- I can't. I have work to do."

"Your work will soon come to an end, when you discover the identity of the Sith lord."

All at once, your mind is focused, sharpened to a single point. "A Sith lord?"

He nods once, tucking his arms behind his back. "He is the true danger to your master, and indeed to the Jedi themselves. And he will reveal himself soon enough."

Reeling, you still can't take it in. "How... how can I know that what you're saying is true?"

He raises one eyebrow, as if he'd expected the question, and suddenly before your waking eyes, a vision appears.

Obi Wan, bent backward, hand at his throat as a shimmering, hazy being presses a lightsaber down, down, down.

Obi Wan, choking on the fumes of molten lava, sweat pouring down his face as he fights off blow after blow, desperately trying to stay on his feet despite the raw power of his opponent.

Obi Wan, anguished, screaming into the darkness...

You pinch your brow, turning away as you watch tears fill his eyes. When you look back, the image is gone.

Somehow, you know that it isn't fabricated. Just like Utapau, you just know it's real. You felt it. And just like Utapau, it cannot be allowed to happen.

"Who is he?" you ask, all of your previously rampant, unrestrained power squeezed down, pressed inside yourself as you hold your breath for his reply.

His easy expression hardens, glowing red stare going cold and empty.

"That is not yet clear to me, my child. You must wait. We must both... have patience."

"Master Kenobi."

Ki-Adi-Mundi greets Obi Wan amicably as he takes his seat for the council meeting. Obi Wan bows his head slightly and begins to greet him back, but the conversation ends before it starts. Yoda's opening remarks are already beginning as the other masters quickly take their seats.

Meetings over the last few days have been short and urgent, but the immediacy suits Obi Wan just fine today. He has no desire to exchange pleasantries; his thoughts have been distracted by Anakin from the moment he'd seen him this morning.

Since his appointment to the council and subsequent dispute over his failure to attain the rank of master, Anakin's mood has seemed darker than ever. He's quiet, his expression is blank, and his eyes are hollow. Obi Wan fights the urge to bring the back of his hand to his lips and drag it along his mustache. He couldn't be more obvious about his concern for Anakin, and he doesn't need his nervous tic to set him off.

As the discussion goes on, Obi Wan feels a strange unease settle over him. Master Windu mentions that a speaker is needed to represent the Jedi for a special session of the senate. A request has been made to share the Jedi perspective on the Outer Rim sieges. Obi Wan tenses, though he doesn't know why.

"This is a voluntary duty. If you have any interest, please speak with Senator Bail Organa."

It's a simple task that could be delegated to any experienced Jedi Knight. But since the battlefront has expanded swiftly in recent months, it's unlikely any experienced knight can be spared, and likely that no one - master, knight or even padawan - will volunteer to step away from the fight for a series of speeches.

Yet, it's an opportunity to stay on Coruscant for at least the next few days, to stay close to Anakin and Palpatine, and possibly, to abide the only thing you've ever asked of him: To stay away from Utapau.

"I will go." Obi Wan finds himself speaking the words, as a surprised silence holds the council chambers suddenly still. "I will speak with Senator Organa this afternoon."

The holo-image of Master Yoda raises a brow and lets out a humph. "Feeling well, are you, young Obi Wan?"

Suppressing his unease, he lofts his chin and answers steadily, "There are several senators who have been hesitant in providing aid where it is needed, and I would like the chance to speak with them."

Anakin's eyes had been following each speaker looking somewhat detached, up until now. Obi Wan can feel the younger man's gaze sharpen, suddenly boring into him from across the room. He shifts a glance out the transparisteel window, then looks back at Yoda, avoiding Anakin altogether.

"Very well," Yoda acknowledges, bobbing his head just once, slowly. "To the senate, Master Kenobi will report. Concludes local assignments, this does. Now, young Skywalker, news to share, have you?"

Flicking his attention back to the rest of the room and finally away from Obi Wan, Anakin straightens up a bit. "Yes, Master. Chancellor Palpatine has informed me of a possible location for General Grievous."

Now it was Obi Wan's turn to look surprised. Why Palpatine would have such knowledge before the council was beyond his understanding.

Master Plo seems to share the same thought. "Our reports on Grievous's whereabouts have been vague and inconclusive. How has the chancellor come into this new information?"

"The port administrator of Pau City sent out a call for aid after his entire administration was taken hostage."

Master Mundi's bushy brows flare upward. "Palpatine thinks General Grievous is on Utapau?"

The sound of the word forms a fist that grabs Obi Wan's insides and twists.

"A partial message was intercepted in a diplomatic packet from the chairman of Utapau," Anakin explains.

A logical reason for Palpatine to have first access to the information. But Obi Wan can hardly focus on the reasoning for anything right now.

Grievous.

He'll be weak. Especially with the demise of Count Dooku. Obi Wan feels a sudden wellspring of hope despite the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He would never have committed to staying on Coruscant if he had known.

"Act on this we must," Yoda's glowing visage asserts. "The capture of General Grievous will end this war. Quickly and decisively, we should proceed."

"The chancellor has requested..." Anakin's eyes dip away briefly before he seems to brace himself. "...that I lead the campaign."

"The council will make up its own mind who is to go. Not the chancellor," Master Windu is quick to respond.

"A master is needed," Yoda affirms, "with more experience."

"I concur," Ki-Adi-Mundi adds. He almost glances in Obi Wan's direction but seems to remember himself, turning toward Mace instead. "Master Windu should go."

Mace nods solemnly, and Obi Wan nearly opens his mouth to respond. But to say what? To do what?

Is this the will of the Force? Or his own desires fighting it?

No - the question is more simple than that: Does he trust you?

The moment passes.

"I agree," comes the slightly tinny, electronic sound of Yoda's voice.

"Aye."

The response is unanimous.

"Very well," says Master Windu. "Council adjourned."

Obi Wan can feel the shroud of fate enclosing the room as Mace stands to leave, likely to prepare for his departure. But nothing is sealed, yet.

"Master Windu," Obi Wan calls after him, the older man turning back to meet him in the long hallway outside the council chambers. "Please; a moment."

Mace regards him with a look of urgency, and Obi Wan can't blame him. This is the final break in the war they may all have been waiting for. There isn't a moment to spare. He'll have to convince him that this is worth the time.

"I believe you may be headed into grave danger," he says, lowering his voice as they step off to the side. When Mace lifts his eyebrows, as if to say 'what gave it away?' Obi Wan presses his lips into a firm line, resetting his approach. "More danger than can usually be expected from Grievous."

Mace drops his sardonic expression. "What makes you say that?"

"My former padawan. She's been having visions of Utapau."

When Mace responds by saying your name questioningly, Obi Wan tries to ignore the way his heartbeat quickens at the sound of it, and simply nods. "Yes. She was not able to share many details with me, but the Force seemed to be warning quite strongly. I think you should speak with her before you go."

Releasing a deep sigh from his chest, Mace seems to consider it. But they have known each other well, for many years. He knows Mace can feel his insistence, and the trust he's built with the man throughout their long friendship prevails.

"If you believe it will make a difference, I will see the Commander after I ready my troops."

Breathing a little easier, Obi Wan gives a respectful, grateful nod. "Thank you, Master."

Mace returns his nod, clasping his hands at his waist and adding as he turns to leave. "Though I can imagine she might be busy." He slides a look to the chambers just as Anakin exits alone, his dark form stalking off in the opposite direction.

"I assume your old padawan is hard at work keeping surveillance on mine."

"Right," Obi Wan concedes, eyes following Anakin as well. "For this, I am sure she will find the time."

Your commlink chimes. A light flashes against the wall where it sits, out of reach.

You trade a look between your teacher and your commlink, and he gives a vaguely permissive tilt of his chin. You stand, pressing the button to answer.

"Did you know?" comes the immediate question, Obi Wan's voice strained. "Did you know who was... there, when you asked me not to go?"

His emphasis tells you what he's talking about, and reminds you that no recorded line is currently safe. So you keep your answer short and to the point, after a second's hesitation. "No."

As you turn back to face the man in your quarters, you see nothing. He's dissipated beyond your eyes and your senses. You're alone again.

"You're certain?"

"No," you answer more firmly, glad you can be honest with him, about this much, at least. There's a pause on the other end. "Obi Wan-"

"Is there anything at all that you aren't telling me about your visions?" he talks over you. "Were there any details you left out?"

Gripping the commlink, you find yourself leaning your body toward his voice. Despite the urgency of his question, hearing him helps you ground yourself. Refocusing, you concentrate on his questions. You desperately want to ask him who it is that's caused this sudden renewal of interest, but you know he can't give you a name at the moment.

"Why are you asking me this now?"

"Please, answer me."

You exhale, your pulse suddenly quickening. "Are you planning to go there?"

You can sense his frustration with you. He pauses again before giving in. "Not me. Master Windu. He plans to leave... very soon." A beat, as he presumably holds back further details. "But before he goes, I asked him to speak with you. Anything you can share might make a difference."

"I... see," you reply, carefully keeping the relief out of your voice.

"So, if there is anything you can remember, no matter how insignificant it might have seemed, you must tell him. Do you understand?"

"Yes." A sickly sweet feeling of alleviation, almost elation, flutters through your chest. "Yes, of course."

Someone is about to die on Utapau. And with your help, it won't be Obi Wan.

"I promise."

Before you had even ended your conversation with Obi Wan, there had been a knock at your door.

Your discussion with Master Windu had been short. You'd told him what you'd needed to.

And now, all that's left is to try and forget about it.

You try to forget the way he'd smiled at you, brown eyes soft and holding more hope than you'd seen in a long time.

You try not to think about the lightness in his step as he'd left your quarters, possibly for the last time.

Mace Windu's face as he'd thanked you for your guidance is only a distraction, now, and you need to put it out of your mind.

Besides, it's not hard to shift your guilt. You're in the midst of betraying another friend's trust at the moment, as you press a button to activate the sound on a live feed of a dingy little storage unit on one of the lower levels.

You'd snuck down there shortly after leaving the temple the previous day, knowing immediately that Anakin's speeder would provide one of the best locations for unfiltered information.

It had made you sick, punching in the code that you wish you hadn't memorized to a rusted-out keypad and invading what he'd probably believed to be his last private sanctuary. You shift in your seat, testing the sound quality of the feed as you remind yourself that this is all in an effort to prove Anakin's innocence. He'll understand when you tell him. Someday.

You refresh the connection to a few other feeds strategically placed in Anakin's ship and personal quarters. Normally, for a target with a possibility of multiple conspirators, you would use cams, too. A visual feed could be critical in identifying suspects.

But Anakin isn't just any target. He isn't one of the scheming Separatist traitors you're used to tracking, and putting cams in his personal quarters is a violation you aren't willing to commit. Not yet. Not unless absolutely necessary.

You check your commlink for the fifth time in as many minutes. It's not quite showtime yet. Anakin had spent the remainder of his morning in one of the tactical planning rooms with Rex, monitored at all times, and had met his master directly afterward, to see him off. Mace will be notifying you once they go their separate ways. For now, cycling your feeds is the only thing to do.

That, and wonder when - or if - your visitor from last night will return.

A new knock at your door almost makes you jump, pulling your thoughts to the present. You silence your equipment, dimming the screens to black and pulling a compartment built into the desk closed. Cautiously, you answer the door, making sure to keep it cracked only enough to see you, and not enough to seem like an invitation to come inside.

"I thought we might have some time to talk."

Obi Wan stands on the other side.

Your hand releases its grip on the door, letting it open. When the door closes, you turn to face him. You should have been expecting this. After all, he'd told you that you'd talk as soon as time allowed. You just hadn't wholly believed it.

"You kept your promise."

You don't know why your voice holds a slight note of bitterness. Perhaps you're still struggling to control your emotions, trying to get used to your new relationship with the Force. Perhaps it's just lack of sleep. But he gives you a curious look, then smiles faintly. "I always do. Even the ones I've promised not to make."

You bring your eyes up to his. "That's true."

"But I would still like to know why."

You glance down, taking a few steps away to unlock the compartment again and take your equipment back out. You should have known better. That's why he's here; he wants information.

"What do you mean?" you ask, sitting down.

He crosses room to look into your eyes. "Master Windu stopped by to speak with you, did he not?"

You nod along with the question, not willing to bridge the gap and give him more detail than he asks for.

"Then I imagine he told you the significance of Utapau. That General Grievous is rumored to be there?"

Your chest tightens. "Yes, he told me. I shared with him everything that I could. Which wasn't much, unfortunately."

"Is there anything you can tell me that you already haven't?"

You take in a breath, pretending to mull it over despite already knowing the answer you'll give. Then you shake your head. "Not really. The only thing I can say is that the same feeling doesn't seem to apply with anyone but you."

"The same feeling? What feeling?"

"Of... failure," you lie, steeling your nerves as he stares down at you. It wasn't failure you'd felt. It was death.

"And with Mace, this sense of failure is not there?"

"No," you lie, to protect him.

"You're certain there's nothing more you can tell me?"

"I'm sorry," you lie, putting out of your mind the dozens of details you could easily share. Location, weapon, angle of attack...

"No. There's nothing. I wish there was more."

His shoulders drop as he regards you a moment longer before sinking down onto the edge of your bed. He drags a hand down his face. You don't remember ever seeing him look so tired.

"I'm sorry," you say, catching yourself sounding more sincere this time.

His eyes soften, the dull ache behind them subdued while he looks at you. "No, don't be. You've done nothing wrong."

He seems to think for a moment, gazing through you.

When he doesn't speak again, you turn back to the screens in front of you and re-activate them. To fill the silence, you mumble, "Everything is in place, now. For Anakin, I mean. Audio recorders practically everywhere he goes."

Obi Wan blinks, as if coming back to the present. "'Practically'? You didn't place one on his person?"

You shake your head. "Too risky. In his robes, it could be left behind. His clothing changes. And in his lightsaber, I'm sure he would find it. I don't know how, but I just feel he would... know."

Obi Wan nods. "Yes, you're right. So where did you place them?"

"His ship and his personal quarters, of course. The chancellor's office. And..." You trail off suddenly, realizing you'd almost let it slip.

He tilts his head, reading you carefully. Then his eyes seem to sparkle when it occurs to him what you're holding back. "And his speeder?"

For an instant, you're speechless. Then you remember who you're dealing with, and wonder why you ever doubted that he would know. You give in, a smirk surprising you by easing its way out. "He said he never told you."

Obi Wan lifts his eyebrows. "Some time ago, I heard engines in the background of one of his calls. I thought he might have returned to the underground racing circuit again, and I followed him down to the storage levels. When I saw that he was only working on a speeder and not some... customized monstrosity, I decided to leave well enough alone."

Your smirk turns into a smile, thinking back to Anakin's younger days of sneaking off to the races, much to Obi Wan's dismay. You'd both agreed never to tell Anakin's master, so long as he never went there again. You had your suspicions that he'd never been caught there again, but he'd probably never really stopped until the war started monopolizing his free time.

"Well, you're right," you admit. "I have a tracker there, too. So now, it's just waiting. He's with Mace at the moment, but it shouldn't be much longer."

Obi Wan nods, watching your smile fade. He leans forward. "You are right to do this, you know."

Again, the tightness in your chest returns. You stare at him, not quite sure how to respond.

"The situation is..." He glances away. "Complicated."

You read his real meaning: The council is wrong.

"But," he continues, "you are the right person for this job. If someone must be responsible for finding the truth, as well as protecting Anakin, I am very glad it's you."

With the last of his words, he leans over and places his hand on your knee. In spite of the heaviness of the moment, you feel like you're glowing. But you can't bring yourself to reach out and touch his hand back. As much as you want to, it doesn't feel like something you deserve.

Obi Wan clears his throat, gently pulling back to stand up. You're both quiet - not because you don't want to speak, but because there is too much to say.

After a moment, he starts to gaze around the room, taking in your simple decor, and it occurs to you that this is the first time he's set foot in your quarters in years. The same thought seems to be playing over his features as he slides his palm along the top of the dresser near your bed.

"Do you remember moving that in here?" you ask.

He doesn't exactly smile, but his gaze lightens. "Remember? How could I forget?"

The dresser is far too large and takes up more space in the room than is practical. It had held all your toys as a youngling, and when you became a padawan it contained all your most precious belongings - clothing, books, and even a few pieces of jewelry. Your dresser had been one of the only constant items to follow you into adulthood.

When you'd moved out of your padawan's quarters to join the rest of the knights, you'd found your new quarters much smaller. Seeing how much it meant to you, your master had spent an afternoon disassembling the dresser and piecing it together in your new room. He'd helped you shuffle it into the corner where it sits now, resulting in no small number of bumps and bruises along the way. You might have used the Force to slide it into place, but the risk of damage to the dresser outweighed the benefit of protecting your shins.

"I walked with a limp for a week, as I recall."

With a tilt of your head, you smile. "Only because you wouldn't listen to my instructions."

"I shouldn't have allowed it in the first place. Jedi Knights are meant to use standard-issue furnishings."

You step beside him, crossing your arms and looking down at the dresser as well. "I'm grateful you did. It made me feel at home, when everything else had changed so suddenly."

"Perhaps feeling at home wasn't what you needed," he says, still staring down. "Perhaps it would have been better to teach you a lesson in attachment."

He looks so serious that you're suddenly overcome with the idea of cupping his face in your palm and kissing him. Instead, you just tell him quietly, "You were never such a cruel master as to teach me lessons I wasn't ready to learn."

He turns to look at you, but says nothing.

"You knew how to teach me, and met me where I was. I always appreciated that. And I think it was why you succeeded where others had failed me."

Your words don't seem to cheer him up. In fact, they seem to have the opposite effect. His eyes are so full of sorrow he looks ready to collapse where he stands.

"Obi Wan," you ask, worry starting to set in. "What is it?"

He seems to consider a long time before answering. Then, it's as if you can see a decision being made.

"If Master Windu succeeds," he begins slowly, "If Grievous is captured, the war could end in a matter of days."

It's a possibility that up until now, you've hardly let yourself conceptualize. But his words make it seem closer to the truth than ever before.

"There will still be much work to do, of course. But the transition to peace could be handled largely by the clones, once an agreement is reached. And the Jedi would no longer be an integral part of the military."

You nod, following his logic but unsure as to where he might be going.

"Yesterday, I came to realize something: I had been thinking of myself as two beings: One who walked the path of the Jedi, and one who..."

He trails off, staring intently at you, gaze steeped in emotion. You try to read him, but you can't. There is no opposite you can imagine to finish his sentence.

"One who longed to know another path."

Your breath stops. This can't be real.

"I had thought I could leave that part of me on Ilum, until... what happened between us yesterday showed me how wrong I was."

You swallow, shame fighting to burn as hot through your blood as the euphoria of hearing his confession.

"Yet, in a war, it made no difference. The right thing to do would be to-" He falters. Then he clears his throat and the words come out slowly and evenly. "To leave the Order. But I could not. Not when so many suffered."

"I..." Your voice cracks as you try to piece together what he's really saying. "I don't know what you're trying to tell me. You're leaving the Order?"

"The longer I stay, the more irresponsible it becomes to keep these secrets. If the fighting ends, I will tell the council I am no longer fit to serve."

There's a high-toned echo reverberating in your ears, as if you're crawling out from the rubble of a bomb being dropped.

"And- and go where? And do what?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I don't know what comes next. But there is a place on Saleucami - a small farm. I've always thought it was rather well-priced. I would not be disturbed, and could try to reconnect with the Force in peace."

You're quiet for a long beat. You don't want to ask the question, for a myriad of reasons. But you have to.

"Would I ever see you again?"

He smiles, very faintly. "If I am to find out what sort of Jedi I am, I must no longer turn away from these feelings. You would be most welcome to see me whenever you like."

Your heart seizes, pierced with a sudden joy so deep, so impossible, that it's painful.

He would welcome you. You could forge a new path, together, and away from everything that had ever kept you apart.

He's holding you gently in his gaze, waiting for you to respond, and you can only whisper, "And... when I come to see you..."

You close the distance between your bodies, trading shimmering glances between his beautiful, sorrow-filled eyes, his warm breath drawing you in.

"...yes?" he asks softly, encouraging you. It's half a question, half an invitation.

You brush your lips over his, feeling him open up and lean to the side. His mouth pushes back, his hand sliding up your cheek to rest behind your ear, his thumb at your cheekbone.

In the kiss, you can feel everything. The past and the future. The years spent at his side. The longing, heartbreak, and uncertainty. Disagreements, distance, and every other obstacle that had been placed between you. The thought of a life together. Warm sunrises spent in his arms. Time that's no longer stolen, but yours for the keeping.

When the kiss ends, you're left staring at him, breathless with unbridled happiness.

"If I were to-" you begin, about to spill everything - to tell him that without the war as an obligation, you would have left the order long ago. You want to tell him that if he invites you to visit, you'll never leave his side again.

But low voices begin to fill the room, and reality crashes down on you, forcing you to remember that everything is, right now, still hypothetical.

There is no certainty the war will end tomorrow. The only thing that is certain is that the war is still very real, today.

As Anakin's muffled voice comes through the recorder, you close your eyes, pulling back from Obi Wan's touch and exhaling through your nose. You still have your parts to play. For now, there's nothing more to talk about.

Obi Wan gives you the space to step away, blinking down at the floor and back up again, mask firmly in place once more as you pull up the screen to see which feed is active.

Glancing down at your commlink, you see that Mace had sent you a message several minutes ago. You hadn't even heard it. Anakin left the temple a long time ago.

You check the active feed. It's his speeder, and there is a softer, lighter voice joining his.

"Ani, it's perfect. But, you realize we already have mine? We have all the transportation we'll ever need, and in Naboo we'll have my parents-"

"On Naboo you'll have everything," Anakin interrupts. You turn your head for Obi Wan's reaction. He doesn't give one.

You've both gone stiff, frozen in place. It's one thing to suspect, but another to confirm with your own ears: Anakin is with Padmé. And within the simple exchange, it's already blatantly clear this is not a professional consultation.

It's surprising, certainly, but not a complete shock to either of you. Anakin's feelings toward the senator have been clear to both of you for a long time, and Obi Wan has told you Padmé hasn't seemed to rebuff his interest since their capture on Geonosis. But a bit of flirtation is one thing; a clandestine meeting is another.

"You've made it clear how much you'll have," Anakin goes on, "but this - this is from me. It's something I wanted to do for you. For us."

There's a short silence, and the sound of shuffling. Your breath goes shallow; tight. They're probably kissing.

"You do enough for me. I don't need things," she tells him. "I just want you."

There it is: undeniable. You chew the inside of your lip, tense and uncomfortable.

Anakin's response is soft, yet insistent. "Let me take you for a ride."

You can hear the smile in Padmé's voice. "Do you think it's safe? You know..."

The lilt at the end of her question is odd. So is her question, really. You've never known her to show fear of anything.

"Of course," Anakin answers, and you hear the closing of doors signaling that they're getting in. "Don't worry, I'll go slow." Another strange thing for him to say. Perhaps this is him flirting. "We can't go very far anyway. I have a meeting with the chancellor soon."

"I can't be long either," Padmé says over the whir of the engines. "I'm still in the middle of drawing up that document. I promised to have it finished by the end of the day."

Anakin makes an annoyed sound. "And I suppose that means you're having another 'working dinner' this evening?"

"Ani-"

"You promised me that you would take it easy. You should be resting."

"I feel fine, Anakin. You shouldn't worry so much."

Is she sick?

"It's my place to worry," he insists. "And it's your place to do as I ask."

She's quiet for a moment. You want to throw a glance at Obi Wan, but you don't want to compound your concern along with his, yet.

Padmé replies quietly, with a forced lightness in her tone that's almost apologetic. "You don't need to be so protective of me, Ani. I can rest when we leave for Naboo, and the baby and I will have all the help we need back home. I promise."

It hits you like a punch in the stomach. Obi Wan is absolutely silent, his jaw rigid. A permanent false picture of control is plastered over his features. You can't even begin to imagine what he's feeling beneath it.

"Obi Wan, it's-"

"Don't," he bites, the low word hanging between you. "I don't wish to discuss it."

He knows you too well. You can feel the anger and sadness rolling off of him within the Force, knowing he's contained as much of it as he can. He knows you would have tried to help him understand Anakin's position, comparing it to your own mistakes. But this is different. Decision after decision had to be made to place Anakin here. This is not impulse. It's a choice. A dangerous, foolish, and deliberate choice to which he's repeatedly committed himself.

You listen to the rest of their conversation, and soon Anakin drops Padmé back off at her apartment. There's a length of time where Anakin is on his own again, dropping off the speeder and returning to his ship, presumably heading for his meeting with Palpatine. During the interim, one of your screens lights up with a message from the council - Master Windu has located Grievous. The fighting on Utapau has begun. You squirm in your seat.

When Anakin enters the chancellor's chambers, Obi Wan's blue stare is fixated on the screen as you both listen. You can feel how tense he is. He's waiting for the very instant the meeting ends.

"Chancellor," Anakin greets. "We've just received a report from General Windu. He has engaged General Grievous."

"I only hope Master Windu is up to the challenge," Palpatine answers readily, the timbre of his voice as withholding as ever.

"I should be there with him," responds Anakin, quietly. It's an inappropriate comment for him to make, but he knows that. He said it not with the tone of a general speaking to high office, but as someone confiding in a friend.

"It's upsetting to me, to see that the council doesn't fully appreciate your talents. Don't you wonder why they won't make you a Jedi master?"

Your pulse quickens. It's long been suspected that the chancellor encourages Anakin's disagreements with the council. You hold your breath for Anakin to correct him.

"I wish I knew. More and more, I get the feeling that I'm being excluded from the council."

Your heart sinks, and you can see the sting on Obi Wan's face, though he tries to remain impassive, listening intently. Anakin goes on, adding fuel to the kindling Palpatine has given him. "I know that there are things about the Force that they're not telling me."

"They don't trust you, Anakin. They see your future. They know that your power will be too strong to control."

You're deadly silent, briefly checking that the recording is being stored as you turn up the volume.

"You must break through the fog of lies the Jedi have created around you. Let me help you to know the subtleties of the Force."

Eyes wide, you turn to Obi Wan.

"How do you know the ways of the Force?" Anakin retorts, sounding as stunned as you feel.

"My mentor taught me everything about the Force. Even the nature of the dark side."

A sick chill runs through your bones, and suddenly your stomach is halfway up your throat.

"You know the dark side?"

"Anakin, if one is to understand a great mystery, one must study all its aspects. Not just the dogmatic, narrow view of the Jedi. If you wish to become a complete and wise leader you must embrace... a larger view of the Force," Palpatine explains, ever the benevolent leader; ever the kindhearted guide. "Be careful of the Jedi, Anakin. Only through me can you achieve a power greater than any Jedi. Learn to know the dark side of the Force, and you will be able to save your wife from certain death."

"What did you say?"

"Use my knowledge. I beg you."

The sound of a lightsaber exploding to life.

"You're the Sith lord."

Obi Wan is running for the door, closing the distance in two bounding strides.

"Wait!" you call after him.

"I've heard enough. Send a message to the rest of the council and tell them where to find me."

"I'm coming with you."

"No," is his reply, as he throws the door open. "Do as I say. Anakin and I will handle this. He's too powerful for you."

"I can help," you insist, almost begging. This is what you trained for. He doesn't understand how powerful you've become. He doesn't know that it was all for this; leading to this moment.

"You can help by making sure that recording goes on file in the records department immediately, and by remaining safe inside the temple."

There's a pause as Palpatine's low voice interrupts, freezing you both where you stand.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asks.

Anakin's blade hums. "I would certainly like to."

You and Obi Wan stare at one another, all your concentration fixed on the tiniest of decibels coming through the recorder.

"I know you would. I can feel your anger. It gives you focus. Makes you stronger."

The galaxy stands on a knife's edge.

The blade extinguishes.

"I'm going to turn you over to the council."

Obi Wan's robe snaps in the rushing air.

"Stay here," he calls over his shoulder, sprinting directly into the maw of fate.

You don't bother to close the door after him. Already transferring the recording to the archives, you're dashing out a few moments later.

A/N: The final chapter and epilogue will be posted tomorrow! Sorry for any confusion - this turned out much longer than expected!

Tag List: @cosmicsierra @projectdreamwalker @guacam011y @thriving-n-jiving @reverieisaway @cursedfaechild @honeymoon7770 @hedvighedvig @cool-ontherun-world @ladytano420 @eddythewitch @immajustvibehere @thegreatwicked @marrily @millercontracting @littleredwolf @b0xerdancer-writes

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#obi wan x reader #star wars #star wars fanfiction #fanfic #water and rock #obiwan #obi wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi x reader

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duolcyniar · 1 month ago

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Asians of the Lost Chord!, magazine clippings promotion for Asia's "Don't Cry" (1983) single – (x) Photos taken by Steve Rapport and Terry Lott

NARRATOR: John "Plucker" Wetton (base metal expert and posessor of nomadic bank balance). Dr. Steve "Clapper" Howe (renowned ear, no's, and Yes specialist). Capt. Carl "Skinner" Palmer (former officer in the crack Boy Scouts para-diddle corps, now a hardened drum revolutionary), and the mysterious Geoff "Bugler" Downes (an eccentric, defrocked member of the Buggles set and an avowed follower of St. Richard The Wakeman, appearing here in used tablecloth and hankie due to last-minute budget cuts). NARRATOR: The story so far... NARRATOR: Our four adventurers, each well-practised in the excavation of ancient musical forms, have been brough together in Egypt (just south of Twickenham) by the discovery of a long-lost map scrawled on the back of a deleted Gryphon album. The map outlines four different routes to the all-powerful Geffen talisman, housed in the Temple of the Progs, a magical "all areas" pass (laminated, of course!) that bestows the power of everlasting solos on its possessor. NARRATOR: Three of the four routes are false, leading only to the certain doom and solo projects. No-one knows which is the platinum path. The four decide that each should take a different direction, agreeing to settle it in the traditional manner. Now read on… WETTON: Snap!! NARRATOR: A bewildered "Bugler", having drawn the bucket-and-spade route, encounters the sinister, Suterian Rock Goddess (no relation), who unbeknownst to him is actually the guardian of the Geffen, intent on bringing confusion and death (in that order) to all who embark on false paths. NARRATOR: And then there were three… DOWNES: Gasp! (last) NARRATOR: Potty Palmer races through the jungle, swinging from tree to tree, until he plops into a swamp, especially imported from Castle Donington. He seems a "gonner" but, never one to give up any solo spot easily, he responds to the applause of a passing chimpanzee and clambers clear. On to the temple… SPLONK! PALMER: ELP! NARRATOR: Stealthily entering the inner sanctum, "Skinner" wonders what a discarded Cecil Mille De B-movie set is doing this far up-creek. A vat of liquid gold catches his eye and, whilst foolishly peering in to look for the remains of Keith Emerson, he goes for an "early bath" courtesy of the lurking Rock Goddess. And it isn't even Friday night! Gosh! Coming up, one golden turkey. SPLISH! NARRATOR: And then there were two… NARRATOR: The Hon "Plucker" Wetton steers a path through the seedier parts of the city, where he trades in his camel for a concubine (o.n.o). Panicking at the though that she might, in fact, be Mick Box in drag, he removes her veil and is so overwhelmed with relief at what he sees that he dies a long and tedious death. Ho hum… NARRATOR: And then there was one… WETTON: Groannn... NARRATOR: Clambering along the treacherous moutain path, "Clapper" slips close to the edge, but is plucked to safety by a helping hand – no, it isn't Kevin Riddles! Yes, he's the lucky one to find favour with the Goddess (we hope you're all taking this seriously), claiming the talisman and its interminable gift (cue a mass exodus of all remaining inhabitants of Asia). NARRATOR: The sole survivor... HOWE: Oh joy!

#okay how do i even explain this #tự dưng con fb nhắc lại cái bài viết cũ nên mới nhớ ra #basically i found this 2 years ago on an ebay post (?)#so i reupload them back to facebook just in case #the seller deleted it after a while i guess it was sold. heres the remaining (the link is dead. long sigh)#asia (band)#john wetton #steve howe #carl palmer #geoff downes #ps: trc thấy có ng hỏi xem có ai bt bản full ở đâu kh. diễn biến như trên #*

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violetmuses · 8 months ago

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Phoenix - A. Aretas ❤️‍🩹

Title: Phoenix - A. Aretas ❤️‍🩹

Fandom: “Bad Boys” Film Universe

Character: Armando Aretas

Pairing: Armando Aretas + Female Reader

Main Storyline: An unexpected bond may never fade out.

Tag List: @nelo0wesker @yassbishimvintage @nobodygetsza @peaxhygirl @superstar-t20 @adoresmiles @klssngss @deja-r @hyper-trash-panda @amethyst-loves-bucky @planetblaque 🏷

=====

2024

“Stay out of my way.” Your joyful personality vanished at the Miami Police Department.

Wearing this Bud Light shirt, Armando chose one trucker hat that veiled his brown eyes. Jeans covered both legs and boots stepped along.

Shit! Upon realization, Detective Mike Lowrey scrambled into this precinct once you crossed paths with previous criminal Armando Aretas.

After facing many questions or encountering secrets over time, even Mike took responsibility and now stood as Armando's biological father.

“Don't panic. Armando has joined our team.” Mike buffered each stance in the hallway.

“Keep him away from me.” You then stood ground this time.

“He's your partner.” Mike offered reality, but still cringed.

“What the hell, Mike?” You immediately turned around.

“I've pulled strings for Armando and we'll explain everything.” Mike continued speaking.

To cut down time in prison, Aretas would help the AMMO squad.

Given no other option, you moved forward and headed to the briefing room.

Here we go.

______

Intelligent agencies whispered that late Captain Conrad Howard muddled with the cartel for years, but Mike and his partner Marcus Burnett would hustle and prove Cap’s innocence right away.

Soon enough, you discovered that Armando could identify whoever framed Captain Howard in the first place.

“Dorn has files we need, but our department is compromised.” Mike offered this truth and your heart dropped.

“Rats in the walls.” You repeat that warning from Cap's footage. This inside job could change everything.

“Yeah. Let's go.” Mike nodded, leading everyone out of this precinct.

*******

Radio silence grounded that commute when Mike Lowrey parked near this boathouse located on the waterfront.

“Stay outside.” Mike instructed Armando regardless of circumstances and exited the well-known Porsche beside Marcus.

“Still hate me?” Offering slightly accented English, Armando taunts while sitting next to you.

“Shut up.” You clipped right back. “I'm leaving when this case ends.”

“What?” Still wearing that trucker hat, Armando faced your direction.

“You heard me.” You wouldn't repeat that phrase this time. “I'm only here for the mission.”

“I barely know who you are.” Aretas revealed this truth over your presence.

“So what?” You then scoffed near Armando. “Mike is your father, but I'm not staying around the same person who hurt my friends.”

Armando turned silent, definitely puzzled with emotions.

“Siento haberte asustado.” Using his native language of Spanish, Aretas apologized to you.

“No eres un maldito fantasma.” Snipping in return, your partner is not a ghost.

“Lo sé, pero no luches conmigo para siempre.” Armando didn't want you to keep fighting against him.

Fed up, you leave this Porsche and sit by the dock instead, but Aretas follows your every move.

______

Sooner than later, nightfall crossed sunset as both of you still waited to enter Dorn's house.

“What's your name at least?” Giving English back, Armando faced you without jokes.

“Doesn't matter.” You defended yourself through privacy.

Before Aretas could respond, extra footsteps creaked on the dock as Mike walked close.

“Everything's set up. C'mon.” Lowrey didn't play around and you head inside, joining the team as planned.

****

“Kelly's with Dorn?” You whispered to Marcus despite everything, shocked for a moment.

“Found Kelly leaving the bathroom.” Burnett chuckled, shrugging.

“Ooh!” Humored, you laugh for the first time in quite a while.

Tech genius Dorn and weapons expert Kelly dated each other now.

“Did you kick his ass yet?” Marcus gestured near Armando while digital screens lined up the culprit search.

“I would've broken the dock into pieces to fight him.” You defended your skills.

“No.” Aretas clipped without turning away from his search.

“Uh-uh.” Mike intervened once more. “Don't start anything else, you two. Focus.”

Sitting down, you shook your head toward Kelly, but Armando trailed with materials anyway.

Damn.

*****

Bingo!

James McGrath: Former Army Ranger turned DEA agent. Tortured before joining the cartel himself.

Grounding this abandoned alligator park located in Florida, Mike pulled his trigger to kill McGarth and the mission exonerated Captain Howard.

Before Marshal Judy Howard, Captain's grieving daughter, gunned down Armando with revenge, you walked forward.

“Don't!” You lifted both hands and stood as protection.

“Get out of here before I change my mind.” Judy holstered the firearm despite grieving and you helped wounded Armando move until further notice.

=====

2025

This crowded terminal helped Armando Aretas return to Miami without drama. Even traveling the world pulled different strings for quite some time.

When you stand near “Baggage Claim,” Armando wouldn't even hold back this opportunity to smile.

“Hi. Sorry I'm late….” Your path stepped closer, but Aretas dropped luggage and hugged you, just thankful to be alive here.

#angst with a happy ending #movies #jacob scipio #bad boys #armando aretas #bad boys ride or die #bad boys for life #armando aretas x reader #dark themes #armando #armando x reader #❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹#my writing #strong language #slightly suggestive #violetmuses #💜💜💜#fanfiction #au fanfiction

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sebastianswallows · 10 months ago

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The English Client — Forty

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: angst, fluff

— WORDCOUNT: 3.4k

— A/N: Here it is 💚 Finally at an end. Thank you to everyone who's been following this fic, and thanks again to @localravenclaw for requesting it for @esolean. It was a great adventure taking this story from prompt up to this point. It's been almost one year to the day since I started writing it, so it is fitting that the final chapter is posted now. I hope you all enjoy it!✨

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir @thiefofthecrowns

Tom was on a train, riding back to England. It wasn’t a dream anymore. His cabin seemed more comfortable than it did last time and the view outside was decidedly serene. There was no sign of the chaos that was unfolding back in Italy.

A warrant had been issued for Ambrogio Oso and the Swiss authorities fell under criticism for their obstinate lack of cooperation. The Italian police were convinced he’d struck a bargain with someone so that he would not face extradition. He was clearly connected with the Roman underground and old rumours of his involvement with the Mafia surfaced once more. Since the conflict involved the French-speaking part of Switzerland — Oso was said to have settled in Geneva — the Swiss asked for mediation from France, who delegated Mr. Jean Monnet to solve the issue. An evening paper in Rome described it as “an underhanded excuse to leverage the authority of the ECSC”, of which Italy was a member but not a more important one than France. This opened the door for all manner of political and economic experts to weigh in and stoke the already bubbling dissatisfaction with the ECSC as a whole.

Support for law enforcement in Italy was already wavering and the amount of resources being wasted to chase the suspect in the murder of a controversial aristocrat was seen as an insult to the public in a time of economic strife. The exchange rate with most foreign currencies, especially the dollar, remained pitiful, which no doubt contributed to the influx of spoilt and noisy Americans among other undesirables. The fiery murder of Baron Agarda at the hand of either an elderly employee or — the second most likely suspect — a young French national with a record of public indecency, was considered an act of divine intervention either way.

It amused Tom, thinking back now to how keen the inspector was to resolve the case specifically because of his yearning for public approval. He bit his lip to keep from chuckling as he read the Corriere Della Sera. Perhaps he would clip the article and keep it as a memento of his fun little vacation.

He had a moment of compassion for Donatien… Fleeing to Switzerland in the hope of reuniting with his erstwhile protector and would-be sponsor, Ambrogio. As soon as the boy was seen standing outside Casa Ur that day, the Carabinieri knew they had their man. Tom had only helped them confirm it. He so loved hot-headed people, their brains as soft as pudding. And it had certainly taught him a new respect for the art of invisibility. Of course, him planting Donatien’s ring with the bloodied clothes of Clement probably had more to do with it.

He sighed in quiet satisfaction and placed the paper aside. Before him sat the cursed book, the cause of all that trouble. The intrigue, the heartache, betrayal, and death. He supposed it was only fitting. Books like that had a destiny, and a price, and the will of their maker prevailed above the petty wants of their mortal caretakers. It just so happened that the price of the Delomelanicon was not gold or silver or banknotes, but blood… and a couple of souls.

The view outside his window never changed. They had crossed a frozen Italy softly veiled in white and now he couldn’t say exactly where they were. Maybe it was France already. He could see frozen vineyards in the distance and a crown of crows above. There was a light over everything spreading like spilt milk but it came from nowhere, no moon, no sun, as if the very sky was a gaping hole revealing a void of white. Perhaps there was a sea of souls behind that firmament and only in days as cold as this would they appear… But Tom could never count himself among their number. He had made sure of it, in more ways than one.

He could only imagine the furore that was to come in the magical community among those in the know once Burke let spread the word he had the book. Buyers will be crawling over each other like beasts in a pit, and it would likely fall to Tom to skin the price off of their monstrous backs. What’s another heirloom or two compared to sacred knowledge? Yes, he would not let this opportunity pass him by, not after everything he’d been through… And he knew of more than one collector who would part with precious relics for a chance to own that book. After all, demonic tomes that the Ministry knew nothing of had many uses for many wizards, and he intended to milk those amateurs for everything they had. Perhaps, he amused himself, he might get Mr. Malfoy to pay for it again — and no forged folds of muggle bills this time… Tom estimated he might even squeeze three Horcrux-worthy items from the old fool.

“What are you grinning about?”

“Just thinking of all the things we’ll get up to in London.”

“No, no, it wasn’t that kind of a grin.”

“Oh, was it not? What kind was it, then?”

She smiled and, like a cluster of writhing snakes, uncoiled to leave her nest of fur and scarves behind and join him on his side of the cabin. Tom kept her comfortable and warm, weaving around her soothing spells of warm fumes that smelled like her favourite tea and conjuring for her the most luxurious and soft accoutrements. After all, she would find precious little of any of it in London, especially in his cheap one-bedroom flat. And as a reward, she pinched his cheeks and ruffled his hair and smiled with love and adoration at him.

“That was a very bad idea kind of grin,” she said.

“So? It’s not like I ever got us in trouble before.”

“You mean aside from theft and murder and giving false statements to the Carabinieri?”

“Those, I’ll remind you, are exactly the sort of things that got us out of trouble.”

“And breaking my heart?”

“That was only temporary…”

“Well, you certainly made it seem not-so-temporary.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment,” she grumbled.

Tom reached up and grabbed the back of her head, her hair soft beneath his fingers, and pulled her in for a kiss.

She understood why he’d done all of that. He knew she did… It was imperative that the Carabinieri have no idea they were together, especially if he wanted to make the inspector think he had been Donatien’s lover. He explained everything to her as he helped her hurriedly pack in the middle of the night before they made for the train station. It had been hours before she believed him but with that morning’s newspapers in their hands, she slowly accepted that Tom had done all of it for her. The lies he wove, once she saw them brought to completion, made as much sense to her as they must’ve done to the Carabinieri. An aristocrat running an underground network for rich old perverts, an illegal book trade, payments made in the form of boy flesh, love affairs and subtle murder, it was all easier to believe than magic and demonic books.

And although it hurt Tom to paint Ambrogio as the hero, he had to admit it was a neat little plan. It certainly worked well to draw suspicion away from her. The foolish inspector was only too eager to believe that a delicate lady like her would never hurt a soul. Of course, Tom knew better — poor Clement. She, however, still didn’t know that he knew about that. And that’s how it was going to stay. She may not have been blameless in her own mind, but she could at least imagine that her soul was still untainted in his eyes.

She sighed into his kiss and wrapped her arms around him, clinging to his neck, her soft body melting against his. Tom held her tightly, claws sinking in, as the train carried them further and further away. She was all his now and nobody could come between them anymore. He would find a way to live forever with her — and having the Delomelanicon opened paths for him that weren’t there before. And if anything, her being a muggle should work in his favour. Her mind was innocent, a blank sheet with no preconceptions, and for her, magic was still a wonderful thing. There was no good or bad, no right or wrong, it was all beautiful to her, and Tom would be there to watch her discover all of it, to teach her as she went through the same waves of wonder as he did as a child. Hers was the perfect mind to accept what he suggested without fear or prejudice.

She pulled away after a lazy patter of kisses and he caught her licking her lips when he opened his eyes. He smiled and brushed his thumb against her cheek. She looked positively drunk on love, just as he liked it.

“I can’t wait for you to see London… It’s a ruin, and atrocity. You’ll hate it just as much as I do,” he said with a smile.

“Are you sure I won’t be a burden?”

“Having second thoughts?” he chuckled. “We’re a long way from Rome already…”

“I just…”

She struggled to find her words. Tom waited, but he already knew what was on her mind.

“It will be the first time I’ll be useless,” she finally said.

He cupped her face, the warmth of her skin so intense against his skin it penetrated him to the bone.

“You will never be a burden,” he said. “I’ll teach you potion-making, there’s no silly wand-waving involved in that. You can dabble in alchemy too if you want. I’ve salvaged some books on it from the Baron’s collection just for you.”

“Want me to discover the Philosopher’s Stone to prove my love? Is that it, Tom?” she laughed.

“Great minds do think alike,” he grinned. “But no. You can prove it in far simpler ways.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a giggle as he pulled her in his lap.

They arrived in Paris. From there, they would have had to take another train to Callais and then the ferry, a tedious proposition after everything they’d been through.

“Are you glad to see it again?” he asked.

“I don’t know… It looks different this time.”

He cast a subtle charm on their suitcases to make them lighter and carried most of them out of the train station, diverting their course without even asking. They would not leave Paris that night.

It was a dizzying feeling, being free… Between the Italy job and returning to England, Tom could do as he liked. As for her, this was the first time in years she’d been out of a job and with him at her side, she could go anywhere, do anything, at least for a little while. He booked for them a fancy room at a hotel with a view of the Arc de Triomphe and they decided to see none of the places they’d seen before together.

They explored Paris as if they were strangers to it, stopping at the first café they spotted, going into antique shops tucked between old streets, sitting by modest fountains in parks with no name and petting every stray cat along the way.

On their second day, he took her to Montmartre without specifically saying why, and she was so used to the mysteries that surrounded him that she didn’t even ask.

“Are we still using fake money, by the way?”

“We are. But not where we’re going.”

“Pity. That taxi driver was really nice.”

“He fancied you.”

“Do you think so?”

“Have you ever known a Frenchman to be polite without good reason?”

“Well…”

“And don’t mention Donatien.”

“But he always was nice to me.”

“He was a thief and a liar.”

“But Tom, so are you.”

“I suppose you have a type, then.”

He took her to La Place Cache where he bought her sweets and trinkets. They were hardly more than parlour tricks, but it was real magic she could hold in her hands. Passing through the statue made her dizzy, but actually seeing the place, hearing the sounds, tasting what he bought her, was thoroughly intoxicating. Tom smiled, remembering something of what it was like for him to first see Diagon Alley. It was a weakness of his to want to impress her, and magic sure did that… The whole day, she spoke of nothing else. The littlest thing mattered so much to her and it made his heart grow ten times over in his chest.

“Can we get some of those moving photographs before we leave?” she begged with a jumping chocolate frog clutched in her hands, melting away.

“Of course we can. What of?”

“Something wild… Something beautiful. A scene of nature with swaying trees and drifting clouds and bunnies and deer passing by.”

He got her a pretty landscape photo of a forest and she spent the whole way back to the hotel looking at it, her head resting serenely on his shoulder. It helped Tom decide what they should do on their final day there.

She wanted to see something untamed, entirely different from the marble monuments of Rome, so Tom took her to the Vincennes Woods on the eastern outskirts of the city. It was an overcast day and nobody else seemed to be travelling there, which suited them just fine.

They got blissfully lost after fifteen minutes of wandering aimlessly about and kissed between the grey shrubs by the lake. They found strange mansions tucked among the trees, and statues, and a marble birdbath with an owl cleaning its feathers in it.

“I saw a lot of owls there…”

“Where?”

“Yesterday, on the magic street.”

“You mean La Place Cache?” he asked with a cocked brow.

“That’s the one. Why do they have so many?” she asked as she hooked her arm around his.

“We use them to send letters.”

“Owls?”

“They’re highly intelligent. Best sort of bird for it.”

“So do you have a mailing owl at home?”

“No, not anymore. I used to when I was at school.”

“What was its name?”

“Morgana. She was a great horned owl with black and grey plumage.”

“Awww!”

“She was very noisy. And a glutton. She ate half a rabbit once that she caught out in the field and dumped the carcass on my bed.”

“I love her.”

“Sold her when I was about sixteen, didn’t need her anymore. Bought a diary with the money.”

“I want a pet owl…”

“Well, that can be arranged,” he smiled.

Fallen leaves bunched up around their feet, softening their steps. The sky was all but covered by the crowns of high trees and birds sang all around them. Tom created motes of light that lit the path when the forest grew the thickest, and they kept on walking.

He found a snake to speak to as well, an innocent green grass friend hidden in a winter burrow. Tom bent down and called her over as he invited the snake into his palm. Her eyes shone as she watched him speak in Parseltongue.

“Can I learn that?” she asked.

“Afraid not. It has to be inborn.”

“Not fair!”

“Here,” he said, holding out the snake in the cup of his hands. “Hold her, she won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t know, Tom…”

“He said you’re very pretty.”

“Liar,” she mumbled, but took the new friend anyway.

It hissed and shivered pleasantly, its muscles coiling and relaxing.

Tom laughed. “She says your hands feel lovely. She wants to stay there.”

“Oh no… How can I ever put her down now? Poor snake, down in that cold, dirty hole in the ground…”

Tom hissed and told the snake to kiss her. It did, slipping its forked tongue out to tickle at her pinkie finger. She gasped and Tom could see her face light up with sweet affection.

“She is so darling! Tom, I want to keep her…”

“If only you liked my kisses that much.”

“I do. Shut up,” she smiled, gently starting to pet the snake’s small head with her thumb. “Tell her she’s pretty too. That she has lovely scales.”

Tom’s smile turned a little sharper. “I’m starting to regret introducing you two.”

“Tom, tell her!”

He sighed and with a toothy smile conveyed her praises to the snake. Its lithe body shivered in delight and it nuzzled the cushion of flesh beneath her thumb, tail curling around to hide its eyes.

“Awww, she’s shy!”

“What a showoff.”

“Don’t be jealous.”

“Why not?”

She petted it a while longer then bent to put the snake back on the ground. As it slithered into its home she covered the entrance lightly with leaves, tucking the creature away for the winter. As for Tom’s jealousy, she soothed that with kisses beneath the swaying tendrils of a willow tree while he played at being angry for a few moments longer.

They eventually found the path that led out of the forest with the sunset and she gathered acorns as they went. The last bus took them to the hotel and Tom forged enough French banknotes for a feast. Her sense of honour protested again, at least until the first eclair touched her lips. Tom’s lips followed close behind to lick the chocolate from the edges of her mouth.

III

The North Sea was sleek and docile, swaying them in unfeeling waves like children being lulled to sleep. The sky had disappeared again, taking the sun with it, and they were left once more with a white void above. Everything had a feeling of finality about it akin to being doomed to death, but there was a hint of resurrection too. For Tom, it was as if returning from the underworld. For her, beginning a new life.

Surrounded by other passengers going about their ordinary lives, the two of them felt like the carriers of a great secret — which in a way they were. The story in the papers about the hunt for Ambrogio kept evolving but on pages further and further in the back. Nobody had been speaking of it in France, and now three days later it was as if it never happened.

They were still full of sweets and wine and lazy from the night before but they treated themselves to the snacks on the ferry as well and fed treats to one another in a hedonist repose. When she got tired, she slid down to lay on Tom’s lap as they sat beside the window atop red cushioned seats.

“Do you think we’ll be happy in England?” she asked.

“I never was,” Tom shrugged. “Were you happy in Italy?”

“I think so,” she said. “I had friends there, you know. And I had you.”

“And you have me still.”

She looked up at him, her eyes catching his upside down, and smiled. Tom held her tighter, feeling suddenly possessive in the way he got when he thought of his old diary or his grandfather’s ring.

“Well then, here’s one reason to be happy.” He leaned down to brush his lips over her temple. “Even if you won’t be happy in England, you’ll never be miserable on your own again.”

Her giggle was a crystalline chime and she reached up to kiss him. She curled her fingers in his hair and held on like they were sleek black reins to let him feel her possessiveness as well. Tom parted from her lips and sighed, but smiled. She was in his arms, soft and comfy on his lap, sweet on his lips, and filled with love. She smiled back at him as her hand still lingered in his hair, twirling a stray lock around her finger.

“I can’t wait for us to be alone,” Tom said.

“I’m sure,” she cocked a brow.

But that wasn’t how he meant it.

“We’ll have an eternity together. You’ll see. At the end of time, there will only be the two of us left.”

He could tell she couldn’t quite understand, and even if she did, he wasn’t certain she’d approve yet. But then again, she didn’t need to. Tom brushed a strand of hair off of her forehead and smoothed his thumbs over her brows. He’d clear a path in her mind, just as he’d carved a place for himself in her heart, for immortality.

“You’ll see. I’ll make you want to spend eternity away. With me.”

“Oh, silly Tom. I already do.”

#Tom Riddle #Tom Riddle x reader #Tom Riddle x OC #Tom Riddle fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #sswallow;fanfics #sswallow;made a thing #fanfic;englishclient

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xiaokuer-schmetterling · 3 months ago

Text

a bit more of linguistic meta on wwx name!

-> https://dictionary.writtenchinese.com/#sk=wuxian&svt=pinyin

okay i get the lwj found his wifi punny jokes now! BUT DID YOU SEE THIS HOMOPHONE!!!???

无限--wu2 xian4--unlimited / unbounded ( ah! is that how they got the untamed??? )

无线--wu2 xian4--wireless [internet]

诬陷--wu1 xian4--to entrap / to frame / to plant false evidence against ( 👀👀👀😱😱😱 )

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example of the lwj finding wifi joke

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so. um. let's go down this rabbit hole 😅

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wwx's milk name meaning

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@hunxi-guilai post about how the drama name got from mdzs to 'the untamed'

-> "so English title of the show, The Untamed, has absolutely nothing to do with any of the titles in Chinese, but I’m going to walk through the titles to get see how we get to ‘The Untamed’ "

-> [xks doing a tldr summary for the key points relevant to this post but defo go read the og post bc IT'S FASCINATING]

tldr: cql can be translated as

“a song to explain matters fully”

“a song of bygone relationships”

“a song to command the world”

everyone ships lan wangji x wei wuxian => wangxian => wuji.mp3 => unbridled / unfettered => the untamed !!!

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this section inspired by ^that post!!!

魔道祖师--mó dào zǔ shī

mo2--devil / magic

dao4--direction / way / road / path / principle / truth / morality / reason / skill / method / Dao (of Daoism) / to say / to speak / to talk / classifier for long thin things (rivers, cracks etc), barriers (walls, doors etc), questions (in an exam etc), commands, courses in a meal, steps in a process

zu3--ancestor / forefather / grandparents

shi1--teacher / master / expert / model / army division / (old) troops / to dispatch troops

https://dictionary.writtenchinese.com/#sk=%E9%AD%94%E9%81%93%E7%A5%96%E5%B8%88&svt=pinyin

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陈情令--chén qíng lìng

chen2 qing2 [binome / phrase]--to give a full account

chen2--to lay out / to exhibit / to display / to narrate / to state / to explain / to tell / old / stale

qing2--feeling / emotion / passion / situation

ling4--to order / to command / an order / warrant / writ / to cause / to make sth happen / virtuous / honorific title / season / government position (old)

https://dictionary.writtenchinese.com/#sk=%E9%99%88%E6%83%85%E4%BB%A4&svt=pinyin

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无机--wu2 ji1--inorganic (chemistry)

[this ji1 has the possible meanings: machine / engine / opportunity / intention / aircraft / pivot / crucial point / flexible (quick-witted) / organic]

https://dictionary.writtenchinese.com/#sk=%E6%97%A0%E6%9C%BA&svt=pinyin

无羁--wu2 ji1

wu2--not to have / no / none / not / to lack / un- / -less

ji1--bridle / halter / to restrain / to detain / to lodge / inn

https://dictionary.writtenchinese.com/#sk=%E6%97%A0%E7%BE%81&svt=pinyin

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more meta on mdzs character names!!!

excerpt:

"When a native speaker hears the term WangXian 忘羨, they get the basic meaning of "forgetting envies", but at the same time they're inevitably reminded of this famous idiom...A pair of love birds is more enviable than immortality...lovers only envy the mandarin ducks, which are symbols of faithful monogamy and harmony, a tribute to growing old together, companions for life."

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meta on the titles HGJ and YLLZ

excerpts:

laozu...[gender neutral] founder of a sect; "This title is about ... where a grandmaster established himself...and his unorthodox powers...The reverence is inseparable from abhorrence."

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"HanGuang Jun is a title that praises Lan Zhan's integrity...refer to a harboring of light"

"If you don't know him well, he seems unconfrontational with those downcast and shielded eyes...but as soon as you step over the line...you'll feel the sharpness of that fierce light in his eyes like a blade to your throat."

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ZOMG how long does mxtx spend choosing names for her characters??? THE MANY LAYERED MEANINGS ARE KILLING ME

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end post

#wei wuxian #mdzs meta #linguistics #when lwj finds his wifi #punny jokes #very punny #i am. frothing at the mouth about this rn #wangxian #the untamed #cql #mdzs #suibian #wei wuxian name meaning #mxtx meta #long post #like. really long post. i'm not apologizing lol just setting your expectations #now with gifs!

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blackjackkent · 8 months ago

Text

Having finished the arduous task of explaining her bloodline to the whole camp, Rakha drifts back towards Jaheira's side. Cautious, at first - as if expecting the Harper to push her away, knowing what she now knows - but Jaheira looks at her steadily and simply waits.

She knows, presumably, that when Rakha has questions, it is not long before they are heard.

"I need to know more about the Bhaalspawn. About myself." Rakha's words are just as sharp and clipped off as usual - but lower, softer. There's a struggle against shame in them now, where before was simply bewilderment.

Jaheira smiles ruefully. "I am no expert on the matter, despite all my experience," she says. "But... if anything I know can help you to resist your father... only ask it."

In truth, Rakha has so many questions that she isn't really sure where to begin. Her first question, though, is remarkably revealing - it's not really a strategic question or even a factual one. It's borne of fear.

"You've... never known a Bhaalspawn to go mad, have you?" she asks haltingly.

Jaheira's expression softens. "Not... mad, no," she says. "Take Sarevok, for example. For as much carnage as he caused, there was always a cold calculation to it. He craved power, and his bloodline was just another path to achieve it."

(She remembers - the wildness in Caden's eyes as the Slayer form faded out of him, rage giving way to terror. But she remembers, too, how even stripped of his soul he fought that monster down and did not let it take him, in the end.)

Her hand shifts, as if to reach out to touch Rakha's arm; then she seems to think better of it and withdraws. "I saw that same bloodline turned to better ends than Bhaal ever intended for it. It was Bhaalspawn who threatened the Coast, and Bhaalspawn who saved it. It is possible to go on to live a life outside your father's shadow."

"Was your camp bothered time and time again by a grotesque Butler?" Rakha asks. Her lip curls as she remembers Sceleritas's mocking voice whispering in her ear.

To her surprise, Jaheira smiles very faintly, only for a moment.

(She remembers - Cespenar, the strange little imp that haunted the pocket plane where she and Caden and the others spent their nights during the War of the Five. Yes - he called himself a butler, she remembers. Rakha has told them of Fel, though, and whatever he might be, it is something much darker.)

"Bhaal had his minions, certainly," she answers. "But none that watched over their wards so diligently." The smile fades as quickly as it came. "I wonder if past experience has taught the great god to fear - that another of his children might turn against him."

Rakha nods, thinking this over. She is finding it eases her mind, just a little, to hear that there were others like her - that there was one whom Jaheira considered a friend - even if her situation is very different.

"Did your friend ever tell you of the dreams Bhaal sent them?" she asks, shifting uncertainly from one foot to the other.

Jaheira scowls, suddenly bitter. "Yes," she says tightly. "Your rancid father will try to twist your thoughts, as he did with all his children. The harder you resist, the darker your dreams become. Our camp was often roused by screams in the night, back then."

(She remembers - all the nights Caden thought his screams were muffled. All the dreams he described to them in the morning, blinking with bloodshot eyes. And of course, the night Irenicus turned one of those dreams to his purpose and sent Caden's dagger into Skie Silvershield's chest...)

There's a certain savageness in the smile that follows, and it does not reach her eyes. "We learned to take them as a marker of pride. Even gods can be resisted."

As Rakha absorbs this, her shoulders square slightly. She takes these words and files them away next to the others that give her the most strength. Even gods can be resisted.

"Did your friend live happily, once Bhaal was dealt with?" she asks quietly.

Jaheira chuckles. "Hah. Bhaal was just the beginning. Be warned - a godspawn draws trouble like iron to lodestone. There will be crusaders who wish to rid the world of your taint, or jealous minds who believe themselves more deserving of the power in your blood."

(She remembers - Sarevok and Argent and Irenicus and Amelyssan, face after face rising out of the dark to attempt to use Caden, or destroy him. In truth, his only real peace came when the solar sent from the gods finally stripped him of his heritage along with all the power Amelyssan had gathered. But there were happy times before that, too. She remembers the way he held Aerie, the way he joked with Imoen and Minsc and spoke of philosophy with Rasaad. She remembers her own conversations with him, long discussions of loss and hope in the shadows of Amn.)

"But happiness is not beyond a Bhaalspawn," she says firmly. "It simply comes at higher cost - constant vigilance."

Rakha's eyes flick almost imperceptibly past Jaheira's shoulder in the direction of another tent, where Wyll is playfully wrestling a ball from Scratch's mouth. "Did the Bhaalspawn have children?" she asks abruptly, before she's realized the words are coming out of her mouth. "Did they inherit his taint?"

Jaheira tilts her head thoughtfully. "A Bhaalspawn can sire children, certainly. Whether they *should*..." She hesitates.

(She remembers - Caden's son Quayle, a little half-Avariel with stubby wings, grinning up at her as a young boy, full of questions and imagination. And the man he has become since; she's seen him a handful of times and heard much more from Caden's letters - a lithe figure with steady hands, a woodworker and teller of tales in Faenya-Dail. A strange amalgam of his mother's gentleness and his father's mischief, with no sign of any of the darkness that plagued Caden's history. But he was born after the taint was gone. Who can say what he might have become, had Caden never been freed?

And she remembers her own daughter, too - Rion, who has grown all too much in Jaheira's own image, both for better and worse. Rion, who inherited her mother's reserve and fire by nature, perhaps - but who has also learned everything Jaheira knew how to teach, of protection and strength and resilience.)

"There are things in our nature we might unwittingly pass on, yes," she finally says slowly, visibly choosing her words with care. "But I do not believe them stronger than the things we *choose* to pass on."

She turns her head slightly, following Rakha's gaze in the direction of Wyll's tent. Then she smiles slowly. "If you are asking whether love and joy are beyond you, just because of the taint in your blood... No. They most certainly are not."

Rakha draws a slow breath and closes her eyes; when she exhales, it emerges just a little shaky. Jaheira's counsel is something she desperately needs at present, and it is reassuring, comforting... and yet at the same time she finds it tears something loose in her chest that makes her feel altogether too vulnerable for her liking.

"Bhaal frightens me," she admits in a low voice, almost too low to hear.

"Then you are wise," Jaheira says bluntly. "I will not mince words. If what you told me is true, you are already further under Bhaal's power than my old friend ever was."

She hesitates - and this time she does reach out, just barely resting the tips of her fingers against Rakha's forearm. Her eyes stay fixed on Rakha's, steady, calm. Perhaps it is the experienced Harper leader who knows how to call up answering calm in her subordinates - or perhaps merely the woman seeing the echo of her friend's pain in this new face.

"But so long as you fear that power," she says firmly, "there is hope. Fear means you are not fully mad - not yet."

#bjk plays bg3 durge #rakha the dark urge #another long self-indulgent one don't mind me #lol #this was fun to write tho #lots of fun throwbacks to play with #long rambly posts tonight whoops

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areyoufuckingcrazy · 4 days ago

Text

“Crimson Huntress” pt.5

Summary: A rogue ARC trooper and a ruthless Togruta bounty hunter form an uneasy alliance, dodging Jedi, Death Watch, and their pasts as war rages across the galaxy.

The hum of the nav systems filled the cockpit like a second heartbeat. Sha’rali lounged in the pilot’s chair, legs kicked up on the console, a bitter half-smile ghosting her lips as she twirled a datachip between her clawed fingers. K4 was seated at his usual post, arms neatly folded, optics quietly calculating a dozen hypotheticals per second. CT-4023, cloaked in the black-and-gold silhouette of his stolen Death Watch armor, leaned against the doorway—silent, watching, always thinking.

R9 beeped irritably behind them, displeased with the turbulence in their hyperspace jump.

“We’ve got a message,” Sha’rali announced finally, holding the chip up. “Cid wants to cash in a favor.”

K4 didn’t look away from the dash. “Has she ever not wanted to cash in a favor?”

“What’s the job?” 4023 asked, stepping forward. His voice was filtered through a soft modulator, a new addition he’d insisted on since they crossed paths with the Jedi.

Sha’rali hesitated. “Extraction. A high-value target hiding out near the Pyke mining sector on Oba Diah. Bring him in alive. No questions.”

Silence stretched.

“Absolutely not,” K4 said immediately.

“The last time we dealt with the Pykes, I beheaded and gutted their entire envoy.”

Sha’rali’s smile was hollow. “Yeah. I remember.”

She stared at the chip, lekku twitching in thought. “But this… smells off. Cid says it’s clean, but she never says who the bounty actually goes to. She just wants us to bring them to a contact near the mining ridges. High pay, low profile. Too good to be real.”

R9 chirped something pessimistic.

“See? Even the murder-bucket agrees,” K4 muttered.

4023 folded his arms. “Could be a trap.”

“Of course it’s a trap,” Sha’rali said, tossing the chip onto the dash. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t spring it our way.”

She stood, voice sharp. “We’ve done worse. We go in smart, fast, and prepared. I’m not walking away from that kind of payout unless we’re bleeding for it.”

⸻

The descent into Oba Diah was storm-torn, the planet’s perpetual haze wrapping around the ship like greasy smoke. They broke through cloud cover to reveal jagged mountains of crumbling rock and a sprawling field of collapsed spice tunnels and rusted outposts, choked with vines and half-sunken in mud.

“I’ve got visuals on the coordinates,” 4023 reported, peering through the scopes. “Looks like a freight depot—long abandoned. No obvious defenses.”

“That means the defenses are under it,” K4 muttered, powering up the ship’s turrets just in case.

They landed on a flat ridge about half a klick from the depot. The wind howled. R9 rolled out first, sensors scanning, chirping warnings as they moved toward the structure.

No sign of the bounty.

Sha’rali stopped, raising a hand. “Wait—something’s wrong.”

Blaster fire ripped through the fog before she finished the sentence. Three, maybe four snipers opened up from higher ground, forcing them to scatter. From below, shadows moved—masked Pyke enforcers emerging from the tunnels.

“It’s a karking ambush!” 4023 snapped, taking cover behind a crumbling support strut and returning fire with expert precision.

“Cid set us up!” Sha’rali growled, drawing her blade and igniting her carbine in the same motion. “Or the Pykes want revenge for last time.”

K4 was already in the thick of it, carving a brutal path through the encroaching attackers. R9 let out a warble and overloaded a Pyke’s rifle with a sneaky spike of electricity before zipping away.

“We’re flanked!” 4023 shouted. “We need to fall back to the ship!”

Sha’rali was already running to cover them, moving like a phantom across the mud-slicked ground. A blast clipped her shoulder, spinning her, but she stayed upright—barely.

They made it halfway up the slope toward the ridge when the ground gave way beneath her.

The slide was sudden—violent. Sha’rali screamed as the ledge crumbled beneath her boots, her body tumbling down a steep incline of slick stone and wet earth. She slammed hard into the wall of a ravine, her world blinking white for a moment.

Mud filled her mouth and nose. Her limbs ached. The world tilted, then faded entirely.

She woke to darkness, the taste of iron in her mouth.

The rain had stopped, replaced by the cold fog of early night. She was half-submerged in muck, one arm twisted beneath her, the other reaching weakly for a blaster that was no longer there.

A low growl reached her ears—followed by footsteps. She tried to sit up.

ZZZT! A blue stun bolt hit her chest and locked her muscles.

Her head rolled back. Shadows loomed overhead—tall, spindly shapes with cruel eyes and weapons drawn. Zygerrians.

“Well, well,” one of them sneered. “Look what the mud dragged in.”

“Didn’t think we’d find anything this far out,” said one.

“Togruta,” said another, examining her lekku. “The boss pays double for rare ones. Especially the exotic warriors.”

“She armed?”

“Not anymore.”

They roughly pulled her upright, manacles clicking around her wrists. A sack was drawn over her head.

“Let’s not waste time,” said their leader. “She’ll fetch a good price, and the rain’ll hide our tracks.”

Sha’rali, numb and helpless, listened as her captors dragged her through the mud, away from the ridge where her crew still fought to survive.

The last thing she heard before unconsciousness returned was the sound of manacles clicking shut and the hiss of a slaver ship’s ramp.

Sha’rali came to with a jolt, every nerve alight with sharp, biting pain.

The collar around her neck sizzled again, just enough to warn her: move wrong, and it would do worse. Her vision swam. Her body ached. She lay curled in the cold corner of a small durasteel cage, no larger than a weapons locker. Her head throbbed and her arms had been chained to the floor beneath her knees.

She blinked and realized, with an instant spike of fury, that she was wearing something else. Something not hers.

A sheer cloth top barely held together with golden clasps, hanging loose over her chest. A belt of jangling beads and threadbare silk wrapped low on her hips, a mockery of Togrutan ceremonial wraps—cut, tattered, revealing far more than concealing. Gold bangles adorned her wrists and ankles like leashes waiting for a pull.

Worse than all of it was the humiliation.

Her gear—gone. Her weapons, stripped. Her battle-worn leathers replaced with something insulting.

She let out a low growl, a primal sound, the only power she had left.

The sound of a collar shocking someone else brought her head up sharply.

Across the dim hold of the Zygerrian ship, other cages lined the walls. There were a few other slaves—no one she recognized.

From across the dimly lit slave hold, a small voice whispered, “Don’t move too much. The collar goes off again.”

Sha’rali turned her head with effort, spotting a tiny Twi’lek girl—barely into adolescence. Her bright lavender skin had been bruised and scuffed, and she wore a nearly identical outfit. Her expression was hollow.

Sha’rali softened, even through the pain. “Name?”

“Romi,” the girl said, eyes flicking to the guards stationed down the corridor. “They picked me up on Serennno. You?”

Sha’rali didn’t answer immediately. Her identity was armor, teeth, pride. Here, stripped of all that, she was raw. Exposed.

“I’m Sha’rali,” she said eventually, voice husky.

Romi shifted forward in her cage, chains clinking. “They said we’re being taken to Kadavo. The market.”

Sha’rali tensed. Kadavo. The Zygerrian slave capital. A place of chains and cruelty, known throughout the galaxy.

More cages filled the edges of the hold. One of them held a half-unconscious Weequay. Another, a silent Bothan who hadn’t spoken once since she’d woken. But one cage—reinforced and locked with magnetic bindings—held more movement than the rest.

Sha’rali turned slightly, squinting through the flickering lights.

Clones.

Four of them, huddled in a cell large enough to barely contain them. No armor, no gear, just dark underlayers and grim expressions. They didn’t look at her. They didn’t speak to her. But she could tell they were military—how they sat, how they breathed. Watchful.

One had a cybernetic eye and a scar down his face.

He sat perfectly still, arms crossed over his knees. Beside him were two others who looked like they were meant to work as a pair—one smaller, wiry, the other more broad. And one sat farther in the back, staring down at the floor with a blank expression.

Captured days ago, she guessed. Brought in from somewhere else. Probably a different hunt altogether.

They didn’t know her. She didn’t know them. That was fine.

Her jaw clenched as she tried again to shift, and the collar lit her nerves like firecrackers.

“Don’t,” Romi whispered. “They enjoy it when we scream.”

Sha’rali didn’t scream. She refused. But stars, she saw the edges of her vision blur.

“How long have we been in space?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“A day maybe?” Romi shrugged, small shoulders trembling.

There was a soft voice, raspy with age, from the cell beside her.

“Another Togruta… it’s been a long time since I’ve seen one so wild-eyed.”

Sha’rali turned slowly. An elder Togruta woman sat quietly in the cage next to hers. Wrinkled face, faded markings. One lekku shortened by a blade.

“I’m not wild,” Sha’rali muttered.

“You were when they dragged you in,” the elder replied. “You bit one, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

The woman gave a weary smile. “Keep your fire. But don’t waste it. Zygerrians like to break the ones who burn brightest.”

“I’m not going to break.”

“I hope not,” the woman said softly. “Not all of us made it.”

Sha’rali fell into silence, watching the floor. One breath. Then another.

She tried to calculate. Figure out how far they were from Vanqor. Whether CT-4023 was alive. Whether K4 had escaped. Whether R9 was tracking her.

R9 will come, she told herself again. He always comes.

There was a sudden rattle. Movement. The clones stirred in their cell, but didn’t rise.

From the corridor came bootsteps—Zygerrian guards, sneering as they inspected their ‘merchandise.’ One paused at Sha’rali’s cage, scanning her through the bars.

The sneer widened. “Pretty little thing. You’ll sell high.”

She didn’t say anything. Just stared him down, even as her chains bit in.

The guard shocked her again anyway, just for fun.

Sha’rali grit her teeth, her whole body seizing—but she still didn’t scream.

As her vision dimmed around the edges, she whispered, “You better come soon, 4023… before I kill someone with my bare hands.”

And somewhere, beyond metal hulls and dark space, her partner was already hunting.

They would find her.

Or they would burn half the galaxy trying.

⸻

The hiss of pressurized air released the docking clamps.

The slave ship shuddered as it touched down on the rust-colored landing pad of Zygerria’s capital city, the skyline stained by dusk and industry. Somewhere beyond the bulkhead, the smell of ash and spice wafted in through the filters. The chains on Sha’rali’s wrists bit tighter with each shift of the ship’s descent.

She crouched low, silent. The young Twi’lek beside her trembled with every movement. Romi hadn’t spoken since the collar shocked her last—she stared at the floor, lips moving in prayer to gods Sha’rali didn’t know.

They were about to be marched into a nightmare.

But fate, as it often did, changed the game.

Footsteps echoed down the metal ramp—heavier than Zygerrian boots, sharper. Cleaner. The guards suddenly went rigid. No whip-cracks. No laughter.

One of them hissed. “He’s here.”

The cell bay door opened, and silence fell.

Count Dooku stepped aboard the slave barge with the self-assured stillness of a man who owned the galaxy. His cloak barely brushed the filthy floors, his expression unchanged by the scent of sweat and blood in the air. Two MagnaGuards flanked him, pikes gleaming with precision.

Sha’rali’s jaw clenched.

No karking way.

She stayed quiet, head bowed. But her eyes tracked his every step.

Dooku passed by the cages one by one, as if inspecting exotic animals at market. His sharp gaze barely flickered across the weaker slaves—until he reached the reinforced cell.

The clones.

He paused, the corners of his mouth curling faintly with distaste. “Four clones, captured far from the front lines. Republic property, now reclaimed.” His hand lifted and he gestured. “Take them. They’ll be of use.”

The MagnaGuards activated the containment field, marched in, and extracted the four troopers one by one—silent, grim, defeated but not broken. The one with the cybernetic eye locked eyes with Sha’rali as he passed. There was no recognition. No trust. But something primal passed between them: a shared need to survive.

Then Dooku stopped in front of her cage.

Sha’rali didn’t look away.

His gaze swept over her, from the cracked collar to the flimsy silks that failed to hide the bruises. And then—recognition.

“Ah. Now that is a surprise.” Dooku’s voice was velvet and venom. “The bounty hunter who infiltrated my Saleucami facility and escaped with my asset.”

Sha’rali said nothing, but the muscles in her jaw flexed.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Dooku mused. “But fortune, I see, has a cruel sense of humor.”

He gestured once more. “Take her. I have… great plans.”

⸻

Dooku’s ship jumped through hyperspace. Crossed to a new Outer Rim world far beyond the standard slave routes.

A planet called Garvoth.

She saw it as they broke atmosphere—dusty terrain split by massive black structures, an arena the size of a city nestled in the heart of its capital. A gladiator world. One built for bloodsport and spectacle. One of Dooku’s quiet experiments in influence and economic power.

And it would be her prison.

The ship landed inside the holding bay beneath the arena. The clones were taken to confinement cells with reinforced durasteel. Sha’rali, however, was dragged toward another chamber—spacious, decorated in cold stone and banners. A viewing box for the Count.

Dooku waited for her.

“This world respects only strength,” he said as the guards shackled her to the wall. “And so will you.”

“You want me to fight for you?” she sneered.

He raised a brow. “I want you to bleed for me.”

He turned away, surveying the arena through the window. “You’ll earn me coin, of course. The crowd will adore you. A rare Togruta—violent, cunning, exotic. But more importantly, you will learn discipline. You will suffer humiliation. And through that, understand your place.”

“I won’t wear this,” she growled, yanking against the chains. “I want my armor.”

Dooku didn’t even turn to her. “You will wear what I allow. That slave garb suits you. Let it be a reminder of your failure.”

“You’re making a mistake,” she spat.

Finally, Dooku turned. And this time, his voice was edged with steel.

“No. You did, when you thought you could steal from me and vanish into the stars. Now you’ll fight in my arena for the amusement of others, and when the time comes, you will kneel. Or you will die screaming.”

Sha’rali stared him down, her teeth bared. But the cold in her chest sank deeper than defiance.

She’d survived a lot. She would survive this.

But when they dragged her into the gladiator pits—clad in silk and chains, forced to stand before a roaring crowd—she realized that survival might no longer be enough.

Not this time.

⸻

The ring of chains and the roar of bloodthirsty crowds still echoed in her ears long after the arena closed for the night.

Sha’rali stood against the stone wall of the shared cell, blood drying on her collarbone. The faint shimmer of lights cast tall shadows from the barred ceiling overhead. Her pulse had steadied hours ago. The fresh bruises—earned in a match against a Trandoshan dual-wielder—were still blooming. But she’d won. Again.

Of course she had.

Winning meant survival.

Losing meant becoming the crowd’s next “bonus attraction.”

She wasn’t interested in the latter.

Across the cell, the four clones sat—silent as they always were after the torture sessions. Each one bore signs of interrogation: bruises around neural ports, cracked lips, blood-caked brows. They were tough—made to withstand this. But even the strongest men could only take so much.

Commander Wolffe leaned back against the wall, his one remaining eye watching her like a predator unsure if it recognized another of its kind. Boost and Sinker had become background noise, withdrawn into a shared misery. But Comet—he looked different tonight.

He was staring at her. Hard.

“You knew him.”

Sha’rali turned her head slightly, not bothering to ask who.

“That clone deserter. CT-4023.”

Her breath caught, just for a second. Just long enough for Comet to notice.

She shrugged lazily. “Did. Once.”

“What happened to him?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and quiet.

Wolffe’s eye twitched. Boost glanced up.

Sha’rali lowered herself onto the stone floor, one leg stretched out, her arm draped over her knee. “I killed him.”

Comet blinked. “What?”

“He was wounded. Couldn’t go on. Didn’t want to be captured. Didn’t want to be brought back to the Republic like some karking piece of malfunctioning tech. Said it was better to go out free.” She let out a cold, humorless laugh. “So I put a blaster to the back of his head and gave him what he asked for.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Delivered it like truth.

Silence.

A low exhale from Wolffe.

“That was still a brother,” he said. Quiet. Even.

Sha’rali tilted her head. “Was he?”

Wolffe’s stare darkened. “I didn’t agree with him. Didn’t respect what he did. But he made a choice. Same as any of us.”

Sha’rali’s expression hardened. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

Now she stood again, the weariness leaving her limbs, something sharper stirring underneath.

“You think people make choices? That when they hit the crossroads, they look both ways and decide where they go?”

She stepped toward them. Not aggressive—just close. Just enough to make the words bite.

“We don’t steer our lives. We follow roads already paved. Decisions made for us. And we walk them because someone else put us there.”

Comet frowned. “He chose to leave. That was his road.”

“No,” she snapped. “That wasn’t his road. That was the ditch he fell into after someone else put a wall in his way.”

Now they were all looking at her. Even Sinker.

She gestured to each of them. “You were born in tanks, raised for war. Never got to choose your name. Never got to choose your purpose. You were pointed like weapons and told to fight for peace. And if you said no? If you broke formation?” She stepped back. “Suddenly you weren’t worth saving.”

Boost’s mouth opened, but Wolffe’s voice cut through first.

“Not every path is made for us. Some we build.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

And for a moment, Sha’rali’s fire dimmed—just a flicker.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “But some of us don’t have bricks. Just dust and bones.”

No one replied.

Later, when the lights dimmed and the cell returned to silence, Comet turned his face toward the wall, thoughtful.

“She didn’t kill him,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Wolffe didn’t answer. But the faintest movement in his jaw suggested he was thinking the same thing.

Somewhere in the arena halls, cheers erupted for the next match.

Sha’rali stared at the ceiling, chains rattling softly with every breath.

And somewhere deep in her chest, guilt gnawed like a parasite.

The scent of sweat, metal, and blood clung to the air like a second skin.

Sha’rali sat cross-legged on the cold durasteel floor of the holding cell beneath the arena, her back pressed against the wall, chin tilted upward as she listened to the muffled screams of the crowd above. The cell was wide and shared with others—warriors of every species, scarred and broken, pacing like caged beasts awaiting their turn in the pit.

To her left, a Nikto sharpened a serrated blade on a stone with slow, deliberate strokes. To her right, a horned Weequay chanted something in his native tongue, smearing blood across his chest like a ritual. They didn’t look at her. No one did.

Except the Mirialan in the far corner.

Sha’rali had fought her two matches ago and broken her arm in three places. The Mirialan hadn’t looked away from her since.

She didn’t care.

She was tired. Tired of collars and cages. Tired of being a spectacle.

You’re not broken. Not yet.

The thought was weak, but it held her together.

The clang of the outer doors yanked her from her thoughts.

Two guards entered, clad in dark red plating. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

The other warriors moved aside, murmuring low in their respective languages. Sha’rali didn’t bother to move.

But the man who entered behind the guards made her rise to her feet.

Dark armor, blue and grey, the familiar marking of the Death Watch sigil on the shoulder plate. His T-visored helmet gleamed under the flickering lights.

“Hello, darling,” the voice behind the modulator sneered.

She didn’t flinch.

“Didn’t expect to see one of you again,” she said evenly.

The Mandalorian took a step closer. “Didn’t expect to find you like this.” He tilted his head, gaze raking over the slave outfit Dooku still made her wear into every match. “Seems fortune finally found a way to humble you.”

Sha’rali clenched her fists behind her back. “If you’re here to talk about my fashion choices, I’m sure you can find a market vendor somewhere.”

He laughed.

“Came to deliver a message,” he said. “Some of our brothers didn’t take kindly to what you did to a few of ours on Ord Mantell. Word travels.”

“Tell them they should’ve picked a fight with someone their own size,” she spat.

“Funny thing about revenge…” he leaned in, the edges of his armor scraping the bars. “It’s patient. Dooku may have you now, but he’ll sell you eventually. Maybe to the Hutts. Maybe to someone else. Or maybe… to us.”

Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t bother trying to kill me now,” he added, voice low. “Not in here. Not under Dooku’s nose. But when you’re off the leash…” He clicked his tongue. “We’ll see how many fights that pretty face wins without armor.”

Then he left. No dramatic flourish. No parting threat.

Just silence.

And the smoldering hatred burning in her chest.

Time passed. Maybe hours.

The noise from above never stopped—cheers, screams, roars of victory or defeat.

The holding cell emptied one by one as the matches ticked on. Eventually, only a few remained—Sha’rali among them.

She leaned her head back, closing her eyes just for a moment.

And then—

A flicker of movement at the corner of her vision.

She opened her eyes and blinked once.

A hooded figure had slipped past the perimeter guards, barely more than a shadow in the corridor beyond the cells.

Then a second. Taller, cloaked in brown and grey, masked in a rebreather that made no sound.

Her breath caught.

The first figure moved closer, carefully approaching her cell. The face beneath the hood lifted.

Green skin. Black eyes. Tentacles.

Kit Fisto.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at her.

“You’re bold,” she whispered.

He smiled faintly. “We could say the same of you.”

Her eyes darted to the figure behind him—Plo Koon. She didn’t recognize him, not yet, but she registered his presence as someone important.

“What are you doing here?”

Kit’s voice lowered. “Tracking rumors. Slave trafficking routes. Missing clones.”

That gave her pause.

She took a single step forward, speaking just low enough for only him to hear.

“I know where four of them are. Republic clones. One of them might be someone important. But I want out of here. I get out—they get out.”

Plo Koon approached the bars, gazing at her with quiet intensity.

“You’re not in a position to negotiate,” he said.

“Neither are you,” she shot back. “You’re sneaking around an Outer Rim arena like thieves instead of storming the place like Jedi. That tells me you’re not ready for a full assault. I’m your best lead.”

Kit exhaled slowly. “She’s not wrong.”

Plo nodded reluctantly.

Sha’rali stepped closer still, voice taut. “Just… get me out of here. I’m running out of fights to win.”

Kit’s smile dimmed. “We will. Just not now.”

“Why?”

He glanced toward the corridor again. “Because pulling you now would compromise the mission. Dooku’s still close. And you’ll draw too much attention.”

Sha’rali looked at him like he was handing her a death sentence.

Kit added quietly, “But I give you my word: we will come back. Hold on.”

She stepped back, slowly. Her arms folded.

“I’m good at holding on.”

Then they were gone—slipping away into the shadows as easily as they came.

She sank back down to the cell floor.

Alone again.

But this time, not without hope.

⸻

The cracked walls of the ruin gave little shelter from the heat, but it was quiet—perfect for plotting the kind of infiltration mission the Jedi Council wouldn’t officially sanction.

Kit Fisto leaned against a half-collapsed arch, studying the star map sprawled across the makeshift table. The arena was a fortress in disguise: subterranean barracks, automated defenses, paid mercs, slavers, and now—intel suggested—a cell of captured clone troopers being prepped for transport off-world.

“We’ll need a distraction,” Kit said at last, tendrils twitching thoughtfully.

Plo Koon’s arms folded as he approached. “One loud enough to distract Dooku’s guards and half the arena?”

Kit smiled. “You know who’s in the cell block beneath the arena floor?”

“Sha’rali,” Plo answered without hesitation. “She’s become rather… visible.”

“She’s also angry, armed, and impossible to control. Dooku should’ve known better.”

“She’s dangerous.”

Kit’s grin deepened. “That’s what makes her perfect.”

Plo didn’t answer immediately. He watched Kit carefully, as if looking for something beyond the words.

“You admire her.”

“She’s useful,” Kit said too quickly.

“Careful, old friend,” Plo murmured. “We’ve both seen what attachment can do.”

Kit gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’m not attached. I’m… curious. And I trust she’ll survive.”

Plo’s head tilted slightly. “You don’t want her to just survive. You want her to burn the whole place down.”

Kit’s smile turned sly. “And give us just enough cover to do what we came for.”

⸻

Sha’rali sat alone against the wall, knees tucked, arms resting atop them. Her bare skin shimmered with sweat and grime, the thin silk of her slave outfit clinging to her frame in the damp underground air. Bruises lined her arms, her ribs ached, and her hands were still raw from her last match.

But her eyes… her eyes were still sharp.

A droid voice crackled over the speaker. “Sha’rali. Prepare for combat. Arena Gate C.”

She rose slowly, bones stiff, and cracked her knuckles one at a time. As she followed the guard droids, a whisper caught her ear. She turned—and froze.

A Death Watch warrior leaned against the shadows, helmet off, sneering.

“You were harder to find than expected,” he said coolly. “Dooku’s prize pet. A pity. I preferred you in armor.”

Sha’rali’s jaw clenched. “If you’re here to talk, don’t waste my time.”

“Not talking. Threatening,” he said with a smirk. “You deserve to suffer before we gut you.”

Her stare didn’t flinch. “Try.”

He stepped close. “I will.”

The guard droids called for her again. The Death Watch warrior melted back into the shadows, leaving her with the low growl of the arena gate grinding open.

The roar of the crowd hit her like a wall of heat. Torchlight flickered off rusted metal. The stands were packed—mercs, slavers, offworld nobles, and worse.

And in the pit—waiting—was him.

Death Watch armor. Blade drawn. Familiar.

Her jaw tightened.

Above them, Kit and Plo stood cloaked among the nobles in the upper tiers, watching. Kit’s fingers twitched near his hilt. “If this goes wrong…”

Plo interrupted, “Then we make sure it doesn’t.”

“She doesn’t know we’re moving now,” Kit said quietly.

“Let her fight,” Plo replied. “We need that chaos.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed. “She’s going to hate us for this.”

“Perhaps. But hate is not our concern today.”

The clash was brutal. The Mandalorian came in swinging, heavy and arrogant, and Sha’rali danced out of reach, barefoot, using her environment. She slammed his head into the rusted arena wall, reversed his grip on his own blade, and gutted him—but then—

The collar.

Agony flared through her entire body. Her scream was swallowed by the crowd.

From above, Kit’s smile vanished.

Enough.

He reached out through the Force—quiet, quick, like a breath—and twisted.

The collar’s circuits sparked and ruptured. It snapped open and fell.

Sha’rali gasped in sudden relief—and rose like a fury reborn.

One clean stroke of the beskad.

The Mandalorian dropped in a heap.

And four more descended from the stands, armed and livid.

Blaster fire cracked as Sha’rali flipped behind a column, one of her attackers landing face-first in the sand. The crowd screamed as security tried to contain the fight, but Death Watch didn’t care.

Kit and Plo vanished from the stands, cloaks flaring as they dropped into the tunnels.

Guards shouted—then screamed—as blue and yellow sabers ignited.

In the clone cell block, Comet jolted awake at the sound of a lightsaber humming through durasteel.

“Is that…?”

The door blew open. Kit stepped through. “You boys want out?”

Wolffe, bound but alert, gave a dry grunt. “Took you long enough.”

⸻

Sha’rali fought like hell. Her body screamed in protest, but she gave no ground. She flipped one of the Death Watch warriors into the stands, stole his blaster, and fired two shots into another’s knee.

She didn’t look up, but she felt them.

Felt the Jedi move like shadows behind her. Felt the clones disappear through secret tunnels.

She wasn’t the priority.

But she had bought them every second they needed.

And Kit had freed her. If only for now.

The last warrior lunged—Sha’rali caught his arm mid-swing and drove her blade into his neck.

The crowd roared as he dropped.

She stood alone. Bloody. Breathing hard.

She didn’t smile. She just waited for the next battle.

The collar was gone.

The weight of it—the constant pressure at her neck, the memory of electric agony—was finally gone. Her skin bore the blistered outline like a brand, but it no longer hummed against her throat. That tiny mercy meant everything.

But she was still in the arena.

Still a prisoner. Still unarmed. And now, very much a target.

As the last of the Death Watch bodies were dragged away by the chaos of the crowd, Sha’rali slipped through the corridor before the guards regrouped. Blood and sand caked her bare feet as she limped toward the outer gates, ducking behind blast doors and stone columns, every inch of her body aching—but free.

Her thoughts raced. Find a way out. Don’t wait for help. No one’s coming back. Move.

She reached a side hangar—partially open, barely guarded in the confusion. Inside: a pair of light speeders, smoke still curling from one’s engine where its last rider had crash-landed.

Sha’rali didn’t hesitate.

She jumped into the intact speeder, hotwired it with fingers still shaking from adrenaline, and punched the throttle.

The gates burst open with a scream of metal and dust.

The rocky terrain of Garvoth’s volcanic surface stretched before her—red stone, jagged peaks, and pockets of glowing lava carving a dangerous path forward. Wind whipped against her face, the pit silks still clinging uselessly to her skin.

And behind her—they came.

Two MagnaGuards.

Sleek, relentless, and faster than they had any right to be.

Blaster bolts tore past her head as she swerved down into a ravine, hoping the rock formations would slow them. Sparks flew from her speeder’s rear. One glancing hit. The engine coughed.

Her fingers tightened on the controls. “C’mon, not now—”

One MagnaGuard landed beside her with a heavy clang, gripping the side of her speeder like a metal parasite.

Sha’rali screamed and slammed the controls, flipping the speeder into a side barrel roll. The droid tumbled, crashing against the rocks in a spray of sparks.

The second guard launched a grappling hook toward her back—

BOOM.

A blaster cannon lit up the sky. The droid exploded mid-air.

Above her—salvation.

A Republic gunship streaked over the cliffs, sleek and low, with Kit Fisto manning the side cannon, his eyes scanning. Plo Koon piloted with grim precision, the clones—Wolffe, Sinker, Boost, and Comet—visible in the open ramp, all braced for pickup.

Kit saw her, flashed that grin of his, and shouted over comms, “We’ve got her!”

Plo dipped low, opening the bay.

Sha’rali gunned the failing speeder up the final slope, launched it off a ridge, and leapt.

For one moment—nothing.

Then strong arms caught her dragging her in mid-air as the others pulled them both into the open gunship ramp. The MagnaGuard’s severed head followed a moment later, blasted out of the sky by Comet.

They hit the deck hard.

“Welcome aboard,” Wolffe muttered dryly, barely hiding his disdain.

Sha’rali rolled onto her back, panting, bloodied and half-naked, but smiling.

Kit leaned over her, panting too. Their eyes locked, close—too close.

“Get her a damn blanket,” Sinker snapped, tossing a medkit at Comet.

Plo glanced back from the cockpit. “Hold on. This planet’s not going to let us leave without a few last fireworks.”

The ship turned, rising. The volcanic ridge ahead began to crack, tremble—fighters scrambling, sirens wailing behind them.

But inside the gunship, in that brief moment between chaos and freedom—Sha’rali let herself believe she might actually be free.

⸻

The Resolute loomed above Garvoth like a silent judgment—sleek, bristling with weapons, and painted in sharp Republic red. The Jedi’s extraction ship docked at the cruiser’s forward hangar, and for the first time in weeks, Sha’rali Jurok felt the sterile chill of Republic metal beneath her feet instead of ash and blood.

She stood tall despite the exhaustion, battle-worn but alive. Her coral-pink skin still bore the scuffed bruises of the arena, and the humiliating slave silks clung to her body like a mocking second skin. No armor. No boots. No weapons. No dignity.

Not yet.

The Jedi disembarked first—Kit Fisto and Plo Koon exchanging murmured words with the clone troopers as the hangar’s personnel snapped to attention. No one quite knew what to make of Sha’rali, but eyes lingered. Murmurs followed.

Her long, dark montrals and white-marked lekku swung low behind her as she walked, every movement a show of endurance and grace, her head held high despite everything. Her presence was unmistakable—an imposing silhouette of strength and survival wrapped in silks designed to degrade.

The moment she reached the interior hallways of the cruiser, she turned sharply to the nearest clone officer.

“I need access to your long-range comms,” she said with an edge in her voice that brokered no argument. “Now.”

Plo Koon, standing nearby, nodded once. “Grant her full access. She has earned that and more.”

The communications officer left the room after setting her up. The doors hissed shut.

Sha’rali leaned over the console, sharp teeth gritted. She punched in the code sequence from memory, praying the encryption still held.

The holocomm sparked to life.

A crackle—then static—then the familiar voice of K4 rang through the speakers with uncharacteristic relief.

“Thank the black holes of Malastare. You’re alive.”

Sha’rali exhaled. “Good to hear you too, K.”

A rustle behind him. K4’s head turned.

“R9 just blasted a hole in the med bay door. I’ll assume it was celebratory.”

Then, quieter:

“You disappeared, Sha. I thought we lost you. And… your clone’s about to reprogram me and R9 out of pure grief and boredom.”

Sha’rali blinked. “He what?”

“He said he’d turn me into a cooking droid if I didn’t stop trying to slice into Pyke intel files while he was pacing. He’s a menace.”

Another clattering crash, then CT-4023’s voice in the background:

“Tell her to stop dying and I’ll stop trying to teach you to make caf.”

Sha’rali laughed. Actually laughed, full-throated and real.

“Tell him we’re en route. Only tea is permitted on my ship. Try not to break anything else.”

K4 paused.

“…Can’t promise that.”

When she emerged again to prepare for departure, Kit Fisto caught her arm gently at the elbow.

“Are you sure you don’t want something else to wear?” he asked, eyes flicking to the ripped silks still barely hanging from her form.

“I want my ship. My crew. And my armor,” she replied, stepping past him.

But he didn’t move right away.

“I’ll see that your armor is returned to you. But… I hope you understand this war’s getting messier. Even our rescues.”

Sha’rali glanced at him. “You Jedi always think there’s a clean way to bleed. There isn’t.”

Kit’s expression flickered with something—regret? Or something else?

But neither of them said it.

⸻

The ship looked like it had barely survived.

The starboard wing was scorched, one of the landing thrusters had a distinct hole in it, and a trail of carbon scoring marked the underbelly.

Sha’rali stared, then turned slowly toward the ramp where K4 and R9 stood side-by-side like misbehaving children.

K4 pointed to the clone, who was leaning against the hatch in his stolen armor, helmet on, arms crossed—quiet.

“You let him fly it?”

“I was busy dismembering Pyke agents,” K4 deadpanned. “He decided basic flight training could wait.”

CT-4023 finally spoke, voice slightly modulated through the vocoder he still insisted on wearing in Republic space. “You got captured. I had to improvise.”

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes. “You crashed my ship.”

R9 chirped a delighted, vicious sound—likely agreeing.

He shrugged. “We lived.”

But she stepped closer, pausing a mere foot from him. She tilted her head, watching the way he shifted under her gaze, posture rigid.

Even through the helmet, she could feel it.

The bare silks, the sight of her—freed but still wearing the chains of her capture—made something in him twitch. He was trying not to look, but he was also not looking away.

“Got something to say, soldier?” she asked coolly.

CT-4023 cleared his throat. “Just glad you’re back.”

Something in her hardened. “I’m not the same one who left.”

A long silence stretched. Then he said, quiet, “I know.”

Behind them, K4 muttered to R9.

R9’s response was a series of crude, affirming beeps.

⸻

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#clone trooper x reader #clone wars #star wars #star wars fanfic #star wars the clone wars #clone x reader #the clone wars headcanons #clone trooper preferences #commander wolffe #kit fisto #plo koon #star wars oc #oc fanfiction #clone trooper oc #count dooku

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clippingpathexpertsindia · 1 month ago

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lauraw89893 · 3 months ago

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frozenwolftemplar · 2 years ago

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Writer's Month Day 18: Free

Fandom: Carmen Sandiego (Netflix)

Rating: G

Word Count: 2,730 (just dawned on me to include this, lol)

Summary: Carmen and Player have some time to themselves before meeting up with the others, and Player has a fit of inspiration for a fun way to spend it. After all, a park lawn presently being watered by sprinklers is basically an open invitation.

Author's Note: Someone in this fandom (not sure who) formed the headcanon that Player takes a gap year when he turns 18 and travels the world with Carmen; this fic makes use of that. Happy readng!

+++

“So:” Player didn’t look up from his phone as he walked, tapping and swiping through windows with practiced speed. “Shadowsan should get here later this evening, and Ivy and Zach tomorrow. Their ACME job just wrapped up in Seoul, so they’re good to hit an early flight first thing. Provided the plane leaves as scheduled, they should touch down sometime around ten-thirty, we all swing by the hotel to drop their stuff off, and then we should be good to get started on some sightseeing. Sound good?”

Merry lines crinkled around Carmen’s eyes as she looked over at Player, walking alongside her. He used the same clipped efficiency she remembered from the briefings that flowed through her comms before countless capers back when they were taking down VILE, and hearing it again caused something warm and comfortable to stir in her chest.

Was this what nostalgia felt like?

“Red?”

At the verbal nudge, Carmen blinked back to the mostly-empty park they were walking through and met his questioning look with a grin. “Perfect. It’s almost like you’ve done this before.”

“Who, me?” Player blinked up at her- he’d grown taller since she first saw him in-person, but she still had a good two or three inches on him- with obviously feigned innocence. “An expert in booking flights and scheduling rendezvous? What do I look like, some kind of tech genius to an incurable globetrotter who still can’t figure out how to book her own airline tickets?”

Carmen chuckled. “Something like that. And hey,” his footsteps broke out of their steady rhythm as she nudged him playfully with her shoulder. “I’m getting there. I booked our tickets to Osaka myself, didn’t I? And the train tickets to Matsumoto?”

He answered with an impressively flat look.

“Okay,” she amended. “Mostly by myself.” Because no matter that she was the one operating the touchpad and clicking the appropriate buttons, the feat would have been impossible without Player perched next to her in the hotel, coaching her through each screen and patiently pointing out where to click.

“That’s more like it. But hey, a few more cities, and you’ll be a pro. Maybe not as good as me, of course...”

Carmen huffed a laugh.“I can live with that. You said we’ve got time before meeting up with Shadowsan?”

Back down to the phone Player dove, pulling up and scrolling through windows with a speed Carmen’s eyes never could keep up with. “Just checking for any delays or traffic slow-downs...” he muttered as Carmen, at the rapid pattering of a jogger coming up behind them, took ahold of his elbow and steered him onto the grass (they’d already nearly been bowled over by her twice and what kind of master thief nearly had the same accident three times?).

“About half an hour.” Player slid the phone back into his pocket, matching his stride to hers as they stepped back onto the pavement.

Carmen hummed thoughtfully. Not much time, relatively speaking, but after a couple of months traveling together, they’d gotten remarkably good at making the most of even the briefest length of time. “We can work with that. Anything you want to-”

A sharp hissing sound cut her off. They both stopped and looked towards sprawling emerald-green lawn the path bordered, where an army of sprinkler heads had just popped out of the ground and were busily filling the air with misty plumes of droplets, sprayed out in wide, sweeping arcs over the grass. Player whipped towards Carmen, grinning wide, eyes alight with a sudden idea.

Carmen tilted her head in confusion, brow arched in incomprehension. They were just sprinklers, nothing to get excited about.

“It’s a hot day,” he said in a leading tone, nodding towards the lawn. “Want to cool off a bit?”

Carmen blinked.

....He couldn’t be serious.

Her confusion must have showed (not that it would have made a difference if it didn’t; she’d never cease to be amazed by just how well he could read her), because now he was looking at her with disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’ve never ran through sprinklers?”

“Uh...no?” Carmen looked over his shoulder at the grass being subjected to a localized rain shower, brows furrowed. Run *through* them? Was this a Canadian thing?

“Seriously?” Player looked at her quizzically. “No one, like, ever set up sprinklers to water the Academy lawns?”

She shrugged flippantly. “Never needed to. It rained a lot.”

“And your mom?”

“Artificial turf. She said she gave up on grass a long time ago.” Because apparently, grass did not mix with dozens of kids stampeding over it day in and day out for a decade plus.

”Uh-huh...” Player nodded slowly, letting her answer sink in. The second it did a grin burst across his face, impossibly wide and bright enough to cause Carmen to fight a squint. “Then this is perfect! I can finally show you something cool!”

The uncomprehending brow was arched higher. “Niagra Falls doesn’t count?” Because from where she stood, thousands of gallons of water rushing over a cataract was definitely a more impressive sight than urban lawn care.

“That’s different.” Player waved a hand, brushing aside one of the natural wonders of the world like it was as pedestrian as a rain puddle. “This is a summertime tradition. Every kid does it at least once. You *have* to. It’s the rule.”

A smirk answered him. “Even if I got hung up on rules-“ (they both knew she still didn’t), “I’m pretty sure they don’t apply here. I’m twenty-two.”

Player shrugged, unbothered by the technicality that was age. “So? Better late than never.” He crossed his arms and looked at her archly. “Don’t tell me the great Carmen Sandiego is afraid of getting a little wet?”

Carmen huffed through her nose. “Of course not.”

“Then...?”

“It’s just...” she chewed her lip, rolling her eyes upwards, away from his quietly expectant face to search the cloudless sky for words, then shrugged lamely. ”I’m just not used to doing ‘kid stuff?’” A pathetic answer, she knew, especially since she knew Player knew what an average day at the orphanage looked like for her, but playing tag with the kids in her mom’s yard or even Marco Polo with Zach and Ivy at a hotel pool (an old mainstay during their travels, one she’d never tired of and was frankly looking forward to once they finished sightseeing tomorrow and returned to the hotel; now that Player was here, they were going to try teams) just felt...different from what Player was proposing.

She supposed VILE was to blame for her hesitation, at least partway. She *was not* a part of them, but their old lessons were still a part of her, from protecting the face to perfecting the featherlight touch that was a master of stealth’s perennial pride to more delicate lessons in criminal comportment, memories tinted with the posh, perfumed scent of Cleo’s classroom. A professional thief, per the haughty echo that still rang in the back of her thoughts, always carried themselves with dignity while out in the field, a mantle of aloofness that precluded any unsavory questions from passers-by being an indispensable part of any outfit. Accordingly, when she’d taken up her own mission of bringing VILE to its knees, her modus operandi had, by habit, included the attitude of abstaining from any public displays of spectacle.

So, yes, VILE had a hand in her hesitation, but...not fully. Part of her sensed that even if she had grown up as her father intended, ignorant of them and away from their clutches, she’d still be wearing the mantle, albeit out of nature. She just...wasn’t that sort of person, she supposed, to spontaneously run through sprinklers in a public park, saving those indulgences in ‘kid stuff’ for more private venues; a mirror of sorts to how Zach and Ivy never did share her enjoyment of high-class galas (both far preferring the street fair fundraisers they frequented back in San Diego which, she could admit, held their own charms).

Player’s expression softened as he listened between the lines. “I get it, Red, but look around.” She obediently did, scanning the park in all of a second. The day, even as it slid towards evening, was too hot for most people to brave the outdoors, and the only person in sight that same laser-focused jogger who had eyes only for the pavement speeding under her Reeboks.

Player followed Carmen’s gaze as she tracked the woman and, in answer to her knotting brows: “I doubt she’d notice.”

Carmen didn't. True, the woman had proven to have commendable tunnel vision, but two definitely-not-kids running through sprinklers making a spectacle would likely be the exact sort of occurrence that would *force* her to take notice of her surroundings.

Hence her opinion remained unchanged: no way

But when she looked back at Player with a disagreement on her lips he was holding out a hand, hopeful, eager. “Please, Red? It’s fun...”

She supposed she should be embarrassed at how little it took for her to capitulate to puppy-dog-eyes and an enticing sing-song, but, well, what else could she do when such a request came from her best friend? And, well, when she looked at the sprinklers, still chkk chkk chkk-ing away, the sound oddly enticing, she couldn’t ignore the fact that a part of her really did want to.

She offered one final rebuttal, but the smirk curving the words robbed it of any purpose beyond their old, familiar banter. “I doubt getting soaking wet in your clothes is fun.”

"Oh, just wait."

The second she set her hand in his, he tightened his grip and bolted onto the lawn, darting through the jets of water and dragging her after him. Droplets laughed against her skin, splashing and tickling her with a cool so sudden she gasped. Then the laughter was seeping into her, causing a light, tripping feeling to bubble up in her chest. Ahead of her, Player tugged left, taking Carmen in a zig zag path, not missing a jet of water, laughing loud as she shrieked at each spray they crashed through, the giddy, wheeling sensation in her chest at last spilling over into a rush, wild and without reserve, of girlish giggles.

The sound spurring him on, Player banked sharp to a right, heading for a sprinkler head whose fan shaped plume was arcing high, unfurling straight into the air. A wild light blazed in Carmen's eyes as she saw his intention, and she summoned a burst of speed so she was no longer being dragged behind him, but running alongside, then ahead, strides long and pounding as she gathered herself and leaped through the spray, elegant and unfettered to cause the roe envy. She kept her speed as she landed, heading for the next jet to the soundtrack of Player racing not terribly far behind, whooping in a way she hadn’t heard before and cheering with abandon as she flew, arms spread out wide behind her, through spray after joyous spray, a wilding set free.

Crud, she would always be amazed at how good it felt to just play, no constraining rules or machinations for victory; no confining chessboard or suits of diamonds or spades to pen you in; just her and Player running through sprinklers, getting absolutely soaked for the fun of it. It was exhilarating in a way the capers never had been.

“There!” Player, bangs dripping into his eyes, laughed when they at last came to a stop on the far side of the lawn. “Told you it was fun!”

Carmen pushed a tendril behind her ear. “Yeah,” she panted, grinning wide, a lightness somersaulting joyously in her chest. Really, it was more than fun; she couldn’t explain how, but the sensation of racing through the jets coupled with the feel of her decidedly damp shirt clinging to her skin was oddly freeing, unlatching a door inside her she hadn’t realized had been shut and loosing all manner of coltish, frolicsome impulses she never knew were hidden inside her. She grinned slyly over at Player. “But you know what would be more fun?” Not giving him time to answer, she tapped him on the head. ”Tag!”

“Wha-“ he blinked after her as she bolted through the sprinklers again, fleet as the wind and completely heedless of the jets, shouting, over her shoulder, “You’re it!”

For a moment he stared, wondering how in the world Carmen, who’d needed an explanation for ‘Simon says’ when her mom asked her to lead the littler kids in a game, knew what ‘tag’ was (the possibility of Shadowsan teaching her back on the Island both did and did not make sense), then threw off contemplation in favor of, with a cry of “La Femme Rogue!” that would have had Zach and Ivy in stitches and Julia trying very hard not to be, taking off after Carmen.

“You will not escape this time!”

Such a bold statement very nearly came true as his quarry nearly doubled over laughing as she stumbled to a stop, hands wrapped around her middle (crud, that was a terrible impression).

“Ah ha! She has a weakness!”

“Not fair!” Carmen panted as she straightened and resumed running, albeit with a smaller gap between pursuant and pursuer than before.

“All’s fair in- WHOA!”

Proving that even in imitation she held the advantage over her old adversary, Carmen pivoted on a dime so Player’s reaching hand armed with ‘Tag!’ completely missed its mark and, being propelled by its owner’s momentum, proceeded to cause said owner to topple towards the ground. Player hastily tried to correct his balance, slow his fall, and regain footing in the slick grass, but ultimately his efforts proved futile, seeing him faceplant heavily- Thud! -on the ground.

A candle attacked by a bucket of water was doused slower than the sprightly mood that had glistened over the lawn.

“Player!” Carmen darted to kneel by her friend, breathing heavily but otherwise motionless. She moved to grasp his shoulder to shake, then thought better of it, leaving her hand hovering uncertainly in midair. “Player, I am so sorry, are- can you-“ Crud, she much, *much* preferred being the unconscious one. “Can you even hear me?!?”

“...Red?”

Carmen breathed out a sigh of relief (small relief, he could still be concussed or paralyzed or a dozen other grim possibilities). “Player, thank goodness, are you hurt or-“

“M’fine, Red. Just...”

She bent closer as he trailed off to hear better, completely missing how one of his hands was scuttling towards a sprinkler jet.

“Yeah?”

“YOU’RE IT!”

Grasping the head, Player shoved his thumb over the jet so it sprayed directly at Carmen.

“AUGH!!!” She fell back, spluttering and trying (uselessly) to shield her face from the spray with her hands as Player leapt to his feet, front smeared with mud and grass but eyes wild with fun. “That doesn’t count!” she managed once the water was back on its normal trajectory. “You didn’t tag me!”

“Eh,” Player shrugged, unrepentant. “A technicality. Besides, I thought you didn’t get hung up on rules?”

“Fair point,” Carmen, after some deliberation, conceded with a slow, thoughtful nod. She stood, idly brushing some blades of grass from her thighs. “And since we’re playing that way...”

She glanced up at Player, and he gulped, catching the way the sun snagged on the mischievous glint in Carmen’s eyes. “Uh oh.”

“I’ll give you a head start.”

On her next circuit, the impossible happened and the jogger paused, running in place as she watched the pair frolicking in the sprinklers, the earlier game of Tag having devolved into a tickle fight. A smile blossomed across her face and she turned to a man who had just materialized beside her, also watching the pair. “Nice to see young people enjoying themselves.”

“Yes.” The man nodded his concurrence, the years melting from his weathered face at an especially wild peal from the girl as the boy attacked an unusually ticklish spot on her ribs (no regrets on divulging that secret to him, that was certain). “It most certainly is.”

And none, Shadowsan thought with a grin as the jogger moved on and he turned back the way he came, letting Carmen and Player have this moment to themselves, the laughter frolicking at his heels lifting the corners of his mouth, deserve it more.

#writersmonth2023 #writersmonth #carmen sandiego #player #player bouchard #carmen sandiego 2019 #in which i write #my writing #cs fanfic #cs fics #carmen sandiego fanfiction #carmen fanfic #carmen fic #fanfic

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pcpbd · 7 months ago

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violetmuses · 9 months ago

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Wicked - A. Aretas 🖤

Title: Wicked - A. Aretas 🖤

Fandom: “Bad Boys” Film Universe

Character: Armando Aretas

Pairing: Armando Aretas + Female Reader

Main Storyline: Following the events of “Ride or Die,” criminal Armando Aretas returns to Miami and confronts his unknown future.

Tag List: @nelo0wesker @yassbishimvintage @nobodygetsza @peaxhygirl @superstar-t20 @adoresmiles @klssngss @deja-r @hyper-trash-panda 🏷

=====

2024

The large-scale space of this crowded airport helped criminal and fugitive Armando Aretas gain coverage during his prolonged return to Florida.

Armando could stop hiding around the world. By this point in time, moving over and over again would've depleted countless resources.

When Aretas looks up, Detective Mike Lowrey grinned while choosing famous sunglasses.

After facing terrible secrets or holding various questions, Mike would take responsibility here and now stood as Armando's biological father.

“What's up? I'm parked outside.” Kind for obvious reasons, Mike pointed outdoors and led his son near Miami's warmth.

______

As Mike took his Porsche, silence greeted this ride home. Lowrey wouldn't even play music out loud while Armando joined that passenger seat.

“You good?” Mike handed that brief yet genuine question after reaching the driveway.

“Tired.” Armando clipped through slightly accented English.

“I get it. C'mon.” Mike completely understands Armando's point before entering the house.

Inside, Mike's wife Christine smiles.

“I'm glad you're here and we've already organized our guest room upstairs.” Christine gestured near the staircase of this beautiful home. “Take your time.”

“Thank you.” Armando nodded to Christine and rolled his small luggage, able to sleep without disruptions.

*****

Sunlight returned when Armando Aretas woke up the next morning. Both soft blankets and gentle pillows welcomed his exhaustion this time around.

Pulling himself together, Aretas then straightened up the guest bedroom and headed downstairs, joining Mike and Christine for breakfast.

“Good morning.” Christine and Mike greeted Armando by the kitchen table.

“Hey.” Aretas nearly sounds coy when sitting down for this meal.

Peace brightened at last.

_______

“Ready to go?” Mike stepped near the driveway once more.

“That's why I'm here, right?” Armando shrugged while joining this passenger seat again.

“Not always.” Mike cleared his throat before air conditioning started up and this Porsche left.

_______

When parking near the Miami Police Department, Mike looked toward his estranged son.

“Ripping off that band-aid.” Lowrey wouldn't offer jokes and revealed this truth instead.

“Yeah, let's go in.” Aretas braced the inevitable moment because there's no other choice.

Entering this well-known precinct, Armando trailed his steps behind Lowrey just in case people started to ask questions.

Detectives and other staff members welcomed Lowrey without realizing the presence of his “guest” until both men reached that briefing.

“Mike! Why didn't you tell me that Armando was here?” Mike's longtime partner and best friend Marcus Burnett displays theatrics while leaving his seat.

“Marcus, don't start crying. C'mon!” Mike nearly rolled both while everyone else chuckled around the room.

Even AMMO weapons expert Kelly and tech genius Dorn smiled for a moment.

But when Captain Rita Secada joined the podium this morning, everyone silenced.

No more foolishness.

******

This upcoming case involved neon paths of South Beach.

“Monsters keep running around.” Driving with Marcus and Armando, Mike takes out his Porsche by nightfall. “Let's knock these fools out. Deal?”

“Armando better not act up tonight.” Marcus grumbled warnings over Aretas.

“Shut up, Marcus!” Mike gritted his teeth while pulling to the club. “We should blend here anyway.”

“It's just your sly way of getting Armando out of the house.” Marcus just kept ranting as all three men passed this bouncer.

On the other hand, Mike stepped back and watched Armando “network.”

When Aretas joined the party, this woman smiled and Armando whispered in her ear, nearly flirtatious.

Bingo! Still watching everything, Lowrey then realized Armando's plan and headed to that VIP section once Aretas left one of those barstools.

_____

“Sup?” Mike caught Armando without hesitation en route.

“There's a drop tonight, but that leader keeps hiding.” Armando explained. Drugs would funnel around.

“Who was at the bar?” Mike snuck his personal question.

“I don't really know who she is yet. We just met each other.” Armando held back thoughts of you.

“Have fun, but don't be stupid.” Mike offered quick advice to Armando before Marcus showed up again.

“No chance. He's dead.” Marcus revealed unexpected news.

“What?” Mike and Armando scrambled down this hallway as tension grounded the night.

******

Red and blue overcasts immediately brightened the skyline this evening as neon lights still painted canvases. Law enforcement swarmed all corners.

Huddled among terrified patrons, you listened while several officers questioned everyone.

One dangerous man snuck with plans to bring garbage near the city. Drugs would have ruined everything.

Just when authorities cleared this scene and you would head home, one seemingly familiar voice called you name across the street.

You learned his own name tonight: Armando Aretas.

The handsome stranger stood in black while this gold chain shined around his neck. Deep brown eyes glanced toward you with absolute concern.

“Are you all right?” Running down this block in your favorite shoes, you throw caution to the wind and check on Armando regardless.

“Yeah, I'm good. You?” His slightly accented English broke your heart this time.

“Scared.” You still kept telling him the truth at this point.

“I know, but we'll figure this out, okay?” Aretas wanted to settle your nerves. “Call if you hear anything else.”

“Okay.” You nodded, finding a ride shortly afterwards.

Who knows what could happen next?

******

“Reaching the morgue to identify this body. It's a rough case.” Returning to the precinct with Aretas, Mike set their next plan sooner than later.

“Aw, hell no!” Marcus turned away. “Leave dead bodies with the experts, man. I'm staying right here.”

“You found the body first, Marcus.” Mike seemed fed up. “Let's go.”

_____

“Be really careful when working through places like this, man.” Mike detailed protocol for Armando. “We should never contaminate anything.”

“Got it.” Aretas nodded toward Mike and locked down concentration. There was no other option.

“How are y'all so calm?” Marcus felt dramatic as usual. “I'm getting sick already.”

“Don't you dare start with that bullshit!” Mike warned his best friend.

“Detectives?” One expert acknowledged Lowrey, Burnett, and Aretas.

Here we go. Mike thought.

______

“Excuse Burnett. He's very squeamish.” Mike informed the team over Marcus.

“The man's body was found much later than expected. Not even embalmed yet.” One professional spoke up.

“Can we at least identify this man now? Our intel claimed his work as a drug dealer.” Lowrey tried once more.

“Verification will take more time, Detective. I'm sorry.” The professional declined further scope.

“Fuck.” Mike then clenched his teeth upon realization.

Progress almost moved ten steps back with the case.

Just when everyone bid farewell and reached that Porsche, Marcus finally vomited outside!

“I can't stand your ass!” Mike drove home for the evening.

“You know damn-well that I hate dead bodies, Mike!” Marcus shouted back to defend himself.

No breakfast tomorrow. Aretas casted both eyes toward the ceiling.

_______

Back home in the guest bedroom tonight, Armando took this much-needed shower and charged his cell phone before texting you.

Armando: Hey. 🚔

You: Hi. 😴

Armando: Did I wake you up? 🚔

You: Yeah. 😴

Armando: My bad. Check again soon? 🚔

You: Of course. Good night. 😴

Armando: Good night. 🚔

*******

Only taking coffee at the precinct, Armando watched virtual screens as tech genius Dorn highlighted updates.

“Our suspect ran this massive operation until we reached that nightclub.” Dorn explained.

“Anything like James McGarth?” Mike remembered the last case with Armando.

“Nothing like McGarth, but the culprit still made a name for himself.” Dorn shook his head.

“Names?” Mike continued offering his important questions.

“Still no confirmation from the morgue.” Dorn kept refusing.

“Aight. Let's go, man.” Mike gathered his belongings and pointed toward Aretas instead, leaving.

“Hey, where y'all going?” Marcus stood from his chair, puzzled.

Ignoring Marcus, Mike grabbed keys to the classic Porsche and rolled out with Armando.

______

“Take a break.” Mike parked in front of the house this time. “I'll pull more strings and we'll reconvene soon.”

“You sure?” Armando wanted to clarify the plan just in case.

“Yeah. We pushed a lot, regardless of taking dead ends.” Mike nodded. “Get some rest. We got this.”

“Fair enough.” Armando left the car, exhausted.

_______

While settled, Armando noticed your text message first:

You: Feel better? 🫂

Armando: Can't explain everything, but I'm taking a break. ❤️‍🩹

You: That's good. 😁

Armando: When this case ends, could we hang out sometime? 👀

You: Sure. 🫂

Grinning, Armando Aretas slept while thinking of you once more.

******

“Somebody has a girlfriend.” Marcus Burnett whispered to Mike Lowrey, joking.

When Armando sees you up close again, the case ends for good, as promised.

Warm daylight greeted one public park. AMMO joined this cookout with the Miami Police Department.

No more danger. Armando refused to see you worry again.

Standing at the grill, Mike looked over his shoulder to see you chatting up a storm with Armando. Even Dorn and Kelly joined your table.

Sighing with relief, Mike knew that the future wouldn't cloud anymore.

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