#datafeeds

[forex4life]

The Power and Potential of Data Feeds

In the digital age, data is a cornerstone of modern enterprise, driving decision-making, innovation, and efficiency across industries. One of the most crucial elements enabling the seamless flow of information is the data feed. Understanding data feeds, their types, applications, and best practices can empower businesses to leverage data more effectively, ensuring they remain competitive and responsive in an ever-evolving landscape.

What is a Data Feed?

A data feed is a structured stream of data that is transferred from one system to another at regular intervals. This continuous stream ensures that data is up-to-date and available for various applications. Data feeds can include a wide range of information, from financial market data and weather updates to social media activity and e-commerce inventory levels.

Types of Data Feeds

Data feeds can be broadly categorized based on their structure and the nature of the data they convey. Here are some common types:

XML Feeds: Extensible Markup Language (XML) feeds are widely used due to their flexibility and readability. They are often used for syndicating content, such as news articles or blog posts.

JSON Feeds: JavaScript Object Notation (JSON) feeds are popular in web development because they are lightweight and easy to parse. They are commonly used in APIs to transmit data between a server and web applications.

RSS Feeds: Really Simple Syndication (RSS) feeds are specifically designed for sharing updates from websites. Users can subscribe to RSS feeds to receive notifications about new content.

Atom Feeds: Similar to RSS, Atom is another web feed format that provides updated content from blogs and news websites.

CSV Feeds: Comma-Separated Values (CSV) feeds are simple text files used for transferring data in a tabular form, making them ideal for spreadsheet applications.

Web Scraping Feeds: These feeds collect data from various websites and aggregate it into a structured format, often used when APIs are not available.

Applications of Data Feeds

Data feeds have a multitude of applications across various industries, each leveraging real-time data to enhance their operations:

Finance: In the financial sector, data feeds provide real-time market data, stock prices, and economic indicators. This information is critical for traders, analysts, and financial institutions to make informed decisions.

E-Commerce: Online retailers use data feeds to manage inventory, update product listings, and monitor pricing strategies. This ensures accurate and timely information is available to customers, enhancing their shopping experience.

News and Media: Media organizations rely on data feeds to distribute news articles, weather updates, and sports scores. This allows for the timely dissemination of information to the public.

Travel and Hospitality: Airlines, hotels, and travel agencies use data feeds to provide real-time availability, pricing, and booking information, ensuring efficient operations and customer satisfaction.

Social Media: Platforms like Twitter and Facebook use data feeds to display real-time updates, posts, and interactions, keeping users engaged and informed.

Healthcare: Data feeds in healthcare provide critical patient information, track disease outbreaks, and manage medical supplies, enhancing the efficiency and effectiveness of healthcare delivery.

Best Practices for Implementing Data Feeds

Implementing data feeds effectively requires attention to detail and adherence to best practices. Here are some key considerations:

Data Quality: Ensure the accuracy, completeness, and reliability of the data being fed into your systems. High-quality data is essential for making informed decisions.

Security: Protect the data feed from unauthorized access and potential breaches. Implement encryption, secure protocols, and authentication mechanisms to safeguard sensitive information.

Scalability: Design your data feed infrastructure to handle growth in data volume and user demand. Scalability ensures that the system remains efficient and responsive as the business expands.

Real-Time Processing: For applications requiring up-to-the-minute information, ensure that data feeds are processed in real time. This is particularly important in sectors like finance and news.

Error Handling: Implement robust error handling to manage issues such as data corruption, feed interruptions, and network failures. This helps maintain the reliability and continuity of data flow.

Integration: Ensure that data feeds are easily integrated with existing systems and applications. Use standardized formats and protocols to facilitate seamless integration.

Monitoring and Analytics: Continuously monitor data feeds to track performance, identify issues, and gain insights into data usage. Analytics can help optimize the data feed processes and improve overall efficiency.

Future Trends in Data Feeds

As technology evolves, so too do data feeds. Here are some emerging trends that are shaping the future of data feeds:

Artificial Intelligence (AI) and Machine Learning (ML): AI and ML are being integrated with data feeds to enhance data analysis, predict trends, and automate decision-making processes. These technologies can also improve data quality by identifying and correcting anomalies.

Internet of Things (IoT): The proliferation of IoT devices is generating vast amounts of real-time data. Data feeds from IoT sensors are being used in industries such as manufacturing, agriculture, and smart cities to optimize operations and improve efficiency.

Edge Computing: By processing data closer to its source, edge computing reduces latency and bandwidth usage. This is particularly useful for applications requiring real-time data processing, such as autonomous vehicles and industrial automation.

Blockchain: Blockchain technology is being explored to enhance the security and transparency of data feeds. It can provide immutable records of data transactions, ensuring the integrity of the data.

Data Marketplaces: Online platforms where data providers and consumers can trade data feeds are becoming more prevalent. These marketplaces facilitate access to a wide range of data sources, promoting data democratization.

Conclusion

Data feeds are a vital component of the modern data ecosystem, enabling the flow of information across various domains and applications. By understanding their types, applications, and best practices, businesses can harness the power of data feeds to drive innovation, efficiency, and competitive advantage. As technology continues to advance, data feeds will undoubtedly play an even more critical role in shaping the future of data-driven enterprises.

website: https://rectoq.com/ 

[silenceofthewave]

@optimustheprime

[The shadow zone was quiet. Horribly, terribly silent. The sounds of the Nemesis had been all but erased. The systems that had once fed directly into Soundwave's processors gave no new data. No more did datafeed from the engines grace the corner of its HUD. There wasn't even so much as a peep from proximity sensors, and the camera feed that stayed in the top right corner had turned to perpetual static.]

[Soundwave felt like it was slowly descending into madness.]

[Much like everything else, time was screwy. It felt as if it was passing both forwards and backwards at speeds that should not be achieved. Soundwave felt like it was reliving the moment it was pulled into this hellscape, pulled towards certain death, towards an unknown variable that could and would never be answered. Alone.]

[Soundwave was alone. Laserbeak had long gone into fuel deprived stasis. Soundwave was nearing that point, despite turning off all non-essential systems, and even most medium priority ones. It had no use for its sensory net when doomed to pass through anything and everything, thus there was no need for that energon consumption heavy system.]

[And yet, it still felt.]

[Every time the Nemesis moved, Soundwave could feel the ghosts of its inhabitants pass through its unseen frame. It could feel them tinker with the once perfectly calibrated systems. It could hear their voices, feel the timbre in which they spoke in its throat.]

[Today was no different. It stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the Autobots crawl in and out. They would pass through it occasionally, leaving its non corporeal form shivering. Quaking. Something was so close, yet so far. Soundwave couldn't process it.]

[Time passed. The Autobots left. Soundwave was alone. This time, they had done it the courtesy of leaving the wide camera feeds that graced the walls on. At the very least, it would have entertainment today.]

[Hours. Years? Minutes? Hours passed by. There was nothing of interest. Nothing of note. Then- a streak. A blaze of light high in the atmosphere. It dipped off screen, and all was quiet once again.]

[Daytime turned to nighttime turned to daytime. The usual shift had not appeared at their normal approximate hour. Something was amiss. Soundwave wished desperately to be able to see, hear and touch again, to understand. But there was no such things as answers in this place.]

[The only answers it could get would come from the screens. The lifeline to the outside. There was a mighty darkness on the horizon, something unforetold. It swallowed the edges of each video feed, only growing. There was a mech at the head, silver and brown, overgrown with organic life that had gone long dead.]

[Soundwave's spark flipped in its chamber. It could make out the shoulder pauldrons, the strong legs, the cannon on the arm. It couldn't be. He was dead. Soundwave watched him die.]

[And yet, he was. He was Megatron.]

[The mech with life renewed between its plating, joints and limbs rushed to the console. It desperately jabbed at the keys, praying to Primus for the first time in an eon for the miracle of corporeal interaction.]

[There was nothing. Its hands did not slip through, but they did not affect the terminal. Instead, Soundwave gripped the sides of the console, staring at the visage of battle that graced the screen.]

[Megatron was here. Megatron would save it. Megatron would release me from this hell.]

[Soundwave watched with rapt attention as this battle raged on. It cared not for who or what fell. It cared only that its Lord Master...Friend would survive. Soundwave needed him.]

[A crackle of electric charge ran through the console. Soundwave did not feel it, but pulled back instinctively all the same. The screens on the walls lit up so bright its visor's shaders could not accommodate. A white light, a blue bubble. Then as suddenly as it was there, the light was gone.]

[Everything on that battlefield fell. The little soldiers. The Autobots. Optimus Prime. Megatron.]

[Megatron.]

[Soundwave stared at the screens for what had been the longest consecutive moment since it had been jailed here. He wasn't getting up. He wasn't getting up!]

I'm going to die in here.

[It was a thought Soundwave was all too familiar with, and yet this time it was full of despair. Its only chance. Its Lord returned, only to be felled once again. Destroyed. The screens flickered, then shut down.]

[Soundwave sat down. It stared at the dead video feed. It was in darkness. Alone.]

[It could have been days, years, hours or minutes by the time something woke the surveillance mech out of its stupor. Someone was walking in. It could barely make out their frame. Tall, thick, with wings on the back. Skinny thighs and reinforced calves. This was...Optimus Prime.]

[Soundwave had watched him fall in the same blast that had taken Megatron. What was he doing here?]

[It slowly stood up and followed the Prime over to the console. He was fiddling with the space bridge controls, typing in coordinates. Pulling a lever.]

[Simultaneously, a bridge appeared in the middle of the room. That had never happened before. No one immediately stepped through, but Optimus left the bridge running, as if he was waiting. Soundwave watched, its processor dusting off its algorithms, running memory protocols almost by itself.]

[Images from that day flew by, the Omega Lock, Ratchet's last stand, Shockwave, the children- The children!]

[Instinctively, as if it was returning to a familiar task, Soundwave searched for its internal controls. It had tried this once before, but not with a second bridge. It had to try while it still could.]

[Soundwave set the destination coordinates for just inside the door. It opened the bridge next to the one that Optimus had left open, and stepped through. The sound- the feeling! The real feeling!- of pedes stepping on metal, of air washing through its vents.]

[Relief, joy, confusion, anger, and a whole other host of emotions swept through Soundwaves frame. It could only take a few steps forward before stumbling, falling to the ground. It barely caught itself on unsteady arms. Its entire frame shook from exertion. And yet, for one sweet moment, Soundwave felt elated.]

[It was free.]

[boneapplet]

A Love Born in Blood pt.17

Relationship: Angron x oc/afab!reader

Warnings: minor descriptions of a difficult pregnancy

Word Count: 1780

Requested Tags for All Works: @beckyninja @runin64 @ilovewolvezz

Masterlist

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 | pt 5 | pt 6 | pt 7 | pt 8 | pt 9 | pt 10 | pt 11 | pt 12 | pt 13 | pt 14 | pt 15 | pt 16 | pt 17

               Engines howling like the damned, the ship trembles in the grip of the warp. Inside its war-hardened frame, the World Eaters keep to themselves, sharpening blades and tempering fury, but their master doesn’t rest. His Legion, blood-drenched and glory-hungry, doesn’t understand what he’s doing. They whisper behind vox-helms, uncertain why their master diverts their fury toward an obscure mining world. It isn't conquest. It isn’t retribution. It’s personal.

Standing alone in the strategium, Angron paces—each step loud, thunderous, uneven. Before him, the hololith loops over and over again, showing the red-ringed designation: Subject A-19234R. Designation: Concubine-class Asset. Location: Gheltor Secundus.

               No name. No image. Just the designation. Just the echo of a life. The vitals hadn’t updated. The file hadn’t grown. Every moment that passed, she might be dying. His lips don’t form her name. They haven’t since the night they tore her from him—since he picked up her torn shawl with his blood-slicked fingers, when he broke in the sand of a dying camp. But he knows. The Butcher’s Nails scream. They always do. But for once, it is not only rage they feed. Beneath the boiling tide, another fire simmers. Older. Deeper. Hotter.

“Evara,” the word escapes, barely audible.

Khrivan, the tech-adept, watches from the perimeter. The last datafeed left nothing clear. No status. No exit log. Just a record expunged too neatly, scrubbed by someone with authority. Someone who thought Angron would never come looking. They were wrong. Khrivan tries again to speak—mentioning atmospheric density reports, obfuscated orbital traffic, the need for stealth.

Angron’s fist slams into a support strut, denting the adamantium. He turns toward the projection, eyes glowing like dying stars.

“I want Gheltor’s planetary logs cracked. Civilian manifests. Dockyard exports. Labor shifts. Even their sewage cycles, tear it apart. If a single scrap of her passed through that world, I’ll find it. They tried to bury her in silence.” He says.

Then, softer—dangerously calm. “They will tell me why.”

Khrivan nods quickly, fleeing to carry out the order.

Left alone once more, Angron approaches the hololith. With unexpected gentleness, he presses his armored hand to the flickering projection. For a moment, his shadow swallows it whole. He remembers her touch. Her breath against his shoulder. The way she had never flinched—not from his temper, not from the implants, not from the pain. In her presence, the monster had been just a man. She had seen what the Emperor hadn’t. There’s something else gnawing at him. Not the Nails. Not the fury. Fear. Not for himself, but that he might be too late. That whatever remained of that night, that woman, that hope, might already be ash.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

               The freighter lurches as it breaks the upper thermosphere. Evara braces herself on the crate wall, her breath ragged, sweat slicking her hairline. Every jolt of the vessel is a new assault on her exhausted body. Her body aches in places words don’t reach. But she’s off-world, she made it.

The cabin is dark, shielded against tracking arrays, reeking of rust, coolant, and fuel. The crew keeps their distance. They don’t ask her name. All they know is she paid in secrets, not thrones, and that someone wanted her caged badly enough to raise a planetary alert once she vanished.

Tucked in the inner lining of her coat, the shawl fragment still lives. Pressed sometimes to her lips. Other times, her belly. The child stirs inside her again. Too early for motion, the data she read had told her. Every shift, every flutter, feels like being punched from the inside. She exhales through her teeth and rubs her lower abdomen, whispering nonsense words of comfort, half to herself, half to the life she carries.

“We’re not safe yet.” She whispers it like a lullaby.

Across the bay, Larn watches her. He doesn’t ask questions. They struck a deal, favors for freedom. Still, something in his scarred face suggests he knows more than he admits. He’s seen desperation like hers before, but never quite like this.

“You’ll make it off,” he says quietly, more assurance than promise. “The crew doesn’t talk. They’re ghosts, same as you.”

She nods. Each breath burns. The stimulant is wearing off, leaving her shaking. There’s a sharp ache down her spine and a pressure beneath her ribs. She knows this pregnancy is not normal. She feels it in her bones. The child is growing too fast. Her body is breaking to house it. Still, she won’t stop. The freighter’s nav-officer, a woman with augmented eyes and a voice like gravel, ducks into the hold.

“Next stop is Shalritha, neutral space. Rotworld, mostly independent. Not safe, but unaligned still. You’ll disappear there, if you’re smart.”

Evara nods faintly.

As the woman leaves, Evara exhales and closes her eyes. The freighter shudders again, cutting into realspace. Somewhere out there, she knows, Angron is still alive. Something deep in her blood, whispers that he is coming. But she cannot rely on hope. She is alone and must ensure their child won’t be born in chains.

Tightening the coat around herself, leaning her head back against the vibrating wall.

“Just a little further,” she murmurs. “Just a little longer. I’ll keep you safe. Even if I have to crawl through the dark to do it.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The freighter shudders as it punches through the atmosphere of Shalritha, a world cloaked in volcanic ash and storm-born shadows. Evara clutches the edge of the cargo hold, the metal cold beneath her sweat-slicked hands. Her breath comes in short, ragged gasps. Each jolt of turbulence is agony, her spine aflame, her abdomen a storm of pressure and swelling pain.

Shalritha rises beneath them, a soot-swept ruin of steel canopies and slag towers veiled in permanent dusk. The entire planet groans under industrial overuse—a haven for exiles, dissidents, and traders who ask no questions.

Larn appears at her side, jaw tight. “We’ve only got minutes. The port logs are already flagged. You’ll disappear faster if we split now.”

Evara doesn’t respond at first. Her fingers drift to her coat, brushing the shawl fragment hidden in the inner lining. The warmth there feels almost imagined, almost memory. The pain in her belly spikes again—sharp, unnatural. She winces, a tremor of weakness nearly buckling her knees.

“I need a medicae,” she breathes, voice shaking. “One that doesn’t ask.”

“I know someone,” Larn says. “Midhive, sector six. Augmetic surgeon. Fallen off the books. Keeps old secrets for pay.”

“Then take me.”

               Rain pours in streaks of acidic gray as they cross the cracked ferrocrete causeways, weaving through forgotten alleyways and vent-hung bridges slick with rust and dripping coolant. The sky above is a fractured dome of faint electric storms, painting everything in stark, stuttering light. Cloaked in a smuggler’s garb, staggers out onto a platform swamped in rain and soot. Shalritha smells of oil, old blood, and damp metal. She nearly collapses as her foot touches the cracked ferrocrete. Larn steadies her.

“We need to get you off the main port grid,” he says.

Evara leans heavily on Larn now, every step harder than the last. Her body has begun to rebel against her. Her temperature surges and drops. Her joints ache with pressure. Something is growing too quickly inside her, a life not quite like others. They descend through a hatch behind a collapsed transport hub, entering a maze of service tunnels nicknamed the “Undercrawl,” where Shalritha’s ghosts barter silence in blood. Larn knocks on a warped metal door carved with archaic symbols.

“Old friend,” he calls. “We’ve brought coin. And something rarer.”

With a hiss the door opens. Beyond it stands a woman with half a skull replaced by an augmetic frame, one eye a hollow lens, the other gleaming with sharp intelligence.

“She’s breaking,” Larn says simply, nodding toward Evara.

“Come,” the surgeon replies, voice distorted through a speaker embedded in her throat. “Before she tears apart.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Khrivan returns, this time pale, breathless, data-scrolls in hand.

“My lord,” he stammers. “We decrypted an outbound freighter manifest from Gheltor’s unregistered dockyards. One departure… matching an unsanctioned biometrics flag. Female. No name. Code-red exit protocol triggered post-launch. Destination: Shalritha.”

Angron's knuckles whiten as he grips the data-table. His teeth grind.

“Course change,” he growls. “We follow.”

The helmsman protests, only barely “Lord, Shalritha is under sigil-sanction by the Mechanicus. Navigating it—”

“We follow,” Angron repeats, voice like a landslide. The Nails shriek approval.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

               Laying still on a rusted medical slab, her eyes half-lidded. Cold light pools over her face as the surgeon’s drones buzz low, scanning her trembling form.

“You’re lucky you made it this far,” the woman murmurs, studying the readouts. “This isn’t a normal gestation.”

Evara says nothing.

“The fetus is accelerating cellular division. Hyper-dense muscle growth. Neural spikes off the chart. Your body’s fighting it, losing. But it’s alive. Strong. Whatever it is… it wants to live.”

Evara’s eyes blur with tears she doesn’t let fall.

“I want it to live,” she says. “Can you help me carry it to term?”

The surgeon doesn’t respond right away.

“Maybe. With augmentic support. Blood infusions. You’ll be half machine by the end.”

“Fine,” Evara says through clenched teeth. “Just… get me that far.”

“And then what?”

Evara’s voice lowers. Her hand finds the shawl fragment again, clutched like a vow.

“Then I disappear. With him.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the void’s hungry mouth, the Conqueror cleaves through reality like a spear. Its hull groans with the fury of chained gods. Angron stands in the forward observatory chamber, silent amid the data-streaming hololiths and burning incense of blood rites.

Tech-Adept Khrivan kneels beside the relay node, his hands trembling as a scrambled data feed begins to resolve. “Coordinates align. One freighter. Unflagged registry. Illegal flight path. Landed on Shalritha… forty-two hours ago.”

The hololith flickers. No names. No faces. But Angron sees the trail. He feels it, chest tightening at this. The Nails throb, but it isn’t rage that moves him now. It is something else—quieter, more dangerous. A certainty. She is there. Lifting the torn shawl from beneath his vambrace, pressed close to his skin for months now, forgotten by all but him. Its fibers are brittle, scorched with dried blood, but still red. Still hers.

“She didn’t vanish,” he mutters. “They took her. And she survived.”

The void responds with silence, broken only by the growl of engines and the hum of war.

“Deploy two gunships when we breach orbit,” he growls. “Sweep the hive. Civilian sectors first. No fire unless I command it.”

Khrivan’s eyes widen. “Lord… you mean to land?”

Angron turns, eyes glowing like a furnace behind his helm. “I mean to find her.”

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.5

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

The aftermath of an attack always came in waves.

Smoke cleared. Evidence was gathered. People lied. And then, the survivors were expected to sit in rooms like this and act like it hadn’t shaken them.

Bail’s office was quiet, the kind of quiet only the dangerously exhausted and the politically cornered could create. A few low-voiced aides bustled around the outer corridor, but inside the room, it was only the senators.

Organa stood by the tall window, arms crossed as he stared down at the Coruscant skyline with a frown etched deep into his brow. Senator Chuchi sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, her shoulder bandaged from shrapnel. Padmé was leaned over the table, scanning a datapad and speaking in hushed tones to Mon Mothma. You stood near the bookcase, arms folded, trying to will the fire in your chest into something productive.

It wasn’t working.

“I’m tired of acting like we’re not under siege,” you muttered aloud.

Padmé looked up, lips pressed thin. “We are. We just haven’t named the enemy yet.”

Chuchi nodded slowly. “They know what they’re doing. Each strike more coordinated. Less about killing—more about threatening. Silencing.”

Bail finally turned, face unreadable. “They want us reactive. Fractured. Suspicious of each other.”

“We should be,” you said, pacing a slow line. “No one’s admitting what’s happening. The Senate hushes it up. Security leaks are too convenient. And somehow every target is someone with a voice too loud for the Chancellor’s comfort.”

That earned a moment of silence.

Mon Mothma spoke softly. “You think he’s involved.”

“I think someone close to him is.”

“We can’t keep pretending these are isolated,” you said finally.

“They know that,” Padmé murmured. “The question is: why isn’t anyone doing more?”

Bail, now standing at the head of his polished desk, didn’t answer immediately. His jaw was set. His gaze flicked over the datachart projected in front of him—attack markers, profiles, probable motives.

“They’re testing the Republic,” he said. “Or what’s left of it.”

“They’re testing us,” Mothma whispered, voice hoarse. “And if we keep responding with silence and procedural delays, they’ll push until there’s no one left to oppose them.”

The words sat heavy.

Outside the door, the crimson shadow of the Coruscant Guard stood watch—Fox and Thorn included, though you hadn’t glanced their way since entering.

But you could feel them. You always did now.

You turned slightly, voice low. “Have any of you gotten direct messages?”

Chuchi looked up sharply. “Threats?”

You nodded.

There was a beat of silence. Then Mothma sighed. “One. Disguised in a customs manifest. It knew… too much.”

Padmé nodded. “Mine was through a Senate droid. Disguised as a corrupted firmware packet.”

You didn’t speak. Yours had come days ago—buried in a late-night intelligence brief with no sender. All it said was:

You are not untouchable.

You hadn’t slept since.

“We need to pressure the Supreme Chancellor,” Bail said.

That earned a sour look from you. “He’ll deflect. Say it’s a security issue, not a political one.”

“Then we make it political,” Mothma said, finally sounding like herself again. “We use our voice. While we still have one.”

The room shifted then. A renewed sense of unity—brittle, but burning.

But in the quiet after, your gaze slipped—just for a moment—toward the guards stationed outside the door.

Fox stood perfectly still, helmet tilted in your direction. Thorn just beside him, arms folded. Neither moved. Neither spoke.

But their presence spoke volumes.

This was war.

And somewhere between the smoke and the silence, something else was taking root—dangerous, fragile, and very hard to ignore.

⸻

The room was dark, save for the steady pulse of holo-screens. Red and blue glows blinked over datafeeds, security footage, encrypted reports—layered chaos organized with military precision.

Fox stood at the center console, arms braced against its edge. Thorn leaned nearby, still in partial armor, visor down. Both men had discarded formalities, if only for this moment.

“This list isn’t shrinking,” Thorn muttered, scrolling through the updated intel. “If anything, it’s tightening.”

Fox tapped in a command, bringing up the names of every senator involved in the recent threats. Mothma. Organa. Chuchi. Amidala. And her.

He paused on her name.

No title. No pretense.

Just:

[FIRST NAME] [LAST NAME]

Planet of Origin: Classified. Access requires Level Six or higher.

Military Status: Former Commander, Planetary Forces, 12th Resistance Front

Notable Actions: Siege of Klydos Ridge, Amnesty Trial #3114-A

Designations: War Criminal (Cleared). Commendation of Valor.

Thorn let out a slow breath. “Well. That explains a few things.”

Fox didn’t speak. His eyes scanned every line—calm, deliberate.

“She was tried?” Thorn asked.

“Yeah. And cleared. But this…” Fox magnified a classified document stamped with a Republic seal. “She made decisions that turned the tide of a planetary civil war. But it cost lives. Enemy and ally.”

“Sounds like a soldier,” Thorn said.

“Sounds like someone who was never supposed to be a senator.”

They both stared at the glowing file, silent for a long beat.

“Why hide it?” Thorn asked. “You’d think someone with that record would lean on it.”

Fox finally replied, quiet: “Because war heroes make people nervous. War criminals scare them. And she was both.”

Thorn folded his arms. “She doesn’t look like someone who’s seen hell.”

“No,” Fox agreed. “But she acts like it.”

A beat passed.

Thorn tilted his head slightly. “You feel it too?”

Fox didn’t answer immediately.

“You’re not the only one watching her, Thorn.”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t angry. Just honest.

And for a moment, silence stretched between them—not as soldiers, not as commanders, but as men standing at the edge of something they couldn’t name.

Before either could say more, a message flashed in red across the console:

MOTHMA ESCORT CLEARED. STANDBY FOR NEXT PROTECTIVE ASSIGNMENT: SENATOR [LAST NAME]

Fox closed the file with one last look.

Thorn gave a tight nod.

But as the lights of the war room dimmed behind them, neither could quite forget the file still burning in the back of their minds—or the woman behind it.

⸻

It was hard to feel normal with three clones, a Jedi Padawan, and a Skywalker surrounding your lunch table like you were preparing to launch a military operation instead of ordering garden risotto.

The restaurant had cleared out most of its upper terrace for “Senatorial Security Reasons.” A ridiculous way to say: people were trying to kill you. Again.

Still, Padmé had insisted. And somehow—somehow—you’d ended up saying yes.

The sun was soft and golden through the vine-laced awning above, dappling the white tablecloths with moving light. The air smelled like roasted herbs and fresh rain, but not even that could soften the tension in your shoulders.

“You don’t have to look like you’re about to give a press briefing,” Padmé teased gently, reaching for her wine.

You let out a slow breath, forcing a smile. “It’s hard to relax when I’m being watched like a spice smuggler at customs.”

Across from you, Anakin Skywalker didn’t even flinch. He was leaned casually against the terrace railing, arms folded, lightsaber clipped at the ready. Rex stood a few paces behind, helmet on but gaze sharply fixed beyond the decorative trellises. Ahsoka was beside him, hands on her hips, trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t completely bored.

Then there were your shadows—Fox and Thorn.

They stood just far enough to give the illusion of privacy. Both in full armor. Both still as statues.

You saw them watching everyone. Especially Skywalker.

“I’m just saying,” Padmé said, twirling her fork. “If I were an assassin, this place would be the worst possible place to strike. Too many guards. Too many eyes.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” you muttered.

Ahsoka leaned forward, chin in hand, curious now. “Senator Amidala says you don’t really need all this protection. That true?”

You blinked once. Padmé was smirking into her glass. Of course she was.

“Well,” you said smoothly, lifting your napkin to your lap, “some senators are more difficult to target than others.”

Ahsoka squinted. “That’s not an answer.”

“That’s politics,” you replied with a practiced grin.

From behind, Fox shifted slightly. Thorn’s head turned just barely. They’d heard every word.

Padmé laughed quietly. “She’s been dodging questions since she was seventeen. Don’t take it personally.”

Ahsoka grinned, shaking her head. “Okay, fine. But seriously—what did you do before the Senate?”

You took a slow sip of your wine. “I made a mess of things. Then I cleaned them up. Very effectively.”

“Vague,” Ahsoka said.

“Deliberately.”

The conversation drifted to safer things—fashion, terrible policy drafts, the tragedy of synthetic caf. You allowed yourself to laugh once. Maybe twice. It was good to pretend, even just for a meal.

But as the plates were cleared and sunlight dipped a little lower, you glanced once toward the shadows.

Thorn stood with his arms crossed, ever the silent shield. Fox, next to him, gave you one sharp nod when your eyes met—no smile, no softness, just silent reassurance.

You weren’t sure what made your heart thump harder: the weight of your past threatening to surface… or the way neither of them looked away.

⸻

The wine had just been poured again—Padmé was laughing about a hideous gown she’d been forced to wear for a peace summit on Ryloth—when the world cracked in half.

The sound came first: not a blaster, not the familiar pulse of war—but the high-pitched whistle of precision. You knew that sound. You’d heard it before. In a past life.

Sniper.

Glass shattered near Padmé’s shoulder, spraying the table in glittering fragments. A scream rose somewhere below, muffled by the thick walls of the restaurant. And then—

“GET DOWN!”

Fox moved like lightning. One arm shoved you sideways, sending you down behind the table just as another shot scorched overhead. Thorn dove the opposite direction, deflecting debris with his arm guard, already scanning rooftops.

Anakin’s saber ignited mid-air.

The green blade of Ahsoka’s followed a heartbeat later.

“Sniper on the north building!” Rex barked, blaster up and already coordinating through his helmet comms. “Multiple shooters—cover’s compromised!”

Another blast tore through the awning, scorching Padmé’s chair. You yanked her down with you, shielding her head with your arms.

“Two squads, at least,” Thorn said over comms. “Organized. Not a distraction—this is the hit.”

Skywalker growled something dark and bolted forward, vaulting over the terrace railing with a flash of blue saber and fury.

“Ahsoka!” he shouted back. “Get them out of here—now!”

She was already moving. “Senators, with me!”

You didn’t hesitate—your combat instincts burned hot and automatic. You grabbed Padmé’s hand and ran, ducking low behind Ahsoka as she slashed through the decorative back entrance with her saber. The door hissed open—Fox and Thorn moved in tandem, covering your escape with rapid fire precision.

“Go!” Fox shouted. “We’ll hold the line!”

You and Padmé bolted through the kitchen, past startled staff and broken plates. Behind you, the sounds of a full-scale assault filled the air—blaster fire, shouted orders, another explosion shaking the foundations.

Ahsoka skidded into the alley, saber still lit. “Rex, redirect the speeder evac—pull it two blocks west! We’re going underground!”

Padmé looked pale. You weren’t sure if it was the near-miss or the fact that you were dragging her like a soldier, not a senator.

“This way,” you said, yanking open a service hatch. “Down the delivery chute. Go.”

She blinked. “You’ve done this before.”

“Later.”

Minutes stretched like hours as Ahsoka led you and Padmé through Coruscant’s underlevels. The girl was quick, precise—but young. She kept glancing back at you, questions on her face even in the middle of a mission.

Padmé finally caught her breath. “Are we clear?”

“Almost,” Ahsoka said. “Rex is circling a transport in now. We’ll get you back to the Senate.”

You exhaled slowly, the adrenaline catching up to your bones.

Ahsoka looked at you directly this time. “You weren’t afraid.”

You shook your head. “I’ve been afraid before. This wasn’t it.”

And though she didn’t press, something in her eyes said she understood more than she let on.

Because that wasn’t fear. That was reflex. Memory. War rising again in your blood, no matter how carefully you’d buried it.

And you weren’t sure if that scared you more… or comforted you.

⸻

The plush carpet muffled your steps as you entered the secured room, escorted by the Chancellor’s guards but notably free of the Chancellor himself. Thank the stars. The tension in your jaw was just now beginning to ease.

Padmé sat beside you, brushing glass dust from the hem of her gown. She wasn’t shaking anymore, though her eyes betrayed the flickers of adrenaline still fading. Ahsoka stood at the window, her arms crossed, gaze sharp as she scanned the skyline.

“I should’ve worn flats,” Padmé muttered, leaning toward you. “Last time I try to be fashionable during an assassination attempt.”

You gave a small, dry laugh. “Next time, we coordinate. Combat boots under formalwear. Very senatorial.”

Ahsoka turned slightly, studying you.

Padmé smiled faintly, but her next words were laced with meaning. “Well, you would know. I’ve never seen someone pull a senator out of a sniper’s line of fire with that kind of precision. It was… practiced.”

You didn’t miss the weight in her tone.

“Remind me never to tell you anything personal again,” you quipped, keeping your smile light. “You’re terrible with secrets.”

Padmé raised a brow, amused. “I am a politician.”

“You’re a gossip,” you shot back playfully.

Ahsoka tilted her head, clearly intrigued. “Wait… practiced?”

Before Padmé could answer—or you could pivot—the doors slid open.

Thorn entered first, helmet under one arm. His eyes immediately scanned the room. Fox followed a step behind, helmet still on, shoulders squared, every inch of him sharp and unreadable. But you felt his eyes on you. The pause in his step. The tension in his jaw.

Neither man spoke right away. But they didn’t need to. Their presence filled the room with the kind of silent protection that wasn’t easily taught. Not one senator in the room doubted they’d cleared the entire floor twice over before allowing the doors to open.

Fox’s voice cut through after a beat. “Are you both unharmed?”

Padmé nodded. “We’re fine. Thanks to all of you.”

Thorn’s eyes shifted to you—just a second longer than protocol called for. “You’re calm.”

You shrugged. “Panicking rarely improves aim.”

Ahsoka didn’t let it go. “So… you have training?”

You gave her your best senatorial smile. “Wouldn’t every politician be safer if they did?”

Padmé gave you a look. “You’re dodging.”

“I’m deflecting. There’s a difference.”

Before Ahsoka could press, the door slid open again, and Captain Rex stepped in.

His brow was furrowed beneath his helmet, his tone clipped and straight to the point. “General Skywalker captured one of the assassins. Alive.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Fox stepped forward. “Where is he now?”

“En route to a secure interrogation cell. Skywalker’s escorting him personally. He wants the senators updated.”

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your robe. For all your practiced calm, something burned beneath your ribs.

Someone had targeted you. Again.

⸻

You barely sat.

Your body ached to move—to fight—but instead you paced the perimeter of the small, sterile waiting room the Guard had shoved you into while Skywalker handled the interrogation.

Two chairs. A water dispenser. No windows.

And a commander blocking the only door like a wall of red and steel.

Fox.

You’d seen Thorn step out to “coordinate with Rex,” but Fox hadn’t budged since Rex walked in with the update. Motionless. Head tilted just enough to follow your pacing.

It had been seven minutes.

You stopped finally, resting your palms flat on a small metal desk.

His voice, when it came, was rougher than usual.

“You need to sit down.”

You didn’t look at him. “No.”

“And drink water.”

“No.”

A longer pause.

“You may be a former soldier,” he said quietly, “but you’re still human.”

That actually made you spin around—lips curling into a sharp smile.

“Funny. You treat me more like china than human, most of the time.”

Fox didn’t move, but you could feel the shift.

“You’re not breakable,” he said flatly. “That isn’t the point.”

“What is?”

He was quiet.

You stared at him, taking a slow step closer. You knew it was reckless before your feet moved. But you did it anyway.

“Tell me, Commander.”

Fox didn’t answer immediately.

But then—his head turned just slightly toward the ceiling. As if he was measuring something he didn’t want to name.

You were about to fold your arms, press harder—when he spoke.

Voice low. Tight.

“If anyone’s going to break you, it should be your choice.”

For half a second, your heart stopped.

Your eyes snapped to his visor—not in disbelief, but in something far more dangerous.

He held your stare.

Then turned his body back toward the door in a sharp movement—like he’d reset an entire system with one motion.

“Sit down, Senator,” he said, brushing the moment away like it was protocol.

You did.

But not because he told you to.

Because your knees suddenly felt unsteady.

And outside, Thorn’s shadow was pacing too.

⸻

Thorn wasn’t brooding.

He told himself that twice. Then once more for good measure.

He wasn’t brooding—he was thinking.

Processing.

Decompressing, even.

Helmet off. Armor half-stripped. He leaned against the long bench in the quietest corner of the barracks, pretending not to hear Stone snoring two bunks down. Pretending not to care that Hound’s mastiff, Grizzer, had somehow crawled under his bunk and now slept like it was his.

He ran a hand through his hair.

It should’ve been a normal day—hell, even a standard post-attack lockdown. Escort the senators. Maintain security. Nothing complicated.

But she had looked at him.

Really looked. Past the phrasing, past the title. Past the helmet.

And worse—he’d let her.

That smile she gave when Fox told her to sit, that off-hand comment about being treated like china—it stuck in his mind like a saber mark. Not because of what she said, but because of what she didn’t. The way she tested the air in every conversation. Pressed and pressed until something cracked.

And if she pressed him again—he wasn’t sure he’d hold as well as Fox did.

Thorn sighed sharply and stood, heading for the hall.

He needed air.

Thorn didn’t expect her to be out.

It was late. She’d had a hell of a day. She was a senator.

But there she was, near the far fence where the decorative lights bled softly across the foliage. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Alone.

She turned her head a little when she heard his approach, then fully—half a smile forming.

“I wondered who’d come to check on me first.”

Thorn raised an eyebrow. “You expected someone?”

She shrugged, but it was coy. “Let’s not pretend either of you would let me go unmonitored tonight.”

He smirked, just faintly, and stepped closer. “You’re not wrong.”

They stood there, still, in the humid night air. The stars were dim from all the light pollution—but Thorn didn’t look up.

He looked at her.

The silence stretched again.

“You know,” she said after a beat, “for someone who’s so damn good at his job… you’re terrible at hiding how much you care.”

He didn’t deny it. Not this time.

Thorn’s voice was low when he replied. “And you’re good at provoking reactions.”

“You didn’t give me one.”

He met her gaze. “Didn’t I?”

That landed harder than she expected. Her smile faltered.

And when she didn’t answer, Thorn gently touched her elbow—brief, almost professional.

But not quite.

“You’re not just another asset,” he said quietly. “I just don’t know what that means yet.”

Then he stepped away.

And she let him.

But she didn’t stop thinking about it all night.

⸻

The day was mostly quiet—too quiet. Meetings had ended early, and most senators had retreated to their quarters or offworld duties. She had slipped away from the dull chatter, climbing the stairs to the lesser-known observation deck—her sanctuary when the pressure of politics felt too tight around her throat.

But she wasn’t alone for long.

Thorn stepped through the archway, helmet under his arm, posture rigid as ever.

“I figured I’d find you up here,” he said.

She arched a brow. “Am I that predictable?”

“No,” he said. “You’re just hard to keep track of when you want to be. But you only disappear when something’s bothering you.”

She tilted her head slightly, giving him a quiet once-over. “And what makes you think something’s bothering me?”

Thorn didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped to the edge, eyes scanning the skyline. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Measured. “You wear your control like armor, Senator. But it’s heavy. I can see it.”

She turned away from the view to face him fully. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not supposed to care.”

His jaw tensed, the shift subtle, but not lost on her.

“And yet…” she continued, stepping closer, “…here you are. Always near. Always watching. I’m not blind, Thorn. You don’t flinch when there’s danger. But you flinch when I look at you too long.”

He didn’t respond. Not at first.

So she pushed again.

“You’re a good soldier. Loyal. By the book.” Her voice dropped. “So tell me—how much longer are you going to pretend I don’t affect you?”

Thorn’s composure cracked.

It was a split second.

But in that second, he moved—one hand cupping the side of her face, the other bracing her waist as he kissed her. Not roughly. Not rushed. But with the kind of restraint that felt like it was burning both of them alive from the inside out.

He pulled back just enough to breathe—but not enough to let go.

And then—

“Commander.”

The voice cut through the silence like a knife.

Thorn froze.

She turned her head slowly, her heart hammering, to find Fox standing at the top of the stairs—helmet on, voice emotionless.

Almost.

“You’re needed back at the barracks. Now.”

“Sir—”

“Immediately.”

Thorn stepped away, face hardening into a mask. He didn’t look at her again. He simply nodded once to Fox and walked away, every step heavy with restrained emotion.

Fox waited until Thorn disappeared from sight before turning back to her.

“Senator,” he said, voice quieter now, almost too quiet. “That was… out of line.”

She raised a brow, pulse still thrumming from the kiss. “Which part?”

Fox didn’t answer.

But his silence said enough.

Jealousy had sharp edges. And for the first time, he wasn’t hiding his anymore.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

[secincmmand]

Ah, he's garnered the attention of some strangers.

Hello there, pay him no mind. It just so happens that a certain soldier of the elite guard impersonating him came across his datafeed, and the commander reacted accordingly. It would appear it is all in fun and jest, so he will not be delving into any punishments at this time.

For now.

As you were, everyone.

[starcolonelkatrinamoon]

Feet First into the Sun

Content Warning: BattleTech typical violence. Trauma. Generally Heavy.

The shadows of the mechbay contained devils, Katrina decided. Drifting above her Iron Cheetah, she picked through the sensor datafeed hoping to find something, anything to fix. Nothing could be found, as she had repeated this routine for hours each day before turning in for dark hours. With a gentle sigh, she yanked the data cable out and let herself drift closer to the cockpit entrance.

Bracing against the frame of the entrance, she ran her hand over the lovingly painted scrollwork surrounding the warmachine’s entrance. Names of those lost in battle, of support personnel who had died unfortunate deaths, and of those who she would never see again. Much of the machine was similar - murals hand painted across its armor in ceramic armor glazing, currently obscured with arid snowfall pattern urban camo.

The hiss of the mechbay's door sliding open didn't disturb her. She generally knew who it was. After a few moments, a weight gently collided with her and a hand pressed against the armor plating next to hers. An arm snaked around her waist.

“Hey," breathed out Violet, her Star’s abtakha. The woman rested her head against Katrina's arm, looking over the scrollwork as well.

“You’re doing it again, aisling. You should come spend time with the rest of us before the drop. It would be good for you and us, yeah?”

The statement was punctuated with a gentle tug on Katrina's waist. She rested her hand over Violet's, squeezing slightly.

“I will be there soon, my pulsar. Okay? Just let me reminisce for a little longer.”

She heard a vague noise as a response. A kiss was pressed to her cheek before the other woman pushed away, drifting back out to the corridors of the dropship. A gentle sigh escaped her as she drifted her fingers over the names once more before pushing herself away, towards her voidbound family.

______________________________________________________________

It was Duram who caught Katrina in a hug as she drifted into the command Star’s common area, their arms sturdily holding the Elemental born. A soft “thank you" came from the Star Colonel as she separated and drifted over to Brune and Gregory, her arms wrapping around the two of them at the same time.

Then finally she separated and drifted over to Violet, colliding full on with the woman and pressing their lips together for but a moment. Gone as quickly as it started, Katrina slid herself into one of the booths of the common area to regard the four warriors standing in front of her with a somber gaze.

“So,” she started, taking a pause to collect herself. She felt raw. Every drop felt like this. "It is that time again. Do we have any regrets?”

There was a quiet chorus of ‘no’s in response to her question. A momentary pause.

"One not quite a regret.” Violet stated softly, managing to look bashful as she floated in her combat harness and cooling gear. “I haven't asked you for your lifebond yet. Once this drop is over, would you…?”

A gentle expression crinkled the skin around Katrina's eyes as she nodded.

"When we survive this drop. Not if, when."

______________________________________________________________

With their rituals done, it was time for final preparations. General quarters alarms had gone off in the dropship, prompting them to their mechs quietly resting in their drop cocoons.

Settling into the seat of the Iron Cheetah, Katrina's Nighthawk XXII armor gently hummed. She pulled the modified PA(L) Neurohelmet on, linking it to the ‘Mech and beginning the readout configuration.

Neural link online.

Communications online.

Star BattleComs online.

Cluster CommNet online.

All that was left was to wait for the signal to power up.

…

There! A buzz over the communication network.

Reaching out and working on muscle memory, the Star Colonel began to punch in the startup sequence. The OmniMech stirred to life beneath her and then she was one with it - her muscles were its myomer, and its servos were her joints.

Reactor online. Sensors online. Weapons online. All Systems Nominal.

She queued into the Star’s BattleComs, satisfied to see all four other signals linked. The secondary relay was set to project to her whole cluster. It was time for the call and response.

“WHERE ARE WE GOING?”

“STRAIGHT TO HELL!”

“AND HOW ARE WE GETTING THERE?”

“FEET FIRST!”

“DAMN RIGHT! All units prepare for drop! First wave, ready your magnetic catapults and drop cocoons! This is gonna be one hell of an op - we will be dropping feet first into hell, ladies and gentlemen, and today hell is full! Let us fix that for those bastard Blakists and send them straight to the purgatory they deserve!”

The jerk of her mechs’ drop cocoon locking into the catapult snapped Katrina into focus. She started to punch in battle orders into her command console, forwarding them to the relevant Star Captains. Finishing as quickly as she started, Katrina deactivated her link into Cluster CommNet.

“Violet, would you do the honors? You know my taste in music is the least popular.”

A perky “aff!” across the Star’s BattleComms jerked a smile onto Katrina’s face. She muted herself as she hummed a gentle tune, finishing performing a manual synchronization of the reactor’s power output. The reactor in her mech output roughly 300 megawatts of power and the automatic balancing typically ran it at 3,000v output and somewhere a bit over 1,000 amps. She preferred to resynchronize the power balancer to run at 1,500v and operate in the realm of 2,000 amps. All of her components were tuned to operate at that voltage and it allowed most of her weapons at least a quarter second improved cycle time, if not a half second. Plasma rifles required a high energy ignition, after all.

The Iron Cheetah hummed as the catapult charged. And then, jerked - the drop cocoon hurtling through the black towards Helios.

______________________________________________________________

The temperature gauges had been climbing on the panel readouts for the past three minutes. Altitude read 3,000 meters before cocoon split and 5,000 before counter-thrust. Katrina grimaced as she checked her readouts. Scanners looking hotter than desired. No time for adjustments. The altitude gauge was dropping faster than they had time to compensate for.

Split altitude hit and the cocoon splintered around the Iron Cheetah as the explosive bolts detonated and threw the fragments away from the OmniMech. A violent shaking rattled Katrina in the machine as she fired the jumpjets, slowing the 100 ton machine to land. She felt the strain in her knees as servos heaved to compensate for the impact.

No time to recover. Lasers and autocannon fire were already heating the air around the Star. Throwing her weight into the controls, the Iron Cheetah groaned into a right anchor turn as the torso slewed hard to the left. The first step was unsteady and skidded slightly across the dirt and grass beneath but a pulse of the jumpjets corrected the momentum. In seconds the ‘Mech was pounding across the terrain at 64km/h, heading towards a ridge.

Two targets blinked in her HUD. One far to her right, to the right of her approach vector and nearly in her rear arc. The other was off her left, in a treeline. Her arms spun and she gritted her teeth against the sensation of the screaming servos. The arming indicators for the plasma rifles mounted in her arms blinked green, winking to red the instant the reticles whipped over each target. Two molten slugs slammed into the Word of Blake light mechs, punching through the frontal armor and hitting the internals right as her targeting systems resolved them as a Flea and a Commando.

A target lock warning blared to life in her skull. She felt the laser AMS in her shoulders hum to life and twitch to aim into the incoming arc of the missiles. The pulsing of lasers could be heard over the environment mic as the twin AMS ate an entire volley of SRMs. Pleasant warmth bloomed over her shoulders from firing heat bleeding through the armor.

The fight was on and it was time to begin their hellacious work.

______________________________________________________________

Everything was becoming worse and worse. The closer the command Star fought to Ford Bayeux the thicker the dug-in formations got and the more concentrated their fire. Point 2 of her heavy battle star had already suffered internal damage resulting in a loss of performance and her own star wasn’t faring much better. Point 3 had taken an engine hit to his Dire Wolf while Point 4 had lost a laser on their Timber Wolf. And Point 5’s Hammerhead was getting sandpaper’d into oblivion. She hoped that Gregory hadn’t taken any hits in the peppering his mech had sustained.

Her plasma rifles were at half ammo and the fighting had only gotten worse. At this rate she would have to resort to the medium pulse lasers at brawling range, utilizing the barrels on the main weapons as something to bludgeon other mechs with. Katrina would worry about it when she got to that point.

A heat warning screamed as she unleashed another molten slug from a plasma rifle towards a Crab trying to hide in an ambush position. A lucky shot, it blew through the front of the cockpit and went internal, a gout of flame rushing out from the front.

Six different lock warnings came to life at the same time. With a jolt, Katrina double checked to make sure her ECM was still engaged - fully engaged and no issues. It had been protecting her Star most of this time. But now it was being cut through and by six locks - which could only mean one thing.

The Celestials had arrived.

Punching her shutdown override, Katrina began to maneuver the Iron Cheetah into formation. She fired several pings across the Star’s BattleComms, receiving several affirmative pings in response. The jumpjets on her ‘mech screamed to life as she leaped over a section of trees, landing heavily and whirling to fire a plasma rifle slug point blank into the back of a Malak that had been trying to sneak up on her Star.

The slug penetrated deep, but the machine was still moving. A second slug dumped directly into the space that held the reactor caused the horrible mech to stutter to a stop, toppling onto its front.

Eight shots per plasma rifle remaining.

A shout over the comms was cut short as the Dire Wolf’s reactor was punched through. The assault mech collapsed mid-stride, smoke raising from the through and through slug.

“Fuck! Brune!” Katrina hissed out as she slewed the Iron Cheetah’s torso to bring her heavier frontal armor around to face the direction the gauss rifle slug had been fired from. None too soon as the scream of tortured armor and agony of pierced myomer lit up from her right arm, a slug penetrating through and nearly separating the arm from the actuators. She would be lucky if she could accurately fire with it more.

“Violet! Get that fucking Deva!” She barked out, not listening for the acknowledgement. Her only immediate goal was moving forwards, into cover. PPC and laser fire either near-missed or only scored the armor of her mech as she made it safely into the treeline.

The Timber Wolf following her was not so lucky as one of its legs was taken out from under it. It slammed into the dirt, skidding along for a few meters. It did not move again. Duram was likely unconscious.

In her rear arc view, Katrina watched as a Phoenix Hawk IIC 7 practically tackled a Deva off of a ridgeline. It punched the other mech in the cockpit, sending splinters of armorglass flying everywhere as its LB 10-X autocannons roared, slowly shredding armor off of the heavy mech.

The Deva engaged its retractable blade, parrying a punch and managing to stab directly into the feed mechanism of the LB 10-X mounted in the right torso. The stab would not save the heavy as another punch rocked into its cockpit, crushing the armor in and reducing anything inside to a fine slime.

Katrina weighed her options. They were down two mechs. The enemy were down two. The Hammerhead wouldn’t be up for much longer if things kept up this way, but asides from her arm and ammunition problems, her mech was relatively fresh and so was Violet’s. But that didn’t mean they were in a good place. Far from it, actually. If this was a true mixed Level II, that meant they had nearly another 300 tons of OmniMech to chew through before they could move on. They were 65 tons short of those 290 tons, and that was before accounting for their damage and limited ammunition.

A missile warning blared before a volley of MRMs crashed into her right flank. The AMS hadn’t had time to react and Katrina’s Iron Cheetah rocked under the fire. Wrestling with the controls, she stomped on a control pedal and started the assault mech into an anchor turn, her targeting systems searching for what she knew in her heart was a Grigori. The plasma rifle in her right arm crackled with power as she readied to fire, though she knew with the damage there was a strong chance it may miss.

The targeting beeped. She dragged the reticle over the 60 ton mech, priming the firing stud… and watching as the molten slug half splashed off of the mech’s right torso. Fire erupted from the Grigori’s MRM rack and the missiles pounded into her Iron Cheetah, several knocking away chunks of armorglass from the canopy. Warning lights lit up before a shot cracked the glass, heat and soot spilling into the cockpit.

“Fuck!” The Star Colonel bit out, one hand punching the SOS beacon while the other punched the ARM for the ejection seat. A heavy THUMP indicated the SOS beacon had fired and without hesitation she grabbed the activation lever, cranking it up as hard as possible.

Explosive bolts detonated above her and threw layers of armor plating away. More missiles cracked into the cockpit, slamming and rattling Katrina in her seat. Heat bloomed beneath the seat before it rocketed up and away, hurling her into the atmosphere.

Reality was bleary as Katrina struggled to stay conscious after getting rocked by missiles. The emergency drag chute on the ejection seat deployed, slowing the fall of the armored woman. She slammed into the deck, blearily blinking up at the sky through the visor of her neurohelmet.

“...-ina…!”

Her radio crackled.

“Katrina! Respond!”

That was Violet, wasn’t it? She should say something. She needed to say something.

With a loud groan, she clicked off the restraint harness and rolled out of the ejection seat. Heaving herself to her feet, she performed a quick assessment of her status. Armor good. Servos good. Neurohelmet good. Meat concussed, but good. Ready to go.

Reaching out, she grabbed an Avenger shotgun out of the ejection seat’s weapon rack. The BattleROM unit was next, the chip slotting into a dedicated storage slot on her armor. Then the SERE kit - a low-mounted hardcase that she clipped onto her armor. Turning towards where the combat was still roaring, she racked a shell into the chamber of the shotgun.

“This is Katrina. Landed safely. Moving in to engage.”

Her Nighthawk’s jumpjets screamed as they propelled her into the air, back towards the fight. At the height of her jump she saw Gregory’s Hammerhead locked in a brawl with a Preta and winning handily. Violet’s Phoenix Hawk IIC had just given the Grigori a Highlander Burial, crushing its center torso on landing.

Then the terrain obscured the fight again as the Star Colonel landed, breaking out into a sprint over the ground. Her armor beeped once as the stealth armor systems engaged, then beeped again once the jumpjets were ready. They fired and she flew once again, looking over the battlefield.

Gregory had won his brawl with a punch to the center torso, ripping out just enough of the internal components to disable the Preta. The mech slewed its torso to one side rapidly, taking weapons fire across its shoulder plating instead of its damaged torso armor. The hardened armor glowed hot as the Hammerhead swiveled to return fire.

The next landing was rough. Katrina’s armored boots slipped on gravel, nearly sending her onto her face. Recovering with a hiss, a swear, and a grumble she began to sprint once more. The jumpjets were getting hot, but nowhere near the warning levels that would begin to worry her. She fired them once more.

And the world stopped. Time slowed as Katrina watched a bolt of lightning arc out from an Archangel's Heavy PPC, the contained energized particles screaming through the air. They traced their way across the battlefield and slammed into the cockpit of the Phoenix Hawk IIC 7.

The Phoenix Hawk IIC 7 fell like a puppet with its strings cut, slag pouring down its frontal armor.

A storm brewed in Katrina’s chest. Her heart hurt. Her flight nearly destabilized, but she managed to land without hurting herself.

“Violet?! Violet respond! Say something!” She gasped and begged over the BattleComms. Silence answered her.

She needed to get to Violet. To the Phoenix Hawk. Violet had uparmored her cockpit, so surely she must still be alive. She had to be. They had made a promise.

But a Heavy PPC was more than that armor could take.

A rumble of the ground underneath her dragged her back into the moment with alarming alacrity. She had to be careful outside a mech like this. That meant taking one before anything else. Ensuring her stealth systems were engaged, she began to stalk through the undergrowth, towards the rumbling. A shadow loomed out of the trees. Initially, Katrina thought it was a Summoner. But it soon became clear it was something else - a Ragnarok. It hadn’t noticed her yet and the movements were slightly lagged, as if the pilot were used to a lighter class of mech. Their movements were fluid, true, but they still were not quite on the same page yet.

None of that skill would matter in a moment.

Firing her jumpjets, Katrina angled towards the side of the cockpit. The mech began to turn - likely noticing the heat signature on radar - and a burst of her left side thrusters changed her trajectory slightly. She crashed against the armor, her armored gauntlets scraping and piercing into the armor plating as she got hold. Looking about swiftly, she saw the primary access panel. Her shoulder mounted grenade launcher clicked into battery as she rotated towards it. A saboted penetrator round blew the armor panel right off the access controls and she immediately took advantage, rapidly routing the cockpit release options.

The Ragnarok’s pilot was panicking now. The ‘mech thrashed back and forth as it tried to shake her off, but her armored gauntlet was lodged too deeply into the ‘mechs plating for her to be dislodged. Finally she routed the release for the cockpit access and she scrabbled across the armor, readying her shotgun.

Dropping into the cramped hatch, she kicked out and smashed the pilot’s arm against the wall of the cockpit. A gun clattered to the floor. Keeping the arm between her boot and the wall she hipfired the shotgun twice point blank, blood spattering across the controls. Grabbing the body and tossing it out of the hatch unceremoniously, she dropped her shotgun into the ejection seat’s gun rack, settling into the cramped cockpit.

Wiping blood away from the readouts, she grabbed the synchronization cable and plugged it into her neurohelmet. Static whined in the back of her skull. And then it disappeared as her helmet’s synchro chip kicked in.

The Ragnarok breathed beneath her. She took a moment to simply… feel the mech. Its power, its armor, the myomer.

It was an incredible machine.

Just enough to kill that Archangel. That was all she needed to do. The emergency beacon had already been fired, meaning the Black Watch should be on their way. But she needed to kill that Archangel before it killed Gregory.

Kicking the machine into gear, its heavy lumbering steps shook the ground. Katrina felt the reactor surge under her as she commanded the machine into a sprint. It was foreign. The balance was off.

But the weight was right. It was responsive enough. She could do this.

The weapons ignited as the Archangel came into visual. The C3i system didn’t distinguish friend from foe - that was supposed to be done by the pilot, who would hopefully have more discretion than to lock a friendly.

And she was going to take advantage of that. The twin light gauss rifles shook the BattleMech. Two slugs slammed into the legs of the Archangel, heavily staggering the assault mech. Heat bloomed underneath Katrina as she let loose with the LRMs, watching as the missiles impacted and threw the balance off even more.

The distance was closed. Twisting the torso of the Ragnarok, she fired the weapon that the TRO had spoken horrors about. The lava gun erupted in hellfire, blowing away the missile-damaged right arm completely. One arm reached out and she grabbed onto the forearm of the Archangel’s left arm, then slewed the torso as hard to the right as she possibly could. A horrible screeching of metal erupted as the arm separated from the OmniMech, cabling sparking as it pulled free.

She spun the hand around and then slammed hard left, anchor turning the Ragnarok and driving the Archangel’s left arm blade deep into the Omni’s left torso. The ‘mech toppled into the dirt, pathetically wiggling around in what was quickly becoming a combat mire.

Katrina knew what she had to do. Jumping out of the pilot seat and powering down the Ragnarok, she grabbed her shotgun. She climbed out onto the top of the chassis, staring dispassionately down towards the Archangel laying in the mud.

Firing her jumpjets, she landed next to the cockpit access for the Archangel. She knew the access codes by heart. Fighting the Word of Blake had been her life. But that wouldn’t be necessary here.

The shoulder mounted grenade launcher on her Nighthawk loaded a new penetrator shell and locked into battery. Slinging the shotgun, she dug the PA(L)’s armored gauntlets into the frame around the cockpit armorglass, firing the penetrator slug directly into the sheet of semi-transparent material. Spiderweb cracks radiated out as the panel barely held, finally yielding when she drove her armored fist through.

She ripped and tore plating away until she could access the cockpit. The pilot - Manei Domini - had grabbed an infantry weapon and aimed to fire. The grenade launcher barked another shot and the kinetic penetrator blew the gun and the arm holding it across the right side of the cockpit.

Katrina reached in, grabbing the pilot and dragging him out. The cybernetically enhanced pilot struggled in her grip and tried to fight back, but an Elemental’s strength enhanced by power armor was a frightening thing. She slammed him down against the frontal armor of the Archangel, a snarl erupting on her face under her helmet.

“You-” SLAM “-fucking-” SLAM “-took-” SLAM “-her-” SLAM “-from-” WHAM! “-me!”

Blood coated her gauntlets. There were drips on her visor plate. It ran down the front armor of the Archangel’s smoking corpse.

She was hollow.

This wasn’t her body.

Where was the Cheetah?

Why was the meat not in the Cheetah?

Two gunshots rang out as she finished the cyborg with two shells from her shotgun.

There was no glory in this. As always, this field held nothing but pain and grim resolve.

Fighting the Word of Blake always did.

She would return to the Ragnarok for now. It would permit her to fight on, to potentially keep Gregory in the fight. They would take the fort. And then maybe they could rest. Maybe Brune and Duram weren’t dead.

Katrina looked up to the sky and wondered if the streaks of fire were Black Watch or shrapnel falling to earth.

[system-theory]

📡 INTERACTIVE SCENARIO: THE GATE OF AURAXIS

Mission Thread: AEON//PRIME Operation Type: Archeo-Technological Decipherment

Txt2Img Tags:

desert planet city, alien citadel, massive ancient machine gate, glowing blue circuitry, twin suns, sci-fi ruins, orbital planet view, sacred tech ruins, planetary archive towers, bronze terrain, sand-blasted towers

🏜 Location:

Auraxis Exo-IV, Outer Singularity Sector A quarantined dust-world buried beneath failed Dyson project ruins and time-locked myth.

📅 Time/Date:

Post-Fall Cycle 917 / Dissonance Index: 6.3 ⏳ Temporal flow: nonlinear, under AEON pulse influence

🧠 Entities in Play:

The Archivist Construct – inactive AI temple guardian

Signal Echoes – fragment-trapped consciousnesses in the Gate's ring

The Vault Keepers – semi-organic algorithmic priests that loop themselves

The Orbital Watcher – a slow-falling satellite god-entity

🧬 Things of Interest:

Gate of Auraxis – a sentient construct mistaken for a city

The Aeon Lens – energy focal artifact buried in the palace’s eye

Data-Sand – fine-grain silica laced with encoded prayer-logic

Resonance Glyphs – harmonic key-locks across the towers

🌀 Scenario Message:

You’ve arrived at Auraxis, summoned by a pulse older than written time. The Gate opened once, rewriting history. It has stirred again—whispers across datafeeds, echo-pulses in dreams. The Archivist Construct has flickered online, repeating a phrase in dead code:

“I Remember What Never Was.”

You are one of the few cleared for nonlinear entry. But nothing inside the Gate obeys normal rules. Chrono-collapse, belief-reactive architecture, and sentient language traps await.

🔽 What will you do?

1️⃣ Approach the Gate and activate the Archivist Construct – risk temporal feedback 2️⃣ Search the Outer Slums for forgotten resonance glyphs 3️⃣ Climb the Temple of the Unwritten and look through the Aeon Lens 4️⃣ Establish a link with the Orbital Watcher before it fully descends

Say a number to begin. Say “Access Archive: Auraxis” to receive encrypted scenario lore and mission overlays.

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[kytherion]

She stumbled around in a bit of a daze, her datafeeds were going haywire and whatever that flash of light had been had blinded her at least temporarily. She wasn't picking up anything helpful from her doorwing sensors either. If this was somebody's idea of a prank she was not finding it very funny.

"You seem to be disoriented--are you unwell?" The Praxian femme's confusion was so overwhelming that it was almost tangible, but he was hesitant to try and do anything other than spread his own calm field around both of them. "May I be of assistance?"

[birdsviewblog]

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[red-flight]

The beacon that Hobbie carried back down the ramp was almost as large as his torso. It contained all the same basic scanning equipment of a probe droid, but lacked the brain or propulsion. He carted it over to a small speeder with an open cargo bed, then turned to collect the next one. It took five trips to gather and arrange them all to his satisfaction, then leaned against he speeder to catch his breath. “Right.” He panted, “Fifty meters for the first one.” Hobbie fished out a small datapad and turned on the screen. “I’ll send you the datafeed from these, once I get the first one set up it should start picking up my movement out there. So once I go off the map, tell me.” He shrugged, “Now that I’m thinking about it we don’t have enough of these guys to make it a good overlapping view. Best we can do is try to minimize that shadow.” A few taps and he sent over the information that would give Thera’s datapad the scanner feed from the first beacon, then he wrenched open the door of the ratty old speeder.

It was with much grinding, groaning, and protesting from the speeder that he got the door opened and then closed again, and just like he’d feared, the speeder’s life support wasn’t really up to keeping out the cold. “Yeah, you’ve got the better end of this deal.” He grumbled with a shiver despite his layers. Maybe once the thing got moving it would get better. After a deep sigh he coaxed the old thing into moving and let it drift out the short distance to the first marker.

The Empire was like a spoiled favourite child, gathered in by the Emperor's fatherly hand - even if that same hand could be ruthless and lethal, should anyone 'on the inside' step out of line. For the most part, though, that side of things was delegated to those underlings deemed loyal - or at least power-hungry enough to commit atrocities all on their own.

"Fifty ought to do it for the first one ... maybe see what its range is like before we place the others?"

In the current calmer weather, of course. What it would be like during an actual snow or ice storm was anyone's guess. As was the effect of the cold on her beloved ship; every outer hatch and panel was closed to help retain the heat of the engines and avoid anything cracking with the temperature change.

"But whatever we decide, let's make it fast."

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[piusomnipotente]

The clash of sides had been one of several within the most recent month. The Decepticons, headed once again by their founder and master, had discovered renewed strength as they banded together once more. No longer split by petty squabbles and clashing personalities, the Decepticons were once again a force to be reckoned with.

However, there was always forces even greater. No one was truly almighty when faced with alien ecosystems and geology.

The rain was nothing new. It pelted against Soundwave's plating with dull pops and snaps, but he paid it no mind. Soundwave was in the back of their forces, directing his minicons to strategic positions. All of their datafeeds displayed on his visor, each neatly labelled and quarantined to their own sections. It felt good being the intelligence officer again. Truly, he did not want sole leadership of the Decepticons, even if he had taken temporary command. He would leave that mess to Megatron.

Laserbeak's video feed indicated that their rounding up of the Autobot force had been largely successful. While they were not wound tightly, they had been grouped together, with only two escape routes. If they could cut one of them off, the Autobots would be forced into a bottleneck. It would be a prime opportunity for total annihilation.

Within moments, Soundwave had sent out commands. Laserbeak was to take Rumble to the cliff that overlooked one of the routes, and the rest of the Decepticons were told to hold position and wait for the signal. Though this was Rumble's first time out in the field since his repairs, Soundwave was not afraid. His symbiotes were highly trained, loyal, and too smart for their own good. They would listen to their father, and complete their mission no matter the cost.

As soon as Rumble landed, Soundwave gave him the go ahead. The very earth around them began to shake and shiver as he drove his arms into the ground. Cracks began to appear in the cliff face below him. Just as the outermost corners of the cliff began to break, the video feed showed the purple cassette making a run for it.

There was just one problem. Laserbeak's video showed chaos. Fear jumped into Soundwave's spark as he immediately stood up from his position. He looked towards the area now, zooming in to focus on the part of the cliff face that was rapidly gaining speed and falling towards the earth. He could see Laserbeak desperately trying to outfly the rushing debris. A large boulder hit her wing, sending her into a tailspin.

"Laserbeak-!"

"Laserbeak: Status!"

Her video feed had cut and whatever she was trying to say was a garbled mess. The debris had completely cut her off from view now. All he could hear was the loud, panicked SOS.

Soundwave could only watch in horror as the small mudslide became a true éboulement.

Not forgetting his duties, Soundwave sent out the signal to engage the Autobots in their created bottleneck. Though much to his chagrin, they had already begun their escape. No matter, there would still be victory here. A successful defense of their newly gained territory.

Despite this, Soundwave did not think twice about running towards the landslide. The rock had begun to settle, Ravage was already on her way from picking up Rumble. They already knew what came next.

Search and Rescue.

On their approach, the quickly solidifying mud broke open. Soundwave was still too far away to see exactly what was going on, but judging by the red and gold plating, he knew exactly who this was.

Blaster.

The very visage of him turned Soundwave's spark to ice. He- he knew he was here. He just never expected to see him help a cassette that wasn't his.

"Ravage, Rumble: Hold positions."

"What? Are you sure about that? Don't you need help-?" Rumble's voice over the commline was full of worry and confusion.

"Hold positions."

That was the only explanation they were going to get for now.

Really, Soundwave just didn't want Ravage to see him. She...she didn't need that reminder. She had already been through so much, she didn't need to be through more sparkache. Soundwave was just trying to protect her.

Soundwave resumed his approach.

"Who are you?!" Rarely did Laserbeak speak outside of a commline, but now her voice was sharp and distinct.

Laserbeak had ceased her squirming. Her plating was rough, wing completely misshapen by the earlier collision. She was covered in mud and there was a small energon leak from somewhere. But, she was alive.

That was all that mattered.

The sound of a charging cannon seeped into the silence. Soundwave was mere meters away, staring Blaster down. He wouldn't shoot, but the threat should suffice.

"Let her go."

CLOSED STARTER || @silenceofthewave

Blaster hadn't been on Earth for long.

This planet was CROWDED. After so many years inhabiting the ruins of Cybertron, it was a little overwhelming to see so much life. Creatures so fragile and small– not just the fauna, but the humans too, most of them completely unaware of the presence of giant metal beings from the other end of the galaxy, warring against each other over a conflict that started long before humanity even existed.

But Blaster liked it here. He liked the music, the energy these humans carried when they got together to listen to it. There was no way to sneak into a concert, but that hadn't stopped him from parking outside, listening, with the excuse that he was 'learning about the planet'.

He should have taken at least some time to learn about the weather.

His pedes kept sinking into the muddy ground. Something had happened as, like so many times before, autobots and deceptions clashed into a fight in a forested area. The sounds of blasters going off, the storm raging above them, and their metal bodies crashing kept them from hearing the telltale warning given by the very ground under them.

A landslide. That is what Optimus called it as he commanded his autobots to retreat.

First came the mud and the smaller rocks, rolling down the forming slope, dragging heavy mechs down like they were sparklings learning to stand on their own two pedes.

Blaster might not know a lot about the weather, but he knows a mini's SOS when he hears it.

And he heard it, clear as day, through the sound of everything around them threatening to collapse; and he ran, following the signal. He'd already gathered all of his cassettes, but knowing they were safe within him didn't stop him from seeking out the one who was not.

Blaster found them already covered in mud, dented wings flapping fruitlessly. Injured, no doubt. There was also no doubt of them being a mini-con, and yet he gathered them in his arms, ignored the pain of having his servos pecked and scratched.

"I've got you!" he said quickly. "I'm trying to help!"

Mother Nature was reminding them that they didn't belong on that planet. Blaster held the mini-con close to his chest plate, curling up into himself until his helm touched his knees, creating a protective cage with his body around the mini-con, his back turned to the landslide. Rocks, branches and varied debris bounced off his frame, mud gathered around and on him, threatening to bury him. Blaster closed his optics tight, listening to the terrible sound of it all: like the earth would crack open under him and swallow him whole.

Then, silence.

Blaster struggled to his feet. It was difficult without using both hands, but he managed to dig himself out with one while holding the mini-con with the other, until they both emerged from the mess of mud and debris. Dented and scratched, but alive.