#go follow the gorram fool.

[anicehat]

Five times almost caught? aka cmon they ain't secretive at all

The first time:

It’s a quickie— a barely undressed shoved-against-every-possible-surface romp that leaves a trail of destruction in it’s wake. It’s muffled moans and foreign curses pushed past swollen lips in every effort to chase a fleeting high.

They’re pressed against one another here; teeth nipping at a far-too-quick pulse what only draws a moan behind bitten lips. Jayne’s hips rock against him as breath hitches to something devastating: Need.

It’s all but an ache between them, a moment more, hands fumbling to close around this single second’s rush to spill their chosen secret.

But a knock on his door before the barging in of a trusted henchman, has Jayne shoved away to fix what might be disheveled whilst Badger slips into his seat with ease.

They hide their breathlessness, but kiss swollen lips stay kiss swollen, burned by the stubble of a cheek and the sharp tug of teeth, and a henchman knows better than to question his boss’ dealings.

The second time:

He doesn’t offer money, but Jayne looks good knelt down before him— even better with smug lips put to work, a challenge born from Badger’s doubt. There was no way such a brute had any oral skill.

—but oh, is he delightfully mistaken.

There’s earnestness in that sinful mouth, tongue lavishing before lips close around him; a skill learned from years of something else— something darker— something Badger won’t dwell on for the sake of this moment.

His fingers card through Jayne’s hair as hands move from his knees to his length, twisting upward that has Badger’s head lulling back against his leather chair in pure wanton bliss.

Footsteps draw his gaze, but his trophy is hidden behind his desk, unaware of their company until Mal speaks.

Jayne freezes in place, fearful of being found by his captain, in such a compromising position, but Badger’s fingers tighten, blunt nails scratching at Jayne’s scalp, drawing him closer, encouraging the man to continue.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Jayne is, would ya?” Mal hasn’t noticed, nor would he.

“What? Your pet Neanderthal? Why would I know where he is?” A playful hint of disdain is all he can muster before Jayne retaliates. The nip to such sensitive skin has Badger lurching forward, fingers tightening their hold through short brunette locks.

Mal gives him a look of suspicion and that sinful tongue is soothing over bitten skin, swallowing him down with practiced ease that has Badger pressing a hand against his own lips to stop any noise what might give him away.

He plays the bored business man well, despite the build, despite the way he can’t help, but slowly rock his hips against that smug mouth, and Mal buys it.

“Right, well— You see him—“

“Yes, yes—“ He hides the way his breath hitches— the excitement here from being found out adds to the sensation. “I’ll let the gorram fool know you were looking for him— !!”

The challenge is met, a retaliation for being called a fool, Jayne pursues and works Badger over the edge while Mal stands no more than a few meters away and it takes every effort not to react, not to throw his head back and moan the bloody idiot’s name, but he retains his composure— by pure will alone.

Mal’s suspicion remains a moment more before it’s dismissed— taking his leave, he’s said his peace and once that door clicks shut, Badger melts against his seat.

Jayne moves to stand, leaning back against the desk he’d been so carefully hidden behind, he undoes his belt. “Call me a neanderthal again.” There’s a taunt behind smug lips, swollen and beautiful.

Badger sinks to his knees.

The third time:

He knows it’s a trap, knew it from the moment he’d laid eyes on the message sent to him from the old homestead, but it’s one he can’t ignore.

The details are few, but he’s paying double such a job would be worth, if only to ensure his safety. Can’t get paid in full if the party that does the paying is dead.

Still— it humors him to watch Jayne play the part of annoyed crew mate in front of the merry band of pirates.

It isn’t until the rest of the crew retires to their quarters that Jayne finds Badger in the quiet of the ship.

“You just had to hire us.” There’s displeasure written on Jayne’s face, but Badger leans up— they’re alone, as far as he can tell, no one would know. The kiss he leaves draws a second and a third, hesitation giving way to want before strong arms pull him closer and they settle against a cargo container, hidden away.

“I hired you because I trust you’ll do the job.” He muses as lips explore the rough landscape he’d surprisingly come to adore. Jayne’s eyes close against his ministrations and Badger can’t help but be in awe of it— watching a man of such brute force, look so soft.

Another kiss and then another as clothes begin to fall away between them, mouths exploring without that sense of urgency what seemed to loom over them most days.

He wants to ask; to be taken to Jayne’s room, to be fucked in a place so intimate— but he doesn’t get the chance. Jayne’s fumbling for his clothes, pulling on whatever he can and putting distance between them as quickly as possible with a foreign curse under his breath as River stares, curiously at them both.

“You’re shirt’s on backwards.” Is all she bothers to say from where she laid on the catwalk above.

“Stop spyin’ on people!” There’s a color on Jayne’s cheeks Badger had never seen before, but the man is already leaving him behind as though they weren’t in each others arms a moment before.

He’s left with a feeling in his chest he’d rather not give name to.

Her voice comes out like a song from above, “You should’ve asked him~”

The fourth time:

It’d been a few days of being avoided, which wouldn’t’ve been a problem, if it hadn’t been for the fact that the ship wasn’t as large as it first might’ve seemed.

They’d kept their relationship strictly professional with the usual candor and snark that came with dealing with one another. An apple, offered in peace, and a spiteful bite before the hand off.

He’d watched the way Jayne’s face twisted in disgust— if this were a rouse, Jayne played it all too well.

Badger bid his time, it would only be another week before they’d arrive at his homestead and he’d be too busy to think about having been cooped up and frustrated over a gorram caveman.

But his feet had carried him to Jayne’s room; his hand had lifted and knocked on the metal door and when the man answered, shirtless and sleep-mussed, Badger had shoved him inside, door closing shut behind them.

He leaned up, a want to finish what they’d started before, and he was met with earnest; a man completely different than how he’d seemed, now eagerly welcoming him into his arms.

Badger kissed and bit and pressed Jayne back against the man’s bunk, moving to straddle as clothes were stripped further until skin pressed hot against skin. Strong hands were on his hips, grinding him down for want of friction, of more—

He leaned back, fingertips trailing the flat of Jayne’s stomach before taking them both in his grasp with sure strokes.

Jayne rolled his hips eagerly, gaze settling on the way Badger moved above him before pleasure deigned lull his head back against his bunk with a soft curse. The moan is almost sinful, drawn from that smug mouth and Badger leans down to kiss, to steal it away for himself.

A hand comes up, fingers running through his hair before Jayne’s bulk flips them over and Badger is pressed down against the man’s bunk. Not a moment is spared on any sort of momentary look, no drinking in, no sweet lingering kiss; Jayne’s leaned to the side, fumbling through compartments that might house what he’s looking for and when he finds it— there’s a knock on his door.

“他妈的!” The curse is spat through gritted teeth before he tosses the bottle against the bunk and moves off of Badger to pull on his pants with more curses under his breath. “What?”

“Captain’s calling a meeting in the galley, put on some clothes and head there, I’m gonna get the others.” Zoe's voice is soft, but sure. He recognizes it from where he’s laid out on Jayne’s bunk, still as a statue and just as hard.

There’s hesitation in Jayne’s voice, before he clears his throat, “I’ll get the others, you just head on up.”

They part and Jayne closes the door before turning back.

“Nice save.” A smirk pulls on Badger’s lips as his hips lift just enough to sway, touch-starved cock longing for attention. “What were you going t' do with this?” He holds up the bottle of lube, a challenge on his tongue. “Were you going t' fuck me?”

The growl on Jayne’s lips is all too delicious.

The fifth time:

He’d told them to keep a low profile while they were there. The old homestead was hardly any different than what he remembered, same old primordial ooze that had Inara already turning her nose up at. It was a far cry from Persephone’s wealth and the kingdom he’d established for himself, but here— among the dredges, were his roots.

Mal had offered Jayne to stay by his side while Badger conducted his business, and Jayne kept close like the body guard Badger paid him to be.

He’s tickled by it.

It takes a sort of finesse to get the information he wants, to follow clues without giving too much away— he avoids the people he use to know, listens in on others. Jayne hates it— hates waiting, and there’s something feral about a man itching for a good fight, or a good fuck, that draws Badger in like a moth to a flame.

It takes one mistake, one accidental moment of recognition before fingers are pointed his way and shouts. Guns are drawn and there’s a wild sort of glee in Jayne’s eyes, as they hide away behind an overturned bar table.

“You’re right, they really do hate you.” Jayne keeps his head low as he peers over the table’s lip. Badger tucks into his side, trying not to get shot.

“It’s a relatively big club.” He chides, ducking at the sound of a bullet whizzing past.

“Can’t figure why you’d want to leave a great place like this.” Jayne moves and shoots a man in the chest from over the lip of the table before ducking back down. He cocks his gun and goes for another before a bullet splinters the edge of the table and he falls back.

“Jayne!” Badger reaches for him fearing the worst, but Jayne bats him away.

“I’m fine, just got splintered is all.” Spoken with more annoyance than anything, and Badger can’t measure the amount of relief he feels. But they can’t stay pinned down forever, and Badger tugs Jayne’s attention in the direction they’d need to escape the firefight.

It takes some ducking and crawling and eventually they’re able to run far from the chaos. It isn’t until they’re far enough away that he felt safe enough to slow down and catch their breath—

—and it isn’t until they’ve stopped, that he’s noticed the blood on Jayne’s face.

His heart drops and worry etches it’s way across his features as he lifts his hands to look, hesitant in his touch, the blood is everywhere his lips have been; against a cheek, along his jaw, down the line of his neck.

His heart races with a panic he hadn’t felt in ages, but Jayne’s got a hand on his wrist and an expression of his own: worry muddled with confusion.

“I told ya, I got splintered is all.” Jayne’s voice is soft, reassuring, and Badger’s breath feels punched out of his lungs as he leans up and seals away the taste of copper on Jayne’s lips.

The shout comes distant— Kaylee’s running over to them, “Captain! I found them!"

[atenderofsycamoretrees]

idk idk guys i was reading old fic and i actually like this one? space!AU battle of camlann? i think if you’re familiar with the battle of camlann this basically makes sense? idk idk?

basically new britain is space!UK, camallate & most of the small town names like vallone and til tomeil is space!england, glamorgan is space!wales, and manassah is space!scotland.

---

Marguel looks at him steadily, and Athyr feels suddenly weary and sick. All this time he's been telling himself everything will be fine -- maybe even pretending that the last year never happened, it was just a fever dream. But Marguel's eyes, which have always been so hard and determined, are watching him now with something a lot like pity, and he knows it's all true. Inescapable.

Nine months slipping in and out of consciousness in an Alliance hospital and the Brocelliande's sickbay, nine months being opened up and sewn shut, doctors taking things out and putting things in and pulling on the ends of things to gauge his reflexes like hitting buttons on a dash and seeing what happens. Nine months, and what's he got to show for it? This long, white scar on his chest and Marguel's pity, finally, after forty-five years.

She startles him by moving suddenly, and he follows the movement to see her put her hand on his knee. He sees it.

But he doesn't feel anything. Nothing at all.

"Athyr," she says softly. "Tell me what happened. I've been waiting all this time for you to tell me."

"No, not now--" His voice comes out like a kid's, stretched with misery.

"Yes. Now. Why the hell are you here and not back there ruling that planet? Why did I have to pick your body out of a field of dead men? I trusted you. I thought you weren't just Vtere's bastard fool, I gave you a chance. I thought you'd know better than to waste lives. What happened?"

Athyr fights back the urge to bury himself under the blankets. He's never thought of himself as a coward, but right now he's so tired, and everything is so wrong. He doesn't want to be fighting with Marguel. He wants to be back in Gwen's arms, or listening to Lanselos talking some smart-ass trash while they're in their cups.

"The duel," he says, finally.

---

The duel is the first step to the end, far more than anything Lanse could have done. Athyr knows it, and he knows he's as like to be shot as anything. Lanse has always been better with a gun in his hand, and he's got no alternative -- Athyr was too generous in not having him executed outright, and he's got to take this chance and win it, because he won't get another. So he'll shoot to kill now; he has to. It doesn't matter whether he's Athyr's xiong di now.

But he never gets the chance.

The hot New Britain wind blows Athyr's hair around his face, blows sand down the back of his neck. He can't make out Lanse's expression from where he's standing, but Lanse is holding his pistol perfectly steady. Athyr watches the barrel, concentrating on the dirty air and Bedwyr's voice, tense and sharp, and everything else that he ought to pull into himself with one deep breath because any minute now it's just going to end--

And suddenly he reels back on the pitch, all his breath gone, and a pain like fire in his shoulder. When he lifts his eyes, he's not looking at Lanse. He's watching Hall security surround Gwen, who's holding her hands up calmly -- handing Bedwyr her gun like it's nothing -- and then things start to blur with the pain, and he's dimly aware that Marguel is beside him.

When things come clear, Gwen is in prison, Lanse is gone, and Gwalchmai is at his door, Medraut his sardonic shadow, demanding action. And Athyr, because he's useless, because he has no idea what to do, slips down to the prison to talk to Gwen. He's always talked to her before.

"Athyr LeGuin, you're a fool," she says. He's sitting across from her on one of the stiff bunks in her cell. "What do you think I was doin'?"

"You shot me."

"I was aimin' at him."

"At him?" Athyr stares at her. "Why? I thought--"

"Listen, love ain't blind, dong ma? If it comes between this kingdom and that shithead, hell, yes, I'd shoot him. And I don't mind settin' in prison for it, if it works."

"Ain't no one seen him since."

"Good. Maybe he run, maybe now we can get this mire of horseshit cleaned out." Her mouth pulls in a weary smile, and Athyr reaches out to touch her cheek. "Look, didn't we both like him? But he ain't worth everything you done. And you can do the right thing, you just need somebody helpin' you who ain't stupid or corrupt."

"We could use Cai," Athyr says tiredly.

"Selfish son of a bitch, gettin' killed."

For a moment he hangs back, and then he leans forward to kiss her. Her mouth is just the same as it's ever been, welcoming and familiar and strong enough to keep him from fucking everything up again, and for a minute Athyr really thinks they can get back from this. Appease Gwalchmai, fix the government, get it all back.

Then he hears the banging at the gate, and startles to his feet. "Shit, what now?" as he goes to the door of the cell, and he only sees Lanse's face for a split-second before things go dark again.

This time he takes longer to come to, and when he does, Marguel is sitting by his bed, frowning off into space.

"Hey," he says softly. She looks over at once.

"Good, you're awake. Everything's gone to hell, xiao di."

"What happened?"

"Lanselos Auelon bashed in your head and kidnapped your wife." Marguel's hands twist in her lap, and he knows that's not all. "And he killed Gadriet and Gahereth while he was at it. You're running out of nephews, Athyr."

His chest tightens. "Stop that."

She sits back, her thin face white. "A duel isn't going to get you off this time. You're going to have to have him killed. You'd better do it soon."

"He's still got Gwen?"

"As far as anyone knows. No more options, I mean it. Your whole Council is gone, except Bedwyr. This kingdom is falling to pieces around your head. Your family's being killed off, one by one--"

"Jesus Christ!" He throws off the hospital blanket and stumbles to his feet, his head spinning. "Shut up! No. I know what I'm doin'. I'm the gorram king, ain't I? I'm the Dragon."

"You're a child and you've always been a child--"

Before he knows what he's doing, Athyr grabs her by the shoulders. "Listen to me, goddammit. You been poisonin' me and watchin' me and judgin' me since you come to me, ain't you ever judged me fit? I made this place good. For years. I got through findin' out the Merdhin was cheatin' me, I got through all that fightin' with Glamorgan, I opened up the trade alliances, I got these people homes and food and the things they need, I loved my family. All of them. Everything single ruttin' one, even Dad, even you, you hear me? Now I know I'm walkin' a thin edge here, I only got one chance. But I got you and I got Bedwyr and Medraut can talk sense into his brother, and I'll getting this thing fixed. I'll make it better. I'm the king, I'll make it better! That's what kings do when their people get wronged. And if I have to shoot my best friend, I'll do it, I ain't a coward and I ain't a kid, dong ma, Marguel? Dong ma?" It comes out almost a shout at the end.

Marguel looks up at him, her thin mouth thinner than ever and her hard eyes... inscrutable. Finally she says, "Go fix it, then, xiao di."

In the end, she doesn't help much. In the end, it turns into a tug of war between Bedwyr, calling caution, and Gwalchmai, who's still blind-hearted with grief. And Athyr gives in to his nephew, because Gwalchmai's been through so much, because he can't imagine how his own heart would break to lose his son.

He makes Medraut regent, despite his protests, and gathers up the best of the army, though by now a lot of it is old soldiers on pension, like Bedwyr, and young folks who joined because they want to work Hall security. Lanselos, his trackers tell him, is holed up in Vallone, but Gwen's not with him. That doesn't matter now, though. They head out.

He never does get to Lanse. Sure, they set up camp outside Vallone and send people in after him, but Lanse is a hider and a mover, and it doesn't take Athyr long to guess he's probably slipped into Glamorgan and gone dockside somewhere. He doesn't say anything. Let them waste a little time with Vallone, it'll put the hard part off.

By the time he suggests Glamorgan, Lanse has probably already taken a boat off planet. Athyr spends the night beforehand sitting outside his tent on an empty wooden crate, looking up at New Britain's stars. It's beautiful up there. It really is. And Lanse is floating in it somewhere.

It was strange he settled down so long to begin with, Athyr thinks. Lanse is a mover, not the kind to stay on one planet for twenty-five years, serving the same man -- serving any man at all. It's no surprise he's gone.

And now that he is, maybe Athyr can build things back. If he's gone -- it won't be justice, not for Gwalchmai, not for those boys -- Athyr's grandchildren, God, but he can't think that or he'll be sick -- but at least the kingdom can move on. He'll strengthen things up. Fix the cracks. Medraut has a child -- his line isn't over. Things will come back together.

Gwalchmai doesn't take well to the idea that Lanse has slipped them. He demands they get passage into Glamorgan, though Athyr already knows they'll be denied. The red tape takes over a week, just to get a negative.

When the message comes that there's been a revolt in Camallate, Athyr almost doesn't have the heart to be surprised. He surely does look like a fool. A bumbling man who let his wife cheat and get away, let the man who killed his family escape into political asylum, sacrificing the good of the kingdom for favouritism and nepotism. What's he really done throughout this ordeal? Get shot once and once concussed.

What surprises him is that it wasn't Marguel who stirred it up, or even a body of angry citizens.

It was Medraut.

As it turns out, the city is divided. When word gets out that he's coming back to Camallate, half the city's soldiers and mercenaries turn out to meet him -- some of them legit soldiers trained by the Hall, and some of them the kind of folks Athyr was so famous for harboring back at the beginning, the Alliance fugitives, the reform criminals, the people looking to get another chance under the radar. They remember what he did, and they offer themselves. But most of the young people stay with Medraut. All they know are Athyr's mistakes.

The first battle is its own disaster. Medraut isn't a strategist, and Athyr has Bedwyr to think for him, but he's reluctant to strike out against his own people and his own son, and he holds back.

The second battle is worse. Somehow Medraut's people don't regroup in Camallate; Medraut abandons the Hall as if it were a canyon during a flood. They move in a semi-circle, arcing away from Camallate up towards the north, then easing back down again until they hit Bredigan. So Athyr lays siege. Camallate has the Menw, and Marguel and all her doctor's knowledge. They can afford casualties now. Medraut has disadvantaged himself by basing out of a city meant for civilian work, partially unusable where the mine has made the ground unsafe. New Britain has been secure for so long that Bredigan has no defence system, no walls or slopes, just residential houses made of mud and brick and wood.

Athyr remembers those houses from the Ascension Wars, when he fought Morodd in and around this part of New Britain for what felt like unending weeks. He remembers those houses.

Those houses burn.

He doesn't stay to watch.

Gwalchmai insists on fighting with Athyr in the third battle. "You tried to find me justice," he tells Athyr, The grief flickering in his eyes reminds Athyr of the unsettling way Gadriet always used to look around, as if he were hearing things you couldn't hear, looking at people you couldn't see. He knows he should send Gwalchmai to the Menw, but right then he feels that grief himself, gripping his lungs, and all he says is,--

"All right. You go in, on this one."

The last time he sees Gwalchmai, his always-laughing bright-eyed black-haired nephew is fighting hand to hand with Medraut, both of them with knives. He can hear Medraut pleading, in a thin, desperate voice, though all the words he hears are "Kill me, dammit, come on, brother, kill me--" Then Medraut's hand slips, and his knife is up to the hilt in Gwalchmai's pale neck.

Athyr drops his gun and runs at Medraut, but before he ever gets there he hears shots, and some kid runs in to cover Medraut's retreat. Athyr turns to see the shooter.

It's Gwen.

"Jesus Christ," he says, only it comes out just as thin and desperate as Medraut's voice.

"We're retreating," she yells. "Get off the field! We're pulling back for now."

They get back to the rough camp together. By the time they arrive, Gwen's starting to limp, and Athyr half-catches her as she collapses outside the med team's tent.

"Where'd you get hit? Leg?"

"Yeah, leg," she says, panting, ripping open the leg of her jeans. "Fucker."

"What happened to you?"

Gwen looks up at him, raising one eyebrow. "I ran away."

"From Lanse?"

"No, from fucking Bedwyr. Yeah, from Lanse. He wanted to rescue me. I told him I was where I wanted to be, said I was done blowin' things to pieces just 'cause the sex was good." She looks back down at her lap. "Gave me that look like I kicked him, the bastard. I slipped him halfway to Vallone and went to ground in Til Tomeil, but it's goddamn prairie out there, got lost once or twice. By the time I got there fightin' was already started. So I got my gun and came out."

"Jesus, you crazy woman."

"Pretty fine comin' from you. What the hell's goin' on?"

"Don't know," Athyr says quietly, and then Gwen puts her arms around him and he holds onto her, trying to steady all the spinning inside him.

During the fourth battle, she's shot and killed.

Athyr halts everything to bury her. It's bad strategy, but he doesn't rutting care, he wouldn't care if Medraut's whole army came down and killed them all right then. He gives her the full military funeral, with scratchy music from somebody's tape and gunshot salutes and a medal for bravery laid over the sheet that covers her body. But when it comes time to bury her, he and Bedwyr go out alone.

He wants to put her somewhere distant. She came to him as a pilot, she gave up the sky for him. He wants her somewhere wide and directionless and unexplored as the whole of space.

Bedwyr finally makes him stop because his legs are giving out, and when they've rested a little they dig the grave together and lay her out with her boots and her guns. No marker, Athyr says. She has to be free. Can't tie her down somewhere.

So they don't.

The days when Lanse mattered seem like a half a million years ago, way off in the distance. His best friend-- but what the hell does that matter now? Everything is crumbling -- like Marguel said, falling to pieces around him. Gwalchmai and Gwen are dead. He's fighting his own son for a kingdom he barely wants any more. He's too tired to want anything.

Some nights he wonders if it's too late to call the whole thing off. Tell the soldiers to go home. Tell them it's over, Medraut's won. Let it end. But he's seen their faces, he knows they think he's right. They think he's worthy of a second chance to do right. They'll fight to give it to him.

The eleventh battle, Athyr suddenly stops in the middle of the clamour of bleeding and dying and sees Medraut only ten feet away from him. Medraut lifts his head at almost the same moment.

The sound Medraut makes is agonised. It's like an animal screaming, like an animal dying. Athyr forces himself not to clap his hands over his ears. There's accusation in every note of that sound: you did this, you did this, and it's true, and Jesus it's true. Then the sound stops, and there's silence all around him, and the crack of a pistol. He can see the smoke of gunpowder wafting around Medraut's hand.

He raises his hand and the gun Merdhin gave him when he was fifteen, the pistol monogramed with Vtere Liung's initials, his proof of blood. At the same second that Medraut's bullet hits him in the middle of his chest, he fires.

After that, nothing.

---

"I found you," Marguel says in the silence. "I knew you were there. I just -- I knew. So I found you. You were hardly breathing. Your sternum was shattered into pieces. So I found Nimiane and I took you to Ariel."

"Nine months."

"Yes. Six in their hospital, three here with me. I didn't have credit. My card is -- it's useless now. You were my only bargaining chip. They asked me for the rights to your body, and I gave them."

"What's been done to me?"

"I don't know. I've run tests, but you haven't been awake, or aware. I haven't been able to check results. But I'll keep trying--"

"What's been done to me?" Athyr says again, louder.

Marguel's gaze is still pitying. Not the condescending pity she used to show him, the kind that meant I'm sorry you're so stupid; real pity. I'm sorry you've come to this. Quietly she says, "You can't feel anything. You respond to no haptic stimuli. That's all I know so far. There's probably much more."

"What about Medraut?"

"He's dead, xiao di. You killed him."

When he finally speaks to her again, a week later, the first thing he asks is, "What about your kids?"

"They're fine," Marguel says. Her eyes are on the heart monitor by his cot in the sickbay. "They're grown up. Marhine has her own clinic on Manassah. Evein survived the war. They don't need their mother any more. They'll be fine."

"What about Bedwyr?"

"Grieving, when I left. Lukyn was killed."

"What about my grandson?"

"Don't ask so many questions!" she snaps, turning on him. "You sound like a child again! I've made the same sacrifice you have, I can't go back either! They're lost to me too."

Silence.

Then, finally, Marguel says, "He's fine. Medraut's wife and that writer evacuated to Arden the same day you were shot."

Athyr closes his eyes and lets her put something in his arm. Then he sleeps.

In his dream he kneels beside Medraut. Medraut is bleeding everywhere, thick and steady, from his stomach, and his hands shake as he clasps Athyr's. He leaves a long smear of burgundy on Athyr's skin. It's the same colour as the wine New Britain exports.

"What else could I do?" he says. "You didn't give me any choice. You let this happen, goddammit. If you hadn't been in love with that bastard we all would have lived."

"Jesus, I'm sorry," Athyr tells him. "Jesus-- I shoulda never-- Jesus, Medraut--"

Medraut backhands him, fingerpainting his cheek with another smear of blood. Then he spits on him. Athyr lets go, backing away on his knees.

"Erzi--"

"No, I'm not."

Athyr wakes to Marguel uncapping a punch hypo while he tries to breathe. She slips it under his skin and decompresses it all the way, and slowly his breathing turns slow and steady again. But he doesn't feel anything.

Nothing at all.

[ecotone99]

[SF] NO MAN LEFT BEHIND

NO MAN LEFT BEHIND

Marsh heard a loud clank from the engine room.

“Open the gorram hatch, white man,” Kunta hissed in pain.

Letting him into the craft through the emergency hatch, Marsh shuts the hatch and locks it.

“How much blood did you loose ? Jesus!”

“Bellona. She shot me,” revealed Kunta ,“She’s aligned her interests with the Syndicate.”

“That’s bull,” dismissed Marsh.

“Got some flesh and a peeking bone that says otherwise . She gon’ pay. I’m not the kind of man you flip sides on”

“Why would she? After so many years, betray the revolution like that. Or me.” Marsh began to reason.

“Fool! It Don’t make the slightest difference why she done it. She ain’t gon’ like being on the other end of this gunshot,” Kunta bellowed as he stapled his wound shut, “this mission is a gorram trainwreck is what it is. Where is Henley?”

“He left to get me a crunk propeller for the rear shaft. Should have returned by now.”

“Where do you think he gon’ find a propeller on a station full of Laserjets?”

“The syndicate Arrowhead ships have backup propellers,” Marsh lights up as he hears Henley’s rover pull up besides the ship, “you alright Henley ? Did you find it ?”

“There were Syndicate soldiers everywhere man. I couldn’t get anywhere near an Arrowhead class ship. Our cover is blown ,they’ve looking for us . Did you retrieve the package Kunta ?”

“Bellona has finked on us. She tipped them off, Henley. Wretched woman. Shot me right through the deltoid . Lost her gorram mind.”

“Bellona flipped? I wouldn’t believe you but after the ruckus I just saw out there, I think I might’ve even seen her with the Syndicate soldiers,” Henley declared.

“So, Marsh, this ship gon’ fly or what ? Seeing as you still don’t got no propellers.”

“If there is any power left in the barette engine, she might take off, but that’s pretty much it,” Marsh divulged, “she wont get us out of this station, let alone the atmosphere.”

“Have you ever been captured by the Syndicate , young ’un ? Ever get questioned by them ? Ever had your toenails turned inside out ? ” Henley solicited, “I hope you get this thing started before we are surrounded by Arrowheads and you lose a couple fingers getting questioned about something you know nothing about .”

“Give it a whirl kid,” Kunta interjected.

Marsh boosted up the engine muttering to himself, “No.. systems.. ready.. to go.”

The Carrier class ship lit up with a zhyyiuu sound, rose 20 metres in the air and hovered a bit before crashing back down with a thunderous cacophony, followed by loud sirens throughout the space station. Promptly, an Arrowhead class Syndicate Laserjet lowered besides the crashed ship.

“Die before you are captured!” howled Henley, aiming his blaster.

The airlock released the hatch revealing a woman.

“Bellona ?”

“Need a ride ?”she smirked “I got what we came for.”

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