#hand sweep sensor switch

[cinakira]

double function IR sensor switch (hand wave sensor and door trigger sensor )for DC12v Led lights or led strips .

Compared with our common door trigger sensor or hand wave sensor ,this one can make lights gradually on and off which is better for our eyes .

door trigger sensor #wardrobe door sensor #cabinet door trigger sensor switch #12v cabinet door trigger sensor switch#led cabinet light sensor

[kallie-den]

Hunting Hound

Leinth Aritimis, a rebel pilot, is captured by the enemy. Her personal hero, Sartha Thrace, is there to be a lifeline - but she's a changed woman. Can Leinth set Sartha free? Or is Sartha so lost to Handler's brainwashing, she'll betray a woman who trusts her above everything else?

This is a sequel to Warhound! Please make sure to read that story first so that you can understand this one

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Nothing makes Leinth Aritimis feel good the way being saddled up in the cockpit of a huge mech suit does.

It’s not a rare refrain for a pilot. Most are enraptured by the sheer power it brings. You can feel it in your gut; the thrum of the engine, the shaking of the earth, the divine thunder of artillery. It’s never been that for Leinth, though. Truth be told, the noise and fury of her own Genetor still frightens her at times. But what really matters is what it lets her do.

Fight.

Leinth never set out to be a hero herself. She just wanted to be a little like her own heroes. To do her part. That was the least anyone could do, and the duty had grown heavy in her belly during the last years of her adolescence, until she was finally old enough to join up. The war isn’t going well. They’re always on the back foot. But that means Leinth always has something to defend, and knowing that makes her strong. The looks of hope and relief she sees on peoples’ faces when she dismounts after a long, hard-fought battle - that’s what feels good.

Now, after a couple of years, people were starting to call her a hero. Crazy.

She doesn’t deserve it, and she always tells them so. She’s no Sartha Thrace, and her Genetor is certainly no Ancyor. Ancyor is a proud old beast. Genetor is a slab. A fortress as much as a vehicle. Huge, angular, unwieldy - but not for Leinth. She’s learned well how to wield it. In her hands, the rebel prototype is a bulwark. She takes pride in that, and she’s proud of her machine in turn. Proud of the way it keeps moving even now, with an awful, jagged chunk taken out of its right leg.

Leinth reaches up overhead and punches a few switches, shunting power into the sensor suite for one more sweep. A few moments later, it clicks back its report. Nothing. No movement. That’s a  relief. Maybe it’s actually over.

“Genetor reporting,” she says into her radio. “Sector is clear. I’m gonna stay out just a little longer. Make sure the bastards are gone for good.”

You got it, comes the warm reply, after a brief burst of static. But I think we got ‘em, Leinth. Don’t wear yourself out.

Right now there’s little choice but to take the sensors at their word. No use looking outside, that’s for damn sure. The day’s fighting has turned the cityscape into a blackened ruin where ash hangs in the air like fog, billowing on unnatural winds. What tall buildings remain are nothing more than burnt rebar skeletons ; in amongst them are the carcasses of mechs that haven’t quite managed to fall, looming over the shattered concrete like strange, harrowed statues. Most of them are so ravaged by the firestorm, Imperial and rebel models look exactly alike.

It’s demoralizing. But as long as there’s land and there’s people, they can rebuild. Leinth always insists upon that, to herself.

It’s been bad here. Intense. A fresh Imperial offensive. There’s no telling how much worse tomorrow might be. This could have been the final battle or merely an opening skirmish. Sometimes the resources and reserves at the enemy’s disposal seem all but unlimited. There’s a push-pull logic to the ever-moving front lines that Leinth can’t perceive. It’s not her job to, as a pilot. But like everyone else, she knows that they are not winning.

Maybe they can win here. Maybe Leinth can be the rock on which the tide breaks. She’s the one who never loses faith.

The falling dusk is a mercy, in a way. It hides the worst of the damage, and the most heartbreaking details. The contents of a wardrobe and a life ripped out of a building by an artillery shell and strewn all over the ashen ground. No good comes from looking. Those things - the human traces, the human remains - are too small for most mech pilots to notice. But in quiet moments, Leinth finds herself looking, magnifying them to fill the Genetor’s viewscreen. It’s a bad habit, and the darkness of night saves her from it. If she indulges, it’s too easy to let her thoughts turn to dark things.

Dark things like Sartha Thrace.

It’s been months since she disappeared. She went out like a hero. Her Ancyor was last seen plunging deep into the enemy’s lines to fight a furious rearguard. She’s listed as MIA not KIA, technically, but Leinth has done her best to make her peace with her hero’s passing. The rumors are making it damn hard, though. Rumors about seeing the Ancyor back in service on the wrong side of the war. Rumors about it moving the way only she could make it move.

Leinth hates hearing that shit. She’s said so often enough and angrily enough that no one says it to her face anymore. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t overhear when people are whispering about it. And it’s hard as hell to get it out of her head. Sartha Thrace means the world to her. Meant the world to her. That poster above her bunk in the barracks. An idol. Even Leinth’s transition goal, in the early days before she knew better. Now the kind thing to do is to let her memory rest until the time comes when they can honor it properly.

It’s not that she doesn’t wish Sartha Thrace was still alive. She wishes that more than anything. Especially in battles like these, it sure would be nice to have a hero to believe in.

Genetor! Headed your way! Leinth!

The urgency of her CO’s voice on the radio catches her attention just as much as her name. Leinth snaps back to attention and looks down at her scope - and then freezes. Her first response - her rational response - is that it’s a glitch. It has to be. It doesn’t make sense for a heat signature like that to be moving that fast. Then instinct takes flight. Leinth can feel it already. The vibrations. The heat in the air. She brings Genetor around to face the new threat, brings her weapons up, and kicks her searchlights up to max.

It’s too late. No time to brace herself. Ancyor is upon her.

Leinth would recognize its savage face anywhere, even here, and it makes her hesitate. If she wasn’t already screwed, that pause is what screws her. Once Leinth can make her hands move, it’s far too late to make use of Genetor’s shields. And Ancyor doesn’t stop to launch a blow. It simply barrels into her. With a raw howl of steel on steel, the mechs collide. Genetor might be a slab, but Ancyor is monstrously strong and it has momentum. There’s no contest. The impact sends Leinth off-balance. The ACS screams at her, but there’s nothing to be done.

Genetor topples over. The bastion falls.

And it will not be allowed to stand. Ancyor is still on her, driving its massive chainblades into the prone mech’s limbs. Leinth cries out in panic. She feels the severance in her own flesh. The rattling, the noise, the flashing lights as Genetor’s systems struggle to shunt power to the cockpit - it’s a nightmare. She already knows she’s lost. There’s no coming back from this.

But it gets worse. Ancyor rears up, and amongst the ashen city, lit only by Genetor’s flickering searchlights, it looks truly awful in its lupine fury. Then it brings its fist down, right on the cockpit. The sound of the blow is an awful crunch; a noise no metal should ever make. Leinth screams as the wall of her cockpit starts to bow in against her. Genetor holds, but only just. Another blow has it convulse, and Leinth’s scream is silenced when her head is thrown back against the back of the cockpit. No ACS to compensate now.

She starts seeing in black and white. Not good. Concussion, at least. It happened so fast. Leinth is still struggling to believe in what she’s seeing and feeling. It doesn’t make sense.

There’s only one woman who can pilot Ancyor like this. But it’s not her. It’s not her.

There’s no third blow. Or if there is, Leinth is too far gone to feel it. She hears something, though. Other vehicles approaching. Not mechs. Smaller. They get close, then stop, then Leinth hears scrambling. Shouting. Climbing. The realization of what’s happening makes her breath catch with fear, but she’s beyond even adrenaline now. Darkness is here for her.

The last thing she feels before oblivion is the Imperial engineers starting to drill their way into Genetor’s cockpit.

***

There is no time, in the room. No daylight, no clock. Leinth has been counting sleeps and by that tally it’s been fifteen days, but that’s surely off by a day or more. Especially given how hard she got knocked around.

Leinth remembers being pulled from Genetor’s cockpit. She remembers being bound and guarded and dragged into an infirmary, to receive only the most basic medical care. Leinth had been in and out for most of that, twitching and shouting whenever she was close to consciousness, but then they gave her something that brought her all the way back up to uncomfortably sharp awareness. Then, an interrogation. Noise, bright lights, sternness, threats - the usual. Crude. Blunt. Like all pilots, Leinth has prepared herself for this long ago. They got nothing from her.

She’d been bracing herself for torture to follow - but no. At least, not that kind of torture. Something had interrupted the proceedings. There had been a whisper in an ear, and then a strange ripple had gone through her interrogators. With fresh urgency, they’d dragged her to her feet and she’d been taken somewhere else. Somewhere down, under the hangar, far beneath the rest of the Imperial base.

It’s strange here. The walls are dark, and it’s much too quiet. None of the hustle and bustle that’s everywhere in any normal military facility. Since then, nothing. Leinth has been left to sit and rot in her uncertainty and her boredom. The solitude is maddening. There is nothing to disturb it except occasional meals given at irregular intervals through a slot in the door.

From how it leaves her feeling, Leinth is pretty sure the food is drugged. She eats most of it anyway. Tricking her into starving herself could be another way of softening her up.

The sound of locking bolts retracting into the wall heralds change. At once, Leinth is completely focused. Any information about her situation, any stimulation at all, is a sweetness she’s desperate for. When the heavy cell door swings open, she catches sight of the person holding the key. Immediately she regrets her eagerness. This is almost more disconcerting than seeing nothing at all.

The menial standing before her had once been an Imperial pilot, judging from the uniform and the wings on her lapel. Once, but no longer. There’s something unmistakably broken about her. Her uniform is wearing thin from neglect and she moves with a strange, stooped, shambling gait that just doesn’t look right on a person. She’s like an animal that’s been beaten one too many times. Leinth wishes she could see her face, if only to verify her humanity, but she can’t. The menial is wearing an awful hood that hides her face - leather, perhaps, and fashioned to look like a dog’s head.

It’s some sick shit, even for Imperials, and Leinth doesn’t have a clue what it means.

All is forgotten, though, when the menial steps aside and reveals Leinth’s visitor.

Sartha Thrace.

Her presence is electricity on Leinth’s skin, and for that reason she knows she’s real even before she pinches herself and blinks - three times, four times, five times. It’s impossible, but she’d know that face anywhere, even here, even in the dim glow of the cell’s lights. It’s the real deal. Leinth believes it with her whole heart, especially when Sartha Thrace flashes her a classic smile and reaches up to rake back her messy blonde hair. Somehow, in the flesh, she’s even more beautiful than she is on the posters.

“Leinth Aritimis?” Sartha says. “Looks like you got scooped up pretty rough, huh?”

“I… I… you…” Leinth’s mouth is struggling to catch up with her brain. There are too many questions, and the first to fall from her lips is embarrassingly juvenile. “You… know who I am?”

“Sure.” Sartha walks into the cell - ushered in, it seems - and the door closes behind her. “We fought together, right? The Dacian salient?”

Leinth nods numbly. She remembered. She actually remembered. They’d only met in passing, as two pilots amongst many, and Leinth had been nobody then. She’d assumed Sartha Thrace had taken no notice of her. She feels - and notes with humor - a faint flicker of gratitude for her captivity.

Then she blinks. She remembers her place.

“I should…” Leinth stands and salutes as best she can. “Captain!”

“Woah, easy.” Sartha laughs and waves her off. “I’ve never been a stickler, Leinth, and it doesn’t seem to make much sense here. Just call me ‘Sartha’.”

Leinth nods. She can barely believe her luck. It’s like a dream come true - circumstances notwithstanding.

“So they… they got you?” Leinth asks slowly, as Sartha walks over and sits next to her on the long bench that’s one of the cell’s only features. “We all thought you were dead.”

“Yeah.” Sartha smiles faintly. “I guess they did.”

“I saw Ancyor out there,” Leinth says. “It’s what took me down. I guess they… gods.”

Sartha doesn’t reply. She just looks down. In the dim light, Leinth can see there’s a strange look in her eye. Distant. Glassy. She’s not herself, in that moment.

Leinth can’t blame her for it. She doesn’t want to think about how she’d feel if she knew someone else had taken Genetor from her. Was using it against her people. The violation would be monstrous. She silently prays her mech was too damaged for that.

“So,” she says, hoping to bring Sartha back. “What happens now? To us. To… me.”

“Wish I could tell you.” Sartha looks up. She sounds OK again. “I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.”

“Did…” Leinth is afraid to ask, but she needs to know. “Have they done something to you? Anything I should prepare myself for?”

Sartha looks down again. “I don’t… know.”

Leinth has no words for that. She shivers. She clamps down hard on her own, faint disappointment. She tries to remind herself that Sartha Thrace is more than a hero on a poster above Leinth’s bunk. She’s been through hell. Anyone would be in pieces after months down here.

“But,” Sartha adds after a long moment, “you’ll be OK. I remember how I felt when they first put me down here. You’re strong. This is not the end. I’m still here, aren’t I? And now there’s two of us. It’ll be easier.”

Now Leinth feels ashamed of even that initial flicker of disappointment. She can hear the grit in Sartha Thrace’s voice. She can feel the warmth, and she is warmed by it. Thanks to her - thanks only to her - this chthonic hell feels bearable. She’s gonna get through this. They’re going to get through this. She can believe that, with a hero at her side. Leinth is so very grateful for Sartha’s presence.

But that begs a question.

“Thank you,” Leinth says, but frowns. “Why do you think they put us together like this?”

“Dunno,” Sartha replies. “She didn’t tell me anything.”

She? Who? The menial? Maybe, but there’s something about how Sartha said it. It’s probably not important.

“Could be they want to get us talking?” Leinth glances around. “This place could be wired for sound. Maybe they’re hoping we’ll let something slip.”

“Maybe.”

“Let’s keep it light, eh?” Leinth says. “Just in case. No secrets.”

“You got it,” Sartha agrees. “I have something important to ask you though.”

“OK.” Leinth glances around again. She decides to trust Sartha’s judgment, but just in case, she leans in so they can whisper to one another. “What?”

“Have you met Her yet?”

“No,” Leinth answers, before thinking. The question puts a nasty feeling in her gut. “Who?”

“Her.”

That one little word contains within it an ocean of feeling. Sartha quivers with excitement as she speaks it. She can barely contain herself. It’s a prayer, swelling with reverence, bursting with unnatural devotion. Leinth can sense already that Sartha is consumed by this ‘Her’. Nothing she said to Leinth before matters. Whatever - whoever - she’s talking about is utterly totalizing.

“Sartha,” Leinth says hesitantly. “What are you talking about?”

Sartha Thrace smiles, and now her smile is all wrong. It’s too serene. “Ah. You haven’t. You’d know if you had. Don’t worry. I’m sure it won’t be long.”

“Sartha…” Leinth’s stomach is plummeting. She’s panicking again. This isn’t right. “What the fuck?”

“She’ll explain everything,” Sartha assures her, and it’s like she thinks Leinth will be grateful for the assurance. “Once She talks to you, everything will make sense. You’ll make sense.”

“Stop talking like this!” Leinth pleads. “Just… just tell me what’s going on.”

Sartha pauses and restrains herself. Leinth can still see the light of energy and enthusiasm brimming within her, though. She’s just holding back because she can see Leinth isn’t ready yet.

“Handler,” she explains. Her tone is worshipful. “Oh, Leinth. You have no idea how wonderful she is!”

“Your…” Leinth feels like she’s going to throw up. “Sartha. Out there. The Ancyor. That… please. Please don’t tell me that was you.”

“It was.” Sartha tilts her head. Her eyes grow distant. “Well. In a way.” 

Leinth doesn’t know what the fuck that means, but she’s heard more than enough. She springs to her feet. Leaps away. Anger is clawing at the inside of her skin.

“Traitor!” she snarls. “How… how could you? How did they… no, no, it doesn’t fucking matter. You betrayed us all!”

Sartha looks saddened, a little. Not enough to doubt herself. “She said you’d say that. But it’s OK. She said that I don’t need to listen. I think she just wants me to help you.”

“Help me? What the…”

Leinth doesn’t want to hear that. It’s awful - that whoever this ‘She’ is, all she has to do is say one word, and Sartha shuts off? That’s inhuman.

“Help you,” Sartha repeats. “It’s… an adjustment. Being with Her. I struggled with it too, at first. At least, I think so. She says I don’t have to remember anymore. But once you accept it - once you accept Her - everything gets better. You’ll see.”

Obviously they’ve done something to her. Brainwashing. Obviously she’s a victim too. Leinth knows that - but knowing isn’t enough. She would have kissed the ground Sartha Thrace walked on. She would have given everything for her. Now she’s with them. Leinth starts to shed tears as her voice becomes a bitter, frigid growl.

“Traitor,” she spits, hoping she can inject enough venom into her voice to make it sting. “You’re a fucking traitor.”

It works. Sartha looks offended. Wounded. She looks away, like she’s trying to go distant again, but she can’t quite manage it. Even now, even after whatever the fuck they did to her, she has just a little bit too much fight for that. She needs to retort.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” Sartha says defensively. “I’m not a… I’m a hero, right? You know that. The way you looked at me, it’s… I’m just here because…”

Because? Leinth can see gears spinning in her head, but she’s going nowhere. She doesn’t know why she’s here, or what she’s doing. Not really. She looks so lost.

“I-I have to do what She says.” Sartha sounds almost pleading now. “It’s not like I’m… we’re soldiers, aren’t we? We follow orders. And Her orders are special.” It’s like she’s tricking herself. Searching for justification. She’s found one now, however thin and false. Her distress abates. “If you just met Her, you’d understand…”

Her confusion is so obvious it hurts to witness. It’s embarrassing. Sartha Thrace is meant to be a hero. She’s meant to be better than this. Contradicting feelings tear into Leinth’s mind. She wants to forgive the confused woman in front of her. Their captors must have done something truly awful to her. But that also makes her presence hard to bear. Is it a warning of what fate they have in store for Leinth? Leinth doesn’t want to think about that. Not for one second.

Sartha Thrace is meant to be better. She’s meant to be the hero on the poster. Not this. Leinth doesn’t want to see her like this.

“Just leave me alone,” Leinth says quietly. When she catches Sartha looking sadly at her, she balls her hands into fists. It pisses her off. “Get the fuck out already! Go. It’s not like you’re a prisoner here, right? I don’t want to fucking look at you.”

She laughs bitterly at that. Sartha looks sorry for both Leinth and herself. She stands.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Sartha says stiffly. “I’ll be back, though. I promise. I don’t want to leave you all on your own down here. And I really think She wants me to help you. To look after you. She’s so kind, you see.”

Leinth just stares at the wall, so Sartha walks over to the door of the cell. She bangs on it twice with her fist and the door opens. Leinth stays dead still until she leaves and the door closes again behind her. Then she buries her head in her hands and starts to sob.

Fuck.

***

After that, it all changes. The solitude and boredom, as interminable as it was, is something Leinth comes to miss. Because after Sartha’s first visit, they start torturing her.

That’s how Leinth chooses to think of it, anyway - torture. She’s not sure what else she’d call it. It’s not a kind of torture she’d ever prepared herself for, though. It’s not an interrogation. There are no questions. It’s not pain for pain’s sake, either. Sometimes it doesn’t hurt at all. They drug her with drugs that make her feel like nothing else. They hook her up to strange machines that seem to do nothing and everything. They shine bright, flickering lights into her eyes, and it’s like they’re projecting something, like an old movie on film, and only part of her mind is able to see it.

Other times, it hurts worse than Leinth could ever describe.

Either way, by the time Leinth is dragged back to the cell she feels like her skin’s been ripped inside out. She feels like one of those mech carcasses, still standing even though they’ve been burned to ash on the inside. All she can do is collapse and lie shivering on the floor of her cell, trying to piece herself back together. Sometimes, all the sensations they inflict on her seem to linger on in her body, burrowing deeper, until she can remind herself they’re not real. Sometimes, the drugs leave her with an impossible euphoria that makes Leinth feel like she can’t trust any of her own thoughts.

At those times, when Leinth is at her very lowest, Sartha Thrace comes to visit. 

The first few times, at least, Leinth finds the strength to tell her to fuck off. To her credit, she does. But Sartha keeps coming and eventually, in a moment of weakness, she relents. It was meant to be just that once, but after that Sartha always ends up staying. Leinth is not made of stone. Without Sartha, she’d never see a single soul except for the hooded menials that drag her from her cell each day, and they barely seem to count as human.

She takes infinite comfort simply in sharing her cell, for a time, with another, familiar person. Just seeing Sartha’s face, seeing her little human gestures like the way she adjusts her clothes and rakes back her hair, makes Leinth feel less crazy. Less alone and forgotten, like she’s died and gone to her own private hell.

Sartha’s good company, too. Even though she’s a traitor. She only wants to talk if Leinth does. She’s never pushy. She’ll put up with Leinth’s insults and anger. And sometimes, it even feels like Leinth is getting through to her.

She’s so beautiful, too. That helps.

After a time, it becomes a rhythm. Torture, then Sartha. The rhythm makes it easier to bear. No matter what they do to her, no matter how it feels, after a while Sartha will be there. They can talk if Leinth needs to hear her voice, or not if Leinth needs quiet. Eventually, her anger abates. There’s no point being angry at Sartha Thrace. They’re both in hell. Maybe Sartha’s just in a little deeper.

The rhythm does trouble her, though. She’s not blind to all the ways it could be used against her. Everything that’s happening to her in this place seems as regular as clockwork, but sometimes Leinth senses something behind that. A presence. A person. The rhythm’s conductor, perhaps. It might even be that mysterious ‘she’ Sartha sometimes refers to.

Or it might not. Maybe Leinth is just losing her mind.

Talking helps with that. It feels like it helps, anyway. Not that there’s much to talk about. Mostly, Leinth talks about herself. Sometimes they talk about the war, although it’s difficult to draw Sartha out on that topic. It’s like she doesn’t want to think about what’s happening, or what side she’s really on. It’s like she prefers to be confused. Leinth learns that if she presses too hard Sartha might shut down on her, or worse, leave, and so Leinth learns not to. She finds the line where she can draw out Sartha’s sense of contradiction without scaring her off.

And sometimes there are glimpses of the old Sartha. Of someone bright and brilliant, full of charisma and heroism. Leinth comes to live for those glimpses. Even now, Sartha is a kind of hero to her.

“’In a way’,” Leinth says slowly, one day, thinking back to their very first conversation. “What did that mean?”

“Huh?” Sartha, sitting just along from her in the cell, turns her head.

“When I asked you about piloting Ancyor,” Leinth presses. “You said it was you - ‘in a way’. Tell me what that means.”

Sartha looks away. “I was… nothing. It was me.”

“Bullshit.” Leinth has learned what it looks like when Sartha doesn’t want to think about something. “Tell me. Stop hiding something.”

Now Sartha sighs. “I’m not… hiding. You just wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

It’s possible she’s pushing too hard, but the question has been burning inside Leinth. After a short time, Sartha sighs.

“It’s like… it’s like there’s someone else in my head,” she says slowly. Then, realizing how that sounds: “I mean, it’s still me. Obviously. But sometimes I can… let them take over. When She wants me to.”

Leinth doesn’t need to say anything. Her expression does all the talking. Sartha gets defensive.

“I-It’s not how it sounds,” Sartha insists. “I’m just not explaining it well. It’s like… it’s like how, sometimes, in the heat of battle, you just go on autopilot. You know that feeling, right?”

Leinth nods.

“It’s just… one step further than that.” She’s grasping and she knows it. Leinth can tell. “It’s better this way. A clearer separation.” Sartha taps her foot restlessly. “I wish She was here. If She explained it to you, you’d understand perfectly.”

“Why do you need to be separated?” Leinth argues back. “I don’t. I want to be me. When I’m piloting. When I’m fighting. I want to know what I’m fighting for. Don’t you?”

“I…” Sartha taps her foot faster. Agitated. “N-no. No, it gets distracting. Better to keep it separate. Better to focus. Better to ignore everything, except orders. Her orders. She says I don’t need to think, and the other me makes it easier. It’s better this way!”

By the end, she’s almost shouting. It’s the first time Sartha’s seen her get so worked up. She wants to push further, but she can sense this is the limit - for now, at least. Maybe Sartha’s mistress doesn’t realize how fragile she is. Maybe Leinth is starting to figure out where the cracks are.

But she’ll be smart about it. Rhythms go both ways. Now she can be the one to provide comfort. She slides along the bench and rests her arm across Sartha’s shoulder. She squeezes her. Sartha relaxes. She welcomes the touch.

“You know,” Leinth says slowly, after a minute or more has passed, “that it wasn’t always like this, right?”

“Yeah.” Sartha’s voice is empty.

“And…” Leinth takes a deep breath. “And you know it’s not like this for most people, don’t you? You know it’s not right.”

Sartha plants her head in her hands. She might be crying. Then slowly, finally, she nods.

***

Time passes. It goes on. It gets worse. Whatever they’re doing to Leinth, it’s getting more intense. Not more painful - no, that would be preferable. Increasingly, instead of agonizing memories that reverberate yet more pain, Leinth is left with no memories at all. She’s left without clarity. Often for hours, even after she’s returned to her cell. Blackouts. Lost time. It’s like her mind, her life, is being packed into smaller and smaller boxes. Each day, less space remains. Less of her is able to survive. The rest is all an endless, wandering fog. Each memory and each clear thought becomes a hard-fought battle.

It’s a war. And Leinth is losing this war too.

The pilot has no defenses against this. She knows how to be strong, but strength isn’t enough. Leinth’s emotions are starting to fray. She screams. She wails. She sobs. She bangs her fists on the cell walls until her skin breaks.

Leinth can’t even count the hours or the days. She can’t tell if she’s putting up a good fight. What haunts her more than anything is that all of this could have been no more than a couple of weeks. What if she’s falling apart like this in just two weeks.

It brings her to despair. Only Sartha Thrace can comfort her.

Leinth is lying across her lap, resting her head in the softness and warmth of her former hero. It’s the only soft thing she ever gets to touch. When the inside of her own head feels like a hive of bees or a yawning abyss, she can lose herself in the slightly scratchy texture of Sartha’s clothes. She can become something that only exists in the present tense, without her past to grasp at and her future to dread.

She can’t remember when she lost enough of her pride to accept this embrace, from a woman she’s called a traitor. But Leinth is glad she did. Without this, she couldn’t make it. Her very worst fear is that one day, Sartha will simply stop appearing at the door of her cell. She just has to pray they won’t start using that against her.

Sometimes they talk. Not often, though. What’s there to talk about? Nothing changes down here. Leinth tries to keep working Sartha, though. Putting her fingers in those cracks. Pulling them apart. She thinks it's working - not that she trusts herself to judge. But Sartha talks less about ‘Her’. She seems more uncomfortable, whenever Leinth questions. That’s something, right? That’s hope?

None of that today, though. Leinth isn’t together enough for it. All she can do is rest her head in Sartha’s lap and sob.

She tries to sob silently and cover the shaking motions she makes when her breath catches awkwardly in her throat. Maybe she doesn’t want to cry so nakedly in front of an enemy. Maybe she doesn’t want to cry so nakedly in front of her hero. Either way, she keeps her face turned away and hopes Sartha can’t quite see her in the dark.

Then it strikes her: of course she can. It’s dim in here, but not pitch black. And Sartha’s head is right above her. Of course she can see.

Leinth pulls her arms and legs in tighter. She tucks in her head. “Sorry,” she says quietly.

Mercifully, Sartha doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even make some condescending, cooing little noise. She just, very gently, reaches down and starts to stroke Leinth’s hair.

Leinth closes her eyes. At first in shame, but slowly she relaxes. Sartha’s touch is startlingly pleasant. It feels like an angel’s touch. Suddenly, Leinth is struck with a kind of vision.

She imagines that it’s the Sartha Thrace from the poster, sitting above her, stroking her hair. Sartha Thrace as she once was. Always victorious. Always right. Resplendent in her heroism. Her stirring beauty shining like the sun. Smiling a cocksure smile that lets everyone with her know that it’s going to be OK.

The fantasy is a little childish, she guesses. But she needs it right now. Leinth gives herself over to the pleasant daydream. It makes her feel like it’s going to be OK.

Eventually, after a long while, she manages to make herself still. She stops crying. She’s shed enough tears for the day. But there’s no escaping the knowledge that tomorrow will be the same. Fresh torments. And once they’re over, even less of her will remain.

“Sartha,” Leinth says. Her voice is shaky and hoarse. “I’m not going to make it in here. I’m going to end up like you. Or worse.”

There’s a long pause. Then: “I know.”

Leinth summons up her courage. “Will you help me escape?”

A longer pause. Then:

“Yeah.”

***

They make a plan, that night. It’s a simple one. No time for refinements. Leinth is desperate to get out and, frankly, she can’t trust Sartha to keep her word.

From what she’s said, simple should be good enough. This part of the base - the ‘kennels’, Sartha calls them - is large, but has only a small contingent of those dog-hooded menials. Sartha can send them away once the cell door is unlocked, and then she can lead Leinth to freedom. They shouldn’t encounter anyone else on their way to the hangar. All Leinth has to do is steal an Imperial mech and run like hell.

It sounds a little too good to be true. But what choice does Leinth have but to put her faith in Sartha, and hope she has enough of her own strength left to overcome any unexpected challenges?

The real sticking point is Sartha herself. She says all this like she’s not coming. Leinth senses that she shouldn’t ask. Now more than ever, she can’t afford to push Sartha to breaking point. She can see, plain as day, all the fear and doubt inside the captured hero. For all her reputation, she’s like an abused puppy now. She isn’t just thinking running away will earn her another kick. She’s thinking that running away will mean she’s nothing at all.

Leinth wants to prove her wrong. She’s nursing a hope that, at the very last moment, when they’re standing at the threshold, Sartha will choose to take her hand. They have a connection, as pilots and fellow prisoners. Whatever Sartha’s done, she can still be redeemed. She can be whole again. A hero once more.

And Leinth can be the one to take her back into the light. It feels like fate, in a way. Maybe that’s why her chest is filling with tentative confidence.

The moment comes. Leinth hears the lock on her cell door disengage. There’s a pause - longer than usual - before it opens. Sartha is standing in the doorway. No one’s behind her. Sartha steps back, beckoning Leinth. Leinth’s heart starts to race. It’s happening. It’s real.

“This way,” Sartha says.

They start moving quickly, not quite running for fear that their feet pounding the concrete will alert something or someone. It’s just as dark out of Leinth’s cell as it is inside it, and to her the dark corridors and passageways Sartha is leading her through are utterly indistinguishable. She’s tried mapping the place based on what she sees when the menials drag her out each day, but no luck. There’s too little light, and their work leaves her far, far too disoriented.

Sartha appears to know them intimately, though. She leads and Leinth follows, and eventually she senses that they are sloping upward. It takes longer than she’d hoped, though. How big is this part of the base? Is this sprawling complex just for prisoners like her and Sartha? There’s no sense to it than she can discern.

She can puzzle that out later, though. Now she just needs to escape.

They round a corner and Leinth almost runs headfirst into Sartha’s back. She’s stopped. Leinth can immediately see why. For the first time, they can see light - not the light of day, but the bright, harsh light of the mech hangar, and that’s close enough. It’s still distant and faint but it’s closer than had Leinth dared hope for.

But that’s not why Sartha froze. There’s something else. Someone standing between them and freedom. Not one of the menials. Leinth immediately knows who this is.

It’s Her.

Sartha’s handler. The woman she seems utterly in awe of. There’s no one else it could be. She’s wearing a strange kind of uniform - black leathers and a dark cap, with a long coat that lends her a formidable silhouette. Hair is platinum, almost white, as cold as her eyes. She wears a thin smile as she stares down the escapees.

This is bad. Leinth knows that right away. But she’s already running the numbers. This woman’s no bigger than she is. Even if Sartha freezes up, which seems likely, it’s a fair fight. Leinth can win those.

Sartha Thrace does something much worse than freezing up.

“Well done, Sartha,” the handler says. She gestures down. “Now. Heel.”

Leinth is frozen in horror as Sartha rushes across to the handler’s side and kneels.

Her obedience isn’t the worst part, much as Leinth wishes it was. The worst part is how bursting with energy Sartha is. With certainty. There’s no hint of doubt or shame or guilt in her demeanor. She’s rushing forward. Practically wagging her tail. So eager it’s embarrassing.

If she was going to betray Leinth again, the least she could have done was hesitate.

“Good girl,” the handler says as Sartha throws herself at her feet. She reaches down and blesses her head with a couple of fond pats. Leinth is grateful she can’t see the look on Sartha’s face. She’s sure it would break her heart. “Hello, Leinth Aritimis.”

Leinth grits her teeth. This is as bad as it gets. She needs to get her head into gear. This is combat. She should run. But she needs to ask the question.

“What did you do to her?”

Handler takes her time. She tilts her head. Considering, perhaps, how to answer. "I gave her a gift,” she says. “The kind of gift that wins anybody over. I made her perfectly happy.”

Anger swelled in Leinth’s bosom. “You’re sick.”

The slight smile on the handler’s face is maddening. “Do you think so? I believe I’d like to give you the same gift, Leinth.”

That makes her skin crawl. “She’s not happy, you piece of shit.”

“Doesn’t she look happy to you?” the handler replies. She extends her palm, and Sartha stretches her neck to rest her chin on her hand. There’s nothing more Leinth wants than to rush over and break the handler’s jaw. But who knows how Sartha would react to that?

“I’ve seen what she’s like,” Leinth growls. “It’s no gift. She’s suffering. She’s in anguish. I’ve seen it. Half the time, she’s falling apart!”

“Indeed,” the handler muses. “She struggles without me, doesn’t she? But she put up with it so bravely. I’m so proud of her.”

The emotion dripping from her lips is a sickening mixture of mocking condescension and genuine affection. Leinth has never heard anything like it.

“Sir,” Sartha pipes up. She has eyes only for her handler and she seems nervous about speaking, but excitement at the praise has overcome her. “May I have it back?”

The handler smiles down benevolently at her. She’s so proud. “Of course you can, Sartha.”

She reaches into one of her coat pockets and retrieves something - a small, elongated, metal cage with a pair of leather straps mounted to it.

A muzzle.

Sartha presents herself and keeps dead still as her handler bends down and affixes it to her face, taking care to brush her hair out of the way and make sure the straps are exactly as tight as they need to be. It’s as loving as a kiss. As twisted as a curse.

“Up,” the handler says once she’s done.

Sartha rises to her feet. She turns to look at Leinth but barely seems to register her presence. The muzzle jutting out of her face is grotesque. Leinth can’t help but notice how serene she is now. Sartha’s face is clear of doubt, wracked by none of the confusion that had plagued her whenever they’d spoken in Leinth’s cell.

Was it an act? Or does the handler’s presence simply have this much sway over her?

Which is worse?

Leinth swears to herself and spits on the ground. Fuck this. Fuck whatever this is. She’s not going to fall to pieces over this. She’s not going to stand here and stare and let this woman play games with her head. She’s getting out of here.

“See you in hell, freak,” she snarls, and breaks into a sprint.

All she needs to do is put the handler down and run. Leinth can figure the rest out on her own. Sartha isn’t going to help her. Not now.

She makes it a few paces before the handler reacts. She doesn’t panic, though, or raise her arms to defend herself. She just says something to Sartha in a firm, clear voice.

“Off The Leash.”

The next thing Leinth knows, she’s on the ground. It’s just like when she got laid out by Ancyor. Something is on top of her. Something panting and violent and angry. It’s Sartha.

Except it isn’t.

Nobody could go from zero to sixty that fast. Nobody. No person. But Sartha doesn’t really count as one of those anymore. She’s staring down at Leinth with a look of impossible, bestial hate, eyes as furious as they are shallow. Her hackles are raised and her back is arched, and her lips are drawn back to expose snarling teeth. There’s a sound coming from the back of her throat; a low, rumbling growl, like the rolling of thunder. It’s a sound that has no business coming from a human.

This is her. The other self Sartha was talking about before. Leinth knows it. Not a person. Just a honed instrument of her handler’s violent will.

A hound.

"Easy, Hound,” the handler says. “I don’t want her harmed.”

Hound eases off - but only just. The hate burning in her eyes as she looks at Leinth is so singular. It’s utterly totalizing. Leinth tried to desecrate her goddess. That’s all there is to it. The depth of her devotion is so unnatural it makes Leinth’s skin crawl.

The handler moves to stand over her, looking down at her. “You will not escape from here,” she pronounces. “You will never leave this place again. Not unless I permit it. Understand?”

Her manner demands an answer. Leinth doesn’t have one, not even a foul spit of defiance. She’s just trying not to fall to pieces. She’s cursing herself for her optimism. For not seeing the signs. She’s trying not to tear up too, because that would just be too pathetic. She doesn’t want to give this woman the satisfaction. But for that strength, she needs hope. And there’s precious little to hope for, now.

Only Sartha.

There has to be something left of her, right? You can’t just take a human being and take them apart and put them back together like this. Right? Right? You can’t just make a person this small.

There’s something left. Leinth just needs to get through to her.

“Please,” she mouths silently at the hound. She tries to meet her gaze, hard as it is. So much hate, in eyes that had become so familiar. Her muzzle disfigures her. It’s hard to look past that and see the face of a hero. But Leinth is determined to try.

“You have such faith in her.” The handler’s lips curl. “Don’t you see? She’s mine now.”

“No!” Leinth cries, although her voice is weak. “She… she wants to leave with me. She knows this is wrong. She knows you’re her enemy. I saw it.”

The handler arches an eyebrow. “Hound. Up.”

Hound rises to her feet instantly, offering Leinth one last warning growl. Leinth knows better than to try to stand.

“Take off your jacket,” the handler instructs.

Again, Hound obeys without thought. She discards the military jacket she was once so proud of like it’s nothing. Underneath she’s wearing a simple, khaki tank top. The handler lifts the hem to Hound’s chest and uses her other hand to fondly touch the pilot’s abs, feeling at their definition. She’s enjoying them - her smirk makes no secret of that - but this is all for Leinth’s benefit. She’s trying to piss Leinth off. Showing her that only she gets to touch Sartha Thrace this way.

It’s working.

Then the handler makes her hand into a fist and punches Hound in the gut.

She may not be a pilot, but she’s a military woman and her form is good. And more to the point, Hound makes no attempt to defend herself. The blow leaves her bent double, retching and heaving, before her legs give way and she sinks to her knees. She looks like she’s in agony.

Leinth is sure that Sartha Thrace - Hound - whatever - is quick enough to have sensed the blow coming. But she didn’t brace herself. Didn’t even tense her muscles or expel the air from her lungs.

What the fuck kind of control is that? Control on an instinctive level. In her nerves, her muscles, her reflexes.

And that’s not the end. After watching Hound contort and groan for a few moments, the handler lowers the offending fist to Hound’s lips and pushes her muzzle aside.

Hound kisses it.

The kiss is almost innocent. It’s like a knight kissing her liege’s ring. Knowing it's the hand that just left a mean bruise on Hound’s stomach makes it twisted. It gets worse when the handler extends her fingers and uses them to pry Hound’s lips apart, running her fingertips over her teeth, pinching her tongue, smearing drool across her face.

Depraved. There’s no other word for it.

“Do you still think she wants to leave?” the handler asks as she pulls back and fixes Hound’s muzzle.

“Yes, damn it!” Leinth’s wishes her voice sounded firmer. “You’ve done something to her. That… thing is not Sartha Thrace. It’s just something you put in her head. It’s not her.”

“Would it help to hear it from her own lips?” the handler asks. “I’m trying to help you see the truth of her, Leinth. She doesn’t deserve your faith.” She turns to Hound. “On The Leash.”

Light returns to her eyes - a semblance of it, at least, but smothered by the handler’s presence. It’s Sartha again. The muzzle, though, still ruins her face.

“Sartha,” the handler says. Sartha’s ears prick up, grateful merely for the attention. “Do you want to leave me?”

“No!”

The word bursts from her lips, an explosion, before she can catch herself and add the appropriate ‘sir’. Sartha is suddenly desperate. Panicked, far more so than she’d ever been with Leinth in her cell. Her eyes register a wounded confusion.

Is she being abandoned? What did she do wrong?

“No, sir!” Sartha repeats. Her eyes flick and flit manically. She’s on the brink of collapse. “P-please…”

“Don’t worry.” The handler pets her head again. “You don’t have to leave, Sartha.”

All at once, the hero relaxes. Shoulders sink, muscles release all their tension. Her face slumps into a glowing smile. This is all she needs. God is in her heaven; all is right with the world.

And Leinth’s faint hopes grow fainter still.

“That’s… not…” She feels the need to set this to right, somehow. To explain it away. To make an excuse. “You’re in her head! You have been for months, you sick freak. Whatever fucking game you’re playing with her doesn’t change the fact that she’s still Sartha Thrace!”

“Hmm.” The handler looks impressed, or something like it. “You believe in her so very much. More than I’d expected.”

Leinth would be proud. She takes faith as a mark of strength. For rebels like her, faith in one other is indispensable. She would be proud, if not for how pleased the handler seemed.

“Where does that come from, I wonder?” the handler muses. “Loyalty and admiration so fervent it persists in defiance of reality itself. You can understand, I’m sure, why I might take a professional interest.”

Leinth spits. She’s sure this woman knows absolutely nothing about loyalty. Less than nothing.

“The way you look at her is fascinating,” the handler goes on. She’s bending down a little, peering at the pilot. “Respect. Faith. But other things, too. Envy? That’s normal, between pilots. Who wouldn’t envy my hound?”

At that, Leinth just snorts. It’s nothing she hasn’t thought about before. ‘Do I want to be her friend, or do I just want to be her?’ She’s at peace with it.

“And,” the handler adds. “Lust. You want her.”

“W-what?” Leinth feels something pull tight in her chest, even as she laughs and scoffs. “Don’t be stupid.”

“You do,” the handler decides. She says it so academically. Like she’s putting together a puzzle. Like she’s dissecting a frog. “Why deny it? We know your inclinations. She’s attractive, isn’t she?”

“I didn’t mean…” Leinth glances at Sartha. She has eyes only for her handler, even now, but surely she can hear both of them. “Of course, but-“

“The way you look at her is obvious,” the handler interrupts. She glances at Sartha. “It’s obvious to her, too.”

Leinth’s eyes flash wide. That’s… no. No. She’s lying. The handler is messing with her, that much is obvious. And Leinth was always so careful. She never let those feelings reach her face.

Except…

She can’t be quite so confident, can she? Trying to sort through her own memories of her captivity is like trying to grasp at water. At times, she was all but delirious from the pain and the drugs. Did she let something slip? Did something filthy reveal itself in her gaze?

Leinth looks to Sartha, hoping for confirmation. She’s unreadable. She’s in a blissful daze, shining with gladness at the reunion with her handler and her muzzle.

“Tell me, Leinth,” the handler says. “That poster, above your bunk. Did you ever look at it while you touched yourself?”

Leinth recoils like she’s been struck. Cold washes over her, turning all the hairs along her spine into little icicles. “How do you know about that?”

“Our methods are very effective for extracting information,” the handler tells her. “Did you think that my staff were merely amusing themselves?”

Panic. More panic. Leinth scrambles away across the concrete floor. Suddenly the handler’s eyes on her skin are unbearable. What else might she know? Leinth tries to reach back into memory and find pieces of herself. She finds a black hole. She can’t remember spilling any secrets - but clearly she has.

Who has she betrayed? Please let it only be herself. Please let it not be anyone else.

“I think I can take that as confirmation,” the handler says. “Not that I needed any. You want her.” Her smile widens. “You could have her, you know.”

Leinth goes very still. “What?”

“Is that what would make you happy, I wonder?” The handler reaches out to Sartha again; a light touch across her torso, where a bruise is already beginning to rise. “All I’d need to do is say the word.”

“No! Fuck - no.” Leinth’s stomach churns at the suggestion. “I would never… fuck, she would never.”

“Not at all.” The handler’s confidence is supreme. “If I ordered you to, you’d give yourself to Leinth. Wouldn’t you, Sartha.”

“Yes, sir.”

She doesn’t hesitate before answering, of course. Leinth is just about prepared for that, but she isn’t prepared at all for how plainly eager Sartha is. She’s looking at her handler with hope in her eyes. She wants her handler to say the word. She wants to be given a chance to obey.

No matter what.

Leinth can’t tell if it’s too hot or too cold now. She starts to clamber to her feet, leaning heavily on the nearby wall for support. She feels dizzy. She feels like up is down and down is up. Before she knows it, the handler is right there, merely a kiss away, her eyes inescapable.

“Do you want her, Leinth?” she asks, voice barely a whisper, like what she proposes could be a secret, safely told. “Do you want her body?” She puts her lips against Leinth’s skin. “Do you want her to suck your cock?”

The handler is a pillar of ice, but somehow, just for that one, simple question, she makes her voice impossibly sinful and tempting, like warm syrup being poured into Leinth’s ear. It sticks to her. It makes Leinth’s body stir. Leinth recoils violently, thrown into panic, trying to flee - but she’s already against the wall, there’s nowhere to go.

She can’t let it show. She can’t. But it’s too late, of course.

Disgusting. She’s disgusting. The handler’s disgusting. Hound is disgusting. This is all disgusting.

“You could go down on her too, of course,” the handler adds. “If that’s more to your taste. But I think… yes. This is what you want. Sartha Thrace, on her knees, before you. Warm. Eager. Welcoming.”

“N-no!”

Leinth’s voice trembles. She squeezes her eyes shut. Her fantasies are turning against her and all she can do is turn inward, trying to obliterate them with white-hot shame.

“Well, let’s see.” The handler is ice again as she steps back and beckons Sartha forward. “Here, Sartha. Come. Kneel. Remove your muzzle. Open your mouth.”

“Yes, sir!”

Leinth can hear the eagerness of Sartha’s obedience as she rushes and falls, and briefly fumbles with the strap of her muzzle. Her mind’s eye does the rest, and the picture it paints makes her shiver.

“Look,” the handler commands, and the sheer force of will in her voice is irresistible. “Open your eyes.”

Leinth holds firm for a few moments but it only takes one lapse. One moment of weakness - or perhaps, she fears, of curiosity.  Once her lids part, there’s no going back. She’s transfixed. Sartha Thrace is kneeling before her. Her mouth is open. Waiting. She is ready to receive. There’s a warm smile on her face - it’s for her handler, of course, but it could so easily be for Leinth. It would be so easy to pretend. A fantasy, a wet dream, could never be so vivid and so real.

If it wasn’t already too late to pretend, it is now. Leinth is hard. Her clothes aren’t tight, but it’s still obvious.

“There.” The handler says. She’s not smug, just sure. She doesn’t need to be smug. She knew exactly what was going to happen. “Now, Leinth. Should I say the word?”

Leinth shakes her head in mute horror. If she answered ‘yes’, if she even considered it, she’d become something unforgivable.

“Why not?” The handler asks. “You want to. She wants to.”

“She- ah!”

The handler interrupts her by resting her hand on the back of Sartha’s face and pushing her forward until Sartha’s face is pressed against Leinth’s front. The touch is sparks to dry kindling. Leinth twitches awkwardly, trying to shrink back, but there’s nowhere to go and the handler won’t let her.

Sartha, sensing her handler’s intent, starts rubbing and nuzzling, eager, happy to be of use, and that makes it even worse.

“S-she,” Leinth stammers, struggling to keep the thread of her reason taut. “She doesn’t! She’s… you made her like this! It’s your fault! She doesn’t - Sartha Thrace would never - want this.”

“That doesn’t matter.” The handler shuts her down brutally. “Who knows why anyone wants what they want? It doesn’t matter. Look at the woman in front of you.” She turns to Sartha. “Sartha, would you like to clean my boot?”

“Yes, sir!”

Leinth winces. More of that bubbling, twisted eagerness. Each time is another knife.

“Then do so.”

She extends a foot forward pointedly. Again, there’s no hesitation. Sartha bends forward, prostrate, as if in prayer, and puts her lips to the tip of the handler’s long, tall, black, leather boots and begins to kiss. The wet licking sounds that follow stroke Leinth’s imagination.

Leinth wishes she could look away. But Sartha Thrace’s fall is transfixing. It’s a solar eclipse. She’ll take a punch and thank her handler for it. She’ll kiss her boot like it’s a lover. She’ll make herself a whore at her handler’s command. Is there anything she wouldn’t do for that woman? Any limit?

The question provokes an uncomfortable curiosity.

“That will do, Sartha,” the handler says, after several long seconds. “Stand.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sartha’s voice is breathy with excitement. When she stands, Leinth can see that the handler’s boot is shiny with her spit. She keeps staring.

“Look at her, Leinth,” the handler chides. “Not at my boot. Look at her.”

Leinth doesn’t. She doesn’t want to. The handler doesn’t fight her on it. She has other tactics.

“Sartha,” she says. “Kiss her.”

“Hu-“

Leinth can barely breathe before Sartha, her hero, is pressing against her. Their lips meet. Sartha is insistent, and Leinth doesn’t have the strength to push her away. The kiss isn’t chaste or robotic or forced. Sartha sinks into it, willingly embracing her duty. She’s passionate. Eager. After a moment, Leinth sinks too. The fantasy is too nice, even though there’s one unmistakable difference between this and her fond daydreams.

Sartha’s lips taste like leather and boot polish.

Sartha is the one who pulls away in the end, which is its own kind of humiliation. In the moments after the kiss, with her face inches from Leinth’s, she looks breathy. Flushed. It’s enough to make Leinth pine.

“Do you see it yet?” The handler’s voice breaks the moment. It’s as final as a sunset. “She’s not your Sartha Thrace. Not anymore. So why not enjoy her, if it pleases you?” Her smile ticks upwards. “Many have.”

A spike of anger brings with it a kind of clarity. This is wrong. It’s not even a fantasy anymore. Whatever daydreams and intimate thoughts Leinth has succumbed to, here and there, she never wanted this for Sartha. Never.

Many have.

It makes Leinth shudder. This isn’t a wet dream. This isn’t her long-treasured fantasy. This is just… cheap. Cheap titillation. It’s unworthy of her. It’s even more unworthy of Sartha Thrace.

“No!” Leinth cries. She finds her voice for the first time in what feels like an age, and the force in her denial drives Sartha back an uncertain step. The handler looks at her - surprised, perhaps, although more curious than afraid.

“No?” she asks.

“Just go fuck yourself already!” Leinth screams. It feels good to scream. “You can throw me back in the damn cell, but you’re not gonna get me to… to…” She just looks at Sartha. “I don’t know how you got so twisted that you get off on this sick shit, but I’m better than that. She is better than that.”

“She is not.” The handler says it with a knowing smile, like she’s the one who has grasped Sartha’s soul in her hands, and that pisses Leinth off even more.

“Yes she is!” Leinth insists. “She’s Sartha god damn Thrace! She’s a hero. She’s the hero. You can change a lot of things but you can’t change that!”

It feels good to say it to her face. Everything’s fucked up right now, but not Leinth’s faith in Sartha. She’s placing that beyond reach. Her faith is the midday sun, boiling away the morning fog. If nothing else, she can make sure the handler goes to her grave knowing that she was never able to tarnish it.

“There will always be people out there - rebels out there - fighting because they were inspired by her.” Leinth is finding her theme and her voice. “Her face and her name are on recruitment posters all over the planet. People will always believe in her. I will always believe in her. No matter what you make her say or do, people will always know: it’s not real. It’s not her. The real Sartha Thrace was always a hero.”

For the first time, the handler is silent. Her silence is intoxicating. Seeing her, of all people, seemingly lost for words is almost as rewarding as freedom itself. It’s tempting to keep going, to rub her face in it, but there’s something far more important at stake. Leinth turns, again, to Sartha. She steps forward and clasps her hero by her shoulders, pulling her close.

“And you,” Leinth says. “Listen to me. You will always be a hero. I know that’s not getting through to you right now because of how badly they’ve fucked with your head. But it’s true. We spent a lot of time talking down in that cell. It wasn’t all fake. You can’t tell me that. You’re still in there, somewhere. And one day, you’re gonna get out. You’re gonna escape. You’re gonna find your way back to yourself. It’ll be hard, it’ll be painful, but I know you’ll do it, because that’s what a hero does. And when that day comes, you’ll… you’ll…”

She trails off. There’s something in Sartha’s eyes. She’s listening to her now. Leinth’s words have made it through. The look dawning on her face is real, and that’s exactly what makes it so devastating.

Sartha Thrace looks pained.

It’s a bone-deep, weary kind of pain. Suddenly she doesn’t look like a captured hero or a brainwashed hound. She just looks tired. Like she’s a woman who’s been ground down and chewed up by the world. And now, just by talking, Leinth has become one of the teeth. She’s hurting her. Sartha just wants her to stop.

Leinth can’t go on. She didn’t think it would be like this. In the face of this mysterious wound in Sartha, she’s powerless.

But now, of course, the handler has something to say.

“There’s a chink in the armor of every single human being.” The handler speaks slowly. She wants every word to sink in. “At least one. And if you pry it open, you find a void. If you can fill that void, then they are yours. Right down to their soul. She is the chink in your armor.”

Leinth closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to hear this. She doesn’t want to know that all this, all her defiance, was just another part of this woman’s dance.

“You have such faith in her,” the handler says. “You think it makes you strong. It just makes you brittle. You can think you can handle seeing her broken and dirtied and disappointing. Perhaps. But you cannot handle the real truth of Sartha Thrace.”

It’s that pain. It has to be. Leinth wants to close her heart off to it. To make a hated enemy of Sartha in her head. Then she wouldn’t need to care. She can’t do it, of course.

“The chink in Sartha’s armor,” the handler tells her, “was you.”

Leinth opens her eyes in disbelief.

“Not just you, of course,” the handler adds. “Not you personally. But all of you who call her a hero and worship the ground she walks on. All that faith. All those expectations. Did you think she could carry that much weight? That she didn’t notice? That it didn’t drag her down with every step? She was tired of it, Leinth. Deep in her soul, she was tired of it. She wanted to be free of it. She would never have admitted it out loud, of course. But she knew it all the same. And when I offered her freedom, something deep inside her reached out and took it. That is how I made her mine.”

Leinth is frozen. She never thought about it. Not once. To her, Sartha was always a woman on a poster. Why didn’t she ever…

“I should thank you, shouldn’t I?” The handler says it without mirth. “For helping to wear her down. For helping to deliver her into my arms. And after that little speech, I think she’s more mine than she’s ever been.”

Sometimes, when Leinth pilots Genetor, she takes some pretty fucking big hits. It’s part of the job, after all. Genetor was built for it. It’s the kind of machine that was designed to stare down an avalanche and dare the mountain the do its worst. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like shit, though. It doesn’t matter how heavily built a machine is. When you get hit by heavy ordnance, the force has to go somewhere. It goes through you. And the noise. It’s deafening, in the most literal sense. After some battles, Leinth can’t hear properly for hours afterward. There’s nothing in her ears but a skull-splitting mosquito whine of complaint.

Even that doesn’t compare to how bad her head is ringing now.

It was her fault?

She looks at Sartha once again. That’s the only thing that can save her now. Sartha telling her that it’s a lie. That she never felt that way. That she was OK with it. But Sartha avoids her gaze, and her shame speaks louder than any words.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? She’s still just looking to Sartha to save her.

“A hero, a martyr, or a traitor,” the handler muses. “Those are the only fates you left her with. No wonder it was so easy to make her a hound instead.”

Leinth gets it now. There are no heroes down here. Not a one.

“Sartha,” the handler says once she’s sure it’s all sunk in. She knows the signs. The slumped shoulders. The sagging, lightless eyes. “Off The Leash. You can take Leinth to my room now. She’s ready for my personal attention.”

It’s a mercy to be faced with Hound instead of Sartha. Hound knows no shame, and no judgment either. Hound doesn’t hesitate. She just puts a hand on Leinth’s shoulder and starts guiding her, unresisting, away from the light and deeper into the catacombs beneath the base.

---

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[myheroacademiaspiderverse]

Issue 5: Into The Abyss

Fair warning (and spoilers): We're going to be seeing what happened to some of the kidnapped teens in this chapter and possibly the next one. While it's not going to be heavily gory or bloody (this is Rated-T, people) we are going to be going into serious Nightmare Fuel. Just wanted to give you guys fair warning.

And away we go.

Issue 5: Into The Abyss

A few minutes later Spider-Man and Prowler were sneaking into the abandoned auto shop through a broken skylight. Prowler went down first, slowly lowering herself using her grappling hook while she checked for traps, activating the cloaking device in her suit just in case there were any cameras.

Once she completed her sweep, she rose back up and deactivated her cloak. "Wow," Spider-Man said in awe. "Where the hell could I get one of those?"

"This one was a gift," she replied, climbing back onto the roof. "My scanners aren't picking up any traps, but there is a hidden camera down there."

"Where?"

She led him to poking his head through the skylight, before she pointed to a set of metal doors at the back of the building. "It's above that door, disguised as the odd-colored brick."

Zooming his lenses towards the door, he noticed to the right was a keypad. "Well, considering the keypad, I'm guessing that door is where we're supposed to go."

"Yeah, but if we try to go through it then whoever's down there will see us," Prowler replied. "And that's assuming there's not anymore cameras on the other side."

As she said that, Spider-Man flicked on his X-Ray Vision to try and peer around and behind the door. While he could see the power conduits running from the panel to the door and the hidden camera, he sadly couldn't see anything behind it as... "They've lead-lined everything behind the door and the wall," he stated. "So there's no way to know for sure. For all we know, we pop open the door and we could be met with about five or six guys with guns."

"Can't your Spider-Sense let you know about that?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "But I'm worried that if they see us moving through the place they'll either try to pack everything up and leave, or worse."

"By worse you mean they might try to 'get rid of' everyone who's been kidnapped?" Seeing him nod, she admits that he was right. "Okay."

"Maybe we can hack it?"

"Already tried. It's hardwired, so wireless is a no go. I don't suppose you have an EMP grenade or something?"

"Still in the development stages. I need to make sure that it won't short out the electronics in my suit." The proverbial lightbulb went off in his head and he asked "But maybe I can short it out with my Venom Blast?"

"Like you did with the breaker box lock," Prowler asked.

He nodded. "Yeah. Then when we put in the code you could go in through the door with your cloak on and see if there's any more surprises on the other side. Plus if they notice something's wrong, they'll just chalk it up to a technical issue."

Prowler thought about it for a minute, before nodding. "Okay. The thing isn't looking up at the ceiling, so you should be able to sneak over there without being seen. I'll cloak and tell you when to hit it."

"Wait, won't they hear you?"

She shook her head before readying her grappling hook. "Nah. It's video only. No audio sensors at all."

Once she cloaked she lowered herself to the ground, moving so silently that he probably wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't switched to his thermal vision to track her as he himself crawled on the ceiling to get to the camera. As soon as he was in position, he looked down at her and asked "You ready?"

Through his thermal vision, he saw her flash the thumbs up as she replied "Hit it."

As the red sparks traveled along his hand, he then focused it into one finger and moved it towards the camera. "Here goes nothing," he stated as he brought his finger down on the edge of the camera...

...but instead of the simple shorting out he was expecting, the camera all-but exploded, a bunch of electronic parts and half-melted plastic shooting out and narrowly missing Prowler.

Coughing from the smoke, Spider-Man winced and said "Whoops. Was not expecting that."

Prowler's lenses narrowed at him. "Really?"

"Hey, in my defense I just got this part of my powers a few days ago. I'm still working on the fine control."

She sighed. "Fair enough."

"Plus, we got the camera offline, so I'm still calling it a win." Walking over to the keypad, he took note of the amount of numbers necessary. "Hey Prowler, what was the date on the back of that photograph?"

"6-09-2119."

The moment he clicked in the final number the metal doors beeped and slid open, revealing an elevator. Looking inside, Prowler said "No cameras."

As the two walked inside, Spider-Man looked around and noted "This elevator only goes to two places."

"Thinking there's still a chance we could go down into an ambush," Prowler asked.

"Or more cameras." Looking up and seeing there was no emergency exit, he clicked his tongue before jumping up and sticking to the ceiling. "Might wanna cloak, just in case."

She chuckled before clicking the down button. "I'll do it before the door opens. I don't wanna overheat the thing by keeping it on too long."

As the elevator started descending, the two stood in a few minutes of awkward silence before Spider-Man asked "So, you work closely with Nezu?"

Prowler nodded. "Yeah. I know people say he's always got an agenda, but he's earned my trust. Most of it, anyway." Looking up at him, she added "And before you ask, he was just as blindsided by what Aizawa was doing as any of the other teachers were. He's not involved."

Spider-Man nodded, accepting that. "Well, does he have or do you have any idea why he might have fallen this far?"

"Other than Oboro's death royally fucking him up?" She sighed. "Couldn't tell ya. I do remember that people were saying that he felt that Oboro was being illogical when he-"

"-used his Quirk to save those kids during the villain's attack?" Seeing her surprised look, he tapped the side of his mask and said "Internet access. I looked up the report. And honestly, I would've done the same thing in his shoes. It's a hero's job to save people, even if it may cost them their life."

"Tell that to the hobo bastard," she grumbled. "Everyone was telling me about the horrible things he said; about how 'Oboro should've been rational and prioritized his own safety,' and how 'if he were thinking logically he would've survived.'"

If it were possible and he weren't upside down, Spider-Man's jaw would've no doubt dropped to the floor. Finding his voice, he asked "Okay, how the flying ever-loving fuck did Aizawa even get his provisional license with THAT mentality? I get that sometimes you should be logical and rational, but we're not robots. If you don't have a shred of empathy in your heart then you have no business trying to be a hero!"

He punctuated that by angrily slamming his fist against the metal roof, leaving a nice indent against it.

Prowler couldn't help but feel her respect for the boy growing. "I couldn't agree more, Spidey." She laughed and said "In fact, we should tell him that when we run into him."

Spider-Man chuckled and asked "Before or after we kick his ass?"

"How about in-between punches?"

"That works."

Deciding to change the subject, Prowler asked "So, how come you decided to go vigilante instead of trying for a hero school?"

He scoffed at that. "Yeah, so I can go Pro, become famous, and then get held back by the inefficient and corrupt bureaucracy. And also be blocked from actually helping people by enough red tape to cover all of Musutafu."

She digested that for a moment before saying "Fair enough."

"Is that the reason you became the Prowler?"

She shrugged. "Similar thing, I guess. I got tired of the bad guys getting off scott-free because they either had friends who could help them get away with it, or because they're smart enough to know how to play the system."

"Like the rich, powerful, and/or influential people you went after?" He chuckled. "You know, before you singlehandedly took down Yakuza groups. Really impressive, btw. Hope to achieve that level of badassery one day."

"Eh, word on the street is you're well on your way," she replied honestly.

"Thanks. Though I have heard two different stories from the guys who would talk, so I gotta ask; Did you start off using stealth to pick them off one at a time before deciding to go full on brawl? Or did you just kick down the doors and say 'Judgement day has arrived, assholes!' I really wanna know."

She could help but smile at his earnestness, before replying "Technically, it's a bit of both. I-"

At that moment, the elevator started to slow down, prompting her to activate the cloak. "Ready for this?"

Pressing himself as tight against the ceiling as he could, he replied "As I'll ever be."

The door opened and Prowler stepped out, surveying their surroundings for a few seconds before de-cloaking and saying "All clear."

Dropping down and exiting the elevator, he looked around and said "Huh. Not quite what I was expecting."

They were standing in what looked like an old fashioned prison; faded cement and cinderblock walls with cells carved out and fitted with metal bars, three floors worth with metal catwalks and stairs. Fluorescent lights had been haphazardly installed, lighting up a good chunk of the place but also leaving plenty of sections left entirely in shadows. As he looked, Spider-Man could also see fans of various sizes on the walls and ceilings, with duct work that he guessed moved up to the surface to make sure that air could get moved into and out of the place.

There were no cameras that he could see, but at the same time he had to imagine the people behind this had to have some security somewhere, so he kept his scanners on while DECA checked around.

Doing her own looking around, Prowler explained "From what I could gather of the area's history, this actually used to be an old prison back in the Pre-Quirk Era. My best guess is that this place sunk into the ground. The city just built over top of it."

"Well clearly some people spent a whole lot of time excavating it out so that they could set this place up," he replied. "Whatever it is."

"It's hell."

They both turned to see someone sitting on the bed in one of the cells and looking through the bars at them; a fifteen year old girl with blonde hair and cat-like yellow eyes. The clothes she was wearing were reminiscent of a prison uniform, but a bleached white color as opposed to the usual highlighter orange.

Despite this, Spider-Man recognized her from the picture on Ochako's phone. "Himiko Toga?"

She looked at him in surprise. "H-how do you know my name?"

"Ochako Uraraka. She asked me to find you."

Her face immediately broke into a smile as tears of joy fell from her eyes. "Really?"

"Yeah," he reassured her. "She's been looking for you for the past seven months-"

"It's been seven months," she asked in disbelief. Seeing him nod she added "Sorry. It just feels like it's been years in here."

"It's alright," Prowler replied, placing a hand on Toga's shoulder. "Because tonight we're going to get you out of here. You and everyone else who's here."

"But it would really help if you could tell us what exactly has been going on down here," Spider-Man stated. "Anything you can tell us might be able to help."

She looked a bit unsure, before she began saying "Some guy captured me. One minute I was running an errand for my Gramma, next thing I know this weird metal thing wraps around me. Then I hear someone taking deep breathes and then I'm surrounded by this weird red gas."

"Weird how," Prowler asked.

"It was blood red, but it didn't smell like blood. It smelled like flowers. Really REALLY strong flowers. And the moment I smelled it I started getting lightheaded and sleepy, like I drank too much of the herbal tea my Gramma gives me when I have nightmares. And... those eyes." She shivered at the memory. "Those glowing, creepy-ass red eyes."

Spider-Man and Prowler exchanged a look, before Prowler pressed a few buttons on her gauntlet and a holographic photograph of Aizawa appeared. "This look like the guy who took you," she asked.

The look of fear on her face was enough to confirm that yes, it was him. But she nodded anyway, and said "Yeah. He's the guy. He's pretty much their head of security."

"Who's 'they,'" Spider-Man asked, having a feeling he already knew where this was going.

"The guys who are running this place. I don't know what they want us for, but they run us through all sorts of tests almost every week. I can't understand half the stuff they're talking about, but they've said about their boss wanting our Quirks for something. And they mentioned something about 'soldiers in winter' or something like that. They made us train with people who taught us how to fight, how to kill. And then they put us in arenas where we were forced to fight each other. And if we refused to follow their orders to kill, we'd go without food beyond just a few scraps of bread and a bottle of water. And..."

She seemed hesitant to go on, but then he remembered what Ochako told him about her Quirk. So he asked "When was the last time you actually had blood?"

Toga's eyes widened at his question, and he explained "Ochako told me. And it's perfectly fine. You're not a freak just because you need blood for your Quirk."

She was at a loss for words, but she eventually looked at Prowler, who nodded in agreement. "You're Quirk doesn't decide who or what you are. That's all up to you. We are who we choose to be."

She looked like she was about to cry again, but she swallowed and replied "About a month. I...I've been holding it the best I can, but-"

"Most people with Quirks like yours tend to experience intense hunger and thirst, mood swings, dissociative episodes-" Seeing them both look at him, he explained "I looked this stuff up in my freetime, just in case I came into a situation like this. Not every situation I'm in needs to end in a fight, and if I can help someone I will."

Oh, what I wouldn't give to have this kid in my class, Prowler mused.

She was jarred out of her musings when Spider-Man said "Well, I would offer you some of my blood. But... my blood's kinda mutated in more ways than one, and I'm sure you don't want to end up mutating into some sort of spider-mutant monster."

"Yeah, I'm desperate for blood, but I'm not THAT desperate," she immediately replied, even though her eyes seemed to be saying otherwise.

Click!

They both turned to see Prowler taking off her left gauntlet, revealing the bare flesh of her forearm. She then reached into her utility belt, pulling out and opening a pouch with syringes of various sizes. "How much would be enough to keep you going for a bit?"

Looking at the sizes, she seemed to hesitate before pointing towards the second one from the right. "That... would be enough. But..."

Before Toga could finish Prowler pulled the covering off the needle and pushed it into her exposed forearm. She then slowly began drawing the blood out, the tube filling up with the deep crimson liquid.

Once it was done she pulled the needle out of the syringe and handed it to Toga. "Drink up."

Gingerly, as if it would disappear if she grabbed it too hard, Toga took the tube in her hand. "A-are you sure?"

After cleaning the puncture wound with an alcohol wipe and putting a Band-Aid on it, she replied "Absolutely." As she put her gauntlet back on she continued "They're clearly starving you of blood in an attempt to try and break you. If I can help prevent that from happening, I'll gladly do so."

Finally accepting that it was real she said a quick "Thank you," before pulling off the top of the tube and draining the entire syringe in one gulp, acting as if she had just walked through several miles of desert without water. Which admittedly, they supposed in a way she had.

And the blood did seem to help, as Spider-Man noticed her eyes looked a bit less predatory, and her face seemed to get a little more color. She wiped the last bit of blood off of her lips and licked it off her fingers, and then bowed and said "Thank you so much. I'm feeling a lot better."

"You're welcome," Prowler replied, the eyes of her visor and her tone indicating that she was smiling under her mask. "Now, can you tell us how many other people are in here besides you?"

She nodded. "Almost 60. Somewhere around there."

"Shit, that's way more than I thought. How many of them are in their cells right now," Spider-Man asked.

"They divided us into three groups. Group A is in Training, Group B is in Testing, and Group C, my group, is resting. But..."

"But," Prowler asked.

"Every few weeks they take a few of the people here for 'special' testing. They don't come back. Ever. And they just took one of the girls my block; Miko. She's like two years younger than me and I-"

"Toga, relax," he cut her off, putting a hand on her shoulder. "We're getting everyone out of here. Now, which way did they take her?"

She pointed to the hallway to the right, and explained "That's the only way into and out of here. Besides the elevator, but none of us know the codes. Not that it matters, because every night they have the scarf-gas guy make sure everyone's asleep. And by that I mean he hits us with a dose of his flower breath and knocks us out."

"Well if we find him we're gonna knock his ass out," Prowler said with a growl. "Probably knock out his teeth too."

Noticing the electronic lock on the cell door, he followed the wires and saw they were heading down the same hallway. "There's probably some office in there or something where we can shut off these electronic locks and get everyone out."

"Well then let's get moving," Prowler stated. Looking at Toga she said "We'll come back for you. Promise."

Believing her, Toga said "Just watch out for the scarf guy. One whiff of that red gas and you're KO'd."

"Good thing I got a gas mask in my...well, mask. You got one too, Spidey?"

He nodded. "Doesn't do much for the smell, but it'll filter out the stuff that can put me to sleep."

"Good." Looking at Toga she said "Just hang on a little longer, okay?"

"Okay."

"And here." Spider-Man reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out one of his Spider-Tracers. "Just in case something happens and they take you away, this'll let me track you."

Taking it carefully, she stuck it the collar of her jumpsuit. "Good luck."

As they headed down the hallway, Prowler asked "So, how do you think we should tackle this?"

"What do you mean," he asked in response.

"Well, should we find and beat up that hobo-looking bastard, or should we let everyone out first?"

Spider-Man shook his head. "Not sure yet. We've got at least 60 civillians who are more than likely too weak to help put up much of a fight. And while we know that Ass-zawa is here, we don't know how many more bad guys are in this place, what their Quirks are or how well they're armed."

She nodded, agreeing with what he said. "Go on."

"Hopefully, once we get to the control room we can get a better idea of those numbers. Maybe even get some of the data on what they're doing to give to the police when this is all over. Add on a few more life sentences to the ones they're already probably gonna get."

"On that, we agree."

As they followed the wires they soon saw the control room, a room with a large glass window and an automatic door. Not wanting to be seen by whoever might be inside, they stopped short of the window's edge and carefully peered in. They noted three people inside, none of them having obvious Quirks save for one guy whose fingers ended in USB plug-ins. That person was "plugged in" to a bank or computer screens that showed various video feeds throughout the whole compound (thankfully none of the feeds showed them, though they did see that one of the screens was just showing the words CAMERA OFFLINE. Probably the one at the entrance that Spider-Man had fried.)

As they pulled their heads back, Prowler noticed something on the door. "Looks like we need a keycard to get into that room. And sadly we don't have one."

Looking around the ceiling, he found what he was looking for. "That air vent probably goes into that room," he stated.

Prowler looked at the air vent and replied "Yeah, but that's a bit too small for me. Think you can..."

She turned back to him, only to see a line of webbing where he had once stood and the air vent hanging open.

She then turned to the window in time to see two of the guys yanked up and webbed to the ceiling. She then saw Spider-Man lower himself, hanging upside down on a web-line, and tap the last guy with his foot. Once the guy turned around, Spider-Man cocooned him in his webbing and yanked him up to the ceiling.

As he opened the door from the other side, she asked "You sure you're self-taught?"

He chuckled. "I did take a few self-defense classes. The stealth stuff is just as simple as taking advantage of the fact that people rarely look up."

Prowler couldn't deny that. "Fair point."

He then handed her a small metal card. "One of their keycards. You'll probably need it more than I will."

Before she could reply he went back the terminal and started looking through the screens. His fingers danced across the keyboards as he started combing through various feeds and tried to pull up some of the files. "Looks like whatever medical data and logs are in a separate room. I'll have to find that one and download what I can."

"Okay. What else can you get from that terminal?"

Spider-Man punched some keys before pulling up what looked like a list of personnel. "Okay: 15 scientists of various fields, about 75 guys for security-"

"Armed?"

"Nonlethals; mainly tasers and electric shots, stun nets, beanbag rounds, and tranquilizers. Though 5 of them are part of the "Clean Up Crew" and are armed with assault rifles and... flamethrowers? Overkill much? Their Quirks aren't really anything special. Also, there's Ass-zawa."

"Where?"

He motioned for her to join him and he quickly pulled up a feed on one monitor and a map on another, a bright red dot showing Aizawa's location. "Two hallways over, inside Training Area A."

They then looked at the feed for said area, and their blood began to boil.

Aizawa was standing with one foot pinning a young girl a little younger than Izuku by her throat, glaring at her with Erasure active and yelling... something at her (they had no audio so they couldn't hear it) but judging by her gasping and how purple her face looked she was clearly struggling to breathe.

Fortunately, one of the scientists came forward and tapped him on the shoulder, telling him something that made him pull his foot off of her throat. The girl then quickly and gratefully sucked in several gulps of air, massaging her sore throat.

Before she could do anything else, he breathed a jet of red gas at her, which knocked her out in seconds. Two guards then loaded her up onto a hover stretcher, wheeling her over to about sixteen more with more unconscious kids on them.

Aizawa then looked at the remaining three kids, motioning for one to step forward.

The kid did so...

...and in less than three seconds, he was in the same position as that girl had been, only with an additional black eye from one of Aizawa's punches.

Prowler growled, tearing her eyes away from the screen. "That bastard..."

Spider-Man took a deep breath, before saying "According to their timetable they'll be moving those kids back to their cells. Once they're gone, we'll..."

He trailed off, finding another camera feed and pulling it up. "Oh no."

Confused, Prowler looked at the feed to see a young girl with long blonde hair tied in pigtails. She was unconscious and being lead into a room...

...that happened to have a metal operating table and several surgical implements.

"Why do I got a feeling that's Miko," he asked, pulling up the blueprints for the facility.

"What are they going to do to her," Prowler asked, concerned.

"Based on the fact that she's in the 'Operating Room' it can't be anything good." Looking at Prowler he said "I'm gonna go rescue her. Think you can handle the Hobo-bastard until I get done?" Seeing her nod, he then said "Okay, you got a way to sync up our comms so that we can keep in contact?"

She nodded, keying in some commands on her right gauntlet and holding it near his mask. His mask's HUD lit up and showed that their comms were connected. "There you go. No prank calls though, okay," she joked.

"I'll try to resist," he replied, punching in a few more commands on his web shooter. "I just sent you a copy of the schematics for this place. Try not to get lost."

She gave him a playful punch to his arm. "I should be telling you that, rookie." Getting serious she said "Now go save that girl. I'll handle the asshole with the scarf."

He nodded, web-zipping to the nearby ceiling vent. Before he crawled in he said "Good luck. And give the asshole a few good shots for me, will ya?"

"Can do."

-A Few Minutes Later-

With the schematics and DECA helping to guide him, he made it to the Operating Room in only a few minutes.

Once he got to the right vent, he asked "DECA, you got access to the cameras in here?"

There was a light scoff, before DECA replied "Duh. Patching through to your HUD."

Once the camera feed showed up he immediately took note of the two scientists prepping for what he presumed to be a surgical operation (the scalpels and other surgical tools pretty much confirmed that) and a security guard standing by the door looking bored out of his mind. "Okay, take down the guard first and then the scientists."

"Want me to cut off their comms?"

"If you would be so kind," he replied, exiting the vent and crawling on the ceiling until he was right above the guard. As soon as he was above the guard (who was tapping his earpiece with a confused/concerned expression) he yanked him up to the ceiling with his web and plastered him to the ceiling, being sure to cover his mouth yet leaving his nose uncovered so he could breath. "You just stick around for a bit."

Moving on from him, Spider-Man crawled over until he was above the scientists, apparently not having heard their compatriot getting taken out. While part of him did think that he should wait a few seconds to see if they dropped any juicy intel, he didn't want to risk Miko's wellbeing.

So he quickly shot two web-lines and yanked the scientists up, webbing them up and cocooning them before leaving them to dangle from the ceiling, unable to move or speak due to the webs covering their mouths. "Pretty sure you guys are gonna lose your medical licenses for this," he growled. "Have fun explaining this to the police."

Dropping down, he sighed. "Okay. Time to free her and hopefully find-"

His Spider-Sense buzzed, causing him to turn in the direction of the danger...

...and saw the previously unconscious girl was now awake, and staring right at him.

But that wasn't what was causing his Spider-Sense to go off.

Rather, it was the fact that floating above Miko were all of the scalpels and other surgical implements that had been laying on the table, all of them pointing right at him.

Based on the look that she was giving him, one that was mostly fearful but had a hint of anger, she obviously thought he was one of the bad guys.

Which was understandable. The poor girl was only about 12-13 years old, and God only knew what kind of horrors she had been subjected to.

So he slowly raised his hands up, doing his best not to scare her anymore, he said "It's okay. I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to save you."

That statement seemed to confuse her, but the scalpels did start to lower a bit. Her eyes were still trained on him, and he noticed that her eyes were complete fields of black save for a silver pinprick where her pupils were. He also noticed that rather than traditional ears, she had two golden-blonde furred bear ears poking out through her hair. Meaning that she had a partial Mutant Quirk similar to Tokoyami, this one obviously some type of bear.[1]

Finally she asked "Why?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," he replied. "That's what heroes do. Or what they should do, anyway." Seeing that she was still a bit unconvinced, he asked "You're name's Miko, right?"

She blinked and then asked "Yes. How do you know that?"

"Himiko told me."

"Himi? Is she okay?!"

"Yeah. A friend and I ran into her when we snuck in here. My friend even gave her some blood so that she would feel better. She told us that you were in trouble, so here I am. We're going to rescue you and everyone else in this place."

She still seemed a bit hesitant, but she eventually asked "Promise?"

He nodded. "Promise."

That seemed to finally get her to trust him, so the scalpels all fell to the ground. He then noticed that once she did that her eyes changed to a more normal form; white sclera with blue eyes.

Walking to her, he undid her restraints and said "BTW, I'm Spider-Man."

"I kinda figured that from the webs," she replied, pointing up to the three people that he'd webbed up.

Spider-Man chuckled. "Yeah, I guess it was a tad obvious. Anyway, we should-" It was then he noticed a small bit of blood coming from her right nostril. "Um, you okay? You've got a little-"

"It's fine," she nonchalantly replied, wiping it off with her sleeve. "This just happens when I use my Quirk."

Normally he'd be analyzing a Quirk like that, but now wasn't the time. "Um, is that gonna be a problem?"

"No, it only gets bad if I overuse it."

"Well, let's hope it doesn't get to that point. Anyway, we should get going before anyone comes in to check on these guys."

As they exited the room, checking to make sure the hallways were clear, he looked at Miko and said "Stay behind me. If I tell you to, run and find somewhere to hide. Okay?" She nodded, but before he could start moving down the hallway she grabbed his hand and started tugging him down the other hallway. "Um, is there a problem with the other way?"

"It takes us away from my little brother."

That definitely got his attention. "Your little brother?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Him, his friends and me were put in special cells because our Quirks were so powerful."

"That makes sense. Your telekinesis Quirk could be pretty powerful."

"That's why the cells they put us in were made so we couldn't use them. But I can't leave without them. They NEED me," she desperately pleaded with him.

Not that that was necessary.

"I assume you know the way." Seeing her nod he said "Lead the way."

As he followed her down the hall, he pulled up his comms and said "Hey, Prowler. I got Miko and we're rescuing some of her friends in the Special Projects Wing-God these guys need to come up with better names- so I might be a bit. How're you doing?"

"I'm face to face with Ass-Zawa right now."

-Minutes Earlier-

I really gotta remember to thank Majima for installing the cloaking device in my suit, she mused.

After leaving the security guard's office, she followed the map to where Training Area A was, making sure to activate her cloak whenever she had to get past a camera or any patrolling guards. Frankly without it, she probably would've been caught about fifteen different times.

Finally she came to Training Area A, helpfully marked with a white sign and red letters. Guess they wanted it to be idiot proof.

Seeing the doors starting to slide open, she activated her cloak and slipped inside, narrowly avoiding one of the guards as they wheeled out one of the kids on a gurney. He was soon followed by the rest of the guards, each pushing a gurney with an unconscious kid strapped to it. While she wanted to do nothing more than to start kicking ass and saving those kids, she knew better than to recklessly charge in like that. It was too much to hope that none of the kids would get hurt in the scuffle, and she wouldn't be surprised if any of the guards would try to use them as hostages.

Gotta be smart about this, Kaina. You and Spider-Man will save everyone later. Preferably after most of the guards are knocked out and the police are on their way. For right now, though...

She glared behind her mask as she locked onto Aizawa, who was just standing in the middle of the room while smoking a cigarette, apparently not having a care in the world.

Her fists clenched so hard that she was sure if she hadn't been wearing gloves, her nails would've pierced the skin of her palms and drawn blood.

Right now, this bastard needs his ass kicked. Hard.

At that moment, her comm beeped and Spider-Man said "Hey, Prowler. I got Miko and we're rescuing some of her friends in the Special Projects Wing-God these guys need to come up with better names- so I might be a bit. How're you doing?"

She quietly growled back and replied "I'm face to face with Ass-Zawa right now."

"Oh. Well, have fun. And give him a black eye for me, will ya?"

"Can do."

She only had to wait a few moments for the last of the guards to wheel out the last unconscious kid, the doors sliding shut behind him. Aizawa, having finished his cigarette, began to walk towards the doors to leave-

-only for Prowler to fire her wrist blaster at the door controls, the electric payload frying them and preventing them from opening.

Aizawa whirled around, his eyes glowing red and his mouth twisted into a snarl. "Who's there?!" Seeing no one there he yelled "Show yourself!"

There was a slight hum as Prowler de-cloaked, standing a good few feet away from Aizawa. "You know, everyone I talked to said you'd fallen from grace," she growled. "But I don't think anyone could've know you'd fallen this far."

Aizawa's glare intensified once he saw her. "Well, if it isn't the Amethyst Angel. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Investigating several missing persons reports. Found a few leads that pointed to you. And wouldn't you know it, I found my way down here and found this little operation." She cracked her knuckles and added "And when I saw what you did to those kids... yeah, I decided you needed an immediate ass-kicking."

Seemingly unbothered by her statements, Aizawa simply rolled his eyes and groaned "Great. Another bleeding heart vigilante."

"At least I have a heart, you hobo-looking motherfucker," she growled. "But before I strangle you with that ugly scarf of yours, I gotta ask; how the hell could you do this to these kids?"

"Quite easily. I've been working for these guys since before-"

"That's not what I'm asking. I'm asking how the hell you can sleep at night after what you've done?! You ruined kids' futures-"

"They don't deserve to have futures!" She blanched at that declaration, noticing Aizawa's whole demeanor having suddenly changed from annoyed and apathetic to angry and downright murderous. "I am so sick and tired of people going on and on and FUCKING ON ABOUT THESE BRATS! 'You're ruining their futures!' 'You're way too hard on them!' 'They weren't responsible for Oboro's death!' HE GAVE HIS LIFE FOR THESE LOUDMOUTHED, WHINY, SNOT-NOSED, ZIT-FARMING, OVERLY-EMOTIONAL BRATS WHO NEVER STOP GOING ON AND ON ABOUT THEIR STUPID DREAMS!" He took a deep breath before pulling his capture scarf off from around his neck and slowly shifting into a combat stance. "These useless brats should all be thankful that they get to serve some kind of a purpose down here, instead of just being a waste of money, time and resources that could go to far better places and people."

"As science experiments for some shady as hell bastard who's more than likely gonna turn them into living weapons," she asked incredulously. "What the hell could they be offering you to get you to do something so inhumane?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," he sarcastically replied. "Not that it matters, because you're not leaving here alive!"

At that declaration he threw his scarf forward, no doubt attempting to bind her or wrap it around her neck to strangle her...

...only for Prowler to backflip out of his attempted snare, grabbing it with her left hand when she landed and pulling the thing taut, much to his shock.

She scoffed. "Please. Everyone on the Vigilante forums knows about your fighting style, your Erasure Quirk, and this damn scarf of yours." She then grinned behind her helmet and added "Fortunately, I learned a long time ago how to fight without my Quirk. And that despite how much our society tends to look down on them-"

Before Aizawa could react, she raised her right gauntlet up and fired her wrist-blaster. The energy blast nailed him dead center in the chest, staggering him and forcing him to let go of his scarf.

"-guns still tend to trump Quirks."

To her mild irritation the energy shot didn't knock him unconscious, which sadly made sense. Aizawa wasn't an idiot (not completely, anyway) so his costume more than likely had body armor incorporated into it. And given how a lot of body armor for Hero Costumes were insulated to help protect from tasers or shock rounds, the shots from her wrist-blasters weren't able to deliver the full effect.

Fortunately it still slowed him down, so she was quickly able to yank and throw away his capture scarf to the other end of the room. One less weapon for him to use.

Aizawa saw that and growled. "Lucky shot."

She smirked. "Not really. You just suck. Probably too used to beating up teenagers who never learned to actually fight."

The dig at his ego made him clench his teeth, but he simply reached into his costume and pulled out two knives, holding both of them in backhand grips. "I've got plenty more options."

Settling into a combat stance, she made a taunting gesture with her right hand and said "Then bring it, Ass-zawa."

He made to move like he was about to charge forward, only for him to rear back while inhaling deeply-

-before throwing his head forward and let it all out straight down onto the ground, unleashing a massive stream of the red gas. The sheer volume of the gas was so great that Prowler couldn't believe that his lungs could hold that much.

But it got even worse as the gas billowed out and began to spread across the entire room, filling it up until all she could see was red, except for Aizawa and the

She scoffed and said "Sorry to disappoint, but this mask has a filter that keeps toxins out, including whatever this sleep gas of yours is. Though I have to ask, how the hell did you get a second Quirk?"

Aizawa smirked and replied "Need to know basis, and you don't need to know. And this cloud wasn't to knock you out, though that would've made this a lot easier."

"Then what was it for," she asked, drawing a bead on the man with her wrist blasters.

His smirk turned into a sadistic grin as he took a few steps backwards into the red gas...

...and to her shock the smoke seemingly swallowed him, even his silhouette disappearing into it.

His voice mockingly echoed throughout the smoke, asking "Can you shoot something you can't see?"

She cursed internally. This might be harder than I thought.

-With Spider-Man and Miko-

Spider-Man had followed Miko through the facility, dodging the guards and staying out of sight. DECA had projected the map for him and helped point out guard patrols to help out, which did wonders because they really didn't want to draw attention to themselves. (Yet.)

She also pointed out that there was a computer terminal in the wing they were heading to that had the data they needed to put the people behind this facility behind bars for a long time. So that was added to his list.

Now the two of them were peering around the corner, looking right at the door to the Special Projects Wing.

And taking notice of the two Guards that were standing outside. They were armed with rifles, ones that bore bright blue clips with black lightning bolt decals on them. This indicated that their rifles were loaded with shock round; special rounds that delivered an electric payload that was equal to what you got from a taser, but without the wires and with a longer range.

"Looks like they're not moving anytime soon," he whispered to Miko. "And I take it that's the only way in?"

"Yeah," Miko admitted. "You also need a keycard to get through the door. And the guards don't have one, so they usually have to be let in by someone on the other side."

"So even if I knocked them out we couldn't get in." She nodded, and he continued "That definitely doesn't make things easier. But maybe there might be another way in."

He pulled up the map on his lenses and sure enough he found what he was looking for; an air duct on the ceiling that had several vents, one of which led right into the room that had the computer terminal that had the data they needed-

-and coincidentally was next to the controls for all the prisoner cages. "Lucky. Got us a way in."

"How," Miko asked. When he pointed up at the air vent above them, she chuckled. "Of course."

With a quick jump up to the ceiling he slowly pushed up the air vent cover and webbed it to the top of the duct. He then lowered himself down on a web-line and held out his hand to Miko. "You're not claustrophobic, are you?"

She shook her head. "Please. Me and my friends have slept in these before." Seeing Spider-Man's lenses widen, she bashfully rubbed the back of her head. "Yeah. I forgot to mention we're all orphans."

Taking a deep breath, Spider-Man replied "Yeah, let's unpack that later. For now, let's get your little family out of there."

She nodded and took his hand and he took her up the ceiling, letting her climb into the air duct first before following her inside. "Which way," she asked.

"Should be the next three vents. If you see a white computer terminal with a green screen, that's where we wanna get out at," he replied calmly.

A few more minutes of careful and slow crawling, Miko whispered "We're here."

Sliding around to look through the vent cover, he could see the white terminal with the green screen. "Nice job," he said, the two exchanging a fist bump.

Slowly lifting up the vent cover, he poked his head out and surveyed the room. Seeing no one he lowered Miko down to the floor before dropping down.

The room itself had two large windows serving as the walls, giving whoever was in the room a view over the entire wing.

The wing itself consisted of a chamber with several cells, a checkerboard tiled floor, and cameras and automated sentry guns in the ceiling.

Only four of the cells were occupied, each with one occupant. One was a boy who looked similar to Miko, even having his own blue eyes and bear ears sticking out of his short blonde hair. But his hands were also bear claws, and all of his bear parts had brown fur instead of gold.

In the cell next to his was a large boy with an obvious bunny mutation Quirk, with rabbit legs and feet, and two large rabbit ears. The fur covering those parts were a blue-purple, which stood out from his black hair that he had in a buzz cut. He could also see that that boy's eyes were bright red.

The third cell had a girl who looked like a hybrid of some sort of baby chick, with yellow feathers all over her body and an orange beak. Her pink eyes were looking at an empty tray, her downcast look telling him that she was clearly hungry and they weren't feeding her enough.

The last occupied cell had a very thin looking boy with a fox mutation Quirk, and Spider-Man's jaw dropped at the state of the kid. His right hand and eye were missing, replaced with a metal hook and covered up with an eyepatch respectively. But just above his knees down his natural legs had been replaced with mechanical prosthetics that looked like they'd been cobbled together out of the cheapest parts they could find. His red hair that matched his fur was unkempt and fell down past his shoulders, and his lone yellow eye was filled with fury as he scratched a tally into the wall with his hook. One of nearly a hundred, he noted.

Miko smiled as she looked through the window, pointing them out from right to left for Spider-Man. "Those are them! Meitaru, Kenji, Chikako, and Danji!"

He nodded. "Alright. Let's get them out of there."

Moving to the terminal, he took out a green USB flash drive with a red spider logo on it and plugged it in. A small blue light lit up at the end, showing that DECA was connect through it and was now in the system. In moments the terminal lit up with lines of code as DECA went to work, breaking through the firewalls and looking for all the data they were looking for.

While that was going on, Spider-Man walked to the control panel and looked at the various buttons and switches. Finding the controls for the cameras and sentry guns, he immediately switched them to inactive. And then for good measure, he busted off the switches.

He then saw a switch that was labeled "Floor Pacification System?"

Miko cringed at that. "Yeah. They activate that and it sends electricity through the whole floor."

"You're kidding, right?"

"I wish I was. It's for those who are fast enough or agile enough to dodge the sentries and the guards. That's how they stopped Danji when he tried to get out. But apparently they had it cranked up way too high because..."

She trailed off, and he could guess what happened based on his prosthetic legs.

Especially since none of them were wearing any kind of footwear, let alone the insulated kind.

So yeah, that switch ended up being broken.

Just as he was about to open up their cages an alarm started blaring throughout the facility. The PA system came on and a man's voice said "Attention all personnel! We have intruders in the facility. Route guards to Training Area A and to the Special Projects Wing, and make sure all of our subjects are in their cells. STAT!"

His Spider-Sense started buzzing, and he instinctively fired an Impact Web at the door into the office. Just in time as the two guards from earlier were trying to get inside, along with another man in a lab coat who he assumed was supposed to be in here.

And from what he saw on the camera feeds, more were coming. A lot more.

Miko looked up at him and asked "You can get us out of here, right?"

Spider-Man nodded. "Yeah, I can."

'But it's definitely going to be a lot harder than I thought it would."

-Meanwhile-

In a hidden room in the facility, a pudgy and bald man wearing glasses laughed as he watched the events unfold, a wicked smile stretched across his face.

"Well now, isn't this getting interesting..."

A phone started going off, which the man answered and said "This is the Doctor." The person on the other end talked a bit, and the Doctor replied "Not to worry, Master. I have all the back up plans ready in case they manage to defeat the security teams and Aizawa." He stopped as the other man continued talking and smiled. "Good. I've been wanting to get rid of that scruffy looking liability for the longest time. And..."

He reached into a small case, pulling out a dart loaded with a purple liquid. The label read CROSS-SPECIES NOMU FORMULA: CAT.

"...this will be the perfect chance to test my newest formula," he happily exclaimed, the light gleaming off of his glasses...

To Be Continued...

[sanaavay]

Features Durable OMRON Switches Utilizing OMRON switches, the INFAREX M20 provides you with the accuracy to hit your targets and perform tasks effectively. It’s tested to 20 million clicks, giving you a durable mouse that will last you a long time. Adjustable DPI With a 5,000 DPI optical sensor, the INFAREX M20 offers amazing precision to put you a step ahead of your opponents. A five-segment DPI adjustment button lets you change the speed of the cursor for optimal control in different situations. RGB Lighting Effects The INFAREX M20 comes with a full range of RGB lighting effects that will help put you in the right mindset before or during an intense battle. Ergonomic Design for Comfort INFAREX M20’s ergonomic design allows it to fit comfortably in your hands for a natural and relaxed hand position. All motions, including lifting the mouse and sweeping it across the mousepad, can be done quickly, easily, and precisely. Specifications Interface USB Switch Omron with 20-million clicks Resolution 400/800/1600/3200/5000 dpi Dimension 132 x 69 x 43.5mm / 5.2 x 2.7 x 1.7in Weight 160g Max. Acceleration 20G Report Rate 250/500/1000Hz Lighting Effect Full RGB System Requirement Windows 10/8/7 Current 80mA Voltage 5V Current 350mA Certification CE/FCC/BSMI/KC/VCCI/RCM/EAC Warranty 2 Years Note ***Features, Price and Specifications are subject to change without notice.

[govindhtech]

CORSAIR M75 AIR WIRELESS: The Ultimate Gaming Mouse!

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[robot-thighs]

I definitely poured my heart and soul into a TF sex pollen fic. There's not enough simpatico content in the world, so I'm afraid I need to start cooking my own food. Here's a little piece - full fic is linked on ao3

-

“Brainstorm. How many times will it take before you—?”

Perceptor’s stern voice was cut off by the sensor-splitting wail of klaxons, punctuating the reprimand with the chaotic deployment of security protocols. Brainstorm sidestepped away from the wreckage of the current project on his workbench, coughing and sputtering smoke from his vents. Methodically, he grabbed the nearest extinguisher and sprayed the smoldering mess down, then quickly hit the switch for the ventilation hood. A miscalculation - but where? He stopped in the middle of the commotion to consider it, even as the overhead sirens filled the room with chaotic red noise. He’d looked at the equation dozens of times now. Hundreds, even. He couldn’t find a fault in his math. But predictably, despite his confidence, the material resonance converter had blown up in his face for the twelfth time. This had been the most spectacular one yet.

Perceptor had abandoned the chemical experiment at his workstation and moved quickly to one of the lab terminals to access the ship’s computer. The security blast doors lowered as he typed, sounding an ominous thud that undercut the sirens as they slammed shut outside the lab doors. His stance stiffened.

Brainstorm froze in dubiety. “What’d you close the blast doors for?”

“I didn’t.” Perceptor’s voice was sharp enough to cut above the alarm without really reaching the level of a yell, which Brainstorm found both breathtakingly hot and infuriatingly groundless. “I’m trying to disengage the security protocols, but the controls aren’t responding.”

Brainstorm cringed behind his mask and walked over to the terminal to loom at Perceptor’s shoulder. He lowered the sensitivity of his input volume but still put his hands over his audials as the alarm drilled into his processor. “Can you at least shut off the alarm?”

The look Perceptor turned on him was piercing enough to take a mech out halfway across the sector. Sufficiently chagrined, Brainstorm raised his hands in a disarmed gesture and backpedaled a step.

Perceptor resumed ticking at the console. Brainstorm almost had time to admire the collected concentration in his expression, the tiny pinch between his optical ridges that he totally didn’t think about kissing. Ever. Then the sirens finally stopped. Brainstorm cycled his optics as the red flashing subsided and the normal halogen lights of the lab came back in a harsh white. The sudden silence allowed him to let out a vent he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

His laugh was sheepish. Perceptor was still typing at the console, expression no less consternated than before. “Whew. Well that was bracing. I must have forgotten to carry a three somewhere.”

“I can’t seem to open the blast doors,” Perceptor said with a chill of irritation. “That protocol is not responding to my commands.”

“Huh.” Brainstorm’s wings tilted in some unspoken question. He turned back to his work bench and reluctantly started pulling at some of the broken components, privately sneering at the retardant foam that clung to the mess. He felt a pang of regret go through his spark. There wasn’t much here left to salvage. He’d probably be better off sweeping this entire mess into the trash. He peeled a blasted metal panel aside to find the wiring underneath completely scorched. Well, frag. The rest of his eventual reply came out snappish. “So what?”

“So, we are trapped in the lab until the blast doors open.”

“Can we override them from here?”

“I’ve tried.”

Brainstorm glanced over to find Perceptor giving the console a withering glare. “Do they time out or anything?”

Perceptor didn’t answer him. He touched the comm panel next to the door and spoke into it curtly. “Captains. We have a problem with the security system in the lab.”

An expectant moment passed. Brainstorm busied himself with scooping some of the mess off of his desk and into a waste bin. Then the comm crackled with a reply.

“Perceptor,” Megatron’s voice was colored with tinny apprehension over the speaker. “Is there a situation?”

“Not precisely.” Perceptor’s answer was measured with caution as he kept a hand pressed to the intercom panel. “There was…” He hesitated. Brainstorm craned slightly to catch his expression. “A minor incident, but I believe the security protocols were engaged erroneously. We have things under control, but the blast doors won’t respond to override commands on our end.”

“What were you guys doing in there, blowing stuff up?” Rodimus’s voice joined the comm, sounding farther away.

When Perceptor didn’t answer, Rodimus’s voice piped up again. “Oh shit, really?”

“The situation has been handled,” Perceptor said with a faint lash of irritation. “My more pressing concern at the moment is our ability to leave the lab.”

“We will have the security team investigate it,” Megatron cut in. “Will you be alright remaining in the lab until then?”

“No need to worry, captain.” Brainstorm maneuvered over to Perceptor’s side and raised his voice to the intercom, toweling a cloth over his hands to wipe away the retardant. “We’ve got plenty to keep us busy. Hell, we probably won’t even notice when the blast doors finally do open up. That’s how busy we are.”

[pennamesmith]

Frank Sinatra

The stars filled the room.

Entrapta’s eyes sparkled from their myriad reflections. She vibrated with excitement as she twirled inside the holographic projection, jumping from one point of light to the next. She laughed and spread her fingers as if trying to catch the stars like snowflakes.

“There are so many!” Entrapta sang. “Where do you even start?”

Hordak stepped into the light beside her, wearing a smile despite himself. “Horde Prime started here,” he said, pointing to a dark corner of the map. “Horde World. It is the seed and the heart of his grand empire. This is the path of his eternal holy crusade.”

A shadow, almost like a clawed hand, reached across the model universe. Every world beneath its fingers was marked with a blinking Horde emblem. Entrapta peered at them silently.

“I have records of every world Prime has graced with his light,” Hordak boasted. “Flora, fauna, geography, topography, and military ability, where applicable. I will give you access to all of the data.”

Entrapta was already poring through the oceans of information, hands and hair dancing across the holographic controls. Images and audio logs and meticulous reports moved around her like bright orbiting moons. She seemed like a star at the center of it all.

“This is amazing,” she breathed. “There’s just so much.”

Hordak looked like he was about to say something when a blinking point of light caught Entrapta’s eye. She waved her way across the three-dimensional map of the greater universe. Far away from Horde Prime’s grasping hand, a few tiny annotations glowed in the distant void.

“Those are regions Prime has not yet reached,” Hordak explained as Entrapta explored the darkness. “Of course, with his technology, we are able to collect some data without actually being there. Radio signals. Ancient radiation. Things beyond the suns.”

Entrapta tapped a sound file. Music, as if from a cobwebby old record player, filled the sanctum. Hordak’s ears twitched. Entrapta’s eyes shone. The sound was staticky, distorted, warped by time and distance. It skipped and crackled. But there was still a distinct, steady crooning behind it all. Golden horns and ethereal notes swam through the air. Entrapta made a sound of delight to go with it.

“What is this?”

“Nothing significant,” Hordak said. “Background noise from a larger sweep. Clues for the next campaign. Nothing more.”

Entrapta hummed. “Well, I like it. It’s got a nice rhythm to it.” She raised her eyebrows and smirked. “Do you know how to dance, Hordak?”

“What backwater planet nonsense…?”

“Calm down,” Entrapta laughed. “There’s no need to get huffy. I just like to move around for a few minutes when I’ve been working for a long time in the lab. You look like someone who could use a brain break.”

She took his hand. The light from the star map cast shining reflections and deep shadows across Hordak’s haphazard collections of old equipment and spare parts; a hoard of things thrown away and saved. Tiny creatures with many legs collaborated in the corners.

Entrapta beckoned. “Here, I’ll teach you.”

The music continued playing. Hordak did not resist.

They danced.

—

Emily switched the recording off. In times of uncertainty, it eased her anxieties to look through Entrapta’s old video logs. She rotated slowly on her back as she searched her RAM for something to watch next. Her sticky leg twitched.

Scorpia and the Queen of Bright Moon had been gone for a very long time.

Just as Emily began to play the next clip, the horizon exploded with light. She swiveled around and stared curiously at the sky. Then the light became blinding, and the world moved.

When the sky returned, it was filled with stars. And the stars were filled with ships.

Emily beeped, and considered this new data. It did not lessen her anxiety. She folded up her legs and waited quietly for whatever would happen next. After a moment, to fill the silence, Emily opened all of her sensors and turned them to the dismembered constellations above.

She listened for the music.

[adaginy]

[Part 1 + prompt] [Previous part] Part 4 My lungs are state-of-the-art, now. The casing is clear; she examines them curiously from the outside -- all the fans and fins and sensors and valves. The valves are part of a self-cleaning system. I'll cough, now, sometimes, to clear what's been collected. The sensors will tell me when the lungs need manual cleaning; I'm not to open them otherwise. It may not be for a span of spans. They "highly recommend" only having professional techs do it, only when needed. No more being cleaned every span by a gently nattering shipmate.

I am desperate to maintain our meetings, at minimum; I'd love for more. "Love." How strange. Like any feeling, like sentience itself, it is not programmed into us. It is 'emergent'; it forms from experiences. It is said that the first, purest, plainest words of sentience are "I want" -- I want that lieutenant to be gentler with the inputs, I want to see this new beautiful planet firsthand, I want a body that is separate from a function. What are joy and sadness but wanting an experience to exist or continue, or to be undone? I want her presence. I want to hear her voice or watch her hands sweep through words. I want to hold the yarn or the pattern as she creates a blanket, a hat, a scarf. I want to watch her eat buttery noodles as the tension of not having buttery noodles melts away.

Not all species have love; not all that do have romantic love. But those that do, I think, would agree this is it. I ask her, as she selects the next holovid, if she'd consider moving in with me. "I couldn't move to this deck," she says, distractedly, tapping through the selections. "It's so cold here when I'm not working on you or sitting with you. I'd never be able to sleep unless it was next to you like on that mission." She taps her handheld decisively and sits back next to me, reaching to the side to trade the handheld for an in-progress hat as the holovid starts. She stiffens, then, tapping the handheld again to pause the holovid and turning to me slowly. "Is that -- Is that why you asked? Do you want that?" "If you don't want to, that's fine, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, I only -- I really enjoy having you here. Or being with you when you eat. I -- I feel an affection for you, but if you don't reciprocate then I don't want to pressure you, or damage this friendship." She bites her lip, tapping her palms on her her trousers. "I --" it strangles off, but instead of switching to handspeak she holds her finger up for me to wait. ... "I... don't..." I don't know why she's grinding it out in voice when it's obviously difficult. "... sex." "...What?" She looks at me with irritation before taking a deep breath, "I --" "No, no, I don't mean you have to say it again, I mean -- I'm sorry, I didn't understand at first. Processing is doing a lot right now, I'm sorry. You're ... asexual?" She nods. "... and so if that's something that I wanted out of this ... hypothetical... relationship, that wouldn't work," I add, trying to spare her the effort of speech but not wanting to call this something she wouldn't. She nods again. "I -- No, that's fine. I like this. I like what we're doing now. ... Sexual desire is, um, I'd download data for it if you wanted it but I've never bothered." It's emergent as well, technically, but in day-to-day life there's a paucity of training data unless you go looking for it. "If you don't want that, I'm happy not to." She shakes her head and settles in comfortably beside me, tilting her head onto my shoulder. "S-so, I move in, and we're a couple, for more of this?" "If that makes you happy, it will make us both happy." She nods, and finally taps her handheld to resume the holovid. ... We are comfortably cohabitating now. She had a one-hex room, the minimum required to be provided to those on board, by choice. I have three hexes, which was admittedly a little extravagant for someone who does not need food storage or a horizontal resting space. Now one hex contains a small bed for us both, and another contains a small food prep/storage area and a lofted hidey-hole for if she feels overwhelmed. I'd say there's a little more than one and a half hexes for daily life, and it suits us fine. It's plenty of space to sit on the couch while she tells me about her interests. I hold her yarn.

-xxx-

[qyrhan]

D'Tan x Reader

(Snowed In Shuttlecraft)

Part One

Frantic alarms blasted on virtually every system available to you, your ears ringing from the blaring klaxon of the ship going into Red-alert. The bulkheads surrounding you reverberated as you were assaulted by wave after wave of plasma beam fire.

“Shields are holding,” you reported aloud, noting one of your would-be assassin’s port nacelle billowing a thick, black smog.

“Barely,” your passenger mused as he hurriedly redirected auxiliary power to the shuttle's battered shields, “another blow like that and we might not survive long enough to get off-world.”

You bit back the urge to send a look his way; giving glares to a diplomat wasn't exactly praise-worthy behavior, especially not to this particular one.

Blasts to the starboard side jostled the entire shuttle, which deterred you from inputting commands as quickly as you wanted. “We’re not gaining any ground.” You growled out through gritted teeth. “I'm switching to attack pattern beta. If I can just–”

Sparks flew, and the world spun out in a whirlwind as the small Tiercel-class began to plummet to the rocky surface below. Static filled the viewscreen far too long for your comfort before you could compensate for the atmospheric interference.

“Why did it have to be T’Varo warbirds,” you sneered to yourself, “they could've played fair this once, but no, no they had to use T’Varo warbirds.” You braced as you felt the shuttlecraft fight your every attempt at correcting course, frustration and stress building as you received yet another proximity alert.

“Look’s like they've brought new friends,” you remarked stiffly, “I hope they don't get disappointed when they realize we're not dead.”

D’Tan gave you a fleeting glance, his expression taut while he moved to try and fix the viewscreen. Perhaps cynicism wasn't the best attitude to have in this situation. “We’re going to have to make due with long-range sensors for now,” he huffed, “we’re flying blind.”

“Wonderful.” You growled out as you were alerted to a volley of plasma fire headed your way. At this point, the holographic diagram from D’Tan’s continued sensor sweep, and your quick responses to his warnings, were the only things keeping you both alive.

“They're trying to corner us.” D’Tan pointed out.

“Is there any way we can cloak at this distance?”

“No, Captain. We aren't far enough for a successful cloak; we would be defenseless.”

You furrowed your brows, your expression knit into a look of irritation. You were fighting a losing battle and you knew it. If you couldn't find a place to duck into immediately, the only traces left of you and your shuttle would be burning debris on a P-class moon.

“Captain,” the proconsul turned towards you, “I'm picking up a cave formation on the surface below. Long-range sensors indicate it's large enough for a shuttle this size.”

“Why do I feel like there's bad news you haven't gotten to yet?”

You saw him shrink back a bit before he answered. “Well, there is also an ion storm forming in that same area. Which means we can either deal with the immediate threat of the Tal’Shiar pursuing us, or we head into an ion storm that is potentially just as deadly.”

Neither of those options were appealing to you in the slightest, but they were the only options you had at your disposal. Communication with your ship was cut off long before the skirmish you had gotten into began, so sending a distress signal would be impossible, especially through the moon’s dense atmosphere. On the other hand, any attempt to retaliate against your attackers would no doubt end up in your untimely deaths.

You were cornered.

“You always seem to get me into the most exciting situations, captain. It’s a shame we’ll have to miss the summit.” D’Tan quipped. A small smile was on his face, though you assumed that was forced, given your current position.

You pursed your lips. Was he joking right now? He was– unfortunately–correct. You did seemingly get him into the most dangerous circumstances possible. Thinking about how many times he almost got killed due to merely being near you made you grimace despite yourself.

“We’ll have to deal with the cave for now.” You remarked while piloting the craft through extensive, threatening gray clouds. “I highly doubt they'll follow us, and the interference from the density of ions alone will block their sensors.”

“While that is true, it will also block our any attempt to scan the near vicinity,” D’Tan warned. “They can't see us, we can't see them.”

You nodded, knowing full well that you could be going into something you might not come back out of. “Entering the lower atmosphere now. I'm getting heavy resistance from the helm, but we’ll be passing into the cave shortly.”

“I’ll start with repairs then,” D’Tan stood from his seat beside you, “we’ll need to be in good working order if we’re going to even try getting off this moon.”

You quirked a brow. “Sir, with all due respect, I'm fully capable of beginning the repairs on my own once we've landed.”

All you got in return was an unamused huff. That caused you risk a glance behind you momentarily, only for you to be met with the sight of deck plating already being pushed aside and tools being utilized. He didn't lie when he said he was going to do something, even if you objected to it. “Sir–”

“You just focus on piloting, captain. I'll focus on keeping every other system we have online from failing.” He waved at you dismissively.

You mulled over that for a while as you compiled. Being stranded together was going to be a long ordeal for both of you.

[coreychick]

Chapter 6: Run

Part of the In the Dark Series: 18+ Smut & Story /

Din X Fem Reader Insert

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Déjà vu is a bitch. For the second time in three days, you have woken on Mando’s cot, and in Mando’s shirt.

It’s not cute anymore.

It was the blinking green light that called like a beacon in the dark. You stand in front of the panel on the carbonite chamber, watching that annoying green light blink. How is it that you’re back on this ship?

“You’re awake.” Comes that familiar modulated voice from behind you. It’s almost annoying how stealthy he can be- or maybe you were just too consumed by your thoughts to hear him?

You stare ahead, not quite ready to face him again.

“Are you going to put me in there?”

“No.” he says- and it might be the quickest reply he has ever given you.

“I suppose it’s not necessary when the quarry practically delivers herself for you.”

Mando sighs deeply.

“I....I never lied to you.”

“No, I suppose you didn’t.” you say- matching his sigh.

“I understand if you're angry….”

“I’m not.”

I very much am.

“You’re not?”

“You were just doing your job, right? You weren’t the reaper...just the ferryman.”

He inhales deeply again. “Are you ok? Did they hurt you?”

No, to both.

“ I’m fine.”

You take a deep breath and turn to face him. His damaged and broken armor has been replaced with newly forged beskar. The finish has a high polish shine that gleams even in the near dark of the hull. -

That fucking stings.

You take a step closer and run your finger along the edge of the shoulder pauldron. A newly minted mudhorn signet is beautifully etched into the steel. You return your stone cold gaze to the black t of his visor. You try to see past it, wanting to look straight into his eyes.

“But, as far as I’m concerned, this armor should be half mine.” You say, tilting your head to the side, remaining deceptively calm.

He has to clear his throat a little before speaking again. The modulated voice comes out a little raspier this time.

“We have a lot we need to work out.”

“Do we?”

“I know….I know I messed up. But your safety... is my only priority now.”

“Why's that?

There’s a long pregnant pause in his silence before he responds, “This is the way.”

You try to process his words, to look between them for the truth, but can’t decide what’s real or not.

No thanks. I can save myself.

You decide to use his own tactics against him.

Lull him into a false sense of compliance. When the moment is right, strike out.

He’s about to say more when a blast rocks the ship sending you both stumbling into the walls. Warning lights and alarm sensors sound as a second blast shakes the hull. You fist the cargo nets attached to the wall in an effort to regain your balance. Mando beelines for the cockpit and you follow on unstable feet behind him. He’s quick to reach the pilot’s seat and confirm that the Crest is under fire. Blasts continue to ricochet off the ship walls, but now that Mando is at the helm, the direct hits are fewer.

A voice comes over the comm, “ Hand over the woman Mando, and I might let you live.”

Mando dives to the right, nearly sending you into the wall. “Buckle in,” he commands- as you work your way into the rear passenger seat. The left engine takes on another direct blow. A few more like that and you think this ship might buckle like a tin can under a boot. The engine warning lights are screaming now. Mando rapidly presses buttons and flips switches before declaring, “Hold on!”

He takes the ship into a spinning dive maneuver and sweeps out to the left, but the other ship stays locked on in tight pursuit.

“Come on,” Mando grunts out in frustration.

Red beams fly past the windshield and into the atmosphere.

“Give it up Mando.” comes the voice over the comm again.

Mando quickly reverses the thrusters bringing the crest to a near stop. You're thankful you buckled in when you did or you’d likely be thrust upon the windshield. You squeeze your eyes and send a quick prayer to the Maker, that the other ship won’t come crashing into the Crest from behind. Mando dips down slightly and the other ship goes skidding across the top, barely missing the Crest- but takes out the right engine.

“ARE YOU CRAZY?” you shout.

Only now the other ship is in Mando’s sights, having zoomed past. He locks on with the targeting system and fires. The other ship disintegrates before your eyes.

The battle is over but the danger is not. Warning lights and systems continue to alert. Mando turns off the engines and attempts to do some damage control. You unbuckle for a better look at the console. It’s a mess with dozens of indicators alerting to damage.

“We're losing  fuel” he says- as he powers down all systems except for life support. All screens go black. Mando turns to you, where you’re silently watching from over his shoulder.

“Flip that switch,” he says- indicating a small black lever to your left.

You do, and the screens and lights come back on at what seems like half capacity. “Emergency backup generator, he says.

“Should be just enough to hobble us over there.”

It’s only now that you notice there is a large planet in the distance.

A few moments later Mando turns on the comm.

“This is Mos Eisley tower. We are tracking you. Head for bay 3-5, over.”

“Copy that, locked in for 3-5.”

“Mos Eisley?” you ask. “We’re heading for Tatooine?”

“You’ve been?” He asks looking at you.

“No, “ -you shake your head- “I’ve only heard things.”

The ship is pretty crippled so it’s a bit of a rough landing as Mando sets down the Razor Crest in the middle of a hanger that looks as if it too, has seen better days.  You follow him down the ladder expecting to exit the ship behind him, when he turns and stops abruptly in front of you. You walk straight into his shiny new chest plate, yelping in surprise.

“I want you to stay here.”

“What? No.” you protest.

“Look, we’re both being hunted now and Tatooine isn’t exactly known for being a safe haven. I want you to stay here. I’ll arrange for the ship repairs and pick up a few supplies. I should be back in an hour tops…...then we can finish our conversation.”

You feign a disappointed look and relent with a huff, “fine.”  He turns to leave and you decide to throw in a little extra sense of security for his benefit.

“Wait! I need a new set of clothes….something with pants.”  He waits and then replies, “Anything else?”

“No. just the clothes.” That ought to buy me enough time.

He nods and departs the Crest stopping halfway down the ramp and turns around again.

You’re taken by surprise when he calls out your name. 

He's never said my name before.

“Yes?” you answer hesitantly.

“Do not even think, of running.”

You were in fact going to run. The moment you learned you were heading straight into Tatooine, you had started forming a plan. For months now you had been working your way across the galaxy, trying to get to this very point- and now,  low and behold, this hunk of junk ship ends up delivering you precisely to your destination. You wait patiently until he has been gone for a solid five minutes before leaving the ship, just in case he decides he “forgot something” and comes back.

Before you flee the Crest, you decide to leave Mando a little parting gift. You scour the ship for anything personal to destroy. You want to shred his books or toss his favorite records into the bin, but the man is an enigma and doesn’t seem to have anything you’d consider a personal belonging. You alight on an idea and make a quick job of it. Is it petty? yes. Is it childish? yes. Does it feel good? hell yes.

Satisfied, you smile at your handy work before deciding to stop at his armory on the way out. Most of the weapons are too large for you to carry inconspicuously, or too big for you to handle anyway, so you grab a knife that can easily be tucked into a boot.

There’s a mechanic just starting work on the other side of the ship, so you sneak out the opposite side and make your way into the office. You head straight for a locker on the back wall, and fate must be working with you because there is a mechanic’s spare jumpsuit and boots inside. You quickly change clothes, careful not to be seen by the small mechanic droids lingering on the opposite side of the hanger. The jumpsuit is a little too tight around the hips and ass, but the boots are a perfect match to your feet. You tuck the knife in and decide to haul ass out of there. You're on a clock. Mando will be back in about 45 minutes according to your best guess.

Mos Eisley is unruly at best. It seems to be littered with spacers and thieves. You stick to moving through the outlining streets, and avoid the main roads, deciding that Mando likely headed for the marketplace. You do your best to stick to the shadows and attempt to walk over other’s footprints, hoping that Mando’s tracking won’t be able to decipher the difference. It takes much longer than you hoped, but eventually you find your way to Chalmun’s Cantina, just outside the community junkyard. Trooper helmets on pikes line the road on either side of the entrance. Oddly comforting, considering your last run in with troopers.

 There'll be no Imps here.

It’s late morning by your guess- which means it’s the slow hour, well before patrons of all species will file in, looking to escape the midday suns. You quickly scan the room for beskar and finding none, you make your way over to the droid-manned bar- avoiding the notice of it’s more dangerous looking barflies. You approach the bartender, doing your best to act natural.

“Droid, I’m looking for someone...a smuggler.”

“This is Tatooine, Smugglers are as commonplace as sand.”

Nobody likes a sarcastic droid.

“I mean, I’m looking for a particular one, goes by the name of Vale. Do you know of him?”

“I am programmed to forget those kinds of details, in order to maintain plausible deniability.”

You sigh. “Well, do you know anybody who might be able to point me in the right direction?”

“Nah, you won’t get anything out of the tin can back there, he can’t even make a decent drink.” Comes a voice from the booth behind you.

You turn to find a younger guy with his feet perched casually on the tabletop, rolling a coin across his knuckles. He’s easy on the eyes for sure, but he has an arrogance about him- a cockiness you’re instinct says is probably unjustified.

“If it’s information you’re looking for, have a seat.” he says, putting his boots down.

You hesitate, but decide to hear him out. You’re running out of time and he might be your best chance of finding a lead before Mando returns to find you missing from the Crest.

“You know where I can find this Vale?

“No, but I know someone who can.”

“I see, and how much is that introduction going to cost me? I don’t have any credits on me.”

“A date.”

“A date? Really?!” You make to get up and leave, but he reaches across the table to grab your wrist, keeping you in place. You casually move your other hand to slide down your leg and seek the knife you have hidden in your boot.

“Wait, wait...it’s not what it sounds like. Look, There’s a party at the palace tonight, and I could really use a date.”

“I thought the palace was abandoned?”

“Nah, that's just a rumor. True, there has been a bit of a power struggle since Jabba died, but Fortuna has assumed the mantle.”

“Go on.”

“He’s throwing some lavish party tonight to try and show off his power, flex his domain. He wants to impress the Hutt council.”

You hesitate….”and this helps me, how?”

“It just so happens, yours truly has an invitation.”

“You?....You have an invitation?”

“Hey,” he says rolling his shoulders in defense. “I’m an important guy.”

“Yeah, I’m not buying.”

No way is THIS guy an important figure in the crime syndicate.

“Ok, Ok…” he stops you again- and you really don’t like the way he doesn’t want to let go of your hand.

“Ok, I’m NOT an important guy...YET. But I do have an invitation. I’m trying to convince him to put me on his mercenary crew.”

“You? You’re a mercenary?” you say with furrowed brows.

“No, but HE doesn’t know that. Look….” he says squeezing your hand, “ I have an invitation to the party and they’d all take me a lot more seriously if I showed up with someone like you as a date.”

You look at where his hand is squeezing yours. It’s an awful plan, but maybe an awful plan is better than no plan at all?

This may be my only chance, there isn’t much time. You need to leave the city before he finds you.

“All I’m asking is you show up with me, have a few drinks, pretend to have a good time. The protocol droids at the palace have information on every smuggler that’s ever passed through Mos Eisley. If this Vale guy has passed through here, they’ll know.”

Your time is running out, he might already know you’ve gone.

“Fine…” you say, “but we leave NOW.”

“Alright…” he says with a roguish smile. Most women would consider it a panty-dropping smile and on most days you might agree. He’s good looking and has a nice body, but something about him is lacking. 

The lack of beskar?

“We’ll just have to make one quick stop on the way.”

“Where?” you ask, as he rises and extends a hand.

“Can’t go to a party dressed like that.”

“It’s a bit much, don’t you think?” you say shifting uncomfortably.

“It’s considered a luxurious dress to the Huttese, and you look incredible.” Torro- as he later introduced himself, says.

Your top- if it could even be considered one- consisted of two triangular shaped pieces of chainmail, one covering each breast, that came to a point just about your waistline.  The chainmail is made of tiny gold circles woven together with gold thread. It was sleeveless, backless and only secured at the top where it was attached to a choker that wrapped around your neck. A series of leather straps cover your most intimate parts and see-through navy silk secured with a belt hangs from  your waist down the center in the front and back, leaving your legs exposed. Your thighs are adorned with multilayered tiered garters made from the daintiest gold chains. Flat sandals are secured with straps that wrap around your calves. The lady at the shop had handed you a bottle of oil and insisted that you needed to slather it all over your body. There wasn’t much time to put effort into a hairstyle, so she wove some gold strands through a few braids around your crown and left the rest to hang freely down your back. You quickly lined your eyes with a smudge of black kohl and dabbed a tiny bit of color to your lips. You tucked the knife into the belt at your hip.

If I make it out of here in one piece, I can sell this outfit for a mint.

You didn’t trust Torro, but as you descended the stairs to the throne room, you were relieved to discover that he did indeed have an invitation. Dozens of species were in attendance. Entertainers of all sorts were performing various acts. A band played dance music while a leggy gal with a snout and painted lips belted out a song- out of key. There were also a half dozen armed guards lining the perimeter of the room- one at each entry and exit point.

You scan the room for droids finding one near Fortuna.

Must be his protocol droid.

Fortuna is sitting upon a stone throne surveying the crowd.

“Why don’t we head over to the bar?” you suggest- deciding that you’d rather avoid Fortuna altogether.

“Nah, let’s go introduce ourselves, say hello.”

Torro hooks his arm around your elbow and leads the way. You approach the throne and it doesn’t escape your notice that there’s a Twi-lek chained to the throne below.

“H'chu apenkee Torro,” Fortuna says jovially, as you approach.

Torro begins speaking in Huttese as well. You’re not entirely sure what they’re saying but the tone implies they are friendly with one another.

“De wanna wanga,” Torro replies.

He introduces you and it takes a great deal of effort to visibly hide your revulsion. Fortuna stares at you while Torro makes his small talk. His red eyes gleam as he taps his enormously long fingernails along a staff he holds in his hand.

Eventually he addresses you in basic, “Are you his?”

The question takes you off guard. Your not entirely sure what the safe answer is in this scenario,  but you answer directly.

“I belong to no one.”

He smiles a wicked smile- nearly every pointed tooth showing behind thin stretched lips. You give him your most winning smile and hope to the Maker it’s enough to hide how repulsed you are.

“Gi Shatta Gasha! U doba, nudd chaa!.....Enjoy the party!”

Torro thanks him again for the invitation and directs you toward the bar. You look back over your shoulder, and sure enough Fortuna’s eyes never leave you.

Torro orders a few drinks from a bartender of unknown species. You take one to be polite but have no intention of drinking it. Who knows what might be in it and you still didn’t trust the guy. When he isn’t looking, you casually dump the liquid out in increments.

The party continues and Torro seems happy to show you off. He introduces you to a few acquaintances- all of them seem like sleazeballs. All the time, you keep an eye on Fortuna and a location on his protocol droid. As soon as the droid made a move to leave his side, you’d corner it and extract the information you came for.

Finally, after some time waiting, Fortuna whispers an order to the droid. The droid descends the throne stairs and starts to make its way into the crowd.

It’s now or never.

You set your drink on the bar and turn to leave when Torro’s hand slides around the small of your back and around your waist, staying you.

“Is this a great party or what?”

“Mmmm.” Definitely, or what.

“It’s not every day you get to see a Mandalorian.”

Your head whips around. The crowd retreats a little near the bottom of the stairs to reveal a pissed off looking Mando. He doesn’t move,  his shoulders are tense and his hands are fisted. His helmet scans the room and comes to a stop when it lands on you.

Run.

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[crab-instruments]

Dust in the Wind Part 5 (tbb)

Master <Part 4 Part 6>

Pairing: Hunter x Secret Jedi! Reader (GN)

Rating and warning: General audience, fighting, injury, panic/stress

Words: 2.2k

a/n: Action! We fight some people. Notes at the end. I hope the action is somewhat easy to follow and interesting.

My writing process involves me thinking of fight scenes as I listen to music while I walk, this one is choreographed to Rat A Tat by Fall Out Boy. This is unimportant and uninteresting but is how I get a lot of my ideas.

Surprisingly, this is the longest part of written and I cut it short. Thanks for all the likes and reblogs, y'all. Keeps me going.

Cid had given the Batch a mission to the Outer Rim. Tech had told the squad what planet but you had zoned out. Restarting your life every time something goes south was taking a toll on you and while your new crew was accommodating, it didn’t stop the stress of existing. You had gotten closer with the Batch on the trip to the next mission since it was a bit further out and you had time to get to comfortable. Wrecker and Omega seemed to enjoy your company the most, wanting to play games and share stories with you. Otherwise you helped Tech and Echo around the ship and chatted with them. Down times were spent with Hunter in the cockpit, watching hyperspace.

“Maxis… do you know how to sew?” Wrecker had caught you outside the armory, holding something behind his back.

You blinked, not used to seeing Wrecker so timid. “Uh yeah, I can sew. What do you need?” With a swift movement, he brought a red and black tooka doll between you. One of the arms had a rip in it, showing the stuffing inside.

His eyes looked sad as he said, “Lula got caught on a hook.”

“Ah, that should be easy. I can patch Lula up while you’re on your mission, so she’ll be ready when you get back.”

Wrecker smiled wide and pulled you into a hug. When you separated, he then held Lula out for you to take. As your hand touched the doll, your senses were overwhelmed with a rush of emotions and your head filled with memories that the doll contained. It stunned you for a moment and you had to close your eyes, not having experienced a force echo in a while. Luckily none of the memories were traumatic, just loud since Wrecker had strong emotions.

“Are you okay, Maxis?”

“Huh? Oh yeah, sorry. I was just thinking how cute Lula was,” you said with a smile.

The time between taking Lula from Wrecker and entering the planet’s atmosphere was fuzzy. Your mind was still on experiencing the force echo. Psychometry was a force ability that few Jedi had but most of the time it was a pain. You had to train a lot to get it under control when you were younger and when people found out about it, they wanted to do study you and learn everything about it they could. Since you had left the Jedi life and mostly disconnected with the Force, the echoes had dissipated. Having one suddenly didn’t sit well.

Tech’s voice grounded you back to the present as he alerted everyone he was landing the ship soon. Hunter appeared in the seat across from you, something in his hand. “This mission shouldn’t take very long, just a few hours. Here’s a comm, we will let you know when we are on our way back or if something goes wrong. I know you can’t fly but it would be useful if you could get the ship ready in case we need to leave in a hurry.” You nodded and took the comm. “Will you be okay, Maxis? I did say this would be dangerous. Although it’s unlikely, they could come to scout the Marauder.”

“Oh yeah. I’ll be fine. If anything goes wrong on my end I can let you know as well, though I bet the worst thing is I prick my finger sewing Lula together or shock myself with a live wire.” Hunter’s face softened and he seemed to relax a bit. Your eyes held his until the ship shook when it landed. When he got up, he put his hand on your shoulder for a moment before getting ready to head out.

You watched as they shuffled out of the ship, saying a quiet “be safe, please,” as they disappeared from your view.

The reality of being by yourself seemed to set in, making the Marauder daunting. There was Gonky, at least. Shaking that off, you settled in and got to work fixing up Lula’s arm. You made quick work, almost wishing you had more to work on. Taking apart the ship to make repairs was risky if they needed to leave quickly.

Slumping back in your chair, you held Lula in front of you. “What do you think I should do, Lula? I could go clean the air filter or organize the wires in one of the control panels, even though Tech does a pretty good job at color coding them. A few of the sensors could be looked at but… I’m still a little stumped on… why I got a force echo from you. You are special, I’m sure, but… I guess I could meditate for a bit, see if that helps clear things up.”

You crossed your legs in the chair and put Lula in your lap. Meditating was supposed to be relaxing, but it was harder to find a calm now. It felt empty, in a way. You tried hard though, seeking an answer as to why now.

After a few moments, your eyes shot open. Something was wrong. You gasped for breath the feeling of overwhelming apprehension. Someone was heading toward the ship. Three, maybe four, people and they didn’t feel like your crew. Hunter did say he would alert you when they came back and it hasn’t been that long.

Swiftly, you got to your feet and headed towards the cockpit where the comm was still sitting on a chair. However, you stopped dead in your tracks when you saw a white bucket helmet walk around the front of the ship through the windshield. Troopers. Your heart pounded in your ears and you sank quickly to the floor. The fear of being caught by the Empire was arguably your biggest fear, they hunted Jedi ruthlessly, even hearing about troopers trained to fight Jedi specifically.

A noise came from where the entrance ramp was, they were trying to get on the ship. You remembered that Tech had told you about an escape hatch in the cockpit, so you quietly crawled to it and lifted it up. You did your best to make sure that you were in the clear and dropped down.

“Dank farrik! It’ll be another minute to open the hatch,” one of the troopers exclaimed. It seemed the others were spread out around the area, so making a run for it wasn’t necessarily the smartest decision but taking on four troopers by yourself wasn’t wise either. Close quarters combat was a strength of yours, training to not depend on your lightsaber was a priority for your Master. Long range combat would be more of a struggle, as your shooting accuracy left something to be desired. One of the reasons you ended up leaving the Order was it became less about peace keeping and more about being a soldier, and the senseless death had caught up to you.

You did your best to keep calm. Everything in your body told you to run, escape, survive, but… what about the ship? This was your home now. Hunter… the squad… depended on this ship. If you didn’t do something to protect it, what would happen?

Unfortunately for you, the choice to run or fight was taken from you, when the trooper noticed you crouching by the front of the ship.

“Hey! Foun—” before he could finish his sentence, you rushed him. The trooper had his blaster pulled out when he saw you. You used the element of surprise to go for a disarm, checking his blaster arm with your left, getting your right hand on the opposite side to redirect his hand. The blaster clearing your stomach as you brought your right arm across your body. While sweeping with your right, you used your left to get a grip of his wrist. With this, you were able to free your right hand to strip the blaster from him, squeezing his wrist to force his hand lose and you were able to swipe it out of his grasp. Once the blaster was out of his hand, you pulled his left arm back, hooked your foot behind his right to destabilize him, and then gripped the front of his armor tightly to put as much power as you could into pushing him into the ground, you kneeling next to him. While not quiet strong enough to knock him out, it was enough to stun him for a moment since you used his and your weight against him.

You heard a movement behind the ship, the other troopers had been alerted. Scrambling for the blaster, you switched it to stun and shot twice, knocking out one trooper. The third trooper came from around the front of the ship and shot. You had just enough time to twist your body and dodge a majority of the shot, but it still skinned your left arm, leaving a nice wound for later. Two more shots from you to knock him out.

While your arm screamed in pain, you had one last trooper to deal with. Keeping crouched, you rounded the front of the ship.

“Freeze!” The trooper was right in front of you and you were staring down the barrel. Kark! Slowly, you put your hands up in a half surrender, but in that moment you thought of a plan.

“Catch!” You tossed the blaster towards him and the trooper, confused, went to catch it. You pulled your knife out of your thigh holster and rushed him. Using his now bent knee, you jumped and wrapped your legs around his mid-section, using the boost of the jump to shove him to the ground. You pressed the blade to his neck, ready, but hesitated. You couldn’t follow through, even when your life seemed to depend on it.

No good deed goes unpunished. The trooper pushed you off but you land within arms reach of your fallen blaster and you made quick work of stunning him.

For a moment, you sat there, breathing heavily and you hands shaking. Your pulse raged in your ears and adrenaline rushed through your veins.

Achievement Unlocked: You protected the Havoc Marauder! But now what? And what if… the squad finds out? Something about them knowing you took down the troopers didn’t sit right. The odds were stacked against you, what if they start getting suspicious? What if… What if Hunter gets mad?

Checking the trooper in front of you, you found a pair of handcuffs. More than likely they would all have handcuffs and you could move their bodies away from the ship, effectively disposing of them.

One by one, you dragged the troopers bodies away, putting them in some foliage after handcuffing one arm and the opposite ankle behind their back. Hopefully this would keep them relatively immobilized when they woke up. After moving the last one, you could no longer handle the pain of the blaster shot and headed to the ship.

You looked for the med kit and handled it with shaky hands. After applying the bacta and patching it up, you did your best to hide the wound with your sleeve. You then went to your backpack and grabbed the small notebook and pencil. Something about writing felt better than using a holopad, so this is where you kept your notes for supplies and such. Though it was difficult, you wrote ‘bacta and bandages’ to your supplies list. Hopefully they wouldn’t get mad at you using their supplies but just in case, you would just silently replace it. No one would know.

As everything seemed to wear off, all you wanted to do was crawl into a small area and hide. You found an area between some crates and sank down, willing yourself to melt into the floor. In an effort to calm yourself, you muttered a few bars of the song that had stuck with you.

“♪ Same old song

Just a drop of water in an endless sea

All we do

Crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see

Dust in the wind

All we are is dust in the wind ♪”

A beep cut into your thoughts. “Maxis, come in, do you read me?” Hearing his voice, you became renewed with a sort of energy. You stood up, walked over to the cockpit once more, and grabbed the comm. “Loud and clear, Hunter.”

“Great, we’re done and on our way back, we had a small set back but no other problems.”

“I’ll start up the ship for you.”

************************************************************************

When Hunter and the squad got close, Hunter sense something was off. He signaled for the group to halt as he went to go investigate. Hearing some slow breathing from a few sources, he approached the bush carefully and paused when he noticed four knocked out troopers tied up chaotically. Tech noticed Hunter’s hesitation and walked forward.

“What did you fin—Oh. How did four Imperial Troopers end up here? You don’t supposed they went for the Marauder and Maxis took them out?”

“Who else would have? Four troopers… they have the strength to take out four troopers by themselves?” Hunter sounded bewildered. He finally looked at Tech, “Maxis didn’t attempt to alert us and I missed it, did they?”

“No, but it could have been inconvenient at the time. However, there wouldn’t be a reason why they wouldn’t have contacted us after dealing with the situation. Perhaps something else went wrong.”

With that, Hunter signaled the rest of the crew to board the ship with caution.

Part 6 _______________________________________________________

Notes:

Psychometry/Force Echo: This is the next Jedi Fallen Order reference, also seen in 1 or 2 episodes of TCW. I based the reader's ability from the game. Fight scene choreo: Warning, video contains fighting scenes. I love MGS and specifically the CQC in MGSV. For this scene, the first disarm is a combo of the moves described in 1:08 (beginning) and 4:01 (ending). It was mainly supposed to be the second one but the arms are switched so as an artist of my craft, I must adapt. The last move is mostly just the Peter Pan jump from 5:23. I tried to describe the action as best as I could without being like "left right must left right" but here is the visual aspect of it.

[yoditorian]

lacuna- part 6

din/reader

once again i left my writing down to the wire and did the bulk of this today so that’s why its Like That, as always a huge thank you to my wonderful @brothersdrxke for being my favourite sounding board and reminding me i am capable 

MASTERLIST

word count: 3.2k

warnings: swears, violence/death/murder, reader has a panic attack if you squint (not specifically mentioned and only referred to in one sentence), angst and arguments, we got a little more explicit with the smut this time (with added biting), 18+ no babies thanks

Nevarro’s cantina is always dusty. Something that’s struck Din as odd for as long as he’s been meeting Guild reps there, since the planet itself is all humidity and sulfur.

“You know, I’ve never met a hunter quite as efficient as you are.” Karga smiles warmly, but there’s something about his tone that makes Din’s skin crawl. The way he drawls out ‘efficient’ makes him wonder if he means something else. He hopes he doesn’t get asked anymore questions.

A set of new pucks slide across the table towards him, and Din pockets all five of them without even really looking. An amateur move, one he knows better than, but the longer he stays under the new Guild rep’s piercing stare the more he feels like he’s being studied.

“They’re of your usual calibre.” Karga reassures him as he stands to leave, not fool enough to try and palm off any jobs that nobody else will do.

Though the pucks are heavy in his pocket, you’re the only thing on Din’s mind when he steps into the shadow of the Razor Crest. You always are. He sees you everywhere, welding the outer panels together, meticulously painting the orange stripes “because they’ll look cool, Mando.” He sees you every time he has to rewire the internal electrics, that smudge of engine grease that seemed to be a permanent resident on your cheekbone back at the space station, or with the top half of your body wedged in a wall panel and your ass in the air.

The memories of you building the ship used to make him smile even after the worst jobs. Now they just make his hands shake.

You’ve been haunting him more than usual. Every time he turns around in the ship he calls his home, it’s like he expects to see you tinkering with something in the hull or staring up at the stars from the pilot seat with your feet up on the console. Something the others in the crew used to scold you for, but never him. It was endearing, to see you so at home in control of a ship. Any ship. Like you could speak their language.

Din knows it’s because he hasn’t heard from you since you told him you survived. Not that he really expected you to after he didn’t respond.

He almost did, he wanted to. He stares at the comm for hours at night, turning the stupid little thing over in his hands like it holds the secrets to the universe. Maybe it does. Maybe if he had the guts to say something, to say anything, to you. Or maybe he already knows the secrets of the universe, the one that matters to him anyway, and he’s just too afraid to think about it. He doesn’t contact you, he can’t contact you. Not when he knows exactly what it is he wants to say. It’s unfair to the both of you to speak it out loud.

He’s pretty sure you already know anyway. He doesn’t need to say it, maybe he never did. Maybe you’ve always known. How could you not? He’s never been soft like this with anyone the way he has with you. He’s never made so much space in his heart for somebody else. There’s no way you can’t tell. He feels so much for you, so much, there’s hardly any room inside left for him. It must be so obvious. And if he had any control when it comes to you, he could pretend like you don’t make him want to claw out his own heart and hand it to you. It’s yours anyway.

But Din compartmentalises, the way he always has. He takes a deep breath and packs every thought of you back into the box and stows it firmly away in the back of his mind. There will be time to miss you later.

It’s the worst job he’s ever had. By far. This is one bounty he’s not sure he can bring in.

Cork Gyll’s smile is sickening when he sees Din standing in the doorway of his home. If you could even call it that. It’s more of a cave, with an improvised door of thin sheet metal and a badly constructed bed against the far wall. A small metal crate is tucked just underneath the bed frame, half concealed by a threadbare blanket. Not much else, not that Din was expecting much of anything. The dar’manda sits and regards him for a long moment.

“You were there, Beroya.” He spits the title out like it’s a dirty word. It probably is, in his mind. Din only nods.

He should stun him and cuff him and drag him back to the Crest to freeze. That’s what he should do. But it’s too intriguing. Their situations are too similar. Din can’t help himself.

“Why did you do it?” 

Cork perks up at that. Like he wasn’t expecting to be spoken to at all, like he thought he’d just be dragged back to the noble family that ordered the bounty to atone for his crimes. Crimes Din doesn’t even know the extent of.

He loved her, is the first thing he recounts. A dreamy look in his eyes replaces the amusement at fate’s cruel blow. Is that the same look Din gets when he thinks of you?

He’d loved her to the point of removing his helmet, breaking the creed he’d followed all his life, for this daughter of some Outer Rim noble family he was running security for. Cork reddened at the memories of her fingers tracing his face when he bared himself to her the first time, the second time, and every time after that.

But his eyes grow dark suddenly, an odd coldness sweeps the room, and Din finds his hand inching ever closer to the blaster strapped to his hip. Just in case.

He’d proposed. Of course he had. She’d seen his face so many times and they loved each other and he couldn’t hold himself back anymore, the guilt of breaking the creed had been at war with the space he’d made for her in his heart. But she’d said no. She had responsibilities to her family, to the son of another powerful family on the planet whom she’d been promised to before either of them were even born. She loved him, she loved him so much, but her answer was no.

Cork had panicked for his creed, her answer struck him so terribly in the chest that he hadn’t even registered that he’d drawn his blaster until there was a smoking hole between her eyes. Her beautiful eyes. But that was the way. No one alive had seen his face, and he’d been declared dar’manda anyway. He’d lost his love and his creed by his own foolish hand in the space of a few hours. And now? He’d likely be killed for it too.

The raw pain in Cork’s voice as he recalls what he did to his love is enough to make Din accept what he has known all this time to be true. He could never, would never, hurt you for anything. Not even the creed, he was a fool to think otherwise. No matter what it came down to. He’d take dar’manda over being responsible for your death. He’d take exile and disgrace and whatever else they dealt him if it meant he got to feel your skin on his. Your lips on his. No creed or vow or religion could ever bring him the solace that you do. Duty be damned.

Din moves silently across the room with the cuffs, something tells him Cork will go willingly.

He is so very, very wrong.

Part of his mind is still so absorbed in the story, in thoughts of you, that he notices Cork grabbing a heavy wrench just a second too late. It collides with the side of his helmet, taking out one of his auditory sensors and leaving his ears ringing. Cork takes the opportunity to strike once, twice, three times, at his chestplate in a vain attempt to wind him. He winds up for the helmet again, but Din throws himself onto his attacker before he gets the chance. While not graceful or calculated, it does the trick.

Cork laughs as he’s tackled to the floor, a horrible grating sound in his throat. Din doesn’t hesitate to pull his blaster and fire. The other man flops, lifeless, beneath him. The puck said taking him alive was preferable, but somehow Din’s not sure they’ll mind.

The wrench is still clasped in Cork’s hand, old and rusted but oddly familiar. A Mythosaur skull is carved into the base of the handle, and he knows. He must have taken it from the forge at the covert and stashed it before his exile, suspecting a bounty would be set on him. It’s no wonder the thing almost caved his helmet in. Din rips it off in the privacy of the room to inspect the damage, a dent the size of his fist in the right hand side and the auditory sensor is sparking. He’ll need a whole new one.

It’s as though the Armourer is expecting him, she never seems to be surprised by the state of some of the warriors who walk through her door. She simply directs him to a small curtained alcove and asks that he deposit his helmet on the shelf in the wall when he’s hidden.

“You should not regret it.” She speaks clearly, certainly, after he tells her how he sustained such damage. Din’s not sure he can agree with her this time around.

“He was a vod.”

“He was dar’manda. His crimes could never be forgiven. The vows you spoke for your creed no longer applied to him.” She places his new helmet, forged from the remains of his broken one, on the shelf for him to take. It’s been so long since he got a new piece, Din has forgotten how shiny beskar can be. His face stares back at him, distorted by the curve of the metal, for a moment before he finally puts it on. A perfect fit.

Green Squadron, you’re making your final approach.

It’s still kind of jarring to hear a droid coordinate the drop instead of one of the officers back on one of the rebel cruisers. Just something you’ll have to get used to, you suppose.

Three loud beeps sound from your dashboard and you flick the correct switches to drop out of hyperspace in perfect synchronisation with the rest of the team. The two cadets on this particular training session are a little shaky, but they come back into formation once they’ve reoriented. Until another ship appears out of nowhere, uncomfortably close to your left hand side. The squadron scatters, cadets panicking over the comms as your commander demands to know why it wasn’t caught on the sensors. You’re about to echo the sentiment, until you realise exactly why it’s not running a beacon.

“Green Leader, I know that ship. Request a line.” Your heart is in your throat the moment you spot the mismatched panels, the orange stripes you’d spent hours making sure were even.

“You know it? You’re sure, Four?”

“I built it! Put me on the line!” You don’t mean to snap the way you do, but the longer he stays in range the more danger everybody’s in.

Part of you expects a fight, expects your commander to doubt you, but it only takes another second for your comm light to flicker to life on the dash. You can only pray you can convince him to haul ass before the commander gets antsy and calls you to fire.

“Razor Crest, this is a New Republic drill. Please proceed to a safe distance from the training zone.” You want to tell him it’s good to see him, that he’s alive, but you’re all too aware that every one of the team can hear you. Best to stay professional.

The way your name echoes around the cockpit makes your stomach flip. His voice is soft, like he’s surprised it’s you, the tone barely appropriate for the kind of company you’re in. You don’t look forward to the questions you know will follow this session.

“Razor Crest,” You can’t keep the urgency at bay, “Please proceed to a safe distance or we will use force.”

Stars, you don’t want it to come to that. But the Crest is pre-empire, something you’ve noticed leaves any senior officer more than a little on edge. Hell, you would be too if you didn’t know who was at the helm.

“You’d shoot me down for the rebellion?”

“I would.” You answer immediately, because yes, yes you would. There’s no question. The same way that you’re sure, if it came to it, he’d kill you for his creed. Duty is a far more powerful thing than either of you.

Din sits on the comm silently for a long moment, as if he doesn’t believe you. Or maybe he’s- no. You stop that train of thought before it can even leave the station. He’s not shocked at your admission. He would do the same.

Green Squadron remains steady in formation, but a low order from your commander comes over the team system.

“Lock s-foils. Prepare to fire.”

“Mando!”

Din flies out of reach and on his way the second he registers the blind panic in your voice. It would be beautiful to watch the Crest arc through the stars if you weren’t so fucking terrified you were about to be ordered to pursue. But the order doesn’t come. Instead, Green Leader starts leading the cadets through drills, designating you and Shara to keep guard.

A private comm request appears on your display, and you accept without hesitation.

“So, Mando?” Shara doesn’t sound amused, or excited like she might have in any other situation. She sounds worried. Maybe she’s right to be, you’re still trying to remember how to breathe.

“Mando.” You confirm, but you leave it at that. She doesn’t pry. You’re thankful she doesn’t ask any more questions before you can do something really stupid like cry, or fly off after him.

You find yourself at the inn at Mos Espa as soon as the training run is over. Your commander can reprimand you for taking the A-Wing when you get back to base, a vague excuse about staying on top of your patrol duties has been ready on the tip of your tongue since the moment you decide on the detour. They could handle a few hours without you and your ship.

It’s unspoken, but somehow you know he’ll be there. And he is.

Perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed in your usual room, elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his fists. Just watching the door and waiting for you. There’s deep scratches in the red paint of his armour, chunks missing where it was intact before. He’s got a whole new helmet.

“Fuck, Din, what happened?” You wonder about the injuries underneath the metal. Whether there’ll be new scars to trace, freshly healed wounds to run your lips over in the moments after-

“Don’t call me that.”

“What?”

“Don't use my name again. Ever.” Even with the modulator, you can hear him force the words through gritted teeth. He doesn’t sound angry, he sounds in pain. You’re only more confused as he stands and starts to shed the battered armour, giving way to sheer, blinding rage at the way he sets the pieces down on the table so reverently. Not unlike the way he handles you.

“So I can’t say your name but you’ll still fuck me. You’re gonna make me call you ‘Mando’, but you’ll still take off the helmet and kiss me?” Your hands shake at your sides. You’re so angry. You want him to reassure you, to backtrack and tell you he doesn’t mean it. Maybe you’re too used to the way he’s always been so ready to comfort you, to hold you and fit himself into the empty space in your ribs that you know is meant for him. Instead of the gentle words you’ve come to know from him, he only presents you with silence. Silence and anger on both sides, maybe misdirected, maybe not.

You’ve always respected his creed, his Way. But you’ve never had to like it.

In only his flight suit and helmet, Din stalks over to the doorway with one hand on the side of his helmet and plunges the room into darkness. You don’t hear him approach you, don’t even feel the air move until he’s standing chest to chest with you, lungs heaving. The Hunter. 

Your forehead bumps into the lifted lip of the helmet when his empty hand creeps up your back and pulls you by the neck into a bruising kiss, although he’s quick to send the thing crashing to the floor and free up his other hand to grab at you.

“You don't,” He lifts your shirt over your head, “Know me.”

“No?” You reply, sinking your hand into his suit to squeeze him through his underwear. He growls, like he always does when you do that, and his mouth is hot on yours again. He has always known you, just as you have always known him. However reluctantly.

It’s a power struggle like you’ve never experienced with him. He’s pushing as you’re pulling and every touch is burning and biting, each determined to get your way. Somehow you don’t think there will be any winners tonight.

His every touch cuts you down to your bones, every drag of his fingers as he exposes more and more of you to the night threatens to tear you apart. You revel in the way he’s grabbing you, twisting and turning you just to his liking, and find you don’t miss the softness one bit. Not right now. Your blood still boils at how he’s stepped back from you, revoked the one thing of his you thought you had. Although maybe you never really had it in the first place. 

You don’t give in, you can’t. He’s got you pinned against the bed, smug smile pressed into your neck at your breathlessness, and you sink your teeth into his shoulder. He tastes like salt and metal and you lose yourself in the deep groan that rumbles through him.

Din’s sure you’re trying to break him and, honestly, you’re well on your way to succeeding. Taking him apart piece by piece and leaving him shattered for treating you the way he has. He deserves it. Although he’d argue this is certainly a humane way to exact your revenge. Every touch, every moan and squeal and bite, sends another crack spider webbing through his guard. He’s done pretending every time is the last time, you’ve settled so deep in his heart he’s not sure he could ever dig you out. 

It’s later, in the dark and quiet, when the anger and desperation has faded that you whisper.

“I know you better than I know myself.”

And for a moment, he can pretend that you’re right.

-

TAGLIST (add yourself here):

@brothersdrxke @rebloogggs @keeper0fthestars @remmysbounty @sirianisrock @thevoiceinyourheadx @firstofficerwiggles @1800-fight-me​

[unholyplumpprincess]

Good Enough

For @kopperknots bc I love them and they’re in love with Revenant and I never get to see fluff with him at all so let’s give him some soft lovies, yeah?

Summary: In which you know Revenant well by now to know his clingy behavior is new, but not well enough that you consider that he returns your feelings.

Reblogs > Likes. It costs zero dollars to reblog!

Though this post is SFW, this blog is not! Minors please do not follow!

Fandom: Apex Legends

Relationship: Revenant/Reader

Warnings: SFW, Very fluffy and mentions of Revenant’s self hate.

Words: 1.3k

_________________

You weren’t a stranger to Revenant’s dodgy behavior.

You’d let him have a piece of your mind when you’d gotten sick of his constant jabs in the beginning. You suppose your honesty and lack of fear of him slitting your throat in your sleep had been honorable- or he’d decided you weren’t worth the time to bully anymore. Regardless, the day he’d heard you snap at him, he’d paused, sneered, seemed to weigh his options and huffed like a child with a, “Fine.”

And now? It was hard to even get rid of him. It was clingy behavior that you wouldn’t have expected of someone like him. Not with how he acted all big and scary. You suppose it made sense- centuries without a friend nor affection to speak of must have been hard. What must have been even harder was when you noticed how he catches his behavior with you.  

If Revenant starts to snarl and poke a little too deep and you give him a look, he seems to almost pause like a cat caught in a naughty act and would switch his upcoming insult to something like grumbling, “I’m looking for a hop up.” You were working on his ‘please’ and ‘thank you’s but being asked was better than him yelling and snarling at you.

~Rest under the cut~

At first it had just been in the ring, but now you found yourself working with him outside of them as well. Revenant had mostly kept to himself, especially when Loba joined the ranks. But now he almost followed you like a puppy. And since he was following you anyway, you suggested little ‘date’ ideas. At first, he’d pushed you away, but then he started following without complaint.

That little bookstore you liked to sift through? He’d be right with you, peering over your shoulder and grumbling about how that book wasn’t any good, or what his opinion on it was. You hadn’t taken him for a reader, it had surprised you. It had surprised you even more when he learned what genre you liked and would purposefully pick out books for you. Well, more like pulling them slightly out of the shelf to catch your eye when he thought you weren’t looking and then he’d agree you’d like it, as if he hadn’t picked it for you.

Then it was smaller things. Like when you’d gotten upset one day and instead of mocking you, Revenant had awkwardly rested a hand on your shoulder to provide contact. You’d poured your woes out to him, wiping at your eyes and laughing at yourself. You’d told him it was fine, only for him to uncharacteristically, yet awkwardly open his arms up in a gesture that warmed your soul.

You’d taken him up on the hug, winding your arms as best as you could around his thin frame and appreciating when he’d learned to rub circles on your back just like you liked.

Truth be told, Revenant wasn’t going soft in the slightest. He was still brash, snarling like an animal in pain in the arena or with anyone else. With you, he found himself being able to be...vulnerable. Vulnerable like he hadn’t in a long time.

Touch was new to him; You didn’t push it. You’d let him come to you, and after time you found he liked any sort of contact. Whether you subtly hooked your pinkie with his or gently nudged his hip with your own. But in private, he’d slink up to you like a cat, cross his arms and grumble until you’d opened your arms and offered touch.

Like now, you’re in bed with him. You’d learned he hadn’t been able to power down in well- forever. Paranoia ran through his frame and his system like a sweet drug. You’d suggested you could stay the night, lock the door, keep on a light.

“You know I’m here for you.” You’d offered with a smile, holding his hand comfortingly.

Revenant would never tell you, but his circuits felt warmed. If he had a heart in his frame, perhaps it would have skipped a beat or two. Instead he’d rolled his optics dramatically and told you, “I don’t need protection from a tiny, fleshy walking bag of flesh.” Yet he’d taken you up on the offer.

He would never tell you how he knew you were strong. How he knew if something were to happen you’d be strong enough to do something. He would never, ever admit to you that he was afraid if he finally ‘slept’ that he’d dream of you. Your eyes, your mouth, your smile, your laugh.

Truly, Revenant was afraid.

Even now while your arms wrapped around him from behind. You’d gleefully announced your role as ‘big spoon’ and he’d grunted and told you whatever, despite that he felt like he was about to overheat.  

The lamp does provide a comfort. The dim light keeping the room lit up. The door had been locked courtesy of you, going so far as to put bells on the door handle. He’d mentally praised how smart you were, but what had come out loud was a big roll of his optics.

You’re mumbling behind him, talking about your day and just idly mumbling about recipes of sorts. You’d said maybe white noise would help him, and honestly, he just wanted to hear you talk. Even as your fingers idly trace shapes over the silicone expanse of his abdomen area, leaving him feeling like he was made of flesh and bone again. His sensitive wiring pick up the motions, feeling the letters coming to a sluggish halt with your lips.

You’re quiet, and for once, he can safely say he’s at peace.

Testing the waters, he murmurs your name curiously. No response. Just quiet, even breathing.

Carefully, he starts to shift and roll over until he’s facing you. Your arm remains limp over his side, your body curling to conform to the new shape in front of you and your head lolling to the side comfortably. Revenant’s insides twist, his optic sensors scanning your face. Following the relaxed shape of your face, over your softly parted lips and feeling the itch to trace his fingers along them.

Pathetic.

This feeling of...romance. Pathetic. He wasn’t supposed to feel these things. He was a machine. Built to serve that organization he’d deliciously taken out one by one and still had a hit list to finish.

Maybe...maybe if he’d told you and you rejected him, he could get over this feeling. Surely, you’d reject him, right? Who would want to be with a killing machine?

The thought makes his stomach drop at the idea of losing you. Especially when his eyes sweep across your relaxed features again. Revenant can’t help it, lifting up his hand to gently place it upon your cheek. His sharp thumb so gingerly presses to your cheek to sweep over it. His processors to a flip when you sigh softly, leaning into his touch as if he was a safe person to be lying with.

“One day...” His voice starts, its natural growl in his throat being just about a whisper as he keeps the volume down. If he had a reason to, maybe he’d swallow from anxiety. But now, his voice near about shakes as he thinks about how he needs to work on himself before he could have you. “One day I’ll be good enough to have you.”

A confession that feels like a lift off his shoulders, and it’s a start. Revenant knows he has to work on himself in some way or another until he could even start to figure out a relationship. But for you?

For you it was worth it, he thinks.

And finally, he gets to sleep, shutting down his system with his hand slid to your waist and his head rested atop yours.

...Without knowing you’d heard him and had your own eyes open, cheeks flushed and heart pounding.

But, he doesn’t need to know any of that. Not yet.

Not until he was ready.

[corvus--rex]

So, to start off with, these are a little rough. Mostly cleaned up for spelling/grammar, but there are things that are more like placeholder notes in exposition form that would be written out if I went back to it.

This one's working title is Quantum Fracture, is "in universe" non-canon compliant, and is set both near the end of s.2 after ep.9, and a few years post s.8. It's also only semi-abandoned. I like it and want to keep going with it, but I've hit a wall and just can't do anything with it right now. It has (sort-of) time travel and "Galra genetics are weird" resulting in Klance kids. It does also switch between times, but those sections have punctuation separators.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Lance, Pidge, keep watch on the area. Keith, Hunk, and I will go down to check it out,” Shiro said over the comms.

“Got it.”

“Copy that.”

Green and Blue split off from the V-formation, flying over the asteroid while Black, Red, and Yellow landed on its surface. Lance and Pidge kept a visual track on their friends while keeping their scanners active for anything in the area. Team Voltron had been on their way back to the Castle after liberating another planet from the Galra Empire when Pidge’s more finely-tuned scanners picked up on what looked like an abandoned Galra base embedded in an asteroid. Shiro made the call to check it out and let Allura and Coran know what was going on, keeping Lance and Pidge on watch. The Black Paladin took point, with Keith right behind him. Hunk brought up the rear, man-portable cannon ready for whatever might try to sneak up on them. The facility was powered down, a layer of dust on every surface.

“Looks like it really is abandoned,” Keith said, “I don’t think there’s anyone or anything left here.”

“Agreed, but I want to complete a sweep of the facility. Never know what might have been left behind,” Shiro replied.

They continued on, not making any real effort at stealth, but only made it about another 20 feet before a side door creaked and flew open, Keith finding himself blown out into space, despite Hunk’s effort to prevent it. Keith tried to use his jetpack to redirect himself and head back to the facility, but there was just enough gravity generated by the density of the asteroid field to pull him toward the nearest surface. He bounced off the next asteroid, damaging his jetpack in the process. It sent him away from the asteroid field and into open space.

This isn’t how this was supposed to go, Keith thought as he floated in the void, then realized just how much Lance was rubbing off on him. His back hit a second, smaller asteroid, and he bounced off into the nothingness. Come on, Red. Where are you?

He felt the shift in the vacuum an instant before the sensors in his armor picked it up. The short chirp announced the sensors’ findings, bringing it up on the HUD. The display’s minimal capabilities showed the slight variant, a faint ripple in the fabric of space.

“The fuck is that?” he asked the void of space.

He hadn’t expected an answer, and didn’t get one. What he did get was the familiar mental pressure of the red Lion, immediately followed by the equally familiar golden glow of the robotic cat’s eyes. Red swallowed the paladin’s free-floating body, and he rolled through the slowly pressurizing corridor before the artificial gravity activated. He had only just taken his seat in the cockpit when he heard Pidge shouting across the comms.

“Keith! Are you ok? There was a spatial-temporal fluctuation right next to you.”

“Yeah, I felt it, but I'm ok,” he answered, exhausted from the mission and subsequent launch into space.

Green came up alongside Red, guiding them back to the Castle, Blue right behind them. Once the three Paladins were back aboard the Castle of Lions, Pidge insisted that Keith go to the medical deck, just in case.

“Ok, fine, Pidge. But I'm fine. Really,” Keith protested while simultaneously giving in.

She didn’t trust him to really go, but she was also concerned with the anomaly she found, so didn’t question it when Lance volunteered to make sure Keith went.

“Keith, what were you thinking?” Lance asked when they were alone.

“I don’t know what happened. It wasn’t anything I did and Hunk and Shiro will figure it out. Pidge is more worried about the space-time ripple we encountered. But I'm fine. Really.”

Blue’s Paladin stopped in the middle of the empty corridor. “You scared me, cuervo. I saw you get ejected into empty space without Red or any of us nearby. Pidge said she was going after you, but still…it scared me.”

“I don’t think we should hide anymore. I think it’s time to let the team in on our secret.”

The pair had been dating secretly for a month at that point, intentionally keeping their relationship from the rest of the team. Keith didn’t think they would have been taken seriously to begin with, and Lance agreed. After a late-night talk, they both decided to give it time and let themselves settle into their budding relationship. But it was beginning to make them behave differently, especially on missions. They became focused on where the other was and it was causing mistakes. This last mistake could have been deadly, although Keith was right, he hadn’t done or not done anything that led to the deserted Galra base’s small side door opening and pulling the Red Paladin into the cold vacuum of space.

“Yeah, I think you might be right,” Lance admitted.

Keith took his boyfriend’s hand, linking their fingers together, and headed toward the medical deck. Coran met them there, no doubt having been called by Pidge. Keith was thoroughly checked over by way of the Castle’s scanners, and as far as they could tell, not a molecule was out of place. After finding out that Keith was at least partly Galra, Pidge and Hunk had thrown themselves into a reprograming project to the medical deck’s scanners, integrating human biological standards. They were surprised to find that the scanners were already programmed with Galra standards, and that was when Coran told the entire team about the original Paladins, Zarkon included.

Instead of the lounge or one of their bedrooms, Lance and Keith instead went to one of the Castle’s many observation balconies. Once they were alone, Keith let himself crumble, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend and holding on as tightly as he could. Lance gently returned the physical connection, understanding that the events of the morning had affected him more than he would let on in front of anyone else. He waited until he could feel the tension drain and knew that Keith was just sneaking middle of the day snuggling.

“You better now?” Lance asked.

Keith sighed softly against Lance’s neck. “Yeah, I think so. We should probably go see what Pidge found before anyone wonders where we went.”

“I don’t wanna,” he protested, holding on tighter.

Keith laughed and pulled away. “Well, if we stop keeping all this a secret, we won’t have to worry about where and when anymore.”

“Ugh. I guess.” Lance’s tone was overdramatic as usual, but his blue eyes sparkled with excitement at the idea of being open about his relationship.

Stepping backward out the door, Keith led the way toward the Lions’ hangars and Pidge’s lab. Halfway down the second to last corridor, Keith tripped over the smooth floor. He caught himself mid-stumble and stopped completely.

“Keith?” Lance asked, “Mi cuervo, you ok?”

_~*~_~*~_~*~_

“Keith! What the fuck was that?” Lance called over the comm.

“Dunno, but my speeder’s sensors caught it. Heading back now,” Keith answered from inside his modified speeder.

Modified, that was, by Pidge, who had retrofitted all of the Lions’ speeders to be able to fly in space. They were still fairly short-range, not capable of straying far from the Lions. It meant that Keith was still in visual range of Red when the Lion’s sensors spiked with the anomaly’s fluctuation.

Lance was waiting at the door to the cockpit when Keith came in. The tail of the raised French braid that normally ran halfway down his back was draped over his shoulder. Lance had insisted on braiding his husband’s hair that morning. Keith had groaned and asked why, seeing as it was just a simple recon mission. “Because you’re pretty, the twins are at school, we have time, and I felt like it,” was the list of reasons Lance rattled off as he made Keith sit. He didn’t mind it, but they usually saved more complex braids for diplomatic missions, not “drive down the street for space readings” missions.

Keith had had his second puberty while in the Quantum Abyss with Krolia, and it ended up being a good thing she was there. Alone, he would have assumed that the abdominal cramping, chills, fever, nausea, and full-body pain meant that he was dying. Krolia, however, recognized the symptoms of the shift in her son’s body to that of a Carrier and becoming physically capable of conceiving and carrying a baby. She told him that his half-human status may well have rendered him infertile, but they didn’t have the resources to look into it at the time, and the middle of a war wasn’t the time to worry about it. So it surprised both Keith and Lance when he found himself pregnant not long after the war ended, and they welcomed their twins Andra and Ori five and a half months later after a normal Galra-length pregnancy. The twins birth records had their names down as Andromeda Artemis and Orion Fenris Kogane-McClain, names that were called with increasing frequency now that the twins were five.

Keith sat himself in the pilot’s seat, pulling up the sensor readings from both Red and the speeder. They looked the same to both himself and Lance, but Pidge would be able to make better sense of them. But something about the anomaly was bothering Keith. It took a good minute of staring at the readings to realize that it was similar to how spacetime behaved near the core of the Quantum Abyss. And something about thatbothered him even more.

“You ok, cuervo?” Lance asked, leaning against the edge of the display panel.

“Yeah,” Keith sighed, “Just something about that anomaly reminds me of the Quantum Abyss. We’ll get it to Pidge and figure it out.”

The trip back to the new Castle was short, Red bypassing the reconfigured IGF-Atlas and heading directly for his hangar on the original Castle of Lions. After the end of the Galra War and the brief, but intense, war with Honerva, the Voltron Coalition needed a permanent – and mobile – base. The Atlas reshaped itself, wrapping around the Castle like the defensive walls of an ancient castle around its keep. Its completed size rivaled that of Galra Central Command, now the seat of the newly-formed Galra Collective.

Team Voltron’s power couple – beating out Shiro’s marriage to Adam – crossed the distance to Green’s hangar, where Pidge still maintained her personal lab. They found her buried in her multi-screen setup, one screen dedicated to the call she was on with her long-distance Olkari girlfriend Malyn, the others covered in technical readouts, diagrams, and blueprints.

“We’re back,” Keith announced when they walked in.

“Oh good. Anything weird happen out there?” Pidge said, taking Keith’s comm.

“The anomaly is behaving like the core of the Quantum Abyss.”

Pidge shoved the device into her computer a little harder than she intended. Except for her ongoing call, she wiped everything off the other screens, replacing what was on them with the readouts from both Red and the speeder. Her amber eyes flicked from screen to screen, already analyzing.

“I’m really sorry, Malyn. I have to call you later.”

“Of course. Is everything all right?” Malyn asked, concern laced in her voice.

“I’m not sure yet. We found a spatial-temporal anomaly, but it’s behaving differently from anything similar I’ve seen. Maybe…there was one…nah, that was different…”

Malyn laughed, she always found her girlfriend’s analytical mind adorable. “I’ll let you get to that. We’ll talk later.”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. I'm sorry, Malyn. We’ll talk again later, promise,” Pidge apologized again, but Malyn waved her off, still laughing, and cut the call.

“So, you'll let us know when you’ve found something?” Lance prompted.

“What? Yeah. Right. This is weirder than anything I've ever seen like this…”

Lance and Keith shared a look, knowing that Pidge was fully invested in the data and that she wouldn’t leave her computer unless she was physically removed. Deciding on the tactical retreat, they left her to it, heading back to their apartment on the Castle.

The Atlas hadn’t been the only thing to be reconfigured. The Castle of Lions had undergone its own renovations, the old single rooms turned into apartment-like suites. Shiro and Adam maintained Garrison positions onboard the Atlas, but retired to the Castle at the end of every day. Lance and Keith settled into their apartment after their two month long honeymoon. Hunk was splitting his time between the Castle and Balmera, sharing his space with Shay when they were there. Pidge mostly used hers as an excuse for more tech and a separate workspace, but Malyn stayed there with her when she could get time away from rebuilding Olkarion under Ryner’s guidance. Coran had decided to keep his old room the way it was, and Allura felt that her own rooms didn’t need the upgrade. The rest of the rooms stayed the same for the new Altean crew running the ship at a proper capacity.

It wasn’t until they got back that Keith realized Pidge still had his comm. “Well, shit. I’ll be back,” he said, heading for the door.

Lance decided to follow him out into the corridor.

“Why?”

“Because,” Lance answered, “I have nothing better to do and I can watch you walk away all day.”

“What the fuck, Lance?” Keith groaned in mock frustration.

“No, that’s after we get your comm.”

Keith turned, intending to call Lance out on exposing him like that, but stumbled, relieved that Lance was close enough to catch him.

“You alright, cuervo?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just tripped,” he said, but stopped. Something was wrong. He could feel the braid hanging over his shoulder from when he stumbled, felt the strength in Lance’s arms. No, this was wrong. He looked up. There was a small scar he didn’t remember being there, and the blue Altean marks were definitely new. His own body felt foreign. It was shaped differently, taller and broader than it should be. His voice was different, a little deeper, a little huskier than it should be. “Lance?”

“Keith, love, are you really ok?”

“I…I don’t know.”

Lance helped him to stand, leading him back to their apartment. Once inside, he sat Keith on the couch. “What happened? Exactly,” he asked.

“What does – is this about the anomaly? I told you before that I'm fine. We had Coran check me out. There was nothing wrong. Where are we anyway?”

“We didn’t have Coran check you out. There’s an entire medical crew for that anyway. We’re home, on the Castle. What do you remember from this morning?” Lance’s entire tone was cautious. Something was very wrong with his husband, but he wanted to have at least some answers before bringing it up with anyone else.

“We were coming back from a mission and stopped to check out an abandoned Galra base in an asteroid field. One of the side doors opened and I got blown out. There was a ripple in space-time, and I got close to it in nothing but my armor before Red came to get me. But I'm fine. I told both you and Pidge that.”

Lance remembered that mission. Overall, it was unremarkable. The base didn’t have anything useful. But there hadn’t been any temporal fluctuations. Yes, Keith had ended up floating through the void, but nothing happened other than that. The only reason he remembered that mission in particular was because that was when they decided to tell the team that they were together. It had been ten years since that mission.

“Ok. I do remember that. But, that was ten years ago. That was when we decided to tell the team that we’d been dating for a month.”

Keith’s face flickered between shock, bewilderment, and terror. Ten years? There was no way that could be right. But the evidence was right there. His own body and voice were different. He could see and feel how long his hair had gotten. And then there was Lance. He was beautiful as ever, and it certainly seemed that they were still together, but he was different. The scar, the Altean marks – how and when the fuck did that happen, and why? – and there was the fact that he was broader, more muscled, not slender and willowy like he had been. He processed everything in real time, not saying a word in that time. It had apparently been longer than he thought, because Lance was looking up at him from where he’d tilted his head to the side.

“Keith? Mi cuervo? What is going on?”

“You…you still call me that? It really has been ten years?”

“This has to be related to that anomaly,” he muttered. “Yeah, it’s really been ten years. And, yeah, I do still call you that. A lot’s changed in ten years, but not that. Stay here. I need to show you something. It might help.” Lance stood, leaving the room for their bedroom, coming back in less than a minute. He extended his free hand, bringing Keith over to the table where they both sat. Lance placed a ring of smoothly twisted and woven silver metal and carved crystal that shifted between blood red, cobalt, and vibrant violet on the table between them. “Do you remember this?” he asked softly, “Do you remember when I gave you that?”

Keith stared at it like if he could untwist it mentally, he could remember what it was. But he couldn’t, because Lance had never given him anything like it. It was definitely something he could see Lance picking for him, but as far as Keith knew, he never had.

“No, I don’t,” he had to admit.

Lance sighed, a tinge of sadness to it. “Ok. Something happened with the temporal anomaly we found earlier and that Pidge is still analyzing. I know you’re really Keith, but I don’t think you're my Keith. What you said happened this morning happened ten years ago for me. We need to go check in with Pidge and see if she’s figured anything out yet.”

“Ok,” Keith agreed, rising to follow Lance, “I shouldn’t know anything else. Not yet. But at least I know we’re still together.”

“We certainly are,” Lance agreed, taking Keith’s hand, “We’ll figure this out. That anomaly might have fucked with your memories somehow, but we’ll figure it out.”

_~*~_~*~_~*~_

“Yeah, fine.” Keith stood on his own, suddenly realizing that they shouldn’t have been a corridor and a half away from Green’s hangar, they should have been close to their apartment in a completely different part of the castle. Everything seemed ever so slightly bigger, except for himself and Lance. His braid was gone, and he was wearing clothes he hadn’t seen in years. And Lance looked so young. This was the thin, wiry boy he’d fallen in love with more than ten years before. The one without the Altean marks he’d gotten when Allura revived him after saving her from an energy blast. But he heard Lance call him by that familiar pet name. That alone left Keith with more questions.

“We need to see if Pidge’s gotten anywhere with that anomaly,” Lance said.

“Yeah,” Keith agreed. When had his voice gotten higher?

Keith stopped when they walked into Pidge’s lab. It wasn’t what he was expecting. This was the lab of a decade earlier. The one with the laptop she’d brought from Earth along with the equipment she had either repurposed or built from scratch. It startled him, and he froze in place.

“Keith, seriously, are you ok?”

“I…I don’t know anymore. Everything is wrong. Where is everyone else?”

“Hunk and Shiro are heading back from the abandoned base now. That door just malfunctioned after going so long without maintenance. And there was absolutely nothing important there,” Pidge answered, still focused on her computer screen. She realized part of what he said and turned around. “Wait, what do you mean ‘everything is wrong’?”

“You’re looking at a spatial-temporal anomaly, but it didn’t happen now. There shouldn’t have been one here. I…I think I might be from your future. Or, at least, sort of. I don’t look any different to you, do I?”

“No. You don’t. Get back to the part where you think you're from the future.”

“I don’t know how much I should tell you. I don’t know if it could upset the timeline. But I know when I am now.” He turned to Lance. “It’s been about a month now, right? And we had that talk?”

Lance nodded, trying to understand just what his boyfriend was saying about the future. “Yeah, and we did talk about it. Just a few minutes ago. But if you're from the future, I don’t know if talking about that now will help. It also doesn’t answer the question of if you’re Future Keith, what happened to Present Keith?”

“I don’t know. Best case, he switched places with me. He’ll be confused and probably a little scared, but I know he’s in good hands there. Fuck it feels weird talking about myself in the third person. Have you found out anything about the anomaly here?” he asked Pidge.

“Well, I think so, but I've never seen anything like this before.”

Keith came up behind her, looking over their temporal disruption. It was identical to the one he’d found in his time. He had no question now that he had switched bodies with his 18-year-old self. But at least there were a few things he didn’t need to worry about hiding. He knew he was at least partly Galra at this point. He wouldn’t meet Krolia for a little while, so he would have to keep that one to himself. But it also meant that he hadn’t been through the Quantum Abyss yet. There was no way he could tell them about that without explaining everything. He would have to be subtle with asking about the war.

“I have, but I can’t tell you anything specific. Like where, why, or how. And even knowing what it is, I don’t have your science brain, Pidgey. I have no idea how it works.”

Both Pidge and Lance were staring at him. Not because of what he said, but how he said it. He’d picked up a lot of linguistic quirks from Lance over the years, and no longer gave it any thought at all.

“You sound like Lance,” Pidge said finally.

“We’ve all spent a lot of time together over ten years,” Keith replied, avoiding the real question.

“Sure. What canyou tell me about this?”

Keith pulled Hunk’s usual seat over, sitting beside her. Lance perched on an empty spot of desk space, suddenly wanting to be closer to his boyfriend, or whatever he was at that point.

“It’s specific to a single point in space, but not this one. But that’s the problem. I can’t tell you anything about where it is or what it is because you haven’t gotten there yet. All I can say is that space and time work very differently there due to massive fluctuations in gravity, which is why this doesn’t make any sense.”

“Because there’s something there that affects the gravity in a way that it doesn’t where we found it.”

“Basically. It’s more like what affects gravity there doesn’t exist anywhere else, especially where this anomaly was found. It’s also far smaller here than it should be. Like the difference in scorch marks between Lance’s rifle and Hunk’s autocannon.”

“So, this anomaly is a precise shot, and where it should be is a huge mess,” Lance said.

“Pretty much,” Keith agreed, “But I really can’t tell you about it because there’s something vital to the war there and I don’t know how it would change things if you found out about it now. It wouldn’t be good. There are other players you don’t know about yet.”

Pidge continued typing away at her laptop, the 3D render of the anomaly rotating on the screen. Lance wanted to watch the progress, but he couldn’t focus on it. His attention was solely on Keith. Except for his earlier phrasing, he didn’t think Pidge had picked up on just how different he was. Body language, mannerisms, almost everything had changed in some way except for his physical appearance. And there was one thing Lance had noticed almost immediately after Keith started talking about the anomaly. He was pretty sure Keith wasn’t aware of it, but he had been running his left thumb across the ring finger of the same hand, like there was something missing. Lance thought about bringing it up, but decided not to, heavily suspecting Keith would just say that it was something else he couldn’t talk about.

~*~*~*~

Links to the rest of the series:

1 | 2 | 3* | 4 | 5* | 6* | 7 | 8 | 9* | 10 | 11 | 12* | 13 | 14 | 15* | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19*