#i think his eyes are cybernetic. his head is otherwise intact. the rest of his body... a cybernetic heart... im considering it

[windupaidoneus]

now comes the urge to discard canon some more by making zaki a cyborg but MY way. mobcop improved. he was mobcop for a while then got better but hes still a cyborg. because. well i like cyborgs. sue me for being the robot guy i guess . rolling eyes emoji

[master-sass-blast]

This Life is Infinite: Chapter One.

OH YEAH. IT'S TIME, BITCHES!!!

Summary: The Infinity War Fic aka I do whatever the fuck I want with the Russo's canon.

Get ready for the most ambitious crossover in CHC history.

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader, Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson, Alexandra Rasputin x Nikolai Rasputin, and Kitty Pryde x Illyana Rasputin.

Rating: M for canon typical violence and death threats.

Word Count: 10k... oops.

Set after "Children of the Gods: Part Three."

Author's Note: Tentatively, I’m back from my hiatus. Things are nowhere near settled with my mental health, but I’m feeling well enough to post again.

I think it mostly goes without saying that updates for this series might be a little irregular going forward; not only do I need to take care of myself, but I also need to find a better balance with posting fanfiction and the rest of my life. As always, I will do my best to be clear with you all about what to expect in terms of updates and wait times.

Thank you again for your compassion and understanding.

Taglist: @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @super-darkcloudstudent, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @leo-writer, @emma-frxst, @sadstone-s

It’s not every day that mysterious, leather-clad men appear –quite literally, considering they teleported in—in your kitchen unannounced.

(Okay, perhaps they don’t qualify as “mysterious” when one of them is your dad, one of them is your brother, and the third is your uncle, but there’s a fourth man with them that you don’t recognize, so you like to think that the principle of the expression remains intact.)

You glance between Nate, Wade, your uncle, and the aforementioned unrecognized fourth man, then lift the box of cereal you’d been pouring into a bowl by way of greeting. “Breakfast?”

***

(The fourth man, as it turns out, goes by the code name “Kronos” –which, in terms of super cool code names, ranks at about an eight.)

“There’s a war coming,” Nate explains while the four of you stand around your kitchen counter. “Apocalypse is stirring. He’ll be sending his allies to Earth to initiate the first stage of the war, so that he’ll encounter less resistance when he comes to rule.”

“‘s called ‘The Decimation,’” Wade interjects as he shovels spoonfuls of Lucky Charms into his mouth. He points at his bowl, then jerks his head at the fridge. “D’ y’all have chocolate syrup?”

“Yeah, second shelf on the door.” You take another bite of your cereal, swallow, then ask Nathan, “What… what happens with ‘The Decimation?’”

“One of Apocalypse’s allies, Thanos, will arrive with his armies and generals. He’ll use his own forces to annihilate the heroes of Earth, then he’ll finish assembling the Infinity Stones and gauntlet and use them to wipe out half of all life across the cosmos.”

You purse your lips together and eye your dad warily. “If… if this was anyone other than you saying this, I’d say this all sounds like a hackneyed comic book and-or movie plot.”

“His information checks out,” Kronos says, voice low and gravelly. “Our cross-temporal intel confirms communications between Apocalypse and Thanos. We might have a few weeks to prepare for Thanos’s arrival –and that’s if we’re lucky.”

Wade snorts and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “handwavey bullshit” under his breath.

You look to your uncle. “And you’re here because…”

“Need to talk to Xavier,” your uncle answers, “and then alert the Avengers and anyone else that can help us face Thanos.”

“Right,” you say slowly. “And you stopped here first because…”

“I was hungry,” Wade blurts as he drizzles more chocolate syrup on top of his cereal.

“You have credibility,” Nathan says while shooting Wade an equally annoyed and endeared look. “Xavier and Piotr listen to you, and the rest of the X-Men listen to them. We can’t afford to deal with a bunch of hesitating and infighting right now. We need to get our shit together and defeat Thanos, or the world as we know it is fucked.”

“Question.” Wade lifts his spoon. “Does Donald Trump die in this decimation bullshit?”

“We’ll deal with him later,” your uncle stage-whispers to Wade.

“If you’re all sure…” You wait for all four of them to nod, then sigh and shrug. “Alright. I think most of the X-Men are training right now. Let’s go talk to them.”

***

“This all sounds fucking insane.”

Wade gasps. The eyes on his mask widen as he lifts a gloved hand to where his mouth is under his mask. “James Doohan used a no-no word! My goodness gracious golly!”

Scott Summers scowls, but otherwise ignores Wade. He turns to the Professor, expression incredulous. “Do you believe… any of this?”

Xavier grimaces. “Our sources through Kronos” –he gestures to your uncle’s colleague—“have been confirming the intentions of Apocalypse for several years now. The difficulty was always in determining when Apocalypse would act, and in which timeline –though, now that we have Cable’s intel, we’ve been able to figure those two details out.”

“If Thanos is as powerful as you’re saying,” Ororo pipes up, looking at Nathan, “then how are we supposed to defeat him?”

“Any way we can,” Nathan fires back, expression grim.

“Our intel says that Thanos only has three of the six Infinity Stones, along with the gauntlet,” Kronos adds. “If we can keep the last three stones out of his hands and defeat his armies here on Earth, we’ll have better odds of facing Apocalypse down the road.”

“Right,” Jean says. “And where are the last three stones?”

“The Mind Stone is in the possession of Vision, an android created by Ultron, who now works with the Avengers,” Kronos explains. “The Time Stone is in the possession of Doctor Stephen Strange, who leads an order of sorcerers and magic users in New York. The Soul Stone… has yet to be located.”

“And we’re sure that Thanos is coming here?” Ororo asks, brows raised in skepticism.

“One of the unifying features across the pertinent timelines is a battle that takes place on Earth, specifically in the country of Wakanda,” Kronos answers. “Regardless of the other features in the timeline, there is always a major confrontation between Thanos and the forces of earth there.”

“Great,” Rogue deadpans, expression flat. “Now we just have to convince them to let us in. ‘Excuse me, your Majesty T’Challa, but there’s an evil spaceman that is collecting all powerful rhinestones and he’s going to come here to try and wipe out half of all life on Earth, so we need you to let us into your country with strict visitation policies to we can help you fight him.’ Yeah, that’ll go over real well.”

“We don’t have time to waste on sarcastic bullshit,” Nathan grits out, cybernetic eye flaring as he glares at Rogue. “We’ll handle getting the Avengers and Wakanda on board,” he says, turning to the Professor. “I take it we can trust you to get your team and Magneto collected?”

“I’ll contact Erik,” Xavier promises before looking over at your husband. “Piotr, would you mind calling your family? I believe, given the severity of the coming conflict, having as many hands as possible would be in our best interests.”

Piotr nods. “Konechno –of course.” He looks up at you from where he’s sitting, confusion clear in his sky blue eyes—

“You good to come with us?” Nathan asks, tapping your shoulder lightly to get your attention. “We’ll need help talking to Stark.”

“Huh? Uh –yeah. Sure.” You look back at Piotr; the request to ask for five minutes, just five minutes, to talk to your husband is on the tip of your tongue—

Nate tugs you –gently—a couple inches closer, then says, “Bodyslide by five.”

The room blurs, then disappears from view.

***

You’ve only bodyslid with Nathan a handful of times –and each time you do, you’re always caught off guard by how fucking weird it feels.

Your stomach lurches like you’ve just gone down the steepest drop on a rollercoaster, even though the ground remains steady beneath your feet. In a flash, there’s a brand new room in front of you –sleek, monochromatic cabinets, white marble countertops, stainless steel appliances and fixtures, the works. The space oozes sophistication, function, style –and money. So much money.

Given everything you’ve heard about Tony Stark, it makes sense.

“Deep breaths,” Nathan says. He places a steadying hand on your shoulder while you blink rapidly. “In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

You do your best to comply –though it’s a bit difficult, given that your brain is shrieking ‘sensory overload’ while trying to adjust to the new lighting, the new sounds, the sensation of having moved without really having moved at all, at least in the sense of walking or riding in a car—

And then alarms start blaring. Red lights flash, klaxons go off, the works.

Wade swears and claps his hands over his ears. “Christ! For a guy who has literal robots that can wipe his ass with dollar bills, you think he’d invest in something a little easier on the ears!”

“Wilson!” The klaxons and red lights cut out, replaced by various whirring noises and the sound of hurried, angry footsteps. “I swear to God, if you’ve hijacked one of my jets again, I’m gonna –who the fuck are all of you?”

Tony Stark looks… nothing like what you see in the papers. Granted, his face and hair look largely the same, but he’s not wearing the crisp, stylish suits that all the magazines, articles, papers, and interviews feature him wearing. He’s got on a worn, holey Metallica shirt, ripped, grease stained jeans, and a pair of scuffed sneakers that look like they might’ve been purchased ten years ago, for all that they’re barely holding together.

The army of security bots hovering and whirring around him, however, do fit his press image.

“Jon Snow!” Wade chirps, waggling his fingers at the harried “genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist.” “Long time, no talk. How’s Daenerys doing?”

“Summers, would you do me a favor and put your psychopath on a leash?” Tony asks, tone less than polite or pleasant as he focuses on Nate. “Preferably a nice short one that’s far away from me?”

“We’re here to talk,” Nathan says –though he does stop Wade from trying to play with the knives in the block on the kitchen counter. “It’s a matter of life and death. The well-being of the entire universe is at stake.”

“Yeah, been there, done that,” Tony says, looking none too impressed.

“One of your colleagues may have mentioned his name,” Kronos interjects, taking a step forward. “Does the word ‘Thanos’ ring any bells?”

Tony’s expression sobers for an instant, but he hides it quickly enough. “This is private property, and you’re all—”

A red being with a green suit and a yellow gem in the center of his forehead emerges from the floor. He places himself between Tony and the rest of you. “Would you like me to escort them out, Mr. Stark?”

“Ah, Casper the Friendly Android with No Concept of Personal Boundaries Despite the Infinite Knowledge!” Wade fires back, waving cheerfully. “How you doing, twenty-twenty?”

Vision sighs, longsuffering. “You have been expressly forbidden from these premises, Mr. Wilson.”

“Unless he’s here under my direct supervision,” Nathan fires back. “Stark, we need to talk about this—”

“Tony?” A tall, elegant woman with red hair wearing a tailored, navy blue dress walks up behind the man in question. She flashes you all a polite smile, but there’s no missing the way her gaze cautiously assesses each one of you. “I’m guessing these aren’t –oh. Wade’s here.”

Wade waves in response. “Hi, Miss Potts! How’s being a CEO?”

“It’s going very well, thank you,” Pepper replies politely –though, this time, she’s scanning the room for missing objects and-or visible damage. When nothing turns up, she looks back at Tony. “Are we escorting them out?”

“They claim to have information about the end of the world,” Tony says, tone flippant –though the grave expression on his face belies his snark. “About Thanos.”

Recognition flashes over Pepper’s face, though her polite mask never fully slips. She nods, then says, “Are we going to listen to them?”

“Probably should,” Tony replies in the same lackadaisical tone. “I’m not turning off the security drones while Wilson’s here, though.”

“Just for that, I’m pissing in your Ficus before I leave,” Wade huffs.

“That seems like it’s for the best,” Pepper tells Tony, smiling going tight at the edges while she stares at Wade. She takes a breath, steeling herself, then steps past Tony and nods at the rest of you in greeting. “Sorry for the confusion. Would you mind coming with us, so we can talk somewhere more comfortable?”

***

“I started connecting the dots after Thor left,” Tony explains, twirling a pencil between his fingers as he paces back and forth. “He mentioned Thanos briefly –but with the destruction and repurposing of Loki’s staff, the straggling records of Dormammu’s attack and the use of the Time Stone by Strange, the roles that the Tesseract and Loki’s staff played in the attack on New York by the Chitauri…” He sighs, pausing to stare out at the window at some unseen object before grimacing and shrugging. “It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

You’re all gathered in a conference room –which, as with the kitchen, carries the same modern, sleek style. Floor to ceiling windows show off the training grounds and the forest that conceals the base from the rest of the world. A massive plasma TV takes up one of the far walls, while the other walls are taken up by various dormant, holographic and electronic displays (made by Stark himself, no doubt). A black, oblong table sits in the center of the room, with leather, silver studded swivel chairs positioned around it.

“How many are there?” Tony asks, looking first at Kronos, then at Nathan. “How much time do we have?”

“There are six Infinity Stones in total,” Kronos says. “Thanos already has three –the Space stone, which was contained by the Tesseract, the Reality stone and the Power stone. Your colleague, Vision—” he gestures to the android “—is in possession of the Mind Stone already, and Stephen Strange has the Time Stone. Our agents have been unable to confirm the whereabouts of the Soul Stone, but we’re certain that Thanos doesn’t have it.”

“Yet,” Tony adds, tone pessimistic.

“As far as time goes, we have a few days at most,” Nathan says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Maybe a week, if we’re lucky.”

Tony grimaces. “That doesn’t bode well for rebuilding international relations on a dime. Or team morale for that matter.”

“Sort it out,” Nathan gravels out. “We’ve got bigger issues.”

“We won’t have time for issues if we can’t even pull a team together,” Tony snaps.

“If it helps…” Kronos withdraws a flash drive from his jacket pocket and holds it out to Tony. “The evidence of Thanos’s collection of the stones and his plans to come here.”

Tony accepts the flash drive. He turns it over in his fingers a couple times –no doubt mentally comparing the drive to the technology he’s created—then pockets it. “And Xavier’s on board with all this?”

You blink when you realize everyone’s staring at you. “Uh –yes. He’s contacting Erik Lensherr for some additional support, and the rest of the X-Men are ready to take on Thanos as well.”

“Great.” Tony stares down at the table for a moment, expression slightly melancholy but otherwise inscrutable, but then he snaps back to his usual self. “Good meeting. I’ll text you with the details.”

“Ooh, does that mean we’re trading numbers?” Wade gasps, pressing his hands on either side of his face. “I’ll put you on my favorites list.”

“I’ll contact Xavier,” Tony amends, shooting Wade a slightly harried look.

“We’ll be ready,” you assure him, at a loss for what else to say as you hook your arm around Wade’s to keep him from messing with the holographic display system.

“Vision will escort you out,” Pepper says with a polite smile and nod.

“I’ll make you a friendship bracelet, Tony the Tiger!” Wade calls as you and Nathan gently usher him towards the door. “Wait –stop shoving me! I need to get his wrist size!”

“Later, gorgeous,” Nate says with a barely suppressed smile.

Under any other circumstances, you’d laugh, but the stony foreboding weighing down your gut makes it too hard to even muster up a chuckle –especially when you catch Tony slumping down into one of the conference room chairs with a despairing expression on his face. You force yourself to focus on getting Wade out of the Avenger’s headquarters without stealing anything –though that does little to calm your swirling thoughts. How in the hell are we gonna pull this off?

***

“Are you okay?”

You sigh, instinctively wriggling back against Piotr’s chest as he lays down behind you. “Define ‘okay.’”

It’s nearly midnight now. Between contacting other allies for help –Nathan had you all bodysliding around New York for the better part of the day to reach out to the Hell’s Kitchen figures—and learning up about Thanos’s army and what could be expected in a confrontation against him, you didn’t get home until well after dinner.

You’re in bed now, too tired for anything else. You stare out the windows that overlook the balcony, purposefully trying to keep your mind blank so you don’t grow overwhelmed by the chaos buzzing in your brain.

Because this is insane. This is beyond mutant trafficking or petty grievances between groups of mutant rivals or even being gunned down by the mafia. This is beyond abusive parents, groups of hateful bigots, or anti-mutant legislators.

It’s –quite literally—the fate of the entire world. The entire galaxy. Based on Nathan’s reports of the future, half of all life is wiped out. People, animals, plants –all gone, dissolved into piles of ash… and for what? So some egomaniac can have his moment of glory?

Your stomach curdles when you even try to contemplate a life without Piotr.

“Hey.” Piotr draws you in close when you start crying. “Tische, myshka. Everything is okay.”

“But it’s not.” You sniff, wiping at your eyes with your sleeve. “Nothing about this is fucking okay, Piotr. Someone’s gonna wipe out half of the damn universe because he wants to jerk off to it later.”

“He has to go through us, first,” Piotr reminds you as he presses soft, sweet kisses against your cheek.

“We don’t have the numbers,” you point out bleakly. “We don’t have the ammunition. We don’t have the time to make a solid plan, or to prepare any extra defenses, or—”

Piotr hugs you tight. He kisses the top of your head. His hand strokes up and down your arm in an attempt to soothe you.

You grip his other hand, holding him close to you. You focus on how warm and solid he is. How wonderful he is and how lovely your life is with him. “I love you, Piotr.”

“And I love you, Y/N.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and cry some more.

***

The call comes in at five thirty in the morning.

“Stark’s brought around the other Avengers and Wakanda,” Nathan says, sounding far more alert than you ever will at this godforsaken hour. “We’re lifting off at seven.”

“Roger that,” you manage while Piotr turns on the bedside lamp and blinks the sleep out of his eyes. “We’ll be ready.” You set down your phone when the call ends, then groan and drop your head into your pillow. Why can’t the end of the world ever happen in the afternoon?

***

The Blackbird jets are loaded to maximum capacity. Aside from carrying the X-Men and the X-Force exclusive members, you’re also ferrying the Hell’s Kitchen vigilantes, Piotr’s family and Allison, your uncle and his team, and the younger children and their parents to Wakanda for safe-keeping (your uncle’s reasoning was that an enemy of the institute might notice the sudden lack of protection and decide to attack the younger, more vulnerable students and their families for vengeance, so it was better to be safe than sorry).

You keep close to Piotr or to the cockpit, but there’s still no avoiding the tense, cramped feeling.

You’re not the only “birds” in the sky, either. It’s practically a whole convoy, flying out to Wakanda in what might’ve been a formation if Wade didn’t occasionally grab the control and try to do a “barrel roll.” Magneto and his forces are flying in their own airship, while the Avengers are leading their pack in Tony’s custom, “cutting edge of technology” jets.

You watch the small fleet of jets that belong to the Avengers, lips pursed into a tight line. Your gaze darts over to the navigation board every few seconds, tracking your miniscule progress across the Atlantic Ocean towards Wakanda.

There’s a heavy sigh behind you, and then an even heavier pair of arms settle around your shoulders. “Myshka. You should rest.”

You “hmm” softly to let Piotr know you heard him, but you don’t step away from the cockpit door.

He kisses the top of head and starts gently rubbing your neck with his thumbs. “Will be several hours before arrival, dorogoy. There is nothing you can do until then.”

“It feels like wasting time,” you murmur back –because, naturally, Piotr’s seen to the heart of the issue already. “We’ve got so much to do.”

“And we can do nothing until we arrive in Wakanda.” Piotr kisses your temple, then gently nudges you away from the cockpit. “Come sit with me, lyublyu. You will need full energy when we land.”

And that, above all else, is the only reason you let Piotr usher you over to the nearest seat.

You crawl into his lap once he sits, curling up in his arms. You lay your head on his shoulder and let his warmth combined with the gentle thrum of the jet’s sonic engines lull you to sleep.

***

Wakanda is simultaneously everything and nothing like what you expected.

There’s a force shield that surrounds the inner part of the country that gives way as the convoy of ships pass through it. It almost seems to shimmer out of view before revealing an elegant, shining palace and curved, glimmering towers that comprise the larger part of the city. Lush jungle and towering, ice-capped mountains border the city, split by a winding river and rushing waterfalls.

It almost looks too beautiful to be real.

The awe-inducing visuals and technology don’t stop as the convoy flies out to a glittering, black glass structure that, on the navigation board, is labeled as the lab of Princess Shuri. The convoy swoops around to a massive hangar at the base of the building, landing just inside on the polished stone and metal floor.

Waiting for all of you in the hangar is King T’Challa Udaku; he’s wearing a black robe embroidered with silver thread and a vibrant kente scarf, and generally looks every bit as poised and unflappable as he did in the UN interviews. He’s flanked by his Dora Milaje soldiers –who are undeniably badass with their armor and spears, and you catch Ellie, Yukio, and Kitty all staring at the women in awe—and his partner, Nakia, and his sister, Princess Shuri.

Tony and Professor Xavier handle the introductions with the King, which lets you stretch and take in the hangar and throngs of superheroes. You recognize a few of them –Captain America aka Steve Rogers, Ant-Man aka Scott Lang and his entourage --including a man with dark hair styled like Elvis that you recall seeing in some sort of news interview a while back and a young woman with curly brown hair and warm eyes that’s holding his hand-- and War Hero ,aka James Rhodes, aka Tony’s best friend and “work wife”—but some of the entourage members are new to you.

You take a moment to stretch out your back –sleeping in Piotr’s lap isn’t the worst quality rest you’ve ever had, but given the configurations of the jet seats it was a little cramped—and admire the glimmering, inlaid lights on the hangar ceiling. Swanky.

“We have space prepared for the upcoming preparations and hosting all of you,” T’Challa says, voice cutting through the din of the crowd with ease. “If you would all follow Princess Shuri, please.”

Shuri smiles, then motions for everyone to follow her out of the hangar.

Half of the Dora Milaje break away from the formation, keeping a protective line between the princess and everyone else.

You fall into stride alongside your husband, well-practiced by now at matching your steps to his long stride.

***

The “prepared space” winds up being three massive rooms, each with smaller rooms sectioned around the main spaces, a kitchen-slash-rec area that joins the three massive rooms in the center, and three large, communal style bathrooms with multiple stalls for toilets and showers. The main rooms have several long, workstation style tables at them, with some beds stationed at the fringes, and the smaller rooms function only as bedrooms, mostly for the families with kids and the handful of couples present.

“This interface,” Princess Shuri says as she taps on a small disk embedded into the wall, “will let you contact security and staff if you have questions or need to speak with someone. There’s one in each room, for easy access. It will begin glowing and beeping if someone’s trying to send a call to you; you answer by pressing the base,” she explains, demonstrating on the disk.

“We’re expecting another group of people,” Tony pipes up. “Strange is collecting some of our allies from the South Eastern Quadrant. They should be here in the next sixteen hours, give or take.”

Shuri nods. “We’ll contact you when they arrive.” She offers the group a magnanimous nod and smile, then strides out the hall you all entered through, flanked by the Dora Milaje soldiers.

For a moment, no one moves. You all stand around, hesitating as you all try to take in the new scenery and space.

Alex moves first. She sighs, then grabs her duffel and strides towards the nearest workroom. “No point in waiting.”

Her initiative seems to jolt everyone else out of their daze. Everyone sections off, largely sticking with the groups of their original affiliation.

You amble alongside Piotr, peering around the workroom as you try to decide where to set your pack. Here goes nothing.

***

We’re staring down the apocalypse, you muse as you watch everyone set up shop, and it’s all coming down to sewing machines.

It’d come as a shock when Alexandra had lugged the sleek, white machine out of its carrying case. She’d set it on one of the tables, then lifted bolts of thick, rugged Kevlar out of one of her duffels next. Thread, scissors, measuring tape, and gridded cutting boards follow the Kevlar—

And then the sewing machine jammed as soon as Alex turned it on.

“Ty meshok der'ma,” Alex mutters under her breath as she fiddles with the internal mechanisms of the sewing machine. She glares at the gears, grumbling and swearing while she prods at them with a pair of tweezers. “Kakogo khrena tvoya problema?”

The situation seems mundane in its inanity.

The end of the damn world, and we’re being thwarted by twenty pounds of plastic and metal.

“Day mne poprobovat'.” Nikolai crouches down next to his wife. He adjusts the reading glasses perched on his nose, then aims a small flashlight at the interior of the machine. He murmurs and tuts in Russian while prodding at the machine –and then he makes a soft noise of exclamation. “Broken needle. Pryamo tam.”

“Sukin syn.” Alex uses her telekinesis to draw out the metal shard, then lets out an exasperated sigh and spreads her arms when the machine finally makes the proper start up noises. “Thank you.”

“Be nice,” Nikolai chides her with a teasing grin. “Is uncomfortable, having metal stuck in organs. You would not want to work either.”

“I’ve had metal in my organs,” Alex grumbles as she gets her sewing machine configured. “I still managed.” She smirks when Nikolai laughs, then kisses her husband’s cheek before motioning for you to approach. “Come here, ptitsa. I want to reinforce your suit; I need your measurements.”

You round the table, shucking off your sweatshirt so Alex can measure your torso. “Is there anything I need to do?”

“Just hold still, malenkiy,” Alex murmurs as she runs her tape measure around your waist.

“I make no promises,” you joke.

Alex snorts, then moves her measuring tape up to your ribcage.

***

The waiting is, somehow, worse now.

At least on the plan there was a promise of a destination. A sense of the temporary, that you’d be up and moving and doing again within a few hours.

Unfortunately, reality is so often different from how you envision it, just as it is now. Because the reality of the situation is that there are only a limited number of people capable of helping. Nate and Tony are working with the Princess to configure weapons to fight Thanos’s forces, Hank and the healers are preparing a makeshift medical bay, Frank, Wade, Mikhail, and Neena are cleaning and checking guns, Alex, Piotr and Nikolai are taking turns working on fabricating armor for those who need it—

Leaving you with nothing to do. Aside from keeping those who are working well fed and hydrated and managing the kids, all you can do is sit and watch while everyone else prepares.

It’s agony. Your chest aches from stress, and your stomach’s churning so much you can barely choke food down at mealtimes. I need to help more. I need to do something, dammit.

It’s like being in line for random execution and having no idea whether you’re going to be shot or not.

You stay close to Piotr. You run food and snacks and drinks for anyone who needs it. You help manage the kids when the need arises –but since most of their parents are here, the incidents are far and few between.

You sit. And you wait.

It’s all you can do.

***

“Absolutely not.”

“You need to be reasonable.”

“I am. It’s perfectly reasonable to keep a fourteen-year-old off a fucking battlefield!”

Alex sighs. She leans back in her seat and raises an eyebrow at her eldest daughter. “Normally I would agree, but I don’t think you’ll have much say in the matter. Your ability to control her is notably lacking.”

Artemis huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You try reining in a teenager who’s realized there’s no consequences to her actions.”

“I’m not judging, merely observing,” Alex assures her daughter. “But, at any rate, it’s not unreasonable to predict that she’ll join the fray at some point. Body armor is a necessity.”

“It’s an invitation! She’ll take it as permission!”

“Artemis?” Allison sticks her head into the room, then strides over to her mentor-slash-surrogate mother. “Is everything okay? Who’s getting permission to do what?”

“No one is,” Artemis grumbles, even as she holds her arm out so the teen can lean against her side. “Especially not you.”

Allison lets out a disgusted sigh and rolls her eyes. “I already told you—”

“You’re not fighting.”

“I can handle myself!” Allison snaps. She jerks away from Tatianna, scowling. “You’re treating me like a baby!”

“Compared to me, you are a baby,” the older woman points out drily.

“It’s not your burden to bear,” Alex interjects, fixing the testy teen with an even –though not harsh—stare. “Teenagers shouldn’t have to fight for the future of the world. That’s for adults to handle.”

“No one gets to decide,” Allison grits out, “what my burdens are. And this isn’t about ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’t.’”

The corner of Alex’s mouth twitches. She looks up at Artemis, brows raised.

Artemis sighs. She tips her head back, staring up at the ceiling, then looks down at Allison. “You need body armor to keep you safe. That does not mean, however, that you’ll be joining us in the fight against Thanos.”

Allison sweeps her tongue along the inside of her cheek. She crosses her arms and cocks her head to the side. “Pretty sure you don’t get to decide that.”

“Pretty sure you should listen to me,” Artemis fires back, “since I have more experience and am telling you that it’s too much for you to handle.” She lets out an exasperated breath when Allison rolls her eyes, then waves her hand dismissively as if to say ‘I tried.’ “Get her set up.”

Alex nods, then waves Allison over. “Alright, malenkiy. Let’s get you sorted.”

***

“Are you asleep?”

“Nyet.” Piotr rolls over, drapes an arm over you, and kisses your forehead. “I would ask you the same, but…”

You manage a small chuckle. “Pretty obvious answer, yeah.”

The two of you are in one of the private rooms –if only because (aside from your status as married) it has a bed big enough to accommodate Piotr. There’s a small window that overlooks a cavern beneath the lab. Dim, blue light seeps through the glass pane, but it’s not enough to properly illuminate the room.

Piotr’s fingers skim over your upper arm. “Why are you not sleeping, myshka?”

“Can’t,” you admit, voice wavering. You take a deep breath through your nose and try to calm yourself. “I just… I can’t handle not doing anything. It gives me too much time to think about what might happen.”

Piotr croons gently, drawing you in closer so he can tuck you against his chest. He cradles your head with one massive head. “Dorogoy. You know such things are not good for you.”

“Yeah, I know,” you grumble, eyes stinging with unshed tears. “Doesn’t mean that knowledge stops my brain any.”

“Ya znayu,” Piotr murmurs as he kisses your temple. “But everything is going to be alright, myshka.”

“Except it really might not be,” you argue, voice shaking. You grip the material of his shirt, as though he might be wrenched away from you at any moment and whisked away into the wind. “It really might not, Piotr.”

Your husband doesn’t say anything in response to that. He merely holds you closer still and strokes his fingers through your hair.

You press your forehead against his chest and start weeping quietly.

***

The second day is much like the first –a slow, agonizing crawl punctuated by overwhelming anxiety and exhaustion.

You linger at the table where Nate, Tony, and Ellie are modifying guns, handing the three various tools and materials when they ask for it. You watch their progress numbly, brain devoid of anything other than wordless worry.

At least, you watch until Nate texts Piotr to come get you.

“Davay, myshka,” your husband coaxes as he lifts you off your stool. He grunts slightly as he shifts you into a bridal-style hold, then carries you away from the table and out of the room. “Let’s have lunch.”

“But—”

“Is important to stay fed and hydrated.”

“—I was helping.” You peer past Piotr’s arm –then sigh when Nathan gives you a sympathetic, concerned smile and waves you along. “Baby—”

“Just for little bit.” Piotr sets you down when you ask, but he keeps a hand on your shoulder, just in case. “Is not good to sit and stew in anxiety.”

You drop your gaze to the floor. “You can’t prove anything.”

Piotr lifts his hand from your shoulder and cradles your cheek. He strokes his thumb against your skin, waiting until you look up at him before speaking again. “Come have lunch with me, moya lyubov’,” he says with an adoring smile (which you’re certain is a deliberate, tactical move on his part to make sure you don’t try and argue, and dammit if it isn’t working). “I would enjoy your company.”

You scuff the toe of your sneaker against the floor, but ultimately acquiesce. “Alright. I guess I should take a break.”

***

The snooping starts after lunch, while Alex is chewing Frank out for spray-painting his bullet proof vest.

“What, are you looking to ruin perfectly good Kevlar?” Alex gripes as she tosses Frank’s “Punisher” vest aside. “You want to break down the material? Get shot out like some schmuck because you decided to be an artist?”

“It’s strategic,” Frank argues with a good-natured, crooked grin. “Keeps my enemies’ line of sight trained on where I have the most protection.”

Alex nods and makes a sarcastic noise of assent. “‘Strategic.’ Is that what it is? Ya ne mogu v eto poverit'. V moye vremya my nazyvali strategiyu pobedoy, a ne stavili svoyu grebanuyu vizitnuyu kartochku na kazhdoye sovershennoye nami proklyatoye ubiystvo. Get your ass over here, drama boy.” She scoffs and starts measuring Frank’s chest and shoulders. “‘Strategiya,’” she scoffs. “What a load of horse shit.”

“Akh akh,” Nikolai tuts as he walks into the room with a plate of food and glass of water. “What is happening here?”

“I’m pretty sure I upset the apple cart, sir,” Frank says, unabashed.

Nikolai chuckles while Alexandra brings up to speed, ranting in irritated Russian. He sets the plate and glass on the table next to his wife, kisses her head, then ambles back out to the kitchen—

And that’s when you notice it. Or, rather, her.

Natasha Romanoff, aka the Black Widow. Renowned spy, assassin, weapons and espionage expert, and former member of the Avengers if the debacle surrounding the Sokovia Accords is to be believed.

She’s sitting at the kitchen counter on barstool, tapping away at her phone –which isn’t inherently suspicious, but her line of sight lets her look directly into the room you’re all situated in and—

She’s watching Alex.

At first you think she might be watching Frank (which, fair enough, having a mass murderer, somewhat unstable vigilante around is a reasonable cause for caution). But when Frank gets up and walks out (probably to go find Karen), Natasha doesn’t even move. Her gaze –when she’s not looking at her phone—stays fixed on Alexandra while she works at her sewing machine.

For once, you’re grateful Piotr is as large as he is; he makes a great hiding spot to do countersurveillance from.

Natasha approaches slowly, but deliberately. She talks to someone on her phone –whether she’s faking or not doesn’t matter to you, because she still uses it to get off the barstool and amble around while she’s talking. Then, she has a conversation with Captain Rogers, which she uses to get a few feet closer to the doorway.

At some point, you’re not certain if she realizes you’re watching her, only because she gives up the pretense of trying to hide her snooping entirely. She leans against the doorframe, watching Alex intently while she marks, pins, and cuts out fabric.

It’s Illyana who has enough of the whole thing first. Three minutes into Natasha standing in the door way, the blonde sighs, sets her phone down on the work table, and glares up at the red head. “Kakogo khrena ty khochesh?”

Natasha purses her lips slightly. She acknowledges Illyana with a brief glance, then turns her focus back to Alex. “Alexandra.”

“Natalia,” Alex says by way of greeting, not even bothering to look up from her work. “Are you here to help, or are you here to waste my time?”

She grimaces, but recovers and smiles politely. “It’s been a long time.”

“So, you’re here to waste my time,” Alex surmises as she pins a pattern to a piece of heavy black Kevlar.

Natasha swallows reflexively, then turns on her heel and walks away.

***

Half an hour later, it’s Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes’s turn.

The two supersoldiers are far less covert than Agent Romanoff. They stand in the middle of the rec room, a few feet away from the door, and don’t make any attempt to hide their conversation or the fact that they’re watching Alex (and, to some extent, her children and Nikolai as well).

Illyana says something to her mother a few times, but Alex waves her off –and, in general, seems unbothered. “U nas yest' rabota, snezhinka. U nas yest' rabota.”

“Did you know him?” you ask, later, when the Rasputin kids are out of the room. “The Winter Soldier?”

You’ve heard enough through the grapevine to know about the basics of the man’s story –captured by Hydra, experimentation, brainwashing, being coerced into murdering.

(It all sounds chillingly familiar.)

“We crossed paths,” Alex admits with a shrug. She slides a piece of ceramic armor plating inside a Kevlar pouch, then starts sewing the pouch shut. “Overlap was common back in the day.”

“Do you think he remembers you?” you murmur, glancing out at the kitchen (fortunately, Rogers and Barnes are gone for now).

Alex pauses. She purses her lips, then shrugs and resumes working. “I don’t know. He went through a lot with the forced mind wipes. There’s really no way of knowing.”

“Are you going to be in trouble if he does remember you?”

Alex huffs and favors you with a gentle smile. “I’ve gotten out of worse, ptitsa. Don’t worry so much.”

You say that like it’s easy, you think while the knot in your stomach coils tighter.

***

There’s a brief reprieve around dinner. You even manage to relax a little, smiling and chuckling as Piotr and Mikhail bicker and generally irritate each other as much as humanly possible.

Work starts up once more as soon as everyone’s done eating. You nestle yourself against Piotr’s side, relaxed via the virtue of being too tired to be stressed—

And then Tony Stark walks in.

Or perhaps “walk” isn’t the right term. He moves with an air of grandeur and utter self-assurance –which, even with your limited exposure to Tony Stark, you can tell is a “brand standard” for him. He tosses an apple up and down in one hand as he breezes along, expression blasé to the point of looking disinterested as he strides up to the table where Alexandra works.

If it weren’t for Natasha, Captain Rogers, and Sergeant Barnes scoping out the Rasputin matriarch earlier, you would’ve pegged Stark’s visit as entirely coincidental.

“What’s your deal?” Tony asks, leaning against the table next to where Alex is stationed at her sewing machine.

No pretense. No niceties. No attempt at subtlety.

Alex’s lips quirk into an annoyed grimace. She looks up and over the top of her machine for a moment, staring at Nikolai (likely trying to find any scrap of his infinite patience for herself), then lowers her gaze once more and says, “Usually, it’s not answering vague, pointless questions asked by nosey individuals.”

“You’ve got half my team twisted up just by being here,” Tony continues, unruffled. “I’ve seen Romanoff stare down the Hulk on a rampage without flinching. What about you is so special that you make her nervous?”

“Interesting,” Alex comments, almost to herself. “And here I thought, after the Berlin incident, your ‘team’ was largely disbanded. Something about ‘not agreeing with your leadership.’”

Tony’s face twitches, mouth briefly stretching into a pained grimace before he smooths it back out. “You don’t exist.”

“Everyone’s concept of self is different,” Alex mutters as she rips out a crooked seam on an armor pouch.

“There’s no record of your birth. Or your parents, for that matter. Your marriage license has no given maiden name. No history of education, doctor’s visits, driver’s license –nothing until you turned twenty-four.” He takes a bite of his apple, swallows, then says, “People don’t just ‘poof’ into existence as full grown adults. It doesn’t happen.”

“Perhaps,” Alex retorts as she resews the faulty seam, “you are just not very good at finding things.”

“I can find anything.”

“Except, it would seem, a way to keep from trying my patience.”

Tony watches her for a moment longer –then, when she doesn’t say anything, he turns and starts striding out of the room. “I’m going to figure out what’s up with you. There aren’t any secrets that can hide from my A.I.”

Alex doesn’t dignify his departure with a response –but her eyelid twitches as she continues her sewing.

You look up at Piotr, only to find he’s watching Nikolai. You look over at the Rasputin patriarch, and your heart sinks when you see the worried expression on his face.

Nick sighs, then stands and rounds the table. He ambles up behind his wife, drapes his arms around her shoulders, and kisses the top of her head before he starts murmuring to her in quiet, loving Russian.

You lean against Piotr’s side, giving him a reassuring squeeze even though the only thing you feel is disquieted. You force yourself to take a deep breath and relax your jaw as fear starts crawling up your spine once more. One thing at a time. One thing at a time, that’s all you can do.

Except, it seems, when everything decides to happen at once.

***

Meeting the Norse god of thunder is… intense.

Though, that may have to do with the entourage of people he brings with him.

Around three in the morning, Dr. Strange shows up with the remaining allies –Thor, god of thunder, and his brother Loki, god of magic, Bruce Banner aka the Hulk, a woman by the name of Carol, and a group that calls themselves the “Guardians of the Galaxy” (which happens to include a talking raccoon and a sentient tree).

“Just when you thought, like, it couldn’t get weirder,” Kitty mutters to you as she stares at the newest arrivals.

You nod. Granted, your usual metric for all things weird is Wade, who has basically explored every avenue of zany, bizarre, and disturbing—

But yeah, this is pretty fucking weird.

“Where do we stand in preparations for the arrival of Thanos?” Thor asks Tony.

“We’ve got most of the busywork done,” Tony says, outlining the weapons upgrades and the armor work that’s been done. “We waited for major planning until we had everyone here and better intel.”

Thor nods, then gestures to two women standing with the “Guardians of the Galaxy,” one with green skin and dark hair and the other with blue skin and cybernetic enhancements. “This is Gamora and Nebula, daughters of Thanos. They’ll be able to provide information on the strength and size of his forces.”

“Good,” Steve pipes up from where he’s standing with Sam Wilson and Sergeant Barnes. “The sooner we have a plan, the better.”

“It can wait until we’ve slept,” Alex decides, voice crisp. “We won’t come up with anything good while we’re fried.”

Tony blinks, then scowls. “Thanos could be here as soon as this coming morning.”

“Then we’ll be doubly fucked if we’ve stayed up all night trying to scrape together a plan,” Alex replies, unmoved. She crosses her arms when Tony glares at her. “The younger and less experienced of us need rest if this is going to work.”

“I’m with the lady,” Quill pipes up, brushing past Tony. He gives Stark a smile that, if you had to wager, is supposed to be charming but just comes off as arrogant. “I think you’ll find that we… don’t really roll with plans. It’s not our style.”

Alex stares at Quill for a moment, expression vastly unimpressed. She sighs, blinks slowly, shakes her head, then turns on her heel and strides back to the room she’s been sharing with Nick. “Absolutely not. I’m going back to bed.”

As if waiting for a cue, everyone else disperses, muttering about being tired and “needing an IV drip of espresso.”

You shuffle off with Piotr, hand in hand, shivering slightly from nerves. Please just let this go well.

***

“Both the Chitauri and the Klyntaar forces number into the tens of thousands. The Chitauri have sentient airships capable of carrying infantry forces while wreaking their own havoc, in addition to chariots that can carry up to five marksmen at a time. He also has tanks the size of this building that can demolish anything in their path.”

Everyone is gathered in one of the main work rooms. A majority of the people present hang back at the fringes, content to watch while Tony, Captain Rogers, King T’Challa, Alexandra, your uncle, Thor, Quill, and Natasha hash out a strategy.

“He’s trying to overwhelm us with sheer numbers,” Steve says in response to Gamora’s information.

“It might work,” Natasha murmurs, gaze focused on the worktable in front of her. “We don’t have near enough firepower to chip away at that many grunts.”

“Not if we play our cards right,” Alex says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“There’s also our siblings,” Gamora adds with a pained grimace.

Off to the side, Nebula scoffs. “They’re hardly family.”

“Thanos collected beings throughout the galaxy to serve him,” Gamora explains. “To act as his eyes and ears and eliminate his foes. Aside from Nebula and I, he has four other ‘children.’ They’ll be acting as his generals and commanders in the fight –and helping him track down and capture the final infinity stones.”

Tension ripples through the room.

“What do we know about these Infinity Stones?” Alex asks after a moment of fraught silence.

“The stones were originally created by the Celestials,” Loki pipes up from where he’s leaning against a wall. “Their magical properties are tied to aspects of the universe –time, space, reality, and so on. Only beings of immense power can wield them without severe consequences.”

“Thanos has the gauntlet that accompanies the stones,” Thor adds. “With it, once he assembles all six stones, he’ll be able to use them simultaneously.”

“He wants to wipe out half of all life on Earth,” Gamora says, voice wavering slightly. “That’s been his single goal ever since I’ve known him.”

“All men want to be gods,” your uncle jokes half-heartedly.

“Can the stones be broken?” Alex asks.

Loki chuckles, incredulous. “These are magical tools created by the most powerful beings ever known to the galaxy… and you want to break them?”

She shrugs. “Best not to overlook the simplest solution.”

“I’m taking that as a ‘no,’” Steve interjects. “So, if we can’t destroy them, how do we fight them?”

“The only thing powerful enough to combat the effects of the Infinity Stones are the Infinity Stones,” Loki answers.

“And we only have two,” Natasha surmises, expression drawn and grim.

“Three.”

Everyone looks up and turns when Illyana speaks.

She smirks, tilting her chin up when Natasha meets her gaze. “We have three Infinity Stones.”

“Vision has the mind stone, and Dr. Strange has the time stone,” Kronos argues, shaking his head. “The soul stone is still missing.”

Illyana’s smirk broadens. She lifts her hand, curling it as if she was holding something.

A sword materializes in her hand –and in the center of the sword, small but unmistakable, is a glowing orange gem.

Your uncle’s eyes widen. “Holy shit.”

“Three,” Illyana repeats, looking supremely confident and self-satisfied. “Unless there is elusive seventh stone?”

Loki smiles ruefully, shaking his head. “The Goddess of Limbo pulls through. Well done.”

“Okay, but Vision’s stone is in his head and Strange has his stone in a necklace around his neck,” Tony interjects, gesturing to each person in turn.

“Amulet,” Dr. Strange mutters under his breath.

“Your stone disappears if you’re not holding it,” Tony continues, pointing to the sword as Illyana dematerializes it once more. “What’s stopping Thanos from finding it and taking it?”

“I am only person who can use Soul Sword,” Illyana says, arching her eyebrows. “It is bound to me until the next in my line is ready to take my place.”

“My family has been bound to Limbo’s magicks for generations,” Nikolai clarifies when Tony starts sputtering. “Illyana is the keeper of the sword, which means only she can call upon it. Thanos would need our blood to have access to it.”

Tony grimaces. “Still risky.”

“Better than nothing,” your uncle fires back.

“We have a shot of taking down Thanos with the other three Infinity Stones in our camp,” Steve says, planting his hands against the worktable's surface. “Without them, we’re as good as sunk.”

“Well then,” Alex says, smirking. “Let’s make sure we don’t waste our opportunity.”

***

“For the love of god, stop talking.”

“I’m just saying,” Quill starts, spreading his hands in a defensive gesture.

“You’re not saying shit!” Alex snaps, lifting her head from her hands to glare at him. “You’re just wasting our time!”

Once the planning started, a large portion of the crowd dispersed to help wrap up the last of the weapons modification. The leaders from each faction stayed behind –Tony, T’Challa, Steve, Natasha, Thor, Peter Quill, Xavier, your uncle, Alexandra, and Erik—to plan, along with Gamora, Nebula, and Loki so they could offer up information on Thanos, his forces, and the Infinity Stones.

You’d also hung back, since you didn’t have the skills necessary to do the weapons modification. If all I can do is sit around like a nervous lump, may as well do it where I won’t be in the way.

“This plan just isn’t our style,” Quill argues, either immune or completely ignorant to the exasperated sighs and death glares the others are giving him. “We like to take things looser, add a little pizazz.”

“How many times did your parents drop you as a baby?” your uncle asks, staring Quill down. “No, I’m serious,” he adds when Quill glares back at him and opens his mouth to argue. “I’m genuinely at a loss for how you can be this fucking dense.”

“We’re up against overwhelming numbers and powers no one here has ever seen, let alone fought against,” Natasha adds. “We need to allocate our resources carefully if we want even a chance at victory. The three wave strategy is our best chance.”

“Okay,” Quill says, pressing his hands together. “I think we just all need to relax—”

“You’ll be pretty fucking relaxed when I gut you,” Alex grumbles as she pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Look, the way I see it, Thanos can’t take us all at once!” Quill reasons. “If we hit him with everything we have—”

“We have to survive his armies, too,” Tony adds, words clipped. “Or there won’t be any of us for Thanos to be hit by.”

“No.” Alex glares at Quill when he keeps trying to argue, startling him into silence. “Look at them.” She points at Gamora and Nebula. “These are your friends, da? Your teammates and companions, da? This is their abuser we’re facing. If we lose, what do you think happens to them? Do you think someone that wants to destroy half of all life will have mercy for them? Hm? If you care about them, you pick the plan that has the best shot of ensuring their safety. Got it?”

Quill swallows reflexively. He stares down at the holographic display of the future battlefield, jaw working. He exhales through his nose, slow and stuttered, then nods. “Alright. We… we do the three wave strategy.”

“So glad we can agree,” Alex says, turning her attention back to the battlefield schematic. “Now, we were discussing where to put our snipers…”

***

“—I need both their arms. Trust me, it’s the only way this is gonna work.”

“Look, I’m normally all for a little dismemberment, but I don’t think forming our own amputee league is gonna net us a win here.”

You shake your head as Wade banters back and forth with the talking racoon –whose name is Rocket, apparently—then look over at Nathan. “How long have they been at this?”

“Going on three hours now,” Nate replies. A soft, endeared smile flits across his face when he looks at Wade, but his expression sobers when he resumes his soldering job. “How’s the final plan looking?”

“Everyone but Quill was leaning towards a three-wave tactic.”

Nathan grunts. “Yeah, he seems like a jackass.”

“Alex threatened to gut him.”

“Hey!” Wade shouts, sounding genuinely wounded. “No disemboweling without me!”

“Quill wanted to do an ‘all for one’ attack directly on Thanos.” You sit down next to your dad, studying his face while he works. “You’ve actually fought against these people before. Do… do you think dividing our forces up will actually work?”

“The issue is the land and air forces,” Nathan says, shaking his head. He attaches a power unit to the base of a rifle, then starts welding the compartment shut. “This time doesn’t have the necessary shielding to repel the Chitauri and Klyntaar forces for that long. We’ll have to fight the grunts; holding some of our people back to make sure we have someone to take on Thanos is our best bet.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean we’ll win, though,” you point out.

He offers you a melancholy half-smile. “That’s war, kid.”

Your heart sinks further. “Do we even have a chance?”

“Statistics says we do,” Nathan says he strips a piece of wire before threading it into the gun.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Nathan sighs. He looks at you for a long moment, then says, “I think we have the best shot possible with what we have right here, right now.”

You gulp, then nod. It’s still not technically an answer to your question –let alone a positive one—but…

You’ve learned that, sometimes, it better not to dig at these sorts of questions at all.

***

“We’re dividing our forces into thirds.”

You’re all crammed into the rec room post dinner. In the center of the room, by the counter, Tony, Steve, Natasha, and Alex are addressing the crowd in turns.

“The first wave will consist of high stamina fighters and snipers,” Steve says. “There’s a shield system that extends several hundred kilometers around the lab’s perimeter. Wakandan soldiers will join the line of snipers who will pick off any of Thanos’s forces that make it through the shields.”

“We’ll also have any fighters with enhanced stamina on standby, in case there’s a larger breach,” Alex adds. “Their job will be to protect the sniper line from being overrun by the enemy forces.”

“The second wave will be air support,” Tony continues. “Myself, Rhodey, Wilson, and any flying mutants will head out when the Chitauri airships come in. Princess Shuri has a fleet of attack drones at the ready, which can be manned from headquarters in the lab. HQ will have a complete look at the battlefield; all intel will be coming from them during the fight.”

“Third wave is everyone else, save for Illyana, Dr. Strange, and Vision,” Natasha says. “We’ll join the fray when the second wave of Thanos’s forces arrive. The final three” –she nods to Illyana, Dr. Strange, and Vision in turn—“will wait in central headquarters until Thanos arrives, to prevent early capture of the remaining Infinity Stones.”

“In the meantime,” Tony says, “we’re going overtime on modifying rifles to be sonic weapons. They’re more effective against the Klyntar forces than regular firearms. All hands on deck. If you can’t solder, you can run supplies back and forth and help perform diagnostic tests at the firing range. Clear?”

Everyone nods, then breaks off to start working on constructing and testing more “awesome guns.”

You slid your fingers between Piotr’s. Your heart’s in your throat, racing a mile a minute. Your mouth feels dry.

If you were the religious type, you’d start praying. As it is, you make a plea with the universe on the off chance it decides to listen to you –for once.

Please. Please just let this work.

***

“So… about the three-wave plan—”

Tony slams down the compartment piece he’d been working on against the table. He glares at Quill, face strained with barely constrained rage and impatience. “What the fuck is your deal?”

“It’s just not sitting well with me,” Quill continues, leaning against the table. “I’m more of a ‘solo moment’ style person. More of a lone wolf.”

You gape at him. “You… you work with a team of five!”

“I just think that there needs to be a more focused confrontation with Thanos. Y’know, for someone to challenge him, man to man—”

“Some get this idiot out of my face,” Tony snaps, looking around for anyone that might be willing to assist –or, at the very least, drag Quill out of the room by his jacket collar.

“You’re not listening to me!”

“You��re wasting my time!”

“Why does every problem come back to you?” Alex stalks into the work room, eyes glowing a dull shade of copper as irritation takes hold in her. She strides over to Quill, looking like a menace in black leather and Kevlar. “How much more of a nuisance can you possibly make yourself?”

“I’m just pointing out some flaws in the strategy!” Quill argues, holding up his hands in a defensive gesture. “I’m being the devil’s advocate!”

“You’re pointing out dick,” Agent Barton, alias Hawkeye, points out from the side (where he’s modifying some of his arrows to release sonic pulses).

“Look,” Quill presses on, ignoring Clint’s comment. “We need to make sure this thing is airtight—”

“We don’t have time for ‘airtight,’” Nathan growls, cybernetic eye flaring. “The goal is to survive, not to create perfection.”

“I really just think—”

Alex scowls –and then her hand snaps out and closes around Quill’s neck. She slams him against the edge of the table, sneering down at him while he coughs and claws –futilely—against her iron grip. “You’re past the point of being a nuisance. You’re a fucking liability.”

Quill wheezes, face slowly turning red.

“If I was paid every time a man like you told me how to do my job…” Her voice trails off, and she lets out a sardonic chuckle. “Let me make something clear to you, Peter Quill.” Her hand tightens around his neck, which makes some ominous creaking noises as she presses against layers of tissue, cartilage, and bone. “I am not about to have an asshole like you risk the lives of my children, the people who are putting their own lives on the line to protect the world, or the future of the damn universe. If you’re going to keep being a jackass about this…” She smirks. “I’ll kill you. I’ll do it right here, right now. I am not going to have a hazard like you on my team or on that battlefield.” She grins nastily, leaning in closer as Quill’s eyes bug out. “Best thing is, no one really knows you’re here. No tracks to cover, no family to pay off, no authorities to worry about. You’d be an unfortunate casualty in war. No one would fucking miss you.”

A chill runs down your spine. You gulp, stomach twisting as you look from Alex, to Quill, to Alex again. Is anyone going to stop her...

“I really don’t know how to make this any fucking clearer, but since you’ve proven to be thick-headed, I’ll summarize: you stray from the plan in any way, and you’re dead. Got it?”

Quill nods hastily. He gasps when Alex releases him, collapsing to the floor. He hacks and coughs, one hand rubbing at his throat while his skin slowly fades away from an angry magenta color.

“So glad we understand one another.” Alex smirks, then turns on her heel and strides out of the work room like nothing even happened.

You purse your lips, trembling while everyone goes back to work like nothing even happened. You try to focus on sorting pieces into containers for the fabricators to grab from, but with your shaking hands it’s near impossible. You duck your head, gritting your teeth together as your stomach churns angrily. I just want this all to be over.

***

The call comes in a couple hours later.

“We’ve got temporal disturbances outside the shield perimeter,” Kronos shouts while alarms blare overhead. “Thanos’s forces have arrived and are attempting to break through to our location.”

Your stomach drops as everyone starts scrambling. You grab your flight jacket and goggles, throwing them on haphazardly. You start running towards the hangar –then stop and switch directions. “Piotr!”

He pauses when he hears your voice, turning and catching you as you leap into his arms. He kisses you briefly –desperately—then pulls back and cups your face in his hands. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You give him a quick hug, then pull away and start sprinting towards the hanger where the rest of the air support is gathering. Tears sting your eyes, but you wipe them away and force down your fear and preemptive grief. Focus. You have to focus.

It’s time.

[subbing-for-clones]

She Who Walks the Line Between Part 2

Maul x GreyJedi!Reader

Word Count: 2729

WARNINGS: pain, mentions of injuries, starting of some light fluff.

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       You led the crimson and black Zabrack past your small crop field, where a large wooden table and a few stumps scattered around it sat. You placed the basket of clay to your side and took a seat, with an open hand motioned for him to settle across from you. He took your que and rested his legs down beneath him unable to sit comfortably on the wood. You folded your hands under your chin, elbows resting on the table and looked into his eyes. He fidgeted in place, uncomfortable by your unblinking gaze. He wouldn't meet your eye for longer than a few moments and stared at the Meiloorun trees that grew not far from where you two sat.

    Following his eyeline you stood and picked a few of the fruits, bringing them back to your half-starved guest and watched as he quickly ravished the purple fruits. While he was otherwise occupied you stood behind him and looked closer where his body ended and the jumbled mess of scrap began. Not just his legs but he was severed through his torso. You reached a hand out and lightly touched the lowest part of his back before the metal formed. He jumped back shocked at the touch and you raised your hands to show him you weren't going to hurt him.

"I can give you your body back rather easily however your mind is fragmented and scrambled. It will be a process but I'd like to restore you to your original form."

He had finished the fruit you offered him and stared at you in disbelief.

"That... that’s impossible." He sat wide eyed. "There's nothing to connect, my other half is... gone."

"I don't mean to reconnect you but to recreate you. That's what the clay is for." You motioned towards the basket.

"How?" He asked shocked staring at the clay and turning back to you with narrow eyes.

"In my distaste for cybernetic bodies I've learned how to regrow limbs and various body parts out of the clay found on this world. It has special properties in it. It will require much physical therapy but it can be done if you allow it."

He thought for a moment, as clearly as he could anyway and looked down at the mess of limbs beneath him. His eyes continued their narrowed stare at you.

"What do I have to do? What do you want from me?"

"Honestly?" You started with a cocked brow. "I just want some peace. That’s why I live here in solitude, the search for peace. But your suffering has reached my mind all the way out here. I figure since your existence hasn’t upset the balance for the entirety of your life, if I put you back together, get you cleaned up, back into decent shape and do something about this." You motioned to his mind. "Perhaps balance will be restored again and I can continue on with my life and my studies. In peace. All you have to do is let me."

    He thought on this longer. All he could vividly remember was his survival on Lotho Minor but the longer he was away from that hell hole, smaller, fainter memories had started coming back. He didn't think anyone had offered him a kindness like this before. Even if it was for your own personal gain, he benefitted greatly as well.

"Alright." He snarled quietly still quite weary of you as you dumped the clay onto the table and started molding it into the shape of legs and hips.

    Once you were satisfied with the basic shape and proportion you instructed him to let go of the energy he was using to keep the scrap under him together. You left for a moment to find a large robe for him. When you returned to your makeshift work station you found him lying on his back, torso touching the clay and staring up at the midday sky. Wispy clouds decorated the bright blue, it was hard on his eyes now accustomed to darkness so he was squinting against it. You frowned at his wince and force pulled an umbrella that sat on your porch over to you, setting it up so it shielded the light but not the view. He looked at you in bewilderment at this small unnecessary kindness to him. You placed the robe down on the stump to your side silently and held your hands one above his body and the other above the clay.

You looked to him for a final approval, "this is probably gonna hurt just so you know." You warned.

He dug his claws into the wood table bracing himself and gave you a final nod.

    He wasn't prepared for what came next. You had closed your eyes and placed one of your hands on his chest, the other on the clay. Your cool touch cut through him like a knife and his hearts started racing. He couldn't remember ever being touched in a way that didn’t draw blood. His hearts pounded against your hand. You moved your hand down, tracing his body lightly until he no longer felt your touch. He fell into the bliss of contact when your hands left the clay and returned to his body. You were running your hands across his body, down to the clay and back up again, envisioning him whole. Urging the force to make him one again. You projected feeling of calm, peace and gentleness through the force unto him as you worked.

    His chest vibrated against his will, creating a purr that rumbled quietly every time you traced him but the purr turned to a growl that turned into screaming as his body seared. It felt like a fire burned violently where he had been severed and the flames licked at the rest of his skin. He left deep rivets in the wood beneath him in an attempt to hold still despite his instincts to run, he endured. As suddenly as the pain came, it left. He felt a breeze on his feet. He opened his eyes to find your back turned to him while holding out the grey robe. He didn't realize why you were turned away until he looked down. It wasn't a hallucination, he had feet, he had two legs that bore the same markings that he suddenly remembered he had. He was once again intact, including to his almost surprise he had his manhood back. He took the robe and quickly covered himself suddenly hyperaware that he lay naked in front of a woman.

"Are you decent?" You asked. You had averted your gaze so he could retain some semblance of dignity.

 "I am covered." Still distracted by the fact that it actually worked.

"Good." You replied turning around and studying your handiwork. His legs looked good; the tattoos lined up from what you could tell, lifting the robe slightly at his hips, keeping his groin covered. They were the same size same length and he wasn't in agony so the insides must be alright.

    You gripped his thighs which caused him to sit up quickly snarling at you. Without letting go, your eyes inches from his you practically whispered "I have to feel them to make sure your bone structure and joints are all in the right places. Let me know if you can't feel my touch at some point or if my touch hurts."

    His top lip curled in reluctance but he nodded. You firmly yet gently massaged his thighs moving up to his hips and down to his knees. You lifted each knee slightly making sure they bent the right way then continuing down his calves to his ankles. They rolled as they should. You spent a few minutes on each foot making sure all those little pieces were screwed in right so to speak. It took everything in his being to keep his eyes open.

"Could you feel me the whole time?"

"Yes." He whimpered slightly.

"Good. Now try to wiggle your toes. Yes, good just like that. Now bend your knees for me; wonderful. Lift your legs a little one at a time. Just try to get your heels a few inches off the table. Perfect. Can you spread and close your legs for me? Just a bit so I know those joints work well too. Magnificent." He grunted with effort but passed all your little tests.

You clapped your hands together. "Good! Wow, I've only ever done single limbs on wounded animals before, this was a job." His eyes widened in horror.

"You didn't know if this was going to work?!"

"Nope! First time for everything but hey it was a success so don't get yourself all worked up." Your hands were on your hips. "Now they won't be able to bear your full weight for a while so take it easy, I'll help you around but now..." you pulled out a large wood file. "I'm gonna take care of those claws and those horns. They are truly atrocious."

    The next three hours you spent carefully shaping his horns to a much more manageable length and rounding them just enough so they wouldn't slice on contact. His claws on the other hand now resembled human finger nails. He sat on the stump while you fussed over him while he ate a whole serving bowl of various fruits from your garden and dried meats. Every time you touched the base of one of his horns his eyes twitched in bliss and rolled to the back of his head.

     When you finished you set the file down and once again studied your craftsmanship. His face flushed with your eyes and mouth so close to him again, starting to realize now that his body was in one piece he had hormones to regulate. Satisfied with what you had done you handed him a makeshift crutch and wrapped your arm around his waist and his free arm over your shoulder.

    For the first time, you led him into your home slowly. He couldn't believe how good grass then carpet felt under his feet and he actually smiled. You made your way to the refresher where a large bath sat prefilled with hot water. You dropped a large sandalwood scented bath bomb into the waters. He watched mesmerized as it fizzled and placed a hand in the water out of curiosity. After verifying that the temperature was good you closed your eyes and helped him slide into the tub only opening when you could sense that he was submerged up to his chest.

“These wonderful little bath bombs have salts and oils that will help heal your smaller cuts and scrapes on the rest of your body as well as clean you.”

    You watched his eyes roll to the back of head and close, a low groan escaping his lips as he enjoyed the water and rubbed his legs together. You smiled at him; it truly did bring you joy to help this poor lost soul. Although he was still rather gaunt and his eyes still blown out with possible insanity, he had quite handsome features. You shook your head to drive the thought away from your mind and without a word you left the room, leaving him to soak in the steamy waters, not before calling over your shoulder, “I will be back with some clean clothes for you soon. Shout if you need anything.”

 ~~~~~

      The water on his skin was glorious. The heat on his body, the smell of the sandalwood and the steam he breathed overloaded his senses and put him in a state of euphoria. He reached up and felt his freshly groomed horns, enjoying the fact that he could touch them without cutting himself. He felt tears welling up in his eyes that he wouldn’t let fall at the thought of everything this woman had done to him, for him today. He had completely forgotten the fear he felt just this morning when he saw her for the first time. Her figure against the grasslands, strong and filled with a purposeful resolve that was also soothing. Eyes simply electric. Her hair, wild with the breeze. He felt something flutter in his stomach and he put the image of her out of his mind to stave it off.

    What did he do to deserve such kindness, such a sweet saving grace in his bleak existence? Nothing he was sure. As he relaxed, more of his memories came back to him as if he never forgot them. His fists clenched as he remembered how he got to this sorry state to begin with and a name rumbled out of his chapped lips almost silently. "Kenobi."

    Before he could fall into his rage, he heard a tapping on the door just before his savior reentered carrying black pants and a black tunic. A sweet and spicy smell wafted into the room and his mouth watered.

"I got a weird feeling when I passed these in the market on one of the populated planets I frequent on my last run so I bought them. Now I know why I got that feeling." His hearts pounded in his chest as she kneeled on the floor behind his head after setting them down on the counter. Using a glass, she scooped up water from the bath and ran it over the top of his head, following with massaging soap and scented oils into his scalp and around the base of his horns. Loosing himself completely he let out a moan. He couldn't see it but she smiled again behind him with a single raised brow.

 ~~~~~

      Once you had rinsed him off you closed your eyes once again and helped him out, allowing him to dry himself and dress while using you as a support until he gave you the all clear that you could open them again. Weary of his shaky legs you led him down a hallway, passing a few doors and back into the great room where a single couch sat facing an array of well stocked bookshelves. The only electronic in sight was a single radio on one of the shelves quietly playing lo-fi. A small table and chairs sat just beyond the couch in view of both the kitchen and the front door.

    After helping him take a seat you dished the two of you large bowls of the meat stew and a pitcher of water for the table. He ate and drank the broth down to the last drop before you had halfway finished. Getting up to serve him a second helping he stuttered "you don’t.. have to do that."

"Please." You retorted casually. "I will be stuffing you full until you're well again. You may have your legs back but you’re underweight for your species and size. You’ll need lots of calories to back to ‘fighting weight’." He ate much more slowly this time until he gathered the courage to speak again.

"I never asked you your name. I think... no, I know. I am called Maul." His eyes never left you as he waited for your reply.

"Well my name is Y/N. I am glad your ship landed here Maul."

"I am very thankful for that as well.. um.. Thank you. For everything."

    The two of you finished your meal in a comfortable silence. Humming occasionally at the savory and rich stew. He had asked to retire after dinner so you aided him to your spare bedroom. It was small only having a single sized bed, a night stand and yet another bookshelf properly filled with writings that he could reach from the bed if he wanted to. After rummaging around some drawers, you found a pair of com links and asked him to use it should he need anything to which he agreed. You placed a hand on his forehead absent mindedly, wishing him a good night before sauntering off. Sleep came slowly to the Zabrack, staring out the window to the field. He could just barely see the goats and a few chickens in the yard but it was you who filled his mental images before sleep finally took him long after the sun had set.

[singledarkshade]

Come With Me If You Want To Live

Part Two Rip carried Jonas into the gym, despite him asking to be put back down. Gideon was at his side, looking around watching for threats.

“Hey,” Sara appeared, a towel around her neck, “What are you guys doing here?”

Finally allowing Jonas down Rip shrugged, “I’m not quite sure.”

Sara wrapped her arm around Jonas who hugged her, “What?”

“Can you watch Jonas for a few minutes?” Rip asked Sara before looking at Gideon, “We need to talk.”

Gideon frowned, “Jonas should not be left unprotected.”

“Sara can look after him,” Rip stated.

Before he could stop her Gideon walked to Sara, quickly scanned her and focussed on the lanyard around her neck.

“Sara Lance,” Gideon read the name and tilted her head in thought, “Daughter of Quentin and Dinah Lance, sister of Laurel Lance otherwise known as Black Canary. Trained by the League of Assassins and assisted the Arrow in saving Star City.”

“What?” was all Rip could think to say. He knew Sara was a martial arts expert but assassin?

“She can protect him,” Gideon nodded before turning to Rip, “That will allow us to talk.”

Rip looked at Sara who was looking as bemused as he was.

“Use the main office,” Sara said after a second, “I’ll take Jonas to the staff room for a snack.”

  Gideon watched Rip pace in front of her for several minutes giving him the time to focus his thoughts.

“Alright,” Rip finally stopped and turned to her, “I want to know, right now what the hell is going on, who are you, who is after my son and why?”

Moving to him, Gideon took a hold of his hands, “My dearest Captain, I have missed you so much and I am sorry.”

“Why do you keep calling me Captain?” he pulled away from her.

“Because you are Captain Rip Hunter,” Gideon stated before shrugging, “At least, you were. I know you do not remember but you were raised to be a Time Master. And you were one of the best, feared by Time Pirates while you saved so many, keeping the timeline intact.”

He took a seat, confusion covering his face while Gideon continued, “But then you broke their cardinal rule.”

“Which was?” Rip demanded.

Gideon smiled, “You fell in love. With an amazing woman, another Captain by the name of Miranda Coburn.”

Surprise filled Rip’s eyes.

“For a long time, you managed to keep this secret,” Gideon continued, “With my assistance of course. Unfortunately, one day you were not careful enough and the Council caught you both.” She sighed sadly, “By this time Miranda was pregnant. You made an agreement with the Time Masters that once Miranda had the baby then you would leave to raise the child, she would stay, and you would have no more contact with one another.”

Rip grimaced before asking, “Why did I leave?”

“Because Miranda was raised since near birth by them,” Gideon explained, “While you were only taken in at the age of ten. You knew how to survive outside of the structure which Miranda did not.”

Thoughtfully Rip mused, “Which is why I think she left us?”

Gideon winced, “Not exactly. You and Miranda couldn’t stay apart. And she wanted to be with her son, she loves you both so much. Three years ago, the Council caught you once more. They decided to wipe your memories and transplant you here.”

“And Miranda?”

At the whispered question, Gideon took his hand again, “She returned to working as a Time Master. Until three days ago.”

“What happened three days ago?”

“Miranda contacted me,” Gideon explained, “I don’t know how she learned of this, but the Time Masters discovered that they would be destroyed one day by Jonas. So, they have sent their best bounty hunter back here to kill him.”

Rip sat in silence for several minutes taking in all this information before he asked, “Why you?”

“I am Gideon,” she stated, “The AI for the Waverider, your ship and the only one you trusted to keep your secret.”

“AI?”

She shrugged and motioned to herself, “This is a cybernetic construct designed to allow me to assist my Captain outside the ship. You created it for me.”

“This can’t be real,” Rip shook his head.

“Captain, I wish I could give you the time to get your head around this,” Gideon said, “But the Waverider will be here shortly and we cannot remain still. Chronos will find us if we stay here.”

“The Waverider?” Rip asked.

Gideon nodded, “Your ship. Our ship. I could not leave her sitting in case Chronos realised I was here, so I sent her forward. We need to get to the rendezvous point.”

Dropping his head as he thought, Rip looked up as Gideon took his hands.

“Look in my eyes,” she whispered, “I am your Gideon, I protected you for many years. Let me protect you and Jonas. That is all I want to do.”

He nodded, they both turned when the door flew open and Sara marched in with Rip’s son at her side.

“Why did Jonas just tell me a strange man attacked you?”

  Rip sat in the backseat of Sara’s car with Jonas in his lap again, Sara was in the passenger seat and Gideon was driving. Sara had listened to the explanation before she shrugged, noted she had heard stranger stories and told them she was helping.

Gideon tried to argue but Rip knew Sara, he trusted her and was glad to have her with them.

“Where are we going, Daddy?” Jonas whispered, cuddling close to him.

Rip hugged his son gently kissing the top of his head, “Somewhere safe.”

“Will that man be there?”

Hugging him tighter Rip whispered, “That man will never get anywhere near you. I promise.”

“Where are we going?” Sara spoke up from the front seat.

“I have already explained this,” Gideon stated, annoyance in her voice, “We are going to get the Waverider.”

“That doesn’t explain anything,” Sara reminded her.

Gideon glanced at her briefly, “It shall once we get there.”

Sara fell silent, annoyance radiating from her which Rip could understand. He couldn’t put into words why he was trusting Gideon, but there was a part of him that knew she would protect them with every part of her.

Finally, they reached an empty piece of wasteland in Central City and Gideon parked the car.

“Well, this is safe,” Sara noted sarcastically, as she looked around the large open space.

Gideon shut the car door, took three steps forward and clicked her fingers. Rip gaped as a ship appeared before them.

“Welcome home, Captain,” Gideon said softly.

Rip took Jonas’ hand and started walking towards the vessel sitting there. An explosion threw him forward and he scrambled trying to stay on his feet, pulling Jonas close.

“Chronos has found us,” Gideon yelled, “Get into the ship, now.”

Rip scooped his son up and ran, Sara just behind him while Gideon fired a pistol at the man chasing them. Jonas was screaming in terror as Rip ran up the ramp into the ship, Sara following quickly before Gideon joined them and the door closed.

“Hold on,” Gideon called, just before the ship jerked.

Falling against the bulkhead, Rip held onto Jonas who was crying while clinging to him.

“Gideon?” he yelled.

“We’re almost out of range,” Gideon told him, “Just a few more seconds.”

Hugging Jonas tightly, Rip was relieved when the ship steadied, and Gideon started out the room.

“We need to get to the bridge,” she called back, “Follow me.”

  Gideon ran through the corridors of the Waverider heading up to the bridge, knowing that Rip, Jonas and Sara were following her. She had to get them into the time stream so they could lose Chronos, giving them some time to work out how to retrieve Rip’s memories, try to track down Miranda and hopefully form a plan to protect Jonas.

“Take a seat and pull the restraint down,” Gideon told them.

Jonas tried to cling to Rip when he sat his son on one of the chairs. Gideon crouched down in front of the little boy and brushed his hair back.

“Jonas,” she whispered, “I know you’re scared but in a few minutes we’ll be safe. You have to sit nicely for a little bit, okay?” The little boy nodded, and Gideon pulled the restraint down before she kissed his forehead, “Good boy.”

Sliding into the pilot’s chair, Gideon sent them into the time stream and headed to a haven that Rip had used often in the past. Once they were there, she set the autopilot and released herself turning to them.

“We will be safe here for now,” Gideon said, “If you come with me, we can have something to eat and discuss our next step.”

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

  Rip watched Sara and Jonas play a card game Gideon had produced, relieved that Sara was keeping the little boy focussed on something other than the strange things that had happened that day, including the fact they were on some kind of spaceship.

Sara glanced up and nodded they were fine, allowing Rip to slide away for a few minutes to have a look around.

Gideon said it was his ship. He would know if he had a ship, wouldn’t he? Walking slowly through the corridors Rip waited to recognise something anything but there was nothing. It was completely new to him.

“You do not know this place,” Gideon said softly before she appeared from a nearby room, “Do you?”

Rip shook his head, “I want to because if I do then hopefully, I will know something that will protect my son.”

“Captain,” Gideon breathed, moving to him, “I can teach you everything about this ship. Anything else, it’s inside you already. Your intuition is not taught, you are brilliant and time travel came completely naturally to you.”

“I wish I could believe you but,” he sighed, “Until a few hours ago none of this existed. I work as an IT engineer for Mercury Labs. I take my son to the park at the weekend and help him with his homework after school.”

She stayed silent just letting him speak, get everything off his chest.

“For the past three years, I believed my wife walked out on me because she couldn’t handle being a mother,” Rip shook his head, “And now, you appear and tell me I’m not who I thought I was, my wife didn’t leave me but stayed away to protect us and the people who apparently raised both of us want to murder our son.”

Gideon stepped forward and rested her hands on his arms, “Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?”

Shaking his head Rip smiled, “I’m guessing you didn’t let me away with anything.”

“I am here to assist my Captain,” Gideon stated sweetly, “And sometimes that means kicking him in the head when he is wallowing in self-pity.”

Chuckling softly Rip leaned back against the bulkhead and studied her for a moment.

“Can I ask you something?”

Gideon nodded, “Of course, that is why I am here.”

“If you are an AI,” Rip said hesitating for a moment before continuing when she nodded, “Why have the Time Masters not reprogrammed to follow another Captain?”

Gideon smiled, “Because they could not.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Many years ago, my former Captain and I stopped an attack by Time Pirates on the Vanishing Point,” she explained, “The Waverider and I were deemed irreparable. Until a boy found us,” she smiled, “He asked if he could repair my systems, to repair the ship and have it when he became a Captain.”

Rip shrugged, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Because,” Gideon said softly, “That boy was you.”

“Me?”

Gideon nodded, “When you repaired me, you slid little additions into my code that allowed me to learn, to grow beyond what I was supposed to be capable of, to become your AI alone. When you left originally, I was given to Miranda. But after they caught you both for the second time, the Time Masters did not wish to take the chance that I would take her to you again. They turned my beautiful ship into a training simulator.”

“What about your…” he grimaced before saying, “Body?”

“It is not something they know about,” she shrugged, “It was a secret project because we always said it would be easier if I had one.”

Rip nodded, “I can definitely attest to that. I would have lost Jonas if you hadn’t…”

“Captain,” Gideon touched his arm comfortingly, “Jonas is safe. He and Sara are currently having ice cream.”

“I need to know everything,” Rip said, “I need to know who I was and where Miranda is.”

Gideon nodded and led him towards the bridge again, “Of course, Captain. Come, there is a great deal to discuss.”

[inyri]

Equivalent Exchange (a SWTOR story): Chapter 36- The Best Policy

Equivalent Exchange by inyri Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Characters: Female Imperial Agent (Cipher Nine)/Theron Shan Rating: E (this chapter: M)

Summary: If one wishes to gain something, one must offer something of equal value. In spycraft, it’s easy. Applying it to a relationship is another matter entirely. F!Agent/Theron Shan. (Spoilers for Shadow of Revan and Knights of the Fallen Empire/Knights of the Eternal Throne.)

Comments are always appreciated! Visit me at:

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Fanfiction Dot Net

***

The Best Policy

Theron exhales.

“Probably too much to hope it’d stay a secret for long,” he mutters, straightening up. He doesn’t let go of her, though, fingers working along her neck- after this long in kolto she ought to be a limp mess but it’d probably take years to get all the tension out of her muscles. Her shoulder’s better for the time spent soaking, at least. “I just- Force, I’m never going to hear the end of it. You’re sure Lana doesn’t already know? My dossier-”

Nine does shake her head then, immediately regrets it, and makes a muffled mmph noise instead that’s half-negation and half trying not to throw up on the War Room table. “She doesn’t. And that was never in your dossier- say what you like about the state of the Republic now, whoever knew that secret kept their cards close. None of us knew.”

“But my mother was, wasn’t she? After Rishi-”

“No. We kept that out deliberately, even after we knew.”

(It hadn’t even been her idea; Lana had been the one to suggest the omission. “It will make him far too much of a target. Anyone trying to lure out the Grand Master-”

Guilty conscience or not, Lana had been right. That was a method she’d used herself when there was no other way to a target: take a friend or lover or spouse instead, living collateral to be dangled as bait.  (Never children. She drew the line at children. Ruthlessness was all well and good, but that kind of sociopathy was a one way ticket to a padded cell- or Shadow Town, which was just a padded cell with better locks.) With his parentage on his dossier Theron would have had every Sith with access to the mainframe- which was nearly all of them back then, puppet to the Council that Sith Intelligence was in its resurrected form- hunting him within a week. He’d have been dead, or worse, within two. And for what? By the rules of negotiation he’d have been doomed, a marginally valuable hostage that the Republic would never in a hundred years have bartered for one of its most celebrated heroes. Satele might have come for him herself, of course. But would she have?

Lana had looked to her, questioning, and she heard Theron in her head: my agent, the words bitter on his tongue. Like it’s a coincidence we share a name.

“It wouldn’t be fair, would it?” She’d nodded, locking down the file. There was very little fair about their line of work and nothing given for free, but this seemed somehow right after the awfulness of Rishi. It wasn’t a question of judgment. Her judgment was fine. It was- “I agree. We leave it out.” )

He has to clear his throat before he continues, whatever he meant to say first catching on his  tongue. “I didn’t... I didn’t know that. Thank you.”

“Thank Lana,” she says. Theron’s hands go still. “She approved the addendum.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask. Did she think you’d go too easy on me?”

She turns her head just enough that he can see her wink. “Or put too much in. Theron Shan, Republic SIS. Caf addict. Terrible taste in music-”

“You used to let me pick the music, if I remember correctly.” Hands slipping beneath the knot of her hair, he cups the base of her skull, leans down to kiss the top of her head and then her forehead and then further still, curling over her to nip at the tip of her nose. “I must have missed the complaints trying to block out your off-key singing.”

“I like you-” she closes her eyes, a slow blink; he’s not wrong. She was never any good at singing- “so I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Let’s see. Easily identified due to prominent cybernetics and appears to own exactly one jacket, or possibly twelve copies of the same jacket. Marginal slicer. Does this absolutely delightful thing with his tongue-”

When Theron grins she can feel it, his breath huffing against her face. He’s trying not to laugh but can’t quite hold it back and he has to let go of her to brace himself against the table. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

“Of course I’m not.” Oh, it sounds good to hear him laugh. He’s so good at distracting her from the stress of everything and she’s been so bad at reciprocating; she brings him caf and the best of what she can sneak from the mess hall, pulls him into bed to work the day’s tension off in pleasanter ways, but it’s not nearly enough. He deserves so much better than her fumbling attempts at comfort. “Someone else might have gotten ideas-” she rests her hand on his, clumsy in its heavy brace- “and I wouldn’t want them trying to edge in on my territory.”

“Your?”

A loaded question for all of its brevity.

She shrugs in reply, forcing a smile in place of words she doesn’t know how to say, and Theron overlaps her little finger with his thumb. She can’t quite feel it properly- what ought to be the friction of his skin on hers just registers as pressure- but it’s better than nothing. Better than it should be. A gift. (Or not, but the idea of the alternative is far less pleasant.)

“It wouldn’t have been much,” she says softly, “in the long run. But if the war had kept going it might have kept you out of the crosshairs for a little while. We just- I just-”

The corners of his mouth quirk upward. “Not ‘compromised objectivity’?”

“Certainly not. I’m a professional, after all.” He’s still standing just beside her chair; she leans on him, rests her aching head against his side. “And we did say no strings.”

“We did. No strings, no sides, intact judgment et cetera.” Theron glances down at her and then turns, just enough that she can rest against his stomach instead. When he exhales she moves along with him, gently to-and-fro with the in and out of his breath. “So I probably shouldn’t mention that I put a DNE on your file after Ziost, then.”

She blinks. Lies by omission were one thing, the usual selective recordkeeping that let one spare allies and target enemies as the situation required, but- “Trant let you? Forgive me when I say that seems unlikely.”

“Let is a strong word. He asked me how to put together a team that’d survive you and I gave him my honest opinion: we couldn’t. Do Not Engage.” He scrawls the words in the air with his finger. “You were taking us apart- no, no, I know you didn’t have a choice-” she’d gone tense against his body, not wanting to argue; they were all following their orders and they both know that but she must have killed a dozen or more of his friends in those last few months of war before the Zakuulans came. But he strokes her hair until she calms. “We all did what we had to back then and despite what my… what Jace said, my loyalty to the Republic was never a question. But when it came to you-”

“I told you I was bad for you.”

“Stop that. I told you-” his voice is gentle and he almost taps her forehead before he mercifully thinks better of it- that would have hurt, today- and just presses his fingertip against it instead- “that you weren’t. Aren’t. You saved me. I had to- I had to return the favor.”

Stars, she doesn’t deserve him. “He didn’t listen, you know.”

“I know. But I tried.” Theron sighs. “Anyway, you’re sure Lana doesn’t-?”

Three knocks.

Lana’s silhouetted in the doorway when it slides open, caf pot in one hand and three mugs dangling from the other. “I take you’ve finished your calls? You mentioned before that we three needed to talk.”

“Yes. Hold on.” She presses the intercom, opening a line to the bridge. “Kaliyo, we’ll be in the War Room. Ring through if we’re needed.”

“Got it.” The speaker crackles as the reply comes through. “Ears off?”

Nine sighs. “What do you think?”

“Secrets, secrets are no fun,” Kaliyo drawls. “Locking you down. Have fun.”

She straightens in her seat, beckoning Lana into the room; Theron takes a step back and then settles into the chair beside hers. “Two quick things before we start- I’ve got Ioana Rist working on a countermeasure to the Exarchs’ new little trick.”

“How much is that going to cost us? Their work doesn’t come cheaply.” Setting the caf and cups down on the table between them, Lana slips around to the far side.

“Only a case or two of brandy. I’ll talk to Hylo about sourcing it, but that’ll be strictly out of my pocket. We’re on fragile enough ground with our Jedi as it is without word getting around that I’m using a Force-breaker.”

Lana wrinkles her nose. “Not just the Jedi. The Council banned them for a reason.”

“The Council banned Force-breaker toxins-” she rolls her eyes and even that small motion makes the world spin- “because they’re afraid of what people like me would do if we had them. But that’s beside the point. Second, I’ve finally got a lead on the Alderaan staging site we discussed last week. It won’t be actionable for a month, though, and I need to-” she pauses. She needs to figure out what the fuck she’s going to do. Research first, she supposes: she thought Galen had retired after that business with Malgus but his new rank certainly suggests otherwise- had he gone back voluntarily? That might be something she could use. “I can’t delegate that, either. So if we hear anything more from Voss before-”

“I was going to save that news until we got back to Odessen, but I did hear from our Gormak friends. Apparently their visions have coalesced.” Lana says the last word like she wants to spit it out- for all her Sithness she always was a skeptic, with little faith in the prophecies and mysticism that drove some of her peers, and she seemed to find the Voss- and Gormak, by proxy- particularly maddening. “We have a timeline.”

Theron’s already poured himself a mug of caf and pauses mid-sip with it still raised to his mouth. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“It’s... not an ideal timeline.”

“Nine needs to rest, Lana. How not ideal?” He frowns.

She reaches out for her own mug; Theron fills it unprompted and she curls her fingers around it. The warmth, at least, she can feel.  

Lana slumps into her seat. “Twelve days. I tried to argue it, but the-”

“She has a broken wrist. There’s no way she’s going to-”

The headache hits her like an icepick to the temple- ah, concussions- and she winces, closing her eyes as they bicker back and forth. “Would both of you,” she snaps, “please shut up and let me speak?”

They actually do.

“Twelve days. We’re- what, four days from Odessen now?”

“Three and a half,” Lana says quietly. “And I’ve mapped a route back to Voss that uses some of the Imperial hyperspace lanes. We could get there in six days, I think. Possibly faster, with Theron piloting.”

Theron hums idly under his breath, the way he always did when he was doing calculations in his head. “Giving us two days’ turnaround- maybe three. Not enough.”

“I’ll manage.” The moment the words leave her mouth she hears them both sigh; she makes a face at them, tongue sticking out. “Hush. I’ll spend the rest of the trip home in the tank, and I’ll check in with Doctor Lokin once we’re there. I’ve gone back into the field sooner after worse.”

“We can still refuse. Visions notwithstanding, if you aren’t ready-”

“I’ll be ready, Lana.” Does she really have a choice? “Tell the Gormak to expect us.”

(There are many ways to hasten the healing process. She sees his outline on the backs of her eyelids, brilliant white against the darkness. Good as new in hours, rather than days or weeks- better than new. Stronger. Quicker. I could-

Pass. Go away.

Valkorion chuckles and something’s hiding beneath the laughter, dark and creeping and ugly for all his sleekness and his gleaming armor. Look at you. Broken by a mere exarch. My children are going to kill you, little Cipher. And I may very well let them.)

“Nine?” When she blinks back to herself Lana’s biting her lip, eyes narrowed. “Was that-”

“It’s nothing- more color commentary as per usual. I’m fine.”

They look at each other across the table, Lana and Theron with matching expressions- she’s not fine, of course she isn’t fine and they all know that but no one wants to be the first to say it. Saying it out loud makes it real. Instead, they turn to each other.

“Send me the route.” Theron finishes off his cup and pours himself another. “I’ll look at it tonight and see if I can shave a little more time off.”

“Of course.” Lana’s datapad rings metallic against the tabletop as she pulls it from its pocket in her tunic. “Transmitting now. But- oh, Force, never mind. The rest of it can wait until later. What was it that you wanted to discuss?”

“I- um.” Clearing his throat, Theron fidgets in his chair until the seat creaks beneath his restless weight.

Poor Theron.

“Several days ago,” she begins so he doesn’t have to, “Theron became aware of a complication of his recent trip to Coruscant that we- and by we I mean I- are going to have to deal with.”

Lana nods. “I assume you’re referring to Agent Balkar?”

“Only indirectly. That he was there at all was a particularly bizarre coincidence, true, but that wasn’t the complication.” If only it were that simple. “To be frank, we probably owe him a favor. He was the one who told Theron about the death mark.”

“The what.” It isn’t a question. Hands folded, Lana’s holding on to herself so tightly that her knuckles blanch. “How did we get from a failed recruiting trip to a- and who in the Void placed the mark? With whom?”

Theron glances at her out of the corner of his eye; she rests her hand on his. “Do you want me to-?”

“No. I was the one who fucked it up,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to make excuses for me. We lied to you, Lana, but Nine did it because I asked her to. It wasn’t a recruiting trip. I went to Coruscant to ask my father for a favor.”

Lana’s expression barely changes, just the faintest hint of hurt in the set of her mouth and the line of her shoulders. “You told me you didn’t know who Theron’s father was, Nine. Or was that a lie as well?” Oh, hells. They should have told her sooner. If they can’t trust each other-

Theron shakes his head vehemently. “She didn’t. I promise she didn’t. Not until it went bad.”

“An understatement, I think,” Lana snaps. “But even so, why would your own father-”

“Jace Malcom is my father.”

(Is this the first time he’s said those words out loud? She wonders. She thinks so.)

Theron slouches lower into his chair, staring at the tabletop and carefully avoiding returning either of their gazes- her own cast sideways in quasi-apology, Lana’s an open-mouthed stare- until she taps one of his fingers with hers; his focus shifts toward the motion and she traces out a clumsy message. It’s okay.   He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t move, but the frown lines across his forehead soften.

Clearing her throat, Lana finally breaks the silence hanging over the room. “Somehow I feel as though I ought to say I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am.” He sighs. “Maybe I should start at the beginning.”

***

The caf pot’s empty by the time he finishes, an uneven split: three cups to Lana instead of her usual tea, more than enough that a fine tremor settles into her hands by the middle of the second, and two for Theron plus half of her own. (She managed a few scant sips before her stomach started to turn; she’d pushed it away with a grimace and Theron paused in his storytelling long enough to fetch her a glass of water instead. She always knew when she was really hurting, she’d used to say, when she couldn’t keep her caf down.)

“So.” Lana licks her lips. “Jace Malcom, your father, believes you’re a traitor to the Republic, Marcus Trant wants you dead, and both of them think Nine somehow brainwashed you into defecting.”

“That’s it in a nutshell, yeah. I probably should have expected it, but… y’know. Family, right?” Rubbing his eyes and then pushing his hair back from his face- it’s a mess, flopping across his forehead; then again her own’s a mess of knots from floating and Lana’s got circles beneath her eyes so dark they look like bruises- Theron smiles wryly.

“I can’t say I do. It would figure, though- all those years spent making sure my work couldn’t be traced back to me, and I end up taking the blame for something I didn’t even do.”

That gets a laugh out of both of them, at least, if only a small one, before Lana opens a new window on her datapad. “We’ll need to put new security measures in place, of course. I have a few suggestions, I think, if you haven’t already-”

“Not so many. Theron knows how to watch himself, though we’ll need a hard lockdown,” she says, “the day after our retun- no one outbound without proof of orders. If any of Trant’s people have made it to Odessen he’s going to need to call them back, and they’ll do one of three things.” She counts off each one on her fingers. “Least likely, they’ll stay undercover. That’s a long game and the SIS is spread thin enough that he can’t afford to keep too many eyes on us. Marginally more probably someone will make an attempt against orders. Suicidal, but if they hate us that much… but they’re probably going to try to slip the net, and we’ll need to be ready.”

Eyebrow raised, Lana stops taking notes. “Why would he call them back? He doesn’t know that we know, correct?”

“No. But he’s going to.”

“And you think that’s enough to make him cancel the mark? When I was Minister I had the misfortune of having to negotiate with that man more than once, Nine, and I’ll tell you from from experience: he isn’t going to back down because you ask him nicely.”

She bares her teeth in a slow smile. “You ought to know me better than that by now. I’m not planning on asking nicely.”

“Then what-”

“I’m going to blackmail him.”

Lana blinks. Pushing back out of her chair, she walks wordlessly around the table and taps the access panel beside the door and when it slides open she simply leaves the room.

Theron raises one hand, opening his mouth to speak. She shushes him and listens instead to Lana’s quiet footsteps in the corridor, a cabinet opening- the middle one in the shared mess by the way it squeaks- and the clink of glass and then more footsteps, louder, returning. When Lana enters the room once more she’s got a half-full bottle of whiskey clutched in one hand and a particularly disgruntled expression on her face; she retakes her seat, pulls the stopper free of the bottle, and pours a generous portion into her coffee cup before draining the whole thing at a go.

“All right.” Lana coughs. “Now I’m ready. Say that one more time.”

***

It’s not a good plan. She knows that. It’s probably a terrible plan.

It’s all they’ve got.

She wobbles when she tries to get up. They’ve sat talking too long and her head hurts and her wrist hurts and she could probably sleep for a month and it wouldn’t be enough (even if she just spent five years in stasis- but she wasn’t sleeping then, she was dying.) When she has to stop to brace herself against the wall for the third time in a dozen steps, Theron lifts her up, her arm around his neck.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you back to medbay.”

She wrinkles her nose. He’s right, of course, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it. “Are you sure you two don’t need me to-?”

“Believe it or not, we can occasionally plan things on our own.” Lana- slightly more relaxed now thanks to the whiskey- points toward the door. “Theron and I will start work on this in the morning. For now, you need to recover and the rest of us need to rest.”

Theron nods, steadying his grip on her. “I’ll put a few things together once I’ve got Nine set up the tank. We can talk after-”

“You will not.” She rests her head on his shoulder. “Lana, make sure he sleeps. If he doesn’t, shock him and throw his jacket out the airlock.”

“She wouldn’t dare.”

Lana wiggles her fingers in Theron’s direction. “Don’t be so certain. Now go.”

Careful not to jostle her, he carries her down the hall and around the corner to the medbay, sets her down on the examining table while he gets the kolto tank set up for her next round. For better or for worse he’s an expert at running it now and after a few keystrokes it chimes softly, soft blue light illuminating the base.

“Tank’s ready if you are.” He turns back toward her but she’s only half-listening, attention drifting over to the scanner and the readout still scrolling across its screen.

“I’m not. But I know that doesn’t matter.“ Pulling off the wrist splint, she sets it down beside her. “Will you download a copy of that scan to my datapad? I want to show it to Lokin.”

He nods. “He’s already got it. We needed to make sure we hadn’t made things worse while we were trying to set your wrist- Force knows I’m a lousy medic when it comes to anything beyond medpacks and suturing. But if you want a hard copy I can-”

“No,” she yawns. “Never mind.” She slips her shirt off next, one-handed. There’s no rule against clothing in a kolto tank but no point in dirtying what she’s wearing, either, and she’s used to it this way; in the infirmary at school and in Intelligence training and even in the clinic at headquarters it was always the same with any major injuries. Kit off, my girl. Let’s get a look at you.

It wasn’t a bad thing in retrospect, not for her. It was only a body, after all, not something shameful to be covered up, and by her teens she could have- and did, once, thanks to a senior class prank that left the whole lower sixth with nothing but their identification badges and a single hand towel each with twenty minutes before the midyear examination began- walked naked through the Academy halls with her head held high. (She’d brought the towel, but only because she drew the line at sitting bare-assed in a hard plastic chair for the entire exam. Two-thirds of the class refused to leave the dormitories; the maestra failed them all.

She had the top mark.)

Theron helps her down. “Pants off too?”

“You know me too well.” His fingers hook into her waistband and she wriggles just a bit to help ease the fabric down over her hipbones. Ungraceful, still off-balance, she lifts one foot and then the other clear. “Though I’m afraid it’s all tease and no payoff tonight.”

His hands rest carefully on her waist as he straightens up, a kiss pressed feather-light to her forehead. “I don’t mind a rain check,” he murmurs. “The best things are worth waiting for.”

“Flatterer.”

“Not flattery when it’s true.” And then he helps her up into the tank, up over the lip of the base until she’s standing securely within it, and keys in the final sequence. The glass surround slides shut, closing her in as the seals engage; the kolto starts to bubble up through the ports, covering her feet, her ankles, up to her knees and then her waist and then her chest-

She hates this part.

In and out. In and out. She slows her breathing. The kolto reaches her chin.

Theron presses his hand to the glass. Just breathe- she can’t hear him but she can read the words on his mouth- I’ll be here when you wake up.

She nods, lifting her hand to match his. I know. Now go to sleep-

The last syllable cuts off when she inhales and the kolto fills her mouth, covers her head and she can’t breathe, oh Void (every single time she should be used to it by now but she’s choking and she’s going to die in here and-)

It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay. He pauses a moment. The kolto’s kicking in; her vision goes hazy. I l-

Her eyes close as the sedatives take her.

***

Another three days gone.

By some miracle- Theron could be impressively persuasive when he set his mind to it- Lana seems almost convinced of the plan by the time they land. More than that, between the two of them they’ve drafted a security protocol that might actually work and that they probably ought to have had in place all along: while their ragtag rebellion needs all the help it can get, they all admit they haven’t been screening newcomers with any particular scrutiny.

They can’t afford to scare recruits away. For so many of them Odessen is hope despite the war, despite the threat of Arcann and his fleet arriving any day, hope that maybe they can win this after all and the galaxy can go back to being what it was or maybe something even better. They need that hope.

But she’s not a general, not a Lord or a chancellor or a queen. She’s a spy.

If they’re going to make her be the former, she can keep them all safe as the latter, too.

***

Doctor Lokin’s sitting at his workbench when she reaches his little room at the back of the lab.

Though he was officially assigned to Military Strategy (much as Aygo would prefer it they can’t stay entirely aboveboard all the time, and Eckard was as sly as they came, half of his record a black box of redacted text even to her) he spent much of his time in the science wing; he’d only partially recovered from his near-permanent transformation, his cancers stabilized but still more than enough to keep him out of the field for good. In between strategy sessions it was one experiment after another, one more chance at a cure.

She owes him that, after everything he did for her.

He looks her over quickly, glancing at the splint still on her wrist and the almost-faded bruises beneath her eyes that had been such a shock when she finally made it to a mirror. “Cipher. How are you feeling?”

“Like I had a console dropped on me a week ago? I’ve had worse.” A timer on the benchtop beeps. “I need you to check a few things, but if now isn’t convenient-“

“The wheel of research turns ever over,” he says, and smacks the timer until it quiets. “One moment.” Raising an autopipette over a row of racked test tubes, he adds a single drop of liquid to each one and they start to glow a violent shade of neon green. “There we are. You have my attention.”

Is the rack vibrating? Oh, dear. “You saw my initial scan, yes? I need you to look at my wrist again.”

Lokin nods, rolling back from the bench. “Not healing as expected? Remember, the neuropathy might take weeks-“

“That’s the problem. It’s healed- bone and nerve. I could use another day or two to knit the fracture a little more before I starting training on it, but it feels perfectly normal.” He raises an eyebrow as she hands him a datacard. “This is from this morning. 144 tank-hours since injury.”

The casters of his chair rattle across the floor tiles as he moves to a console tucked into one corner. The card slots into an empty port with a click, the first images of the scan loading one by one until a cross-section of her left hand and wrist fill the screen.

“Good callus formation,” Lokin murmurs. “Appropriate to tank-hours. The compression on the neurovascular bundle’s been reduced, of course, so I would expect to- hm. Let me cross-reference.” He opens another file- her previous scan, the one they’d sent from Nightshrike - and lays the sections atop each other. He squints.

He squints again.

“Stay here.”

She does. It never did do well to ignore doctor’s orders. A few minutes later he wheels a small cart into the lab, a screen mounted on its top and a tangle of wires dangling beneath. Lokin gestures to her wrist, to the splint hidden beneath her shirtsleeve.

“Brace off, sleeve up, and bring that extra chair with you.” He taps a clean corner of the workbench. “Hand here, please. Don’t move.”

Staying still for the cleansing swab’s easy. Staying still for the needles is slightly harder but she exhales (her tattoo was far worse- this is just a few little pokes, sharp stings before the pain eases) as he connects the leads to the taped-down electrodes, testing, testing, testing and then looking to the screen and testing again.

“It’s normal,” she says, “isn’t it?”

“Very nearly. Ninety-five percent of your baseline-” he unclips the wires- “which is remarkable in and of itself given what I would have expected from your scans, and even more remarkable given that your best measurement since the incident on Corellia was eighty-eight percent. Pre- and post-carbonite.”

Pulling the needles out one by one, beads of blood well up in their places as she sets them on the countertop. Odd that the sight of her own blood is reassuring, that’s there’s still something of herself in her own body to go with the ghost in her brain and the spirit- AI, projection, whatever the fuck he is- in her spine-

She looks up. “Eckard, I need to ask you something and it’s very important that you’re honest with me. My spinal implant, the one that Watcher X installed- you told me a long time ago that it was inactive. Are you absolutely certain?”

He sighs.

Oh, Void.

“I suppose that would depend,” he begins carefully, “on one’s definition of inactive."

***

He only meant to keep her safe.

He only meant to keep her safe.

If she’d known it, at her lowest when she was afraid of losing control again more than she was afraid of anything else, she might have done something foolish. She would have done something foolish. She would have-

(My job was- is- to keep you alive, Cipher. Alive and fighting. And if I had to lie to accomplish that then so be it.)

She knows. She-

***

She locks herself inside the sub-basement storage room and screams herself hoarse.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK-

***

If they hear it in her voice at dinner that night neither Lana nor Theron say anything at all.

But Theron brings her honey-sweetened tea instead of her usual caf that night and the tea is one of Lana’s blends; she knows it by its scent. Curling up on the couch, she holds the cup between her hands and sips at it slowly. The splint has to stay another few days- she promised Lokin at least four hours in the tank tomorrow and the day after, before they leave again- but the heat’s pleasant on her fingertips and the tea’s heavily spiced, pleasantly tingly on her tongue.

“Everything’s ready for tomorrow.” Theron sits down on the bed, his duffel at his feet. They’ve only been back on Odessen for twelve hours and it feels like years with all the work already done; they’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone see to mundanities like unpacking or laundry or operational reports. “Hylo had a lot of questions I couldn’t answer but she’s on board. We’re going to need a half-dozen barrels of Alderaanian ale, though.”

“Do what you need to, and forward me the invoice. I’ll take care of it.”

He flops back, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t even want to move. Wake me up next year?”

She doesn’t want him to move, either. His quarters might not be safe despite the extra hallway cameras, for one thing. They wouldn’t have stopped her, once upon a time, and she knows he thinks she’s being paranoid but she can’t shake the feeling that something’s moving around them in a pattern she can’t quite see yet. “Go to sleep, then. I don’t mind.”

“I know, but I’ll probably go straight through until morning at the rate I’m fading here. Plus, I still need to haul this thing back downstairs.” His foot connects with the bag as he kicks at it blindly. “Gotta hang up that fancy jacket you bought me before it gets wrinkly.”

“Just hang it up here, Theron,” she rasps- ugh. Another sip; she clears her throat. “There’s more than enough room. And it’s leather. It doesn’t wrinkle.”

“Semant-” Theron rolls onto his side, angling his body so he can look down the stairs to see her. “Wait. Now I have a toothbrush and closet space?”

She makes a face at him. “You know what I mean. If you don’t want to stay-”

“Of course I want to stay. I just-” He sits up. “Is this just for now, until we get this thing with the mark worked out, or-?”

A very good question.

She wants him to stay. Stars, she wants him to stay. Her dreams are better with him close, still restless but somehow bearable, and that alone might be enough to keep her sanity in all this mess. But if what they are- another good question she only knows how to answer as she did a week ago, a ferocious mine through gritted teeth- still needs to be kept secret-

Curling in tight, she tucks her knees up to her chest. “That’s up to you. I don’t want to make things more difficult for you than they already are.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

(She doesn’t know how to do this, not when it’s true. But it can’t be that hard, can it?) “Yes,” she says. “I do.”

Theron gets up, a yawn barely hidden behind his smile, and comes back down to her; he settles in beside her on the couch, arm around her shoulders, until she’s nestled in against him. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

*** Author’s Note: this wasn’t where this chapter was supposed to end. But seeing how that part’s still fighting me six weeks on (and three 50+ hour workweeks in there didn’t help), we’ll wrap up here and deal with a certain SIS director next time…

[itshigh-boop]

Rojo

Inspired by @angesiren‘s post here ----

“Even with this, you manage to be an oddity.”

Sombra ignores Lacroix’s comment, her voice as smooth and cold as her lucerne skin. She knows those eerie golden eyes of her are glaring at the back of her head. Lacroix understands very well the emotion that lies locked in Sombra’s heart, it’s just she can no longer care or relate to it. Sombra knows this and tries to ignore the otherwise pointed rudeness in the sniper’s observation.

The sensation in her chest, what once began as a gentle tickle now burns her lungs as she shakes, coughing and covering her mouth with a closed fist. The less attention she brings to her ailment, the better for her. She’s been a shadow for so long - it’s only fitting she disappears like one as well: quietly, unknowingly.

She chokes and finally, the offending object lodges itself out of her throat and into her hand. Sombra blinks slowly, clearing her throat to alleviate the stinging pain and lingering ache before her fingers spread open to reveal a delicate red petal resting upon her palm.

Letting a finger trace the soft edges of the petal, she, once again, since she’s developed her illness, admires the man’s choice in flowers. She saw many of them grow in Coahuila and near the border of Mexico when she lived much further north than Castillo. They used to be nothing more than plants - things she’d never give a second glance to. Now, she stops to admire them anytime she happens to see them sprouting, whether it be in a walled-off garden or next to a rotting wooden fence on an off-beaten trail. She knows it must be morbid to find beauty in the symbol of her demise but she finds it comforting. When she can’t touch what she so desperately wants to touch, the flowers are the next best thing. When she plucks one to gingerly trail across her lips, she imagines that the soft touch might be what a kiss - shared, not taken - might feel like. When she plucks a few more to take home with her - to keep in a small vase, she imagines that it’s like taking a piece of him home with her, the flowers watching over her as she sleeps.

Sombra is aware that her rationale is an exhausting stretch but it doesn’t stop her from living vehemently through her imagination. Why should it bother her? The same stretches very well having been the reason she’s in this predicament in the first place.

A sharp clack of Lacroix’s heeled boots break her from her thoughts as the sniper grabs her wrist. Beautiful features twist into a sneer as she stares at the petal in her hand.

“How can you love someone you don’t even know?” She drops Sombra’s wrist with a small push, as if disgusted by touching her at all. “Idiote. You kill yourself over a lie.”

Lapis eyes watch as the petal flutters to the floor and she already feels a few more climbing their way out of her esophagus. Beyond being unsure as to the reason for Widowmaker’s cruel, one sided conversation, she knows that what she feels isn’t a lie.

“I know enough. But he doesn’t know me,” Sombra finally speaks softly. Her voice, once unique and proud, full of character and desire for victory, now muted by months of violent coughing fits. She says every word carefully, lest she wants to further irritate her ravaged throat - bloody, raw, and testament to the effects this cursed love has on her. “That’s how this sort of thing happens, no?”

Over years of chance meetings with the man, it’s more than likely a collective three minutes where they’ve shared nothing more than an accidental glance. It isn’t until she does what she does best - discover - that she finds a person who so very much reminds her of herself. Is it a bit narcissistic? Perhaps. But years of being alone and extremely goal oriented don’t exactly leave room for healthy expectations of love. She feels close to him, in a way she has not felt toward any other human being in her entire life.

What would he say, she thinks, if she introduced herself? What would he think, she wonders, if she tells him all that they have in common, from getting in with a gang at a young age to being recruited by organizations with military subsects because of their skills, to losing and gaining families and friends in such a short amount of time? How would he react, she imagines, if he realizes they’ve both had augmentation done, although very differently.

What would you do if I told you we’ve suffered in so many similar ways? Me amarías? Me salvarás de esta dolencia?

Widowmaker’s scoff brings her back to reality once again. “Foolish. What you feel isn’t love.” There’s an angry heat in her chest that isn’t from the petals slowly suffocating her. She should yell - defend her feelings from this invasive woman she begrudgingly calls a friend. But she’s tired. The dark circles she hides underneath dark makeup attests to that fact. While she can no longer offer a cheeky grin, giggle, or witty retort, she can still make comments. “At least I can feel,” is all she replies, looking out over the cliffside of their current base and sighs, shoulder slumping with her exhaustion. The small hiss of air between teeth is all she needs to hear to know that she’s made the spider angry. It’s that cute thing they do to show affection, like friends do. Sombra begins to wonder if she was ever capable of having true friends. “What does it matter?” comes Lacroix’s voice. “Do you truly believe that O’Deorain will leave you as you are once she finds out?” No. Sombra knows this. “I may be going through something stupid right now but I’m not an idiot. I won’t become a tool.” She turns to head back to her temporary quarters to rest before she heads for Castillo in the morning. Before she brushes past Widowmaker, she stops next to her. “I won’t let them turn me into you. I won’t ever be controlled.” Cobalt eyes look up to meet glaring chartreuse. “Hay libresa en la muerte y como la sombra, seré libre. Remember that, if nothing else.” She brings one hand up in gesture. “Cuídate, anraña.” If Widowmaker had something to say in reply, she does not hear. She does not stop to see if the woman cared about her warning. The quick swish of the metal door sliding open relieves her hot frame with a quick burst of cool air until she steps inside, closing the door behind her and overriding the locking unit as she does every single night she’s forced to spend within one of Talon’s bases. Her room is empty, with blank grey metal walls that enclose her and have her feel even more imprisoned than she does at the moment with her situation. What she said to Lacroix is true. She’ll die with her freedom intact, even if she’s never truly been free. Her freedom has always been an illusion; she would say she’s been forced to run so many times but really, she’s always been on the run: from the past, the present, and up until recently, the future. Even in love, she is not truly free, bound to the weight that comes with the knowledge of her impending doom. The face of the man who unknowingly holds the keys to the chains holding her prisoner flashes into her mind but she can’t hate him, no matter how much she tries. This one sided love is the purest thing she’s felt and she doesn’t want to dirty that with hatred. She can only blame herself for her state - her own curious nature and the lonely nature of a shadow. She doesn’t bother to strip from her gear as she lies down on her bed, sheets cold and stiff. Her eyes quickly land on the small vase on the metal stand next to her bed. The few red blanket flowers that she’s plucked and brought back are beginning to wither and crinkle along the edges of the petals, their once brilliant red shade now an ugly, rotting brown. She does that thing where she stretches reality and wonders if this is some sort of sick symbolism of the relationship between her and her unknowing love - a relationship that never was and would never be. Still, the flowers remind her of him and that gives her a sense of comfort when painkillers and other drugs won’t. Sombra takes a single, crumbling flower and holds it to her as she hiccups, trying to get some sleep. After a restless night, she lifts her head to a sheet littered with red petals. In the wee hours of the night, she’s accepted her death. And she knows what she needs to do. Sombra returns to Castillo, leaving on one of Talon’s ships, with only her small vase in hand. She doesn’t bother dressing in her gear anymore. If she’s going to die, she’ll do it comfortably. Her hair, once meticulously maintained, grows out and hides the cybernetic implants outlining her head. Every morning, she sweeps the floor, coughing all the while, and wondering if it’s a lost cause, as with every cough, more petals fall from her lips and pool at her feet. Sombra has to hand it to Widowmaker; so far, Moira, Akande, nor Reyes, or any other Talon goons have come calling for her or trying to take her by force to have her endure the surgery that would both save and end her life. Maybe she was a friend after all. Or maybe she just didn’t have the ability to care one way or another. The day Sombra finally coughs up her first, intact blanket flower, she stares in both horror and awe. The flower is more beautiful than any she’s ever plucked from the wild; the deep red of its petals and center reminds her of the worn serape that hangs from his broad shoulders. The red of her misguided passion. A tinge of fear simmers along the sides of her face but she knows it’s a sign. She doesn’t have much time left and it’s time for her plan to take action. In the evening, Sombra finishes her work, removing a flash drive from her main computer as she erases everything - all her work - years of sleuthing - years of sleepless nights - years of inching closer to finding who controlled everything. All of it remained in her small flash drive and she’d see that it got into the hands of someone she could trust. Her bathroom mirror is dirtied and small but it’s enough as she brushes her outgrown hair and applies a bit of makeup. The familiar and unbearable tingles her chest as she quickly grips the sides of the sink, tossing her head forward as she coughs, deeply and harshly. Another flower slips from her lungs and lands in the sink while she catches her breath, tears pricking her eyes. This one is lovely too, she thinks, as she can’t help but sift it through her strands of hair and use the symbol of her death to feel beautiful one last time. Sombra makes her way to Calaveras, both for a drink and to ask a favor of the old bartender who’s seen far too much of her face for one lifetime. She sits in her usual spot at the end of the bar, ordering a shot of tequila. The burn of the alcohol down her throat is miniscule compared to the sensation in her chest and she wonders if drinking is such a good idea. It doesn’t feel so bad, to have a one last drink alone, she thinks. Just before she can stand and begin asking her favor of the old bartender, she spots dusty red and torn edges. The light clink of metal and heavy thud against wood alerts her and she can’t tell if the funny feeling in her torso is from her disease or the thought that he might be here. But he is. He stands at the entrance, tipping his hat toward the bartender before he takes a spot at the opposite end of the bar, gesturing for a drink. She can’t help but watch him, heart twisting this way and that. Her fingers feel slick with a nervous sweat and the weight she feels in her lungs is both devastating and wonderful as she takes in the dip of his old hat. He drinks slowly, and her eyes trace the hard lines of his thick neck, following the movement of his adam’s apple as he swallows. She can’t believe her luck. She gets to see him one last time. She can’t help but imagine that maybe this was meant to be and maybe his soul is as bound to her as she is to him. The small sigh of relief that leaves his lips as he wipes his mouth once he finishes his drink brings her out of her stupor, finally realizing that he’s looking at her. Warm brown eyes regard her cautiously but curiously. She looks away, letting her hair hide her own eyes from him. She wants to look at him but she can’t stand the thought of knowing that eventually he’ll look away. What she doesn’t expect is the thud of leather boots heading toward her. She dares to turn, finding the subject of her affections standing at a respectful distance but close enough to imply his interest. “Evenin’, señorita,” he says with a tip of his hat. “Mind if I sit?” It takes her a moment; she wants to admire everything about him. His rugged features - his eyes, almost as tired as hers. Dark brown hair with touches of pepper grey lining at his scruffy but charming beard. Taut, sunkissed skin with muscles bulging where they could. His broadness - she wonders if he’s as warm as he looks .She wants him to drape over her and keep her warm from the chill of death that she already feels nipping at her toes. His accent is charming and his attempt at Spanish isn’t too bad but with his American, southern accent, it sounds even sweeter. Maybe she should be cringing, but she wants to hear it over and over again. “Buenas noches, caballero,” she answers, voice still soft but she manages a smile - a true smile. She hasn’t done that in a long time. “Not at all.” The rusty metal of the barstool creaks underneath his weight as he takes a seat next to her and leans one arm against the bar, facing her. “Gracias.” She could listen to him speak Spanish all day. She wants to hear him talk. About anything. About everything. She wants his voice to be the last thing she hears. Sombra’s head feels dizzy from the warm buzz of alcohol and the happiness she’s experiencing. She’s in disbelief and she wonders if she’s having some sort of alcohol induced dream. Either way, she won’t complain - this is a lovely dream. “Might I have your name?” he asks. Her lips move, quirking into a grin and it feels so good to do that again. “Me llamo Sombra.” She doesn’t care who knows - who can overhear. This is her moment and she will live for one last time. “Y tu, caballero?” “The name’s Jesse.” She knows that. She knows his full name but she never realized how beautiful it’d sound coming from his own lips. “I’m wondering if I can buy you a drink tonight, Miss Sombra?” Another smile graces her face. “I’d like that, Jesse.” His name could fall from her lips a thousand times and she’d never get tired of it. - - - - She knows that it’s not enough - the ache in her chest is only relieved slightly because her mind is in such euphoria that she’s managed to convince herself to indulge in this fantasy - just a bit longer, just a bit longer, she thinks. Sombra’s fingers thread through his hair before she wraps her arms around the broad shoulders she’s dreamed of. Only in her most far off daydreams did she hope to ever hold him this close. His scent, his touch, his weight, his sounds, his warmth - it’s not at all what she hoped it’d be. It’s better. But even as they rock and move together, smothering their noises of joint pleasure with fevered kisses, Sombra knows it’s not enough. He won’t save her from her death and as they approach their finale, she hangs onto him, clutching for life against his body. She calls his name with abandon, intent on somehow carrying this experience with her to the next life. They finish together and her trembling from the aftermath turns into shaking. She’s told herself she’s accepted her death but now that she’s had this small taste of him, she wants more. So much more. She’s scared and doesn’t want to let go. The pain in her chest is now from keeping herself from leaking tears that will ruin this precious moment. “Darlin’.” He sounds concerned. “You’re shakin’ like a leaf...what’s wrong?” Sombra’s voice is stuck in her throat, trying to keep from letting out those whimpers of fear. “Did I...hurt you?” Oh no. She shakes her head strongly. No. He gave her everything he could tonight. It was more than she could ask for. “I’m,” she chokes and turns her head to cough, hoping there won’t be any flowers or petals. “No, you’ve made me very happy...I’m just...tengo frio.” Not entirely a lie. But she can’t complain about her lie when he moves to lie beneath her and grabs his serape from off the floor. He places her on his chest and drapes his garment over her small frame before he tucks a bit of hair behind her ear. “I messed up that pretty flower of yours, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” She laughs and allows a small sob to hide among the breathy chuckle. “It’s okay...there’s more where that came from.” She shrugs closer to him, hand tracing over his chest. “Just...keep me warm?” “With pleasure.” He lets one thick arm settle around her and presses her body closer to his. She relishes in the warmth and wishes she could stay like this forever. Don’t let me go. “G’night, Sombra.” Please don’t ever let me go. “Buenas noches...Jesse.” Sombra doesn’t sleep and the ache in her chest lets her know that it’s time. The night is silent as she slips from his warmth, beginning to embrace the cold that steadily creeps around her. She thanks him, kissing his temple gently. She wants to stay but he shouldn’t have to see what’s going to happen next. Her fate may be sealed but he’s made her feel more free than she has in years. “Te amo.” It’s a whisper but it holds more emotion than any scream she’s ever bellowed in her life. She lets her eyes rove over his form one last time, taking in the red of his serape - the red of his cheeks and flush of skin. It’s time, her mind repeats. Leave. It’ll only be harder the longer you stay. She agrees. She tiptoes to the door and quietly leaves the room, becoming a shadow one final time as she disappears. - - - He wakes alone the next morning, missing the warmth of his lady companion from the bar. He’s disappointed but he supposes that’s the nature of these type of nights. There was a sadness in those blue eyes of hers that compelled him to move and sit next to her. She was happy in the aftermath of their union but he could tell she was still sad about something. He wanted to ask, wanted to see if there was anything he could do. But she was gone. As he moved to redress, he wondered who that woman was. Sombra. It was a bit of an odd name but it was a good name that rolled off his tongue. He thinks he might not mind seeing her again and asking if he might buy her another drink in the future... if he can find her. Just as he reaches for his hat, he finds the flower that’d been in her hair resting against what looks like a flash drive. Underneath are two small pieces of paper. Curious, he grabs them, sitting down against the bed to read  the notes. One seems like a list of instructions which leave him confused until he reads the other.

To Jesse McCree...My name was Sombra. I spent my life being a shadow but I refuse to remain in one. Don’t let them forget that they’re always being watched. I am finally free but don’t let me be forgotten. Gracias por todo.

[chiauve]

Algernon - Day 21

(Note: We are 21 days in and Jet isn’t awake yet omg how do I do this every time...)(But SOON)

           Gilmore was there to greet them when they arrived that evening. His welcome of his colleague was warmer than Joe's, but then Gilmore and Grant had been sharing correspondences long before the cyborgs ever met the doctor.

           "I figured we'd let you settle in for the night and then get started fresh in the morning," Gilmore explained, ushering Grant and Joe indoors. The rest of the cyborgs were in the front room and a round of introductions took place, though they had all met Grant before once or twice over the last couple of years, but he could never seem to keep them all straight.

           "I was hoping to look over the lab before retiring, if I may? Maybe take a copy of the plans for the 002 unit for some bedtime reading," Grant suggested.

           "I'll show you the lab and introduce you to Jet, though he's still unconscious. I'm sorry but I do not leave hard copies of my cyborgs' designs lying around. They would be too easily copied or stolen. I hope you understand."

           "Of course. You can give me a rundown of the plan of attack while we're down there, then."

           Joe took Grant's bags up to his room while the others dispersed, Chang to prepare dinner and the others to find something to busy them until then. Joe would stay the night with Francoise during the duration of Dr. Grant's stay. She'd earlier taken one look at Joe's room before he left for the airport and pulled at her hair.

           "How does this place look worse and worse every time I see it? How are you so messy?"

           "Honestly? Jet was the one who always cleaned up, not me. I kinda got used to it."

           "Jet's been gone for two years!"

           "It's been a messy two years."

           She'd all but tossed Joe out of his own room to clean up and prepare it for Dr. Grant herself. Joe hurried out the front door but still heard her scream when she got to his sink. He might have forgotten to rinse it out for the last couple of weeks. Two years of not having an angry six-foot-plus American after you when you didn't clean up tended to make one careless.

           That was one of the reasons Joe never realized Jet's hair was dyed. When he was done with the sink it was immaculate. Clean sink, clean shower, swept floor, but otherwise Jet's bed was unmade and he had a habit of tossing his pants wherever.

           The house hadn't been the same without Jet's clothes showing up in random places.

           Joe placed Grant's bags on the bed and hurried back downstairs, catching up with the two professors as they descended into the underground laboratories. Gilmore glanced back at him and Joe just shrugged. What else was he going to do for a while?

           Dr. Grant looked like a child in a candy store as Gilmore showed him the labs and equipment. He oohed and ahhed and wanted to admire and touch everything. Gilmore couldn't help but beam in pride a little.

           They moved into the battle room so Gilmore could show Grant 002's specs on the large 3D projector.

           "What I'll mostly need help with will be the construction of the body itself and the primary artificial organs," Gilmore explained, scrolling through the broken down sections of the cybernetic specs, "Even now I could attach 002's limbs in my sleep."

           "Are you planning on making any alterations to the design?"

           "Not this time. I'd rather not add extra stress to Jet by making changes he's not expecting. I can always upgrade him later; he's used to it. However, I'd like to keep the thrusters offline until I know he's ready, so we may have to temporarily disable the neuro-connectors. He knows how to override and refuel the jets himself otherwise."

           Grant gestured to the bright neon lines streaking through the framework, dulled only by the mechanics related to the thrusters. "Is that an accelerator? Like 009?"

           "An older model, but yes. 002 rarely uses it, though that's probably for the best. He wasn't designed for heavy power output of that kind and the accelerator is draining; that power is better used for his high-speed mode. The accelerator also has a tendency to disrupt the bonding of his armor. I leave it active though, you never know. One split second could mean life or death, right, 009?"

           "Yeah," Joe muttered. There had been many split seconds, Joe thought, and Jet still never used it. He could have saved himself using it when the two of them went after the nuclear warheads in space. He could have brought down Maximoff without destroying himself with it. Had the accelerator been damaged and Jet just never said anything? Had he been that low on power?

           Gilmore led them to a smaller side-lab that also functioned as his office where he could escape his sometimes very noisy cyborgs to work on his own projects.

           "Before we head up for dinner there's one last thing to show you," he said to Dr. Grant, and went to the containment unit in the back of the room. "This is Jet Link. It's his body you'll be helping me construct."

           Once moved from the Dolphin III's lab, Gilmore had placed Jet's head in containment and ran a gamut of scans and performed full diagnostics. He'd happily reported no physical damage to Jet's brain and that the cybernetic one was still registering as acceptable. Since then Gilmore installed a new pair of eyes and replaced the tongue and some missing teeth, as well as all the scanners, the chronometer, the translator, and the near-burnt out emergency power and oxygen supplier. He also installed a new transmitter and receiver but planned to keep them offline until Jet had been conscious for a few days.

           Aside from the fact Jet's cheeks were still too hollow, he looked much more like how Joe remembered him. His hair was a bit shorter, but blond and unmatted. Francoise did a good job combing it in such a way that the patches where his hair had fallen out or been shaved were covered. The dangling vertebrae were still there and made a macabre addition but Gilmore pointed out that there were some surviving nerves he would try to preserve so the damaged vertebrae would stay intact until they fused Jet's head with his new body.

           Despite these improvements, Grant took a look at Jet and stepped back in shock.

           "I, uh…" he stammered.

           "It's okay," Joe assured him, "I know it's a bit unnerving, but trust me he looks much better than he did."

           "Yes, of course. Excuse me, I just didn't expect that, I guess."

           Gilmore's brows rose slightly in surprise at Grant's discomfort but then shrugged. "You're brilliant at cybernetics, Phineas, but you always forget cyborgs involve people."

           "Yes, yes, you're right. Sorry." Grant still hurried out of the room once he was able.

           Joe smirked. "You make the weirdest friends, Doctor."

           "Let's just hope he's still able to eat dinner," Gilmore sighed then followed his colleague back up into the house.

           The cyborgs were banned from the labs unless Gilmore specifically called for one of them.

           This may or may not have been due to uncomfortable hovering.

           As such, they went about their chores, played the same board games again and again, or sat around pretending they were reading, or working, or doing anything but thinking about what was going on in the labs below them.

           Two years they thought Jet dead, but now the fact that he wouldn't be back and walking among them for at least another week was too long for Joe to stand. He'd given up trying to play video games when he couldn't focus and kept dying and now was just sitting in front of the fireplace waiting for Gilmore to call him, even though the professor was far more likely to call Francoise if he needed one of them.

           Still, among the impatience was an underlying feeling of happiness. Jet was alive and would soon indeed be back among them. Chang already announced he was going to make the American's favorite meal for him once he recovered.

           "What would that be?" Albert asked over his newspaper.

           "Chicken curry tetrazzini."

           "I was not expecting that."

           "Well it was either that or grilled cheese sandwiches but that seemed a bit underwhelming, considering."

           "Wait," Pyunma said, "you said his favorite meal. Don't tell me you're also serving…"

           "Yes. With the tetrazzini we'll be having alcoholic root beer floats. And some crappy chicken nuggets leftover from that fast food place in town he loved so much. I would never serve such a thing normally but he loved them so…"

           "The longer in the fridge and the more congealed the grease the better, yeah."

           Chang visibly shuddered. "And for dessert…"

           "No!" Pyunma and Albert yelled simultaneously.

           "Yes! Banana slices in milk with sugar!"

           "Oh thank god I thought it was going to be something deep fried again," Pyunma sighed, "I'm not gonna eat it anyway but still."

           "I'm pretty sure Jet will be the only one eating it," Chang agreed, "But I'm going to have to get the ingredients soon, I don't have everything here."

           Albert folded his newspaper and put it on the coffee table. "We could do that now, it's not like we're doing anything. And this early in rebuilding Jet's body I doubt the professor will need our help.

           Joe leapt on the idea. "I've been thinking. Jet doesn't have any clothes. We're going to have to get him some."

           "Oh damn, you're right. Anything of his burned down with the house two years ago," Pyunma said.

           "Well," Albert fidgeted, "Not everything. He had a box in storage, but the only thing wearable in it was a pair of slippers and his old AC/DC shirt."

           "Then we'll get that for him."

           "Uh, thing is, that was the shirt he got at that concert he dragged me to. We stood around forever to get a shirt and by the time he got up to the table they didn't have his size, so he bought something a bit bigger."

           "…You've been wearing his shirt, haven't you."

           "I waited with him for that damn shirt and it fits. I mean it's kind of snug in the chest but…"

           "Is that why you always wear it when Lucy's around?" Chang snickered.

           Albert glared.

           In the end, just about every cyborg piled into two cars and drove into town. They'd barely finished asking Ivan if he wanted to go when he turned around and glared at them. He hated his car seat and drove nowhere unless absolutely required.

          It was apparently too much to ask just to buy a couple of pairs of jeans and a few shirts for Jet. For one thing, no one could remember what sizes he used. The other problem was Joe himself, who insisted on getting more than just the bare essentials.

           "We have to show we care, you guys! Get him some stuff he'd actually want, not just what will do."

           "He likes to do his own shopping, Joe," Albert sighed, "and he prefers to do it by himself. I don't even know where he usually bought his clothes."

           "You could just give him back his shirt, Heinrich."

           "No."

           "You don't even like AC/DC."

           Pyunma walked up carrying a few jackets and vests. "Did Jet like plaid? I can't remember."

           "Only if you're okay with him singing the 'Lumberjack Song' nonstop."

           "That's a no, then," he said and hurried away before he got sucked into whatever Joe and Albert were bitching about.

           GB was next to pop up, leaning unhappily on a shirt rack. "Unfortunate question, my lads, but was Jet a briefs or boxers man?"

           Joe sighed and rubbed at his temples. "Recently, when he had to, boxers."

           "When he had to? Don't tell me."

           "Commando. Jet had no shame. I think I saw his dick more than my own."

           "Sorry I asked. Why didn't you tell us rooming with him was so horrible, Joe?"

           "Because then you'd make sure I was stuck with him so you wouldn't have to be."

           "Damn straight."

           "Look what I found!" Francoise cried, holding up a shirt as though it was the Holy Grail. It was a hideous collared shirt with tiny American flags printed on it.

           "Put that in the cart right now. I'm going to go find an ugly tie to go with it," Albert said and ducked away into the racks.

           "What about shoes? Anyone know Jet's size?"

           "Gilmore makes Jet's shoes so he can fly with them. Don't worry about it."

           "I'm getting Jet this cute pink toothbrush and no one can stop me!"

           "Those jeans are too loose, Jet likes to show off his ass."

           "…Why do you know these things."

           "I got him a brush too!"

           "I'm pretty sure this is Jet's cologne. It smells like 'I'm trying too hard'."

           "Jet doesn't like big sweaters, Franny. He wears jackets."

           "Too bad, he's getting a giant woolen sweater. He's going to be adorable."

           "Look at this shirt. It's got a little angry eagle on it. I'm getting it for him."

           Geronimo tossed a cowboy hat into the cart without a word.

           "We're not buying him a whole wardrobe, guys!" Pyunma shouted as he looked at the overflowing cart.

[stangzorz-blog]

Written with very little research and even less proofreading, I present the first publicly posted (despite being nowhere near fleshed out enough to speak of in public) excerpt of this particular writing project.

(Note that some of the descriptions of people and places is vague, this is done intentionally. This scene takes place around the middle of the overall story, when these people and places will already be familiar to the reader.)

Relik knew he was being watched. Senses, sharpened by years of hiding and surviving, screamed that something was wrong. Someone, somewhere, had eyes on him. Of course, he knew this day would eventually come. Though his base of operations was supposedly a simple convenience store, the disguise was not foolproof. Nothing was foolproof here; the government saw everything. Knew everything. And now they had come for him. But where? Usually, Relik could figure out where someone tailing him was hiding in a crowd. Not today. He flicked his gray eyes back and forth between the customers in his store. It had to be one of them, right? But no, Relik also knew the habits of real customers, and these people were as genuine as they could be. One man, tall with light hair and skin, argued with himself over what flavor of chips to buy. A few aisles over, three children were loading a basket with candy.

Relik scanned the store, trying to hide his anxiety. Normally he could keep his cool in this kind of situation, but where was the agent watching him? A light flashed outside across the street, barely catching his eye through one of the store’s large display windows. His head snapped to the left, looking for the source. There! It wasn’t a light, but a mirror, held by a figure crouching by the corner of another building. He was pointing upward, signaling to someone else… on the roof of Relik’s shop.

There was a gun in a drawer under one of the store’s payment terminals, along with another contingency plan. Relik pulled out the gun, sneaking it into a pocket of his leather coat out of view of any of the browsing customers. He decided to stick close to the drawer, hoping he would not have to use the other item. He knew better, though. When the government came down on someone, they came down hard. Suddenly, a noise above. Relik looked up. Was that… yes, footsteps. He placed his feet on a particular floor tile that was slightly lower than those around it. A crash came from one of the back rooms. They were here. He could hear three distinct thumps, agents dropping to the floor on the other side of the wall behind him. How had they gotten past the security system on the roof entrance? No matter, they were inside now. No more unknowns. This, Relik could deal with. A calmness washed over him, chasing back the anxiety. He pulled the gun from his coat pocket, a solid black .45 caliber pistol. Still hiding it from the customers, who were now looking towards the direction of the noises, he checked the weapon to see that it was fully loaded, and cocked it. He reached for the intercom to speak to the customers, as the door from the back room slammed open.

“Attention all customers,” he said in smooth voice. Three men in black clothing stepped out of the back into the main area of the store. Military Police. “Please remain calm and exit the store at this time. We appreciate your business.”

The man in the center gave a signal, extending two of the fingers on his left hand. The other two walked off in the indicated directions, meeting at the front door and barring it shut as the last of the now panicking customers scrambled out. The remaining man approached the counter, staring Relik in the eyes, stony expression unreadable. He had dark lines painted in an angular pattern across his face, spreading out from his right eye, which was cybernetically enhanced. It was similar to the disguise used by members of the Insurrection. The government had to have plausible deniability for their own assassins after all. That was a dead giveaway that this man was no ordinary Military Police officer. This was a Special Agent. Relik met his gaze, smiling.

“So you’ve found me” Relik began. “Took you long enough.”

“Don’t be stupid, Relik” the Agent replied, voice cold. “We’ve known you were here, you just weren’t worthy of our time yet.”

“Alrighty then” Relik said, smile widening. “What changed? Why come after me now?

“Because, Relik, you’re going to tell us where the Insurrection is getting it’s supply of hypermagnets.” The Agent stepped closer, pulling open the right side of his long coat to reveal a holster of knives.

Knives. Only one Special Agent was known to use those weapons, the rest relied on more advanced forms of standard Military Police gun kata techniques. Relik was staring down Kovaltis, The Duchess’ most deadly assassin. This was bad. No, this was actually perfect. Relik would be using his contingency plan after all. If it worked, this could end up being a day for the history books.

“Oh Kovaltis, how amusing” Relik said, visibly relaxing. “You mean it’s not obvious what happened to that missing magnet shipment from Nocturne City?”

Relik barely had time to finish the sentence before Kovaltis had lunged forward, grabbing him by the throat. The two other Milpos snapped their rifles up, leveling them at Relik’s head. Kovaltis looked angry now, Relik knew he had struck a nerve. The government’s frustration at not being able to find that missing shipment was very well known in the underground intelligence networks he frequented. He slid his own gun back into his coat pocket, struggling to breathe but meeting Kovaltis’ gaze again as a look of confusion crossed his face. “What do you have up your sleeve?” the expression asked. Relik shrugged,then thrust a hand into the open drawer below the payment terminal, slamming his palm against a button hidden there. Kovaltis stumbled in surprise as an explosion sounded in the ceiling above, and he released his grip on Relik’s neck. Red marks had appeared on the otherwise tan skin. The Special Agent’s grip had been excessively tight. Were his arms cybernetic enhancements too?

A second explosion sounded below, and Relik felt the floor give way underneath him. The trapdoor he had been standing on. The two Milpos fired, but he was gone. Relik fell through blackness, hitting a curve and sliding further down the tunnel as the trapdoor closed itself above him. Kovaltis would not be able to open it again, assuming he survived the continuing explosions and the building collapsing around him. Relik was a firm believer in overkill. He climbed to his feet as the tunnel leveled and took off running, quick footsteps echoing on the concrete. He was safe now, but that was no reason to stick around. Assuming any of them survived, the agents who had come for him would presumably figure out how to get into his escape tunnel and continue their pursuit. So he kept running.

Kovaltis awoke in a daze, mind struggling to catch up to his enhanced body, which had survived the explosions almost completely intact. He glanced around, taking in the destruction around him. Dust from the collapsed building had nearly finished settling, and a government damage control crew had set up a perimeter. How long had he been unconcsious? The two Milpos who had been guarding the front door of the wrecked store lay dead nearby, crushed by falling debris. The stock, non enhanced humans hadn’t stood a chance against such an effective trap. Kovaltis tried to stand, but collapsed into a kneel, hands against the cracked tile floor to steady himself. He looked around again, sighting for the first time the fourth member of his strike team, who had remained behind on the roof, in case Relik tried to flee that way. The man sat on a chair improvised from rubble, speaking to two of the damage control agents as a medic splinted what looked like a broken leg. He had been lucky to fall as far as he did, through fire and onto broken concrete, and have such minor injuries. A few months of desk work to recuperate and he’d be back in the field, good as new.

Kovaltis stood, more slowly this time, and hobbled over to where the agents were speaking. Some of the metallic replacement bones in his legs had been bent, making the walk much more difficult. The other men turned to give him their attention as he approached.

“I knew he would have a trap set for us” Kovaltis said with a groan. “But that was much more effective than I expected. Do we have him yet?”

“No sir, but we think we know where he’s going” answered the wounded agent. He winced as the medic pulled tight the bandage around his leg, but nodded his approval. The medic withdrew. “We’ll be ready to intercept him. I took the liberty of sending another squad in our place. Seemed like the right thing to do, sir. You were out for quite a while and I didn’t want to let him get away.”

“Good work, Officer” said Kovaltis, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Take some time to rest and heal that leg, and think about getting enhanced while you’re at it. I’ll make sure the Duchess knows of your contributions today. When you’re ready for duty again, consider yourself promoted to Patrol Leader. Alright everyone, let’s get this mess cleaned up. And someone get me a ride back to The Pillar!”

The group broke apart to do as commanded.

Relik slowed his run, reaching the hidden chamber in the concrete tunnel wall where he kept a small supply of food and weaponry. Not his main stockpile of course, this was too easy of a hiding place. Just a quick emergency stash for replenishing during an escape. Though he had never had to use this tunnel like this before, it seemed to be serving its intended purpose well. He was almost to the end, where an inconspicuous, innocent looking door would lead him out onto the street. Not far from there was the rendezvous point with his contacts in the Insurrection. Though he had made a point not too, it seemed with the Special Agents so hot on his tail that he had no choice but to formally join the organization and go fully underground with them. With a sigh, he pressed a button in the wall that would send a signal to the resistance fighters that he was coming to meet them. He grabbed an extra loaded magazine, which he set into a clip on his belt, and checked his pistol to be sure that the hypermagnet strip attached to the slide was fully charged. He knew it was charged, but he also knew far too many people who had died because they didn’t check their charge before going into a battle. Better to be safe than dead. He locked and covered the stash, then continued on his way, walking more slowly now, to listen for signs of enemies outside as he neared the exit door. He didn’t hear anything, but something didn’t look right.

He froze. The door. It was cracked open, just slightly ajar. No one on the street should have been paying attention to such an entryway. Normal citizens weren’t so curious. They had heard of the kinds of trouble curiosity could bring them. Had someone been inside the tunnel? Relik felt his anxiety returning, as another unknown now blocked his path. Today just was not a good day for having the right information. He decided to risk it. At least he could find out what was on the other side of the door instead of wait in here and be found by the Special Agents or Milpos. After all, it could be nothing more than coincidence. Not likely, but it could be. Besides, it was a perfect opportunity to make use of the hidden mirror he had mounted opposite the door to look out into the street without exposing himself. Relik moved forward, then kicked open the door, leaping to the side and flattening back against the wall, eyes shooting toward the mirror. From where he stood, Relik could see a sniper on the roof of a building further down the street. The gunman couldn’t see him. Perfect. Relik would need a moment to strategize, as he wouldn’t be able to escape the sniper’s watch once he left the tunnel, and he wouldn’t be able to stop and shoot and back without leaving himself exposed. It would come down, as it often did, to gun kata. But what was the best angle? Relik had never been very good at gun kata. He could do it reasonably well, but his mind was better suited for the storage and organization of information. Not the mention his logistical specialty. A plan began forming in his head as he studied the mirror, and he pulled out his pistol again, removing the hypermagnet strip and holding it in his left hand, gun in his right. He inched closer to the door, muscles tensing, anxiety fading. One sniper, then running to freedom. A difficult shot, but he could do this.

Relik leapt out the door. Bang! The sniper fired as Relik flung the magnet out in front of him. The bullet’s trajectory curved around to follow the path of the magnet as Relik turned and fired his own weapon. His bullet glanced off the wall of the building he had exited, then again off of a metal pole behind the sniper, taking him in the back of the head. He changed direction again, starting to run back the way he first had been going, when another loud crack echoed down the alley. A bullet pierced his coat and shirt, punching through his back at an angle, a spray of red puffing out as it came out the front of his torso. He stumbled, shocked at the sudden pain. Glancing behind him, he locked eyes with a second sniper who had never been visible in the mirror from his position inside the tunnel. The sniper cocked his weapon for another shot. Relik raised his own weapon and fired off three quick shots in the sniper’s direction, intended as a distraction. He didn’t have the time to actually aim for the man. He snatched the hypermagnet from the ground and started running again. The shot he expected did not come, and he did not look back again. The rendezvous point was close. He could make it. As long as it hadn’t been compromised too, of course. How had the agents found their way into his escape tunnel. No time to think about that now.

The front of Relik’s shirt was stained red now. He was bleeding more than he expected, but adrenaline kept him going. Almost there. He could feel weakness coming on as he ran. Blood loss. He reluctantly slowed down. Almost there. He turned the final corner, expecting to see the entrance to the hiding spot where he would meet the Insurrection, but instead came face to face with two Milpos. They raised their rifles level with his chest. Relik raised his own gun, but his vision had grown fuzzy, and he couldn’t focus. One of the men reached up and slapped the weapon of of Relik’s hand. It hit the pavement as a shot sounded. Had the gun gone off from the impact with the street? No, it was someone else. A bullet riccocheted off the wall beside him and slammed into the first Milpo’s head, barreling out the other side of his skull and into that of the second foe. Both of them fell dead in front of him. Kiana approached from behind where the men had stood, holstering her gun and crouching down to pick up Relik’s. She handed it back to him, brushing her hair away from her face with her other hand. It was straightened today. That girl and her constantly changing looks. He took the gun and slid it back into his own holster.

“Bet you didn’t expect that” she said, grinning.

“Your timing” he panted, struggling to catch his breath. “Is impeccable.”

Feeling exhausted, he stumbled again. The last thing Relik saw was Kiana kneeling to catch him as he lost consciousness.