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urdreamydoodles · 2 months ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are clumsy and hurt yourself all the time

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter notices before you do. His eyes are sharp, trained to pick up the smallest of changes, the faintest of shadows blooming beneath your skin. He doesn't just see the bruises; he maps them, cataloging each one like constellations he wishes he could erase from your body. Every time he catches you wincing, biting your lip to muffle a yelp after knocking into yet another corner, he sighs. "Again?" he teases, but there's worry threading through his voice, twisting between the syllables like spider silk.

- He starts to hover, though he tries not to. It's instinctive—he's always been the protector, the boy who runs into burning buildings without thinking twice. But with you, it's different. It’s not just about keeping you safe; it’s about keeping you whole, unmarked by the world’s cruelty—or your own clumsiness. So he starts catching you before you fall, pulling you out of the way just in time, reaching out without thinking. Sometimes, you swear he moves before the accident even happens, like he's learned the rhythm of your missteps, predicting the inevitable before it can bruise you.

- When you do get hurt (because of course you do), Peter is relentless in his care. He’s crouched in front of you in an instant, thumb tracing the new bruise with reverence, an almost desperate tenderness in his touch. "You're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, but his hands are so impossibly gentle as he presses a cool compress to your skin. His lips ghost over the hurt, as if he can will it away with a kiss. Sometimes, you wonder if he wishes he could wrap you in webbing, cocoon you in safety so that the world—and your own two feet—could never touch you again.

- He starts making excuses for why he needs to hold your hand. "Crowded street," he'll say, even when it's not. "Slippery floor," even when it's bone-dry. The truth is, he just wants to anchor you, to be the tether that keeps you upright, steady. And when you trip anyway—because, of course, you do—he laughs, shaking his head as he catches you. "You just like falling for me, don't you?"

- But late at night, when you're half-asleep and curled against him, he traces over your skin like it's something sacred. His fingers brush against every fading bruise, every place you've been hurt, and he whispers, "Wish I could take these for you." His voice is raw, aching with the helplessness of loving someone breakable. And you, tangled in the warmth of him, only smile. Because you know that, in every way that matters, Peter has already caught you.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony notices, but not in the way you expect. He doesn’t gasp or fuss the first time he sees you sporting a fresh bruise on your knee. Instead, he raises an eyebrow, tilting his head as if considering a puzzle. "So, what was it this time? Rogue chair leg? Malicious doorframe? Did a coffee table rise against you in rebellion?"

- But beneath the teasing, there's a flicker of something deeper. A calculation, a quiet kind of concern buried beneath the bravado. Tony doesn’t do helplessness well. He can build suits that defy physics, craft weapons that could level cities—but he can't seem to keep you from bruising yourself on the furniture. It frustrates him, gnaws at the edges of his mind, so he does what Tony Stark does best: he finds a solution.

- At first, it’s little things. He adjusts the lighting in your shared spaces, claiming it’s for "ambience" but really so you can see obstacles better. Then come the AI sensors in the furniture, making tables shift slightly if you’re about to walk into them. At one point, you find yourself nearly colliding with a moving bookshelf that, at the last second, scoots out of your way. "What the hell?" you gasp. Tony only grins. "Self-adjusting furniture. Stark tech. You’re welcome."

- But for all his technological fixes, it’s his hands that surprise you the most. Because Tony, for all his arrogance, is delicate with you. When you come to him with a fresh injury, he tuts, shaking his head dramatically—but his touch is careful, reverent. He traces over the bruises like he’s memorizing them, pressing a kiss against each one as if sealing them with something stronger than science. "Y'know," he murmurs against your skin, "if you wanted my attention, there were easier ways than body-slamming a desk."

- And at night, when you think he’s asleep, you feel his fingers drifting over your skin, tracing every hurt like he’s trying to rewire you, make you something invincible. He’s never been good at loving things that break, but with you, he’s learning that maybe some things—some people—are worth protecting, even if he can’t build them indestructible.

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve doesn't laugh. Not at first. The first time he sees you stumble, his reflexes kick in before his brain does, hands catching your waist before you hit the ground. "Careful," he says, voice steeped in quiet concern, but there’s something else there too—something deeper, a weight that lingers in his gaze.

- You realize quickly that Steve doesn't see bruises as just bruises. To him, every mark on your skin is a reminder of fragility, of the world’s ability to harm. He carries the weight of lost battles, of friends who weren’t fast enough, strong enough, and something in him aches at the thought of you being hurt—even by something as simple as a misplaced step.

- So he becomes your shadow. A quiet, steadfast presence at your side, always an arm’s length away. He doesn’t smother, doesn’t hover—but he’s there, a constant, an anchor. When you trip, he catches. When you stumble, he steadies. When you crash into a table, he’s already pressing a gentle hand to your arm, checking for injuries before you can brush it off.

- "You need to be more careful," he tells you, voice soft but firm. You roll your eyes. "Steve, I’ve been like this my whole life." His lips press into a line, but instead of arguing, he takes your hand, thumb sweeping over your knuckles. "Then I’ll just have to keep catching you."

- And he does. Every time. Even in sleep, his arm drapes over your waist, protective even in unconsciousness. You don’t tell him, but you think it’s fitting—because Steve Rogers has always been the one to hold the world together, and now, he holds you.

Thor

- Thor booms with laughter the first time you walk straight into a doorframe. "By the gods, you fight invisible battles, my love!" he declares, pulling you into his chest as if you’ve just won a war. You grumble against him, but he only kisses the top of your head, eyes gleaming with amusement.

- But for all his laughter, Thor is not careless with you. When you trip, his hands are always there, warm and unyielding, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. "The world trembles before you, yet you are felled by a mere step!" he teases, but there is no mockery—only adoration.

- He carries you more often than necessary, sweeping you into his arms at the slightest provocation. "You are too precious for the ground," he says, as if that explains everything. When you protest, he only grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Indulge me, my beloved."

- He takes to inspecting your bruises like battle wounds, solemn as he traces them. "A warrior bears their marks with pride," he says. But then, softer, "Though I would gladly take them for you."

- And when he holds you at night, it is as if he cradles the most precious thing in all the realms. Because to Thor, you are not just beautiful. You are his most cherished treasure, and even if you stumble, even if you fall—he will always be there to catch you.

Loki

- Loki watches you with an expression caught between amusement and exasperation, his sharp green eyes tracking the way you stumble through life as though gravity itself is your greatest adversary. He does not rush to catch you—no, he prefers to observe first, to let you flounder, to let the world trip you up just enough to be entertaining but never enough to truly hurt you. “It is almost an art form,” he muses one evening as he traces his fingers over a fresh bruise blooming along your arm. “How you manage to battle furniture and lose so spectacularly.”

- But beneath the teasing, there is something else—something darker, more possessive. Loki is not a man accustomed to powerlessness, and watching you mar yourself on the mundane sends an unfamiliar frustration curling in his chest. He is not mortal, not fragile, and neither should you be. If he could enchant your very skin to be impenetrable, he would. Instead, he does the next best thing—subtle spells woven into your jewelry, charms hidden in the fabric of your clothes. Nothing too obvious, nothing you would notice. Just enough to slow a fall, to dull an impact, to ensure that when you inevitably crash, the world is kinder to you.

- He does not hover, not the way a lesser man might. No, Loki’s interventions are quieter, more insidious. A flick of his fingers when you’re about to knock a glass off the table. A shift in the air that redirects your fall just enough to keep you from truly hurting yourself. He plays it off as coincidence when you point it out, though the smirk curling at the corner of his lips betrays him. “Perhaps Midgard itself has simply decided to stop punishing your carelessness,” he offers smoothly, tilting his head. “Or perhaps, darling, you’ve finally learned some semblance of grace.”

- And yet, for all his feigned indifference, his hands are gentle when they trace over your bruises, long fingers ghosting over each mark as though committing them to memory. “Such delicate skin,” he murmurs, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. You think, sometimes, that he looks at you like a paradox—something fragile and untouchable, something he wants to protect and break in equal measure. He presses his lips to each bruise, his voice silk-soft against your skin. “If only you would let me make you indestructible.”

- At night, when you think he is asleep, he holds you closer than necessary, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other draped possessively over your thigh. His fingers find the bruises even then, absently tracing them, as if even in sleep, he cannot stand the marks of a world that does not know how to handle something as precious as you. And if, in the morning, your injuries fade just a little faster than they should—well. Loki has never been one to play fair.

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint takes one look at you, covered in bruises from yet another misadventure with an unassuming coffee table, and snorts. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s like you’re in a fight with the furniture and losing every damn round.” He teases, because that’s what Clint does, but beneath the dry humor, there’s a glint of something softer, something close to concern.

- He’s got quick hands, calloused and steady, and they catch you more often than not. He doesn’t even think about it anymore—it’s instinct, muscle memory, the same reflexes that let him shoot arrows with inhuman precision now redirecting themselves to keeping you upright. Sometimes you don’t even realize you’re falling before he’s got a firm grip on your waist, pulling you against him with a smirk. “I should start charging for this,” he muses. “Professional girlfriend-wrangler. Gotta make a living somehow.”

- But he’s not always fast enough. You take your hits, your bruises, your scrapes, and Clint swears every time he sees a new mark on you. He cups your face in his hands one evening, tilting your chin up so he can inspect the latest damage—a dark bruise along your cheekbone from where you’d misjudged a doorway. His thumb brushes over it, his mouth pressing into a tight line. “Y’know, for someone so damn beautiful, you sure spend a lot of time brawling with inanimate objects.”

- He starts carrying a first-aid kit just for you. Not the standard SHIELD-issued one—this one is filled with little things he knows you’ll need. Cooling gel for the bruises, tiny bandages that come in ridiculous designs (because he knows they’ll make you smile), painkillers for the inevitable aches. He patches you up with a surprising gentleness, his hands rough but careful as he works. “I should just start wrapping you in bubble wrap,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Or at least get you some damn kneepads.”

- And in the quiet hours of the night, when you’re tangled together in bed, he presses absentminded kisses to every bruise, every scrape, every mark. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a big deal out of it—just lets his lips linger against each injury like a silent promise, like a prayer. Because Clint Barton knows better than most that the world is unforgiving, that sometimes you don’t get there in time. But here, now, with you—he can at least make sure someone’s always there to catch you when you fall.

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha doesn’t panic when you fall, doesn’t gasp when you hit the ground, doesn’t rush to your side with frantic worry. She simply raises an unimpressed eyebrow as you groan, flat on your back after tripping over absolutely nothing. “You’re unbelievable,” she says, crossing her arms. “A trained assassin would have heard that floor coming.”

- But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care. She does—deeply, fiercely, in the way only Natasha Romanoff can. She just doesn’t show it in obvious ways. Instead, she adjusts her stride so she’s always close enough to catch you, casually offering an arm when she senses you wobbling. She never draws attention to it, never makes a big deal of it, but you notice. You always notice.

- When you inevitably end up bruised and battered, she clicks her tongue but says nothing, simply sitting beside you with an ice pack in one hand and a knowing smirk on her lips. She presses the cold compress to your skin, her touch deliberate, precise. “You should let me train you,” she muses. “At least teach you how to fall properly.”

- Natasha never coddles, never fusses, but she is always prepared. She has a quiet way of making sure you’re okay—subtle, effortless. When you stand up too quickly and nearly topple over, her hand is already on the small of your back, steadying. When you stumble, she catches you before you even realize you’re falling. It’s instinct to her, the way protecting you has become second nature.

- And at night, when the world is quiet, she pulls you against her, her fingers ghosting over every bruise like a whisper, like a secret. She does not apologize for the world’s cruelty, does not wish you were stronger, does not sigh at your clumsiness. She only holds you tighter, her lips brushing against each mark in silent reverence. Because Natasha Romanoff knows what it means to hurt, to endure, to survive—and if she cannot keep you unbroken, then at the very least, she can be the place you fall.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky notices before you do. His eyes, trained by war and decades of violence, catch every shift in your body, every wince, every faint hesitation in your step. At first, he thinks it’s something worse—that someone put hands on you, that danger came too close. But then he watches you slam your hip into the corner of the counter, trip over absolutely nothing, and he exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re killin’ me, doll,” he mutters, but his hands are already on you, steadying, checking.

- He doesn’t hover—not exactly. But suddenly, he’s always there, always within reach. If you stumble, his hands find your waist before you even realize you’re falling. If you misjudge a step, his arm is already around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest with a sigh. “Y’know, most people walk without gettin’ into a fistfight with the air,” he teases, but there’s something softer beneath it, something like worry.

- When you come home with fresh bruises—scattered across your arms, darkening your knees—he’s quiet. Too quiet. He sits you down, metal fingers unnervingly gentle as he rolls up your sleeves, brushing over each mark like he’s memorizing them. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs, and there’s something heavy in his voice, something weighted with history. He’s seen too much damage in his life, inflicted too much of it himself. He hates seeing it on you.

- But Bucky Barnes is a man who prepares, who anticipates. He starts keeping a first-aid kit on hand, not that he needs it much—he’s better at easing your pain with his own touch, the press of his lips against your bruises, the warmth of his palm smoothing over sore muscles. He doesn’t say much when he does it, just presses kisses against every darkened patch of skin like he’s willing them away. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, you hear him whisper, “Wish I could take ‘em for you.”

- And at night, when the world is quiet, he wraps you in his arms, tucking you close as if that alone will shield you from harm. His metal arm rests heavy over your hip, protective, unyielding. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days,” he murmurs into your hair. And you—smiling, safe in the warmth of him—only kiss his jaw and whisper, “Guess you’ll just have to keep catching me, then.”

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matt hears it before he sees it—the way you hiss through your teeth when you smack your shin against the table, the sharp inhale when you stub your toe against the doorframe. He tilts his head, amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “Again?” he asks, voice laced with something dangerously close to fondness.

- He doesn’t need sight to know where the bruises bloom. He traces them with careful fingers, mapping your pain like he’s reading scripture. His touch is featherlight, reverent. “You keep this up, I’m gonna start thinking the furniture has a vendetta against you,” he murmurs, lips grazing over each sore spot in silent absolution.

- He tries not to be overbearing, but he’s always listening, always attuned to the way your heartbeat stutters when you nearly fall. His reflexes are faster than yours will ever be—so when you trip, his arms are already there, catching you with effortless ease. “You’ve got to stop tempting gravity,” he teases, even as he steadies you against his chest.

- But there’s a weight to his concern, something deeper than amusement. He’s spent too much of his life in pain, too much time enduring wounds that never quite healed right. He doesn’t want that for you. So he starts reaching for you more, keeping you close, a hand resting at the small of your back whenever you walk together, his grip firm when he senses the inevitable stumble.

- And at night, when you’re curled against him, he skims his fingers over your skin, cataloging every mark, every faint ache. “You take too many hits,” he murmurs, voice thick with something unspoken. You laugh softly, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. “So do you.” He huffs out a breath, pulling you impossibly closer. “Guess that makes two of us.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank notices everything. The first time he sees you flinch after knocking into a table, he frowns. The first time he spots a fresh bruise blooming across your arm, his jaw tightens. His first instinct—always, always—is violence. “Who did that?” he demands, voice low, dangerous. And when you tell him it was just a doorframe, just another misstep, he exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”

- He’s not soft, not in the way other men might be. He doesn’t coo over your bruises, doesn’t pepper you with gentle reassurances. But he is there, solid and unwavering. If you trip, his hands are on you before you hit the ground. If you stumble, he pulls you upright with an exasperated sigh. “Gonna wrap you in goddamn bubble wrap,” he mutters, shaking his head.

- He doesn’t say it outright, but his actions betray him. He starts clearing the apartment, making sure nothing sharp or precarious is within your usual walking path. He makes you wear his jacket when it’s cold, grumbling about how “it’ll keep you warm” but really thinking about how it might cushion the inevitable next fall.

- When you come home with fresh bruises, he just exhales sharply, shaking his head. “C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you onto the couch. He’s rough around the edges, but his hands are steady as he presses an ice pack against your shin, his thumb tracing absent patterns against your knee. He doesn’t say much, just sits there with you, brows furrowed, jaw tight. You know he’s thinking about how much he hates this—how much he hates seeing you hurt, even in the smallest ways.

- At night, when the world is quiet and his guard is finally down, he pulls you into him, tucking you beneath his chin. His arms are heavy, unyielding, caging you against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Gotta stop gettin’ hurt,” he mutters, voice gruff, tired. You smile against his skin, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Guess that means you’ll just have to keep catching me.” And Frank—haunted, weary, unbreakable—only holds you tighter.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye watches you trip over your own feet like it’s the greatest tragedy he’s ever witnessed. “You’re kidding me, right?” he drawls, arms crossed, head tilted. “That was a flat surface.” He doesn’t get it—how someone can be so inherently uncoordinated, so effortlessly doomed to collide with the world. He was born to hit every mark, to never miss, to control his body like it’s an extension of his will. And you? You can’t even walk across a room without making it a goddamn spectacle.

- He teases you relentlessly. “You’re gonna give me an aneurysm,” he mutters as you walk straight into the edge of a table, recoiling with a hiss. He crouches in front of you, fingers lazily tilting your chin up so he can inspect the damage. A bruise is already forming, shadowing your delicate skin, and for a brief second—just a flicker—something darkens in his gaze. He brushes his thumb over the mark, contemplative, before grinning. “Y’know, most people get bruises from fights. You? You look like you went ten rounds with a door and lost.”

- But the thing is, Bullseye doesn’t like seeing you hurt—not like this. He’s a man who thrives on violence, who carves his love in blood and broken bodies, but this? This is just the world battering you around, and it pisses him off. He starts standing closer, walking behind you with a hand hovering at your back, catching you before you can even process that you’re falling. He makes a show of rolling his eyes every time, but his grip is firm, his hands steady. “You should not be this much work,” he grumbles, right before setting you back on your feet like it’s nothing.

- The first time you cut yourself on something mundane—a knife, the sharp edge of a cabinet—he reacts badly. His jaw clenches, his hands flex, and for a second, you think he might kill the inanimate object responsible. “Okay, that’s it,” he mutters, dragging you to sit down. He cleans the wound with the kind of skill that suggests he’s done this a thousand times before (he has, just not for someone he cares about). He presses a bandage over your skin, shaking his head. “You’re a menace, babe. An absolute disaster.”

- At night, when he thinks you’re asleep, his fingers trace over every bruise, every scrape, cataloging them like they’re personal offenses. His body is a weapon, built for precision, and here you are—this thing he doesn’t quite know how to protect. He scowls in the dark, arms tightening around you. The world doesn’t get to hurt what’s his. If it does? Well. He might just have to start fighting gravity itself.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc watches you trip over your own feet with a kind of exhausted patience. “Again?” he sighs as you collide with yet another piece of furniture. He doesn’t get mad, doesn’t tease—he just pinches the bridge of his nose like a man trying very hard to accept the absurdity of his reality. “You’re a walking hazard.” But his hands are already on you, steadying, checking, making sure you’re not hurt.

- He starts anticipating your disasters before they happen. A shift in your balance, a misstep, a doorframe you will forget to account for—he’s already moving before you even realize you’re about to fall. His reflexes are freakishly fast, and it’s almost irritating how easily he catches you, setting you back on your feet like nothing happened. “You doin’ this on purpose?” he mutters, tilting his head. “Tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”

- When you come home with fresh bruises, Marc doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—eyes dark, expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he sits you down and rolls up your sleeves, brushing his fingers over the marks like he’s trying to commit them to memory. He’s a man who knows pain, who lives in it, and something about seeing it on you makes his chest go tight. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs, voice low, almost pleading.

- He starts carrying first-aid supplies specifically for you. “It’s not paranoia,” he insists as he bandages a fresh scrape on your elbow. “It’s preparedness.” He takes care of you with the same clinical efficiency he applies to himself—focused, practiced, no wasted movements. But there’s a softness in the way his hands linger, the way he cups your face afterward, pressing his lips to your forehead like he’s trying to will the world into being gentler with you.

- And at night, when his demons creep in, when sleep is a thing that eludes him, he watches over you. His fingers brush over every bruise, every cut, and he exhales sharply, wrapping himself around you like a shield. “You’re not allowed to get hurt,” he mutters against your hair. “Not on my watch.” And even though you know it’s impossible—you are impossible—you let him hold you like he can keep you safe from everything. Even yourself.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster watches you trip over nothing and just stares. “Are you—” He gestures vaguely at you, expression unreadable behind his mask. “Do you want to be a liability?” His whole thing is mastering movement, precision, efficiency—and you? You are chaos incarnate. A living, breathing contradiction to everything he stands for. It offends him on a fundamental level.

- He makes it his mission to “fix” you. Not because he’s particularly sentimental—just because he cannot handle watching you get defeated by furniture on a daily basis. “Alright, sweetheart,” he drawls, arms crossed. “Time for some goddamn coordination training.” And you try, you really do, but it turns out even Taskmaster can’t overwrite whatever curse makes you a constant disaster. He watches you attempt a basic balance drill, sees you immediately wipe out, and just rubs his temples. “Hopeless. You’re hopeless.”

- But despite his endless frustration, he starts catching you without even thinking about it. His body reacts before his brain does—an automatic reflex, like blocking a punch. One second you’re mid-fall, the next you’re in his arms, blinking up at him. He doesn’t say anything, just sets you down and shakes his head. “You owe me,” he mutters, but the way his hands linger at your waist suggests he doesn’t actually mind.

- The first time he sees a particularly nasty bruise along your ribs, something shifts. He’s seen all kinds of injuries—inflicted most of them himself—but something about seeing you marked up like this makes his fingers twitch. He drags his gloved hand over the darkened skin, tilting his head. “You let the world beat you up, huh?” His voice is softer than usual, something contemplative curling at the edges. Then, with a click of his tongue, he straightens. “Guess I better even the odds.”

- And he does. Aggressively. If the world insists on bruising you, he insists on teaching you how to hit back. He drags you into training, makes you learn something—if only so he can stop watching you lose to stationary objects. But at night, when you’re curled against him, he traces every bruise, every cut, his grip possessive. “You’re a goddamn hazard,” he mutters, pressing his forehead against yours. And you, smiling, whisper, “Yeah, but I’m your hazard.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny finds your clumsiness hilarious. The first time he sees you trip over absolutely nothing, he has to physically restrain himself from bursting into laughter. “Babe, was that—was that the air?” He leans against the nearest wall, clutching his stomach. “Did the air just take you out?” But beneath the amusement, there’s a flicker of concern—because you don’t just stumble; you collide with the world, leaving a trail of bruises like constellations across your skin.

- He teases, but he watches. The moment you lose your balance, he’s there, faster than reflex should allow, catching you with an arm around your waist. “Whoa, easy there, graceful,” he murmurs, voice somewhere between exasperation and affection. He holds you longer than necessary, fingers splayed over your back, and for a moment, the world stills. Then he grins. “Y’know, I think you just fake this so I have to keep holding you.”

- When you come home with fresh bruises, his reaction is always the same—dramatic outrage. “Oh my God, babe. Did someone attack you?” He gasps, placing a hand over his chest in mock horror. Then his eyes narrow. “Was it the doorframe? The table corner?” He shakes his head, feigning deep betrayal. “I knew they were out to get you.” But behind the theatrics, he’s already pulling you into his lap, pressing warm hands over your sore limbs, his heat radiating through your skin like a living balm.

- He insists on carrying you at the most ridiculous times. “No, no, I refuse to let you go into battle against gravity again.” And by ‘battle,’ he means walking through a perfectly normal room. He swoops you up, laughing as you protest, his arms far too strong for someone who acts like an overgrown child. “Babe, let’s be real. This is for your safety.” He winks. “And because I like showing off.”

- At night, when the fire dims and it’s just the two of you tangled together, he traces over every bruise with careful fingers. He doesn’t joke then. He just exhales softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your wrist, the softest parts of you. “You gotta be careful,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. And when you hum sleepily, he tightens his hold. “Not kidding this time, babe. Just… don’t break yourself, alright?”

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed observes your clumsiness with scientific fascination. The first time he sees you walk directly into a doorway, he pauses, fingers tapping against his chin. “Hmm.” His brows furrow as he watches you rub your arm, wincing. “This is a pattern.” And just like that, you’ve become an experiment.

- He analyzes you. It starts subtly—adjusting the furniture so there’s more space between sharp edges, rerouting the lab’s layout so you’re less likely to trip over stray equipment. But soon, he’s measuring things, taking notes, muttering things like, “Your peripheral awareness seems statistically lower than average—fascinating.” He tries to be helpful, really. He even attempts to create a stabilization suit—something sleek, futuristic, designed to predict and correct your missteps. It… does not go well. (You trip anyway, and now the suit is mildly offended.)

- When you inevitably come home with bruises, Reed is deeply troubled. He gently takes your wrist, rotating it carefully as he examines the latest damage. “Your body is too delicate for this frequency of injury,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His mind is already racing, calculations spinning behind his sharp eyes. But then he exhales, carefully brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Perhaps a different approach.” The next day, there’s a custom-designed, ultra-soft padding system discreetly woven into your daily outfits.

- He isn’t always the most physically affectionate, but when you stumble, his body reacts before his mind does. His limbs stretch, elongating with effortless precision, catching you before you even realize you’re falling. “I anticipated that,” he says simply, setting you back on your feet. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t scold—just accepts your clumsiness as another variable in his universe. And when you raise an eyebrow, he merely shrugs. “I prefer solutions over criticism.”

- At night, when you curl into him, he allows himself a rare moment of softness. His hands, always so deft and purposeful, trace absent patterns against your skin, lingering over each bruise. “I wish I could prevent every injury,” he murmurs, voice quiet in the dim light. You smile against his chest, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I’d still find a way to trip.” He huffs a quiet laugh, tucking you closer. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to keep catching you.”

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben sees you trip over absolutely nothing for the third time in a single day, and his immediate reaction is a mix of exasperation and concern. “Aw, c’mon, sweetheart, you got somethin’ against stayin’ on yer feet?” he grumbles, folding his massive arms as you rub your latest bruise. But the second he catches the way you wince, his voice softens, and he sighs. “Lemme see.” His hands are big, rough like weathered stone, but impossibly gentle as he inspects your skin. “Yer like a walkin’ accident waiting to happen, ain’t ya?” It’s not judgment—it’s worry.

- He’s the only person in the world who doesn’t flinch when you crash into him. You could be falling at full speed, and all that happens is you bounce harmlessly off his broad chest. “See? That’s why ya gotta stick by me, doll,” he teases, catching you before you can hit the floor. “Nothin’ knocks this over.” But there’s something else in the way he holds you close, something fiercely protective. If the world insists on beating you up, then fine. Ben’ll just make sure he’s there to take the hit instead.

- He starts keeping a mental tally of your injuries, gruffly scolding you whenever a new one appears. “Yer gonna make me gray before my time,” he mutters, shaking his head as he wraps your wrist with surprising delicacy. But despite the grumbling, he never complains when you come to him for help, never denies you the warmth of his careful hands. And if you rest against his side afterward, your body pressed to the indestructible wall of him, he won’t say a word about how long you linger there.

- He adapts to you in ways he never outright acknowledges. Moves furniture just a little out of your way, catches things before they can topple over when you inevitably bump into them, subtly places himself between you and whatever hazard might cross your path. “Dunno how ya made it this far without me,” he says, grinning. “Guess that makes me yer personal bodyguard, huh?” But the truth is, it scares him sometimes—how fragile you are. How easily you bruise. How the world isn’t made to be kind to people like you.

- Late at night, when you curl against him in the quiet, he traces his fingers over the faint marks on your skin, his touch achingly gentle. “Y’know,” he murmurs, “for someone so soft, ya sure take a beatin’.” There’s something heavy in his voice, something unsaid. I wish the world didn’t hurt you like this. I wish I could keep you safe. But he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he just holds you tighter, as if that alone could be enough. And maybe, just maybe, it is.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan is used to being the responsible one, the caretaker, the steady force amidst chaos. But even she isn’t prepared for just how accident-prone you are. “Sweetheart, again?” she sighs as you stumble for the fifth time that day. She moves faster than thought, catching you with an invisible force before you can even hit the ground. “At this rate, I’m going to have to wrap you in a force field just to keep you intact.” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but the concern beneath it is very real.

- She starts using her powers instinctively around you. A glass about to slip from your hands? Caught. A misplaced step sending you toward disaster? Redirected. A force field cushions you from the sharp edge of a counter before you even realize you were about to walk into it. “You don’t even notice you’re doing it,” Johnny teases her one day, watching as she effortlessly prevents you from tripping again. Susan just huffs, crossing her arms. “Well, someone has to keep her in one piece.”

- She doesn’t scold you for your clumsiness. She doesn’t make you feel less because of it. Instead, she watches, learns, and then rearranges the world around you, subtly shifting things to make your life just a little easier. It’s a quiet kind of care, the kind that manifests in softened corners, restructured pathways, and the ever-present, unseen embrace of her protective fields. She won’t stop you from moving through the world the way you do, but she will make sure it doesn’t hurt you as much.

- When she heals your bruises with careful hands, her fingers linger against your skin, her expression unreadable. “You’re so delicate,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I forget, sometimes, how easily people can break.” There’s something fragile in the way she looks at you then, something she rarely allows herself to show. “You’re lucky I love you,” she finally says, voice lighter, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Because otherwise, I’d have to start charging you for all this medical attention.”

- But there are nights when she lets her guard down, when she pulls you into her arms and whispers against your hair, “You have to be careful, okay? For me.” It’s the closest she’ll come to admitting how much it scares her—how the thought of losing you, of not being there the one time she’s needed, terrifies her. She’s lost too much already. She refuses to lose you.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia thinks your clumsiness is adorable. And hilarious. “Oh, kitten, you poor thing,” she coos, watching as you walk directly into the edge of a table. “The universe really isn’t on your side, huh?” But even as she teases, she’s already moving, already guiding you to sit so she can inspect your latest injury. “Tsk, tsk. What would you do without me?”

- She starts calling you her bad luck charm, but with the kind of affection that lingers like a purr in her voice. “See, it’s perfect,” she says one evening, lazily draping herself over you. “I bring the bad luck to everyone else, and you bring it to yourself.” She grins, tapping your nose. “We’re a match made in chaos.”

- But beneath the teasing, she’s hyper-aware of how easily you get hurt. The first time she sees someone shove past you carelessly on the street, causing you to stumble hard against the pavement, her entire demeanor shifts. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, brushing off your scraped palms. And then, with a smile so sharp it cuts—“Excuse me a sec, love. I’ve got some business to handle.” She returns a moment later, looking satisfied, and you don’t ask why the guy is now desperately patting his pockets for a missing wallet.

- Felicia is grace incarnate, the exact opposite of you in every way. And yet, she doesn’t mind being the one to catch you. Doesn’t mind slipping an arm around your waist as you both walk, keeping you steady without making a big deal of it. Doesn’t mind the way you instinctively grip her when you know you’re about to trip. “Mmm, I like it when you hold onto me,” she muses. “Should I start pushing you more often?”

- One night, as you curl against her, she traces a slow finger over the faint marks dotting your skin. “You bruise so easily,” she murmurs, her usual playfulness absent. “The world must love marking you up, hmm?” Her voice dips, something dark curling in her tone. “I don’t share what’s mine, you know.” She presses a kiss just below one particularly dark bruise, her lips lingering. “Next time something wants to hurt you, it’s going to have to go through me first.”

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen watches you knock over a stack of books and sighs like a man who has witnessed a lifetime of disappointment. “By the Vishanti,” he mutters, rubbing his temples. “You are utterly hopeless.” But there’s something in the way he steps forward, fingers already reaching for your wrist, steadying you with the effortless grace of someone who bends reality itself to his will.

- He doesn’t waste time with teasing—he just starts fixing. He places wards around the Sanctum, subtle protections that nudge objects away from you before you can collide with them. He enchants the stairs so they refuse to let you trip, much to your annoyance. “It’s undignified,” you argue. “It’s necessary,” he counters, arms crossed. “If I wanted to spend my days healing bruises, I’d return to mundane medicine.” But despite his grumbling, he still traces careful sigils over your skin, murmuring spells that ease the aches from your body.

- When you stumble in his presence, he doesn’t catch you, per se—he merely redirects reality so you never truly fall. One moment you’re tilting dangerously, the next, space itself shifts, leaving you upright, untouched. He raises an eyebrow, smug. “You’re welcome.” You groan. “That’s cheating.” He smirks, tucking his hands into his robes. “No, that’s adapting.”

- But sometimes, magic isn’t enough. Sometimes, you come home with new bruises, fresh scrapes, evidence that the world has been unkind despite all his efforts. His jaw tightens as he kneels beside you, pressing cool fingertips against your injuries, golden light shimmering between his hands. He doesn’t speak, just concentrates, the tension in his shoulders betraying more than he’d ever say aloud. “You are a force of nature,” he mutters finally, exasperated. “A clumsy force of nature.”

- And yet, despite all his frustration, all his complaints, it is his cloak that wraps around you when you’re tired, his magic that cushions your steps, his hands that linger, tracing soft patterns against your skin long after the bruises have faded. At night, when you murmur sleepily about how he’s overprotective, he only pulls you closer, voice quiet against your ear. “Someone has to be.”

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

Namor

- Namor watches you as one might observe an impending shipwreck—equal parts fascination and inevitability. “You are…” he begins, pausing as you trip over absolutely nothing and barely catch yourself against the nearest surface. He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…a disaster.” But there is something almost fond in the way he says it, as though he has already accepted your fate as an unstoppable force of chaos.

- It does not take long for him to forbid you from walking unassisted near the palace’s more perilous edges. “You are fragile,” he declares, tone imperious, brooking no argument. “And you will not test the patience of the sea.” You scoff, rolling your eyes, but he merely crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You think me overprotective? I think you underestimate your own recklessness.”

- When you return to him with yet another bruise blooming across your skin, he does not scold you. He does not chastise. Instead, he looks at you for a long moment, something dangerous and unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes. And then, with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like surrender, he scoops you into his arms and strides toward the ocean. “What—? Namor!” you protest, but he does not stop. “If the land insists on bruising you,” he says, wading into the waves, “then perhaps you should take refuge where it cannot reach you.”

- The water cradles you as he holds you close, the salt healing, the sea itself shifting to accommodate you. “The ocean does not break so easily,” he murmurs against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. “Perhaps you should learn from her.” And yet, for all his talk of resilience, his hands remain gentle, steadying you as though even he fears how easily you might slip through his fingers.

- There is a moment, quiet and rare, when he traces a fading bruise along your arm with something like reverence. “The land does not deserve you,” he mutters. “It does not know what it has.” And then, softer, almost to himself—“Perhaps I should steal you away.” It is not a threat. It is not a promise. It is simply the thought of a king who does not share his treasures with the undeserving world.

- Johnny has seen pain. He’s seen bodies burn and souls wither, seen the way suffering etches itself into people like a brand. But you—you bruise like a peach, delicate and fleeting, and it makes something in him twist in a way he doesn’t know how to name. He watches you trip, watches you collide with the world, and it’s not the pain that unsettles him—it’s how easily you laugh about it, how you wave it off like it’s nothing. Like you don’t realize how breakable you are.

- “Babe,” he drawls, lifting your wrist, examining the fresh bloom of purple beneath your skin. His fingers are calloused, rough in a way that should be too much, but his touch is gentle. Reverent, even. “You ever think about not throwing yourself at death every other hour?” He says it lightly, but his eyes flicker with something else, something darker. Something that says he knows exactly how fragile life is. And it scares him.

- The first time you fall in front of him, he doesn’t catch you—he doesn’t have the reflexes of a hero, doesn’t have the instinct to soften the world. He’s used to destruction, to things breaking permanently. But he does something else. His hands light up instinctively, flames flickering in his palms, and for the first time, heat wraps around you instead of cold, buffering your impact. “That was new,” he mutters as he helps you up, eyes still glowing faintly. “Guess my body decided I have to keep you intact.”

- He gets angry—not at you, never at you, but at whatever unseen force keeps sending you stumbling into harm’s way. “It’s like you attract pain,” he growls after yet another scrape, another bruise, his fingers flexing with barely restrained frustration. He doesn’t do helplessness well. So instead, he teaches you how to land right, how to fall without it hurting so damn much. “You’re not gonna stop running into things,” he says, resigned. “So at least learn how to hit the ground better.”

- At night, when the fire is low and the world is quiet, he traces the places where pain has kissed you. His hands, so often clenched into fists, smooth over your skin with something close to reverence. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs against your hair, voice softer than he’d ever admit in daylight. You hum, half-asleep, and he exhales, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “I already got enough ghosts,” he whispers. “Don’t make me add you to ‘em.”

Eddie Brock / Venom

- The first time Venom notices your clumsiness, it hates it. “SHE IS DELICATE,” the symbiote snarls, its voice a guttural growl in Eddie’s head. “SHE FALLS LIKE A DYING ANIMAL.” Eddie sighs, rubbing his temples. “Yeah, bud, I see that.” But when you trip for the third time that day, Venom is offended. It doesn’t understand why you keep hurting yourself. “UNACCEPTABLE,” it hisses. And just like that, you have an overprotective alien bodyguard.

- Eddie, for his part, is torn between amusement and exasperation. “Babe,” he says, guiding you away from the eighth table corner you’ve hit that week. “How do you function?” But the teasing doesn’t last long, not when he sees the bruises, the little winces you try to hide. That’s when the humor fades, replaced by something else. Something possessive. “You’re ours,” Venom growls one night, curling around you like living armor. “We do not let what is ours get hurt.”

- Venom actively prevents you from getting injured. When you stumble, inky tendrils lash out, steadying you before you can hit the ground. When you reach for something sharp, something dangerous, the symbiote moves it, shifting reality around you to keep you safe. It gets frustrated when you still manage to find ways to get hurt. “SHE DEFIES LOGIC,” it complains. “SHE SEEKS OUT DESTRUCTION.” Eddie sighs. “Buddy, she’s just clumsy.”

- Eddie pretends to be indifferent, but you know him. You see the way his jaw clenches when he notices new bruises, the way his fingers flex like he wants to fight whatever inanimate object wronged you. “I know it’s not a person,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna punch something.” Venom, unhelpfully, adds, “WE WILL KILL THE TABLE.” Eddie groans. “We’re not killing the table.”

- At night, when you curl against him, Venom wraps around you both, a cocoon of inky black warmth. Eddie traces absent patterns over your skin, his fingers ghosting over bruises with something close to reverence. “Y’know,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead. “For someone so damn fragile, you sure take a beating.” You hum sleepily, and Venom purrs around you, protective and possessive and endlessly devoted. “OURS,” it whispers. And you know, without a doubt, that it will never let you fall alone.

Muse

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa moves like poetry, every step precise, every motion purposeful. He does not stumble, does not falter, does not yield to anything less than absolute control. And then there is you—soft, chaotic, forever colliding with the world like a wayward star. He watches, fascinated and exasperated in equal measure, as you misjudge a doorway again and clip your shoulder against the frame. He sighs, closing the book in his hands. “My love,” he says, voice smooth as still water, “are you at war with inanimate objects? Or do you simply enjoy losing to them?”

- He does not laugh at your clumsiness, though a smile often tugs at his lips when you fumble gracelessly into his arms. “Mm,” he muses, catching you effortlessly. “How convenient. It seems I am your refuge, once more.” There is amusement in his voice, but also something warmer—something indulgent, something fond. He does not need you to be perfect. He only needs you to be his.

- Wakanda’s technology adapts to you with quiet precision. Furniture shifts subtly out of your path. Doors widen at just the right moment. The palace corridors, once an intricate maze of sharp corners and regal opulence, now seem to flow around you like a river carving space through stone. “You think me excessive,” he remarks one evening, tracing a careful finger over the fresh bruise on your knee. “But I am a king, beloved. And it is my duty to protect what is mine.”

- When the bruises come, he treats them with reverence, his hands steady as he applies a salve crafted just for you. “Vibranium enhances healing,” he explains, voice low, rich, soothing. “It will lessen the ache.” But there is something in the way he lingers, something in the way his fingers glide over each mark, that betrays the deeper truth—he hates to see you hurt, even in the smallest of ways. He would raze nations for you, but against your own wayward steps, he is powerless. It frustrates him more than he will ever admit.

- And yet, late at night, when the weight of his kingdom is too much to bear, he finds solace in your presence. Finds peace in the way you curl against him, careless in your softness, in your ease, in your unrelenting humanness. “You are chaos,” he murmurs against your hair, amused and reverent all at once. “And yet, somehow, you bring me peace.”

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra is grace incarnate, a blade honed to perfection, a whisper of red silk against the dark. And then there is you, a creature of unintended violence, of misplaced steps and unintentional collisions. The first time she watches you walk directly into the corner of a table, she merely tilts her head, expression unreadable. “You are… fascinating,” she says at last, watching as you rub your arm with a wince. “And utterly defenseless.”

- She does not understand it at first—the way you allow the world to hurt you, as though you have no instinct for self-preservation. “Your body is a temple,” she tells you one evening, fingers ghosting over the constellation of bruises scattered across your skin. “Why do you let it be desecrated so carelessly?” But there is no judgment in her voice. Only curiosity. Only something sharp and knowing, something that feels dangerously close to care.

- She starts moving differently around you. Not obviously—not the way lesser people might—but in ways that matter. A hand at your lower back, subtly guiding. A sudden shift in position, intercepting your path before disaster can strike. A flick of her wrist that sends a stray object skidding out of your way before you can trip over it. You never see her do it. You only feel the absence of pain, the absence of disaster, and the silent weight of her gaze as she watches you, always watching.

- “Your luck is remarkable,” she muses one evening, twirling a dagger between deft fingers. “That you have made it this far, untouched by the world’s cruelties.” Her voice is unreadable, but her eyes are not. There is something dark in them, something possessive. As though she alone is allowed to mark you. As though the world itself has no right to harm what she has claimed.

- She never says the words, never softens in the ways you might expect, but when she pulls you into her lap, when she traces absent patterns over your skin, when she presses her lips to each fading bruise as though sealing them away—that is her devotion. She is a creature of war, but for you, she will be a shield.

- Muse finds your clumsiness beautiful. He doesn’t see accidents; he sees art. The way you stumble, the way your body meets the world with reckless abandon—it’s a performance, a dance only he can truly appreciate. “Fascinating,” he murmurs after you trip, his eerie, empty eyes drinking in the sight. “Such graceful destruction.”

- He paints your bruises. Not with actual paint—no, he uses his hands, his mouth, his presence. He traces the purple stains blooming beneath your skin, committing them to memory, adoring them. “A masterpiece in flesh,” he whispers, pressing his lips against a particularly dark bruise. “You walk through life like a canvas left to the mercy of the world.” There is no pity in him, only reverence.

- He doesn’t stop you from getting hurt. Why would he? Pain is an artist’s language, and you—you are his magnum opus. He watches as you collide with existence, as you collect the evidence of your mortality, and he loves it. “Every mark tells a story,” he muses, his fingers ghosting over your skin. “A testimony of movement. Of impact.” He smiles, sharp and unhinged. “Of life.”

- But for all his fixation, he is not indifferent. No, when you truly hurt yourself, when you cry out—something in him snaps. The world shifts, reality bending to the will of a mind unmoored. “No,” he breathes, his voice lilting, distant. “No, no, no. This is wrong.” And suddenly, the thing that harmed you—be it a person, an object, the air itself—becomes a target. He erases it. Obliterates it from existence. And then he turns to you, tilting his head. “I prefer when the world marks you softly,” he murmurs. “Only I am allowed to make you truly suffer.”

- At night, he watches you sleep, eyes unblinking, hands still moving, still creating. He maps out every bruise, every scrape, carving them into his mind like sacred scripture. And as you breathe, as you rest in the arms of something not quite human, he leans down, whispering against your skin. “You are a masterpiece in motion,” he murmurs. “And I will watch you fall until the end of time.”

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not tolerate weakness, nor does he suffer foolishness. And yet, you—his beloved—possess both in abundance, an infuriating contradiction wrapped in beauty. He watches as you stumble through his castle halls, colliding with ancient Latverian artifacts, knocking over things that should not be knocked over. “Again?” he drawls, arms crossed, as you nurse yet another bruise. “Must I encase you in armor simply to keep you upright?” The remark is laced with exasperation, but the way his gloved hand lingers against your injured skin betrays something deeper.

- The first time you fall in his presence, Doom does not reach for you. He is not one to coddle. But his magic moves before he can think, catching you mid-collapse, suspending you in the air like a marionette in invisible strings. “Hmph,” he muses, as if analyzing a puzzle. “A clumsy creature, yet I cannot abide the thought of you damaged.” And just like that, you are lowered to the ground, untouched by harm. His voice is softer then, begrudgingly so. “Try not to make this a habit.”

- Doom solves problems, and your perpetual clumsiness is one he refuses to leave unchecked. You wake one morning to find your world altered—corners of tables dulled, Latverian marble floors softened ever so slightly, even the air shifting subtly to break your falls before you hit the ground. You glance at him, suspicion blooming. “Victor,” you say slowly, “did you…modify reality to childproof the castle?” He doesn’t look up from his work, but his lips curl into something smug. “Doom merely enhances what is flawed.”

- He lectures you whenever he finds new bruises. “Do you have no spatial awareness? No sense of self-preservation?” His hands, clad in cold metal, trace the injuries with something dangerously close to tenderness. “You walk through the world as if you are untouchable.” He pauses, voice lowering to something unreadable. “But you are touchable. And that…is unacceptable.” You don’t need to ask what he means. Doom does not lose what is his.

- At night, when the world is quiet and his mask is cast aside, his fingers brush over the marks on your skin. No one else is permitted to witness this: the way his jaw tightens, the way his touch gentles. “Latveria’s queen,” he murmurs, barely audible, “should not bear wounds from her own foolishness.” He exhales sharply, pressing his lips against your temple. “I will not allow the world to hurt you.” A pause. “Not even yourself.”

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter finds your clumsiness adorable. Where Doom sees a problem to be solved, Peter sees endless entertainment. “Babe, you’re like…a baby deer,” he laughs as you trip over absolutely nothing on the Milano’s deck. “Like, you got the vibes of someone graceful, but your body just betrays you.” He catches you before you hit the ground, grinning as he holds you close. “Lucky for you, you got me. I’m like your personal superhero and your crash pad.”

- The problem is, Peter is also kind of clumsy. Which means, sometimes, instead of catching you, he also trips, sending you both sprawling in a tangled heap. “Okay, that one was not my fault,” he insists, flat on his back. “We’re just, like, cosmically doomed to fall together.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Metaphor for love?” You groan, swatting at him, and he only laughs.

- He starts keeping a running tally of your bruises. “Alright, babe, let’s see—knee from the control panel, elbow from Gamora’s sword rack, forehead from the freakin’ doorframe—” He clicks his tongue. “We’re gonna run outta room soon.” But despite the teasing, his hands are always so gentle when he checks you over, his usual playfulness softening into something warmer. “Y’know,” he murmurs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “maybe the universe keeps knockin’ you around ‘cause it knows I’ll always be here to catch you.”

- The other Guardians get involved. Rocket builds you a helmet (“Ya clearly need it, sweetheart”), while Drax solemnly declares that he will “eliminate” any object that dares to harm you. “That is…not necessary,” you assure him as he glares at a particularly sharp table corner. Peter just beams. “See, babe? You got a whole crew of bodyguards. Ain’t that nice?”

- Late at night, when the others are asleep and the stars stretch endlessly beyond the ship’s windows, he pulls you into his lap, fingers tracing absent patterns over the bruises on your arms. “You ever notice,” he murmurs, “how you bruise kinda pretty?” You huff against his shoulder. “That shouldn’t be a compliment.” But he just kisses the top of your head, voice softer than usual. “Still is.” And when he whispers, “Don’t go breaking yourself too bad, okay? I kinda like you in one piece,” it’s almost too quiet for you to hear. Almost.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Nova is alarmed by how often you get hurt. He doesn’t understand how someone can be so beautiful yet so accident-prone. “Babe, you literally survived intergalactic wars with me,” he says, exasperated, “and yet a coffee table is your worst enemy?” You pout. “It came out of nowhere.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s been in the same place forever.”

- He starts using his helmet’s sensors to track your movement. If you so much as stumble, he’s there, catching you before you can even process the fall. “I got, like, cosmic-level reflexes, babe,” he brags, grinning. “You are officially under Nova Corps protection.” You squint at him. “Did you really just use space cop powers to stop me from tripping?” He smirks. “And I’d do it again.”

- But beneath the teasing, there’s worry. He’s lost too much—friends, home, whole planets—and every little bruise on you is another reminder of how easily things can be taken. “I know it’s dumb,” he admits one night, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but every time I see you hurt, even just a little, it just—it freaks me out, okay?” He sighs, pulling you into his arms, holding you tight. “I don’t wanna lose one more thing I love.”

- He doesn’t try to fix you. He doesn’t wrap you in cosmic energy or change the world around you. He just adapts. He positions himself at your side when you walk, places a steadying hand at the small of your back, moves things subtly out of your way before you can even reach them. He doesn’t make you notice. He just…does it. Because loving you means protecting you, even from yourself.

- “Y’know,” he murmurs as you both float above the atmosphere, weightless, surrounded by stars, “you can’t trip in zero gravity.” You smile, pressing a hand to his chest. “Maybe we should just stay up here forever, then.” He chuckles, tilting his forehead against yours. “Tempting,” he whispers. “But, uh… I kinda like keeping my feet on the ground, if it means keeping you from falling.”

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dandelionsresilience · 4 months ago

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Dandelion News - January 15-21

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1. Landmark debt swap to protect Indonesia’s coral reefs

“The government of Indonesia announced this week a deal to redirect more than US$ 35 million it owes to the United States into the conservation of coral reefs in the most biodiverse ocean area on Earth.”

2. [FWS] Provides Over $1.3 Billion to Support Fish and Wildlife Conservation and Outdoor Access

“Through these combined funds, agencies have supported monitoring and management of over 500 species of wild mammals and birds, annual stocking of over 1 billion fish, operations of fish and wildlife disease laboratories around the country, and provided hunter and aquatic education to millions of students.”

3. Philippine Indigenous communities restore a mountain forest to prevent urban flooding

“Indigenous knowledge systems and practices are considered in the project design, and its leaders and members have been involved throughout the process, from agreeing to participate to identifying suitable land and selecting plant species that naturally grow in the area.”

4. Responsible Offshore Wind Development is a Clear Win for Birds, the U.S. Economy, and our Climate

“[T]he total feasible offshore wind capacity along U.S. coasts is more than three times the total electricity generated nationwide in 2023. […] Proven strategies, such as reducing visible lights on turbines and using perching deterrents on turbines, have been effective in addressing bird impacts.”

5. Illinois awards $100M for electric truck charging corridor, Tesla to get $40M

“The project will facilitate the construction of 345 electric truck charging ports and pull-through truck charging stalls across 14 sites throughout Illinois[…. E]lectrifying [the 30,000 daily long-haul] trucks would make a huge impact in the public health and quality of life along the heavily populated roadways.”

6. Reinventing the South Florida seawall to help marine life, buffer rising seas

“[The new seawall] features raised areas inspired by mangrove roots that are intended to both provide nooks and crannies for fish and crabs and other marine creatures and also better absorb some of the impact from waves and storm surges.”

7. Long Beach Commits to 100% All-Electric Garbage Trucks

“[Diesel garbage trucks] produce around a quarter of all diesel pollution in California and contribute to 1,400 premature deaths every year. Electric options, on the other hand, are quieter than their diesel counterparts and produce zero tailpipe emissions.”

8. ‘This Is a Victory': Biden Affirms ERA Has Been 'Ratified' and Law of the Land

“President Joe Biden on Friday announced his administration's official opinion that the amendment is ratified and its protections against sex-based discrimination are enshrined in the U.S. Constitution.”

9. A Little-Known Clean Energy Solution Could Soon Reach ‘Liftoff’

“Ground source heat pumps could heat and cool the equivalent of 7 million homes by 2035—up from just over 1 million today[…. G]eothermal energy is generally considered to be more popular among Republicans than other forms of clean energy, such as wind and solar.”

10. Researchers combine citizens' help and cutting-edge tech to track biodiversity

“Researchers in the project, which runs from 2022 to 2026, are experimenting with tools like drones, cameras and sensors to collect detailed data on different species, [… and] Observation.org, a global biodiversity platform where people submit pictures of animals and plants, helping to identify and monitor them.”

January 8-14 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

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thisisntmyrightera · 4 months ago

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Together - CHO HYUN-JU x Fem Reader Part 5

Summary: Reader is scammed and abandoned by her boyfriend, leaving her alone in South Korea to her fate, so in desperate search of a solution to return to her home country she decides to join the squid games to get money, within the game she meets a couple of people who become her friends and could possibly be something more.

Warning: Violence, homophobia mention of attempted rape and sexist language

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''Get on the floor, I'll be on top of you, don't open your eyes or make any noise, no matter what happens or what you hear, don't move, do you understand?''

Those words from Hyun-Ju repeated themselves in my head as we slowly descended the stairs from the beds without making a sound.

She was in front of me, holding my hand, no one made a single noise as everyone went down to their respective hiding place.

Once down in the darkness, I could feel her hand take my shoulder, indicating that I should crouch down, with my chest on the floor, I slid under the bed, crossing my arms against the floor, hiding my face between them as I closed my eyes.

I could feel Hyun-Ju's weight on me, her chest pressed against my back as she breathed heavily without making a sound, her arms around my head and her legs around mine, making it impossible for me to move a single centimeter.

From one second to the next the screams of people being killed and those who killed them was the only sound around as some cursed each other, structures falling and bodies crashing against the floor.

Shh… I'm here - Hyun-Ju whispered in my ear placing her hands on my ears trying to silence the chaos around me, but I could still notice it, it was impossible not to notice the hatred in that room

''When the lights turn on and the soldiers intervene, they will control the situation''

That made sense when the door alarm sounded.

Now - Hyun-Ju said whispering getting off of me pulling my arm to leave me in sight of the soldiers, carefully I took some blood from the floor placing it on my clothes, Hyun-Ju barely managed to stain her hands and lay down next to me both pretending to be dead in that pitched battle.

''They're going to be busy stopping those who fight and they're not going to pay attention to the dead, they're going to start scanning the fallen to verify their identity then…we attack them''

Gi-Hun was the first to attack and when I felt the cold sensor of a guard on my neck to scan my pulse, it was my turn.

My legs pushed up, surrounding the guard's neck as well as his arms allowing Hyun-Ju to take the gun from his belt and shoot him in the head.

STAND BEHIND ME - She screamed pushing me quickly while shooting at the guards, one after another fell but out of nowhere others appeared

It was when I was able to reach one of the many fallen soldiers taking the gun from his belt aiming at one of the guards who was approaching from the bed shelves, hitting him in the chest making him fall to the floor

Another shot, towards another soldier, one who was approaching from behind us hitting him in the forehead.

What are you doing? - Hyun-Ju looked at me as she changed her weapon to a machine gun

Shut up - I pointed at her firing over her shoulder, shooting at the guard who was approaching from behind - shoot and stop looking at me

Yes ma'am - she loaded her weapon firing around, with military precision that made one soldier after another fall with one shot

''Attention, retreat'' the speaker talk

All the soldiers ran towards the door making it easier to target the shots, only a few were able to get out, one more stayed inside and surrendered dropping his weapons.

STOP FIRE! DO NOT SHOOT ANYMORE - Gi-Hun shouted making us lower our weapons looking around looking for someone who was still alive and was about to attack

Is… Is there something else you do that I don't know? - Hyun-Ju looked at me breathing heavily

I'll show you later - I smiled at her climbing onto the bed platform shooting at the camera, then at the other while Hyun-Ju shot at the rest until finishing off all the ones surrounding the room - are you okay? - I looked at Dae-Ho hiding behind an overturned bed covering his ears - Dae-Ho?…- I lightly touched his shoulder making him jump screaming and look at me scared

YN… are you… are you…- he looked at me upset smiling as he stood up

Are you okay?…- I looked at him curiously as I noticed how he rubbed his hands and quickly arranged his hair behind his ears

Yes I… everything… everything okay, how are you? - she smiled without stopping moving

Okay.. - i told him

YN..come with me - Hyun-Ju called me making my attention return to her while she went to where 246 organized the ammunition and weapons he found - is something wrong? - she looked at me curiously while I directed my gaze back to Dae-Ho

I don't know… didn't Dae-Ho say he was a marine? - I looked at her curiously while I left my weapon on the mattress with the rest

I don't know, listen to me we're going out and I want you to stay here understood? - she looked at me adjusting her weapon on her shoulder

No…but Hyun-Ju I want to go with you…

No, I'm not going to let you go out and it's not something to discuss, you're going to stay here understood? - her hand slowly and carefully arranged my hair behind my ear mockingly while i rolled my eyes annoyed- you're going to wait for me here and when I come back we'll leave ok?

And what happens if you don't come back?…- I looked at her crossing my arms annoyed of following her decisions - then you'll go from here and live your life understood? you'll be very happy and you'll never accept proposals from strangers again - she smiled at me bringing her hands to her neck opening her necklace and then placing it around my neck and tying it - as long as you wear this necklace I'll be with you and I already know that you're not afraid of anything, but even so I'll always take care of you okay?

Please come back okay? - I hugged her tightly, surrounding her body with my arms while she wrapped her arms around my shoulders and took a deep breath trying not to show fear

I'll be back, I promise - she smiled against my hair, barely kissing my forehead as she moved away from me a little and smiled - I think you can do something to help

What is it? - I looked at her, following her to where the rest of the men were holding a gun. She took a machine gun from the mattress and looked at me, offering it to me - do you want to learn how to use it?

Yes..- I smiled at her nodding as I took it and she adjusted the one hanging from her shoulder between her hands watching as some of the men had difficulty using it, including Dae-Ho

Hyun-Ju sounded so natural explaining how to use the weapon, as she removed the magazine and put it back in explaining how to take off the safety, reload and how to adjust the number of bullets to fire, everyone paying attention to her following her orders

Gi-Hun - Hyun-Ju called him nervously with some respect in her voice- Y/N will stay here, she…she will take care of whoever stays in this room

That's fine…thanks - Gi-Hun looked at me smiling a little nodding approving Hyun-Ju's decision

After that, everyone left taking the guard as a hostage, I could barely look at them turning quickly heading to where Geum-Ja and Yong-Sik were sitting next to them while taking a breath trying to stop my tears from falling

She will come back baby, trust me - Geum-Ja hugged me rubbing my back - don't worry

Y/N… you are… very brave - Yong-Sik looked at me nervously adjusting his glasses- I didn't know you could shoot

Thanks Yong-Sik - I smiled shyly as I felt everyone's gazes on me

Too brave, you are a woman after all and we will always be the strongest - Geum-Ja smiled at me looking around with the many gazes of the men on me- all of you should feel ashamed for not going out to defend your people, damn cowards, let me be an example of how a woman will take care of her asses

Mom… stop.. - Yong-Sik looked at her nervously sitting down while trying to calm his mother - why don' you... tell us Y/N how do you know how to shoot, you too Are you a soldier or something like Hyun-Ju?

No..I'm not, I have two older brothers and where I come from hunting is common, I learned to use a gun when I was a child and when my older brother enlisted in the army he…helped me perfect my shooting, he said it was just in case - I smiled shyly looking at the floor while holding the gun tightly

Ah..I see - he smiled curiously - I see why you are so brave it's…nice how you and Hyun-Ju found each other and both take care of each other, I wish I could find someone like that

Geum-Ja patted his back giving her just a few words when we all stayed silent listening to the shots in the distance, there was no pause, one shot after another came out of the weapons

Afterwards they stopped for a couple of minutes, everything was silent, not even the echo of the shots could be distinguished from the silence around making the pressure in the environment still felt Worse

You know…what's the best of all? - Yong-Sik looked at me breathing nervously and slowly - when Hyun-Ju and you have babies…and they ask you what their mother taught you, you'll tell them that she taught you to use a machine gun and not something boring at home.

Oh Yong-Sik - Geum-Ja sighed covering her face while I couldn't control a small laughter making Yong-Sik look at us disoriented not knowing if he had said something offensive but clearly he had made the atmosphere lighter

That would be nice Yong-Sik..- I smiled at him pushing him a little making him smile

Afterwards…again the shots, one after another without pause, not even giving the echo a chance to resonate in the place, each time, it diminished a little more, one weapon after another was silenced and in my mind, I only prayed that the weapon that kept firing was Hyun-Ju's

Calm down..-Geum-Ja took my hand - let's trust her

Magazine…magazine in the suits - Dae-Ho ran in nervously stumbling

Dae-Ho?…-I got up quickly going to him while running from one side to the other - Dae-Ho what are you doing?

I came for this..-he looked at me nervously showing me the magazines - the guards have ammunition in their suits I need all that they have

Okay, I'll help you - I dropped my weapon on my shoulder searching through all the soldiers' suits and leaving them on a bloody sweater - these are all I found, are they enough?

Yes…yes - he looked at me nodding nervously trying to leave quickly while hugging the ammunition in his arms

Dae-Ho..Hyun-Ju is okay? - I stopped him, watching as his face changed rapidly, his gaze no longer seemed innocent or nervous, his hands stopped shaking and tightened the green cloth that surrounded the ammunition and his lips pursed, making his jaw stand out

I don't know… she separated from the group..- he looked at me, leaving quickly, almost running, leaving me static in place

A couple of seconds later, he returned with a lost look dragging his feet without saying a single word

Dae-Ho?..- we all followed him with our eyes while he walked aimlessly - Dae-Ho where are the others?…where is Hyun-Ju?..- I reached him taking him by the arm making him look at me in silence- WHAT HAPPENED TO HYUN-JU- I held him moving him trying to get him to tell me something but he only looked at me in silence and shook his head getting out of my hand heading towards a dark place..

Fuck - I took the gun and a charger running towards the door feeling a tug on my arm that made me stop

where are you going? Hyun-Ju told you not to go out there..- Geum-Ja looked at me with wet eyes - don't go

She needs me and I'm not going to let her die like that, hide and if something happens don't come out of where you hid okay? - I took her hand for the last time before running away looking around

I went up and down one staircase after another following the sound of the shots pointing the gun forward hoping to find a soldier in a pink uniform and shoot him, but I only found their bodies lying around.

I continued my way until I turned right and found a purple, long and lonely hallway that led to a dark door, with no one in it, no bodies or armed people

I went up slowly, pointing forward looking around looking for cameras that could interfere with my alibi, but it seemed like everything was clean.

A couple of steps separated me from that door, I was so close when I felt cold on my head, something firm and icy that made me stop breathing while I froze

Drop the gun… - I could hear the distorted voice behind the mask, without thinking I slowly took out the gun while I slowly crouched down leaving it on the floor and raised my hands getting up again - walk… - this time the cold object moved from my head to the center of my back pushing me to go back the way I had taken before, again I returned to the room where all the other players were…

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Hyun-Ju POV

DAE-HO…Dae-ho…where are you? - My eyes moved around the room looking for him while everyone looked at me and Geum-Ja pointed with her trembling hand to one side of the room between the darkness and piled up mattresses - Dae-Ho, did something happen? Are you okay?

His gaze was lost while his body trembled and he stammered incoherently

Dae-Ho… - I took him by the shoulders slowly making him jump scared covering his face shouting - Where is the ammunition?

He looked at me but didn't answer, he just trembled and stammered

Hyun-Ju…- I heard Geum-Ja's voice calling me while she took the chargers from between Dae-Ho's legs that were still on a bloody sweater - Hyun…Hyun-Ju…

Her hand took my arm, making me turn to look at her with wet eyes and trembling hands while she held on tightly to the fabric of my sweater, her voice seemed to say something but no words came out

Where is Y/N..? - I looked at her understanding her concern - where…where is she?

Geum-Ja just covered her face sobbing while Yong-Sik took her arms to hold her

She… left when Dae-Ho could no longer get out… she said she would go help you because you would need her…- Yong-Sik looked at me with his wet eyes

No… NO, WHY DID THEY LET HER GO - I looked at them feeling my heart jump uncontrollably while my trembling hands grabbed the magazines I could to run out to look for her

''Come in'' sounded on the speaker making the doors open at the same time letting in the soldiers who were shooting into the air making me stop and hiding between the beds so I could change the magazine and shoot them one by one to get out again

No..- A warm hand took my hand stopping me making me turn around looking at Geum-Ja while tears ran down her face - not like that… you must not die like that….

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Alexa play a sad song cause the next episode is the last one..

With the next episode I will end this story, it will have two alternative endings which will be tagged at the end and everyone will decide which one you want to read, if you are team ANGST or team FLUFF you decide.

Thank you all for reading, I really appreciate you, your messages and comments make me feel very happy and complete.

Thanks for reading, I'll be back soon!

Tag List!

@kuureii @sann1e @sunflowers-are-heaven @bridellashiper @etta-huracan @cupiid1 @alianacelinecolux @juliexz @duchcess @stvrdustalexx @styles-weasley @cupiid1 @babyzzlove @captainlunaxmen @lobotomyrealness @mariaxman @s-riddle16 @flowersbloom8787 @danisika @learninglinesintherainn @sl33pycaaat @mikuley @estelaig @swxggriffinsworld @anxietyspacestart

#squid game #squid game 2 #cho hyunju #cho hyun ju #cho hyun-ju #squid game imagine #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #cho hyun ju x reader #cho hyun ju imagine #cho hyun ju fluff #cho hyunju imagine #park sunghoon imagine #park sunghoon #park sung hoon #park sung hoon imagine #park sung hoon x reader #park sunghoon x reader

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sneha02246 · 9 months ago

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How OCTIOT Smart Solutions Reduce Electricity Consumption?

In the present-day environmentally aware society, a foremost concern for both corporate and household entities is reducing electrical energy usage. OCTIOT, as the pioneer in intelligent lighting alternatives, offers high-tech devices that improve performance and considerably lower power fees. In this article, we will discuss how OCTIOT smart solutions reduce electricity consumption.

Intelligent Motion Sensor Technology

Precision Detection

Throughout this time when human beings have started valuing their surroundings, probably electric consumption remains a top priority for individual consumers as well as organizations. As a leader in CCMS lighting solutions, OCTIOT provides advanced devices that enhance productivity and considerably reduce energy costs. In this piece of writing, I will elaborate on some of the ways that OCTIOT smart technologies are employed to decrease electric usage.

Adaptive Sensitivity

Different environments are catered for by OCTIOT movement sensors which are very responsive. This is possible as it allows one to programme the sensitivity depending on the time of day, movement patterns in a given room, or certain criteria about that room’s requirements; hence, fake movements can be avoided and therefore reduce power loss.

Automated Lighting Controls

Scheduling and Timing

OCTIOT intelligent illumination systems incorporate customizable time schedules and clocks. Users can choose the exact times of turning on or off the bulbs coinciding with work hours thereby saving energy during peak times. This kind of programming prevents leaving lights on by mistake hence resulting in a great reduction in the consumption of electric power.

Daylight Harvesting

The lighting that is being used can be made to adjust itself according to available sunlight, this is a feature found in OCTIOT systems. These solutions, which utilize natural light effectively, reduce the amount of power consumed while at the same time improving the atmosphere of illumination.

Energy-Efficient LED Technology

High Efficiency

The motion sensor high bay lights from OCTIOT are fitted with LED technology that is characterized by high efficiency and long life. It takes much less energy to run LEDs than it does to run traditional kinds of illumination like incandescent or fluorescent lamps, meaning that they can save as much as 80% in terms of energy costs.

Dimming Capabilities

OCTIOT intelligent lighting shows dimming functions that help keep them low-powered when full brightness is unrequired. Not only do these functionalities conserve energy but prolong the lifespan of these lamps consequently decreasing power expenditure and upkeep expenses.

Real-Time Energy Monitoring and Analytics

Usage Insights

OCTIOT’s intelligent illumination systems supply energy monitoring and analytics in real-time while allowing customers to analyze electricity usage trends. Such close tracking enables them to recognize wasteful energy practices and optimize consumption decisions accordingly.

Predictive Maintenance

The smart analytics feature also comprises predictive maintenance which notifies users of impending difficulties before they get out of hand. By taking care of maintenance urgencies quickly, companies can prevent energy loss due to broken sensors or lighting.

Seamless Integration with Smart Grids and IoT

Smart Grid Compatibility

Smart grids can be seamlessly integrated with OCTIOT solutions to allow for more effective energy distribution and utilization. This ensures that lighting systems help support electricity transmission and circulation for enhanced power grid performance while reducing pressures on power networks.

IoT Integration

OCTIOT’s smart lighting solutions may combine with other IoT devices and building management systems, resulting in a unified and extremely effective atmosphere. Such integration enables energy-saving measures to be coordinated, such as changing the light according to the fact that other IoT devices have detected people coming into or leaving the room.

Case Study: Real-World Savings

Warehousing Industry

The OCTIOT motion sensor high bay lights installed in an industrial warehouse resulted in a significant reduction in power consumption. With high-accuracy detection, adaptable sensitivity and automatic mechanisms, the warehouse cut down its power consumption for lighting by 60%. Besides, real-time monitoring and analytics optimised further use thus saving 70% in energy over six months.

Conclusion

The electricity consumption can be reduced by adopting OCTIOT smart solutions. Utilizing motion sensors, automated control systems, energy-saving LED lights and big data analytics, it helps in realizing significant power savings through the use of intelligent controls. Those who wish to not only decrease their electricity bills but also play a part in achieving a greener world should adopt OCTIOT smart lighting solutions.

mSmart illumination systems plus IoT contributions that are creative by OCTIOT give firms a very strong instrument for lowering their carbon footprint. By applying advanced motion-sensing technology, automated controls, energy-efficient LEDs, real-time monitoring devices and an integrated sensors solution with smart grids and IoT, this organization enables other companies to save on energy hence reducing the release of carbon gases into the atmosphere.

#motion sensor light #smart sensor lighting #sensor lighting solutions #sensor solutions #electricity consumption #election 2024 #electronic

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octiot1 · 9 days ago

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Presence Sensor vs True Presence Sensor in India

By TRUEiSENSE – India’s Trusted Name in Sensor Lighting Solutions

As India rushes toward smarter homes and energy-efficient commercial spaces, lighting automation is no longer a luxury—it's a necessity. One of the most underrated yet powerful technologies is at the heart of this transformation: presence sensing. At TRUEiSENSE, we specialise in cutting-edge presence sensors and sensor lighting solutions that elevate comfort, save energy, and create smarter living and working environments. But when it comes to choosing the right sensor, there's often confusion between a standard presence sensor and a True Presence Sensor. Let’s break it down for you. Visit Here: https://trueisense.in/blogs/indias-no-1-true-presence-sensing-technology/presence-sensor-vs-true-presence-sensor-in-india

#presence sensor #lighting solution #sensor solution

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jpitha · 2 months ago

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Simple Solutions

There were many reasons Zil hated working on a human ship. They hated how everyone went into one big room to eat. Consuming calories for life was a private thing for the Xerilan; an unfortunate side effect of life that was better done out of sight of everyone. The humans did it all together, all sound and smells and noise. Going into the canteen at lunchtime was an assault on their senses.

They hated how the deck plates felt. Xerilan ships used a polymer covering for the floors, nice, soft, quiet. The humans used whatever alloy of iron they acquired from the lowest bidder. It was cold, and loud, and hurt their heels when they walked.

But, what they hated the most were the alarms.

Human alarms were loud, brash, violent affairs. Lights would flash, horns would honk, and some even added elements of vibration. When asked, the humans told them they wanted to make sure that everyone reacted to the alarm. Zil practically went catatonic at the noise. They received special training before taking their post on the human ship and still they had to fight the urge to roll into a ball every time the alarm sounded, and it sounded a lot.

There were alarms for battle - which was fortunately infrequent - alarms when the reactors ramped up, alarms for when they would need to secure for maneuvering, for when gravity was going to change. Zil was almost sure they heard an alarm for the start of a new day.

Zil was leaving his quarters, heading down to the greenhouse to begin his shift when the alarm sounded. This time, the alarm was different. Even they had to admit this one worried them. It sounded dangerous. It was high and trilling with a mid range warbling and even a brassy low range which made their own sounding plates vibrate unpleasantly. As soon as it started, literally everyone dropped what they were doing - some literally - and began to run.

It was the fire alarm.

As much as Zil hated all the human alarms, they at least understood why the fire alarm was so annoying. Fire aboard a starship was a potentially lethal affair, and everyone had to work together to find and extinguish the fire as quickly as possible. They ran to their assigned station and came upon the deck chief, Tanner.

"Zil! You're one of the first. Nice to see someone was paying attention at drills." He said, smiling quickly as he flung open lockers built into the walls. "Put on your gear."

Zil methodically put on his firefighting gear. Everyone aboard had some, and they were surpsied when they learned that the humans took the time and effort to consult the Swarm for plans and measurements for gear that would fit their bodyplan. It was almost like a spacesuit, but not airtight, made of a very thick cloth. There were tanks of breathing gas that the humans wore on their backs, but Zil's were strapped to their legs, like other Xerilan suits. They slid the helmet over their head and their feelers were blown around by a blast fresh air. It was annoying, but they knew that it wasn't something that could be adjusted. The humans needed their air to be fresh and in large volumes when they were under stress.

As soon as they were dressed, Tanner - also in his turnout gear - handed him a broom.

Even in the midst of an emergency, Zil regarded the broom curiously. "Uh Tanner, why did you give me a broom?"

"It's a hydrogen fire Zil, we don't know where it is."

Zil's hind-legs started twitching, preparing to launch themselves meters in the air and escape, just like their ancient ancestors. They suppressed the feeling. "What do you mean you don't know where it is?"

"Hydrogen fires are invisible and odorless. We can't see them." Tanner explained as he got his own broom. "We're going to walk the halls with the broom sticking out in front of us."

"How... will that help?"

"As soon as the broom bursts into flame, we know where the fire is!"

"We're going to walk until the broom bursts into flame? Don't you... don't you have sensors for this!?" Zil exclaimed as they began to follow Tanner. He would walk with his broom sticking out, angled towards the wall, and he moved Zil's broom so that it was pointed opposite his. Behind them two others from the deck team had their brooms out to the side.

"We do," Tanner said, not looking at them, "But they're never that accurate. Nothing like a physical indicator of an issue to find the leak fast. It's a simple solution, but that means it's robust and works even if there's a power outage or in some other kind of danger."

They methodically walked the halls of their deck, brooms out, with the alarm thankfully silent, but the lights still flashing annoyingly. They rounded a corner and came upon the other deck team, going the other way. As they approached, Zil saw one of their brooms flare to life, the fire orange and oily as the brushes caught.

"Found it!" One of the others shouted, and everyone dropped their brooms. Tanner signaled command to isolate the deck, and the pressure doors slammed down around them. Someone from the other fire team opened a cabinet and took out a fire extinguisher, and Zil ran over towards the pipe that was leaking and activated his comm. They did have a moment of thanks that the humans labeled everything. All they had to do was read off the location to command so they knew where to shut the line down.

"H2 line WES56.7, port side," he called over his comm. "Just aft of valve-" They glanced to the right, "-6769."

"Aft of valve 6769 copy." The voice on the other end crackled. Almost as soon as he called in the location, he could hear the whirring of machinery and the presumed jet of flame shrank until the only sign left was the smouldering broom and the smell of smoke and suppressant in the isolated hall.

"Nice work Zil!" Tanner said, and went to pat his back, but stopped, remembering that Zil hated being touched. "See? When you follow the training, you remain safe, and protected everyone and the ship."

"Yeah, but..." Zil opened his helmet and the hurricane if air thankfully stopped. "Brooms?"

"Simple solutions are the best ones, Zil." Tanner said, laughing. "Come on, it's up to maintenance now, we need to get back to our posts.

#writing #jpitha #humans are space oddities #sci fi writing #humans are deathworlders #humans and aliens

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sirfrogsworth · 2 months ago

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Let's talk about macro extension tubes.

I just saw this video recommended to me.

This has so many views and it is so bad.

This is not how macro extension tubes work.

At all.

You can't just keep adding more of them to get more macro. All you are doing is reducing the amount of light reaching the sensor and making it harder to take your photo.

All lenses have a minimum focusing distance (A) and a minimum working distance (B).

The minimum focus distance is measured from the sensor. This is the absolute closest distance where you can attain sharp focus on a subject. This is usually the spec the camera manufacturer gives you, but it isn't very useful because it doesn't take the length of the lens into consideration.

Minimum working distance is how close the end of your lens is to your subject. You figure this out by adding the flange distance (google it for your camera), and then add the length of your lens, and then subtract that from the minimum focus distance.

Whatever is leftover is how close you can get to stuff.

In this example, this is as close as the lens can get to the flower before it can no longer achieve sharp focus. If you get any closer, it will be blurry.

If you have a short working distance, this can be problematic for macro work. Your lens could create a shadow on your subject. You might be so close that you disturb the insects you are trying to shoot. You risk scratching your lens if you are shooting near rocks or other scratchy objects. So finding a macro lens with a decent working distance is always optimal. You can back off from your subject and get a lot of light in there and not have to worry so much about disturbing critters.

But if you don't have a macro lens, you can increase the magnification of any lens by adding extension tubes. It is a low cost way to get into macro photography, but it isn't a perfect solution.

Before I can tell you what macro extension tubes do, let's quickly talk about what macro actually is.

Macro magnification is usually measured starting at 1:1 reproduction or 1x. (Some manufacturers start at 0.5x or 1:2 reproduction, but most photographers don't actually consider that macro. So watch out for that in lens specs.) 1x magnification means the thing you are shooting will appear on the sensor the same size as in real life.

So if a lens has a 0.25x magnification, an object will only take up 25% of the image sensor. (The rectangle on the right side.)

But at 1x magnification, it will be reproduced exactly as it is in real life on the sensor.

If you have a 2x lens or 2:1, it would appear twice as big as the image sensor.

So what does an extension tube do?

Extension tubes are just spacers that shorten your minimum focus distance. They take the red arrows and change them to the yellow.

They push your lens farther from the sensor and allow you to get closer to your subject.

This causes an increase in magnification.

Think about how a magnifying glass works. You pull it closer to you so that everything gets bigger in the lens. That's essentially all the tubes are doing.

The first downside to extension tubes is they reduce the amount of light by quite a bit. The inverse square law says the farther light travels, the lower the intensity. So the more tubes you add, the more light you have to add to the scene. Or you have to do a really long exposure on a tripod.

But the decrease in working distance is a problem as well. You may find you have to put the front of the lens a few millimeters away from your subject to get a meaningful increase in magnification. And because you can't phase into objects, there is a limit to how many extension tubes you can use to affect magnification.

At some point, you are actually placing the working distance *behind* the front of the lens. After this point you can no longer increase the magnification. You're just making your lens focus farther away.

You could keep adding more and more extension tubes, but it would not allow you to get any closer to your subject.

If you put 20 of them on, you are just doing this...

At some point, you'll have to violate the laws of physics.

The lens used in the video is already a macro lens capable of 1:1 reproduction.

This lens has a minimum focus distance of 160mm. But it has a minimum working distance of only 43mm (1.7").

Extension tubes are measured in millimeters. The ones in the video come in 16mm and 10mm sizes. He alternated them.

So in order to reduce the working distance to the point a subject would nearly be touching the front of the lens, he could put on a maximum of 3 tubes.

The red lines below show how much each tube would reduce the working distance.

A 10mm, a 16mm, and a 10mm would reduce the working distance by 36mm—leaving him about 7mm of space in front of his lens to achieve focus.

He could add another 10mm tube if he didn't mind his subject basically touching the lens, but it is very difficult to get that close in a real world scenario and achieve a decent result.

If he put on 20 tubes, that would reduce the working distance by 260mm. And since there is only 43mm in front of the lens to work with, he is overshooting the minimum possible working distance by 217mm or about 8.5 inches.

He's basically doing this...

He overshot by about 17 tubes—worth about $400. Though he probably made that money back in views. So I guess it was worth it.

But it is really bad information and may cause people to buy a ton of tubes expecting to get super macro results.

The only real way to significantly increase magnification is to buy a lens specifically designed for it. They make macro lenses up to 5x and after that you are looking at microscope objectives.

With extension tubes you might be able to get a non-macro lens to achieve close to 1x or better, but there is no low cost way to get much beyond that.

To review...

Figure out your minimum working distance. If google fails to give you the answer, you can just get a tape measure and figure it out on your own.

Let's say that the working distance is 50mm.

That means you can add up to 50mm of extension tubes to get a bump in magnification. (Though that would be touching the lens, so I'd probably do 30 or 40mm of tubes maximum.)

Adding more tubes beyond 50mm will not increase your magnification.

It will just make your camera look like it is compensating for something.

#photography #macro #extension tubes

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magicmousetrash · 6 months ago

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Krel Tarron x Reader

Non-binary reader

SFW Scenario

It takes place during the 3below series

I'm writing all this with the translator since English is not my first language so if there are any mistakes please let me know <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>

🪄🐁: I will soon come with more food

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Krel was back in front of the holographic screen in his room, drumming his fingers nervously. He was determined to win the heart of his human crush, but earthling customs remained a mystery. How did humans connect emotionally without all the advanced technology and science he knew? So she had turned to "Mother" for advice.

—Mother, I need your help, —he said seriously, taking a breath.—I want to… impress a human.

The AI projected its holographic form, and Krel felt a slight flicker of discomfort as the ship's sensors analyzed his request.

—Understood, Prince Krel. I can provide suggestions on human courtship. Data shows that humans respond to certain common social stimuli. I will proceed to share a series of recommendations.

Krel nodded, looking over the list of tips that appeared before him. It seemed simple, in theory. How difficult could it be?

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Tip 1: A meaningful gift

—"A thoughtful gesture or a small gift is a way of showing appreciation between humans."

Krel frowned as he reviewed that first tip. He knew humans gave flowers and chocolates, but he wanted something more special. Something unique, something that would show how much he cared... without it being very obvious.

Determined, he spent the whole night creating a… how to describe it? A small, handmade device. It was a mix between a terrarium with a bioluminescent plant and a small gravitational field that made the object float gently. Krel thought it was impressive and was sure his crush would appreciate it.

The next day, with a big, self-satisfied grin, Krel approached them at school.

—I made this for you, —he said, holding the floating contraption in an outstretched hand. —I thought you might like it.

They looked at it, at first intrigued by the strange gift. But as soon as they took it, the plant began to emit a flickering glow that grew in intensity.

It’s so… cute! —they said, smiling at first. But as soon as the glowing plant started spinning faster and blinking wildly, their expressions changed to panic. —Is this safe?.

Before Krel could respond, the artifact began to sputter and floated too high, crashing into the ceiling of the hallway and exploding in a small burst of light.

Krel cleared his throat, trying to appear calm.

—Maybe… it needs a couple of adjustments, —he said as he picked up the remains of the device..

First attempt: disaster.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Tip 2: Specific compliments

—"Personalized compliments create a greater emotional connection between humans."

Krel thought this advice would be easy to follow. He knew a lot about his crush. He knew they liked science and was pretty smart. So, he decided that praising their intellect would be a great move.

The next day in chemistry class, Krel sat next to her and waited for the perfect moment. As she focused on measuring a substance, Krel decided to intervene.

—Your accuracy with test tubes is… statistically astonishing, —he commented enthusiastically.

They looked at him, not knowing whether to laugh or worry.

—Thanks… I think. —they replied, somewhat bewildered.

Krel decided to double down, thinking that perhaps a more specific compliment would be better.

—And the way you calculated the molar concentration of that solution… it’s almost as if you could handle mathematics at the quantum level.

Now they were clearly more confused than impressed.

—Uh… well, I learned it in class last year. —they answered, trying not to sound strange.

Krel bit his lip, realizing he might be going off on a bit of a tangent.

—What I mean is… you are very smart..

They smiled politely.

Second attempt: weird...

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Tip 3: Be protective

—"Showing care and protection creates a sense of emotional security."

Krel was convinced that this advice would be a success. He had noticed that humans reacted positively when someone showed concern for their safety. And since he had advanced skills in protecting others, he thought it was his time to shine.

As they walked together towards the cafeteria, he saw some kids running past, clearly not paying attention to their surroundings. This is my chance, Krel thought.

With quick movements, he pulled his crush to the side, placing them behind him with exaggerated protection.

—Watch out! —he exclaimed, turning dramatically. —You could have been run over by those reckless individuals!

They stared at him, mouths agape, totally surprised.

—Krel, they were just… running, — They said, with a nervous smile.

Krel was unfazed. He was certain he had done the right thing.

—You can never be too careful. Safety first. —he replied determinedly.

They laughed softly, clearly seeing the situation as a bit exaggerated.

Third attempt: exaggerated overprotection

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Tip 4: Quality time

The last tip was simpler: spend quality time together. No technology, no interruptions, just being in the moment. Krel thought this would be easy, but he underestimated how hard it would be not to use technology..

As they strolled through the park after school, Krel tried to hold a normal conversation. But soon, the silence felt awkward, and Krel began drumming his fingers, wishing he could Open your device to avoid this awkward situation.

Finally, he decided to distract himself from technology and focus all his attention on them.

—Did you know that the human brain releases dopamine during pleasant conversations? —he said, trying to start a topic that seemed interesting to him.

They looked at him, laughing softly.

—Really? That’s… good to know.

Krel nodded, glad to have steered the conversation back to a scientific topic. But then, without realizing it, he started talking about chemicals that activate dopamine in the brain… for 15 minutes straight.

By the time he realized it, they were looking at him with a mix of fascination and exhaustion.

—Krel, that was… very informative. —they said, trying to sound friendly.

Fourth attempt: excessive talk.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

At the end of the day, Krel returned to his room, somewhat frustrated, and stared at "Mother's" screen, waiting for her assessment.

—Mother, how did I do it? —he asked, sighing.

—The results indicate that 45% of your attempts were successful and 55% were questionable. I recommend adjustments to your approaches.

Krel slumped back into his chair.

—Maybe… humans are more complicated than I thought.

Despite everything, they allowed themselves a small smile. Even though everything had gone a little wrong, there was something charming about his mistakes. And they… well, thay hadn't completely walked away. That was a good start.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

We all love this alien boy called Krel

#krel tarron #krel tarron x reader #x reader #3below #tales of arcadia #scenarios

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naruversemisa · 3 months ago

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Hidden Uzumaki?? AU

I have a hard time believing that all uzumaki just up and disappeared into the world after uzushio was destroyed, most probably went underground and went into hiding in various places under various fake aliases, to that degree there probably were some uzumaki who went to konoha after they announced that they’d take in any refugee uzumaki, maybe the uzumaki went to konoha and just kept under their fake aliases and disguised appearances (non-chakra kind cause shinobi would see through it) so that konoha didn’t become a second uzushio when uzumaki started coming back together

for this reason i propose the au that Umino Iruka is the child of an uzumaki person or couple who escaped to konoha, because other than his hair and eye color he’s got the tan of any tropic island native, his loud personality can easily blend with the uzumaki loudness, iruka is a frequent of ichiraku alongside naruto, he was known as a major prankster as a kid which seems in line with uzumaki playful personalities, and his name literally translates to “dolphin of the sea,” iruka meaning “dolphin” and umino meaning “of the sea” the same way gaara is called sabaku no gaara translated to gaara of the desert

i can totally see dolphins being a kind of clan symbol or even a straight up animal summon common in uzushio since they’re an island nation

also it’s a pretty much agreed upon fandom hc that uzumaki have large quantities of chakra and struggle to control it as a result, which can kinda explain iruka struggling with ninjutsu as a student in the academy

he’s shown to have some understanding of sealing for the string light barrier ninjutsu he used (though it’s seen much more frequently in boruto than in naruto) personally i hc that he created or specialized the technique and eventually taught it to his students as part of the curriculum which would explain why it’s rarely seen in naruto but more frequent in boruto especially by students of the academy (idk how reliable this is since i never read the manga but the fandom wiki says the students using the technique is special to the anime, so you could also just throw boruto out the window and say it’s iruka’s special sealing thing he taught himself and no one else)

uzushio was called the “village of longevity” and are known for their vitality which i think can explain iruka being able to keep up with higher ranked shinobi despite being only chunnin, of which is not common from what i could tell i also just think it’s funny he’s an honorary jounin in a group of famous ppl like kakashi and gai so we’re gonna take that as him being jounin level

idk what the connection between chakra sensors and uzumaki is if there even is one beside karin but i do think iruka being some kind of sensor type explains him always effortlessly finding naruto when it’s shown how naruto evades others of much higher rank and skill when he wants to

it’s stated that his parents died during the kyuubi attack that naruto was born in and he was pretty young then (prob early teens or preteen) so i can imagine if he had uzumaki features he’d have already grown up on the norm of hiding them but not been old enough to be told the truth of why

if he ever finds out then i imagine it’s by going through old stuff with his parent’s things with the info tucked into a corner alongside any valuables, or maybe he even meets karin or another sensor who feels his chakra and is like hmm this feels familiar

maybe he’s not even uzumaki necessarily, it’s possible to think he’s just a descendant of someone from uzushio who was part of a vassal clan of the uzumaki, which would explain away his non-uzumaki features

if we go down this route than we can view the “Umino” clan as being similar to the inuzuka clan with animal companions, specifically dolphins

previous reasons for him being uzumaki can still be recycled for why he’s ethnically from uzushio

this solution would explain kushina’s lacking connections in konoha, with the exception of mikoto, compared to minato who everyone seems to know personally especially since as his wife and high ranking shinobi she would have interacted with them frequently, as well as her seeming disinterest in uzushio as a cultural heritage and her people

kushina could have been discreetly in contact with several uzumaki or uzushio people in konoha, shinobi or civilian, under various disguises and just not been as invested or have time for minato’s friends or her own shinobi social circles when her lost family were right there for her to be with instead

it makes sense for their interactions to be discreet too since the uzumaki/uzushio people would have to keep their identities hidden from others and interacting regularly with a publicly known uzumaki would turn heads, plus kushina as the jinchuriki prob wasn’t well received by the civilians so from this angle too it makes sense to not be seen together so that the civilian ire wouldn’t be tracked on to already struggling and disguised uzushio families

this is now me being entirely self indulgent but i think it would also be really sweet and cute if kushina visited the disguised uzumaki/uzushio families in a matching disguise as a subtle connection to say they’re still family even if they’re in hiding

imagine kushina occasionally visiting iruka’s family and was a sort of auntie or sister figure to him growing up, and he assumed she died during the kyuubi attack like his parents when he couldn’t find any records of her whereabouts (which he wouldn’t have been wrong)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ everything from here is me just going off the rails so feel free to ignore lol ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

also who’s to say there wasn’t a reason obito reminded kushina so much of herself and has such a different personality compared to other uchiha, maybe one of his parents was an uzushio refugee that kushina didn’t know about cause they married into the uchiha clan and died before obito could ever get to know them since he grew up an orphan

i don’t want to say this is because he’s part uzushio since uchiha also have high vitality but i do think his struggles with ninjutsu as a kid could be explained by uzumaki chakra quantities and it is kinda insane how many times he sorta not-dies in canon if he was just a regular shinobi in the academy before meeting madara, maybe madara somehow knew he was part uzushio and that’s why he chose obito to bring about his plan

because how else would a regular uchiha be on the same power levels as an uchiha who’s the literal reincarnation of Indra, a sorta demigod

kinda going in circles trying to make everyone i don’t know the parents of from uzushio lol but we don’t know gai’s mom, and she could have been from uzushio too, plus gai’s summons are tortoises and we don’t know where he got them from either, so it is possible that gai’s mom was another uzushio shinobi and possessed the turtle/tortoise summon scroll before coming to konoha and marrying gai’s dad and dying somehow, or maybe gai’s dad is the one with uzushio roots though if that’s the case i imagine his parents or grandparents had moved to konoha as civilians before uzushio was destroyed and gai’s dad grew up fully thinking he was just another konoha shinobi with a civilian family, or both

#naruto #uzumaki #uzushio #naruto uzumaki #iruka umino #maito gai #obito uchiha #headcanon #naruto au #all this to say #family feels #for iruka and naruto #HiddenUzumakiAU

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yourneighborhoodporg · 6 months ago

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The Guardian

Chapter 12: Separated

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Warnings: graphic descriptions of war injuries and medical solutions, angst, light banter, confused Ani, Obi hurtin' :(, special guest 👀, guilty reader, Cody my bff, allusion to self-sacrifice, Ahsoka doing her best, wow everyone needs like so much therapy.

Summary: When the Republic's secret medical station becomes the Separatist's next target, you, Anakin, and Obi-Wan are forced back together from across the Galaxy to confront the threat. However, as you lead your end of the charge, distractions of the weeks prior cloud your thoughts and coerce you to confront the culminating impact of Qui-Gon's death. Hoping for a distraction from the consequent blunders, you try to focus on the mission at hand. Until an unexpected force's personal journey compels you to deeply reflect on your own.

Song Inspo: I Lost a Friend — FINEAS

Words: 12.8K

A/n: I'M ALIVEE. Apologies for the lengthy hiatus. Life got really crazy but I'm back with some more of ✨The Guardian✨ (and I'm going to start working on the requests in my inbox soon I promiseee!). Remember to comment with what you want to see in future chapters. Enjoy!

Previous Chapter

Series Masterlist

For these words of good, evil, and contemptible are ever used with relation to the person that useth them: there being nothing simply and absolutely so; nor any common rule of good and evil to be taken from the nature of the objects themselves — Thomas Hobbes

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan huffed impatiently from the convergence on the Negotiator’s bridge, arms folded neatly across the chest as he absorbed with purposefully raking eyes the striking, streaky holocomm image of his former Padawan’s excited upper torso.

The azure image sheepishly fluttered against the backdrop of glowing round sensors and flashing rectangular buttons. Their various configurations and proportions formulating the prismatic hemicircle control panel which stretched out beneath the trapezoidal viewport, evenly segmented to swallow the far wall. An enveloping frame that transformed the barrier into an existence of distant, flickering stars amidst an endless, jet-black mass that hardly distinguished it as a wall at all.

At least, not to Obi-Wan.

To the Master Jedi, it was an unseen path. A blindness rallying Force-sensitives’ reliance on the all-encompassing flow that had always guided his each and every move. Yet, there was such a thing as being too far out to sense its intricate indications of a war that spanned countless parsecs. And that meant, even to a Jedi with a warship each straddling his spearlike class leader, a Galactic war could pose quite the surprise at any turn.

And fuel a steady disquiet in moments like these, when the Force felt awfully clouded by an imperceptible numbness.

Though that was far from the main distraction drawing Master Kenobi’s heavily pointed eye beyond his maneuvering lips.

“You simply cannot be late to an emergency meeting you yourself called.”

“My bad, Master,” Anakin expelled.

Though his neck remained creaked downwards with baby blue eyes flicking side-to-side, acting as tight straws siphoning in information beyond Obi-Wan’s view. Each beat punctuated by the Jedi’s shoulders subtly gesturing alongside hand movements inputting far-off data. And just as smoothly as the Chosen One’s mind navigated the rolling screens Kenobi had imagined he was negotiating, the self-assured former Padawan still seemed to effortlessly communicate the situation at hand.

“Ahsoka and I had to get the strike force out and moving toward Grievous’s ship first. We might not have as much time as we thought.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan hummed while curiously eyeing the young Jedi, brows shifting from unease at his words as once crossed arms released to their respective, comfortably postured sides. “Care to share?”

“Still waiting on one more invite to this meeting,” Anakin explained, invisible fingers finally allowing forearms to rest as his shoulders relaxed into a slump, followed by a fluttering blue gaze now attentively rising toward the bearded Jedi.

Odd, Kenobi mused. Usually Anakin’s last-minute calls either involved relaying information vital to the war efforts or, in most cases, a change of plans— either of which Obi-Wan could easily pass along through the necessary channels. Rarely did it necessitate others’ involvement. And it surely couldn’t have included another Council member, since they would’ve arrived in an earlier fashion as the Master Jedi himself.

“Who?” Obi-Wan questioned.

But before Anakin even had a chance to release his jaw in response, a new holographic swirled into existence beside him, completing the triangle of bodies with a deep-bellied thrum.

A similarly flickering, cobalt specter whose back revealed the robed figure’s linen-wrapped arms and legs and lightly armored shoulders leisurely swiveled to face the holocomm’s emitter. Yet, despite the uniform tinge that consumed all such holographic images, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but divert his trailing gaze up their wears onto the set of sharp, gleaming eyes that secreted a hint of silver.

And after a brief pause in which those very same eyes adjusted to the forms before them, an inkling of once quirked lips and lifted cheeks trickled into a singular expression of finished neutrality and professionalism.

One too novel to be shared among friends.

“Master Kenobi,” you nodded simply.

Obi-Wan’s steady chest faltered with an uncomfortable celerity.

It’d been only a week or so since he’d seen you last. Even longer since Obi-Wan left you in your quarters that evening following the surprise ambush on Lanos. And, now that he thought about it, likely two weeks since the bearded man began to notice how the air between you two grew more delicate as your tactful efforts to mold a parrying dullness swelled into a steady rainfall.

A fortnight since you appeared to have misplaced his first name.

It was as subtle as standing on the opposite side of a leadership meeting, deliberately placing yourself between two clones who’d naturally allow the General a respectful gap between himself and the Regiment. It was the conscious avoidance of the Negotiator’s refractory whenever Kenobi experienced a rare chance to sit down for a meal, or the decision to reside on the mirror end of the chamber when he was present. And it was the one time you did finally engage with him a few days later during a system strategy meeting that took place by way of a similar holocomm exchange.

“Master Yoda expressly stated that King Katuunko would only allow the alliance negotiations between himself and the Senator representative on Rugosa to continue as long as a Jedi emissary was present,” Master Plo Koon continued neatly with his black, patchwork eye guards trained on General Kenobi.

“Don’t the Toydarians know we don’t have the manpower for a babysitter?” Anakin rather agitatedly expressed, nostrils flaring into his thick eyebrows as if repulsed by a pungent smell. “Even if we did send someone, it would be no use to them.”

“For once, I must agree with my former Padawan,” Obi-Wan lyrically vocalized with a hand subconsciously motioning at the idea. “I highly doubt that a Jedi would rival a trained senator in the exercise of diplomacy.”

“I can go, Master!” Ahsoka piped up brightly from her Master’s rear with lifted eyelashes and gently shaken montrals. “I mean, if it’s just a Jedi that needs to be there, I can do that.”

Anakin glared at the young Togruta with thinned lips, deliberately crossing his arms and angling to the side all to firmly mutter a simple command:

“Not now, Snips.”

“I’ll go.”

Obi-Wan’s head whipped toward your once noiseless form stood a few meters off from him, staring into the collection of holograms opposite its emitter with a steely creed buttressing each syllable as dancing, sapphire illuminations molded interlacing shadows to distort your countenance.

“That seems appropriate,” Master Plo readily spouted, head nodding neatly in agreement while his charcoal antiox breath mask bobbed along otherwise elliptically sculpted, ochre features.

But what Master Plo did not yet know, was that beyond this political snafu, Obi-Wan too had his own ongoing obligation to manage. The task of integrating The Guardian into the Order while ensuring their protection from dark forces who were sure to take action if they’d learned of your identity, and what that meant. A danger so great, that Master Yoda had yet to decide on how to inform the rest of the Council about its development. And with that, came the task of keeping you as far away as possible from blackened powers so to guarantee such a calamitous future never saw the light of dawn.

So, considering your state of being in the days prior, more than ever did Obi-Wan sense your disregard for these concerns from such an offer.

It was the wrong time for you to be going off on your own. And Obi-Wan had a responsibility to make that known.

“Silvey has been assigned by the Council to assist me with my Regiment,” he countered quickly, bolstered by a charged arc, yet even tread. “I do not believe I can do without them at this moment. They are also recovering from an injury during one of our most recent run-ins with the Separatists, which I’m sure requires more time to heal.

But not even the seasoned Jedi himself was truly prepared for the sheer impersonality of your businesslike regard as you twisted toward his form with an expressive detachment that, when compared to the prior months, rendered you unrecognizable to his vigilant, cerulean eyes.

“Master Kenobi,” you spoke evenly. “My leg is healed enough after a few days with a bacta patch. And I trust that you’ll be able to carry out the rest of this mission without me.”

Your true stare remained levied on his gaze as a hushed exhale fell past your lips. So placidly, that were Obi-Wan’s attention not solely focused on your next words, he would’ve certainly missed the faint wobble coloring its receding steps.

“I’m putting in a formal request to be temporarily transferred to Rugosa so to aid in their negotiations.”

Even now, a week later on the Negotiator’s bridge when faced with two Jedi dialing in from thousands of parsecs away, Obi-Wan recalled the tenuous stiffness that tugged at his breastbone in that moment. The sinking weight accompanying his realization made right then and there:

That his efforts to keep you nearby so to have any hope of acting as a barrier between you and the dark forces watching from the shadows was only forcing you to yank farther away from his necessary observation.

Maybe that’s why, for the sake of your future collaboration,

For your budding friendship,

The Master Jedi settled to meet you where you were at. To give in to exactly what you were pressing for in order to ensure your safety.

To give you… space.

It was with restraint equal to your own, Obi-Wan remembered, with which he approved the request. Respectfully downcast eyes and a simple nod had sent you on your way later that very same day, along with a small group of clones led by the reputable Commander Cody. The only clone in General Kenobi’s Regiment that he truly trusted to keep an eye on you in his place.

And a soldier the General knew would follow any carefully communicated instructions to the letter.

Still, Obi-Wan hadn’t predicted that it would take this long to cross paths with you again.

“You look well,” Kenobi expressed with scant ineptitude, granting enough freedom to the interval in between your spoken word and his to give pause to Anakin’s freshly perceptive expression, which raised a curious brow at the duo.

“The negotiations are wrapping up nicely,” you formally relayed, seemingly ignoring Skywalker’s questioning bearing in favor of communicating a timely report. “My squad and I are cleared for departure and may rendezvous with The Negotiator whenever it’s convenient.”

“That’s good timing, because we’ve got a problem,” Anakin butted in, suspiciously shifting gaze left to the wayside in favor of narrowed brows that was the Chosen One’s signature expression of solemnity. “Grievous’s warship attacked a convoy of medical transports near Ryndellia. We think he’s after Kaliida Shoals.”

“The medical center?” Obi-Wan questioned with thinly veiled surprise. “Anakin, that facility was supposed to be a secret. How did the Separatists learn of its existence?”

“I don’t know,” Skywalker echoed. “But they know about it now. My squad of Y-wings are taking a shortcut, but I’m not sure if we’ll get there in time.”

“I’ll contact the Naboo to request their assistance and let the facility know that I’m on my way as well,” Obi-Wan assured.

“Warn them of my arrival too,” you promptly raised, drawing Kenobi’s attention to ambivalently narrow at your words.

Though that did little in the way of stifling your stride.

“I’m closest so I’ll help with the evacuations. There’s probably an extra fighter here that I can borrow since we have so many protecting the negotiations. That way I can get there before the Naboo fleet.”

You nodded to yourself, seemingly appreciating the evolving plan as it swirled into existence past still-moving lips. "My clone squad will follow behind with a larger ship to supplement the facility’s escape shuttles.”

“No Silvey,” Obi-Wan voiced, tongue fluttering your name for the first time in a while. “That will bring you quite close to a Separatist leader. Something Master Yoda has advised you to avoid.”

He raised an emphatic brow, even restraining his voice as if an empty room of swirling sensors and buttons could decipher its meaning.

“We have your identity to think about.”

“The risk is low,” you expounded toward the bearded Jedi unflinchingly. “I doubt General Grievous has any desire to contact that facility directly.”

Then, while a touch of uncertainty skidded by upturned eyelashes, your hands rolled into a shrug as you twisted to address both men equally.

“Either way, isn’t this why I was requested to join this meeting? Because of my proximity?”

“Silvey’s right, Obi-Wan,” Anakin posited, angling toward the cerulean-eyed Jedi’s less-than-merry gaze. “They’re our best chance at getting the facility evacuated in time before the ion weapon arrives.”

Master Kenobi couldn’t help how Anakin’s unfortunately reasonable words delivered a feeble pinprick to his adeptly impartial posturing, breaching the seal for a taste of his inner thoughts to leak out in the form of a finely charged sigh that expelled through set nostrils. Stiff fingers reaching to stroke the corners of his auburn beard as if to draw out the rest of the swelling frustration that narrowed cobalt orbs into tapered brows.

And from the chilly, detached churn of your sideways peer at his form, Obi-Wan could still markedly discern that, no matter the stony stance you attempted to elicit by pitching your arms akimbo, the veiled fashion with which you chewed at your inner lip exposed just how stubborn you remained to his argument. Even when the cogs of your mind turned in a direction opposite to your body.

Though, in which bearing, he did not know.

“Uh, did I miss something?” Anakin suddenly queried, lips parted slightly while he puzzledly peaked at you both.

Yet by the way in which your glittering silver eyes cast asunder from his own, chest rising as you deeply inhaled into its discomfited crevice with a mind reflecting focus on some other Rugosian movement, Obi-Wan understood that this was perhaps a poor time to concentrate on such a subject.

“Fine, I’ll inform Nala Se of your arrival,” Obi-Wan yielded as his shoulders relented his beard-stroking arm to the side, all while your ever-watchful gaze returned to his. “But bring your squad along. They will be unable to aid you if left to follow along in a slower ship.”

“Time is of the essence, Master Kenobi,” you straightly reminded. “The fighters on Rugosa are the fastest transports available, but they only have room for a copilot at most.”

“Then take Commander Cody,” the elder Jedi practically ordered.

Obi-Wan watched as the ligaments in your throat twitched from your quiet swallowing.

“Yes… General,” you acquiesced with delicately raised brows pitched over lips pursed illusively.

Yet that retort appeared to only heighten the incontrovertible befuddlement that nearly furrowed Anakin’s brows into his monitoring baby blue eyeballs.

“Alright,” Obi-Wan expelled before his former Padawan had the chance to probe any further through loose lips. “Our main mission is to protect that facility. We all know our part. Comm this channel with any updates.”

Roping his hands to fold back into each other against a straightened spine, the Master Jedi ended the meeting of quivering blue, holographic streaks and notably disparate impressions with one last memento.

“May the Force be with you both.”

—

No matter the weightlessness of your footsteps, your treading boots still kindled soft, echoing thumps like an infant flame as you traversed the narrow, cubic hallway that led to the medical center’s main command. That, of course, meant Commander Cody’s comparably lumbering stride resonated with a vigor that supplied an unforgettable reminder of the facility’s smooth, metal construction like a chronometer. With its reflective navy floors, rusting chalk walls, and highly collaged paneling, it was a wonder how the normal bustle expected in such a regional hub wouldn’t generate an endless barrage of clamoring turbulence.

A testament to the VenteX Construction Yards’ quality technology, according to the short facility report you perused during the brief journey here.

Thank you, Cody, you hoped to say once more. From what you learned in Rugosa, he always seemed to be prepared. And that meant, so were you.

Still, you weren’t ready to bestow praise upon such talented, Republic builders just yet. It was instances like these, in which overwhelming silence subsumed your surroundings like a vacuum sucked out air, and in which a ticking beat centered the mind as would an ancient meditation tool, that you found yourself left with something you were really trying to avoid.

Your thoughts.

It was quite the adjustment, you were beginning to realize. Transitioning from a life of static, icy days to an existence among so many different kinds of beings.

A life of unfamiliarity,

Of war,

And death.

So, so much death.

And it seemed like it only took seizing those experiences in their rawest form and stabbing them into your cerebral cortex like a hammer to a cold, rusty nail for that very catalyst to coerce you into considering their verity, arriving in stillness like a strong gust that stifles breath into unavoidable, beating ruminations.

It compelled you, to finally register, to truly internalize, that Qui-Gon was gone.

Just like Getter, and just like that creature of purity.

Your friend, was gone.

And, in that moment, whatever tiny piece of childlike hope, whatever illogical thought about his return that remained all this time in the deepest crevices of your mind, seemed to disappear too.

You truly were alone.

Until Obi-Wan appeared.

In one of your most conflicting hours, in which you were coming to terms with your Master’s death and the consequences of such a fact, he placed a hand atop your fist. He lifted your chin from troubling thoughts.

And he caressed your hand—

No, you internally adjusted, slightly shaking your head to loosen that particular memory from your mind as your well-adjusted footfalls carried you away from the stiffly wrapped wall paneling by which it fell.

Because you just couldn’t do it.

At least, not right now.

You enjoyed Obi-Wan’s company, you thought. Appreciated his mind, and respected his character. All factors that contributed to the growing friendship you sensed budding between the two of you.

And it was for that exact reason that, in a knee-jerk reaction, you pulled away.

Your mission was Anakin. Guarding the Chosen One. You couldn’t afford the clouded nature your mind embraced as you journeyed through Qui-Gon’s death. And that meant you couldn’t sustain another.

You needed to wait. Felt compelled to temporarily lock the gate to your strengthening fellowship. For, in this unpredictable time of war, if you’d lost him too, your last connection to Qui-Gon, alone would fail to describe the depth with which you’d feel disconnected from the Galaxy.

But, even as you passed through the last charcoal archway into the command center’s grimy white staging area of encompassing red and silver panels and rambunctiously flashing buttons, the new atmosphere failed to in any way hinder the invariably thrumming shame that churned your gut and shifted your demeanor. As you stood beyond the handful of medical clones rushing commands with expertly trained fingers through the computerized workstations lining the rear wall, such excitement too was futile in impeding the elusive hurt that swam behind his cerulean eyes in those memories of avoiding his approaches, attempts at conversation, or dependably questioning gaze.

No matter, for now, with two feet easing into a standstill before the medical officer ranked highest by three red dots hugging his white-draped sleeve and the superior Kaminoan with similar garb wrapped below a protracted neck, you could take comfort in the fact that such a circumstance would never be the case with Anakin.

In all likelihood, considering your position, you’d be the first to go in the line of duty protecting him. He’d always be there while you were around.

At least Obi-Wan was right about that.

“Nala Se, my name is Silvey—“ you uttered clearly, relying on the familiarity of her pearly white complexion and metallic, oval head medallion from your temporary right hand’s report.

Speaking of.

“—and this is Commander Cody,” you nodded at the soldier stood firmly beside you. "We’re here to assist you in any way we can to usher along these evacuations.”

The Chief Medical Scientist of Kamino’s towering figure offered a gradual, appreciative nod which moved as seamlessly as her blackened eyes creased in regard.

“Silvey, Commander Cody,” she acknowledged with an almost regal air and buttery tone. “Master Kenobi informed us of your arrival.”

You bit at your inner lip as a subtle twinge of an already swirling gut twisted at the raw nerves like a freshly seared burn. Though you swiftly brushed it aside, all in favor of absorbing Nala Se’s speech which echoed with congruence to this mission.

“We appreciate having another Jedi here to aid us.”

And it was a good thing you were focusing that weening attention, too, because this was certainly unexpected news.

“Another Jedi?” You questioned aloud while still supporting the movement of your lips atop businesslike breath. “This is great to hear, but, I thought I was the Jedi closest to this facil—“

“—Sectors C, F, and J are ready for transport.”

You barely caught the echo of nimble footfalls that preceded the adolescent voice which rang with a tone leveled only to communicate with clarity, yet tempered beyond any hint of vociferation.

A lick of curiosity hoisting your ears, you comfortably twisted toward the articulation’s source as Cody followed suit beside you, only for silver eyes to land upon a strangely familiar sight…

Teeth-like horns mirrored down their skull tattooed with curving lines and sharply jagged arrows.

Characteristics too similar to that unknown thing. That devil being from your dreams of weeks ago that, no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t seem to forget, even when faced with an inkling of similarity that most would not discern.

“Thank you, Mill,” The Chief Medical Officer approved as her arms crossed into a lock behind her pencil-slimmed figure.

“I’ll head to the next set as fast as I can,” Mill expressed confidently.

Yet your thoughts only mulled over that point for a short time. Because as your purposed gaze trailed across other features, like the short tuft of jet black tied just behind her head, the swirling Force encircling her nut-brown vested and ivory-robed being, and the very noticeable limitations of her stature, you quickly realized that this was the Jedi Nala Se spoke of.

But with that also came the observance that this Jedi appeared to be—

“A youngling?” Commander Cody doubted with faintly mixing unease as his hesitant stare drew the lips below into an unlatched slump.

And it was that not-so-subtle oratory that sprung the young Jedi’s button-sized orbs to bounce toward you both, remaining equally unaffected as investigative of the new presence your figures fueled into the surrounding Force.

“Master Jedi Rig Nema and her Padawan Mill Alibeth were recently assigned to this outpost as our Jedi Liason,” Nala Se explained calmly from behind your turned figure. “Although the Healer was temporarily called away a few days ago. It was urgent. I believe to an off-world battle site deemed too dangerous to bring Mill along.”

“Mill,” you expressed to the observing Jedi. “I’d be honored to help you carry out the rest of the evacuations while my Commander aids Nala Se in the remainder of the planning.”

Your straightforward regard quickly flicked both silver orbs toward Cody who was still situated at your side, earning from the attentive Commander a nodding salute to your orders before you refocused that attention on the young woman before you.

“That is,” you progressed with utmost openness. “If you’ll have me.”

Enough to tug a small smile from the Jedi’s stoically taught mouth.

“I could really use the help,” she replied honestly, which lifted your own cheeks as you broke your stance and moved toward the Jedi who stood a few meters away.

“Many of the injured need help and instructions on how to get to the shuttles,” Mill continued with an earnestness that defied the essence of her youthful voice, like a creature who's lived an entire life through glories and hardships in only a few seconds.

“It’s important to note, Silvey,” the Kaminoan opined from the center console, inciting you to halt just as you reached Mill’s being to turn toward the Chief Medical Officer’s words. “We may not have enough shuttles to evacuate the facility’s full complement.

“Let me worry about that, Silvey,” Commander Cody piped up as he shuffled beside Nala Se to take a peek at the data screen emanating below her fingers with focusing brows. “We’ll find a way to make do and get these boys to safety. We have another ship on our tail ready to board as soon as they land.”

You nodded gratefully.

“Here,” Mill cleanly expelled while leaning into a smooth yet charged pace toward the Command Center’s primary exit, leading you to follow along as you passed under that same charcoal-tinted arch into the eerily stagnant hall. “I’ll show you which sectors still need to be evacuated.”

You barely hid the subtle quirk of your lips that momentarily lifted your features as you kept your gait swiftly ahead.

Despite Commander Cody’s assumption that the Jedi careening evenly beside you was simply a Youngling, it remained a struggle to grapple with that preconceived notion. You had to admit that there were few and far between opportunities to engage with peers when you were her age, but that didn’t prevent you from surmising Mill a Being well beyond her years. Still, you tried not to consider why for too long. For no reason other than she, in some ways, reminded you of yourself during those times.

You remembered quite well the experiences you inescapably traversed to develop similar mannerisms. And beyond all else, you understood that independence born out of necessity always craved a modicum of guidance.

At least, that’s what you recalled.

And it was clear that Mill could handle it.

“Have your lightsaber ready,” you advised while the two of you careened around a sharp corner in your trek down the station’s winding passageways. “It comes in handy when you need to lead the way. Especially for large groups.”

A flurry of shuffling, pearly fabric flitted through the air as a duo of medical clones with mahogany brown boots squeaked by you both before disappearing down a left coordinator in a rush that left a slight breeze. All the while you sensed an uneven crinkle shimmy into the Force’s very own cloth as if the slightest touch tugged a loose thread.

“I don’t have one.”

Your once hurried pace drained into a muddled falter, expressive brows stitched into genuine confusion as you angled to fully face the young Jedi. At that same instant, your probing gaze tracked Mill’s depleting drive, siphoned away from a once urgent gate and into a withstanding regard of some tolerant shade. Only leaving heavily relaxed facial muscles as the framing sight from Padawan Alibeth who similarly eyed you head on.

Though you were not yet intimidated.

“Really?” You genuinely inquired, once again asking yourself whether you were showing your lack of knowledge of modern customs. “I thought the ritual of The Gathering happened when a Jedi was still in Initiatehood.”

Yet the slight but unyielding tilt of one addled brow upwards on her otherwise collected expression did thrust you back one mental step to reassess what you’d so impulsively uttered.

“You say that as if you’d not seen them yourself,” Mill expounded, a slight smile crawling up her cheeks to erase any previous hint of uncertainty. “It’s hard to miss the loud groups bouncing down the Temple halls every season.”

You mirrored her expression with a nearly tickled one of your own as you clawed onto the escape Mill had somehow so expertly plopped straight into your palm.

“I’ve been away on a very long mission that spanned on before the war began,” you casually delivered, motioning your hand in the air in place of a shrug. “I suppose it hasn’t helped me in the way of keeping up with current practices.”

You raised your head toward the corridor’s main stretch that tunneled to a turbolift, breathing in the heightened energies spattered throughout the medical station as the sensation drove you to hastily renew your step, like a starship sucking on hypermatter fuel that tugged on Mill to tag along with an invisible lure. A mixing pot of swirling anticipations of what was to come, and a general unease of impending doom that reminded you all too well of the potential conflict had against these Separatist forces if you didn’t reach the appropriate sectors soon.

You exhaled. “And it hasn’t warned me of this Galactic contest’s nature.”

“That’s why I can’t have one,” Mill quickly related, thoughtfully gripping at your attention as she kept pace with each and every step you took to reach the turbolift.

Marking too the first instant you felt a hint of misgiving tempt the flow around you.

As an almost tranquil silence bloomed between you both, you each entered the contraption’s silvery-clear aperture that swirled open at your very presence. It was evident among those slight shuffling and intermittent creaks from an overused transport system, that there were still many words Mill was leaving unsaid. Trapped inside her thoughts much like how the wall of transparisteel at the turbolift’s rear blockaded the vacuuming essence of space from your comparably flimsy forms. Still, such musings did little to stop her from selecting the correct floor on the rusted button panel, clearing the doors to shut, and initiating your leveled descent.

But it was only like that for a moment longer.

“If it’s true that you were gone for all this time, then you didn’t see what I saw,” she released quietly, eyes drilling holes into the turbolift’s aged panel as the soft buzz of its mechanics grayed the silence. “The aftermath of Geonosis. The battles that followed. Maybe you didn’t even see the HoloNet News.”

Mill shook her head with an involuntary drag, rocking her neck as a mother would a crib while the visceral words flowed from her.

“All that blood. The pain. Anguish felt through screens and wires. Through medical encampments. Those people. The ones the Order is suppose to protect. I can see it all.”

“All of it?” You questioned lightly, keeping your eyes respectfully ahead to provide a modicum of space for the young Jedi whose stirring mind was beginning to flower open.

“Each emotion for me…” she twisted her knuckles as if wringing a towel, eyes focused on the nothingness of the solid turbolift ahead. “It’s like a color that’s part of an unbalanced rainbow. And anytime one shows through the Force, I can feel it like a scream in an empty room.”

Until those same button-brown eyes rounded toward your own, burrowing into your very being.

“And every time, in some way, it’s all at the hands of a lightsaber.”

You couldn’t help but hear the distant voice of Qui-Gon Jinn echo through your skull as you absorbed Mill’s eloquent words that swiped one more shallow cut across your understanding of this strange world.

“Only use violence as a last resort, my young Padawan.”

It was clear that holobooks, well-stocked libraries, nor storied pasts would aid you now in understanding how to apply that particular guidance since you’d witnessed Hoth’s sunset for the last time.

All you’d known of the Galaxy was from fantastical holobooks describing the High Republic, but all you’ve known since crowned a Jedi Knight was violence, demise, and despair.

Deep in your bones, you still resonated with the Order’s teachings learned from your former Master and the occasional old-style book he’d bring during his visits, and of course the lightsaber’s symbol throughout history. But for the life of you, there seemed to be no way to truly reveal such truths to a being who’d clearly experienced this time of chaos far longer than you.

“This is not the era I grew up in,” you expressed earnestly, sensing the turbolift slow as a gentle pressure built at your heels like the squeeze that threatened your throat to uncomfortably swallow. “I’m sorry, Mill, that this is what you’ve learned to associate with the Order.”

And just as quickly as those utterances escaped your lips, a dearth of words sucked the air dry.

Because there was nothing else either of you could say.

—

“Alright!” You ringingly called out from the anterior of the chilly sectional recovery hall, drawing the balloon of deep-set, chatting echoes to sputter into an empty husk. The snow-white medical beds evenly distributed against the walls with the occasional cabinet and sporadically placed stone-tinted, blocky armchairs were brimming with disparately injured clones, all of which swiftly angled their attention toward you and Mill who stood quietly by your side as she gazed out at the crowd through a subtle frown.

You tried to keep your eye on the task at hand, mentally calculating how long this evacuation would need to successfully usher out the countless heads beholding you with bated breath for orders, including the small groups that stood at attention in various pockets of the hall the instant you made yourself known. But even though the medium-sized pathway striking through the room’s core offered any flitting gaze a moment of solace from the surrounding carnage, it was not enough of a centering force for your observant mind, which fixated on those scattered, recuperating soldiers who’d so clearly been dealt an inferior hand.

One on the far left sported a thick bandage, wrapped firmly around his corner head all the way down to the eye. And had you not once employed such an old fashioned device in your past, you would’ve thought they were all manufactured to be a crimsoned red. Much like the cuts and scrapes dispersed across visible patches of skin like paint splatter.

The flick of your eye to the room’s other far side, and you couldn’t help but rake your silver stare up and down a clone who’d scurried upwards with the aid of a dodgily constructed cane of metal scraps and angled bolts the moment your resonant voice chimed through the room. It wasn’t until he raised fully that you noticed the black ligature wrapped tightly above one of his knees, and the nothingness that remained below. It just wasn’t there.

His leg. It was gone.

And all he had left to say for it was another arm in a sling that appeared exquisitely clean against the bloodied gauze decorating the hall’s bodies and swipe-stained floors, leaving an eerie odor that only appeared in the Force as a steady pulse of yanking anguish.

Yet still he chose to stand as those with lesser injuries opted to do. To show you a respect you were beginning to wonder if you really deserved.

Though it was easy for a mind thrumming with the ebb and flow of a weighted chest to wander toward that conclusion in any regard. It was fermented more potent by the swirling uncertainty of what to do with Obi-Wan, and the guilt that pushed through the dirt like budding shrubbery.

It was exactly why you needed to accept that guilt, you reasoned. It was what you had to do to center in on the mission at hand. To prevent another lapse in focus like you did when Qui-Gon clouded your thoughts on the battlefield not so long ago.

But the crumbling wall of words that fell like boulders into a lake as they rocketed away from each exchange you shared with Obi-Wan crashed as loud in your mind as did the splash of those heavy rocks.

How are you to focus on the next mission you’re lumped together on? What of when you’re forced to discuss those parts of yourself only a handful of beings know? And when Anakin becomes the topic of discussion, and your eternal tether to him, how will you protect him by pushing his Master away?

Thrusting him away as Mill had with her chance at a lightsaber. The chance at a supporting hand. At something she needn’t fear. And a device, a piece of herself, that if she remained without, would make the trials the young Padawan was bound to face down the road much worse.

Then you were making things worse, you considered fleetingly.

And if in any way you were putting The Guardian’s mission at risk from such decisions, then maybe you really didn’t deserve the eyes of thousands of clones centered on you with an eminence of trust and respect.

But whether you earned it or not, still needed was this attention that accompanied the title of General to lead them to safety.

“Sectors K, L, and M,” you announced with a tight core, reaching your hand to your belt as you wrapped your fingers around the attached saber’s cold hilt.

Springing it free with a whoosh and empowering its gray luminescence to blind the air above you, you displayed its heated might before the hundreds of heads that seemed like mere dots within the six-story ship bay that was converted into a sort of field recovery station, towering in height and breadth beyond some of the larger ships you’d become acquainted with this past month and a half.

“We are evacuating the facility. I want Group 1, all able-bodied clones, to line up in the middle,” you projected, cutting your saber down center for all to clearly see as those who fell into the category sprung or lumbered to their feet with a steadily bustling clamor. “Group 2, men who are unable to move on their own, remain where you are.”

You waited a few moments, allowing these soldiers with patches for wound dressings, injuries dealt to less severe locations, and minimally broken or dislocated bones to bustle toward the central stream against squeaking floors before, handful by handful, the mass of gray-clothed patients turned forward in staggered arrays, most patiently awaiting their next command as whispers flowed by the line like sand through fingers.

“Now,” you began loudly, gesturing between the two groups with your brightly buzzing lightsaber as the mumblings dissipated. “Everyone partner with a person in the other group. Individuals in Group 2 who are unconscious or are otherwise completely bedridden will need two soldiers from Group 1 to take them out on a Hover Stretcher,” you confirmed with two raised fingers.

“Um, Silvey?”

You quickly glanced at Mill’s nervously stitched brows, eager eyes just as distended as her mouth with a battery of words stuck at the tip of her tongue. “We don’t have any more Hover Stretchers.”

It seemed this facility was running low on many necessary supplies during such a frantic evacuation, you marked internally.

Alright, you readily accepted. You’ve dealt with worse.

Your neck flicked back toward Group 1’s already parting sea as the endless line of clones split off to either side of the hall in search of a partner, morphing a once relatively uniform line into an expanding blob of varied, struggled movement.

“No more Hover Stretchers!” You exclaimed swiftly. “Use the bed sheets, or carry them if you have to. Make your way out through the South Entrance in a single file line.”

Raising your saber once more down the middle, you signaled the appropriate exit at the other end of the transformed ship bay.

“Move!”

With a deep breath, you disengaged your saber, keeping your gaze alert while returning it back to your belt with a metallic snap.

“Don’t worry,” Mill expressed calmly, dragging your vigilant survey away from the slingshotting voices reverberating off bordering panels that surrounded clones in various stages of gradually hooking arms with compatriots and carrying each other to the far wall. “We’ll get them all out.”

“I know, Mill,” you smiled gently, warming at her intrinsic compassion while tilting your eyes back toward the swarming clones to assess their progress as a handful began to exit through the South Entrance. “We’re doing well on numbers. I know you’d tell me if we weren’t.”

“Then why are you feeling… regretful?”

Your neck snapped toward the young Jedi, a flood of questions desperately trying to manifest through your features as you held the flood bag with a simply raised brow and a smile faded into tensed lips.

Not Master Jedi, not even a Grand Master, but a Padawan Learner? A Padawan learner was the first to sense a hint of what your mind autonomously hid in the Force? You knew for a fact that your countenance failed to divulge the deep harboring of such an emotion that you were still trying to discern as such.

“You can sense what I’m feeling?” You questioned, perplexed.

“Usually, I can sense a range with groups and people,” she began matter-of-factly, tensed brown eyes swaying toward the buzzing clones before you both. “But yours are pretty clouded. The only reason I can sense that one is because it’s pretty strong.”

Perhaps Mill Alibeth was not only a wise, but a powerful Jedi. And while you certainly sensed a stronger glow in her connection with the Force than others her age that you’ve encountered at the Temple, such a reading remained a speck of sand in an ocean when compared to the Masters who’ve tried again and again to dissect your mind.

Meaning one thing and one thing only.

Something must have changed.

Though what, you had no idea.

A charged yowl cracked through the air like the blast of a horn, reverberating down the hall as a noticeable thump sounded from the same general location before chasing after the dissipating cry into the void.

Your neck snapped toward the tumult’s direction before quickly discovering that the hastening throng of clones rushing past each other to pair up and race for the exit clogged your view of the wider hall from where you stood. Even as you tried to focus your mind on the beings around you, hoping to pinpoint the pain of that cry through the Force to find the afflicted’s position, you struggled to parse through the torrential flood of indistinguishable trauma that clouded your mind as much as your eyes.

Anguish. Agony. Fear. Vexation.

All eddying into a tempest of incomprehensible noise, like pouring every color known to the universe into one bucket of black hole goop.

“This way!” Mill suddenly shouted, grabbing your wrist to tug you along as she sprinted into the crowd.

Your feet caught up to the sudden charge, falling in step with the young Jedi’s hurried pace before she released your arm so that you both could navigate the thicker junctions of the whisking horde. All the while you took particular care in keeping an eye on the small, nut-brown cloak hanging off her back so as not to lose her darting figure in the crowd.

Arms snapped up against your shoulders and torsos collided with your arms while flying commands seemed to cultivate either eardrum as a doorway for the indiscernible racket, leaving you no choice but to adapt to the unstoppable swarm. With each duck and shimmy, you eventually settled into a rhythm through each twist and turn of the crowd. Waves of streaming bodies that crashed into interlocked, haphazard footpaths steered your figure through a slew of precise dodges, all the while you found your focused eye unintentionally memorizing the marginally bobbing hood of Mill’s robe so not to misplace her in the masses. And it was the exact instant that you realized such an intense stare had nearly burned the chaotic rush into your retinas, that the young Jedi finally burst through an opening in the rabble of soldiers fueling gusts of injured groans and strident cries amongst stampeding boots which plunged behind you once the horde finally spit you out.

Your silver eyes adjusted to the far emptier space hugging the hall’s right wall: a handful of medical beds mostly unoccupied and disarrayed with sheets crumpled and tossed asunder from the rapid charge of this evacuation.

That was, except for one bunk on which a clone lay curled into themselves, one hand firmly clutching their leg. Crying out, teeth bare to the ceiling with such might his torment was sure to break right through. It was certainly enough to heighten the two clones who frantically bent over to asses him from either side, wondering aloud through their countenance alone what to do and how to make the awful noise stop.

“What happened?” You pressed firmly, lips depressing into a thin line while you slowed at Mill’s side as the aura of his suffering inked the Force’s everlasting stream with an unavoidable, pounding strikes.

The left soldier spoke with a rich tone as his bushy eyebrows and speckled beard dimmed in anticipation of his own words.

“We tried to move him and his mechnosutures snapped.”

At the same time, you watched as the convulsing clone’s hand slipped from their inner thigh, revealing a deep crimsoned gash that spurted a miniature fountain of blood the instant its spout was uncapped. Splattering the outspoken clone still hunched to his left with a healthy spray across his gray tunic in the injured man’s effort to roll off the cot.

Your eyes widened, the sudden gush which consumed your vision ramming your legs into a full sprint before propelling you to nearly leap atop the gravely wounded man as you jammed two fingers into the humid cavity to cork the leak.

“Mill!” You called over your shoulder as you struggled to find and hold the bleed that oozed past your fingers with a steady, warm pulse. “Bacta spray!”

“We’re all out on this side of the station, sir!” The right clone sporting a young, bare face interjected just as Mill darted to your side.

“It’ll take too long for any one of us to make that trip,” the opposite soldier noted, brushing any remnant cerise droplets from his deep-stained shirt as he rose to his full height. “And he’s in no condition to be moved.”

You briskly sorted through your years of survivalism and relevant readings that supported your life of Hoth, gravely considering each and every option at your disposal to save this clone as his cries galloped after each other in their echoing race into the ether.

Because, despite the rapidly declining seconds you had left to solve a femoral artery bleed, you knew it was still more time than you had to save Getter.

It was still time in which you could do something.

No Bacta Spray, so perhaps a tourniquet.

“I need a thin rod and some bandages,” you spouted urgently. “Do we have anything like that?”

“There aren’t any medical supplies in this section at all,” Mill clarified nervously, rubbing her wrist as she briskly spoke. “The recovery rooms ran out of supplies last week. We were still in the process of transferring the new supply delivery throughout the facility when Nala Se ordered the evacuation.”

“I could give you my shirt,” the scruffy soldier suggested, pointing at his blood-soaked garment. “But I don’t know where we’ll find you any sticks.”

“Bandages alone won’t work,” you audibly exhaled, feeling the steady throb that would easily cut through a simple cloth.

“What about your lightsaber?” The cloaked Jedi inquired, pointing at the delicately hanging device strapped to your belt.

“Unfortunately, I need something thin,” you explained, eyes rapidly scanning your surroundings for anything even close to what you needed. “My lightsaber is too—“

You paused.

You hesitated because, with that comment, Mill may have certainly saved this man’s life.

But you knew from experience that this was going to really, really hurt.

“Men,” you ejected forcefully past the icy chill running down every nerve in your body, reaching your free palm to clasp the saber and disconnecting it with a clink from your side.

“Hold him down.”

A steady thrum of timorous buzzes flickered into the Force to the left, luring your outwardly mollified gaze toward the apprehensive Jedi beside you who watched on with ever-widening eyes.

“You’re right, Mill,” you quietly expressed, redirecting your attention to the task with a gaze that lowered just as deliberately as your body fell into a deeper crouch beside the bedridden man whose entire life relied on the thread plugged by a few fingers.

Though your words seemed to crack her restless daze in half as she whipped her head toward you, short ponytail flying after the sudden movement.

“You’re right, that a lightsaber can harm,” you softly continued, flicking on the weighty device with a shockingly bright drone that emanated between you and the young Jedi, reflecting in her brown eyes like a distant star.

“It can kill with ease,” you gradually moved the weapon through the air, allowing its buzz to vibrate through the atmosphere as the hall’s glaring light reflected its hilt. “Elicit misery out of those who least expect it.”

You returned your conflicted stare back to the disoriented man stuck beneath your digits, neck twisting in and out of consciousness too rapidly to permit any awareness of where his miracle cure was coming from.

It was probably best that way.

Because, either way, this needed to happen.

And it was that very notion that finally put into words what you’ve always felt about the Jedi’s most holy artifact. What you knew was true but struggled to explain to this Padawan all the same.

Until now.

“But you’re also right, Mill, that this same weapon will save him.”

You hovered the saber above the delirious clone’s wriggling form, held moderately still by the two soldiers on either side of him who seemed equally displeased with where this was going.

“It will be the opportunity to live another day. A healing energy to save the desperate. A bright light in the darkness.”

You paused, lowering the weapon to your side for just a moment, fingers still firmly held against the wound as you turned toward Mill as wholly as possible. Capturing her cautious gaze with your own meaningful stare.

“Because they aren’t good, and they aren’t bad, they just… are.”

You glared at its metallic shaft, crafted with great care and precision during your trip with Qui-Gon to Illum to collect your Kyber crystal. You observed its checkered black grip that snaked up the whole of the hilt, an intentional design you implemented to increase its resilience to Hoth’s cold nights. The triangular-shaped dent in the blade emitter from a particularly nasty run-in with a Wampa bite a few years back. The small puncture at the hand grip’s base, chinked by those pirates who stole it off you ages ago.

“They are their own Master,” your lips quirked gently. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

You peaked at Mill whose intent stare swirled with a galaxy of evolving thoughts, chest rising and falling through each breath solely motivated by comprehending your meaning.

“I alone can decide the purpose my lightsaber serves.”

You exhaled rigidly, circling toward the man clinging to life on the cot before you as you lifted the saber above his puncture once more with clenched teeth.

“And I choose to heal.”

With a heedfulness akin to threading a star cruiser through a pinprick-sized wormhole, you sunk the tip of the saber down toward the gash. Recoiling your blood-soaked fingers just as its gray luminance touched down on the spouting artery.

An overlapping murmur of groans from one chapped mouth swelled into a jarring shriek of intolerable magnitude as his vocal cords rawed at the sputtering roar. Saturating the Force with an incessant burden that threatened to collapse your sternum under its simultaneously consuming, draining anchor.

The scent of charred flesh smoked your nostrils as you observed pools of blood begin to blacken a charcoal brown alongside the bordering skin. And in that instant, you didn’t need to use your eyes to sense the young Jedi beside you shoot her hand to her forehead, clutching it fiercely as her eyes squeezed shut with a stinging gasp.

But soon, a subsiding energy overcame that temporary darkness that plagued the nearby Force Sensitives, like releasing a muscle strained into one, sun-beaten position for hours. It arrived with the shaky exhale that flickered past the maimed clone’s settling lips. Along with a sudden relief that oozed from his figure and infected his fellow comrades with similarly soothing sentiments.

“He has more time now,” you swallowed with sharp eyes pointed at the bordering clones as you rose to your feet. “Now get him out of here.”

The soldiers stood at the ready, acknowledging your request before promptly moving toward either side of the injured clone so to follow that very order.

“Yes, Sir!”

“Silvey,” Mill voiced while meeting your stance as the soldiers before you twisted the ends of the bedsheet in their fists to create a makeshift Hover Stretcher.

You eyed the Padawan whose conflicted gaze and curled brows twisted her jaw through a holobook of responses before settling on one that seemed to burst through all the others as a cough would stifle conversation.

“Now we’re running out of time.”

—

“It looks as though Skywalker has failed. He’s lost almost half his ships!”

The head Medical Clone’s vehemently unsettled tone aimed at Nala Se whipped past your ears in its journey as you and Mill led the last group of clones through the frantic energies swirling through the Command Center. It happened to house the getaway hatch to the last escape shuttle on board the medical station, beside your clone squad’s extra shuttle which had already been filled to capacity. And all that meant was that you were bound to receive an update on the battle unfolding beyond its walls whether you liked it or not.

Either way, your focus remained on leading the small batch of five to seven soldiers to the hatch’s entrance, one of which whose shattered kneecap obligated that an arm hung rigidly over your shoulders as you supported his weight through those final few limps.

And that was certainly not doing wonders for your own recently healed leg.

The Kaminoan’s advisor sighed drearily beside Commander Cody who watched on with an analytical gape over to your left as the advisor continued. “We should go, Madam.”

One more step and you reached the small, square hatch that stood from the floor no taller than your waist. Quickly scanning its side panel, you motioned for the other clone beside you to scoop his own grip under the injured clone’s armpit, enabling you to gently release him into his comrade’s company. Soon you accepted the lifting of that digging pressure as permission to drop down to the dingy panel clasped to the door so to input the release override.

“I will stay,” Nala Se tranquilly expressed as she turned to address the Lead Medical Clone.

“That won’t be in the clones’ best interests,” you cautioned swiftly, rising to your feet as the hatch whirred open behind you amidst a high-pitched beep and fogged-over emitter that struggled out dulled, red wisps. “You and your team should leave with this escape shuttle. The others will need someone to help coordinate the care for those more injured. More so than before considering the evacuation exacerbated their conditions.”

You observed with the corner of your eye as, one by one, the line of clones dropped to their knees so to shimmy through the tight-fitting hatch, aided by Mill who remained at each of their sides to support along those more mangled through the ingress. All throughout Nala Se’s carefully hidden hesitation fruitlessly defied your shrewd gaze.

“Silvey’s right, Madam,” Cody assuredly reminded. “With this last group, all the patients will have been evacuated. There’s no point in staying to find out what the other end of that giant Ion Cannon looks like when we already know it’ll kill life support and seal the escape hatches with the power surge.”

And despite the subtle rumblings of uncertainty that the Kaminoan frothed through the Force’s otherwise steady stream, the disappearance of the final soldier’s booted foot through the getaway hatch in combination with Cody’s loyal support of your stance seemed to sway her to respond.

“I will follow your guidance, Master Silvey.”

“Alright clones,” Cody called out while spinning around to the remaining staff furiously typing away at their stations, some standing like a string tugged at their tailbones while they moved through screens of defensive data as if to punch in one last key before being yanked away like a loose puppet. “Drop what you’re doing and load on that shuttle.”

The Commander calmly angled back toward Nala Se as the strings snapped and the puppets scurried free, his arm unfurling into a pointed finger toward the hatch entrance behind you.

“This way, Madam,” he instructed while the towering Kaminoan offered a gradually angled nod of acknowledgment.

You observed as the two of them cooly strolled forward with the Lead Medical Officer in his professional garb inching behind, all amidst the rushing forms and swiping legs of her remaining team shutting off workstation permissions before they made their final, fleeing departure.

Until the flinging movement of a small shape rising upwards caught the corner of your eye, all while an unexpected coolness invaded the Force from your left.

“I sense pain.”

You glanced strangely at Mill’s sudden revelation, taking in her crinkled eyelids while the nerves that twisted around her facial markings pulsed in concentration, palm cradling her vein-pulsed forehead.

“What is it, Mill?”

“There’s someone still here,” she coerced through crunching teeth. “Someone we forgot. They’re below us somewhere. Like a red blob.”

You caught the break of Nala Se’s once steady step from the corner of your eye, tugging at your gaze to serve her patent dithering with your full attention as if caught in the crossfires of a blaster bolt. Even the Commander seemed to take note of the acknowledging release of breath escaping your lips while he simultaneously focused on guiding the last few stragglers away from their stations with firm commands of “let’s go” and “leave it be.”

“Don’t worry,” you clearly conveyed to both Jedi and doctor before focusing your mind on the younger one’s concentrating gaze.

But, even with a turned head, your intrinsic intertwinement with the Force made it impossible to ignore the watchful eye of Commander Cody who reserved a slice of regard for you that more than tinted the everlasting stream.

“Mill, I’m counting on you to ensure this last group’s successful evacuation: Nala Se’s team and the patients in the escape shuttle. Work with Commander Cody. He will help yo—“

“But what about you?” She fiercely interrupted.

Cody finally cut in, “Silv—“

“—I’m going to get that soldier,” you promptly established as you twisted your neck toward the second-in-command who eyed you with oddly laden disquiet, firmed torso communicating the same inevitability to the young Jedi as well.

The words barely escaped your lips as you stormed toward the overhanging archway exit that would swallow you back into the space station’s bowels, heels fully contacting the metallic floor with each step to avoid any other objections of the matter with the all-to-familiar rhythmic clang.

But still, as the final swarm of clones swiveled around you like a parting sea to navigate toward the rear escape hatch, a light-footed figure seemed to cross that distance twice as fast with another heavier-set bunch clad in chaffing milky armor converging from the opposite angle.

“Silvey!” Mill called, swinging around to your side as you swiftly straddled your stride to avoid knocking over her fleeting form.

“I wanted to say… thank you,” she continued, the hint of a sigh crawling along her words as Cody’s striding figure levied its last few steps toward your right.

You quirked a brow at the young Padawan while stretching out a soft hand in signal of Cody to slow in wait. And you sensed him do as you willed, stuttering his gait to a halt like a ripple in the flow surrounding you as your head tilted with a slight curiosity amidst Cody’s respective silence. Still, your muscles stood taught as you prepared to sprint to the station’s lower levels at a moment's notice. Though even then it was a task to derive your focus away from Mill’s big brown eyes which churned with a form of tempered contemplation you’d not quite seen on the young girl before.

“—for showing me the bigger picture,” she continued in another breath, eyes levied at the ground as she worked through tumbling thoughts. “Anytime I felt pain I only saw it for what it was. Something uncomfortable. Something black and white. I didn’t see that some pain could be needed to heal. To do good.”

Mill’s hair flicked to the side as her chin swung back up toward yours with brows raised in relief.

“But saving a life makes it worth it.”

You remained with a steady gaze, relaxing your arms as shoulders released into an attentive expression that urged her to go on.

But with pursed lips that yelled move quickly.

“All this time,” she caught on with a push of breath. “When the Masters said that a Jedi’s life is sacrifice, I thought they meant what we were losing in this war. But it’s not that at all, is it?”

She got it.

You gently smiled.

“It’s what we go through, what we help others go through, to save them.”

Her brows crinkled into a conclusive regard that strained to loosen with the last three words she uttered.

"It’s our pain.”

You allowed for one more minute pause so her thoughts could settle before responding with your chin pointed teasingly downward, eliciting a warm tone.

“You’ll need a tool for that.”

Her lips settled upwards.

“The next Gathering is in a few months.”

And with an approving nod, you took off toward the archway once more. But not before swiveling into a backward pace with Cody following determinedly along so to relay one last piece of guidance that you nudged the young Jedi to carry with her through a gliding tone alone.

“May the Force be with you, Mill. Always.”

“I’m coming with you,” Cody began not a second later as Mill sprinted back toward the escape hatch while you whirled through the archway, the Commander hot on your heels.

“We’re running out of time, Cody,” you implied as you leaned into a jog that he so aptly followed with an armor-laden trot of his own. “I need you to follow orders.”

He spoke plainly, “I am following orders.”

“Well they aren’t mine,” you relayed through a sarcastic twinge that seemed to reach your not-so-healed leg under the weight of a running form.

“General Kenobi instructed me to keep an eye on you if this mission got dicey.”

Of course he did, you internally objected.

Yet you also couldn’t help the fleeting thought that Obi-Wan was jumping through hoops to ensure your safety while you avoided him at all costs.

And if Mill had the courage to take on the Gathering, to face that pain, then you must have, somewhere, in some deep crevice, some semblance of bravery to make allies of those who were sure to aid you in your sole mission.

Starting with that blue-eyed, bearded man.

But you couldn’t worry about that right now.

There was a life at stake.

You twisted on your heel toward the determined soldier, placing a firm hand on his shoulder as he ebbed to a stop against its resistance, stark chestnut orbs wrestling with the notion of failing to follow his General’s orders before your very eyes.

But Obi-Wan wasn’t always right.

“You will only slow me down,” you relayed earnestly, gradually lowering your arm when it was clear the clone’s attention was fully on you. “Jedi have a way of moving quicker and bringing you along will only threaten that man’s chances. If you want to help me, go make sure that shuttle leaves with everyone on it. You’ll still be following orders.”

The soldier’s lips parted ever so slightly as he took in your words, only to clasp shut while the commander’s mind accepted that you were, unfortunately, correct in your calculations.

Even with a sorely palpitating leg.

Still, it was clear from tensely pursed lips and only a brief glance over his shoulder at the command center that the loyal man had one more thing on his mind.

“What about you?” He inquired, confusion etching across his brows.

Your cheeks lightened.

“You’d know better than I, Commander,” you teased. “I distinctly remember you mentioning the handful of scattered single escape pods still located on the lower levels from when VenteX’s constructors needed a plan B during a plasma leak.”

The Commander’s eyes rounded in remembrance as an air of approval dusted off his subsequent nod. “Good catch, Silvey.”

He took a few strides to his rear, angling to jog back toward the Command Center as the determined man left you with one final promise.

"I’ll see you on the other side of this.”

And you certainly planned to keep that appointment.

But that meant drawing on the Force’s all-encompassing existence to guide your way.

You closed your eyes, reaching out your fingers to feel its comforting endlessness energize your veins like a tingling drone as you leaned into a sprint. Its volume remained gentler than the weeks of past, almost reminding you of the calming expanse on Hoth. With a medical station nearly void of life, there wasn’t much to upset its delicate balance as you sensed the escape shuttle’s hatch spin closed with a twist far behind you to secure in the last of the escapees. It enabled your mind to focus intensely on any indications of a disturbance. Whether that be dodging a wall to turn a corner or thoughtlessly punching in floor levels inside turbo lift after turbo lift as you attempted to sense this being lost in an endless array of intertwined hallways and rooms.

Until, while traversing alongside towering walls of precariously placed, foggy cargo containers held within one of the station’s high-ceiling storage lots, you suddenly felt it.

Your eyes slammed open.

A dull jolt in the everlasting stream, pulling at its ripples like a confused animal, and, from what you gleamed, located somewhere alongside the far wall that was sectioned into outstretched viewports inviting in the expanse’s brightest stars. Though those specks of white were vastly overshadowed by the eloquently zipping fighters whose choreographed dips and dashes pirouetted amongst a swarm of red blaster bolts, painting the Galaxy’s complexion with streaming tears of blood. Yet the source of her sobs, no matter how large her function, remained out of sight.

Your feet peddled through the sweeping repository with greater haste, bringing you mere yards from the transparisteel separating beings from the blackness beyond when you heard to your left a tenuous groan leak from its creator.

Your head swiveled toward the sound as a weakening malaise perfumed your senses.

Trapped underneath a lofty cargo container inscribed with gray geometric lines of Basic was the whole right arm of an older clone that maintained a graying beard and sported the brown garb of a supplier logistics technician. The side of his ribs pressed against the floor with intense pressure as he wrestled to shimmy the limb free from its metallic captor, teeth grinding into nubs from the striking pain of likely broken bones shattering still. An electrocuting sensation traveling down legs that dragged at the floor in an attempt to break himself free. Enough so that you caught wind of the oddly twisted placement of an ankle which flopped limply from the thrashes.

Without a second thought, you rushed toward the clone, arm outstretched as you landed on your knees to hold his chilly one still.

“Hold on!” You expelled while your mind tapped into the surrounding stream, allowing you to guide its energies into yourself as you focused your crumpled brows on nudging the container through the outstretched fingers of your free hand.

"You should get out of here, Sir,” the clone expressed through a weak huff.

The large box sharply groaned with a slight shake as you gasped through tense lips at its noticeable heft, fingers curling tighter until its vibrations evolved into the crackling pop of the container losing traction with the ground. Not by much, just a few inches at most, but enough for you to shimmy his arm out from underneath the lifeless beast’s grasp as utterances of excruciating cries and relief-drenched pants shot out of the man’s mouth and ricocheted across the echoing chamber.

The graying clone rolled on his back, cradling the damaged arm with squeezed eyes as he allowed the waves of salient affliction to wash over him while you stumbled back to catch your breath.

“Yes, I should,” you aired breathily as you bent down to help the injured man with a palm under each armpit, hoisting him up high enough to rest a good arm around your shoulder amidst protesting grunts so to limp him a few feet forward. “Now shut up and move, soldier.”

“Yes, Sir,” the weary clone moaned with a subtle shadow of ease as he hobbled through one lumbering step after another, digging into your shoulder with each footfall while you held the majority of his weight firm amidst a damaged ankle likely broken when the cargo container fell.

And for a brief instant, despite the significant setback spawned by the discovery of a severely inured clone, and the increasing pressure on your vibrating leg, you thought that the two of you had a pretty good chance of making it out of here, given that one of the escape pods you’d gleaned from the medical station’s blueprints was on this very level, in one of the inner hallways just a few turns away.

That was, until the staticky pop of your wrist comm buzzed to life with the sound of a familiar yet resistantly tense voice crackling through its speaker.

“Silv— Sil—vey. Come —in. Silvey—, are — there?”

You stretched your dominant hand toward your opposite shoulder, answering the call through a tap to the answering button without losing your grip on the saddling soldier.

“Anakin, I hear you.” You acknowledged forcefully with another step forward toward the storage repository’s sweeping, double-door exit that you carefully eyed a dozen meters away. “The weapon is causing some interference. We’re about to depart. What is it?”

“You nee— out of there! Not s— can’t— hol— —off”

A tingling eeriness ignited in the Force to your rear.

You spun back around toward the storage area’s rear wall of geometric viewports only to glimpse a dash of electrifying purple sparks rotate into the far left segment’s view amidst the endless streaks of red cuts into the Galaxy’s inky fold. A massive, circular charge that revved as the face of the expansive, shark-like ship Malevolence threatened with a roaring breath to blow away any chance you or this clone had for survival.

You remembered what Cody said. One strike from that destructive weapon would shut off the escape hatch releases you’d been relying on for your escape. And with all other systems offline, it would effectively annihilate any life left on board.

This was going to be a problem.

Until a swarm of marching fighters swung into view, veering about one big loop through and out the cannon’s neck as one after another launched an explosive, fiery torpedo that streamed into its wide gullet, supplying a smoky black beard that puffed outwards from the consecutive detonations as the beast’s electrifying, violet mouth roused wider at the provocation.

And just when you thought that the deadly spit of this wild creature would consume your vision, a wide array of clustering, rumbling copper blasts pimpled the shark’s decelerating form, caking the surrounding space with blotches of a wider, billowing smog. An apt fireworks show to welcome the arrival of several Republic warships that swung in from hyperspace within mere seconds like the flying bolts of before that now laid dormant.

“Anakin, do you copy?"

The firmly smooth yet urgent undertones of Obi-Wan’s voice broke through the speaker with an abrupt clarity that snapped your thoughts back into the present, empowering you to recognize that Anakin’s team foiled the imminent threat. You released tensed shoulders that had tightened at the height of this ordeal, enough so to liberate the older clone’s arm from your grasp. You leaned your chest toward the floor as his weight reclined against your back, sliding his arm across your wingspan in order to better grasp each armpit all to gradually lower his form down to rest against a few cargo containers stacked to your left.

“I’m here,” Anakin acknowledged, his transmission having audibly improved as you rose back to your full height to face the viewports once more, feeling the deep sting of a leg that appeared to have seen too much action a moment too early. “And Silvey is too. From the station.”

A flicker of white noise. Hushes of circuits and wires that marked General Kenobi’s line as open. Yet, in those few seconds, no words traveled across its waves from the lead warship drifting comfortably at a distance that characterized its structure as a miniature figurine.

Still, it was enough of a lull to catch your notice with the elicitation of a slumping sensation in your gut as your stretching senses reached through trained eyes to get just a glimpse of the damage you’d begun to realize you’d done.

Though your sight could never reach that far.

“Well,” he started with a bump. “I’m glad to hear you’re alright. Thanks to the success of Anakin’s mission. Congratulations.”

“Partially, but Grievous is still alive,” Anakin corrected just as swiftly as Obi-Wan spoke, though rumination deepened his tone. “The battle was pretty rough on my men. We’re heading for the medical station.”

Grievous…

It was clear he posed a threat. Not just to the Republic’s success in this war, but to Anakin too if these violent exchanges were to continue. The Chosen One and his entire team were nearly killed at his order.

And, to you, that was unacceptable.

You understood the Masters’ weariness which governed the decision to separate you and Anakin on the battlefield. You really did. Lest your proximity allow the enemy to discover your connection, and by association, your eternal mission. But you’d do no good in fulfilling those responsibilities when stationed so far from Skywalker’s battlefield skirmishes.

It was time to take matters into your own hands, it seemed. Because while it had been a little while since you last spoke with Master Windu, you were positive that neither he nor Master Yoda himself would approve of you joining Anakin on his next mission.

No matter, you knew you had to anyway.

It was time to finally fulfill your responsibilities as The Chosen One’s Guardian.

And, maybe then, you could address the mistakes you were beginning to realize you’d made in your friendship with Obi-Wan.

Maybe then, you could face your fears in stride like Mill Alibeth, in hopes of a better future.

“I’ll remain here to help with the return efforts and the injured,” you justified succinctly, unintentionally dipping into the professional drone you’d so expertly habitualized in conversations with the bearded Jedi these past few weeks.

It would also be worth having your leg looked at, you internalized.

But that thought flitted away as another shimmer of peppery nothingness filled the airways with empty feedback.

Yet this time, out of the automative choir that filled your eardrums, you felt a tenuous lug in the Force’s most inner threads, drawing a sliver of confusion to crinkle across your brows as you perceived this foreign sensation not only emanate from within you, but from a distance too far to pinpoint.

“Stay if you must,” he uttered. "Not all paths need to run side-by-side, after all.”

The sarcastic lilt of his mechanically transmitted voice tugged at the cogs of your mind, but not staunchly enough to process the Jedi’s meaning before his cogent air collided with your eardrums once more.

“Perhaps I’ve asked too much of you.”

You felt your cheeks chill an icy warmth as your body tried to reckon with the blood escaping to flood your features, synapses snapping with an equal potency of guilt and unease that threatened to spin the temperature of your ligaments into endless dials.

“But don’t worry,” he quickly finished while redirecting a more sanguine vocalization toward his former Padawan with the succinctness of a head turn. "we’ll call you when we need you.”

As you felt Anakin’s awkward hesitation from a filler word loosely pass across his comm line and directly into your very bones, you came to the solemn acceptance that the damage you’d chipped and chipped into existence this past week, was done.

And just as briskly, your motivation to mend your mistakes dissipated into the ether along with Anakin’s final sign-off.

“We’ll be waiting, Obi-Wan.”

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