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bearlytolerant · 5 months

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Shepard, on the run from her past, seeks asylum on Neon. With the funds from a few odd jobs and a shady loan, she purchases a small bookshop. Though her shop is practically failing, she can always count on her favorite customer, Captain Cora Coe to make a weekly purchase. But when she can’t make a loan payment on time, her life gets turned topsy turvy and she’s forced to depend on friends for help.

Three

Jemison teems with all sorts of wildlife.

Cora suggests hunting. “We could get started on those ingredients for Offworld Eats. Maybe restock the lodge freezer too.”

It seems simple enough. Not too dangerous either. Sam agrees and it proves to be both. They land somewhere not too far off from New Atlantis but far enough away that none of the city looms on their horizon.

Sam perches in a lower bough of a tree, shaded by the green canopy, waiting. Just like he’s been waiting for a couple hours now. His stomach growls and he throws the rifle over his shoulder, adjusting the strap. A small insect buzzes in his ear and he waves it off. He digs around in his pack for a sandwich. Feeling around with his fingers, he brushes up against the wrapper and it crinkles. He pulls the squished sandwich free from the bottom of the bag, unwraps it and takes a bite. Cora sits next to him, curled up in the crook of the bough, book splayed open in her lap.

“You hungry?”

“Not really,” she says, fully engrossed in what she’s reading.

He’s already shoving the thermos her way. “Thirsty then?”

She pushes it back. “Thanks but I just had a drink.”

He knows better than to bother her when she’s reading but he’s bored. It’s been a long time since he’s been plain old bored. He chews his sandwich with his arm draped over his knee, other leg dangling over the tree branch. Takes a sip of water and spots some movement in the sky. Abandoning the sandwich, he shuffles back to his post. Gets into position and aims his rifle, sights set on a bird circling.

“Oh, you finally see something?”

He eyes the bird as it begins to slow to a steady glide. Its burnt orange tail catches the afternoon light and sparks like a flame in the dark. He admires the beauty of it for a moment. It swoops and the moment’s gone. “Parrothawk. Good size too. We can get a lot of meat off it.”

One intake of breath and his finger is on the trigger.

It’s midday and the heat beats down on him. A bead of sweat trickles from his forehead to the end of his nose. Exhaling, he wipes the sweat away with his sleeve, turning his attention back to the parrothawk. But now that Cora’s attention is diverted from the book, he takes the opportunity to try and coax a conversation from her.

“Hey, how did spa day go with Lillian?”

“It was alright. Feels like an eternity ago now, though.”

“Just alright, huh?”

A coral bug scuttles out from behind a rock chasing after a small cutterhead, its teal tendrils flailing wildly as it chases its prey. The rest of the herd—he counts at least four of them—startle and begin running in the opposite direction, abandoning their comrade. Funny how that works. Nothing for hours and then a barrel full all at once. The parrothawk swoops and bites down on the coral bug and the lone cutterhead hurries away. Sam holds his breath. Keeps his sights on the bird’s head and pulls the trigger. It’s a direct hit. The parrothawk spirals as it hurtles to the ground. Smacking against the coral bug corpse, one of the bug’s limbs flies into the air and lands a distance away as the dust settles around the dead parrothawk.

“Nice shot,” Cora says.

He gives a curt nod of thanks. “I’m not done hearing about your day with Lillian,” he reminds her, readjusting himself and aiming for that lonesome cutterhead now grazing a few feet away. If he’s lucky, that herd will return but he doesn’t bank on it. He focuses on the one instead. Its solid blue horn and back ridges make it trickier to kill than the others. With so much protection covering its skull, he aims for the eye.

“Eh, it was okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Our trip got cut short.”

There’s not a hint of disappointment with those words and maybe that’s what has him worried a little. Sure, Cora’s always been reasonable but she sounds apathetic. Sam lowers his rifle and glances at Cora over his shoulder. Sometimes he can’t believe how old she is. Makes him want to say what’s really on his mind but she’s still his little girl. Don't matter her age. He holds back his harsh words. Thinks them instead. It’s always something with Lillian. And that something is always more important than keeping her promises to Cora. It boils his blood when he spends too much energy thinking too long and too hard about it.

“Did she say why?”

Cora closes her book and tucks it away in her backpack. “It was just the usual. You know.”

He does. But it’s not much of a conversation if he’s filling in all the blanks. Slinging her backpack onto her shoulders, she begins her descent to the ground. Sam gathers up his belongings and follows. They trek toward the fallen parrothawk.

“Your cutterhead is getting away,” she says as they draw closer.

She’s right. It spots them and takes off running.

“Still think we can call it a win with what we’ve got.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They arrive at the parrothawk and he kneels. “You know, Lillian—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” she interrupts, bending over the parrothawk with a knife in hand. She works at cutting the skin away first and he joins her, taking the upper half.

“Oh yeah? Been spending time reading fortunes?”

“Ha, no. You’ll have a valid reason to defend her and I’ll still feel like shit about it.” Sam stills and drops the knife, standing and hovering next to her. “It’s okay dad, I already talked to Aja about it.”

It stings. He won’t admit aloud. But it’s good she at least talks to someone about it. Her best friend is probably a decent choice too. Barrett and Ervin’s girl has always been a great kid with an even better head on her shoulders. Hell, her advice was probably insightful and better than anything he could offer anyway. He wraps Cora up in a bear hug, squeezing the air out of her body.

“Dad!” She manages to squeak out and he presses his lips to her forehead before letting her go.

“I know I’m just your old man, but I’ll always be here for you.”

“I know,” Cora says. “Now, can we finish this up? I want to get back to my book. I was at the best part.”

“Is it one of the new ones you got.”

“Yeah!”

Why don’t you tell me about that then,” he says with a smile, returning to his knife and the task at hand.

And she does, softening again. It’s like a cool breeze amidst all the heat as they make quick work of the bird. They pack up what they can and make their way to Cora’s ship, The Hawk. He reckons it will take at least two—maybe three trips tops to get all the goods onto the ship.

About halfway through their trek, a ship lands a few hundred feet in front of them. The ground trembles under the weight of the landing platform, a swirl of dust obstructing their view. Then it clears, exposing about a dozen mercs—guessing Ecliptic by appearance—heading straight for them.

“Forget to make a payment on that loan you took out on your ship?” Sam asks, cocking his rifle.

“I paid it in full when I bought it. I think they’re after you.” Cora pulls her pistols from their holster and adjusts her backpack.

“Ask first and shoot later?”

“I think it’s shoot first, ask later.”

“Nah, I really think—”

The Ecliptic are on them and a bullet flies past Sam’s head, nearly brushing his hat. He glances over at Cora.

She smirks as she aims. “I’m always right.”

“You can gloat later,” Sam shouts as he tucks and rolls, dodging another stray bullet.

There’s a large boulder to his right and he rushes to it, skinning his knees as he slides in behind it. Cora follows his lead and scrambles, shrouding herself with the trunk of a tree. Ecliptic are more organized than spacers but still aren’t a match for the two of them. He aims and shoots. Cora does the same. The two in the front fall dead. One of the guys behind the fallen bodies trips and stumbles. Cora fires off another shot and takes him out.

“Care package!” Sam yells as he chucks a frag at the rest of the group.

Cora picks off the last two, her aim more accurate and deadly than Sam’s. The group is a pile of bodies and they exchange a congratulatory smile before coming out of their hiding places. Walking cautiously over to the dead, Sam counts the bodies. One, two—eleven.

“I thought there were twelve,” Sam says.

“Me too.”

Sam takes a glance around and spots the last guy heading east, sprinting off into the distance.

“Thanks for playing!” He shouts and gives a wave. “Bye!”

Cora lets out a small chuckle. “Think we should chase ‘em down?”

“Don’t think they’re gonna cause any trouble for us.” Sam shrugs and watches while Cora digs around in the dead merc’s pockets. She comes up with nothing.

“Lootin’ the dead ain’t glamorous but it sure is profitable.”

“Not in this case.” Cora sighs.

He waves a hand over them. “See anything on them like a slate? Might be able to find out why they came in guns a blazin.”

She continues to pat them down while Sam keeps watch.

“If there was a slate, it was probably on the runner.”

“Damn it.”

“Win some. Lose some.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Wait,” Cora says, pausing as she brushes dirt away from an insignia on the front of the suit. “I don’t think this is Ecliptic.”

Sam kneels next to her and with the adrenaline fading, he notices the differences between these mercenary suits and the usual ecliptic suits. Similar enough in style and color, it’s possible it’s still a subset of Ecliptic. But he doesn’t recognize the faction insignia at all.

“They all have this matching symbol,” Cora says. “Can you grab my camera for me from my backpack?”

Sam unzips her bag and digs around, pulling the camera free. “Got it.” He hands it over.

“Thank you.” Cora snaps a few close ups of the insignia before handing the camera back. “Maybe someone from Constellation will know what it means.”

“Maybe. We could also search their ship,” Sam suggests but as soon as he does, it begins to lift off.

“Think we missed our chance for that too.”

The ship takes off and they stare after it.

“Not our smoothest—”

“Hey, our response time was spectacular. We don’t have a single injury.” Cora lugs her backpack over her shoulders. “And we got what we came for. Smoother than a lot of our adventures.”

Sam chuckles. “Yeah, you’re right and any scrape you can walk away from is a good one.”

She throws him a big grin with a raised eyebrow.

“So smug. Wonder who you got that from?” He hauls his pack onto his back too and they make their first trip (of many) back to their ship.

Later, Sam kneels to the ground, eyeing the space where he and Cora killed the mercs. Someone moved the bodies, hints of where they were his only clue that they were there at all and he didn’t fabricate the whole scenario in his mind. He casts his gaze a little further and wider. The mercs were wearing heavy boots, bound to leave tracks behind. After a minute or two, he spots a patch of indented grass and the faintest of boot prints in the dirt heading east unlocking the memory of the runaway merc.

He doesn’t expect to find the runaway with the bodies gone. But on the off chance that the runaway is lingering nearby, he follows the trail as far as it goes. The sky shifts from a blanket of monochromatic hues of blue to a deep purple. The night might be gracious in offering unfiltered starlight but he doesn’t bank on it. He quickens his pace. Eventually the tracks peter out a few kilometers from where the dead bodies used to be and Sam finds higher ground in the lower bough of a tree.

With a better view, he spots the smoky remnants of a small fire and climbs back down. When he arrives at the dying embers, he bends low to the ground, fingers sprawling in search of any other clues. When he catches sight of another boot track, he stands up, ready to follow the new lead.

“Don’t move,” the cool butt of a gun is at the back of his head.

“Whoa, no need to let things escalate.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to speak, let alone make any demands.” A hand shoves at his back and Sam stumbles forward, making sure to over dramatize it by falling to his knees and hissing between his teeth.

He almost says he wasn’t making demands but pulls his dad card instead. “Please, I’m just an old man. Got a daughter to return to.”

A shot is fired. The bullet hits the patch of grass right next to Sam’s knee. The merc is serious, he can see that now but Sam’s always been good with people. Even the serious types. The serious types don’t take too kindly to his charm but they do take kindly to an old fashioned stroking of the ego. He’s always lived by the principle, that given a choice, he’d much rather talk his way out of a fight than slug it out.

“Bullshit. If she mattered so much to you, you wouldn’t have come looking for me. So from now on, I’ll do the talking.”

“You do have a way with words and a special sort of flair for survival,” Sam says and it’s enough of a praise.

His momentary captor starts monologuing. Blathers on about being left behind. Always forgotten. Which is a damn shame according to their perception of their own inflated skill sets. The rest of the speech settles in Sam’s mind as a static white noise. He focuses on digging into the dirt with his hand, remaining unnoticed. He manages to scrounge up a decent handful. Mixes a little sand in too. The merc is still throwing themselves a pity party when Sam hops to his feet and swivels, tossing the dirt straight into the merc’s eyes. A classic that hasn’t failed him yet.

“You’re dead,” the merc rages. One hand waving the gun around as they rub the dirt in with the other.

Sam rips the gun out of their hand and turns it on them. Smirks. “As a dead man, I’m the one haunting you and asking the questions now. Who do you work for?” Sam asks in a wavering spooky voice.

But there’s no words, only choking and gurgling sounds as the merc’s mouth fills with a bubbling white foam. Then they crash to the ground, dead.

“Well, shit. Hell of a place to have a seance,” he says sarcastically. “Knock once if you hear us spirits!” Sam says to himself as he pads the merc down, pressing his head close to the merc’s mouth where bubbles pop and the foam begins to dissipate. “No?” He shrugs.

Sam checks the pockets. There’s no slate on them either. But something tells him these aren’t mercs at all. Silence is better than spilling secrets, and this smells more foreboding than an unpaid debt. Worry pools in his stomach as he stands, pulling at his graying whiskers. Who exactly are they? But more importantly, what the hell do these people want with Cora?

#bear writes #renegade #chapter 3 #sam coe x oc #au where Cora is an adult and the captain/spacefarer #ao3 link when you click on chapter #starfield #mature fic #shepcoe #cora coe

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