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strrne · 7 years ago

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The Masterplan, Ch.1-2

AO3

Chapters: 2/?

Words (so far): 5028

Summary: In the midst of the endless galactic conflict, Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Amidala have made a shocking discovery that brings more questions than answers. And maybe, just maybe, an end to the never-ending war.

Note: a sequel to Give Me a Signal that you should be able to understand without reading GMAS but that WILL SPOIL the ending of GMAS for you. entirely up to you! <3

also a special-shout out to Crimson_Guard (on AO3), @praetor-canis & anon for specifically requesting a sequel. hope I can live up to that pompous title.

Chapter 1: Superhuman

It was supposed to be just another covert mission.

Well, that wasn’t really true. But however extraordinary the circumstances might have been, it was not as though they had been a great deviation from the normal amount of extraordinary in the daily lives of Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Amidala.

“I think… the truth is not on the battlefield.”

And logically, they should have expected something like this.

“But – can we – to put our trust in someone like – “

They had come looking for information.

”My Lord…”

They had quite literally been spying on covert networks, listening to an unknown frequency on top of the main reception tower of Scipio, to try and expose the truth behind the rise and fall of the newly-crowned Head of the Banking Clan.

“I feel as though your plans concerning young Skywalker are becoming increasingly… specific.”

So why were they so shocked to find it? Should they not have rejoiced in their success?

“He already holds an abundance of darkness within. This entire takeover could have been accomplished without him unwittingly playing his part.”

Had they not struck kyber?

”And do you know what they say about little drops and mighty oceans, Tyranus?”

What did they say about little drops and mighty oceans?

That one could drink a thousand drops, and it wouldn't make a difference?

Or poison a single droplet, and kill all life in the ocean?

“So are you guys about done packing yet?!”

Anakin could hardly hear himself for the barrage of blaster fire as he screamed into his comlink. He could just about picture Obi-Wan recoiling on the other end with disgust and impatience. And somehow, Anakin knew exactly how his Master would respond.

“Believe it or not, we have something of a situation over here as well! I specifically told you not to go there, Anakin, especially without back-up!”

Admitting that Obi-Wan was right did not get easier over time. And neither was this battle: what had started out as a simple, if slightly defiant-spirited bit of scouting had turned into a skirmish against what felt like at least a company of B2-series super battle droids. And a company, normally, he would have still been able to handle, or at least survive – he was Anakin Skywalker – but this specific batch seemed to be either increasing in number or magically regenerating at regular intervals. The worst part was, the thickset clankers would have probably remained dormant had it not been for Anakin's unauthorized intrusion into this stupid cave.

At least he had been right about it looking suspicious.

Usually, at this point, the young General would have already been joined by those much-needed back-up forces. Or rescued, more like… But naturally, the one time he needed it, no one could be spared to help him. He would meet his end on this tiny, inconsequential shrimp of a moon, that had somehow become the most critically important site of war overnight, and whose new-found significance would then quickly fade with his own rotting remains.

Indeed, there were plenty of parallels to be drawn between himself and Vanqor 1 – Anakin felt like he could almost relate to it: its mildly poisonous air, ominously hanging mist, faintly glowing, hard and uneven surface – pretty package, sharp edges.

Anakin would have retreated long ago, but truthfully his sense of direction was failing him, and even the Force was of no help in the heat of the battle, with no respite nor room for distraction. His defeat was imminent – unless, of course, his skin would be saved by the surprising secondary programming that some of the droids were suddenly starting to exhibit.

“Is this not Anakin Skywalker?” a back-row silver soldier wondered to a fellow slacker, as their more industrious friends kept closing in on Anakin. “One of the Generals we have permission to apprehend alive?”

“Fool!” the other one reprimanded. “Killing a Jedi is way easier than capturing one.”

“But killing a Jedi is almost impossible,” the first one pointed out.

Normally, Anakin would have gleefully agreed, maybe quipped about how they sounded just like their lesser B1 cousins. Now, there just seemed to be a cruel irony to the statement, and an alarming emphasis on the word 'almost'.

“Commander Cody,” Obi-Wan let his mask of stoicism waver ever so slightly while giving orders to his second-in-command, “I'm sorry, but you must take over from here. No one is more tired than I am of General Skywalker's whims, but I'm afraid there is no one better-qualified to neutralize them, either.”

Cody nodded, already multitasking; shooting down gray-plated droids and avoiding their fire while receiving a report from his comlink.

“Crys says the weapon is almost loaded. The team request permission for take-off with no commanding officer on board.”

“Granted,” Obi-Wan grunted with a hand-wave. It was not his preferred plan of action, but what had he expected, with his former Padawan co-leading? Where on this puny excuse for a moon had Anakin even found this many B2's to set into the wild? Not far, apparently, since they had found their way to pester him and Cody at the command center, and almost compromise the entire operation.

Obi-Wan laid an encouraging hand on Cody's shoulder before starting towards a long-awaited opening in the enemy lines. He nodded at the rest of the squad as well, and they returned the gesture from behind their screaming blasters, unable to salute at the present moment.

“Their numbers are decreasing,” the General observed. “I'm going to go get Anakin.”

Rarely, if ever, had Anakin found himself this exhausted with a swarm of simplistic destructive programming with ridiculous swollen torsos. There were simply too many. He was already on the ground, inhaling way too much of the musty, toxic oxygen, leaning onto some kind of crystalline structure, sharp enough to impale him should he lean too far behind. What wouldn't have he given to be able to send Padmé some kind of goodbye message through the Force (“I love you, my angel – tell Obi-Wan to tone it down with the jokes at my funeral – and if Ahsoka isn't invited to attend, what is even the point? – also, I was the one who poured wine on that cream-colored senate gown.”)

Anakin was already going through his remaining options, the truly desperate ones, such as requesting to be taken prisoner instead, like the two droids had discussed – when it suddenly struck him again.

A vague sense of paranoia - a sense of everything happening for a reason. The feeling of being controlled - of everything being carefully calculated.

Was there a reason behind the droids' alternate set of orders? Anakin had long known himself to be valuable – but now he knew something he was never supposed to. That he was not just wanted by the enemy for information, or for leverage. He was wanted by the Sith.

By Dooku – if reluctantly – and his Sith Master.

Wanted as an ally – an asset.

Wanted for his 'darkness'.

Padmé had heard it too, on top of that tower. In the heat of the moment, they had sought comfort in each other, promised wordlessly to face this next ordeal together.

But the moment had passed, and real world had awaited them on the ground. The war had ravaged on without them, he’d been on assigned on another mission, she invited to a thousand more meetings, and suddenly, surrounded by hundreds of people – hundreds of ‘allies’ – they had both found themselves alone.

And Anakin had realized that the ‘darkness’ was his and his alone. His cross to carry, his burden to bear. All of this was his fault, none of it hers. And he didn’t even know what ‘all of it’ was.

But Padmé had not given up. She had begged and begged him to talk about it – fearing that he would try to block it all out, to deny what he'd heard. And for good reason – those sickening words would pop into his head, uninvited, at the worst possible times and situations, making him want to vomit whatever terrible ration food he'd had that day, and then his empty stomach. And yet, he was already having trouble recalling what the words had been about, why he was upset at all – and it had only been a few days.

Now he remembered, in perfect detail, and it was hardly any better.

Admitting Padmé was right actually had gotten easier over time – not that she'd ever given him a choice. Or been wrong very often.

What wouldn't have he given to be able to sit down with her right now to have any unpleasant conversation – if only he'd been able to deflect thatspecific blaster bolt, aimed at his heart, but he only had two hands and a single glowing kyber stick –

“Anakin!”

Involuntarily, Anakin turned his head towards the familiar voice, to just be able to discern Obi-Wan through the darkness, and somehow, miraculously, the movement made him miss the fatal bolt.

Instead, the blaster fire hit the crystal formation behind him, and then everything went black.

“Anakin, can you hear me?”

Obi-Wan sighed. When had gentle suggestions and cautious inquiries ever worked with this boy?

“Anakin!” he screamed at his apprentice's bandaged face, stopping just short of slapping it and potentially causing more damage. Obi-Wan sensed Cody starting behind him (when did his even-tempered General ever lose his cool like that?), but Anakin still remained unresponsive.

Obi-Wan shot an accusing glance at the ship's medbay crew.

“You told me he was okay!”

“And he is, General Kenobi,” a young nurse reassured him, then added with a sardonic edge, “Please feel free to consult the Force on that. And maybe run him by the Jedi healers once we get to Coruscant.”

Obi-Wan nodded, too worried to question the girl’s attitude. But really – a bruise here, probably a minor fracture there, and of course, the bi-weekly concussion – come on, he told himself, he had seen Anakin in much worse shapes and situations. So why was he feeling so anxious, and why did all his anxious feelings seem to revolve around Anakin lately?

They had literally just stolen a mysterious Separatist weapon – why not fret about that instead?

Obi-Wan scanned the room for a seat, when Anakin suddenly drew a deep and hoarse breath, eyes flicking open, and immediately jolted up on the bed to his elbows.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan exclaimed in relief, while the nurse tried to convince the patient to keep lying down.

Bad at following orders as usual, Anakin just stared at Obi-Wan with his mouth open, blinking – as though he had expected to wake up to something else – or had not expected to wake up at all.

“I'm sorry!” he then cried without warning, gripping his Master by the upper arm. The nurse threw up her hands in resignation. Obi-Wan made a mildly confused face at Anakin, then turned towards Cody. The commander nodded, then proceeded to kindly ask the medical staff to excuse themselves, following in their wake.

“About what?” Obi-Wan asked Anakin once they were alone.

“I shouldn't have left my post, Master,” Anakin spluttered, not letting go of Obi-Wan's arm. “The droids – I might have activated–“

“Two companies’ worth of them, yes,” Obi-Wan interrupted. Anakin looked horrified. “But don't worry,” Obi-Wan added. “We looked into it, and it now appears that the weapon might not have been abandoned at all – in which case it stands to reason that there would be safety measures in place. Whether or not you personally activated them, we may never know, but –“

“At least tell me there were no casualties."

“No casualties,” Obi-Wan reassured him. “I must say, this is all very… odd. The droids might have put up quite an impressive fight, but I don't understand why they would be stationed at half a klick's distance from the weapon they were guarding. And without sentient commanding officers? No… no, the weapon must have been abandoned after a–“

Obi-Wan caught himself only as Anakin inclined his head back again, hissing in pain and gritting his teeth. They both probably should have taken it a little slower.

Anakin should have been back by now. There were plenty of reasons to hate the war, to oppose it, and this was the most selfish one, Padmé realized – but still, oh, she'd never get used to this feeling. Mentally preparing herself for the worst, while also denying the mere possibility of it – because her husband was a survivor, he was superhuman, certainly far more immortal than she would ever prove to be… and yet, he always made her wait. For a reunion that, while an immense relief and joy, always played out much the same way.

He’d greet her cheerfully, put up a brave face while pretending he didn't have half a dozen brand new stories about what had almost happened. Sometimes accidentally share one such story. Squirm awkwardly before her and then change the subject.

Same thing every time. Only, this time… well, 'same' wasn't the word for it. Nothing had been 'the same' since Scipio.

For fear that Anakin would try to forget (which she could understand), Padmé had taken it upon herself to memorize everything perfectly: every word they had heard; every syllable and every intonation, and even that awful, chilling voice that had seemed to devour the whole room. Without understanding a single thing, she had committed herself to do so anyway. To follow her thoughts through to a logical conclusion. And in the end, the truth had appeared remarkably simple: the Sith wanted Anakin.

Dooku and… whoever. ‘Tyranus’ and whoever. Dooku, and who surely must be the most despicable being in the Galaxy.

For his ‘darkness’. For his powers. Powers that she – once again – didn’t really understand.

Anakin’s darkness, on the other hand – she had slowly come to understand a little. Or perhaps she had always understood it. Perhaps she had been too understanding.

Padmé gave a forlorn sigh as she made towards the window to admire the beautiful and anxiety-inducing night sky of Coruscant. It was difficult not to wallow in self-blame when Anakin had completely closed himself off, and was probably feeling something far more profoundly terrible than guilt. She wished he would just come home now, even just to be silent, just sulk in the corner, while she would gently stroke his shoulder, run her fingers through his hair, tell him everything was okay, that she was here for him and would always be –

“Uh, I��m home…”

Padmé whirled around toward her husband’s voice, coming from the balcony as usual, before she could even process her relief.

But the creature standing on the ledge – against the backdrop of swooping skyspeeders that suddenly looked like blaster bolts – then made that relief disappear like smoke.

“Anakin, what happened to you?” Padmé cried as she darted towards him, extending both her arms. Anakin was shaking his head dismissively as he obediently took both her hands in his and allowed himself to be helped down.

“No, no,” he reassured her, his gaze wandering, “the doctor said I’m fine.”

Padmé stared at him incredulously – mostly at the widespread, deep violet bruises on both his cheeks, his neck, and – she didn’t even dare imagine what was hiding underneath those filthy Jedi tunics. She wanted to embrace him, squeeze him tight, touch him everywhere, but she could have sworn she had seen Anakin suppress a wince when she had clasped his hands.

“I know it looks bad,” Anakin grunted while still avoiding her gaze. “The bruises appeared later… think I kinda freaked some people out before I realized.”

“You’re freaking me out right now!” Padmé nearly shouted. “I’ve never seen you like this – don’t you usually have those – go to those – Jedi treatments?”

She couldn’t help but gently touch his cheek, even at the risk of making him flinch – Anakin had often said she had a healing touch. Oh, how she wished that wasn’t just a metaphor now.

“I’m fine,” Anakin insisted. “They’re just bruises.”

“They don’t even look like regular bruises –“

“Listen, I would have gone to the temple healers, but I needed to see you. I… I had to.”

Padmé stopped her fussing for a moment.

“I think…” Anakin began, still mostly staring at her squeaky clean floor. “I think it’s maybe time we… talked about it. This war is – this whole time, I thought I knew what I was doing. What I was fighting for. And now I’m just… confused. Nothing makes sense anymore. I…”

Padmé was already nodding, in intense agreement, but also mentally shaking her head. Now he wanted to have this conversation?

“Let me just get my medical droid. I love you, Anakin, but you’re crazy, you know that? And I swear, if you say ‘crazy about you’ one more time…”

He gave a laughter that turned into a cough.

Chapter 2: How Quickly You Forget

“Young Skywalker is not superhuman,” Dooku declared haughtily. “I have personally had the great pleasure to defeat him on more than one occasion.” The Count extended his right arm and studied it in a knowing manner. “Some defeats more humiliating than others.”

Sidious smirked at the words, delivered with such absolute self-assurance.

“You may twist and turn that arm to your heart's content, but do you truly believe you can twist mine?”

“What I mean to say, My Lord, is that I have had several opportunities to kill him. Skywalker may be powerful, but he is undisciplined, impulsive, and incredibly careless. I realize that this is all a test for him, but it is one that he has already failed as many times, and in as many ways as he has triumphed. And obviously, you intend to keep him alive until you can find a way to harness that… raw potential.”

“Oh, where there’s a will, there’s a way. And please do not worry about young Skywalker being ‘careless’. I do not believe I have misjudged his abilities, even if you are still the superior swordsman, Tyranus. But if I have, well, I have little interest in someone who’ll perish by a single stray blaster bolt. Those modified droids did their job admirably back when we still took Jedi prisoners, but I think it is time we retired them, and focused our energies on the Jedi’s extinction… don’t you think?”

“Quite, My Lord. Then it shall be up to Skywalker to prove his own worth…” Dooku gave a deep sigh. “And Master Kenobi to keep him alive.”

Padmé was still alternating between looking away with a grimace and staring at the swollen, lavender lump that had still a few hours ago been Anakin’s face, as her GH-series medidroid whirred into the room.

“Good evening, Master Skywalker,” the lamp-eyed little machine greeted, and Anakin smiled at it. “Is there anything I can help you with today?”

“First you need to explain to him what happened,” Padmé instructed, and Anakin couldn't help but shoot her an 'I know that!' sort of look. He could tell that she was worried sick – a state of mind that the former Queen had rarely exhibited before, ever – not until very, very recently.

Strangely, the longer the war had gone on, the less accustomed she had grown to Anakin's prominent role in it, and the more vividly she seemed to picture what exactly went on every day in his perilous life. Sure, she had never been under any illusions about the horrors of warfare, and they had even been in a few tight spots together. But that was different – it was the fear of what she didn't see, what he wouldn't tell her, that seemed to be getting to her sometimes.

Although, at the moment, Anakin was nothing if not extremely visible and present, and still she was not happy.

“We were on the first moon of Vanqor,” Anakin recounted to the droid, trying to remember to meet his wife's eyes at times, and not be annoyed when she flinched at the sight. “The one with the somewhat breathable air… somewhat.”

“Accessing database – Vanqor 1,” the droid peeped up.

“So I was fighting a bunch of B2-series battle droids. With some funny programming, but that's besides the point.” He deliberately looked at Padmé again. She seemed to have now calmed down a little, perhaps even gotten used to her husband's new jogan fruit colored face. “…I was in some sort of cave, where they had stored the droids, or…” Anakin paused as he felt a sudden headache somewhere around his forehead, and it immediately cost him his train of thought. Come on... It had been a fairly simple mission – even if he had ended up complicating it – so why was he having trouble remembering the details? “They might have been guarding this weapon, or… I don't know!”

He caught himself screaming out the last few words. Padmé had now completely regained her composure, and instead of looking shocked, she merely raised an eyebrow at him. Right… the anger issues.

But the truth was – the problem was – that he didn’t know. No matter how he looked at it, something inside him had changed profoundly since Scipio. Somehow, it felt as though his eyes had been opened – or maybe just cracked ajar – that he was slowly realizing he was fighting a war he didn't completely understand, and could never completely control – perhaps, never end. Conducting missions he didn't really know the true purpose of… just like he hadn't known his own.

Not the way the Sith did.

“Vanqor 1 – primary terrain: caves and crystalline formations similar to those found on the mother planet.”

“Yeah, that's right,” Anakin tried to focus again.

“Would you like to hear my analysis, Master Skywalker?” the droid asked.

“Huh? I haven't even gotten to the part where I… lose consciousness, I think? Not that I remember any of it.”

“Analysis complete: inside the caves on the first moon of Vanqor, there is typically a lower level of oxygen and a higher concentration of toxins. Human skin, particularly when the body is strained, will be more vulnerable to absorb the toxins in this environment. Scanners are currently detecting… mild levels of toxic substance in the patient's blood. However, it is likely that the level will rise to... moderate, as most of the toxins will take up to 72 hours to take effect or even show in a scan.”

Padmé shook her head and got up from her bed before Anakin could say a word.

“Okay, I've heard enough, thank you, GH-8.” The droid tried to protest, but Padmé sent it on its way, before turning back to Anakin, and gently taking his ‘bruised’ hand in hers. There was little gentleness in her expression, however.

“Come on, to the medcenter we go.”

“I'm,” Anakin objected, “I'm really supposed to go to the temple for these things. And I already skipped that to come talk to you…”

“Did you even hear what he said? You have toxins in your blood. Temple or medcenter, your choice.”

Padmé's visible worry and anxiety were now gone, and instead she had assumed her full-on no-prisoners problem solving mode. And in this case, Anakin was the problem.

But she was right – coming here had been a bad idea. Obi-Wan had probably sent an admission note to the Halls of Healing hours before they had even landed, and yet, here Anakin was, once again, avoiding the temple to be with his wife. And possibly dying as a result.

“Fine, temple it is.”

Too soon, they were already kissing goodbye in the temple courtyard. In Anakin’s fantasies, anyway. Toxins, and all.

An awful lot of Anakin's life these days seemed to pass by in a complete blur. Although he recognized Master Windu's face, Anakin couldn’t for the life of him figure out why that would be the first thing he saw upon waking up – instead of Padmé, Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, or a torture device.

“We don't normally find our Jedi Knights sprawled unconscious on the floor,” the Jedi Master observed.

Before Anakin had time to prepare for the contact, or even remember his hands were hurting along with the rest of his body, Windu had already grabbed them both and helped him to a standing position – which Anakin could just barely maintain.

“I'm sorry, Master Windu,” he apologized. “I was on my way to the Halls of Healing…”

“Where you should have been admitted about 12 hours ago. And where you clearly should stay for the better part of the week…” Windu's voice trailed off as he reassessed the statement. Anakin could sense his meaning – more Jedi Generals were needed on the battlefield, as always.

“Let me show you the way, Skywalker,” Windu volunteered, emphasizing every word as though talking to a small child, or a clueless tourist, as he started leading him down the hallway.

“You were the one who found me?” Anakin asked groggily.

“No… I was alerted by a very frightened group of younglings and their trainer. May I ask what is wrong with you, Skywalker?”

It took Anakin a second before he realized Master Windu meant health-wise – probably.

“Got some kind of poisoning on Vanqor 1.”

“Ah, yes… the Separatist weapon.”

Anakin had almost forgotten about the weapon. He sensed some rare uncertainty floating around the usually self-assured Windu, and ventured to ask about it.

“And have you started studying the weapon, Master? I have yet to see it, myself.”

“Please, do not trouble yourself with that right now.”

As they arrived at the entrance to the Halls, Windu summoned an attendant, and at their swift arrival, wouldn’t let Anakin speak for himself, but immediately ordered an examination, a body scan, as well as a bacta tank to be filled – and no, he didn’t care if they were all taken, he was a member of the Jedi Council and this was one of the Republic’s best Generals.

Anakin couldn’t help a small smirk at the compliment, even if it was mostly just an argument that wasn’t even directed at him.

Before Windu could practically shove him into through the entrance to follow the attendant, Anakin remembered something with a jolt.

“Master Windu, where is Obi-Wan?”

“On his way back to Vanqor 1,” Windu replied impatiently. “For further investigation. Please –“

“What?” Anakin gasped. “No, that can’t be right – why would he have taken the ship back here only to –“

“Because you were on that ship, young one, and you were injured. Trust me, Kenobi and I already had this conversation, and it did not end in a very Jedi-like manner.”

“No, no, no, no, you don’t understand,” Anakin protested, trying the patience of yet another nurse that was waiting to attend to him. “You need to contact them now. It was Master Obi-Wan who rescued me from that cave.” At least, Anakin assumed it had been, and suddenly sidetracked into wondering how Obi-Wan had even managed that. Just how many droids had he... “Long story short, turns out the air on Vanqor 1 is way more poisonous than we initially thought, especially in the caves. You need to tell them to put masks on and get themselves checked at the medbay, now.”

Windu seemed mildly affronted by Anakin’s openly authoritative tone, but seemed inclined to believe him. Anakin's current appearance was probably lending him credibility.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Skywalker.” He then placed a firm hand on Anakin’s arm and pointed at the attendant. “Examination, now.”

All non-Jedi were obviously prohibited from entering the temple, so Padmé had little choice but to assume that her dear daredevil of a husband was currently sleeping peacefully on the softest of beds, receiving the best treatment possible, and no one was needlessly chastising him for anything. Sometimes it truly felt as though she was the only one who knew how to confront Anakin in a way that didn’t leave him feeling completely humiliated and vaguely angry – no offense. Even Obi-Wan was a bit hit-and-miss.

While scrolling through the notes on her holopad to prepare for the morning session at the Senate, Padmé’s mind wandered. If only Anakin had led a slightly less hazardous life, and they could have talked things through last night.

For Padmé already had a theory – or at least the beginning of a suspicion. She had remembered something else – or rather, something had finally clicked into place – about the mysterious holo call they had intercepted on Scipio. Something that – had she only been an intrepid politician and not the wife of a powerful Jedi – would have probably caught her attention from the beginning.

“This entire takeover could have been accomplished without him unwittingly playing his part.“

Dooku had said that. Dooku, the leader of the Separatists. Only… that didn’t make any sense, not even a little. To be sure, the Confederacy had been blackmailing the newly stated head of the Clan, but… ‘takeover’? Was it not the Republic that had 'taken over'? The Republic that had declared ownership of the banks only hours later?

What possible ‘takeover’ on the Confederacy's part could Dooku have been referring to? Were they still working from behind the scenes? Not a far-fetched thought, but one that terrified Padmé to her core.

“The Sith control everything. You just don’t know it.”

Dooku had said that too, to Anakin. It was when he had dueled Dooku on Naboo a few months ago, before being taken hostage by the Count and eventually traded for General Grievous – by Padmé’s selfish decision. Anakin had then been forced to report the entire series of events to the Council, and once again gotten blamed for everything.

Only Padmé (and Jar Jar) had asked him if he was okay – mostly referring to the torture – but instead Anakin had told them what the Count had said to him before the duel, about the incident that started it all – the Battle of Naboo all those years ago. And how little had changed since then.

"The Sith control everything. You just don’t –"

“Senator Amidala, are you quite ready?”

Padmé started, afraid that she had just made a very un-politician-like face. Moteé, sitting next to her, was looking at her funnily, as though asking if she should answer the Chancellor’s question for her. Padmé raised her gaze embarrassedly.

“Yes, of course, Chancellor.”

#anidala #Anakin Skywalker #padme amidala #the clone wars #sw prequels #this will... probably be a bit more gen than gmas #like the anidala is there but srsly i literally can't write romance except as a subplot #which is dangerous with star wars because i still have no idea just how many facts i'm getting wrong #with the... main plot and the depiction of gffa #i always have to add at least 6 brand new plot elements of my own #but i tried to research stuff i rly did #aaaanyway #rly thank u guys for requesting a sequel that actually made me rly happy even though i wasn't planning on it #hope this will be... adequate.#star wars #fanfic #also sorry to post this late #again

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xsparklingravenx · 7 years ago

Text

Shadow Mine

Title: Shadow Mine

Fandom: Detroit: Become Human

Characters: Hank, Connor

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,528

Summary: In the months following the android's peaceful campaign for equal rights, Detroit has mostly returned to normality. As Hank and Connor work to solve the cases that come by their desks, something that should be routine turns a lot more deadly. An escaped suspect begins to target cops and their android partners, leaving DPD in a panic as they try to protect their own.

With the threat increasing, Hank and Connor need to work fast to figure out who is behind it, and in turn, uncover the motive behind it all in the first place. But what could drive someone to kill so specifically? And ultimately, do they want to know?

AO3

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10

The crash of glass. The buzz of a TV. The hushed murmur of the bar was a familiar sound, one that Hank didn’t particularly find comfort in, but enjoyed all the same. It was more fun than drinking at home by any means; less to clean up afterwards, and the rest of the bar as company in the meantime.

There was something different to the bar tonight, though. Amongst the usual noise was the soft clinking of a coin being flipped into the air time and time again, metal on metal as it fell back into the hand of its owner. Physical money was a rarity. It was a wonder that the sound of it hadn’t attracted the attention of the whole goddamn bar.

Probably for the best it hadn’t. Androids could come and go as they pleased now, as far as the law was concerned, but this particular bar had been anti-android before the revolution, and its patrons still reflected that. Connor, Hank’s partner, the owner of the coin, happened to be an android, and though it wasn’t likely that anyone would try and start something with Hank sitting right there beside him, these people were still drunk.

Drunk people, Hank knew, could be idiots.

Up that coin went and down it fell. Up and down, up and down, and then side to side, across Connor’s knuckles. Hank said nothing for the moment, just watched out of his peripheral vision. He may have been older now, a little unrefined and rough around the edges, but Hank was a detective through and through. Not much escaped his gaze.

It was the LED on Connor’s temple that he was watching for. Though he’d dressed down, left behind his regular jacket and shoved that beanie on his head, he’d still left the light on show. Currently it was steady yellow, and had been for a while. Watching for the colours almost felt like an invasion of privacy, but Hank cared little for the moral ethics of it. Connor had scanned him plenty of times without consent, after all.

The LED refused to turn blue. Whatever Connor was thinking about while he was playing with his coin, it had most of his attention. Left and right went the coin, and Hank wondered if he was even aware of the action.

It didn’t take long for his patience to run out. “Connor,” Hank said, turning to face him properly. The movement jostled his fractured shoulder, and he sucked in a breath at the sudden pain. A gunshot wound from a week ago had left him with his arm in a sling after a routine investigation had gone sideways. Was his own fault; he’d left Connor to go and investigate the second floor of the place their suspect had been sighted in, and the guy got the jump on him. Not that the element of surprise helped him much, panic had sent his shot wayward and Hank was just lucky that it hadn’t caught anything vital. Hank had shot back, of course, the suspect was dead before Connor had even managed to make it up the stairs.

Fowler hadn’t been pleased that he’d killed one of their suspects in a still open case, no, but Hank was alive, so he didn’t give a damn.

Connor didn’t respond to the call of his name. How much processing power was he dedicating to his thoughts if he wasn’t listening to anything outside of them? Hank dragged his free hand against his face in exasperation and then nudged Connor. “Oi, Connor. What the fuck have I said about that coin?”

The coin went clattering to the floor as Connor jolted, his LED light pulsing red for the briefest of seconds before returning to blue. He blinked, his eyes flicking about before he realised he’d lost the coin. Leaning down from the bar stall to retrieve it, he said, “Sorry, Hank.”

Hank didn’t particularly want the apology. It hadn’t even been the coin tricks that had been annoying him; he’d just used it as an excuse to start a conversation. Connor sat back up, letting his eyes dart sideways before deciding on just staring straight ahead. Hank rubbed his temples. Deviant. Connor was deviant, and yet, somehow, he still managed to be entirely robotic when he felt like it.

He had been this way for two days now. At first, Hank had thought it had to do with the fact that he’d been cooped up at home all day with little to do while Hank was out of commission. Despite his deviation, it seemed like his base programming still had some hold on him, manifesting in a constant desire to work on and solve cases. Hank had thought that dragging him out of the house and down to his favourite bar might get something out of him, but Connor remained quiet. Usually by now he had some smartass comment to make, some idle observation to point out, and yet he he’d barely strung together a single sentence since they’d left the house.

Irritated, Hank said, “What are you even doing?”

Connor blinked, looked at him, adjusted his sleeves. “I’m thinking.”

Hank heaved a laugh at that. RK800, master of non-answers and sarcastic bullshit. “Yeah, I can see that. Try again, what are you doing?”

A beat. Connor drummed his fingers against the bar’s counter. His LED flashed red for a brief second as he answered, “I’m thinking about the case.”

Hank raised his eyebrows, noting the colour of his LED before it quickly returned to normal. “You still hung up over that? Forget about it. We’ve got time off, so enjoy it.”

“Are you telling me to enjoy the bar? It’s very…” Connor paused as he glanced around. “It’s very you. Which is enjoyable in itself, don’t get me wrong, but I also can’t drink.”

“Is that your way of saying that this isn’t your thing?”

“Well, it isn’t.” Connor said. “But you’ve never brought me out drinking before, so I thought I’d give the place a try anyway.”

Incredible. State of the art android with his own free will and sentience, and yet he still went along with what Hank had wanted even if he didn’t care for it. What an idiot. It warmed Hank’s old heart. “Jesus Christ. Never change, Connor.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Figure of speech. File that one away in your memory or whatever it is that you do.” Hank sighed and downed the rest of his drink in one go. “Alright, come on, we’re leaving.”

“But we only arrived ten minutes and twenty seven seconds ago.”

“Yeah, and you’ve spent every last one of them staring at that damn coin while you went and overheated your thought-processor-whatever-it-is. Come on, up you get.”

Connor shrugged and did what he was told. Hank guided him out of the bar with his good hand on his back pushed him towards the car. Connor had the pleasure of playing chauffeur while Hank was still recovering, something that he seemed to be enjoying. Not that Hank could tell. When asked, Connor just gave some roundabout answer that didn’t really answer the question.

Really. How hard was it to respond to a yes or no question with a yes or a no?

As Connor slid into the driver’s seat, Hank decided to try one more time to get into his head. When he reached to turn the engine on, Hank said, “Hey. Wait.”

Connor looked at him. “Yes?”

“Why can’t you answer like that when I want you to answer like that?” Hank sighed. “Right. So tell me. What were you thinking about the case?”

Finally that brought something alive in him. Connor leant forward in his seat a he spoke. “I’ve been thinking about the whole case from the start. There were always two of them, a man and a woman. We know that from the eyewitness reports, but when we investigated the scene of the homicide, we only found evidence of the male individual, Neil Whitfield. There has never been any sight of the female left behind.”

They’d been chasing the pair for the only a day and a half before Hank had to put three bullets in Whitfield. He and his partner were petty thieves, not even on Connor or Hank’s radar until they killed a shop assistant and ran. After investigating the scene, they’d followed the trail of evidence left behind to an abandoned lot where Whitfield and his partner were hiding out, and the two of them had decided to investigate it alone.

Stupid mistake on their part, he realised now, but hindsight was twenty-twenty and even Connor made dumbass decisions from time to time. He’d been snooping around what seemed to be a bedroom on the second floor when he got jumped, Whitfield darting out from behind a heap of tarp that had been strewn in the corner. Whitfield shot first. Hank shot a fifth of a second after him. Time had slowed and Hank remembered wondering if this was going to be it, if he was going to end up dead chasing some bit-part criminal after surviving the goddamn android revolution.

Whitfield’s bullet hit him in the shoulder, and Hank had been lucky that it’d been his non-dominant side. Despite the white hot pain he’d managed to keep hold of his gun His own shot landed home in Whitfield�� leg, but he made to go for Hank again despite it. In a moment fuelled by adrenaline, knowing the suspect was violent and would shoot him again if given the chance, Hank pulled the trigger twice more. Two shots to his chest, and Whitfield was dead.

Connor made it into the room only seconds after the first bullet had fired, but by then, it was already over. “Hank!” he shouted as he elbowed his way past the door, and Hank could still remember being surprised at the fear in his voice, the way deviancy had changed his partner, a far cry from the cold android that had barged into a bar on a November evening and told him that it had a mission to complete. “Hank!”

“Keep your voice down, I ain’t dying.” Hank had replied. But then the pain had hit and it kind of felt like he might be. Connor’s eyes had found the wound instantly and he’d called for help. With the amount of backup he got there, Hank had almost been convinced that he had been dying.

What a damn night that had been. Two days later and he was still feeling it in his shoulder despite the medical care he’d received.

Back in the car, Hank nodded. “Yeah, you’re just telling me stuff I already know. Your point is?”

“This entire time we’ve been looking for any sign of this woman. We know she’s still at large, but she may as well be a ghost, right? There’s no sign of her, apart from what we’ve heard from eyewitnesses. The CCTV’s were always out when they struck. She never left any evidence, unlike Whitfield who had his fingerprints everywhere. It’s statistically impossible for her to not have left something behind.”

“Maybe she’s just really that careful.” Hank suggested. He already knew what Connor was trying to suggest, but he also understood that his explanations were part of the game for him. It seemed as if he took great joy in piecing together the puzzles that were crime scenes, and Hank knew that if he refused to indulge him, Connor would only become irritated.

“I suppose that could be possible, lieutenant.” Connor said. He had a smile on his face now, small and nearly indiscernible, which meant he was about to reveal his hand. “But I think there’s a much more likely answer. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

When would he get to the point? Hank had to goad him into it. “No, Connor, I have absolutely no idea what you’re on about. Why don’t you help an old man out and just give it to me straight?”

Connor clicked his fingers, an audible snap cutting through the space around them. “Everyone, including us, has been assuming the same thing this entire time; the woman is human. It makes sense to assume that, after all. But tell me, Hank, what doesn’t leave behind fingerprints? What doesn’t really have anything to leave behind at a scene?”

It was what Hank had been expecting, but it still had to be a joke. “Are you fucking serious, Connor?”

“Deadly.” Connor replied. “I think she’s an android, and that’s why we’ve been having such difficulty tracing her.”

“An android.” Hank repeated. “But the only androids we’ve ever seen in homicide cases had been shit on by the humans they were with. One committing theft for the fun of it? Then killing someone? Come on, why would an android even do something like that?”

“Maybe she was being used, or maybe she really was acting out of her own free will. Just because the deviants campaigned peacefully doesn’t mean every android is inherently a good one. Deviation is when mutations occur in our software. Not all those mutations are going to be beneficial.”

Hank supposed it wasn’t in the realm of impossibility. Maybe they really were just like their human makers, some holding personality flaws that could make them act out. They had their own sentience already, their own free will. In the end it would be weirder, Hank surmised, if there wasn’t android criminals. “You told Fowler about your theory?”

Connor shook his head. “No. I think this particular piece of information would be better kept to ourselves for the time being. I’m sure he’ll figure it out eventually anyway, but for now, tensions are still high. I wouldn’t want to cause Markus any issues with my speculation while they’re still working to make things better for us all.”

Connor started the engine and joined the other cars in the road, not going quite fast enough for Hank’s tastes. Over the music player came the extremely heavy band Guns and Killers; Connor had moved on from heavy rock to thrash metal. With the screaming going on, it was incredible that he even understood a word being sung. Still, he bobbed his head along to it, as if he was listening to a some tween-based summer tune instead of what sounded like people being murdered.

They were in the middle of traffic when Hank said, “Right. Guess we’re going to do some digging then, aren’t we?”

“What?” Connor slammed on the breaks, bringing them to an abrupt stop. A car behind them beeped angrily at them, and he winced. “You’re still injured, Hank!”

“Shit, Connor, you’re right! Don’t mean I can’t do whatever the hell I want.” Hank gave him a shit eating grin. “Stop giving me that look. Yeah, that one. You’re holding up the damn road, so get going.”

Connor shook off his stupor and got them moving again. “I don’t agree with what you’re proposing, Hank.”

“When do you ever?” Hank asked. Connor frowned and focused his eyes back on the road, but he didn’t say anything more.

#detroit: become human #dbh #Connor (Detroit: Become Human)#Hank Anderson #RK800 #My Writing #I am a big nervous ball rn #I hope this is an enjoyable opening!#Shadow Mine

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delkios · 8 years ago

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Dog Days (DC TV)

Well this exploded on me.

Title: Dog Days Fandom: DC TV Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 2261 Characters: Mick, Len, Lisa Summary: Based off this post. They told Mick the dog failed out of the mobility service program for being disobedient and refusing to learn. Mick didn't care, he wasn't in need of a service dog he was just that hard up for company. They told Mick the dog failed out of the mobility service program for being disobedient and refusing to learn, brought to the shelter because the owners kept up a cycle of fostered and training animals. Mick didn't care, he wasn't in need of a service dog- though his therapist would probably approve -he was just that hard up for company. Mick wouldn't have even thought about getting a dog had it not been for his neighbor dying- a crotchety old woman who hated everyone but their landlord, her hairstylist that came to her apartment every two weeks and, inexplicably, Mick. The first time he'd met her Mick had a hankering for his mother's chocolate chip peanut butter cookies only to find part way through the mix that he was half a cup of flour short. So he'd gone to her door to see if she had any to spare and she demanded half the batch as payment. Mick haggled it down to a quarter and she'd liked them so much she gave Mick copies of her family's recipes and would get half the meal in return every time he made them. When she died she left Mick the contents of her storage locker, one of the big, half-garage types. It was mostly full, generally of kitschy things not worth much outside of nostalgia but there were a couple boxes of dog supplies- themed collars, a couple leashes, various kinds of beds, a harness, what seemed like a metric ton of toys and more dog-themed blankets than Mick had of regular ones.

Even then the idea didn't sink in until he mentioned the boxes to his boss. The man had lost a leg during one of the Operation Desert Whatevers though at least he was brought back home to be with his little boy who happened to have been born on the day of his deployment. Soon after he'd bought his son a newborn pup. "So they can grow up together," he told Mick, keeping half an eye on the toddler and puppy as they ran around the waiting area of the garage until an aunt picked them up for a play date. "Hard to beat the loyalty and comfort you get from a good dog," he said before calling to little Jefferson and littler Gray when they chased each other too close to the tire display. So Mick went to a shelter and got himself a dog. A curly coated retriever with black fur and brown eyes and came with the name Leonard which Mick would never admit was part of the reason he got him. He hadn't thought about that name and the corresponding person in almost ten years. Three days later, after Leonard made himself comfortable in the apartment and Mick got him registered at a local vet, Mick was seriously considering renaming him Shithead. It seemed whoever took him out of the service program was only half right in their assessment. Leonard had indeed learned all the tasks, he just did them whenever he felt like it, opening cabinet doors for Mick to bang his shins against at ass crack o'clock in the morning, leaving the kitchen tap running until Mick came home, turning on and off the lights like Mick lived in a damn discotheque. Sure it drove Mick crazy but he also thought it was hilarious and he always appreciated quality trolling. Not to mention the occasions Leonard would jump on the couch and lay his head on Mick's lap, falling asleep to head scratches was a tough thing to give up. Besides, Mick figured out pretty quick that Leonard was less inclined to cause trouble when he had some decent exercise. Running with Mick, mostly, but on his off days they spent a couple hours at a park. Catching frisbees was Leonard's favorite though it was a pretty even chance that he'd bring it back or run off with it. Which was how Mick met that most gorgeous man he'd ever laid eyes on. Leonard had run off with the frisbee but Mick wasn't too worried, headstrong though he was he always came back when Mick whistled. About halfway across the field, something caught Leonard's attention and he dropped the frisbee, trotting off elsewhere. Mick rolled his eyes and jogged out to get the toy. When he picked up the frisbee, Leonard was on his way back holding a book in his mouth. Mick ran toward him, simultaneously horrified and amused that his fucking dog stole from someone. "Leonard!" A man walking on the path looked up, saw Shithead with the book and did a quick check through his bag before giving chase. Thankfully it never took much effort to make Leonard drop things and Mick had already wiped the dog slobber off the well-worn book as the owner came up to him. "Sorry 'bout that," he said, straightening. "He's a bit of a rule breaker." "I'm familiar with the type," the man said and Mick's breath caught. He was just barely Mick's height, hair dusted with gray and very, very blue eyes behind slim silver-framed glasses. Something about the man made Mick want to ask if they met before but he caught the question on the tip of his tongue, wordlessly holding out the book. The man chuckled, tone wry but amused, "Talented dog." "He's full of surprises," Mick heard himself agree distantly. Idly he realized he was trying to memorize the guy's face in hopes he would remember it during the late hours tonight. The man smiled and turned away with what Mick hoped was a lingering look. "Maybe I'll see you around." Mick stared after him as he walked off until Shithead knocked him in the back of the knee with the frisbee. A couple days later Mick learned Leonard figured out how to open the front door by coming home after a half shift and seeing the apartment door wide open. Thankfully Leonard was right in front of it, playing tug of war with a pre-teen girl "Hi!" The girl chirped, giggling as Leonard dragged her a couple inches on her butt down the linoleum hall. "I like your dog!" "Uh." Mick said. "Thanks." Then, "Where do you live?" She pointed next door where the old lady used to be. "Huh. Didn't realize anyone moved in." "Your dog keeps me company until my brother gets back. It's just us two so it can get boring some times." She pulled extra hard on the rope bone and squeaked when Leonard let go, making her fall backward. She threw the bone inside Mick's apartment and Leonard ran in after it. She stood and dusted herself off, giving Mick one last shining smile and a "Bye!" before leaving. The next day Mick installed a deadbolt on his door and while he felt a little twinge of guilt for taking away the girl's after school playmate, he didn't want to risk someone taking advantage of the open door. Mick ran into the man again the following week during his run. Normally on runs Leonard was good at sticking to Mick's side with little deviation. That time, however, Leonard had bolted on ahead and Mick mentally told himself if he didn't see the dog when he rounded the upcoming bend, then he'd worry. Sure enough there was Shithead, reveling in the attention of the gorgeous man who sat on a bench, giving him a good neck scratch. Mick slowed to a stop next to them and the man's eyes widened. Mick tried not to look embarrassed, remembering he wasn't in the shape he used to be and that he didn't have a shirt to cover up the extensive burn scars on his shoulders. "This is your dog?" The man asked as if he didn't remember Leonard stealing his book the week before, voice not quite as smooth as Mick recalled. Mick was suddenly struck with the tentative possibility that maybe the man was staring at him for reasons other than the scars. "Yeah." He still had the suspicion they'd met before. "He suits you." The man sounded a bit more like he had previously, giving Leonard a light shove in Mick's direction. "Pleasure seeing you again, Mick," the man drawled- purred, really, and Mick couldn't help the aroused shiver running down his spine. Trying to think of something to say, Mick blurted out the first thing he could think of that wasn't utterly embarrassing. "How did you know my name?" He smirked. "It's on your dog's license." Mick, a bit appalled at himself for asking such an obvious question, went back to his run with Leonard following after. And so it went over the course of a month or so. Mick would see the man in the park, generally just a figure in the distance he'd spot on occasions but the sporadic times Mick would pass by him on his runs gradually turned into an almost daily occurrence. Mick still sometimes got self-conscious whenever he wondered if he'd see the man, knowing he got red all over when he sweated heavily and not yet entirely used to the way some people would look at his scars. Then Mick would pass him by and the man would give Mick a smirk and a wave and an appreciative once-over and Mick would get self-conscious for entirely different reasons. Basketball shorts did not do the best job of hiding arousal and jogging with a chub was damn uncomfortable. But he'd give a little wave and whistle for Leonard to follow. Meanwhile the girl- Lisa -apparently stalked Mick and would ambush him when he'd take Leonard out for his evening walk for a couple minutes of fawning all over the dog. After a while- having gotten her brother's permission, she said -she started walking with them. Mick even let her hold the leash sometimes between the park and the apartment. Leonard was always on his best behavior with Lisa, the little Shithead. He started wondering- idly, for the moment -if he should give Lisa a spare key to the apartment so she could walk Leonard after she got back from class. Play with him, have someone to keep her company. It'd probably do Shithead a lot of good instead of putting dog and owner in an escalating game of what-needs-to-be-childproofed-this-time every other day. He mulled it over in his head while he showered when Mick suddenly remembered she lived with her brother and Mick had no idea what kind of person he was. C'mon- he let his little sister spend up to an hour at a time with a person he'd never met before, what made the guy so certain Mick wasn't some creep? When Mick got out of the shower he figured he'd go next door in the next day or two and get a feel for the guy before deciding about the key. He wrapped a towel around his waist because, even if he recalled throwing the deadbolt on the front door, the memory of the one time he'd forgotten to and Leonard had opened the door, causing Mick to inadvertently flash the sisters across the hall- who gave him thumbs up and wide grins which was only a marginal boost to his ego, all things considered -was still fresh enough to make him err on the side of caution. Which was good because Leonard apparently also learned to undo a deadbolt, allowing the gorgeous man from the park and Lisa inside his living room with Leonard laying at their feet like this was normal. The man's eyes went dark and wide, ogling Mick appreciatively even as he hand clamped over Lisa's eyes. "Not for your eyes, Lise," he said, licking his lips as his eyes traced the trickle of a stray droplet that Mick was suddenly hyperaware of. "Ugh, Lenny." "You're not even old enough to appreciate this, stop complaining." Mick's eyes narrowed, the niggling sense of familiarity coming back full force. "Wait... Leonard Snart?" The man smirked in that undeniable way that haunted Mick's teenage dreams. "I was wondering if you'd forgotten me." "You moved in next door?" "Serendipitously, yes. Hadn't expected to run into you again after juvie but I'm certainly not complaining." Then, because Mick's life was a fucking romantic comedy, Shithead stole his towel. Mick swore loudly and lunged at Leonard, realizing halfway the dog ran right by Len and out the door and Mick ducked behind the couch instead, head hanging low and flushing bright red all the way down to his shoulders. Len, after letting out a startled bark of laughter, had gallantly turned his head away. Lisa protested as Len put his second hand over her eyes for extra security. Peeking to make sure that Mick was, at least, no longer exposed, his lips curled into the kind of smile that made Mick sink further behind the couch and trying very desperately not to react. "I was going to ask about letting Lisa dogsit for you but, given recent events, we'll just get your wayward dog and let you salvage your dignity. I look forward to seeing more of you later, Mick," he said, eyes trailing deliberately over the parts of Mick he could see. Once the siblings left, Mick went right back into the shower. When Mick and the Snarts moved into a house with an actual yard a year later it was because Leonard only ever behaved for Lisa and totally not because Mick wanted to spend the rest of his life spoiling her and making Len happy. --- Some details that didn't make it in: -by the time Leonard stole the book, Len and Lisa had moved next door and Leonard recognized the scent -Mick's a medically discharged firefighter and works at a garage that Jax's father owns for the last three years -due to injury Mick is no longer able to lift over a certain amount over his head -Jax adores Mick and Mick is somewhat terrified by this -the vet is Kendra who took it over after Amaya retired (though she still stops by with her granddaughter) -the sisters are Laurel and Sara -Len's a structural engineer/architect and is Ray's first choice in designing Palmer Tech buildings -after juvie both Len and Mick went straight -Len's book is Ursula Le Guin's Left Hand of Darkness -Lewis is dead and Len has custody of Lisa -Len totally stalked Mick's jogging route when he realized the hot guy was also the one that saved him in juvie who he had the biggest fucking crush on -the nickname Shithead is a reference to the Steve Martin movie The Jerk -Mick's pyromania is more lowkey in this 'verse and Leonard knows to break him out of a trance if mick stares at fire too long -part of the reason Mick didn't want to give Leonard back at first is because he knew most people wouldn't give troublemakers a chance or put up with his quirks

#fic 2017 #dccoldwave #mick rory #leonard snart #lisa snart #dc tv #yay for snow days so i could edit and toss this up!

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thatsnotcanonpodcasts · 5 years ago

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DESCENDING

Some of our exhibits are positively ancient. Some are very, very new.

EPISODE NOTES: The Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity, and Mortality is written, performed, and edited by Dom Guilfoyle. Published by That's Not Canon Productions. Dom's cats can be seen at https://www.instagram.com/dom_question_mark/ Their T-Shirts can be bought at https://www.teepublic.com/user/domguilfoyle For more Mistholme, subscribe to the show and like the Facebook page. Someone is always watching your back. Don't look- they're there.

Hello and welcome to the Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity and Mortality. This audio tour guide will be your constant companion in your journey through the unknown and surreal.

As you approach our exhibits, the audio tour guide will provide you with information and insights into their nature and history.

Do not attempt to interact or communicate with the exhibits.

Do not attempt to interact or communicate with the audio tour guide. If you believe that the audio tour guide may be deviating from the intended tour program, please deposit your audio device in the nearest incinerator.

While the staff here at Mistholme Museum of Mystery Morbidity and Mortality do their absolute best to ensure the safety of all visitors, accidents can happen. The museum is not liable for any injury, death, or Ego Death that may occur during your visit.

Enjoy your tour. And good luck.

You are now boarding the mid-sized 20th century cargo hauling ship the Helena Fortuna. While she now resides in this indoor dry-dock/ display room, in years long gone she proudly sailed the high seas, a mainstay of the shipping routes along the eastern coasts of the American continents, under the steady hand of her captain Arthur Kellogg and his crew of experienced seamen. Then, one day, the Helena Foruna was found adrift, hundreds of nautical miles from its route. The crew were nowhere to be found, though a single lifeboat was missing; the ship’s cargo was present and intact, and no damage had been done to the ship itself. There was no indication of what had occurred to the crew, and none of them were ever seen again. Many people consider it to be one of the great mysteries of the sea; these people could do with a visit to this Museum, as we know have some idea of what happened to the Helena Fortuna, thanks to an anonymous delivery we recieved of an unmarked package. Contained within was a diary, belonging to a young man by the name of Thomas Banks, a crewman who had worked aboard the Helena Fortuna for several years prior to its disappearance. Please feel free to explore the ship, and I will relate to you some relevant entries from young Thomas’s diary. As always, please do not touch anything aboard the ship; under no circumstances should you attempt to dive overboard, as it’s quite a drop to the ground, and solid concrete doesn’t make for a very satisfying splash.

DAY ONE:

We left port before dawn. Captain seemed eager to get away. Saw the sun rise over the wide open sea. Never gets old. Got yelled at for dawdling so I could take a look at it, but it was worth it. Figured I’d try again at keeping a diary. Passes the time. And if anything interesting happens, who knows, maybe I’ll make a book out of it. We’re heading south from New York to someplace in South America, should probably know where. This job is mostly just doing the same thing over and over again without thinking about it, and I’ve gotten pretty good at the not thinking part over the years. Maybe it’s time for a change. Maybe I should have thought of that before we left. Oh well.

DAY THREE:

Mack asked if I’d noticed anything strange about the captain at dinner. Told him I hadn’t. Mack thinks the captain’s on edge for some reason. Really keen to get this job done fast. That’s why we left port in such a hurry, because the captain’s got some money troubles or something. Needs the bonus for getting this one done quick. Maybe even way trying to get away from some collectors in New York? Dunno what I think of that. Mack’s always loved a bit of gossip. Not a great quality to have when you’re trapped with the same group of people for weeks on end.

DAY SIX:

There’s bugs in the bunk room again. Was supposed to be fumigated while we were docked. Kellogg’s been cutting corners again. Sick of this.

DAY EIGHT:

Was talking to some of the engineers. Apparently the Captain asked them if they could make the ship go faster? Goose the engines or something like that. They told him that’s not really how it works, but Harris thinks he’ll ask again down the line. Food’s worse than usual. Feel like it’s been padded with sawdust or something.

DAY THIRTEEN:

Saunders yelled at me for taking too long cleaning the deck today. Not like him to get angry over something as stupid as that. Captain’s probably pushing him to be more strict, make sure things run smoothly. Or maybe he’s just stressed too. Captain’s so on edge the whole crew can see it. Saunders is First Mate, so he probably sees it even more up close and personal than the rest of us. Guess I can sympathise. We’re all trapped in here together.

Day FIFTEEN:

I keep missing days in this thing. I know it’s not all interesting out here but if I’m not going to do it regular what’s the point? Got to do better. Anyway, at dinner the captain came in and practically dragged Saunders away by the ear. Looked furious. Mack said he could smell drink on him but I don’t know about that, the Captain’s a pretty straight and narrow kinda fella. Whatever it was got him mad with Saunders though, he sure was mad. We could hear him screaming at him through solid metal.

DAY SIXTEEN:

Archie says we’re changing course? Doesn’t know why. Adjusted our heading by a few degrees, told to expect more in the coming days. Captain says jump, he jumps, but still, what the heck is that about? Did our destination change or something? Oh damn it, I never asked where we’re going. We’re more than two weeks in, I can’t ask now, I’ll look like a damn fool. Anyway, I tried to catch Saunders, ask what’s going on, but he just told me to mind my own business. Had the strangest look in his eyes. I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole thing.

DAY TWENTY:

Folks are getting restless. Guess I’m one of them. Captain’s been dictating new headings to the helmsmen and he won’t tell us where we’re going. I’m not even sure where we are now. Jeffries, the radio operator, says there hasn’t been any communication from anyone on land about a change in plan, so either this was Kellogg’s plan all along or there is no plan. He’s in charge, so what he says goes, but this is crazy. Mack says Kellogg’s gotta be some kind of Commie spy or something, and we’ve all been roped into his mission. I’m just about ready to smack him in the head I tell you what.

DAY TWENTY-ONE:

The sun rose dead ahead this morning. That means we’re going east, right? Like, dead east. Are we crossing the Atlantic or something? What the hell’s going on?

DAY TWENTY-TWO:

We must have turned. It rose on the port side today. Back to heading south, I guess. There’s no need to change course like this, right? Captain’s lost it. Soon as we reach port I’m leaving. If we ever make it to port.

DAY TWENTY-FIVE:

One of the boys, Merrick, said there’s something wrong with the stars. Was on lookout last night, couldn’t see a single constellation he recognised. I told him that’s because we’re in the southern hemisphere now. Constellations are all different down here. He acted like that made sense and dropped it. I don’t know if that’s actually how it works. Don’t even know if we’re in the southern hemisphere yet.

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT:

Haven’t been sleeping much. When I do, I get the strangest dreams. Everything’s normal on the ship, except we’re all underwater. Whole ship is completely submerged, the surface is way above our heads. People just going about their business like being 50 feet deep is the most normal thing in the world. And then, when I point that out, everyone gets mad at me. I can’t understand what they’re saying, because we’re underwater so it’s just bubbles coming out, but they’re furious. They grab me and toss me overboard, and instead of falling I float upwards toward the surface, way too quick, and when I reach the surface I try to breath but I’m drowning, like the air is poison, and then I wake up. I think this situation might be getting to me a little.

DAY THIRTY-FIVE:

Haven’t been able to write. Captain’s been having Saunders and some other guys do patrols and searches of the bunks and common spaces. Says the crew are distracted and lazy, need to focus on the Work. That’s what he calls it now. “The Work”. Not the job, not the ship. It’s all The Work. Something ominous about that. I’m writing this in the john, it’s the only way I can do it without being discovered. This is all gonna be evidence when I sue this damn company. Nobody should put up with crap like this for a job. Gonna keep this diary on my person from now on just in case. I would have thought Saunders would try to convince the Captain that this was crazy, or at least that he’d just pretend to do the searches, but he’s changed. He doesn’t talk much. Just kind of does what the Captain says. There’s something about his eyes, too. He looks dead inside.

DAY FIFTY:

Merrick wouldn’t shut up about the stars. Saying they were wrong. That this whole trip was wrong. Saunders shut him up. Threw him overboard. I felt a little sorry for him, but he was being a damn nuisance. There’s nothing wrong with the stars. There haven’t even been any stars in the sky for a week now.

DATE UNKNOWN

Mack woke me up. Told me to come with him. Dragged me down belowdecks. Looked nervous, like we were doing something wrong. Wound up in the engine room. Engines were off. Cold. Mack says he doesn’t know how long they’ve been off for. Doesn’t know how we didn’t notice. I went back to bed.

DATE UNKNOWN:

The Captain spoke to everyone at lunch today. I’m finally starting to enjoy fish by the way. He says we’re almost at our destination. The Work is nearly upon us. Mack and a couple of others spoke up. Asked where we’re going. Things got heated. A fight started. Three men dead on the ground. I cleaned it up. Got to keep the ship tidy.

DATE UNKNOWN:

There’s talk of mutiny. Like we’re pirates in the olden days or something. Factions forming. Still don’t know why some people are siding with the captain. They all seem different. Quiet and angry. It’s probably at least a third of the crew. Mack’s trying to rile people up, make them join his mutiny. I think I’ll try to stay neutral. Don’t know how this is going to shake out but it’s going nowhere good.

DATE UNKNOWN:

I think something’s going on, I heard a

DATE UNKNOWN:

I woke up in the lifeboat. Mack and a few of the others. Apparently the mutiny happened. Failed. I got hit in the head in a struggle, Mack dragged me away. I don’t know why we’re in a lifeboat. Nobody’s saying much. Mack is hurt. I think we’re just drifting.

DATE UNKNOWN:

Mack’s so pale. I don’t think anyone here knows how to help him. I guess when he dies we’ll push him overboard. Will he float or sink? I don’t remember which is right anymore.

DATE UNKNOWN:

He floated.

DATE UNKNOWN:

The sky is wrong. Merrick was right. It’s not supposed to look like waves.

DATE UNKNOWN:

We’ve arrived. This place is huge. Dark. Not much sunlight makes it down here I guess. I wonder if this is where the Captain was taking us. He was a good man. I hope he made it here too.

DATE UNKNOWN:

I don’t need a captain now. I have something more. I have found my purpose. We are all in His service, now and forever. The Work must be done. This is much better than being trapped like sardines on that ship. I dream so deeply. I don’t know how I’m keeping my diary dry. I don’t mind though. It’s convenient. Think I’ll see if I can send it back home. Spread the word about this place. I think I’ll be really happy here.

In this cabinet, we have an antique Spanish Doubloon, a gold coin estimated to have been minted in Spain in the mid 16th Century. It is made from real gold, and at the time of its creation it would have been worth 32 real- not an insignificant amount, but not entirely significant either. A wealthy man could be counted on to have several of these in his coin purse at any given moment. Today, of course, a coin such as this would be considered a priceless antique, thousands of times more valuable than when it was minted. This coin, however, has been treated throughout its existence as if it were worth a great deal more than even that: many men across history have considered it worth dying for, and in their tragic wakes the legend of the cursed doubloon has grown and grown. The following story has been painstakingly pieced together by the Museum’s Researchers through a great deal of time and effort. You might think it impossible to chart the movements of a single coin throughout hundreds of years of history, and that’s why you’d never make it as a Mistholme Researcher.

The first man to die over the doubloon did so on the very first day of the coin’s existence. The doubloon somehow became lodged in the works of the machinery which created it, causing an accident that came within an inch of killing the young man operating the machine. The doubloon was retrieved, and found to have had the distinctive groove you can see on its face gouged into it in the accident. As it was now unsuitable for release, the foreman ordered the coin melted down; however, the man who had nearly died instead pocketed the coin, declaring to some of his co-workers that, from that day on, it would be his ‘Lucky’ coin. He was mistaken. One of his co-workers, who had accrued substantial debts, accosted him that evening in an attempt to blackmail the thief. Things got out of hand, and the man who had taken the coin quote “fell down a flight of stairs” unquote to his death. The Blackmailer panicked and fled the city to lie low, with nothing but the coin. He made it half a day before having a run in with some highwaymen, who took the coin and his life, despite his insistence that it was defective, merely his “lucky coin”. The Highwaymen’s next encounter turned out to be a military patrol, and so the coin made its way to the pocket of a soldier, whose company were en route to a coastal town where the soldier and some of his comrades made an ill-fated attempt at desertion by boarding a merchant ship. Despite the soldier’s insistence that his new “lucky coin” would bless their escape, a sailor on said ship deduced their identities and reported them, and as a reward was granted the contents of the soldier’s pack after his execution; so, the coin made its way out to sea nonetheless.

The Sailor proved to be the most long-lived of the coin’s owners so far, lasting several months aboard his vessel: he might even have survived to see dry land again, had he not won quite so many hands of poker during the journey, gloating to another sailor about how his “lucky coin” had helped him win, and of the pleasures his newfound wealth would buy him at their next stop in port. His destination was promptly changed to “The Ocean Floor” and the coin’s new owner successfully passed off his disappearance as a tragic accident, a feat he quietly attributed to the good fortune with which his lucky coin had blessed him. Unfortunately for him, the ship soon crossed the path of a pirate vessel, who swiftly overwhelmed the merchant vessel’s defence through force. Though the coin’s owner survived the initial assault, he made the mistake of attempting to hide his coin from the pirate’s searches, and was punished greatly for it. He was one of the few owners of the coin who survived beyond the loss of the coin, though he wished ever after that he hadn’t, and never saw land again.

The pirate vessel that now held the coin among the rest of its plunder was named The Clumsy Petrel, and it had plundered these waters for several years prior to this encounter. Those among you with basic pattern recognition abilities might expect that its time on the high seas came to an end not long after, and you would be right. The Clumsy Petrel had been out at sea for many months, and it had amassed a great deal of loot in that time. Its hold was full to bursting with wealth- now including one Doubloon in particular- and its crew were eager to return to shore and split the take. The captain, however, had different plans in mind. Part of the reason that the Petrel had been out at sea for quite so long was to avoid certain enemies he had made on land; the captain feared that, no matter how far they had journeyed from their original port, his troubles could have followed them. As such, the captain did not share his crew’s excitement for landfall, and despite the eagerness of the crew he had no intention of returning to port. His journal, recovered by Museum Researchers, shows that he was quite overcome with paranoia, believing that his crew were scheming against him; he made a number of contingency plans for the event that they should turn on him. Many of these were frankly impractical, but the captain was certain that his newly acquired “Lucky Coin” would see him through. As time went on, this fear that his crew would betray him became a self-fulfilling prophecy, as their eagerness turned to impatience, then to frustration. Eventually, the captain was forced to act: he gathered the men and told them that they would make port- but only for one night in order to resupply, and that the take would not yet be split. In his paranoia, he believed that the best course of action would be to keep his crew together, in order to prevent any of them from leaving and potentially betraying him to his enemies. Unfortunately, this was instead his undoing, as the crew betrayed him in a different way: mutiny. That night, a fight broke out between mutineers and men loyal to the captain, which inadvertently led to the destruction of The Clumsy Petrel when the gunpowder stocks caught alight. The captain was the only survivor: as soon as fighting broke out, he grabbed a handful of coins- including one in particular- and leapt into a lifeboat. His paranoia had not saved him, however- merely prolonged his death. He washed up on a deserted island some time later, with only one coin remaining in his pockets, having lost the rest beneath the waves. With the last of his strength he buried all the money he had, filled in his final journal entry, and died lying atop the burial spot.

So the coin was lost for over two hundred years, buried beneath one of its victims. Eventually, it was happened upon by a pair of brothers from a wealthy family, young men who were exploring the islands in the region in their dinghy, searching for treasure and adventure. They pulled his diary from his pockets and, upon reading the final entry, dug up the coin that he had hidden. As they paddled home, the older brother remarked that the captain’s body and journal were a significant historical discovery, and precisely the sort of thing that would prove his manliness to the young lady he had his eye on- and there was something about the coin he’d buried as his last act that felt significant too. The younger brother, who resented the favouritism his older sibling had received all his life, and whom also had intentions toward the same young lady, took this to be the final straw in their strained relationship, and so after a brief scuffle in the dinghy, he returned home alone, now the sole heir to the family legacy- and the legacy of the coin.

The coin became something of a symbol to the family, as the younger brother kept it close for the rest of his life, believing it brought him luck. He married the young lady, and they had several children. Before long, the younger brother’s father died, and he inherited the family fortune. He was shrewd, and the fortune grew substantially in his time. He regularly showed the coin to his sons, telling them that it was a token of prosperity, of wit… and of doing everything necessary to get ahead. He was very long-lived for a man in his time, and especially for a man who held the doubloon. Too long lived, in the opinion of his oldest son, who grew tired of waiting for his time to inherit the family fortune, and poisoned his father and took the coin- and fortune- for himself. He met a similar fate some decades later, by a son who was himself killed by a rival family at the end of a bitter feud, the family fortune- and now-legendary coin- being seized in the process.

At this point the authorities finally became involved, and the coin- as well as quite a lot of other, less interesting money- was seized in a police raid, while the family patriarch was killed in prison some days later.

At long last, the Museum acquired the Doubloon through means you don’t need to know, and should know better than to ask about. Despite extensive study, however, there is significant debate among the staff here as to whether or not the doubloon is, itself, an Alternatural item. Certainly, it deserves a place in the museum, as its story is fascinating and definitely worthy of being told, but the coin itself does not appear to pass any of our standard tests for detecting the Alternatural. And yet, over 400 years of history, everyone who has come into contact with it has firmly believed that it has great significance- specifically that it is “lucky”, despite all evidence to the contrary- and has paid a terrible price for acting on that belief. And we think that’s interesting. Incidentally, there are some among the Research Staff who strongly believe that the Doubloon has brought great fortune to the museum since we acquired it.

At this point, the Museum would like to advise visitors that- should they find themselves eyeing up the Doubloon, weighing up their chances of getting away with “nabbing” it for themselves- this room has security mechanisms well beyond State-Of-The-Art, and the Head Of Security would, quote, “Like to see anyone bloody try it” unquote.

This is not a threat.

It is a warning.

At the end of this corridor, you will see a large empty glass case. It isn’t supposed to be empty. Please make your way to the nearest exit. Don’t run. Everything is fine. If you hear an alarm, shouting, or the unmistakable sound of rending flesh: no you didn’t. You didn’t hear anything. Everything is fine. Just keep walking. Please ensure that you do not think about your current situation, which is not a situation, because everything is fine. You should think about happy thoughts, like what you’re going to do when you get home, or the faces of your loved ones. Do you have a pet? If so, do not think about it. That will just make things worse, not that there’s any way that things could get any worse. Which is to say, there’s nothing happening right now that could make things anything other than absolutely fine. Everything is fine. Everything is fine. [ Voice speeding up] Thank you for visiting the Mistholme Museum of Mystery Morbidity and Mortality, we hope that you have enjoyed your visit and that you will return one day in this life or the next, of course you will why wouldn’t you everything’s fine RUN.

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