#the vault has to keep looking pristine

[ink-ghoul]

I love to think about the citizens in Mumbo’s base as a bit sketchy but overall well meaning. Mumbo’s gone for months? Well, they can’t have their guy looking poor! So, beyond making sure the copper stays shiny and lights in perfect condition, they’ll every once in a while steal a diamond or two that haven’t been collected from shops yet or were just laying around in chests and add it to Mumbo’s vault. And when a king’s amount of diamonds randomly shows up, and grumblings of missing funds can be heard from almost all the hermits? They keep their heads down, whistling a merry tune, shining the copper long after the job had already been done

[dimmadoome]

I am nothing if not a details oriented person. I like to suss them out. I like to see the whole picture so I can paint one myself and of course, I've been looking at the picture of Cooper Howard.

Here are a few things I've noticed. As I've stated before, Cooper is wearing the same outfit as he was in the begging of the show. That blue, white and yellow cowboy outfit. His signature outfit. That's still there, hidden underneath the dirt and the grime and the old, ratty coat, leather vest and bandolier. You can see it in the details of the shirt and the silhouette of the hat. That has been discussed so I'm glossing over that.

Another thing I've noticed is his voice. Specifically his accent. The Ghoul and Cooper Howard have a different accent. Cooper is subdued. He's a regular man with a regular voice. Sure there is a bit if a drawl to it, but not the way The Ghoul has one. Anyone from the south knows what a real southern accent is and what a fake one is. The Ghoul uses a fake one. A larger than life one. That old Hollywood John Wayne fakeass accent. Sure his voice is more fried and that could thicken up an accent some, but that doesn't mean his accent would get more pronounced like THAT.

He's acting the part of The Ghoul. Probably to protect himself in this hellscape that he has been living in for centuries. Its clear that The Ghoul is not who he really is. Its a persona to be slapped over his real one to keep him safe so he can get to his family. I can't wait to see the next season when Lucy and her gung ho, be a good person attitude starts to rub at him more and peel back his layers to press into the soft underbelly underneath. Wether or not he wants to acknowledge it, (which he does. He knoes it already, said it already.) She's his mirror into who he truly is. He might corrupt her to keep her safe (evidenced by the fact that when he cut off her finger, she was given a rotten one in its stead) but she will be the one to pull him back from the brink of losing himself. (It was HER finger he sewed onto himself after all. Her pristine, beautiful smoothskin finger.)

I could also say the arc between Cooper's prewar self becoming disenchanted with vault tec/being betrayed by his wife juxtaposed by Lucy's arc of finding her dad/learning how he betrayed her mom and the world is also a pretty serious mirror as well.

I just.... I've got a lot of feels about Cooper and the symbolism that went into him, plus how he and Lucy are pretty clearly mirrors of eachother. I love it all and I'm gonna need more of this injected right into my brain hole. I need to lick the walls of that studio because HOLY SHIT this show has so much love and care put into everything it does.

[fandomnerd9602]

It all started when she was wounded in a firefight with the Brotherhood of Steel. Lucy McLean couldn’t stop the bleeding, no matter how many stimpaks she injected.

You ran to your companions aid with your own loyal canine Dogmeat by your side. "dammit Lucy" you muttered as you shot another brotherhood member before trying to stop the bleeding.

"go" she tried to beg, "I'm just dead weight"

"not an option, vault dweller" you say back as you carry her in your arms to a nearby vertibird. Good old Dogmeat jumps into the copilot's seat as you pilot the aircraft.

“Where are we going?” Lucy asked rather weakly.

“Haven” you answered back.

You met Lucy rather recently. You were kind enough and caring compared to most people in the Wasteland. All she knew was that you were a fellow survivor and that you had recently left your home in search of supplies. You never told her where you were from.

Lucy woke up to a sound she never thought she’d ever hear: the gentle lull of the ocean. This vault dweller found herself in a small oceanside open aired bungalow. The walls were adorned with old posters with a magnificent view of a crystal blue ocean. The bed she found herself in was clean and pristine. Dogmeat was laying next to her bed, wagging his tail at seeing Lucy recovering nicely.

“Glad you’re feeling better“ you give a small smile from a nearby chair. “It was touch and go for awhile but I’m glad you’re doing well”

“I’m dead”

You chuckle, “no you’re not.”

“What is this place? I mean it’s perfect and untouched by-“

“It’s sort of a bubble” you explained. “Completely safe from the fallout”

A little parrot landed on a nearby branch. Lucy was absolutely floored. Life has found a way thrive on this spec of land. The whole island was rich with floral and fauna, an untapped paradise. The island itself was roughly the size of Maui.

“How did you find this place?” Lucy looks around in amazement.

“I grew up here.” You bring her a pic of your own parents. “I head out to gather supplies and my parents…they didn’t make it”

Lucy looked at you, like she was looking in a mirror. Someone who lost a lot and yet was willing to keep going. It wasn’t just about the supplies. She saw you out there, protecting the innocent, stopping the Brotherhood and raiders when lever you could.

“Must get lonely here” she found herself musing.

“You interested in a timeshare?” You asked back with a little smirk.

Lucy couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe she could set down roots here. With you. With Dogmeat. But the world needed the two of you. Because sadly like the old saying goes:

War. War never changes.

[blairtrabbit]

Somewhere in the wasteland lies a vault, no one's quite sure of the number, but its been long abandoned by its dwellers. Now that vault has only two residents, a ghoul most just call Snakebite, and a Synth the Ghoul just calls Angel. The vault's said to be a real place of wonders. Inside theres a pristine pre-bomb garden, a real Eden full of sinful sweet fruit trees. It's also got a library full of all the books there ever was on Earth. These two queer creatures abide company well enough, but it seems the only way to find their little patch of paradise is to not look for em. You stumble into em and only then if you have no ill intent in your heart or hands. How they keep hid? Who can say, not even the rad roaches bother em none and I for one am glad they're out there, a bright spot of light in all that dark.

[greyfics]

entry 8.5: a side-plot in which norm gets the fuck out.

- °•. ✦ .•° -

subject: norm maclean

fic type: smart relatable underdog side character gets spotlight,

word count: 2.85K

inspo: I really just need to see norm gtfo of that vault lol, I feel like he's got a fighting chance you know?

cw: spoilers for fallout season one  

summary: an overseer that is a brain in a vat. a series of experiments concealed behind the front of a subterranean utopia. the convenient relocation of the last of the people norm cared about- the last of the people questioning the fragile reign of the overseers, and what they might be hiding. norm desperately needs to leave, to find his sister- before he becomes just another one of bud's buds..

- °•. ✦ .•° -

"I suggest you wait it out in your father's pod, unless you want to starve to death- not much food in here, except the occasional large bug."

He is frozen. A small, quivering fist slowly slips down a firmly sealed door- were these vaults reinforced havens, or were they preemptive tombs?- the fist unfurls, as the wrist goes limp and the body connected numbs spare for the pitter patter of palpitations spawned from that very realisation.

His face is absent of blood, and despite the fact he has not yet fatalistically marched over to a cryogenic chamber to further bury himself in this pit, the numbness fades to a chill that kicks his feet into a frenzied pacing.

The robo-brain does a slow, awkward 180° twist, "All that is going to do for you is burn valuable energy that I simply don't have to give back to you, Norm. See, I'm sure you know this if you paid attention during your pristine pre-years education programme, but the human body requires-"

"Just shut up for a second." Is the flat-toned, snappy response Norm gives as he rubs his temples, the repetitive sensation a focal point to ground his shaking limbs, to ground a flurry of rarely seen irrational thoughts in that calculating mind.

Right now, it looks as though his only options are slamming himself against the door fruitlessly until he collapses from exhaustion and inevitably dies of dehydration or starvation, or to get into a pod on the other end of the room and pray that somehow, he is woken up- but what then? what would I even have to wake up to? Norm reflects upon the denizens of Vault 33- the way they force a smile and idle onwards so ignorantly; treating murderers as naughty houseguests, ignoring the slow dissimilation of their vault's security, it's vital resources and population becoming more sparse by the week. Even if there was hope brewing for a better future somewhere on the surface, there's no way that help would reach him down here.

Besides, he was just a problem for Vault 33- he always had been. He recalls the bitter comments about his unenthusiastic demeanour- the fearful confusion directed at his monotony- how lonely, how isolating a life down here is as an anomaly of the herd. With him removed from the equation, and Betty able to sleep at night thinking of him not as dead, but simply as in a rather permanent state of sleep, she would have no reason to wake him up- he who might expose the secrets they had desperately tried to keep locked away for so long. He was better left removed from the vault- left down here.

The reminder of his present predicament begins to suffocate him again, as his eyes flit between the walls and his breath picks up pace, the panic attack coming back for a dizzying second wave. Breathe. Breathe- I can't breathe. I'm going to die down here- this place is a big heaping metal tomb and I have to get out- Norm had never felt so overencumbered at the thought of being buried so deep beneath the surface before, but for the first time ever the urge to scratch his way to the surface was overriding in him the fear of the vultures circling above. He thinks about this- pauses his pacing entirely, and thinks some more. The buzz of an idea begins to spark slowly to fruition in Norm's mind.

It was true that it was better for Betty that he be kept somewhere outside of Vault 33- but maybe he'd even less of a threat left somewhere... else outside of 33? Maybe somewhere he could be more useful? He almost leaps from the exhilaration of having any kind of possible plan c at all in this situation- but his temperament keeps him still- and though his lips remain a flat, pursed line, a playful light dances behind the young genius' eyes, "Locking me in here won't stop Vault 33 from falling apart- it will just guarantee it. I'm your solution." He calmly declares- naturally, Bud's first move is to shut him down, but he is prepared for that, "Norman, you know I can't do that- and you really shouldn't worry about Vault 33 anymore, Betty has things completely-"

"-under control? If Betty had things under control, then how and why did a vault dweller manage to break into her office and trick you into letting them into Vault 31?" Bud stammers, juts to one side and then the other as he awkwardly attempts to give some justifiable explanation to Norm's question.

The bot stills, and lets a sigh out of its speakers, "There may be some... complications to the planned course of action- you being here being one of them, I should remind you- but I'm sure Betty will work through them and get everything back to normal soon enough. What good will it do us to send you to the surface? That would mean opening the vault doors, and risking the safety of everyone inside-" Norm shakes his head at this, takes a step towards the bot as he parries back, "-raiders managed to infiltrate our vault through 32 already, and the main vault door was opened twice after that. Do you really think one more time could hurt?"

The little brain in a pot makes an exasperated crying noise, and shakes itself as emphatically as it can, "But what would be the point in that, buddy, if we can just keep you tucked safely away in the most secure vault of the three down here, and... not open the door at all? None of our problems will be solved by another person leaving." A rare, triumphant grin floats onto Norm's face, and Bud makes a reflexive sharp shuffle backwards at the unnatural site, "If we don't replace our water filtration chip, then eventually Vault 33 runs out of water- and if the vault dwellers don't overthrow the overseer and leave by then? Everyone will die.-"

"Oh my god, why did he smile when he said tha-"

"-Just listen. Vault 32's supplies clearly ran out a long time ago, and evidently no-one from Vault 31 was gonna get up for a glass of water during their 200-year long power nap. By the look on Betty's face when she found out, I'm guessing there isn't a back-up." Bud is back to being completely still and silent now. Norm basks in a moment of captured quiet, takes a couple slow steps to steady the nervous shakes as he deployed as much charisma as he was capable, "You could just keep me in here, and let Betty send someone else to the surface for a replacement- but those people? The other dwellers? They're built for vault life- they fit in here-"

He wavers a little, a lump forming in his throat- but digresses, "I don't. I'm not strong- but I'm quick, and I'm smart... and, I might be a coward- or I was, once- but I'm beginning to realise this place is no better than whatever might be waiting up there. Nobody really knows what they're doing- not you, not Betty- maybe not even my dad. And I don't want to keep sitting around waiting to die when I could be doing something."- I could be helping Lucy, I should have- "So send me. I'll go find a replacement. I'll bring it back- and then neither you nor Betty will ever see me again. You'll be solving two problems with one stone."

The brain-in-a-vat that is Bud spends a painfully long time just sitting there and glowing, still taking in all that Norm had argued, malfunct in his dilemma between maintaining protocol or deviating from protocol for the sake of maintaining the protocol, honestly upset that he was having to do any deep deliberation at all regarding what he had been informed would be a rather simple and satisfying job. When he makes his decision, it comes with a disappointed, exasperated breath- and then a slow, clumsy spin once again, as he veers himself back into the door terminus access point.

With a blip and a hiss, the door that Norm had believed not too long ago to have sealed his fate begins to steadily unlock itself once again. He cries out with desperate relief and punches the air, before maintaining his composure and striding over to the door. He gets as close as he can, in case his thankfully not forever-friend decides to change his mind last minute. He hears the awful creaking of the vault door opening ahead, and dashes for it without even bothering to say goodbye to Bud- no time to spare, I need to leave now- Betty might not be so stupid. The door rolls to the left, his feet hardly make a sound as they dance across the metal grated platform to freedom-

And falter, pause, reverse a few steps when the figure of Betty Pearson is revealed but a few seconds later, arms crossed, already waiting for the door to roll back open.

Oh god, I think I'm having a heart attack. I think I might just die right now. I think that might be for the best.

...He does not die, and though he is grateful, he is also mildly disappointed that he still has to face Betty. She remains still, silent- her expression does not reveal much surprise at finding him here, but her stasis demands him to speak. Thinking of all she has done to this vault, and what little good she has done for it, he steels himself, and he glares back at her, his tone assertive as he speaks, "I'm going to the surface, and before you say anything-"

"Yes, you're right. You are going to the surface." She replies, steady and quiet,"I-" he is the one to stammer to a standstill this time, "I... am?" She steps towards him, and it takes all his will not to flinch away as a superficially endearing arm firmly braces around his shoulders, guiding him away from Vault 31, "Although at times I'm sure it seems as though I have... overlooked certain hardships that have come to challenge us all in this vault," -'overlooked' is an understatement, and a pretty ironic thing to do when your job title is overseer- "-but I've simply been thinking about the best options for our future. With our friends and family... rehomed, and our guests taken care of, I think it's time we begin dealing with some of our more long-term problems, too." The phrasing sends a chill across Norm's neck, which flows through the rest of his body as Betty guides him around a corner to bear witness to the remaining dwellers of 33, whooping and clapping in celebration for something he did not yet know.

Look closer. He notices the pause, the way they look past him to the overseer before they burst into their frenzied display- there are a couple eyebrows knitted upwards, the faintest flicker of a tear in the corner of an eye or a puffy redness where tears were wiped away to conceal the evidence of a negative emotion.

Some have slanted postures, clap a little slower- don't meet his gaze; they seem guilty of something, guilty of the relief that their body betrays.

Do they already know I'm leaving? How could they, unless-

"As I was telling everyone, Norm selflessly asked me for permission to go out onto the surface and solve our water chip crisis- of course, we do not often open our vault doors, and I felt too close to the matter to feel capable of making the decision myself- especially given the possibility that opening the vault door might threaten our friends in 31 too! So, I sent Norm to speak with Overseer Askins in Vault 31 to see whether he believes that this brave quest should be allowed. Of course, this affects all of us, too- but after talking it through with everyone, we've all agreed that however sad it will be to see you leave us- for a while, of course- it is definitely for the best."

A couple dwellers nod- some intentionally, some just in a lull of subconscious agreement even as their faces feign sadness. It stings to see how fast they were willing to get rid of him- it stings to be let go without a fight. The 'for a while' is simply salt in the wound; insulting to even pretend at this point that anyone in this cramped little gathering genuinely held any belief he would return.

"So!" The overseer pipes up chipperly once again, "Norm..."-not so enthusiastic-"Did you have a productive meeting with the Overseer? Did he give his consent to your proposed assignment?"

He could expose her right now, dismantle the order they had wrought horror and fear to maintain- but he knows he could not lead them, he knows how secretly glad they are to see him, of all people, sacrificed to the world above- he knows they would not survive up there, nor would they survive down here without a figurehead to fall behind, to hide them from reality. So he speaks a truth of kinds:

"The Overseer permitted my leave after I explained the importance of my departure, and how it was the best course of action." His tone lacks conviction in the vague, avoidant choice of words he spews, but a half-hearted cheer and a series of awkward hugs follows them anyway.

It's all just a big show. I'm starting to think I might be the only normal one here.

- °•. ✦ .•° -

A solemn march through the armoury and pharmacy to (ill)equip Norm for his journey through the wastes precedes a long, awkwardly still and quiet elevator ride towards the surface. Norm is the first to step out, bursting ahead into a fast stroll until he found himself standing at the precipice, waiting for the bridge to bring him to his salvation (or his doom). She gets into place-

and lingers, before she presses the button- they are alone now, and they are not so different, really- she just got better at hiding her discontent, "Norman." her voice is different to how he has ever heard it before- it was just... normal. When the calm and collected persona dropped away, she was the most human-sounding person he had yet encountered in his sheltered life. He turns, just his head- makes a point to pay attention, to show some enthusiasm- "You might think you're different, but... being different to most those folks down there is probably more of a good thing than not. You are extraordinary, never forget that. Even without everything that's happened, I think you were always going to be a problem for us. You've always been good at seeing things other people don't."

She pauses for a moment, deliberating on whether or not to bring something up- she chews her cheek, looks off to the side as she weighs up the power of her words- remembers her job, her duty, and the mask goes back on with a sympathetic smile, "We really do need that water chip- our vault has enough water to last about 150 more days, but after that, we'll be out. If you head north-east, ask around and you'll find a place that used to be a town called Shady Sands; it's not exactly close to here, but if it's any motivation I'd bet that's where your sister, Miss Maclean, will have headed too. When you get to Shady Sands, go directly east- I only know of a few vaults outside of ours, and I hear there's an old vault somewhere in the hills there- Vault 13. I'm sure they'll have a water chip to spare. Get the chip back to us, and you'll be a hero to this vault forever..." She certainly makes it sound appealing, but Norman knows better, "...but I'll never be allowed back inside." He finishes the sentence for her.

She hits the button, and Norm finds himself overcome with trembling uncertainty once again. Was he crazy? Just because he wasn't built for vault life didn't mean he was any more suited for the wastelands just beyond the door- the tomb unseals. Once again, a thought occurs to Norm at an inconvenient time- as he tentatively steps towards the radiating light that blinds him from above, he turns a final time to look at his now-former overseer with a quizzical expression, "Does... does Vault 32 not have a water filtration chip?"

Her smile doesn't change, but it takes a sinister feel as her next cheery words come out, tainted and barbed, "I did say our Vault has 150 days of water left- I'm afraid I can't speak for Vault 32, Overseer Harper would know more about that. Unfortunately, until we have a functioning filtration chip of our own, we won't be able to spare any of our own resources. But I'm sure everything will be just fine."

Norman began to run.

[findtomorrow]

♕ ( muse p / 29 / cis woman / she, her, hers ) — did you see ZARA HART wandering around the island today? they kind of look like GRETA ONIEOGOU from certain angles? i heard around town that the ER NURSE is PLUCKY, and OPTIMISTIC, but also STUBBORN, and IMPULSIVE. people say that they remind them of PURPLE BAND-AIDS, THE SMELL OF MAPLE SYRUP, and UNTIED SHOELACES, and SPECIAL by SZA is definitely their theme song. they seem like a nice enough person, but we all know how hard it is to keep a pristine reputation in a small town. ( admin jay / 26 / cst / she, her, hers )

✧*･ﾟ𝒃𝒊𝒐𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒚

zara hart was born and raised in kings haven, massachusetts. she spent her whole life in one little town with the same greasy diners on the same three streets, and she hated it. it was probably why she got into trouble so often: idle hands, as the saying goes.

also, you know, the unmedicated adhd didn’t help lmao. 

it didn’t help that her parents spent most of their lives in the family restaurant. at first, zara did her homework in the back booths, but after one too many vaulted straws and games of 'the restaurant floor is lava', she was banished to ride her bike outside–as long as she looked both ways, twice.

her parents did their best not to let zara in on their economic problems, but it was pretty obvious as she got older. in high school, she waited tables at the restaurant, and quickly realized after watching that her parents struggle that her dreams of running away to italy, meet some dashing stranger, and then drive away from the world together into to the fading sunset in his vintage roadster weren't going to happen.

instead of living out a lifetime fairytale, she went to school online and got her nursing degree, and now she's a nurse in the er at the same hospital she was born in. 

pretty much her entire identity is taking care of other people, and her signature move is getting over-involved in people's, especially her parents. she knows that her dad has struggled with his vices in the past, so she's personally going to ensure he doesn't fall into his old habits.

✧*･ﾟ𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕

overall, zara is sunshine personified ( including the searing heat from her fits of passionate rage when feels something is unjust ). she's the kind of person that believes in the best of everything (think jess from new girl, phoebe from friends, and leslie knope from parks and rec). however, she does have a quick temper, and is constantly working on being as zen as she wants people to think she is.

a goofball who enjoys pranks and shenanigans at all hours of the day. she’s lowkey an adrenal junkie; that’s why she specialized in er nursing instead. she loves the blood and gore lmao. 

she’s an avid runner. i know, gross, but she gets up at five in the morning everyday just so she can run a couple miles before work, or she'll get home and run after a graveyard shift. there's something sick in her head.

she’s a not-so-secret Hopeless romantic. her dream is to run into her soulmate on the beach at sunset, and they'll both be listening to taylor swift and somehow get their air pods mixed up.

but in reality she doesn't have time for romance after one too many failed relationships, and tbh no one can ever live up to her dream diary, so all her dates stay in her mind.

she will do anything for a friend, but she will let no man cross her–women and non-binary babes get a few more free passes.

✧*･ﾟ𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅

best friend: ( m, f, nb ), squad ( m, f, nb), childhood friends: ( m, f, nb ), roommates: ( m, f, nb ), exes: ( m, f, nb )

all the connections tbh. slide into my dms, or like this and i’ll hit you up !

[pyrrhvcs]

♕ ( none / 35 / male / he/him ) — did you see ZACHARY LEPORT wandering around the island today? they kind of look like BEN BARNES from certain angles? i heard around town that the CYBER SECURITY DEVELOPER is RELIABLE, and UNDERSTANDING, but also UNCOUTH, and a WORKAHOLIC. people say that they remind them of EAR ON HIS PHONE FOR BUSINESS CALLS, LATE NIGHTS AT THE OFFICE, and SLEEVES OF HIS DRESS SHIRT ROLLED UP, and AMERICAN IDIOT by GREEN DAY is definitely their theme song. they seem like a nice enough person, but we all know how hard it is to keep a pristine reputation in a small town. ( zoey / 25+ / gmt+10 / she/her )

intro

Name: Zachary Leport

Age: 35

Birthday: Feb 12, 1988

Education: Bachelors degree in Business & Computer Science, Masters in Business

bio

Zachary's childhood is marked by turmoil and instability. His parents' divorce causes him to be constantly shuffled between their homes, but the only place he finds refuge is at his uncle's house. He develops a strong bond with his younger cousin, River, and is fiercely protective of him. In the midst of the difficult circumstances, he has a brilliant mind and is constantly looking for ways to better himself.

After completing high school, Zach attends Harvard and double majors in computer science and business. He excels in his studies and lands a job in cyber security in New York City after graduation. While in New York, he reconnects with Hazal, a girl he knows from Kings Haven. Despite their four-year age difference, their friendship blossoms, and he takes her under his wing.

One night, after their farewell dinner, he kissed Hazal. The friendly feelings he feels for her are no longer only friendly. He likes her and with liquid courage in his veins, he kisses her after they meet up for a farewell dinner for his transfer to Los Angeles for work. He's convinced they had something special and tries to persuade her to give them a chance. But she politely declines, and he leaves for Los Angeles feeling dejected..

For the next few years Zach focused on his work and thrived in the cyber security industry. He eventually started his own business, Cyber Vault, and 2 years ago, the company went global. His success allowed him to extend his stay in Los Angeles, but after a while, he felt a strong pull to return to Kings Haven.

Two months ago, he made the move back home, bringing with him his thriving business. Though now, he is no longer a boy who left Kings Haven in search of a better future. He is now a business owner, with Cyber Vault continuing to expand and evolve.

headcanon

He's working all the time.

He's a Kings Haven native and knows a lot of people.

He's so charming he can sell you snake oil.

Hasn't gotten over Hazal and is trying to convince her to date him.

wanted connections

One and only ; Hazal Aslan

Old friends ; Micah Graham

Friends ; Eungi Choi, Raina Sanghvi

Childhood friends

Ex-girlfriend ; Luciana Labaki

Rival ;

Enemies ;

Colleagues ; Janie Edwards

Client ; Diego Reyes

[flipping-the-coin]

[Inquisitorial Report: Subject - Head Archivist: Orion Pax]

[Authorization Level: Prime]

[Listed Authorizations: Optimus Prime]

[Assigned Inquisitor: Jazz]

[One deca-cycle into assignment]

═════════════════

I gotta say, OP, compared to my last gig, this job is practically a vacation. I’m not entirely sure what you’re wanting me to be looking for, though. I haven’t seen any indicators that suggest Orion OR Megatron are doing anything worth writing about. Even their normal routine is mundane and domestic. They seem happy together, like a regular conjunxed pair, if a bit touchier than the average couple. 

Orion seems to like calligraphy and rocks.  He has a small collection of brushes and pigments he uses when he works, but I admit, I have only witnessed him scribing twice in the small amount of time I’ve been watching. He brings a new rock home every few cycles or so, though. 

You wouldn’t think it, because the Archives are so slagging pristine, but Orion seems to lose that ability once his pedes step through the door. I wouldn’t go as far as to suggest he’s a slob or anything, but it seems Megatron is the one who keeps the hab in order. He does most of the fuel preparation as well if this deca-cycle is standard. 

The single most noteworthy thing is Orion and Megatron’s rather large collection of illegal literature; mostly pre-war Decepticon propaganda and literature, which, honestly, doesn’t strike me as especially surprising considering it's MEGATRON and ORION PAX living together in this hab. They also have several different volumes of a banned pre-war Kaoni poetry anthologies that specialize in ah… you know? The kinky kind of words. If that’s something you’re concerned about, I can look further into it and catalog their collection.

There really isn’t much else to say, OP. Orion Pax is unnoteworthy, and Megatron seems pacified for now. I gotta say, though, it feels a little weird. Shouldn’t this be handled by someone who doesn’t have a conflict of interest? Orion was my best friend before the war, you know? Anyway, I wasn’t sure what else to give you in this report, so I attached an entry from Pax’s journal. I have no clue when he wrote this. His entries aren’t dated, and they are just as disorganized as everything else in this hab.  

═════════════════

There still has been no word on the whereabouts of my sire, and this knowledge has been a heavy conflict in my processor as of late. It is as if he simply disappeared. His remains were not found in the ruins of the Archives before they were rebuilt, and there have been exactly zero sightings of any mechs matching his description since the re-founding of our planet. He simply has vanished; along with that Primus forsaken Covenant of his. 

I had hoped that it would have remained within the ruins, perhaps even been secured in the vaults, or the recesses of his office somewhere. But it, too, seems to have been lost. I hoped it would have answers for me. I simply wish to understand why. 

Alpha Trion was rarely ever kind or loving towards me. Warmth was not in his nature, I suppose. As I reminisce upon my upbringing now, it is clear to me that while I saw him as my Sire, he did not view me as a Sire would his sparkling. He was always pushing me towards something that he never would clearly explain. I once thought that he was training me to be his replacement, so that he may retire and live out the rest of his days without the strains of his duties; but I know now that that was merely his cover story. 

I was never meant to be the Head Archivist at all. I was only to be molded into some… encasement so that Optimus could be born. I don’t… fully understand all of the details as of yet. I am still trying to work out why. Why did it have to be me? Wouldn’t it have been better to ask this of a mech who wanted it? Why choose someone who was consistently resistant towards notions of the Matrix and the Primacy?  Why was Optimus so slagging important to begin with that his creation needed to happen when it did? Why did my SIRE order my capture, for what he had to have known would bring about my imprisonment? 

I fear I will never have the answer to these and many other questions that have plagued my processor since I finally became able to think rationally. I miss my Sire…. Even though I have doubts that he ever missed me once I was gone.  I still long for his approval, even though I know that I ultimately failed in the only task he truly wished for me to fulfil. I want him to love me the way I needed him to when I was a sparkling, even though I do not think he is capable of emotions at all. 

And yet I am fearful of him. I think I would rather have confirmation of his death than to not know if he is a threat, looming in the distance. I know I have caused him some level of shame in how I treated the Prime he forced into my care. I know I must have embarrassed him that cycle in the Council Chambers. I was not supposed to refuse the Matrix. I know I was not supposed to fall in love and beautifully defile myself in the embraces of a gladiator. I was supposed to be his perfect sacrifice, and I arrived tainted and unwilling. 

I know that he never liked nor approved of my relationship with Megatronus. I cannot imagine his stance on that will have changed, if he still walks amongst us.  His influence has always been extraordinarily grand. Smokescreen looks up to him. It would take next to nothing for him to convince the Guard to ignore the Optimus’ final wishes and…. I can’t even force myself to write the glyphs necessary…

Alpha Trion could ruin everything. He could take my job… my Conjunx. He could undo what little good I have been able to achieve in expanding access to records to the public. He would be a powerful voice for functionalism that just may be exactly the last push needed to turn our political mess into the same disaster it was pre-war. Him and that…. Primus forsaken Covenant of his ruined my life… So why do I miss him? 

As I sit here in my berth with my Champion in recharge beside me, I am reminded of what love is supposed to feel like. It is not distant and cruel. It does not… force another into something they are not. I had no choice in anything my entire life. I did everything I was supposed to do for millennia. It was never enough to earn his love or his attention. 

I do not understand how anyone can blame me for choosing Megatronus over everything Alpha Trion wanted me to become. Megatronus showed me love. He showed me warmth, and touch and affections, even before our relationship became romantic… he was always warm and encouraging. He made me wish to truly live and not merely float through life in a desperate attempt to gain the affections of my Sire. 

Megatronus reminded me that I am allowed to be a person, that I am allowed to want things for myself, that I was more than what I was allowed to be. I gave up so much of myself for Alpha Trion that I forgot who I even was. I am almost as afraid of going back to that mode of existence as I am of being trapped once more. 

I do not regret choosing Megatronus. I will stand firm in my choice until my spark extinguishes. Megatronus saved me, and I am uncertain if he even realizes it. He showed me what it means to love someone and be loved in return. The love I share with Megatronus is nothing like that with Alpha Trion, but I was given a perspective of love that taught me what it is and what it is not. Megatronus and I love one another unconditionally and affection is given freely when desired, it is not hoarded to be used as a special treat when one behaves. Even though I miss him terribly, I pray that he is never found. It pains me to wish that he is offline for good, but I am certain that he would do all he could to punish me for going against his desires, harming his precious brother and for embarrassing him in the Senate that cycle. I know that his approval is impossible, so it is best, for me, at least, that wherever he is; he stays buried. 

[Report Received: Visibility Status - Seen]

[kaen-ace-of-diamonds]

The Moon That Breaks the Night

Word Count: 1,930 (oneshot)

[AO3]

Genre: Angst/Horror

Summary: Salem’s right hand woman hunts through the ruins of Beacon for the Relic of Choice. The Relic is the last thing on her mind.

Warnings for dead bodies and implied/referenced gore, abuse, and body horror.

~0~

“My longing weeps for everything, my longing shoots back at me, to kill or be killed.” - Another Road in the Road, Mahmoud Darwish

~0~

Her sense of smell is sharper than any human’s. Normally, that’s far from the change she hates the most, but right now, it’s definitely top of the list.

Evernight’s air is sharp, neither warm nor cold, and it carries a strange scent that gets stronger the closer one ventures towards the Grimm pits, almost like sulfur. Beacon, though…Beacon is rotting.

Her claws click on the upturned slabs of stone as she makes her way down the destroyed pathways. Strictly speaking, there’s nothing requiring her to actually follow them — like the other Grimm, she can go anywhere, any way she pleases around here — but old habits die hard.

The other Grimm, for their part, keep their distance from her even more than they did when she had the power to destroy them with a glance. She can see them hovering warily at the corners of her vision, watching as she inspects the famous statue in the courtyard, not wanting to get too close to the strongest among them.

The alpha. The leader. Right.

The black marble figures of the ideal Huntsman and Huntress had been kept in pristine condition since the Academy’s inception. Now, the Huntsman’s head has been smacked clean off, and the Huntress has been very messily bisected.

Perhaps a bit tellingly, they aren’t the keys to anything. She has her doubts that the hidden door to the Vault of the Fall Maiden is an actual door, but if it is, it’s not here: the only thing beneath the statue is dirt and shards of stone.

She doesn’t have it in her to be relieved. She simply moves on.

Pteryx screech and soar above her, and there’s a medley of growls and snarls in the distance from the other Grimm stalking the campus in a futile attempt to sate their hunger. Beneath her feet, the ground is constantly vibrating with the tunneling of dozens of Centinels below the earth, which she’s deployed in the hopes that their instinctive pull to the Relics will call them there.

(Thus far, that’s been a bust, as she expected anyway. But she has her orders: no stopping the search until she gets results, so might as well let them keep going.)

Just like in Evernight, it’s all background noise to her as she continues on the ravaged path.

It’s easy for her to navigate the destruction of this place she used to love: in this new body she steers, it’s second nature to switch between two legs and four, to move as she’s used to when she can, and dash faster, leap farther, and climb higher than any other Grimm when she has to. There’s just the matter of dealing with the debris, she thinks, batting a pair of legs still in their greaves and boots out of her way as she climbs over what was once the infirmary.

She had choked on the odor of blood that first day, setting down mere hours after the last living person had fled the place. She hadn’t been as prepared as she had thought: she hadn’t watched the broadcast that Salem’s apprentice was apparently so very proud of, simply waited alone in her quarters for the orders to go. Perhaps she should have, if only to brace herself.

Beacon was no longer her home, it hadn’t been for years. But still, she couldn’t help but freeze for a moment on the back of the Nevermore that carried her here, seeing every horrible thing that could happen to your home happening at once: fires stretching into the sky, buildings collapsing into the sea, Grimm swarming everywhere she looked.

Only for a moment, though. Then, to her work.

Like Salem, she no longer sleeps. Never gets a reprieve from her work, or from her own thoughts. She learned fast to become numb; at first, she had thought that the icy black blood coursing through her veins now would make that easier. But the hunger for destruction is just as hard to fight down as the part of her that would once have been screaming in horrified rage at everything she’s done since…

…Well. She doesn’t like to reminisce.

(Salem holds her face in her hands exactly as she had that day years ago: gently, inescapably. Of course she never wants to see her master angered, but she loathes that smile on her face more than anything else in the world.

“Summer, my dear…I know you won’t disappoint me.”

She can keep her face as blank as she likes, but she knows Salem can feel the hatred boiling up inside her. Knows that she enjoys it, revels in her impotent rage.

The claws of her thumbs trace her lower eyelids. It’s Salem’s favorite way to touch her, which she despises, but can’t exactly blame her for: if she could brush her fingers through fire without being hurt, she would too.

“You never have before, after all.”)

Old landmarks are replaced by new ones, much less pleasant. Even after she leaves, she knows the odor of decay will never quite leave her. She’d escaped it once in childhood, but it’s come for her now.

Marking her entrance to the cafeteria is the body of a girl whose age she is absolutely not going to think about. Blood aged brown stains the stone and tile, and she has stopped picturing how it might have looked fresh, gushing from the slash wound that’s nearly split her torso in half. Strangely enough, it looks more like the work of a sword than a Grimm’s claws. Most of the bluish-gray face is gone, but the eyes remain, still frozen wide in utter terror.

Ducking her head under the hole in the wall, she enters, not bothering to avoid any of the broken glass. She knows there isn’t anything here she needs, it would be ridiculous to hide anything here, but it’s a shortcut she goes out of her way to take. Another exercise in suppressing the past. Despite the ever-burning urge to hunt, she no longer needs to eat, but if she lingers too long, remembering the comfort of a loud hall and shared meals will begin drilling into her heart.

She’s startled still by the sound of her boot colliding with metal and bone, sending it rattling across the floor. Something like a laugh escapes her: she must not be as numb as she thought, if she can still be distracted by just a shimmer of memory.

As she keeps walking, she can’t help but glance again at the thing she’s accidentally kicked out of place: the arm is more or less gone, nothing but chipped and graying bones, but she has to admire the engineering work on the gauntlet still encasing them. It’s dented, and the sunny yellow paint is streaked with grime, but she figures that if she were so inclined, she could pick it up and still fire it.

No sign of its owner’s body anywhere, though. Poor kid. With any luck, they escaped with their life and will never pick up their gauntlet’s twin again. Spending the rest of their days at home, in safety and comfort before the end. Maybe with their mother.

She ventures out of the hole on the other side of the building, a reeking breeze hitting her right in the face. Staring up at the remains of Beacon Tower, she knows that that’s where she ought to go next. Again. She knows Ozpin, and provided that the Relic is here at all — if it were her, she would hide the thing somewhere nobody would think to look, instead of the place where everyone who knew what they were looking for would come — there are a hundred different secrets she could be overlooking in the Beacon vault.

But she finds herself just standing in place. The sun is setting, and like bare tree branches in winter, the silhouette of the Wyvern atop the tower turns darker against the sky every second, frozen in a roar of rage. She recognizes it, is the disturbing thing.

The very first thing she’d done when she got here, when she saw it, was scale the tower to get a closer look, every second hoping desperately that she was wrong. But upon leaping up to the roof, she knew immediately that she hadn’t been. Both then, running five small claws over the Wyvern’s much larger one, and now, remembering it, she has to cling with everything in her to the things she knows to be true.

Ruby is too young. Her grip on the years is better than it used to be, but she knows damn well that Ruby is too young. Not just to do this — at nineteen, she herself had only been able to freeze half of a Grimm this size — but to be anywhere near this place at all when it fell. Tai knows better than to let either of their daughters follow her down a Huntress’ path. She’s sure they were disappointed, but at least they can be safe at home.

Her right ear swivels backward at the distinct sound of clicking behind her, and the rest of her turns to see the resident Seer making its way up to her side. Oh, fantastic, just what her day needed.

She waits, keeping her face carefully blank, until it reaches her and her master’s face appears in the blood-red orb.

“Reinforce our numbers at Beacon. The Relic is there.”

Well. If she says so.

She nods once — Salem lets her speak as she pleases, none of her venom matters to her, but she just isn’t in the mood — and the red rushes back in and the Seer promptly leaves.

She looks back up at the tower. Orders are orders. Back to it, then.

She lunges forward and takes off on four legs for the tower, Beacon blurring around her and her ash-stained cloak flying out behind her, leaping over destruction and corpses alike, breathing in the fetid air around them. It makes her lip curl and her fangs extend, as she lets a bloodcurdling howl rip from her throat.

Every Grimm in earshot screams back, and she senses the stirring of dozens more in the distance as she calls. They’ll come from the forests, from the oceans, from the earth…and from Vale. She doesn’t look at the lights across the river, doesn’t think of the people there struggling in vain to put the city back together. If she does, she won’t pity them: she’ll be furious at them for prolonging the inevitable.

How sick she is already of taking apart this rotting corpse of a place. The faster she gets this done, the sooner all of them will be put out of their misery. Herself. Salem. Her teammates.

Ruby and Yang.

Her petal, her sunflower. She can’t picture them older; in her mind they’re still the same little children huddled together under the blankets listening to her, just as eager to hear the end of her bedtime story as she is to tell it. Safe with her.

She leaps onto the tower walls, claws digging into the stone as she rushes up the dizzying height, the Wyvern a blurred shape above her. Blood burning in her veins, she howls so hard it nearly tears her throat.

Safe and happy and oblivious until the quick end she will bring. It’s the only thing their mother has left to give them.

[bloodycassian]

The Beginning - a short intro to a fic I want to continue. Reader x Azriel implied 

The small woman’s eyes went wide - showing off the glittering silver of the irises. The sword scraped against the pale floor where you leaned against it. You didn’t need to worry about it becoming dull or damaged - the spellbinding around it would keep it pristine for as long as the world existed. There wasn’t a hammer or forge in the known universe that could even scrape the metal. 

If it was made of metal. It seemed like it was, but for all it’s strange properties, it could be made of the stars themselves for it’s immunity. 

“Who wields such an artifact?” Her voice didn’t match her body - a commanding tone rang through those words. It nearly made you flinch. But you were here to help them. Not for interrogation. Though, perhaps showing up on their doorstep armed warranted the reaction. 

You announced yourself, holding your chin high as the small female rose. Her prowess was certain, but her strange eyes betrayed her. She couldn’t look away from you or the blade for more than a few seconds while she spoke to the high lord. “A princess of Ardana, come to save our city? Rhysand I thought you were smarter than-”

The high lord cut her off with a snarl. “It would be wise to listen before pushing your false presumptions, Amren.” The tension in the room snapped taut, and with such few words already felt as if it were ready to break. 

She fell silent, closing her eyes for a long moment before nodding. “What is it then, go on.” The words were dismissive and rude, but it was your chance. 

You told her everything. From the birth of your brother - now over a year old since you’d sailed away - and the order from your father. The burning weight of your banishment seared your eyes to almost tears, but you held it back. By order of the king you were to send word to Prythian that a new heir was in line for succeeding the Ardanaian throne - a coveted position that kings had been killed for. 

And none other than the disowned daughter would be the one to deliver the news. 

In recompense for the decision the King had made, you’d managed to sneak one of the most precious items of the kingdom with you on your way to the docks. The Sword of Halfheart. 

Amren had recognized it. The weapon needed no explaining. 

“You come here to help or to beg for our protection from Ardana?” Amren scoffed. “King Luxos will have followed you directly to our port, surely.” 

“The King-” You shot a look to Rhysand, whos power jolted through the room. “Will have no idea it’s even gone. The Great Vault is sealed to any outside the family. He has been too busy with his own civil war to even visit-”

“War? On Ardana?” A voice echoed into the room from the attached hall. Instinct had you grasping the hilt of the sword tight, ready to swing though you had little practice with it. 

“It seems my informants need replaced.” The male appeared from the darkness, the shadows seeming to follow him through the room though. His eyes darted to the blade at your side and a slight smile curled the corner of his mouth. “Your highness.” He mocked a long bow -surprisingly well for the way his wings interrupted the motion. 

“This is Azriel. Shadowsinger and Spymaster.” Rhysand’s voice was strained, like he was holding back a groan of disapproval. He sighed and the pressure drained from the room - you hadn’t realized how tense you’d been until the high lord’s power melted away. 

“You will stay with us, for the time being.” He gestured to Azriel then, who nodded. “Your room will be watched, though. Until we can get things in order.” Until we know if we’re going to trust you or kill you. 

“Azriel, please show the princess her room.”

[pacificbeachgym]

Discovering Gymnastics in San Diego: A Leap Towards Fun and Fitness

San Diego, known for its pristine beaches, vibrant culture, and year-round sunny weather, is also a haven for sports enthusiasts and fitness buffs. Among the myriad of activities that this beautiful city offers, gymnastics has emerged as a popular choice for people of all ages, offering a unique blend of discipline, strength, and grace. Whether you’re a budding gymnast, a seasoned pro, or someone looking to dive into a new form of physical activity, gymnastics in San Diego provides an exciting and enriching experience.

The Allure of Gymnastics in San Diego

Gymnastics is more than just a sport; it’s an art form that combines strength, flexibility, speed, and coordination. San Diego’s gymnastics scene is vibrant and diverse, catering to enthusiasts from toddlers taking their first tumble to elite athletes flipping their way to victory. The city’s pleasant climate and active lifestyle culture make it an ideal place to practice gymnastics outdoors, in parks, or on the beach, adding a scenic backdrop to an already captivating sport.

A Hub for Aspiring Gymnasts

San Diego is home to numerous gymnastics clubs and academies that offer programs for all skill levels. These institutions are equipped with state-of-the-art facilities and are staffed by experienced coaches who are passionate about nurturing talent and fostering a love for the sport. From recreational classes that focus on fun and fitness to competitive teams that aim for gold at national and international championships, there’s something for every gymnast in San Diego.

Community and Competitions

The gymnastics community in San Diego is tight-knit and welcoming, making it easy for newcomers to find their place and for seasoned gymnasts to find new challenges. Local competitions are a regular occurrence, providing athletes with the opportunity to showcase their skills, meet fellow gymnasts, and be part of a supportive community. These events not only highlight the talent in the city but also inspire others to pursue gymnastics, whether for competition, fitness, or fun.

Exploring Gymnastics Facilities in San Diego

San Diego boasts a variety of gymnastics facilities, each offering unique programs and amenities. Here’s a closer look at what you can expect when exploring gymnastics in this sunny city:

World-Class Gyms and Academies

San Diego’s gymnastics gyms are known for their comprehensive programs that cater to all ages and levels. These facilities are equipped with the latest gymnastics apparatuses, including balance beams, uneven bars, vaults, and floor exercise mats. Many gyms also offer specialized training equipment, such as tumble tracks and foam pits, to ensure safety and allow gymnasts to perfect their techniques.

Outdoor Gymnastics Sessions

Taking advantage of San Diego’s beautiful weather, some gymnastics programs offer outdoor sessions. These classes often take place in parks or on the beach, providing a unique and exhilarating environment for learning and practicing gymnastics. Outdoor sessions are not only a great way to enjoy the city’s natural beauty but also a fantastic opportunity to combine gymnastics training with the great outdoors.

Programs for Every Age and Skill Level

Gymnastics in San Diego is inclusive, offering programs for toddlers, children, teenagers, and adults. Whether you’re looking to introduce your child to the world of gymnastics, keep them active and engaged, or you’re an adult seeking a new fitness challenge, there’s a program for you.

Recreational Gymnastics

For those who are new to the sport or looking for a fun way to stay fit, recreational gymnastics classes are a great choice. These classes focus on building foundational skills, improving flexibility, and increasing strength, all in a fun and supportive environment.

Competitive Gymnastics

For gymnasts with aspirations of competing, San Diego’s competitive programs provide rigorous training and the opportunity to participate in local, regional, and national competitions. These programs are designed to challenge and inspire athletes, helping them reach their full potential.

Specialized Classes

In addition to traditional gymnastics, many gyms in San Diego offer specialized classes such as rhythmic gymnastics, acrobatic gymnastics, and tumbling. These classes allow athletes to explore different disciplines within the sport, each with its own set of challenges and rewards.

Joining the Gymnastics Community in San Diego

Getting involved in gymnastics in San Diego is easy, thanks to the welcoming community and the abundance of resources available. Here are a few steps to get started:

Research Local Gyms: Look for gyms in your area that offer the type of gymnastics program you’re interested in. Many gyms have websites with detailed information about their classes, schedules, and fees.

Try a Class: Most gyms offer trial classes, allowing you to experience gymnastics firsthand before committing to a program. This is a great way to get a feel for the gym’s atmosphere, coaching style, and the overall community.

Attend Local Competitions: Even if you’re not ready to compete, attending local gymnastics competitions is a fantastic way to see the sport in action, meet other gymnasts, and become part of the community.

Stay Connected: Follow local gymnastics clubs and organizations on social media to stay updated on events, workshops, and community gatherings. This is also a great way to connect with fellow gymnastics enthusiasts in San Diego.

Conclusion

Gymnastics in San Diego is more than just a sport; it’s a community that welcomes everyone with open arms, encouraging individuals to push their limits, explore their potential, and most importantly, have fun. Whether you’re drawn to the discipline and strength required for competitive gymnastics or simply looking for a new and exciting way to stay fit, San Diego’s gymnastics scene has something to offer. So why not take a leap and dive into the world of gymnastics in this vibrant city? The journey promises to be as rewarding as it is exhilarating.

[kubervaults1]

Finding the ideal gold jewellery storage location  

Jewellery made of precious metals like silver and gold are not only expensive, but also tends to hold a sentimental value for many of its owners. Hence, people having such costly ornaments look for jewellery storage option to protect their precious assets from damage and keep it in pristine condition. Jewellery must be kept in a clean, dry place that is free from dust and moisture. One should also avoid exposing it to sunlight, extreme heat, or chemicals. Gold jewellery also has to be kept safe from the risk of theft.

One must always avoid storing jewelry in obvious places like dresser drawers, jewelry boxes in plain sight, or easily accessible areas, as these are common targets for thieves. Fortunately, today there are proper lockers and Guardian Vaults that are specially designed to store gold.  Rather than keeping gold at home, it is always a smarter move to explore professional vaulting or storage services provided by specialized companies. These facilities offer high-security storage for valuables.

When trying to find the appropriate storage option for gold jewellery, you need to focus on:

Security: You need to find a location that offers high-level security measures. This may can include secure vaults, 24/7 surveillance, and an access control system.

Private and confidential: It is better to find a storage solution that respects your privacy and maintains confidentiality about your holdings.

Accessibility: While security is definitely paramount, it is also important to have easy access to your gold whenever needed. You should try to find a location that allows you to retrieve your gold jewellery promptly without unnecessary delays.

Today there are many safe deposit boxes and vaults available that are specially designed to store Gold Bullion Sydney. These vaults can also be used to keep gold ornaments and other similar precious assets safe and secure.

[sadcatjae]

Pretty

Masterlist

here's a thing i wrote a while ago that i didn't post cus idk if anyone would wanna read it lol but it seems like a waste not to post it so here it is! idk if ill continue, but i really do love Pretty as a character. he's just a violent cinnamon roll who just wants a hug ;u;

.

CW: Explicit language, shooting/gun violence, graphic death, stabbing, blood and gore, mentions of physical abuse, disfigurement, misogyny, sexual harassment, ableism, ableist language

.

It was supposed to be easy. 

Go in, clock the guard, scare the teller, grab the cash, and leave town. 

Bambambam. Easy as pie, Farry likes to say, easy as fuckin’ pie. 

“This ain’t pie, boss,” Hyena yips, tying up the last of the hostages. He casts his asymmetrical stare over the vault full of tellers and customers, just regular folk who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. He licks his lips and leers at a young woman who flinches and tilts her face away. “But I wouldn’t mind a nibble anyhow…”

“Keep your hands off the girl, Hyena,” Farry drawls, nudging the security guard’s body with the tip of his pristine dress shoe. “I don’t know how the pigs got here so quick, but we’re trapped in tighter than a fuckin’ sardine can. Pretty, how’s it lookin’ out there?” 

Pretty peers out of the window, keeping out of snipers’ line of sight. He grimaces as he counts ten cars and more approaching in the distance. An entire battalion of blues. 

He lets the curtain shift back in front of the window and shakes his head at Farry. Not good. 

His boss swears quietly and runs a hand through his slicked back hair. Farry’s a handsome guy, Pretty reckons, resuming his patrol of the bank. He knows all the right moves and says all the right things. Whenever Pretty tries to emulate his boss, he just makes everyone baulk and scatter, like he’d just pulled a gun on them. 

That’s his role in this three-piece outfit. Farry’s the leader ‘cus he’s got brains and face. Hyena’s the guy who knows everything there is about stealing shit, and he’s just crazy enough to garner them a bloody reputation. And Pretty…Pretty isn’t any of those things. But he’s damn well good at looking scary. He’s not particularly large or muscular or strong (in fact, he’s the opposite), but he’s got a real ugly mug that makes people turn away in horror. 

Of course, he’s got his mother to thank for that. She liked to do all kinda things to him when he was a child, leaving behind marks that he can never be rid of. From his childhood photos, he thinks he could have become a handsome guy like Farry if his mother just left him be. But that’s not how things went down. So he makes do with what he’s got, and in the end he got two brothers out of it. 

Things aren’t too bad, he thinks as he glances out the west-side windows. More pigs here. Just like Farry says. They’re trapped tighter than canned sardines. As long as I have Farry and Hyena, things won’t ever be bad. 

“Alright, I’m going to need some time to think,” Farry mutters, pacing restlessly across the linoleum floor. His shoes squeak on every turn. “I need to think. They’re going to expect demands from us. We’ve already killed the guard, so they know we’re serious. They know we ain’t playin’ around. Hyena, come out here and help me, damnit. Let Pretty babysit the hostages.”

“Gotchya, boss!” Hyena smacks Pretty in the arm as he skitters past, laughing in that mocking tone of his. “They’re all yours, Pretty! Don’t let ‘em outta your sight.”

Pretty nods in assent and rubs his aching arm. He steps into the giant vault and glances around. There’s about eleven hostages in total, most of them just people he’d see out and about in town on a Monday morning. 

The only one that doesn’t seem remotely afraid, is a man with cropped hair who’s done nothing but scowl at him from the moment he drew his gun. The guy is interesting to look at. He’s tough and beefy and seems to have some kind of military background. Pretty feels a tad nervous when their gaze meets. The guy has pale green eyes, washed out under the fluorescent lights. His mother had pale green eyes too.

“Pretty, is it?” the military guy sneers. “Not exactly what I’d call you, but I suppose that’s the point.”

Pretty sits in a chair they’d taken from the waiting area. It’s wooden and uncomfortable. He rests his revolver on his knee, keeping the barrel pointed at a wall. 

“Not much of a talker are you?” Military guy continues, wriggling slightly within his bonds. He’s wriggling a lot, actually, but Pretty doesn’t quite know if that’s something he shouldn’t allow. “What do you think’s going to happen to you, Pretty? You think they’re just going to let you walk out of here unharmed?” He scoffs and shakes his head. “They’re going to kill you and your friends over there. Shoot you down in a hail of bullets like they did the Barrow Gang. Only difference is that no-one’s ever gonna remember you.”

Pretty wipes his hand against his pants. His palms are starting to get sweaty. “No,” he says quietly, voice cracking from disuse. Military guy seems surprised that he can actually talk. “Won’t let anything happen to them.” He glances at Farry and Hyena out in the foyer, arguing with each other in hushed voices. 

“Well, you better prepare to say your farewells, Pretty, because they're dead as you are.” Military guy wriggles and jitters with increasing fervour. “Not unless you put a stop to this yourself.” 

“Not putting a stop to anything,” Pretty frowns, tightening his hold on his gun. “Farry’s smart. So is Hyena. They’ll both get us out of this like they always do.”

“Not this time,” Military guy says, suddenly becoming motionless. There’s a sense of unease growing in the gangster that he’s unable to comprehend. “Last chance, Pretty. Put a stop to this before anyone else gets hurt.”

Pretty pulses his jaw. He narrows his eyes and bares a glint of teeth. That always does well to scare people – but Military guy hardly flinches. “I said, I’m not putting a stop to anything–”

Military guy bursts from his bonds and leaps at Pretty, a pocket knife flashing through the air. The gangster hardly has time to react before he feels the blade plunging into the centre of his chest. He numbly drops the gun, grabs the guy on top of him (when did he fall onto his back?), tries to push him off. But the blade is yanked out of him, blood and viscera spraying in an arc, and plunging back down–

CRACK!

Military guy’s head snaps back. A small red hole between his eyes. Blood trickles down his face as he stares at Pretty, blankly, in shock. The light dims in his pale green eyes. 

There’s a silence that extends an aeon. 

And then he keels over. Pretty fuckin’ dead.

“Sorry,” Pretty whispers, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. 

Screams and sobs erupt, voices climbing within the echo chamber of the vault. Pretty winces at the head-splitting volume. Pain bores deep into his wounded chest, making it ache something fierce.

“You moron! What the fuck are you doing?” Farry clips into the vault and hauls the dead body off his downed grunt. His handsome face swims into view, full of irritated lines. “I told you to watch the hostages, not let them go on a fuckin’ rampage! Get up and do your fuckin’ job!”

Pretty nods and drags himself into the chair, one hand pressed tight over his bleeding chest. 

“And if you don’t stop screaming, I’ll do the same to you as I did him,” Farry snarls at the hostages, jabbing his gun at the cooling corpse. 

Almost instantly, the hostages clamp their mouths shut. Only quiet sobs and wet sniffs serve as the morbid ambience. 

Farry sighs and grabs a first aid box from behind one of the tills. He tosses it at Pretty, who fumbles when he tries to catch it. “One more fuck up and you’re out. I have no patience for useless bastards like you. So don’t test me.” He gives the disfigured man a look of pure derision, before stalking back into the foyer. 

Pretty swallows and glances down at the white box, allowing his wound to bleed freely and drench his dress shirt red. He stoops down, stifling a groan as he stretches his wound, and grabs his gun off the floor to holster. He tries not to look at the body (pale green eyes, like ma’s). 

“That isn’t–” A soft voice starts, before cutting itself off. It’s the young woman from before, who Hyena wanted to ‘nibble on’. She’s watching the wounded man rummage through the white box with round eyes. 

Pretty unbuttons his bloodied dress shirt and gingerly presses a wad of cloth to the leaking hole. Harsh pants edge through his clenched teeth in growls and groans. The pain is crushing. A pair of giant hands are squeezing his chest like it’s nothing more than a flimsy aluminium can. 

When he presses against the wound to stem the blood, the pain turns rabid. It snarls and froths and bites into his flesh, gnaws at his very bones. His vision fills with static. His hands are starting to shake. He’s losing grip of his cognition. It hurts real bad. It hurts so bad I wanna cry. 

“Bandages,” the young woman says, sharply. “Use that roll of bandages there. Wrap it around your chest – wrap it tight. Tight enough to hurt. Otherwise you’ll keep bleeding out.”

Pretty blinks at the woman, swaying as he tries to catch his breath. He sees the stern look on her pale face. Her tone is crisply authoritative. It makes him want to listen to her words. 

He grabs the roll, clumsily winding the bandage around his chest. He yanks hard on the roll with every turn (tight enough to hurt) and he heaves as the crushing pain threatens to engulf him. He’s shaking too hard to do a proper knot, so he just tucks in the loose end. At the end of it, he slumps in the chair, resting for a moment, before trying to button up his shirt. 

It’s like he’s fifteen years old again with his damned butterfingers (“You couldn’t use a button until you were in high school?!”).

“Mister…Robber, sir.” The woman’s voice probes his waning consciousness. “Sir, you have to stay awake. You have lost a lot of blood.”

Pretty huffs like he’s run a mile in ten seconds. He wipes the sweat from his eyes and tries to take stock of the hostages. Most are keeping to themselves, trying to keep their heads down. Some are warily watching him and the other two outside. The young woman is the only one who meets his eyes. 

“Pretty,” he grunts, tugging the wings of his shirt together. He drops the white box at his feet and pulls his gun from the holster. He rests it upon his knee, barrel pointed to the wall. “My name’s Pretty.”

The young woman gives a nervous smile. She’s quite fair and homely, though her features are puffy from crying so much. Pretty reckons she shines, more than Farry or Hyena ever could. “Pretty. My name is Bethan. Or Beth as my friends like to call me.”

“Beth,” Pretty repeats, dumbly. He presses the palm of his free hand to his chest, closing his eyes briefly as the crushing pain flares. He releases a tremulous breath and opens his eyes. “How did you know about all that stuff?”

“I’m a doctor,” Beth smiles. “At least I’m studying to become one.”

“A woman doctor?” Pretty raises his brows. 

“We do exist, you know.”

The gangster grunts in surprise. 

Beth’s smile fades. Turns trepidatious. “Pretty, you need a hospital,” she says, her voice low and urgent. “You need stitches. Maybe even surgery if there’s extensive internal damage. If that wound gets infected, you could die. Do you understand me?”

Pretty shrugs. “Can’t do nothing right now about it.”

“Well…” Beth pauses, drawing in a shaky breath. She raises her chin and gives the gangster a wide smile. “You have me, don’t you? If you let me out of these ropes, I can treat you.”

“What are you doing?” A bespectacled man, who is dressed in tweed suit, hisses at Bethan. “Are you trying to get us all killed? Did you not see how they shot a man in front of us?!”

“I did,” Beth snaps back, “But a patient is a patient, and I am beholden to my oath.”

“The man’s an idiot,” another hostage snorts. This time it’s an old woman, heavily made up and soaked in perfume. She looks like she’s about to go to a gala. “If we get him involved, he’s sure to get us all killed.”

“I’m not so much of an idiot,” Pretty growls, turning the barrel of his gun to the hostages, “that I don’t understand english. No-one’s going anywhere. No-one’s doing anything. And I’m not untying you. So you keep quiet as Farry says, or I’ll blow a hole in your heads. Got it?”

Silence falls once more. Even Bethan seems to have been affected by his threat, for she lowers her head and says not another word. 

There’s a flicker of regret. Pretty knows he’s gotta stand by what he says. People can see through empty threats, Farry once told him. If your threats aren’t empty, then no-one will ever doubt you. They won’t ever look you in the eye ever again.

What if I do want them to look me in the eye? Pretty’s spent his entire life being looked at, but never seen. It’s always his scars that they see. It’s either that or they avoid looking at him altogether. 

Pretty can count four people who have ever looked him in the eye. His older sister, Giana. Farry. Hyena. And now Beth. 

Pretty thinks about Gigi. He wonders if she’ll see him on the news today. He wonders if her husband, Michael, is treating her alright. 

He drowses for the next several minutes. The air conditioning in the vault sends a chill over his sweat soaked skin. He can’t stop trembling, like he’s been caught in the middle of a blizzard. 

“Pretty!” Farry rouses him with a smack upside the head. “Wake up, you fuckin’ lug. They got the news stations out there and they’ve been calling the bank non-stop.” He seems almost excited, like this is exactly what he’d been after. 

Pretty clutches his burning chest and straightens up as best he can. Unbearable branches of pain shoot out from the centre of his chest, like lightning bolts carving through his flesh. He grits his teeth, trying to keep his voice in. 

Farry continues blathering on, paying no mind to his brethren’s suffering. “I’m about to make some demands so we’re going to have to free someone. Pick whoever and bring them into the foyer. Hurry your ass up about it, alright?” He slaps a hand against Pretty's wounded chest and chuckles loudly when strangled cries follow him out of the vault.

Pretty rocks back and forth breathlessly, hands pressed protectively over his agitated wound. He feels blood seep through the bandages and stain his fingers.

There’s a terrible moment when he wonders if he could actually die from this.

.

[trufannekiawilson]

Let’s talk about the Vault-Tec Rep’s isolation and the relationship with the sole survivor. The Vault-Tec Rep says he’s been alone for two hundred years but he mentions he knows of Kent and Daisy. He sort of mocks them in their ways of dealing with their trauma. Kent chooses to relive the past in the Memory Den. Daisy acts like nothing bothers her. Maybe their personalities didn’t gel well. Were there really no other people in Goodneighbour he could talk too? Instead he hid in his room and of course grew very bitter because of how things turned out. And sadder still, I don’t think he remembers who he was anymore. “I am Vault Tec.” He tells the sole survivor when they meet again. And he wears the same suit or something very similar after two hundred years. Said suit is in pristine condition. Now his suit has a bug and that’s why it looks clean. But if that wasn’t the case, it shows that he doesn’t go out and that he has an unhealth firm grasp on his identity as a Vault-Tec representative.

Do you think the Vault Tec Rep is happy? At least when the sole survivor isn’t around? It’s really sweet that you’re able to give him new purpose. I’m glad he’s excited that the two of you are going to make a future. Millage will vary if you find his comments on how perfect and smooth your skin is. He honestly maybe latching onto the sole survivor a bit too hard. Although it is very understandable why he does. I do hope he is able to find other people to confide in when the sole survivor is gone. Maybe he could be friends with Jun Long. I think Jun’s willingness to keep going even though it hurts could give our guy some much needed confidence. Otherwise it’s just back to feeling sorry for himself and hiding away again. 

[that-blue-vault-dweller]

Companions react to sole having a white faced deer fawn (doe) that thinks soles her momma, and sole takes care of her and bottle feeds her? Like not even a radstag doe, like a normal fawn!

Oh, my gosh, it’s so CUTE!!!! Thank you for this wonderful ask, and thank you times ten for sending actual pics of this beauty!!! 🥺🥺🥺💙💛💙💛 I’ve never seen such a cute fawn!

I hope you enjoy! 

Cait - Is not outwardly impressed with it, but she does secretly think it's pretty cute for a deer. It definitely looks better than the local radstags around that have multiple legs and heads. This one is actually so normal that it looks abnormal. She quietly resolves to make sure that nothing happens to it and that no one targets it as a trophy when it grows up.

Piper - Thinks that it is the most adorable thing she's ever seen, and she often asks F!Sole if she can help feed it. F!Sole always has to start the bottle-feeding to get the baby to start suckling, but Piper can usually take it from there. When she does, she is grinning ridiculously and looking at F!Sole with wonder in her eyes. She is absolutely in love with the creature.

Curie - Is truly fascinated by it and finds it to be terribly cute. She cannot believe that such a pristine specimen has somehow materialized from the Commonwealth. Naturally, she wants to run some tests and examine it as closely as possible. Of course, she is not only examining it for science despite how she insists. She also really likes to just watch the young animal because it makes for such a happy feeling inside.

MacCready - Is laughing gleefully and kneeling down to pet it as soon as he sees it. He thinks that it is positively adorable, and he asks F!Sole if she thinks that there was some special vault dedicated to preserving animals and they've just now released the creatures into the Commonwealth. He has never seen anything before that resembled the little thing and he has lived in both the Capitol Wasteland and the Commonwealth.

Deacon - Starts trying to help F!Sole think of a name for the fawn. He tells her that she should definitely name it something harsh and tough like Killer, Spike, or Diablo. He likes the irony of it all, and he also thinks it would be really cool if she could threaten people with her pet without ever having to show the deer and just relying on its name. However, she does not seem so enthused with his ideas.

Codsworth - Is excited about getting to help F!Sole raise young regardless of its species. Something deep in his programming just sparks up and makes him happier than ever when he is caretaking. He is even happier than usual, and even starts referring to the small fawn as if it is a baby. F!Sole recognizes it as his way of coping with the loss of the true Shaun, so she leaves him be as he babies the creature.

Hancock - Is in love with it, and frequently is stopping by to pet it. He just loves to sit next to it and stroke it gently, quietly taking in the beauty of something so magnificently unmarred and untouched by radiation. He likes to quietly spend time with it, and he promises that he will never let a thing happen to the little creature.

Danse - Very sheepishly and quietly asks to help feed it only minutes after meeting it. F!Sole gets her on the bottle, and offers it to him to take over. The entire time, he is just staring at the fawn carefully, reaching his hand out and stroking its back as he just gently feeds it. He is so extremely in awe and the pair of them are honestly adorable.

Preston - Thinks she is the cutest thing he has seen in quite some time. He makes sure to keep a close eye on her to help keep her safe. When she grows up, he makes sure to send a message to the entire group of Minutemen to let them know to never harm the special deer since she is so important to the general.

Valentine - Feels his heart warm at the sight of it. He and F!Sole discuss just how unique that the creature is even by Pre-War standards. Neither of them have ever seen a fawn with so much white hair covering its body, and they honestly just love to ooh and ahh over how beautiful it is.

X6-88 - Believes that it is quite similar to the synth gorillas at the Institute. He suggests that they dissect it and look inside its brain to see if it possesses a synth component. When she yells about how bad of an idea that is and how horribly upsetting that is, he states that it was merely a suggestion and she needs to calm herself.

Dogmeat - Wants to play with her as soon as he meets her. F!Sole scolds him gently when he wants to play-fight or play chase, though, so he soon learns that it is best to just quietly snuggle with the creature. She is a great nap buddy, so he does not mind too much that she does not enjoy playing.

Strong - Is very excited when he sees it. He tells her that when it grows up, it will taste absolutely wonderful. She has to tell him that they won't be eating it and that it's a tamed pet like a hound. When he hears this, he sours and is very disappointed indeed.

Maxson - Immediately asks if she would be willing to donate it to Senior Scribe Neriah. However, when she adamantly declines and informs him that this is her baby, he realizes just how important the creature must be to her. Therefore, he just calms her down and then proceeds to ask questions about how she found it and whatnot in an attempt to distract her from his blunder.

Sturges - Thinks it is absolutely adorable, and he even starts to build a large fence for it to keep it from wandering off and getting itself hurt. It is a project full of hard labor, but he finishes it within a few days, and he surprises F!Sole with the fence for her newest pet. She is absolutely thrilled and thanks him profusely. He is just glad to keep the little creature safe.

Glory - Is honestly shocked at the sight of it. She cannot believe something so unmarred and strangely beautiful actually came out of the Commonwealth. She eventually gets very fond of it, and she calls the both of them white-haired twins with a strangely huge smile as she strokes its head lovingly.

[refurbishedgray]

Point of Contact

Reader x Tech. Maybe we get feisty and it’s reader x Crosshair, too. In this house, we like both.

Multi-part fic; probably NSFW; f!reader (she/her pronouns)

**Updates: I’ll tag you if you holler

Summary:

“No good ever comes to the Republic from Banking Clan business,” Hunter tells them, “Let’s get this done and get home, boys.”

Arriving on Scipio with the unhelpful directive of, “be discreet, but do whatever it takes,” the Bad Batch find themselves at the mercy of a stony representative whose allegiances lie with the best deal.

Or, the one where Tech and Crosshair think the reader is as intense as she is pretty.

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

Part One

The office is too empty, too bright. The merciless glare of Scipio’s sun cuts across the room, gleaming unpleasantly from the gilded corners of all the fine furniture and glass. A corner office, inherited from an out-maneuvered relic of the past. 

All light and no warmth, you think, not for the first time. Never any warmth. In your early years with the Banking Clan, being stationed here had felt suspiciously like a punishment you hadn’t deserved, a proving ground when you had already proven so much. These days, however, you’ve come to understand that the frigid peaks standing vigil beyond your window are a reminder of how far you have climbed.

Now, as you shift in your chair, the expensive Corellian leather barely squeaking beneath you, you squint past the harsh light filtering in from the floor to ceiling window at your back. It’s all pristine snow on those peaks. Icy. Easy to slip if the cold didn’t kill you first.

Yes, you had climbed and clawed your way up these proverbial mountains. And like the man who last haunted this office, it has left you with so very far to fall.

The early days had been simpler. Smile. Look pretty. Never forget what can be saved for later. You hadn’t forgotten. Beyond the pale blue sky, twinkling out of sight, are worlds fraught with battles, littered with unsuccessful or unlucky tacticians from two sides of a conflict that won’t ever be ended, not truly. You have always preferred to keep your strategizing corporate. Clean. 

A frown drags at the corners of your mouth at the uncharacteristic foray into reminiscence of the…

The…

A phrase comes to mind and you allow yourself a small, private smile against the sunlight. The bad old days. 

Since then, things have always been kept tidy.

Until now. 

An unwanted spur of concern digs in behind your chest as your gaze turns from the window to sweep over the room. To your dismay, you realize why, and realize too clearly that the concern is not solely for yourself. 

He should be here.

Things were less empty when he was around, a relic in his own right and your pride and joy and confidant. How proud you had been when you had been informed that you would require a bodyguard. “A mark of success if there ever was one,” you had told the few family members you kept in contact with, of which there were very few, upon being informed of the recommendation after your previous promotion. “Aren’t you proud?” you had wanted to ask. But you had not asked. Better not to make the query when the answer was always so heavy and obvious. 

He had become your one and only friend. But he, too, is absent now, and upon permitting the observation, your office seems at once less empty and instead, guttingly, horribly hollow. Two rotations it’s been. Two rotations to give into the inconvenience of noticing.  

No, no, you think. You had noticed. Admitting it, that is the phrase that would be more accurate, but if it makes you feel less or more weak, you find you cannot decipher the bitterness creeping up your tongue.

Rising from your seat, you at once miss the meager warmth provided by the leather as the cool office air licks at you. Once upon a time, you had comforted yourself with the promise that one day, you would get used to the cold here. It was one of the few lies you allotted yourself over the years. Crossing the office, the marble floors as white and frosted as the mountain peaks outside resounding crisply beneath your heels, you make your way to the small bar trolley tucked away in one corner. Your last guest, a senator with strong -- unsubtly strong -- ties to the Clan, had complimented your selection of fine whiskeys and other alcohols. You had not admitted then that you did not keep the bar stocked for the guests who were few and far between, but rather for yourself, to chase away the damnable chill in this place. 

Your hand stills between decanters, your mind hesitating at the threatening burn that awaits your selection.

A bad habit.

You can imagine that peculiar modulated voice now. “Madam, the faces you make.”

Instead, you shun the alcohol and the ice that never thaws, yet still gets replaced each morning, now resting in a round chest, as gilded as everything else in this room, and reach for the Felucian pear juice. Duller, perhaps, but you don’t need anymore guilt on your conscience. 

A sip, then two, settles a gnawing in your stomach you only notice once it passes. 

Intolerable, you muse, downing what remains in the glass. The beverage is sweet, almost as sweet as the air outside is cold. Too quiet. Where are -

A rush of air and sliding metal breaks the silence. Glass in hand, your eyes narrow over the rim at the assistant who scuttles in. This one has been particularly insipid since her arrival. The daughter of someone marginally important, she is small and hunched shouldered -- she hasn’t learned, not like you did, and a part of you suspects she never will. 

She stops just short of where the tile begins and as she does, your eyes track down her uniform to a pair of shoes that have never been polished. Stars help her. 

In a quavering voice, she asks, “Madam?”

You raise a brow. 

“We’ve received word. The transport with the troopers has requested permission to land. They’re on their way.”

You set the glass aside, gingerly, its bottom barely clacking against the tray atop the cart. Republic troopers. A battering ram when a scalpel is needed. 

“Ah, the Senate’s grand favor,” you murmur. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

So many years spent with watchful eyes on you has made you good at hiding your frustrations. You swallow a sigh before it ever rises and allow yourself a brief moment to thumb the crystalline edge of the glass. The senator had warned you. 

Your voice is quiet as you instruct the girl, “Get out.”

She scurries gracelessly back through the door. It is an improvement; the last time she had squeaked pitifully before leaving. Perhaps you should have enjoyed the alcohol while you could. If this goes badly, all these nice things, all this luxury will be reassigned, a new name on the door. Such is the way of things -- you know the warnings well.  

Until forty-eight hours ago, they had been going so smoothly. An unfamiliar voice at the back of your mind whispers at you. Had you gotten complacent? You never get complacent. You had been warned for star’s sake. Senator Clovis had been all too clear that vaults here on Scipio were being targeted. You had taken that to mean the transports would be targeted as well. Credits were valuable, gold was valuable, as were artifacts and treasures. The Clan stored it all.  

But most valuable of all were and would always be secrets.

And secrets...you were very good at secrets. Finding them. Keeping them. Exposing them. 

The hand on the glass tightens and through touch or through sound, you sense that just a little more pressure will splinter it. Gently, you lift your fingers. 

You’ve got enough messes to clean up already.

.

…………….

.

Two of his brothers look unhappy. Hunter suspects he, too, looks unhappy. Only Crosshair remains unaffected, toothpick lolling from one corner of the man’s thin mouth to the other as he watches the sky shift from icy atmo to the very tips of craggy mountains. 

“Looks cold,” rumbles Wrecker from his seat, thick legs kicking out miserably. “Nobody said it was gonna be cold.”

From the pilot’s chair, Tech glances at Hunter, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. Now that Hunter can see him full-on, rather than that goggle-obscured side-profile of his, he realizes that he’d been right. Even Tech is unhappy with the assigned locale. Still, the man sniffs and turns back to navigating the gunship.

“It is Scipio,” says Tech. 

“What’s that got to do with anything? Just sayin’, a little warning might’ve been nice.”

Crosshair shifts, the movement almost imperceptible, just enough that Hunter knows the sniper is asking for his attention. “I believe Hunter was preoccupied with warning us about the...what was it you called them, Hunter? Denizens?” 

“The word does have an apt connotation for the Banking Clan,” Tech mutters. He gives Hunter another look, this one says that he’s no more excited about the prospect than Hunter has been. 

Their mission brief had been a strange one. It wasn’t their usual brand of run-and-gun from the sound of things, but it was important to all the right people, and they needed guaranteed success. “Go to Scipio, meet the point of contact, establish the responsible party, recover the stolen data.” It was more or less all they had been told. 

Hunter knows his frown is getting deeper, sinking into the lines on his face -- he can feel it pulling at his bandana, and he raises a hand to scrub it away.

“Who is this contact anyway?” asks Crosshair. “You never said.”

“Because I wasn’t told a name. We’re to meet with the, and I quote, ‘Principal Trades Specialist for the InterGalactic Banking Clan.’”

“Trades specialist?” Crosshair plucks his toothpick from between his teeth and for a moment, it takes Hunter longer than he would like to decipher the look on the man’s face. He doesn’t look unhappy...he looks intrigued. Crosshair replaces the toothpick, then says, “Sounds like a fancy way of saying ‘corporate spy.’”

“Head corporate spy,” Tech says, “If he’s - “

“She, from what I’m told,” corrects Hunter. His frown has yet to go anywhere, so he lets it stay, his hand falling to his lap.

Tech nods. “If she is based here on Scipio, we’re dealing with someone who needs to be watched closely. Some important players are based on this planet.”

Crosshair folds his arms. “Did the spy part give it away, Tech?”

“The Banking Clan part, actually,” Tech replies dryly, “We’ve dealt with spies before. The IGBC is something different. It is...new territory.”

“We’ve also dealt with new territory before.” At this, Hunter hears them all shift, their quick heartbeats settling into a familiar, all’s-well rhythm. His, too, follows. Just in time, it would seem, for the comms to squawk at them as the Marauder banks left and begins its final descent to the landing pad. He stands from the co-pilots seat, the faint tilt of the floor beneath him a familiar calm before the inevitable storm. He looks to Wrecker, who shakes his head, and then offers a grin. 

“Might be fun. Never clobbered bad guys with snowballs before.”

There’s a snort from Tech and despite himself, Hunter smiles. 

.

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

.

Ten minutes later, they are suited up and disembarking into a cloud of snow flurries and ice crystals. The Banking Clan’s guards are as heavily armored as some of the Separatist patrols Hunter’s encountered. He scowls beneath his helmet. This should be a job for Jedi -- if the Jedi weren’t all dispatched to the war front.   

Soldiers...they don’t deal with these sorts of people. Not well and not effectively. Too much bad blood between the Republic and profiteers like these.

He motions at his brothers to close ranks, their familiar presences a comforting reminder that this isn’t anything new, not really. It’s a mission like any other. 

As the frosted cloud clears ahead of them, the guards, in their gilt armor and insulated cloaks, make way, too much way, Hunter thinks, for the clearance to be for a group of Republic troopers.

Then he sees her.

Half camouflaged by the swirling winds and clad in half a dozen shades of gray and silver, her shoulders draped in white fur, she stands waiting for them, her hands clasped serenely in front of her. She could be a diplomat, a Jedi even, if not for the gleam in her eye. It’s a cold thing, sharper and as frostbitten as this frozen world itself. 

He’s not the only one to have noticed. Beside him, Hunter hears Crosshair draw in an appreciative breath so quiet no one without incredible senses would notice it. In his periphery, he catches an almost imperceptible twitch of Tech’s helmet as his brother spares him a questioning glance. 

When the woman speaks, her voice is crisp, professional. “Clone Force 99, welcome.” She does not smile, but her eyes track to each of them, lingering too long, as though somehow looking past the armor to the men beneath. She introduces herself with a name that sounds too soft for the title she wears. Then, she gives them a crystalline smile. “But you may call me Trader, if you please.”

“Trader?” It is Wrecker who asks the question, finally distracted from the snow and ice. “Sounds like…”

Another smile, this one not quite as cool as the first. Amused, Hunter thinks, though how benign that amusement is, he can’t tell, and it makes his skin itch beneath his blacks. “Like traitor?” she hums. “I suppose it does, doesn’t it?” 

She steps aside and gestures at them to follow. “With me, gentlemen. First, we’ve a meeting. Afterwards, we will take a tram to the vaults, then from there, speeders to the site of the incident.”

“‘Incident’ is an awful clean way to say ‘bloody heist,’” says Hunter as he moves to follow. Her gaze slides to him, her stride never slowing. Shoulder to shoulder with the woman, he has the uncomfortable instinct to slow his steps, to lag behind, as though if he isn’t careful, a blade might slide between his ribs on a blink. He pushes aside the urge, then asks, “How many people were lost?”

“Enough,” she replies. “One could even say too many.”

“But not you?”

“Must someone say something for you to believe they think it?”

Behind him, Crosshair snorts, but does not comment. Hunter lets the statement slide, though the itch he’d felt earlier is heating to a burn now. Together, she leads them through a set of gleaming durasteel doors into a foyer as stark as it is grand. 

“Proceed through those doors.” She crooks a finger to their left. “Senator Amidala has requested a meeting in...eighteen minutes. I will join you shortly.”

Wrecker whistles, the sound too sharp to come from beneath his helmet, and Hunter glances back to see that the man has removed it, his one good eye roving the pristine interior. With a sigh, Hunter follows suit. It’s not exactly warm here, but out from the planet’s whipping winds, it’s close enough that even he can fool his sensitive skin into enjoying it. Soon, they are all unmasked. The woman - Trader - lingers long enough to observe them.

Her expression is...unreadable. There is no twinkle of bemusement in her eyes, not the first twitch of surprise. Normally, when the helmets come off, it gets at least some sort of reaction, gives him some kind of measure. 

Now, the only read Hunter gets is the fact that he can’t get a read on her -- and that, he doesn’t like. There’s no trusting people who have become so numb. 

Her gaze slips between Crosshair and Tech, where it lingers on the latter for seconds longer than it had the rest of them. Something in her frigid eyes warms, the ice of her expression cracking just enough that she might be pleased by what she sees. And Tech...for all his usual detachment, has no datapad to bury his nose in now, and he notices. 

Hunter thinks the woman lets him notice. 

His brother stands a little straighter, eyes flicking nervously to Hunter behind his goggles. Stumped, for lack of a better word. For once, flat out puzzled. 

Then, without a word, Trader looks back to Hunter and inclines her head. “Stay warm, gentlemen. I will see you soon.”

She is gone behind a pair of adjacent doors without another word. 

No sooner do they watch the durasteel whisper shut, than does Wrecker drive his arm into Tech’s side with a chuckle. Tech winces with a hiss and waves the man away. 

“Heh, she likes you.”

“I hoped it was my imagination.” Crosshair’s lip curls, his eyes narrowing until he looks away, and Hunter wonders if they’ve been reflected back at him through the shine of Tech’s goggles.

Tech runs a hand over the back of his head. “What do you think, Hunter?”

“I think she’s Banking Clan, through and through. We’re not among friends here.”

“If we let her alone with Tech, things might get friendlier -”

“Wrecker.” 

Hunter scowls. Another voice has echoed his own and he looks to see Crosshair, arms folded, rocking back on a foot to glare at the wampa-sized man. 

Tech clears his throat. “Perhaps we should wait in the briefing room?”

His heart rate, harder to hear away from the tight confines of the Marauder, sounds schoolboy quick and Hunter wishes, not for the first time, that his brother was more inclined to find company in their off-duty hours than he was. Pretty faces were fine - Hunter himself was inclined to enjoy them - but something about the mask this one wore was dangerous.

Wrecker’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. “Did she say Senator Amidala was waiting?”

“She did. The commander warned us the Senate was at play here.”

“That’s not our usual playground though, is it?” Crosshair is still scowling, his arms folded more tightly now than they had been. All that characteristic suspicion exacerbated by annoyance that has set in and won’t leave him. It makes his eyes hard, his narrow features sharpened and cold beneath the glare of sunlight on durasteel. 

Hunter shakes his head. “It’s not, but I feel better knowing Amidala’s behind us on this.”

“That makes one of us,” says Crosshair.

“Two,” Tech interrupts, his voice crisp; back to himself, Hunter realizes, his relief warm down to his fingertips, until he isn’t sure why he’d been worried in the first place.

“Three! I like Amidala.” 

“We know, Wrecker.” Tech’s smile is gentle, even as he rolls his eyes. “The poster by your bed speaks for itself.” 

Hunter’s gaze slides to his remaining brother, the smile that had spread turning crooked, then fading. “Crosshair?” 

It’s always been an unsettling characteristic of Crosshair’s that his eyes, as brown as all of theirs, manage to be so very cold when the mood hits him. The look in them is not unlike what he had witnessed in the woman. 

The observation tightens Hunter’s throat and he swallows it, turning away, and hopes not to notice it again.