#i guess bones traded fighting skills for common sense

[laney-rockin]

I love the canon implications in "Bread and Circuses" that McCoy can't fight for shit. Spock is over beside him absolutely trying his hardest not to kill the gladiator he's fighting as McCoy has to be told to defend himself lmao.

Kirk knows his too, seeing as he asked if Spock could help McCoy when he was done with his own opponent.

McCoy is the grumpiest doctor around and can't fight for shit and I just adore that character detail so much. He can argue with the best of them but give him a sword and he's mostly at a loss.

#star trek #jim kirk #spock #star trek tos #tos star trek #bones mccoy #bread and circuses #i love that mccoy can't fight #cause it's canon that spock and kirk can fight really well when they have to #i guess bones traded fighting skills for common sense #which is fair considering who spock and kirk are as people #someone needs to make sure that the mad scientist vulcan and his nerdy yet himbo boyfriend are kepy safe

[cathrrrine]

RUN | Pietro x Reader

Originally from my Wattpad

CHAPTER 14 - SLUG

"Let's begin with your name."

"You already know my name." I groaned.

"Your real name."

I sighed, "You already know it. My real name is Y/N L/N."

"See? Not so bad." Natasha rolled her eyes as she tilted her head slightly to the left, a mannerism of hers that she often displayed. "Now, your age."

"Oh, that's strictly confidential." I shook my head curtly.

"Y/N..." She warned.

"All I can tell you is that I'm an adult."

She raised an eyebrow in defiance, but she didn't push further. Natasha had brought me to an interrogation room, yet again, but this time it was a different one. It didn't have the big, ugly two-way mirror attached to the wall and instead of hard, uncomfortable chairs, this one had couches. Natasha sat on the one across from me, while I had been instructed to sit on the one with it's back to the wall. The room was annoyingly comfortable, in a way that made me want to vandalise every single object in a room.

It looked like they believed my surrender after all and the change in the way they handled me showed that. For starters, I wasn't in handcuffs. But, to be fair, I guess being in the same room with Romanoff was more than enough security, maybe even more than being cuffed.

Even if I knew I could fight her well.

"I don't need to tell you twice. You lie about anything at all, the deal's off."

It was another interrogation session. Oh my god, I hate that word. I hate even just thinking about it. I've thought about it and said it at least twelve thousand times, and frankly, I've gotten tired of it. If they kept this up, S.H.I.E.L.D would have wrung me dry by the end of the week.

If I wasn't so adamant on surviving, I would've thrown myself off the side of the building by now.

"Don't you think I've been through enough interrogations?" I voiced my thoughts aloud to the redhead in front of me, picking at my nails in boredom.

"There's no such thing as enough interrogations."

"God, you people are scrutinising." That earned me a huff. "And you make me yawn."

"Better safe than sorry, that's the motto." She replied sarcastically. "Next question, how long have you been with Hydra?"

That escalated quickly.

I gulped automatically, not out of fear, but out of habit. "Ever since..." I was born. "For as long as I can remember."

I wasn't lying. But that didn't mean I had to tell the whole truth.

"And you left when?"

"As soon as I could." On my 18th birthday.

"Why?"

"There it is! The hard-hitting question. I've been waiting for that one." This was harder than I thought it would be.

"Why did you leave Hydra?" Natasha repeated the question without a hitch.

"Well, I didn't like it."

"That's all?"

"What do you mean that's all? You don't like something, you leave. Common sense."

She stared at me intently. I've gotta say, she does this thing a whole lot better than Fury. I could technically see the gears in her head turning, calculating every emotion and every word. This woman knew how to play me at my own game. She didn't crack at the silence that ensued. My skin almost crawled at her stare.

Keyword, almost.

"Staring's not going to drag the answer out of my throat, you know." I leaned back on the soft, velvet couch.

They said I had to be honest for them to trust me, but honest hadn't even been in my vocabulary until 12 hours ago. What did they expect me to do? Immediately lose every sense of self-worth and start throwing every single fact about my life, every detail of the trauma that I've endured–to them?

Doing this meant saving my life, but it also meant having to give up at least a sliver of my secrets. Was it worth trading my secrets to these people for my life? Why did the price have to be so goddamn high?

I took a deep breath. "I was 10."

"Pardon?"

"When they first ordered me to kill someone."

I remember the weight of the gun in my small hands, the smell of blood in the air when I shot the man, and the sound of his body thumping on the gravel in the dead of the night.

"I don't remember who it was or why I had to kill him. But I remember enough to know that it was..." I trailed off against my will, the memory getting the best of me. As if the whole situation wasn't already pathetic.

I cleared my throat. "I remember enough to know that it wasn't right. I felt it in my bones."

Natasha stayed silent, willing me to continue. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I'm an angel or whatever. As I grew up I understood that I didn't want to be associated with these people. Hydra wasn't exactly a paradise, obviously. But it took me a while to understand that. And once I did, I took off."

"And they've been looking for you, ever since?"

"Yes."

"Does that explain yesterday's events?"

Him. "Unfortunately."

"How long?"

"How long, what?"

"Have you been running from them?"

My mind went blank. How many years has it been? Time looked like one long line for me. I mentally calculated the amount of days, months, years that it took for me to hide.

"6, 7? I don't remember how long it's been." I bit down on my lower lip, hard. "No one's ever asked. I never bothered to keep count either."

She nodded, uncrossing and recrossing her legs and shaking out her hair. The redhead woman seemed to contemplate what she was about to say next. For a second there, I was curious. How unsettling could the question be to make her visibly bothered?

When the words spilled out of her mouth, I wish I never wondered. "This is an important question—are you Enhanced?"

I winced. One question, out of all the other ones, was all it took the break the dam that I've built in my head. Memories came flooding back in, in flashes, in the aches of my muscles, pouring mercilessly into the forefront of my brain.

Muffled voices, bright fluorescent lights shining into my eyes, cold-sweats...my head pounded vigorously. I pinched the bridge of my nose, praying hard that I was hiding my discomposure well from her.

Was it worth it?

"You have to be honest, Y/N. We need to know if we can trust you."

Strenuous hands pulling at me, strapping me down, dilated pupils, the whirring of their monstrous machines...

"Yes, Natasha. I am."

———

SIX HOURS EARLIER

"She can't be trusted."

"She's done nothing that says so, so far."

"How do you know that, Maximoff? She's sly. She's sneaky. This could just be another game of hers."

"We could be very well falling into a trap right now."

"Send me in." Natasha crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. "I'll get her to tell us what we need."

"I don't doubt your interrogation skills, Nat, but do you really think it's a good idea? I mean, she's a lot like you." Clint remarked.

"That's exactly why I should go." There was an air of mystery to the way she insisted upon it.

They all looked to their Captain for his approval. Steve had both palms on the table, his head slightly bowed. He looked up to his team, eyeing every single one of them before his eyes landed on Natasha's.

"She's right." He stood up straight, mirroring Natasha's pose. "Nat, you bring her to the interrogation room. Do whatever you need to make her talk. Get all the information we need to know about her; her past, her abilities, her name for God's sake."

The redhead nodded, gesturing for him to continue.

"Wanda, I want you to sit in the next room. Read her mind. Make sure she's telling the truth."

"But-"

"Pietro, you go with her, make sure things don't go out of hand. And don't worry, kid. She can't hurt you, especially not when she's basically just waved the white flag."

He paused for awhile before continuing. "If it ultimately goes well...we should let her into the team."

"Are you kidding me?" Tony bit back.

"No. She's an asset. She's got useful information and skills we could put to use."

"Steve. What if she goes rogue, huh? And she decides to wake up one day and kill us all? This is a situation bound to go awry. We can't let a former Hydra agent in just like that." Tony ran a hand across his face before adding another comment. "I made the mistake of giving her the benefit of the doubt before and it only got us in trouble."

Steve pondered upon Tony's opinion for a while before nodding once and announcing his decision. "So, we put her on probation. Let her know that she's not totally off the hook, see where it'll lead."

"Rogers, are you sure about this?" Natasha pursed her lips.

"Yes." He uncrossed his arms and put his hands on his hips, in true Captain America fashion. "Let her know that she'll be pardoned if she tells the whole truth. Maybe it'll encourage her. I'll inform Fury about this whole thing."

The meeting room was silent for a while before the team began to disperse. Steve was the last one to go, but not before Natasha stopped him.

"Rogers. I need to tell you something."

———

PRESENT TIME

She looked surprised, but not as much as I thought she would be. I was expecting a little bit more than raised eyebrows. Maybe even a gasp. "What can you do?"

I chuckled dryly, "Maybe it's better to show than tell."

It was her turn to chuckle, not an ounce of humour in it. "Now's not the time for your sweet little antics. This isn't a talent show."

"Oh, really? Then what is this? I thought I was auditioning for your makeshift boyband."

"Well, maybe if you talked more and sassed less, you'd make the cut."

I shook my head again, slowly. I had to be careful with what I told them. The walls seemed to look duller and the couch I was on felt like a boulder instead of the plush heaven that it was.

"I'm an Echo."

"What does that mean?"

"It means exactly what it sounds like. I echo people." My hands trembled slightly at the mention of it. "I absorb other people's powers and I amplify it."

This was as much as I've ever told anyone ever since I ran from Hydra. Genuinely? I'm a little freaked out at the fact that I just did so. But it had to be the right decision. I couldn't afford to make another wrong turn.

Besides, I was in control here. I had the choice to tell them what I wanted to tell them and what I wanted to keep from them. I figured they should know that I had that little something up my sleeve this entire time.

After all; they were my only lifeline at the moment.

"Was that how you beat us the night we caught you?"

I thought back to that night, when I ran as fast as Pietro did and broke through the barriers of the Witch's force field. I shrugged, not bothering to please her with a response.

"Tell me more about your past."

I narrowed my eyes at her, "Really, Romanov? Digging for more? I already gave you enough, don't you think?"

Natasha blinked once, but didn't back down. "I ask, you answer. That was the deal, wasn't it?"

The smile didn't reach my eyes when I jut out a grin at her. "What do you wanna know about my past?"

"The basics. Where you're from, how you're here."

"I'm half-Russian." I shrugged. "And you already know how I got here."

"No. I know how you came to S.H.I.E.L.D. We brought you here. What I need to know is how you got into this whole ordeal."

A scoff escaped me, "Is this a therapy session or an interrogation?"

"Y/N."

"No, seriously, you're asking me about things that don't matter-"

"Y/N." She repeated, more sternly.

I tucked my arms to my chest so I wouldn't flinch as I said the words that haunted me.

The ones I knew haunted her too.

"I was born into it." My tongue felt heavy. "They raised me in the Red Room."

For the first time since we started, Natasha Romanoff gasped. It was barely audible, and it wasn't the show-stopping theatre moment I'd been looking for, but it was a gasp in itself. It's funny, though. I thought I'd be more amused. But the heavy feeling that sat on my chest drained all the humour out of me.

Natasha immediately rose from her seat, staring at me with possessed eyes. Her face had gone white as sheet, her lips pale.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me, Romanov."

She sauntered over to me, one foot stepping in front of the other. "Don't you dare lie to me."

"I'm not." My voice was weaker than I would've liked it to be, barely above a whisper. "I was trained in the Red Room. As soon as I was old enough, they shipped me off to the hands of Hydra."

She wasn't listening as intently anymore. Her eyes were locked on mine, but I could tell she wasn't exactly in the room anymore. Her head's probably off in the same place mine was in just a few minutes ago.

"Is that enough for you?"

Just like that, something snapped within her. "Tell me more."

"I already did."

"You're hiding something!"

I stood up so I was level to her height, my eyebrows knitting in anger. "I gave you what you wanted. I gave you the truth."

"No." She shook her head. "I want the full one."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

She trudged towards me, lifting up her shirt so her abdomen was exposed. "Do you know who gave this to me?"

It was a long scar on her hip, positioned slightly to the left of her belly button, the skin raised and bumpy. "How the hell am I supposed to know?"

"I got this on one of my first missions. I was assigned to escort a nuclear scientist out of Iran." She seethed. "We were ambushed by Hydra at the rendezvous in Odessa. My tires got shot, the car ran off a cliff."

"Where are you going with this?"

"I managed to save us both. But as soon as I did, the assassin who ambushed us open fired. Killed the scientist. Straight through me. Left one hell of a scar." She let go of the hem of her shirt. "A soviet slug."

It was my turn to grow pale. There was only one person who could do that. And I was far from ready to say his name.

"You knew him didn't you? I should've known all along."

"How?" I begged, the somewhat 'calm' demeanour I've tried hard to keep was long gone.

"Does it matter?" Her gaze was threatening. "You were trained by The Winter Soldier, weren't you Y/N L/N?"

#the winter soldier #damn i couldnt wait to write that #run pietro x reader #pietro x reader #pietro maximoff #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #miss romanoff hello maam can u pls step on me? thx #avengers #avengers reader insert #avengers x reader #wanda maximoff #steve rogers #pietro fanfiction

[fanfoolishness]

to stay a little while (The Mandalorian)

(Cara Dune stays on Sorgan for longer than she means to; she isn’t sure why.  Cara POV set before and during Sanctuary, also featuring Din Djarin, Grogu, Omera, Winta, Caben and Stoke. A little contemplative story infused with hope. 2800 words.)

***

Cara’s always felt it, energy humming beneath her skin, the crackle of power etched in bone and muscle.  A little girl standing on an Alderaanian beach with her toes in the sand, exploding into cartwheels amidst the surf.  A twelve-year-old watching holos of fights in her room, practicing throwing punches against sun-shadows painted on the wall.  A young woman pacing, muscles tense and coiled, wondering how to tell her family she was leaving a world of peace for the battlefront.

She’s all of them and none, now, skin marked with memories of the lives she’s lived and shed in favor of the future.  She’s always moving, still pacing, only now her journeys span star systems instead of the distance between her room to her parents’.  She pays her way in muscle and odd jobs, and the stars stream out behind her, another life forgotten.

But Sorgan?  Sorgan’s all right.

***

She’s not sure why she stays.  

It’s not like she’d intended it, though it makes some sense.  Sorgan is quiet and sleepy, a place where the Rebellion -- the Republic -- old habits die hard -- probably won’t think to visit for another decade.  The remnants of the Empire are even less likely to come to call, given the place’s major exports are whole krill and spotchka.  Not exactly useful stuff when it comes to firepower.

It’s… nice, here.  She keeps a room at the shabby inn, living off stew and wild-caught meat, finishing out the nights in a fuzzy spotchka haze.  She sleeps harder and deeper than she has in a year on a wooden cot that creaks and leaves her back sore.  She keeps her blaster by the bedside when she rests, but there’s dust on the handle when she finally draws it against the Mandalorian.

She’s only seen one or two in her time.  She’s heard the rumors, Mandalore’s fate nearly as grim as Alderaan’s (never as bad as that, nothing could be as bad as that, her stomach twists at the thought).  But she’s never heard of the Mandalorian survivors traveling with tiny weird children in tow, and she wonders what the hell the two of them are really doing here.

***

Seems like she and the Mandalorian have something in common.  Home’s something for other people, softer people; but just because it’s not for her, doesn’t mean it isn’t worth defending.  She looks at the villagers, men and women and children in simple clothes with krill stains on their boots and hands.  Their little homes are small and humble, raised by hand, near enough to the ponds that Cara can hear the krill bubble beneath the surface if she listens hard.  They live so near to nature that they can touch it at any time.

Alderaan was like this, too.

One of the villagers, Caben, she thinks, helps get her situated in a small hut on the edge of the settlement.  He’s nervous and excited both, and the hope in his face unsettles her.  His eyes are wide at the amount of weaponry she stows next to her bed.

“You know we can’t guarantee anything, right?” she asks.  “Not until we know what you’re up against.”

Caben shakes out a heavy blanket.  Sunlight catches dust motes in the breeze from the blanket, and they hang like gold in the air between them.

“We understand,” he says hastily.  “It’s just… if you can help us… you don’t know what it would mean to us, to protect our home.”

She smiles a little despite herself.  “I know what you mean.”

***

Though of course, it’s not that simple.

Simple would have been a band of drunken raiders on foot.  She could have left the Mandalorian napping with his strange little kid and taken them all out before they got up for breakfast, if that was all they had to deal with.  But instead there’s an AT-ST on this backwater little planet, and she realizes the damn Empire got here after all.  

She stands in the footprint of a scout walker, beneath broken branches high overhead.  The cold she feels has nothing to do with the spring breeze through the trees.

She’s done, now.  She wants to leave and so does the Mandalorian; she feels an echo of her own energy ringing off him.  The urge to run is a familiar one.  

It’s not their problem.  Not really.  

“I didn’t sign up for this,” she growls, their boots crushing twigs and moss in the thick loam as they walk back to the village.

“I don’t know what these people are thinking,” he says.  “There isn’t enough firepower on this planet for that.”

“You’re telling me.”  She shakes her head, retracing their path through the ferns and trees.  “What will you and the kid do?”  

“We’ll have to move on; it’s not as if we have a choice.  Guild hunters will be after him if we can’t find somewhere quiet,” says Mando.  His voice is as inscrutable as his helmet.  She’s not sure if he’s angry about the situation, or just resigned.  “And you?”

“I’ll hitch a ride back to the town, I guess,” she says.  But the idea doesn’t sit well with her.  

The little village comes into view, and she spots the villagers in blue catching their krill and moving about their day-to-day.  Mando’s strange green kid plays at the edge of the woods with the widow’s daughter and some of the other children.  Their giggles are a sound that doesn’t belong with what her memory gives her, the creak and groan of metal feet swinging through the battlefield, the sharp whine of blaster fire, the flash of explosions.  

They’ll never be safe with that thing out there.

***

Mando turns out to be even blunter than she is.  No wonder they get along so well. “You can’t live here anymore,” he announces to the village.

She chokes in surprise.  “Nice bedside manner,” she mutters.  Maybe the guy’s heart is beskar, too.  

“You think you can do better?” he asks, and she thinks maybe he’s a little miffed under the helmet.  She’d laugh if the villagers weren’t staring at them like their world has ended.  She flinches a little.  She knows the feeling.

“Can’t do much worse,” she says under her breath.  The villagers stare up at them, their eyes wide.  She lets her voice ring out over the clearing.  “I know this is not the news you wanted to hear, but there are no other options.”

An uproar.  They shout and yell, and she winces.  Denial’s always hard to watch.  She explains about the AT-ST;  they tell her about family, about tradition, about home.  

She tries to make them see it.  Tries to make her voice carry what it needs to, tries to translate soldiers gasping their last breaths in the dark to something they can understand.  But she’s never had words for things like this, she’s only had fists and fire, and she doesn’t know how to pull that forward into something that can be shared.  She isn’t sure she she wants to know how.  

The words she does come up with, finally, are too spare.  “I’ve seen that thing take out entire companies of soldiers in a matter of minutes,” she says heavily, and she knows it doesn’t come close to making them hear what they need to hear.

The widow looks sharply at her, eyes blazing.  “We’re not leaving.”

“You cannot fight that thing,” says Cara, but the other woman stands tall and square, and something in the set of her shoulders makes Cara doubt.  Maybe --

Mando feels it, too, the steel coming alive in these people.  She’s relieved when he turns back to the villagers and says to her, “Unless we show them how.”

She cracks a grin.  Okay.  Okay.  Maybe things will go down different, this time.

She nods to the widow.  “Hey,” she says.  “What’s your name?”

“Omera,” she replies.  Her daughter hugs her, hard, around the middle.  Omera’s hand is gentle on her daughter’s shoulders, but her face is set with determination.  

Good.  They’ll need it.

***

It takes them near a week to get the villagers ready, and the routine almost starts to feel familiar by the end.  Up in the morning early for training.  Villagers split up into teams to dig trenches, fell trees, raise stakes.  There’s melee practice with her; Mando handles the shooting.  There’s a rhythm here that reminds her of the best of the Rebellion days, and she finds herself enjoying it, grinning when Stoke manages to knock Caben on his ass with his staff, crowing when their practice run goes well.  She’s missed this.

Evenings are guard duty, hoping the Klatooinians don’t come back before they can spring their trap, but there’s still time for a glass of spotchka around the fire.  She enjoys the quiet that springs up as the birds sing their goodnight songs and the people speak theirs.  She’s missed this, too.

Some nights she sits with Omera and her daughter, Winta, complimenting the woman on her shooting skills.  Some nights she trades drinks with Caben and Stoke, making them laugh until they snort their spotchka up the nose.  Some nights she and Mando sit and talk strategy; sometimes they sit and trade war stories, the kind filled with casual horrors you can only tell a stranger.  

Mando’s funny little kid sits on the ground between their legs, playing games with sticks and pebbles in the dirt.  Sometimes the kid turns to Cara, waving a stick with delight; she leans over and sagely tells him it’s a good one, nice and… branchy.  Sometimes he falls asleep against Mando’s leg, and Mando reaches down, rubbing his little back as the fire crackles.  

It all starts feeling pretty good.

***

Her skin’s on fire in the best way, blood pumping real and fierce and frenzied through her veins.  The villagers dance around the ruins of the AT-ST as the moon wanes.  No one’s getting any sleep tonight, and why should they?  The victory’s real and glorious, the Empire’s war machine brought down by wooden sticks and krill ponds and Mando’s pulse rifle, guts and instinct and sheer grit, and it’s a heady, raucous thing.  Villagers shout snatches of songs, children run and play way past their bedtime, and the spotchka flows.  Dank farrik, she hasn’t felt this good in years.

She raises her glass high and bumps into the Mandalorian.  He’s holding his sleeping kid, though how the kid can sleep through all the celebration she has no idea.

“Mando!  Come on, have a drink.  I think we earned it,” Cara laughs.  She nudges him with an elbow, the bone ringing against his beskar.  She shakes the sensation loose from her arm.  That stuff’s tough as hell.

He stands for a moment at the fire’s edge, and she watches the flames dancing in the reflections of his armor.  He rests one hand on the sleeping kid’s chest.  “I’m glad they’re happy.”

“Aren’t you, man?”

He considers.  She takes a drink of her spotchka.  Hell, what does it take for this guy to loosen up?

“Yeah.  We did a good thing for this village,” he says.  “The children will be safe now.”  His hand tightens on the kid’s robe.  

“It’s a rare thing, these days,” she points out.  “Safety.  All the more reason to celebrate, don’t you think?”

He lets out a dry chuckle, and she raises her brow.  He knows how to laugh?  

“I think the kid’s done enough celebrating for both of us,” he says, voice a little lighter than normal.  Maybe he’s smiling, under there.  “Do you know how many frogs that walker killed when it exploded?  I caught him stuffing barbecued frogs into his mouth by the handful.”  

“No wonder he’s out cold,” Cara laughs.  “All right, all right, go put your kid to bed.  But there’s plenty of spotchka out here if you change your mind.”

“He’s not my --”  He sighs, nods.  “Goodnight.”  He heads back to his hut, kid cradled in his arms.  Cara watches him go, puzzled.  She’s not a joiner herself, so she gets it; that need to go off and be alone sometimes.  But this is a celebration, a community kicking ass and protecting itself, and he’s had no small part in it.  So why turn away now?

She finishes her glass, frowning, and steps back toward the fire.  

“Cara Dune!” Stoke bellows in delight, and the villagers cheer.  She grins and pumps her fist, and the party keeps on rolling.

***

She should move on, her work done, village saved, credits paid.  But she stays, and so do Mando and his kid, and they don’t talk about it.  Which suits her just fine.

Cara thinks she knows why Mando stays.  The kid toddles up to him to show him leaves and bugs, and he examines them patiently in the palm of his hand.  The little one makes friends with Winta and the other kids, and they play tag or chase or whatever they call it here, with breaks to learn their lessons out in the bright sun.  Mando makes his rounds through the village, speaking now and then with Omera or nodding to the other farmers, and she watches the native vigilance in him soften, just a little.  And when he takes the kid to bed at night, she sees him stroke the little guy’s ears when he thinks she isn’t looking. 

Yeah.  Makes sense he’d want to stay.

She’s a little less sure about herself.  It’s not that she doesn’t like the villagers; they’re good solid people, plainspoken, and they look up to her like anything.  But she wonders sometimes if it’s something else keeping her here.

She stands in the forest one gleaming morning, exercising.  Her body’s as much a weapon as her blasters or vibroblade, and despite the village quickly returning to its sleepy ways, she has no intention of letting this weapon dull.  She works her way through warmups and into heavier exercise, alternating cardiac work with body weight strength exercises.

The sound of her own breath mingles with the sounds of the forest.  Drummer birds peck ratatat against the pines.  Gold siskins chip cheerily high in the branches; plump ground birds sing ahlolo, ahlolo as they trundle their way through the ferns and shrubs.  They’ve become as familiar to her as the villagers, and she remembers lessons on Alderaan, her teachers sharing the names of their planet’s plants and wildlife with joy in their faces.  She liked the lessons, but where the other kids walked patiently, she jumped and climbed and somersaulted, getting in serious trouble.  

Still, though, she remembers the names they taught her, and she remembers the names of the Sorgan creatures when the villagers let them slip.

Cara smiles a little, eyes stinging.  Huh.  

Maybe there’s something to that. 

She finishes her push-up and rocks back on her heels, surveying the woods from a crouched position.  The pine needles beneath her boots are shades of rust and gold.  They smell clean and piercing.  She extends one hand, brushes her fingertips against them.  They prick her fingers, and she closes her eyes at the sensation, feeling the sweat bead on her cheeks and forehead.

A rustle behind her sends her into a fighting stance, blaster half-drawn before she realizes it’s just Winta.  The girl squeaks, startled, and Cara quickly holsters her blaster, standing up straight.

“Morning, Winta,” she says, wiping her face with the back of her hand.  “What are you doing out here?”

The girl gives her a gap-toothed grin, her eyes bright.  “I -- I was following you, Miss Dune.”

Cara’s eyes widen.  “Oh please, just call me Cara, kid.”

Winta giggles.  “Okay, Cara.”  She tries the name out hesitantly, sounding excited to say it.  “Is it okay if I watch you train?”

Cara’s taken aback.  A strange request, one she’s never had from a kid before, but then again, she doesn’t really do the whole kid thing.  “Sure, I guess.  Why do you want to?”

Winta twists her hands together, looking away.  “I just -- I think it’s really neat, how you’re so strong.  Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course,” says Cara, very seriously.  She crosses her arms and waits as if the kid’s about to drop major enemy intel.

“I think you’re even stronger than the Mandalorian!” Winta whispers, then dissolves into another storm of giggles.  

“Damn right I am!” Cara laughs.  

Winta gazes up at her.  “I want to be strong too someday.  Like you!”

“Why not start now?” Cara asks, her face flushing with unexpected warmth.  She looks down at Winta’s bright eyes, and sees a different kid told to settle down, to stay still, to stop fighting.  She breathes in the scents of Sorgan, so crisp and clean, so familiar, somehow.

“Come on,” says Cara.  “Now first, you’ll want to set yourself up in a solid stance…”  She digs her boots into the loam and Winta does the same, her small hands tightening into fists.  “Good!  If you’re anchored right, nothing can knock you down.”  

The kid nods, looking just as determined as her mother.  Cara grins to see it.  “Like this, Cara?”

“Yeah,” says Cara proudly.  She swallows.  “Just like that.”

#the mandalorian fanfiction #cara dune #cara dune fanfic #sorgan #the mandalorian #noromo mando #din djarin #omera #winta #my mando fic

[lurkingcrow]

I don't quite know what this is but I wrote it anyway

 Did I hear @forcearama  request more sad Obi-Wan and Baby Luke? I think I did! Have a very quickly written fic used to distract me from my head cold. This didn't exactly go where I thought it would, somehow it turned into an AU and shifted character focus on me, but hey the only way you can improve is by practicing right?

It is strange, he thinks. To the untrained eye this is a barren wasteland, miles and miles of sand and rock baked hard under the harsh light of twin suns. And yet... beneath the surface he can feel the  movement of an industious colony of dustbeetles carving out a additional tunnels to accommodate their growing hive. In the next canyon over a herd of banthas is taking shelter from the midday sun, their minds a peaceful balm against the sharp hunger of the krayt dragon that stalks in the shadows. Further out he tracks the passage of a group of Tuskens as they make their way towards a hidden cave system - it looks like they will miss the Jawa sandcrawler, trundling along it's trade route to the outer settlements. There is life here, all the more precious for its scarcity, and the man who was once Obi-Wan Kenobi takes comfort in that.

He sighs, stroking his beard in thought, and reaches out to seek one particular lifeform (beloved, innocent, to be protected at all costs) . Luke's presence is bright -a mess of of sounds and images and burbling curiousity and oh! With cheerful glee the infant mind latches onto his and it takes a moment for Ben to realise that the child is much closer than expected. Gently pulling away he takes note of the combined sense of determination and maternal fondness headed his direction. He turns back to his shelter - it has been some time since he last had guests. He should probably clean up.

By the time the speeder pulls up he has managed to look a little less like he has spent the last couple of days sitting outside in the elements. From Beru's expression as she looks him over it's not enough.

"Honestly Ben, one of these days I'm going to come out here and nothing but a pile of clothing and bleached bones." She says as she hitches Luke one one hip while slinging a pack over her shoulder. "How you've managed to survive with so little common sense I don't know!" ( he asks the same thing every day - how does he live when those he failed are gone? the dunes offer no answer but the wind takes his tears.)

"I have my ways." He smiles, ushering them inside. "What brings you to my humble abode?" Beru huffs and offloads a squirming Luke into his arms before digging into her bag. Immediately tiny arms reach up to pull at his beard while the equally fragile mind seeks out his own, poking and prodding in childish delight.

(oh yes. he thinks. here is why. he lives because he loves this one too much to fail him too) So wrapt is he in Luke's presence that it takes Beru clearing her throat to bring him back to their conversation. Her smile is gentle and they share a quiet moment of mutual understanding before she draws his attention to the datapad in her hand.

His heart freezes.

(nononononono.he is dead. surely the universe would not be so cruel?) On the page the dark form of the Empire's newest enforcer remains unchanged, the headline declaring their triumph over the last remnants of CIS forces blaring overhead. (it is. vader lives. vader lives and he must never know of the treasure hidden beneath tatooine's suns)

In his arms Luke begins to fuss as he picks up on his panic and Ben calms himself. (he can break down later. later, when he cannot hurt any more innocents) Something must show on his face though, as Beru looks up, concerned. "Are you alright?" Another look at the datapad, and her eyes narrow. "Are we in danger?" He clears his head, puts aside his fear and guilt (anakin, anakin, where did we go wrong?)  and thinks it through. This had always been a possibility. Nothing has changed - there is still no reason for the Empire to seek him here at the edges of civilization, even less for them to look for a boy with his father's blue eyes (blue. not yellow. anakin's blue).

"No, no. Not for the moment. Just... Something to keep an eye on." She looks at him carefully before nodding. "Ok. But that's not what has me worried. Here." She points to a much smaller article at the bottom of the page, welcoming the continued relationship between the esteemed Hutt conglomerate and Imperial forces and the signing of a new deal facilitating trade in high value goods along the outer rim. His eyebrows raise in disbelief. "Is that what I think it is?"

Beru shakes her head ruefully.  "High value goods. They've all but legalised the slave trade so long as it doesn't touch their precious core. Didn't think the Hutts would manage it - they must've caught his Majesty on a good day." She eyes him carefully. "You're not from around  here, so I don't know how familiar you are with..." "No. I understand. More than you might think." (bandomeer, a heavy collar around his neck. zygeria, the cutting agony of lightwhips and despair. coruscant, a blond boy who flinches at the use of "master". and still he will never fully comprehend.) He shakes his head and clutches Luke a little tighter. "But not enough. I imagine Jabba is delighted to extend his reach, but I'm guessing his coffers aren't your immediate concern."

Again Beru assesses him carefully, and appears satisfied by what she sees. She takes a seat against the wall motioning for Ben to join her. "You'd be right. Look Ben, I know there's a lot you can't say, but I need to know. Who are you? To Luke I mean."

The question takes him completely by surprise. "I... His parents were good friends of mine. I once taught his father" (it is not a lie, and yet it tastes like one, heavy and cold against his tongue). Beru scoffs. "Friends. That's why you look at Luke like he's the last cask of water before the cool season." There is something about her posture that makes him reconsider his words. (and surely now, now his old world was ashes and dust, surely now he could admit it.)

He bows his head, inhaling the scent of Luke's sun warmed skin. "I loved them. Anakin, he was my brother, my partner, my other half. I would have done anything for him." (but he'd never outright told him had he? anakin never knew just how much obi-wan would sacrifice to protect him. he never knew how deep the attachment ran. because it was not the jedi way. now the jedi are dead. and, though his body yet breathes, so too is anakin). He clears his thoat "Padmé, she was a light in the shadows, a reminder that there are still those who would fight for justice rather than personal gain. I was proud to call her a friend,  prouder still that she considered me one too." (brave beautiful padmé. strong and courageous with a heart made of kyber.  she made anakin so very happy and for that alone he might have loved her. but she was always greater than the sum of her parts, and he mourns her for her own sake.)

"Then you're his family." It feels like a razors in his throat."Yes." "Good." He looks up in surprise. Beru is still looking at him keenly. "Were you there for his birth? Who named him?" "I...yes. Padmé lived long enough to name him."(and his sister. just as tiny and just as perfect and so very clearly her parents child. it had hurt to hand her over, to know she would grow up without her brother, without him to watch over her. but she would be loved. bail could keep her safe in ways he cannot. it is for the best. but his heart still aches). "I brought him to you soon after"

Something in his response makes Beru relax slightly (distantly he recalls a conversation with anakin, children follow the mother.) "And you love him? You'd protect him?" "Yes." His voice is stronger now, full of certainty. "Beru, where are you going with this?"

She takes a deep breath. "You're still an outsider here, so there are things you don't quite get yet.  Me and Owen? We're both freehold stock,  descendants of slaves who bought their way out. Our families are well established, reputable. We might not be rich  but so long as we don't break any laws or get too far into debt no-one's gonna try taking us in." Ben doesn't like the sound of this. "But?"

Beru raises one hand to ruffle Luke's downy hair. He's begun to drift off, head nestled against Ben's shoulder and at the movement he lets out a quiet protest. "But, with the Rep- sorry, Empire, no longer enforcing the ban pretty soon every scum sucking sleemo this side of Ord Mantell is going to want to cash in on the flesh trade. And they're not going to care where exactly their stock comes from. Luke is freeborn. You just confirmed it. But that doesn't mean shit if there isn't something to back it up. Our reputation, that's something. One day though it might not be. I need you to promise me Ben, something happens to us? You claim him. You're family, you'll look after him. And unless I'm very much mistaken, you have the skills to back up your claim."

His gut roils at the picture Beru paints, but there is no question as to his response. He has already made this oath once, a silent vow to the newborn bundle of hope clutched against his chest. It takes no effort to verbalise it now."I will. I swear to you, Beru Whitesun-Lars, that as long as I still live and breathe I will do everything within my power to ensure the safety and happiness of Luke Skywalker." 

She looks amused by his formality. "I'll keep you to that."There is a moment's silence, broken only by the occasional whine from the sleeping boy. "So, I'll expect you over for weekly dinner. No excuses. Luke needs to get to know his Uncle Ben if he's gonna start learning the mystic stuff and you need fattening up"

Once he had been known as the Negotiator. A thousand diplomats had done their best to stump him only to fall prey to his silver tongue. And yet it is the simple self assured statement from a moisture farmer's mouth that leaves Ben speechless."What!? Beru,  I'm still a wanted man. We agreed - it's best for everyone if I keep away."

"Banthashit. Owen agrees with you but you're both wrong. He thinks the further away you stay the safer it'll be. That it's your sort of trouble that'll put Luke most at risk. Me? I remember Shmi's stories. I remember the young man I met and the woman who followed him." 

She grins, sharp and bright. "I remember it was both of 'em who  made the decision to go running straight into danger. If he's anything like them, Luke won't wait for your trouble to find him - he'll find he local stuff first. And when he does? Now that Jabba's on the rise? Owen and I  aren't going to be enough to keep him safe."

"You don't understand. I am a danger, to Luke and to you." (failure, pain, too close and they suffer. luke must not suffer) "It doesn't matter. I know you're grieving, that you're trying to punish yourself for something. But the stakes just got higher. I've heard stories about the Jedi. Don't know how many of them are true, but if those skills could save his life one day Luke needs to learn."

He tries again. "Beru, the Empire is actively seeking out Force sensitives. I can hide myself, but it is a skill that takes time to learn. Luke is powerful. You have no idea what they would do to him should he be discovered."

"All the more reason for him to start soon." She looks him in the eyes, unflinching. "I swore an oath too Ben. I swore on Shmi's memory that no grandchild of hers was ever going to live as a slave. I swore it the day I swore my marriage oath, and I will keep both until the day I die. I love that boy. If I could I'd let him grow up never knowing the fear of enslavement. But I know now I can't. So Hutt or Empire, I want him to be strong enough to break their chains. And for that, I need your help."

(the force rings with her sincerity and he knows what he must do. he is reminded of the other determined young women he has known. he hopes this time things will end better).

He closes his eyes. "It will not be without risk. Even in peace time the life of a Jedi was not an easy one." Beru smiles sadly. "Nothing worthwhile ever is. If the price of his freedom is die a hero then so be it. At least he will die free."

And suddenly he can see it, the echoes of the future that awaits, the man this child will become (a stubborn boy with reckless fervour, a smiling youth with fire in his veins, a centred knight  burning with resolve. his father's drive, his mother's compassion mixed with beru's will and owen's practicality, a touch of cunning humour obi-wan recognises as his own. and underneath it all the overwhelming love of a family.)  

Ben grins, wide and genuine. "Let's try to do without heroic sacrifices for the moment shall we? Unless we are counting changing Luke's underclothes, in which case I will note that nobody ever accused me of being the hero without fear."

Beru's laughter is loud enough to wake the said child from his slumber, and as the wave of grumpy indignation washed over his senses Ben lets go and joins her. As their giggles die down Beru turns to him again.

"Thank you Ben. You have no idea how relieved I feel. Things don't seem so dark anymore" (with his nephew cradled close and his new friend by his side he cannot help but agree). "My pleasure. What else is family for?" He thinks for a moment. "You get to break it to you husband though." Beru coughs. "Let me sort out Owen. You just focus on not becoming one with the desert. Seriously, how have you survived out here?" This time Luke joins him in his laughter.

***Fifteen? years later***

Maul is dead. Truly dead. Fitting, that it should all end here, on the same planet where it all began. Obi-Wan (and he is obi-wan now, jedi master and guardian of their last hope. tomorrow he will go back to being uncle ben the hermit, herder of banthas and adolescent troublemakers but tonight he is obi-wan) takes a deep breath and looks back toward the canyon where he lay his old foe to rest. Perhaps now his soul will find peace in the Force. In his pocket lie the cracked remains of a pair of kyber crystals - he doesn't know why he picked them up. Perhaps it was sentiment, the desire to keep a hold of a long lost past, no matter how painful. It didn't matter - he will realise their purpose eventually.

He draws near the homestead, the lights from the kitchen casting long shadows against the pale adobe walls. A quick flicker against his shields lets him know that Luke has noticed his presence and he sends back a brief reassurance. He is fine. They are all fine.

Beru greets him at the door, one hand wiping itself against the front of her apron, the other discretely hidden behind her where he knows she carries a spare blaster. "Finished your business then?" He gives her a weary smirk. "For now at least." She  relaxes, waving him inside before hesitating for a moment. "There's a storm coming, isn't there?" He knows she is not speaking literally. "Yes. Not immediately, but soon." She sighs.

"Just as well then we've prepared in advance. Come on, or else Luke will have eaten the rest of the stew. I have no idea where he puts it all!

Obi-Wan smiles. "His father was much the same at this age. Though I can assure you Luke has far better table manners."

Her laughter echoes reverberates through the corridor and they are met by an enthusiastic "Uncle Ben!" and a grunted "Kenobi." at the table.

It turns out Luke has not, in fact, devoured the last of the stew, but he does manage to levitate the rest of the flatbread onto his plate while no-one is looking. Obi-Wan looks at the boy's gleeful expression, his aunt's mock outrage and shares an fond look with his fellow uncle. (this. he thinks. this is what I protect.)

Later he is woken by the piercing call of a flytbat hunting though the night sky. On a whim he ventures outside, settling himself against a broken vaporator and running the broken June crystals between his fingers. He reaches out into the darkness. Beneath the sand the insects rest, and in the canyons bantha huddle against one another in their sleep. Behind him he feels the sleeping minds of us family, Luke shining like a full moon in the Force, his shields relaxed in sleep. The desert is full of life. All is well.

#star wars #my fic #what am i even doing

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

TF2 - Demo/Spy

A certain artist loves this pairing, so I threw this together in chat for them.  - - - - - -- 

-Title: Explosive Decompression -

. . . . . 

He hardly dared to breathe, lest it shatter the fragile moment that the universe had spun between them. Demo's expression seemed surprised, stricken, oddly conflicted yet awed, as they stared.

Spy could not seem to wrench his gaze from the man's eye, the shape of his jaw, his ever-smiling mouth and those lips... They were slightly ajar now, as the Scotsman tried to process whatever this was, happening right now between the two mercenaries. So stock-still that Spy immediately felt his heart, previously beating so hard he could have sworn Demo would hear it pounding away in fear; now sink to the pit of his stomach.

They should not have done this. It was unprofessional, to allow someone like himself to imbibe enough to become rather tipsy; not drunk, just... relaxed enough that he might answer a question directly, rather than with his usual level of mystique and subterfuge.

Spies must take in many secrets, and keep them caged between their teeth; for letting them out could prove disastrous. Their job was to ruin people, topple governments, blackmail, coerce, change the world for good or ill depending on who paid your wages... and to let out any of that information could be a crippling blow to your professional occupation.

But to let slip something personal, that was to sign your death warrant. It gave others power that they could, and would use against you.

Many spies from before, men and women with impeccable abilities that dared to dream of a normal life and settling down, who had confided in others about their pasts... who watched former adversaries hold weapons to their loved ones, or heard the people they trusted sell them out for money, for favours, for praise and promotion.

He would never have thought to allow such a thing to happen. He was above such things, and although he loved a woman once, just enough to foster silent fantasies of raising their son safe from the world and its perils... he had always known they were just that. Dreams. Fantasies. Comforting lies that helped you sleep at night.

Divorce yourself from attachments and emotions, remove all ties to living beings, let yourself feel nothing but satisfaction in your work. Each kill a thrill, every blackmail or topple bureaucracy a sadistic delight... let that fuel your desire to survive. For nothing else was allowed...

He had loved her, once. In a time far removed from the now; and even so, pangs of what once was, could have been in a different world, radiated through his chest. Especially on difficult nights of loss or hollow victory... in this endless game of war, where life and death held no meaning.

And he should have let that be it, be content with a hollow want for something long since out of his reach... and yet, even though he remained detached, curt, calculatingly cold and indifferent to the other mercenaries of RED...

In an effort of preservation; for himself, for their sakes too, one would surmise.

Even though he tried to be aloof and alone, as suited a Spy... the team wormed their way in. Conflicts were rife in the beginning, and sometimes there were feuds and spats that lasted months between various classes... but for every fight, so too was there interaction, learning, an odd familiarity that settled into the bones.

As one would expect when you lived and died alongside one another every single day for years without end. Only the scenery changed more frequently than the mercenaries' attitudes towards one another.

He could tolerate the stinking bushman's presence now, a man of few words but deeper insights was intriguing if you ignored the whole... 'jarate' utilisation nonsense. No sane person would collect their urine in jars and throw it on people, as far as Spy was concerned.

Medic was eccentric, but wrapped up in Heavy and his birds; always covered in blood and ready to tell a story of his wilder days as a mercenary medico. Snatching bodies and organs for the hell of it, the way he flayed flesh for revenge... Spy had learned many things from the man, in retrospect. Useful, should he need to... interrogate someone rather stringently in the future.

Heavy seemed dense, until you spoke to him in another language, and Spy had had the chance to polish several of his language skills with that man. A welcome surprise...

He detested Engineer, however. Too friendly, open, everything Spy was not... and the way the man so swiftly adopted the role of paternal figure to both the Pyro and his so-... the Scout, irked him. How dare he? Ugh, Americans and their apple-pie idealism. Disgusting, to his sensibilities.

Soldier was a unique man, under the brusque outward persona. To have been so resourceful in hunting nazi scum, even though his country denied him the resources to do so... it had intrigued Spy. Surely there was more than yelling and misquoting Sun Tzu? It had been a fun diversion, when they first arrived on base; going through the others' files. Everything about them laid bare in red folders filled to the brim with documentation... excepting the Pyro, of course.

An enigma Spy was loathe to solve, as the mask-wearing pyromaniac set his nerves on edge whenever nearby. The BLU firebug had a fondness for burning  him as often as possible... and Spy did not ever see himself becoming best friends with the RED look-a-like.

Of course, he knew Scout was... Yes. He knew. Telling him, however, was out of the question; their first encounter with one another left Spy feeling that the boy was an abhorrent mistake. A child with a loud mouth, bad attitude and an accent so thick it could choke a man... how could this be his?

He had been far more severe and unforgiving on that boy, compared to any of the others, in all honesty. Until more recently. The brash attitude had mellowed somewhat, now that the brat knew he had a place here and his inferiority complex didn't act up so frequently. Demanding that Scout bignote himself, be reckless, make so much noise and mess that the whole world had to stop and acknowledge his presence before he could calm down... assured that he was seen.

Spy knew that was partially his fault. No father, seven older brothers and a mother who split her time between parenthood and assassinations? Of course he turned out this way... But such knowledge had not shorted out the Frenchman's disdain of the boy on sight.

However now... they seemed to coexist, neither voicing what they both seemed to know. And if Spy ever found out which teammate told the boy of his paternity, then no god will save them from what he will do... Spy had hoped to tell the boy... in a mythical 'one day' that he would never allow to come. Indeed, one such altercation and hollow accusation of, "You're not my dad!" had contributed to this very situation in which he now found himself.

Of all the mercenaries, Spy found himself becoming more and more intrigued by the Demolitions man, or 'Demo'. The man merged the scientific and supernatural almost frequently, and his backstory was always fascinating to pretend you weren't listening to.

And he had a knowing, about him. "I've got a canny sense for some things, lad." he'd once said to Scout, who was asking Demo how in the hell he could guess that the bluer-than-it-had-a-right-to-be sky was going to be covered in dark, brooding clouds within the next hour or so. He had been correct, actually, it had stormed for several days so severely matches were cancelled until it ceased.

You could see in his eyes, in the slight tinge of a smile in his upturned lips, when he had seen something others had not yet. It made Demo the prime suspect in Spy's investigation as to who had told Scout about his father... And yet, this preternatural ability was as fascinating to Spy, as it was a curse for Demo.

As time passed, the Frenchman found he gravitated to the warmth of Demo's tone, his welcoming nature, could stand cloaked and watch the man tinker with his weaponry for hours in an almost trance-like tranquillity... he was peaceful like that, sometimes. Of course, he was also very much a lit powder-keg; not unlike the bombs he unleashed on the BLUs.

His knowing, the strange things that happened in his life before RED and all the things he never spoke about, like his family, the things you could see in the haunted shadows of his eyes... Those things were like a beacon to Spy; he was a curious person, as Spies often tend to be, and he could not help but build rapport in hopes of unlocking this mystery.

Demo drank. It was a huge joke to some, to make out that he did nothing but imbibe 'scrumpy' all the time. Though Spy knew different. He observed, he knew, he saw. There was a difference between celebratory drunk Demo, and social drinker Demo; and they were both far removed from the near-catatonic, slurring drunk Demo became when he thought no one could see, when whatever haunted him became too much.

It was... close to home.

Spy had been there... only he had switched to cigarettes, and wine; over... what he had once chosen to drown the memories in, instead. It didn't work for long, especially not if you had to put up a facade the whole time as well. Eventually you accepted the past as it was, horrors intact; or you broke, became beyond repair, by your own hand.

And... though he dared not voice even the vaguest notion of sentimentality... Spy had felt disinclined to allow Demo to take that ruinous path. Not while it could be prevented.

Spy was a people-person; it was his trade, refined manners and a natural charm allowed for it to be so. Gaining Demo's trust, however, had felt... more challenging than he was used to. The man could sense someone being disingenuous from across the room, so Spy had to step lightly, work carefully.

It began, not with a conversation, but the end of one. Spy happened upon drunken Demo, sorrowful and slouching, one night in the common room; something about the day had triggered a memory for him, and he'd been morose all evening. At least, under the fake smile he'd pasted on for the other mercenaries, who seemed to have only the slightest of inklings that something was amiss.

They had been a team for nearly a year, by now. Such a long time, and as yet many of the classes were all but strangers to one another. Or rather, like roommates that went to all the same classes, but somehow managed to miss each other in leisure time; except on rare occurrences.

Each class had interacted, and some had stronger bonds than others, but cohesion was a distant dream as of yet. It would take several more months, at the very least, despite the best efforts of the ever-hospitable Engineer and his perpetual barbecue get-togethers.

However, time would tell.

Spy saw Demo properly in that moment, surmised the situation, and told the man straight up, that Spy was going to put him to bed. He was a stinking mess, but that would be the problem of whichever hapless Mann Co. laundry service dealt with their blood-stained clothing and used bedding. Spy didn't care for the details...

In truth, he did. And knew them well. A subsidiary company, part of a chain of cleaning services, called 'Cooee Cleaners' took their laundry four times a fortnight and returned it within six hours. Spy knew when, where and how they did so; and what contracts each of the delivery persons had signed in order to be paid, and not... disposed of via a pink slip and Miss Pauling's pistol.

He rather liked the details, actually.It was his nature.

However, the situation had resolved with the Demolitions expert tucked in bed sans his boots; and Spy aware that he now had an inroads with the man. Whether the Scot recalled the exact events of the night before, or not.

Indeed he did, given the anxiety-tinged glances Demo probably assumed he was covertly throwing at Spy, all throughout breakfast. Trying to gauge whether the night before was real, or if Spy had a good, helpful twin who altruistically tried to ruin the Frenchman's sinister mystique.

He found himself cornered, after battle that day, but the concerned man. Demo was of his game, somewhat; having been blown through respawn a few dozen times in the first five minutes of battle, and things not improving from there on in.

"Look, whatever I said tae ye, could ye forget it?" he'd asked, tone laden with anxiety. It was so out of character, Spy nearly forgot to paste a smug look on his face.

"Oh?" he'd replied, "But I do so love getting new information on my teammates..."

But the normal deflection seemed not to have worked, as usual. Demo had gained that look, the one he associated with his 'canny feeling', and the expression went from concerned to pensive in a heartbeat.

"Aye..." he finally responds, "That ye do, Laddie. Well, ye'd best come along with me then, so we can talk about it... I dinnae want ye dogging my every step to find out why I drink. And I think we both know ye will..."

Spy had nodded. He was discrete, but when something interesting strayed across his path, Spy would chase it to the end of the line...

And so, Demo had taken them to his lab. Fidgeting, tinkering, moving pieces about as if the tactile task somehow helped. Perhaps it did. Spy would often play with his balisong, flicking it open and shut when he was deep in thought. And he had noticed... Scout tended to always do something with his hands when talking, or thinking; it was an invisible thread between them that he found highly amusing and yet, oddly endearing.

Finally... Demo had sighed, sagging in his chair, and gestured for the Frenchman to sit on the chair adjacent the explosive expert. He fumbled for the right starting point for a moment, but finally began... at the beginning, and did not stop until long into the early hours of the night.

Spy was astounded, surprised, sceptical, and slightly off-kilter by this sudden torrent of volunteered information. Certainly, there was the human desire to reciprocate, a story for  a story, that he tamped down. A question, as to when he'd earned enough trust from the man to warrant such a telling; Demo was as stubborn as Scout in many ways, and could have easily fobbed of Spy's persistent inquiries if he wanted.

And there was, too, an unease roiling in the pit of his stomach at the conclusion of their one-sided conversation.  Spy would never have revealed so much, such personal information; and now he knew everything in intricate detail, about Demo... no, Tavish, before him.

Knowing things made you dangerous. Knowing about governments, about the secrets of high ranking officials... made you dangerous. But knowing details about the people around you, personal information, made you a threat to them. What if it was tortured out of you?

Of course, Spy had doubted foreign agencies would be interested in the time eight-year-old Tavish got detention for blowing up the science lab at school, but you never knew these days. Torture had evolved, and Spy had played no small hand in its evolution.

Still, it had changed the dynamics.

He knew so much of Demo, of Tavish DeGroot, and the mystical, mathematical world he came from... and the man knew practically nothing of him. Certainly, Spy had weasled such information out of wooed socialites, high ranking officials and whomsoever else he had to seduce or coerce in order to complete his mission... but that was different.

Demo had laughed, when he'd stopped talking. "Ye don't need to tell me anything ye're not ready to, Spook... ain't the way you lot do things, is it? Spies?"

He'd felt his lip curl up in amusement as he'd deadpanned, "Non, monsieur DeGroot." before bidding the man goodnight, and cloaking. Stealing away to his own bed, to compartmentalise.

And it had been the knowing that drew him back again and again. Demo had lived a life so different, yet so full of the strange and indescribable, that it was like an odd reflection of Spy's own.

He'd even questioned if the interest was a sign of inherent narcissism, at one point. However, Spy eventually dismissed the theory, the more he started to notice things about the other man... dangerous things.

The light in his eye when a new idea struck, the pride in his tone when congratulating a teammate on a kill or capture, the vengeful angel he became when the same were being mercilessly dominated in battle...

The grace of those rough, scarred hands. How they gently coaxed colatile materials into harmonic alignment, ready to be employed in battle; yet those same hands could knock a man's head clean off his shoulders when necessary. The duality was...  

Well, Spy never let himself linger on the nature of those hands for long enough to choose a word for the feeling it gave.   Emotions were problematic, at best, and it did no one any good to dwell on phantom feelings.

Still, he noticed. Little things, words, cadence, interactions, moods. Spy could tell by the tightness around Demo's eyes if  he was caught in dark thoughts; in the same way he knew that, if Medic was smiling brightly, someone was about to play operation with him.

Things built.

From Spy watching the man work uncloaked, in silence... to simply visiting, and listening to anecdotes, stories, odd ideas and some accusations, it must be said.

"You ever going to tell him?" Demo had startled Spy with, not so many days ago. "The lad?"

"He knows." Spy monotones, recovering swiftly.

"Big difference between knowing something, and having it said aloud, having it confirmed. Not to push ye, but it... might make a difference to both of ye." Demo pressed, and then let it be, when Spy went silent. Eventually switching to a different topic altogether, as if the conversation before had never been.

However, it left Spy wondering what else the man could be picking up on. Of course Demo would have noticed the similarities, the inherent characteristics they both denied were even vaguely similar to one another's. Tavish just tended to know these things... not to say he was not a highly intelligent man who could work it out if he wanted to, but his intuition could trump thinktanks the world over.

And if the man had noticed, in what was not spoken, that Scout was his son... what else had he gleaned from Demo?

Then, like an arrow to the heart he suddenly wondered if it really was that terrible to have someone know certain personal information about him. If it was truly so horrifying a concept, when he thought about it...

And that was more startling than anything else that had occurred. The last time Spy had even considered such a thing was-... well... Her. But that was because he lo-... oh, oh no.

It was four am on a rainy Thursday night, and he had made a realisation that could shatter his nonchalant facade if it should get out or be acted upon openly. No, Spy could allow nothing of the sort... he would simply, ignore it.

Like always, such was was the life of an espionage agent. And so, resolved, the man had resolutely fallen asleep thinking of nothing, save how he would backstab the BLU Sniper the following day... in retribution for all the many, many impeccable suits lost to jarate attacks.

Of course, the complication came in the form of Demo's friendly offer to 'have a drink'. Usually, such invitations were a formality, underhandedly meaning that Spy was free to drop by the workshop later on, or even Demo's room, and talk. As he had a habit of doing after battle, these days...

Outwardly, he had raised an eyebrow, as if questioning. Scout had loudly laughed and made a rather crude joke about Spy being uptight, and how Demo would need far more alcohol than was available on the base to get the guy to 'hang out', much less 'relax'.

Both the older men suppressed their amusement at that statement. But when the siren went off to leave spawn, and Scout had disappeared into the wind as he often did, Spy met Demo's eyes... and nodded, before cloaking.

He would be there.

And so he was. Triumphant, the team had crowed and delighted in their victory through dinner and into the night. Spy had personally killed his rival four out of five times prior to being taken down by the BLU Soldier, so he was in high spirits and open to merriment.

"There you are, thought ye'd bloody forgot!" Demo greets, swinging open the door of the workshop and gesturing to the armchair Spy had mysteriously gotten hold of and had placed in the room for his visitations. He had contacts all over the world, he'd assured, and a comfortable seat was nothing compared to what he could get with a single phonecall to the right people.

Perhaps it was the merriment, a break in the week's losing streak, or it could be simply that he had started to trust in the Demolitions expert... but, Spy felt quite relaxed tonight. Did not even think to guard his thoughts, filter his words, or wonder where the first two glasses of wine had gone...

Sipping champagne or a good vintage wine during an evening by the fire, or whilst seducing a target was one thing... a moderated act, false sips, all compliments and distractions as the other starts to let slip the secrets you seek. This... this was another.

Spy could feel the edges of the world become a little softer, somewhat fuzzier and kinder than they'd been in years. It flagged a warning with his survival instincts, but whatever alarm it caused was muted at best, and tamped down upon at the persistent thought that Demo was not a threat.

Indeed, the man was the opposite, especially on the field. How many times had a stickybomb trap saved the Spy, recently? BLU were getting uncannily good at spotting disguised spies, and it meant he tended to die a lot more frequently...

Wait...

He reeled a little, mentally repeating his slightly convoluted chain of thought. Demo was not a threat?

Demo was not a threat.

Alright, that was easily settled.

Actually, Demo was looking at him in concern. He cocked slightly to the side, and brow furrowed; looking at Spy, like he was a bomb with a misaligned screw somewhere in the design.

"Uh, when was the last time ye got more than a wee bit buzzed from your fancy grape juice, Spook?" Tavish asks, somewhat bluntly.

Spy opens his mouth to reply, but an ugly snort of laughter escapes instead. "Fancy grape juice, mon cheri, I will 'ave you know that some of my wine collection are older than everyone on this team combined!"

"...not a point in their favour, to be honest, lad. Old stuff tends to go off, if ye havenae noticed..." Demo teases, plain on his smirking face.

"Wine ages gracefully, Demo... the older it gets, the more potent and delectable. Very few humans can say the same of themselves..." Spy retorts, laying it on thick at the end to sound mysterious and wise, even though some part of his mind was still stuck on how funny 'fancy grape juice' was as a wine descriptor.

"If ye say so..." Demo rolls his eye, reaching for his bottle instead. His hand pauses on the cusp of grasping it as a thought strikes, eye narrowing to a considering squint. "Oi, ye weren't taking a dig at me spare tire with the aging gracefully comment, were ye? Cause I'll have ye know... I've still got enough muscle to toss ye like a javelin across  the battlefield if ye're feeling cheeky..."

Spy nearly spat his mouthful of red wine across the room. "Non. My intention was complimentary, I assure you... I 'ave only known few humans to grow steadily more attractive as the yeas past. We are supposed to decay, and yet, beauty persists in the most unlikely of places..."

There was a pause as he thought about it. "You should 'ave seen Scout's mother when we met, nearly twenty-seven years ago now, I did not even know a word to describe her beauty... and it infuriates me more with every growing year."

"Och, don't sell yeself short, laddie, I bet you're not that bad off under that mask of yours..." Demo responds, skipping casually over the fact Spy just revealed something incredibly personal  about himself for no real reason.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Spy teases, automatically, before covering his own mouth in horror. "I think I 'ave had more to thought than I drink..."

It was too late, Demo was already in hysterics, and the mis-worded sentence only added to his amusement at the situation.

"I think ye have, Spook, can't even get your sentences the right way 'round, can ye?" the Scotsman beams.

"Perhaps..." Spy relents, "Or maybe I just 'ave not thought to let someone else in for a long time... and the wine 'elps somewhat."

Which immediately stifles Demo's laughter. An unintended side-effect of the gravity of Spy's statement.

Tactfully, he says, "Aye, drink'll do that to ye... loosen tongues and let secrets slide on out. I'd warrant ye have quite a few of those rattling around in your head, eh?"

Spy's lip curls up in amusement. "Oh, oui, mon ch-... amie. But if I told you... I would 'ave to kill you and all that dreary nonsense. I'd much prefer your company..."

Demo pounces on the statement like a cat on string. "Oh, would ye now, Spook? Thought ye couldn't stand me to start with... now I get front-row seats to your little secret-spilling show, and I wouldnae miss it for the world."

"It is, unfortunate that my occupation requires such secrecy, Tavish, but... it is as it is." Spy returns, sombrely. Like the words were bitter in his mouth, and he wanted rid of them. "There is much I can never say... even to those I care for deeply, for their safety I must not exist to them. Silence is a far sharper knife than any argument can ever be... even if both parties understand the logic of why."

Demo swirled the bottle, watching the liquid slosh about; a tiny alcoholic ocean thrown mercilessly against the green glass sides, as he mulled over the statement. It wasn't unexpected, but Spy was not one to make such statements lightly; sober or blackout drunk.

"And that is why Scout did not 'ave a father in his life, Demo. Why I had to let his darling mother, mon cheri, go before we got too tangled in emotions to do so. Before they became targets for the things I know, have done, will do... espionage is not at all as exciting as those silly Spy films make it seem. The pretty girls and boys you seduce will be followed by the old, the ugly and the cruel; some you kill, others you must keep alive. It all depends on the mission, and you feel nothing for any of them... you cannot, or it will ruin what you are. Your edge."

Demo does not interject as Spy pauses for breath, for reflection. Just nods along, having seen this storm cloud building from the moment the other man picked up the second glass of wine.

"If you are detached, tell noone anything... learn no secrets but those you are sent to find, then you will hurt no one when retribution finds you." Spy explains, as best he can. "There are few I can tell about anything, about my life and what I have seen, done, learned, lost... it puts them in danger. Mon cheri understood, she has been there herself but found a way to change her fate... a way I cannot follow. So we parted, amicably, if regretfully. And even here, to protect even that happy-go-lucky fool the Engineer, I cannot speak to anyone. But you," he jabs a finger at Demo, "you 'ave a way of making people want to tell you things."

For a split-second, Demo wrinkles his nose in offence, but seemingly decides to let it go. Spy is venting, and to be fair he does have that effect on people. That sense of his saw people confess odd things to him all the time... he couldn't turn it off, though.

"You just... told me all about yourself, everything! And I couldn't stop myself from listening... I should 'ave, to keep you safe, but your voice was-..." Spy coughs, "I mean to say, the tale was fascinating in no uncertain terms."

"Oh sure, just the tale and not the handsome devil telling it to ye, gotcha." Demo beams, giving an exaggerated wink in the drunken Spy's direction.

It earned him a frustrated scowl. "Exactly!" shouts Spy, tossing his hands up haphazardly and nearly slopping wine all over the place.

That pulls the Scot up short. "Ye what now?" he probes, trying to clarify if he's drunk too much or Spy has.

"You... are a very aesthetic-... aestheti-.... beautiful man, Tavish. We both know this, do not deny it; I have seen many people, conventionally attractive and decidedly not, in my life... and you are one of those awful humans that ages gracefully like wine. And you can captivate with your personality, your stories are exciting and informative, your hands are-... I mean, your expressions are always fluid and you are a fascinating creature to behold."

Spy pauses, staring at his almost-empty wine glass in accusation.

"You have no idea how much I want to tell people things, but most of all you, you attractive idiot of a man... with your friendship, and your physique and your-... your-..." he stammers off, looking for a word, only to suddenly freeze.

The gravity of his words seemed to sink in, for the first time that night, and Spy's heart begins to race. Fight or flight is taking over; restless energy floods his body, demanding the espionage agent cloak and retreat. But he cannot.

Everything in the room is trapped in this odd, ethereal moment where not even air seems to exist. He loathes how saccharine it feels, how cliche... and yet, what other descriptors are there?

It was like being paralysed in amber, as his eyes latched onto Demo's face; saw the shock there, and ascribed it to be negative of meaning, in his mind. Demo was staring back, a feature-length film of emotions whirring across his features too fast for Spy's less-than-sober mind to keep up with.

Spy couldn't think of anything to say to defuse the situation, every elongated moment of silence making his heart sink further into his stomach. He couldn't quite find the energy to make his hand stop reaching for the cloaking watch, though... Rigorously ignoring the thought that, even if he got away now, there was always tomorrow, or the next... when they would be face to face.

Of course he had had people rebuke his attempts at seduction, and even a few his active affections... but this was inherently different. Demo wasn't saying anything, doing anything... he was just still. It was eerie.

"Don't."

The words snaps him out of the elongated scene, as does the warm hand caught fast around his wrist, effectively blocking out the watch. Demo's grip could easily release, if Spy gave even the slightest indication he was going to cloak and leave anyway.

Spy stays his hand, feeling very much the foolish deer in headlights; something he hasn't felt in... so long, he almost forgot what it was like to be vulnerable. To be like this, open to rejection, without his usual wall of cynicism and apathy blocking it out.

He must have had too much to drink. It happened, sometimes things just come out when inhibitions are lowered...

"It's... uh, well..." Demo stammers, clearly attempting to be the diplomatic one here since Spy's normal suave tact is utterly failing him.

"You do not 'ave to respond," Spy manages. "And you need not give sympathy or express sentiment... I made a mistake, in admitting something personal, and we can both forget it."

"Oh, can we now?" Demo queries, raising an eyebrow with a strange quality to his tone. "Just go back to the way things are, even though I know?"

Spy nods, looking slightly over the other's left shoulder, expression tight and guarded once more. "If that is what you wish."

"Well," says Demo, dropping Spy's wrist and crossing his arms. "And what if I don't bloody want to, eh?"

"That is... also your choice." Spy interjects, voice monotonous and yet somehow defensive.

Demo wags a finger at him, "I wasnae finished talking laddie. Perhaps, I dinnae want to forget about the fact the bloke I've been trying to woo for the last six bloody months has finally worked out he likes me back under all that emotional repression. What if I want to act on that, instead, hey?"

Spy nearly falls over, but recovers as swiftly as he can. "Would you... care to repeat that, mon amie?"

Demo glares at him. "You're bloody right I do care to, and what's this 'my friend' business about, Spook?  You've been accidentally calling me 'mon cheri' for months, had to ask Heavy what it meant and he nearly choked on his sandvich telling me..."

That vivid mental image alone shatters the tension in the room as both occupants laugh aloud.

"Ah, but seriously boyo... you're not all that subtle after a wee bit of time living with the same people. Get to know your eccentricities... and you're as messed up as Scoot is, with your emotions. But if I'd known all it'd take was some fancy wine juice to get you to admit you were hankering for all this..."

He gestures to all of him in a sweeping motion that nearly sends the emotionally-exhausted Frenchman into hysterics again.

"I would have bloody bought you a tank full ages ago... save all this pining and self-realisation nonsense. Ye looked like I was gonnae kill ye just before, when you blurted it out..." Demo adds, thoughtfully.

Trying to piece everything back together mentally, Spy clears his throat. "You never know how people will react, these days, and you are good with explosives..."

"Good? I'm brilliant, Spook! And if ye want, I can show you I'm pretty good at another type of banging..." He accompanies the statement with a lewd grin that lightens the mood and finally dissipates the last shred of tension from the room.

Spy groans and drops his face into his hands. "Why am I attracted to you again?"

"Uh, dunno, ye didn't finish your long litany of the bits of me you like best... got to the hands and ye stopped, didn't even get to my perky ar-..."

This time Spy covers Demo's mouth. "Finish that sentence and I will leave you here alone..." he sighs dramatically, "How will I ever take you in public like this?"

Demo grins and mumbles something. Spy moves his hand to hear him better.

"I said, I can behave if I want to... in public, that is. Probably at one of those upper-class, posh restaurants you like too... the ones with fourteen spoons and expensive old fancy grape juice..."

Some part of Spy despaired at that phrase, but it was subsumed by the odd surge of amusement he felt at the casual way the conversation was flowing positively between them. Gently eroding the spiky emotional chaos of a few moments earlier.

"Please... do not ever use that phrase again, especially in public." he asks, tone slightly strained.

And Demo laughs back. "Anything for you, Spook... uh... actually..."

There it is, Spy had been waiting for the question.

"...if we adopt Scout, do you want to be Dad, or Daddy?" Demo asks, tone entirely innocent, and shiteating grin clearly stating he was enjoying the way Spy suddenly lost the last shreds of composure.

Alright that was decidedly NOT the question he had been anticipating. Spy let out his horrifying laugh, which he personally detested; sometimes he snorted or giggled oddly, and he hated it.

Demo pokes him in the cheek. "Cute laugh you got there Spook..."

"Oh shut up, Demo..." Spy finally calms down enough to say, waving off the other. "That was not what I thought you were going to ask, mon cheri..."

"No, but your face was bloody funny when I did. Or I think it is... hard to tell with-... nevermind." Demo smiles, suddenly realising that the base is very quiet and they're quite close together.

"No, do ask your question, if you have an actual one that is..." Spy invites, hands busily sliding under the mask hem. Meticulous in their removal.

"Well, and ye dinnae have to give me an answer now if ye wanna keep the whole secret identity thing going for a wee bit longer but... you know my name..." Demo leads.

"Indeed, Tavish, mon cheri." Spy smirks back, sans mask.

Demo nearly chokes at the sudden revelation, at how closely he had imagined it, based on mental mapping of the features beneath the identity-concealing mask. He clears his throat when Spy raises an eyebrow in query as to why he'd paused.

"Well, ye know my name... and I was kind of wondering if it'd be okay to know yours?" Demo asks, expression hopeful but trying not to be.

There it was.

Spy had been waiting.

He leans in quite close. "Of course, mon cheri... my name is," he leaned in to whisper hotly into the Scotsman's ear, before pulling back with a killer grin. "And I would adivse you not forget it... you will be screaming it later tonight..."

Then, in the space of a heartbeat... there's a kiss on his lips, something in his hand, and Spy has disappeared.

Demo clutches tightly at the mask, holding onto the physical reminder that everything that just happened was not just an elaborate fantasy... and beams through tingling lips.

This was going to be an adventure.

---------------

The End

_____________________________________________

I hope this makes sense bc it is 5am and I wrote this trash in a blur Need to edit it

#tf2 #spy #demo #spy/demo #camiluna27

[fritillus]

heleddi stormfist

race: half-orc half-dwarf alignment: lawful neutral [tending towards good] background: guild artisan class: barbarian

const: 17 (+2 racial) = 19, +4 bonus //// str 14 (+2 racial) = 16, +3 bonus dex: 13, +1 bonus /// wis: 13, +1 bonus int: 12, +1 bonus // char: 12, +1 bonus

speed: 30 feet max carry: 210 lbs

hit dice: 1d12 per level   lvl 1 hp: 12 + const = 16 // hp per level: 1d12 or 7 + const (4)

ac: 10 + dex + const (class bonus) = 10+1+4 = 15 passive perception: 10 + 1 bonus + 2 proficiency = 13

personality

rolled / selected largely from the guild artisan tables and embellished:

personality trait: 1 and 3 and 5

i believe that anything worth doing is worth doing right. i can’t help it — i’m a perfectionist.

takes pride in her work, but tends to progress slowly and carefully. a firm believer in measure twice, cut once.

i always want to know how things work and what makes people tick.

observant; won’t attempt a new task or behavior until she’s seen it executed successfully enough times that she’s sure she understands how it works.

attentive to the emotional states of the people around her; wary and somewhat emotionally closed off herself.

i’m rude to people who lack my commitment to hard work and fair play. 

somewhat judgemental. tends to assume the worst of other people’s motivations; especially so towards people she judges as motivated strongly by chaotic self-interest.

ideal: one and five and six

community. it is the duty of all civilized people to strengthen the bonds of community and the security of civilization. (lawful)

people. i’m committed to the people i care about, not to ideals. (neutral)

the above two: not necessarily the security of civilization, but the security of the places and people she considers hers.

aspiration. i work hard to be the best there is at my craft

to further her craft

but also to master and channel her emotional rages, so that she can go home and settle down with a nice dwarven boy

bond: one, secondarily three

the workshop mountain where i learned my trade is the most important place in the world to me.

i owe my guild a great debt for forging me into the person i am today.

character flaws: [not rolled]

paralyzing self-distrust, second-guessing

she does not trust her own judgement, her own emotions, and is concerned with how she appears to others. she has no desire to be intimidating, and she is frightened by her culturally proscribed emotionality.

wary and insecure.

she spends a lot of time watching others and attempting to fit in socially as she could not physically. this has made her unusually discerning of others’ emotions, but she isn’t always the most accurate at determining why people react the way they do. she has a tendency to assume the worst of others.

character and background

orcish name “elet” dwarficized to heleddi

grew up in a dwarvish metalworking community; she is the result of a an ill-conceived tryst between her dwarven father and orc mother. her mother reappeared in the mountains with a toddler a few years later, and left her behind. she barely remembers her time in the orc tribes, and may or may not have any mementos from her mother1; her command of orcish - once fluent - has lapsed over the years (reads/writes fluently, speaks without an accent and can pass among orcs without detection for simple sentences; complex conversations require a saving throw to determine whether she fucked up a grammar).

she grew up in lawful good dwarvish society, very aware of her status as an outsider both by appearance and temperament. her branch of the clan was seen as unusually modern, her father was already considered impulsively experimental even before her birth. hyperaware of the fact that her existence caused a tremendous scandal and badly damaged her father’s reputation, she isolated herself from her peers in early childhood, and no one tried hard to stop her (aughts). she was kept away from combat training for much of her adolescence2 (teens) due to fears that her increased size and strength, emotional volatility, and orc blood might make her a danger to herself or others.

she spent much of her time watching others and attempting to pattern herself after dwarvish behavior, but still found herself wracked by worryingly strong emotional whirlwinds: tantrums and rages, bouts of sobs or laughter so intense her body was wracked with them, immobile, while they siezed her. most of her emotions were fleeting as summer storms, disturbing the steady and slow-moving dwarves around her. worse, her emotional disturbances sometimes stuck with the same powerful certitude that defined a typical dwarven emotional range, but with depths and peaks rarely reached by dwarves outside of isolated moments. her rage wasn’t the slow simmer of a dwarven grudge, but a shrieking boil that would refuse to abate; her worry would sink into her bones, leaving her sorrowful and weeping for weeks at a time before the next emotion hit.

eventually, she learned to focus her emotionality through her metalwork, to find some regulation of her excesses. here she finally found connection: her increased strength and passionate emotional range caused her to struggle with inconsistent craftwork her dwarven peers did not face, but her willingness to redo her work until it was perfect, her struggle to ensure that she would make a perfect piece on the first try no matter how gripped she was by emotion: this struggle and her deep, stubbornly-held dedication to this craft helped other dwarves relate to her and resulted in artistic and technical discussions that were the seed of her first true and lasting friendships. (twenties)

**figure out her eventual weapons training - she’s proficient with light hammers and hand-axes just because... you’re dwarf-raised you learn how to use them, but possibly not AS proficient using them in combat (doesn’t have practice hitting a Moving Bleeding Target with them). her actual weapons are likely to be larger/heavier than typical dwarvish warhammer/battleaxe - ideally greataxe & maul3

[[something happens that brings out her Rage in combat - possibly a sparring accident in which she injures or kills someone close to her, possibly acting in defense of her friends but terrified with the violence with which she lashed out.]]

either way, it both frightened her enough to cause her to remove herself from the community which she had been raised to value above all else, in order to learn to master - or at the very least channel - her rage, until she feels she can safely return home.

1 - at dm’s discretion, possibility of backstory for future plot, etc. 2 - possibly trade some forms of proficiency for others - she’s late to the game and somewhat banking on natural talent but also likely to use heavier/larger weapons 3 - at dm’s discretion but holy shit PLEASE

skills & proficiencies

species: half-dwarf, socialized dwarf (no orcish skill proficiencies beyond the language itself)

languages: dwarvish (primary), common (accented secondary), orcish (tertiary semifluent; roll a deception during involved speech).

see background for additional language skill (gnomish)

resilience: resistance to poison; 1/2 poison damage

stonecunning: advantage in history (int) throws => history of stonework;  add double the normal proficiency bonus to the roll

tool proficiency: smithing

combat training: proficiency in battleaxe1, warhammer1, hand-axe, light/throwing hammer

mountain dwarf armor training: proficient with light and medium armor

1 - again, trade for greataxe / maul proficiency at the dm’s discretion

class: assumes a Barbarian Tribe training background not relevant 2 her.

proficient with light and medium armor

proficient with use of shields

proficient with simple and martial weapons 

skilled in (choose two): animal handling, athletics, intimidation, nature, perception, survival

all of these overlap with dwarven proficiencies with the exception of shield usage, which i’m not sure i can justify her taking given that she probably largely relies on two-handed weapons.

also, given that she’s fairly sheltered with very little real-life battle experience the only skills i’d feel make sense would be perception (people-watching! she’s an observer!) and maybe athletics.

her barbarian classing is like an innate characteristic of how she fights, not representative of her character background or training.

background: guild artisan

skill proficiencies: insight, persuasion 

she’s probably got insight from Peoplewatching but maybe not persuasion? poorly socialized? half a proficiency bonus?

tool proficiencies: one type of artisan’s tools 

smith’s tools (overlaps with dwarven training)

languages: one of your choice

limited conversational and written fluency in gnomish - enough for trade, but possibly not to discuss philosophy.

feature: guild membership. guaranteed food/lodging from members; funeral paid for; guild halls to make connections (jobs!). political connections. will help you @ trial.

cost: 5gp per month in dues to remain in good standing

equipment

barbarian starts with:

(a) a greataxe or (b) any martial melee weapon

ideally a maul (10lb/2hand/2d6 bludgeoning)

failing that a greataxe (7lb/2hand/1d12 slash)

(a) two handaxes or (b) any simple weapon

handaxe (light, thrown 20/60, 2lb/1d6 slash) 4lb total

an explorer’s pack (59lbs)

backpack, a bedroll, a mess kit, a tinderbox, 10 torches, 10 days of rations, a waterskin, and 50 feet of hempen rope.

four javelins

trade javelins for light hammers?

light hammer: (light, thrown 20/60, 2lb/1d4 bludgeon)

guild artisan starts with:

a set of artisan’s tools (one of your choice)

weaponsmith’s tools: 20gp / 8lb

a letter of introduction from your guild

a set of traveler’s clothes

a belt pouch containing 15 gp

trinket:

roll closer to play

math for ability scores:

2 5 5 1 = 12 5 2 3 4 = 12 3 1 6 4 = 13 6 3 4 2 = 13 2 5 4 5 = 14 4 6 5 6 = 17