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dhwty-writes · 3 years

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Chapter 19 - Golden Gowns and Eventful Evenings

I have no excuse, so I will just post this and run

Jaskier and Geralt attend the banquet in Goldfurt together.

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Being the biggest city between Yspaden and Mirt, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Goldfurt exceeded any and all expectations Jaskier might have had before returning after his twenty-year absence. Being governed by his brother-in-law, Janina’s husband no less, it shouldn’t come as a surprise either that they exceeded them in the wrong direction.

Truth be told, he did not remember a lot about the city from his pre-Oxenfurt days. Of course, they had been obligated to visit the banquet every year, both as neighbours as well as the family of the future Countess, but Jaskier had been barely thirteen the last time he had attended the festivities. The only thing he remembered from that visit was his short-lived infatuation with one of Goldfurt’s squires. It had promptly ended when said squire had basically wiped the floor with him in the training yard during their one and only interaction.

After that unpleasantness he had gladly given a rather wide berth to the city and the castle at its centre. Jaskier had even managed to forestall the unhappy reunion for another year due to a cough at the most convenient of times.

This year, however, there was no excuse in the world that would have made it appropriate for him to stay away. Not with his title, not with his renewed betrothal to Lady Alina. Not with the two newest additions to his household, he was supposed to parade around like a pair of exotic animals.

Jaskier ground his teeth as he tugged at the sleeves of his shirt. ‘Melitele’s tits, I’d gladly attend the dinner if I could leave Ciri and Geralt in Lettenhove,’ he thought bitterly. But that would not only be a grievous insult, it would also rouse more suspicion and rumours than they already did. ‘Best hide them in plain sight.’ And if something unforeseeable were to happen, they could also make a quick escape.

Due to these unforeseen developments, the lack of information had posed quite an obstacle. If there was one particular lesson the twenty years with Geralt had taught him, then it was that ignorance in the face of danger could be fatal. And while one might assume, that a witcher’s lifestyle was much more deadly than a Viscounts, Jaskier would gladly go and fight a dozen ghouls with nothing but his lute, instead of entering the vipers’ nest that was Goldfurt.

Extensive reconnaissance—consisting of squeezing as much information as possible out of his three sisters—had revealed that he might actually have better chance with the ghouls. The silk doublet his servant buttoned up would do little against daggers in the dark or libations laced with poison. Not that he expected his kin and kinfolk-to-be to try and murder him at a dinner party, of course. He expected them to have some decorum at least.

Still, he had entered the city knowing fully well that he was anathema to at least half a dozen invited guests, not least of all their host. On the other hand, which relative of his wife was not anathema to Filip Firkalt? None of them, that was which. It had been one of the primary sources of their entertainment in the past days.

It was no secret that while he and his sisters nursed a precarious love-hate-relationship, the loving aspect was completely lost on the in-laws. The source of that animosity, of course, lay in the title he now bore. The moment his disappearance after his graduation from Oxenfurt had become public knowledge, both of his brothers-in-law had begun vying for what was rightfully his, Kerton with his heir even more so than childless Goldfurt. The fact that he had returned to rob them of what they had already considered theirs, was just another strain on their relationship.

Another of the lessons Geralt had imparted to him, was the importance of a plan. So, not only had the four Pankratz siblings spent their evenings mocking the stupidities they had been forced to endure by the hands of the men in their lives the past two decades, they had also conspired how best to pay them back within the confines of propriety. Two of them, at least. Janina and her blood-tear mourning garb had only been the appetiser for the main course that was to be served at the banquet tonight.

Or rather, it should have been. For the first vital life lesson he had learned on the Path was that every plan, no matter how good or bad, immediately went to shit upon the first contact with the opponents. Theirs had been no exception to the rule. The memory still made him clench his fist in anger. The disrespect shown to him and his sisters by not riding out to greet them was one thing. But he should have punched Goldfurt in the face when he first had called Geralt a dog. ‘Right then and there, castle peace be damned.’

“M’lord?” the attendant fussing over his cuffs called his attention with a meek voice. “Begging your pardon, but you have to let go of that fist, m’lord.”

“Oh,” he replied dumbfounded as his eyes travelled down to the rings he was holding in his hands. “Of course.” Slowly, he uncurled his tightly clenched fingers, while she slipped the signet ring as well as the embellished buttercup ring in place.

Jaskier stared blankly at his mirror image, fighting the urge to smile at the sight of him clad in Lettenhove ochre and muted autumnal colours. It would be the last time to dress for such an occasion before winter undoubtedly would settle in but a few days. He would be in need of a level head as much as a stoic façade for this evening. No matter how much he wanted to shout out his delight over his delivery from the straightjacket that had been his mourning garb. He wouldn’t have a lute to do so anyways, so there was no point in it.

In any way, there was no bard required this evening. He needed to be the Viscount de Lettenhove instead, protecting all those who had sought shelter at his home and hearth for the winter. ‘Geralt chief among them all.’ The witcher had protected him for nigh twenty years of his life, after all. After all these years of watching helplessly as villagers, nobles, and innkeepers had made Geralt’s life miserable, he was finally in a position to repay him. And it was high time that he did so.

“Will that be everything, m’lord?” the servant asked with a coy smile.

“Yes.”

He bowed obediently, still lingering. “Shall I be waiting for your return?”

Jaskier spared him a short considerate glance. He was quite an attractive fellow, although far too young. “Best not,” he answered, doing his best to keep the contempt from dripping into his voice. It wasn’t directed at the servant anyways. “It will be rather late, I’ll wager.” He certainly wasn’t desperate enough to take a man to ben who might not be offering his companionship for his own volition but because of ill-directed instructions he’d received.

Besides, he had a witcher to get to. The servant bolted from the room and Jaskier quickly followed, but not before grabbing the bundle on his bed.

His witcher had been billeted at a ridiculous distance to Jaskier’s own rooms in quarters which found themselves in a distressingly poor state. Well, nothing in Goldfurt Castle classified as ‘poor’ exactly, but in comparison to the usually upheld standard, it was scarcely better than the rug on the floor he’d been offered at first. The unfairness of it all made his blood boil.

Geralt, on the other hand, remained as unfazed as Jaskier was accustomed to. He had even kept him from running back to make good on his first impulse to bestow their host with a bloody nose. Instead, he had praised the quarters and assured him that he would be just fine, before ushering him out.

‘Maybe,’ a treacherous voice in the back of his head hissed, ‘he’s even glad to get away from you.’

Jaskier gnawed on his lower lip. He couldn’t even fault Geralt for that. His own welcome for his oldest friend had been anything but warm and he was well aware of the coldness freezing the air between them. ‘He still hasn’t apologised,’ he reminded himself. ‘Stubborn mule.’ Instead, Geralt had hurt him even more, albeit unknowingly so. Not that that made it hurt any less.

The same door that had slammed shut behind his back a few days prior blocked the path before him now. Jaskier didn’t allow himself a second thought and swung it open. “Ger—” He was with one foot over the threshold already, when he suddenly remembered and the fear of finding Geralt in bed with Marin stole his voice.

“My lord?”

He appeared to be in luck. Geralt was alone in the chamber. And nearly naked. The only strip of fabric on his person was a towel slung low around his hips and the shirt in his hands, his hair still damp from a bath.

“Uhm,” he said eloquently, while he desperately tried to get his thoughts into order. Unfortunately, he did not manage before his mouth started talking without any cerebral input: “You’re not wearing that,” he blurted of all things.

No ‘Good evening, Geralt’, or ‘How are you enjoying your stay, Geralt?’, or even ‘Fuck, why can’t we go back to how it was before, I’m slowly losing my mind, Geralt.’

No, it was 'You're not wearing that.'

If ever there was a moment for the skies to part and the gods to strike him down with a well-placed bolt of lightning, this was certainly is, right before 'You don't want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.' What was it about the witcher that made him so exceptionally stupid? Whatever it was, if the gods could hurry up and erase his existence from this earth, Jaskier would be much obliged, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, nothing happened.

Nothing of that sort, at least, because something happened and that was Geralt slowly glancing down at the towel and up at Jaskier again to deadpan: "I wasn't going to."

"Good," Jaskier's mouth ambled on.

He had to hand it to Geralt, the fact that he didn't so much as raise his eyebrows before moving to put on the shirt was undoubtedly one of his greatest displays of discipline so far.

"You're not going to wear that, either," Jaskier continued, slowly regaining control of his words again.

“Why not?” he asked, his voice impossibly honest. As if there was nothing wrong with the black shirt and breeches, he had worn on the day they’d arrived.

“Because,” he quipped and tossed him the bag he was carrying, “you’re not going as a witcher tonight. This is my brother-in-law’s banquet; we have a reputation to uphold. You're my friend and anyone who knows me, which is everyone here, is well aware that the only way my friend is dressed in anything but the finest clothing would be over my dead body. I'd never allow you to stand out for your tastelessness and considering that you don't appear to have a fashion sense for yourself, I'll gladly provide you with assistance."

"Hmm." Geralt cleared his throat and said: "I need to change if you want me to wear that." He flourished the expensive clothes in his hand.

"Right." Jaskier took a breath to steady himself. But somehow, his feet didn't move.

He raised his gaze with an amused expression on his face. "You need to leave the room, my lord, unle-" The expression on his face changed rapidly as if he was just realising what he was saying.

The barbed retort was already on the tip of his tongue: 'Why, Geralt, are you offering I stay to watch?' But the image of him and Marin kissing was much too present in his mind as it was, so Jaskier bit his lip to keep it from escaping. 'He's not mine to keep,' he reminded himself. 'Never has been, never will be.' "Right," he forced out and turned around, "I'll wait for you in the hallway." He wasn't sure either of them would survive the dinner otherwise.

Jaskier did his best to keep from fidgeting and pacing while he waited outside, which was no easy feat considering the nervousness and hum of energy building within him. Normally, he wasn’t prone to fits of anxiousness. Tonight, however, there was so much that could go wrong, so much that would ruin everything, so much—

Mercifully, the spiral of dread was interrupted by the quiet lock of a door behind him, accompanied by Geralt politely clearing his throat.

“Finally!” Jaskier meant to say as he turned on his heel. What got out was more of a garble: "Hngh." Geralt looked... dashing. There was no other word for it, truly. Well other than 'otherworldly beautiful and I can't decide whether the outfit choice was the best or worst idea I had in a long time and shit, I really should have taken that into consideration; he's not yours to keep, Jaskier, get it together, gods damnit!'

Yeah, dashing was much easier than that. Blue suited him, but Jaskier had already known that. He had chosen the outfit for their last ball together as well, after all. But in contrast to that disastrous outfit, the witcher wore clothes that actually fit him, instead of too small things Jaskier had pulled out of his bag. And on top of that, the witcher had the audacity to smirk. "You approve, my lord?"

"I do," Jaskier managed without embarrassing himself further. "We should go," he decreed. "The Count and Countess will make their appearance soon; it is considered terribly impolite to arrive after them."

"And you're only aiming for impolite?" Geralt teased.

Jaskier frowned and quickly looked down to hide a smile. It was true, most of the meticulous planning by him and his sisters prior to this visit had been to be as impolite as possible while still operating within the socially acceptable norms. Janina and her blood-tear mourning garb had been only the beginning of what would undoubtedly come to a head this evening.

Judging by the quiet snort beside him, he wasn’t quick enough. “Geralt,” he spoke up a few moments later.

“My lord?”

He grimaced slightly. “You probably shouldn’t call me that tonight. It would only… raise suspicion.”

The witcher frowned deeply. “And what should I call you then?”

“Julian,” he said simply. “That’s my name, you know.”

“I thought you resented that name.”

‘I do,’ he thought. “I mustn’t,” he answered and continued on into the dining hall. A large part of the nigh two hundred guests had already arrived and heated the room up nicely, in spite of the freezing temperatures outside. A plethora of voices filled his ears, the kind of pleasant buzz that usually promised an eager crowd Jaskier could sail upon. But he couldn't, so now the mix was irritating, fraying his nerves. And it smelt. Not quite enough to actually stink, but that would come soon enough with the fragrances mixing with sweat and food.

All of the sudden, Jaskier pitied Geralt. He knew the witcher had much finer senses than he did and if he was nearly overwhelmed-

A nigh unnoticeable touch at his elbow made him whip around. He stared directly at Geralt's face. "Are you alright?" the witcher asked quietly, concern etched onto every fibre of his body.

"Quite," Jaskier answered stiffly, letting his eyes sweep over the crowd until he spotted Ciri and Józefa at a table directly beneath the dais. “Let us join my lovely sister and cousin, shall we?” the Viscount announced with a bright smile frozen on his face as he crossed the threshold, a gentle hand on Geralt’s elbow to ensure he would follow.

There was no announcement, no herald making their arrival known, yet at least half a dozen heads turned their direction immediately. A hushed whisper spread through the ballroom with each of their footfalls, like ripples on a still lake during a rain shower that turned into a thunderstorm. A few moments passed, none of the attendants quite sure how to react—Julian Pankratz’ return had been surprising to all, disconcerting to most, and relieving to none.

Then: “Julian Pankratz!” a booming voice cut through the backdrop of murmurs, the crowd parting to let the speaker through. “I didn’t think you’d have the guts to show your face here.”

Jaskier’s lips curled into a true smile for but a moment when he recognised him. “Dawid,” he greeted his former friend, wincing slightly when he pounded on his shoulder, “I wouldn’t have if I had known you’d be here.”

The knight laughed at that, slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him along. After that it was as if a wall had broken down. The journey to their places was torturously slow, continuously interrupted by former friends and lovers, now married and introducing their heirs, enemies and strangers, who sought to curry favours, or just regular attendants who just wanted an excuse to gawk at him.

They had almost made it, the end of their table already in touching distance, when another petitioner approached. It was a young boy, a squire, Jaskier guessed, dressed in Goldfurt’s livery, who bowed deeply. “My lord, my lord Goldfurt sends his regrets for the unfortunate seating situation,” the boy said with a wavering voice. “I am to let you know that there unfortunately is not enough space to accommodate all of your family as well as your witcher.”

Jaskier did not have to look up at the half-empty dais to know it was a blatant lie. “Unfortunate indeed,” he replied curtly.

“However, his lordship asked me to inform you that you yourself are welcome to join him at the high table, as are the two maidens who share his blood. And that you may rest assured, my lord, the witcher will enjoy himself just fine where he is.”

"I thank you kindly," Jaskier answered primly. "If you would do me the favour of relaying a message to her ladyship, now? Tell my sister, what is good enough for my witcher is good enough for me. I do not wish to add any additional strain to our familial relationship than there already is with our presence, which is why I am sure I will enjoy the festivities just as well down here as up there."

The boy stared up at him with wide eyes. "Lady Goldfurt," impressed upon him again. "If possible, in the presence of Lady Kerton." He nodded hastily and disappeared.

When Jaskier turned around with a sigh he was met with Geralt's dark expression. "What?"

"Do you think it advisable-"

He waved his hand around tiredly, continuing his path to Józefa and Ciri. Fuck, he was exhausted already and the banquet hadn't even started yet. "Do not worry about my wisdom, Geralt, I know more about these affairs than you do."

"It's not your wisdom or intelligence I question, I know you have both aplenty. It's your foresight. I do not know you to be a patient man."

"And I am not, but luckily it is not of the essence in this case. I am aware we tread on unfamiliar territory for you, but I grew up here. I am well aware of how far I, Julian of Lettenhove, can go before truly insulting someone. Lucky for us both, it is much farther that either you, Geralt of Rivia, or I, Jaskier the bard, could hope to. If anything, it will reflect poorly on our host to deny me my designated place over such a petty squabble. It will earn us sympathies!"

"What will earn us sympathies?" Ciri's eager voice asked.

"The fact that you will have to make do with this entirely new place for you, cublet, that is not at the side of the host of such a lavish gathering,” Jaskier replied and bowed with a flourish, taking her hand to kiss her knuckles. She giggled. “Madam, what a joy it is to see you. Truly, you are the jewel that crowns this evening; your beauty outshines the rising sun after a moonless night.”

“Thank you, Lord Lettenhove,” she answered with a perfect curtsy, during which the skirts of her dress flared out. Lettenhove ochre, just like his doublet, he noticed, and her dark hair plaited in an updo that must have taken hours to complete. It left no doubts as to where she belonged. She glanced up at him with a malicious glint in her eyes. "Do you know the best part?" she whispered.

He leaned down to her. "Tell me."

"The skirts are so wide, I could still gut a man in it."

Jaskier blinked in surprise; it was the quiet chuckle form Geralt that got him to finally break into laughter. "And what a good thing that is," he assured her.

"Fiona," Józefa chided softly. "I told you not to say that in nice company."

“Of course, cousin,” Ciri replied with a mischievous grin, “I would never.”

"Thank you," he said, rolling his eyes and winked at Ciri. He couldn't stop the feeling of pride welling up within him, but at least he could stop himself from hugging her by approaching his sister and kissing her hand as well. "You, madam, are just as dazzling as our young cousin. I fear I shall be blinded after this night, surrounded by so much beauty."

Behind him he heard Geralt whisper to Ciri: "What answer?"

"I just insulted him politely," Ciri answered just as hushed, evidently very proud himself.

Józefa huffed and crossed her arms under her chest. She was wearing an expensive red robe with orange embroidery and primroses etched on the edge. "You are a woeful waffler, brother. But you look good, too. Nice and proper."

"Nice and proper indeed," Jaskier replied and straightened his impeccable doublet. "You think I can fool them into thinking I am just as much of a stuck-up prick as my father was and as they are?"

"Hmm," she hummed and cast a quick glance around. "I think you already have. Maybe yell at a few servants or refuse to speak to any of the ladies if the topic is not their beauty if you really want to drive the point home."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Working on it, sister dearest. I'm working on it." He clapped his hands and smiled brightly. "Well, let's get comfortable, shall we?" he chirped and pulled the chair back for his sister and Ciri in turn.

When he turned to Geralt and quirked a curious eyebrow when he still found him standing. The witcher looked back and forth between Jaskier and his two wards before shrugging. Geralt pulled back his seat with the mockery of a bow.

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Thank you, my friend," Jaskier said with a subtle touch to Geralt's shoulder as he sat down.

"You're welcome. Julian," he said, as if he was probing out the taste of the unfamiliar name in his lips. A moment later he grimaced, as if it was particularly disgusting.

Jaskier was almost about to tease him about him when the great doors opened and Lord Goldfurt walked in with Janina on his arm. His sister looked magnificent, if he dared say so himself. While she usually didn't indulge in the luxuries that her advantageous marriage granted her, Jaskier was sure that she was wearing the most luxurious dress she had donned since her wedding. It was in dark and subdued tones, almost dark enough to count as mourning, that screamed "Lettenhove" at the same time.

Jaskier smirked. It had been a brilliant idea on Justyna's part.

The unhappy pair stopped before the dais, Janina stone-faced and Filip with a smile that fooled no-one. "My dear friends," he greeted them, "I am overjoyed that I am able to greet all of you once again at the beginning of this new year. May it bring prosperity and health for all of us. Especially my estranged brother-in-law, Julian Pankratz who has finally ascended to his rightful place as Lord Lettenhove. It's an honour and a pleasure to finally host the famous Pankratz siblings again. A shame that you are missing one of your matching set. What do you say, Julian? A toast of the famous poet!"

Jaskier rose from his seat to the thundering applause and bowed exaggeratedly. Somehow, this was the most calming thing he had done in months. "Thank you, thank you," he placated. " I fear neither honour nor pleasure are the words our hosts usually describe us with." It roused a laugh from the crowd. "But, for the sake of this tradition, we will behave.

"I am thrilled, though I am entirely undeserving of the praise. Here's to my sisters, who are more beautiful than a bouquet of larkspurs. To the Count of Goldfurt, our gracious host. It is my utmost joy to finally be reunited with my family and my home. To Redania! And to his beautiful lady wife, my sister, Janina of Lettenhove."

He could practically feel the temperature drop in the hall as soon as he had uttered the last words, all eyes trained on Goldfurt to see how he might react. He practically didn't react at all, besides begrudgingly raising his goblet to his mouth and taking the tiniest of sips. "To home," he agreed reluctantly, "and my lady wife."

Janina, on the other hand, barely contained her grin and drank a big gulp. "To home," she said as well and the toast echoed through the hall, slowly reciprocated by all of the guests. The toasts were mixed with murmurs of confusion that died as soon as the food started to appear.

The banquet itself was a dreary affair as noble banquets often were, especially if the people at your table were of the quiet sort. And what was Geralt if not the quietest of them all?

Still, Jaskier delighted in pointing out the Counts, Barons and knights to Ciri. Between Józefa and himself they managed not only to call up old history lessons of their neighbours and their connections to Lettenhove, but also a fair share of gossip as the first course was served: fish. Oh, and what fish it was. Platters upon platters of smoked cod was passed in front of them, along with roast pike and fat carps in beer sauce, accompanied with little pastries of perch, trout, and salmon.

It was good. No, divine even. Not as good as Ana's cooking at home, but that was hard to beat. Apart from that it might be the best food he'd eaten in years.

"Did you know," Józefa stage-whispered and leaned over to him, "that three years ago Goldfurt's aunt was found in flagrante with Dergetten's elder sister?"

Jaskier gasped, pretending to be scandalised. "You're kidding. That old bag?"

"What's in flagrante?" Ciri wanted to know and Geralt choked on his food. "Jaskier, what's it mean?"

"Umm," he felt his cheeks grow hot. "You know what? Geralt will gladly explain that to you." The witcher shot him a mean glare that betrayed that, no, he absolutely would not. At this point he decided that it was best to change the topic. "Do you see that old knight over there?" he asked and discreetly pointed at the table across the dance floor from them. "He's supposed to be a dragon slayer."

Geralt snorted disbelievingly, and Jaskier shrugged. "Oh, we all know he's a liar. He's got the dragon's wings hanging in his hall, I've seen them. If you ask me, it's a bat he killed. And not even an especially large one."

Ciri giggled at that and Jaskier happily continued to dish out child-appropriate rumours as the next round of dishes for them to choose from was paraded around. It was poultry next, roast chickens, chicken pastries, scalloped chickens. But also, a dozen herons, little carrot-nests with fieldfares, and truffled capon. And all along the wine flowed freely. Est-Est was brought out by the barrel, as well as dry reds, sweet whites and even the odd sparkling wine in between. Normally, Jaskier would have indulged happily, but he had the feeling that he should keep a clear head for the evening. Besides, he had monitor Ciri's alcohol intake, who readily charmed the servants into slipping another sip into her watered-down wine.

They had just advanced to the main courses—fourteen suckling pigs, two dozen roast veal, eight whole boars, a handful of oxen, with thick gravy, cooked and fried and braised roots and an overabundance of cabbages. White cabbages, red cabbages, pickled cabbage, cabbage salad—oh, how he missed Toussaint in the winter—when some puffed-up peacock playing at being a poet swaggered onto the dance floor. Jaskier huffed and crossed his arms, pointedly ignoring Geralt's bemused stares. 'The bardlet isn't even good,' Jaskier noted and forced himself to stop listening, else he might work himself into a rage over the blatant display of negative talent, that's what it was—

Geralt relieved a servant of her pitcher to refill both their goblets. Upon seeing Jaskier's questioning expression he shrugged. "Might make it more bearable for both of us," he explained and nudged the cup towards him. "This night I won't suffer sober."

He laughed hoarsely and clinked their cups together before taking a large gulp. "To sobriety, then."

"To banquets," Geralt added and glanced over to Ciri, "and no more surprises."

"What are you two talking about?" she wanted to know.

"The last banquet we attended together," Jaskier answered, steadfastly trying to ignore how his heart hurt at the thought. "It's where... we met your mother."

"Oh." She perked up at that, although her eyes seemed to grow sadder. "Was it... was it similar?"

"No," Jaskier said, just as Geralt replied: "Yes."

They blinked at each other for a moment before looking away. Jaskier tried to ignore the curious look Ciri gave him before she was distracted by Józefa again, the gods bless her soul. He was sure the little princess wasn't listening anymore and he was even more sure that Geralt was well aware of it, when the witcher growled: "The music was better."

"Excuse me?" he squeaked. Quickly, he cleared his throat. "Excuse me?" he asked again

He leaned over to him and Jaskier eyed him warily. "The bard's shit," he hissed. "Can't even carry a simple tune."

Well. That wasn't untrue. But hearing it from Geralt made him nearly spit out his wine. "You think all bards are shit," he responded as soon as he had recovered from his coughing fit.

"Bull-fucking-shit," Geralt growled. "I like your singing well enough."

He raised an incredulous eyebrow. "You called my singing a fillingless pie."

He shrugged. "And I still think that's true. Tasty crust," he impaled a piece of pie on his fork, "no filling." He pointed his fork at Jaskier. "Pretty voice, empty lyrics."

"Oh, so you think I have a pretty voice?" the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "Anything else about me that appeals to your artistic eye?"

"Hmm," Geralt answered and raked his eyes over Jaskier's body before quickly hiding his smile behind his goblet. Not quickly enough, though. His cheeks grew hot with the blush and he frowned darkly.

'Stop it,' he commanded himself. 'No use reading meanings into something where nothing's there.' He drained his water glass. He was is desperate need of a clear head, for he was quite aware that the heat coursing through his body was not merely caused by the many people getting drunk in the room.

At least he could distract himself with dessert being served: sweet pumpkin pies and baked, stuffed apples, red berry groats and oat biscuits with honey and cinnamon. Jaskier was quick enough to snatch the cup of mulled wine out of Ciri's hands, but could hardly protest the platter laden with all different kinds of sweets—not when his plate didn't look any different.

He passed the goblet he had just salvaged over to Geralt, who just scoffed. "Oh, now he's ripping off your songs," the witcher grumbled. "Ridiculous."

Jaskier sighed. "Let him." He knew there were enough impostors; he had stopped caring years ago.

"He's not even getting the lyrics right."

"I thought they were empty anyways," he remarked and popped a biscuit into his mouth.

"Not the point."

"Jaskier," Ciri interrupted them, "they're starting to dance."

He frowned as he saw Goldfurt leading Janina onto the dance floor to signify the end of the dinner. He sighed as he caught Lady Alina's eye on the other side of the hall. No doubt he would be expected to share at least one dance with his betrothed, for propriety's sake.

"I suppose you should join them, Julian," Geralt quipped and crossed his arms as they watched Justyna and Damian join them on the dance floor.

"I suppose I should."

"Well?"

He rolled his eyes. "Maybe later. For the moment, allow me to abuse your presence to hide from my duties." He watched his two sisters dance when another thought hit him: "Wait, how do you know that the lyrics are wrong?"

Jaskier could've sworn he saw a blush creep up Geralt's cheeks as the witcher grumbled something unintelligible and hid behind his tankard again.

"Geralt of Rivia," Jaskier gasped indignantly, "are you trying to tell me, you memorised my songs?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

“I—” Jaskier began, only to be interrupted by Józefa: “Julian,” she called his attention. “I believe you should honour the Lady Alina with a dance.”

“Fine,” he ground out and rose to his feet. “I believe I have to surrender you to my sister’s care for a while, so I fear our conversation will have to come to a close for the moment.”

“Pity,” the witcher grumbled and leaned back in his seat, obviously not finding it a pity at all.

Jaskier laughed as if he had just told a joke. “Do try to enjoy yourself, my friend.” He winked, though his heart sank. “I’ll be back.”

He wasn’t quite sure if he should be relieved or not to leave the witcher and his sour mood behind, though he was sure that his own mood grew worse with every step. Eyes and whispers clung to him all along the way, although he pretended not to hear.

He couldn’t deny them their right to gossip; they were landed gentry after all, what else were they supposed to do with their pitiable lives? He’d just prefer that gossip to be limited to him and not the newest two additions to his household.

He had been hesitant, at first, to bring both of them to Goldfurt. Truly the last thing on earth they needed was more attention on Lettenhove. But after some long talks with Józefa they had come to the conclusion that there were rumours anyways. Not bringing the two of them along would look even more conspicuous.

In the end, he wasn’t the one who found his betrothed, for she beat him to the chase. “Lord Lettenhove,” she called for his attention.

“Lady Alina,” he did little to mask his surprise. “You’re just the one I was looking for.”

“Were you now?” She raised her eyebrows. “No doubt for the same reasons as I do.”

“And which might those be?”

“To satisfy my brother’s demands that we socialise, of course,” she replied and raised her fan to hide her exaggerated yawn. “Is there not a question you should ask me?”

Jaskier bowed gracefully. "May I have this dance, my lady?"

“You may.” She barely even bothered with a curtsy before she let herself be led to the centre of the dance floor. The spent about half of the dance in icy silence, before Lady Alina finally spoke up: “So, are the rumours true then?”

“Rumours?” he feigned ignorance.

She snorted. “Do not insult me, Lettenhove. We both know that you are well aware what I am talking about.”

Of course, he knew. The whole society talked about nothing else but Fiona Nowak’s parents. There was a myriad of different stories where she came from and why she was in Lettenhove now, many of which he and Józefa had planted themselves. The most wide-spread, however, was the only one that he had actually tried to extinguish: “If you want to pretend, you’re more stupid than you actually are, fine. Let me be frank, my lord. Is young Miss Nowak your bastard daughter?”

He locked his jaw. “Those rumours are none that I encouraged,” he answered curtly.

“That does not answer my question.”

“And yet it is the only answer I will give on that matter,” he insisted. He had no wish to discuss the matter any further, so he was not quite sure what made him continue talking: “Though it is true that she is very dear to me, as is her safety. I would do anything to keep her safe.”

“How admirable,” she responded drily. “Though again, I would have thought the cleverness of your sisters runs in the family. I am disappointed to see that it doesn’t.”

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Ouch.’ Were he a man easily slighted, he would have taken offence. In reality, though, he was only impressed. “Are you well acquainted with them, my lady?”

“With some better than others. Did you know that I spent a few years in Nowigrad?”

He tensed up and she laughed.

“Of course, you did. You avoided the city like the plague back then.” Lady Alina smiled politely. “Well, Jolanta sends her regards.”

He frowned. She had never told him that she knew his former fiancée.

“She also lets you know that another friend of yours is growing restless with… this.” She made a vague gesture at the gossiping nobles around them.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I could not say, my lord, I am but the messenger.” The music stopped and she stepped back from him immediately. “I believe we have satisfied our duties. Good night, my lord.”

Even after leaving his fiancée in the arms of another, the dancing did not stop. Instead of his feet tracing patterns over the floor, his words took over as he found himself getting sucked deeper and deeper into the deadly dance of deception that was so popular with all nobles. Whenever he spun, trying to step off the dance floor of politics he found himself in the slippery grasp of yet another opponent. Chief among them, of course, were his sisters.

"Despicable old bag," Janina hissed, still eyeing the dowager Baroness he had rescued her from. "She's rotten to the bone."

"A Dergetten through and through," he agreed. "Józefa told me she’s the reason Lady Zibold came down with that horrible stomach sickness two years ago."

"Really, Julek?" She rolled her eyes. "You, churning the rumour mill?"

He shrugged. He had never claimed to be above these petty squabbles; he was landed gentry, after all, what else was he supposed to do with his pitiable life?

He spun away from her, soon to be embraced by another lady. All the while he danced, he could hear the rumours continue to spread like wildfire.

“Did you hear Lettenhove had the witcher bring his bastard to his keep?” he heard one nobleman whisper.

“She’s supposed to be the daughter of some whore,” another quipped.

“Don’t be a fool, Alma, she’s the Countess de Stael’s daughter; remember how she retreated to a temple for a few months a decade ago?”

“No, she has elf blood in her veins, it’s why he hid her.”

On and on the whispers went and Jaskier couldn’t help but roll his eyes at them. Not a single one of them got even close to the truth. He supposed he had to be grateful for that and he couldn’t resist the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he saw her. She was hand in hand with Daria, sweeping over the dance floor and disturbing this dancing couples in the process.

He spun a web of lies to evade a landed knight’s curious questions and found himself on the dancefloor again within the blink of an eye, Justyna in his arms.

"I am glad to see her so joyous," he said with a fond smile as Ciri and Daria swept past them again, nearly knocking Janina and Goldfurt over in the process. "Both of them." His smile widened even more when he saw her keeping her husband from reprimanding them. 'You can't hide from me, Janka,' he thought triumphantly, 'she's gotten to you just as much as to the rest of us.'

Justyna hummed her approval. "She's a sullen child, is she not? I feared she might faint during our first meeting."

Jaskier sighed. "She's been through a lot, Konwalia. She's seen so many bad things, worse than anything you or me can imagine, and she's just a child."

He stepped away to bow to her as she spun away from him. When he pulled her close again, she averted her gaze. "Maybe I didn't give you enough credit. Maybe you might be able to understand."

“Maybe I might be,” he agreed cautiously. “Where’s Julek, by the way? I don’t think I’ve seen him in hours.”

"He's— Miss Nina put him to bed. He was... not feeling well."

"He's a quiet boy."

"He is. Easily overwhelmed, too. He doesn't smile a lot either. He's a good boy, though," she assured him quickly.

"That I do not doubt," he said and smiled. She didn't return it. "Justyna?" Her gaze flickered away nervously as she tugged on her sleeve. It was a bad habit their father had beaten out of her even before he'd left. It worried him. “You—I am aware that you think me unable to comprehend your worries, and maybe you are right and I am. However, I hope that you would still confide in me after all these years. If there is anything short of murder and treason within my power to help you and yours, I will do it, without hesitation.”

She kept silent for a few more moments, looking uneasy. "It's Damian," she told him quietly. "He believes him a changeling."

He huffed disbelievingly. “A changeling?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “That’s what he settled for after accusing me of adultery first. He does not believe that a son of his could be this—”

“Inadequate?” Jaskier offered, well-acquainted with that particular paternal sentiment.

“He is not what he wants his son to be. Not courageous, not knightly enough, while Daria is—not enough of a boy to be precisely that.”

“And isn’t that a familiar tune?” Jaskier sighed quietly. “I am sorry your son takes this much after his namesake.”

“I am not.” She raised her chin defiantly. “For I love his namesake, just as I love my son.”

“I am glad to hear that.” The song ended and they both took a step backwards. Jaskier reached down and gently lifted her knuckles to his lips. “Worry not, my lady. For the time being, you are guests in Lettenhove, protected by my castle peace. And I happen to be quite fond of cowards, monsters, and inadequate children.”

Her expression softened. “I know you are. Thank you, Jaskier.”

He squeezed her hand briefly, before excusing himself, in desperate need of a drink—and a conversation with a certain witcher, he believed. The ballroom floor was as dangerous a terrain as it had been the whole evening, but Jaskier deftly dodged those who threatened to converse with him before collapsing in the chair next to Geralt. "Finally," he sighed and gladly took the goblet his witcher handed him.

“Did you have fun, Julian?” Geralt asked him and Jaskier raised an incredulous eyebrow.

“Did I look like I was having fun?” he countered.

“I am sure there was quite a number of attendants you managed to fool.” The unspoken ‘but not me’ hang heavy in the air between them and for a moment he allowed himself to bask in the familiarity of that. Jaskier closed his eyes, the noise and smell and lights draining away with every heartbeat until he could pretend it was just the two of them in a lonely clearing, sharing a skin of sour wine. Just them, just friends, just a witcher and his bard.

The illusion was sundered all too soon by a voice they had suffered all too long for one evening already. "Good sirs, might I persuade you to make a request?” Jaskier opened his eyes again and found himself staring into the young and bright-eyed face of a bard whose hopes and dreams were surely about to be crushed. The boy smiled widely and bowed. “Along with a bit of constructive criticism, mayhaps?"

Jaskier exchanged a quick glance with Geralt and, slowly and deliberately, set down his goblet as he waited for the answer he knew would come: "You changed the lyrics," Geralt stated, "not for the better."

"And how would you know?" the bardling asked with too much enthusiasm and tilted his head to the side. He gave them both a thorough look before gasping with excitement. "Oh, I know who you are! You're the witcher, Geralt of Rivia. And you-" He turned to Jaskier and his eyes grew wide. "Master Jaskier!" He bowed deeply. "It's an honour to meet you, truly it is. I have studied all of your work, sir, I am one of your greatest admirers."

He did his best to hide his pained expression with a smile. "I fear I do not go by that name anymore. I am old and weary; it is time for the new generation to get a chance. Viscount Lettenhove, if you please."

“Of course, my lord. And, if I may be so bold: wise words, wise words indeed,” the bard preened, too caught up in his speech to notice Geralt’s elbow landing in Jaskier’s ribcage or the wheeze that escaped him at that. "Might I humbly request a piece of advice of you? It would honour me greatly, no matter—”

"You may," he interrupted him and shot a glance at Geralt. "Stop singing other people's songs."

"But-"

"Don't interrupt him," Geralt growled.

“Thank you, my witcher,” Jaskier said and twirled his goblet in his hand. “See, young man, here’s the issue: you may be a bard, might even call yourself a strolling minstrel, and yet you are living off another’s hard work. I do not begrudge you for it; repeating songs you have heard certainly is a way to make your living. Mind you, however, that a poet, a troubadour, a veritable minstrel is, first and foremost, an artist.”

“But—” the bardling laughed nervously. “But I do not paint pictures.”

“Evidently,” Geralt grumbled just as Jaskier asked: “Don’t you?” He sighed and took a sip. “I certainly did. My experiences were my canvas, my emotions my paints, my aching heart my brush. Which is why I cannot sing the songs of another. How can you aspire to give a true performance, pour your heart and soul into it, if you don't even know what you're singing? You're still young, so go out into the world while you still have the chance. See if you don't find something that's worth singing about."

"How will I know that I have found such a thing?"

"Oh,” he stared into his goblet, “you will."

"But what is it? Will my heart stop when I spot it? Will—Will I lay my life on the line for it? Is it something worth dying for?"

"No," Jaskier said softly, "your life will stop, that much is true; but it isn't something that ends so much as something that begins. You will know when you have found something worth singing about, when you find something worth living for."

Next to him, his witcher choked on his wine.

#my writing #of witchers bards and broken hearts #OWBABH #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #cirilla of cintra

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aowski · 3 years

Text

Changing the Narrative

It seems that death is coming at us from all sides these days. Police shootings, mass shootings, road-rage shootings, COVID deaths, and the execution spree of the last administration.

What most of us know about the death penalty in America, we probably gleaned from movies like “The Green Mile”. In our minds, we confine it geographically and historically to the old South. I propose that it encompasses more of our lives than we care to admit. We just don’t see it and recognize it as such. The sentence of death hangs over all of us. We’ve become numb to all the ways this is true, especially if it doesn’t directly affect us or our demographic today. But executions are happening daily in this country. It might help if these executions were categorized:

Judicial Execution - Death administered by the State, as a punishment for a capitol crime, usually for being too poor to afford a proper defense.

Civil Execution - Death administered by law enforcement as punishment for no reason at all except being a poor person of color.

Stochastic Execution - Death administered randomly in a public place by another person by reason of their own uncontrolled rage and easy access to military-grade firearms.

Domestic Execution - Death administered by a significant other, usually an aggrieved spouse or lover. Again rage combined with easy access to firearms. May result in stochastic execution of others.

Policy Execution - Death administered by state austerity that neglects human well-being. Reverend Barber’s “Policy Violence”.

Economic Execution - Death administered by poverty. Holes in the social safety net coupled with grievous inequality depriving people of access to food, water, shelter, and healthcare.

Environmental Execution - Death by industrial pollution, its toxic effects on food, water, or air, and climate change.

Epidemiological Execution - Death by a communicable virus that spreads like wildfire because of government negligence, politicization, assertion of personal freedom, and utter disregard for the well-being of others.

Self Execution - Death caused by our own hand. More than the act itself. The culmination of untreated depression, bi-polar illness, or hopelessness, i.e. the psychic death that precedes it.

Taken together, the result is...

Actuarial Execution - The reduced lifespan resulting from living in the United States. With a life expectancy of 78.5 years (per a WHO 2019 report), we have fallen to 40th among the world's nations in life expectancy! These are Life-years stolen! How did we get here? What is it about America that has made 39 others countries a better place, a place to live longer?

We have accepted a "culture of death", a phrase coined by Pope John Paul II. The Psalmist called it “the Shadow of Death”. In this country, the culture of death began with genocide of the indigenous, but gained an enduring foothold with slavery.

Slavery was the foundation of the economy at our country’s inception and was well-represented at the Constitutional Convention:

Let us consider the first fifty years of our national history. There was never a moment during this time when the slavery issue was not a sleeping serpent. That issue lay coiled up under the table during the deliberations of the Constitutional Convention in 1787.— John Jay Chapman

Much of our Constitution was an agreement made by compromising with slave-holding states and interests. The most notorious artifact was the “three-fifths” clause which counted slaves as 3/5 of a human being for the purpose of apportionment, thus giving the slave-holding states disproportionate representation. The Second Amendment is another concession to the interests of slavery. By the time of the Convention, “Slave Patrols” were well established in the South. There was concern that Article 1, Section 8, giving Congress the power to form and finance armies could gain control of state militias. Virginia would not ratify the Constitution unless the Second Amendment was included.

The cohesion (and fragmentation) within our society is based on identity. Too often this identity is not based so much on common interests, but on caste.

Identity is not who we define ourselves to be, but who we define ourselves to not be. More to the point, we understand ourselves to be in a hierarchy, so we define ourselves by who we are above.

They have had to believe for many years, and for innumerable reasons, that black men are inferior to white men. Many of them, indeed, know better, but, as you will discover, people find it very difficult to act on what they know. To act is to be committed, and to be committed is to be in danger. In this case, the danger, in the minds of most white Americans, is the loss of their identity.—James Baldwin

"If you can convince the lowest white man he's better than the best colored man, he won't notice you're picking his pocket. Hell, give him somebody to look down on, and he'll empty his pockets for you." —Lyndon B. Johnson

It is a human failing that we need a scapegoat to blame others for our shortcomings and vulnerabilities. White people impugn our shadow on Black people and other minority groups. Everything White America refuses to believe about itself, hates about itself, is projected onto people of color.

The white man's unadmitted and apparently, to him, unspeakable-private fears and longings are projected onto the Negro. —James Baldwin

Of all the things we want to push away from ourselves, the certainty of our death is chief among them. Yet...

Mortality the reality that we are most adept at denying.

Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have.

—James Baldwin

And, again, White America, finds it convenient to avoid the reality of death by projecting it on others:

White Americans do not believe in death, and this is why the darkness of my skin so intimidates them.

—James Baldwin

Is this is why White America has been so indifferent to the suffering and death of Black Americans? Per CDC data, life expectancy for Black Americans is approximately five years less than the population as a whole. Indifference may not be imputation, but it does translate into the lack of political will to change things.

Racism is the Poison. Although inequality disproportionately affects people of color, all working and middle-class people are struggling to survive. Compared against other wealthy Western nations, America’s systemic ills are dragging us all down into the shadows of death.

...racism is a poison first consumed by its concocters. What's clearer now in our time of growing inequality is that the economic benefit of the racial bargain is shrinking for all but the richest. The logic that launched the zero-sum paradigm-I will profit at your expense-is no longer sparing millions of white Americans from the degradations of American economic life as people of color have always known it.

—Heather McGhee (The Sum of Us)

Solidarity is the alternative and people are waking up to it:

Everywhere I went, I found that the people who had replaced the zero sum with a new formula of cross-racial solidarity had found the key to unlocking what I began to call a "Solidarity Dividend," from higher wages to cleaner air, made possible through collective action. And the benefits weren't only external. I didn't set out to write about the moral costs of racism, but they kept showing themselves. There is a psychic and emotional cost to the tightrope white people walk, clutching their identity as good people when all around them is suffering they don't know how to stop, but that is done, it seems, in their name and for their benefit. The forces of division seek to harden this guilt into racial resentment, but I met people who had been liberated by facing the truth and working toward racial healing in their communities.

—Heather McGhee (The Sum of Us)

A New Way, a way of life, a way of economic security is possible, but only if we seize the moment we are in. A moment of crisis is also a moment of opportunity. As we come out of a once-in-a-lifetime crisis, more people are facing the bankruptcy of 40 years of trickle-down Reaganomics.

Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced —James Baldwin

The politics and messaging of racial scapegoating is deeply embedded in the American psyche. Race-baiting and fear are the tools used against solidarity. The answer is a new story, a race-class narrative.

If we lead with a shared value, that means race and class, for example, ‘Whatever your race, gender, or religion, most of us work hard for our families. Every child, regardless of where they come from, deserves a chance to pursue their dreams.’ Reminding us of our common humanity (that’s a good place to start) and then saying that racial scapegoating is a weapon that economically harms all of us. You’re actually putting a shot in your listeners’ arm, inoculating them, so the next time they hear that racial scapegoating, they have antibodies for it. —Heather McGhee

This is the pivotal moment we find ourselves in. Our choices are to continue with the old story of racism, division, and death or to embrace a new story, a story of solidarity and an abundance. This can happen when we realize we are more than "The Sum of Us" (McGhee).

#death #execution #police brutality #COVID #white #black #life expectancy #zero sum #inequality #political #solidarity #baldwin #heather mcghee #identity #racism #trickle down economics #resentment #race-class #the sum of us

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vagrantblvrd · 5 years

Text

Tabula Rasa (1/1)

Summary: In a shocking twist, Ryan finds it annoying when he stumbles over a body when it’s not one of his. Especially when it’s obvious whoever left it there for just anyone to find didn’t even try to hide it.

Notes: Prompt fill for Anon who asked for FAHC AU Ryan finding amnesiac hitman!Gavin who unbeknownst to Ryan was hired to kill him.:D?

(Read on AO3)

In a shocking twist, Ryan finds it annoying when he stumbles over a body when it’s not one of his. Especially when it’s obvious whoever left it there for just anyone to find didn’t even try to hide it.

It’s sloppy and unprofessional, even in a city like Los Santos where the news outlets don’t cover stories about dead bodies being found unless they’re a celebrity or otherwise well-known figure in the city.

So this, literally tripping over one in the middle of an alley when he’s taking a shortcut back to his apartment after a quick run to the corner grocery story is galling.

“Aw, come on,” he mutters, staring in dismay at the groceries that didn’t survive the cartoon clownish balancing act he did trying to keep them from tumbling out of the paper bag he was carrying. “Not cool.”

The eggs continue to ooze their way along the dirty asphalt, seeping into cracks like some kind of terrible metaphor for his life.

Or maybe it’s been a long goddamned day and he should just go home and order takeout and drown his sorrows in diet soda.

But then what he assumed was a typical dead body has the temerity to groan, this awful, pained sound followed by a soft scrape. Rustling, clattering nose as it tries to pull itself out of the pile of trash and whatever else it fell onto.

“Dammit,” Ryan says, as he turns to look at it.

There are eyes – well. An eye, the other doesn’t count with the way it’s swollen shut, focused on him.

Battered face with dried blood all over and whoever they are, they must have pissed someone off in a major way because they look like hell.

“You look awful,” Ryan’s mouth says without his brain’s okay because he’s tired and it’s been a hell of a week for him and it’s only Tuesday.

The body makes this horrible rasping, croaking sound, and after a moment Ryan realizes it’s laughing at him.

Mouth pulled up in this little smile as they give up on trying to sit up and slump back down, zombie noises giving way to this breathless laugh.

“Oh good,” they say, hand flopping around as they gesture vaguely at themselves. “I’d hate to feel worse than you think I look.”

There’s a pause.

A frown.

“Wait, that doesn’t sound right.”

========

You’d think Ryan would know better than to bring strange bodies home with him given his line of work, but you’d be wrong about that.

Horrifically, astoundingly wrong.

By all rights he should have left it there and gone about his business, but he’s not as heartless as all the rumors say he is. Had regarded the body for a long, long moment considering his options before that last shred of a conscience he had goaded him into making what’s turning out to be a grievous mistake on his part.

“Oh, what a lovely place you have,” the body says, slumped sideways on Ryan’s couch as he roots through his first-aide kit. “Urban modern?”

There’s no theme to his “décor”, just whatever the place came furnished with or whatever he needs from a furniture store catalog.

Ryan side-eyes the body, suspicion in the back of the mind why someone would want to kill him because he’s proving to be an annoying bastard.

Kept talking all the way here, odd little comments and hasn’t shut up since.

Oh, there was the expected trepidation when Ryan set his bag of groceries aside in the alley to approach him. This pathetic attempt to move away from Ryan that ended in a soft hiss and hand clamping down on his side. (Wary expression and tense as hell like he expected Ryan to finish the job someone fucked up.)

“Do you ever wonder,” he asks, words twisting oddly with that accent Ryan can’t quite place. Bit of a twang to it, but more something you’d find in a bad movie rather than the Texas panhandle or thereabouts. Might be down to the split lip and everything else, or someone with a bad grasp on accents. “Do you ever wonder if hands could have toes?”

Normally it would seem like a bizarre question coming out of the blue like that, but considering one of the body’s hands is a bloody mess, broken fingers and such?

Not so much.

“Well I mean,” Ryan says, and shrugs because somehow that’s not the weirdest thing anyone’s ever asked him. “There’s a surgical procedure for that.”

Not your typical elective surgery, maybe, but it is a thing. Ryan remembers reading about some poor bastard a while back who had it done after an accident where they lost their thumb.

The body looks up from staring at his hand, and does his best to smile.

Painful to look at, and right, okay.

Better get him cleaned up and patched up before he makes things worse.

========

Ryan’s still trying to figure out what the hell he thinks he’s doing bringing strange bodies home with him when Meg calls.

Meg’s one of the smartest people he knows, one of the best and brightest in the assassin-for-hire field, and all around terror when she gets something in her head.

They’ve know each other for years, professionally and personally, and he’s learned to be terrified of when she gets a particular tone to her voice.

The same one she has when she asks “What the fuck did you do?”, the moment he picks up.

Ryan freezes as he runs through recent events, eyes going to the body on his couch that fell asleep as he was stitching him up.

First time that’s ever happened to Ryan, what with the whole stitching someone up without proper anesthetic being an unpleasant sort of thing.

“Uh,” he says, watching the rise and fall of the body’s chest, hears the faint wheeze of his breathing. “What?”

Meg sighs, something she does a fair amount when dealing with Ryan and his everything.

“Did you know,” she asks sweetly, which means whatever she is seriously doubting his intelligence and self-preservation skills. And, like. Everything else to do with him. “Ryan, did you know there’s a price on your head right now?”

Ryan doesn’t roll his eyes because she would know about it (Meg always knows) and also -

“When isn’t there?”

Ryan’s one of those well-known figures in Los Santos the news would have a field day about if he ever turns up as a dead body. (Statistically speaking, it will happen one day. Can’t do what he does and not expect to.)

He’s made his fare share of enemies over the years, stepped on the wrong toes and worse. And even if by some miracle he hadn’t, there’s bound to be someone who wants to prove themselves by going after the big, bad Vagabond like something out of a Vinewood western.

Meg sighs again, and Ryan likes to think it’s a fond sort of sigh, not the eternally exasperated kind.

“You know what I mean, smartass,” she says.

Ryan doesn’t smile because she would know about that too, and he’d rather not have to worry about her being one of the people out to collect the bounty (bounties?) on his head because he pissed her off.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah I do.”

========

The body wakes up when Ryan’s trying to decide what to make for dinner, or if ordering takeout is still on the table.

Makes a pained noise, and then goes quiet and still as he tries to figure out where he is and how the hell he got there. (Why he feels like shit and if there’s a chance of more pain headed his way anytime soon.)

“Hey,” Ryan calls from his kitchen. “Does pizza sound good to you?”

He’s too tired to bother with cooking anything resembling edible, and it doesn’t make sense to kill his house guest after all the work he put into keeping him alive.

When he doesn’t get an answer, Ryan goes to make sure the poor bastard keeled over on him.

“Er,” the body says. “Yes?”

Trying to get his preference for pizza toppings is more of the same bafflement.

All, ”That sounds fine?” and “I suppose?” and ”Does anyone like anchovies on their pizza?” which is the firmest opinion he seems to have on the subject.

“Probably,” Ryan says, wrestling with the app for the pizza place a few blocks over. “Otherwise you think they’d take it off the menu.”

He gets a noncommittal noise from the body – and honestly, it’s getting weird for Ryan to refer to him as that even in his head.

“Not to be rude,” Ryan says, pocketing his phone once the order’s sent off. “But do you happen to have a name? Something I can call you?”

The body stares at Ryan – he does that a lot – and frowns. (Also something he does a lot.)

“Er,” he says (yet another thing he seems fond of doing). “I honestly don’t know?”

========

Ryan’s seen his share of terrible movies, watched more than enough terrible television shows.

Grew up watching old soap operas with his grandmother, so naturally the first thing to pop into his head is amnesia.

The body makes a face when he floats that little idea in front of him as a – perfectly valid – answer why he can’t seem to remember anything about himself.

His name.

Occupation.

Reason for ending up half-dead in one of the many glorious alleys Los Santos has to offer.

The usual things people have a decent grasp on in their day to day lives.

And since there’s not much that can be done about finding answers to most of those questions tonight, they settle for choosing a name for him in the meantime.

“You don’t really look like a Gunther,” Ryan says, picking up another slice of the pizza that arrived while they were taking stock of what they know. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He’ll ask around in the morning, go to his contacts all nice and discreet because it’s dangerous not knowing what, who, he’s dealing with here. More so, considering the condition he was in when Ryan found him.

“What about Edgar?” Ryan asks, and no, he doesn’t have a problem. It’s a perfectly fine name. “Reggie?”

========

The real question in all of this, Ryan muses as he searches through piles of trash and other horrible things looking for clues, is what the hell does he think he’s doing?

He knows how Los Santos works better than anyone. Knows you don’t go around looking for trouble if you want to keep doing that thing where you’re the opposite of dead. Knows you sure as hell don’t go poking into the kind of trouble that’s landed him with a house guest who has amnesia, for God’s sake.

And yet he still made a few calls to the handful of contacts he trusts to be discreet – extra discreet – without prompting.

Mark, as he settled on rather than any of Ryan’s suggestions, looks somewhat more human with all the blood cleaned off. (Sure, he also looks like someone who should probably be in a hospital but that’s beside the point.)

So, yes.

The two of them are back in the alley where they met (if you want to call it that) looking for any kind of information about Mark.

There’s a scrabbling noise behind Ryan as said house guest searches through his own pile of trash and God knows what. A far more difficult task for Mark given the fact he has one functioning hand at the moment along with his other injuries.

They’ve been here for a while, and Ryan’s starting to think it’s all in vain when Mark makes a triumphant noise, catching his attention. When he turns around to see Mark holding up a phone that looks like it’s had better days.

“Found something,” he says, wiping it off on his pants.

Ryan moves closer and watches as Mark turns it on and runs into a fingerprint lock screen.

They share a look before Mark unlocks it – and they’re faced with the a home screen littered with app icons and the most adorable looking wallpaper with fluffy kittens.

“Huh,” Ryan says, as Mark’s face softens and he makes the quietest little noise.

Either Mark has a thing for cluttered home screens on phones or he’s a sucker for adorable kittens. (Ryan’s fairly sure it’s the kittens.)

Overhead the clouds that have been threatening one hell of a thunderstorm all week rumbles threateningly and they share another look.

“My place or yours?” Mark asks, wry smile and a lame attempt at an eyebrow waggle that has Ryan coughing to cover his laugh.

As far as they’re concerned this alley is Mark’s place, and just, no.

========

They don’t quite make it back to Ryan’s place before the storm hits, rain pouring down in one of Los Santos’ thunderstorms, because of course they don’t.

As a courteous host, and since Mark’s teeth are chattering by the time they get inside, Ryan lets him have the first shower. Sets out a pair of old sweats that might offer some bit of extra warmth while his own clothes are being washed.

To kill time, Ryan rattles around his kitchen to make them something to take the chill off. He doesn’t have coffee on hand because Ryan’s not the biggest fan of it, but he does have is several kinds of hot chocolate.

He’s debating whether he wants mini-mini marshmallows in his or regular mini marshmallows when he hears Mark shuffle in.

“I may have used all your hot water,” Mark says, something like a smile in his voice and not sounding apologetic at all. “Sorry about that.”

Ryan glances at him, and ends up staring longer than he should.

He was concerned his clothes would be too big on Mark from the outset, but other than forcing the poor bastard to go around in wet clothes and risk catching a cold or worse there wasn’t much choice.

It was a short-term fix until Mark’s clothes were dry, but now?

Ryan’s unsettled at how much smaller Mark looks in Ryan’s clothes. Bruises and other small hurts standing out in the harsh lighting of Ryan’s kitchen. Dark and ugly against his skin, split lips giving him a lopsided grin as he moves over to the kitchen bar and takes a seat.

“Is one of those for me?” he asks, teasing note to his voice.

Ryan’s a hardened criminal. Gun for hire with a reputation that has people running scared with all those rumors about him out there, and yet -

“What?”

Mark’s lopsided smile is distracting, and the quiet laugh of his as he points at the mugs in Ryan’s hands is even worse.

“Uh, yes,” Ryan says, when Mark’s eyebrows go up when Ryan doesn’t answer right away and all that staring he’s doing doesn’t stop. “If you’re into that kind of thing?”

- Ryan is a human disaster.

========

Ryan doesn’t flee the latest scene of his complete and utter failure to human being, no.

He just.

He’s wearing wet clothes and the shower’s free and look, alright, look.

No one would take the Vagabond seriously if he came down with a cold and had to deliver a message or other menacing threat with a stuffy nose.

So, yes.

When he he goes out to the living room it’s to see Mark sipping his hot chocolate and scrolling through his phone, furrow between his eyes as he does.

“Find anything useful?” Ryan asks, and stares as Mark jumps.

This startled little thing, quickly followed by the phone falling from his hand as he hisses in pain and Ryan catches a quiet, strained, “Oh, God, that was a mistake.”

Ryan moves closer when Mark lifts his head to give him a wan smile, not sure what to do to help.

“I’m alright,” Mark says, pained note to his voice as he slowly straightens up. “You just startled me is all.”

Obviously.

“Are you - “ Ryan stops himself before he can ask Mark if he’s okay because it’s clear he isn’t. “Do you need help?”

Mark laughs, this painful sounding wheeze, and waves Ryan off with a soft thanks and an apology of all things.

Ryan frowns, but when Mark waves him off again he backs up a step to give him space and notices the phone’s been kicked under couch just out of arm’s reach. Feeling guilty about startling Mark, Ryan skirts around him to retrieve it, taking a curious look at the screen to see what Mark was looking at - and freezes.

“Wait - “ Mark says, but it’s too late.

Ryan’s staring at the phone’s screen and the grainy photo Mark was looking at before Ryan surprised him.

Black and white and grainy as hell. Blurry and out of focus. Something off a surveillance camera, if Ryan had to guess.

Odd to be sure, but not the strangest thing Ryan's seen.

No.

The thing that’s caught his interest is the focus of the picture.

Someone in a leather jacket looking at someone or something just off camera. Looks to be in a parking garage of some kind.

A mask that looks like a skull.

“There’s more,” Mark says quietly, getting up to walk over to Ryan.

Ryan lets him take the phone, watches as he pulls up the messages and tilts the phone so Ryan can read the latest ones.

Nothing overtly incriminating to them, but it’s clear there’s a business transaction taking place.

An interested party contacting Mark for a job they have for him.

Carefully worded and if this wasn’t Los Santos, if Ryan wasn’t what he is, he could almost think it’s just someone concerned about potential leaks or unscrupulous business rivals.

But this is Los Santos and Ryan is very much what he is, and he’s had more text conversations like this than he cares to remember.

He darts a look at Mark, sees the expression on his face and realizes that while Mark may not remember who he is or what series of events landed him back in that alley, he’s not stupid.

Can read between the lines just as easily as Ryan can, and that’s a little troubling in itself, but -

Mark scrolls down to the most recent message and opens the attached file.

The still from the surveillance video pops up again.

Too much to hope that Mark just happened to have a still of Ryan on his phone, that it was disconnected from the series of messages Mark showed him.

“I think,” Mark says, with a disbelieving laugh like he knows most people in his position wouldn’t have expected something like this when Ryan doesn’t say anything. “I think I was meant to kill him, whoever he is.”

#freewood #ragehappy #fahc au #Prompt Fills #Kings of Nowhere #vagrant fic #Anon #:D?#:D???#???#¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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vulpinmusings · 4 years

Text

Letters from Buxcord 1- Christmas Greetings

My RPG group has started up a Monster of the Week campaign that may be alternating with the Starfinder campaign once the current MOTW campaign (that i’m not in) has finished. We did a Session Zero-slash-Christmas Episode yesterday so I could test the waters, and here’s what occurred from my character’s perspective:

Samantha,

I’m addressing this to you because I know you will be the one hounding me the most for the full story once I manage to return, or at least establish contact with Taryn. In the case that I discover how to actually send these letters to you but not how to get myself back across the inter-universe void, I’m giving you permission to publish what I write, just so the world doesn’t think me dead. Again.

This world I’ve been shunted to is remarkably similar to Taryn, both geographically and culturally. It might just be that mysterious translation convention at work, but everyone I’ve met seems to speak Anglish. The strangest thing, though, is that while magic exists in this universe, it’s just slightly out of sync with what I’m familiar working with, just enough that while I can cast spells as I normally would, there’s a good chance of them backfiring if I rely on my muscle memory too much. Most of my Cards got burnt out upon arrival, somehow, leaving me only with the old, reliable Tangler prepped for combat casting.

When the portal spat me out and my senses recovered from the absolute deprivation of the void, I found myself outside a small town called Buxford, Louisiana. That would be approximately the Novo Orleano area back home, judging by the maps. It’s a small town, so walking around everywhere isn’t too grievous. When I arrived in the town proper, I naturally got to work gathering information. Buxford has its share of local legends and cryptoids, but almost none of the locals seems to take such things too seriously. Magic – proper magic – is not widely recognized as real either, which is going to present a hindrance to my efforts to research a portal spell that I can cast in this environment.

I’m hesitant to try my luck in other parts of the world yet, though. I essentially need to start over, find a reliable source of income and build up a reputation for strangeness and problem-solving to try and attract the attention of those who do possess magic ability. I could so that anywhere, I’ll admit, but I sense something… special hiding in Buxcord that may be worth unearthing before I try moving on.

During my initial search around the town, I decided to take a chance that a small “Magic shop” I came across in downtown would have something up my alley and not just prestidigitation. The place was… eclectic to put it mildly, as if the owner had just stocked whatever they could find that is even remotely connected to the concept of “magic.” I considered just leaving after a quick look around, until I caught the eye of the owner. He calls himself Nollthep the Unpredictable, and despite his claims to contrary he is definitely not as human as he appear. Whatever he truly is, he lacks knowledge of a lot of basic concepts, is easily distracted by unfamiliar words, and his manner of speech is stilted and uncanny in the extreme, but he’s quite friendly and not the least bit shy about wanting to learn everything he can. The one thing’s he cagey about is his true nature, but I’m willing to humor him about his cover story both because of his friendliness and because he’s the first hint of the supernatural I’ve found and I’m hoping that associating with him will eventually get me in contact with something more helpful.

I seems that I arrived in Buxcord about a week before the year-end holiday of Christmas, which I’ve gathered is essentially the Yule tradition you’re familiar with, but observed on a single day instead of across three. Two days before Christmas, I was browsing through the local library in a vain search for books on real magic, when I overhead talk of a strange, large figure being seen in the forest just off the nearest highway. It wasn’t much to go on, but at this early stage I’ll take any possible leads I can get, so I set out to walk along the highway. As I passed the local orphanage, I spotted Nollthep at the gates, apparently trying to find somebody but mostly just confusing the poor person on the other end of the intercom with his blunt and meandering questions. The worker hung up before I could make my way over to try and help Nollthep, so I just came out ans asked why he was bothering the orphanage. He just said he was looking for someone, and also needed to pick up some milk (which would be tricky, as the stores in town were all closing early for the season). Before I could press for details, as young woman came out of the orphanage carrying a baseball bat, and Nollthep greeted her like an old friend. She had come out for the same reason I had – to figure out what Nollthep’s business was, and after we all exchanged notes we realized we were all curious about the large thing moving around. Some of the orphans believed it to be Santa Claus, the gift-giving figure of Christmas, but Leanne (the baseball bat girl, as you probably guessed) and I both found that unlikely. Nollthep, in his simple way, was immediately convinced that Santa Claus was real once we’d explained it to him.

Our quarry wasn’t hard to find. Not far into the woods, we came across a clear set of large clawed footprints. I recognized them as belonging to something similar to the Tibetan Yetis or the mythic Sasquatch, strange as that may seem seeing as neither are native to wetland regions like Buxcord. We followed the tracks and quickly came upon a strange sight.

I’m sure you’ve at least seen pictures of Yetis, Sam, if not met one. Imagine one of those, but with its fur patterned to resemble a red winter riding suit with white trim. At its feet lay a man with a wounded leg and a dropped shotgun. Nollthep and I quickly leaped into action, while Lea hung back, gripping her bat tightly. Nollthep reached deep into a small bag as he ran at the yeti and drew out a bust that he proceeded to use as a club. I tried to tie the Yeti up in a Tangler, but the spell misfired and caught the wounded man instead. Cursing my haste, I ran up to drag the man back while Nollthep continued to gleefully exchange blows with the Yeti.

Lea called my attention to something moving among the trees, and once I got the man a safe distance from the fight, I took a closer look. While the Santa-patterned Yeti was weird, the three creatures watching us from the trees were downright creepy. At first glance, they looked like deer, but as looked longer it was obviously that they were not deer, and probably never had been. They had the right general shape and antlers, but their bodies were covered in chitin like an insect, including sheathes for bug-like wings. The three not-deer crept closer, and the nose of the lead one started to glow as they began making noises like cicadas from hell. I managed to weave up a lightning spell that went where I wanted, zapping the lead not-deer in the nose. The creatures fled, followed by the Yeti once it broke away from Tollthep.

I’m not good at healing magic even under the best circumstances, as you know, but the man’s leg was bleeding so much that I had to at least. The process was painful for him, but I succeeded in closing the wound without leaving much of a scar. He introduced himself as Professor Thomas and said he had been trying to capture or destroy the creatures after they’d escaped from the lab he worked in. He said his colleague, Case, had created the things as part of some harebrained scheme to make his daughter’s Christmas more magical. Nollthep became very interested at hearing the name Case and quickly agreed that we should accompany Thomas back to the lab to get more information.

When we arrived, we found found Professor Case in the middle of briefing a local private eye named Jim Burn. Case wanted Jim to try and capture the Yeti and not-deer alive. Jim seemed to share my group’s opinion that Case was a pure idiot for making the creatures in the first place, but he accepted the job and had no objections to us going along with him. Before we left, we interrogated Case why he’d made the things (as opposed to, say, hiring a professional Santa actor) and how he expected to keep them under control. Apparnetly, he’d based the designs on a crayon drawing his daughter had made, explaining why there were only three not-deer instead of the traditional eight from the Santa Claus myths (not that I’m complaining about that) and possibly why the “Santa” was a skvetchte Yeti. As to controlling the things, he claimed they wouldn’t hurt children – and I had to shut down Nollthep’s suggestion of using kids as a living shield – and that Case’s own voice was the only thing that would control them. Naturally, I insisted on Case accompanying us if that was the… the case. The professor resisted, saying he’d hired Jim so that he wouldn’t have to put himself at risk, until Lea somehow managed to put him into a kind of trance with just a few words and a smile. I’m not sure she was even aware she’d done anything special, but I resolved to keep on her in the future for the same reasons as Nollthep.

Professor Thomas, insisting the creatures needed to be eliminated, revealed that they shared a simple yet rather unusual weakness: contact with mistletoe would kill and dissolve them almost instantly.

With our plan set, everyone piled into a Jeep and drove out into the woods to seek the Santa-squatch. We found it and the not-deer with about as much ease as earlier, and Lea gave the enthralled Case a push toward them. Case tried to sing at the Yeti, but his voice failed him and the beast swatted him into a tree. With Plan A a predictable failure, we launched right into Plan B: Nollthep engaged the Yeti in hand-to-hand again while I tried to apply mistletoe to the not-deer. My initial efforts to move the plant around with magic resulted in accidentally zapping Lea with lightning – not a deadly amount, mind you, but enough to knock her down – so I decided that it mgith actually be less risky to just get hands-on about it. After getting the Yeti in a successful Tangler to give Nollthep a bit of help, I ran up and slapped the mistletoe on the nearest not-deer. The results were as Thomas had indicated, and not very pretty. One of the deer went after Lea, and Jim Burn put a bullet through its head. Lea went after the last not-deer, and must have unconsciously tapped into her magic again because the thing fell apart the moment she got a good grip on its hindquarters. Nollthep knocked the Yeti out, and Thomas applied some mistletoe to finish it off.

Case was summarily fired from the lab, and Nollthep graciously offered to take charge of him, all without the man regaining consciousness to give his consent. Thomas drove us all back to our respective residences (I’m currently staying at a hotel). Thomas thanked me personally for my help and offered me a place to stay if I needed it. I didn’t accept right away, but I’ll certainly keep him in mind.

‘Twas an odd night before Christmas, but I think I’ve found myself some folks I can depend on and avenues of investigation to explore on my quest to get back home.

With luck, I’ll be handing this letter and those to follow to you in person, but if not, then don’t you or the others worry too much about me.

-Ash

#MOTW #Vulpin plays

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sablelab · 5 years

Text

Covert Operations - Chapter 34

DISCLAIMER: This is a modern AU crossover story with Outlander and La Femme Nikita. LFN and its characters do not belong to me nor do those from Outlander.

SYNOPSIS: An unconscious Claire Beauchamp is taken to Madame Cheung’s sprawling, secluded residence. Meanwhile Jamie is worried that Claire has fallen off surveillance. What will he do when Section One loses contact with her?

Your support is much appreciated and THANK YOU for reading the last chapter of Covert Operations. I’m sorry that I shocked you a little with the underhand tactics used on poor Claire. Hopefully there will be no more shocks or will there be more? Previous chapters can be found ... https://sablelab.tumblr.com/covertoperations

CHAPTER 34

The helicopter flew over the rural hinterland and urbanized areas under development of the Sai Kung Peninsula in the New Territories. Many of Hong Kong’s residents made their way to this picturesque area for the weekend, and it was in this vicinity that the helicopter flew. The area of Clearwater Bay was their ultimate destination as this was where Madame Cheung’s sprawling, secluded summer residence was situated in an untamed and rough-contoured area of the peninsula.

In what seemed like no time at all the marked landing field came into view and the pilot put the appropriate landing procedures into action. Making its descent the helicopter came to rest on the helipad situated near the house and where two of Madame Cheung’s bodyguards were waiting for Oliver Chan and his unconscious passenger. Once the rotor blades had stopped turning the burly men approached the aircraft to retrieve their employer’s newest guest.

Helping a drugged Claire Beauchamp from the helicopter they placed her into the back seat of a waiting Rolls Royce.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

This was not an unusual occurrence for them; for they had seen many women come to this residence in a similar fashion. Madame Cheung left nothing to chance and it was better for the women to be drugged and be compliant than change their minds on the way to this secretive location. Furthermore it was a very necessary precaution to stop any potential assailants from following, trying to stop the women or more importantly finding the secret location of Madame Cheung’s residence. Once at her property she was then able to convince them of the rewards of joining her employ. Her business was after all the Rising Dragons’ business and no one messed with the wrath of the triad group if they knew what was good for them. All who worked for the triad had their mantra well and truly ingrained in their way of thinking.

Be cautious of its ruthless ways

This enigma to the night For the Dragon bears upon his wings A chilling tale of fright The Rising Dragon!

This new woman was just another one in a long line of candidates some of whom chose not to join Madame Cheung. Unfortunately those who were not amenable were disposed of before they had a chance to change their minds or realise the huge mistake they had made. Madame Cheung did not want indecisive people working for her. She catered for an exclusive clientele and she had a reputation to maintain on a lot of levels and not only that but she had to maintain “face”. That was so important in Chinese culture ... for to lose face was to admit a weakness, and she was anything but weak. Those women who did comply were treated well and lived the life of luxury with riches few would ever imagine. However, they were required to adhere to a code of silence … or suffer the consequences of their actions if they were to go against the triad. Madame Cheung was powerful but the Rising Dragons were more so.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Oliver Chan got into the Rolls Royce next to Claire, and as he sat down her body slumped towards him resting against his body as the driver proceeded toward the house. He straightened her back up in the seat, then Oliver looked at Claire with some feelings of guilt. However, those feelings were fleeting as he thought of the reception he would get from Madame Cheung when he delivered this alluring woman into her hands. He was in the business for better or worse now and Claire Beauchamp was to be his piece de résistance.

A sly smirk crossed his lips as he settled in for the ride to the house as thoughts of grandiose proportions floated around in his mind.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Meanwhile James Fraser was extremely worried at the loss of Claire from surveillance for some time and contacted Fergus at Section One to put in motion a broad search using all their facilities to find her.

”Fergus? Do ye have a trace on Claire?”

Alarm resonated in his voice when he replied,” Not yet … We seem to have lost her.”

This was not the answer Jamie was expecting and that was particularly evident in his voice as he replied to Section One’s techie. “Find her Fergus … Now!”

“I’m trying Jamie, but the tracker frequency has died.”

“Use the password for her clock frequency,” was Jamie’s other suggestion.

“Good idea … I’ll work on that.”

The young techie genius pulled up a series of sequences on his monitor and keyed in Claire’s data to activate the programme. Looking at the screen he waited until the monitor showed a map of Hong Kong and the surrounding islands. A small square outline soon drifted across the map before settling on the New Territories area where a small dot appeared.

With relief evident in his voice, Section’s techie alerted Jamie, “Okay, here you go. The area is the southern tip of Sai Kung Peninsula.”

This information was at least a start to pinpoint just where Claire may be but it was not nearly enough information for James Fraser. “Whereabouts on the peninsula?”

“Near Clearwater Bay. Looks like a couple kilometres outside the village of Poi Toi O.”

“Do we have anyone in that area?”

Fergus keyed new data into his computer and read the result that appeared. “I've got two Panda Teams in Shenzhen, China. They’re the closest to her but …”

“Patch me in.” Jamie replied without waiting for him to finish what he was saying. Time was of the essence and he was mindful that it was imperative that they move swiftly or else Claire may be in grievous danger.

Insistently Fergus replied, “… they are close but ... they have a situation in China.”

“Give me the co-ordinates … I'm on my way.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sometime later, as an unconscious Claire Beauchamp lay on a bed, her facial and arm muscles began to twitch as she started to come out of her drugged sleep. Opening her eyes as she awoke, Claire felt groggy and disoriented and slowly she tried to get up but could only lie there groaning. Rolling on the bed, half in and half out, she thrashed about trying to regain her equilibrium. Although it was obvious that she was suffering from the drug's side effects Claire had the presence of mind to activate her comm. Unit in order to alert Section to her whereabouts.

Her head ached and her mouth felt dry, and when she tried to stand up she was unable to keep her balance and fell back towards the bed.

“Is anybody there? Where am I?” she managed to utter softly … then a little louder called out again, “Jesus H Roosevelt Christ! Where am I?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Claire finally managed to get up again a little while later and wandered over to the window on the other side of the room which overlooked a small courtyard where roses were in full bloom. All of a sudden the sound of the door opening alerted her to the arrival of someone and she turned her head to see if it was Madame Cheung, however, when the door fully opened Oliver Chan appeared.

Standing just inside the room, he looked somewhat accountable as to what had happened to her before inquiring, “Are you feeling all right?”

“I'm fine. Where am I Oliver? Who are you really?”

”It's not important. I'm here to get you ready.”

“Ready? ...”

Moving away from the window she asked more lucidly, “Ready for what?”

“You're going to meet someone. We need to make sure you're coherent.”

“So, what are you then Oliver? A terrorist?”

“No.”

“You have brought me here under false pretences Mr. Chan. I want to know what is going on!”

“All in good time. Don’t be afraid Claire … what I promised you can be a reality … just wait and see.”

“Why should I trust you? Hmmm? You drugged me for God’s sake.”

Oliver Chan shook off Claire’s tirade ignoring what she had said, and started to back out of the room. “You seem to be clearheaded enough. I'll send someone up in five minutes. Freshen up,” and he left the room closing the doors behind him.

Meanwhile back at Section One...

“Wait Jamie … something’s happening.”

“What is it Fergus?”

“I’m getting a signal from Claire. She is trying to contact us.”

James Fraser closed his eyes in relief and put his comm. unit on to open frequency so that he too could hear the moment that Claire tried to make contact.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Looking around the room Claire activated her comm. unit once more trying to raise any signal that would show her that she had been successful in making contact with Section One

“Fergus are you there?”

Nothing!

No reply.

The drug Oliver Chan had injected her with was finally beginning to wear off. Her head was a little less fuzzy, and she was beginning to regain her thought faculties although still a little slower than she would like. Although she was to meet Madame Cheung at last, first things first, she needed to make contact with her surveillance and Claire continued trying to contact Section One as to her predicament.

She knew at this moment that she was on her own in a situation that they had not envisaged for there had been no reply. She tried again.

“Fergus ... are you there?”

As she did so her comm. unit finally buzzed with a voice dear to her ears.

“Cl-aire?”

There was no mistaking the Scottish brogue and the tenderness of her name rolled off her partner’s lips.

“Jamie?”

The sound of Claire’s voice was indeed a relief. “Where are ye?” he asked.

“I'm at Madame Cheung’s hideaway.”

“Are ye OK Sassenach?”

“Yes ... I’m ... fine Jamie. Chan drugged me and brought me here, but I don’t know exactly where.”

“It’s all right we have the coordinates.”

Suddenly Claire heard footsteps approaching her room. “Jamie … someone’s coming.”

“We've got your location, de-activate.”

They quickly severed communication.

As he took the comm. unit from his ear, Jamie’s concerned feelings were reflected in the way he pensively rubbed his chin and taped his fingers on the steering wheel of the BMW. Although he knew Claire could look after herself, his worry was the unknown quantity that was … Madame Cheung.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Follow me please,” bowed a beautiful Chinese girl who entered the room a short while later.

Claire looked up at her request, to see who had come into the room. “Where are we going?” she asked, but the girl merely smiled and left the room as quietly as she had entered it. Claire had no option but to follow the retreating back of the Chinese girl. They proceeded down a long corridor to a large open room with French windows that overlooked the garden that Claire had seen from the bedroom where she was.

“Please take a seat. Madame will be here shortly,” the girl said before she turned and left her alone in the room.

Claire watched her leave before quickly scanning the room then activating her comm. unit she contacted Jamie once more.

“Jamie, I'm in.”

“Did ye do a scan?”

“Yes ... The room is clean.”

“And the target?”

“Madame Cheung is about to come and meet me.”

“Keep on open channel then and we will monitor everything.”

“Okay.”

No sooner had Claire disconnected than she heard the sound of voices conversing in Chinese outside the room. Quickly she sat in a comfortable chair near the window with a view of the garden and waited for the target to arrive.

The door opened again.

“Good afternoon, my dear. I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

Claire immediately twirled around at the sound of a female voice. She looked up and came face to face with the only hierarchical woman member of the Rising Dragons triad. Surreptitiously appraising the target as she entered the room, what Claire saw was a far cry from what she thought she would see. Madame Cheung was a distinguished looking Chinese woman with dark hair and piercing eyes. Adorned with expensive jewellery, she had the air of sophistication about her.

“There’s nothing to be alarmed about,” she said, then calmly approaching where Claire sat Madame Cheung asked, “You are Claire?”

“Yes.”

“How nice to make your acquaintance,” the woman replied.

Her eyes covertly canvassed Claire Beauchamp from head to toe as the two women studied each other for a moment before Claire spoke, “Where am I? Why was I brought here?”

“You have been brought here by Oliver Chan at my request.”

“Why was I drugged?”

"I’m sorry my dear but that was necessary to protect me.”

“And … who are you?”

“My name is Madame Cheung and this is my home ... amongst other things.”

She moved further into the drawing room stopping next to a table and once more scrutinised the young woman in front of her. Madame Cheung’s steely eyes missed nothing. It was as if she had looked right through her. Claire did not reply but was observant of the woman too who was giving her the once over with eyes that sparkled with hidden meaning.

“Take off your clothes, Claire.” Madame Cheung nonchalantly requested without warning.

“What?” Was Claire’s flabbergasted reply.

“I said ... Take off your clothes.”

“Go to Hell!” Claire answered curtly.

“Well, you can remove them yourself, or I can call for assistance and have someone else remove them for you if you would prefer. The choice is yours.”

Madame Cheung watched Claire without twitching a muscle, as the young woman in front of her decided whether to respond to her request or not. She smiled satisfied when Claire jumped up and hastily removed her clothes although Madame Cheung could tell by her actions she was not happy with the request asked of her.

Standing there naked, Claire was non communicative while Madame Cheung’s eyes traversed her torso. “Hmmm! That’s enough ... Oliver was right,” she stated out loud. “You are a beauty. Now ... put your clothes back on before you catch cold.”

Claire Beauchamp gave her a steely look as she dressed. “Was that necessary?”

“Absolutely ... You see, Claire, you are here for a very special reason.”

“And that is?”

“Mutually exclusive business that will change your life, but I need something from you first. I need your compliance, and at this point no doubt ... you would inveigh against any request.”

"Why am I here?” Claire asked more determinedly.

“It's an orientation of sorts to see if we are compatible.”

“Compatible for what?”

“Why … for making money of course. You my dear could be my crown jewel.”

“I'm sorry. ... Who are you again?” Claire asked somewhat vexed.

“Someone unlike anyone you've ever met.” Madame Cheung stared at her unwaveringly while Claire held her look waiting for her to continue. “If you decide to go back to that five and dime nightclub my dear, you will have made the wrong decision and I will be extremely disappointed.”

“What is this all about?”

Moving closer to Claire she said, “Let me see your hand.”

With reluctance she placed her hand in Madame Cheung’s, who looked at it and ran her finger across the lines on Claire’s palm. “Hmmm … long lifeline … I see we are going to have a very fruitful relationship …” This imposing woman looked up into Claire’s puzzled blue eyes. “You'll fit in nicely to our work here.”

Pulling her hand from her grasp, Claire shot daggers at Madame Cheung as she continued to speak.

“Let me explain my dear … I’m sure we are going to work extremely well together and you are going to make us a lot of money.”

“But I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

“Oh, but you will!” She smiled knowingly. “Come now. I will order some Yum Cha and we will discuss how we will be mutually beneficial to one another.”

Madame Cheung clapped her hands and before too long Claire could hear voices outside the door once more. It opened and the Chinese girl who had escorted her to this room re-entered and looked directly at Madame Cheung.

“Yes Madame?”

“Ah … Lee … please bring some tea and something to eat for me and my guest … and ask Mr Chan to join us here.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Prepare the guest room as well and see that Miss Beauchamp has everything that she needs.”

“Certainly Madame Cheung. Will that be all?”

“For the moment.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

No sooner had the Chinese girl left the room than Madame Cheung again turned to Claire. Her countenance gave nothing away, although a smile crossed her face and her eyes watched Claire like a hawk.

“So my dear, did Oliver outline his proposal to you?”

“Ah … yes he did,” she replied.

“Well then … have you made a decision?”

“I would like to know exactly what would be required of me.”

“Certainly … to put it quite simply … you will be transformed into an even more beautiful young woman with the best of everything at your beck and call. The Rising Dragons triad will spare no cost in making you the most desirable woman on our books for my escort business caters for only the very best in society. The rich, powerful and influential men, who visit Hong Kong, often require the services of an intelligent and beautiful companion from time to time and that is where you will fit in.”

“I see.”

“Diplomats and businessmen always pay generously for conversation and companionship with a beautiful young woman such as yourself.”

“Is that all?”

“You will of course, be paid most handsomely for exclusive and discreet gentlemen to have the pleasure of your company at functions and … privately on occasion,” she added with a slightly contained grin on her face.

“Will I be required to have sex with these men?” Claire asked in all seriousness.

“That decision is for you alone my dear, you may choose to do so or you may not. It is entirely up to you. However, having said that, from time to time there are special requests from some of our clientele, but no one is forcing you to do anything against your free will.”

“But … I was brought here...”

Interrupting her query Madame Cheung continued. “Drugging you was a necessary precaution Claire … but you did come voluntarily after Oliver had outlined his proposal to you at the nightclub. Did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, when you have had a chance to think things over, I’m sure you will come to the right decision ... Until then you will remain here as my guest and we shall begin your transformation.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ to be continued

#jamie and claire #outlander fanfic #jamie x claire fanfic #covert operations #the lallybroch library #jamieandclairecrossover

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blastron01 · 7 years

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Ascendance of a Bookworm – 053

The Beginning of Winter

The day after I breathed a sigh of relief upon coming home, I head to Benno's shop, accompanied by Lutz. Although the first sprinkle of snowflakes has started to fall, it's imperative that I both inform Benno about my recovery and give him my thanks before the snow really starts to pile up, so I'm forced to leave my house.

"Master Benno's been wondering if you'd been pressured into something, or if you'd been recruited out from under him. He's been really worried about you." "Ahh, I kept praying for him to come save me, I wonder if he heard me?"

When I was trapped in Freida's house, I'd silently called for him, over and over, to come and save me. Maybe he picked it up on some strange wavelength?

As I hum thoughtfully to myself, head tilted to the side in contemplation, Lutz scowls at me with a somewhat dissatisfied expression.

"...What about me?" "Huh?" "Didn't you pray for me to come save you too?"

When I look at Lutz's wounded expression, I just want to leap forward and tickle him without saying anything. Thinking about that makes me smirk, entirely unintentionally, and Lutz starts pouting even harder.

"Why are you laughing?!" "I mean, you really did come and save me, didn't you?" "Huh?"

Lutz freezes, startled, like a deer in the headlights, and I can't help but laugh out loud.

"Lutz, didn't you tell Freida that I'd get a fever if I was too active? Thanks to that, I got to sleep soundly, so I didn't have to sit through dinner, which meant I didn't have to listen to another sales pitch and feel bad about it... you really saved me!" "Heh heh, oh really?"

Lutz smiles proudly, gripping my hand a little tighter, then moves a half-step ahead of me. Maybe he thinks that if he can block a little bit of the wind that's hitting me, there won't be as much snow falling on my head.

"Good afternoon," I say, upon reaching Benno's shop. "Ah, Maïne," replies Mark. "I am overjoyed to see that you're well again."

The inside of Benno's shop is both lively and warm. When Mark saw the two of us enter the shop, breathing little sighs of relief, he quickly came over to greet us. It seems to me that, even though the snow has started to fall, the number of people coming and going hasn't decreased a bit, even though I'm hearing that some workshops have already closed down for the winter.

I murmur this to myself, looking around the store, and Mark smiles down at me.

"That's because this shop still sells things during the winter," he says. "Oh, is that so?" I reply.

Since the days during which the snowstorms make it impossible to move around only increase as the winter goes on, I'd thought that people here lived in such a way that would make it impossible to spend money. It seems that I was wrong.

"When the noblemen are shut indoors by the snow, they have a lot of free time to spend. Their purse strings slacken a surprising amount for the sake of finding things to stave off their boredom." "Ah, I see, entertainment, huh..."

I can't make a game console, but things like trumps, karuta, hanafuda, sugoroku, and other familiar card games start bouncing around in my head. If I have the spare time to do so, maybe it would be a good idea to try making something like that.

Lutz tugs firmly on my sleeve. "Did you just think of something?" "Something that would really be better if we had paper."

It's possible that I could make card games work with very thin, wooden cards. However, that would require the skill to slice wood very thinly, as well as cut them to approximately the same thickness and size. It would be relatively simple to accomplish if I were to get someone skilled in woodworking to do it for me, but since we're operating under the premise of "I'll think of it and Lutz will make it", I at least don't want to make these until after our baptismal ceremony.

I wonder if Lutz actually can make thin sheets?

Besides, I have yet to actually see any evidence of paints in this world. Since I know dyes exist, it's not unreasonable to think that paints might too, but there's nothing in my house that could possibly be used to paint playing cards.

For something like Othello or shogi, though, we might be able to make it work with just ink and a board. When it comes to the most ways to play with something, though, playing cards are number one.

While I mumble to myself, deep in thought, I'm led into the office, where Benno abruptly leans in close to look at me.

"Maïne, you're all better now, right?" "Whoa?! Y... yes," I say, blinking quickly. "I'm sorry for making you worry."

Even with my reassurances, Benno still looks at me with deep suspicion, and won't stop scrutinizing my face.

"Master Benno," says Lutz, "she's fine. She was just thinking about something, there's nothing wrong with her health." "If you say so," he replies.

Perhaps Lutz's words finally convinced him, as he suddenly turns away, walking to a table over by the fireplace. He sits down, letting out an enormous, heavy sigh.

"Those magic tools were something that old bastard had gathered up, and he said he had to be extremely persistent in order to get that many of them, so I had to gamble on whether or not he'd actually let you use one of them, but..." "Ah, he tried to force me to work at his shop. If I hadn't had enough money to pay him, he'd have wanted me to transfer over to his shop, you know, to pay off the debt?" "Debt... well, that's to be expected. But, it looks like you had the money?"

He grins a wide, triumphant grin. I nod at him, laying out the facts of the trap that the guild master and Freida had laid out for me.

"Yes, sir. For the use of the magic tool, the guild master quoted the price to you as one small gold and two large silver coins, but the actual cost was two small gold and eight large silver coins, so―" "That old bastard!" shouts Benno, roughly scratching his head in frustration. "I just barely had enough money to cover it, which was a relief. It looked like the two of them were not expecting me to have the necessary funds, and were quite shocked."

As I continue explaining, Benno is momentarily taken aback, then murmurs to himself, "that's right, I did increase her information fee..."

He smiles broadly. "Well, if it gave those two a shock then that's alright with me. However, be careful around those two. If you keep hanging around them like you do with your complete lack of a sense of danger, they'll gobble you right up."

I, with my complete lack of a sense of danger, had made what I'm pretty sure was a pretty grievous mistake, but I think it should be best to tell Benno about it. However, as I start thinking about that, I find myself wanting to delay the scolding that's inevitably coming, and can't stop myself from picking the most roundabout way to broach the subject.

"Umm, Mister Benno. I have a question. What kind of sweets are common around here?" "What do you mean?"

I flinch as he glances at me with his reddish-brown eyes, and start adding to my explanation.

"Well, sweet things are rare at my home, and are just things like honey and fruits, and then paru during the winter." "Ah, that's right." "...So, y-yes. Mister Benno. This is a little off-topic, but Freida had sugar at her house. Is that particularly unusual?"

Considering that there's no sugar for use in cooking around my house, I think that it would likely be something that would have only spread amongst the upper classes. Even still, I want to ask someone who knows things about its distribution, if possible, hopefully be told that it's something that's actually pretty common for the majority of the town and it's just that my family is too poor to buy it, or something like that.

Of course, there's no chance that the answer will actually match my fervent desire.

"Hm, it's rather unusual around here. It's only recently started to be imported from foreign countries, and it's gathered quite a lot of popularity in the royal capital and amongst the nobility, but... wait. You. Did you do something again?!"

Seeing as how I'm already guilty of so many things, Benno almost immediately notices my scheme. His eyebrows go straight up.

"Um, I made a kind of sweet called 'pound cake', and they seemed to really latch onto it..." "Oh, that!" says Lutz. "That was super tasty. It was really moist, and it melted in my mouth, and it was the first time I had something sweet like... wait, Maïne!"

Although sugar has started circulating amongst the nobility, it seems that there aren't enough kinds of sweets being made to consider this place as having anything of a pastry cuisine. A pound cake is a very simple, orthodox cake, but there's no mistake: I overdid it.

The two of them glare at me, and I am, as expected, filled with the sense that I've done something terrible.

"Why in the world would you, confronted by carnivorous animals, stick your head out of the bushes like that?! Isn't it obvious that you'd be devoured in an instant!"

If pound cake has gotten him so enraged, then I can take some small comfort in having not instead made sponge cake or shortcake. Sure, that's because I was nervous about the scales and that wood-fired stove, but, ultimately, that saved me.

"I mean," I say, "I'd promised Freida that I'd make sweets with her, and I was trying to think of a way that I could show her my thanks―" "If you wanted to thank her, your money is good enough!"

What Benno is saying lines up nearly with what Freida had said to me earlier. To merchants here, once you've completed your transaction, anything beyond that is unnecessary.

"Urgh, Freida said that to me too." "Again?! What do you do when the person you're negotiating tells you these things? Didn't I already tell you to make sure if your opponent is actually okay losing?"

Noooooo! I have no learning ability at all. Although, isn't it only natural to want to give thanks to someone who just saved your life?

"I just wanted to thank her for saving my life..." "So, in other words, the fact that her old bastard of a grandfather just deceived you fell right out of your empty head, did it?" "Ngh..."

I'm at a loss for words after that. I can't deny that, in the end, since I had the money, they saved my life. However, if I hadn't had enough, and I'd been forcefully pulled away from Benno's shop to work at the guild master's, I'm sure my feelings would have been more complicated.

"...Seriously, since you have the devouring, they can't really bank on having you for any real length of time, so they've been going easy on you. If they were serious, you'd have been acquired long before you even noticed it. Don't do anything to explicitly get yourself caught."

Ah, I see, I think I understand a little more clearly now. I'd been thinking that these traps they were spreading out to try to recruit me were a little too easy. It seems that they've only just been poking at me, since I'm someone who'll either get crushed by the devouring or have to enter into a contract with a nobleman.

"Umm, when you say they'd acquire me before I noticed it, what would that look like?" "The simplest thing for them would be to approach your parents and lay the groundwork there. There's no way that they'd refuse someone offering to become your patron. They'd attack you from there, after your baptism, sending over an associate to say they'll take care of you from now on, and without you even knowing about it you'll suddenly be engaged to their son. The only reason they haven't done that yet is because they don't know whether or not they'll still have you after a year." "That's, that's terrifying!"

I tremble, goosebumps covering my arms. Benno looks at me in amazement.

"You finally got it? Looks like there's a limit to your lack of fear. ...So, you just delivered them this dessert?"

I tilt my head to the side, not really understanding the meaning of his question, then explain how Freida and I made it together.

"No, I don't have the physical strength in order to be able to make sweets, so I explained the process to Freida's household chef and she helped us make it. They had a lot of white flour, and sugar, and even a wood oven in their house, it was amazing!" "Yes, amazing, amazing! So, in other words, you gave them the entire recipe..."

Benno has his head in his hands, a sight that makes me rather anxious. I had no idea whatsoever that a cake I made just to show my thanks could make such enormous waves.

"Er, did I do something wrong?" "You gave away something that could be sold to the nobility for free. You're an idiot, aren't you?"

To be perfectly honest, I have no idea what gets sold to the nobility and what goes to the working class. I get that a cake recipe is something that's worth some money, though. I should be more careful in the future.

"Urgh... So if that's the case, then would it be okay if I taught a chef here how to make it so we can sell it here too? There's no way they could have started selling it by now..." "Acquiring sugar is still difficult."

Benno gives me a clearly disgusted look when I suggest that everything might be okay if we could get it to market first. Giving me that look doesn't help the problem, though. Acquiring sugar isn't my domain. That's Benno's job, the man who does business far and wide.

"Well, I guess I'd better give up for now, then. If you can find a cook with easy access to sugar and an oven, I'll give you the recipe to 'pound cake' for free!" "...From the way you're talking, it sounds like there's more."

Benno, having caught on immediately, looks at me, but all I've got are recipes that you can't make work without any sugar. Even if I were to tell him, there wouldn't be any meaning to it. I, having recently been taught how recipes for sweets could be quite valuable, puff up my chest and turn my head away towards the door.

"Any more will cost you," I say. "Show them that stubbornness!" "...I'll do my best," I say, slumping dejectedly.

I am not at all used to having things I've done out of good will turned into raw calculation, but since this is what the world of merchants is like, I have no choice but to get used to it.

"Is that all you had to tell me?" "Ah, no. This is much more personal information, but I'm unable to leave my house in the winter, and I won't be able to come to the shop until spring. Please don't worry about me."

Benno and Mark, who've become overprotective after I collapsed right in front of them, are both here. Although I'm sure that even if I didn't come to the shop there wouldn't be any problems with managing the store, but it would be bad for me to make them worry about my health again, so I think I need to make this statement.

"Unable to leave your house, you say?" "If I do, I'll be stuck in bed again." "Hmm? Didn't you say you'd be helping Otto, though?"

It seems that Benno somehow got the idea that I'd be going to the gates frequently during the winter, but that's not quite right. There's no way my family would let me do something that reckless.

"Ummm, only on clear days, when my health is good, and my father is working either the morning or the day shift. I don't think that'll be more than ten times over the course of the winter." "...Will you really be able to hold down a job after your baptism?" he asks. "That's something I worry about every day," I reply.

Benno, deeply concerned, may have asked me that question, but I'm really the one with questions for him. Is there work that I can actually do?

"Well, it's good that you're thinking about it so hard. So then, how are you planning to deliver your winter handiwork? As the spring baptismal ceremony starts coming around, it would be a big help to have some stock here at the shop."

We'd previously discussed delivering our merchandise in full when spring came around, but it seems like that won't be in time for the spring baptismal ceremony. It also appears that he doesn't have much stock left from what we rushed to create for the winter ceremony.

Lutz cheerfully raises his hand. "I can bring them," he says, "depending on the weather. Clear days are for picking paru, so I can come to the shop on cloudy days, I guess?" "Ahh, paru, huh... I miss it. Paru juice is such a treat for children."

Benno smiles wistfully. Perhaps even Benno used to go picking paru back in the day? I smirk, suddenly imagining Benno splitting his spoils of war with Corinna. Lutz, sitting next to me, thinks about gathering paru for a moment, then gets a sly grin.

"I'm definitely going to eat parucakes this year too," he says. "...Parucakes?" says Benno, dubiously. "What might those be?"

I start thinking of what the world would be like if the recipe for parucakes got out, then suddenly break into a cold sweat.

"Ahh, Lutz. How about we keep that recipe a secret, alright? Otherwise we won't be able to get any paru anymore."

The dried-up pomace left over after squeezing all the juice out of a paru isn't something that humans can eat. It's animal food. People, believing that, bring those rinds to Lutz's family, trading lots of it in exchange for fresh eggs. However, if word of its usefulness were to spread, then paru pomace would likely be very valuable. In that case, I'd have caused a huge hassle for everyone expecting to be able to use it to feed their livestock.

"Okay. It'll just be ours to enjoy, then!" "Yeah, let's leave it just between us."

When it comes time to head home from Benno's, snow has started to pile up, bit by bit, on the sides of the road. I look upon the signs that a full-blown can't-leave-the-house winter has finally started, and breathe a small sigh.

"Looks like the days I can't go outside have started, huh." "...Yeah, you're right."

Lutz nods slightly, looking down at the snow accumulating on the road. Karla, his mother, had told me that the mood around the house wasn't great. Lutz, the reason behind it, must be feeling that pressure even more. Winter, when everyone's locked inside their homes, must be an especially harsh season for him.

"Hey, Lutz. Come over to my house every few days, okay? Bring your studying stuff and any pins you've got finished."

The only thing I can offer him is a little room to breathe. Since it looks like Lutz's family treats him harshly every day, and he can't leave his house without good reason, it seems like it would be good for him to use his discretion about how many pins he should bring at a time.

Lutz's expression opens up a little at my suggestion. "Yeah, I'll do that," he says. "Thanks."

As the days of snowstorms continue, fewer and fewer people walk the roads. To endure the bitter cold, people refrain from going outdoors, passing the time away inside their homes.

Since my father's a soldier at the gates, even though it's wintertime he can't take a vacation from work, just like last year. Even during snowstorms he still has to work, so it's rare for him to be home.

At home, Tuuli works diligently on making hairpins whenever she has time. Since she knows for sure that this will bring in money, she works even more seriously at this than she did with weaving baskets last year. My mother, still showing interest in our winter handiwork, has to put making clothes for the family her higher priority. Since my baptismal ceremony is this year, she said, making me a good dress is her first task.

"Altering Tuuli's dress from last year won't work, now, will it?"

Tuuli, over the last year, grew even more. By summer, her dress had already started getting a bit tight. As such, she'd barely worn it. Altering it to fit me, though, wouldn't actually save all that much labor, it seems?

"Your sizes are way too different, so altering this would be a huge task!"

My mother, troubled, smiles wryly as she says this. Ordinarily, nice dresses aren't something you have to make a lot of. If there's sisters in the family, it's especially common for there to be hand-me-downs. However, Tuuli and I are very different sizes. When Tuuli was just turning seven in time for her baptism, she already looked like she was about eight or nine. I, however, still look like I'm four or five. Wearing the same clothing as her is, frankly, impossible.

When I try it on, standing in the light of the stove, it drapes loosely off my shoulders and down my sides, the knee-length skirt hanging around my ankles.

"Hmm..." I say. "Although, if we take the hem and take it in like this we could hide the length, and then if we pleat it like this it would be cute, I think, wouldn't it? Then how about we decorate the areas around the stitches with little flowers?" "Maïne, that's not just alteration," laughs Tuuli as I stand there holding my hem in a pleat. "That sounds really extravagant!"

It seems like they're saying that since our sizes are so different, they're going to alter the dress by undoing all the stitching, cutting it down to my size, and resew it entirely. It seems my suggestion of hemming it up to hide the actual length of it is practically heresy.

I'm pretty sure this is the part where I'd rather not get scolded for doing something unnecessary.

"Oh, is it? If it's too showy, then I guess we should skip that. I guess I was just thinking that if we just took it in like this, then when I start getting bigger we could just let it back out again..."

The only people who can use extra cloth like this are the kinds of people with lifestyles where they can afford it. Nobody who isn't rich wears clothing with pleats in it, nor can they afford to add too many decorations, either. That's why Tuuli's dress had been made exactly to her size. Even if we're only adding pleats to make it fit me, it'll still wind up standing out a lot.

My mother, who has kept her mouth shut during this, seems to have come alive with a strange eagerness. She grabs me firmly by the shoulders, smiling broadly.

"...Let's try doing it like you say, Maïne. If it doesn't work, we can always do it the regular way. Right?"

Ah. Crap. I got my mother fired up. She's... not going to stop, even if I tell her the regular way's just fine, is she? I'm already going to be way busier than I was last year, between making my own hairpins, tutoring Lutz, and cooking, though.

Of course, there's nowhere for me to run away from my overeager mother. At some point, while standing in front of the stove, wearing nothing but that nice summer dress, and holding it up while my mother pins it together, I, thanks to my frailty, catch a cold.

Achoo!

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#honzuki #honzuki no gekokujou

166 notes · View notes

brothers-all · 7 years

Text

Echoy'la (Lost)

Here we go everyone! This one is.. long. But a lot happens! I just really, really, REALLY hope I don't disappoint in this one, cause that's been the biggest fear for the past two days. Like, building up the hype and all, and the just kinda... meh. SO I just, hope very much you all like this one.

Okay, so, yeah, read, review and (hopefully) enjoy!

Chapter 8 Or'parguur (Hate)

He hated how quiet it was… A ship should never be this quiet. Especially a Separatist one that was being infiltrated like this. And yet…

"I got a bad feeling about this…" he heard Boil mutter as they moved through the halls, following the two Jedi.

"You and me both…" Cody answered back, tightening his grip on his weapon. He tried not to think about what condition they'll find their brothers in. Or, who they'll find. Already lost one. He hated himself, how he wished it wasn't Rex. How selfish he was being, for wanting another brother to die, so this one could live. But he really couldn't help it. He's known Rex for so long now and they've been through so much.

"Get ready," they stopped in front of the door leading to the bridge. The General and Commander had both reached for their lightsabers, sharing a quick look.

"You heard him," Cody felt his heartrate quicken as everyone took hold of their weapons.

Skywalker gave a nod right before opening the door, running in with his lightsaber drawn, Tano right behind him. The clones moved instantly, following up, ready to shoot.

"General Skywalker," they heard him speak, standing on the bridge with his back to them. It was dark, save for the few lights near the door and the ones coming off the monitors.

"How kind of you to join us," he smirked as he turned around. His powers were flying all over the place, not even bothering to try and contain it. He was mocking them.

"This ends now, Dooku!" Anakin pointed his saber at the man, fire in his eyes.

"Why in such a rush? You've hardly arrived," the smirk never left and his hands were still behind his back.

"I've left my boys with you for too long. We'd hate to be a bother," the General tried at some snarky comments, but the soldiers by his side only tensed.

"On the contrary. We've all enjoyed each other's company," Anakin quickly lost his wittiness, eyes going hard.

"Where are our brothers?" Ahsoka actually spoke up, eyes glaring at the Count.

"I hadn't realized you were related," the Sith's smirk just kept growing.

"Tell us where they are and we'll be on our way," Anakin was trying to work around the uneasiness he was feeling. The soldiers were tense, the Padawan was losing control and the Count was far too relaxed. Something inside told him strike now, before the horrible feeling he had managed to fully manifest.

"Certainly Skywalker," Dooku gave a mock bow. "Everyone, if you'd please. There is someone who wishes to speak to you."

The Jedi felt a tremor in the Force as fives figures stepped forward from the dark. Five very familiar figures. And yet, the Force around them was twisted; dark and menacing.

"…Boys?" Ahsoka was the first to regain her voice, frozen at the sight.

Rex and Fives were both standing a bit away from the Count, one on each side. Kix and Cinder walked up to them from the left and right side, while Jesse came up from behind. But there was something very, very wrong here…

"Rex, what's going on?" Anakin asked carefully, eyes going from one man to the other.

"…" the Captain remained quiet, yet his eyes – all of their eyes. Skywalker needed a second to check if he saw right. They were glowing in rage and he could have sworn he saw a shimmer of yellow on the edges.

"Captain, why don't you tell the good Jedi what you have realized," the five missing men tensed up as each one took a step forward.

"Rex!" Cody called, his blaster aimed at the blonde. "What the kriff are you doing?!"

"…You don't see it, Cody," Rex spoke, sorrow and sadness in his eyes. "They've been lying to us - to all of us! - all this time," his expression changed to anger as he looked at the Jedi.

"What are you talking about?" Ahsoka asked, trying to control her emotions.

"We're talking about the Jedi," Fives said this time, a deep scrawl on his face. "And how they've always lied. Everything they say are lies!" he pointed a finger at the two.

"Stand down Fives!" Anakin shifted his saber to a blocking formation.

"No! We're done listening to you!" Jesse hissed, taking a step forward.

"Calm down, all of you!" Appo said yet readied himself as well.

"You don't see it yet, but you will," Kix looked guilty as he prepped his weapon.

"Snap out of it! You're not yourselves!" Boil kept looking from brother to brother.

"No, you're wrong! We just know the truth now!" Cinder was shaking as he too his aim.

"What have you done to them?!" Skywalker turned his eyes on the Count, who never stopped smirking.

"I have done nothing, Skywalker. Simply showed them the truth of your actions," the Sith had a gleam in his eyes as he spoke.

Anakin let out a low growl, before moving forward, saber above him and planning to strike the Count down right there and then. But just before he could hit the Sith, two lightsabers stopped his in its tracks. And they were both blue.

"What the-?!" everyone watched in disbelieve as Fives and Rex blocked the attack, each carrying a lightsaber.

"Time to pay for your crimes, Jedi!" behind them, another one was activated and Jesse did a few quick swipes with the weapon, his own glowing green.

Tup tensed up, looking at his missing brothers, fearing another one would pull out a lightsaber. But they didn't. Seems like only those three had them.

"Where did you get those?" Anakin gritted his teeth as he tried to push past the two sabers, but he couldn't. He didn't want to hurt his men and they clearly knew how to use the weapon. But he never-

"A parting gift from General Grievous. It's remarkable really, how they've subtly been studying and learning the way you Jedi move," Dooku didn't even flinch from the deadly weapons inches away from his face. "And they aren't even aware of it."

The three were locked in a stalemate for a few moments, before Anakin jumped back. He can't fight his own men – he won't. As soon as he was away, the saber-wielding clones moved forward again, striking.

"Jesse! Stop!" Ahsoka called, blocking the attack. From the corner of her eye, she saw Boil moving around Kix, trying not to hurt him.

"I'll stop when you're dead!" he pressed harder, but she used a bit of the Force to gain some leverage and rolled out of the way. Her Master was backing away from Fives and Rex, his eyes pinning down Dooku who was far too amused.

"Commander!" her momentary distraction gave Jesse the chance to recover and he was back to attacking. But before he could actually connect, Tup fired his carbine rifle, getting his attention. She saw the two look at each other in shock, but the rookie swallowed and readied himself again.

"Don't do this Tup…" Jesse clearly didn't want to fight him, but was willing to if need be.

"I'm not the one who's wrong!" she can't imagine what it's like for the poor kid, fighting against older brothers he's always looked up to.

"Commander, go help the General! I can handle this!" he called to her and for the first time since this whole fiasco started, he sounded sure of himself.

"I'm counting on you!" she nodded back and rushed to her Master's side.

"They're controlling you, Tup! Can't you see that?" Jesse hissed, glaring at the retreating Jedi. But as soon as he tried to move, a blaster blot hit the spot next to him.

"Dooku's the one controlling you!" the rookie was at such a loss here. Never, in his wildest dreams, did he expect to do this. Not again. Umbara was enough for all their short life.

"He's the one who showed us the truth!" the ARC ran forward, saber ready to swing.

Tup actually froze there, breath hitching as his body wouldn't listen. How was this happening? How was he facing a brother like this?

Jesse saw the younger one freeze and something in his mind just… clicked. He stopped in front of the rookie, eyes hard and jaw locked.

"I'm sorry about this, Tup," he whispered and punched the rookie in the chest, effectively knocking him to the ground. "But you need to let us finish this."

"Cinder, snap out of it!" Appo dodged the blaster and aimed his weapon.

"I don't want to hurt you!" the kid was shaking as he held the weapon and his expression showed just how conflicted he was. "But I can't let them win!"

"The Jedi aren't our enemies! They came here to save you!" the Sergeant narrowed his eyes.

"No, they came to finish the job! They're lying to you!" Cinder yelled and fired again, clearly aiming to incapacitate not kill.

"Damn kid, stop!" Appo hissed, firing back himself but missing as the younger clone ducked.

"You'll see. He'll show you. Then you'll understand," the rookie called, voice still shaking as he took aim again. But before he actually could, someone crashed into him, sending them both to the ground.

"Too harsh," Appo panted, seeing Boil almost growling.

"He wouldn't listen!" the 212th man caught his breath, just as Kix and Cinder picked themselves up.

"You'll regret that!" the medic wiped away some of the blood on his lip.

"Already do…" Boil readied himself as Kix tried to blast him again, but he kept inching closer.

"Stay down kid. You can't win this," the Sergeant said as Cinder aimed again.

"I can't do that. I need to help my brothers."

Anakin was losing ground quickly and he really wasn't seeing many more options than to fight. He never expected clones to be so good at wielding a Jedi weapon, but then again, if they really have been learning his moves, it shouldn't come as such a surprise.

He had just blocked a stab from Fives when he saw Rex swinging in from his flank. But before it got anywhere, a yellow saber intervened, stopping the attack. A green one also pushed Fives back and Skywalker saw Ahsoka standing by his side.

"Thanks Snips," he nodded, finally having a second to catch his breath.

"Take out the Count. I'll take care of our boys," she didn't even look at him, keeping her gaze locked with the anger in Rex's eyes.

"…Are you sure?" he asked as he saw Fives recovering, glaring at them both.

"He has to be controlling them. They're fighting their brothers! They would never do that," she sounded so sure, that he had no words to argue.

"Alright then. Just be careful," he nodded and cast his eyes past the soldiers, to the Sith still standing with his hands behind his back.

"Same to you," she gave a final smile before having to block an attack from Fives. In that moment, Skywalker jumped over them, bringing his lightsaber out at the same time and connecting with the red one of the Count.

"Let me thank you for your hospitality!" Anakin frowned as he pressed down, finally seeing the older man frown a bit.

Tup had been knocked down and he saw Jesse coming up on the Commander, who was already dealing with two lightsaber-wielding-brothers. He wasn't about to let her go against all three. So, he fired, locking his jaw and steeling his nerves. And he hit.

Jesse let out a howl, gripping his left shoulder where a scorch mark was from his blaster and Cody quickly ran forward, blasting at the other two as well. Fives backed away, looking more betrayed than he felt, but Rex deflected the blaster bolts, much like a Jedi would.

"Cody!" the Captain called, shock in his voice. "Don't interfere!"

"You're making a mistake, Rex! I'm not about to stand around and let you finish it!" he bit back, standing back to back with Tano.

"Thanks," he heard her whisper and allowed himself to smile.

"We can't get close enough with those lightsabers… Do you think you could disarm them?" he asked carefully as his brothers seemed to recover from his intervention. Jesse was still in pain, his was apparently ignoring it as he inched closer.

"I might need a few seconds to concentrate," she answered back, preparing her weapon.

"Understood," he nodded and in moment, pulled a smoke bomb from his belt. He caught a glimpse of the Jedi concentrating before the bomb connected with the ground and surrounded all five of them in smoke.

She had been grateful for Cody's actions and she'd make most of it now. The moment she saw him reaching for the smoke bomb, she concentrated on the Force. It was wild, jumping all around the place, distraught… It shimmered around her allies, it growled around her confused brothers, it roared around her Master and it burned with the Count. But she has to look past most of it, to the growling…

She saw the saber through the smoke and threw her hands up, putting all her strength into the Force. She may be strong, but these were three grown man in full body armor. Even her Master might have some problems with that. But she ignored the pain in her arms, gritting her teeth, struggled to lift them. But she managed. With a deep breath, she focused on their arms, the weapon in them and tore it away from their hold.

There was a yell as she abruptly dropped them, unable to keep up the hold. They crashed, their armor hitting the metal floor with a loud clang and crushing the sabers and she herself dropped to her knees, exhausted. But as she moved the Force, he also moved the smoke and unfortunately Cody. He managed to duck, but the strength of the pull still left him slightly dizzy. Once the smoke cleared, she saw Jesse had landed not-so-elegantly on his back, Fives was picking himself up from his knees and Rex was already standing.

"…Rex…" she whispered, seeing the hate in his eyes as he glared at her. It was so wrong, so strange and it hurt her. "Vod…" she tried as he walked closer, his dual blasters out.

"Don't you dare call me that," he hissed, leveling the guns with her head.

"…Go ahead," she said, looking into his hated eyes. "If you truly believe I'd ever hurt you, or your brothers," she wanted to say 'my brothers' so badly, but she knew she couldn't. Not at this moment. "Then pull the trigger," she didn't move, made no attempt to stop him. Only watched. Somewhere, inside, she knew it was wrong. She should fight. But this was her brother – she just couldn't! In the back of her head, a voice whispered so silently, she might have missed… Trust the Force… Trust him. And so she did…

He felt his heartrate spike as he walked over to the Padawan. He's been in an almost identical situation once before. With Krell.

Right your wrongs… Kill this traitor. The voice has been stronger ever since they've come here, but it flickered every now and then. As if it wasn't focused. And as he stood in front of her, his weapon raised, he saw she didn't plan to fight. She had accepted death.

An execution. He locked his jaw as he recalled what happened on Umbara. How he didn't have the courage to kill the bastard. But now? Now he does.

…Do I really?

His own voice whispered, in the back of his mind. The other one was silent now; busy it seemed with… something. He felt like he should know, but wasn't sure. He hadn't even noticed his arm was shaking as he pointed it at the Jedi.

Pull the trigger. Rid the world of another monster. Save your vode. The word sounded strange with the voice… it didn't fit. But it did make him remember something. Vode. She… she was also his sister – everyone's sister. He'd be killing a vod…

"Rex…?" her voice brought him back and he was still standing there, arm shaking, unable to move or speak. But her voice and eyes both showed hope.

Before he could do anything, or anyone else could speak, he felt something ram into him, knocking him to the ground. Moments later, he realized it was a someone, as they sat on his chest, their arms keeping his at bay.

"REX!" he saw it was Cody, who was now forcing his body to be still. "STOP!"

They looked at each other for a few seconds, one brother in shock and hate, the other with sadness and frustration.

"Get off me Cody!" Rex tried to rise up, but the Commander held him still.

"No! Not until you see what you're doing!" Cody slammed him back into the ground.

"I'm saving my brothers!" Rex hissed and pushed again, gaining leverage with his legs and managed to turn their positions around.

"You're not saving anyone!" the elder clone head-butted him, getting leverage himself and pushing the younger one off.

Rex shook his head, the edges of his vision blurring. There were screams all around him, but he couldn't tell which ones were real and which were from the past. Blaster fire rang in his ear, the calls of his brothers. He heard laughing as lightsabers activated and the cries as brothers fell.

"You don't understand!" he yelled and ran forward, hitting Cody with his shoulder and knocking him into a wall. More yells as they realized what they've done. What Krell made them do. The explosion in the background as he knocked a brother to the side to save his life, but two more didn't make it. The Jedi, laughing in the background, mocking.

"Then make me understand!" Cody sucked in a breath before bringing up his leg, kicking the blonde in the chest. "Because this makes no sense to me!"

Someone was screaming again. A brother. The yell. An echo. No… Echo. The Citadel flashed in his mind, how little the Jedi really cared about them. Tano walking around, checking on them. Asking. She talked to Fives. Why-?

"How many deaths could have been avoided of the Jedi cared!" Rex wasn't even sure of his surroundings anymore. Where he was. On a ship? Planet side? Training ground? Everything was blurring together, but the man in front of him was constant. Cody. Brother. He needs to understand. Make him understand.

Cody was starting to have enough. So when his brother tried for a punch to the chest, he managed to grab his arm and hold it steady. The shock on Rex's face spoke for itself, but he focused on his legs instead. He used his own to knock the blonde on his back, getting into the same position as when they started.

"The Jedi aren't to blame!" he yelled, still holding the Captain's arm. "I know you don't believe that!" he hesitated only for a second, because this was going to hurt his brother more than any weapon ever could. "Know why? Because of these!" he twisted the arm he was holding, almost shoving the forearm guard into the man's face. "Because of those marks! You told me and only me what they really mean!" he saw Rex's eyes move to the numerus scratches on his armor. "The deaths of all your brothers! You don't blame the Jedi for those deaths, you blame yourself!"

He saw faces flash before his eyes and he knew the name of each one. Bolt, Bishop, Jezdec, Tin, Lander, Mako, Link, Turm, Hector, Ember, Pion, Redge, Heavy, Echo, Oz, Ringo, Hardcase- and so many more.

And then he thrashed around, cursing at the voice as it tried to lie to him. Lie about those deaths. But it couldn't. Because Cody knew him so damn well and knew what he was saying was true. Because that was a thing at his very core – what made him who he was. Always carrying those deaths on his shoulders.

Cody released his brother as he started struggling, still sitting on his chest, but slowly backing off. He hated how he had to resort to that, but it worked. Whatever had taken hold of Rex, it was gone now, a sudden wave of something passed through both of them.

"…Rex?" he asked after a minuet, when the blonde had calmed down. "You with me?"

"Cody…" he looked so lost, but it was him. He was back.

He was just getting to his feet when everything happened so fast… Rex was just about to kill the damn Jedi, when he seemed to freeze right there and then. Must be another Jedi trick! And seconds later, before he even had a chance to help, Cody of all people knocks the Captain to the ground, sending them both tumbling down. He was torn there, weather to help his brother or kill the Jedi. But he didn't get to choose either…

"Fives…" he heard someone call and turned around, seeing Tup standing there with his weapon aimed at him. There was a bruise on his head, around the eye, but he still stood strong and ready.

"Tup, what do you think you're doing?" he would never hurt a brother and neither would Tup. Not after everything they've been through.

"Stopping you from doing something you'll regret!" the rookie called, his voice shaking. Just what did those Jedi do to him?!

"I'm doing this for all my brothers! Can't you see that?" Fives took a step forward. He wasn't about to try and kill his brother.

"No, no you're not! You're doing what Count Dooku wants you to! Can't you see that?" Tup's eyes flickered behind him, where the Padawan was getting to her feet.

"When had she ever tried to hurt you?!" Tup yelled and Fives found himself seeing images of the many battles he's fought in, of all that's happened.

She shielded him and his brothers from enemy fire. She used the Force to stop rubble from crushing them. She laughed and ate with them in the mess. She came to talk to him after Echo's death. She-

He shook his head, sudden pain exploding in it. What… What was going on? This felt so wrong, but at the same time-

Lies. It's all lies. She pretended. She used you. She LIED! The voice hissed in his head, but he couldn't shake those memories. It felt so… real. You can't fake feelings like that…

Suddenly, there was screaming. Someone… someone was screaming. Moments later, he was on the ground, hands on his head. It was him… he was the one screaming.

It's all because of the Jedi! No, no it wasn't! What could they have done? Droid Bait, Cutup, Heavy and Echo were lost because of himsel- No, because of the Separatist.

An obedient little pet… That's what he's been all this time. What they've all been. Not to the Jedi – yes to them as well – but to Grievous and Dooku.

Stopping you from doing something you'll regret! Oh, oh no… He's hurt them – he's hurt his brothers. But he would never-

They used you… not the Jedi – the Separatists. They used you and your brothers…

Tup was calling out for him. In seconds, he was by his side, shaking him. But the pain in his head was too much. Too strong. Make it stop; make it stop, makeitstop-!

"Fives! Fives, c'mon, fight it!" Tup called, not daring to touch the man at first. But as he started curing into himself, he put both hands on his shoulders, holding him steady.

"Look at me!" he called, hoping it'd work. When the ARC opened his eyes, they were so pained; Tup wondered how he wasn't crying yet. But he pushed that thought at the back of his mind, focusing instead on his brother.

"You're okay! You're safe! No one can hurt you anymore!" he saw Fives started to calm down, his breathing rapid but calming. And then he felt something move past him, vanishing into nothingness a few seconds later.

"Tup… I'm so sorry!" Fives' eyes were glassed over as he pulled the younger man into a bone-crushing hug. "I – I couldn't- Someone was-!" he couldn't even speak.

"It's alright, ori'vod… I know…" Tup nodded, eyes closed to keep the tears from falling as he hugged the brother back. He was back. He was himself again.

Kix stopped where he stood, turning towards where the screams were coming from. His eyes widened as he saw Fives on the ground, holding his head in pain with Tup by his side. And Cody was pinning Rex down not far from there, the two yelling at each other.

Help. Protect. Save. Move! His instinct as a medic screamed at him and he would do anything to help his brothers. But…

"Out of my way!" he shouted at Boil, who was blocking his path. He aimed his weapon at the man, body tense. "I will go through you if I have to!" His brothers needed him. He needed to help them. He had to-

"Haven't we killed each other enough on Umbara?!" Boil yelled back, teeth gritted and eyes burning. In seconds, Kix found it hard to breathe.

Death. So much death. So many gone. So many wounded. Screams of pain, cries of help, please of the Umbarans. Blood. Blood on his hands. He killed – he killed a brother. No, no, no! He's supposed to save them! But he didn't know. He didn't know. Hedidn'tknow-

"…What are we doing?" his voice broke, eyes empty and stinging as he dropped his weapon. He was losing focus on where he was, body numb and eyes clouded. The screams were still there, calling for him, for him to save them. He looked around, lost and confused and in pain. "What have I done…?" he whispered and Boil shuddered at a sudden coldness passing through him, but quickly shook it off, as the medic fell to his knees.

Boil seemed to relax, checking for a few seconds before walking over to the medic. He was still out of it, lost in his own memories, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Boil. It was… Boil. Oh, how was he supposed to tell him about Waxer? But… the hand. It felt real. Not like the grabs and yells of his brothers. This was real… and this wasn't Umbara.

"You did what Dooku wanted you to…" Boil whispered, his eyes sympathetic as he looked at the broken medic. He hated, how he stuck such a low blow as Umbara… but knew that if anyone is going to just – stop with the mere mention of it, it would be the medic.

Jesse had been dancing around with Tano, using his weapon to try and fight. But at the screams of his brothers, he took pause. Rex was down, fighting Cody. Fives was down, screaming in pain. Kix was down, looking lost and empty. Cinder was still on his feet, battling against Appo. But everyone else…

They are going to die… The voice had been silent for a while now, but it spoke again. Almost hissed. Kill the Jedi and save them! It came as an order and he let out a yell. He didn't even care anymore, as he charged the Jedi in front of him. Didn't hear whatever she yelled when he jumped on her, knocking the both of them to the ground. Just like Krell! They only cause destruction and death! They only hurt! He won't let it happen again. Fight. Kill. Save. He didn't feel his body anymore as he readied himself to fight the Jedi in hand-to-hand. But of course the bastards would fight dirty.

Before he could even land a punch, Tano had used the Force and levitated him upwards. And then she slammed his body into the ceiling with everyone hearing something crack. His armor. The breath got knocked out of his lungs as his vision dimmed.

He's going to die to a Jedi… and he couldn't save his brothers. What a damn disgrace… But he probably deserved to go out like this…

"Jesse! Oh Force, I'm so sorry!" he heard her yell and felt himself be lowered gently to the ground. Everything was fuzzy… Wasn't she supposed to be the enemy? Why was she being so gentle…? But, he found it much easier to breathe a bit later, and the Jedi looked surprised, as if someone had rammed into her. But she was back to herself in moments.

"Please, don't die on me," she almost whispered, checking his pulse. She wanted him to live… She cared. She wouldn't hurt him or anyone else… So why…

"Ahsoka?" he asked, confused, and saw her face lit up. Everything still hurt but it felt like that hit blocked off the voice.

"Yeah, yeah, it's me."

Cinder looked away from Appo as he heard his brothers' screams and yells and found himself at a loss. They were losing and yet none of them has died. He stood still for a few seconds, before feeling an armored fist connect with his jaw.

"Wake up, damnit!" Appo yelled, his fists still raised as he used enough force to stagger the rookie, but not to do any real harm.

Cinder felt dizzy and his head hurt a lot more than it should as he tried to regain his senses. Shaking his head, he cleared away some of the fog and looked in confusion from one man to the other, eyes widening.

"What are we doing?" he saw Appo hesitate before relaxing slightly himself, walking closer and offering a hand.

"Pretty sure no one's sure."

Anakin smiled as he saw the Count's frown deepen. He wasn't sure what was going on, but whatever it was, was making the man sloppier. He had heard his men scream and came close to checking on them, but he trusted the others. He had to. With each scream though, it looked like the Sith was getting a mental feedback.

"So he was controlling them!" Skywalker concluded, having his saber blocked.

"Problem, Count?" he moved with a smirk, hearing the man let out a growl.

Cut! Alright there we go! Again, I really hope this chapter delivered so please, PLEASE, tell me what you thought! It'd mean the world to me! Also, sorry for all the jumping around - I hope it's clear-ish with the parted lines and all. Anyway, hopefully you enjoyed that one and thanks for reading! Reviewing on this one would be the best thing ever and I'd love you forever! Till next time~

#my story #Echoy'la (Lost)#Verde' gehat'ik (Soldiers' story)#captain rex #fives #jesse #kix #ahsoka tano #anakin skywalker #count dooku #boil #tup #appo #commander cody

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caitrun · 7 years

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CSJJ Day 8: Thirteen Seconds

“I hate you, but we kissed at midnight on New Year's and now I can't stop thinking about it" AU- Modern Setting without magic. Thanks to @csjanuaryjoy for including me in this! Read it here or on AO3. Onto the fic!

Emma Swan was not into Killian Jones.

She didn’t like his swagger, didn’t fall into his crystalline blue eyes, didn’t giggle in response to his jabs.

And she certainly, one-hundred-percent, did not want to kiss him at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve.

“Listen, love, you and I are the only two at the party without a partner,” Killian drawled, his sweet, Irish accent slurred slightly by the rum. They were seated together on the couch in Mary Margaret’s apartment, so close that every movement seemed to result in their brushing up against one another.

“And you’re buddy-buddy with my fuckin’ awful ex,” Emma spat back. “So it looks like we’re going to stay that way.”

“Swan,” Killian whined, his voice gravelly and petulant. He threw an arm up onto the back of the couch so that it encircled her shoulders. “How many times do I have to atone for believing that Neal was a good man?”

“Keep atoning. I’ll let you know when I’ve had enough,” Emma said, sliding out from under his arm on the couch, putting a foot of space between them. Killian’s shoulders sagged a little at her retort, and he almost looked pitiful enough for Emma to reclaim the empty space on the couch. Almost.

“Swan,” Killian began again, breathing deeply. “I apologize for my grievous error. I should not have supported the claims of Neal Cassidy on blind faith in the decency of his character. You deserve better than that wretched scab, and I take some solace in believing that you know that now.”

Emma took a moment to consider the apology.

“Not bad,” she conceded. He brightened incrementally at her concession, enough to make her laugh aloud before she could restrain herself.

“And I really do mean it, Swan,” Killian said earnestly, his eyes searching hers for forgiveness. “He’s a bloody wank and never deserved the likes of you to begin with.” There was no lie in his voice, Emma realized slowly.

Careful, Emma. You don’t like him. He’s one of Neal’s.

“Well, thanks,” she said in spite of herself. He brightened under her passive expression.

“Can I get you another drink?” He asked her cautiously, nodding towards the empty glass in her hands. He was holding one to match, and against her better judgment, Emma relented with a nod.

“Back in a tick, then,” he said. With no shortage of flourish, Killian slid off the couch and over towards the direction of the kitchen. Emma took a moment to stare dully at her hands in her lap, trying to let their conversation sink in.

“I see you’ve made nice with Killian, then,” a voice said from over her shoulder.

“Five minutes without you watching or commenting on my interactions, Mary Margaret, that’s literally all I ask,” Emma responded grumpily, her head tilting back a little towards her friend, but her eyes continuing to track the lines of her hands in her lap.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Mary Margaret sang back. Emma could practically feel her friend’s smug smile burning into the top of her head.

“We didn’t make nice. He just apologized, as he should have,” Emma replied tartly.

“When are you going to give that poor man a chance, Ems? He’s apologized every time you’ve been in the same room together since things went south with Neal.” David had turned up behind the couch as well, and Emma continued to fume at her hands until she couldn’t anymore.

“First of all, I don’t ever have to give him a chance, he backed Neal, I don’t care how often he apologizes,” Emma snapped, finally whipping around to face her two goofily smiling friends. “And second, even if I did want to, you’re killing my fucking mood with all this hovering.”

“Damn, Emma, no need to be like that,” David slurred slightly, grinning broadly and taking her wrath entirely in stride. “We’ll make like a you after a one night stand and just ghost the fuck out, then.”

Emma hardly had the time to register what he’d said before he and Mary Margaret had merged back into the small throng of people gathering in front of the big TV in their living room.

“What was that I heard about a one night stand, love?”

Emma whipped back around and found Killian perched comfortably at her arm with a couple of filled glasses and a smirk.

“Oh just shut up. Please,” Emma asked, her voice more a whine than a command. She was surprised when he acquiesced quietly, their fingers brushing as he passed her one of the glasses. Something caught in her throat when his hand remained on hers even when she had a secure grip on the glass.

“Emma Swan, your hands are absolutely freezing,” Killian commented pleasantly. Emma felt her eyes widen as her mind scrambled for some sort of appropriate response.

“Well, my last rum and coke had too much ice in it,” she said. She swirled her current glass before raising an eyebrow at Killian in approval. “I see that’s been amended.”

Killian gave a fake bow, switching his glass from his prosthetic left hand to his flesh-and bone right, and swirled his left animatedly in front of him, as if royalty. She huffed and rolled her eyes, trying not to smile.

Her restrained smile diminished slightly as she thought back to what David had asked. When are you going to give that poor man a chance? He’s apologized every time you’ve been in the same room together since things went south with Neal.

“Penny for your thoughts, love?” Killian was bending forward a little bit, eyebrows slightly furrowed, fingers skirting absently over her knees. Emma shook her head abruptly, smiling tensely.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I don’t know what you-“

“You’re way too polite to me, even though I’ve been an ass to you.” Emma said, pouting slightly in confusion. Killian gnawed on his lower lip, so pleasingly plump and pink under the row of his white front teeth.

“Well, you’ve no reason to be kind to me. I deserve your derision, your mistrust, your anger. I made a poor decision, and that’s all you know of me. I apologize every time I see you, because I hope that someday, somehow, my apology can help you heal, since I’m sure my ass of an ex-friend never told you that he was sorry.”

Whatever Emma had expected him to say, it hadn’t been that. She gaped like a fish, fairly positive that her jaw was just hanging there, unhinged. Dimly, she heard people counting down in room behind her. But all she saw was the luminescent blue of his eyes, and all she could feel was the running of his fingers across the angles of her knees.

All she wanted to taste was the lingering rum on his tongue.

So she did.

Dropping her drink to the table, she wrapped both hands around Killian’s jaw, pulling his lips into her own, their front teeth clicking against each other slightly as they adjusted to the shape of the other’s mouth. Then, slowly, gently, he began to reciprocate the motion, his polymer hand resting on her upper arm while his real hand combed through her hair, just above her ear. He bit gently on her lower lip, and Emma could feel his smile against her mouth as she groaned quietly.

His fingers scrunched against her hair, and while she was drinking in the pleasantly foggy taste of rum on his tongue, a noise erupted behind them. Emma started, but Hook’s hand wrapped along the back of her skull, and he pressed the kiss into her mouth for just a tick longer before pulling away.

“Happy New Year, love,” Killian said sheepishly. Emma stared at him, her shock mirrored in his expression. Suddenly frantic, she looked over to where Mary Margaret and David were standing. They were grinning at her with all the wolfish glee she had hoped to avoid.

“Aw, fuck.”

The words slipped out of her mouth before she realized what she had said, and her eyes flicked back to Killian, suddenly self conscious.

“Admittedly, not the words I’d hoped to hear from your mouth after our first kiss,” Killian admitted, a pretty blush creeping across his cheeks.

“And admittedly, I never meant to kiss you,” Emma replied, flustered. She immediately began gathering up her things, her phone and her jacket, namely, for the two-block walk home. She spared a glance at Killian, who was watching her, still frozen on the couch. “Sorry. What I meant to say was, thanks for being considerate about my feelings, but you don’t need to do that anymore.”

“Swan,” Killian started. Emma just shook her hair out of the collar of her coat. She couldn’t meet his gaze. If she had, she might have seen the look of wonderment slowly giving out to guarded disappointment.

“Don’t. I’m sorry Killian. Enjoy the rest of the party,” Emma said quickly, quietly.

She was gone before he could reply.

Emma Swan was not into Killian Jones.

She didn’t spend the first two weeks of the New Year thinking about him to a practically hazardous extent.

She most definitely wasn’t thinking about him when her bail-jumping mark got the slip on her and knocked her down the front steps of a coffee shop, spraining her wrist, skinning her hands, and bruising her ego.

When she returned to her boss in the early afternoon, sheepish and empty-handed, he gave her a disparaging look, a sigh, and the rest of the day off to “rest up and get refocused for Monday.” It was probably more than she deserved.

Feeling rather dejected, Emma decided to head to the bar down the street from her place rather than head home for her night of self-pity and self-medication. Maybe she was hoping to distract her mind’s eye from its fixation on Killian, the fixation that had caused her to lose focus on the case today when she thought she saw him across the street.

Sighing heavily, Emma pushed her way through the solid wood doors at Hatter’s. The crowd there was usually a little too rough for Mary Margaret and David to join her, and she hoped that the distance would help ease her current state of unbalance.

Emma sat down at a well-worn barstool with a grimace and quietly ordered two fingers of whiskey, neat. Tequila was for parties, vodka was for mourning, and rum… she was swearing off the stuff, for the time being.

“I’ll have what the lass is having,” a painfully familiar, and painfully cheerful voice sounded off next to her.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Emma whispered, her voice barely forming around the lump that had suddenly arisen in her throat.

“Ah, drinking to forget then, are we, Swan?” Killian’s blue eyes and indomitable smile were too close, the smell of his cologne entrancing.

“I didn’t… the kiss was just for midnight, Killian, it didn’t mean anything,” Emma forced the words out at an unsteady tempo, and a strange flurry of uncertainty tossed in her stomach. She wasn’t lying. She didn’t like Killian Jones.

“Aye, sure you didn’t, love. I’m sure that why you decided to kiss me quick and get it over with,” a conspicuous smirk rose to grace his expression. “I’m sure that’s why you started kissing me when the countdown to midnight was still at thirteen seconds then, eh?”

Emma stared at him, slack-jawed. He picked up his drink, which the bartender had brought during his analysis, and started swirling it around with unnecessary focus.

“I…” Emma found herself in the strangely unique situation of being genuinely lost for words. Killian’s bravado seemed to evaporate a bit, and he reached out with his real hand, his fingers finding a stray hair of her’s and tucking it gently behind her ear.

“I like you a lot, Emma,” he started quietly. “I’m really quite taken with you. And I understand if our mutual history with Neal means that I’ll never get to show you how much I care.” His eyes searched hers for a moment or two, and she struggled to maintain a passive expression.

His gaze then flicked down to his lap, and then to hers, where her hands were cradled numbly, palms up to spare the tender skin. With narrowed eyes and not even a word, his hands moved to tenderly examine the scratches on the heels of her hands, and the swollen bruising of her left wrist.

“I-I just got taken by surprise today, by a bail jumper I was trying to catch,” she explained, feeling oddly tense regarding his concerned scrutiny. He knew a general amount about her line of work, knew it was rough. This couldn’t be a surprise for him.

“Must have taken something to get a jump on you, Swan,” Killian said lightly. The previous topic of conversation was still hanging heavily in the air, and Emma sighed.

There was an escape route here. She could laugh, pay for her drink, and tell him she’d catch him later, even though she wouldn’t. Or there was honesty. To be true, that was the scarier option. Glancing up at the kind expression in his eyes, she breathed deeply before smiling.

“Yeah. You.” Killian jerked back a little in surprise.

“What?”

“You. I was thinking about you. I thought I saw you across the street and I let myself get distracted. All the while my bail jumper was putting the pieces together. Pushed me down some stairs. It really did take something,” she laughed breathily, her fingers curling into her palms as she tried to withdraw her hands from his grasp. He held fast, his expression distantly stunned.

“You were… thinking about me?” He asked weakly. Emma began to wonder if she’d made the wrong decision, if there was time to hide this under a deprecating lie and bolt. But she steeled herself, breathing in and out through her nose in a half-hearted attempt to re-center herself.

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about you for a couple of weeks now. I’m… I think I like you too, and I think that scares me. But not enough that I want to stay away.” Emma said quietly. She then watched as Killian’s expression bloomed into one of sheer delight.

“I knew you’d take a shine to me, Swan,” he grinned.

“Don’t make me regret giving you a chance, Killian,” she shot back in an instant. He just smiled more broadly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, love.”

#csjj #cs january joy #captain swan #captain swan fanfiction #ouat #my writing #fanfic #let me know your thoughts!

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a-crack-in-the-universe · 7 years

Text

Episode 1x02: Rising Malevolence

The Republic hears of a deadly weapon that the Separatists are making, and sends Master Plo Koon and his fleet to investigate.

Spoilers below the cut.

*music of doom plays*

Grievous is waiting for them… And Dooku is with him!

Master Plo wisely decides to wait and notify the Council of their position before attacking the Separatist fleet. Probably senses (like I do) that something is going to go very wrong in just a few moments. He also decides to contact Anakin Skywalker’s fleet for reinforcements.

Clone Trooper: “From what I hear, Skywalker’s always ready for a fight.”

Damn right he is!

Booyeah, it’s Anakin and Ahsoka! :D

Ahsoka Tano: [via hologram] Koh-to-ya, Master Koon.

Plo Koon: Koh-to-ya, little 'Soka.

Okay, that really reminds me of one of those avatars in video games that you turn to for help. XD

I can’t believe how much I’ve missed seeing Anakin on screen! :’)

Master Plo asks Anakin and Ahsoka for reinforcements.

Anakin: ‘Oh, I’ll have to ask the Council, Master Plo. I was given strict orders to protect our staging area.’

In other words, ‘I’m going to see if the Council will give me the go-ahead, and if they don’t I’ll go off and do it behind their backs anyway.’

lol at Ahsoka’s shocked look at Anakin. She’s probably thinking, ‘No! Master, what are you doing??’

Right after that, the transmission is broken, and things start going downhill for Master Plo and his fleet…

Unsurprisingly, Ahsoka is adamant that they go help Master Plo and she’s annoyed that Anakin isn’t rushing off straight away to do so. Anakin tells her that they must speak to the Council first. Like, seriously, Ahsoka, he’s going to help Plo Koon whether or not the Council agrees. He just needs to see whether he has to go behind their backs or not.

Uh… what is up with the expression on Anakin’s face here? It’s very, very intense… and angry looking… and dare I say, Vader-like.

Ugh, not Palpatine again! :( I hate that guy.

Back at Plo Koon’s fleet, the Separatist fleet is closing in…

Master Plo and his crew prepare for battle. Dooku and Grievous prepare to test their new weapon.

So, the weapon is fired. It disables the fleet completely, leaving Plo and the clones vulnerable. They flee to the pods. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. :(

Dooku: “Send out the hunters! I want all of those life-forms destroyed.”

Oh crap…

Looks like Plo Koon’s fleet is believed to be destroyed. Anakin volunteers to lead a rescue mission to search for survivors, but the Jedi Council doesn’t look very eager to let him.

No, Ahsoka, don’t do what you’re thinking of doing! (I know she’s going to do it anyway, though.)

Back in the escape pod, things are not looking good for Plo and the clones. It’s so sad how the clones aren’t even sure anyone’s going to come looking for them, because they’re considered expendable. :(

The Jedi Council orders Anakin to send his fleet to guard the supply line instead of staging a rescue-and-recovery mission. Bastards. >:( Like, I get that they don’t want to risk more people getting killed, but Anakin’s the best of the best! If anyone can be trusted to complete the mission and get everyone out alive, it’s him.

This is when Ahsoka speaks up:

Ahsoka: “Wait! Just because there haven’t been any survivors before, doesn’t mean there won’t be any this time.”

Is it just me, or are Mace and Yoda actually considering what she’s saying? Hmm…

Palpatine: “Boldly spoken for one so young.”

Obi-Wan: “She is learning from Anakin.”

Anakin is, predictably, pissed off at Ahsoka, and after the meeting’s done tells her off big-time.

Anakin: “What you don’t understand is Jedi protocol. Or your place, my young padawan.”

Well, that’s harsh of him. And hypocritical, considering he did the same thing in Attack of the Clones when he promised Padme that he and Obi-Wan would find whoever was trying to kill her. Obi-Wan reacted the same way Anakin reacted in this episode.

Now I have to wonder if Anakin is emulating Obi-Wan when he’s looking after Ahsoka, since Anakin’s never been a mentor before and Obi-Wan’s method of teaching him is the only thing he has to go by. He does tell Ahsoka in a later episode that ‘this weapon is your life’

Anakin gives new orders to the admiral, and tells him that he will scout ahead to check for enemy activity.

Anakin: ‘But I know you won’t argue with my orders.’

Lol, he really likes being in charge, doesn’t he? :’D

Back in the pod...

Clone Trooper: Do you think we’ve got a chance, general?

Plo Koon: I don’t believe in chance, commander. I know that if we work together we will stay alive, and someone will find us.

Clone Trooper: With all due respect, general, strategically it doesn’t make any sense for someone to come look for us. If I was in command, I’d be hunting that weapon down.

Plo Koon: I value your life more than finding that weapon.

:’) :’) :’)

The crew spots another pod, but it’s been burst open and everyone inside is dead. :( Things are about to get even worse for the escape pod crew.

Anakin and Ahsoka leave the fleet in a mini-star-ship (to search for survivors, though Ahsoka doesn’t know that yet). Ahsoka begins to talk about why she spoke up during the meeting, but Anakin tells her that she doesn’t need to explain anything.

Ooh, now the scene changes to Obi-Wan and his fleet. Obi-Wan makes contact with Anakin’s fleet:

Obi-Wan: “Admiral? How goes escort?”

Admiral: “Oh, convoys are proceeding on schedule, general. No sign of enemy activity.” (*smiles*)

The admiral is terrible at playing pretend. Obi-Wan can see right through him.

Obi-Wan: “And where’s Skywalker?”

Obi-Wan knows exactly where Anakin is and what he’s doing. :’D I love that.

Clone trooper: “Problem, sir?”

Obi-Wan: “Anakin has redeployed himself. Again.”

So Anakin’s done this before?? :’D

Poor Obi-Wan, having to deal with all of Anakin’s ‘antics’. It must be like having a rebellious teenager on your hands.

Anakin, Ahsoka and Artoo reach the system where Plo was last seen.

Anakin, you could’ve just told her that you were going to check for survivors, but no, you just couldn’t resist the chance to be a drama king, could you? :’D

Ahsoka: “So it’s okay when you don’t follow what the Council says?”

Anakin: “Doing what the Jedi Council says, that’s one thing. How we go about doing it, that’s another. That’s what I’m trying to teach you, my young padawan.”

Ahsoka: “So you always meant to come out here for survivors?”

Anakin: “Lives are in danger, Ahsoka. We can’t just turn our backs on them!” (No need to get all worked up about it...Like, Ahsoka was the one who was all for rescuing Plo Koon and the clone troopers in the beginning of this ep.)

Ahsoka: “That’s what I said back in the briefing room!”

Anakin: “I know. But the way you said it was wrong.”

This bit of dialogue is really interesting. Anakin has a point about being careful while defying orders. I don’t know much about the army, but it seems to me that you could get into major trouble there for defying an order.

Also I agree that this sort of thinking stems from Anakin’s slave past. He’s essentially teaching Ahsoka how to rebel as a slave.

Back in the pod:

The clones and Plo Koon manage to get the power back on, and make contact with another pod. Unfortunately, that pod is burst open by singing Separatist droids, in a moment that looks like it’s come out of a horror film:

In a really sweet moment, Ahsoka tells Anakin how she met Master Plo. Master Plo was the one who found her and brought her to the Temple, ‘where she belonged’. Seems like Ahsoka had a hard life before entering the Jedi Order. Now he’s lost, and Ahsoka hopes that she might be able to return the favour. :’)

God, Anakin looks like a rebellious teenager trying to get out of trouble with a parent/guardian.

Obi-Wan does not look impressed at Anakin’s excuse:

What? Anakin’s just giving up?? :(

Before he can though, Artoo senses something on the scanner. :D

Ahsoka’s so adorable when she’s filled with hope:

Back in the pod…

The troopers and Plo Koon’s pod has finally been targeted by the hunters. They watch as their doom approaches.

Luckily, Plo Koon has a plan! He will go outside the pod and attack the droids, while the clones will put on their helmets and do… something. Probably fight.

*Plo Koon and the clones fight the droids*

Palpatine makes contact with Anakin and asks Anakin to return to his fleet. Conniving bastard. He probably wants Plo and the clone troopers dead for whatever reason. >:( Maybe it would ruin his plans if they were rescued?

Palpatine… Ugh, ugh! :( I hate how Anakin listens to Palpatine like that!

Back at the pod...

Plo Koon: “Sergeant, why are you so certain no one is coming?”

Clone Sergeant: “We're just clones, sir. We're meant to be expendable.”

Plo Koon: “Not to me.”

:’) :’) Plo Koon is endearing himself more to me with each line he speaks.

Anakin and Ahsoka find Plo Koon and the remaining clone troopers thanks to Ahsoka’s bond with Plo. Sadly no other pods were found. :’( Ahsoka and Plo Koon share a very sweet moment, with Anakin looking on:

Awwww :’)

The crew escape the weapon and rendezvous with the fleet. Anakin looks as you’d expect at the thought of reporting to the Council:

Anakin: “Come along, Ahsoka.”

Ahsoka: “You want me there? I figured because of before…”

Anakin: “Ahsoka. Through it all you never gave up. You did a great job. But, if I’m getting in trouble for this, you’re going to share some of the blame too. So come on, let’s go.”

Ahsoka: “Right beside you, Skyguy.”

Ahh, that last line gives me life. :’) Skyguy-and-Snips forever, please! :D

Previous: Ambush | Next: Shadow of Malevolence

#star wars #reactions to the clone wars #rising malevolence #the clone wars 1x02

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