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dystopicjumpsuit · 6 months

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Stars Beyond Number - Chapter 8

In the Wind's Singing

Rating: M - Minors DNI

Pairings: Echo x Riyo Chuchi; Gregor x OFC Cerra Kilian

Wordcount: 2.6k

Warnings and tags: fluff; bonding; discussions of autopsy/corpses; Coca-Cola is canon in Star Wars; no, I'm not joking; SMUT; masturbation

Suggested Listening:

Summary: The strike team returns from scouting Balmorra.

A/N: This story shares continuity with Martyrs and Kings and "Do It Again," but all three fics can be read as stand-alones.

Voices are in the wind's singing

More distant and more solemn than a fading star.

—T. S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

The hologram flickered off, and Rex stared thoughtfully at the empty space where it had projected. Slowly, he said, “I want you to start looking into the clone assassin’s identifying code. Find out how it was wiped, and see if you can replicate the process.”

Cerra wrinkled her nose. “Does that mean I’m going to have to dissect his arm?”

“That’s for you to find out. I know you’ll do whatever it takes,” Rex said. “In the meantime, I’m grounding you for a few days. No sparring, no supply runs, no missions until your hand is healed.”

She felt a surge of impatience, but his tone brooked no argument, so she simply nodded. Some battles were simply not worth fighting, and she knew Rex would win this one anyway.

“I need to leave this afternoon to meet with a contact,” Rex continued. “Will you be all right alone?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Hand isn’t that bad.”

“Good,” he said. “Then you can get started on that ID code today.”

“Aye, aye, Cap,” she said with a mock salute.

Once Rex was gone, Cerra opened the stasis pod and examined the dead clone assassin’s forearm. Unlike the inhibitor chips, the identifying codes were not an implant; instead, the data was coded directly into the clones’ wrists. Nothing on the surface indicated how the ID data had been wiped. There was no scar, no wound—nothing except cold, smooth, brown skin. When she scanned it, a hologram appeared, but the contents were empty. She had a sinking feeling that she was going to need to remove the skin and examine it under a microscope to learn more.

Mechanical repairs were no problem for Cerra, but she was wildly unqualified to undertake any kind of medical examination, let alone an autopsy. For the thousandth time, she wished Kix were there. She worried that she would compromise the evidence, and the longer she had the stasis pod open, the more the clone assassin’s body would degrade. With that in mind, she sealed the pod again and began researching autopsy techniques on the Holonet. She watched autopsy vids for what felt like hours with a kind of gruesome fascination, barely noticing when the proximity sensor alerted her that the freighter had returned.

Echo, Fireball, and Gregor entered the garage to find Cerra sitting cross-legged on the couch, utterly engrossed by a vid projected from the holotable as she ate from a promising-looking container. Echo’s stomach rumbled.

“Boys,” she greeted them without looking up.

“Something smells good,” Echo said.

“I got takeout from Dex’s,” she said. “There’s more in the kitchen.”

“Is that brualki brisket?” Gregor asked.

“Yeah, I got extra for you,” she said. “There’s also brakkenback stew, nerfburgers, and two orders of each kind of protato on the menu.”

A woman of taste, Echo thought, heading to the kitchen to examine the options.

“Ugh, what are you watching?” Fireball demanded.

“Autopsy vids,” she mumbled around a bite of brisket.

“While you’re eating? Gross,” Fireball said.

“Gotta figure out what to do with our friend over there,” Cerra said, pointing at the stasis pod. “Besides, it’s not like I’m eating directly off a corpse.”

Echo pulled a face. Gregor went to the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets until he found a small medkit. Then he swiped the remaining container of brisket and a bag of fried protato wedges and flopped down next to Cerra on the sofa.

“Next time, you can buy dinner, and then you get to pick the holovid, Fireball,” Gregor said. “Cerra, did you take your antibiotics?”

“What antibiotics?” she asked distractedly.

“That’s what I thought,” Gregor said drily. He extracted a couple of pills from the medkit and handed them to her. “Take these.”

Cerra automatically took the pills and swallowed them, then handed Gregor a tub of glockaw sauce without taking her eyes off the holovid. “Ooh, look, they’re about to peel off the skin!”

Fireball gagged. Gregor dipped a protato wedge into the sauce and popped it into his mouth, chewing happily. Echo looked down at the container of stew he’d selected, and his stomach lurched, cheeks going even grayer than usual.

“I, uh, think I’ll hit the shower,” he said, setting the stew back on the countertop.

Cerra and Gregor didn’t respond, too immersed in the holovid. Despite himself, Fireball drifted closer, leaning over the back of the sofa with his eyes glued to the vid. He absentmindedly reached for a protato wedge, and Gregor slapped his hand away. Cerra wordlessly handed her half-empty bag of shoestring fries to Fireball.

Echo shrugged and headed to the refresher. He took his time in the shower, knowing that the rest of the group was likely to be distracted. The hot water relaxed the muscles in his back and soothed his aching limbs where his prosthetics connected. His mind drifted to Senator Chuchi—Riyo, as she’d insisted he call her. He couldn’t imagine the beautiful, gentle Pantoran watching holovids of corpse dissections. When Rex had opened the stasis pod to show Echo and the Batch the clone assassin, Riyo had carefully avoided looking at the man’s face. She hadn’t become desensitized to death and violence the way Cerra and his fellow clones had, but she was fearless, even in the face of Rampart’s attempts on her life.

She was so lovely. Sweet, but strong. As he pictured her smooth, cerulean skin, her soft lilac hair, and the subtle curves of her body, he felt his cock stiffen. Seizing the rare moment of privacy, Echo soaped up his hand and began to stroke himself, careful to keep silent. He braced himself against the shower stall with his scomp arm, tilting his head back to let the warm water flow over his neck and chest.

He envisioned Riyo around him—her mouth, her body, her sighs of passion and her enveloping warmth, her wide golden eyes glazed with need. His breath became ragged. It had been months since he’d been with a woman, he was acutely conscious that any of the team could walk in at any moment. Gritting his teeth to hold back his groans, he squeezed harder and increased the speed of his hand. Before long, the surging pleasure overwhelmed his control, and he spilled hot, white jets of cum onto the shower floor.

All his breath left him in a rush, and his head sagged to rest on the arm that braced against the shower wall. The water started to run cold, so he finished washing and toweled off, dressing quickly and returning to join the others.

Echo suppressed a laugh when he saw Fireball sprawled on the sofa with the other two. The two clones had removed their armor and now wore only their black body gloves. The holotable was cluttered with empty wrappers and takeout containers, and somebody had filled a bucket with ice and several bottles of ale, two of which Gregor and Fireball were already drinking. Echo noticed that the bulky bandage on Cerra’s hand had been replaced with a neat bacta patch, and the medkit had been put away. The group had turned raucous, and Fireball kept up a running commentary on the vid.

“You call that a primary incision?” he jeered. “I could do better blindfolded, with a vibrosword!”

“If you’re so confident, maybe you should do the autopsy,” Cerra said.

“No thanks,” Fireball said. “It’s one thing to watch a holovid. It’s something else when it’s a brother.”

“I know,” Cerra said. “That’s why I’m not drinking. Gotta keep my head clear so I can focus on the techniques.”

Echo grunted as he heated up a bowl of stew. “I can’t believe you’re still watching that. Why not put on something like the Great Galactic Bake Off instead?”

Cerra twisted around to look at him. “You’re a Bake Off fan? Have you seen this week’s episode yet?”

“No. I usually watch it with Omega,” Echo replied.

“Hmph, Charo Intan was robbed last week,” Gregor grumbled.

“You’re just saying that because the Sullustan got Galaxy Baker,” Cerra teased.

“His technical bake was a disaster!” Gregor exclaimed. “The judges are out of their minds.”

Fireball listened to the exchange with a look of utter bewilderment. “What are you even talking about?”

Three heads swiveled to stare at Fireball.

“You haven’t heard of the Bake Off?” Gregor asked incredulously. “Do you live under an asteroid?”

Fireball shrugged.

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” Cerra said, punching the control panel of the holotable. “Prepare to lose your sanity and any hope of a social life.”

Echo was surprised at how nonchalant Cerra seemed, especially after the previous night’s disaster. He took his bowl of stew to the sofa and nudged Fireball out of the way as he sat down. It was a tight squeeze with the four of them, so Cerra scooted onto Gregor’s lap to make room. Fireball picked up her legs to drape across his thighs.

Echo couldn’t quite figure out what was going on between Cerra and Gregor. He had assumed they were a couple when he’d first arrived, but he had second-guessed himself when their obvious affection for each other never seemed to go beyond platonic demonstrations. But Gregor’s reaction to Cerra’s distress the previous night; the tender, intimate words he’d whispered as he comforted her; and in particular his anomalous hostility toward Rex made Echo reevaluate his assumptions yet again. But now the commando seemed utterly unfazed as Fireball joined their little snuggle pile, even as the younger clone settled in cozily beneath Cerra’s calves.

Fireball rolled up one of Cerra’s pant legs and began to doodle on her skin with a marker, drawing complex, abstract swirls in black ink. The familiar opening jingle of the Bake Off started to play, and Echo gave up on trying to unravel the complexities of—kriff—whatever was going on at the other end of the sofa, turning his attention instead to the holovid.

Once again, it seemed Echo was the odd man out. It seemed strange and wrong to watch the show without Omega, and he missed his brothers’ familiar camaraderie. He didn’t think Cerra was intentionally excluding him, but he couldn’t help feeling a little stab of envy at how easily she and Gregor had allowed Fireball into their little circle. The younger clone hadn’t needed to work for it at all; they’d simply absorbed him. Echo frowned as he wondered if he had done something to make Cerra hold him at a distance.

As if on cue, she rummaged through the bucket of ice, retrieving two bottles of ale and cracking them open. To Echo’s surprise, though, she held one out to him, and when he took it with a silent nod of thanks, she clinked her bottle against his and took a sip. Echo reflexively drank his as well, watching out of the corner of his eye as Cerra settled back against Gregor. The commando shifted to wrap his arm around her, tugging her closer to him and easing her head onto his shoulder.

“This is the week that useless Garr Tevv goes home,” Gregor declared. “I can feel it.”

“I don’t know, buddy,” Cerra said. “The judges don’t seem to share your opinion of Sullustans. I think he’ll make it to the finale.”

“What’s wrong with Sullustans?” Fireball asked.

“Heh, it’s a long story,” Gregor chuckled.

“You can’t judge all Sullustans by what Borkus did,” Echo said.

“Oh, can’t I?” Gregor asked. “How do you feel about Skakoans?”

“Fair point,” Echo conceded.

“Why are there so many contestants from Separatist worlds?” Fireball asked.

“Something about bringing the galaxy together after the turmoil of war,” Gregor said.

“By making them compete against each other?” Fireball sounded confused.

“Friendly competition,” Echo clarified. “Although it hardly seemed friendly when Timi Riniath stole Runa Mone’s conservator and left her custard out to curdle.”

“Ugh, I can’t believe they let Timi stay in after that,” Cerra complained. “Such a cheater.”

“I still think it was an honest mistake,” Gregor said.

“No way,” Echo and Cerra retorted in unison.

“Jinx, you owe me a Coke,” Cerra said automatically.

Echo inhaled sharply, and Cerra’s face went rigid as they both realized what she’d said. How many times had Fives repeated that sentence? He and Echo spoke jointly so often that it was practically their catchphrase. Fives and Cerra must have shared the same tendency for her to have picked up the habit.

“Kriff,” she whispered. “Sorry, Echo. I wasn’t thinking. It just slipped out.”

“That’s all right,” Echo said uncomfortably. “It was bound to happen sometime.”

Gregor rubbed a soothing hand on Cerra’s back. Fireball looked more confused than ever, but he wisely didn’t ask questions and went back to his drawing.

“Good to know you shared the same brain cell with Fives as I did,” Echo said to diffuse the tension. “Feels like there’s still part of him with us.”

For once, it seemed he’d said the right thing, because Cerra visibly relaxed, and a small smile crept over her face. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?”

The recap segment of the show ended, and they all turned to the holovid. Fireball occasionally asked questions about how the competition worked, which Gregor answered enthusiastically, and soon the group became fully captivated. They cheered for their favorites and booed the contestants they disliked. At some point, a second round of beers was passed around, and by the end of the show, Fireball had already downloaded the old episodes onto his datapad so he could watch them next time he was on a long hyperspace jump.

Cerra looked haggard and was probably feeling the lingering effects of the sedative Gregor had administered as well as the aftermath of everything else that had happened the previous night. She didn’t manage to stay awake through the whole episode, lulled to sleep by the way Gregor absentmindedly rubbed her shoulders and the soft drag of Fireball’s marker against her leg.

“I’ll take first watch,” Fireball said quietly.

Gregor nodded, standing cautiously with Cerra in his arms and staggering a little under their combined weight. Cerra jostled awake with a startled grunt.

“Shh, go back to sleep,” Gregor said. “I’ve got you.”

She blinked owlishly at him and looked around.

“Good night, Cerra,” Fireball said.

“G’night, Tup,” she murmured as she burrowed her face into Gregor’s shoulder.

Fireball and Echo exchanged confused looks with Gregor, who just shrugged and turned away to carry Cerra to the barracks. Echo and Fireball cleaned up the detritus of their impromptu watch party, and then Echo headed for the barracks as well.

“I’ll take the second watch,” Echo told Fireball. “I don’t think Gregor has slept at all in the last two days.”

Inside the barracks, Gregor had already tucked Cerra into her bunk and was changing out of his body glove into a pair of sweatpants. Echo eased down onto his bunk and detached his leg prosthetics with a sigh of relief. Gregor climbed into his own bunk, and the barracks descended into silence.

By some miracle of fate or the Force, Echo slept. When Fireball shook him awake to stand watch, Echo flinched away, his heart racing. Fireball held up his hands placatingly and returned to the main room. Echo dressed quickly and reattached his legs, then went to join him.

“All quiet?” Echo asked.

“So far,” Fireball said. “But I got a comm from my brother Nemec. He wants out. Do you think Rex will help?”

“I know he will,” Echo said firmly. “We’ll start planning the extraction as soon as Rex gets back.”

The anxiety in the younger clone’s face eased, and he nodded gratefully when Echo told him to get some rest. Before he returned to the barracks, though, Fireball had one more question.

“Echo?” he asked hesitantly. “Who’s Tup?”

“No idea,” Echo said.

---

Next chapter

#echo tbb #riyo chuchi #captain gregor #captain rex #oc: cerra kilian #gregor x oc #echo x riyo chuchi #star wars #bad batch #star wars fanfiction #bad batch fanfic #stars beyond number #dystopicjumpsuit writes #Spotify

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thestarfilledsea · 2 years

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Dusk lessons

Word count: 3,248

- summary -

This is this au’s version of the ‘Macaque’ episode.

MK starts secretly learning under Macaque as Wukong is proving to not understand what MK needs in terms of training.

He’s going slow, which is a nice sentiment but it’s too slow for MK to use practically at all.

But admist the lessons MK learns something from Macaque’s past that makes him question everything.

—

Leaves crinkled under banged up black sneakers, kicking up the mist and leaving it swirling in his wake.

MK walked down the now familiar path with practiced ease. The winding trail no longer presenting a challenge for the boy.

It was a nice break, from everything really. The training, difficult customers, and of course, his own expectations.

He had to live up to the legacy of Sun Wukong after all. He had to protect people from villains while balancing his own personal life and training all at the same time.

And the Monkey King was being—quite frankly, useless to MK.

With days of knocking down wall after wall, his hands were stinging with unhealed blisters and arms aching with the weight of his hammer after each strike.

MK had left training early that day. Finding an excuse in the text Macaque had sent, offering MK a taste of the loaf of pound cake he had made too much of.

It was relieving to step away from the grueling and objectively useless training. Instead of being stuck breaking down the memories Wukong couldn’t be bothered destroying himself, MK now wandered through the woods, enjoying autumn’s gift to the world around him.

He bet Macaque had some sort of warm spicy tea or cider awaiting him. He always had something, even if it was small. But the thought itself quickly would cheer him up even from the foulest of moods.

MK always went to him after training, Macaque having salves that easily heals the blisters MK had earned during the day of training.

A cold autumn breeze whispered through the trees, urging him onwards. Through the thin trail through the thick brush, over the fallen log and around the giant ancient stones that littered the forest.

Eventually MK hoped he could understand the forest like Macaque could. Macaque had told MK that if you spent enough time around the forest, observing and listening, you could begin to hear their voice. Echoing around in hollow trunks of rotted trees, and murmuring in harmony with the streams that wound through the woods itself.

But for now, he was content on following the strewn about leaves as they beckoned him onwards. Once he had found them ominous, but now they seemed endearing. Like the forest was excited to see him return.

In his defense, walking alone in a forest you’ve heard horror stories about since childhood at dusk wasn’t the greatest recipe for a good first impression.

The peaceful quiet of enjoying his walk was interrupted quite suddenly by the sound of something crashing through the trees.

MK stood frozen for a second before sprinting onwards.

It had come from the cottage.

Rounding the corner as fast as he could, MK grabbed his staff, ready to protect himself or his friend from some sort of monster–oh my god.

The sight before him reminded MK of some sort of renaissance painting. A bull clone lay splayed out in a now splintered tree, (most likely from impact) who was now more akin to a scrap pile than an actual robot. And who should stand before the now decimated clone but Macaque, A shadow spear in one hand, another seeming to call back tendrils of shadows that MK assumed had thrown the clone.

“That. is the coolest thing I've ever seen.”

Macaque startled, MK noticed. The only indication being sharp lash his tail gave, paired with a sharp turn to see where MK was.

“Oh! Uh, hi. There was a guy.” Macaque seemed to explain, gesturing to the smoldering remains of the bull clone.

“Anyways,” he said, dissolving the spear into shadow once more. “Let me get something for your blisters, assuming training didn’t go any better toda–”

“aGH can you teach me that awesome thing??” MK exclaimed, running up to the shadow monkey.

“Uh, I know that you have another teacher. Monkey King’s training you, remember?”

“I mean he is..but you’ve seen my hands! All I do for hours on end is break down walls for him, and every time I try to ask for more he tells me to “be patient.” like the villains in megatropolis are just going to wait until he decides to teach me! I don’t even know any magic and i have to defend the entire–”

“Woah woah woah. He hasn’t taught you any magic yet?”

“..no?”

“Not even a shiELD SPELL?”

“nope.”

“I was under the impression he was mixing basic magic and other stuff in with the wall breaking. So let me get this straight. Your training consists of you breaking walls and only breaking down walls?”

“Yep.”

Macaque’s face twisted with annoyance beyond what MK had ever seen of him and pinched the bridge of his nose with a quiet mutter of frustration that MK couldn’t make out before Macaque looked back up at him.

“Only magic.”

“What?”

“I’ll teach you magic so you don’t get yourself killed by your own dumb youth or his lack of teaching.”

“REALLY?”

“Yes, really. But I can only teach you so much before he notices, we need to be careful and choose specifically on what we focus on.”

But at that point MK wasn’t paying attention. All he was focused on was the fact he was going to have an actual teacher.

After that day, MK would head to the Hushed woods with an unusual spring of excitement in his step. After some snacks to build up his energy from training with Wukong, Macaque would slowly begin to show MK how to not just use his power, but to be in harmony with it.

“When using magic, it’s easy to see it as nothing more than a tool, a weapon. But when in reality it’s more so an extension of you.” Macaque had told MK, effortlessly summoning wispy ribbons of deep purples and pinks from seemingly nothing. The strands swirling, reminiscent of a black hole in the way that it curled around its creator while also reminding MK of the various plants that surrounded Macaque’s home. It was huge! MK could hardly believe that it was all Macaque’s.

“There’s more to it than just using it to transform or to beat enemies, it needs maintenance and care. Otherwise you become unbalanced. Either more human than magic or more magic than human.” Macaque lifted his hand to let the strands of magic meet his fingers, the pulsating feeling of energy filling him with warmth.

MK was almost vibrating in excitement. Only keeping silent because he wanted to absorb every word of actual instruction that left Macaque’s mouth.

“Now, Keep your hands palm up and focus on the feeling you get when you use your powers. Try and guide it to your fingertips and outwards.”

Closing his eyes, MK did just that. Taking in a deep breath, he tried to remember the sensation. Macaque had told him that everyone was a little different from the other, just as unique as each individual themselves.

His own magic felt like sunlight. MK had realized. The sensation akin to the early morning’s sunlight drifting lazily onto your skin as you walk.

When he had used it before now, it was only in flashes. Moments of adrenaline or for basic transformation. But as of right now, MK could feel a pulsing light fluidly make its way down his arms.

“Well done.”

Macaque’s words startled him, having almost forgotten he was in the presence of another.

His eyes flew open to see an albeit small, but prominent bit of magic. It was golden and it reminded MK of silk and mist in the way it moved. It too, curling itself around his hands in a curious motion, leaving feelings of warmth in its wake.

“It's beautiful.” MK finally managed. No other word really fit the part of himself that lay in his hands. Macaque was right, this was much much more than just a tool. He sort of wanted to kick himself for ever even seeing it as such.

Macaque covered his snort with a cough.

“If you keep strengthening it, it will grow. Think of it like a plant.”

MK looked up awestruck to Macaque’s magic and back to his. “Like yours?

“Maybe more. I didn’t have that much magic when I was your age. It doesn't look like a lot now but it’ll grow into something amazing.”

“How do I help it grow?”

“Practice.”

And practice they did.

MK was an engaged student who was always willing to learn. As the autumn continued on, Macaque taught MK more and more spells to keep him safe. A shield spell, cloaking spell, and as per MK’s request, a water breathing spell.

Macaque was wary of Wukong noticing the shift in MK’s power so he stopped it there. Although he still taught MK how to upkeep his magic, no more spells.

Training then turned more into keeping MK satisfied because of how bored he started getting with the chores Wukong had set out for him on Flower Fruit Mountain.

And finally, after MK brought some coffee to bribe him, Macaque began teaching MK a few things other than magic too.

Macaque taught MK the basic stances to use to help keep his balance during a fight, how to safely get away from a foe that was bigger/stronger than him, which plants were good to eat and heal and which ones to avoid, and of course, how to properly throw a water balloon at unsuspecting fools.

Everything was perfect.

Those were MK’s thoughts as he climbed the stairs up to where Wukong usually sat while he trained.

Except as the training area came into view, MK knew something different was about to go down.

Monkey King was standing up, waiting for him with two training staffs in hand.

“Monkey King?”

“Hey bud! I just woke up this morning and decided you’re probably getting sick of the wall knocking, so we’re not doing that today.”

“We’re not?”

“Nope! It’s sparring day.”

Monkey King tossed a wooden staff towards MK, who caught it without much thought.

He was trying to look excited, to be excited. But there was now a bit of worry clumping in his gut. What if Macaque stopped teaching him after this? Or worse yet, what if Monkey King finds out that MK has been training with someone else…somehow.

Shaking off the feelings of trepidation, MK smiled and followed Monkey King to a new “sparring area” as he called it.

MK will admit, sparring was fun.

The adrenaline, actually learning different ways to use his staff rather than just hitting it until whoever it was stopped moving, it was great!

Today’s lesson was blocking and countering and Monkey King was using a wooden staff to demonstrate what oncoming attacks from an enemy would look like and how to avoid them.

As the sun began to go down, the usual sign that training was almost over, Monkey King and MK began to actually sparr with the things MK had learned.

MK felt like he was about to explode with how fast the staff swung towards him. Even though every time Monkey King would stop before MK was so much as grazed, he still felt the rush of adrenaline every time.

He needed to focus.

This was the last spar of the day, he had to do this! To show Monkey King that he was ready to learn to fight!

MK felt his muscles strain as he again blocked an oncoming offense.

“Is that all you got–where did you go?”

The Monkey King seemingly disappeared from view. The feeling of dread building, MK looked over his shoulder just in time to see a smug looking Monkey King about to pin him with the staff.

MK didn’t know if it was spite, the urge to prove himself, or pure physical exhaustion that made him lose his grip on himself.

Wukong’s faux strike was met with a blinding light. The training staff splintering into a hundred pieces in his hands as he was thrown back a few feet from the force of whatever it was that stopped him.

Blinking from where he now stood, the light dimmed just enough for Wukong to make out that it was a bubble shield, and a damn good one at that.

Although he hadn’t planned on even touching MK with the staff, he was still striking with speed and power that matched his own pace. (Wukong was also trying not to think about the fact that his ‘training staff’ that had been shattered to said shield was actually an ancient tree trunk he had shrunk to fit his hand.)

Regardless, Wukong hadn’t felt that much forceful magic in years. The bubble shield was a simple spell, and yet it had just stopped the great sage equal to heaven in its tracks with the amount of raw energy that stood behind it.

MK stood frozen for a good ten seconds before he processed what happened.

What he just did.

Shit.

Scrambling to his feet from where he had tumbled in the chaos, MK dissipated the shield around him and called out to Wukong.

“Monkey King oh my gods I’m so sorry–!”

“I’m fine, don’t worry. I’m immortal, remember?”

“Oh. yeah. Forgot about that.”

MK’s hand landed on the back of his own neck, rubbing it absentmindedly, trying to keep himself calm from the conversation that came next.

“..but i have to ask, how’d you learn to do that?”

Don’t panic MK. you only have the entire existence of an old friend he thinks is dead and who doesn’t want to be found on the line. That and your training and friendship with said old friend. If you screw this up and Monkey King finds out that you’re training with someone else he will stop at nothing to find out who and Macaque’s cover will be blown. Then he’ll stop training you and never want to see you again and he’ll hate you for eternity, but don’t panic–

“I uh…had a dream where a wizard taught it to me?”

“A wizard? In a dream? That’s the best excuse you could come up with?” Macaque had later groaned, rubbing his temples.

“I don’t know, I panicked!” MK whined, resting his head on the table where he and Macaque sat.

“We’re screwed. He’s going to know something’s up now.”

“Why can’t you just…I don't know. Talk to him? It’s been years, but maybe you can…make amends?”

“MK, did I ever tell you why I ran away from Flower Fruit? From him?”

“I know that you two had a fight.”

Macaque let out a small sigh bringing a cup to his lips before gently setting it on the table once more, as if steeling himself for the thing’s to come.

“That’s half true. Yes, we were disagreeing with each other. But we didn’t fight. He did. He tried to kill me.”

“What?”

“I was upset about him leaving his people, I wasn't in the best place, but I had enough of a hold on myself. Instead of doing anything brash, I tried to talk to him.”

MK adjusted himself in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. A feeling of cold settling in his chest.

“Although civil, things were getting heated. I wanted him to return and I resented those who put the circlet on him, and it seems he didn’t. Out of nowhere he just threw his staff with all his might at me. He didn't even bother turning around to watch what followed. Next thing I know I get slammed through an entire forest and into a mountain. I look up, and he’s leaping towards me. All I can do is warp away…and that's how I found the forest.”

“No. no he wouldn’t do that! He’s the Monkey King! He’s not supposed to hurt people.”

“MK.”

“Why would he do that? Why would he ever do that to someone? That’s not what heroes do!”

“MK.”

“What!?”

“People change. And from what you’ve told me, he’s shifted for the better. You need him, and I'm sure he cares deeply for you. I don’t want your view of him to be ruined, but I felt like you needed to know why I'm not too keen on walking in like nothing’s happened. You shouldn’t judge someone by mistakes made in their youth, but I will not be actively seeking him out.”

MK slumped back in his chair, his eyes flicking to his staff and then back to the hems of his jacket where his pointer and thumb played with it.

Macaque hadn’t told him. this entire time and he didn’t tell him to save MK’s opinion of his teacher.

The dim light that hung over the two flickered.

“What now?” he mumbled. Almost asking himself more so than Macaque.

“Be more careful with keeping your magic on a leash.”

“But what about–”

“Nothing’s changed, kid. The only difference is that you just know why I don’t exactly want to waste my time. I came to this forest for peace, and I won't let him disturb that. You however, now have an albeit dumb but well meaning mentor to start actually training under.”

MK looked unconvinced.

“It’s going to be fine, dude. We’ll still hang out after training! Heavens know you’ll get more blisters.”

“‘Dude?’”

“That's what you took away from what I just said? That I dare utter the word ‘dude?’”

“No! I listened.”

“Really? Then what did I say after that?”

“...thaaat i could still come over and annoy you?

“I will forgive the paraphrasing, but yes.”

MK dragged his vision away from where the staff leaned against the wall and back down to the less than hot tea in his hands, a warped reflection peering back at him.

“I’m going to be honest,” MK said finally, “I don’t know if I want to go back.”

“I’ve forgiven him.”

“But why?”

“Because I think I deserve peace, and that he deserves to grow from his mistakes, and that we both deserve to move on. Even if it’s in separate directions.”

There was a moment of silence, the smell of dead leaves drifting in through the open window, the sun's remnants still painting the sky with heavenly colors.

“...You’re right. I think he’s different now.”

Macaque nodded, grabbing a plum from where the fruit basket lay on the countertop just behind him.

“He has a shrine set up for you, I don't think I ever told you, but he does.”

Macaque’s movements slowed for a moment

“I’m glad. I’m glad he’s grown.”

The moment was interrupted by MK’s phone beeping with a text from Mei.

“I almost forgot tonight’s Me and Mei’s sleepover night! I gotta go.” he yelled, grabbing his staff.

“Have fun!” Macaque called from where he now stood, pulling out ingredients to cook himself dinner in the kitchen.

MK stopped for a second.

An internal debate forming. Should he?

I mean…you know what? Who cares if he only ever did it with Tang and Pigsy? MK felt like he needed it.

So without letting another moment of overthinking pass, MK barreled into Macaque with the tightest hug he could physically manage.

“Thank you.” he mumbled into Macaque’s side, before running out the door, only yelling over his shoulder as he ran. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

It took Macaque a second to move again. But he did so just in time to wave back at the kid as he disappeared into the trees and out of view.

…he’d definitely gotten attached.

#lmk #lego monkie kid #monkie kid #lmk fic #plum blossom au #lmk au #six eared macaque #lmk wukong #I WROTE THIS IN ONE SITTING HSKSVSKSV HELP #I’m so tired #my grand return from months of nothing

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voidsnarrator · 2 years

Text

Author had been in this facility for more years than he could remember. It was grating on him, his anger for this place and the people inside it growing day by day. He hears of a clone. Their way of attempting to get a docile and pliable Author, to use for his powers. A little distraction is all he needs to tear this place apart.

I don't know why I'm posting these

No one reads it anyways

Author felt a lot better being covered in blood.

It had been far too long since he's last caused blood, and he had missed the wet warm feeling of the red liquid on his skin. Plus, it made the horrid hospital-sort-of-gown look that much better. Sadly he didn't encounter that many more people -most scientists seemed to have evacuated already, as he had likely triggered an emergency status by himself. He did encounter soldiers more often though, but they were no problem. Sure, getting tased made him uncomfortable and twitch, and being shot at hurt, but he had made sure already he couldn't be incapacitated currently. In the end, they all ended up dead on the ground, their blood decorating the halls.

Wandering through the halls, Author was dead-set on finding his clone. There didn't seem to be that many rooms, but the hallways were long, and the rooms behind the doors he found were large. He happily smashed whatever looked important, but tried not to linger too long. He wasn't trying to find the way out just yet. No, he needed to find the cell his clone was in, the simple thought of it existing making him feel sick. Another him, existing? It made him clench his bat tighter, growling to himself.

Finding the room, Author used the keycard he had swiped off the scientist earlier to unlock the door. Stepping inside the cell, it looked just like the one he had resided inside. White walls, white ceiling, white floor. A one-way mirror on one wall, cameras in all four corners of the rooms. It was just lacking the chair Author was always tied to. His clone was seated on the ground, knees pulled up and arms behind its back, probably its wrists tied together.

It did look like him.

It had the same slender frame, the same thin shoulders and wider hips. The same dark skin, the same vitiligo spots. They were wearing the same kind of gowns, its dark brown hair was shaven short like Author's was. The biggest difference were the bandages on the clone's face, hiding its eyes and most of its expressions.

“So you're my clone.”, Author scoffed, large steps bringing him to it quickly. The clone had no time to say anything, as Author's bat already connected with the side of its head, making it tumble over onto the ground with a pained gasp. The sound made Author tense -his voice, it was his voice. His voice gasping in pain. “Scheiß Missgeburt.”, he growled, glaring at the clone on the floor, as he kicked it as hard as he could; biting his tongue as he heard his own voice wince in pain. He shoved it onto its back, uncaring how uncomfortable or painful it was to lay on its arms, kneeling down and straddling its chest. He needed to see. He needed to see if it had the same golden eyes like he did, he needed to see if this was a perfect mirror of himself. So he grabbed ahold of the bandages, yanking them off of the clone's head.

He fell backwards with a horrified gasp, eyes widening. It was his face staring up at him, but instead of bright golden eyes there were only empty hollow sockets. “What the fuck-”, Author's eyes were fixated on the horrid sight, the still injured wounds exposed to the world, twitching occasionally with what wanted to be blinks most likely. “What did they do to you?”, Author leaned forward again, looking down at his clone, at the painful gaping wounds staring back at him. “T-they-”, the voice that passed the clone's lips was Author's, making him freeze, still not comprehending that this was him, but also not, “They tried- they thought- t-that... trauma would- may cause- c-cause powers.”.

Author stared down at his clone, its words slowly registering in his brain.

“You don't have powers.”, Author said, almost questioningly. He relaxed a little more, feeling some tension leave his body. He felt- he felt sickened, still. That they had truly managed to clone him, to create something that was genetically all like him. “Y-yes.”, the clone replied, voice quieter, weak, meek. A tone Author never had, never adapted, never used. He never got that afraid, never was in a state like this clone. It may be his clone, but it wasn't him. It looked like him, and sounded like him, but that was it. It didn't have his powers. It didn't have his brain. It was less like a clone and more like-

A twin.

What was he supposed to do? The anger and near hate he had felt towards a clone of himself existing had evaporated, replaced by an itchy gross feeling and nausea. He couldn't- he couldn't fault it for existing. For being what it was. His anger was directed at the ones who had created it, had cloned him in the first place, just to use him. He didn't feel like it was... exactly right to kill his clone. Just looking at it he could tell it had been tortured worse than him. Looking down at its face, empty sockets stared back at him, his clone still and quiet. This could've been him instead.

Author got off his clone and made his way to the door, “Get up.”, he ordered, reaching the door and looking outside. He had made his decision, but he needed to hurry up now. He couldn't linger in here too long -while clearly no one was watching the cell currently, or at least from somewhere without control, staying in any room for too long would just give too many opportunities to get trapped. Looking back at his clone, it had pushed itself up to sit, groaning quietly and holding its head. Right- it must be pounding with Author smashing his bat against the side of it. Hopefully no concussion, though Author had bigger worries than that. “Come on.”, Author walked back over, large quick steps, reaching down to grab its arm and yank it to its feet -his grip on its arm helping stabilize it when it wobbled on unsteady feet. “What- what are you- d-doing?”, it asked, keeping its head slightly lowered -something Author was mildly thankful for, as the direct view of the empty sockets was quite uncomfortable. “We are not the same.”, Author said, pulling out the pen he had nabbed earlier and pulling the clone's arm close, setting pen to skin. “You are not me. I am not you. But you do have my DNA. My appearance. My fingerprints.”.

Author was writing -or drawing?- something onto its arms, first around one wrist and then the other. He was hurrying through it, and the pen ran out of ink by the end, barely allowing Author to finish scratching the last of the letters? Symbols? Into its skin. “What... did you do?”, the clone asked quietly, uncertain, but less afraid of Author. “I gave you some of my powers.”, Author said, as if it were nothing. “I gave you Sight. You should be able to “see” your surroundings and even further. Hopefully you'll get used to it quickly.”. They stared blankly “at” Author, confused and clearly surprised. Not expecting Author to do anything for them, other than hurt him more perhaps. It made Author sigh, grabbing their hand and pulling them with him. “You're the lookout now. Once you get used to it, you better be able to tell me if you can see anyone where we're going. I'll tell you where I'm thinking of going so you can look ahead.”, Author said, pulling them out of the room with him, making them follow him.

“I'm the Author, by the way. And you shall be the Host.”.

#admin writing #the host #the author #violence cw

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imbonewary · 8 months

Text

Shifting Sans Chapter 5 "The Old Royal Scientist"

Chapter 1 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 6

What.

"What?"

What?!

"Tell him my story if you must, but I'm not talking about this."

Papyrus marched upstairs, door slamming behind him.

Silence reigned for a few minutes as I tried desperately to process this revelation.

Papyrus was a clone.

Not just any old clone, no, he was a clone of him. A piece of him was still around. He was supposed to be gone, erased, deader than dead, nobody remembered him, he was just a nightmare, nothing more; oh god, how much of him is still alive in Papyrus, my brother, my precious little brother that loves puzzles and spaghetti and wouldn't hurt a god damn fly, has him inside him, the sadistic bastard is still finding new ways to haunt me-

I jumped, hand snapped at what touched my knee.

It was Alphys, looking concerned. I released her hand.

"S-sorry, y-you were sp-piraling."

I was shaking, bones rattling, breathing too quick, too shallow. Right. Let's get that under control first. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breath in.

Breathe out.

I was not expecting that. He's not my brother, it shouldn't be affecting me this much, but he's still Papyrus in one form or another. Is that why he acts so different than my brother? Is that why they all froze when I mentioned the old Royal Scientist before?

"Sans?" Toriel asked softly. I swallowed hard.

"It's your turn to ask a question," I breathed. I really wanna think about something else.

There was a pregnant pause. Seems nobody else could think about anything else either.

"What do you remember about the old Royal Scientist?" Toriel asked meekly. Welp, I guess we're doing this.

"H-his name..." I trailed off before taking a deep, shuddering breath and held it. I shut everything down so I could relay the requested information. I let the breath out slowly.

"His name is Dr. W. D. Gaster," I began, voice as hollow as my eye sockets. "He was the most brilliant mind the Underground had ever seen and quickly gained the title Royal Scientist after the one before him retired due to an injury. Three guesses how that happened. Anyways, he was tasked with breaking the barrier, of course, and making the Underground livable, but he was also trying to find ways to strengthen monsters for the war King Asgore had declared. There are two known ways to permanently raise one's stats: training and LV. He was looking for a third option. That's where I came in. Skeletons naturally have strong magic so he wanted me and my brother as test subjects, arranging an "accident" to get our parents out of the picture. He slowly isolated us in the lower labs and tried to find ways to boost my magic artificially, using my brother as blackmail to keep me compliant."

I paused for a moment. It was my turn to ask a question.

"Papyrus said you and him were raised together," I stated, referring to Alphys. "And I never outright said I was experimented on before now. What happened here?"

"I'll take over this one," Metta said.

"Remember to be gentle," Toriel said.

"Of course," he replied, clearing his throat. "Our story begins many, many years ago. The former Royal Scientist, whos name has been lost; until now, I suppose," he said as an aside. "Was a brilliant skeleton who made the Underground what it is today. As a boss monster, the Scientist was as old as the Underground itself, a permanent feature it seemed, and the Hotland Labs were an expansive project, recycling everything that fell from the surface, researching and developing new ways to grow food, build structures, et cetera et cetera. One day, several years ago, something happened, and almost everything about the Scientist was lost, either erased entirely or corrupted beyond anyone's ability to decipher. We've been trying to piece together what we can about him; books or puzzles with no author, vague or incomplete memories, scraps of what must have been but is no more. It's a fascinating enigma that I myself am trying to untangle, so that all those who were affected can have some sense of closure."

"Many test subjects," He glanced at Alphys, got a nod, and continued. "Such as Alphys and Papyrus, were released into the Underground with vague or distorted memories of who they once were and what happened to them in the Labs. Those who ran the experiments under the Scientist hardly faired much better, most having no idea what could make them act so callously towards their fellow monsters, haunted by their own actions as much as their victims are. At least half of the monsters of the Underground have been affected in some direct way and we've all had to deal with the fallout as best we can. We don't talk about the Labs in the open but we are beginning to create the infrastructure to help deal with the collective trauma behind closed doors, like how we're talking about it now."

"Alternate universes and time travel aside," he continued, looking thoughtful. "We figured you were one such victim yourself, which is why Papyrus called Toriel and I; Tori has been helping Lab victims adjust and taking care of those who are too far gone to reintegrate into polite society, and I know more about the Labs than anyone else. The Scientist may have been able to figure out where you came from and how to get you back there but without him I'm afraid you're stuck here for the foreseeable future. Luckily, I'm sure some other victims who were in hiding will start to come forward as news spreads of the barrier breaking so you'll fit right in."

"The barrier's broken?" Does that mean the seventh human already fell? Am I gonna have to deal with the resets all over again?!

"Oh, right, I suppose that's an important topic," Metta continued. "Using only the six souls we've gathered, a human child named Frisk just broke the barrier. No one is quite sure how they did it, not even Frisk, but what's important is it's broken. Queen Undyne is taking care of all of the political logistics so no need to worry about the surface humans."

"That reminds me," Toriel cut in. "If you really are from somewhere else, and war was declared as you said, you may not know about the fallen humans. Any humans that fall are immediately considered members of the Kingdom of Monsters, since they can't exactly leave and return to the surface. They are assigned to a monster family who will guide them through our society and their souls are gathered peacefully after they die of natural causes. Only one was taken by force and really that was kind of an accident anyways; they were attacking any monster they could find and the Royal Guard was trying to subdue them. The others were all the result of accident, illness, or old age."

"How many humans are down here?"

"About two dozen have fallen since Chara fell initially," Toriel continued. "Though some souls were lost before they could be contained. How do you feel about humans?"

"Eh, neutral to negative, I guess," I replied uncomfortably with a shrug. "Haven't had too many positive interactions with them."

"I see," she frowned but didn't seem too surprised. "You were at war where you came from."

"Sp-peaking of where you came from," Alphys spoke up. "If you c-can't go back, you might b-be here a while and you'll n-need a place to stay. I'd o-offer our couch but I d-don't know how well P-Pap would t-take that..."

"Understandable," I shrugged. "Not sure I wanna be around him either. The inconsistencies between him and my brother make it... uncomfortable. To be around him."

"H-he's really close to o-our Sans so i-it's probably mutual."

"Speaking of Sans, I'm sure he wouldn't mind taking you in," Toriel suggested and I grimaced.

"I'm... not sure how I feel about that either," I cringed. "I mean, wouldn't it be weird to have two "Sans the Skeletons" running around? Though I guess staying away from him wouldn't really solve that problem. Not to mention the whole alternate universe thing means that everyone I meet will probably have some kind of counterpart I'm more familiar with..." I was more talking to myself at this point. "I'll need some way to differentiate between them. And since I'm the one who doesn't belong here, it only makes sense that I pick a new designation. A new name, for my new life. I guess."

"Well, you'd better hurry," Metta said. "Because I just texted Sans and he's on his way."

"You what?!" I cried. "I'm gonna be stuck with this name for the rest of my life, I can't just-"

"Serif."

"What-"

"Your new name," Metta continued with a slight smirk, apparently very proud of himself. "I've been thinking about it for a while now. Sans serif is a font type, and I know how you skeletons like those font-based names, just like papyrus and comic sans are. Serif also sounds like "seraph" which is a type of angel in human mythology, perfectly referencing your wings. Personally I think it sounds like a lovely name-"

Knock knock. I jumped out of my nonexistent skin. Again.

"W-who's there?" Alphys answered immediately as she got up to get the door.

"dishes."

That voice sounded exactly like mine.

"Dishes who?"

"dishes a very bad joke."

"Dishes a very bad joke..." I breathed at the same time the voice answered. I was distantly aware of the door opening as all I could hear was my own breath, staring at nothing as I internally screamed. Fuck I'm not ready for this-

Movement suddenly caught my eye and my head snapped over to the door, immediately locked onto the dark sockets of a very familiar face.

#undertale #jumbletale #alternate universe #oc #shifting sans #serif #amber alphys #lucky papyrus #doc toriel #mettané #sanatos

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ahsokasleftbicep · 3 years

Text

Name and Soul: Chapter 4

Alright, let's get this angst moving!! Hope you enjoy it!

@mqgriett @darkangel4121 @thelambandthewolffe @maulscrosshair @trash-dino-5000 @lightning-wolffe @killtherandomness @shadowwing1324

Crosshair x F! reader

Word Count: 2017

Warnings: SPOILERS for episode 4, Tarkin being awful, Rampart being ugh, Sad Crosshair, internal conflict, Hunter and reader tensions, injury, a single curse word

The firing range was dark and empty, just how he liked it. Crosshair moved from his crouched position to his stomach, reloading his weapon and taking aim at the practice droids. Bang. Bang. The droids drop, sending a hollow thud throughout the room. He knew Tarkin was watching, he always did. So did Nala Se. They talked. Anytime Crosshair looked up at the observation room, he saw the two talking. Probably about her. Private L/N. His head hurt, well the right side did. Like a constant headache, it never went away. It was only worse when he was around the regs. Or his squad. They annoyed him. The man paused his training and then stood up, packing his gear. I need to get the mission done. I need to find them. Find her. Kill them. Take her. Easy enough… right. Every time he thought about her, that little metal ring felt heavier than usual. Oh well.

“You be careful okay? Stay with Hunter and Echo, look but don’t touch. Got it?” You brushed off some dust from Omega’s shirt.

“Yep! I got it!” The girl smiled at you before walking over to Echo.

Things had gotten much more complicated over the last few days. There were no more rations and the ship was on a wanted list. These sort of situations could be handled normally, but with Omega, you all had to think of the best way to keep her safe. Some tensions had been growing also, between you and Hunter, everyone felt it. You knew that the Sergeant had good intentions, but he had yet to acknowledge anything that happened on Kamino. With Crosshair. Wrecker tried to tell you that it was how he hid it, but it still irked you. Hunter had been just as devastated as you, and he kept it all in. You drove the past few days from your mind, looking at Echo in his getup.

“Looking good Echo.”

The man raises his hands and turns in a circle. “I know.” The two of you look at each other before breaking out in chuckles.

“Does the headpiece feel okay? Any recalibrations before you guys head out?” You take a quick look at the controls.

“Feels good so far, I think it’s fine.”

The sergeant came over from talking to the Sullustan dock master, securing his pack.

“Let’s head out.”

“Do you have any credits left after paying him off?”

“I have enough to get what we need.”

“Well, be careful.” You speak monotonically.

“Will do.” The two men and Omega start walking towards the market.

You walk towards the ship, towards Tech and Wrecker.

“Why do they get to go sightseeing again?” Wrecker lifts a large metal piece away so Tech can scramble the ship's signature.

You move out of his way, removing your top armor to help Tech with the ship. “It’s a supply mission. And besides, it’s not the first time we’ve seen this planet.”

Tech cleared his throat. “Uh Y/N? Can you get this small piece in here?... Please.”

“Yes!” You walk up to the ship, stepping up on a box and reaching out for the part. “Got it!”

“Much appreciated.” Tech fixes his goggles before heading back towards the inverters.

“Do you need anything else at the moment?”

“I don’t believe so, but thank you Y/N.”

“Sir? You asked for me.” Rampart walked into Tarkin's office.

“Ah Rampart, yes I did.” Tarkin looked up from a datapad. He put the device down and folded his hands.

“Is everything okay sir?”

“Yes, it is. I was curious about your progress on Private L/N’s file.”

The vice admiral sat down. “I have found a little more about her life before the Clone Wars. Nothing that we can use to our advantage yet. She has no family; they were killed in a raid in her village. A civil war broke out shortly after and she was drafted. She got into the Academy based on skill and exceeded in marksmanship among other things. GAR offered her a job when the war started, she joined Clone Force 99 shortly after.”

Tarkin listened and hummed, “Has there been any luck in finding her? Or the clones.”

“No, L/N’s training serves her and the clones well. No sightings nor upsets have been reported.”

Tarkin stands and looks through the glass window. “Very well then. Maintain your search. As I said, L/N’s skills will be useful to your project. Once you find something, send the sniper out to retrieve her.”

“Understood sir.” Rampart rose and walked out. I will find you, L/N. Whether you like it or not.

“Wrecker, Tech, Echo, Y/N. I lost Omega. Someone attacked us.” Hunter’s voice comes out scratchy through the comm-link. Your head shot up looking between Tech and Wrecker.

“Somebody who?” Wrecker responded.

“A woman. Highly trained. She’s after the kid.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.” Wrecker grabs his helmet, you grab your rifle and run off, the large man following behind.

“Y/N, your armor-.” Tech called out but you were already gone.

You and Wrecker run through the streets.

“I have eyes on Omega, she’s in the maintenance tunnels. Head northwest, at 155. And hurry, she’s got company.” “Wrecker you take that way, I’ll come from the back.” You say as you approach the street.

“Got it.”

You run through the street, hitting a couple of people, not that you cared about being polite at the moment.

“Wrecker, come in?” Silence. “Wrecker. Do you copy?”

“I do not see Wrecker, but Omega is hanging from a tower in the skyway.”

“Oh no.” You breathe out, trying to run faster.

Some speeder pulls up next to you. “Y/N! Get on!” It was Hunter, he held his hand out.

You grip his arm and pull yourself up. “I got the woman, you get Omega.”

Hunter speeds up, and you crouch on the back seat.

“Where’s your armor?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, that makes me feel better. I’m not losing another member of my team.”

“We don’t have time for this, Hunter.”

“He-.”

“Stop! He’s not dead, he hasn’t disappeared. So stop acting like Crosshair just vanished.” You raise your voice. “Focus on Omega.”

You approach the tower only to see Omega fall into a shipping vessel. The woman jumps in afterward. The woman fires at the speeder, but Hunter swerves out of the way. A moment later the back of the vessel starts tilting, taking the woman… and Omega along with it. The woman falls onto another ship. Omega dangles on a strap, way too far above the ground. Hunter is about to grab her-

‘You guys! Look out!” The woman rams into the speeder, tossing you off and sending Hunter in a spin.

“Y/N!”

You’re able to grab onto the back of her ship, pulling yourself up. The woman grabs her weapon but you knock it out of her hand. She kicks you in the stomach before you slam her into the controls of the ship. She kicks back before grabbing a smaller blaster, and then your shoulder starts to burn. Your right shoulder is shot, the skin burned and irritated. Shit. You stumble back.

“Y/N!” You hear two voices at once, one being Omega.

“It’s okay, just stay there.”

The ship starts to shake, when you look behind you, you see that Hunter shot out one of the thrusters. This throws off your balance and you fall over the edge, gripping the end with your good arm.

“Y/N! You need to drop!” You see Hunter hold up a pyro denton. You look around you, seeing a tarp below you, covering some stand.

“Throw it now! I’ll be okay!” You come just above the tarp and let go. You land on the cover before connecting with the ground. The ship explodes and not a moment later, Hunter comes up and puts you on the bike, with Omega.

“Y/N! Are you okay?” The girl looks at your shoulder and winces.

“I’m fine, this isn’t the worst injury I’ve gotten.” Despite the wound being mostly cauterized, the shock and minor blood loss made you woozy. Everything just faded out. Someone picked you up, probably Hunter.

“We need to go. Now. Get a medkit.”

You woke up with a groan, your shoulder was sore and bandaged in a sling. You threw your legs over your bed and walked out into the common area.

“What did I miss?”

Omega jumped up and ran to you. “Y/n, are you okay? You’re going to be okay right? You got hit and then-”

“Omega.” You hug her. “I’m okay, it takes a little more than a blaster wound to take me down.”

The girl hugs you back, relieved. The others gathered around, Hunter looked pissed.

“Did we find out who that woman was?”

“Bounty hunter, based on her skills.” Hunter returned, his arms crossing over his chest.

“Makes sense. And she's after Omega.” You pat the girl on the head. “We need to be more careful.”

Everyone nods and heads back to the cockpit, except Hunter.

“Y/N.”

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t need the lecture, Hunter.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?” You bite back, adjusting your sling.

“Look, I know you’re upset about Kamino, and what happened with Crosshair-”

“No, I’m upset that out of everyone on this ship, you are the only one who has yet to acknowledge him. When Wrecker mentioned Crosshair, you shut it down.” You stood up moving closer to the sergeant. “I know you’re hurting just as badly, but the longer we leave him on Kamino the worse it’s going to get.”

“We’ll get him back-”

“When we stop running, maybe start planning. That’s a start.” You turn towards your room, your eyes brimming with tears. “If you don’t come up with something, and fast. I will. And I will do it alone if I have to. I am not going to leave my husband there to rot and be Tarkin’s attack dog.”

“CT-9904. What is your experience with Private L/N? Is she reliable?” Tarkin asked the gray-haired man.

“Yes, her skills were helpful on missions.” The man tensed, his mind racing. What’s he got planned for her? Don’t listen to him! Leave Y/N alone! Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP! FOCUS!

“When you bring her back, you will be in charge of training her after her conditioning. From there, she will become a part of your squad. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” The clone was dismissed and walked past Rampart. He caught a glimpse of a file, your file, on his datapad. Why is everyone so interested in her? It’s not like she’ll come willingly, she’s a traitor. I miss her. She LEFT me. She loves me. No, she doesn’t. She couldn’t.

He sat on his bunk, thankfully the barracks were empty. Images flashed in his head, of you, your laugh, your smile. He grabbed his head and fell to his knees, shaking. Hot tears fell from his eyes as he wept to the empty room.

“Y/N?” Omega peeks through your door. You are cleaning your rifle. “Should you be doing that?”

You chuckle, “Yes, but it’s taking a little longer than usual… Do you want to give me a hand?”

The girl perks up, “Really?”

“Yeah, consider it your first lesson on taking care of your weapon.” You move over to make room for Omega.

“Where do I start?” The girl picks up a rag and looks at you lost.

“Here, see that little gear right there? That’s one of the most important parts. If you don’t take care of it, the rifle can jam…”

You repeated the same words that Crosshair said to you, minus the sarcasm and occasional curse. Word for word of what he said came out of your mouth as if you traded places. For a moment, it felt like he was right there with you. You thought you heard someone crying. Someone weeping. Like they were right there with you.

#name and soul #clone trooper crosshair #crosshair x reader #the bad batch #omega tbb #omega #tbb spoilers #star wars #fennec shand #if you want to be tagged in this story dm me

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crystalas · 3 years

Text

Hind Sight

This is both inspired and a sort of prequel to Starfics’ answer to my prompt, I loved the idea of it so much that I started a Demon Bull Divorce AU, have fun!

Hindsight

Like a lot of things in hindsight MK could see that this was a very dumb idea.

It was a spur of the moment idea that came to him and Mei as they saw Red Son in the garage with his signature jacket hanging up because said fire demon was currently up to his elbows in tuk-tuk engine bits.

Red Son had just shown up at the noodle store one day declaring that he was there to ‘pay off his father’s debt’ after the whole lunar new year event. Everyone was a bit suspicious at first but Mei and MK decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, after all they knew he wasn’t all evil. True to his word he helped out with fixing stuff and had offered to upgrade the Tuk-tuk, after a few weeks they had managed to convince him to hang out with them after work as well.

That day MK had figured out how to shrink himself and after showing Mei she grinned and suggested they surprise Red Son with it.

Which was the aforementioned very dumb idea.

Said idea was for MK to shrink himself and then have Mei put him in Red Son’s jacket pocket, and when Red Son put it back on, have Mei ask the fire demon if he has seen MK and when he said no ask him to check his pockets…boom! Itty MK!

So, the joke was set, a shrunk MK in place and Mei was now walking up to Red Son as he clambered out of the Tuk-Tuk’s mechanical guts wiping away the grease from his hands.

“Hey Red boy” she beamed.

“Hey dragon horse girl” he said back as he got up.

“Have you seen MK?”

“No but I need to show him how to operate the upgrades…” he began but stopped when he looked at the clock on the garage wall, his smile dissolved into mild panic.

“Is that the time?!” he yelped and rushed past Mei grabbing his coat, igniting his hands to burn off all the grease and oil that had clung to him still and began to make a move for the door. “I’m sorry I need to get home tonight, tell Noodle boy I’ll show him tomorrow, okay?” Red Son yammered quickly.

“Red wait!” Mei cried as he vanished into a swirl of fire.

“Did you check your pockets?” she whimpered sheepishly.

MK felt like he was in a weird fair ground ride, cushioned in fabric and being swung around like on a rollercoaster; it was kind of fun. Not to mention he found a wrapped candy in here and at his current size it was as big as a pillow! He could hear Mei and Red Son talking and waited for his que but then things got very bumpy and then felt very hot and weird for a second as he felt his whole body move in a way that shouldn’t be possible for him before the background ambience of the city suddenly died into a hushed sound of far-off clanking and whirring.

He poked his head out of the pocket to see he was now in an old Chinese style mansion but it was underground and hewn from the rock itself, the walls were adorned with demon Bull family heirlooms and pictures all showing the grand history of the conquering demon clan. MK could hear Red Son muttering to himself.

“I’ve got enough time to check on the projects and get in my best clothes…did I remember to check the repair schedule for the clones?”

MK was about to poke out of the pocket and announce himself when Red Son stopped by a large door that seemed to lead to a main hall, he seemed to hesitate near the entrance as MK and no doubt Red Son could hear angry raised voices.

“How is it I was the one stuck under a mountain but you are the one stuck in the past?” Demon Bull King demanded.

“I am thinking of our legacy and heritage, things you seem keen to throw away!” Princess Iron Fan retorted.

“Our pursuit of power has only brought us trouble!” came the angry reply “We need to move with the times!”

“Listen to you!” Princess Iron Fan screeched “You sound that useless son of ours!”

MK poked out of the pocket and looked up at Red Son who looked forlorn but not surprised as he carried on past the door his shoulders hunched over as he hurried through. Red Son came to a kitchen that seemed big enough to feed a whole court full of people but it was sadly empty and hollow except for one corner where a bull clone was currently working at a stove top. It saw Red Son and bowed respectively.

“I don’t think family meal time will be happening tonight” Red Son declared “so I will be taking my evening meal in my room…again…” the bull clone nodded and got back to preparing said meal. Red Son continued walking through the vacant halls as the vicious shouting ebbed away to quiet muffled sounds. He came to his room and sat at his desk; MK looked around to see his room unlike the rest of the castle had a bit of life to it. There were posters of car designs and movie mechs adorning the walls, a work table filled with small cabinets of tools and gear and what looked to be a shelf filled with scrolls and old tomes. MK had wondered why someone as tidy as Red Son would have what looked to be an arranged pile of tinfoil and fabric in a corner of his room before he realised that must his bed. He remembered Pigsy saying how some demons prefer nests to human style beds.

Okay I really need to show myself before things get even more awkward MK decided and he started to climb out but froze when he heard the door open, Red Son turned to see his mother glaring at him and MK quickly dived back into the safety concealment of the jacket.

“You’ve ruined him” she hissed, and MK could feel Red Son flinch. “Your father was a proud mighty demon King who conquered whole armies alone and made the heavens fear him and now looked at what you have done!”

“Isn’t this better?” Red Son said quietly “I mean…this way we won’t have to worry about him being hurt or sealed… aah!” came the pain gasped as MK could hear a very sharp and painful smack, MK grabbed the fabric of the pocket as Red Son’s whole body violently jerked to the side.

“Be quiet you worthless whelp!” she snarled “I kept our family name safe and proud for centuries and in one year you’ve weakened your father, the great Demon Bull King to the point that he wants to ‘settle down peacefully’!” she said the last bit dripping with venom and MK wished for Red Son to speak up or say something or at the very least move from where he was sitting but he didn’t.

“I’m sorry mother…” was all he managed after a moment of silence.

“Sorry doesn’t undo what you have done!” she spat and MK listened to the sound of her shoes moving away, “Sometimes I wish you had never returned!” she exclaimed coldly before shutting the door.

The fabric around him lurched as Red Son moved and he could feel energy pulse around him like the sky before lightning struck, it was only then did MK realised how dumb this idea really was. Red Son ignites into flames when upset or angry and it’s pretty obvious his clothes are fire proof to deal with that.

MK wasn’t fire proof…

MK made a mad scramble out of the pocket and leapt away just in time for a massive inferno engulfed where he had been hiding and everything else around it. He landed on the cold stone floor and patted himself down to make sure nothing was on fire and once he was sure he wasn’t smouldering he looked back up at the crackling fire ball that was his friend. Red Son still hadn’t moved from the desk but was now hunched over it his hands clawing into his fiery hair his eyes tightly shut but flames still leaked out and his whole body was shuddering as he tried to control his breathing.

MK decided that maybe he should give the fire demon with known anger issues some time to breathe and started to make his way to hide in the nest till he seemed to have calmed down but as he tiptoed his way across the room Red Son sensed the movement. The fire evaporating into the air as Red Son turned around and scanned the room, he glanced down to see a tiny MK in mid sneak.

Red Son looked at MK confused.

MK looked at Red Son worried.

There was a pregnant pause.

“Heh heh …Ta da!” MK said weakly and held out his hands as if to show off “Look what I can do now!”

“Noodle boy?” Red Son muttered quietly as his brain tried to fathom him being there before it clicked that he was and what that might imply. “How long have you been here?” he asked a look of dread falling on his face.

“Oh pssh!” MK tried to dismiss “Not long…no not long at all!”

“Noodle boy” Red Son growled, “How long?”

“… … …” MK struggled to come up with a decent excuse before sighing and returning to his full size, if they were going to have this talk he wanted to be able to look him in face. “Since you made a mad dash out of the garage…”

Red Son gave a groan and covered his face before returning to slump on the desk.

“I know this is going to sound dumb but is everything ok?” MK inquired, “I don’t know how demon families work but that…didn’t sound good.”

“Everything’s fine Noodle boy!” Red Son declared sharply, “My parents are just…going through a rough patch, that is all!”

“A rough patch huh?” MK muttered before walking over to the desk and lightly touching Red Son’s face where the red mark showing where his mother had slapped him was now fading away. How many times had that happened and no one knew thanks to demon healing powers? Red Son batted his hand away and snarled angrily.

“Yes!” he snapped and glared at his desk.

Things were clicking into place in MK’s mind, in hind sight he should have wondered why Red Son showed up out of the blue and wanted to pay off some demon debt, why he had wanted to stay around them as long as possible and even agreed to hang out in the evenings and only on certain days [apparently for family meal times] would he actually go home before anyone else.

MK remembered in the first week of Red Son coming over, Pigsy finally gave in and let Red Son help by telling him to try and get his old tricky stove working again. Red Son had not only fixed it but cleaned it up and gave it a full work through and when he was finished the thing looked and worked as if brand new. Pigsy in his joy of getting his stove back to its prime for free patted Red Son on the back and declared he had paid back the debt in spades.

MK had wondered that day why Red Son had looked so upset but had dismissed it when a moment later the fire demon had gone on a tirade about how insulting it was that Pigsy thought his father’s life was worth only an afternoon of labour.

Maybe Pigsy and Tang had cottoned on a lot sooner than he had because after that they would always find little things for Red Son to do to ‘pay back the debt’.

“Red Son” Mk said as these thoughts mulled in his mind “Was there even a debt to pay off?”

Red Son turned to face him, he fidgeted with his hands for a few moments before sighing.

“I…I…I thought you would be more at ease if you thought that I was honoured bound to behave…”

“Why didn’t you just say something?”

“Like what?!” Red Son retorted “Please may I come over here because I rather spend my days with my enemies rather than my parents because they’re constantly fighting and I can’t do anything to fix it?!” Red Son jaw snapped shut and his hair flared up angrily. “Because they don’t! Fight all the time…I mean…” he exclaimed as he tried to back pedal out of the conversation.

MK watched Red Son and felt a wave of pity come over for him, it was like looking into a mirror of seven years ago. He could almost feel the emotions Red Son must be going through right now, the uncertainty of what was going to happen next, the guilt of not being able to stop it, that gnawing anxiety of thinking if he was to blame somehow. And that horrible cold fear of knowing that sooner or later one of them will be coming up to take their frustration out on someone who won’t fight back…

He thanked the gods regularly that he was fortunate enough that it was Pigsy that caught him dump diving behind his store, how different would his life had been if Pigsy and Tang hadn’t taken him in? He probably had starved to death on the streets that winter.

“Everything was supposed to get better when Father came back…” Red Son muttered to himself but was jolted back into the room as MK put his hands on his shoulders.

“Your parents are going through some stuff right now, so do you want to hang out at my place while they work it out?”

“What?” Red Son spluttered.

“Maybe they just need some space I dunno” MK said, “but what your mom did was not okay, and I’m worried about you”

“Why?”

“Because we’re friends you dummy!” MK laughed “and friends help each other even without demon debts to pay!”

Red Son stood up and pulled out a duffle bag from his wardrobe, he started to fill it with clothes, a stuff bull toy that looked to be antique and over-night necessities.

“You seem to have experience with this sort of thing” Red Son ventured quietly as MK helped him put his tools away in a box for travel.

“Let’s just say I’ve been where you are” MK said softly.

“In your experienced opinion…will me not being here helped my parents to reconcile?”

MK swallowed a hard lump in his throat, he didn’t know if it helped with his parents because he ran away from home and as far as he knows they never came looking for him. Mk was on the streets for three weeks before that fated night at Pigsy’s and it’s been seven years since then and he’s only ever caught a glimpse of them while during his deliveries on the streets.

“Sure, they will” MK answered with a smile “I hope so!”

Red Son left a note telling his parents exactly where he was and how to contact him before they left.

MK wasn’t all that surprised when after explaining the situation Pigsy happen to have a spare fold out bed in the store room.

#monkie kid red son #monkie kid mk #demon bull divorce AU #red son

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peacefulapocalypse · 3 years

Text

I Sexually Identify as an

Attack Helicopter

by ISABEL FALL

I sexually identify as an attack helicopter.

I lied. According to US Army Technical Manual 0, The Soldier as a System, “attack helicopter” is a

gender identity, not a biological sex. My dog tags and Form 3349 say my body is an XX-karyotope

somatic female.

But, really, I didn’t lie. My body is a component in my mission, subordinate to what I truly am. If I

say I am an attack helicopter, then my body, my sex, is too. I’ll prove it to you.

When I joined the Army I consented to tactical-role gender reassignment. It was mandatory for the

MOS I’d tested into. I was nervous. I’d never been anything but a woman before.

But I decided that I was done with womanhood, over what womanhood could do for me; I wanted to

be something furiously new.

To the people who say a woman would’ve refused to do what I do, I say—

Isn’t that the point?

I fly—

Red evening over the white Mojave, and I watch the sun set through a canopy of polycarbonate and

glass: clitoral bulge of cockpit on the helicopter’s nose. Lightning probes the burned wreck of an oil

refinery and the Santa Ana feeds a smoldering wildfire and pulls pine soot out southwest across the

Big Pacific. We are alone with each other, Axis and I, flying low.

We are traveling south to strike a high school.

Rotor wash flattens rings of desert creosote. Did you know that creosote bushes clone themselves?

The ten-thousand-year elders enforce dead zones where nothing can grow except more creosote.

Beetles and mice live among them, the way our cities had pigeons and mice. I guess the analogy

breaks down because the creosote’s lasted ten thousand years. You don’t need an attack helicopter

to tell you that our cities haven’t. The Army gave me gene therapy to make my blood toxic to

mosquitoes. Soon you will have that too, to fight malaria in the Hudson floodplain and on the banks

of the Greater Lake.

Now I cross Highway 40, southbound at two hundred knots. The Apache’s engine is electric and

silent. Decibel killers sop up the rotor noise. White-bright infrared vision shows me stripes of heat,

the tire tracks left by Pear Mesa school buses. Buried housing projects smolder under the dirt,

radiators curled until sunset. This is enemy territory. You can tell because, though this desert was

once Nevada and California, there are no American flags.

“Barb,” the Apache whispers, in a voice that Axis once identified, to my alarm, as my mother’s.

“Waypoint soon.”

“Axis.” I call out to my gunner, tucked into the nose ahead of me. I can see only gray helmet and

flight suit shoulders, but I know that body wholly, the hard knots of muscle, the ridge of pelvic

girdle, the shallow navel and flat hard chest. An attack helicopter has a crew of two. My gunner is

my marriage, my pillar, the completion of my gender.

“Axis.” The repeated call sign means, I hear you.

“Ten minutes to target.”

“Ready for target,” Axis says.

But there is again that roughness, like a fold in carbon fiber. I heard it when we reviewed our

fragment orders for the strike. I hear it again now. I cannot ignore it any more than I could ignore a

battery fire; it is a fault in a person and a system I trust with my life.

But I can choose to ignore it for now.

The target bumps up over the horizon. The low mounds of Kelso-Ventura District High burn warm

gray through a parfait coating of aerogel insulation and desert soil. We have crossed a third of the

continental US to strike a school built by Americans.

Axis cues up a missile: black eyes narrowed, telltales reflected against clear laser-washed cornea.

“Call the shot, Barb.”

“Stand by. Maneuvering.” I lift us above the desert floor, buying some room for the missile to run,

watching the probability-of-kill calculation change with each motion of the aircraft.

Before the Army my name was Seo Ji Hee. Now my call sign is Barb, which isn’t short for Barbara. I

share a rank (flight warrant officer), a gender, and a urinary system with my gunner Axis: we are

harnessed and catheterized into the narrow tandem cockpit of a Boeing AH-70 Apache Mystic.

America names its helicopters for the people it destroyed.

We are here to degrade and destroy strategic targets in the United States of America’s war against

the Pear Mesa Budget Committee. If you disagree with the war, so be it: I ask your empathy, not

your sympathy. Save your pity for the poor legislators who had to find some constitutional

framework for declaring war against a credit union.

The reasons for war don’t matter much to us. We want to fight the way a woman wants to be

gracious, the way a man wants to be firm. Our need is as vamp-fierce as the strutting queen and

dryly subtle as the dapper lesbian and comfortable as the soft resilience of the demiwoman. How

often do you analyze the reasons for your own gender? You might sigh at the necessity of morning

makeup, or hide your love for your friends behind beer and bravado. Maybe you even resent the

punishment for breaking these norms.

But how often—really—do you think about the grand strategy of gender? The mess of history and

sociology, biology and game theory that gave rise to your pants and your hair and your salary? The

casus belli?

Often, you might say. All the time. It haunts me.

Then you, more than anyone, helped make me.

When I was a woman I wanted to be good at woman. I wanted to darken my eyes and strut in heels.

I wanted to laugh from my throat when I was pleased, laugh so low that women would shiver in

contentment down the block.

And at the same time I resented it all. I wanted to be sharper, stronger, a new-made thing,

exquisite and formidable. Did I want that because I was taught to hate being a woman? Or because I

hated being taught anything at all?

Now I am jointed inside. Now I am geared and shafted, I am a being of opposing torques. The noise

I make is canceled by decibel killers so I am no louder than a woman laughing through two walls.

When I was a woman I wanted to have friends who would gasp at the precision and surprise of my

gifts. Now I show friendship by tracking the motions of your head, looking at what you look at, the

way one helicopter’s sensors can be slaved to the motions of another.

When I was a woman I wanted my skin to be as smooth and dark as the sintered stone countertop

in our kitchen.

Now my skin is boron-carbide and Kevlar. Now I have a wrist callus where I press my hydration

sensor into my skin too hard and too often. Now I have bit-down nails from the claustrophobia of the

bus ride to the flight line. I paint them desert colors, compulsively.

When I was a woman I was always aware of surveillance. The threat of the eyes on me, the chance

that I would cross over some threshold of detection and become a target.

Now I do the exact same thing. But I am counting radars and lidars and pit viper thermal sensors,

waiting for a missile.

I am gas turbines. I am the way I never sit on the same side of the table as a stranger. I am most

comfortable in moonless dark, in low places between hills. I am always thirsty and always tense. I

tense my core and pace my breath even when coiled up in a briefing chair. As if my tail rotor must

cancel the spin of the main blades and the turbines must whirl and the plates flex against the pitch

links or I will go down spinning to my death.

An airplane wants in its very body to stay flying. A helicopter is propelled by its interior

near-disaster.

I speak the attack command to my gunner. “Normalize the target.”

Nothing happens.

“Axis. Comm check.”

“Barb, Axis. I hear you.” No explanation for the fault. There is nothing wrong with the weapon attack

parameters. Nothing wrong with any system at all, except the one without any telltales, my spouse,

my gunner.

“Normalize the target,” I repeat.

“Axis. Rifle one.”

The weapon falls off our wing, ignites, homes in on the hard invisible point of the laser designator.

Missiles are faster than you think, more like a bullet than a bird. If you’ve ever seen a bird.

The weapon penetrates the concrete shelter of Kelso-Ventura High School and fills the empty halls

with thermobaric aerosol. Then: ignition. The detonation hollows out the school like a hooked finger

scooping out an egg. There are not more than a few janitors in there. A few teachers working late.

They are bycatch.

What do I feel in that moment? Relief. Not sexual, not like eating or pissing, not like coming in from

the heat to the cool dry climate shelter. It’s a sense of passing . Walking down the street in the right

clothes, with the right partner, to the right job. That feeling. Have you felt it?

But there is also an itch of worry—why did Axis hesitate? How did Axis hesitate?

Kelso-Ventura High School collapses into its own basement. “Target normalized,” Axis reports,

without emotion, and my heart beats slow and worried.

I want you to understand that the way I feel about Axis is hard and impersonal and lovely. It is

exactly the way you would feel if a beautiful, silent turbine whirled beside you day and night,

protecting you, driving you on, coursing with current, fiercely bladed, devoted. God, it’s love. It’s

love I can’t explain. It’s cold and good.

“Barb,” I say, which means I understand . “Exiting north, zero three zero, cupids two.”

I adjust the collective—feel the swash plate push up against the pitch links, the links tilt the angle of

the rotors so they ease their bite on the air—and the Apache, my body, sinks toward the hot desert

floor. Warm updraft caresses the hull, sensual contrast with the Santa Ana wind. I shiver in delight.

Suddenly: warning receivers hiss in my ear, poke me in the sacral vertebrae, put a dark

thunderstorm note into my air. “Shit,” Axis hisses. “Air search radar active, bearing 192, angles

twenty, distance . . . eighty klicks. It’s a fast-mover. He must’ve heard the blast.”

A fighter. A combat jet. Pear Mesa’s mercenary defenders have an air force, and they are out on the

hunt. “A Werewolf.”

“Must be. Gown?”

“Gown up.” I cue the plasma-sheath stealth system that protects us from radar and laser hits. The

Apache glows with lines of arc-weld light, UFO light. Our rotor wash blasts the plasma into a bright

wedding train behind us. To the enemy’s sensors, that trail of plasma is as thick and soft as

insulating foam. To our eyes it’s cold aurora fire.

“Let’s get the fuck out.” I touch the cyclic and we sideslip through Mojave dust, watching the school

fall into itself. There is no reason to do this except that somehow I know Axis wants to see. Finally I

pull the nose around, aim us northeast, shedding light like a comet buzzing the desert on its way

into the sun.

“Werewolf at seventy klicks,” Axis reports. “Coming our way. Time to intercept . . . six minutes.”

The Werewolf Apostles are mercenaries, survivors from the militaries of climate-seared states. They

sell their training and their hardware to earn their refugee peoples a few degrees more distance from

the equator.

The heat of the broken world has chased them here to chase us.

Before my assignment neurosurgery, they made me sit through (I could bear to sit, back then) the

mandatory course on Applied Constructive Gender Theory. Slouched in a fungus-nibbled plastic chair

as transparencies slid across the cracked screen of a De-networked Briefing Element overhead

projector: how I learned the technology of gender.

Long before we had writing or farms or post-digital strike helicopters, we had each other. We lived

together and changed each other, and so we needed to say “this is who I am, this is what I do.”

So, in the same way that we attached sounds to meanings to make language, we began to attach

clusters of behavior to signal social roles. Those clusters were rich, and quick-changing, and so just

like language, we needed networks devoted to processing them. We needed a place in the brain to

construct and to analyze gender.

Generations of queer activists fought to make gender a self-determined choice, and to undo the

creeping determinism that said the way it is now is the way it always was and always must be.

Generations of scientists mapped the neural wiring that motivated and encoded the gender choice.

And the moment their work reached a usable stage—the moment society was ready to accept plastic

gender, and scientists were ready to manipulate it—the military found a new resource. Armed with

functional connectome mapping and neural plastics, the military can make gender tactical.

If gender has always been a construct, then why not construct new ones?

My gender networks have been reassigned to make me a better AH-70 Apache Mystic pilot. This is

better than conventional skill learning. I can show you why.

Look at a diagram of an attack helicopter’s airframe and components. Tell me how much of it you

grasp at once.

Now look at a person near you, their clothes, their hair, their makeup and expression, the way they

meet or avoid your eyes. Tell me which was richer with information about danger and capability. Tell

me which was easier to access and interpret.

The gender networks are old and well-connected. They work .

I remember being a woman. I remember it the way you remember that old, beloved hobby you left

behind. Woman felt like my prom dress, polyester satin smoothed between little hand and little hip.

Woman felt like a little tic of the lips when I was interrupted, or like teasing out the mood my

boyfriend wouldn’t explain. Like remembering his mom’s birthday for him, or giving him a list of

things to buy at the store, when he wanted to be better about groceries.

I was always aware of being small: aware that people could hurt me. I spent a lot of time thinking

about things that had happened right before something awful. I would look around me and ask

myself, are the same things happening now? Women live in cross-reference. It is harder work than

we know.

Now I think about being small as an advantage for nape-of-earth maneuvers and pop-up guided

missile attacks.

Now I yield to speed walkers in the hall like I need to avoid fouling my rotors.

Now walking beneath high-tension power lines makes me feel the way that a cis man would feel if he

strutted down the street in a miniskirt and heels.

I’m comfortable in open spaces but only if there’s terrain to break it up. I hate conversations I

haven’t started; I interrupt shamelessly so that I can make my point and leave.

People treat me like I’m dangerous, like I could hurt them if I wanted to. They want me protected

and watched over. They bring me water and ask how I’m doing.

People want me on their team. They want what I can do.

A fighter is hunting us, and I am afraid that my gunner has gender dysphoria.

Twenty thousand feet above us (still we use feet for altitude) the bathroom-tiled transceivers cupped

behind the nose cone of a Werewolf Apostle J-20S fighter broadcast fingers of radar light. Each beam

cast at a separate frequency, a fringed caress instead of a pointed prod. But we are jumpy, we are

hypervigilant—we feel that creeper touch.

I get the cold-rush skin-prickle feel of a stranger following you in the dark. Has he seen you? Is he

just going the same way? If he attacks, what will you do, could you get help, could you scream? Put

your keys between your fingers, like it will help. Glass branches of possibility grow from my skin,

waiting to be snapped off by the truth.

“Give me a warning before he’s in IRST range,” I order Axis. “We’re going north.”

“Axis.” The Werewolf’s infrared sensor will pick up the heat of us, our engine and plasma shield,

burning against the twilight desert. The same system that hides us from his radar makes us hot and

visible to his IRST.

I throttle up, running faster, and the Apache whispers alarm. “Gown overspeed.” We’re moving too

fast for the plasma stealth system, and the wind’s tearing it from our skin. We are not modest. I

want to duck behind a ridge to cover myself, but I push through the discomfort, feeling out the

tradeoff between stealth and distance. Like the morning check in the mirror, trading the confidence

of a good look against the threat of reaction.

When the women of Soviet Russia went to war against the Nazis, when they volunteered by the

thousands to serve as snipers and pilots and tank drivers and infantry and partisans, they fought

hard and they fought well. They ate frozen horse dung and hauled men twice their weight out of

burning tanks. They shot at their own mothers to kill the Nazis behind her.

But they did not lose their gender; they gave up the inhibition against killing but would not give up

flowers in their hair, polish for their shoes, a yearning for the young lieutenant, a kiss on his dead

lips.

And if that is not enough to convince you that gender grows deep enough to thrive in war: when the

war ended the Soviet women were punished. They went unmarried and unrespected. They were

excluded from the victory parades. They had violated their gender to fight for the state and the state

judged that violation worth punishment more than their heroism was worth reward.

Gender is stronger than war. It remains when all else flees.

When I was a woman I wanted to machine myself.

I loved nails cut like laser arcs and painted violent-bright in bathrooms that smelled like laboratories.

I wanted to grow thick legs with fat and muscle that made shapes under the skin like Nazca lines. I

loved my birth control, loved that I could turn my period off, loved the home beauty-feedback kits

that told you what to eat and dose to adjust your scent, your skin, your moods. I admired, wasn’t

sure if I wanted to be or wanted to fuck, the women in the build-your-own-shit videos I watched on

our local image of the old Internet. Women who made cyberattack kits and jewelry and

sterile-printed IUDs, made their own huge wedge heels and fitted bras and skin-thin chameleon

dresses. Women who talked about their implants the same way they talked about computers,

phones, tools: technologies of access, technologies of self-expression.

Something about their merciless self-possession and self-modification stirred me. The first time I

ever meant to masturbate I imagined one of those women coming into my house, picking the lock,

telling me exactly what to do, how to be like her. I told my first boyfriend about this, I showed him

pictures, and he said, girl, you bi as hell, which was true, but also wrong. Because I did not want

those dresses, those heels, those bodies in the way I wanted my boyfriend. I wanted to possess that

power. I wanted to have it and be it.

The Apache is my body now, and like most bodies it is sensual. Fabric armor that stiffens beneath

my probing fingers. Stub wings clustered with ordnance. Rotors so light and strong they do not even

droop: as artificial-looking, to an older pilot, as breast implants. And I brush at the black ring of a

sensor housing, like the tip of a nail lifting a stray lash from the white of your eye.

I don’t shave, which all the fast jet pilots do, down to the last curly scrotal hair. Nobody expects a

helicopter to be sleek. I have hairy armpits and thick black bush all the way to my ass crack. The

things that are taboo and arousing to me are the things taboo to helicopters. I like to be picked up,

moved, pressed, bent and folded, held down, made to shudder, made to abandon control.

Do these last details bother you? Does the topography of my pubic hair feel intrusive and

unnecessary? I like that. I like to intrude, inflict damage, withdraw. A year after you read this maybe

those paragraphs will be the only thing you remember: and you will know why the rules of gender

are worth recruitment.

But we cannot linger on the point of attack.

“He’s coming north. Time to intercept three minutes.”

“Shit. How long until he gets us on thermal?”

“Ninety seconds with the gown on.” Danger has swept away Axis’ hesitation.

“Shit.”

“He’s not quite on zero aspect—yeah, he’s coming up a few degrees off our heading. He’s not sure

exactly where we are. He’s hunting.”

“He’ll be sure soon enough. Can we kill him?”

“With sidewinders?” Axis pauses articulately: the target is twenty thousand feet above us, and he

has a laser that can blind our missiles. “We’d have more luck bailing out and hiking.”

“All right. I’m gonna fly us out of this.”

“Sure.”

“Just check the gun.”

“Ten times already, Barb.”

When climate and economy and pathology all went finally and totally critical along the Gulf Coast,

the federal government fled Cabo fever and VARD-2 to huddle behind New York’s flood barriers.

We left eleven hundred and six local disaster governments behind. One of them was the Pear Mesa

Budget Committee. The rest of them were doomed.

Pear Mesa was different because it had bought up and hardened its own hardware and power. So

Pear Mesa’s neural nets kept running, retrained from credit union portfolio management to the

emergency triage of hundreds of thousands of starving sick refugees.

Pear Mesa’s computers taught themselves to govern the forsaken southern seaboard. Now they

coordinate water distribution, re-express crop genomes, ration electricity for survival AC, manage all

the life support humans need to exist in our warmed-over hell.

But, like all advanced neural nets, these systems are black boxes. We have no idea how they work,

what they think. Why do Pear Mesa’s AIs order the planting of pear trees? Because pears were their

corporate icon, and the AIs associate pear trees with areas under their control. Why does no one

make the AIs stop? Because no one knows what else is tangled up with the “plant pear trees”

impulse. The AIs may have learned, through some rewarded fallacy or perverse founder effect, that

pear trees cause humans to have babies. They may believe that their only function is to build

support systems around pear trees.

When America declared war on Pear Mesa, their AIs identified a useful diagnostic criterion for hostile

territory: the posting of fifty-star American flags. Without ever knowing what a flag meant, without

any concept of nations or symbols, they ordered the destruction of the stars and stripes in Pear Mesa

territory.

That was convenient for propaganda. But the real reason for the war, sold to a hesitant Congress by

technocrats and strategic ecologists, was the ideology of scale atrocity . Pear Mesa’s AIs could not be

modified by humans, thus could not be joined with America’s own governing algorithms: thus must

be forced to yield all their control, or else remain forever separate.

And that separation was intolerable. By refusing the United States administration, our superior

resources and planning capability, Pear Mesa’s AIs condemned citizens who might otherwise be

saved to die—a genocide by neglect. Wasn’t that the unforgivable crime of fossil capitalism? The

creation of systems whose failure modes led to mass death?

Didn’t we have a moral imperative to intercede?

Pear Mesa cannot surrender, because the neural nets have a basic imperative to remain online. Pear

Mesa’s citizens cannot question the machines’ decisions. Everything the machines do is connected in

ways no human can comprehend. Disobey one order and you might as well disobey them all.

But none of this is why I kill.

I kill for the same reason men don’t wear short skirts, the same reason I used to pluck my brows,

the reason enby people are supposed to be (unfair and stupid, yes, but still) androgynous with short

hair. Are those good reasons to do something? If you say no, honestly no—can you tell me you

break these rules without fear or cost?

But killing isn’t a gender role, you might tell me. Killing isn’t a decision about how to present your

own autonomous self to the world. It is coercive and punitive. Killing is therefore not an act of

gender.

I wish that were true. Can you tell me honestly that killing is a genderless act? The method? The

motive? The victim?

When you imagine the innocent dead, who do you see?

“Barb,” Axis calls, softly. Your own voice always sounds wrong on recordings—too nasal. Axis’ voice

sounds wrong when it’s not coming straight into my skull through helmet mic.

“Barb.”

“How are we doing?”

“Exiting one hundred and fifty knots north. Still in his radar but he hasn’t locked us up.”

“How are you doing?”

I cringe in discomfort. The question is an indirect way for Axis to admit something’s wrong, and that

indirection is obscene. Like hiding a corroded tail rotor bearing from your maintenance guys.

“I’m good,” I say, with fake ease. “I’m in flow. Can’t you feel it?” I dip the nose to match a drop-off

below, provoking a whine from the terrain detector. I am teasing, striking a pose. “We’re gonna be

okay.”

“I feel it, Barb.” But Axis is tense, worried about our pursuer, and other things. Doesn’t laugh.

“How about you?”

“Nominal.”

Again the indirection, again the denial, and so I blurt it out. “Are you dysphoric?”

“What?” Axis says, calmly.

“You’ve been hesitating. Acting funny. Is your—” There is no way to ask someone if their militarized

gender conditioning is malfunctioning. “Are you good?”

“I . . . ” Hesitation. It makes me cringe again, in secondhand shame. Never hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“Do you need to go on report?”

Severe gender dysphoria can be a flight risk. If Axis hesitates over something that needs to be done

instantly, the mission could fail decisively. We could both die.

“I don’t want that,” Axis says.

“I don’t want that either,” I say, desperately. I want nothing less than that. “But, Axis, if—”

The warning receiver climbs to a steady crow call.

“He knows we’re here,” I say, to Axis’ tight inhalation. “He can’t get a lock through the gown but

he’s aware of our presence. Fuck. Blinder, blinder, he’s got his laser on us—”

The fighter’s lidar pod is trying to catch the glint of a reflection off us. “Shit,” Axis says. “We’re

gonna get shot.”

“The gown should defeat it. He’s not close enough for thermal yet.”

“He’s gonna launch anyway. He’s gonna shoot and then get a lock to steer it in.”

“I don’t know—missiles aren’t cheap these days—”

The ESM mast on the Apache’s rotor hub, mounted like a lamp on a post, contains a cluster of

electro-optical sensors that constantly scan the sky: the Distributed Aperture Sensor. When the DAS

detects the flash of a missile launch, it plays a warning tone and uses my vest to poke me in the

small of my back.

My vest pokes me in the small of my back.

“Barb. Missile launch south. Barb. Fox 3 inbound. Inbound. Inbound.”

“He fired,” Axis calls. “Barb?”

“Barb,” I acknowledge.

I fuck—

Oh, you want to know: many of you, at least. It’s all right. An attack helicopter isn’t a private way of

being. Your needs and capabilities must be maintained for the mission.

I don’t think becoming an attack helicopter changed who I wanted to fuck. I like butch assertive

people. I like talent and prestige, the status that comes of doing things well. I was never taught the

lie that I was wired for monogamy, but I was still careful with men, I was still wary, and I could

never tell him why: that I was afraid not because of him, but because of all the men who’d seemed

good like him, at first, and then turned into something else.

No one stalks an attack helicopter. No slack-eyed well-dressed drunk punches you for ignoring the

little rape he slurs at your neckline. No one even breaks your heart: with my dopamine system tied

up by the reassignment surgery, fully assigned to mission behavior, I can’t fall in love with anything

except my own purpose.

Are you aware of your body? Do you feel your spine when you stand, your hips when you walk, the

tightness and the mass in your core? When you look at yourself, whose eyes do you use? Your own?

I am always in myself. I never see myself through my partner’s eyes. I have weapons to use, of

course, ways of moving, moans and cries. But I measure those weapons by their effect, not by their

similarity to some idea of how I should be.

Flying is the loop of machinery and pilot, the sense of your motion on the controls translated into

torque and lift, the airframe’s reaction shaping your next motion until the loop closes and machine

and pilot are one. Awareness collapses to the moment. You are always doing the right thing exactly

as it needs to be done. Sex is the same: the search for everything in an instant.

Of course I fuck Axis. A few decades ago this would’ve been a crime. What a waste of perfectly

useful behavior. What a waste of that lean muscled form and those perfect killing hands that know

me millimeter-by-millimeter system-by-system so there is no mystique between us. No “secret

places” or “feminine mysteries,” only the tortuously exact technical exercise of nerves and pressure.

Oxytocin released, to flow between us, by the press of knuckles in my cunt.

When I come beneath Axis I cry out, I press my body close, I want that utter loss of control that I

feel nowhere else. Heartbeat in arched throat: nipple beneath straining tongue. And my mind is

hyper-activated, free-associating, and as Axis works in me I see the work we do together. I see puffs

of thirty-millimeter autocannon detonating on night-cold desert floor.

Violence doesn’t get me off. But getting off makes me revel in who I am: and I am violent, made for

violence, alive in the fight.

Does that surprise you? Does it bother you to mingle cold technical discipline with hot flesh and

sweat?

Let me ask you: why has the worst insult you can give a combat pilot always been weak dick?

Have you ever been exultant? Have you ever known that you are a triumph? Have you ever felt that

it was your whole life’s purpose to do something, and all that you needed to succeed was to be

entirely yourself?

To be yourself well is the wholest and best feeling that anything has ever felt.

It is what I feel when I am about to live or die.

The Werewolf’s missile arches down on us, motor burned out, falling like an arrow. He is trying a

Shoot On Prospect attack: he cannot find us exactly, so he fires a missile that will finish the search,

lock onto our heat or burn through our stealth with its onboard radar, or acquire us optically like a

staring human eye. Or at least make us react. Like the catcaller’s barked “Hey!” to evoke the flinch

or the huddle, the proof that he has power.

We are ringed in the vortex of a dilemma. If we switch off the stealth gown, the Werewolf fighter will

lock its radar onto us and guide the missile to the kill. If we keep the stealth system on, the missile’s

heat-seeker will home in on the blazing plasma.

I know what to do. Not in the way you learn how to fly a helicopter, but the way you know how to

hold your elbows when you gesture.

A helicopter is more than a hovering fan, see? The blades of the rotor tilt and swivel. When you turn

the aircraft left, the rotors deepen their bite into the air on one side of their spin, to make off-center

lift. You cannot force a helicopter or it will throw you to the earth. You must be gentle.

I caress the cyclic.

The Apache’s nose comes up smooth and fast. The Mojave horizon disappears under the chin. Axis’

gasp from the front seat passes through the microphone and into the bones of my face. The pitch

indicator climbs up toward sixty degrees, ass down, chin up. Our airspeed plummets from a hundred

and fifty knots to sixty.

We hang there for an instant like a dancer in an oversway. The missile is coming straight down at

us. We are not even running anymore.

And I lower the collective, flattening the blades of the rotor, so that they cannot cut the air at an

angle and we lose all lift.

We fall.

I toe the rudder. The tail rotor yields a little of its purpose, which is to counter the torque of the

main rotor: and that liberated torque spins the Apache clockwise, opposite the rotor’s turn, until we

are nose down sixty degrees, facing back the way we came, looking into the Mojave desert as it rises

up to take us.

I have pirouetted us in place. Plasma fire blows in wraith pennants as the stealth system tries to

keep us modest.

“Can you get it?” I ask.

“Axis.”

I raise the collective again and the rotors bite back into the air. We do not rise, but our fall slows

down. Cyclic stick answers to the barest twitch of wrist, and I remember, once, how that slim wrist

made me think of fragility, frailty, fear: I am remembering even as I pitch the helicopter back and

we climb again, nose up, tail down, scudding backward into the sky while aimed at our chasing killer.

Axis is on top now, above me in the front seat, and in front of Axis is the chin gun, pointed sixty

degrees up into heaven.

“Barb,” the helicopter whispers, like my mother in my ear. “Missile ten seconds. Music? Glare?”

No. No jamming. The Werewolf missile will home in on jamming like a wolf with a taste for pepper.

Our laser might dazzle the seeker, drive it off course—but if the missile turns then Axis cannot take

the shot.

It is not a choice. I trust Axis.

Axis steers the nose turret onto the target and I imagine strong fingers on my own chin, turning me

for a kiss, looking up into the red scorched sky—Axis chooses the weapon (30MM GUIDED PROX AP)

and aims and fires with all the idle don’t-have-to-try confidence of the first girl dribbling a soccer ball

who I ever for a moment loved—

The chin autocannon barks out ten rounds a second. It is effective out to one point five kilometers.

The missile is moving more than a hundred meters per second.

Axis has one second almost exactly, ten shots of thirty-millimeter smart grenade, to save us.

A mote of gray shadow rushes at us and intersects the line of cannon fire from the gun. It becomes

a spray of light. The Apache tings and rattles. The desert below us, behind us, stipples with tiny

plumes of dust that pick up in the wind and settle out like sift from a hand.

“Got it,” Axis says.

“I love you.”

“Axis.”

Many of you are veterans in the act of gender. You weigh the gaze and disposition of strangers in a

subway car and select where to stand, how often to look up, how to accept or reject conversation.

Like a frequency-hopping radar, you modulate your attention for the people in your context: do not

look too much, lest you seem interested, or alarming. You regulate your yawns, your appetite, your

toilet. You do it constantly and without failure.

You are aces.

What other way could be better? What other neural pathways are so available to constant

reprogramming, yet so deeply connected to judgment, behavior, reflex?

Some people say that there is no gender, that it is a postmodern construct, that in fact there are

only man and woman and a few marginal confusions. To those people I ask: if your body-fact is

enough to establish your gender, you would willingly wear bright dresses and cry at movies, wouldn’t

you? You would hold hands and compliment each other on your beauty, wouldn’t you? Because your

cock would be enough to make you a man.

Have you ever guarded anything so vigilantly as you protect yourself against the shame of

gender-wrong?

The same force that keeps you from gender-wrong is the force that keeps me from fucking up.

The missile is dead. The Werewolf Apostle is still up there.

“He’s turning off.” Axis has taken over defensive awareness while I fly. “Radar off. Laser off. He’s

letting us go.”

“Afraid of our fighters?” The mercenaries cannot replace a lost J-20S. And he probably has a

wingman, still hiding, who would die too if they stray into a trap.

“Yes,” Axis says.

“Keep the gown on.” In case he’s trying to bluff us into shutting down our stealth. “We’ll stick to the

terrain until he’s over the horizon.”

“Can you fly us out?”

The Apache is fighting me. Fragments of the destroyed missile have pitted the rotors, damaged the

hub assembly, and jammed the control surfaces. I begin to crush the shrapnel with the Apache’s

hydraulics, pounding the metal free with careful control inputs. But the necessary motions also move

the aircraft. Half a second’s error will crash us into the desert. I have to calculate how to un-jam the

shrapnel while accounting for the effects of that shrapnel on my flight authority and keeping the

aircraft stable despite my constant control inputs while moving at a hundred and thirty knots across

the desert.

“Barb,” I say. “Not a problem.”

And for an hour I fly without thought, without any feeling except the smooth stone joy of doing

something that takes everything.

The night desert is black to the naked eye, soft gray to thermal. My attention flips between my left

eye, focused on the instruments, and my right eye, looking outside. I am a black box like the Pear

Mesa AIs. Information arrives—a throb of feedback in the cyclic, a shift of Axis’ weight, a dune crest

ahead—and my hands and feet move to hold us steady. If I focused on what I was doing it would all

fall apart. So I don’t.

“Are you happy?” Axis asks.

Good to talk now. Keep my conscious mind from interfering with the gearbox of reflexes below.

“Yeah,” I say, and I blow out a breath into my mask, “yeah, I am,” a lightness in my ribs, “yeah, I

feel good.”

“Why do you think we just blew up a school?”

Why did I text my best friend the appearance and license number of all my cab drivers, just in case?

Because those were the things that had to be done.

Listen: I exist in this context. To make war is part of my gender. I get what I need from the flight

line, from the ozone tang of charging stations and the shimmer of distant bodies warping in the

tarmac heat, from the twenty minutes of anxiety after we land when I cannot convince myself that I

am home, and safe, and that I am no longer keeping us alive with the constant adjustments of my

hands and feet.

“Deplete their skilled labor supply, I guess. Attack the demographic skill curve.”

“Kind of a long-term objective. Kind of makes you think it’s not gonna be over by election season.”

“We don’t get to know why the AIs pick the targets.” Maybe destroying this school was an accident.

A quirk of some otherwise successful network, coupled to the load-bearing elements of a vast

strategy.

“Hey,” I say, after a beat of silence. “You did good back there.”

“You thought I wouldn’t.”

“Barb.” A more honest yes than “yes,” because it is my name, and it acknowledges that I am the

one with the doubt.

“I didn’t know if I would either,” Axis says, which feels exactly like I don’t know if I love you

anymore . I lose control for a moment and the Apache rattles in bad air and the tail slews until I stop

thinking and bring everything back under control in a burst of rage.

“You’re done?” I whisper, into the helmet. I have never even thought about this before. I am cold,

sweat soaked, and shivering with adrenaline comedown, drawn out like a tendon in high heels, a

just-off-the-dance-floor feeling, post-voracious, satisfied. Why would we choose anything else? Why

would we give this up? When it feels so good to do it? When I love it so much?

“I just . . . have questions.” The tactical channel processes the sound of Axis swallowing into a dull

point of sound, like dropped plastic.

“We don’t need to wonder, Axis. We’re gendered for the mission—”

“We can’t do this forever,” Axis says, startling me. I raise the collective and hop us up a hundred

feet, so I do not plow us into the desert. “We’re not going to be like this forever. The world won’t be

like this forever. I can’t think of myself as . . . always this.”

Yes, we will be this way forever. We survived this mission as we survive everywhere on this hot and

hostile earth. By bending all of what we are to the task. And if we use less than all of ourselves to

survive, we die.

“Are you going to put me on report?” Axis whispers.

On report as a flight risk? As a faulty component in a mission-critical system? “You just intercepted

an air-to-air missile with the autocannon, Axis. Would I ever get rid of you?”

“Because I’m useful,” Axis says, softly. “Because I can still do what I’m supposed to do. That’s what

you love. But if I couldn’t . . . I’m distracting you. I’ll let you fly.”

I spare one glance for the gray helmet in the cockpit below mine. Politeness is a gendered protocol.

Who speaks and who listens. Who denies need and who claims it. As a woman, I would’ve pressed

Axis. As a woman, I would’ve unpacked the unease and the disquiet.

As an attack helicopter, whose problems are communicated in brief, clear datums, I should ignore

Axis.

But who was ever only one thing?

“If you want to be someone else,” I say, “someone who doesn’t do what we do, then . . . I don’t

want to be the thing that stops you.”

“Bird’s gotta land sometime,” Axis says. “Doesn’t it?”

In the Applied Constructive Gender briefing, they told us that there have always been liminal

genders, places that people passed through on their way to somewhere else. Who are we in those

moments when we break our own rules? The straight man who sleeps with men? The woman who

can’t decide if what she feels is intense admiration, or sexual attraction? Where do we go, who do we

become?

Did you know that instability is one of the most vital traits of a combat aircraft? Civilian planes are

built stable, hard to turn, inclined to run straight ahead on an even level. But a military aircraft is

built so it wants to tumble out of control, and it is held steady only by constant automatic feedback.

The way I am holding this Apache steady now.

Something that is unstable is ready to move, eager to change, it wants to turn, to dive, to tear away

from stillness and fly .

Dynamism requires instability. Instability requires the possibility of change.

“Voice recorder’s off, right?” Axis asks.

“Always.”

“I love doing this. I love doing it with you. I just don’t know if it’s . . . if it’s right.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Barb?”

“Thank you for thinking about whether it’s right. Someone needs to.”

Maybe what Axis feels is a necessary new queerness. One which pries the tool of gender back from

the hands of the state and the economy and the war. I like that idea. I cannot think of myself as a

failure, as something wrong, a perversion of a liberty that past generations fought to gain.

But Axis can. And maybe you can too. That skepticism is not what I need . . . but it is necessary

anyway.

I have tried to show you what I am. I have tried to do it without judgment. That I leave to you.

“Are we gonna make it?” Axis asks, quietly.

The airframe shudders in crosswind. I let the vibrations develop, settle into a rhythm, and then I

make my body play the opposite rhythm to cancel it out.

“I don’t know,” I say, which is an answer to both of Axis’ questions, both of the ways our lives are in

danger now. “Depends how well I fly, doesn’t it?”

“It’s all you, Barb,” Axis says, with absolute trust. “Take us home.”

A search radar brushes across us, scatters off the gown, turns away to look in likelier places. The

Apache’s engine growls, eating battery, turning charge into motion. The airframe shudders again,

harder, wind rising as cooling sky fights blazing ground. We are racing a hundred and fifty feet

above the Larger Mojave where we fight a war over some new kind of survival and the planet we

maimed grows that desert kilometer by kilometer. Our aircraft is wounded in its body and in its

crew. We are propelled by disaster. We are moving swiftly.

#I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter by ISABEL FALL #I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter #ISABEL FALL #gender identity

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stealingpotatoes · 3 years

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I am OBSESSED with your Desmond lives AU!! I want Shaun and Rebecca to be able to give Desmond all the hugs, I want Desmond to be able to choose to be an Assassin, to be able to help save the world again. Also, I am very curious about how you would resurrect Desmond, because I’ve had similar thoughts on such an AU, but I currently stick it near the end of Valhalla with the stuff that happens there. If you ever feel like expanding on it, I'd be super excited to see more!!!

first of all, AH THANK YOU!!! Yes those are ALL points that are very important to the Des Lives AU! Second of all, thank you so much for this ask in general!!! I was hoping someone would send an ask like this so I’d get an excuse to talk abt the AU more lmao XD!! I made this AU back in March last year, so there’s no Valhalla stuff in it, and it’s set right after/ during the Odyssey DLCs.

The long story short for my Desmond Rez (rezmond, if you will) is “shroud of eden, abstergo, and some Isu bullshit”. The long story long, however, is uh- you know what? I’m going to use this opportunity to explain the vague story I worked out last year -- but dw, I WILL get to the full ressurection explanation I thought through. However... I’m gonna have to tell the story in smaller parts because I’m lazy and can’t be bothered to write the whole thing out right now. So rez comes later and not in this post.

also uh-- before we start: I’m going to apologise for like… everything about the way I wrote this. It’s sort-of half fic, half that-way-your-friends-colloquially-tell-stories-that-you-can’t-keep-up-with. Mainly the latter. If you can make sense of this babbling, well done.

Anyways, without further ado, welcome to:

POTES TRIES TO EXPLAIN HER DESMOND (SORTA) LIVES AU: PART ONE

On the 21st of December 2012, Desmond Miles dies.

It’s not for nothing -- his sacrifice saves the entire world from a solar flare -- but he is dead. big ripz. The Assassins, his family, do not manage to recover his body. Abstergo gets it first. The Assassins hold a funeral as best they can. They mourn (all in their own ways), they keep fighting (for his memory), and they try to move on (they can’t).

On the 21st of December 2012, Desmond Miles died -- so when he shows up in a city in October 2018, almost 6 years later, it’s a bit of a shock for everyone. What’s even more of a shock is the fact he’s glowing like an Isu and has some abilities he DEFINITELY didn’t have when he died.

So Desmond wakes up in the middle of some city in he doesn’t know where (yeah ok i just never really worked out where the secret lab would be), with 1. no idea of how he got there and 2. no idea why his arms are glowing like that. He doesn’t get much time to think about it because then there’re a load of Abstergo goons with guns surrounding him. Des may have no idea what’s happening, but he knows one thing: when u see an Abstergo, it’s on sight. So he’s fighting them -- which is admittedly not fun or easy when you’re in the middle of a road and only have your fists as weapons. It’s not going well and then someone definitely manages to shoot Desmond which is very bad -- but then Des feels some very weird (but not unfamiliar) feeling and when he looks up from the bullet wound, every one of the Abstergos are on the floor???? He doesn’t think to check if they’re dead, just legs it out of there lmao.

Elsewhere, in an Assassin safehouse in an undisclosed location (can you tell I just didn’t think about the geography of anything), Mr Shaun Hastings is chilling on a balcony after a mission well done. Good for him. Then Rebecca Crane (queen ilu) yells “Shaun?” from inside.

“Rebecca?”

“Come inside. Now.”

Shaun immediately does so because he assumes it’s important or they’re under threat. “What happened? Have we been compromised?”

Rebecca doesn’t answer.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Shaun says, mostly joking and with a little smirk -- though Becs looks spooked.

“Desmond’s alive.”

Shaun’s not smirking anymore. “What?”

“Desmond’s... he’s alive.”

“What are you talking about? Are you high?” he’s totally about to look at her eyes to see if they’re all dilated and druggy.

“No Shaun, I mean it!” Becs harshly shoves her tablet into his hands.

Shaun doesn’t really know what he’s expecting to see when he looks down at the screen. What he’s not really expecting to see is Desmond Miles, who’s been dead for six years, fighting a load of Abstergo people -- while lined in Isu markings (also he’s not wearing a shirt forgot got to mention). ??? But wtf??!?! Desmond’s dead. That’s...

“It’s security camera footage from [the city]... About two hours ago.” Rebecca then swipes through more footage with shaky hands and explains that Des very violently burst out of an Abstergo facility in the city with glowing eyes and light leaking out of him (almost like an Apple of Eden). Then the glowing eyes and shining lights shuts off abruptly and Des is standing in the middle of the road looking very confused at his precursor-ass arms and chest. But Shaun is barely listening to what she’s saying and barely even looking at the screen.

“Where did you get this?” Shaun asks with a hollow voice, not looking up.

“The Initiates.” (bc who else)

Shaun looks at it again, then at Rebecca, and he’s mildly aware of the fact he’s slightly tearing up; “That’s fake. That can’t be him. He’s dead, Becs. We both saw the…” They both saw the autopsy footage the ac4 researcher got from Abstergo -- or at least, tried to watch it; they shut it off as soon as Shaun ran to the bathroom to throw up and Rebecca quickly joined him. They spent the rest of that night crying and drinking way too much.

“He died.” Shaun concludes firmly.

And so Becs is all like “yeah but what if he didn’t?? We need to find him. We need to investigate this.” There’s a determination in her eyes and Shaun knows he’s not going to be able to convince her to drop this -- not that he would. Desmond might be alive, and there is no way they’re going to leave him again.

They’re both standing there in pure shock and confusion, not saying anything.

Rebecca’s comm device lights up and starts buzzing, snapping them out of their general ????-ness. Becs goes to her desk to grab it, glances at the caller id and then shows it to Shaun. It’s William Miles.

The two of them share a Look. They know what he’s calling about -- what else would it be? There’s a stilted moment of neither of them doing anything before Rebecca finally accepts the call. “William?”

“How quickly can you and Shaun get to [city]?” William sounds shaken -- probably the same way Rebecca and Shaun are -- which is a very weird way to hear the Mentor of the Brotherhood sound. He’s seen the footage, hasn’t he?

“In a few hours,” Rebecca replies.

“Good. You need to get there as soon as possible.”

Everyone’s silent for a few moments.

“Is this about Desmond?” Rebecca asks. Dumb question.

There’s a pause. “You’ll be briefed on the ground.” And then he hangs up before Shaun or Rebecca can yell at him.

This is all moving very fast. Shaun and Rebecca share another look. Guess they’re going to [city]. ???

Fast forward several hours and Rebecca and Shaun are in The City [might just have to make the city london bc it’s the one city i actually know well -- however for plot reasons we’ll see later, a swiss city might be better… moving on!]. They get to an assassin base and meet up with Galina Voronina and 2 local assassins. Idk if you’ve read the comics, but to sum things up quickly, Galina and her team were investigating and then ended Project Phoenix -- so Galina now really wants to find out if the whole Desmond thing has anything to do with that.

Galina also wants to help Shaun and Rebecca get their friend back. They’re her friends, but equally she just lost one of her teammates to Abstergo (while ending Phoenix like 2 months ago, in the comics) and is uh- idk how to say it but she wants to help Shaun & Becs who have a chance to get their lost teammate back.

What follows is cool gang-gang trying to track down any trace of Desmond. You’d think it wouldn’t be hard to find a person who literally glows, but Desmond’s had centuries of Assassin training and knows how to hide lol.. which is making the Assassins’ job harder lol.

What’s making it even harder is the Assassins know they have to be quick because they know Abstergo is gonna be looking for Desmond too -- and they have way more resources and stuff. That being said, they’re also currently dealing with the fact one of their building and a decent amount of their guards just got absolutely mullered by weird-glowing-desmond.

The third issue with their entire thing is that they have no idea what they’re going to find when they find Desmond -- or if he even is Desmond. Is he going to be the man they knew but with weird powers? an Abstergo isu-clone? evil? they don’t know, and so they know they’ve got to be wary with him.

The Assassin gang spend some time (a couple of days at the very most) trying to track Desmond down. Rebecca is using all the tech she can get her hacker mitts on to find a trace of him and equally throw Abstergo off Des’ trail.

Soon enough, they get a solid lead -- don’t ask for the specifics, i don’t know them. But they get a lead, and it winds them up in an abandoned apartment building or also abandoned building site or something (a building in the city where there aren’t any people, basically).

Galina scans the place with Eagle Vision and she’s like “There is something very strange about this place.” (someone?) But she doesn’t see a person-shape anywhere. The 5 of them are hopeful but somewhat on edge.

They go about searching for any sign of Desmond. Galina’s pretty sure her Eagle Vision is just… Messing Up A Lot lol. Like something’s trying to heck with it. So she’s not quite sure it’s working correctly when a load of red figures appear somewhere below them.

She becomes a lot more sure when the red figures come into sight and START SHOOTING AT THEM! IT’S ABSTERGO!! CRAP! they found them!!

The assassins get down and a really cool fight scene w them vs the Abstergos in the building/ building site starts playing out. Woo Shaun and Rebecca electro-hidden-blade moments!! The fight splits the squad up and Shaun and Rebecca are away from Galina & the others -- but they dispatch the Abstergo guards near them.

They’re about to radio in that they’re all okay/ check if Galina & co are also good when they hear a slightly-too-loud footstep. They whip around to see an Abstergo guard aiming right at them, too far for either of them to get him before he shoots them. crap crap crap.

They would have been shot -- if someone hadn’t come up behind the Abstergo guard and snapped his neck (ouch).

The Abstergo drops to the ground, revealing the person who saved them and… Shaun and Rebecca stare in shock.

They’re both looking at Desmond Miles.

Desmond Miles, who is very much alive (and wearing a hoodie that is 100% stolen). And… with a load of glowing yellow lines on his face. But it’s Desmond -- it’s Desmond for sure. Holy shit.

Desmond doesn’t seem so shocked, only relieved to see them. Then his expression turns into serious confusion;

“What the fuck is happening?”

///

ok sorry leaving it there for now! hope you enjoyed what is here will continue soon

#desmond (sorta) lives au #desmond miles #rebecca crane #shaun hastings #galina voronina #william miles #Assassin's Creed #THANK YOU FOR THIS ASK i saw it this morning and have spent the day wanting to write this down but being in lessons /:#i know it's a complete mess however you'll have to excuse me i got excited #you opened a can of worms darling anon #I know I just used it as an excuse to Go Off but uh... sorry lol #asscreed #potes wrotes #sort of #thanks for the ask!#the night that the sun came up

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pastelwitchling · 4 years

Text

This prompt is a gift for @draculaspetbee.

I have no idea how Synesthesia actually works, but I hope this is close enough.

***

Alex had never seen Michael bleed that much before.

He was used to pain, used to injuries, used to having his skin sewed up and his bones dislocated and his muscles strained. But seeing Michael lying on the floor like that with his head in a pool of his own blood, that was enough to shatter him.

Alex’s left foot tapped the tiled ground nervously. He felt Isobel’s hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see her giving him half a smile. The best she could muster.

Alex knew he shouldn’t have seemed so worried, but Max was pacing back and forth and Isobel more clutched Alex’s shoulder than merely touched it and no one had come to tell them anything about Michael and he was losing his mind just waiting here.

He stood. Michael wouldn’t have waited if it had been Alex who was injured. Michael would’ve stormed in there and demanded to know what was going on. At the very least, he wouldn’t have wanted to leave Alex alone.

Sure, a small voice taunted. Keep telling yourself that.

Alex shoved it down, inhaling deeply, even as he sat back down and resumed tapping his foot. After what felt like days, or it may have been minutes, Kyle stepped out. Despite the fact that Max was already standing, it was Alex who first spoke.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Kyle said with a sigh. “And working on my last nerve. He took a real hit to the head, luckily his skull is pretty thick already.”

“Kyle,” Alex said, exasperated, and Kyle held up a hand.

“Sorry, sorry, thought it’d relieve the tension,” he said. “Look, he had minor brain damage, but the acetone’s already fixing it as we speak.”

“Will it give him any problems?” Max asked as Isobel thoughtlessly tugged on the hem of Alex’s jacket.

“He may start seeing spots, may have some trouble remembering what happened, but like I said, the nail polish remover is doing its job. Any side-effects should be gone by the end of the day.”

Alex nodded. “Thanks, Kyle.”

“Sure,” Kyle said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some alien MRIs to burn before anybody starts asking questions. Isobel, I could really use your help. With your mind control, I can be quick.”

“I told you,” Isobel said, still nervously glancing at the hospital door. “It’s not mind control.”

“Whatever, Yoda. Come on.”

Isobel followed him with a roll of her eyes, and Max raised his brow at Alex. Alex shrugged. “We had a Star Wars marathon.”

Michael didn’t need the bandages. He’d told Kyle as much when he’d woken up with a throbbing migraine.

“It’s a headache,” Michael had complained. “I’m fine!”

“You want to go out there and tell my colleagues why you came in with a blunt head injury and walked out healed? Now, stop whining, lay back down, and try to rest, or so help me God, I will kill you myself!”

Michael huffed, scratching at the bandage with one hand and chugging down another bottle of acetone with the other. In truth, aside from a slight headache, he didn’t feel as if he’d been attacked by an evil clone of his brother at all.

Then Kyle’s phone went off, and Michael froze. It rang with a familiar song. Michael didn’t have the time to discern what song exactly because a wave of colors – gray and dull yellow – suddenly flashed before him. He winced and nearly dropped his bottle of nail polish remover.

Just as soon as the colors started, they stopped. Kyle had shut off the ringing with a groan.

“Geez, sorry,” he muttered, checking the screen before he stuffed it back into his pocket. “Forget to turn that off. You okay?”

Michael realized he was clutching his head and staring at the wall ahead of him. But where there had been faint colors only a second ago, there was now only white tiles.

“What – uh – what was that?”

“What was what?”

“The colors,” Michael said. “I saw something gray and…” but even as he said them, he realized how ridiculous he sounded.

Kyle, on the other hand, didn’t seem to want to mock him. His expression softened fractionally, a look Michael had no doubt he perfected while working with patients that believed they were detrimentally ill even when they were, in reality, perfectly fine.

“You’re still healing, remember?” he said not unkindly. “Your head suffered some damage, there will be repercussions. Don’t be surprised if you saw a little more than a few weird things today.”

Michael slumped in his seat. “Great,” he groaned, rubbing his eyes. He made a silent vow that, the next time he saw Mr. Jones, he was going to throttle him with his bare hands.

“Stop whining,” Kyle said. “Max and Isobel are here.” He paused. “So is Alex.”

At Alex’s name, Michael looked up. He tried not to look too eager, but Kyle seemed to already have caught him.

“Yeah,” the doctor muttered as he headed towards the door. “Knew that would cheer you up.”

Soon Max and Alex were coming in, Alex had his hands in his pockets, his head tilted slightly in that way it usually did when he was trying to look a person over for injuries and not let on that he was doing it. Michael tried not to smile as he thought of Alex worried for him.

“So?” he prompted. “How do I look?”

Max scoffed as Alex took a seat on the edge of Michael’s bed, beside his feet. Michael realized the armchair was free, but chose not to mention it.

“Funny,” Alex said quietly. Now that they were sitting so closely together, Michael could see the dark circles around the airman’s eyes, his hollow cheeks, the frown lines etched into the corners of his mouth.

His heart stuttered as he wondered how long it had been since Alex had slept.

“Kyle says you’re gonna be okay,” Max said. “How’re you feeling?”

Just a headache, Michael almost said, and considered what would happen if he said he was all right. Alex would probably leave, return to Forrest who was probably waiting for him at their shared home. He swallowed.

“Like… someone bashed my head in with a hammer,” he said slowly, and Alex’s concern grew. Michael slumped his shoulders and leaned heavily on his pillows for effect, and his heart leapt when he saw Alex scoot closer to him on the bed, as if unable to help but come to his rescue.

Max gave him an exasperated look that so clearly said, Are you seriously going to do this? Luckily, Alex didn’t seem to be paying him any attention, his eyes focused solely on Michael.

“Should I get you more acetone?” Alex asked and moved to stand. “I think I still have some bottles in my car.”

“No!” Michael yelled, grabbing Alex’s wrist before he realized everyone in the room was staring at him in silence. “Uh – I mean, you know, it doesn’t hurt that bad. I’ll survive it… I guess.”

“Oh,” Alex blinked. “O-Okay. Then I’ll just… stay here.”

Michael nodded solemnly. “I think that would be best. Max, you don’t have to wait here.”

“Mmm,” Max hummed dryly, his lips pursed. “Well, in that case, I don’t think Alex really needs to be here either.”

“Alex stays.”

“Michael,” Max said through grit teeth. “He’s not a machine, he needs to rest. Same thing you should be doing.”

“He can rest here,” Michael argued.

“Where? You want him to sleep in the chair? And anyway, he hasn’t eaten either.”

“Um,” Alex tried. “Guys –”

“He can eat here, too!” Michael started and flinched loudly as Max’s alarm went off this time. The sound echoed throughout his skull, like there were loudspeakers placed in every corner, and then projecting out before him in a slide of colors, splashing against the walls and the people around him. Different shades of reds, purples, pinks, and white moving before him, creating wave after wave, like an ocean coming for him.

It took Michael a while to realize that Alex was shaking him.

“Guerin,” he tried. “Guerin, are you okay? Max, quickly, call Kyle.”

Max’s phone seemed to have been stuck because he was roughly tapping the screen now, silencing the alarm. At once, the colors around him began to fade.

“No,” he said, his voice ragged, though he couldn’t say why. “I don’t need Kyle, I’m fine, just… tell me you saw that, too.”

Alex and Max exchanged confused looks. “Saw what?” Max asked, and Michael shook his head, pressing the bottoms of his hands into his eyes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Michael whined low in his throat.

“Guerin?” Michael looked up as Alex put a hand on his shoulder. “Tell us what you’ve been seeing.”

Alex still looked concerned, but there was a steely expression beneath it, a resolve to protect no matter the opposition. Michael didn’t think there was anyone who could love as much as he loved Alex.

Michael shook his head. “It’s like every time any music or alarm plays, I just see colors jumping out at me.”

Max looked confused a moment, then he looked to Alex. “That’s not a real thing, is it?”

“I think it is,” Alex scratched his jaw. “It’s rare though. Something like synthe – syna – something.”

“Should we be worried?”

“Nah,” Alex said thoughtfully, his hand still on Michael’s shoulder. Michael tried his luck and tugged at Alex’s wrist. As he spoke, Alex moved to sit next to Michael on the bed. He seemed to hardly notice as Michael leaned into him, putting his head on Alex’s shoulder. “Kyle did say he had brain damage, but it’s healing as we speak. I think it’ll be gone by the end of the day.”

“No kidding?” Max whistled. “So you can actually see colors? What, like, coming out of the phone?”

“No, just,” he shrugged helplessly. “Everywhere.”

“That’s sounds so cool,” Alex said into Michael’s hair. “And terrifying at the same time.”

“Michael,” Max said, exasperated. “Would you get off him already?”

“He’s not complaining,” Michael argued.

“Guys –”

“Because he’s too nice to, but he does have to get back to Forrest at some point.”

“You just had to bring him up, huh?”

“Sort of, he is Alex’s boyfriend.”

“Guys,” Alex cut in, laughing. Michael’s eyes fluttered at the sound, and he could’ve sworn he saw a shimmer of gold swim before his eyes. “I’m fine. Forrest knows Michael’s here, and he won’t expect me back until morning.”

“But, Alex, you –”

“Max, really,” he said kindly. “It’s okay.”

Max sighed, and Michael could feel his glare, but he chose to cling to Alex’s waist instead, turning his face into the airman’s shoulder and inhaling his scent. He felt Alex chuckle, Alex’s arm coming around his shoulder, keeping him safe and warm.

“Okay,” Max said, rubbing his face. “I’m gonna go check on Isobel. Don’t worry about leaving, Alex, no matter what he tells you.”

“Got it,” Alex laughed, and again, Michael blinked rapidly as more gold and silver shimmered before his eyes.

I wonder if . . .

“Hey,” he murmured against Alex’s shoulder when Max was gone. “Sing for me.”

“What?”

“Sing that song you wrote,” Michael said.

“Oh,” Alex said quietly, and Michael slowly took his hand. He pressed Alex’s palm against his own jaw, and turned into the touch, inhaling his scent.

“You won’t do it for me, Private?”

Alex scoffed into his hair. Michael’s eyes fluttered and he tilted his head up a little more, until Alex’s lips were touching his forehead. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he and Alex were together, and there was no Forrest waiting for him to go home to him in a few hours.

“Getting a little too cozy, aren’t you?”

“Does it bother you?” Michael asked, and pressed further into Alex’s side. “I’m hurt, you know. I need you more than he does.”

“Guerin, you can’t say stuff like that.”

“I don’t care,” he said, and pressed his face into the crook of Alex’s neck. “Sing for me, Private.”

Alex said nothing for a moment, and Michael wondered if he would suddenly decide to leave, and Michael would be left in the cold again, only able to imagine Alex’s body against his. Then –

Would you meet me in the middle?

Could we both stop keeping score?

There’s a battle I must fight alone,

It’s you I’m fighting for...

Michael’s heart thrashed in his chest. He wanted to close his eyes to the sound, fall asleep to Alex’s song. He knew it would be less painful than staying awake and watching Alex leave, but as shades of gold, silver, and different shades of blue began playing out before him, Michael found he couldn’t look away.

As Alex sang, it was like entire galaxies were unfolding. Golden sunlight, the dust of stars, deep and pale hues of blue and purple and pink. He should’ve known that Alex’s music was unlike any other, Alex’s voice a remnant of the planets that had come together to create him. He couldn’t tell Alex what he was seeing – he hardly understood it himself. But it felt like having lightning in a bottle, this moment. Alex’s voice in his ears, his music playing out before Michael in an array of colors that the galaxies couldn’t rival.

“Guerin?” Alex said softly, and the colors slowly began to fade. Michael realized he was clutching Alex’s hand too tightly, his other arm tightening around Alex’s waist.

He quickly let go, sitting up. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Alex said. “What’d you see?”

Michael shook his head. “I don’t know. But it… it was amazing.”

“Yeah?”

Michael nodded. A moment of silence. Then, Alex’s hand came gently around his head, and he was guided back onto Alex’s shoulder, their bodies pressed together at the sides.

“Alex…” Michael breathed as he felt Alex’s other hand in his hair, raking his curls back.

“I have a little more time,” Alex said quietly, as if embarrassed by his own words, but unable to stop. “I’ll keep singing.”

So he started again, and just as they had before, colors of gold, silver, blues and pinks and purple surrounded them, turning the world around them to something better than a rainbow, better than the stars, better than anything.

Michael hugged Alex’s waist as he listened, as he watched, and he realized, in an ironic sort of way, that the home he’d been working so hard to return to, the reason he’d been fixing that old spaceship for so long, had come to him now because of Alex.

#alex manes #michael guerin #malex #malex one shot #malex fanfic #malex fic #malex fanfiction #roswell new mexico #roswell nm #malex angst #malex fluff #tyler blackburn #michael vlamis

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bluebloomdish · 3 years

Text

°☆.。Precious °☆.。

It was like Mika's very own soul was splitting. He was basking in the coziness of the room, the sound of his family sleeping after a day of all games and chase. He watched as Yuu smoothed his own bed sheets after a last check on the kids, resting his head on fluffy pillows that smelled of lavender softener. He sighed softly, a content smile on his lips as he slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to where Mika was sitting.

"You're going to sleep now?" It sounded like an innocent question, but Mika couldn't help but snicker at it's convenient double meaning.

"Already am." Mika turned his blue eyes to the night sky, thankful that he could feel again the sleepiness that came with being a human. "It's just that...."

He heard Yuu get up and slowly made his way to him. He grabbed his hand and waited for Mika to continue. Mika kept trying to focus on the stars above, shimmering and glowing like they never did in Sanguinem. His eyes started to lose their shine, his mind closing off to his surroundings. He felt like he was in two places at a time. And almost automatically, he continued.

"...this feels so..."

He kept on the look out, the broken arrows on this hands disintegrating and leaving nothing behind. He could feel the numerous portals to this safe space, opening and closing. He knew the others were in, and he ran around the perimeter to either fight of diverge their attention.

It took a while to level things out, and he never lowered his guard. After turning on a street corner, his hand had already manifested a cross, ready to strike the intruder. He watched as the other's head turned, black hair matching his uniform and green eyes widening, and he couldn't help but feel that he was seeing all of this in slow motion.

"Mika..." The soft whisper ringed in his ears and resonated inside his head. It was curious to him, because the others knew his status, they knew he was King. And yet, this one welcomed him with a name.

He didn't speak, didn't lower his weapon and didn't take his blue eyes off of green ones. He did, however, stopped a few meter away, assessing the situation, feeling everything and nothing at once.

The stranger slowly started to close the distance between them, stretching his hand out. And to answer his approach, blue eyes sharpened and he slowly raised his cross so if the other came closer, the sharp edge would be right against his neck.

The other didn't flatter, but he did stop at the edge of the cross that nicked at the skin on his neck, a small cut opening like a flower petal. His smile matched perfectly the happiness that was shining in his green eyes, and he repeated the same name, only a little louder.

He slowly started to let the nagging voice in his head become clear, like part of himself was answering to the name, and he stepped back so that the others neck was free to bleed if it desired to do so.

"I've been looking for you." He didn't even wipe the small droplet of blood that clung to his cut, instead directing all his attention to the blond.

"I'm sure you have. What do you want?" If he entered using the same doors that his evident enemies had, he couldn't be anything other than a threat.

"I'm here for-"

"Leave him alone." He had asked the question to see if the other was going to attack either way, but he knew why everyone suddenly gathered to corner him, and him .

The other's smile turned sorrowful, his eyes lowering for a moment.

"I can't."

"He deserves people that would support him, not use him. He isn't disposable."

"I know-"

"And he deserves to be chosen."

Green eyes looked up again, a question in his eyes. For some reason, that only started to irritate him. Raising his cross once more, this time with intent, he said with eyes turning to ice.

"He deserves to be listened to. To be taken into account seriously, not only when it's convenient. To be something other than an experiment, a tool, an excuse. His words do have meaning. He should be able to chose what he wants, not what you or the others want. His life isn't yours to do as you please, Yuu."

The name came from deep within, like a melody played in his head over and over and over again.

There was silence as he turned to leave. This human, even if he possessed a demon, was hollow. His darkness was being used by others, and he needed to get rid of the intruders, to protect this place.

"I know that!"

He stopped, not because of the high pitch that was shouted his way, but because he needed to see if the others heard it, giving him away.

"I know all of that! He is my family, but he doesn't belong to me! He is a vampire, but he doesn't belong to Kurl! And he wants to be human, but he doesn't belong to Guren or Mahiru or the Seraph or anyone!"

Blue spotted purple and white, and he knew his time was up. He readied himself, as collected and calm as stone. But the enemy slowed down, stayed in the shadows as the green eyed soldier overflowed with emotions.

"But I can't leave him! I want to be able to give back what he has given me. I want to show him what the vampires couldn't, what the world couldn't: that he has value, that he is strong, that in everything he did, he protected us the best he could. That he isn't fading away, he isn't a monster, he isn't useless, he isn't replicable nor replaceable."

His hyper sensitive ears could hear water hitting pavement, shaky inhales and an erratic heartbeat.

"And even with everything I have; power, a cause, friends, a new family... It was all because of him. And I need him."

Time slowed down once more, because he was part of a consciousness that always reached out for this boy. His physical form shifted, because he was a projection of memories. He started to collect flashes of moments in time where his only light always came with eyes as green as the forest.

He could now sense the other approach him, and this time, he let it happen.

"How could anyone understand..."

He was taller, his clothing civilian. His hand heavy with the ghost feeling of a sword that just wasn't there anymore. And he felt vulnerable, so his crosses made a wall around the two, pulsing with power and impenetrable.

"How could he ever understand..."

He felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned. He now looked down at the other, and he recognized those tears, for he had seen them and heard them before. A tan had now caressed his check, almost lovingly as he was pulled closer.

"How could you ever understand..."

And everything was happening in a way that had never happened before. Because demons didn't harbor individual feelings, clones didn't disobey, vampires couldn't cry and only humans could bask in the warmth of a kiss.

"How precious you are, Mika."

#mikayuu #mikaela hyakuya #mikaela shindo #yuuichiro hyakuya #yuuichirou amane #feels #feeling some type of way #fanfiction #angsty #happy ending #they deserve happiness

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

Text

Stronger Than Blood (7)

Chapter 7: Unlikely Prize | Cal Kestis x Reader

Requested by Anon

Summary: Meeting another Force-sensitive was one thing, but having them related to one of the most formidable known duelers was a whole other story to tell. While being stranded in another planet after barely escaping the Haxion Brood, Cal crosses paths with someone who’s at a crossroads with their own identity and lineage.

Also tagging @ayamenimthiriel

Also posted in AO3

Tags: Force-User! Reader, Force-Sensitive Reader, Sith-Related! Reader

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 | Previous: Part 6 | Next: Part 8 | Masterlist

7 of ?

Cal charted a course back to Zeffo.

“Why’d you wanna go back there?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly have a good look of the place,” Cal shifts in his seat as he reasons out, sneaking a side glance at Greez to watch out for his reaction. “Because I blacked out after being caught into a stasis detonator.”

“Oh…” Greez moaned with guilt in stringing along his words.

You made yourself comfortable while the newly-patched up ship zooms through hyperspace. From the couch at the holotable, you watch the crew busy themselves with their dashboards and computers, while you’re stuck to staring at the planet’s map projection, though you didn’t mind—it felt nice to have everything staying still and quiet for a change.

The silence, the engine hum, and the faint chirps of the dashboard computers—altogether, it was nostalgic.

You were so used to the sparks of welding guns and blaster fire that the silence was completely foreign yet comforting. You allowed your back to slump against the smooth leather cushion, the engine hum lulled you to sleep like a lullaby, and the blue light glared back at your eyes, making it feel heavier by the second.

However, the latter was immediately cut off by Cal stepping into the room with you.

“Hey, how you holding up?”

“I’m okay, just exhausted from all of… this.” you gestured at everything, referring to the skirmish back at Nalima and even repairing the Mantis did a number on your strength.

Cal sat down next to you, but he didn’t initiate a conversation. Unmoving, you examined his features: his freckles gave him a certain charm, your eyes trailed along the waving locks of his hair—the blue glow oddly mixed well with his ginger head—but what really catches you is the awkward motions he does with himself such as slouching against the couch, shaking his knee, or fiddling with the chipping of his glove.

Both of you know perfectly well that there is that one topic that’s been crawling at the back of your minds. Either of you were just waiting for the other to bring it up. Cal was too shy to bring it up. As for you, the topic was an odd conversation starter—especially if you’ve only known the guy for only a few hours.

“Back at Melgu’s place,” Cal finally started. “He called you a Serennian.”

“Yeah, I am one,”

“How’d you end up in Nalima?”

“It’s long a story,” you sighed, lightly combing your scalp with your fingers, staring at the holotable with blank eyes to avoid looking back into Cal.

Sensing that it was a bit of a hard topic for you to open up. He decided on another question.

“Were you…” he trailed off, that was enough to draw your attention back to him. “Were you ever a Jedi?”

You shake your head, “No, but… they tell me that I’m strong with the Force. I’ve only known so little about it that I honestly don’t grasp the concept in full, really.”

“Who taught you about it?”

“My mother, but she wasn’t like me. I was told that I was more sensitive, for some reason that I don’t know or can’t explain or don’t understand at all. I only knew one other person who was like me… but I don’t want to be associated with him.”

The voices, the exchanges, the words—they all rang back into your head. The conversations of your parents that you overheard, they were mostly about politics—a subject you couldn’t comprehend for your age that time.

“Apparently, that one person who is like me is a Separatist leader,” you scoffed, resenting him. Fully remembering his name from the hushed, private whispers of your mother; never has she said his first name, only his title in full—with the original family name—or simply the title alone. “And he’s no ordinary Separatist leader. He wielded a weapon like yours. A lightsaber, as you call it.”

In an instant, he put two and two together.

Cal reminisces way back to the Clone Wars, he had heard of the name from various conferences where he tagged along with his master back in the Jedi Temple. Although he and Master Tapal never had the opportunity to face him whether in combat or in a diplomatic negotiation, this particular lightsaber-wielding Separatist leader often found himself the talk of the town amongst the Senate and Jedi Council alike.

The mere recitation of his name stoked the embers of hate and anger that you have always carried for him. Your conviction that he was the one behind the murder of your mother remained unwavering all these years—her death may not be by his blade, but her blood spilled into his hands anyway.

“All my life, the only name I knew and carried was [Y/N] Moorken. I believed it to be my family’s name, but when he said our name was altered, I realized that my mother was dissociating us—my father and I—from him. I remember her telling him that I was better off never knowing him at all. I’ve heard everything—what he’s done, especially back in the Clone Wars, and I promised myself that I won’t turn out like him.”

You pull your legs to your chest, hugging your shins with your arms and resting your chin over your knees; you couldn’t maintain eye contact with Cal, your mind dwelled on the memories of those heated exchanges, the spitting of words, until it reached to the point where the sight of the shuttle exploding—with your mother in it and perhaps the assassin as well—forced you to conclude your flashbacks.

Cal noticed your flinching, but both of you sat in silence. For one, he was relieved that you had told him sooner; you had your reasons—one of them being that you sensed Cal that he was trustworthy enough, it was a combination of intuition and the Force trying to guide you in baby steps.

“Does this change anything on how you think of me?”

Your straightforwardness took Cal aback. It took a lot of guts from you to speak so bluntly like that, despite it being quite a heavy topic for you to disclose. He couldn’t imagine why you would think that he—or any of the crew—would shun you for who you are… or were, at least.

That was the only time you looked back into his eyes, playing into a turquoise to teal hue from the illumination of the holotable. You hate yourself for bringing up more detail, although you couldn’t help it; you have been looking for an outlet—such as someone to open up to—and you simply let loose. A sigh concluded your piece, half-expecting Cal to react and the other half expecting him to say nothing.

He shakes his head, “No, it doesn’t. Though, it just… rather adds up to my perspective of you.”

“Right…”

The two of you remained in your seats, a quake that signaled the Mantis’s landing, it prompted the two of you to stride towards the door. The entry ramp opened and a cold gust of wind greeted you. A few droplets of the rain carried by the clouds riddled your cheeks, as if that’s the planet’s way of kissing you welcome. Goosebumps pelted your skin due to the abrupt change of temperature—from Nalima’s warm and temperate climate to the gusty windstorm of Zeffo.

“I’ll be away in a few minutes, this shouldn’t take long,”

“Where will you go?”

Cal points to his north.

“I won’t be long there, unless of course I end up winding into the wrong way,”

You chuckle, “I doubt it.”

“Are you coming with?”

You stammered at the beginning, “I just might take a look around this part. I wouldn’t wanna end up too far away.”

Cal ended the exchange with a curt “Alright then” and headed off. When he was gone, you had the space of the hangar to yourself. You walk to the west part of the platform and you had a full view of the waterfalls cascading with one another, their water black yet their foam white as clouds—as if the night sky had become the floor of this planet until the true evening falls.

Your shoulders jumped when a roaring TIE Fighter zooms past the horizon above the waterfall plateau. You watched it come and go like a comet in the gray skies until it disappeared into the mountain’s backside.

“Huh, no surprise there,” you thought out loud.

You turned around and sprinted towards the derelict hangar. It was devoid of life, but for a scavenger this may as well have been a gold mine! Crates upon crates towered over your height, some were flimsily blanketed with tarps that weren’t long enough to fully conceal them, exposing the Empire’s sigil tattooed in white paint on the boxes’ faces beside the label of its contents.

Using the hem of a tarp to wipe off the dust that’s collected on one side of a crate, you reveal the white Aurebesh label beneath the grime, the label reads: PROJECT AUGUR – RESOURCES.

The first two words were intriguing. You pulled away the tarp that covers its lid, you opened to find a medley of parts that were of great variety. Picking each one up to examine them and then returning them when they didn’t attract you that much, you went on rummaging through the crates for something that you could use. After all, it’s not like the Stormtroopers will notice.

“Do they even keep a track list of these stuff?” you scoffed, examining an odd-looking part that somehow resembled a piston but you knew full well that it wasn’t.

You didn’t notice the rust-colored blast door at the other end of the hangar until it resounded loud enough for its echoes to bounce across the natural stone walls. You jolted in response. The feeling of the unknown behind that door made your heart wild.

Out of the blue, it would’ve appeared that the wind had gained a voice—an incoherent yet audible sound fluttered with the stale wind. The air hummed—hollow and foreboding—but something about that door gravitated you to it, luring you closer until your fingertips touch the controls. The pads of your first two fingers rested on the button, you hesitate, that is until the air whispered to you again—you could’ve sworn you heard your name.

“Darling…? My darling [y/n]?”

You abruptly twirled to your back, eyes wide and frantic as they search the empty hangar. The voice uttered your name again, this time you turned to the door, hoping to find the face of that voice.

“Mom?”

You pawed the blast door, hoping that she’d call again; you finally pressed the button, the door whizzes open but you’re met with an empty corridor. Unbeknownst to you, the path and hallway laid out to you was not the real one. It was the Force testing your senses and perhaps your mental willpower.

“Darling, where are you?” Jezria’s melodic voice sounded almost too ghostly, but you didn’t notice. You’re too caught up with the idea of reuniting with your mother—even if she had been dead for years.

The illusion was so surreal, too enticing even, that you lost track of things—perhaps even your senses as well—in the expense of seeing your mother another time. You spot her, but she continued to go ahead of you, a gaping distance divided mother and child.

“Wait! Mom, wait for me!” you cracked. Chasing her through the long hallway that doesn’t seem to cease in length.

Jezria, of the shell of her anyway, kept on walking. Her back to you as she continued forward.

“I’m almost there!” you announced, though unsure whether you’re announcing it for your mother or coaxing yourself to keep on.

You came upon another door, thankfully the end of the tunnel, but as you opened the second door, the next place that you reached made your small yet eager smile dissolve.

You stand in the midst of a manor’s hallway. In a single glance, you easily identified that the architecture was of Serennian make. The gray marble floors, the finely embroidered drapes along the tall windows, and the expensive-looking deep purple wallpaper with light wooden paneling that was glossy to the touch. You know this interior even with your eyes closed.

It’s your house.

“Home?” your eyebrows furrowed so much that your forehead wrinkled. You surveyed the area, and then behind your back, the same rust-colored door remained. “I don’t get it…”

Nevertheless, you strode through the hallway, following your mother’s trail.

“Foolish child…” a faceless voice hummed along the walls.

“Who’s there?!” you violently spun.

“What weak resolve,” it continued.

“Where are you!?”

“Like mother… like daughter,”

You clenched your jaw and fists, slowly turning around while surveying the entirety of the hallway.

“Show yourself!” you snarled.

“Had you been surrendered to me, then things would have been significantly different. Your mother and father would still be alive. You’d have so much power in your hands that—not even in your current age—could fathom its real meaning down to its last fiber.”

“No, you’re wrong!”

A figure appeared from the curb around the end of the hallway. It was him.

“Count Dooku.”

Even for an apparition, he seemed satisfied to hear you utter his name. He took it as a greeting and bowed curtly with a smile making his white beard more angular.

“So, you finally decided to speak my name. No matter how many times my idiot sister tried to eradicate my very existence from your life.”

You reached for your staff and immediately drew it out to its full length. Count Dooku’s apparition chuckled, amused by your naïve courage.

“Oh, child, you do not understand what is right in front of you, don’t you?”

“Does it matter? I’ll destroy you either way. You had my mother killed!”

“Puh!” Dooku harrumphed, the aristocratic air loomed around him that it’s basically his aura. “Jezria was weak. Always trying to put a façade that she can never hold up! Incapable of protecting herself and ultimately her own daughter!”

“Stop it! Shut up! You don’t know anything about her—neither do you know anything about me!”

“I don’t need to. Once the Emperor has you in his grasp, with my mission complete, I have granted him a prize: my own niece, strong and powerful in the Dark Side of the Force!”

“I am nothing like you!” you roared. “I WILL NEVER BE LIKE YOU!!!”

——————————————————–

In the middle of his roaming, something piqued within Cal enough to stop him in his tracks. From the cliffside, the cold gale muffled out the abrupt, rhythmic thunder of the pulverizers, but that windstorm didn’t do much to stunt Cal’s senses with the Force. Peering over the black waterfalls below, he tried to reach out, albeit briefly, just so he could pinpoint whatever’s troubling him.

“Bee-chirp?”

“Yeah, I’m okay, just… had a feeling. Got worried for a second,”

Cal continued his way to the Imperial headquarters, upon his entry, all of the Stormtropers had their backs turned to him—whether facing the way ahead or keeping their noses stuck to their computers. He slipped into the elevator and slammed the up button. He got to the upper level, he prowled through the ventilation shafts. The Stormtrooper’s idle banter revolved around the subject of complaining that they got nothing to do in the planet and wanted to be assigned to another, where there ought to be action.

“Did you hear that?”

Both Stormtroopers’ heads panned across the room, searching for the source of the sound—which was Cal landing on the balls of his feet against the metal grates.

“Probably just those typical exhaust bursts from the fans,”

“Shouldn’t we report that? I mean, won’t that blow up?”

“Nah.”

Cal continued to stalk in the shadows, away from the enemies’ sight, just when he had his chance to strike, their hands immediately jerked up and pressed against the ear area of their helmets. He thought he had been spotted, but he stood corrected.

“Still, it’s better if we—wait, I’m getting a radio call here!”

“Me too! What the… Jedi?!”

The young redhead’s eyes widened upon hearing the words. He knew whom they’re talking about.

“She doesn’t have a saber though!”

“So, she isn’t Jedi?! Then what?”

“It’s the fugitive from Nalima! But we’re being called as reinforcements at the caves,”

“Ugh hate that place!”

Cal watched the enemies depart via elevator, en route to the ice caves.

“[y/n]…!” he exclaimed under his breath.

Luckily for him, Cal knew the shortcut—he just needed to pass through that Purge Trooper with a rifle.

Meanwhile you were facing off the swarms of Stormtroopers coming wave after wave on you. Thanks to that delusion, you didn’t realize that you’ve wandered off into the abandoned village. But your outburst at the end has caused another energy wave exploding out of you, disorienting and alarming the stationed Stormtroopers in that very area.

So far, you were able to fare quite well against them even with just your techstaff; with the adrenaline of the outburst, you felt like you could do this all day, not once did you feel tired. The voice of Dooku in your head—as much as you hated it to hear him—coaxed you with every move, distortedly affirming and encouraging your every attack.

“That anger is your best weapon. Show no mercy! Let the Dark Side of the Force give you the power you so deserve!”

“Get out of my head!” you snarled as you fought, not caring whether or not the Stormtroopers heard you.

As for those troopers with blasters, you evaded them—utilizing both the self-defense skills you’ve learned through the years, amplified by the Force with which you couldn’t harmoniously bend to your will yet.

Eventually, the soldiers in white armor have stopped pouring in, but their horde was replaced by a singular Purge Trooper wielding twin batons. This enemy’s body may be lithe, but here was a lethality that he imposed upon the way he projects himself to his victim.

“Well,” he snarled. “You’re no Jedi, but you are a prize for the Emperor!”

You didn’t exactly grasp what he meant by that, though it didn’t matter—your survival did.

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