#Shuttle Manipulator Arms
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Cancelled Missions: Testing Shuttle Manipulator Arms During Earth-Orbital Apollo Missions (1971-1972)
In this drawing by NASA engineer Caldwell Johnson, twin human-like Space Shuttle robot arms with human-like hands deploy from the Apollo Command and Service Module (CSM) Scientific Instrument Module (SIM) Bay to grip the derelict Skylab space station.
"Caldwell Johnson, co-holder with Maxime Faget of the Mercury space capsule patent, was chief of the Spacecraft Design Division at the NASA Manned Spacecraft Center (MSC) in Houston, Texas, when he proposed that astronauts test prototype Space Shuttle manipulator arms and end effectors during Apollo Command and Service Module (CSM) missions in Earth orbit. In a February 1971 memorandum to Faget, NASA MSC's director of Engineering and Development, Johnson described the manipulator test mission as a worthwhile alternative to the Earth survey, space rescue, and joint U.S./Soviet CSM missions then under study.
At the time Johnson proposed the Shuttle manipulator arm test, three of the original 10 planned Apollo lunar landing missions had been cancelled, the second Skylab space station (Skylab B) appeared increasingly unlikely to reach orbit, and the Space Shuttle had not yet been formally approved. NASA managers foresaw that the Apollo and Skylab mission cancellations would leave them with surplus Apollo spacecraft and Saturn rockets after the last mission to Skylab A. They sought low-cost Earth-orbital missions that would put the surplus hardware to good use and fill the multi-year gap in U.S. piloted missions expected to occur in the mid-to-late 1970s.
Johnson envisioned Shuttle manipulators capable of bending and gripping much as do human arms and hands, thus enabling them to hold onto virtually anything. He suggested that a pair of prototype arms be mounted in a CSM Scientific Instrument Module (SIM) Bay, and that the CSM "pretend to be a Shuttle" during rendezvous operations with the derelict Skylab space station.
The CSM's three-man crew could, he told Faget, use the manipulators to grip and move Skylab. They might also use them to demonstrate a space rescue, capture an 'errant satellite,' or remove film from SIM Bay cameras and pass it to the astronauts through a special airlock installed in place of the docking unit in the CSM's nose.
Faget enthusiastically received Johnson's proposal (he penned 'Yes! This is great' on his copy of the February 1971 memo). The proposal generated less enthusiasm elsewhere, however.
Undaunted, Johnson proposed in May 1972 that Shuttle manipulator hardware replace Earth resources instruments that had been dropped for lack of funds from the planned U.S.-Soviet Apollo-Soyuz Test Project (ASTP) mission. President Richard Nixon had called on NASA to develop the Space Shuttle just four months before (January 1972). Johnson asked Faget for permission to perform 'a brief technical and programmatic feasibility study' of the concept, and Faget gave him permission to prepare a presentation for Aaron Cohen, manager of the newly created Space Shuttle Program Office at MSC.
In his June 1972 presentation to Cohen, Johnson declared that '[c]argo handling by manipulators is a key element of the Shuttle concept.' He noted that CSM-111, the spacecraft tagged for the ASTP mission, would have no SIM Bay in its drum-shaped Service Module (SM), and suggested that a single 28-foot-long Shuttle manipulator arm could be mounted near the Service Propulsion System (SPS) main engine in place of the lunar Apollo S-band high-gain antenna, which would not be required during Earth-orbital missions.
During ascent to orbit, the manipulator would ride folded beneath the CSM near the ASTP Docking Module (DM) within the streamlined Spacecraft Launch Adapter. During SPS burns, the astronauts would stabilize the manipulator so that acceleration would not damage it by commanding it to grip a handle installed on the SM near the base of the CSM's conical Command Module (CM).
Johnson had by this time mostly dropped the concept of an all-purpose human hand-like 'end effector' for the manipulator; he informed Cohen that the end effector design was 'undetermined.' The Shuttle manipulator demonstration would take place after CSM-111 had undocked from the Soviet Soyuz spacecraft and moved away to perform independent maneuvers and experiments.
The astronauts in the CSM would first use a TV camera mounted on the arm's wrist to inspect the CSM and DM, then would use the end effector to manipulate 'some device' on the DM. They would then command the end effector to grip a handle on the DM, undock the DM from the CSM, and use the manipulator to redock the DM to the CSM. Finally, they would undock the DM and repeatedly capture it with the manipulator.
Caldwell Johnson's depiction of a prototype Shuttle manipulator arm with a hand-like end effector. The manipulator grasps the Docking Module meant to link U.S. Apollo and Soviet Soyuz spacecraft in Earth orbit during the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project (ASTP) mission.
Johnson estimated that new hardware for the ASTP Shuttle manipulator demonstration would add 168 pounds (76.2 kilograms) to the CM and 553 pounds (250.8 kilograms) to the SM. He expected that concept studies and pre-design would be completed in January 1973. Detail design would commence in October 1972 and be completed by 1 July 1973, at which time CSM-111 would undergo modification for the manipulator demonstration.
Johnson envisioned that MSC would build two manipulators in house. The first, for testing and training, would be completed in January 1974. The flight unit would be completed in May 1974, tested and checked out by August 1974, and launched into orbit attached to CSM-111 in July 1975. Johnson optimistically placed the cost of the manipulator arm demonstration at just $25 million.
CSM-111, the last Apollo spacecraft to fly, reached Earth orbit on schedule on 15 July 1975. By then, Caldwell Johnson had retired from NASA. CSM-111 carried no manipulator arm; the tests Johnson had proposed had been judged to be unnecessary.
That same month, the U.S. space agency, short on funds, invited Canada to develop and build the Shuttle manipulator arm. The Remote Manipulator System — also called the Canadarm — first reached orbit on board the Space Shuttle Columbia during STS-2, the second flight of the Shuttle program, on 12 November 1981."
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#Apollo–Soyuz#Apollo Soyuz Test Project#ASTP#Apollo CSM Block II#CSM-111#Rocket#NASA#Apollo Program#Apollo Applications Program#Canadarm#Shuttle Manipulator Arms#Skylab Orbital Workshop#Skylab OWS#Skylab#Skylab I#Skylab 1#SL-1#Space Station#Apollo Telescope Mount#ATM#Cancelled#Cancelled Mission#my post
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The Guardian
Chapter 4: Arrival (Part 1)
Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader
Warnings: mention of slavery, mention of character deaths, reference to life-threatening danger, sleep deprivation, sorrow, angst, stern Mace, fluff, banter, some reader/Anakin bonding :) and worried Obi :(
Summary: The days leading up to your arrival have been cumbersome for both you and Anakin— the two of you struggle together with these life-altering changes thrust in front of you by the Galaxy. As the group reaches Coruscant, new revelations are made that further urge Obi-Wan to meet with The Council as soon as possible: to discuss your discovery, and its consequences.
Song Inspo: Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up) — Florence + The Machine
Words: 6.1K
A/n: Ahhhh!! You all are so lovely. Hope you like this chapter. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts in the comments (and message if you'd like to be on the taglist!)
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Series Masterlist
Hibernation is a covert preparation for a more overt action — Ralph Ellison
“A war…”
Anakin’s hand loosely tilted a throttle lever to the right as the shuttle approached Coruscant only a few thousand kilometers away. Its spherical body crept into the viewport like a loth-cat poised for attack while your voice filled the cabin.
The peaceful lull of space gave the young Jedi a moment to glance back at the conversation taking place. He looked beyond Ahsoka, who was cozied up in the shuttle seat directly behind him, legs thrown over an armrest and a Datapad resting comfortably against her knees. As she typed away, you sat beside her quizzically, eyes fixed in an aimless direction with a cheek resting gently on your fingertips in thought.
You’d inquired twelve hours into the trip about galactic events that occurred during your last ten years of total isolation, and it took the remaining two days for Obi-Wan to provide you with a very abbreviated version. The wise Jedi spent much time on The Order’s growth throughout the years and various blips in the peace, like the Invasion of Naboo. Only in the last few hours did he arrive at the topic of the Separatist war. Your shock at being for so long completely unaware of the galactic battles taking place was palpable.
Anakin delved deeper into his memories of the last few days in this cramped, rickety shuttle as it traversed from the Outer Ring across the galaxy. Specifically, those late nights in which he chose to keep the ship off autopilot and fly it manually, long after Master Kenobi and Ahsoka had fallen asleep in the back.
In the dimmed lighting, his mind still rushed with questions about your discovery. He had anxiety about what your sudden appearance in his life meant, and frustrations from not being informed of your existence. So Anakin decided it would be easier to manipulate the bird’s mechanisms himself. To keep his mind from wandering too far into further misgivings.
On both such quiet evenings, he recalled your restlessness. You shuffled aimlessly in the rear cabin, from your back to your side, and after a few seconds, to your stomach with a defeated plonk. Eventually, after many noisy readjustments, he’d hear an exasperated sigh before you’d roll over and rise to your feet. He’d sense you quietly sneak up behind the co-pilot’s seat and, each night, you’d unceremoniously plop down beside him, leaning back with arms crossed and staring out the viewport as if it was just the lullaby you’d needed.
He’d peer at you, noticing your subtly sunk in eyes, before once again making the same comment.
“Can’t sleep?”
“Yeah.”
And after a few drawn-out moments filled with only the silent hum of the shuttle’s engines, he’d ask a question. Nothing grandeur or serious. Just anything to lead to a conversation. To pass the time.
“Have you ever thought about where you’d want to visit? After leaving Hoth?” He spoke lowly.
And your head cocked with an imaginative gaze stuck ahead before answering with a small smile.
“I’ve always wanted to play grav-ball, and I’ve heard Nubia has some of the best teams. So probably there.”
Anakin nodded approvingly. “Coruscant has them too.”
And your smile widened as you twisted toward him. “Really?”
Then your interest was piqued. And you’d continue the conversation or make some completely unrelated, lighthearted query. Either way, the two of you would talk for hours during those calm nights in the old, decrepit shuttle.
It was during these late-night talks, that Anakin had the chance to uncover more of who you were. He brushed away at your sentiments, uncovering your interests like hidden gems while simultaneously sharing his own. The both of you seemed to have a great deal in common.
And that helped ease his mind.
Anakin turned back to the controls to prepare the shuttle for approach as it neared the planet’s gravitational pull, shutting off the main ion drives.
“And the Jedi as Generals? Controlling an army of clones?”
He watched as you shook your head and sighed, pressing your lips together as if mourning a memory.
“I always thought The Order was built to preserve peace in the Galaxy. Qui-Gon always made that clear. The Jedi were protectors, not stokers of conflict.”
“The Jedi have always been and will prevail as keepers of the peace.” Obi-Wan clarified.
His stance held firm behind the co-pilots seats, leaning against it with arms crossed as he analyzed your reactions carefully.
“We act in this war to do just that. The cohesiveness and strength of The Republic would be destroyed if The Separatist Alliance remained. You know as well as most from your studies that an existence like The Old Republic would act as an open cut to agents of the Dark Side.”
Anakin noticed as your eyes misted over in a dazed fashion.
“Forces like Maul…” You murmured.
Exhaling soberly, Anakin digested your solemn expression. Watching your mind struggle to process this newfound mountain of information was bringing back his own troubling memories from his youth. He never was the strongest enthusiast for change, and some of the most extreme adjustments he’d made involved similar exposure to newly dire circumstances. Whether that be learning he’d be hungry for another day, or of some plan to sell him off to another slave owner like cheap merchandise.
As a boy, he found himself best distracted from these circumstances by a new tinkering project, or by those rare moments of frivolity in such tumultuous times.
Yet here he was, already focusing his mind on fiddling with the outdated shuttle in front of him as he had done for the past few days. An expression of levity seemed to be the next logical step, he thought.
“Well, remember?” He grinned at you lightheartedly. “You don’t need to worry about him anymore. Master Kenobi put him in his place.”
Anakin observed as the corner of your mouth twitched upwards, stirring his own to take a wider stance. The momentary lift in your spirits was short-lived, although, as your lost eyes lifted from the floor, disoriented by your mind.
“It’s almost poetic.” You mused, a rueful chuckle falling from your lips. “The very beings my Master protected me from destroyed him in the end.”
Anakin glanced at Obi-Wan who stroked his beard inquisitively as he mulled over your words in profound concentration. His narrowed gaze briefly met Anakin’s as if searching his irises for an answer to some distant, dubious puzzle.
The former Padawan raised a brow at his Master’s countenance, silently asking what he did to warrant such an expression. Then, Obi-Wan’s lips abruptly parted in realization as he spun back toward you. Anakin took that as his cue to refocus his energy on the rapidly approaching planet whose gravitational field pulled them forward, marking the bird at only a hundred kilometers away.
“Qui-Gon did protect you…” Obi-Wan suspired earnestly as if hearing his own words for the very first time.
He gesticulated with a hand. “His final moments, his face, is forever etched into my mind.”
Kenobi’s sentence broke off. The pensive Jedi opened and closed his mouth a few times while he formulated his thoughts, as if questioning the significance of each word.
“In the thousands of times I’ve gone over his death, I was always taken by the complete peace, the confidence, with which he entered The Force.”
He paused once more, lips tugged upward and eyes glossed in wonder.
“It was because of you.”
Anakin spun fully around, facing the two of you as Obi-Wan dotted that final claim. He noticed your head shoot up at them from its lulled position.
“What do you mean?” You inquired, your eyes adrift in a sea of perceptible perturbation.
“Yeah, what do you mean?” Anakin piped up bewildered.
He prayed to the Maker that his former Master wasn’t in any way implying that you had anything to do with his Qui-Gon’s death.
Yet Obi-Wan was undeterred by the assortment of sentiments swirling around him.
“When he first discovered that Maul was a Sith.” He began excitedly. “He must have realized the threat to you. Yes, he was protecting you from the Sith for most of your life, but The Order hadn’t encountered them for a thousand years. And yet, he appeared before Qui-Gon on Tatooine, and then…Naboo.”
Obi-Wan exhaled, letting his arms fall to each side as you leaned forward, watching him intently with hands now clasped firmly beneath your jaw.
Anakin could tell that your silver stare intimated even his former Master. He watched as the Master Negotiator not so subtly eyed the hull’s roof to escape your gaze.
“It is possible, that tracking you down was part of Maul’s mission. He may have discovered your connection to Qui-Gon.”
Kenobi sighed, stroking his chin. “Our former Master likely came to the same conclusion.”
Anakin saw as Obi-Wan’s eyes fell to connect intensely with yours, a smile lingered on the bearded Jedi’s features as his eyes creased in tranquility.
“You should find solace in the fact that you made his final moments most comforting. His death ensured that the Sith would never discover your whereabouts. I’m sure that gave him peace.”
For the first time today, Anakin registered a twinkle in your radiantly silver eyes as you silently thanked the older Jedi with a lift in your cheeks, leaning back into your seat comfortably.
The Chosen One glanced between the two of you as the gaze held. He knew Qui-Gon’s death weighed heavily on Kenobi’s soul. It strongly influenced his choices on the battlefield, and stuck to him like Chewstim during meditation sessions. Yet Anakin rarely heard Obi-Wan discuss the experience. Let alone with serenity blooming from his features like a Tarisian rose that had just escaped a long, winter hibernation.
Your mutual connection to Qui-Gon seemed to help heal these old wounds, and Anakin was grateful for that.
“Enough with the sappiness, Master,” Anakin exclaimed with a lively lilt, breaking the tension as he spun back toward the shuttle’s controls.
Obi-Wan shot Anakin an annoyed look. The teasing Jedi pushed a throttle lever down before programming the shuttle for atmospheric reentry on the left control set.
“I think Silvey would much rather take in our arrival.”
Anakin didn’t need to reach into the force to sense your amused brow’s rapid surge upwards. Obi-Wan stepped around the co-pilot’s seat, shaking his head in surrender as he settled into the chair, smoothing out his robe on either side.
“You sure know how to ruin a moment, Sky-Guy.” Ahsoka pipped up.
Her gaze remained fixed on the Datapad. Yet her comment only amplified his mischievousness.
“Silvey?” Anakin heard you question with feigned indignation as he entered the final commands into the shuttle interface, engaging the secondary thrusters.
The spirited Jedi snatched the navigational lever, pushing it down to lead the craft into Coruscant’s exosphere before glancing over his shoulder at your postured displeasure. He smirked as your eyes met, forcing a dampened smile to surface on your own countenance.
“Hey, don’t blame me! I could spot your silver eyes from a million parsecs away. It’s only fitting.” He defended.
Then, a particularly tantalizing observation entered his thoughts.
“Would you prefer Shorty?”
You chucked darkly, squinting at The Chosen One with a challenging glare as he brought the shuttle’s nose into a deeper dive.
Your lips pursed upwards. “If looks could kill, Anakin. If looks could kill…”
The pilot beamed at your playful remark. “Well, at least take a break from stabbing me with those freakishly sparkly things.” He quipped, waving you away. “You’re missing the view.”
Out of the corner of his focused stare, Anakin observed your head rise. You were immediately taken by Coruscant’s giant mass, a faded blue and gray planet with billions of lights forming golden circles that were interconnected like a geometric map. Your mouth loosened in astonishment with each glossy orb stuck to the viewport. He noticed you lean forward, as if pulled by some unknown force, resting your elbows on each knee with your chin fitted on clasped hands.
Satiated by your raised spirits, Anakin refocused on the throttle, pushing it down further to bring the shuttle into Coruscant’s baby blue troposphere. The ship began to quiver as the hull took the brunt of the friction.
For a few turbulent seconds, his vision was blocked by the vast array of rounded, white clouds. The cabin’s heat intensified as the edges of the viewport started to burn a fiery red.
But soon, the shuttle broke through the white veil’s final wisps, displaying the towering cityscape, which rolled like jagged hills and consumed the viewport. The sun was beginning its final crawl to dusk, filling the sky with a deep orange fire whose smoke billowed into dark blues and purples. The streams of light illuminated the busy skylanes, resembling the endless march of Endorian ant colonies. They brought life to Coruscant’s still landmarks.
“It’s beautiful.”
Anakin covertly peaked at you, registering the astonishment plastered on your face. He assumed for a being that’s only known endless snow banks and harsh winters all their life, that this experience would be terribly intimidating, terrifying even.
He thought back briefly to ten years prior. When he first came to Coruscant, he was petrified. Scared of this new environment. Of this added drastic change to his life.
But he was mostly afraid for his mother. For her fate back on Tatooine. Under Watto’s thumb, only to be bought by Lars, and then…
It permeated his being. Haunted him for years. Pulled at his heart with the constant mass of a planet, swinging like a pendulum with each reminder, each ache. And, still, he carries it with him today. But now, with a deeper anger. A stronger guilt.
But you seemed to take it all in with grace.
And Anakin admired that.
The Temple swiftly grew into view as the shuttle descended. The heat surrounding the hull began to recede. Anakin rolled the lever, bringing the shuttle in for a curved landing. He aligned the ship with one of the protruding hangars, the whole of which he believed resembled an upside-down lollipop. At least when he was a youngling.
After thumbing a few buttons on the control panel to release the landing gear, Anakin pressed the lever down, encouraging the craft to speed to the circular platform nose first. He turned the throttle once more to the right, slowing the ship by aligning its door with the hangar entrance, allowing for a slow, final descent.
The ship jostled slightly as it met the landing pad, signaling Anakin to begin a systems-wide power down, staring at the main control panel.
Another happy landing.
As he flicked off the last switch to power down the engines, Anakin felt an audible rumble from within, compelling him to focus on the sudden ache in his stomach.
It had been a while since he had a good meal with the back-to-back missions and low stock of ration bars. Not that he ever considered that bantha fodder food.
Usually after a long away mission, he would grab a speeder from The Temple and take a quick trip to the Senate Building. He’d roam the halls nonchalantly, chest puffed to signal an air of importance, like he had a very official reason to be there. Then, he would ‘aimlessly’ stroll to Padmé’s office.
Once he arrived with a covert knock at the door, Padmé would welcome him inside with a warmhearted smile. He would then spend some time resting on one of her guest seats meant for senatorial colleagues, attempting to entertain himself with the mechanisms of his saber’s hilt. But it wasn’t long until he began to distract Padmé from her work, eventually convincing her to call it an early night. The two of them would grab a meal in her spacious Coruscanti apartment that overlooked The Temple from a few miles away. But he was never intrigued by that view. His eyes remained fixed on her.
Yet despite all this daydreaming, Skywalker knew his wife was still on Naboo, managing the consequences of donating a vast array of medical supplies to another planet. Her responsibilities on her home world exponentially swelled in the last few months, so he wasn’t entirely sure when he’d next see her.
No one knew when they’d see each other next during wartime. Or if they would ever meet again.
If these musings indicated anything, it was that Anakin eagerly hoped to spend some downtime with the people he was closest to. No war planning. No cargo transports. No battle charges. Just a nice meal and entertaining conversation. And he knew just who he wanted to spend that time with.
Anakin stood, stretching his arms into a spin just in time to witness the very person he hoped to talk to swing her legs back over the seat they were sprawled out on before jumping up and charging for the door.
“What’s got you in such a rush?” He called after Ahsoka as she jostled the shuttle door open.
The orange light of the setting sun invaded the ship with a jolt, casting large shadows on the scattered groups of hangar workers, the closest of which approached the ship to take it off Anakin’s hands once the final three passengers exited.
She leaped out, landing delicately on the tips of her toes before turning into a backward jog.
“If I don’t finish this physics paper by midnight, Master Plo Koon is gonna kill me!” She yelled, shaking her datapad in the air. “Catch you later!”
Anakin’s gaze followed her sprinting form down the hangar’s walkway until she disappeared into the inner bay behind a small cruiser.
“Ok.” Anakin huffed before facing the two remaining Jedi with a grin. “At least the three of us can grab dinner.”
He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“I’m afraid the two of you will have to enjoy without me,” Obi-Wan admitted as he glanced at Anakin. “The Council likely planned an emergency meeting concerning the recall of the Jedi from the front lines. I need to check in immediately.”
Anakin’s smile faltered. He inwardly groaned at Kenobi’s resolute dedication to rules and regulations. He was sure The Council could have waited half an hour, but Anakin knew Obi-Wan’s mind was set.
Obi-Wan twisted on his heels to face you. “I will also inform them about you.”
“Shouldn’t I be there then?” You questioned.
All hope of eating with one of his traveling companions drained from Anakin’s spirit. Maybe he could meet with one of them later instead, he thought. He supposed he could put off food for a bit, perhaps continue on that pilot droid project he hadn’t had a chance to work on for a while. But then he’d probably need to take a quick trip to Level 1782. Last time Anakin checked, he was low on spare parts.
“No,” Obi-Wan claimed.
Skywalker’s ears perked at that.
“That will not be necessary. They will likely need to confer without your presence for now.”
You silently agreed as Anakin internally sighed in relief.
Obi-Wan nodded to the both of you before turning to the hangar walkway, hurriedly traipsing toward his exit.
Anakin took a more leisurely pace in the same direction as you followed behind. An uncomfortable silence took hold as he guided the both of you into the inner hangar. The bustling noise of your surroundings amplified the awkwardness as the two of you closed in on the larger groups of hangar workers, barking out loud commands and using various tools, like sonorously whirring drills, to update or fix the conglomerate of crafts that idly scattered the zone.
Anakin felt his nose begin to tickle, perhaps from distant smoke. But he was too worried that it may prolong the uncomfortably fresh turf between the two of you if he tried to scratch it.
“So…” You spoke somewhat unsure of yourself. “What is there to do that’s fun around here?”
Anakin’s whole body froze, stopping dead in his tracks from eager surprise as if he were caught in a carbon-freezing chamber. He spun toward you, immediately seizing your shoulders with a steady clasp.
“What did you say?” He asked intently, excitement radiating up his spine and diffusing to his fingertips.
He observed your figure stiffen slightly at his agile animation. You raised a questioning brow as you opened your mouth with a hesitant pause, seemingly unsure if you should ask again.
“Do Jedi raised in The Order…not do anything….leisurely?”
The confident Jedi chuckled coolly while throwing an arm around your shoulder as you both exited the hanger into The Temple, pivoting to stroll down the hall opposite from Obi-Wan’s trail.
“I think we are going to get along very well, Silvey.” He hummed self-assuredly.
You rolled your eyes. “Not if you keep calling me that.”
“I promise you, you’re not gonna mind that nickname after I show you one of the most leisurely activities on all of Coruscant.” He assured.
You glanced at Anakin with lifted features. “But I thought you were hungry.” You teased
Anakin scoffed. “Food can wait. Now, tell me, Silvey.” Anakin dreamed as he patted your shoulder. “Did Qui-Gonn ever tell you about the Wicko District?”
—
General Kenobi maintained his nimble gait down the primary walkway to the High Council Chamber. His robes billowed as he passed an abundance of lounging Jedi, some conversing to the sides or keeping a moderate pace as they made their way to an unknown destination on either side of him.
Soon into his journey, Obi-Wan crossed paths with his old mentor Master Cin Drallig, followed by a group of twelve rowdy younglings whose voices bounced off the temple walls. Maybe they were asking questions, or telling a story, but the bearded Jedi couldn’t tell. Each utterance overlapped like a cacophony of crashing speeders.
Yet almost immediately, they noticed his presence, twirling away from each other to respectfully greet one of their long-held role models.
“Hello, Master!”
“Hello, younglings.” General Kenobi smiled.
He looked back to Master Dralli, catching his tired, yet fulfilled stare. They each exchanged a dutiful, yet brisk nod before continuing on their respective paths.
Obi-Wan always felt dwarfed by the massive olive-gray pillars that buttressed The Temple’s lofty ceilings. As a youngling, the golden archways seemed to stretch out endlessly in each direction, giving the effect of an infinite mirror when he passed under them. When he aged, however, Obi-Wan learned to better understand the structure’s finite nature, yet he was still taken by its capacious essence. Each hall resembled a palace built thousands of years ago by Mandallian Giants, specifically constructed for their wide gates and broad shoulders. And it would coax his imagination into its unyielding grasp.
He remembers spending too much time simply sitting crossed in these halls during his youth. The youngling would rest his eyelids to visualize the giants’ roaring tramps shake the coral- and lilac-marble floors in succeeding thundering booms.
As Obi-Wan turned a corner, tread crossing onto the ocean blue carpet of the inner Temple, he reminisced about the time Qui-Gon caught him red-handed in the middle of one of these fantasies. It was many years before the late Jedi took him on as a Padawan.
Qui-Gon would always engage with the younglings when possible. He had a habit of outwardly encouraging all initiates in their studies, especially those who struggled with their training and emotional discipline. But he would also silently approve those rare moments in which a young Jedi took a moment to themselves. Whether that be exploring the Coruscanti entertainment district, playing Sabacc, or Obi-Wan’s respite of choice, daydreaming.
With eyes shrouded in darkness, he could almost smell the sweaty towering creature. Its footsteps sounded like cracks of lighting, and he could feel the room’s imperceptible rise in temperature from the creature’s sudden presence. If he really focused, its colossal, green-muscled foot would nearly breach the void in his sight, creeping from the corner of his left eyelid. The hair on his arms prickled at the beast’s sudden proximity.
“Meditating are you?”
The young Kenobi’s eyes sprung open, cheeks reddening as his eyes locked with the wise Jedi before him.
“Uhh, yes…Master.”
And Qui-Gon simply smiled.
Obi-Wan’s worries momentarily lifted at the memory, delight gracing his features. But that instant disappeared from his mind as quickly as it arrived. The Jedi refocused on the task ahead, passing one of the large Sage Master statues that shined like freshly polished copper to his right as The Council meeting room entered his vision.
Just outside the Chamber door stood Master Windu, leaning with his arm against the wall beside him as he continued his deep discussion with Master Yoda, who rested in his flying chair. The two of them spoke softly, and from Windu’s creased brows, General Kenobi could tell that it was serious. A few groups of Jedi Masters similarly congregated around the door, talking lowly. Kenobi could sense heightened anxiety trailing the air.
As he approached, Obi-Wan caught the corner of Mace’s eye. He turned to General Kenobi, offering a curt nod at his arrival as Yoda reoriented his seat toward the newly arrived.
“Late you are, Master Kenobi.”
“I apologize for the delay.” Obi-Wan relayed sincerely. “Our shuttle experienced some unexpected complications.”
Yoda hummed deeply at Obi-Wan’s words, indicating his acceptance of this explanation to Mace before taking his chair on a measured stroll down the walkway, back in the direction from whence Obi-Wan came. Windu and Kenobi shortly followed in step.
“The Council has already met to discuss the issue of recalling the Jedi.” Master Windu began as the trio ambled down the hallway. “We have suffered a communications incursion by the Separatists.”
Obi-Wan was astounded, brows furrowing in confusion as he absentmindedly rubbed his jaw.
“A breach in our secure transmissions…How is that possible?” He exclaimed.
“Unsure, we are,” Yoda answered. “Investigate, our specialists will.”
Mace addressed the troubled Jedi. “A number of troops stationed in obscure outer regions of multi-planetary battle sites were ambushed in the last few weeks. The only way they could have been discovered would be if their COMMs were tapped into. It is possible that the Separatists have somehow obtained some of our transmitter codes or found some other flaw in the communications system. Because we cannot use our wrist comms or holopads to send sensitive information to communicate this development, we’ve recalled the Jedi.”
“Continue the battles, the clones will. Send out Jedi temporarily with verbal directions for troops, we must.
“Until communications are secured.” Windu clarified. “The 212th and 501st have already received new instructions for a less critical mission on Aleen.”
Obi-Wan hummed in contemplation. “And how long do you believe this situation will last?”
Mace exhaled. “We won’t know until technicians look further into the issue. But it may be weeks, months.”
Obi-Wan stroked his beard as he ruminated about this concerning development. He trusted Commander Cody with his life, but still knew it would be difficult for the 212th to address more delicate missions in the near future without timely information from The Temple or even inter-troop comms.
“Concerned, we all are,” Yoda reassured, likely sensing General Kenobi’s unease.
“The Council will be informing all active Jedi in the Great Hall tomorrow morning. Make sure Anakin and his Padawan are present. And here.”
Windu reached into the right pocket of his robe, pulling out what Obi-Wan thought was a wrist comm, yet it seemed bulkier. An extra layer of wiring was hidden in an additional panel stuck underneath the control layer. Most notable was the thin, silver line of steel that encircled the device, something the General hadn’t seen on a comm before. He took it, feeling the mass in his palm. It felt cold, heavy, with a rusted button and weak indicator light.
He thought it ancient.
“It’s a comm from the old Temple emergency system. It’s completely separate from our current communications system so messages from these devices to regular comms will be secure. There are only enough for one per council member.”
Obi-Wan thanked the Master as he switched his current wrist link with the replacement, placing the former in his robe’s pocket.
“Still careful, we must be.”
Mace added. “Only use it to ask for meetings, not to share sensitive data.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “On the topic of sensitivity, I must inform you of a development.”
He breathed deeply, exhaling in a short burst as he gathered his complicated memories about you to present to The Council leaders.
“In our delay, Anakin, his Padawan, and I were on Hoth for a short time, where we met a being living alone on the planet’s surface.”
The two Jedi Masters listened intently as he continued.
“I discovered them to be a Gray Jedi, trained by Master Qui-Gonn himself. They claim to be The Guardian, a figure that is a part of The Chosen One prophecy, but was expected to be trained outside The Order. They are tasked with Anakin’s protection and guidance so that he may achieve his destiny. Their journey begins when dark forces threaten this fate.”
Mace’s eyes narrowed. “This is a bold claim, Master Kenobi. If anything, it sounds like a Separatist trick.”
Then, as soft as their nimble footfalls, Yoda uttered your name under his breath.
Obi-Wan’s head swiveled toward the Grand Master. “You know them?”
The shorter Jedi sighed, leaning back in his chair as his eyes glazed over in deep reflection.
“Gone, I thought they were, a long time ago.”
Mace’s brows raised as he turned to Yoda. “You know of this individual, Master?”
He nodded gravely, a light grunt resonated from his esophagus.
“Discovered them as an infant twenty-five years ago, I did. Kept a close eye on them, I had.” He sighed. “Killed by a dark power a year later, their parents were. Believed they died as well, I did.”
The Grand Master eyed General Kenobi carefully, as if the bearded Jedi made a mistake in his recollection.
“Interested to learn they are alive, I am.”
“A dark power…” Obi-Wan mused. “Master, do you believe a Sith may have been responsible? I have been theorizing that Maul’s presence on Tatooine could have had more than one motive.”
“Discovered their presence, you believe he did?”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan confirmed. “And their connection to Qui-Gon.”
He paused, counting the years in his head.
“But Maul would have been too young when their parents passed.”
“The rule of two…” Mace hummed.
“A Master, then.” Yoda declared.
“Then The Guardian’s presence suggests that Maul may not be the last Sith,” Windu revealed. “If it’s true that their appearance suggests a new threat from the Dark Side.”
“During the Battle of Geonosis, discovered that Dooku may be a Sith, I did.” Yoga established. “Great darkness, I sensed in him.”
“Then he is the Sith Lord?” Mace speculated.
Obi-Wan agreed. “He would have been quite capable of taking their parents’ lives over two decades ago.”
“It would also explain The Guardian’s survival, if Dooku’s late Padawan discovered his plans and partially thwarted them before they were carried out,” Mace suggested.
“Informed The Council, Qui-Gon would have, if believed Dooku was a Sith, he had. Much we still do not know, there is.”
Windu exhaled, placing his middle and index finger against his right temple and thinking deeply about his next words.
“I would like to meet this Guardian myself.” He gestured to Kenobi. “Tomorrow in the Sparring Arena after the Great Hall announcement. It is important for The Council to determine whether they have the necessary physical and mental abilities, and the appropriate connection to the Force, to be a Jedi Knight. To join The Order. Otherwise, leaving them outside the purview of The Order could have dire consequences. That is if they are even prepared to fulfill such a destiny after nearly a decade of isolation.”
“Of course, Master.” Obi-Wan acknowledged. “But from what little I’ve seen, they seem quite capable of holding their own.”
Windu’s stare held firm. “Respectfully, Master Kenobi, I will be the one to determine that.”
Obi-Wan’s gaze fell. “Understood.”
He didn’t take the Master’s tone personally. Windu’s conformist nature and deep dislike for any Jedi activity conducted beyond the domain of The Council likely made his discovery of The Guardian prophecy an unwelcome one. Obi-Wan only hoped that Master Windu would still treat you as any other Jedi when testing your abilities. He remembers the wise Master’s negative reaction to Anakin’s discovery, due to his age at the time Qui-Gon requested that he be trained. You were much older than 10-year-old Ani, so he was convinced that would pose a problem for the talented swordsman.
And this was not the best time for you to be meeting resistance from The Order that you trained your whole life to serve so to continue its millennia-long mission of preserving the peace through light. The Master Negotiator didn’t need to employ his strong conversation skills to discern how the past few days’ overwhelming changes had been affecting you. That, in addition to learning of your Master’s passing, had made you restless on the journey here. It was hard to ignore, even while he settled in repose each night, your twisted form which struggled to sleep.
He empathized with you deeply.
The General was also, in some measure, apprehensive about the inevitable clash of personalities. He found you kind, considerate, but also unafraid to speak your mind, or express your inner sentiments. He admired Master Windu since he was a boy, but his no-nonsense approach? His uncompromising mental discipline and austere lessons? It would surely cause a collision of temperaments.
“A different name, they must go by,” Yoda announced.
Obi-Wan’s gaze rose curiously at this. “Master?”
“Know they are alive, Dooku cannot.”
“Nor any other actor of the Dark Side. Nor the Separatists.” Windu interjected. “Their existence could pose a significant weakness to the Republic’s image of enduring peace and light. If Separatist forces discover The Guardian’s identity and purpose from their birth name, they may believe that the destruction of a specific Jedi could leave us vulnerable.”
He paused, turning to Yoda to verify his conclusions, who languidly blinked in concurrence.
Mace’s peer twisted back toward Kenobi. “If dark forces found them once through their birth name, they can again.”
The Grand Master nodded in agreement. “Destroy The Guardian, they may otherwise try.”
Obi-Wan’s heart dropped at the notion. It was clear that your identity needed to be protected from these powerfully dark forces, lest you meet the same fate as your parents.
If your mission was to guard and guide Anakin, his former Padawan, and dear friend, then the determined Jedi believed it to be his personal assignment to aid you in that destiny. Now he knew that hiding your identity to the best of his ability would be part of that task. The side of the light needed you, and Obi-Wan’s deep connection to it and his cavernous desire to continue Qui-Gon’s decades-long efforts meant only one thing— he needed to protect you too.
“Anakin gave them a nickname.” The General recalled, head tilted and eyes scanning up an idle column as he thought back. “Silvey, if memory serves.”
Windu's brows raised, unsurprised.
“Then Silvey they’ll remain,” he concluded.
Yoda hummed, his disconcertion bubbling to the surface with lips creased in a downward turn. “Their true name, only the three of us, Anakin, and little Ahsoka will know. Kept secret, their identity must be. Inform The Council of the prophecy, we shall, once communications are refortified. But within the council, it must stay.”
Master Windu mumbled in unanimity. “We must not entertain any notion of emerging Sith. Not among the Jedi, nor publicly.”
“I understand the delicacy of the situation and will act accordingly,” Obi-Wan assured.
The bearded Jedi halted, turning to the elders before leaning into a slight obeisance. The other Masters slowed to a halt.
“If you will excuse me, Masters, I hope to find my travel companions before they divulge any information about The Guardian’s identity.”
“May the Force be with you, Master Kenobi,” Windu stated as he bowed adieu, Yoda following suit from his floating chair.
And with that, Obi-Wan turned away to begin his search for you, Anakin, and Ahsoka.
As the General quickened his stride down that long, colossally immortal walkway, he wondered where he might find the three of you. Ahsoka was probably in the Jedi Archives around the corner, assuming she was continuing her work on that paper for Master Plo Koon. So he decided to start there. He assumed you and Anakin were stationed in the refectory closest to the hangar, remembering the previously mentioned dinner plans,
Or maybe it would be better to try the refractory first, Obi-Wan thought. If experience served true, Anakin would not stay silent about your discovery for long. He hastened his pace while mumbling these plans under his breath.
“Yes, the refractory first.”
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desideratum
When the Imperial Proclamation came asking for more volunteers to serve aboard the Galactrius, you jumped at the chance to restart your life. You hoped that being in the orbit of the Emperor would inspire you to greatness in the way that your backwater planet had never allowed.
You just didn't expect to fall in love with him
emperor sigma/afab! reader, 4k, 18+
[ch1] || [next]
tags: bootlicking, boot worship, dubcon
shoutout to @themaydecemberist who mentioned his boots & gave me this idea. this was supposed to be a short fic abt him stepping on reader but it got out of hand
also on ao3
The Infinite Galactrius. The seat and the flagship of the Empire. It boasted the greatest firepower out of any artillery, planetside or otherwise, and had the means to function as its own self-sustained metropolis. You had seen photos and recreations of it and had marveled at its construction, and yet had no idea what it contained within. No one on your planet did, much less your hometown. You imagined it as grandiose as its reputation. In your eye, the walls glittered and shone like diamonds. Mosaics depicting His Excellence’s rise to power dotted the landscape. Shrines dedicated to him would be around every corner. The ship would sing with his praises.
You were, understandably, very excited to step off the transport shuttle with the hundred or so others that you arrived with, each who had answered the Proclamation. The Empire had asked for citizens to serve on the Galactrius for a period of two years, after which further servitude could be considered. There had been fine print and additional terms, of course, but you didn’t pay attention to those. As soon as you had seen it, you’d sent in an application to join.
Most people on your planet never left. Most people in your hometown never left. And, for someone like you, with little skills or prospects, there was hardly ever a chance to change your life. The Proclamation was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to manipulate the cards you’d been dealt.
As the connecting bay opened, you stepped off the shuttle and into the Galactrius, your head held high — only to falter.
The room, though enormous in its own right, was little more than a gray box. The walls were completely unadorned save for the occasional banner with the Infinite Empire's insignia emboldened on its front. The lights were sparse and dim, making it hard to discern details. And even though the room was filled with people, bustling this way and that, it felt unbelievably empty. Lonely. It was as if the vastness of space had crept in through the cracks, permeating the very foundation of the ship. You shivered.
"Hey!" Someone shoved into your back, sending you careening forward. It was a miracle you didn't fall. "Don't just stand there and gawk. Get a move on!"
You stumbled into that foreboding loneliness and fell into line. Members of the Infinite Army were at points in the lines, scanners at the ready. When it was your turn, you dutifully held out your wrist. The scanner beeped softly as it registered your ID.
She stared at your screen and heaved out a sigh. "Another one, huh?" she said, more to herself than you. "All right, you'll be moving toward the back." She jerked her head in the direction she meant, and you frowned. It was far from the rest of the crowd, and there were only a handful of people seated there.
"Uh, what am I..."
"Just sit and wait," she said. Then, as if to make it obvious she was finished with you, called out, "next!"
With a frown, you stepped from the crowd of people and moved toward the indicated area. It was alienating to walk by your lonesome, and you couldn't help but to feel as if there were eyes upon you.
The area was actually a small seating area. A man about your age was being led away as you approached, so you took his seat. The two others in the area were in a heated discussion.
"...s'what I'm saying!" A woman with short, auburn hair leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. "They could at least let us know what's up."
"What's this about?" you asked.
"Why we're separate from the others. Where they're takin' us," she said.
"I think they're using us for ritual sacrifices," chimed in the man sitting next to her. His temples were graying, and he had a mischievous kindness in his smile that belied his age. "Leading us like lambs to the slaughter."
"Ugh," the woman groaned. "Enough. If they wanted flesh for the sake of flesh, there's easier ways of going about it."
"What do you think they're doing, then?"
"I don't give a damn s'long as I get paid that pension they promised."
"Is...that why you came?" you chanced. "Just for money?"
"Look. My dumbass son went and got himself into a heap of gamblin' debt 'n his life is all sorts of fucked. I saw the proclamation one day and thought, well hell. Two years on the Galactrius would pay off that debt and then some." She shook her head. "I just hope that boy don't go off and get himself killed while I'm gone."
The man whistled. "I didn't take you for the noble type."
Her eyes narrowed. "What, and I s'pose you are?"
"Quite the opposite, to tell you the truth. I'm here out of my own selfish desires."
You both waited. When he didn't elaborate, the woman next to you groaned. "Are you goin' to tell us, or what?"
"Well..." He leaned forward conspiratorially, dropping his voice. "There's a rumor about the Emperor and his inner circle, you know. Those that hang around him for a long enough time seem to change. Develop abilities of their own. Can you imagine what it would be like to have even a quarter of his power?"
"That's stupid," she bluntly stated. "First, it's just a rumor. Secondly, how in the hell d'ya think it'll happen? That Emperor Tightwad is gonna take a sudden liking to you?" She brought her hand to her mouth in a facsimile of raising a cigarette, and, when she realized what she'd done, balled her hand into a fist. "You have a better chance of winnin' the lottery."
"No, no, you have a point, which is why that isn't my plan at all. See, I'm of the opinion that there's actually some sort of device that grants him his abilities. Something he wears, perhaps, or a chamber he has to sit in for a certain period. Whatever it is, I'm convinced it's on this ship, and once I find it I'll use it to give myself power."
Silence.
You both stared at him as his words digested. Then, "That's a load of horseshit."
"Right," you agreed. "Everyone knows his powers are a gift from the universe and not man-made."
It was their turn to stare at you. The man's eyes softened in such a way that clearly said oh, you poor thing.
"That," he said, "is nothing more than a fairy tale. Come now, you're old enough to know better."
You shrunk into yourself. You knew the story was far fetched, yes, but the Emperor had ruled for centuries upon centuries. Was it so outlandish to think that he truly was chosen by the universe?
"How's your plan work if we're just sacrifices?" the woman cut in, saving you from having to speak any more.
"Oh, well." He scratched at his nose. "I'll be sure to ask His Royal Infinity if there is such a device just before he ritually eats me. Sound good?"
She rolled her eyes. "Sure. Have you considered that he's gotta eat 'n spit you back out to infuse you with his powers..."
You couldn't understand these two. Their total disregard for the Emperor and their impudent attitude toward him stunned you. Back in your hometown, such language would never be tolerated, much less spoken in the first place. Their reasons for boarding the Galactrius were so self-serving, too. Here, your loyalty to the Empire seemed out of place.
"Is there an ID numbered 334667300 here?" An Imperial worker interrupted the chatter, holopad balanced in her arm. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun. The upper half of her face was hidden behind a visor, leaving everything below the nose exposed. Her face was soft, not so stern as you'd noticed in the other workers.
"That's me," you said as you stood.
"Oi!" shouted the woman beside you. "I've been waitin' here forever! Five or so blokes have gone before me. When's it gonna be my turn, huh?"
The worker gave a weary smile. "We appreciate your patience. We're getting to everyone as quick as we can."
"Pah." She slumped back in her chair and nodded her head toward you. "Good luck, kid."
The man caught your eye. He mimed zipping his mouth, then with the same raised hand he waved goodbye.
"If you'll follow me," the worker said. She led you away from your newfound conversation partners and out through an inconspicuous door that seamlessly hid in the walls. It opened into a narrow hallway barely the width of two people walking side-by-side. Unlike the waiting hub, the corridor was completely devoid of people. Your footfalls echoed on the metal walkway, the only noise besides the low, persistent hum of the ship. The service lights that lined the floor provided the only source of illumination. The earlier discussion of 'lambs to the slaughter' popped into your head, and your stomach twisted in knots. The whole thing was starting to feel very dismal.
"Um," you started, quickening your pace so that you no longer trailed behind her, but beside. "Can I ask where you're taking me? Was there an issue with my application?"
"There's nothing to worry about," she said, which wasn't exactly comforting. "It isn't unusual that we get a handful of people every now and then that hope to serve on the Galactrius, but don't quite fit the vision we had in mind. In cases like these, His Infinite Excellence graciously allows for an audience with him. You'll be given the chance to advocate for yourself in the chance that you're more than your application would suggest."
Your head spun. "Wait, sorry — what? The Emperor? Now?" Your twisted stomach pulled itself into your throat, like you were about to speak in front of a large crowd. You had dreamt about meeting the Emperor, of course; he was the savior of your planet, the ruler of the nebula. You owed your very existence to him. You wanted to meet him. You wanted to speak to him, to tell him how much your planet adored him, but it was a want for it to have already happened. The idea of having to struggle through a conversation with him — face-to-face, all your ineptitude laid bare before him — nauseated you. What could you say? He was the Emperor of the Infinite Nebula, First Son of the Universe, the Lord of Unstoppable Might. He was like a god, and you were — well. You.
The walls passed in a blur. Distantly, you noted that you were progressing into a more populated part of the ship, away from that awful hallway, but it all only vaguely registered. You gnawed on your lip. How should you greet the Emperor? Should you ask him about his day? Should you bow? Shake his hand? You hadn't prepared — you would've worn something nicer — should have, idiot, should have considered —
"Are you all right?"
The worker pulled you back to the present, out of your thoughts. She had stopped before an entryway and was waiting patiently, holopad tucked under her arm.
You looked to her, then to the doorway. It seemed to you like a gaping maw, the darkness beyond as thick and foreboding as fog. "Is there any way to postpone this?" you asked, voice small.
Her posture softened. Straight, intimidating lines turned sloped, rounded. "I'm afraid not," she said. "The Emperor runs a tight schedule. I can defer your spot, of course, but I would have to get you booked for the next immediate transport off of —"
"No, no." You shook your head for emphasis. The last thing you wanted was to squander this opportunity, no matter how much it made your stomach turn. "That won't be necessary. I hope."
"You'll be fine," she said, patient as a saint. "Think of it like...like a job interview."
"Right. Sure." You neglected to mention that you'd never had a successful interview, not even once, and instead motioned to the entryway. "He's...just through here, then?"
"Straight ahead," she affirmed. "You can't miss it, or get lost. Trust me." And then, in an action so strange and foreign to you, she put her palm on your shoulder and squeezed. "Good luck."
Warmth shuddered through you. Your throat tightened. "Thanks."
You stared resolutely ahead, and stepped into the impenetrable darkness.
It took your eyes a moment to focus on what was ahead of you. The room was not actually any less bright than the rest of the ship, but it was so massive compared to the hallway before that the light on the floor struggled to reach the ceiling. It yawned upward to unfathomable heights, and in the far distance, a couple of pillars stood shrouded in darkness, reaching upward like stalagmites. It struck you that this was the kind of architecture you had expected. Grand in scale. Fitting for a man who held the force of the universe in his palms.
More lights flickered into existence as you walked, appearing like little fireflies in the summer heat.. They chased away the shadows, bit by bit, and uncovered the carpet trail that you stood upon. It was Imperial red, bisecting the room clean in half. Your eyes followed the length of it up, up, up —
In all your gawking, you'd missed it. Missed him.
The Emperor.
His throne sat dead-center in the middle of the room. He perched upon it, leg crossed over his knee, cheek resting on his knuckled fist. He gazed at you from his one eye, brilliant purple half-lidded in boredom. Behind his throne, the light shone in an irregular circle, throwing heavy shadows on his face.
You fell to your knees. What else could you do? He was the Emperor, the Lord of Sky and Stars, the Immovable King. His presence overwhelmed you to the point of weakness. Reverence made you mute. For a brief moment you thought back to those two from before, casually demeaning and blaspheming his name. They'd sooner cut their tongues out than repeat their imprudence, you thought, if they spent but a minute in his orbit.
"Well?" he prompted. His voice cut through the silence, all-commanding, all-dominating. "Have you nothing to say to your Emperor?"
You flinched and struggled to find your words. "S-sir," you began, then backpedaled. "I mean, my lord —, Your Excellence —"
"Why have you come?" he interrupted, clearly displeased with your stumbling. "Or are you unable to answer even that?"
You ducked your head. You were not fit to meet his eye. "I want — I wish to serve your Empire."
"My Empire is as vast and infinite as the stars. There are plenty of ways to make yourself useful to me. Thus I return to my original question: why have you come?"
You gnawed at the inside of your cheek. Was he testing you? Was there a right response?
Did he want the whole truth?
You amended your answer. "I wish to serve directly. Under you."
"Oh? Interesting, given your application record."
You looked up at him through your lashes. The Emperor stood from his throne and walked — no, floated, you realized with awe — toward you. His feet stopped before your bowed figure, his boots bobbing in and out of your line of sight.
"Have you military experience, perhaps? Fought in a battle?"
"No, Your Excellence."
"Have you trained in weaponry? Martial arts?"
Shame crept up your cheeks. You shrunk into yourself. "No, Your Excellence."
"What about the sciences, hm? Have you studied a field of physics, astronomy, engineering? Biochemical studies? Have you trained to be a doctor?"
"...No, Your Excellence."
He scoffed. "Useless."
That final verdict seemed to echo in the darkened room, and hot tears rushed to your eyes. "Your Excellence," you tried, but failed to find anything to say but worthless entreaties.
"You're just like all the other pathetic ilk that have crawled their way to my throne. I have no need for you on my ship," he proclaimed. "You think you're fit to serve me? Your Emperor?" Contempt seeped into his voice, as dark and gritty as soot. "You're hardly fit to clean my boots."
Your lip trembled in the face of your failure. Your failures. All of them throughout your life, stacked so tall they loomed over you like a shadow. You were tired of coming up short, of amounting to nothing. The Galactrius was your last chance to be something. To be anything. Desperately, you tried to think of some way to prove your merit, to show that you had some kernel of worth deep within you.
His words reverberated in your head. If you were only good for cleaning his boots, then so be it. You'd be the best damn boot-cleaner in the galaxy, and he'd have no choice but to keep you near, if just for that.
With no bucket or water at hand, you did the only thing possible. With the utmost reverence, you placed a kiss to the toe of your Emperor's boot, and without any more preamble, slid the flat of your tongue across the top.
The Emperor made no noise, neither of assent nor disgust, and you took it as permission. Gently, fingertips light, you cupped the back of his ankle to keep his foot in place as you lapped at his shoe. It was made out of some flexible, hard material, and it was akin to licking a spoon or knife. It tasted only vaguely metallic, and you were grateful that his means of transport was flotation rather than walking. No dust or dirt collected on your tongue as you covered the boot in your spit.
Your knees started to ache the longer you knelt in that position. The decorative carpet had no plush give, no cushioning to protect from the hard tile underneath. Pain leeched from the ground and into your joints. Only your single-minded dedication kept you from attempting to relieve it.
You turned your head as you reached the edges of his boot. Dangerous, inch-long spikes protruded from the material. As you laved a curious tongue around one, you learned they were dull. Not sharp enough to cut you, but a kick with enough force would impale them into skin, something you hoped to never witness or experience.
Without warning, the Emperor placed his boot at your chest and pushed. It wasn't meant to injure, but there was force and intention behind it. A command.
You unfolded your knees from underneath you and resisted the urge to stretch them out as you laid yourself down on your back. Bewildered, you stared up at him from your new position; at this angle, the shadows from his coat seemed to obscure everything else, and far, far above shone his purple iris, gaze trained on you.
He raised his foot over your face. Your spit shone on its surface in the dim lighting. "Did you hear me say 'stop'?"
You swallowed. "No, Your Excellence." Palms flat to the floor, you lapped at the sole of his boot, cleaning up the imaginary dirt and grime.
You had never felt more small. There was little preventing him from squashing you like an ant in this position, and for one panicked moment you thought he actually might. He pointed the toe of his boot and dragged it from the tip of your nose to your chin, the pressure purposeful. You tilted your head back, heart butterfly-quick in your throat.
"Your records state that you are unmarried and childless," he murmured. His boot traveled lower, lower, down the fragile line of your throat, the vulnerable expanse of your chest. The spikes remained an ever-present worry as his foot found a resting place on your stomach. "Is this true?"
Any saliva left dried in your mouth. You tightened your hands into fists to keep them from shaking. "Y-yes, Your Excellence.
Lower and lower, his boot resumed its travel. Preservation kicked in, and you spread your legs wide to avoid the sting of his spikes. "Do you take care of your aging parents, perhaps? Is there anyone back home who relies on you?"
"No, Your Ex — ah!" You cut yourself off with a gasp as he ground the toe of his boot into the soft spot between your thighs, as if you were little more than the butt of a cigarette. Pleasure-pain jolted through you, and you brought your fist to your mouth.
"Hmm." He continued to toy with you, intermittently putting pressure on your clothed clit. You ached with the desire to trap his boot between your thighs and rut against it, but those spikes were a warning in and of itself. You caught a moan between your teeth, chewed it out on the flesh of a knuckle. Your hips bucked of their own accord even as embarrassment flooded your face at your own actions.
The twist of attention wasn't unwelcome, but it muddled your thoughts. What conceivable reason did the Emperor of the Infinite Nebula have to do this? Was it for your own benefit? His?
Did he merely like seeing you desperate, halfway to depravity?
"A devotion such as yours should be rewarded." As quick as it began, his foot disappeared from between your legs. "Perhaps you are not so useless after all."
Your thighs snapped shut. You resisted the urge to grind into nothing as the memory of pleasure receded, and you struggled to get to your knees again. "P-please, Your Excellence. I would like to stay — very much."
"For now, you may." He snapped, and inclined his head to a darkened corner. "You, there. Assign them to a room."
You scrambled backward as one of the pillars began walking. It turned out to be not a pillar at all, but a member of the Infinite Army clad in Imperial armor. They had seen everything, heard every desperate noise that passed your lips. Your face burned fire-hot at the realization.
Mortified, you got to your feet and stood on unsteady legs as they approached. The soldier stopped in front of the Emperor, saluted, and then turned to you as if to say, let's go.
You bowed as deep as you could manage and fought down your embarrassment. "Thank you, Your Excellence!"
He turned his back toward you, floating to his throne. "Begone. I have no more time for you today."
Humiliated beyond belief, you could only follow the armored figure in silence as they led you out from the throne room. The exit path was different from the entrance, and you figured it meant that you were headed deeper into the ship. Unfortunately, you were no more level headed than before; if anything, frustrated desire spun in your head, clouding your thoughts. You had more than survived your "interview" with His Excellence, but the encounter left you confused and wanting instead of triumphant. You had secured your spot on the ship, yes, but...
You worried the inside of your cheek. There was little you could do except wait and see what uses he had in mind for you.
The soldier brought you down a long, long hallway of identical-looking doors. They stopped before one, seemingly at random, and motioned to a sensor pad. "Scan your ID. The room will be registered as yours, and your baggage will be brought up promptly."
"Oh, okay." You held your wrist to the sensor by the door and it beeped cheerily. "Thank you."
The soldier nodded their head. Before you could even think to apologize for the throne room, they turned sharply on their heel and walked back the way they'd come, armor clinking together.
You sighed.
The door to your new room swished open. To your dismay, it was hardly any bigger than a closet. There was a bed tucked against two walls, and on the open side was a nightstand pressed against the other corner. To the foot of the bed was a wardrobe. The room was, in essence, two beds wide and a little more than two beds long. It was kind of abysmal, actually, but you couldn't complain. You were on the Galactrius. You were serving on the Galactrius.
You sat down on the bed, the mattress sinking beautifully under your weight. It was remarkably softer than you were accustomed to, and the sheets were pleasantly soft. You undid your shoes and kicked them underneath the bed before stretching out.
The day had tired you beyond belief. You were drenched in fatigue, both physically and mentally. As you snuggled into the pillow, you spared a thought for the future. You didn't hope for power, or wealth, or even necessarily fame, but you did imagine a future where you did something meaningful. Maybe you saved the Galactrius from fire. Or you spent your days researching microbes to help cure diseases. Or you helped save a planet, repaying the kindness the Empire had done for yours all that time ago.
Two years to prove your worth. Two years to become something.
Anything, you thought, just so that my life might not be a waste.
#.txt#sigma x reader#siebren de kuiper x reader#emperor sigma#overwatch#writing#huge shoutout to may for the idea but also for being my beta reader because augh#i finally just posted it after A MONTH OF WORKING ON IT#any more drafts and i might overthink the fic to death#i still disagree w the concept of galactic emperor sigma. but. its hot so i will reap the benefits#anyway stay tuned for more#(coming in a month. i guess. based on this chapter)
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The Last Human Diplomat Ch.2
Lights flickered from disrepair in the tram station for the Plains district. Rhean emerged from the crowded train and climbed the stairs two at a time. A discreet scanner in the wall analyzed her ID and communicated with the turnstiles to let her pass. Rhean emerged into the Plains district, a section of the Ring purpose made for the aristocratic class of Rouen-Ta. Grass covered every patch of flat ground and vines climbed up most archways and walls.
Lhuk’s apartment in the Ring was much more of an estate than Rhean’s. It wasn’t free-standing, still linking together with a long line of houses that formed a wall around a central walkway. It did, however, have a lawn out front. Lhuk had filled it with all the notable flora of Rhah’Fa, the Rouen-Ta homeworld.
Rhean was the last to arrive, a thin layer of sweat on her forehead. Lhuk was waiting on a bench designed for her centaur-like frame while the other invited diplomats complimented the topiary. The two other guests were Lhuk's assistant and the Sezeen ambassador. The junior staffer appeared to be substantially younger than Lhuk although Rouen-Ta age was still hard to gauge for Rhean. His ram horns were short, barely making a half loop. Rhean had been told his name once but had never seen him after initial introductions when he first arrived on the Ring.
Vessa, the Sezeen, was somewhat short for her species but still towered over everyone else. Of her coworkers, Rhean felt that Vessa was closest to being called a friend. She had arrived on the Ring just a few weeks after Rhean successfully applied for her office in the ambassador's annex. Vessa had initially been too patronizing to the "plight of humanity" but had shown a genuine concern for Rhean's refugee constituents.
Vessa’s tunic was made of rich leather and had long colored strips that flowed down the back to accent her plumage. It was sleeveless, allowing her large fore-limbs flexibility to carry her large body around. Her small manipulator arms were neatly at rest within the folds of an intricate undershirt. She even wore a few rings along her serpentine tail.
Lhuk and her assistant wore rich purple coverings over their hind torsos. It reminded Rhean of a saddle but she kept that comparison to herself. Lhuk had a silken dress with fractaline patterns crawling across it like lightning. Her assistant wore something incredibly modest so as not to upstage his boss.
“Thanks for waiting, everyone.” Rhean told them in Rouen-Ta high speech. She was trying and failing to hide that she was out of breath. “Sorry, I lost track of time at home.” Lhuk gave a short snort that was neither rude nor forgiving. Rhean dipped her head slightly to Lhuk and the junior staffer returned a similar nod. The social display seemed to please Lhuk and reinforce a desired hierarchy.
Lhuk did not travel on the Ring’s public trams and would not degrade her guests by having them do so either. She had chartered a shuttle that left from her affluent neighborhood and would take them the 60 degrees along the Ring to the Yonk College.
It was a well decorated and automated shuttle with almost all its fuselage committed to passenger comfort. Windows covered much of the ceiling and walls. It was not a machine that Rhean would trust in open space. The vessel was of Rouen-Ta make and the seats were likewise fitted to their physiology. While it was overly spacious for Rhean, Vessa had difficulty fitting her full body between the floor and ceiling.
“Are you alright, Vessa?” Rhean asked the Sezeen as she wedged herself sideways into a tiny couch.
“Oh don’t worry about me,” Vessa replied. She scrunched her neck back into her torso which ruffled her ridge of feathers there. She looked somewhat comical and Rhean stifled a laugh. Vessa was in good humor and stifled a laugh herself.
The trip was only a few minutes long. The shuttle took a less direct path to provide views of the Ring’s axial support structures and the parent sun, Pale Yellow. Rhean had been disappointed that the star hadn’t been given a more poetic name by the Rouen-Ta pioneers. The star system was populated exclusively by massive colorful clouds, rich in minerals but lacking in living space. It seemed to her that the Rouen-Ta Republic had grown so large that coming up with good names for their frontier systems just didn’t matter anymore. The shuttle quickly passed out of the sunlight and into shadow as it docked with the station.
They emerged just a moment later from the cramped shuttle into the nauseatingly spacious Yonk college. The college took up a full 5 degrees of the Ring and was designed to make you forget you were on an artificial station. The ceilings were either painted or covered in vid screens which played looping footage of Core’s blue and auburn skies. Buildings did not stretch floor to ceiling. In fact, the multi-floored design of the Ring had surrendered here to the single, dominating reality that was the College. It made Rhean feel like she was falling.
Yonks walked along foliage lined pathways between buildings made of brick and wood. Small fauna flit on insect-like wings or scurried up and down the treelines. It was an impressive display of wealth from the Imperium. It was an excessive use of Ring resources to propagate this planet-side facade. It was propaganda. It was working.
Their host was an elderly representative of the college. Rumor had it that even though he was nearing 200 years old he was the sure pick for the college’s next dean. He had initially taken the faculty position as a retirement job after his war service. Lhuk had talked at length about how a college dean was sometimes worth more as an ally than a dozen Primes. Her goal over dinner was to make a notable ally just as they became important.
The college architecture was ostentatious in its design and building materials. Everything was constructed, no pre-fabs. Each building was given a wide berth from its neighbors. Maintaining such large open spaces was a display of wealth on par with a gold toilet. And wood, whether fabricated or cut, was outrageously expensive. Rhean already felt guilty about the wood in her office and apartment. The college did not have such reservations.
A young Yonk with no Psion markings and a light-blue shelled Hifan approached them as they walked the grounds and offered to escort them to the college's reception hall. The Hifan spoke Imperium Standard through a vocalizer on the top of his barrel shaped body. Theirs was a species Rhean was still not comfortable with. They completely lacked a face and glided along with a single slug-like foot. In her head, they registered more as animal than person.
The social dynamic between the Yonk and Hifan was obvious. The Hifan was not a student here, but a slave. The college likely owned and leased many Hifan out to their Yonk students. These collegiate Hifan were all some variety of servant, either note-takers or maids. The diplomats could see a few of them scooting around the grounds, collecting trash or dutifully following a student. It was difficult for Rhean to conceptualize the Hifan as people but it was a courtesy the Imperium denied them by design.
Square columns of steel and stone adorned the entrance to the reception hall. Inscriptions in Imperium Standard spoke of the power and longevity of knowledge. The intimidating architecture seemed to banish the friendly Yonk and his servile Hifan.
The diplomats were the last to arrive. A small crowd of Yonks milled about in the impressively decorated antechamber. Portraits of previous college deans lined the walls. Hifan with crisp, white fabric fixed to their shells were silently offering up refreshments and scented vapors. The whole scene reminded Rhean of old earth vids of black-tie, backroom speakeasies. Although the complete lack of humans besides herself made the comparison thin.
Lhuk led the charge, introducing herself and then her guests to their host, a pale and heavily marked Psion named Barret. Barret likely had a Psion score in the high triple digits. Rhean had been told that fellow Psions were able to read the markings and interpret the score instantly. She only knew that the more intricate and extensive the markings, the more prestigious the Yonk. And the more dangerous, she thought to herself.
Small talk in the reception hall was short lived. It appeared that dinner as well as the other guests had been waiting for the diplomats. Not long after introducing themselves to their host the doors to the dining room were opened.
The central event of the evening was to be a classic Yonk style dinner. Contrary to their species’ reputation as loner erudites, Yonk festivities were long, involved social events. By tradition, dinner was always served across multiple tables, kept small to encourage conversation. The host was expected to stay at one table and guests were expected to rotate throughout the room to their liking. Being too stationary was seen as being a boring curmudgeon while being too mobile was looked on as flighty or vapid.
The evening’s attendees were mostly Yonks with many faculty from the university attending alongside some minor politicians from the Imperium. There was a Kiran Fleet Marshall as well as a Huliotess Deputy Director bureaucrat in attendance. In total there were ten tables, each with six seats. They were not expected to always fill a table, but never to let one grow empty.
The hierarchy was instantly visible to Rhean. The Huliotess, despite being a Deputy Director, was woefully out of place amongst the two meter tall crowd of intellectuals. The Yonks were quietly making sure she felt lesser. The host had provided universal benches for the attendees but notably the chairs did not include a roosting rest for Huliotess physiology.
The kitchen staff were mostly Hifan with some Va-tess mixed in as chefs. The food smelled great, infused with the rich spices and heat that Yonks preferred. Rhean had moved tables twice by the time the food was finally brought out. They served her a first course she could only describe as “spicy oatmeal” with what looked and tasted like seaweed flakes mixed in.
At her current table were three Yonk faculty and the Huliotess deputy. The Yonks had been going on and on about economic activity along the DMZ. The arrival of food distracted the Yonks and allowed Rhean an opportunity to talk to the Huliotess. “Do you really think piracy is that big of a deal in the DMZ?”
The Huliotess looked surprised that someone was talking to her. “Well, piracy is a constant in the universe, like gravity,” she replied in a musical accent. “You can never really eliminate it, just prepare for it. But I don’t think that a few caravans raided in the last month warrants ending two millennium worth of cease-fire.”
One of the Yonks looked up from their bowl of soup and quipped, “Well more like a century’s worth.”
The Huliotess’ frills raised in embarrassment. She dipped her head and pecked at her plate of seeds. Rhean took the comment in stride and continued to address the Huliotess. “So do you think traders should simply arm themselves when in the DMZ?”
“I think a fighter or two following in a foreship’s wake is a far cry from putting an armed patrol fleet into the DMZ,” the Deputy Director replied. The rude Yonk was still staring at Rhean, hoping to elicit a response. The Huliotess’ feathers continued to stand on end. “Recent military excursions into the Zone aside, putting a patrol fleet into the DMZ will only serve to raise tensions and scare a few pirates. Certainly not worth the risk.”
Another Yonk decided to chime in, “Ha! Political philosophy from a clerk! The DMZ has been too sacrosanct for too long. Pirates view it as an open invitation to hide there.” The deputy’s feathers began to calm as the Yonks took control of the conversation. “Two possibilities exist. Either there is a pirate planet or there is not. If there is, then the solution is to find and burn it. If there is not, then we simply must be more vigilant at port and weed them out.”
Another Yonk interjected with an esoteric rebuttal and Rhean took this as a sign to move tables, taking her bowl of spice-oatmeal with her.
One table closer to the host, she found Vessa and yet more Yonks. This table had a densely marked Psion and the only student in attendance. She was conspicuously the only of her species without Psion markings in the room. The Kiran Marshall had just left and Vessa was talking about post-commonality literature.
“You’re judging the First Generation too harshly. When you’ve been required to follow forms for so long, it makes sense you’d flock to the abstract,” Vessa said to the Psion.
“But you have to admit that some of Gheera’s treatise is borderline unreadable. Ending and starting sentences at random. Some of the pages were hand written!” The Psion replied.
“No argument here, but I understand where Gheera’s coming from. I’ve read pre-Commonality prose and it makes me nauseous. Like automated number readouts.” Vessa laughed to herself in that deep trilling sound that made Rhean feel at ease. “What about human literature, Rhean. Any notable phases of formlessness?”
Rhean was both thankful and mortified to be included in the conversation so swiftly. “Well that’s a difficult question isn’t it? If it has a name, doesn’t that mean it has a form?” The Psion flared his gills in annoyance and decided to switch tables. Rhean continued to her audience of now just the student and Vessa, “There was a movement called Postmodernism. I’ve never been a huge fan but a few people I know call it the only honest literature.”
The Yonk student was intrigued. “And what was the style in the Human postmodern movement?”
“Oh well I’m not a literature expert but there was no one way to write. It sounds similar to what Vessa was describing,” Rhean said. The student now looked fully intrigued. “Again, I’m not hugely familiar, but one type of poetry was- sorry, is- stream of consciousness. You simply write exactly what’s coming to your mind as you go. No real structure, end goal, or point. Just exactly what comes to mind.”
Vessa and the student looked horrified. Vessa blinked her eyes a few times, clearly lost in a grounding meditation. The student kept her eyes on her dinner bowl for a long moment. It was Vessa who finally returned to the moment and asked, “So you just write exactly what comes to mind, as it comes to mind? That sounds horrifying.”
“Well perhaps I’m speaking the Imperium Standard sloppily, but the style really only reads like a poorly edited monologue,” Rhean tried to reassure her table.
Vessa was still visibly uncomfortable but asked, “I’ve been meaning to ask. Do humans have imperfect memories?” The student stared down at their food, clearly upset by the thread that Vessa was pulling.
Rhean absent-mindedly looked to the nearby tables, hoping for a new guest to rotate in. She had no choice but to answer the question, unaware of the faux-pas she was making. “Well, no. Memory is a skill and is highly variable among humans. It also takes up multiple forms.” The new info did seem to garner the student’s interest. “But if you mean precise memory, some humans have what’s called photographic memory.”
“So what do you ‘see’ when you remember something?” the student asked.
“Well, I don’t really see anything. I can somewhat picture something in my mind, but for me it doesn’t always come with clarity.” Vessa and the student nodded. The table felt much less tense and Rhean didn’t know why.
The student began to lead the conversation, asking Vessa about her history in politics and how she’d come so far from Nest. Another Yonk joined their table and the topic shifted to Sezeen spacecraft. Rhean stayed at the table until her oatmeal was nearly gone and then stood to hand it to a Hifan waiter. She saw her opportunity to finally join the Host’s table and took it.
Barret was emptying what looked like his second bowl of pasta while Lhuk discussed the Duoro border crisis to a crowd of bored looking Yonk diplomats. “It’s the inconsistency of it all that maddens me. One day I’ll have a formal trade agreement from a clan and the next day I get a call that the same clan has raided a caravan!”
“That’s what you get for trading with brutes,” Barret replied with fish meat still in his mouth. “What do you expect, Lhuk? They’re barbarians with warp drives.”
The blatant racism definitely shocked Lhuk and she did a meager job hiding that fact with her impassive face. “I’d take an honest brute over a lying sophisticate.”
Barret ignored her comment and charged forward with a rant that had clearly been brewing. “The problem is the Duoro, as a culture, lack hierarchy and discipline.” He took a triumphant slurp of a stray noodle for dramatic effect. When no one challenged him he continued with confidence. “Each clan acts on its own, unconcerned with the needs of the whole. Their leaders pursue the fleeting desires of the day with little control or oversight over their rabble. When a clan leader can be deposed by a simple challenge, what level of stability do you think that provides? No, Lhuk, the only way to communicate with the Duoro is with threats.”
Lhuk did not see an easy way out of the situation and so gave a non-committal huff. The other Yonks at the table nodded their heads in subservient agreement with their host. Rhean wore disbelief across her face. The host and table quickly noticed that Rhean was the only one not to voice a response to Barret’s condemnation of the Duoro. A row of bulbous Yonk eyes and Lhuk’s beady set of four eyes came to rest on her. That familiar feeling of otherness rose in her stomach.
She had to say something, anything. “I’m not so sure.” Her rebuttal garnered her a moment of shock and a narrow window to formulate an inoffensive political position. Barret’s comments were a red hot poker to her temper. She knew escaped members of the Duoro’s slave castes and their first complaints were not lack of hierarchy and discipline. With few options she had to lie and find middle ground between herself, and a racist.
“The Duoro are a confederation, are they not? I think that shows their fear of tyranny more than a lack of discipline. Each clan wants independence from each other. While that may not be hierarchical, I don’t think it shows lack of discipline.” Rhean had partially convinced the Yonk diplomats, Barret was annoyed to have been contradicted at his own event, at his own table. “I know members of their caste system, and their commitment and discipline nearly matches the Imperium’s.” She could see Barret cool down ever so slightly.
“Well then perhaps not discipline, but consistency,” Barret said. The major thrust of his argument was intact, as was his pride.
The conversation was still for a moment and Lhuk saw an opportunity to take the steering wheel again. She’d been at the host’s table for a little too long and had maybe one more opportunity to ingratiate herself with Barrett. A Va-tess waiter walked near their table and saw the number of empty or emptying bowls. He made quick eye-contact with Barret, Rhean, and the other Yonks at the table to confirm their readiness for more food. Lhuk’s plate was barely touched.
Rhean slowly slipped the tiny disk of poison from her dress pocket and split her mind into two focusses. One was playing the part of an impartial and polite dinner guest, happy to be at the host’s table. The other was watching the door to the kitchen and discreetly unwrapping the poison. She kept her hands below the table and slowly peeled away one side of the plastic baggy. Surface tension kept the other side of plastic stuck to her now sweaty left palm.
The Va-tess waiter appeared not long after his disappearance with four bowls balanced between his six arms. His rodent-like face expressed a worry born both from the balance and the heat of each bowl. He came to the Yonk to Rhean’s right first and happily exchanged a steaming bowl of soup for a cold, empty one.
As he twisted to deliver Rhean’s meal she moved her foot slightly to trip one of his spindly legs. He fell briefly and shot out of one his arms to steady himself on the table. In doing so he nearly dropped the full bowls of food he still carried. Rhean took the opportunity to grab hold of two of his arms and help him stand again. In the instant that she helped him rise, she slipped her palm over the one bowl of pasta he carried and let the poison drop. The swish of her dress and the minor chaos of the fall helped to obscure her delivery.
The Va-tess thanked her and delivered her another bowl of spiced oatmeal. He offered a meager apology, “Sorry sires, I was too ambitious to deliver them all at once.”
Barret did not offer a response. His barbles dangled from his face as he smacked his mouth in anticipation of another bowl of pasta. Rhean saw the tiniest tip of the poison disk bobbing in the bowl. She hoped its pale blue would be lost in the rainbow of exotic ingredients present in the dish.
Rhean had to wrestle her attention away from the others' food and forcibly concentrate on eating casually. Lhuk thankfully provided unintentional distraction as she talked Barret’s ear-holes off. It was clear that she had pushed her luck this evening and was skirting ever closer to annoying the host. Lhuk picked at her tray of grains and fruit when it became obvious that Barret was more interested in eating than talking.
Lhuk decided to surrender and pushed her chair back from the table, signaling she was finally going to rotate elsewhere. She tried her luck one last time however and moved her hand into Barret’s personal space, offering up her contact card. “Well if you ever need to discuss getting things past the border, I know a lot of caravan houses,” she said.
Barret eyed the card with derision but ultimately took it from her. He flipped it over in his hand a few times and then used its edge to wipe a bit of food from the side of his mouth. He smiled and his gills fluttered in boasting, “Certainly Lhuk, I’ll always keep you in mind.” One of the other Yonks at the table chuckled and Lhuk took the indignity in stride. With that, she was gone to some other table, nursing her pride.
Rhean remained at the table, committed to watching the coming fiasco. It came maybe a minute after Lhuk made her ignominious exit and right as the Yonk student sat down. At first, it looked like Barret was choking, but a Yonk’s breathing and eating tubes are separate. He pounded his chest with a fist and tried to cough out through his gills. He started to stand but his arms felt weak. He shook a little in his chair while his eyes bulged in his head.
His psion markings felt hot. They felt oh so hot, hotter than being in the chair almost two centuries ago. He could feel the needle poking at his skin while the proctor and the machine barked questions at him. Memories broke into his conscious mind and he didn’t have the strength to stop them. His mouth felt dry as the sensations of the past overloaded his brain and he started to hallucinate.
How long had he been in the chair? Had it been two minutes or an hour? What was his score? What would he look like when the test was finally done? The machine drew a long line across his abdomen. It burned like molten metal in his skin. He’d never told anyone but he was worried that he’d be ugly once the test was over. What was that last question? Something about time distortion in the L3 point between three moving blackholes. Could he ask for repeats? He couldn’t remember. Oh no, he hadn’t been breathing. Was the test over?
He was on the bridge of Dutiful. Some Marshall was reading off casualty reports while the Psion war council looked over a hundred reports a second. HIs head felt woozy as he skimmed through satellite images. Someone was saying his name but he couldn’t hear them. His arms felt weak. How high up were they? Was this orbit safe? Did the humans even have any orbital defense missiles left? How much longer was this madness going to last? It needed to end, he was so tired. Why was he so tired?
He was back in the college reception hall and there was no oxygen making it to his brain. Barret thrashed at the table as his gills turned a dark red. He tried over and over to cough. The Yonk next to him was trying desperately to smack him in the back and make him cough, but Barret was moving around too much, trying to grab something. Like an idiot child he started clawing at his gills, trying to get air in them and the clotting blood out.
He needed to clear his airway. He needed someone to strike him just in the middle of his back where the minor lungs connected to the pulmonary branch and his gills. Why wasn’t anyone helping him? Was he having an allergic reaction? It wasn’t in the air. Nothing was that quick and some other Yonk would’ve been affected as well. Was it something in the food? It couldn’t be, half of the Yonks had ordered the same dish. Lhuk’s business card! He’d wiped it right on his mouth! Foolish! Terrible discipline next to a foreign agent.
Barret was standing back from the table while a fellow Yonk nearly punched him in his back. It didn’t solve the problem. Blood was starting to drip from Barret’s overinflated gills. They’d already sustained enough damage that he’d need a transplant anyway. His eyes darted around the room frantically until he found Lhuk. He jumped at his table and clawed at the business card. His arms were starting to grow rigid. Each movement looked pained and forced. He had to steady himself on the table with both his arms as strength left his legs. His species’ double jointed arms didn’t ever truly lock in place and so he quickly fell.
His face impacted the bowl of pasta with force enough to knock over the table. In the chaos he had managed to get a grip on the card. A mess of food and blood splayed out around his now convulsing body. He crawled around to orient himself facing Lhuk. With their eyes locked he took her business card and smacked it over and over onto his now shattered dinner bowl.
The crowd stood back, so shocked at the hectic display that no one moved for a moment. A host of servants from the kitchen had appeared and were trying to administer first-aid. Their efforts were in vain. Barret had stopped moving. His last actions were clear to the guests assembled. He had condemned Lhuk. The table of Yonks had seen her hand over her business card shortly before leaving the table. They had seen him wipe it on his mouth. Her embarrassment and her foreign status were all they needed to condemn her.
No one said anything but they all stared at her. Vessa moved up next to Rhean as did Lhuk’s assistant. They knew they had to condemn her immediately if they were going to make it out of the college.
Lhuk took the stares of the crowd like a criminal on the way to the gallows. She took out her data slate and called the Rouen-Ta consulate for the Ring. “Hello? Yes, this is Lhuk. I am requesting diplomatic privilege.” The crowd began to stand in a wall between the exit and Lhuk. “You can check the record of my blood. I’ve earned the right,” she continued over the call.
The Yonks began to look toward the Kiran Fleet Marshall as the authority figure in the room. At first he was confused but then moved into the role of military commander. “Madame Lhuk, if you would. I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Psion Barret,” his vocalizer announced in commanding Imperium Standard.
It took a second for her ambassador’s translator to deliver the Kiran’s command. Lhuk stood rigid as a soldier and ended her call.
Rhean had to summon herculean strength to suppress her grin, but to her benefit no one in the room was looking at her. She gifted herself the enjoyment of beholding the now deceased Psion Barret. The former head War Psion for the War of Human Pacification lay in a puddle of pasta sauce and his own blood. The last Psion calculation he ever made was wrong.
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❝ 𝖳𝖧𝖤𝖱𝖤 𝖨𝖲 𝖮𝖭𝖤 𝖪𝖨𝖭𝖣 𝖮𝖥 𝖱𝖮𝖡𝖡𝖤𝖱 𝖶𝖧𝖮𝖬 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖫𝖠𝖶 𝖣𝖮𝖤𝖲 𝖭𝖮𝖳 𝖲𝖳𝖱𝖨𝖪𝖤 𝖠𝖳, 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖶𝖧𝖮 𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖠𝖫𝖲 𝖶𝖧𝖠𝖳 𝖨𝖲 𝖬𝖮𝖲𝖳 𝖯𝖱𝖤𝖢𝖨𝖮𝖴𝖲 𝖳𝖮 𝖬𝖤𝖭: 𝖳𝖨𝖬𝖤. ❞
𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟⧸dossier : time witch ›› marion cunningham ›› gugu mbatha-raw .
❛❛ aesthetic . ❜❜ ― ◜ . ― black coffee and girl meals, threads of time constantly moving, early morning runs as the world spins, calm and tranquil as the moon, airplanes in the night sky like shooting stars . ⸻ .
001. GENERAL
name marion cummingham
nicknames mar
age 43
date of birth nov 18th
zodiac scorpiocurrent residence new york
gender cis female
pronouns she/her
sexuality bisexual
occupation astronaut
faceclaim gugu mbatha-raw
height 5'5
tattoos four leaf clover behind right ear
piercings two earing in each ear
distinguishing features a birthmark that kind of looks like a heart on left shoulder blade
positive traits intelligent, calm, persistent
negative traits resentful, obsessive, controlling
labels / tropes the interstellar
likes strawberry and cream, rainy nights, warm fires, the laughter of her child
dislikes almonds, winter months, the smell of hospitals, frogs
fears of loved one dying, mediocrity, running out of time, dying alone
hobbies pottery, writing
habits bitting her nails when nervous, going on runs in the morning to start her day.
002. EXTRAORDINARY
near death experience…
It was a routine expedition, up to the space station for three months to bring up supplies for those living aboard and aid in repairs of some of the solar panels. it was a trip she'd taken before easily. The readings on the board were wrong; she knew it⸻ years of knowing what to look for. So, she voiced her concerns to mission control. but they reassured her and her crew nothing was wrong. they had barely made out for the stratosphere when the explosion happened. it was slow motion, could feel her body heating up and freezing at once as she and her crew were ejected into space. images of her child flashing before her- the life she would miss- a life she could have had with Emilio. reconciliation with her sister.
So many possibilities. so much that could be changed just in reach. and she reached for it. her arm stiff as if rigor mortis had set in. but she touched the mot of possibility, and was pulled towards the light. Morion isn't sure how it was possible not in the moment, but in one instance she was dead or dying and in the next, she was back in her seat on the shuttle. going over the system check. was she losing her mind, had she hallucinated her death? it felt too real and she could see it... the wheel of time, the possibilities calling to her- thing golden strings of space and time at her fingertips. They didn't go on that mission, five lives had been saved that day including her own. But what would it mean for the future? She doesn't know, she's still trying to figure it out.
power…
Marion has the ability to manipulate space and time. to see the possibilities of the future as you will which is ever-changing. the time wheel is her window to these fractions in time- which she can step into - not that she has but she could. To control space-time is to alter the fabrics of reality & the very existence itself, allowing one to erase existences and not just the flow of time, heavy stuff... and how she saved hers and her crew's lives.
drawbacks / vulnerabilities…
There are consequences to everything. when you start to manipulate the strands of time- those consequences can be detrimental. for every change that Marion has made up to this point- there has been a catastrophic consequence though it might not be directed at her the effects ripple. So she doesn't go messing with space and time often only when dire when her conscience calls to it. it feels very much like playing god - and she hates it. during her accident, the crew was bringing up a new substance, or the space station team to experiment on a mineral called IRIDIUMS-163 - in the hopes of figuring out the possibilities and uses for the substance. however during the the explosion, Marion and possibly others were exposed to high heated levels of this mineral and it had negative effects on her. In close proximity, she starts to feel sick, but when she comes in physical contact it causes rippling pain. cause her to lose control of her time wheel- those strands of time lashing out in every which way but allowing another to travel through space and time with her as an unwilling conduit. Needless to say, she needs to run more tests to find out the scope of her power and the drawbacks and vulnerabilities she has. which she does in her private lab at home.
003. EXTRA
TDLR;
⸻ Marion hasn't been the most enthusiastic when it comes to her powers. She often tries hard not to use them; until she can understand them fully. It has very much been trial and error -- lots of tests in her own personal lab. she's seen what happens to those with these ' gifts'. she has yet to see an upside to them. the exception being her and her crew beating death.
⸻ She does not trust Cerberus corp, and not just because her ex-husband works there if anything she worries for him. there is an innate distrust of the organization and the image it promotes. they seem far too invested in the lives of the extraordinary and it comes off disingenuous. She doesn't want them to know about her or her abilities⸻ but she fears it is already too late for that.
⸻ Marion hates... hates CLEANING. Not that she won't do it but she does have a maid that comes twice a month for a deep cleaning. this being said, if you ever see Marion ⸻sleeves rolled up as she scrubs the floors, or the window and vigorously sweeps and or vacuuming? DEFCON 10 stay away.
WANTED CONNECTION
Team Scorpius: this is the team she was with during the explosion. They could have been affected and changed in ways like her or they could have. be living normal lives in their new reality. Maybe one of them is a villain now that could push her to become a hero... the possibilities are endless.
playlist : coming soon !!
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The 44080 Entries
➝ an 'The Outlast Trials' fan-fiction by sleepycatofshimano
Reagent 44080 Entry #2 | originally published on Archive of Our Own
If you haven't read the prior entries, click here -> Entry #1
Content Warnings Non-con/Implied Non-con Elements, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Age Gap, Branding, Semi-Public Sex, Kink Shaming, Asphyxiation, Angst, BDSM, Teasing/Shaming, Obsession, Oral Sex, Mind Manipulation, Electrifying Sex (literally), Enemies-to-Lovers(?), Slow Burn/Slow Build, Bonding, Some Fluff (!), Diary/Journal Format
︙ This work is rated 'R'; do not interact if you are under the age of 18.
Chp. Word Count 6,109
⬐ Summary
=========
6 June 19xx
There was no better place to scribble in this diary of mine than my Sleep Room. While the other Reagents were busying themselves with barbaric arm-wrestling competitions and discussing what rigs work best inside which Trials, I was bedridden; by choice. You see, I would have joined them, but my neck looked more burnt than an abandoned scrap of toast on a Sunday morning. It felt thicker than leather restraints, and stung when my fingers fell upon my larynx.
I know what you’re thinking: What on this abominable earth are you musing about? What could possibly have caused such prominent damage to my neck? Well, you may be satisfied (or revolted) to come to an understanding of the man responsible.
It all started last night, just moments after I had abandoned the few chunks of unnamed meat on the plastic tray. I exited the cafeteria with a fiery passion for utmost success in achieving my goal for the night: confronting Coyle on my lonesome. As such, the Shuttle arrived rather quickly, as no Reagents were entering the horrors beyond without at least one other human. But that was exactly why I stood from the chess’ metal bench within a matter of seconds after requesting to undergo a Trial from the centre console in the middle of the common area; I hadn’t expected a Shuttle so soon. I recall the few faces who stalked the large, dingy room with confusion and intrigue as I took hurried steps to the rusted, rotating chamber-doors. But I didn’t look back once I stepped into the stagnant space of utter claustrophobia, before the chamber rotated me in a swift and smooth fashion, opening then to the inside of the spacious Shuttle; if there was one thing that needed to be quickly snuffed out as a Reagent, it was the underlying claustrophobia that many of us once held. Were you not to crawl into the most restricting and vile of spaces—simply to save your life!—then survival would be quickly off the menu for you.
Once the gas filled my nostrils, that all-too-familiar lightheadedness kicked in, causing disturbing hallucinations and thoughts to surface as my eyes darted rapidly across the dank chamber of the Shuttle. Reagents leaving me for dead… Gooseberry drilling into the faceless abominations of Reagents long past… The Skinnerman shuffling slowly toward my toppled-over frame… hundreds of child-like mannequins being ground to mere wood shavings… and Leland Coyle, making calm and calculated steps toward me as I stumbled back against a wall, taking notice of my dead night vision battery as I heaved and clutched my rig like the Cross of Christ—but he continued to inch toward me, tapping his sizzling baton against his own thigh, and then his abdomen, and then his groin, throwing his head back as he electrocuted his own growing heat.
And then it was over.
I arose furiously from the leather straps of my chair, running quickly into the next rotating chamber, before I was met with the rotting stench of the Thin Blue Line. Immediately, I toppled over against a pile of cardboard boxes, plugging my nose and gagging into the palms of my hands as I curled my legs against my heaving chest. In the distance, I heard the Shuttle squealing away on its rusted rails, leaving me alone (for better or for worse) and to fend for my life for the amusement of Murkoff and Easterman. Fucking pervs and manipulative scum. Just writing about them makes me want to suffocate myself with the leather straps of my E.S.O.P. (a device we Reagents are forced to wear inside the Trials; it holds our rigs, medicinal supplies, and allows us to communicate with the other Reagents inside the Trials; of course, if a Reagent is reading this, then you would know just how tedious and irritating the device gets when sprinting and crouching down). Mannequins of female stature pointed up and down toward the police station in stiff and haunting manners—all roads (literally) leading to Officer-Fucking-Leland-Coyle. I could only grit my teeth as I gulped down bile, rising once more to my feet as I regained my bearings; the main entrance was always guarded by some shit-talking Grunt, so I instead opted on taking a route I had not yet traversed: a narrow opening through the white van.
Entering the building itself didn’t take long; the broken window—most likely been smashed by a prior Reagent or an Ex-Pop—proved more useful than it looked, and I had vaulted myself over the broken shards, only to land square on my feet in a tiny room off to the side of the main corridor. Finding the security room also proved rather simple, as I’d remembered being tossed up over a male Reagent’s shoulder to push further into the building; only this time, there was no other Reagent to lend a hand, so I had to get creative.
Yes, getting creative was possibly one of the worst things a Reagent could have been forced to do in a Trial. Why I state this as fact, is merely due to the concentration and due diligence required to prove successful in said task. And I had decided to build a “stepping stone” of sorts, to act as my absent Reagent to vault me over this next obstacle. Of course, I had not thought this frenzied decision through to its end; I needed to confront Coyle. After what I had witnessed… I just needed to gain more insight on the man. How someone could have fallen into such perversion and sadism… or was it masochism? Could it have been both? But this was what I needed to know—what it was. Answers! I was bored! Lost! Trapped with a bunch of lab rats!
And then I heard it. The distant wails of a young male—perhaps another Reagent? The only way for that to have been possible, was for a Reagent that had been abandoned by his or her teammates in a prior Trial… or severely wounded; so much so, that Easterman didn’t bother retrieving the poor soul. I, of course, felt only rushed now to concoct a small elevation for my body to vault off, before my eyes settled finally on a stack of metal cabinets in the corner of the large room. They scraped and scratched across the glass-riddled ground, but there seemed to be no signs of entry aside from the broken window from earlier. My eyes were glued to that side of the room, and I stepped up onto the filing cabinets as I grunted and coughed up a swab of bile.
I knew a great risk came with causing such a ruckus, but it was either hide like a scaredy cat and risk starving to death in here, or to simply make my merry way to Coyle. I suppose neither sounded like an ideal, but I was never one to back down from a personal goal—or passion, really. So, off I went! Hurling my body over the tall, wooden plank that stood between the narrow hallway to the security room and I, until I came crashing down into a pile of broken glass. Luckily, I had fallen on my side, wherein the leather strap of my E.S.O.P. lay, so not a scratch had followed me out of my first mistake of the night.
Yes, it was the first mistake of many. Entering into a Trial alone could have been counted as the bar for the evening, but it was rather obvious that a lunatic lay dormant somewhere amidst my mind; for if there wasn’t, then why the hell had I been enjoying the rush of fear this Trial had already instilled within me? And would continue to, once I reached the security room with only a half-charged rig and a small battery pack. Upon arriving, the deranged berating and bemused grunts that shot through the musty air had first drawn my eyes to the rusted cage; it separated another Reagent from me and my clutched rig, only to discover the mastermind behind all the ruckus: that damned Sergeant. The man I’d been searching for—here he was, right within my grasp (almost) just on the other side of that metal cage! When the body of the male Reagent slid down the front of the cage, I knew then that this Ex-Pop was not one for patience.
And the first words he spoke to me, once he shrugged his baton back over his shoulder and sucked the dying cigarette deeper between his lips with a shaded look-over, went something (exactly) like: ‘There’s the slippery gal from last night’s shit show.’
It really felt like I had been stung by a death-blight bee, feeling my limbs tense and my posture straighten as I suddenly became more aware of the solitude I had placed myself in than ever before. And fuck—I liked it. I thought I did, until Coyle inched toward the rusted cage with a low whistle and those damned shades resting low, then, on his nose. He had stared straight past the night vision goggles left stranded on my forehead, and instead, decided upon my nude gaze; wide and eager. Eager for what? FUCK. I wanted answers. I only noticed the coarse and bumpiness of his right cheek when his full lips stretched upward into a lopsided grin, tugging lazily at his horrifying wound while only a few teeth peeked through his salmon slick. He caused unease to simply look at—let alone stare at his hanging cigarette wedged between his sluggish grin. He had dipped his slender fingers through the circular divots in the cage, clinging to the metal like his next weapon of sadistic torture had been chosen. I only remember standing there, in the centre of the tiny security room, frowning and heaving still from the fall; but the piercing and thumping and burning pain in my ankle suddenly began to irritate and seduce all senses, and before I knew it, I had braced my hands for impact as I came crashing to my knees with a strained grunt.
Then I heard that damned sizzling. And those words—oh, those damned words that spilled from his filthy lips: ‘Careful there, honey. Murkoff wouldn’t want t’a be caught responsible for an accidental injury in the Trials, now.’ They, too, were doused in that southern twang I had been forcibly familiarised with.
I had winced in pain at his remark, dragging frenzied nails against the swollen skin of my ankle as I cursed at myself for not trying harder to find a makeshift brace for my injury. Easterman couldn’t know I needed further care—no one could. Especially not Coyle. But was I truly that dense? He only wheezed out a bitter chuckle, taking another, long drag from his cigarette before plucking it mindlessly to the side as he then tapped his frizzling baton lightly against the cage a few times. ‘Little sweeting better hold that tongue of hers, otherwise she’ll end up conjuring the wrong side of the law.’
Really, all I could think about was the irritated skin that danced in throbbing pulsations around my ankle, mocking me as I lay against the floor like some wounded animal being stared at in a zoo; and Leland Coyle was the observer and caretaker here, it seemed. He had pressed his nose against the cool metal, baring that lazy grin again as his dark stubble coated the rust with its sable blight. His shades blocked the practical entirety of his gaze, but his stare was more prominent than I had wanted to admit at that moment; he had been evaluating my frame (or state?) twice—thrice over, sucking in his lower lip for only a second before letting out another hoarse chuckle. ‘Gonna make a fella watch a poor rabbit writhe helplessly before ‘im, huh? Got those ‘lil kickers all fragile and overworked, honey. Betters not to waste ‘at energy before I come ‘round and steal ya for myself.’ And then he slid his fingers over every metal divot in his path, stalking along the caged wall with a low click of his tongue and twisted smirk. ‘After all, they say rabbits got them lucky foots, don’t they?’
It was all a blur from that point forward. I had practically hobbled out of the security room after Coyle’s obscene viewing of my show of weakness, and I wanted so badly to steal that baton from the man himself and electrocute my innards for simply allowing such an injury to arise in the first place. I had taken a new temporary residence in one of the many empty and bloodied holding cells, clutching four keys in my hand as I whispered a silent prayer. 44100 had managed to snag all four keys from last night’s Trial, handing them over to me so I could enact a sort of vengeance against Coyle—which had been the plan all along, but curiosity truly had been injecting a sort of lethality into the cat. Waiting for the sizzling of the baton had proven more stressful than reaching the security room in the first place, and I could only wonder why Coyle had disappeared once I had hopped away from our first encounter together; a first of the night. Back into the rotating pod and around the corner I went, stopping first to snag a tiny bottle of medicinal fluids. I had downed the mysterious contents, though they didn’t seem to make my ankle any less inflamed, so I opted on keeping it as a form of distraction for the rest of my treacherous journey.
But the sadistic Ex-Pop was nowhere to be found—and why was I the one hunting him? Decapitation didn’t really so much as cause a well of tears or swell of bile to urge outward anymore, as I had been staring down at a lifeless body. Instead, it only reminded me of the real danger this man—all of them—carried on their belts like fucking trophies or silver bullets. Both, in Coyle’s twisted case. I just needed to hear the sizzling. The sizzling. It felt all tingly when I really closed my eyes to just. Listen. Listen to the electrode static. It popped in a way a flood of butter over an open fire would. Well, the air was then but an auditory stagnant. So. Quiet. Not even the man, depraved of any topwear and branded with the accusatory title of the Snitch, wailed or whined for me to cut him loose. No, it seemed as though I was truly a wild animal, forced now to run rampant around these halls of fresh blood and parted limbs until my objective forced itself into the light. Like hell I’d be pushing this new Snitch into yet another death trap without confronting the sadistic Sergeant responsible for 44100’s distaste and my intrigue.
Oh, but that next confrontation would have to wait—for I’m afraid Easterman has called for me yet again; only this time, it has been requested on my lonesome, which only leads me to believe this has to do with Coyle and I alone. After all, those cameras truly are a work of Christ’s miracle, huh? He sees all. 44100 was a mere stepping stone on these tracks to utter deprivation and electrifying predisposition. And he would surely see my bruised and coarse and singed throat; oh, Easterman! is this what you wanted all along? the fucking rabbit is the ace in this deck! Christ and the law be damned!
Easterman requested a simple check-up. In fact, he hadn’t even so much as touched my body; not like 44100. So, I was merely asked a few questions to, as the mad doctor had put it, ‘evaluate your psyche and find divots or loopholes in the brain.’ But what truly threw my own conscience for a loop, was the fact that Easterman hadn’t once asked about my neck, nor so much as glanced at it. I had found myself scratching absentmindedly at the peeling skin, nodding along to Easterman’s usual preaching into the human psyche and how we would only get better through the Trials. Well, this one in particular left me burnt in more ways than one, but thank you, Easterman! I could only agree and force a smile as my ankle pulsated in sultry irritation, and my neck, dry and itchy.
Easterman did run a gloved hand along the framing of the hospital bed in which I sat comfortably, clutching his clipboard to his chest as his eyes softened on mine. ‘Our employees are doing everything in their power to help you get better,’ he told me. ‘No matter what, they will stop at nothing to see you succeed in the therapy. Trust my words on this matter, 44080. You are getting better, and we here at Murkoff love you and the progress you are making. Okay?’
Okay. I gave him what he wanted. I nodded along with another smile and eager eyes. And then he was off to another wing, still clutching at that wooden clipboard like a malnourished leech. It was then that I grabbed at my neck again, gritting my teeth as I ran the pads of my fingers over the coarse surface. Fuck. Yeah, it hurt then, and it hurts now.
Well, here it is, folks! How my neck had been practically fried!
It all started with my struggle during my lift of the garage door to the basement; Coyle had struck at the main power supply, leaving me to restart the generators. He wanted me to feel even more isolated. Alone in the dark. After all, who isn’t afraid of the dark? Well, I wasn’t. And I remember dragging my ankle across the concrete floor of the basement as I flicked on my night vision goggles, searching for something to restart the damned generators. Unfortunately, I had spotted the large tank of gasoline far too late, as I heard a door creak open on my six. And the accent again: ‘Still out for vengeance, ain'tcha, sweetness? Well, miss, you ain’t find it yet… That’s for damn certain!’ And I felt the concrete slap clean against my cheek as the gnawing of a thousand electrical pins prodded relentlessly at my lower back. I hadn’t even the chance to roll over and face the sadistic asshole for myself, because that son of a bitch had positioned himself stiffly atop my backside. His legs were then straddling my own waist, one hand trained on my nape as the other held still the sparking baton. And his voice only sounded in my ear once I had wriggled my hand out from beneath the E.S.O.P.’s crushing weight, to which his warm hand came crashing down against my thick tufts of hair. ‘Yeah… You ain’t find what you’re lookin’ for,’ he’d whispered sweetly against the shell of my ear with a low whistle.
And then the attempt to swat the baton out of his hand arose, and before I could even so much as make contact with his wiggling wrist, my own had been clutched and twisted down against my back with a wail. And it fucking hurt. My curiosity had truly gotten me executed… Well, I thought that was about to be the case, but you’re here reading this, and I’m here writing this. Huh. Looks like this little piggy escaped! But it wasn’t without a fight, nor exempt from a betrayal of my own dignity. Self-preservation… self-worth… they were all the same in the end, huh, Coyle? Ignore that last part. Anyway, his weight had merely crushed my own, but thank the Lord he hadn’t brought that cursed baton back down against my body—or anywhere near. Instead, the bastard gripped a handful of my own hair as he muttered something low to himself, tugging my face from the cool concrete with a shrill scraping and grunt from the man above me.
I had then spewed my very first words at him: ‘You really think you’re following some sort of law, huh? All you’re doing is terrorising us!’ No, it felt more like a jab at the Ex-Pop than anything, baring my teeth even though he couldn’t see my features one bit.
Well, he didn’t like that very much; he’d practically thrown my body back up to my feet, handling me by the thick strap of my white tank and tossing me like some used gadget. I wonder if the contraband ever felt the same when Reagents found a new, shiny toy to get their hands on. Coyle shook his head with three clicks of the tongue as he slipped both thumbs through his leather belt hoops, fixing his posture to a sluggish thrust into the air as his head lolled to the side with a frown; those shades freaked me out, as his face looked expressionless here and now, even though his actions had proved much different. He’d waited a few seconds more before he spoke in a tongue even my own heart couldn’t resist thumping to: ‘Naughty as charged. Honey, I am the law. And these terrorists you speak of are your pinko pals who think they all hot shit within these walls. But let me tell ya something… I ain’t work like a hivemind. Now, I suggest you start hoppin’ along, sweetheart. I’ll give y’a head start from two. One. Two.’ Yes, my heart had contorted and jabbed erratically against my chest as I ran straight past Coyle—accidentally brushing past his shoulder and badge on the way out from the dark room. Luckily, I had found (almost instantly, might I add) a police vehicle, which was most likely being used as a prop of sorts; a roomy sedan with grime smeared all over the lower edges. Well, the Thin Blue Line stayed truer to its set than I wished to admit. Of course, the back-left door was hanging wide open, which smelled only of danger to me, but the sudden crackling of that damned baton forced any thoughts of doubt from my mind at that moment.
Rookie. Fucking. Mistake. Let me make this even clearer: ROOKIE. FUCKING. MISTAKE.
I was sprawled across the worn leather of the backseat, realising all too quickly that the door to the cop vehicle was still wide open; but shutting it then would have cost me my hiding spot. So, it stayed open. And it was almost comical then what had happened: My rig’s cooldown had finally reached its end, alerting me with a loud beep and click against my E.S.O.P. And, well, that was the beginning of… I was going to write “the end,” but perhaps this was—is—the beginning of something exciting. Coyle had sauntered over to my side of the sedan; I’d seen only his officer hat through the barred windows of the passenger side’s door, and he looked cheekier than a pup that had been cleared of its accused nature in chewing the shoe. The lunatic had slowly propped a leg up against the side of the vehicle and leaned his body into the low frame of the door. A cigarette was hanging again from the side of his lips, and another predatory whistle had sounded in my ears as Coyle shook his head with a chuckle; his voice was so condescending and full of melodramatic disbelief. ‘I tell ya, it’s like the ‘lil buggers hop right into the trap. Each and every time. It ain’t even worth nothin’ if they ain’t fleein’ by a hair. And you, miss, ain’t fled by no more than the length of an anaconda. A neonate.’
He was on me too quickly to react; his one leg had nudged itself between my thighs, while the other was grounded firmly against the leather floor as it straddled the side of the seat. The smoke from his cigarette wafted bitterly against my face, invading my nostrils and teasing the slick of my lips. I remember now how inviting it smelled, but I knew better than to succumb to old habits. Instead, I’d strained my neck to the side as I weighed any sort of options still available to me: kick the bastard in the sack and miraculously complete the Trial and risk losing any further insight on the Ex-Pop, or allow a corrupted cop to enact his sadism on me. Well, it’s only natural to know which had happened—otherwise I wouldn’t have jotted down these events in the damned first place.
I heard the car door slam shut a moment later, and a raspy chuckle followed. Coyle had rolled his hips back, positioning himself over me—only this time, on my frontside—as he slid a thumb across his lower lip with a sneer that lifted his shades up his cheeks in an eerie and deranged manner. ‘I take it you ain’t never been in a police car, sweetness.’ He groaned when I managed to pound a fist against his intruding thigh, but Coyle only chuckled again as he nodded gently to himself in explicit understanding. ‘Bingo.’
And I’d asked what he meant by this, practically yelling into his face: ‘What makes you the harbinger of all these assumptions?’ But he had simply clicked his tongue again, pressing two fingers between his cigarette as he sucked on its molten glow. Then, he drawled: ‘These dandy doors ‘ver here don’t open so willingly from the inside, honey. Sadly, beggin’ don’t work for every criminal offence.’ And I remember glowering at Coyle at that moment—at his perversion of words, and at everything leading up to this! So, in a frenzied fit of short-ended anger, I spat another remark up at Coyle as I lay stiff beneath him: ‘You going to use that baton on me like you did with 44100?’ And, honestly, I felt rather out of breath then and there—understanding only then just how far I had travelled since I’d first stepped foot out from the Shuttle, and just how many times I had to hobble to accommodate for my ankle. Coyle took blatant notice of this, and displayed a most unexpected gesture then; he had grabbed at my chin, holding it between his index finger and thumb as he took another long drag with his other hand. ‘Careful now, honey. Don’t wanna overexert yourself with that cheeky little mouth of yours. All that brain fuzz got you worked up over nothin’. That baton of mine won’t be used on your person. Not one bit, sweetness. You’re too much of a prime asset now… I’m seeing all ‘at for myself. Too much intrigue got me all riled up. These Trials ain’t built for sympathy. They’d stone a fella like me. So, let me remind ya of your place, lucky bunny.’ Those words—all of them—had stuck with me, even after the events of the Trial.
One thing was for certain: Leland Coyle was out of his right mind, but so was I. In fact, I had been imagining how satisfying it would have felt to electrocute his own cock right then and there, but the accursed and eerie sizzling surfaced again. Only this time, the electrical waves danced from the coiled surface of the baton against my larynx. I remember him whispering with a sickly grin, ‘Ain’t even think ‘bout resistin’, sweetheart. The hands of the law won’t allow it.’ His hands! His hands wouldn’t allow it! ‘And you sure as hell don’t want the other fuck-os rippin’ and… tearin’ the pink right outta ya…’ And then he tore his hand through my hair, grabbing at the back of my head to all but force my neck back and forth—back and forth—until he was sure he’d branded every last inch of skin below my chin.
And I almost believed his words as he brought his face real close to mine, and I was certain the sparks popping from his baton were now frying his dark beard and own neck. ‘Those pinkos with the machetes and drills for daddies ain’t gon’ treat you with the respect I’m showin’ here, honey. You’ll be grateful for my services of the law once one of them commie finks catches your ass for a real cookin’.’
Coyle’s words really piqued my interest, shocked and pondering still wedged beneath his lean frame and electrifying touch (the baton). And I remember asking myself through the numbing pain: why show me any mercy? what have I done to warrant your magnanimity? That thought process ended quickly when Coyle’s baton parted ways with my throat, leaving a cruel sting and dryness as he slid the weapon back into some sort of holster on his hip. What I thought was over had seemingly just begun; his face hadn’t yet followed suit in pulling back from my neck. Instead, I’d only then felt the sultry stick of a soft surface pressing gently upon my throat. Coyle’s nose was wedged snugly beneath my chin as the slow prodding of his lips trailed along the coarse and singed surface; the burning of my skin reacted in an irritated and stinging manner as his wet touch molested the damaged and peeling skin.
‘Smell just like burnt leather,’ he’d mused, now ghosting my throat with warm and laboured breaths as he had moved a hand down his thigh. I finally allowed myself to squirm again, trying everything in my arsenal (bare hands at my only disposal) to free myself from the man above me. But it shocked me—even more now, as I’m writing this—when he suddenly removed himself from my body, leaning back on his knees as he watched me, a young lady, blatantly disoriented and wounded, looking around the police vehicle with knotted hair and dried drool down my chin. Seconds later, (if I’m recalling it as such) I began pounding on the window above me, crying for help and making my position known to anyone else in the area.
Nothing.
Again, I pounded and wailed.
Nothing.
It fucking HURT not having anyone else to care for your life in a moment of distress and need, and I knew I couldn’t look back once the hoarse wheezing of Coyle’s deranged laugh began to sound behind me. ‘These vehicles are made to keep criminals like yous in, not out! You a crazy bitch, but I ain’t complainin’,’ he’d begun, before his voice came eerily close to my neck with a low whisper. ‘Now, then… Are ya finished playin’ this busted game of Cat and Mouse?’
And that was when the window above me shattered in hundreds of tiny pieces. Before I could even piece together what had just happened, Coyle hissed irritably with a guttural grunt in the aftermath. ‘Lord! A bitch gonna pay in spades!’
Finally, I can talk about the woman who truly saved my life; not some ninnyhammer like 44100, no. This woman knows the Trials. And she knew Coyle—for that nasty brick had hit him square in the chest, toppling him back against the opposite door with a banging thud; and that got him extremely riled up. It felt like he was toying with me specifically, not making any actual attempts on my life, but the anger that doused his voice then and there… That woman had placed herself in danger for me. Not even another second passed before the bright flash of hot, white light and the sweltering numbness of being caught in a stun rig (for the first time ever) washed over me. I was unable to so much as open and close my jaw. Anything, really. But a pair of arms had suddenly hooked themselves beneath my shoulders, dragging me quickly out from the police vehicle through the broken window.
She had waited to introduce herself; about fifteen seconds later, Coyle had unlocked the vandalised door with a key of his own, grunting as he stumbled out from the vehicle. I had been carried behind a stack of wooden planks, near where one of the generators lay dormant in the dark. Coyle had stormed off into a room opposite of our position, screaming out in enragement, ‘Gone and taken my lucky rabbit from me, have ya?! Always the cops bein’ fucked in the end, ain’t it, Clyde! Just like you wanted… The law means nothin’ to ya.’ The mysterious woman (Reagent?) waited until his rampage was over to release a low whistle and shake her head with a chuckle—just as Coyle had done in that fucking sedan.
Lucky rabbit. Lucky bunny. Luck. Rabbit. Bunny. Those fucking words. Those fucking words meant something. But here was the million-dollar question: why the fuck me?
‘You’re lucky that depraved fascist didn’t take your ass seriously, else you’d be overcooked meat for the next Reagents to puke and trip over.’ Those were her first words to me.
When I’d asked for her Reagent number, she merely sighed and shook her head twice over. ‘I don’t go by that fuckin’ number in here, sweetie. It’s Dorris, or it’s nothing. No freakish numbers to objectify ourselves.’ I had questioned what she meant by that last word: ourselves. But she only eased a brow and glowered. ‘Follow and don’t fuck us over with that peppy mouth of yours. That’s right. I heard your remarks to the blue bastard. Bold, and I like it. But out in the open, kid, this ain’t no place to fuck around.’ And we had shortly after reached a rickety ventilation shaft (clearly been opened by Dorris and potentially any other Reagents who knew the layout of this set; but why?), to which she had practically shoved me inside the slender cavity. Claustrophobia; exactly why you couldn’t entertain it here. Why couldn’t Easterman have been studying the effects of claustrophobia on the psyche instead? After a few bumps and inclines, we’d reached a rather spacious opening in the ventilation system; here, a few single-person mattresses lay, magazines similar to the one Miss Barlow had been reading, contraband I’d never seen before (looking rather tinkered with and unique to the stuff sold by Mister Noakes), basic toiletries and canned food, and a single, discarded E.S.O.P. that was riddled with scratch marks, imprints of odd drawings, and a clear burn mark on its right side.
Of course we didn’t stop here; instead, Dorris guided me through another opening in the vents, and after falling headfirst down to the concrete floor below after her (granted, it wasn’t a very high drop), I could never forget the audible gasp that escaped my hoarse throat.
‘The Shuttles.’ That was about all I could muster with my singed throat.
Dorris had patted my shoulder in a motherly fashion, but she had turned quickly on her heel. Motioning back to the Shuttles, I was confused as to why she would choose to go back into the Thin Blue Line. ‘I’ve got some unfinished work that needs doin’, kid. You’ll see me back there in time, but don’t keep an eye out. That appease your curiosity?’
It didn’t. I needed to know more. But for now, those Shuttles were the damn-near Gates of Heaven. So I left—not looking back once to so much as scan the open area for him: for Coyle. I’d grabbed absentmindedly at my throat, wincing in pain as the skin began to peel off beneath my finger nails, and I decided quickly that scratching at it was a terrible idea.
Well, I just scratched at it now, as I write this. But, on a far brighter note, I’ve acquired a sort of makeshift ankle brace from Mister Noakes; it’s really just a weighted towel of sorts, but once wrapped around my ankle, the immense pressure that had been constantly pounding against it had raised a tad. But not even he asked about my neck; no one had. Was this normal amidst the Reagents? Were injuries of such severity normal? It was honestly all so interesting to me, and I found myself almost flaunting my acquired lesion, as if to say, hey, I’ve been through horrors far worse than you, to any passerby. But at the end of the day, seated back here in my lonely bed, I can only ponder over who Dorris truly is, and why I’ve not seen her around the Sleep Room. Or anywhere, really. Who is she? And how did she know exactly when to take aim at Coyle? Why did she help me? Oh, God. Coyle. Is he okay? Maybe I need to go back in to find out for myself. Maybe that’s what she’s doing? I should be doing that. What the fuck am I going to tell 44100 now? My next task was meeting with 44100 and making up some sort of… lie.
Fuck. Would 44100 become the next Snitch? Or worse… Me?
#leland coyle#coyle#outlast#the outlast trials#fanfiction#fanfic#ao3 fanfic#ao3#reagent#leland coyle fanfic#red barrels#reagent 44080#outlast fandom#outlast trials
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do you taste my pain in this bloodstained place - chapter 11
Authors: @dream-of-tanalorr and @spyscrapper
Rating: Mature
Fandom: Star Wars Jedi: Survivor
Relationship: Bode/Cal (Spyscrapper)
Sideship: Merrin/Mosey (Nighthunter, M&Ms)
Major Tags: Graphic Depictions of Violence - Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
(Some) Minor Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Torture, Angst, Slow Burn, Betrayal, Whump, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, Dark Cal Kestis, Harm to Children, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unreliable Narrator, thinking the other is dead, Mutual Pining, Codependency, Unhealthy Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Chapter Summary:
Let me die for you.
Chapter Start:
BODE
Traveling through hyperspace has never been so desperately uncomfortable. But now he’s been forced - by protocol, apparently, as if Grand cared at all for that when it didn’t directly make everyone miserable - to travel in one of the crew rooms on the IPV Night Wing . He’d intended to travel aboard their trailing Sentinel -class shuttle with the two platoons of purge troopers under his command, even if it had meant a different kind of suffering - anything to avoid being in close proximity to their mission commander.
But commanding officers were to travel aboard the Ninth Brother’s ship. By explicit order of the Grand Inquisitor. So they could plan the assault . Supposedly.
Bode pulls out the encrypted holoprojector containing the Thirteenth Brother’s entirely inadequate brief of the safehouse’s supposed defenses and nearby quick-reaction forces, its current defenders, and supposed purpose. He stares at it for the umpteenth time, going over the scant information in his head with no little distaste. Their target is a Partisan safehouse or staging site, minimally guarded to avoid attracting attention, and occupies an aging and mostly-abandoned warehouse located at the bottom of a canyon floor on Balmorra. It’s theoretically the home base for whichever rebel elements have been siphoning supplies from the nearby arms factories, and inciting rampant insubordination and rebellion amongst the workers there.
But he doesn’t for one second believe it’s merely a staging site for future assaults on the factories.
(Again, mind the tags! There's a lot of them, and not all of them are above)
Click for Ao3 Link!
#cal kestis#bode akuna#jedi survivor#star wars jedi survivor#nightsister merrin#jedi survivor spoilers#merrin#merrin/mosey#spyscrapper#bode/cal#jedi survivor fic#inquisitor cal kestis#dark cal kestis#fanfic#dead dove fic#sw jedi survivor#jfo#cal#nighthunter#kata akuna
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I’m working on some ME2-era Regis fics and holy shit he is one vicious bastard to the Cerberus crew (and even some of his former crew), and I’m here for it, but I’m also wondering if I’m taking it a bit too far in some cases...
oh well. it’s more fun that way. we need more angry and mean shepards anyway. here’s a snippet of something I’m working on and I can’t decide if it’s too much or not... but I’ll probably keep it as is. I like volatile relationships :)
A few minutes later, a knock sounded on his door. With a wave of his omnitool, he allowed Joker to come inside.
“They really tricked out the place, huh. Swanky crib you got here,” Joker commented, walking over to the couch.
“I think it’s utter bullshit,” Regis said, getting up from the desk to lean against the fish tank. “Another way to think that I’m in a better place or some kind of manipulative crap. I hate it.”
“You know, you could really lighten up a bit. I think you’ve already scared half the crew to death with that announcement of yours. Especially Chambers.” Joker said with a laugh, but quickly stopped after seeing the dark look on Regis’s face. “Uh, sorry.”
“It’s because I don’t want to be here, Joker. Did you really think I was going to accept having a nosy pseudo-therapist getting all up in my business at the CIC?” Regis asked. “Chambers is just one more way to report on every little move I make to the Illusive Man. She should be happy I haven’t decided to strand her with nothing when we get to the Citadel.”
“What’s next, you kick me off the ship?” Joker asked, crossing his arms. When Regis didn’t immediately respond, he held up his arms in surrender. “Sorry, just trying to lighten the mood.”
“What is this really about?” Regis asked. “As you can see, I’m really not in the mood, so spit it out.”
“Do you blame me for what happened?” Joker asked in a startling amount of seriousness.
Regis tilted his head to the side. “Do you blame yourself? Is that why you joined Cerberus?”
“Just answer my question, Shepard!” He balled his hands into fists.
“Fine. The only thing I blame you for is joining Cerberus. I don’t give a single fuck about how you supposedly did it for me, and thinking they were any kind of answer to your current problems was a betrayal to me and all the victims of their experiments that we discovered. Be happy we’re even having this conversation. You did what you thought was right back on my ship, but then again, you thought joining Cerbreus was a good idea. I don’t know if I can even trust your future judgment,” Regis said, staring Joker down.
Perhaps he was being too harsh, but at this point, Regis didn’t care.
It doesn’t matter that Joker was with him on the Normandy. Regis was never close with the man, never meshing well with his attitude and sense of humor. They butted heads more often than not, especially about matters surrounding the ship.
"If we're ever in a situation where it's you or the ship, choose yourself. I know you're a talented pilot, but I also know you can recognize when it's gone FUBAR. Abandon ship the moment you can while also keeping the crew safe." Regis said to them early on their Saren mission.
"My piloting skills will be the only thing that saves our asses if we end up in that kind of situation. I'm the pilot. You trust my judgment."
"I grew up learning how to pilot shuttles and ships, Moreau. I grew up hearing similar disaster situations on all the ships my mother served on. This is an order. You listen to my disaster plans, and we won't have a problem."
Joker opened his mouth to reply, his expression twisting with anger, but Regis beat him to it. "I know you remember that argument we had about what to do if we have to abandon ship. I've run all the scenarios in my head, and guess what, I remember everything that happened up to the moment I died suffocating in space. Maybe what you did saved more of the crew. Maybe what you did was the right thing. But we will never know, and you have to live with the fact that you defied my orders when you could've saved yourself."
"You're right, we will never know, but it doesn't matter, does it? We're here now, but you aren't going to thank anyone for the chance you've been given," Joker replied. "You're acting like a fucking child. How is that helpful to any of us? I'm sure if Alenko was here you'll be getting on your knees for his oh-so-great decision."
Regis kept his face neutral, but if another biotic was in the room with him, they would feel his field about to roar to life. "Moreau," he said, "get the fuck out of my quarters."
"You aren't denying it! Regis Lucian Shepard, Butcher of Torfan and a hypocrite."
Regis activated his omnitool to open the doors remotely. He raised his voice, his field roaring to life in a bright violet glow. Moreau flinched back.
"I said, get the fuck out of my quarters! And for your information, Kaidan would've never joined Cerberus because he was there for every goddamn mission we did unearthing their crimes. I'd be treating him the same way I'm treating everyone on this fucking ship if he did sacrifice his morals to be here." Regis shouted. "Sure, I can excuse your bullshit jokes, but you've crossed the fucking line. You see that picture over there.” He pointed at the photo frame on the desk. “You remember that picture being taken?”
He nodded, swallowing.
“And that’s why I’m so fucking angry. That’s why I would rather space myself again than be on this ship. But I can’t do that, now can I? Because Lawson and Cerberus will just bring me right back again, except this time, with a new way to control me!”
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Fire in the Sky
Traintober 2022 Day 29 - Fiery Sky
-
So, I didn't originally have day 29 on my "write something for traintober" list, but I missed day 27 because I felt the story wasn't going in the right direction, so I threw this thing together real quick.
For those of you who don't know, (which should be *checks notes* all of you, except Jobey) I've been plinking away at some ideas for the space shuttles for a while... and I've wanted to release some of it for a while, but it's one of those deals where you'd need (*Checks story*) seventy-seven pages of information on who all the characters are, so I haven't put anything out yet.
However, this collections of excerpts is fairly self-contained and doesn't involve any of the vast supporting cast that I make myself write, so here you go!
-------
January, 1986
The Oldest
That Day
The roar of the SRB motors shook the ground for miles around. It probably meant something positive or even joyous to everyone else, but he had to force a smile.
Jealousy was an ugly look on him.
The talking heads on the bank of TVs Atlantis had dragged into the common area between the hangars had managed to learn how to pronounce the Teacher’s - Christa’s - last name, and barely waited until the stack had cleared the pad to show off this fact, prattling on and on about the “first teacher in space!!!!!” in a host of different languages and accents.
Something on one of the local TV stations finally broke his resolve. They were showing a picture of Challenger - and it wasn’t her fault that she was a test frame just like you but got to go up while you sat down here - overlaid on top of the tight tracking shot from the NASA feed. The voice on the screen - he didn’t really give a shit who - was babbling over Columbia’s voice on the CAPCOM audio feed about how she was going to help The Teacher - Christa, her name is Christa and it’s not her fault that she’s going up there either - with a lesson plan (!), and he just couldn’t do it any more.
Discovery was the exception to the rule that nerds couldn’t be cool, and he’d modified a shipping container so the roof could open like a cooler - although considering that it was barely above freezing, it was actually working in reverse, just to keep the beer from turning solid. A normal shuttle would’ve just reached around for an aviation-sized cola like everyone else, and saved the boozy stuff for after she’d reached orbit, but Enterprise wasn’t like them, and he stuck his entire cockpit into the pile of bottles and rooted around with his teeth for one of the bottles of Bartles & Jaymes that were buried at the back. It wasn’t like they’d bothered to give him a manipulator arm - no, those were saved for real space shuttles.
He was still in there when everything and everyone went silent.
Silence was bad.
Silence meant something was-
Atlantis was screaming.
Discovery was yelling
Something was wrong.
He ripped his face out of the container and stared upwards, into the clouds.
There was one more than there had been.
There shouldn’t have been any.
The rocket exhaust led straight into it.
And debris was coming out of it.
-------
The Smartest
He felt no small degree of relief as Challenger’s rocket motors fired.
There had been a larger than normal number of delays and scrubs; with each passing “failure”, as they were viewed by the Agency’s administration, the pressure to launch grew. It seemed likely that if this launch had been scrubbed as well, there would have been… negative repercussions.
He split his focus as the stack passed the top of the service structure. To his left, Atlantis was cheering and yelling like she was auditioning to be a cheerleader for the Miami Dolphins. On his right, Enterprise was already raiding the drinks cooler.
In his ear, Columbia was managing CAPCOM duties in her usual and efficient way. Ordinarily, he would be paying more attention to the telemetry data and communication channels, but the successful launch of the Teacher in Space program was a moment worth celebrating.
Out of habit, he’d kept a running count of the mission time, and as Challenger entered her first minute of flight, he snapped the top off of an aviation-sized bottle of “Celebratory Cola” - which was in actuality RC Cola, de-branded at NASA’s request.
The celebratory feeling lasted exactly thirteen seconds.
Challenger, riding a pillar of fire into the sky, was suddenly enveloped in a cloud of white vapor and flames.
Within seconds, components began emerging from the other side, still traveling at escape velocity. The solid rocket boosters careened off at odd angles, flying away from the orbiter that they were supposed to be attached to.
Someone began yelling, nearly in tune with Atlantis’ high pitched screaming.
As the bottle of Cola shattered to the ground, he realized that it was he who was yelling, as he watched his sister’s remains fall to earth.
-----
The Joyful
She was, if nothing else, very excited.
Rocketry was in her blood, as it were, (hmm, wonder why?) and the party-like atmosphere of the first Teacher in Space launch had turned an already-fun experience into a full-blown event. She was already in her element, and that was before the boosters fired.
As they approached T-0, she started bouncing on her landing gear in anticipation, and a manipulator arm dropped in front of her.
“You do not need sugar, Atlantis.” Discovery said as he effortlessly stole her bottle of soda from her. “Your energy levels exceed one hundred percent already.”
“Oh come on!” She laughed. “What’s the harm in some sugar?”
He rolled his eyes. “I would tell you, but it would take longer than the thirty-eight seconds left until launch.”
“Don’t you mean thirty-six?” She had the exact same chronometers as he did.
“I clearly said thirty-four.” His smile reached escape velocity and entered shit-eating-grin territory.
“Thirty two.”
“Thirty.”
They honestly could’ve kept that up until T-0, but Enterprise interrupted. “Disco! How do I open this thing without breaking it?”
“Push up and twist…” Discovery turned away to show Enterprise how to work the latch on the cooler. It took only a few seconds, but by then it was time for her favorite part of every launch.
Ten!
Nine!
Eight!
Seven!
Six!
Five!
Four!
Three!
Two!
One!
------
The Most Experienced
“Challenger, go for throttle up.”
“Understood, go for throttle up.”
Columbia had barely even paid attention to the live feed of the launch, so focused she was in the thousands of datapoints that made up her sister’s telemetry feed. Oxygen content, propellant pressure, speed, heading, projected trajectory, altitude, and so many more discrete bits of data made up Challenger’s digital heartbeat.
For 72 seconds, all systems were operating nominally, perhaps even above expectations, considering the cold temperatures at the pad. Everything was going smoothly as Challenger roared past Max-Q, the single most stressful part of liftoff, from a structural load/air resistance perspective.
Skkrt
There was a brief burst of static, and then every single telemetry feed winked out as one.
“Challenger come in.” She said, instinctively, before an intake of breath at one of the many human-sized desks that were arrayed around her caused her to look up.
There were over a dozen long-zoom cameras, mounted on old anti-aircraft gun mounts, that tracked the orbiters from the ground and into orbit. They all displayed onto monitors that sat along the far wall of mission control, with whichever one was being fed to the news networks getting the biggest display - a wall screen, broadcast from a projector mounted to the ceiling.
Each feed was focused on a giant cloud.
The cloud had pieces falling out of it.
“Flight? Trajectory.”
“Challenger come in.”
“Flight here.”
No response.
"Negative contact. We’ve lost the downlink.”
“Challenger come in.”
“RSO reports vehicle exploded.”
No response.
“Lock the doors.”
“Chal?”
-------------
The Dead
January, 1994 - Cape Canaveral
Saw the ghost of Elvis
On Union Avenue
Columbia’s hangar was almost empty. In one corner, a pile of empty aviation-sized beer bottles around the recycling bin shifted against the forces of gravity. A change in the air conditioning system could send them tumbling down. The inside of each bottle was still damp, the contents only recently consumed.
Followed him up to the gates of Graceland
Then I watched him walk right through
By the front door, a pile of glass and a puddle of liquid was all the remained of a similarly sized bottle of Jack Daniels. From the size of the puddle, the bottle was mostly empty when it was hurled against the door.
Now security they did not see him
They just hovered 'round his tomb
Against the far wall, a chest of drawers fashioned out of a semi-truck trailer was in haphazard disarray. Knickknacks and tchotchkes were scattered around the base, and knocked over on the top, as though someone was looking for something; several framed photographs seemed to be specifically singled out, their lack of dust indicating that they’d been buried deep in the drawers. The glass on several of the photos was wet, as though someone had been crying on them. Behind the glass, the smiling space shuttles in the photos gave no clues as to why they’d been banished to the drawers instead of being left with their fellows on top.
But there's a pretty little thing
Waiting for the King
Down in the Jungle Room
There was only one “room” within the massive hangar - a large shower cubicle in one corner. It was a holdover from the early days of the space program, when landings occurred in dry lake beds as often as they did on tarmac runways, and large amounts of dust and grit accumulated on the orbiters. Now the landings were kept on tarmac, but the showers remained - as one overly-snarky 747 put it, “regular bathing is therapeutic”. The shower was running, a muted roar filling the air as thousands of gallons of water coursed out of the shower heads. Through the glass panels in the dividing wall, a shape could be seen, as hunched over as an aircraft could be. While the sound of the running water was loud, it wasn’t able to drown out the quiet sobs that emerged from within.
When I was walking in Memphis
I was walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale
Walking in Memphis
But do I really feel the way I feel?
By what could be called the “bedroom” - if it had walls to separate it from the rest of the space or a bed to sleep in - music poured out of a hifi system. It was a piecemeal set, put together over time as new technology became available; a wood-sided 8-track player sat on top of a studio-quality cassette deck, reel-to-reel deck atop a Laserdisc player, and so on. A high-end CD player was the only piece of equipment powered on, other than the surround-sound amplifier. Out of the speakers poured a slow pop song, one that had become extremely popular about three years ago. It sounded almost wistful, as the singer pondered his own musical career while visiting Elvis’ resting place.
The music swelled, but before the next verse could begin, an ethereal Fine Adjustment Manipulator - the smallest of the many tools fitted to the Space Shuttle’s Canadarm - reached out to the CD player. The tip of the manipulator’s “finger” passed through the stop/eject button, and continued in this way up to the first “knuckle”, at which point the soft-touch controls of the player eventually yielded. The music cut off mid-note, and the disc tray was ejected from the player.
An ethereal eye, attached to an equally ethereal face and cockpit, stared at the disk with some sadness. It was a “mix CD”, made of many different tracks, with the name of the overall playlist written on the disc in permanent marker: “SAD BITCH MUSIC”.
The shower cut off with the abrupt thunk of a hydraulically-actuated valve, and the hangar was plunged into silence until the door opened, sending steam cascading into the rest of the building. A ventilation fan kicked on automatically, drawing the humidity and water vapor back into the shower stall and wreathing its occupant in vapor and light.
For a brief moment, there were two ghosts inside the building.
The steam dissipated, and a space shuttle rolled out. Eyes still wet with tears swept the room, looking for signs that anyone had entered. They passed over the puddle of glass and Jack Daniels, making note of the fact that it was still undisturbed.
“I kind of thought I might see you.” Columbia said without turning around to face whatever might be behind her.
“You were?” A heartbreakingly familiar voice said from deeper into the building.
She slowly spun around. “There’s no tire marks in the puddle of Jack.”
“You caught me, Columbo.” She spun around to face the voice. She looked just as she had before, and a little cry caught in her throat.
“Oh no.” Challenger, looking so solid and yet so ethereal, started towards her. “No tears. Please. I’ve had enough crying for an entire lifetime today, let alone the afterlife.” She got close enough to touch, and gently wiped a tear off of Columbia’s face.
Her eyes snapped from the transparent manipulator arm that she could just about feel, to a pair of eyes that she thought she’d never see again. “I… I miss you.” She eventually choked out. “I miss you every day.” The tears started again, and she made no move to stop them.
She cried for a good while, pressed against her long-dead sister. When she finally blinked the tears from her eyes, Challenger was still there, almost pressed against her tiles. A happy smile crossed a now tear-streaked ethereal face.
Columbia stared at her.
“What?” Challenger asked, as though nothing was wrong.
“Usually, things like you don’t stick around.” A little voice in her head that sounded a lot like Endeavour was already making comparisons to the ‘emotional climax’ scene of a movie.
Realization bloomed in a pair of spectral eyes. “Oh, you think I’m in your head…”
“You are.”
“Um…” Challenger looked around for a moment. “Maybe you should follow me.”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and headed for the door. Columbia followed, not entirely sure where this was headed, other than outside.
It took Challenger several attempts, but eventually the door controller cooperated, and the massive hangar doors opened. Bright light spilled out, and for a moment all Columbia could see was white.
-
Her sunshades snapped down, immediately cutting the glare to a more manageable level while her eyes adjusted to the bright Florida sunlight.
She blinked once, long and slow, as she took in the mob of aircraft, trucks, and cars in front of her hangar. Almost every vehicle on base was there, it looked like; a feat usually reserved for launch days or… the memorial.
She stole a glance to one side. Challenger was still there.
She looked back, noticing for the first time that just about everyone there looked like they were on the verge of tears, or had been crying already. Those rare few who hadn’t looked like they’d gotten hit upside the head with a steel beam.
She opened her mouth to ask what exactly was going on, but Discovery, Atlantis, and Endeavour beat her to it.
“You’re not seeing things.”
“This is really happening.”
“We can see her too.”
For a moment, time seemed to stop, and Columbia looked towards the ghost of her sister. Tears were leaking out of Challenger’s eyes again, in defiance of quite a few different laws of physics and reality. She didn’t care.
She was probably crying again. She didn’t care.
“You’re really here.” She breathed, suddenly fearing that a loud noise would break the illusion and cause reality to come crashing back.
“Yeah. I am.” Challenger said tearily. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
#traintober 2022#traintober#does this really count as traintober?#I'm going to say... maybe#ah who cares it's all in good fun#you guys gotta tell me if you're actually into the space shuttle fleet because if you are...#i can knock your socks off#fic#sentient vehicle headcanon#sentient vehicles#space shuttles#challenger disaster
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rating lego space shuttles: eighties/nineties
this was fun with the ambulances so I’m going again
fun fact: because of the way linear time works, there are no pre-minifig lego space shuttles.
#442 Space Shuttle/#891 Two Seat Space Scooter (1979)
we’re starting off... weird. it’s got the swept back wings but other than that there was clearly no effort whatsoever to make this set called “space shuttle” look like an actual space shuttle orbiter (which did exist and was publicly known in 1979 even though it hadn’t been launched yet). given that the EU version makes no such connection I’m assuming this was just given the name for the us market to capitalize on space shuttle excitement. it’s a nice little spaceship but I’m not happy with the dishonesty. 🚀
there are a couple of other early space sets with “shuttle” in their names but the intent with them seems to be more like the shuttles in star trek and star wars rather than referring to the real life vehicle so I’m not going to drag them through the mud here.
#8855 Prop Plane (1988)
the second lego space shuttle is one of several we’ll be seeing where the shuttle is actually a secondary build for an airplane set. an attempt is being made here, and you can kind of see what they’re going for, but it just doesn’t work for me. the lack of any attempt at, you know, engines is particularly shameful. that said, while I haven’t handled this build myself, it appears that the cargo bay opens up (albeit in entirely the wrong way) and there’s even a manipulator arm inside. overall: good try. 🚀🚀
#1682 Space Shuttle Launch (1990)
much better. building techniques will vary, attempts at scale will improve and regress, specialized parts of varying quality and niceness will be produced, but this here is basically establishing the precedent for what a typical lego space shuttle set is like. you’ve got a launch pad, a support structure with an elevator (sadly immobile in this case), a little vehicle to transport the crew to the pad, an astronaut and some ground crew, and of course the shuttle orbiter with a little canadarm and a satellite inside, with two solid rocket boosters and a fuel tank attached. unusually, the astronaut has a sticker on his torso, with an american flag and a nasa logo. similar stickers are all over the shuttle and even the car-thing. this kind of specific tie to the real space shuttle won’t return in minifig-scale sets for a long time. now there are some noticeable big avoidable inaccuracies, most notably that the fuel tank needs to be longer and not gray (orange lego wasn’t really a thing at the time but I feel like red or yellow would have been a reasonable substitute) and the fact that the shuttle has an opening trunk for some reason???, and also there are some awkward bits to the design, most memorably the cargo doors that fold out in three segments each. still, very good. 🚀🚀🚀🚀
6346 Shuttle Launching Crew (1992)
aaaaaaand we’ve regressed. the shuttle is shorter now, one of the main engines is missing, the wings are generic triangles, and you can’t see it here but the surprisingly realistic representation of the canadarm from #1682 has been replaced by a generic robot claw arm from the space theme (at least the origin is appropriate). the astronaut has regressed, too, now wearing the exact same generic flight suit as the ambulance driver from #1896 (which is also suspiciously similar to the motorcycle drivers here) which made that set hilarious but this one boring. there are a couple of small improvements though: the shuttle has landing gear now, and there are a couple of tiles on top of the cargo bay doors so they open as a single unit. also, remember that red and blue striping with the =v= design, it’s a surprise tool to help us later. 🚀🚀🚀 incidentally, space shuttles have been transported by truck on occasion, and because of how big they are you really would want all these escort vehicles.
#6339 Shuttle Launch Pad/#6544 Shuttle Transcon 2 (1995)
welcome to LAUNCH COMMAND, the first dedicated town/city space exploration subtheme! the stripey =v= design returns, now accompanied by a neat little space shuttle logo. the new orbiter (identical between the two sets except for slightly different stickers) keeps the improvements from #6346, regains its third engine, and gets a new canadarm design that splits the difference between playability and looking right, plus new pieces designed specifically to accurately represent the wings and tail. unfortunately, these improvements come at the price of the oms pods, which are now just half-cylinders with no engines in evidence. the astronauts have a cool new visor piece that’s reflective gold and a specially printed torso, the ground crew similarly have special launch command uniforms, and all of them wear headsets. two near-identical versions of this shuttle (one numbered 2 and the other 3, #6346 presumably being 1) were available, one with this shiny new launch pad and redesigned fuel tank (still gray and too small) and boosters, and the other with a jet that doesn’t really look like the shuttle carrier aircraft but eh, it works. 🚀🚀🚀🚀
#8480 Space Shuttle (1996)
technic’s second attempt at a space shuttle is a dedicated set and consequently fares way better. it’s big, it’s properly colored, it’s got lots of details, and on top of that it’s full of fancy electronics. it lights up! it’s motorized! it also kind of looks like a skeleton, but that’s what you expect from a technic set from the mid-nineties. 🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀
#3067 Test Shuttle X (1999)
what the hell is this, space port? why is the tail fin a flat panel facing the direction of travel? 0 spaceships. listen, this is a tiny little shuttle and I know it seems unfair of me to rag on it, but space port deserves everything I can throw at it. it’s just not good.
#6456 Mission Control (1999)
you see? look at this shit. look at the crap lego handed us and called a space shuttle. why does it separate? this isn’t blacktron! why are the wings so proportionally small? why does the cargo bay open in three directions? why does it just launch directly from the crawler? why is the satellite just a logo with solar panels? I’ll tell you why. it’s because the only thing lego was thinking about was how much kids were gonna love the giant oversized electronics chunk. if you were a kid who tried to build around the giant oversized electronics chunk, you may be entitled to financial compensation.
the female astronaut and the new helmet/backpack earn it a pity spaceship though. 🚀
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Canada’s Big Flex in Space
The Canadarm started as a boring robotic appendage.
Now the future of space travel depends on it.
Chris Hadfield trained four years for a seven-hour spacewalk. On April 22, 2001, he and American astronaut Scott Parazynski were tasked with assembling and installing a payload, which had arrived with them via space shuttle, onto the International Space Station. The payload was the Space Station Remote Manipulator System—or, as it’s colloquially known on planet Earth, Canadarm2, the latest robotic limb in a series of Canadarms first announced in 1975 through a joint US–Canadian agreement.
Out there in low Earth orbit, 400 kilometres up, Hadfield began the first ever spacewalk by a Canadian. The first set of Canadarms had almost the same manoeuvrability as this new model: a shoulder moving on two axes; an elbow on one; a wrist that can pitch, yaw, and roll; and a grappler. Unlike the originals—which were affixed to the space shuttles Columbia, Atlantis, Endeavour, and Discovery—the Canadarm2 was designed to remain permanently attached to the ISS, to assist in the broader mission of space exploration and habitation. Seventeen metres long when fully extended, the Canadarm2 was only slightly larger than its predecessors, but it would be nearly twice as fast, three times stronger, much more dextrous, and exceedingly more useful. Whereas the first arm looked and functioned quite literally like an arm mounted at the shoulder, the Canadarm2 was like two arms connected to one elbow. This configuration would eventually allow it to move along rails running the length of the ISS, making it a 1,500-kilogram multi tool for the space station—a crane, grabber, and camera, all in one.
Continue reading: https://thewalrus.ca/canadarm/?utm_source=pocket-newtab
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"A fixed camera on astronaut Bruce McCandless II's helmet recorded this rare scene of the Space Shuttle Challenger some 50 to 60 meters away during a history-making extravehicular activity (EVA), February 7, 1984. The Shuttle Pallet Satellite (SPAS-01A) is configured mid-cargo bay. Astronaut Robert L. Stewart, standing beneath the Remote Manipulator System (RMS) arm, later donned the same Manned Maneuvering Unit (MMU) which afforded McCandless the freedom of movement to record this image. Also visible in the cargo bay are the support stations for the two MMU back-packs, the sunshields for the Palapa B and Westar VI Satellites, KU-Band antenna and a number of Getaway Special (GAS) canisters."
Date: February 7, 1984
NASA ID: S84-27022, S84-27020
#STS-41-B#STS-41B#STS-11#Space Shuttle#Space Shuttle Challenger#Challenger#OV-099#Orbiter#NASA#Space Shuttle Program#space#Earth#February#1984#my post
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Of Blood and Sparks - XXII
Karina Alexandre of Fontaine lost her position, her family, and her Archon's favor. A dead Electro Vision is her mark of guilt. A reminder to never fail again.
Faith shattered, and suspicious of the Fatui, she eventually makes her way to Liyue, where she encounters a certain funeral parlor consultant. Little does she know it's only the beginning.
Original character centric; eventual Zhongli/OC. Posted originally at @chevalier-of-fontaine.
ArchiveOfOurOwn || FF.net || Karina's profile
She really should have stabbed him when she had the chance.
Zhongli released Karina’s hand as if it was a hot dish left on the stove and she brought her hands in front of her. She bowed, allowed herself three seconds to compose herself, before she fixed her eyes on the new arrivals.
“Sorry for the interruption, you two,” Childe ventured. “I know the death of Rex Lapis has everyone on edge.”
“It’s quite fine,” Karina replied, all the while hoping her face was not as red as it felt. “I was just leaving.”
Childe swept his arm out, as if presenting a fine gift to the strangers. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Zhongli, consultant to an organization known as Wangsheng…and a trusted associate of the Fatui. Along with Ms. Karina Alexandre, one of Wangsheng’s many business associates.”
Zhongli cleared his throat, stoic facade back in place. “The food should be arriving soon, please make yourselves comfortable.”
The young woman, with short blonde hair and a unique flower tucked behind her ear, was the same one Karina noticed hours earlier. Alongside her was a floating being with a scarf that contained the universe itself, patterns of stars shifting of their own accord.
“Please excuse me, I’m feeling unwell and would make for poor company,” Karina said before she turned to Zhongli. “Whatever fabric, garments, or other similar necessities are required for the Rite of Parting, please send the requests to the shop; Jun Lei and myself would be more than honored to assist.”
“You are too kind, I will see to the purchase order personally.”
She said her farewells and left the private dining room but not before she heard Paimon barely whisper something about her darkened Vision. It was best that she was leaving, she rationalized, the afternoon air warm and salty when she finally stepped outside again. Karina didn’t want to listen to Zhongli manipulate and weave everyone as if they were all just filling carriers, shuttled from one side of the loom to the other, unaware of the image they created.
Her stomach protested as the last of the adrenaline and frustration gave way to hunger and exhaustion. The food vendors were tempting but she had ingredients at home that would spoil if left much longer.
With every step, she fought to stem the raw wave that sank to her feet momentarily when they were interrupted. She wasn’t even trusted with whatever plot was unfolding before all of the citizens of Liyue, let alone keep her element. Whatever made him think she was worthy to hear the words Childe interrupted? That she even wanted to hear them, when he wouldn’t tell her anything else? Did he think she would even believe him, after…
Of all the things she knew she deserved in the world, lies and deceit weren’t high on the list.
__________________
And apparently, sleep was not deserved either.
The ceiling wasn’t any more appealing than the wall.
She may as well have painted, at least then there might be something of interest.
Karina pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes until faint shapes danced across her vision. How could she be so damn tired and yet so far out of sleep’s reach? Nightmares were preferable, at this rate. When she closed her eyes, all she saw were moments of a warm smile, warmer eyes, and the dance of a Geo Crystalfly as it fluttered away.
Tossing back the covers, Karina rose and padded into the kitchen. She lit the stove with the strike of a match and placed a kettle over it to boil. The flames danced orange and red, crackling softly as the cast iron took in the heat, warming its contents.
She slid to the kitchen floor when her tea was ready, steam curling from the top and slowly fading. The best talks happened in the kitchen, usually on the floor, when neither she nor Rhiannon could sleep. When they couldn’t be overheard by their parents or customers and just needed someone to listen, to get thoughts outside of their own heads.
Not that they always got along. Everyone always thought it was so nice to work with family members, for their parents to have had two daughters so capable and blessed. Especially so when it came to those who knew their mother and father came from the Lower Rings and worked their way up.
Everyone joked how nice and sweet two daughters could be.
But when Karina left for service, Rhiannon couldn’t understand why her sister would abandon them and leave her to pick up what was left behind; Karina couldn’t stand the whining and the fact that her colleagues saw her sister as fair game for courtship when she was barely into her thirteenth year.
And understandably, Rhiannon liked the attention. But she slashed too many pillows for Karina to count every time she discovered her older sister pulled rank on those who flirted with the young girl. Karina repaired them without complaint and returned the favor by spilling ink on Rhiannon’s favorite dress.
Eventually, Karina wasn’t even home enough to bother and endure it. And Rhiannon was occupied between her singing lessons and shifts at the shop. Peace came because they were too busy.
And it stayed because the world outside their home was too hard and cruel. Even in the aftermath, the kitchen was the place of comfort, even if Karina’s face was blotchy and bags sat beneath Rhiannon’s eyes.
What would they be now, Karina wondered. Their parents’ deaths weren’t all that long ago; five years was the blink of an eye in the grand scheme of the world.
But five years was enough to turn a sister into a stranger.
She may as well be dead anyway, Karina thought. The girl I would remember certainly would be, especially considering the company she keeps…
A shuddering sigh left her lips and disturbed the steam’s intended path, ruining its usual twisting trail upwards. Too much. It was all too much.
Both of the people she loved were actually alive…yet neither of them told her themselves. She couldn’t blame Rhiannon, really. That bridge had burned when she’d been held back, unable to check on her again.
Karina laid her head back against the wall. As much as she hated it, a part of her couldn’t bring herself to blame Zhongli for his actions, either. Of all people, she knew the Archons were not infallible. They weren’t as omnipotent, omniscient, or omnipresent as many liked to think, as they liked to project. And ruling a nation for six thousand years was probably exhausting.
Surprise parties and gifts were the things to be withheld, not one’s trust over a plan involving staging a murder and watching among a crowd, thinking she would never see him again. She didn’t deserve to be lied to and manipulated and forced to experience memories she had no control over, though. Someone who loved her wouldn’t literally repeat the very thing that kept her up at night, that resulted in a limbo of sympathy, although more often it was a disguise for pity and disgust.
Karina adjusted her position, eyes falling onto the dark liquid she’d brewed. It would be a shame to waste it before it got too cold. She took a sip, black tea mingling with a slightly burnt flavor from the roasting process.
Her numbness faded, much like a chill when walking into a room with a roaring fireplace.
Temporary, perhaps, but a welcome relief. At least enough to clear a layer of fog from her thoughts.
After a few more tastes, she willed herself out of the kitchen and into the tiny living area that hosted a low table. After lighting another nearby lantern so she wasn’t stumbling around by moonlight, Karina settled at the table, a blank sheet of paper and a pen nearby.
There were still things to be said, words that escaped her hours ago, and sentiments still ringing in her ears.
And she could never let it be said that she did not do her part.
__________________
Days went by without much of note and Karina went about her routines as usual, save for morning tea sessions. Instead, she set straight to work, even if the shop didn’t open for another hour.
Busy hands meant she had no room to think, either about her lack of sleep or lack of companionship or the letter burning a hole in her pocket.
Until one day, the door opened, and she looked up from the front counter to find a familiar face carrying a small bundle. As he stepped closer, she smelt, rather than saw, that the bundle was actually a collection of fresh Glaze Lilies.
She didn’t have the energy to be angry or combative.
He’d already come by and handled whatever Wangsheng needed with Jun Lei. Her boss was at least tactful enough to have sent her to the storeroom to take inventory and inspect bolts for any mold or moth damage. Karina figured organizing them would make the process easier the next quarter but her boss muttered something about not being able to avoid problems forever when she emerged an hour later than intended.
Despite Zhongli’s usual stoicism, there was something off about his pace, the way his eyes examined the shop without necessarily turning his attention away from her. Karina returned her eyes to the books in front of her. They had two upcoming fittings that afternoon, one of which was due to arrive soon.
“I understand if you do not wish to speak but there is something I must divulge before it is too late to do so,” he said.
“Now you want to tell me something important?” Karina shot back as she looked up at him, placing the pencil in the seam of the pages.
“It was never a matter of trust or a lack of it. Far from it. It is precisely because I wanted to spare you pain and the burden of more knowledge that I did not tell you my intentions. But in doing so, I have done more harm than good.”
Karina felt a little jab in her stomach that twisted before it pushed its way up to her heart. Keeping secrets to spare pain was something she was keenly familiar with. It was a decision she made with every new encounter, one based on whether a person’s questions were accusatory or at least an attempt at understanding. Bridges were burned before they were ever fully built that way, preventing people from getting too close, where they could see nothing but…
“And while I cannot tell you everything, especially now, I would be remiss if I did not tell you that I only wanted…that I only want you safe.”
A part of her, a frustratingly complacent part, wondered why she wouldn’t be. Even if someone recognized her Vision and knew the distorted details, she was usually left well enough alone.
“I want all of Liyue safe. Much like a parent wishes only the best for their child. But there also comes a time when one must step back and let the reins fall into other hands. I needed you to know that I had, and still have, no intentions of letting pain or harm befall anyone. I failed you in that and I do not expect forgiveness. Whether I am worthy of it is not a decision for me to make.”
Karina reached into her pocket and pulled out the folded and sealed square of paper, dotted with what could pass as little stains from raindrops. It wasn’t the first or only one from that night but it was the best draft, the one closest to capturing everything she couldn’t voice. She held it out, her fingers burning with the slightest brush from his, and she hesitantly pulled back, balling her fist at her side, out of sight.
“I’m not ready to make that decision,” she said at last. “Certainly not now. And I don’t know when I will be.”
“Haste manages all things poorly.”
Gloved fingers plucked a Glaze Lily, the largest, from the cradled bouquet, and placed it on the desk before her. Karina took the stem between her fingers. It was strong despite its appearance, the bloom delicate but weighty.
“You are more than capable of defending yourself but please be mindful of what I have said. The Adepti and Qixing are not in agreement and the Tianquan has seen fit to clamp down on Fatui activity. It is unclear how such actions will play out.”
She could only bring herself to nod and he departed with little more than a polite wish of, “Take care.”
When the door closed behind him and she was certain he would not return, Karina raised the flower just a bit. Zhongli once told her that the lilies planted in Liyue Harbor were artificially planted for conservation, that few grew in the wild thanks to years of overpicking. The scent of the flower she held was far stronger than those she ever smelled in the upper levels of the Harbor, as if nurtured by the warmth of the sun and the songs of birds and children.
It threw her back to a warm day in a space eroded by time. She was reminded of a spar and subsequent story from a heart thought to be stone, of golden Crystalflies finding one of their own.
A promise as solid as bedrock.
#verse: of blood and sparks#genshin impact oc#genshin impact original character#fanfiction#fanfic#genshin impact fanfiction#genshin oc#OC: Karina Alexandre
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Long Roads and Short Days.
Written by: Moi :3
This is the first thing I’ve done for them in FOREVER but I hope you like it. I will post as often as I can :D
Main Characters: Calypso (OC), Rex, and Gregor.
Warnings: mild language on occasion and Star Wars violence :P
Chapter I
Calypso had not known peace since the beginning of The Clone Wars, but this dream rang with an air of odd familiarity and tranquility. She recalled she was perched atop the Jedi Temple on Coruscant…a place she had only visited a few times in her life. She was side-by-side with a Clone; still rather young. There were not yet any color markings on his white armor. His hair was buzzed, but he was blonde which surprised her. She had found him to be a magnanimous soul; steadfast, loyal, and brave. Even though she was but a young Jedi Guardian, she sensed great things would come of this clone. He called himself Rex. She liked that the Clones named themselves. She found it an admirable quality. Rex had been assigned to her Temple back on Jedha; there she was apprenticed to Baze Malbus and Chirrut Îmwe. Rex and his men had helped take back Jedha from Sepratists and Rex saved her life. They had both been sent to the temple on Coruscant to give a full report, and afterwords they had chatted on a platform that over looked the city in the light of the setting sun. They hadn’t talked about anything of chief matter; just every day conversations like normal people had.
Calypso hadn’t seen Rex since then; it had been fifteen years. So why did that memory resurface? The sound of blaster fire awoke her from her sleep. She was almost glad for it. The ground wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep.
Order 66 had run her out of Jedha to search for fellow Jedi. Thus far, he search had proved fruitless. She admitted, she had thought about Rex since the Order. Did he execute it, or was he already dead? The blaster fire sounded closer, along with the voices of Imperial troops. She leapt up, and snatched her black cloak up from the ground. She wrapped it tightly about her, and dashed outside of the ruins of a house she’d been keeping shelter in. The night was cool, and clear; but the black triangle of an Imperial Star Destroyer blotched out the moon.
“Damn it.” She mused, and looked quickly about her. There was an alley that branched off to her left, the familiar architecture of Lothal blending into the shadows. She pulled up her hood, and dashed into the darkness.
She pulled up her com. “R-3,” She whispered into it as she ran. There was static as a response. “Those idiots jammed my coms.” She fumed. She would have to find her ship on her own. In the night, she had her faithful droid R-3 split up from her and hide her small shuttle while she slept. They were less noticeable that way. She then heard the voices of clone troopers echoing closely behind her.
They knew she was here.
She scolded herself for having not been more careful. Once the Empire knew she was alive, she figured they’d probably send Inquisitors next. A blaster shot whizzed past her head, jolting her lagging senses awake, and causing her to release a small yelp of surprise.
“We’ve found the Jedi. Blast her!” A trooper yelled as an onslaught of bolts began to rain around her. She whipped around causing dust to stir around her feet. She drew her saber, and in one swift motion, the yellow blade filled the alley with its holy glow. She deflected bolts, sending them back to the troopers that shot them and ending their lives. She flipped her saber into reverse grip, and charged into the ranks; her body recalling years of grueling training. Her mind raced and her heart pounded like a jackhammer against her ribs. A shot grazed her arm, and she gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. The only upside to those wounds was that they cauterized upon contact. She kicked a trooper, and ran him through with her saber. She felt a pang of guilt for killing these Clones. These poor…poor manipulated men. But on the other hand—she was hindering them from being manipulated further, and taking more innocent lives. “I’m sorry.” She whispered as she killed another.
“Call in reinforcements!” One shouted into his com. Calypso slew him, too.
One by one, the brainwashed Clones fell to the frightened Jedi. She hid her saber back within the folds of her robes, and took off running again. Her shoulder burned from her wound, but she knew it was not severe. She needed help, she needed one alert her allies that she had been found…but that wasn’t possible until she found her shuttle and made it off world.
“That’ll be fun.” She sarcastically muttered. She’d outrun Imperial Starships before, and made it out by the skin of her teeth. She didn’t feel much like testing fate for the time being. Suddenly, her body slammed into something solid, knocking the breath out of her. She flopped back onto the ground, and quickly ignited her saber and waved it in front of her.
“S-stay back!” She cried, coming to her senses.
“Woah, now, I ain’t gonna hurt ya!” A panicked male voice exclaimed. Calypso knew it was a Clone. She leapt to her feet, and readied her saber before her. In the yellow light cast from the blade, she saw it was a Clone Commando…but he wore no helmet; just a simple trader’s cloak.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Calypso gritted her teeth. “Let me pass.”
“I’m here to get you off world, lady.” The Clone held up his hands defensively.
“As a prisoner of the Empire.” Calypso growled.
“No, no, no,” The Clone blew a raspberry. “I’m defective!” He spread his arms, and grinned.
Calypso raised an eyebrow. “You’re…’defective’?” She slowly repeated.
“Yes! Exactly! You ready to go?”
Calypso gawked.
“Oh,” The Clone rubbed his face. “Er, how do I explain this— Ah!” He snapped his fingers. “I didn’t execute the Order. I work with Clones who have had their brain chips removed, and we’re a society that tries to save as many of our brothers as possible. I got word from Imperial Intelligence that there was a Jedi here, so I thought I’d pop over and save you before they got to ya.” He winked.
“You…didn’t execute the Order?” Calypso clarified with bated breath.
“Of course not! That wouldn’t be very nice, now would it?” The Clone’s voice cracked and Calypso suppressed a chuckle. “I see you’ve already had a run in with some of the others.” The Clone nodded to her shoulder. Calypso put away her saber, and covered her wound with her hand.
“It’s nothing. I’ve received worse.” She joked. The Clone grinned. Then they heard the sound of pounding feet and the voices of troopers.
“Ah, great.” The Clone sighed, and rolled his eyes. “Well, Miss, I did come to retrieve you…shall we?”
Calypso hesitated. He seemed far different from the others, although he was still a Clone…but for the time being she didn’t really seem to have another choice.
“Lead the way, Commando.” She shrugged. The Clone grinned, and jerked his head. “I’m fast, so I hope you can keep up.” He chuckled, and he took off like a shot with Calypso right on his heels. “So…you got a name, Jedi?” He panted as they rounded a corner.
“I’m Calypso.” She chuckled airily. “And you?”
The Clone smirked, and his eyes glinted with good humor. “The name’s Gregor! Just don’t call me Greg and I think we’ll get along fine.”
Calypso nodded. “Sure thing.” They both skidded to a halt when they saw the alley bled into a trooper infested street.
“Now what?” Celeste whispered as they slowly backed away.
“Uh—” Gregor’s eyes darted about. “This way!” He hissed. He guided her by the shoulder in front of him, and shoved her onward. Calypso was use to long runs, but she was hungry, and sleep deprived.
“Where are we going?” She huffed. Gregor ran in stride with her as he pumped his arms madly.
“Kriff—you are f-fast…” He wheezed. Calypso flushed.
“Ah! Sorry, Gregor.” She slowed her pace a bit.
“No it’s fine— I could use the cardio.” He puffed. “Keep going down this street…my buddy’s gonna meet us and we can get to our ship.”
“How many defective Clones are there?” Celeste questioned, feeling a spark of hope.
“Who knows?” Gregor shrugged. “We just try to find and free as many as we can before the Empire gets ‘em.”
“Who’s ‘we?’” She further pressed.
“Good Maker, you ask a lot of questions.” Gregor chuckled and his voice cracked again. “You’ll find out in just a—” He was cut off by a hand reaching out of a doorway, and yanking him by the collar inside.
“Gregor?” Calypso called, skidding to a halt.
She peeked inside, and was greeted by Gregor’s hand clapping over her mouth as her back was pressed against his chest.
“Shhh…” He breathed feeling her start to panic. The only light came in pale blue strips from a busted window. She exhaled roughly, and patted his hand. He released his hand and she took a shaky breath. He pulled her down to where they knelt below a window by the door, and Calypso heard the familiar sound of TIE fighters flying over head, and thanked the Maker that Gregor had pulled her in. She heard the methodical marching of legions of troopers not far from them.
“We’ve gotta get out of here; stat.” Another voice whispered. It was firmer than Gregor’s carefree tone, but still belonged to a Clone.
“Coms are down, Cap. I woulda had Howzer pick us up ten minutes ago and leave you here.” Gregor snickered.
“Can it, Gregor. We need to focus.”
Calypso, stood, and brushed herself off.
“Who’s this?” The Captain asked. Calypso peered through the darkness to try and see the him.
“This is the Jedi we heard about through Imperial com chatter.” Gregor affirmed. He patted Calypso on the shoulder.
“This is Calypso! This kid’s a quick ‘un.” He introduced.
“Gregor, I know I’m short for my age, but I’m 30 years old.” She snickered.
“Well.” Gregor replied. “I’m fifteen. I’m just tall for my age. Anyways, this is her.” Calypso saw no used in preforming any sort of greeting to the man she couldn’t see.
“You sure she’s the Jedi?” He prodded cautiously. She couldn’t blame him for being skeptical.
Calypso ignited her blade, and her eyes took a moment to adjust to the luminous light it blazed about the small, desolate room. The Captain’s amber eyes grew wide and he slid down his hood.
“I…” He quietly began. “I know you.”
Calypso gasped and almost dropped her lightsaber.
“You?” She breathed, hardly believing it. “The…Clone who saved me.”
“Yeah— I guess I did.” He gave a wry chuckle and took a step closer. His eyes darted about as he looked at her, his face full of a mix of slight relief and confusion.
He was so much older now. His eyes looked care-worn, and sad. He had deep worry lines in his face; highlighted by her yellow saber.
“Captain…Rex?” She stuttered as her heart skipped a beat. He nodded, eyes still wide. “It’s a good thing we’ve got a long journey ahead.” Rex mumbled. I’ve got a lot of questions.”
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Captaineer Wandavision AU With A Twist.
This came from the ALWY Discord Server!
Enjoy :]
[How Captain would deal with a Wandavision type scenario with the warp crystal.]
Captain froze as they watched Mark's shuttle transferring him and another bunch of crew down to the surface began to fault mid air.
It hit the ground.
Mark was dead.
They stood alone, staring at the ruins of the ship. All the bodies had been removed, the wreckage would stick around until a memorial was made. Captain thought, begged and hoped that they'd made it out of the loop. Now Mark was dead, the crystal in their hand didn't glow anymore. They couldn't get him back.
Tears began to fall down their face.
•••
Captain blinked and snickered as Mark carried them into their new home together. He'd got them bridal style in his arms. A little cottage built in a closed part of the colony. With Captain on leave from work, since the colony was fully constructed they could spend their days working to make it home. Mark continued his career as an engineer and worked with his team to repair stuff in the ever growing colony.
The small part of the colony they lived in meant they had neighbours, who where very welcoming to the couple.
Mr Warfstache lived next door on the left side of the house.
Miss Whitacre lived across the street.
Mr and Mx Daunting lived next door on the right side of the house.
Those where the neighbours the pair had met so far.
Captain had lived happily for a month before things got.. weird.
“Darling?” Asked Mark, from the kitchen.
“Mhm.” Called Captain from the living room.
“What do we have marked on our calendar?”
“We have something marked on it?”
“It appears so.”
Captain walked into the kitchen and in fact noticed a black scribble on the date.
“I don’t remember writing that down. Did you?” Said Mark.
“I don’t remember. What do you think it’s for?” Asked Captain.
“Well, the squabble doesn’t give us much. Why couldn’t we just write it down?”
“I wish we did. Maybe it’ll come to us in the day.”
“Good idea, I best head of to work now baby.”
Captain kissed Mark goodbye and watched him walk out the front door with his toolbox.
What was on the calendar?
By the time it hit lunch, Captain decided the squabble meant something important, like an anniversary. So they began to put together a worth dinner. Yancy, one of their other neighbours introduces himself and helps Captain with making dinner.
“I suppose youse are making this dinner for Mr and Mx Daunting. They are coming round this evening, right?” Asked Yancy.
The memories came rushing back to Captain and they let out a sigh of relief.
“So that’s what the squabble was for! Thank you for reminding me.”
“It’s not a problem. Youse glad you started cooking now, eh?” Said Yancy.
Mark comes home in time to learn about the dinner and helps Captain finish of the dishes. A few minutes after everything’s set up Mr and Mx Daunting arrive to the home.
“Mr and Mx Daunting.” Greets Mark.
“Please, call me District.” Smiles Dis.
“And me, Dark.” Nodded Dark.
“Of course! Come sit down, we don’t want dinner to get cold.” Replies Cap.
Dinner goes on pretty uneventful, besides a few awkward questions from Dark and District.
Allu stares solemnly at a screen, watching the sitcom play out. Except it wasn’t a sitcom.
Captain had unknowingly stopped the wormhole, but instead created a world their emotions would manipulate to their own liking. Their was only so many times a person could watch their closest and so many other die before they lost it completely.
With the remaining crew and the rest of the U.S.A, Allu was working on contacting the Captain so they could release the trapped colonists and crew from the world. Anyone that approached the force field would get dragged in to the story.
A few weeks later, Mark and Captain are invited by the local school to come and be an act in the all adult talent show that was being put on for the kids.
Captain sat in one of their neighbours back gardens. The council of school parents sat around them. A man called Bim was hosting it. Other parents named Noir, Murdock, Host, Jim and Jim sat around with them.
All discussing the plans for the school event, they’d have to learn if they hoped to have kids of their own someday.
Captain was talking to a mother their named Celine, when something caught their eye. They waved Celine of politely before strolling over to the bushes. A small toy rocket ship in the colour blue lay their. Everything was supposed to be black and white!
They dropped the toy and went back to the circle of chairs, sitting down on one. Captain jumped when a radio began to play.
“Captain?” Called out a voice. “Cap?”
“Allu? Why are you on the radio?” Whispered Captain.
“I’m actually talking to you on a computer, your just making it look like a radio.”
“What?? Why are you calling?”
“You beat the wormhole.”
“Yes! I know. Why-“
“But not in the way you’d expect.”
“Wait what? What do you mean?”
“You beat the wormhole, but using the crystal you’ve created your own perfect world. Not only that but your world has colonists and crew trapped in it.”
“What?! How? What..”
“Breathe Captain. If you want to help everyone, you need to listen.”
“Okay okay.”
“So, the centre of your world. The reason why it was created. We need that to be destroyed.”
“Why this place was created? Well it must’ve been…”
“Captain? You their.”
“I have to kill Mark.”
“It seems so. Just remember, it’s not really Mark? Is it. He’d want you to do it, to get all the innocents out. Not to mention you have other crew out here waiting for you.”
“Allu…”
“Yes Captain?”
“How long have I been in here?”
“Three months.”
“Okay.. I’ll do it.”
“Alright. We’ll be waiting for you Cap.”
“One more thing.”
“Mhm?”
“Will anyone that’s trapped.. remember?”
“They shouldn’t. You don’t have to worry.”
“Alright.”
A phone is heard ringing.
The phone is picked up.
“Hello? This is Mark.”
“Mark..”
“Honey, what’s the matter?”
“Somethings wrong.. I need you to come home. Right now. As soon as you can..”
“Of course! Of course! I’ll be right their. Just hold on.”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
“…I love you too.”
Captain stood in the kitchen, looking out the garden window. They heard the front door open and close. The sound of hurried footsteps following.
“Baby!” Called Mark, rushing into the kitchen. “What happened? What’s the matter? Huh?”
Mark walked towards them, whilst they stayed quiet. He was now stood directly behind them.
“I’m sorry.” Whispered Captain.
“Huh?”
Captain turned around quickly and stabbed Mark in the guts with the knife they’d been holding.
“What?!” Gasped Mark, stumbling back. Tears fell down the Captain’s cheeks slowly.
“Darling?” Asked Mark.
“I’m sorry. I have a colony to save. And besides, none of this is real. Your not real.” Snapped Captain.
They watched as everything began to glitch and evaporate around them.
They blinked and found themselves stood in a field. A field on planet Salvation. In the distance they could see a bunch of colonist tests. As well as some vehicles approaching.
Out of the vehicles jumped Allu, many of the crew and some U.S.A officials. Allu walked carefully up to Captain.
“Captain? Are you with us?” Asked Allu, sympathetically.
“I-I’m here. I’m okay. This is real, right?” Muttered Captain.
“Yes. This is real.”
After being checked over by medical and set up back in their tent, they sat on their bed. Allu was with them.
“Now that we know your safe. I have something I’d like to show you.” Explained Allu.
“Okay.” Sighed Captain, standing up.
They where lead to a flower field not far from the colony camps and noticed a figure stood waiting for them in the field.
It was Mark.
Captain practically tackled Mark with a hug, which he reciprocated.
“I thought you where dead?!” Whispered Captain.
“Different universe. Just wormhole things.” Explained Mark.
“I’m so glad your okay!”
“I’m glad your okay too.”
“I was fine. I was just stupid.”
“Don’t say that, or I’ll make you shut up.”
“But I’m telling the tru-“
Captain was then cut off by Mark kissing them, except this time.
It felt real.
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How I Got into Coding:
I am a first Gen college student.
I had no idea how college worked.
I could take anything and focus on something and graduate, eventually. Degree plans were for engineering majors or something really specific.
(Genuinely, I had no idea, I would have never graduated if I hadn’t changed my entire life)
In one semester I took these 4 courses:
English II, Arabic I, German I, and Chinese I
That was all.
On top of all of that, I intended on becoming a doctor. Did I have the slightest fucking clue what that all actually meant? Of course not. My family didn’t go to college, or even know any doctors. I only knew my family doctor. But I knew there was amazing work being done by doctors all around the world and I wanted that responsibility.
Until I couldn’t wake up early enough to go to my 8:50 AM class. Until I was hoping to get hit my the campus shuttle so I wouldn’t have to deal with my depression. Until I napped every day and missed hours of my on campus job in a ✨ prestigious ✨ office.
So I did what several other members of my family did: I joined the Navy! And boy my life became an adventure! I dated a married man 4 years older than me! I got pregnant at 22 and subsequently abandoned by this man! While living overseas!
Whew after years of stress and manipulation from him, it felt horrible to be free from him. Now I had to raise a baby and become an adult and live in the world as the Head of Household?
Nevertheless, armed with my GI Bill and my also single mother, I pressed on. I moved back to my original university, solely because I had grades that wouldn’t transfer to other universities nearby and I didn’t want to retake classes.
Until I learned the first thing about premed and I had to retake a handful of classes. I was going strong but I was getting burnt out. I knew I couldn’t keep up this level of academic commitment and continue to ramp it up as I would eventually have to go to medical school. I was taking care of me and my baby. I was financing this time. I couldn’t do it anymore.
So I went back to the drawing board. I got on the university catalog and looked over the list. Anything that would help me support my son and I financially that I was remotely interested was added to another list. I didn’t really see anything.
Growing up though, my grandfather (a Navy man and an electrician) and I loved toying with computers. I ended up being the Family Help Desk Technician. My mom said, “Why not something with computers? You’re so good at them!” I would roll my eyes and say, “Mom, I just Google stuff.” (Ironic, you know)
I eventually settled on Computer Information Systems with a focus on Programming. It seems like a cop out from going from Computer Science but would also give me options, like actual help desk, networking, etc etc. Entry level jobs were all available to me.
Coding was hard. I have ADHD but while I was in the Reserves, I learned I wasn’t allowed to take my medication for it. My 3.6 GPA from my Biology major dropped and sitting in dark basement classrooms surrounded by the hum of desktop PCs was awful. I couldn’t focus. I didn’t turn in a single assignment. I did OK on tests because the professors graded on the curve and gave study guides.
When I tell you I tried to learn, believe me. I was surrounded by kids (I was 6 years older than my cohort) who had taken AP Comp Sci the year prior, made their own apps and websites, or even attended full time coding boot camps at night. I was literally scraping by academically. I graduated with a 3.131 GPA lol which isn’t bad but coming from my pre-med mania, that was a crushing realization: I wasn’t good enough. (This isn’t the truth, but just what I believed at the time)
I took a job at a place that was very hard on me, despite having the reputation of being “fun.” I changed from being a SWE to a Test Automation Engineer. That was March 2020. My manager was rude. Need I say more?
With tears in my eyes, I quit. I thought, “Well I tried, I knew I wasn’t good enough.” I told my mentor, “I just don’t have the engineering mindset.” He disagreed and sadly we parted ways.
I began teaching kids to code part time. It was cool seeing this place grow. It’s like the after school activity for the kids who might not play sports, you know what I mean? Some kids did play sports. More than one. Some were involved in several activities, and I felt bad for them. Their parents had them doing something every night of the week!
But for the tiny computer nerds, they came and they conquered. It was beautiful. I felt inspired by them.
I decided to apply to a developer position and I had a few interviews. The position I currently hold is fantastic. My team is so incredibly helpful, cool, kind, all the things you want when you feel crippled by past failure and impostor syndrome.
They gave me new projects and tools to learn and had loose time frames for completion. They checked in on me. I have paired for hours with my team - and they taught me things in a non assuming way. I began to feel euphoric about work and what I was learning.
Then I saw the job posting. You know, the One. I applied and it all worked out. I have fears about success but they’re realistic and limited. Not limiting, though, they aren’t the same thing. I know I have what it takes to learn and succeed and thrive.
And that’s how I got into coding. Also if you read that, you know me pretty well. Please say hello. Share your story!
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