VBS fashion 3/?

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping

The First Day of the Rest of Your Life, pt. 1

Masterlist

CW: disabled whumpee, gun mention, restrained to chair, knife

* * * * * * * * *

[Welcome to The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for super-villains and bounty hunters! In this self-help manual written by villains, for villains, we will go over various techniques, tips and tricks, and other useful skills for all different types of villains needed to keep those pesky heroes safely and securely kidnapped, nicely out of the way for your dastardly deeds!

Torture tips, mind games, knot-tying step-by-steps, and more, all the knowledge you will ever need in order to capture and contain a super-powered person is kept right here, in The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping! Time to seize the day, villain! Heretofore, may your endeavors forever be hero-free!]

* * * * * * * * *

Stan screamed himself awake, but he couldn’t hear anything over the deafening flaring in his ears, his heart racing, body burning, every muscle seizing. 

He couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t that there was anything strictly in the way of his breathing, it was just as if his lungs had succumbed to death's dark embrace and were about to glide through to heaven’s pearly gates when some malevolent force clawed into them and ripped them asunder, shoved them back into his body, and ordered them to get back to work. 

And they were not happy about it. 

Neither were his heart, nor his brain, or any normal bodily function for that matter, because for a brief moment, they all seemed utterly appalled and offended that Stan had the audacity to still be alive.

It only took a couple eternal seconds for his bodily functions to fully reaccept their lot in life, but now he was fully aware of every fiber of his being that insisting “wait, aren’t you supposed to be dead?” which made him immediately spiral into a blind panic. 

His chest heaved as it tried to force in air, his head buzzed in a horrible all-consuming way, the lights and colors and sounds around him were all way too bright and loud and whooshing around him faster than he could ever process fully. So he just screamed, begging and needing for it to stop, please, please, he couldn’t take this anymore, anything else but this, please.

Slowly, unfathomably slowly, the panic began to ebb away. His surroundings finally started to infiltrate his overloaded consciousness; the gray concrete, the cinderblock walls, a mostly empty room that immediately set him on edge, because he knew exactly what this type of room was for. 

He sat in a chair. Or rather, his arms were wrenched behind him and his wrists were secured to the back of the chair with what must have been twine. Then some ropes connected to his wrists crisscrossed around and across his stomach several times over to keep him bound tight. So it was more like he was imprisoned in the chair.

He thrashed out against the rope, only succeeding in momentarily stealing the breath from his lungs again. No give at all. He held in a sob and blinked the tears away, trying to fight off the angrily buzzing head and desperately weak appendages. 

Then he saw him. 

Another person in the room; a man sitting in his own chair a few feet away, only with the good fortune to not be tied to it. He held his phone limply in his hand and tilted his head at Stan with some mild amusement, as if he had just paused his internet browsing to watch the captive struggle. 

There really wasn’t that much special about him, at least considering he was probably a villain; he dressed like a cyber-punk cowboy, with blond hair, a darker complexion, and a couple of scars scattered about the small amount of skin he had exposed, including a pretty nasty burn scar that peaked out from his collar and up over his jawline. He wore a mask to cover the bottom half of his face, and a tool belt with various little pockets and cases, among which was an actual leather holster housing an actual shining metal gun. It was some sort of old-timey-looking revolver, sparsely decorated to match the rest of the man.

Stan stared wide-eyed at him. He wished that he wasn’t a panicking lurching mess in front of the person who must have been his kidnapper. The guy returned his terrified glare with half-lidded eyes and a light-hearted smile.

 “Let-let… Let me go-o.” Stan finally sputtered out.

The man raised an amused eyebrow. “What, no hi, hello? Would have thought you to be the polite type…”

A tickle in the back of Stan’s mind told him that he knew that voice from somewhere, but a much more prominent voice in the front of his mind screamed danger danger DANGER!!

“Let me go!” Stan shouted through gritted teeth, straining against the ropes. The man didn’t so much as flinch. “Let me go and we can forget all about this! I’ll let you off with a warning! But you need to let me go, you have no idea who you’re dealing with here!”

The captor rolled his eyes, slid his phone into his pocket, and casually strolled over to Stan, which Stan reciprocated by leaning back into his chair as much as physically possible. He tried not to eye the revolver too noticeably.

“You’ll let me go off with a warning, huh?” The man teased with a soft lilt. “That’s a relief. Y’know I was worried there for a second, since I’m dealing with THE Stan McKellen, right?” He said the name as if Stan were some movie star, instead of some super-powered nobody.

“Age twenty-two, five foot four, brownish-redish hair, green eyes, buncha fuckin’ freckles. Pretty bad limp in your right leg, and you’ve got this cute little magic cane that you use to walk and make your powers just… so much more powerful.” 

His eyes practically sparkled as he knelt down in front of Stan. “Telekinesis, or something of that sort. Y'know, I saw you in full action before I nabbed you. Really impressive. The swirly magician cape really adds to the magic of it, I think.”

Stan tried to kick him in his stupid smug face, but the man was sadly just out of kicking range. He smiled a shit-eating grin and stood up to slowly meander around Stan. 

“But I wouldn’t know about all that, especially the part about keeping that cane the hell away from you because could lay me on my ass if you had it. Because I don’t know who I’m dealing with, right?”

Stan's face flushed. “You can’t just take–!”

“You’ve also got some pretty shady history, yeah? I mean, did you know you don’t even legally exist? Like, not that you've been declared dead or something, I’ve seen that before, I mean you don't exist at all, in any database. It's like you've been erased. You don't exist. That, of course, got my attention, so I did some digging, loads of recon and llave, you've got some of the most insane powers I’ve ever seen, just throwing shit around and pushing people around like ragdolls. I’ve been in this business for quite some time, and it wouldn’t be a stretch to say you’re probably one of the most powerful I’ve seen. It's really a shame that you need that cane to do anything with them, and even more so that your leg doesn’t work right–”

“Okay, OKAY, I get it, you know who I am! Stop talking about the cane, or– give it back, I need it!”

“Preeetty sure I implied you’re not getting that thing back.”

Stan jolted in his restraints, and immediately regretted it when he was sure he felt new bruises forming on his wrists. “I need it! Give it back.”

The man paused behind him. Long enough that Stan almost called out to him to demand what the hell he was doing. Then he sat on top of the back of Stan's chair, forcing Stan to either take his full weight on his upper back or lean forward and strain against the already too-tight rope. Stan quickly chose the latter with a strangled grunt.

“I do what I want, chiquito,” the man said, deceptively calm. Friendly, even. “You'd do best to learn that quickly.”

Stan bucked back against the weight and let out a frustrated groan when the whole man on top of him didn't budge. The ropes dug painfully into his stomach.

“Get. Off of me.” He seethed.

“What's the magic word?”

“Fuck you.”

His captor leaned back onto him a little bit more, and the rough tendrils of the twine bit into his wrists like sandpaper. His shoulders tugged back, stuck behind the chair and protesting the weight folding him forward by tugging him rebelliously back, caging in his ribcage, forcing the air out of his lungs. He let out a pained wheeze before he could stop himself.

“Still not quite right.”

Stan squirmed in his seat, trying to shove up and get the captor off of his back, but it was proving increasingly hard to try and shove such a big guy off with only the use of one knee to push back, his protesting noodle arms, and the increasing desperation banging against his skull.

“Okay, okay, fine!” he squeaked breathlessly, hoping he sounded like he was just conceding instead of near panicking. “Get off of me, please! Please!”

The man stood back up and Stan slammed back up against the back of his chair, breathing deep and fast, only now feeling the bone-deep soreness and probable ring of bruises around his aching wrists. He couldn’t even feel his hands, the bonds were so tight. How long had he been tied up? How long had he been here?

He felt a hand ruffle his hair. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Stan wanted to scream. “Yes. It was hard.”

The voice snorted. “That's what she said.”

Stan could have sworn he saw red. He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath to turn down the boiling rage and rising panic in his stomach. It did absolutely nothing. He pulled on the ropes yet again, more out of desperation than any actual notion that he might be able to tug loose, and another jolt of pain branched up along his forearms. 

Tears threatened his eyes again. He was at the complete mercy of a man who made ‘that’s what she said’ jokes.

He did his best to shove down the emotions and tried to focus on the positives. This guy obviously didn’t care about experimenting on him or trying to steal his powers, or torturing him until he was just a husk of himself, or trying to mold him into a living weapon who just lived to do as he was told without question or hesitation. Hopefully… 

There was also still that nagging feeling that Stan knew this guy from somewhere, a small piece of vital information buried deep in his brain screaming to get out, shoved down under years of trauma and intentional burying of memories until it couldn’t find its way to the front of Stan’s mind if it had a map, a compass, and the sun to guide its way.

He clenched his fists. Why was his brain being so stupid?! He was smarter than this!

“Who are you…” Stan grunted under his breath, not even fully meaning for it to be verbal, but the pent-up emotion was starting to bubble over.

“Hm?”

“Who!” He shouted, surprising both himself and his captor. “Who are you?! Why are you doing this, why am I here, how am I here, why did you kidnap me?”

The man narrowed his eyes at Stan, and his heart may as well have stopped. He cringed in anticipation of some sort of punishment for yelling. He knew the man’s type. Power-hungry. Easily pissed off. Eager to make someone suffer, especially when they’re given a reason to, which Stan just did. Why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut?

Instead of doing any of that, the kidnapper just picked up his chair and slid it closer so the two of them could talk face-to-face. 

“Alright, you're right, I should probably explain,” he started with a sigh. Despite the sudden bewildering tone shift, Stan couldn't help but tentatively lean into the promise of answers. He hadn't expected any sort of positive response from his outburst. 

“Can’t tell you much, but I’ll give you a few free questions, yeah?" The man started. "The deal is, I’m basically gonna be your babysitter. I'm really just supposed to keep you here for the time being.”

“You're... my–… my babysitter?” Stan sputtered.

“Basically.”

Stan waited for an elaboration, but the man seemed perfectly content with his answer. But he did say Stan could ask questions, right?

“Okay, so you’re…” he started tentatively. This was a delicate game. “You’re holding me for someone else? Or you’re gonna let me go in a little while?”

“Can’t say.”

Stan scrunched his eyebrows. “Why not?”

“You’ll learn soon enough.” 

Ominous.

He sighed, searching his brain for a different line of questioning. 

“Then why are you holding me here?” he ventured.

“Can’t say.”

Stan groaned. Was this how it was gonna be? “Why not? Are you like a villain or something? Got some big plans to use me to destroy the world or some crap?”

“If you wanna describe me as a villain, sure. I’m just a mercenary. A bounty hunter, if you like.”

Okay, that felt like important information, but all it did was make Stan want to kick himself for not realizing sooner. Obviously the guy was a mercenary, just look at him. He felt some puzzle pieces click together within his brain. Mercenaries do other people’s dirty work. 

“What’re you gonna do to me here?”

“Depends entirely on you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Can’t say.”

He must be messing with him on purpose, this was egregious.

“Who are you working for?”

“Can’t say.”

Stan was getting tired of this. “Can’t, or won’t?”

“Won’t.”

“Why are you even letting me ask you questions if you’re not gonna answer them?”

He shrugged. “It’s a helpful pacifier.”

“Come again?”

He shrugged again.

“Okay, okay, fine,” Stan conceded. “Can you at least tell me who you are? I don’t even know your name.” and I feel like I’ve seen you before.

The man chuckled. “Bud, I think you can use your smart-brain to know what I’m going to say at this point.”

Stan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Won’t say?”

“What can I say? If you knew my name I’d have to kill you,” he said in an almost sing-songy voice.

Stan nearly laughed at the cliché before he realized there was probably some truth behind the joke. It turned into a more strangled cough.

“...uh. What do I call you then?”

“Usually I’ll say ‘DB’ if the target isn’t creative enough to come up with some derogatory nickname on their own.”

“I’m not calling you Deeby, that’s stupid.”

“It’s even stupider when you know what it’s based on.”

“What’s it based on?”

“Can’t say.”

“This is bullshit.”

The man snorted and shot up from his chair fast enough for it to skitter backward. Stan recoiled into himself at the sudden flurry of movement and sound.

“Wonderful, I hope you found your little impromptu interrogation session enlightening.” the mercenary smiled. “Now back to business.”

He fiddled around in one of his belt pockets, then tsked when he apparently couldn’t find what he was looking for and switched to another pocket instead. Stan felt a horrible churning feeling start to stir in his gut. He didn’t like how the man had just suddenly sprung to life, how giddy he seemed to be for whatever he was searching for.

His heart sunk into his shoes when he finally saw what the mercenary held up for him to see. “So, runt,” he drawled, fiddling with an egregiously large pocket knife and locking it open with a deafening click. The blade glistened in the clinical lighting. “How do you feel about knives?”

Next

cookie run ocs I made lmao

Both are supposed to be cyber punk related since they both are from the future and are able to time travel. I'm just gonna info dump here:

The one with the TV head is called Walnut Brownie Cookie. They're somehow related to walnut cookie, like an alternative version of her or a forgotten relative. They were badly burned and hid their face with a TV. They live with the immortal oc, tomato sauce cookie, whom I hadn't drawn yet. Both go steal stuff and sell it at a market where adventurers go buy equipment. The two are both wanted criminals and haven't been caught due to dimension hopping to escape. But her weakness is that she's very frail due to her skin and her strength . Their combo pet is a ghost cat, they're able to easily pass security and they're able to summon more ghost as backup. Walnut Brownies ability has her running with a treasure that randomized every time you play, she runs and pulls out her gadget and hops into another dimension and another and another. To hop into them, you have to press the buttons that replaced the slide and jump, after you do it your character reaches a small market and celebrates getting you points. Their magic candy has them getting more items during the dimension hopping which increases the amount of points.

The other one is Sour Cream Cookie. They're a bounty hunter who's after Walnut Brownie cookie and has been for a long time. She is really skilled at fighting but takes a while to hop between dimensions and refuses to work with others. She has a combo pet who prints them wanted posters so she can choose who to hunt for next. Also, she's half robot due to an incident that happened during training. Her ability has her in a arena getting ready to train. The slide button is removed and is replaced with a option to use the 2 swords on her back. The ability has her fighting 3 monsters and capturing them, getting points each time. When she finishes, she does some cool pose and gets even more points. Her magic candy has one more boss which is slighter harder to complete and has 2x as much as the ones before.

They later become friends and kiss (I love enemies to lovers okay?)

Falsely Accused: Begin Anew

Primus had it out for him, it seemed. Prowl must have done something truly terrible in a past life to deserve everything that had happened to him in this one. Pits, he wasn’t even considered an adult by Cybertronian standards. He was no longer a youngling, that much was true. He had aged out of that descriptor in Trypticon. He was, however, what most bots would consider a mechling. Not quite underage anymore, but still not yet a fully fledged adult. Had he still been on Cybertron and a free mech, he would be legally old enough to work but not yet old enough to consume engex. In some city-states, he would not even be old enough to consume high-grade, which was considerably weaker and not as intoxicating as engex.

All that was to say, was that he had experienced a significant degree of pain, suffering, and general bad luck for a bot was was still so young by his species standards. Sometimes, Prowl couldn’t help but question why. He had been happy, when he’d been training under Master Yoketron. His life before the Dojo had been hard, and much of it had been spent in the Praxian Youth Center, and then he’d escaped and lived as a street rat. It had been difficult, but at least he’d not been forced into any sort of role or job; at least he had been free. Then he’d been taken in by Yoketron, and everything had looked up. But even that hadn’t lasted, and he’d lost the last of his youth to Trypticon and the wardens who had so despised him.

And then, not even a full deca-cycle since he had been freed from his prison and escaped Cybertron, he had been discovered on what he hoped would be a refuge by Neutral Cybertronians. Not just any Neutrals, either. A cyber-ninja master and his student, of all things. Prowl knew that here could be multiple cyber-ninja masters at one time, though there was only ever one Master of the Cyber-Ninja Corps at a time. What caused him so much distress with this new revelation was that he distinctly remembered Master Yoketron telling him that none of his students, graduated or otherwise, had yet reached the necessary skill level to be called a cyber-ninja master. Which meant either the strange bot, Wing, was either lying, or he wasn’t one of Master Yoketron’s students. But if he wasn’t one of his Master’s former students, Prowl couldn’t think of where else he could have come from.

Unless…?

Wing looked young. Much younger than Master Yoketron had. But…he knew it was possible for mechs who were millions upon millions of stellar cycles old to look like they’d only just been freshly upgraded to their final frames. So was is possible that Wing was Master Yoketron’s age, or perhaps older? It was all he could think of. It would also explain how Wing could be a jet, yet not be a Decepticon.

Prowl shook his head roughly to clear his processor of the spiraling train of thought, immediately regretting the action when it caused his processor to shriek in agonized protest. He winced, pressing his hand to his forehelm, his thumb brushing over his broken chevron. After a klik, he lowered his head and dropped his shoulders. He had to put that aside. It didn’t matter anymore, anyway. He had left Wing and Drift behind at the cliff where they’d found him. He refused to take any chances with Cybertronians. Unfortunately, now that he knew they were here, he had to get off this planet. He had enough shanix to buy himself another trip on a cargo ship. He didn’t care where it took him, he just needed to get away.

He forced his processor back on track. Prowl was in the cave now, and he had gotten away from the odd pair, so he would be safe. It had been a few couple solar cycles since he’d encountered them. He would need to go out for energon, soon. But he was fairly sure that as long as he was careful, he wouldn’t be found. First though, he needed rest. He was exhausted, and he wouldn’t be able to track down fuel if he was too tired to function. So, he curled up in the back corner of the cave, facing the entrance, and let his optics slip shut. He would worry about fuel – and the two cyber-ninjas – later.

As he slipped into recharge, his processor replayed his encounter with Wing and Drift, and for once he blessedly wasn’t plagued by nightmares in the form of memories.

——————————

“Ah, but how rude of me! I should introduce myself and my companion before I ask so many questions!” The jet gave him another warm grin, gesturing first at himself, then at the racer beside him. “I’m a cyber-ninja master. My name is Wing, and this is my student, Drift.”

Prowl froze, his optics going wide behind his visor. “…what?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

Wing’s expression shifted to one of concern. “Are you okay, little one?” He asked.

Prowl flinched back from the hand that reached for him. “I’m fine.” he said roughly. “But what did you say?” He had to have misheard.

Wing shared a worried look with Drift. Then he looked back at the frightened mechling. “My name is Wing. I’m a cyber-ninja master.” he nodded at the racer beside him. “This is my student. Drift.”

Prowl reset his vocalizer, spark pulsing frantically. So he hadn’t misheard. But how was that possible? He had thought Master Yoketron was the only surviving cyber-ninja master. But this Wing claimed to be one as well? It didn’t make sense. He was a jet, a flyer. Weren’t most flyers Decepticons? Yet, Prowl saw no faction markings on the mechs in front of him.

“And you, little one?”

“What?” Prowl was jerked out of his panic by the older mech’s voice.

“Your name?” Wing asked, tone gentle.

“…Prowl.”

“Well met, Prowl.” Wing greeted, his expression warm.

“Well met.” Drift offered up, dipping his helm in a friendly nod.

Prowl hesitated, then ducked his own helm quickly. “Well met, Wing. Well met, Drift.” he said in return. He paused for another moment, but then he had to ask. “You…you are truly a cyber-ninja master? Like Master Yoketron was?”

Wing’s optics lit up. “Indeed!” he said brightly. His grin widened. “You know Yoketron, then? It’s been a long time since I saw him last.” he mused.

Prowl flinched. “Master Yoketron-“ his vocalizer cut off into static, and he had to reset it before he could finish. “Master Yoketron has joined the Well of All Sparks. He was offlined many mega-cycles ago.” he said haltingly.

At that, Wing visibly saddened, his wings dipping with his drop in mood. Drift lifted a hand to his Master’s shoulder, his field pulsing a beat of comfort.

“I know.” the jet said softly. “We may not be affiliated with any Cybertronian faction, nor have we returned to Cybertron for many mega-cycles, but I did hear about Yoketron’s fate. Every Cybertronian, both those on planet and those not, know he was offlined. The loss of the Master of the Cyber-Ninja Corps is a grave blow.” he murmured.

Prowl swallowed. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t know why he was apologizing. It wasn’t his fault. He supposed he had gotten used to apologizing to bots who were angry or upset with him, even when he had done nothing wrong. It had often been the only way to avoid the ire of the guards at Trypticon, though it didn’t always work.

“You have nothing to apologize for, it was not your fault.” Wing said, sounding confused.

Prowl winced, wanting to change the topic. “You said you have no affiliation to any Cybertronian faction. You are Neutrals, then?” he said suddenly.

Both mechs looked at each other, clearly catching on to the very unsubtle attempt to shift the conversation. Blessedly, neither said anything about it.

“Yes.” Wing answered smoothly.

“Then what is it you do?” Despite himself, Prowl was curious.

“Exploration, mostly.” Wing hummed. “Though we occasionally take jobs as bounty hunters, of a sort, in order to earn credits.”

Prowl tensed, his vents hitching and his armor clamping tight to his frame. Bounty hunters. Oh Primus, he’d made a mistake. They were here for him after all. Why else would Cybertronian bounty hunters be so interested in him? He knew this hadn’t been a coincidence. Pits, but he shouldn’t have let his guard down.

Wing seemed to notice his fear, because the large mech stepped forward. “Prowl? Are you well?”

The two-wheeler jolted as if he’d been shocked, and then he dived forward and down, folding into his alt mode despite the painful protest his frame made, and as soon as his wheels hit the ground he was speeding off. He heard noises of alarm from both mechs still on the cliff, but he didn’t dare slow down. He had to get away. He wouldn’t go back to Cybertron, he refused to.

And so, spark pulsing at a painful rate, panic overriding his thoughts, he drove until he couldn’t hear them anymore, and then he continued to drive some more. The cave he’d found earlier was well hidden and far away. He’d be safe there.

He had to be.

——————————

Prowl wasn’t sure what woke him, at first. He just knew he hadn’t come out of recharge on his own. He onlined his optics, and was about to sit up when he saw the white form sitting a few paces away from him. Immediately, he froze, fear swamping his EM field before both it and his armor clamped tight. Wing. Somehow, the jet had found him. He flicked his gaze up to see that the older mech was staring at him, expression unreadable. For a long moment, the two bots simply stared at each other in silence.

The groaning of Prowl’s tanks broke it.

Wing frowned, then slipped a hand into his subspace and pulled out an energon cube. Prowl fought the urge to whimper at the sight of the clean, obviously good-quality fuel. He was immensely surprised when, instead of drinking it, Wing set it down and leaned forward to push it towards him. He lay still for several sparkbeats, unable to understand what was happening. He still didn’t sit up, remaining curled up and pressed tightly into his corner.

“Drink, Prowl.” Wing’s voice was gentle, when he finally spoke. “That cube is yours. You need it.”

Prowl hesitated, but in the end he knew he couldn’t deny it. Not with how starved he was, and with how Wing was blocking the exit. He sat up slowly, his damaged and neglected limbs aching, and reached out for the cube. When Wing didn’t make to snatch it back, he curled his fingers around it and pulled it close. He peeled back the seal, distantly noting that if it was still sealed it was not as likely to have been tampered with, and lifted the cube to his lips. At the first slide of proper energon over his glossa, he almost gagged. The energon that the prisoners at Trypticon had been given was low quality, just the bare minimum of what was needed to survive without negative consequences, health-wise. Even this energon, compared to what he knew energon could be, was of fairly average make. But it was far, far better than anything he’d had in a very long time.

As soon as that initial moment passed, and he adjusted to the more intense taste and better fuel, he started gulping it down almost frantically. In the back of his processor, he knew that wasn’t right. He needed to take it slow, after so long without proper fuel, but his frame and his systems were starved and desperate. He flinched back against the cave wall almost violently when a white hand was laid over his wrist, gently pushing it, and the cube, down and away from his mouth. He didn’t notice that some of the energon splashed out and over his armor at his sudden jerk. He was too worried over how Wing had gotten so close without him noticing.

“Easy.” he admonished the terrified Praxian gently. “Slowly, Prowl. I know a starved mech when I see one. You need to take it slow.”

Prowl reset his vocalizer, visor locked onto Wing’s optics. When the pressure on his wrist eased up, he slowly brought the cube back up to his lips and sipped at the fuel within. He still wanted to gulp it all down, but the hand still on his wrist served as a good reminder fo take it easy. He drank in little sips, stopping whenever Wing pushed his wrist down to let his tanks settle and adjust, until he’d finished the contents of the cube.

Wing took the empty cube back, then. He released Prowl’s wrist, subspacing the cube and then leaning back from the uncomfortable mechling’s space. The jet was silent for a moment, his amber optics boring into the smaller Cybertronian’s visored ones with a sort of piercing intensity. Prowl stared back, remaining silent. Already, he could feel his systems processing the fuel, his frame feeling leagues better than it had even a breem ago.

“Why are you here?”

Wing tilted his helm, staring at him for another beat before he answered. “Because you’re very young, Prowl. Far too young to be on your own when you’re so damaged and starved.” he said firmly. “You’re hurt, and I won’t pry into how you got into this state but the fact that a cyber-ninja mechling is so damaged and so far from Cybertron worries me.”

Prowl flinched, processor turning over those words. “You said you are bounty hunters. Cybertron did not send you for me?”

“No. We don’t take jobs from Cybertron. The universal currency is credits, not shanix, though they do accept shanix on planets with Cybertronian connections.” Wing explained. “Drift and I do a lot of traveling. We take jobs from other planets we visit, like finding rare resources, defending against threats, bringing in escaped convicts, and in return we get paid in credits. So it’s not really bounty hunting.” He shrugged. “That was simply the easiest way to explain it, at the time. I don’t realize that doing so would scare you, and for that I apologize.”

Prowl reset his vocalizer, relaxing a little. Wing could still be lying, he supposed. But he didn’t think he was. If the jet truly was a proper bounty hunter, he would have dragged Prowl to his ship as soon as he found him, not waited for him to wake. He also wouldn’t have given him fuel. All of Wing’s actions up till now supported what he was saying.

“I see.” Prowl said after a moment. He still had one question, though. “How do you know I am a cyber-ninja? And why do you care?” Two questions., he supposed.

Wing chuckled. “You referred to Yoketron as “Master”. That tells me you were his student, once.” he explained. “And I care because cyber-ninjas are meant to be a fairly close knit bunch. There aren’t many of us, so we need to look out for each other.” he smiled, warm. “Besides, like I said. You’re very young. That’s worry enough as well, for me.”

Prowl didn’t know how to answer that. “I’m am no cyber-ninja. I never completed my training before Master Yoketron was offlined.” he said, thinking it would get the mech to leave.

It did not. “Wait, that was a while ago. None of the other graduated students took over your training?”

“None of the other students had achieved the rank of master.”

“Even so, the old traditions of the Corps dictate that if a master falls before they can complete their student’s training, then that master’s already graduated students should complete it themselves in the absence of another master.” Wing said, clearly displeased.

The Praxian went still, unsure how to feel about that. He knew why that had never happened to him. He’d been accused of being his Master’s killer. He doubted he was even considered a cyber-ninja, even one in training, by the others. Still, it stung to know that he’d lost even more to the false conviction.

“That never happened.” he said dully.

“So I see. That makes it even worse. What is a cyber-ninja student doing wandering so damaged and so far from home?” At Prowl’s stiffening frame, Wing winced. “Ah, yes. I promised not to pry. Apologies, little one.”

Prowl shook his head, feeling wrong-footed. He didn’t understand why Wing was being so kind. “I doubt I would be considered a student still. Much happened after….” he trailed off. Wing would know what he meant. “After Master Yoketron fell, I doubt the others consider me as a part of the Corps.”

The jet was clearly even more displeased, but as promised, he didn’t pry. “That’s slag.” he said blandly. Prowl almost gaped at the curse. “Even so, I won’t ask for details. But do you need a ride back to Cybertron? If you got stranded, I would be more than happy to return you there. We have a ship.”

“No!” Prowl blurted, then flinched back and curled into his corner again. “No. I don’t ever want to go back.” he said, tone haunted.

“Okay.” Wing agreed easily. “Then would you like a ride to another planet? One were you can get repairs and energon and a way to earn shanix? I know a few small colonies that would welcome you.”

“No.” Prowl shook his helm. “I want nothing to do with Cybertron or it’s colonies.”

“In that case, I know planets that have no affiliation to Cybertron whatsoever, where you can get repair, fuel, and anything else you might need.” Wing said.

He frowned. “Why are you insisting? Do you want shanix? I don’t have much left.”

Wing shook his helm. “No, and I’d refuse payment if you offered, I just want to see you brought someplace where you’ll be safer. That’s all. I knew Yoketron. He was…very dear to me. I want to see his student safe and well.” He paused. “And also, for the reasons I explained before.”

Prowl stared for a long time, unable to wrap his processor around someone offering so much for so little in return. He glanced down at his frame, knowing he probably did need repair, and winced at the energon staining his dull and dented armor. But, that brought up another thought in his processor.

“Do you have more energon?” To his horror, he’d asked the question before he could stop himself. He was just so hungry, even after the cube he’d had.

Wing stilled, then laughed lightly. “Yes. We have plenty aboard the ship. You can get cleaned up and have as much fuel as you need. I won’t ask for payment, either. It wouldn’t be right to ask that when you clearly need food.” he smiled.

Prowl ducked his helm, turning it over in his processor. He was terrified, and still didn’t trust Wing. But this might also be his best chance at getting someplace he could actually, properly start a new life for himself. He did risk Wing turning out to be lying and taking him back to Cybertron, but everything he’d seen and heard from the mech suggested he truly wouldn’t do that. Given his state, this really might be his best chance.

“Alright.” he agreed. “I…would very much appreciate if you could bring me to one of those planets you mentioned.”

Wing beamed, nodding and standing up. He held out a hand to Prowl to help him to his pedes. The Praxian ignored it, using the wall instead to push himself up and leaning against it for support at the wave of dizziness that assaulted him. Once it passed, he looked up to see that Wing had dropped his hand. The jet was still smiling, though the expression had relaxed and softened.

“Come on, then. The ship is this way. Drift went to get it and land it nearby.” He said.

Prowl pushed himself off the wall, then followed Wing out of the cave as the jet took the lead. They walked in silence for a few breems when Prowl suddenly sensed a presence on his right. He jerked his helm wildly, gaze landing on the white racer from before. Drift. He ignored the concern from both the bigger mech’s at his sudden, panicked movement, armor plating flared slightly as he shifted around until he had both the other two on his left. He saw the look they shared, but was infinitely grateful that neither mech made a comment on his behavior.

“Master Wing.” Drift spoke up. “I did as you asked. The spare room on the ship has been emptied and cleaned, and everything in it was transferred the the storage bay. Also, I put him in the ship’s system so he can use the energon dispenser, washracks, and anything else he might need.”

Prowl stopped walking. He knew Drift had been talking about putting him into the ship’s system. But that wasn’t right. If he was just a temporary passenger, then why would he be put into the system? Why would a berthroom be cleared for him? If he wasn’t staying on the ship permanently, then they wouldn’t have cleared out another room for him. Cleaned it up, perhaps, but cleared it out completely? No, this wasn’t making sense. Had Wing lied after all? But then, why do all that if he was just going to be turned in? None of this made sense to him, and as his panic grew it bled into his field.

Wing winced, turning a look onto his student. “I hadn’t actually gotten to that part yet, Drift.” he sighed. “Prowl is too skittish. But thank you, now I have to calm him down again.” he said wryly.

Drift had the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry, Master. I didn’t realize. I’ll go ahead to the ship and get it ready to go.” At Wing’s nod, he folded into his alt mode and drove ahead.

Wing turned back to the frightened Praxian, stepping closer. He expanded his EM field to wrap it around the smaller bot, pushing soothing comfort and easy calm into it to try and help Prowl relax. He didn’t get closer than that, though, remembering how scared he’d been of touch and close proximity.

Prowl looked up once he’d calmed enough, his hands curled into fists. “What was he talking about? Why would you do that on your ship if I’m just a temporary passenger?” he demanded.

Wing chuckled, shaking his helm. “Because I would like to have you as more than just a temporary passenger.” he sighed. “I had hoped to make this offer when you were fueled and rested and felt better, but it seems Drift inadvertently pushed things along.” he said, tone dry.

“What offer?” Prowl asked, fear warring with confusion in his processor.

Wing clasped his hands behind his back, smiling soft and warm. “If you would be willing then learn, then I would very much like to take you as a student.”

———————————————————————————————————

So, what did y’all think? Things are starting to pick up now! Let me know your thoughts, if you’re so obliged! Feedback is a huge motivator for me to keep writing, as I am a writer who craves to know what my readers think about my stuff.

Also, poor Prowl. He’s starving and injured and terrified and has no idea what’s going on. Wing just wants to help! Maybe now things’ll turn around for him, eh?

Until next time, folks!

✶  —  las rosas están cayendo   ;   j.m. 

summary: you're a figurehead in a far-reaching criminal underground operation that's offered jesse mccree haven and work in the last few years. your relationship with the cyberized cowboy is complicated but oh-so lovestruck.

pairing: jesse mccree / reader, est. relationship

tags: fluff, angst, good guy falls for the bad guy who’s not so bad

a/n: i’m simping, it’s fine

                               (    read on archive of our own !   )

Jesse McCree likes the Silkroad's End. Always has.

The place's very namesake pays homage to some dark web marketplace that operated back in the 10s; it's fitting, Jesse thinks, since the entity itself certainly fits what he'd imagine the personification of that very digital market to be. Dark, a bit shady, and always crawling with folks who aren't really who they say they are.

Staff changes every three weeks. Location, too. Lucky for him, the only thing that stays the same is the barkeep. Everything else is rotating, always moving, always changing. It's best that way.

Truth be told nothing in the States offers true anonymity, anymore. All that's long since past. Every damn street corner has a camera watchin'. But, the Silkroad's End is good — and discretion is their business. They offer what people like Jesse McCree need:

Trustworthy resources.

Even still, knowing about the Silkroad's End is one thing.

Getting in is another entirely.

Jesse's learned not to be startled when a stranger ambles up and slips something in his palm — might get 'im killed someday, but for now, he offers a gentle tip of the hat to whatever camera is eyein' his current move in whatever city he's in.

The chips — obsidian colored and round — are few and far between. There's a chain-code implanted in the micro-computer inside that registers a location on his personal data-device; but without that chip, he ain't gettin' inside. It's one use, one time only.

This time, the den is a quiet little place on a side street in New Orleans.

This chip was delivered to Jesse in a seedy bar bathroom — and as he shoved it into his pocket and muscled up his tawny-colored jeans, he was left grimacing. Bastard that gave it to him didn't even wash his hands. Just pissed and dropped it on top of the urinal.

The den is downstairs, and Jesse turns in his chip after finding the little location to a towering omnic who reminds his a little bit too much of a certain butler he once knew.

"Might wanna wash that."

Spurs tinker on the wooden steps, and when the door's eye slot slams open, Jesse is met with the gaze of a human this time — an unknown staff member with a tattoo that crawls up the side of his head. There's a tense silence. Then, the slot slams shut.

With a quick yank of the three-inch durasteel door, Jesse finally steps foot into the Silkroad's End.  

And, with an elated sort of smirk, he swaggers right in your direction.  

Jesse reckons it's been four months since he's seen you — the ever-present barkeep and present owner of the Silkroad's End  — last ;  could be that you're one of many owners and operators, as he suspects but... Well, Jesse never had enough to go on that hunch.

There he was, as always, distracted.

You know the sound of his spurs from a million others. In an instant, your lashes are flicking up from the bar and through the crowded back room. Tonight is busy — seems a good few members decided tonight would be the night they cash in their chips. You shouldn't be surprised to see Jesse McCree, but...

He's always had a way of knocking you off your game.

"Have I ever told you," comes the low croon as a set of cyberized knuckles rap on the mahogany bar, "that you make the best drinks around?"

Your smirk settles into your words. You move slowly, reaching for that top-shelf whiskey he likes so much.

"Is that why you keep coming back, then?"

Jesse smirks. His trademark hat finds a spot beside him at the bar, and he leans back to run a hand through his dark, wild hair. "One of a handful of reasons I could list, sure."

The drink that lands in front of him is coupled with your full attention.

Jesse feels awfully big in it.

His fingertip tinker against the glass. The sound is pleasing.

Your elbows meet the bartop. You lean. Your eyes drift across his face, and for a moment you find a rush of relief bloom at the realization that there are no new scars. He looks tired, but well.

Alive.  

A lot for a man with a bounty of sixty million on his head.

You work hard to keep that very bounty out of the Silkroad's End 's docket. That ledger of his, deep and relentless, has become harder to ignore in recent months. With word that Overwatch was recalled... Jesse's name had been floating around more than you liked recently.

It made you worry.

Your voice is soft. So is your smile.

Jesse, the sap he is, is glad he's sitting down for the sight of it.

"You look good, Jesse."

He scoffs into the whiskey. His eyes, a dark brown and warm like the run, roll at the remark. You grin.

"M' gettin' old," he rumbles, "And things are changing' faster than I can keep up with."

You don't pry. A habit. A good one, mostly. Jesse has a habit of being an open book. Given the chance, you'll pry later. For now, you opt to air on the side of wistful interest. Fleeting and light.

Your chin finds your palm.

Long ago, you wouldn't have dared to let a soul see you so engaged with a member like this, but... This operation ran on trust. Discretion was a part of the bigger equation and the people in this room?  You've known most of them for years now.

Bounty hunters, arms dealers, drug peddlers.

They know better than to bite the hand that feeds.

"You been busy, then?" you ask, watching the way his eyes stick to you, even when he reaches to dig out a cigar from a pocket beneath his serape. In a flash, he's procured a gilded lighter and flicked it open. The flame dances between you both, and you watch as he puffs the cigar. The embers burn red.

He exhales and smoke swirls around his head like horns — Jesse's lips slip into a lopsided sort of look; more playful than anything.

"That lead you gave me," he drawls, "It worked out. Paid good, too."

Your smile is slow.

This song and dance is always fun.

"Been savin' a few for you," you say, "You're one of the few I can trust to actually bring people in alive."  

"I haven't even been here fer more than a minute an' you're already talkin' business, pumpkin," Jesse grins, all toothy and scruffy, and takes another puff of his cigar, "That all you ever do?"

"You know me, Jesse," you slide your fingers across the underside of the bar, sending the partition up and allowing you to step around. You shrug your shoulders and hang your hands. The way his eyes flick across your figure isn't lost on you.

You cock your head towards the back office as you speak. "Always scheming."

If that ain't the god damn truth.

You're a smart little thing. All devilish wit and pulled strings. You have enough dirt in your back pocket to bring a few governments down, Jesse supposes. Nothing to bat an eyelash at.

He follows with ease; hat tucked upon his head once more, cigar and whiskey held in his hands. He follows you, looming over your shoulder, as the sea of patrons part with sidewards glances and half-aware nods. Everyone has their own business to attend to. You're simply attending to yours.

The back office isn't really much of an office — if anything, it's a refitted storage room. There's a desk, a handful of monitors, and enough security barring entrance to the windowless room that Jesse's roughed up every time.

The omnic patting him down isn't gentle. He tugs the peacekeeper from his hip holster and grunts. Jesse scowls.

That ain't never been a problem before, though.

You, all poised with your arms crossed, wave it off. The gun is shoved roughly back into Jesse's holster. If both hands weren't preoccupied, maybe the bouncer would get more than the nasty snarl Jesse manages as he's waved through. Maybe.

As the door slips shut behind him, the sound of your heels is all he hears.

"Beefed up security, huh?"

Your sigh is tight. He can see the tension along your shoulders when you round the sleek desk in the middle of the room and unlock a drawer. If you'd thought he'd move past your silence, you're wrong.

Jesse isn't like you.

He has a bad habit of asking plenty of follow up questions.

"What happened, pumpkin?"

That damn nickname is enough to spur you to straighten yourself, to set the datapad down gently on the desk in front of you, and to frown.

"There was an incident."

His worry is palpable.

"Nothing dramatic," you wave it off, shooing him slightly when he nears the desk. You walk around it and lean, settling on the edge, "But it was enough to spook a few staff members into being more mindful of who carries in the establishment. Especially behind closed doors."

You've had enough guns pulled on you in your life to know that one could have been the last — but it wasn't. It was fine. Might have earned you a few restless nights and a few connections to clean up, but the disgruntled member was dealt with. That was a month and a half ago now. Distant.

Jesse frowns. He sets his whiskey down on your desk, then leans and smothers the cigar in a fizzle of ash and smoke in the ashtray there.

His voice goes low, gruff, and serious.

"Pumpkin, I ain't a good man," he breathes, eyes low beneath the brim of his hat, "You're better off not trustin' men like me."

He does this every time.

A glimmer of self-consciousness towards his own character.

You know him better than to believe that shit.

"Jesse, if anyone was to put a bullet between my eyes," you mutter, unlocking the datapad with a flick of your finger, "I'd be honored if you were the one to do it."

That earns you a low grumble.

His weight moves to shift beside you. His hip bumps yours. His shoulder saddles right up against your own. You can smell the cigar on him, the burn of the whiskey on his tongue. Jesse is warm. He laces his own fingers together. You can feel his eyes on you as you sift through the files of bounties — and you try not to seem startled when he says your name soft enough it could pass for a lullaby.

"... You alright?"

It's not often you're asked this question.

You were right before — you were always talking business. Personal matters were kept far from any business dealings you did on a daily basis. It was pertinent. Kept the machine well-oiled.

Things with Jesse, though... They'd been different for a long time.

Things changed when the two of you had forgone professionalism once a handful of years ago now. It wasn't long after the first time you'd met him the cowboy had stolen himself into your well-guarded feelings. You blamed the charm. He believed it was luck. Despite knowing nearly nothing about you, he'd become enamored, and — when you'd initially thought the sex was something to sweeten the deal, Jesse quickly made it plenty clear he intended on keeping the sex and the business separate.

The feelings grew between those two things.

Now, in the center of his attention... Well, you feel small.

You let out a slow exhale.

"I missed you, y'know," you say slowly, eyes still trained on the names staring back at you on the datapad.

"Yeah," he breathes, "I missed you, too. Ain't fun bein' gone so long."

"As if either of us has a choice?"

Another hum. This one a bit sadder. Jesse supposes you're right, that it isn't exactly ideal  — and it's not as if he's allowed himself to be vulnerable to anyone else these last few years. Not when he's a wanted man. Not when gettin' someone tangled up in the danger is the last thing he wants.

It was different with you. You knew the danger. You...

Christ alive, he wishes now things were different.

Back then, it was easy.

Coming to terms, now, with the numbing loneliness that hangs itself over the both of you hurts a bit worse. Time is ticking by. He'll be older than he is younger soon.

"You ever wish you could leave it all behind?"

His question is met with a tired scoff. Your cheek finds his shoulder. Your hair falls along his arm.

"And become the world's most wanted woman?"

"What you've got is an empire," Jesse drawls, a hand slowly reaching for your own, "M' sure someone would wanna call it theirs ."

"And then what happens to the tired, old queen? The queen who knows what makes that empire strong?"

Your quirk your brows. Jesse sighs.

"... Point taken."

"I made my bed," you say with a measured sense of finality, "And I've gotta lay in it, Jesse."

His eyes dance alight when something then that's tempered with fire; he blinks down at you through thick lashes as he speaks.

"Wouldn't mind layin' with you..."

It's husky. Drawn out. Nearly a sigh, especially when his fingers slip along the curve of your wrist and draw up to your cheek.

"I'm starting to think you come here," you mumble with an edge of sarcasm as his nose brushes yours, "For more than just business ."

"Oh, sweetpea," Jesse grins as he whispers, "It's been that way for a long time now."

The kiss is bruising — the sort you missed horribly in those months apart. It's lip and teeth and scruff; the brush of his beard is enough to make you smile, enough to make you abandon the datapad on your desk.

Enough to keep you distracted enough that you don't notice Jesse McCree tapping an encrypted data transfer skimmer over your datapad.

You'll notice in the morning.

And by then, he'll be long gone.

Mini Fanfic #452: Visiting my Father, James (Super Smash Bros Ultimate)

4:50 p.m. Corneria Memorial Cemetery......

Samus: (Spotted a Wide Gravestone Nearby) This is the one?

James McCloud

A Brave Leader.....

A Loving Husband....

An Amazing Father.....

And Each and Everyone's Hero.

Rest in Peace....

Fox: Yep. (Chuckles Lightly) It's even more recognizable than it was before....(Turns to Samus) Thanks again for coming here with me, Samus.

Samus: (Smiles a Bit) No problem. I know it can be pretty difficult it is being in a cemetery all alone and junk.

Fox: I've been here by myself a long time ago. And yeah.....('Sighs Sadly') I'd be lying if I say I didn't walked out here depressed.....

Samus: Least you don't have to go through this alone anymore. We're always here for you, Fox.

Fox: (Smiles a Little) I know. Thank you.

???: You two are here too, huh?

The duo turns to see a familiar face making his way to them and James' Gravestone.

Fox: Wolf? What are you doing here?

Wolf: Visiting James. Really thought I was the only one here, honestly.....

Samus: Wait. You're saying that you and Fox's dad actually knew each other?

Wolf: Yep. We've tussled throughout the skies when I was younger. (Chuckles Lightly) I remember him being a lot more of a smart-ass than Fox ever was.

Samus: (Chuckles Lightly) Yeah. I can somewhat believe that.

Fox: (Rolls his Eyes while Groaning a Little) Whatever....

Wolf: But joking aside, he was still a humble, good to honest man. Fighting for what he thinks is right to the bitter end.

Fox: Yeah..... (Takes a good look at his father's Gravestone) That's my dad for ya. Always willing to do whatever it takes to protect those he loves and care about. No matter how hard and challenging things get.

Samus: (Smirks Playfully at Fox) He kind of reminds me of you in a way, Fox.

Fox: Yeah. Well.....I always try to do whatever I can to be the best that I can be. For my team and for myself. (Frowns a Little) Although......

Samus: Hm?

Fox: Sometimes I..... couldn't go but to think that my best..... isn't really good enough. Even after everything I've been through so far in my life.......

Wolf: Hey.

Fox: (Turns to Wolf) Yeah?

Wolf: You remember what I told you years ago? D-

Fox: "Don't hesitate. When the time comes, just act." Am I right?

Wolf: (Eyes Widened a bit before Chuckling Lightly Again) Well, I'll be damned. You actually remembered my advice.

Fox: (Chuckles Lightly) Well, it was the same advice that helped me pull through over the years. (Shrugged) So I might as well be thankful that you gave me this in the first place, Wolf.

Wolf: Whatever you say, McCloud. I'm just glad you're yourself again.

Fox: (Smiles Softly) Yeah. Me too.

Samus: Okay. I don't wanna ruin this heartfelt moment or anything, but..... I'm starting to find it weird that you two are acting friendly to one another nowadays. You sure you two aren't-

Wolf: ('Scoffs') Please. Fox wishes he would be friends with me.

Fox: (Rolled his Eyes while Crossing his Arms) I can say the same about you, 'O Donnell. I'm still surprised Isabelle has fallen for you.

Wolf: (Points his Middle Finger at Fox with a Intense Glare) Eat shit and die.

Fox: (Glares Back at his Rival) Right back at you, jackass.

Samus: (Gives the Duo a "Really?" Look) Okay. Nevermind. I can clearly see you two still hate each other. But, Fox.....

Fox: Yes, Samus?

Samus: I just wanted to let you that if you ask me, I don't think you should worry too much about your self growth or anything for that matter. (Smiles Softly) Cause I think you're good enough as it is.

Fox: Really?

Samus: Yeah. I mean, you did everything you can to protect your team and even us in some occasion. Plus, when things get risky or even frustrating, you never once gave up on yourself and always did whatever you could to push through in the end. So trust me when I say that if your dad were here right now, I'm positive that he would be very proud of you.

Fox: (Begins to Smile Sincerely while Wiping a Tear from under his Eye) You know....I really thought this would be another depressing day for me today. Hell, I never even wanted to be here at all. But now.... I'm just really glad you guys are here with me to shed some light.

Wolf: I came here in my own obligation, McCloud.....But I suppose it was...sort of nice to have company in a cemetery. Even if it happens to be you two bozos....

Samus: (Rolled Her Eyes) Likewise, Wolf.... Really. (Turns to Fox with a Small Smile) And I'm glad you're feeling better now, Fox. (Ruffles the top of Fox's Head) And like I said before, we always got your back.

Fox: I know. (Smiles Brightly) And I honestly can't thank you enough for this.

Meanwhile From the Heavens Above.....

James: (Smiles Softly at his son Below) That Bounty Hunter's right. I am proud of you. I will always be proud of you. Because no matter anyone else says, you are Fox McCloud, the leader of Star Fox and my own son.....(A Tear Fell out from his Eye) Whom I love to this very day.

@keyenuta

@cyber-wildcat

@26shann

@albion-93

@ink-correctsmashbrosbloo

@chompycroc

@ma-lemons

By The Moons I Honour Thee

Contains: SWEARING, VIOLENCE, POSSIBLE NSFW THEMES

CHAPTER 1...

The colours of Faster-Than-Light gave Jules a headache.

Slipstream engines were the fastest form of FTL but it came at the cost of comfort; the ride was bumpy and the slipstream tunnel wasn’t entirely stable, but the speed more than made up for it. The headache wasn’t a priority right now, however. The Dalek Saucer in pursuit was a far more pressing issue.

              “Computer, how far behind is the hostile?” Jules asked hurriedly, his fingers dancing over a keyboard.

“Four kilometres and closing,” the cool robotic voice replied. “They still have a weapon lock despite your efforts.” The usually emotionless electronic speech contained an almost undetectable tone of condescension. Jules raised an eyebrow but ignored it. Now was not the time to get into a shouting match with the computer. He spun the chair to look backwards and a holographic screen showing the rear of the ship flickered into life. The Dalek Saucer was gaining slowly - a blue laser bolt flew past the ship. The lock was not perfect, it seemed. Spinning back forward, Jules threw the ship into a pattern of evasive manoeuvres to shift the Dalek lock.

              “Tell me you fixed the cloak!” Jules yelled at the hatch down to the cargo hold.

“It’ssss taking sssome time,” hissed the response. The female Ice Warrior was no engineer. “Illegal cloaking devicessss don’t come with manualssss!” The ship violently lurched as a laser bolt sheared through the starboard wing.

              “Warning. Hull damage sus-” The voice was cut off buy the blaring sound of a Dalek.

“FLEEING VESSEL. CEASE FLIGHT AND PREPAIR TO BE EXTERMINATED!”  

              “Piss off, tin can.” Jules retorted to himself, barrel-rolling the ship and dodging more bolts. “Rakara, tell me the time circuits work.”

              “Currently, yessss,” she responded, confused. “Whhhy?”

Jules avoided the question, “Ready a Z-Neutrino torpedo.”

              The Chula warship the Selene dropped out of slipstream just ahead of the Dalek saucer and disappeared. Two seconds later, the Dalek vessel exploded and the Selene flew out from the wreckage.

*****

                Leaving the remains of the Dalek ship far behind, Jules punched in the coordinates for the planet Balthazar and engaged the slipstream engines. Getting up from the command chair, he climbed down to the cargo bay to where Rakara was waiting, her arms folded.

              “A time Jump?” She hissed menacingly, “The Churshhhh will impound the Ssssselene this time.”

“The Church won’t find out; their temporal department is too busy hunting for a blue box to worry about a small retrograde hop.” Jules was trying to convince himself more than her. He was worried they’d take away the Selene and leave him stranded on some backwater world. He ran a hand through his scruffy black hair, exposing his left eye…or what was left of it. The cyber implant had not been some off-the-books black market upgrade, but a full-on conversion, or what was supposed to have been. The process had been interrupted by Rakara – a debt he would never be able to fully repay. Rakara’s crimson eyes looked him up and down.

              “You need a sssshower,” she finally said after a few moments pause. “You ssssmell of sssweat and adrenaline.”

              Jules nodded in agreement, “You have control,” he said softly and walked to the shower room.

 *****

 The Selene emerged from Slipstream on the edge of Balthazar’s orbit. The planet was a city world, with population figures numbering in the hundreds of billions. Jules piloted the ship along an approach corridor and set her down on a floating landing pad hovering between skyscrapers. The cargo ramp opened and Jules strolled out into the driving rain; the planet had global storm systems caused by the ionisation of the atmosphere. Too many star ships, Jules thought to himself as he walked toward the public transmat booth. The booth looked like a glass telephone box with a number pad fixed to one side where the transmat location was dialled in. With a zapping sound, Jules was rematerialized on the pavement outside an unassuming three-story building in the undercity. The door slid open with a click and he continued inside. The corridor was a pale sickly green colour, made worse by the dim lighting. Jules made for the only door at the far end, however before he got there, the door opened and a man stepped through…no, not a man, a flesh avatar.

“Halt!” the Flesh announced. “Identify yourself.”

“Jules Flynn, contract bounty hunter for the Church.” Jules replied with a bored expression. This routine was getting old now. The church had become so paranoid since word of the Doctor reached them; Jules wasn’t interested in galactic politics. For the most part he just liked getting paid.

“You may proceed,” the flat voice informed him. Jules pushed past the flesh guard and into the office of Adrian Ziegler.

“Sit down Jules.” Adrian didn’t look up from his holopaper, but Jules did as commanded. “Word has reached me of a destroyed Dalek ship in sector B37, was this you?”

“I’m not sure what-” Jules was cut off.

“The destruction was caused by a Z-Neutrino device, something which is illegal in most galaxies. So, I ask again: did you have anything to do with it?” Adrian’s voice was calm and slow, his steel grey eyes studying Jules over the paper.

“You’re more worried about a Z-Neutrino device than my time hop?” Jules asked, perplexed.

“In all honesty Jules, I’m not worried about either. Top brass is. However, you report to me and I need you.” Adrian clicked his fingers and the holopaper fizzled out of existence. With a tap on the keyboard another hologram appeared; this one took the image of a jet-black crystal, shaped like a cut diamond. “This,” he gestured, “is the Vortex Core.”

Jules raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

A harsh look. “The Vortex Core is possibly the most powerful artefact ever discovered. The Core can wire itself into any navigational system and gives it the positional data of every ship in the galaxy.”

Jules blinked. “How the hell would it know that?”

“We don’t know - no one does. But it’s true and it’s missing. Top brass doesn’t want people knowing about this as we don’t exactly need a mass panic on our hands, but if we don’t get to the device…we can’t imagine the damage the Daleks, Cybermen or Sontarans could do with that data.” Adrian stood up. “You’re the best tracker we have in our employ, we need you to locate the object for us. Its last known location was in the Delirium Cathedral; the headless monks had it in their possession.”

Jules just sat there, slightly stunned. Cloaking and time travel were one thing, but to know the position of every ship in the galaxy…to have that power… “I’ll find the device. But to destroy it. No-one should have that power.” He shifted to stand and froze, hearing the cocking of a gun behind him. “This is about that Doctor isn’t it? You want to know where he is. You may be a galactic peacekeeping force but you don’t have the right to people’s locations, and you don’t have the right to kill whoever you want.”

“The Doctor is a threat to the Church and the galaxy; he must be stopped!” Adrian spat, “We received a message from the future - he will destroy all of us. This galaxy, this universe. A war without end. With the Core we will know his location and we can end his reign of terror.”

Jules dared to stand, feeling the gun barrel in his back. “I will not give you the device. Find him yourself if you have this much courage in your convictions, but I grew up on the stories of a man, a wanderer, who helped people, who saved people. Now if he is this Doctor then by the moons, I will not help you.” His breathing quickened, anticipating a fight. He fidgeted with the ring on his left little finger.

Muscles flexed in the other man’s jaw. “Then it seems you have outlived your-” before Adrian could finish, Jules twisted the ring and the room froze. The desk fan in the back corner ceased spinning; Adrian stopped talking. Jules looked around. The micro Time-Stop would only last a few minutes, enough time to vacate the building and gain a small head start on the Church…

March Wrap-Up

I read books 17 books in March! I did post a few individual reviews and have tagged them here in case you’re interested.

Gemina by Amy Kaufman and Jay Kristoff - ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Moving to a space station at the edge of the galaxy was always going to be the death of Hanna’s social life. Nobody said it might actually get her killed

The sci-fi saga that began with the breakout bestseller Illuminae continues on board the Jump Station Heimdall, where two new characters will confront the next wave of the BeiTech assault.

Hanna is the station captain’s pampered daughter; Nik the reluctant member of a notorious crime family. But while the pair are struggling with the realities of life aboard the galaxy’s most boring space station, little do they know that Kady Grant and the Hypatia are headed right toward Heimdall, carrying news of the Kerenza invasion.

When an elite BeiTech strike team invades the station, Hanna and Nik are thrown together to defend their home. But alien predators are picking off the station residents one by one, and a malfunction in the station’s wormhole means the space-time continuum might be ripped in two before dinner. Soon Hanna and Nik aren’t just fighting for their own survival; the fate of everyone on the Hypatia—and possibly the known universe—is in their hands.

But relax. They’ve totally got this. They hope.

I just have so much love for this series. When I finally get to Obsidio and finish it (still waiting for the paperback), I’ll write a whole series review!

 Asteria: Into the Fray by Adrienne Enfinger - ⭐⭐

It's not every day that your suicide attempt is interrupted by a handsome archangel. But then, nothing remains ordinary for long on the day Asteria meets Micah for the first time.

Talking her down from the ledge, Micah reveals to Asteria that she is no ordinary young woman. She is the descendant of nephilim - part angel, part human - and her parents did not die in a car crash, they were killed by the fallen angel, Azazel, in the eternal battle of good versus evil.

Asteria finds herself thrust into the middle of that war and discovers that she is part of a prophecy that can finally bring about its end - if Azazel does not kill her first.

She soon joins forces with angels, good and bad, in an epic battle that could save mankind...

...or bring about its demise

Not great… it definitely read like a fanfiction of Supernatural and the quality of writing was… ehhhhhh it was weird like Enfinger was trying too hard.

 Le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry - ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Moral allegory and spiritual autobiography, The Little Prince is the most translated book in the French language. With a timeless charm it tells the story of a little boy who leaves the safety of his own tiny planet to travel the universe, learning the vagaries of adult behaviour through a series of extraordinary encounters. His personal odyssey culminates in a voyage to Earth and further adventures.

Full review soon to follow!

 Little Pills by Melody Dodds - ⭐⭐⭐

Seventeen-year-old Charlotte Navarro never asked to be anyone's hero. If you're a hero, your sister isn't supposed to hate you. And you're definitely not supposed to get hooked on Gramma's painkillers. Even so, Charlotte's sister's friend Mia looks at her like she's some sort of hero. As Charlotte starts taking pills more and more, she has to question how it could hurt herself and others, even Mia. Is it a harmless habit or a dangerous addiction?

Review here! Publication – 2nd April 2019

 You Do You by Sarah Knight - ⭐⭐⭐

Being yourself should be easy, yet too many of us struggle to live on other people's terms instead of our own. Rather than feeling large and in charge, we feel little and belittled.

Sound familiar? Bestselling "anti-guru" Sarah Knight has three simple words for you:

YOU DO YOU.

It's time to start putting your happiness first--and stop letting other people tell you what to do, how to do it, or why it can't be done. And don't panic! You can do it without losing friends and alienating people. Knight delivers her trademark no-bullsh*t advice about:

The Tyranny of "Just Because"

The social contract and how to amend it

Turning "flaws" into strengths--aka "mental redecorating"

Why it's not your job to be nice

Letting your freak flag fly

How to take risks, silence the doubters, and prove the haters wrong

Review

 Beauty Queens by Libba Bray - ⭐⭐⭐⭐

The 50 contestants in the Miss Teen Dream pageant thought this was going to be a fun trip to the beach, where they could parade in their state-appropriate costumes and compete in front of the cameras.

But sadly, their airplane had another idea, crashing on a desert island and leaving the survivors stranded with little food, little water, and practically no eyeliner.

What’s a beauty queen to do? Continue to practice for the talent portion of the program - or wrestle snakes to the ground? Get a perfect tan - or learn to run wild? And what should happen when the sexy pirates show up?

Welcome to the heart of non-exfoliated darkness.

BWAHAHAHAHA THIS IS JUST MY TYPE OF HUMOUR!! Granted, my humour is a… specific brand so just beware going into this.

The Center of the Universe by Ria Voros - ⭐⭐⭐⭐ 

  Grace Carter's mother --- the celebrity news anchor GG Carter --- is everything Grace is not. GG is a star, with a flawless wardrobe and a following of thousands, while Grace --- an aspiring astrophysicist --- is into stars of another kind. She and her mother have always been in different orbits. Then one day GG is just ... gone. Cameras descend on their house, news shows speculate about what might have happened and Grace's family struggles to find a new rhythm as they wait for answers. While the authorities unravel the mystery behind GG's disappearance, Grace grows closer to her high school's golden boy, Mylo, who has faced a black hole of his own. She also uncovers some secrets from her mother's long-lost past. The more Grace learns, the more she wonders. Did she ever really know her mother? Was GG abducted ... or did she leave? And if she left, why?

Review here! Publication – April 2nd 2019

 ReWired by S. R. Johannes -  ⭐

Sixteen-year-old Ada Lovelace is never more alive and sure of herself than when she's hacking into a "secure" network as her alter ego, the Dark Angel. In the real world, Ada is broken, reeling from her best friend Simone's recent suicide. But online, the reclusive daughter of Senator Lovelace (champion of the new Online Privacy Bill) is a daring white hat hacker and the only female member of the Orwellians, an elite group responsible for a string of high-profile hacks against major corporations, with a mission to protect the little guy. Ada is swiftly proving she's a force to be reckoned with, when a fellow Orwellian betrays her to the FBI. To protect her father's career, Ada is sent to ReBoot, a technology rehab facility for teens...the same rehab Simone attended right before killing herself.

It's bad enough that the ReBoot facility is creepy in an Overlook-Hotel-meets-Winchester-Mansion way, but when Ada realizes Simone's suicide is just one in an increasingly suspicious string of "accidental" deaths and "suicides" occurring just after kids leave ReBoot, Ada knows she can't leave without figuring out what really happened to her best friend. The massive cyber conspiracy she uncovers will threaten everything she cares about--her dad's career, her new relationship with a wry, handsome, reformed hacker who gets under her skin, and most of all--the version of herself Ada likes best--the Dark Angel.

Uh yeah here’s my rant review. I just... yeah if you want to know what I thought just read the review I can’t be bothered to reiterate.

Zenith by Linday Cummings and Sasha Alsberg - ⭐⭐⭐

Most know Androma Racella as the Bloody Baroness, a powerful mercenary whose reign of terror stretches across the Mirabel Galaxy. To those aboard her glass starship, Marauder, however, she's just Andi, their friend and fearless leader.

But when a routine mission goes awry, the Marauder's all-girl crew is tested as they find themselves in a treacherous situation and at the mercy of a sadistic bounty hunter from Andi's past.

Meanwhile, across the galaxy, a ruthless ruler waits in the shadows of the planet Xen Ptera, biding her time to exact revenge for the destruction of her people. The pieces of her deadly plan are about to fall into place, unleashing a plot that will tear Mirabel in two.

Andi and her crew embark on a dangerous, soul-testing journey that could restore order to their shipor just as easily start a war that will devour worlds. As the Marauder hurtles toward the unknown, and Mirabel hangs in the balance, the only certainty is that in a galaxy run on lies and illusion, no one can be trusted.

You know what, not as bad as I thought it would be. I mean, it wasn’t anything special and I’m not very attached to the characters, but hey there are only two books so who knows maybe I’ll just finish the series.

The Forest of Hands and Teeth by Carrie Ryan - ⭐⭐⭐⭐

In Mary's world there are simple truths. The Sisterhood always knows best. The Guardians will protect and serve. The Unconsecrated will never relent. And you must always mind the fence that surrounds the village; the fence that protects the village from the Forest of Hands and Teeth. But, slowly, Mary’s truths are failing her. She’s learning things she never wanted to know about the Sisterhood and its secrets, and the Guardians and their power, and about the Unconsecrated and their relentlessness. When the fence is breached and her world is thrown into chaos, she must choose between her village and her future—between the one she loves and the one who loves her. And she must face the truth about the Forest of Hands and Teeth. Could there be life outside a world surrounded by so much death?

I knew I had a good feeling about this book. It’s eerie and I was stressing the fuck out the entire book about that dog’s wellbeing. 100% do recommend if you’re into brutal, creepy and dark books. Be forewarned, when I say dark, I mean DARK. Like zombie babies and children that are subsequently decapitated dark.

Losing Adam by Adrienne Clarke - ⭐⭐⭐⭐

 What happens when the person you love most in the world suddenly becomes a stranger?

Adam and Jenny’s world is falling apart. Their dream of attending college together away from home quickly becomes a nightmare when Adam begins hearing the voice of the Snow Queen. Adam’s startling transformation from popular drama student into a withdrawn, suspicious stranger leaves Jenny frightened and confused. How can the person she loves most in the world suddenly become someone she doesn’t recognize? As Adam drifts farther and farther away into the Snow Queen’s mysterious world of ice and snow, Jenny believes she must fight to bring him back or risk losing him forever.

Holy fuck. This book probably has the most accurate representation of any mental illness I’ve seen in YA. Adam’s schizophrenia wasn’t watered down in the slightest and it wasn’t romanticized. I would have liked to read more of Adam’s perspective than Jenny’s since Adrienne Clarke writes mental illness so accurately. Does that make sense?

I liked that she gave us a look at how mental illness affects the individual in question, but also their loved ones. Although I would have preferred if we had focused more on Adam as for the reason above.

Whisper by Lynette Noni - ⭐⭐⭐

For two years, six months, fourteen days, eleven hours and sixteen minutes, Subject Six-Eight-Four — ‘Jane Doe’ — has been locked away and experimented on, without uttering a single word.

As Jane’s resolve begins to crack under the influence of her new — and unexpectedly kind — evaluator, she uncovers the truth about Lengard’s mysterious ‘program’, discovering that her own secret is at the heart of a sinister plot … and one wrong move, one wrong word, could change the world.

Review Here!

 The Thirteenth Guardian by K.M. Lewis - ⭐⭐⭐⭐

Da Vinci’s secret pales. Michelangelo concealed an explosive truth in his famous Creation of Man fresco in the Sistine Chapel at the Vatican. Everything we have been taught about Eve is wrong—she didn’t cause the fall of man. Instead, Eve carried a far more devastating secret for millennia; one that will change the world forever.

As the modern-day world suffers the cataclysmic effects of the “Plagues of Egypt”, Avery Fitzgerald, a statuesque Astrophysics major at Stanford, discovers that she is mysteriously bound to five strangers by an extremely rare condition that foremost medical experts cannot explain. Thrust into extraordinary circumstances, they race against time to stay alive as they are pursued by an age-old adversary and the world around them collapses into annihilation. Under sacred oath, The Guardians—a far more archaic and enigmatic secret society than the Freemasons, Templars, and the Priory—protect Avery as she embarks on a daring quest that only legends of old have been on before. Avery must come to terms with the shocking realization that the blood of an ancient queen flows through her veins and that the fate of the world now rests on her shoulders.

Release date – June 7th 2019

Review Here!

Angelfall by Susan Ee - ⭐⭐⭐⭐

It's been six weeks since angels of the apocalypse descended to demolish the modern world. Street gangs rule the day while fear and superstition rule the night. When warrior angels fly away with a helpless little girl, her seventeen-year-old sister Penryn will do anything to get her back.

Anything, including making a deal with an enemy angel.

Raffe is a warrior who lies broken and wingless on the street. After eons of fighting his own battles, he finds himself being rescued from a desperate situation by a half-starved teenage girl.

Traveling through a dark and twisted Northern California, they have only each other to rely on for survival. Together, they journey toward the angels' stronghold in San Francisco where she'll risk everything to rescue her sister and he'll put himself at the mercy of his greatest enemies for the chance to be made whole again.

Yesssssss I like this. I find that many angel stories are overdone or hyper-religious, but this, this seems pretty promising.

Dead of Night by Carlyle Labuschagne – ⭐

In a dark and desolated After Earth, love still does exist, but the cost of bearing such a flaw is death.

World War III has left Earth in utter turmoil. People’s beliefs are said to be the cause of the worldwide destruction. After The Clearing new laws are set about - to show certitude in anything besides the law is weak and chargeable as mutiny. To be illogical and have faith in religion is illegal, to be limitless is dangerous. And Illness is seen as a defect – all flaws that are inexcusable.

But to love is the greatest betrayal of all man kind. It is a fault the world has long forgotten and punishable by death, a fatal risk Aecker and Opel are fully prepared to take - because in love there is freedom. But how far can they push back before it claims their lives and of those they care about?

This is the worst book I’ve read in my entire life.

Oh my god it was just so bad I don’t even know where to start. There is no plot, the characters are flat, every single scene was chaotic (I swear I got [metaphorical] whiplash), and it ends out of fucking nowhere. I thought I was missing part of my copy then ending was so sudden.

The world development was non-existent, and I was just confused all the way through.

I would write an individual review on this since I received it in exchange for an honest review, but honestly, this is all I have to say. I’m not even entirely sure as to what happened. 

Unfortunately, 0 stars is not an option on Goodreads, so I had to stick with one even though I don’t think it deserves it.

I Hunt Killers by Barry Lyga – ⭐⭐⭐⭐

Jasper "Jazz" Dent is a likable teenager. A charmer, one might say.

But he's also the son of the world's most infamous serial killer, and for Dear Old Dad, Take Your Son to Work Day was year-round. Jazz has witnessed crime scenes the way cops wish they could—from the criminal's point of view.

And now bodies are piling up in Lobo's Nod.

In an effort to clear his name, Jazz joins the police in a hunt for a new serial killer. But Jazz has a secret—could he be more like his father than anyone knows?

Yessss another thriller. I love the internal conflict Jazz is dealing with and it’s expertly woven in with the plot. Would recommend, and will definitely be continuing on with the series!

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen – ⭐⭐

Since its immediate success in 1813, Pride and Prejudice has remained one of the most popular novels in the English language. Jane Austen called this brilliant work "her own darling child" and its vivacious heroine, Elizabeth Bennet, "as delightful a creature as ever appeared in print." The romantic clash between the opinionated Elizabeth and her proud beau, Mr. Darcy, is a splendid performance of civilized sparring. And Jane Austen's radiant wit sparkles as her characters dance a delicate quadrille of flirtation and intrigue, making this book the most superb comedy of manners of Regency England.

You know… it’s a classic. I don’t really like classics. I feel like I need to read them you know? Oh well.

Everyone’s a Aliebn when ur a Aliebn Too by Jomny Sun - ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Here is the unforgettable story of Jomny, an alien sent to study Earth. Always feeling apart, even among his species, Jomny feels at home for the first time among the earthlings he meets. There is a bear tired of other creatures running in fear, an egg struggling to decide what to hatch into, a turtle hiding itself by learning camouflage, a puppy struggling to express its true feelings, and many more.

The characters are unique and inventive—bees think long and hard about what love means, birds try to eat the sun, nothingness questions its own existence, a ghost comes to terms with dying, and an introverted hedgehog slowly lets Jomny see its artistic insecurities. At the same time, Jomny’s curious presence allows these characters to open up to him in ways they were never able to before, revealing the power of somebody who is just there to listen.

Oh my god this was just so cute and filled with so many important messages than hit very close to home. New favourite for sure.

Number of books read: 17

Number of pages read: 5806

Average Pages per Book : 341.5

Average rating: 3.4

Favourite book of the month: Gemina by Amy Kaufman and Jay Kristoff. I love love love the Illuminae files! Definitely my favourite sci-fi series to date.

Least favourite book of the month: Dead of Night by Carlyle Labuschange. It’s just so bad, you guys.

Walk in Two Worlds: Chapter #12

Incoming message

Holy Hell, to has been a long time! Sorry we haven’t reached you sooner friend, we had to loose out scent for months due to a series of events. Seemed Bishop and Griffon have been in need of extra assistance for my scholarly works of the two new animus machines that Abstergo had produced. We even have been gathering witness from survivors of the “imprisonment of one of the private research centers in the southwest close to the Mexican/American border.

So now with Abstergo focused on more problems related to Hurricane Harvey destroying a warehouse that destroyed the newest research plans; fortunately, our spies and trusted allies have already scanned the plans as Harvey was in vain trying to push it’s citizens out of the city.

God. Those poor souls…

But, we must be brief. I’m glad your well, as far as I can tell. I could be wrong. Regardless, I’ve managed to steal not only a bit of the Katie Shepard files, but a bit of the Hellen Patterson files as well. I suppose after the last session of the memory of Katie’s birthday, Abstergo probably thought that Katie would be of little use. So those memories have been collecting cyber dust for the months we’ve been absent. Until that Norwegian bastard gets o our track, we get into the files of these women. Probably Hellen’s files should be played first since Abstergo probably hasn’t figured out her connection yet.

End of Message

__________________

The smell of cooked beans and smoked game filtered the air. Hellen was begging in her mind to have a whiskey now more then ever, as one of Jame’s men stitched the wound from her arm.

“From the maps I read, this creek, Brushy Creek comes from the Missouri river. So you should be safer riding along upstream.” Hellen turned her horse as Frank pointed the other boys the direction of the creek. “Hold on.”  Hellen turned in her saddle, and Jesse threw a flask and a small leather purse from his saddle bag towards Hellen. She caught it, and looked to see a sum of cash, and opened the flask to smell the rich wooden smell of whiskey. “I know it’s not Irish tradition, but Kansas City can make the finest.” James tipped his hat towards her. “Consider this even, for ridding our trail from those men.” “Here here.” Hellen replied before taking a shot’s worth down her throat.  

“Jesse, I know you have a family to look after, but you need to flee Kansas City. With you coming out of “retirement”, they will follow every suspicion leading to you and Frank’s family. “Hmm.” Jesse rubbed his chin in thought. “Saint Joseph would be the closet to train routes. Better consider that before my little ones question their daddy more.” “Come to think of it, ain’t you suppose to be keeping an eye on those gals of yours up in Montana?” Frank asked, eating a chunk of deer liver. Hellen shook her head and smiled, “Maggie could handle the Dusty Rose just fine.” Some of the men chuckled and one of them with a thick southern accent commented, “Sure right y’all. Considering how the “Virgin Madame” can go in and out without men missing her. You know how much money men would pay for ya.” “Oh sure, a skinny little undercover assassin with a torn up ear and a temper of a bobcat, that also takes in being a madame and a bounty hunter is worth getting money for.”

When Hellen finished her meal, she saddled her horse and packed her saddle bags, including the manuscript’s pages safely in her boot as well. “Hellen.” Frank called out. “Keep an eye over your shoulder. They say that this, McGriffon is in for your head.” Hellen shook her head, understanding what Frank was talking about. “That bastard will have to catch me first. But thanks.” Hellen spurred her stallion around as she headed south towards the settlement of Kearney.

_____________________________-

That’s it for that memory I’m afraid. It seems more out of pace since the DNA sample was old. But it’s enough to get ’’s bloodhounds in a different source of data while you contain Katie’s memories in the USB files. I will say though, things are getting more epic as Katie goes further in this mess she’s in.

End of Message

Chapter #12

August 9th, 1757 River Valley, New York

With her hidden blades upon her wrists and her mind full of awareness, Katie followed Liam as the scouted the wooden areas of the River Valley. The past four months had been one of mass effects of complications among the assassins. For one, one of their traders who was also a hidden informant was mysteriously killed with any identification of the culprit going into the other side with him.

Following with hearing an enraged and frustrated Hope as she had to explain to Achilles that many of the factories that carried explosives and gases that were to be of use against the templars through her gangs were involved in a mass explosion. And to make matters worse, she never received the results of an experiment she was involved with Benjamin Franklin when they were suppose to meet. Katie unfortunately was the one who found out that she saw Dr. Franklin aboard a ship for Philadelphia at the hour of the meeting that he was suppose to meet.

A month prior, when Achilles summoned Katie to the homestead, he and Liam made the decision that Katie was ready for in field work and presented her the last set of robes that Miss Abigale ever made before the fever both claimed her and Connor. She was also presented with a pair of hidden blades that were obviously an upgrade with a new rope dart and a lever that made the made shirt into a dagger with a turn of the index. Katie could of sworn that she saw Liam beamed with pride underneath the seriousness he had to place when in presence of the mentor.

Liam and Katie then boarded upon a ship to reach the River Valley, where she aided in the fight, and to help heal the wounded natives and french soldiers that joined the fight. the Abenaki allies, lead by French General lLouis-Joseph de Montcalm plotted to ambush the Colonel and his men as they retreated from their own fort. Katie never really paid attention to the war, nor knew the reason for the war. All she knew that it involved the french and the iritis crown and the subjects of dear King Georgie. The only detail that she did pay attention to was the fact that Kesegowaase decided to use this to his advantage and led the attack in the hopes of assassinating Monro. As the Native assess in left, Katie felt a quick breath as she realized, that the Colornal would die this day. Liam placed a hand on her shoulder, she looked up to see Liam giving a nod and a light grip as to say, “I know what your thinking.” before talking to a few other master assassins. But Katie diverted herself by aidding the soldiers, even though her body was lacking from wash and lack of sleep.

“Hold still!” She scolded on a young soldier, who’s arm was bleeding aggressively after a musket ball rested in it. “Can’t help it miss. Hursts like hell!” The young soldier complained. “The only thing you’ll be complain about is the lack of one if you don’t stand still.” Katie’s eyes hardened with concentration as she pressed the wounds hard as she wrapped it. Liam was looking upon a map upon a larger man shift table of trees and bark. He peeked around only to chuckle when seeing Katie’s struggle with the lad.

He must think I’m a gesture wrestling a snake. Katie thought as she finished tying the wraps upon the arm. The lad thanked her and went to his comrades in arms. It was by then, a series of shouts caught her attention.

Two french soldiers were assisting Kesegowaase, the native assassin was barely keeping his head up as his feet dragged on the ground. His long braids covered his face, and Katie could see upon the tanned deer skin shirt a trail of blood. Katie called out to Liam as they ran towards their comrades.

“Heavens above and below, what happened?” Katie asked, looking upon the assassin’s scared and bloodied face that indicated that he was close to an explosion.

Liam turned to Katie, “Do you have anything that could ease the pain?” Katie nodded, straightened herself upright and ran to her saddlebags. She pulled out various salves, herbs, and cloths into a larger cloth. She barked at a french soldier to fetch a pale of water from the stream and pour some in the cast-iron pot in the cook fire ring.

The two assassin’s assisted the wounded native against a tree. Liam lifted Kasogwase’s head slowly. The assassin’s face as Katie examined the damage further. The face was blistered and reddened with burns accompanying with cut skin from possible shards of wood, some streams of blood went down upon the master assassin’s face. the skin was so inflated that Katie could feel the heat through the dampen cloth as she cleaned his face. As she preformed her work, Liam asked the native warrior again, “What the hell happened to you? Surely Monro didn’t set this, he’s too…”  

“He lives! He’d survived! And now…he has sided with the templars!”

Katie nearly dropped the salve container, her eyes widened like a doe being exposed. Kesegowaase saw him?! She had to focus on her work, keeping her eyes focused on the possible second degree burns on the master assassin’s face. She prayed to God silently that no one would noticed the panic upon her face, especially Kasogwase. But she had to know.

“Who?” Katie asked, trying to hide the desperation in her voice and face.

The native coughed a moment before a scarp answer filtered by pain joined with anger. “Shay…”

Katie dared to look at the Liam with the corner of her eye as her master’s face widened with surprise. “What?” He breathed a pained whisper that made Hellen froze in place.

Deciding to play the dumb card, Katie was brave enough in an innocent curiosity asked, “Shay? Wasn’t that the name of the assassin who…”

“I need a moment with Kasogwase Katie! Please…just…tend to the others. I’ll let you know what is happening when we figure this out.” Liam’s face was torn betweenez surprise and anger. A look that made Katie feel frightened, as if she came across a sleeping predator. Yet, she nodded and turned to tend to the other wounded soldiers.

As Katie worked, she talked to the soldiers, asking them what happened. One of them finally explained that Kasogwase ranged an open attack on Monro, disputes the fact than Mancaul offered Monro and the British terms of surrender. Then as they chased after the Colonial and his men with the lone man, assumedly Shay in Katie’s mind, hand shot a barrel fun of gun power to the native and his men. Katie felt sick as she heard these stories. Not at the fact that Shay is truly capable of harm; yet she began to see a matter that had been bugging her for years that she needed to discuss Liam with before addressing the mentor.

Later that evening, Katie was staring upon the fire writing hard, yet hesitant. As she wrote her reports for Achilles, Katie’s thoughts and fears were crashing upon her mind. Why would Shay turn on one of his own? Former own now. This was not the man she’d known he could be capable of! Of course, Shay never expects the idea of Katie an assassin; therefore, Katie knew that her life and the brotherhood’s depended on her keeping her secrets contained.

Liam walked up towards the fire and sat right next to her. He handed her a long strip of dried deer meat. She took it with a thanks, and chewed on the gamey meat. Liam looked up into the night sky, thousands of stars gleamed and glittered. A shooting star made a long trail across the dark canvas, until it disappeared into the darkness. Liam smiled, he knew what to wish for from what Katie saw. He looked at the corner of his eye to see Katie chewing the meat, and writing the reports. Her hair glowed redder by the flames. Resulting in this young woman to be more deadly and dangerously beautiful. Liam took a log and threw it in the middle of the fire. It was also a diversion from the thoughts and feelings that resulted after learning about Shay.

“I need you to confirm and add your testimony in this report. Most of the soldiers only gave me the logical of what happened.” Katie lifted her eyes and turned to look at her master. “So will you please tell me what in the Almighty one’s name is going on?” Liam’s eyes closed as he rubbed them with his two fingers. He nodded and explained to her what happened as the soldiers proclaimed, and after conferment from Kasogwase and a few scouts, that Shay Cormac, a man that Liam had grieved for over a year now is alive and standing. Bearing a templar uniform that was too familiar to him. “Katie, I need to ask you a hard question. Was your cousin buried in a long black leather jacket?” Liam looked hard upon Katie. Blue eyes meeting with green. Without thinking she answered, “Yes. Well I’m not sure. It was a closed casket service at the funeral, so I can’t say for sure. Why?”

Liam sighed and shook his head. “Sorry Katie. I assumed that…it’s late…you should get some sleep. We have a long journey ahead of us. I’ll finish the report. We need to inform the Abenaki elders as well. Seemed we even lost some warriors as well”  He took the parchment and scroll from Katie ands and nodded as she lifted herself up. As she turned and walked away, Liam called her out her name. She turned and looked at the man. “What you did out there…we need that same amount of integrity and swift every moment, even in battle.” It was as close to a compliment as she could get from Liam at this point. Katie nodded and made her way to the bed roll where they’d camp. As she drifted to sleep with a pistol near by, Katie silently offered a prayer for guidance and for Shay’s safety.

THE COENS’ THE BALLAD OF BUSTER SCRUGGS “All day I’ve faced a barren waste/Without the taste of water, cool water…”

© 2019 by James Clark

     In many ways, The Ballad of Buster Scruggs (2018), looks to a past leaving it nearly an anachronism. The helmsmen here, Joel and Ethan Coen, have, in their business affairs, been forced to locate their complex communications in the swill of the multi-cocktail Happy Hour known as Netflix. (Years before, David Lynch, apropos of the vein now virulent, was heard to declare, “I didn’t make this picture for your damn phone.”)

As you probably know, the boys are nothing if not resilient, and with this unwelcome matter in the air they prove to be even more feisty and irreverent than usual. Their strategy to be large as life is a wild and wonderful tour de force. Inasmuch as this film with a vengeance is multi-faceted, let’s ease into it by way of its amusingly wicked parody of Millennials, those softies utterly disinclined to show up at a theatre to see a Coens’ film.

You might think the lads are staging some kind of revival of Cowboys and Indians entertainment, inasmuch as the setting is the “Wild West,” and its six vignettes comprise the product seen to be slices (in various tones) of the fateful drama of what used to be a big money-maker. Actor, Tim Blake Nelson—directly addressing the audience as if it were packed with fast friends—leads off with a singing cowboy, Buster Scruggs, so hilarious in enjoying his domain that we barely register that the song he so confidently sings is about dying of thirst (“Cool Water”) and that he takes low-key umbrage that one of his wanted posters accuses him of being a misanthrope (his horse whinnying in support when prompted to consider that the charge is patently unfair). That he brightens up with the thought that “Song never fails to sooth my restless heart,” constitutes the first of many displays of assurance that heavy baggage can be exorcised on the order of a good cleaning lady. (The writer/ performer of the song, “Cool Water,” Marty Robbins, was not only a country/Western musical profit-centre in the Nixon-era, but also a NASCAR driver, always in the hunt. On one racing occasion, he was seriously injured swerving into a wall to avert smashing into a stalled vehicle. Hold that thought in fathoming the protagonists stalled here, in other ways.)

Buster visits two bars along that musical afternoon, and although his tenderfoot appearance elicits disdain from the regulars, he manages to maintain some of the tenets of a civilization which emphasizes sweetness and light, and also systematic/ mechanistic advantage. On the first visit, asking for whisky, he’s told that, “This is a dry county…” Noticing that everyone is drinking, he points out the discrepancy and his temerity tweaks someone to recognize him as, “The Texas Twit.” Buster corrects that whisky-driven rudeness to, “The Texas Kid” and, being a virtuoso technician has to shoot the uncontrolled mental-health victim with a bullet symmetrically placed in his forehead. That is followed by Buster’s vigorous massacre of the bad-mouth’s friends, including one wounded at the doorway to be needles, “I’ll leave you to the wolves and the gila monsters.” Confidently moving along to the bar in the next town, the straight-shooter complies with the establishment’s gun-check policy. He soon (ever the games-player, presaging cyber-mayhem) is at a poker table being coerced to take up the hand of somebody, perhaps feigning, needing to leave quickly. Buster takes exception to the irregularity, eliciting from the pushy, burly and surly contestant the problem of a six-shooter in his face. Always expecting from others sweet reason, the Texas Kid points out the violation of the authority’s rules of passivity. Of course the unreasonable one prepares to do away with an obstacle, but he meets acrobatic Buster’s resort to stomping on the several planks consisting of the gaming table, each time breaking parts of the gunman’s face. Our protagonist goes into a victory lap, singing about the loser in terms of “Surly Joe,” a bit of professionalism and wit which enthralls the room and also us, somewhat. We are especially touched—beyond the volatile emotional outpouring—by Buster’s being located in a social media heaven, going viral. (Part of the deadly improv consisted of the plaint, “He never really took to empathy…” followed by the smug axiom, “When you’re unarmed, your tactics might gonna be downright Archimedean ” [the latter being remembered for an effective screw].) Interrupting the fun, the victim’s brother cries out, “You killed my brother!” and he demands a shoot-out on the dusty street. The muddled and aged aggrieved is far from a gun-geek and the people’s choice toys with him, shooting off four of his fingers. (He had swaggered out to the site, remarking, “I should go into the undertaking business.”) Supposedly charming us with his bonhomie, he grants the “geezer’s” not knowing give-up; and, with only one bullet left (having geared up with the six-shooter but not the pair of effete collectible micro-shooters which he calls “princesses”) he decides on a “trick shot” with a mirror and shooting backwards (his supposed constituents holding firm). With that show done, another begins. A man in black, the sartorial opposite to Buster’s creamy white (would you call the former, “Death?”), playing a doleful harmonica, rides slowly to the trick-shot zone. And, being another simplistic country/ Western singer, he declares he’ll reap the bounty on Buster’s head. Buster, unarmed now without his gadgetry, has a moment of less insulation (“I should have seen this coming, Can’t be top dog forever…”). Shot symmetrically in his forehead, our majoritarian has taken the easy way to sustain joy. To the song the hunter in black sings, “When a Cowboy Trades his Spurs for Wings,” Buster is shown with angel wings coursing high above problematical life. His parting words here have to do with certainty of life after death, because—conformist-style—so many have written to that effect. Likes!

A scintillating Buster like that comes down the pike rather seldom. In the second chapter, the young hacker can’t even gain the affection of his horse. Thinking a solitary bank, manned by another geezer, would be something to keep him in 5-star dinners for a while, he discovers that the old are not always the weak and the ridiculous. The contretemps involves him having a shot-up leg in being suckered that the big denominations are near the floor, under the counter. While the sprightly banker repairs for some protective coating, our protagonist clears out the till and limps to the stone well in the yard. There he’s snubbed by his less than wonder-horse, who could have effected an escape. (Settling for a clunker seeming OK, if you imagine a life of ease has to involve an angel replacing every wreck.) The banker returns wearing pots and pans, and the marauder’s efforts to kill him bounce off. An uncool local posse strings him up, the horse now on hand to lurch forward and let the rope on the tree branch work the nose. The officiating judge tells him he now has his opportunity to say his piece, before dying. First, he decries, as a primordial crisis, the unfairness of the banker’s armor. An argument erupts about who gets the horse, and the voice of the new declares no one should get it. At this juncture of smallness an Indian war party appears, sending arrows into necks and putting an end to reveries for those whose reveries go nowhere. The nemesis here is as shallow as the one in the first episode, the Coens’ irreverence being truly wild. The dude with the noose is spared by a chieftain on the (false) basis of thoroughgoing challenge of authority. With everyone in sight dead, except the tied-up complainer and his recalcitrant horse, there ensues the clown-show, slow-motion acrobatics of his attempting to dismount without strangulation—he leaning back, and the inattentive mount meandering as he nibbles on some weeds. He sees a horseman and a few cattle, calls out, is rescued, and soon they regard each other as “sidekicks.” Within the same hour the newcomer bolts away from an oncoming posse after cattle rustlers; and the bank robber goes to the gallows on an erroneous charge. His having recently escaped one execution seems to have allowed him to strike a brazen tone in the vicinity of the hangman. (But perhaps he and many of his sidekicks, from years before, had been beneficiaries of a stunning leniency.) Tied up on a four-noose extravaganza in a town turned out for the morbid event, the failed bank-robber looks for something good turning up. An elderly felon cries and the insouciant youngster asks, “Your first time?” He spots a pretty woman in the crowd. Their eyes meet, and she smiles. The black hood covers his head. From the perspective of inside the hood there is a crunch and a cheering clientele. What wouldn’t miss, missed.

Another presumptuous figure, follows. But unlike the first two, he generates far more cogent passion. In the wintry Northwest mountain ranges, where mortals find nothing easy, a young man with no arms and no legs sings for his supper on a cold roadway as enclosed by a proscenium arch and stage, doubling as a caravan. His “song” involves declaiming stirring instances of a fate of finitude few mortals take to heart. The eeriness of his presence is enough to whet curiosity. But, far from a freak-show, as we discern this outreach, his skill in dramatic expression is of a caliber to haunt and maybe elicit reflection. A keynote of his performance is the sonnet, “Ozymandias,” engaged by the poet Shelley. as drawn to lyricism by the “recent,” 19th century discovery of a Pharaoh’s tomb—far more mineral than personal. Not only does he convey the emotive pathos of the impermanence of all creatures; but in reciting the Gettysburg Address he brings to bear the paradox of powerful love for human kind. Moreover, in an onstage scene called, “The Sash my Father Wore,” his commitment iterates the exigency of going to war—perhaps military, perhaps the wider and deeper factors of struggle every day of one’s life. This first performance we see is well appreciated and rewarded. The impresario feeds him some morsels of meat; but such a viable constellation does not last long—the fickle clientele far more amenable regarding the catchy enough oddity than the rare spoken and facially powerful gifts. The burden of “Ozymandias” and the fading of fame bites rapidly to the point of the businessman, seeing how popular a “mathematical chicken” could be, changing the show and dumping the orator into a rushing cataract. That the food had become indigestible and then no more was one more (and monstrously problematic) ingredient of the dubious calculus counting upon the world to gratify one’s thriving. Also, the performer’s insufficient food and mounting desperation resulted in a fine heart becoming a mediocrity. Perhaps his campaign was based upon suddenly needing to find kindred spirits to help him survive. As such he would be a barometer of his era’s sensitivities, and ours. There is a scene where the “Professor,” still caring to a point, visits a bordello, with his carrying his associate; and he turns the little man facing away from the bed. The hooker wonders if all of his appendages are gone. That excruciating, shared strangeness, flows to the measure of remorse after the murdering. Zaniness arrested, this singular expediency widens, deepens and tempers the jolly hatchet job.

Chapter Four features a protagonist even older than the impresario, who becomes an unlikely inspiration to those not finnicky about the full measure of facticity, in their film experience. Whereas the foregoing three dramas had been situated in badlands or austere, cold darkness, here we have a near paradisal valley, replete with many monarch butterflies and ravishing woodlands creatures. An elderly prospector and his cute donkey enter this range through a narrow opening in a thick, green forest, and the jaunty protagonist, a veritable Santa Claus, proceeds to pan for gold in a lovely stream. Before finding his mother lode, he had climbed a tree to loot four owl eggs, with a beautiful mother owl watching untroubled nearby, giving you just one of many moments that only a Mexican strategist and his far-flung fans could like. Perhaps Disney sanguinity infuses the sequel, where those owl eyes have an effect, and he replaces three of the four eggs. The rationale, “She won’t have remembered how many she had,” smacks of a constituency of shoplifters. As if this were not alone Academy Award enticement, the old elf comes to us in song—“Oh, God keep you, Mother McCree…” After back-breaking toil and impressive savvy, he finds the Bonanza, only to be attacked by a gunman. Shot in the back, his jersey becoming a blood-red blotter, he waits his turn to turn the tables. He kills his adversary and walks out of the pit where his gut was blown away, revealing his intestines pouring out on the ground. He’s heard to insist, “It didn’t hurt nothin’ important.” Next day, he’s in a clean shirt and looking pretty good, looking like The Revenant. His tag-line, “There’s a pocket up there. Where, I don’t know,” is a limp cliché. But it conceals everything the virals won’t touch. Similarly, the declamation, “I’m old but you’re [the gold] older,” mocks the primordial, with self-satisfaction.

Demonstrating that there are vast options to skin a cat, we now come to a composition called, “The Girl Who Got Rattled.” Our protagonist may be a young nineteenth-century woman taking orders from a brother about a spiel of very lucrative matrimony which would greatly help his floundering business career; but it is her own reckoning which tells us something about life today. At a boarding house in a “civilized” State of the Union, she’s made much of by the presiding host, in sharp distinction from how the latter regards an elderly woman who has fallen asleep at the dining table. That the girl’s imminent trip by covered wagon train to Oregon has been speculative with no firm commitment of marriage in sight (not unlike Buster’s being drawn to heaven); and only the feckless urging of an underperforming and exaggerating sibling to count upon, introduces to us, notwithstanding the era, to a figure sanguine to a fault. (Another boarder, a middle-aged man, who would, over the months, have seen through their effete wishfulness, strikes a tone of down-to-earth being disregarded in not only unpleasant ways but also in very dangerous ways.)

Once on the go, the weak brother soon dies of a cholera phenomenon which, to put the matter in full relief, could be called a plague. (The optics of the ox-wagon train must put into critical relief a very different protagonist, namely, Emily, in Kelley Reichardt’s film, Meek’s Cutoff [2010], a figure evincing a progress of courage and circumspection truly of another world from the placid and vaguely safety-net-assured, Alice Longabaugh [pronounced, Longbow].) The Coens’ film’s momentum of upending, has, by this stage, spotlighted not a single trace of strong coherence. Here, though, there is a partial equilibrium, requiring the rather reckless depiction of Indians being very inept, whereby to place Alice in a fool’s paradise, or Wonderland. This circuitous range of parody may best be disclosed with regard to the recently-deceased brother, and his spunky terrier, “President Pierce.” She remarks, after the burial on the range that Gilbert, her brother, “did very little,” but radiated intense political views, which she abhorred (in her once-over-lightly way). President Pierce, the politician, was a one-term American President just before the Civil War, whose lack of consideration for blacks sowed much turmoil. As with the rough trade about “wild Indians,” Alice, being remarkably confrontational, in her pat, namby-pamby way, channels to the present time, where political correctness has become a gigantic and cirrhosis creed, particularly amongst young, diet-puritan women. Hearing about her plight and her brother’s politics, the handsome young straw-boss of the junket, namely, Billy. is quick and pleased to pronounce, “He was a failure.” That ruthless assessment, by one being a member of her generation, clearly coincides with the protagonist’s needs. In the same vein, she’s in a quandary about many of her fellow travelers’ annoyance caused by President Pierce refusing to stop barking. He offers to put down the dog, and she doesn’t bat an eye finding it the way to go. She plugs her ears  The Good Samaritan, however, flubs the shooting.  He tells her, “We’ve seen the last of the President.” A few days later he’s back She finds she has had Gilbert buried many miles back, having left all of her funds in one of his pockets. The youngster tending to the oxen—having been promised a wildly inflated salary—begins to want some down payment. Billy promises to deal with the matter; but he soon admits he doesn’t have a clue. More of the same, the young outdoorsman finds that Alice, the low-wattage misadventurist, is his kind of girl. He proposes, and she quickly accepts. Though neither has any skills for life in a frontier town, they plan to settle down there. Their ace-in the hole is a one-off  premium for married couples.

Apparently inured to the neighbors taking umbrage, she’s seen, with the canine survivor on her lap, straying away on her pony from the train and having a Saturday Night Live giggle about a prairie dog colony. Her Wonderland quickly sours when an Indian war party comes to play. The senior guide, Mr. Arthur, had noticed her disappearance and was able to single-handedly rout the dubious warriors. But, with the battle in doubt, Alice, crouching in a sort of pot hole, uses the suicide revolver, a sort of magic cake, provided for the possibility that the expert warrior might be killed. A lack of fight, extending beyond unruly mobs.

In the final vignette, middle-aged stage-coach riders hope to convince their fellow-travelers that they have everything figured out. (Here, in contrast to Alice and Billy, in having a flood of facile clichés, most of the premises in the coach have been subjected to long-term perception.) A trapper displays his gift for clever gab, as disarming the assumption that he is of no account. He had for years lived with an Indian woman who knew no English, just as he knew nothing of her language. His kernel of discovery involves that range of communication whereby it is possible to share a remarkable level of understanding by body language. His own pell-mell fluency, however, lands him in a bemusing embarrassment. Shifting from elevated one-to-one to amateur anthropology, the laborer hastily insists, “People are like ferrets.” A lady coming to reunite with her husband (a minister of the cloth and a theologian), after being with her daughter and the latter’s children for three years, begs to differ. She posits the more complicated situation of the upright and the sinning. That brings into the fray an elegantly dressed French bounty hunter, who, with Cartesian confidence, concludes that “one can’t know another’s soul.” The lady counters with, “Any decent person knows of eternal love, the love of the Creator.” A Polish gambler ridicules her position, and gets hit over the head with her umbrella. He then goes forward with a probability that her daughter had been eager to get her out of the household; and that her husband could not have sustained love during her long absence. His Slavic accent and poker deceptiveness adds to the aura of certainty about the traditional bonds rotting away, to the advantage of cynics and fatalists. (More important than the ideas floating around, is the gulf between this series of taking a stand by going to some trouble, and the smoothie addiction in the foregoing stories.) The French killer, with a lucrative corpse on the roof, has a partner. The latter is the one pulling the trigger while the diminutive Parisian chats up the prey to lull the victim to an easy death. This more middle-of-the-road figure has a fine singing voice and he proceeds to shower the company with a heartfelt rendition of, “The Streets of Laredo.” “I saw a young cowboy wrapped up in white linen…” Within the calm in effect from the song, the Gallic spellbinder treats the assembly to the land he really inhabits, and its conveyance. He evokes an aura derived from the moment the wanted man realizes his death has commenced. “The passage to death.” (Conjuring such intensity accomplishes [or hopes to accomplish] more than a disclosure of matter of fact. The French connection has opened a door to the surreal, the more real. Such mood enacts energies surpassing normal communication, but including its generally underestimated sensual presence. Soldiers of fortune. What could that mean, about change going forward?) Though that pristine moment fades, and on reaching the hotel the pair joke about possibly displaying the corpse along a corridor for the night, the mystery of that passage to death holds forth in another way. With the travelers in their hotel late at night, the coach makes a turn-around and races at full speed passed the place of arguers and swayers of truth. The tight linkage of the team of horses recalls the engagement of another group of flounderers being dragged along a nondescript countryside by the spectacle of Death, in Bergman’s The Seventh Seal.

Aspects of that latter film saturate The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, and their presence here add to the questioning about happy (even goofy, even lethal) trails in the 21st century. With happy-go-lucky Buster on horseback and singing, we have an amalgam of, first of all, the vigorous, bawdy, Squire Jons, far more viable than his precious master, the knight, Block. But in the gathering of that harp and those angel wings, we have a Buster buying into Block’s obsession for immortality. Jons excels in cleaning up nasty bars and other places where inferior entities should not be, though they pose extreme difficulty; but, in the end, he joins with Block in that linkage driven by the phenomenon of Death. (The veer to pointlessness for those once on top of the world, being a cinematic volatile, endowment of the other kind of energy our energy-mad planet won’t touch.) The song Scruggs (a name first of all seeming too rude for his wit and couth) sings for us at the fanfare carries a quirky version of Bergman’s duo of persistent ease, and a down-to-earth warrior/ wag. First, we have Jons: “All day I’ve faced the barren waste/ Without the taste of water, cool water/ Old Dan and I with throats burned dry for water/ Cool, clear water.” [Now Block] “The nights are cool and I’m a fool/ Each star’s a pool of water/ Cool, clear water. And with the dawn I’ll wake and yawn/ And carry on to water/ Cool, clear water.” And now, a sorely put-upon employee denounces that unhinged leader. (Here the factor of misanthrope comes forward with its paradoxical juggling.) “Keep a-movin’, Dan, dontcha listen to him, Dan/ He’s a devil, not a man/ And he spreads the burning sand with water…” Back to the deus ex machina (a millennial instinct as old as the hills). “Dan, can ya see that big, green tree?/ Where the water’s runnin’ free/ And it’s waiting there for you and me?/ Water/ Cool, clear water” [always metaphorically there for the right acrobat]. “The shadows sway and seem to say/ Tonight we pray for water/ Cool, clear water/ And way up there He’ll hear our prayer/ And show us where there’s water.”

The most notable feature of the ho-hum robber, in the second episode—over and above his being an inveterate predator upon wealth he doesn’t own, and, therefore a version of the clergyman who became a thief upon victims of the plague, in The Seventh Seal—is his being a witness to the noisy and blood-letting flagellants peeking out from that Indian war party, temporarily saving his skin. Here the boys touch upon—here, and later—the matter of a Happy Hunting Ground, supposedly reached by such observances. Irreverence, reminding us that other passions (far less showy and presumptuous) occupy the field and spread a frisson for those who have taken the trouble.

The lucky “sweetheart” in the gold business brings aboard The Seventh Seal’s reflective performer, Jof, the inventor of acrobatics and impossible juggling. The childish prospector serves as a contrast to real uncanniness and delight.

The tale of the damaged thespian evokes the mad woman prisoner, caged and headed for burning at the stake (in our Bergman shoot-out), on the pretext that it was she and her impiety who caused the plague—when, in fact, you could say the plague has always been here, and always will, millennials bringing on, with their overexposure to cheap thrills, their special poison.

Alice and her tepid Wonderland traces to the caravan of Jof’s wife (the “practical one”).

And the coach in the last hurrah—pegged as a death march along the sightlines of The Seventh Seal—now shows, in the unstinting power and flair of the horses, a fresh dynamic. A bit stressed though our helmsmen might be, they’re still alive and kicking.      

REMNANTS OF A THRONE

Large beads of sweat roll down Dagger Ixur's face. His breathing labored, he was outnumbered as the group of assassins closed in on him without a sliver of mercy. Why would they? His family never did. Their blasters pointed at him with dead-on precision, he was finally cornered to no chance of survival after four years on the run. Untrained and subjected to the cunning schemes of those responsible for his fall from royalty, Dagger educated himself on the laws of primal survival and all that it entailed on the streets. From 'spoiled' prince to fugitive with a staggering price hanging over his head, his descent was grand but his rise into being Dagger Ixur was nothing less than impressive. If only his captors hadn't underestimated him, they might have collected the money for his capture, or death. He could practically hear Eriadne's insidious laughter ringing in his ears as she held onto his head, severed from the rest of his body. Confidence grew among the bounty hunters, greedy for the ridiculous amount of credits promised as reward. As soon as they had him sprawled on the ground, Dagger played the waiting game as one of them hunted for the cuffs to ensure his stay in their custody. The one holding him down, forcing him to breathe dirt and dust into his lungs, protested in annoyance for his companion's lack of efficiency. “What? Did you bring your makeup too? Fetch those damned cuffs already!” The angry rant went on and on until the other had finally managed to retrieve the shackles and hand them over. And still, Dagger waited. Click. One wrist left to bind. Absolute relief poured over Dagger from the one with his knee (and most of his damn weight) crushing his spine. The metal slid around the remaining free wrist, but the click never came. In a move of boldness, or reckless stupidity (depending on the perspective), the fallen prince wheels his body, swiping the bounty hunter's blaster. The surprise painted on the collective faces of the small group of greedy bastards, who were only in the business for the profit, amused him. But Dagger Ixur wasn't born of amusement. Driven by cold, unmitigated vengeance, he rose to unleash all he knew of. Pain and death. Assuming the blaster's settings had been switched from stun to kill, he aimed the weapon with impressive skill and speed to his first target —the one that had made eat dirt. Literally. And shot. The unceremonious tumble of a lifeless body to the ground, drawn by gravity's pull, rammed home the meaning of his name in his native language. Dagger Ixur, a dark blade through the heart. Mayhem brought chaos, and together they rose from the sands in literal geysers as the remaining assassins rained down blasts on him after the death of their accomplice. Four years, Dagger would have been already lying dead in a pool of his own blood after the stunt he just pulled. Back then, he lacked the ability of recognizing the telltale signs of the peril he was walking into and the vultures that lurked in eager expectancy of consuming his rotting flesh. Today, he bore the scars of hard lessons that had brought him to the brink of death on multiple occasions. Courtesy of his dear grandmother and Tadara of Andaria, Eriadne eton Anatole, after deeming him as a criminal for crimes he didn't commit. High treason. Murder. Attempted murder. Assault. Theft. Kidnapping. Terrorism. Cyber crimes. Arson. The bitch did it only as another of her valuable lessons. That no one crossed the Tadara without ending up dead. —Duly noted. For the whole of his miserable life, he had been a pawn in Eriadne's hands. One slip had him disowned, exiled and marked as Outcast. For all of that, he'd been on the run since his warrant had been issued. Rolling his now athletic body, a drastic contradiction to his overweight body from a time he wished he'd forget, over the grains of sand, a cloud of dust emerges in camouflage against the nonstop rain of blasts meant to kill him. As he moved to be lying on his back in full offensive mode, both hands gripping his blaster, he shot the other two who shouted angry expletives at him. In the midst of madness, he found the time to appreciate old paranoias and gaming addictions. Dagger could only attribute his impeccable aim to that and the valid fears of being shot in the back by one of his cousins. Apprehensively, he rose to his height whilst scanning the surrounding area. He was sure there had been four after him. Assuming the last one ran for his life in the face of Dagger Ixur's merciless death, he slapped his legs, arms and chest to make himself more presentable before heading to his initial destination. The filthy hole they call a bar where most criminals and pariahs seek asylum for limited time to escape the blistering suns of Steradore. He could practically feel the relief found in darkness of the dimly lit establishment when he felt the stinging bite of metal on his side. Cursing his inability to learn from past mistakes, he drew his blaster from the inside of his coat to shoot the bastard who had escaped him earlier. Fire erupted from his wound into his veins. “Minsid hell.” Closing his fingers around the poisoned knife, he pulled it out of his flesh slowly to avoid quicker infection of the poison. Not that it would matter. The stench of the poison told him all he needed to know. He'd be dead soon enough. Staggering his way to the dead bounty hunter, he brought his boot to the body paralyzed by the stillness of death to roll it over and verify he wouldn't get back up again and finish the job. “Eriadne won't be pleased to know I died and she didn't get my head.” Misplaced laughter left his lips in his continuous vexing of his grandmother as he dragged his feet into the bar by sheer will only. With fingers pressed against the bleeding wound, he walked toward the table in the farthest corner before sitting down with a grimace of agony. He knew it was imperative to demonstrate no weakness or else he'd be dead sooner than expected. The parasites crawling the bar would be ruthless in their attack were they to find out how badly wounded he was. Especially if they learned the price on his head. Hell, if he had half a brain, he'd turn himself in for all those credits. Panting, he tugged his coat to cover the blood seeping into the t-shirt that had seen better days and less holes before drowning in the seas of stoicism to conceal the pain under a mask of boredom as the waitress approached him. “You got thirty cronas, slag? You can't stay otherwise.” The smugness exuding from her smirk would have been wiped out in another times if he ever were to venture into this place as the heir of the two largest fortunes in the Nine Worlds. On this day, he was only the heir of shit. With a condemning sneer, he tossed the coins at her. With the creds in her possession, his gaze wandered as he asked for the one drink known to be forbidden in most planets for the dangers of its consumption. “Tondarion Fire.” In a forsaken place like this, he knew the only kind he'd drink would be bottom shelf shit. Garbage. After confirming the authenticity of his money, she left him with his thoughts and fetch his drink. From behind red-tinted glasses that sat over the bridge of his nose, Dagger concealed the slapping truth of his genetic code and the ill fate the union of his progenitors marked him for. A hybrid, he was both human and Andarion. And he was neither. The humans curled their lips over his abnormal height, claws and the red rimming his eerie hazel brownish-green eyes. Andarions prouded themselves of their beauty, strength and warrior race. To be ruled by a half Andarion/half human reject was frowned upon amidst their society. And his grandmother had never been shy to deal that hand and trap him to the point of yielding beneath her iron fist. Hissing, he prayed for a quick death as he bled out. And at the rate he bled, he wouldn't hurt much longer. Perhaps the gods would finally grant him the peace he sought for all his wretched life. His thoughts took a drastic turn as he pulled his link out of his coat to study the picture where the undeniable love his parents felt for each other was imprinted upon. And it slapped him until he was bleeding. Why couldn't they love him too? He wondered what scalded him more, the flames of that fire darkening his soul. The venom pumping through his body at an alarming tempo or the loneliness that clawed at his heart with mocking laughter. No one gave a single shit he was dying. Haunted by that truth, he slid the link back into his pocket. Drawn to the commotion to his left, his fingers flew to his blaster out of habit in expectation of it being more assassins or enforces looking for him. When it turned out to be just two humans and an alien dragging in a weeping kid in chains, Dagger let out a breath of relief. Assuming it was just a prisoner being transferred, he started to revert back into his sorrows and near death when the kid gave fight to those holding him. He seemed to be around the age of fifteen. The alien brought his large hand to the kid's face in a move of brutal intimidation. The resounding slap carried unwanted memories from his own 'happy' childhood as tiziran. “Don't bruise the merchandise, asshole!” The human with money in his hands snarled angrily. “He won't be worth this amount of credits I'm paying you if he's somehow injured.” Flinching at the cruelty of the slaver who was looking for quick profit over a child's innocence, Dagger was already on his feet. He refused to stand on the sidelines while a child was robbed of his childhood like he had. The boy was supposed to be at home, surrounded by friends and family. Not in the hands on a greedy slaver. Besides, he was already dead anyway. Best to go down fighting the good fight than to die in the corner of a bar, drinking the shit version of Tondarion Fire. His thoughts consisted mostly of his own selfish fears in the past and how they had paralyzed him to the point of bending him to others' will. Back then, he had convinced himself that had been his only option of survival. Moron. All it had gotten him was a premature death in a backwoods planet. Alone. Probably lying, face down, in a pool of his own blood. And his, still warm, corpse raided for whatever values he possessed. A few creds, his signet ring and weapons. Pulling his coat back to reveal the glistening of the sleek metal from his blaster, Dagger ensured everyone that he wasn't in the mood for verbal exchanges. The cold killer, Dagger Ixur had been reborn as he faced his defeat and fall in a cracked mirror of an abandoned building on his lonesome, sober for the first time in years. What a piece of shit he was. Today, as he inserted himself in a transaction that didn't concern him, he hated himself for knowing his old self, the chemically-numbed Jullien eton Anatole, would have stepped away without a second thought given. Thankfully, he had buried that version of him four years ago. And today, he would live up to no one's expectations but his own. “Let the kid go.” A few pairs of eyes trained on him, some more amused than others. The one buying the kid snorted and dismissed him. But the one selling the kid turned to him with a sickening smile. “And what do we have here? You're a fancy one, aren't you?” The sound of stupefaction that clashed with rolling tension made him question the human's sanity. “Really? Because of what? The shower I took last week?” Smelling like a rotten corpse already, he was bloody and sweaty. The opposite of fancy. Even he couldn't help but being disgusted by his own stench, a true offense to his regal upbringing. “Shoot him already, Eben.” He demanded with an eye-roll meant to judge the weight of sarcasm drenching Dagger's words. The man had barely raised his arm to level his blaster when Dagger shot him, driven by quick reflexes and a shit-ton of hours spent gaming in his youthful years. A blast that landed right between the human's eyes with frightening aim. Once again, Dagger found himself in the midst of an outlaw showdown. Screams and angry bellows left those who either ran in fear of being caught in the middle of an exchange of shots or those who strived for the appropriation of his weapons. As if that would ever happen as long as he has life coursing through his veins. Twirling to escape incoming blasts, his arm stretched to shoot the other three who promised no mercy in their approach to him. Muscles, honed by experience gained during his years of running from the authorities, acted swiftly in the physical exchange of defensive moves as he danced between those attacking him with the recurring offense that returned to bite them all with vengeful interest. When the alien made another move to neutralize him, Dagger wasted no time in kicking him back with a rain of punches and kicks that pulled him into unconsciousness. Dropping to his knees, Dagger unshackled the frightened kid before letting his gaze examine the boy to make sure he stood unharmed. Then, he quickly pushed his link and wallet that housed nothing but a few coins and his royal Andarion signet ring. The only thing that held any real value and the last piece of his old life he still carried with him. The reasons why, he was unsure. For some reason, he could never part with it. Until now. At last, he gave the innocent kid the only thing that became his lifeline throughout the years on the run. His fully charged reserve blaster. He reached for the holster on his back, retrieved the weapon and made sure to unlock the biolock on the trigger so the boy could defend himself if necessary. The astonishment written on the kid's face was nearly comical, but Dagger encouraged him with a subtle inclination of his head. “You should have enough in there to get you home. And don't stop for anything until you're home, surrounded by your family. Shoot anyone who tries to keep you from getting there. Conscience be damned. Whatever it takes, chizzi, you get yourself home. Now, run!” Shouting, he pushed the boy out of harm's way as some of the others started to regain consciousness. Pulling himself up to a stand, he groaned as his wound scorched his sensory nerves, drowning him in pain and misery. But the boy refused to leave. Instead, he curled his fingers around Dagger's coat, coaxing the bleeding fugitive to join him in his return home. “You need to come with me. They'll have you for sure.” The boy's cryptic words gave Dagger pause. He leaned and whispered, “I know who you are.... tiziran.” Shit. No, double shit. Bewildered, he stared at the kid, wondering how in the Tophet he knew his real identity. He quickly decided it wouldn't matter in a few minutes as he was a walking corpse. The Korilon was coming for him. Dagger closed his hand around the boy, hoping to pull him from the mess he left behind as far as he could. In their escape and in a most ill-fated plot-twist, another group of outlaws barged in. Armed and looking for trouble. Dagger knew enough of Tavali pirates to recognize their gear. And their thirst for profit. Well, at least his luck never ran out. More accurately, lack thereof. They would gut him faster than the rest of the vermin crawling this bar if they were to smell money. And Dagger was a bottomless pit of it if captured. Instinctively, he hauled the kid behind him in protective impulse. He would fight to the very end, even if the charge of his main blaster had run out. He still leveled it to the female leader who stormed into the bar, wearing a dark red leather outfit that outlined her curves to perfection. Her red lace mask concealed her features to his gaze in a most mysterious fashion. In turn, she angled her weapon at his heart. Before Dagger got the chance to speak up, the boy inserted himself between the duel, crying in loud supplication. “Don't shoot him! Auntie, please. He's the one who saved me.” The laser dot, targeting his heart, wavered for the first time as doubt shocked the woman. “What?” “Just look around! He was helping me escape after freeing me.” The bodies scattered supported the boy's claims, somewhat easing the ruthless female's rattled nerves. Weakness overtook him, bringing Dagger to knees. The buzzing in his ears made it nearly impossible to pay attention at his surroundings, he tried but failure was unyielding. His arm suddenly heavy, he lost his aim but directed all his remaining energy on what truly mattered. The boy's safety. “Are you safe, akam?” The tone of lingering protectiveness and desperation surprising him and those witnessing the moment. “Yes.” Letting gravity take its toll on his dying body, his blaster dropped on the floor with a sobering thump right before his quivering body followed suit. And he embraced the darkness, at last.

Falsely Accused: Freedom and Flight

Ten solar cycles had passed since Jazz brought Master Yoketron’s helmet to Ultra Magnus, and a lot had gone down in that time. In those solar cycles, the Magnus had had the old video files retrieved from the database and had them fully de-corrupted. What the fully restored footage had revealed had shaken the leader of the Autobots to the core.

The feed has shown that Lockdown had been the one to enter the Dojo first, many joors before Master Yoketron’s student had arrived, and when he’d left he was dinged up and injured and covered in energon, not all of it his own. It had shown him returning with more Decepticons and massive storage containers, and they’d filled the containers with the protoforms and left. Then, about three joors later, the black and gold mech had arrived. Barely a full two breems had passed before Springer, Axe, and Dai Atlas had rushed into the Dojo as well. And everyone knew the story from that point onwards.

The new footage had been disseminated among Autobot High Command, and then two orns ago his former Master’s final student had been cleared of all charges. These last two orns had been spent getting the paperwork with Trypticon settled. Now, Jazz was on his way to bring the wrongly convicted Praxian out of his prison. Autobot High Command had organized a hotel room for him until they could get him moved into a more permanent residence. They’d also organized for a medic to be brought to the hotel room to look over and treat any injuries he might have.

They intended to have a ceremony in two orns time, officially broadcast to all of Cybertron of course, to reinstate the young mech into the Autobot ranks and publicly return his Autobrand to him. The higher ups had already released an official statement to the public with the information that he’d been innocent all this time, and that they’d discovered the identity of the real criminal, and that they’d already began reparation efforts to fix their error in judgement.

Jazz thought they were being too political about it, really, but at the end of the day he’d offered to be the poor bot’s guide as he adjusted back to normal life. He thought having a fellow cyber-ninja, and one who’d never known him and thus never treated him harshly, might help him feel more at ease.

Jazz arrived at Trypticon and managed to gain entry without much trouble. He was led by a guard to one of the armored visiting rooms that usually never saw much use, and the door was unlocked to let him inside. He was expecting to see the lithe Praxian free of cuffs or shackles, maybe sipping at some decent energon and sitting on a chair. He wasn’t expecting to see the mech sitting with stasis cuffs on his wrists, which were magnetized to the table, and individual cuffs around his ankles that kept his legs magnetized to the chair legs. He definitely wasn’t expecting the muzzle that was wrapped around his face, either.

For a moment, the sight was enough to freeze him in shock. He could tell with a single glance that the mega-cycles hadn’t been kind to him. His paint, which was supposed to be black and gold, was scraped and dull. The previously flawless black was faded and lifeless, and the once brilliant gold was practically a muddy, dirtied yellow with how bad off he was. Frag, the mech would need a good detailing before the presentation High Command had planned. It certainly didn’t help that the poor bot’s armor was dented and scratched. The Praxian’s doorwings, which every bot on Cybertron knew how sensitive those were, had scratches and scuffs all over them, and he was holding them low and tight to his back.

Those observations took only a sparkbeat, and then Jazz was letting loose a furious snarl of his engine. He felt regret stab him when it made the mech twitch back, his armor clamping as close and tight as he could make it. Jazz forced his field to settle, starting to approach the bot on his right side. He noticed as he did, he twisted and got even tenser, trying to turn his helm to look Jazz head on at all times, almost like Jazz was walking into a blind spot. But that wasn’t right, so he pushed it aside for now.

“Easy, Prowl.” he said. He didn’t like the way the mech’s doorwings jerked up and flared wide at the sound of his name, before clamping back down and lower. If possible, he looked even more wary and uneasy now. “Easy.” he repeated. “I’m not here to hurt you, mech. Didn’t the guards tell you? High Command came into evidence of your innocence. I’m here to let you out. There’s a room at a hotel waitin’ for you.” he explained, crouching to get rid of the ankle cuffs. He ignored the sharp jerk Prowl gave when he ducked out of sight, undoing the cuffs quickly then standing and freeing his hands.

Immediately, Prowl lifted a hand to rip the muzzle off, making a sharp, panicked noise when it wouldn’t come free. Jazz frowned, then reached up to do it himself. The release lock was coded so the wearer couldn’t take it off. He’d have to be the one to do it. He ignored the violent flinch from Prowl, trying to project something calm and soothing into his field.

“Easy.” he said softly. “I gotcha, mech.” His fingers dug into the release patch, and the muzzle dropped to the table. “There.”

Prowl was quiet for a moment, his form tense and his field held just as tight and close as his armor was. Then he slowly shifted away, slipping from the chair and standing. He turned to face Jazz, and the saboteur noted distantly that the younger cyber-ninja made sure to keep the right side of his face carefully tilted away from him.

“What do you mean?” When Prowl spoke, his voice was rough and staticky. It spoke of disuse. Jazz quickly realized he was asking about what he’d told him.

“You’re free, now, Prowl.” he said gently. “You’ve been cleared of all charges. We found the evidence that suggested you weren’t at fault on a bounty hunter’s ship and High Command used old records to confirm it. I’m here to bring you to a hotel. Once you’re there, I’ll bring a medic to your room to look you over. High Command want to have a ceremony to reinstate you and begin making reparations.” he explained.

Prowl’s doorwings, still held tight and low against his spinal strut, quivered. “….I can leave?”

“Yeah.” Jazz gave his best friendly grin. “I’ll be your guide until you can stand on your own two pedes again. For now, let’s just get you to a your hotel, alright?” He wanted to question the guards as to why Prowl had been shackled and muzzled upon his entry, but he could take care of that later. Right now, his priority was to get the mech out of here. There was no doubt he didn’t have good memories of the prison.

Prowl seemed to hesitate, but then he nodded slowly. “…fine.”

“Good mech.” Jazz said cheerily.

He moved up to step by Prowl’s right, frowning as the bot flinched and shifted until Jazz was at his left side instead. Something wasn’t right with that, and all the other little things that suggested Prowl’s vision wasn’t what it should be, but that could be handled later. He didn’t say anything, instead smiling and nodding his head in a gesture for the mech to follow him. He started walking, hearing quiet pedefalls behind him.

Neither mech said anything as they left the visitation room, nor was anything said as they left Trypticon itself. As they stepped past the boundary line of the prison, the quiet steps behind him stopped and Jazz turned to see what was wrong. Prowl was still, his doorwings held up and wide, quivering madly as he turned his face to the sky. Oh. That was right. Trypticon didn’t have windows, not for the prisoners, at any rate. Prowl wouldn’t have seen the sky since he’d entered the prison. Jazz felt his spark ache in sympathy, turning to watch as Prowl tilted his face up and seemed to just soak in Hadean’s warmth. He hated himself for having to disturb the mech, but they needed to get going.

“Prowl.” he said gently. “We gotta get, mech. Your room has a balcony. You can enjoy the sky from there, yeah?”

Prowl startled, then stared at him for a long moment before his armor and doorwings clamped tight against his frame and he nodded. Jazz sighed, then moved off and heard the quiet mech follow.

“You never told me your name.” Prowl sounded tired and worn, but also nervous and wary. Maybe he still didn’t believe this wasn’t all a trick.

“I’m Jazz. I was Master Yoketron’s student before you.” he said quietly. He forced himself to ignore the flinch from the bot, the way he looked away and didn’t say anything. Ah, slag. He should’ve waited before revealing that.

Jazz respected his unspoken wish and didn’t push. They didn’t talk further until they’d eventually got to the hotel room, where Prowl moved to the middle of the room and looked around. Jazz pulled a pouch of snanix from his subspace, setting it on the table.

“This is for you. High Command wants you to have it. It’s some of what was taken from your personal account. We’re working on getting everything back fo you.” he said, shifting awkwardly. At the mech’s silent staring, Jazz fidgeted further. “I’m going to go grab that medic I promised you.” he said brightly, then turned and quickly left. He hoped some time alone would help Prowl settle.

When Jazz returned a groon later, it was with a cranky red and white medic at his heels and a sense of anxiety in his spark. He opened the door to the hotel room, about to call a greeting, when his voice died in his throat.

Prowl was gone. The shanix was as well, and the mesh blanket from the berth was also missing. Prowl, by the looks of things, had taken both things and just disappeared.

And Jazz…couldn’t bring himself to blame him. Not after what had been done to him. He just hoped Prowl was alright, wherever he’d fled to. His only real lament was-

‘Ah, Pit. This is going to be hard to explain to High Command.’

——————————

Prowl had only waited about a breem after Jazz left before making his escape. He’d snatched the mesh blanket from the berth, fashioning it into a makeshift cloak, and the grabbed the pouch of shanix from the table. His subspace had been locked after his arrest, and hadn’t yet been unlocked, but he knew how to hide items without using his subspace. He tucked the pouch away, and then used the balcony to leave.

He had to get off Cybertron. He just had to. He had too many memories here, and he didn’t even know if he wanted to be reinstated. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t want it. He remembered the cruelty of the Autobots who were supposed to have been his allies, and how the only ones to offer any degree of decency had been his fellow prisoners, had been Decepticons. He wasn’t going to join the Decepticons, but…he couldn’t become an Autobot again. Not after that.

So he fled. After leaving the hotel, his first stop was to the space docks. He’d lived on the streets before the Dojo, so he knew to go to the seedier parts of the docks for what he was after. There, he found it. A mech was going off world with a shipment for Velocitron. It only took a few shanix to get himself a ride. He settled in the cargo hold, drifting into a meditative state for the trip. He was jolted out of it when the ship landed, and he slipped from the vessel without a sound.

He didn’t even leave the space docks. He did the same thing, going to the seedier parts of the docks, and buying himself passage on a ship headed out of the star system. It was still going to Autobot controlled space, but he’d be out of the home system. When he arrived at the new planet, he once again moved to the seedier docks without even trying to head to the planet proper. If he bought passage from the decent part of the docks, he risked his travels being documented. Like this, he could buy his passage and do so in a way that ensured he’d stay off any ship manifests or registries. He wouldn’t be tracked.

On the new planet, an outpost called Sigma-35, he bought himself a trip out of Autobot controlled space to a Neutral outpost called Epsilon-8. From there, he bought himself one more voyage, this time taking the ship of a organic crew from a species who lived in this system, and they took him several systems over. They left him on a planet with no official Cybertronian allegiances or strongholds, and that was when he finally allowed himself to relax.

This planet, he’d been told, was called Ortheax. It was a port planet, meaning it wasn’t inhabited and was used for ships from all species to dock and refuel and resupply for their journeys. The only rule was that there was no fighting in the Port proper. Outside the main hub, however, was a vast expanse of unmapped wilderness. Since everyone stuck to the port, no one had ever cared to map or chart the wilds of the planet. That was where Prowl went. He wouldn’t stay on this planet forever, but it would give him a place to lay low and recover, get back some strength. He’d move on once his frame had healed some.

That night cycle, he settled in a cave as far from the port as he’d been able to get. His rest was fitful. His recharge, when he managed to get it, was plagued with memories. When he wasn’t able to fall asleep, he made sure to keep the mouth of the cave to his left or in front of him. It was too easy for something to sneak up on him from his right. He would have to learn to compensate for that. But first, he had to recover.

When the sun rose the next orn, Prowl left the cave. He knew this planet had natural energon crystals, so those would do as a fuel source until he could find better. His goal now, however, was to find some sort of body of liquid so he could clean his armor off.

He wandered until he came to a cliff, where he sat on the edge to take a break. His body was exhausted, not used to so much activity after so many mega-cycles in Trypticon. He sat under the warmth of the sun, his doorwings relaxing at his back as he soaked in as much heat as he could. This was nice, it was peaceful.

And then the peace was broken. There was a roar behind him, and he leapt to his pedes and whirled around, coming face to face with a charging organic beast. He almost stepped back before remembering he had nowhere to go. He was about to panic, when roaring engines stole his attention.

Suddenly, from his right, a sleek race car slid in. It unfolded into a sleek white mech wielding a sword, standing between the beast and Prowl. And then a white jet dived down from above, transforming into another sword-wielding mech, and landed on top of the beast. The sword was driven through its skull, and it crashed and slid to a stop at the first mech’s pedes.

The racer sheathed his blade, and the jet hopped off the beast, putting his own sword away as he walked up to Prowl. The unknown car bot turned to face him, standing just behind and to the right of the jet.

Prowl felt fear seize his spark. Had Cybertron sent them? How had they found him so quickly? Something must have shown on his face, even despite the visor, because the jet was quick to lift his hands.

“Easy there, little one.” he said, his voice soothing. “We aren’t going to hurt you. We were only after the beast. It went mad about an orn ago and was heading towards the port. We wanted to stop it before it could get there. I’m sorry we accidentally drove it towards you.”

Prowl calmed as he realized they weren’t here for him. “…it’s fine.” he said after a moment. At his back, his doorwings relaxed from where they had hiked up high and tight against his back.

The jet smiled. “I didn’t expect to see another Cybertronian out here. You look like you’ve had it rough, how long have you been out in these wilds alone?”

“Not long.” Prowl answered slowly. “I got here last orn. I thought it would be a good place to get away, and get some peace.” he said carefully.

The jet hummed, a look of concern in his optics. “Then how did one so young get such damage?” he asked. Prowl tensed. At the jet’s side, the racer reset his vocalizer discreetly. The jet startled, shooting the mech wide-opticed look before he seemed to realize what he’d said. “Oh my, I apologize. I shouldn’t pry.”

“It’s fine.” Prowl said again, hesitating for a moment. He shifted awkwardly, his posture tense and drawn in.

“Ah, but how rude of me! I should introduce myself and my companion before I ask so many questions!” The jet gave him another warm grin, gesturing first at himself, then at the racer. “I’m a cyber-ninja Master. My name is Wing, and this is my student, Drift.”

Samurai Jack: Renegade Samurai

Rating M for graphic depictions, language, violence and suggestive themes

Warning:

The following is a work of fanfiction and is not intentionally connected to real world places, events, or people, nor intended to copy others’ work. Samurai Jack is the work of Genndy Tartakovsky, his team and affiliated studios and companies. This is solely fanfiction for fun and not profit.

Chapter VI: Lawlessness and Profit

           Rocky outcroppings, orange brown dirt, and the occasional hardy plant could be seen in this otherwise barren terrain, the blazing sun beating down on the rocks and dirt. It would be devoid of civilization if not for the nearby outpost nestled between some outcroppings and facing the barren stretch of land before. Driving on the road leading to the arid outpost was a motorcycle kicking up dirt as it drove into the outpost and slowly parked. The drivers, Jack and Ashi, surveyed the area. The people all looked a bit rough, probably on account of the area. Some didn’t look like they lived in the area, and given all the vehicles in the lot, were probably just visiting. This was likely just some resting outpost, a place for people to stop, rest, and resupply before getting on the way. What the pair was most intent on finding though was any signs of the Magnus Protectorate. Once they confirmed there were no such buildings, vehicles, or soldiers from that organization, they loosened their tension a bit, but still kept a subtle guard about them. Some of the travelers looked a bit gruff, and Jack and Ashi noticed the occasional concealed weapon. It wasn’t a surprise that a place lacking the discipline and presence of the Protectorate might lack its strict law enforcement. Then again, Jack and Ashi couldn’t criticize much. It was much better than walking into a place swarming with Cyber Troopers, and they weren’t so different from these people, given their own guards and weapons. They noticed a sort of grill and bar and walked in, hoping to get both food and drink as well as maybe information. When they walked in, a number of the patrons looked up at the new arrivals. For a moment, everyone was tense, before the patrons decided to loosen their tension and return to what they were doing. Seems as though out here, not many paid much mind to the Protectorate’s notices or didn’t care. Jack had walked into bars plenty of times back in Aku’s future without hesitation, but each time he had to be ready for all the bounty hunters that would jump at the huge price Aku put on his head. Fortunately, it didn’t seem like he was exactly the most wanted man in this world. If anything, warnings about him were a bit limited to just warn the public rather than panic them. Still, both him and Ashi stayed alert while walking to the bartender and cook, ready for anything. They sat down as the bartender, a middle-aged woman, sized them up with a stern glance. “Don’t get many with that getup, but whatever. What’ll you be having?” the bartender asked. “Can we have the usual meal and some hot water please?” Jack asked. “No booze?” she asked. “No, just the hot water and your regular food, thanks.” Ashi said. They weren’t regular drinkers in the first place, and planned to get back on the road after this. “Hon, get a couple of burgers to go!” the waitress yelled. A man in the back, the cook, tossed some patties on the steaming grill he worked on. Seemed from the context they were a married couple that ran this grill and bar together. The waitress ran a pot of water under a flame as that happened, and soon she poured a couple of mugs full of water. “Thank you” Jack said. He pulled out a few ingredients for herbal tea and mixed them into the hot water with a short stick, and soon enough had some nice tea to go. “Where do you even find stuff like that?” Ashi asked. “Sometimes in the market, other times from the plants themselves.” Jack answered. He was thankful tea making was not a complex process, as it was an acquired taste for him. Both he and Ashi drank the tea, and she seemed a bit pleased. “Mm, it’s good.” she said. “Really? Thank you, I was worried…never mind.” Jack said, still embarrassed about how on his spirit journey before, the monk that guided him said his tea was terrible. He knew that was to reflect spiritual balance, but he was always worried since then that he had lost his touch at tea making. Sighing in relief, he began drinking again when he remembered something. “I am sorry, but I was wondering if you could give us some directions. We are headed for Novas Sanctum, but we are not familiar with the area or where that is. Could you point us in the right way?” Jack asked. The waitress looked at him rather bewildered. “The Protectorate Capital? Why would an apparent outlander like yourself be doing in an orderly place like that? Well, if it’s Novas Sanctum, let me tell you, you’ve got one hell of a road ahead. It’s a little north of the center of the continent, and you’re seriously on the fringes around the southwest. Seriously, you’re near the Outlands, that’s as pretty far from Protectorate territory as you can get.” the waitress scoffed. “The Outlands?” Ashi asked. “What rock did the pair of you crawl out of?! The Outlands, areas here and there over the world in some of the most remote places, far from the rest of civilization. You know, places so far out there, not even the Magnus Protectorate bothers with them? Seriously, everyone knows about them, along with where the Capital is. Go buy a map at the store nearby.” she said, rather irritated at the pair’s vast ignorance. “Though I should warn you dunces, if you don’t know what the Outlands are, I’d steer clear. They’re remote not just out of distance. They don’t have much in the way of food and water, got plenty of dangerous wildlife, mutants from the war, pretty much anything the Protectorate prevents. The only benefit they got is that there’s no Protectorate there, and that in itself is bad. Any and every outlaw uses those no man’s lands as asylum from the law, so don’t stay unless you want a blade or a bullet in your back. Heck, we’re bordering one of those places, so it’s kind of a risk being here, but it’s good enough business. Some prefer to take their chances and not have the Protectorate breathe down their necks.” the waitress warned. “I, uh, see. Thank you for the caution, we’ll remember that.” Jack said, a little confused by everything. From what he could tell, they were a long way from their goal, and were in fact going the wrong way. They seemed to be near a remote and lawless area that did not fall in Protectorate law. While that freed them from the threat of Cyber Troopers, they had to deal with all the lawless elements. It seems that anything Magnus did not control was both sparse and lawless, indicating he was the only law and order in this world, albeit the most formidable Jack had seen. Of course, it made sense that ruling the entire world left a few areas unchecked, as Magnus would be strained resource wise. Jack’s thoughts were interrupted with the arrival of the burgers. He preferred the tastes of his home, sure, but being as well travelled as him made him open to all manner of meal, both in his travels in the past and his journey in the last future. A burger was a basic, common meal, both in that timeline and this one apparently, and he was all right with it. After he and Ashi finished eating, Jack reached into his pouch for credits, but was a bit dismayed. From what he could see, they still had enough to pay for food and maybe the map and gas, but they wouldn’t have enough for anything after that. The waitress noticed his troubled expression when paying, and decided to lend them a helpful idea. “You know, if you’re short on cash, you could try your hand at some of those bounties. Like I said, we live next to the lawless out here, so we need help to put them in their place when we don’t have Cyber Troopers to help us. You don’t have to kill them, if that bothers ya. Just bring ‘em here and we’ll ship ‘em off to the Protectorate. Ah, here’s a good one.” the waitress pointed out. She gestured to a wanted picture of a lanky, disheveled man. The reward displayed was quite the amount of credits. “Crazy son of a bitch calling himself Rabid Dog Fargo. Kills travelers and traders on the road, even when they surrender, they say. He’s getting to be a real menace, even tried shooting up the place in broad daylight, till the other patrons brought out their guns too. That dog needs to be either caged up or put down. What do you say?” the waitress proposed. Jack thought about it. Being a sell sword was never something he liked the idea of, but he did have to do the odd job here and there to get by before, and like then, he didn’t have the luxury of options. Though, given his lifestyle without an actual working occupation, he had to wonder if he was acting more rōnin than samurai. “Why not go for it? We’ll be doing some good for the locals and get some money for supplies, and no one has to get hurt.” Ashi persuaded. Jack sighed, supposing he couldn’t argue with the circumstances. “Alright, let’s go.” he said.

…

           Jack strained his eyes up ahead against the glare of the sun as he climbed up the rock face. Not far beneath him was Ashi, who was also training against both the height and the heat of the sun. They had left a few hours ago to interview the travelers about Fargo’s last appearance at the outpost, which had only been three days ago. He had been wounded, and from the traces of dried bloodstains and foot prints, they inferenced he was hiding up on the tall rock face. For a would-be bandit, it was optimal. It gave a good overview of both the outposts and roads, letting him survey both potential prey and identify pursuers. The remoteness of it also made it harder to find and catch him, so it was as good a hiding spot as well as a vantage point. That was why, rather than taking the walking path, Jack and Ashi were climbing to avoid being seen. Finally, Jack could see what he hoped was the last ridge. He climbed over, and once he did, he extended his hand over the edge and lifted Ashi over as well. Both breathed in and out for a few seconds before they surveyed the surroundings. Before them was a cave, likely Fargo’s hideout. Jack and Ashi nodded at each other as they turned and walked cautiously into the cave. They could soon see lanterns and a makeshift tent there, and made out a mumbling voice. They could then see a disheveled, disorderly man, Rabid Dog Fargo, talking to one of his dead victims sitting down with him as they ate. “And so, I was going to ask politely if they wanted to join me for a drink, and you know what they did, they started shottin’ at me. Sure, I got a bit loose and shot first, but hey, that was a joke. Those jackasses got no sense of humor, I tell ya.” Fargo grumbled to the corpse. “Well who needs ‘em. After all, you’re a good chum, givin’ me all this food and drink and sharin’ your company. Hope you like the place, I like that “macabre” or whatever they call it look, feels homey for me.” Fargo laughed, acting as though he was having a jovial conversation with a living person. Jack narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth, infuriated with this level of disrespect and callousness to both the living and dead. Ashi had a look of pure disdain all over her face. If Jack wasn’t so set on keeping this piece of shit alive, she would kill Fargo without hesitation. But since live capture was decided from the beginning, she would just have to restrain herself. For once though, they wanted the Protectorate to be disciplinary with this one. They snuck in the shadows behind Fargo as they crept closer till they were right behind them as he kept laughing. “So, you want to take the shot this time, or me? Well, if you isi-GUHH?!” He cried out as a pair of fists crashed down on his skull, knocking him out but seriously wounding him as small amounts of blood ran from his head. There was no pity from the eyes of his captors though. Ashi brought out the rope they brought as she tied him up so he wouldn’t get away. At first, they had planned to carry him, but after that sight, Ashi was just dragging him across the ground as he groaned. The only sympathy they ever displayed was to Fargo’s victim. “I will see to it. You go on ahead.” Jack said to Ashi. Ashi complied, but only went as far as outside the cave. Soon after, Jack emerged as well, carrying the deceased in his arms. It would look rather suspicious taking the body back to the outpost, even if they did claim Fargo responsible, so this was the only option. Jack set to work as he gathered rocks and laid them upon the deceased, finishing with a marker stone. Chief among Jack’s regrets was that he didn’t even know the person’s name as he tried to wish them a peaceful transition and release. After he was done with his mournful thoughts, he turned back to Ashi they headed for the walking path. “HOLD IT!” a voice cried out. Running up to the front of the walking path was a figure in faded black leather trench coat. He wore a sort of combat mask and helmet with wide colorless eye lenses, and beneath his coat he was wearing a chest guard above a gray t shirt, wore black denim pants, and was wearing rough brown boots. Holstered at his side was a laser revolver and some sort of device that had a grip, but didn’t look like it could be fired or slashed at an enemy. Given all these factors it was fair to surmise he was a mercenary, albeit not that impressive since he was wheezing out of breath through his mask. He must have run up the rock face as fast as possible. “W-wait. T-that’s my bounty you got there. Been chasing that asshat for days, I, whooo, uh, that was, ugh, exhausting. L-let me catch my breath for a sec.” the mercenary gasped out. After an awkward moment of heavy breathing and awkward stares from Jack and Ashi, neither of them knowing how to respond, the mercenary finally collected himself. “Uh, sorry about that, got panicked when I saw you guys climbing is all, so I ran up as fast as I could. Anyway, I signed on for the bounty on Fargo’s head a week ago. Damn asshole’s been giving me the runaround, and just when I got back to the outpost, I find out he attacked without me knowing. Thought I caught a break when he left clues, till I saw you two. Look, I’ll be straight, just hand him over.” the mercenary said, extending his hand. “Wait, what? No way! We made it first and we need the reward!” Ashi asserted, rather irritated with this guy. “Look it’s been weeks since I last got a real reward and now I’m strapped for cash. Do you know how hard it is for a regular mercenary to find work in this day and age?! I gotta eat too, you know?! So hand over that murdering bastard or else.” the mercenary said. “Please, I’m sure there’s a way we can settle this and…” Jack said, trying to diffuse the tension before a laser shot zoomed past his head and blasted a hole in the rock beside him. He didn’t even have time to react as the mercenary had drawn his laser pistol without warning and fired it in the blink of an eye. Given the mercenary’s composure, that was no miss, it was a warning shot. If he wanted Jack dead, it would be very feasible for him. “Last warning.” The mercenary said, done fooling around. Jack steeled himself as he drew his sword, prepared to confront the mercenary’s animosity with his own. The mercenary, while on guard, didn’t hesitate either, and drew the strange device at his hip. With a click, it suddenly transformed and broke into segmented pieces. The pieces floated in fixed points in air, with one sharp point at the end, and the space between them was filled with bright blue light. The mercenary never explained, but this was a cybernetic photon blade, which made the Cyber Troopers’ combat blades look like butter knives. All three combatants stared down as the peak filled with tension. After a moment of silently holding ground, the mercenary charged in and clashed his blade with Jack’s. He seemed slightly surprised that Jack’s sword didn’t break on contact, as it just looked like a regular thin steel sword. They continued to clash, bright flashes coming from the cybernetic photon sword each time. They locked swords again, and Jack struggled to figure out his opponent. Just as he was a good gunman, he was an accomplished swordsman, and he obviously faced off against skilled opponents before. Fortunately, Jack was as well, and he drew the pistol at his side. The mercenary saw this and backed off with a jump. Jack fired three bullets aimed at different places, but rather than dodging, the mercenary blocked each one. “This one is dangerous”, Jack thought. The mercenary further confirmed his thoughts as he grabbed something circular from his trench coat and unpinned it. Jack’s mind went into alarm, and as he ducked for cover near some rocks, the mercenary threw it and explosion rocked the peak. He tried peering into the smoke to find any trace of the Samurai, but then he felt a presence closing in. The figure coming out of the dust wasn’t him though, it wasn’t as tall or sturdy as him. This was confirmed as he barely blocked the knife with his blade, seeing Ashi attack him with killing intent. As they both backed off, the mercenary fired his laser revolver, but Ashi was fast, swerving and dodging each shot at the last minute. She closed in at the last minute and punched him in the face, cracking his mask. He swung his blade at her, but she dodged and backflipped away. If he wasn’t so focused on her, he might have noticed that the smoke had lifted and the Samurai rushing in with his blade. He finally noticed at the last minute, but he barely blocked the sword attack as it grazed his damaged mask and helmet. They fell in pieces and Jack now stared at the face of his enemy that he had once again locked swords with. The mercenary appeared to be young, just a year or two younger than Jack and Ashi, with brown, rough hair reaching down to the top of his neck and appearing slightly shaggy in tuffs. He had faded blue eyes and a rounded nose and a slightly pointed chin. In contrast to the state of his hair, his face was cleanly shaven, and the color of his skin was white. Despite his apparent youth, Jack could see the experience in this foe’s face, as he appeared tense with his teeth gritted, but didn’t look about ready to give into fatigue or frustration. Jack held his own resolve then, but it looked like the mercenary seemed distracted a moment as his eyes went wide at something in the distant. “GET DOWN!” he screamed, pulling Jack down to the ground right as a speeding bullet roared past where Jack’s head was a moment ago. Jack was stunned at the sight, and turned his attention to where the bullet came from. The young mercenary was already ahead of him on that, and with two hands and peerless aim, fired a shot in the direction of the previous one. It reached the opposite peak and struck the sniper rifle of the assailant, blowing it to pieces. Jack couldn’t make out who it was as they already backed off down the peak. Still, he doubted that was the last of him, as it was obvious he had aimed to take Jack’s life. “Um, thank you, for that.” Jack said awkwardly. The mercenary sighed in exasperation. “You can keep your thanks for later. We can argue and fight over the scumbag later, right now we’re sitting ducks over here.” the mercenary explained, as they both got up and Ashi joined them. “Wait, why’d you help us? How do we even know you’re not with that guy? You just tried to kill us?!” she yelled at him distrustfully. “The only person who tried any killing here was you, lady. I just wanted kick your asses and get my reward. Look, I just reacted, okay. Not like I enjoy seeing people get shot dead, and if I was with him, I wouldn’t have saved your boyfriend’s ass, okay. Now, can we please get out of here before we get shot? If that was who I think it was, he’ll be back.” the mercenary retorted. Jack and Ashi were a bit embarrassed by the mercenary’s use of the word “boyfriend” as it seemed their relationship wasn’t hard to guess, and they couldn’t exactly retort to that, rude as he was about it. Still, he was valid in his other points as well, so they complied. Jack grabbed Fargo, still knocked out, and together the company of three headed down the mountain, cautiously looking ahead and to the sides for trouble. When they reached the bottom, they had not lessened their guards. Good thing too, because from both sides, 8 armed hostiles, each looking rough, desperate, and murderous appeared. Given their tattered garb and poor weaponry, they were obviously bandits. “Great, this is why I love being near the Outlands.” the mercenary said sarcastically. “Hey, that’s them, right? Guy said he’d give us a haul if we skinned those two, yeah? What about him?” said one bandit. “Skin ‘im too. He looks like he’s got valuables on him.” said another bandit with anticipation. “Are you kidding me?! I’m broke, you, ah whatever.” The mercenary lamented as he fired his laser revolver at the bandit that said to kill him, blowing his head off as he fell down. The bandits got the message then and attacked. It wasn’t much of a fight. Jack sliced the throat of one and cut another one down through the shoulder. Ashi stabbed one through the head and filled another one with bullets with her SMG. The mercenary shot another one through the chest as they charged, and when they got to him, he bisected one and stabbed the last one with his cybernetic photon sword. The 8 bandits lay dead at their feet, blood pooling at the foot of the path. Jack was suspicious. Why did the assailant think that this would work? Did he actually think that these bandits could kill them? Jack was not overconfident, but he didn’t think he could be taken down that easily, and he was sure his enemy knew that as well. Something wasn’t right. His suspicions were confirmed when a cylindrical device rolled in and started beeping faster and faster. “QUICK, RUN!” Jack shouted as he and the others ran and ducked as an explosion rocked where they had stood. Jack lifted his head and looked around to make sure Ashi and the mercenary were safe. Once he confirmed that and they all got to their feet, they noticed a figure walking through the smoke. As it began to clear, Jack was both surprised and on guard. Coming out of the smoke was what he recognized as an intelligent canine, but not like the friendly archaeologists he met in the last future. This one had lethal aura about him. He was about as tall as a human man, and from what he recognized, the assailant resembled a German shepherd, but a scar ran across one of his eyes, leaving him blind on the left. His right ear looked slightly torn as well. Obviously, he had plenty of rough fights. He was covered in weathered up green and black armor, and carried a machete on one side and a repeater on the other. What he was carrying was a chain gun, primed and loaded. “Shit, Chlodwig. I was hoping I was wrong.” the mercenary said, gritting his teeth. “Cassius, out of the way of my bounty. The Protectorate just upped the bounty on both of them to 500,000 credits, dead or alive. So back off.” Chlodwig said in a gruff, accented voice. “Look, you got the wrong idea. I don’t do bounties for the Protectorate, all right? I was just having a little property dispute with them is all.” Cassius explained. “Hmph, if you got over that hang up, you might actually become a half decent mercenary and start making real money. Instead, you’re still hauling small time thugs for food and rent. What a waste. Well, you can cash your pocket money when I’m done with them.” Chlodwig scoffed. Jack was a bit confused by that. From the sounds of it, Chlodwig and Cassius here were opposite ends of the totem pole, with Cassius catching small time outlaws and Chlodwig hunting professionally. But Cassius certainly didn’t fight like an amateur, if anything Jack suspected he’d be one of the real professionals. Who was Cassius? “In case you’re wondering who the hell this asshole is, his name’s Chlodwig, Real professional, hunts for anyone as long as they’re the highest bidder. Ran into him on a few bounties, he’s a real savage. Shot down one of his associates when they were having a verbal argument, no one worked with him after that. If he’s hunting a hit on your ass, that’s bad.” Cassius explained. “Sorry, what did you call me? An asshole?” Chlodwig growled with animosity. “Well, yeah! You seriously shot down one of your partners, and just now you nearly killed me twice! I nearly got shot and blown up, damn it!” Cassius vented. “Like I said, you got in the way. So, stay out of the way, before I blow your friggin’ head off!” Chlodwig said before he just barely dodged a laser blast that grazed his intact ear, blood tracing down his head. When he realized the insulting intent of that injury, he growled with rage as his chain gun started to rev up. “I’m going to regret this, but screw you anyways.” Cassius said nonchalantly. He, Jack and Ashi turned serious then and dodged as a hail of bullets came from the chain gun, turning everything in front of Chlodwig into a free fire range. Jack, Ashi, and Cassius barely managed to hide behind a boulder, but that wasn’t going to last, as cracks were already forming and rock bits were chipping away. Jack grabbed a rock twice the size of his hand and threw it in the air. When it fell back down from the bullet filled air, it turned to fragments smaller than a pinky finger. “Yeah, we’re mincemeat if we go out there.” Cassius said. “Can’t stay here either. Got any bright ideas?” Ashi said with some criticism. “I seriously just pissed off a crazy professional mercenary at a moment’s notice without a plan. Clearly bright ideas are the last thing I got now. How about you, topknot?” Cassius asked. Jack held his hand to his chin as he thought up how to face Chlodwig. As long as he had that chain gun, a head on attack was suicide. So, they needed a quick move that would distract him and let them destroy it. Then it occurred to him. “Do you have any more of those explosives?” Jack asked. Cassius was a bit baffled as to why he asked that in this situation, then realization dawned as he smiled. “Oh, I see what you’re going for. Yeah, I got a few more. But how are we going to distract him to use ‘em?” Cassius asked. “Leave that to me.” Asi said, smiling with confidence. The trio readied themselves as Ashi took aim from behind the top of the boulder and fired. Chlodwig noticed and began firing towards her. That was the chance. Cassius unpinned a grenade and rolled it towards Chlodwig. Still, he was rather experienced and noticed it as he stopped firing and backed up as it exploded. “Grrr, bastards! Did they think that shit was going to…” he thought before a figure closed in from the smoke, sword in hand. Chlodwig’s eyes opened in alarm as he tried to ready the chain gun again, but it was too late. The double feint paid off as with one clean stroke, Jack slashed the chain gun in two. “GRAHHH!” Chlodwig roared as pulled out his repeater. Jack jumped back to get distance as he blocked with his sword, though a few bullets still grazed his arms and legs. Chlodwig was so focused though that he didn’t see Ashi jumping in with her combat knife, slashing the repeating before Chlodwig countered with his machete. In the ensuing blade clashes, he knocked the combat blade away and was about to strike her before a bullet knocked his machete out of his hand. It had come from Jack’s pistol, Jack himself looking very upset at Chlodwig. “Damn you, I’ll-GAAAAHHH!” Chlodwig screamed in pain as he felt a sudden attack at his left side. He looked down to see blood pouring out of where his hand used to be. Now, it lay on the ground next to him, soaked in his own blood. The cause was a cybernetic photon sword, gripped in a slashing motion by Cassius. He knew that since Chlodwig was blind in the left side, enough of a distraction would leave him wide open then. Cassius stood straight as Jack and Ashi stood behind him, with Chlodwig backing away in pain, clutching his bleeding wound. “Leave, now. Or do you still want to fight like that.” Cassius said, looking down on Chlodwig with stern eyes. Chlodwig’s eyes turned downward in both frustration and resignation. He came here with enough firepower and armament to turn hordes to pieces, but now he lost both that and his left hand, and it was still 3 to 1. If he wanted to live, there was no choice. He was no Protectorate fanatic, so dying fighting Magnus’s battles was not how he saw himself going out. Still, as he turned back, walking away with blood still trailing down in drops, he said one thing to the group.“ Fick dich alle zur Hölle.”. Jack frowned, knowing some German from his travels and understanding what that meant. Fuck you all to hell, was the rough translation. “Uh, yeah, right back at ya.” Cassius said, not knowing the exact context, but felt it was meant to be insulting. “So, since that was enough action for like, I dunno, a month, do you just want to call it quits and split the reward?” Cassius said, looking a bit exhausted. Jack and Ashi nodded, sharing his sentiments. “Aw, my friggin head, who the hell-GUHH?!” Fargo said as he stirred awake before getting a kick to the head from Cassius. “Alright, gave that asshole some payback and did my part. Now I don’t feel so guilty. Let’s go get us some money and a drink.” he said.

…

The trio sat down in the bar, resting from the day’s events. They had turned in Fargo, a little worse for wear, not that they cared, and the bartender gave them the outpost’s reward, which they split three ways. As Cassius suggested, they were now sharing in a light drink, not enough to get drunk, but enough to take a little edge off. “I’m uh, not big on introductions and you already heard, but uh, name’s Cassius, or Cass if you like.”. he said with some reserve, not big on jovial greetings. “It is a pleasure to meet you Cass, I am called Jack.” Jack greeted with both graciousness and humility. “I’m Ashi, so don’t get it wrong Cass.” Ashi stated with a stern smile. Though she was now on friendlier terms with him, in part thanks to his own actions and Jack’s outward trust, but Ashi still reserved some animosity for his rough, crude behavior. “Jeez, alright, alright. Anything so you don’t stab me. So, I guess you’re those renegades the Protectorate’s losing their shit over, huh?” Cassius inquired. The pair looked at each other, not wanting to have to fight more would be bounty hunters. “Looking to cash in?” Ashi asked with distrust. “Like hell. Said it last time, I don’t do bounties for those shit lords. Hell, it makes me laugh to hear they got problems. So much so, that maybe I should tag along.” Cassius mused with slight humor. “Wait, what?!”. “Excuse me?” Jack and Ashi said respectively at the same time. “Like I said, I hate those guys, all right. Not like I can walk into Protectorate territory without dealing with those bucket heads in the first place, so I don’t mind a bit of lawbreaking. Plus, I’m still pretty dirt poor. Figure It’ll be easier to make ends meet with company than on my own. Know you probably don’t make much either, but it’s better than what I got. Basically, you take me in, I help you stick it to the man, deal?” Cassius proposed. Jack and Ashi looked at each other a bit dumbfounded. Even ignoring the implications and responsibilities of bringing someone else into their fight, Cassius’s reasons were really too simplistic. Who works with wanted fugitives on a whim? “Is that really all there is to it?” Ashi asked with scrutiny in her eyes. Cassius sighed. “Look, I just got a personal axe to grind, all right? That’s all I’m going to say about it. You saw I can look after myself, so don’t get any hang ups about thinking I’m your watch, okay?” Cassius explained. “This will be very dangerous and there is not much in the way of money. We live on the run and don’t have much luxuries. Are you sure about this?” Jack stated, making it clear this would be risky, not comfortable or profitable. “I figured as much. It doesn’t sound all that different from what I was doing before. Desperate mercenary looking for work, remember? Sleeping in the woods on rocks or eating gruel are common past times for me. Getting shot at is pretty common too, ‘least I can sleep with both eyes closed with company around. So, what do you say?” Cassius asked. Jack looked at Ashi, with all she offered being a shrug, which really indicated “why not”. With that, Jack nodded, and turned back to Cassius with a smile. “Thank you, Cass, your help means a great deal.”. Jack said with gratitude. “Jeez, polite much? Well, it’s a welcome change. Same here. So, where we going?” Cassius asked. “Novas Sanctum.” Jack answered. Cassius turned back to Jack like he misheard. “Wait, the Protectorate Capital?! Here I thought I had an axe to grind. You think big, huh Jack? Well, I guess that works. Off to the hornets’ nest then. Oh god.” He said with some dry sarcasm, trying to diffuse his stress. As he walked to the door ahead of Jack and Ashi, he saw a Magnus Protectorate promotional poster. On it was Magnus’s face, overlooking a lineup of Cyber Troopers. The poster read “Defend the Peace and Join the Magnus Protectorate Today.”. Cassius’s eyes narrowed at that as he clenched his fists, bad memories resurfacing. “Is... something wrong?” Jack asked with concern. “Huh? Oh, uh, nothing, nothing. Just need that night air is all. Anyway, my ride is outside in the lot, so let’s go.” Cassius said, dismissing his prior thoughts. They walked outside, now nighttime, into the makeshift parking lot, where Jack and Ashi’s armored motorcycle remained. Cassius gestured to his vehicle, which was also a motorcycle, but more traditional and not bearing armor. As Jack and Ashi got on their motorcycle, Jack expressed a troubled thought to Ashi. “Ashi, does it seem odd how far Cass is going for us?” Ashi nodded. “He said he had personal reasons, but he won’t share. I thought he was lying, maybe a spy, but he looked really troubled back there. Maybe it was something bad enough he doesn’t want to talk about it?” Ashi surmised. Jack nodded, getting that impression as well. “He does not seem to be of ill intent, but he is keeping much to himself. He is a struggling mercenary by trade, but the way he fought was that of an accomplished and trained warrior. Why would a person like that be struggling or resisting the law? It makes no sense.” Jack stated. “Well, we’ll just have to ask him when he feels like talking about it.” Ashi concluded. Jack sighed, affirming that was the only way they would make sense of it. That wasn’t what bothered him most though. “Ashi, this seems weird, but it’s been bothering me for a while now. I had the strangest sense when I saw Cass’s face in that fight. Does there seem to be something familiar about him to you?” Jack asked. “Ashi held her hand to her chin, contemplating. “Now that you mention it, there is something familiar about his face. Not like I met him before, but like his face looks like someone else I’ve seen before, like his face is a bit similar. But who?” Ashi asked, struggling to match the sense of familiarity. In the end, their contemplation was interrupted with a honking sound. “Perhaps it is nothing, or just a coincidence.” Jack said, knocking off previous concerns. He drove the motorcycle up to the lot exit, where, Cassius waited on his own motorcycle, and the pair of vehicles drove back on to the arid road, the only lights being the moon, stars, and their headlights as they drove on.

Author’s Notes: I know I’m very wordy and some parts might have been dull, but I write each one with the frame and scope of an SJ episode in mind, which is why they are as long and detailed as they are. Sorry if you weren’t here for a lecture on the Outlands and stuff, but I’m still in world building right now. Wait until I get to things like the Abominables and a group inspired by a faction from a game I love. Now, Cassius. Cassius is one of three original characters I had planned to join Jack and Ashi in their journey. The second one will join them in the next chapter, but the last one won’t until Arc 2. It’s for the story and character development, sorry. But Cassius is by far the most detailed I had imagined and will have an important backstory, as you probably picked up and are now guessing. I am really bad at drawing and am only starting to take online tutorials, and even then it will probably still be bad, but I’m thinking of doing a design for Cassius and uploading it to my tumblr @psychicdan, where my other Renegade Samurai stuff is. But have you played Fallout New Vegas, where the Courier is wearing that NCR Ranger Armor? Yeah, Cassius’s design was inspired heavily by that, plus the descriptions I left in the chapter, his helmet has bigger eye googles and his trench coat being faded black instead of brown. It also takes some inspiration from the Drifter from Hyper Light Drifter, mainly the sword, because that was cool too. In fact, I sort of imagined the design before Renegade Samurai, it just came back to me when I was thinking up a mercenary character for the story. Also, let me confirm that Chlodwig is German, no I’m not racist, just wanted to make another character that was sort of SJ style. Hey, that episode with the bounty hunters had a big muscleman Russian named Boris, no one batted an eye then, huh? Also, let it be known I do not hate dogs, have two myself, and no actual dogs were hurt in the making of this chapter. I don’t speak German either, I seriously used Google translate, so go easy on me. Now before you leave, if it’s not much trouble, if you liked the story, please leave a like, comment, or review. I like making this story, but I do feel insecure sometimes. I’d like to know how people feel about the story and what could have been better so I can reflect and think in new angles and bring a better story for everyone. Hope this doesn’t come across as desperate. Now, the next chapter will include both a new OC and a joke villain I plan to bring up again once or twice. His shtick? Death metal. So, yeah, let me know what you thought and leave a like if you liked, thanks.

Mini Fanfic #352: The Original Meets His Clone (Super Smash Bros Ultimate)

Kamikaze: (Screeches Happily Like He Normally Does)

???: Well I'll be damn. K. Rool was actually right for once.

Kamikaze: ??? (Turns to see the original Ridley make his way towards him)

Ridley: (Gives Kamikaze a Cocky like Grin) Sooooooo I take it that you're supposed to be my clone, yes?

Kamikaze: (Nodded while Screeching)

Ridley: Interesting......(Takes a look at Kamikaze from front to back) Your appearance is almost flawlessly similar towards mine. That Ludwig kid sure did an impressive job on this one that's for sure.....Tell me, clone. What's your name?

Kamikaze: (Screech Lightly)

Ridley: (Understood Kami's Language Perfectly) Wait, Seriously? You're name's actually "Kamikaze"?

Kamikaze: (Screech while Nodding)

Ridley: Wow....... Can't believe I'm actually saying this, but your name is even better than mines.....But back on topic, it's a somewhat pleasure to meet you in person.

Kamikaze: (Screech Happily)

Ridley: So, Kamikaze, how's life been treating you since you were created?

Kamikaze: (Screech)

Ridley: I see.....Not bad. Not all Space Pirates could start out destroying their enemies the moment they wake up from their slumber.....(Starts Becoming Diabolical).....And Become the most Deadliest Creation IN THE ENTIRE UNI-huh?

Kamikaze: (Tilt his head and Screech in a very confused matter)

Ridley: Oh. I take it you have...no idea what I'm talking about here, do you?

Kamikaze: (Shook his head)

Ridley: ('Sigh') Yeah. I figured as much....Well, don't worry about it. You're a clone. So I guess it's understandable why you don't understand stuff like that, you know?..... Buuuuut......there is one thing I need to ask of you.

Kamikaze: ???

Ridley: Tell me, Kamikaze, have you....by any chance....Met a Bounty Hunter, known as Samus Aran.

Kamikaze: (Nodded Rapidly while Screeching Loudly)

Ridley: Ohhhh! So you have met her, have you?

Kamikaze: (Screech More Happily)

Ridley: (Starts Grinning Evilly) Excellent.... Give me some details, if you don't mind, my good man. What was she like? Did her glare gave you an impression? Did you two perhaps....fought before?

Kamikaze: (Screech to Ridley of who Samus is to him, forming a conversation in his own language)

Ridley: (Listening to what Kamikaze is telling him) Hmmm....Yes....Uh-Huh... Wait.......What?.....No....It can't be.....A-Am I hearing this correctly?

Kamikaze: (Nodded Happily While Screeching)

Ridley: (Eyes Widened in Complete Shock) WHAT IN THE HELL DO YOU MEAN THAT BOUNTY HUNTER IS YOUR-

???: HEY!!!

Ridley Turns to see Samus Dangerously Glare at him.

Ridley: Ah shit- I-I mean.....Samus!! How's it going, my old..... emotionally scarred friend? (Chuckles Awkwardly)

Samus: (Glaring at Ridley) ...................

Ridley: Y-You might be wondering why I'm talking to your...uhh...son, Kamikaze, alone here. W-Well it's simple really. I was wanted to talk to him, get to know him a little. You know.....since he is my clone and everything.

Samus: (Making her way towards her Kamikaze in Complete Silence)

Ridley: I mean it's not like I was trying to talk him into joining me into destroying any Space Pirates who gets in my way, including yourself. (Chuckles Awkwardly) That would be ridiculous! (Laughs Loudly and Awkwardly) (This is absurd..... There's no way Samus of all people, would be a some doting mother to this-)

Samus: (Softly Stares Towards, Kamikaze, hugs him, and kiss him on his forehead)

Ridley: (Eyes Widened and Jaw Dropped) (Holy shit.......He wasn't lying......)

Samus: (Turns Back to Ridley with a Piercing Glare)

Ridley: (Jumped a few inches back in fear) !!

Samus: (Took A Deep Breath before Speaking) I'm only going to tell you this once, Ridley.....(Pulls out her Plasma Gun and points it at Ridley) If I EVER catch you with my baby again, I WILL end you. Got it?

Ridley: (Rapidly Nodded in Fear)

Samus: (Put her Plasma Gun back in her pocket) Good. (Turns back to Kamikaze while a Soft Smile) Kami sweetie?

Kamikaze: (Screech Happily)

Samus: How about we go flying for a while? (Make her way towards the door) Just you and me.

Kamikaze: (Happily Nodded and Screech while Following Samus)

Ridley: ...............Well..............That was.......... something. (Starts Walking Away) I should probably see what Bowser's doing just to clear my mind for a bit.....

@keyenuta

@floralianspiderboynova

@26shann

@cyber-wildcat

@chompycroc

@ink-correctsmashbrosbloo

REMNANTS OF A THRONE

Large beads of sweat rolled down Dagger Ixur's face. His breathing labored, he was outnumbered as the group of assassins closed in on him without a sliver of mercy. Why would they? His family never did. Their blasters pointed at him with dead-on precision, he was finally cornered to no chance of survival after four years on the run. Untrained and subjected to the cunning schemes of those responsible for his fall from royalty, Dagger educated himself on the laws of primal survival and all that it entailed on the streets. From 'spoiled' prince to fugitive with a staggering price hanging over his head, his descent was grand but his rise into being Dagger Ixur was nothing less than impressive. If only his captors hadn't underestimated him, they might have collected the money for his capture, or death. He could practically hear Eriadne's insidious laughter ringing in his ears as she held onto his head, severed from the rest of his body. Confidence grew among the bounty hunters, greedy for the ridiculous amount of credits promised as reward. As soon as they had him sprawled on the ground, Dagger played the waiting game as one of them hunted for the cuffs to ensure his stay in their custody. The one holding him down, forcing him to breathe dirt and dust into his lungs, protested in annoyance for his companion's lack of efficiency. “What? Did you bring your makeup too? Fetch those damned cuffs already!” The angry rant went on and on until the other had finally managed to retrieve the shackles and hand them over. And still, Dagger waited. Click. One wrist left to bind. Absolute relief poured over Dagger from the one with his knee (and most of his damn weight) crushing his spine. The metal slid around the remaining free wrist, but the click never came. In a move of boldness, or reckless stupidity (depending on the perspective), the fallen prince wheels his body, swiping the bounty hunter's blaster. The surprise painted on the collective faces of the small group of greedy bastards, who were only in the business for the profit, amused him. But Dagger Ixur wasn't born of amusement. Driven by cold, unmitigated vengeance, he rose to unleash all he knew of. Pain and death. Assuming the blaster's settings had been switched from stun to kill, he aimed the weapon with impressive skill and speed to his first target —the one that had made eat dirt. Literally. And shot. The unceremonious tumble of a lifeless body to the ground, drawn by gravity's pull, rammed home the meaning of his name in his native language. Dagger Ixur, a dark blade through the heart. Mayhem brought chaos, and together they rose from the sands in literal geysers as the remaining assassins rained down blasts on him after the death of their accomplice. Four years, Dagger would have been already lying dead in a pool of his own blood after the stunt he just pulled. Back then, he lacked the ability of recognizing the telltale signs of the peril he was walking into and the vultures that lurked in eager expectancy of consuming his rotting flesh. Today, he bore the scars of hard lessons that had brought him to the brink of death on multiple occasions. Courtesy of his dear grandmother and Tadara of Andaria, Eriadne eton Anatole, after deeming him as a criminal for crimes he didn't commit. High treason. Murder. Attempted murder. Assault. Theft. Kidnapping. Terrorism. Cyber crimes. Arson. The bitch did it only as another of her valuable lessons. That no one crossed the Tadara without ending up dead. —Duly noted. For the whole of his miserable life, he had been a pawn in Eriadne's hands. One slip had him disowned, exiled and marked as Outcast. For all of that, he'd been on the run since his warrant had been issued. Rolling his now athletic body, a drastic contradiction to his overweight body from a time he wished he'd forget, over the grains of sand, a cloud of dust emerges in camouflage against the nonstop rain of blasts meant to kill him. As he moved to be lying on his back in full offensive mode, both hands gripping his blaster, he shot the other two who shouted angry expletives at him. In the midst of madness, he found the time to appreciate old paranoias and gaming addictions. Dagger could only attribute his impeccable aim to that and the valid fears of being shot in the back by one of his cousins. Apprehensively, he rose to his height whilst scanning the surrounding area. He was sure there had been four after him. Assuming the last one ran for his life in the face of Dagger Ixur's merciless death, he slapped his legs, arms and chest to make himself more presentable before heading to his initial destination. The filthy hole they call a bar where most criminals and pariahs seek asylum for limited time to escape the blistering suns of Steradore. He could practically feel the relief found in darkness of the dimly lit establishment when he felt the stinging bite of metal on his side. Cursing his inability to learn from past mistakes, he drew his blaster from the inside of his coat to shoot the bastard who had escaped him earlier. Fire erupted from his wound into his veins. “Minsid hell.” Closing his fingers around the poisoned knife, he pulled it out of his flesh slowly to avoid quicker infection of the poison. Not that it would matter. The stench of the poison told him all he needed to know. He'd be dead soon enough. Staggering his way to the dead bounty hunter, he brought his boot to the body paralyzed by the stillness of death to roll it over and verify he wouldn't get back up again and finish the job. “Eriadne won't be pleased to know I died and she didn't get my head.” Misplaced laughter left his lips in his continuous vexing of his grandmother as he dragged his feet into the bar by sheer will only. With fingers pressed against the bleeding wound, he walked toward the table in the farthest corner before sitting down with a grimace of agony. He knew it was imperative to demonstrate no weakness or else he'd be dead sooner than expected. The parasites crawling the bar would be ruthless in their attack were they to find out how badly wounded he was. Especially if they learned the price on his head. Hell, if he had half a brain, he'd turn himself in for all those credits. Panting, he tugged his coat to cover the blood seeping into the t-shirt that had seen better days and less holes before drowning in the seas of stoicism to conceal the pain under a mask of boredom as the waitress approached him. “You got thirty cronas, slag? You can't stay otherwise.” The smugness exuding from her smirk would have been wiped out in another times if he ever were to venture into this place as the heir of the two largest fortunes in the Nine Worlds. On this day, he was only the heir of shit. With a condemning sneer, he tossed the coins at her. With the creds in her possession, his gaze wandered as he asked for the one drink known to be forbidden in most planets for the dangers of its consumption. “Tondarion Fire.” In a forsaken place like this, he knew the only kind he'd drink would be bottom shelf shit. Garbage. After confirming the authenticity of his money, she left him with his thoughts and fetch his drink. From behind red-tinted glasses that sat over the bridge of his nose, Dagger concealed the slapping truth of his genetic code and the ill fate the union of his progenitors marked him for. A hybrid, he was both human and Andarion. And he was neither. The humans curled their lips over his abnormal height, claws and the red rimming his eerie hazel brownish-green eyes. Andarions prouded themselves of their beauty, strength and warrior race. To be ruled by a half Andarion/half human reject was frowned upon amidst their society. And his grandmother had never been shy to deal that hand and trap him to the point of yielding beneath her iron fist. Hissing, he prayed for a quick death as he bled out. And at the rate he bled, he wouldn't hurt much longer. Perhaps the gods would finally grant him the peace he sought for all his wretched life. His thoughts took a drastic turn as he pulled his link out of his coat to study the picture where the undeniable love his parents felt for each other was imprinted upon. And it slapped him until he was bleeding. Why couldn't they love him too? He wondered what scalded him more, the flames of that fire darkening his soul. The venom pumping through his body at an alarming tempo or the loneliness that clawed at his heart with mocking laughter. No one gave a single shit he was dying. Haunted by that truth, he slid the link back into his pocket. Drawn to the commotion to his left, his fingers flew to his blaster out of habit in expectation of it being more assassins or enforces looking for him. When it turned out to be just two humans and an alien dragging in a weeping kid in chains, Dagger let out a breath of relief. Assuming it was just a prisoner being transferred, he started to revert back into his sorrows and near death when the kid gave fight to those holding him. He seemed to be around the age of fifteen. The alien brought his large hand to the kid's face in a move of brutal intimidation. The resounding slap carried unwanted memories from his own 'happy' childhood as tiziran. “Don't bruise the merchandise, asshole!” The human with money in his hands snarled angrily. “He won't be worth this amount of credits I'm paying you if he's somehow injured.” Flinching at the cruelty of the slaver who was looking for quick profit over a child's innocence, Dagger was already on his feet. He refused to stand on the sidelines while a child was robbed of his childhood like he had. The boy was supposed to be at home, surrounded by friends and family. Not in the hands on a greedy slaver. Besides, he was already dead anyway. Best to go down fighting the good fight than to die in the corner of a bar, drinking the shit version of Tondarion Fire. His thoughts consisted mostly of his own selfish fears in the past and how they had paralyzed him to the point of bending him to others' will. Back then, he had convinced himself that had been his only option of survival. Moron. All it had gotten him was a premature death in a backwoods planet. Alone. Probably lying, face down, in a pool of his own blood. And his, still warm, corpse raided for whatever values he possessed. A few creds, his signet ring and weapons. Pulling his coat back to reveal the glistening of the sleek metal from his blaster, Dagger ensured everyone that he wasn't in the mood for verbal exchanges. The cold killer, Dagger Ixur had been reborn as he faced his defeat and fall in a cracked mirror of an abandoned building on his lonesome, sober for the first time in years. What a piece of shit he was. Today, as he inserted himself in a transaction that didn't concern him, he hated himself for knowing his old self, the chemically-numbed Jullien eton Anatole, would have stepped away without a second thought given. Thankfully, he had buried that version of him four years ago. And today, he would live up to no one's expectations but his own. “Let the kid go.” A few pairs of eyes trained on him, some more amused than others. The one buying the kid snorted and dismissed him. But the one selling the kid turned to him with a sickening smile. “And what do we have here? You're a fancy one, aren't you?” The sound of stupefaction that clashed with rolling tension made him question the human's sanity. “Really? Because of what? The shower I took last week?” Smelling like a rotten corpse already, he was bloody and sweaty. The opposite of fancy. Even he couldn't help but being disgusted by his own stench, a true offense to his regal upbringing. “Shoot him already, Eben.” He demanded with an eye-roll meant to judge the weight of sarcasm drenching Dagger's words. The man had barely raised his arm to level his blaster when Dagger shot him, driven by quick reflexes and a shit-ton of hours spent gaming in his youthful years. A blast that landed right between the human's eyes with frightening aim. Once again, Dagger found himself in the midst of an outlaw showdown. Screams and angry bellows left those who either ran in fear of being caught in the middle of an exchange of shots or those who strived for the appropriation of his weapons. As if that would ever happen as long as he has life coursing through his veins. Twirling to escape incoming blasts, his arm stretched to shoot the other three who promised no mercy in their approach to him. Muscles, honed by experience gained during his years of running from the authorities, acted swiftly in the physical exchange of defensive moves as he danced between those attacking him with the recurring offense that returned to bite them all with vengeful interest. When the alien made another move to neutralize him, Dagger wasted no time in kicking him back with a rain of punches and kicks that pulled him into unconsciousness. Dropping to his knees, Dagger unshackled the frightened kid before letting his gaze examine the boy to make sure he stood unharmed. Then, he quickly pushed his link and wallet that housed nothing but a few coins and his royal Andarion signet ring. The only thing that held any real value and the last piece of his old life he still carried with him. The reasons why, he was unsure. For some reason, he could never part with it. Until now. At last, he gave the innocent kid the only thing that became his lifeline throughout the years on the run. His fully charged reserve blaster. He reached for the holster on his back, retrieved the weapon and made sure to unlock the biolock on the trigger so the boy could defend himself if necessary. The astonishment written on the kid's face was nearly comical, but Dagger encouraged him with a subtle inclination of his head. “You should have enough in there to get you home. And don't stop for anything until you're home, surrounded by your family. Shoot anyone who tries to keep you from getting there. Conscience be damned. Whatever it takes, chizzi, you get yourself home. Now, run!” Shouting, he pushed the boy out of harm's way as some of the others started to regain consciousness. Pulling himself up to a stand, he groaned as his wound scorched his sensory nerves, drowning him in pain and misery. But the boy refused to leave. Instead, he curled his fingers around Dagger's coat, coaxing the bleeding fugitive to join him in his return home. “You need to come with me. They'll have you for sure.” The boy's cryptic words gave Dagger pause. He leaned and whispered, “I know who you are.... tiziran.” Shit. No, double shit. Bewildered, he stared at the kid, wondering how in the Tophet he knew his real identity. He quickly decided it wouldn't matter in a few minutes as he was a walking corpse. The Korilon was coming for him. Dagger closed his hand around the boy, hoping to pull him from the mess he left behind as far as he could. In their escape and in a most ill-fated plot-twist, another group of outlaws barged in. Armed and looking for trouble. Dagger knew enough of Tavali pirates to recognize their gear. And their thirst for profit. Well, at least his luck never ran out. More accurately, lack thereof. They would gut him faster than the rest of the vermin crawling this bar if they were to smell money. And Dagger was a bottomless pit of it if captured. Instinctively, he hauled the kid behind him in protective impulse. He would fight to the very end, even if the charge of his main blaster had run out. He still leveled it to the female leader who stormed into the bar, wearing a dark red leather outfit that outlined her curves to perfection. Her red lace mask concealed her features to his gaze in a most mysterious fashion. In turn, she angled her weapon at his heart. Before Dagger got the chance to speak up, the boy inserted himself between the duel, crying in loud supplication. “Don't shoot him! Auntie, please. He's the one who saved me.” The laser dot, targeting his heart, wavered for the first time as doubt shocked the woman. “What?” “Just look around! He was helping me escape after freeing me.” The bodies scattered supported the boy's claims, somewhat easing the ruthless female's rattled nerves. Weakness overtook him, bringing Dagger to knees. The buzzing in his ears made it nearly impossible to pay attention at his surroundings, he tried but failure was unyielding. His arm suddenly heavy, he lost his aim but directed all his remaining energy on what truly mattered. The boy's safety. “Are you safe, akam?” The tone of lingering protectiveness and desperation surprising him and those witnessing the moment. “Yes.” Letting gravity take its toll on his dying body, his blaster dropped on the floor with a sobering thump right before his quivering body followed suit. And he embraced the darkness, at last.