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prettywordsyouleft · 4 years

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Forsaken | Part 8

Summary: As one of the Forsaken, Jinyoung had no right to covet anything as his own. When he stumbles across you standing in the middle of the village he had plundered, the memories of old make him risk it all, clutching at the past in hopes for a better future.

Pairing: Park Jinyoung x reader

Genre: warrior au / star crossed lovers / angst / romance

Warnings: death, kidnapping, cursing, a myriad of emotions - this is a really sad love story.

Index: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

It was different now.

Your days weren’t spent cleaning or preparing meals for the camp – much to everyone’s disappointment. Of course, you still managed to turn dinner into something delicious when you were finished with your training, but quite often you were too exhausted to go the extra mile as you once had.

As soon as Jinyoung had signalled the need to start preparing, you had been put under Mark’s guidance. There he had worked on improving your aim with an arrow, your speed increasing with the intense practice. Whilst you were nowhere near the level of archer Mark was, you felt capable wielding the weapon.

A sword, however, was an entirely other ball game. “What, no, I couldn’t.”

“You can and you will,” Jinyoung encouraged, handing you his sword. You almost dropped it, not expecting the weight behind it. Jinyoung sighed and came over to support you. “Careful, this isn’t a toy.”

“Precisely. I don’t understand why I need to be anywhere near it.”

“I need to know you can protect yourself if I can’t reach your side immediately.��

Panic flashed throughout you. “Why, where will you be?!”

“There are a lot of variables in what we’re trying to do, Y/N. I can’t bring you along with me unarmed.”

“So I’ll use bow and arrow.”

“Up close in battle?” he commented darkly and you went to respond until you noted the concern deeply embedded in his eyes.

Swallowing heavily, you fixed your grip around the hilt, inching your hands apart between the guard and pommel. Jinyoung worked behind you on your posture and helped you raise the weapon in front of you. “Spread your legs to support your weight, good, much better. Have you got it?”

“I’ve got it.”

“Swing out at that bag hanging from the tree there then.”

“Swing it out how?” you wondered, turning to look at Jinyoung and with the weight of the sword, you tumbled forward with a sudden loss in balance. Jinyoung lurched towards you to help you back upright and gave you a pointed look. “Well, you said swing but never showed me how.”

“Like this,” he said as he directed your movement a couple of times, you nodding when you felt you had the hang of it.

Stepping towards the bag a little more, you then swung the sword, the bag splitting upon impact. You jolted some with the force but your excitement of hitting the target made you laugh with triumph. “I did it!”

“Okay, so you swung a sword once and almost fell over, nothing to be that victorious over, your opponent would have you on the ground by now.”

Grumbling under your breath, you followed Jinyoung’s calm instructions and continued to practice, even trying a jab a couple of times.

“Good, now aim to break this stick,” Jinyoung asked and held it up in front of himself. You blinked slowly and made no effort to follow through. “Y/N, now!”

“But, you’re in front of me.”

“Of course, because when we are protecting ourselves, there’s usually always an attacker. Right now, that’s me. Now take out my sword, which is represented with this stick.”

“I can’t wield a weapon at you!” you exclaimed and Jinyoung moved swiftly, disarming you from the sword and pointed the tip right at your chest. With an arched eyebrow, Jinyoung shook his head at you.

“Why can’t you?”

“Because it’s you.”

“That excuse doesn’t work, Y/N. We’re not just running along the countryside to catch a fishing boat. We’re risking ourselves every minute away from this place. As soon as I turn my back on the Rebellion, they will send their hunters our way and treat us as prey. They are trained killers, and-”

“So are you, all of you are. Youngjae and I will do our best,” you interjected, sending him a pout before turning on your heel. Jinyoung shifted in front of you, walking you backward with the point of the sword now lightly nudging you in the chest. “Jinyoung, I’m not a killer.”

“I do not want to make you one but there may come a time where you need to choose to fight. What will you do if someone cuts me down?”

“Don’t speak like that to me,” you pleaded with a sob but Jinyoung didn’t relent. You imagined the scene within your head, your actual vision now blurred with a veil of tears. Gasping as the cruel conjured image continued to play out in your head, you moved with ease towards the grip of the sword, taking it out of Jinyoung’s hand and pointed it at him.

“Good girl,” he breathed, stepping around you and hugging you from behind. You dropped the weapon with a clatter and gripped at his arms around you.

“I want to keep learning,” you announced shakily, turning around to bury into him. “So I can protect you too.”

“Will you take any of this with you?” you asked as you looked around at Jinyoung’s trinkets. The man working on strengthening a satchel bag, stopped for a moment to stare at you. He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “What?”

“You.”

“Whilst I’m pleased that you don’t plan to leave me behind, what about your finds over the years?”

“They were never mine, all taken from those I stole from.”

“Surely this gold statue will be good to trade for money,” you pointed out, lifting it from the desk. “Oh, it’s really heavy.”

Jinyoung smirked. “It’s a missing treasure. Our hands would be cut off before they pay us for it.”

“Wow, this world is undecidedly cruel.”

“I tried so hard to keep you in some pretty space, didn’t I? It’s not realistic. The world we both survive in is cutthroat. You work hard and die trying. It’s just how it goes.”

“Do you think we’ll make it to the boat?” you questioned softly, not looking in his direction. Jinyoung didn’t respond and you sighed. “Why go if we’re-”

“Because at least we’ll die trying.”

“I want to make it. I’ll believe we will in everyone’s stead. I will project that we can make it.”

“Just like that tree, huh?”

You smiled, thinking back to the past once more.

“You will not even make it past the trunk. It’s got no true footing for you to grip on to.”

“I want to rescue my kite you made me,” you proclaimed and Jinyoung shook his head.

“I’ll make you another one.”

“I love that one.”

“Don’t be silly, you’ll fall and get hurt.”

“No, I’ll make it, just you watch!” you refuted, marching up to the tree and looked around for something to help you scale it. Sticking your shoe into a groove on the bark, you attempted to grasp at a knot up higher.

You ended up flat on your bottom a moment later.

“See, I told-”

You got back up and tried again, and again, until you were triumphant in reaching your beloved kite. When you stretched out to pull it from the tree, however, you lost your balance, toppling from the branch you had precariously sat on and landed straight into Jinyoung’s waiting arms, the pair of you then falling to the ground with a thud.

“I don’t know whether to be proud of you for doing the unexpected or whine at you for bruising my ribs.”

“Both. I’ll accept both,” you mentioned with a smile, leaning in to peck his lips as pre-emptive pain relief. “I’ll kiss you until you feel better for us to go fly this kite again.”

“Can I choose something to take?” you asked, leaning over the desk and pulling out a leather-bound journal.

Jinyoung’s eyes flashed with recognition. “How did you find that?”

“When I was cleaning. I was reading it when you got back. You owe me an apology for lying. You did a whole lot more than not think of the past, Jinyoung.”

“Writing you letters was my only vice,” he muttered, seemingly satisfied at the way you clutched the book to your bosom all the same. “Fine, take it. Just don’t expect me to read them to you.”

“Now there’s an idea!” you exclaimed, flipping the book open eagerly. Jinyoung snatched it out of your hand and snapped it closed. “Jinyoung, I want to hear all about how you missed the way the moonlight illuminated my sleeping form beside you and how each full moon-”

He cut you off with a hasty kiss then, pulling you into his lap to deepen it. Your humour was now lost in among the steadily building desire, your hands anchoring to the collar of his shirt as not to be swept away with this strong emotion.

Jinyoung pulled away, breathing heavily. “You don’t need me to read them to you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I plan to experience it all with you in person instead,” he stated confidently, bringing you in for another mind-blowing embrace.

All the moments you had dreamed of over the years were blooming into fruition.

Your love for Jinyoung would blind you both from what was to come.

_________________

Part 9

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ndanya-qiri-ffxiv · 5 years

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A Couerl Uncaged

Long-ish story from Mahji’s past, sparked in part after a fight with @sibutum ‘s lovely Y’tajha. I’ve wanted to write it for a bit but the fight gave me added motivation. For anyone wondering why Mahji’s typical accent-heavy speech pattern isn’t here, it’s because they speak their own dialect and I figured it wouldn’t make sense! ... I’m also lazy for a piece this long but go with that first thing.

The door to the little cabin they called home was thrown open with such force that it slammed into the wall opposite, causing Danya to jump from her spot on the floor in front of her makeshift shrine to Azeyma. Mahji strode in with purpose, his jaw set and cheeks tear stained. He clutched something tight in one of his hands. The sound of music and happy chatter from the middle of the village were heard before that door swung back shut.

“Mahji,” she called, tone guarded. Before she could even stand, he shoved what he was holding against her chest.

“Hold these,” and then he made his way into his room. She heard him pulling his leathers off, and pulling different leathers on. She looked down at what he had handed her and frowned - two necklaces, both made of leather and coeurl fangs and claws, but accented differently. One with stones of orange and yellow; the other, stones of blue and purple.

“Why do you have both of these -” She paused, realizing her hand was wet - and red, “Is… is this blood?”

Mahji appeared a moment later. He was dressed in blackened leathers with some green accents and a coeurl paw marker - war leathers. His lance was gripped in hand, and he eyed his twin a moment before he nodded. “It’s blood.”

He said nothing else as he strode back out the front door. Danya was left speechless for but a moment before she darted after him, “You’re going to do something stupid. Mahji, stop.”

He ignored her and made his way toward the village, passing by more than one curious tribemate. Danya’s ears pinned back to her head and she grabbed her brother by the arm. “She wouldn’t want you to do this -”

“Don’t pretend you speak for her,” he snapped back, glaring down at her fiercely enough to cause her to shrink back and pin her ears to her head. He hesitated before his tone softened, “I need to do this.”

“I know what you’re going to do, and -”

“You’re not going to talk me out of it.”

“ - they’re going to kill you, and -”

“Danya,” he stopped walking and turned to her. They had reached the destination anyway - a decently sized circle of dirt in the dead center of the village. A fighting ring. For fun, for honor, for trials. “Enough.”

She faltered at his simple but firm words. Her ears wilted further but finally she relented and nodded once. She backed away from him and offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

He returned it before he stepped into the ring properly and strode to the middle of it. The chatter of the village and the music and the laughter had not stopped. No one seemed to pay him mind - until he raised his voice to issue his challenge. “Qiri. Tuhkeh. Rehnuh. I demand my trial by combat, that I may unseat you and make you answer for your crimes.”

That got some attention. The chatter died down. The music paused. At first, there was no answer. Mahji stood unflinching - patient and resolute. They were cruel and conniving, but they would not deny tradition. The village began to gather around the ring and the chatter returned, now nervous and questioning.

“What is he doing?” Tensa asked, as she settled in beside Danya. The frail young woman was breathless, and leaned heavily on her staff. She’d hurried through the crowd as best she could.

Danya spared a glance down at their sister. Her shoulders slumped. “You heard him. He’s issued his challenge.”

“To be Nunh? Then why would he challenge all three at -” Tensa paused as Danya held up both necklaces in her red-stained hand. Tensa’s face and ears fell in unison. “Oh, Mahji, you idiot.”

“On what grounds,” came a commanding male voice, as Qiri finally made an appearance. The crowd split for him willingly. He was the eldest Nunh and had held the position through cunning and cruelty. To his left was Rehnuh, small and wiry but clever. To his right was Tuhkeh, of average height and build, but the best shot in the jungle. Qiri repeated himself as he entered the ring proper.

“On what grounds do you have the rights to issue this challenge?”

“I have passed my rites and my trials, earned my ink and my armor, and I am a hale and healthy Tia of the Coeurl. These are the rights that allow me to issue this challenge,” Mahji answered, playing to tradition in the face of his rage and anguish. “Furthermore, you have murdered an innocent in cold blood.”

Shocked murmuring began at the front of the crowd and raced to the back. Qiri looked entirely undeterred.

“Neither she nor your relationship with her was innocent. She was a Keeper and you sought to call her mate. I name you traitor to the Coeurl,” here he had to pause, because the murmuring had turned into shouts and cries of disbelief. As it died down, he continued, “Your challenge is rejected and a new one issued - trial by combat to prove your innocence or confirm your guilt.”

“Deal,” Mahji confirmed nearly before Qiri stopped speaking. This had never really been about becoming Nunh. This had been about getting the three of them in the ring and forcing their hand. He shifted his weight into a defensive stance, lance held low and ready. “May Azeyma guide our blows and protect the innocent.”

Surprise flashed across Qiri’s features for a brief moment before he nodded. All three Nunhs had come prepared - Rehnuh with his daggers, already drawn and ready; Qiri with his lance, which he shrugged off of his back; and Tuhkeh, with his bow. He looked the most reluctant of the three. He was the last to draw his weapon and, even then, did not pull an arrow to nock just yet.

Tense moments of silence followed as no one moved to act first. Finally, Qiri gave a little nod to Rehnuh and the man sprang into action. He darted forward at Mahji, attempted to get into his guard and avoid the lance - only to have the younger Coeurl swing at him with said lance and keep the distance.

Rehnuh gave a hop-step and came up short and then paced around just out of reach, circled Mahji like he was prey. “How long did the moon bitch end up living, anyway?” He taunted quietly, so none but they could hear, “Took bets, see. Qiri thought you might mercy kill her. I told him you didn’t have it in you.”

Mahji’s eyes flashed with anger that bordered on rage, but he didn’t take the bait. Not yet. He kept his feet moving and his lance readied. He never turned his back to the other two Nunhns - he didn’t anticipate this remaining a fair fight for long.

“I knew it,” Rehnuh grinned cruelly, flashing crooked teeth and unnaturally sharpened fangs, “You let her suffer!”

Mahji gave no verbal response - or not any coherent response. His lip curled and he snarled viciously. He stepped forward and jabbed with his lance, which Rehnuh sidestepped as anticipated. The Nunh took the opportunity to try to dart in, but Mahji was quicker. He shifted his stance and slammed the shaft of the lance into the other man’s side, sent him stumbling.

The lance is then pulled back and thrust forward again. The Nunh tried to leap away but can’t quite clear, and the pointed end dug into his hip. He cried out in surprise and Mahji smiled mirthlessly, twisting the weapon and drawing a louder shout out of him. Then, he heard the familiar sound of a bowstring releasing an arrow and whirled, pulling the lance back and facing Tuhkeh - just as the arrow whistled past his cheek.

A warning that Qiri had joined the fray - because if Tuhkeh had wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Mahji set his feet and brought the lance up to parry a vicious horizontal swing from the eldest Nunh. They traded four or five blows before Rehnuh once more joined the fray, having flanked Mahji and waited for an opportunity.

He lunged forward at the Tia, daggers drawn back, just as Qiri swung for Mahji’s head. The lance was ducked before it could behead him, and he turned to face Rehnuh. He dropped the lance away from one hand and swung his now free-hand forward in a powerful jab. He caught the charging Nunh in the jaw and set him sprawling - but took the dagger to his ribs for his trouble. It was not deep, and the blade did not embed, but it stung and burned and was distracting.

Which meant he was unable to get back into proper defensive position for Qiri, who had come back around and brought his own lance - with its own dangerous axe-like head - down over top. The Tia is able to fall backward onto the ground to avoid it, but now he he scrambled to even get to his feet. He saw Tuhkeh nock another arrow and loose it - only to watch it nearly take off Qiri’s ear.

The eldest Nunh turned to shout at the hunter, who shouted right back about sight lines and how important they were. Mahji forced himself to his feet, now with a limp. He raised his lance just in time to parry a blow from Rehnuh, who seemed perfectly capable of ignoring his own wound. The smaller Nunh ducked down as if to come up underneath the lance and Mahji bit on the feint.

In the next moment he was blinded - near literally - by pain as Rehnuh brought his knife down over his face. He hadn’t been close enough to tear the eye out or cause more damage than he did, blessedly - but he opened up a nasty gash from forehead to mid-cheek over his right eye, and the blood effectively blinded the Tia from that eye.

Mahji’s painful cry turned into a feral shout and he lunged forward, slamming both of his hands - still gripping the lance - into the Nunh’s chest. Rehnuh stumbled and fell and Mahji brought the lance up, bladed tip pointed down, but has no change to finish the job. Instead, Tuhkeh’s arrow finally landed true, striking him in one of is shoulders. In a rage, he turned to the hunter - just in time to see Qiri swinging his lance for the back of his knees.

The lance struck him hard and his knees buckled. The lance was dropped instinctively as he tried to catch himself from hitting the ground, but Qiri wasn’t done - the Nunh drew the weapon back and reversed the swing, cracking Mahji right in the face across the bridge of his noise. This caused the Tia to double over backward. Before he could recover from the shock, he had the lance’s tip to his throat. Qiri drew it back to finish the job -

“Enough!” Shouted Bharra as she entered the ring. She was diminutive but carried herself with grace and strength, and her amber eyes sparkled with anger. “He is beaten.” “He is a traitor,” Qiri growled back, lance tip still held to Mahji’s throat.

Bharra lowered her voice as she stepped right up to him, “You and I have very different definitions of what constitutes traitorous acts, my dearest Nunh. You will not kill him.”

“He does not get special treatment just because he is your kit, blessed Priestess,” Qiri shot back.

“He is yours as much as mine, though I know that matters not. No, you will not kill him because you cherish your precious power too much. He is beloved despite your efforts to break him. Kill him and watch your kingdom burn.”

Qiri hesitated, but then lifted his gaze from the bloodied Tia to look around. Well more than the majority stood with hands over their mouths, ears lowered, tears in their eyes. His lip curled before he drove the lance down sharply - beside Mahji’s head.

“He will be banished,” he shouted, before anyone got the wrong impression. “As a traitor to the Coeurls, you will no longer be welcome here. If you return, you will be killed on sight. You will be escorted to the edge of our territory and left.”

“After he is healed,” Bharra said, nearly as loudly, “And he will be provided with his clothes, his leathers, and his packs - all of which he has earned. Now - go about your business! There will be no changes among the Nunh’s tonight.”

Qiri glared at her and she smiled back. Danya jogged forward and knelt beside Mahji, frowning deeply at the state of his face. Tensa, struggling to keep up as she always did, was there not long after. The Nunhs eventually departed, with Tuhkeh giving an apologetic look to Bharra on his way.

“Get him up,” Bharaa said, her tone gentling near immediately. “And back to the baths. We’ll clean him up. It looks worse than it is, girls.”

A bell later, and Mahji was tended to as much as he would allow. They had argued over the scarring. Eventually, he had relented on two: his nose, which had to be set and the gash closed, and the arrow wound to his shoulder. The gash over his eye he had allowed to be healed to the point where it would scar but not bleed, and he had allowed the same for his knife wound.

Now, he sat with his two sisters and his mother, waiting for his escorts to come take him away. He was dressed in his traveling leathers and had two packs of gear - his hunting gear, and supplies to make it to wherever he was going to go. His lance leaned against the wall near the doorway, and Bharra had secured him some food and water.

They had been silent for the past several minutes. Mahji stared into the mirror across the room from him. In his hands, he once again held both those necklaces that he’d given Danya earlier. The bloodied one had been cleaned up lovingly, at least. Tensa sat behind him, finishing the braids of his hair.

The door to the bathhouse finally opened and Mahji stood without a word. Bharra stepped in front of him before he could get far, reached up and took his face in her hands. She forced him to look down at her and away from the mirror.

“You and Danya were born together, under auspicious stars, and each with beautiful odd-eyes. These are portents, Mahji. You are destined for greatness and you have been since your birth. Never stray far from the path where your heart leads you, and you will find it.” She flattened her hand over his heart against his chest, and smiled up at him. She spoke firmly and evenly, but he saw the tears sparkle in her eyes. He hesitated and fought the urge to lash out - that it was all a lie, that he was empty now, that there was nothing more to follow. Eventually, he managed to smile at her reassuringly.

“Have to go now, mama.” He leaned down to kiss her forehead, but couldn’t bring himself to give the same type of affection to his sisters for fear of breaking down. He stepped past her and kept his chin held high. He was escorted by four armed guards - carefully selected by the Nunhs. Each of the guards carried some of his gear, so he was completely unarmed.

They walked and they walked, and they didn’t follow the normal paths. He had a sense of where they were going, but couldn’t place it entirely. Finally, two bells in, he spoke. “Where in the world did they tell you to leave me?”

There was silence that followed, before the apparent lead guard spoke up. He sounded both amused and apologetic, as if he felt bad for enjoying the job.

“Jaguar territory. Qiri says they haven’t got much love for the Coeurl,” and with that, the man came to a stop and turned to Mahji. His gear was redistributed, “Said if you can survive this, he’ll be surprised. Bharra said you were to be banished - she never specified where.”

Mahji took his gear back gratefully, looking amused in a ‘Why The Fuck Wouldn’t They?’ kind of way as he’s told where they are. The guard cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak again, wished Mahji good luck. The Tia snorted as he set off on his own, sending a prayer to Azeyma to help guide him.

He doubted she would answer.

#w'amhji tia #w'mahji #mahji writes #ffxiv #backstory #rp

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blackasteriia · 5 years

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kill saix

Dust settled over the lands as twilight faded to night. The distant mountains and hills stood as dark sentries. The Keyblade Graveyard was an inevitability. Like a moth drawn to the flame Xion arrived. She followed rumors and gossip, a trail of hints, all leading her here. Xion had watched at first, perched on the maze walls and observing how the battles progressed. In heartbeats the tides shifted, luck changed, and the favor turned. Some she knew, but others were passing familiarities. That tall redhead, the one that threw fire and goaded Saix, made her heart ache. She observed till she could observe no longer and then she stepped in.

Fight Xemnas, save Axel, reunite with Roxas, and return her lost memories; Not necessarily in that order. There were a million and one questions left from the Organization, from the year she lost. It all came back around in the Keyblade Graveyard. She existed again in continuity, from beginning, middle, and end. Xion put to bed a past of pain and misery, finding solace and strength in lost friends. She whispered Roxas’ name like a spell to break loneliness and regret; A resurrection of a broken heart. The final page of the book and there remained one question, one hanging thread. A plot line yet resolved.

Xion first awoke in the brilliant white halls of Castle Oblivion. Names and faces blurred in her first tender moments, but then there was Saïx. Saix rang clear as a bell, the first, the beginning. For months Xion played the good little puppet, did what she asked, always aimed to please, minded her Ps and Qs, and never failed to apologize. Always echoed a single question. If she was good he was unimpressed. If she was bad he punished her. If she did nothing he goaded her. They argued and struggled, and and he dominated. Xion did not come to the graveyard for repentance or revenge: She came to win.

Xion stepped from her friend’s sides. A single shake of the head denied their help. Her hand curled to her chest, resting against the pulse point of her heart. She forged iron from her will and let light gather in her palm. An arched wrist carried her extended hand to her side and up. Fingers extended sought out the hilt of her keyblade. Gold and crimson molten in the evening’s blush. She twisted the keyblade in her hand, the edge singing as it cut the air. Xion settled into a deep stance. She hunched, small, shoulders rolled forward and keyblade hidden in her silhouette.

Saïx’s shoulders threw back, chin raised high. His claymore arched behind his back and he looked her over with the same contempt from two years prior. The same bitter disgust and frustration. He saw no deeper than her clothes, her outward appearance. Not even the cells and blood vessels of her skin. His boot shifted, pushing aside sand and dust, knees bent.

Xion placed her weight into her lead leg, rising on her toes. The muscles of her calf and thigh tensed, running taut. She pushed off her back leg in a bold charge, swinging wide for Saïx middle. Saix parried and returned the offense. His strike smashed into her guard and reverberated through her form. The ring of colliding metal edges sang through the field. They danced, trading blows in quick rhythm. Each strike and guard, Xion tested him. She searched for openings and weaknesses. The weight of a claymore required quick compensation, the length of the blade kept his swings broad. Her gaze caught the flash of white canines and her heartbeat ticked in her throat.

Xion struck down and Saïx let her overextend past him. Xion twisted and the claymore edge caught the long side of her back. It ripped through her coat and sliced open her skin, tearing into muscle. His boot heal collided with her side and she sprawled. Xion landed on bent elbows. She hacked and coughed, chin curled to chest. Blood welled at the waistband of her pants and stained her shirt wine red. She raised a single hand to keep Roxas from saving her.

“The puppet,” Saïx murmured, “thinks she’s a keyblade master.”

He paced, a patient hunter stalking prey and waiting for her to rise. Hot breath escaped Xion’s lips. Her shoulders and back strained, protesting each movement. In a dry through she swallowed pain. Her palm pressed into the cobblestone, finding resistance against the Earth. She pushed-up, knee raising. She yanked off her coat and tossed it aside then shedded her ruined shirt too, leaving her in her tank-top. Xion impaled the tip of her keyblade into the ground and pushed into the hilt to rise to her feet. She spat. One foot slid back and she growled against pain.

“Don’t hold back, Saïx,” Xion warned.

Primal and lunar rage trampled forbearance. Canines elongated to sharpened points and transmuted gold eyes burned. The power of the moon coursed his veins, insane and feral; Far surpassing fear, Saïx pushed his body to the limit. Xion barred her own teeth and snarled. Xion dug deep. Deep into insults, jabs, and barbs, his attempts on her life, each time she ducked her head and bit her tongue: fuel for the inferno of her rage. She’d return all he gave her ten fold. His own weapon settled into her hand.

They met in equal force. Wild blue magic crashed in waves over the field. Xion chased him, she closed each separation and never retreated. For her reckless rage she earned cuts and wounds, bruises to paint her skin dark. She added each to the wildfire burning a hole in her chest. In the test of their frustration, Xion outlasted and outstripped. She drove Saïx back, forcing him on his heels till his back collided to the courtyard wall. She forwent weapon for her hand. He ducked and her fist smashed into the stone, crushing and shattering rock. She chased him back to the center of the field.

He swung high and Xion ducked low. She summoned her keyblade and slipped close, she slit his abdomen. Xion let her momentum carry her down, falling to her knee. Hands tensed behind her. She caught her breath, letting slip the rage and ferocity. She rose for air from a deep, torrent sigh. Her senses returned. The cold air at her lips, the smell of iron and sweat, the ringing in her ears. Xion rose to her feet and turned to face her opponent again, shoulders thrown back.

Saïx hunched over his blade, leaning heavy against it. His hand clutched his gut and he gasped for breath, heaving with each shuttered intake. His hair fell and tangled around his face. His face lifted and Saïx looked up at Xion. His eyes widened and his lips parted in silent gasp. Disbelief and horror softened his features. Saïx’s eyes met hers, coal black to softened yellow. Xion smiled for him.

“For my earlier insult,” Saïx whispered, “I apologize.”

“Apology accepted,” Xion responded.

He lifted his weapon, arms trembling and slid into his stance. Xion mirrored him. They circled each other, eyes locked, waiting and searching. Then Xion pushed off her toes and charged in. She baited off his warning swing and pulled short. She let his weight shift too far, too exhausted to pull back quick enough. Xion flipped her keyblade in hand, charged magic along blade length and stabbed in.

She impaled Saïx through the chest, sinking to hilt. He collapsed, knees buckling and breath puling from his throat. Xion ripped the blade from him and flipped it in her hand, flicking off black ichor. Her head bowed, sighing in relief as a knot unwound in her soul. She bled and shook, exhaustion and satisfaction flooding her body.

Axel was at Saïx side in a heartbeat. There were all sorts of things to be said and to do. She hadn’t anything left in her to give but to stand watch as he faded. She did not belong in the scene, between Axel and Saïx. Yet, as Saïx slipped and fell into the darkness she swore she saw his eyes flick to her for a spared heartbeat. Saïx died to rise from the ashes, ten times better than before. Xion dotted her I’s and crossed her T’s, then closed the chapter.

#lunsai #✰*✦ Strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet!⎧Asks⎫#✰*✦ Reunion Arc⎧VERSE⎫#✰*✦ The face in the mirror⎧IC⎫#death tw #injury tw #blood tw #abuse tw #character death tw

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rhetoricandlogic · 6 years

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Mister Hadj’s Sunset Ride By Saladin Ahmed

Issue #43

, May 20, 2010

AUDIO PODCAST

EBOOK

“...and whoso saveth the life of one, it shall be as if he had saved the life of all mankind.”

—Qu’ran 5:32

The toughest man I ever met? That’s an easy answer to give, but a tricky tale to tell.

Mister Hadj was from the same place as my rattlesnake of a Pa. Araby, or someplace like, though I don’t rightly know the name since neither him nor my Pa ever said a blasted word about the Old Country. You’d ask and ask, and all you’d get back was a look as hard as rocks. No use digging after that.

I’ve ridden with good men and bad men, but I never rode with a man like Mister Hadj. That wasn’t his proper name. Just a way of calling the old man respectful-like. My Pa taught me that, if I ever met a man from the Old Country, to call him ‘Hadj.’ Damn near the onlything that sonuvabitch ever taught me.

Anyhow, a good few years back now, when I was a young, full-of-hisself bounty hunter, I fell in with Mister Hadj in the Black Hills. We rode together about a year. He was a little leather-brown knot of a man with a moonlight-white beard, and he took an immediate and powerful shine to me on account of my Pa’s being from Araby.

Now, understand, I’m a bastard. I carry my momma’s name—O’Connor. But the way I look—little darker than the average man, I know, and you can see the hatchet nose—well, I get taken for a lot of things. South of the border, I’ve fibbed that I was half-Mexican. Lived a summer trading with the Cheyenne, claiming to be part redman. Even got chased outta town once when I winked at the wrong girl—they was sure as could be that I was a mulatto!

It can be hell, sometimes, being different things to different folks. But it can be right useful, too.

Well, Mister Hadj musta smelled the Old Country in my blood, somehow. Like I say, he took a shine to me. And my knowing how to call him respectfully seemed to seal it for him. I can’t say I ever understood it, but Mister Hadj was the kind of man you wanted on your side, so I wasn’t about to complain.

For what it’s worth, I was the last man ever saw him alive.

The last time I rode with Mister Hadj, we was in a little shit town in Texas, trailing Parson Lucifer’s gang. Old Parson Lucifer was an ex-preacher, mad as a rabid dog. Said he took the name ‘cause he was “part blessed and part damned, like any man.” Can’t say I ever saw the blessed part, though.

Like I said, the man was out of his blasted mind. Anything ruthless or nasty you might have heard about his gang was probably the plain truth. That three-day-slow murder of the blacksmith and his wife in Deadwood, done with their own smithing tools? That weren’t no tale. The widower sheriff of Redemption and his baby boys getting their ears chopped off and force-fed to them? Parson Lucifer’d done that, too.

We were in the employ of the town of Crossblood, where even the old Sunday school teacher was foaming at the mouth to see Parson Lucifer and his boys strung up. They’d lost a lot to that gang. Most of the gang had been caught before we ever got hired—and what got done to ‘em wasn’t none too pretty, neither.

But Parson Lucifer and his two sons were still out there.

Well, one and a half of his sons, anyway. To hear it told, two sheriff’s deputies had fired three shots each into his youngest, Shambles. Wasn’t nothing left but a bloody pulp shaped like a man. But Parson Lucifer and his eldest, James, went through the trouble of killing two more men just in order to haul the younger boy’s body away.

Now, Mister Hadj and me wasn’t the only hunters hunting these dogs, but it was us that found ‘em. Rather, it was him that did. By serenading the rocks.

See, that old man could sing. I don’t think he knew what half the words meant. But when Mister Hadj started in on them cowboy songs—well, as sure as I’m standing here, when that man got to crooning a tune he made the earth itself cry. This ain’t just me tale-telling, you hear? I seen tears fall from big red rocks when the old man hummed. Heardstones weep as they parted before him.

So when Mister Hadj said that a stone in the road told him where to find Parson Lucifer, I didn’t doubt it. And though it still spooked me, I didn’t flinch when he sang softly to a great big cliff-face until it wept and opened us a passage to a perfect ambush perch.

Y’all ain’t got to believe me for it to be truth.

I never learned Mister Hadj’s Christian name, but tell the truth I don’t think he was a Christian. Not to say he wasn’t living Christianly, you hear—when we were down Mexico way, that man’d toss his last peso at the first beggar what asked. But I don’t think he’d ever touched a Bible in his life. And Sunday to him was just another day.

Every evening, he’d roll out this funny little rug. Then he’d turn his back to the setting sun, bow down and say some’a his words. Heathen praying, far as I could tell.

“You gonna do that every night?” I’d asked him early on.

“Should be more,” he’d said in that rocks-and-honey voice. And that was all he’d ever say on the matter.

No, it wasn’t nothing Christian. But my momma taught me that another man’s religion was like another man’s wife—none of my goddamn business. That old gal taught me a lot of lessons, but sticking to my own business was just about the best of ‘em.

Granted, he ain’t seemed to like words a whole lot. Never said much more than “Yup,” “Nope,” “I reckon,” and “Good, huh?” Once in a while, when he’d get real mad, he’d start to talking his Old Country talk, sounding like... like a man clearing his throat with flowers.

I suppose it would have drove a lot of men mad, riding with a man as quiet as that. And I can’t say that, once in a while, I didn’t wish Mister Hadj a bit more social. But I’ve always liked my quiet. Ain’t nothing in this world drives me up the wall like riding with a man who keeps on talking when there ain’t nothing to say.

I always knew Mister Hadj was there, and that was all I needed to know. By my hope of being saved, I’ll tell you I never saw a man as good with a gun. It wasn’t natural, the things that old man could do with a Navy Colt or a Winchester. You’ll think I’m talking tall, but I’d swear it before the Almighty hisself: I seen Mister Hadj shoot the buck teeth off a jumping jackrabbit. Seen him shoot another man’s bullets out the air. Seen him shoot more than a couple men, too. We made a over a dozen bounties in our year together. And not all of ‘em were alive. Not by a clean sight.

We was spying on Parson Lucifer and his son from our hiding place high in the cliff-face when Mister Hadj, for reasons knowed only to him at the time, insisted we wait till the next day to nab the bastards. Well, I didn’t want to hear that. I was a foolish young man in those days. Hot and headstrong, with even more to prove than your average prairie boy.

“Tummarah,” he said, making the word sound like his Old Country talk. He was loading his Colt with funny-looking bullets. Silver, if I didn’t miss my guess.

“Tomorrow!? We’ve got ‘em dead to rights right now! With them powers you got—”

Mister Hadj looked up from his gun and ran a hand over his beard. “Powers? Shut up, you. Just a knack.”

“A knack?! You can—”

I stopped, knowing I’d flapped my gums too much. The old man didn’t like it when I brought up the things he could do. His eyes narrowed like I’d just called his momma a whore. Somewhere out there in the purple early evening, a coyote howled.

Mister Hadj spit at my feet and jabbed a tree-branch trigger finger at me. “Talk too much. Just heed, huh? Tummarah.”

“Now look here,” I said. “You know I respect your experience. And I do try to heed you, but—”

“Should be more,” the old man said, and turned his back to me.

Now, if I’d had half a head on my shoulders, that woulda been the end of it. But I was young, a little fired up, and a lot of stupid. I thought I could make Mister Hadj respect me. And half a whisky flask later I just knew I could do it by bushwhackin’ two outlaws singlehanded. So after Mister Hadj’d turned his back to the sunset, said his ‘Should be more’ rug-prayer to his heathen god and gone to sleep, I snuck down the cliff.

Like I said, young and stupid. If I hadn’t been drunk on top of that, I might have given a second thought to those silver bullets Mister Hadj’d been fiddling with.

Them boys was too smart to set a campfire. But the moon was big and bright and by its light I could see Parson Lucifer’s white preacher’s collar. He was snoring away, but his son James was on watch. I crept up behind James, close and quiet.

Now, even a boy as brash as I was knows that taking on two men at once—even if one of ‘em is sleeping—requires getting underhanded. And when it comes to a gang of killers like Parson Lucifer’s, well, I got no problem shooting a man in the back. So that’s what I done. Three shots right up that boy James’s spine.

Excepting it wasn’t James that I shot. It wasn’t James that turned around. It was the other boy. The dead one. I swear it by God and my momma’s grave.

That boy Shambles just stared at me, something like a smile on his rotten, chopped-steak half-a-face. I put another slug right through his eyeball, but the boy didn’t even bleed. Now I’d heard that when he was a natural living man, they called him Shambles on account of his funny walk. But when I shot that boy four times and he ain’t stopped coming at me, well, that name wasn’t so funny no more.

My mouth dried up, my heart hammered hard, and I screamed and ran back the way I’d come. But there was Parson Lucifer cut right across my path, wide awake and a revolver in his gray-gloved hand. His boy James was beside him.

They didn’t shoot me. Just laughed and told me to drop my gun or they’d give me to Shambles. I heard the dead boy laughing through his opened throat and—I won’t lie—I wet myself. Then I dropped my gun.

A half hour later I found myself lying trussed up on the ground with two teeth knocked out. Parson Lucifer’s boot-heel was digging into my cheek, and I was wishing I’d listened to Mister Hadj ‘stead of letting my hot blood send me off half-cocked.

“Don’t look so worried, boy,” the old bandito laughed. “I ain’t going to kill you yet. No, you got to die in a special way. A slow way. That hex what raised my boy Shambles is constantly calling for fresh blood. Having you here, well, it saves me dangerous raidin’ on a town.” He took his boot from my face and strutted slowly into view. He smiled a nasty little smile and looked up at the night sky. “The spilling, though, has to happen at sunrise, when Shambles sleeps. So you got yourself another few hours to live.”

Tears started to burn in my eyes. It’s one thing to get shot, but it’s another thing entire to have your blood spilled for black magic. I swallowed and foolishly tried to play on the guilty conscience of a man who didn’t know what conscience was.

“You know you killed a little girl during that last robbery? Eight years old and you—” I felt fear filling me, but I still wasn’t ready to make the man shoot me premature for naming him for the monster he was. I switched up to make like I was giving him the benefit of the doubt. “Now, could be it was an accident...,” I started.

But Parson Lucifer just frowned at me like a disappointed uncle. “Boy, ain’t nothing involving a pistol and Parson Lucifer ever an accident.”

A better man would have called Parson Lucifer a devilish, dog-faced son of a whore just then. But it wasn’t a better man lying there with his face in the dirt. It was just me, and I kept my peace as that devilish, dog-faced son of a whore went on.

“The girl died for a purpose, boy—more than most folk these days can claim. Every man and every child must play his part. I ravage so that our Lord Christ can heal.”

“And I guess you make a nice living doing it, don’t you?”

The old bastard smiled. “There’s a Caesar in all of us, boy, and we must render unto him what is his. But the girl’s was just one life. Even way the hell out here, there’s a lot of lives to go around. Ain’t any one of ‘em any more sacred than another, far as God’s concerned. You think our savior cares more about some snot-nosed child than about a sinner like me? You must not read your Bible then, boy. Ain’t no man ever kept Jesus’ love busier than I have.”

That thing he called his son shambled into my view and gibbered something. Whoever it used to be, right then it just looked like a plate of bloody meat walking on two legs. My breath caught in my chest.

“And what about that creature there?” I said, trying to make the bold in me cover up the scared pissless.

“My hex brought my boy Shambles back alive, even after what them snaky deputies done to him. That’s the Lord’s work, boy. Same thing our savior did with Lazarus. This here’s a Christian hex I put on my beautiful baby boy.”

I couldn’t hardly help myself. “Mister, I don’t know what to call that, ‘cept to say that it’s about as Christian as pissin’ in the pulpit on a Sunday morning.”

And at that moment Mister Hadj appeared from I-don’t-know-where, looking to my frightened eyes like an avenging angel of the Lord.

He sang a quick string of words in his talk—sounded similar to his sunset prayers, best as I could tell. The rocks around us wailed right back, and Parson Lucifer looked all around, frantic-like. Then Mister Hadj shot five of them silver bullets into Shambles.

That thing what used to be a living man stopped and dropped to the ground. There wasn’t no blood coming from where Mister Hadj had shot him, but the way he started to moaning, well, it was like all them bullets that he oughtn’t have been able to walk away from had all caught up with him.

There was one last howl, like a demon getting his tooth yanked by the meanest barber in the world. Then Shambles stopped moving, stopped kicking, and died an honest death.

Mister Hadj already had his gun on Parson Lucifer, and now he was whistling “Bright River Valley.” The rocks kept a-wailing. And I swear to y’all that a little piece of flint jumped up and cut my bonds.

But by then the boy James, who’d been off shaking a sagebrush when Mister Hadj showed up, had his gun on me.

James gestured toward me with the gun and growled at Mister Hadj. “Looks like we’re all of us in a fix here. But my Daddy can’t see no hangman.” He said it in that fast-slow Kansas City way that drives a prairie boy like me clean out my mind, and his Pa finally wore a look of real fear. “Now, I don’t know what kind of Injun magic you got hold of here, but my Daddy can’t see no hangman. You hear, old man? Whatever kind of red devilishness you done worked against my Daddy’s hex, you’d best hope you can lift it and bring back my baby brother. I got a clean shot here at your–”

There was no movement that I saw. But there was a shot, and there was smoke coming from Mister Hadj’s gun. And a boy with a hole in his head was lying where a fast-talking murderer had just stood.

“Hurt alotta people. Price to pay. Should be more.” Nine words. For Mister Hadj it was like a whole sermon. He looked up at a patch of moonlit cloud in the eastern sky and nodded, like he’d been arguing with the Almighty but was granting God a point.

He didn’t even flinch when Parson Lucifer spun around and shot him twice in the chest.

I tried to stop it—fumbled James’s dropped gun into my hands and fired in Parson Lucifer’s direction, feeling like my anger alone could push the bullet through his skull.

I’m proud to say I killed that hex-casting sonuvabitch.

But I wasn’t fast enough. Parson Lucifer and both his boys were dead. But that didn’t change Mister Hadj’s lying there with two holes in him, and it didn’t stop the little red rivers that seeped into the dirt around his old oak root of a body.

As I say, I was still half-green back then, but I’d already come to know by sight which wounds a man might walk away from. One look told me Mister Hadj wasn’t going nowhere else in this life.

Any other man would have been screaming hisself silly. But Mister Hadj was so quiet I could hear the wind whispering in the brush. He grit his teeth and refused the rum and laudanum I offered him. “Tufusahal,” he said, and I thought he was speaking his Old Country talk. I wished my Pa—or anyone from the Old Country—was there, just to hear him say his peace. Hell of a thing to have to speak your last word to a man who can’t understand you.

But he said it again and I realized I did understand. “Tough as all Hell,” the old man was saying, the first time I ever heard him talk proud.

“Yeah. You are that, Mister Hadj,” I said to him, “Ain’t no man anywhere can begrudge you that.”

That man bought my life with his, God as my witness. I ain’t seen what I’d done to deserve it, to tell the truth. I told him as much, as he lay there dying.

The old coot spit out some blood and smiled real mean-like. “For you?” he said, and shook his head. He pointed his long brown trigger finger up at the sky, like he was naming a target. “For him. Hurt alotta people. Price to pay. Should be more.” And that was the last thing he said.

I watched the light go slowly out of his eyes, saw that smile go slack. I smelled crushed roses in the air, though I can’t say where the scent came from. For a long time I just sat there, my thoughts mingling with the moonshadows.

I spent that sleepless night burying him with a short-handled shovel, his guns and his little heathen rug beside him. Come morning I was wore out as man could be, but it was time to leave.

“Ashes to ashes,” I said, by way of goodbye to the old man, “dust to dust.” Then I dragged myself eastward, my eyes half-blinded by the rising sun.

#Saladin Ahmed #Mister Hadjs Sunset Ride #short story

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sunbrights · 7 years

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au: sun and moon

(Surprise, I’m still obsessed with this weird AU. As always, you can catch up here if you need to!)

She is not following him.

He’s the one who crosses into her path first. She spies him from the brave trail at dusk, near the end of her scouting route; he’s too far south for it to be innocent ignorance of the border, and it’s her duty to protect the Embrace from intruders.

She gives him time and opportunity enough to turn back. He doesn't. He sets his camp too close to the brave trail, and barely in the trees. Even if she did turn a blind eye, at best he’d be run off by one of the other scouts, and at worst he’d get clipped by the Watchers escorting the Strider herd that grazes in this area.

So when he says, “You again?” without even looking up at her from across the dim glow of his fire, the implication is not appreciated.

“You’re trespassing,” she tells him.

“Yeah,” he answers. He must be running low on provisions; he's peeling fruit with a paring knife and tossing the skins into the fire. She recognizes it from a grove not far from here. “Have been for a while. I was wondering when the hail of flaming arrows was going to start.” He points his knife at her. “You Nora aren’t very good at living up to expectations.”

“Your armies gave you poor expectations,” she says.

He scowls, but not at her. He splits a core with the tip of his knife. “Ain’t that the truth.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. She’d listened to the Sun King’s formal apology, from the mouth of a besieged priest reading a scroll. It hadn’t felt like it counted for much, at the time. The offhand disillusionment of a stranger doesn’t feel like it counts for any more, but it also doesn’t feel like it counts for any less.

He doesn’t seem fazed by her hesitation; the fire keeps snapping noisily from all the damp rinds he’s throwing into it.

“You should stay in Hunter’s Gathering,” she says eventually. “If our people want to trade with you, they’ll do it there.”

He doesn’t look up. “Not here to trade.”

“Then what’s your business?”

“None of yours, that’s for sure.”

That’s transparent enough.

“It’s too high up the ridge,” she tells him. She doesn’t have the patience to talk in circles. “There’s a flock of Glinthawks roosting around it. They’ll pick you off the side of the mountain before you can make it up.”

It gets him to lift his eyes. He sets his chin on the heel of his knife hand, the blade drawing a precarious line along the edge of his right cheekbone. “Good news for you, then,” he says without flinching, “seeing as you’re apparently still my biggest competition.”

“Five hundred shards is worth your life?”

She thinks maybe he smiles. She can’t tell from this distance; the light cast on his face from the fire is too uneven. “Put it like that and I sound like a shitty negotiator,” he says. “I cut you a good deal. Don’t act like I didn’t.”

She isn’t trying to intimidate him. It’s a genuine warning. It strikes her as willfully and foolishly reckless to ignore it— like antagonizing a Nora war party, or like wandering into a Scrapper site alone, or like a Carja violating the Nora border in full view of the brave trails.

“What was the other merchant going to do with them?” she asks.

He squints at her.

“The first one who was going to buy from me,” she clarifies, even though she’s sure he already knows what she’s asking. “You said you knew what he was going to do with them.”

“What else?” He jabs at the fire until the bottom log splits apart in a shower of sparks. “He was gonna haul ‘em back to Meridian and sell ‘em to nobles to put on their dining room tables.”

“But you aren’t going to do that.”

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

It’s taken her weeks now to narrow down where the flower grows. She’s been hunting her own supplies for days, so as not to cut into what’s being held in reserve for the Embrace. She could wait a week more and still beat him by at least a full day.

“If I take you to it,” she says, “will you leave?”

He cuts into his fruit and eats the slices off the flat of his blade. “Bullshit,” he says, between bites. “You’re looking for it too, right? Why go through all that trouble when you could just kick me out right now?”

She could.

(“It’s not stealing if you take it from the Carja,” Mirin had reasoned to her back at Mother’s Crown, tearing ridgewood between her teeth. Laughter had rippled through the lodge, but it’d been muted. Some of the braves didn’t hear a joke.)

“The High Matriarchs believe there’s been bloodshed enough already,” she answers.

“Just so we’re clear,” he says. “I wasn’t suggesting killing me.”

She shrugs. “Your people have expectations.”

His head drops between his elbows. He either laughs or sighs; the fire crackles too loudly for her to hear the difference. The knife finds its way back to his belt, and he wipes his hands on the knees of his trousers.

“What was the inscription?” he asks, apparently from nowhere. She’s surprised to know exactly what he means. “In the last one you picked up.”

Inscription isn’t the right word. The poetry in the flowers isn’t etched or engraved. She can’t even figure out how to get it to appear consistently. She doesn’t have a better word to correct him with, though, because she’s been using the same one in her head.

She looks up, between the trees. There are smears of clouds where the stars should be. “Light of the moon moves west,” she recites. “Flowers’ shadows creep eastward.”

The fire pops. Ash gets caught in an upwards burst of air and leaps above the grasping fingers of the flames, bright and twisting, then gone.

“Okay,” he says. “You got a deal.”

#peko pekoyama #fuyuhiko kuzuryuu #au: hzd #one day i'll feel like it's acceptable to tag this with the ship tag #we'll get there #thanks for your patience y'all #i've been v tired lately but i'm plugging along on stuff in the background #stay tuned for something new very soon hopefully #sunwrites

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awkwardtimezone · 7 years

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Paging Dr. Bujare (Odolys/Laz’ab)

((Ooooooooooold log from last year I meant to upload forever ago. Following his recovery from exile, Laz’ab seeks out renowned doctor and cyberneticist, Dr. Bujare, on Nar Shaddaa. Image by @artofdel))

Lower District C, or as it was more commonly referred to: the Market Sector, was one of Nar Shaddaa’s most prominent and popular trade hubs. Buildings piled high on top of each other, piercing through the smog in several distinct layers of activity all built around a power core that serviced whole sections of the city-moon. Like a beehive constantly swarming with activity, this hive boasted everything from illegal fights and dodgy clubs, to the more mundane--speeder vendors, droid mechanics, shophouses and kiosks, butchers, a florist, a herbalist, tailors, general stores, even Jawa peddlers attempting to hawk their junk on street corners.

It had also become a popular haunt for bounty hunters and wannabe-hardasses thanks to the BBA office and firearms vendors nearby. So it was perhaps for that reason that the doctor’s clinic had been established on the upper levels.

As night fell and the relative safety and comfort of sunlight gave way to bruised skies of purple and red, the denizens of the streets flocked back into the safety of their houses. Some shops closed with dignity, others had long been left in states of disarray, home now to spice dealers and junkies passed out in their own piss and vomit. Despite these difficulties two neon signs remained resolute in the dark--one a glaring, cyan-coloured syringe that flickered frantically but stubbornly refused to go out. The other a noodle bar.

This was the landscape Chief Sorvik stepped into, broken gravel and shards of glass crunching underfoot. Behind him a cloaked figure followed, hood pulled up over his head and one hand never straying far from the lightsaber at his side. Despite the shadows cast across the poorly illuminated streets and over his face, the Sith Lord’s corrupted eyes seemed to glow in the dark.

“You’re sure this is the place?” the figure croaked as they rounded another corner and disrupted several homeless junkies attempting to sleep. They grunted and hollered some insults but neither paid them any mind. “Sure looks like a piss-poor place to find a doctor, especially one supposedly so well regarded.”

There was more sarcasm in his voice than malice, but Sorvik would rather keep his Lord in an agreeable mood. “She’s one of the best in the business for what you’re looking for, my Lord Laz’ab,” he assured him. “Nar Shaddaa has never been much to look at, but it’s good business for the medical profession.”

If anyone could understand that sentiment it was Laz. His previous doctor had owned a clinic on the Hutt moon as well. Now he was back, after so many years, and in critical condition. As well as missing his right arm at the shoulder, the twi’lek walked with a bad limp and complained constantly of shooting pains in his back. He had spent the better part of the last five years fighting for survival in the tombs of Korriban, defending himself from creatures on a good night, and against the ghosts in his head on the bad. It was only by some miracle he had escaped with his sanity at all, he thought, though there were days when Laz’ab wasn’t entirely sure he was all there.

Sorvik seemed aware of what the pregnant silent meant, and quickly filled it with more chatter. “She’s one of the pioneers of medical engineering, specializing in cybernetics and prosthesis. If anyone can synthesize your design it’s Dr. Bujare. Her clinic should be just around the corner.”

As if on cue the pair topped the path to the upper levels and a brilliant cyan syringe cut through the night, it’s point aimed at the door beneath as if in invitation. Unlike the rest of the squalid streets this one seemed better maintained, and the pair didn’t encounter another homeless alien or spot another mound of rubble or garbage on their way to the door. A moment later they had left the silence and suffering of Nar Shaddaa behind them and set foot inside the clinic.

The room was illuminated briefly by a red light as a security droid flickered to life, scanning them from head to toe. With its partially faded green-yellow paint and scratched surface, it appeared to have seen its fair share of action, but managed to greet them formally despite the damage. He stood guard before the door to the clinic proper, his optics trained on the two strangers. Glitched, digitized speech crackled through his voice modulator.

"Welcome to-to Clinic Buja-A-are. Please dispose of your-r-r weaponry to the se-se-secure lockers, for the safety of clinic staff and sensitive m-m-medical equipment inside, a-and to a-a-avoid any accidents. Thank y-y-you for your cooperation." He pointed to a set of lockers on the wall.

Laz’ab turned and shot Sorvik a dry look, tattoos stretching as he raised a brow, hardly impressed. His remaining hand grasping the saber at his waist, the twi’lek turned back with an irritated thrash of his lekku.

“I don’t think so,” he grated in an unpleasant voice. “The lightsaber stays with me. Now stop wasting my time and let me through to see the doctor.”

Behind him Creden Sorvik paused in the middle of unholstering his blaster, blinking owlishly before discreetly clipping it back to his hip. He lapsed into silence instead, shooting the droid an apologetic look. As though this defective model was still capable of facial recognition.

The droid, who went by B7, paused for a moment as though calculating the odds. Meanwhile his scanners cast another red wave over the two.

"I am a-a-afraid I must insist, Sir," the droid repeated. "The clinic stands as a sanctuary for-r-r those in need. Doctor Buja-A-are is very specific on her rules. No weapons a-a-and no discriminations," B7 stated, then added as though aware of Sorvik's actions:

"If you wish you are free-e-e to scan and secure the pa-pa-parameters. Your company seems mo-o-ore than ca-a-apable enough to ha-andle the locals, according to my cal-cal-calculations, but this u-u-unit cannot allow you inside without coopera-a-ation."

Sorvik held the droids optics. “We intend to co-operate fully, but ah …” he glanced at his Lord’s vice grip on his saber hilt; he wasn’t letting go of that any time soon. “Perhaps I could speak to Doctor Bujare over a holocall? We spoke before, perhaps she could diffuse the situation. My name is Creden Sorvik, she should remember me.”

He bowed slightly at the hip. Laz’ab’s eyes were still fixed on the droid in a deadpan glare, but otherwise he made no attempt to decapitate it. Fortunate, really, since he had become rather the expert during Caspira’s small stint at the compound.

"A moment, p-p-please." B7's red lights flickered again as he processed data. "A-a-appointment confirmed. This u-u-unit urges you to be mindful of your-r-r bearings. This u-u-unit will not hesitate to use necessary force to protect the clinic staff if the ne-ne-need arises."

His statement concluded, he turned and switched a panel on the wall. The doors didn’t budge. He jammed it repeatedly but apart from a static blip there was no sign of life from the other side. A noise, almost like a grunt, emitted from his voice modulator as he attempted to wedge his fingers between the closed doors, pulling them open with the sound of exertion. Eventually he managed to slip between the crack, pushing with his full body.

"Clinic Buja-A-are is currently experiencing a shortage of power-r-r," he stated with some difficulty, barely managing to hold the door open for one person at a time. "We a-a-apologize for the inconvenience. Re-re-rest assured the back-up genera-a-ators a-are perfectly capable of providing n-n-necessary power f-for services inside the clinic. P-p-please proceed."

Laz’ab was unimpressed before, but this just cemented his low opinion of the place.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” he spat, jabbing a bony finger at Sorvik. “You promised a genius surgeon and synthetic engineer, not some quack doctor in some shit corner of Nar Shaddaa.”

His security chief managed to restrain the Sith from marching straight back out the door, laying a gentle hand on his arm. He was one of the few people in existence who could touch the twi’lek and walk away unscathed.

“My Lord, I understand this may not be what you were expecting, but if you leave now you will be turning your back on one of the best experts out there. Power surges happen all the time, we even had a few of them back on Dromund Kaas. It shouldn’t affect your opinion on the doctor at all.” He was thinking on his feet, but that was what he was best at, and why he had survived so long in Laz’ab’s company.

The twi’lek gnawed his lip, glaring first at his consort and then back at the droid, still wedged in the door and struggling keep it open. Finally he released his grip on his weapon to the sound of a relieved sigh. “Fine. But if this doctor turns out to be some nutjob working with rusted tools in a back alley, I’m out of here.”

“Of course not, my Lord. It’s you who works with rusted tools.”

That actually earned a dry laugh as the twi’lek snaked his way towards the droid. With a wave of his remaining hand the doors rolled open with a heavy crunching noise, temporarily relieving the stress on the poor B7 unit with the Force. He sauntered on by with a look on his face like ‘you’re welcome’, followed closely behind by Sorvik with a look of ‘I’m so sorry’.

"A-a-appreciated, Sir," B7 responded, and stepped inside before the door slammed shut behind him.

Inside the clinic was barely lit. A few industrial lanterns emitted warm, dim light from several points throughout the room, but they were hardly effective. They could hardly make out the furniture until their eyes adjusted to the gloom, and the smell of sterilized equipment and kolto permeated the air. It was mixed with something sweet, fruity almost, like a baked cake or pie. An odd scent to be found in a clinic, for sure. Somewhere in the back of the room heavy equipment chattered to themselves in a low hum.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t seek out a professional for that?” A woman’s voice abruptly cut through the gloom from the far corner, and a twi’lek stepped into view. She held one of those industrial lanterns in her hand as she bent to examine something.

“I am a professional,” another voice replied from somewhere, chuckling. Her Basic carried a hint of a Coruscanti accent.

“You are a doctor, Doctor,” the twi’lek replied in a farceur tone. “That’s an entirely different profession.”

“You can’t deny I am good with machines,” the Coruscanti continued, “and I’ve lived here long enough to pick up a few tricks along the way.” Following her words the power in the clinic fluctuated, buzzing briefly and flooding the room with light before going dark again. The assistant glimpsed their visitors in that second, raising her lantern to survey them up and down.

“You got visitors, Doc,” she called.

“Just a moment!” The doctor sounded cheery. “Almost done here!”

With another surge of electricity the clinic’s power hummed back on, and this time it stayed on. The room was small, stocked with kolto barrels piled along the walls and a simple set of sofas and chairs in the centre of the room. There was an old crate she used as a coffee table, and two doors on either wall. One read ‘Office / Lab & Workshop’, the other ‘Operation Room’.

The tolian twi’lek looked fairly young, though she moved with a cane. She appeared neither slave nor servant, crossing the room to put out the lanterns.There was a commotion from below the floorboards, and a moment later a bundle of white lab coat and wild, frizzy brown hair pulled itself out from an opened panel.

A stout Mirialan woman got to her feet, dusting herself off. Her right sleeve pulled back to reveal a crude cybernetic prosthesis, hardly the most elegant design, and it ran the risk of doing her work a disservice. But she had her reasons for using it. Dr. Odolys pulled her welding goggles up onto her forehead and smiled warmly to the visitors as she rolled her sleeves back down.

“Creden Sorvik, I presume?” she inquired, stepping forward and holding out her left hand--her biological one--for a shake. “I am Doctor Bujare.”

Sorvik nodded and extended a hand to shake hers. “It’s wonderful to make your acquaintance at last,” he said. “Sorry to see you’ve been having some electrical issues, I hope that doesn’t happen too often around here.” He laughed nervously, turning to introduce the Sith that had fallen in behind him. Laz’ab prefered lurking in the shadows, and the sudden flash of light saw him twitching visibly. He didn’t even attempt to force a smile, red eyes staring down the Mirialan from a distance.

“May I introduce Darth Arachis, my Lord who we discussed over holo. As you can see, we suffered tremendous injury at the hands of the Eternal Empire. I’m told you can help us with that.”

Even with his long cloak bunched around his shoulders, the severed stump where Laz’ab’s right arm used to be was clear as day. His sleeve was pinned awkwardly so it wouldn’t flap about, and the stump wiggled pathetically: ‘Hello.’

“Unfortunately, Mr. Sorvik, we have been experiencing them fairly often as of late.” She chuckled softly. “Pest infestation of the lower levels, it’s making it hard on the rest of the sector.

Odolys’s green eyes surveyed the Sith from a distance, stepping back to a control panel and dimming the lights accordingly. Perhaps that would ease his discomfort. “Better, I hope?” she asked kindly with a polite nod to acknowledge him. She stayed where she was out of respect for her patient’s personal space rather than from fear of him .... yet.

“This way, please.” She gestured towards the door at her right, the one labeled ‘Office’. “I believe you mentioned a design?”

They followed her into the room. It was a little cramped but very well organized and clean. It was divided by a large workbench for cybernetics and paravans that separated office from workshop and laboratuvar. She waved her hands towards the workshop and ushered them inside. “I’ll be with you in a second. Aola, can you--”

“Already on it, Doctor,” the tolian twi’lek replied, handing Odolys a sterilized white suit. The Mirialan stepped out of sight while she changed and washed her arms after her stint with the repair panel. Aola turned to Sorvik and the Sith.

“Would you like something to drink? Tea? Caff? Water maybe?”

The two took the opportunity to observe their surroundings as the doctor fussed with her clothes. At the very least the subject of their weapons seemed to be dropped, and the presence of his sabre at his hip seemed to relax the Sith enough. He straightened up to his full height as he began wandering around the room, taking in the equipment with a critical eye.

“Tea for him,” he muttered with a sharp jab of his chin in Sorvik’s direction. “Just water for me. I have the designs with me,” he added. “I hear you’re the best in the sector and can handle more than basic, rudimentary replacements.”

He had wandered around to behind the workbench and there was a pronounced clanking as he idly toyed with some metallic objects on a tray. Behind him Creden Sorvik produced his holocommunicator and projected the prototype into the centre of the room. It deconstructed into several parts so the doctors could see the hydraulics within.

Beginning at the shoulders, a prosthetic for a full-arm reconstruction rotated slowly on its axis. At the top protruded several moveable spikes, with the intention of raising or lowering them for dramatic effect, etched with an elaborate design. This motif snaked down and continued on the lower arm, no doubt a design that had some meaning to the Sith. The complicated hydraulics of the hand and fingers were protected by synthetic mesh from the wrist down, with pads on the fingertips providing some semblance of grip. The fingernails extended into fine, lethal claws that couldn’t be intended for anything good.

What Odolys didn’t know was that Laz’ab never intended to share the full design with her. His original schematics included additional components for even more nefarious deeds. He had separate files for the inner workings of the lower arm, which he intended to house needles, knives, drills, and spikes to rival the arsenal of any good interrogation droid. But the doctor didn’t need to know his true intentions; once he had a proper prosthetic his engineers could handle the rest.

Aola nodded and left to fetch their drinks as the Mirialan stepped out from behind the panel in fresh robes. Her welding goggles were gone, face cleansed of dust, and her curly, unruly hair was pulled back in a loose bun.

“I do hope I can live up to those rumours,” she chuckled.

The hologram caught her eye, and she put on a pair of reading glasses to examine it in more detail. Meanwhile her assistant returned with a tray between hand and hip, somehow not spilling a drop despite her cane: two cups of tea and a glass of water, for Sorvik, the doctor, and the Sith Lord respectively.

She glanced at the design, then shot a wary look towards Odolys, who took in a deep breath. She flicked through the holo, taking mental notes

“Are those retractable?” she asked, pointing to the fingers on the design with her own claw-like cybernetic. “If not, such a design would run the risk of causing harm to yourself or others during casual use. Even things like grabbing or holding objects might prove troublesome.” Her eyes flicked between them both, cheery demeanor replaced by a professional seriousness.

Laz’ab left the tools alone with an abrupt clatter and slithered closer to the projection, following the doctor’s gaze. The diagram had enhanced the area so the intricacies of the hydraulics were clear, the outer casing of the hand falling away to reveal structures beneath. It resembled regular tarsals in most respects, but the nails were admittedly much too sharp and long.

“A little bit,” the twi’lek confirmed. He failed to mention his intention of installing additional blades later, that would swap out for torture or maiming. Laz’ab was nothing if not an unfair fighter. “Down to what would be perhaps more acceptable, but still prominent.”

Sorvik pointed at the flexible outer cover of the palm, and then at little pads fastened to the bottom of each finger. “These will be constructed from a flexible mesh, and provide grip when grasping or climbing on the pads of the fingers. It should mitigate the length of the nails when they are retracted.”

“Hmm.”

Odolys reached over her desk and pulled out a cable, plugging the holo into one of her terminals. Sorvik followed the doctor to her desk, offering the holocommunicator should she want to download the design. Meanwhile the Sith trailing close behind to peer curiously at the data flashing on the terminal.

“It should be sufficient then, considering twi’lek anatomy and the potential for sharp claws already.” She looked straight at the Darth. “But it might take some time to get used to it, you’ll need practice or else risk injuring yourself.”

She entered some notes onto her keypad, watching the Sith with a soft smile on her face. When she explained her procedures her tone took on a gentle, soothing voice, trying not to scare him off but at the same time informing him quite matter-of-factly.

“I would like to run a few scans on you to build a detailed map of your musculature and bone structure. It will help me determine if your body is ready for the strain of this design, and which materials would be favorable for your needs. We may need to make a few alternations, within reason and with your permission, of course.” She gestured to the medical seat behind her. “And a routine blood test to see if you should require any supplements before we proceed with necessary operations. Do you have any questions, my Lord?”

He hesitated only a moment before following through with her offer, climbing into the seat as though he’d done it a dozen times before and smoothed out the folds of his robes delicately. He did not seem relaxed, however, back stiff and eyes flitting from person to person around the room.

“I am aware how these procedures work,” he explained tersely, picking up on her gentle--but wary--tone. “I’ve had my fair share of experience with physicians and surgeons in the past; we have some medical files on hand if they will help.” It seemed he was less apprehensive of the procedure so much as just being in unfamiliar territory.

“From another clinic on Nar Shaddaa, where he was treated for his wounds,” Sorvik explained, giving Odolys access to that data also. “We are prepared to cooperate with anything you may need.”

“Thank you, it is most appreciated. If you would lean back, I will arrange the system for scanning.” She slipped into the next room while Aola approached to prepare him.

“I will take these,” she said, accepting the holocommunicator and datafiles from the Sith’s assistant. She leaned her cane against the wall and took a chair to work on the computer. “Uploading files now, Doctor.”

Odolys returned carrying a clean tray and an injector with an empty tube. She nodded approvingly at the back of her assistant’s head, setting down the equipment beside the patient. “May I?”

She indicated the Sith Lord’s arm, asking permission before touching him for the blood test. The action came naturally to her, as though she treated all patients with the same respect, but despite her effort’s Laz’ab’s lips remained pursed in a thin, purple line. At his side his stump wiggled.

“Sorry,” his teeth flashed through a disingenuous smile. “I’d roll up my sleeve, but …”

Sorvik had wandered away towards the back of the room, giving his Lord and the doctor some time to themselves. Now he leaned against the far wall and crossed his arms over his chest.

It had been several weeks since his Lord’s major surgery, but Laz’ab still hadn’t acclimatized to his missing limb. He snapped at his subordinates frequently, flew into rages followed by breakdowns, and was easily more frustrated by the simplest tasks. If anyone could understand him in this moment, it was Dr. Odolys. The agent had read her confidential files, knew about her past and her own accident resulting in her rudimentary cybernetics. He only hoped finally realizing his design would set the twi’lek back on track.

“Perhaps when the prototype is ready you will be able to,” the doctor responded brightly, rolling up his sleeve for him.

She brushed her fingers lightly over his arm. It didn’t take any effort at all to find his veins, prominent as they were over almost his entire body. She turned back to her tray, pulled on a glove, and prepared a piece of cotton soaked in sterilizer. “This might be a little cold,” she warned before rubbing the area, then took the small syringe with its empty tube.

“Your design looks very peculiar.” She continued to speak as though they were just having a casual chat, distracting him from the task at hand. “It has a ferocious appeal, feels like more than just an arm.” She smiled and shook the vial in her hands, mixing the components with the blood now. “Perhaps you’re sending a message?” She pressed a plaster into his arm and placed the blood sampling away for testing.

The distraction worked like a charm and Laz’ab hardly paid any mind until she was shaking the contents of his blood in front of her. Then again, compared to the abuse he received at the hands of his former Master, or his struggle to survive the last few years, needles were the least of his concerns anymore.

“It’s not meant to be pleasant,” he replied flatly, watching with sharp eyes as she pressed the swab to his arm. “An unpleasant arm for an unpleasant man.” He lapsed into silence again, choosing not to answer her prying questions and instead demonstrated a keen interest in watching her work. He’d spent a lot of time with doctors, one in particular, and always found it equal parts fascinating and familiar to study them.

Odolys caught herself staring at her own crude arm at his words, the claw-like fingers clicking over the metal surface. Her mind flashed to the past, the incident leading up to her loss … her own cybernetics were not the most state of the art, worn down over the years, repaired many times, and slowly improved. But it worked. And it meant something more to her.

She returned to the Sith’s side, the biosample processor humming quietly in the background, and flicked a few buttons and switches as blue lights scanned his body. Laz’ab stiffened slightly but lay still. She replaced her surgical gloves with a new pair, but these were made of thin fabric and not latex, with pads on the fingertips and strings and cables attached to a microchip.

“Everything’s been uploaded, Doc,” Aola called from the desk.

“Initiate sequence with ThoBu,” Odolys called, now attaching something to her own cybernetic limb and some sort of tech-monocle over her left eye.

Aola had a short debate with her keyboard. “This thing is … in Cheun again.”

“Ah, right. Mirri uploaded a new patch, send it to my screen.”

In moments a hologram of Laz’ab’s body flickered in front of them. The muscles were visible beneath a thin film of skin, the bones beneath that, and maps of various other systems showed the full extent of the damage to his body. With her enhanced glove the Mirialan was able to interact with the hologram and split the layers apart. Her expression changed, visibly upset by what she was seeing. Flesh and bone would heal over time, but scars would always remain. And as an experienced doctor, it wasn’t hard for her to spot every deformation left over from a lifetime of abuse.

Odolys took a deep breath. Feeling sorry wasn’t going to build the cybernetic arm, nor would it benefit anyone here tonight. With a wave of her hand she uploaded the design to the holographic sequence and attached it to the model. Various signals and alerts immediately began flashing across the board, indicating the spine, shoulder blades, shoulder, and torso muscles. She picked through these carefully, editing information, trying new materials, and swapping out components.

Laz’ab had risen silently from his seat and taken up position lurking behind her. His eyes tracked upward to the image of himself, projected in three-dimensions and interactive. It was strange to see himself in this way. He knew doctors had of course taken full scans of him before, but as each layer was peeled back he could see every story his body had ever told. The broken bones, healed after so long, deep gashes that deformed the muscles beneath, the thin slivers where he had been whipped as a slave, and then cut again as an Apprentice.

Though he stood in complete silence, his breath hitched with each new reveal and his eyes twitched as memories flooded back. His fresh wounds were clearer, outlined in a bright blue so his surgeons could address the most severe. These were still healing, and would incapacitate his ability to carry heavy mechanics.

He startled the doctor when she turned around, and she only barely managed to hold back a yelp. It took her a few moments to pull herself back together, hand on her chest to calm her rushing heart, before she smirked at how the situation must look. This time when she turned back to the holoterminal she kept a mindful eye on where Laz’ab decided to stand.

“I’m sure you are well aware your body isn’t exactly …” she paused, searching for a more delicate term, “in the best shape. Regardless of the materials we choose, you will need enchanters here, and here.” She pointed at the twi’lek’s skeletal model, marking spots along the spine and shoulders, “and in these muscle groups.” She pulled up the second model and placed them side-by-side, tapping and indicating new areas.

“But first we need you to recover fully from your previous surgeries,” she added, turning to him. “In the meantime I will prepare a prototype and vest to stimulate these points, so you can adapt to carrying the extra and weight and get used to the design. This way we can test its efficiency before the final cybernetics are built.”

Laz’ab’s lips pursed but there was no protest, he was all too aware of his emaciated condition. Even before his ordeal it had been a problem. “I understand,” he nodded, though there was no mistaking his disappointment. He had hoped to have his arms back much sooner. “I imagine you’ll need time to construct the prototype in the meantime. How long do you think it will be until I’ve recovered enough to wear a proper replacement?”

His hand, previously crossed across his chest, absently traced the spots she’d indicated on the diagram, or as close as he could. Without the glove his fingers waved right through his ribs, and he imagined the sensation of reinforcements beneath his skin. What must it feel like?

“I can wear a vest while training,” he mused, voice still a mile away and his eyes glued to the projection. “It may help me get my strength back.”

“It will only take a couple of months, if everything goes well,” Dr. Odolys said, but her hesitation suggested she didn’t have complete faith in her prediction. “Looking at the condition of your body, all told … we may require multiple surgeries. Those are my initial thoughts, looking at your scans now.”

She tapped on the model and some parts lit up red. “These are the primary muscle groups I will be enhancing with rybcoarse-based materials. This will provide additional support and allow you to lift your arm will less effort.” She continued to colour-code different areas accompanied by explanations.

“Every operation will target a new area, bones, muscles, nerves. You will need rest and recovery between each, and will have to keep up an exercise regime to get used to them. I will give you an upgraded prototype with each. While you can use the vest with daily activities and training, don’t forget it is not the final result. It will have its limitations, and I don’t recommend wearing it more than five hours a day.”

That news was met with a more grievous expression and the twi’lek took a step forward to properly observe. The doctor stepped back and allowed the Sith to examine the models, Sorvik also ventured closer to watch his master warily.

“That long.” This time he sounded downright forlorn. “When I was--” He hesitated a moment, jagged teeth gnawing on his bottom lip, then shrugged. If he was going to get any results from this doctor he could at least trust her with some basic information. “When I was trapped in the tombs where I lost my arm, I fashioned makeshift replacements from debris and animal parts. I had no mechanics so I manipulated it using the Force alone. It was tiring, but ...” he gestured with his remaining arm at the hologram, “I may not require as many reinforcements as you think.”

“We don’t want you tiring yourself out,” Sorvik cautioned, carefully choosing his own words. “The galaxy has become a much more unpredictable place, it would be beneficial to avoid over-exerting yourself in a fight.”

“That is an impressive feat, I admit,” Odolys echoed. “But while I am not gifted with the Force, as a doctor allow me to ask: would you prefer an arm that is functional and does not run the risk of wearing down your body in the long run, and will only require maintenance once a year or so …” She paused, letting her words sink in before adding carefully, “or would you prefer a hunk of junk that requires constant attention and willpower just to keep functional, tiring out not just the limb, but your entire body, both physically and mentally?”

Laz’ab’s gaze became steel for a moment, peering through her with those dead, red eyes. He held the uncomfortable silence for a long, tense moment, before finally muttering through tight lips.

“Hopefully yours will not be a hunk of junk, as you put it.” His gaze averted, he straightened up but never lost the steely edge to his voice. “I can wait. Make it as functional as possible with minimum strain.”

“I will order the materials as soon as possible, and begin building the prototype the minute they arrive,” she announced, turning to the hologram and ending the sequence. “In the meantime I will prescribe supplements for you. Aola, do we still have those blue boxes?”

“Yes, Doc. They’re in the med-cabinet at the other door, top shelf. The one with the purple stains.”

“Excuse me.” The doctor excused herself and left the room.

The twi’lek watched her go, pose unmoving, every inch coiled like a spring. A tense silence settled in the room, broken only by the Sith’s now laboured breathing. Finally his head snapped towards Sorvik, and he mouthed the word ‘stains?’ incredulously.

Sorvik let out a little sigh as he crossed the room. “Do be careful, my Lord. She is one of the best, otherwise I would not have brought you here. Your designs were quite specific and very detailed, but I’m sure she can pull it off entirely with your co-operation.”

When Dr. Odolys returned she was carrying a square shaped plasti-glass blue box, and wrote some notes for its use. She handed it to Sorvik instead, a pair of small purple stickers in the shape of spots on it.

“Orange ones twice a day, one in the morning and one in the evening. The blue one is before sleep. Box contains enough for now,” she said. “I will inform you when the materials arrive and I start my work. Is there anything else you would like to discuss?”

Sorvik took them after a moment’s hesitation, feeling the Sith’s malevolent eyes boring a hole in the back of his head. “Just supplements, correct? No side effects, drowsiness, anything that might compromise the effects of … other medication?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Just supplements. I picked them according to the patient’s current medication to avoid any unwanted effects.” She smiled softly.

Laz’ab looked unconvinced, but then maybe that was just his default expression. An awkward moment ticked by during which time he begrudgingly took the box from his aide.

“And what else doctor?” He finally asked, doing quite possibly the worst impression of polite. “Any exercises routines I should do between now and our next little visit?” There was a slight mocking lilt to his tone, but the question posed was serious. He was not going to be stuck in this position forever.

“Here,” Aola responded from the desk, snatching up her cane and limping towards them with a data chip. “I uploaded some basic exercise routines and nourishment suggestions, but don’t over-exert yourself until you’ve fully recovered. Feel free to contact this office if you have any additional questions.”

The twi’lek took it from her with less spite this time. “I’ve been through a lot already, nothing I can’t handle.” It was hard to tell if he was trying to convince himself, or just stating the facts. Whatever the case he stored the chip in the same blue box for now, using the Force to manipulate the vehicles in lieu of his second hand. He tucked it under his arm.

“If that is all, we will take our leave. Until next time, Doctor Odolys.” Laz’ab offered only a small inclination of his head, while behind him Creden Sorvik bid a polite goodbye, his flourish visibly practised.

Both Odolys and Aola walked them through the clinic and sent them off, B7 returning to his post behind the closed doors as the two women stood side by side. Only once the Sith and his aide were safely out of earshot did they dare utter a sound.

“Wow.” The twi’lek let out an unimpressed huff. “I thought he was going to crumble to pieces.”

“I’ve seen worse,” the doctor replied thoughtfully. Her mind was already running over the details of future operations. “Aola … did you say stains instead of spots?” she suddenly asked.

“I … might have? I have been thinking of the kitchen upstairs all day.”

“Why is that?”

“Have you forgot who cooked last night?”

“Oh no …”

“Oh, yes.”

“Oh noooo!” Odolys covered her forehead with her hand.

“Let that sink in nicely, Doctor Bujare,” Aola snickered, and started to limp away. At that moment the lights inside flickered and the generator made a most pathetic noise, before burying the clinic in darkness once again.

“Oh, come on!” the doctor groaned.

15 notes · View notes

thirst-order-confession · 7 years

Text

As per request by @igeneralheartbouquetblr, a drabble for the previously requested Monster!Kylo ask.

This took me a really long time to write (and it’s unedited because it’s late and I’m tired) but also, this is technically part 1 of a 2 part drabble/ficlet because this scenario could satisfy two Monster!Kylo asks.

The mud depressing beneath his hooves squished softly in the silence of the dark glade as he prowled along, the light from the full moon shinning down through the trees to cast the forest the shadows.

Yet, Kylo Ren was never one to fear anything in the Darkness.

The trek to the village was a long one but it would be worth it; seeing his little hunter would be worth it.

Still, his ears pricked when he swore he heard something in the slowly growing undergrowth that blossomed along the soft ground beneath him. His golden eyes flashed in the moonlight and he chuffed softly through his jowls as he scented the air. When he failed to find anything out of the ordinary, he carried on, dropping heavily onto his now front claws.

For the cool spring air was still cold enough that he liked to instead maintain the more beastly version of himself; his lower half still that of a saytr but his normal bare human chest and face had been traded for that of a lion though his fur and shaggy mane was as inky black as it normally was. He still maintained his large ram’s horns, for they always seemed to be the hardest to hide after the Darkness had taken ahold of him so long ago he often didn’t try to.

Still, he prowled on, his long tail curling behind him and flicking a moment. Up ahead, he was to pass beneath a number of massive oak trees. Ever so casually, he strolled underneath them, his tail flicking contentedly once more.

However, all of a sudden there was a soft jingling noise and Kylo froze in place. Then beneath him, the ground began to glow, the blue light taking the form of runes and then a pentagram.

And then suddenly, the trap was being sprung, the chains once buried beneath the ground leaping up and ensnaring them in their hold. Kylo let loose a mighty roar as he was unceremoniously hoisted up into the air, his arms and legs bound and instantly, the silver was sizzling as it met his skin.

He was instantly changing back into his humanoid form, his eyes wide as he rapidly turned his head this way and that, muscles straining against the bonds and yet, he found that the charmed silver were absolutely draining all his strength and magical powers as well. And then, in the distance, he heard the raucous howling of dogs and could see the flickering of distant firelight through the trees.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath to steel himself and to also pull together what was left of his strength. When he opened his eyes once more, his eyes were instead a glowing, dark gray.

Little lamb... help me.

You didn’t know why you woke but your eyes were opening on their own accord regardless, your sleepy eyes taking in the darkness of your home around you. But that’s when you noticed it, the light burning upon your shoulder and when you sat up and reached into the depths of your large night shirt, your fingertips traced over the raised bump of the bonding scar.

Immediately, you knew something was wrong.

“Kylo,” you breathed and raised your eyes to the distant window where you could see the strange flickering of flames and then heard the raised voices.

Immediately, you were throwing the furs from your bed, your body vaulting off your stuffed mattress as you reached first for your father’s old leather duster, yanking it around your shoulders before you hastily pulled your boots over your bare feet.

Your hounds raised their heads from where they slept at the foot of your bed and whined at you, their fluffy tails flopping uselessly against the floor.

“Stay,” you commanded them with a stern look and a jab of your finger as you slung your hunter’s belt over your shoulder and grabbed for your rifle, not bothering to throw pants on as you stumbled out into the cold night air, your night shirt almost long enough to be a dress.

There were numerous people out and about, rushing through the village.

Your eyes were wide as you turned your head about frantically, your gun clutched hard to your chest as you made your way through the rushing citizens.

That’s when you saw him or rather, saw the bright orange hair in the glow of the torchlight as a group of the Guild members rushed by.

“Hux!” You called through the night air, closing your front door behind you and striding towards him.

The ginger hunter turned to look at you, the other members turning about to face him as well. You jogged towards them, dodging the people rushing about and when you were close, Hux placed a hand on your shoulder, drawing you close a moment so that he could speak to you in a hushed tone.

“We’ve caught something big. And we aren’t sure what it is.” He was pulling you closer, his lips pressing to your hair a moment, his next voice whispered into the crown of your head. “Go back home. Stay inside. Or better yet, go to Miss Kalliop’s home. You’ll be safe there.”

You drew back from Hux yet still remained close, your eyes wide, “What is it?”

“I told you, we don’t know. It’s something we’ve never seen before. We just know that it’s big. Big... and dark.”

You frowned softly, “What?”

Just then, there was a near deafening roar that sounded and reverberated off of the surrounding houses.

It was... It had to be Kylo.

Up ahead, there was a mass of torchlight and you could see that it was more members of the Guild and they were gathering around the beginnings of the path that led out into the forest. Your heart started pounding harder in your chest.

“Y/N...” Hux noticed your gaze and reached for your arm but you shrugged out of his grip, your rifle still clutched tightly in your hand as you stormed across the grassy field deeper into the village. “Y/N!”

You neared the group then and began to shove your way through, wanting to see just as much as the other hunters. You had to see.

There were two horses who came walking side by side into town, one of the local farmers on one of the while the other man was another gruff looking hunter.

And then there was the roar that came again although, this time, it sounded as if there was a human voice mixed in with it and then suddenly, the Guild was parting and they were allowing the horses to pass. They were dragging something behind them, something that was struggling, the chains hooked around the saddle horns jingling as they snapped taught once more.

They were stopping then, the chains going slack and voices from the other Guild members as they pressed closer to see the abomination that lay before them.

From what you could see, it was a writhing mass of inky black fur. A very long, very familiar tail was puffed to its fur’s maximum volume and it lashed about wildly. Even from here, you could see the matted black fur and the thin yet strong goat-like legs.

There was a faint bit of steam rising from the beast as well, the silver forged chains burning into its. And then the beast itself was flopping about, struggling against its bonds, hissing and spitting with anger, the fur on its torso suddenly changing sporadically to a pale, human chest and then the creature’s head was resting in the mud as if in exhaustion, a mop of dark hair hiding its features.

But then... it was looking up. Looking directly at you.

Golden eyes.

But the wrong face.

This wasn’t Kylo but it had to be. Too much was similar for it to not be him, the fur, the hair, the horns, the eyes.

K-Kylo...?

You thought loudly in your mind, praying that he would read your mind. That he would hear you.

Little... Little hunter... My pet. He winced, his teeth gritting as he still struggled to free himself.

Kylo! Kylo, no! Don’t-Don’t fight it, please! You could feel your eyes begin to tear up. You clutched your gun harder to your chest. Please, they’ll only hurt you more. They... They won’t kill you. Not yet. Not until they’ve looked at you.

Not until they’ve cut into me. Taken me apart.

You swallowed thickly.

Kylo... Kylo, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want this to ever happen. I-I didn’t know.

Hush, little lamb.

They began to drag him away then, the fight suddenly leaving his person. Yet the beast kept his eyes open you, his body limp as they dragged him away through the mud.

And the sight nearly broke your heart.

Go to the witch.

The two horsemen dragged him along through the town, the rest of the crowd following behind to escort him to the Guild’s building. You could feel eyes upon you and you turned and found that it was Hux watching you, his cold blue eyes softening before he was turning as well to join the rest of the hunters.

But you were immediately turning then and stalking back to your house. Because sure as shit, Kalliope would tease you if you didn’t have pants on.

As soon as the sun had began to peek over the horizon the very next day, you were already striding out your front door, your person heavily laden with all assortment of weapons alike, including your ancestor’s long sword.

You’d been awake all night, thinking it rude to instead wake Miss Kalliope at such an hour. So, you’d sat up and cleaned and meticulously sharpened all your weapons, the routine task seemingly the only thing to somewhat put your mind at ease despite the worry nagging at you.

Still, you strode up to the front door to her house, up the steps on the porch, and when you lifted your hand to knock, the wooden door instead swung open, the hinges creaking loudly to reveal the front room of the house.

You stepped inside cautiously, having to duck your head beneath the low doorframe. You shut the door yourself behind you, your eyes roving her cluttered little home for a moment before your gaze was drawn to the fire.

A rocking chair sat before it and even from here, you could see a head of silvery hair sitting in it. You opened your mouth to greet her but never got the chance to.

“Hello, Y/N,” she startled you slightly when she spoke, for you weren’t expecting that. But in all honesty, you should have. She’s a witch after all. “What can I do for the little lamb?”

There were the chills again, racing up and down your spine.

Slowly, you walked forward, weaving through the various item covered tables and stools until you stood beside the rocking chair. There was a fluffy white cat sitting in another chair perpendicular to the fire, its paws tucked beneath its body.

It was still early enough in the day that the house was still dark and the flames in the hearth caused eerie shadows to cast themselves across the room.

You swallowed thickly but curled your hands into fists, “If you know me by that name, you already know why I’m here.”

She was puffing away on a pipe, the cloud of smoke swirling lazily around her, “The man in your life... is no man.” It wasn’t a question but a statement.

You pursed your lips a moment, “You said that you could keep my secret. And you have. But I need you to help me.” You swallowed thickly then, your once stony resolve crumbling a bit. “Please... Miss Kalliope.”

“You want me to help you save the beast,” she hummed softly, “Love drives the heart to commit acts of insanity, I suppose.”

You sighed heavily through your nose and sank down to your knees at her side, your hands coming together before your chest as if you were about to pray.

“Please... I don’t... He protects the village, I swear,” you lied, “He won’t ever hurt anyone, I swear on my life—”

“He protects us from the Umbras.” You lifted your head, your eyes snapping open at her words. “He helps to keep away the Darkness. We both do.”

“So... You’ll-You’ll help me?”

She turned to look at you then, her pipe sealed between her lips a moment as her eyes carefully studied you. Then she nodded resolutely to herself.

“For all our sakes, I’m almost obligated to.”

It was late in the day when you finally ventured to the Guild’s lodge, your arms unnecessarily full of supplies as you walked alongside Miss Kalliope. The smaller woman had a large walking stick clutched in her hand and the two of you carefully picked your way along the broad street, very aware of the numerous eyes of the villagers and hunters that had been hanging around the lodge all day, eager to hear about or perhaps even see more of the monster that was being housed in the building.

Still, you couldn’t help but be nervous despite the fact that you had been planning everything with Kalliope all day and that Hux had stopped in sometime around noon. He was very much surprised to see you there with the witch but nodded at you regardless, offering you a small smile when he realized you had followed his advice and stayed where it was safe.

Just like he told you to.

As if.

Still, his visit was short and in regards to Kylo; Brendol Hux himself, Armitage’s father, one of the members in charge of the Guild, had sent his son to request that Kalliope come examine the beast, see what powers it held, perhaps put a name to the creature.

As if the perfect opportunity hadn’t arisen before your very eyes.

When you pushed your way inside the large building, there were a number of counters dotting the room, each of them having an attendant and a different purpose compared to the others.

Immediately, Kalliope approached the largest counter centered in the back of the large open room, the one with secretarial workers of sorts, and stated her business at the lodge. The man behind the counter disappeared quickly and returned a moment later with both Hux men in tow as well as Orson Krennic and an older man by the name of Tarkin. Both of those men were also partially in charge of the Guild.

“Miss Kalliope,” Brendol greeted her, extending his hand to take her weathered one, his lips planting a polite kiss to her knuckles, “Thank you for coming. We are in dire need of your services.”

The witch looked unimpressed, “So I’ve heard.” She pulled her hand from his grasp and tapped her walking stick on the hard wood floor. “Well, come on then. Let me see the beast.”

“And what is Miss Y/N doing here? I hardly think that she needs to accompany you.”

Fuck off, Krennic.

“Oh, hush now, Orson. Miss Y/N is only a curious little thing. Volunteered to help me with my examination today.”

“Oh but I highly doubt she’s qualified for such a task.” You were already glaring daggers at the man, your eyes darkening. You still had all your weapons on your person. It’d be a shame if he was impaled suddenly.

“Well, you should know then that I trust her skills to protect me far more than any of the other men or women in your silly little hunting group.”

You wanted to laugh so badly in his face but didn’t, instead satisfied with the annoyed look that crossed his features for a very brief moment. You steadily held his gaze, unyieldingly confident while staring him in the face all of a sudden.

“Very well,” he growled, “If you’ll follow me.”

The room he led you into was a small one, mostly bare save for a few heavy iron cages of varying sizes that dotted the room. There was also a heavy table full of supplies in the corner of the room near the door; papers, quills, and ink wells spread across it’s surface. There were also two chairs in the room, one before the desk and one facing the cages.

And of course, in the largest cage they had, was Kylo.

Your lip threatened to tremble at the sight of him cramped in such a small space despite his size, the chains still wrapped around his person, still softly sizzling against skin. His golden eyes had fallen half idled as he rested his head on the side of the cage, as if his body were wilting.

“It...” You began softly, still aware of the four men entering the room behind you and Kalliope. “It looks like it’s... like he’s dying.”

Upon hearing your voice, though, Kylo ever so slightly lifted his head, his golden eyes meeting yours. And you wanted so much to go to him but held yourself back. You would both be dead for sure if you didn’t.

“Then good riddance. He’s a big, nasty bastard. Gave us a lot of trouble all night.”

Kalliope hummed softly and moved closer, “I’ve never seen anything like this... Is he vicious?”

“Not after being chained all night,” Brendol huffed out a soft laugh which was mirrored in the other two older men. Hux was quiet and when you turned to glare at his elders, you found that he was watching you.

“Does he speak?”

“No... Not to any of us anyway. I feel like he can, though,” Krennic admitted. “He glares at us often enough.”

“Have you given him anything to eat?”

Krennic scoffed, “Of course not.”

Kalliope sighed then, “Very well then, gentlemen. Leave us be. I can’t work with you all watching me.” The witch nodded at you then and you set down the various jars and vials down on the table.

When the men failed to move, the witch rounded on them, “I said scat!”

That got them all moving or rather, got the older men moving at least. The all fled with rolls of their eyes through the door but Armitage remained and instead leaned on the open doorway, his arms folded over his chest as he watched you two go about your business.

You so badly wanted him to go away so that you could dive for Kylo but instead, you refrained again. Remembering your designated job, you pulled your rifle from your shoulder and as a precaution, clicked a silver bullet into the chamber.

So you sat down in the chair facing the cages, pulling a rag from the inner pocket of your coat so that you could begin to clean your gun. Behind you, Kalliope was putting on a show for the young Hux, fiddling with her supplies, murmuring to herself.

“What’s your name...?” The voice that spoke came softly from the other side of the room. And when you looked up, the monster was looking at you.

“I’m...” You began softly, very aware of the ginger hunter once more, “I’m Y/N L/N.”

“A very pretty name,” Kylo tried to offer you a small smile yet he seemed so, so tired. “For a very pretty hunter of course.”

You wanted so badly to go to him. Your eyes began to sting with the beginnings of tears. Luckily, Hux couldn’t see your face.

“What’s yours?”

“I’m Ben... Benjamin.”

You scoffed, “A strange name for a monster.”

Kylo hummed in what you assumed was agreement, “Why don’t you come closer, little hunter? You smell very good. I bet you would taste just as decadent.”

You gasped, trying to sound appalled. Kylo chuckled weakly in response.

“Quiet, monster.” Hux snapped behind you and you looked over your shoulder at the man. His features were stony and you could see the anger seething in his eyes.

“Why don’t you make me?” Kylo taunted, smirking softly at how easily he could rile the redhead. He then looked back to you, “This one is annoying. I’m sorry he interrupted our lovely conversation.”

“Oh, damn it all!” Kalliope suddenly spoke up, shaking her fists as she gazed over the contents of her table. “I forgot my rosemary.” She looked over at the other hunter, “Armitage. You know where I keep it. You cook for me often enough. Would you be a dear and go get it for me? It’s such a long walk back to the house from here.”

It was strange and almost eerie to see Hux gently smile at the woman, though he did look at you uncertainly for a moment, “I would be more than happy to do so, ma’am.” Before he went, he remained in the doorway a moment, offering you a nod of acknowledgement. And then he was gone.

Kalliope moved to the door then, peering out into the hall before she gave you a thumbs up.

You were instantly setting your gun to the side and then diving onto the wooden floor, uncaring if you scraped your knees.

Your hands were immediately through the bars on the cage, your fingers brushing through his hair to push it from his face. You cradled his cheek in your palm and the monster nuzzled gently into your touch, his lips gently pressing to the inside of your wrist.

“Hello, little lamb,” he smiled at you weakly, his gold eyes seeking your own.

“Oh, Gods. Kylo... I’m so sorry. Look at what they’ve done to you.” There were tears in your eyes now and they were both because you were sad. But mostly because you were angry. I swear... I’ll make them pay. I’ll make them all pay for what they’ve done.”

“Hush, now, dearie.” Kalliope warned you from the door. “You will have your revenge soon enough. But tell me when you’re going to skin Orson. I’d rather like to watch.”

Kylo chuckled, “Oh, come now, Maz. I don’t remember you being such a bloodthirsty creature in your youth.”

Maz?

“Well I’m no longer in my youth, as you can see, you little shit. It takes rather dark magic to keep people young, you know,” she snickered playfully and then approached the cage, her weather hand picking up the heavy lock. She gently flicked her middle finger against it and it instantly clicked open. She laughed softly as she looked at the beast, “And to think, one day I would be the one to save the fearsome Kylo Ren.”

Kylo smiled, “And I am now forever in your debt.” He teased.

Kalliope snapped her fingers and then the chains around him were slithering off her person, revealing the deep and blistering wounds across his chest where they had once sat.

You gasped softly at the sight of them, your hand covering your mouth in shock.

“I’m sure it looks far worse than it is, dearie,” the witch told you, pulling the door to the cage open. “Now come then, boy, Armitage won’t be long.” She beckoned you closer as well and you ducked your torso into the cage.

Kylo winced as he turned himself and pulled himself closer to you, crawling across the floor with his forearms. When he was close enough to you, he was changing form, his face now the one you were familiar with, his body mostly human once more save for his tail and the horns.

Regardless, he rose onto his hands and knees and took your offered hands as help to slowly free himself from his cramped state. And when he was free, he leaned heavily on you for a moment, his arms circling around you and pulling you close. His face buried itself in your neck as he cocooned you in his warm embrace.

“Well...” you both slowly looked up when Kalliope spoke, she was looking Kylo up and down and when she walked close enough, the small woman swatted him on his bare ass. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

Kylo smiled and pulled away from you, his large hands grasping the older woman’s upper arms instead. He stooped low, uncaring that he was stark naked, and kissed her forehead, “Thank you for everything, Maz.”

“Oh, hush. It was nothing.” She waved him away slightly and yet her eyes were sparkling when she looked up at him. “You need to start being more careful. I may not be here one day to save your sorry hide.”

Again, Kylo gave her that toothy grin, his strength evidently returning to him now that the silver was gone, “That’s why I have this one now.” He nodded in your direction, “She’s trying in vain to keep me in line.”

“A valiant effort, I’m sure,” Kalliope beamed at you but then grew serious, “Right, you need to be leaving unless you want to be stuffed inside that cage again.” She then looked at you, “You need to go with him. It will looks less suspicious on your part if he ‘kidnaps’ you. Return to the village in a couple days. Claim that you woke up in the woods. And do try to look extremely disheveled, dear. Now, go.”

A soft yelp left you as Kylo bent down and easily scooped you into his strong arms.

“Be careful, Ben.” The old woman spoke softly and yet when you both looked back at her, she almost looked reverential.

“But that’s no fun, love,” he grinned and then was facing the back wall of the lodge. “Hold onto me tightly, little lamb. And scream when we take off.”

“Wait... W-What?!”

But Kylo never answered you. Instead, you watched as he changed before your very eyes, his form growing massive and the entirety of his skin grew dark and scaly, his feline tail becoming more pointed and rigid with protruding plates. And you were so entranced, you didn’t realize you were moving, his body changing shape to that he held you in a massive clawed foot instead of his arms. You gasped in utter surprise and gawked as Kylo spread what should have been his arms but were instead a set of impossibly big webbed, leather wings, his mouth now full of rows upon rows of sharp teeth.

He was a fucking dragon.

They were extinct, hunted until there were no more hundreds of years ago. But now you were certain one held you in its grasp. Or rather, Kylo had the knowledge to change into one.

With a near deafening roar, you watched as his jaw unhinged and out spouted the blue fire you were so familiar with, the flames shooting into the wall and immediately melting—not burning—melting the logs so that a massive hole had formed as an exit.

And true to your word, you screamed when Kylo spread his wings and took off into the air, your body clutched almost delicately in his clawed foot as he ascended towards the heavens.

Left behind, Maz Kalliope Kanata laughed and shook her head in utter disbelief, watching as the massive black form flew across the moon, another roar echoing across the land from the bellows of the beast.

“What a show off.”

Wow, this got really long but you know what? I don’t care. I love Monster!Kylo. Keep an eye out for part 2!

#Mod Kay #SFW #Kylo Ren #Monster!Kylo Ren #Monster!Kylo #Monster!Kylo AU #Monster AU #Fluff #Sass #Sad #Hunter!Reader #Abuse?

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mechagalaxy · 4 years

Text

John T Mainer 28840: Legion of Vega

Legion of Vega

I was on Vega brokering a deal to sell some of the garbage the Spirit of Bunny got on their last raid. Apparently fighting evil energy sucking stormclouds gives you crap for loot. Weathermen don't retire rich, I guess that was one of the reasons I became a pilot in the first place, I didn't want to do honest work, I wanted to shoot bad guys for beer money and shiny shiny loot. There was little danger of any of that on Vega. Vega is a desert world, one of the wind swept hell worlds of the Prince Of Iron's Meiji Shogunate. Settled by Islamist Fundamentalists, they got nuked back to the stone age by one of the early Emperors for an assassination attempt, and only rebuilt partially when the nuking clean up revealed some nasty heavy metals useful in biopic production were discovered, and crystal farming proved to be the one thing that Vega's high radiation atmosphere and almost total lack of surface water was good for.

Vega had been a bright spot for the Shogunate during the war against the Illyrian's, but had fallen into disfavor when the garrison sided with the Prince of Flowers in the late civil war, and the once proud 11th and 14th Legions of Vega were disbanded. The scum soldiers of the Legions of Vega had been an open joke, a dumping ground for criminals, stim addicts, discipline cases, burnouts, and political dissidents, yet when the Illyrians attacked the border, and world after world fell, the father of the current Emperor, the famous/infamous Teddy K, lead the 11th in their doomed stand, and the 14th in their epic war to take back not just Vega, but to drive into the Illyrian border worlds and gut the supply chain for the whole invasion. Since the civil war, they had been without anything but local corporate troops and Internal Security Force security troops. With the increase in pirate and Storm linked activity the governor of Vega, the vastly and cheerfully corrupt "Uncle Chandy" had been authorized to raise a defense force if he could equip it out of his own (cheerfully lined) pockets.

Thus, some of the elite of Mecha Galaxy were gathered on a world that made Arakis look like a vacation spa, that made Pirate Moon look law abiding, and made camels sick of sand. Uncle Chandy was a fat, happily decadent and corrupt man whose vast appetites were only exceeded by his intellect and a strange, almost inexplicable desire, to serve the Shogunate's best interests, whether they knew or approved or not. He was so openly shifty he had three boxes on his desk labeled clearly "Bribes" "Blackmail" "Payoffs", they were all full. One thing Uncle Chandy had oddly never once been accused of, is breaking a deal. Win or lose on a deal, he paid in good coin. Thus it was a few of us were gathered on Vega trying to offload some low level gear, crap crystal mecha, weapons you could possibly bother a rat with if he hadn't been eating well lately, and some decent gear we just couldn't afford to level up.

Uncle Chandy was a generous host, and plied us with all sorts of comforts when we were not negotiating, but when we were, he took a duelists delight in a close match and permitted no distractions, so negotiations were not swift. The first reports of storm disruption of the gates were drifting in to us through our own private networks. If we hadn't been busy trying to out outmaneuver each other, and treating each other as enemies, we might have compared notes and been able to get our asses out of there before it went sideways. We didn't. We each had a report of disruption of some of he gates, we each had reports of raiders hitting some adjacent worlds. If we would have compared notes, we could have summoned our own clans to deal with it before we got cut off. Uncle Chandy, well, he had all of it, and played us like the master gamesman he was.

I was sitting in the waiting room, a scantily clad hostess was plying me with some sort of candied fig while I waited to finalize the sale on a half dozen Cindron when Lewis Reed my Logistics Officer burst in.

"Boss, we got trouble. The gate network is down hard. Something has scrambled all the access routines and we have zero contact with base. From the bit that I got, all the teams are reporting the same. They can't get offworld, and we have over thirty percent of our personnel in all Clans isolated or trapped away from support. We also have word of Deneb and Misery falling. Unknown raiders, not pirates, way too big. Not a raid, they took Deneb's main city and shut down the spaceport and the gate complex both"

I just about choked on my fig. Deneb is a sector capital and well defended. Misery is another hell world, but its an ice ball. To be brutally honest, the only export of Misery is misery....and ice. The water to keep Vega alive came on the ice ships from Misery weekly. With the gates down, the fall of Misery meant we were trapped on Vega with no water, in the sure and certain knowledge that the world that should be enforcing order in this section of space just got conquered by "forces unknown". This was not good.

I swore under my breath. I had to see Uncle Chandy right away and see about trading our Cindron's for one of his ships to get offworld while we still could. I wished for the first time that I had brought the clan in a Warship not taken commercial transport through the gate system. I approached Uncle Chandy's door to see about interrupting his current meeting when I heard voices inside.

"Not on your life, no frigging way. Only a lunatic would agree to that, I don't care what you are paying! That is suicide!" I stopped, my hand about two inches from the call plate on the door. I swear I recognized that voice. The door opened and a hard bitten pilot with a angry scowl just about barreled into me.

It was Able Hunter. He took the cigar out of his mouth where it was being chewed more than smoked in his current rage and jabbed it in my direction. He turned back and shouted one more time at Uncle Chandy before pushing past me and leaving.

"Try that idiot. He is just stupid enough to volunteer to commit suicide for this sand covered crap-hole!"

Uncle Chandy was full of smiles and took my arm and lead me to a nice massage chair in front of his massive desk. Easing himself into his own larger version, two of his many semi-dressed assistants settled glasses of melon soda over ice in front of us. He kept up a constant and happy babble of nonesense and routine Japanese politeness to prevent me from getting to business until he could raise his glass to offer a toast.

"To the glory of the Emperor, the safety of his children, and our own mutual benefit. A drink, and some of the last ice of Misery unless someone of experience and standing undertakes the defense of this world. Sadly, there is no way off this world save the Kigamure, which is reserved to trasport the troops of the Legion of Vega for the defense of this world. Sadly, that is by order of the Prince of Iron, and your humble servant could never oppose the will of the Son of Heaven or his war prince." Uncle Chandy's smile was a mix of the beneficence of Buddha, and cold hunger of the great white shark.

I took a sip of my drink, and considered his words.

"If we don't get off this world, you will run out of water faster" I attempted

He spread his hands, and replied "A hundred or two foreigners more or less won't make a difference when two million of my problem children run out of water, yet with a strong military expedition to restore our water supply and to guarantee our defense until such time as the gates stabilizer, would not your people and my own both profit?"

I looked into his smiling face and sighed. I nodded. "Fine, I will lead your defense. What can you offer me?"

Uncle Chandy smiled and pushed across a box. I opened it and found a memory crystal, code locked to an individuals DNA and brainwave patterns, and the insignia of a Tai-Sa, along with eight matching Legion of Vega pins. Uncle Chandy was beaming and his voice boomed happily.

"I offer you command of the glorious Legion of Vega, and all its resources for the defense and strategic security of this world and its trade. This includes the Kigamure warship as well as all the mecha and support resources you can raise as volunteers. Yours will be the war against Chaos for the glory of Vega, and the enrichment of your troops. I guarentee that each will receive a mecha commensurate to their own glorious contribution, paid for from my own, considerable pockets" Uncle Chandy's voice dripped happy avarice at the end that made my mercenary soul perk up a bit. The fact was, generosity aside, eight mecha is a crappy basis for defense of a world.

I countered "I want command of the ISF batallion. Sure they are green troops, and used to only dealing with civil disobedience and labour disputes, but a batallion is a batallion. I want command of them as well. They can be meat shields if nothing else" I demanded.

Uncle Chandy's face expressed sorrow like a baby basset hound, and he let his implant depolarize his huge office window. Outside the demonstration of Sal-Eh-Dim was in full force. Marches and even mecha carrying or draped with banners "Boycott Chaos" pressed against the line of ISF troopers and mecha out front of the Vegan capital building.

"It is regrettable that I must retain the ISF batallion to keep order here at home, thanks to the peace activists demand we boycott the Chaos war, even if that means failing to restore the Ice supply from Misery, and everyone on this beautiful world dying" Uncle Chandy showed absolute innocence and an odd belief that this waterless pustule of corruption was indeed a paradise worthy of the blood of a legion, but he wasn't wrong. If we let things stand, this world died. He was going to see us paid, and paid well. In the end, if you are a mercenary mecha jock, you chose this profession because you wanted to kick ass, take names, and yes by the gods, be a hero every once in a while.

I pinned on the insignia, slotted the memory crystal into the reader on my belt and felt it synch with my implants. I activated the Legion command circuit and the call for volunteers went out. By the time I got Lewis from the front office and had him book transport for our mecha to the Legion barracks, so long empty and probably looted dry, I was deeply depressed. No eight random mecha platoons can defend a world. I opened the bay doors and walked in. There was chaos underway as swearing pilots and technicians in a mismatch of coverals and even bad Hawaiian shirts struggled to slot a bewildering array of mecha into empty cradles and other deeply suspicious pilots started undogging the unmarked crates Uncle Chandy sent over that seemed to be brimming with Meiji Shogunate munition marks that I strongly suspect the Shogunate does not know are no longer on its shelves.

I pinged the officers from my implant, wondering who I had, and hoping I wasn't looking at a half dozen third level pilots with nothing heavier than a Warhorse when my implant accepted the response from the Legions officers. I gave a low whistle.

Ben Rail, Terry Cole, Lewis Reed, Stroker Spot, Mike Ehmann, Able Hunter, Myeponym, and me. Son of sand rat, maybe we could defend this world. If I had to take eight platoons and bet the life of a planet that I could take Misery, at least long enough to get the ice ships flowing back to Vega, this would be it.

The rat banner of the Legion of Vega flies again. A dumping ground for the disgraced, despised, and the disposable, they had turned the tide of war before, so perhaps we could do so again. We are the Legion of Vega. We are coming for you.

John T Mainer 28840

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