#tw: child endangerment | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dcxdpdabbles · 6 months

Note

de-aged Danny is one of my babies,

Shit hits the fan with the giw and Danny is super injured and Clockwork has to mess with some things so Danny doesn’t return to his core being vulnerable and sends him millions of miles away to Gotham and in the process Danny becomes 6/10 years old and is weeks healed due to being smaller and costing less ectoplasm but is still achy, Danny is steered to Jason’s apartment where he just got off his shift and then his is the twist! Jason is mute due to an accident with the joker and Batman (batman unintentionally causing his muteness) and out of reflex of a child on his counter hand first into a box of Cheerios let’s put a exasperated noise of flames and a lighter and Danny responds with his own spark of electricity and Jason is shocked (hehe) that Danny can understand and even communicate can he just lets out everything he’s been doing since “holy shit I can talk to someone normally” and then he realizes this child has the same scar as him and is pissed but Danny calms him down and calms the pits and he’s like “okay you’re mine now shit- I’m like Bruce- no. I’ll think about this later-“ Danny is super cute and Jason is having a field day with parent hood and Jason gives Danny a comm for when he goes out but he’s only allowed to speak in ghost speak and the rest are confused when Jason sprints away and they follow to see Danny in Jason’s arms being lulled to sleep with a man on the ground knocked out or dead who knows not Jason because it was shoot & punch and ask questions later and then Danny says sleepily “Oh your daddy’s brothers, hi” like it’s normal to meet family in this situation and Jason puts him to bed before signing “Say anything to Bruce and you will never be called uncle or attend his birthday in your life.”

Bruce only finds out when Jason some how ends up super injured and can’t sign and Danny translates (no editing just straight he said fucking hell) and introduces himself as Danny Todd, Bruce privately cried a little

The Waynes knew that Jason had become far more distant since his accident. Bruce blamed himself, but in the end, it was Joker all over again.

The family had been on other missions when a distress call from Bruce came in. They all raced to give aid- if it was Bruce calling, then you know it was a huge deal- only to find their father figure pressing his hands desperately to the neck of a bleeding Jason.

The Joker had sliced his neck in one of his sick games.

They were able to get him to medical aid and save his life, but the damage to his vocal cords had been too severe. Jason would never be able to speak again.

Since then, Jason has kept his distance. The whole family was fluent in sign language- one of the first of many languages Bruce had them learn for their Bat training- but it only helped them if Jason wanted to sign around them.

It felt like the second oldest was actively trying to avoid the acknowledgment of his injury. Little by little, Jason began to drift away from the family. He no longer arrived early for family dinners to help Alfred cook, he did not say for games or movies afterward, he found excuses to not hang out with the family members, and even after patrol, he left as soon as he finished.

Even texts were becoming less and less frequent. The Wayne children attempt to surprise visit him just so they can make sure he isn't alone until Jason starts jumping between safe houses.

Jason is isolating himself, and the Waynes are alarmed by the way he is retreating into himself. This continued for months, and nothing they did worked to help him.

Despite the desperate attempts to connect to him, Jason was too far gone to be reached. He did not die, but they lost him all the same.

Then, one day, out of the blue, Jason's distance changed. Yes, he was still not coming around the family much, but the sadness on his shoulders loosened.

His demeanor was still tired, but not as if his soul was exhausted. He still ran off after patrol, but instead of a shameful shuffle, his stride was more excited.

No one knew why, but Wyanes breathed a sigh of relief at the change.

They also had some theories.

"He has a lover!" Dick exclaims after watching Jason run off the second Bruce dismisses them. He had stopped to clean himself up a little before riding out as Jason, the civilian. "He's going to go get ready for a hot date."

"He found a new book series." Duke offered as Jason seemed to be writing in a little notebook. He was thoughtful and dazed as he wrote like whatever notes he took were something he would revisit again. "He is writing fanfiction again."

"His crime empire is being threatened, so he is slowly picking off traitors," Tim proposed after seeing Jason upgrade his security to his home and safe houses. He even added a new line to the cons so that he could listen to his home like a Bat version of a baby monitor. "Doing it quick and quietly to not let them escape."

"He is going back to school!" Steph announced happily when she saw him at the store buying school supplies. "He can finally get that diploma he has always wanted!"

"He has found a new passion for a hobby," Damian countered after seeing Jason look over his old art easel. Jason had asked Damian what he recommended for a beginner. "It's allowing him to have an outlet in a creative, healthy manner."

"He has fallen for a book character again and can't tell the difference between reality and Fiction." Bruce fretted after seeing Jason chuckle to himself at post-it notes that had little hearts in his lunch box. They were signed by Jason's favorite characters in a writing that was reasonably similar to Jason's.

Cass only smiled knowingly, but she always seemed to know more of what was happening than the rest, no matter the situation.

The only other person who knew more than her was Alfred, but that man would never share secrets with anyone for any reason.

Jason seemed unaware of their theories or concerns (Bruce) since he was always busy doing whatever he was doing. It got to the point they decided to follow him about, only becoming more confused when Jason visited places like pre-schools and kid-friendly parks around the city.

It didn't help that Jason caught on to the fact he was being followed, leading the Bats all over the city to random locations and had them fumbling about what was a natural destination and what was retaliation for the trailing.

Then, one night, while the Bats were meeting up on a rooftop for some briefing and a breather, the new con line sprung to life, scaring everyone connected to it out of their skins.

"There is a strange man in the house!" A voice screeched. A young voice, one that didn't even sound like it belonged to someone who had reached their double digits.

At once, Jason jumped from his slouched-over position near the building's roof door and flung himself over the edge. His grabbing hook hissed as the large man threw himself across the rooftops frantically.

Stunned, the Bats watched him go, unsure of what was happening, until the young voice spoke again, a soft whisper. "He is in the hall- he has a knife."

A strange crackle of fire and electricity was heard over the con, and it took them all a moment to realize that it had come from Jason. The child- a boy based on the voice- responded with a slight tremble. "I'm hiding in my closet. I'm scared."

The words of a distressed child kickstart their brains, and everyone snaps to attention.

"Oracle, where is the signal originating from?" Bruce snaps, throwing himself over the edge to follow Jason. The rest of the family is right behind him.

"Jason's safe house in Uptown Gotham," Babs responds instantly with the accompanying clicking of her keyboard. She sucks a breath through her teeth in a pained hiss. "B, the address for Jason's safe house... it's connected to Upper Smiles Preschool for Danny Todd. Jason is marked as his father."

There is ice in everyone's veins when she says that as Danny- Jason's son- lets out a choked sob, then a scream that horrifies everyone as they try to run faster. "He found me! Help! Help! Daddy! Help!"

A boom goes off across the communicator, and they know Jason is responsible for the nose, but there is no explosion. Not that it matters.

They, too, understand what Jason meant by the strange noise he made- it's a protective rage that someone would dare to even think of harming one of their own.

Every Wayne pushes themselves past their limits, unwilling to let themselves be too late.

"Hold on, sweetheart, help is on the way. Hit him with anything around you until it gets there." Babs tells him, her voice cracking as Danny cries, and a man yelling can be heard.

"You little shit!" An unknown roars, and everyone hates him instantly. "I'll teach you some fucking manners!"

"Let me go! Let me go!"

They are ten minutes out even when they drop into the batmobile and company bikes. Jason is only eight. But every second feels like a lifetime as they listen to what Danny is going through.

There are sounds of struggles, of a tiny voice screaming and crying, then- gunshots.

Two loud and clear gunshots. Then silence, the kind that makes even a grave loud.

Bruce's grip on the steering wheel tightens to the point of pain, and everyone is in no better state. The silence over the con is just as devastating as Jason's mournful crackle, like a dying fire.

No. No gods, no, please don't let this mean Danny is-

"Not to worry, dear child, I am here." Alfred's warm, soothing voice is heard, and everyone almost collapses in relief. Danny's cries are muffled like his face is pressed against something as Alfred coos. "It's alright. It's alright, you're safe now. Shh"

Jason makes a sound similar to thunder.

"Yes, Master Jason, I was in the neighborhood. I wanted to bring my great-grandson a little present and saw this healthen mucking about where he does not belong. I shall be moving Danny to the manor."

It's a command that does not allow any arguing, but no one dares to say anything as they collectively change direction to the manor. Patrol for the night has been canceled.

They had a new little addition to the family that needed them more than ever. Now that they knew about him, they would never allow Jason to keep Danny away from them.

Later in the night, after hugs, kisses, and greetings, Danny is painting alongside Damian. He standing on a small stool to reach the easel, wearing an apron with the Batman symbol, and is smiling like there are no troubles in the world.

Everyone's heart melts when he asks them if they can sit still for him to paint a family portrait. He isn't Jason's by blood, but that has hardly mattered to a family such as the Waynes.

All they need to know is that Danny was found wandering around Jason's old safe house, speaking in the strange sounds that Jason could make, and was the cause for the second oldest to regain his joy of life.

All that mattered was that tiny, little six-year-old Danny Todd was one of theirs, and they would love him with all their hearts.

Master Post Link

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #Red ParentHood #Danny is deaged #He doesn't have his memories of being a teen #Jason and Danny use Ghost Speak which is the sound related to their deaths to communicate #tw: child endangerment #tw: gun mention #Alfred once again the MVP #The Wayne's pov of Jason

1K notes · View notes

the-sxrens-sxng · 1 year

Text

Let Our Despairing Concert Take You...

While you had been strolling through the park, you came across a concert being held. The stage was surrounded by a large crowd as two performers sang and danced in front of the people cheering for their performance. Both performers were two beautiful girls, very clearly twin sisters with subtle differences. Behind the girls, a screen with a spiral display plays in the background, further accentuating their hypnotic music.

Suddenly, people in the crowd start acting... funny. Several people begin driving knives into their throats, shooting themselves, or begin hitting their heads onto anything they could, be it poles, the ground, or even each other. And as all the men and women in the crowd found brutal ways of ending their lives, the children in the crowd react... differently. Their eyes begin to swirl along with the spiral screen, slowly and calmly climbing over corpses and carnage toward the sisters' stage, almost as though they'd been... brainwashed. Curiously, you seem to be the only one unaffected by this strange mind control.

What do you do?

(( Feel free to ignore, interact if not tagged, or ask for your tag to be removed! Please read the trigger tags, this is some heavy shit! Plus all the stuff that applies to Kanade, specifically! MODS THAT PLAY KOKICHI OR KOTOKO ON ANY BLOG IN ANY CAPACITY DNI! ))

@human-monokuma @i-spy-with-my-lethal-eye @p0m3gr4n1t3-s33ds @ryoko-reblogs @pink-cross-nurse @disgustingbug-ko @iroha-painter-missing and anyone else! Remember that the mod doesn't condone the characters' behavior. ;w;

#tw: hypnosis #tw: brainwashing #tw: suicide #tw: knives #tw: guns #tw: death #tw: corpse #tw: dead body #🎸: Kanade Otonokoji (Ultimate Guitarist)#🎤: Hibiki Otonokoji (Ultimate Vocalist)#tw: parental death #tw: child murder #tw: child endangerment #tw: child death #tw: child abuse #tw: parent death

167 notes · View notes

sortofanobsession · 11 months

Note

Roy/Jaime fic idea: It's a normal morning and Jaime's getting ready to head out to training. He's just opened the door to step out when he stops dead in his tracks in horror because there standing on the other side of the door is a tiny little toddler with red stains all over her footed onesie, staring back at him, clutching her blanky. Jaime's understandably gonna be late to training.

A/N: This one was an emotional ride that just kept getting longer and longer. But I hope you all enjoy it.

Ao3

Ted Lasso Masterlist

Word Count: 5k+

Paring: Roy x Jamie (Romantic), Jamie x Ted (platonic), Roy x Ted (platonic), Keeley x Jamie (platonic, formerly romantic), Jamie x AFC Richmond Himbos (platonic, duh, but Sam and Jamie are besties)

Content warning: Child endangerment, blood, kidnapping (not by our boys), hospitals, police, orphan child, ptsd, a very scared child, fear, angst, worry, manipulation.

Tiny Morning Visitor

Roy had told Jamie to meet him at the Dog Track for training that morning. And Jamie had every intention to go, but he had opened his door to find a small child. The baby looked sleepy until they looked up at Jamie and started crying. Jamie has a crazy big soft spot for kids, probably because his childhood was so fucked up, and they were just so helpless and innocent. This one was in a little yellow-footed onesie with a bear on it, clutching a blanket. The onesie and the blanket were covered in red stains. Jamie was immediately horrified. He gets his phone out of his pocket with one hand as he carefully picks up the small child with the other. He dials 999 and waits. He has cameras because his dad has done shit, like break into his house. So he'll check those when the police are there. The child buries their tiny face into his jumper and sobs.

Roy is angry. Jamie had said he'd meet him at the pitch but didn't show. After 20 minutes, Roy got in his car with every intention to drive to Jamie's and shout at him. Whatever anger he had vanished when he saw the police cars pulled up outside of Jamie's home. Fear courses through Roy. If anything happened to Jamie, Roy didn't know what he would do. Jamie had been a persistent annoyance in his life. But he was an annoyance Roy enjoyed having around. Roy was out of the car faster than he thinks he ever has been and was stopped by a cop at Jamie's door, but before Roy could even fight the guy, he was being let in.

"Figured you'd come round," Jamie says when Roy gets to his living room. Roy is shocked when he sees a toddler sitting on Jamie's lap being looked over by medics while Jamie apparently talks to the police.

"And you don't know anything else?" The annoyed cop asks.

"I already told you she just showed up. I gave you the files from the cameras. I don't know anything else." The cop steps away to make a phone call.

"What the fuck happened?" Roy asks. Moving to stand where the cop had been. And Roy's heart breaks when he looks at the toddler's tear-stained cheeks and red eyes. She has a white-knuckled grip on Jamie's fingers and clearly has no interest in going anywhere. He gets a glare from the medic for his language.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"They took her blanket as evidence, and she isn't happy about it," Jamie says like somehow, that is what Roy is asking about and not the fact Jamie had missed training because a fucking child showed up on his doorstep.

"Jamie," Roy says, doing his best not to shout at the striker. He knew how easily little kids could spook, and by the way she gripped Jamie's fingers in one hand, and her other fist was wrapped up in Jamie's jumper. She is probably one wrong move away from screaming her head off. "Where did she come from? How did she get here?"

"I have no idea. She was just there at my door when I was leaving to meet up with you. Nearly ran her over." It's quiet again as Roy tries to figure out what to say or do. Roy and Jamie both wince when the medic goes to pick the child up, and she screams. She screams until her face is beet red. Reaching towards Jamie. Roy can't watch this. He takes the child back from the frazzled medic and sets her back on Jamie's lap. Only now, it's Roy's fingers she grips in one hand, and Jamie's jumper is back in her little fist. Roy sighs. He understands the medic just wants to take the child to the hospital, but no one wants to upset the child any more than she already is. Eventually, despite Roy's protest, Jamie agrees to go with her if it will help. And the medic figures it's better than nothing. Roy thinks the entire thing is insane.

"Jamie," Roy says when the medic leaves them for a minute. "You don't even know her." Roy manages to carefully extract his fingers from her grip, using his keys as a temporary distraction. He didn't care if she set his alarm off. The neighbors could go fuck themselves. If they weren’t already watching out their windows or standing in their gardens because of the cop cars. Yeah, fuck them.

"I know, but she doesn't have anyone else right now. One day not training isn't gonna ruin my career, yeah?" Jamie says. "Look at her, Roy." And Roy does. He remembers when Phoebe was that tiny and would just latch on to him and not want to let go. Even when she was a little older, she'd cry if Roy left. Broke his heart every time. Phoebe was easier to deal with now. Buy her ice cream, and she's good. But this little one can't be much older than two, maybe younger. She looked like she was cutting a tooth the way she would occasionally tug Jamie's jumper into her mouth. Probably a molar, and he remembered how exhausted his sister was those days. Not that Jamie seemed to mind. She was small, teething, and terrified. She wouldn't be letting go anytime soon, and Roy knew it. Roy sighed. Fuck. No matter how this ended, Jamie was going to end up heartbroken. He gets too attached too quickly. Roy asks the medic to take her to the Emergency department at the hospital where his sister works and assures them that his sister will help with both the toddler and Jamie. The medic seemed relieved. Roy tells Jamie he'll meet them there.

"She's cute. I'll give you that," Roy's sister, Dr. O’Sullivan, says when she meets Jamie at intake.

"She is," Jamie agrees.

"How about we get her looked at?" she says. Jamie looks uneasy. He looks back at the medic, that is talking to a nurse and giving her details. "You can stay with her. It'll be easier for everyone that way."

"Right, yeah," Jamie follows her to a room.

"You might want to get comfy. You might be here awhile.” She holds the crying toddler as Jamie takes his jumper off and tosses it on the bed since the little girl had already been chewing on it. She clearly liked the material. Jamie sits on the edge of the bed. "There we go," the doctor says as she hands the little one back to Jamie. Jamie hands the toddler his jumper, and she quiets to simple sniffles.

"She's probably your tiniest number-one fan," Roy's sister grins. Jamie gives a nervous laugh.

"Won't lie," Jamie says. "Kinda glad it's you looking after her."

Dr. O'Sullivan grins. "Could say the same thing, Tartt. I already know you're good with kids. Phoe thinks you're the best player out there now that Roy's on the sidelines. That and she thinks you make my brother happy. So I'm sure this little one has been in the best hands under the circumstances." Jamie is stunned. He knew Phoebe likes Jamie. She thought he was funny. He didn't know she spoke so highly of him.

"Phoebe's great, smartest, and probably gonna be the richest if she ever gets your brother to pay his tab."

She laughs. "Oh, she could rent the poshest flat this side of the Thames with what he owes."

The nurse joins them and fills her in, most of which she apparently knew already.

"Roy gave you a heads up?" Jamie asks as the doctor rolls a stool over and takes a seat. She focuses on the little girl with a soft smile. She skillfully extracts one little hand at a time and partially removes the onesie. Setting it aside, most likely to be collected as evidence like the blanket.

"Called right before you got here," She nods. It goes quiet save for her talking sweetly to the child as she examines her. It's a slow process by the way she refuses to let go of Jamie or his jumper. Even more so when he actually has to fill out forms. But the nurse sets them on the bed beside him, and he fills out what he can as the doctor works. The hardest part is when the nurse has to draw blood, and Jamie hates every second of it. The little girl cries the whole time. And she doesn't stop after it's over until the doctor tells him to try bundling her up in his jumper.

"She's probably cold too," the doctor admits. "I'll have someone bring her something from pediatrics."

"Thanks," Jamie says.

"Sit tight, be back in a bit."

A nurse brings a little set of pajama-like clothes for the toddler and helps Jamie get her dressed. The little girl settles back in, using Jamie's jumper as a substitute blanket as the nurse leaves. There is nothing Jamie can do now but wait.

Roy gets an oddly warm feeling in his chest when he gets to the ER and is told where to find Jamie. The little girl sits on Jamie's lap again as he sits on the edge of a hospital bed. She is staring up at Jamie with those big eyes of hers as he quietly talks to her and rubs her back. It is something that will be seared into Roy's memory forever. Jamie is being so sweet and gentle. He doesn't even notice Roy, but that's not a surprise. When Jamie gives his focus to something off the pitch, he usually goes all in. He has nothing but a single-minded focus if he genuinely cares about it. And he clearly cares about his commitment to keeping this wayward tot calm. Roy guesses he's sort of committed, too, seeing as he went to the fucking shops at 5 a.m. to get stuff he knows she needs but the hospital might not provide. And he should probably stop standing there like a fucking idiot staring at Jamie like a fucking creep. He knocked on the door frame. Jamie looks up and smiles, genuinely fucking smiles, when he sees Roy kept his word and showed up. Roy does not know how to feel about all that. It makes his stomach flip when Jamie looks at him like that.

Jamie knows Roy has no obligation to be there. This has nothing to do with training or the team other than the fact it involves Jamie. But Roy is there, and Jamie is happy to see him. Because Jamie may look at ease as he focuses on keeping the kid calm, but he is terrified inside. He has no idea what he is doing. He could be doing everything wrong, but Roy will tell him what to do. Roy wouldn't let him fuck up. He never does. And Jamie adores him for that. Roy is reliable in a way very few people have ever been in Jamie's life. Roy never misses training. Roy takes helping Jamie be better, on and off the pitch, very seriously, and it makes Jamie want to be better. And Jamie can't help the way his heart beats faster when Roy looks at him. When Roy studies him. Fucking smiles at him and tells Jamie he did a good job or that he's a good lad. Fuck, that does things to Jamie that Jamie should feel ashamed of. But he isn't. Because he's Jamie Tartt, and he doesn't have a lot of shame. Almost any day, Roy could command Jamie to his fucking knees, and as long as he calls him a good lad, he would go. Roy could do an infinite amount of nasty things to him, and Jamie would fucking thank him. Fucking hell, he is in a goddamn hospital with a toddler clinging to him. Jamie needs to get his shit together.

"What's in the bag?" Jamie asks.

"Here," Roy says as he pulls out a small and very soft-looking blanket. Before he can fully hand it to Jamie, a little hand grips it tight. He also gets a dummy/pacifier and teething ring out of the bag and sets them on the bed beside the pair. He leaves the pack of diapers in the bag and hopes they don't actually need those because that is not something he ever thought he would have to teach Jamie Tartt. He sets the bag on the table before sitting in one of the chairs in the room.

"Where did you get these?" Jamie asks as he looks at the dummy/pacifier. He picks it up. She reaches out for it, and Jamie lets her have it.

"Shop. You said they took her blanket. It's hit and miss if she would have accepted it, but I guess she's not too picky." Roy points at the discarded jumper. "And the other stuff is to spare your jumper from being a drooly mess. Not that you probably care, but she's going to have to let go eventually. At least now she has something to help keep her calm."

"How do you know all this?"

"Because Phoebe might be 8 now, but she was that small, 6 or 7 years ago. And it's not something you forget when you end up having to help."

"So you've done all this before," Jamie says.

"He has," they look up to see Roy's sister at the door. "And he was pretty good at it."

"Phoebe's always been an easy kid to care for," Roy insists.

"For you, maybe. You're her favorite person."

Jamie watches the siblings and doesn't miss the small smile on Roy's face.

"She's a good kid," Roy states.

"She is, and thankfully, this one seems to be too. Nothing broken. A few bumps and bruises but nothing serious from not being the best at walking on her own and somehow still managing to get to Jamie's door from wherever she was. She wasn't out too long in the cold on a damp and gloomy morning like this one. Her tiny immune system might have taken a hit if you two didn't get up at an ungodly early time to train. Who knows how long she would have been out there."

Jamie looks stricken at that idea, and Roy internally curses because, yeah, Jamie is already too attached. And Roy is too, because he wants to find whoever is supposed to be in charge of this sweet little girl and give them a fucking lesson. She is too small and too sweet to be anything but tucked away safely in a warm bed at 5 a.m. She shouldn't be clutching a blanket Roy brought her in one hand and Jamie's shirt in the other. Fuck, under any other circumstances, Roy would fucking melt at that scene, but this was a child that could have died if Roy wasn't a twisted prick that insisted Jamie train at 4 a.m. A child that is going to have to let Jamie go, and Jamie is going to have to watch her leave. Everyone is going to end up heartbroken. Only the little girl is young enough that she won't remember it. But Jamie will. Roy will too.

"I'll let the police know she is healthy, and someone will come to get her so you guys can head to training." She disappears back into the hall.

"She's lucky," Roy says. "A toddler that young could have gotten really hurt without anyone looking after her."

"What do you think will happen to her?"

"Depends," Roy says. And fuck, the way Jamie holds her tighter, and she tucks her little forehead into his neck. Completely content now she has a blanket and dummy. She looks like she might actually be falling asleep.

"On what?" Jamie asks, his tone soft and quieter than it has been before. And part of Roy's cold heart melts. Fuck, he wants to crawl up there with them. Hold them and protect them from the fucking world. And that is not something Roy was prepared to feel. He has to clear his throat before he answers Jamie.

"On how and if they find her parents. If they find them and they are injured or some shit, they might get her back. They might be shitty parents, and she ends up going to live with a family that doesn't let her wander around Richmond alone at 4 a.m. They might not find them at all. Hard to know until it hits the news. And it will. Lost toddler shows up at famous footballer’s front door. That's headline news." Jamie frowns at what Roy has told him. "Hey," Roy says as he stands up and gives in a tiny bit to that feeling of wanting to protect them. Jamie is someone that needs reassurance often. Roy knows that. Especially if the truth of the matter is hard to swallow, and it is. "Whatever happens, she is lucky you found her. You did good, Tartt. Now you have to let the police do their job. Might not be easy, but it's for the best." Roy can't resist the urge to fix the messy dark curls of the little girl. She looks up at him as he does. Jamie does too, and fuck, that is a goddamn sight Roy won't soon forget. He ignores the urge to just fucking kiss Jamie. Because that is absolutely not happening. That would be taking advantage of a situation where Jamie is worried and looking up to Roy for help. Roy cannot fucking do that.

Jamie watches as Roy's fingers gently work through tiny curls on the sweet little girl's head. Her eyes are half closed as she resists the urge to sleep. Jamie might cry. It is such a soft and sweet gesture. On top of all the things Roy had already gone out of his way to do for them—the things he did for her. Jamie's heart beat wildly in his chest. And Jamie wonders what it would feel like to have Roy's fingers in his hair.

Roy's hand finds Jamie's shoulder and squeezes like he can tell Jamie is more a bundle of frayed edges and nerves than a confident human being. "She has a chance to go home or find a new one that might not have happened if you hadn't been on your way out. Just don't get too attached. She can't be alone in this world. Someone has to know who she is."

Roy was half right. Someone did know who she was. Her name was Maggie Briner, and she had been taken from the scene of an accident by a mentally unstable man earlier that morning. But unfortunately, her parents had passed away in the accident. She had a few distant relatives that didn't have the means or want to take her. Jamie hated the idea of her going into the foster care system. A few days after it happened, Jamie couldn't stop thinking about her, and he'd asked Roy at least a dozen times if he thought she was okay. And Roy couldn't shake the image of Jamie Tartt holding the adorable little girl. It had done something to Roy he hadn't expected. Made him think of family, but not one he had. Not just of Phoebe. But of one he wants now more than anything. And with Jamie fucking Tartt, no less.

"I mean, I can afford a nanny. I have a stupid big house and-"

He's cut off by Roy being in his space. His movements were slow so that Jamie could easily move away if he wanted to. His motives are clear when one hand grips Jamie's face gently. "That's a terrible but beautiful idea," Roy says before he kisses Jamie. Jamie's shock wears off quickly, and he kisses Roy back. One hand gripping Roy's jacket, the other on the back of his neck.

"You going to help me?" Jamie asks, his tone filled with hope and promise.

"Fucking can't let you do it alone. You don't know jack shit about kids," Roy says.

"Good thing Roy fucking Kent is an expert then," Jamie grins.

"Fucking right," Roy says. And Jamie grins before kissing Roy again.

Roy vocally supports Jamie's efforts to adopt Maggie over the next few weeks. They spend hours and hours together working on it. Jamie jokes that nights of turning a spare bedroom in Jamie's flat into a bedroom fit for a growing toddler are date nights. And they are, in a way. They get dinner. They talk. They plan a whole damn future for the kid. One that they both secretly hope they are both part of. It's wildly optimistic, and Roy hopes Jamie doesn't end up losing her case. So Roy does his best to help the world see the version of Jamie Tartt he does. One that has grown up and is ready and willing to take on this responsibility. They even got supervised visits with her. And Roy would watch the supervisor as Jamie would see Maggie. They always seemed pleased at the way Jamie would light up like the Dog Track for an evening match. And so would Maggie. She would talk in her broken toddler English. Happy to see him. Jamie would pick her up and hold her tight. Roy would play with her, and his heart would warm when she smiles at him. Roy even watched his language when there. If he had to behave for this to work, he would. He wasn't going to ruin this for Jamie.

The team is mostly shocked when Jamie tells them he and Roy are together and that Jamie is trying to adopt Maggie. A few even think it's a joke until Roy informs them that it is, in fact, not a fucking joke. That resulted in a lot of paperwork with Laughing Liam in HR. Roy backs Jamie publicly and even admits to the press that Jamie already adores her, and so does Roy. A presser that Rebecca and Higgins had organized when asked by Jamie and Roy. The press asks a ton of questions because having a coach and player not only out as queer but as a couple was unheard of. But Roy insisted it changed nothing for the team and for Roy as Jamie's coach. He still expected the same level of effort he did from all the players. No special fucking treatment from Roy Kent. He already trained Jamie one-on-one. Pushs him harder than he does the others, but only because Jamie asks him to. Jamie is a fucking great player, and he'll be an equally fucking good parent. Roy even agrees in court to help him since he already knows what he's doing and wants to be there with them.

Things took and turn when a cousin of Maggie's mum showed up and wanted to take Maggie. For a while, it seemed like she might actually do it. It had crushed Jamie that he might not get to take Maggie home. And Roy had braced himself for the letdown. Jamie would really need him if that happened. When the adoption team looked into the woman's home, it didn't seem like she was very serious about it at all. She had roommates, and when they were asked about the woman, they gave their honest opinion. The woman hadn't cared about the child until it became publicly known that Jamie Tartt was involved. That this could be her way to get some easy money because if Jamie Tartt and Roy Kent actually cared about this child, they would probably be willing to pay for her. The adoption team had confronted her, and she didn't deny it. Jamie had been so relieved he cried when the judge denied her request.

The day the judge approves Jamie's adoption of Maggie, the team throws a party. Unfortunately, they didn’t warn Roy or Jamie before they did. Everyone was excited to finally meet her. Maggie Tartt was officially part of the Richmond family. Roy cursed all of them as he covered Maggie's ears when they walked into Jamie's flat to loud cheering. You would think that it would be hard to take Roy Kent seriously as his big hands covered tiny ears, but nope. He was more terrifying than usual since the loud noise and number of strangers had been enough to scare the 21-month-old girl. And to everyone’s surprise, she wanted Roy. So Roy ended up taking her into the kitchen, leaving a still mostly happy Jamie to deal with the team.

Higgins and Ted follow Roy into the kitchen to make sure they are okay.

"I know, sweetheart," Roy says quietly as he gently wipes away tears with her blanket. "No one's going to hurt you here, I promise." Ted just watches as his fearsome and intimidating assistant coach bounces a toddler on his hip. It was a strange dichotomy.

"I told them she was too young for a surprise party, but they thought Jamie would like it," Higgins says. "She has been through far too much in such a short time to enjoy it."

"You're not wrong," Roy says as he shifts her so her head rests on his shoulder. "Unlike you, Higgins, they all share half a brain, and no one has custody of it today."

Ted laughs, which has Maggie focusing on him.

"Well, aren't you a little ray of sunshine," Ted says when she smiles at him from behind her dummy.

Roy huffs a laugh. "Of course she likes you."

"Well, I'm honored. She clearly has good taste of she showed up here. Must have known Jamie was one for spontaneous commitments."

"Spontaneous commitments," Roy actually laughs. "That is by far the nicest way anyone has put it so far. My sister called it the dumbest good decision we could make, but she was all for it. Probably helped persuade the adoption team. She's good at that. Phoebe is dying to meet her already. She already has plans for her little cousin."

"Oh, they are going to be the best of friends," Higgins says with a soft smile.

"Like a hound dog and fox in a Disney movie," Ted grins. Roy shakes his head.

"You ready to meet a bunch of idiots that will spoil you rotten?" Roy says, looking down at the child in his arms. He is mostly sure Maggie isn't going to have a full-blown meltdown. They all rejoin the party.

"All good?" Jamie asks. Accepting the now happy little girl when she reaches for him. Both are smiling.

Roy grunts. He glares at the team until Jamie elbows his ribs. "They mean well."

"So did Magneto and Ozymandias," Roy grumbles.

"Did you just make not one but two cultural references?" Ted asks.

"Of course, you agree with supervillains from comic book movies," Isaac says.

"To be fair, both have been seen as heroes," Sam says. And the team ends up debating the morals of comic book characters, and Roy is fine with that because the focus is no longer on Maggie. She is already starting to fall asleep as she settles into her new life.

A week or so after Maggie is moved in, Roy does too. Because it's easier to help Jamie parent if he is actually there as the other parent. The press has a fucking field day again. Roy doesn't give a shit as long as they stay far enough away from all three of them. And Jamie is too happy to care. Phoebe spends as much time with her new cousin as possible. Roy has to actually tell her no on more than one occasion because Phoebe still has school. He has to remind her that Maggie isn’t going anywhere. Roy’s sister is delightfully amused. Keeley had gone overboard when Jamie had asked her to be Maggie’s godmum. She’s the happiest godmum that exists. Thankfully, Sam is a far more practical godparent. He dotes upon his godchild, more so by spending time watching shows that would be mind-numbing for adults and teaching her languages. Roy gets an app to learn them as well. He can’t have his kid knowing languages that he doesn’t, at least not this young. She can study whatever she wants when she’s older. He just wants to be able to share things with her.

And it goes relatively well until they have an away match in Manchester. Keeley is a huge help with most match days. She helps watch Maggie. Even makes sure Maggie has all the little Richmond gear that matches Jamie's kit for every possible weather event and in sizes she'll grow into. Jamie cried the first time his daughter wore his number. And Roy did admit she was fucking adorable. This match day had the added benefit of Georgie and Simon getting to meet Maggie in person. Not just facetime calls on Jamie's phone. They had special tickets to sit with Keeley and Rebecca in the box. Roy insisted Maggie's tiny little ears be protected any time she was at a match. And Jamie had thought she looked so tiny with the protective ear covers on, but she thankfully left them on. Roy had been worried she'd take them off. Kids, especially that young, couldn't understand why these things were important. On her bad days, she wouldn’t wear them, which meant she stayed home with her carer. But he didn't have to fight her on it for this particular match, so he'd let her go with them. Something Roy regretted when James Tartt, Sr. tried to get between his ex-wife and Keeley when she and Maggie met Georgie at the gate. Georgie held Maggie tight as Keeley called for security. James was apparently not a fan of his son playing house with his fucking coach and wanted his opinion known. Simon stepped in, but it was a volatile situation. Roy had been called out to help handle it, and he fucking did so by slamming his fist into James Tartt's face, warning him if he ever went near his family again, he'll be in a hospital bed instead of handcuffs. Roy then took his daughter into his arms and led Keeley, Jamie's mum, and stepdad, down to the locker room with him. James Tartt was hauled off by security. They usually didn't let Maggie in the locker room before a match to keep the team focused on the game, but no one blamed him this time. They would have been distracted no matter what. At least there, all Maggie's unofficial uncles that adored her could see she was okay. Dani Rojas has the biggest soft spot for her. He thought she was the most adorable little thing in the world. Jamie had easily agreed.

Jamie was quick to take her while the medic looked over Roy's bruised knuckles, and Keeley and Beard dealt with security.

"My sexy little baby has his own sexy little baby now," Georgie grinned when Jamie handed Maggie to his mum so he could finish double-checking his kit. Jamie smiled at that. He tried to focus on how happy his mum and Simon were to meet Maggie—tried not to think about his father. He wasn't going to be like his father. He hated his dad and tried to ruin everything again. Jamie was going to be the best dad he could possibly be, but not to spite his dad. No, he was going to be a good dad because it's what Maggie deserves. He wants her to have a home with loving parents, and the fact Roy was right there beside him made Jamie feel like the luckiest guy in the world. He wasn't going to let his dad tarnish that. Especially today, since his mum was there. Almost his whole family was there, everyone but Phoebe and her mum. And Phoebe got to see Maggie at least once a week. This was a great fucking day. His dad couldn't take that happiness from him if he tried because Jamie will fight him for it. He was done letting his father control him. He had a family to protect and a reason to fight now. He'd fight tooth and nail to keep his family in his life. Roy and Maggie are his world. And no one was going to take that from him. And it didn't feel like a burden, especially knowing that Roy is by his side and has already proved he'd take the world on for them. He'd take on the press and put James Tartt, Sr in his place. Nothing was going to get between Roy Kent and his family, and walk away unscathed. Nope, the world thought Roy Kent was a hardcore brawler on the pitch. God help anyone that got near his family in public. Paparazzi would find he has a terrifying edge to him when it came to protecting those he loved. And they so much as approach Jamie and Maggie or even Phoebe and Roy was right fucking there like a goddamn grizzly bear wrecking their shit and protecting what was his. And Jamie fucking loved every second of it because Roy would just want to hold them close after that. Tell them they were his everything, and he'd destroy anything or anyone for them. It was like a fairytale, and Jamie never wanted it to end.

29 notes · View notes

jeswii · 10 months

Text

I don't talk about youtube drama on here often because it's not that interesting most of the time or just legitimate crimes but I cannot believe Colleen Ballinger wrote a SONG in response to being accused to manipulating and being inappropriate with children when there is literally so much evidence against her and two police reports about it.

A song is absolutely wild to do. What could she possibly be thinking?

I'm baffled.

A SONG!!

#colleen ballinger #miranda sings #youtube #tw: grooming #tw: child endangerment #idk what other tw people have been using to talk about this because i'm not big into it on this website but if i missed any let me know #I just had to say something about this because it's so out there I don't know how to react #how did someone think this was a good idea???

41 notes · View notes

moral-terpitude · 9 months

Text

Misadventures - 10.5

[Masterlist] [Series Masterlist]

A/N: I don’t have a lyric for this part; but I was listening to O Children by Nick Cave when I finally got the motivation to write it, so. Somehow I can write these flashbacks in like an hour.

Warnings: Discussion of Childhood Sexual Assault

Word Count: 1158

It seemed then that when they got any news, whether good or bad, it all came at once.

Tommy had spent most of the day in a daze, still trying to process the news Grace had given him the night before.

The irregular heat for the time of year had cooled down sometime in the night.

Tommy had spent most of the day outside, and changed all the bedding for the horses with the help of Curly as they listened to the results from the races come across the radio, grateful for some noise to fill the silence.

By the time Tommy walked back home it had grown late. He noted there was an unfamiliar car parked on Watery Lane. Not running.

Polly was sat at the table with her head in her hands, fingers laced into her bangs, with a woman Tommy didn’t recognize, in the kitchen of the house.

From the silence, it was Tommy’s best guess that she had sent the smaller children down to the other house, as she called it.

How she expected a group of children to keep quiet about what went on in the upper level, the illegal betting, the horse race rigging, Tommy wasn’t quite certain, but they had done it so far.

He assumed that them being told that the upstairs was haunted was probably a determining factor of no one moving a muscle up the stairs.

A thick gold envelope sat on the table. The static from the kitchen radio and the sound of Polly’s almost silent tears were the only thing that broke the silence.

Tommy cleared his throat as he toed out of his shoes, before he spoke.

“Pol, is everything alright?”

She took a deep breath, and the woman turned to look at him, looking back to his Aunt before she spoke.

“Mrs. Gray, I’ll be going now.”

Polly was white as a ghost as the front door closed, and Tommy slid down into the open chair, surprised by the contrast of her smeared makeup with the white pallor her skin had taken on at the woman’s news.

“Pol, is everything alright? Is Arthur—“

She shook her head quickly, “No. Not your brother.”

She swallowed hard, hands trembling as she opened the envelope, the cigarette left to smolder in the ashtray regained her attention once again as she held in between her lips.

She pulled a few VHS tapes from the chair next to her, and tossed them with a loud clatter on the table. She moved on and dug through the envelope, before she seemed to find what she was looking for.

She tore two of the printed off papers out of the confines, and lay them face up on the table, before she stood and crossed to reach for the cupboard above the sink, a bottle of cheap whiskey and two glasses keeping her hands busy.

She placed one in front of Tommy, his eyes finally able to focus on the photos in the low light that came from the humming bulb above the kitchen sink.

They were cropped photos, portions covered with sticky notes and photocopied.

The only face that was still showing on one of the photos was Anna. A man’s hand on her shoulder attached to, from the clothing, a man Tommy could only assume was a priest.

A nameless faceless man.

His stomach turned, trying to decipher some of the notes written on the edge of the pages but the scrawled writing was too much to focus on as his eyes flicked to the other sheet of paper.

Polly had finished the first glass, and Tommy was surprised when she lit another cigarette and poured herself another.

“They…” she trailed off, a string of sniffles stopped her from speaking before taking a long drag off the cigarette.

Michael was looking away from the camera, alone, at someone presumably off in the distance. His face looked like a fucked up combination of scared and sad.

“Pol,” Tommy pushed the photos away, fingers gently grabbing at the glass. There were nights after Arthur would call, if it was late, that they would find themselves like this, sat at the table with a drink before they headed back to bed, but there was something close and strangled that hung in the air in that moment, “what’s going on?”

Her bleary eyes finally looked at him, focusing but maybe not truly seeing as she thought, “When Michael and Anna were with Mickey…” she swallowed, their separation had been difficult enough, but someone she thought she had loved taking her children from her had came close to nearly destroying Polly, “that man,” she tapped at the priests body on the sheet of paper, “other men too,” she shook her head again, and her hand covered her mouth to contain the muffled sobs that passed between her lips, “he sold off our fucking children! They found photos, and videos!” She took a ragged breath before she whispered quietly, “Fuck.”

Tommy watched as she clammed up, as if saying the words out loud made them too true.

“The priest, fucker can rot in hell for all I care, told Mickey they were…that they were too old now.”

He took a sip of the whiskey, the burn of the alcohol providing a distraction as he thought of what could even be said.

“That’s why he filed the motion to send them back.”

Polly nodded, surprise colored her features. She knew Tommy was smart but she didn’t expect him to put it together that fast.

Tommy looked down at the amber liquid in the glass, before he stood. The chair tumbled over behind him, and hurled the tumbler into the fireplace.

The flames flared as the glass shattered into pieces.

Polly seemed unphased, lighting another cigarette.

“Are all these copies?” Tommy picked up the envelope, shaking it around to get her attention.

Her glazed eyes looked up at him before giving a quick nod. “I had to indentfy that it was them.”

He collected the loose papers and crossed quickly, tossing the envelope into the fire, running a hand through his fucked up hair cut as the images caught and burned quickly.

“The kids don’t need to find that shit.”

Polly nodded as he picked up the tapes, reading the pristine paper stickers that said three different months with the words “COPY” written in red next to the month.

The plastic didn’t catch as quickly as the paper had, but eventually the cassette casing and the tape started to melt in the fire. The stench was terrible, putrid, and enough to make Tommy’s head swim in combination with the information.

He stood and watched as all the artifacts dissolved in the fire.

Absentmindedly, he pulled the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one before he paced in front of the flames, ashing into the fire.

“If I ever find him, I’m going to fucking kill him.”

#modern peaky blinders #modern tommy shelby x oc #modern au #modern!tommy shelby #tommy shelby fic #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby fanfiction #misadventures #tw: childhood trauma #tw: csa #tw: child endangerment

23 notes · View notes

the-kittylorian-writes · 8 months

Text

"In Dreams, We Wake" (2/?)

Fandom: Star Wars - The Mandalorian

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Type: Multi-chapter Status: Ongoing Warnings: Season 3 spoilers, graphic depictions of violence (some chapters), ptsd, subjects on grief & mourning Story Summary: Two years have passed since Ragnar lived the creed without his father. The boy keeps a facade, hiding his true nature as he leads a double life.

Between his roles as Mandalorian apprentice and heir to an ancient House, Ragnar is willing to weave through a complex path that haunts him and the Vizsla name—if only his father were there to see him again. Perhaps, Paz Vizsla will.

The question remains for Ragnar: What would he do and how far would he go for the father he loves?

Read on AO3 (w/ author's notes) or here:

Chapter Summary: Ragnar remembers his life before Paz Vizsla came to his rescue, and the time after Mandalore’s reclamation. Axe and Ragnar make their way to a final stop before returning to Mandalore.

Chapter Warning: Child endangerment; child fatality (only mentioned) ~Chapter 2: Of Agony and Joy~

Ragnar never trusted strangers. He had been raised from infancy to be wary of the world outside of the family in which he had been born. There would always be people watching, his birth mother kept reminding him. Those people wished their family ill and wanted them to neither succeed nor prosper.

He had always been a self-sufficient and self-possessed child. He led the typical life of a youngster whose parents were high profile on his home planet; they were often dreadfully busy, and a few relatives would pay visits to watch over him, but with a detached manner Ragnar understood. It was hard to keep emotional attachments with someone whose life precariously hung on a proverbial string.

They said he had an older brother, kidnapped for ransom but was killed as he tried his best to escape. Ragnar had never met his older brother, who was but eight standard years when he perished. Two months after the tragedy, Ragnar was born.

Ragnar was the only child ever since. There was father and mother: doting, then absent, then doting again, in a maddening cycle which Ragnar eventually grew accustomed to. He decided not to begrudge his parents. He knew about their lifetsyle; he’d read about it in holobooks, sometimes articles so well-hidden in the archives—fatal harm placed on families such as his, mostly politically motivated, oftentimes—and to Ragnar’s own horror—with successful attempts. His older brother unfortunately was testament to that.

The world for Ragnar consisted of his tutors, sports on the HoloNet where he remotely played with other politicians’ children, and rare, heavily guarded trips with either of his parents but never both of them at once. He was always under supervision. He had never any real time by himself. There was always security detail with him, and they had refused to play with him despite some of them being surprisingly young, barely into their twenties.

So Ragnar played alone or with the kids through the HoloNet projector.

He had learned to only trust himself. He couldn’t even bring himself to trust his own parents. Everyone else in their household all had a job to do. They were paid well and did their work as they should, eyes glazed and almost unseeing, faces faintly smiling at a young boy who ran through the vast halls with no reprimand. Ragnar was ignored for the most part.

One day, Ragnar just developed a sensing.

He was six years old when he first felt it—a fleeting touch like a brush of a finger on one’s shoulder to get their attention. He knew how people felt somehow; he knew how sincere they were or how contrived, how happy they were or miserable or just plain nonchalant. They never had to speak to him or even glance at him. Sometimes, they don’t even have to be in the same room as him.

His seventh and eighth year of life passed by rather uneventfully, which gave the household a temporary yet false sense of peace. Perhaps they were no longer terribly important political targets. His parents adopted a lower profile afterwards, convinced that that was the solution, and their presences were only felt by the masses through their philanthropies.

The ninth and tenth year resumed with tumult. They had to move districts, and finally, they were as good as isolated—a mansion hidden in the mountains, accessible only by small hovercraft. Ragnar’s sensing returned again, and he knew very well that being far off from civilization made little difference. In fact, they were more vulnerable here, hidden away from the main city where all manner of help were situated should they direly need it.

Mother and father were properly convinced once more that this was how they would lead their lives until at least Ragnar’s sixteenth birthday. If the boy wanted, he could take on their line of work, or think of another one—but it had to be prestigious.

Ragnar didn’t know much about the Galactic War which ended a few years after he was born. He knew little of the outside world, so to speak, and he’d rather remain ignorant of it. At the back of his mind, whether his parents conceded to it or not, he would never choose their line of work. He wanted to form a different worldview for himself when he grew older. How his parents conducted themselves—none of that appealed to Ragnar. He had been left alone for most of his life and he did what he wanted despite dozens of watchful eyes upon him. He wished to do away with those overly vigilant and hard gazes. Perhaps he can be a pilot. He’d fly away from there, take all manner of hyperspace lanes and just disappear.

He had only trusted himself—and he wondered if he would ever learn to trust another. The servant droids didn’t count.

Until another, much larger inexplicable tragedy one day, a large warrior covered in armor from head to toe rushed into Ragnar’s horizon.

A sensing overcame Ragnar then. It was as if he knew of the warrior before, coming from another place and time—warm and whole like a blanket of light; yet everything else about the warrior was unfamiliar.

The sensing had told him that he could trust that armor-clad warrior.

Ragnar hadn’t known about the Force. He had also never known of Mandalorians until then. While he knew of the latter far sooner than he’d ever guessed, knowledge of the former came much later, and in quite unexpected ways. *

It was sometime on 10 ABY when Paz Vizsla needed to depart the Glavis ringworld to find others of their scattered Covert.

It had been a year since many among their Tribe had lost their lives in the desolate sewers of Nevarro, swarmed by overwhelming numbers of Imperial troops—uncanny for a mere Remnant. The Tribe were skilled warriors who had grown rusty, drowning in a routine which dulled their senses into complacency when they should have been eternally vigilant. The darkness of Nevarro’s subterranean tunnels wore them all down, save for Din Djarin who had become their sole provider. Only Din fully saw the light of day, and he had been gone many cycles at a time.

Paz was among those tasked to protect and evacuate the Covert should disaster strike. Fellow Mandalorians who had fallen in that siege were adamant that Paz should be their last resort. Let him conserve his strength and munitions for when the time came to unequivocally defend their little foundlings. Let Paz be the white-hot fire raining upon the enemy with his ruthless blaster canon as the foundlings found more avenues of escape and areas of safety.

In the end, things didn’t go as planned. Half the Covert was decimated, and their numbers were already piteously small to begin with. The surviving half needed to split into tinier groups to drift across the galaxy, hide on other worlds and wait for word. The Armorer had only been Paz’s constant companion during those prolonged days of grief which numbed him completely for a moment. No prayer or incantation stifled the pain in his soul, and he spent those long months tracking down the rest of the Covert and keeping tabs on them once they were found.

All he needed to do was go to them, and they would relocate to a new home together and re-establish everything they had lost and more.

This is the Way.

Paz had received a tenuous signal from one of the Mid Rim planets, a signal closely known only in the Covert, uniquely belonging to them and understood by fellow Tribe members. It was a more ancient mode of disseminating a signal, a response to when Paz himself carefully issued out a call—all is clear; we can recoup.

The signal was weak and it came and went; Paz nearly dismissed it as a trap, but no one among the Remnant could have known of their Tribe’s mode of communication—unless the worst happened and they were compromised all over again.

That was Paz’s job—to determine the weight of such situations, and how pursuing them was worth the already limited resources he had left.

He had been hardwired from a young age not to doubt himself or quail at times when his judgment was needed the most. You are a Vizsla, you are a Vizsla—those voices wouldn’t go away. He was indeed a Vizsla, one of the bloodline sent to the Tribe and hidden away as a small child by the Armorer’s own clan. Paz made a clear pact to himself that he would be among the better Vizslas.

The Vizsla bloodline carried with it a plethora of curses as well as blessings. There had only been the bad Vizslas, and the worse Vizslas. If one heard of a good Vizsla centuries after the passing of Tarre Vizsla, that was because they had found themselves disavowed or forgotten in the thick of the Mandalorian Civil Wars. A better Vizsla was even rarer… and since Paz realized he was possibly the only Vizsla left, now was a great time as any to be and remain the better of his bloodline.

Three times Paz needed to switch ships to leave a cold trail faster, and to mislead anyone who’d attempted to follow him. He was painstakingly discreet, and his bulk and disposition presented him with measurable challenge. Sometimes he pretended that he was a simpleton and a mute, and communicated with broken Basic typed on a datapad to strangers who can sell him clues. He walked around like a cripple or a hunchback to further cement his pretense.

Anyone who’d undermined the hulking Mandalorian with attempts on his welfare for the beskar on his back would otherwise lose limb or life. On that note, Paz made sure as much as possible that he did not expose himself as Mandalorian. Din was still out there, supposedly the last among their people who walked the galaxy. He was always hunched and hooded when out in the open, a mountain bathed in quiet shadow.

Paz sacrificed much of his dignity to track the last of the scattered groups down. When this was over, he thought, he would need a long conversation with the Armorer for guidance, for help in restoring much of his self-respect. He would give all for the Creed, and if his own self-esteem was the price, so be it. But he should never throw it completely away.

You are a Vizsla, rang the incessant voices within him. You are a Vizsla.

Paz had stopped to camp in a more isolated section of the planet before resuming his search. Technically, he had found the signal’s source, which was a distance from where he’d decided to land, away from a densely populated space port and prying eyes. He was down to a single cloaking mechanism. If he were to squeeze it dry, he would do so wisely.

The hulk of a man was spent, exhausted, lonely… he endured it all. He wondered for a moment how Din could have handled his own circumstances, and empathy hit Paz like a slap. Din returned to Glavis without his foundling. Din had been banished as an apostate. The silver-clad Mandalorian left without protest, lost and alone in spirit. Paz fought a pang of guilt, but Din had broken the Creed, after all.

On the other hand, Paz had lost his claim over an ancestral weapon through ritual combat—the Darksaber, and it remained in Din’s possession. Bitterness, shame, self-pity, a speck of rage and silent weeping—and it was over. Paz moved on from that defeat, and he took his mind to more pressing matters.

That night on this Mid Rim planet, the Mandalorian lit a low, companionable fire. He warmed some canned rations and ate quietly, lifting his helmet as he shoved spoonfuls of shredded meat and sauce into his belly. He couldn’t even take the buy’ce off entirely. Much of him had turned into hyper-alertness and nerves.

He was at the outskirts of a thick forest, populated by various non-sentient wildlife and an endless canopy of trees. Paz leaned upon a trunk of an old tree and he tilted his visor up; the fog had veiled everything over and he lost sight of the treetops from where he sat.

His cloak doubled as a sleeping bag; Paz had stomped out the fire, and in full darkness save for the myriad of stars peeking through the fog, the large Mandalorian found himself drifting to half-sleep. His breathing slowed down, his heart beat at a comfortable pace… for a precious instant, he was relaxed.

However, just as he had finally closed his eyes—he soon opened them with a start as his world was rocked by a huge explosion west of his position.

Pulling himself together, fueled by muscle memory and survival instincts, Paz had readied his blaster canon, primed it as he lay low, studying the air and the chaos which loomed closer and closer. He was sure now that while it was an ambush attack, it was not towards him.

Paz could hardly believe his eyes.

He saw three more explosions hit the same area; flocks of slumbering wild birds took flight and soon the forest was filled with the panicked screeching of fauna. The commotion was enough to give Paz the confidence to stand to his full height and behold the sight before him.

The earth rumbled from shockwaves and the sky rippled with angry flames licking upwards; it seemed to Paz that the dark clouds overhead had also been set ablaze.

The resulting fire from four detonations was huge, without a doubt. Paz was nowhere too close to the flames and yet he felt the heat seep through his thick layers. He trembled and bit back a moment’s profound agony; he recalled Nevarro, and he recalled the many years before that, where fires had become a catalyst to suffering.

Paz had spotted a mansion there, oddly so, earlier that day. He had thought it abandoned, but one couldn’t be too sure. With his rangefinder, he scanned what he could of the vicinity from afar. There were no signs of life, it seemed. The mansion was weathered and on the verge of collapsing. Something had tugged at Paz like a finger brushing over his shoulder; Paz mentally swatted it away like an insect and he never felt that sensation again for the rest of the day.

…except, now that Paz was staring, dumbfounded, at what he knew was the mansion ceasing to exist under the weight of an inferno—was that he had felt it again. It was that light touch over his shoulder, trailing almost desperately up and down his back.

Paz thought he could be losing his mind, if he had not already lost it long ago. There was urgency to that strange sensation—as if it were tugging at him like a call for help.

The hulking Mandalorian hesitated. He swung at the balls of his heels like a child uncertain of where to go and what to do. He observed the flames and then the sensation had struck at him again—Paz held his ground. Whatever it was on that mansion up the hill was not his fight.

It was not his business. He had his own, and he must remain faithful to that mission.

Settling a conversation with himself, Paz shook his head and was about to turn around and leave this disaster behind…

But the sensation was now practically pulling at him, and something like an image of small hands tugging at his entire being flashed at the back of his mind: a blink of an eye and nothing more.

Paz consequently found himself clambering to the top of the hill in bounding strides.

The mansion was no longer there, and on its stead were tendrils of flames like fingers clawing furiously at the sky. The black smoke trailed at him and he began to cough; he sealed his helmet and turned on his oxygen reserves.

He didn’t know why—what had gotten over him? THIS WAS NOT HIS MISSION, and yet he dove headfirst into the flames, letting the image of a child’s small hands pull him to where he thought he was being led to…

What he didn’t expect at all was to be fired upon by a hail of blaster bolts just as he had entered the threshold of the blaze.

It was no use, certainly, to detect heat signatures of culprits anywhere in the midst of a hellish place. He managed to resort to enhance the feedback of his HUD to detect the smallest movements other than the spiraling flames and debris threatening to fall all around him.

For the nth time that night, Paz wondered why the hell he brought himself upon this fray—

Soon, he realized that he had already been surrounded.

He had learned to estimate numbers in his Fighting Corps training, and a sweeping glance informed him that he was being targeted at and encircled by thirty armed men at least. He didn’t know of what species, but most could indeed be human.

Paz felt his heart clench. If he needed to get out of this scrape alive, he’d need to slaughter them all, even the humans. It hadn’t posed much concern before, as Imperial Stormtroopers were human and Paz had remorselessly gunned down multitudes in the past… but after a period of dormancy, this act felt as murderous as it was an act of self-defense.

That would partly be a lie.

Paz hadn’t clarified the nature of the presence and skillset of practically a private army set to attack him, but he instantly knew that he would outrun and outgun them should it come to that. They were no match for him.

Another volley of bolts pelted his beskar; the pressure threw Paz back and away from the flames, and out into the open. He grunted in irritation, yet gathered enough self-mastery to keep himself from priming his canon in clear view of unknown and unexpected enemies. Paz had relied on the element of surprise before, and he was hoping he could do so again.

Out of nowhere echoed a booming and demanding shout: “WHO SENT YOU?!”

In the wide glade surrounding the mansion burning down to nothing, Paz was quickly encroached by a small army of thugs. They didn’t bother to conceal their numbers as they all poured out of hiding, all of their blaster pistols aimed at him. A few carried rifles.

Paz thought twice about indulging them with a reply. He remained a silent statue, but his whole body was conceivably taut.

“I SAID—WHO SENT YOU?! You’re an expensive hire, and that family’s owed our boss a fortune and could no longer afford the likes of you—MANDALORIAN.”

This ticked Paz off in the best way possible. Now that they knew what he was—they all simply needed to disappear.

He seemed to have been caught in a crossfire between two warring families. Underworld business? Intense political rivalry to the point of wiping out entire families? Something twisted within Paz. He remembered that House Vizsla in its vicious past were no different…

The goons’ faces were masked, and this somehow made it easier for Paz. These masks distorted any semblance of humanity in their features. He remained quiet, unmoved, stoic. Another step, and he would wipe them all out, and whoever sent these thugs would only find out that their men had been decimated by ghosts. Paz knew how to bury his tracks.

The hulking Mandalorian was about to reach behind him and untether his blaster canon from its jetpack clip when the situation turned on him in an instant.

The head goon—or whoever he was, as he was the one who spoke on everyone’s behalf—had produced before him the slack form of a small, dazed, and quivering child.

“I know where you reach, Mandalorian,” hissed the masked thug above the roar of flames and crumbling walls. “Set that weapon of yours upon us, one false move… and this kid gets it, hear?”

The man had flung the child to the ground, and before Paz could even register what happened—the goon had issued upon the helpless small boy a swift and powerful kick. A thin, pained cry filled the air.

The brushing touches over his shoulder turned into frantic grappling.

Osik! Paz thought… and he knew that he had snapped as his vision turned into sharp and vivid greys. Everything happened so quickly, so fluidly, like a wave had shot out of nowhere to smother everything in its wake.

In a matter of seconds, he had come upon the crumpled form of the boy protectively. He hoisted the little boy over his shoulder in a thoughtful position where the child would not be hurt by the canon’s recoil… and before the next heartbeat, he’d unslung his weapon and it spat out a volley of bolts in the rhythm of drumbeats, and not a bolt was wasted as each found its mark on every single one of these thirty thugs.

An unquestionably intense couple of minutes broke as the two sides exchanged firepower, and with Paz, it could have well been one-sided. The hulking Mandalorian hunched his body forward, like a shell coiling around its softer innards—and the child was that softness; blaster bolts ricocheted off Paz’s armor, leaving the little one cocooned and secure. Two brief minutes, and it was over. The blue-clad warrior held his breath, then panted in relief. He stopped firing seconds after he realized that shots no longer fell upon him.

Paz let his blaster canon cool and the adrenaline rush subside. He blinked at the destruction he had caused. He was stricken by his own brutality, and realized how easy it had become to provoke him when the life of a child was at stake.

He wasn’t even sure how he did it. He usually needed both hands to steady the blaster canon, but this time, he managed to do it single-handedly as his other hand was preoccupied in keeping the boy safely cradled close to his body. The child squirmed a little. His chin felt like a welcome albeit justifiably frightened weight over his pauldron.

“Hold on, little one, hold on,” were Paz’s next words, whispered gently as he braced himself to fly out of the scene via jetpack. He had done so in time, for whereupon he stood not a minute ago, the mansion had toppled over completely in massive clouds of black smoke and fine dust. The fires had done their job. The mansion—and surely, the boy’s family—was no more. He could try to confirm it soon after his own derailed mission…

The boy kept eerily quiet, but Paz saw that the child was very lucid and had witnessed everything he had done to rescue him.

“It’s all right…” Paz attempted to soothe the little one. To his rewarding surprise, the boy only held on to him tighter, and obstinately clung to him until daybreak.

Paz had only heard the child sob once before the little one had fallen asleep in his arms.

It was only then did it dawn on Paz that the only place the child would feel safe from now on—and would be fundamental to the recovery of his body, mind, and soul—was in his embrace.

Paz knew he was in trouble, but more so, he felt many times blessed.

This child was his foundling… as this child had already chosen him from the very beginning.

By the time he had returned to the Armorer with the last group of the Covert and his foundling in tow, Paz felt all the nightmares of his tribulations melt away. ***

The Kom’rk starfighter which Axe had been piloting alone was still traveling through hyperspace when Ragnar woke up to a strangely precise pressure digging at his chest.

The boy sat up, realizing that he had slept on his stomach again. He sighed in annoyance. This sleeping position had always been one his body would subconsciously turn to when he felt greatly threatened, mistrustful, and needed a huge deal of comforting. He commonly adopted it in his early childhood, which he suspected had begun when his parents warned him of trust and danger.

Ragnar groaned through his vocoder. To think that sleeping without taking his helmet off would bother him more, but after two years of only slipping out of the buy’ce to bathe and when he was ill as he was ushered into brief care by medical droids, he had faithfully sealed his face in. That had transformed into his comfort zone. On the other hand, the cause of the digging sensation was relatively newer.

The youth reached under his flight suit and drew out a mythosaur pendant strung on a fine leather cord.

He stared at it for long moments as the shiny beskar kry’bes stared back at him with its hollow eyes.

“Dad,” Ragnar whispered, unbidden.

The necklace was Paz Vizsla’s, presented to him when he had completed his apprenticeship under the Armorer’s older brother. Her brother did not follow in the footsteps of a goran as she had done. Rather, he had been one of the Tribe’s great providers during the days when they still basked under the sun, never in hiding. He took in the responsibility of being Paz’s mentor just as Axe did for Ragnar.

Paz’s stories of his own apprenticeship, Ragnar noted, weren’t relayed in much detail. His father did tell a few, but in an unexpectedly impersonal way, as if Paz were seeing things through the eyes of a bystander rather than his own. Ragnar was still new to the ways of Mandalorians then, and all he did was listen and be quiet; he drank information in huge gulps and didn’t offer any queries or opinions unless he was offered the opportunity. The boy then wondered what kind of relationship his father may have had with his own mentor. Sometimes, he would detect warmth in the large Mandalorian’s robust baritone. More often, however, was the neutrality in his voice.

Then, Ragnar accounted for the fact that the man who mentored Paz Vizsla had neither been his buir nor a family member. The relationship could have been, at least, very didactic rather than familial. It was more or less the same arrangement he had with Axe Woves—someone of no clan relation taking an orphaned foundling under their wing.

The boy set his mouth into a hard, stubborn line.

Only that he was not an orphan. Not yet—and he never plans to be one.

His father was still alive. He’s just… drifting far away, but not far enough where the living could no longer follow or the ones who had passed on could carry him off to their realm among the Oversoul.

Folding his still-growing hand over the pendant and letting it rest on his palm, Ragnar let the thoughts flow to him. He regulated his shaky breaths.

In his mind’s eye, he vividly recounted how six grown Mandalorians had to carry the unconscious form of his father on a makeshift stretcher into the med bay. There had been no supply of hover-gurneys at the time, along with the scarcity of medical supplies. There was upheaval and panic barely breaking through the surface; trained warriors could only master enough self-control.

Some had perished and a few survived. Paz was among those who had survived—but the hushed whispers he’d gleaned revealed that his father surely should have been among the fatalities. High-powered energy weapons had torn through his insides, which could have caused immediate organ failure. Blaster burns covered his body, and despite the cauterizing effects of energy weapons, there had been a great amount of blood loss.

The youngster had blocked all sound and emotion out. They wouldn’t let him see his father until he was somehow patched up. Ragnar bolted far and hid in one of the docked Mandalorian ships, and he sat there, verily shocked and unheedful of everything around him. They all had looked for him, and when they finally found him he had been fast asleep for hours.

Ragnar remembered how the Armorer came to him, soothed him with no trace of condescension or coddling, much to Ragnar’s gratitude. But the boy had become inconsolable for days. While he never threw a fit or bawled and made a fuss like how some children did, he had locked all the anguish within himself and refused to be touched or spoken to unless it was someone from his father’s close circle.

Ragnar didn’t expect Grogu to be that source of much-needed support, as well as the green child’s father, whose name Ragnar knew was Din Djarin.

The youngster was crouched among the company of storage crates and didn’t budge or react much. He sported an empty stare under the helmet as he knotted his fingers over and over. Grogu, dear Grogu, had tenderly placed a three-fingered hand over his.

Din had cautiously knelt before him and never forced him to respond in a manner most adults demanded of a child when addressed to.

“Grogu found your father first,” the silver-clad Mandalorian told him, ever so gently, in a voice Ragnar decided was nearly as cherished as Paz’s. “You know, Ragnar—Grogu… he has powers. He can heal.”

That was when Ragnar’s gaze had shot up; he was suddenly paying attention. Through his visor, he searched through Din’s own for any indication of further hope.

However, the only hope Din could offer had fallen a whole parsec short.

“Grogu did what he could. Your father is out of danger now, but…”

Ragnar found the impulse to speak, and it came out sharp. “But what?!”

He withdrew into himself again, disturbed by his own impudence.

Din had tried his best to explain. The medical term was comatose—being in a prolonged state of unconsciousness, a deep sleep with the uncertainty of whether the patient would wake or finally succumb.

He’ll wake, was all Ragnar could think of and it played like a mantra in his head and heart. He’ll wake. My father will wake up. You’ll see. You’ll all see.

Grogu and Din had patiently sat with him, and Ragnar wished for that moment to go on and on until he was irrevocably reassured that Paz would indeed wake up sooner than later.

“Take me with you,” was all Ragnar could mutter, much to Din’s surprise. The man hadn’t a clue of Ragnar’s keen perception, that the boy knew of the time Din had to go off-world with Grogu for important business. “Please.”

The child’s psyche was sundered in two: a part of him wished to stay with his slumbering father, and the other part of him was too exhausted from the cruel burdens of reality and wished to be far away, even for a little while.

“That’s not for me to decide,” Din had sincerely replied, palpable regret in his tone. That was indeed true, Ragnar discovered afterwards.

Din had made Grogu’s adoption official. The man was then duty-bound to take his son with him on apprenticeship training. Ragnar could still afford an ounce of genuine joy for Grogu, who only dealt him with kindness.

“You better make your dad proud,” Ragnar had told Grogu, bleeding himself dry of any goodwill left in him. Grogu’s huge-eyed stare of compassion and scrutiny held Ragnar fast, and the boy felt suddenly bare.

I will, came a will-o’-the-wisp voice straight into Ragnar’s mind. It was a very young voice, yet inexplicably ageless and timeless.

That encounter had left a mark on Ragnar over the much longer days he went through the motions. All foundlings who had sworn the Creed were to re-take the oath in the Living Waters as it was a far more sacred spring in all the galaxy, at least in Mandalorian culture. Ultimately, Ragnar had disassociated through the lighting of the Great Forge, through the celebrations that came after, all through the night that followed and then the morning after.

“Young Ragnar, you may now see your father,” was the Armorer’s unceremonious summons of him after the first meal.

The matriarch had tipped her visored head to Ragnar in an expression of concern. Somehow she knew that Ragnar was not eating as well as he should; the boy’s appetite had all but disappeared. Ragnar knew that the Armorer had been diligently overseeing Paz’s initial treatment, and she’d now found more courage in herself to let Ragnar witness in person all the whispers the child had been enduring over the plight of his father.

Ragnar responded with an imperceptible nod and followed her.

The trek to the station which became a more permanent medical facility was an arduous one. Perhaps that was why Ragnar just wanted to go away for a while and leave his dearest father in the hands of capable physicians. He didn’t want to see a man he had deemed so powerful, so strong, so sure in himself and filled with conviction and zest towards the Way become akin to a cold lamp where the light had been put out—a dim little star where there was once a blazing sun.

But Ragnar decided that this was a test. He would take this all in. He would know what to do after, if he knew that this would be too much for him…

The Armorer had halted before a great metal door.

The boy realized that the light cruiser crash had not destroyed everything in its vicinity; there were chambers that were meticulously made to withstand the very heat of a Mandalorian Forge, which rose to temperatures higher than the hottest, unlivable planets. This was one such chamber, retrofitted by the Remnant and seized back by Mandalorian engineers.

Ragnar swallowed the lump in his throat as the Armorer punched in a code. The doors presently swished open.

His HUD registered darkness at first, and then adjusted to the ambient lighting within.

He felt frozen to the spot but the Armorer had anticipated this. She lent him strength with a gentle nudge over the small of his back.

The boy felt like a wraith, floating into the heart of the chamber with limbs and steps that weren’t his. He felt disembodied… he was disassociating again, letting the world happen to him, rather than him facing the world.

He stopped at the foot of a three large bacta tanks, huge transparisteel pillars towering over the boy and the matriarch.

Ragnar stiffened; his heart began to hurt so much and yet he held his ground. He clenched his fists as he beheld Paz Vizsla, suspended upright within the vat of bacta liquid with a tubes and circuits circling around the form of a once mighty warrior.

His father’s face was still respectfully concealed by a special helmet which aided his breathing and cycled sustenance periodically into his system.

Ragnar had seen his father stripped of his armor only a handful of times, simply in his under suit when he would make time to tuck Ragnar to bed.

Who would tuck him to bed now?

Ragnar felt fury swell towards himself when he remembered the day he told Paz that he was too old to be tucked in. That was soon after he swore the Creed. Oh, such was the arrogance a child possessed from undergoing an important rite of passage which ushered them to adulthood.

Without both armor and under suit, covered simply in compression shorts and dark compression bandages over his burned and damaged skin, Paz looked so different, so small, so achingly vulnerable.

This was the sight Ragnar had refused to acknowledge. He stood there, paying little attention to the other two patients who occupied the tanks which flanked his father’s on either side. They were parents of foundlings as well… how were those kids faring in relation to his own void of pain? Will those Mandalorians in their own recuperative slumber wake up, be well, and join their families again?

Borne out of duty, the first words which Ragnar inquired of the Armorer were, “Where is my father’s armor?”

The Armorer laid her gaze upon him awhile before leading him to the back of Paz’s tank, where a cleverly camouflaged storage closet had been installed vertically, made for the patients’ personal belongings while undergoing treatment.

The closet hissed open, and inside, much to Ragnar’s cascading thankfulness, was Paz’s full set of armor fastidiously arranged. The boy would like to think that it had been readied to be worn immediately upon his father’s waking. A small smile crept over Ragnar’s lips. His father would do that, all right. He would loudly demand for his armor as soon as he opened his eyes.

“Everything’s in order, ad’ika,” the Armorer said with moving, uncharacteristic gentleness. After a pause, she continued, “I would have to leave you now as I have duties to attend to. You may stay for as long as you like. Should you need the assistance of a baar’ur, do so with the comms attached to this storage closet. They should come to you immediately.”

Ragnar nodded weakly to the Armorer. “Th-thank you.”

The child spent the next few hours curled at the foot of his father’s tank, his back towards the transparisteel. He couldn’t bear another second seeing Paz so helpless like that, but he wanted to be close to him… perhaps, he could lend him strength with his presence alone, even when the man wasn’t conscious to see it.

He sobbed for most of his stay, a haunted weeping of a small boy suddenly wrenched from a true hearth and home. It sent Ragnar to impassioned self-abhorrence when he did know that there would be slim chances of Paz emerging out of a major battle unscathed. For the few years under this noble Mandalorian’s care, he knew his father to be wholly selfless to the point of martyrdom. Ragnar didn’t exactly expect it to happen earlier on, when he himself still needed a father to thrive in his own journey of becoming a full-fledged warrior.

The days that came after were harrowing, to say the least. Ragnar drifted in and out of alertness and awareness as a council consisting of Lady Kryze, the Armorer, and a handful of leaders from either side decided upon the fate of the child.

Ragnar didn’t pay much attention, anyway. He was the subject of hot debate. They kept saying, the last heir of Clan Vizsla, the one to lead House Vizsla one day, and all that babble.

Was he only significant due to the clan name he carried? These leaders didn’t show much interest over the fate of the other children whose parents were in the bacta tank, too.

The meeting over his future surprisingly lasted for more than an afternoon. It would take multiple sessions before arrangements could be finalized.

During those interludes, Ragnar was allowed to leave the council room. A child his age was restless and needed to burn some energy so they can settle properly again when it was required.

Ragnar explored the halls which were slowly being repaired from extensive damage caused by the light cruiser crash. The boy had learned of Commander Axe Woves and the man’s derring-do. He faintly recalled Axe standing next to him as he led the cry: “FOR MANDALORE!” and the Great Forge was alive with the wild cheers of their people. Ragnar had felt nothing, then. He had numbed himself, shut himself in. He was only there because the Armorer said he should.

The boy kept to his explorations. There would be sentries here and there, and they would nod to him, and he would nod back. Ragnar made another turn to a station definitely more damaged than the rest, but before he could take a step further—

His boot had hit something, and it reacted with a metallic clanking which drifted a bit across the hall before sliding to a full stop.

A rush of the sensing suddenly latched itself onto Ragnar’s mind. The youngster felt a pull towards that object he had accidentally kicked some paces away.

The child searched for it in the half-darkness; he picked it up.

The object was surprisingly warm to the touch. Had someone else handled it before he did? Metal left alone for so long would keep cold. There seemed to be life beating within this… thing…

A hilt?

It was partly crushed, the top split apart like a steel flower in bloom.

Ragnar wrangled in his racing thoughts and pounding heart. He had seen this before, and he knew what it was.

It was what remained of the Darksaber.

“Ragnar, are you there?”

Ragnar was transported back to the present; his eyes flew open upon the sound of Axe’s voice buzzing through the comms of his sleeping quarters.

“Yeah, I’m here,” the boy responded immediately lest his teacher worry… again.

“Good, good,” came the man’s relieved remarks. “Proceed to the cockpit soon and buckle up. We’ll be hitting Nevarro’s atmosphere in T-minus fifteen.”

“Copy that, sir.”

There was prolonged static on the other end, as though Axe held the transmission button for longer, yearning to say something more. Ragnar waited; the static cut off. The youth had felt that Axe wished to impart more caring, concerned words towards his charge. The man had thought better of it.

Ragnar knew what it was: the hesitancy of someone who was a parental figure and yet could not fully be a parent. The boy had respected it, but now he felt bereft. This was Axe’s way of compromise. He was not the boy’s father, and he was in no way replacing Paz Vizsla.

How different things would have been if it were Paz himself who’d take Ragnar to apprenticeship missions?

Ragnar choked back a cry.

Vastly different. A million parsecs different.

Before tucking Paz’s mythosaur pendant back under his flight suit collar, Ragnar partly lifted his helmet to give it a tiny kiss. His frame trembled; his muscles throbbed and his head spun for a moment.

I love you, Dad, Ragnar whispered in his mind to a sleeping man in a bacta tank a world away. He can never say it many times enough.

The mythosaur pendant had been handed to him for safekeeping by the Armorer herself when Ragnar had turned fifteen, his current age. Axe Woves had already then been his mentor for half a year, and he was about to embark in more crucial stages of his apprenticeship. He wouldn’t be strung along for the ride not only to examine and observe. He would start to actively participate in all the dealings Axe would take him to—exercises of the mind and body, and the spirit, most of all.

Mandokar.

(Paz had reminded Ragnar time and again of how much mandokar he discerned in his son. The child had the resilience of beskar itself. Perhaps his father was right on target about that, Ragnar thought sadly, bitterly. He could have been orphaned twice. What average child could live through that sort of trauma? What was he, then? A damned orphan and a half? How long will this continue?)

Can’t Dad wake up? Please… can’t he wake up now?

The only great comfort he found as compensation during this dubious time was that he would be seeing Grogu again. Grogu and his father… Din Djarin himself had a streak which was very warm and welcoming to Ragnar, so much like Paz, and yet the two men were unique of each other.

Oftentimes Nevarro would be the final pit stop after every apprenticeship mission before heading back to Mandalore. Ragnar counted six missions so far, but this one had been the least eventful as much as Axe Woves knew.

As Ragnar fell upon the seat next to Axe and strapped himself in for the jump out of hyperspace, he deftly clutched the Darksaber cocooned within its hidden belt pouch and his heart hammered.

“T-minus two minutes until we hit atmosphere,” informed Axe. He had his helmet on and the visor slightly turned to the boy. “Ready to see our friends again, Ragnar?”

“Yeah,” replied the boy in his usual succinct manner.

Yes, Ragnar continued further in his mind. More than Axe will ever know.

When the boy felt Grogu’s mind reaching out to him through the Force, sort of like an astral handshake the children forged for themselves as soon as Grogu started teaching him about what he knew of the sensing, Ragnar smiled.

It was the widest smile he’d done in a very long time.

*****

Mando'a chapter glossary:

*osik - an impolite Mandalorian word; expletive *buy’ce - helmet *kry’bes - the Mythosaur skull *goran - blacksmith *buir - father, mother, parent *ad’ika - “little one,” a term of endearment for a child age 3-13 years *baar’ur - medic *mandokar - the ‘right stuff,’ the epitome of Mando virtue: a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life

(for more extra author's notes on this chapter, please read on AO3 ^_^)

Link to "A Child of the Watch" series/collection - AO3

Link to Previous Chapter - AO3 || Tumblr

12 notes · View notes

luverofralts · 1 year

Text

Arkhelios University

Beside Roman’s still body, candles flickered in the dark of the cavern. Dark shadows stretched across the familiar cavern, cloaking the soft approach of the abductor of Roman Bellamy.

“Long time, no see.”

The footsteps paused for a moment, clearly thrown off by having an uninvited guest they did not anticipate. When that moment had passed, the dark shadow stepped quickly into the candlelight, its face a practiced image of excitement.

“It has been awhile, hasn’t it? I didn’t think I’d see you here again, Malika. Though, you look quite a bit differently than I remember.”

Malika looked up from the bloodstained cavern floor to meet the white glazed eyes of Keiki Yoxall. The child was trembling in the cold of the cavern, but her expression remained eerily calm. It was an expression that Malika had seen countless times before, but still disliked witnessing. Call her old fashioned, but her mother had always taught her that possession was a technique reserved for spirits, not demons. But then again, in all the time she’d known her, Kamalani had never been one for obeying societal conventions.

“I see you’re back to your old ways,” Malika snapped irritably, her frustrations returning her the instant she watched Keiki’s clouded eyes roll dismissively. Kamalani had been a friend Malika had always treasured, but there were still moments where it took everything inside of her not to exorcise her from this mortal plane. “I couldn’t help but notice that my grandson is lying in a bloody pool down here. Something you promised to stop, Kama. You promised me that Roman would be safe. Why couldn’t you just use your current vessel? Roman has served his purpose; the curse was broken. You don’t need him anymore.”

“And how are you standing here exactly, Malika?” the voice of the young child jeered. “I don’t see you possessing a body, so you must have resorted to blood magic. Don’t preach at me while you use Roman’s blood to indulge your vanity.”

“I would never steal from Roman when you have taken as much from him as you have. You don’t need to rob both of your children, surely.”

It was eerie to see a small child warp their face into the familiar but devious grin Malika had seen over the span of decades. Kamalani wasn’t hostile, but she wasn’t exactly in a playful mood either.

“I have spent years crawling out of my prison, Mal. I need them both. They will be released, you know that.” The child paused, considering the situation before her. “If you’re not drawing from Roman, then how are you here judging me? One of Omar’s mistakes?”

Malika bristled at the thought of acknowledging her non-demonic grandchildren for any purpose, let alone drawing strength from them. Keiki’s face changed suddenly, having thought of another option that would explain the presence of her friend.

“You didn’t!” she laughed. “Really? I mean, you look like flesh and blood from here, it’s a good illusion, one of your best, but....the amount of power that must take. Roman doesn’t have the power to help you, which can only mean that you’re playing with my father’s newest toy. I would never have guessed that you had it in you. Here you are, harping on about borrowing a tiny bit of power from the child I gave birth to, while you draw power from the culmination of Project Bellamy. Hypocrite. Let’s let Roman know that you’re feeding off of his cute little mistake and see which of us he judges.”

“I only did it to try to talk some sense into you,” Malika snapped quickly. “You’re going too far! You know the sovereign is watching Roman. She knows what you’re planning. Do you really think she hasn’t noticed your attempts to test your cage? Your father couldn’t take her on, what chance do you have against her? You’re going to be destroyed if you cross her again and I don’t want to see you suffer. You’re my friend, Kama. We have decades of memories together, let me find another way to get you out. I am one with the spirits now, surely they have a different path for you.”

It was the spirits who had warned Malika of her ex-daughter in law’s plans, so they must have some alternative to offer. They had never once lead Malika into a situation that she could not handle. Kamalani had always been dismissive of the beings that guided her friend through life, but she had benefited from their guidance all the same.

“I don’t need an alternative,” Kamalani replied, hostility edging her voice. “I’m done. It’s taken years and some ugly choices, but I’m ready. Roman was enough. There’s a small window of escape, and I’m not waiting around for a second chance. We can discuss this over coffee sometime if you’d like, or via spirit board when you tire of draining the spiritual energy of your young great-grandson, but I’m doing this. I have a plan.”

“At what cost?” Malika demanded. “You made me a promise when we started out together, or have you forgotten? I defied my own mother to help you and you’ve yet to deliver on your end of the bargain.”

Malika was quiet for a moment, choosing her words carefully.

"I know what you did, Kama. You may be desperate, but I can't let you do that again."

"Do what again?" Kamalani asked innocently. "I've done a lot of things that I'm sure you disapprove of. You're going to have to be more specific."

Malika sighed, relying on the gesture to convey her feelings on the matter since she really didn't need to breathe any more.

"You know I've been trying to groom Roman to be my heir from the moment he was born," she elaborated. "Years ago, I had a vision of Roman's daughter coming to me, terrifying and glorious in her power. She was blinding with potential, the perfect medium, stronger than even I am."

"Touching." Kamalani rolled her eyes.

"She came across time and realms to me for help, Kama," Malika continued. "Someone was killing her slowly, robbing her of both her life and birthright. She needs my help."

Malika stared at her friend, hoping for a confession but none came.

"I'm sure it hasn't escaped your attention that the Chun boy has managed to be expecting a child soon. A girl child."

The silence in the cavern was deafening. Malika’s spirit flickered briefly, waiting for the demon to answer her.

"And?"

The response was curt and sharp, much like Kamalani herself.

"And? Do you really want me to say it for you? I thought at least for me you might be honest. I know how you're gaining your freedom, how you got this far already. You're burning through my grandchildren, my heirs, the Bellamy family's future, for your own escape! You killed that handsome, innocent man Roman married, just to claw your way closer to freedom and you can't even admit as much to me? I thought we were friends, Kama. This was never our plan. You know I need to pass on my family's gifts, but- They're your own grandchildren, Kama, that has to mean something to you!"

Kamalani froze for a moment, unable to decide how to answer the accusation.

"They were getting divorced anyway," she finally decided. "We all know that Roman won't ever figure out birth control in his lifetime, so he'll have more children in the future."

"Kama!"

"There were two of them, Malika. Two brilliant stars, full of energy and potential! They saved me years in that hole and they lived, didn't they? Roman has the children, and an estate left to him with no divorce. Who cares if they can't access demonic powers or speak with spirits? I did him a favour, and am that much closer to reuniting with him again. You can't put a price on a mother's love, Malika. Even you should be able to understand that."

"Then let this child go!" Malika ordered. You're already possessing a child that I can only assume is yours. Drain her and let Roman and my granddaughter go! I'm serious Kamalani. Roman will never forgive you if you kill the Chun boy and his daughter to escape your bonds. I will never forgive you."

"The husband's death was a mistake," Kamalani scoffed. "I grabbed too much energy too quickly and opened a larger void than I intended. I'm in better control now, Abraham will not be killed."

"And his daughter? I will not lose my heir, Kamalani."

"Fine! You've made your point," Kamalani sighed, crossing her arms. "I won't touch her again. She may still have abilities, don't look at me like that. You're not the only one with family responsibilities."

"And Roman? He's your son, Kama, not a battery you can use when you need it. Even blood magic has its limits, you're going to seriously hurt him all to benefit yourself."

Kamalani made a dismissive noise while scribbling a dark rune on the cavern floor written in blood Malika assumed to be Roman’s.

“There, all done,” she said mockingly, making matching inscriptions on the forehead of the child she was possessing. “The sovereign can go fuck herself, I’ve wasted enough time on her games.”

Malika watched with fascination as beams of light filled the cavern, illuminating the blood trail that dripped between Roman and the body of his half sister. In an instant, a woman’s figure emerged from the light, running her hands all over her body to confirm that the transfer had worked.

“Are you going to help your children recover at least?” Malika demanded. “Should I summon someone to help?”

“Don’t bother,” Kamalani replied happily. “I’m meeting someone, but I’ll be back soon enough. I’m sure the sovereign will be all over this place any second now; I should leave.”

Malika watched helplessly as the demon vanished into thin air, her mission now complete. Both Roman and Keiki’s bodies remained lifeless and unresponsive on the ground, but there was little she could do to interfere.

I hope you know what you’re doing, Kama. Roman deserves better than this from his mother, not that you seem to care.

#sims 2 #arkhelios #arkhelios university #tw: blood #roman bellamy #Malika Bellamy #kamalani bellamy #Keiki Yoxall #tw: child endangerment

13 notes · View notes